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A/N: enjoy.
He left his wallet at home.
He remembers exactly where it last resided—right on the kitchen counter next to the stacked dishes he promised Olivia would be put away before she came home.
But hours ago Eli was heading out with Noah. And like every goddamn teenager these days, he had no physical cash on him, so Elliot had to rush to find the wallet in question, which he thought was still in the back pocket of his jeans tossed somewhere on the bedroom floor (god, where did she throw them last night?), but it wasn’t there.
And so he darted around the apartment, past video games and backpacks and so many hoodies just everywhere , snagging them up as he went, desperately wondering where the fuck it was. Eli merely waited impatiently while Noah helped gather up the tossed items, tucking them neatly away, trying to help Elliot search.
Of course the Benson child volunteered.
But then Noah deviated, distracted by the mess and starting to just clean up, forgoing the search for the wallet. Elliot was back on his own, agitation growing as he looked. Only then, with furrowed brows and white knuckles, did he see it there next to the dishes, right where he’d begun.
And as he reached for it, his phone buzzed, forcing him to quickly wave the cash at the two young boys who snagged it before flying out the door.
Maureen was on the other end of the line, and since she was approaching her due date, no calls could be missed—Olivia made sure of it. It was a quick conversation. One to confirm the boys would be over later, and after he was reassured Maureen was not in labor, he was sideswiped by another phone call.
This time from Olivia.
Excusing himself from the conversation with his daughter, he answered, “Hey, Liv, I know I said—”
But he was cut off by the sound of a man’s voice, notifying him that Olivia was on her way to the hospital and that she had requested him.
The news whisked Elliot Stabler off, bolting him out the door within seconds. He’s not a fan of hospitals, so his stomach was tight the whole ride there, throat scratchy and mind racing.
He makes it here in record time, demanding he see her, only to have to wait four hours in the waiting room.
Because apparently you need an ID and his wallet is on the fucking counter, along with his badge.
And for some reason…
He’s not her emergency contact.
The fight happens in three parts.
i. the hospital room
“You’re mad,” she notices.
“I’m not mad.”
“I can see you’re mad—”
“I’m not mad.”
Sitting upright in the hospital bed, Olivia is seemingly fine, having finished 3 different head exams. A suspect shoved her against the wall, and although she insists she is unharmed, she did pass out from the force and doctors did not want to take any chances. Hours later, she feels a tiny bump on the back of her head and nothing else more—and honestly, she desperately just wants to get out of here.
“Elliot—”
“Still?” He finally bites, “You still haven’t changed it?”
Her gaze falters, shifting to her lap just to avoid the baby blues laced with frustration, “I got busy.”
Deflection be damned, Elliot is not going to let up this time. “I call bullshit, Liv. We’re cops. We fill out that paperwork every month.”
Weeks after they got together, he had scribbled her name down, not even asking her, just hoping to slide back onto her paper as well, reminiscent of the old days where he was there dead center. The days where he mortgaged his family home in the blink of an eye to ensure her safety. Where he couldn’t go more than 8 hours without seeing her again, their proximity inevitability due to their job or the gnawing awareness he had that she was alone.
But she still had yet to write his name down, leaving Odafin Tutuola in the place he begged to be. And her ‘number one’ was currently in the Bahamas with his own emergency contact, Phoebe.
“I’ve been preoccupied.”
“With what?” He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms across his chest, letting out a nasty huff, “What was so important you couldn’t fill out a piece of paper?”
Eyes narrowing, mouth in a frown, Olivia speaks low and pointed, “I did fill out a piece of paper, the last time you were in the hospital. Remember?”
The paper in question sits in her apartment tucked in her nightstand drawer, donning both of their names, and he swears he could recreate her signature by pure memory alone.
“Oh don’t go there. You were the one who asked us to do it.”
“You were shot, Elliot!”
“So what? You wanna throw away the marriage license? Rip it up because I’m not dying? Cause it sure as shit seems like you’re never gonna go through with it.”
It stings, like he had mistakenly intended it to.
So she responds, “Fuck you.”
And he takes it too far.
“I did. You were moaning my name all night after we signed it, saying Oh, Elliot, I love you…and here we are now. Still not married.”
She chooses to ignore the immaturity, not wanting to stoop down to childish ridicule, “It’s only been 8 months.”
Elliot pinches the bridge of his nose, very used to this argument by now—that ‘only X months ’ keeps growing and growing. The word ‘only’ is becoming meaningless.
“You won’t let me get you a ring. You won’t even entertain picking a date. You won’t let me tell the kids that this is a possibility. Tell me, Liv, why should I even believe you want this anymore?”
“This isn’t sharing dinner, Elliot. We’re not deciding Chinese or Italian, we’re talking about getting married. It’s not just us. It's your kids—their kids—my son. It’s shared equity, we’ll have to figure out a bunch of legal nonsense, and the job—”
“And we’re adults, Olivia. None of that is outrageous. Quit acting like a child.”
“Excuse me?”
“Need I remind you that you’re the one who said Let’s get married , after not even letting me mention the word before? You’re the one who rushed off to get us a license, and you signed it first.” He shrugs to be dismissive, but Olivia knows the truth—he’s still very upset. “If you don’t want to do this anymore then let’s leave and I’ll shred it.”
She shakes her head at the thought, “Do you hear yourself? You’re being the child, Elliot.” And she suddenly is picking at the tape on her arm, willing to rip the goddamn IV out herself if it means she can get far away from him, “I don’t have time for this, I just want to go home.”
His voice softens, but sharpens, as he stares at the wall now, growing even more annoyed by the minute, “I forgot you’re too busy for me. Can’t even have a conversation anymore.”
“You think this is a conversation? You came in here pissy with me—”
“Because I had to wait four hours to see you! Because I’m not your husband or even your fucking emergency contact.”
The tiny white room goes still for a second.
“Who am I to you then? Just some guy?”
She rolls her eyes, holding up a hand, “I’m not doing this here.”
“Of course you won’t,” he grumbles.
“You know, if you would’ve brought your wallet, we wouldn’t be in this mess. You could’ve gone home hours ago and got it. Even asked if one of the kids could bring it, but no. You’re too stubborn. And somehow your mistake is my fault.”
He pouts, “My mistake was thinking you loved me enough to actually want to marry me. Apparently I have to be on the brink of death for that to happen.”
“Oh don’t you dare—”
“Well, Captain Benson! You’re all—”
Oh, the petite nurse should’ve waited.
“Ah, I’m so sorry.” She makes an apologetic face. “I didn't mean to interrupt—”
“It’s fine,” Olivia cuts her off politely, “can I go?”
“Of course,” she smiles softly. “…is your husband going to be taking you home?”
Oh. Wrong move, nurse Jackie.
“No, she doesn’t have one of those,” Elliot answers, then smirks sarcastically, “I’m just her driver.”
And Olivia rips out the needle.
ii. car
Clicked into seatbelts, barely pulled out of the hospital parking lot, they pick up right where they left off.
In his car clouded with tension, Elliot slices through it, “Are you seriously not going to talk to me?”
She’s as close to the window and as far from him as she can make herself, eyes locked on the outside. “What would we even talk about, Elliot? You seem to have it all figured out on your end.”
“Christ, Olivia. You’re a wall sometimes, you know that, right?”
“Rather be a wall than a bull trampling over everyone,” she mumbles to herself.
But his ears catch it and he turns to look at her while they’re at the red light, voice lowering, “Is that what I am to you? A bull who ruined your life?”
She quickly turns her head to lock eyes with him, “You didn’t ruin my life.”
“No, but it sounds like I fucked it up for you.”
And the light flicks green.
“We’ve talked about this,” she sighs. “You came out of nowhere. You showed up, asked for forgiveness, I gave it to you—”
“I earned it.”
She laughs, “Right, right.”
But he’s not joking.
“…did I not?”
“Well, you didn’t make it easy in the beginning, Elliot.”
“So, you still don't trust me?”
“That’s not what I said.”
Grumbling, his eyes stay out on the road ahead, “Kinda sounds like that’s what you meant though.”
“Do not put words in my mouth.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you would just talk to me.”
Olivia huffs sharply again, “Every time I try, you just get upset. Every single conversation becomes an argument about why we aren’t married. Not tonight. I’m not in the mood. Just take me home.”
“Which one?” he chides.
And she stares him down, deadly. “You’re relentless, you know that?”
“Not relentless. Am I wrong or do you not still have your apartment as a failsafe?”
“It’s not a failsafe, Elliot. It’s my home. And you’re so in your own head that you’re not even considering how I may feel.”
Another turn closer to her apartment complex and the fight continues, prickling at their skin, exposing every nerve. It’s heated. The air in the car feels heavy now, like they’re wading through physical depictions of the words they spit out.
“Then go ahead and implore me, Liv. I’ve been asking you to talk to me.”
“I don’t—”
He finishes for her, “—wanna do this here, yeah it’s the same shit every time.” Grasp tightening on the steering wheel, he shakes his head, “Maybe I should call Lindstrom, Christ knows you’ll listen to him.”
The line is crossed once more.
Her voice lowers, “What did you just say?”
“You heard me.”
And she feels like she’s about to explode.
“Pull over right now,” she demands.
“Olivia—”
“I’m serious—”
He double clicks the doors locked as she yanks for the handle and he reaches for her wrist, snagging it firmly, careful not to hurt her, “Will you calm down?”
“Don’t talk to me for the rest of the ride home or next time, I’ll break the glass.”
Letting her go, he swallows down whatever he wanted to say, whispering, “Fine.”
And the light turns green again.
iii. her apartment
The tension is pulled beyond measure, the band is stretched to the point of breaking, and the fight ignites in full force inside her near-empty apartment, which exists in a state of boxes and bags, supposedly representing her finalization of the move-in process to Elliot’s place.
Soon to be their place.
The door slams loudly and she stomps inside, pissed he even followed her here, hoping maybe he would’ve dropped her off and drove away.
Instead he’s here, behind her, inquiring, “Is it still hidden in the nightstand?”
But she doesn’t answer.
With no response, he decides to glide by her to head towards her room, not willing to wait anymore, and she rushes ahead of him, “What are you doing?”
“Ending it.”
He continues moving, bumping her shoulder on the way, but her voice breaks slightly, with a gentle call of his name and he swivels around. Taking a steadying breath, he analyzes her face, begging to know the truth, but she won’t fold. “What?”
She doesn’t know what to say.
“Tell me, Olivia. Tell me why not.”
It’s there, on the tip of her tongue. Marriage, the house, trips to Europe and long nights away. Shower sex and morning orgasms, handholding and tight hugs—she wants it desperately. They’re there, right at the threshold, but something pulls her back. That fear of him walking away again, having that ache in her chest return with no hope left for it to go away.
She stays the three feet away, not blinking, eyes locked on his, still fuming, but exhausted. Settling herself, she whispers, “I do want to get married, Elliot. But it’s… complicated.”
“It really isn’t.”
“You’ve done it before, so of course you would say that,” she pushes back.
“It’s one day, Olivia. One. We can have it over and done within hours.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Jesus,” he clenches his fist and takes a sharp inhale, “will you just tell me then?”
Like the car and the hospital room, the hallway goes still, masked with a tense fog from the two lovers’ collision. A cataclysmic explosion of love and passion, twisted into tight breaths and daggers formed out of words.
Olivia exhales through the heat, “Why are you so insistent on us getting married? We’re 50, Elliot. Don’t you think that ship has sailed?”
He takes a step forward, hands shoving themselves deep into his pockets, needing somewhere to go. “So what happens if one of us gets into an accident? Hmm?”
“Stop catastrophizing everything, Elliot, that’s how we ended up here in the first place.”
“We? I’m not the one who got the marriage license. It seems we only move forward when you think I’m going to die.”
“Oh my god, will you let it go? For fuck’s sake—”
“No, I won’t. Look around you Olivia. You still have 90% of your belongings here, even though you and Noah practically live with me. At the same time you have one foot out the door and the other lodged here. What are we waiting for?”
She shakes her head, intending to argue back, but he keeps going.
“No, Liv, seriously. I’ve been patient— more than patient —with you and you confuse the hell out of me. You trust me with your kid, you stay over, we have sex, you steal my clothes, and yet you still keep me a distance away once anything serious may happen.”
“That’s not true.” The anger has officially bubbled over for her, the fire ready to spit out and burn him back. “I’ve done everything to accommodate you. I moved my kid, my life, into yours. I changed around my routine, my normalcy, for you. You refuse to even acknowledge that and just complain how I’m not doing enough because I don’t want to marry you. Which, for the record, is not true.”
It’s quiet for a moment and she thinks he’ll concede, but it’s Elliot, so he slides in, “It certainly seems that way.”
And she’s done.
“Oh fucking hell, you know what? Let's just do it then.”
“…what?”
She storms past him, right into the bedroom, and he swiftly follows, thinking she’s going to follow through with his threat and rip up the precious paper he was so afraid to lose. But she doesn’t. Instead, she‘s pulling at her clothes, stripping down, not even daring to glance at him as she sharpens her words and tosses them his way. “We’ll do it right now. I’ll call Carisi and then we can stop arguing about this.”
His brows furrow, confused, frustrated—unsure what the hell is going on. “You wanna get married right now?”
In her bra and underwear, she slams her dirty shirt onto the ground, seething. “I want this conversation to be over, so yeah, I’m going to get changed, call my lawyer friend, and you’re going to drive us to the courthouse so we can get married.”
Halfway to her closet, he reaches for her bicep, turning her around, “No.”
“Oh, no,” she snaps her arm out from his grasp. “You don’t get to say no. Shut up and sit here. I’ll be ready in five.”
He listens, for once tonight. He just sits on the edge of her bed and watches her tug out her phone, hands deep in the closet, searching for something. “Hello? Sonny?”
And her hands leave the closet for a second, startling him with the sudden impact of one of his suits—a nice one he wore to a fancy date and forgot about—as it’s tossed at him. “Put this on.”
She mumbles when she walks away, “Everything is fine, Carisi. Just—I need a favor,” then she slams the bathroom door.
The deed was done.
Forty-five minutes later, two signatures, generic vows, and a very confused (concerned) Carisi, the deal is sealed. She, in a white suit, him in all black.
And when they were asked to kiss, he let her take the lead. It was a rushed peck, hardly any intimacy at all, but it’s done, and now he can’t say she held them back.
He got what he wanted, again, and he can run away when he’s bored of her.
Like always.
Another door slams behind them—this time his.
She tosses the keys into the bowl next to the front entrance, hearing him follow behind her, but not looking his way at all. Her heels are kicked off and shoved against the wall next to Eli’s and Noah’s sneakers, and she begins to unbutton her blazer, wanting to be done with today, wanting to hop into bed and sleep off the pent up energy she feels.
From behind, she hears him huff, “Kids are at Mo’s. Forgot to tell you.”
“Figured,” it’s short and snappy, the exhaustion of the world’s longest day suddenly hitting her the minute they crossed the threshold.
“Jesus, Liv, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
The blazer is completely unbuttoned now and, like the keys, it’s quickly tossed over the back of the couch, left to be spared.
Fuck the white jacket.
Fuck the shoes, fuck the keys, fuck him.
Her eyes glare when she finds the folded leather on the counter, next to the dishes that were—not to her surprise—still not put away. She picks it up, turning back to look at him, noticing his tie is already loosened, a few buttons undone, and the jacket is slipping off his broad shoulders. “Found your wallet,” she snips.
His eyes roll, “Thanks,” and he reaches for it, but she tosses it back on the counter.
The action causes one of his brows to raise and their eyes to lock.
It’s too quiet.
And they’re too… them.
Energy noticeably shifting, the tension wanting to bubble into another spat changes when he takes a step forward.
Then another.
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps stalking towards her, eyes narrowed, her own brown never daring to glance away from his blue. Sparks can almost be felt between them, as heat and energy spiral in the silence. It’s not scary in the literal sense of the word. She isn’t fearful of the man in front of her, she knows exactly what he’s about to do. What they’re about to do.
Because it’s what they do best.
Backing her up against the counter, her ass hits the edge first before his hips are against her, hand coming up to her chin and grasping it so delicately with his firm hand. She lets him. An outsider may think he has the control, but no, there’s a look that she nods in response to, and it’s so quick anyone else might’ve missed it, but this was how powerful they were.
Their tongues find each other immediately, and the heat between them grows as he leans into the kiss, keeping his grip on her jaw to keep her present. He shouldn’t worry about that though, because Olivia is one-hundred percent here right now, fingers flicking up buttons and seeking out his muscles under this stupid fucking dress shirt.
She kisses like a battleground, small explosions of fervent passion laced between stilled movements, needing him to take the charge. It becomes their back and forth, her lips biting while his ache to suck, and they breathe in near unison. She’s shoved so far back against the counter, there’s nowhere to go. His brutish frame encapsulates her frame, caging her into this moment of vibrant desire.
When the first moan escapes her lips (more like buzzes against his, there really wasn’t a place for it to leave as they remained pressed together), he recharges himself, hand leaving her chin to join the other at her hips until they wrap around her, landing on the curve of her ass, and travel down, down, down, slowly to squeeze it, before he clasps one hand around his wrist and locks himself under her to lift her into his arms.
She’ll never get used to his strength. She loves it.
He hoists her up like she’s nothing, and she curls her legs back, thinking he’s directing her toward the bedroom, but they don’t move far. Instead, the sound of the chair falling alerts her, causing her lips to pull away from his when she realizes he’s lowering her onto the dining table, displaying her for himself, like she would be his next feast.
And she is.
Her back is against the tabletop, hands attached to his biceps, his fingers fiddling with her pants to set her free while she works on getting him just as undressed.
But he’s much quicker than her and yanks the white suit pants down with such a great force, she gasps at the suddenness. He smugly looks down at her, all legs and a white camisole—which needs to go with her lingerie as well. Not that he minded looking at it, but tonight was not the night.
He licks his lips and the corners of his mouth upturn, his hands dragging themselves up the fronts of her thighs, awaiting the goosebumps that usually form. If he could kiss each one, he would, but today there is no time for that.
They want to fuck.
No love-making, no sweet words of affection, he wants to make her come so hard she sees stars and he would have to bust out the scooter again.
She’s got the same amount of desire herself, and her patience is clearly running thin. Reaching her foot out, she nudges his crotch through his pants with her toes, sliding her foot down between his legs, hooking it behind his ass and tugging him forward with an intense pull.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
Her power-move passes the baton to him—those light touches on her thighs turn into a tight grasp and she’s dragged forward so that her ass is at the edge of the table. She lets out another gasp and he responds with a low chuckle, raking his fingers up and up her body, dragging them to the scoop of her camisole, gripping the front with both hands. She wants to stop him before he ruins her shirt, but it’s pointless, really. Besides, now she knows where his wallet is. She’ll just have to buy a new one.
The sound of the rip is loud, and her eyes narrow in protest but he just keeps leaning forward, twisting the camisole around his hands so it looks like one continuous piece of fabric. She should know what’s coming (she does), and her hips buck into him at the thought of his next play. He’s practically on top of her, pressing his chest down, hovering his lips over hers, but not letting them touch, only his hot breath dancing along the puffy skin.
He glides the then-camisole, now-makeshift rope, up and she doesn’t need direction. She never does with him. Her arms rest above her head and she arches into him to double down on her approval, tits pressing as much as they could against his steel frame.
Focusing above her now, he’s wrapping the silk fabric around her wrists, binding them, all while she remains under him, trying to distract Elliot with swipes of her flat tongue across his hot skin, slight nips with her teeth to sting, and she can feel him hard against her now. The restriction excites her. She feels safe with him, knowing he binds her only with love, to drive her pleasure further. To make this about her, to keep her hands free from their instinct to reach for him, to feel nothing but his passion for her.
Once his work is done, her wrists comfortably tied above her head, he leans back down, eyes drowning in her and he has no choice but to kiss her. How could he not?
She doesn’t join, just lets him kiss her deeply, wanting this—wanting him to fuck her and give her a release.
When he pulls away, he smirks at her, hands on the sides of her still-covered breasts, brushing his thumbs over her nipples through the soft fabric and it elicits a gentle, “Mmnh,” from her.
He laughs, “Hush now.”
“Make me.”
He raises a brow and she cocks hers in return, lifting her head, sticking her tongue out to find the notch of his collarbone before running it up the column of his throat. She flops back against the table when she’s satisfied, readying herself for his rebuttal, and it comes with a grunt and the clinking sound of his belt being unbuckled.
She dares to look down, but only his pants come off and she can clearly see his erection shaped under the cotton fabric of his briefs. The tie goes next, and he holds it in his teeth as the dress shirt continues being unbuttoned, all while he looks down at his handiwork, watching her squirm as his undershirt joins his clothes pile on the floor.
He’s shirtless, still clamping down on that tie, all abs and underwear and she hitches her breath at the sight. Anger has bubbled over into desperate need for him, for his rough hands and deep kisses. And that goddamn tie comes down out of his mouth and back into his hands where he glides it across his palms, aligning it so the largest part is in the center.
“Say when,” he demands.
“Thought you wanted me to shut up,” she teases.
And he shakes his head, a half smile appearing as he brings it down to cover her eyes. She lifts her head up, letting him gently wrap the rest of the fabric around her, whispering a firm and serious, “Not my hair.”
“Okay, wife.”
Shit.
It hits her then.
They just got married.
They really walked into the courthouse, signed a piece of paper and kissed. Walked out of that building like they always have, except this time as husband and wife.
It’s not that she didn’t realize what they were doing, I mean, she’s the one who fully set it up, but she didn’t think about this. About being his wife. They treated it like a piece of paper, a legality so he could see her in the hospital next time (although he demanded there wouldn’t be a next time).
She just married Elliot Stabler.
She just married Elliot Stabler.
Her sight is gone, the blindfold keeping her from him, and she opens her mouth to speak, but he cuts her off, “Let me take care of you.”
And she just nods, her mind still wrapping around the fact she is now legally his partner, beyond the job, beyond the kissing and dates, they were now tethered to each other in matrimony.
It overwhelms her.
For the first time in her life she feels chosen. Someone wanted her and she wanted them back, and that feeling alone could be enough to send her running, but he made sure she couldn’t tonight.
Not while bound. Not while blindfolded.
She feels his presence, knowing he’s simply staring down at her, wanting to take her in. She may be ringless still, but there lies the truth.
They’re married.
She feels his (her husband’s) fingers roaming her body again, landing on her breasts. He begins fondling, pushing them together to give a tight center for him to run his tongue along. When the bra comes off and the fabric is no more, his thumb resumes its teasing game, his mouth joining in to circle her nipple, once, twice, three times, then a heady suck before he resumes again.
Dear god, she is already ready to go and her underwear is still on.
He’s on the same page as her, like always, and his hands tangle themselves in the sides of her panties. She helps by lifting her ass off the table, letting the silky fabric slide down her long legs and she anxiously awaits his next move.
He has yet to be patient this evening, and thank the lord for it, because his mouth is on her heat within seconds. Tongue exploring, he takes a slight detour from their usual evening of play to draw back and kiss the insides of her thighs before he resumes the incredible talent of his—which happens to be great oral sex.
God, he is a prick.
That same tongue that snipped and snapped at her now had her writhing on their dining table, circling her clit, diving through her folds. She’s letting out tiny whimpers and every third one or so, a deeper moan releases that arches only her back off the table since he has her lower half locked. Arms wrapped around her thighs, squeezing and groping at her, face completely focused on her slick arousal and his need for more. He wants to make her come, she knows that, so she starts to grind what little she can to drive her closer and closer, the buildup driving her eyes to roll back.
“Close?”
She nods.
He pulls away. The bastard.
She is still blindfolded, so there’s no grasping for him in the dark. Listening provides little context—touch is what she needs, but it doesn’t matter. His hands are on her again, one pressing down on her lower belly, the other sliding through her wetness, slicking his fingers before he manages to dive the index and middle right inside, hooking them up just so, hitting the textured area that makes her let out a guttural, “Oh—”
It gives him the approval he sought out, and he increases both his speed and pressure, hearing and feeling it work. He’s driving into her, muscles tight, completely mesmerized by the sight before him. For everything that happened today, here they were. He was never leaving her again, and this—this act of passion—would be his proof to her.
She’s growing in volume, almost silencing the wet sound of his thrusting, and they both feel it happening before it does. It’s an intense pressure, one that a part of her tries to run away from, but oh god does it feel good. Olivia will fall apart in his hands and she doesn’t care. He’s the only one she would trust like this. The only one who could take her to the edge like this, on a fucking dining room table, no sight, no touching.
So she lets go, chasing the release with him and she comes all over his fingers, soaking his hand and the table under them. Thank god they never eat over here.
She is trembling from her orgasm, legs and hips writhing, but he continues thrusting, wanting more—wanting her completely spent in his hands.
“El,” she croaks out in a high-pitched whine. It’s too much and she’s still unable to see or move much but she needs a second to catch her breath.
He gives it to her, removing his hands, switching to soft smooches across her skin, honing in on her open thighs. She’s panting, trying to relax in his touch, focusing on his lips on her legs, on her stomach, on her breasts. They’re light, comforting, ones that say the vows he should’ve tonight, but didn’t get the chance to.
And when she’s no longer choking on air—when her breathing evens out, he’s on the move again. Feeling an arm shovel beneath the bend of her knees, another slides under her spine, and he lifts her back into the air. She succumbs to his strength, letting her head instinctively flop towards his chest, bound wrists landing in her bare lap. Based solely on his footsteps, she gathers that they’re heading into the bedroom, and the soft mattress below confirms her suspicions.
He leaves her there with a deep kiss to her plump lips, pulling back, only to kiss her again. He’s obsessed with her lips, addicted to how they meld with his, wanting nothing more than to kiss them every time he catches the slightest glance.
But he needs more, and so does she.
“Stay here,” he whispers.
“S’not like I can walk right now,” she rasps, body limp from only her first orgasm of the night.
He chuckles, swiping his fingers back through her sensitive folds again, catching her off-guard to gather the leftovers of his masterpiece and bring them to those lips he just kissed. “Open,” he demands.
She listens, taking his fingers gladly, sucking off her own arousal, using her tongue to mimic what she has planned for him once he’s done pampering her.
It works.
He lets out a groan at the sight and feeling of her swirling tongue, of her salviac coating him and he pops his fingers out, “Jesus, you’re going to be the death of me.”
A satisfied smile comes across her lips, and he chuckles, stealing one more kiss before he exits.
She hears his footsteps grow quieter, hearing water run and the chair be placed back. He must be cleaning up after them, meaning she must’ve made a real mess. Without sight it felt…powerful, but there was no telling what damage she had done. How wet she was for him, how he looked when she released all over him.
She wants the blindfold off for this next part.
And when the footsteps grow loud again, she’s readying herself for their next steps, desperately wanting to get her hands on him, to get him inside her—anywhere at this point.
Thankfully, the bed dips next to her, his fingertips taking a moment to glide across her exposed skin, eliciting shivers and shakes with the featherlight touches. “So, so beautiful,” he hums, simply grazing the olive tones, watching the goosebumps rise again.
Olivia sighs at the sound of his voice, happy that they’re back. That despite the fight, this was the real Elliot before her. The one who cared about her, who would do anything for her, who (for the past two years) showed her every day how much she meant to him. “I want to see you,” she pleads and within seconds, he carefully unties his makeshift blindfold, knowing the rules of their game and when they’re meant to stop. Once the fabric leaves her skins, she flutters open her eyes to see him right there, his hand helping to push back her hair, tucking it behind her ear.
“Hey, you.”
“Hi,” she smiles back.
They’re still so innocent. After nearly 25 years of knowing each other, after a decade apart, and a few years past their reunion, the nerves remained there, bubbling under the surface. Even though today started with a fight, ramped them up into a rushed courthouse wedding, carried that fire to their home where he promptly fucked her on the table, the little pool of love was there, right in his gaze, echoed by his sweet kisses.
“I want to touch you now,” she requests, and the binding camisole is removed at once, tossed on the floor somewhere behind. Her eyes follow where it lands, frowning at the sight, “You ripped my wedding shirt.”
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says, hooking a leg over to straddle her thighs, leaning down to kiss her deeply, pressing his hips against her, letting her feel his excitement for her.
But she’s not ready for him yet. She wants to bask in the moment for just a little longer. “Mm,” she protests against his lips, “not the same.”
“I’ll buy you a ring then,” he mumbles, mouth still against hers and the kissing stops.
Her mouth parts slightly—that annoying trickle of fear threatens to race across the muscles that were just tense from his love, wanting to fall back and cling onto the typical anxiety of his potential abandonment. But he sees it wash across her eyes before she has the chance to verbalize any of it, and he stops her spiraling, kissing each of her cheeks softly, his forearms holding him up and off of her.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“For what?”
“For letting me marry you.”
“Elliot…”
He shakes his head, “No, no, I mean it. I know you weren’t sure before, but I will make sure every—”
He kisses her, “single—”
Another, “day—”
A final one, “that I am the man you deserve.”
She feels tears threatening to fall and she hides them with a shaky breath, closing her eyes for a second, basking in the words he has chosen to share. “You’ve always been the man I wanted, you know that.”
He chuckles, “Mhmm, but now you have me. And I have you.”
Olivia lets out a breathy exhale that mimics a laugh, nudging him with her hips, “I have you?”
“Mhmm,” he smirks, letting her roll him onto his back, wrapping his hands around her waist as she lands on top of him, hair hanging down while she kisses him. Her thighs straddle his, her exposed bottom dripping down, breasts heavy, hands roaming.
She looks like a fucking dream.
“Let me then,” Olivia says, and he swears to god he’s done for.
Raking her nails up his abs, she’s scratching them so there are little red paths left, before she scooches down, hooking her index fingers into his waistband, and tugging his briefs off. He lies back, reaching a steadying hand out for her as she lands on the open area of the mattress next to him, body perpendicular to his, ass up, legs curled skywards, head tilted towards him.
He swallows at the sight and exhales when her hand wraps around his length gently, increasing the pressure with her thumb as she drags it up to the head. He takes a deep breath and she smiles, eyes back on him as she removes her hand, slides it between her legs, fondling herself to dampen her fingers, before she’s bringing them back up to his shaft, slicking it to wetten her next few pumps. He relaxes in her touch, reaching for her fallen hair and gathering it into his right fist, tangling his fingers in the locks.
She smirks again—that vicious little smirk—and when she spits on him, lubing him up more, he thinks that this impromptu honeymoon is better than anything he could’ve asked for. He could come just like this, from a sensual handjob, his hand playing with her hair.
She likes it rough, likes his muscles tight and fast, but he likes to feel everything, like to kiss longer, likes to look at her when he comes. It’s a balance of desires. A beautiful marriage of needs and wants. They do it well, always have.
But when he enters her mouth, he lets out a soft, “Fuck,” feeling his head start to spin when his dick slides through her velvety throat. Screw the handjob, this is heaven.
She begins to hollow her cheeks, using her hands and lips together, and his fingers tighten in her hair. Salvia drips out of her lips, getting caught by her hands as she continues stroking. Her head goes down, then lifts back up, keeping him between her lips until only his head remains, and she sucks the tip back and forth for a moment before she pulls back with a wet smack, still pumping him.
“Say it again,” she whispers softly, eyes on him.
“What?”
She doesn’t respond, just keeps moving her hand, spitting once more, letting the drool slowly land on him while she strokes him. Without words, he knows what she means. She bites her lip and he smiles, dragging his other hand towards her, halting her movements, not wanting to come anywhere but inside her.
“My wife,” he teases, pulling her up towards him, urging her to straddle him again. She’s grinning now, following his encouragement, one thigh traveling back over his, adjusting herself in his lap, needing more than anything to kiss him.
So she does.
Their lips combine in a wet, salacious meeting, all tongue and teeth, decorated with little moans and whimpers.
God—
They’re married.
The thought of it revives her again, causing her to move a hand back, reaching for his shaft, swiping it through her wet folds, back and forth. Gasping when it hits her clit, she drops her head forward to land on his shoulder and he tries to take over for her. He keeps her close, left hand deep in her locks, fingers scraping in and out, scratching at her scalp. Letting out a husky whisper of, “I got you,” she fully lets herself go, wrapping her arms around his neck.
He lines himself up with her opening, shifting their bodies so they’re both comfortable, and slowly begins to enter her, wanting to go at a comfortable speed, but she’s violently shaking her head No against his chest.
“Fuck me,” she demands.
He loves when she gets like this, when she craves him so openly. Using the careful grip on her, he tilts her head back, needing to see her face as she speaks, “Yeah?”
She nods, whimpering, “Mhmm.”
And he licks his lips, kissing her hard, taking another selfish moment to memorize her lips, wanting to suffocate in everything Olivia Benson. There wasn’t one thing he didn’t want to drown in, nothing was more beautiful or powerful than her. But, in order to give her what she needs, he pulls back before he’s locked there forever, forcing her to look at him as he suddenly thrusts into her hard.
She gasps, brows furrowing, mouth dropping, and he groans at the sight. He isn’t being gentle anymore. Keeping his focus solely on her again, on what she needs—she needs him to fuck her hard, so he will.
He sets a quick pace, a needy, rough one that is hopefully exactly what she desires. And by her moans, it is.
“Elliot!”
He leans his head down, an intense, lustful stare locked on her, and his hot breath hovers above her lips. “Say it,” he urges.
Eyes glossy, mouth hung open still as he’s hammering into her, his free hand groping at her ass, she doesn’t utter a word. But that simply won’t do, so he thrusts up into her hard, causing her eyes to squeeze shut for a moment before they own again. “I want to hear it,” he begs.
And she concedes, exhaling a beautifully soft, “I love you,” knowing that’s what he needed, what he always does, especially tonight.
“Atta girl,” he smirks and kisses her again, driving up and deep once more, trying to anchor her body so he can keep her down and hit further inside.
He thrusts like it’s his job to, like his only mission in life is to give her orgasm after orgasm. Which, in his defense, wouldn’t be a bad life to live. With every pump into her, little noises begin to grow and shape, abandoning their inaudible whines, transitioning into breathier exhales. She’s melting in his arms, clutching him close, holding onto him tight. Knees starting to ache, she doesn’t know how much longer she can stay in this position, but his tongue on her heated skin drives her there.
Her walls begin to flutter around him, mouth releasing a cacophony of expletives, trying her best to keep from tucking into his shoulder, wanting to fulfill his desire to see her face when he comes.
Rhythm slowing down, he’s hitting harder, and a few more deep thrusts like that have her clenching around him.
“Elliot!”
But he keeps going, holding her tight to his chest, keeping his dick inside her, rolling them over carefully so her back is on the mattress and he can finish this properly. Bringing her legs up towards her ribs, he changes the angle, hitting that same deepness as before, and she is completely and utterly empty beneath him, crying out.
It doesn’t take much longer after she comes before he’s spilling inside her, his own orgasm weakening his thrusts as he groans out her name like a symphony.
They’re sweaty, sticky, and exhausted, but he can’t pull out of her, not just yet. So, he flops onto her, and she welcomes him into her chest with open arms, loving the feeling of his weight.
Catching their breaths together, it’s silent except for the sound of their huffs and gasps. His face is buried in her neck, her own hand cradling the back of his head until the silence returns and they’re breathing like humans again.
No longer panting, she smiles to herself under the weight of him, before chuckling. Body vibrating beneath him, the small shakes turn into a full laugh and she can’t help it.
He mumbles into her skin, smiling at her post-orgasm giddiness, “What?”
But she just shakes her head through the laughter, “Nothing, we’re just—god, we really are something.”
Pursing his lips, he gives her a gentle kiss against her breasts, rolling over and out of her as he sighs, “Yeah, we are.”
And when her laughter subsides, he reaches for her left hand, pulling it up to his lips, kissing only her ring finger. “My wife,” he teases, sweeping the bare skin, thinking of how it one day will shine for the world to see that they did it. The universe brought him back to her and he didn’t let her go. After over two decades, this partnership was everlasting.
She scooches closer to him, rolling to curl up on his chest, giving him access to wrap his arm around her shoulders while she reaches for the crumpled blankets below, needing to cocoon them in some extra warmth. “Mm, we’re definitely going to need a do-over,” she sighs.
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm.”
He tucks his head down, kissing her hair, nearly overwhelmed by the pure scent of her flowery shampoo, and he taunts, “A real one or another drive-by?”
Olivia chuckles, “Real one,” and kisses his chest quickly, “Noah would be sad if he missed it.”
“So we can tell the kids—”
Pushing off his chest, she hovers over him, exclaiming in a playful tone, “No! They’ll be upset.”
“I think my kids would’ve seen it coming, Liv,” he laughs. “Kathleen kept sending me wedding ring links.”
She lies back down on him, “We’ll tell them we’re engaged. Then we can have a proper wedding. The whole Stabler shabang.”
“Proper wedding?” he prods.
Laying in his embrace, she sighs when his fingers begin to trace shapes across her spine, “No churches, or temples. But yes, I’ll wear a dress this time.” And then it’s her turn. Spelling ner name on his chest, he sounds content under her.
“The garden?”
“Hmm?”
“Here, Liv. The little patio. Me, you, the kids, my mom—”
“Cragen.”
“Cragen,” he confirms.
She thinks about it, about being crammed in the garden, six kids, two (soon to be three) grandkids, a mother, and her father figure to walk her down the short makeshift aisle. It is already small, but she thinks of how many people could fit, if Fin and Amanda could be there, if Jesse would want to be a flower girl.
Oh my god, she wants a wedding. A flowery, cheesy, gross wedding.
Shit.
She can’t believe it took getting married to want to get married, but it happened. She’s finally ready.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
She nods, squeezing him tight to her, “Let’s do it again.”
Elliot smiles, holding her closer, wrapping her other arm around her now into an intimate hug, their bodies touching nearly at every point. He thinks of her with a ring, of her in a dress, of her hands in his as he tells her how much he loves her in front of his children—this time, doing it right. And quickly his thoughts wander off to Noah, about how he wants to ask him for permission (despite the circumstances) to marry the young man’s mother, and how he’ll have to (unfortunately) dial up Trevor on the adoption process for the almost 12 year old.
She was right before, a lot was going to change. The work didn’t stop with a wedding, but none of that bothered him.
They already did the hard part.
They could do it again.
He grins against her for the hundredth time tonight, snagging another finalizing kiss, placing it on her head, never being quite satiated, “There’s no one I’d rather get married to twice, Benson.”
fin.