A/N: Hi, guys. Thought I'd get the new year started off right with some new Rolivia fic. Sound good? I've been working on this one since not long after I posted the last chapter(s) of The Devil's Cut, which is why I've been MIA for a bit. But honestly, I've had this story in mind since around the end of Idle Hands. It's pretty clear what it's about, from the cover and summary, so... surprise? :) I've been dropping hints like crazy for it, since at least "Howdy Honey." Good on you if you caught any of that. It's a little over 44k words and it's mostly shameless fluff, with some smut and a pinch of angst mixed in. I think it's going to be 14 chapters altogether... funny story, when I started writing it, I had all these plans to make it 9 chapters (for 9 months) of about 1k words each. LOL. Special thanks to my beta Amy for beta'ing and for not laughing in my face when I told her that. Oh, and the story picks up pretty much right after the end of TDC (and "Howdy Honey"). I'm thinking of posting a Devilishverse timeline to help people keep track. Lemme know if you're interested. Larger cover art viewable on my DeviantArt & Twitter (crystallinejen). Enjoy.
CHAPTER 1: Hot Cross Buns
. . .
"Is this good? Are you comfortable?"
"If you call being upside down and butt-ass naked on a sheet of ice comfortable, then yep, I'm cozy as can be." Amanda folded her hands behind her head and crossed her ankles against the wall, still managing to give off hot shot vibes, even at the ridiculous angle. Her flaxen braid grinned above her shoulder, forming a comical, exuberant U-shape on the bedspread. Very Pippi Longstocking. "But I swear, if I find out this is just some ploy of yours to get me to try lesbian Kama Sutra positions, so help me . . . "
Olivia returned her wife's smirk and added an eye roll for good measure. "As if I would need to talk you into that. You're the one who flips around on this mattress like you're Mary Lou Retton at the '84 Olympics," she said dryly, then pressed her unencumbered hand to the wall, testing its warmth. "Is it really that cold, love? I could try pinning up a blanket or something?"
They had prepared extensively for this moment—Olivia especially—reading and rereading the manuals, watching YouTube video tutorials, and doing practice runs, sans all the necessary accouterments. But during none of those dressless rehearsals, as Amanda called them, had they taken wall temperature into account. There were indeed goosebumps scattered along Amanda's lean, down-covered thighs, turning them to pale scrub that was closer in texture to the dusting of pubic hair above. Well, below, with her legs propped up like that.
"Nah." She reached for Olivia's hand, the one resting on her flat, nude belly, not more than a few inches from the scar left behind by the bullet that had nearly ended them both. Her voice lowered to a sensual, purring octave as she likewise lowered the hand towards her pelvis, then farther on. "I just need my city girl to warm me up, that's all."
"Hm, I can think of a few ways to do that." Olivia gave a thoughtful tilt of her head, long locks spilling over her shoulder. They had recently been trimmed, but still fell even with her biceps, a length her hair hadn't seen since she was a teenager. It was really too heavy and got in the way of everything, including sex—and yet the dazzlement in Amanda's blue eyes, like sunlight glinting on the water, whenever Olivia flaunted the mane, shameless as a strutting peacock with its plumage on display, made the slight inconvenience worth it.
"Oh yeah? Show me whatcha got, gorgeous."
"Well, first there's this," Olivia said. Slowly she unknotted the sash of her silky robe, so fluid black it resembled oil, with pink cherry blossom designs dabbed across the slick dark canvas. She nudged apart the loose panels that fell open on either side, revealing her bare breasts, nipples already perking at the sensation of cool, slippery silk grazing past. "And these. And a little of this."
She used the stimulator attached to her middle finger to lightly tease Amanda's clit, pleased to find it just as ripe and succulent as it had been during their heated heavy petting session moments earlier. Olivia's mouth watered, simulating the moisture below, and it was all she could do not to dispense with the finger clip entirely, spin Amanda around so her ass was at the edge of the bed instead of pressed to the wall, and go down on her like there was no tomorrow.
Luckily, Olivia had a little more self restraint than that. Plus, the kit and the specimen to go with it had cost a small fortune. She wasn't going to waste their money and all the effort they had put into this undertaking—poring over online profiles and squabbling about whom they liked best; tracking Amanda's cycle and reserving this exact date and time on their calendars, no exceptions or interruptions allowed; exploring Amanda's body so clinically, the detective had commented, "Thanks, babe, but I've already got a gynecologist"—just so she could eat out her wife like a sex fiend. Even if said wife was incredibly sexy and incredibly cute with her tiny, pale ass boosted in the air by a stack of pillows, her tiny, pale breasts winking puckishly around the corners of her own unbound robe.
Keeping the hips elevated was supposed to aid sperm motility and increase chances of fertilization, as was having an orgasm after the semen had been deposited. That's how they ended up in this awkward position, Amanda on her back, legs extended at a nearly ninety-degree angle, her rosebud clit (her entire pretty-in-pink vulva, actually) in full, fragrant bloom.
According to the blonde, who had watched countless vlogs late into the evenings while Olivia slept soundly beside her, couples with the highest success rates were the ones who went the extra mile and performed these calisthenics, then finished on a happy ending. Far be it from Olivia to argue with the Internet or her equally instructive wife: "Trust me, darlin', if there's one thing the women in my family are good at, it's makin' babies. You just worry about squirting the stuff in my hoo-ha, and let me and gravity take care of the rest. Reckon you could show me your tits while you're at it . . . "
Amanda Rollins-Benson, ladies and gentlemen. Poet laureate and hopeless romantic of the NYPD. The "stuff" of which she spoke was the donor sperm, delivered to their apartment the day before in a nitrogen tank that reminded Olivia of The X-Files episode where Scully unstoppered an alien fetus from a tank of similar design. But this one contained only vials—they had purchased four, the recommended dosage, although more were available if the first round didn't take—and the little swimmers therein had better not be extraterrestrial in origin, Amanda declared, when Olivia made the sci-fi comparison.
"I love you, babe," the detective said, as she observed Olivia carefully removing a vial for thawing; gloved and goggled-up against the bitterly cold liquid nitrogen vapors that wafted from the tank, Olivia truly had felt like a mad scientist. "But I am not giving birth to an alien-human hybrid for you. I've seen that movie, and it doesn't end well."
Donor 0806JW was far from alien, based on his comprehensive profile. A law professor who dabbled in the arts in his spare time (his picturesque watercolors of Venetian gondolas and the Tuscan countryside were especially impressive), attended the opera whenever he got the chance ("Of course he does," Amanda groaned), loved reading the classics (he cited Tess of the d'Urbervilles, Olivia's favorite Hardy novel), and ran 10Ks when he wasn't hiking various mountain peaks ("Okay, that is pretty cool," Amanda assented, peering over Olivia's shoulder at a selfie snapped atop Mount Everest), he had seemed almost superhuman. Almost too good to be true.
It was the album of childhood photos that dismissed any doubt either woman might have harbored. "Dear Lord," Amanda breathed, holding a picture of Olivia at six years old, a gaping hole where her front tooth should be, side by side with the donor's first grade portrait. Same missing tooth, same indulgent and slightly impatient smile, as if the subject had more important matters to attend to than school picture day. "Y'all could be twins."
Even for Olivia, who had spent hours—probably years—studying photographs to find the slightest family resemblance in her mother's albums, the likeness was undeniable. From the ebony pageboy haircut to the coffee-colored eyes and olive skin tone, she was looking at a carbon copy of her childhood self in boy form. And really, at that age and with hair that short, there was little distinction anyway.
But the similarities continued well into the high school years, and not just in physical appearance—Óscar, whose last name was excluded for reasons of confidentiality (Olivia might have googled "Óscar law professor Manhattan" and discovered his last name was Ramos), had been an academic overachiever as well. Top of his class, National Honor Society, just like Olivia.
"Wow, maybe I should step aside," Amanda had said, scarfing potato chips from the bag and breathing Ruffles fumes on Olivia, who kept noting rather excitedly all the things she had in common with the donor. "Let y'all get married and have tall, sexy, genius babies together."
Olivia had looked pointedly from Amanda to the chip bag, then grabbed a large crisp from the latter and munched it in a single mouthful. "Nah, I like my feral blonde wife, even if she is getting crumbs all over my keyboard. Besides, I think he's got a husband."
He also owned a golden retriever named Ruth Bader Ginsbark. That had been what really sealed the deal, if Olivia was being honest.
Now, Donor 0806JW, AKA Dr. Óscar Ramos, and Olivia Benson's long-lost twin brother—or rather, 0.5 milliliters of his generous donation—was safely contained inside a soft silicone bubble about the size of a golf ball. That was Olivia's contribution, the insemination tool which doubled as a dildo. And a pretty one, at that. The wand, concave at the end to ensure close distribution to the cervix, was a pearly pink shade, enlaced with ivory tubing to conduct the sample, which Olivia had so carefully suctioned into the spherical end beforehand. The best part: the tip, tubing and bubble were removable, to be worn as a harness on the hand, like a finger vibrator. This made for a far more intimate and pleasurable injection than the syringes included by the cryobank.
"Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am," had been Amanda's assessment, wagging the sterile packet of syringes from inside the kit they opened within five minutes of its arrival.
If Olivia was going to impregnate her wife of only two and a half months, it wasn't going to be with some impersonal piece of medical equipment that could be compared to basting a turkey. Her fourth child was going to be conceived and born of love, of pure and absolute desire. No question of consent or being wanted. Not for this child, not ever.
"Are you ready, love?" she asked warmly, though she could feel just how ready Amanda was. The detective kept arching her pelvis up from the pillows, hips twitching subtly side to side, urging Olivia to enter her with each longer, firmer stroke of the middle finger.
"Fuck. Yes."
Olivia had been self conscious about her hands ever since a female classmate in high school gym had commented that they were more "masculine" than most girls' hands. Well, that girl could take her dainty little mitts, which probably hadn't satisfied anyone in her entire life, and fuck the hell off. Olivia's strong, long-fingered hands were exactly right for this endeavor, and when she pushed inside Amanda, smooth and deep, the blonde rising to meet the hilt with a luxurious sigh, all thoughts of that high school mean girl disappeared.
Tonight was about Olivia and Amanda only, creating something that would live on long after they were gone. Their incomparable bond given life, to be carried on for generations to come, if their son or daughter saw fit. And it would be her choice, always.
"Say when," Olivia instructed, trying not to get too lost in Amanda's touch—or those magnetic blue eyes, indigo with lust and mounting arousal—as it drifted idly inside her robe, caressing her breasts, belly, hips, and inner thighs. They had agreed ahead of time that it was best if she stayed focused during insemination, since she was the one wielding a handful of thousand dollar sperm here.
As usual, Amanda wasn't playing by the rules.
"Manda. I'm—" Olivia snagged her bottom lip between her teeth, stifling a soft moan when the blonde's hand slid farther in, a fingertip beckoning against her clit.
"You're what, baby?" Innocent as you please.
"A little busy, in case you hadn't noticed."
"Oh, I no- noticed. But you're such a good multitasker, thought you mi- might wanna join me." Amanda's hiccupping breaths were coming faster now, the furrow between her brows more pronounced with each thrust of Olivia's hand. She gazed up with heavy-lidded blue eyes, her free hand trailing her breasts, tweaking the nipples as she did the same to Olivia's clit. "Makes me feel good making you feel good. Unless you don't wanna . . . "
Olivia growled and leaned forward to capture Amanda's mouth for a hungry kiss, the slick sparring of their tongues warming her from head to toe. It was an awkward angle—she with her legs tucked to one side in a demure pose, absurd considering the full-frontal nudity; Amanda supine before her, legs fanned in the air, occasionally bracing the wall with flat feet to drive her deeper—and it required some creative stretching, but the sensations were new and not unpleasant. Olivia doubted her ability to orgasm this way, without the fullness and vigorous contact that typically got her off, until she rocked against the heel of Amanda's palm, sending a divine quiver up her spine.
"Hey there," Amanda said slyly, when Olivia drew back to catch her breath, from the kiss and the shudder. She left off toying with her own breasts in favor of Olivia's, grazing them with the back of her hand, buffing her thumb lightly across first one then the other nipple.
"Hey yourself, little pretty." One at a time, Olivia kissed the fingertips Amanda extended to trace her lips, gasping as a pair on the opposite hand slipped inside of her. God, that woman was dexterous. And so very flexible.
Enjoy it while it lasts, Olivia thought, more with contentment than any sense of urgency. If this worked, Amanda wouldn't be nearly as coordinated or bendy in a few months. A few glorious months.
Heeding her own advice, Olivia gave herself over to the heat and pressure and passion expanding throughout her body, filling her to the brim. She was riding the edge—and Amanda's hand—so intently, she almost missed the cue.
"When!" Amanda repeated, her wandering hand patting out a rapid-fire signal on Olivia's thigh. She was fast approaching climax, her ivory skin taking on a celestial hue, almost to the point of translucence. Her hips undulated in a fluid, seductive rhythm that was hypnotic and dance-like, the rest of her seeming to rise with the movement, till she practically floated on a frothy weightless cloud. Probably just an illusion of the pillows, but angelic nonetheless.
"Oh shit." Olivia snapped back to reality and immediately cringed. She didn't want those to be the words with which she inducted her child into this world. "I love you," she sighed to her wife, as gentle as a petal departing the stem, and reached for the silicone bubble attached by the tubing woven around her wrist. "So much, Amanda Jo."
"Love you more," Amanda murmured, nodding her consent to Olivia's questioning glance. She watched from hooded lids as the bubble was squeezed empty and slowly reinflated itself in the palm of Olivia's hand, as if by magic. Every moment they shared with each other was magic.
Seconds later, head tossed back and eyes closed, Amanda tensed around Olivia's diligently massaging hands, her cries softer than usual, more sweet. She already seemed more fragile somehow, as though there were something small and vulnerable within her to be nurtured and protected. Olivia had the overwhelming urge to hold her wife close, to press an ear to Amanda's chest and hear her strong, wild heart beating. The source of all that passion and all that love.
But she was getting a little ahead of herself. Amanda's orgasm was barely over, and Olivia was already so absorbed in daydreams of perfect swollen bellies—sumptuously full breasts and hips; lush blonde hair to run her fingers through; lovely peaches and cream skin, so pale and smooth, to kiss and kiss and kiss—she looked down in surprise at Amanda's hand stroking between her legs. She'd gotten caught up in the moment and forgot to orgasm. Whoops.
"You don't wanna finish?" Amanda asked with a small huff, still reaching out for Olivia after she eased away from the touch and settled onto her knees. The detective's chagrin was so pronounced, her fingers marching determinedly up Olivia's thighs, it was impossible not to laugh.
"Sweetheart, I'm fine. You can finish me off next time." Chuckling lightly, Olivia scooped up her wife's hand and kissed the knuckles before smoothing it against Amanda's chest. Her own hand—the one wearing the insemination gear—she kept poised away from them, in case any remnants of Dr. Ramos lingered on the outside. "Promise," she added, leaning in to peck the pouty little frown below.
She found herself tugged into a deeper, lengthier kiss than anticipated, and she released a heady sigh when they eventually parted. Maybe she would let Amanda finish her off before bed, after all. But for now . . .
"Did we just make a baby?" She couldn't conceal the giddy grin that accompanied the inquiry, and to be honest, she didn't want to. This was the most excited she had been in years, possibly in her whole life; she couldn't think of a single damn reason to hide it.
Amanda cocked her head thoughtfully to one side, licked her fingertip like she was testing wind direction, and pressed it experimentally to her bare belly. "Yep," she said, with a decisive nod. "I'm callin' it: definitely knocked up. Better start picking out names— hey, where you going?"
"Sweetheart, I was just up to my elbows in your uterus with a spoonful of someone else's seminal fluid—I'm washing my hands." Olivia paused in the doorway, casting a mischievous look back at Amanda, abutting the wall like a naked blonde bookend. She tossed her wife an impish wink around the doorframe. "Don't go anywhere."
"Oh, ha ha ha. You're a real laugh riot, picking on an immobile pregnant lady. Is that any way to treat the mother of your unborn child? What are you gonna do when I'm a thousand pounds, tip me over like a cow in the pasture?"
Amanda was still ranting to an empty room when Olivia returned minutes later, patting her scrubbed and sparkling hands and fingernails on a paper towel. The tirade ended abruptly when Olivia dropped her robe and slid into bed, snuggling close and guiding Amanda's bangs off her forehead with a soap-scented fingertip.
"So," she said in her most authoritative Captain Benson voice, "let's talk names, Detective."
. . .
