🔎 special lesbians unit ⚖️

ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴇ!

hi! you can call me moon! i'm 18 years old! i use she/they pronouns! i'm an aroace lesbian! i live on the east coast of the US!

outside of my obvious love for procedural dramas, i'm a huge live theatre fan (musicals in particular). heathers: the musical is my special interest, and i post a lot about it / theatre in general on my main blog @willofadeadgirl!

as far as combining my two main interests: i have seen isa briones & mariska hargitay on broadway, have tickets to see b.d. wong in philly, and plan to catch raúl esparza in galileo when i can!

i'm trying to get more into writing — that is, actually following through with ideas & finishing my wips. my recent svu/cabenson fixation has given me a surge of motivation so hopefully i can begin really improving my writing skills.

now for some fandom favorites:

characters ⟶ olivia benson, alexandra cabot, lisa cuddy, wesley evers, angela lopez, addison montgomery, casey novak, trinity santos, amelia shepherd

ships ⟶ cabenson, meddison, wopez

ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴇ (ꜱᴠᴜ ᴇᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴ)!

since it's my current fixation and what i post about the most, here are my svu preferences. as of august 13 2026, i'm caught up to 13x09!

top 5 characters ⟶ alex cabot, olivia benson, casey novak, amanda rollins, george huang

favorite epsiodes ⟶ 5x04 loss, 6x16 ghost, 11x16 witness, 3x18 guilt

He huffs a laugh. There’s no humor behind it. “Yeah, I uh … I was getting worried. I shouted to make sure it was empty before I came in. No one answered,” he explains. Olivia hums in distant acknowledgement.

She doesn’t move. There’s a thousand pound weight keeping her pinned to the bathroom floor.

“Olivia …” Elliot says carefully, “it’s half past four. You need to get some sleep.” She nods. Or she thinks she does. Elliot hooks his arms under her armpits and helps her stand, walks her to the door, walks her to his car. She doesn’t fight it.

The drive is worse than desolate. They sit in an uncomfortable silence, Elliot occasionally throwing careful glances at her. She can tell there’s something at the tip of his tongue every time they lock eyes, but whatever it is, he doesn't dare say it; he handles her like she’s a bomb that’ll be set off by the slightest shift in pressure. Unfortunately she has no choice but to sit with it, because her only options are to focus all her brainpower into studying her partner’s mannerisms or to remember —

She shudders, aggressively blinking the image out of her mind.

The car slows to a stop at a red light and for the first time since pulling out of the hospital parking lot, Olivia looks out the window. They’ve already reached 78th street.

She sits up suddenly. “Turn left here.”

The light turns green. Elliot hesitates, his foot lifting off the break just enough to inch forward.

“Your apartment isn’t —”

“I said turn left,” Olivia snaps.

The car behind them blares its horn and Elliot obliges.

“Where are we going?” he asks, but she can tell in his tone of voice that he knows where they are. She ignores him, scanning the passing buildings and mumbling numbers under her breath until they reach her destination:

“Here. Right here.”

He pulls up next to the sidewalk. She’s out of the car before he’s put it in park.

“Liv,” he calls after her. She fumbles through her purse, searching for the spare key Alex gave her the night Agent Donovan was blown to bits.

“Uh, thanks for the ride, El,” she tells him without a second glance. It takes a few tries to get the key in with how her hands are shaking, but she does it, and she pushes the door open, praying Elliot has gone back to his car now. Of course she has no such luck, and he catches the door before it closes behind her.

“Olivia.” She turns around, reluctantly, and Elliot is looking at her with that same careful concern he had in the car and in the hospital bathroom. Don’t push too hard, or she’ll shatter.

“I need to take care of something,” she forces out before he can ask any more questions.

She can see in his eyes that he doesn’t believe her, that he thinks her coming here is a bad idea. But — and thank God for small miracles — she can also see that he’s not willing to argue with her in this state. So, once again, he obliges.

“... Okay. I’ll walk you up.”

Apartment of A.D.A. Alexandra Cabot 235 West 78TH Street September 30, 2003

Until it’s inevitably cleared out and rented to someone else, Olivia realizes, Alex’s apartment is frozen in time, just like this. She’s never going to come home and clean those dishes in the sink, or restock that fridge, or eat at that table. Olivia passes the couch, the one they were sitting on just a few nights ago, when Alex fell asleep on her shoulder. The throw blanket is still unfolded, wrinkled, half of it hanging off the side. It’s going to stay that way forever.

She sinks into Alex’s bed, more exhausted than she’s ever felt in her life. It’s soft and comforting and it smells like her. Maybe that’s just what she needs — close her eyes, breathe her in, pretend like she’s still there. Just for this one night, Alex Cabot isn’t dead. She’ll get some sleep that way.

Except she doesn’t, because when she closes her eyes she doesn’t see her Alex. She sees a pale, lifeless body and gushing blood, and the sweet scent of vanilla lining the sheets turns copper and she gags and gags, thankful she has nothing left to throw up so she doesn’t ruin one of the few pieces of Alex that is left in this world with more putrid violence.

An hour passes — an hour spent twisting, turning, begging, remembering — before she finally sits up, desperate.

She digs back through her purse and pulls out her phone. Her voice. She needs to hear her voice.

She scrolls down her contacts until she makes it to C.

Alex Cabot. Right at the top. It’s a convenient name for her to have, Olivia muses. Not too low. Right at the top of her letter. Good for emergencies. Like right now.

She presses the call button. It rings. Again. Again. Again — just get to the voicemail, she knows she won’t get an answer, why is it taunting her? Each shrill sequence makes her heart pound louder and harder and harder and just as she thinks it’s going to explode and she’ll be dead too, the ringtone stops and is replaced with a voice that’s alive:

“Hello, this is Alexandra Cabot with the DA’s office …”

And Olivia hadn’t cried that night. She’d screamed as her hand pressed against the warm, sticky blood that spurted out of Alex’s shoulder in time with her pulse; nearly passed out hyperventilating during the ride to the hospital; puked her guts out after the surgeon told her she was gone; sat on the dirty floor and gone completely and totally numb. But it wasn’t until she heard Alex’s voice — pre-recorded, yet another reminder that time had officially stopped for her — that Olivia let out a true, guttural sob.

The dam she had so carefully built to stop herself from falling apart in front of her coworkers is finally torn down and the tsunami of grief crashes over her, knocking her down and sweeping her up. She bawls, clutching the pillow like a scared little kid who's just woken up from a nightmare, but this isn't a nightmare, it’s real life, and Alex is gone, she’s never coming back. Her tears soak into the cotton — a piece of her joining with a piece of Alex. Through her sobs she hopes that Alex feels it, wherever she is.

She cries and begs and she pleads and asks why, why her? why me? She cries until she can’t anymore, until there’s nothing left to come out, just like in that hospital bathroom.

And then she sits. Silence, numbness. Just like in that hospital bathroom.

Only this time, it’s not Elliot Stabler who pulls her out of it. This time, she blinks, and she shifts her gaze and her eyes land on her cellphone. More specifically, the words on the screen. Alex Cabot.

“Fuck, Alex,” she croaks, voice practically gone.