Archive of Our Own

The universe was funny (rude) sometimes. 

It seems everyone has tried to slap her in the face with reality this week, hoping to knock some sense into her—and his name kept fucking coming up like they were synonymous. As if everyone in the world could see things she could not. 

Apparently people could write thesis papers about her inner feelings. The book and movie were already in the works and a younger, brunette actress from small town would get an award for her performance as the naive detective who was unconditionally in love with her partner.

Lindstorm said she idealized a relationship with him.

Her own detective told her to get a room—literally.

And Barba. One of the few close friends she had, flipped the script, flashing the mirror in her face, forcing her to look at the real truth. 

Unconditional love.

If everyone could just stop and let her move on. Let her hide in the comfortability of the unknown, of never crossing the line, of keeping her life exactly the way it has always been. She did not have time for this. Her head was a wonderland of ever-spiraling thoughts. Doors  opening to slam shut, she didn’t have time for herself, for him. 

What she deserved.  

Those words stung ever since she read Elliot’s feigned speech, transcribed from the mouth of his wife—the man she deserved. Only to later be echoed by her therapist, directly after mentioning that it was time for her to move forward with him, or move on.

She did move on. He just…came back.

Nothing could’ve prepared her for that. She lived her life knowing that the door to an intimate relationship (or any relationship for that matter) with Elliot Stabler was gone the moment Jenna hit the floor. Once the voicemails were ignored, Cragen confirming her suspicions, she knew that it was all over. 

And now, a year after he trampled back into her life, they’re both single, and here. Together. The respectful year of grieving has passed. Elliot had asked her out countless times. The ball has been in her court.

She held her hand on the metaphorical handle of that door, wanting to entertain herself by opening it, but she couldn’t. 

Not today. She needed more time.

But she might not get it.

When she overheard it on the radio, her heart sank. The thought of her finally willing to open up, only to be destroyed by his passing would be very onbrand for Olivia.

Everyone leaves her. So of course he would die the moment she even thought about a future with him.

Elliot Stabler was dead to her for 15 minutes. 

Olivia Benson had to picture a life without him—really without him—for a quarter of an hour and the gut-wrenching pain she felt began to make a solid shape of that unknown answer. 

She loved him. 

But it wasn’t enough to ease her worries (I mean, she thought he died before she could finally play with the idea that maybe she did love him), and the call from Ayanna makes things simultaneously better and worse.

“Captain Benson?”

“What happened?”

“Keep it between us—he’s alive.”

And work can only distract so much from the hidden rollercoaster of emotions she went through at the confirmation that Elliot Stabler was alive. 

And she loved him.

It was far too much at once. She couldn’t think properly, the overstimulation of it all happening at once caused her to bury every emotion again and deflect until she had the chance to unpack it all. 

When his daughter’s name popped up on her phone, she had no idea what to say. It seems so surreal that the story of them would begin and end with an award ceremony.

And she intended to go. She really did, but when she gets there and it’s all his family and Cragen, she panics, hiding in the hallway, watching from afar until the crowd starts to disperse and then she runs. 

Sequestering herself in the solitude of her car, she tries to breathe through the chaos of her brain, realizing it only had one mission right now.

To answer that unfinished question. 

And there was only one person who could help. 

So, she’s here, in a dark purple dress that she wore for him, not knowing she would match his tie so perfectly, standing in front of his door, needing just to see him. And only him.

She knocks, awaiting footsteps, and when they take too long she wants to run again. But the locks are heard unclasping and the door is pulled open.

“Liv?”

And he is really here. Alive and breathing. 

She doesn't know what to say, and the eye contact is proving to be a little too much, so she settles on his clothes, pointing at his coat. “I like the suit.”

He looks overwhelmingly surprised to see her, head shaking, hand still on the open door, “I tried to call—”

“I’ve had you on mute,” she nods toward him and he gestures for her to come inside where she begins to saunter in, “We were working a tough case and I needed to focus.” 

”How’d it go?”

“Good, she is getting some help now. And I…learned a few things along the way too.”

His hand hovers over the small of her back as he guides her through the tornado that has become his apartment, trying to distract with light conversation, “Like what?”

But it doesn't work. “What the hell happened here?”

“Long story,” he sighs and they land in the kitchen, next to all the broken wood and glass. 

Olivia eyes it up, thinking once more about the call, about him being dead and desperately wants that image out of her brain. She faces him, wanting to see his bright eyes shine again, and she whispers, “I got time.”

He pauses, the corners of his mouth turning up into a cheeky grin, “You do?”

And she grins, “Yes.” 

The lack of rejection from her excites him and he feels almost giddy from the chance to spend some time with her, a dorky expression of relief on his face as he looks at her. “I can make us some coffee, we can catch up on the patio?” He offers, shrugging, “I’m sorry I haven’t exactly had time to clean up though.”

“Understandable. You were apparently dead for a bit.”

And he swallows at the tension of her words. “…you heard?”

“I got the notification,” she sighs, looking down, biting her lip. “Next time, a warning would be nice.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats and means it, “everything was happening so quickly. I didn’t even think—”

But he is cut off by her arms sliding through his, curling up into his shoulders, holding him in a tight and strong embrace. His eyes widen at the sudden affection, not upset, but a little caught off-guard at it. She hadn’t exactly ever hugged him like this before, and the last time felt like a lifetime ago.

“What’s this about?” He asks, allowing his own arms to tentatively hold her back. 

“Shh,” she closes her eyes. “I just need to do this for a second.” 

And he nods, tightening his own hold on her, tilting his face down to breathe in the scent of her shampoo. He tries to keep still, not really positive on what she needs, but wanting to do everything right. But his hands linger, wanting to rub at her back, to play with her hair. 

After a few long moments, she tilts her head, mumbling against his shirt, almost inaudibly, “I thought you died, Elliot.”

He swallows down something like guilt, his chest aching at her words, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says, lifting her head to look at him. “I’m just—I’m really glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”

And she feels it then.

That bubble is filled and the decision has been made. The feeling of him in her hands has confirmed all her suspicions—everyone was right.

She loved him.

Oh my god, she really loved him.

And she can’t help it, but the realization of it causes her to jolt forward, grabbing his face in her hands and she kisses him hard. 

At first, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t react or respond at all, just lets her kiss him hard—a kiss that wakes up every bone in his body. 

It doesn’t last long, but it is everything she needs. 

The case is closed. 

She wants him. 

Keeping his face in her hands, she pulls back, eyes on him again, locking their gazes together. She shakes her head,  “Don’t ever do that again.”

“…let you kiss me or almost die?”

“The second one,” she confirms.

“Good because—”

And he kisses her this time, capturing her lips with his, holding her tight in his arms, revelling in the glory that is Olivia Benson. Olivia Benson in his house. Olivia Benson in his arms. Olivia Benson’s lips on his. His grip on her biceps is not new, but he’s never gotten to use it this way—to keep her kissing him. He tries not to hold her too tight but he doesn’t want them to stop. 

For the first time in a long time, he felt balanced. The room was spinning around them, but he somehow has never felt more focused, more driven, tantalized by the taste of her on him, already addicted to the sweetness. 

And god, their lips melded together too perfectly. 

Olivia was taken aback at first by the sheer force of Elliot Stabler. Her hands flew to his tense forearms, the concrete pillar of him tying her close. He kissed exactly how she imagined (hoped), like she was the only person his lips belonged to, and quite frankly that thought horrified her beyond belief. But his mouth is parting, tongue seeking entrance, and that fear fucks right off. 

She tosses her arms around his neck, her hand on the back of head, keeping him close to her. Mouth parted for him, she wants his tongue practically down her throat at this point, but she settles for the gentle rhythm he has set, finding her tongue with his, begging to dance. When they do meet, she realizes it’s been so long since she’s been kissed like she is wanted.

Like she deserves.

It’s a funny concept, that all-mighty question that was far too unreachable before, was answered by his lips on hers. She deserves him. She wants him. There’s no more barriers, nothing stopping them this time except her hesitant brain. 

And that could go to hell tonight. Any negative thoughts were drowned out by his lips, tongue, teeth. This is what she wanted. This is what she deserved. 

Their breaths are hard and heavy, lustful and fervent, and Christ, maybe Amanda was onto something because she suddenly needs to be as close to him as possible. His steel frame is all tough and tense, and she has this sick desire to be completely covered by him. To have him hold her close, kiss her good, while he fucks her into oblivion. 

Pulling away, she mumbles, “We’re supposed to do this in a hotel room,” before kissing him again.

“You wanna stop?” he rebuts, his own mouth traveling down her throat, tongue swirling her pulse point. His hands no longer grip her biceps, instead shifting to around her waist, fingers curling into the small of her back. 

So much is happening so quickly, he doesn’t want to ruin anything, but he needs to give her an out. She decides—she always has and always will. 

Doesn’t mean he can’t try and sway her in his favor though.

And that tongue on her neck continues its teasing, starts sucking now, lips attaching to her soft skin, on the near verge of branding her with his kiss.

She’s melting into it, face growing hot—Jesus, where did he learn how to kiss like this?

“No,” she confirms. There was nothing stopping them but themselves. 23 years was long enough. It was her turn to be loved now. 

He smiles against her, his teeth cool to her burning skin, and those polite hands on her back travel down the curve of her ass, “Good.”

Groping her for a mere moment, his knees bend, lips still attached to her while hands find the back of her thighs and she thinks there’s no way, but he urges her to hold on and those legs leave the floor, wrapping themselves around his waist and they’re on the move.

She tries to focus only on him, on his lips, on his embrace, but she pulls back to make sure he doesn’t ruin this by stepping on the wrong thing, cutting himself on the broken glass all around them, but he has mastered it. They get to the bedroom in no time.

Expecting her back to hit a soft mattress, she is perplexed when her ass hits the dresser and he pulls back to just look at her. His gaze darts across her, focusing largely on the swell of her breasts and thighs, and he’s got a cheeky grin on his face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he rasps and Olivia actually feels it. She hears the honesty dripping out of his lips and it makes her almost want to cry. He must see the water threatening to pool because he takes his fingers, pushing her hair back behind her ear, and simply kisses her cheek. 

It’s so domestic that more tears want to form, but his hands return to her body and she desperately clings on to that need to be fucked right now. For Elliot to make her scream his name. For them to be one—finally. So she focuses on his naughty fingers which find the bottom of her flowy dress, tugging it up, letting it pool across her waist. 

She did not come here knowing this was on the table. But thank god she had enough instinct to wear a matching set of lingerie.

His hungry eyes are met with red lace panties and she almost wants to laugh at the sight of his desire. Before she can though, he’s got a hand slipping down her waistline, tucking into her underwear, finding their way down to her sex. She’s gripping onto that arm with both hands, not stopping him, but making sure he doesn’t stop. 

He raises a brow and she nods lightly, and the intimacy of it causes the ache between her thighs to grow. They have always communicated wordlessly, and now they can use it where it counts. 

With her permission now (she had even widened her legs to give him better access), he’s got his middle and ring finger swiping through her folds, gathering her wetness. She gasps at the feeling and he realizes he definitely wants more of that, so he (against her wishes) removes his hand, bringing them to his lips and sucks her arousal off his fingers. 

“I do that to you?”

She’s suddenly shy, only nodding at him, and he chuckles as his hand returns back home, exploring her heat, chasing more of those little gasps. And when he lands on her clit, she grasps down hard on his bicep, mouth dropping, brows furrowing, before her lip is bit and he begins circling. His other hand is on her hip, squeezing at the flesh there, thumb brushing across her, and she’s far too overstimulated by all that is Elliot Stabler.

Pressure is building and she thinks she may have an orgasm from the pure shock of Elliot and her having sex, and his fingers aren’t helping it die down. Her hips try to squirm but she’s not in a position for much movement. She will come like this, from his fingers on her clit, from his eyes on her face. 

Her stomach is shaking and her legs are wiggling, trying to simultaneously get away from him but bring him closer. Except he won’t let up. He works overtime, switching from precise circles to a back and forth motion that makes her see stars. Her hips jerk and he’s satisfied at her reaction, picking up the speed, hand nearly soaked with her. 

Her orgasm is near. Oh god, she is close to coming all over him and they still have all their clothes on.  

“Elliot,” she warns, face scrunching with another shaky breath.

“You close?” She nods in response, prompting him to ask, “How attached are you to these?”

“Not at all.”

“Good,” and he rips her panties off, tossing them behind. He yanks her body forward so her ass is the only thing on the edge of the dresser, and it shakes slightly at the movement. Time slows down as his hands reach for the dark purple fabric she still wears, pulling it over her head and throwing it somewhere near her ruined underwear. 

Left to only her bra now, she shivers. He sees it happen and remedies it with his mouth, groveling at the sight of her near naked form, needing to heat her up with his lips. Hot, wet kisses wander across her neck, her chest, the slopes of her breasts…

…down to her stomach where she closes her eyes at the touch… 

…and then he’s on his knees, maneuvering her legs over his shoulders, the kisses switching to her thick thighs. His tongue is back in action, teasing her on its journey up towards her. 

She can’t look at him. Elliot Stabler is about to go down on her and her eyes simply cannot look at him or she will come from the slightest sight of this. Her eyes wander elsewhere and, for a second, she is startled by the photo to her right, a familiar blonde and she cannot do that. While he’s distracted, Olivia gently flips the frame down so the eyes leave her—she refuses to be eaten out by him with his deceased wife nearby—but she still can’t look at him as he broaches her slit, tongue so close to her core. She wants to die.

So her eyes flop to the left, praying there’s no photos on this side and thankfully there isn’t. 

But something else is.

There it sits. 

Right in her reach. 

“It’s bigger than I thought,” she suddenly says and the sound of it halts him in his tracks.

“What?” 

She chuckles, clarifying, “The cross.”

“Oh,” he pauses, still holding her close but no longer chasing her heat. He pulls back to look at her—except he isn’t looking at her, he can’t. He feels that wave of shame that has flushed ever since he was told he earned it come back and he tries to swallow it down. “I didn’t want it. It felt…wrong.” 

“It isn’t,” she combats, but he shies away again and she has to practically force his head back up with her hands to get his eyes back on her. “You’re a good cop, Elliot.” 

On his knees looking up at her, he takes in the sight of her holiness, and thanks God that he gets to have her back in his life, back in his arms, and now like this. He shakes his head, not wanting this glorious moment to be ruined, and his lips return to her skin. “I don’t want to talk about that right now. I got other things to focus on.”

She cocks a teasing brow, “Like what?”

And he smiles, leaning in with a flat tongue, gliding across her slick folds and his voice vibrates against her intimately, “Making you come.”

Fuck. 

He means it too. Tongue savoring her, he’s giving her long and slow strokes up and down, wanting to bask in the taste of her, letting the thoughts of the cross fly far away from view. 

Low moans release from her lips and she’s thankful her legs are locked in his death-defying grip because she is really writhing now. But the fidgeting only ignites him further and that tongue switches gears, moving rapidly, lightly across her bundle of nerves, and she lets out a loud, “El!”

He chuckles against her (and she’s very appreciative of the light energy they have decided on because, holy hell, she is having sex with Elliot), those short and quick laps of his tongue making her throb, causing her nerves to all light on fire as the wave of her orgasm builds. 

Elliot wants to prove himself, wants to be exactly what she wants, what she deserves because he needs to. He needs to do something for someone else that isn’t the job, that isn’t life or death. Although Olivia has always felt like that to him. She was the breath that kept him alive and the force that would take him down. She was everything to him. Every morning, every night, every second of his life he had was now hers. 

This was better than the damn combat cross. The presence of Olivia was the only prize he ever needed. 

Needing to taste her come, he takes a hand away from its grasp around her thigh, slicking them with herself before thrusting inside. She sharply exhales his name again and Elliot prays that it’s the last thing he gets to hear before he dies. He is not rough, but not gentle, seeking one thing—her release.

Curling his fingers up, he continues sucking at her clit, face getting drenched with her, chin dripping. 

She’s close—so fucking close to the best orgasm of her life—and she doesn’t want it to end but she genuinely cannot move. He’s fucking her with purpose, wanting it probably more than her at this point and she is trying to hold on.

“Let go, Liv,” he urges and it’s enough.

Her orgasm is vibrant, powerful, all-encompassing. It’s everything and anything she has imagined over the 20+ years of knowing him, and she screams out his name, sick of whispering it. She’s claimed him now, and vice versa. 

God, maybe they really did just need to fuck it out.

Her body is limp and he can tell, bolting up to catch her before she falls back and hits her head. Clutching her close to him, he wants her to catch her breath. In his embrace again, she’s panting, leaking all over, but he’s scratching her scalp, holding her tightly, and she cannot believe this is real.

It feels too good. It all feels too good.

“Perfect,” he hums and kisses her collarbone, running his fingers along her spine. He’s right. It is. 

She could stay like this all day, right here in his arms, almost naked. It’s been so long since she’s been held—since a man pampered her with kisses and an orgasm before simply holding her, marveled at the chance of intimacy. 

Her therapist was right. She idealized him, but nowhere in her imagination did she think it would be this good. That it would feel this right. That he would fill that void that formed with his return. 

And Barba was right. It’s unconditional. 

There was so much for her and Elliot to talk about, to catch up on. They shouldn’t be rushing into sex, but she needed proof. Needed to know that this wasn’t some childish fantasy. That her and Elliot weren’t just a possibility, they were everything. 

So once her breath has evened out, she remains in his arms, but frowns at the feeling of his suit. “You’re still dressed,” she sighs.

“Wanna fix that?” 

She laughs, “Go slow. I don’t want you to ruin that suit. I like it.” 

He pulls back, feeling like she could handle sitting up on her own again, and he starts undoing his tie, staring only at her as he continues undressing. Baby blues on her brown, he unbuttons his dress shirt, tossing the clothes to the side. The sound of his belt unclasping has her ready for more, and when his pants fall to the ground, she realizes this is happening.

Elliot removes his undershirt and his abs are like dessert, a special prize Olivia didn’t even know she needed or wanted. His body is like an adonis and she says a silent thank you to the female embodiment of God for giving her a man who looks this incredible. 

He looks at her, underwear still on, and Olivia’s eyes travel down to see he is stiff under the fabric. “I do that to you?” she smiles, echoing his words from before. 

They both smile and he’s right back on her, lifting her up once more, flopping her back onto the mattress, hovering over her. 

Her loud (real) laugh is bright and everything to him. They’re enjoying this—relieved by their first time instead of fearful—and he’s so grateful to have this little moment of peace with her. 

He can’t help but kiss her cheery face, unclasping her bra so he can finally attach his lips to her breasts, needing to pay special attention to them. So many times in his life he’s thought about them, about kneading them, kissing them, making her back arch from his lips sucking them. 

Her breasts were as perfect as every other part of her. 

“Elliot,” she whispers after giving him some time in the candy shop that were her tits, knowing that it was a treat he’s probably been wanting for a while. But his hard dick against her has her needing more, aching for him to really fill that void, wanting to feel him deep inside her.

He pulls back, a wet pop of her nipple being freed from his lips and she lowers her voice, “I need you.”

And here there are. Ready to cross the threshold.

He nods, shoving his underwear down and the sight of his cock causes her to swallow. This is it. There’s no going back now.

Taking a second, he adjusts them on the bed, lifting her head to shove another pillow behind her, angling her up just slightly, taking another to place under her hips. He wants this to be good. Wants them both to enjoy every single second, so he makes sure they will.

He grabs her legs, lifting them towards her ribs, watching her wince and backtracks, sliding his hands down her calves and guides them behind his back. Leaning down, he kisses her forehead, then cheeks, then tip of her nose, eyelids…lips…

He’s gentle with his pecks, and Olivia cups his cheeks, needing to keep him on her mouth, wanting to kiss him deeply again. And as they do, Elliot grinds his shaft through her folds, readying themselves, wetting his dick with her arousal. His hips keep up this slow speed and every time he hits her clit, she gasps again. 

She needs him. Now.

“More,” she hums against him, and he pulls back, face still in her palms, eyes sparkling with the vision of her.

He grabs his cock, angling it at her entrance, carefully starting to thrust forward, awaiting her body to stretch around him before he goes too far. Hips retreating, he’s barely in her, but moving back and forth, trying to ease his way in fully. 

She tries to relax through the pressure, but she’s too energized, so she lets him coax her himself. Her pussy is tight and wet and hot and his eyes roll back at the feeling of himself burying inside her. 

Everything is right in the world right now. Everything.

And once he is swallowed by her warmth, he kisses her again. He’s deep inside and he hasn’t even moved yet. 

Holy shit.

He must be basking in this realization too. The two partners, the history that has far too many twists and turns, all leading to this. No more looking back, only focusing on the now. 

Together. In every way, shape, and form of the word. They are here together now, only them. 

It makes her almost want to cry. But he kisses her again, tilting his head and she nods, that nonverbal communication they have, so perfectly tuned, smiling up at him. “Please,” she begs and he happily complies. 

He sets a slow pace, pulling out of her nearly all the way and thrusting hard on his way forward, almost knocking the wind out of her with how deep he hits. He somehow reads her body like a fucking book, already knowing exactly how to fulfill her needs and she squeezes her eyes shut on his next thrust, practically feeling him in her throat.

“No, no,” he chides, “I need to see you.”

She flutters her eyes back open, voice barely there, and she knows this is a great technique for her to come hard, but she needs to feel him. Wants him to release in her, wants to be filled with Elliot, marked by his come. “Faster,” she pleads.

He raises a brow, calling her out on the fact that she would definitely finish from these deep pumps he was giving, but she cuts him off, “I need to feel you.”

And Christ he was going to have to live in confession from the plethora of filthy thoughts that overcame his mind in that moment.

“Copy, Cap,” he smirks, and picks up the speed. He doesn’t let up on the deepness and holyfuckingshitthisiswayworse—

He’s pounding into her now, fucking her with force, and the bed begins to shake. The noises she lets out make permanent residence in his brain and he will never unhear the way she cries out his name right now. Will never unsee the pure ecstasy that washes across her face.

The merciless rhythm is what they both need right now and the sound and scent of them fills the empty, desecrated apartment, drowning out the world.

“Olivia,” he rasps, body leaning down now, unable to hold himself as high up as he was, landing on his forearms next to her head. 

The new angle makes him go even deeper (holy shit) and causes the perfect friction across her clit. “Elliot,” she pants back, clutching him close to her, nails digging into his back. 

They’re both nearing the precipice and the chaos of their minds is defeated by the feeling of them together, the pure, raw thrill of questions being answered.

This was their future.

He chose her. She opened up for him.

And the thought of their next steps together has both of them coming hard, their names escaping their lips in breathy huffs as their bodies go limp. 

They both are breathless, unable to move or speak or even fucking think, but her fingers start to trace shapes on his back and he groans at the feeling. 

She takes a deep breath, pausing for a moment before breathing out a heavy, “Yes.”

He lifts his head, still buried in her below, furrowing his brows, “Yes to what?”

“I don’t know. Dinner, lunch, a walk—whatever you want.”

He laughs, “No more waiting?”

She shakes her head, “No, no more. I’m ready.”

And he smiles wide, eyes sparkling at her like they did in December, and he has no choice but to kiss her again. “Good. I can’t wait.”

fin.