♘.

UPDATE !! Hello darlings! Long time no see! With Tumblr’s new rules implemented and such, I took a break from roleplay in general. I finished my final and my classes for the semester so I expected to have plenty of time to catch up! Alas the universe decided against that; my classmates (who are essentially like family to me) and I decided to go out for a bout of karaoke at a local bar. As it turns out the bar had neither karaoke or decent drinks but it had decent music! Alas I’m (not so) secretly an old man and while dancing my kneecap dislocated. Well, me being me, I went down like a back of rocks, looked at my knee, decided I was pissed at my body for ruining a perfectly decent night and promptly popped it back into place. My boyfriend thankfully took me to Urgent Care (I was tempted to chase the pain with two shots of whiskey) and one anxiety attack, blackout, and three xrays later, I was told that it wasn’t too serious (”It’s impossible to dislocate it so you’re fine”) but given a brace and sent home (my entire class showed up at Urgent Care to make sure I was okay, bless them). Fast forward to a few days later when I followed up with an orthopedics doctor who told me it was good I came in cause I had more damage to my leg than assumed. An MRI later resulted in the conclusion that it was a dislocated patella and bone bruising. Toss in a sinus infection and I was in a whole world of delight (spoilers: I wasn’t).

ANYWAYS! To make a long story short: I dislocated my knee, have been stuck hobbling around, and sleeping a lot because my endurance is shit after getting sick. But hey I watched Mea Culpa and about died because my boy.

 smooch attack !! // accepting .

it’d be easy to blame an outside factor for the growing and growing and growing tension between them. work? well they were both quick to bare teeth and stand their ground. carisi was more vocal more passionate, stone was ever the pragmatic hunter waiting for the right moment to say something. put them in a room with tempers boiling over? it was a powder keg soaked through with lighter fluid and a hair trigger fuse.

one wrong move, one wrong word.

stone can feel the eruption seconds before the match hits the proverbial pile that’s been building and building with ill sitting pressure. it is this; sonny’s hands claiming purchase on his suit and a dull warning flaring in his head. he’d said too much, pushed too much. it is the hard set of those eyes and the feeling of his back meeting old brickwork.

ivy crumples under his hands as he braces himself.

a fist, a punch, it’d be easier. it is the taste of ozone and the way cold air is sucked sharp and violent from his lungs. it is the unwavering wit between them, the inability to back away no matter how wrong or right their blind pursuit is then.

it is the inevitable punch that doesn’t come and the hard kiss -- all frustration and anger and teeth bared and waiting to sink into lips into skin -- that lands instead.

it is the way instead of pushing away -- his fingers twist roughly into tawny hair gripping hard enough to refuse to yield so simply. words are obtuse clumsy things now and he can taste storms on sonny’s tongue. vibrant and sharp, setting electricity alight down his spine. forehead to forehead, his fingers twist instead in carisi’s tie, holding him captive as he draws in a shaking breath.

what now?

because kissing sonny was a bit like wildfire taking root, beginning as a slow burn and roaring into an uncontrollable blaze destroying everything and consuming. 

“shut up,” peter hisses, mindful of words yet to surface. he leaves desperate secret words on those lips like a promise, like a prayer that somehow he’ll survive this.

ask prompts // accepting !

there’s a long moment of pause and then something akin to annoyance surfaces on his features. why don’t i believe you, he wants to say flinging the words like they’re weapons. instead there’s a show of closing manilla folders and weaving his fingers together atop the three inches of history.

“as your legal counsel I would strongly recommend you don’t broadcast the fact your typical temperament is dangerously similar to that of a common criminal. the jury make have a hard time dissociating the two.”

don’t be an asshole.

“now, is there anything else you need to let me know?”

he’s come to associate junior mints and chinese food with her.

it feels a bit like clockwork, especially on the rougher cases. stone has no real place among them and he drifts, caught between asking how he can help or wondering if he’d be better suited merely leaving.

rollins calls him and the storm seems to part.

now it is a ritual and this time he comes prepared, observant of the fact she seems to favor spiced beef or chicken and ends up buying both before coming to the station. wordlessly he places it on the desk and sinks into the chair beside her, setting aside the chopsticks and focused instead on the task of opening up several boxes.

“thankfully I think we’ll have enough for a clear cut trial.

another box, this one he sets in front of her.

ask prompt // accepting !!

her blood is still on his hands. his sister’s eyes are glassing over and he feels so numb. stone recoils from all offers to help, flinching from hands that land upon him with sympathy, with pity. it’s tempted to barricade the door to the men’s bathroom but he can think of safety laws that’d be broken for his own selfish desire for solitude.

no matter how hard he scrubs, how much soap he uses, the blood just feels as though it’ll never come off.

‘here, i’ll do it...’

maybe because it’s gordon, maybe because the older man offers no room for arguments, he doesn’t snap and question his motives. he hadn’t heard the door open, his ears are still ringing, his arms feel like lead and there’s a tremor that suffocates him in the wake of calloused hands engulfing his own.

stone is startled at the feeling of tears, at the realization he’s started crying.

“...’m sorry, ‘m not usually -- i’m so sorry.” he thinks the words are in his head but they’re mumbled out, bubbling out as those hands continue to wash his own, slower, gentler. a shaking breath rattles free, features twisted in raw anguish.

“...i couldn’t -- jim, i couldn’t save her!” his voice breaks, a choking breath slipping free. for once he doesn’t fight the arms circling around him, holding him close. wet hands twist along fabric, along warm skin, and a strangled broken sound slips free.

Arguments burn into a fight that is unwinnable by either side under the influence of liquor. It’s a clash of experience and inexperience when dealing with Rafael and Peter. He couldn’t even remember the exact incident that had sparked such a violent argument between them. One moment the two had been exchanging valid points and the next–well, it’d resulted in Peter shoving Rafael back against the wall.

They’re close–far too close for mere companions and it had Rafael’s heart racing under his chest. It’d take just one movement to close the distance between them…to feel the other man pressed against him in a way he’d only dreamed of.

The sudden closeness is shredded within moments of Peter stepping away, body leaning back against the desk.

Finger smoothed his rumpled tie, greens skimming over the blond in silent contemplation of his next words. How was Rafael to even begin addressing such an intimate act?

“I can see that I’m not the only coward, Peter.”

A first name, something that’s reserved for family and lovers.

for one maddening moment he almost allows himself the answer to the question that was rafael barba. it’d be easy to just fill in the blank, to call it quits here and now. his chest is tight with warmth from bourbon and frustration gnawing, twisting viciously. his father’s words, gentle and chiding, ring in his head as a mocking mantra; a good man never lets his failings be his weakness, he knows how to turn them into strength.

how was he supposed to turn this thing festering up into a strength.

the glass is set aside and he’s tossing his tie unceremoniously atop the paperwork on the desk. too warm. too confining. too tight. just too much. stone doesn’t think to look at the other man under he slices cruelly with such simple words.

peter.

as if barba was allowed to say his name so softly, so intimately. god it infuriated him.

blue eyes narrow upon the other lawyer, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he fights back bitter words. alcohol had a way of dissolving the armor around himself and making him keenly aware of how little control he had over his temper.

it would be simple pretending everything was OKAY. but it speaks too highly of them, of their career, that the word itself feels wrong. okay. fine. these were words saved for half-mumbled excuses and shaking uncertainty. stone was not a man that worked in uncertainties.

his sister’s death is still a raw wound and only olivia had spotted the way he hemorrhaged, knees giving out, his body crumpling into her arms.

everything was FINE.

so stone follows habit over principles, he tries to keep the tide still and not stir more waves. especially where the other members of S.V.U. were concerned. today he feels at odds, wanting to express gratitude on the last case and finding the words lacking.

but he tries.