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say you'll never let me go

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The back of the taxi is oddly more intimate than the shitty little bar they’d found as far away from the 1-6 as humanly possible. With only the driver to get a free show, and only half one at that, she lets his hands roam. He manages to unclip her bra and coaxes her into getting rid of it entirely. As he’s sliding it into his coat pocket, the driver makes eye contact in the rear view mirror and he glares angrily, no one gets to look at her the way he does. No one gets to look at her at all.
He doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands, so he slides them up and down her jeaned thighs. He wonders briefly why she’s wearing jeans, she usually wears slacks to the office, but the tight charcoal denim looks so good on her, he doesn’t even care and the thought is quickly dismissed. She grinds her hips downwards, and he’s already hard, he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of her hips, just above where her jeans sit. Suddenly he gets a thought and the sharp stab of pleasure shoots from his ribcage straight to his dick and he can’t help it when his hips buck hard against hers.
“Do you,” His voice is low so only she can hear, and he pulls her impossibly closer by the loops on her jeans. “Do you want to sit on my face?” He asks, and by the way her whole body goes limp for a half second and she shudders with her next intake of breath, he can tell she really does.
“Elliot.” She breathes, and that’s all she can manage. She tilts his chin and slants her mouth across his in a kiss that twists his gut and makes his head spin. Usually she’ll fight him for dominance, and it dawns on him that their entire partnership is one long draining fight for the lead role, but tonight, it’s probably the booze, she lets him take charge. He slides his arms around her waist, and presses one hand against the space between her shoulder blades, pinning her to him. He sucks her bottom lip into his mouth and scrapes his teeth over it, roughly, just the way he knows makes her head spin.
It’s been a long day, and they’re both totally fucking exhausted, both emotionally and physically. Sure, they’ve had near death experiences before, too many to count, but he only realized when Rook was crying and he thought Olivia was in pain, just how fucked up their whole set up is. Maybe he got lucky, it wasn’t as if the bastard had held a gun to his temple, but Elliot knew if Olivia hadn’t made it out of there alive, he wouldn’t have wanted to. He blames himself, a little, but when doesn’t he? The what ifs and maybes he’d tried to drown in Bourbon and cheap shitty beer stir and he can tell by the desperation and intensity of the way she’s kissing him that she’s half lost in the same nightmare, trying incessantly to claw her way out. She’s strong, his Liv, and he both hates and loves that about her.
He knows tonight will get a little rough, but they usually do. They’re both too needy and too far gone to bother with any teasing or much foreplay, which they usually only do to get one each other’s nerves anyway. He moves the hand that was previously sliding up her torso, under her shirt and coat, and moves it to tangle his fingers in her hair. She has to bite her lip to swallow a cry as he pulls sharply on the silky chocolate strands, yanking her head back and granting himself access to the long expanse of her neck that seems to glow in the dim flashing lights of the street rolling past. He kisses her pulse point wetly, and begins working his way up her neck with his mouth. He starts sucking a hickey into the spot he knows is most sensitive and she actually whimpers, unable to stop the noise escaping her throat. The cabby clears his throat uncomfortably and Elliot almost swears in reliefs when he realizes they’ve finally turned into Olivia’s street. He fishes into his coat pocket and grins when his knuckles brush over the lacy edge of her bra. “You wear that for me?” He asks quietly in a low voice she quickly decides is pure sex, smug and possessive as always as he fishes a fifty out of his wallet and presses it in the sweaty palm of the driver, indicating he should keep the change before sliding out of the dingy cab and following Olivia to the entrance of her building. They take the elevator, alone, because in their condition, inebriated and aroused, any run-ins with neighbors would be awkward and a little torturous. As soon as the doors slide closed behind them, he has her pinned against the far wall, off the ground, bracing her weight against the wall and his own, he ruts up against her and she digs her finger tips into the hard muscle of his shoulder.
“Patience, El.” She whispers just because she’s so not in a place to be telling him what to do, because she knows it, and because it annoys him so incredibly much. The elevator dings upon their arrival on the fourth floor and the doors creak as they open, as slow as ever. Knowing the hallway will be clear at one in the morning, he doesn’t even bother to put her on her feet, instead lifting her up and holding her against his hips, his thighs, his cock.
“Gotcha keys?” He asks and she holds them up between her pointer finger and thumb. He takes them and unlocks the door of her apartment, steps inside and slams it hard behind them with his foot, getting more and more desperate now that they’re alone. He strides sure footed to her bedroom and finally then sets her on her feet. Her legs feel a little like Jell-O and she steadies herself on the edge of the bed. “Strip, Liv.” He commands, and his jaw is so tight, and his eyes so sharp, she knows it’s wise to do exactly as she’s told.
Elliot is near helpless to tear his eyes away from her body, especially as more and more of her sleek skin is becoming exposed but he manages to rid himself of shoes, socks, coat and shirt by the time she’s stood bare and waiting in front of him. He drapes the shirt he was wearing over her shoulders which are significantly smaller than his, the bottom edge of the white cotton brushes her mid thighs and the sleeves hang ridiculously. He smirks, places a soft kiss on her lips and rolls the sleeves up messily, so they sit mid-way up her forearms.
“Why am I wearing your shirt, Elliot?” She asks, looking a little amused, not that she doesn’t already know the answer.
“Because,” he grins, “Because you're mine, Liv.” And now he’s really looking for a fight, she can hear it in his voice and see the spark in his eyes.
“No, Elliot, I’m not,” she says, and she knows that she’s only indulging his need for conflict, and she knows equally that she really is his, has been for a long time now, but the words sound alien and wrong coming out of his mouth, and she can’t think about it for too long before her head spins just a little too fast.
“Hm, it doesn’t matter, not tonight. Tonight I just want to feel you, yeah?”
And it’s then she realizes that now she’s too far gone, and he’s too far gone, that tonight is just them, nobody but, and she tries hard to push the thoughts out of her head, tries to focus on him, her, what she knows he will do to her body. Suddenly his eyes look a lot less like desperation and emotion and more like pure lust.
She nods and steps toward him, comfortable and confident despite the fact she’s far more naked than he is, but when isn’t she? “I thought,” she says lowly, smirking despite herself, “That you were gonna eat me out?” She doesn’t bother to smother her laugh when his jaw hits the floor, she usually makes a point of being … less direct.
He flops unceremoniously onto her bed, dragging her down with him. Their crotches collide and she’s momentarily swallowed into pleasure, it shocks her and envelopes her senses and she goes limp.
He takes the opportunity to lay back and forces her into a desperate, bruising kiss, too much tongue and teeth and just enough pain. “Elliot!” She moans into his mouth as he slips his hand between them and drags his thumb, hard and slow and so damn good, over her clit. He does it over and over and sweeps two fingers over her slit, and he can tell she’s edging already. He guides her into another kiss, this time it’s as slow as it is forceful, and it reminds him of his teenage makeout sessions with the girl from his church, and slightly more recently, with Kathy. He wonders about that sometimes, if that could have been a different life for him, a better one perhaps. But with Olivia Benson, his partner, codependent, lover, dirty little secret, kissing him, with his fingers in between her legs making her moan against his mouth, he knows that this is the only life he wants. He sucks her bottom lip into his mouth and lashes at it with the tip of his tongue, in time with the movement of thumb on her clit. The pain of his teeth, and the intensity of his rhythm is enough to send her into her first orgasm and she swears hard as she’s overcome by violent, shuddering pleasure.
She is so beautiful, is all he can think. “You okay, baby?” He asks and she smiles and nods sleepily, eyes still closed, held up only by his hands.
“Yeah, El, always.”
And he is so fucked. Since their first kiss, more tentative and careful than any since, all those years back; he’s been fucked up by her. Her confidence, her charm, her kindness, her smarts, and, oh fuck, her body. Even three years later when all evidence points towards her having killed a man, his sweet, kind, good Liv, she will continue to fuck with him.
She seems to have regained most of her lucidity because she yanks him off his train of, rather unsettling, thoughts by beginning to kiss his neck. She’s gentle with her mouth at first, and he knows that it’s only because he wants the opposite. Needs the painful pleasure to feel something other than the tormenting rage and sadness and helplessness that he’s been unable to shake since his encounter with Rook in the recording studio, since he heard her screams and was convinced she was in pain. He growls lowly, in the back of his throat, warning her. “Liv.” But the way his voice cracks and his chest heaves betrays him, and she knows instantly that his need for pain is less about power or control or the pain itself and more about needing to know that she is there and she is real and she is never going anywhere. She complies, of course, anyway, sucking hard on his pulse point, biting at and pulling his skin. He tilts his head back into the pillows and swallows hard, Adam’s apple shifting almost painfully. She takes the opportunity to suckle on the sweet spot under his jaw and he groans brokenly, hands on her ass tightening.
“I wanna make you feel so fucking good, Olivia.” He promises as he slides down the bed so he’s lying flat on his back and her opening, still glistening from her first orgasm, is directly above his mouth.
She can feel his heavy breath against her sensitive skin and she shudders with anticipation, attempting to grind down into his mouth, cursing his strength and the vicelike grip he has on her hips, keeping her elevated.
Finally, finally, after what seems like forever, he cranes his neck to slide his tongue over her slit, swirling it back and up, knowing exactly how to make her head spin.
“Jesus, El.” She murmurs lowly, voice just choked enough to let Elliot know she’s okay, that it’s okay to keep going, that she likes it. He knows that, in this mood, he could make her cum again in a matter of minutes, if he wanted. But because he’s him and she’s her, and this is their entire fucked up relationship, he will not, he will prolong this for as long as possible. If you’re going to risk absolutely everything that matters to normal people, you might as well do it right, he figures.
He tilts his head slightly, capturing her swollen bud of nerves between his lips and sucks lightly. Her breath catches and she whimpers, and he knows he’s on the right track. She tries again to loosen his grip, to grind her hips down, to achieve some, any, of that priceless friction she needs. He’s cunning, and a little sadistic, knows how and where he wants her, how she needs to be on the brink of literally imploding with desperate need and a little animalistic want before he lets her cum, and he knows that, if he lets her move now, get herself off now, she will cum soon, hard and fast, and this will all be over, and that thought, that she will not always be here with him, on his body, making him feel, is just too much.
He finally releases her clit with one last drag of his teeth and she sighs with relief as the constant pleasure, almost unbearable in its intensity, eases off. He laps up the fluid and groans, she tastes so good in his mouth, always. Overcome with primal instinct, he’s pretty much running on autopilot when he starts tongue fucking her, desperate to taste her, over and over again. He flicks his tongue against the rough spot inside of her, and she keens violently, desperately trying to match his rhythm with her hips.
“Elliot!” Her voice cracks beautifully and, without seeing her face he can tell her eyes are filled with tears. That. That was the reaction he was looking for. Finally, finally, he loosens his grip, now only strong enough to ensure she doesn’t fall, and she immediately circles her hips, relishing in the feeling of his teeth, his tongue, his mouth, on her. The five o’clock shadow on his jaw grazes over her inner thighs and she moans, every nerve ending alight, in total fucking ecstasy. “God, El – ah!” And now she’s close, so fucking close she’s sobbing, and the noises she’s making are so fucking pretty that maybe he’s been edging on the sound alone for quite a while now.
“S’okay, Liv.” He slurs, mind foggy. He captures her throbbing clit between his teeth and moans, knowing the vibrations and the pain will be enough to set her off.
He’s right because she cries out and cums hard, and it’s beautiful and captivating and a little magical as she lets herself fall apart in a way only he’s ever seen. Before it’s even fully over, although she doubts the shudders will subside by tomorrow morning, he flicks his tongue again, and she whimpers and shakes, as another, albeit far less powerful orgasm passes through her.
When it’s finally over, she’s left shaking and whimpering, and he really has to hold her up now. He eases into a sitting position, with her in his lap, and holds her close while she pieces herself back together. They’ve spent a lot of their partnership like this, he realizes, or the other way around, figuratively. She sighs shakily, meeting his gaze, he’s looking at her with a disgusting mix of pity, awe and adoration and it turns her stomach. This is not what she wants, loving gazes and cute promises, sure, their relationship has meaning, and a decade’s worth of depth, but she likes their arrangement the way it is. She thinks that, if it were to change, it might break her. She needs this, the sex, the routine, the peaceful simplicity and the often tragic complexity, all of it. Without their relationship, she wouldn’t be the cop she is, and she’s a damn good cop. She knows that the fact that she’s pretty much responsible for the fact that her partner has been cheating on his wife for the best part of a decade disqualifies her for person of the year, so she relies on being a good cop, and she relies on him. That stare, when he looks her in the eye as he cums, or as she does, or both, she loves it, when they communicate silently with a dozen people in the room at work, she knows that she’s lucky to have someone that gets her like he does, but now, his pity and his sickening love for her makes her guilty stomach turn ... and is exactly what she needs.
His boxers are suddenly gone and she doesn’t know how or when, not that it matters. She’s wet again already, but sometimes she thinks she’s always edging in his presence. His hands rest gently on her thighs, fingers tracing words, their names, and nonsensical patterns onto her smooth skin. She sinks down, lets him fill her up, and she only flinches briefly at the flash of pain that is so familiar it’s almost comforting. His head falls back and he groans, inundated in euphoria. When she circles and then snaps her hips, he moans and she smiles softly, that sound is her favorite. Elliot is okay. She is okay. They have each other. They always will. She draws herself up and sinks again, starting up a rhythm so blissfully, torturously slow he sees stars. Again and again until they’re just rocking their hips languidly against each other’s, his arms around her waist hands under the crumpled shirt rubbing up and down her back comfortingly, steadily.
“Elliot,” she leans back, holding his head between her hands, each thumb brushing against his cheeks. “Look at me.” She insists, and he eventually lifts his eyes to meet hers. She’s a little shocked when she realizes he’s crying softly, intense cerulean eyes brimming with tears. She doesn’t even need to ask before he opens his mouth and starts talking.
“I was so scared, Liv,” he rasps, and her heart just about breaks at the brokenness in his tone. “I thought – fuck! – I thought that he was going to break you, and ruin me. Or blow us all to nothing. I was so, so fucking scared, you hear me? I can’t lose you, Olivia.”
“It’s okay, he didn’t hurt me. I’m here, I’m safe, and I’m never going anywhere.” she starts, and her voice is an octave higher, a mix of emotion and the way he manages to hit that spot inside her she didn’t know existed until he found it. “Jesus. We are real, okay? You and me, we are real and good. A-and I am yours. I’ve always been yours, El.”
And that so, completely, totally sets him off. When he shatters, he shatters massively and she just watches it happen in wonder for several seconds before her own pleasure overwhelms her and she has to close her eyes and let the waves of her own orgasm sweep over her, with only him to stop her from drowning.