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jen-with-a-pen · 1 year ago

Text

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.

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jonsnowunemploymentera · 2 months ago

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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.

#yikesssssss this might be the longest post I’ve ever written shajsbsjbshs #have a lot of thoughts so I hope this all made sense despite the length #but I’ve been wanting to write a more detailed post on thematic meaning of ’the dragon has three heads’#asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #jon snow #bran stark #daenerys targaryen #three heads of the dragon #the long night #the others #random speculations

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iron-sparrow · 8 months ago

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Whew, had to think about this one for several days. Hope you like these Yein Facts™ and don't forget to LIKE & SUBSCRIBE for more daily Yein content.

Many warm thanks to @sparrowsong-7 @lilbittymonster @thefreelanceangel @bunnyboybosom and @sealrock for the tags! ₊˚⊹♡

B A S I C S

Name: Yein Que-Sae/Yein of Iron

Nicknames: Iron, Sparrow, Little Sparrow, Little Bird, Chompers

Age: Somewhere between 35 and 40, they think?

Nameday: 32nd Sun of the 5th Umbral Moon

Race: Duskwight Elezen

Gender: None

Orientation: All

Profession: Free paladin ⛊ and also professional lover

P H Y S I C A L A S P E C T S

Hair: Magpie

Eyes: Amber (damaged: citrine)

Skin: Iron gray

Tattoos/Scars: No tattoos, but they are covered in a lot of scar tissue. A lot of it is actually prominently displayed on their face; decorating their cheeks, cutting over one eye, and removing some of their lip to expose a bit of teeth. Their body has a number of scars earned through years of combat before their first death, plus torture marks clustered over their back.

They will also paint their face when they explore the Shroud, to hide from Elementals.

F A M I L Y

Parents: Eun Que-Sae † and Jienfrex Maz-Yeh †

Siblings: Their twin brother, Sacheo Maz-Yeh

Grandparents: Unknown †

In-laws and Other: Their little found family consists of their partners Nolanel and Derrinall, and a little fae creature calling herself Dinky Dinky. They also consider their mentee Odette to be family.

Pets: They care for sparrows due to spiritual/religious reasons, but they don't actually see or keep these as pets.

S K I L L S

Abilities: Yein is a stone-wielding paladin, so they do have some abilities based on the PLD class (through fancy aether manipulation). They can also see the dead, and communicate more meaningfully with said dead people via rituals.

Hobbies: Sparring, writing poetry, collecting books (with mostly illustrations), foraging the woods, tending to their hidden shrines, and doing various forms of physical exercise ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ

T R A I T S

Most Positive Trait: Their big, big heart! They make sure to leave space for everyone they meet.

Most Negative Trait: Often thinks they know best. Also, they're pretty stubborn.

L I K E S

Colors: Gold, black, and bright reds

Smells: Burnt wood, fresh soil, Ul'dah after heavy rains, curry on the stove, and most flowers ❀

Textures: Silk and loose linens, worn leather, cool tile on bare feet

Drinks: Black iced coffee, Gridanian whiskey

O T H E R D E T A I L S

Smokes: Eh? Not cigarettes, but see "Drugs" below.

Drinks: Yep! Not as much as they used to, but they like a tasty beverage.

Drugs: Only sometimes, and only if the grass is really good.

Mount Issuance: They have a loyal chocobo, Arbiter. He was bred for the Thanalan heat and served as a very good companion to Yein in life. When they died, Arbiter was found by Sacheo searching the place where Yein was last seen/killed.

Been Arrested: Yes! They were briefly held as a political prisoner while still serving the Sultana, prior to the Calamity. Shockingly, they've managed to stay out of Gridanian gaols.

₊˚⊹♡ Tagging @prudentfolly @this-is-ris @nolanel-corbeaux, @guillotine-of-the-snake @justatheo @archaiclumina @chadhunkler @abyssalmermaiden Very sorry if you've already been tagged! (•ᴗ•,, ) I tried to avoid duplicates.

#tag game #ffxiv rp #oc basics #duskwight #elezen #yein my beloved #hope you enjoy the Yein lore!#also tagged ppl with alts #no pressure as always #this was another excuse to pose them #thank you Pigeon for PROFESSIONAL LOVER #open invite to all #I wanna learn about all ur OCs

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talonabraxas · 5 months ago

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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.ï¿½

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.

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kkanabel · 3 months ago

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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

⇦ previous chapter - next chapter ⇨ Taglist: @itztaki

#bakugou katsuki #bakugo x reader #reader insert #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #coffee shop au #bakugo katsuki #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bnha x reader #bnha fluff #bnha au

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adobe-outdesign · 6 months ago

Note

I know you've done the various mr mime forms, but have you reviewed mime jr?

(This is the last Pokemon review request in the inbox right now, so send 'em if you got 'em.

Mr. Mime review is here, G. Mr. Mime review is here, and Mr. Rime Review is here.)

Some people find Mr. Mime to be kind of uncanny, with its nose-less face, long jointed limbs, and slightly too detailed hands, but I've never heard anyone complain about Mime Jr. here. It's mostly because, while based off of Mr. Mime, the design has been simplified greatly, and features like a super cheerful expression make it hard to not find this little guy adorable. Them mimicking people and not being very good at it also doesn't hurt their cuteness factor.

I like how, conceptually, it starts off as a clown and then becomes a mime; kind of similar but still distinct ideas that work well with each other. It also looks really solid visually; the light pink body has great contrast with the dark blue accents, the black eyes pop, and the nose and red ball on the chest compliment each other, as does the ball on it's jester-cap esq hair. It's clown-like enough to pick up on the theme, but done in a nice and subtle way.

I've heard a lot of people say that Mime Jr. doesn't look enough like Mr. Mime, but I honestly don't agree. They share the exact same color palette, similar color distributions (dark hair and legs/feet, light pink faces and arms, dark pink circle accents, etc.) and a lot of the same motifs, like the zig-zag hair and circles. I think the only place where the line looses cohesion a bit is the head, as the two have very different eyes; not inherently a bad thing, but it does make the faces less similar.

Ironically, Mime Jr. arguably fits even better with the Galarian Mr. Mime line, but for opposite reasons; the color palettes are completely different, but more elements of the body shape and face carry through (G. Mr. Mime has a nose, think arms but thicker legs that are completely black, mitten-like hands, and a scalloped pattern to the body; all traits that Mime Jr. shares). Mr. Rime also helps with this, keeping all of the shared attributes and even gaining a stockier body shape in the legs, the round red nose on the stomach, and similar eyes to Mime Jr.

(A lot of people say there should've been a Galarian Mime Jr. On the one hand, having an ice-type variant with blue instead of pink would've made the cohesion of the line spot-on; but on the other hand, I don't know if there's a ton they would've done with the design beyond just minor visual tweaks. I don't know, if it's between a fairly standard recolor variant that exists for coherency vs. just skipping it all together, I do get why they wouldn't think it was needed. Plus, like I said, the line is incredibly coherent as-is anyway).

Anyway, a really cute and fun pre-evo that feels like it adds something thematically to the line and works really well with both regular and the Galarian Mr. Mime lines. Great stuff.

#mime jr #mr mime #mr rime #galarian mr mime #pokemon #pokemon reviews

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agentmarvel · 5 months ago

Note

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!💌

#john price x reader #john price x you #cod x reader #cod x you #jj writes #unblock my brain prompts

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bbu-fan-blog · 1 year ago

Note

Is there any kind of facts that you found about Aristotle?

I have some, yes!

Aristotle is Billie's mentor: decided to take up this task amazed on how much she is like her father, and out of the desire to relieve the glory days.

Aristotle goes by he/him and they/them, and is gay.

He and Arthur, for all intents and purposes, were married, just not in the traditional sense.

Aristotle's gem (yes, the purple brooch on his cape is one of the gems) is a magic booster.

This makes Aristotle REALLY powerful; but they're still an axolotl, which means that, despite their magic power, he gets easily hurt.

He's made a name for himself at Dutch's hotel, having tried so many ways to get the wolf's gem. That's why Dutch has wanted posters of the axolotl everywhere, making them enemies. Ari doesn't know which gem Dutch has.

Ironically, Ash ships them as an "enemies to lovers" kind of thing.

Katie and Ash want to include book extracts that Billie can collect during the game, and one of them is a book wrote by Aristotle and Arthur, titled "The ABCs of Magic Casting". This suggests the two of them wrote books about magic together.

And as you can see, they shared a last name together.

Aristotle likes eating worms.

The symbol on Ari's forehead is meant to be an infinity symbol. Specifically, it's meant to represent the iridophores that axolotls have on their skins, that create a sparkly effect when exposed to the light.

In the fandom he's officially known as "Rad Magic Dad"!

In the first concepts, Aristotle was supposed to be calmer and more reserved; the devs made him more akin to goofy yet fun dad since he came off as too boring. Also, apparently he used to be a crow before Ash officially made them an axolotl.

He also used to constantly float in a bubble.

On Mario Kart he'd choose Luigi because they'd feel sorry for him.

His favorite Halloween treat is chocolate covered crickets.

Aristotle is autistic, and he stims by swinging his hips from side to side while waddling the finger, and tends to walk by keeping his hands inwards.

When overwhelmed, he tucks at his gills as if they were hair.

Apparently one of the characters who inspired Aristotle was none other than Pikachu!

He's also inspired by game characters like E.Gadd from "Luigi's Mansion" and Toriel from "Undertale".

He's very talented in magic, and can make magic spheres he'll juggle with.

Apparently he's never met Barnaby.

He loves food and cooking; apparently the devs had in mind to have a cooking minigame with him, but I don't know if that's still going to happen.

Despite being powerful at magic, Katie believes he'd have slow reflexes.

He'd love ice skating!

He's also definitely ticklish!

Will happily recieve hugs, very soft and squishy!

Despite his calm and friendly nature, he's got flaws too: as in, he can be petty, overly confident and sometimes rash. He's been compared to Pearl from Steven Universe, and Ash thinks it's a pretty accurate comparison.

His name is a reference to Ace Attorney!

His go to instrument would be a concertina.

Would be friends with Glamrock Freddy, according to Ash!

He can stand on an orb made of magic, just like Raz from Psychonauts with his levitation orb.

If he owned Pokémon, he'd mostly have a Fairy Type team.

He'd never swear; he's the kind that would go "LANGUAGE!" if he'd hear someone say a bad word.

His way of speech has some Weird Al elements to it.

This is what I have, for now! 💜

#Answered Ask #Billie Bust Up #BBU Aristotle #Aristotle

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dailycharacteroption · 14 days ago

Text

Pactbound Intitiate (Pathfinder Second Edition Archetype)

(art by Kalfy on DeviantArt)

Yesterday we looked at those who swear oaths in order to gain power, but sometimes accepting a pact means taking on a great burden first and foremost. If you’re lucky the vow comes with some neat powers or privileges, but for the most part, it’s all about the duty that one accepts.

Such is the case with today’s entry, one that’s gonna take some setup to understand.

In the real world, the saumen kar, or Tornit or Tuniit, are sometimes compared to the legends of sasquatch as seen through the lens of Inuit culture, though online resources are admittedly rather limited, so that may be entirely wrong.

In Pathfinder, however, the saumen kar are a horned, yeti-like people with glowing blue runic brands covering their bodies, shining through their fur, who typically live in isolation but occasionally interact with the peoples of the Crown of the World.

Not much is known about the Saumen Kar, even to themselves, for it seems that most of their own history has been lost, with not even the purpose of the runes on their bodies being remembered beyond the passive and active elemental benefits.

It wasn’t until the Monsters of Myth book in Second Edition did we get the reveal of what little these people of the snow remember. I recommend reading the full version in the book, but the cliffnotes version is that the saumen kar discovered the source of the black blood of Orv deep belowground, and in a bid to seal this great evil away, they made a deal with their god, erasing nearly all knowledge of their culture and identity (including their worship of said deity) in order to bind a seal around the great evil and the blood-corrupted undead and whisper-corrupted mortals (including several of their own) beneath the earth.

The runes and spells of the binding are spread about on the skin of every living saumen kar. The exact amount of writing on each on fluctuates with the deaths and births of their people.

There’s just one problem: The saumen kar are dying out. Not only do they lack a stable population for reproduction (many haven’t seen another of their king in ages), but over time the nature of the magical burden they carry has worn down the life expectancy of their species. What once stood for several millenia now reach elderly age after only a few centuries.

Nobody knows exactly what will happen when the last saumen kar dies. Maybe that final sacrifice will complete the seal and lock the evil away for eternity, or maybe they’ll break free. Either way, some saumen kar are not willing to let the world find out. To those among other ancestries they trust, they sometimes offer a chance to share their burden, adding willing beings from outside their species to the binding to help keep the world safe.

Which is where today’s archetype comes into play, representing those that have chosen to accept the responsibility, gaining some of the secrets of saumen kar magic in the exchange. So without further ado, let’s begin!

The base dedication of the archetype requires initiation by a saumen kar. After which, other saumen kar can sense the bond and what it means. Meanwhile, as a base benefit, the initiate gains the ability to blend in with falling snow, hiding their presence.

The saumen kar once could infuse magic into ice to make weapons and items that never melt. What’s more, they are infused with a primal power similar to cold iron, making them quite effective against certain foes.

The pact sworn by their ancestors was meant of the saumen kar alone, and as such, many who accept it find their bodies changing. One such transformation grants a strong sense of smell, stealthy instincts, and mighty horns of the icy primates.

Eventually, many find the icy runes of their patron appearing on their skin. These ward the initiate against evil, let them sense the presence of undead. Meanwhile, they also chill ice-crafted weapons and their horns, dealing additional harm to foes.

Just as many saumen kar trap their foes in icy domes, so can some of these initiates, entrapping foes to be dealt with later.

Finally, there is a point of no return where mortals become truly bound to the pact, becoming very saumen kar-like as their bodies grow. With it, their bodies become even more resistant to cold, and their runes finally provide protection from fire as well. Finally, they gain the ability to reflexively discorporate into icy wind and snow, avoiding attacks and punishing those they engulf with chilling frost before returning to their corporeal form.

This archetype is extremely thematic, so much so that it’s not going to see use outside of a campaign that takes place at least partially in the arctic. That being said, it grants some fun utility such as crafting magic items from ice, as well as melee options for passive extra damage and attacks, as well as escaping harm at the zenith of their power. Pretty much any class can make use of this power, but it seems to do best with natural attack builds.

Now, like yesterday’s entry, this archetype is begging for homebrew. After all, there are a lot of mystical forces and the like that one could take a binding oath to serve and protect, even at great personal cost, so this archetype is a handy template for just that!

Though massive for a shoony and always cold to the touch, Billbram has been a loyal caretaker of his people’s lore for ages. He was not always so, however, but returned from adventuring to the far north with the blessings of the “wise one” that he speaks little of. Even so, the process blessed him with a very long life as a fixture of the community, but even one such as he cannot live forever.

Rimed by frost and bearing a legacy of curses and duty, two foes are set on a collision course. One a disgraced warrior turned graveknight seeking purpose in a power hidden in the farthest north, while the other is blessed by the icy-blue runes that mark his role in guarding that power. When they finally meet, the ice will tremble with their battle, and many forces watch the outcome.

They say that in the center of the ruins of Pelgana lies an ancient weapon that spelled the city’s doom. Greedy nations, blind to the danger, have tried to claim it, but they have all been thwarted by those who guard it, ordinary men and women mostly descended from the citizens of fallen Pelgana, who bear on their brow the rune of the bleeding eye which is emblazoned on the side of the weapon’s outer casing.

#pathfinder second edition #archetype #pactbound initiate #shoony #graveknight #Monsters of Myth

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

Text

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.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #drabble #series #the lost #mcu #marvel #avengers #captain america #nomad!steve

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spacetimewithstuartgary · 2 months ago

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New SpaceTime out Wednesday

SpaceTime 20241009 Series 27 Episode 122

Most powerful solar flares of the current cycle

The Sun has just emitted the two most powerful solar flare of the current solar cycle. The biggest – a spectacular X 9.1 class event hits close to the top of the energy scale -- and hurled a coronal mass ejection directly towards the Earth.

The dwarf planet Ceres might have been an ocean world

A new study claims the dwarf planet Ceres might have been an ocean world that slowly morphed into a giant, murky icy orb. Since its discovery in 1801 astronomers and planetary scientists have pondered the make-up of this distant frozen world which is the largest body in the main asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter.

NASA’s Europa Clipper mission slated to launch tomorrow

NASA’s Europa Clipper is slated to launch during a 21 day window opening tomorrow on a mission to the Jovian Ice moon Europa. The mission will help scientists better understand the potential for life on other worlds.

The Science Report

New figures show that over 47,000 people suffered heat-related deaths across Europe last year.

A mysterious type of iron-rich magma in extinct volcanoes found abundant with rare earth elements.

Scientists have for the first time mapped the entire brain of the fruit fly.

Alex on Tech new update for Windows 11

SpaceTime covers the latest news in astronomy & space sciences.

The show is available every Monday, Wednesday and Friday through Apple Podcasts (itunes), Stitcher, Google Podcast, Pocketcasts, SoundCloud, Bitez.com, YouTube, your favourite podcast download provider, and from www.spacetimewithstuartgary.com

SpaceTime is also broadcast through the National Science Foundation on Science Zone Radio and on both i-heart Radio and Tune-In Radio.

SpaceTime daily news blog: http://spacetimewithstuartgary.tumblr.com/

SpaceTime facebook: www.facebook.com/spacetimewithstuartgary

SpaceTime Instagram @spacetimewithstuartgary

SpaceTime twitter feed @stuartgary

SpaceTime YouTube: @SpaceTimewithStuartGary

SpaceTime -- A brief history

SpaceTime is Australia’s most popular and respected astronomy and space science news program – averaging over two million downloads every year. We’re also number five in the United States. The show reports on the latest stories and discoveries making news in astronomy, space flight, and science. SpaceTime features weekly interviews with leading Australian scientists about their research. The show began life in 1995 as ‘StarStuff’ on the Australian Broadcasting Corporation’s (ABC) NewsRadio network. Award winning investigative reporter Stuart Gary created the program during more than fifteen years as NewsRadio’s evening anchor and Science Editor. Gary’s always loved science. He studied astronomy at university and was invited to undertake a PHD in astrophysics, but instead focused on his career in journalism and radio broadcasting. Gary’s radio career stretches back some 34 years including 26 at the ABC. He worked as an announcer and music DJ in commercial radio, before becoming a journalist and eventually joining ABC News and Current Affairs. He was part of the team that set up ABC NewsRadio and became one of its first on air presenters. When asked to put his science background to use, Gary developed StarStuff which he wrote, produced and hosted, consistently achieving 9 per cent of the national Australian radio audience based on the ABC’s Nielsen ratings survey figures for the five major Australian metro markets: Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, Adelaide, and Perth. The StarStuff podcast was published on line by ABC Science -- achieving over 1.3 million downloads annually. However, after some 20 years, the show finally wrapped up in December 2015 following ABC funding cuts, and a redirection of available finances to increase sports and horse racing coverage. Rather than continue with the ABC, Gary resigned so that he could keep the show going independently. StarStuff was rebranded as “SpaceTime”, with the first episode being broadcast in February 2016. Over the years, SpaceTime has grown, more than doubling its former ABC audience numbers and expanding to include new segments such as the Science Report -- which provides a wrap of general science news, weekly skeptical science features, special reports looking at the latest computer and technology news, and Skywatch – which provides a monthly guide to the night skies. The show is published three times weekly (every Monday, Wednesday and Friday) and available from the United States National Science Foundation on Science Zone Radio, and through both i-heart Radio and Tune-In Radio.

#science #space #astronomy #physics #news #nasa #astrophysics #esa #spacetimewithstuartgary #starstuff #spacetime #jwst #james webb space telescope #hubble space telescope

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fearthefluff · 2 years ago

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Fantasy Romance Recommendations Pt.1

I'm a big fan of Fantasy Romance books but I've noticed that a lot of recommendations lists have the same books over and over again. Nothing against Sarah J Maas, Jennifer Armentrout and Holly Black, but I have read their books already and I'm looking for new suggestions. And thus, I decided to make my own little list (with help from @housebaylor and @shirewalker). Maybe it will help someone somewhere. XD ***Some of the books listed here are not Romance novels officially but all have romance and have HFN or HEA endings Fantasy Romances The Fallen Empire Trilogy by Grace Draven The Kraelian Empire has ruled with an iron fist for centuries, its grip unyielding until the power of three women, and the men devoted to them, break it.

The Winternight Trilogy by Katherine Arden Vasya Petrovna is a young woman gifted with the Sight which allows her to see spirits who inhabits the world. The arrival of Christianity spells trouble for her and the world of the spirits at large. This story has her rebel against her fate as a woman in medieval Russia, go on a great adventure and meet amazing characters. One of my favourite.

Nettle and Bone by T. Kingfisher A subversive take on Fairytales! After years of seeing her sisters suffer at the hands of an abusive prince, Marra―the shy, convent-raised, third-born daughter―has finally realized that no one is coming to their rescue. No one, except for Marra herself.

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern The circus arrives without warning. No announcements precede it. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not. It is called Le Cirque des Rêves, and it is only open at night. Celia and Marco's beautiful story of challenges, love and magic. Beautiful haunting magic. Radiance by Grace Draven Two people brought together by the trappings of duty and politics will discover they are destined for each other, even as the powers of a hostile kingdom scheme to tear them apart. The Bird and The Sword by Amy Harmon Magic is forbidden and gifted people are sentenced to death. Lark, a voiceless young woman, has a gift she must keep hidden. The day her mother was killed, she told lark's father she wouldn’t speak again, and she told him if Lark's died, he would die too. Then she predicted the king would trade his soul and lose his son to the sky. A Fate of Wrath and Flame by K.A. Tucker Portal Fantasy! Gifted thief Romeria is transported into another world into the body of a treacherous princess. Romeria is plunged into a startling realm of opposing thrones, warring elven, and elemental magic she cannot begin to fathom. Only read the first book so far Married to Magic Trilogy by Elise Kova Shared Universe, Fantasy Romance, Stand Alone Novels About Young Women and their Unexpected Romances with Magical Men Rhapsodic by Laura Thalassa Callypso Lillis is a siren with a very big problem, one that stretches up her arm and far into her past. For the last seven years she’s been collecting a bracelet of black beads up her wrist, magical IOUs for favors she’s received. Everyone knows that if you need a favor, you go to the Bargainer and everyone knows that sooner or later he always collects. Only read the first book Promise of Darkness by Bec McMaster Princess. Tribute. Sacrifice. Is she the one prophesied to unite two warring Fae courts? Or the one bound to destroy them? If you like S.J.Maas you might like this YA Fantasy Romances Uprooted by Naomi Novik Agnieszka lives in a quiet village bordering a corrupted Wood. Her people rely on the cold, driven wizard known only as the Dragon to keep its powers at bay. But he demands a terrible price for his help: one young woman handed over to serve him for ten years, a fate almost as terrible as falling to the Wood. Spinning Silver by Naomi Novik Multiple POVs fairytale Miryem gains a reputation for being able to turn silver into gold. When an ill-advised boast draws the attention of the king of the Staryk--grim fey creatures who seem more ice than flesh--Miryem's fate, and that of two kingdoms, will be forever altered. The Girl who fell Beneath the Sea by Axie Oh Mina's people believe the Sea God, once their protector, now curses them with death and despair. In an attempt to appease him, each year a beautiful maiden is thrown into the sea to serve as the Sea God’s bride, in the hopes that one day the “true bride” will be chosen and end the suffering. An Enchantment of Raven by Margaret Rogerson With a flick of her paintbrush, Isobel creates stunning portraits for a dangerous set of clients: the fair folk. But when she receives her first royal patron—Rook, the autumn prince—Isobel makes a deadly mistake. She paints mortal sorrow in his eyes, a weakness that could cost him his throne, and even his life. Sorcery of Thorns by Margaret Rogerson Elisabeth was raised in a magical library where dark magical grimoire are kept. She hopes to become a Warden whos job is protecting the Kingdom from their powers. Then an act of sabotage releases the library’s most dangerous grimoire. Elisabeth’s desperate intervention implicates her in the crime, and she is torn from her home to face justice in the capital. Shielded by Katlynn Flanders Hidden Princess, arranged marriage, yearning! A kingdom ravaged by war, and the princess who might be the key to saving not only those closest to her, but the kingdom itself, if she reveals the very secret that could destroy her. Half a Soul by Olivia Atwater Ever since she was cursed by a faerie, Theodora Ettings has had no sense of fear or embarrassment - a condition which makes her prone to accidental scandal. Dora hopes to be a quiet, sensible wallflower during the London Season - but when the strange, handsome and utterly uncouth Lord Sorcier discovers her condition, she is instead drawn into dangerous and peculiar faerie affairs. A Crown of Wishes by Rosha Chokshi Book 2 of a series. A captured princess and a wise prince team up and to win the Tournament of Wishes, a competition held in a mythical city where the Lord of Wealth promises a wish to the victor. ****Part 2: Urban Fantasy recs to follow.****

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thlayli-ra · 1 month ago

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The WhumpWheel gave me: Barely Conscious... with CodyPunk pretty please? 🥺

Oh, go on then! 😁

Trick - 'Barely Conscious'

Characters - Cody Rhodes, CM Punk, The Rock, The Bloodline

Rating - Teen and up

Warnings - Physical assault, blood, whipping

The Chicago rain was bitter cold, as Cody discovered firsthand whilst lying face-down on the water-logged concrete, soaked to the bone in dripping wet clothes. His thin, button-down shirt had almost been torn right off his body, exposing his sun-cradled skin to the merciless elements and the arctic sting of the asphalt beneath him.

He couldn't move, couldn't run, could hardly even open his eyes, blinded by a concoction of rain and his own blood beading on his lashes. Pain throbbed in every part of his battered body, his head and stomach especially where the man who stood tall above him had beaten him ruthlessly.

The man had many different names. The Brahma Bull, the People's Champion, Rocky Maivia, the Great One, the Most Electrifying Man in all of Sport's Entertainment. The Rock. These days he was mainly called Dwayne Johnson, but since returning to the WWE, he insisted on being called The Final Boss.

And right now, he was showing Cody exactly why. He'd ambushed the younger man backstage at the end of Raw and pummelled him brutally, never once letting up as he threw Cody outside into the stormy night and slammed him into his own tour bus busting him open. It was then that he'd produced the weight belt, one he'd had specially crafted for this very occasion and flogged the helpless man with it until he lay on the brink of unconsciousness.

Out the corner of his eye, Cody could see his bus and the decal of his beloved dog Pharoah on the door. He felt a surge of relief that he wasn't there right now in case the brave husky saw his master's plight and came rushing to his rescue, putting himself in harm's way to face down the cruel brute.

Instead, someone far worse answered the call!

Cody's eyelids drooped for a moment and when they pulled back open, he spied a pair of baby pink sneakers blocking his view, a man in black jeans and a hoodie standing tall above him. The last piece of warmth in him turned ice cold and his fading mind began to scream in protest when he recognised his boyfriend, CM Punk, shielding him from the danger.

No! This can't be happening! Run, Punk, get away!

But his numb lips couldn't even form the words as the distinctive voice seeped into his ringing ears. 'Get the fuck out of here, Dwayne!'

The Rock gave a chuckle, amused at the audacity of the man who dared to stand up against him. 'Punk. It's been a while.' Punk tightened his fists, snarling at the larger man. 'I see nothing's changed.'

'I could say the same,' the tattooed man spat. 'Still strutting in like some big shot, trying to steal the spotlight.'

'It's my spotlight,' The Rock sneered. 'You're all just keeping it warm for me.'

'Nobody wants you here. Go back to Hollywood.'

'Big words coming from a big man,' Cody heard heavy footsteps coming closer and panicked. 'Especially when nobody wants you here either.'

It was too late! A stampede rushed over Punk from behind, knocking him down to the ground. Cody whimpered out a pathetic 'no' as he lay there and watched his boyfriend being set upon by Solo Sikoa and his false Bloodline. Watched as Punk tried to protect his head with his arms as boots came stomping down on top of him, fists flying into every part of him and there was nothing either of them could do to stop the onslaught.

'Pick him up!' The Rock barked and the rabid animals stepped back from their prey, hauling him up onto his knees and holding his arms out to either side in iron grips. Punk tried to blink some of the haze away, his eyes finding Cody's, who was losing his own battle to the darkness.

'Look at you,' The Rock smirked, grasping Punk by the chin. 'Like I said before, you haven't changed. Still a fly in the ointment, nothing but an annoying little shit.' He glanced over his shoulder, addressing Cody. 'This your special guy, huh Cody? This your little sweetheart?'

Punk yanked his face free and wound back. Hocking up a great glob of spit, he fired it right at The Rock, hitting him square in the eye. A call-back to the exact same insult he had done in their match at Elimination Chamber all those years ago.

And just like back then. The Rock wiped the goop from his eye and locked a deathly glare onto the younger man. 'You really should know better by now.'

'I'm not afraid of you!' Punk gave one last act of defiance, all while Cody shivered with terror on the floor.

'The Rock don't give a damn. TURN HIM AROUND!' The men holding him obeyed, twisting Punk around until his back faced their overlord. 'Remove his sweater.'

Together, Tama Tonga and Tonga Loa seized the hem of Punk's hoodie and hauled it up over his head, leaving him in his sleeveless tee. No matter how much the tattooed man struggled, he could not break free from their grasp. Down on the floor, Cody tried to will his arm to move, to reach up and plead for Punk's life, for them to take him instead. But the blackness was creeping into his peripheral vision now. He would not last much longer.

The Rock's huge hand gripped the collar of Punk's tee and shredded it from his body, much like he had tried to do with Cody's button-down shirt, only this time he succeeded in removing it completely, leaving Punk's colourful body exposed from the waist up.

'You should know by now, Punk,' The Rock said again, as he coiled the heavy weight belt around his fist, testing the tough leather in his free hand. 'I beat you twice already, and that was back when you were in your prime. You were no match for me then, and you're no match for me now. But if you're not willing to listen then I'll gladly show you.'

The Rock pulled his arm back, the weight belt dangling from his fist. Punk writhed against the men holding him, yelling every profanity under the sun when-

A hand fell onto The Rock's shoe, hanging there limply. The older man paused and glanced down, finding Cody at his feet. It had taken every last ounce of strength for him to crawl over, he didn't even have enough in the tank to open his eyes and look up at the Final Boss, let alone beg for his lover's life.

'What?' The Rock's voice rumbled in his chest like a growl. 'What is it, you pile of trash?' The fingers feebly tried to grip tighter on his shoe but fell away again. 'You want The Rock to spare him, is that right? Show this little punk some mercy?'

The darkness was growing stronger but even so, Cody managed to wobble his head, desperately clinging to consciousness long enough to save the man he loved.

Something large and ominous bent down over him, its shadow throwing Cody away from the final flicker of light. 'Is The Rock's message not getting through to you? Do you not understand, you little bitch?' The face moved in closer, perfect, white teeth bared. 'The Final Boss... doesn't give a fuck about mercy!'

The shadow disappeared and a polished dress shoe smashed Cody in his broken ribs, flipping him onto his back. The icy rain lashed against his face and through the deluge he heard the whistle of leather snapping through the air, the grisly fwack of it colliding with tender flesh.

He heard the man he loved screaming.

And the tears began to flow from his eyes and the fresh wounds on his back burnt. Sensations that flared for a second before fading until the darkness claimed him entirely. He fell under, with the sound of Punk's anguished howls blaring in his skull.

'AHH!' Cody leapt up and found the space beside him in bed empty. He looked around the small bedroom in alarm. 'Punk? PUNK?'

Thumping footsteps and the door banged open, light spilling into the room and chasing away the shadows. Punk stood in the doorway in only a pair of loose shorts, cuts and bruises littering his body. His eyes were bulging with terror. 'Cody? What's wrong?'

The sight of his boyfriend instantly calmed him but all the same Cody leapt out of the bed and grabbed him by his bristled cheeks, feeling his solidness and warmth for himself. 'Oh, thank god,' he let out a shuddering sigh and kissed Punk on the lips. 'Where were you?'

'Couldn't sleep.' He replied, dazed from the scare. He thumbed behind him to the living area of Cody's tour bus where a mug of coffee and a book lay abandoned on the table, the book face down, spine open, discarded in a rush.

'For god's sake, you and your insomnia,' Cody cursed under his breath albeit with a small smile.

'You think I'd left or something?' There was hurt in his tone and it stung Cody so he quickly explained.

'No, no, nothing like that. I just... had a nightmare.'

'About me?'

'About us. And the Bloodline...'

'Oh, I get what-'

'And The Rock.'

Punk blinked at him. 'The Rock?' He scrunched up his face.

'He's back, Punk. At the end of the show, when you were still being seen to in the Trainer's Room, he showed up.'

Punk's bushy brows furrowed with growing concern. 'Did he hurt you?'

'No,' Cody shook his head, his thumb finding the large bandaid on his boyfriend's forehead and tenderly stroking it. 'No, he just stood there, but he was sending me a message.'

'He's out to finish what he started,' the tattooed man snarled. 'Well let him fucking try! I won't just stand around and let him beat you down like last time.'

Cody's chest grew tight. 'No,' he cried out. 'That's what I'm afraid of.' Punk's thin lips pursed together, turning white. 'Every time they want to get to me, they attack the people I care about. Kevin, Randy... they know they can't hurt me, so they hurt the ones I love instead.'

Punk gave a snort. 'I'm not scared of The Rock!'

And Cody's heart knotted tighter, a terrifying recollection of a moment in his dream manifesting into reality. 'I know you're not but I'm asking you, no, I'm begging you, not to let him get to you. Even if he ambushes me, assaults me, beats me down, you have to promise me that you will stay away.'

'Cody...' Punk shook his head sadly, cupping Cody's cheek with his large hand. 'I can't do that. What you're asking... it's impossible.'

It was. He knew it was. Punk was fiercely protective of those he cared about. It went against everything in his nature to let any harm happen to someone he loved. Cody knew this, because he was exactly the same.

He heaved a sigh of defeat. 'Fine then... just don't let him get his hands on you. Try to stay safe, ok?'

Punk quirked his brows. 'I can do that,' he said. 'Hell, I just about killed myself last night putting down a deranged Scotsman who's been on my ass for more than ten months. I'm not exactly in any rush to do it again. Getting stretched out a building gets real old real fast.'

They both gave a weak chuckle and Cody stroked his fingers through the greying bristles on Punk's cheeks. 'I love you so much.'

'I love you too. I'll always be there for you.'

'And I, you.'

The kissed each other again, shaking off any last lingering pangs of panic and when they pulled away, Cody gave a gentle tug on Punk's wrist. 'Come to bed,' he coaxed the older man. 'You need some real rest after that match.'

'I suppose,' he relinquished and followed his lover to their bed. 'I did just survive 'hell' after all.'

Cody laughed again but it was only a front, and as the pair snuggled into one another and began to drift off, Cody's mind couldn't stop replaying one last horrifying thought in his head over and over.

That his own personal hell was only just beginning!

#Thlayli's Trick or Treat #Thlayli-writes #cody rhodes #cm punk #codypunk #the rock #the bloodline #cw whipping #cw whump #wrestling fanfiction #wwe fan fiction #fic request

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