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ghouljams · 9 months

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Last night I had a dream that fae!Price’s darling was a witchy gal, her grandmother taught her about the fae when she was young. I’m talking warded up house, always carrying iron and salt, candles herbs and crystals the whole nine yards. They met in the flower shop after she got a weird vibe, looked through a hagstone and Saw him. He showed up in her garden and she gave him mead she made to make up for her rudeness. She will do small acts of kindness but specify that they are “freely given” to avoid tethering. I was reading your blog right before bed lol. I like the idea of debt holder Price and a (from a fae perspective) slippery darling that he just can’t catch unless she wants to be caught

*Holding the grimoire I wrote as a senior capstone in College* Oh you want witch shit? I can give you witch shit. Let's keep trying out Price's darlings, the only thing I require for her is that she have the most knowledge of the fae because she's dealing with the big kid one. (Here's where I mention that I also have a potential witch darling for Gaz so keep that in mind)

He's been hanging around your garden, just by your back gate, right where your grandmother planted rosemary so many years ago. You greet him every time you pass by, careful never to reach over the brick wall that separates you. He's friendly, but you're not so easily fooled.

"Good morning," you smile at him, watering the herbs on your side of the fence. He leans against the brick to watch you. Eyes heavy as they slide over you, tracing the sway of your skirt where it skims your thighs.

"How's my pretty witch doing today?" He asks voice thick and promising. He's just as careful to avoid your iron watering can as you are to keep it from splashing him. You find the residual warding properties tend to soak into the water. Your family has always maintained a strong threshold for the home.

"Better seeing you," you joke, returning the compliment as easily as can be. You never miss the heat in his eyes, the danger just below his friendly facade.

"I brought you something."

"That's very kind of you," you tell him, "I think the tomatoes are ripe, I'll send you off with some for the trouble."

"No trouble, I wanted to bring it."

"Oh but I couldn't accept a gift without repaying you, it would be rude of me."

"Repay me later," he growls, and you smile a little wider. You like this dance, you've never had a fae try so hard to get their hooks in you. You set down your watering can and lean against the brick across from him. Your weight resting on your elbows, the threshold humming between you.

"But I can repay you now."

"It's a gift."

"Gifts have strings."

"Then it isn't a gift," he says, mirroring your posture.

"Then what is it?" You ask, his eyes flick to your chest, appreciative, wanting. His confidence is charming, or it would be if you were the sort of person to take the fae at face value.

"A name," Your smile drops, your heart jumping up your throat. He must see the panic in your eyes because his smile widens. "Not to keep, just... to call me when we talk." Your pulse tries to slow from the impact of panic. He did that on purpose, you try not to look too rattled by this. You try to think of an appropriate repayment.

"I can't tell you mine."

"I know." He purrs, pleased with himself for catching you in your own defenses. You feel a chill graze your skin through the threshold, the edge of Winter. He knows exactly the corner he's backing you into. He gives you time to think through your options, to panic at the weight of his offer.

"I don't-"

"I know." He pushes, tapping against the solid line between you. You've never had the sight, but you can feel his magic collide with yours as he hits the threshold. You toy with the hagstone on your necklace, the worn stone warm from your skin under your fingers. "Witch," he warns.

"I'm still thinking."

"Think as long as you want," He leans closer, "but call me Price while you do."

Your heart stops, your thoughts grinding to a halt as well. Price. It fits him. You feel the silver thread searching for purchase in your soul, and break one of your long standing rules.

You lean over the threshold and kiss him. Because you know he wants to have some part of you, and you know he wants you on the wrong side of the fence. The thread breaks as his hand slides to cup your cheek, tipping your head as his lips slide against yours. It's your first one, and you think it's worth the price of his name.

His beard sort of tickles but his lips are soft and insistent, and you lean a little further over the wall to stay close. His hands are entreating, coaxing you further across the threshold. His teeth dig into your lip and you open for him, let him drag his tongue against yours as his fingers thread through your hair. You feel your feet leave the ground, the brick digging into your hands as you put your weight on them. The pain is enough to bring you back to your senses. You don't know what would happen if you let him take you.

Price sighs as you pull away and settle back on your side of the wall. He feels a thread hook in him. You've overpaid. He values your touch more than you apparently did, how fortunate for him. And unfortunate for you.

#fae!Price #a potential darling #this witch is more nice than the one Gaz is trying to deal with #gonna say shes a hedgewitch #very old school folk magic and family magic #john price x reader #john price mw2 #captain john price #john price x y/n #john price #fae au #Price visiting his darling on the edge of winter every day bringing her little things #and going home with a bundle of food and fresh produce #asked my friend who has daddy issues to help me with this #hope its good for yall

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

Text

Time (D)rift 2

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, blood, violence, and possible other triggers. Warnings may not be explicit or exhaustive.

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: The end has come and gone as you keep waiting for your own. (Apocalypse AU)

Sister series to Edge of Time

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Note: I work until Thursday and have Friday off. i’m trying not to push myself and have nothing planned for the holiday. My family situation is kinda more obvious this time of year so I’m just tryna be chill.

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. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all. Take care. 💖

Winds whistle over the walls as you walk the perimeter. The guard keeps a few feet back, distracted as he shifts his gun and spits stale tobacco into the snow. You carry the metal clipboard and make notes, marking the diagram of the wall with any areas of concern.

The task feels redundant as there's rarely more than the usual dimples in the brick or chipping of mortar. Besides, frost covers much of the wall and you're not permitted close enough to brush it away. You stop at the southeast corner and twist the pencil between your gloved fingers. The tree peeking over from the other side seems close…

You don't look long and slide the pencil under the metal clip. You turn back to the guard as he pulls at his thick vest. He chews loudly and horks again, right between your boots.

"Done?" His tongue makes a moist noise against his teeth.

You nod.

"Mm," he takes the clipboard roughly and tilts his head back towards the cluster of buildings, "go'n."

You don't hesitate. Your boots crunch over the snow as more drifts onto the rolled edge of your hat. Your morning had been spent shoveling and you'd have more to do already. No shipments to keep you inside and warm.

Parker Row, the tall brick buildings with their ever pluming chimneys, loom against the grey sky. You pass and refuse to look over as two guards chatter and climb up the steps. There always seems to be someone coming or going.

At the Cannery, named for the line where you package the produce by hand, crimping cans with the clunky levers, the steady swing of shovels greets you as you climb the steps. A task awaits you inside as Al pushes crates along a long table; he sends Johann off with two meant for the castle as he sees you. He whistles and beckons you over.

"To the Row," he drags a crate over. You see a glimpse of the foil wrapped chocolate between the slats and can smell the rich coffee wafting from within.

You put your hands on the sides but don't lift it, "I can take one of the others–"

"Take it," he demands, "don't got time."

You sigh and lift the box. It's heavy as glass clunks. Wine, whiskey, maybe even some of the hoppy beer from the brewhouse. You retrace your steps and emerge back into the hollow swirl of the endless winter.

You pass between the shovelers. A shovel would be good, for more than just snow. You could hop a narrow river, more likely use it as a weapon. Not many of those to be had, but more than enough aimed in your direction.

Another coat, extra socks, matches if they can be found, or a lighter… that's a hard get. No canned shit, too heavy, too noisy. Maybe rope? You can't carry much, not if you want to stay on your feet.

Shit, you went too far. You turn back towards Parker Row. You're getting ahead of yourself. Before you can even think of scaling the wall, you need an opportunity. Wait it out, you just hope you're not waiting too long.

You ascend the powdered steps and a guard gives a dull glance to you and your haul. He shifts over to pull up to cloth over the top of the box and shrugs you onward. You enter and look around the large entry way, the scent of burning incense mingling with that of the aged wooden banister.

Where do you go?

The floorboards creak under your feet and you peer through the doorway to your left. You nearly gasp as a guard's bare ass peeks out above his slumped pants, the slapping of flesh interspersed with the trilled whines of the woman bent over the couch, only her legs visible to you. You quickly spin and march to the opposite door. A dining room with tables littered with unwashed glasses and empty bottles.

You continue through to the next doorway and find the kitchen. It's abandoned too but you hear some fervour in the pantry, the door slightly ajar as giggle unfurl into moans. You put the crate on the worn wooden counter and back away.

As you face the door, a body appears in the frame, scarlet fabric fluttering around her as she calls back, "should be some wine, hon–"

Cordelia, Corey to you, swallows her words as she sees you, "oh, it's you."

You bounce on your heels, "delivery."

She looks beyond you and her groomed brows pop up, "wonderful," she swishes past you, her tits visible through the sheer robe, "you didn't get the perfume, did you?"

"I only brought what they gave me," you go to the door as she shuffles through the crate.

"You know, it's not so bad here," she says, "warm…"

"Glad to see you're doing well."

"You could clean up a bit and I'm sure–"

You ignore her and keep on, leaving her to her greedy search. A man sits shirtless at one of the tables waiting for her, scratch marks down his chest. You try not to look as he plays with his belt.

You quickly flit through the door and to the next, fleeing back into the grim hues. The guard doesn't acknowledge you as you tramp down the steps. Your heart races as your mind strays further.

Is that what it was like for her? Not Corey, she's just another one. Your sister. Is that how she spent her last year? Just so she could hand you off an extra scrap or two? She never said. You never asked.

You quickly dislodge the thought. That was ages ago. She was just the last one you lost, the last one you would lose. She wasn't special, none of you are.

It's like she was never even there, that she never truly lived. Like a figment of your mind that you could just forget. Just another sliver in your heart dulled by the greater struggle of your existence.

You weren't going to end up there. After so long, you weren't going to give in just for some chocolate and a warm bed. Not for the cost of it.

There was little you had in this world, little more than yourself and you wouldn't give that away again.

❄️

The bonfire lights up the west end of the settlement, the furor keeping most awake. You included.

You surrender to the restlessness and check the small pack crushed beneath your bunk. Not much but what you could get. Weeks of scrounging and searching and little to show for it. Would it be any better outside?

You peek into the hallway, bodies at the barred windows, watching the celebration from a distance. If that's what it is. You don't know the reason for the fiery affair.

You turn back to your room, this might be it. A distraction, even if dangerous. The grounds will be crawling with guards but with any luck they'll be drunk and dumb.

You pull on the extra sweater, patches sewn over the fraying holes and button up your coat over your scarf, wound high around your face. You put your hat on and every pair of mismatched socks you have, then your boots. You slip the pack over your shoulders, only one more piece needed.

Back in the hallway, the distant flicker glares in around the observers. You wait a moment before tiptoeing out, quickly swinging around the corner. Downstairs, all is quiet, no work is done this late. Or early. It's hard to tell the difference.

You ease down the stairs, leaning heavily on the wall as each step creaks and sends your heart lurching. You get to the bottom and gulp. This is it, this is the line. Once you cross it, there's no going back.

The storeroom is locked. The barrier nearly detering you entirely. You should have expected it. Are you really prepared for this?

You can make it without–

It's almost too good to be true. You stop short as you look to the front door. An errant shovel against the wall, forgotten. You cross the room cautiously and reach out disbelieving for the tool. Nothing happens.

You take it and hold it steady as you peek through the bars along the window next to the door. There's the back door, where the waste stinks in piles until a crew loads it into trucks to be taken to some remote dumping ground. It'd the safest way out.

You curl around the staircase, the stench of the garbage drawing you on, assuring you of your path. You nearly retch as you get to the door and pause before twisting the handle. You could sigh as it opens easily but hold your breath against the reek.

You descend, leaving the door slightly ajar to keep from making noise. You almost clang the shovel head off the ground as you do and weave between the rotting bags and frozen cans.

The settlement is eerie as you head east away from the fire's orange haze. You keep to the shadow of the unlit buildings as you near the wall, the corner where the tree peeks over the top as if trying to see in. You take off your pack and your scarf, securing the shovel across your back before pulling the bag over it to keep it doubly snug.

Your first try has you mulching back into the snow. You stagger as you wonder at your own absurdity. Did you really think it would be easy? A second try isn't any more successful. You grow nervous from the noise of it.

You take off your gloves and shove them into your pockets, the cold nipping at your exposed skin. You feel along the wall and find a divot in the mortar. You start again, progress eased as you can feel the wall and all its imperfections.

You pant out damp mist as you get higher, adrenaline thrumming, and your fingers ache as the temperature throbs in the joints. Your go higher and higher, dizzy from the cold and the height. Your foot slips and you sling your arm up, nearly falling before digging in your fingertips.

You grunt and strain to haul up a single leg. You fight to drag your body onto the top of the wall and see the flames burning amid the groups of men as their raucous voices carry over the snow. You brace yourself, the moon casting a little too much light for comfort.

You sit up and shakily set your feet squatting low before launching yourself off the top and closing your eyes as you grasp at air. If you miss, the snow might dampen the fall, or make your demise a little slower.

You hit a branch and latch on, breathless as it dips beneath your weight. You whimper and hook your legs around the bark. You shimmy to the trunk, bumping your head as you remain blind to the world. Finally, you muster the courage to open your eyes.

You look up at the sky and listen. You can hardly hear anything within the walls from out their. Just the gales and gusts as mountains of snow blow between the barren trees and rundown buildings standing open-mouthed to the moonlight.

Your descent is perilous, frightful, and you fall the last few feet, snow dusting up and clumping along your hood and hat. You rise, the blankets past your knees, and start off. No direction, there's no where in particular to go. Only away, to your death or worse.

❄️

The night thins to a dull morning, the grim sky watches you pass between baren pines, twigs and sticks crunching under the snow. Your toes are numb, fingers too. Your nose is tender against the inside of your scarf as you carry the shovel in hand.

Second thoughts plague you but can't be followed. No going back. Your tracks are likely already guiding those who noticed your absence, if at all. The punishment for leaving is rarely a safe return.

You cross a river, half- frozen, and continue on to a snow buried house with only three walls. It's not obvious enough to be a first thought and you pray it snows before you can be trailed. You settle in a corner, shielded by a broken table as you curl up with your pack.

You wake up twice as cold, covered in snow and unable to stop shivering. You're stiff, barely able to sit up. You open the bag of crackers, stale and baked in the camp oven. You have a few and make yourself get up. It's almost night again.

You fall back down as a light flashes on the other side of the wall. You burrow into the snow as best you can and stay behind the table. Boots compress the layers of snow as they surveil the exterior.

"Saw tracks further back, don't think she came this way."

"If she's still around, picked the right time to make a break. Probably buried halfway down a hill," the other responds. You know his voice, Barton.

"You're the one wanted to chase her," another man.

"Shut the fuck up," Barton hisses, "do your fucking jobs."

Is it coincidence? Does he know it's you specifically? Would he even remember you?

You ball your fist and try to meter your breath. Time slows as you listen to the snap of sticks and the clatter of furniture.

"What does it matter if we only find a corpse? Huh? Shit, it's one girl–"

"It's about setting an example," Barton snarls, "come on then, show me where you think she went. How long you been tracking idiots? Not like it wasn't my fucking career before–"

"No one gives a shit about before," another man cuts in.

"What were you? A pencil pusher? Now you think you're tough cause the cards fell in your direction–" you hear splutter, a grunt, and the weight of a body in the snow, "nothing now."

A lull as treads sink into the snow, "we'll keep looking boss."

"Nah, she ain't that smart. She'll be running til nightfall."

You close your eyes and shudder. It takes some time for them to leave, the slamming of car doors and mutters signaling their departure. You wait until there's nothing but the wind and the dead man left in the heap.

It's almost night as you get away from the ravage of the torn down house. You head away from the tire tracks, hoping to hide behind some buildings or trees, anything to obscure you as the moon crests. You reach a valley, sliding down halfway clumsily, planting the shovel to keep from reaching the bottom.

You make slow progress, the shovel keeping you afoot as you fight through the thick snow. You're out of breath and weak but you can't stop. You won't, even if you freeze, even if you die.

You don't want to be another body hastily disposed of. You'd rather rot into the earth. Rather die than live out the purgatory of a ruined world.

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #fic #time (d)rift #series #edge of time #apocalypse au #mcu #marvel #winter soldier #avengers #dark fic #dark!fic #au

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