A/N: This chapter contains sexual content, and is definitely rated M! If you're not into that, it's cool! I will post the next chapter soon. Also: this is my first time writing anything smutty, so I apologize in advance if it's awkward. Please leave reviews and let me know how I'm doing! Xoxo
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Although the air still feels unforgiving and frigid as it presses against the wrapped faces of the New Yorkers walking about, it is a gorgeous Sunday evening in Manhattan. The skies are a bright blue, cloudless, and the sun is shining vividly—ultimately making it a balmy forty degrees Fahrenheit all across the city. As it nears 7:30 p.m., the exposed light works its way down the frozen horizon—making it seem as though it is tucking itself in beneath the Hudson River for the night. Unfortunately, the simplicity of the sunset that she usually takes so much pleasure in doesn't seem to catch Detective Amanda Rollins' attention at the moment.
After spending hours sluggishly glued to her couch in front of the TV, mindlessly droning through channels until she ultimately gave up and spent the rest of her day staring up at the ceiling in a consuming fog, the blonde detective is currently reacquainted with some pent-up energy, and is pacing back-and-forth around her apartment. She decorates the living room in anxious vibes as she speaks to herself, and possibly her dog Frannie—who is now sprawled out in a sleepy daze across the couch herself—and wearily struggling to peek an eye open at her restless owner. "John Wayne" by Amanda's favorite band—Cigarettes After Sex—scratches gently against the needle of her beat-up record player that her Dad had given to her over thirty years ago, on her sixth birthday, after he realized the young girl was already an avid lover of music.
He's got so much in his heart
But he doesn't know what to do
All he wants is her
Lying inside his room…
"How…how could she just leave?" the sad woman weakly probes to no one in particular, feeling the weight of her question haunting the stuffy air of her apartment. "She didn't even say goodbye…damn…" she trails off briefly; drumming her fingers against the sides of her thigh, before returning to reality. "Yup," she mutters under her breath. "Work is going to be awkward tomorrow." Both of Frannie's eyes are now open and darting back-and-forth in a rapid succession as she watches her owner stride across the hardwood floor. "At least you got to have a good breakfast, Frannie," she states with an uneasy cackle.
Amanda feels the anger bubbling up in her throat, and her lips purse into a tight frown as she continues on with her listless rant. "This is why I don't trust people," she confirms, shifting her weight between each foot as she steadies herself. "You know what…? Fuck it!" she abruptly exclaims, aggressively slicing the air with her hands. Frannie perks an ear up in response to the shrill voice piercing the air, but continues to remain perched on the couch in a sitting position.
Amanda instantly notices her dog's attention, since she is already so on guard, and feels grateful for an audience, even if it is only of the canine species. "This is why we don't let people in, girl," she verbally ratifies with the nod of her head. "Better off alone. People…" she sighs. "So selfish. They never fail to disappoint you." "People," she repeats, "they always leave." As soon as the young blonde finishes this conclusion, she proceeds to stumble over to the couch, and gently pushes her dog aside to make some room for herself. Her body forcefully slumps down into the worn-out cushions, in pure emotional exhaustion. "Always…t-they always leave," she reiterates lightly, as a tear slides down her delicate, already-stained cheek. "Even the people you would trust with your life. Even the people you HAVE trusted with your life." She lifts her legs up to meet her chin, and wraps her bony arms around her kneecaps. She contorts her way into the fetal position on a single cushion as she mentally recalls the lengthy list of people who have hurt her more than she could ever describe. The memories of these people are buried so deep within her; memories she continuously works to keep buried, fearful of the power they hold over her. She doesn't dare allow herself to speak their names aloud; instead, she just sits there, body coiled in a ball, and trapped in her mind. Mom. Kim. Declan. Patton. Daddy…
Even Liv. She is left breathless with this realization: that the woman she had idolized and feigned after for so long, both before AND after coming to work with her in the 1-6, could end up hurting more than everyone else combined—even her own father—who literally just killed himself. Amanda feels her heart aching in a way it never has before; as if the thoracic cavity is shattering beneath her knees that hold it together.
She goes further to psychologically kick herself, for believing that even for a moment she could trust her boss—who she has had a complicated relationship with, to say the least—with the admission of her father's suicide. "And to think that I was goin' to ask her about seeing Dr. Lindstrom again," she pitifully chuckles. Rationally, she thinks, she didn't know that Olivia would ignore her text message. And she didn't mean to get so drunk. And she wasn't expecting her boss to actually show up, after she coerced Carisi into inviting her. She was hurting. She is hurting.
The thought of going to a GA meeting fleetingly passes through her mind; however, she remembers, GA meetings help with addiction to gambling, and not addiction to people.
"You know what, Frannie?" Amanda inquires to her now-anxious dog, who has fully picked up on her owner's emotions and is frantically licking her own paws in an attempt to soothe herself.
"I think it's just gonna be you and me, girl—forever…" she lethargically states, feeling her eyelids slowly growing heavy, as the record-player still plays her beloved tunes.
He's always feeling cheated,
telling all his secrets
That I couldn't keep…
Her face is now collapsed so hard against the side of the couch that her eyebrow has drawn upward, and her eyelid is spread half-open against the cushion. "It's like she has half a heart," she mumbles, before drifting off into another depression-filled slumber.
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Meanwhile, Lieutenant Olivia Benson is back in her bathtub, after spending the remainder of her Sunday running errands in an attempt to maintain the notion that she still has her life somewhat together. This time, however, she is accompanied by a tall glass of wine, and a Lush bath bomb that smells of coconuts. She is determined to kill the stress that has encompassed her entire being after this past weekend by relaxing—truly relaxing—as best as she knows how. To her, that includes pushing down any and all thoughts about Amanda Rollins, whatever "demons" she apparently feels the need to bare, and her own growing attraction toward the small woman—at least for the time being.
The tap is turned off, but the water is still steaming with warmth as it settles in foamy layers around her bare legs. Her chilly feet are placed outside of the liquid in a crossed position on the right-hand side of the tub, where the shampoo usually takes up residence. She inhales deeply as she sets down her wine glass, and traces the pad of her index finger against the golden bar hanging from a chain alongside her neck. She is hit with a wave of nausea when she eventually comes to realize that she is breathing in the scent of coconut; consequently reminded of how similar it smells to the sweet aroma that lingered from Amanda's bed sheets last night. She is further reminded of how she came to acquire this cherished necklace in the first place; a gift that usually brings her so much peace and comfort. Right now, however, the piece of jewelry is regrettably associated with a person she does not want to be thinking about.
In response to these unwanted memories and associations, Olivia swallows some wine to force down the rising bile in her throat, and unhooks the thin piece of gold from her neck. After she carefully places the object on the lid of the toilet, she begins to fidget, a hopeless effort to quiet her ever-racing mind. The brunette wraps her damp hair into a bun, and lowers her fingers into the water, swirling the bursting colors that trail from the bath bomb all around the tub. She takes another gulp of wine, which leaves a natural-looking, crimson stain across her lips.
In lieu of having another panic attack, Olivia attempts to ground herself by using a coping mechanism Dr. Lindstrom had given her shortly after she began seeing him again after William Lewis had kidnapped her. "Okay…" she recalls. "One thing I can hear, one thing I can see, one thing I can touch."
"I can hear the water dripping from this damn tap that won't stop leaking."
"I can see the shower tiles."
"I can touch…myself?" she questions, a hint of apprehension apparent in her voice.
She briefly attempts to recall the last time she viewed herself in a sexual manner. It's important, she has always believed, for women to be proud of their bodies. She has always loved the female body—her own especially—but lately—she's been distracted. In addition, the time she spent with William Lewis certainly hindered her growth in appreciating her maturing body, and she has spent countless hours trying to gain slivers of confidence back. She is no stranger to looking at herself naked; this time, however, the situation feels a little different. She's not just thinking about her own naked body.
"Fuck," she mutters aloud, desperately willing the thoughts of Amanda Rollins to be banished from her mind. "I'm obsessing." In addition to the dripping faucet, she can now hear her own ragged breathing.
She ruminates for a moment, gazing down at the valley between her breasts and at her olive-toned, shaved legs. I guess…I guess no one's gonna know but me…
Perhaps it's the wine, but that's all the rationalization she needs to allow the floodgates of her mind to open. With the flip of a switch, she graciously welcomes images of the younger, blonde detective. As memories of Amanda protrude into her brain, she feels an arousal gnawing at her groin in response. She finds herself drawn to images of Amanda at work in particular. She pictures the gorgeous, tiny, toned woman with her blonde hair pulled back into a half-ponytail, either sitting at her desk in professional attire, intently staring at the screen of her computer…or, even better…out in the field, dressed in her police uniform. "God, that…fucking uniform…" she whimpers aloud, briefly jolting as she realizes her hands have inadvertently gripped the side of the tub.
The very turned-on brunette reaches her arms up from the side of the tub and cups her hands around her breasts, feeling the weight of the globes resting in her palms as she squeezes tenderly. She begins to trace her fingernails around the perfect pink buds that lie in unison at each middle; she gives each nipple a quick pinch, which incites a soft, husky moan from the back of her throat. Her groans grow louder as she pictures Amanda clad in that navy-blue fabric, encased in that bullet-proof vest, with the word "POLICE" sketched across her chest; her shield always placed so securely over her left shoulder.
"Mmmff," she pants, her fingers falling down the valley of her chest until they rest in the middle of her abdomen. She feels a warm heat coating her entire body as she continues to trail the digits down her toned stomach, until they greet her entrance. "'Manda…" she huffs, allowing her imagination to take over completely.
She briefly pauses and pops an eye open to take a peek at the water surrounding her thighs, which has now transformed to resemble a thick paste. A smirk creeps across her face, and she allows herself to bask in the deliciousness of her own wetness. Beaming, she trails a finger over the protruding bundle of nerves that are begging to be touched.
She wonders, as a hot blush crawls across her cheeks, if just the mere thoughts of Amanda can do this to her, what the actual Amanda could do to her.
She exhales in a visceral reaction, as two fingers slide in. "Oh my god." She pumps the fingers up against her spongy walls for as long as she can until no longer physically handle the teasing. She's so close already; she doesn't even care about how hard the surrounding water is making her task. Her head tilts back in pleasure as she shamelessly visualizes just how sexy Amanda looked this morning. Those jeans, impeccably tight enough to cup her already-perfect ass into a more-perfect form. That thin shirt, a mere barrier, sliding down her shoulder to expose that black bra strap.
Oh my god.
She unclenches and permits her fingers to slide out; even though they are underneath water, she can feel still feel her moisture covering the skin. Instantly, she places a hand upon the projection, gasping in indulgence, and starts to relieve herself. She frantically and chaotically swirls several fingers around the aching bundle of nerves until she is rewarded with pure ecstasy.
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Olivia is lying comfortably in bed, feeling satisfied and somewhat relaxed by her previous endeavor. She is clothed in her favorite purple bathrobe as she sips another glass of red wine. There is one problem, however: she can't stop thinking about Amanda. She sets the glass of wine down and begins to play with the necklace that she eagerly chained right back on after she got out of the tub; pondering deeply as she twirls the cold metal around her pruned fingers. After some time, the older woman comes to the decision that she needs to grow up and consciously work to chip away at the wall she so foolishly built several years ago. She also comes to realize that she can't keep harboring this intense guilt that constantly gnaws at her insides for much longer. If she doesn't take some action, she concludes, she will either act out at work, on an arguably deserving perp, or worse: she'll continue to take it out on Amanda.
Shortly after her epiphany, Olivia feels the urge to reach out to the younger woman, who has probably had nothing short of a very shitty day. She internally chastises herself for forgetting to remember Amanda's feelings today, much too distracted by her own agony.
Her fingers rapidly splay across the touchscreen of her phone as she types the message.
"Amanda. I'm sorry for leaving so abruptly earlier—I wasn't feeling very well. Can we talk tomorrow during lunch? I'll see you then. Get some rest. Goodnight."
After the "swoosh" sound confirms that the text has been sent, the restless brunette compulsively re-reads her explanation. At least it's half-true, she justifies.
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Hours pass by, and this time, it is Olivia that is left without a response.