#I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a twist

[swordsandholly]

On the Mend

Ao3 | Chapter One | Next

Captain John Price x fem!plus size!reader

Word Count: 4.1k

MDNI | cw: referenced cheating, divorce, implied alcoholism, age gap, blood/minor injury

Summary: Following his divorce, John Price is adrift - strong armed into going on leave, he decides to use the time to renovate a run down family lake house. He finds himself drawn into an unexpected bond with his peculiar new neighbor who seems equally unable to leave him alone.

When John came home to papers and a set of silver rings on the kitchen counter he didn’t feel surprised. No sense of despair at the lack of shoes by the door or empty closet. No betrayal at the slight layer of dust covering the flat. A layer that had accumulated over the course of coming home two weeks later than planned. Just a a wave of numbness. That sick sort of relief when the bad thing you knew would happen finally does. Something that twists in his gut and hollows out his bones. He knew it was coming sooner or later.

Looks like sooner.

It started in the early fall - though, if he’s honest, he should have seen it coming long before then. Nearly a year of cold shoulders and whispers over the phone spoken in the other room during late hours. Passive nudges and snide comments. Nights spent alone more than together. New clothes and lingerie that he only spotted in passing on laundry day. All his time in the SAS and he didn’t see what was right under his nose. Five simple words that spelled out the end.

“I found someone else, John.”

That’s it. The grand finale to thirteen years.

Of course it’s never simple. What followed was weeks of arguing between - and during - his deployments. Months of lawyers sending information and communications back and forth because face to face talks were no longer getting them anywhere. It’s difficult to process so many years falling apart in such little time. It’s harder still to get over the hurled insults and accusations of stolen youth. The insinuation that he ruined her. The allegation that he never loved her in the first place. That this has been broken for a long, long time, John. How do you not see that?

How didn’t he see it?

At the end of the day, John is good at two things: compartmentalizing and work. It’s just convenient that those two qualities happen to go hand in hand right now. John lives on base full time - got out of that flat as soon as the lease ran out. It’s a waste of money sitting empty for most of the year. More often than that, really, considering he spends every waking moment - when not deployed - in his office or running drills. Never mind the fact that he couldn’t step past the threshold without feeling something shatter in his chest.

Now, six months since the final signatures, the walls John carefully built around the issue have started to wear. Coming loose at the seams - all crumbling brick and thinning mortar. He’s agitated. Frayed at the edges. You wouldn’t know it to look at him. John’s uniform remains crisp as always. His belongings placed in exact order - including the ever growing collection of liquor. His hair is perfectly kept. At a glance, he’s the same as always.

It’s those closest to him that can see it. That take the brunt of it.

Harsh, barking orders at Ghost that would have previously been calm instruction. Sharp reprimands that leave Soap jumpy and flinching. Both give him a wide berth when they can. His drills for the newer recruits became far more difficult with tougher punishments for any sort of acting out. Gaz has avoided his growing wrath for the most part - good at keeping his head down and following orders as needed.

Until today, it seems. An accidental, near deadly failure. The perfect boiling point.

While clearing a building currently housing a potential terrorist cell, one man managed to slip past Gaz. All of them, really, but it was his floor to clear. The man got a shot off on Soap after the Scot tackled him - luckily his vest stopped it. Ghost dropped the adversary and Soap won’t have more than a bruised rib and a couple weeks of rest but it could have been worse. Much, much worse.

Gaz knew he was fucked when the Captain went silent. John barely looked him in the eye and didn’t say anything more than necessary on their way back to base. A single grunt of “my office” and the sergeant’s fate became sealed.

“Sir.” Gaz prays that the quaver he feels in his voice doesn’t come through. He’s never been here before, standing stiffly across from the Captain. Not like this at least - waiting for the hand he’s about to be dealt.

“Donnae worry tae much, lad.” Soap had given him a rough slap on the back. “Price’s all bark an’ no bite.”

Right now standing across from The Captain, all he can see is a bite risk.

“You know why I’ve called you in, Sergeant.” It isn’t a question.

“Yes, sir.” Gaz shifts ever so slightly. “I wasn’t successful in clearing my floor-“

“And nearly compromised a teammate because of your carelessness.” John crosses his arms, a snarl in his tone. His nerves are fried - every bit of frustration and hurt that’s been pushed down and allowed to fester over the last several months bubbling up to the surface.

John can’t lose anyone else.

By the time he’s done with his verbal lashing Gaz looks like he wants to run for the hills and never come back. As good as the boy is at masking his reaction externally, just as any military man does, his eyes never hide anything. There’s a sheen over them that has John pausing, stepping it back and sighing heavily. He never raises his voice - doesn’t find it useful long term - but he has a skill for putting together strings of words that stab right to the heart. Gaz is an empathetic kid - a trait easily exploited to pour gallons of guilt on the sergeant.

“Don’t let it happen again.” John mutters, the fire gone. Doused out by the kicked puppy look Gaz wears. An itch of regret stings the back of his mind. “Dismissed.”

Based on the rhythm of footsteps the moment the office door closes behind Gaz, it really does sound like he’s running for the hills. John wouldn’t blame him. He doesn’t want to be around himself either.

John practically collapses into his office chair, finally letting his muscles relax. As much as they are physically capable of relaxing. These days his shoulders are always around his ears - hackles raised and hands flexing. He buries himself in the incident report - pouring hours into filling out bureaucratic red tape that he used to avoid at every turn.

The sun has set when a quiet but firm tap tap tap sounds at his door.

“Come in.” He grunts, knowing exactly who is about to walk through that door based entirely on the perfunctory knock.

“John.” Kate steps in, carefully shutting the door behind her before stepping forward.

“Kate.” He straightens in his seat.

“We need to talk.”

“I’ll apologize to Garrick tomorrow.” John waves her off, turning back to the files on his desk in a last ditch effort to make her leave. It’s a foolish attempt.

“You know that’s not what I’m going to say.” She crosses her arms.

“Do I?”

Kate stands over him, staring him down. It’s a position they find themselves in fairly often whether face to face or communicating from hundreds of miles away. There’s a new weight to it here. A far more personal tension than either are used to.

Kate pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m coming to you as a friend - not a coworker. You need to take some time.”

The last thing John needs is to ‘take some time.’ He just needs to focus. Get into the new swing of things. He hit the ground running now all he needs is to find his stride.

“I’m fine.” John snaps.

“You’re not.” She fires back. “It’s normal that you’re not but you need to deal with it.”

“I have dealt with it. It’s been dealt with for six months.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

John sighs heavily and scrubs a hand over his face. He has plenty of leave, really. About three months worth that haven’t been used. Months he was saving for a long vacation that won’t happen now. Ninety days that are wasting away on his employee profile - a fake number. It’s all bullshit anyway, right? The only thing that’s truly real is what he can accomplish here. Helping people and saving the world here. What good is he rotting at home for nine months?

He’s needed here.

John needs to be needed.

“John.” Kate sighs. Her voice is low - that of a disappointed mother. “Either you take your leave, or I get you sent on a mandatory mental health leave. I already have the paperwork drafted. You need to step away.”

The captain lets out another heavy sigh. Laswell has obviously made up her mind. There’s no changing it once she has the steel like gleam in her eyes.

“Fine. Give me a week to get things sorted.”

John doesn’t miss the slight quirk in the corner of Kate’s mouth. “Thank you.”

As usual, by the time he makes it back to his flat he’s completely worn through. Body and mind equally exhausted - just what he wants. John falls into his routine of pouring a glass of whatever he’s in the mood for, tonight it’s bourbon, apparently, and plopping onto the couch. Normally he’d turn on the television or grab a book or some other shite but all he can manage right now is a staring contest with the wall.

The hell is he supposed to do for three months? He can’t hang around here, that’s too pathetic. It’ll drive him mad. Could visit his mum, but she’s got a life of her own in that retirement community of hers. He wouldn’t want to disturb her peace for more than a week or two. That still leaves at least seventy-six days unaccounted for.

Somewhere during his wall-watching, he thinks it’s while taking in a particularly interesting mistake in the paint, an idea finally comes to him. A flimsy, probably stupid idea. John grabs his cell. It only rings once.

“Hey, mum.” John leans back on the shitty couch of his on base apartment. It’s minimal, but he doesn’t need much anymore, does he?

“Jack, love, how are you?” She says brightly. Always full of sunshine and excitement to hear from her only child.

“Fine.” He lies. As much as he hates lying to his mother and the acetic taste it leaves in his mouth, he just can’t handle her worry at the moment. John doesn’t need another reason to cry right now. “How are you?”

“Oh, lovely!” She replies. “I have the ladies knitting circle tomorrow - apparently there’s new developments about Harold and Linda.”

“Oh? What sort of developments?”

“The salacious sort.” She snickers.

John huffs out a laugh. The old gossip. “Mum, I was wonderin’… do we still have that old family home? By the lake?”

She hums, thinking for a moment. “Oh, yeah, we do. Though, technically it belongs to your Aunt Claudia - the old hag - love her dearly. It’s run down. No one’s been there in years.”

“Alright. Good.”

“Why do you ask?”

John sees no way out of giving into her prying just a bit. “I need a project.”

“A project?”

“I’ve been given some leave. Need something to pass the time.”

A short lapse of silence. “Jack?”

“Hm?”

“Are you okay?”

He sighs heavily, swirling the glass in his other hand absently. The breath comes out shaky and there’s a stinging in the corners of his eyes. “I’m really fine, ma.”

“I wish you wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Wish you wouldn’t call me on it.” He chuckles bitterly.

“You’re my son, of course I’m going to call you on it.” She scoffs.

“I’ll…” John sighs. “I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will. You should talk about it, though. If not to me then to some friends.“

What friends? He wants to snap back. His ex-wife took all their mutual friends with her. The men on base aren’t his friends - can’t be with how he’s been treating them these past few months. There’s no fixing that. They’ll never trust him the same again.

Of course, he won’t tell her that. “I will, mum. I love you.”

“Love you, too. Goodnight.”

“Night.” The silence of the flat feels deafening as soon as the call ends. A reminder of all the things he isn’t - all the things he failed at. Nearly fourty years and nothing to show for it outside of his career. No one else is around to hear the poorly bitten back sobs and shaky gasps that echo through the bedroom until sleep finally overtakes him.

~~~

The home seems about as bad John assumed it to look when he pulls up. Bare patches where shingles have long fallen off spot the roof. The front porch has several posts missing from the railing and a few cracked boards. The steps creak worryingly under his boots but seem solid enough for now. John takes his time working through each room, just as he would on the job. Taking stock of damaged hinges and rusted pipes. At least the water runs and electric seems to be undamaged. Livable conditions even if it all needs a proper dusting and washing.

The interior is just as he remembers right down to the furniture. All family heirlooms with only a few updated pieces scattered throughout. Wicker chairs and heavy wood bed frames. The only truly new addition is the thick layer of dust and grime covering it all. If John were more poetic he may have something to say about that, but as it stands he is not and does not.

As he makes his way to the back, he comes across the majority of the damages to the property. The dock is missing a series of boards all the way down. The back porch has visibly rotting wood and most of the railing seems long gone. Weather battered and use torn. More shingles are missing from this side of the roof. The entire exterior needs a new paint job. Fixable enough with the right materials and some elbow grease. The perfect amount of work to fill the next ninety days.

As he makes his way through the overgrown back yard to look at the dock in more detail, movement catches his eye. A girl walking in the backyard of the house next door - a red, square little cabin that couldn’t house anything above two bedrooms at most. She stomps her way down the slight incline to the lake - carefully carrying a massive easel and canvas under one arm and a rectangular bag of what he assumes are art supplies under the other.

John isn’t sure what compels him to watch her. Maybe it’s the soft curve of her hips or the determined scrunch of her face - either way it takes longer than it should for him to tear his eyes away and head back into the lake house.

It’s easy enough to spend this first day busying himself with cleaning up the accumulated dirt. John ties a handkerchief over his face - more of a formality than a real barrier to keep from breathing too much in. He shouldn’t care. The man sucks down enough cigar smoke that even this dense sort of dust wouldn’t be more than a tickle. He sweeps and mops and throws some bedsheets in the wash. At least enough to last him until he can take the quilts outside and beat them properly.

Even as he climbs into the old but solid master bed he has lists running through his mind. Lists are good. Lists are a distraction. Sort of like counting sheep but more productive.

Needs a new hammer, nails, several lengths of screws. He’ll have to take into account the type of wood needed - might have to order the railing. The small town probably doesn’t have any that would match in person…

~~~

Even without an alarm John wakes at five am on the dot. After so many years of military life he has no hope of becoming a late sleeper. Even on lazy Sunday mornings, he’d wake first, stay in bed and wait for his ex-wife to wake. Often he would try to surprise her with breakfast…

John clears his throat and focuses on dressing for the day. Some old work jeans and a sturdy, standard issue t-shirt. He spends the morning finalizing his list, categorizing what he can most likely get in person and what will need to be ordered. He decides to get a calendar to plan out the repairs over the next three months, starting with the interior and working his way out. Methodical. Controlled. Just like he prefers.

Luckily the hardware store has more than he thought it would. Between the tools already in the lake house’s small garage and the few he needs to pick up, he should be well stocked for at least the first round of projects.

“New to town?” The older woman at the counter asks politely with minimal interest.

“Sort of. Fixin’ up a family home.” John grunts, dropping cash onto the counter.

“Ah.” She nods. “That’s good. So many places around here have been rotting away or getting bought up by vacation companies.”

John just hums in response. He doesn’t have much of an opinion on that. It’s not really his business what other people do. He shoves his change into the small tip jar on the counter and drags his supplies out to his truck.

He drives back in silence, opting to focus entirely on the empty country road. He hasn’t liked music much these days. John frowns as a figure making its way up the side of the road more into focus. The same girl from yesterday, the neighbor, pushes her bike along the side of the road. She’s limping slightly as she walks. Her legs and arms have a solid layer of dirt covering them. The front and back baskets of her bike are stuffed full of reusable grocery bags. She looks downright pissed as soon as he catches her face.

John slows when his truck finally catches up with her, rolling down the window. “You alright?”

“Fine!” You call back, obviously out of breath with a frustrated pinch to your face. You keep your eyes solidly forward. John glances down at your freshly skinned knees, wincing to himself.

“Y’don’t seem fine.”

“I am!” You turn up your nose, speeding up your walk ever so slightly. American. Interesting.

John lightly toes the gas to keep up. “Your knees look pretty banged up. I can give you a ride.”

You stop dead in your tracks. John barely has to touch the break to stop with you. There’s a fire in your eyes when you whirl on him - one that reminds him all too much of Soap when he gets the itch to blow something up. He takes you in piece by piece. He isn’t quite able to gauge how old you are. Younger than him, he thinks. Your face is soft despite the hard expression, body a graceful, continuously curved line. He snaps his eyes back to your face before you can catch him staring.

You raise your hand to point at him and then the little canister hanging from the carabiner hooked to your shorts. “I’m not going anywhere with you, old man! Try to make me and I’ll mace you.”

John blinks. Old man? He supposes it makes sense. To you he’s just a creepy guy trying to coax you into his beat up truck. “I, uh, saw you yesterday. Wait, wait! I’m fixing up the house next door. The blue one.”

That makes you pause your march again, turning to look at him slowly. You squint, eyes raking over the truck, the materials in the bed, and flicking around his face. A slow look of recognition dawns across your expression, the pinch of your lips changing into a gentle part.

“Oh. Yeah. I saw your truck.” There’s still a wariness in your tone, a shifting in your stance. Smart girl. He wonders if you can sense it. The things he’s done, the kind of man that he is. Does it roll off him in waves like he thinks? Would it surprise you?

“It’s still another five miles back. There’s room in the bed for your bike. Can’t be fun walking around all bruised up like that.” John nods to your knees again.

Your lip catches between your teeth, a sigh of defeat relaxes your shoulders. “Okay. I’ll still mace the fuck out of you if you get weird on me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” John chuckles.

You huff and load up your bike into the back of his truck. You’re stronger than he expected, throwing the bike and groceries around like they weigh almost nothing to you. The midday sun gives you a healthy glow despite the cuts a scrapes from your earlier fall.

“There’s a first aid kit in the glove box.” John says as you load up into the cab with him.

“Thanks.” You reach for it immediately, grabbing some disinfectant wipes and a few large bandaids. They’re still bleeding pretty badly - dripping down your dirt covered shins.

“What happened, anyway?” He asks as he starts down the old dirt road once again.

You hiss at the sting of the wipes. “My - ah fuck - bike chain snapped. Threw me off.”

“Y’don’t carry a back up?”

“Usually, but that’s the one that just broke. Piece of shit. Hadn’t gotten around to replacing it yet…” You keep your eyes down and pick at your confetti nail polish, obviously embarrassed.

John hums. “I might have one laying around the house. If not I can drive you to town to look for one.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that!”

“It’s no problem.” He chuckles. “If you don’t mind an old man driving you around, that is.”

“Y’know, on a closer inspection you’re not that old.” You grin. “Just the old-timey beard.”

“I’ve been told it’s distinguished.”

“That just means old.” You snicker.

A comfortable silence lapses between you - the only sound being that of the truck puttering down the dirt road. There’s a prickle on John’s skin and he glances over only to see your eyes dragging across his arm holding the steering wheel. You think you’re subtle, he’s sure, with the way you keep your face mostly forward and only look out of the corner of your eye. It’s hard to fool a SAS officer.

Who’s the creep now? John smiles and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from blurting it out.

You turn away to watch out the window as he pulls up just between your houses. A two hour walk reduced to all of ten minutes. “Glad to see that house finally getting fixed up. It’s depressing watching it decompose - even if it is kind of cool.”

John nods. “My family is small. Hasn’t seen a lot of use since my cousins and I were kids.”

“Just you?” You tilt your head, staring up at him with big doe eyes. “No wife or kids?”

“No.” He grunts, wincing internally at the harshness of it.

You don’t seem phased. If anything your smile gets just a hair wider. “Well, thanks for the ride. Glad you’re not a kidnapper.”

“Anytime.” He snorts, climbing out of the truck after you. “I’m John, by the way. John Price.”

“Oh! Didn’t even think to introduce myself.” You laugh and hold your hand as you give your name. It’s so much softer and smaller than his. He almost doesn’t want to let go.

Christ, is he really that fucking touch starved?

John clears his throat and sets his hands on his hips. “Need help carrying that in?”

“I can manage.” You look him over again. John can’t help but wonder what you see. Whatever it is, you smile and wave politely before disappearing into your cabin.

He’s still thinking about that as he gets ready for bed, staring at himself in the mirror. All he sees are the bags under his eyes and scars littering his torso. The grey hairs beginning to salt his beard and hair. The rough callouses on his hands from rougher work. A tired, grizzled officer with only work to look forward to. What did you like enough to stare at? He’s strong, sure, but no more than the next guy that works out or does physical labor.

John downs the last of his drink for the night, brushes his teeth and falls into bed. For once, there’s a relative peace as he falls asleep to the sounds of nature outside. No sounds of base to keep him awake, no itching sense of duty. Just frogs and crickets.

A/N: I know I have other stuff to work on but the brain worms are wriggling thinking about sad, lonely John Price.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

All In 7

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power imbalance, low self esteem, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you meet a mysterious man on a night out with your sister. (petite!reader)

based on the winning option for this poll

Characters: casino owner!Bucky Barnes

Note: another week...

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

When Bucky leaves, you feel less than relief. It’s easier to breathe without him around but your heart continues to race. You don’t move until you see him drive away. You steel yourself with the manufactured lie before you go back inside. 

As you do, you’re surprised to find Roxie beside your mom, both of them close to the front window. You sigh. Were they watching? You guess you can be thankful Bucky hadn’t done more than talk. 

Your mom faces you with a sheepish grin, “so... did you get it?” 

You look between her and your sister. Roxie has her phone in hand and an arch in her eyebrow, “I’d die for a boss like that.” 

“I...” you glance the screen before she can hide it. Oh. She had a picture of him pulled up on Google. So, they both know exactly who he is. 

“He must be really hands on if he came all the way down here to offer you a job,” Roxie tilts her head. 

“That’s the sign of a good boss,” your mom insists.  

“Really, I think his eyes were the kicker. So blue.” 

“Rox,” your mom nudges her. “A man like him, he’s got line ups, I’m sure. Besides, she’s too young for him.” 

“Well, I’m older,” Roxie smirks, “maybe she can get me a job too.” 

“Er, uh,” you wring your hands, “I should start dinner.” 

“You didn’t say if you go the job,” Roxie challenges. 

“Yeah,” you utter softly, “I got a job. Just cleaning.” 

“Hey, it’s better than nothing,” you mom assures as she comes to you. She puts her hands on your shoulders, “I’m so proud of you.” 

“Mom,” you try not to look pained as you return her smile, “it’s nothing. Really. A cleaner.” 

“We all gotta start somewhere.” 

“Yeah,” Roxie scoffs, “most of us a lot sooner.” 

“Oh, don’t be such a downer,” your mom lets you go to spin on your sister, “don’t rain on her parade.” 

“Whatever. I’d rather hand out flyers than clean toilets,” she rolls her eyes. 

You purse your lips and shy away. You feel worse that they believe you so easily and why wouldn’t they? No one would think that someone like you would merit such a preposterous offer from a man like Bucky. You still can’t really believe it. 

Maybe it’s just some twisted hallucination. You could wake up tomorrow and be just like you were before. You never thought you would long for that but now, being alone, being the loser, that feels safe. Being noticed, being someone, that’s terrifying. 

🃏

You take your time making dinner, a brief escape from reality. The distraction keeps you busy enough that your chest stops thrumming, yet your nerves are still spastic. You’re not very hungry once it’s done but you make yourself eat. 

Roxie heads off for work shortly after you gather up the dirty dishes and your mom goes to change into her pajamas. She startles you as you scour the pan you used to bake the chicken. You splash yourself and hiss. 

“Sorry, hon, I was just coming to check on you,” she leans against the counter, “you’re nervous, aren’t you?” 

You shrug, to fraught to answer. 

“You get restless, I can tell. You do everything just to keep from fidgeting,” she says, “it’s going to be okay. You’ll be just fine and you’ll see, it’ll be nice to have your own money.” 

“I know, mom,” you murmur, turning your face down to the sink, “it’s not that I don’t want to work, I just... I guess it’s the change that freaks me out.” 

“Change is good, even if it’s scary,” she says. “You’ll see.” 

“Mm,” you hum and try not to shatter, “I just want to help out.” 

“Hon, you worry about yourself. Please--” 

“No, I owe you.” 

“Owe me? I’m your mother. I just wish I could give you more,” she smiles and squeezes your arm. “If you’re not some busy working girl, we’ll celebrate on my day off.” 

“Sure,” you accept grimly. 

She leaves you and you’re silent as you finish up the dishes. You put them away and wipe the counters. When you finish, you shut off the lights. You say good night from the doorway and retreat into your room. Tomorrow. That’s all he said. That’s the only detail you go before he strolled off. 

You grab your phone and fall back on your bed. All you want is to lose yourself in a fic or a discussion board or even just scrolling mindlessly. You can’t. It’s like he’s taking over everything. There it is, that little icon you rarely see, a new message.  

You pull down the menu and stare at the preview. Two hours ago. You’re surprised he didn’t show up to check why you hadn’t answered. Again. You will at least need to send something before the night is over. 

‘Hey doll. I’ll send a car tomorrow morning at nine. Just bring yourself.’ 

You shudder and stare at the blue bubble around the text. Oof. Nine? That’s early for you. You suppose it’s about time you break that bad habit. 

‘Sorry. I was making dinner. Nine is good. Thank you.’ 

You hit send and put your phone down. You slide your laptop across the bed and open it up. You’ll watch something. That old BBC drama you found on the free streaming service has been pretty interesting, but you think you only have one episode left. That’s good, you can’t be up all night. 

Your phone buzzes. Shoot. Alright. You can do this. You have to get to it. You swipe up your phone again, surprised to find it’s still shaking.

Oh no. He’s calling! 

You panic and nearly hit decline before you manage to drag your thumb the other way. You put the phone to your ear, unable to muster even a squeak. What do you say? 

“Hey, doll,” Bucky’s voice drawls from the speaker, “hope I didn’t interrupt dinner.” 

“No, er, we’re done.” 

“Ah, and are you alone?” 

You frown, “yes?” 

“Good, good. Isn’t that sweet of you, cooking dinner for your family. That’s what I like about you. You take care of those you love.” 

You gulp. You don’t know what to say. 

“What was for dinner?” He asks as you hear a soft rustle. 

“Um, chicken and potatoes,” you answer bluntly. It’s an easy question. 

“You’re not busy or something?” He wonders. 

“Uh uh,” you shake your head even though he can’t see, “I’m just... in bed.” 

“Early night, huh?” He asks. 

“I guess, I was going to watch a show.” 

“Right, right,” he clicks his tongue as something taps followed by other indiscernible movements, “you in your pajamas? Bet those are cute?” 

“Not... yet,” you croak. 

“Mmm,” he purrs, “I just got out of the shower.” 

“You... did?” 

“Getting ready for tomorrow,” he explains, “gotta admit, I’m a bit impatient. You’ll see that about me, doll. When I want something, it’s hard to wait.” 

“Uh, oh...” you stutter out. 

“For you, I can,” he vows, “doll, do me a favour.” 

“A favour?” You echo thinly. 

“Mmm, yeah, I want you to get in your pajamas and send me a picture. Just to tide me over,” he coaxes. 

“A picture?” You open your eyes wide and gape at the wall. 

“Sure, just a taste. I wanna know what I should imagine next to me when I lay down.” 

“What?” You squeak, shocked by his insinuation. Imagining you?! 

“I can’t help myself. It’s lonely here.” 

“I...” you pick at your lower lip, “one sec. I... I gotta...” 

You put the phone on the bed and push yourself off the mattress. You trip on your own feet and hope he can’t hear you stumbling around. Your pajamas are kind of silly. You don’t really have any sexy ones. Maybe if he sees them, he’ll change his mind. 

The only matching pair you have have snoopy on the top and a large check bottom on the pants. You fish them out and change. It’s okay. He can’t see you at that moment. Still, it feels like he is watching you. Just as his presence has lurked around you all day. 

You go back to your phone and fumble around, “sorry, I... just... figuring out the camera.” 

You hear his timbre but can’t make out his words from the small speaker. You open the camera app and flip the camera. You move around, trying to take the pic, and lean the phone on the top of your dress. You angle it and mutter to yourself as you struggle to set the timer. 

You take several pictures before you’re not entirely discontent. You look awkward in all of them. The pants, like all your pants, are too long and gather around your feet. You don’t know how to pose either. Quite frankly, you look frightened in every single one. 

“Alright, I think...” you babble and find your way into the conversation and choose the least egregious frame. You hesitate and close your eyes as you push your thumb down on the arrow. 

You bring the phone back to your ear, “are you still there?” 

“Always, doll,” he assures and once more, the phone shifts around noisily. “Mm, Snoopy? I like it. More of a Woodstock myself but... Mm mm mm, you look good.” He pauses as you wriggle and your cheeks burn hotly. “Sexy.” 

“No,” you burst out without thinking. 

“No? You don’t think I’m telling the truth?” 

“I didn’t... say so, it’s... just pajamas,” you sniff, “sorry, I didn’t mean to argue.” 

“Doll, relax. Thing about you, you don’t even have to try.” 

You don’t reply. You have no idea what to say or even if you should believe him. You saw the picture, you look in the mirror every day, you know what you are. It still feels like some weird game. 

“Here, gimme a sec,” he says from his end. 

More rustling and the noise of a digital shutter. Your phone vibes shortly and you pull it away from your cheek. You squint at the screen as it lights up and an image buffers in the conversation. 

“Huh, uh, it’s not loading. My phone is--” you nearly swallow your tongue and gasp. 

Oh gosh. It’s a picture of him in almost nothing. Just a towel. His long hair is damp and pushed back and his dark beard contrasts his bright blue eyes as he aims the lens of his phone at himself in the mirror. His stomach is ridged with muscle, his chest trimmed with hair that trails down, and the towel hangs low, giving a generous hint of his pelvis. The vee above the fabric feels overly salacious. 

“Doll?” You hear the low tone of his voice and make yourself look away. You raise the phone again to your ear. “Everything okay? You got really quiet.” 

“I...” 

“You like what you see?” He asks coyly. 

You put your hand to your forehead, your flesh is fiery. It’s so much so fast. Just that morning, you’d convinced yourself you would never see or talk to him again. And now he’s sending you pictures like that and... flirting with you? 

“Yes,” you eke out then cover your mouth. He snickers and you clear your throat before you peel your hand away, “sorry, I mean... you’re... you... you must work out.” 

“Doll, you’re too adorable,” he says. 

You don’t say a word. You’re mortified. He knew you saw that. He knows you’ve seen him like that. He sent it! 

It’s all too much. You’re lightheaded. You rub your chin and shiver. 

“I should... sleep.” 

“Mm, me too,” he says, “hopefully I dream of you.” 

You giggle nervously, “really?” 

“Sure, doll. All I can do is dream. Until tomorrow,” he sighs, “and what about you? You gonna dream about me?” 

You squeak and stammer, “I... I... I...” 

He laughs again, “you really are so cute in those pajamas.” 

“Please,” you blurt out, “delete it.” 

“Now, why would I do that?” He challenges. 

“I don’t... know.” 

“I love it,” he insists, “you’re not deleting mine, are you?” 

“N-no, no, I’ll keep it.” 

“Hm, good,” he intones, “it’s all for you so don’t you go showing me off to all your friends.” 

It’s your turn to laugh. “Promise, I won’t.” If only he knew you don’t have any friends to show. 

[starrywilliams]

guilty as sin? | abby anderson

“these fatal fantasies giving way to labored breath, taking all of me, we’ve already done it in my head”

warnings: masturbation, slight masochism, ruined orgasm, angst, perv!abby (a little), internalized homophobia (discussed in more detail below)

notes: no surprise my favourite ttpd song is the gayest one on the album, but guilty as sin? screams lesbian guilt i fear!!!! i’ve been writing this for over a month so i hope u guys like it 😭

cw: discussion of lesbian guilt & comphet - these are somewhat based on my own experiences with my sexuality and i absolutely!!! do not think a man can ‘cure’ a lesbian or anything similar to that. nor do i believe anyone should ever feel guilty for being gay. realising i’m a lesbian has been extremely freeing & dykes r the best x

wc: 1.8k

likes, comments + reblogs are greatly appreciated :)

the door slammed harshly behind abby as she stormed into her room. she pulled her jacket off desperately; her skin hot under its tight vice. she’d been in the gym, trying to work out her endless frustration of late, when you’d walked in.

you’d only said “hi" and smiled politely at her before setting your things down. but she felt her stomach churn, a black hole opening inside her. abby stood up, pulling the weights off the barbell and onto their rack. she grunted softly, glancing at you from the corner of her eye.

you’d started stretching, currently bent over as you touched your toes. her eyes drifted for an infinitesimal moment, locking onto the swell of your-. she looked away - wrongwrongwrong.

but then she looked back, her stare feasting on your body. she wondered whether you were doing this on purpose, trying to tempt her from across the room. she wondered if you knew her dirty little secret, abby picturing a smirk on your face as you mocked her for such indecent thoughts.

she didn’t want to feel this way. she didn’t want to feel the poison ivy swarming around her chest, getting tighter, tighter. the rash spread inside her; this invisible whip of lust lashing against her skin whenever your face appeared in her mind. well, had it been just your face maybe she wouldn’t feel like some depraved sinner.

now it wasn’t like abby believed in god, in a world where death and destruction infect every crevice you’d have to be mad to believe that any ‘god’ wanted its followers to suffer so greatly. but something inside her screamed every time she had these thoughts. these impure, twisted thoughts about you.

she didn’t know what made her feel like this. what made her resent you for simply existing; and what made her resent herself.

she recalled her teenage years, when manny had subtly suggested that owen liked her - so she was supposed to like him back, right? and she tried! she loved him even - but there was always that something, that feeling in her gut that told her that something was wrong, something about him that just would never sit right with her.

but all the other girls wanted a boyfriend too, and the jealousy was nice at first - she’d thought. after all, mel was the star student, a doctor in the making, her dad’s favourite; and nora was this freshly trained medical officer, and abby was- abby was just abby.

her dad began noticing her more too - previously too preoccupied with his firefly duties and his favourite student. now his little girl was slipping away from him, he finally began paying her the amount of attention she’d craved for so long.

before, their conversations had often drifted into talk of mel and her new achievements, or his hopes of a vaccine, or some animal he was tracking. never anything about his daughter’s life.

having a boyfriend made her interesting, it gave the other girls something to envy. which was a nice reversal, for a while. then her dad died, and she had become this object of pity. owen helped a bit, she supposed. he tried to distract her and keep her focused on their new role as soldiers, but she barely cared about him anymore. all she wanted was revenge, and with revenge, came you.

you were one of the gyms trainers, passionate about helping the members of the wlf stay fit and healthy! you’d helped her start lifting weights, squealed as she reached every milestone, and had remarked jokingly about just how much you loved her new physique.

it was innocent at first, the most being her brain going a little fuzzy when you’d bit your lip while spotting her; a slight blush when you’d hugged her a little too tight. then, once she and owen were finally broken up, these new pictures began hanging themselves on the walls of her mind. still, innocent, just slightly tainted with desire - the true nature of them still an avoidable matter for her back then.

when she could ignore the truth in her recent behaviour, abby loved spending time with you. after all, you were just really good friends! anyway, she’d had a boyfriend before so everyone knew she was normal, and absolutely not different, and she would never ever have to feel like an outsider.

yet it took a mere three months before she gave up on this foolish lie. she liked you, and as long as nobody ever found out, it wouldn’t matter.

but as her mind grew dark and twisted - joel a constant topic in her head as she obsessed over finally getting to enact revenge - her thoughts got worse in turn. she wanted you - filthily and desperately.

every gym session ended with another cold shower, a desperate plea for her body to stop and let her focus on the task at hand; a hopeless attempt to bury this ache into the ground; an endless endeavour to escape these urges for just one second.

but then she came back changed, every hair on her body endlessly erected with guilt. the way she’d killed him so mercilessly, the way it had done nothing to ease the pain, and the way you had tormented her mind ceaselessly throughout the entire trip.

maybe, had she never met you, she could’ve just killed him and been satisfied. maybe had you never offered to train her personally, she could’ve just stayed comfortable in that stuffy closet. maybe if she found the right man she’d stop feeling this way.

abby deemed such ideas unfathomable now.

owen made her feel nothing. being with him was like an eternal thursday, an endless wait for the week’s end and its pleasure to turn up at her door. every day she’d wait for some spark to arrive, the routine only becoming more and more tedious by the minute. but he helped her get people’s attention, which was enough when she was just abby.

but then she was abby anderson, top scar killer and isaac’s favourite. she got attention on her own, she was praised for her own accomplishments: people worshipped the fucking ground she walked on. but they didn’t know who she really was.

they didn’t know she liked girls the way she was supposed to like boys. she’d seen it in enough of those wlf movie nights - cruel jokes about anyone who even thought about being different. she’d heard the way people gossiped, “did you hear that they’re moving lesbians into the family unit? what a joke.”

they said it like it was something dirty, something egregious, something that she had to hate about herself. so she did.

but as long as she kept it secret, kept it locked away in her mind, maybe she’d be okay. after all, only your actions talk: it was the age old question really, if a tree falls in a forest and no one else hears it, does it make a sound?

abby fell back against her bed sheets, calloused hands pushing her cargos down to her ankles as she replayed the sight of you in her mind. bent over - she felt like you were trying to tempt her on purpose.

she felt like a heathen; staring, fantasizing, worshipping. her mind was bursting with the idea of every possible position she could put you in; head a chorus of every little noise she wanted to hear you make; eyes screwed shut as depravity filled her every sense.

she shoved her bralette up her chest roughly, fingertips dragging over her nipples with little mercy. she pinched them, the peach skin stinging underneath her touch.

she wanted it to hurt; wanted it to feel like some sort of punishment for her thoughts. but as her hips bucked into the air, a long whine dragging from her clenched jaw, she realised it needed to hurt more.

she imagined you, finding her like this. disgust burnt into your features - what the fuck was she doing? repeating your name like some subverted prayer, fingers harshly scratching along her stomach as she tried to make the pleasure feel more like pain, trying to induce some connection between the two.

if it hurt enough, would she stop? force herself to forget? could she torture this part of herself until it surrendered?

her hand slipped over the top of her boxers, a finger running tentatively over her clit through the now darkened fabric. she bit down on her lip, groaning against it as she pushed down harder and harder, attempting to break through the skin.

another finger pressed down, beginning to draw circles down on the throbbing bud. she jolted against her own touch, your head between her legs burning into her mind. your hands, trailing along her flesh - groping at her with little tenderness; tongue, swiping at her pussy with no intent of fulfillment: she wanted you to make her weep, smoke out her lungs with shame, deny her from gratification until all she could feel was regret.

she pulled away, only to cover her fingertips with her spit - diving under her boxers to continue with her corruption. abby let out a strangled sigh, hips grinding against her fingers as they toyed with her clit.

she moved a hand to her hair, knuckles stretching against her scalp as she began to pull her braid. she grunted, yanking even harder. she whispered your name: pained, hopeless.

she sped up her assault against her pussy, feeling that pit in the bottom of her stomach begin to grow. “pleasepleaseplease” her voice cracked as she begged, unsure what she was pleading for.

she wanted to stop, but she needed to try and make this feeling go away. she knew it would come back, it always did - but even five minutes free from your torment on her mind might save her.

her fingers kept going, drawing desperate circles against her weeping pussy relentlessly. the void was growing, almost consuming her entirely at this point. she thought of you laughing at her current state: a crying mess, pussy wet with perversion.

it was sick, really - how the idea of you hating her for this made her need even worse. you’d probably think it appalling: someone who was supposed to be your friend, now sat here burning at the thought of you.

a part of her wished that you shared this sickness. that you too let yourself be overwhelmed by the thought of sin. maybe you didn’t let the guilt swallow you whole - she hoped so.

but there was no point lingering in the what-ifs, they were far too fleeting.

her deft fingers quickened their pace, the ache all consuming. the climb began - a desperate jump towards oblivion. closer, closer. the flames scorched her bedsheets as her breathing hastened.

fuck, she hissed before reaching the apex with a scream of your name. a scream? a whisper? a thought? it didn’t make her actions any less deplorable.

her conscience grabbed pleasure by the throat as she ripped her fingers away, putting out the blaze on her hips like a cigarette crushed on the ground.

the desire imploded within the walls of her torso; scratching against her insides in the vengeance of her denial.

it was wrong; she had to stop it. yet still, the guilt poured into her lungs with no chance of resolve. she was a fool for thinking it would fix her. maybe next time it would work. maybe next time the exorcism would finally purify her.

until next time.

[electricsynthesis]

“Tell me the rules,” his dad says, backpack thrown over his shoulder. They’re walking along the dirt road that leads to town, leaving the parked truck behind them; Keith’s dad had said he didn’t want anyone to see his license plate. When Keith opens his mouth, mind about to spill something about when to wash his hands, his dad interrupts with, “The rules for going into town.”

Keith scurries to keep up with his father’s long strides. It’s hot today, and Keith shifts his new backpack over his uncomfortably sweaty shoulders. His backpack has the constellation Orion on it, which is very exciting. It’s his first time taking it into town.

“Don’t talk to anyone,” Keith recites dutifully.

His father nods his approval. “Unless?”

“Unless you say it’s okay.”

“That’s right. And? What else?”

“No drawing attention to myself,”

“That means?”

“Keeping my ears covered,” Keith counts off on his fingers. “Lowering my eyes. Ummm…” when his dad explained this one to him, he’d just talked again and again about why Keith isn’t supposed to talk to anybody.

“Just… just don’t draw any attention,” his dad sighs.

“I don’t know what—”

“Yes, you do, boy, come on. It ain’t hard.” He snaps. Keith shuts his mouth. “What’s the last rule?”

“…I promised it wouldn’t happen again,” Keith whines, embarrassment and shame squirming in his gut.

“What’s the last rule?”

“It’s not fair,” Keith goes on, hotly, jogging to match stride with his dad. “I won’t talk to anyone. I swear. I just want to—”

His dad stops walking entirely to whirl on Keith. He towers up, high in the air and looking darkly down at Keith. “You will not wander off. I won’t stand for it.”

“I was fine—”

“You can wander around with your thumb up your ass the day I ain’t around anymore to tell you not to,” his dad says, the harsh snip of finality to his tone. “And not a second sooner.”

Keith lowers his eyes, chastised. Shame makes his chest warm, and his breath shudders as he nods, silently.

“You understand?”

“I understand,” Keith mumbles, eyes hot. He scrubs at his face before they can fall.

Silently, they walk past the sign that says LINCOLN, NEVADA. Dirt roads become asphalt. Stone stucco and brick buildings rise from the sandy ground. Keith brushes his sneakers over patches of grass on the side of the road. There’s a hum of activity in the air; all at once, noise and chaos rush him and his father.

There are so many people. They are all so different from Keith’s dad, who’s the only person he knows. They are tall and short and old and young. Some of them are even girls. Keith sticks close to his father’s side. He wants to grip the leather belt holding up his dad’s cargo shorts, but the last time he did that, his dad told him not to act like such a baby.

Keith’s eight now, and that means he needs to start acting like a grown up. But he isn’t allowed to explore on his own, not ever. The unfairness of it twists his stomach and his mouth along with it, but he doesn’t say anything.

His dad abruptly stops walking, and Keith runs into his side in surprise. His dad’s strong hand reaches out to steady Keith by his shoulder before he can fall. His dad’s face is thoughtful as he looks down at Keith. He crouches down. “You promise you won’t go nowhere I don’t give you permission to?”

Keith’s chest lights up with hope. “I promise. I swear.” He draws a cross over his chest. “Cross my heart, hope to die,”

“Stick a needle in your eye.” His dad finishes with a crooked smile. “Aaaalright,” he draws out the word, digging through his pocket for his wallet. He pulls out a bill and goes to hand it to Keith. But when Keith reaches for it, he snaps it back. Keith’s eyes find his father’s face. “You remember how to get to Lela’s?”

“Yes,” Keith nods.

“And you cross your heart you won’t talk to anybody but Lela?”

“Yes,”

“And you’re only allowed to talk to her about what you’re buying.”

“Yes, sir.”

His dad’s smile goes soft, and he hands him the money. Keith closes his hand around it in victory, chest warm with excitement. “Then why don’t you go buy your daddy some cigarettes?”

“Yes! Thank you, Daddy!” Keith cries, wrapping his father’s waist in a tight, happy hug. His dad chuckles, a big hand coming down to ruffle Keith’s hair.

“Come straight back here when you’re done, and if I ain’t here, wait for me. Don’t talk to nobody. And,” he flicks the edge of the bill. “Whatever you have leftover, you can spend on yourself. Whatever you want.”

Utter elation spreads through Keith’s entire body. “Really?”

“Really.” He chuckles, and pushes himself to a stand. He shoves at Keith’s shoulder, causing him to stumble in the direction of the road. “Get going, then.”

Keith takes off at a run through the streets, dodging around the legs of the town people. That’s what Keith’s dad calls them, anyway. Them town people don’t know shit from Adam. His dad doesn’t like people very much. But that’s alright— the only person Keith needs is his dad.

He trips over something fabric and springy, and goes sprawling onto the asphalt. It bites his palms and he hisses in pain, eyes watering. A dog barks very close to his face, and he yelps in surprise. When he whirls around in the dirt, he finds himself face to face with a dog. A big dog; shaggy brown fur and a long snout. Keith can smell the dog’s breath as it pants, and he wrinkles his nose.

“Oh my goodness!” Comes a shrill voice, and Keith, suddenly ill-at-ease, whips his head up. A woman stands there, with white hair and big glasses. She blinks owlishly down at him, mouth hanging open. “Are you alright, honey? You hurt anywhere?” Keith doesn’t do or say anything, he just stares at her. After a second, she stutters, “Where’s your momma?”

Nowhere, Keith doesn’t say, because he isn’t supposed to talk to anyone except Lela.

“Honey? You alright?” When she crouches down and reaches a hand out, Keith’s heart careens into overdrive. He flings himself upward and takes off sprinting once again into the roads. She calls something after him, but he ignores her. He can’t talk to her anyway.

Keith decides that he’s seen more people today than he has in his whole life before. The thought leaves him breathless and a little scared, but his dad let him go off alone, and he can’t mess this up. So he traces the roads, checking and double checking all the turns and signs until he finds himself at Lela’s Swap Shop.

The bell ting-tings as he opens the door, and it makes him jump in surprise. It squeaks as it slides shut, which makes his ears twitch. But he rallies himself; inside, it’s very cold— cold like winter— and he rubs at his arms. There’s a buzzing sound in the air that he doesn’t like. It’s a lot like a flying bug, or maybe if a car were really quiet? After a moment of investigation, he realizes that the shelves are making that sound. When he waves his hand over them, they’re cold. Woah. Like their fridge at home!

He remembers that the cigarettes are behind the counter, and that you have to ask for them. So he jogs past the shelf-fridges until he comes up to a wooden counter. He has to stand on his tiptoes to reach it, and he sets his elbows on the wood to help.

A woman emerges from a swinging door to the back. She’s tall. Maybe almost as tall as Keith’s dad. Her hair is long and black, and her eyes are dark. Keith swallows past a suddenly dry throat; he’s supposed to talk to her.

“Hey there, little man,” she says, talking softly. “You want some candy or something?”

Keith opens his mouth. No sound comes out. He’s supposed to talk to her. He has permission. He has to talk to her to get the cigarettes. But this whole thing is suddenly crazy; there’s so many people, and it’s so loud, and Keith is very small. Keith is trying to remember if he’s ever talked to someone without his dad before.

“Hon,” she says. “Are you alright?”

“Cigarettes,” Keith blurts, mouth and throat moving before his brain does.

She stands back, almost affronted. “What’s a little boy like you need with cigarettes?”

“They’re for my daddy,” he explains, shame warming his cheeks. He puts the bill on the counter. “See? He gave me this.”

Her mouth twists. She looks at the bill, and then at Keith. “And who exactly is this Daddy of yours?”

“Um,” Keith feels very chastised. “Heath Kogane?”

She chews on this for a second. Then, she swings her eyes up to the sky, and quietly mutters, “If anyone is gonna send their tiny little boy to,” and then she trails off unintelligibly. “Oh, fine. You know what your daddy smokes?”

“Marlboro menthols,” Keith recites.

She seems unwilling as she opens up the glass case behind her and pulls out a box of cigarettes. She hands them to Keith only after a long, drawn out sigh. When he takes them, she swipes his money and punches something into her cash register with clear annoyance on her face. “You tell your daddy to come and talk to me next time he’s in town, won’t ya?” She says, handing him another bill and some coins. In her other hand is the box of cigarettes.

And Keith is struck frozen-still, because he isn’t supposed to talk to Lela about anything other than buying stuff. So he takes the money, the cigarettes, turns heel and walks away. Lela stutters a few wordless sounds behind him, but he immediately realizes he doesn’t know where he’s going. “Where’s the candy?” He asks.

“Aisle four,” she says, voice confused. When he looks at her for a long moment, she points at the ceiling. “The aisles are labeled.” Keith follows her finger just to see that yes, there are little numbered signs. He rushes over to aisle four.

These shelves do not appear to be fridge-shelves, but just regular shelves. They’re stocked with all kinds of things; toaster waffles and crackers and things he doesn’t recognize. But he follows the shelves until he finds the technicolor packaging he associates with candy; neon brights and big bubble letters. He very carefully reads the label on each one, looking for— ah!

He finds a bag of sour jawbreakers and immediately rushes back over to the counter. He throws the bag so hard the jawbreakers shudder in place. Lela raises her eyebrows down at him. He hands her the money she just handed him, wordless. His other hand is still holding the cigarettes.

Equally wordless, she takes the money. Punches some more things into her cash register. This time, she only hands him a few coins leftover. He swings his backpack to his front, unzipping it and sliding the cigarettes, the candy, and the coins inside. He carefully arranges them so they all sit upright. Then, he zips has bag back up.

“Orion,” she says.

Keith’s eyes go wide. Not even his dad recognized the constellation, and he was the one who bought Keith the bag for his birthday.

She mistakes his wide eyes for confusion, and nods to his bag. “It’s very cool. You like the stars?”

Amazement has Keith nodding, very slowly.

“I do too,” she smiles. “Tell you a secret,” she lowers her voice, and Keith leans in close to hear better. “I used to be a pilot.”

His eyes go even wider. A pilot? His dad was a pilot, too. Pilots are so lucky. They get to touch the sky.

“D’you like space?” She asks.

Keith nods.

“You wanna fly?”

Keith nods.

She reaches out, and he flinches. But she just smiles, and brushes her finger against the front of his bag. “It’s much prettier up close.”

Keith doesn’t say anything. He hugs his backpack closer to his chest. But he feels breathless as he nods. He steps back, looking at her as he backs up. Backs up and up and up, until he’s sliding back through the door and into the outside world. He only loses sight of her when the door is swinging shut again.

Keith isn’t sure why he’s blinking tears from his eyes, or why his heart feels so fragile in his chest. He’s eight now; he isn’t supposed to be such a baby.

[shadowqueenjude]

Eris makes a deal with Keir

for @the-darkestminds

Eris interlaced his hands before him, smiling insouciantly at Keir Darkbringer. Despite technically being Rhysand’s subordinate, Keir had little to no fear of the man, and shockingly, Rhysand had let him stay in power for centuries despite being a despot. Having just learned of his position of power and the second game afoot with Rhysand and the Night Court, Eris set out to figure out why. It seemed that however much Rhysand and his dogs claimed to care for Mor, they hadn’t cared enough to warn her about their deal-making with Keir and himself.

Which left it to Eris to be the compassionate one. Shame; compassion was certainly not his strong suit. There were perhaps only two people in the world he had ever truly been kind to, and one would barely speak to him.

Eris shut out the pain at that thought, focusing instead on the man before him. “Hello, Keir.”

“What is this about,” Keir asked flatly, sitting down at the long table with Eris. They were on neutral ground in the Middle, just feet from the infamous mountain where Amarantha had ruled. Eris gestured towards it. “You know, that’s the place where much of Prythian was trapped and tormented by the dark queen for decades. Seems rather ordinary from here, doesn’t it?”

Keir’s lip twitched. “Quite. But I’m sure all the magic occurred underneath.”

Eris raised one leg onto the table, the picture of the arrogant prince. “You would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Keir? In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Amarantha’s domain was modeled after your own.” Keir’s brown eyes turned dark with rage, and Eris noted his hands fisted against his thighs. “Not my domain,” he hissed. “It was Rhysand’s father who trapped us here. The High Lord is merely continuing the family tradition.”

Eris chuckled. “One would think after fifty years in that place Rhys would be more sympathetic to your plight.”

Keir looked mollified at that, straightening his baby crown over his blonde waves. “Instead he has only cracked down more on us since coming back.”

Eris clucked his tongue sympathetically. “Rhysand got special privileges,” Eris drawled, twisting a golden ring around his finger. “For being Amarantha’s whore, he didn’t suffer as we did. He didn’t need to worry about seeing his mother die right before his eyes, or being impersonated by those creepy Attor, or becoming the nightly entertainment, which typically involved lots of blood and torture. For giving her a little dick every now and then and killing some children, he got away scot-free.”

And Eris knew much of Prythian would never forgive him for it; especially not when Tamlin himself stood against Amarantha for as long as he did. When it was a mere human who freed them all. Eris did not forgive or trust Rhysand, but he supposed he was in no place to judge considering all he had done in his father’s name. He just wished Rhysand would stop acting like such a hero. It made him insufferable.

“Dirty, sniveling bastard,” Keir muttered under his breath.

“Anyhow, I understand your position where even Rhysand cannot. He wasn’t restrained to Under the Mountain like we were. He went there often, yes, but he was free to leave. But now then, Rhysand being a prick doesn’t make you any less of a jackass. Nailing and mailing your daughter to me, Keir? Could you be any more barbaric?” Eris spoke lazily, popping a cork of a champagne bottle as he finished, pouring it generously into a glass he conjured from midair. He then poured another glass to Keir and offered it to him. He didn’t take it.

“She was of no use to me here,” Keir answered coldly.

“No regret about torturing your daughter?” Eris crooned. “Were you hoping I’d accept her still out of pity, perhaps? Surely you knew there’s not a kind bone in my body.” That was true, but preventing Mor from crossing into Autumn territory was one of the greatest kindnesses he could’ve done. Being in Autumn Court territory would have bound her to him forever, and Eris knew she did not wish that at all. Better dead than suffer as his spouse.

“She deliberately disobeyed me and gave herself over to that savage,” Keir snarled, slamming his fists on the table. “This occurred long ago; what is the point of mentioning it now.”

Eris shrugged, tracing a finger across the rim of his glass, toying with Keir. “Well you see, it has always been a lifelong dream of Mor’s to free those girls from the Hewn City. Girls like her who have been trapped in cruel marriages to cruel men. And I can make it happen. I shall, if you wish to make a deal with me.”

“I tire of these games,” Keir snapped. “I already have a deal to be able to access Velaris. Why do I need you?”

Eris smirked. He had Keir right where he wanted him.

“Oh please, Keir, we all know you despise Night Court land, and I wholeheartedly agree,” he purred. “The atmosphere is terrible and the land is barren and who wants to live with all those Illyrian brutes anyway?”

Keir hesitated before he nodded. “True.”

“And as I’m sure you know, I am not merely the general of the Autumn Court armies. I am also lord of the Hestian plains, some of the finest land in Autumn.”

Keir raised an eyebrow, starting to put everything together.

“So, I’ll allow your people to begin to relocate there. But,” Eris raised a hand, interrupting Keir as he was about to speak, “only select citizens of my choice. This is my land, so I get to choose who lives on it. You will, of course, be provided with a fine estate of your own there, and plenty of comforts. Is that not a better deal than the closed city Velaris?”

Keir narrowed his eyes at Eris, considering his offer. “And if I reject your offer?”

Eris shrugged. “You won’t be rejecting it.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

Eris stood up, leaning across the table towards Keir. “There’s a reason you wanted your daughter to marry me so badly,” he murmured. “There’s a reason that after my rejection, you seek me out still. Unfortunately for you, I have discovered it. Why you desire me to be part of your family so.”

For the first time, Keir truly looked afraid. Eris relished that look. “And? What have you found out?” Eris was sure it was meant to sound like a demand, but Keir was far too breathless for his words to sound remotely commanding.

“There aren’t many who delve into the mystical arts,” Eris hummed, not letting his eyes leave Keir’s. “It took…more time than it ought owing to my father’s interference, but I discovered the one you went to before you were trapped under the mountain. And, well, with the right encouragement, the woman was perfectly happy to talk to me.” Eris didn’t elaborate on what he meant by “encouragement,” instead drinking in the scent of Keir’s growing anxiety.

“Your daughter will possess the power of Truth,

She shall attain great success with her strength and youth,

Her spouse shall come from Autumn or Night,

Listen carefully, oh Darkbringer, for she may be your plight,

You’ve been gifted the boon of invincibility,

But such a blessing must always be accompanied by an Achilles heel, silly,

Yours is her. Despair, for you cannot have her killed,

Your destiny by her shall be willed.

Should she marry Autumn’s heir, you shall attain untold amounts of power,

But should she marry an Illyrian, soon not even your servants shall cower,

For Autumn’s son shall be your sword,

But the Night’s son shall be your lord.”

Keir’s skin paled. Eris had recited his prophecy to completion. He knew his darkest secret. He had no cards left to play.

“I don’t think you want this information in the Inner Circle’s hands, do you?” Eris whispered.

Keir’s body swirled with darkness. “I could just kill you and be done with it,” he mused. Eris had to laugh. Powerful though Keir might be, he was no match for a High Lord’s heir, especially not Autumn’s.

Eris let his body encircle itself in flame. “I’d like to see you try. You do know what light and heat does to darkness and cold, don’t you, Keir?”

Keir stayed in a fighting stance for a moment longer before he relaxed. “Fine. I agree to your deal.”

“Swear to it,” Eris insisted. Keir looked murderous, but he grumbled, “I swear.”

Eris watched as black swirls creamed up the inside of Keir’s arm. A matching gold mark formed on Eris’s. He winked at Keir. “Good boy. Pleasure doing business with you.”

Then he winnowed out of the meeting spot before Keir could snarl insults at him.

[gumnut-logic]

Scott was finalising a spreadsheet from hell when he was interrupted by a curse in Gaelic?

At least he thought it was Gaelic. Whether it was Irish, Scottish or some other dialect, he didn’t have a clue. But in any case, he was pretty sure he knew why.

Only one thing pissed off John enough to go for the ancient languages.

Scott thumbed his collar. “Yes, Thunderbird Five?”

There was a growl followed by a giggle in the background.

Scott rolled his eyes. So Eos was in on it this time.

Great, just great.

“Thunderbird Five, location on our bogey.”

“Your ‘bogey’ is on the residential balcony.”

Oh, yes, John was not happy at all.

“FAB, Thunderbird Five.”

He stood up with a sigh and stretched a few kinks out of, well, everything. He’d been out on a rescue early this morning – some unrecovered ordinance in the hands of the wrong people had levelled a building or two. Virgil had been the one swearing over that one.

Fortunately, it had been in an abandoned mine complex and while the idiots, playing with what they shouldn’t, got themselves into some strife, no one else was endangered. IR had saved and delivered them to the nearest hospital and law enforcement.

Virgil had had so many words.

Scott had shared some of those words with those in need of knowing and they’d all returned home for lunch.

Two was called out halfway between Virgil’s midday coffee and the sandwich Scott had prepared for him.

Suffice it to say, his steadfast brother wasn’t having a great day. Scott had offered to come with, but Virgil had waved him off. A glance at Gordon and his fish brother had run off after Virgil, inserting himself into the equation with his usual grin.

Gordon would either cheer up Virgil or blow him up. Either would fix the problem.

So it had been with that in the back of his mind, and on his tablet while he worked, keeping an eye on his two brothers as they discovered the second piece of unclaimed ordinance for the day.

Virgil was going to be fun to listen to tonight.

But it wasn’t Virgil he had to listen to right now.

Working out the kinks, Scott jogged up the stairs to the residential areas and, with a sigh, strode out onto the balcony.

As expected, Tony was lazing in one of the loungers, drinking…

“That’s my best scotch you’re chugging, you know.”

Still dressed in his Ironman suit, Tony looked up and over his shoulder. “Thanks for stocking it.”

Scott rolled his eyes for the second time and took a seat in the lounger next to the man. “You’ve pissed off John again.”

Tony took a sip. “My life has purpose.”

Scott turned to him in exasperation. “You do realise what John is capable of?”

“Eh, Jarvis and Eos have an understanding. Heh, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were dating.”

“You really have a death wish, don’t you.” It was not a question.

His fellow billionaire turned to him at that. “What? You think the fuddley-cuddley Tracys are even on my radar? I got bigger fish to fry. Dream on.”

“Watch it, Stark.”

“Oh, I’m shivering in my boots.”

“You are an ass.”

“Fully qualified.”

“So what do you want?”

“Your tech.”

“We’ve had this discussion.”

“Yes, we have. And I know for a fact that none of you Tracys are cool enough, much less smart enough, to have come up with all this.” His hand, not occupied with a glass of Scott’s scotch waved dramatically.

“Stark…”

Stark’s face twisted. “Bruce wants a playdate with Virgil.”

“You’re not on his favourites list today. We had more unaccounted for ordinance this morning. This time in Texas.”

An arched eyebrow. “And pretty little tech it was.”

“It levelled an entire mining facility. If it had been let loose in a populated area people would be dead.”

“Fury’s working on it.”

“Yeah, sure.” Okay, so perhaps, Scott was being a bit hard on the Shield branch of the GDF, but damnit there had been so many casualties due to discarded Chitauri weaponry amongst other things that the department claimed to have under control.

“I don’t see you out there fixing the problem.”

“We’re out there every day! Cleaning up your messes.”

“While we’re saving your asses.”

“Yes, thank you for that, but we’re busy saving everyone else every time Thor throws a party, or Bruce has a bad day.”

“We’ve had this discussion.”

Yes, they had and this conversation was getting them nowhere. Old grudges.

Old friendships.

“So, we’re all doing our best. How can we do better?”

“And there’s my goodie-two-shoes Tracy.”

“Shove it, Stark.” Scott stood up. “I’ve got better things to do.”

“Scotty, Scotty, Scotty.”

Scott grit his teeth. “What the hell do you want?”

“A chat with your gurus.” He laid back on the lounger. “And a holiday. This is the only place on the planet Fury can’t reach me, you know.”

The thought of the Avengers on Tracy Island was just…no.

“Find your boy band its own tropical island. Don’t you have three in the Caribbean?”

“Sure, but none have Tracys on them. Well, unless you’ll lend me one unsupervised.” Tony grinned up at him.

“In your dreams, Stark.”

The billionaire sighed and, putting down his glass, rolled to his feet.

Scott looked down at him. It was juvenile, but he’d known Tony since they were kids and while Tony boasted his smarts, Scott had always towered over him.

It wasn’t a big thing, but Scott was going to work with what he had.

Stark poked him in the chest with one metal clad finger. “Look, I know we’ve had our…” He waved his head as if looking for a word that Scott knew he didn’t have to look for. “…differences. But we want the same thing. To keep everyone safe. Now my team is doing what is necessary, same as you. Bruce thinks he needs one of your boys to help. Cap agreed. You gonna share or be an ass?”

Scott eyed him calmly. “I know which you chose.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Tracy, I’m trying to do good here.”

Scott had to give him that. Ever since IR had yanked him out of that kidnap/terrorist scenario in Afghanistan, Tony had been doing his best.

It was also the reason why Scott was talking to him and not Kayo. No doubt his sister had every sensor trained on the man this very moment. She and John were very much of the same opinion in regards to Tony Stark.

Both got seriously pissed each time Stark breached their security without even trying.

Perhaps there was something they could share.

Scott straightened. “I’ll think about it.” He paused and let the hope drip into Tony’s expression. “If you let John and Kayo know how you get through our security.”

Ironman blinked. “Sure.” He shrugged as if he didn’t care. Which he probably didn’t. It would only give him the opportunity to work out another way to skip through their sensor net. John and Tony had been rivals for years.

One enjoying it far more than the other.

If Five had lasers like Two, Tony might not exist any more.

Note to self: Keep John out of Two while working with the Avengers.

Hell, keep John in space.

But there was the truth of it. Tony knew the answer Scott was going to give because since the man had turned back from the dark side, they were on the same team.

And goodie-two-shoes Tracy didn’t have a choice because right was right, no matter who you had to play with.

His father’s voice chanted in the background something about saving all who need saving.

But you can’t save them all, Scott’s stubborn streak replied in a manner that statement wasn’t quite intended for.

Tony grinned at him and picked up his drink again and chugged the last of the scotch.

“Good talking with you Tracy. I’ll let Brucie know he can come and play.” And with that, Ironman threw on his helmet and took off from the balcony, leaving scorch marks in the hardwood, and disappeared into the blue, blue sky.

Scott grunted. Next time he visited Avengers Tower there was going to be so much accidental thruster damage on their landing platform.

“John, update on Two?”

“Finished and on their way home. They’ve been warned about Stark in the area.”

Another grunt.

At least Tony wouldn’t attempt to vandalise Two again. Certainly not after last time. And besides, he obviously wanted Virgil’s help, so would likely be on his best behaviour.

A sigh.

“John, track Stark out of our airspace and let him go.”

“Scott-“

“I said ‘let him go’.”

He got a grumbled FAB in return before the line cut.

Scott strode back inside and headed down to security to weather the storm that was no doubt happening down there. Better to unwind Kayo before winding up half the family about working with the Avengers.

Yet another sigh.

This was going to be fun.

In every other sense of the word.

-o-o-o-

[blubrown9637]

After watching bang brave bang bravern’s episode today, I still feel like something is up with bravern. I feel like he knows something especially when it comes to lulu and isami being a pilot.

In episode 2 Isami’s clothes disintegrate, mid way of episode 3 his comrades ask if he’s hungry or how does he go to the bathroom. Bravern just laughs it off and that it’s a secret.

NOW in this episode we’re being shown that lulu, who was also a pilot, has a weak digestive system and most likely has never left her robot partner. Idk man something’s up man.

[soulless-bex]

criminal mind x percy jackson au where spencer is a son of athena and went to new york to help with the titan war

spencer who also kept his distances with the greek world to focus on his career (not that constantly travelling from one side of the country to the other helps with that). wishes that the camp respected since he worked so hard to get where he’s at

spencer who only periodically got updates on how things were at camp. spencer who only learns about luke’s treason when he makes it to new york. spencer who has no time to process the grief of his relationship with luke before being thrown in a war, easily falling back into his demigod reflexes

spencer who, a few weeks later (he didn’t have it in him to leave before the shrouds were all burned), returns to his job on edge, the trauma and grief still fresh in his mind

spencer who forgets how to act like a mortal and attracts the concern of his team

[reignningcatsanddogs]

my thoughts upon finishing the brothers hawethorne is that i. absolutely. loved. it. this book gave so much insight into the brothers as characters; their relationship, their personalities, insecurities, strengths. i physically did not think it was possible to fall for jameson hawethorne anymore than i already did but here we are. and avery and jameson being the puzzle duo was so cool to see like they are THAT couple. grayson and his sisters was also so heartwarming, i love that grayson finally has purpose and something of his own which is free from any kind of expectations or rules. plus gigi needs to be protected at all costs she is a ball of sunshine.

[hamable]

I’ve known about the Walrus vs Fairy debate for about 11 minutes now and I’ve never been more angry in my life you’re all wrong and I’m taking it personally.

[sanyu-thewitch05]

Cursed Twst thought:

TW: Blood

F! Yuu having their period while under Malleus’s spell.

(Explanation in the tags)

[macroglossus]

semi-convinced charles dickens can’t write a novel without including a plucky urchin-type with a very short name

[person8789]

Actively shaking and sobbing /j

The event itself almost going into December 😅😭

[edettethegreat]

THEY PULLED A MADOKA TWIST. THEY PULLED A MADOKA TWIST AND I DIDNT EVEN SEE IT COMING

[gregmarriage]

what if connor and willa are about to get married, but it’s revealed that they can’t, because connor is already legally married and his first wife is in locked in the attic of austerlitz

[valleyfae]

seb in a buffalo 66 type of movie would kill me oh my god i need it so so so bad

The dark sense of humor. I need it now.

I also need a Seb American Beauty type movie