{ split subject }

title: “Trigger Finger”
author: julie levin russo
pairing: Oliva Benson/Lilly Rush (SVU/Cold Case)
rating: NC-17 for rough!sex (PWP)
for: mandysbitch, on the occasion of her (ridiculously belated) birthday (I tried to use “said” a lot, just for you!)
A/N: set more or less as a missing scene in Persistence, by heathers (approximately part 7/8)
thanks: heathers, for letting me play in her story, and for one smokin' beta!
disclaimer: they don’t belong to me
summary: “You think there’s no difference between a desperate lover and a killer, Lilly? Do you care to find out?”


You watch Olivia’s hands as they unclip her holster, dump it and the gun inside on the hotel desk with a plastic thunk. Her fingers caress the grip unconsciously before she turns away.

The casefile is strewn across the bedspread, and cheese is congealing on the uneaten half of a pizza. “I’m going to take a shower,” Olivia says, without looking at you. You watch her palm close over the tarnished doorknob as she disappears into the bathroom. She probably expects you to be gone when she comes out.

Retreat or hold your ground, this battle was lost before you engaged the field. You were hamstrung years in advance, when a certain detective failed to put her body between an assassin’s bullet and the woman she loved. Or loves. You reach for your own belt, draw your piece. On the desk, it looks forlorn and naked next to Olivia’s. They’re comparably matte, generic, utilitarian — as hard and angular alongside each other as two cops. You let your fingertips rest on the metal of her gun. You let yourself unsnap it from the holster, heft it gently, testing its slight differences in balance and its unfamiliar texture against your skin.

When you hear the bathroom door open, you drop the weapon reflexively, like a disobedient child — but one look at Olivia says you’ve already been caught red-handed. She’s standing frozen in the doorway, the tails of her button-down shirt skimming bare thighs, pants and bra clutched in what is now a white-knuckled fist. Then, she’s next to you in two strides, and before you can take more than one alarmed step backwards the barrel of her gun is digging into your temple. Olivia’s other hand is wrapped around your neck, squeezing just tightly enough to make you wheeze.

“Is this what you want from me?” Her voice is raw and bitter.

Grabbing your throat may be dramatic, but it’s not a secure hold, and you instinctively pitch your shoulder against her arm to break her grip, snatching your piece off the desk as you twist. There’s a tussle, and you end up tumbling her onto the bed — body on body, her knee thudding into your ass, the heel of your palm against the yielding swell of her breast, a contest of biceps — you manage to free your gun only to have her roll and trap it between your bellies, pinning you under her weight. Her shirt has rucked up and the backs of your fingers are touching her skin, which is warm and slightly damp with sweat. The silhouette of the weapon is indented in your stomach, and you can feel the rise and fall of her diaphragm against it. You don’t have the leverage to throw her off — she’s got the barrel of her gun against your cheekbone, her forearm compressing your windpipe. You stare at each other for a moment, breathing hard, and then you hear the click of the safety.

“You think there’s no difference between a desperate lover and a killer, Lilly? Do you care to find out?”

She leans to one side and you extricate your arm, holding your palms up in a gesture of surrender. She picks up your gun, releases the magazine one-handed, and tosses both parts onto the floor. Her eyes never leave your face. She says, “take your pants off.” It’s not the threat of a bullet that convinces you to comply. Your knuckles brush the front of her underpants as you fumble with your fly. When you’ve wormed one foot completely free, she falls against you again, your naked legs tangling.

You want to tell her that you know she’s not going to shoot you, but you don’t think that’s what she wants to hear. You want to tell her that if she wants to fuck you, it doesn’t have to be at gunpoint, but you’re not certain there’d be any other way. You want to tell her that this isn’t about Alex, but that would be a lie. It doesn’t matter which of these things you’re about to say when you open your mouth, because before you can speak Olivia prods the gun between your lips.

“Get it wet,” she says. She’s grinding against your hip, and you assiduously pretend not to notice. Carefully motionless, you close your eyes and run your tongue over the unforgiving contours of the barrel, foreign and lethal. The tip skims into the hole and you taste a bitter, ashy residue.

“Yes,” Olivia says, as if it’s an accusation. The gun is gone and for a vertiginous moment you’ve lost track of where she’s holding it. Then you feel an unmistakable steel corner jab your labia. When she was examining the files, branded with Alex’s anonymous but telltale hand, Olivia’s whole attention seemed to converge, laser-like, in the furrow between her brows. As she works the gun against your parts, not ungently but still catching your clit painfully on each upstroke, she’s wearing the same expression — and you suppose that’s something. She lingers at your opening, increases the pressure until the square edge of the barrel starts to part you.

“Ow, fuck. Olivia?” You hate that it comes out like a question, but a different imperative is unraveling from each of her fingertips and you can’t be sure whether you want her to stop.

She leans into your neck until you choke, and you realize how tenderly she’s been restraining you. “You want me Lilly? This is me. So take it.” As you rasp, she levers the gun into you. The upper rim gouges your flesh for a moment, excruciating, and then the whole barrel is inside, forming you around its inhuman shape.

You wonder, wildly, if she ever reengaged the safety, and a technicolor vision of the crimescene paints itself across your eyelids: there’s a gaping exit wound next to your collarbone and you’re lying supine in a pool of your own blood. An abashed tech is attempting to pry the bullet out of the headboard. Your mortality seems perversely erotic.

It’s not a comfortable way to get fucked, but you slide your palms under Olivia’s collar and grip her bare shoulders, and that cushions the sharp edges. She’s moved her arm, pushed aside your shirt and bra, and is marking your breast with her fingernails. She bites your lips, groans into your mouth — and then the gun is gone without preamble, tossed aside on the bed, and you’re tearing at her shirt as she kisses you, all tongue and teeth. When three fingers slide into you it’s like every hole in you is being mended. Her breasts are a satiny weight on your chest and she’s thrusting with her hips as she fucks you and she whispers “You’re so goddamn wet,” and even though you’ve always thought that was an inane thing to say during sex you come instantly when she flicks your clit with her thumb.

Olivia doesn’t stop. Her hand stills, but her mouth trails down your neck, between your breasts, across the pale expanse of your stomach, nipping until you arch. When her lips are feathering against the inside of your thigh, she looks up at you.

“Is there anyone you trust, Lilly?”

You’re still trying to catch your breath. You prop yourself up on your elbows so you can see her face: flushed and tousled, irises dark and depthless. This is as close as you could come to loving someone locked up so tight. “What do you want? I don’t understand how you think this is going to — oh...” That’s her tongue dipping into you, shining your clit, and you don’t care any more what happens afterward. All that’s left is gentle suction, the diamond point of an incisor, her fingertips, and then the full span of her knuckles against you.

The pressure to open around her is unrelenting, and the scale of you expands and warps. It’s as if your clit is big as a glass marble, her touches slicking over every millimeter of its swell. You’re stretched wide enough to accommodate her skull, nothing between her and the ridge of your pelvic bone.

You close your eyes, see a statuesque blonde woman spattered with blood, and cry out as the widest part of her hand slips inside.

She’s clasping, you think, every one of your organs, turning you inside out. Dimly, you register that she’s maneuvered out of her underwear and worked her arm beneath her; she’s trembling perceptibly as she rides her own fingertips. “I want,” she says, and then she bites down on your thigh, hard, to muffle her cries as she comes. Her fist twists in you with the effort, a protrusion ignites your clit from underneath and you come with her.

Somehow she extracts her hand, and flops over on the bed next to you. It’s a long time before she speaks. “I didn’t want you to be part of this.”

You think that you could say the same, but there’s nothing about tonight that words could fix. Olivia’s body is angled half away from you, one arm thrown across her eyes, the undulating rise of her hip forming the most supple and organic blockade. She’s unbearably beautiful. You know she won’t let you touch her, and suddenly that petty injustice seems like the greatest tragedy of this case — greater than a string of brutal murders, greater than lives shredded beyond repair. You dig your thumb into the teeth-shaped bruise darkening on the inside of your leg.

What you say is, “I’m going to take a shower.”

You find your gun on the floor, reload it, and set it back on the desk next to Olivia’s empty holster. You gather your clothes but hesitate in the bathroom doorway, watch her retrieve her piece from amid the tangled sheets. Still nude, she leans over the edge of the bed to dig a rag out of the side pocket of her bag, and starts wiping down the barrel.