A/N: Thank you for the kind response to chapter 1. While this was intended to be a one-shot, we've decided to continue it :) We hope you'll enjoy this chapter as well.
Trigger warnings: mentions of past trauma / PTSD.
Olivia's kitchen is barely designed for cooking, let alone fucking.
Pity, but they managed. Caused only minimal damage to a few overturned bottles. Spilled a little salt.
It was impulsive, but scratched an itch. Satisfied her physically when she struggled to compartmentalize emotionally; clearly looking for a distraction but seeking comfort in the familiar. Her need for control in contention with a desire to be overpowered.
A bit complicated, but Elliot's her safe place to land. Always was. Somehow, still is.
How dramatic, she thinks, to be triggered on the job — reacting to a pungent combination of sweat and smoke — but certain tastes, sounds, smells bypass her defenses and hold her in their clutches. Disappointing, but she managed to stave off the panic attack. Kept her dignity, though the anxiety lingers: a quiet, persistent buzzing in her stomach. A looming sense of dread.
Sex helped.
Elliot buried so deep she barely remembered her name, let alone the past… yeah, it helped.
Temporarily.
"Hey." Steam billows; the mirror already fogged when he joins her in the shower. "You okay?" he asks when she tenses beneath his touch.
He moves her hair aside, settles his palm at her neck; thumb pointing down the long line of her spine, fingers wrapping from her nape to her ear, squeezing gently. Kisses the dip of her shoulder, letting his lips linger there for a moment.
"Mhmm," Olivia hums; head bowed, eyes closed, chin to her chest. "Tired."
"Yeah. Me, too."
She turns under the spray to face him, reaches toward the shelf. "Shit," she whispers, wincing. Draws back, curls into herself.
"Jesus," he steadies her, picking up the bottle. "I got it."
Bold of him to treat her like glass after being so merciless.
"I'm fine," she snaps. "Don't coddle."
She's self-aware. Recognizes that she's feeding into the notion that relationships of any kind are temporary. Fleeting. That self-reliance is the only constant and other people are moments, then memories.
That Elliot is an example, rather than an exception.
Maybe unfair, but it's so deeply ingrained in her psyche to assume she'll be abandoned. Second nature, and part of the reason she's let him in physically but emotionally keeps him at arm's length: distant from Noah and the more intimate details of her trauma. Protecting him — herself — while holding him close because still… still, her loyalty runs deeper than her anger. Because he's her history, and she missed him.
Really fucking missed him.
And sometimes, it's that simple.
"Funny," he simpers. "Since you were just begging to be taken care of."
"Oh, fuck you."
He takes half a step back; a feeble attempt at personal space in the confines of a shower stall. "Look, we were… I was too rough." He'll take ownership. She may have been demanding, but he decided to fuck her in the kitchen. To bend her over. "I'm sorry." Pushing harder, moving faster, thrusting deeper, even when her sounds of pleasure could be mistaken for cries of pain because God, she was incessant. "Just— Liv, let me be sorry, alright?"
He needs to feel guilty. Craves it.
"El, stop." She softens, fingertips skimming his chest, gliding up the column of his neck; grazing the beard she asks him to shave but quietly hopes he'll keep. "I liked it." Her lashes flutter, eyes spark with lust. "I really," first, their lips meet. "Really," then, their tongues. "Really, liked it."
"That right?" Some tension dissolves and he turns her around, working a handful of soap into a lather. "You want to tell me about that?" He tugs gently at her shoulders until her back rests against his chest.
"I like it when we fuck." Because sex can feel too intimate. "When you don't stop." She inhales, sinking into his frame as he splays his fingers wide over her collarbone. "Though you did take some convincing." His palms smooth over the swell of her breasts. "We'll need to—" she arches her back. "Work on that."
"Yeah?" He nips her ear. "We'll work on it?" Traces her ribs, featherlight.
"Mmhmm."
His hands drift up her arms to her shoulders, down the planes of her back. They cup the generous curve of her ass, travel over her thighs and hips, map abstract patterns across her stomach. She closes her eyes, lets her head fall back.
"Keep talking."
Olivia cranes her neck, pressing her lips to the underside of his jaw. She'll inflate his ego just enough to keep him wanting. "I like feeling what I do to you." He'd appreciate specifics — how thick he is, how hard he gets, how good he feels — but she's tired. Sore. In no shape for round two, and he may be riled up but she won't be getting on her knees.
"I like," her voice breaks when he rolls her nipples. "Fuck."
"Come on," he coaxes.
"I like…" a slight hesitation. "When you don't ask questions."
Elliot doesn't necessarily mean to come off harsh, but, "The hell does that mean?" He does.
Because it's unexpected. Uncharacteristic of her. Of them, but relationships are work and trust takes time. The physical flows naturally — their chemistry is undeniable, their appetites insatiable — but vulnerability needs to be earned. Deserved.
He knows bits and pieces of her past. Knows she was held against her will. Assaulted. Burned. Realizes it was years ago, but her detachment — stoically reciting facts without providing details — reflects the power her trauma possesses.
And it stings: recognizing her disassociation as a learned coping mechanism. A necessary evil.
Burns, honestly.
"What'd I just say?" She counters with a smirk.
"Sorry?"
Her hand covers his. "Said I like it… when you don't ask questions." Slowly, she smooths their palms over the scar on her hip.
The one on her waist.
The marks on her breasts.
She uses his fingertips to trace each one. He's touched them before, but this time it's different. She wants him to see – to feel – the physical vestiges of her trauma. It's purposeful, intentional, significant. A way to let him in; show him that he has earned her trust. Deserves it.
But forcing pleasure is futile. Nearly impossible but still, she clings to the idea. Wills herself to stay in the moment, desperate to prove she can trust him while still protecting herself.
"You good?"
"Mhm," she feigns a smile, but the hum of anxiety in her belly vibrates. "Keep going."
She wants this. Reminds herself. Repeats it like a mantra as he touches her; over, and over, and over until it's too much. Too fucking much, and she closes her eyes, suddenly dizzy. Unsteady.
"El," it's terse, but she's defeated. "Enough."
He stills. Senses the hushed urgency of her words. "Still with me?" Even-toned, his lips brush the back of her neck.
Her mind is wild; blurring the lines between reality and memory. Agitation steadily climbing.
"Olivia."
There's benevolence in his voice and she absolutely hates it. Needing escape, she turns her focus to him because he's nothing if not consistent: achingly hard, hips subtly rocking against her.
"I'm good," a lie, as she arches into him just a little. "Think you're better," she teases, then turns. Strokes his cock with soap-slick hands.
He steps back. Pulls away.
"Liv," he warns. Shakes his head, and she thinks maybe he's playing some sort of game.
"Come on. I know you like it." She backs him into a corner; voice thick with want, lips parted. "I mean, look at you." Her eyes dip, fingers circling his shaft. "So… ready."
"Hey," he tries again, hands on her shoulders. She bites her lip. Tightens her grasp but won't look at him. Won't even pretend, and he knows she's still deflecting: using sex to her advantage because he's clearly struck a nerve.
He squeezes his eyes shut because fuck, it feels good. She feels good, and he's never turned her down before but she's out of control. Absent. "Liv, no." He gently seizes her wrists. "Stop." He's firm. Decided.
"Oh." She looks at their hands. At him. "I didn't—" The implications of her actions dawn on her, and his heart breaks. "Elliot, I'm sorry." She backs away, covering her mouth. "So sorry." She repeats it again, again, again. "Sorry." Eyes frantic as she seeks forgiveness.
"It's okay." He takes her into his arms. Holds her close, lips pressed to her temple. "You're okay." And fuck, she's freezing. Shivering, until he steers her under the warm water. "Let's go to bed, huh?" He pulls back, searching her eyes.
Olivia wipes a hand down her face. "Okay," a resigned whisper. "I just— I need to wash my hair." What she actually needs is a minute without him hovering because she's entirely overwhelmed.
Elliot nods. Rinses the last of the soap from his body and steps out of the shower. He'd rather not leave but won't deny her space. Pulling a towel from the rack, he dries off; brushes his teeth. Loiters, really.
But his vigilance makes her feel safe.
Protected.
"I'll be out in a couple minutes." She tries to smile. To come across more confident than she is for his benefit. It works, because the door clicks and finally, she's alone.
She stands under the water, holding her breath. Exhales steadily. It takes more effort, more time, with aching ribs and fatigued muscles, but she's thankful for the quiet mundanity of it: shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, moisturizer. The routine is calming, and by the time she's done – ready to face him again – she feels almost peaceful.
When she wanders out of the bathroom, Elliot looks up from his phone. Watches as she runs her fingers through her damp hair, slips into a t-shirt — his, actually — and Christ, he thinks, she's beautiful.
"Come here." He holds out a hand.
Her eyes narrow but she obliges. Settles next to him, shoulders slack. "El, I'm—" Her tone is void of energy. Empty. "I don't know." She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"It's okay."
"It… isn't, actually." Her head tilts, arms protectively wrapping her waist. "Because I shouldn't have— you said no, and I still, I—" she studies her fingernails, avoiding his gaze. "I shouldn't have done that."
"Look at me?" Both palms frame her face. "It's okay." His fingertips smooth across her jaw. "Liv, it's okay." Again, because she needs to believe him. "Cut yourself some slack, alright?"
Olivia nods. "I'm sorry." A sharp inhale as she convinces herself to make eye-contact.
"Okay." He acknowledges her apology without giving it too much merit. "Come on," he shifts toward the edge of the bed. "Lay down."
She sinks into the pillows. Allows herself to relax, relinquishing control of her body to him.
The self-guided journey of scars she forced on them in the shower was reckless. Erratic, but he grounded her then as he grounds her now.
She exhales as the flat of his thumb strokes up the arch of her foot. Astonished by how perceptive he is when it comes to what she needs versus what she wants — what she thinks she wants.
He leans over, turning off the lamp on her bedside table. "Elliot," she draws him in, palm flat against his cheek. "You need—" She pauses. "I need you to know how much I…" love you. "Appreciate you. Okay?"
He hears the unspoken. Rewards her vulnerability with a half-smile and a kiss to the tip of her nose. "I know." Stretches out beside her, adjusting the blankets.
She rolls away from him, whether from exhaustion, guilt, or something far deeper. Likely some combination of the three but still, it disquiets him: the way he played into her narrative; hurting her, despite her insistence otherwise. Her reluctance to let him care for her.
She trusts him in the field, trusts him to back her play. Trusts him with her life and her body, always has. Their loyalty to one another is intrinsic. Organic. Implicit and unwavering, and the significance isn't lost on either of them.
"I'm fine." He didn't ask, but she feels his eyes on her.
"So you've said." He shifts onto his side behind her; doesn't touch her yet, but slides an arm beneath the pillows.
Olivia is hesitant to show her hand. She's laid her cards on the table, but they're not all face up. Not while she's still in survival mode: her fight-or-flight instinct telling her to run. To take cover, because she's been burned and abandoned — physically and emotionally — too many times.
He wants her to trust him with her trauma. With the darkest depths of her heart. He's patient — won't fuck it up any more than he already has — but won't let her sabatoge their relationship in the name of self-preservation, either.
"I want to—" He reconsiders his words. His intention. "Can I hold you?"
He sets a hand at her waist. When she doesn't push him away, he drapes his arm over her torso. She sighs softly, content; reaches for his hand. Lacing their fingers together, she presses his palm to her stomach.
"I love you," he mumbles against her neck, drowsy. Elliot wants the last ten years of her life, and he knows it's selfish. He carries the weight of lost time and unmade memories because he wants the next ten years with her; ten after that, and then ten more.
He spreads his fingers wide over her skin, still warm from the shower. Olivia relaxes against him and he burrows closer, nosing into her hair; breathing her in. Clean, rich, comforting.
The apprehension and unease slowly fade. They'll still be there tomorrow; will have to be discussed eventually, but not now.
Not yet.