A/N: Hello SVU fandom! This is my first SVU fic, and it's been a long time (6 years!) since I've written anything at all, mostly because I can't write anything worthwhile when I'm exhausted from work. I started watching SVU for the first time at the beginning of the pandemic (I suddenly have a ton of time on my hands and nowhere to go...I figured I was ready to commit to a show with 21 seasons), and Olivia Benson has been getting me through! I recently finished the last season and I'm a little sad about losing her as my quarantine buddy.

Anyway, I wrote three fics as I went along. This is the first, and I wrote it when I was sometime around that season where Olivia switches to Computer Crimes for a bit, then goes undercover for a few months, so it takes place around then (I guess that was Season 7 or 8ish). It's set from Olivia's point of view, and also I decided to make Elliot divorced even though he gets back with Kathy/Cathy/whatever in the show. This is my only Olivia/Elliot fic because I don't love the two of them together. I actually don't really love Elliot at all (I mean...he's cool, and I was sad when he left, but then I realized Olivia is way more awesome without him). I'm sorry if I just said something scandalous, lol. I am interested to see if/how he's changed in Season 22.

My other two fics are Barson (right? That's what we call Barba/Benson?). I haven't read them in awhile, so I'll do some proofreading and post them within the next few days. They're also both rated M.

Happy reading!

I've always heard that a woman hits her sexual prime in her forties.

It sounds like a bunch of crap. I've been having decent, sometimes even incredible sex all my adult life. Sure, I'd never found that one magical person who I wanted to be with for all of eternity, but sometimes a shift in partners was exactly what kept sex interesting. I'd had no shortage of them over the course of my twenties and thirties - men, women, black, white, law enforcement officials, ADAs, doctors, nurses...even a few whose identities largely remained a mystery to me, who just happened to be in the right bar at the right time after a rough case and a dry spell. I wasn't shy about indulging myself sexually. If I wanted it, I made sure to get it.

I've always enjoyed sex, so I'd never put much thought into the whole sexual prime thing. I'd never actually considered how it could affect me if it were true.

And then I turned forty.

Okay, I might have lied a little when I said I'd never found that one magical person. Elliot Stabler was certainly a magical man. He was all strong arms and broad shoulders and piercing blue eyes. He had a smile that made me melt a little and thick fingers that were made to hold a woman around her waist - not in the gentle, partnerly way that he always did to usher me around, but in a real, firm, don't-you-dare-go-anywhere way while he pressed his lips, his tongue, and all the rest of himself against her. He always smelled like aftershave and wore shirts that stretched tight across his chest and I'll admit that there were times, even before I turned forty, that I laid in bed alone at night and let myself fantasize about what it would be like to have him in bed - or, you know, not the bed - with me.

But everyone has fantasies, don't they? Thinking and acting are two different things, and I would never act on my fantasies for Elliot. He was my partner of eight years, and even before his divorce, I was acutely aware that he knows me better than any person on earth. He knows the simple things like how I take my coffee and he knows the next-level things like when I've just ended another relationship and he knows the things that make me a complex, complicated person like the story of my mother and father. He knows the things that I see on the job, he knows the emotions I feel, because he sees them too. He feels them too. And he knows when I need space versus when I need a drink versus when I just need to hit the treadmill hard, until I've managed to chase every single last demon away. He knows everything about me. Well, almost everything.

Sure, he's attractive. Sure, he's the most stable and consistent man I've ever met. Sure, he's divorced now. And I'm not stupid. I know that I love him more than anything - absolutely, as a partner and as a friend. Sometimes there are these murky, muddled moments when I think that I could love him - that I do love him - on some level beyond that. But he's my partner, and I value our relationship above everything, and even after this divorce he's still all about love and marriage and family. He's all about what I've never had, not from my parents or any past lover, and it terrifies me. There's no way that I, queen of the short term, would jeopardize everything that I have with him - not to mention my reputation at the SVU - just because sometimes when he looks at me it makes my spine tingle.

That wouldn't be worth it.

For the most part it was easy. Interrogate suspects, comfort victims, maybe engage in a high speed chase or a spirited argument with Elliot by day, get drinks with him to blow off steam when needed, keep my wayward thoughts and fantasies tucked away for only the loneliest of nights.

But then I turned forty.

Maybe they're right about a woman's sexual prime being in her forties. I don't know. What I do know is that it wasn't long at all after my fortieth birthday that I started to feel, I don't know the word for it...lust. Not the cute little spine tingle or stomach flutter that I used to feel. This was different. This was something hot, something liquid, pulsing through my veins like lava, sending my heart rate spiraling and turning my brain into mush easily, often. It was a craving unlike anything I'd felt before, for soft lips to kiss a path down my neck and nimble fingers to find their way under my panties and for a sturdy, immovable torso to pin me against a wall. I didn't want soft and gentle. I wanted fast, rough. I wanted pouring sweat and harsh breathing and two fingers to pinch my clit so I could come, hard. And I only wanted it from my partner.

I tried to ignore it. I tried to get over it. I went on dates with men who were less-than-satisfying and prowled for one-night-stands that just couldn't elicit that kind of raw, unadulterated heat in me. I searched for all of the things that I used to find irresistible. I was and always had been a sucker for the strong jaw and neckline of a clean shaven man; for the soft, enticing curves of a sensuous woman; for silky hair; for muscles...especially biceps. God, I used to thoroughly enjoy a lover - man or woman - who could lift me and manipulate my body parts like they weighed nothing.

But now, I was all about Elliot. He had a beautiful jawline. I could just see the way his eyes would drift shut as I nibbled at it, the way his hands would pull me close and his head would tilt back and give me unobstructed access to the taut, corded muscles of his neck. I imagined what kind of noises he might make if I bit him, if he was even a noisemaker at all. I imagined what he would do if I slipped my hands down his chest, into his pants, and gripped him tightly. Would he already be fully erect, or would he give me the pleasure of feeling him lengthen in my palms? Would he let me stroke him to a quick, furious climax or would he stop me somewhere in the middle, take my hands and pin them behind my back, to my sides, above my head...maybe he'd handcuff me to something, anything to get me to stop touching him long enough to let him ravish me.

I told you I had it bad. I don't know if it's because I turned forty or what.

I didn't want it, but I needed that undercover assignment. It was obvious that I wasn't going to be able to leave Elliot on my own - not for good, anyway. I tried, with my whole stint in Computer Crimes, but I couldn't stand that he was still back at SVU, that he was doing the job that I'd always known that I was meant to do, without me. I knew that he was still seeing the same things, still feeling the same things that nobody else could even begin to understand, and I couldn't bear not being there for him. It was around that time that I knew for sure that I certainly, definitely, absolutely could love him beyond a friend and a partner. Maybe I already did.

During my time in Computer Crimes, I reflected a lot on that moment when Gitano slashed me in the neck, on Elliot's fatal decision to run to my side rather than chase the perp. I replayed the way that he called my name - "Olivia!" - a thousand times in my head, and there was no mistaking the raw emotion in his tone. I don't think any person, anywhere, has ever said my name like that, and so I'm pretty sure that Elliot could love me, too. If he doesn't already.

So I went back.

But it was torture. My out of control fantasies were creating a very real rift between us. We fought more often. We were on the same page less. And I knew that Elliot didn't understand it, that he thought that I, like Kathy, just wanted to leave him. But how could I tell him that I wasn't pulling away because I was tired of our partnership, that I was pulling away because every single time I got a whiff of his cologne it made me want to jump him? How could I tell him that it was killing me not to curl up in his arms when I felt tired, not to stroke his jaw after he made me laugh, not to wake up with him holding me securely against his chest? How could I tell him that, even though I was positive that we would be absolutely electric together, I wasn't willing to risk our partnership for love - a premise that, while I was sure I could feel it for him, I wasn't certain that I could trust?

I didn't want to leave the SVU, and I certainly didn't want to leave Elliot, again, but when Starr offered me that undercover assignment as Persephone, I couldn't say no. First of all, it wasn't really a choice. But also, Elliot and I needed space. I couldn't leave him, and he sure as hell wasn't going to leave me. So maybe the forced separation of a months-long undercover investigation was going to be exactly what we needed.

Forty years old or not, maybe a few months apart would be enough to clear my head, to reset my libido, to allow me to come back to the SVU the same woman that I was a few months or a year ago - a woman who found her partner attractive in a subconscious sort of way, but who didn't spend every second of every day aching for him.

I was wrong. I spent the entire time I was gone pining for Elliot.

Maybe that's an exaggeration. Or maybe it's not. I'm told that I even moaned his name in my sleep.

I went to Don Cragen's office only two days after I returned to New York. I didn't do it on purpose, but I got in and out of the SVU without encountering Elliot. Or at least, without Elliot encountering me. I watched him interact with Dani, watched him place his hand on the small of her back - right where he used to always touch me - and the twinge that I felt let me know that I was right to tell the Captain that I wasn't ready to come back just yet.

I went home after that, hunkered down in front of the TV with a thick blanket and a bottle of Malbec. I was still there a few hours later, dozing off on the couch, when I heard a knock on my front door.

It was him. I opened the door and did not miss the way his eyes flickered downward, across the soft, slouchy material of my sweater, the bare skin of my shoulder where it hung off of one arm, and complementary yoga pants. I saw his eyes linger, just barely, along the swell of my breasts before he seemed to realize what he was doing and stopped. I watched him study my new bangs for a moment before he finally returned his eyes to mine with a thick swallow. I held his gaze and tried not to reveal the warmth that I felt, the familiar, frustrating flame that began flickering in my belly the moment that I laid eyes on him.

He said nothing, and I realized that his blue eyes were dark, brooding. I waited for him.

"You're back," he finally said, stepping past me without invitation.

"Yes," I said immediately, then cursed myself at how breathless I sounded to my own ears. I was forty, not fourteen. I closed the door and turned to him. He was staring at me, arms crossed, and I took a deep breath because, even though it was clear that he was upset with me, angry and brooding Elliot Stabler was just as hot as anything else. Maybe even more so.

"You came to the precinct," he stated.

"Yes."

"And you didn't tell me."

I thought about seeing him working with Dani Beck, how he'd touched her just where he always touched me, and looked away before this man, who knew me better than anyone, could read the emotion in my eyes.

He took a step closer, and I took one back. He frowned.

"Olivia," he said, a hint of exasperation creeping into his tone.

"What?"

"Why didn't you tell me that you're back?"

I shifted uncomfortably, still not making eye contact.

"You weren't there." It wasn't a full lie. He hadn't been at his desk when I walked through the bullpen. Only Dani had been there, and she had no clue who I was.

"I was there all day."

"You were working."

"So?"

"So, I didn't want to interrupt."

Elliot made a face, and I knew without a doubt that he was thinking of the one million and one times previously that I'd had no problem interrupting his work.

"Interrupt what?" he asked.

"You were talking to Dani."

"I was talking to Dan - ohh!" His eyes narrowed. He took another step closer to me and folded his arms across his chest, looking down at me like I was a suspect and he was about to launch an interrogation. But I could see the light bulbs going off in his head. He already knew I was guilty. I took another step backward, my back hitting the island that separated the kitchen from the living room in my open-concept apartment, leaving me no way to escape his line of questioning.

"Olivia?"

"What?"

"Were you jealous?"

I frowned. I did not get jealous. I was Olivia Benson, captain of the out-the-door-before-the-feelings-settle-in ship. There was no room for jealousy in a world like mine.

"No!" I exclaimed, too quickly, too defensively, even as I thought back to that twinge I'd felt watching Elliot place his hand on the small of Dani Beck's back.

Elliot smirked and took another step closer. I couldn't take another step back. I locked my eyes with his and tried not to acknowledge the spicy scent of his aftershave. I wanted to bury my face in his chest and take a deep breath. God, I missed that smell.

"You sure?" he asked, his blue eyes twinkling now with something like...was that mirth? Fuck him. I wanted to kiss that smirk right off of his face. Or slap him. Whichever.

"I'm sure, Elliot."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"You have a tell."

He stepped closer, and I could feel the heat emanating from his body. I allowed myself a second to sweep my eyes over the solid chest that I hadn't seen outside of my dreams in weeks, over the folded arms that made his biceps and pectorals bulge, right down to those tapered hips. I bit my lip. He hadn't lost an ounce of muscle in the time that I'd been away. My fingers twitched at my sides, itching to reach for him and seal the distance between us, but I held them still.

"You wanna know what it is?"

"Know what what is?" I blinked hazily and refocused my eyes on his face, having momentarily forgotten the question.

"Your tell," Elliot said, and didn't wait for me to respond, "It's your breathing. You breathe too fast when you're lying to me, Olivia."

I rolled my eyes. Leave it to Elliot fucking Stabler to be in tune with my breathing. Which was, incidentally, a bit shallow. Now that I thought about it.

I didn't say anything. Elliot didn't seem to need me to.

"Hey Olivia," he took another step. I squirmed against the counter. If he wasn't before, he was definitely, absolutely in my personal space now. He was so close that I could feel his breathing. Another couple of centimeters and our entire bodies would be sealed, head to toe. My fingers twitched again.

"What?" I breathed. His blue eyes were much brighter now. I was afraid to look anywhere else.

"I missed you."

"I missed you - mmm!" whatever else I had been about to say became muffled on my tongue as Elliot Stabler, my one magical man, finally, for the love of God, placed those deft fingers around the curve of my back just the way I'd always wanted and pulled me into a long, sweet, lingering kiss.

"Olivia," he said my name reverently, like a prayer, when our lips finally separated. He kept me close to him, his hands splayed around my waist pressing my breasts into his chest, his hips into my stomach. I stared at him, speechless, breathless, my brain short-circuited and turned into mush and unable to come up with any clear thoughts except for please, kiss me again.

I think I said it out loud. I'm not sure. At any rate, Elliot heard me and slanted his lips against mine in another soul-shattering kiss.

This one was less sweet, more...passionate. And it didn't end. Our tongues met and initiated a hot, intimate dance and, when I finally regained the sense enough to move the rest of my body, I slipped my arms around his neck, holding on for dear life as he lifted me up and set me down on the counter behind me. Have I mentioned that I love it when a man picks me up? Our mouths never parted as opened my thighs instantly, allowing him to step in between them. I hooked my ankles around his backside, pressing his core against my aching one as his hands roamed...everywhere. Up my back, across my sides, around the curve of my ass and down my thighs...he gave me a single squeeze, very high up on my thigh, dangerously close to my center, before letting the offending hand drift upward to toy with the edge of my sweater.

"Take it off," I murmured against his lips, then promptly forgot my demand as I began trailing hot, wet kisses along the line of his jaw, his five o'clock shadow nipping my lips. I felt a hand bury itself in my hair, encouraging my expedition, and when I nibbled at the soft patch of skin where ear and jawline met Elliot actually let out a strangled moan. Just like in every fantasy I've ever had.

"Fuck, Liv."

I smirked. He didn't swear often. I liked that he was doing it now with, really, very little effort on my part.

"Sure," I whispered in his ear, using my tongue to soothe the spot where my teeth had just been. I tightened my legs around his waist and squirmed, grinding what was now my acutely throbbing sex against his hardening one, causing a flush to spread out from my core to the tips of my breasts to the tips of my fingers and toes. I felt his entire body stiffen, his hands tighten around me, so I did it again, and another strangled sound left his lips.

"Careful, Olivia," he growled, his words a warning.

"Fuck me, Elliot," I dared him brazenly.

The next few moments were a blur of kissing and touching. My sweater and tank top landed across the room, leaving me braless before him. I know that my toes curled and I made deep, throaty noises that I've never even heard myself make before as he acquainted himself with my breasts, kneading them, kissing them, sucking them with just enough pressure to make me squirm. Somehow his shirt came off. I learned that the skin around his clavicle tasted like sweat and salt and man, that if I grazed my nails through the trail of hair that went down his navel it would elicit a deep, primal growl from him. I know that he cursed some more, that at some point in those moments he seized my lips with his own and kissed me like I was his dying breath.

I don't know whose pants went first, but the next clear memory I have is of my legs hooked around his arms, his throbbing erection pressed against my wet sex, his eyes hazy and lustful and locked on mine.

"Are you ready, Olivia?" he murmured.

I nodded fervently.

"Tell me."

I rolled my eyes.

"I won't break, Elliott," I said. He smirked.

"You want it hard?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good."

He went deep, on the very first stroke. All in. We both cried out and I almost came right then. He dropped his head to my shoulder and paused, breathing heavily, giving us each time to adjust while he nibbled on all of the skin he could reach.

I wiggled impatiently after a moment.

"I said hard, Elliott."

"Jesus, Liv."

He did not disappoint.

He set a tempo that was fast, that was hot, with long, deep strokes that hit every sweet spot I have, that reverberated against my very soul. It was sticky and sweaty and just this side of rough, accentuated by sloppy kisses and harsh moans and fingers that knew exactly when to play with my clit, that knew just what kind of pressure would make me keel and scream and come apart in his arms.

I loved it.

I came three times. Once, right away. I couldn't help it. The second time, he had laid me back flat on the counter, my knees hooked over his shoulders while his lips attached to my breasts and his hands held mine firmly in place to keep from teasing him, from deliberately pushing him over the edge. The third time, we had somehow fallen to the floor. Our fingers stayed linked and his hazy blue eyes locked with mine as I fulfilled an eight-year fantasy of riding Elliot Stabler, setting a rhythm that was quick and sweet and had us both moaning and breathless, but never breaking eye contact. When he knew I was close, when I began to falter and pulse around him, he flipped us, my back pressed against the cool linoleum tiles as he climbed on top of me, took control, and pushed me into a climax so intense that my whole body shook and I saw actual stars.

He came with me that time, collapsing on top of me in husky moans, wet kisses, trembling muscles, erupting with strong, intense bursts of hot liquid inside me. His head lay across my breasts and I peppered his temple, his hair, his ears, whatever parts of him I could reach with short, loving kisses.

We lay like that, in each other's arms on my kitchen floor of all places, for a long time, until our breathing slowed and our bodies cooled and I almost drifted off to sleep.

"Hey Liv?" Elliot lifted his head from the cocoon of my breasts.

"Mm?" I opened my eyes to look at him. Those blue eyes that I loved so much were now glowing with something warm, something tender. Love, probably.

"I missed you."

I smiled, let my fingers run lazily through the short hairs on the back of his neck.

"I missed you too, Elliot."

He shifted and leaned upward so that he could place a long, lingering kiss on my lips.

"And I'm sorry," he added.

"Sorry for what?" my eyes fluttered shut as he continued on to sprinkle my lips and neck with short, adoring kisses.

"It wasn't my intention to come here and…" his voice trailed off, and I smirked. Leave it to Elliot Stabler to barge into my apartment and take me like a stallion, then be too Catholic to talk about it afterward.

"Fuck me?" I supplied helpfully, opening one eye to watch his expression darken lustfully at my dirty words.

"Yeah."

"Don't be sorry. I wanted it."

"You deserve better."

"I deserve what I want," I said matter-of-factly. Sometimes women didn't need a fairytale. Sometimes women just needed to be nailed on the kitchen counter.

Elliot sighed against my neck and, sensing his discontent, I opened both eyes to look at him this time.

"Elliot," I murmured, dragging my fingernails gently up and down his back in a reassuring motion, "It's okay. Really."

"I just...That wasn't how I pictured our first time."

"You've pictured our first time?" I asked curiously, wondering if it were at all possible for Elliot Stabler to have been fantasizing about me as voraciously as I fantasized about him.

He raised his head to look me in the eye. He smirked.

"So have you."

"How do you know that?"

"I'm a detective and I know you, Olivia."

"That doesn't mean you can read my mind."

"True," he placed a gentle kiss against my lips, "But in this case, I'm right."

I didn't say anything, conceding defeat. It wasn't like I didn't expect him to know more than his fair share of my secrets.

"How did you picture it?" I asked after a moment.

"Dinner, dancing, rose petals, candles - "

"Ugh, you are such a romantic," I rolled my eyes and shifted uncomfortably, knowing that he was only half-kidding. It had been a really long time since I'd experienced that level of romance, and I had the feeling that being the sole object of Elliot's romantic advances would be...intense. I wondered if I could handle it. If we could handle it.

"A bed," he continued pointedly, ignoring my outburst, "Declarations of love - "

"Love?" my eyes widened nervously. Yes, I knew that I loved him and sure, I thought he probably loved me too, but thinking and hearing were two different things. And Elliot believed wholeheartedly in the longevity of love and romance. I didn't really have a shred of life experience that proved that either of those two things could actually last.

"You know that I love you, detective."

"No, I don't!" I exclaimed, a hint of panic in my tone. Sure, I had my thoughts, but how was I supposed to know that?

"You need to hear me say it?"

"Yes! I mean, no! I mean - " God, I wasn't ready for this.

Elliot Stabler silenced my voice and my thoughts with another long, sound kiss on the lips. I looked at him hazily as he pulled away, at his blue eyes still shining bright.

"I love you, Olivia."

I smiled. I couldn't help it. Sure, the whole love concept made me anxious, but the look on his face was so honest, so earnest…I swear my heart skipped a beat, just like in the movies.

"I love you too, Elliot," I whispered fearfully.

He smiled.

"I know."

"What? You didn't know!"

"Yes I did."

I glared at him.

"You don't know everything about me, Elliot."

"But I know most things."

"No, you don't."

"I know that this…" he gestured in the air between us, "...love, it scares you."

I frowned.

"I'm not afraid of anything, Elliot," I said defensively.

"You don't trust love."

"Stop it, Elliot." It infuriated me that he was always right.

"Okay, but I have one question first."

"What?"

"Do you trust me?"

I smiled and traced my fingers along his soft lips.

"Of course I trust you," I murmured.

"Good. That's all you need."

He laid his head back down between my breasts, and I held him against me, my mind swirling with thoughts of love and trust and partnership and Elliot. I didn't know what was going to happen next, but he was right, trusting him made it seem a lot easier to handle.

"Elliot?" I asked after a moment, feeling an ache in my lower back. I shifted against the cold floor.

"Yes, Liv?"

"Take me to bed?"

"Sure."

They say that a woman hits her sexual prime in her forties.

I think that's crap.

I lay in bed an hour later, all wrapped up in Elliot Stabler's arms, my feet tangled with his and my face pressed against his chest. I listened to his slow, steady breathing and felt the rise and fall of his chest against my cheek. Slow. Reassuring. Safe.

I was more sated, more satisfied than I've ever been in my life. It had nothing to do with my forties.

And everything to do with my partner.

End Note: Idk, there were a few seasons there, before Dean Porter and David Hayden and Cassidy again and Tucker and that lawyer guy and I forget who else, where I figured Olivia could be bi. *Shrugs*

Let me know what you think of this! I may or may not be that confident that my writing skills survived a 6-year hiatus.