Archive of Our Own ^beta

He swears over a plate of leftover brisket and coleslaw that this’ll be the last one. His final undercover operation before he throws in the towel and sticks to regular field work. 

His mouth is full, and he really should know better than to try and reason with her while he’s got masticated brisket churning around like a goddamn washing machine. 

“I jusht need to shtep in this—” 

She holds up a hand, “Elliot. Please. Finish that bite before explaining to me how the team needs you on this one.” 

The muscles in his jaw contract and relax as he studies her and chews the mouthful of meat. He swallows and wipes his lips on a napkin, lifting his bottle of beer and taking a long swig. 

He exhales loudly through his nose. 

“Okay?” He asks. 

“Okay,” she motions for him to continue. 

“The operation—it’s, particular . They need a man of my age, of my… physique.” He suppresses a visible smirk and she can’t stop the eye roll that overtakes her. He’s always been proud of his body, and these days he has every reason to be. And she gladly reaps the benefits of his long hours at the gym, taking every reasonable opportunity to slide her hand up his shirt, or palm his ass when he’s working in the kitchen. 

But sometimes his cockiness makes her want to throttle him. 

“So you’re going undercover, after telling me— telling your family —that you were done, because the brass thinks you have a nice body?” She can taste the vehemence on her tongue.

“I know, I know I said that. And I meant it. But look, it’ll be a short operation, very low risk. Like extremely low, compared to my previous ones.” He wraps his hand around the back of his neck and sighs. 

He’s being so casual about it—so cavalier—like he didn’t almost get killed by a semi tractor trailer less than a year ago.

“I mean, I could stop working out and eat a lot of donuts, maybe try and weasel out of it.” 

Olivia doesn’t bother responding to that. She’s too pissed off for jokes. 

“No operation, especially with OCCB, is very low risk.” 

He drops the hand from his neck and lets it rest in his lap. “I know, Liv. But this one is. And it would only be for a couple weeks. I don’t really feel like I have much of a choice.” 

She scoffs, “You have a choice. And clearly you made it.” She pushes away from the table, preparing to storm out. Out of his apartment. Out of Queens. Back to Manhattan to bury this betrayal in the comfort of a hot bath and a glass of red wine, but he jumps up and reaches for her, circling his hand around her forearm and holding firmly. 

“Don’t do that. Don’t run away from me.” His words irritate her even though she knows they’re accurate. 

“I’m not the one running away,” she hisses. It comes out even sharper than she intended, the words cause him to flinch just slightly. 

Was he really not expecting her to react this way? She finally pulled the trigger on their relationship six months ago, fully embracing it instead of denying it and tiptoeing around their feelings, and now he’s going to disappear again? 

She jerks her arm out of his grip and turns, resting her fists on her hips. 

“And Sergeant Bell? She just—just—” the pounding in her ears must have drowned out the thoughts. 

“Ayanna isn’t happy about it. But she’s just trying to pick her battles.” 

She twists her hair up, suddenly feeling like the back of her neck is far too hot. “What’s the operation?” 

He bites his lip, “You know I can’t talk about it.” 

Olivia scoffs dryly and turns to leave but he reaches for her again, “Wait, wait— wait. Olivia!”

He waves a hand placatingly in the air and looks around like he would if he was talking to her in the middle of 1PP.

“It involves me being shirtless,” he winces, already bracing for her reaction. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Elliot. Is this some kind of male escort… Stripper thing? I hope you’re taking dance lessons because your rhythm sucks. Does the brass know that?” 

He frowns, considering her words. Or maybe considering his own words now that he’s realized the hot water he’s in.

“Not exactly. And my rhythm isn’t that bad. I mean, I know I’m not winning any awards for it, but…” He trails off as he sees her expression. “There will be no sexual intercourse involved, if that’s your real concern.” 

Her jaw drops open, ready to protest, because she’s a nearly sixty-year-old independent woman—a captain of a squad—and she does not worry about things like infidelity, she doesn’t have time to worry about that shit. And yet…

Flutura’s face flashes before her eyes. 

But that was years ago now, and Elliot was rebounding from the death of his wife, who he’d been married to since he was seventeen. He’s not seeking that kind of comfort now that he has her. No, she has zero doubts about that. But she isn’t fond of the image of Elliot bumping and grinding his crotch against a giggling bachelorette either.  

Will he be oiled up, slick and greasy under dim club lighting? 

Maybe she’s letting her imagination get the better of her. She takes a slow breath. 

“This isn’t about the terms of the operation,” she squares her shoulders as she watches him raise an eyebrow in defiance. 

“Okay, maybe it is a little bit. But the bigger issue is you taking a job after the last one nearly killed you. What about your hand tremor? What about—”

“That’s being treated and it’s improving. I’m not going to endure a head injury from this operation.” 

“You can’t promise that,” she whispers. 

“I could be in a car accident when I’m off the job. I could be hit by a bike messenger, or an air conditioning unit could fall out of a window and land on my head—” 

She hisses through her teeth, “Well this is about minimizing the risk of another head injury, not adding to the chances.”

He sighs, shoulders slumping slightly as his gaze falls to the floor. “I know, baby. I’m sorry.” 

His submission tugs at her chest and she feels her resolve crumbling. “What kind of backup will you have?”

“A full team outside, plus Reyes inside with me.”

She nods and takes another calming breath, pulling in air until her lungs are so full they might burst. She lets it out in a rush and brushes her hair back. 

“When?” 

He steps forward, “Two days.” 

“Where?”

He hesitates, because technically he’s not supposed to tell her that. “Midtown.” He pauses. “There’s one other thing,” he mumbles reluctantly. 

“Oh God, Elliot. What else could there be?” 

“I need you to wax my chest and back,” the blush seeps in almost instantly, his neck and ears turning bright red as every capillary in his body dilates at once. She almost feels bad for him.

Almost. 

“Fuck you,” she growls. He can’t be serious. 

“Alright, fine. I can go to a salon and have a stranger do it.” He shrugs, like it makes no difference to him, and that drives her even crazier. 

“Fuck, Elliot. What the—” she shakes her head because she’s speechless. “You really are doing some kind of stripper op aren’t you? If they put you in a police officer uniform, that would truly be ironic.” 

Somehow, his ears turn even redder at that. 

“Oh, Jesus… ” She mutters. 

“Are you going to do it for me or not?” He sounds small, defeated. 

She pictures Elliot recoiling from her touch in pain as she rips a strip of hot wax off his chest, pulling every hair out from the root with it. She can visualize the reddening of his skin and the tiny pinpricks of blood coming to the surface after the hairs have been violently torn free. 

“Fine.” She squints at him, “Now.” 

He glances around the room like she might have a full pharmacy hidden somewhere. 

“Where are you getting the—”

“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” she turns on her heel and grabs her bag from the kitchen island, marching towards the door without another glance. 

There’s a Duane Reade two blocks from his home. She can buy what she needs and be back before her seething anger has had a chance to dissipate. 

And when she’s done with him, he’s going to think twice about taking another undercover op ever again. 

—

Elliot has always been in awe of Olivia. Her fierceness, her power, her righteousness, her unwavering commitment to the job. But tonight he’s slightly afraid of her. 

She had a look in her eyes, like she knew something he didn’t. 

It can’t hurt that much. Can it?

He busies himself around the apartment, cleaning up the leftovers—half of which will definitely be going back to Randall because who the hell needs this much meat in their house? And when that’s done he paces in circles. He needs to pick a place in the house for Olivia to do the job, and he feels self conscious about picking the wrong location. 

The bed? Or is that too sexual? She certainly doesn’t seem eager to be intimate. 

Laying on the couch? Will that be comfortable? It sounds potentially messy.

Sitting in a chair? He goes with this option, bringing a wooden chair that usually lives in the spare bedroom through the apartment to in front of his bathroom sink. He slings a towel over the back of it and anxiously awaits her return.

He hears the door open and close not long after, followed by the crumpling of a plastic bag, and the sound of boxes opening. 

“I’m back here!” He calls. 

She follows his voice, rounding the corner to his bathroom with arms full of items he’s never seen before. 

“I got the most expensive kits they carry,” she drops the haul down on his dresser and looks around. “I don’t want to waste time with shitty supplies.” 

“Good. Thank you,” he nods once. 

She scans his minimalist set up skeptically, “You should put something under the chair in case it drips—which it will. It’ll be easier to clean up.” She folds her arms and watches him retrieve a sheet from the linen closet. 

It’s a twin sheet for the kids’ bed that somehow made it from their house in Queens to here. It’s probably as old as Eli and he doesn’t care if it gets trashed. 

She continues to stare at him in an unnerving way, almost like she’s plotting something. He hopes it isn’t the way in which she’s going to inflict maximum pain on him. It crosses his mind that maybe he should have just gone to a salon, but it’s too late now. And he wants to let her do this. He wants to give her what he hopes will be a cathartic release of anger. He can suffer for a few minutes, so that she can have that. 

“I have to heat up the wax, make yourself comfortable.” She smiles, but it isn’t sweet. 

In many ways he thinks he deserves it anyway. Giving himself fully to her, and then abruptly taking it away again. He doesn’t want to go undercover, but the stars aligned, not in his favor this time. He fits the bill; checks all the boxes. If there was a concept sketch of the person needed for this role, it’d be him.

Olivia wasn’t too far off when she guessed stripper. He’s going undercover at a club. Mostly he’ll be serving drinks at tables—shirtless. He’s glad that there are rules around what information UCs can divulge (which is very little) to their loved ones, because he really didn’t want to explain it in detail to Olivia. 

He didn’t want to explain the shit about how he needs a smooth chest so he can oil it up every night. Or about how if someone pays extra he has to sit at their table for twenty minutes and flirt. But the rest of it, the mundane details of the op, he just plain can’t talk about. And she knows this. She’s known this for the last five years. 

He can’t tell her that there is an available spot at the club because the last Zaddy— Reyes used that word and he had to look it up—-who worked there moved out of state, so he’s stepping in to fill their shoes. Reyes luckily worked his way in because the club owner said they’re under-performing for the Latinx community. So Elliot will have someone watching his back who he trusts, and he isn’t even leaving the city. 

All he needs to do is serve drinks in a dark club and get some footage with a hidden camera of some regular customers who OCCB has been investigating for months. A group of women with familial ties to a group of men who are responsible for some large-scale heists. 

It’s an easy gig for him. 

With no shirt, they will have to get creative where the camera is placed, but he’s not concerned about any of that. Maybe he will wear an extra large cross around his neck, or a bowtie. 

Just like Chippendales, Bell had commented under her breath.

This part, navigating his relationship, which even after twenty-seven years of history is still kind of new, and understanding Olivia’s anger, feels far more daunting than the idea of going undercover for a couple weeks. 

He hears her footsteps returning and pulls his shirt off, dropping it on the tile floor. 

She stops in the doorway, eyes flicking from his toes up to his chest. “Pants?” She asks.

“Oh, I don’t think—” 

“Do you want wax on them?” She raises her eyebrows and he starts unbuckling his belt, shucking his pants and kicking them off to the side so the only clothing he has left on are his briefs. 

He adjusts himself with the palm of his hand, “I think I’ll leave these on. There is one place I really don’t want to get hot wax on.”

She doesn’t laugh, eyes steady and cool as she glances down. “Suit yourself. I got enough to wax everything if need be.” 

His balls recoil in terror and he huffs casually, shaking his head, “No, Liv. No one will be seeing everything . Just my chest and back.” 

She purses her lips and begins setting everything up on the counter beside them. There’s a lot of blue wax. 

A lot. 

Olivia places a stack of large wooden sticks that look like tongue depressors next to it. 

“Okay, so where do you want to start?” Her eyes fix on his chest. 

“Wherever you think,” he replies. He is going to defer to her, on everything. 

Oliva scoops a glob of wax from the glass bowl—one of his nice mixing bowls he notices—and begins to spread it over his left pectoral. Right over his heart. He wonders if that is intentional. 

It actually feels kind of nice, not too hot, warm and sticky. 

Thick like honey.

She steps back and looks at the spot thoughtfully. 

“Now what?” He tilts his chin to look down at the blue patch of wax that is rapidly cooling. “Do you need a piece of gauze or paper or something?” 

She shakes her head. “No, not this kind. I just let it cool, and then I rip it off.” 

He swallows, the way she said rip , like the word itself is made of razor blades, catches his attention. 

They wait, she leans forward and blows air on the wax, and the ghosting of her breath on his skin makes him squirm. The tiniest whisper of longing curls low in his belly. It’s always there, waiting to be awakened. 

He always wants Olivia. Even in the most absurd of circumstances. 

“Okay, it’s ready.” She slips a fingernail under the edge of the wax to be certain, and she seems satisfied, because she pulls a little bit more back until she can grip it between her thumb and forefinger. 

“Take a deep breath,” she prompts. 

 “It’s alright, Liv, just do it.” 

He takes a normal breath, observing the wicked smirk that creeps across her face, and then she rips. 

“Oh —” He grunts, biting down on the inside of his cheek to stifle the rest of the exclamation. 

Fuck. 

It’s like he can feel every single root, from every single hair, being yanked out against its will. It burns like fire, the white hot snap of being hit with a paddle but worse. The sting fades but not completely as she moves to another spot, smoothing out a glob of wax on the other side. 

He releases a breath and looks up at her, seeking some kind of reassurance. 

She offers none.

They wait for it to dry and he sneaks a peek at her cleavage as she’s bent over in front of him. At least if he’s going to suffer he can look at something pretty while it’s happening. Her lips look nice too, like maybe she put on lipstick. 

That idea is a little confusing to him, because if she’s pissed off, why did she put on lipstick? 

“Okay, second one. Ready?” She picks at the tail-end and flicks her gaze to meet his. 

“Do it,” he grits out. 

She flicks her wrist and pulls it off with a tearing sound that conveys pain before his brain even has a chance to register the hurt. 

Somehow this second one is worse than the first one. 

“Shit,” he hisses. “That—yeah, okay. That one was pretty bad.” 

She nods, “Mhm,” and reaches for the wax, leaning forward and dragging the wooden stick over his left nipple. 

Oh. 

For a few seconds he’s distracted because it feels pleasant. Not too dissimilar to the warm suck of her mouth. He likes it. He likes it enough that blood migrates south, between his legs, but only temporarily. She must notice because she snorts out a small laugh and then swallows it, returning her resting face to one of indifference. 

“This one is going to sting,” she tells him, voice flat like she’s reading something off a menu. 

“Alright.” He lets his gaze settle on the soft lines where her breasts meet, and then she moves suddenly and his eyes snap shut, searing pain lighting up his left side with an intensity that leaves him mute.

He realizes his mouth is hanging open in shock. 

She drops the blue strip into the sink with the other ones she’s been collecting. He glances at them and sees all his sad—mostly grey—hairs sticking up from the cooled wax like fucked up porcupine skin and his stomach turns over.  

“You’re right, Liv. That one fucking hurt.” His eyes are stinging, not with emotions, but with the kind of moisture that escapes when you’ve been hit in the nose. He has no control over it. He tries to blink the tears away and braces for the next wave of torture that she’s prepping for. 

“Why couldn’t you just keep your hair? What do they have against a little salt and pepper?” Her voice surprises him because she’s been so quiet, he got used to listening to nothing except the ripping sound of his own hairs pulling free from his flesh. 

He swallows, wetting his mouth, “Sanitary reasons. Because they serve food I guess.” 

“Mm,” she hums low. 

He closes his eyes and tries to enjoy the sticky heat of the wax as she smooths it over his other nipple. Maybe she finally feels some sympathy for him, because she swirls the wax around a little bit slower, just slow enough that his dick offers a tiny twitch of excitement. He keeps his eyes closed and shifts slightly in the seat, widening his legs a fraction. 

He hopes that she isn’t going to stay mad at him for too long. The idea of leaving for this operation without making up sinks like a lead weight into the pit of his stomach. 

“I’m going to grab a washcloth,” she murmurs, and he opens his eyes to see her walk around him and take one off the shelf, wetting it under the faucet and holding to his chest. 

“Just a little blood,” she tells him. 

He keeps his mouth shut, using a mindfulness trick he learned for managing pain, but the moment she spreads the thick gooey wax down the middle of his sternum, he breaks. 

“How many do you think is left for the front?” 

Her breath rolls over his raw skin, easing the sting a little bit. 

“I think only one more after this,” she tells him. 

“Thank God,” he murmurs. 

Olivia peels the corner back from the center of his chest and braces a hand on his shoulder. 

“This is a big one, ready?” 

He opens his eyes and is met with her rich brown gaze. Her eyes look slightly less hard than they did before, there’s a softness creeping in. At least he thinks there is. It’s possible he’s just hallucinating.

“Uh huh,” he sucks his lip into his mouth and bites until it hurts. 

Pain distraction. 

He just needs to draw his mind away from the source of it, just for long enough to—

She jerks the wax away from his sternum and this time he can’t help it. 

“Fuck!” He moans, “Oh, fuck me. Ugh…” 

Olivia presses the washcloth to the fresh patch of inflamed skin and hovers for a minute, giving him a blissful break. It really does hurt as much as he’s been told, and this is coming from a man who's been shot, stabbed, hit in the head, hit by a truck ; but this is not a walk in the park either. This burns.

“Goddamn,” he exhales and rocks his head back. “Where next?” 

Her fingertips drop to his belly button and she drags them through the trail of coarse hairs that disappear under the elastic of his briefs. 

“Here,” she quips. “Unless you’re planning on wearing high-waisted pants the whole time.”

He lifts his head and looks down as she draws her fingers away. 

“Alright,” he huffs as he rises to stand and folds the elastic of his underwear down past his hip bones. He catches her eyes darting down and then back to the bowl of wax. 

“I don’t think sitting will work for this,” she clicks her nails on the counter and looks back down at his stomach. “Just keep standing.”

Elliot is somewhat bewildered as she takes a scoop of blue wax and smears it over his lower abdomen, twirling the wooden stick with just a bit too much of a flourish. She’s definitely enjoying herself. 

“Do you still think this undercover gig is a good idea?” She smirks. 

“No, but I never thought it was a good idea. I’m just a lowly detective, doing as I’m told.” 

Her head snaps up and he notices her cheeks redden. She doesn’t seem to have a retort for that and she tilts her head down towards the wax again as she reaches out to tap a fingernail on it. There’s a soft but audible noise which tells them both that it’s hard enough to remove. 

“Okay, do me a favor and—” she kneels down in front of him, “don’t fall.” 

He snaps his mouth shut and stands rigid facing the mirror. His chest is dotted with specks of blood, and his skin is fire-truck red. 

“I hope it looks better than this in forty-eight hours,” he mutters. 

“It will,” she says, fingers working the lip of the wax away from his skin. He can’t help but visualize other more enjoyable things they could be doing in this position. 

“One…two…” She looks up at him, enormous brown eyes—framed by long black lashes—that look just a bit too pleased with herself. 

“Three.” 

She jerks the strip off and one of his hands slaps against the counter as his other reflexively falls to the side of her head. He curls his fingers into her hair, and he doesn’t mean to pull, but he does. He tugs on her hair as his upper body curls slightly forward in surprise, because even though he was ready for it, it still fucking hurts. 

“Ow ,” she shakes her head, knocking his hand away. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, voice tight with discomfort. 

She stands and drops the last strip of wax into the sink, turning to examine her work in the mirror. Her eyes flick from side to side then up and down, scanning him like a piece of meat. 

“Want me to do your back now?” 

He groans softly, “No, no. I really don’t.” 

She smooths a hand over his shoulder blades and up his spine, “You really don’t have much here anyway. I could just shave it.” 

“Wait, that’s an option?” He spins to face her. “Don’t tell me I could have—”

He can see by the way she suppresses her smile that it probably would have been an option. 

“I don’t know, Elliot. You said wax.”

She gestures to the chair and he follows her order like he’s back in boot camp. “Here, I got this for afterwards,” she unscrews a cap off a small green tub and scoops out something creamy looking with two fingers. He watches warily as she steps around behind him and drops her hand down to his left pectoral, spreading it around in slow circles. 

The stuff smells herbal, and thankfully doesn’t sting. It has a cooling effect though, and he feels the brush of her hair on his neck as she bends forward to blow air on him, adding to the chilling sensation. 

She continues to rub the cream into his flushed chest, moving to the other side and scooping out more of the stuff to dab it around his nipple. 

He lets his eyes drop closed.

The mounds of her breasts bump the back of his head, and he swallows, knowing if she massages lotion into his nipples, he’s a goner. 

And that’s precisely what she does; the soft caresses over the sensitive pebbled skin makes his breath catch. He clears his throat as her thumb rolls his other nipple, keenly aware that he’s growing uncomfortable between his thighs, so he palms his dick once, just to adjust. Her breath brushes his shoulder as she stands and slides her hands up and away. He holds very still then, worrying if he moves too quickly he might flick a switch and she’ll remember how pissed off she is. 

She’s mostly quiet behind him. Just some soft shuffling sounds and then the buzz of her energy at close proximity as she leans around him and scoops the discarded wax strips from the sink, throwing them into the garbage. He continues to just listen. There’s the sound of shifting fabric, and then, the sweet, blessed noise of metal teeth unhooking. 

His heart is hammering against his rib cage when he hears the muffled thump of something solid landing on the tile floor. 

He keeps his eyes closed until he feels the sublime weight of her settling onto his lap and then he blinks his eyes open. For a moment, he stops breathing. 

Olivia is completely naked, not a stitch of clothing anywhere in sight, just miles of luscious bronze skin wrapped around him; long legs circling his hips and hands flat against his chest, pinning him to the back of the chair. 

“Liv, I—” 

She presses her lips to his, holding him in place with her hands, and kisses him so hard it takes his breath away. When he automatically reaches for the round curves of her ass, she breaks the kiss and shakes her head once, “Hands off.” 

He releases a ragged breath through his nose, but he obeys, dropping his arms and letting them hang limply at his sides as she curls into him again and sinks her tongue between his parted lips. Her mouth is wet and hard, jaw unhinging and devouring him hungrily without taking a breath until she’s gasping into him. 

Her movements are demanding and forceful, she’s grinding her core down onto his aching cock, clearly still brimming with unspent frustration. The dampness between her spread legs is palpable even though the cotton of his briefs. 

The longing in his chest is overwhelming. Not just the longing to feel the pleasure she’s teasing him with, but the longing to be the partner that she needs; in this instance, and in the grand scheme of them.  

She shifts slightly to one side and the graze of her nipples over his tender flesh bring goosebumps to the surface. 

Suddenly she pulls back, face hovering an inch from his, breaths mingling between them as she drags her fingers down his neck, letting them rest on his shoulders. Her eyes search his. Deep and thoughtful, kind, savage—everything that makes her the woman he’s constantly in awe of.  

“You come back in one piece. That’s an order. Understood?” 

He nods, “Yes, Captain. Understood.” 

She sighs softly, almost like a silent approval, and returns her lips to his, driving her tongue into his mouth with a vengeance that makes him ache. She gates her hips against him in tandem with her yawning kisses, moving her spread legs over him until they both hear the tell-tale creak of the chair legs protesting.

“Stand up,” she whispers into his mouth. “I don’t want to end up on my ass when this chair breaks.” 

As she slides off his lap, he can’t help but get distracted by the vision that is Olivia, completely naked. Full tits swaying gently and she moves, a waist that meets voluptuous hips, the dark hair between her legs, strong thighs. He still hasn’t gotten used to her like this. She’s so superior to anything he’s ever seen before. He wants to fuck her and hold her close to his heart at the same time. 

She’s towering over him like Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman and he’s just a tiny ant of a person. He’s entranced, like he’s watching himself from across the room.    

“Stand up,” she says again, and this time he lurches to his feet. 

“Here,” she steps aside and points to the spot where she was just standing, and his brain short-circuits. He stares at the floor, at the old sheet that is some kind of ugly pattern one of the kids picked out, now dotted with blue wax. 

Olivia nudges him forward and he steps out of the way, turning around to watch her as she sits down in the chair in front of him and pulls him closer by his hips. Her legs are spread in a ‘V’ with him slotted in between her knees, and her face is eye-level with his rapidly filling cock. Her hand reaches forward and he jolts with anticipation. 

He’s staring down at her parted lips as she curls her hand around his shaft and brings him to her.

Her mouth is pure bliss—velvet and honey . 

Hot wax. 

“Uh,” a groan slips out as his hand reaches for the edge of the counter to steady himself. That’s when the mirror catches his eye. She’s bent over, hollowing out her cheeks as she eases him inside the slick oval of her mouth. 

The vision has him dangerously close to passing out. He closes his eyes and sinks into the feeling of her. The drag of her tongue from hilt to tip, the pillows of her lips, the suck of her mouth as she draws him inside as deep as she can. 

“ Shit,” he mumbles as he bottoms out and nudges the back of her throat. She pulls away with a slurp, his cock now dripping with her saliva, and she works it over the length of him before swallowing him down again. 

Her eyes flick up to catch his gaze, and it’s the most gorgeous, sensual thing he’s ever seen in his entire life. Her huge brown eyes, pupils dilated with desire, the shadow of possession filling her stare. 

She owns him, and he knows it. She has for a very long time.

“Mm,” he moans, circling a thumb over her cheek as she tilts her head to the side and traces a vein along the length of him with her tongue. “S’good baby. You’re— fuck.” His other hand falls to the side of her head, easing into the waves of her hair as she envelopes all of him again. She swats his hand away, and he tries to say sorry but it’s lost in a groan.

Her head bobs up and down a few times and he looks back at the mirror, the tease of something voyeuristic, a thrill he doesn’t often get, is too tempting to deny. 

And she looks so resplendent like this. 

Just when he thinks it can’t get any more overstimulating, her fingers find the underside of his scrotum and she grazes her nails across the shrinking skin. 

“Fuck . Baby—” his sweaty palm slips a couple inches across the counter top as he braces to stop himself from bucking into her mouth. 

He looks down at her, then at the mirror— them —then back to her, and he sees her free hand drop to between her legs. 

Jesus.

His thighs are beginning to quiver slightly. The barrage of everything brings him close to the edge. Her hand is turning quick circles over her clit in a way that he thinks is determined, but then she gives his balls a gentle squeeze and abruptly pops off him. She draws her fingers from her center and pulls herself to stand in front of him. She presses the hand to his mouth, the one that was just between her folds, and fuck, it smells like her. 

He parts his lips, like his body already knows what to do before his brain catches up, even though they’ve never done this before. He opens his mouth and sucks her fingers clean, tongue tasting sex and wax and sweat, but when he finishes she doesn’t take her hand away. He notices the way she swallows and her breaths turn shallower, a fresh crimson blush fills her cheeks and neck. He can see the perspiration clinging to her hairline and upper lip, the way her pupils somehow grow even larger. 

She pushes her fingers in deeper, then slides them back out. He can’t help it when he closes his lips around her slender digits and makes a snug ring for her to slide them through. She huffs out a little sound that is something between a moan and a laugh, and she does it again, slowly fucking her fingers into his throat until his gag reflex protests. 

She retracts them and wipes them off on his chest. He flinches, the skin still raw and stinging. She shifts back slightly with a sway of her hips, letting out a sigh that sounds an awful lot like disappointment.

His heart is racing, every fiber in his being screaming to reach out and grab her, fix what he broke, even though he doesn’t know where to start. But he holds back, knowing it isn’t what she wants right now. 

“Go to the bedroom,” she murmurs, walking away as his eyes chase the rhythmic rocking of her ass and the subtle dimples hovering above her tailbone. He sheds the briefs that are already halfway down his hips and leaves them in a pile along with the sticky wax-dotted sheet and the rest of their clothing.

He swallows hard, forcing down the lump in his throat. Or maybe it’s the lingering tickle of her fingers brushing against his tonsils that’s making his throat feel full. Having someone’s hand down his throat is not a sensation he would normally seek out, but with Liv he will take it with a smile. Everything about her is sexy, including her fingers. Long and smooth—bronze like her arms and legs—strong but also gentle. He can’t believe the things those fingers can do to him.

He seeks her out quickly, crossing the darkened bedroom to where she is now perched on the edge of the bed. She’s partially reclined, resting on the heels of her hands, legs crossed. There’s something disarming about the way she watches him as he enters her space, almost like she’s waiting for him to make a wrong move. 

Her gaze sweeps over him, hovering for extra time at the place between his legs where he now stands at attention, red and pulsing and so fucking hot for her. 

God, he wants to feel her, taste her. Apologize for this bullshit operation that he now realizes is more of a betrayal to her than he first thought. He knew she’d be frustrated with him, disappointed, upset; but he wasn’t expecting to seek penance. 

“Lay down,” she pats the comforter underneath her and his pulse flutters. 

“Oh my back or my stomach?” 

His question gives her pause and she arches an eyebrow, “Back. This time.” 

He exhales a sigh of relief because he isn’t quite sure he’s ready for what she might do to him if she said ‘stomach.’ 

Olivia waits for him to crawl to the middle of the bed and roll onto his back, eyes never leaving him. He can feel it, like her gaze is a physical thing, clawing, raking, dogged in its intensity. She studies him as he lies back and tucks his hands behind his head—better chance of keeping them to himself if they’re pinned. 

She hovers for a few beats, looking down at him, and her eyes alone are enough to make his cock twitch. 

When she climbs on top of him, it’s slow and deliberate. He feels the bed dip on each side of his body, and the brush of her knees and inner thighs as she shifts above him until she’s straddling his hips, erection pinned between himself and her slick center. She begins to rock steadily, grinding down so her silken folds caress the length of his aching cock over and over and over. 

His toes curl and his biceps flex from beside his head but he doesn’t move. She deepens her pitch and reaches for her tits, cupping them in her hands as she sways back and forth. 

“Look ,” she instructs. 

He isn’t sure where exactly she wants him to look, so he looks everywhere. At her hands where her fingers are digging into the plush flesh of her tits, to her stomach which is soft and golden and dotted with a handful of faded scars, whose sudden appearance before him violently tears at his insides.

Lastly his gaze falls to the crux where her legs meet and the head of his cock is disappearing and reappearing from the dark triangle of hair as she grinds against him. 

“Yes, there, El,” she whispers. 

She wants him to watch her fuck him, and he has no issue with that. Although he was hoping to come inside her, not on his own belly, and if she keeps up this pace he won’t last much longer. She’s wet and slippery above him, the engorged bulk of his cock gliding against her easily—but not through her. Not into her. 

“Hm,” she hums lowly like she can sense he’s on the brink, and she raises up onto her knees. The heat from her center vanishes and the cool air of the apartment hits where he’s flushed and eager for her. 

“Ugh,” he groans, or it might even be more of a whimper. It’s a pained sound that jumps out at the loss of her slick warmth and he pitches his hips up seeking more. 

Olivia shakes her head, leaning over him to press her tongue flat to one of his nipples. He hisses, sucking in air as she drags her tongue over it again before pulling it into her mouth. 

His fingers curl into the back of his skull as he fights the instinct to let them fly to her ass, to her back, to her waist—anywhere. 

“Jesus, baby,” he mutters. “What are you doing to me?” He knows what she’s doing, but he wants to hear her say it. 

“I’m fucking you, Elliot.” She dips down to take his other nipple in the wet pocket of her mouth and swirls her tongue, following it with the drag of her teeth and a firm nip that makes him flinch, before lifting her head. 

“Don’t you like to be fucked?” 

He swallows hard, biting the inside of his cheek until he tastes metal. 

“By you? Yes.” 

“Say it,” she murmurs. 

His eyes find her face as she sits back up and reaches behind her, curling her hand loosely around his cock and stroking once. 

“I like— fuck— I like to be fucked—” he stutters as she curls two fingers under his balls. “I like to be fucked by you.” 

“By who?” She asks.

“By you, Captain.” 

Her eyes flash at that and she rolls her lips into her mouth, releasing them with a soft pop. 

“I’m the only one who gets to fuck you,” she says, while pumping his cock another time. “You’re mine, Detective. Do you understand that?”

He definitely understands. 

“Yes— yes.” His head is spinning, with all the blood having gone to between his legs, he can’t form a coherent thought. All he knows, all that is certain of, is he wants to please her. He wants to give her exactly what she needs and nothing less. It’s all he’s ever wanted, and he’s fucked it up so many times. He’s fucked it up more times than he’s gotten it right, and he owes her all of himself. 

“I’m yours ,” he rasps. “Forever.” 

The last part slips out, but he doesn’t care. She already knows. 

Even so, he watches as her face registers the word forever, and then she’s moving over him, quickly enough that he doesn’t have a chance to move his arms before she’s hovering over his face and knocking them out of the way with her knees. 

She’s straddling his face, and all he can see is her— her face peering down at him, the peaks of her dusky nipples and the soft swell of her belly, her sex, framed by short dark hair. 

He can smell her, heady and sweet. So turned on that he can see the slick glistening on her folds and inner thighs. 

She reaches out in front of her, gripping the edge of the headboard as she lowers down until his mouth meets her opening. He tests her, slipping his tongue inside her and watching the way her lashes flutter. Her elbows bend slightly as she hitches forward. 

“Mmm,” he can’t speak like this, but he can hum.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “More.” 

He thrusts his tongue up, more forcefully this time, reaching deep to taste as much of her as he can. Her hips lurch forward and her entire body heaves with a moan that zings through her core and into him. He grunts against her again, wanting to tell her how fucking sexy she is and how much he loves the feeling of being smothered by her cunt, but his mouth is too full and all he can do is lap at her.  

He continues that upward momentum, taking small breaths through his nose every time she sways back, until she is angling towards him in a way that makes it clear she needs his attention elsewhere. He focuses his ministrations on her swollen clit, flicking his tongue at a furious pace as he feels her beginning to tremble above him. 

He sees it in her thighs first, a subtle tremor. Then in her arms which are flexed and holding on tight to the headboard. He catches a glimpse of her jaw as she leans over and sees that her mouth is silently opening and closing, her head is rolling on her neck like it’s too heavy to hold up. 

She doesn’t protest when he raises his hands to her ass and squeezes hard enough to leave crescent marks that he’ll get to see in the morning. 

“Fuck,” she moans. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

She starts rocking faster and he focuses on breathing when he can and maintaining his pace which has surpassed frantic, and is straight up manic. 

“I’m close—keep going,” She growls. 

As if he would ever dream of stopping. He wouldn’t stop if there were bombs dropping outside his window. He will pass out from lack of oxygen before he stops mouth-fucking her. Or is she fucking him? He can’t remember anymore. 

“Oh, fuck me —” she cries out and then he feels it. The rush of her release spilling out and coating his face. Something that sounds an awful lot like a sob is pulled from the depths of her chest as her body convulses above him. He slows the pace of his licking but doesn’t stop until she starts to move back and off his face. 

She looks dazed, bewildered as if she just woke up from a deep sleep and reality is slipping through her fingers faster than she can catch it. 

He expects her to flop off him and onto her back, but she does something even more surprising than anything else that she’s done so far.

She reaches for his cock, which is painfully hard and leaking, angling herself just right to sink her hips down with practiced precision, taking him inside of her in one swift motion. Everything is hot and wet and all he feels, all he smells, all he sees is her. Her perfect tits jiggling as she settles in, her lips pink and parted, her bottomless brown eyes. 

They are connected and motionless for one blissful second, as all the air is forced out of his lungs with the tightening of his abs. His shoulders hover off the bed and he stares at her in amazement.

He can’t believe that she wants him. That he gets to see her like this. It must be a fucking dream.

She’s a dream.

She’s a goddess with the heart and soul of a saint and a face like Helen of Troy— one he’d gladly go to war for. He’d die for her in an instant. And from the way she’s rolling her hips into his, he very well might.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Eating her out was such a turn on that he’s already teetering on the edge, the tight burn of his release hovering so close he can taste it. 

And then she’s gone again, slipping off him with a wet suck of her cunt as she swings her leg over and away, kneeling beside him. 

“Jesus Christ,” he isn’t sure if he should laugh or cry. He’s close to doing both. 

“Sit up against the wall,” she points to the headboard, and he scoots on his heels like he’s crab walking backwards until his shoulders meet the smooth wood. 

She bends over him to pull his cock into her mouth again, and that is almost too much. The idea of her tasting herself—them together—has him reciting old Knicks stats in his head to keep from coming.

She licks down the length of him, swirling her tongue around his head before leaning back and settling onto his lap, satisfaction and the glimmer of smugness slipping out from underneath her otherwise stony expression. He knows she’s moving them because she needs more friction, she wants to ride him into oblivion with her clit grating down on the front of his abdomen. 

She isn’t done.

He gently leans his head back to rest on the wall as she resumes her swaying over him. This time, he sees the change in her expression. The way her eyelids grow heavy again, the way her nostrils flare slightly, the way she licks her lips which are now dry, before sinking her teeth into the bottom one.

“Hold my ass, Elliot.” She hisses through her teeth as he reaches for her before she’s finished saying his name. 

As his fingers find the plush meat of her ass his body takes over and he pulls her forward on her next thrust. The added momentum has them both groaning in unison, breaths mingling in the inch of space separating them. 

She curls her arms around his shoulders, holding her upper body rigid as the pace of her thrusts become more feverish. 

“Like that?” He asks, breaking character, but neither of them seem to notice. She’s flushed and panting, too high on adrenaline and endorphins to care that the little rank game she was playing has seemingly crumbled. 

“Yes,” her voice quivers, dropping off at the end in a breathy exhale. “Hold me tighter.” 

Elliot circles both arms around her waist and pulls her close, the crush of her against him is both stifling and yet not enough. She buries her face in the crook of his neck, lips and tongue and teeth worrying the skin behind his ear with a fervor that compels his hips to rise from the bed and meet her on the next drive forward. 

Her skin is damp under his hands, fingers sliding down the planes of her back as she curls into him, the pitch of her movements becoming more erratic. She’s desperately clenching around his cock, the soft walls of her sex holding on tight. 

She gasps, “I need you, El. Please—” 

He kisses her shoulder, “I’m here. Tell me what you need.”

Her body is taut, spine arched under his palm. She grinds down onto him, barely moving, almost motionless seeking short bursts of friction against his lower abdomen. He drags a hand down to her tailbone, encouraging her to press as close as she can to him.  

“Come back,” her lips brush his ear. “I need you to come back.”

His heart breaks at the vulnerability etched into her words. This is Olivia. The woman who has lived the majority of her life with no family to call her own aside from the son who chose her. The woman who has suffered and lost more than any person should be able to endure, and she’s still here. 

Still the strongest person he knows. 

And she’s afraid. Because of him. 

Again. 

The idea of that makes him want to cry. 

“I will,” he tries to lean away so he can look at her eyes but she clings tighter, arms locked in a vice grip around his shoulders. “I promise you, baby. I will.” 

The momentary distraction from his impending climax is quickly wiped aside as the whines of desperation begin tumbling out of her. 

“Harder, El. Harder. Please.” 

But he can’t, not like this. He can’t raise his hips any higher. So he decides it’s time to take over and make a move to give her what she’s asking for. He hooks an arm behind her, and flips her onto her back before she knows what’s happening. 

She looks surprised but only for a moment until he drives into her hard and fast, and then it’s all bliss. He thinks he sees her eyes roll back into her head as her fingers reach down and find her clit, but he can’t be sure because his mouth is next to her ear now, breathing hard as he tries to form the words. 

“I’m going to come back, baby.” He exhales, “I’m going to come back. And I’m going to spend every fucking day of the rest of my goddamn life worshiping you.” He sucks on her earlobe and groans as he feels himself closing in on a climax. “I’m going to fuck you like you deserve to be fucked… Captain.”

She’s pulsing around him again, the clutch of her sex so tight that his vision starts to go dark around the edges. 

“I’m going to fill you up,” he mutters, low and gravelly. 

He pounds into her as she swipes messy circles over the crux where her legs meet, her fingernails scraping against his pelvis with every turn, until her thighs clamp around him and her back arches up as she freezes, every muscle contracted and hard as her body braces for the release. 

“Yes, just like that, fuck—” he follows quickly on her heels, doing exactly as he promised, and emptying completely into her velvet clutch as her walls continue to throb around him. 

It’s indescribable ecstasy, being buried to the hilt inside his soulmate, as their bodies gradually loosen and sink deeper into the euphoria of their release. He’s still rocking softly against her, like he’s operating off muscle memory, chasing the orgasm he already attained. When he finally stops moving, the first thing he feels is her chest rising and falling underneath him, and then the tickle of her fingernails against his back. 

They are both drenched in sweat and slick and it’ll only become more when he separates from her, but for now they just hold each other and wait for him to soften and slip out of her. When he does, he shoves off her and pads to the bathroom, ignoring the haphazard state of the sink and the floor in favor of a wash cloth which he holds under warm water and brings back to her. 

She’s stirring, but barely. An arm slung over her eyes as if shielding herself from the non-existent lights. 

The bed sinks down under his weight as he settles back next to her. 

“Can I?—” he feels sheepish suddenly. Even after everything they just did. 

She drops her arm and glances down at his hand, nodding her consent as he moves to swipe the warm cloth between her legs. He works in silence, cleaning up the obvious traces of their lovemaking as she brings a hand to rest on the side of his face. 

“Thanks,” she murmurs. 

He turns his head so his lips meet the skin of her palm and he hums in acknowledgment before standing back up. She doesn’t follow him as he returns to clean up what still remains from the waxing fiasco, and carries it out to the kitchen along with the extra chair. He tosses the sheet in the garbage and puts the chair back in the guest bedroom, stopping to relieve himself on the way back. When he returns he finds the bed empty and the bathroom door closed. 

His body is spent, and he could easily pass out immediately, but he hates going to bed without brushing his teeth, so he waits. 

When the door swings open she looks surprised and then a little apologetic. She’s wearing one of his old Marines t-shirts, and he assumes nothing else. 

“That looks much better on you,” he says, reaching a hand out to trace the tattered edge where it lays against the tops of her thighs. 

She exhales, “It’s so soft.” 

He nods and steps closer, crowding into the doorway with her. When he’s an inch away from her, she folds into him and pulls the length of his naked body against her. 

“All the best things are,” he tells her as he drags a hand up her backside and under the hem of the shirt. “Does this mean you’re staying the night?” 

He knows Noah is at a sleepover, but with how upset she was earlier he wasn’t sure how the night would pan out. 

“I am,” she mumbles. “But I’m...” He can feel her swallow. “I’m still—I’m not even upset anymore. I’m just… afraid for you.”

The ache in his chest swells, threatening to crack him wide open. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to put you through this again.” 

She shudders against him and pulls away, muttering, “I’m going to lay down.” He watches her walk back to the bed before turning to the sink to do what he came in here for. As he brushes, he thinks about what she said. She’s not mad at him, or pissed off, she’s afraid. 

Afraid. 

Hearing that makes him sick. His insides turn sour and churn, acidic and sharp and impossible to ignore.

As he emerges from the bathroom he sees her outline under the covers, facing away towards the grate-covered window. 

He finds the pants he had on earlier and his phone which is still tucked into the pocket. He pulls up his text thread with Bell and fires off a quick message. 

We need to talk in the morning. It’s about the op.

He drops his phone on the side table and chooses to ignore it when it buzzes a few seconds later, instead sliding under the covers and curling an arm around Olivia’s shoulders. 

“I’m going to talk to Sergeant Bell,” he says into the crown of her head. “Try to figure something else out.”

She tilts her head back to catch his gaze, and she studies him, brow furrowed in surprise and confusion. 

“But I already waxed your chest.” 

He snorts out a laugh, “And you enjoyed every second of that, did you not?” 

“Hmm,” she shakes her head like she might try to deny it, but she doesn’t. “What about the brass?” 

“I’m used to pissing people off. It’s kind of my brand.” He drops a kiss on her forehead. “Plus, I have a captain in my corner.” 

She smiles then, and it’s a stunning thing to witness. The happiness gradually fills her cheeks and her eyes. Delicate lines fan out towards temples and at the corners of her mouth, and relief— like the joy— seeps into her muscles. He can feel whatever remaining tension was coiled tight in her body dissipate as she sinks into his embrace. 

“Good,” she inhales and runs a hand down his lower back and over his ass. She doesn’t mention the fact that he’s still naked, she knows this is his preferred way of sleeping when no one is around to catch him. 

“That’s good, El.” Her voice is thick with fatigue, spirit and body sated and slipping quickly into the fold of slumber.

He holds her close to him, but his eyes remain open, surveying the shifting shadows on the walls until he feels her breaths deepen and even out. 

Only then does he finally close his eyes and join her in a dreamless sleep.