Fandom: Fringe.
TITLE: Matanawa
FANDOM: Fringe
RATING: NC-17, explicit, contains Japanese bondage, written for the kink-meme.
PAIRING: Peter/Astrid
DISCLAIMERS: Property of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot.
The head professor of Marine biology is a redhead with more letters following her surname than Astrid can count, she buys her lunch from Harvard cafeteria at exactly 1:15 in the afternoon, hair tied in a loose braid, the pale line of her neck delicate as a swan; Astrid has seen her once or twice and on both occasions she asked for Peter. If Astrid had to hazard a guess, she would put Doctor Shelton in her early forties, body slim, face rounded soft, she’s been blessed with Hollywood genes if not Hollywood money; Shelton walks with the confidence of a woman who’s accepted age gracefully, who isn’t ashamed of the laugh lines that adorn her skin. Peter flirts with Dr. Shelton shamelessly for the first month after returning to the States. He heads out for lunch at 12:45 and doesn’t return until an hour later - Astrid has the feeling it’s harmless fun - that Peter’s keeping in practice rather than an actual intent. He comes back loose, a little more mischievous; better able to deal with Walter. Olivia’s a festering wound after John, re-working events in her head and Peter has no intention of dipping his toe in her direction, doesn’t want to screw Olivia up any more than she already is, which leaves the faculty staff to flirt with on one side… and Astrid on the other.
For the first month Shelton is good for Peter, it’s not until she meets Walter Bishop that Shelton’s cock-blocked all the way back to Yale. “She’s a hussy,” Walter spits venomously, “and smells like fish.”
“She’s lovely!” Astrid defends, “And she’s a Marine biologist, Walter, not a fishmonger.”
“He deserves someone better,” Walter mutters under his breath and stalks away.
Astrid thinks she knows who Walter’s referring to when he says ‘someone better’ and tries to hide her smile, but it doesn’t take into account Olivia’s not ready for another relationship, and Peter’s version of stress relief becomes severely hampered by Walter’s growing notoriety among the faculty members.
By the time the second month rolls by everyone at Harvard knows Walter Bishop (who took a sudden liking to Marine biology and their collection of exotic fishes after Shelton fled in terror), and his son, who it’s known wide and far, is strictly off limits. Peter, who’s irascible and charming, who can make Astrid snort with laughter and who can catch Olivia’s undivided attention, develops a mean streak a mile wide. Things come to a head when they meet the Observer. Astrid knows Peter’s mentally if not physically left the building, one foot out the door to never returning. He comes back to the lab, to Olivia, to his father, with a mountain of unanswered questions. He comes back bruised.
Post-torture, Peter plays the piano, fingers dexterous, nimble quick, but the songs are half finished melodies that flirt with questing sadness, fading before the finale’s revealed. Astrid finds herself missing the jazz, the ragtime tunes Peter would belt out while Astrid serenaded Gene - the zany moments of absolute boredom they shared - when Olivia was confiding with Charlie and Walter was buried in work. Astrid starts bringing her IPod to the lab. Peter’s taste in music is eclectic, borderless; they sit closely, ear-buds stretched between them as his warmth seeps into Astrid, heating one side of her body like a furnace, intimate as lovers. The next time he steals her IPod, Astrid has it paused on the rendition of The Dialogues of Luisa Siegea (circa 1660) in the original Latin. She sees the moment when Peter pauses, utterly perplexed, head cocked to one side as he tries his best to translate the dead language. Astrid also sees the moment when Peter realises he’s listening to porn and hears him snort, scrubbing the back of his neck as his eyes seek her out.
Astrid raises an eyebrow. “It’s a valuable studying tool.”
“And here I was thinking you’d already graduated.”
His smile is impish, turning one corner of his mouth up, he doesn’t relinquish the IPod but makes himself comfortable, feet on the desk, eyes half lidded as he listens. Astrid returns her attention to the computer, hiding her amusement. “How’s your Latin?”
“Admittedly it’s terrible, but lucky for me I know all the dirty words.” Astrid shakes her head and smirks, stretching her arms behind her back, Peter watches her intently. “This is about the lesbians, yeah? The older whore who passes along her skills to the younger girl?”
Astrid considers him. “You’ve read it?”
“Heard of it, and now apparently hearing it.”
“You don’t seem offended.”
Peter rolls his eyes sceptically. “Please, I’m a thirty-one year old male living with his father in a motel room with a single bed…Astrid, this is as close to ‘getting some’ as I’ll ever see.”
Astrid does laugh this time and suggests mournfully. “Poor Peter?”
“Poor Peter,” he agrees. Peter swings his chair idly from side to side; Astrid decides he’s not the type to stay still, some part of him constantly in motion, his voice musing as he continues. “It’s weird, though, listening to porn instead of seeing it on the TV.”
“Differences between the sexes, men prefer visual stimulation, women prefer mental stimulation, reading or…” she motions to the IPod.
“I prefer doing it myself,” Peter says straightforwardly, he shrugs candidly when Astrid turns her head to stare at him. “Honestly, it’s much more fun.”
“Hopefully for both parties.”
It’s Peter’s turn to laugh, his fingers drumming against denim, tone lazy. “Bite your tongue.”
Astrid stands. Things are easy between Peter and her - they always have been - he’s handsome enough and it doesn’t take forethought. Astrid plucks the speaker from his ear, leans down low, face brushing dark stubble and speaks into the fragile shell of his ear. “If Agent Dunham didn’t give you enough time to pack your porn collection from Bagdad, I’ll show you mine instead.” Peter goes preternaturally still, head tilted back a fraction, his smile fixed. Astrid backs off, gives him room to consider, her mouth curving with invitation. “But be warned, I work for Walter Bishop.”
“Translation,” Peter says considering, “you’re not a pushover.”
“Who needs Latin?”
The smile is challenging this time. “You won’t be able to remember a single language by the time I’m done.”
***
There’s kinbaku, shibari and shibaru.
Astrid never learnt Japanese but the words roll off her tongue, naked with want, Peter is very, very talented with his hands. The asanawa is eight meters long, two singular pieces of jute no more than six millimetres in diameter. It’s dishonourable to knot separate ropes together - but a knot inside a singular rope is permissible - Peter explains this as he weaves intricate patterns against her skin, jute is inflexible, no give permitted, it holds Astrid effectively as chains, arms folded high behind her back, the rope coiled from elbow joint to opposite hand, a criss-cross/down pattern that keeps her spine arched into an excruciating posture, breasts bared and thrust forward, her nipples drawn tight.
Peter coils the excess rope into a fixed loop over her neck, running down the front of her chest like an evening tie, dividing her breasts into arbitrary states. It traverses beneath her cups then creeps behind, connects back to her elbows and hands. The jute’s pale white against Astrid’s skin, a coffee and cream contrast. Peter doesn’t need to knot the jute to secure it, but tucks the loose strands into the bindings. “Ushiro takate kote shibari,” Peter says softly, his hands resting on her hips, keeping Astrid balanced.
Astrid sways, knees spaced widely on the bed.
Peter doesn’t rush his kisses, every stroke languid, a quiet exploration of language and tongue. She can feel the sweat gathering in her hair, resting her weight against his chest, letting the fibres of rope scratch his torso. Peter lowers her. It puts further pressure on Astrid’s shoulders, arms trapped under her own weight. Peter kisses her stomach, nuzzles her naval, he rubs a thumb against Astrid’s pubic bone and licks deep, his thumb pulling the hood back to keep the clit fully exposed. Astrid squirms, feels her body flush incendiary hot, quick as a flash-fire. Peter doesn’t rush this either. She can feel the curve of his smile before he turns his face sideways and slides down, letting porcupine skin drag against the sensitive bud. Astrid cries out, the sound sharply aborted, her legs trying to flutter shut and stopped by the bulk of his shoulders. Peter moves his hand from her pubic bone, palm smoothing over her stomach until Astrid’s body stops quaking. There’s silence for a moment before he lifts his head, hair dishevelled, eyes striking blue. “Alright?”
Astrid nods. Her lower body pulses once, a contraction of internal muscles as wetness gathers between her legs, she swallows to take the rasp from her voice. “Yes.”
He kisses her thigh in response, lets his tongue seek her out; by turns shy and sinuous, seeking the shadows between her legs. Astrid’s on the verge of peaking when something hard pushes in; the vibrator remains inert, still as a dildo, stretching Astrid wide until her body swallows it whole. She groans, tries to readjust to the intrusion, to arch her spine off the bed, alleviate the growing ache of discomfit between her shoulder blades and arms. Peter slips off the bed and returns to the jute, naked as she is, lean and well formed, he places three knots in the second piece of rope, close together, and says, “Matanawa.”
Astrid remembers the word from earlier, knows the meaning as Peter explained it. She shudders once, lets her legs fall open. Peter winds one end of the jute into the rope circling her bust and tugs it down firmly; pulls it down between her legs, the knots placed exactly on her clit, running through the cleft of her vulva, with one hand on her hip the other on her thigh, Peter urges Astrid onto her stomach. The relief is short lived, the fire between her shoulder blades easing - only to be replaced with the pressure of the knot against her labia; Peter flicks the vibrator on and Astrid jerks forward, grinding against the sheets. Pleasure sparks behind her eyes, toes curling as her breathing hitches. Peter kisses the small of her back, parts her cheeks and pulls the rope tight until it curves with the half-moon of her body, tight against clit and anus both, the knots perfectly aligned, digging into exposed orifices and female genitalia.
She’s rocking helplessly against the stimulation, arms immobile, all movement restricted. Peter jerks the rope high, secures it to the ushiro takate kote shibari that binds her hands.
There’s a high whine in the room, it takes Astrid long moments to realise it’s coming from her, shuddering like a spastic as everything clenches, tightens, vibrates. Her first orgasm rolls over her like a freight train, open mouthed, face buried against bed-sheets. Astrid’s gasping incoherently because nothing stops or relents; the pleasure so intense her mind whitens out.
When Astrid comes back to herself she’s in no-man’s-territory - when orgasm’s been achieved and the body’s ready to quit - except none of the stimulation does. She’s caught blind on the cusp of conflicting data; electrical misfires between discomfit and pleasure, eyes squeezed shut. Peter tugs her from the bed, sets Astrid on the floor on her knees. The rope keeps the vibrator in place. Peter’s hands find her face, fingers gentle on her jaw-line, brushing by her cheekbones, sweeping through her hair; grounding and real, drawing Astrid into the here and now. Her mind turns the necessary flip, switching back to pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, until Astrid realises she’ll come again, and will keep coming until Peter’s done. She tilts forward and sucks him down, lets salt and heat fill her throat, to stop herself from begging.
Peter’s taste is strong on her tongue, not unpleasant, his thigh rubs between Astrid’s legs, pushing the knots in further, shattering her concentration. She has to pull off to gather breath and comes again between exhalations. “P-pe.” The vibrator hums against the channels of her body, the room sways.
Astrid tries to curl down, to loosen the rope against her clit, to let the vibrator ease from her body, but the movement only pulls her arms further up, tightens the rope around her neck, hinders her breathing until the deprivation of oxygen floats her body into another orgasm, fast on the heels of the second. She’s nothing but protracted sensation.
There’s wetness on her cheeks. Peter straightens Astrid gently, eases the rope around her neck until she can breathe freely, untangles the jute binding the crotch rope to her arms and drags it from her vulva, the slickness of her come easing the passage of fibre against skin. She jerks, uncoordinated as an infant; distantly, Astrid thinks she comes a fourth time. Gravity lets the vibrator fall from her body and Astrid sags forward as the rope binding her arms is uncoiled. She falls against Peter, holding onto his thighs for support. He doesn’t ask for anything in return but drops into a squat, lifting her chin to make eye contact. Astrid doesn’t have words; her mind swept clean, doesn’t know how to formulate consonants or vowels, her body close to shock. Peter seems to hear anyway, he strokes her cheek, kisses her soft and pulls the quilt down over them both. Astrid doesn’t move, when her body stops trembling she nuzzles Peter’s throat, says warningly, “It’s my turn, next time.”
FANDOM: Fringe
RATING: NC-17, explicit, contains Japanese bondage, written for the kink-meme.
PAIRING: Peter/Astrid
DISCLAIMERS: Property of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot.
The head professor of Marine biology is a redhead with more letters following her surname than Astrid can count, she buys her lunch from Harvard cafeteria at exactly 1:15 in the afternoon, hair tied in a loose braid, the pale line of her neck delicate as a swan; Astrid has seen her once or twice and on both occasions she asked for Peter. If Astrid had to hazard a guess, she would put Doctor Shelton in her early forties, body slim, face rounded soft, she’s been blessed with Hollywood genes if not Hollywood money; Shelton walks with the confidence of a woman who’s accepted age gracefully, who isn’t ashamed of the laugh lines that adorn her skin. Peter flirts with Dr. Shelton shamelessly for the first month after returning to the States. He heads out for lunch at 12:45 and doesn’t return until an hour later - Astrid has the feeling it’s harmless fun - that Peter’s keeping in practice rather than an actual intent. He comes back loose, a little more mischievous; better able to deal with Walter. Olivia’s a festering wound after John, re-working events in her head and Peter has no intention of dipping his toe in her direction, doesn’t want to screw Olivia up any more than she already is, which leaves the faculty staff to flirt with on one side… and Astrid on the other.
For the first month Shelton is good for Peter, it’s not until she meets Walter Bishop that Shelton’s cock-blocked all the way back to Yale. “She’s a hussy,” Walter spits venomously, “and smells like fish.”
“She’s lovely!” Astrid defends, “And she’s a Marine biologist, Walter, not a fishmonger.”
“He deserves someone better,” Walter mutters under his breath and stalks away.
Astrid thinks she knows who Walter’s referring to when he says ‘someone better’ and tries to hide her smile, but it doesn’t take into account Olivia’s not ready for another relationship, and Peter’s version of stress relief becomes severely hampered by Walter’s growing notoriety among the faculty members.
By the time the second month rolls by everyone at Harvard knows Walter Bishop (who took a sudden liking to Marine biology and their collection of exotic fishes after Shelton fled in terror), and his son, who it’s known wide and far, is strictly off limits. Peter, who’s irascible and charming, who can make Astrid snort with laughter and who can catch Olivia’s undivided attention, develops a mean streak a mile wide. Things come to a head when they meet the Observer. Astrid knows Peter’s mentally if not physically left the building, one foot out the door to never returning. He comes back to the lab, to Olivia, to his father, with a mountain of unanswered questions. He comes back bruised.
Post-torture, Peter plays the piano, fingers dexterous, nimble quick, but the songs are half finished melodies that flirt with questing sadness, fading before the finale’s revealed. Astrid finds herself missing the jazz, the ragtime tunes Peter would belt out while Astrid serenaded Gene - the zany moments of absolute boredom they shared - when Olivia was confiding with Charlie and Walter was buried in work. Astrid starts bringing her IPod to the lab. Peter’s taste in music is eclectic, borderless; they sit closely, ear-buds stretched between them as his warmth seeps into Astrid, heating one side of her body like a furnace, intimate as lovers. The next time he steals her IPod, Astrid has it paused on the rendition of The Dialogues of Luisa Siegea (circa 1660) in the original Latin. She sees the moment when Peter pauses, utterly perplexed, head cocked to one side as he tries his best to translate the dead language. Astrid also sees the moment when Peter realises he’s listening to porn and hears him snort, scrubbing the back of his neck as his eyes seek her out.
Astrid raises an eyebrow. “It’s a valuable studying tool.”
“And here I was thinking you’d already graduated.”
His smile is impish, turning one corner of his mouth up, he doesn’t relinquish the IPod but makes himself comfortable, feet on the desk, eyes half lidded as he listens. Astrid returns her attention to the computer, hiding her amusement. “How’s your Latin?”
“Admittedly it’s terrible, but lucky for me I know all the dirty words.” Astrid shakes her head and smirks, stretching her arms behind her back, Peter watches her intently. “This is about the lesbians, yeah? The older whore who passes along her skills to the younger girl?”
Astrid considers him. “You’ve read it?”
“Heard of it, and now apparently hearing it.”
“You don’t seem offended.”
Peter rolls his eyes sceptically. “Please, I’m a thirty-one year old male living with his father in a motel room with a single bed…Astrid, this is as close to ‘getting some’ as I’ll ever see.”
Astrid does laugh this time and suggests mournfully. “Poor Peter?”
“Poor Peter,” he agrees. Peter swings his chair idly from side to side; Astrid decides he’s not the type to stay still, some part of him constantly in motion, his voice musing as he continues. “It’s weird, though, listening to porn instead of seeing it on the TV.”
“Differences between the sexes, men prefer visual stimulation, women prefer mental stimulation, reading or…” she motions to the IPod.
“I prefer doing it myself,” Peter says straightforwardly, he shrugs candidly when Astrid turns her head to stare at him. “Honestly, it’s much more fun.”
“Hopefully for both parties.”
It’s Peter’s turn to laugh, his fingers drumming against denim, tone lazy. “Bite your tongue.”
Astrid stands. Things are easy between Peter and her - they always have been - he’s handsome enough and it doesn’t take forethought. Astrid plucks the speaker from his ear, leans down low, face brushing dark stubble and speaks into the fragile shell of his ear. “If Agent Dunham didn’t give you enough time to pack your porn collection from Bagdad, I’ll show you mine instead.” Peter goes preternaturally still, head tilted back a fraction, his smile fixed. Astrid backs off, gives him room to consider, her mouth curving with invitation. “But be warned, I work for Walter Bishop.”
“Translation,” Peter says considering, “you’re not a pushover.”
“Who needs Latin?”
The smile is challenging this time. “You won’t be able to remember a single language by the time I’m done.”
***
There’s kinbaku, shibari and shibaru.
Astrid never learnt Japanese but the words roll off her tongue, naked with want, Peter is very, very talented with his hands. The asanawa is eight meters long, two singular pieces of jute no more than six millimetres in diameter. It’s dishonourable to knot separate ropes together - but a knot inside a singular rope is permissible - Peter explains this as he weaves intricate patterns against her skin, jute is inflexible, no give permitted, it holds Astrid effectively as chains, arms folded high behind her back, the rope coiled from elbow joint to opposite hand, a criss-cross/down pattern that keeps her spine arched into an excruciating posture, breasts bared and thrust forward, her nipples drawn tight.
Peter coils the excess rope into a fixed loop over her neck, running down the front of her chest like an evening tie, dividing her breasts into arbitrary states. It traverses beneath her cups then creeps behind, connects back to her elbows and hands. The jute’s pale white against Astrid’s skin, a coffee and cream contrast. Peter doesn’t need to knot the jute to secure it, but tucks the loose strands into the bindings. “Ushiro takate kote shibari,” Peter says softly, his hands resting on her hips, keeping Astrid balanced.
Astrid sways, knees spaced widely on the bed.
Peter doesn’t rush his kisses, every stroke languid, a quiet exploration of language and tongue. She can feel the sweat gathering in her hair, resting her weight against his chest, letting the fibres of rope scratch his torso. Peter lowers her. It puts further pressure on Astrid’s shoulders, arms trapped under her own weight. Peter kisses her stomach, nuzzles her naval, he rubs a thumb against Astrid’s pubic bone and licks deep, his thumb pulling the hood back to keep the clit fully exposed. Astrid squirms, feels her body flush incendiary hot, quick as a flash-fire. Peter doesn’t rush this either. She can feel the curve of his smile before he turns his face sideways and slides down, letting porcupine skin drag against the sensitive bud. Astrid cries out, the sound sharply aborted, her legs trying to flutter shut and stopped by the bulk of his shoulders. Peter moves his hand from her pubic bone, palm smoothing over her stomach until Astrid’s body stops quaking. There’s silence for a moment before he lifts his head, hair dishevelled, eyes striking blue. “Alright?”
Astrid nods. Her lower body pulses once, a contraction of internal muscles as wetness gathers between her legs, she swallows to take the rasp from her voice. “Yes.”
He kisses her thigh in response, lets his tongue seek her out; by turns shy and sinuous, seeking the shadows between her legs. Astrid’s on the verge of peaking when something hard pushes in; the vibrator remains inert, still as a dildo, stretching Astrid wide until her body swallows it whole. She groans, tries to readjust to the intrusion, to arch her spine off the bed, alleviate the growing ache of discomfit between her shoulder blades and arms. Peter slips off the bed and returns to the jute, naked as she is, lean and well formed, he places three knots in the second piece of rope, close together, and says, “Matanawa.”
Astrid remembers the word from earlier, knows the meaning as Peter explained it. She shudders once, lets her legs fall open. Peter winds one end of the jute into the rope circling her bust and tugs it down firmly; pulls it down between her legs, the knots placed exactly on her clit, running through the cleft of her vulva, with one hand on her hip the other on her thigh, Peter urges Astrid onto her stomach. The relief is short lived, the fire between her shoulder blades easing - only to be replaced with the pressure of the knot against her labia; Peter flicks the vibrator on and Astrid jerks forward, grinding against the sheets. Pleasure sparks behind her eyes, toes curling as her breathing hitches. Peter kisses the small of her back, parts her cheeks and pulls the rope tight until it curves with the half-moon of her body, tight against clit and anus both, the knots perfectly aligned, digging into exposed orifices and female genitalia.
She’s rocking helplessly against the stimulation, arms immobile, all movement restricted. Peter jerks the rope high, secures it to the ushiro takate kote shibari that binds her hands.
There’s a high whine in the room, it takes Astrid long moments to realise it’s coming from her, shuddering like a spastic as everything clenches, tightens, vibrates. Her first orgasm rolls over her like a freight train, open mouthed, face buried against bed-sheets. Astrid’s gasping incoherently because nothing stops or relents; the pleasure so intense her mind whitens out.
When Astrid comes back to herself she’s in no-man’s-territory - when orgasm’s been achieved and the body’s ready to quit - except none of the stimulation does. She’s caught blind on the cusp of conflicting data; electrical misfires between discomfit and pleasure, eyes squeezed shut. Peter tugs her from the bed, sets Astrid on the floor on her knees. The rope keeps the vibrator in place. Peter’s hands find her face, fingers gentle on her jaw-line, brushing by her cheekbones, sweeping through her hair; grounding and real, drawing Astrid into the here and now. Her mind turns the necessary flip, switching back to pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, until Astrid realises she’ll come again, and will keep coming until Peter’s done. She tilts forward and sucks him down, lets salt and heat fill her throat, to stop herself from begging.
Peter’s taste is strong on her tongue, not unpleasant, his thigh rubs between Astrid’s legs, pushing the knots in further, shattering her concentration. She has to pull off to gather breath and comes again between exhalations. “P-pe.” The vibrator hums against the channels of her body, the room sways.
Astrid tries to curl down, to loosen the rope against her clit, to let the vibrator ease from her body, but the movement only pulls her arms further up, tightens the rope around her neck, hinders her breathing until the deprivation of oxygen floats her body into another orgasm, fast on the heels of the second. She’s nothing but protracted sensation.
There’s wetness on her cheeks. Peter straightens Astrid gently, eases the rope around her neck until she can breathe freely, untangles the jute binding the crotch rope to her arms and drags it from her vulva, the slickness of her come easing the passage of fibre against skin. She jerks, uncoordinated as an infant; distantly, Astrid thinks she comes a fourth time. Gravity lets the vibrator fall from her body and Astrid sags forward as the rope binding her arms is uncoiled. She falls against Peter, holding onto his thighs for support. He doesn’t ask for anything in return but drops into a squat, lifting her chin to make eye contact. Astrid doesn’t have words; her mind swept clean, doesn’t know how to formulate consonants or vowels, her body close to shock. Peter seems to hear anyway, he strokes her cheek, kisses her soft and pulls the quilt down over them both. Astrid doesn’t move, when her body stops trembling she nuzzles Peter’s throat, says warningly, “It’s my turn, next time.”