#iron-ice-the-last-elemental

[greenwitchcrafts]

February 2025 Witch Guide

New Moon: February 27th

First Quarter: Feb 5th

Full moon: February 12th

Last Quarter: February 20th

Sabbats: Imbolc- February 1st

February Ice Moon

Also known as:  Cleansing Moon, Deep Snow Moon(Mahican), Eagle Moon(Cree), Bear Moon(Ojibwe), Black Bear Moon(Tlingit), Bony Moon(Cherokee), First Flowers Moon(Catawba), Goose Moon(Haida), Groundhog Moon(Algonquin), Hungry Moon(Cherokee), Ice Moon, Midwinter Moon(Oneida), Raccoon Moon(Dakota), Sleet Moon(Comanche), Solmonath, Suckerfish Moon (Ojibwe) & Quickening Moon

Element: Fire

Zodiac: Aquarius & Pisces

Nature spirts: House Faeries

Deities: Aphrodite, Brigid, Demeter, Diana, Juno, Kuan-Yin, Mars & Persephone

Animals: Otter

Magical: Unicorn

Birds: Chickadee & Eagle

Trees:  Cedar, laurel, myrtle & rowan

Herbs: Balm of Gilead, hyssop, myrrh, sage & spikenard

Flowers: Primrose

Scents: Heliotrope & wisteria

Stones:  Amethyst, jasper, moonstone, obsidian, onyx, pearl, rose quartz, red zircon &topaz

Issues, intentions & powers: Astral travel, banishing, beginnings, empowerment, fertility & purification

Energy: Breaking bad habits, creative expressiveness, energy working to the surface, forgiveness, freedom, friendships, future plans, growth, healing, problem solving, purification, responsibility & science

The explanation behind February’s full Moon name is commonly known as the Snow Moon. This is due to the typically heavy snowfall that occurs in February. On average depending on location & climate conditions, February can be one of the snowiest months of the year according to data from the National Weather Service.

• In the 1760s, Captain Jonathan Carver, who had visited with the Naudowessie (Dakota), wrote that the name used for this period was the Snow Moon, “because more snow commonly falls during this month than any other in the winter.” 

 

Imbolc

Known as: Brigid’s day, Feast of Torches, Feast of Waxing Light & Oimelc

Season: Winter

Element: Air

Symbols: Besoms, Brigid’s cross, candles, candle wheels, corn dolls, cauldrons, fire, ploughs, priapic wands & white flowers

Colors: Black, brown, green, lavender, orange, pink,  red, white & yellow

Oils/Incense: Apricot, basil, bay, carnation, chamomile, cedar, cinnamon, dragon's blood, frankincense, heather, jasmine, myrrh, neroli, peppermint, red sandalwood, sage(green), styrax, vanilla, violet & wisteria

Animals: Badger, cow, deer, groundhog, sheep & snake

Birds: Lark, robin & swan

Stones: Amethyst, bloodstone, ×citrine, clear quartz, garnet, green tourmaline, hematite, iron, lodestone, onyx, red zircon, rose quartz, ruby, turquoise & yellow tourmaline

Mythical: Dragon

Food:  Ale, breads, chives, cider, cornmeal, curry, dairy products, dried fruit, dried meats, eggs, garlic, grains, herbal teas, honey cakes, lamb, mead, muffins, nuts, onions, peppers, poppy seed cakes, pork, potatoes, poultry, pumpkin seeds, raisins, scones, spiced wine & sunflower seeds

Herbs/Plants: Angelica, ashleaf, balsam, basil, bay, benzoin, blackberry, celandine, clover, coltsfoot, coriander, dragon's blood, garlic, lemon, myrrh, reed, rosemary, sage, vervain, wheat, witch hazel & wormwood

Flowers:  Chamomile, crocus, daffodil, heather, iris, rose hips, sunflower, tansy & violet

Trees: Blackthorn, cedar, rowan & sycamore

Goddesses: Anu, Aradia, Arianrhod, Artio, Athena, Branwen, Brigid, Danu, Februa, Gaia, Inanna, Juno, Selene, Selu, Sirona & Vesta

Gods: Aengus Mac Og, Bragi, Cupid, Dian Cecht, Dumuzi, Eros, Februus & Pax

Tarot cards: Death, The Empress & The Star

Spellwork: Air magick, cleansing, divination, fertility & new beginnings

Issues, Intentions & Powers: Awakening, animals, banishing, beginnings, change, fertility, healing, hope, illumination, inspiration, light, patience, pregnancy/childbirth, prophecy, prosperity, purification, transformation, well-being & youth

Activities:

•Make & light white candles

• Clean/decorate your altar & consecrate your  altar tools

• Go on a walk in nature & look for signs of spring

• Make a Brigid’s Cross

• Have a feast with your family/friends

• Give thanks & leave offerings to the Earth

• Set intentions, reflect & look deeper into your goals for spring

• Start a bonfire

• Bless new projects

• Clear snow/ice from public walkways

• Gather & distribute warm clothes, hand warmers & blankets to those who need it

• Pepare plans for your upcoming garden

• Craft a priapic wand

• Spend time with children celebrating Imbolc by making crafts & or baking

• Make or buy new magical tools

• Practice divination & fire scrying

• Draw a cleansing ritual bath for yourself

• Meditate, reflect & say your farewells to winter

• Cleanse & clean your house to prepare for spring

• Create a Brídeóg: a doll of Brigid made of straw

• Make Bride’s bouquet satchets & exchange as symbols of good luck and fertility

• Set aside seasonal food & or drinks as an offering to Brigid to invite her in your home

• Find Imboloc prayers & devotionals that bid farewell to the winter months & honor the goddess Brigid

Imbolc is a Gaelic festival marking the beginning of spring. Most commonly it is held on January 31 – February 1, or halfway between the winter solstice & the spring equinox. The holiday is a festival of the hearth, home, a celebration of the lengthening days & the early signs of spring. 

•  It is suggested that Imbolc originally marked the onset of the arrival of fresh sheep milk after a period of food shortage & the beginning of preparations for the spring sowing.

The word “imbolc” means “in the belly” and refers to the pregnancy of ewes at this time of year. The term “oimelc” means ewe’s milk. Around this time of year, many herd animals give birth to their first offspring of the year or are heavily pregnant & as a result, they are producing milk.

Imbolc is mentioned in some of the earliest Irish literature and it is associated with important events in Irish mythology. It is believed that Imbolc was originally a pagan festival associated with the lambing season and the goddess Brigid. It's believed that Imbolc was Christianized as a festival of Saint Brigid, who herself is thought to also be a Christianization of the goddess.

• Joseph Vendryes and Christian-Joseph Guyonvarc'h suggested that it may have also been a purification festival, similar to the ancient Roman festival Lupercalia which took place at the same time of year.

Some scholars argue that the date of Imbolc was significant in Ireland since the Neolithic. A few passage tombs in Ireland are aligned with the sunrise around the times of Imbolc & Samhain.

Related festivals:

•Groundhog Day: February 2nd- 

Is a tradition observed in the United States & Canada every year. It derives from the Pennsylvania Dutch superstition that if a groundhog emerges from its burrow on this day & sees its shadow, it will retreat to its den & winter will go on for six more weeks; if it does not see its shadow, spring will arrive early.

• While the tradition remains popular in the 21st century, studies have found no consistent association between a groundhog seeing its shadow & the subsequent arrival time of spring-like weather.

•St. Brigid’s Day: February 1st-

Celebrates the beginning of spring and the celebration of Lá Fhéile Bríde, St Brigid’s Day. The day has long symbolised hope, renewal and the feminine.

•Because Saint Brigid has been theorised as linked to the goddess Brigid, some associate the festival of Imbolc with the goddess.

St. Brigid is the patroness saint (or ‘mother saint’) of Ireland. She is patroness of many things, including poetry, learning, healing, protection, blacksmithing, livestock & dairy production. In her honour, a perpetual fire was kept burning at Kildare for centuries & a recent campaign successfully established her feast day as a national holiday in 2023.

The customs of St Brigid's Day did not begin to be recorded in detail until the early modern era. In recent centuries, its traditions have included weaving Brigid's crosses, hung over doors and windows to protect against fire, illness, and evil spirits. People also made a doll of Brigid (a Brídeóg), which was paraded around the community by girls, sometimes accompanied by 'strawboys'. Brigid was said to visit one's home on St Brigid's Eve. To receive her blessings, people would make a bed for Brigid, leave her food and drink, and set items of clothing outside for her to bless. Holy wells would be visited, a special meal would be had, and the day was traditionally linked with weather lore.

•  Candlemas: February 2nd-

 Is a Christian feast day on February 2nd commemorating the presentation of Jesus at the Temple. It is based upon the account of the presentation of Jesus in Luke 2:22-40. 

•While it is customary for Christians in some countries to remove their Christmas decorations on Twelfth Night, those in other Christian countries historically remove them after Candlemas.

On Candlemas, many Christians also take their candles to their local church, where they are blessed and then used for the rest of the year. For Christians, these blessed candles serve as a symbol of Jesus Christ, who is referred to as the Light of the World.

•Setsubun: February 2nd-

Is the day before the beginning of spring in the old calendar in Japan. The name literally means 'seasonal division’, referring to the day just before the first day of spring.

Both Setsubun & Risshun are celebrated yearly as part of the Spring Festival (Haru matsuri ) in Japan. In its association with the Lunar New Year, Setsubun, though not the official New Year, was thought of as similar in its ritual & cultural associations of 'cleansing’ the previous year as the beginning of the new season of spring. Setsubun was accompanied by a number of rituals & traditions held at various levels to drive away the previous year’s bad fortunes & evil spirits for the year to come.

• The commonly practiced tradition of throwing of roasted soybeans (called "fukumame") in order to drive away evil spirits & bring good fortune into one's home is upheld by both places of worship & regular people. Then, as part of bringing luck in, it is customary to eat roasted soybeans, one for each year of one's life (kazoedoshi), plus one more for bringing good luck for the year.

Other celebrations:

• Lupercalia: February 13-15th-

In ancient Rome, this festival was conducted annually on February 13th through 15th under the superintendence of a corporation of priests called Luperci. The origins of the festival are obscure, although the likely derivation of its name from lupus (Latin: “wolf”) has variously suggested connection with an ancient deity who protected herds from wolves & with the legendary she-wolf who nursed Romulus & Remus. As a fertility rite, the festival is also associated with the god Faunus to purify the city, promoting health & fertility.

Each Lupercalia began with the sacrifice by the Luperci of goats & a dog, after which two of the Luperci were led to the altar, their foreheads were touched with a bloody knife & the blood was wiped off with wool dipped in milk; the ritual required that the two young men laugh. The sacrificial feast followed, after which the Luperci cut thongs from the skins of the sacrificial animals & ran in two bands around the Palatine hill, striking with the thongs at any woman who came near them. A blow from the thong was supposed to render a woman fertile.

In 494 CE the Christian church under Pope Gelasius I forbade participation in the festival. Tradition holds that he appropriated the form of the rite as the Feast of the Purification (Candlemas), celebrated on February 2, but it is likely that the Christian feast was established in the previous century. It has also been alternately suggested that Pope Gelasius I replaced Lupercalia with St. Valentine’s Day, celebrated on February 14th, but the origin of that holiday was likely much later.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

Encyclopedia Britannica

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2025 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

Llewellyn's Sabbat Essentials: Imbolc

Note:

This guide was written with Moon phases and dates corresponding to North America. These guides are supposed to be a generalized stepping off point to do your own research & help celebrate the way you feel called to.

•THIS IS CONDENSED INFORMATION AND SPECIFICS MAY NOT BE MENTIONED

This isn't based off what I do personally & I'm by no way suggesting people celebrate a certain way. It's stuff I've read & put together from books so people of different traditions & practices can get an idea of what to do for the sabbat, months or research for themselves.

Note that for Native American names, each Moon name was traditionally applied to the entire lunar month in which it occurred, the month starting either with the new Moon or full Moon. Also the name of the lunar month might vary each year or between bands or other groups within the same nation.

Some names listed here may reflect usage at once in history but may no longer be used by a designated group today. Many of the names listed here are English interpretations of the words used in Native American languages. They are only roughly aligned here with the months of the Gregorian calendar; you’ll notice that some names are repeated in multiple months.

The ones listed are the ones that were used in the books I used for correspondences & there are many more that are not mentioned.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mission Control 11

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

A storm falls like a harbinger of his return. Winds batter the siding and the windows rattle with the speckle of cold rain. The chill creeps through the walls as you ration the last few pieces of wood.  

As you quake before the fireplace, the door swings open and hits the frame, adding to the cacophony of nature’s rage. You hardly have a moment to react as his dark figure falls on you like a wraith. You flail your legs as the blanket catches on a lose tile before the crackling flames and he drags you across the floor. 

Your heels bounce futilely on the rug as the rain blows through the open door. The man once known as a hero, the man lost to the ice all those centuries ago, take you into the bedroom and flings you like a rag doll. Like a thing. 

You hit the food of the bed and land on the floor with a crash. You groan as your bones ache, not only with the impact but from the endless tension. As you writhe, he steps over you, smearing blood onto your night gown as he grabs the tinged fabric. 

He hauls you up so you stand on your toes. You smell the iron stained into his body armor. You look up at the mask that hides him. You try to imagine those blue eyes but you only see a monster. He is only the indomitable villain that plucked you out of your own life. 

He hurls you across the bed and you gasp as you land on your side. You roll onto your stomach and crawl up the mattress. He catches your ankle and tears you back as the frame dips with his weight. You rip the sheets into a wrinkle as you fight to escape him. 

This isn’t the man that left. This isn’t the docile stranger trapped in indecision. You sense in him a furor worse than that wailing outside the cabin.  

He flips you onto your back and grabs the front of the linen nightgown. He rents the fabric down the middle and exposes your body. You bat at his hands without effect as you wriggle. He pushes a knee between both of yours, splaying you wide. 

He grips your hips and hauls your closer. You squeak and reach up, clawing desperately for any escape. There’s nothing by the flat pillows and the top of the rumpled sheets. He pushes a hand up your body and stretches it around your neck. 

You still and whimper as you put your hand on his wrist. You flick the tears with your lashes and whine. Terror swells in your chest and floods through your veins like icy water. You can’t fight him. Not physically. 

“Please, don’t,” you beg as you touch his knuckles. “Please, you don’t have to--” You wheezes as his hand squeezes tighter. “You don’t have to do this. Please, please, I’m scared. I’m scared...” you croak between willowy heaves, “it hurts. Please don’t hurt me anymore.” You trail your hand up his arm, feeling the rough fabric, dirty dusting off beneath your graze, “Captain... Steve Rogers--” 

His hand nearly crushes your throat and cuts off your next plea. Your head pounds and your tears trickle out unchecked. No, no, that was wrong. You shouldn’t have said any of that. You’re just so scared. 

You close your eyes as your skull pulse and you choke for a breath, clasping onto his thick forearm as you try to ease his hold on you. His other hand pushes away the night gown so it splays around you. He shoves his hands between your legs, rough as he pokes at your folds. 

He wiggles his fingertips impatiently and rams into you without warning. You smack his bicep desperately as he jerks you with hard thrusts. You whimper and your eyes snap open as his hand slips just enough for you to gulp in a breath. 

He rips his hand away and shifts on his knees. He struggles to undo his fly, growing more impatient as the sheaths and weapons get in his way. You try not to look at him as you know what he means to do. 

All that hope, that sliver of hope that you had before, that he might be gentle, that he might be appeased, is gone. You latch onto his arm as you brace himself. You jostle on the mattress with his movement. He leans weight on your neck as he looms over you. 

He pushes his knees wider and pushes along your cunt once more. You can tell it’s him; not his fingers, but that other part of him. His blunt tip strains against you as your body tries to resist the intrusion. He grunts and bucks his hips. As he breaks through you gurgle and dig your nails into his sleeve. 

He snarls as he curls his hand around your hip and jerks again. He thrusts deeper and your eyes roll back as your body locks up in agony. He dips his hand around your neck and lifts you, bringing you into his lap as he tilts again. 

He bottoms out as he hooks his thick arm around you and cradles your head with his hand. You hang off him limply as you suck in air. Tendrils of pain entwine you and have you paralysed and prone. If you fight, it will only be worse. 

He rocks you in his lap. He growls and hangs his head down next to yours. He moves your head to the side and presses his cowl against your next. You babble and snivel each time he sinks into you.  

The storm has swept away the calm at last and you’re lost to the dark clouds.

[katyspersonal]

I've had some old gods and Fell God thoughts again

(Reference by Moonlight Ruin ( x ), note that giant skulls can vary in sizes and be like 55m too)

I addressed the arrowhead description at some point before, but again; seeing how there are colossal skulls found across the Lands Between, there were 'old gods' who weren't Outer Gods and the greatsword is a tip of an arrow from their arsenal, they were REALLY big in size! Yet, also humanoid in build

I am not sure what they needed weapons for though. Who were they battling? When there are many colossal skulls, I question if that wasn't a war between their own that didn't leave survivors? Or they've lost whatever that war was? Could they have battled against Ancient Dragons, who also must have used to be bigger and stronger back then, for ownership of Elden Ring? Or it were Drakes that they were fighting, back when they were as big as the one found at Altar of Dragon Communion?

And, yeah, Fell God is never referred to as an Outer God unlike the three others, so what if he just wasn't one? Needless to mention that he is depicted as a humanoid, just cyclopic when old gods otherwise had regular two eyes! Outer Gods are just not humanoid; they're a scorpion-like creature (Scorpion's Stinger is a part of God of Rot), formless being and.. one not shown, but associated with birds!

Hornsent on the other hand envisioned him with two eyes and covered in horns, but it feels more like just an interpretation I think? Since mark of Fell God on Giants that worshipped him is still a cyclopic face with a beard, I guess this look is truer one.. just not that Hornsent would know about that!

Also could Fell God's fire be the source of fire that animates Golems and was used for forges in the Lands Between? A lot of Golems are found in Mountaintops, and they originate from Rauh too; cave where you fight Makar and cave where you fight a Golem as a boss (and find Blue Dancer charm) have Rauh architecture!

Even the Giants' forge itself has Rauh architecture! And.... well, it is forge. Can be used to create weapons. And there is fire in there. And Ancient Meteoric Ore Greatsword is found in the forge connected to Rauh as well! It is also a meteoric ore, the arrowheads of old gods weapons were made of rock from space. And you remember how Fire Giants and Astrologers were allied? A sentiment specified in Sword of Night and Flame stored in Caria, and also Japanese description of Rellana's swords saying "after all Moon and Fire were always together"! And also some Golems using magic too I guess:

Since Makar is a Magma Wyrm, so a person consuming too much Dragon Hearts (a practice of hunting Drakes), and Fire Giants were at war with Ice Drakes, maybe it really were Drakes that old gods were battling with? They were way more big and impressive in ancient history, like the dead guy on the Altar! Heck, maybe Bayle and Placidusax just shrunk in size over having lived for way too long?

Though I wonder whether Fell God was always 'Fell', or he undergone some sort of corruption? Maybe he "came back wrong" after being injured or killed at some point before Marika did it again much later in history? After all Fire Giants but one were dead, Marika realized that the fire of ruin could never be put down! That's why she cursed the last survivor to tend to it!

Basically? Maybe same thing applied to old gods; all of them died except for Fell God? He simply could not, for some reason? He could lose body, but his nature is within the fire of the forge itself...? Feels like something one would do to themselves rather than a natural thing, and he cursed himself with becoming element to lend others flame and weapons for whatever reason needed? Cursed himself with immortality to make world something else, ironically just like Marika did! Though I still love the idea that he is 'evil' because for people the use of his flame was primarily for warfare.. The flame can make rock statues into life, let alone warmth and guidance, but all everyone wanted from it was weapons and destructive power, so it rubbed onto him....

But, yeah, he is a really unusual entity, and really super ancient. As for why potential hostility of his kind towards dragons or drakes, that survived for generations? The idea of "cleaning" the landscape from dragons to build upon freed territory is something ever since Dark Souls trilogy! Elden Ring adops a bit too much from those, might as well :p

____________

P.S.: Nox were super ancient too, not far from ancient civilization and Rauh, and are progenitors of Astrologers and following sorcerers who originally were hostile to the Erdtree same as Flame of Ruin.. Nox also had the Black Moon, and also Night/Moon and Flame are "allies" in this lore, also Fire and Moonlight being allies is also a big DS thing.... if turns out Lord of Night and Fell God were allied and similar entities in nature I am going to have the biggest brain explosion yet. Literally no other ship would beat a yaoi like this

[xshimaeraxx]

okay but what if jack was originally a spring spirit. what if he was a spring spirit but got turned into a winter one by manny, or mother nature, or fuck, even pitch - but for this one let's go with mother nature.

no one'd believe him. he'd've been around for, what, 50 years before she changed him, at most, bc i imagine that's how long it takes for immortal spirits to catch notice of any newbies, esp given how jack seems to be the only (major/[ ] who stays there] spirit in burgess. so. 51 or 53 years in, MN comes in, goes, "hey yeah you're a winter sprite now" and jack just goes "what the fu-??"

he assumes, for the next decade or so, that it's a joke. (whenever faced with evidence it's true, he stays in denial for another six.)

it can't be true, ignoring how his mud-brown hair has turned white (there's only one stripe of brown left, by the time the movie comes about. he dyes it the same shade of ice-white the rest of his hair has turned into over the last 300 years; the reminder is more painful then anything, at that point, and so it's better left forgotten, in his book) and his well-tanned skin into the pale complexion of the likes of which he's only ever seen on winter seasonals. ignoring how one of his eyes is now bright lakewater-blue instead of both of them being sun-shone gold-brown, how his freckles are white like little snowdrops embedded into his skin instead of like miniature sunflowers sprouting themselves again and again with every new spring.

and now imagine how hard it'd be for jack, to transition from Type A to Type fuckin' Z, even if slowly - but isn't that even more painful, in the end? he loses the ability to make his flowers, his vines, his grasses, his trees - he gets sluggish in early spring and is conked out every time by the 30th of the first month of the too-warm (much, much too warm, and when has anything ever been too warm for him?) season, no matter how much he tries to stay awake, to see just someone's flowers even if not his own. he fails. he always, always fails.

then '68 comes around. things go wrong, jack gets upset, he can't remember why, and he makes a storm - even after all this time he's still shite at controlling his winter magic: he gets a scar from bunny aswell as a flower - a snowdrop, ironically enough; his old namesake, 'fore he became jack frost instead of jack snowdrop - and bunny a scar and a few snowflakes from him when winter finally comes 'round again.

then 2012 comes around, and, well. there's no point TELLING the guardians that he used to be a spring sprite, not when they'd never believe him, bunny especially. he'd take it as an insult, probably. some kind of mockery, some slight against him and all his fellow spring seasonals (once jack's fellow spring seasonals, but not anymore, NEVER anymore) - after all, if no one else ever believed him when he tried to explain what'd happened, what MN had done to him, had changed him, they'd all just laughed.

(well, laughed and then hurt him, but that's besides the point).

but THEN bunny catches him trying - and failing - to make animated flowers using his frost; they melt as soon as their shape solidifies. mother nature'd changed him so much, jack thinks, a tad bitterly, that he can't even make anything vaguely spring-y with his own (new, strange, wrong) element.

"why can't'cha make those? ya made that frost-bunny for jamie jus' fine," asks bunny.

"yeah, well, why don't'cha ask miss mother nature that question and then get back to me in three-to-give business days," jack grumbles, not even making a paltry attempt to hide the bitterness, the borderline resentment in his voice for mother nature, for the one who changed him, the one who ruined him. resentment's a dangerous thing, jack knows, but he thinks he's allowed it, in this one case.

(he'd never resented the moon as much as he'd resented mother nature.)

bunnymund blinks, taken aback, ears flipping back to press against his furred neck. taps his foot against the ground, gently. he's still looking at jack, looking at his failing, melting, broken frostflowers, his one visible blue eye - jack'd always kept his other one hidden, 'least round him and all the other guardians. the one time bunny'd tried to ask, the frostbite'd gotten all defensive, and so bunnymund'd let it drop - dead and tired.

(jack didn't look back, even as he felt eyes on him, heard the sound of bunny's signature tunnel opening and then close, once again.)

and then bunny does just that.

[jen-with-a-pen]

F O X ＨＵＮＴ

summary: Not only has HYDRA executed their infiltration on S.H.I.E.L.D., but they have also reclaimed their finest weapon. Your safety isn't the only thing that's compromised.

pairings: WS!Beefy!Bucky Barnes x F!Avenger!Reader

word count: 6.1k

warnings: chasing, being hunted down, implied n0n-con elements, canon-level violence, cursing, implied t0rture, blood, beat1ngs, forced nud1ty, language, HYDRA-level cruelty, Bucky gets Brainwashed (again), there's Steve x Reader if you squint REALLY REALLY hard

read here on ao3!

a/n: This was inspired by last year's Whumptober Day 2: NOWHERE TO RUN - CORNERED, CAGED AND CONFRONTATION. I know it's February JUNE, but shit came up and my motivation tanked lmao thanks adhd med trials Literally have never done a dark(er?) fic before and this one has been cooking for god knows how fucking long now. I hope y'all like it <3 (also the hydra victory au is something i discovered from the lovely @lunarbuck reset series and stewed obsessively over for literal months now. still obsessed with it whoops)

dividers by @firefly-graphics | gif by @lost-shoe | @hydravictrix

my ao3 | my masterlist

Translations

Lisitsa | лисица - fox/little fox

Soldat | солдат - soldier

Syuda | сюда - over here

Khitraya suka | хитрая сука - sly bitch

Moy priz | мой приз - my prize

Glupaya pizda | глупая пизда - stupid cunt

Moye | мое - mine

The infiltration was subtle at the start.

A few missions gone mysteriously wrong, agents killed in action or disappearing entirely, hacks that were, thankfully, contained within an inch of a full-blown data breach. All of it seemed so coincidental when it happened, swept under the rug each and every single time before Director Fury could have a swear-filled say as to what the hell was going on. 

But hindsight is 20/20. It always is.

The day S.H.I.E.L.D. fell was, ironically, the perfect day: brilliant sunshine, clear blue skies, a breeze weaving between the towering buildings and skyscrapers. It was almost eerie, in a way, how perfect of a day it was. 

You found yourself in the gym, Steve and Sam hashing it out on whose turn it was in sparring. You had all but knocked Sam out cold in the previous round as Steve watched from behind the ropes, cheering you on with a cocky, proud grin as he watched all of his hard work in your training pay off.

Of course, the stubborn ass he was, Sam wanted another go. 

“C’mon, Steve! I wanna rematch!” Sam protested, gesturing wildly in your direction with one hand while his other held an ice pack to his bruised temple. Steve stifled a laugh, tossing a glance over his shoulder to you. You shook your head, smiling back as you gulped down the rest of your water bottle. Cool strands spilled out from the corners of your lips and down your chest. You welcomed the relief from the sweat gluing your t-shirt to your skin. 

“How ‘bout I take Steve instead of giving you another concussion?” you retorted, giggling as Sam shot a narrow look at you. He huffed, forfeiting his argument by waving a dismissive hand. 

“Fine, ’m gonna go find some pain meds,” he grumbled, turning to point a swollen finger at Steve. “I better see you in the infirmary next, Cap.” 

He stomped off through the metal doors and left the two of you in silence.

“Whaddya say, sweetheart? You up for round two?” Steve teased, stepping under the ropes and into the ring. He wrapped his hands as he moved to the center, muscle memory carrying him while keeping his eager gaze on you. His eyes carried excitement as they journeyed up and down your figure, rolling his lip between his teeth as he drank you with his stare. 

You did little to hide your pride at the Captain checking you out, chewing the corner of your cheek to tame your own smirk at the beautiful blond. You turned away, hiding the heat from your cheeks as you tossed your bottle at your bag. You weaved under the ropes, coming face to face with your willing opponent in the center. You lifted your chin to meet his, the hidden smirk on your lips growing into a grin.

“With you? Always, old man,” you purred. You tossed him a teasing wink as you positioned your fists in front of you, feet planted firmly in the starting stance. Steve lingered on you for a second longer, tongue swiping across his lips hungrily as he cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, raising his hands to mirror you.

The two of you began to circle one another, dancing in a familiar pattern you knew by heart. Steve took his first swipe at you and you ducked, managing a hit to his stomach. A grunt escaped from him– not of hurt but of thrill. He lunged for you as you dodged again, blocking his failed strike to your head. 

“Wow! You really can’t teach an old dog new tricks!” you taunted, dodging another blow, his wrapped fist only grazing your shoulder. You rolled it back, holding back a slight wince as you continued the violent waltz. 

You lunged at him, instead faltering and falling to the ground. Readying the curse on your tongue, it stopped short of your lips as you looked up at Steve. 

He stood frozen in place, panting, fists at his sides clenching tighter and tighter. As you opened your mouth to unload even more cursing questions, screeching erupted from the loudspeakers around the room. High-pitched tones screaming above, a robotic voice speaking clinically and quickly. You scrambled off the floor, unease creeping in as you latched onto Steve’s arm, his arm tensing under your touch.

CODE WHITE. CODE SILVER. ALL SECURITY AND TEAM UNITS URGENTLY NEEDED. 40th FLOOR. THREAT IS ACTIVE AND HIGHLY DANGEROUS. REPEAT. CODE WHITE. CODE SILVER. ALL SECURITY AND TEAM UNITS–

The message had cut out, static replacing it alongside the echoing alarms throughout the hallways outside the gym. You looked up at Steve. Anxiety surged upon finding his face devoid of all blood, his jaw slack, eyes boring into the metal doors leading to the hallway. He looked scared. 

You’d never seen Steve scared before. 

“Steve, what the fuck was that–”

“Get to the locker rooms and hide,” he ordered. He pulled his arm from you, jumping over the ropes and sprinting to his duffel bag on the floor. He pulled out his phone and dialed frantically as he ran to the doors. 

“Steve!” You stood trembling in the ring as your stomach churned. 

“Now!” he yelled. “I’ll come back for you!” 

He didn’t wait to hear your response as he slammed the gym doors shut, followed by a whir and click.

He locked you in. 

You didn’t– couldn’t– hesitate as a surge of urgency overtook you. You needed to hide. Now. Fast.

Your legs carried you as you jumped out of the ring and raced to grab your duffel bag, sprinting to the back of the gym through another set of double doors. You wove through the tiled maze of the locker room searching for some sort of hiding spot, settling on the showers. You snuck over to the stall at the very end, the closest one to the emergency exit, and ducked under the opaque plastic curtain. Your bag fell to the floor as you climbed onto the stall seat. Blood pumped in your ears, thumping as quickly as your shaky, shallow breathing. Millions of thoughts and questions and worries rushed through your mind at impossible speeds.

White and Silver. Which alert was that for?

You racked through fleeting memories, distant recollections of training and orientation from months ago, searching for anything remotely familiar. You remembered all of the other codes– red, orange, teal– but no white, no silver. 

A faint buzzing sounded from inside your duffel. You lunged, unzipping it and fishing out your phone. Natasha. Her name lit up the screen and you frantically hit the answer key before the call could even think about dropping.

“Where the fuck are you?” Her panicked voice hissed into your ear. Her edged tone was enough to make your stomach backflip faster. 

“Locker rooms, forty-fifth floor. What the fuck is going on, Nat?” Your voice shook as anger and confusion boiled in your blood.

A muffled swear. “Where’s Steve?”

“He ran out, locked me in, told me to hide.” More incoherent curses.

“Fuck, fuck, okay, look, trust me on this, you need to stay where you are, okay? I can get you out, I–” 

High-pitched ringing overtook the speaker, sending you reeling away from the receiver. Static echoed out of the speakers.

“You what? Natasha!”

“No– time– you–”

“Natasha! Hello?”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

You tore the phone away from your ear and choked back the bile rising in your throat. Service was out. The blinking bars at the top of the screen mocked you and your sudden plunge into isolation. 

The lights went next. 

The dull fluorescents flickered. Someone cut the electricity, sending you into almost darkness as the backup generator lights kicked on. Scattered lights from above cast an eerie yellow glow over the shower tiles. You’d only seen this kind of outage happen once before, when New York was hit with Hurricane Noah a few years back.

The fear you felt in that storm paled in comparison to what you felt now.

You sighed, shaky and surrendering, and pulled your body closer to you on the shower bench. A chill snaked its way down your spine as your skin brushed the cool ceramic, an unwelcome addition to the cold already enveloping you. Your sweat-soaked t-shirt and shorts failed to aid you and your aching muscles. Fingernails dug into your kneecaps in a struggle to stop trembling as you tried to focus on your breathing. Inhaling, exhaling, in, out. Screwing your eyes shut, praying to any deity imaginable it was all just a drill, it was all an accident or a misunderstanding or–

The ground shook as a loud bang echoed from outside the locker room. A panicked yelp escaped your throat before your hands could scramble and cover your mouth. You froze as the tremors subsided and listened. It, or they, sounded close. 

Too close. 

Another BANG! Then another. 

Rhythmic, steady blows, each quicker and more powerful than the last. Hands clamped tighter over your lips until your blood froze at the sounds of crushing steel and crumbling concrete. The lump in your throat grew as horrific realization flooded over you. 

They, or it, broke in.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it– those doors were more fortified than Tony’s lab. Four-inch-thick, steel and plexiglass doors with a three-tier secured locking system. Nothing, nobody– not even the strongest Super Soldier– was powerful enough to make the faintest of dents in them.

Racing through who, or what, could have possibly broken into the gym, your train of thought derailed as echoes of men yelling indecipherable words and mixed commands shattered the remaining air of safety you clung to. Listening intently, a mix of combat boots and tactical gear filtered in with the echoed commands.

The S.T.R.I.K.E. Team.

Your legs begged for reprieve from crouching, but your body disobeyed and froze you in place. Part of you didn’t trust who was outside. Footsteps and gruff voices became heavier, closer. The relief that greeted you was replaced again by panic as you listened closer.

Clear, Russian commands resonated at the entrance to the locker rooms. They were coming in. 

Your breath hitched, blood running cold as footsteps closed in. It was one person, but their steps didn’t sound like the heavy boots before them. They sounded more like…

Sneakers?

The rubber from the intruder’s shoes squeaked on the tiled floors. Ragged breathing echoed off the walls. A low growl, accompanied by quiet whirring. Someone big, someone mean. 

Your heart made its way to your throat as the intruder inched closer. Slow, methodical, as if trained in search and rescue. 

It didn’t feel like a rescue.

The lump almost turned into a scream as an echoed BANG carried from the bathroom stalls around the corner. Silence followed, then a growl, then another BANG. The cycle repeated for the remaining stalls, the intruder slowly creeping along. Growls became deeper upon each disappointment. 

Hostages. They were looking for hostages.

Soles squeaked as the intruder changed course, stomping around the corner to search the line of shower stalls. You hiccuped a sob, realizing tears started to trail down your cheeks. Biting your palm only proved a lame attempt to calm your racing heart, a scream threatening to leave your throat as they began tearing the plastic curtains off the stalls. Each clang of metal cracking onto the tile became closer as you ground your teeth into the meat of your hand. Eyes screwed shut, silent prayers raced in your head, pleading to wake up; to wake up from this hellscape of a sick, twisted nightmare. 

The intruder’s steps stopped. 

Your eyes opened, widening at the blurred, hulking shadow standing outside of your stall. They had to be well over six feet. Towering, bulky, monstrous. 

Slowly, the shadow’s hand reached for the curtain. One by one, its fingers closed around the plastic’s edge, preparing to rip it down and rip you open. Eyes burning, hot tears felt like molten metal as you attempted to make yourself as small as possible in your corner, huddling your knees as close as they could be. This was it. This was the end. You prayed– actually fucking prayed– hoping they couldn’t hear your pathetic whimpering, hoping they would make this quick, painless; break your neck or put a gun to your head and get it over with. Leave your body for someone else to find.

“Soldat, syuda!” 

The command made your heart stop.

The shadow froze, stopped by a call from the entrance to the locker room. Skin met your teeth as you bit harder into your hand. Lungs began panicking as you started hyperventilating, bile reaching your throat and burning the back of your tongue. 

The shadow, the monster, growled in protest. It retracted the curled hand from the curtain, wordlessly moving back towards the bathroom stalls. Footsteps faded as muffled conversation floated away from the locker room.

You needed to get the fuck out of there. 

You slid off the bench, legs aching and knees popping as you crouched silently over to the curtain, peeking out behind the plastic. It crinkled quietly and you bit your lip, leaning out ever so slightly over the threshold. 

Tiptoeing around the corner, you faced the emergency exit. The glowing sign omitted a creepy, green glow that added to the eeriness brought by the generator lights. 

This was it.

You slammed the push bar down, throwing the door open with your body and spilling out into the hallway. Sunlight flashed through the infinite glass hallway, blinding you. In your frozen state, you hear commotion from behind the door as it slammed shut. Banging from the other side, the sound of metal on metal, made your teeth grind. Indents from punches dented the door, deforming its smooth outside. You didn’t stay frozen for long as your body screamed at you to fucking move, now.

Your legs obeyed immediately, carrying you through the corridor to the closest means of escape you could find. As you rounded the corner, the crushing sounds of the door breaking off of its hinges hit your ears. You didn’t dare to look back, sprinting through the twists and turns of the infinite hallway. You followed what felt familiar, burning muscles egged on by the sound of pounding footsteps getting closer and closer.

Finally, you stumbled onto the entrance to a stairwell, pausing to gasp for air your lungs demanded. The burn in your legs and chest only aided in the physiological need to hyperventilate. Sweat dripped from your temple and your head pounded as hard as your feet hitting the ground. 

You leaned into the safety bar, inches away from further distancing yourself from whatever, whoever, was on your trail, when a yell erupted from the end of the hallway. 

It felt like slow-motion; one of those scenes in those cheesy horror movies Sam always made you and Steve watch on weekends off. The ones with cheap FX, bad sound, but somehow great editing for the budget. The scenes where realization hits the main character and suddenly everything is half the speed while they still move in real time. 

You turned your head towards the source. Then, it hit you. Blood drained from your face as the horror of realization hit you, like a speeding sixteen-wheeler head on.

Bucky Barnes stood hulking at the end of the hallway. Generator lights and setting sun illuminated his snarling teeth, gleaming from parted lips that had him panting like a rabid dog. If you hadn’t known better it would’ve looked like he was heading for the gym for his daily workout. Blown pupils, sweat-stuck hair, complimented by a shaking frame– most definitely caused by adrenaline, dopamine, and a slew of Gods-knew-what other drugs he had pumped into his system. Splotches of drying, smeared blood coated his neck and shirt while even more dripped onto the ground from his fists. The crimson contrasted with the medically white floors. 

Bile rose in your throat again. The acidic taste made you dry heave at the sight of the blood, knowing from the looks of Bucky it definitely wasn’t his.

He snarled as your eyes finally met. Fists of flesh and metal flexed. Rippling muscles shook as he readied to launch forward.

“You’re mine, lisitsa!” he barked. His voice booming louder than the speed of sound, it made your ears ring.

Your throat finally opened. You screamed as he sprinted towards you, making more ground down the hallway than an apex predator out of hibernation. You shoved the exit door open, heaving your legs forward as you ascended the stairs. No choice but to go up, you refused to look back– nay you didn’t dare to even consider it. Muscles and tendons and joints burned, yearning for you to stop, but the door slamming from flights below you only pushed you harder, flying up and passing floor after floor. 

You were fast, but he was faster. 

Dizziness overtook you as your vision began to blur. Darkened edges of your peripherals made you stop your climb at level 50, pausing for a split second to hear Bucky’s progress. He was close behind, but you still had more of an advantage. You knew the Tower better than him. You knew level 50 had another stairwell on the opposite side of the floor, through another hallway off the corner of your current one. Sneakers pounded too close for comfort as you shoved the door open and made a break for it down another corridor labyrinth.

If you made it out of this alive, you swore you’d kill Tony’s architect yourself. 

“You can’t hide forever, lisitsa!” Bucky’s voice rang out from the stairwell as you rounded the corner, sprinting through more identical-looking hallways. Another corner later and the glowing red EXIT sign appeared above the next stairwell. A beacon of hope, almost. Relieved, you head straight for it, body and mind and soul pushing against the burning and the gasping for air. You were right there, hand outstretched, fingertips grasping the metal bar–

It felt like a car crash. 

Not an accident or fender bender. No, it felt like seventy miles an hour meets a tree with no intent of moving. That split-second feeling where your stomach drops and you can all but brace for the deadly impact destined for you to meet.

Time stopped as you were yanked backwards. Cold, slick metal wrapped around your ankle, bloody hand print smearing some poor bastard’s DNA all over your calf as your body fell to the ground. Hard. Your jaw clenched as your chin slammed into the linoleum. Teeth ground into your tongue as copper flooded your tastebuds. Your lungs, with little wind left in them, gasped for oxygen. Another scream rising in your throat became stuck in your vocal cords. 

Bucky whipped you around as you struggled to free your lower half. You landed on your shoulder, head bouncing against the floor and teary eyes struggled to stay open and endure the pain. He straddled your form, the weight crashing down on your bones and organs. A sharp inhale impaled your chest as you met Bucky’s darkened eyes, then; the familiar steel blue replaced entirely with dilated, unhinged pupils. 

It was the first time you got a good look at his face. His face is speckled with blood spatter and several bruises spread across his cheek down his neck. Two black eyes, a bloody nose– one you hoped was his– and a broken lip. The bloodied collar of his shirt only aided in the mess of his hair. His soft, chocolate strands stuck in mats to his neck and temples with sweat and blood. 

Out of sheer habit, because he looked like your Bucky, you couldn’t help but reach a hand out to him. A soft plea for the man behind his eyes, one you begged everything holy was still there. He held your stare, face contorting into unrecognizable emotions. Tears brimmed your eyes as your hand stretched further, sobs escaping as your fingers inched closer and closer to his battered face.

“Bucky, it’s me–”

Your appeal transformed into a shriek, quickly snuffed out as Bucky wrapped his crimson-spattered metal hand around your throat. You choked, sputtering lost pleas as your hands flew to your neck. Fingernails flailed in futile attempts to claw off the weapons-grade titanium. 

“You’re done running, khitraya suka,” Bucky’s hot breath fanned your face as he leaned in. His mouth grazed your jaw, titanium hand on your throat flexing with each syllable. He slowly made his way down your neck, pushing harder into your chest with his forearm. A heavy growl. His grip only tightened as you tried to knee him in the groin, picking you up by your neck and slamming you down again.

Stars circled your blurred vision, eyes rolling back into your head. The corridor, the lights, everything split into two.

“You owe me for my victory, lisitsa,” Bucky’s husky whisper resonated in your ear as he licked the side of your face, his hot, wet mouth against your tear-stained cheek. As his free hand moved to the waistband of your shorts, another surge of panic washed through you. You tried to sputter a weak cry from your closed-off throat, blood turning cold, another scream building and building in your chest and aching for release. 

“You owe me what’s mine –!” 

BANG!

Something from somewhere all of a sudden. The object slammed into Bucky, throwing him off of you and spilling across the floor. 

Finally, your lungs lunged at the chance for air, leaving you a heaving, choking, coughing mess. Spitting at the ground as you made your way shakily to your hands and knees, a freed hand traveling to rub the fresh strangulation bruises forming on the column of your stiff neck. 

“Get the fuck off her, Bucky!” 

Steve.

As your vision cleared, the shield whizzed past you as it ricocheted back into Steve’s open arms. Bucky groaned, low and guttural, but only for a moment is he subdued. Slowly, he rose, like smoke from extinguished ashes, looking to his metal vice. A large dent adorned the weathered, bloodied appendage where his bicep met his shoulder. He then turned his attention to Steve, baring his teeth, anger coursing through him as he immediately disregarded you. His sights set on a new target, launching himself at Steve without a beat lost.

Steve grunted as Bucky’s metal fist met the vibranium shield with a deafening clang. Steve gritted his teeth and pushed back, managing to break Bucky’s attack and aim a kick for his stomach.

“Go! I got him!” Steve yelled to you through a gasp as Bucky countered with his own swipe at Steve’s middle. Your body stayed put, relishing in the ability to fucking breathe again, also painfully aware how screwed you’d be if you didn’t escape as you had the chance. You willed yourself to move, to run and to keep going, to no avail. As Steve landed a blow to Bucky, his eyes met yours once more. His baby blues, pained and tired, begged for you to listen to him for once in your life. 

“Now!”

The strain in Steve’s voice seemed to ignite a fire underneath you. Pushing yourself up, you willed your legs to carry you to the exit. Bloody shoe prints tracked your route as you slammed through the doorway. You cursed, knowing they’ll give away which way you’d go, knowing your life matters more than a twenty-dollar pair of sneakers. Kicking them off, throwing the pair down the exit, praying they made it far enough Bucky wouldn’t know any better. 

You threw yourself up the stars, tremors and pain afflicting every limb as the cold concrete seeped in through your socks in each step. The railing helped as you heaved yourself forward with help from the railing. Sweaty palms slipped on the bars, but your grip only grew tighter. 

You didn’t know how you, or your body, was able to do it, making it up seven more flights of stairs before your knees buckled on level 57. Heaving the door open and slamming it shut, you stumbled out into the new hallway. You hadn’t visited that level before. Something Steve and the others– especially Doctor Banner– said was “just a business floor.”

The sign on the wall directing to ‘SAFELAB’ said otherwise. Nothing in the Tower was “just business.” 

What you did know was that every SAFELAB on every floor was located in the same, far-east hallway. 

Wiping the sweat from your temple, you turned right, jogging down the darkened, emptied-out hallway. It felt like the apocalypse. No sign of anybody else. Doors left ajar, papers and bags and other employee memorabilia scattered throughout abandoned offices and cubicles. You hoped everyone was able to make it out, at least.

Part of you didn’t hope for much, though. 

The door to the lab came into view as you rounded the last corner. The door was still locked, the lab inside sterile and untouched. A sigh of relief escaped you. Holding your palm to the door’s scanner, it answered your prayers in a soft beep and whir, miraculously allowing you in. 

You maneuvered through the multiple security doors, four in total, crouching low once you managed to slip into the lab itself. The gigantic window at the front of the labspace spared no room for you to hide easily, but you had zero room to complain about it. It was your only option, after all.

Well, besides the roof. 

Crouched, you snuck your way around the counters and various equipment to one of the supply closets. The furthest corner from the entrance. You scoured through drawers and cupboards for some sort of weaponry; the most you could find was a new scalpel out of a box of extras. 

You closed in on the supply closet, reaching up and grasping the handle, turning it slowly to prevent any squeaks from the inner hinge. A tear glided down your cheek in relief. You hadn’t realized you started crying. Again. 

The door swung open. It greeted you mostly empty, deep enough for you to cram your body into. Crawling inside, bones and limbs contorted into the most comfortable position you could manage. You pinched the edges of the doors to close them as best as you can, accepting they, in fact, couldn’t close all the way from the inside. A curse under your breath, the sliver of dim light through the crack cast onto your face. Once settled, you crumpled your damp t-shirt up from the collar and shoved the fabric into your mouth. Teeth and tongue greeted sweaty cotton and hints of copper as you bit down on the collar, covering your mouth with a free hand. 

At last, after Gods knew how long it had been since you ceased moving, a silenced sob heaved out of your chest. Tremors only worsened as your nervous system rode out the fumes of its adrenaline high and flight mode instincts. Hot tears spilled down your cheeks, mixing with snot further down your face, slipping down to your neck and leaving behind streaked paths in the bloodied, hand-printed bruises adorned on your flesh. The pain from the near-strangulation you suffered broke through the shock and endorphins that were keeping you sane until then. You knew, though, you couldn’t break down. Not yet. Not until you saw Natasha or Steve or someone you trusted face-to-face. 

You started counting your breaths. Mind racing, thoughts traveling near sonic speeds through your mind carrying questions at how the hell it all happened.

You thought for sure S.H.I.E.L.D. was secure, especially after the ordeal with Bucky, Steve, and the whole ‘defeating HYDRA’ ordeal from a few years back. Hell, you thought it was safer than taking the FBI’s recon mission that was offered to you before being referred to Tony himself. Your mind raced, what-ifs and endless possibilities flashing across your eyes like a snuff film. You hoped Steve was okay. You hoped Natasha was on her way to your location any second. You hoped Sam was safe and made it out okay. You hoped Bucky –

Bucky. 

Christ, you hadn’t even stopped to think about how the hell everything happened to him. He’d been doing so well in his recovery program. Steve was even telling you about it that same morning, bragging about how well Bucky was doing, how much progress he was making, how soon they’d finally be able to move in together once Doctor Banner cleared him. Another sob overtook you. How you’d never seen him like that before, the feeling of his titanium arm slowly crushing your windpipe, the weight of his entire body crushing your internal organs as he’d held you down. The things he’d said. You tried to wrap your head around what he’d said, what he was going to do–

Crashing followed by shattering glass emitted a muffled yelp from you as your blood ran cold. Another wave of tears flooded out of your burning eyes, chest heaving unevenly. Your hand clamped even tighter over your mouth as teeth bit into the salty fabric of your shirt, drying up any more moisture your mouth was grateful to finally have.

BANG! Then another. Then more in rapid succession. Shattering, crashing, shattering, silence. The final blow to the security doors sounded from inside the lab itself. Your breath hitched and bile began bubbling in your stomach, reaching the back of your throat and across your tongue. You forced yourself to swallow the acid, listening intently to the crunch of sneakers on shattered glass.

He’d found you. 

“Lisitsaaa,” Bucky drawled, his voice dropped to a primally low octave. Lower than before. You almost couldn’t make out the words, a mixture of growled mumblings of English and Russian. Knees folded closer to your chest, you tightened your grip on the handle of the scalpel. Bucky’s footsteps were slow, methodical, predatorial. 

His heavy steps inched closer, each followed by a pause, then sudden crashing of lab equipment and smashing of drawers. More glass and metal slammed to the ground and walls after each pause. He sounded feet away. Then inches. 

Your breathing stopped as the sliver of light clouded over. The lump in your throat threatened more puke to rise as you dared to peer up through the crack, heart dropping like a dead weight to your stomach as your eyes fell on freshly bloodied sneakers. A stifled scream in your lungs choked you. You refused to think about whose blood that was.

Eyes darted back up. You could see Bucky’s blurred features clouded in shadows. The only light visible, then, was the glint from his wicked smile. Bloodied teeth shone as he licked his lips hungrily, a predator finally cornering its prey. 

Ever so slowly he crouched, shoving his face closer into the seam in the door. Tears and snot continued to stream down your face, your body hyperventilating as you forced yourself to look into his eyes. There was nothing else you could do. Nothing else to say, to cry about. There was nowhere left to run. He got you. 

“There you are, moy priz,” Bucky hissed before reaching through and throwing the doors open, heavy hands leaving imprints in the flimsy metal. Frozen, your fist was still closed around the scalpel, your muscles tensed as joints locked in place. His evil eyes scanned your body greedily, looking for which cut of meat to divulge in first. His gaze stopped at your fist and he chuckled, tisking in a disappointed tone. 

��Oh, glupaya pizda,” Bucky shook his head, amused at your meager choice of weaponry. Compared to him, you might as well have been waving a white flag. His smile only grew, tongue jutting out to lick his lips. Specks of blood coated the sides of his cheeks and edges of his mouth, smeared about from ear to ear with the back of his hand.

“Come with me and they might consider your life, lisitsa–”

You sprung into him, swinging your arm, landing the scalpel into the middle of his flesh hand, impaling straight through it. In an instant, blood spewed from the impact. Bucky screamed out in pain, a slew of mixed language curses reverberating in your skull. You scrambled out of your hiding place, bashing him with a balled fist to the face as you tumbled out and onto your feet, sprinting to the lab’s only exit. Freedom was only an arm’s length away when an overturned stool tripped you. The impact didn’t hurt near as much as the millions of shattered glass bits shredded cut into your skin, your hands and knees and arms and face littered as blood smeared under you and across the once-sterile white floors. You cried out, writhing around. Battered and bloodied, struggling to rise and run again despite the searing pain in your ankle.

Before you could form your next thought, a rough hand snatched your scalp and dragged you up by your hair. You uttered a panicked scream as Bucky hoisted you to eye level, snarling like a rabid dog as he shook you hard.

“I thought you were smarter than that, lisitsa,” he sneered, “but I was wrong.”

He hurled you back onto the floor, his bloodied, titanium fist still gripping your hair, dragging you over to one of the disheveled lab tables. More glass shredded your skin, blood and sweat and tears mixing and pouring over your face and hands and body. With ease and a free hand, he swiped the rest of the contents off another counter; beakers and burners crashed to the floor. His grip tightened as he threw you up onto the stainless steel counter, the dead weight of your body banging onto the table, landing you hard on your back. Eardrums rang into your skull and jaw, radiating down your spine and out your limbs. Your hands slip against the smooth metal from the blood, futile attempts to grab onto something, anything. You groaned and huffed excess sobs. The pain, unbearable; the fear, unimaginable. 

Bucky hoisted himself onto the table, landing on top of your broken body, his knee hitting your spine and knocking your last breath out of you. Straddling you, his thick thighs bulged through tattered sweatpants, squeezing into your rib cage. He looped another fist into your hair, raising your head and slamming it down. The side of your face smushed into the steel table, smearing around more blood as he did it again. And again. The cartilage in your nose cracked and throbbing pain radiated into your eyes, your skull. Warmth from the break and the blood poured over your face. The pain, dulling into numbness as you began to fade in and out of consciousness.

Your vision started to blur and blacken, stars and specks orbiting around Bucky like a halo of hallucination. Your body, finally surrendering to him. No fight left. Any strength you could have mustered, funneled into staying awake, proved useless. 

A new sound, then: ripping.

You didn’t have to look to witness Bucky unrelentingly tear your t-shirt away from your body, training his eyes on your open form. Bruised skin exposed to cool air, your chest still momentarily held together by your sports bra. He made quick work of it next, the nylon snapping off in one swipe, sending goosebumps racing down your spine. 

Ice-cold titanium fingers untangled from your matted hair and made their way from your nape, to the small of your back, to the waistband of your gym shorts. Muscles tensed as you felt each digit wrap almost leisurely onto the elastic. He tore them away swiftly, baring the rest of you and your skin to him. A growl, one of pleasure, vibrated into you from him, emitted he palmed the skin of your ass. His fingers journeyed languidly in a slow trail from your back to your core. You squirmed, wasting the last of your strength, a hopeless attempt to get away one last time. 

A crack came across your face. Flesh against flesh, he slapped you. A punishment. A command for obedience. Your body fell limp. Breathing raggedly and gagging on blood and spit, you shuddered as he took your wrists and tied them together with your t-shirt. 

Satisfied, his prey finally submitting, Bucky paused, panting as he leaned down to you. He wet his lips before speaking, gruff words slurred against your ringing eardrum. As he spoke, cold metal grazed your entrance, a threat of what was to come. 

“Now, I get to take what’s mine.”

Your screams echoed as the world fell dark.

[inufaiya]

CURIOSITIES_ TYPES OF MAGES

As those who read the last chapter I published of the AU (the 19th) Meta Knight explains in general the three types of magicians that exist, the body magicians, the soul magicians and the intermediate ones) so for those who were left with doubts or did not read the chapter, here is a curiosity.

THE BODY MAGES

They are the most common magicians in the universe and they differ from the others in that they do not need an "awakening" since they are born with it, they are not pigeonholed into a single element (and in some cases they can only make small variations of this element such as water / ice) and most importantly, in their way of concentrating it.

Regarding the awakening, it is something that I will explain better with the soul mages, but there are cases that need a push for their magic to activate, whether it is a dangerous or stressful situation, things that at first they thought were a thing of the soul mages until it was discovered that it was not since they are not tied to a single element.

That was what happened to Susie at first, Magic thought that her spatial magic was produced when the accident happened but until she verified that she was also capable of using other magics making them surpass the truth, she was a body mage like the others.

// Curiousity //

Dedede also falls into this category since although his magic is normally activated by the stress of his possessions, it is known that in the au where he is with the puffs it woke up when he grabbed a copy essence discarded by Galacta.

Normally, wizards don't have any physical difference between those who have or without magic, but there are species that do, like the dees that normally have brown eyes except those who have magic since they are the color of their main magic.

Other species have specialized so much in one type of magic like the chillys or the burling leo that they have forgotten how to use the others, others simply need an alternative way to focus their magic like Adeline with her paintings, the fairies of Ripple star with the stones or those of Florancia with the plants.

THE MAGES OF THE SOUL

As I said before, these mages have a kind of awakening, but it is clear that a danger of death is not enough for this, so what?

Well, this is nothing more and nothing less than dying or being technically dead and not having magic from before (the only exception to this rule is ironically Marx).

It is not known exactly how it happens but it is known that it is because energy from Hades remains inside their souls when they are preparing to warn a knight to come for them and this event is suddenly interrupted when they come back to life, it is known that this energy from Hades takes the form of magic of the element that caused or had an effect on their death.

//Curiosity//

As I've already said, Marx is an exception given that his magic was given by the wish of Nova, the lord of Hades himself (and protector that the world doesn't go to shit completely)

Now comes the question, if it is such an effective method since it always ends with magic, why doesn't everyone who doesn't have magic and wants to be a magician use it? Because there is a great danger measured in all this, ending up as a dark matter.

There are too many cases where the way that had to kill them doesn't work and they end up alive but with mortal wounds that will kill them in a horrible way, this way of dying the only thing it achieves is that the original soul mutates into a new soul of a dark matter.

And if anyone wonders, yes, both they and the semis have magic.

For that same fact it also makes it impossible for them to change magic element, their magic is linked to that moment of their life.

INTERMEDIATE MAGES

The last mages are those who are in the middle of two worlds and do not fit in either one of them and those who know they are of this species are the puffs.

They need external help to have access as if it were from the soul but it works like training wheels so they learn it and are able to do it by themselves as if it were from the body, in addition to being genetic, in addition to being able to use more than one ability but all those who do not use a weapon but the others cannot use two at the same time as if they were from the other ability.

They are literally a contradiction.

//Curiosity//

Interestingly, both mages are able to take advantage to strengthen themselves if when they use a spell they are in contact with a puff with that element or with a copy essence.

[rescuebabiesau]

What if the Sparklings were Mosaic?

So I promised @itzbeearts that I would get back to their ask about my sparklings from my Rescue Babies AU as mosaical forms (hopefully I understood that correctly-)

But! It also gave me excuse to redraw their references with an updated style from the last time! So Snowblast will start us off—

Snowy would be an ice mosaic. Not quite water, not quite air, he is a figure that would send a chill running through the room as soon as he enters (though not from fright, he is quite warm-hearted, actually!) His body appears composed of shards of ice and is quite cold, so mind his sharp edges!

Downpour mimics her "Father's" water element, but essentially has her crest and limbs be replaced with water which makes her a lot more clumsy, as they are not the giant, sturdy pillars of metal she's used to.

Jolt mimics her "father's" element of electricity, as she already has that ability back home. However, her mosaic form is a lot more "wild" in nature, taking on more of a draconic form rather than humanoid.

Jack was probably my favorite because he's the only sparkling from that AU to not have an elemental power or dinobot mode to base off of. His "Ghost" element is a reference to his title as the "Miscarried Sparkling" (He was considered miscarried before emerging months later as the older twin to Jolt)

His powers consist of intangibility, voice projection, telekinesis, and mist manipulation. He would primarily avoid dangerous situations, but he'd do well in helping provide cover for the others if they needed to escape human eye.

Do not mock my horrible attempt at his vehicle mode, I don't draw cars like... at all (ironic given my time in this fandom XD)

I may do a part 2 for the other ones, but these four are up! You're welcome XD

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

I have a few jumbled thoughts about the ending of the Long Night, especially as it would relate to the whole idea of “the dragon has three heads”. The Long Night represents a disruption in a larger, cyclical framework—a period where imbalance overtakes the natural order. And within this context, I see each ‘head’ of the three-headed dragon as uniquely responsible for restoring balance and bringing the world back into harmony. Each ‘head’ embodies a distinct facet of restoring balance to the world, yet they work together, either in tandem or sequentially, to set things right once more. So I’ve been trying to tie together some thoughts I have regarding what each being in this triumvirate is uniquely suited to do. Because I personally don’t think any one person will be responsible for being the hero, as that just seems so antithetical to this series; and I also think the Long Night is just way too multifaceted to be ended by a singular action or person. 

This is what we know about the Long Night:

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” Old Nan said quietly, “what do you know of fear? Fear is for the winter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north.Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods.” “You mean the Others,” Bran said querulously. “The Others,” Old Nan agreed. “Thousands and thousands of years ago, a winter fell that was cold and hard and endless beyond all memory of man. There came a night that lasted a generation, and kings shivered and died in their castles even as the swineherds in their hovels. Women smothered their children rather than see them starve, and cried, and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks.” Her voice and her needles fell silent, and she glanced up at Bran with pale, filmy eyes and asked, “So, child. This is the sort of story you like?” “Well,” Bran said reluctantly, “yes, only …” Old Nan nodded. “In that darkness, the Others came for the first time,” she said as her needles went click click click. “They were cold things, dead things, that hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every creature with hot blood in its veins. They swept over holdfasts and cities and kingdoms, felled heroes and armies by the score, riding their pale dead horses and leading hosts of the slain. All the swords of men could not stay their advance, and even maidens and suckling babes found no pity in them. They hunted the maids through frozen forests, and fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children.” (Bran IV, AGoT)

We focus so heavily on the Others—understandably so—that we often overlook some crucial details. The Others don’t exist in isolation. They arrive in the wake of an extreme winter, which enables their existence for they are “demons made of snow and ice and cold” (Samwell V, ASoS). And with the sun and its heat gone, they move within the darkness. So confronting the Others in battle, in and of itself, does not end the Long Night. The true struggle lies in addressing the elements that allow them to exist in the first place. To fully defeat the Others, our heroes must first restore light and the balance of the seasons.

No single character in this series has the ability to achieve this on their own. Even the key magical protagonists are only equipped to address certain aspects of the conflict. That’s why the dragon must have three heads, each embodying a crucial responsibility: one to restore the natural cycle and end the long winter, another uniquely positioned as the antithesis to the Others, and a third tasked with confronting darkness by bringing light back into the world.

By now, you can see where I’m heading with this, right? I believe the three heads are Bran, who represents summer and stands as the antithesis to winter; Daenerys, whose dragons are the direct counter to the Others; and Jon, who occupies a more complex role as both the one who harnesses light and embodies it. Beyond this, each of these characters has been positioned as a chosen one, with distinct yet mirrored magical destinies that set them apart from the other POV characters.

I’m reminded of a quote from Arya’s POV in Dance:

One time, the girl remembered, the Sailor’s Wife had walked her rounds with her and told her tales of the city’s stranger gods. “That is the house of the Great Shepherd. Three-headed Trios has that tower with three turrets. The first head devours the dying, and the reborn emerge from the third. I don’t know what the middle head’s supposed to do….”

While I have more detailed thoughts on this passage, for now, I believe Daenerys represents the first head, Bran the third, and Jon the middle. Each head is tasked with a unique responsibility—one that is specific to them, that the others cannot fulfill. To end the Long Night, the three heads work together, but each plays a distinct part. There is some overlap, particularly with the middle head, who might serve as the balance between the extremes, yet each figure is positioned to occupy a particular space within this framework.

So I want to lay my thoughts here and see if we can get some wider discussion 👀 

The first aspect of the Long Night - and perhaps the most important if we’re thinking of what makes it happen in the first place - is the long winter that precedes it.

Bran looked down. There was nothing below him now but snow and cold and death, a frozen wasteland…  (Bran III, AGoT)

This winter provides the very elements that sustain the Others: snow and ice. It’s this aspect that I believe extends humanity’s struggle during the Long Night. With an almost endless supply of ice and snow, can our heroes truly defeat the Others through direct combat alone? I really don’t think so. The abundance of snow, accompanied by a persistent cold, suggests that new Others can continuously be ‘created’. While this is largely speculative given how little we know about them, I find it compelling that the Others seem to materialize out of the darkness itself (see Prologue, AGoT). And when Sam kills the Other in Storm, it simply dissolves…

Sam rolled onto his side, eyes wide as the Other shrank and puddled, dissolving away. In twenty heartbeats its flesh was gone, swirling away in a fine white mist. Beneath were bones like milkglass, pale and shiny, and they were melting too.

And that might not mean much in and of itself, but I’m inclined to think of the ADWD prologue:

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that’s in it, he thought, exulting. A hundred ravens took to the air, cawing as they felt him pass. A great elk trumpeted, unsettling the children clinging to his back. A sleeping direwolf raised his head to snarl at empty air.

The Other and the human skinchanger dissolving after “death” is so fascinating. And it raises many questions. Death wasn’t the end for Varamyr as his spirit went into his wolf. So is that the same with the Other who also dissolved into white air? As long as magic and suitable conditions (i.e., winter and all its elements) exist, then the Others can never truly die and thus could take on another form?

If that’s the case, then winter itself must be addressed to cut off the Others’ vital resources—along with the magic that sustains them, though we’ll get to that later. And who better to combat winter if not Bran Stark of “Winter-fell”?

Now you know, the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. Now you know why you must live. “Why?” Bran said, not understanding, falling, falling. Because winter is coming. […] Bran touched his forehead, between his eyes. The place where the crow had pecked him was still burning, but there was nothing there, no blood, no wound. He felt weak and dizzy. He tried to get out of bed, but nothing happened. And then there was movement beside the bed, and something landed lightly on his legs. He felt nothing. A pair of yellow eyes looked into his own, shining like the sun. The window was open and it was cold in the room, but the warmth that came off the wolf enfolded him like a hot bath. His pup, Bran realized … or was it? He was so big now. He reached out to pet him, his hand trembling like a leaf. When his brother Robb burst into the room, breathless from his dash up the tower steps, the direwolf was licking Bran’s face. Bran looked up calmly. “His name is Summer,” he said.

Bran’s wolf, a reflection of his own identity, only receives his name after Bran glimpses his magical destiny. With winter’s horrors looming, Bran must become the summer that rises to challenge it.

As the Prince of Winterfell, Bran’s title and inheritance—rooted in the Stark legacy from the first Long Night and Bran the Builder—signify a dominance over winter. He is the summer prince, heir to the place where “winter fell, defeated”.

“And who is Summer?” Jojen prompted. “My direwolf.” He smiled. “Prince of the green.”

Prince. The man-sound came into his head suddenly, yet he could feel the rightness of it. Prince of the green, prince of the wolfswood. He was strong and swift and fierce, and all that lived in the good green world went in fear of him. (Bran I, ASoS)

Because winter brings death to the land, summer is needed to restore warmth, vitality, and breathe life back into the world. And that’s why Bran’s identity not just as the “prince of the green”, but as the last of the greenseers (of course once Bloodraven kicks the bucket) puts him in a unique position during the Long Night. 

He will be the one to end the winter.

I’m still piecing together what this might ultimately look like, as we need more information about greenseeing and how Bran may fully harness it. However, from what we do know, it seems greenseeing is extends to earth magic—shaping and manipulating the natural world, as seen with events like the Hammer of the Waters. Additionally, greenseers can perceive past, present, and future, which essentially aligns with the passage of time. And isn’t that what the cyclical nature of the seasons embodies? Time flows, and with it come physical changes in the land: winter brings barrenness, spring rebirth, and summer growth. Humanity needs someone who understands this cycle and possesses the power to influence the earth itself.

Since Bran has already glimpsed the heart of winter, it’s possible he will find himself returning there, perhaps retracing the steps of the last hero. Additionally, the Isle of Faces and the God’s Eye, rich with weirwoods and sacred significance, seem like fitting locations for him to play a pivotal role in restoring balance; especially when we consider his role as a Fisher King/Grail figure who is linked with the renewal of once barren land. Whether Bran has to dig deep into the earth’s roots or manipulate the flow of time itself, the Long Night cannot end without his dominance over winter.

However, while restoring the balance of the seasons is crucial, neutralizing the immediate threat posed by the Others and their thralls is extremely important- and that’s where Dany comes in!

That night she dreamt that she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. But she was mounted on a dragon, not a horse. When she saw the Usurper’s rebel host across the river they were armored all in ice, but she bathed them in dragonfire and they melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent. Some small part of her knew that she was dreaming, but another part exulted. This is how it was meant to be. (Dany III, ASoS)

I’ve argued before that, of our three chosen ones, Dany is the best suited to take on the role of military commander—and I don’t think that’s a far-fetched claim. She has one of the cleanest and most impressive military records in the main series, proving herself a formidable tactician. Not to mention, she commands the dragons—living embodiments of fire—who have been positioned as the direct counter to the Others, creatures of ice. While the Others bring cold and death, Dany and her dragons are fire made flesh, a force of life and renewal.

There are other narrative arguments for why Dany’s role is going to be so heavily militaristic. 

Until one day Prince Rhaegar found something in his scrolls that changed him. No one knows what it might have been, only that the boy suddenly appeared early one morning in the yard as the knights were donning their steel. He walked up to Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms, and said, ‘I will require sword and armor. It seems I must be a warrior.’” (Dany I, ASoS)

“No one ever looked for a girl,” he said. “It was a prince that was promised, not a princess. Rhaegar, I thought … the smoke was from the fire that devoured Summerhall on the day of his birth, the salt from the tears shed for those who died. He shared my belief when he was young, but later he became persuaded that it was his own son who fulfilled the prophecy, for a comet had been seen above King’s Landing on the night Aegon was conceived, and Rhaegar was certain the bleeding star had to be a comet. What fools we were, who thought ourselves so wise! The error crept in from the translation. Dragons are neither male nor female, Barth saw the truth of that, but now one and now the other, as changeable as flame. The language misled us all for a thousand years. Daenerys is the one, born amidst salt and smoke. The dragons prove it.” (Samwell IV, AFFC)

“Azor Ahai, beloved of R’hllor! The Warrior of Light, the Son of Fire! Come forth […]” (Davos I, ACoK)

Azor Ahai is said to be a warrior, and while Dany doesn’t fit the traditional image of what that means, she is still an active participant in warfare. Moreover, one of the central aspects of her character is her role as an agent of freedom:

“…this Mother of Dragons, this Breaker of Chains, is above all a rescuer.” (Tyrion VI, ADWD)

She has spent much of her arc directly combating slavery which might seem unrelated, but the Others come with their own type of bondage in their creations of undead. The slavery of the Others is not just physical, but spiritual, and Dany’s role in battling them aligns with her fight for freedom. She isn’t suited to combat winter itself, as Bran is, but her strength lies in physical battle, which Bran is not. To put it another way: if Bran is Frodo journeying into the depths of Mordor, Dany is Aragorn, turning Sauron’s eye with her dragons and leading the fight to defeat his armies.

But I don’t think her role ends there. 

The Others are not dead. They are strange, beautiful… think, oh… the Sidhe made of ice, something like that… a different sort of life… inhuman, elegant, dangerous. SSM

I’ve already mentioned that beyond the elements of winter—snow, ice, and cold—the Others are sustained by magic. Building on the idea of the Other dissolving into mist, it’s possible that magic is what binds these beings together: magic fuses a consciousness with snow and ice into a corporeal entity. So, in addition to battling them physically, our heroes—and Dany in particular—may have to confront this magic that gives the Others their form and power.

“Half a year gone, that man could scarcely wake fire from dragonglass. He had some small skill with powders and wildfire, sufficient to entrance a crowd while his cutpurses did their work. He could walk across hot coals and make burning roses bloom in the air, but he could no more aspire to climb the fiery ladder than a common fisherman could hope to catch a kraken in his nets.” Dany looked uneasily at where the ladder had stood. Even the smoke was gone now, and the crowd was breaking up, each man going about his business. In a moment more than a few would find their purses flat and empty. “And now?” “And now his powers grow, Khaleesi. And you are the cause of it.” “Me?” She laughed. “How could that be?” The woman stepped closer and lay two fingers on Dany’s wrist. “You are the Mother of Dragons, are you not?” (Dany III, ACoK)

The birth of Dany’s dragons seems to have strengthened fire magic, tying her deeply to the very fabric of magic itself. The AGoT bookend suggests that the Others’ ice magic and the dragons’ fire magic may be connected, part of a larger magical ecosystem, or perhaps opposing forces that coexist on opposite ends of the spectrum. Ice and fire, death and life—both seem bound by the same mystical forces. Given Dany’s connection to magic and the fact that the reemergence of her dragons parallels the resurgence of the Others, she seems best suited to combat the magic that enables the Others to take form—serving as an inverse to her bringing dragons to life. And this underscores her dual role as both a destroyer and creator of life

The specifics on Dany’s confrontation with the Others and the magic that creates them remains unclear. She could venture to the heart of winter/the Lands of Always Winter and face the source of their power, creating narrative symmetry between the dragons of the Lands of the Long Summer and the creatures from the Lands of Always Winter. Alternatively, she might find herself in the Isle of Faces if her dream of fighting the Others at the Trident is fulfilled literally. The Isle, with its rich magical ecosystem, would be a fitting place for such a climax.

Bran, too, seems destined to go to the Isle of Faces (I’m a firm ‘Bran, King at the Gods Eye’ truther). This could be where their paths cross and their roles intersect. Bran, with his deep connection to nature and time, might provide Dany with guidance on how to engage with magic and influence its effects on the world. With Bran’s knowledge and Dany’s firepower, she could then deliver the final blow. While much of this remains speculative, what is clear is that their roles complement each other.

And that leaves Jon, the “light bringer”.

They said the words together, as the last light faded in the west and grey day became black night. “Hear my words, and bear witness to my vow,” they recited, their voices filling the twilit grove. “Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.” (Jon VI, AGoT)

It’s important to see Jon’s primary function as an extension of his current role. He is a man who watches for the night—a sentinel standing against the encroaching darkness. This role is deeply embedded in his identity, and it’s fascinating to see how it manifests in his prophetic dreams.

It’s black inside, and I can see the steps spiraling down. Somehow I know I have to go down there, but I don't want to. I'm afraid of what might be waiting for me. The old Kings of Winter are down there, sitting on their thrones with stone wolves at their feet and iron swords across their laps, but it's not them I'm afraid of. I scream that I'm not a Stark, that this isn't my place, but it's no good, I have to go anyway, so I start down, feeling the walls as I descend, with no torch to light the way. It gets darker and darker, until I want to scream." He stopped, frowning, embarrassed. "That's when I always wake." (Jon IV,AGoT)

Last night he had dreamed the Winterfell dream again. He was wandering the empty castle, searching for his father, descending into the crypts. Only this time the dream had gone further than before. In the dark he'd heard the scrape of stone on stone. When he turned he saw that the vaults were opening, one after the other. As the dead kings came stumbling from their cold black graves, Jon had woken in pitch-dark, his heart hammering. (Jon VII, AGoT)

The Winterfell crypt dreams contain many intriguing elements, but I’ll focus primarily on two key motifs: death and darkness.

Jon is the most natural fit for the middle head of the dragon because he exists at the intersection of extremes: light and darkness, destruction and renewal, death and life.

When the spirit stepped out of the open tomb, pale white and moaning for blood, Sansa ran shrieking for the stairs, and Bran wrapped himself around Robb’s leg, sobbing. Arya stood her ground and gave the spirit a punch. It was only Jon, covered with flour. “You stupid,” she told him, “you scared the baby,” but Jon and Robb just laughed and laughed, and pretty soon Bran and Arya were laughing too. (Arya IV, AGoT)

While Bran is connected to summer and warmth through his magical familiar, Jon possesses a unique sensitivity to death, embodied by his bond with Ghost.

He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and boy, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.  Don't be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this. And the tree reached down and touched him.  (Jon VII, ACoK)

Furthermore, Jon’s fate at the end of ADWD implies that through his death and eventual rebirth, he becomes a ghost in his own right—caught between life and death, existing yet not fully alive. This intertwines with his connection to darkness, as Jon straddles the boundary between light and darkness: a shadow.

All in black, he was a shadow among shadows, dark of hair, long of face, grey of eye. (Jon VII, ACoK)

“I can show you.” Melisandre draped one slender arm over Ghost, and the direwolf licked her face. “The Lord of Light in his wisdom made us male and female, two parts of a greater whole. In our joining there is power. Power to make life. Power to make light. Power to cast shadows.” “Shadows.” The world seemed darker when he said it. “Every man who walks the earth casts a shadow on the world. Some are thin and weak, others long and dark. You should look behind you, Lord Snow. The moon has kissed you and etched your shadow upon the ice twenty feet tall.” Jon glanced over his shoulder. The shadow was there, just as she had said, etched in moonlight against the Wall. (Jon VI, ADWD)

Shadows, like ghosts, are echoes of something once tangible. They arise from obstructed light, existing in a realm that is neither completely dark nor wholly bright, hovering between presence and absence. They highlight where light is absent. But shadows also exist only in the presence of light, revealing the delicate boundary between illumination and the lack thereof. 

So building on that idea, it’s significant that Jon’s frequent journeys into the Stark underworld, where death and darkness prevail, take a pivotal turn in ASoS when he becomes vividly aware of light fading in real time.

He dreamt he was back in Winterfell, limping past the stone kings on their thrones. Their grey granite eyes turned to follow him as he passed, and their grey granite fingers tightened on the hilts of the rusted swords upon their laps. You are no Stark, he could hear them mutter, in heavy granite voices. There is no place for you here. Go away. He walked deeper into the darkness. "Father?" he called. "Bran? Rickon?" No one answered. A chill wind was blowing on his neck. "Uncle?" he called. "Uncle Benjen? Father? Please, Father, help me." Up above he heard drums. They are feasting in the Great Hall, but I am not welcome there. I am no Stark, and this is not my place. His crutch slipped and he fell to his knees. The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. "Ygritte?" he whispered. "Forgive me. Please." But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his golden eyes shining sadly through the dark…

This is particularly noteworthy because of a similar, parallel dreams:

That night he dreamed of the feast Ned Stark had thrown when King Robert came to Winterfell. The hall rang with music and laughter, though the cold winds were rising outside. At first it was all wine and roast meat, and Theon was making japes and eyeing the serving girls and having himself a fine time . . . until he noticed that the room was growing darker. The music did not seem so jolly then; he heard discords and strange silences, and notes that hung in the air bleeding. Suddenly the wine turned bitter in his mouth, and when he looked up from his cup he saw that he was dining with the dead. (Theon V, ACoK)

The fires that ran along the blade were guttering out, and Jaime remembered what Cersei had said. No. Terror closed a hand about his throat. Then his sword went dark, and only Brienne’s burned, as the ghosts came rushing in. (Jaime VI, ASoS)

The ASoS crypt dream runs parallel to Theon’s ACoK dream and Jaime’s ASoS dream, with a common element: the presence of death and growing darkness.

While the crypts are inherently dark, Jon perceives when other sources of light are extinguished—true to his role in the Night’s Watch, which is to keep vigil against encroaching darkness. This ability to sense the fading light underscores his ghostly nature, where he reflects light while simultaneously existing in a state of absence. It also highlights his role as a shadow, existing in the blending of light and darkness. As both a shadow and a ghost, he can navigate these dual states, acting within the world’s transitions between day and night.

Which brings us to what I consider a continuation of Jon VII; while that chapter is marked by a lack of light, this next chapter is characterized by an abundance of it:

Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. ‘Snow,’ an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall, he sent them down to die again. He slew a greybeard, a beardless boy, a giant, a gaunt man with filed teeth, and a girl with thick red hair. Too late he recognized Ygritte. She was gone as quick as she’d appeared. The world dissolved into a red mist. (Jon XII, ADWD)

At some point between these two dreams, Jon found (or even created) light and he wields it as a weapon. And it’s clear that Jon’s sword in this dream is the actual manifestation Azor Ahai’s Lightbringer:

“In ancient books of Asshai it is written that there will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour, a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.” (Davos I, ACoK)

Lightbringer has two major requirements: to give off heat and to illuminate. Jon’s sword does both!

We’ve seen a number Lightbringer-esque weapons (e.g., Beric’s and Thoros’), but Stannis Baratheon’s sword is the most intriguing proxy.

Davos knelt, and Stannis drew his longsword. Lightbringer, Melisandre had named it; the red sword of heroes, drawn from the fires where the seven gods were consumed. The room seemed to grow brighter as the blade slid from its scabbard. The steel had a glow to it; now orange, now yellow, now red. The air shimmered around it, and no jewel had ever sparkled so brilliantly. But when Stannis touched it to Davos’s shoulder, it felt no different than any other longsword. “Ser Davos of House Seaworth,” the king said, “are you my true and honest liege man, now and forever?” (Davos IV, ASoS)

While Stannis’ sword is visually dazzling, it is, in essence, a well-made fake. Its bright glow meets one of the two requirements for “light-bringer”, yet its impressive variety of hues with no actual heat serve as a clue that it is not the true sword of heroes. When the world cloaked in darkness, a weapon that shines as brightly as the sun is undoubtedly a powerful symbol. And Stannis’ sword is bright….

….but it’s almost too bright. His sword emits the wrong kind of light—one that is all glamor with little substance. This great conflict is referred to as the “war for the dawn”. So what humanity needs is a reminder of the dawn itself:

As a red dawn broke in the east, Grey Wind began to howl again. (Catelyn X, AGoT)

A swollen red sun hung low against the western hills when the gates of the castle opened. (Catelyn IX, AGoT)

Dawn and the sun are often associated with red hues in the text, a color heavily tied to fire (e.g., House Targaryen and R’hllor). Stannis’ sword gives off light, but it lacks the essence of true warmth. In contrast, Jon’s sword is the real Lightbringer: it is hot enough to burn against the cold and it radiates the actual red hues of dawn, thus illuminating the world around it.

Jon’s role as the archetypal fantasy protagonist necessitates a magic sword—Lightbringer will be his Excalibur; his Anduril. But more than just being a weapon, his Lightbringer symbolizes the transition from darkness to light. Dawn, a moment of transformation, begins with deep red hues that retain the shadows of night before blooming into the full brightness of the sun. Like the early dawn, Jon straddles the line between night and day, existing between life and death, darkness and light. As the middle dragon head, he embodies balance.

I’m not really sure how that plays out in the endgame; hell, I still can’t figure out how Jon will “forge” Lightbringer in the first place. But he has to end up somewhere for his arc to reach its magical climax. I’ve speculated that Bran and Dany might find themselves at the Isle of Faces or the heart of winter. The latter is a strong possibility for Jon, especially if he too recreates the last hero’s journey; not to mention his connections to snow and winter. But he could also return to the Wall, a mighty structure that symbolizes the boundary between life and death. The Wall is also imbued with ancient magic that radiates outward (e.g., strengthening Mel’s magic and prolonging Maester Aemon’s life). Therefore, it could serve as the ideal location for Jon to reignite and wield the light that has long been hidden.

Though Bran, Jon, and Dany each have distinct roles in restoring balance, their actions are deeply intertwined, with shared themes across their arcs. Jon and Bran connect through their existence in darkness, as seen in their ACoK dreams. All three share connections to death: Bran inhabits the realm of the dead (Mel I, ADWD; Jon’s ACoK wolfdream), Jon embodies a ghost-like nature that straddles life and death, and Dany is called the “bride of fire, daughter of death”. Additionally, Jon and Bran are linked to winter, and both Jon and Dany share the legacy of Azor Ahai and Lightbringer, with dragon breath also echoing the red hues of dawn. Together, they are not just separate forces but three heads of the same dragon, working in concert to ensure that the Long Night ends and the cycle of life and death continues.

TL;DR:

The dragon has three heads, each with a unique role in maintaining the cycle of balance, despite their overlaps in common themes. Bran, the Prince of Winterfell, embodies summer and inherits the legacy of the kings of winter, making him the most suited to confront the Long Night’s origin: winter itself. The Long Night cannot end without Bran’s triumph, as winter represents death while summer signifies new life. Dany, linked to the ebb and flow of magic and the direct antithesis of the Others, is best positioned to engage them in battle and counteract the ice magic that enables their existence. As the perfect manifestation of fire magic, she serves as a powerful weapon, embodying the theme of destruction by being “breaker of chains”. Meanwhile, Jon straddles the boundaries of light and dark, life and death, destruction and creation. His unique position allows him to navigate these extremes, bringing forth the lost light while holding back the consuming darkness. As the embodiment of balance—dead yet alive, icy yet fiery—he ensures the proper equilibrium between these forces.

Dragons, symbols of life, fire, and summer, starkly contrast with the cold death represented by winter and its children. Daenerys, as the Mother of Dragons, embodies the nurturing aspect of life, actively bringing forth new existence by counteracting suspended states of life (e.g., awakening dragon eggs and freeing slaves). Bran, representing youthful vitality, symbolizes young life that is both born and maturing. Jon occupies a unique position in the middle; he is like spring, a new life emerging from darkness, akin to an awakened dragon—life once petrified but now revitalized. Together, these three form a multifaceted dragon that embodies various dimensions of life, each contributing uniquely to the fight against the Long Night.

[talonabraxas]

Arcturus Talon Abraxas

Arcturus is the fourth brightest star in the sky: only Sirius, Canopus and Alpha Centauri outshine this orange giant. It is a variable star in the last stages of its life.

Arcturus takes its name from its nearness to the sky Bears, Big and Little Bears, Ursa Major, and Ursa Minor. From Arktouros or Arctophilax, "the Bear Guard" and also called "the Bear Watcher". The "Herdsman", or "driver of oxen" are other titles. Arcturus is the brightest star in the constellation of Bootes the Herdsman so it is also called Alpha Bootis. The pattern of stars in this constellation forms the shape of a kite or an ice cream cone; seeing a Herdsman driving the bears around the sky.

Arcturus is believed to be one of the first stars named by ancient observers. It is translated as "Guardian of the Bear" and is a name that was once used for the entire constellation of Bootes. It is easily found by noting that the curve of the handle of the Big Dipper is part of a circle - an arc - and we can just "follow the arc to Arcturus."

Arcturus is a giant with a diameter about 18 times our Sun's and four times as much mass. Its surface temperature is about 1500 degrees lower than Sun's but its much greater surface area results in an outpouring of energy at a rate making it 105 times as luminous as Sun.

Recent observations by the European Space Agency's Hipparcos Space Astrometry Mission have revised Arcturus's distance to 36.7 light years from us.

Arcturus has the largest "proper motion" -- motion across the sky -- of any of the bright stars except Alpha Centauri, the nearest star to our solar system. In 100 years Arcturus moves across the sky a distance equal to about half the width of your little finger held at arm's length.

At its distance of nearly 37 light years, this motion, when combined with its motion along our line of sight measured spectroscopically using the Doppler shift, yields a space velocity of about 76 miles per second with respect to our Sun. Most stars in our vicinity are moving relatively slowly with respect to Sol because of our common motion carrying us around the center of the Milky Way galaxy every 250 million years. Arcturus is in an elongated orbit around the Galaxy's center that carries it out into the Galaxy's halo.

It was formed in the halo of the Milky Way and is an interloper in our neighborhood. It has been visible to the naked eye for only about half a million years. It will be a little closer in a few thousand years, but then will recede from our view in another half million years as it continues its journey on a different orbital path.

Arcturus's great brilliance makes it possible to obtain very detailed spectra and to determine its chemical composition. Arcturus is deficient in elements such as silicon, aluminum, and iron which are formed in stars. It contains only about a fifth as much of these elements as Sun. These elements are formed inside stars, mixed into the interstellar medium as stars explode, and incorporated into subsequent generations of stars.

This chemical composition reinforces our identification of Arcturus as a member of the galactic halo. It was formed about 10 billion years ago, in a generation of star formation prior to that in which our Sun was formed, before the interstellar medium could be enriched in elements such as silicon and iron. Arcturus, about twice as old as Earth and the solar system, is the oldest thing most of us have ever seen, and is the oldest object easily visible to the naked eye.

The constellation Bootes has the shape of a kite with the bright star Arcturus at the point of the kite where the tail is attached.

Arcturus is a red supergiant star and the fourth brightest star in the whole sky.

It is visible from the northern hemisphere in the evening from about March early summer. Red-supergiant stars are precursors to super-novae, neutron stars, and black holes (so it is believed). It is approximately thirty-six light years from Earth.

According to E W Bullinger (The Witness of the Stars ), a biblical interpreter of the constellations, the ancient Egyptians called Bootes Smat, which means 'one who rules, subdues, and governs'. They also called him Bau , which means also 'the coming one'.

It was famous with the seamen of early days and as a calender sign regulated their annual festival by its movements in relation to the sun. But its influence always was dreaded, as is seen in Aratos writings. Its acronycal rising (the latest rising visible at sunset) fixed the date of the husbandmen's Lustratio frugum; and allusions were made to its character as unfavorably affecting the farmer's work; "When moist Arcturus clouds the sky". Other contemporary authors confirmed this stormy reputation, while all classical calendar's gave the dates of its risings and settings.

An Egyptian astronomical calendar of the 15th century BC, associates it with the star Antares in the immense sky figure Menat; and Lockyer claims it as one of the objects of worship in Nile temples, as it was in the temple of Venus at Ancona in Italy.

In India it was the 13th nakshatra, Svati, "the Good Goer", or perhaps "Sword", but figured as a Coral Bead, Gem, or Pearl; and known there also as Nishtya, "Outcast", possibly from its remote northern situation far outside of the zodiac, whence, from its brilliancy, it was taken to complete the series of Hindu asterisms.

The Arabs knew Arcturus as Al Simak al Ramih *, sometimes translated the "Leg of the Lance-bearer", and again, perhaps more correctly, the "Lofty Lance-bearer".

Another Arabic name; Al Haris al Sama, the "Keeper of Heaven," perhaps came from the star's early visibility in the twilight owing to its great northern declination, as though on the lookout for the safety and proper deportment of his lesser stellar companions, and so "Patriarch Mentor of the Train." This subsequently became Al Haris al Simak, "the Keeper of Simak", probably referring to Spica, "the Unarmed One".

From the Arabic title came various forms: Al Bamec, Aramec, Aremeah, Ascimec, Azimech, and Azimeth, Somech haramach, Aramakh, Kheturus.

Al Biruni mentioned Arcturus as the Second Calf of the Lion, the early Asad (Lion) in early Arabian astronomy; Spica being the First Calf.

The Greeks had a word meaning "Javelin-bearer", while Bayer had Gladius, Kolanza, and Pugio, all applied to Arcturus, which probably marked in some early drawing the "Sword", "Lance", or "Dagger" in the Hunter's (Orion) hand. Similarly it took the title Alkameluz of the whole constellation.�

It has been identified with the Chaldaeans' Papsukal, "the Guardian Messenger", the divinity of their 10th month Tibitu.

On the Euphrates it was the Shepherd of the Heavenly Flock, or the Shepherd of the Life of Heaven, undoubtedly the Sib-zi-anna of the inscriptions; the star eta (Mufrid) being often included in this, and thus making one of the several pairs of Euphratean Twin Stars.

Another title was Audiens, which seems unintelligible unless the word be a misprint for Audens, the "Bold One".

With others it was Arturig and Ariture, or the Carlwaynesterre from the early confusion in applying the title Arcturus to Charles' Wain as well as to Bootes and its lucida.

Bootes is the cultivator or Ploughman who drives the Bears, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor around the Pole Star, Polaris. The bears, tied to the Polar Axis, are pulling a plough behind them, tilling the heavenly fields "in order that the rotations of the heavens should never cease".

Manilius 1st century AD writes "they will be kings under kings and ministers of state, and be charged with the guardianship of the people, custodianship of great houses and treasures, who confine their business to the care of another's home so that the wealth of monarchs and temple finances will be in their keeping".

Any type of occupation that requires planning is influenced by Bootes. These people are the driving force behind government and large corporations. They are the planners and designers, the movers and shakers, who "make the world go round". Bootes symbolizes the elder, the sage, the wise old man who is interested in principles and underlying causes, theories, ideologies, and how the past effects the future. (Conservative) politicians, economists, draftsmen, architects, designers of all kinds.

[kkanabel]

caffeine addiction - chapter 11

Bakugou Katsuki x Reader / Coffee Shop! + Fashion? AU

directory/m.list

⇦ previous chapter - next chapter ⇨

words: ~2.8k

One espresso shot at a time turned into three shots of espresso at a time, but it was all being downed by you. Both you and Bakugou were currently in the back room of the Kindeki store next door for your daily work after your shift at the coffee shop, which Bakugou had to hire more employees for. The coffee shop was currently bustling– next door was loud and filled with chatter of something along the lines of “When will they be back?”

The cork boards on the walls were covered from top to bottom in a spread of photos of Gothic Architecture– rib vaults, flying buttresses, and elaborate tracery all framing stained glass windows. Papers with designs, patterns, and sketches were sprawled all over the mahogany desks. A couple of these papers had coffee stains on them. Bakugou leaned back in his chair with a sigh, flinching when the pencil tucked behind his ear fell behind him onto the polished marble ground with a thunk. You drank the last of your iced espresso shot before picking up the fallen pencil and placing your sketchpad onto Bakugou’s brown corduroy-clad lap. 

Bakugou in his zone was truly something to admire. He wore blue light glasses when researching online to reduce strain in his eyes, but did they suit him well. It was a blessing to see him in these moments– all focused while sketching up a storm– pencil lead all over his fingers from blending the graphite onto the paper. “Dramatic, but not overwhelming…” He’d mutter while taking a picture from the cork board and using it as a reference for a pair of pants. Each stroke of his pencil was so easy and well-practiced, making it look easy. He could transform something from his mind onto paper and then fabric like it was made for him– and it was. Red eyes narrowed in on a small imperfection on the paper, and it would disappear like it never existed. 

The entire day was filled with espresso shot after the other– and after that were your brainstorming sessions with Bakugou. Deep plums and jewel tones paired with blacks and grays offset with metallics filled the room along with intricate lace that you spent days designing yourself. The room was filled with a litany of different cloths and fabrics– some stiff and some flowy. Combining luxurious, draping fabrics with strong silhouettes that emphasize shoulders, cinched waists, and long, flowing elements reminiscent of Gothic cathedrals’ towering height with intricate embroidery mimicking Gothic rose windows and lace patterns that resemble wrought-iron gates.

You work on embroidery that mimics the stained glass windows of 12th century cathedrals, ensuring symmetry in the embroidery and a touch of asymmetry in the silhouette to imitate the cathedral as a whole. You’re planning on putting actual pieces of glass onto the dress’ corset later.

You take a step back and stand over the desk, arms crossed, eyeing the latest design Bakugou just sketched out. The jacket’s sharp, angular lines mimic the Gothic arches you’ve been obsessing over for weeks, but something feels off. “It’s too… aggressive,” you say, tilting your head. “We’re going for structured, but this feels like it’s about to stab someone.” “Tch. It’s Gothic. It’s supposed to look like it could stab someone,” Bakugou retorts, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “You said ‘sharp,’ and that’s what you’re getting.” Rolling your eyes, you grab the pencil from his hand and start redrawing the shoulder lines, softening the angles just slightly. “I meant sharp in a stylish way. Not like... this is going to start a fight in the conference room.” Bakugou snorts, watching you make adjustments. “Isn’t that the whole point of fashion? Making people talk, starting shit?”

You pause for a moment, considering his words. “Okay, maybe. But I want them to talk about how good it looks, not how dangerous it is to wear.” “Some people like danger,” he quips, raising an eyebrow at you with a dangerous smirk playing on his lips. “Maybe you’re just scared to take risks.” “Risks?” You turn to him with a raised brow. “I’m the one embroidering literal stained glass into a dress. If anything, you’re the one playing it safe.” Bakugou leans in a little, his red eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, yeah? I’d say I’m taking a pretty big risk working with someone who can’t even keep up with me.” You backup a little and scoff, ignoring the way your heart clenches at his teasing tone. “Please. I’m doing the hard part here. You just scribble a couple lines and call it a day.” His toothy grin widens, and he nudges the sketchpad toward you. “If it’s so easy, why don’t you do the pants, too?”

“Because I’m not trying to show off like you,” you say, pushing the pad back at him. “But if you need my help, just say the word.” Bakugou chuckles lowly. “Help? You wish. You just wanna see me sweat.” His eyes flit down to your lower face for a split second. You blink, not catching the double meaning in his words. “What? No, I just… ugh, whatever. Just finish the damn pants.” You check a nearby mirror to make sure you don’t have anything in your teeth– why was he looking there? He leans back, folding his arms behind his head, watching as you turn back to your embroidery. “You’re cute when you get all flustered.” “Flustered?” you mutter, not really paying attention. “I’m not flustered. I’m just trying to fix your mess.”

Bakugou chuckles again, the sound low and teasing. “Whatever you say, princess.” You pause but brush it off, assuming he’s just being his usual cocky self. “Just focus, Bakugou. I don’t want to be stuck here all night.” He smirks to himself, watching you concentrate on the embroidery, completely oblivious to the small ways he’s been trying to get under your skin. “Yeah, yeah. But don’t worry—you’re not getting rid of me that easily.” Rolling your eyes, you get back to work at your station. Your fingers glide over luxurious fabric, testing the weight, the drape. The wool you chose for the structured blazer clings to your fingertips, sturdy yet pliant under your touch. "It's still missing something," you mumble, tracing a pattern you’ve yet to commit to paper. Beside you, Bakugou furrows his brow, lost in his sketchbook, muttering half-formed ideas. The soft scratch of his pencil across the page fills the air, almost rhythmic, like a second heartbeat in the room. “Do you think we need a stronger contrast here?” you ask, holding up a swatch of deep plum silk next to the black jacquard fabric that’s been frustrating you all day.

He glances up, blue light glasses sliding down his nose. “It’ll look washed out. Try a metallics to bring out the color,” he suggests, eyes flicking back down to his sketch without waiting for a response. It’s so casual, so assured. He doesn’t doubt himself—not for a second—and the way his hands move from sketch to reference, it’s infuriating how easily his mind works through these problems.

Meanwhile, your sketchbook is a mess of crossed-out lines and question marks, drafts discarded before they even make it to the final page. You flip through your notes, eyeing the reference photos pinned to the corkboard. Flying buttresses and towering arches loom in the background, begging to be translated into the clean lines of a suit or a dress.

“I think I’ve got it.” You grab your sketchpad, pulling it back onto your lap. Sharp, structured lines—just like pointed arches—make their way onto the page. Your pencil flies, inspired. “This! Like pointed arches! Sharp, structured, but with curves!” you exclaim, waving the sketch in Bakugou’s direction.

He stops long enough to glance over. “Not bad,” he grunts, but his fingers twitch toward your sketchpad. “Let me fix the angle here. And you need a stronger taper at the waist.” Before you can protest, he’s taken your design and made a few deft adjustments that somehow elevate the whole thing.

You watch in begrudging admiration as he perfects it effortlessly. Each stroke of his pencil adds depth, structure—it's flawless, and somehow, irritatingly so. There’s no denying it: Bakugou was born to do this. 

You bite back the jealousy that nags at you, pushing yourself to sketch with renewed vigor. The stakes are high, and you’re not about to let him outshine you. Not when this collection—the fusion of Gothic splendor and cutting-edge business fashion—is yours just as much as his. 

Your hand flies across the pages, the scratches of the pencil against paper mixed with the trills of music sung in Middle English to truly encapsulate the feeling of the medieval architecture you were emulating on paper. 

Your hand cramps as you set the pencil down, finally satisfied with the latest design. The blazer dress, now meticulously sketched out with pointed arches forming elegant, sharp lapels, lies sprawled on the desk between the two of you. Bakugou leans back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, surveying his sketches with a critical eye.

“Looks like we’ve nailed the structure,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, which has grown messy from hours of working in silence. You nod, rubbing at your temples, the espresso shots from earlier starting to wear off. Just as you’re about to suggest a break, Bakugou’s phone lights up on the desk, buzzing incessantly. At first, he ignores it—he's been too immersed in perfecting the collection to care about any distractions. But the buzzing doesn't stop.

He frowns, picking up the phone. You can tell from the sudden tension in his jaw that something’s up.

“What is it?” you ask, stretching your arms over your head.

“Tch. It’s my mom.” Bakugou’s expression shifts from mild annoyance to a mixture of confusion and disbelief as he scans through the string of notifications. He scrolls for a moment, and then his phone buzzes again, this time with a notification from the Masaki store’s account.

He glances up at you, his red eyes sharp. “Check your phone.”

A sense of unease curls in your stomach as you reach for your own device. The moment you unlock it, you see it—another flood of Instagram notifications, messages, and emails. All your social media apps are practically screaming for your attention. You swipe to your email, eyes widening as you scroll through the dozens—no, thousands—of pre-order confirmations. The Kindeki PR team has emailed you countless times– along with dozens of journalists asking for an interview.

“What the hell…” you whisper under your breath.

The notifications are relentless, and when you switch to Instagram, you finally understand. The Masaki Official account has posted the photo—the one from the café. The picture of you and Bakugou, mid-laugh, caught in a candid moment of camaraderie and partnership and… something else. The caption is simple but effective: “Fashion royalty at work. Coming soon: Masa x Kin x Deki collection.”

Your jaw drops as you read the comments beneath the photo.

“CUTEST COUPLE”

“fashion royalty fr… they a couple tho??”

“take all my money NOW.”

You scroll down further, but the app glitches momentarily, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of activity. Your phone buzzes again, but it’s Bakugou who breaks the silence first, reading from an email: “Sales are up by 65%. Pre-orders are through the roof.” You look up at him, wide-eyed, but he’s already dialing his mom. “Oi, what the hell did you post?” From behind you, another notification dings: Kindeki (aka your precious aunt) has just uploaded a behind-the-scenes video on the store’s Instagram. In the background, you hear a familiar cackle from Bakugou’s mom. You glance over at Bakugou, who catches your expression with an eye roll. “Looks like we’re not done yet.”

The clang of the last chair being stacked on the table echoed through the empty café, a quiet contrast to the buzzing streetlights outside. The Kindeki shop was already locked, but you followed Bakugou to his café to close. You yawned, rubbing your eyes as you pulled down the metal shutter halfway. The day had been long—filled with both customers and creativity. Bakugou was wiping down the counter, his movements deliberate, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. The quiet was almost comforting after the frenzy of the day. “I’ll lock up,” Bakugou grunted, grabbing the keys from the hook. You nodded, moving to flip off the last few lights when suddenly, the distinct murmur of voices outside the window grew louder. You froze, glancing toward the front of the café. You swore you saw a flash of light from outside the shop for a split second.

“Bakugou… what’s that?” you asked cautiously, squinting through the glass door. He moved past you, standing close enough for you to catch the heat radiating off him as he squinted out into the street. A low grunt rumbled in his throat, and you followed his gaze. Outside, you could see them—reporters, camera flashes lighting up the dusk, a couple of people holding phones up, trying to capture any glimpse of movement inside. The soft murmur had turned into a low buzz of voices and questions being thrown into the air. “Great,” you muttered, “exactly what we need.” “Tch, of course they’d show up now.” Bakugou rolled his eyes, glaring at the crowd. “Stupid vultures.” He crossed his arms, muscles tensing as he glanced over at you. “Stay behind me.” He moved toward the door, his hand clenching around the keyring in his palm, eyes narrowed like he was already considering breaking some cameras. “Are we seriously doing this?” you asked, following him but keeping a slight distance. The last thing you wanted was your face on a hundred Instagram stories and all over news articles.

Bakugou glanced over his shoulder, his lips curving into a smirk. “What, scared of a little attention? You’re the one who wanted to be in fashion, remember?” You rolled your eyes, biting back a retort as he unlocked the door just enough to speak through the crack. “Shop’s closed,” he barked at the crowd, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the noise. “Bakugou! Are you and her working on a new line together?” “What’s the inspiration for the upcoming season?” “Any truth to the rumors about your relationship?” You winced at the last question. Bakugou’s scowl deepened. “Back off,” he growled. “Get a damn life.” He slammed the door shut, locking it in one swift motion before turning to you. “We’re getting out of here.” You blinked. “And how, exactly, are we going to do that? They’re right outside.” His smirk widened, mischief dancing in his crimson eyes. “There’s two back exits, genius. You think I don’t plan for this kinda crap?”

Without waiting for a response, he grabbed your wrist and tugged you along. The café lights dimmed behind you as he led you through the narrow hallway toward the back door. The sound of your footsteps echoed softly, mingling with the faint buzz of reporters still stationed outside. Once outside, Bakugou paused, glancing around before pulling you along again. The back alley was empty, the cool night air brushing against your skin as the two of you hurried through the narrow path. The distant hum of the city faded slightly, replaced by the more familiar sounds of your breathing and Bakugou’s muttered complaints about the reporters. You exhaled in relief as you made it a few blocks away, the noise fading. “Guess we’re a hot topic now, huh?” Bakugou’s voice was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of pride in it. You shot him a look, shaking your head. “I didn’t sign up for this level of attention.” He shrugged, smirking as he crossed his arms. “Too late, princess. Fame comes with a price.” There was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he added, “You better get used to it.”

You were about to retort when you felt the heat of his gaze settle on you, a little too heavy, a little too intense. He took a step closer, just enough for you to notice the way his eyes lingered on yours, something unreadable in them. Before you could say anything, he dropped the teasing smirk and muttered, “I’ll protect you from those vultures. Grew up with it. But don’t expect me to be this nice all the time.” You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his voice. He turned and started walking ahead before you could respond, leaving you standing there, heart fluttering slightly as you tried to make sense of the tension in the air. “Come on,” he called over his shoulder, “we’ve got work to do tomorrow.” And just like that, the moment was gone, leaving you wondering how Bakugou could make your heart race with just a few words. As the two of you walked side by side, the city lights flickering above, you couldn’t help but glance at him, a small smile tugging at your lips.

a/n: we're back!

lol not beta read again please let me know if you see any typos or anything that's just like. wrong.

i had a looooot of trouble with writing this chapter bc describing clothing aint my best suit, but we're workin on it (thats why im writing this fic in the first place tbh) :> also, my taglist is open! thank you to @itztaki for being the first LOL-- just message me or comment on this if you'd like to be added!

thank you for reading & stay hydrated, y'all <3

directory/m.list

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[greenwitchcrafts]

2025 update:

February 2024 witch guide

Full moon: February 24th

New moon: February 9th

Sabbats: Imbolc-February 1st

February Snow Moon

Known as: Eagle Moon, Horning Moon, Solmonath Moon, Bear moon, Ice Moon, Wild Moon, Raccoon Moon, Big Winter Moon, Groundhog Moon, Quickening Moon, Storm Moon, Goose Moon, Hungry Moon & Red/Cleansing Moon

Element: Fire

Zodiac: Aquarius & Pisces

Nature spirits: House Faeries

Deities: Aphrodite, Brigid & Nut

Animals: Otter & Unicorn

Birds: Chickadee & Eagle

Trees: Cedar, laurel, myrtle & rowan

Herbs: Balm of Gilead, hyssop, myrrh, sage & spikenard

Flowers: Primrose

Scents: Heliotrope & wisteria

Stones: Amethyst, jasper, moonstone, obsidian, onyx , rose quartz, topaz & red zircon

Colors: Light blue & violet

Energy:  Astral travel, banishing, beginnings, breaking bad habits, creativity expressiveness, empowerment, energy working to the surface, fertility, forgiveness, freedom, friendships, future plans, growth, healing, problem solving, purification, responsibility & science

February’s full Moon is a “Micromoon” this year. Think of this term as the opposite of a “Supermoon.” It simply means that the full Moon is at its farthest point from Earth (not the nearest point).

The explanation behind February’s full Moon name is a fairly straightforward one: it’s known as the Snow Moon due to the typically heavy snowfall that occurs in February. On average, February is the United States’ snowiest month, according to data from the National Weather Service. In the 1760s, Captain Jonathan Carver, who had visited with the Naudowessie(Dakota), wrote that the name used for this period was the Snow Moon, “because more snow commonly falls during this month than any other in the winter.” 

Imbolc

Known as: Feast of Torches, Feast of Waxing Light, Oimele & Brigid's Day

Season: Winter

Symbols: Besoms, Brighid's crosses, candles, candle wheels, fertility symbols, fire, ploughs, priapic wands & white flowers

Colors: Black, brown, Earth tones, lavender, light green, orange, pink, red, white & yellow

Oils/Incense: Apricot, basil, bay, carnation, chamomile, cinnamon, dragon's blood, frankincense, heather, jasmine, myrrh, neroli, red sandalwood, sage, vanilla, violet & wisteria

Animals: Badger, cow, deer,groudhog, robin, sheep, snake, & swan

Mythical: Dragon

Stones: Amethyst, bloodstone, citrine, clear quartz, garnet, green tourmaline, hematite, iron, lodestone, onyx, red zircon, rose quartz, ruby, turquoise, yellow tourmaline

Food: Breads, chives, curries, dairy products, grains, garlic, herbal teas, honey cakes, lamb, muffins, onions, peppers, poppy seed cakes, pork, poultry, pumpkin seeds, raisins, scones, spiced wines & sunflower seeeds

Herbs/Plants: Angelica, ashleaf, balsam, basil, bay laurel, benzoin, blackberry, clover, coltsfoot, coriander, dragon's blood, garlic, heather, lemon, myrrh, rosemary, sage, vervain, wheat & witch hazel

Flowers: Celandine, chamomile, iris, rose hips, snowdrop, sunflower, tansy, violets, white flowers & yellow flowers

Goddesses: Anu, Aradia, Arianrhod, Artio, Athena, Branwen, Brigid, Danu, Februa, Gaia, Inanna, Juno, Selene, Sirona & Vesta

Gods: Aegus Mac Og, Bragi, Cupid, Dian Cecht, Dumuzi, Eros, Februus & Pax

Issues, Intentions & Powers: Activation/awakening, animals, beginnings, fertility, healing, hope, illumination, inspiration, light, pregnancy/childbirth, prophecy, transformation, well-being & youth

Spellwork: Air magick, banishings, candle spells, divination, fertility spells, prosperity & purification

Activities:

• Make & light white candles

• Clean/decorate your altar & consecrate your  altar tools

• Go on a walk in nature & look for signs of spring

• Make a Brigid's Cross

• Have a feast with your family/friends

• Give thanks & leave offerings to the Earth

• Set intentions, reflect & look deeper into your goals for spring

• Start a bonfire

• Find Imboloc prayers & devotionals that bid farewell to the winter months, honor the goddess Brigid, as well as seasonal blessings for your meals, hearth, & home.

• Pepare plans for your upcoming garden

• Craft a priapic wand

• Spend time with children celebrating Imbolc by making crafts & or baking

• Practice divination & fire scrying

• Draw a cleansing ritual bath for yourself

• Meditate, reflect & say your farewells to winter

• Cleanse & clean your house to prepare for spring

• Create a Brídeóg: a doll of Brigid made of straw

• Make Bride's bouquet satchets & exchange as symbols of good luck and fertility

• Set aside food & or drinks as an offering to Brigid to invite her in your home

Imbolc is a Gaelic festival marking the beginning of spring. Most commonly it is held on January 31 – February 1, or halfway between the winter solstice & the spring equinox. The holiday is a festival of the hearth, home, a celebration of the lengthening days & the early signs of spring. 

The word "imbolc" means "in the belly" and refers to the pregnancy of ewes at this time of year. The term "oimelc" means ewe's milk. Around this time of year, many herd animals give birth to their first offspring of the year or are heavily pregnant & as a result, they are producing milk. This creation of life’s milk is a part of the symbolic hope for spring.

Imbolc is mentioned in some of the earliest Irish literature and it is associated with important events in Irish mythology. It has been suggested that it was originally a pagan festival associated with the goddess Brigid and that it was Christianized as a festival of Saint Brigid, who herself is thought to be a Christianization of the goddess.

Some use Imbolc to celebrate the longer days which herald the return of Spring & The Goddess's recovery from giving birth to The Sun (The God) at Yule. The God & The Goddess are children symbolizing new life, new beginnings & new resurrections.

Related festivals:

• Groundhog Day-  Is a tradition observed in the United States & Canada on February 2 of every year. It derives from the Pennsylvania Dutch superstition that if a groundhog emerges from its burrow on this day & sees its shadow, it will retreat to its den & winter will go on for six more weeks; if it does not see its shadow, spring will arrive early.

While the tradition remains popular in the 21st century, studies have found no consistent association between a groundhog seeing its shadow & the subsequent arrival time of spring-like weather.

•St. Brigid's Day- 1 February. It was originally Imbolc, the first day of spring in Irish tradition. Because Saint Brigid has been theorised as linked to the goddess Brigid, some associate the festival of Imbolc with the goddess. St. Brigid is the patroness saint (or 'mother saint') of Ireland. She is patroness of many things, including poetry, learning, healing, protection, blacksmithing, livestock & dairy production. In her honour, a perpetual fire was kept burning at Kildare for centuries.

A recent campaign successfully established her feast day as a national holiday in 2023.

• Chinese New Year- (February 10th) the festival that celebrates the beginning of a new year on the traditional lunisolar Chinese calendar. In Chinese, the festival is commonly referred to as the Spring Festival,- marking the end of winter and the beginning of the spring season. Observances traditionally take place from Chinese New Year's Eve, the evening preceding the first day of the year, to the Lantern Festival, held on the 15th day of the year. The first day of Chinese New Year begins on the new moon that appears between January 21st & February 20th.

The Chinese New Year is associated with several myths and customs. The festival was traditionally a time to honour deities as well as ancestors. Within China, regional customs and traditions concerning the celebration of the New Year vary widely & the evening preceding the New Year's Day is frequently regarded as an occasion for Chinese families to gather for the annual reunion dinner.

It is also a tradition for every family to thoroughly clean their house, in order to sweep away any ill fortune & to make way for incoming good luck. Another custom is the decoration of windows & doors with red paper-cuts and couplets. Popular themes among these paper-cuts and couplets include good fortune or happiness, wealth & longevity. Other activities include lighting firecrackers  & giving money in red envelopes.

•  Candlemas- is a Christian feast day on February 2nd commemorating the presentation of Jesus at the Temple. It is based upon the account of the presentation of Jesus in Luke 2:22-40. 

While it is customary for Christians in some countries to remove their Christmas decorations on Twelfth Night, those in other Christian countries historically remove them after Candlemas.On Candlemas, many Christians also take their candles to their local church, where they are blessed and then used for the rest of the year.

•Setsubun- (February 3rd) Is the day before the beginning of spring in the old calendar in Japan. The name literally means 'seasonal division', referring to the day just before the first day of spring.

Both Setsubun & Risshun are celebrated yearly as part of the Spring Festival (Haru matsuri ) in Japan. In its association with the Lunar New Year, Setsubun, though not the official New Year, was thought of as similar in its ritual & cultural associations of 'cleansing' the previous year as the beginning of the new season of spring. Setsubun was accompanied by a number of rituals & traditions held at various levels to drive away the previous year's bad fortunes & evil spirits for the year to come.

Other Celebrations:

• Lupercalia-

In ancient Rome, this festival was conducted annually on February 13th through 15th under the superintendence of a corporation of priests called Luperci. The origins of the festival are obscure, although the likely derivation of its name from lupus (Latin: “wolf”) has variously suggested connection with an ancient deity who protected herds from wolves and with the legendary she-wolf who nursed Romulus and Remus. As a fertility rite, the festival is also associated with the god Faunus.

to purify the city, promoting health & fertility.

Each Lupercalia began with the sacrifice by the Luperci of goats and a dog, after which two of the Luperci were led to the altar, their foreheads were touched with a bloody knife & the blood was wiped off with wool dipped in milk; the ritual required that the two young men laugh. The sacrificial feast followed, after which the Luperci cut thongs from the skins of the sacrificial animals & ran in two bands around the Palatine hill, striking with the thongs at any woman who came near them. A blow from the thong was supposed to render a woman fertile.

In 494 CE the Christian church under Pope Gelasius I forbade participation in the festival. Tradition holds that he appropriated the form of the rite as the Feast of the Purification (Candlemas), celebrated on February 2, but it is likely that the Christian feast was established in the previous century. It has also been alternately suggested that Pope Gelasius I replaced Lupercalia with St. Valentine’s Day, celebrated on February 14th, but the origin of that holiday was likely much later.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2024 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Lost 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of loss, grieving, death, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: nomad!Steve Rogers

Summary: You move into a shared flat and encounter a mysterious man.

This one's a bit longer than the intro.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your first shift at the store goes well enough. Aziz, the manager, shows you where everything is and goes over the policies. The till is behind a window, a slot just big enough to get products and money through. It’s close to your apartment so not the best part of town. The next day, you’ll be alone.

You head home with a dented can of ginger ale in your bag. Aziz said you could have it for free since half the paint was scraped off during shipping. You don’t drink much soda but it would be a nice treat.

You find yourself dragging your feet as you come onto your street. You’re still getting your bearings but you recognize the boarded up white brick building across from the converted two-storey house. You stare at the faded brown facade of your abode, fumbling with your keys nervously. You still feel so out of place.

You cross the road and climb the steep iron staircase that leads up the side of the house to the second floor. The heavy metal grate that shields the thick wooden door rattles as you open it and clanks behind you loudly despite your efforts to keep quiet. The place feels desolate as you enter. Aside from last night, you haven’t encountered anyone else.

You creep into the kitchen and go to the fridge. On it, there’s a yellow paper with blue ink on it; numbered bullets that you read slowly. ‘House Rules’, the jagged capitals spell out the title above at least a dozen lines. ‘Clean up after yourself; mark your food; no stealing.’ That paper feels very apathetic, suggesting that no one really talks to each other here. Maybe it’s better that way.

You open the fridge and search your bag for your can of ginger ale. You hesitate to put it inside. You have no way of marking it. You consider the remnants of the logo on the side. You could just have it warm.

“There’s a sharpie in the top drawer,” a voice breaks the rigid silence like cracking ice.

You glance over at the man standing in the doorway, the same that leads to your bedroom. You quickly peel away your eyes and nod. You can’t manage a thank you as your surprise has your adrenaline pulsing.

You close the fridge and put the can on the counter. You open a drawer, not much inside besides electric tape and the promised sharpie. You write your initials on the top of the can as the man enters and stops a few feet from you, popping open a cupboard with a harsh click.

You think it must be the same man as the night before. He’s about the same size as the ominous shadow, at least from your periphery glance. You sidle over and pull the fridge open once more, setting your can in the door before you close it gently.

Tension roils around you as the man takes out a large container. It’s unmarked except for the sharpie emblazoned on the white plastic; ‘S’. Just a single letter.

You back away and fix your bag on your shoulder, shuffling around him in the small kitchen. He doesn’t say anything but you can hear his long exhale. It sticks with you how easily he’s snuck up on you twice. You shrug it off as paranoia from the shelter.

You’ll be okay. You have a lock on the door here. You have your own space. A tiny haven in an immense world.

🚪

Your first shift alone isn’t as intimidating as you thought. Most people come in and grab what they need then go. You ring them through with as much friendliness as you can muster. Most don’t respond, some chatter a bit, rambling about a thousand different things, and others even glare at you as they point to the small earbud in their ears. The flow of customers is ebbs and flows, busier around lunchtime and dull after two.

You’re almost done with your hours there. You take the time to bring out the bag of chips Aziz marked for stocking. You sit on the step stool as you set to find the palace for each brand. You put the Cheetos on the shelf as the door chimes and signals the entry of a customer.

You stand and peek over the shelf. You see only a man’s shoulders and the back of his head as he turns his back to you, perusing the wall of magazines. His hair pokes out in shaggy shanks from a ball cap. You grab the folding foot stool and the box and quickly scurry back behind the counter.

You put them down clumsily, a loud clap as the stool falls against the back of the counter. You pull shut the divider behind you and go to the till. You brace the counter as you peer over at the man again but try not to stalk him.

He strides slowly through the store, just along the back wall as he peruses the bottles and cans of cold drinks. He opens a door and takes something out. You look down and review the checklist for your shift. The last thing you need to do is balance the till before the evening shift gets here.

You listen to the man’s steps, flicking your eyes up now and again to keep track of him. You can also see him on the security screen through the black and white lens. You don’t even get a good look at him then as he keeps his chin straight, the beak of his cap effectively hiding his features.

He approaches the counter and you pop your head up. You’re stunned to recognise him. The same man from your flat. Your neighbour. Nameless and mysterious.

“Hey,” he says as he puts his fare on the other side of the plastic barrier.

“Hello,” you eke out. You’re getting used to your own voice again. In this job, you don’t have a choice. “This everything?”

“Mhmm,” the hum is rocky in his throat. 

You grab the two bottles, part of a two for three deal, and scan the premade protein milkshakes one at a time, then the magazine, Time, and a bag of pretzels. Nothing too unusual. His fingertips scratch the coarse hair along his jaw as he clears his throat.

You read out his total and he reaches into his jacket. He pulls out several bills and counts them out before handing them over. You take them and tally his change from the drawer.

“Shouldn’t be working alone,” he comments as he holds his hand out for the change.

You drop the coins into his cupped palm and recoil at his remark.

“Not to scare you,” he tucks the change away.

You shake your head. No, you thought it before but a job’s a job. You scrunch your lips and look around evasively.

“Do you want a bag?” You offer, not knowing how else to respond.

“Please,” he accepts, “and thank you.”

You nod and pull out a bag. You take his items and shove them inside as he watches quietly. You push them through the slot and he takes the handles, pausing as you feel him looking at you.

“When you walk home, avoid Mason Street. Go one up to Doxtator. Safer,” he advises.

You dip your chin, embarrassed. You know you don’t look like much but you can take care of yourself. You have so far.

He leans back on his heel before twisting on his soles. It squeaks with his slow hesitation and he marches to the door. You look up as the chime goes off and he disappears into the street. Only forty minutes to go.

[sufferu]

What other anime do you like besides re zero? If you watch any others that is.

Currently Re:Zero is my favorite, but some others include:

The Apothecary Diaries (if we’re JUST talking anime and discounting the light novels. I think this one might actually trump Re:Zero for me)

The Saga of Tanya the Evil

Puella Magi Madoka Magica (I STILL haven’t seen Homura’s Rebellion but the third part is coming out soon so I’ve gotta find the time—)

Mairimashita!Iruma-kun

Isekai Quartet (if that counts as a separate anime lmao)

To Your Eternity (though really the first season is really the only one that remained of a certain quality…)

Ranma 1/2 (only watched the first season of the remake but I’m liking it so far!)

So I’m A Spider, So What? (just. ignore the human half) (it’s very funny that the animation staff completely cut the budget on that half like halfway through the season lmao. like their funding clearly got sliced in half thanks to that fire that went down at the studio at the time, but they CLEARLY put as little as they could to the human half that literally nobody cared about)

Mob Psycho 100

Tokyo Ghoul (I LOVED the torture scene. Never watched more than the first season though.) (Read a bit of the manga and it looks like it’s paced a lot better than the anime. I might check it out one of these days)

Lycoris Recoil

Ouran High School Host Club (really liked this one when I was younger lmao, Haruhi is an ICON. …I kinda hated the main love interest tho I’m sorry— I was ONLY here for Haruhi—) (and also her dad)

Soul Eater (never finished it but I remember adoring the bit that I saw when I was little)

Wandering Son

Yatagarasu: The Raven Does Not Choose Its Master (still making my way through it and it’s. A little shaky — nowhere near as good at subtlety as The Apothecary Diaries — but it’s got some seriously creative elements to it)

One Punch Man

Little Witch Academia

Yuri On Ice

Fullmetal Alchemist (honestly a little overrated but that’s not really the show’s fault lol) (I watched both versions and. honestly 2003 doesn’t get enough credit because it’s first half is OBJECTIVELY the better version, right up until the plots diverge from one another)

Hunter X Hunter

Mieruko-chan (HATE the fanservice, it’s so distracting and out of place??? but the actual story with Mieruko is great and I loved the arc with her teacher)

Konosuba (it’s at its best when it’s just focused on being stupid)

That Time I Got Reincarnated As A Slime (very fun slice of life for the most part! Though I think it’s a little too conflict-averse.) (But the villain of that movie has some. Uh. —Seriously, was I imagining the subtext there?!)

Ranking of Kings (was great until they completely screwed over Miranjo in an attempt to over-endear her to the audience, ironically) (and also the out-of-nowhere insert of anti-Korean(?) propaganda was. What)

Avatar: The Last Airbender (IT COUNTS.)

[phoenixthefurb]

SPOILERS FOR DOCTOR WHO : KILLING GROUND!!!

I read through a bit of the doctor who novel killing ground. It's famous for the part where a researcher, hegelia undergoes cyber conversion and describes the process. For whatever reason, the description of the cyber conversion isn't easily accessible information. So. While I haven't read the book I sat down and took all the parts describing it and combined it in a cohesive text.

A note : the cyberman variation in the book are the cyber nomads.

Here is the link of the entire book for anyone who wants to read it

A special thanks to @daughterofheartshaven for introducing me to the book through a recent post they made about cyberman media .

Also two important note that I suggest you read the book because this documentation of the process is missing of the character "Madrox" 's reaction to all this going down which adds to the experience. Ironically, yes, I stripped the text of emotion.

~~~~~~~~~

She was donning a silver helmet, pressing it down to flatten her hair. Blood trickled onto her forehead as internal spikes sunk into her brain. She brought her right hand up to speak into a small black box, her voice betraying her controlled pain.

I am making this record in the hope that it will find its way to the Arc Hives. My name is Hegelia, I have spent my life as an ArcHivist researching the Cyber race, and I am about to make my ultimate discovery. I am to undergo conversion, to become a Cyberman myself. I do not know how much of the process I will be able to relate before my mind is changed or controlled, or before the pain becomes too much for me to bear. I hope that I can add something to your understanding. At least I know that I will be fulfilled.’ She paused then and Madrox twisted the last dial.

Hegelia knew that conversion had begun when she felt an intense, numbing coldness creeping across her. It reached her brain and threatened to shut down her mind, coaxing her into an ethereal world of hallucinatory comfort. She fought it, concentrating on the micro recorder, solid in her hand. She forced coherence into her thoughts and directed it towards her vocal chords. ‘I am being anaesthetized,’ she dictated, aware that the words were sluggish and distant. ‘I doubt that is because the Cybermen feel compassion for their subjects. Rather, I suspect they recognize the possibility of the brain’s expiring if the body’s pain becomes too great. I will attempt to retain lucidity and continue this record for as long as I am able.’ There was nothing more to say for the moment. Despite herself, Hegelia felt her thoughts drifting off at a tangent. A hundred surgical implements seemed to grow from the walls of Hegelia’s compartment, poking, prodding and inserting themselves into her body. It looked as if a silver web was being spun about her, obscured by the wispy vapours of whatever was making the room feel so cold. But Hegelia was obviously not in pain; at least, not so much that she couldn’t keep up her record. ‘I am now clamped into position,’ she reported. ‘I cannot see what is happening, as I am unable to turn or lower my head. My vision is also blurred, a side-effect no doubt of the cold which numbs my neural pathways. I do feel, however, that the Cybermen’s instmments(?) are moving into place and are almost poised to begin conversion proper.’ The spectacle was gruesomely compulsive. Madrox waited for the web’s mechanical elements to mesh, to resolve themselves into familiar Cyber armour which would clamp itself about its subject. Instruments jerked into action and Hegelia’s torso was savagely ripped open. He tore his gaze from the ragged flaps of skin, the exposed tissue, the welling blood which a vacuum pump removed before it could cause inconvenience.

Hegelia collected her thoughts and began to speak, although she felt as if a lump of ice had formed in her throat. ‘The numbness has spread, so I can no longer be sure if I am even holding my recorder. If it has fallen, I hope it can still pick up my voice She struggled to return herself to the present, dully alarmed at the effort it took. She had been trying to describe something.

Something...

She remembered.

‘I can no longer measure time. Hours might have passed, or minutes. I once felt something tearing and believed my robes to have been stripped from me. I now recognize that, in fact, my skin was ripped apart.’ Dimly, it registered that she should be more distressed about such an occurrence. ‘I have been split open like a rotten fruit,’ she said in a vain attempt to provoke an emotional response. ‘I know this is true as I can feel the stirrings of instruments within me. No doubt, redundant organs are being removed.’ Hegelia held on to that notion for a moment and tried to deduce more precisely what was being done. It dismayed her that, having reached this moment, she could not be fully cognizant of all that was happening to her. Still, her responsibility was to record the experience from the inside. Others could study the mechanics from without. Then, suddenly, she felt as if a cloud had parted, allowing her to receive sensory information which previously had been obscured. She became aware of a hollow sensation, as if a cavity had been drilled out of her chest, and she was certain that she no longer had a pulse. ‘My heart has been taken,’ she said, her voice lowered until it was almost reverential in tone. ‘I am existing on a life support system. I have passed the point of no return.’‘My head is supporting additional weight. Something hard and flat is being pressed against each ear. I can, however, still feel cold air. The faceplate has not been attached.‘The helmet seems to be feeding information to me. I was already aware of Cyber history, of course, but I am relearning it from a fresh perspective. I view each incident as an entirely necessary task, performed with tactical genius. I take no discomfort in failure, but see instead how remaining resources can be redirected into future efforts. Regrettably, I cannot grasp every fact which enters my mind. It feels as if... yes, as if the data is merely passing through to a computer storage and retrieval system. Or to... or to... another mind? The idea was appalling. For the first time, Hegelia was scared. Then a calming presence insinuated itself upon her thoughts and, although the situation was still as terrifying, the fear was lessened. ‘Could this be it?’ she asked herself wonderingly. ‘Could my self be destroyed and replaced by a manufactured personality? I am aware of it now: a heavy presence in my mind, crowding out my identity. Could this be another aspect Of me? A part of my brain unlocked by conversion? I do not know.’ It occurred to her to question the reason for her monologue. By accessing her memories, she was able to learn that she was attempting to make a spoken record of her apotheosis. Hegelia couldn’t see any logical reason for continuing to do so. She fell silent. She was starting to hurt. It didn’t matter. In moments, the pains of the flesh would be gone for ever. Her legs had been removed. Superior, prosthetic limbs were being attached to the stumps. Her hands would be next. Her brain sent signals to the muscles in her fingers, telling them to relax, to drop the recorder before it was destroyed. She wasn’t sure if the message got through. She couldn’t explain why it was important that it should. Why did she want to keep talking? ‘My brain is fully connected to the Cyber computer,’ she said in a voice which seemed indefinably different. ‘My eyes have been scooped out and the sockets filled with mby ocular crystals, the inputs from which are to be routed to my cognitive processors. I will be fitted with a chest unit, after which final cranial operations will take place. I have been born into the Cyber race and my duty is clear.’ ‘

We will conquer. We will proliferate. We will be supreme.

Hegelia had stopped talking again; her conversion had to be almost complete.

‘What is it doing to me?’

The plea was uttered in the deep, artificial tone which Madrox knew too well. Its plaintive, human bleat added a note of unnerving incongruity. Despite himself, he looked to its source. Hegelia’s legs and torso were encased, although her arms were bare. Two mechanical appendages worked to weave exoskeletal piping into the rapidly solidifying substance of her armour. The familiar chest unit had been attached and the ArcHivist’s suddenly white and emaciated face peered blindly from between the striated blocks of a Cyberman’s headpiece. ‘I confess that I am beginning to worry. I expected to record full details of the conversion as it transpired; however, I find my senses limited. I do not fully understand what is happening - and what I do feel, I lack the vocabulary to describe.’ Hegelia’s tone fluctuated between restrained panic and detachment. ‘A moment ago, my tongue reported my connection to the Cyber computer. I am not sure if I composed that message myself or if it was the responsibility of another presence. Perhaps that presence will overwhelm me. Will my personality endure, but submerged or controlled? Will only part of me survive, to be merged with an Artificial Intelligence? Or will I be erased? I had thought myself prepared for such an eventuality, but now that I am standing on the brink of the abyss, I feel —’

Hegelia stopped talking. It was as if she could no longer see the point. Her arms were being sheathed in plastic-metal compound. New pipes had been attached to the fluid reservoir at her back and were being threaded along the newly reinforced limbs. Madrox realized with a start that Hegelia’s hands were gone. They had been sheared off, so fast that he hadn’t noticed. A plate swung in front of her face, hiding the ArcHivist’s fear behind its blankness. Madrox saw too late the spinning drill bits on its inner surface. They were pressed hard against flesh. Blood seeped through the mouth slit and round the faceplate’s edges as useless organic material was broken down and scooped out, clearing space for efficient electronics.

The creature which had once been Hegelia didn’t flinch. The Cyberman’s existence began. It was ready to receive orders. It knew itself to be a recent convert to the never-ending cause and saw that to be good. It possessed memories from the time before the Change, but saw no reason to access them. One day, it would sort through the data, keeping any which might prove useful, relinquishing the remainder. For now, it had to rest. Its organic components needed time to adapt to the rigours of birthing. It cycled its computer mind into downtime, registering the status information relayed to it by the compartment in which it found itself.’

[enchantedbat]

More minor/background characters!

Back with the fairies!

Katy - Fairy of Animals

every fairy of animals has a deeper connection to an animal type (Roxy dogs, Katy cats)

actual animal features (like teased in the show)

comes from a planet where people are most likely hybrids / have animal features

feline physiology meaning: extremely athletic, sharp teeth and nails, heightened senses, treads lightly

deep connection with animals, can understand them

mimic the abilities, traits, and behavior of animals

she can change her features into animal ones too, even her wings!

shapeshift (potentially)

she is fearful of mice which is kind of ironic as fairy of animals, so I believe, she is quite overwhelmed by her powers and animal connection

unlike Roxy, she has not a natural good relationship with them, it develops over time

that makes using magic hard for her because she doesn’t believe in herself that much 

Katy has nine “lives” like a cat and earned her Enchantix by sacrificing herself (and losing her last life) 

Khadija - Fairy of Rhythm

I planned that she’s from Eros too, like Ahisa & they have a friendly competition who becomes the Fairy Guardian first (rivals to friends to lovers)

then she earned her Enchantix by saving Ahisa but that's already Ahisa's story, so... (I didn't notice it till I re-read it. Originally, they were all written down in the same document.)

alternative: She saves her parents.

amazing dancer and perfected all but it got too much doing them all

changed rather often before settling on just doing what is fun for her

confident and independent but more in a “if nobody comes with me, I am going by myself”-sense (Aisha/Layla admired that a lot since she was less independent by choice and more forced to be alone)

She, Francis, Musa, Aisha/Layla and later Mirta had their own dancing group and weekly hangouts to talk about concerts to visit

I struggle a bit with her powers because I like to explore the depth of the girls’ powers (as you may have noticed) and just give hints what they could accomplish

rhythm manipulation could be vibration and wave manipulation (elemental powers)

dance powers, dance manipulation could be sleep inducing and tiring people out OR wake them up, give them back energy

body and mind control by controlling heart beats and sending brainwaves 

AND based on which direction her powers take, her attire would be different. for example more ballet-inspired when controlling people like a music box figurine or puppet with strings

Dahlia/Francine - Fairy of Rivers

one of the fastest fairy at Alfea (second only to Lavigne)

water-based powers

lake and river manipulation

water body creation

superspeed, speed related powers

accelerated perception, accelerated thought process 

aquatic enhanced speed

can run over water

slowing down others

dislikes insects and bugs 

bonds with Katy over having issues to really connect with her powers

she had a hard time coming to terms with her powers because she is from an urban realm and lived in a big futuristic city with hardly any nature

she drags the girls to Magix City almost every day

Dahlia earned her Enchantix by saving an ancient creature that once lived in her homeworld 

Honorable mentions: 

Kimmy - Fairy of Thunder

Lavigne - Fairy of Speed

Karina - Fairy of Perfume

Oleana - Fairy of Leafs

Alice - Fairy of Ice

Loni - Fairy of Electricity 

Miky - Fairy of Rock

(and I also gave some powers to others.)

Selene - Fairy of Night

Kylie - Fairy of Luck

(the younger fairies get their own post someday. I promise.)

[agentmarvel]

Ooooh, this is exciting!!

I'm challenging you to write... (For the theme, I don't know if I'm allowed to choose more than one, but if not, you can choose between the two). The theme is angst to smut. The character is John Price. The 2 - 3 words are 'broke down car', 'forest' and "I've love you for ten years..."

Anyway, I love your writing, and I can't wait to read this!! ❤️❤️

Nella x

nella! thank you so much for sending one! 🥰 i had fun with this one! v dramatic and got a lot longer than i intended. lmao. i went with angst + happy(ish) ending bc i have so many requests for price + smut.

john price x fem!reader

cw: graphic description of injury, death

mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

When John comes to, his head is pounding, and he can taste blood in his mouth. A sickly iron smell floods his nose, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from retching in the dirt. His vision is blurry still, but against a sable sky, he can see a thick pillar of stark smoke and glimmering fragments of glass blinking at him from the asphalt as he struggles to stand.

Finding his footing, his vision comes into full focus, and he feels sick to his stomach.

His car, upside down in the ditch.

The windshield is smashed to bits. One headlight flickers while the other stays dark. Everything around him is silent, save for the sound of his own racing heartbeat.

He doesn’t quite recall what happened entirely. Last he knew, he was cruising just a hair above the speed limit; the windows were down, radio on, and he had been looking forward all day to a peaceful night drive through the backwoods with… you.

You.

You were in the car with him. Pretty thing in a sundress, his fingers tracing a familiar path on your thigh, your eyes lighting up as you recognize a song and start singing along. But the sun set, and your sunny gaze turned cloudy. You were in the passenger seat, arms folded across your chest, tears streaming down your face as you screamed at him. An ache in his ribcage murmurs a reminder that he was screaming at you, too.

A fight. He doesn’t remember what it was about, but it was ugly. Terror grips his heart with ice cold hands, panic spreading through his bones like a suppression system. What happened? How did it happen? What did he do?

It doesn’t matter now. Whatever it was, he’ll concede that you were right. He’ll do anything. Anything at all as long as it means you’re safe, you’re okay.

You aren’t anywhere in his line of sight. He’s not sure how long he’s been out, but he knows damn well that no matter how angry you were at him, you’d never leave him to the elements. Not even to get help; no, not his girl, a world class combat medic.

He opens his mouth to call for you, but the only sound that comes out is a broken croak. It burns his throat. Limping, sparks of pain shooting through his legs, he staggers around the front end of the car. Only a moment does he pause in the fulgurating headlight. He knows the odds aren’t good, judging by the state of the wreckage, but he refuses to allow himself the courtesy of preparing for the worst.

His joints scream at him as he crouches down beside the passenger side, shards of the since-shattered window digging into his skin like razor wire. John Price has never been one for cowardice, but it takes a solid few seconds for him to convince himself to actually look.

The moment he does, he wishes he hadn’t.

You’re still in the car. Suspended by your still-fastened seat belt, you dangle there. Gravity has drawn the flow of blood into your hairline, matting the strands in crimson. Your beautiful face borders on unrecognizable through the injuries. The dress you wear is stained with gore. The sight makes his stomach turn, and this time, he can’t keep it down.

A wail of agony is followed by a gag, bile rising in his throat and spilling before he can react. He doesn’t even spit on the pavement before he’s reaching in through the gap and trying to pull you free. It’s a struggle, but John manages to pry the belt just enough to shake you loose.

He pulls you into his lap, carding a hand through your hair as his crackling voice tries to wake you.

“C’mon, dove. Open those pretty eyes for me, yeah? You’re alright. You’re gonna be alright. Come on, please.”

You’re still breathing, a ragged rise and fall of your chest accompanied by a sharp wheezing in your throat. You’re alive, thank Christ, but for how long?

It feels like an eternity before your eyelids flutter open. He can see you struggling, but he begs you to focus on him. You look up at him. Something is off. It’s like you’re looking through him, not at him.

“You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart, I promise. Just look at me, okay? We’re gonna be fine. We’re gonna be alright.”

“John,” you whisper, the vaguest semblance of a smile settling on your lips. “You’re here.”

“Yeah, baby, I’m here. M’not goin’ anywhere, okay? Gonna stay right here with you.”

You lift a hand, but he can hear the bones in your arm popping and cracking in the process. John catches your hand before it can reach his cheek and presses a kiss to your palm. You mutter something. He’s not sure what. He’s more focused on the way you seem to be going in and out of focus, unable to hold on to consciousness without waver. 

A beat passes where your gaze finally meets his. You look surprised for a moment, sigh his name like a question. He just nods, reaffirming that he’s got you. You smile again, a little wider this time.

Suddenly, you cough. Blood splatters across your face, the force of your lungs pushing out the liquid. There’s a gurgle and another small cough before your expression softens and you go entirely limp in his arms.

He panics. The first four stages of grief hit him like a freight train, all at once and with no warning. He’s screaming, sobbing, begging, bargaining. All he needs is a few more moments with you, enough time to tell you how much he loves you, how sorry he is, to beg for your forgiveness.

But he won’t get that. Any of it. It’s something he knows all too well.

A glint in his periphery catches his eye, and he can’t help but look. 

The reflection of the moon beams off a watch. Attached to the watch is an arm, one that looks awfully familiar. He leans forward a bit further, pressing you into his chest, and sees something that he never could’ve fathomed had he not seen it with his own eyes. There, in the driver’s seat, sits John. He’s beat to shit, covered in blood, eyes vacant below an open mouth in the invert. He’s… He’s dead, too? 

There’s really no time to dwell on it before a call of his name from the darkness draws his attention from his body, the horror not subsiding. But the voice sounds an awful lot like yours. If he concentrates hard enough, he can hear footsteps pounding the dirt, a cadence echoing between the trees. His eyes dart around, trying to locate the source. He scrambles to his feet and calls your name in return, hearing your voice again.

“John? Where are you? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

His mouth goes dry. This is impossible. You’re dead. He watched you die.

But he’s dead. And he’s here. And you can hear him.

A flash of color at the treeline finds you emerging, and relief washes over John. Even with the aches and pains in his legs, he runs to you. Scooping you up in his arms, he holds you tightly to him. You’re real, real enough for him. Corporeal enough for him to wrap you in his arms and never let you go again.

“How is this possible?” he whispers into your hair.

“I don’t know,” you answer.

It’s quiet now, though John’s mind is racing. None of this makes sense. Do you remember dying? Because he sure doesn’t. Why did you appear so far away when he stayed right beside the car? It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense.

“I look awful,” you finally say, leaning back and looking up at John. “Can you still love me if I have to look like this for all eternity?”

He huffs out a laugh, kissing your forehead.

“Darling, I’ve loved you for ten years… Nothing is going to stop me now.”

pick your prompt here!💌