Work Text:
It all starts with porn.
It’s not the first time they’ve had to watch graphic videos for a case, but it’s been ninety minutes of searching the Creampie Cuties site for their missing person and the orgasmic shrieking has become one long, unbroken falsetto wail in Olivia’s head.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me
Harder! Harder!
Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop
Yeah, take it
Take it
She’s getting a migraine. “How many more?”
“Need a break?”
“Maybe. Think we’re close?”
“There’s a ton of videos with redheads,” he sighs, rubbing his eyes -- a sure sign he’s just as bored as she is. “Might be a while.”
Olivia stands, stretching her limbs. “I’m taking ten,” she announces through a yawn.
“Want some company?”
She stops at the door to look back at Elliot but she knows which face he is making before she turns around and--
Yep. That’s the one. Not so bored after all.
“Don’t,” she warns.
His grin sharpens. “Just offering my services.”
“Elliot, we’ve talked about this. You agreed not to--”
“--do anything at work,” he finishes. “That was assuming that anything we did would distract us from said work. But if we’re already taking a break…”
He’s been like this for almost four months, starting with the night he showed up at her apartment with eyes on fire and whiskey breath after they busted Bushido for murder.
He wanted to talk, he said. He needed to see her, he said.
It’s over, he told her. Kathy’s done and so am I.
I’m sorry, she told him.
It’s for the best, he replied.
Are you okay? she asked.
No, he answered, but I will be.
And then his mouth was on hers.
He’d been in the liminal space between drunk and sober -- just soused enough to make a move, but not too intoxicated to not know what he was doing. And Olivia, sober as a nun, didn’t object.
The sex had been fast and wet and dirty, both of them rushing mindlessly into a half-clothed rutting on her couch. Not that she was complaining. In her quiet moments, she can perfectly recall the hard press of his lips against her neck, the familiar scent of him that flooded her senses as she bit down on his still-clothed shoulder.
Intense, overwhelming, thrilling. Sometimes she still can’t believe she’s fucking Elliot Stabler.
Not that he’s being subtle about it. He’s now too close, there are windows into this room and he’s reaching for her--
“Not here,” she hisses. They’ve been in a bubble since that first night, a suspended universe unto themselves in which they wake up in her bed and leave for work at different times so no one knows, then reverse the process at the end of the day. It’s been shockingly easy, stunningly good.
And, as she’s learned again and again, good things break easily.
Which is why she stiffens as he reaches past her, closes the door. “Relax,” he murmurs. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer, studies her face. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Elliot watches her for another beat before smiling. “Just making sure.” He leans in and she stiffens again. “I know,” he grouses, pressing a chaste kiss to her temple. “Not at work.”
He opens the door, gives her a wink. She leaves in search of cold water.
They go back to the videos after ordering in for lunch. Olivia uses the mute button this time.
“Nothing like watching silent smut,” Elliot sighs wearily. “There’s no way that poor girl is enjoying that.”
The woman on screen is bent over a leather chaise lounge, a smile on her face as a well-endowed man with skinny legs thrusts harder into her ass than Olivia thinks is necessary. “Maybe not the way he’s doing it,” she quips.
Elliot shakes his head, stabbing at his drunken noodles like they’ve wronged him. Olivia sighs. Of all the men in all the precincts in Manhattan, she had to pick the one who eats like his food is getting away. He won’t be still until the noodle carton is empty.
“I remember my shapes and sizes. There’s no way she’s into it.”
“I don’t know,” she says absently. “Some women like that.”
His head snaps up. “Yeah?”
“Sure.”
“Do you?”
“Elliot,” she chides, eyeing the door.
“Relax, I’m not gonna jump on you. Just asking.”
She watches the screen, considering her answer. “I think,” she says carefully, “there’s a time and a place.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means… sometimes you just want something, I don’t know. Different.”
“Different like that ?” he demands, gesturing at the monitor with his fork.
Olivia shrugs. “There’s a time and a place.”
The scene ends and she leans forward, scrolling through the suggested videos underneath. She clicks on the most promising one, sits back with a sigh. “This feels like a waste of time. What are the odds that our missing girl’s still a redhead?”
She turns her head to find Elliot staring at her. He looks stunned.
“What?” she demands.
He snaps out of it, shaking his head. “Nothing.”
“El.”
“I don’t know. I just never thought you’d do…” he nods toward the screen. “That.”
“Anal?” He looks down; her own laugh surprises her. “You’re blushing-- Jesus, Elliot, you’re a sex crimes detective.”
“Yeah, ‘crime,’” he shoots back defensively. “You know it’s not the same thing.”
“So you’ve never…?” He shoots her an incredulous look. “Just making sure.”
She shouldn’t be surprised. Elliot’s never breathed a disrespectful word about his soon-to-be ex-wife and Olivia wouldn’t tolerate it if he had. But she’s reached her own conclusions about their sex life from the way they always end in some variation of missionary, as well as the intense gratitude he shows for the small things: she thought he’d have a heart attack the first time she brought out the lingerie.
Apparently, Elliot Stabler loves her in a corset.
“What about you?” she asks, nodding at the screen.
“No way.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He lowers his voice. “Liv, I barely fit now.”
She knows. Memories of the previous evening jump to the front of her mind and she fights the urge to squirm in her seat. “When have you heard me complaining?”
He gives her that one. “Still. Not a good idea.”
“Why?”
“I’d-- Liv, I’d hurt you.”
“What if it was okay to hurt me?” she asks quietly. “Just a bit.”
Elliot freezes, chopsticks suspended halfway between his mouth and his lunch.
“Elliot.”
He shakes his head clear of the daze. His cheeks are scarlet.
“You okay?”
He snorts. “No, but thanks for asking.”
“Well, relax. I’m not actually suggesting it. I’m not,” she insists, smirking when he shoots her a dirty glance. “I just like seeing you blush. It’s very Irish Catholic.”
“Not all Catholics,” he retorts. “Lotta rumors in high school about the, ah, loophole.”
“Loophole?”
“The good girl loophole-- don’t look at me like that. I didn’t come up with the name.”
“Are you talking about girls who have anal sex and still call themselves virgins?”
He remains intensely focused on his noodles. “That’s the one.”
“You’re blushing again.”
“Noodles are too spicy,” he lies.
She smiles, nods, turns her attention back to the young woman currently being serviced and/or violated by -- Olivia counts -- seven men who are twice her size. Yikes.
“So,” Elliot says after a moment, the very picture of nonchalant. “‘A time and a place’?”
“Sure.”
“And when was this time… and place…?”
“Don’t ask questions if you don’t want answers, Elliot.”
“So you’ve done it,” he continues, his casual tone belied by the way he’s still weaponizing his chopsticks. For a man with a gold-medal poker face, he has a lot of tells when it’s just the two of them. “With who?”
“You don’t honestly expect me to answer that.”
“Was it Cassidy?” She shoots him a look. “Moss?”
“Elliot--”
“Did you at least know the guy?”
“Elliot!”
“Sorry, just-- I’m just curious.”
“Will you feel better if I tell you?”
“Nope. Tell me anyway.”
Olivia considers him, slouched over his food like he’s bracing for bad news. She rolls her eyes. “I’ve never done it, Elliot.”
His frown transforms into a smile so smug it makes her want to throw something. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, and you can stop grinning like an asshole.”
“Sorry,” he chuckles. “It’s… ah, it’s just good to know.” He takes another bite. She watches him.
“So you’ve never done it. And I’ve never done it…” she trails off, finishing the sentence with a tilt of her head.
Elliot freezes again. “Are you serious?”
“Only if you want to.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t want to pressure you into anything.”
“Pressure me,” he echoes. “Ha.” And then he’s staring again, chewing.
“Might be nice to try something different,” she continues. “Mix it up a little bit.”
He frowns and Olivia looks away, giving him privacy to stare and eat and search his soul about trying something new.
Then:
“Okay,” he says slowly.
“Okay?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Jesus, Elliot.”
“What?”
“There’s not another man in the city that would need to be talked into this.”
Elliot laughs. “Liv, c’mon.”
“You really are a rare breed.”
“I wouldn’t bank on that,” he retorts with a smirk.
“I mean, if I can’t convince you…”
“You don’t need to convince me.” He lowers his voice. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”
Olivia holds his gaze, wondering why anyone thought it would be a good idea to leave the two of them alone with hours of porn. Her skin feels hot, tight and he’s looking at her like she’s got two seconds to run before he eats her alive.
Her cell phone rings, cutting through the haze between them. It’s Warner, and they’re wanted at the lab. She hangs up, tells Elliot.
He is still staring.
Their weekday morning routines overlap too often, something that Elliot never misses an opportunity to point out.
“This would be easier if we had two sinks,” he observes with a mouth pull of toothpaste. She glares at him through the mirror, spits. Moves to the side so he can do the same.
“Apartment’s the same as it’s always been, Elliot. You’re the one who won’t sleep at your own place.”
“Yeah, well. Your mattress is better than mine.”
“You just don’t like living by yourself.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to break in a new partner just because you want more room to brush your teeth. Not yet, anyway.”
He freezes in the middle of wiping his face, shoots her a look over the towel. “Alright. When?”
This is where relationships hit the wall for her, the push to move forward before she’s sure, before she’s ready. She and Elliot have made some allusions to a life together, and she knows she won’t ever want anybody else. But that permanence means something more than she can take right now -- she’s not quite ready to surrender what they have to an unknown future. “Someday,” she answers. “I don’t know when.”
Her reticence is usually the final straw for the men in her life. She waits for his response, annoyed at her own nerves.
But Elliot just smirks, pops her on the ass with the towel. “Works for me.”
“Cause of death is asphyxiation,” Warner announces cheerfully. “There’s no bruising, so I’m thinking he used his forearm from behind.”
“He’d have to use a rear naked choke hold for that,” Elliot thinks out loud. “Our guy has some martial arts in his background. Wait-- how do you know it was from behind?”
“Scrapes on her hands and knees. I also found traces of spermicide and lube in her rectum.”
Olivia sighs as Elliot suddenly becomes fascinated by something on his phone. “Anything to help us ID her attacker?”
“There’s someone else’s blood under her fingernails. Lab’s running it now. You okay, Elliot?”
“Huh? Yeah. I’m good. Just, ah… checking in with Huang--”
“Keep us posted,” Olivia interjects, heading for the door. Elliot is right behind her.
“‘Checking in with Huang’?” she repeats incredulously. Elliot shrugs. “You couldn’t have named somebody who’s not on vacation?”
He shakes his head, annoyed. “Got a lot on my mind,” he mutters. “We’ll talk about it later.”
She smirks. “Sure we will.”
Neither one of them is in the mood for talking about it later.
Elliot gets to her apartment twenty-six minutes after she does, giving her just enough time to shower and eat a snack before he comes through the door like a hurricane, his mouth on hers and his hands everywhere else. His clothes and her robe are quickly discarded, a patchwork trail of fabric leading from the kitchen to her bedroom.
“You taste good,” he mutters against her mouth.
“Orange,” she gasps, unbuttoning him, slipping her hand around the hot-hard of his cock. “I ate an orange--”
“Shut up,” he groans. “Get on the bed.”
She holds his gaze over her shoulder as she climbs onto the mattress on her hands and knees, lifts her hips in invitation. He’s behind her then, rough fingers pressed into her to get her ready before he covers her body, his mouth on her shoulder as he slips into her heat and she thinks, finally.
“You’re so wet,” he hisses, sinking further in. “Jesus--”
A few thrusts and he is pushing her farther onto the bed, climbs up behind her and pushes her down to her elbows, pressing the blunt head of his cock inside again. He’s the biggest she’s had and he knows it, usually taking care to warm her up, ease her in but now--
His fingers have a tight hold on her hips, pulling her in to meet his thrusts with a roughness she’s watched him stifle before, but his restraint is gone now and all he’s saying is her name in between the staccato growls of his breathing and he pushes just a little too far, just enough to hurt, to match the sweetness of her own touch as she winds up tighter, tighter, closer--
“God,” she cries out, and then there are no more words.
He pulls out of her, turns her onto her back and flattens her beneath him, his face close, mouth against hers as he keeps thrusting into the grip of her, his bellowing breath hot on her neck, riding it out until he comes with an anguished groan.
“Nothing feels like you,” he pants against her skin. “Nothing.”
He holds the bulk of his weight on his elbows as he settles against her, nuzzling her shoulder as she catches her breath and thinks, missionary or not, Kathy Stabler is a fool for letting this man go.
Olivia had assumed that their conversation about a new sexual frontier would remain at the front of his mind, but nothing comes up again until four days later when he’s looking for apples in her shopping bags.
“What the hell is this?” he asks, holding up one of the small cardboard packages she’d picked up at the Pink Pussycat.
“Read the box.”
He squints at the packaging. “‘B vibe petite butt plug’?” She hears the bag rustle again. “You’re serious.”
She finishes stocking the fridge with sparkling water and stands up to find he has lined up the four plugs on the counter, along with the container of lube. He stares at them.
“El?”
He grunts.
“Close your mouth.”
It’s her first day wearing a plug at work and she’s already tense, worried that they’ll get a call before the timer on her phone goes off. Fortunately it’s a morning of admin work, and her taboo little secret fades into the back of her mind as she slogs through paperwork she’s been putting off for a month.
There’s a cycle to the morning:
“All good?” Elliot asks quietly, eyes on his own work.
“Doing great.” Stop staring at me like that, she wants to hiss, but it doesn’t stop her from staring back.
He nods, returning to his work.
Another upside of the bubble, she thinks. Moments of connection like these are peppered throughout her daily routine, secret and soft.
This cycle repeats until Kathy calls. Twice.
Elliot picks up both times, talking in as many hushed monosyllables as possible but she can still tell that dinner plans are being made.
He hangs up and avoids her gaze.
“How’s Kathy?”
“Good. Good, we’re just… trying to figure some things out with the divorce.”
She nods, waiting for more details. He doesn’t give any.
There’s no prying into private things inside the bubble. She turns back to her paperwork.
It’s early Sunday morning when Olivia crawls back into bed after a run and a shower, her limbs pleasantly loose. Elliot stirs as she gets under the covers.
“Time is it?” he asks, eyes closed.
“Eight.”
He grumbles, already drifting off as he tugs her back against his chest.
She supposes his grabbiness shouldn’t have come as a shock when they first started… doing whatever this is. But she always feels a pleasant frisson of surprise when he reaches for her at night. She’s become an expert at rearranging her hair to protect her sensitive skin from his stubble.
Sundays when they’re not on-call are typically spent apart -- Elliot goes to church with his family and then spends the rest of the day with the kids. But the Stabler children are with Kathy’s family for the weekend, and Elliot’s crankiness about the change to his visitation schedule faded only after she took him in her mouth the night before.
The thought of it heats her and she rotates her hips against his groin just a bit, just enough for his breathing to change.
“Alright,” he growls. “I’m up.”
Her laugh is quiet, breathy. “I can tell.”
He’s gentle as he pulls her tighter against him, his forearm pressed across her breasts. He holds onto her shoulder with his right hand, his left pulling her hips tighter against his own as he thrusts against the cleft of her ass.
Neither one of them are much for talking during sex, but occasionally Elliot will be too tired or tipsy to filter himself and even his tamest words can set her off.
“Used to think about this,” he breathes against her shoulder. “All the time.”
“Yeah?”
“Every day.” She reaches back to wrap her fingers around him. “Hell.”
He touches her hips, the inside of her thighs, pulls her leg back--
“Gah,” she cries, her arousal swelling as he inadvertently brushes the plug she’d put in after her shower. “Tell me about it.”
Elliot groans, rubs his fingers against her clit, thrusts his cock against her ass again. And again. “Sometimes, at work, I can see your nipples through your shirt.”
“Yeah?”
“Makes me wanna cover them with my mouth, keep the unis from seeing you.”
She exhales a husky laugh. “But they’d still see you.”
“Good,” he rasps. “Maybe it’ll stop them from staring at your tits when they think I’m not looking. Or maybe it won’t. Maybe they should see me do more...”
He reaches his arm across her waist, runs his fingers down to the cleft between her thighs, circles her clit gently, too gently. She bucks against him, seeking friction.
“You woke me up for this,” he growls, holding her still. “We’re doing it my way.”
Jesus.
“Inside,” she demands, shaking with impatience. “I want you inside me.”
“Ask nicely,” he breathes against her.
“Elliot--”
“Ask,” he bites out. She grins.
“Please, Elliot--”
He presses into her, wasting no time. She parts around the swollen tip of him and it’s always a tight fit but now he’s pushing against the flare of the plug and--
“Ah!” she cries, seizing up immediately, stiffening in his arms. The euphoria is so quick, so overwhelming, that she barely hears Elliot’s surprised snarl as she comes on less than half of him.
He withdraws, turns her onto her back and comes back between her thighs, the motion of his hips stuttering, sinking him home and it only spurs her on as she drives up against him, reaching for something to hold, something to ground her through it. Her nails sink into his ass and his rhythm disintegrates further until he is fully inside and trying to get further, too deep, a pain that only heightens her ebbing climax as he finishes with a long growl.
Eventually the tremors stop and the only sound is their heavy breathing. Elliot rolls onto his back, pulling her flush against his side. She pulls away enough to look at his face, sees his closed eyes and settles, distracts herself, lightly scratches the small patch of hair between his pecs. “Good morning,” she says quietly.
He pulls her even closer, hums contentedly. She begins to fall asleep.
When she opens her eyes again, he is leaning over her, dressed in one of his Sunday suits. “Be back soon,” he whispers, watching her wake up.
Olivia stretches lazily, pulls him down by his tie and smiles an inch from his lips. He holds himself above her, the crispness of his dress shirt lightly scraping against her naked breasts. She hums. “You gonna tell God what you did to me this morning?”
He rolls his eyes, always a little scandalized by her irreverence. “That’s between me and Him.”
“And Father McCue,” she adds shamelessly.
“Right,” he says, smirking against her mouth. “I’ll tell him you said hi.”
After two weeks of wearing the plugs, she’s ready and tells him so.
He handles the news admirably, choking on his coffee in the middle of her kitchen.
“How about Friday?” she suggests.
“Friday.”
“We can grab some drinks, come back here. If you’re buying, I’ll even count it as a date.”
He nods.
“Great. You with the kids tonight?”
“Uh, yeah.”
She kisses his cheek and leaves for work, casting one more glance over her shoulder as she closes the door behind her. He hasn’t moved.
The bubble disintegrates the next day.
Warner’s fingernail blood gets no hits, and back to the drawing board they go. Elliot is in a mood, has been since he’d seen his kids the night before. He sits silent at his desk, studying his fingers while she and Munch work through a theory.
“That’s crap,” he mutters at something John says.
Olivia glares at him. “Thanks for joining us. Got anything constructive to add?”
“Just that we’re not gonna find him sitting here.”
“What the hell should we be doing then?” she demands testily. “We’ve got no hits, no other trace evidence, two Jane Does and a guy who attacks without any real pattern.”
“We should be out there looking for him,” he mutters.
“We don’t even have a place to start.”
“We have three crime scenes!”
“That’ve already been processed, Elliot, c’mon.”
“At least it’s something. Looking out there has gotta be better than sitting here chasing our tails.”
“Then go,” she growls.
He stands, grabs his jacket. Glares at her the whole time. She and John watch as he leaves in a storm of pent-up fury.
“What’s with him?” Munch asks.
Occupational hazard of working with an asshole, she almost replies. “Tough case,” she says instead.
Munch nods like he heard her anyway.
She spends the next few days watching him like he’s on the other side of the interview table, looking away whenever he glances back. Whatever’s bothering him has nothing to do with her, at least she thinks it doesn’t, it’s hard to tell with all the brooding. Sometimes he’ll start to lighten, but then his phone will ring and his brow will furrow and he’s back to being in his own head.
He’s been in rare form all day, slamming drawers and sighing like a martyr whenever someone asks him a question. The final straw comes when he abandons her in interrogation to take a phone call, disappearing for two hours before prowling back into the squad room, tossing his phone on his desk without a word. He heads for the stairwell. She follows him to the roof.
“What the hell is going on with you?” she demands as soon as they’re alone.
He says nothing for a moment, staring out at the city. When he finally meets her eyes, she can't read his expression. “Kathy’s seeing someone.”
So are you, she wants to point out, but concentrates on getting to the better part of her brain instead. The part that lets her be his friend without demanding things in return. “Is that a bad thing?”
“I know him,” he sighs. “Mike Walsh. He’s Maureen’s godfather.”
Oh.
“How?”
“I don’t know. She said they’ve gotten close since his wife died.”
Olivia nods, gathering her thoughts and enough dignity to clarify: “Are you okay?”
He looks startled. “I mean, yeah. I’m happy for them? I don’t know.”
“So then what’s bothering you?”
Elliot sighs. “Kathy let it slip to the kids. About us.”
Oh. Oh.
“And how are they doing with… that?”
He shakes his head. “Not great.”
“I guess this makes the divorce real for them.” Among other things.
“Yeah, they’re, ah. They’re pretty upset with me. With both of us.”
It takes her a second to realize that she is included in his ‘us.’
It had to happen eventually, she reasons. They couldn’t be a secret forever. Still, she’s shit at commitment and Elliot is shit at talking and now reality is at the door, ready to remind them that what they have shouldn’t work.
“So what do we do now?”
He gives her a look. “What does that mean?”
“Elliot..." she sighs. "You have to do what’s best for your family--”
“Yeah,” he says tightly. “I do. I am. Stop acting like you’re not a part of it.”
That shuts her up.
Olivia waits up for him that night, hoping that there’s still enough of a protective coating around her apartment for them to escape the day, enjoy a little more lightness. He’d given her a lascivious smile earlier in the locker room as she took her time packing her Kevlar, bent at the waist for his benefit. He loves her breasts, tells her as much almost every time he sees her naked, and she’s not above deploying them as a way to boost his mood.
But the day is weighing her down, not because it’s been hard but because it’s felt so ordinary. Elliot, distracted by the case and his family drama, was quiet; everything else was a throwback to the work routine they’d kept for the past decade: steady, familiar, efficient.
Three months is a hell of a honeymoon period, she supposes. But not long enough.
She pulls on a cotton short set -- pajamas made for comfort, but they still make Elliot’s eyes go wide when he sees them. He likes to toy with the spaghetti straps of the top as he presses behind her in the morning.
She drifts off while reading, waking only when Elliot removes the open book from her chest and turns off the lamp. He strips down to his briefs, climbing into bed and settling with a heavy sigh.
“How’s the case?”
“Sucks,” he answers, his voice hoarse with fatigue. “C’mere.”
She relaxes into his arms as he pulls her back against his chest; he hums in appreciation when he realizes what she’s wearing.
Honeymoons always end, she muses tiredly, drifting off again. But he’s still here.
It’s Friday. She wakes up alone.
4th victim found, left early, the post-it on her microwave reads, signed with a simple El. It’s sparse to the point of absurdity but still makes her smile.
The rest of the day does not. It’s long and full of people who can’t get their stories straight, and Munch doesn’t get her jokes. She feels feral and annoyed by lunch, hungry with no time to pick anything up. She remembers seeing a granola bar on Elliot’s locker shelf and decides he won’t miss it. She’s pretty sure it was originally hers, anyway.
“Where are you going?” Munch asks accusingly. God forbid he fill out one more form than he needs to.
“Lockers,” she snaps over her shoulder.
It’s been less than twenty-four hours but she misses her partner, pausing when she opens his locker to smell one of his clean shirts. They’re starting to smell like her fabric softener, which lightens her mood, just a bit.
She finds the granola bar on his shelf, examines the wrapper and sure enough, she gave it to him over a year ago when he started getting cranky on a stakeout. She’s been carrying multiples of whatever she eats for this purpose, being in love doesn’t mean she wants to listen to him whine--
Olivia freezes, mid-bite.
In love.
She’s in love with Elliot.
The feeling isn’t new, but the vocabulary is and it’s enough to knock her back. Jesus.
And then speak of the devil, that’s how her partner finds her a moment later. “Hey,” he breathes, his face softening enough to make her glad no one else is around. “Anyone in here?”
She shakes her head. “Just us.”
“Good,” he sighs, his hands already slipping around her waist, cupping her jaw. He tastes like coffee and mint. “I came up to ask a favor.”
“What is it?”
“Let me take you to lunch…”
“That’s the favor?”
“…with my family.”
There it is.
She opens her eyes. “Right now?”
Elliot nods. At least he looks apologetic.
“Apparently Kathy’s therapist wants all of us to socialize so the kids can see a united front. I know it’s last-minute, I just think-- I think you should be there.”
“‘All of us,’” she echoes. “So me and you, and--”
“--Kathy and Mike. And the kids.”
“I’d love to,” she says sweetly, “but I’m helping John--”
A look flashes between them: recognition. He sees what she’s trying and she sees his counter maneuver before he even says--
“Fin’s got it covered.” He smiles at her obvious disappointment. “We’ve gotta do this sometime, Liv.”
He’s right. She knows this. Still.
Still.
Lunch does not go well.
Mike Walsh is an insurance adjuster with hair that borders on reddish and a friendly, open demeanor. He’s Elliot’s opposite in every way: slim, smiling, gregarious.
“Olivia,” he says brightly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
She cuts a quick glance to Kathy. “All good, I hope.”
Mike grins. “Of course.”
The food arrives and conversation stays polite, if a bit strained. There is tension between Elliot and Mike, and a little bit less between herself and Kathy, but it’s a group effort to keep things pleasant.
A group effort that Dickie and Elizabeth Stabler want no part of. While Maureen and Kathleen studiously ignore her, the twins have inherited their father’s subtlety, openly glaring until Elliot has enough and tells them to cut it out.
“Good seeing you,” Olivia says as they leave. She’s only half-lying.
Elliot knows. He leaves her with a squeeze of her hand and a promise to pick her up at seven o’clock.
Olivia goes home an hour early, grateful it’s Munch and Fin’s turn to be on-call and eager for an evening of dressing like a human woman.
In spite of her utilitarian work clothing, she’s never minded the mishegoss of being a girl. She looks forward to her weekly mani/pedis and owns a closetful of shoes and dresses she wishes she could wear more often.
So she shaves and exfoliates and moisturizes with a vengeance, takes time applying her makeup and styles her hair into something curlier, bouncier. By the time she pours herself into lingerie and a dress, it’s been almost two hours.
Elliot will spend exactly eleven minutes getting ready for the same evening.
He cleans up nice though, showing up five minutes early in a dark grey suit she hasn’t seen and a white oxford, no tie. She swallows the remaining awkwardness from the day, runs a finger down his lapel.
“New suit?”
“Newish,” he answers absently, following the curves of her with his hands. “This is… nice.”
She fights a shiver, anticipation building as he caresses down her arms, her hips, her ass and waist and up again. “‘Nice’?”
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he mutters. “I think I’m having a stroke.”
Her dress is simple, strapless and black and fitted down to the knees, but her shoulders and an extra three inches of her cleavage are on display and apparently, that’s enough to short-circuit Elliot’s brain.
“Where are we going?”
“Hm?”
“Elliot.”
“What?”
“Dinner,” she clarifies. “Where are we going?”
“Ah, a place in Jersey.”
“Why Jersey?”
“Figured we’d be less likely to run into someone we know.”
“Fair enough.”
She turns away to grab her purse and jacket but he pulls her back, drops a light kiss on her mouth. “You’re a walking heart attack,” he says quietly. “I’m worried Hoboken PD’s going to try and pick you up for inciting a riot.”
“Get me back here without any trouble,” she teases, “and you can put the cuffs on yourself.”
His strangled groan makes her laugh.
Elliot drives them to an upscale hotel with a rooftop bar in uptown Hoboken and glares at every man in a thirty-foot radius after she takes off her coat.
These are the things that ease her: the territorial glare; the familiar edges of his temper and his teasing. She wonders if he knows how flirtatious he is when he’s not worried about work.
Their server does, leading Olivia to deploy a few glares of her own.
“What’s the matter?”
Her attention snaps back to Elliot, his brow creased with concern. “Hm? Oh. Nothing, I’m fine.”
He stares at her skeptically.
“Just thinking.”
Elliot nods, drinks some of his scotch. “About lunch?”
She shrugs.
“Okay,” he says easily. He knows her, waits for her to spill. She watches him watch the room.
“Elliot,” she begins. He gives her his full attention. “What are we doing?”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, is this permanent?”
“You and me.”
“Yeah.”
“Of course it’s permanent. It’s been permanent.”
“How can you be sure? You’ve reconciled with Kathy before. What’s different now?”
“Everything,” he says firmly.
“Why? Because we started sleeping together?”
Elliot gives her a look. “Among other things, yeah.”
“What if we don’t work?”
He shrugs. “Then I’ll get Fin to take me behind the precinct and put me out of my misery.”
“Elliot.”
“Fine. If we don’t work, then we don’t work. I’m not going back to Kathy. Besides,” he adds, taking a swig of scotch, “the kids know we’re a thing. No sense backtracking now.”
“How romantic.”
The band begins to play. Elliot watches as she finishes her wine, motions to the waiter for a refill.
“Good song,” he remarks nonchalantly.
She clears her throat, sips her wine. “I don’t know it.”
“My old man loved the Rat Pack. We had the vinyl of this one.” He meets her eyes. “You, uh. You like dancing?”
“I do.”
He stands. Offers her his hand.
“Can’t promise anything flashy,” he says with a shrug. “Dance with me anyway?”
She does.
The car ride home is quiet. Elliot reaches for the hand in her lap, his thumb stroking hers on their way back to the city.
“Did you have a good time?” he asks once they’ve cleared Lincoln Tunnel.
“I did,” she answers honestly.
He nods again, squeezes her hand. The bigger questions of what the hell they’re doing will be there in the morning, she decides. It’s not every night she gets to dance with Elliot Stabler.
It starts in the elevator.
Elliot is right behind her, his hands propped on the rail as he leans against the wall. He smells good: clean, sharp, a little musky. She inhales deeply.
Another couple gets on right as the doors are closing. They’re too enamored of each other to pay attention to anyone else.
Olivia leans back, back, back until she’s flush against him, wrapped in his scent. He presses his lips to her hair, his hands still on the rail.
The young couple gets off at the second floor. She looks up at Elliot as the doors close.
“God, you smell good,” he groans into her neck, his arms circling her from behind. His lips find her ear and she sighs, You too.
Then it’s their stop and he herds her off the elevator with all the finesse of a bulldozer and she finds herself pressed against her neighbor’s door, his mouth hot and wanting against hers. Her fingers dance across the width of his shoulders, the back of his neck. He nips at her bottom lip and her thoughts go fuzzy.
“Elliot--”
“I know--”
“My door--”
“Over there,” he mutters against her mouth, letting her walk him back in the right direction. He’s behind her again as she unlocks her door, his fingers sliding down and under the front of her dress, teasing her nipple, gently squeezing her.
Any one of her neighbors could walk out right now, she thinks, could find her between the door and the solid bulk of Elliot curling around her, see his hand on her breast, his other dragging up the hem of her skirt--
“Christ,” he sighs, finding one of her garters, flexing himself against her ass. “Liv--”
Finally, she unlocks the door and they trip over each other to get inside and she closes the door, locks the deadbolt as he unzips her.
“C’mere,” he breathes, pulling her to the couch. He sits and she straddles, his fingers yanking down the front of her dress, taking an exposed nipple in his mouth while his hands grip her, knead her ass and move her hips against his hardness, and then there is nothing but his groans and her gasping.
He pulls at the top of her dress. “Off.”
Olivia lifts her arms, lets him slide it up and off. He pulls her back to him to nuzzle at the valley between her breasts. She loses her breath, muscles locking as he thrusts against the plug still inside of her.
“I can’t believe you’ve been wearing that all night,” he groans against her mouth.
“Such an altar boy,” she murmurs as his lips travel across her jaw, down her neck, warm gust against her collarbone when she unzips him, takes him in her hand.
He huffs out a pained laugh, watching her stroke him. “Do I feel like an altar boy to you?”
She shakes her head. “You don’t kiss like one, either.”
Elliot reaches for her, pulling her closer by the nape of her neck. “I’ve been half-hard all night.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. God, your tits are perfect.”
This is the problem, she thinks wildly as he takes her breast in his mouth again. She’s worried about how long they’ll last, how his kids are coping, how she’ll survive this if he ever leaves, but then he touches her and just the thought of him, that the bulk and sinew beneath her is Elliot--
He lightly bites down against her nipple, watching her face intently. She whimpers, tightens her grip on him and he hums, thrusts against her.
Something occurs to her, an idea that’s never really been her thing but she pictures suggesting it to Elliot…
“Do you want to try something?” she whispers.
“We are...”
“Not that. Not yet. Don’t move.”
Olivia slips off her heels, leaves him on the couch and returns a moment later with the bottle of lube. She sinks to her knees in front of him while he watches, waits, reclining against the cushions like a Roman emperor.
She opens the bottle, pours a healthy splash into her palm and warms the lube before rubbing, cupping her breasts, covering them and repeating the process until they’re completely slick. She glances at Elliot.
He isn’t breathing.
Hands on her breasts, she rises on her knees, leans over his lap and surrounds the turgid head of his cock with her lips as he exhales a strangled sigh. She loves him like this, head back and eyes closed when he can’t hold her gaze anymore, when it gets to be too much. His hands come up to cradle her face, fingertips against her skull as she takes more of him.
She waits until his hips are thrusting into her throat of their own volition before releasing him with a wet pop.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “Jesus Ch-- Jesus Christ, Liv--”
She takes him in, pressing her cleavage around him and watches him fall apart. He’s staring at her like she’s killing him slowly.
“Stop,” he hisses. “Liv, I’m gonna come--”
And then he does, eyes wide and jaw clenched while he watches himself rise and fall and shoot into the squeeze of her breasts. He collapses back onto the couch, cries out like she’s hurting him when she gently takes his cock into her mouth again.
“Too much,” he gasps. “Too much.”
She releases him and crawls back into his lap, pressing her lips against his exposed throat while he stares at the ceiling. Her hips are still moving, seeking him, so she keeps her weight on her knees to give him a break.
Elliot’s breathing is harsh and heavy. She holds his face tenderly, watching him return to himself, stroking his temple.
“I love you,” he pants. “But you’re going to be the death of me.”
Don’t say that, she thinks. And then his words sink in.
She shuts down the internal surge of whatever powerful thing those words unleashed, chooses instead to smile. “Tell me again sometime,” she says, forcing a light tone. “Preferably not right after you come all over me.”
He groans. “If I tell you tomorrow, will you believe me?”
“Depends. Will we be naked?”
“If it’s up to me, yeah. That won’t make me mean it less.”
She lifts herself off his lap to stand, reaching out a hand to help him up. “I just thought of something else your mouth can do.”
Elliot laughs, walking her backwards into the bedroom, shedding the rest of his clothes as she climbs onto the bed. His body is something out of an ancient myth, all faded scars and rounded muscles and warrior lines, not an inch of him wasted. He meets her in the center of the bed, pulls her flush against him on her knees, wrapping himself around her as he kisses her, runs his mouth across her jaw and down her neck.
She lets him lay her down, his lips brushing a path from her collarbone, over her breasts and tensing stomach until he settles his shoulders between her legs. He pulls her garters down, presses a few light kisses to the sensitive inner flesh of her thighs, trailing lightly to her lips, licking and parting the seam of her. His tongue strokes her heat and she gasps, lifts to meet his mouth.
A callused finger brushes against her clit, circles lightly.
“More,” she moans, dragging her foot across the middle of his back.
He kisses her with new urgency, lips and tongue and a hint of teeth against the tender pink of her while hands roam and squeeze, caressing the curve of her ass, the line of her legs, the soft pale of her belly and breasts. She rolls against his mouth, grabbing the hand he’s using to hold her hips still and pushing up and suddenly his fingers are tracing a circuit between her clit, her entrance and down, down further until he presses against the plug, presses again and--
Olivia comes apart with a keening wail, a full-body paroxysm seizing her as he pulses his tongue lightly against her clit, his thumb against the plug until she is dumb and twitching beneath him. The heat of his body comes over her, moving until her hips cradle his. He reaches between them, lines himself up and--
“Ah,” they each sigh, exchanging breath as he pushes gently inside. His hand trails down her leg, lifting it higher over his hip and he sinks in even farther. She groans when he bottoms out, loving the ache of him.
“You,” Elliot says against her mouth with a grin. “You feel too good.” She squeezes, caresses his cock in response and he groans through a breathless laugh.
She loves him in this rhythm, the slow drag of his cock against the network of nerves screaming at her that it’s so good, it’s so good. Another climax, fluttering and soft, surprises her. He growls against throat when he feels her.
Elliot gives her a minute to come down before lifting himself to his elbows. “You ready?” he asks breathlessly. She nods.
He withdraws and she turns over, her skin tingling with fear and anticipation. He puts the towel underneath them and pulls her hips back.
“How do I take this out?” he asks, gently stroking the area around the plug.
“Slowly,” she whispers. “It’s wider at the bottom.”
There’s pressure, an uncomfortable pull. She breathes, pushes.
“Good girl,” Elliot breathes, running an appreciative hand across the curve of her ass. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
She hears a click as he opens the bottle of lube, then the slick sound of him warming it in his hands. Fast learner, she thinks approvingly--
“Gah,” she sighs at the first trickle against her ass. Elliot applies it liberally, using his fingers to test her, rubbing in what he can but there’s still enough to run down her thighs. Then his hands are gone and he groans, covering his cock the same way.
She settles onto her stomach, talking down the nerves. This is Elliot, she thinks. He’s not going to hurt you.
“Ready?” he asks in a hushed voice. She nods. Gently, he parts her legs, places his knees on either side of her, tugs her hips up just enough for her to tense. “Okay?” he asks again, his breathing rough.
“Yes.”
She feels him then, the blunt, slick head of his cock pressing against her, pressing in.
Breathe, she reminds herself, forcing herself to relax. Breathe, breathe, breathe…
“Liv,” Elliot rasps.
“Do it. Count to three and then slowly…”
“One,” he moans. “Two…”
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
“Three.”
He stretches her impossibly wide, forcing a shaky whimper out of her as she pushes back against him.
Just a little bit more, she thinks, awash with discomfort. Her body’s handled worse, she reminds herself. She can take him.
But her confidence wanes as he presses further in, hands kneading her ass in time with his shallow breaths and then the tip of him is in and they both groan.
“Liv, talk to me.”
“Keep going,” she pants. “Slow.”
He presses in, steady and slow. She takes a deep breath, relaxes her muscles--
Elliot slips further inside, enough to let him slowly lean forward, stretch himself across her back, his fists pressing into the mattress beside her hands. She whimpers again at the movement, at the heat of him as his shoulders meet hers.
“I’m not even halfway in,” he groans, “and you’re tighter than anything.”
Unable to speak, she grasps his wrist, squeezes.
“Can you take more?”
No, she thinks. “Yes.”
He growls, presses his forehead into the middle of her back as he makes another small push.
“Ah,” she cries, high and thready. “No more. I can’t--”
“Do you need to stop?”
“No. No, just. Don’t push anymore. Just hold still.”
Several long moments pass with them frozen like this. She distracts herself, thinks of all the times she’s wanted more from him, touches and talking and him in her bed, before telling herself that it wouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen.
But Elliot’s teeth are on her shoulder; the hot, painfully hard length of him is in her ass. The reality of their intimacy washes over her all over again, warms and loosens her. She takes a deep breath in, slow exhale…
“Fuck,” Elliot growls, slipping further in. “Sorry--”
“Keep going,” she whispers. “You can move.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He is still for a moment, then: “I’m pulling out.”
“What? Why?”
“Breathe, Liv.”
She does, emitting an involuntary whine as he withdraws. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says, gently turning her over. “Just trying something.”
Olivia is too tired, her body too loose and melted to have a strong preference. But she lets out a breathy chuckle as he settles back on top of her.
“What’s funny?” he asks, trailing his lips along her jaw.
“Altar boy,” she sighs.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You and missionary…”
“Mm,” he agrees against her neck. “It’s a good one.”
“I can’t believe you’re not tired of it after… I don’t know how many years. Don’t make me do math.”
Elliot pulls back, watching her. “You want to do something else?”
“Not necessarily. Just something I noticed.” She smiles into his mouth. “I think it’s cute.”
“Cute, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright,” he agrees easily, pulling her legs over his hips, lining himself up again. “I can work with cute. You ready?”
She’s not sure, but nods anyway. Breathe and push again and he’s in, this time easier, but the girth of him still takes her breath away.
“Good?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Can I move?”
“Yeah.”
Elliot lowers himself again and she loves the heat of his chest against hers, the flex of his ass when he presses into her. He cradles her face in his hands, soft and sweet and nothing like the force of him down below.
“Christ,” he breathes. “You’re so tight. Does it hurt?”
It does and she’ll kill him if he stops. “I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”
He nods, pulling out, pressing back. She tightens involuntarily; he growls.
Again. And again. His stamina is always impressive but now it’s overpowering, rhythm and pleasure and pain braided into a golden thread that pulls her out of her own body, sets her free to float in a storm of sensation.
Someone is cursing, grunting, gasping. Someone else lets out a high, keening cry. She no longer can tell who is who, he’s so deep and she’s so full and human bodies weren’t meant for this much sheer, agonizing euphoria.
“I’m close,” Elliot hisses. “God.”
“In me,” she breathes. “Come inside me.”
He buries his face in her shoulder, painting her skin with the heat of his breath and a litany of words that his priest can never know about. His desperation sparks her own pleasure and she slips one hand between them to touch herself, the other on the nape of his neck, nails digging into his skin in time with his rutting hips.
“Fuck-- Liv, I’m coming--”
He releases into her, holding himself still and bellowing a sound that seems to be pulled from the roots of him. She circles her clit one more time and tumbles into her own climax, a voiceless lock that suspends her between life and untrammeled ecstasy.
She surrenders to it, barely noticing as he gently pulls out of her. He strokes her hair, kisses her temple as she comes down, all shallow breaths and shaking.
They lie there for countless minutes, letting the cool of the night reclaim the sweat on their bodies as they rediscover the basic function of their limbs.
Olivia is limp, boneless, empty; Elliot is half-sprawled on top of her and she doesn’t even care.
“Liv.”
“Mmph.”
“Missionary.”
“Mm?”
“You asked why I don’t get tired of it.”
“Mmhm.”
He’s so gentle, his thumb running a smooth line across her brow. “Want to know why?”
She cracks open one eye, curious in spite of the heavy fatigue trying to pull her into sleep. “Why?”
“I’m not proud of this,” he says softly. “But… the last couple of years. When Kathy and I were together-- which wasn’t a lot, but still. I, ah. Pretended, sometimes.”
“Pretended?”
“That she was you.”
This earns him two open eyes.
“I’m not a missionary guy, Liv. Not really. Nothing wrong with it, but you know.”
“Then why…?”
“Because I got tired of imagining what you’d look like under me.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Or on top of me. I just... need to see your face.”
Olivia watches him for any trace of bullshit. He stares back at her, his expression matter-of-fact.
“The thing you said earlier,” she says hoarsely.
“Yeah?”
“You should say it again.”
“You didn’t want me to say it after sex.”
“Changed my mind.”
“You gonna say it back?”
“Maybe.”
He grins.
Olivia stares at the gunshot scar on his shoulder as he leans down to whisper in her ear.
FIN