#next up: a detective and at least one (1) lawyer

[thosehallowedhalls]

Of Cloudless Climes and Starry Skies (1/?)

Pairing: Sebastyan Thorne/MC (Emma Rose)

Summary: There are many things that Sebastyan doesn't like about Detective Rose. Her loyalty to Trystan, for one thing. But the most unforgivable offense is the way she keeps drawing his eye.

A/N: All right, bear with me here. Although Trystan/MC is probably my all-time favorite Choices pairing, I spent most of CoP2 annoyed by how incompetent they were throughout the investigation (seriously, don't get me started on everything they did wrong) and by their refusal to acknowledge the elephant in the room, aka that they wouldn't be able to stay together if Trystan became king/queen. This story is the result.

Alas, what was supposed to be a short oneshot grew into a (so far) 8000+ multichapter story. It turns out that I forgot how much inner work Sebastyan needs to become a viable love interest.

Because most of the first chapter is Bas' perspective of canon, there's a lot of dialogue taken straight from the book, so you can easily skip that. The only scenes you can't skip without missing part of the plot are Sebastyan's early conversation with Vasili, and his last conversation with MC at the end of the chapter.

Frankly, I don't know if anyone will be interested, but well, I wrote it, so I might as well post it.

(One final note, I could never break up MC and Trystan, so they're only friends in this one.)

Chapter 1

Sebastyan watches his sister from the door, the familiar competing pangs of love and resentment making him pause for a moment to compose himself.

Then he sees the woman standing next to her. The immediate stab of attraction is as unexpected as it is unwelcome.

One of Marguerite’s models? Unlikely. She has the looks for it, but Sebastyan knows that Marguerite won’t give her fashion line a second thought while Trystan is under arrest. A lawyer, perhaps?

Only one way to find out.

“Trouble?”

Marguerite folds her arms. “Bas, call off the guards and let us in.”

He looks back to her companion, catches her watching him. Up close, she’s even more striking. “Who’s this, Marguerite? Another of your aspiring models?”

“Emma Rose. Private Detective.”

Trystan’s pet detective, then. If he’d bothered to wonder, he would’ve assumed she looked… well. Not like this, at any rate. He clenches his fist against the absurd urge to take her extended hand. He wants nothing to do with anyone deluded enough to ally themselves with Trystan. “Oh Marguerite, you’ve armored her up. Isn’t that… optimistic of you?”

“We dress for the outcome we deserve. Play nice, won’t you, Sebastyan?”

“I don’t ‘play nice.’ If Detective Rose expects to be taken seriously, she would do well to remember that. And it’s Prince Sebastyan to her.”

From his experience with Americans, or really anyone who isn’t Drakovian, he expects her to step back. Instead, she meets his eye. “Prince Sebastyan, you should really practice your manners. Aren’t there protocols for how you treat your royal guests?”

Well. At least she’s got a spine. “I have impeccable manners. Which is why I only use them when they’re warranted.”

A boxer appears out of seemingly nowhere and steps protectively in front of the detective. It makes Marguerite smile. “The guards, Bas?”

He eyes the dog and decides that he’s not in the mood to lose a limb today. “I’ll call off mine if you call off yours.”

The detective lays a hand on the dog, soothing her. Sebastyan nods to the guards to stand back, leading his sister and her American into the palace. As they walk, he wonders if Marguerite has finally seen the light. Surely the news that there is new evidence against Trystan is too much for even her to ignore.

But then.

“I assume Trystan’s in his suite?”

“Why so eager for a reunion, little sister? You can’t still think he’s innocent?”

“I don’t think he’s innocent. I know.”

The stab of betrayal is sharp as ever. “Then there’s nothing left for us to say to each other.”

He gives her a mocking bow and strides away, leaving Marguerite and Detective Rose to their delusions.

He steps up to the courtroom steps with a dark sense of anticipation. After eight long years, Juliana will finally be avenged, and everybody will see Trystan for who he is. If only she had seen through him in time, she’d still be alive.

As he approaches the door, he sees Trystan and the detective standing together. She puts a hand on his arm, whispering something that makes his brother nod. Sebastyan’s eyebrows shoot up. For some reason, it didn’t occur to him before now that they’re probably sleeping together.  Still, it makes sense. Trystan has never met a professional line he couldn’t cross – and he was cavorting with models even when he was engaged to Juli, so it’s hardly a surprise that he wouldn’t think twice before getting involved with his colleague.

He looks away. It’s time to get justice for Juliana, once and for all.

He tries to hide his trepidation when the detective calls him to the stand. He doesn’t know what she and Marguerite found that makes them think Trystan stands a chance, but he can’t believe that it will make any real difference. Trystan’s confession, and Juli’s letter, spoke for themselves.

Taking comfort in that knowledge, he glares at her as he takes the stand.

“Prince Sebastyan, how would you describe your relationship with Countess Georgescu?”

“We were friends. Good friends.”

“Then you should be able to recognize this.” She smiles and hands him a sheet of paper. The tightening of his stomach when their fingers brush is swiftly replaced by fury when he sees what she’s just given him.

“How did you get this? You’re not permitted to access my emails!”

“‘Your’ emails? So I’ll take that as a yes. Can you summarize its contents for the court?”

He grits his teeth. He’s not going to reveal to the entire court that Juli once said Trystan would make a wonderful husband. He’d rather be thrown into the dungeons. “It’s from Juliana. I offered to help her get out of her engagement, but she told me that she wanted to marry Trystan.”

“So this email, sent three weeks after the letter introduced as evidence by Ms. Zoric, is authentic?”

He wants to lie. But he knows it’d be useless. “Yes.”

And that’s it. With a few sentences, she makes it seem as though Juliana was writing to someone else. But it can’t be. He would have known if the woman he’d loved since childhood was courting with somebody else before Trystan.

Then the detective plays a new recording of Trystan’s interrogation, and Sebastyan is left to flounder. Could his brother possibly be innocent?

The thought doesn’t even have time to take root before he dismisses it outright.

Absolutely not.

He downs a glass of whiskey. He barely feels the burn anymore.

“Slow down, Bas.”

He shrugs off his brother’s words. “How did this happen? How can everybody be so goddamn blind to who he is?”

Vasili’s shoulders slump. “I don’t know. But they are, and we’re not going to accomplish anything by getting drunk.”

“I’ll feel better, at least.”

“For how long? You’ll only feel worse afterwards. And you know you have a meeting this evening.”

“Two meetings. I arranged to meet Nadja after I’m finished trying, and probably failing, to talk sense into Markarov.”

His brother’s glass stops halfway to his lips. “Nadja? Whatever for?”

“Because regardless of what happened yesterday, she’s still the best lawyer in Drakovia, and we need her to pass the Act.”

“Do you think she’ll want to help?”

“She told Trystan she’d be happy to honor Juliana’s legacy. I don’t see why she wouldn’t want to help us. It’s the same goal.”

Vasili snorts. “You can’t possibly believe that Trystan wants to honor Juliana. More likely, he wants to bribe Nadja into sabotaging the Act.”

He stops short. “You really think so? But why? Father and the queen have already reinstated him. The Act’s passing isn’t going to change anything for him personally.”

“You know he’s always had it out for you. Trystan may be an idiot, but he has enough of a brain to realize how much this means to you. Ergo…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Sebastyan does it for him. “Ergo, he’ll make sure it fails just to take a shot at me?”

Vasili doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Sebastyan’s anger heats up anew. “We will get Nadja on our side. Somehow.”

“I take it you have a plan?”

He nods, the cogs in his mind turning. “You know that married man she had an affair with when she was at university? I very much doubt she wants that getting out.”

His brother’s face is a mask of concern. “Be careful, Bas. Nadja doesn’t strike me as someone who’ll take blackmail lying down. She’s more likely to tell his wife herself to spite you. And she’ll sue you immediately afterwards. I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

He hesitates for a moment. Then he thinks of Trystan, lethally irresponsible Trystan, as king. Sitting on a throne he doesn’t deserve, ruling Drakovia into the ground. All while Vasili, who loves Drakovia like Trystan never has and who would be a good and just king, is ignored and called a bastard behind his back.

Really, there is no choice.

“I’m doing this, Vasili. For Drakovia, for Juliana, and for you.”

Sebastyan walks back to the palace after spending ten minutes in the gardens. He needed some time to breathe past the anger of his failed meeting with Nadja. He knew she wouldn’t take kindly to the threat of blackmail, of course, but he wasn’t expecting quite that level of rage – or the accusation that he’d tried to frame Trystan.

He doesn’t need to frame anyone. Whether it was intentional or not, Trystan is still responsible for Juli’s death. And it’s only a matter of time until he makes another reckless decision that results in harm to Drakovia and her people.

He can’t let that happen.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice it until he’s almost at the doors: utter chaos. He flags a passing maid.

“What’s going on here?”

She twists her hands together. “Your Highness. There’s been a death in the palace.”

His heart stops. “Mother? Vasili? Marguerite?”

“No, no. Not a member of the family. It was that lawyer, the famous one. Nadja Zuric.”

It feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. “Nadja’s dead?”

A hand falls on his shoulder. “Bas, let Anya get back to work. I’ll fill you in.”

Vasili leads him to the throne room where most of the family are gathered. Sebastyan tries to process what Vasili just told him – that Nadja was found murdered in Trystan’s suite. Grief and rage intertwine within him, his earlier doubts solidifying into a grim certainty. Of course Trystan killed Juliana on purpose. And now he’s killed Nadja as revenge.

Then the door opens, and Trystan and the detective walk in. He opens his mouth to say something that Vasili wouldn’t approve of, but she takes control of the situation without a qualm.

“We have several alibis, no motive, and a suspiciously messy murder. Someone’s clearly trying to set Trystan up…”

“Again.”

Oh really? His hands tighten into fists at the blatant attempt to get Trystan off the hook for murder again. It’s probably lucky that she barrels on before he can get a word in.

“No one’s leaving this room until we get some answers.”

Kaspar crosses his arms. “Is that so? Who died and put you in charge?”

It’s terribly crass – but Sebastyan can’t help but agree.

Vasili, as usual, is better than that. “Poor taste, Kaspar.”

Emika speaks up, their tone dripping sarcasm. “Fine, I’ll say it nicely. Blood and guts is Royal Guard business. Why are we all here?”

He doesn’t miss the quick glance skywards, as though she’s praying for patience. At another moment, coming from somebody else, the gesture would make him smile. “You’re here because the palace is an active crime scene. Where I’m from, protocol requires me to preserve the crime scene. My associates will handle it from here.”

“Mr. Watanabe and Ms. Webster didn’t want you all traipsing about.”

Predictable as ever, Astrid shudders. “Ew, as if I would! My Louis do not need a sole touch up right now.”

“Astrid, a woman is dead.”

Lydea raises a single eyebrow. “Oh yes, we know. In your room.”

“I didn’t do this!”

“It does bear mentioning you said that last time.”

“We’ve proved Trystan’s innocence, Vasili.”

Marguerite’s show of support rankles enough that Sebastyan can’t stay quiet any longer. “Then how is it that women always seem to drop dead in your presence, Trystan?”

Trystan’s face blanks, his hands closing into fists. “Screw you.”

The detective jumps to his brother’s defense. Once again, he wonders if they’re sleeping together. “Sebastyan, your brother is armored with an alibi. He was with me from 7 pm until now.”

Ha. “Pardon me if I don’t blindly trust Trystan’s closest American confidante.”

“He was with your father and I for the rest of the day. So you can put your grudge match back in your pocket, Sebastyan.”

“Do we all have to be here? I’m in the middle of a super important argument with my boyfriend, and I crafted the winning text.”

“Yes, you do. We need to know where everyone was. Now.”

Marguerite and Vasili easily share their alibis, but an argument follows when it's Lydea's turn. Sebastyan tunes them all out, trying to make up an alibi for himself, when the sound of his name brings him back to the moment.

Astrid sighs, dramatic as ever. “Um, hi. Are we all forgetting that Bas totally loses it when it comes to Trystan? No offense.”

For God’s sake.

“She’s right, Bas. You do take particular delight in my downfalls.”

“I don’t need to frame you for that. It’s easy enough just to let them happen naturally.”

“But you did have a history with Nadja. More than the rest of us.”

He absorbs the pain of Marguerite’s doubt without flinching, but he can’t help the rising of his voice. “I’m a politician, not a murderer! Nadja and I were friends once.” His next words come out in a rush, and he hopes that nobody can detect the lie in them. “I was in a meeting with Markarov at the legislative building!”

He’s so caught up in the ensuing argument that he completely forgets about the detective – until her voice rises.

“Stop arguing! There is a dead woman in this palace!” The disdain in her eyes as she sweeps her gaze over them stings more than expected. “I know you’re all ridiculously blasé about murder in this country but have some damn respect.”

Even Kaspar looks somewhat ashamed. Sebastyan didn’t know he had it in him.

“You’re right of course, Emma. You must think we’re dreadfully petty.”

“And useless. This is getting us nowhere.”

“With the queen’s blessing, Trystan and I will investigate the scene. You will all stay put. No one gets out of this one. Royalty or not.”

In lieu of pacing the room, which would give away his nerves to every single person from whom he’d rather keep them hidden, he turns to Lydea.

“I do believe you promised to help me improve my knife throwing.”

She gives him one of her Older Sister looks. “Now?”

“What else is there to do? Glance at each other suspiciously?”

“… Point taken. Let’s start with your stance.”

He gets caught up in the challenge, not quite forgetting the situation but putting it aside in his competitiveness.

“Damn it!” He scowls when he misses the mark. Again.

Lydea takes his wrist, adjusting its position.

“You’re always too tense. A fluid arm hits the mark.”

“Easier said than done, but I take your point.”

Astrid’s shrill voice catapults him back into reality. “Could you all please shut up? I’m going through something right now.”

That’s… unexpected. “You didn’t even like Nadja.”

“I’m not talking about Nadja! Gregor just dumped me!”

He rolls his eyes. He’s getting into position to try again when the detective and Trystan step into the room, a chill arriving with them. He sees her gaze flicker over Lydea a second longer than normal.

“Well? What have you discovered?”

Her face and stance are perfectly neutral, but he gets the sense of a leopard about to strike. “Our forensic analyst puts Nadja’s death at 7:30, only minutes before Trystan and I discovered her body.”

Not a surprise. She was with him until just before 7:30. Still, the words send a chill down his spine. The only other person who knew that Nadja would be in the palace was… was…

He slams a mental door against that thought. No.

Marguerite looks confused. “Shouldn’t you have seen the killer leaving the room?”

“If they’d used the corridor, yes. But the killer left via the secret passageway in my parlor.”

He feels rather than sees all his siblings look at each other. Emika speaks first. “Well, that’s intriguing.”

He frowns. So the killer is definitely one of them. “I didn’t think anyone was still using those.”

“Did you find any evidence in the passageway?”

“A trail of blood leading to the central chamber, where we found what may have been the murder weapon.”

“A dagger bearing the family crest,” Trystan says.

His shoulders relax. So he and Vasili aren’t suspects, then.

“Where is the dagger now?”

“Somewhere safe.”

Vasili speaks up, stricken. “If I can clarify… you genuinely think the killer is standing in this room? Right now?”

“Yes. And I know for a fact that at least one of you lied about your alibi.”

She turns her eyes on him, making him scramble for a way to explain both his lie and why he was even with Nadja in the first place… until he realizes that she’s actually looking about ten centimeters to his right. Lydea notices at the same time.

“You can’t mean me.”

And so ensues the tale of Getting Rid of Astrid’s Imprudent Partner, Round A Thousand. Really, he doesn’t know how Lydea isn’t sick of doing the same song and dance every three partners or so. Also, he wonders how Astrid never caught on before now. Then again, Lydea usually makes it so that Astrid gets to dump them first. 

“On that note… are we finished for the evening? As much as I’d like to stay here and keep arguing, I am getting tired.”

Sebastyan frowns. Vasili seemed a little overeager to leave just now. Granted, he wants to be anywhere but this room too, but…

He firmly pushes the half-finished thought aside. He’s imagining things.

The detective nods at Lydea. “I’m guessing Colette will confirm everything you said tonight?”

“Not entirely. I sent Colette to supervise the security detail at Marguerite’s show after we left the restaurant. But the gatehouse guards can confirm I arrived back at the palace at 7:40pm, as will the security footage from the gate. And the opera house.”

“Fine. Looks like we’ll have to regroup and continue questioning tomorrow. I want guards posted all over Trystan’s room.”

“Done. Now can I go the hell to sleep?”

The queen intervenes. “One moment. Before we recess, detective… You are summoned to join us for dinner tomorrow night. Please continue your investigation there, and keep us abreast of your findings.”

The queen steps out, followed by nearly everyone else. Before stepping through the doorway, he looks at Trystan’s plaything. “Until tomorrow, detective.”

He sees her as soon as she steps into the room with Trystan, their body language conveying a very clear ‘us against the world’ message.

There is no way they’re not sleeping together.

She’s wearing a green dress that he immediately recognizes as one of Marguerite’s designs – one that complements Trystan’s attire. Gold jewelry adorns her neck and arms, and Sebastyan grudgingly admires the snake motif on it. He’s been in politics, not to mention a Thorne, long enough to know what the entire ensemble means. The detective meets his gaze, and he reads that same message in her eyes.

Game on.

He stands a little straighter. This is a battle he is not willing to lose.

As you wish, detective.

He finds himself watching her as she talks to Kaspar and Emika, and he can’t help but be a little amused by the twins’ failed attempts to fluster her. It’s been a long time since somebody confused either of them, let alone both.

He might have liked her if she wasn’t in bed with the likes of Trystan. Literally. He frowns, both at the unwelcome thought and its corresponding mental image, relieved that this is the expression the detective sees when she turns and their eyes meet. Unfazed, she starts walking towards him. His gaze flicks down her body before he remembers himself.

“I could do without the pleasantries, detective.”

“Why is that, Prince Sebastyan?” The slight mocking edge to the word ‘prince’ doesn’t escape him. His hand tightens on his glass. “Do I have something on my face?”

“I’m sure you know you look perfectly adequate tonight.” ‘Adequate’ may not be the best word, but he’ll willingly spend a full day with Patryk rather than admit to anything else.

“Is that your version of a compliment?”

“For you? I suppose it is. But that’s not why I was staring. I was trying to gauge whether my brother has slept with you yet.”

He expects her to react with either anger or embarrassment. Instead, she lifts an eyebrow. “Interesting. Do you think about your brother’s sex life often?”

He can’t quite hide his disgust. “Hardly. But Trystan’s never met a professional line he couldn’t cross. And here you are, his ‘partner’ from another continent, leading an investigation into family members he has no love for.”

“You’re questioning my impartiality?”

“Call it that if you like.”

“Sebastyan…” She leans in, as if to impart a big secret. He catches a whiff of… gardenias? “You caught us! I am def tapping that royal ass. What do you think we were doing before we came to dinner?”

He immediately regrets asking. “I don’t recall asking for that level of detail…”

“It’s okay, there are no secrets between family. Which is what we’ll be soon. Though I guess that technically makes you my subject too…”

He vaguely realizes that he’s gaping. “You’re not suggesting…”

“The biggest royal wedding Drakovia’s ever seen? Heck yes I am. Trystan’s promised me that I can wear a diamond-encrusted Stetson to honor my American heritage.”

… Ah. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Caught me again. All you need to know is that I’m a professional, here to find the truth. Marguerite hired us to prove Trystan innocent, and now the queen’s hired us to find Nadja’s murderer.”

As if on cue, his sister approaches them. “Are we finally talking about Nadja, the person whom everyone seems to have forgotten about in all this?”

Grief slashes at him, a vicious blade. “I never forgot about her.”

“Then you knew Nadja? I’d never have guessed, considering how inconvenienced you appeared last night.”

Does she have an abysmal memory, or is she trying to psyche him out? Because he knows he told her just last night that he and Nadja were once friends. Still… “A harsh, but fair observation. Yes, I was lucky enough to be one of the few people Nadja called a friend. As were Marguerite and Juliana.” He takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to know, but... “Was it… Was Nadja’s death painful?”

The detective’s face softens. “Nadja died in agony, but it was over quickly. It wouldn’t have taken more than a few seconds for her to bleed out.”

“I…” He inhales shakily. “I see. Thank you for your candor.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how was your relationship with Nadja before she died? Were you still close?”

“We…” He stops himself in time. What is it about her that makes him want to tell her the truth? “Actually, I do mind.”

He’s not giving Trystan’s… ‘partner’ the courtesy of honesty. He pivots and stalks away to meet Lydea and… a flicker of unease runs down his spine... Vasili.

Goddamn it, he knows that his brother didn’t kill Nadja. It’s the detective’s fault that he’s unable to fully shake off his suspicions.

“So, Trystan! You’re back! How was the Moldy Apple? I always preferred LA myself. Theres so much more culture over there. Plus, the people there are way hotter and friendlier than New Yorkers.”

Em- the detective chimes in. “Patryk, should I teach you how conversations work?”

“What?”

“If you ask someone a question, you need to give them time to actually answer them. Like this.”

“Are you seriously trying to school me right now? How many followers do you even have?”

“When you’ve been associating with cretins online so long that you need to be reminded of etiquette by a commoner, accept the lesson.”

He almost smiles.

The conversation soon turns to the investigation, and Sebastyan doesn’t know whether to be relieved or worried about the lack of resolution. Which one of his siblings is behind this? He has no trouble believing that they’re almost all capable of murder, except for Marguerite and… his certainty falters. Damn it. He won’t let Em-Detective Rose get to him.

As the night unfolds, he wonders who will poison her first – Patryk or the twins? Then he sees his younger brother start a livestream, like the irredeemable fool that he is, and knows.

Oh well. If she wants to meddle with what doesn’t concern her, she can deal with the consequences. Still, he’s a little disappointed when she drinks the wine without a qualm. He had higher hopes for her.

“Slow down, cowboy. Wow, Trystan, your new friend’s kind of a lush, huh?”

“Emma’s an adult. She knows her own limit.”

“I can’t help it. This Drakovian wine is delicious.”

“What’s so different about it from New York wine? Like, flavor profile-wise.”

“It’s not from a box, perhaps?” Emika chimes in.

“I’m no wine expert, but I’m getting notes of plum… chicory… and almonds.”

Patryk and the twins laugh, and god, he'll never not find the sound irritating.

“Get ready for the fireworks, viewers. Our good friend is about to bloooooow.”

If he had any doubt about the nature of her relationship with Trystan, his brother’s reaction would put them to rest. Furious, he snaps, “Shut that thing off, Patryk. Emma, how much did you drink?

She tilts her head and smiles, a triumphant look on her face that makes his stomach tighten. “Not one drop.”

“Aw, man. What a buzzkill! Eighty thousand people tuned in live to watch someone crap themselves at dinner.”

Clearly out of patience, she rolls her eyes. “You think I came to the world capital of recreational poisoning without learning what to look out for?”

Trystan throws Patryk’s phone across the room, and damn, but the detective means a lot to him, doesn’t she? “My partner is not fodder for your content.”

He yanks her out of the room. When her eyes meet Sebastyan’s on her way out, he can’t quite hide the grudging respect in his.

Well played, detective.

After retiring to his room that night, he can’t sleep. He tries going over the wording of his latest legislation draft, but it doesn’t help. He doesn’t know why he can’t relax. It has been one of the most excruciating weeks of his life, by rights, he should’ve fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He gives up and groans. He does know why he can’t sleep, damn it. As infuriating as it is to admit it, he’s attracted to Em– the detective. Oh, it’s purely physical and entirely temporary – she’s almost singlehandedly responsible for inflicting Trystan on Drakovia again, which means that he’d cut off his own hands before he touches her. But this knowledge doesn’t seem to go far in convincing his hormones. The lingering soft notes of her perfume, so unexpected in a woman like her, haunt him.

He grits his teeth. Normally, he’d indulge in a brief fantasy to take the edge off. But there’s no way in hell that he’s bringing himself off to a woman who’s sleeping with his brother. Any brother, but especially Trystan.

He closes his eyes again. Her face instantly appears in his mind, an unconscious mockery on her part.

This is going to be a long night.

Sebastyan is leaning against the pantry door, a bowl of popcorn in one hand, when he hears steps. He tenses when he recognizes the sound of paws on marble. There’s only one dog in the palace, always accompanied by a specific person. A person he’s not ready to see, not after the dream he just had.

“Oh.” Emma comes to a stop in the doorway. “I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

“It’s quite all right, detective. Please, don’t let me keep you.” Translation: I was here first, so get out. Her eyebrows rise slightly, and something like amusement flashes in her eyes.

“I’ve heard insults more kindly meant,” she says admiringly. “That’s quite a skill you have there, Prince Sebastyan.”

As always, she manages to make his title sound like a mockery.

“I’m not the only one,” he mutters. He flicks his gaze down her body, refusing to let it linger there. “Were you at a tea party, detective?”

She meets his eyes. “Close. I was at the Georgescu estate.”

His hand tightens around the bowl. “You went to Juliana’s house? Why?”

“Trystan and the countesses had some amends to make.” She waits a beat. “They made them.”

His immediate fury over this apparent capitulation by Juliana’s mothers is… not replaced, exactly, but set aside when he notices the look in her eyes. Appraisal. She’s waiting for his reaction to the news, which makes no sense in this context.

“I see. People do tend to let Trystan off the hook for everything. But I admit, I expected better from Noemi and Eloise.”

“What would they be letting him off the hook for, exactly? We proved during Trystan’s trial that he didn’t kill Juliana.”

“That doesn’t mean he was good for her.”

“From what I’ve heard, she felt otherwise.”

He isn’t surprised by the pang of bitter jealousy. It’s come to be familiar over the years. But he is surprised by how… blunted it is. Like a tender scar that’s been grazed, so different from the usual sharp stab.

He holds the detective’s eyes. “And look how that turned out for her.”

“You’re still convinced that her relationship with Trystan led Juliana to her death, then?”

“Of course.”

“… How?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How was a loving relationship responsible for a woman’s death? Even you must realize by now that Trystan couldn’t have killed her. So why are you so convinced that he’s responsible for her passing?”

“Everyone saw how drunk he was that night. He must have been all but unconscious when Juli needed his help.”

Something shifts in her expression. Anger wells up inside of him when he recognizes just what that something is.

“I don’t want your pity.”

“I’m not saying you do. But you lost someone you loved too. There’s nothing shameful about being pitied for that. And I prefer to call it compassion, anyway.”

Easy for her to say. She’s not the one with half a country pitying her, the other half looking down their nose at her.

“Shameful or not, I neither need nor want your compassion.”

“Sorry, Sebastyan, but that’s not how compassion – or feelings in general – work.”

Unbidden, his eyes drop to her mouth. “I’ll grant you that one, detective.”

“I have a name, you know.”

Of course he knows. When he woke up from his impromptu nap forty minutes ago, it was with her name on his lips – and the scent of gardenias in his nostrils. “I prefer to use people’s titles.”

At least the people from whom he’s trying to keep his distance. This woman as case in point.

“Wow. Were you born an old man, or is this a more recent development?”

He rolls his eyes. People are always needling him for being too serious. More than one ex used the word “intense.”

“What are you doing here, detective?” He asks in lieu of answering.

“Oh.” She looks around, as if only remembering where she is. “I was hungry.”

“I’m afraid that the chefs are gone with the king and queen, so you’ll have to fend for yourself.”

“Chefs? Plural?”

“My father tends to take his meals with my mother. The queen habitually dines alone. It’s easier all around to have two chefs.”

Emma makes a face. She doesn’t explicitly say that she finds this ridiculous, but her expression does it for her. “Right, well, that doesn’t help me now.”

“I’d tell you to feel free to cook for yourself, but Maria and Lukas are particular about this kitchen. They don’t even like sharing it with each other.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have thought that you’d know them well enough to be aware of that.”

He shrugs. “They’ve both worked here a long time.”

Emma eyes his popcorn. “I don’t suppose there’s more of that?”

Wordlessly, he reaches behind him for a second tub and holds it out to her. She looks at it, then back at him.

“Care to do the honors?”

“Checking for poison, detective?”

“Absolutely. Poison me once, shame on the Thornes. Poison me twice…”

He can’t help it. He grins at that.

“You’ve taken to Drakovia better than I expected.”

“Considering that your expectations were nonexistent, that doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“Oh, it’s not. Merely an observation.” He strokes Alice’s head absently, only realizing what he’s doing when he notices Emma’s gaze resting on his hand.

“I didn’t realize you liked dogs, Sebastyan.”

“I haven’t spent much time with them. The queen isn’t fond of animals, so there are none in the palace or on the grounds.”

“I would’ve thought she was a fan of snakes at least.”

He snorts. He’d pay good money to see Queen Viktoria interact with Orlenna. “In theory. But she prefers them far away.”

“Look at that, we have something in common.”

“Spent a lot of time with snakes, have you?”

“Not until I arrived at this palace,” she says dryly.

He chuckles. For once, he feels… comfortable around her.

“I should go. It’s getting late.”

“Me too. Early meeting tomorrow.”

But they stay where they are, eyes locked. His heart beats faster.

Then her phone chimes. The change in her posture, the way she angles the phone away from him… it isn’t hard to figure out who’s behind that text.

“Brother dearest, I take it?”

She spares him a glance. “If you mean Trystan, yes. Excuse me.”

Emma walks out, leaving him with no doubt that she’s on her way to meet with Trystan. At a quarter to midnight.

So he was right about them.

The armor hardens again. As far as he’s concerned, the last half hour never happened.

#crimes of passion #sebastyan thorne #detective rose #emma rose #sebastyan x mc #playchoices #i don't even know what this is #play choices

[scribblinaway]

ok so here is a thing that is terrible, but then there’s maybe a silver lining, but then the silver lining somehow reveals even worse things underneath, but then that somehow has managed to create a new silver lining, maybe, but people are terrible and I don’t even know? 

anyway, this is an extended ramble about rape culture in hockey and the ongoing Hockey Canada scandal and all the players’ questionable public statements in advance of the next set of parliamentary hearings next week. 

So. Okay. Rape culture has been a big problem in hockey for a long time. It's something that we've started to see get addressed more and more on high school and university-level hockey teams over the last ten years or so, I would guess as part of overall campus strategies on this issue. I think the NHL's kinda come-to-Jesus moment happened last year, when a lot of information came to light about the Chicago Blackhawks covering up a sexual assault of one of their own players by a  member of coaching staff, and the extremely terrible flow-on effects of that action. But change takes a long time, and other levels of hockey haven’t necessarily had this kind of shake-up. 

Now: The Junior World Championships (aka World Juniors). At least in Canada, it's probably the biggest non-NHL hockey event other than the Olympics. (I'm hoping the Women's World Championship will surpass it though.) It's fun to watch for a few reasons: (1) It normally starts on Boxing Day, so everyone is at home doing the holiday thing with their families and it's nice to have something on TV; (2) You get a preview of a lot of the exciting young talent coming up in the sport, including prospects your fave NHL team has drafted; (3) You get to cheer for your country, which is often fun ( although admittedly less so lately); (4) They tend to be very fast-paced and kind of aggressive games. Like, these are 17, 18, 19-year old boys. They are extremely talented athletes, they have a LOT of testosterone and adrenaline going on, they haven't necessarily learned to control their emotions during/after a game yet, and they really want to win and to prove themselves on TV. Some of these players will go on to great NHL careers and win Stanley Cups, and some of these players have just hit the apogee of their hockey careers at a very young age.

I am describing this both so that you will understand why this competition is a big deal and so that you will have some perspective on the kinds of dynamics or attitudes you might find on such a squad.

So: in January 2018 Canada won the World Juniors. Hip hip hurray, etc. In June 2018, Hockey Canada, which is the governing body for hockey in Canada, held a gala celebrating the win. After that event, a young woman went to the hotel room of a Canadian Hockey League player (i.e. player in one of the major junior leagues in Canada) and engaged in conensual sexual activity with him, after which she alleges that seven other CHL players, including members of the 2018 junior team, entered the room and sexually assaulted her. (According to their lawyers, the players involved maintain that the whole thing was consensual, and furthermore that not all of the eight players who entered the room were involved in this encounter--some came in and then left.) Among other things, at one point they got her to film herself saying she was sober enough to consent.

The day after the incident, the woman told her mother, who called the police. The player she initially went home with texted in a panic asking her not to make trouble. She told him that she had called the police back and said it was all a mistake, but she and all the players did eventually end up cooperating with police. The police investigation concluded in 2019 without further consequences, with the lead detective apparently saying that there were not enough reasonable grounds for a charge of sexual assault.

This April, the woman sued Hockey Canada, the CHL, and the eight players (anonymously, as John Does) for 3.5 million dollars (Canadian, which is about 2.7 million USD) for damages related to the PTSD and other after-effects she suffered. As part of the lawsuit she claimed that Hockey Canada was aware of her allegations in 2018 but did not investigate them and allowed a culture of sexual assault to go unchecked. In May, Hockey Canada settled this suit for some unnamed amount of money--I guess to make it go away, because that is a very short turnaround time for them to have done any kind of due diligence.

Of COURSE, this came out in the media, which raised a lot of questions! It kind of started with wanting to know who the players were and if Hockey Canada did actually investigate, and then where the money came from, and the House of Commons committee on heritage & sport called in Hockey Canada executives to explain themselves as the GOVERNING BODY OF THE SPORT.

Also, many of the players on that 2018 roster are now successful NHL players, some of them big fan favourites, so, like, THAT doesn't feel great.

So, terrible thing, right? The silver lining, such as it is, would be that people are taking it seriously, so that’s good. Unfortunately, this has managed to uncover that this is all EVEN WORSE than we thought??? 

Some of the things that have come out SO FAR (mostly from the House of Commons, some of them from player representatives or investigative journalism) include:

Hockey Canada did investigate the incident back in 2018, but did not require anyone to participate in the investigation. There were no consequences for those who refused to participate.

This investigation was never completed and the report never filed. It was paused to let the criminal investigation play out and never resumed after the police concluded their investigation--the law firm in charge of the investigation says because the woman at the centre of the case did not want to talk to them.

While the law firm that investigated knows the identities of the eight players involved, Hockey Canada does not. It's unclear to me if the identities would have been revealed to Hockey Canada officials had the investigation and report ever been completed, or if it was a willful ignorance kind of situation. Even after paying out this settlement on their behalf, Hockey Canada STILL does not know their identities (and apparently didn't even bother asking before paying out the settlement, which AT BEST implies that they agree to the lawsuit's claim that they didn't investigate properly and AT WORST suggests that it didn’t matter because they assume any CHL player would in fact do this).

Hockey Canada did not inform anyone else, such as the Minister of Sport or the NHL, about  the incident, the investigation, or the lawsuit, until they became aware that a news outlet was going to run a story about the settlement.

Hockey Canada also did not inform the players or any of their representatives about the lawsuit or the settlement in advance of the media report. (They claim they told the players' lawyers, but the lawyers say that isn't true. In fact, the players' lawyers maintain their clients' innocence and say that had their clients known they would have preferred to go to court rather than settle, because the settlement implies wrongdoing.)

A Hockey Canada official said--kind of casually??--that they see one to two sexual assault allegations EVERY YEAR (!!!!!!)

A big worry was that the settlement was paid using government money. BUT what actually happened is: Hockey Canada keeps a semi-secret fund for expenses that insurance won't cover, including background checks for coaching staff, and this is the fund they used to pay out the settlement (and, it seems, have used for similar payments before). The money from this fund seems to come from registration fees from players at all levels (again, this is the governing body of the sport, so that includes everything from Timbits leagues to beer leagues). They call it the National Equity Fund (!!!!!!!), which makes me want to punch something.

But, these terrible revelations have kind of resulted in actual consequences, so I guess that’s a second silver lining? Some of the consequences SO FAR include:

The Minister of Sport has frozen funding to Hockey Canada pending the results of an independent investigation into their practices.

Gymnasts across the country are now asking that a similar investigation be done of their governing body, which they claim has also covered up a lot of sexual assault allegations over the years. 

Starting with Scotiabank, numerous sponsors have backed out of supporting the World Juniors this year (which were postponed due to the December-January Omicron wave and are set to take place in August). Scotiabank is putting some of that money towards the Women’s World Championship.

Hockey Canada is reopening their investigation, now with mandatory participation and consequences for those who refuse. The NHL will also do their own investigation.

The police are doing an internal review into the criminal investigation.

Hockey Canada has promised to stop using that fund for sexual assault payouts.

So that all sounds like cause for cautious optimism, I guess? But now that the investigations are reopened and the House of Commons is looking into it, and the media is reporting on it, the pressure is on the players who were part of it and any players who knew something. 

While we know that the eight men involved in the incident were CHL players in 2018, we don't know how many of them were on the 2018 World Junior team. However, all the players on that team are now under a certain amount of scrutiny. A few of them have released public statements, either personally or through their agents, saying that they were not involved and had no knowledge of the incident at the time. A few more had their agents release public statements saying things like "they participated in the initial investigation willingly" or "they weren't involved in any wrongdoing", which... uh... is not exactly the same as not being involved in the incident???? especially since as previously mentioned the players maintain they weren't doing anything wrong???? and the police didn't charge them in the end????

And on top of those guys “no wrongdoing”/”participated in the investigation” guys,, there are also a few players who haven't made any kind of comment (maybe because their lawyers have told them not to, with the currently reopened investigation, but it sure doesn't look great!) Two of the players who haven't made any comments are on my team, and one of them has been a big fan favourite, which makes the fan base understandably really uncomfortable right now--the prospect that maybe this guy we've all been cheering for and making memes about etc. might be a rapist, or might have known about this incident and not said anything--but also there's still a possibility that he wasn't involved and just doesn't want to make a public comment at this stage? Ugh.

There’s also a sexual assault trial going on right now in Vancouver for a former Vancouver Canuck who was dropped by the team after he was charged, in which there is some MAJOR BULLSHIT coming out of that, so that just kind of adds to the general air of UGHHHHH

I mean, frankly, I don't think a lot of junior-level hockey players (or pro hockey players generally) have a very strong concept of consent. Not just sexually, but in general. If they're very talented players, they're putting themselves in the hands of their coaches and trainers from a young age. Their bodies are performance tools. At 17 or 18 they're doing the NHL Combine, going through a series of physical fitness tests and medical examinations while grown men stand around and film them and take notes and make decisions that will decide their futures. This sort of thing contributes to players themselves being preyed upon by, e.g., coaches (see: the whole Blackhawks debacle) or other players (e.g., hazing) but also I think that it contributed to them not really thinking about other peoples’ consent? On top of that there is the usual entitlement of being a white male hockey star, and a lot of our narratives about hockey players and their sex appeal (around, for example, the idea of puck bunnies throwing themselves at the big stars) play into that, and the fact that Hockey Canada and other orgs are so willing to just go in and clean up after them really leaves the impression that there’s nothing wrong with doing this, so they don’t take it seriously? I mean, hockey in general has had a TERRIBLE culture of conformity with a lot of hazing, bullying, racism, misogyny, homophobia, etc. that is only just now being addressed. And when you’re that good of a player, hockey is basically your whole life from at least your preteen years. What a toxic stew to grow up in. 

Ugh, this sounds like I’m trying to excuse their behaviour, and I’m really not. What I'm trying to elucidate here is that an understanding of consent isn't particularly intuitive to these young men, and on top of that they’re probably pretty self-centred, and on top of THAT the people around them are sending signals that none of this is important. But those seem kind of like problems that could be fixable with education? Like, not to get into the details of this case beyond the video of her saying she was sober etc., but these eight guys' actions seem to betray a very surface-level understanding of consent. To what extent were they intentionally violating this woman’s consent, to what extent did they just disregard it and not consider whether it mattered, and to what extent did they really believe that she was consenting (or consenting enough)? Between these eight guys there’s probably varying levels of all three. I think when we talk about rape and when we talk about rapists we are often talking about the first one--an intentional violation of consent, a power thing, a person who gets something out of humiliating/degrading/subjugating another person, and I don’t know that education can help with that. But rape culture means that there’s a whole lot of rapes and rapists with incidents involving the other two options--not caring or not understanding. And education and training could definitely help there. Not necessarily with everyone but with some of them. And isn’t that what we need? More guys who know this is wrong and are confident it’s wrong, not only so that they won’t do it, but also so that they will speak up if others do? 

SO, idk. It does sound like Hockey Canada wants to do more of that kind of education, now. So if they can so that and prevent more incidents like this in the future, maybe that’s a final silver lining? Idk idk idk. I keep going on these like waves of being cautiously optimistic followed by waves of being just disgusted and disheartened. 

#rape culture

[moohnshinescorner]

DEAD AND BREAKFAST

BLURB

I remember the first time I ever saw Detective Inspector Noah George. We were seven, stupid, and he threw sand in my eye. I’m pretty sure that’s when I fell in love with him. Hey—I did say I was stupid.

Summers in Fox Point, my grandfather’s seaside hometown, were all we had together. Then we turned eighteen, life happened, and he never spoke to me again.

Until my grandfather’s death calls me back to the small town, only for his lawyer to tell me he’s left me my family’s dilapidated bed and breakfast that was home to many things—my first sleepover party, where my grandma taught me to cross-stitch, my first kiss with Noah… And apparently, my first dead body.

My name is Lottie O’Neil, and I’m on the hook for the murder of a man I’ve barely met. And the one who’ll have to arrest me is the only man I’ve ever loved. Unless I find the real killer first.

Book Info: Title: Dead and Breakfast (Fox Point Files, #1) Genre: Romcom Mystery Tropes: Second chance romance, small town, amateur sleuth Add to Goodreads: https://geni.us/DeadAndBreakfastGR Amazon Universal Buy Link: https://geni.is/DQIO

MY REVIEW

Bravo! An excellent start to what is sure to be an amazing series. Book One started things off with a bang and a dead body.

Charlotte, also known as Lottie to her friends has just buried her dear grandfather. On top of this emotional day she discovers that he left her aThe Ivy, the bed and breakfast her grandparents ran. It has been closed for a few years now and is in need of some repairs.

It has been a horrible few days and now she finds a dead body in her BNB. On top of all this the man who ripped her heart to pieces 10 years ago is the Chief Inspector in charge of the case. Can things get any worse?

I enjoyed this book so much. It was everything I expected from the author and so much more. It is full of mystery and danger. The main characters are wonderful and stubborn. The plot was great and kept me guess till the very end. There were some twists and surprises along the way, which made the story just that much more enjoyable.

The characters were fun, entertaining and sweet. You are sure to get plenty of laughs from the line up of characters. I mean who doesn’t like watching a naked chicken wing, I mean cat walk around on a leash like a dog. This laugh out loud comedy with a twist of mystery is sure to entertain you for hours. I can’t express how much fun this book was.

I am so excited for this new and exciting series. The character line up is amazing and the backstory and world building is amazing. I can’t wait to see what happens next in this cute small town.

About the Author:

Bio: New York Times & USA Today bestselling author, Emma Hart, has written more than seventy romance novels in the last decade. She loves writing snarky, swoony romcoms with a side of chaos, occasionally venturing into romantic mysteries. Which are exactly the same as her romcoms, just with a dead body or two. That’s the reason for her questionable Internet history—at least that’s the story she’s sticking to. She lives on a smallholding in North Wales with her husband and their two children, a clowder of very fluffy cats, one giant German Shepherd, and an undisclosed number of chickens and ducks. Don’t ask her to count them. She will not, thank you very much. When she’s not writing or chasing ducks in her pajamas, you can find her creating cozy gaming content for her Youtube channel.

Find her online: Amazon: https://emmahart.pub/books Youtube: https://emmahart.pub/youtube Facebook: https://emmahart.pub/Facebook Instagram: https://emmahart.pub/Instagram Tiktok: https://emmahart.pub/TikTok Twitter: https://emmahart.pub/Twitter Website: https://emmahart.pub/site

@EMMAHARTAUTHOR

#booknerd #bookblogger #bookworm #amreading #bookstagram #bookish #booklove #tbr #mustread #bookstagrammer

[astriline]

just working out more characters for Luna de Nova: Ace Attorney because i really cannot be stopped. notes under the cut

Alice is of course based on Mia Fey if that isn’t obvious enough lmao. Idk i just wanted a Mia that wasn’t dead. And also a Mia without a stupid bust size. 

Alice’s name is based off of Alice in Wonderland, and her surname Knox is from Fort Knox. Because. I’m gonna come up with a better reason later lmao. 

The members of the Wright Anything Agency have a primary color as their main color (Phoenix has blue, Apollo has red, and Athena has yellow) so I thought since Luna is already yellow I’d go and give Alice a primary color scheme. I almost went with blue but in the end I decided to make her black and red to give her a darker look. I’m definitely gonna create a third member of the Knox and Co Law Offices who is blue, but that’s a bridge I’ll cross later. 

Then there’s Aurora de Nova. For those who don’t know, in my initial drafts of Luna her full name was Luna Aurora, though I realized the glottal stop between Luna and Aurora made the name not sound as good when said out loud, so I changed her surname to de Nova. I liked the name Aurora though, so I decided to give Luna a sister. Aurora didn’t become a twin until I was partway through drawing and I remembered that I’m a twin and that being a twin is fun but I have never made an oc that was a twin before so this was my chance.

I initially was gonna make Aurora a detective, but then I decided that she just didn’t fit the image of a detective, but I wanted her to still be connected to the cases that Luna takes on. After much thought I realized that every case in ace attorney features an autopsy report for the victim, but the coroner never shows up. I decided that making Aurora a coroner would not only open up more features for an investigation Luna does, but also gives me the opportunity to write in really dark humor. I imagine Luna is somewhat introverted and thinks before acting, whereas Aurora is an extrovert but scares everyone away with her obsession with death and the ways people die. Luna finds it endearing. 

Also other twins in the series (specifically Iris and Dahlia/Bonny and Betty) are not. Written very well. As I’ve mentioned, I am a twin, so I kinda know what’s going on having one. Sure, not all twins share universal experiences, but twins switch places and bully each other a lost less frequently than any media would have you believe granted I am a fraternal twin and my sister and I share zero similarities but I can still guarantee that we wouldn’t switch places. The Hawthorne twins and the de Famme twins are simply written as plot devices. I want the de Nova twins to just be real characters. A real set of twins that have separate lives but still get along well. 

Another fun fact initially I gave Aurora purple scrubs since purple and yellow are opposite each other on the color wheel but in the end I decided it didn’t work, so I simply made Aurora a lighter shade of yellow, because I wanted the design connection to be there somewhere. 

I still want to design a few more characters. For example, I want a detective, a third (blue) lawyer, a partner for Luna, and a prosecutor. Granted, I have already posted about Macy and Maria Merik, who fill the roles of the latter two characters I want to design, but in the end I wasn’t happy with the overall look between them so I’m gonna go through and either tweak the existing characters or overhaul them altogether. 

#anyway im having a time #next up: a detective and at least one (1) lawyer #ace attorney #ldaa #i wish more ppl made aa ocs that would be cool #hannarts #aa

[seidenbros]

You'll make me brave Ch. 2

Pairing: Geraskier (Geralt x Jaskier) (Yennefer supporting EVERYTHING)

Warnings: loss of a loved one, murder, emotional damage, (child) abuse

Word Count: 3787

A/N: Following this first chapter which was inspired by these gifs by the wonderful @i-seeaspaceshipinthe-sky (I'll thank you again and again for the inspiration) where Jaskier apparently killed his own father and Geralt is the Detective investigating the case. Though there is something about Jaskier that makes him want to protect him. Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

They didn't talk on the way to Yennefer's apartment. The two of them had met a couple of years ago when Jaskier had been accused of stealing something, which had turned out to be utter bullshit and just someone trying to get his attention. Of course they'd gotten his attention, but not the kind they'd been hoping for. Yennefer had been so badass in that situation that it had absolutely impressed Jaskier. As a thank you, he'd invited her around to cook for her, wanting to get to know more about that woman. That had been one of his best decisions, because the two of them had understood each other perfectly. Yes, Jaskier trusted her, but he hadn't told her everything about himself, about his life, because he didn't want her to get involved in this, to be a keeper of secrets, or maybe try to talk him into talking with the police. But now... now that this had happened, he'd maybe have to tell her a little more. Of course, she'd assumed a thing or two by the way Jaskier had talked about his father, but she couldn't be sure.

Once they were in her apartment, Jaskier managed to speak again. “Yennefer, I didn't-”

“I know,” she cut him off, led him straight to the living room to make him sit down. He was still a little wobbly on his feet, so standing around wasn't an option. She only vanished for a moment to get a bottle of water and hand it to him. “You could never do that.” She firmly believed that, though Jaskier wasn't so sure himself anymore. Maybe, he'd made this other person up in his mind to protect himself from his own actions? It was possible after all.

“I think there was someone there.” After unscrewing the bottle, he took a sip. His mouth felt way too dry, his whole body weary. Now, his memory was still rather fresh, so he needed to say this. “But I couldn't make out who that was. It was more of a shadow, everything so dark and...” He shook his head, putting the bottle aside, because he didn't want to risk spilling the water on her new carpet. “He was still alive when I got to him, Yen...” Jaskier swallowed hard, not ready to face his friends, afraid of what he might see there. “I could have called for help, but I didn't.” And he wasn't the least bit sorry about it. After everything that man had done... Jaskier hadn't been able to help him. “I pulled the knife out.”

“Oh Jask...” Yennefer sighed. She had to try and keep a clear head for this, to think like a lawyer more than a friend. She sat down next to him, reaching for his hand. “We'll work this out, okay?” Her eyes were on Jaskier, who was staring at the floor. “Hey, look at me!” This made him tear his eyes away from the pattern on the carpet, and she could see just how tired he was. “Everything will turn out fine. But now, you need to get some rest. You know where my bedroom is, so get yourself ready.”

“I can't possibly take your bed, Yennefer. You need your sleep as well.”

“Who says, I'm not sleeping in my bed as well, eh? There's enough space, and that way I can make sure that you're safe in your dreams.”

Her words managed to make him give a little smile, feeling at ease around her. There was still so much going on in his head, so much that needed to be worked out, but for now, she was right. He needed some sleep, some peace, and he would definitely get that with her around. Her presence was soothing for him. After all, it wasn't the first time they would be sharing a bed. Jaskier had spend a few nights here, and they'd been out at concerts together, partying, and then had fallen asleep in Yennefer's bed. Except for a drunken kiss, nothing had happened between them, but they were friends. Friends who understood each other without words sometimes.

~~~~~~~~~

Most of the night, Yennefer had spend lying next to the musician, watching him sleep. Every time his body had started trembling, she'd put her hand on his shoulder, feeling him relax beneath her touch. Eventually she'd fallen asleep at one point, but she still woke before Jaskier. Good, because he needed that rest. Yennefer got up quietly, got dressed and left the door open just a crack so she would hear him, when he woke. Coffee was already getting ready, when there was a knock on the front door. She didn't expect anyone, and hadn't ordered anything this morning, because she wanted to run to the next bakery to grab breakfast for the two of them.

None other than the Detective stood right in front of her when she opened. Her first instinct was to close the door again, but he'd brought breakfast. Of course, he was here because he wanted answers from Jaskier, who was still a suspect, but the promise of breakfast made her open the door wider to let him inside.

“If you're not nice, I'll throw you out the window,” Yennefer warned, leading him towards the kitchen. An amused grin was playing on Geralt's lips when she turned to face him again. “What? Do you think I'm not able to do that?”

“I think you are perfectly capable of doing that, don't worry. I've seen men nearly twice your size turn into tiny balls of fear when you wreaked havoc on them.” And he'd watched that in amusement. She was someone you didn't want to cross, but it was still Geralt's job to do that on occasion, though he was always, always just trying to find the truth. Yes, he had to step on some toes here and there, but that was something he couldn't help.

“Good, so be warned.” Yennefer turned around again to grab a cup of coffee and place it in front of the Detective. Every now and then they'd had to work together, so she knew how he took his coffee: With lots of sugar. She'd remembered because it was a contrast to his rough exterior.

“Yennefer..” he pleaded, waiting for her to look at him again. “I really am here to help, believe it or not. I'm not even on duty right now, I just... wanted to make sure, everything's alright.” And if Jaskier decided to talk to him, that would be fine with him as well. Preferred even, because he wanted to find out what had happened, and what had happened before this fateful evening.

“Morning...” A rough, sleepy voice said from the opposite side of the room. Jaskier stood there dressed in boxers and a shirt, hair standing up in every direction. His eyes were still a little puffy from all the tears the night before. It took him a moment to realize that it was the Detective standing next to Yennefer. Someone he definitely hadn't expected there, and for a moment, he felt a little embarrassed. Sure, he'd seen Jaskier all bloody, had seen him crying and before that empty his stomach's contents on the floor. But somehow standing here in his underwear before him was what he was embarrassed about. “I'll be just a minute...” Without waiting for a reaction, he vanished into the bathroom. Luckily, he still had some clothes here at Yennefer's from their partying together.

Geralt was still looking after him, when Yennefer cleared her throat. Her eyes bore into him when he turned to face her.

“What?” he scowled at her, reaching for the coffee to take a long drag – maybe to busy himself with something, because there was just something about Jaskier that drew Geralt in. Whatever it was. This wasn't the time and place to ponder on it, and he wasn't in the position to even think about it, but... it just happened.

“Nothing...” Yennefer hid her smirk behind her cup of coffee. She'd seen that kind of look before. Jaskier just had something about him that drew people in, men and women alike. It had been the same with her, but she'd started to love him as a friend. A friend she cherished. And to be honest, she'd never seen Geralt this flustered. Was he blushing? Better not comment on that, because that would only turn into a heated argument. Not that she shied away from something like this, in fact, she rather enjoyed a good banter, but right now, she wanted to keep the atmosphere light as to not frighten Jaskier or anything.

When the musician returned from the bathroom looking rather refreshed – yes, he'd stolen some of Yennefer's concealer because the face staring back at him in the mirror had made him take a step back – the other two had already set the table. The smell of freshly baked goods made his mouth water and his stomach give a little rumble.

“Sit down and eat,” Yennefer ordered pushing a cup of tea his way, because Jaskier hardly ever drank coffee. He rather enjoyed a good cup of earl grey in the morning to start the day right.

“How are you feeling?” Geralt's voice was softer than the night before, still a low rumble in his chest, but Jaskier quite liked the sound of his voice. Even when it was harsh, there were some undertones that resonated with the musician in him. That was his own explanation at least.

“Hungry.” Jaskier managed a smile in that moment, feeling at ease with the two people around him. He reached for a croissant and placed it on his plate, before he looked back up at the Detective again. “It's a lot to process, and yesterday... I can't say that I'm sorry about his death. Not after everything he's done to me.” It was the first time he really said it out loud like this. Yennefer had had her suspicions, as did Geralt, but she'd never asked Jaskier about it, figuring that he would tell her when the time was right.

“Alright... Breakfast first and then we can talk. If you want to that is.” Geralt glanced at Yennefer, ready for her to butt in, but she didn't. Instead she drained her coffee, before she started to eat. Right now, there were no more words needed, but they all needed to eat breakfast, if they wanted to make it through the day. Because Yennefer already expected the press to have heard about that, and she knew that they would want to talk to Jaskier. Another reason why she'd taken him with her to her own apartment instead of going to his.

When they were finished with breakfast, Yennefer put the dishes away, while both men ventured out onto the balcony, settling down there to enjoy some fresh air as well as the sun. Jaskier was just about to say something, when Geralt's phone rang. He excused himself for a moment, because it was important, but it left Jaskier a little nervous. More so when Geralt returned, and he could see the scowl on his face.

“Jaskier, we really need to talk about what happened,” he said, sitting down opposite Jaskier, not taking his eyes off the musician. “The evidence came back and we found your DNA beneath your father's fingernails, as well as your prints on the knife.” Expectantly, he looked at Jaskier. Yes, he'd wanted to breech the topic slowly, carefully, but with the evidence they had now, it wasn't that easy anymore, and he wanted answers, wanted to find out the truth.

“Tell him.” Yennefer encouraged him, standing in the door, leaning against the frame, because she didn't want to get between the two of them. Though she wasn't Geralt's biggest fan, she knew that he was honest. She could usually detect when someone was lying which made her a damn good lawyer – and only take the cases where she knew she was able to help, since she didn't want to get anyone who'd actually committed a crime, to get out and maybe do something horrible again.

Jaskier's tongue darted out to wet his lips before he was able to speak. “He was still alive when I got there. The door was open, everything was dark and he was just lying there on the floor.” He cast his eyes down, not able to look at the two people there with him. He rubbed his thumb against his fingers, a technique to calm himself down. Something he'd already done as a child when he'd hidden from his father. “I got... I got on the floor, saw him trying to get some air in his lungs, and I know... I know I should have called for help.” Jaskier sighed, pressed his lips together, because he didn't want to cry again. It wasn't easy, but he kept the tears at bay. Nobody interrupted him, they gave him all the time he needed. “But I couldn't. I told him what I thought and pulled the knife out of his chest.” He shouldn't have done it, he knew, but it had been so satisfying causing the man who'd hurt him over and over again at least some pain. And then there had been utter silence. He hadn't even heard the sirens outside, hadn't heard anything until he'd felt someone's hands on him.

“That explains your fingerprints on the knife,” Geralt said after a moment of silence, but he had to admit that he wasn't entirely convinced. All the evidence as well as Jaskier's opinion of his own father pointed to him as the one who'd stabbed him.

“I saw someone there,” Jaskier added eventually looking back up again at the Detective. “I mean... I think I saw someone, I can't be sure anymore. It was merely a shadow that vanished through the backdoor as soon as they saw me.” But he couldn't describe that person, not in the least.

“The backdoor was unlocked, but we didn't see anything else there.” Geralt's eyes hadn't left him, and again, just like the night before, the urge to comfort Jaskier was there. And this time, he really reached across to put his hand on top of the musician's, making him look up again, fear shining in his eyes, but there was something else, a hint of a smile on Jaskier's lips that got Geralt's attention for a moment. “We'll find out what happened. But therefore, I need to know more about your relationship with your father.”

Jaskier stiffened, Geralt felt it beneath his hand, but he didn't pull back. So far, Yennefer had simply watched them, but now, she stepped forward, hands still clasped around her cup. “You don't have to say anything, Jask, I know it's not an easy topic.”

“I know,” he retorted, looking up at Yennefer when he sighed. “I've always wanted to tell you, but I couldn't bring myself to say it out loud, because I didn't think anybody would believe me.” He trusted her, had trusted her right from the start, but when it came to his father, he'd always been closed off. Now that he wasn't alive anymore, now that he couldn't talk down on him anymore and say that he was a troubled child and made all that up, it was easier for Jaskier to say it out loud.

“We believe you,” Geralt said, before Yennefer could get a word out. Geralt wanted Jaskier to trust him, to confide in him, because he really wanted to help him. And that was one thing he could only do, if he knew the whole story. He'd been keeping his own secrets about his life, about his past. You kept these secrets to protect yourself, but he also knew what it was like when you had nobody to talk to about this. When the secrets started to eat you up from the inside.

Jaskier slowly stood up and pulled up his shirt, revealing a five inch long scar just above the waistband of his jeans. “When I was twelve and came home from school on a rainy day, dragging dirt into the house, he made me clean up shards of broken vases he'd shattered. And when I didn't do it fast enough, he pushed me into the shattered glass and whatever else lay there. There was a lot.” He dropped his shirt again. “The hospital was told that I'd fallen outside the house into some trash.” He shrugged his shoulders, because it sounded strange even to his ears, but it was the sad truth. The next thing he showed them were his earlobes. “When I got my ears pierced, he ripped the jewellery right out, because what kind of manwears earrings?” Jaskier smiled sadly, because he hadn't had the courage then to tell his father that he'd liked both, men and women, and he hadn't done it until this day, because at one point, he hadn't cared anymore. But back then... he'd been too scared to speak up. Then he pulled the neckline of his shirt down a little bit, revealing a patch of chesthair, but also a few smaller scars. “From when he beat me up with his stupid, big rings on his fingers for... I don't even know what anymore. He always had a reason.” Jaskier sat back down again. He could go on and on, but by now, they got the picture. “It was even worse with my Mum, but you know how it is... An honourable man would never hit his wife and child, so it was always some kind of little accident. And when people didn't see my Mum around, she was on vacation or something, when she really was nursing her injuries at home in bed, because he couldn't let her go to the hospital every time something happened.”

Geralt could see the anger bubbling to the surface again, and he understood – more than Jaskier or Yennefer could guess. But he needed to stay calm, needed Jaskier to stay calm as well, which was why he reached for the musician's hand again to make him look at the Detective. “I'm sorry this happened to you. No child should suffer like this, and I'm sorry nobody did anything to stop this from happening.” Not even his mother, who should have stepped up, who should have told someone at least to protect her child. But there was nothing to be done about that now. He got the picture, understood that she'd suffered as well, but with a child in the picture... Their safety should always come first in Geralt's opinion.

It was Geralt's turn to get up now and pull up his shirt a little, showing them a rather big scar right beneath his right pectoral. “My adoptive father did this,” he said, not having told anybody except for the therapist that had taken his case back when he'd still been a child. People usually assumed that he'd gotten these scars fulfilling his duties, and he'd let them believe this. “Burnt me when I was eight years old.” He had another one on his back, but showing them one of these two scars, was enough for the moment. “I lost my parents when I was six, had no further family, so I ended up in an orphanage. When someone wanted to adopt me, I was so excited... but it turned out to be hell on earth.” He could hear Yennefer gasp behind him, because of course she hadn't known, hadn't even assumed anything like this about his past. This time, it was Jaskier who reached for Geralt's hand, took it in his and just held it. This light touch seemed to calm both of them. “The director of the orphanage, Vesemir, came to check on me and found out what had happened, so he got me out of there. After that, I didn't even want to be adopted anymore, so I grew up in the orphanage.” Vesemir was the closest thing Geralt had to a father figure, and even today, he was still in contact with the old man. “All these things are horrible, and they shouldn't happen to anybody, but they do. Sometimes it comes out rather quickly, sometimes it takes time. But these scars only show what we've survived, they don't determine where we are going.”

Geralt was right, of course, and it soothed Jaskier, soothed that spot in his heart, that had been aching for months. Ever since he'd lost his mother. “Please let her live just one more day, 'cause she is so much more than all her scars...” he sang quietly, a sad smile on his lips. He'd written that about his mother... years ago. But it just popped up in his head, because it fit perfectly with what Geralt had just said.

“Something to remember. Your scars do not define you,” Geralt said, squeezing Jaskier's hand lightly to reassure him again, show him that he was here for him, that he wanted to help. And Jaskier could finally accept that, now that he knew that they both shared something: being hurt by the one person who should have protected them. It told Jaskier a good deal about the Detective, that he – just like Jaskier himself – had built a wall to protect himself, and that it was hard to get through this wall, but some people managed to achieve that. And apparently, they'd both already made a crack in the other one's wall.

“I don't want to interrupt this bonding thing the two of you have been going one,” Yennefer said, though she was a little amused by the way the two men were looking at each other, but so far, she'd been a bystander, but still Jaskier's lawyer, so she wanted to know what they were going to do now. “But we still have to prove that Jaskier didn't in fact kill his father.”

“Yes,” Geralt agreed, leaning back again, untangling his hand from Jaskier's in the process. He thought for a moment, took a deep breath. “We need to find the person you saw there. Go back to the crime scene and let Jaskier walk us through it.” Geralt looked at the musician again, trying to give him a reassuring smile. “But only if you're ready.”

“I'm as ready as I can be.” Which was not ready at all, but with these two people by his side, he would manage, he was sure of that.

#staffi writes #the witcher imagine #the witcher fanfic #geraskier #geraskier fic #geraskier imagine #geralt of rivia #jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt x jaskier #the witcher au #modern au #i-seeaspaceshipinthe-sky #Geralt as an orphan is a repeating thing for me apparently #I wasn't about to write this today #but then it was somehow stuck in my head #and yes I cant seem to stop geralt and jaskier from touching each other's hands #and yes I had to incorporate The Amazing Devil lyrics in this one #and our scars remind us that the past is real

[daydreamingintheimpalax]

The girl who didn’t speak.

Prompt: Write about someone who went missing that no one seems to remember.

Dean x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of abuse, sexual assault, future mentions of drugs, swearing, violence, possible blood.

Summary: Y/n Y/l/n went missing from her abusive adoptive home when she was 5, she has always been the easy target, after years of lazy police work and no investigation into how she disappeared or why, she was officially pronounced dead and eventually, people moved on and grew up and forgot she even existed. The worst part? She hardly made an impact on anyone's lives or memory, Dean Winchester seems to be the only person on earth who seems to remember the little quiet pig tailed girl who always sat alone in the playground, and now that he’s a detective, he’s determined to reopen her case, he knows she’s not dead, he just needs to prove it.

Part 1

Chapter 2

“New case?” Sam asked, Dean’s eyes adverting from the case file to direct his attention to his little brother. He didn’t get to spend as much time with Sammy anymore, being a hot shot lawyer in Los Angeles didn’t bring him much down time to come visit, Dean knew his attention should be focused on the little time with Sam he had, but he couldn’t afford to miss any details about Y/n.

“Uh no, actually it’s an old case, this girl we went to school with, foster kid, went missing,  no one ever looked for her or even cared, no one even remembers her.” Dean frowned, his eyes going back to the files.

“Well than why are you looking into it? I mean, it’s closed right, why-” Dean cut his sentence off short, “because Sammy, she was a 5 year old kid, we had plenty of friends who came from foster homes, just because this girl wasn’t lucky to be adopted into wealth doesn't make her any less valuable than the ones who did.” Sam sighed, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair.

“No, that’s not-” He sighed, huffing out a frustrated frown. “i get it, i didn’t mean it like that, i just meant, closed cases usually are closed cause they're solved.” He shrugged, Dean huffed, “That’s just it, this case wasn’t solved, they never looked for her Sam, never even tried, something is fishy, the foster care system was very hush hush about the whole thing, never offered the cops help or info about her, they spent a whole week on this case before they just ultimately decided it wasn’t worth time or resources and she just must have been killed and shut the case, no investigation, it’s like they didn’t even care if she was murdered.” 

“Damn, that’s rough, i have to ask though, why this case? i mean, plenty of things like this happen to foster care kids, why this girl?” Sam questioned, trying to figure out why his brother cared so much about some random girl.

“I dunno Sam, i just, i remember her, she went to our grade school, i remember she was always quiet, barely spoke a word to anyone, i spoke to her maybe twice and she just seemed lonely, like she wanted friends but was scared of something, the very few times i had spoke to her, she seemed nice, she was always kind to me, when i got picked on badly one day cause dad was always gone and wasn’t around, i remember sitting in the playground in the corner crying, she didn’t even speak to me, just sat next to me and kept me company, it was the only time i felt like someone gave a shit, I just feel like i owe it to her , she deserves to know at least someone cared, ya know?” Dean rambled, Sam sighed, shaking his head at his big hearted brother. 

“Y/N, right? Yeah, i remember her vaguely, kids at school thought she was a freak or weird because she was always alone, i’m surprised you even knew of her honestly, she didn’t seem like the type of kid you hung around but man, you’re too soft sometimes, but i get it, so if you need any help, legality wise, just ask okay? I’m here for you, if it means this much to you, i got your back.” Sam smiled, he knew well enough his brother wouldn’t be able to let this go until he found out what happened to the strange girl. 

“Thanks Sammy.” Dean nodded, shooting his baby brother his signature smile before finally digging in to his burger.

The phone rang a few times before finally someone answered. 

“Dean Winchester’s office, Krysta speaking how may i help you?” The secretary answered with a surprisingly chipper kind tone. 

“Uh hi, my name is Tessa Mars, i saw the detectives interview the other day and i was hoping to speak to him about the Y/N case he’s trying to investigate, see i’m a foster kid myself and i actually came from the same foster care Y/n was in, i didn’t know her but i figured i could help with the foster care parts, being in that place myself, i could offer up some info on the place, i was very young, but if he has any questions i can try to answer as much as i remember.”

You spoke softly, not even sure offering what very little info you had was even worth his time. You were a child, you barely remembered much, but you remembered the abuse, the bad things that happened to many children in that building and the horrible people they associated adoptions with.

“Oh okay, well Detective Winchester isn’t in right now, but i can leave a message and have him call you back when he gets a free moment.” She spoke kindly, writing down your name and number before assuring you he would get back to you.

“Okay well, that went well.” You mumbled, why the hell were you even doing this, its not like you were actually valuable to this case. 

The rest of your day went by in a flash, before you knew it, you were home, a pot of pasta on the stove as you began working on your paperwork, trying to at least get some of it done.

Your phone ringing startled you, grabbing it and taking a moment to get your heart rate down before answering.

“Hello?” 

“Hi, this is Detective Winchester, my secretary asked me to call you, mentioned you might be able to help with the case?” He spoke, his voice sounded way different on television, you definitely were not expecting the deep sexy gravely voice on the phone, it gave you chills, they always said a mans voice alone could turn you on, you never believed that until now. 

You cleared your throat, “Oh uh hello, yes, i don’t have much, i was only 5 myself when that little girl went missing and i didn’t know her, but i was a foster kid in that same system, i know a lot of abuse and sexual assault and selling those young kids went on, i can do my best to offer up any info i have, shall you need it.” You spoke, his breathing on the other end making you nervous.

“No, uh that would actually be helpful, that place was very secretive when Y/n went missing, it would be amazing to have any inside info on that place, are you free this evening? I’d like to sit down and pick your brain if you don’t mind.” Dean asked, he sounded relaxed for a detective, he was polite and very clearly well mannered.

“uh, i have some paperwork i have to do but i am cooking some pasta, more than enough to feed an extra person, if you’re okay with stopping by, i can offer you a meal while we chat?” You smiled mostly to yourself, hoping deep down he’d accept the offer.

Dean chuckled and you nearly wet yourself. “Actually, that sounds really nice, i haven’t had a home cooked meal in months, i think that sounds like a good plan. Just text me the address and ill stop by in about a half hour.” Dean spoke, his tone slightly more cheerful.

“Sure thing Detective, see you soon.” You piped up.

“Don’t worry about formalities, you can call me Dean.” He huffed a slight laugh. You smiled to yourself, “okay, see you soon, Dean.” You set the phone down, letting out a happy squeal.

“Get your shit together, Tess, you’re fucking 30, not 13.” You groaned, dropping your head down on the table, this man was already becoming the death of you, and now, you had to face him, standing in front of you, You were never getting out of this without embarrassing yourself.

@smellingofpoetry​

#supernatural #dean winchester #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #daydreamingintheimpala

[amyscascadingtabs]

don’t want to keep secrets just to keep you [chapter 1]

“Actually, I want to add one more rule.” “Yeah?” Jake leans back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head and flexing his biceps through the green shirt with a smug grin. “You’re not allowed to fall in love with me.” "Won't be a problem."

Amy Santiago doesn't date cops. Jake Peralta's sworn never to date a lawyer again. When a couple of drinks and the returning of a borrowed shirt ends with the two of them in bed together, Amy decides to take control of the situation the best way she knows how: a comprehensive set of rules. There's just one little thing she hadn't anticipated – Jake Peralta is full of surprises.

Written for the B99 Summer 2021 Fic Exchange.

AO3 link // playlist

My contribution to this year’s fic exchange, for @fezzle​! @b99fandomevents​​ 💛

1. i never saw you coming (and i’ll never be the same)

 He gets out of the car, and before Amy can gather the courage to shout after him, he’s disappeared from her sight.

She leans her forehead against the steering wheel, squeezing her fist and punching it in frustration. It doesn’t feel better, just makes her hand hurt. Amy pretends that’s what’s making her eyes tear up, and not the thought that she just screwed up her chances of ever seeing Jake Peralta again.

 five months earlier.

 The cop is five minutes late entering the courtroom, and Amy vows to dislike him from that point onward.

 What's worse is that he doesn't seem ashamed. He simply gives Judge Stewart an apologetic grin, runs a hand through his already messy hair, and sits down on the bench next to the sergeant Amy recognizes as Terry Jeffords. Amy gives him a polite faked smile to tell him she's noted this presence and she's going to win this case, but the cop doesn't seem to notice the toxicity in her facial expression, because she gets another wide grin back. Judging from the colorful marks on his teeth, it looks like he had candy for breakfast – could it be gummy bears? Either way, Amy's respect for the man sinks even lower.

 At least she won't have to worry about him, she tells herself. She already knows this case is about to be a win.

 That is until it turns out this man has a reply for everything. She’d been certain the evidence against her client was circumstantial at best, nowhere near enough to get him convicted on, and the notes she’d gone through from the initial police questioning had lacked significant information. It had been nothing short of sloppy, and she’d entered the courthouse this morning filled with glowing confidence. That same confidence is now seeping away, dripping onto the polished floors of the courtroom in exchange for heated frustration as it turns out the detective – Jake Peralta, she learns – was present at the scene earlier than Amy had gathered, and from the vantage point he had, saw her client running from the corner store at full speed.

“Would you say it’s possible my client was running for a different reason?” She asks, staring coldly into the detective’s eyes as she speaks. “Such as exercising, perhaps?”

“Well, he was carrying a huge green backpack, identical to the one he was wearing when my partner Charles caught him ten minutes later. So, no,” he says, meeting her look with a smug smile of his own. “I would say that’s unlikely.”

“But not impossible?”

“Considering we also found the stolen goods in that same backpack, I’d say the chance is pretty solid it was him.”

“The bags couldn’t have been switched? Or, as my client claims, the goods couldn’t have been dropped in there by someone who wanted to get rid of them?”

“With all due respect,” says Jake Peralta, and the self-assuredness in his voice is enough for her to know the case is lost. “The streets were more crowded than a Taylor Swift concert, your honor. Someone would have seen something.”

 ~

 It’s late Friday afternoon by the time Amy returns to the office of Newsom & Associates, but there’s still plenty of her coworkers left to watch as she throws her briefcase on top of the chair before closing the door to her office and digging out her pack of shame cigarettes from the bottom drawer of her desk. The only window in the room opens out to a back alley with trash cans and forgotten bikes, which is a drab view most of the time but comes in handy for secret shame-smoking. She closes her eyes and leans back against the wall, trying to savor the first inhale. She hates the habit and always tells herself she’s going to quit soon, but at times when work stresses her out like this, there’s no better fix. It’s all Jake Peralta’s fault, anyway. He’d waved at her when they’d left the courtroom, looking genuinely pleased to see her, and that had only worsened her frustration. It’s one thing being defeated – it’s worse when the winner acts like it wasn’t even a big deal.

 “You should stop that.” The sound of Rosa’s voice appearing in the doorway to Amy’s office causes her to inhale too much smoke, coughing and tearing up as she hurries to extinguish the cigarette butt on the windowsill. “It’s gross.”

“I needed it,” Amy coughs again before drying her eyes with the sleeve of her blazer. “You should’ve been there. That fucking detective ruined my defense.”

“So? It happens. Doesn’t make you a bad lawyer. Stop pitying yourself.”

“You’re just saying that because you win nearly all your cases,” Amy mumbles. “And everyone’s terrified of you.”

Rosa does a little shrug, but Amy thinks she can spot the hint of a smile on her lips. She can’t be certain, though. Rosa almost never smiles, but that’s not nearly the most terrifying thing about her. She also rides her motorcycle to court and wears leather jackets and skin-tight black jeans to trials, and somehow no one's ever dared to police her on it. Amy once asked her out of curiosity if putting on a blazer would really hurt that much, and the stare she got back told her she’d be a fool to make that mistake again.

“Either way, it's not that. It was that cop who ruined everything. I mean, he showed up late, for god’s sake, with candy in his teeth and a wrinkled suit! But he somehow had an answer and explanation for everything,” Amy snorts. “And he smiled the whole time like he’d already won. And he referenced Taylor Swift! During the trial! Who does that?”

Rosa lets out a laugh. “You're a Swift hater? God, please don't tell me you took Kanye’s side too.”

“I didn't – that's beside the point!”

“Which is?”

“That he has zero respect for the sacred rules of a courtroom, and gets away with it all because of that super-charm smile.”

“Yeah, you mentioned the smile. Twice.”

“It was just so…” She clenches her fist until her red nails press into her palm to the point of pain, then releases it. “It's fine. I’ll win my next case, and there are lots of cops in New York. I probably won't ever see him again.”

 ~

 Amy can barely hide her frustration in court the next week when she hears the doors open and looks up from the papers she was sorting, only to see Jake Peralta for the second time in her life. He’s on time today, which she supposes is progress, but there are stains on his shirt that seem to be coming from the can of orange soda he’s holding in his hand. She wonders if it's his breakfast. If that's his diet, he looks surprisingly fit in a grey suit for it.

 He grins again when he sees her, raising his hand in a lazy wave. Amy gives him a forced smile, then returns to her papers. She’ll have to make sure to win this time.

 But despite her confidence and very best efforts, she loses to Jake Peralta yet another time.

And another.

And another.

 It's not that she's suddenly magically unlucky, because she still manages to win several other cases, but every time Jake Peralta shows up to testify, without fault, Amy loses.

It infuriates her.

 The worst part is that Jake seems oblivious to her anger. He smiles at her every time they leave the courtroom, even though she returns them with little to no genuineness at all. She once spots him doing a childish victory gesture outside the courthouse, but he never once takes the opportunity to brag about his win to her face.

 Aside from his surprisingly good manners when it comes to bragging, though, he's a mess. There's always some kind of stain on his shirt or his cheek that he seems unaware of, his ways of describing things involve one too many pop culture references for Amy’s liking, and she starts preparing to meet him every time a detective is five minutes late. She wonders if no one's ever told him how one is supposed to behave in a courtroom, but he’s usually accompanied by the precinct’s sergeant, so that seems unlikely. The more likely option, Amy figures, is that he just doesn't seem to find it that important; especially considering he seems to get away with it every single time.

 She swears it's all because of that stupid infectious smile.

 ~

 It pleases Amy to no end when she learns that Jake Peralta is going to be the witness in one of the strongest cases she’s had in a long while. The client was clearly acting in self-defense, she has a witness of her own who can testify to that, and although she knows that nothing is for certain until the verdict falls, she’s got a good feeling about this one. Finally, the day has come for Jake Peralta to watch her win.

 At first, the state attorney’s case seems solid. Jake is assisted by a short, round-faced man with dark brown hair and an expression that looks like he’s seconds away from apologizing for taking up everyone’s time, but his suit is matched and perfectly straight and he gets right to the point without any odd references, so Amy still earns a fair amount of respect for detective Charles Boyle. He and Jake had entered the subway car after hearing about a fight taking place, and stepped on just in time to watch her client aim a closed-fist punch at the face of the man on top of him. It’s clear and convincing, but Amy knows that after the recess, it will be her time to shine. She loves these moments, when it’s obvious the other side thinks they have it in the bag but she knows something they don’t, and they have no idea what’s coming. She knows trials are about justice and not personal victories – but she’s only human. Winning is always a thrill.

 She’s thinking about how she’s going to be celebrating her win later this evening when Jake Peralta bumps into her at the coffee shop neighboring the courthouse. As in, literally bumps into her, with his elbow when he hurries forward to grab a plastic cup with whipped cream and so much caramel syrup on top of the coffee that Amy pities his dentist.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry… wait, it's you!” He shines up as if he’d just seen a past good friend, and Amy’s once more taken aback by how polite he is. A lot of cops she meets during trials either tend to make fun of her profession or glare bitterly at her from a distance, but Jake's doing neither. He even reaches out his free hand to shake hers, so she accepts. “Jake Peralta – wow, you have a very firm handshake.”

“I took a seminar. Amy Santiago.”

“Where?” He asks, but she ignores him and moves forward in line to order her coffee with milk.

“Nothing for your client? Wow. I’d expected you to have better manners than that, Santiago.”

“I offered, but he wanted to spend recess with his partner for moral support. See?” She raises a brow at him. “I do have manners.”

There's that smile again, up close this time, and Amy's relieved when the barista hands her the coffee so she can hide the involuntary blush in her cheeks. She never noticed he had dimples before.

“So, how are you feeling about the rest of the trial, then? Ready to go defend the guilty guy?”

“Innocent until proven guilty, Peralta. Famously one of the most sacred principles in the American justice system. And I was born ready.”

“And lose. The whole question was, are you ready to go defend the guilty guy and lose, and you said you were born that way.” Jake grins in a way that makes him look like an overgrown mischievous school kid. Maybe not that far off, Amy thinks.

“Twist my words all you want, I am winning this case.” She hesitates for a moment, noticing Jake's detective partner looking at the two of them from a table in the corner of the room. Not normally something she'd be that creeped out by, if it hadn't been for the fact that the man isn’t tearing his eyes away from them, and he looks weirdly overjoyed. “Uhm, is detective Boyle okay? He's staring at us pretty intensely.”

“Huh? Oh yeah, he has… an eye condition.” Jake turns around and mouths something that looks to be BOYLE, and the man rolls his eyes before stalking away. “Ignore him. Anyway… so what do you think about the judge?”

 Amy's about to launch into a description of her good experience with judge Myers when someone brushes past her with their iced coffee in a hurry, losing control of the plastic cup. The unsecured lid wobbles, and before Amy realizes what’s about to happen, cold coffee splashes onto her earlier pristine white blouse. “Fuck!” She reaches for a bunch of paper napkins and tries to dab the worst away with them, but the milky coffee is already seeping through the fabric and leaving an obvious stain that her blazer can’t hide.

“What a jerk,” Jake mutters, glaring in the direction of where the stranger disappeared.

“Never mind that! I don’t have another shirt! I can’t go into a courtroom looking like this! Unlike you, I actually care about whether my clothes have giant stains on them!”

“First of all, rude, and second of all, they’re not giant.”

“I don’t care. I’m screwed. Fuck, I don’t have time to run back home before the trial starts – I guess I could call Rosa –”

“Hey, hey.” Jake holds up his hands as if trying to calm her down, which only makes Amy more frustrated. “I know this is kind of crazy, but, I have a shirt in my car that I was planning to return to my ex. But emphasis on ex, so…” He shrugs. “You could borrow it?”

 Amy considers her options. On the one hand, she figures there’s about an eighty percent chance that whatever Jake has in his car also has some kind of mysterious stain on it, but on the other hand, she took the subway today and there's no way she’ll make it to her apartment and back before the court is back in session. Asking for a longer recess is an option, but making everyone wait simply because she needs a change of clothes makes her too uncomfortable to even consider.

“Fine,” she relents. “Where's your car?”

 Jake's car turns out to be an old Mustang, which Amy can tell even from her strictly limited car-knowledge is pretty impressive, but she doesn't understand how he can find anything in there. The backseat is a mess of empty orange soda bottles, a couple of frisbees, candy wrappers, what looks to be cartoons and old CDs, and the cup holders have shaving foam next to another can of orange soda. She's equally surprised and impressed when he pulls out a clean, dark blue charmeuse blouse. Whoever Jake's ex-girlfriend was, she seems to have both taste and money.

“You're totally saving my day today,” she says as he gives it to her. “You really didn't have to.”

“Prove that cops aren't all bad?” Amy rolls her eyes, and Jake laughs. “Just kidding. You have to give it back, though.”

“As soon as I’ve washed it. Wait, we have to be able to get in touch.” She digs in the inside pocket of her briefcase and pulls out two of her business cards. “I’m assuming you don't have any, so write your number on the back of that one.”

“Rude, but correct.” He scribbles down something on one of the cards before giving it back. “I’ll see you up there, then… Amy Santiago.”

Something about the way he says her name, slowly and with perfect pronunciation, makes her want to hear it again. She hurries back into the building and toward the bathrooms, hopefully before he can tell that she's blushing.

 “The defense may call the next witness.”

“The defense calls Elinor Simons.” Amy can feel everyone's eyes on her as well as the witness as a young girl, no more than eighteen, walks up to the stand. She's pale, but she looks determined, and Amy gives her a comforting smile as she swears the oath.

 Elinor’s voice trembles at her first words, but Amy keeps steady eye contact with her, and soon she’s speaking louder and less hesitant. She had been on her way to her friend’s house when she entered the same subway car as the two young men, and had overheard the two of them fighting over something. Sitting only a few seats away from them in the near-empty car, she’d noticed the defendant looking scared, and out of curiosity, had turned off her music. She’d heard the man who’d later gotten attacked – Mr. Lorentz – scream that the defendant was an asshole, and then she’d seen him push him to the floor, much unlike the way the prosecution had described a course of events in which both men had slipped. It had scared her, so she’d gotten up to walk away, but before she could move she’d seen Mr. Lorentz leaning down.

“It looked like he was about to hit the defendant,” she says without wavering, and Amy can see a few of the jury members nodding in understanding. “And even if they were about the same size, Mr. Lorentz looked really strong. The defendant tried, but it seemed to me like he was unable to get up. I remember thinking this wasn’t going to end well, so I headed for the end of the car before they noticed me.”

“And you’re sure of what you saw?”

“Completely sure. I only found out later that the defendant was a cousin of my sister’s boyfriend, which is how I learned about the trial.”

Amy nods and clasps her hands together, trying to assume a confident stance as she keeps her eyes focused on the witness stand. “Elinor, in the position he was in, do you believe that the defendant would have been scared?”

“I think anyone would have been.”

“So the punch witnesses watched the defendant throw, could it have been in self-defense?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so.”

Amy smiles. “Thank you. No further questions.”

 The prosecution’s closing arguments are short and precise, sticking entirely to the part of the events that took part after the police walked in. The district attorney, a balding man in his fifties, as good as overlooks Elinor’s testimony in favor of focusing in on detailed descriptions of the headaches Mr. Lorentz had experienced after the event, and that alone is enough to make Amy’s blood boil; but instead she just sits there, waiting with a polite smile on her lips.

 Finally, the other attorney sits down, and the judge nods at Amy to stand up. During her very first trials, this moment used to freak her out – everyone’s eyes on her and waiting expectantly – but with time she’s come to love this. It reminds her of the thrill of getting the last word in a heated fight with her siblings when she was younger, only now, she doesn’t have to shout to be heard. Everyone’s already listening.

 “Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury: it’s correct that the defendant hit Mr. Lorentz on that train. He admits to doing so himself.” Amy nods to the young man sitting next to her, fidgeting nervously with the cuffs on his shirt. “But there is one key aspect which the prosecution has so conveniently chosen to ignore, and that is the events which led up to Mr. Petersen’s actions. A background which he not only has explained clearly himself, but which is also backed up by Ms. Simmons’ testimony.” She gestures with her hand to Elinor.

“You see, Mr. Petersen wasn’t acting unprovoked. When the incident happened, he had been pushed to the floor, and like both my client and the witness described, he was unable to get up. Mr. Lorentz himself admits to practicing weightlifting; he’s not a weak man, and in the moment, he was clearly upset with the defendant. As Ms. Simmons put it… “ She takes a break to gather the attention of everyone in the room. “Anyone in that position would have been terrified.”

“Under New York Law, Penal Law paragraph thirty-five point fifteen, a person is justified in using physical force against another, when that person is under the reasonable belief that the physical force is necessary to defend the person from what they reasonably believe to be the illegal imminent use of force or the illegal use of force. Mr. Petersen was stuck, and under the reasonable belief that Mr. Lorentz could hurt him unless he managed to free himself. He acted in self-defense, which I remind you that the prosecution has not been able to disprove. In fact, the case against Mr. Petersen cannot be proved against reasonable doubt, which means that you must find him… not guilty.”

 From the other side of the room, she swears she can feel Jake’s eyes on her. When she looks up, she sees him mouthing nice job.

 ~

 “What did you say he looked like, now again? Except for crazy hot and adorable?” Kylie takes another sip of her mojito, spying over the crowded bar.

“Okay, I said neither of those things.”

Kylie shrugs. “Didn’t have to.”

“Ugh. Whatever. Brown hair, brown eyes, medium height, I guess kind of a bigger nose… and I don’t know what he wears outside of court, but there was a leather jacket in the front seat of his car, so maybe that?” She strains her neck to try and see through the Friday night crowd. She’s never been to this particular Brooklyn bar before, but Jake had suggested it when Amy asked about a good place to give him back the shirt, and she’d figured after a long week, she might as well treat herself to a couple of after-work drinks with a friend. After being asked about the so-called mystery hottie five times, though, she’s starting to regret bringing Kylie along.

“Mm, that’s like, all the guys in here… oh, wait, that one’s waving to you!” Kylie points to a figure near the door, elbowing Amy in the side and causing her to nearly choke on her wine. She’s still coughing when Jake walks up to them, trying to offer him a smile while drying her eyes. Jake looks politely confused, but shakes Kylie’s hand in the meantime.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” she says with a meaning wink to Amy before sliding off the leather barstool, leaving it for Jake. “Have a good night!”

“Ignore her.” Amy sighs. “Sorry, I…”

“No, no worries,” Jake says, and the honest care in his expression makes her feel oddly warm. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry.” She waves a dismissive hand and picks up the dry-cleaning bag hanging on the back of her chair. “Well, here’s the shirt. Thank you for the loan. Or thank your ex, I suppose.”

“Dry-cleaned, really? You truly are type A.”

“What about it?”

“Nothing, it makes sense.” He nods to the glass in her hand. “Celebrating Tuesday’s win?”

“Something like that. It was Monday, though,” she can’t stop herself from correcting him. “I don’t get a lot of time off. Gotta make the best out of it.”

“Yeah, me neither. Do you mind if I join you for another drink? Or maybe you should do water, in case you choke again?”

Something about the way he poses it like a challenge makes her take the glass, put it to her lips, and swallow the rest of the wine in one gulp. “I think I can handle it.”

 They pay for their own drinks, because whatever this meeting is, it’s definitely not a date, and it makes Amy relieved that Jake doesn’t seem to think so either.

“A toast,” he suggests. “To your win this week. I gotta give it to you, those closing statements were solid.”

“To justice,” Amy says, and they raise their beer bottles in unison. “And my win. Finally.”

“Yeah, what has it been, like, five wins for me?”

“Four, but dream on, Peralta.”

Jake laughs. The dimples in his cheeks become even more prominent when he laughs, Amy notes. “Have you always been this intense about winning cases, then? Or is it something that comes with law school? Like there’s a class in being petty about this stuff?”

You’re intense too, she thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud. “Maybe. I have seven brothers, and I was the only girl. I got pretty good at winning fights using other things than physical strength when I was a kid. Actually, sometimes physical strength, too.”

“I feel like you could beat someone up if you wanted to. You could surprise them.”

“Oh, I could most definitely beat someone up if I wanted to. But I stuck to arguing. I got good at it. And I always had good grades, so I ended up at Columbia, and I’ve never really regretted it.” She takes a swig of her beer. “Not even when cops call me the devil.”

“I wouldn’t call you the devil,” Jake says. “I mean, do I think you lack a bit of a moral compass? Probably. But each to their own.”

She leans her head a little bit to the side, eyeing him closely. “Why do you think that?”

“Well, you have to defend people that you know did awful things, right? Doesn’t that make you feel sick sometimes?”

“I don’t have to defend their actions. Most times, it’s not even about that. It’s about making sure the trial is fair, the evidence is sufficient and their rights are respected, so that if there’s a conviction, it’s actually beyond any reasonable doubt. I like to believe most people are better than their worst moments. I see it as my job to make sure they’re treated that way.”

“Huh.” Jake nods slowly. “Guess I never thought of it that way.”

“Plus,” she winks, “someone’s gotta hold you guys accountable, right?”

“Fine.” He shakes his head. “Hey, did you say you went to Columbia? My captain’s husband teaches law there. Did you ever have a Kevin Cozner?”

“No way! Your captain is Raymond Holt?” She’s speaking way too loudly, she can tell from the way other people are glancing at her, but Jake looks entertained. “Sorry, it’s just – Professor Cozner was my favorite constitutional law teacher. I still send him and Raymond Christmas cards every year!”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.” Jake grins. “But, how weird is that? Almost like the universe is bringing us together or something.”

Amy thinks that it’s not that weird, since Kevin must teach hundreds of students every year that g on to become lawyers, but she kind of wants to keep seeing that smile on Jake’s face forever, so she nods. “So weird.”

 They order another drink, plus some chips and nuts when Jake realizes he forgot to eat dinner, and move to another table in the back of the room. Amy’s surprised how comfortable she feels in his presence. It’s like she can’t wipe the smile off her face but doesn’t want to, and with time and a little more alcohol, jokes that she barely would have noticed on any other day become laugh-out-loud funny. It feels natural, even though she’s not sure how, and she tries not to glance at the clock on the wall when he doesn’t either. She’s got work to do tomorrow and she can’t stay out forever, but she doesn’t want to be reminded that this evening has to end at some point.

 “So what made you become a cop, then?” She asks when she realizes she’s the only one who’s shared her origin story tonight. “Childhood superhero dreams?”

Jake shines up like he’s been waiting for the question all night. “Oh, that’s easy. Die Hard.”

“Really?”

“For sure. Actually, my mom said I was always good at protecting people, so I ended up doing it for a job. But I think that’s bullshit. It was definitely Die Hard.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Amy confesses, and Jake stares at her like she just insulted his entire being. “But if you want a cop movie, my top three’s Training Day, Lethal Weapon, and Fargo.”

“Wrong, wrong, and wrong! How can you not have seen Die Hard? It’s classic, man!”

“I just never did! How many lawyer movies have you seen, then?”

“Uhm…” Jake squints. “Charles made me watch Legally Blonde once? It was pretty good, honestly.”

“Well, duh, that movie is a cinematic masterpiece and a feminist work of art. How feminist is Die Hard, from a scale of one to ten?”

“Hey! Holly Gennaro does plenty of cool stuff throughout the movies! You’re just going to have to watch them yourself.”

“I can almost guarantee you I won’t.”

“Fine, but you’re missing out.” He grabs a couple of peanuts from the jar between them, throwing them in the air and catching them in his mouth. “Cool trick, right?”

Amy raises an eyebrow. “Is this what you do at work all day?”

“I did teach myself that during stakeouts, but no. Whatever. Throw me another one.” She does, and he catches it again, this time almost sliding off the barstool in the process. She laughs a bubbling laugh as he does it another time. “Now you.”

“Fine. Try me.” The peanut flies through the air between them, and she tries to dive for it, but it just ends up landing at her feet. “Okay, another one.” She misses that one too. “Okay, there must be something wrong with these nuts.”

“Title of your sextape.”

“Title of my what?”

“Nevermind.” Jake laughs. “You just need some practice. Maybe at work? It could liven up a trial.”

“Nuh-uh, don’t need practice. Just need a better tactic.” Without thinking, she grabs a handful of them this time, throwing them in the air. This time, she catches a few of them in her mouth, while the rest end up spread over the couch and floor. “The key is volume!”

“Yeah, and the bartender is looking at you like he wants to kill you, so maybe don’t do it again or we’ll get thrown out.”

“It’s fine, I’m a lawyer.”

“That phrase works well to get out of trouble?”

“If you know what you’re doing. We could order more drinks to keep him happy?”

“Shots?”

“I’m down if you’re down.”

 Jake orders a Kamikaze shot for each of them, and as she reaches forward to take the second glass, her hand brushes against the top of his for a moment longer than necessary, resting there. It’s warm, and it feels calloused but somehow soft at the same time. They look at each other, his light brown eyes staring into hers, and she feels instantly hyper-aware that they’re around far, far, too many people.

She lets go of his hand, taking the shot and swallowing it before anyone can notice what’s happening. It smells like sour hand sanitizer and burns going down, and she laughs at Jake’s grimace when he drinks his.

“God, every time.” He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “Hey, I know this is crazy, but… do you maybe want to get out of here? We could have another drink at my place… watch Die Hard… whatever.”

“Mm, yeah. Maybe I should check that the shirt gets back to your place properly?”

“Shirt? What shirt? Oh, right, fuck, the shirt!” Jake spins in place, rushing back to the table where they were just sat. “Shit, I probably spilled beer on it, Sophia’s going to be pissed now...”

“It’s still in the bag, smartass.” Amy shows him. “Ta-da. Shirt’s still clean. Comes in handy being type A sometimes, huh?”

Jake sighs. “I know you're making fun of me, but I could seriously kiss you right now.”

 Maybe it’s the four drinks, maybe it’s the thrill that comes with how rarely she does this, or maybe it’s just sheer and wild impulse, but Amy finds herself whispering,

“Maybe we should get out of here, then.”

 ~

 Amy learns a lot of things that night.

 She learns that Jake Peralta is a seriously good kisser, tasting faintly of orange soda beneath the alcohol and salt, and that being pressed against his front door with his hands protecting her head strikes the perfect balance between feeling adventurous and safe. She learns that he’s never really quiet, soft moans and sighs filling the room in the breaks between their kisses, but that the sound only makes her want more.

 She learns that he wears even more layers than her. Beneath the leather jacket and hoodie is a checkered blue flannel that has way too many buttons for her liking right now, and she curses her slight tipsiness while working at them one by one. When she's finally done, Jake pulls the grey t-shirt over his head, and she barely has time to pause to admire how he somehow can look fit despite that catastrophic diet, or the curls on his chest that are begging for her to run her fingers through them, before he's asking “my turn?”. She learns that Jake Peralta is impatient, that his hands work fast on the buttons of her cerise shirt, and that he gets adorably confused when he can't find the button on her suit pants.

“It's on the side,” she tells him and shows him the zipper, and then they're both giggling until she kisses him like that and it's back on again.

 She learns that his hands feel good, sliding slowly up the sides of her stomach and back and rubbing against her shoulder blades. She unclasps the white t-shirt bra for him, smiling to herself as he swallows quickly.

“God, you’re hot,” he whispers, and the soft bites he trails down her chest and stomach make her feel that way, too.

 They move to his bed, leaving a trail of clothes behind them, and then she’s underneath him and breathing hard as his mouth moves lower, closer. The anticipation of it all is driving her mad, but then he looks up at her and asks “okay?” with the most sincere and caring expression, and Amy’s had very, very few one-night-stands in her life, but she’s certainly never had one like this.

“Okay,” she nods, and there’s that familiar grin again, but this time it makes her feel warm in a very specific place.

 She learns that Jake Peralta can do a whole lot more with his mouth than talking people’s ears off. His breath ghosts over her through her underwear at first, warming her up even though it’s barely even necessary, and then he’s finally pulling down the black material and helping her kick them off. His tongue is careful at first, just tasting her as if to gauge her expression, but then she nods at him to continue and the next second, her head is thrown back as she lets out a gasp.

 She learns that he likes it when she pulls his hair. At first, her hands are just lightly tangling in it for practicality, but then she holds on tighter as a means of control when her legs begin to tense up and the familiar pressure is starting to rise. She’s raising her hips slightly only to lower them again, helping him get her there, and the curls of his hair are just begging to be pulled.

“Do that again,” he pauses to say, so she tugs his hair harder and he straight-up moans.

 She learns that he can make her scream, which she wasn’t expecting, and she rocks through the euphoric waves and pants and practically melts into the bed as she comes down from it.

“That good?” He winks, and she wants to roll her eyes, but he did just make her come harder than she remembers doing in a long time, so she kisses the smile off of him instead, tasting her arousal on his lips.

She learns that he's respectful and a gentleman, telling her that they can stop this here if she'd rather, but she doesn’t want to, and they don’t. He has to rifle through the drawer in his bedside table for a while before he finds a condom – maybe he doesn’t do this as often as she’d thought, maybe it’s another sign of his poor organization skills, but he finds one soon enough so she’s not sure she cares – and then it’s a little bit of a blur, but she rolls it on him with precise strokes and lowers herself on top of him and oh my god.

 She learns that when he looks at her, when he touches her, it makes her feel powerful and special all at once. He plays with her boobs as she sets the pace, his thumbs rolling against her nipples in a way she didn’t realize she liked, and she picks up her rhythm, clenching around him and leaning back on his raised thighs.

 She learns just how enjoyable it is to watch him fall apart underneath her. His pace stutters and he curses, groaning a confession of how close he is, and she could almost come again from watching him alone but she brings two fingers to her clit and touches herself anyway. He finishes before her, spilling out inside the condom with a moan that she can only imitate, collapsing against his chest as she brings herself to orgasm again right after him.

 When they're done learning, they collapse together in his bed. For a moment, Amy considers turning around and calling a cab home, because that would be the most responsible thing to do, but then Jake throws an arm around her to pull her closer, and after all, she's still a little tipsy.

What harm could it possibly do, anyway?

 ~

 Sharp, unforgiving morning light wakes Amy up before her alarm the next morning. She must have forgotten to close the blinds last night, she thinks, and rolls over on the other side so the light doesn't hurt her eyes. She expects the usual greeting of a sea of pillows, and has to stop herself from letting out a yelp of surprise when instead, she's hit with a wall of Jake sleeping with his back to her. A vague memory of them falling asleep like this hits her. He’d wanted to be the little spoon, she remembers.

 At first, knowing that intimate fact about him makes her feel proud. Then it makes her panic.

 She jumps out of bed, throwing off her part of the comforter in search of her clothes. She finds her underwear and bra together with her shirt, trying to dress as quietly as possible, quick before Jake wakes up and discovers that she's half-naked in his apartment and they have to have a very, very awkward talk –

“Amy? What are you doing?”

Too late.

 She freezes on the spot, chewing on her lip as she fumbles for an explanation. Jake’s eyes rake over her with curiosity, which somehow feels a lot more exposing today than it did last night, and it's making her lose track of her words. His bed head curls and disoriented smile is decidedly not helping her focus.

“We slept together last night,” she manages.

Jake’s smile grows wider and prouder as he sits up fully in bed. Amy blushes as she notices the shadow of two hickeys way too close to his neck to be professional.

“Yeah, I was there.”

“Very funny.” She sees her pants thrown across the back of a massage chair and quickly reaches for them. “But this… You know this can’t be a thing, right? Just so we're on the same page about it.”

Jake frowns. “What do you mean with a thing?”

“This – us – we can't date, Jake. I know that. You know that.”

He’s silent for a moment before he fakes a shudder. “Yeah, yeah, no. I’ve dated lawyers before. Never ends well.”

“You have?” The reveal surprises her. “It doesn't matter. This can’t happen.”

“I know.”

“Good,” she exhales. “I’m just going to find my clothes, then, and then I’m going to leave.”

“Hey, wait.” He twists his hands together, bringing them to his chin with a smile. “This is going to sound weird, but… even if nothing can happen between us, I’m still glad we had sex last night.”

 The confession takes her by surprise, and Amy wonders again if she just doesn't know anything about one-night-stands. Sleep together, have fun, sneak out in the morning before anything can go deeper – isn't that how it's supposed to go? If so, she's majorly failing, because she can't stop herself from giving him another shy smile in return.

“Me too. Just because, we were like… really good at it.”

“Stupid good!” Jake exclaims. “It makes no sense!”

“We still can't date, though,” she reminds him. “So how do we work this out?”

“Well, it sort of looked like you were planning to just leave, and I’m not going to stop you if that's your choice, but… there is one more option.”

“What are you thinking?”

“We could be friends with benefits,” he shrugs. “None of the commitment, none of the weird incompatibilities between a cop and a lawyer, just us and some stupid good sex.”

“Friends with benefits? Do the kids really say that, still?”

“I’m saying you could consider it.”

 Amy's first instinct is to protest, to say absolutely not and leave on the spot. Her relationship history may not contain that many names, but at least they’ve all been fairly straightforward and conventional. She's never done something like this before, and the mere idea of jumping into something so unknown with someone like Jake scares her shitless.

 Then again, she's also never been with someone like Jake. Yesterday hadn't been a date, but it had still been better than all the awkward dinners and half-hearted walks she's been at since she broke up with Teddy a year ago. And the sex – well, she'd be lying if she said she wasn't already thinking of doing that again.

 “There would need to be rules,” she says.

“Sure, we can come up with some.”

“I’ll write a contract.”

“We need a contract?”

“Yeah,” she decides. “If this is going to work, we need a comprehensive set of rules, and they need to be written down, because I don't trust you not to adjust them in your head last minute.”

“How am I attracted to you? But, fine.”

Amy shakes her head, closing the last button on the shirt that had been left unbuttoned until now. “So… I’ll put together a draft and bring it over tonight? Your place?”

Jake gapes at her for a moment like he can't believe what he hears, but then he nods. “I’m free.”

“Cool. I’ll see you tonight, then.” With that, she pulls on her socks and shoes, leaving before she can freak out again.

“Cool, cool,” she hears just before closing the door. “Friends with benefits. Cool, cool, cool, cool… cool.”

 ~

#b99fandomevents #b99 summer 2021 fic exchange #my writing #b99 #peraltiago #jake x amy #b99 fic #b99 fanfiction #jake x amy fanfiction #peraltiago fanfiction #MY FIRST AU PLEASE ENJOY #three more parts to come hahah but i'm only going to post one before the deadline #read on ao3 if you want line breaks since tumblr has ruined those

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Secret Santa

For @thatesqcrush​​​’s Holiday Bingo!

Warnings: MANY. NSFW. Sexual assault (explicit about the immediate aftermath), trauma, angst, insecurity, eventually fluff. 

Today my brain really wanted emotionally fragile traumatized Barba who has a crush on reader but doesn’t know if they’ll ever see him as anything but broken now. Also it’s Christmas. 

Follow-ups: Te Quiero, Just Hold Me

Rafael Barba x Reader

3,000 words

Your ideal boyfriend would feed you chocolate like grapes in one of those ancient Greek paintings.

It was just an offhand remark you’d made at the bar one night in response to Rollins’s tipsy line of questioning about the perfect man. ADA Barba didn’t usually go out to socialize with the SVU squad, but he knew you were going to be there, so he went, too.

And not just any chocolate—no. Real, seventy-percent dark chocolate, single-origin beans. You preferred the fruity undertones of Madagascar cocoa, but were interested in exploring.

That was why Barba was carrying a box of expensive chocolate under his arm that night as he walked toward the 16th Precinct. He only agreed to participate in the SVU’s Secret Santa hoping he might get you, and was thrilled when he did. After a little trading. He knew Sonny would want Rollins, so it was easy to shuffle a few names around without making his own intentions obvious.

He bought a sampler box of fair-trade cocoas from around the world. The tag included a joke about feeding them to you, if you wanted. This year, Barba promised himself, he was going to admit his feelings for you.

Maybe it was foolish. You could have anyone. Why would you choose the cranky old lawyer? But he saw the approving way your eyes caught on him sometimes, when you didn’t think he was looking. The eternal pessimist in him said you just enjoyed his colorful ties, but it was enough to give him hope. The starved optimist whispered promises in his ear that this Christmas, he wouldn’t have to be alone.

Maybe this was the year he would fall asleep with a warm body tangled pleasantly around his as snow fell over the city.

That was what he was thinking about when it happened. The theoretical conversation with you distracted him from his surroundings, turning his cheeks pink from more than the early December chill. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until there was a sharp pain at the back of his head.

The box of chocolates slipped from his hands as he hit the ground, and rolled into the gutter. The flirtatious tag soaked with half-frozen slush until the ink blurred and ran.

***

When Barba didn’t make it to the Secret Santa exchange, you worried. But only a little. Olivia was sure he was just running late. Barba was always getting caught up with something or other, either being dragged into a meeting, or simply letting his social life slide in favor of working late.

When Liv’s call went to voicemail, you really started to worry. At least enough to call his office and find out he left for the night over an hour ago.

That nagging worry was confirmed the more you tried to find him, and turned into terror as it became an investigation. The ADA was missing. Security camera footage from a local bodega showed him being struck over the head with a bat and dragged into a van by three suspects.

One of them was identified as Jeremy Jones, a man whom Barba had tried to convict for a series of brutal rapes against closeted gay men. Ultimately, he was charged with manslaughter for the death of one of his victims. He served only half of a paltry six-year sentence and was released on good behavior that week. Apparently, Jones held a particular grudge against the openly bi prosecutor who tried to convict him of a hate crime. And he had made a few friends in prison.

The manhunt lasted three days, and the entire time you felt sick. Every hour—every minute—you didn’t find him was another minute god knows what was happening to Barba. If he was even still alive.

Only one of Jones’s victims had died, you tried to calm yourself. Of a heart attack. Barba was strong. But Jones wasn’t acting alone this time.

You felt sick.

After three days and a shootout with the NYPD, you found where Jones and his gang were hiding out.

You were the first one to discover the basement door, to kick it open.

You found Barba handcuffed to a bed, naked and beaten. His wrist was a horrible red-purple bruise where the metal dug in. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, though he seemed to be conscious. You radioed in for help and rushed to him, holding his head up, praying he was responsive. He yelped at the touch, recoiling from it. The cuffs rattled on the metal headboard.

“It’s OK. Shh. Rafael. It’s me,” you soothed, sitting at the corner of the bed beside him. “It’s the NYPD. We got them. You’re safe now. OK? They’re gone. The paramedics are already on the way.”

His eyes cleared, focused on you for just a moment. He seemed to recognize you—to understand what was happening. His mouth opened and almost made words, but only a dry rattle came out. His lips were swollen, and cracked with dehydration. Tears started rolling down his face, then. Dark, coppery dried blood covered the inside of his legs, pooled on the mattress, and bright red fresh blood streamed down over it.

He’d been missing for three days. Three whole days.

It was bad. He was in bad shape. You prayed the paramedics would get there soon. For the quick-witted prosecutor to be rendered unable to speak, his hair disheveled and plastered to his head with blood and fluids… For anyone to have done this to him… You tried to stay calm to help him be calm, but you were boiling over with rage and guilt.

It was your fault for not finding him sooner. For not being a better detective. For not worrying the second he was late.

Heavy footsteps pounded down the basement stairs and every muscle in his exhausted body went rigid. His free hand clung to you, nails digging into the skin of your palm.

“It’s just the paramedics.” You covered his hand with your own, squeezing. “They’re going to help you. I’ll be right here. You’re going to be OK, do you understand?”—his eyes were so blank and unfocused you weren’t sure that he did—“We found you, and… and you’re going to be OK now. We’re going to fix this.” Your voice was shaking.

It was a good thing the paramedics came in and took over before you started crying. The way his hand tightly held yours, not wanting to let go, wrenched your heart, and you needed to take a few minutes before you could be a detective again.

***

Barba was in the hospital for a week before being released. You went to see him, but were told he wasn’t taking visitors.

A week before Christmas, he reported to work.

A whole group from the 16th Precinct went down to 1 Hogan Place to welcome him back. He looked at home in his office, where he was supposed to be. His suit was as sharp (and loud) as ever. His hair was made without a strand out of place. You were relieved to see he was himself again. But his eyes were still haunted, and he flinched when Sonny knocked too loudly on the door frame.

He gave a weary smile, thanked everyone for their support, and sent everyone away except Liv.

Including you.

Your heart sank at the blow-off. You knew he’d weaseled half the precinct into trading Secret Santas until he got you. That had to mean you were special to him, the same way he was special to you.

Barba meant… more than you’d like to admit. It started so small you barely noticed it—that you were more inclined to go to events if Barba was also going. That you were always on his side during controversial cases, and even when you disagreed, you were more inclined to hear out his opinion than if he were anyone else. Then Rollins had a few tequila shots and started talking boys, and how the perfect man didn’t exist.

When you thought about the perfect man, only one person came to mind.

And you hadn’t had a chance to talk to him.

You knew he was going through something difficult, but that was why you wanted to be there for him. You wanted so badly to be part of his inner circle, like Liv—one of the people he leaned on instead of sending away.

You tried his office again the next day, by yourself. He avoided you, claiming he was busy with backlogged paperwork. The day after that, he legitimately wasn’t there—at the hospital for a follow-up—but never returned the message you left with Carmen.

On Christmas Eve, you tried again during lunch break. The lights were on in his office, but Carmen said he wasn’t there, sympathy in her eyes. He was there. You both knew it. He just didn’t want to see you. That night, you left him in peace. He would be spending Nochebuena with his mother, and you had plans of your own.

But on Christmas morning, you knew he wouldn’t be working all day. Neither were you.

You sent him a text and said you were coming over. He never responded, but an hour later, you knocked on his apartment door, anyway.

Footsteps slowly approached the door. A shadow fell over the peephole, and you grinned nervously, giving a little wave. The deadbolt slid open, then the door chain, and finally it opened to a tense lawyer, well dressed even on his day off in a cashmere sweater and chinos. Dark circles ringed his eyes from lack of sleep.

“Detective. H-hey. It’s not a good time. I’m… busy.” The flush in his cheeks rose, and he seemed eager to retreat back inside.

“You owe me a Christmas present!” you blurted out. It was juvenile. You knew the moment you opened your mouth it sounded like something a toddler would say, but at least it stopped him from closing the door on you.

He blinked. His chin tipped up just slightly in that haughty way that always preceded a cutting bit of sarcasm. “…Excuse me, I what?”

“It’s Christmas. You were my Secret Santa. So you owe me a gift.”

Realization dawned over him, along with the memory of everything that had happened the night he was meant to give you your present. His face fell.

“I… I’m sorry. I lost it.”

His eyes took on a dull, far away look, and you instantly regretted bringing it up. Of course that would be a painful memory. Fuck.

“It’s OK!” you took a step toward him, and he took one quickly back. Shit, you shouldn’t have done that, you scolded yourself. His face grew hotter, and he seemed humiliated with himself. “I-I mean… for the gift. All I want is to talk to you. For a minute. That would be plenty of a gift, if you could spare it. I just want to know how you’re doing.”

“I wish everyone would stop asking me that,” he snapped.

“Well, I haven’t had the chance yet. It feels like you’ve been avoiding me. I just wanted to know if… if we’re OK.”

He paused. He didn’t answer immediately, but his expression softened. “I… I haven’t been…” He sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. His jaw kept working, lips reshaping themselves of the cusp of words, as if he were trying to continue, but couldn’t find the right ones. The words that would make sense, and explain everything—that would click together like a jigsaw puzzle and make everything better.

“I just thought that we were… friends. And… I was worried about you… And now I’m worried you’re pushing me away. I know we’re not as close as you and Olivia… but…” Your head hung low. “Did I do something wrong?”

Barba turned away. He wrapped a hand over his face, fingers shielding his eyes from you. “I know you were the one who found me,” he groaned miserably. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. You of all people… Because now you’ll never be able to look at me without part of you always seeing me… like that. Like a victim.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is, and you know it!” he snarled, surprising you with the sudden rise in volume.

He was seething, hurting, and you wanted to reassure him that you would never see him as less because of what was done to him. You laid a hand on his arm to comfort him, and he jerked away.

“Stop that! See? You’re doing it. Treating me like I’m… broken.” His whole body seemed to deflate, to shrink into itself. “It’s too late,” he croaked, a wistful smile cruelly turning the corner of his lip. “I’m never going to be whole in your eyes now.”

“Of course you are,” you said gently.

He gave a sharp, nasal huff. “Not like—ugh, never mind.”

“Not like what?”

His eyes met yours—green and turbulent as the ocean. There was a harrowed desperation in the creases of his forehead, the little wrinkles under his eyes deepening. “Like someone you could… Forget it!” He looked away, blinking rapidly.

“Barba… did you want to… Do you like…?”

You had a hopeful spark, an idea of what he was trying to say, what was bothering him, but you were afraid to say it and be proven wrong. You searched his face, inching closer. He looked horrified, like you were calling him out rather than hoping for it to be true—rifling through the sock drawer of his emotions.

No. You had to be the open one. He had too much to worry about already. You had to take the risk with your feelings.

“What I mean is… Please stop me if I’m out of line, but, Barba… no, Rafael… I like you. I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, but I kept hoping you’d say it first, in case I was imagining things and you didn’t feel the same way. Then you disappeared, and…” Your breath caught in a tightening throat. “I thought I’d lost you forever. When we found you alive… Whatever you think changed with how I see you, all I was thinking was how happy I was you were alive. And that I’d get another chance to tell you how much I care about you.” Tears were rolling down your cheeks by the end, drying your eyes on your sleeves to no avail.

He had turned completely toward you at some point during your confession, no longer half-hiding his face. Some of the remaining distance between you had disappeared, too. His hands softly came up to press your upper arms. Even through your puffy winter coat, you could feel how big and strong they were. His haunted green eyes searched you closely, looking for any sign you weren’t serious. That this wasn’t real. That maybe it was just pity. But you could swear there was a hint in them, too, of a stunned, timid sort of hope. 

You swallowed, meeting his deep gaze. “And I really want to kiss you now… if that would be alright.”

“I… I’d like that.”

Though he trembled slightly, his breathing was soft and steady as you leaned toward him. The kiss was gentle and easy, starting with foreheads touching, noses brushing against each other. Then lips, delicately ghosting over each other. His were still healing, tender where they were split. You let him close the final micron of distance, pressing the warm fullness of his lips against yours. His hand caressed the side of your face, and his thumb delicately brushed the hair at your temple.

“Can we go slow?” he breathed as he pulled away, though not far. He kept his hand on your face, the other about your waist. “I know I just said I’m not broken…”

“But you need time. I understand. Trust me.”

The corners of his eyes wrinkled in a melancholy smile as he stroked the side of your face longingly.

“I’m comfortable with whatever pace you want to set. Whether it’s holding hands, or… just talking. So long as I can keep spending time with you. I missed you. That’s all I need to be happy—just getting to be around my favorite counselor.”

He leaned in and kissed your forehead. “You know… you’re my favorite detective.”

“Oh yeah?” you challenged, grinning. “What about Liv?”

“She’s a lieutenant.”

“Ack! Got me on a technicality!”

“There’s no such thing as a technicality in law,” Barba smirked, playfully smug.

You snorted. Cheeky bastard.

“Can I kiss you again?”

“Rafael, you can kiss me as many times as you like.”

His mouth melded against yours more confidently this time. More insistent, and yet more vulnerable, a soft groan reverberating in his throat. Just once, his lips parted yours, and his tongue darted out, tasting the opening of your lips before retreating shyly back. You let him lead, and didn’t push for more. You meant it when you said just being near him, part of his world, was enough.

He invited you inside.

If this was to make up for your gift, he owed you more than just a minute of conversation, he said, smiling. For the rest of the day, Barba turned his tidy, tiny Manhattan flat into a cozy winter refuge, complete with hot cocoa (spiked with spiced rum, of course), warm throw blankets, and an endless marathon of holiday movies to watch while snuggling on the couch.

It was the best Christmas you could remember, especially when, before the sun had even begun to set, Barba fell asleep holding you. The worry lines carved into his face smoothed out as he breathed steadily. He looked so peaceful, you didn’t mind being trapped on the couch until he woke up.

Maybe, you thought, those dark circles could start to fade.

#Rafael Barba #Rafael Barba x Reader #thatesqcrush holiday bingo #trauma #angst #hurt/comfort #gender-neutral reader #my writing

[milstrim]

Comfort in My Shadow

Chapter 5: Ironic

By @iwritedumbshit for @iron-mum

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, Ned Leeds, James “Rhodey” Rhodes

Summary: Soulmates are definite in the universe. Nobody knows exactly why they exist, or what dictates who is bonded to who, the only thing known is that they are never wrong. But Peter’s not so sure about that.

Living at the group home had taught Peter a lot about laying low and how to stay alive when nobody cares. But he’d always clung to the hope of the shadow at his feet reflecting his soulmate that had watched over him for years.

Typical that his soulmate is actually a superhero that Peter is convinced shouldn’t want anything to do with him. Maybe, just this once, the Universe was wrong.

But Tony Stark is desperate to prove that it is right.

Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8

---

"Woah."

"I know, right," Peter said, unzipping the inside of the suit and moving to plug it into Ned's computer. His friend continued to gape at it, fingers trailing over the fabric reverently.

"I can't believe Iron Man made this," he whispered. "I get to sit here. And touch a superhero suit. That Tony Stark made. For my best friend. This is the greatest day of my life."

"You've said that a lot recently," Peter pointed out, pulling up the schematics of the suit on Ned's computer, who turned to look at him in confusion.

"What are you doing? Are you supposed to be messing with it?"

"I'm not messing with it. I'm just going through Karen's code real quickly."

"Karen?"

"The AI," he explained. "I just want to make sure she's not gonna snitch on me."

"Snitch on you for what?"

"Uhhh, so you know those alien weapons I've been talking about?"

Ned nodded. "Yeah?"

"I'm gonna take that down, and I don't really need Karen telling Mr. Stark," he mumbled the last part nervously. Ned stared at him.

"Why don't we want Karen telling Mr. Stark again? I mean, he gave you the suit, he must think you're capable."

Peter paused, puffing up his cheeks as he took in an awkward breath, staring at the protocols showing up on the computer. He'd already spotted three to tell Mr. Stark if he was in trouble, so he knew it was the opposite of Ned's assumption.

"Actuallyyyy..." He took a deep breath. "You can't tell anyone this." Ned nodded, but he continued to press. "I mean it. Nobody. Not a soul."

"I won't, I won't! I promise, Peter. Not. A. Soul."

"Mr. Stark's my soulmate."

Ned's head whipped around to stare at Peter's shadow, his mouth falling open.

"Oh, my God... Oh, my God! He's your soulmate!!?" Peter nodded, preparing himself for Ned's excited ramblings, but he couldn't really hide the smile on tugging at his lips either, however faint it was. "This is insane! Your life is so fucking insane I think I'm going to lose it!! Have you talked to him? Wait--yeah you have! How many times have you talked to him? Have you done, I don't know, 'soulmate things?'"

"Ned, what?"

Ned threw his hands up. "I don't know, I haven't met my soulmate. I'm trying my best, Peter!"

Peter laughed, shrugging.

"I don't really know what 'soulmate things' are, but we had dinner, and he showed me some stuff in his lab."

"Oh, my God...you've been in his lab. You know you have to show me one day."

"Definitely. I'll figure it out later, just, let us get more used to each other? Maybe? Let me impress him at least, which is why I'm trying to keep Karen from snitching on me."

"Sure. Here," Ned agreed, sitting beside him on the bed and gesturing for the computer. Peter passed it over to him wordlessly. "I'll work on the protocols, you do detective work or something."

"Thanks, dude."

"By the way, and answer honestly, is that Tony Stark's hoodie?"

Peter glanced down at the red hoodie that Mr. Stark had given him, 'MIT' emblazoned on the sleeves while the faded logo sat on the front of the piece of clothing. He smiled at Ned. "Yep."

"This is so cool," his friend melted.

With an amused eyeroll, Peter pulled out his phone, clearing his throat and nervously calling, "Karen?"

The phone lit up. "Yes, Peter?"

"Listen, ah, I was wondering if you could help me. I'm trying to figure out who these guys under the bridge were a few nights ago, but I mean, I can only kind of remember part of a license plate."

"Can you tell me where you were?" Peter rattled off Liz's neighborhood. Karen was silent for a little bit before piping up again. "Was there a white van involved?"

Peter perked up. "Yes! Exactly!"

A hologram popped up from Peter's phone. Ned stopped to stare at it as they both let out an identical, "Whoa..."

Peter watched intently from the security camera as the van rolled up under the bridge to where the buyer had been waiting. Karen highlighted the faces for him.

"Okay. The two on the right, who are they?" he asked.

"Searching law enforcement databases," Karen said, pausing before answering. "No records found for two of the individuals."

"Nothing?"

"One individual identified." The recording was replaced by a mugshot. "Aaron Davis, age thirty-three. He has a criminal record and an address here in Queens."

Peter and Ned glanced at each other. Ned said, "The protocols are disabled."

"Let's pay him a visit."

  ---

"So, what's this surprise you've been talking about?"

Tony's head shot up at the sound of his girlfriend's voice. He smiled, turning from where he'd been forcing some kitchen tools into a box to take in the woman as she stepped off of the elevator. She very much looked like she'd just come out of a meeting in sharp business slacks and an exhausted expression.

"Hey, Pep. How was...London?"

"Tokyo," she corrected, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "It was tiring. How's the packing?"

"Eh, boring," he said, kicking the box lightly and shoving his hands in his pockets. "So, anyway, I think that we should reconsider moving to the compound permanently."

"Tony, we just finished all the paperwork for the tower! And most floors have been packed by now, we can't just--"

"Not the tower. Just for us. Ever thought about a nice high-rise in Queens?"

Pepper stared at him, crossing her arms. "Queens? Since when have you ever cared about Queens?"

"Well, that's the surprise."

"The surprise is that you want to move to Queens?"

"No," Tony corrected, unable to stop his bright grin. "The surprise is that my soulmate lives in Queens."

It took a couple of seconds for that to register to Pepper. When it did, her eyebrows raised and she let out a smiled gasp. "You found him?"

Tony nodded. "Yep, just swinging around New York like a maniac."

"Swinging?"

"He's Spider-Man. Well, 'man's' a strong word. Here." He waved his hand, pulling up a screen that displayed Peter's yearbook photo. Pepper cooed at him. "Peter Parker. Top of his class at Midtown High by day, overly excited vigilante by night."

"He doesn't look like he could hurt a fly, never mind stop robberies. How'd he get his powers?"

"Forgot to ask, actually. He wasn't super excited to meet me at first, actually."

Pepper snorted. "Good. I'm glad he doesn't feed your ego."

"Hey! This is serious," he pouted.

"Uhuh." Pepper gave him another kiss on the cheek. "How'd you meet him?"

"Mugging. I bought him a hot chocolate."

"Hmm. I expected something stranger given your track record."

"He ran away."

"There it is," she said. "It's all good now, though?"

"Yeah..."

"Tony?"

He hesitated. "Peter lives at a group home, and I gotta say, not super fond of his foster father."

"Is he... Does he hurt Peter?" Pepper asked. He shrugged.

"Possibly. I gave Peter some money and the guy took it. Spent hundreds of dollars on liquor. And the kid's really thin. Jumpy, too. But there's nothing to prove right now."

"I'm surprised I didn't have our lawyer calling me to say you broke into a foster home and kidnapped a kid."

Tony shrugged, giving her a soft smile. "I don't need to break down the door to say hi to Peter. Besides, kid's wary, gets nervous easily. I don't want to scare him off by being too invasive about his home."

"Good on you for learning some boundaries, Tony," she congratulated before turning just a little more serious as she glanced at Peter's picture again. "You're sure he's alright?"

"No. But he's got a new superhero suit, a phone with me, Friday, and his own AI on speed dial, an unlimited credit card, and a badge to get into the tower. He's got resources if he needs them."

"Then let's just hope he doesn't need them."

 ---

  Peter waited until the next day to find and interrogate Aaron Davis, more at Ned's insistence that they study for their Spanish quiz and to let his friend geek out over the suit than anything else. He'd stayed at his friend's house for as long as humanly possible, readily accepting whatever snack that Ned had pushed his way and going over notes that Karen gave him about Davis. It wasn't until the alarm he'd had Karen set that it was 9:40 went off did he leave.

Peter didn't like to impose on his friend so much, but Ned hadn't seemed to mind with the new addition of a supersuit and Mr. Stark being his soulmate, and the teenager couldn't help the way he was still avoiding Mr. Fowler like the plague. After leaving Mr. Stark's on Sunday and failing to stop a simple burglary, he'd hurried back to the group home, helping Eric with his homework and then cooping himself up in his room. He'd managed to avoid him the entire night and the next morning due to the man being passed out drunk in his room. Though he was still wracked with guilt at the fact that his foster father had stolen Mr. Stark's money on alcohol, he had to admit that it was at least useful.

Bidding goodnight to his friend, Peter slipped out of the apartment and hurried down onto the street where he joined the late night crowd as he made his way back to the group home. He popped his earbuds in and chose a song on his phone (that had an unlimited choice for him now, but he just stuck with his familiar Spotify playlists) as he rushed back to a place that he wished he could avoid for longer. Unfortunately, the curfew was final, so he made it back to the Queens Pinehill Group Home for Boys with five minutes to spare.

He stopped in front of the door as his hairs rose. Surprisingly, they didn't direct him towards the house, instead calling him to turn around. Peter glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of a man sitting at an apartment's steps a few buildings down. It was too dark to see his face, especially with the hat he wore pulled down low, but he looked just a little familiar. More than a little nervous, the teenager shook it off and stepped inside.

Mr. Fowler was waiting for him at the dining table. Peter paused, taking out his earbuds as Mr. Fowler turned to stare at him, chewing on a slice of pizza. For some reason, despite living in New York, the man was obsessed with frozen pizza. It was practically criminal, but Peter excused it as mind games since all the kids weren't allowed to eat any of it. Only a sociopath would eat exclusively frozen pizza in Queens.

"Pity. I was hoping you'd be late," Mr. Fowler frowned at Peter as he shuffled to a hesitant stop by the stairs. "Got another card for me?"

"No," Peter lied stiffly.

"What? No sugar daddy today?"

He knew better than to argue. "I hung out with Ned."

Mr. Fowler stared at him, but the travel agent was nothing if not a man of his word. Peter had been on time, so he waved the teenager on. Resisting the urge to scramble into the safety of his room, he whisked up the steep stairs and into the dark bedroom only lit by the lamp in the corner.

Tim was already asleep, but Jeremiah was sat on his bed going over what looked like a book report. The teenager paid Peter no mind as he dropped his bag onto the ground beside his bed and changed into a pajama shirt. He kept the hoodie on that Mr. Stark had given despite the warmth of the night as he slipped under his covers, bundling up in the reassuring fabric.

Peter didn't fall asleep for a while, grateful for the light provided by the lamp as he stared at the outline of Mr. Stark's shadow as though it were the only thing in the world. It might as well be for all he cared. Blocking out Mr. Fowler was quickly becoming a new necessity that was increasingly hard to do with the way his senses focused in on every little thing.

The entire house smelled of the man's alcohol, musty and strong and littered with the memories of a dark closet where even his shadow hadn't been able to comfort him. But the hoodie carried the fading scent of Mr. Stark that washed away his tired uneasiness, at least for the time being, and the shadow kept him preoccupied with one comforting thought. Out there, just across a bridge, was an adult who cared.

 ---

  When Peter woke up, he felt off. He wasn't quite sure how to explain it, just that he knew the day was going to go wrong before it started. He wanted to curl up deeper into the hoodie that wrapped around him like a cocoon, but forced himself to push the covers off of himself and plant hit feet on the cold morning floor.

Jeremiah's bed was already empty, so Peter assumed that he'd already eaten and left with Eric, whose school started much earlier than everyone else's. Tim was still asleep, so Peter put on a pair of pants, grabbed his bag, and woke the kid up before knocking on the door of the other kids' room. He then headed downstairs and began putting together bowls of cereal for the kids that would be stumbling downstairs in a few minutes.

Mr. Fowler was in the kitchen, leaving the teenager to shuffle around him awkwardly as the man gave him a suspicious glare that he tried desperately to ignore. He left the kitchen as quickly as possible, placing the bowls down in the kids' usual spots and then taking up his own place to quickly scarf down a bowl of tasteless cereal. By the time he was finished, all the other kids had already stumbled downstairs and begun to eat.

Peter went along preparing their bags and then taking their bowls to the sink once they were done. He had just put the last dish in the dishwasher when the other boys at Queens Pinehill Group Home for Boys walked out the door, leaving him alone with Mr. Fowler. The man was staring at him with the same suspicious glare as he closed the pantry and then made to grab his backpack.

"Wait just a moment, Peter," Mr. Fowler said. Peter paused immediately, holding back a shiver at the danger in his tone.

"Sir?"

"There was a pack of granola bars missing from the pantry last night." The man glared at him, clearly waiting for a reaction, but Peter just stared at him, hesitant. Which kid had taken the bars? He hadn't seen anything off in their bags, unless Mr. Fowler had just miscounted, though that didn't happen often. "Anything to say to that, Peter?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, sir. I didn't take them."

"You didn't? I find that very hard to believe. How close are you to ending your grounding?"

"Three days, Mr. Fowler."

He tutted, standing up from his chair and stepping over to Peter. The teenager couldn't stop the way he froze, tensing up and squaring his shoulders as a large, meaty hand clamped down on one. Fingers curled over the thick fabric of his hoodie, pricking at his skin.

"Well, it would be a pity if it was extended longer. You're sure you didn't take anything?"

"Nothing, sir." The hand flashed to his hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling his head down and to the side with a pained grunt. Peter forced his breaths to steady even as tears pricked at his eyes. "I didn't take anything, Mr. Fowler, I promise!"

"Then you've wasted my time, son. Do you know what makes up for lost time?"

"Wha-what? Sir."

"A bit of hard cash." Peter noticed the way the man's hand trembled. "That card was nice for the weekend, but I'm afraid I'm running a little low. Got anything else for me?"

His thoughts flashed to the newly activated card sitting in his wallet, tucked safely in his hoodie pocket. He could just give it up and walk away. Mr. Fowler would be happy and Peter could go to school, safe and sound.

Steely eyes met Mr. Fowler's impossibly strained ones. "No. I don't have any other money."

The fist let go of his hair, throwing him back. Peter caught himself in a stumble as Mr. Fowler looked at him in disgust.

"Fine," the man rasped. "Extend your grounding until next week, then. Now get to school before I'm forced to call you in an excuse."

Peter mumbled out a grated, "Yes, sir," before stumbling out the door. Instead of making his way to school, he stumbled into the nearest alleyway. The teenager sucked in a deep breath, cursing himself for the tears biting at his eyes and the panic choking his throat. He was fine. Nothing had happened. He was completely fine. It wasn't like the extension of his grounding even mattered, Peter had money to buy food when he needed it. Everything. Was. Fine.

But Peter wasn't fine. He was choking on air and stumbling on panic as he slid down a grimy alleyway wall, unable to even begin to calm down. He didn't know why he was even freaking out so bad, Mr. Fowler had only pulled his hair, but the revival of the strong smell of liquor and the closeness of the man's face to his was horribly haunting.

Peter pulled at his hair as he finally managed to wheeze in a breath, staring desperately at the shadow in front of him. Mr. Stark's fluffy hair and tall shoulders seemed to stare back at him, almost reassuring. The teenager shoved his nose into the collar of his cardinal hoodie, taking in a deep breath to drown out Mr. Fowler.

It calmed him slightly.

But not quite enough.

With chattering teeth, Peter pulled his bag off of his shoulder and tore the suit out of it. With no hesitation, he took off his clothes and stepped into the suit. Karen greeted him instantly.

"Good morning, Peter. Shouldn't you be heading to school?"

"Uh, no, no. Not today, Karen. That man, Aaron Davis? Where is he right now?"

A path was highlighted on his screen.

 ---

  "Remember me?"

Peter's voice was almost hilariously unnatural, but the man at the car stumbled back, so he guessed it worked. He thundered forward to where Aaron Davis was trying to stumble away from his car but was pulled back by the web sticking to the open hood.

"Uh, hey..."

"I need information. You're gonna give it to me now," Peter demanded half-heartedly, the enhanced interrogation mode making his voice much angrier. Maybe it was better than he thought.

"All right, chill," Davis placated.

"Come on!"

Davis paused, staring at him in confusion. Peter tried not to shuffle on his feet. "What happened to your voice?"

Crap.

"What do you mean, what happened to my voice?"

"I heard you by the bridge. I know what a girl sound like," Davis deadpanned.

"I'm not a girl! I'm a boy," Peter protested, quickly moving to correct himself. "I mean, I'm a--I'm a man."

"I don't care what you are, a boy, a girl..." the man trailed off with a shrug, continuing to load his car with groceries.

"I'm not a girl! I'm a man," he protested again. "Come on, man. Look, who is selling these weapons? I need to know. Give me names--or else."

Davis slammed the trunk shut and Peter flinched back on instinct. The man flashed him a teasing smile, shaking his head.

"You ain't ever done this before, huh?"

"Deactivate interrogation mode," Peter said sullenly. Davis huffed in amusement, shaking his head again. "Look, man, these guys are selling weapons that are crazy dangerous. They can't just be out on the streets. Look, if one of them can just cut Delmar's bodega in half..."

Davis, not paying attention in the slightest, looked up, regarding him in slight interest. "You know Delmar's?"

"Yeah, best sandwich in Queens," he shrugged.

"Sub Haven's pretty good."

"It's too much bread."

"I like bread."

"Come on, man, please," the teenager begged one last time. Davis stared at him, unresponsive, so with a dramatic throw of his hands, Peter began to walk away. "Stupid interrogation mode. Karen, don't ever do that again."

"The other night," Aaron started. Peter turned around to look at him. "You told that dude, "if you shoot somebody, shoot me." It's pretty ballsy. I don't want those weapons in this neighborhood. I got a nephew who live here.

Tentatively, Peter stepped back over, catching sight of the man's shadow. It was smaller, clearly a boy with a tall afro.

"Who are these guys? What can you tell me about the guy with the wings?"

"Other than he's a psychopath dressed like a demon, nothing. I don't know who he is or where he is." Peter sighed, leaning his head on the car roof. He was never going to prove to Mr. Stark he was worthy of being his soulmate when he couldn't even find the vulture guy. Aaron offered, "I do know where he's gonna be."

Peter perked up. "Really?"

"Yeah, this crazy dude I used to work with, he's supposed to be doing a deal with him."

"Yes!" Peter exclaimed, beginning to step away in giddiness. "Yes. Thank--"

"Hey, hey, hey," Aaron called. Peter stopped. "I didn't tell you where. You don't have a location."

Peter flushed bright red, making his way back to the car in embarrassment. "Right, of course. Yeah, my bad. Silly. Just...Yeah. Where is it?"

"Can I give you some advice?" Peter hummed. "You got to get better at this part of the job."

"I don't understand. I'm intimidating."

He crossed his arms, but Aaron only shook his head again.

"Staten Island ferry, eleven."

"Oh, that's soon," Peter realized. He began to walk away, pointing a finger at where the man's hand was webbed. "Hey, that's gonna dissolve in two hours."

"No, no, no, no. Come fix this."

"Two hours. You deserve that."

"I got ice cream in here."

"You deserve that. You're a criminal! Bye, Mr. Criminal!!"

 ---

  Tony clapped his hands together in an attempt to dust them off as he stared around the packaged remains of his lab. Scribbled formulas and problems had been wiped clean from boards, tables folded and disassembled, and prototypes all packed into boxes ready to be loaded onto the plane in a few days time. Most of what was left in his workplace was personal items and two encased Iron Man armors.

"How we looking on time, Fri?" he asked, grabbing his mug from where he'd placed it on the counter earlier and taking a sip.

"Packing for the move to the compound is on schedule, boss," the AI responded.

"Great," he said, smacking his lips at the comforting bitterness of his coffee, "How's the search for a Queens apartment going?"

"I have several different listings placed into the Itsy Bitsy Spider folder for you to look at."

"Great. Forward them to Pepper."

"Of course, sir."

Satisfied with the prospective of flipping through apartment listings closer to Peter in the evening, he glanced down at his shadow, frowning at the lack of fluffy hair there. It was Tuesday, wasn't it? He checked his watch for the time. Barely eleven. He was pretty sure Peter should be in school by now.

"Friday, is the spider-suit active?"

"Yes, sir."

He frowned harder. "Activate the Baby Monitor Protocol, I want to see what's going on."

"That protocol has been disabled, sir."

"What?"

The AI was silent for a moment before responding, "It has been disabled, along with many others. The only way to reinstate them would be manually."

Tony glanced down at his shadow again. Surely the kid wasn't messing with the suit? And especially not the protocols to keep him safe? And he'd skipped school, too.

"Call Peter."

 ---

  Peter peered over the top of the ferry roof at the men gathering below, who practically screamed shady. He kept an eye on Dronie's recording, the small robot keeping an eye on the other two guys up on the ferry, while Karen highlighted the men below.

"Who’s the guy on the left?" he asked, his spine shivering as he looked at the man.

"Mac Gargan. Extensive criminal record, including homicide. Would you like me to alert Mr. Stark?"

"What? No. I've got this, Karen."

One of the men that Peter had seen at the bridge approached Gargan. Peter could easily pick up his muttered. "White pickup truck."

Gargan nodded at one of his crones, who immediately began walking into the inside of the ferry holding the cars.

"Dronie," Peter whispered. "Scan the ship for a white pickup truck."

He watched the footage apprehensively as Dronie flew farther outside the ferry, x-raying the boat to pick out the truck inside. The robot then zipped over to it, beginning to scan the contents covered in the trunk but flying away and back to Peter as a man stepped out the front. His leg bounced nervously as the robot settled back in his chest, his heart beating erratically.

"Oh, this is too perfect," Peter said. "I got the weapons, buyers, and sellers all in one place."

"Incoming call from Tony Stark."

"No, no, no. No, no, don’t answer."

Despite his protests, the screen of his suit was swept away as Mr. Stark filled his screen. Peter tried not to grimace, keeping a careful eye on the men below even as the billionaire began to speak.

"Mr. Parker. Got a sec?" Mr. Stark greeted with a tight smile.

"Uh, I’m actually at school," Peter lied, ignoring Karen's correction in his ear. "I gotta get back to class, Mr. Stark, so--"

"What class?"

"Uhh--" Shit, what did he have at eleven? "Alge--"

The ferry's horn blared excruciatingly loudly. Peter resisted the urge to grimace, trying to keep an eye on the criminals below still.

"Band. I'm at, uh, band practice."

Mr. Stark stared at him, unimpressed. "That's...odd. You told me you quit band when you started swinging around as Spider-Man."

"I gotta go. Uh, end call."

"Hey," Mr. Stark protested, but the screen clicked close, allowing Peter to clearly see the people below once more. He flicked out a wrist, snapping a web onto a pair of keys being handed over.

"I’ll take those! Yoink!" He flipped, snatching the keys and webbing them to the ceiling. "Hey, guys. The illegal-weapons-deal-ferry was at 10:30. You missed it."

He webbed away the weapons from two guys quickly and threw them into the water. With a shiver up his spine, he ducked out of the way of the approaching man wearing the shocking gauntlet. The man's weaponized arm got stuck in the net on the ferry.

While he was distracted with the gauntlet guy, the other two he'd disarmed had scrambled to their feet, egging for a get away. Peter turned lackadaisically, webbing them

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not so fast." He threw the two to the ground. "Are you guys okay? My bad. That was a little hard. I gotta say the other guy was way better with that thing. I’m honestly, I’m, I’m shocked."

This was going super well.

 ---

  Peter let out a short scream of pain, suspended between the two crumbling halves of the ferry. His arms burned as he gripped at the webs fruitlessly, but he refused to let go. He could hear their heartbeats, fast and afraid and exactly like his own. The teenager panted, straining harder than he ever had before only to continue to fail. The ferry wasn't coming back together, his webs hadn't done anything, and the entire ship was going to fall apart.

And yet he refused to let go, even as he felt his arms tear painfully. He cracked his eyes open, searching desperately for his shadow. It was currently lost in the waves crashing underneath as cars piled into the rushing water. There was a moment, so quick he almost missed it, where a car hood stayed still long enough just for him to make out the shadow.

Of an Iron Man armor.

There was a metal groaning and an easing on his shoulders. Peter looked away from his shadow.

"What the hell?" With the ferry putting itself together, the teenager let himself drop onto the ferry floor, arm raised in fearful apprehension as the sound of metal colliding echoed around the entire boat. "What the hell..."

Mr. Stark in the Iron Man armor rose into view at the windows. Despite the fact that he was wearing a mask, it was easy to tell he looked angry. Or, hopefully, he was reading too much into it and the suit was just mean looking.

"Hi, Spider-Man. Band practice, was it?"

Nope. He sounded mad too. Peter had to force down a shiver, ignoring the clapping people and swinging to the cargo hold as Mr. Stark flew under it, beginning to piece the ship back together. He followed anxiously on the ceiling, turmoil sitting heavy in his stomach as he followed the man.

"Uh, Mr. Stark?" he called nervously. He continued to skitter after the man as he flew up to the ferry's top, trying to catch the man's attention even as he continued to ignore the teenager. "Hey, Mr. Stark. Could I do anything? What do you want me to do?"

"I think you’ve done enough."

Peter couldn't even bear to look at his shadow.

 ---

  "So that’s it, you’re just gonna run?" Adrian asked as Schultz approached with his overflowing duffle bag.

"Feds were waiting for us. Now we’re on Iron Man’s radar? Yeah, I’m running. You should, too."

"You know I can’t do that," Toomes said, glancing down at the shadow of his wife.

"So now what?" Schultz shrugged. Adrian rubbed at his chin.

"Mason, can you get that high-altitude seal thing up and running in time?"

"Seriously?" the engineer asked, comically giddy despite how hilariously screwed they all were. "Yes. You will not regret this."

Adrian turned back to Schultz. "You in?"

The man glanced down on the floor, contemplative. "If we get caught, we're dead. And we have days before that plane takes off. We'll be caught before then. Stark will get us, you know that."

"So we take care of Stark."

"Take care of Stark? You're crazy. How the hell are we gonna to kill Iron Man?"

Adrian thought for a moment, thoughts creeping back to the night over the lake; a defensive boy and an over-eager man and matching shadows. Peter Parker, as had been reported by one of his men following the kid. He even went to Liz's school, on her academic team and everything. He hurt a little to do this, but nothing was more important than family.

"We don't need to kill Stark," Adrian responded. "We just need to insure his compliance."

  ---

Tony finally spotted the kid sitting on the edge of the building, his legs thrown over the side, his mask torn off his face as he stared down at the water. The bulky outline of the Iron Man armor extended behind him, an imposing figure compared to the hunched and shivering kid. The sound of sirens and helicopters rang in the distance, only feeding fuel to the fire that was his anger. It had been two days since he'd given Peter the suit and he'd already hacked it, lied to him, and endangered the lives of more than a hundred people. He'd taken Tony's tech and ran with it, doing what the man had warned the teenager not to do, and almost gotten himself killed too.

It terrified him just as much as it infuriated him.

"Previously on Peter Screws the Pooch," Tony started, hovering next to Peter's spot on the building. "I tell you to stay away from this. Instead, you hacked a multimillion-dollar suit so you could sneak around behind my back doing the one thing I told you not to do."

"Is everyone okay?" Peter rasped.

"No thanks to you."

He clunked down on the ground, but Peter barely even looked at him, just grasping the mask in his fingers tighter. After a tense moment, the kid turned to glare at him, a sour look on his face.

"What do you care?"

The question almost shocked Tony from his anger, but the fury managed to cling on as the suit opened, allowing for him to step out. There was a defensive flicker on Peter's face, washed away as quickly as it came, at the stiff anger glued to his figure.

"What do I care?" he echoed incredulously. "Who the hell gave you the suit that you're wearing right now? The one that you used to go fight people you weren't ready to fight. Peter, you're not prepared for this--"

"I didn't see you doing anything."

"Who do you think called the FBI, huh?" Tony demanded.

"And they got their asses kicked immediately!"

"And you did what exactly?"

Peter swallowed. A soft, angry mumble shivered from his chest. "I just wanted to be like you."

Tony glowered. "And I wanted you to be better."

Peter didn't have an answer to that, turning away with a sharp flinch to stare down at the water again where the ferry was finally beginning to dock. His face was scrunched up in cold anger. Tony stared at him, waiting, but the teenager didn't do anything. Didn't say anything. With an indignant sniff, Tony glanced between the approaching boat of people and the kid sitting stiffly in front of him.

"Okay, it’s not working out. I’m gonna need the suit back."

That caught Peter's attention. His head whipped around and he finally swiveled off of the building's edge, standing to face him. The defensiveness was back in full force now, broken only by a shiver of fear in the tremble on his face.

The teenager swallowed. "For how long?"

"Forever." Peter gaped at him, shaking his head. Tony hit him with a withering expression. "Yeah. Yeah, that’s how it works."

"No, no, no... Please, please, please..." the kid rushed, his voice pitching higher.

"Let’s have it."

"You don’t understand. Please. This is all I have. I’m nothing without this suit."

"If you’re nothing without this suit, then you shouldn’t have it." Tony stopped in his demand, pausing to stare into the distance under the guise of letting Peter absorb his words but really choking down his own panic and regret. This was how he was treating his soulmate. He hadn't known this kid for a week and he'd had maybe two successful conversations with him. And now he was yelling and bringing down and punishing. "God, I sound like my dad."

Peter stared at him, swallowing. "Mr. Stark, please I don't want you to g--"

"The suit. Peter."

He could barely even look at the kid's completely dejected expression.

  ---

Peter meandered down the street, his head down as he forced himself to bite down on tears. It wasn't that hard, he'd had a lot of practice recently after all, but he couldn't deny that it hurt. Well, he could, but not to himself.

With the loss of the suit, Peter's bag was considerably lighter. Empty. It was disturbingly similar to how he felt in the moment, like a stumbling shell of a person.

He'd fucked up. He knew he had. But he didn't think he'd fucked up enough to lose his soulmate. He'd just--he'd just wanted to try and impress Mr. Stark, to show the man that he was worthy of being the shadow that had followed the superhero--his hero--around for fifteen years. He huffed to himself quietly at the horrible irony of it all.

After Mr. Stark had demanded to the suit, well, Peter had given it to him. He hadn't had much other choice. The man had allowed for him to go grab the bag he'd webbed to an alleyway earlier and change into his clothes. Choking down panicked tears, the teenager had folded up the barely used suit, and, after a moment of hesitation, slipped the card, the phone, and the badge given to him into the mask. He wanted to have given him the red hoodie too, but it was the only top he'd had, so he'd reluctantly kept it. He'd given the stuff that was no longer his to the still seething Avenger and had left. Mr. Stark hadn't ask where he was going, so he hadn't told him.

Not that Peter was amazingly sure he knew himself. He didn't want to go back to where Mr. Fowler was surely working from home. Peter was supposed to be at school, the man would be furious that he hadn't gone, and he didn't have the courage to face him right now. The ghosted feeling of a hand tugging at his hair and painful nails in his shoulder was enough to keep him wandering the streets of Queens for as long as he possibly could.

There wasn't a destination, there was barely even a journey, there was just the tired wanderings of a teenager trying desperately not to break down crying. Part of him wished he'd kept the phone, just so he could text Ned, or even lose himself mindlessly on social media for an hour or two, but Mr. Stark's words rang clearly in his head.

"Forever."

Peter shook himself vigorously, taking a wispy breath. Of course he would lose his soulmate not even a week after meeting him. Everyone else had left too, it really only made sense.

He didn't know why he'd let himself hope.

"I don't want you to go."

A painfully strong shiver up his spine forced the teenager to stop in the middle of the alleyway he'd been cutting through. Peter pulled back his sleeve, brows furrowing as the hairs on his arm rose on end. Without his phone, or the watch kept on his webshooter, the teen had no way of knowing what time it was, but it had to have been at least half an hour since Mr. Stark had taken the suit. Since he'd caused a gun to split a ferry full of innocent bystanders in half.

"And I wanted you to be better."

Peter had assumed his senses had continued to freak out from the resounding adrenaline and the complete rush of panic that had been today--from the horribleness of it all--but they still weren't calming down.

Jittery, he turned to leave the alleyway back the way he came, but there was a man blocking his way. He froze when he recognized him and the glitching gauntlet on his arm. From the bridge and the ferry. The man stalked forward.

Peter whipped around to escape towards the other end, but another man stood there as well, a different alien weapon in his hands. Peter paused again, eyes shifting desperately for an escape even as the weapon behind him charged up with a threatening snap.

"Give it up, kid," ordered the man. "Come easy, and we won't hurt you."

"Wow. So reassuring," Peter snapped. Without warning, the teenager leaped, jumping onto the wall as high as he could reach. He attempted to begin skittering up the wall, but there was another spike in his senses.

There was no time to dodge as he was encased by an annoyingly familiar blue light that crashed him to the ground straight into a gathering of trashcans. He groaned in pain as he collided with the metal, the cans tipping over and releasing their contents near and on him. There were footsteps, and he tried to push himself back up, but the man with the gauntlet approached quicker than he could recover.

The teenager stared up at him as the man smirked. The gauntlet cracked.

"Nighty-night."

Peter could only close his eyes as a metal fist came crashing down.

---

~Click for better quality~

Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8

#friendly neighborhood exchange #peter parker #tony stark #Iron Man #spiderman #irondad #spiderson #irondad and spiderson #ironman fanfiction #spiderman fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #soulmate au #platonic soulmates #not st*rker #you would not BELIEVE the amount of time i spent on the stupid thing peter is sitting on #idk who designed that #but fuck them

[romaniandollar]

K-dramas I watched this year:

1. Goblin (2016)

The adventures of an immortal goblin, an equally immortal grim reaper and a young girl with a special gift as they work together to break the curse of immortality and figure out their connection that spans across centuries.

When you want a beautiful romance with just a touch of the supernatural, this drama is perfect. It made me feel a lot of things and each of the characters was well-developed and had ample time to shine, making you root for all of them. One of the best dramas I've seen. 10/10.

2. You're All Surrounded (2014)

An action cop flick that follows the growth of four young cops into detectives as together they uncover an unsolved case that may expose the top brass of their area. A fun watch with a good storyline and lovable characters. 8/10.

3. My Love From Another Star (2014)

An alien who got stranded on earth during the Jooseon era has been waiting for centuries to return to his home planet. When he finally gets his chance and begins wrapping up his ties on earth to head home, a top actress living next door makes things much more complicated.

The classic romance of 2014 that every k-drama lover should see at least once, whether you love it or hate it. The characters are very well fleshed out and developed over the course of the series and the two leads have excellent chemistry. Where (in my personal opinion) the story drags a bit too much, it's the characters that carry it and keep your interest to the end. The end will still call for tissues though. 8/10.

4. Meow ~ The Secret Boy (2020)

The tale of a young artist as she finds her place in life, makes new friends and gains closure with old ones.

If you're a cat lover like me, you'll enjoy this one. Of course, our own furry friends may not have the ability to transform into a handsome boy, but I'm sure we all treasure them just as much. A cute story that's simple to follow, though slightly predictable. 7/10.

5: Touch Your Heart (2019)

After a bad scandal, the country's top actress is desperate for a job. When she manages to score a lead role, she needs to prepare by getting some work experience in a small but successful law firm, under their best lawyer. But will they manage to work together, or will sparks fly?

The plot may be slightly cliche, but this is the cutest drama I've ever seen. The leads have incredible chemistry, and fans of the Grim Reaper/Sunny duo in Goblin? You'll definitely want to see this pair back in a setting that's far kinder to them than Goblin. If you love a cute couple that makes you squee this is the one to watch. I binged this series faster than anything else. 9/10.

6. Because This Is My First Life (2017)

A story that delves into the age old question: what is marriage, really? This follows a struggling writer who needs a place to live and a cat-loving programmer who needs someone to split the rent with. When his parents won't leave him be when it comes to marriage, the two sign a contract and go for the most logical option that suits both their needs. But does love ever find its way into their lives? Do they need each other more than they think?

A thoughtful drama that delves into social issues. 8/10.

7: I-LAND (2020)

I'm not one for survival shows usually, and this showed me why - it's too damn stressful! When I saw I-LAND beginning to air, I jumped the bandwagon and followed it to the end. But when all the boys are loveable and talented and deserve to debut, you end up rooting for all of them and it becomes especially difficult to see them sent home one by one. I'm still not entirely satisfied with the final group which has since successfully debuted (ENHYPEN), but it was a wild ride from start to finish. 8/10.

8: It's Okay To Not Be Okay (2020)

The one the internet's been buzzing about. A children's author with anti-social personality disorder, a troubled orderly and his autistic brother are brought together and find that while they all have issues that need unpacking, it's okay, and together they can help not only each other but others to heal with time.

With Kim Soo-Hyun's return to the silver screen, it was promising from the start. And boy was it a ride to remember. The chemistry between the two leads is incredible, the story keeps your attention from start to finish, and the rest of the characters are all strongly developed and hold their own. Definitely worth watching even if you're not a drama fan. One of the best dramas I've seen. 10/10.

9. Flower of Evil (2020)

Finally, a thriller! This story follows a cop who's passionate about her work , and her husband, who seems to be the perfect partner for their perfect family. But when cases start pointing to her husband as the culprit, and an old, unsolved case uncovers his dark past, what will become of their relationship? When her husband springs into action, is it to cover his tracks or to protect his family from an even greater danger?

A gripping drama that holds your attention until the end and gives us that friendly reminder that we may not really know those close to us until we see them at their most desperate. 9/10.

I love good dramas, and I look forward to seeing more next year as well!

#kdrama #goblin the lonely and great god #you're all surrounded #my love from another star #meow the secret boy #i-land #touch your heart #because this is my first life #it's okay to not be okay #flower of evil