See, what people don't understand is that this has been going on for years. Olivia Benson is not a saint.
Sometimes she really doesn't understand how people don't notice. Or maybe they do notice and don't say anything. Or maybe no one gives a shit. To be honest, she doesn't care. She spends most of her time alone when she isn't with Elliot, with no one's opinion to answer to but her own. Sometimes she stays up late to watch Craig Ferguson and sometimes she's so tired she doesn't even get undressed before she's sound asleep and then she has to drag herself up and out of bed to do it all over again. And sometimes Elliot's with her.
She keeps condoms in her top dresser drawer, Trojans because they're his brand. She gets her Depo shot every three months and so far they've gotten away with it. Twelve years is a long time to perfect your methods.
Some days she wakes up with her thighs stiff and sore from his body between them. Some days she wakes up thinking he's there and she's actually slept alone that night. She never quite knows how to feel then: half glad that he's not there because she's so used to being able to wake up at her own pace, half wishing she'd come across him in the hallway on the way to the kitchen. He stays sometimes too, and tells Kathy he's at the crib.
Twelve years makes her a veteran of his moods and expressions. She knows when to leave him alone and when to push, when to make him talk and when to treat him to that singular brand of silence that only she punishes him with. He gets mad then because no one else makes him feel quite so wrong-footed when he fucks up. He fucks up with her more often than he wants to admit to.
The force of their sexual attraction has always floored him a little bit, the way he can't keep his hands off her when he knows they're alone. He doesn't need to ask what she likes anymore because he's known that forever. She never asks what he likes because frankly she could do anything to him and he would love the shit out of it. For her he's silly putty and she knows it. And she loves it.
She doesn't remember when the feeling of his hands on her became a familiar sensation. It was sort of like something that had always happened, even the first time. She was a rookie then, with a pageboy haircut and a big attitude. She'd had no problem keeping up with him step for step and giving as good as she got, until the day she asked him point blank if he wanted to have sex with her. He'd been startled into honesty and then she'd started to laugh. It broke the ice.
When she chopped her hair short, when she climbed up onto the level playing field with the boys, he'd pulled that short hair and made her remember she was a woman first and foremost, right on her sofa. That sound, the way she said Jesus, Elliot, into the sofa cushions, that sound sticks with him and is one of his strongest memories of her.
He loves her for being soft and hard at the same time. He loves her for carrying around a gun and a broken heart. He loves her for covering her face with her hands when she comes because she comes so loudly and so uninhibitedly. It's that feeling that makes him say, "Oh, fuck yes," from his gut and press her deep into the mattress.
It's been this way for years. Olivia Benson is not a saint.
I usually tend to drift away from Olivia and Elliot cheating scenarios, most aren't done that well and its also not really my cup of tea, but JEEZ.
That was amazing. You hardly showed anything specific but you blew me away with how well you described them just fitting together and then how natural things always are between them. You definitely left me wanting more of that AU.
Sometimes she really doesn't understand how people don't notice. Or maybe they do notice and don't say anything. Or maybe no one gives a shit. To be honest, she doesn't care. She spends most of her time alone when she isn't with Elliot, with no one's opinion to answer to but her own. Sometimes she stays up late to watch Craig Ferguson and sometimes she's so tired she doesn't even get undressed before she's sound asleep and then she has to drag herself up and out of bed to do it all over again. And sometimes Elliot's with her.
She keeps condoms in her top dresser drawer, Trojans because they're his brand. She gets her Depo shot every three months and so far they've gotten away with it. Twelve years is a long time to perfect your methods.
Some days she wakes up with her thighs stiff and sore from his body between them. Some days she wakes up thinking he's there and she's actually slept alone that night. She never quite knows how to feel then: half glad that he's not there because she's so used to being able to wake up at her own pace, half wishing she'd come across him in the hallway on the way to the kitchen. He stays sometimes too, and tells Kathy he's at the crib.
Twelve years makes her a veteran of his moods and expressions. She knows when to leave him alone and when to push, when to make him talk and when to treat him to that singular brand of silence that only she punishes him with. He gets mad then because no one else makes him feel quite so wrong-footed when he fucks up. He fucks up with her more often than he wants to admit to.
The force of their sexual attraction has always floored him a little bit, the way he can't keep his hands off her when he knows they're alone. He doesn't need to ask what she likes anymore because he's known that forever. She never asks what he likes because frankly she could do anything to him and he would love the shit out of it. For her he's silly putty and she knows it. And she loves it.
She doesn't remember when the feeling of his hands on her became a familiar sensation. It was sort of like something that had always happened, even the first time. She was a rookie then, with a pageboy haircut and a big attitude. She'd had no problem keeping up with him step for step and giving as good as she got, until the day she asked him point blank if he wanted to have sex with her. He'd been startled into honesty and then she'd started to laugh. It broke the ice.
When she chopped her hair short, when she climbed up onto the level playing field with the boys, he'd pulled that short hair and made her remember she was a woman first and foremost, right on her sofa. That sound, the way she said Jesus, Elliot, into the sofa cushions, that sound sticks with him and is one of his strongest memories of her.
He loves her for being soft and hard at the same time. He loves her for carrying around a gun and a broken heart. He loves her for covering her face with her hands when she comes because she comes so loudly and so uninhibitedly. It's that feeling that makes him say, "Oh, fuck yes," from his gut and press her deep into the mattress.
It's been this way for years. Olivia Benson is not a saint.
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That was amazing. You hardly showed anything specific but you blew me away with how well you described them just fitting together and then how natural things always are between them. You definitely left me wanting more of that AU.
Thank you so much for the fill!
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