BAD TASTE!

sweetbitter, unmanageable creature
(svu, elliot/olivia, 1.2k)

OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR.


3.0 era liv character study (around s22-23). title is sappho, fragment 130, but picked specifically because i started reading anne carson's eros the bittersweet at around the same time i left this to stew before my final proof-read, and there were several moments where i had to stop reading so i could go ohhhhhhhh, this is so eo.

this fic has a soundtrack and it's a 96hr loop of leaf pile by the front bottoms. enjoy!

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one of my biggest gripes with the l&o fandom is the lack of critical thought in some discussion of the show(s), or even just, like. the lack of understanding of why people might criticise the franchise, especially svu. and as much as it’s been a life-long fandom (lol) for me, i have no shortage of issues with it, and, yeah, no one wants to have to take a course to have fun in fandom, but i genuinely think it’s good to be aware of this stuff, and i know some people in my flist will be interested, so:

a couple months ago, i helped a friend compile a list of texts that touch on svu & related theory. it’s hosted on her tumblr but tumblr has also tried to nuke her a couple of times, so i’m going to link to the reblog on my svu-specific sideblog. if you decide to read though it and have any issues with links, let me know! i host the files so i should be able to fix things or give you a backup link.

the reading list can be found here. example screenshots under the cut.

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inspired by the vending machine scene in 24x02 but literally the rest of the ep doesn't matter. peace and love on planet earth <3

you’re not you when you’re hungry
elliot/olivia | ~3k | teen | 5+1 things

“You know, you could just—” He makes a weird, twisting motion with his arm, and it takes Olivia a second to understand what he’s trying to say.

“What,” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Steal?”

spans from pre-canon to future stuff. no major warnings. enjoy <3

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this is messy but the vibes in my head are like (1) elliot who had an artist for a mother and elliot who wanted to be an architect and elliot whose father beats it out of him. elliot who teaches himself, mostly, because bernie doesn’t always have the time or the patience or the temperament, and anyway, he’s not an artist like that. he’s not like his mother, it’s just something that he does. (2) elliot who neglects his skills as he gets older. who hides them, who tells himself it’s the responsibilities he gains as a father that push art to the bottom of his priorities and not the echo of joe’s voice in his head calling it useless. (3) elliot who can never let it go completely. it’s tied to too much, half of his happy childhood memories moments he spent at his mother’s feet, paint on his cheek and under his nails and wiped across his clothes. (4) elliot who sketches occasionally, who’s quick to draw with his children when they call him to join. solo work mostly happens when he’s bored: scribbles in the margins of his notes and on post-its and other scraps of paper, the majority of it scrunched up and thrown away soon after he’s done. (5) olivia who notices during their first year as partners and elliot who tries to brush it off, who calls the scribbles stupid, who can’t look her in the eye when she says no, really, you’re very good and (6) elliot who will think, later, that maybe it started there, in that shitty dim lit closet of a filing room, where olivia smiled at him like the damn sun was in her mouth and asked, can you draw me? i mean. if you want to. he does want to—or he wants to try; he thinks it’s probably above his skill level—but he never gets the chance to do it properly. they get distracted by work before he can even try, but (7) olivia who finds her look-alike scribbled on a bright pink post-it note stuck to a cup of coffee that appears on her desk one morning in the winter of ’98 and (8) elliot in europe with a coffee stained sketchbook who sits on his balcony and in cafes and in front of buildings and tries to replicate the beauty in front of him and (9) elliot with torn pages hidden away, the pieces ripped out before they could be completed, the face of a woman who should’ve been a passer-by a little too familiar.