#and he likes wearing suits and that’s great!

[yelenasbraid]

the view between villages pt. 3 — joe burrow

mini series summary — it’s been years since you’ve seen your high school & college best friend, joe burrow. you went to high school together, went to ohio state together, but separated when joe transferred. distance wasn’t kind to you, and the total difference in careers stretched you further apart. when you reunite with him unexpectedly, you’re not sure you have an explanation. you’re not sure if he’ll take your explanation. little do you know he’s been ready and he’s been willing.

chapter summary — you and joe catch up, but not without the lovely company of anxiety.

warnings — fem!reader, some angst, fluff, this is LONG sorry!

songs that inspired this part — the edge by sydney ross mitchell, the roads by jonah kagan

note — been a little mia so sorry about that! life has been crazy but i’m hoping with the break coming up i can enjoy some much needed time off. here’s part 3 of the view between villages! hope you enjoy!

YOU’RE PACING, running around your room trying to piece together some semblance of an outfit. yours and joe’s catch-up day was here and you weren’t at all prepared. you spent the better part of the last 24 hours stressing, your anxiety trying to convince you that going would further ruin what you could have with joe. your rapid heartbeat and freak-out over what to wear diminished that.

you settled on something cute, but cozy. something that you were confident in, but also allowed you to breathe whenever you’d eat. your hands shook as you did your hair, your palms sweaty as you tried to steady the curling iron. it slipped, burning part of your finger. you hissed, slamming the iron down on the counter while you ran your finger under cold water.

“he’s probably not stressing about this like i am,” you grumbled as you dried your finger off, rummaging around for a bandage. you didn’t know that joe was feeling a very similar way, that his mind was racing and that he couldn’t wait to see you. his nerves ate him alive, creating a problem when it came to choosing an outfit.

joe rummaged through his closet, trying to find something that he could wear. it was a picnic, so something he didn’t mind getting dirty. which was nothing. he ran a shaky hand through his hair; he hasn’t felt this nervous for something since prom junior year of high school.

flashback

“joey, honey, you look great,” robin patted joe’s chest as he observed himself in the mirror. the suit he had on fit him, hugging his muscles and his stature better than he could have thought. yet, he still felt like he was gonna be sick.

it was the night of prom, and you were his date.

the thought of you, fitted in a beautiful dress, makeup done, and looking dolled up, it made him nervous. it made his hands shake. it made his heart slam against his chest. how did he manage to snag you as his date to prom?

“thanks, mom,” he exhaled, picking at his sleeves and flicking his eyes over his outfit. he didn’t wear suits. he didn’t like them. yet he was in one.

“you should get going, you don’t want to be late,” his mom patted his shoulder, “and don’t be nervous, remember, she’s your best friend,” she reminded him. joe nodded his head, saying the over and over in his mind. you were his best friend. that’s all. nothing more, right?

end of flashback

he settled on jeans and a t-shirt, completing the look with some white sneakers. it was nothing fancy, but it was also put together. he didn’t look like he rolled out of bed. as he fiddled with the final touches in the mirror, his mind drew back to you. you were his constant during school. you were always there, even when he wasn’t a good friend. you picked him up, but one question sat with him: why did you leave? why did you go radio silent? as he stood there, mind wondering down twisting roads, a haunting thought fogged his mind: why didn’t he reach out? why did he go radio silent?

could this be his fault?

he shook his head, attempting to banish the anxiety that spread its fingers over his mind, wrapping its tail around his legs. it was time, that’s what it was. time caused you two to distance yourselves. joe convinced himself of that, but he found himself convincing himself of another statement: he missed you. terribly, achingly so.

“get yourself together, joe,” he muttered to himself, walking out of his home. he stepped into his car, starting his drive to your place. his hands wrung the steering wheel, stressing over the tiniest of things. what were you going to talk about? was it going to be easy? were you going to be ready when he got there? his mind rattled off thoughts and before he knew it, he’d pulled up to your apartment. he parked, got out, and walked to your door. he knocked, stepping back. a few silent, agonizing moments went by before the door opened. his breath caught, and you weren’t wearing anything particularly fancy. you just answered the door.

“i’m almost ready i just have to find my keys…” you trailed off, leaving the door open as you walked back into your apartment. your mind was also scrambled. you’d misplaced your keys, lost your phone twice in your bed, and not to mention the burn on your finger from your stupid godforsaken-

“found em!” you called as you snagged the keys from the counter. your stomach was eating you alive. the nerves were tightly wound up, making your stomach seem to vibrate.

“you pick where we’re eating,” joe told you as you locked your door.

“you know i’m indecisive, joey,” you breathed as you walked with him to his car. oh, he knew. it was why he already had a place picked out.

“there’s this really good place downtown, i think it sells pizza?” he teased, and he watched your face brighten. he was still nervous, his hands sweating from the rapid heartbeat in his chest.

“can we go?”

“uh, yeah,” he answered as he opened your door for you. with a blush on your cheeks, you thanked him as you stepped into the car. it was definitely an upgrade from what he had in high school. well, anything was an upgrade from the car he had in high school.

—

pizza was picked up, as well as some drinks, and you drove to the park by joe’s house. it wasn’t a quiet drive, but not in a bad way.

“no, no that was the winter soldier. i’m telling you they did something to him,” you argued. this conversation started awkwardly by joe asking you if you were still into marvel movies. you said you were, and it turned into you talking about the newly released thunderbolts trailer.

“why would they do that? they spent all that time deconstructing what HYDRA did to him just to say, ‘yeah just scrap all of that let’s do it again!’ i don’t think so,” joe argued back.

“i really hope you’re right because if they do anything to bucky,” you clicked your tongue as you finished your sentence. joe understood, and he chuckled. he missed these conversations. the easy ones, the ones where he could be himself and no one would judge him. he couldn’t be the nerd he was on national television. he couldn’t theorize in depth about aliens on national television. he could with you though.

“we know you’re storming the big man’s house,” he teased, turning into the park. you laughed, and it felt natural. there was one issue that sat between you, and you both knew it. the reason for the years of silence. the fear that he wouldn’t accept your explanation. the fear that you wouldn’t have any sort of reasoning. it settled deep within both of your chests, and nothing would be completely normal until it came out.

joe parked the car, turning it off before stepping out and getting your door for you. you got out, and helped joe bring your supplies to an empty place on the grass. the sun was just beginning to set, casting beautiful hues of purple, orange, and yellow into the sky. you missed how joe was looking at you, seeing the sunset reflected on your face, how your eyes were pools of warmth form the sun. time may have ravaged your soul, but you were still as beautiful as the day you parted ways.

you turned, your eyes meeting his. a blush crept up his neck and reached his cheeks and ears. blushing like school children, you decided to focus on setting up the picnic. you flicked out the blanket, spreading it out on the soft grass below you. joe set down the pizzas, the napkins, and the drinks. you both sat down, opening the pizza boxes, inhaling the comforting aroma of pizza.

“i knew i forgot something,” joe muttered, flicking through the pile of things on your picnic blanket. you watched with curiosity, and then it dawned on you.

“did you forget the plates?” you asked him, a smile creeping up on your face. blushes of embarrassment tinted joe’s ears red. how could he be so stupid? he forgot the very thing to hold the pizza he bought.

“yeah…” he trailed off. he wanted it to be perfect. he didn’t want anything to be out of place or missing. he felt that if he did, it reflected badly on him. it usually did when it came to games. people blamed him for a lot of mistakes, even when he didn’t make them. he carried that weight, and he was used to it.

“it’s not a big deal,” you shrugged, grabbing a napkin, “plates are for losers anyways,” you grab a slice and cradle it in a napkin. you watched as joe’s shoulders sagged, relief flooding his features. you didn’t know all that went on, or the emotions he felt this season, but there was one thing you did know: joe was a perfectionist. he needed everything to be perfect, and he struggled with that in college. you could see him still struggling with it now.

joe grabbed a napkin, placing a slice on it. he appreciated how you read him. that without saying much, or anything at all, you picked up on things. you filled a hole in his chest, your warmth rooting down into the depths of his soul, reminding him of who he was. you were the rock he stood on, the hand who pulled him out of the darkness, the safety net that caught him when he fell. his chest constricted as the realization dawned on him.

he was still madly and utterly in love with you.

—

it was dark before you left the park. you spent hours there, catching up on everything. from his football career to his family, from your graduation to promotion at work. talking to joe filled you with such joy, a feeling you haven’t felt in a long time you’ve realized. you meshed well with him, your ideas and beliefs parallel to one another. he was still the boy you were best friends with, the boy who had a star wars themed bedroom and watched spongebob on the weekends. he was still joey, just with more muscle and a lot taller.

you gathered your things and the remaining pizza slices, climbing back into the car. the car ride back to your apartment was silent, and the urge to grab his hand was overwhelming. your eyes watched as one hand rested on the steering wheel while the other rested on his thigh. you just caught up after 6 years, grabbing his hand didn’t make sense. no matter how badly you wanted to feel his fingers locked with yours.

his fingers drummed against the steering wheel, his eyes lazily scanning the road ahead of him. he glanced over at you, watching as you turned your fingers over in your lap.

“what happened to your finger?” he asked, seeing the angry, red mark after passing under a streetlight.

“i burnt it doing my hair earlier, it’s no big deal,” you shrugged, but the throbbing in said finger was a big deal. it was worse now that you weren’t completely distracted. with a rush of confidence, fueled by adrenaline, he grabbed your hand. his hands were surprisingly soft, but you could feel the hard skin that’s built up over the years. his hands were warm, and it was the distraction you needed from the throbbing in your finger. you smiled to yourself, feeling your cheeks warm as you held joe’s hand. this had to be a movie.

he pulled into your apartment, throwing the car into park.

“take the pizza,” he told you as he helped you out of the car.

“what? no, i can’t do that,”

“yes, i insist,” he shoved the box into your hands with a smile, only making you smile and roll your eyes. he walked with you up to your apartment, watching as you fiddled with your keys. you didn’t want to leave. you wanted to stay with him, keep talking to him and just be with him. you didn’t realize how healing it was to just sit with him.

“i had fun,” you started, smiling up at him.

“i did too,” he agreed, shoving his hands into his pockets, “we need to do this again,”

“we definitely do,” you agreed. silence sat between you, but so did tension. it strengthened with every passing second, but you weren’t going to do anything about it.

“well, i’ve got to get some sleep. got work early in the morning,” you awkwardly sighed, fitting your key into the lock.

“yeah, me too,” he agreed.

“night, joey,” you smiled as you turned the lock. his heart thumped against his chest, his hands shaking in his pockets.

“y/n, wait,” he called, softly grabbing your arm and turning you to face him. you expected him to say something, but he didn’t. instead you were met with his lips on yours. bliss erupted in your stomach, fluttering away as his lips melded against yours. kissing him back was like second nature, but your heart thumped so hard in your chest you thought you were going to be sick.

he pulled away, cheeks rosy and eyes sparkling. he watched you, his stomach churning and his heart aching. what the hell did he just do? he kissed you, but why? he was in love with you.

“i…i’m sorry i don’t know what got into me-”

“it’s ok,” you soothed, trying to calm your fraying nerves, “i um, yeah it’s ok, promise,” you awkwardly stumbled your way through the words, the words that were failing to come to you. you just kissed joe burrow, your best friend who you haven’t spoken to in 6 years prior to this, and you liked it. you wanted him to kiss you again. you wanted him to touch every single inch of your body and it terrified you.

“ok,”

“goodnight, joe,” you smiled, watching as he walked off. he was shaking, his legs like jello as he made his way back to the car. he sat there for a minute, his breath shaking as he turned the car on. he’s always wanted to kiss you, and he did, but should he have? should he have waited? his chest tightened, but he shook it off. no, no you said it was ok, so it was.

you stumbled into your apartment once he was out of sight, and you pressed your back against the door. you panted, thoughts consumed with the taste and feel of joe’s lips on yours. you locked the door and disappeared into your bedroom, shutting your door behind you.

neither of you were getting any sleep that night.

tags: @joeyfranchise @wickedfun9

[arc-misadventures]

Morning. For the Friends Au it appears that Winter is trying to reach out to Jaune... and maybe he sees it and it's confusing him as to why.

Does her each out to Saphron and Terra, and seek their advice?

On a side note, great series. Looking to further posts as you have time.

Specialist J.A.

Winter: Specialist Jaune Arc. It has a nice ring to it. Don't you agree?

Jaune: It has a bit of ring to it... But, it's not as special as you're making it sound.

Winter: You should be proud, Jaune: You're the youngest person to ever be accepted as a, Specialist, and the first person of none, Atlasian descent to become one. So, take pride in your accomplishments, Jaune.

Jaune: Okay, being the first none, Atlasian to join the, Specialist doesn't sound like that much of an achievement. But, am I really the youngest member?

Winter: Oh yes, I was twenty when I joined, most others, Specialist were around twenty one as well when they joined. You are nineteen years old; You are the youngest member to ever join the, Specialist!

Jaune: Wait really...? Wait, twenty? Does that mean you're around twenty three then?

Winter: Careful, Arc... You should know better than to ask a lady her age...

Jaune: I-I-I'm sorry! I've just been curious how old are!

Winter: And, why do wish to know that?

Jaune: I was just curious!

Winter: Curious...?

Jaune: Yeah. You have this ageless beauty about you, Winter. So, I've always been curious.

Winter: Ageless beauty...?

Winter: Ahem! So... So what do you think of your new uniform?

Winter changed the topic as she looked away from, Jaune hiding a faint blush threatening to spread across her face. Meanwhile, Jaune looked at his reflection taking in his new, Specialist uniform.

It wasn't what, Jaune had expected, but he loved it nonetheless. It was similar to the uniforms to the rest of the, Specialist work as in style.

Jaune's uniform was more of a long sleeve sweater than a dress shirt. A zipper ran up the middle of it to the high collar. A sleave that ran over zipper to connect to a series of buckle buttons on the side. The front was a vibrant white with red stripes running along the side. The rest was the vibrant deep blue that was commonly found on, Atlasian uniforms.

His blue denim jeans had been replace with black combat cargo pants, giving him extra pockets to store necessary supplies. His boots had also been chaged for more modern combat boots, rather than the surplus boots, Ruby tends to wear. He found the boots quite nice, there was space in the boots he could fit something like a knife in it, perhaps her should do something like that.

Jaune: I didn't expect the blue would fit me so well. I know the red, and white suit me. But, I was never sure of the blue.

Winter: The blue is quite fetching on you; it matches your eyes quite well.

Jaune: Really? T-Thanks...

Winter: Your welcome. So, how does your armour feel?

Jaune: Mmmm... It feels a little tight; I think I need to ask one of the armourers to readjust it for me.

Winter: I see... Well, you can ask the armourers to resize it for you, that shouldn't be a problem for them. In fact, they could forge you new armour if you want.

Jaune: New armour? I know my armour is pretty good as it is, but would I be able to get some of that, Paladin Armour plating if I asked?

Winter: Hmmm...?

Winter: That’s a possibility… You'll have to ask about it.

Jaune: Okay, I'll ask them to remake, Crocea Mors then... It's probably best if I ask for, General Ironwood’s permission first. I suspected considering the metal this is used for your, Paladins its restricted from personal use.

Winter: While I'm not sure about that myself. But, I'm sure he'll agree to it, at least he may eventually let you do that. Once you prove your worth to, Atlas.

Jaune: That's fair. He's already upgraded my gear as is. It feels a little greedy of me to ask for another upgrade.

Winter: So, everything alright with your new uniform, Jaune?

Jaune: My armour is a little snug, but everything else is just fine. But, what's with this sash?

Jaune pulled out a deep rich crimson sash with a white snowflake pattern on the edge of it. Jaune looked at the beautiful needle work before staring at, Winter. She looked away as a small blush crossed her face.

Jaune: Winter?

Winter: I uhh... I got you a gift...

Jaune: A gift?

Winter: Yes, a gift to celebrate you're joining the, Specialist core. I would have gotten you something else, but I wasn't sure what... what you would like...

Jaune ran his thumb across the sash marveling on the smooth fabric, and the intricate detail woven into the snowflake.

His mind wondered at the red sash, he wore, Pyrrha's stash as a memento of her, the gold of his armour was also from her. He worse it keep her close to him. But, maybe...?

Winter: Do you... Do you like it, Jaune?

Jaune's mind was running until he saw a flash of red, and gold in his eyes, his eyes moved up to see the ghost of, Pyrrha looking at him. A smile spread across her face as she nodded her head, and gestured to the sash. Jaune's eyes darted to the crimson sash in his hands before looking back at, Pyrrha, and realizing she was gone.

Jaune smiled as his hands reached down, and grab the sash before wrapping it around his waist. Jaune looked down at the sash, then at it in his reflection. He nodded his head before turning to look at, Winter with a smile on his face.

Jaune: Thank you, Winter, it's beautiful.

Jaune hand pulled on the sash to move it so it ran parrel with his hip, while he was fiddling with it, Winter stepped forward, and readjusted it so it would look better.

Winter: Oh thank goodness... I was worried you wouldn't like it. I rarely get presents for my siblings, I've never gotten one for someone else so I was really... worried...

Winter's rambling was cut short as she finished adjusting, Jaune's sash before standing back up staring directly into, Jaune's cerulean blue eyes, their faces mere centimeters apart.

Jaune: I uhhh...

Winter: Y-Yes...?

Red slowly creeped across their faces before the game of chicken was called to the end as the both turned away,. Brushing away their blushes in the process.

Winter: S-So... did... Did you tell your teammates about you're appointment to the, Specialist's?

Jaune: Uhh... no.

Winter: Do you plan to?

Jaune: They'll find out eventually. Just like when I learned that they forgot to invite me to, Ruby's birthday party the other day.

Winter: What? They did, when?

Jaune: They texted me my invitation when I was about to talk to, General Ironwood about me becoming a, Specialist.

Winter: The message you said was from, 'no one important.'

Jaune: Yep, that one.

Winter: You don't see them as anyone important in your lives now do you?

Jaune: Just returning the favour...

Winter: I see. Well then... Specialist Arc!

Jaune: Sir!

Winter: Are you ready for your first mission as a, Specailst?

Jaune: Yes, Sir!

Winter: Good! You will follow me to the cafeteria where we, Specialist will be holding your initiation!

Jaune: Yes, Sir. May I ask what this incitation process will be, Sir?

Winter: Yes, to survive, Marrows cooking!

Jaune: ...

Jaune: Eh?

Winter: The incitation is just a simple welcome party with food, drink, and cake that we, Specialist have. We're expected to each bring in our own food, hand crafted, or store bought. Marrow insists on bringing his family's chili recipe.

Winter: It taste terrible...

Jaune: Chili? Well... now I'm worried about the surviving bit... Should I bring something?

Winter: If you want to, but you're the guest of honour you don't have to.

Jaune: Why don't I cook something edible then. Something we can all enjoy.

Winter: You can cook?

Jaune: Seven sisters, and not a chef among the lot of them.

Winter: Well then, I'm looking forward to whatever it is you plan to make.

Jaune: When is the party?

Winter: This evening around six.

Jaune: That give me... five hours. I can whip up something nice by then. I best get to it. But, I'm going to change first. Don't want flour on my new uniform now.

Winter: I'll see you later then.

Jaune: till later then.

Winter soon made her way to the exit as, Jaune started unbuckling his armour. As the door opened, Winter stopped to say one last thing to, Jaune.

Winter: Oh, and Jaune...?

Jaune: Yes?

Winter: You... You don't need to call me, Sir, or Specialist Schnee... Just call me, Winter, okay?

Jaune: Okay... Winter...

Winter: Thank you~!

Winter smiled a sweet smile as she left, leaving, Jaune behind dumbfounded as he nervously swallowed.

Jaune: Shit...

Jaune: She does like me...

[thepascalparadox]

Chapter One: Beyond the Window

Word Count | 1.7k

Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x OC F!Reader

Chapter Warnings | None, just introducing the two of them! You always loved the gentle song of birds beyond your window. It offers a fleeting escape from the grim realities that haunt the Roman people outside the gates.

If only I could save them. Yet, one can only do so much. Your father does not bear the name "Justus" by chance. He strives with all his might, doing what he can for the empire. Since your mother’s passing, he has grown quieter, more withdrawn, even distant at times. And yet, the love he holds for you remains steadfast and undeniable, as does the love you bear for him. He has done everything for you, even in matters of matrimony.

At times, you wonder if you should care whether the man you marry will be young, old, or at least pleasing to the eye. But the truth is, you do not. You’ve heard tales of other women in your position who dared to hope for love, only to be met with anguish and betrayal. You will not be one of them.

Marry. Bear an heir. Go somewhere distant. That is the plan.

No love in sight, no heartbreak. Only you, poetry, music, and the birds that sing just beyond your window.

· · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

"I do not to see the purpose of wearing such elegance, when all eyes must rest upon the oh-so-great general of Rome," you say, your annoyance evident as you prepare for yet another festivity you must attend. Or better, endure.

"It is a moment of great significance for your father and for the imperium, Melita," Vera replies, her voice carrying the weight of a serious tone. "And besides, you should not speak of the general in such a manner. He is a man of honor, having done much for Rome."

You miss the days when you and Vera would run freely through the palace gardens, carefree as children, with no burdens to bear. Now, she assists you in preparing for events you cannot avoid, and you wonder if she still sees you as a friend, or only as the filia Caesaris—the daughter of the emperor.

"I apologize," you say softly. "The people hold him in great esteem, and I should indeed be grateful for all he has done for my father. I just wish we could remain here, listening to the ladies gossip about the handsome soldiers returning from war."

"It will be worth it," Vera says with a glint of excitement. "We shall see those soldiers with our own eyes. At last, we shall be the ones doing the gossiping."

"May the gods have mercy on us," you mutter, already dreading the upcoming event. · · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

The sound of metal striking metal still echoes in the general’s ears. The scent of blood, the desperate cries for mercy—it all lingers, vivid and fresh in his mind.

It was you or them. Your home for their home.

He wishes he could be like the other soldiers, who seek fleeting solace in the arms of strangers, lovers whose names they scarcely remember. But those were the days of his youth. He is now the general of the mighty Roman Empire. His focus must remain on strategy, on returning as many men as possible to their homes.

He hears his name called for the second time.

“Forgive me, what was it you said?” The presence of the lady at the entrance of the tent only then registered. His mind was still trapped in the aftershocks of battle, not yet fully adjusted to the safety of the moment. It always took a few days to refocus, to remind himself he was no longer in danger.

“Excuse me, dominus,” she replies softly “I asked if the armor suits you, if it is comfortable. The emperor insists it is to your liking.”

He finds himself momentarily lost in the tenderness of her voice, the sound of a woman’s presence - he had missed the feeling.

“Ah, yes,” he says, shaking himself from his thoughts. “It fits very well, indeed. Thank you for your service. I shall be in the chariot in a moment.” · · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

The triumphal chariot draws near, as the man within waves to the crowd, who scream his name and hurl flowers in his direction. He is indeed very loved. You actually missed hearing and seeing the roman people so happy. After all, some of their sons are returning home. If the general returns, it means the war is over, and peace—albeit brief—shall once again grace the empire.

"The people adore Acacius," your father remarks, ensuring that you and the senators hear him. His tone carries pride, almost as if he himself had returned victorious from the battlefield.

"Does this mean you no longer wish to conquer, Father? Is the war truly over, or shall we find peace but only for a moment?" You whisper, careful that only he hears. A lady should not meddle in matters of politics, but your father had always encouraged you to think freely, to care for the well-being of the Roman people and do what you can to help them.

He leans closer, his whisper low, careful. "This is not for me alone to decide, Vita mea. The Senate desires more land and more wealth. My enemies long for the fall of Rome. The rich seek to fill the Colosseum, to profit from the slaughter and tragedies within. If I do not appease them, they will come for our heads. Do you understand?"

You nod, seeing the weariness in the emperor's eyes. He is just, but at what cost? Trying to please everyone, sometimes, can deny you from your own beliefs. 

The general ascends the stairs, and now you may better observe him. He is a towering figure, muscles honed from battle—as soldiers ought to be—his face the very likeness that artists would strive to capture in paintings and sculptures. His gaze is unyielding, as one who has borne witness to horrors, yet bears them silently.

"Emperor Antoninus Justus, I have taken Namidia in your name, so your dominion may eclipse that of all emperors before you," the general declares with stoic solemnity.

"Ah, Acacius, you need not be so formal," the emperor replies, a rare smile curving his lips, a smile you've seen only on joyous occasions.

"We shall celebrate your victory with grandeur in the Colosseum," one of the senators exclaims, raising his cup of wine in eager celebration, seeking the approval of the other senators.

The general, however, would prefer to retire for much-needed rest, would he not? You notice the fleeting glance exchanged between your father and the general—an unspoken understanding shared between them.

"There is no need for such, the glory must be all yours," Acacius replies, his voice still heavy with that same unyielding seriousness.

"The games will proceed, whether you desire them or not, General," the most influential senator among the merchants, Macrelius, declares, his tone laced with authority, intending to compel the general into submission. But Acacius does not flinch. In fact, you notice a fleeting look of irrelevance from the general toward the senator, as though he were but a fleeting shadow, insignificant in comparison to the horrors the general has witnessed. You smile, a quiet thought passing through your mind—perhaps the general shares the same defiant spirit that you carry within you.

"The people of Rome, and my family, are forever grateful for your devotion, General Marcus Acacius," you finally speak, your voice cutting through the tension in the room, a small attempt to make your presence known amidst the sea of men.

It is only then that you realize your eyes have not yet met those of the soldier. But when they do, it is as though the rhythm of your heart falters for a brief moment, missing its beat. Acacius, too, seems surprised, his face relaxing slightly, as though a weight has lifted for the briefest instant, dispelling the tension that hangs in the air. But that impression, it seems, lasts only a heartbeat—or perhaps less.

The general takes your hand, now appearing so delicate in his grasp, and with the utmost care, almost imperceptibly, he presses a kiss to your fingers. Not in a manner of flirtation, but with the solemn respect of a soldier honoring his superior. "It is an honor, to me, Caesaris filia," he says, his voice steady but laced with reverence. "To serve Rome as your father has called me to do."

He looks into your eyes, and you are not quite certain, but it seems as though the dark center of his gaze has deepened, growing larger with intensity. He holds your gaze, almost as if testing whether you will flinch, afraid of his stature, his rank, or the ghosts of battles he has fought.

But just as he did with the senator, you do not waver—not even slightly. You keep your eyes locked with his, and maybe—just maybe—you take the opportunity to truly observe his face.

He has what you would call "a funny nose", though far from ugly—certainly not. His hair, touched with strands of gray, weaves through the dark curls in a wild, unruly way. Faint lines trace the space between his brows, the mark of one who has carried more burdens than most could bear. He has lived enough to wear wisdom in his features, but you cannot find a single thing that would make him anything less than captivating—not one flaw to diminish the sight of him.

And just like that, the moment slips away, and the general withdraws his hand. You nod as gracefully as you can and begin to make your way toward the door, your presence no longer required in the room.

As you leave, you see men from all corners of the hall approaching him—offering congratulations, smiles that seem to lack warmth or sincerity. Yet, before you can step out, you steal one last glance at the general, realizing that your earlier mockery of him was unfounded. He seems like a man of worth.

Unexpectedly, your eyes meet his once again. You cannot shake the feeling that he sought you out—that he waited for you to look, after all, the door to leave lies just behind him. This time, however, you avert your gaze. Not out of fear or submission.

But because you know that if you linger on him for just one second longer, you may lose yourself to the way your heart stirs in his presence.

[thezombieprostitute]

The Arrangement - Part 12

Summary: Jake's done a lot of things to keep his sister, and then his niece, safe from his parent's influence and manipulation. If he wants to keep them safe, he has to marry you.

Warnings: Anxiety, Bad parents and siblings, Talking about abuse. Let me know if I missed any!

Part 11 - Part 13

Series Masterlist

It had been just over a week since your wedding. You and Jake have improved your communication. He's also managed to really set himself up in the home theater where he'd spent that first night. Apparently one thing your parents got right was the massive pair of recliners specifically for that room. Jake swears they're more comfortable than most of the beds he's slept on over the years. It makes you feel better about taking the master bedroom for yourself. Clay had visited again bringing a few duffel bags of Jake's things, including his computer. The massive screen for the theater worked really well for his setup.

While you were cooking, Clay had made sure to update Jake on the status of his family. Things were working pretty well, but there were going to be a lot of paper trails to hide so that they couldn't be followed. Or at least, not followed easily. Aisha and Cougar had both caught a couple of people following his family around that were confirmed to be employed by his parents. Hopefully now that Jake had his computer he could get some better intel on the parents' finances and connections.

But you weren't privy to that update. Jake and Clay agreed it was safer to keep you in the dark about the details. Though Jake didn't doubt your sincerity, there were still too many unknowns about you.

You really didn't mind that they got quiet whenever you were near. Your mind was already at maximum anxiety with Travis, your brother, still being in the Intensive Care Unit. Your parents had been acting unusually as the week progressed and Travis didn't get better. According to the police report he'd been seen drinking heavily with friends before trying to drive home. Usually one of his friends would be the designated driver and keep everyone's keys but, somehow, Travis had gotten his keys.

And now your parents seemed to be readjusting their life plans, and yours as well. The one time you were allowed to visit the hospital you'd overheard your parents murmuring about "he can't be seen like this," "he'll be seen as weak," and other similar thoughts. It made you worried you and Jake would be even more under their scrutiny, set to even higher standards. Your breath hitched as you realized they may demand a grandchild to help change the public perception of the family to one of hope or something like that.

You and Jake were getting ready for your first public event as a couple. You're helping Jake pick out the right suit while doing your best to answer his questions about what to expect, what is appropriate conversation, how much both of you needed to talk to others before you could leave. You know you're missing things. Jake does, too. But neither of you can think of the questions to ask so you establish a silent signal for help. Jake squeezes your hand three times and you either step in or whisper some advice in his ear. It's not a great system, but it's all you can do for now.

Jake hates how he looks in all of this but he knows it's not about him or his comfort. At least he doesn't have to wear the torture device you call a dress. The thing looks impossibly tight on you. He's worried about your ability to breathe. And the stiletto heels have you warning him you'll be on his arm all night to help you keep your balance. Jake actually takes comfort in that because he really doesn't want to be left alone at this event. Probably any event, but this first one especially.

As the car pulls up Jake takes a deep breath and you attempt the same.

"We can do this, right?" He says quietly.

"I believe we can," you nod. You gently squeeze his hand in reassurance like you did that first morning with the parents.

He nods, "let's do this."

As soon as he's able Jake is out of the car and opening your door for you. The last time he did so you were scared of each other. Now you make sure to give him a small smile of thanks as he takes your hand. The elevator ride to the party is as quiet as the one you took together your wedding night, but less oppressively so. It isn't until the elevator doors open that you both put on your fake smiles. Both of you taking small comfort in the fact that neither of you is suffering alone.

After the first couple hours Jake is ready to punch someone, anyone, just so he can be forced to leave since he's not allowed out yet. He's incredibly grateful you insisted on eating a little something beforehand. The food here is barely edible and dissolves faster than cotton candy. He hates the wine? Champagne? Whatever the hell it is, he hates the taste of it but, in following your lead, he knows he has to at least sip often enough to warrant a replacement glass every 30 minutes or so. Jake was grateful to have your weight on his arm to help keep him grounded.

Especially when Charles Blackwood, a "friend" of his from high school, showed up. Charles had been nothing but a leech throughout all of high school but Jake was desperate for some kind of friendship.

"Jacob! Where have you been?" Charles holds out his hand and Jake grips it firmly.

"I've been okay, Charles. You?"

"Holy crap, you're married now? Is that why you finally came out of hiding?"

"Sort of," he admits.

He goes to introduce you but Charles stops him. "I know this lovely lady quite well," he admits. You avert your eyes. "We were engaged for some time."

"You were?"

"Didn't she tell you?" Charles smirks. "Would've been married for two years now if her parents hadn't stepped in."

"For once I'm glad they did," you interject. "You're a conman who shouldn't be here."

Charles gives a small laugh, "well look who finally grew up. Too bad you didn't pick up on what was going on before I got you into bed." Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. "How are those dolphin projects going?"

"Sharks," Jake snipes. "Her focus was on sharks."

"Ooo, nerd standing up for nerd. How cute."

"You need to leave us alone," Jake fumes. "She is my wife and I won't let you insult her."

Charles scoffs, "since when can you fight?"

"Since boot camp."

That gives Charles pause. He searches Jake's face for tells that he's lying but finds none.

"Yeah, alright," Charles concedes. "Just don't ruin this party for me. Lots of other potential targets."

As soon as he was out of hearing range you let out a breath. "I'm so sorry," your voice quavers. "I should have...I should have told you."

"Told me what? That your ex-fiance is an asshole? That's not something you need to divulge."

"No...that...that I'm not..."

Jake leans in so that you're the only one who hears him. "You're more than just your virginity status. I'm sorry your first time was with him, he doesn't seem the type to make your pleasure a priority, but I'm not upset that you've had sex before."

You take as deep a breath as you can to steady yourself. "Thank you for that."

"So, can we leave the party yet?"

You check Jake's watch, trying not to be obvious about it. "We've got at least another half hour."

"When we do get out of here, would you be up for going out for some real food?"

You chuckle, "maybe delivery? Or take out? I'm not going to be able to eat much in this dress."

"Fair. And thank you for helping me get through all of this."

"Thank you for listening to my advice," you counter.

"Always," Jake affirms.

Part 11 - Part 13

Series Masterlist

Tagging: @alicedopey; @ashdoctor; @delicatebarness; @ellethespaceunicorn; @embarrasingmf;

@irishhappiness; @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @lokislady82;

@ronearoundblindly; @thiquefunlover63

[derww]

DEVOTIONS WEEK DAY 4: ANIMALS/OBJECTS

Okay, the thing is: Zam goes to the Kings SMP, spends several weeks in a bloody meat grinder, fights back to back with Minute and Mapicc and Jepexx against the world and somewhere in the process realizes herself to be a girl.

It's not bad: she swaps her crown for an elegant tiara, and her pretty kitty princess blade hits exactly on target and holds in her hand like a glove, and the dress turns out to be much more comfortable than an almost formal suit.

She spends the rest of the season so at ease with herself – even after losing her magic blade, she does not return to her former self, but rushes around the server, ready to destroy anything, and, in the end, reunited with the blade, counts it as her happy ending.

And then it's time to return to the Lifesteal, and she lowkey expects that her dress, like in the Cinderella, will turn into rags, but she, Minute, Mapicc and Jepexx activate the teleport, and Minute holds her gloved hand, making sure of a safe landing, and they appear on a flying an island in the center of the spawn, and... Nothing changes. Even her pretty blade, despite everything, remains hanging on her belt.

For a moment, while everyone is still recovering and looking around, she just stares into the sky, and then, experimentally, lightly stabs Minute into the side. He curses and lets go of her hand, and a cat falls at their feet with a long meeeeeow. She looks at it, running around and scratching Minute's feet, with mild amusement.

Oh. Oooh. Okay!

In the end, it is kinda nice: everyone, as it happens usually on the Lifesteal, just roll with it and she changes her dress for the black one with purple accents, and cats help her push players into the void, and in return she makes them a corner in the skull base and feeds them with fish washed up by the waves. Pangi is being heavily liked by one of them for some reason. He names him Cheeseburger.

(For some reason, cats don't like Jumper. She wonders if it's because of their experience on Kings)

Cat ears make her much more sensitive and observant, allowing her to detect enemies and hide from them just as successfully, and also – to lie at night on an icy bedrock and listen to the measured whisper of the Abyss. Sometimes Mapicc joins her, but he doesn't quite hear it, and she describes it to him.

It simultaneously changes everything significantly and really does not. Her dress is elegant but shorter than she would like, and she doesn't wear heels, and her scar – her pride – is not going anywhere, and she still kills people and herself, but everything seems to be half a tone better than it was.

Mapicc grumbles about the need to retrain for her movements changed under the new center of gravity, and also about her too–long hair getting in the way, and she eventually ties it into a high ponytail and it instantly shuts him up. They fit her blade into their normal formations – backstabs do great damage, and cats push and interfere with enemies, and they are forcing opponents to always think about one more thing.

One day she makes a mistake and falls into the void and dies, and it's hard, but she accepts it because she knows that one day it was bound happen. The Abyss demands all kinds of sacrifices, she tells herself, and I must always be ready to give her everything, including myself. Bacon gifts her an elegant rapier crowned with stars, and she continues to live because it was not the blade that defined her.

But one day, in the dead of night, walking through the void, with bare feet on the great nothingness, listening to the eternal whisper of absolute knowledge and dancing under the new moon, the Abyss speaks to her. And it's not like She's never talked to her before, but this is the first time she's been alone.

My child, the Abyss whispers, overwhelming her with an invisible pressure, I have something that belongs to you by the right.

As if enchanted, she pulls her hand forward, and intently, and slowly, as if with effort, squeezes her fingers until she feels the icy metal of the handle, and nothingness separates the blade from the ink.

This is her blade, absolutely it is, but it is darker, almost completely black, and only rare gaps in the folds reveal the familiar deep blue.

She smiles.

"Thank you, lady," she says from the bottom of her heart, and the tension around her evaporates with a dry click.

[blackberrysummerblog]

Wow, it feels like FOREVER since I posted anything. Thanks so much for the tags today @roomwithanopenfire, @meanjeansjeans, @monbons, @orange-peony, @nausikaaa, and @forabeatofadrum. And thank you so much to everyone else who’s been tagging me! I really do appreciate you all <3 It’s nice to see so many people creating! I’ve been feeling supremely UNcreative the past few weeks, but these things come and go, especially when life gets busy.

I do have some things to share! Here’s a snippet from one:

“We can send it to Oxford if you don’t want it in the flat, love,” Baz tells me as I sit on the bed and stare at the floor. He sits beside me and nudges my shoulder with his. “I can hide it away so well that you never have to lay eyes on it again.”

I let my head flop over so that it rests beneath his jaw. “Yeah, maybe.” A little snort escapes me as I grab hold of that thought. “Your dad’ll lose his rag if he finds out it’s there, imagine.”

And another:

Simon is cute, I suppose, in an apple-cheeked hero-who-saves-the-day sort of way. He’s gotten taller this year, although we’re still about the same height. You can see he was made to be broad, and he’s put on a lot of muscle. His skin and hair are nearly the same colour—a literal golden boy. Simon looks like what everyone expects for me. My magic isn’t particularly exceptional, and neither are my grades, but I’m pleasant to look at and refined—I have better manners than to be wearing shoes on the bed and letting my skirt ride up over my knickers, like Philippa is doing right now. I’m the sort of girl people expect to see on Simon’s arm. The sort of girl who will raise his perfect children.

A different one:

“Please,” I whimper. It sounds pathetic, but his smile is like the sun bursting out from behind a cloud. We kiss for what feels like hours; I’ve learned that he likes to treat making out like a mission, one whose mysteries he has to unlock and pry loose to succeed. He likes when I tell him what to do, and when I praise him for getting it right. The day I found out what ‘good boy’ could do for him was a very, very interesting one indeed. And most of all, his name. I’ll never tell him that I deliberately hold back calling him Simon lest it lose its power. “Simon,” I whisper now, with his hands on my waist, his mouth latched on my throat. “Good boy, Simon.”

And finally:

Dev’s makeup is more dramatic than mine, but I have to admit that bright colours suit him. His searing red lipstick is somewhat unfortunately applied however, having been slicked on well after getting in his cups. He still looks brilliant, full of life. A deep, abiding warmth settles into my gut as I watch my little family—it feels good to be together like this again. Dev’s free spirit is catching, and I move behind the kitchen door to pull the silver dress on, much to Fiona and Ebb’s delight.

I hope everyone has a great week, and if you’re planning to celebrate Thanksgiving, have safe travels and good times with friends and family <3

No pressure tags: @rimeswithpurple @valeffelees @best--dress @stardustasincocaine @bookish-bogwitch @facewithoutheart @c0nsumemy5oul @jasonfunderberkerthefrogexists @tender-ministrations @basiltonbutliketheherb @ghostpepperworld @larkral @artsyunderstudy @letraspal @cows4247 @fiend-for-culture @palimpsessed @thewholelemon @hushed-chorus @shrekgogurt @raenestee @cutestkilla @mooncello @imagineacoolusername @youarenevertooold @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @iamamythologicalcreature @beastmonstertitan @ic3-que3n @supercutedinosaurs @stitchy-queerista @alexalexinii @asocialpessimist @shutup-andletme-go @prettygoododds @ivelovedhimthroughworse @j-nipper-95 @wellbelesbian

[trashywormeateroffics]

waited my whole life (steve rogers x reader)

the gif is not mine!

no summary it’s just a little thing, fluffy and reader struggling to be open with their emotions yay:)

a/n: well, long time no see….. i hope u enjoy!

masterlist

\\\\

“they really appreciate you, you know?” he says, still facing forward. he’s being going at this for months. trying to convince you that the team sees you as part of their family. the woods seem endless, stretched out by your tiredness from the mission and aching limbs still wrapped in a tact suit, and yet, though you cannot admit it to yourself, a whisper of a wish echoes through your mind. a wish for it to continue, on and on, perhaps on a loop. a wish for his company.

“i do too.”

he looks at you.

“you might be worse than me at taking a compliment.” you raise your eyebrows and huff out a laugh.

“one would think you out of everyone would know how to take praise.” you purse your lips, trying to hide an amused smile. “i mean, since you get it all the time.”

“right.” he scoffs, though his eyes twinkle with beguilement.

“i mean, the great captain america. everything that is wonderful and magical about this country.”

“that’s how you think of me?”

“i said captain america, not steve rogers.” he tilts his head.

“are they not the same?” you shrug your shoulders.

“what do you think?”

“once in a while you could answer a question without deflecting. won’t kill you.”

“it might.” your smile is mischievous. he shakes his head with fake exasperation. he never seems truly upset at you, never acts like having you around is an effort (even though you are pretty certain that it is), so, maybe, you could return the favor and be earnest for once.

you roll your eyes and huff. you’re not annoyed at him. you’re not annoyed at how he makes you feel. you’re just annoyed that it’s so hard to say, to show.

“you alright?” the space between his brows creases with soft concern. you open your mouth, ready to tell him that yes, you are fine. just tired from walking. you feel the deflection making its way up your throat, tensing your vocal chords, but he tilts his head and your mouth closes shut.

“you are steve.” he frowns, confused, and probably worried that you are experiencing a case of sudden amnesia, but before he can ask and deviate you from your mission, you continue. “there would be no captain america without steve rogers, but there would be a steve rogers without captain america.”

his eyes soften, and for a split millisecond you wonder if something just crossed his mind, or if he saw something behind you, because there is no way he could be looking at you like that. but then he says your name, it comes out breathy, almost with wonder, and so warm. you’ve never heard your name said like that. like a prayer, a prize, a solution. something good.

“don’t get all soft on me now, you’re still wearing the suit.”

he laughs an incredulous laugh. the corners of his eyes crinkle with mirth. it’s blinding, it’s light, it’s him.

“i’m always soft on you.” he says after he sobers up, though he is still smiling softly. “just waiting for you to realize it, sweetheart.”

that pet name. god. you might love it even more than when he says your name. he never calls anyone else by anything other than their name, or perhaps a common nickname. but never that. that is only for you. nat says it’s because you are the sweet part of his heart. you think his entire heart is sweet. you don’t understand how you could have a place there; he seems to know that, and that is why he reminds you over and over again in a million different ways that while you might not believe yourself deserving of it, that does not change the fact that to him you are rooted there. you want to be. there is nowhere else you’d like to rest.

you want to tell him everything. that he not only has put down roots in your heart, but that he has merged with the veins and the vessels that pump blood to it. that without him there wouldn’t be an empty space in your heart, there would simply be no heart. you want to be the person who loves loudly, he deserves that, but some wounds are still too deep, too fresh, and they seem to clog your lungs. the declaration gets stuck somewhere in between there and your throat (and your brain). it makes you panic, the fear that he cannot read your mind, your eyes, that he does not and will never know what he means to you, and that, at some point, he will leave to find someone who can and will tell him all of it. reassure him.

“steve…” it’s pleading. you’re sure you look like a scared animal, wild eyes and frantic breathing. without pausing his walk, he side steps a bit, getting closer to you. in a second your hand is enwrapped in his. he squeezes one, two, three times. then he caresses it with his thumb. your steps falter a bit, but you gather yourself quickly. it would’ve been unnoticeable to anyone, but not to him. you never go unnoticed by him.

he leans a bit, his mouth close to your ear and whispers, almost as a secret, as if not even the trees around you should be privy of it. only you.

“i’ll wait. whenever you’re ready. you’re worth all of it.” you shut your eyes tightly, trying to stop the onslaught of tears that are forming too quickly, trusting he will not let you fall as your feet keep moving forward. you hear him chuckle softly, barely, almost just to himself. you look at him. he’s already looking at you. he gives you a lopsided smile that makes you feel like he knows something you don’t, that maybe no one else does, before speaking again. “waited my whole life for ya, what’s a bit more time?”

and for the first time in your life, you believe someone. you believe him.

[mxtantrights]

Oyendo la canción de nosotros dos

a/n: anddddd we've got a part two. damn. I'm really down bad.

this takes place six months after the first part. still following then fix-it Fanon I've got going on: Armando didn't kill the chief, he's working on reducing his jail time, his and Mike are trying to get their father/son shit together.

SIX MONTHS LATER

The bullets whizzed past you at the speed of light. You were never scared when dealing with things like this. Being shot at, having slim chances, the odds probably being stacked against you at this very moment.

But this feels different.

All those other times you didn't have anything to lose.

Even though, you don't have anything to lose now. At least you don't think so.

You reach over your shoulder at the open wound. You wince as quietly as you can with all the pain you're feeling. The blood wasn't coming out as strong as before but you still needed to get out of here and get treated.

One of the guards shooting at you tells his men to halt. The bullets stop and you can hear the casings rolling onto the floor. You hear them reload their guns. You close your eyes.

"If you tell us everything you know, we can make this less painful for you." the guard yells out.

You hardly believed that. And even if you did, it didn't secure your freedom. You weren't about to turn on anyone to save your own ass. You never done it before, why start now?

"Come out with your hands up." the guard shouts at you.

Not gonna happen.

You quietly check the gun in your hand. You have about half a clip left. You'd have to be wise. Get a couple shots in, grab another gun from one of them. Mark an exit. Get the hell out of dodge.

"You asked for this. Light her up-" the guard yells.

"Wait hold on, are we seriously not gonna try to get the information?" another voice asks.

You know that voice. You'd know that voice anywhere. That's Marcus.

"Can you shut the hell up?" another voice says.

Mike. That was Mike.

You let out a shaky breath. Right then you start smiling to yourself. You reach up to touch your lips in disbelief.

"The two of you done?" the guard from before asks.

There's a long beat before they answer quickly.

"I'm done. You good?" Marcus asks.

"I'm good. Let's light it up." Mike says.

And all at once you hear gunfire again. You know it's them. You can hear the grunts and groans of the other guards. And you can hear the bodies falling to the ground.

The guard in charge yells that the two of them are traitors and to fire on them. You jump up and try to assess the situation. Mike and Marcus have their masks off. Great that would make it easier for you to know who not to shoot.

You take out four men quickly and duck back down. Your arm roaring in pain.

The adrenaline is wearing off. The gun fire is still going off when you hear a loud sound. You turn around to find the source. The locked gate behind you, no longer locked.

There he stood in all his glory. Armando.

In his own version of a tactical suit. His arms are out and he's not wearing a mask. You can't believe how happy you are to see him. You hold onto your wounded arm and get off the floor.

It happens quickly.

As soon as you're standing with your back straight, you feel another shot go through your shoulder. It almost knocks you off your feet.

You watch Armando's eyes go wide. His hand was already on his gun. So the next thing you see is him line up a shot behind you and take it.

Then he's right in front of you. His hands on your hips. You think to yourself that this is the first time he's touched you. With intention. You hold onto his arms as you steady yourself.

"There's a car waiting, come on." he says.

You nod your head and walk in lock step with him. Well, you try your best.

As soon as you reach outside, the hot sun and the humidity of it all hits you. And you don't feel your feet walking anymore. How could you?

Armando sweeps you off your feet, right into his arms. The switching of positions for your arm hurts. You muffle a groan and hold onto him with your good arm.

He jogs over to the Jeep, and opens the door without having to move you. Then he's laying you out in the backseat. He's quick to shut the door and get into the driver's seat.

That's when things get blurry. You don't quite remember what happened after that.

Armando does. He drove like a bat out of hell. Weaving bullets and other cars. Trying his best not to get you hurt in the process.

He could see your eyes drooping in and out. He had adjusted the mirror as soon as he got into the car to keep an eye on you. He tried talking to you, to keep you awake.

You barely answered him. Only in half mumbles and soft hums.

Once he was in the clear he headed to the safe site the feds had provided. There was a medical team waiting on him when he got there. Mike or Marcus no doubt called it in.

He got out of the car as the medical team opened the backseat and started working on you. One of them lifted you out of the car as another readied a stretcher.

There was a mask over your face. A needle being injected into your wrist with an IV bag attached to the other side.

Armando made sure to keep up with the team rolling you inside but not get in their way. His heart skipped beat when you got shot. He saw it happen but he should have prepared for it.

Why didn't he think of it?

The medical team rolls you into a makeshift room. One of the federal officers keeps Armando out. He can see though the plastic tent though. So he stands there, with his arms crossed over his chest.

Hoping he had brought you here in time. Hoping that he didn't just watch your last moments.

-

2 WEEKS LATER

You adjust the sling on your shoulder as the prison guard tells you the visitor rules. You're half wanting to just tell him it's a conjugal visit to get him off your back.

But you nod and verbal agree to follow the rules.

The guard opens the door with several keys. Which you think is pretty excessive, but you say nothing about. You watch as he opens the door and parts to let you in.

You thank him and walk inside.

He's in his cell, on the floor. He's doing push-ups. You could laugh. Mike said that you'd probably catch him during his work out. Apparently it's one of the only things he likes to do in his cell.

He no doubt heard the door open. Why he didn't stop was beyond you.

You clear your throat and he stops mid-way. He pushes off the floor and faces you. He stops in his tracks, almost like he wasn't expecting you.

Well, it's not like you called ahead to let him know you'd be here.

"Hi." he says.

You're taken back. You weren't really expecting him to just say hi to you. He did after all save your life. You thought he'd rub it in your face, or make some quick remark about you owing him a favor.

You don't know why just one word from him is making you nervous. With a quick swallow down of the lump in your throat you walk a little closer to his cell.

"Hey." you say back.

"How's the arm?" he asks.

You look over at the sling that currently resides on your arm. You roll your eyes.

"I could've done without being shot and this totally ruins all my outfits but I'll live." you joke.

You can see the start of a smile on his face. You take another step closer. He leans against the gate of the cell, his arms crossed over his chest.

"I'm glad. But what exactly brings you here?"

You clear your throat, "I never got to thank you. For saving my life. I woke up in the hospital and you weren't there."

"I'm sorry. I had somewhere to be." he points around the cell.

You snicker a little, "I know. Which is why I figured I would do you a favor."

"You don't have to-" he starts.

"I want to."

He smiles fully now, looking you up and down. On purpose. You have no doubt that Armando can look at you fully without making it look obvious. But then again, it wouldn't be him.

"What'd you got in mind, querida?"

-

THE NEXT NIGHT

Armando is sitting in the booth all the way in the back of the cafe. You, with your sling over your leather jacket, walk all the way to the back. Your good hand carrying the file folder.

You slide into the booth, trying you best not to let out a wince at the move. Some things were still hard for you. Even though physical therapy was going well.

"Shit I didn't think about your arm, we can sit somewhere else." Armando says, already trying to get up from his seat without asking.

"Oh sit the hell down. I'm already sitting." you say.

He sits back in his seat without another remark. Which makes you wonder why but you rationalize that it's because your injured that he's going easy on you. You guess the sling isn't that bad.

"I've got a way for you to finish off the rest of your sentence." you say.

You slide the folder over the table to him. He look at you then the folder. Then he takes the folder and opens it. His fingers flip the pages, his eyes scanning them rapidly.

"coches, armas, drogas...this won't be easy." he says.

You tilt your head, "I didn't think you'd back down from this. Well, if you want maybe I can snag a few lower tier cases. Might take us a while to get you out but..."

He looks right at you then In your eyes.

"Us?" he asks.

You give him a credulous look, "That's what I said."

He hums. His eyes return to the file.

"You're still in a sling. How's that going to work?" he asks.

"You'll be muscle and I'll be brains." you answer.

The corner of his lip curls upward into a smirk. You can't help but smile at him. To stop yourself from smiling too much you reach for the glass of water.

You bring it to your lips and take a few gulps.

"This party that the target is going to be at is tonight. Who's doing recon?" he asks.

"You and me. My contacts are a bit hesitant to work with me in public." you comment.

Armando rolls his eyes, "That's not loyalty."

You shrug your shoulders and wince at the pain in your shoulder. Yes you got shot, no you weren't used to remembering that you couldn't use your shoulder like normal.

"Careful." Armando says.

"I understand why they don't wanna stick their necks out. I mean German let everyone know who I was." you reply.

Armando puts the file down. Completely. And he looks directly at you then.

"You should have gotten your way. I'm sorry about that."

"Not your fault. Just the way things happened. Besides there's always a chance I could." you say as you look out the dinner window.

The cars driving past on the local expressway. You had chosen this place to meet because of the distance from your target. Far enough to not draw any suspicion but close enough to get the job done.

"Still wanna killl him?"

You sigh, "thinking about it."

-

You don't know how you find yourself in these types of situations. Fresh off an injury and here you are, facing gunfire again.

The shattering of glass from the bar makes your heart race.

And that's when it happens. Everything around you goes in slow motion. The thousands of pieces of glass falling to the floor from the divider between you and the gunmen.

The strobe lights over head that cut between the dark. Flashes of pink and blue and green and yellow litter your body in different styles. You raise your hands over your head to protect it from the glass.

Not even a second later, Armando is grabbing you. He's tugging you down onto the ground, underneath a table. What he doesn't anticipate is how much weight he has to him. The both of you go tumbling to the floor.

He's laying on top of you. He cradles your head in his arms as the shots keep ringing out. You feel like you're in a movie or something. It can't be real.

You cannot be on the floor in the middle of a shootout and the only thing on your mind is Armando. Yes you found him attractive before but this is something different. Something a bit stronger.

He's pulling you up by your good arm and hauling ass out of the club.

The two of you work without saying anything to each other. You send some shots back to keep the two of you covered while Armando works on getting the two of you to a safe spot.

That's when you finally say something.

"The van. Make a right!" you shout.

Armando takes a sharp turn. The two of you run all the way to the middle of the street where the van is parked. You left it unlocked just incase things went south. How thankful you are for your contingency plan.

You and Armando let go of each other. You flank left tot he driver's side and he goes to the passenger side. Both of you open and close the doors at the same time.

With a quickness you grab the keys from the overhead compartment and put them in the ignition. As soon as you hear the engine turn over you punch the gas.

-

You hear Armando close the motel door behind you. You let out a sigh of relief as you fluff up your hair, trying to get the pieces of glass out.

"You got hurt." you hear him say.

You turn around confused as hell. You look down at the front of your body but you find nothing. Sure the mini dress you're wearing is torn at the sides but there's no blood. And you don't feel any pain.

Armando softly grabs your arm and maneuvers you to the bathroom. Not that you needed to be maneuvered any more tonight by him. Your brain couldn't handle his hands on you so much like this.

He flicks the light on and positions you in front of the mirror. He turns you to the side and holds your arm out so you can see it.

You can see the three small shards of glass sticking out of the back of your arm. You didn't even feel it. Huh. Must be all the adrenaline.

Before you can make some smart joke, Armando is checking you for any other injuries. Like actually checking you. He scans you with his eyes and lightly pats you down.

In your head you wonder how that worked for him. Was he going to feel the injury or see the blood on his hands?

"Get on the counter." he says.

But he's really not saying it like it's a request. It's an order. And you don't feel like disobeying at the moment. Your voice might betray you.

So you slide onto the counter.

He reaches underneath you into the counter. He pulls out a red box. First aid kit.

Armando opens the box and takes out all the supplies. He curses in spanish at the lack of them. Three alcohol pads. Two bandaids .An aspirin.

He motions for you to offer you arm. In order to do so, you have to turn a bit to the side. He crowds your space then. Turning the sink on and washing his hands. His face just a few inches from yours.

The sink turns off and then he looks right at you. Like in the eyes.

"I'm gonna take the glass out. No tweezers so bare with me." he warns you.

You can only nod. He gets the alcohol pads and bandaids ready, passes them to you so you can give it to him when he's done.

His thumb and pinter finger dig out the first piece of glass. Which isn't that bad. It's a small chunk, not that much damage. He drops it into the sink.

When he goes for the second chunk, you wince. It makes him stop.

"Lo siento, espera." he says.

He goes again. You shut your eyes and happen to lean your head down on the only surface in front of you and that happens to be his shoulder. He digs and gets the piece in between his fingers.

"Perdon, Perdon, just a little more." he whispers.

He pulls it out and you let out a groan. You can hear the chunk land into the sink. You don't have to see it to know it's big.

"Last one?" you ask.

"Si, estas haciendo bien." he answers.

You wince again when he nicks the piece with his fingers instead of grabbing it. But he grabs it after the first try.

"Respira," he says.

You take a deep breath in. And when you exhale he takes the piece of glass out in one pull. You ram your head even further into his shoulder.

He throws the final chunk into the sink. You open your eyes and move your head so that you can look at him. You're out of breath from the pain.

But you're still lucid enough to hand him the alcohol pad. He warns you in advance that it's going to burn but you don't really know how much until you feel it. The sting makes your body go rigid.

He has to hold onto your waist with his free hand to keep you still. He wipes down the cuts.

"Dame la tirita." he says.

You grab the bandaids and hand them over to him. He chuckles to himself at something. You're not sure what. But you can feel the warmth from his hand on your waist. It's making you more woozy than anything else.

You pick your head up from his shoulder.

"I didn't think I'd end up out of breath in a bathroom with you, but que sera right?" you joke.

He looks at you then, with a smile. The bandaids still in his hand. He doesn't say anything. He just smiles at you and then shakes his head. Like you never even said anything he goes back to placing the bandaid.

"This is the third time you've saved my life." you say.

He shrugs his shoulders like it's a normal thing. His fingers press the sticky sides of the bandaid down into your skin. You can feel his thumb brushing over it.

"Nothing smart to say?" you ask.

He shakes his head, "I know when to shut up."

"Yeah like when you were in the hospital with me after I got shot?" you ask.

He looks at you a bit taken back. You remember how he was only able to spend two nights there. After that he had to be brought back to his cell.

But oh how fun it was to hearts voice talk about meaningless things just to keep you company. Like how you may have gotten shot but one time his mom was cooking with oil on the stove and the pop of oil against his skin hurt worse.

"You remember that?" he asks you this time.

"Most of it. I was pretty loopy. But I got bits and pieces. Before you had to leave." you answer.

He hangs his head then. You wonder why for a moment. but he doesn't let you wonder for too long when he answers your unspoken question.

"So you heard my stupid schoolboy confession." he says.

Which was not what you were expecting. Because you definitely did not hear him confess anything while he sat by your bedside. On one hand you feel bad about letting him reveal it to you now when you didn't know.

But on the other hand... it does feel good to know that whatever your feeling isn't one-sided.

"You never said anything." he adds on.

You snap out of your thoughts. Okay, you couldn't let him think that you knew before this. His head is hung low like he's ready for rejection.

"That's because I didn't know." you answer honestly.

His head picks back up. He looks you in the eyes now. You can feel it in your belly.

"mi gran boca estúpido..." he mumbles under his breath. But because the two of you are the only ones in the small bathroom.

Deciding to take the man out of his misery you reach up slowly with your closest hand. You can feel the stumble growing on his cheeks and the sharp line of his jaw.

"I like your big stupid mouth." you say.

A smile creeps onto his lips. And you can't help the way that you end up smiling.

"Yeah?" he asks.

You nod your head slowly, staring to close the space between you two. You can feel his breath on your lips. The way his eyes flutter down to look at your lips drives you crazy.

"Yeah."

Armando closes the space between the two of you fully. Your lips meet in the middle. It's not a clash or a crash. It's gentle. Something you weren't expecting from him.

Then again, he defies you're every expectation.

You bring your arm up to wrap around his neck but you wince. Finally remembering that your arm was supposed to be in a sling. He pulls away from you all too quickly. You don't like it.

"Stop pouting, you're hurt." he says.

"I'll just take the aspirin. You can go back to what you were doing." you tease.

He hums a response to you. His lips chasing yours once again. His hand that was on your arm travels to your hip, where his other hand never left. You lean back against the bathroom mirror, and when he pushes against you to kiss you deeper you feel the heat in your chest.

You're really glad he decided to be a smart ass the first time you met him.

[soliloquent-stark]

Hi, would you have any baby's first Stony fic recs for a stucky shipper?? Like I want to read Stony but literally have no idea where to start or how to get there without feeling like "wait, where's Bucky?" if that makes any sense

Tysmia!!

hi! congrats and welcome :) i want you to know i am taking this task very seriously! i am a big bucky lover so i don't read bucky bashing fics anyways, so pretty much any rec of mine is okay from that sense, but i understand the difficulty in switching ships or having your fav absent.

so, i thought the best way to get acquainted with stevetony would be to read fics that contain bucky, or past stucky, or focus on learning about tony from steve's pov (since i assume you're most familiar with his perspective and character, so then you can fall in love with tony together). i also added some stuckony ones in case that's your cup of tea, but feel free to skip those. 💕

ps. almost all these are mcu, but let me know if you want comics/au recs too. but overall, for more recs, you can check this tag.

music by @treesramblings

Steve turns seventy-five today. Tony has a special plan in place to show Steve a happy birthday.

I used to use liquor to get me inspired (but you look so beautiful) by @underwhelmingalchemist

Steve was used to Tony's flirting. It was weird and slightly annoying, but it was just part of who he was. It was always surface-level compliments, comments on his ass and thighs, teasing him about his "pretty face". But when he was drunk, those comments turned to something sweeter and much more genuine.

more after the cut

Triple Espresso by @festiveferret

Everything is going great for Steve. He loves his boyfriend, his apartment, his pets. He finally has some opportunities to share his artwork, the coffee shop he manages is doing well, and Bucky is about to finish his exams, which means no more night shifts. It finally feels like life is on track. And then Tony Stark walks into the cafe and everything goes off the rails.

5 Times Bucky Thought Tony Was Good For Steve +1 Time He Told Him by Anonymous

To say Bucky is unimpressed by Stark would be an understatement. It isn’t that he dislikes him. It’s more that he’s a brand of indifferent that curdles with disdain on the rare occasion that Bucky catches him on the TV: Stark is glib and crass in a way his father never was, and he wears suits like he’d slipped out of the womb clad in Armani. So it’s a surprise when Bucky moves into the Tower and finds that Steve actually gets along with the guy.

some words build houses in your throat by only_more_love

The night before they travel back in time, Tony says what he needs to say.

A Partial Dictionary Of The 21st Century By Captain Steve Rogers, US Army by @copperbadge

Steve is adapting well to the new millennium, and he has the dictionary to prove it.

Equilateral by FestiveFerret

It was the way Steve had said, “I found him,” the desperate, agonized hope, that had Tony replying with, “Bring him home,” without any hesitation. But now, now he was hesitating like fuck.

felt with your two hands by @ishipallthings

Steve lets out an exasperated huff. “It’s just, I can’t shave.” It’s such a small thing to be upset about, and yet here he is, fighting the urge to tear his bandages just to look clean-shaven again. One glance at Tony shows that he’s surprised by Steve’s admission, eyes now fixed on the days-old scruff covering the bottom half of Steve’s face. (In which Tony helps Steve with shaving, and the close proximity leads to so much more than either of them anticipated.)

Feels Like Home by @tinystark616

Steve thinks there must be something fundamentally wrong with him when adjusting to his new life seems scarier than fighting an army of aliens. He knows how to fight. He's excellent at it. What he doesn't know is how to feel like he belongs in the future.

Catching Up Fast by Catchclaw, Crowgirl

Tony doesn't see the other guy coming, is the thing. Best mistake of his life.

everybody needs some affection by @meidui

It's for Steve's sake, Tony tells himself as he befriends Bucky. (But then it isn't.)

last call by @gottalovev

Tony didn’t prepare for Steve calling first. It's been thirteen months, why now?

Operation: Knuckleheads by FestiveFerret

Bucky is enjoying his new, post-Winter Soldier life at Avengers Tower, until he discovers that the constant tension between Steve and Tony was caused by a recent (and mysterious) breakup. Determined to make his friends happy, Bucky gives himself a new mission: figure out what went wrong, and get these two idiots in love back together again.

[slippinmickeys]

The Unseelie Court (3/16)

Scully was surprised to find that the Adrian County morgue had the budget to employ a diener, who met her at the autopsy bay door with a scowl. He was a gruff looking man, short and stocky though his hands were as big and thick as baseball mitts. His face was like a cartoon character, a Looney Tunes mob boss with a big nose and a jutting chin. He had inky hair and what looked like a perpetual five o��clock shadow with eyes so dark she couldn’t make out his pupils, even from up close. 

She introduced herself, and he grunted. 

“Aeon,” he said, shaking her hand and pointing out the locker room. “Have trouble finding the place?”

Scully shook her head. They’d come right from the crime scene. Mulder had dropped her off and headed to the hotel to check in.

“Have you been waiting long?” she asked him. 

He looked at her with his head cocked to the side. On his left eyelid were a constellation of skin tags. He shrugged and turned away. Scully hefted her small bag over her shoulder and walked in the direction he’d pointed. 

The locker room was small, cramped. She banged her elbow into the locker behind her as she changed into scrubs, and swore, shaking out her arm. Adjusting her watch band after the pain began to subside, she got a good look at the face. Her watch had stopped working. 

She sighed, knowing what Mulder would say, and pulled out her laptop. If he was going to throw wild theories at her, she was determined to walk into the conversation prepared. Armed for bear. 

There was nowhere to really sit, so she wandered down the hallway until she found a room with a few scattered tables and chairs. 

It was a break room like any other—a few crumby tables, a gummy bottle of Dawn next to the sink, a microwave that probably needed to be cleaned. The walls were bare but for the ubiquitous Family and Medical Leave Act poster and the air was reedy with the chemical smell of Lean Cuisines. Scully scrunched her nose distastefully. Opened a search engine and dug in. 

***

Mulder breezed into the autopsy suite with the sweet smell of the outdoors on his clothes, a marked contrast to the redolent Eau de dead of the morgue. 

Scully looked up from the table, surprised and pleased to see him. 

She pulled up the protective eyewear she was wearing, her eyes bright above the surgical mask. Mulder couldn’t help but grin at her, even over a body. Behind the cage of his ribs, he felt his heart soften at the sight of her. 

“Hey,” she said, leaning gloved hands against the edge of the autopsy tabletop. “How’d it go?”

“Not great,” he said, coming to a stop a few feet away from the body. “They had enough vacancy for separate rooms.” 

Scully’s eyes darted to the door nervously.

Mulder regretted teasing her. He watched as she shifted gears, and he moved his gaze to the body in front of them. The autopsy tech had removed the young man’s clothes, but it was clear Scully hadn’t gotten very far into her examination. There was not yet any Y incision, and the blanket offering the deceased what little dignity could be provided in his situation was still pulled up to his shoulders. 

“I thought you’d be half done by now.”

“I got a late start,” she said, shrugging. She pulled the mask below her mouth and leveled a look at him. “I take it you’re still married to this fairy idea?”

“Personnel file lists me as Single, Scully, you know that.”

“Cute,” she said humorlessly.

“My mother always said so.”

She gave him a look, her mouth a long, thin line. Yep. Shouldn’t have teased her with the hotel remark, he thought. She wasn’t big on being teased to begin with, and he’d probably just cratered his chances of an on-the-case dalliance. 

“The fae, or people like them, exist across nearly all cultures,” he finally said, tipping his cards so she could see his hand. “That kind of prevalence usually indicates at least a foundation in authenticity.”

“A version of Santa Claus exists in many cultures, Mulder, and I think we can both agree he’s not real.”

Mulder felt them settle into their usual routine. Odd how it sort of turned him on. Teasing was one thing, he thought. Honesty was another.

“I got what I wanted this year,” he shrugged.

At Mulder’s declaration, Scully’s eyes flitted immediately to his and she felt a flush rise up and spread along her collarbones. For a moment she could feel his rapacious mouth clamped over her vulva, his long, thick fingers curled into her, three knuckles deep. She gripped the metal countertop in front of her and inhaled before speaking.

“There is a theory that fairy folklore evolved from folk memories of a prehistoric race,” she said. “Newcomers superseded a body of earlier human or humanoid peoples, and the memories of this defeated race developed into modern conceptions of fairies.”

A slow, impressed smile crept up the corners of Mulder’s mouth. “…you’ve been doing some research,” he said.

“I may have spent a little time on the computer, yes,” she said, trying not to appear too pleased. “I think I pissed off my diener.”

“He’ll get over it,” Mulder said with a dismissive wave. Her diener must have been the dour fellow that showed him into the suite. Mulder shuffled his feet and leaned back against a metal countertop with an eager look on his face. “Hit me with it.”

Scully licked her lips before continuing, feeling a surge of sensual energy. 

“Proponents of the theory find support in the tradition of cold iron as a charm against fairies, viewed as a cultural memory of invaders with iron weapons displacing peoples who had just stone, bone, and wood at their disposal and were easily defeated. In folklore, flint arrowheads from the Stone Age were attributed to the fairies as ‘elfshot,’ while their green clothing and underground homes spoke to a need for camouflage and covert shelter from hostile humans, their magic a necessary skill for combating those with superior weaponry.”

“It’s a decent argument, but it’s not much fun,” Mulder said. 

“I’m going to remember that you said I had a decent argument,” she said, feeling ever so slightly smug. 

They were quiet for a moment and both turned their attention to the body before them. 

“Have you done an initial examination yet?” he asked. 

She shook her head, moving to stand next to the victim’s head. She reached up and turned on the microphone recording, rattling off the salient details. 

“I’ll begin with a visual examination,” she dictated, beginning by looking around the victim’s head and neck for signs of what might have killed him. 

Mulder slumped back against the shelf he was leaning against. He’d asked one of the deputies working the case to bring him a few more of their local missing persons cases just to compare notes, but now he thought maybe he should just head into the local station. Autopsies could take hours, and he wasn’t the biggest fan of the sounds and smells that came with the territory. He tapped the battered old file folder against his leg trying to decide what to do. 

Scully, for her part, was now fully engrossed in the work that lay before her. Getting to the victim’s face, she peeled back his eyelids, looking for petechiae. She didn’t see any, but she did notice that the man’s eyes were two different colors, as though he’d been assembled by a doll maker whose attention had strayed. One was a startling blue, like her own, the other brown, as dark as the oily depths of a cup of diner coffee.

“Mulder, can you hand me the missing persons file?”

He pushed off the tabletop he was leaning against and passed it over without a word. 

She flipped up a few pages. The purported victim, Daly Carmichael, had eye color listed as hazel, with no mention of heterochromia. She made a dull puzzled sound in the back of her throat. 

“Everything all right?” Mulder asked, stepping forward. 

“I don’t think this is Daly Carmichael,” she said. 

Mulder approached the table. “What do you mean?”

“The eyes are the wrong color,” Scully said. “Look.”

She handed over the file and shined a small flashlight into the victim’s eyes. 

“Two different colors,” Mulder said. 

“Yes,” Scully said. “The file lists his eye color as hazel.”

Mulder looked down at the picture of Daly. The man before them was identical to the picture in the file. Mulder squinted at the photograph, but it was old, taken in the 70’s, washed out pigment on textured paper; eye color was impossible to make out.

“Maybe the information on file is wrong,” he said.

Scully sighed.

“We’re still waiting for dental confirmation?” Mulder said. 

“Yes,” she confirmed. “The diener took dental X-Rays. They’ll go to a specialist.”

“Then maybe we shouldn’t make the call now,” Mulder said. He decided right then that he wasn’t going anywhere. This was too damn interesting. 

“I find it hard to believe the information in the file is wrong, Mulder. It’s a notable discrepancy. Heterochromia only occurs in 1% of the population. Of the world.”

“What if I told you it was common in fairies?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She reached up and turned off the mic.

“Not kidding,” he said. “There’s evidence going back roughly 500 years that Changelings have shown evidence of changing eye color.”

Changelings , she thought. Fucking changelings . Even her Aunt Olive didn’t believe in that one.

“Mulder, Changelings aren’t real!” she sputtered, letting frustration get the best of her. “They’re European folklore meant to make parents feel better about giving birth to children with chromosomal abnormalities and babies who succumbed to childhood illness!”

“By swapping out healthy infants for the imbecilic offspring of fairies or elves,” Mulder explained, feeling as though he were doing a good job keeping his own feelings in check. 

Scully leveled a look at her partner and took a deep, calming breath.  “Look at the file for Daly Carmichael,” she said, reclaiming a calm tone. “Tell me what religion he was.”

Mulder flipped open the file. “Catholic,” he said. “An altar boy at St. Francis.”

“The existence of changelings is believed to stem from the idea that infants are susceptible to demonic possession,” Scully said. “In the Medieval Chronicles, by Ralph of Coggeshall and in other sources, fairies are said expressly to prey upon unbaptized children.”

Her vigor and determination was something to behold.

“Scully,” he said, a little breathless, “are you trying to seduce me?”

She shook her head and turned back to look at the body, leaned in to get a better look at the victim’s face.

“Mulder, if I were trying to seduce you,” she said without looking up, “you’d know.” She reached back up and began recording again.

Something electric zipped through his veins. His mind spent the next thirty seconds buffering, interrupted only by a knock at the door. 

He turned to see Deputy Avery hovering outside, looking affable but maybe a little uncomfortable. He gave Mulder a friendly smile. 

Mulder gestured at him to come in, but the deputy only poked his head through the open doorway, holding out a couple of file folders. He never took his eyes off the body on the slab. 

“I’ve got those other Missing Persons files you wanted to see Agent Mulder,” he said, then took a thick swallow and stepped into the room, holding the folders out as if he didn’t want to be any closer to the victim.  

Mulder understood the impulse and put the poor deputy out of his misery, stepping forward to take them off his hands. 

“Appreciate you making the trip down here, Deputy.”

“Don’t mention it,” the blond man said, blinking rapidly at the body on the table. 

Scully finally looked up.

“He going to be okay?” she said, a little bemused. 

“Deputy Avery?” Mulder said. 

Avery darted his eyes to Scully and then straightened his posture.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and approached the examination table. Mulder wasn’t sure if he was trying to prove his mettle to himself or the pretty FBI agent, who, Mulder couldn’t help but notice, looked radiant, even with safety glasses and a mask. 

A second later, a mop that had been standing up against the wall on the other side of the room—one Scully hadn’t recalled seeing before—fell to the floor, handle first. The sound made all three of them jump, and Avery shot out a hand and grabbed Scully’s arm.

“Jesus!” Avery said, his other hand to his heart. 

The sound had startled Scully too, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, an uncomfortable chill racing through her. Still, she gave a small chuckle and Avery looked down to where he was grabbing her and immediately let go. She turned back to the body. 

Mulder stepped forward and put his hand on Avery’s shoulder. 

“Appreciate you bringing the files by, deputy,” he said. “You can go.” 

Avery swallowed hard and gave the body one long last look, darting his eyes briefly to Scully. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said, scooting quickly out of the room, leaving the door swinging in his wake.

When Mulder turned back to Scully, she had an odd look on her face, peering closely at the victim, leaning in. 

“Huh,” she said after a long minute of examination.

Mulder had to give himself a mental shake. “What is it?”

She turned to the tray of instruments that had been carefully set up next to the autopsy table and grabbed a pair of long tweezers. She worked the victim’s jaw open a little and pressed the instrument past his lips, pulling out, a moment later, a broad, dark green leaf, stiff and glossy. 

Mulder stood up straighter.

“What is that? A leaf?” 

“Appears to be,” Scully said, twisting the tweezers to get a better view. “Magnolia, maybe. I don’t know.”

Then, suddenly: “Aeon?” she called out. 

Mulder was confused for a moment when the dark haired diener stuck his head through the bay door. 

He grunted in acknowledgement. “Yeah?”

“Magnifying glass?” she asked, looking around. 

“In the lab,” the man said, hooking a thumb toward the room opposite the autopsy suite. “Through here.”

Scully moved efficiently, stepping out of the autopsy bay and through the doors of the  lab. In the corner was a small examination station. Mulder followed, watching her curiously. She pulled down the lighted magnifying glass to get a better look at the leaf. 

“Mulder, look at this,” she said, holding the leaf under the light with the tweezers.

He looked through the lens. Etched into the back of the leaf was a seven-pointed star. 

“Bag this, would you?” Scully said, pushing the leaf toward him, an energized look on her face. 

She wasted no more time getting back to the body. She wouldn’t admit to Mulder, but she kind of liked it when things got weird. 

She wasn’t quite prepared for how weird things were about to get, and how fast. When she stepped back into the autopsy bay, the body on the table was just as she’d left it, mouth wide open. 

But it wasn’t the young man she’d left there. It was someone much, much older.

[preet-01]

For the ask game

A Heart is Drawn Around Your Name!

A Heart Drawn Around Your Name is wag Daniel, but Max doesn't really come into the story until the end since he's the final relationship - the one that finally works out.

Daniel didn’t seek out Formula 1 drivers to fuck or date. 

Despite what the media and fans said – which they said a lot – Daniel didn’t chase after them. He didn’t jump from one to the next as the championship contenders changed and different teams began their dominant years. He didn’t actively seek out Formula 1 drivers, nor did he prey on single drivers in the hopes of getting back into the paddock. Hell, he probably would be perfectly fine never stepping foot in there. He didn’t go after drivers on the up and he didn’t drop the drivers on a downward spiral. 

He had never chased the drivers he dated or occasionally fucked around with. But when they would come up to him with some god-awful pickup line that inadvertently would make him laugh hysterically and promises of everlasting love that almost always ended up with Daniel serving his hand on a golden platter. 

Even when he’d known better, Daniel had never been good at saying no to the men who flirted with him and gave him hopes of something great. While Daniel hadn’t chased Formula 1 drivers, he had always chased happiness and everlasting love. He could never say no to a man who wanted him and wasn’t afraid to show just how much. He could never deny someone who was willing to risk it all just to be with him. 

Unfortunately, that, in his experience, tended to be detrimental to himself and no one else. At the end of the day, he always seemed to be the one the drivers chose for a good time not a long time. 

A hopeless romantic, his family said every time he introduced them to a new boyfriend, a new driver that had shown him a future of love and happiness. They’d always said it with cautious smiles and hopeful eyes that maybe this time they wouldn’t be the ones who had to pick up the pieces. A whore, the media and fans said every time he walked into the paddock in the arms of a different driver. From his very first appearance in the world of Formula 1, the path had been set for him in their eyes. Let it last, he begged whichever higher power that listened. Always desperately praying that for once Daniel would be enough, that someone out there would want to spend the rest of their life with him. Praying that for once they wanted him for more than just a few months together, for his heart and not what they could get from his body. 

____

Max had been 19 when he first saw Daniel. 

Dressed in red and on the arm of Sebastian Vettel, Daniel had shone like the sun and Max had been the sunflower following behind him. 

He hadn’t known who Daniel was then, nothing other than someone that Sebastian was dating, but others knew Daniel. They knew of Daniel, they had things to say about Daniel – some good, but a lot of bad that Max couldn’t reconcile with the man he saw nervously standing with Sebastian’s friends in the Ferrari garage. 

Though the most common thing people said was: you don’t wanna get involved in all of that, he’ll drop you the minute he’s had his fun.

Max was never one to follow blindly, so he does his own research. 

One of the mechanics had given him a name and Google was a wonderful thing. 

Daniel Ricciardo Formula 1

The earliest article is one that concerns Red Bull and Daniel wearing what looks like a 2007 Red Bull race suit alongside Mark Webber. From there it quickly devolves into the territory of extramarital affairs and gay cheating scandals and Mark’s vow renewal that year. 

Then comes Jenson and a bevy of pictures with the two of them in scandalous positions. The playboy and the homewrecker is what the press refers to them as. And by the time the next season of F1 starts, Daniel’s not to be seen and Jenson’s whoring his way around the party scenes. 

There aren’t any articles of Daniel and Lewis, but he does see pictures of them at the same events. 

2017 is when the Sebastian and Daniel relationship begins. 

[the-rat-eatery]

Hot take: I kinda hate every time in the carry on series when it’s like ‘baz was wearing this floral suit but he made it look manly’ or ‘baz smiled up at me in a way that would look girlish on anyone else but he didn’t look girlish he looked vulnerable’, you reallyyyy notice that the fact that a straight woman is writing. Let the man be girly! That’s not a bad thing! In fact— it’s an actively great thing!

I honestly think the only reason Baz’s chest hair is mentioned so much is because Rowell is so afraid of him being perceived as feminine.

[doctorsiren]

I think he would play baseball in high school 😁

[littlefankingdom]

Does anyone have ever written a fic about Jason realizing that Bruce made the Red Robin's suit for him??? The fact that Jason canonically knows that, but it's making me crazy how it's never addressed.

For the people who don't know, in Countdown to Final Crisis (2007), Jason goes to an alternative Earth where Bruce killed the Joker after Jason died. Once he believes Jason to really be Jason, he presents to him the Red Robin's suit, explaining it's a suit he made for when Jason would be older and have grown out of Robin. And they go fight crime together, as Batman and Red Robin, father and son, until Bruce is killed in front of Jason. There's more to it (Bruce has given up on his morals, but also the whole batfam and JL has given up on him), however none of this is ever used again (a shame, really).

It's not explicitly told if Tim first Red Robin's suit was also made by Bruce for Jason, and the third Robin found it. And there are no other explanation given.

So, is there any fic out there about this??? Either Jason who did go to the alternative universe and thought "it was another Bruce, mine didn't do it" until he saw Tim as Red Robin ("time to beat my lil brother for stealing my shit" the second act), either Jason who never went to this alternative universe but learns that the suit was originally for him?

Because, Jason's whole thing is that he wants signs that Bruce cared about him, and a suit, for his son when he gets older? The man spent his free time making a suit for his 15 years old son for when he would fight crime in college! It was so early for him to already be working on that, it shows the love Bruce had for his boy.

[m-kyunie]

marching forward through the Gates of Hell

[yuseirra]

I have a feeling Hikaru would have been the one who's more keen about fashion out of the two