"the end of romance" [a is for amok; l&o:svu; casey novak]
Title: the end of romance
Author: ellen m. [quasiradiant@yahoo.com]
Fandom: L&O:SVU
Medium: tv
Genre: ship. smut.
Pairing: Casey/Elliot
Theme: a is for amok: wild or wildly, headlong or heedlessly
Disclaimer: don't own 'em.
"Romance should never begin with sentiment." [oscar wilde]
She doesn't expect him (never expects him, even after all this time) to be in her office, but there he is, sitting on her couch, a copy of the Daily News blackening his fingers.
He doesn't look up. Just says, "Locks in the DA's office aren't what they used to be. Somebody should really look in to that."
"I'll send a memo." She dumps an armful of file folders into her chair, perches on the edge of the desk. "What can I do for you, Detective?" All business even while she's unbuttoning her jacket, tossing it on top of the folders. Underneath, her arms are only a shade lighter than the pale silk of her camisole.
"Thought I'd come by. Say hi. See how the arraignment went." He licks his thumb and turns the page.
"It went well. Thanks for checking up on me. That couldn't have waited until after I came back to, you know, unlock my own door?" She laces her fingers in her lap, crosses one ankle over the other.
"Never said I was a patient man," he shrugs.
Turns another page.
"So, anything exciting in the news today?" She's terrible at small talk and he isn't helping.
"Bloomberg." He rolls his eyes. "Same old."
She likes the mayor, crossed party lines to vote for him. "Yeah. But you didn't come to chat about politics."
He folds the paper slowly, carefully. "No."
Her voice darkens, just a shade. "Then what?"
He rises, drops the paper on the coffee table. "You think you look sexy when you're playing stupid. Who told you to do that?"
She doesn't ask why he thinks she's only playing. "I'm always sexy," she says instead, placing her palms, thumbs out, on the desk.
He leans over, locks the door. He crosses the office in two long strides, standing so close she can smell sweat and aftershave. She licks her bottom lip and looks at him without blinking.
"Casey," he says, voice betraying him. "I didn't come here to chat about politics."
"We've established that already, Detective." He runs his fingertips down her arm and every hair on her body stands up straight from the circuit he completes.
"Eh, fuck you," he says, voice low and hard, and then he kisses her. His kisses are teeth and Doublemint and one hand pulling her hair and the other pushing her thighs apart.
She pushes him back. "Real nice, Elliot. That your idea of sweet talk?"
"You want flowers?" he asks, hand trailing up the inside of her leg, leaving black ink smudges. "Godiva?"
She laughs. "It would be so wrong to hope?"
"Stupid, maybe," he smiles and pulls her forward on the desk with two hands on her hips until her feet are on the floor.
She takes a handful of her skirt in each fist, hikes it up. "And you thought I was just playing."
She's not wearing any nylons, and he runs his hands up her legs, hooks his fingers in the waistband of her panties. Pushes them down. They get caught on her shoe, but neither of them seems to notice.
And then his fingers are on her, in her. There's hardly any resistance at all, and she thinks about how he holds a gun with that hand. His breath catches when he feels her tighten around his fingers and she can hear it, and his hands are at his belt, fumbling.
"Slow down, cowboy," she smirks. "Let me help you with that."
"Smug. That's cute." His voice is a husky, dark. But then she's pushing his slacks and his boxers to the floor, and he's not the most coordinated with his pants around his ankles but this he can do. He pushes her back until she's sitting on the desk, lifts one of her legs and kisses the inside of her calf.
She gasps. And it's stupid, it's been stupid every time it happens but every time they're rushing in to it like insects in to flame, not thinking about his wife and not thinking about Olivia. She presses her other heel to the back of his hip and urges him forward. Her skirt's around her waist and her lipstick is smudged and she wants him and she doesn't care.
"Come on," she says breathlessly. Tilts her hips forward a little, scooting towards the desk's edge.
"Patience, Novak," he says through clenched teeth. Slides into her so slowly she shakes. She presses her eyes closed. "Look at me," he says, something like a growl, pushing forward fast and digging his fingers into her hip.
She looks up. His pupils are huge. She glances down at his cock sliding into her, clenches around him.
"Jesus Christ," he hisses, and she laughs and reaches down, brushes fingertips against her clit.
"Just fuck me already," she says, looks right into his eyes, touches his cheek with damp fingers. He groans.
There's no more talking, just the sound of his skin on hers, the sound of her little panting whimpers, the wet sound of her mouth as she sucks his fingers. And she never comes with anybody else, but somehow when he looks at her like that, lids heavy, mouth open, she's torn in half, moans stifled against the back of her own hand.
He's always been able to hold out longer than she has, but this time he comes quickly, biting her shoulder hard enough that it'll be black and blue in the morning. Then he kisses her.
"Not bad," she manages, hoarse. She drops her legs, lets him step away. Smiles so brilliantly that he smiles back. She doesn't stand, doesn't push her skirt down. Crosses her legs.
He opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything. Just stands there, mouth a little open, blinking.
"Next time," she says, "you should really bring flowers."
Author: ellen m. [quasiradiant@yahoo.com]
Fandom: L&O:SVU
Medium: tv
Genre: ship. smut.
Pairing: Casey/Elliot
Theme: a is for amok: wild or wildly, headlong or heedlessly
Disclaimer: don't own 'em.
"Romance should never begin with sentiment." [oscar wilde]
She doesn't expect him (never expects him, even after all this time) to be in her office, but there he is, sitting on her couch, a copy of the Daily News blackening his fingers.
He doesn't look up. Just says, "Locks in the DA's office aren't what they used to be. Somebody should really look in to that."
"I'll send a memo." She dumps an armful of file folders into her chair, perches on the edge of the desk. "What can I do for you, Detective?" All business even while she's unbuttoning her jacket, tossing it on top of the folders. Underneath, her arms are only a shade lighter than the pale silk of her camisole.
"Thought I'd come by. Say hi. See how the arraignment went." He licks his thumb and turns the page.
"It went well. Thanks for checking up on me. That couldn't have waited until after I came back to, you know, unlock my own door?" She laces her fingers in her lap, crosses one ankle over the other.
"Never said I was a patient man," he shrugs.
Turns another page.
"So, anything exciting in the news today?" She's terrible at small talk and he isn't helping.
"Bloomberg." He rolls his eyes. "Same old."
She likes the mayor, crossed party lines to vote for him. "Yeah. But you didn't come to chat about politics."
He folds the paper slowly, carefully. "No."
Her voice darkens, just a shade. "Then what?"
He rises, drops the paper on the coffee table. "You think you look sexy when you're playing stupid. Who told you to do that?"
She doesn't ask why he thinks she's only playing. "I'm always sexy," she says instead, placing her palms, thumbs out, on the desk.
He leans over, locks the door. He crosses the office in two long strides, standing so close she can smell sweat and aftershave. She licks her bottom lip and looks at him without blinking.
"Casey," he says, voice betraying him. "I didn't come here to chat about politics."
"We've established that already, Detective." He runs his fingertips down her arm and every hair on her body stands up straight from the circuit he completes.
"Eh, fuck you," he says, voice low and hard, and then he kisses her. His kisses are teeth and Doublemint and one hand pulling her hair and the other pushing her thighs apart.
She pushes him back. "Real nice, Elliot. That your idea of sweet talk?"
"You want flowers?" he asks, hand trailing up the inside of her leg, leaving black ink smudges. "Godiva?"
She laughs. "It would be so wrong to hope?"
"Stupid, maybe," he smiles and pulls her forward on the desk with two hands on her hips until her feet are on the floor.
She takes a handful of her skirt in each fist, hikes it up. "And you thought I was just playing."
She's not wearing any nylons, and he runs his hands up her legs, hooks his fingers in the waistband of her panties. Pushes them down. They get caught on her shoe, but neither of them seems to notice.
And then his fingers are on her, in her. There's hardly any resistance at all, and she thinks about how he holds a gun with that hand. His breath catches when he feels her tighten around his fingers and she can hear it, and his hands are at his belt, fumbling.
"Slow down, cowboy," she smirks. "Let me help you with that."
"Smug. That's cute." His voice is a husky, dark. But then she's pushing his slacks and his boxers to the floor, and he's not the most coordinated with his pants around his ankles but this he can do. He pushes her back until she's sitting on the desk, lifts one of her legs and kisses the inside of her calf.
She gasps. And it's stupid, it's been stupid every time it happens but every time they're rushing in to it like insects in to flame, not thinking about his wife and not thinking about Olivia. She presses her other heel to the back of his hip and urges him forward. Her skirt's around her waist and her lipstick is smudged and she wants him and she doesn't care.
"Come on," she says breathlessly. Tilts her hips forward a little, scooting towards the desk's edge.
"Patience, Novak," he says through clenched teeth. Slides into her so slowly she shakes. She presses her eyes closed. "Look at me," he says, something like a growl, pushing forward fast and digging his fingers into her hip.
She looks up. His pupils are huge. She glances down at his cock sliding into her, clenches around him.
"Jesus Christ," he hisses, and she laughs and reaches down, brushes fingertips against her clit.
"Just fuck me already," she says, looks right into his eyes, touches his cheek with damp fingers. He groans.
There's no more talking, just the sound of his skin on hers, the sound of her little panting whimpers, the wet sound of her mouth as she sucks his fingers. And she never comes with anybody else, but somehow when he looks at her like that, lids heavy, mouth open, she's torn in half, moans stifled against the back of her own hand.
He's always been able to hold out longer than she has, but this time he comes quickly, biting her shoulder hard enough that it'll be black and blue in the morning. Then he kisses her.
"Not bad," she manages, hoarse. She drops her legs, lets him step away. Smiles so brilliantly that he smiles back. She doesn't stand, doesn't push her skirt down. Crosses her legs.
He opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything. Just stands there, mouth a little open, blinking.
"Next time," she says, "you should really bring flowers."