Work Text:
Olivia woke with a tightness in her back and a distinct, countering looseness in her chest.
A giddiness and a freedom came with the memories that began to flood back to her from the night before, accompanied by only a twinge of regret when she tried to stand up and every muscle from her neck to her knees screamed in protest.
Perhaps her body’s reaction was a result of their lack of warm up. It hadn’t been a slow start, last night. Quite the opposite. It had been a firestorm from the word go.
It was exactly the way she’d imagined it would be. Keyed up from a case, Elliot fresh off an undercover stint and Olivia full of semi-warranted bitterness for his absence, a sex trafficking ring they were able to jointly take down at the eleventh hour, but not before a slug from a 9mm grazed Elliot’s actual fucking head.
In the seconds before she invited him back to her place, she blinked hot tears away and wondered how many times she had seen him fall to the ground. Bushido, Stuckey, the fucking semi truck. How many times during their partnership did he watch or hear her, casually brushing with death? In a bus terminal, in an airport parking lot, over the phone after Fin’s wedding.
The exact figure was uncertain. All she knew was that enough was enough.
Butterfly bandages adorned the base of his skull, right below his left ear, and Olivia just barely managed to avoid jamming her finger into the wound as she pulled him to her for a desperate kiss.
After that, they’d gone from zero to sixty, his tongue in her mouth and then in her cunt, her teeth in his bottom lip and then biting into her own forearm to keep quiet as he took her from behind, took her fast and hard and exactly how she wanted him to take her in the foyer of her empty apartment, the fantasy so real and ripe it was like they were thirty again.
Then it was in her kitchen, and her living room, and her bedroom, and her last thought before their third location was to send Ginny McCann a thank you card for unknowingly giving them this privacy.
God, she’d been so wet for him. So wet that it had startled her.
She was still so hot and slippery between her thighs, where he’d been only hours earlier, no friction at all, the sensations there numbed slightly where she knew a satisfying soreness would settle in later. But so fucking wet. A mess. Almost disturbing.
It made her wonder how her body was even physiologically capable of this, if it had somehow been holding out on her, all these years, because she couldn’t ever remember being so ruined before.
So ruined that she was hit by a wave of nausea when met with the soft lighting of her bathroom, the lighting that usually felt relatively unobtrusive and calm, even in the middle of the night. So ruined that she had to brace herself against the sink for a moment, steadfastly refusing to face herself in the mirror. Idly, she wished she had a piece of gum or something, because she could use something to occupy her mouth with, could use a taste of something else because he was still there on her tongue.
She didn’t want to brush her teeth yet, though. That was a bit extreme.
All of it was a bit extreme. God, she was too old to have sex like that.
Her knees and her neck and her left hip, in particular, all rallied against her decisions with a stiffness that demanded to be soothed with a hot shower; a remedy she could not, at present, provide herself. She’d overheat. She’d pass out and wake up concussed.
Reaching for the knobs of her shower, she knew the temperature would have to be significantly lower than what she typically preferred. She would probably, actually melt if it was even a hint above lukewarm. It might have to be a bit cold, even, and she hoped Elliot wouldn’t wake up and try to join her, because he would be too hot, too much, and she needed these few moments to get a goddamned grip of herself.
She lathered some body wash in her hands and swiped them along all the necessary places, cleansing the residual sweat from under her breasts, her arms, behind her knees, between her thighs, until she smelled like lilac and white tea and felt somewhat less like a sex-crazed heathen.
Fuck, she was thirsty. She opened her mouth against the spray of the shower, the damn near room temperature water, but some soap got in her mouth and she spat it out before it could wet her throat. Jesus Christ.
She had to clear her head, and fast, otherwise there was no way she would be able to function at work today. She couldn’t be trusted to hold a weapon if she could hardly hold herself up.
No, she was too old to call off work to have more sex. Too accomplished. Too respected. Besides, she’d had enough of it last night to fuel fantasies for multiple years.
Then again, that sex had been the answer to fantasies spanning multiple decades. Her, and that man, and a bed bigger and sturdier than the one in her apartment had twenty-six years to make up for, after all. She remembered Amanda’s words from years ago, now, about a hotel room, and thought maybe that’s exactly what they needed to do. Not to get it out of their systems, of course, because that wasn’t fucking possible, if last night was any indication; or if the current state of her pussy was any indication, because her body was somehow waking itself up for him again in response to her current line of thinking, a warmth spreading low in her belly in spite of her tepid shower. So, no, not to get it out of their systems, but hopefully to take the fucking edge off, at least.
She was faintly aware of the fact that she was kind of exhausted, too. She was too old to be giving up precious hours of sleep for sex.
Twenty-six years, Olivia reminded herself. A few more sleepless nights could probably be afforded; even warranted.
She had finally given Elliot her body, and she was enveloped by the knowledge that she wanted to do it again, and again, and again, until she could not extricate herself from him. Like their bodies could finally become entwined the way their souls had been for years and years. Like the piece of herself she’d lost when he left had finally come back to her, and she was full again, and complete, and bigger and brighter than she was before, because she finally knew what it was like to have him.
She was never fucking letting him go.
She wanted it all with him; sleepy morning sex and frenetic lunch break quickies and passionate middle-of-the-night lovemaking. All of it, everywhere, as many times as she could possibly factor it in.
Let them hole up in here. Let people start to wonder. Let Fin and Bell and Carisi and the entire NYPD come looking for them and come up empty in their search efforts, because where she and Elliot would go together would not be anywhere on this earthly plane. Let her disappear into him.
What was she still doing in the shower?
She turned the water off, wringing her hair out, not bothering to wrap herself in a robe or a towel because her sheets were going to get wet in one way or another. Finally, she brushed her teeth so she could shove her tongue back into his mouth with zero inhibitions.
Back in the bedroom, Elliot was still sleeping, smack dab in the middle of her bed, sprawled out on his back, tenting the top sheet. She slid herself under the thin covers easily, pressing her breasts against his chest, one thigh thrown over both of his, his erection poking her in the belly. With a quick intake of breath, Elliot jerked awake, but he did not seem startled.
“Liv?” He grumbled sleepily, one hand tangling itself in her already tangled hair. “Why’re you cold?”
“‘Cause I knew you’d be warm.”
“You’re not too sore?”
She shook her head, humming her dissent as she circled her hips over his, slow and tempting.
“I want you,” Olivia whispered, meeting Elliot’s eyes, his eyes that were on fire with interest and already half-glazed over.
He looked up at her hungrily as he danced his hand up her thigh, over her soft belly, up to the heavy swell of her tits where they hung near his face.
So fucking good, she thought as he plucked at her hard nipples with his fingers, stroked them, pinched them; so good. But she could not speak, because all her breath was stolen on a whimper of half-pleasure, half-anticipation as she ground her cunt against him, spreading her gathering wetness along the firm length of him.
“Please, baby,” Elliot said, his voice gruff and gravelly, and it did things to her, to hear him call her that in that voice, to let herself be his baby without rolling her eyes or putting a stop to it. It felt good to fall in, to let herself be consumed by him, to know he was equally consumed.
“Yeah,” Olivia whispered, grasping his cock in her hand and lining him up for another round of selfish wantonness. “Yeah.”
The hard stretch of his cock in her swollen and sensitive pussy twinged with mild pain as she sank down over him, but it was a good pain, the type of strain-before-release that chiropractors have built careers on. A shot of whiskey to cure a hangover.
Logically, she knew that most if not all human sexual anatomy is designed just like theirs. That a penis, when aroused, hardens into a rigid obelisk meant to penetrate the tapered void of a vagina; ideally one softened and slicked by its own answering interest. It was scientific, even geometric. But lovers do not care about things so rudimentary as biology. And here she was, hopelessly in love with him, marveling at the bespoke fit of him inside her, hard and soft and wet and wanting, still, so much impossible wanting, a wanting that can only be explained by some greater achievement in design. Made for each other. Perfect fit. Every moment thought and planned and meticulously crafted to eventually produce this one.
She can hurt later. Recover later, maybe in a long bath with candles and wine and Elliot, now her ward, still locked in her bathroom. For now, she rides him, slow and relatively steady, watching the flush rise on his chest, the emotions in the lines of his face.
Besides, it wasn’t really about release anymore. He should touch and caress every inch of her body except for her clit. That would be nice.
Setting up camp in here wasn’t about how many orgasms they can squeeze out of their wrong-side-of-reproductive-years bodies. It was about being together and kissing. Touching. Caressing and rubbing and fondling, and if that led to a few climaxes, sure.
Olivia wanted to see how much of his bicep she could fit in her mouth. How long he could suck on her nipples before she had to tap out. How many hours could pass before one of them deliriously suggested covering each other in whipped cream and chocolate syrup.
She let herself be distracted by that thought as she kept working her hips over him, his hands clutching tightly, guiding her into oblivion.
She’d go first, spread herself out before him like a buffet, make him promise not to mess with her pH. He’d abide by this promise, delicately dripping chocolate sauce over her legs, sucking a mark into the back of her knee, catching the drips on her inner thigh before they cross into dangerous territory. Sucking and slurping at the skin there, sweet and sticky, wayward fluffs of cream smearing into the sheets they’ll need to wash anyway. There’s something tantalizing about it, about appreciating ordinary parts by lathering them in sugar, feeding oneself and lavishing in the process.Sweet, empty calories to be burned away promptly.
The titillating images playing behind her eyes were almost as exhilarating as the one in front of them; Elliot slowly losing control as she rocked faster and faster above him, the slippery wetness of her cunt coating his cock as it speared into her over and over, so deep she felt a dull throb on each pass, her belly thrumming and tightening as sounds of pleasure mingled between them.
“So good, baby,” Elliot panted, beads of sweat collecting on his sternum that she wanted to lick away, so she did, slipping back into that fantasy.
When it was his turn, she’d spread him out on his back, write her full name in cursive with the chocolate syrup before licking it off. Draw a playful arrow down to his cock with the whipped cream and take her time devouring it, teasing him back to full hardness without a single touch. Then she’d pick up the can again and draw a halo around his cock.
She’s never been so excited by the thought of licking someone’s balls. But here, in this languid fantasy, the delicate sucking and licking, the way she’d let herself hyper focus on the whipped cream, paying no mind to the straining erection nudging at her hairline… tempting.
Maybe they should actually order some food. Decked out diner pancakes, with chocolate chips and strawberries and cream, delivered straight to her door so they wouldn’t have to put on more than a robe to retrieve it. Eating them in bed, naked, and then the train of thought was right back where it began.
Today wasn’t for working and it wasn’t even for coming. It was for touching and then napping and waking up and touching some more and then falling asleep again and ordering some sustenance and showering and changing the sheets and getting back in them for more touching and sleeping and doing embarrassing, fuckdrunk things she would balk at outside of this bubble.
In the moment, it was so good she had to reach down and touch herself, swiping messy circles around her clit, dipping her fingers lower, to the place where they’re joined, just to feel them coming together, each thrust driving her closer to the edge.
“Come on, baby,” Elliot grunted, one of his hands traveling around to the swell of her ass, gripping it and guiding her above him as she started to lose control. Her upper body collapsed on top of him, her hips only managing abortive little thrusts to keep the friction. “Come for me.”
She moaned in response, post-verbal, as he kept babbling. I wanna see it, baby. Let me see you come. Could watch you come forever.
It felt like forever that they’d been doing this. Didn’t feel like it’d only been twelve hours since she first touched him the way she’d always wanted to, always pretended not to want to.
Elliot’s fingers were making their way between her thighs, dancing around the place where they were joined just as hers had previously done. Then, they rose higher, gathering some of the wetness from her cunt and coating his index finger with it.
Olivia gasped as he drew light circles around her asshole, tilting her hips instinctively into the press of his hand. She didn’t know what she wanted except for more of him, and he seemed to want the same as he rubbed against it a few more times. Her hand had stilled beneath her, her fingers cramping, her sex clenching restlessly around his cock, which was so hard inside her she could swear she could feel his pulse against her g-spot, a thought so fantastical there was no way it was possible; but it felt possible. Anything felt possible, here, with him. She just felt that connected to him, that whole. And she wanted to be full, too. Full of his hands, his cock, his cum, his love.
“Please,” Olivia moaned into his neck, begging him for that one last push over the edge. She felt him nod against her head, the bandage under his ear scratching her cheek as he complied.
Elliot pushed his slick finger past a ring of resistance into the tight clutch of her ass, and she fell apart immediately, clenching around him with a feckless cry of his name. A tightness in her belly grew and grew until it exploded, shattering her senses as she held him to her, the wet rush of her release soaking them both and the sheets, too.
The force of her orgasm must’ve wrung it out of him, too, because she felt the muscles in his abdomen tense and quiver as he held her to him, his finger deep in her ass, the head of his cock so far inside her she could practically feel it in her diaphragm. He held her there as he went rigid and groaned loudly against her, spilling all he had into her soaked cunt.
This was normally when the clarity came.
She might say crazy, delirious things in bed, might ask for things or do things when she’s turned on and letting go, might unleash a part of herself she keeps reserved in the daytime when she’s in bed with a willing partner. And then the fog recedes, her breath returns to her lungs, and she settles into a sense of clarity.
There was no clarity to be found, here and now.
There was peace, sure. There was contentment. There was a sense of satiation that was causing the ache in her bones, the exhaustion in her muscles, the quiet, tender feeling in her heart. But there was no clarity. She still felt as madly in love with him as she did before.
She also felt wholly devoted, possessed, and held, the newness of it lodging itself between her third and fourth ribs, there to stay.
Olivia curled into Elliot’s side, felt his big hand skating along the sweat-slicked curve of her spine, both of them too caught up in each other to care about lying in their own mess.
Inexplicably, she still wanted more of him.
But first, she’d need to pee. And then drink some water, and then probably pee again.
Then she’d need to eat something, and shower, and brew a fresh cup of coffee, since the one produced by the morning timer had surely gone cold by now.
She’d need to see about work. Make a decision. Actually, she had no idea what time it was, if she could even make it to-
As if on cue, her phone began to vibrate from the bedroom floor, next to where her pants had been discarded last night.
“Shit,” Olivia muttered, because it was a chore to separate herself from him, just now.
“Don’t answer it,” Elliot grumbled as she reached her phone, “We’re not done here.”
Olivia laughed in spite of herself, holding her phone to her ear.
It was Fin.
“Hey, Cap. Just wondering if you’ll be here soon? It’s, uh, nine-thirty, and Bruno said you weren’t answering your texts.”
She expected to have to swallow a wave of guilt for leaving her squad high and dry, no-call-no-showing at SVU and potentially worrying them; but surprisingly, there was no such guilt.
“I can’t come in today,” she told Fin. “I’m sick.”
Before he could get another word in, she ended the call, shoving her phone in her bedside table.
Smiling, she grabbed Elliot’s hand and pulled him towards the bathroom.
“What about--?” She asked as they stepped into the shower.
“I already texted Bell. I’m sick, too.”