#dominic carisi

[masorciereviolette]

Oh Captain, My Captain

Pairing: Olivia Benson x Reader

Warnings: Arguments, Sad Themes, Typical SVU Case Drama & Angst, Vaguely Described Crimes, Puke Warning, Unexpected Emotional Connections, Mentions of injuries, Soft Enemies To Lovers, Kissing.

Word count: 13.6k

A/N: I truly hope y’all like this, lmk ur thoughts :)))

Summary: An old friend of Carisi’s is temporarily assigned to the Special Victims Unit when he and the District Attorney are required Upstate. What begins as professional tension quickly spirals into something deeper, more dangerous—and far more personal. As high-stakes cases push them to confront old ghosts and buried truths, walls begin to crumble. Between quiet lunches, stolen glances, and one confession that changes everything, neither of you can deny what’s been building. But in a world where justice comes first, can you afford to fall?

Taglist: @wuhluhwuh03

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The knock on Olivia’s office door is brisk—precise, like everything else about her week so far. She doesn’t even glance up at first, eyes still fixed on the open file in her lap, already anticipating who it is.

Sure enough, the door swings open a beat later, and there’s Carisi, strolling in like a man with one foot out the door. His suit jacket is slung over one shoulder, and he’s got a travel folder tucked under his arm, half-unzipped and bristling with printouts. There’s a subtle bounce in his step, the kind of lightness that only comes with temporary escape.

She finally looks up, brow arching. “You’re really leaving me with the circus, huh?”

Carisi’s mouth twists into a grin as he shuts the door behind him. “Only for a week. Two at most. But hey—silver lining, I’m not leaving you empty-handed.”

Olivia leans back in her chair, crossing her arms with the kind of suspicion she usually reserves for suspects caught in a lie. “Oh yeah? Who’d you rope into babysitting the courtroom while you’re off in Albany dodging press and pretending not to hate it?”

That smug grin widens. It’s the kind of grin she’s known long enough to recognize as trouble wrapped in charm. “You remember my friend from Brooklyn—”

“No.”

Carisi raises both brows, undeterred. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I don’t need to,” she fires back.

He laughs, clearly amused, and holds up a hand like a peace offering. “She agreed to cover SVU while I’m gone. Full authority. Total discretion. Already been briefed on everything too and before you ask—yes, she already started reviewing the backlog.”

Olivia’s eyes narrow. “Carisi. Your friend from Brooklyn? The same one apparently who told Fin she had—and I quote—‘better things to do than wait for decent police work’?”

“In her defense,” he says, dragging out the words like he’s bracing for impact, “that was during that mess with the triple homicide, the falsified warrants, and that precinct that practically wrote its own internal affairs reports.”

“I remember,” she says, dryly. “And I also remember wanting to throw a chair after that court hearing.”

“Which you didn’t,” he points out, holding up a finger. “Because deep down, even you knew she wasn’t wrong.”

Olivia lets out a sharp breath, pushing the file off her lap and setting it on the desk. “That doesn’t mean I want her anywhere near my department. I need someone who cares about the people we’re fighting for. Not just their conviction stats.”

Carisi sobers slightly, but there’s still something amused in his eyes—like he’s watching a movie he’s already seen once and is excited to see her reaction the second time. “She cares, Liv. Just… not in the way you’re used to. Not warm, and she’s definitely not fuzzy. But she fights hard. And if a case is worth it—bleed for it.”

She studies him, her expression unreadable. Years of dealing with unpredictable cops, distraught victims, and courtroom disasters have made her hard to rattle—but Carisi’s evasiveness is starting to itch at her.

“So,” she says slowly, “what am I in for?”

He hesitates. It’s not long, but it’s long enough. Then, with a crooked smile that lands somewhere between fond and vaguely apologetic, he says, “Let’s just say… you two are either gonna cling or clash, that I’m not really sure yet.”

Olivia doesn’t return the smile. “That’s not comforting.”

“Wasn’t meant to be,” Carisi replies, striding forward to drop the travel folder on her desk. “It’s honest. Shes brilliant, Liv. Scary brilliant. Razor-sharp instincts, zero tolerance for bullshit, and doesn’t back down—ever.”

She flips the folder open, eyes scanning the first few pages. Case assignments, brief notes, a printed itinerary from the DA’s office. Nothing about the ADA themselves. No photo. No profile. That alone makes her more wary. “I’ve worked with ADAs like that before,” she says, still reading. “It never ends well.”

Carisi’s smirk deepens, like he’s holding a secret she’s not ready to hear. “She’s not like the others.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes lift sharply. “And that’s supposed to reassure me?”

He shrugs, letting the silence hang just long enough for it to border on smug. “Just give her a few days. You might surprise yourself.”

He starts to turn away, then pauses, glancing back over his shoulder with a knowing glint in his eye. “Oh—and try not to take it personally liv, she just takes a moment.”

Olivia frowns. “What?”

His grin is all teeth now, bright and obnoxious. “You’ll see.” And with that, he’s gone, whistling under his breath as he strolls back down the hall. Olivia stares at the now-closed door for a long beat, then down at the folder in her hands.

You’ll see.

Great.

The first spark happens on a Wednesday. Clouds hang low over Manhattan, the kind of gray that seeps into everything—moods, clothes, patience. It’s already been a rough morning. Two callouts, one victim interview that ended in tears and a vomit-smeared hallway, and now this—another delicate case strung together with barely enough evidence to keep it from unraveling in her hands.

The victim, a nineteen-year-old college freshman, came in the night before, shaking so hard Olivia had to physically steady her hand just to hold the pen. The timeline was thin. The physical evidence, thinner. But Olivia believed her. She saw the signs, heard the tremble in her voice that couldn’t be faked. Still, belief wasn’t admissible in court.

Then a break—small, but promising. One of Olivia’s detectives caught it on security footage from a deli across the street. The suspect entering at a time that didn’t match his alibi. If they could just cross-reference that with the MTA logs or ping tower data, maybe they could wedge the window of doubt wide enough to break it open.

She flagged it herself. Typed it out. Highlighted it. Attached the timestamped footage and handed it off. “Go straight to the temp ADA,” she told him, tapping the top of the file with two fingers. “If they’ve got half a brain, they’ll know this is the slip up we needed.”

That was late morning. By early afternoon, her detective is back. Standing in the doorway of her office, no file in hand. Just a dull look of exasperation and something clenched in his right hand. He doesn’t speak right away, and Olivia knows—knows—this isn’t good.

“Don’t tell me she passed on it,” she says, already on edge.

He hesitates, then steps forward, extending a small square of neon yellow. A sticky note. That’s it. Olivia takes it, frowning, and reads. “Find more solid information. Don’t waste my docket.”

The handwriting is neat. Clean. Effortless. No signature. No stamp. Just sharp-edged confidence bleeding off the page in ink. She looks up, voice low but tight. “This is it?”

He shrugs helplessly. “Said if we had something real, to try again tomorrow. Maybe.” The maybe lands like a slap. Olivia doesn’t say anything at first. Just pushes her chair back so hard it screeches against the floor. No pause. Just fire.

She storms past the bullpen, boots striking tile like warning shots. Someone calls her name—maybe Fin, maybe Amanda—but she doesn’t slow. Her eyes are already locked on the front doors like crosshairs. Her jaw is tight enough to ache. Her hands are balled into fists. By the time she’s outside, the winter air barely registers. The wind tears at her sleeves, but she’s too furious to feel cold.

Don’t waste my docket.

She runs the words over in her head, over and over again, like a mantra she wants to throttle someone with. It wasn’t the dismissal that got her, It was the arrogance.

The assumption that her team hadn’t already combed every inch of that case, hadn’t fought tooth and nail just to bring something forward. The idea that someone sitting comfortably behind a desk could brush it off with a one-liner and an anonymous note like they were swatting away an annoying email.

She didn’t give a damn how brilliant this ADA was supposed to be. If they thought they could steamroll SVU and treat the unit like a line on a checklist, they had another thing coming. Thirty minutes later, she’s pushing through the glass doors of the District Attorney’s office, straight past the front desk without a word. She knows where the office is.

Carisi had pointed it out just days ago when he tried to introduced her to “her new partner in justice,” said with that smug little smirk like he knew exactly how combustible this pairing was going to be. You weren’t there of course, “ran out for supplies”.

The receptionist behind the desk starts to stand. “Ma’am—Captain—do you have an appointment?”

“No,” Olivia says flatly, already walking. Her boots echo down the marble hallway, a measured storm heading for one very particular office door. She doesn’t knock, she doesn’t need to because this wasn’t a meeting. This was a reckoning.

You hear the footsteps before you see her. Not the polite, half-hearted shuffle of a courier or the tentative knock of a detective worried about pissing off the new ADA. No—these are deliberate. Sharp. The kind of footsteps that have backed down perps in interrogation rooms and chased down predators in alleys slick with rain and blood.

You don’t bother looking up from the file you’re annotating. The pen in your hand doesn’t even pause as the door swings open—no knock, no courtesy, just authority wrapped in fury.

Olivia Benson. Well. That didn’t take long. You glance up slowly, deliberately, like someone turning the page on a mildly interesting novel. Her expression could cut glass. “Captain Benson,” you greet, voice low and dry. “What an unexpected surprise.”

She doesn’t return the pleasantry. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t blink. “You sent my detective back with a sticky note.”

You lean back in your chair, resting your chin in your hand, elbow balanced on the armrest like a queen on her throne. “If I’d had more time, I might’ve included a gold star and a participation ribbon.”

Her jaw tightens. “That evidence could’ve strengthened the timeline. Could’ve been what we needed to move this case forward.”

You cut her off with a raised brow and a flick of your pen. “It Could’ve also collapsed like a paper bridge in a thunderstorms wrath. Secondhand timestamps. Incomplete footage. Zero cell data. I don’t take maybes and turn them into miracles, Captain. That’s your job. Mine is to win.”

She takes a step forward. Not threatening, but definitely not friendly. “Your job is to seek justice. For victims. For the Nineteen-year-old girl who came to us in pieces and trusted that we’d fight for her.”

Your spine straightens, shoulders rolling back. Your eyes sharpen as they lock with hers. “And you think I’m doing her a favor by pushing through evidence that wouldn’t survive ten seconds against a defense attorney with a pulse?” you ask coolly. “You think that’s justice? Because what I think is that weak cases don’t end in guilty verdicts—they end in hung juries, retrials, or worse. They end with monsters walking out of court with a smirk and a lawsuit.”

“You could’ve talked to me,” she snaps. “Explained it. Instead, you embarrassed one of my best detectives.”

You shrug, unapologetic. “If your detective can’t handle the reality of rejection, they’re in the wrong line of work. I’m not here to massage egos. I’m here to prosecute.”

Olivia’s eyes flash. “You think this is about ego?”

“I think this is about you not being used to hearing the word no,” you say, voice steel-edged. “I’m not one of your detectives. I do not report to you. And I don’t rubber-stamp evidence that won’t hold. So if you want a prosecutor who’s going to bend every time you stomp in here breathing fire, call the DA and ask for someone softer.”

Her nostrils flare. You expect her to yell. You kind of want her to—it’d be easier than the way she’s looking at you now, like she’s trying to peel back every layer and figure out what broke you to make you this way.

“You really don’t get it,” she says, quieter now, but somehow twice as cutting. “This isn’t some desk job where you get to sit in judgment and pretend that your detachment makes you better. These victims… they’re not case numbers. They’re not hypothetical arguments in a courtroom. They’re real. And they deserve someone who gives a damn.”

Something flinches in your chest—fast and buried. You don’t let it show. Instead, you sigh, smooth out your expression, and rise slowly from your chair.

“I do give a damn,” you say, voice lower now. “I give enough of a damn to make sure their stories are airtight before I put them in front of twelve strangers to have the worst experience of their lives dissected and judged like front page news. Because if I screw that up, they don’t just lose the case. They lose their faith. In all of us. ”

She blinks once, but doesn’t back down. “You don’t even know her name, do you?”

There’s no accusation in it—just disappointment. That stings more than it should. “She matters,” Olivia continues. “Even if you don’t think so yet.” You let the silence stretch, neither of you blinking. The tension between you hums with something hotter than just frustration. She’s not wrong—and you hate that.

Finally, you exhale and glance toward the case files stacked on your desk. “I’ll review the timeline again. If there’s something there, I’ll reconsider. But don’t send someone to me without prepping them properly next time. I don’t coddle. Ever.”

Olivia tilts her head slightly, a bitter smile tugging at her mouth. “Yeah. I got that.”

She turns toward the door without another word, and for a second, you think she might leave it at that. But her hand pauses on the knob. “You know,” she says without turning, “Carisi said you were sharp. Implied you’d challenge me.” She looks back over her shoulder, just enough to meet your gaze.

“He forgot to mention the part where you’d make me want to throw a chair through your window.”

You smirk. “He probably didn’t want to spoil the surprise.” She shakes her head once, scoffs under her breath, and walks out—no slamming, no theatrics. Just the calm, deadly quiet of a woman who’s not done with you yet.

You wait until her footsteps fade down the hallway before finally sitting down again. The silence that follows is heavy, coiled.

You stare down at the returned note still on your desk. For the first time since you wrote it, it looks… flippant.

You hate that, And you hate that she’s still in your head. “For their sake…” You rub a hand over your face, muttering under your breath.

“Goddamn Carisi, I’m gonna kill your ass—”

—————————————————

You’ve been assigned to SVU for less than a Ninety Six hours and already it feels like every day is a full-blown psychological endurance test. You’re dodging homicide cases like landmines, talking judges off metaphorical ledges, and battling Captain Olivia Benson like it’s a full-contact sport with no rulebook and no timeouts.

You’re barely two sips into your coffee when the phone buzzes on your desk. You stare at it for a beat like it insulted your mother, then clicked the screen

Detective Tutuola: We’ve got a problem.

You groan and pinch the bridge of your nose. It’s not even eight, then another buzz.

Detective Tutuola: Liv wants you down here. Now.”

When you step off the elevator at the precinct, you spot Olivia immediately—postured like a general at war. She’s planted firmly in front of the board, arms crossed, eyes locked on the photo of a bruised girl, she was young…...She doesn’t glance your way when you walk in, which somehow makes the tension worse.

“Captain,” you say, dry and clipped, as you approach.

“You’re late,” she says flatly, still not looking at you.

“I’m exactly on time,” you reply, brushing past a desk. “You just have an early martyr complex.” It slips out too fast, too instinctively—but she hears it. Her head tilts slowly in your direction, and when she finally looks at you, her glare could stop traffic.

“This is Sarah,” she says instead of arguing. Her voice is lower now. Sharper. “Eleven. Picked up outside her school by an older male. Assaulted for over twelve hours. Escaped just before dawn.”

That shuts you up. You glance at the photo, the sharp bloom of bruises beneath the girl’s eye. Your throat tightens despite yourself. “She’s safe now?” you ask, voice quieter.

“In the hospital. Broken wrists. Two cracked ribs. She’s got a trauma counselor in the room, but—” Olivia finally meets your gaze, and you see it. The weight. “She won’t understand what happened to her for years.”

You nod slowly, swallowing whatever sarcastic retort was forming. She hands you the case file—no ceremony, no preamble. You flip it open and scan quickly. Surveillance footage. Statement. Sketchy ID. One potential name, misspelled twice.

“This won’t get us a warrant…” you say without looking up. “It’s not enough just yet.”

Olivia takes a step toward you, posture rigid. “We don’t have time. If he disappears—”

“Then bring me something with teeth. A witness. A neighbor. Anything that doesn’t fall apart under scrutiny.” You close the folder. “I’m not getting a warrant thrown out on a bad Fourth Amendment argument. We lose it now, we lose it forever.”

She glares at you like she might actually throw the folder back in your face. “God, you’re infuriating.”

You raise your brow. “Don’t flatter me.”

Right then, Fin appears behind you, clearly sensing the storm about to make landfall. “We found a cabbie. Said he might’ve picked them up yesterday afternoon. He’s coming in now.”

You glance at Olivia again. She’s still staring at you—half murder, half something else. Like she’s trying to solve you and not liking what she’s finding. You exhale through your nose. “Fine. I’ll stay.”

Her brows lift slightly. “What, no note this time?”

You sigh, flicking the edge of the file with your finger. “Not yet.”

The interrogation room is colder than usual, humming with that sterile quiet that makes everything feel louder. The cabbie sits across from you, thin and wiry, fingers twitching against the table as he speaks.

“I didn’t know anything was wrong,” he insists. “She didn’t say anything. Just sat there.”

“You picked them up where?” you ask, pen poised.

“Near a school on Henry Street. He waved me down. Said they were late for an appointment.”

“She say anything at all?” Olivia asks from beside you, her tone gentler but unrelenting.

The man shakes his head. “No. Just quiet. Real quiet.” He rubs the back of his neck, like the memory is suddenly sitting wrong. “I thought… I thought they were father and daughter. Didn’t think twice.”

You nod. “Where’d you drop them?”

“Bushwick. Near Troutman. Apartment complex.” Beside you, Olivia stiffens. You don’t realize how close she’s sitting until your elbow bumps hers when you adjust your chair.

It’s not intentional, You glance over. She’s scribbling notes, eyes locked on the cabbie’s every movement. Her fingers are tight around the pen, her jaw clenched like she’s holding her breath.

The cabbie’s dismissed a few minutes later, leaving the two of you in the silence of the room. You glance at her again, studying her from the side—the way her shoulders curve in just slightly when no one’s looking. Like she’s been holding the weight of this case since the second it hit her desk. Maybe longer.

“Hey,” you say quietly. She doesn’t look up.

“That was something. The cabbie.”

She exhales slowly, voice low. “It’s still not enough.”

You nod, not disagreeing. “But it’s a start. And we both know that’s more than we had this morning.”She finally glances at you. Not with anger. Not with challenge. Something softer. Tired, maybe. Or just real.

“You always like being this difficult?” she asks after a beat, lips twitching at the corners.

“I’m consistent,” you say. “And it keeps the day interesting.”

She lets out a quiet chuckle—short, dry, but undeniably real. “Charming.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” you reply, meeting her gaze. The silence that follows isn’t heavy this time. It lingers between you—not awkward, not angry. Just… charged. Like whatever this is, whatever it’s becoming, is starting to shift. Something under the surface giving way.

Later, when the sun’s dipped low and the precinct is humming with the usual late-night chaos, you’re not in your office. You’re still downtown tucked away in an interview room, arguing your case to a bleary-eyed judge over video call. The statement from the cabbie isn’t enough on its own—not by protocol. But context, urgency, the right pressure in the right places? You’ve always known how to press just hard enough.

You lay it out clean. You take the pieces Olivia Benson brought to your desk and you frame them like a prosecutor should. Then you go a step further. You make it matter. And maybe—just maybe—that’s what tips it.

The judge signs off. Unexpected. But not undeserved. By the time the suspect’s in custody, cuffed and sullen in the back of a squad car, the bullpen is in motion. The air crackles with that brief, fleeting electricity that comes with a win—especially the kind that nearly slipped through your fingers. You’re walking through, ready to call it a night, when you catch her watching you. Not openly, not obviously. But she’s there. One elbow on her desk, eyes steady. She knows.

She knows you pulled strings to get the warrant approved. Knows you made her case a priority when you didn’t have to. And it’s no longer a gaze of disdain. But not admiration, either.

It’s… something in between. Something curious. Measuring. Like she’s trying to reconcile the version of you she assumed with the one she’s now staring at. Like she’s not sure what to make of you—but she’s starting to want to try. And maybe—just maybe—you’re not so sure yourself.

—————————————————————

The precinct hums weirdly different at night. The phones are quieter, the desks half-empty, the buzz of fluorescent lights louder than usual.

You’re in the conference room reviewing trial prep for Sarah’s case when Olivia walks in without warning. No knock. Just her usual presence—heavy with exhaustion and expectation.

She tosses a file onto the table. “You missed this,” she says sharply.

You glance at it. “No, I in fact didn’t.”

Her arms fold. “Then why wasn’t it in the supplemental report you sent to my squad?”

“Because it’s redundant,” you reply, not even looking up. “The interview is inconsistent, and you already have stronger corroboration from the cabbie, this wouldn’t help.”

“Doesn’t matter. You don’t get to decide what’s relevant to my detectives.”

You set your pen down carefully. “No, Captain. I get to decide what makes it into my trial strategy. That’s why I’m here.”

Olivia’s eyes flash. “You still think this is just strategy? That what we do here is some chess game to feed your ego in court?”

You stand, hands braced against the table now. “And you think this whole unit runs on moral righteousness and intuition. I don’t care what fairy tale you’re selling, Benson. I work with facts. Evidence. What holds up in front of a jury.”

She’s already across the room before you realize it, eyes locked on yours. “You think I haven’t stood in front of a jury?” she hisses. “You think I don’t know how fragile it all is? I’ve seen predators walk out because some ADA decided not to trust the victim’s word over the paperwork.”

You grit your teeth. “And I’ve seen guilty men go free because a cop couldn’t keep their emotions out of the investigation.” That one lands hard. Her jaw clenches, and for the first time, you see it—a flicker of something deeper. Not just frustration. Not even rage.

You try to pull back, but she beats you to it. “My emotions?” she repeats, low and cold. “You think I’m too emotional for this job? Is that what you’ve been thinking this whole time?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to,” she snaps. “You’ve made it crystal clear. From the moment you walked in here with your deadpan sarcasm and your detached attitude.”

You open your mouth, but she’s not finished.“You think I’m weak because I give a damn. Because I care what happens after the trial’s over. Because I sit with these girls and hear them sob about how they can’t sleep without nightmares and pray that the system doesn’t fail them again.”

Her voice cracks—just barely—and that stops everything. The whole room stills. Her fists are trembling now, not from anger, but from restraint. You take a breath. “I don’t think you’re weak, Olivia.” She blinks. “I think you’re not what I expected—.” That lands even harder.

Your voice lowers. “Because I’ve spent my entire career not letting things get personal. I go home at night and I don’t carry it with me. That’s how I survive. And you—you walk in here like every case is life or death. Like it’ll kill you if you don’t make it right.”

You swallow. “I don’t know how to be like that. I don’t know how you do.” She looks at you for a long time.

The room hums with the tension between you���rage, yes. But something else now. Something raw. Human. Finally, she speaks, quieter than before. “I don’t get to turn it off. I’ve tried.” A long silence.

You nod slowly. “That must be exhausting.” There’s something in her eyes then—recognition. Not agreement, not yet. But the barest crack in the wall she’s kept up around you.

“It is,” she admits. “But I don’t know who I’d be if I stopped.”

You hold her gaze. “Probably still terrifying.”

A short, humorless laugh escapes her. “You’re such an ass.”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “But I’m not your enemy, Benson.” She nods. Once. Barely. Then turns to leave.

The days that follow are… different. The cases are still the same—grisly, complicated, too often thankless. The long hours don’t relent, and the emotional weight doesn’t let up. Trauma hangs in the air like humidity, thick and oppressive, seeping into everything. But Olivia stops looking at you like you’re a brick wall she’s determined to knock down.

Now, it’s something else. Now, it’s like she’s circling—measuring—trying to figure out what’s beneath the surface and, more importantly, why it bothers her that she doesn’t already know. Like not being able to read you is a flaw in her otherwise flawless instincts.

You don’t make it easy. You’re still guarded, still clipped in your language and unapologetic in your choices. But there’s a shift. A ripple.

It happens during an afternoon that blends into every other—gray sky, lukewarm coffee, the scent of printer toner and stress. There’s too much paperwork and not enough manpower. Olivia’s been in and out of her office all day, splitting her time between chasing down a witness and fielding press inquiries.

There’s the a kid. She’s sitting at the far end of the bullpen, legs dangling, wrapped in a coat two sizes too small. Her shoes are scuffed and her socks don’t match—one purple with stars, the other plain white and bunched at the ankle. She looks barely ten. All knees and elbows, sleeves frayed from nervous fingers. She clutches a half-empty juice box like it’s the only thing anchoring her.

She’s waiting for her mother, who’s still with Amanda, finishing up the stack of forms required to even begin a case. You pass by once—glance. Pass again. Then something tugs at you. You double back. No drama. No big declarations. You crouch beside her, your coat creasing at the knees, and hold out a bag of m & m’s you’d stashed in your jacket earlier. “You look like you could use something sweeter.”

She eyes you with wide, uncertain eyes—silent. You don’t push. Just hold the bag out patiently. After a beat, she reaches out and takes it. Not with trust, but with the quiet, learned caution of someone who’s had to grow up faster than she should.

You don’t say anything else. Just sit beside her, careful not to crowd. From your pocket, you pull a pen and start drawing something on your palm—deliberate strokes. After a few seconds, you tilt your hand toward her, revealing a lopsided cartoon ghost with big eyes and a surprised mouth.

She leans over slightly, curiosity edging past fear. You wiggle your fingers. The ghost “waves.” It’s barely there, but it’s real—a tug at the corners of her mouth. A tiny, tired smile. The kind you don’t chase. The kind that just… happens, if you’re lucky.

You pat her knee gently and stand, already halfway back to your sanctioned desk before she even considers opening the bag. You don’t notice Olivia watching. But she saw everything.

She’d stepped out of the break room mid-conversation with Fin, coffee in hand, expression unreadable. She spotted you crouching beside the girl, and her voice had trailed off. Fin kept talking, but Olivia didn’t respond. Just stood there in the doorway, eyes fixed on the quiet, unspoken moment between you and the child.

She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t approach. Just watches. Thoughtfully. Like maybe—for the first time—she sees something she truly wasn’t expecting. Later, hours after the girl and her mother have gone and the bullpen has emptied into tired footsteps and quiet key taps, she brings it up. No lead-in. No preamble. “You’re good with kids.”

You don’t look up from your laptop screen. “I’m good with people who’ve survived the worst day of their lives. Whether they’re ten or forty-five doesn’t matter.”

There’s a pause. You feel her watching again—measuring like she always does, but softer this time. “That’s not in the manual,” she says quietly.

You glance at her now, finally. “Neither is how to deal with you, Benson. And yet here we are.”

She almost smiles. Almost. But doesn’t. Still, something in her expression changes—just slightly. The way she looks at you holds… interest. Curiosity. Respect, maybe. But mostly, it lingers. Like the moment stuck to her ribs a little more than she expected it to. And when she finally walks away, the space she leaves behind doesn’t feel the same. Not colder. Not distant. Just… different. And you’re not entirely sure that’s a bad thing.

It happens again two days later. The precinct at night is a strange limbo. Half the squad’s gone, the rest typing quietly or nursing lukewarm coffee. You’re behind the desk again half-buried in files for the upcoming trial, why you honestly couldn’t answer. You technically had an office available to use….Olivia’s been circling you all day—not physically, but in the way she glances over when she thinks you’re not looking.

The tension between you has cooled to something simmering. No longer combative. Just uncertain. Then the call comes through. A clerk buzzes the desks direct line. “ Counselor, there’s someone downstairs asking for you. Said it was urgent. They wouldn’t give a name.”

You frown. “Send them up.” You don’t think much of it—probably a detective dropping off paperwork, maybe a defense attorney trying to get cute by tracking you down here. But when the elevator dings and the doors slide open, the blood drains from your face.

Because standing there, in his dress blues, is your father. Retired NYPD. Former commanding officer in Queens. And the reason you left your last post in Brooklyn in the first place. The same man who made it clear that you were never the kind of daughter he wanted.

He looks the same—rigid posture, gritted jaw, shoes so polished you could see your own reflection in them if you weren’t already focused on keeping yourself from reacting. He doesn’t wait for an invitation. “Still chasing headlines, huh?” he says as he walks in. “Thought you’d have burned out by now.”

You don’t answer. You just shut the file slowly and stand. “What do you want?”

“I came to say congratulations,” he says mockingly. “Your brother mentioned you got assigned to SVU. Thought I’d see if the stories were true.”

“They are,” comes Olivia’s voice from across the room. You hadn’t realized she was watching from the hallway.

Your father turns to her with a tight-lipped smirk. “Captain Benson. I’ve heard about you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” she says coolly. The air between them sours quickly.

“She’s one of the best we’ve got,” Olivia adds, nodding toward you. “Hard to rattle. Harder to beat in court. That’s why she’s here.”

He chuckles, low and bitter. “Yeah, well. Toughness isn’t the same thing as loyalty.”

Your jaw clenches. “Is this necessary right now.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen enough.” He looks at Olivia again. “Good luck keeping this one in line. She always had a habit of mistaking disobedience for independence.” He walks out before you can respond. The elevator swallows him whole, just like it did the last time he walked out of your life.

You turn back to your desk, trying to focus on the file in front of you. But your hands are trembling. You hadn’t expected him. Not here. Not now. And definitely not her witnessing it. You don’t realize Olivia’s still standing in the doorway until she speaks again—quietly. “I didn’t know.”

You shake your head. “No one does. Carisi’s the only one who ever met him. Once. It didn’t go over very well.”

“What happened?” she asks, softer now.

You shrug, staring down at the file like it can save you. “He didn’t like the way I used my voice. Or my brain. He wanted a daughter who smiled and nodded. Not one who cross-examined him at thirteen. Carisi didn’t help”

Olivia steps closer. Carefully. Like she’s not sure how close is too close yet. “You don’t seem like a person to just bury things,” she says.

You laugh once, bitter. “It’s the only way I made it through. Law school. My childhood. Him.” She doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then—like she was connecting pieces of a puzzle splayed in front of her “That case with the girl in the cab. You didn’t push back because you didn’t care.” You glance at her.

“You pushed back because if the case cracked under pressure, you’d carry that failure,” she says. “Just like you’ve carried everything else.” You hate that she sees it. Hate it even more that it’s accurate.

You chuckled bitterly “I’ve never had the luxury of failure.”

Her eyes soften just a fraction. “Me neither.”

For a long moment, you both just stand there. No war between you. No battleground. Just two people who’ve built their lives around control, finally seeing the fractures in each other. And Olivia? She doesn’t look at you with interest anymore. She looks like she understands. Like maybe—just maybe—she wishes she’d understood sooner.

——————————————————

It’s been five days since your father showed up, you stopped working out of the precinct due to absolute embarrassment over what transpired, and Olivia hasn’t brought it up once. But she’s also stopped sending her detectives to drop off paperwork. At first, you figured it was coincidence—just an efficient captain handling her own files. But then it kept happening. A delivery here, an update there. Sometimes just a copy of a transcript she could’ve easily emailed.

Now, it’s become something of a pattern. She shows up in your office unannounced just after five, holding a small folder and a paper coffee cup. You raise an eyebrow. “Delivering messages personally again?”

She smirks faintly. “My squad’s busy.”

“They’re always busy.”

“And I like the walk,” she says simply, stepping inside.

You watch her a beat too long. “You know there’s a whole department of runners for this.”

“I know.” She sets the folder on your desk, takes the seat across from you. “Besides, it gives me a chance to check in. See if you’ve set any more precinct records for most interdepartmental complaints in a single week.”

You snort. “That was one time, and he called the victim ‘sweetheart.’ I regret absolutely nothing.” Olivia actually smiles. Not just the polite press of lips she usually offers in court—but something real. Quiet. Like maybe she’s stopped expecting you to explode every time she enters a room.

You reach for the folder. “This the latest from the Victim Support counselor?”

She nods. “She flagged something about the younger sister being afraid to sleep. Possible secondary trauma.”

You flip through the report. “I’ll reach out. Maybe get her a direct line to our social worker in the ADA’s office. Someone not wearing a badge.”

Olivia nods, then hesitates. You glance up. “What?”

“Carisi called this morning,” she says slowly. “Said the DA’s office is extending your placement with us.”

You blink. “He didn’t tell you?”

She shakes her head. “No. Apparently it’s due to ‘unforeseen administrative complications.’ Whatever the hell that means.”

You sigh and sit back in your chair. “He mentioned something about Albany stonewalling a few policy changes. Didn’t give me much else, and I didn’t push.”

“Huh.” You both go quiet. It’s not awkward—just still. A shared pause neither of you feels the need to rush through. You sip from your now-cold coffee and glance at her over the rim. “If you’re looking to get rid of me, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she replies, but there’s no heat behind it. Only the faintest trace of something else. Interest. She leans forward after a beat. “I looked into your father.” That catches you off guard.

“Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t snooping,” she adds quickly. “I just… I recognized the name. Went through a few archived cases. His record’s spotless. Commendations. Arrests. Seems like he was—”

“An excellent cop,” you finish for her, a humorless smile tugging at your mouth. “Yeah. That wasn’t the problem.” Olivia stays quiet. Waiting.

You exhale slowly. Fold your hands. “My mother was killed in a carjacking when I was seven. Random. Wrong place, wrong time.” Olivia doesn’t speak. Her eyes are locked on yours—calm, open.

You continue, your voice tight but steady. “My father was already losing himself to the job, even before that. After she died… he just disappeared. Not physically. Just—emotionally. Completely. He went from being cold to nonexistent.” You look away for a second, then back at her.

“He kept the house, but we were on our own. Cooked my own meals, applied to college by myself, signed my own permission slips until I graduated. He made sure the lights stayed on, but that’s it.”

Another beat. “I think part of him died with her. The rest turned into a badge and a bottle.” Olivia’s expression doesn’t shift much, but her hands tighten where they rest on her knees.

“He ever hurt you?” she asks quietly.

You shake your head. “Not in a way that leaves marks.” That hangs there between you. Heavy. “You remind me of him, you know,” you say, more gently than expected. “Or at least the cop he used to be. Always watching. Always carrying it. Always trying to outwork the damage.”

Olivia looks at you for a long moment. Something in her chest rises and falls more deeply than before. “I’m sorry,” she says.

You shrug. “Don’t be. It made me who I am.”

She tilts her head. “Which part?”

You meet her eyes. “The part that doesn’t flinch anymore.” Another pause.

“I don’t believe that,” she says softly. “I think you flinch all the time. You just don’t let anyone see it.” You don’t answer, because she’s right. She stands slowly, smoothing out her jacket. But she doesn’t move to leave just yet.

“You know,” she says, voice quieter now, “you don’t have to keep proving how untouchable you are. Not to me.” You look up at her, and for once, let her see something unguarded in your expression.

“I don’t know how to be anything else.” Olivia’s gaze lingers for a beat—warm, but weighted.

“I think you do,” she replies. “You just forgot.” She walks out a moment later, and this time… you wish she hadn’t.

The call comes in just after 6 a.m. By the time you get to the precinct, Olivia is already there—shoulders tense, jaw locked, eyes trained on the briefing room like the whole building might collapse if she looks away.

She doesn’t greet you. Just gestures you in with a tilt of her head. Inside, Fin and Amanda are seated at the table. A uniformed officer stands by the whiteboard, flipping through a few handwritten notes. The case file is thick. “Walk me through it,” you say, sliding into the chair across from Olivia.

Fin starts. “Fourteen-year-old girl, Jessa Monroe, found at the bottom of a tenement stairwell in the Lower East Side. Multiple fractures, two black eyes, defensive wounds. She’s alive, but barely. She was conscious for a minute when the first unit arrived—said, ‘He pushed me.’ Then passed out.”

“She’s in a coma now,” Olivia adds. “No sign of forced entry, no surveillance footage from inside the building.”

“She live there?” you ask.

Amanda nods. “Third floor. With her stepfather and younger half-brother.”

Your fingers drum against the table. “Biological mother?”

“Deceased,” Fin says. “Died of an overdose when Jessa was ten. Stepdad’s had legal custody since.”

“And where was he when this happened?”

Olivia’s voice is flat. “He says he was out picking up groceries. Left the kids alone for half an hour.”

Your eyes lift. “And do we believe that?”

“I believe she said ‘He pushed me’ for a reason.” You exhale through your nose. Something sharp coils in your chest. You glance at the folder in front of you, then back at Olivia.

“How much history do we have on him?”

Amanda flips a page. “Minor priors. DUI, resisting once about ten years ago. Nothing recent. CPS has visited the home twice in the last year, but no official action taken.”

“And the little brother?”

“Eight,” Olivia says. “He was there. Says he didn’t see anything. Just heard yelling, then a thud.” You feel your gut tighten. You’ve seen this case before. Not this exact one, but versions of it.

Girls shoved down stairs, pushed over balconies, into silence. Evidence that only suggests guilt but never lands hard enough to make a jury care. These are the cases that haunt you, the ones that test the line between justice and law.

Olivia catches your expression. “You okay?”

You nod once. “I just hate this case already.”

By mid-afternoon, you’re back in the interrogation room, watching through the two-way mirror as Olivia questions the stepfather. He’s calm. Too calm. Hands folded. Voice smooth. Keeps using Jessa’s name like it’s currency. “I would never hurt her,” he says, over and over. “She’s my daughter.”

“She’s your stepdaughter,” Olivia corrects. “And she was terrified of you.”

He flinches—but just barely. “Kids exaggerate,” he says. “She’s emotional. Always has been.”

You feel your hands curl into fists at your sides. Outside the glass you stood observing, Olivia glances over her shoulder at you—like she feels it too. The wrongness. Afterward, she finds you back in your office. “We don’t have enough,” she says.

“I know.”

“I hate this part.”

You nod. “Me too.” There’s silence for a beat. Then she asks it, voice quieter now

“You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”

You glance at her. Then away. “Yeah. I prosecuted a similar case three years ago. Same setup. Step-parent. Girl was eleven. Nobody believed her. Not until it was too late.”

“What happened?”

You exhale. “She was found in a crawl space under the floorboards.” Olivia flinches.

“She lasted four days,” you add. “They’d called it a runaway. By the time they looked deeper, she was gone.” Olivia doesn’t say anything.

Eventually, you speak again—this time softer, not to fill the silence, but because it hurts to leave it there. “You think being in this job makes you numb. But it doesn’t. It just makes you quiet about what it breaks.”

She steps forward slowly, arms still folded. “I don’t think you’re numb.”

You look at her. “I think you’ve just had to pretend longer than most of us.” You want to scoff, say something sharp—something to build the wall back up. But instead, you say nothing.

Because she’s right again, and you’re tired of pretending she’s not. That night, as you walk out of the building together, neither of you says a word. But Olivia keeps glancing at you. Not like she’s watching your steps. Like she’s watching your cracks. And you? You don’t hate it as much as you should.

You wake up before your alarm—again. It’s becoming a pattern. The apartment is still dim, touched only by the early gray light leaking through your curtains. The air is cold against your skin as you swing your legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a moment, elbows on your knees, trying to gather the pieces of yourself that never quite rest.

You shower. Dress in practiced movements. Coffee brews while you review emails on your phone, already anticipating the day ahead. There’s always a backlog, always another victim waiting, always a clock ticking somewhere in the background.

You make it into the office earlier than usual—earlier than most. The halls are still quiet, only a few staff members and a bleary-eyed intern at their desks. You nod at the desk attendant without stopping, coffee in hand and a folder tucked under your arm. Your office is just how you left it, papers stacked neatly, whiteboard half-filled with notes, and the scent of aging case files lingering like dust in the corners.

You take a seat, the leather chair groaning beneath you as you power on your screen. The hours before lunch pass in a blur of red pen, witness statements, and strategic annotations. You’re halfway through a supplemental witness list for a different case—something low-priority but still heavy when there’s a knock on your door.

Except Olivia doesn’t wait for you to answer. She walks in like she belongs there, which—by now—she does. There’s a rhythm between the two of you now, a quiet understanding built on friction and fragments of trust. She doesn’t waste time.

“He’s talking,” she says.

Your posture straightens. “The kid?”

She nods. “Fin’s with him now. Amanda says he’s scared, but he asked if we could get the bad man out of the house.”

Your chest tightens—not professionally, not clinically, but in that place you try to keep separate. The one that knots itself every time a child’s voice has to carry more weight than it should. “We’re recording?” you ask.

“Every word.”

You’re already moving. By the time you reach the observation room, there’s a hum in the air—activity without chaos. Olivia walks beside you, silent but present. She doesn’t need to say anything. The fact that she came to you first says enough.

Through the glass, you see him—Nico. He’s sitting in the interview chair, legs too short to reach the floor, so they swing in slow, nervous arcs. One hand is curled tightly around a stuffed rabbit that looks like it’s seen better days—ears worn, stitching loose at the neck. His other hand rests uncertainly on the table in front of him.

Fin sits across from him, calm and steady, hands folded on the table. No pressure. No raised voice. Just patience. Nico’s voice is barely audible through the speaker, soft and brittle as he talks about the man in the house. The way he yells. The way he touches things he shouldn’t. The way Nico learned to make himself small. Unnoticeable.

He keeps glancing at the mirror. He doesn’t know it’s glass. Doesn’t know you’re there, or maybe he does in the way kids sometimes just know. You don’t speak. You don’t move. Just watch.

Olivia watches, too, arms crossed over her chest, jaw tight but unreadable. She doesn’t blink much. You wonder if she’s holding her breath, the same way you are.

“He asked Amanda if he’d get in trouble for telling,” Olivia says quietly beside you. “She told him the bravest thing a person can do is say the truth out loud.”

You nod once, eyes still on the boy. “She’s right.” You don’t say the rest, that sometimes telling the truth doesn’t feel brave. Sometimes it feels like reopening a wound with your bare hands and waiting to see if anyone will stop the bleeding.

Nico keeps talking. “He was yelling,” Nico says. “I heard him tell her she was bad. That she was making him mad again. She cried. I told her not to yell back, but she did.”

Fin’s voice is low, patient. “Then what happened, buddy?”

There’s a long pause. Nico hugs the rabbit tighter. “Daddy pushed her.” The words hang in the air like a slow-motion punch.

“I heard her scream,” he says, quieter now. “Then nothing.” You close your eyes. Olivia’s standing right next to you, arms folded, jaw tight—but her eyes shine with something deeper. Grief. Rage. Resignation.

You don’t say a word. The warrant for the stepfather’s arrest is signed within the hour. The squad moves quickly—Fin and Amanda lead the charge, and Olivia oversees every inch of it. You’re back at your desk, prepping charges and anticipating the usual tricks defense will try.

But your mind is somewhere else. It’s on Nico. On Jessa. On a justice system that only listens when the scars are loud enough. By 6 p.m., the squad is back. The stepfather’s in holding, expression blank and unbothered. He doesn’t ask for a lawyer right away. He just stares at the table, like none of this is real.

You don’t want to be in the room with him. So you go to Olivia’s office instead. She’s seated at her desk, but not working. Just staring at a file that hasn’t been opened. When you knock, she doesn’t flinch—she just waves you in without a word.

You close the door behind you. “You okay?”

“No.”

You nod. “Same.” Silence.

Then—“He confessed. After we showed him the boy’s statement.”

You sink into the chair across from her. “What’d he say?”

“That she was ‘too much.’ That she kept challenging him. That she didn’t know how to be grateful.”

You swallow hard. “Like it was her fault.”

She nods. “Like it always is.”

Your fingers tap the edge of her desk, restlessly. “There’s no making this one okay.”

“No,” she says. “But at least she gets to wake up one day knowing he’s gone.”

You exhale. “If she wakes up.” That silence hurts worse than anything else. You glance at her. “You ever think you picked the wrong path?”

Olivia’s eyebrows lift, faintly. “This job. These cases. The uphill climb every damn day. Some days it feels like we’re just patching holes in a sinking ship.”

She studies you for a moment. Then she says, almost too softly: “Yeah. I think about it a lot.” Your throat tightens. You don’t expect the next thing you say, but it slips out anyway.

“My mom was kind. Strong. And the only reason I survived childhood with him.”

Olivia watches you closely. “She died because someone wanted her car and didn’t want witnesses,” you say. “And my father used that as an excuse to shut down. To be a shell of a man who couldn’t even look at me without seeing her.” You take a breath.

“I got into this work because I wanted to make sure somebody was still fighting for people like her. But lately… I don’t know.”

“You feel like you’re losing ground,” she finishes. You nod. There’s a pause before Olivia speaks again, and when she does, her voice is different—softer, but unwavering.

“You’re not.” You meet her gaze.

“You didn’t save Jessa before he pushed her,” she says, “but you’re going to make sure he never does it to another girl again. That’s something.”

“Is it enough?”

“No,” she admits. “But it’s what we’ve got.” Another long pause. “You don’t have to carry it all yourself, you know,” she adds.

You look at her. Really look. “Neither do you.” For a second, the air between you shifts. All the sarcasm, the tension, the snide remarks and pride and cynicism—it’s still there. But quieter now. Muted by something heavier.

Respect.

Grief.

Need.

Olivia clears her throat and sits up straighter. “I’ve got one more statement to review tonight. Want to stick around?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You asking for company?”

“I’m asking if you’re done pretending this doesn’t affect you.” You pause. Then rise to your feet.

“I’ll stay,” you say. And you do.

——————————————————

It starts the same way it did with you. The first time, you bring the case file over yourself because your assistant’s out sick and you don’t trust the new temp not to drop it off with the wrong squad. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. You walk the file down the hall, knock on Olivia’s office door, and hand it over.

She lifts a brow. “You lost your sarcasm too or just your assistant?”

You smirk. “I figured if you can do it, so can I.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Careful counselor. You’re starting to blend in.” You leave before the warmth in your chest can do anything foolish. The next week, you do it again. No reason. Just… do.

By the third week, it’s a rhythm. You swing by with updates. Sometimes you don’t even knock anymore. Just walk in, drop the folder, exchange a look. Maybe a joke. Maybe not. Sometimes she’s already waiting with a folder of her own, like she anticipated you.

Neither of you comments on it. You just keep showing up. Until one afternoon, when you walk in and she’s sitting at her desk with two paper bags and a water bottle balanced precariously on top of her paperwork.

She doesn’t look up when she says, “If you’re going to keep bringing me files, the least you can do is stay for lunch.”

You blink. “I—what?”

She finally looks at you, calm as ever. “Salad or sandwich?”

You hesitate, then close the door behind you. “Sandwich.”

She pushes a bag across the desk without missing a beat. “Didn’t take you for a hand held food kind of person.”

“You took a guess on my eating habits?”

She shrugs. You pull out the sandwich. It’s exactly what you would’ve ordered. Neither of you says a word for a while. You just eat in comfortable silence, papers spread between you, the city moving on without either of you noticing. It becomes another thing. Not every day. But most.

Lunch together. Sometimes at her desk, sometimes at yours. Sometimes in the back booth of a quiet café a few blocks away where no one asks for autographs or testimony. It’s not flirtation. Not really. It’s something quieter. Slower. Heavier. A trust that’s grown legs and started walking on its own.

Fin notices first. You’re standing at Olivia’s desk with a coffee in one hand and a case folder in the other when he strolls by, sipping from his own cup like he’s minding his business. He gives Olivia a look—pointed, amused.

“What?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Just nice seeing you smile again. Usually it takes a perp in cuffs or a finished trial to do that.”

Olivia glares at him. “It’s lunch.”

“Mm-hm.” He walks away without saying more, but you don’t miss the grin he hides behind his cup.

Olivia huffs. “Ignore him.” You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. Your smirk says enough. Later that week, you’re sitting across from her again, both of you working through a joint case file, when she looks up—softly, almost like she’s thinking out loud.

“You’re different now.”

You glance at her. “Than when I got here?”

She nods. You take a beat before answering. “You are too.”

She watches you. “Not sure I’ve changed much.”

“You’ve let me in ” you say simply. That silence again—thick but not heavy.

Then Olivia exhales a laugh under her breath. “People like us don’t just let someone in. We wear each other down.”

You tilt your head. “You think that’s what this is? Wearing down?” Her eyes flick to yours.

“No,” she says. “Id hope it’s something else.” You don’t press her. But when your fingers brush as you both reach for the same folder, neither of you pulls away.

The day starts quiet, too quiet. You’ve been working the serial assault case with Olivia for the past week—long enough for it to start clawing under your skin. A man targeting women walking alone at night, sticking to a tight ten-block radius.

Always the same profile, women late twenties to early forties, just a few blocks from home. He’s methodical. Smart. He leaves no prints, no DNA. Just trauma and the echo of fear. So far, he’s a ghost.

But this morning, there’s movement. A woman calls in—a potential witness. Claims she saw someone tailing a woman on her street two nights ago, hiding in the shadows.

She hadn’t come forward before. Said she was too scared. Thought maybe she’d imagined it. But after seeing a story in the local paper—an article naming the string of attacks—she couldn’t stay quiet anymore. She lives within the ten-block radius.

When Olivia asks you to come with her, she doesn’t explain why. You’re not technically needed—this isn’t an interview or an interrogation. It’s groundwork. The kind of thing a detective handles without involving the ADA.

But you don’t question it. You just grab your coat and follow her to the car. The drive is quiet. She’s focused, but not cold. You can tell she’s been here before—in the lull before the break, the quiet before the chaos. She keeps glancing in the rearview mirror, scanning her surroundings like she’s not just driving, but watching.

You don’t ask why. Not yet. The woman lives on the fourth floor of an old walk-up. The apartment smells like smoke and old carpet, and the radiator ticks with every breath of heat it tries to push through. She’s nervous, pale, and clearly still shaken.

Olivia talks to her gently—doesn’t crowd her, doesn’t push. She coaxes the details out slowly. The woman recalls seeing a man loitering in the alley across from her building, watching a neighbor walk by.

She says he didn’t move. Didn’t light a cigarette. Didn’t scroll on his phone like someone passing time. Just stood there. Still. Intent. He was wearing a hat. A dark jacket. Gloves. She didn’t see his face, but something about the way he stood gave her chills.

You take notes quietly, watching from the side of the room. Olivia kneels down beside the witness as she speaks, level with her on the old couch. Her voice softens, her presence steady. And once again, you feel that tug in your chest—that strange, quiet awe at how she becomes something else in these moments. Something unshakable.

You’re halfway down the steps after the interview when Olivia suddenly freezes mid-stride. Her hand shoots out, stopping you before your next step. “What?” you ask.

She doesn’t answer—just shifts her gaze across the street. You follow her line of sight. There’s a man standing on the corner, one hand braced on the brick wall of a laundromat. He’s not doing anything. Not smoking. Not texting. Just… standing there.

Watching the building and now watching you. His eyes meet yours—and he turns sharply, walking away with purpose. Olivia’s voice drops to a whisper, all steel. “I think that’s him.”

“Wait, what?” You blink, heart rate kicking up.

She doesn’t hesitate. “Come on.” You’re barely back in the car before Olivia throws it into gear, pulling out just as the man rounds the corner.

She’s driving fast, but not reckless—just with the precision of someone who’s done this too many times. “Why the hell would he be here?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level.

“Because she wasn’t the only one who read the article,” Olivia says, jaw clenched. “If he saw his pattern exposed, he might’ve come to see who talked.” The thought makes your stomach turn.

“He was watching the building,” she adds. “Waiting to see who came out.”

You glance behind you, adrenaline spiking. “So he was tracking us?”

“He was tracking her,�� she corrects. “You and me being there just pushed the clock.”

He turns down an alley off 12th, disappearing between two buildings. Olivia slams the SUV into park without a word. “I’m going after him.”

“I’m coming with you—”

“No.” She’s already half out the door. “If he sees you, he’ll bolt.”

“Liv—”

“Just give me two minutes.” And then she’s gone. You sit in the car, heart pounding, hands clenched. You hate this. Hate the waiting. Hate the knowledge that she’s chasing someone dangerous while you’re stuck here, sidelined.

Every instinct in you wants to follow, call fin, do something. But she asked for two minutes. So you give her that. Three minutes pass. Then four. The longest seven minutes of your life tick by before she bursts back into view, breathless, fury burning in her eyes.

Blood on her knuckles.

Scrape on her temple.

“He ran,” she pants, slamming the door shut. “I clipped him—cornered him against the wall. He fought dirty. Scaled a fire escape before I could cuff him. Patrol’s sweeping the block.”

You stare at her, chest tight. “You went after him alone.”

“I told you to stay in the car.”

“I’m not one of your rookies.”

“No,” she snaps, whirling on you. “You’re the ADA who didn’t see the guy watching you from thirty feet away.” Silence. You feel the weight of it settle like lead in your chest.

Her hands are shaking now. Not from the fight. Not from the adrenaline. “You think he was really there for the witness?” you ask softly.

“I think he wanted to see who was working the case,” she says, quieter now. “And I think if he got a clean look at you, walking alone out of that building… we’d be handling this from a whole different angle.”

You sit back in your seat. The cold from the leather seeps through your coat. “Why didn’t you tell me that was a risk?” you ask, voice low.

“Because I didn’t want to scare you.”

You glance over at her. “You think I scare easy?”

“No.” She breathes out, softer this time. “I think I care too damn much.” That undoes something in you. For a second, neither of you speak.

She leans back, rubbing her scraped knuckles with the edge of her coat sleeve, then mutters, “You don’t make it easy.”

You huff out a quiet breath. “Neither do you.”

“I meant what I said.” Her voice steadies. “I don’t know how to not care about you.” You look at her fully now, heart hammering in your chest. No games. No posturing. Just her—raw and real in the driver’s seat beside you.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you say finally, voice barely audible. She turns, eyes locking with yours. And this time, there’s nothing in the way. Not sarcasm. Not fear. Not pride, just you and her. In this car. In this truth.

Her voice drops, barely a whisper. “Good.” And for the first time all day, the silence between you feels like something you can breathe in, like it’s finally safe to hope.

The next morning, the precinct feels different. It’s subtle—like someone shifted everything half an inch to the left. No one else notices, of course. Not Fin. Not Amanda. Not the kid behind the desk trying to staple six pages in reverse order. But you do.

And so does Olivia. She doesn’t look at you when you walk in. Not immediately. Just keeps her eyes on the case board, one hand perched on her hip, a mug of coffee in the other like it’s the only thing grounding her.

“Morning,” you offer, voice calm. Controlled.

She looks up slowly. Nods. “Morning.”

No smirk. No glare. Just that look. The one you’ve been trading back and forth for weeks now—only now it’s heavier. Realer. You both let something out of the cage last night, and neither of you knows how to shove it back in.

You drop a file on her desk, fingertips brushing the edge like it might burn. “Here’s the DA’s final charge recommendations for the stalker. He signed off on attempted murder and felony assault. Jury’s going to want blood.”

“They’ll get it,” Olivia replies. And for a moment, that’s all you say.

Until Fin walks by, throws a quick glance between the two of you, and mutters under his breath, “You two finally figure it out yet, or should we all start a betting pool?”

You shoot him a warning look. Olivia glares harder. He just smirks and keeps walking. By lunchtime, you’re back in your office, pretending the same sandwich you’ve eaten for three days in a row still has taste. There’s a knock on the door—gentle, careful.

You know it’s her. She steps inside, coffee in hand, hesitating for once. “Do you have five minutes?”

You gesture to the chair across from you. “For you? Always.” That lands with a soft thud between you. Olivia closes the door.

“You okay?” you ask, and this time it’s different. You mean it differently.

She nods. “Are you?”

You hesitate. Then: “No. Not really.”

Her brows knit slightly. “Because of yesterday?” You nod.

“Because you were in danger?”

You shake your head. “Because you told me you care.” She goes still.

“And because I wasn’t surprised,” you add. “Because I already knew. I just didn’t want to admit what it meant.”

Olivia sinks into the chair, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “This job doesn’t make room for… whatever this is.”

You study her. “And yet you keep bringing me lunch.” She almost smiles.

You lean back, letting out a breath. “I don’t know what to do with it either. But I know it’s not nothing.”

“I don’t want to pretend it is,” she admits. “But I don’t want it to ruin everything, either.”

“It won’t,” you say, quieter now. “Unless we lie about it.” The silence stretches again—but it feels different this time. Less like avoidance. More like standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down, knowing the other person is right beside you.

“You said it,” you murmur. “I felt it. And now nothing feels the same.”

Olivia meets your gaze. “What if that’s okay?” You stare at her. She stares back. And for once, neither of you looks away.

You both decide to not eat lunch separately, you don’t talk about the case. You don’t talk about Carisi, or the DA, or the man still sitting in a holding cell waiting for trial. You just sit across from Olivia, in the same booth you’ve randomly found comfort in for weeks now. Two meals. Two drinks. One table with something unspoken finally breathing between you. You’re not exactly sure what to call it just yet.

It’s another late evening, The kind of late where the city hums quieter and the precinct feels like a skeleton of itself—bare-bones and echoing. Olivia’s still in her office when you drop off the finalized court schedule. She doesn’t hear you approach, too focused on the open file in front of her.

You knock gently on the frame. Her head lifts. “Hey.”

You step inside. “Do you ever go home?”

She shrugs. “Do you?”

You offer a small smile. “Touché.”

You place the folder on her desk, but you don’t back away. She doesn’t tell you to. There’s nothing formal about the way you’re standing there, just… present. She leans back in her chair and exhales, scrubbing a hand through her hair.

“I should get some sleep,” she mutters, not moving an inch.

“Yeah. Me too.” But neither of you makes a move. The quiet between you isn’t awkward anymore. It’s waiting.

Eventually, she nods toward the empty chair across from her. “Sit.”

You do. For a moment, you don’t say anything. Just study her in the dim office light—tired eyes, sleeves rolled up, a pen tucked behind one ear like she forgot it was there. “You’re still carrying yesterday,” you say softly.

“So are you.”

You nod. “I don’t think I know how not to.”

Olivia leans forward, her elbows on her knees, hands clasped. “I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if he had turned around. If he’d seen you.”

You pause. “But he didn’t.”

“I know.” Her voice is low, threaded with something heavier. “But it’s like… that moment doesn’t leave me. I keep picturing it.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you stand. Walk around the desk. Stop just beside her. She looks up.

You say nothing.

Neither does she.

But her eyes soften—unspoken and knowing—and it pulls something out of you that you didn’t realize was already halfway there. You lean down slowly. Not cautiously, not calculated. Just drawn. And when your lips meet hers, it’s quiet. No crash. No dramatic pause.

Just contact. Warm and natural and so obviously overdue that it feels like exhaling after holding your breath for months. She doesn’t pull away. You do—just barely, after a few seconds—eyes wide, stunned at yourself.

“I—” you start, already regretting the impulse. “I’m sorry, I—”

She doesn’t let go, doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t give you the space to backpedal. She just rises out of her chair, closing the small gap, and kisses you again—deeper this time, like it’s not a surprise at all. Like she’s been waiting for this as long as you have.

There’s no apology in it, only intention. When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests gently against yours. Neither of you speaks for a long time.

Then, Olivia whispers “I’m not sorry.” You breathe out, barely a sound.

“Me neither.” And just like that… it’s real.

Not a maybe. Not a hypothetical. But you and her. Here. Now.

Finally.

——————————————————————

It’s been two weeks and not much has changed. Another file. Another sandwich. Another unspoken excuse to see her. Now that you’ve stopped pretending it’s just about work. The paperwork still gets delivered. The case briefs still get signed. But the pauses are longer now. The glances heavier. And the way Olivia watches you when you walk into her office?

Yeah. It’s not professional anymore. Today, it’s you bringing her lunch. A real one. Not something from the vending machine. You even remembered how she takes her iced tea—light lemon, barely any sugar. She raises an eyebrow when you set it on her desk.

“You’re making the rest of the department look bad.”

You shrug. “Good. Let them rise to the occasion.”

She smirks. “Smug looks good on you.”

You sit in the chair across from her while she unwraps the sandwich. For a few minutes, it’s just quiet eating and casual conversation—banter, clipped sarcasm, and the kind of comfort that sneaks up on people who’ve stopped trying to fight it.

You’re halfway to standing when you say, “Alright. I’ve got a motion hearing to prep. I’ll stop by after court—” But before you can take a step toward the door, Olivia reaches out and gently grabs your wrist. You pause, she doesn’t say anything. Just stands, closes the space between you, and kisses you.

It’s soft. Intentional. No hesitation. You kiss her back—instinctively, completely and forget for one stupid, perfect moment that the world exists outside this office. The door, apparently, does not. Because it opens without warning. “Liv, you got a sec—?”

Carisi’s voice cuts off mid-sentence. You and Olivia freeze. Still close. Still caught. Still visibly not doing anything that two coworkers should be doing in the middle of a precinct. He stops just inside the door, staring with raised brows and a look that says so many things, none of which you are emotionally prepared to address right now. He blinks. Then grins. “Well, well.”

You rub the back of your neck, suddenly aware of how warm your face feels. “You’re back—”

“Flight landed an hour ago,” he says casually. “Thought I’d stop by and see how my favorite ADA’s been holding up, you weren’t at the office…..”

“I’ve been—fine.”

“Clearly,” he deadpans, eyes flicking between you and Olivia with far too much delight.

Olivia, however, does not flinch. She simply picks up her sandwich again like she wasn’t just kissing you five seconds ago. “You’re late,” she tells Carisi flatly.

“I wasn’t expected,” he fires back, smug as ever.

“Exactly,” she mutters, taking a bite.

You stare at the ceiling. “I hate both of you.”

“You say that,” Carisi says, gesturing to the sandwich bag in your hand, “but I see you brought her lunch. That’s not hate, my friend. That’s peak domestic behavior.”

Olivia smirks. “I’m a catch.”

Carisi nods. “No arguments there.” You’re halfway to walking out in embarrassment when Olivia’s voice stops you again. “Hey.”

You turn back. She doesn’t say anything—just gives you a look. One that says don’t overthink it. One that says I’ll see you later.

And you nod.

The rest of the day is a blur of court filings, backlogged paperwork, and mild emotional whiplash from Carisi’s smirk permanently burned into your memory. You think you’ve avoided the worst of it—until he corners you outside the courthouse, leaning casually against the railing like he’s been waiting just long enough to be annoying.

“Nice form,” he says.

You don’t break stride. “Go away.”

He falls into step beside you. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen worse kiss interruptions. You could’ve been caught by a uniform. Or Fin. Hell, even Rollins. Olivia probably would’ve had to file a report.”

“You want a report?” you mutter. “Fine. It was a kiss. It happened. Now it’s un-happening because you walked in like a sitcom uncle.”

Carisi just laughs. “Look, I’m not mad. I’m impressed. You and Liv? That’s like two tectonic plates finally giving in.”

You pause on the courthouse steps, turning toward him. “Don’t get used to it. It’s not a thing.”

He gives you a look. “Sure it’s not.”

“It’s not,” you insist, then immediately cringe. “Okay, maybe it’s a thing. But it’s new. And delicate. And none of your damn business bone head.”

He raises both hands. “Fine, fine. No questions. No commentary.” You start to walk away.

“Just one thing,” Carisi calls after you, his voice carrying that familiar, maddening note of knowing something you don’t. You stop but don’t turn around. Not yet.

“She’s not as guarded as she used to be, you know,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not a grenade he’s just casually lobbed into your chest. “When she looks at you.”

You blink, eyes narrowing slightly even though he can’t see your face. You stand there a second longer, heart stuttering in a way that makes you feel both exposed and infuriatingly human. Then you walk away before you can give that comment the weight you know it deserves.

That evening, you linger longer at your desk than usual. The office is quiet now—too quiet for Manhattan, too quiet for your own good. There’s a half-eaten sandwich on the edge of a file you’re not really reading. A coffee gone cold. Your laptop glows idly in front of you, cursor blinking like it’s waiting for you to type something profound.

You don’t expect her to show up. Olivia’s had a long week. You both have. And part of you figures she’d want distance after earlier—after the tense back-and-forths, after the unspoken moments that hovered just a little too long. You’ve seen it before. She shuts down, folds inward. And you don’t chase.

But then… there’s a soft knock on your already open door. Not commanding. Not sharp. Tentative. You look up. She’s standing there. Same jacket. Same tired eyes. But her posture—there’s something about it that’s less braced. Less armored. Like she came here before she could overthink it. “You got a minute?” she asks.

You nod, barely trusting your voice. She steps inside, closes the door behind her with a soft click. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t pace. Just stands there, hands in the pockets of her coat, watching you with the caution of someone who’s walked into too many rooms and left them with more regret than answers. “I’m not entirely good at this,” she says finally, voice low and raw.

You lean back in your chair, brow ticking up. “Which part?”

She shrugs, but it’s tight—like it takes effort just to move her shoulders. “Any of it. The… feelings. The talking. The letting someone close without thinking three steps ahead.”

You close your laptop slowly. “You think I am?”

A half-sigh leaves her, half-laugh. “You’re better at hiding it.”

You tilt your head. “I’m a prosecutor, Olivia. It’s literally my job to lie with confidence.” That earns you a small smile, brief but real. She doesn’t look away.

“You regretting this decision?” you ask gently.

“No,” she says, too fast. Too certain. “Not even for a second.” You stand, slowly. Not to intimidate, not to posture—just to meet her at eye level. To close the distance without words.

Your steps are careful, deliberate. Her eyes follow you the entire way. “Then what exactly are we doing?” you ask. She takes a breath like she’s about to answer—but then stops, and her gaze drops for a second, like she’s sifting through a dozen possible truths.

When her eyes return to yours, they’re clearer. Warmer. “I think…” she starts, then swallows. “I think we’re finally not running from it.”

You smile faintly, lips quirking. “That sounds dangerously healthy for us.” She steps a little closer this time. Not much. Just enough that the air feels different.

“You think it’s too soon?” she asks. You consider it—not in the performative way, not to build tension. You really think about it. About every moment that’s led to now. Every clash, every stolen glance, every time you caught yourself memorizing the way she laughs when she doesn’t mean to.

“No,” you say. “I think it’s exactly when it was always going to happen.” There’s a beat of silence, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels full. Heavy in the best way.

Then, softer—almost shyly, but not weak—she says it “I kinda missed you today.” And just like that, something breaks open in your chest. You reach out without thinking, hand brushing against her wrist. It’s a light touch, tentative at first—testing. But when she doesn’t pull away, you let your fingers curl gently around her skin.

The warmth of her under your touch is more grounding than you expect. She leans in, not rushed, not hesitant—just steady. Certain. This time, you’re not caught off guard. You meet her halfway, and when your lips touch, it’s quiet. It’s not fireworks. It’s not cinematic.

It’s better.

It’s real.

She exhales into the kiss like she’s been holding her breath all week. And maybe you have too.

[ameliora-j]

imagine after weeks of breeding you Sonny has gotten you pregnant and now that the initial morning sickness is over (during which he tended to you basically on his hands and knees, making sure he did everything he could to make you feel better) you are now GLOWING. you have just started showing, the tiniest bump, and now the horny phase has started. and youre absolutely insatiable, even more than before, if thats even possible. you want him ALL THE TIME. you cant even let him walk out of the room without whining for him to come back and fuck you again. and hes even crazier about you now and absolutely WORSHIPS you, like you both didnt think it was possible to be even more into each other but the fact that youre carrying his baby is just too much for the both of you 🔥

content: pregnant!reader, smut, porn with little plot tbh, pregnant sex, THIS IS AN 18+ BLOG MDNI

sonny calls you from his office, asking you to bring over one of his files and also asking if you’d like to have lunch with him. you’re slightly grumpy with him because he didn’t wake you up to let you know that he was leaving—didn’t give you a morning kiss or a morning cuddle. he said you loomed too peaceful.

you walk into his office, file and bag from the bodega in hand. his assistant lets you in easily, letting you know he’s finishing up his arraignment and you can wait for him in his office. you don’t bother setting up as you wait, knowing he was sending abby on lunch as soon as he cane back and you’d have him all to yourself.

just as predicted, you hear abby telling your husband ‘goodbye’ as he steps into his office, letting her know to take the hour for lunch. “there’s my pretty girl!” sonny smiles brightly as he sees you.

“cock. now” you demand, crossing your arms with a deep frown. sonny chuckles, gently standing you up and pulling you into his arms. he sets the food on one of his side tables, sitting you on the desk as he kisses you slowly. you whine quietly as his tongue licks inside your mouth, large hands easily spreading your legs.

“you’ve been so fucking horny lately…” he mumbles in your ear. “begging for my cock right after i pump you full of my cum” he whispers. “tell me gorgeous, whose baby is this?” he smirks, pushing your sweatshirt—that was actually his college hoodie—up to show your little bump.

“your’s daddy… ‘m havin your baby” you whine, letting out a loud moan as he bottoms out in your sopping cunt with one motion.

“scream it when you cum for me, doll” he smirks, beginning to fuck you, slow but hard.

[profoundstarfishmusic]

[mrs-adabarba]

Barba: why is there a tree covered in shit in my office?

Amanda: we get each other presents and stuff?

Fin: yeah, for Christmas?

Olivia: and sing songs!!

Barba: well that sounds stupid

Carisi: oh.. do you not like it? I thought you might want to celebrate this year...

Barba: I love it so much I’m so excited Merry Christmas everyone!

[art-by-jas]

"Goodnight." (AO3)

Summary: Meeting Bella.

Sonny carefully guides you up the icy steps to your apartment, ensuring you don't slip. Though you've become more mobile since your recent accident, he still worries about your well-being.

After helping you settle in, Sonny pauses to look at you. A thought has been nagging at his mind, something he's been considering bringing up. As you rest on the couch, seemingly lost in thought, he senses this may be a good moment to broach the subject.

Sitting down beside you, Sonny speaks up tentatively. "Hey, can I talk to you about something?"

You glance up at him, puzzled by the hesitation in his voice. "Sure, what is it?" you reply, fully focusing on him and adjusting your position to face him directly on the couch.

Sonny takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. "So, I've been meaning to ask you something," he begins, his eyes meeting yours. He pauses momentarily, carefully considering his words. "I was wondering if you'd like to join me in visiting my sister, Bella, later today. She just told me she's pregnant and wants to show me the baby stuff she just bought." Sonny finishes with a hopeful grin.

Your eyes widen slightly in surprise, but a warm smile spreads across your face. "Of course, I'd love to!" you respond, a hint of excitement in your voice. "Wow, a new niece or nephew. I'm truly happy for you."

You reach out and gently pat Sonny's leg, trying to reassure him. "It'll be great to meet your sister. I'm sure we'll get along well."

Sonny's shoulders instantly relax upon hearing your response, and relief washes over him. He hadn't realized just how nervous he'd been about asking you. He reaches out and takes your hand in his, his expression soft and sincere.

"I'm really glad," he says, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. "Bella is going to be thrilled to meet you."

Your heart flutters as his gentle touch sends a warm sensation spreading through your chest. "When are you heading over?" you ask, intertwining your fingers with his.

Sonny glances at his watch. "I'm supposed to go in a few," he replies, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of your hand.

Sonny's mind drifts back to the near-kiss in the hallway a few months ago. He's thought about it ever since, wondering what could have happened if he hadn't stopped himself. Turning to face you, Sonny says, "Hey, I was thinking - why don't we do something special tonight? Like a date night?"

Your heart skips a beat at Sonny's unexpected proposal of a date night. The thought of spending quality time with him outside of the usual daily routine makes your stomach flutter with anticipation. A soft smile graces your lips as you look at him. "I'd love to," you reply, the excitement clear in your voice. "What did you have in mind?"

Sonny grins, pleased that you're on board. "I was thinking we could go out for dinner at this Italian place I know. The food and wine are both great. Sound good to you?" 

The mention of Italian fare has your mouth watering already. "Italian sounds perfect," you reply, smiling back at him. After getting ready, you and Sonny head out to his car. The drive to his sister's apartment is filled with conversation about what to expect from the evening. Sonny keeps glancing at you, occasionally reaching out to squeeze your hand.

Finally, he pulls up outside Bella's apartment and parks the car. "Here we are," he says, shutting off the engine.

Sonny knocks on the door, and a few moments later, Bella opens it with a wide smile. "Hey, Sonny!" she greets, pulling him into a warm embrace.

Sonny returns his sister's hug, a smile spreading across his face. "Hey, Bella," he replies, stepping back but keeping an arm around her shoulders. He then turns towards you, his eyes sparkling.

"Bella, I want you to meet someone," Sonny says, gently guiding you to face his sister.

Bella's eyes flick up and down as she examines you, flickering with curiosity and a hint of excitement. "So, this is the special someone Sonny's been telling me all about, huh?" she says.

A blush creeps up your cheeks as you're introduced to Sonny's sister. You hadn't realized he had been talking about you to her, a sweet thought that makes your heart flutter.

You offer Bella a nervous but excited smile. "Nice to meet you," you say, extending your hand.

Bella grasps your hand in a firm, warm shake. "It's nice to finally put a face to the name," she replies, her gaze shifting back to Sonny. "She's even prettier in person."

Sonny grins, his eyes shining with pride and affection. "Told ya," he says, giving Bella a knowing look.

Bella rolls her eyes playfully at Sonny, then turns her attention back to you. "Come on in, both of you," she says, stepping aside to let you enter the apartment.

As you step into the apartment, you're immediately greeted by a cozy ambiance. Bella leads you into the living room, where a large, plush teddy bear sits proudly on the couch.

"Isn't it just the cutest?" Bella chuckles, gesturing to the oversized stuffed animal. Sonny shakes his head in amused agreement, and you can't help but grin at the sight of the adorably over-stuffed bear.

"It was such a steal on sale," Bella continues. She then turns to you and points towards a door further into the apartment. "We're going to set up the crib and changing table in there - it'll make a lovely little nursery."

You nod, picturing the cozy space. "That sounds perfect," you reply, glancing at Sonny. 

"What do you think?" Bella looks at Sonny.

“I can’t believe my little sister’s having a baby. That's what I think," he says, “you still haven't told Mom, yet?"

The man who enters the living room is Tommy, Bella's fiancé. He gestures to his outfit and asks, "Hey, babe. How does this look?"

Sonny's expression hardens as he sees Tommy, who avoids Sonny's gaze. The atmosphere becomes tense, and you know there is some history between them. "Sonny, what are you doing here?" Tommy asks.

"It's great to see you too, Tommy," Sonny replies dryly.

"He's here to help us move all the crap out of the baby's room," Bella interjects. "Also, Sonny brought someone special." She turns to you, and you can feel all eyes on you as you're intro

The man who enters the living room is Tommy, Bella's fiancé. He gestures to his outfit and asks, "Hey, babe. How does this look?"

Sonny's expression hardens as he sees Tommy, who avoids Sonny's gaze. The atmosphere becomes tense, and you know there is some history between them. "Sonny, what are you doing here?" Tommy asks.

"It's great to see you too, Tommy," Sonny replies dryly.

"He's here to help us move all the crap out of the baby's room," Bella interjects. "Also, Sonny brought someone special." She turns to you, and you can feel all eyes on you as you're introduced as Sonny's 'special someone.' A mixture of nervousness and excitement swells in your chest.

You offer a small, polite smile, glancing at Sonny before turning back to Bella and Tommy. "I have to go see my parole officer, remember?" Tommy reminds Bella.

"Hey, how's that going?" Sonny asks.

"Great," Bella answers. "Tommy just got a promotion at work. They gave him his own moving team."

You give him a thumbs up. "Nice work."

"Well, make sure you tell your P.O.," Sonny tells Tommy. "A raise, promotion, that's brownie points right there."

Tommy scoffs, his expression darkening a bit. "Brownie points? Yeah, right."

Sonny ignores Tommy's pessimism and continues, "Seriously, tell your P.O. That's the kind of stuff they wanna hear. Shows you're on the straight and narrow."

Tommy throws on his jacket and kisses Bella. "I want to get there early so I can leave early," he says.

"We got a doctor's appointment this afternoon. Our first sonogram," Bella announces.

Sonny scoffs at Bella's use of the word "our." The scoff escapes his lips before he can stop himself. There's a hint of disapproval in his gaze as he looks at Tommy.

"Did Bella tell you I popped the question? She's going to make an honest man out of me," Tommy says, a wide smile spreading across Bella's face as she looks smitten.

Sonny replies casually, "That's great, Tommy," his eyes darting back to Bella, taking in her joyful expression. She's over the moon about the engagement and the upcoming wedding.

Sonny pulls Bella into a warm, tight embrace. The genuine happiness shining in his eyes is evident as he steps back and looks at her. "You deserve all the happiness in the world," he tells her, his voice tinged with pride and protectiveness.

With Tommy gone, Bella asks if Sonny still wants to help move things. Sonny nods and rolls up his sleeves. "Yeah, of course. Let's get to it." He glances over at you, silently inviting you to join in. Eager to spend more time with Sonny, you smile.

As the three of you work together, you make steady progress in clearing the space. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Sonny's gaze flickering towards you, a gentle smile playing on his lips. Continuing your work, you catch Sonny stealing frequent glances in your direction, his eyes meeting yours at times. Whenever your gazes lock, a warm sensation washes over you, causing your cheeks to flush ever so slightly.

As you move a piece of furniture, Sonny steps a little closer, his arm grazing against yours. The touch is subtle yet intentional, sending a shiver down your spine. You try to focus on the task at hand, but it's increasingly difficult to ignore how Sonny's touch makes your heart skip a beat.

The more Sonny steals glances, the more flustered you feel. Thankfully, Bella seems completely oblivious to the charged moment between you and Sonny, engrossed in rearranging the baby's room.

He moves closer again, his shoulder brushing against yours as he reaches for something nearby. The room suddenly feels warmer, and you can feel a flush creeping up your neck.

You try to ignore how his appearance is affecting you, but it's no use. The sight of Sonny's toned forearms and the way his hands grip things is enough to make your knees feel weak. Focusing on the task at hand becomes increasingly difficult.

Sensing the growing tension, Sonny glances over at you with a sly smirk. He knows exactly what he's doing and seems to revel in the effect he has on you.

"Everything okay?" he asks innocently, his voice slightly lower and a bit huskier than usual. The innocent question coupled with his sultry tone sends a shiver down your spine. You're caught off guard, your mind racing a million miles a minute. 

"Y-yeah," you stutter, trying to keep a calm, nonchalant demeanor. "Everything's fine."

“You guys hungry?” The question snaps both you and Sonny out of your moment, and you both turn toward Bella.

"Sure," Sonny replies with a casual shrug. He glances quickly at you, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"Yeah, that sounds great," you reply, your voice still slightly shaky.

With that, Bella departs to prepare a meal, leaving you and Sonny alone for a brief period. The air still crackles with tension as Sonny turns to you, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

By the time Bella finishes cooking, you and Sonny have completed moving items out of the baby's nursery, leaving the room significantly clearer.

Bella pops her head in, announcing that lunch is ready. "Great timing!" she exclaims, impressed by the progress you've made.

Your stomach rumbles as the tantalizing aroma of Bella's cooking wafts over. The physical labor has left you ravenous, and the thought of a meal sounds heavenly.

"Smells amazing," Sonny remarks, stretching his arms overhead. The motion causes his shirt to ride up, briefly exposing a toned slice of his abdomen. Involuntarily, your gaze fixes on the exposed skin, your mouth going slightly dry. You quickly divert your eyes, trying to act casual, but the image of that toned skin is now seared into your mind.

Sonny doesn't miss the way you looked at him, and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. He knows the effect he's having on you, and he's relishing every moment of it.

"Let's eat," he says casually, leading the way out of the room and into the dining area.

Over a casual lunch, you engage in lighthearted conversation with Bella. She peppers you with questions, eager to learn more about you. Sonny occasionally chimes in as well. With each inquiry, you find yourself warming up to Bella's friendly, welcoming demeanor, which makes it easy to open up to her. You can sense her genuine happiness to have you there, and her warm smiles put you at ease.

As dinner wraps up and you help clear the dishes, Bella brings up the subject of her upcoming wedding. "You're definitely invited," she insists, her face brightening with a smile. "It's going to be small, just close family and friends."

Her invitation touches your heart. You're honored that she's including you in this special event. "I wouldn't miss it for the world," you reply warmly, your smile mirroring hers.

"Good," she says, satisfied. She pauses, her expression thoughtful. "I know just who you can sit by too." She glances meaningfully at Sonny, a playful gleam in her eyes. Sonny catches the look and rolls his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. He's clearly trying to feign annoyance, but the twinkle in his eyes betrays his amusement.

As lunchtime draws to a close, a feeling of excitement washes over you. You can hardly wait for the date with Sonny later. The prospect of spending more time with him, just the two of you, fills your heart with a mix of anticipation and butterflies.

By the time afternoon fades into early evening, Sonny informs you that he has law classes for a few hours. He assures you he'll pick you up right afterward, and you feel a thrill at the prospect. The idea of having some solo time to prepare for your date excites you. With anticipation coursing through you, you begin mentally planning your outfit.

To pass the time until Sonny returns, you keep yourself occupied. First, you tidy up your apartment, straightening and organizing. Afterward, you tackle your closet, sorting through clothes and purging anything old or unworn. After cleaning up, you decide to watch an episode of your favorite TV show, sinking into the couch and letting the distraction soothe your anticipation. Once the episode ends, you vacuum the living room to keep yourself occupied.

With an hour until Sonny's arrival, you know it's time to start getting ready. Excitement buzzing under your skin, you head to your bedroom and browse your closet for the perfect outfit. Considering different options, you settle on an ensemble that makes you feel confident and comfortable, a smile spreading across your face at the thought of Sonny's reaction.

You head to the bathroom to freshen up, just as your phone buzzes with a new text. Your heart skips a beat when you see Sonny's name on the screen, telling you he was on the other side of your door.

You take a deep breath and reach for the doorknob, slowly turning it. The door opens to reveal Sonny on the other side. Your heart rate quickens slightly, anticipation and excitement mixing together. Sonny is dressed casually in jeans and a nice button-down shirt, a charming smile on his face.

"Hey," he says, his voice low and smooth. His gaze drifts over you, taking in your appearance. A look of appreciation passes over his face. "You look beautiful."

You feel a flutter of pleasure in your chest at his words. "Thanks," you reply, a smile on your face.

He grins, the crinkles around his eyes deepening. "Not too shabby, huh? Ready to go?" He steps back slightly, giving you room to step out of your apartment. You lock the door behind you, and his hand gently touches the small of your back as he leads you towards the elevator. A small electrical charge runs through you at his casual touch, sending a thrill up your spine.

You follow him into the elevator, butterflies fluttering in your stomach with anticipation. "How was class?" you ask, looking up at him.

Sonny glances down, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Class was fine," he says. "Just the usual law lectures and discussions." He leans back against the elevator wall, crossing his arms. "But I was a bit distracted today," he adds, a suggestive note in his tone.

Your heart skips a beat as Sonny mentions his distraction. You raise an eyebrow, playing along. "Oh? What could possibly have distracted you?" you ask, a playful smile on your lips.

Sonny's smile widens, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "Oh, you know," he replies casually, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "There's this girl who's been on my mind quite a bit." He glances down at you again, his gaze lingering on yours. "She's been making it very difficult for me to concentrate on my studies," he admits, his voice low and seductive.

Your cheeks flush as he mentions the mysterious girl. Part of you knows he's talking about you, but there's a small part that relishes this playful cat-and-mouse game.

You remark lightly, "She sounds like a real handful. Must be pretty special if she has you so distracted."

Sonny agrees, the corners of his lips twitching as if holding back a smile. "She is. Very special." He pushes away from the elevator wall, stepping closer until the gap between you diminishes. In a sultry murmur, he continues, "She's smart, funny, beautiful. I can't seem to get her out of my head." Your heart thumps a little harder in your chest at his near confession.

You take a small step closer as well, meeting his gaze. A coy smile plays on your lips. "Sounds like you've got it pretty bad for this girl," you say, your voice just a touch breathless.

As the elevator doors open to reveal an older woman walking in, you and Sonny quickly step apart, putting a respectable distance between you. The moment of intimacy is broken, but you can still feel the lingering electricity in the air. The older woman politely smiles at you and Sonny, oblivious to the flirtatious exchange that just occurred. She presses the button for her floor as you and Sonny slide get into his car. During the relatively short drive, you and Sonny steal glances at each other, the tension between you almost palpable. He pulls up in front of a charming restaurant. As you both step out into the cool evening air that wraps around you like a blanket. Glancing up, you take in the warm lighting and cozy atmosphere radiating from the restaurant. You approach the entrance, Sonny offers you his arm, a small gesture that quickens your pulse. You accept, resting your hand lightly on his elbow, and let him lead you through the door.

The interior of the restaurant is dimly lit, small glowing lights decorating each table. Soft music plays in the background, creating a relaxing, romantic ambiance. A hostess greets you both and leads you to a secluded table towards the back of the restaurant, away from the main dining area.

Sonny pulls out your chair, his hand lingering briefly at the small of your back before he takes his own seat across from you. The gentle gesture sends a flutter through your stomach.

"This place is nice," you say softly, glancing around at the dim lighting, soft music, and cozy atmosphere that contribute to the intimate setting.

"Thought you might like it," Sonny replies, his tone casual but with a hint of satisfaction. "I wanted to take you somewhere special."

He picks up his menu, scanning it briefly before setting it down again. "You can get anything you want. My treat." Your heart warms at his thoughtful gesture. You flip open the menu, perusing the selection of dishes in front of you. 

"Everything looks so good," you remark, your eyes skimming over the tempting options. "I might have a bit of a hard time deciding."

Sonny grins and sets down his own menu. "Take your time," he says. "There's no rush. And hey, if you can't decide, we can always share a few dishes."

The idea of sharing a few dishes sounds tempting. "That could be fun," you reply, a smile forming on your lips. "We could get a bit of everything and just sample it all."

Sonny chuckles, the sound low. "Exactly," he replies, his gaze not leaving yours. "And there are a few things I wouldn't mind sharing with you, doll." You feel your cheeks heat up at his suggestive tone. You duck your head, trying to hide your flustered expression, but you have a feeling from Sonny's smirk that he knows exactly the effect he's having on you.

"You're so easy to rile up," he teases, the corner of his mouth twitching, amused. "I'm gonna have a lot of fun with that tonight." Your cheeks burn as a flush creeps across your face. You try to appear nonchalant, but your body betrays you, your heart fluttering in your chest.

"You're enjoying this way too much," you protest, but a hint of laughter escapes your lips.

"I am enjoying it," he admits, unrepentant. "What can I say? You're cute when you're flustered."

He leans back in his chair, a smug expression on his face. "I like knowing I can have that effect on you."

You rack your brain for a witty comeback, but all you can manage is a muttered, "You're insufferable."

Despite your best efforts, a small smile tugs at the corner of your lips, betraying your true feelings.

"And you love it," he says with a cocky grin, his confidence evident. "Let's be honest - you love it when I call you 'doll'." He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, and you can see the mischief sparking in his eyes. You shift in your seat, suddenly aware of how close he is. The idea of him not even having to touch you to get you worked up makes your stomach flutter with anticipation.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. "You're pretty sure of yourself, huh?" you ask, your voice a little breathier than you'd like.

"Damn right I am," he says, his voice low and slightly rougher than before. His eyes rake over you, taking in every detail. "And judging by the way your cheeks are flushed and how you're squirming in your seat right now, I'd say I have every reason to feel that way."

You feel a shiver run down your spine as his eyes wander over you. You try to find some sort of retort, something snarky or clever to say, but you're at a loss for words. The intense look he's giving you is making it impossible to think straight.

Sonny breaks his gaze away from you, giving his attention to the waiter.

"We'll have the bruschetta to start," he says, glancing over at you. "You good with that?"

You nod in agreement, still, flustered from the intense moment you just shared. "Yeah, that sounds good," you manage to say, your voice still shaky. Sonny turns back to the waiter and places the rest of the order, his tone casual as he chatters with the waiter. You try to regain your composure, taking slow, steady breaths to calm your racing heart. But every time you glance up at Sonny, the sly smirk on his lips tells you he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

"Great," Sonny replies. The two of you give your orders to the waiter, and after the waiter leaves, Sonny returns his gaze to you. the look in his eyes is still intense, but there's a hint of tenderness there now too. "So, how's the coffee shop been lately?" he asks, his tone shifting to a more friendly, casual manner.

Sonny listens attentively as you talk about the coffee shop, his expression softened, the intensity from earlier gone. A warm smile crosses his face as you mention Alex.

"Sounds like things are going well," he observes. "Alex sounds like a great guy. I'm glad you've got someone like that helping you out."

Sonny leans back in his chair, his demeanor relaxed as he discusses his job. "Work's been busy as usual," he says, a hint of weariness in his voice. "My colleagues are a bunch of characters. They make the days interesting, to say the least."

Sonny pauses, then meets your eyes as he poses a question that's been on his mind. "If you don't mind me asking," he says tentatively, "why did you agree to come out with me tonight?"

You hesitate before responding. "Well, there are a few reasons, I guess. But mostly, it's because... I like you, Sonny. I've always liked you, even when I didn't realize it."

Sonny's expression softens at your confession. He looks at you with a warm, almost tender gaze. "I like you too, doll," he says, his voice quieter than before. "I've liked you for a long time. I just... wasn't sure if you felt the same way."

Your heart skips a beat as he confesses his feelings. You swallow nervously before replying, "I felt the same way too. I've been trying to play it cool. But it's hard when you're around. You make me feel..." You trail off, unable to find the words.

Sonny's lips curve into a soft smile at your admission. He reaches across the table, gently covering your hand with his. The touch sends a jolt of electricity up your arm.

"I know what you mean," he says, his deep, velvety voice sending a shiver down your spine. "You make me feel a lot of things too."

The aroma of the freshly arrived bruschetta momentarily distracts you from Sonny. The food looks and smells so delicious, you can hardly wait to take a bite.

The waiter leaves, and silence once again settles over the table. You pick up a piece of bruschetta, lift it to your mouth and taking a bite. The flavors explode on your tongue, and you close your eyes, savoring the taste.

As you open your eyes, you catch Sonny watching you intently, his face alight with pure adoration. "You like it?" he asks, gesturing to the bruschetta, a small grin playing on his lips.

You nod and wipe a bit of tomato sauce from the corner of your mouth with your finger. "It's delicious," you say, smiling back at him. Sonny's grin widens, his eyes never leaving your face as you lick the sauce off your finger. Your evident enjoyment of the food seems to please him immensely.

Conversation flows easily as you both continue eating, the earlier intensity replaced by a more relaxed, comfortable atmosphere. You find yourself laughing and chatting freely with Sonny, the initial nerves and tension now forgotten.

As the plates are cleared, you and Sonny continue chatting, the conversation flowing naturally between you. A comfortable silence falls for a few moments, both of you simply savoring each other's presence.

Finally, Sonny breaks the silence. "So, what's the craziest thing that's ever happened at the coffee shop?" he asks, a twinkle in his eye.

You pause, racking your brain for the many strange incidents that have occurred over the years. "Well," you begin, "there was a woman who stumbled into our kitchen, clearly under the influence. She just walked around the back like she owned the place. Alex wasn't there, and it was just Kade and I. We hid in the office, but our dumbasses forgot to shut the door, and she strolled right in and asked to take a selfie with us."

Sonny chuckles, clearly amused by the chaos of the situation, though a hint of concern flickers in his eyes. "That's crazy," he says. "What did you do when she walked in on you?"

"We let her wander around the back, not wanting to intervene. Luckily, the third shift was starting and Martha arrived just in time. I told her a lady was smoking in the back, and boy, you'd be glad you never see Martha mad or yelling. The lady took off out of there in a hurry."Sonny laughs at the image of the frightened woman fleeing from an angry Martha, shaking his head with an amused smile. "Damn," he says, impressed. "Sounds like Martha's not someone you want to mess with."

"She really isn't," you reply, chuckling at the memory. "She's a sweet lady unless you provoke her, and her scream could shatter glass."

Sonny grins, clearly entertained by your description of Martha. "I'll be sure to stay on her good side," he says, a hint of playful jest in his voice. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, his proximity causing your heart to skip a beat.

Sonny notices you've been stealing glances at his hands, a smile tugging at his lips. "You can't seem to take your eyes off my hands," he points out casually, his voice laced with teasing curiosity.

Feeling a flush rise to your cheeks at being caught, you try to play it off casually. "Oh, I didn't realize I was," you say, clearing your throat slightly. "I was just... admiring them, I guess.”

Sonny's voice is low and slightly amused as he teases, "You're definitely staring." He turns his hands over, flexing his fingers. "Why do you keep looking at my hands, hmm? You like them or something?"

You bite your lip, realizing there's no point in denying it. Meeting his gaze, you admit softly, "Maybe. You have nice hands."

Sonny grins, clearly pleased by your admission. "Do I, now?" he asks, playing along. "What exactly do you like about them?"

Your eyes drawn to the veins running down his strong, lean forearms, you consider his question for a moment. "They're... strong," you say, your voice betraying your growing desire. "And... well, they look like they could do some interesting things."

Sonny's grin widens at your statement, his eyes darkening with a subtle hint of desire. "Interesting things, huh?" he repeats, his voice dropping an octave as he moves his hand.

closer to you across the table, his index finger tracing a slow, teasing pattern on the back of your hand.

The sensation of his touch sends shivers down your spine, your eyes fixed on his finger as it moves lazily across your skin. "Yeah," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. "You know, like... holding things, fixing things, that kind of stuff."

Sonny chuckles at your response, amused by your attempt to conceal your true thoughts. He places his hand over yours, his palm pressing against yours, his fingers intertwining with yours. "Just holding things, doll?" he asks, his deep, sultry voice sending a shiver through you.

Your breath catches at his touch, the contact sparking electricity through your body. "Among other things," you murmur, unable to tear your gaze from his intense eyes.

Sonny insists on paying the bill and leaving a tip for the waiter. As you exit the restaurant, the cold winter air nips at your skin, and Sonny offers you his coat. You gratefully accept, slipping it on and relishing in his warmth and subtle scent.

After the drive back, you linger in the hallway between your apartments, reluctant to say goodnight to Sonny just yet. The evening has been unexpectedly exciting, and you're not ready for it to end.

Sonny steps closer, his body only inches from yours, his warm breath on your face. He watches you intently, a sly smile on his lips. "You remember a few weeks ago?" he asks, his voice low. "Right here, just before those kids came through."

You nod, your heart suddenly racing. The memory of his near-kiss still fresh, you can practically feel the tension in the air. "Yeah," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sonny lifts his hand, his thumb tracing the contour of your cheek. His touch sends ripples of desire through you. "I've been thinking about that moment ever since," he admits, his voice hushed. "And I've been kicking myself for not kissing you." Your breath catches in your throat at his confession, your skin burning beneath his touch, your heart pounding loudly.

Sonny moves closer, his body now touching yours. His hand shifts to your waist, pulling you in. "I want to fix it now," he murmurs, his gaze flicking down to your lips.

Responding automatically, you lean into him, your hands reaching up to touch his chest. "Then fix it," you breathe, eyes locked with his, filled with desire and anticipation.

Sonny doesn't need to be told twice. He cups your face in both his hands, his fingers sliding into your hair, and he kisses you. Really kisses you. It's a kiss that begins slow but grows more heated, his lips moving against yours with a mix of tenderness and passion. You melt into the kiss, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him even closer. The world around you seems to fade away, and it's just the two of you in this moment, connected through this kiss. Sonny's hands wander down your body, pulling you even closer to him, his body molding against yours. The kiss is like nothing you've ever experienced before; it's as if he's pouring every ounce of passion and feeling he has into this moment, trying to make up for the time you've lost.

Sonny's grip on you doesn't loosen as you pull away to catch your breath, his breathing just as ragged as your own. He rests his forehead against yours, his thumb tracing lazy patterns on the small of your back.

"Wow," he breathes, his voice heavy with desire.

"Goodnight, Sonny. Thank you for an amazing night and that out of this world kiss."

Sonny is reluctant to let you go, his hand lingering on the small of your back as his body remains pressed close to yours. "Anytime, doll," he murmurs in his deep, gravelly voice. "I had a great night too." He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, before finally releasing you. "Goodnight."

You step back, immediately feeling the loss of his warmth, but also a sense of giddy excitement that this night actually happened. Giving him one last smile, you turn and slip inside your apartment. Sonny watches you go, his gaze lingering as you disappear. For a moment, he stands there, his fingers absentmindedly touching his lips, a content smile on his face.

Masterlist

[malevolent-muse]

I am speechless

Source: Twitter

@plaidbooks is the individual who stitched this Carisi cross stitch project.

[creamyakult]

Just a casual coffee date☕

[mindibindi]

Gee, I wonder under what circumstances Liv developed such an aversion to three-pointed relationship dynamics...🤔

[dreamsummoner]

By far the best Law and Order SVU team

I miss Barba and Amaro and when Carisi still was a cop 😫 also the three of them look so gorgeous together

[hoechlins-hole]

[aperrywilliams]

It's happening, b*tches! BAU and SVU crossover!

Just because my mind can’t stop thinking about it, here is a sneak peek.

-----------

Summary: The BAU is called to assist the NYPD in a case. You, now a BAU profiler, meet with your former teammates at Manhattan SVU, and some tense moments take place with Captain Olivia Benson, your older sister. Spencer helps you to understand why you feel so weird in a place that used to be your home.

-----------

“How much time McGrath have been there?” Fin asks Rollins and Carisi, pointing to Olivia’s office. They could see their captain and chief arguing through the windows.

“Not much, but it seems pretty heated if you ask me,” Carisi comments, his frown deepening.

“The bosses really must be eating him alive for this case,” Rollins muses from her spot on her desk.

The three of them knew things could turn like this. They were stuck with a serial rapist that has been terrorizing the city, and who added the ‘murderer’ label to his record with the past two victims.

“Do you think the captain would contain the damage?” Carisi questions, looking at Fin. The man shrugs.

“I don’t know. But by now this is more politics than justice. So anything could happen.”

As a cue, McGrath storms from Olivia’s office, barely paying attention to the three pairs of eyes focused on him. After he disappears from the squad room, Olivia comes out of her office and joins the peanut gallery.

“How bad?” Rollins asks. Olivia sighs and purses her lips.

“Considering? I think that went well,” she declares, grabbing a cup and a pot from a shelf in the corner and pouring herself some coffee.

“But?” Fin adds, anticipating the potential bad news.

“It already looks bad for 1PP, so they need to be more ‘proactive’,” Olivia air-quotes, before sipping her newly served coffee. “They called the FBI to assist us.”

The three of them pull a face. They know that having the feds around, the job will be harder to do. Olivia recognizes those faces.

“I know what you are thinking, but is beyond me. At this point, they want to bring the whole Marines here so, for me, the feds don’t look the worst option now.”

“Captain, one question though. Who in the FBI would be interested in this kind of mess?” Carisi asks and Olivia hums before answering.

“Have you heard about the BAU?”

Fin jumps at the mention.

“Wait a minute. Did you say BAU? The (Y/N)’s BAU?”

Olivia nods.

“Yes. That BAU, indeed,” she replies and then sips her coffee again.

-----------

Okay, for now, the SVU team has Fin, Rollins, Carisi and Olivia. Barba as ADA, as season 16, but here Benson is Captain already. The BAU team is the one in season 13, but I’m actively avoiding Rossi and JJ in the scene (fight me if you want).

[aries-rising-on-an-aquarius-tide]

Rollins/Giddish is supposed to have left the show but they keep bringing her back… why can’t they just kill Rollins off as I’m sick of the nonstop Rollisi stuff as it feels like SVU has become the Rollisi Show

Well, Anon -

I hate Rollisi as much as the next person, but I don't think killing Rollins off would be a very lucrative business decision in the long run. DW is famous for keeping things in his back pocket to bolster ratings when they hit a rough spot.

Ratings dip? Call in an old cast member. That's why they haven't been quick to kill off many of the characters that have exited the show.

It's also why DW is slowly destroying his fan base by not giving the longtime shippers EO. By not giving it to us, he is driving a lot of ppl away, but he has the option to whip out the storyline anytime he wants and get everyone spiraling.

It's a shame that the politics and business mechanics of the TV industry are so transparent now in how a series is handled. It makes it so much harder to be there just for the stories. Rollisi was about mollifying a certain demographic of the audience. Not the demographic I fit in, unfortunately. If they're gonna kill somebody off, start with Carisi. I can think of a dozen good reasons to kill him. Lol

[ameliora-j]

ive just had surgery and binging thru ur sonny stuff,, can you write something smutty for sonny x reader in a hospital bed? plspkspkspkspks

since u asked so nicely sweet girl !

“shhh” sonny urges, the two of you giggling as your lips connect in never ending kisses. “you have to be quiet if you want to do this, amore” he hums, his kisses trailing down your neck as his hand squeezes your thigh gently, slowly spreading your legs.

“feel like horny teenagers” you whisper softly as he kisses you once more. a soft moan escapes your lips as his fingers ghost over your panty-clad cunt. sonny chuckles against your lips at your statement, pressing down on your clothed clit as you grind on his hand. “please…” you whine.

your nurses are coming in every hour on the hour, and it’s ten till. sonny realizes he has between five and ten minutes to make you cum, and feeling how wet you are decides it’s enough. “don’t worry baby, i’ll give you what you want” he hums, pushing two fingers easily into your slippery opening.

your mouth drops open, but before you can let out an earth shattering moan, sonny is pressing his lips to your’s and all but forcing his tongue into your mouth. his fingers expertly curve to press against your gspot, his thumb stroking over your clit as tears of pleasure spill over your lashline. “you’re so tight, tesoro… such a wet little pussy” he mumbles against your skin as he nips down your neck.

“sonny…” you gasp wetly around a moan, your cunt fluttering around his thick digits. all you can do is whine and moan as he repeatedly presses his fingers against your gspot. your head is buried in his neck, hiding your moans as he pushed you to an orgasm.

“breathe steady, tesoro… don’t want your heart rate alerting your nurses” he smirked, winking down on you. “just take my fingers like a good little girl… moan for me, bambina… let me hear you” he growls, his fingers picking up their pace as he feels the walls of your cunt fluttering around him.

“i… i need to… i need to cum” you stammer, trying to steady your breathing as you hear the heart rate monitor changing. sonny doesn’t say anything, only doubling down in his efforts to make you cum, circling his thumb around your clit. your jaw drops as you look up at him, forcing you into a kiss to conceal the loud moan you let out as your cum gushes onto his fingers just as you hear the nurse knocking on the door to come and check your vitals.

[profoundstarfishmusic]

[niksixx]

I don’t know if anyone watches Law and Order: SVU but I just really need to get it off my chest and say Detective Carisi is so hot LMAO

[alyssaforevermore]

Married Rollisi is everything to me (plus the girls calling him daddy 😭🫶🏻). I’m gonna need SVU to stop playing and bring back Rollins for real 👹

s25e11