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sagemonsters · 1 year

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The Drider & the Shepherd's Daughter

Summary: a fairy tale where Malina, the shepherd's daughter, is tasked with begging a drider for silk for her sisters' dresses... and finds herself desiring more than just the silk.

Status: SFW

Pairing: cis female human x cis female drider

Word Count: 2,579

Long ago and far away, there was a shepherd who lived in the mountains with his flock, his dog, his wife, and his three daughters. His name is not important. His dog’s name is not important. His wife’s name is not important either, but his daughters’ names are. The oldest was Claudia, who was fair of face and had eyes more blue than the dreams of sapphires. The middle girl was Isolda, who was fair of face and had eyes more blue than a clear midsummer sky. And the last and least was Malina, who had a face you wouldn’t look twice at and eyes like fog, and who had killed her mother.

The shepherd and the two elder daughters often reminded Malina of this, because they had watched Malina’s mother die of childbed fever barely a week after Malina had been brought into this world.

She grew into a child of average build, weight, appetite, and sensibilities. She wore her sisters’ hand-me-downs and played with the wooden toys that they outgrew. She learned to hold her tongue rather than talk out of turn, and to observe others carefully. She watched the patterns of birds in the air and sheep on the ground, and feared the howling of the winter wolves. She dreamed the dreams of children everywhere who feel that they are neither wholly understood nor wholly loved; dreams of being spirited away to someplace where her real father and sisters welcomed her, a place where her hand-me-down socks didn’t have holes and her father called her by her name rather than “girl” or “you.” She was, in short, neither monstrous nor mad, and although underloved she was never outright rejected by her family as she changed from a child to a woman.

The local lord had three sons, all spirited young men who were fair of face and had eyes as blue as the faraway ocean. Sometimes they rode through the village on market days and gave flowers to the peasant girls in exchange for kisses.

The eldest of the three young men saw Claudia. He offered her a bundle of bright yellow jonquils, and Claudia kissed him. She twined the flowers into a crown to rest upon her golden hair, and told the boy that she would look much better with a crown of metal and a bridal veil. The eldest of the lord’s sons was already captivated by Claudia’s beauty, but knew well that peasant girls didn’t marry into nobility. Nevertheless, he could not deny her.

“Weave and sew your wedding dress, and come to me again,” the eldest son said. “If it is as beautiful as you are, I will marry you.”

So Claudia returned to the shepherd’s home, and carded and wove the bales of soft white lamb’s wool into cloth, and then cut and sewed the cloth into a dress. But she had no pearls or jewels, and she knew that a peasant’s woolen gown could never rival a satin gown made by a master tailor in one of the southern cities, so she called for Malina.

“Girl,” she said. “Go into the mountains and fetch me a bolt of cloth woven from spider silk.”

“Sister, I can’t,” Malina protested. “The drider will eat me from my toes to my head. It’s too dangerous.”

“You killed our mother,” Claudia reminded her. “Fetch the silk so you can atone for her murder.”

Malina hung her head in shame, then packed a basket with bread and cheese and salted mutton, pulled on her hat and shawl, and set out. She climbed the mountain trails, which grew narrower and steeper and stonier with every step she took, until she found a canyon crowded with massive spider webs. Antlers protruded from an equally massive storage cocoon beside the entrance.

Malina waited outside the canyon. Only the wind stirred the webbing, and dusk began to fall as the sun set behind the peaks. A chill descended over the mountains, and Malina pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders.

There was a chittering noise, followed by the sound of too many legs thudding against the ground. “Are you lost, my dearest?” asked the drider who loomed out of the deepening darkness. She had the torso of an elf and the lower half of a spider the size of a pony, with a multitude of glowing red eyes filling her gray face.

“I’m not lost, Mistress,” Malina said. “I came here looking for you.”

The drider paused, then asked: “What is your name, my dearest?”

Nobody had ever asked Malina her name before. She told the drider.

“Dearest Malina, what do you seek?” the drider asked next.

“My sister needs a bolt of spider silk cloth for her wedding dress,” Malina said.

“And what do you offer in exchange for a bolt of my cloth?” asked the drider.

Malina offered her the basket.

“Dearest Malina, I eat my meat raw and wriggling, and I take neither bread nor cheese,” the drider said. “Offer me something else.”

Malina offered her the promise of a lamb from her father’s flock.

“Dearest Malina, a single spring lamb, no matter how tender, is not enough for a bolt of my cloth. Offer me something else.”

“I have nothing else,” Malina admitted. “Unless you desire my life.”

“I do not desire your life,” the drider said. “Will you give me a kiss for a bolt of silken cloth?”

“I will give anything to make my sister happy.”

“Be careful what you say, dearest Malina,” the drider whispered, and approached on her many legs. Malina’s own legs wanted to tremble, but she held her ground. The drider cupped Malina’s face gently with her gray hands, and Malina’s eyes fluttered closed. The human didn’t know if her heart thundered in fear or anticipation, but she could have sworn that it stopped at the soft press of the drider’s lips against her own a moment later. When Malina opened her eyes, the drider presented her with a bolt of silken cloth that shimmered under the moonlight.

“Here is your cloth,” the drider said.

“Thank you,” Malina said. Her lips tingled. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Arachne,” the drider informed her, and sent Malina home down the mountain trails.

Malina arrived before dawn. Her father hadn’t noticed her absence, but Claudia was happy to receive the silk. She cut and sewed it into a dress, and this she showed to the eldest of the lord’s sons. Even with no pearls or jewels, the dress was so beautiful that the young man had no choice but to marry her. Claudia left the shepherd’s home to live in the lord’s castle.

Malina dreamed of Arachne’s lips and hands upon her, and felt a pang of hitherto-unknown desire in the morning when she awoke alone in her bed.

Another market day, the second-eldest of the lord’s sons saw Isolda in the village, and offered her a bundle of bright crimson roses in exchange for a kiss. Isolda accepted, and twined the roses into a crown to rest upon her coppery red hair. She told the lord’s son how fine she would look with a crown of metal and a bridal veil, and this second son, thinking of his brother’s fortune in finding a beautiful wife, posed the same challenge as his elder sibling had done.

Isolda returned home. She did not bother sewing a dress of lamb’s wool, and instead summoned her sister.

“Girl,” she said. “Go into the mountains and fetch me a bolt of cloth woven from spider silk.”

“Sister, I can’t,” Malina protested. “The drider will not let me impose on her generosity a second time, and I fear…” She didn’t know what she truly feared, however, and could not continue.

“You killed our mother,” Isolda said, not noticing her younger sister’s hesitance. “Claudia may have forgiven you, but I haven’t. Fetch me the silk so you can atone for her murder.”

Malina lowered her eyes to the floor in what might have been shame—but her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The young woman packed her basket a second time, and donned her hat and shawl. This time, however, she took her mother’s wedding band and slipped it into her pocket before heading out the door. Once again, Malina climbed the mountain trails that grew narrower and steeper and stonier with every step she took, until she found the canyon. She waited, and dusk cloaked the mountains in darkness. Arachne emerged from among the webs.

“Dearest Malina, what brings you here?” the drider asked.

“My other sister needs a bolt of spider silk cloth for her wedding dress,” Malina admitted, “and I will do anything to make her happy.”

“Be careful of what you say,” Arachne warned. “What will you offer me in exchange for a bolt of my cloth?”

“Will you take my mother’s ring?” Malina asked, and fished the silver band out of her pocket. She held it out, and Arachne approached to inspect it. Malina’s heart once again began to hammer in her chest as she looked at the drider’s lips.

“I place no value in metal,” the drider said eventually. “Offer me something else.”

“Will you take another kiss?” Malina said. And then she surprised herself with: “I would be happy to give it to you.”

After a moment, the drider smiled. “I will take your kiss, but I will ask this of you as well: will you wear my favor, dearest Malina? Will you wear it always and visit me at least once a moon for a year? If this is acceptable, I will give you the cloth.”

“It is very acceptable,” Malina said, and leaned into the drider’s touch. Their lips met for a second time, and this time Malina knew that the thrill in her heart was something very different from fear. When they finally pulled apart, Arachne gave her the bolt of silk. The drider also gave her a shimmering length of ribbon, and tied it gently around her right wrist. Her hands were warm and soft as they brushed against Malina’s.

Malina returned home with the bolt of cloth before dawn. Her father had not noticed her absence, but Isolda was happy to receive the silk. She cut and sewed it into a dress, and this she showed to the second of the lord’s sons, and was married to him shortly thereafter. Isolda left the shepherd’s home to live in the lord’s castle, and Malina kept her promise to visit Arachne once a moon.

Finally, the youngest of the lord’s sons came to Malina in the village on market day. He offered her a fistful of daisies plucked from the roadside in exchange for a kiss. Malina blushed and accepted, but the kiss felt awkward and forced. Malina pulled away.

“Do you want to marry me?” the youngest son asked.

Malina hesitated, then shook her head.

The lord’s son didn’t seem to recognize this. He continued: “Your sisters’ wedding gowns were amazing dowries. They said that you gathered the silk from a man-eating drider in the mountains. Fetch me three bolts of this silk, and I won’t ask you to make a dress out of it.”

“Sir,” Malina protested. “I cannot marry you.”

“Yes,” the youngest son agreed, “you aren’t beautiful enough. However, you will fetch me the bolts of spider silk. I command this of you, as the son of your lord.”

“But I can’t,” Malina protested. “I can’t impose on Arachne’s generosity a third time, and ask for three bolts of cloth rather than one. It is too much.”

“Arachne?” the lord’s son asked. “It has a name?”

Malina froze into stillness.

The lord’s son looked at the shimmering ribbon still tied around Malina’s wrist. “What’s this?” he asked, and reached out to examine her.

Malina pulled away again. “It’s nothing, sir,” she said. “I made it from a scrap of leftover fabric from my sister’s dress.”

“You’re lying!” the lord’s son declared. His eyes narrowed. “You’re in league with the drider! Did you enchant your sisters’ dresses so that my brothers would be made stupid with infatuation? They’re married to worthless peasant girls now! I’m no fool, though; I can tell you’re a witch. Guards! Guards!”

Malina fled the village as fast as she could, her eyes burning with unshed tears. She knew her father would offer her no shelter from the lord’s son, the village church no sanctuary, and so her feet took her along the mountain trails that grew narrower and steeper and stonier with her every leaping step. She did not wait at the canyon mouth as she heard the baying of the lord’s hounds, but slipped into the maze of sticky webbing. She slowed as she navigated between them, and struggled not to fall into the silken traps.

Arachne descended along the canyon wall on a silken line from the spinnerette of her spider abdomen. She looked down at Malina with her many red eyes, and listened to Malina’s panting breaths and the growing cacophony of the hounds and guards.

“Dearest Malina, why do you weep?” the drider asked in her soft voice.

“Arachne, Arachne, the lord’s youngest son called me a witch and said I used magic to enchant his brothers,” Malina said. “I think they want to kill me.”

“Dearest Malina, do you wish them to live?” Arachne asked. Her many eyes glowed bright as bloodied garnets.

“Yes,” Malina said.

“Dearest Malina, do you truly wish it so? Do you truly wish it after their cruelty to you?”

Malina hesitated, and the baying of the hounds and the shouting of the guards drew nearer. They had almost reached the canyon.

“I wish it so,” Malina whispered.

“Then so it shall be,” the drider said, and spun more webs so that neither human nor hound could enter the canyon without Arachne’s assistance. The guards’ swords tangled and caught in the sticky webbing without cutting it, and the dogs refused to come near. After a time, the pursuers gave up and went away, their voices fading down the mountainside.

And now Malina was alone with Arachne. She could not return to her father’s home, or to the village, and she could not call upon her sisters at the lord’s castle. She was, for the first time, without a family, and her tears stung her eyes more fiercely than ever.

“Dearest Malina, what brings you such sorrow?” Arachne asked, and pulled Malina into her strong gray arms. Malina leaned against her.

“I am lost,” Malina said when she had mastered herself somewhat. “I have nothing. I have nobody.”

“Dearest Malina, you have me,” Arachne said. “We can travel far from these mountains, and make a home where none can harm or hate us. We will be safe. We will be happy. I promise you this with the breath in my lungs and the beating of my heart.”

Malina turned in the drider’s arms to look into her face. “Dearest Arachne, how can I thank you?”

“Will you wear my favor always?” Arachne asked.

“Yes, and I already do,” Malina answered.

“Will you kiss me?”

“Yes, and I already have.”

“Will you marry me, dearest Malina? Will you call me your wife and cherish me until the end of our days?” Arachne asked.

“Yes, and I always will,” Malina answered. She reached for the drider and kissed her a third time then, slowly and softly, feeling wholly loved and wholly understood.

You can also read this story in the April 2023 edition of the M❤️NSTER magazine, or download a nicely laid out PDF from my own itch.io page (both downloads are free, but please consider tipping where possible).

If you enjoy my writing, please consider buying me a coffee so I can have a warm drink while I write!

#monster romance #monster girlfriend #monster lover #terato #drider #monster x human #sage's portfolio #creative writing #original fiction #fantasy fiction #fairy tale vibes #original characters #queer fiction #wlw fiction #lgbt fiction #sapphic fiction

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loadedberetta · 7 months

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I am in complete adoration of Press!Reader and the web you're weaving with it! I love how you get two sides of the story - what *actually* happened and what they report on!

I'm excited to see the rest of it because it's just stuck in my head now!

hi babe don't mind me I sobbed for about a day before I could comprehend that I got an ask

thank you for reading my stuff it brings me immense joy that other people have interest in stuff I do - anyways here's what I have to say about this

(oh and, I hope you're ready to say hello to Camilla)

"Gaz and press lady are still missin'." Soap rubbed the bridge of his nose, and rounded the table in Price's office.

"Her name's Daugherty." Ghost rumbled from the chair by the wall. He arrived back at base but an hour before, at the cusp of dawn.

"Yes, her. Daugherty." Soap gestured towards Ghost while he settled behind the Captain, leaning against his chair. He'd had her file in his hand all but once; only her first name stuck.

Price was trying to locate Kyle. One hand on a radio, another on a transmitter, he was sweeping through signatures across the area they lost contact with Gaz on radio. Ghost knew there was no way to help Price, but Soap couldn't restrain himself.

The deft hands of the Captain hadn't found anything in the past hour and a half, since they'd had access to the transmitter.

"Where are you, boy…" He muttered under his breath and tried ignoring Soap breathing down his neck as he scanned the available channels again, hands working in tandem.

"Soap…" He suddenly barked before he could register him still standing over him.

"'m here. I see it." Soap pointed at the screen, a familiar string of signals staring back at him. "That's him."

"Damn right, it is. Better answer, Kyle…" Price muttered as he zeroed in on the signal.

Ghost stood up, the hulking frame of him appearing behind the computer screen. He was ready to go hell and back for his teammate, his quiet determination let on.

Soap remained behind Price, fingers grabbing the back of the chair 'till they ran white.

"2-6, do you copy? " Price's voice was firm, as he pressed the syllables between his tight lips. "Kyle?" He repeated after a moment of silence.

Dust lingered in the dry, hot basement.

"Kyle?"

His grip on the radio hardened. The line was shaky.

"Sir. I'm here. I… Copy." His voice shook just a little.

"Location? Status? Give me a sitrep." Price's voice was still firm, it reminded Kyle of his dad calling him once when he forgot to report in after a night out with friends.

"We're in a basement, both in one piece. Reception's shite, sir."

"So you have Camilla?" Soap interjected, Kyle wished he could see his teammate's face just then, judging by the hurried tone he didn't often see Soap resort to.

"Yes." Gaz answered, and looked up to the woman sitting with her back to the nearby wall, her eyes fixed on him.

"Camilla…" Soap ripped the door of the SUV open as Ghost parked it by the entrance of the main building.

A wave of unfamiliar jealousy rippled through him as Kyle stared back at him from the backseat, Camilla sitting on the other side of the vehicle. She looked exhausted. Not broken, but surely exhausted.

Kyle brushed past him in understanding, fighting the urge to claim his position by helping her out of the car, but the look he exchanged with Soap was universal and well-known between the two of them.

He gave the other man a pat on the shoulder and walked by him to join Price standing in the doorway. Soap heard them talk in the back of his head, but his focus was on the frame of the woman scooting closer to her in the car seat.

Soap extended a hand towards the inside of the car, and she took it. Her hands were covered in a thin layer of sand and grit, and they were warm, almost hot. He chuckled as she climbed out of the car, her expression tired, but alert.

"I'm alright…" Camilla dropped her hand from Soap's.

"I--" His lower lip quivered as she broke the contact, making him freeze in place, only able to watch her walk hurriedly toward the main doors.

She disappeared inside the building. Soap wanted to rush after her, but Gaz's hand on his chest stopped him as he tried to squeeze past him in the doorway.

"She's lost her camera in the ambush. Memory and all…" He muttered to Soap, their faces parallel, only a few inches away.

Soap sucked in a breath and pushed against Kyle's palm in defeat.

Price stood back and crossed his arms over his chest. Ghost came to stand beside him, and clicked his tongue, flicking the mask over his mouth and lighting a cigarette a moment later.

a/n:(I can't say we're getting anywhere yet, but it's going to be a wild ride for sure)

#berry's postal service #gemmahale #just wait till you see how the article turns out :))#me regretting not doing that journalism Masters rn hehe #beretta's reporterverse #berettalks #cod mw fanfiction #cod fanfic #poly 141

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whirlybirbs · 3 years

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( another gif by @unearthlydust from this beautiful set ! )

✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 3/?

summary: you find out about bucky’s past, he finds out about yours.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.4k, va va voom

a/n: oh look out here comes the plot, charactization, and growth between to pals who are maybe starting to feel a little something begin to take shape. but ignore that, there’s danger afoot. no spoilers for tfatws here!

( PREVIOUS | AO3 | MASTERLIST | NEXT )

“You know I have to ask these questions. It’s part of the check-in.”

“Yeah,” you fire back, flat enough to warrant Dr. Hart’s scowl to grow. You can’t see it over the phone, but you know the way her words whip around you means she’s upset, “I know.”

“If you’re not following the action plan set out by the judge,” she begins, leaning forward as her tone drops into a scalding hot sort of seriousness on the other end, “You will go to prison. You know this. So, do you want to spend ten years of your life behind bars? Are you trying to get yourself locked up? Come on.”

You can’t look up from your computer’s screen. Or maybe you can, but right now, there’s a dangerous mixture of anger and guilt and frustration boiling under your skin.

“I’m trying.”

“Trying isn’t good enough for the GRC,” Dr. Hart snaps, “You know this. They’re giving you a chance — they know you’re talented. You have the ability here to go straight, to earn a living, to finally make up for those years of blackhat work.”

“Everything I did,” you fire back, ripping your eyes up to meet Dr. Hart’s, “Was for others. I didn’t get a fucking penny.”

“You’re not Robin Hood,” she shakes her head as her tone softens, “We all make mistakes. But, everything has a consequence. You know this. And this conversation isn’t even considering the other charges.”

“You know the extortion case would never hold up in court.”

Dr. Hart sighs raggedly. “And I don’t intend on ever seeing it play out in court, because you’re going to follow the conditions of your pardon.”

“The GRC is a bunch of fascists—”

“Enough,” she snaps, “If you want to go and appeal your case with the judge, be my guest, but I can almost guarantee you’ll be perp-walked out of that Federal courtroom in cuffs.”

She’s right.

Dr. Hart is right.

Your knee is bouncing, up and down and up and down. You’re wound up around yourself, arms crossed tight, brows knotted. With a shaky exhale, you just nod. You breathe, and you remind yourself that she’s right. She’s right, she’s right, she’s right. It’s not worth it. Dipping yourself back into that world, the layer of the web beneath the surface, isn’t worth it.

The GRC is your way out.

Just be a good little girl and do as you're told.

“So, I’m going to ask you again,” Dr. Hart begins, pen clicking alive on the other end of the phone call, “...Have you engaged in any illegal activities online in the last seven days?”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

Inessa Sidrova’s photo stares up at him from its place on the speckled marble counter, stacked neatly next to his notebook where her name is scrawled in chicken scratch — between two other names: Zemo and Henrikson.

His laptop, technically on loan from the FBI, sits beside both.

(When Barnes had agreed in that closed doors meeting to the conditions of his pardon, a certain FBI agent by the name of Jimmy Woo had been rather insistent that Barnes needed a personal computer in order to carry out his portion of the conditions insofar as tracking down the remaining HYDRA pawns in the States. Woo had also insisted, to the agreement of Dr. Raynor, that a personal computer would help better acclimate Barnes to the new world he’d been dropped into.

Woo was even nice enough to take an hour of his own time to show Bucky enough to get started — but was whisked away for some investigation out in New Jersey.)

Bucky rubs the cold vibranium of his left palm into his eye, then exhales long and slow.

He’s done all he can. And still, no leads on the woman.

Rounding the kitchen island, he digs his cell from his pocket. He goes back to staring at that text — the one he’d laughed out loud at the moment it lit up his phone — and he can feel that ol’ bite of anxiousness creep into his arms. His fingertips tingle.

On the television, a laugh track plays over a clip of The Three Stooges. Blue eyes flick upward, and he partially wishes a ladder would put him out of his own self-induced misery.

Outside, the antics of a Saturday night in Brooklyn roll on.

In the last few days he’s parsed through his thoughts enough to realize it’s not telling you that scares him — no, it’s telling you the truth. The whole truth. All of it. After all, the good comes with a lot of bad; the sort of bad you chain in a chest and sink in the ocean. And Bucky finds that, even still, the good is questionable at best. The good is… small. Microscopic. Completely and totally tainted by the fuckin’ decades of brainwashed, war dog bullshit.

He groans and drops his head back against the wall.

He tries, for the next twenty minutes, to formulate some sort of reply to your text message. But, half the battle is figuring out what to say, and the other half is actually typing it out. This whole flip phone purchase was really starting to sting like regret — and as much as Bucky loved technology back before the war, and all the magical possibilities it held, he can’t help but feel like an ornery old man now.

It’s the change. Steve was right. Too much change.

He can’t find the space button and he can’t figure out how to delete the random 3 he’d accidentally punched in — so, with a grumpy huff of disapproval, Bucky simply dials your number.

You pick up on the third ring.

“Don’t you know it’s Saturday?” your voice is a welcomed sound, “The History Channel is running a bunch of old war documentaries you might enjoy, grandpa.”

Bucky snorts, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie. “What makes you think I’d wanna watch that shit?”

“Everyone knows that old men like two things,” your voice is light, half-distracted from the sounds of it, “World War Two, or grilling. And honestly, you don’t strike me as the grilling type.”

“I like a good burger.”

“Yeah?” you snort, and Bucky can hear you shift your phone from one ear to the other, “Is that why you called? To hint at being hungry?”

“No,” he exhales, looking out the window, “No, I was trying to reply to your text but I can’t find the fuckin’ space button. Calling is easier.”

“Oh my god—”

“Shut up,” he barks with a laugh, sitting up, “Don’t even start — are you hungry?”

“Almost always, why?”

“Got any plans tonight?”

“... You do know who you’re asking, right?”

Bucky grins, a little boyish and a little tired. “Good point. Loser.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re the one calling me to hangout,” you snort, leaning to prop your feet up on your desk and lean back. Your chair wheels backwards, far enough for you to get a good look down the street. It’s a nice night, cool enough, and it seems like the whole borough is awake, “But, I’m only hanging out if you tell me what the fuck is up with court mandated therapy. I can’t wait another three days.”

Your anxiety has been pricked the last few days over it.

“... Do I get to pick the place?”

You roll your eyes. “Fine.”

“Great,” he exhales tightly, “I hope you’re in the mood for sushi.”

◦ ◦ ◦ ��

Izzy’s is busy, but there’s privacy in the bustle.

Bucky had buzzed your apartment’s ringer and you’d flown down the stairs, looking… alive. The sort of alive that was new — like a fresh bud beginning to bloom in spring. It had made him grin, and he’d watched you push a tress of hair behind your ear as you decided it was warm enough for no jacket tonight. The light of the crosswalk sign lit you up like a star.

He was sweating.

Dr. Raynor was right — that was it, of course it was — that it was getting too warm for his usual outfit. So, he’d settled on the next best thing: a sweatshirt that was big enough and black enough that he could bury himself in it. His hands are tucked neatly into the pockets.

No gloves tonight.

He feels naked.

He shoulders the door and holds it open with the toe of his boot as you duck towards the back of the restaurant. There’s a booth in the back by a large bamboo plant — you weave through the place with a new found confidence. There’s anxiousness in your shoulders but it melts when you look back at Bucky. Like a watchful guard dog, he nods.

You settle into the booth, toss your jacket in the corner, and smirk.

“I get out sometimes,” Bucky remarks before you can even say anything. He shifts in the booth and reaches up to scratch his cheek with his right hand, “Not often, but I do.”

“I didn’t say anything...”

“You were going to,” he nearly smirks back, his brows raised as he adjusts the chopsticks on the table, “I know that look.”

You snort, nudging his boot under the table. That works a huffed little laugh out the man across from you. Almost immediately you can sense anxiousness rolling off him — it’s the tightness in his mouth that gives him away, the way he’s fussing with the soy sauce dish and trying to get it to line up perfectly with the marbling on the table. Worry flashes in your eyes.

“Bucky.”

He raises his head.

“You alright?” you ask quietly.

“You have to promise not to flip out.”

Your brows knot tightly — but before you can even question what the fuck he means, he’s casually dropping his other hand onto the table.

And you almost don’t notice at first. Your brain fills the gaps in, figuring it’s his glove. But, then you blink and his hand catches the light and you realize it’s not leather. It’s glittering obsidian, garnished with gold, and it’s moving. Flexing. Seams bending and warping and there’s a gentle hum coming from the appendages and you squint because he’s tapping his fingers on the table and there’s a metallic tik-tik-tik that meets your ears.

Then, your eyes jump to his face.

He looks pained.

You’re confused.

And then you’re not.

“You’re —”

You slap a hand over your own mouth. You have to promise not to flip out. Your eyes are eighty miles wide and your jaw is falling open and you’re leaning forward, whispering in a rushed tone because what the fuck.

“You’re that Bucky?!”

Oh, you feel stupid.

The hostess appears, suddenly. You snap backwards in the booth, Bucky tucks his hand away, and you both muster forced smiles to the waitress. She’s young. Pretty. Her name-tag says Sarah.

She asks about drinks.

Bucky gets a beer.

Slowly, you knock your knuckles against the table and drop your head into your hand. The look on your face is exhausted. “Do you guys have Mai Tais?”

The answer is yes. And you’re glad. Because you’re going to fucking need it.

The two of you are quiet until the drinks come — avoiding one anothers gazes for completely different reasons. Bucky is sheepish, a bit mortified, like he always is when people recognize him. It’s why he shaved his fuckin’ head. It worked well enough but… the arm was usually a dead giveaway.

Meanwhile, you’re wondering if you could shave your own head and disappear. Because there’s no easy way to explain the weird elation swirling in your chest right now.

Bucky’s first to speak. His beer is in his good hand. He inhales quickly, eyes darting to you as he leans forward and whispers incredulously. He speaks quickly and his words are pointed with an edge of curiosity.

“...What do you mean ‘that Bucky’?”

“Y’know, I knew there was a reason you acted like you needed a senior citizen discount. And you know exactly what I mean,” you rush out all while waving your Mai Tai and jabbing the side with the umbrella towards him, “Listen, this is a lot to take in, Mr. Avenger.”

“I am not an Avenger—”

“You helped reverse the Snap. You’re the Winter Soldier. That makes you an Avenger—”

Bucky’s shaking his head, eye screwed shut tightly because the sudden equation to his past self being considered a hero is like being socked in the mouth. He stutters over his words and shakes his head more vigorously, like he’s trying not to hear what you’re saying.

“I am not the Winter Soldier. Not anymore. And it’s not like I’m not on the fuckin’ roster, doll—”

You hold a finger up, stopping him there, and take a long sip of your sunset colored drink. You swallow. You exhale. Bucky swigs his beer.

“One, don’t call me doll,” you say curtly, then raise a second finger. You lean in and squint, “Two… Christ, the haircut really makes a big difference, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” he sighs raggedly, dismissing your scrutiny.

You puff your cheeks out and exhale. Leaning back in the booth, you try not to feel so fucking insane.

“...I can never have you over now.”

Bucky’s brows narrow quickly and his eyes snap to yours. “What?”

“I can’t have you over,” you explain slower with your eyes rooted to the soy sauce in the corner, “Because I don’t think I could ever handle you seeing my signed and framed Captain America poster from his USO tour in 1943.”

Bucky’s face is deadpan. “You’re kidding.”

“I really wish I was,” you gripe, “It’s an original.”

“...You’re a Cap girl,” he says suddenly, leaning back with this look in his eye. It’s less of a question. You can’t pin it down. It looks like he's damn near traumatized.

Bucky thinks — honestly — that this is the cherry on top. Every girl back then was a Cap girl, too. It figures, now, in this new century where he’s making new friends that… as per usual, Steve gets the cake. That fuckin’ pint sized bastard.

He’ll have to tell him about this.

You yank your eyes up to Bucky’s face. His mortification is shifting to surprise to amusement. You’re fast to sit up, mouth opening to fire a retort — but Bucky’s suddenly really enjoying the look of pure horror on your face at the insinuation. He’s smirking. Plain as day. He swigs his beer.

“No, no—” you raise a finger, “No, stop it. Don’t make it fuckin’ weird, Bucky, it’s not like I have his name tattoo’d on my ass. And I knew a girl in college who did.”

His brows rise sharply and you’re finding you’re regretting everything that’s coming out of your mouth.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you guffaw, gesturing for him to show you his hand again, “I wanna see.”

Bucky sighs and plucks his hand from his hoodie pocket.

With a sort of tenderness Bucky wasn’t prepared to handle, you take his metallic hand into your own. There’s an immediate twinge — one that’s procured by flashes of violence from years of being a walking weapon. He breathes, and he reminds himself that this arm is not the same that tethered him to HYDRA all those years ago.

This arm is his, it is not him.

The sensation is different. He isn’t used to anyone touching him like this; he’s used to the feeling of flesh on the other end of a punch, or a throat caught in his palm. Not the gentle pass of your fingers, delicate and purposeful, over his knuckles.

You turn over his hand, eyes alight with curiosity — and Bucky, desperate to stamp out the hotness growing in his gut, moves quickly to flick your nose.

“Ow—”

“Don’t stare,” he says coyly, “It’s rude.”

The waitress is back. His hand is tucked away, and you wrestle the stupid expression off your face long enough to order a plate of assorted maki rolls and some fried tofu. Bucky orders what seems like his usual — shrimp tempura and spicy tuna rolls.

The waitress, Sarah, disappears with a smile.

You’re grinning.

“So… Does this make me the sidekick?” you whisper playfully.

“Shut up,” Bucky laughs, his lips almost darting into a smile.

You cock your head, pushing your chopsticks across the table with a horribly coy look on your face. It’s comical. “...I think this makes me the sidekick.”

“It — stop it — it does not make you the sidekick,” Bucky says slowly as he sips his beer and pins you in the booth across from him, “I’m not a hero. You’d have better luck asking Cap on that one.”

You grow silent. There’s a question hanging on your tongue. You’re wrestling with yourself — Bucky can see that much. He frowns.

“Spit it out, Goose.”

You blink. “Was that a Top Gun reference?”

“You wanted to be the sidekick.”

You wave it off, blinking into your Mai Tai. Your voice is quiet. Even as you speak, there’s a hesitancy akin to walking on eggshells. “What happened to Cap? Is he… alive? He’s gone off the grid. It’s, like, this massive conspiracy theory online.”

“He’s upstate.”

You blink.

“That’s ominous.”

Bucky shrugs. “Someday I’ll take you. It’s… nice.”

You go quiet. You freeze, drink halfway to your mouth. Bucky can’t help but smirk at that. His laugh is more of a scoff than anything.

“Relax, Miss America.”

“Shut up — do you mean that?”

“What, that I think you’re in love with Captain America?”

“No, you bastard, that you’ll take me. To meet him.”

Bucky’s words are easy. They roll off his tongue without a second thought. He feels… okay. Like this part is okay. Not as bad as he thought it could be. His anxiousness isn’t as heavy now. He feels like he isn’t losing you. But then again, he hasn’t gotten to the bad part yet.

“He’s my best friend,” Bucky explains plainly, “And so are you.”

The admission is warm. As easy as breathing. Two months in the making.

“Your only friend,” you say quietly, offering the joke as a cover for the softening tone that dances over your words. It’s affection, you realize, as you mimic his shrug, “But, go on.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Bucky chirps, “But, yea, I mean it. He’d like you.”

You raise your chin, wiggling a bit in the booth. It’s pride — and as much as Bucky likes the look of it, he can’t handle the ridiculousness that comes along with it. But, it’s sort of comforting. He knows this playfulness, this easiness, it’s all because he’s him. You trust him. In.a way, it strikes Bucky with guilt. There are wall of his still built up high. Maybe they’re slowly coming down, but… he’s like a stray dog, slow to trust.

“Safe to say,” you breathe, “I have a few questions.”

“I figured as much.”

You sip your drink and swallow. You raise a hand. “But — I wanna know the boundaries. I don’t want to… I don’t want to pry about shit I have no business knowing, alright? It’s your life and even if we are friends, I don’t need to know everything.”

The relief is almost immediate. He thumbs the label of his beer.

“Ask anything. But I can’t promise I’ll be able to give you the answers.”

“And I’ll leave it at that,” you say sternly, propping your elbow up on the table and offering your pinky finger, “Until you want to talk about it. Promise.”

He crooks his pinky in yours, squeezing gently. You smile.

Sarah comes back with the food, and then Bucky offers his usual half-exhausted, half-amused smirk.

“You get three questions now. Then, we shut up and eat.”

You fold your hands neatly over themselves, eyeing your food as you try your best to sort out what questions come up with the most urgency. There’s… a lot. I mean, everyone knew about the Avengers — and everyone had their opinions. The Sokovia Accords, Lagos, the Blip… and SHIELD. Years of bullshit culminating around those who were considered the heroes. The kickback usually ended up on everyday citizens like you. After the initial amazement, the reality of it all set in.

But, to Bucky’s point, he wasn’t really an Avenger.

Nowadays, there really wasn’t a team at all. No up-state compound, no leader, no Stark and no Rogers.

You’re sure the GRC will try — that the military will try. Morale and hope and blah, blah, blah.

You narrow your eyes. “How old are you?”

It’s quick. “One hundred and six.”

“How’d they keep you alive that long?”

There’s a wince that flashes across his face like he’s been stabbed with a white hot poker in the ribs. You see a twitch of irritation bubble across his lips. Not with you. No, it’s that this question is still hard for him to answer. Bucky exhales sharply.

“Next question.”

You feel a pang of guilt flare in your chest. You move along.

“Who kept you alive that long?”

“The Russians. HYDRA, if you wanna get specific.”

You exhale and settle on the fact you now have more questions than answers. But, you nod and snatch up your chopsticks. Enough of the twenty questions game.

In all honesty, it’s not like Bucky’s existence was common knowledge. The Winter Soldier was known mostly, sure, to those who had floated in the same circles as him when he was nothing but a rabid cur on a choke chain. He can’t help but be a bit thankful for the minor erasure of his new self — sure, in the eyes of the U.S. government he was a high-level threat to be reintegrated as soon as possible and surveyed at all times. But, to the average New Yorker, he was just another person. Everyone was so used to seeing the heroes in their costumes with their bigger than life personas and…

Bucky was just Bucky.

Even he didn’t really know who that was. He was starting to.

His pardon had come with some flak from some of the more political news outlets but… somehow, the details of the Winter Soldier’s exact crimes were being kept silent. Probably to avoid panic. And, even then, the connection between the newly alive James Buchanan Barnes and The Winter Soldier hadn’t been made yet in the public eye. He was glad.

The haircut definitely helped.

It’s like he was a walking classified redaction.

Bucky has a sushi roll in his mouth when he finally speaks. “For such a Captain American fan, I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me.”

“Oh, you’re really not gonna let that go, huh?” you say as you chew, covering your mouth. You swallow and waggle your chopsticks at him, “Listen, it’s been a while since I’ve… y’know, had my Avengers phase. That was years ago. It was at its peak when I worked for SHIELD. And besides, you’re kinda new to the whole superhero scene.”

Bucky frowns. “You worked for SHIELD...?”

“For a year,” you say tightly, “Back before the collapse.”

“Only a year?”

“It was for my graduate program,” you wave it off, “I won out on the most competitive internship NYU had to offer. I was working within their cybersecurity division. I will say I spent more time trying to sort of email phishing scams than anything else, though. I’m sure they saw my record and wanted to keep me away from the juicy stuff.”

Bucky squints.

You offer a sheepish shrug.

“I got into trouble when I was younger,” you sip your drink and sigh, “I always liked computers. I used to spend all my time on forum sites just… reading and talking to people and figuring out how these sites actually worked, so learning how to write my own code was just the next step. When I was fifteen, I learned how to tap phones. At sixteen, I was hijacking my neighbor’s internet conenctions and remotely controlling his laptop.”

“Sounds like a good time.”

“Yea, well, he was a sitting Senator who was having an affair with the nanny,” you mutter, “And I was stupid enough to try and blackmail him for cash. I wish I could say I learned my lesson.”

Bucky exhales long and hard at that, like he knows where that snap of misguided judgement goes. It’s not like he’s passing judgement onto you, but… like he knows the feeling. And you manage to not feel so small, then — telling him this is easy. It’s not your favorite part of your life by any means, but Bucky is listening. Really listening.

He fiddles with the paper wrapper of the chopsticks.

“So, less a Goose and more a Kevin Poulsen type, huh?”

You snort. “For an old man, I’m surprised you know who that is. But, I wasn’t hacking into the Pentagon at seventeen. I was too busy doing community service.”

“HYDRA had their eyes on him in the 90s,” Bucky mumbles through a bite of spicy tuna, the memory popping into his mind and flying out before he can stop it, “I remember… I thought his username was stupid.”

“Oh, you didn’t like Dark Dante?”

“Like I said,” Bucky chortles, “Stupid.”

“You wouldn’t have liked mine, then,” you smirk lightly, “It’s worse.”

Bucky raises his brows, somehow doubting that entirely. “Really?”

“...I was hackrabb1t for a long time. Y’know, with a ‘one’ for the ‘i’,” you cringe, “People kept thinking I was a furry.”

There’s a pause. Bucky’s face is set in an unreadable emotion. It’s confusion mixed with amusement mixed with… something else. When he speaks, he clears his throat and tilts his head.

“It’s clever. But,” a pause, “What is a furry? I’ve been seeing that word all over PlentyOfFish.”

Your jaw flies open. You raise your hands as your head reels around. Bucky has a look on his face like he knows, he knows he shouldn’t have asked and he definitely shouldn’t have given you enough context to know where he’s seen that phrase before, because now you’re looking at him like he has seventeen heads and they’re all on fire.

“Y’know what, nevermind—”

“—Oh, no, no, there’s way too much to unpack here,” you lean forward, “You’re on PlentyOfFish?”

“ChristianMingle wasn’t really my speed — stop laughing.”

“Shut up — stop it, stop — this is too much,” you say with a high voice, “If you get catfished, I’m not helping you track the person down…”

“—What the hell is a catfish?” he nearly cries, raising both hands in a desperate shrug, “I don’t even know what any of these words mean.”

“Oh, you sweet, naive, innocent, man—”

“No, no, no, no,” he chirps, raising a finger with a deadly look of seriousness on his face, “No, I am not naive or sweet or any of the above. I’ll take ‘cute’, sure, but none a’ those.”

“Is that what the furries call you on PlentyOfFish? Cute?”

He drops his head back against the booth and stares at the ceiling.

“Our friendship was a mistake, rabbit.”

You choke out a laugh. “Shut up, you walking claw machine.”

You’re both laughing now — quieter but sustained and everytime you think you’ve calmed down enough to sip your Mai Tai, you just have to look at the distraught, scruffy man across from you to break into another fit of muffled laughter. Finally, after what feels like forever, you both manage to calm down enough to finish the plates in front of you.

There’s a warmth that’s settled in Bucky’s chest — it’s eaten away at the usual jitter in his legs, the anxious twitch of his fingers. It’s a different emotion. Acceptance, maybe. Comfort. Affection.

Then, while you’re piling the last bit of sushi rice into your mouth when your phone, set on the side of the table, begins to go off. It hums erratically, dancing in a circle, and all you do is stare at the name flashing across the screen. You’re smiling, hugging her. It’s from Jaimie’s wedding — out in some big, wide open orchard with the sun setting behind you. The picture there is old; you were both different people then.

Before… everything.

MOM Morristown, NJ

You scowl and stare.

Bucky blinks.

“You gonna get that?”

Quickly, you snap out of it. You reach and silence the buzzing with two quick taps. Quietly, you offer up a somber sigh.

“I never do.”

Bucky frowns again, this time with a worried look that digs deep into his eyebrows. You ignore it on purpose, pushing your plate away and leaning back in the booth. He knows what you’re doing — you’re avoiding his gaze, and therefore his own questions.

“Rabbit.”

“Oh, is that my new nickname, then?”

“It fits,” he chirps before crossing his arms, strategically hiding his metallic hand, “What’s up?”

You grow quiet — then it spills out.

“I can’t talk to her.”

“Why?”

You chew your lip. You bite your tongue and you hold back on the finer points of your anger — ones dredged up by the still present sting of your check-in with Dr. Hart this afternoon.

Here it comes.

“As a part of my pardon, I was ordered no-contact with my family,” you exhale, controlling the level of your voice, reciting the court papers you’d read over and over and over, “It was deemed that further contact would impact my progress towards reformed behavior and judgment.”

Bucky’s eyes are wide. His jaw is tight.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘pardon’?”

It’s your turn to cross your arms now, to ignore the sting of his look. It’s the kind that screams disappointment more than anything. You hate that you’re getting it from Bucky of all people.

“Like I said, I didn’t learn my lesson when I was a kid,” you shirk, “Last year I was arrested on a number of counts — I’d been evading the FBI, CIA, all of them, for years. I was doing it all for people like me. The ones who got left behind.”

Bucky’s tone is flat. It’s serious. His next sentence is less of a question, more of an order. The cadence is rhythmic and it reminds you of your brother the night he found out about the first time you’d been arrested; you decide, then, that Jaimie and Bucky would have gotten along.

“What did you do?”

“Whatever I could,” you wave your hands, “Identity theft, falsified documents, insurance fraud. Anything. There were people, like me, that in a blink, lost everything. Accidents, deaths, evictions and no one did anything for us. The insurance agencies wouldn’t cover damages related to The Snap. Life insurance policies, social security… It all got snatched up by people at the top while the system collapsed around us. I had to pay for my brother’s funeral out of pocket. And there were hundreds of thousands of people just like me, just trying to get by. And everything failed us.”

Bucky is stuck in silence. It’s like mud, dragging him to the bottom of a pond — the sort that’s dredged with misery. In an instant, his veins are on fire with an anger he hadn’t felt in a while. It manifests itself in the tightening of his jaw. He rubs his face and props his elbows up on the table.

“Why won’t they let you see your family?”

You fiddle with your napkin.

“My brother… His wife was on maternity leave when she disappeared in the Blip,” you mutter, “She came back to no job, a dead husband, and no home. Their apartment complex had been abandoned. She’s trying her best to make ends meet. She lives with my Mom in our old home. Neither of them can find work. They… The court thought that I’d be influenced to do something if I was around them.”

“What, like help?”

“They see me as a criminal,” you manage, “But I’m useful, so they’re keeping me around.”

Silence falls between the two of you once more — and the sad look on your face makes Bucky’s chest tight. He can see anxiety beginning to spill over; you’re wringing the napkin, fiddling with the edges. Suddenly, Bucky realizes you’re feeling exactly how he was an hour or so ago.

Your voice is soft. “I’m sorry. I was going to tell you.”

“Looks like we’re two birds of a feather,” he says, knocking the toe of your sneaker with his boot, “Listen, we all do stupid shit. I’ve got a lot worse weighing me down. I get it.”

You look up, sadness glistening in your expression like sun off a lake. It’s harsh. He wants to look away.

He doesn’t.

“... So, that means you’re good with computers?”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

That’s how you find yourself in Bucky’s Brooklyn apartment at almost midnight, wandering behind him in the long halls and watching curiously as he digs his key from his pocket and shoulders the door open.

It’s a small apartment. One bed, one bath, a kitchenette and that’s really it.

For its size, it’s hardly lived in.

You suppose it makes sense — Bucky didn’t have a lot of personal belongings, and with the hints he’d dropped about his life before The Blip, you were beginning to understand that he may have never really had that much to begin with.

There’s a blanket on the floor by the television and a single couch pillow. It’s tucked in the corner, behind a small sofa. There’s a chair in the living room, one from an old dining set. At the kitchen counter, there’s a stack of papers and a single laptop. Even though all the kitchen’s wares are older models, the bones of the apartment are good. Bare, but good.

You stop in the doorway to the bedroom and stare at the untouched bed. The sheets are tucked tightly in the corners — there’s something militaristic about it. Across the hall is the bathroom. It’s small. You can see a few amenities scattered across the sink’s top.

Being in here feels something like an open wound.

It was lonely. Quiet. Cold.

“We need to make a trip to HomeGoods,” you mumble as Bucky flicks on the lights, “I get the whole minimalist thing, but sheesh.”

“I don’t have a lot,” he says, kicking off his boots by the door and shrugging off his jacket, “And I don’t need a lot either.”

You watch as his shoulders sag a bit, like he can finally let down his guard just a little in his own space. It’s endearing. You perch yourself up on the kitchen counter as your eyes follow him; he moves to fling open a cabinet and grabs a mug. Then, he hesitates.

“You want tea?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Tea?”

“Dr. Raynor said,” Bucky reaches for a container of tea bags from the top shelf. His henley lifts enough to flash a bit of skin along his lower back and you swear you see a scar, “It would help with my anxiety.”

You swing your legs a little. “Then sure.”

“You can use my Captain America mug,” he chirps, laughing a little to himself, “Seeing as you’re such a big fan…”

“God, I regret even saying anything to you,” you spit as you hop down and lean around him to get a look at the mug, “Did you seriously buy that?”

“It was a gift.”

“Bullshit.”

Bucky snorts as you shake your head and wander backwards, eyeing the rest of his apartment with a bit of astonishment. It’s really nothing impressive — but, you suppose it makes sense. Whatever meager disbursement that the government was willing to give Bucky for his efforts in fixing the Snap was better than nothing.

Your gaze hangs on the blanket in the corner.

He watches you; and he notes the sore sadness that dissolves your posture at the sight of the nest in the corner. A bit of shame colors his cheeks as he heats up the water. When Bucky speaks, it’s slow.

“The bed was too soft. I couldn’t sleep on it,” he shifts from foot to foot and focuses on taking the tea bags out and methodically wrapping the strings around the handles, “Dr. Raynor said that’s a typical thing for soldiers to experience when they come home from war.”

You’re quiet for a while after that, only speaking when he rounds the counter with your tea. He offers it up with a tilt of the head.

“You never got to come home, though, right?”

“No,” comes the short reply as you both watch the lights outside the window, “No, I didn’t. Not until now.”

You nudge his arm with yours. You lean a bit. Bucky leans back.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he manages after a sigh and sip of the tea, “I can’t just feel sorry for myself anymore. I’m trying to fix the wrongs I did — and that’s why I need your help.”

You quirk a brow. He reaches around you and grabs the stack of papers on the counter. With a steady grip, Bucky presents the photo of a woman who looks strikingly familiar. You can’t place her face, but there’s something about her that feels like a slap across the cheek. She’s young here, in a faded photo with tattered edges. Beside her is a man who is laughing. The photo is candid, and they’re both beautiful. They’re both wearing a uniform — but you can’t place the era or location.

You turn to Bucky for answers.

“Back in the 70s, at the height of the Cold War, HYDRA was working in tandem with the Russians to spy on American forces,” he offers easily, staring out the window, “The American HYDRA cell hadn’t yet been planted. This man, Andrei Kuznetzov, was a spy. He was feeding the Americans information on the Russian nuclear program. His wife, the one in the photo, was ordered to kill him. She refused.”

Bucky’s fingers twitch.

His words are soaked through with pain.

“I,” he continues, “killed him.”

You hold your breath. Then you spare him a mournful look.

“Inessa Sidrova went on to help form the same HYDRA cell that ended up taking over SHIELD here in America,” Bucky mumbles, “She’s dangerous. There’s others like her, ones who I helped create, all over the world. But, she’s my top priority. I just haven’t had much luck tracking her down.”

“That’s why you need my help.”

“I’m 106 years old,” Bucky deadpans, “The microfiches at the library were getting a little tedious.”

“But,” you chirp with a sly smirk, “You figured out how to set up a PlentyOfFish account?”

He shoulders you again as you sip your tea and laugh.

“Shoulda never said anything,” Bucky grumbles, “Dr. Raynor thought it was a good idea. Y’know, to get back out in the world.”

“I can promise you,” you say with a stern shake of the head, “The metal arm will get you plenty of chicks and dudes in due time.”

“Good to know,” Bucky replies as his words lilt with a playful sort of questioning that you purposefully ignore. You’re not feeding his ego today. Maybe tomorrow, after you take a crack at figuring out where this woman is.

It’s going to be a long night.

#vacant mirrors #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #winter soldier imagine #tfatws imagine #bucky barnes #marvel imagine #bucky x reader

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samuel-de-champagne-problems · 3 years

Text

I’ll Take X-pecting for 200, Alex

Summary: Dr. Spencer Reid plays a trivia game at the request of his wife, Y/N, but he’s in for more than some heaving hitting questions.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Wife Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Author’s Note: I really don’t think that this summary does this justice

I’ll Take X-pecting for 200, Alex

Shuffling the cards with a shake in her hand, Y/N tells herself to just breathe. This is something that Spencer and her have been looking forward to, dreamed about, and constantly discussed. Regardless of how much she knows Spencer loves her, there’s a lingering seed of doubt that only grows with the sound of Spencer walking into their house.

“Y/N!, I’m home, darlin’,” Spencer calls from the hallway, dropping the “g” because he knows that Y/N finds it endearing.

“Baby,” Y/N yells from the table. “I’m in the dining room. I made us a trivia game! Come play with me, I need your brains,” she finishes, smiling at her husband, who has been away for nearly two weeks.

“You know do I love trivia, Y/N,” Spencer says. He takes a seat next to his wife, but before he can kiss her, she pushes him out of his chair and motions for him to take the seat opposite of her.

“Before we start, how was the case? Everyone make it home in one piece?” Y/N asks concerned over the wellbeing of some of her closest friends.

“Everyone’s fine, Y/N. The unsub ended up being a team. Two women hellbent on getting revenge for their children’s murders. One of them got away,” Spencer explains, solemnly.

“Oof,” Y/N says, letting out a sigh. “It’s at times like these that I’m glad I don’t have your job. I’m kinda glad she got away, between you and me.”

“It’s hard, sometimes we don’t really know who we’re bringing justice too. But, I’d do anything to protect my future children, and you. Anything I needed to do to keep you safe,” Spencer tells her, leaning across the table and kissing Y/N’s hand. She gives him a sheepish smile, but inside her mind is eager to get this trivia game started.

“You’re a charmer, Dr. Reid,” Y/N flirts.

“Just for you, Y/N. Now you mentioned something about trivia,” Spencer says, clapping his hands together excitedly.

“I just thought you’d like to rest your brain after a case but shifting though all those facts you got stored up there. And I always said you should try out for Jeopardy,” Y/N says as she collects the cards with the clues.

She spreads out the categories, Child Psychology, Children’s Books, Labor & Delivery, Nursery Rhymes, X-Epecting, on the table. They were all handwritten on different colorful pieces of cardstock and decorated with baby animals and block letters. Y/N read the categories aloud to her husband, allowing herself to steal a glance at his face while he concentrated on the categories, as if he already could answer the questions.

“All right, Spencer, you pick first,” Y/N says, in her best Alex Trebek impression.

“I’ll take Child Psychology for $200,” Spencer chooses, looking up to smile at Y/N.

“This is the substitute mother that baby monkeys formed an attachment to in Harlow’s psychological experiment,” Y/N asks.

“Terry-Cloth,” Spencer interjects.

“Not uh, Spence, you need to answer correctly,” Y/N teases. She looks up at him expectantly to choose the next clue. He rolls his eyes at her, but secretly he enjoys the playful banter they still share even after all these years.

“Um, Children’s Books $200,”

“This is the story of the clever spider that can weave words in her web,”

“What is Charlotte’s Web?”

“Correct, pick again please,” Y/N says, as she tries to maintain a stoic composure.

“This is the average of days that newborns keep up their sleepless parents,” Y/N asks, sure that this question would stump her genius husband. But to no avail, Spencer answers the question correctly.

“Okay! Next time try-outs are around, I’m forcing you to take the test,” Y/N says running over to kiss Spencer on the cheek.

“You know judges are supposed to remain impartial, Y/N” Spencer tells her, putting his arm around her waist as if he’s signally her to sit in his lap.

“I can’t help it, how about you win kisses every time you get a question right, Spence,” Y/N proposes.

“I guess it’s worth more than fake money,” Spencer teases.

“You offend me, baby!” Y/N pretends to be hurt by Spencer’s words, but urges him to continue the game.

“You only got a couple more left, Spence,”

“Okay, how about X-Expecting for $200,” Spencer chooses.

“This chromosome is linked to the baby’s mother,” Y/N quizzes, finding it difficult to keep her smiles and secrets at bay when Spencer’s arm tugs around her waist tightly and his fingers draw patterns under her shirt.

“What is X-Chromosome,” Spencer answers before Y/N can even finish the clue.

“You know that you’re supposed to wait until the clue is read, Spence. I should redact kisses,” Y/N fake threats.

“No! Y/N I’ll die without your kisses, please!” Spencer cries out in pretend disain. Much to his amusement his goofy behavior leads Y/N to plant small pecks on his forehead.

“There, that should hold you over,”

“I doubt it, Y/N. I miss you already,” Spencer mutters into her shoulder, as if he’s trying to get closer to his wife more than he could already be with her sitting on his lap.

“Two more clues till Final Jeopardy,” Y/N announces, ignoring the fact that she’s bypassing the rest of the clues and totally disregarding Double Jeopardy.

“Hmm, let’s go to Nursery Rhymes for kissing for the rest of my life,” Spencer picks, peppering Y/N’s shoulder with kisses.

“Huh! Look at that, Spencer, you got the Daily Double, so whatcha going to wager?” Y/N asks, knowing she’s pulling this Daily Double straight out of the air, but Spencer’s affection for only one lifetime is not nearly enough for her.

“I’ll make a true Daily Double, darling. That means double the amount of kisses,” Spencer tells her, ticking the sides of Y/N waist.

“Here’s your clue, Jack is urged to be nimble & quick, helping him do this,” Y/N reads from the card.

“What is to jump over the candlestick?” Spencer guesses, closing his eyes to be assaulted by Y/N’s eager lips.

“Yay! Double kisses!” Y/N yells happily as she pecks Spencer’s eyelids and nose, causing him to laugh at her light affection.

“Next question, it’s the last one so you don’t get a choice, but I have so much confidence in you, my genius husband. These are the names of the 3 stages of labor?” Y/N questions, looking over her shoulder to get a glimpse of Spencer’s mind at work.

“What are dilation, expulsion, and afterbirth,” Spencer answers, once again perfectly.

“Okay, Dr. Reid you’ve accumulated a total of double kisses for the rest of our lives. Your Final Jeopardy category is, Ready For It…” Y/N announces.

“Last one,” Spencer says, and Y/N wonders if Spencer’s figured it out by now. She hands Spencer the small cardboard box. He looks at it curiously and Y/N can feel her heart in her stomach. He must know by now, she thinks. He’s brilliant, but sometimes he can be a little clueless when it comes to things like that. Y/N thinks back to how they danced around each other for years before Derek practically had to force them out on a date. He must know.

“You’re clue is inside the box, Spence,” Y/N tells him, her voice shaky and unsure.

Spencer carefully opens the cardboard box and reaches in to pull out the small pregnancy test that lay hidden inside. He looks it over, reading the test twice, three times, maybe even four times. He honestly can’t remember taking longer to read something. Spencer looks up at a terrified Y/N.

“You’re pregnant? We’re going to have a baby?” Spencer asks, desperately wanting to believe what he holds in his hand.

“You’re gonna be a daddy, Spence,” Y/N tells him, her smile struggling to conceal itself in between the bouts of happiness and joy that courses through her veins.

“A baby! Oh Y/N. A baby!” Spencer shouts rushing over to where his wife stands in between the entrance from their kitchen to their dining room.

“You’re happy, right Spence. You want this with me-” Y/N starts, a sudden rush of fear lodging itself in her heart.

“Of course I’m happy, Y/N. I’m so happy to be a dad. You’re going to be a mom! You’ll be the best mom, Y/N. I love you, Y/N,” Spencer says, crouching down to rub his hands on Y/N’s belly.

“Hi sweet baby,” Y/N says softly, looking down at her belly and covering her hand over Spencer’s. “I want you to meet your daddy. He’s going to take care of you so well, he might talk a lot but you get used to it”

“Hey, baby. It’s your dad,” Spencer murmurs quietly into Y/N’s belly. “I’m so glad that mommy told me about you. You gotta do some growing in there before you can meet us, but we love you so much, baby,”

“I really love you so much Y/N,” Spencer says as he sits up to kiss his wife.

All his life Spencer’s loved science. He loves discovering the undiscovered. Memorizing all those theories and facts and methods could never prepare him for the awe that sat before him. He realizes that he’s looked at science all wrong. There's a beauty in science- a natural, unadulterated beauty that’s so rare to find. But he’s found it and he’s never letting go.

Thank You for Reading!

Taglist: @calm-and-doctor

If anyone wants to be tagged in new posts, feel free to comment and I’ll be thrilled to tag you <3

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #dr spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fics #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x you #spencer reid deserved a happy ending

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newtonsheffield · 3 years

Note

Any chance of you writing insufferable from Anthony’s perspective? I would love to see what he thought of the hospital etc

Hello!

Hmmm... I have had so many requests for Insufferable from Anthony’s POV and... Honestly I don’t know if it will ever see the light of day.

I have written a few snippets of him during this time Like the Dinner and When he spoke to Mary about Edwina’s accident and a little about what Mary told Anthony while Kate was Asleep (More of which will obviously be coming in the fic from Mary’s POV) Eventually if enough people want to see it maybe I’ll write it as a full fic. For now can I interest you in Anthony’s thought Process when he met Mary Sheffield (Whom he did not know was Kate’s step mother)???

As soon as the car pulled up at the Queen Charlotte Accident and Emergency entrance Anthony was out of his seat, moving around the car, Kate frozen within. He opened her door, and when he saw the look on her face, he thought his heart had split in two. She was staring up at him, tears shining in her eyes, her mouth slightly open as though she was trying to form words, Anthony leant down, taking her hand gently tugging her from the car, pulling her towards the entrance, desperate to provide some sort of comfort for her, Concern for Edwina bubbling inside him as well, Someone he’d known for years.

“I’ll be right here Kate, and your mother’s just inside.” he kept his voice calming soothing as the stepped inside. Almost immediately a small woman swept towards them calling out Kate’s name sweeping her into a tight hug, and still Kate held his hand tightly, standing nearly shoulder to shoulder, his thumb started rubbing soothing circles on the back of her hand as he carefully watched her interaction. He’d never met Mary Sheffield before, Which was what Kate had called her, oddly enough, he pushed down the surprise at that fact, focusing on the woman herself. And Anthony was almost startled by the resemblance to her younger daughter. Kate must look more like their father, he thought, vaguely registering that Edwina was in surgery, relief settling a little as Kate seemed to calm slightly in her mother’s presence, their fingers still intertwined and then

“Oh My.” Mary Sheffield said, her eyes assessing him, curiously, her eyes flicking to his hand intertwined with her daughter’s slight curiosity flickering across her face and Anthony felt suddenly nervous. He forced himself to stay calm, offering his hand “I’m Anthony Bridgerton. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Sheffield I only wish it were under better circumstances.” Mary Sheffield stared at him, a little shocked, bemused almost, as if if she couldn’t quite make the pieces of a puzzle fit together. Anthony shuffled a little awkwardly in the silence and continued needlessly “Forgive the intrusion ma’am but I felt I needed to make sure Kate arrived safely.” And Anthony barely caught the wince that had threatened to escape him at the very formal way he’d introduced himself. Anthony could admit he had the tendency to use Politeness and formality as a shield whenever he felt nervous or anxious. And as soon as he’d seen Kate’s mother anxiety had bubbled in his stomach, desperate to make a good impression despite the fact that he knew, no one was thinking of him tonight. Nor should they be.

He could feel Kate’s curious gaze on him, as was her Mother’s. And then she smiled, a kind motherly smile that instantly reminded Anthony of his own mother. “Please, Anthony call me Mary. All friends of my daughters do.” A curious emphasis on the word friend as though she doubted that that was his relationship to her daughter. He forced a smile on his face, and as much as he wanted desperately to stay by Kate’s side, to comfort her, to never let go of her hand now that he’d taken it. But he couldn’t force his presence on her, he knew that, no matter how much it ached to see the woman he was in love with so hurt. “Now that we’ve found you, I shouldn’t intrude any longer. Can I get either of you anything before I go?” He forced himself to say, his words meant for Mary, but his eyes locked with Kate’s. Her eyes widened when the words fell out, something like panic crossing her face, her voice a little desperate as she said “Can You stay?!” And Anthony’s heart leapt, even as she seemed to cringe after she said them, a deep breath and then “Please? I mean, If you can?” And her voice sounded so pained, so desperate in a way, her hand still clutching his like a vice, her deep eyes pleading with him, begging him and his heart clenched.

“Of Course, Kate. As long as you want me too.” Their eyes caught together, his breath stolen from his chest by the relived, soft smile she gave him, so beautiful, even here, in the harsh hospital lightning, worry and dread, written all over her face. Heartbreakingly beautiful.

Mary Sheffield cleared her throat, a small knowing smile on her face as she said “Perhaps we should take a seat.” Anthony felt his ears burn a little in embarrassment. But as he settled into the uncomfortable chair in the waiting room, his hand still wrapped tightly in Kate’s, as she tugged it to rest in her lap, her mother’s hand smoothing her hair comfortingly, soothingly, Anthony knew he’d never be able to refuse Kate Sheffield anything. Anything she asked for he would give her, and he was more certain than ever that he was desperately in love with her, and there was nothing he could do about it. Even if he’d wanted to extricate himself from the tangled web he was weaving around a woman who had barely tolerated his presence days ago, he could never have done. Because he knew Kate was holding his hand in one of hers, and his heart in the other.

#bridgerton and sons au #kathony #anthony x kate #anthony bridgerton #kate sheffield #kate sharma #insufferable follow up #molly's asks and answers

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i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what · 3 years

Text

there was a moment from yesterday’s episode that set off so many alarm bells in my head and i haven’t seen anyone talking about it yet so i’m going to get my thoughts out there. i’m putting the majority of this post under a readmore bc it got very long thanks to all the transcript quotes i pulled but i really want to know what everyone else thinks about the Implications™

BASIRA

Okay. So… what do we know about Hill Top Road?

ARCHIVIST

Not much.

BASIRA

Another blind spot?

ARCHIVIST

No, it’s – I could look at it, but it… it was… it was like a… a hole. You know that feeling you get when you look down from a, a great height, like you’re being pulled into the abyss?

BASIRA

Kind of?

ARCHIVIST

[Getting lost in thought] Well it was… was like that. Normally I can see it, see the… webs, and feel the power of The Spider emanating from it, but… as I would look… it’s like my mind…. follows the paths of The Web,

[STATIC RISES]

the strands going down and… out… [Catching self] It’s quite disorientating.

[STATIC FADES]

my first thought after hearing this exchange was “huh, that sounds eerily similar to the description of the table the not-them was trapped in.” here it is from mag 3 - across the street:

I’d become enraptured by the table on which he’d placed my tea. It was an ornate wooden thing, with a snaking pattern of lines weaving their way around towards the centre. The pattern was hypnotic and shifted as I watched it, like an optical illusion. I found my eyes following the lines towards the middle of the table, where there was nothing but a small square hole.

my first instinct was that this was some foreshadowing for jon meeting some kind of horrible fate, because well... remember what happened the last time someone got mesmerized by the table?

SASHA

Oh, hey. I’ve found… I’ve found that table you were talking about. Don’t really see what all the fuss is about. Just a… basic… optical illusion. Nothing special… just… just a… wait…

[Hushed and panicked] Jon! Jon, I think there’s someone here. Hello? I see you. Show yourself!

but then i started thinking more about why the table specifically would be referenced, and i remembered the earliest we see it used as artifact of the web, and where: with raymond fielding in hill top road in mag 59 - recluse:

On Sunday evenings, however, we’d all gather for the evening meal, and before we sat down to eat, he would remove the bright white tablecloth that covered it, and we’d gather around the dark wood. I remember it was carved in all sorts of strange swirling designs and patterns. It felt like if you picked a line, any line, you could follow it through to the center, to some deep truth, if only your eye could keep track of the strands that had caught it.

it was while i was checking the transcripts to find the above quote that i also remembered the hole in center of the table that the web pattern leads towards wasn’t always empty - it used to contain a box, and that box contained an apple.

again from again from mag 59:

The center of the table looked, at first, like it was simply part of the wooden top, but if you looked closely, as I did so often, you could see an outline marking the very middle as a small, square box, carved with patterns just like the ones that laced their way over the rest of the table. I don’t remember how long we sat around the table those evenings, nor do I have any memory of what we might have eaten.

...

I reached over and pulled the wooden square from the center of the table. On its own, it appeared to be a small wooden box, and the lid opened smoothly, as my hands moved in a practiced motion. Inside was an apple, green and fresh and still wet with morning dew.

I knew I was going to eat it. I could feel tears desperately trying to push themselves out of my eyes, but I instead decided not to cry. I placed the box down on the table, reached over, and picked up the apple.

the box from the center of the table makes its first appearance in the very first hill top road statement, mag 8 - burned out, where we learn that apparently the apple was full of spiders.

considering the web’s predilection for filling it’s victim’s bodies with spiders (carlos vittery, annabell cane, the spider husks trevor encountered, the victim of the chelicerae website, the old woman in annabell’s statement, francis, etc.) i think this goes a ways to explain what happened to raymond’s other victims, and what would have happened to mag 59′s statement giver if he’d bitten into the apple:

They lay still now, wrapped in their sticky cocoons. Their bodies seemed warped and bloated in a way I didn’t recognize. But that’s only because at that point in my life, I had never before seen a spider egg sac.

more importantly though, we also learn that the box was buried under the burnt up tree in hill top road’s garden, the one whose uprooting was implied to be linked to agnes’s death:

STATEMENT

At that moment I made my decision. It was easy, like destroying this tree was the only thing to do, the only path to follow ... When the tree lay on its side, uprooted and powerless, I gazed into the hole where it had sat and noticed something lying there in the dirt.

Climbing down, I retrieved what turned out to be a small wooden box, about six inches square, with an intricate pattern carved along the outside. Engraved lines covered it, warping and weaving together, making it hard to look away.

...

ARCHIVIST

Except… We cannot prove any connection, but Martin unearthed a report on an Agnes Montague, who was found dead in her Sheffield flat on the evening of November 23rd 2006, the same day Mr. Lensik claims to have uprooted the tree.

and keep in mind that the only reason the statement giver in mag 59 didn’t eat the apple, didn’t succumb to the web... was agnes’s kiss:

As the man in the suit told me to follow him in a clipped BBC accent, Agnes walked over, and gestured for me to lean down and listen to her. I did so, but instead of a conspiratorial whisper, she just gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, then ran off down the hall.

...

All at once, my cheek erupted in pain. It was like someone had pressed a hot branding iron into my face, and I could swear that I heard the flesh sizzle as I let out a scream and fell to my knees. I raised my hands to my face and realized in that moment two very important things. The first is that my face seemed to be untouched; I could feel no injury or burn. The second was that raising my hand had been a truly voluntary act. I had willed it myself, and whatever power had been gripping me, tugging me into its web, I was free of it.

at this point you’re probably wondering why i think all this is relevant in terms of what might happen with hill top road, and i have two potential ideas:

my first idea has to do with the theory that agnes is lingering on as a ghost. this theory isn’t mine, i first encountered it shortly after mag 167 - curiosity aired through this post’s attempt to fix what bits of the timeline were thrown out of wack by the new info. if anyone has any other posts or general thoughts about this theory feel free to share them, i’d love to read them!

this theory is relevant to my speculation that agnes might finally make an appearance because she might have been the ghost seen by one of the statement givers in mag 100 - i guess you had to be there:

MARTIN

Right. Right.

[THROAT CLEARING]

Statement of Lynne Hammond, er, recorded 2nd of May 2017, regarding…

Uh, what, what’s this one about?

LYNNE

I saw a ghost.

MARTIN

O-kay.. Regarding a… a ghost. Statement begins.

who appeared as one of the cultists in mag 190 - scavengers:

MARTIN

[Puzzled] Celia?

CELIA

Probably. The, um… place I was trapped in, they took my name. I never got it back. But I like Celia, so… yeah! Celia it is.

MARTIN

Uh… H-Hello… Celia.

and was recognized and directly confirmed to be the same person by martin in mag 191 - what we lose:

MARTIN

…

Hey, I meant to ask. Do you recognise that woman, Celia?

ARCHIVIST

Um… no, I, I don’t think so. Why?

MARTIN

I’d swear she gave a statement once.

having her only pop up in mag 190 would have just been a fun easter egg, but having martin directly call out her presence the next episode sounds to me like jonny telling the audience to pay attention, to remember that her statement had to do with the ghost of a young woman on fire who might have been agnes.

my second idea involves web lighter.

over various statements throughout the previous four seasons we’ve been shown that the web and the desolation have been at war, and hill top road has been their battlefield. the best examples of this come from mag 139 - chosen and mag 149 - infectious doubts respectively.

on the one hand we have agnes being planted in hill top road by the cult of the lightless flame in an effort to both control her powers and derail the web’s plans, which seems to begin the conflict:

The compromise we came to was Hill Top Road. We knew it was a stronghold of the Web, full of other children Agnes’ age. We would supervise from a distance, but were confident she would be in no danger. The Mother of Puppets has always suffered at our hand; all the manipulation and subtle venom in the world means nothing against a pure and unrestrained force of destruction and ruin.

and on the other we have the web binding gertrude to agnes, thus thwarting the desolation’s ritual, which also involved hill top road:

ARTHUR

Alright. Agnes. How’d you do it? Never did understand it, not really.

GERTRUDE

Ah. That’s a fair enough question. It was the Web. I didn’t know it at the time, of course, and I would call it an accident, but it never is, with them. It’s only after the fact that you can see all the subtle manipulations

...

So, I began researching what I thought was a counter-ritual of sorts. Like I said, I was young, naive. I somehow found just the right books, made just the right connections, and even got what I thought was a piece of blind good luck when I found a tin box in the ashes of Hill Top Road, containing some perfectly preserved cuttings of her hair.

wouldn’t it seem symbolic, fitting with the dream logic we’ve been working with all season (and that the fears have always tended to work with), if what ended the metaphysical war was an artifact touched by both the web and the desolation?

say perhaps... a device that creates fire while being marked by a symbol of the spider? one that just so happened to be delivered to the institute at the same time as a certain table?

TIM

Er, what is it?

ARCHIVIST

A lighter. An old Zippo.

TIM

You smoke?

ARCHIVIST

No. And I don’t allow ignition sources in my archive!

TIM

Okay. Is there anything unusual about it?

ARCHIVIST

Not really. Just a sort of spider web design on the front. Doesn’t mean anything to me. You?

TIM

Ah no. No.

ARCHIVIST

Well… show it to the others, see what they think. You said there was something else as well?

TIM

Oh, ah yes, yeah, it was sent straight to the Artefact Storage, a table of some sort. Ah, looks old. Quite pretty, though. Fascinating design on it.

all signs point to the best hope of escaping whatever plans the web has for jon lying with the desolation, or at least with fire, and who should be waiting in hill top road than someone who’s been known to burn statements in the past... and someone who, as of mag 162 - a cozy cabin, was the last person to mention the lighter:

MARTIN

So, should we destroy it? Before we go?

[THE CABIN CREAKS VERY LOUDLY.]

ARCHIVIST

I honestly don’t know if we can.

[HE SIGHS.]

MARTIN

Mm.

ARCHIVIST

Besides, there’s – far worse out there. Better to try and avoid it, I think.

MARTIN

We’re not even gonna try? Look, we’ve got your lighter; maybe if we just –

i haven’t even begun to touch on the multiple instances of spiral marked individuals interacting with hill top road, or the potential role of the rift leading from the world without the institute to the reality with the institute from mag 114 - cracked foundations, or the foreshadowing we’ve gotten throughout this season that the archive might be destroyed by fire and how it’s looking more and more like that means jon might die, or the significance of the tapes and what power might be behind them...

but it’s nearing five in the morning where i am and i’ve been working on this frankly gargantuan post since about midnight, so i’m going to let more meta-inclined minds take it from here. tell me what you think! where do you agree with me, where do you think i’ve gone astray? hell, tell me if you think i’m just spinning my wheels, this is the first real theory post i’ve ever made so i might be completely off base, at least i tried lol.

tl;dr:

the call back to the imagery surrounding the web table and its long history with hill top road and the desolation is leading me to believe that whatever plans the web has in hill top road for jon, fire is going to have a significant role in whether or not the web gets what it wants; either agnes herself might finally make an appearance or the web lighter might finally come into play.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma spoilers #mag 195 spoilers #sorry if this is incoherent i had it all typed up and formatted nicely and then this hellsite just deleted the whole thing #i'm not usually one to theory craft (tho i have utmost respect for those who are) so i have no idea if i'm just reading too deeply #this is the most pepe silvia ass post i've ever written

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narniaandplowmen · 3 years

Text

counting my way back to you.

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Also on AO3

3113 words.

General Audiences / No Archive Warnings Apply

Complete

It is not easy to make a Fae lose count.

It does not take much for a Witcher to worry.

If it takes a lot to make a Fae stop counting, then what exactly does it take?

It is not easy to make a Fae lose count. People say that, once you enter the immortal world, there is no way of knowing what time it is when you step back out. Jaskier had always found that foolish blabber, of course. It was a simple calculation: just keep count of the number of seconds you are in the Fae world, divide or multiply that by the number of stars in the sky when you enter - depending on the number of grass blades in the fairy circle you entered through - subtract the number of heartbeats it takes between entering the Fae world and touching a snowbell and voilà, that's how many milliseconds have passed in the world mortals know. A simple calculation, really. But it did not take long for Jaskier to realise that foolish mortals are easily distracted, it takes much more for a Fae to stop counting. It takes much more, but it is possible.

It does not take much for a Witcher to worry. Or, well, it does not take much for Geralt to worry when Jaskier’s concerned. To know your closest friend, soulmate, better half, husband, whatever you wanted to call it, is perfectly able to handle himself is something completely different than actually feeling it. If only the rational part of his brain listened to his emotions. Geralt sighed as he looked around him one last time. They had agreed to meet here, one damn week ago. And Jaskier was never late for these meetups.

Never. Until now.

If it takes a lot to make a Fae stop counting, then what exactly does it take?

‘Julek, you are to be crowned king this winter solstice.’

Breathe in, breathe out.

And Jaskier lost count.

‘You want me to do what?’ his reaction came, just a few seconds (minutes? hours? in the world of the Fae, who knows?) too late. Or was it right on time? The Fae world is weird when you lose count, however brief. But here’s the thing when you lose count: once lost, it can never be found again. Never truly. A decent estimation can be made, of course, especially for such a talented Fae as Jaskier, but finding it? No, even those who break the laws of nature in every regard have to keep to the mathematical rules of the universe.

A week later (two weeks too late, Jaskier never even arrived a second later than he wanted to. Sure, he arrived late, ‘fashionably late’ as he called it, but he arrived the exact lateness as he intended to. Even whilst Jaskier slept Geralt could sometimes hear the man in his arm count, count, endlessly count.) Geralt could firmly conclude that Jaskier was neither kidnapped, nor murdered, nor seen by mortal eyes ever since their goodbye at the end of autumn, when Geralt left the flowering field with Jaskier’s scent on his lips, his taste on his tongue and spots of white on his shirt he wouldn’t discover until three days later.

Knowing the number of days (hours, minutes, seconds) till winter solstice did not, Jaskier knew, meant knowing the number of days until he would have to be present at the tree where he and Geralt would meet, would rejoin their bodies and minds and souls and step as one, think as one, breathe as one creature travelling the endless continent. For yes, winter solstice for the Fae equalled winter solstice for the mortals, but assuming that the Fae keep to a linear timeline is a foolish endeavour. This solstice meant nothing, when it came from the mouth of a Fae who has not breathed human air for aeons (decades? centuries?). This solstice might be this solstice for them, but for Geralt? it could be a hundred solstices ago, or a million into the future. No, Jaskier had lost count, and there was nothing he could do to gain it back.

Five minutes into his visit to Yennefer, she confirmed his biggest fear. Jaskier was indeed not kidnapped, or drugged, or murdered, or bored of the life the witcher could offer him. Jaskier was gone. Simply gone. Unable to be found with any magic or spells or dreams or portals, lost to any who could not follow where he had gone. Jaskier, no matter how impossible it was to believe, had lost count. That was the only possible - even if it did not seem possible - way for him not to have returned. Either that, or- Geralt could not bear to think the words as Yennefer disappeared in a flurry of purple cloth and violet scent and muttered curses, looking for a way to bring the bard home. Home to Geralt, home to her, home to their little cottage where they would hide away when the world became too much for the three of them to bear, where they would have just each other, skin touching skin, lips touching lips, breath breathing breath, just them, just them.

‘Mother, why?’

‘It is time for the Fae court to have a king again, after the- unfortunate weaknesses of your father.’

‘The Fae court has not had a king for aeons. Why now?’

‘Because you are losing your way, Julek. Look at you, you have lost count.’

‘I have-’ but the words would not cross his lips. No matter how hard Jaskier tried, the sound dug itself into his chest, into his stomach, down down down away from his vocal cords, away from the air where the words would be sounded and heard and listened to.

‘Not? Julek, you have even lost the art of lying. It is time to stop playing with those foolish mortals and take up the role for which you were born. It is time for you to rule beside me, to welcome your responsibility and care for your people.’

‘Sit there and be an ornament, you mean, whilst you still hold all the strings?’

‘Julek’

‘I have not lost enough of myself to be unable to recognise your tricks, mother. Even if you crown me king, I will not stay by your side for long. I will return to those I love, and that is an oath.’

His brothers would have more monsters to fight this season, Geralt had resigned himself to the teasing he’d endure the next winter when he had to relinquish his 10-year record of ‘most monsters slain’. Not that any of them would blame him, if they knew.

Two months now, two months had come and gone and still no sign of Jaskier. They had fallen into an uncomfortable routine, Yennefer and him. Without Jaskier there to hold them together, to silence growing fights and touch their skin and hearts and souls at just the right ways to make them forget about all annoyances, to ply them and mould them and nudge them in just the right ways, the two of them had fought more often than they meant to, than they wanted to. But rather than leaving, rather than running away and slaying a monster and sleeping in the cold and dark and dirt and feeling sorry for himself, rather than running away and parading at court, manipulating royals and mages and feeling sorry for herself, Geralt and Yennefer remained. Every morning and every evening, Yennefer’s magic scoured the continent and all the known and unknown places beyond for any sign of Jaskier. And every day, she would portal to a new place, find new manuscripts, new books, new writings, new myths and legends and stories and they would read them all, trying to find a way to get the one who had stolen their hearts back to where he belonged: in their arms and in their beds (for Jaskier had never left their minds and hearts and souls).

As if things couldn’t get any worse, according to Jaskier’s calculations, he will have to leave a couple of seconds before midnight during the winter solstice. In other words, a couple of seconds before his coronation, in the middle of (for as far as there is a middle in) the Fae world. And, although Jaskier is a powerful man, even he cannot win a fight against all of his kind. They will find him during his flight, and they will make wherever he threads the middle of the world, regardless of how close to the border he will go. And it is not like he is ever given the opportunity to catch his breath, to see the stars and count the flowers and touch a snowbell and make a wish. No, for he is crown-prince Julek Taraxacum and a hundred million other names, and they will not let him go.

They talk. Every night they drink and stare at the ceiling in silence and drink and drink and drink and drink until not talking hurts more than talking and then they talk. One night it is just two words, on others two thousand. Yet the topic remains the same.

The one night: ‘I miss him.’

The next: ‘I know.’

The following: ‘It’s so quiet here.’

And, after a night of just silence: ‘No. I miss- I miss more than just his voice, or his touch, or his laughter, or his eyes. I miss his stubbornness. I miss his infernal, eternal unyielding determination to get done what he wants to get done. Regardless of the cost. Regardless if we let him or not. Regardless if I let him or not.’

From there, every night they drink and talk and drink and remember, painfully remember every glint and touch and look and movement and word and silent threats to those standing in the way between Jaskier and whatever he desires.

‘I miss his ruthlessness,’ Yennefer sighs. ‘That glint in his eyes and that innocent smile that threatens any who want to walk in his way. The ease with which his words weave a web and his fingers twirl a dagger until the whole world lies at his feet.’

‘I miss his sharpness.’ Geralt adds the next day. ‘I miss the way he yells and curses at me when I put myself into danger he deems unnecessary, I miss the way he hits at just the right spots to make you feel like you are absolutely nothing and yet everything at all.’

And, as the sun rises and Yennefer gets up to let her magic roam the world once more, always once more and once more again,

‘He is better than either of us could ever be.’

He does not succeed. Of course he does not. Not with his mother chasing behind him, not with the court pledging their service, not with the lesser fairies swimming his clothes and weaving his crown and setting the tables and not with the moon - bright, round, full and hiding the stars with her betraying light - rising higher and higher and higher until the Words are said and the Vow is made and the cape and crown and sceptre weigh Jaskier down and he is King, and it is too late (seconds? minutes? years?) too late (decades? centuries? millennia) too late to return, too late to escape and find his way back through the endlessly changing maze of time and space and place and all that the Fae world entwines and changes and corrupts and has been ever since even the gods can remember. It is too late, and Jaskier does not know if he can ever return home.

Jaskier still counts.

It has been a year without Jaskier and their nights cease to be long speeches, and fall into just words. Alternating, every night the other starts, and they - in between drinks, in between trying to find some consolation in being an immortal mortal and missing, missing, missing the one thing you believed to be a constant in your life, the person who holds your heart and mind and soul and who you wishes could hold you, trace your skin with delicate callused hands, touch you in ways you never dreamed possible whilst whispering your greatest secrets and knowing, knowing that there is no safer place than there, completely surrendered to the hands and voice and soul that holds them - just repeat the same list over and over and over and over until the betraying sun raises above the skies and their futile search continues.

‘Voice.’ Geralt drinks.

‘Touch.’ Yennefer drinks.

‘Laughter.’

‘Eyes.’

‘Stubbornness.’

‘Ruthlessness.’ They open a new bottle, stolen from some corrupt mayor.

‘Sharpness.’

‘Strength.’

‘Love.’

‘Compassion.’

‘Talent.’

‘Humour.’

Jaskier.

His second, third and fourth attempts fail too. Jaskier curses the patience and stubbornness of Fae as he counts to his fifth, unable to manage to smile because of the irony of his own patience and stubbornness being the things leading him to try again (he will try again and again and again and again his whole immortal life long, for he carries hearts and souls of value and he has to return to give them back). Yet as a king he is guarded too closely, kept too busy, held to too high a standard, and never, never, never alone (he had never minded being surrounded by others all the time, as long as those others held his heart and soul and these others certainly do not).

But as he reigns and makes decisions and cuts ribbons and blesses babies and is held as a prop by his mother who enjoys having the empty throne next to her filled and speaking as a Queen with a King on her side, he feels a tug. A small thread forming in his ribs, tying around his heart and weaving through his veins, first unnoticed but rapidly rapidly rapidly all-consuming, all-knowing, overwhelming and strange and yet so distantly familiar, tasting of lilacs and violets and onion and adventure and destiny and fate. He can feel it in his fingertips, spinning through his ears and knitting his joints together until his body feels like the restless sea and he can faintly taste the Beauclair White and Toussaint Red on the tip of his tongue and deep, deep in his empty throat devoid of words and song and him.

With every heartbeat, the tug gets stronger.

The best ideas happen when one is drunk. The most foolish, idiotic and dangerous ideas happen then too, but the only way to know whether your plan is genius or will end the world is by trying it out.

It is because of that reason that Yennefer and Geralt infiltrate the highest security library, steal an ancient manuscript and spend a full week without sleep translating their nightly list into the oldest language known to mortal men.

It is far from the oldest language ever spoken, but it is close enough.

Geralt feels a thread of something entwining his fingertips, rooting in his stomach and growing to his heart and encircling his skull. It meanders through his brain, wrapping itself like a noose around the parts of him he doubts and criticises and hates and loathes and tying it close, close, close, till no negative thought can survive and he has to admit that his hair his mouth his face his scars his eyes his everything is beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

Yennefer feels a thread of something extending from her hair, diving into her skin and spinning in the emptiness between her hips reminding her of the sacrifices she made, filling the void like a clew of golden, loving, sharp and stubborn yarn, pulling and pulling and pulling something, someone, the only person who succeeded in making her feel whole and beautiful and perfect and flawless and yet so endlessly, endlessly human.

They hold their hands, grab the thread so strong it is almost visible in the open air of their hidden garden and pull.

And then, just as he is once again paraded around for dignitaries and officials and others in positions that, by all accounts, should not exist in the frankly dictatorial Fae court, like he is some rare flower or pretty dress or beautiful painting or another essentially worthless, worthless object, the growing tug that drags him forward, that makes him walk quicker in certain directions or holds him back in others, that has interwoven around every cell in his body making him wonder why nobody has seen the almost visible golden string tying him to somewhere yet, why nobody has noticed he has lost his appetite (why eat flowers and grass and honeydew imported from the sweetest countries when the taste of your lovers weigh on your tongue and fill your stomach in a manner no food could ever equal) the tug suddenly grows stronger. The thread extending from him, through him, in him, grows from a thin cotton thread to a long string of woollen yarn to a thick rope to a cable filling his lungs and throat and tugs, and tugs and tugs.

And the world becomes blurred and the wind picks up and the chattering around him rises and then fades and fades and fades and the busy streets of the Fae city make place for an empty garden next to a lovely cottage and two pairs of arms wrapping tightly, tightly around his waist and chest.

And, like a breath Nature didn’t notice she was holding in, there Jaskier is. With regal dress and tired eyes and dulled cheeks, but Jaskier nonetheless. Their Jaskier, their life and love and joy and reason for holding on, holding on to life and the world when there is nothing to hold on to. He is there, truly there, really truly there.

If it takes a lot to make a Fae stop counting, then what exactly does it take?

A tug from another world. A hug from his loved ones. A frantic pushing and pulling and ripping of clothes, trying to get closer and closer and closer (true lovers can never be close enough, their souls are so entwined their bodies will always be trying to become one) to make up for lost time, to assure themselves that it is real, to touch, to see, to smell, to taste, to know that it is real, not yet another happy dream but real and present and here. A violent kiss. A perfectly placed touch. A hundred thousand touches in a row, all at the same time for forever yet for no time at all.

What does it take to make a Fae stop counting? Oh, although it is difficult, there still are many things that can.

But what does it take to make a Fae stop counting, without them worrying about it?

That is a secret only those who have loved and lost and found again can truly know.

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jbbarnesnnoble · 4 years

Text

Hazy Horizons (Part Three)

Summary: In the wake of their lives being turned upside down and losing their son, Andy and Laurie Barber move to Maine, in search of starting over and starting a new family, by any means necessary

Features/Warnings: Dark!Fic; Dubcon/Noncon; Drugging; Manipulation; Smut; Breeding Kink; mentions of Lacatation Kink; Pregnancy Kink

Series Warnings: Dubcon/Noncon; Manipulation; Breeding Kink; Drugging

Pairing: Dark!Andy Barber/Reader/Dark!Laurie Barber

Notes: Reader is conflicted in this part and comes to some realizations about her situation. There is smut in this part. She’s trying so hard not to completely cave in to the will of the Barbers, but that’s proving harder than she thought.

This part features a lot of domesticity too.

Please bear in mind that this is/will be a dark fic. You’re responsible for the content you choose to read.

Word Count: 3071

Laurie could barely contain her excitement. You were trying to contain the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. She was already talking about how the pair of you should tell Andy about the pregnancy. You were a permanent fixture in their bed since that night. After that first night, you had sworn you wouldn’t let them win.

You’d tried to book an appointment for a Depo shot. But word got back to Andy and Laurie, the woman who booked the appointment confused because she’d heard you were going to be their surrogate. After that, you were no longer allowed to be unsupervised. In Laurie’s words, you weren’t to be trusted. Not right now. Not until you accepted your new norm.

You knew they monitored your phone. There was no way around it that you could figure out. The same was true about your laptop. You’d learned that the hard way after Googling natural ways to prevent pregnancy. Most of it was bullshit anyway, but Andy and Laurie hadn’t taken kindly to it in the slightest. That indiscretion left you tied to the bed for the weekend, only allowed up to stretch every few hours and use the restroom.

You’d had your debit and credit cards revoked after that stunt too. You may have had your numbers memorized, but they monitored your statements like hawks. Laurie kept your cards. She paid your bills for you. They had slowly whittled away at your freedoms until you felt more like a puppet on a string, an illusion of freedom given by your work and the trips to the store with Laurie or the weekend trips with the two of them.

“I was thinking we could get a Patriots jersey, they sell cute ones at that boutique in Bangor,” Laurie said. You were still sat in shock, even though the pregnancy shouldn’t have surprised you that much. They had done their damndest to make sure you would get knocked up.

“Sweetie? Are you okay? This is exciting! Our little family is growing!” Laurie said, sitting down beside you. You weighed your options. Lashing out, while it would feel good, could end with you in hot water. You didn’t want to think of what the consequences could be. But you weren’t excited. In another life, under different circumstances, maybe you would be. If they had asked you to surrogate like normal people.

But this was more than that. They wanted more than that. Whispered words of being a family. It was another thing you couldn’t help but think about. That if they had gone about things differently, you would’ve been amenable. They were both attractive. You couldn’t deny that. But the fact was, they hadn’t. They had done everything against your will.

“Yeah...yeah. I’m...it’s a lot to take in,” you said. She cupped your cheek in one of her hands when she moved to stand in front of you.

“I know it can be scary, but this is a beautiful thing. You’re going to be an incredible mommy. We’ll take care of you. I can’t wait to see the changes it’ll bring out in you,” she said before pulling you into a gentle kiss.

It was moments like this that muddled your brain. It was wrong, so wrong. You were here against your will. Pregnant against your will. But they were never outright cruel to you, even when punishing you. And even that brought pleasure to a degree most times. You knew the longer this went on, the more warped your perception would become, especially when they weren’t cruel. If they hit you, verbally abused you, did anything that was outright mean and cruel, you thought you’d be able to compartmentalize better, remember that they weren’t good, they were keeping you against your will, forcing you into something you didn’t want.

But that was the thing. They treated you like a queen. You had stopped fighting them in bed. You knew it was inescapable at this point. Laurie would give you a massage at the end of a long day of work. Andy would fix your favorite dinner on bad days. They would both pick up little things for you when out and about. A book you’d mentioned. A snack you couldn’t find when shopping with Laurie for the week. It made it easy to forget the situation, if only for a moment. They were slowly whittling away at you, at your resolve to get out of the situation you found yourself in.

You couldn’t help but to relax into her embrace, scolding yourself for doing so. When she pulled away, she smiled at you. Remember who she is. Remember what she’s done. Remember who she is. Remember what she’s done. You repeated the words in your head as she pulled you by the hand down the stairs and to her car. It was a Saturday morning. Andy had gone into the office to work on a case that had been keeping his office busy, leaving you and Laurie alone for most of the day.

“I’ll call Dr. Schroder on Monday to make an appointment. Andy will want to be there too,” Laurie said. You nodded. What else could you do?

“What are you going to tell her?” you asked. There would be questions, surely. If you were their surrogate, you would’ve gone to Schroder’s office. Laurie looked at you for a moment before letting out a sigh as she pulled out of the drive. Snow covered the road still, never fully gone from the ground before the next snowfall.

“Everyone knows that we have...a relationship. They talk. They may not understand it, but they know. Dr. Schroder won’t have any questions and if she does, it’s not like we have anything to hide. We love you,” Laurie said. You felt sick, and it wasn’t from the pregnancy.

“I thought you told people I was your surrogate,” you said, panic rising. You saw the smile on her face.

“We did, at first. But there’s not hiding how we look at you, how you look at us,” she said. Your breath caught. How you looked at them? You refused to believe you ever looked at them with anything other than contempt, than anger, hatred. They had taken your life and turned it upside down.

“What happens after?” you asked.

“After what?” she questioned.

“I have the baby. What happens after? Do I get to go back to my side of the house? Have my life back?” you asked, on the verge of tears.

“Sweetheart, I know your hormones are all over the place right now. Andy and I aren’t going anywhere. We’ll be a family. Our children are going to be so loved. You’ll see. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said in an attempt to soothe you. It did anything but. You felt a spike of panic. Your breathing was getting shallow. Laurie noticed and pulled off to the side of the road, putting the car in park before rushing to your side of the car. Children. As in more than one. You realized in that moment, you were well and truly fucked.

“Breathe with me honey, in, hold, out, hold, good girl,” Laurie said as she held your hands. It took ten minutes for you to calm down. You were tired, too tired to argue, to question what she had said earlier.

Once at the boutique, it didn’t take long to find the baby sports jerseys. You couldn’t help but melt a bit at the clothes in the store. You always had a weakness when it came to seeing baby clothes. And you knew Laurie was going to capitalize on it.

“That’s adorable. We should get it, it’s never too early,” she said. You nodded weakly.

The two of you arrived home before Andy. Laurie placed the test in the gift bag with the jersey, just under it. It was one of those moments you’d always imagined having one day, under vastly different circumstances. One where you weren’t forced. Where you had a choice. Where you were with someone you loved. But that wasn’t your reality.

Running wasn’t an option when they had the control. When your money was monitored. When you were only alone at work with people who bought into the image the Barbers sold. You had too. Until they snared you in the web they had carefully weaved around you.

“I’m thinking Mario’s for dinner, what do you think?” Laurie asked. You looked up at her and nodded. Mario’s was one of your favorite local places, the best Italian place you’d found in the area.

“Sure,” you replied, as you heard Andy pull in the drive. Laurie greeted him at the door with a kiss. You could hear her ask him the same question. Andy entered the room and found you, leaning down to pull you into a kiss. It was oddly domestic.

“I talked to Isaac today. He said it should be no problem combining the deeds into one and getting the permits to alter the house,” Andy said, looking between you and Laurie.

“Combine the deeds?” you asked. Andy nodded.

“Of course. No need for us to be paying bills on two homes. We bought ours outright. We can bring the utilities under one name, all the maintenance too,” Andy explained. It made sense, if the whole situation was normal. But, you reminded yourself, it wasn’t normal. He already had the papers. You hesitated to sign them, but the look on his face had you reaching for the pen.

“Good girl,” he murmured as he watched you sign away part of your life. You had a sinking feeling that if plural marriage was legal, there would’ve been a marriage license among those papers.

“Food should be here in thirty. I ordered extra garlic knots,” Laurie said, looking at you. Your shoulders sagged. You had no energy to fight. Not tonight.

“Did you sleep in today?” Andy asked, taking in your appearance.

“Yes,” you grumbled. It had become one of the rules put in place for you. Sleeping in on the weekends. Neither Barber liked how much you exerted yourself. Be it grading, lesson planning, or merely doing things for colleagues.

“She didn’t get out of bed until ten. On the dot. No laptop or phone,” Laurie said. No laptop or phone because she made sure to take them when she woke up on weekends. You were given your phone back at breakfast, but your laptop, you wouldn’t see until after dinner on Sunday.

Under normal circumstances, you’d consider both Barbers to be dominant, with a clear hierarchy. Under normal circumstances, you could imagine them negotiating with you, properly, about limits, about everything. But this wasn’t normal. It wasn’t healthy. And it was slowly wearing away at you, as they molded you into a perfect partner...though you used the term partner loosely. Partner implied equality and there was no equality in this mockery of a relationship.

Andy went to set the table while you and Laurie sat in the living room. There was an odd sort of comfort in the routine. You knew what you could expect. Andy would set the table, regardless of if you or Laurie or the both of you had cooked. If Andy was cooking, you or Laurie would set the table. After dinner, cleaning the table was all three of you, washing the dishes with music in the background. You hated how comfortable you felt in those moments.

“Dinner’s here,” Andy said, bringing the bags to the dining table. You hadn’t even heard the doorbell ring, lost in your thoughts.

“Smells good,” Laurie said as you sat down. Andy pulled out the various boxes and looked confused when he saw the dessert box.

“Are we celebrating something? Did I forget your birthday?” Andy asked looking toward you. You shook your head.

“Someone was craving something sweet today,” Laurie said offhanded. If Andy suspected anything, he didn’t let on.

Dinner was quiet. Andy talked about the latest news he could on his case. You tried to remember the situation you were in. Getting too comfortable would be your downfall.

It was after dinner that the three of you settled in the living room. Laurie set about setting the couch up for movie night, turning it into what amounted to a bed. You had loved that couch, once upon a time, before this side of the Barbers emerged. Before turning on a movie, Laurie turned toward Andy.

“We got you something today,” she said, handing you the bag to hand to Andy. He raised a brow.

“Is that so?” he asked. You saw the shaking in your hands as you handed him the bag. He took out the jersey first, a small Patriots jersey. There was a knowing look on his face before he pulled out the test.

“You’re pregnant? For real? This isn’t a joke?” he asked, his eyes lighting up.

“It’s not a joke,” you said quietly. You weren’t expecting the kiss, or to be pulled onto his lap before he deepened it, one of his hands snaking under your shirt while the other held you steady. His thumb rubbed circles on your belly, though you were still too early in the pregnancy to be showing. Laurie moved behind you, gently pulling your shirt up and over your head. Andy pulled away from you for just a moment.

Your bra disappeared next, and Andy’s hand travelled upward to your breasts. They had been sore the past few days and you tried to protest.

“This will feel good, baby. Promise,” Andy said, as he gently cupped one. One of the many things you had learned in the past month was the Barbers were both undoubtedly boob people. Both of them loved to play with your breasts. Andy never squandered an opportunity to touch yours or Laurie’s.

“I can’t wait until these fill with milk. You know, when I was pregnant, Andy couldn’t keep his hands to himself,” Laurie said from where she knelt behind you, while groping your other breast. You tried to hold back a moan. You always did. But you always gave in when it came down to it. They had learned your body in the course of a month.

“Maybe we should see if yours will too,” Andy suggested as he broke away from you, looking at his wife. You’d heard of that before. A woman who wasn’t pregnant inducing lactation. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious about that. Laurie crawled toward him as he captured her lips with his. You weren’t sure when she had stripped down.

“Sweetheart why don’t you help Laurie finish undressing while I go grab some things,” Andy said. You hesitated as he stood, but Laurie took your hands in hers, guiding you to the waistband of her panties, the other clothing she still wore.

“That’s it, good girl,” Laurie said as you dragged the panties down her legs. Those words. You couldn’t help the feeling their praise sent through you, no matter what your thoughts on your predicament were.

She laid you back as she undid your jeans and pulled them off with your panties in one swoop, before pulling you into a deep kiss. She moved to your lap and ground down on your thigh. You could feel her wetness beginning to coat it as she slipped her tongue into your mouth. You heard Andy’s footsteps on the hardwood, but paid him no mind.

“Scoot, on the towel,” Andy said. You were losing yourself in the haze of lust. Giving in was so much easier these days.

You complied with his command, and Laurie took her spot back before Andy had her pull back. Laurie gently pulled at your leg, silently ordering you to open your legs.

“Look at that, you’re soaked. Bet you don’t even need preparation to take him, hmm?” Laurie asked as she pressed a finger into your soaking pussy. You moved to meet her movements. She slipped as second and third in easily before pulling them out and holding them to your mouth. You hesitated, until she pressed more firmly. The taste of yourself on her fingers was a familiar one.

“I want you on your knees,” Andy said to you. Laurie dragged you into Andy’s desired position when you made no move to do so. It was the small moments of defiance that you held on to. You knew it. They knew it. You tried not to make a sound as Andy pressed into you from behind.

“Fuck, still as good as the first time,” Andy gritted out as he bottomed out. Laurie laid in front of you. You knew what she wanted. But you were refusing.

“Be a good girl,” Andy said, pulling at your hair. You looked back toward him with a glare.

“Fuck...off,” you said, though it came out half as a moan. You hated the smirk on his face.

“It’s almost like you want a punishment. This is a celebration, honey. Now, do as you’re told,” Andy said. He shoved you down and forward.

You were slow with your movements as Andy’s pace increased. You pressed a finger into Laurie’s wet cunt, before adding another. You licked a strip from her hole to her clit as she arched into your touch. It wasn’t long before she was coming undone. As she came down from her climax, Andy pulled out, changing positions so you were facing him as you rode him. At first he was guiding your hips as you refused to. But you lost yourself in the feeling as he pulled you into a kiss, tasting Laurie on your lips. Laurie knelt behind you, a hand moving to your clit. It was just enough to drag you over the edge, dragging Andy with you.

He laid you down as he pulled out, taking a moment to catch his breath. You knew in that moment. You were well and truly screwed. The more you thought about it, the more you realized just how impossible getting out would be, especially with a child. Tears stung at your eyes as Andy moved to help you sit up and guide you to the bathroom, where Laurie had a bath running. A tub big enough for all three of you. And you, clinging to the hope that there was some way out.

#andy barber #laurie barber #defending jacob #defending jacob fic #andy barber fic #dark!andy barber #andy barber/reader/laurie barber #dark!fic #dark!laurie barber #dark!defending jacob #andy barber/reader #laurie barber/reader #andy barber x reader x laurie barber

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nimmy22 · 3 years

Text

A Mistake: Chapter 3

They weaved through the streets of the lavish neighborhood doing their best to lose their pursuers. They crushed countless flowers and shrubs beneath their feet as they jumped from backyard to backyard. The sound of gunfire forced them to pump their muscles harder, run faster as the rain beat down on them without mercy.

Why was no one calling the police? A commotion like this would at least draw crowds of families curious about all the noise or the dead bodies littering the street and their neighbor's home.

Sherry tripped, skinning her hands and knees on the pavement. She had a second to cry in pain before Cara was already pulling her up to continue.

"I can't. It's too hard." Sherry cried, breathing laboriously as her lips trembled. "Can we take a break?" She struggled to contain her tears, knowing full well it wasn't the best time to start crying.

"I'm sorry, Sherry but not here. We have to keep moving," Cara warned, glancing behind her. She saw no one and didn't hear any gunshots, but that didn't make it safe. "I can't let them take you, Sherry. Come on, just a bit more, and we'll find help."

Sherry nodded before she began to run again. However, one step, and she yelped, wincing in pain as she put her weight on her knee. It hurt worse than when she fell off her bike while trying to teach herself. She was alone and had to patch things up herself until her mother finally noticed days later.

"What's wrong?"

"M-my knee hurts," Sherry whimpered, watching the older girl move closer to inspect the wound. Blood trickled down the little girl's legs before getting washed away by the rain.

"That looks bad," Cara sighed, turning her back to the little girl before squatting down. "Here, get on my back. I'll get us out of here."

With Sherry clinging tightly to her neck, Cara ran to the edge of the residential area and down a dirt path leading straight into the Arkley mountains. She hoped to find a hiding spot for them to catch their breath and figure out what to do.

They hid inside the base of a tree, only having each other to keep warm. The spiderwebs were all forgotten, as the girls' fear was now too exhausted. There was nothing left to spare for the tiny arachnoids fuming over their ruined webs.

What felt like hours passed, and the girls grew too cold and tired. The little Sherry's knee wasn't looking so good, the bleeding had stopped, but an infection may already be brewing beneath the skin given where they've been.

Seeing the young girl wince every so often, Cara decided it was time to move again. She needed to find help. Perhaps the men all killed each other during whatever conflict brewed up tonight.

Carrying the young girl on her back again, Cara left the forest to walk along a side road. She was on the lookout for a passing car. But their luck was too dry at this time in the night despite the rain.

"Thank you, Cara. I don't think I would've made out without you."

"I... didn’t do anything. I couldn't fight. All I did was grab you and run. God, I'm so damn useless." Cara let out a long sigh and stared down at her feet.

"You're helping me now, aren't you? You could've just left me or...or listened to those men and gave me up, but you didn't. I will definitely ask daddy to give you a raise." Sherry giggled and rested her head against Cara's back. She knew that if her friend wasn't there tonight, she would've been in the dark all alone or worse. She might've stayed hidden in that closet only to be found by the armed men. She didn't have anyone to develop the skills of hide and seek with.

"Oh, you better, or else I'm suing somebody for the years shaved off my life tonight. Your dad sure pissed off some powerful people. Who sends a whole armed squad on some doctor's house?"

"Daddy says there are people who wanted to buy his medicine, use it for bad things. But he told them no, and now they want to steal it." For a split second, Cara imagined Mr. Birkin dealing drugs with a gang, but that image didn't last long. The disheveled, nervous reck of a man with a million things to do simply didn't look the type.

"Did he keep it in the house?"

"I don't think so," Sherry shook her head.

The older girl pondered over it, agreeing with Sherry. If Mr. Birkin had kept this medicine in his home, then surely the security would've been better. And he especially wouldn't leave his only child alone in the house with it.

"They wanted to use you as a hostage. Probably force your dad to give them what they wanted."

"Daddy probably wouldn't care if they took me,"

"Hey! don't say that. Your parents love Sherry." Cara stopped walking and gave the little girl a shake.

"Then where are they? They are never home."

"Their work is very...important, I suppose,"

"More than me?"

"No! Not like that. I mean... it's just a lot-"

"Cara, look! There is a car coming!" the little girl jumped with excitement on Cara's exhausted back, but she paid it no mind as her eyes greedily drank the glow of the headlights coming down the road.

"Thank god," Cara exhaled deeply, feeling as if all her worries had just vanished. "Wait here, I will flag it down."

Cara stood in the middle of the road and waved both arms, trying to get the driver's attention like a madwoman. She definitely looked deranged, out in the rain in the wee hours of the morning. The headlights became increasingly more blinding as the car came closer. She couldn't tell the color of the car or anything about the driver.

The driver showed no signs of stopping, the speed fast and steady. "Please stop!" Cara shouted, her eyes pleading. "Please!" She won't waste the opportunity, god knows when the next car will drive by. She refused to move, standing her ground as the car sped towards her. Neither her racing heart nor the car slowed. For a moment, she thought it was the end, becoming roadkill at seventeen, having done nothing with her life.

But then it stopped, screeching to a halt inches from her shivering form. Cara let her hands fall to the hood, knees almost buckling beneath her. The hood felt warm and soothing against her icy skin. As she moved to the driver's side, she recognized the design of the police cruiser, one explicitly assigned to the STARS unit. Her heart pounded as a new source of hope offered itself to her. This seemed too good to be true.

"Thank you so much for stopping, officer! It's been a hellish night." Cara said, glancing over with a smile at Sherry, who responded with her own.

The door opened, and the officer stepped out, shining a bright flashlight at Cara. She was blinded and had to shut her eyes. "I know this will sound crazy, but please hear me out. I was babysitting this little girl when a group of armed men broke into the house and then-"

"Where is Sherry?" He asked all too calmly. Cara frowned. It wasn't his sense of calmness that unnerved her. It was the familiarity of his voice.

'Of course, it was too fucking good to be true.'

"Wait, how did you know her name was Sherry?" Cara demanded, taking several steps back. While his shades were missing, his slicked blond hair stood out to her. The rain dowsed her like buckets of ice. "You..."

"I won't ask again," He warned, walking towards her with a hand resting on his belt, ready to draw his gun. His eyes were an icy blue, radiating with the power of his cunning intelligence.

"I won't give her to you. Sherry, run-"

"Uncle Albert? Is that you?" The young girl limped over to them with newfound vigor and threw her arms around the older man. He hugged her for a moment before pushing her away, his eyes searching her for injuries.

"Sherry, no! get away from him," Cara jumped forward, snatching the little girl's hand, pulling her away.

"It's ok, Cara. He's daddy's friend." The little girl shook Cara's grip off her before hopping back into Wesker's arms. Sherry snuggled into the warmth of the older man, completely oblivious to the way Wesker stood, looking down at Cara. He cocked his head to the side with a conceited expression. Clenching her fists, she decided she didn't like him.

Wesker loomed closer to Cara, enjoying the way she stumbled back to get out of his way, almost tripping over her own feet. He deliberately bumped into her shoulder as he carried Sherry to the other side of the car, settling her gently into the back seat. He could've chosen the closest door, but where was the fun in that?

Cara stood dumbfounded, staring as the man who had only hours ago slit a man's throat and was now slapping a bandage on a little girl's knee in the backseat of a cruiser. She watched him with narrowed eyes as he tended to the little girl, finally noticing his police uniform.

"Who are you? Why are you pretending to be a cop? Who were those people? What are you going to do with Sherry?"

"I am an officer of the law."

"That's a load of shit. Say, in the slim, extremely slim chance you are actually a cop, shouldn't there be more...officers? Backup? A news station? A public statement? Something like this wouldn't happen in Raccoon and no one crowding in to watch."

"I handled it," Wesker said, strapping Sherry in the backseat before shutting the door. The little girl was already on her way to snoozing off.

"I don't understand, why-"

"Enough with the questions." He hissed, grabbing her arm. He found the little thing a pretty sight, but that mouth of hers was dangerous. "You better kill off that curiosity of yours before it lands you somewhere you'll never leave as a warm body. Don't be another babysitter we have to send a severance package to."

"You're going to kill me," Cara's laugh was void of humor, succeeding in tipping her tears down her cheeks.

"Just be quiet and get in the car."

"Why should I? You could change your mind in a split second and put a bullet in my head."

Wesker twisted her arm behind her back before shoving her against the passenger door. "Then don't tempt me," his hot breath tickled her ear as he delivered his warning. "And if I did go for it, I wouldn't simply kill you. I'll get everyone you love. One unfortunate accident after the next." His hand trailed up her back to wrap around the back of her neck. She whimpered as he shoved her face harder against the glass.

Cara shuddered, processing the gravity of her situation. The man was a trained killer and supposedly an officer. She had already witnessed him kill, had felt his icy blade to her neck. There was no doubt in her mind that he would deliver on his warning. The real question was when?

The first person to cross her mind was Claire. Truly, there were so few people that Cara cared about and who cared for her. The Redfield siblings only had each other, and Cara couldn't live with the guilt of being the cause of her friend's death. Claire was her anchor when everything spun out of control in her life. She would do anything to protect those important to her.

"Fine," She grumbled, taking out her frustration on her bottom lip. She sunk her teeth into the cracked flesh until she tasted the metallic flavor, but that didn't help get rid of the bad taste already in her mouth.

"Great, now we can finally get out of the rain." Wesker stepped away from Cara, already missing the warmth of her body. Perhaps he should've prolonged it for a few more minutes, drove her further into tears. The thought alone stirred something inside of him.

The tension left Cara's body as her arms were freed, and she rubbed her abused muscles, cursing the bastards' existence. She would do all she could to never again make his acquaintance. He started the car as soon as she was seated.

She banged her head against the window as he suddenly leaned over her. "The hell are you doing? I knew it! You already changed your mind," She hissed, failing miserably to shove his hands away.

"Safety first." He purred, a low chuckle leaving his lips as he reached over and buckled her seatbelt in one swift movement. She sat straighter than she ever did her whole life and simply stared straight ahead. She decided that if she simply ignored his existence, he would cease to be, and she'd wake up from this horrible, horrible nightmare. Her body has to be taking revenge for all the heart-disease heavy foods she'd been stuffing herself with, concocting such an awful nightmare for her. How is this a wake-up call if she couldn't pinch even herself awake?

It took too much effort for Cara to keep her eyes on the road. She immediately attributed it to sitting next to a killer. There was definitely no other reason. She kept shifting in her seat, unable to stay still. On the other hand, Sherry was out cold in the back, a fuzzy blanket draped over her.

Cara's fidgeting halted as Wesker tossed something into her lap. She picked it up with furrowed brows, inspecting it. It was some kind of badge, but not just any badge. It identified him as Albert Wesker, captain of the STARS alpha team. It looked legit, something similar to what Chris was issued. She has a thousand questions, but the man with the answers was the most uncooperative bastard she ever met. One more question and she's sure he will throw her out of the moving car.

'He was a cop, a crooked one. How many more in the police could be trusted? Who could help her? Was Chris- No! he wouldn't be part of something like this.' Cara's thought, mind fighting itself, too many thoughts wanted to be the focus.

"You were quite the shatter box not too long ago. Why so quiet now?" Wesker asked, enjoying the sequence of emotions flicker across her face.

"You practically told me to shut up," she tossed the badge onto the dashboard before resting her head against the window. She knew she was in way over her head.

"I said to stop the questions. You can still talk,"

"No."

"Alright then, suit yourself then."

It must've been the warmth of the car or the fatigue of the night that lulled Cara to sleep because she was startled awake by a ridiculously high-speed bump. Her sleep hazed eyes scanned her surroundings before she sat up straight, recognizing where she was.

Wesker had parked the cruiser right in front of her apartment building, a living place for the lesser members of society as it was all they could afford. Her wide eyes found him, and she audibly swallowed. "How did you know where I live."

"Of course, I help my dear friend run background checks on all his employees. One in his position needs to be incredibly careful with whom he uses." Wesker said, reaching an arm to rest on the back of her seat. She recoiled away as if stung by a bee.

"Is this your home, Cara? Can I come with you?" Sherry asked, having woken from her sleep minutes before. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her uncle's muscular arm.

"I-"

"Maybe next time Sherry. After we drop off Cara here, we're going straight to your parents." Wesker said, a sense of finality in his tone that had the little girl obediently return to her seat.

Cara opened her mouth to protest him knowing her name but remembered his background check and shut her mouth. He must know everything legally in the record on her, including her parent's colorful histories.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, Cara was surprised to see him exit the car. He came around to her side and knocked on the window, mentioning for her to get out. He barely gave her space to get out as he stood right by the passenger door with his arm resting on the roof of the car. She was forced to brush past him as his towering frame refused to step back. She caught the scent of gunpowder, soap, and the faintest traces of a cologne. And of course, blood. Despite her terror, she found herself taking a deeper inhale than she intended.

"Tonight, you watched Sherry until her uncle came home, and then they gave you a ride home because of the rain. Nothing. Else. Happened. You understand?" Wesker said, bending down to be at eye level with the trembling girl. With surprising tenderness, he moved her hair out of her face, but his eyes were anything but. She stood very still, wishing the ground would swallow her up. Her attempt at looking away was met with a firm grip on her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal." She answered, voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. A lump formed in her throat as her eyes welled up, but she refused to cry.

"Don't mess up if you can't handle the consequences." Satisfied with his work, he stepped away, watching as the girl raced home.

"You can be so mean, Uncle Albert," Sherry whined once the officer returned to the driver's seat.

"Really? I didn't notice."

#resident evil #Albert Wesker X OC #albert wesker

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bush-viper-cutie · 4 years

Text

Reunion - DAY 4

Pairing: none. Just Snape

Word Count: 1,828

Rating: E for Everyone

Plot: After years of not speaking to them, he visits his parents.

Warnings: none

A/N: Day four! My own challenging prompt for October again! HAPPY SPOOKTOBER! :D

Posted: 10/4/20

Masterlist

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Severus looked at the letter in his hands and reread the address, turning up to analyze the decrepit state of the house before him. There was tall grass all over the lawn, weeds growing between the stone slabs of the walkway, ivy growing up the rotting fence in spirals; it was depressing. He’d thought, when he received notice that his father had transferred their Spinner’s End house over to his name, that they’d done so because they finally had the opportunity to take all their saved up money and moved into a new house far away from him.

This house looked worse than the state of their old – now his – home. This run down shed was far from the city of Cokeworth, hidden deep in Muggle society where no one could have found them. His tired brain couldn’t fully comprehend how worth it had been for them to leave him behind without a note or trace in order to live in a moldy shoebox like this.

Severus pulled up his hood against the autumn wind and stuff the letter in his pocket. He stepped over the fence – broken to ankle height – and made his way down to the door, kicking through spider webs weaved between the tall fescue. He pulled his hood down as he reached the door and knocked cautiously. The letter was in his mother’s writing asking him to come at once, and he didn’t know if his father was around – or if he even lived.

The door opened and his mother – shorter than he remembered with long white hair the texture of straw – opened the door. She still had that sullen look about her, with drooping eyelids that seemed so harshly uncaring.

Severus opened his mouth to speak – Does she recognize me? – but she quickly turned, leaving the door open for him to close on his own. He stepped through and looked around. Newspapers littered the floor, falling off stacks by the walls. It wasn’t just Muggle papers, but Wizarding ones as well. He raised a brow. Father must be dead then, however the coughing in a different room told him otherwise.

He looked up and saw his mother, thin and frail, waiting for him across a small living room. He shut the door and that’s when it hit him. What’s that smell? It reeked inside the house. It smelled of decaying animals, by the dozens. He stepped into the living room and almost retched, feeling the carpet sink an inch under his weight. There was slime oozing out of the fibers, staining his shoes. Foul.

“Wh – ” he couldn’t bring himself to say a single word. This was all too much. He hasn’t seen his parents in eleven years, has lived in his childhood home alone, unaware if they were alive or dead, and he finally gets a letter asking him over and they live here? Look at the state of things!

“Think the house’s infested,” she said tartly.

He plugged his nose with his fingers and spoke nasally. “With what?”

She looked around and pulled back a box of empty bottles and cans with the toe of her shoe. A slimy green, eight-eyed sludge creature scurried away under a hole in the wall. Severus gagged and stared at the old woman before him. She shouldn’t look so old, and yet her skin sagged with wrinkles, outlining her unpleased eyes. “Bundimums. An infestation.”

“Why have you asked me here?” Severus backed away from her. “I haven’t seen you since I left for my seventh year of Hogwarts and you finally contact to – what – ask me to help you with a pest problem? Y-you don’t think I deserved – at the very least – some sort of note from you? You think one letter from the bank detailing the transfer of your house to me was enough?” Severus let go of his nose and gagged at the smell. He pinched it again and shut his eyes, trying his hardest not to cry.

“You left us, Severus,” she spoke quickly, as if it were a waste of breath. “We didn’t give you that house until you were twenty-one. Until we saw who you were involved with.” She shook her head in disappointment.

He scoffed. “You thought I’d come looking for you? Thought I’d come to kill you? I should have! After what you – and especially what HE put me through! You never cared when I left! You didn’t even try to owl me!” Tears seared hot on his skin. “If you’d known me at all you’d’ve known you were perfectly safe in that house!”

“Well I thought I did know y’better. I thought I’d taught y’better than to join that Muggle-hating cult.” She looked around again, pulling strands of white hair behind her ear. “But go if y’want. I won’t hold you here. Not like a’ever could.”

He hands balled into fists but he didn’t move. Her words stung more than they ever had before. He felt like a disappointment all over again. But she’d wrong. She taught me nothing but hate. I taught myself to fight against it. He breathed out calmly, fixing his composure. “Where’s Da?” For a second he wasn’t sure what to call him, ‘father’ or what he always did as a child. The accent he had now – taught to him by Lucius and other like him, rich and upper class – didn’t allow for the easy pronunciation. They always preferred to say ‘father’.

“Resting.”

He nodded and looked into the hallway. There was an open door with a bit of light shining out. “H… How is he? …I heard him cough.”

“Sick. With something. Doesn’ want t’go see a doctor.” She moved more boxes and stomped the life out of a bundimum, breathing heavy with age. She wiped her soles on the wet carpet and turned to him. “D’you want tea?”

“No.” Severus shook his head and moved more boxes, following the scampering slimes to their nest with his eyes. “They’re in the walls. It must be too crowded. They’re starting to spill out and over take the floors.” He dropped a box over a slime and winced as it splashed onto his trousers. “I’ll be ‘round tomorrow with… Bloody hell, I don’t know. Something. Goodbye.”

She opened the door for him and he gasped for fresh air as he exited the house. He shook his head and walked around the corner and ducked behind some bushes to apparate away.

~ * ~ * ~

He came back the next day with buckets of halophyte powder he’d gotten at discount in the apothecary. He knocked on the door and this time it was his father that had answered. He was hunched over and held pill bottles in his hands. His hair was cut short and a balding spot shone plainly on the crown of his head.

He no longer towered over him with muscles and bulging veins. He looked weak as well, and a little confused to be seeing him. “What’re you doin’? Why’re you here?”

Severus rolled his eyes and pushed the door open, watching his father shuffle out of the way. “Where’s Mam?”

His father wrinkled his nose and furrowed his brows. “Out in ‘er devil garden.” He moved into the kitchen and took down a glass, filling it with tap water.

At least the water looks clean. Severus followed him in, curious to see him so indifferent to his presence. He set down the heavy buckets. “How long has,” – he looked around at the dripping slime oozing from the walls, “… this been going on for?”

His father shrugged, gulping down several thumb nail-sized pills. “Few years?”

Severus gripped the counter. “Years?” He left his father and headed out the back door to the small garden of firethorns that his mother was tending to. “Your house has been infested with bundimums for years?”

She wiped her hands on her patched apron and nodded, looking up at him.

“Why? You’re a witch! You could have taken care of this yourself years ago!” He looked into her eyes and found something about them had changed, or, something in him had. He’d always feared his father, but his mother especially. He feared the possibility that she didn’t love him, or care for him. But in that instant he didn’t see a scared boy reflected in her dark eyes. He saw himself annoyed at her stupidity. She had always been a fool. He just hadn’t realized it before.

He turned on his heels and headed back inside. His father was still in the kitchen, struggling with his pills, trying not to tremble as he carefully tilted the bottle. Severus sighed and gritted his teeth as he reached for the bottle.

“You give that back!” His father gripped Severus’ collar but was too weak to shake him properly.

“Which ones do you need?” was all he said to his father’s act of aggression.

His father let go and made a large circle with his fingers reluctantly. “The big ones.”

Severus tipped the bottle enough to stick a slender finger in and pull out one of the large pills from the back. He handed it to his father and helped him with the glass of water as well and when he was ready to put the lid on the bottle he did that for him also.

Severus picked up the buckets and got to work on the house, pouring it along the walls and into vents. He made holes in the walls and poured the powder inside, hearing the bubbling sizzles of the sludge creatures as they died.

It took two days to get the whole house done, and only an hour to clean out the house with a few spells invented for the very purpose of bundimum messes. On the last day he repaired the holes in the walls with ‘reparo’ when his father wasn’t looking. The house was decent and all they needed to do was air out the place.

He grabbed his coat from their hanger by the door and called out to his parents. “I’ll be passing by weekly. If you need anything send me a letter.” They didn’t respond but he knew they both heard him. He shook his head and rolled his eyes to himself, knowing if they truly didn’t want his presence, they’d’ve done more than just complain under their breaths.

He closed the door and apparated behind the house again.

~ * ~ * ~

He reached the Hogwarts gate and locked it up, glaring at the few students who eyed the gate mischievously. He walked up the lawn and nearly slipped on some mud at the entrance. He steadied himself and looked up to see Minerva at the stairs on her way to dinner.

“How was your visit?”

Severus joined her. “It was… better.” Something deep in his heart mended, and he felt more whole.

Minerva gave him a warm smile and led them to the high table.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

Masterlist

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Day 4 Prompt: Swarms + bundimum (green many-eyed sludge-like pest known to infest houses; recognized by a foul smell of decay)

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General Taglist:

@severuslovebot @bionic-otp

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#my own snapetober #pro snape #october 2020 #severus snape #severus #snape #eileen snape #tobias snape #snape fanfic #snape fanfiction #snape fan fiction #fanfic #one shot #fan fiction

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stories-sometimes · 4 years

Text

I’ve Made A Huge Mistake {5/?}

Peter Parker x Reader, Quentin Beck x Reader

Summary: Peter just wanted to enjoy his trip to Europe, maybe even confess his feelings to his best friends.But along came a mysterious new hero to ruin those plans. Peter and his class are aged up and in college.

Warnings: Violence in later chapters, manipulation, age gap

Word Count: 2418

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

They pulled up to their hotel in Prague, a vast improvement from the run-down one in Italy. It was the image of luxury, near to the city centre, built-in some historic-looking building. Two doormen opened the gold-framed doors. All the students looked around in awe at the huge marble room. A pianist played, gently adding to the high-class atmosphere.

“This is absolutely insane.” She said, admiring the detailed granite tiles.

“Speak for yourself, I’m home.” Flash said arrogantly.

“What can I say, the squeaky wheel gets the grease.” Mr Harrington said in response to everyone’s amazed reaction. “Everyone get settled in, rested up,” he continued, “cause tonight, big surprise, the Carnival of Lights.” He exclaimed. As Mr Harrigton continued Peter felt his phone vibrate, he pulled it out to see Maria Hill’s name flashing over the screen of his phone. While Peter stepped away from the group, she noticed MJ’s intense stare from the corner of her eye. The jealousy bubbled slightly in the pit of her stomach. You don’t like him like that, she reminded herself, he’s your best friend. She attempted to drown out the feeling, instead trying to tune into Mr Harrington’s ramblings about the night’s carnival.

“Hello.” Peter answered.

“Parker it’s Hill,” The agent spoke across the phone, “there’s an earpiece in your suit, put it on and await further instruction, understood.”

“Um, yes ma’am,” Peter replied nervously. Peter stared at all the people who were in danger, who had been dragged into a mess he now had to solve.

An hour or so later he found himself with Fury, Hill and Beck, reciting the plan that had just been drilled into his head.

“I will be in the cathedral tower, keeping watch for the fire monster. When that shows up I will radio you guys. And then Mr Beck and I’ll -”

“My name is Mysterio.” The man said firmly, giving Peter a reassuring look, making the younger man smile. “Look, our only hope of finishing this is stopping the elemental now. We can try to draw it away from civilians but the most important thing is to keep it away from metal. It’ll get too powerful, then there’ll be no hope for us.” Beck instructed.

“I’m just worried, that me being here is putting my friend’s in danger and -”

“You’re worried about us putting your friends in danger,” Fury shouted from across the room, “You who set a drone strike on your own trip. Stark gave you this responsibility,” Fury poked harshly at the glasses hanging on his shirt, “But it’s clear to me that you are not ready for this.” Peter looked down guiltily, quickly excusing himself from the briefing room. He made his way up to the hotel roof, staring over the city destined for a disaster. He was only alone for about ten minutes before Beck came floating up to console him.

“How you feeling?” Beck asked, sitting down on the ledge beside Peter.

“I just didn’t expect to have to save the world this summer. I know it makes me sound like a jerk but -”

“You’re not a jerk for wanting a normal life kid. You're a good kid. There's a part of me that wants to tell you to just turn around, run away from all this. And then, there's another part of me that knows what we're about to fight. What's at stake. And I'm glad you're here. You’ve got these skills, these talents and I’d be honoured if you do decide to help me.”

“I want to help, I’m just worried about my friends.”

“I get that, just keep them inside, in a safe place while we save the day. You know there’s some opera on tonight, everyone will be at the carnival so it’ll be empty.” Beck suggested.

“Yeah, I’m sure they’d love that.” Peter said sarcastically, but still appreciative of his idea.

So that’s how Peter found himself entering an opera house as the rest of the trip complained about missing out on the biggest party of the year, with only his two best friends aiding him in support of the idea. The situation was definitely improved by the fact Peter got to admire her in the emerald, satin dress she wore.

“You look really pretty by the way.” He whispered to her, loving the way she blushed lightly. It was always his favourite sight.

“Thanks, you too. Um, you also look pretty.” She mumbled back. You’re just friends, she repeated to herself again. But it was a harder and harder thought to believe. She was confused, to say the least, and her growing feelings for Beck only made it more difficult to comprehend. “I’m gonna go to our seat, I hope you can stick around for a bit.” She beamed, punching him lightly on the arm before inwardly cringing at her actions. Smooth, really. She walked away, smiling over her shoulder at the boy, feeling the longing gaze. Soon she spotted MJ and moved into the empty seat beside her.

“You guys are weird,” MJ said immediately after she sat down.

“Really, you wanna call me weird when they’re sitting right there.” She said, pointing to Ned and Betty, both gushing over each other as they shared a set of opera glasses.

“Yeah,” MJ replied bluntly, “especially Peter, don’t tell me you don’t notice him disappearing all the time. You’ve got to find that suspicious.” She panicked, trying to come up with some excuse to cover Peter’s ass.

“He just gets anxious, has to be alone sometimes to calm down.” She lied.

“Yeah, but there’s removing yourself from a situation and then there’s disappearing for hours at a time. Look he’s leaving right now.” She turned, following MJ’s stare to see Peter rushing at the hall. She was disappointed. Although she knew his duties took priority over this, she couldn’t help feel let down by missing out on a night with her best friend. “Come on, let’s see where he goes.” She glared at MJ as the girl started to get up out of her seat.

“MJ, sit down we can’t leave.” She tried to drag MJ back into her seat.

“Why not, Peter’s allowed to.”

“He’s having a bad day, he told me he’s just going back to the hotel.”

“Then we’ll be good friends and comfort him.” MJ pulled out of the other girl’s grip.

“Brad will be heart-broken.” She nodded to the boy MJ had been flirting on and off with all trip.

“He’ll live. Look, you can come with me or stay here and bore yourself to death. And if Peter’s fine, then we’re ditching him to go to the carnival.” Knowing there was no stopping MJ, she joined her in sneaking out of the theatre. She could at least keep her away from the city centre. Not long after the two girls left, Ned found himself in a similar predicament, getting dragged out by his girlfriend.

Despite all of her protests and best efforts to avoid it, she managed to find herself nearing the carnival. Finding Peter’s hotel room empty only boosted MJ’s curiosity and ended with her basically carrying her friend to the party. The streets were filled with lights and colour, market stools stocked with an array of foods and gifts. Not a minute went by without a string of fireworks going off in the sky. Rides sat at every corner of every plaza, all lit up with strings of LED lights. She had to admit it would have been one of the magical experiences of her life if it wasn’t for the looming threat of another attack. The huge crowds of people all in imminent danger. And the top of a clocktower hid Peter, wearing his new, all-black suit, awaiting the arrival of the final elemental.

“How’s the suit?” Fury asked once everyone was in position.

“Um, it’s great, a little tight around the old web-shooter.” Peter joked, Fury’s eye roll was so clear Peter could practically hear it.

“Parker.”

“Okay, I’ll shut up.”

The two girls were wandering around, weaving through the crowds.

“MJ, we should head back before anyone notices we’re gone.” She said, tugging on MJ’s arm as though she was some little kid.

“I just wanna find what Peter’s up to, then we can do whatever you want.”

“God, you’re acting like some stalker.”

“He’s disappeared too many times for there to be a simple explanation. Surely you want to find out what he’s been hiding.”

“MJ, I’m fucking serious we have to get back.” She noticed steam rising from a nearby fountain and knew the elemental was going to strike at any moment.

“What the hell.” MJ had spotted it too, and stepped towards it. The ground split beneath their feet, lava seeping through the cracks, sliding up the statue above the fountain.

“MJ, we need to get -” Before she could finish her sentence the elemental had formed, sending the surrounding concrete flying out in all directions. She grabbed onto MJ’s hand and sprinted as fast as they could in the opposite direction. Panic ensued around them, the girls found a smaller alleyway to hide down.

“Okay, he’s here.” Peter rushed out as soon as the chaos began. “Beck, are you ready?”

“On your lead Spiderman.” Beck flew towards the centre, watching the elemental smashing down on its metal surroundings to gain more power. Beck landed, green dust clouding around him as he summoned his signature green triangles over his hands. Whilst Beck had the attention of the elemental, Peter swung down, smashing a pile of wood over its head to immobilise it for a second, giving Beck the opportunity to start firing at the elemental. Peter shot a web out at a fire hydrant, pulling it out of the ground to allow the water to spray out at the fire monster. The thing punched the wall Peter was stuck to, sending him flying into the base of the ferris wheel. Before he could do anything it had gotten to a carousel, and Peter was forced to watch it suddenly grow in size.

“Night monkey, night monkey help us.” Peter heard a familiar voice cry as he stood back up. He looked up to see Ned and Betty trapped, calling out for some unknown person. Ned stared down, giving Peter a look as to say ‘just go with it’.

“Oh no, no, no.” His friends in danger - his worst nightmare. The elemental came charging towards him, all of his webs were burned as soon as he tried to do anything to directly stop the monster. A mere second before it could strike Peter and the wheel, Beck threw up a force field, preventing any harm. But he couldn’t hold it for very long. Each hit sent sparks down into the heroes’ faces.

“We’ve gotta hit him with something he can’t absorb.”

“You go left, I’ll go right.” They nodded briefly before Beck sent to force field outwards, pushing the elemental outwards. Beck flew up into the air, leaving Peter to swing toward the tallest building in the plaza. He ran up the wall, successfully distracting it for long enough for Beck to get to a better, higher position. Before the elemental could hit him, Peter flipped off the building, shooting a web onto a piece of rumble, flinging it into the monster. This gave Beck the opportunity to attack the elemental. “That hurt him, keep going.” Beck instructed. Peter repeatedly picked up and threw pieces of concrete rumble. But that didn’t hold it off for too long. Soon it had smashed a fist into the ground, sending a line of fire to the ferris wheel, knocking the wheel off its hinge. The screams of Peter’s friends filled the air. Peter went to shoot a web to help them, only to find it not connecting to the actual wheel, instead to some invisible force. He tried to pull his web back in only to find it flying away with some unknown piece of debris attached. It landed in the alleyway the two girls were hiding in.

“What the fuck,” MJ said as she picked it up, “These are Spiderman’s webs.” She stated.

“It can’t be, he’s a friendly neighbourhood Spiderman, he works in New York.” The other girl tried to reason.

“He was in Washington, maybe he likes to travel.” MJ shoved the object into her pocket.

Peter pushed the curiosity out of head and turned to focus on saving his friends. He webbed up to where Ned and Betty were trapped.

“Whatever happens, I’m glad we met.” Beck said to Peter.

“Beck, what are you doing?”

“What I should’ve done last time.” Beck began to absorb a swarm of energy, building it up before flying into the centre of the monster. The fire was replaced with the green of Beck’s powers, causing it to explode with a blast of energy. Peter swung down to help an injured Beck up. Before he knew it, his best friend was running out of her hiding space, flinging her arms around Beck. He gripped onto her instinctively, holding on to her for dear life.

“What are you doing here?”

“MJ’s too stubborn for her own good.” She laughed. “Thank god you’re alright. You saved everyone, what are you gonna do now hero?”

“This.” He said, leaning down to kiss her. She was surprised at his boldness at first, but quickly allowed him to deepen it as he shamelessly shoved his tongue into her mouth. It was passionate and messy, a rush of all their built up emotions. It was as though everyone else had disappeared, Peter and MJ were gone, Fury’s car pulling up didn’t exist - it was just the two of them. It carried on like that until they heard a loud cough from Fury. They broke apart, still remaining in each other’s arms. She flushed, giggled nervously at everyone’s stares.

“That the last of them?” Fury asked. Beck nodded. “But that won’t be the last threat, Hill and I are attending the headquarters in Berlin tomorrow, you should join us.”

“I’d be honoured.” Beck stepped away from her to shake Fury’s hand. “I’m taking you out tonight.” He turned to point at her, she agreed eagerly. “I’ll pick you up at 10. And you Spiderman, need to come with me, celebrate before my date.”

“I’m not 21.” Was all Peter could come up with.

Peter had watched the interaction from afar, his heart breaking every second. He now truly believed he had no chance.

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dfroza · 3 years

Text

Today’s reading from the ancient book of Proverbs and book of Psalms

for may 16 of 2021 with Proverbs 16 and Psalm 16, accompanied by Psalm 58 for the 58th day of Spring and Psalm 136 for day 136 of the year

[Proverbs 16]

People go about making their plans,

but the Eternal has the final word.

Even when you think you have good intentions,

He knows your real motives.

Whatever you do, do it as service to Him,

and He will guarantee your success.

The Eternal made everything for a reason.

Even wrongdoers fit in His plans; troubled times await them.

He abhors arrogant people.

Make no mistake about it! They will be punished!

The penalty of sin is removed by love and loyalty;

and by devotion to the Eternal, evil is avoided.

When people make good choices, He is pleased;

He even causes their enemies to live peacefully near them.

Better to have little and stand for what is right

than to become rich by doing what is wrong.

People do their best making plans for their lives,

but the Eternal guides each step.

The king makes a decision under divine inspiration,

but he must never render an unfair judgment.

The Eternal requires that business be conducted honestly;

He wants fairness in all your dealings.

When kings commit evil, it is despicable,

because their thrones should be built on justice.

Kings admire those who tell the truth;

they adore those who set the record straight.

A king’s rage signals that people will die,

but whoever is wise will pacify him.

If a king is smiling brightly, life will be granted;

his favor is like a cloud swelled with the first spring rain.

How much better it is to receive wisdom than the riches of gold

and to gain understanding over some silver prize!

The highway of the just bypasses evil;

those who watch where they’re going protect their lives from sin.

Pride precedes destruction;

an arrogant spirit gives way to a nasty fall.

It is better to be humble and live among the poor,

than to divide up stolen property with the proud.

Those devoted to instruction will prosper in goodness;

those who trust in the Eternal will experience His favor.

The wise at heart have a reputation for understanding;

pleasant words make the lips more persuasive.

Understanding for those who have it is a spring of life,

but it is pointless to try and instruct a fool.

From a wise heart flow careful words;

wise words make the lips more persuasive.

Pleasant words are like a honeycomb:

they drip sweet food for life and bring health to the body.

Before every person lies a road that seems to be right,

but at the end of that road death and destruction wait.

People work to stay alive,

pressed daily by their need to eat.

Good-for-nothings conjure up evil ideas;

their conversations fuel destructive fires.

Perverse people stir up contention;

gossip makes best friends into enemies.

Violent people try to recruit their neighbors,

wanting to lead them down the vile path of evil they have chosen.

Body language can expose a person’s intentions:

whoever winks the eye is planning perversity;

whoever purses his lips is intent on evil.

Gray hair is a crown of honor,

earned by living the right kind of life.

It is better to be a patient man than a mighty warrior,

better to be someone who controls his temper than someone who conquers a city.

We may try to control the roll of the dice,

but actually, the Eternal decides what they will determine.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 16 (The Voice)

[Psalm 16]

The Golden Secret

A precious song, engraved in gold, by David

A prayer of David.

Protect me, God, for the only safety I know is found in the moments I seek You.

I told You, Eternal One, “You are my Lord,

for the only good I know in this world is found in You alone.”

The beauty of faith-filled people encompasses me.

They are true, and my heart is thrilled beyond measure.

All the while the despair of many,

who abandoned Your goodness for the empty promises of false gods, increases day by day.

I refuse to pour out blood offerings,

to utter their names from my lips.

You, Eternal One, are my sustenance and my life-giving cup.

In that cup, You hold my future and my eternal riches.

My home is surrounded in beauty;

You have gifted me with abundance and a rich legacy.

I will bless the Eternal, whose wise teaching orchestrates my days

and centers my mind at night.

He is ever present with me;

at all times He goes before me.

I will not live in fear or abandon my calling

because He stands at my right hand.

This is a good life—my heart is glad, my soul is full of joy,

and my body is at rest.

Who could want for more?

You will not abandon me to experience death and the grave

or leave me to rot alone.

Instead, You direct me on the path that leads to a beautiful life.

As I walk with You, the pleasures are never-ending,

and I know true joy and contentment.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 16 (The Passion Translation / The Voice)

[Psalm 58]

Judge of the Judges

For the Pure and Shining One

King David’s golden song of instruction

To the tune of “Do Not Destroy”

God’s justice? You high and mighty politicians

know nothing about it!

Which one of you has walked in justice toward others?

Which one of you has treated everyone right and fair?

Not one! You only give “justice” in exchange for a bribe.

For the right price you let others get away with murder.

Wicked wanderers even from the womb—that’s who you are!

You lie with your words, and your teaching is poison.

Like cobras closing their ears to the most expert of the charmers,

you strike out against all who are near.

O God, break their fangs;

shatter the teeth of these ravenous lions!

Let them disappear like water falling on thirsty ground.

Let all their weapons be useless.

Let them be like snails dissolving into the slime.

Let them be cut off, never seeing the light of day!

God will sweep them away so fast

that they’ll never know what hit them.

The godly will celebrate in the triumph of good over evil,

and the lovers of God will trample

the wickedness of the wicked under their feet!

Then everyone will say, “There is a God who judges the judges”

and “There is a great reward in loving God!”

The Book of Psalms, Poem 58 (The Passion Translation)

to be accompanied by these lines:

Is this any way to run a country?

Is there an honest politician in the house?

Behind the scenes you weave webs of deceit,

behind closed doors you make deals with demons.

The wicked crawl from the wrong side of the cradle;

their first words out of the womb are lies.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 58:1-3 (The Message)

[Psalm 136]

Let your heart overflow with praise to the Eternal, for He is good,