[christopher/mariska] there's no hope for us here
a big thank you to my gorgeous fated_addiction for the inspiration. rpf is the most fun thing to write EVER. thank you for feeding my addiction, babe.
CHARLIE BROWN/SNOOPY NEXT, HOKAY? ♥
also, this write up of fellow aussie (!!) baggers stumbling onto the filming of an svu episode helped inspire this. when she mentioned chris and mariska playing with august alot? MELTED MY HEART A LITTLE. also the mentions of dry humping didn't hurt, either.
title: there’s no hope for us here
fandom: rpf (real person fic)
characters: christopher meloni, mariska hargitay, christopher/mariska
word count: 1,259
rating: pg-13
spoilers: nothing ♥
summary: They’re asked about “chemistry” and she can’t help but laugh when Chris pulls her closer.
there's no hope for us here
They’re filming for their ninth season and everything feels like home.
Chris becomes Elliot Stabler easily (split personality, his wife murmurs) and it’s second nature now; how to hold a perp to the ground with his knee in their back, how to level his arms when he’s aiming to shoot, how to watch his partner out of the corner of his eye.
It’s not really acting, is it, when you don’t need to think. When you just need to breathe and it’s there. He wonders, sometimes.
//
A yell of ’cut, people!’ fills the air and the tension of Stabler melts out of his shoulders. He moves off set, behind the hot lights of the cameras, and Mariska is there waiting, August cradled against her hip.
He smiles and the boy reaches for him, all wiggling fingers and gap-toothed smiles. He can’t help but smile back as he bounces him in his arms, cooing and calling him ‘little guy’ and tickling his ribs.
Mariska chews on her lip as she watches them. “He’s been cranky all morning.” She brushes her hair out of her eyes and lets out a tired sigh. “He started crying late last night and hasn’t stopped since.”
Chris laughs as August pulls on his tie, pokes him in the nose, curls against his shoulder. “He seems alright now.”
She nods, her eyes puffy from lack of sleep. “Yeah.”
//
They hardly do interviews by themselves.
They come in a set, a pair. People want to see them together and the irony isn’t lost on him.
“So tell us,” the blonde twenty-something interviewer purrs, “Will Elliot and Olivia ever get together?”
They share a look (they’ve been hearing this question for the past nine years, you understand) and then they smile and quote “we really don’t know/they feel very deeply for each other/we’re asking Dick Wolf the same question!/our fingers are crossed!”
His hand is on her waist and she leans a little closer.
They’re asked about “chemistry” and she can’t help but laugh when Chris pulls her closer.
“We just don’t see it.”
//
It’s five am and they’re getting make up done. He watches her in the mirror, eyes wide and inspecting.
“What?”, she asks, looking up as mascara is applied.
“Nothing,” he shakes his head innocently.
“You’re staring,” she pushes.
He shrugs. “I like the new haircut.”
She blinks in return, the mascara wet against her cheek. “Well, it’s not really new.”
He looks down, and can’t help the corners of his lips from twitching a little. “I know.”
She puffs out her cheeks and lets the air rush past her lips. “I feel like I’ve travelled five years back in time, or something. Before I had August, before I married Peter.”
And now he tries to smile, but can’t. There’s something stuck in his throat that makes it hard to swallow. Makes it even hard to breathe.
She turns to him, her fingers curling around the armrest of the plastic chair. “You know what I mean?”
He thinks he does, but he can’t push the words out of his throat. So he nods silently and goes back to watching her in the mirror.
//
What everyone doesn’t know is that they’ve slept together. Once.
It was the season two wrap party, and there was champagne and cake and a brightly coloured banner that read, “here’s to many more!” and her hair was curling around her ears.
They danced and laughed and shared stories into the early morning, and all decided it was time to go home when Richard and Ice-T started dirty dancing on the table tops.
Mariska tugged on his hand as they left. “We’ll share a cab,” she offered. And even though they lived in opposite directions, he nodded once and wrapped an arm around her waist.
The back of the taxi was dark (darker than he remembered taxi’s ever being) and she sat close, her thigh stuck to his and her ankle crossed over his calf.
She let her head rest against the seat and she giggled, her fingers smoothing the silk of her dress. “Fun night.”
He looked to her and tried to focus his gaze on her eyes, on her hands - anywhere but the expanse of skin that started at the hollow of her throat and ran right down to the curve of her cleavage. “Mmmm-hmmm,” he agreed, turning his head to gaze out the safety of his own window.
“I love our show,” she whispered, her voice low. “I love our show, I love our crew, I love our writers, I love our cast.”
He smirked, turning to her. “You love everyone, huh?”
She nodded, and lifted a hand, poking him hard in the chest. “And if you’re lucky, maybe I’ll even love you.”
His smile was gone, then, and replaced by something else in his eyes. She swallowed and licked her lips. “Chris, I -”
The taxi eased to a stop, and they both looked out the window. Chris blinked and narrowed his eyes. “Your stop.”
She collected her purse, handing the driver her share of the fare. She curled her fingers around the door handle, ready to step outside, when she turned back to Chris, suddenly desperate for something clever and original and non-cliched to say.
“Coffee?”
//
It was wrong.
He knew it before, during, and after. It was every shade of wrong. His wife and daughter were at home, in their apartment, sleeping soundly and waiting for him to come home.
But when Mariska smoothed her lips across his jaw and pushed him further into her mattress, he lost all sense of right and wrong and logic and sense and could only think of here and now and how badly he wanted to taste her.
When it was over, they laid side by side, staring at the ceiling, panting for breath. All Chris could think was how he wanted to do it over and over and over again, and never ever stop.
So he turned to her and made them both promise that it wouldn’t ever happen again. Ever.
And they’d lasted this long, so that counts for something, right?
//
He becomes Elliot Stabler easily, and sometimes it’s hard to tell fiction from reality. There are moments where he is Stabler and Mariska is Benson and they’re fighting crime together and trying to figure it all out and he knows that he wants her but she’s completely off limits because she’s his partner. Because he’s married with kids and she’s married with a year old son and IT’S TOO LATE NOW.
//
They’re filming on location in an alley in New York city, and they’re on a break while the crew sets up the cameras for the next scene.
He guzzles down some water, wiping his lips with the back of his hand as a make up artist powders her nose. “Any plans for tonight?”
She pulls her cell phone from her pocket, fingers dancing over the keypad (texting Peter, he supposes) and she nods. “A broadway premiere. One of Peter’s friends has a part, so we’re there to support.”
“That’s nice,” he says genuinely, and remembers a time when she used to attend premieres and red carpet events with him.
They haven’t been to one together in years.
//
They begin shooting again, and he thinks about his contract.
Two years can’t end soon enough.
END.
there's definitely not enough sex here. i'm ashamed of myself.
CHARLIE BROWN/SNOOPY NEXT, HOKAY? ♥
also, this write up of fellow aussie (!!) baggers stumbling onto the filming of an svu episode helped inspire this. when she mentioned chris and mariska playing with august alot? MELTED MY HEART A LITTLE. also the mentions of dry humping didn't hurt, either.
title: there’s no hope for us here
fandom: rpf (real person fic)
characters: christopher meloni, mariska hargitay, christopher/mariska
word count: 1,259
rating: pg-13
spoilers: nothing ♥
summary: They’re asked about “chemistry” and she can’t help but laugh when Chris pulls her closer.
there's no hope for us here
They’re filming for their ninth season and everything feels like home.
Chris becomes Elliot Stabler easily (split personality, his wife murmurs) and it’s second nature now; how to hold a perp to the ground with his knee in their back, how to level his arms when he’s aiming to shoot, how to watch his partner out of the corner of his eye.
It’s not really acting, is it, when you don’t need to think. When you just need to breathe and it’s there. He wonders, sometimes.
//
A yell of ’cut, people!’ fills the air and the tension of Stabler melts out of his shoulders. He moves off set, behind the hot lights of the cameras, and Mariska is there waiting, August cradled against her hip.
He smiles and the boy reaches for him, all wiggling fingers and gap-toothed smiles. He can’t help but smile back as he bounces him in his arms, cooing and calling him ‘little guy’ and tickling his ribs.
Mariska chews on her lip as she watches them. “He’s been cranky all morning.” She brushes her hair out of her eyes and lets out a tired sigh. “He started crying late last night and hasn’t stopped since.”
Chris laughs as August pulls on his tie, pokes him in the nose, curls against his shoulder. “He seems alright now.”
She nods, her eyes puffy from lack of sleep. “Yeah.”
//
They hardly do interviews by themselves.
They come in a set, a pair. People want to see them together and the irony isn’t lost on him.
“So tell us,” the blonde twenty-something interviewer purrs, “Will Elliot and Olivia ever get together?”
They share a look (they’ve been hearing this question for the past nine years, you understand) and then they smile and quote “we really don’t know/they feel very deeply for each other/we’re asking Dick Wolf the same question!/our fingers are crossed!”
His hand is on her waist and she leans a little closer.
They’re asked about “chemistry” and she can’t help but laugh when Chris pulls her closer.
“We just don’t see it.”
//
It’s five am and they’re getting make up done. He watches her in the mirror, eyes wide and inspecting.
“What?”, she asks, looking up as mascara is applied.
“Nothing,” he shakes his head innocently.
“You’re staring,” she pushes.
He shrugs. “I like the new haircut.”
She blinks in return, the mascara wet against her cheek. “Well, it’s not really new.”
He looks down, and can’t help the corners of his lips from twitching a little. “I know.”
She puffs out her cheeks and lets the air rush past her lips. “I feel like I’ve travelled five years back in time, or something. Before I had August, before I married Peter.”
And now he tries to smile, but can’t. There’s something stuck in his throat that makes it hard to swallow. Makes it even hard to breathe.
She turns to him, her fingers curling around the armrest of the plastic chair. “You know what I mean?”
He thinks he does, but he can’t push the words out of his throat. So he nods silently and goes back to watching her in the mirror.
//
What everyone doesn’t know is that they’ve slept together. Once.
It was the season two wrap party, and there was champagne and cake and a brightly coloured banner that read, “here’s to many more!” and her hair was curling around her ears.
They danced and laughed and shared stories into the early morning, and all decided it was time to go home when Richard and Ice-T started dirty dancing on the table tops.
Mariska tugged on his hand as they left. “We’ll share a cab,” she offered. And even though they lived in opposite directions, he nodded once and wrapped an arm around her waist.
The back of the taxi was dark (darker than he remembered taxi’s ever being) and she sat close, her thigh stuck to his and her ankle crossed over his calf.
She let her head rest against the seat and she giggled, her fingers smoothing the silk of her dress. “Fun night.”
He looked to her and tried to focus his gaze on her eyes, on her hands - anywhere but the expanse of skin that started at the hollow of her throat and ran right down to the curve of her cleavage. “Mmmm-hmmm,” he agreed, turning his head to gaze out the safety of his own window.
“I love our show,” she whispered, her voice low. “I love our show, I love our crew, I love our writers, I love our cast.”
He smirked, turning to her. “You love everyone, huh?”
She nodded, and lifted a hand, poking him hard in the chest. “And if you’re lucky, maybe I’ll even love you.”
His smile was gone, then, and replaced by something else in his eyes. She swallowed and licked her lips. “Chris, I -”
The taxi eased to a stop, and they both looked out the window. Chris blinked and narrowed his eyes. “Your stop.”
She collected her purse, handing the driver her share of the fare. She curled her fingers around the door handle, ready to step outside, when she turned back to Chris, suddenly desperate for something clever and original and non-cliched to say.
“Coffee?”
//
It was wrong.
He knew it before, during, and after. It was every shade of wrong. His wife and daughter were at home, in their apartment, sleeping soundly and waiting for him to come home.
But when Mariska smoothed her lips across his jaw and pushed him further into her mattress, he lost all sense of right and wrong and logic and sense and could only think of here and now and how badly he wanted to taste her.
When it was over, they laid side by side, staring at the ceiling, panting for breath. All Chris could think was how he wanted to do it over and over and over again, and never ever stop.
So he turned to her and made them both promise that it wouldn’t ever happen again. Ever.
And they’d lasted this long, so that counts for something, right?
//
He becomes Elliot Stabler easily, and sometimes it’s hard to tell fiction from reality. There are moments where he is Stabler and Mariska is Benson and they’re fighting crime together and trying to figure it all out and he knows that he wants her but she’s completely off limits because she’s his partner. Because he’s married with kids and she’s married with a year old son and IT’S TOO LATE NOW.
//
They’re filming on location in an alley in New York city, and they’re on a break while the crew sets up the cameras for the next scene.
He guzzles down some water, wiping his lips with the back of his hand as a make up artist powders her nose. “Any plans for tonight?”
She pulls her cell phone from her pocket, fingers dancing over the keypad (texting Peter, he supposes) and she nods. “A broadway premiere. One of Peter’s friends has a part, so we’re there to support.”
“That’s nice,” he says genuinely, and remembers a time when she used to attend premieres and red carpet events with him.
They haven’t been to one together in years.
//
They begin shooting again, and he thinks about his contract.
Two years can’t end soon enough.
END.
there's definitely not enough sex here. i'm ashamed of myself.