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Sometimes they get away with it.
Sometimes. Sometimes despite everything they do, the rapists walk away, and there is nothing like that anger to put a fine edge on her contempt.
"Easy," Elliot whispers as she pushes up against his chest. It comes out like a command, but it's soft like a term of endearment. He knows enough to not stop. Not unless she voices it. And she never does.
She shifts restlessly, and his legs tangle with hers, his weight coming down a little harder. She exhales slowly as his mouth comes in, warm and wet against her neck. He licks her skin and sucks, and it feels like he's siphoning all the rage right out of her. She marvels sometimes at how when she steps off that ledge of fury—(so rare, so rare)—his constant anger seems to evaporate. He's a textbook example of a cop with anger management issues, and he's her barrier between sanity and violence. (irony has never been lost on them)
He scrapes his teeth against her when he gets below her neckline. She arches a bit, because, fuck, it jolts her. It makes her twist. His shirt is already hanging open, and she shoves at it until he rears up and shucks it. He tugs her pants off while he's at it, and that's all they need, so he comes back and this time he kisses her. Hard.
She curls her fingers into his back and lifts her hips up against him, because she just wants to move and tire herself out, and his cock is hard against his open fly. Her mouth is wet because he's trying to swallow her, and his hands get a little eager. He doesn't baby her at times like these, and she loves him so fucking much for that. She wonders sometimes if his wife asks about the cuts her fingernails leave, if he even bothers to lie anymore. Her boyfriends learn not to ask, and if they don't learn she gets rid of them.
"This isn't about them, Liv," Elliot told her once. "This is all about you and me and what we have to do and it's nobody else's fucking business."
Sometimes they do things to survive. They might be just kidding themselves (she knows, knows, knows), but sometimes they don't care.
"Fuck, Liv…" he moans against her lips, and then he's kneeing her legs apart and tugging between his legs, and she has no time to prepare before he's pressing down, pressing in, and he's strong. He's so goddamned strong and so willing to use the strength, and he slides inside of her with a flash of pain.
She grits her teeth, mouths his name against his shoulder. El.
And it's so very good.
Not that she gets off on pain, that's not it. It's just something else to feel other than anger, something that's so distracting and relieving, and besides, she kind of deserves it anyway. It's fleeting.
She's so wet that it only takes one stroke to drive the pain away. Then he's stretching out over her, sliding his hands up under her pillow to grab the edge of her mattress, and he's arching his back, thrusting deep, pressing her down again and again. He moves slowly, but he's hard about it. She bites her lip to keep from groaning. It feels like sparks, fire, ice-cold water, and she might be falling from a cliff. (no parachute. she keeps trying to fly anyway)
His body is motion and weight and smooth skin over iron, and he's panting against her neck, then her breast, as he moves. (goodgoodgood) He's drawing her tight, and she hangs there, strings almost vibrating with the tension, before he's buried deep again and she comes. She can't help the soft cry then, and he stays with her, rocking against her (gentle now), and she just lets it roll through.
She hears his voice as he suddenly crushes her into the mattress. She runs her nails over the skin of his back as he shudders against her.
When she relaxes (finally, finally, she's unraveled, finally), he's heavy, but she doesn't move him.
In a few moments he's up and kissing her, hands buried in her hair. "Liv," he says into her mouth. "Liv, Liv, Liv…"
She kisses him back and lets him talk, holding his head close to hers.
There are a lot of people who have tried to separate them (mutually reliant, emotionally dependent, compromised in all the important ways), and maybe they suspect…
Sometimes they win; sometimes they lose.
And sometimes they get away with it.
~e~