A/N: The cross, the capital, the pale families, the fear and the mouthpieces (Rage Against the Machine)
DISCLAIMER: SVU and all related plot/characters originally belong to Dick Wolf. This story, words, and dialogue are mine. © TStabler
Elliot stares at the aging man in front of him, the veins in his neck are throbbing and there are only two things he wants to do at the moment; neither are possible. He glances through the glass pane in the door, watches Olivia yawn and run her fingers through her hair, then turns back to Cragen and narrows his eyes. "I did not come down here to get myself pulled into some half-cocked search for a corrupt…"
"What is she doing here?" Cragen cuts him off as he buttons the cuffs of his shirt. He looks from Elliot to the door and back again. "I called you, I asked you not to tell her, to come alone."
"I couldn't really get away with not telling her," Elliot smirks and thinks back to exactly where he was an hour ago, in bed, in her. "She was with me when you called."
Cragen's browns knit. "What was she doing with you at two in the goddamned morning?" He scoffs as he pulls on the hem of his shirt. "I know you told me you're in love with her, I assumed you were fucking around, but your kids know? You spend your nights with her? How the hell serious…"
Elliot cracks his knuckles and rolls the tension out of his back and neck, twitching and shifting as his muscles pop and snap. "Fucking around," he sneers, "Is the furthest thing from what we're doing, it was never…" he loses his words on a growl. "Of course, my kids know, we fucking live together, now can you please just tell me what you're doing out here?"
Cragen hangs onto Elliot's last statement, his heart in his throat. "Living together?" He clears his throat and reaches for his jacket. "And what I'm doing...Elliot, it doesn't concern you, okay? Thank you for coming down here, making this look legit, but I can't…"
"Who are you after?" Elliot asks. "Is this what the rats are making you do because you shot Falsone?" He tilts his head and folds his arms, then, and he gives a short, low laugh. "Or was Falsone one of the dirty cops you were after in the first place?"
There's a beat of silence, and then Cragen grins. "This is why you're the acting captain, you're a damn good detective, Stabler." He nods once and says, "I need you to drop me off at the Sheraton hotel, then you call me when you get back home."
Elliot scrapes his teeth over his lip, runs a thick, rough hand down his face, and nods once. "This...what you're doing...it could get you killed, you know that, don't you?"
Cragen says nothing as he pulls his jacket on and gestures toward the door, silently answering the question.
Two and a half hours later, they walk through the front door of the blue house in Queens that had become theirs. She's trying to forget the stream of foul words and hostile complaints that he had spouted in the car, she's trying to forget that her boss is on a mission to prove half the NYPD is corrupt and working for some kingpin in Philly, and she's trying to forget that she's been awake for nearly twenty-four hours and is too tired to sleep now.
"Yo," he calls louder, squinting at her. When she finally turns to him, he asks, "You hear me?"
"Uh, no," she rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands and sniffles once. "What did you…"
"Upstairs," he says, his voice low. He's already gotten his shirt off, the cotton in his hands. "Now." He smiles smugly at the way she moves at his words, and when she starts climbing, he slaps her ass hard. "Move it, Benson."
She shoots him a smoky look over her shoulder. Her lip is pinched between her teeth and the exhaustion in her eyes has been replaced by lust and anticipation. She looks up and down the hallway, then, realizing that Elliot's brother is in the guest room, four beautiful children are in the others, and as she turns into the one that she'd been sharing with him for over a month, now, she sighs.
He hears her, and though his hands are pulling off her clothes and his foot kicks out to close the door, he asks, "What's the matter?" He tosses her shirt and his into the hamper and then looks into her eyes. "What's wrong?"
"Absolutely nothing," she tells him, and she skims her hands over his chest as he pushes down her leggings. He chuckles when she obediently complies, kicking them away with her shoes when they fall. He drops his eyes, watches her hands roll down his pants, and he mimics her actions. "On the bed," he growls, his voice like sandpaper grating hot coals.
She backs up, keeping her eyes on his, and they widen slightly when he reaches into the drawer of the end table and pulls out a long piece of red silk. "What are you…"
"Shh," he hushes, and he moves toward her. He rotates her hips so she's flat back, down on the mattress, and he wraps the blindfold around her eyes. "See anything?" he questions, but he knows the answer already. He nuzzles against her face, his breath tickles a spot on her neck that makes goosebumps rise, he can feel them on her skin. He grabs something else out of the drawer and whispers, "Not one sound, understand?"
She nods, and then her mouth falls open. "Oh, God," she breathes softly, feeling the cold metal clamp around her right nipple. The pinch sends sparks down her back, electricity shoots directly to her pussy, and when the second clamp squeezes her other nipple she moans and her back curls without permission.
"Quiet," he reminds her, and he bends to unclip his handcuffs off of his belt. He turns back to her and watches her for a moment, her legs are bent, her hips are bucking involuntarily, and he knows she is trying to clench her thighs together to release some of the tension she's feeling. "Not yet," he laughs, and he grabs her right wrist.
"Jesus," she hisses, feeling him cuffing her hands to the headboard, over her head, the stretch of her torso tightens the chain and tugs on the nipple clamps, and she presses her lips together to keep from moaning as another strike of lightning hits her body.
He walks around the bed, eyes on her shackled body, and he silently opens the closet door. He searches the top shelf, knowing a few of his hidden gems didn't make it over to the apartment yet, and he reaches for one, grabs it, and twirls it between his fingers as he pads back over to the bed. "Self-control, Olivia," he says, "Is something I struggle with, you know that." He holds the stem of the long, white feather between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, drags the fingers of his right hand through the barbs. "Now," he kneels beside the bed, his knees on the plush carpet, "You have to deal with it."
She gasps when the blade of the feather grazes her skin. Her body jerks when the light touch glides down her sides, across her thighs, up and down her long legs. She kicks fruitlessly when he traces the soles of her feet with the tines, and shebited down on the inside of her lip when she feels the tip of the feather slip just barely up her slit, over her clit. "Elliot," she whispers, her breath and her pulse rivaling each other in speed.
He clenches his jaw as he wraps his free hand around his hard cock, and he strokes slowly as he watches the way her body reacts, the way he can see her hair stand on end, the way her stomach clenches and her arms pull in vain attempts to free her hands. He drags the feather over her slit again, and he tells her in a throaty whisper, "Spread your legs." When she does, he moans, the sight of her is almost too much for him to handle and part of him wants to drop the feather and take her now. He doesn't; he lets the feather lick at her clit again, and he can see her growing wetter, her skin glistening as she wriggles on the bed.
"Please," she whispers, "Sir," her hips buck upward and when the chain tugs on her nipples she moans a bit louder.
"You are really pushing it," he chuckles, "Be quiet." He lays the feather down on the floor beside him. He groans as he peels his hand away from his throbbing dick, then leans forward. He rubs his hands together to build the heat, then trails the tips of his fingers along every curve and edge of her body. He traces the path the feather had taken, he breathes a little faster every time her muscles twitch. "Liv, you need to stay quiet," he warns her again, and the smirk on his face tells her he hopes she disobeys again.
She jerks and keens as his rough hands move, she can feel the blood rushing through her, her heart is pounding in her ears and between her legs. Her back arches and she whimpers, the chain between her breasts pulls taut and tugs on her nipples. "Please, Elliot," she begs, and just as she manages to pull her legs closed enough to rub her aggravated clit, his heavy hands grab her knees and yank them apart.
He hears her whine and he climbs from the floor to the bed, one of his powerful legs loops over her body, she's cradled between his thighs and pinned down to the bed. "Bad girl," he says softly, and he leans forward, kisses her, and whispers, "Not...a single...sound." He takes off her blindfold and drops it over the side of the bed. He kisses her again, deeply, capturing the cry that erupts when he grasps and snaps at the chain between her clamps, prying them off of her in one hard movement.
Her hands tug at the cuffs as her back strains in a sharp curve, her scream is swallowed by his working mouth, his tongue delves deeper to suppress the volume. She feels the tears rolling down her cheeks, the evidence of frustration, adrenaline, and pure fucking pleasure.
"Not fucking easy, is it?" he breathes against her lips, his left hand flat, his palm soothing her swollen and sensitive nipple. His right hand cups the side of her face, his thumb swipes over her parted, red lips, and then he grins as his fingers press over her mouth hard. "Quiet," he whispers, and he presses his own lips together tightly as he bucks forward, impaling her.
Her body rises, her eyes roll back, she curses against the skin of his hand. Her nails are scratching at the posts of the bed and she hikes her legs up and hooks them around his back. She pulls with all of her strength, needing more of him, fighting for it.
As he thrusts hard, he looks down into her eyes and he blows her a kiss, winks at her, cups her mouth tighter. "You were so fucking ready," he whispers, "So wet, so fucking hot." He runs his left hand down her body to her ass, finding it lifted off of the bed, and he smacks her hard before he grips her flesh. "Mine," he says, as if he needs to remind her.
She nods and rolls her eyes again, grinning under his palm. She loves every second of this, and she's aware that he knows it. Her heels press into his back, pulling him closer, forcing him deeper as he bucks his hips, and she gives a firm yank on her hands, pleading with her eyes for him to uncuff her. Her fingers burn with the need to touch him.
"Self-control," he hisses, his cock slips into her with ease, slides out all the way, pushes back in, in a hard and steady rhythm. He makes sure their bones hit with every thrust, that she can feel every fucking inch of him, that he reaches her as deeply as possible.
The louder her moans get, the more firmly he seals his hand over her mouth. He grunts once when she licks his palm, and when her teeth nip at the thin skin he growls at her. "Don't," he warns.
She snaps her teeth again, and she moans when he moves his hand and curls himself forward to press his head to hers. Their eyes are locked, open wide, trained on each other.
He's completely folded over her, his hands gripping both of her hips. He knows he's leaving marks again, but the thought of branding her makes him drive forward, move faster, hit into her harder. The only sounds in the room are his intensely low-pitched grunts that land when his cock buries itself fully into her. "Ask," he whispers, they're so close his lips brush hers as he speaks.
"Not yet," she mouths, shaking her head. The motion shakes loose the beads of sweat that formed between them, the salty droplets run down her cheek and she yanks again on her wrists, whimpering. "Fuck," she gripes, and it's only when his hand whips her ass again she knows it's no use.
He slaps her again and takes pride in the fact that she leans into it, not away from it, her body rises to his, her lips press themselves together so she doesn't scream. "That's my girl," he praises, and he slams into her hard, then rocks his hips slowly. Moving within her now, he kisses her. "I can feel you, you're gonna fucking cum, ask for it," he whispers.
She kisses him, her lips form the words against his but it's as if someone pushed a mute button, no sound whatsoever escapes her. "Please," her mouth begs silently.
"Fuck," he breathes, his back tensing, and he drags one tremoring arm up the side of her body, sling the length of her outstretched arm, and he turns the small, silver key to free her wrists. He gasps when the cold metal hits the hot skin of his neck, her arms wound around him immediately, and he brushes his nose against hers as his ass clenches with small, inward thrusts, somehow working himself deeper and fucking her from the inside out. "Cum for me," he commands, "Fuck, baby, please...cum for me."
He feels her nails dig into the skin of his neck, her body pulses beneath him. He moans when her pussy tightens around his cock, making any further movement impossible, he's cuffed the way she'd been, she's getting even now. "Liv," he says softly, and he moans again.
She feels his entire body start to tremble on top of hers, he's the one trying to push the limits of his self-control now, and then it hits her. Her spine twists, her legs lock around his body, her eyes clasp shut and she sees brightness burn behind her lids. Her nails carve deeper into his skin as she turns her head and whispers, "God, Elliot, I'm cumming."
"Fuck, baby, I know you are," he grits out, letting her pulsing walls pull and tug and take what little resistance he has left in him. He finds her lips with his and curls his hands around her hips as he fires hotly into her, his body convulsing with every violent spurt.
There's not a sound between them, aside from smacking lips and working tongues, their bodies noiselessly pressing further into each other and taking whatever is left to give. His slow, silent thrusts elongate, his need to feel the euphoric pain of bringing her to the edge again despite his sensitivity winning over his exhaustion.
It hits fast, her back arches, her lips press to his again, and she makes soft, high, squealing noises against his mouth. She feels him throbbing, twitching, and she knows he's shooting a few more fiery bullets of his own.
When he stops thrusting, she sinks into the mattress. He moves and grabs her hands, taking off the cuffs and tossing them down to the carpet. "Fuck," he laughs, and he gets a solid grip on her. He's still inside of her, rolling onto his back and kicking the sheets into a comfortable pile. He kisses her neck, chin, then her lips, slowly. His fingers rake through her hair.
"I love you," she whispers. Her hands smooth over his heaving chest, she feels his body rise and fall beneath her. "I love you," she says again, as if repeating it will calm him down.
He nods, panting, and on a breath, he says, "I love you." He kisses her again and then rolls his head to the side. "Shit," he breathes, seeing the bright green numbers on the clock staring back at him. "Close your eyes, baby," he whispers, hoping sleep comes before their phones ring, before he has to pull double duty at work, and before he asks Olivia a question he knows she's not ready to answer.
A/N: Hmm not the question you think...is it?