#a real show stopper

[pixipoxi]

Life was a lot more fun when the moon was following your car

[spaceytrash]

Watching Daniel Craig movies as god intended: on youtube in 360p with spanish subtitles because I'm too broke to buy them or can only find them in German otherwise

[spookyscaryczerny]

so surprised noel didnt bring back mr spoon for this finale

[oflgtfol]

trying not to be too judgmental of these new volunteers but also theyre kinda driving me a bit crazy

[jobean12-blog]

Bake Nights

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 1,709

Summary: Bucky starts to show some interest in one of your favorite shows and you couldn't be more excited!

Author's Note: So I'm a huge fan of the GBBO and since the finale was this last week I've wanted to write something fun with Bucky. The show really just brings me joy and I've needed it lately and pairing it with Bucky just makes it that much better! No real spoilers here for the latest season- just lots of fun! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: lots of sweet fluff and flirty fun

“Buuuuuckkkyyyy.”

“Yeah doll?”

“Have you seen my tea? Are we out?”

As you continue to search the cabinet you feel his hard chest press against your back. His arm reaches above you and he pushes the box of crackers aside, revealing your tea.

“Oh good!” you cheer. “I’m about to watch this week’s episode of Great British Bake Off and I wanted some tea and snacks.”

“Is that the UK baking show you’re always going on about?”

“Yes,” you say with narrowed eyes as you turn in his arms.

He gives you a lopsided smile before a kiss.

“Want to watch with me?” you ask with a hopeful tone.

“I’m finishing up the paperwork from this last mission and you know all the cooking shows do is make me hangry.”

“You’re always hangry,” you state with a pout.

“So are you,” he fires back.

With one more kiss he says, “when I’m done I’ll come in a sit.”

“Ok,” you huff. “Hurry!”

You make your tea and get situated on the couch with the blanket, snacks and Alpine curled up in your lap.

“You’ll always watch with me right buddy,” you coo as you pet the cat’s soft white fur. “Not like daddy…too busy and too hungry.”

“Heard that doll face,” Bucky chimes from the other room.

“Damn super solider hearing,” you mutter.

You’re fully engrossed in the show, waiting with bated breath as Prue and Paul judge the show stoppers, and when Bucky asks, “did she just say, ‘tell us about your Beaver?,’” you startle with a squeal and nearly drop a now very irritated Alpine.

“OH MY GOD BUCK!” you shout.

“She did, didn’t she?” Bucky deadpans. “What kind of baking show is this?”

You press pause and turn around to stare at him as he leans against the back of the ouch and peers down at you and Alpine.

“The best baking show ever! Now shush…it’s judgement time.”

He lifts his eyebrows and smirks. “Didn’t know it was so serious. I’m gonna grab some food and I’ll be right back.”

You hit play and continue watching, barely noticing when the couch dips and Bucky sits down next to you.

“Did the beaver win?” he asks through a mouthful of food.

“It doesn’t work like that,” you start to explain but clamp your mouth shut as you wait for Noel to announce the name of the baker that’s leaving.

“How does it…?”

“Buck, wait…this is the worst part,” you whisper as you nibble on a finger.

He shuts up and takes another bite of his sandwich.

“Oh noooooooo,” you cry when you hear who’s going home. “I hate when anyone has to leave.”

Once it’s over and you’ve shut the TV you sigh. “Have to wait a whole week for the next one!”

Bucky slides his arm across your shoulders and tucks you against him, silently offering you a bite of his sandwich.

You take it and then ask, “can we get some cake at the diner later? I’m in the mood for a big slice of something.”

He chuckles and takes another bite of the sandwich before offering you the last one.

“Sure doll face. I can always go for cake.”

“Time for baking again?” Bucky asks when he gets out of the bathroom and finds you on the couch snuggled up with Alpine.

“Yes! Want to come watch?” you ask excitedly.

His expression falls. “Aw doll. I’m about to go workout with Sam.”

You pout. Again.

He leans over the side of the couch and kisses it right off your lips. “I’ll try to be quick. Maybe I can catch the end…or you could wait for me?”

You stare at him and blink several times, warring with the need to watch the episode immediately and the desire to watch with him.

The corners of his eyes scrunch up as he smiles. “It’s ok baby doll. You go ahead and watch, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

You nod and pucker up for another kiss which he happily obliges in.

By the time he gets back from his workout you’re watching Paul and Prue judge the showstoppers.

“Are we about to see who wins,” he says as he plops down next to you.

Alpine meows in frustration as the couch bounces and he goes with it.

“They’re still judging the showstoppers and it’s bread week…”

You say the last words ominously and Bucky shifts closer, bringing his lips to the shell of your ear.

“Why do you sound so scared doll?”

“Paul is the King of bread.”

“Paul…? Is that the guy with the bad fake tan?”

“HEY!” you admonish with a giggle. “Yeah…but he knows bread.”

“I know bread!” Bucky says more to himself than you. “I eat bread all the time. I love it.”

“Not like that you buttface,” you retort. “Like he knows how to bake the best bread.”

“Buttface…? Did you just…?” Bucky starts before he returns his focus to the bread.

“I’ll be the judge of that! Where can we get some Paul bread?”

“Paul bread?” you repeat. “Just…shush. Let’s watch.”

“You sure tell me to shush a lot when this show is on,” he grumbles.

“That’s ‘cause you talk too much while it’s on!” you reply.

“That’s it,” Bucky says and grabs you, hauling you into his lap as his fingers find purchase on your waist and dig in.

“BUCKKKKKKKKKKKY! That tickles, stop, OH MY GOD!”

You screech and squeal and kick and fight but it’s no use. He easily holds you in place while he tortures you with tickles.  

Alpine hops off the couch with his tail turned up and gives Bucky a murderous glare.

“Please,” you whine. “Just let me finish my show!”

He finally relents and slides his hands along your curves, snuggling you against his chest while you catch your breath.

“You’re such a pain in my ass,” you sigh as you let out one last deep breath and snuggle closer.

After they announce star baker Bucky adds, “I like the guy with the eye liner. He’s really funny.”

“That’s Noel. He’s the best!”

You stiffen when they get ready to announce who’s going home and Bucky hugs you more tightly.

“I really hate that part,” you say when it’s over.

“Alright, it’s official. Next week we are watching together.”

Your frown instantly turns into a bright smile and you throw your arms around his neck, peppering his face with kisses.

“I’m so excited Buck! And I have to explain everything…so Paul and Prue are the judges…”

Bucky stops you with a press of his finger to your lips. “Can we discuss his over food? Sam kicked my ass today and then the baking and now I’m starving.”

You smile before taking his finger and giving it a nibble. “Of course. Come on, we can get pizza.”

“YESSSS my favorite,” he sings.

“Everything is your favorite,” you deadpan.

He scoffs and then his smile turns devious. “I take it back.”

Your hands land on your hips and pin him with a challenging glare.

He steps closer and takes you in his arms. “Pizza isn’t my favorite thing to eat…”

His lips trail along your neck, stopping just below your ear. “You’re my favorite thing to eat.”

With a hum of satisfaction you crane your neck back and sigh as he places soft kiss to your skin, tracing your jaw before he finds your lips again.

His stomach growls just as he kisses you and you both laugh.

“Pizza first,” you say.

“Then you for dessert,” he promises.

“Man those technical challenges are rough,” Bucky says as he runs his hand through his hair. “Shit.”

“I KNOW!” you agree. “I don’t know how they do it.”

“Show stopper now?” Bucky asks with a boyish smirk.

“Yep!” you say popping the p before giving him a sweet kiss. “And it’s pastry week! YUM!”

Bucky’s fingers sneak under your shirt and trace mindless patterns along your shoulder. You’re snuggled against his chest with your palms flattened on his chest and tummy.

He digs his fingers into your skin and asks, “why does Paul walk around and watch them like that!?! It’s so intimidating!”

“Because he’s a total pain in the butt and knows how scary he is!”

As you continue to watch each baker explains their flavors and design and Bucky’s stomach growls.

“I’m so hungry,” he whines.

“You’re so cute,” you answer. “We just have to get through judging then we can eat!”

“Ok,” he says quietly as he pulls you closer.

“That’s amazing!” he says excitedly as one of the bakers brings up their showstopper. “I hope it tastes good!”

When the bakers are lined up in their chairs waiting to hear who star baker is and who’s leaving the tent, Bucky sucks in a breath, clearly on edge.

“Yes!” he cheers when they announce star baker. “I called that one!”

“You did,” you say as you pat his chest with a smile.

When Noel is about to say who’s leaving the tent Bucky drops his head and mutters, “ugh, you were right, this part really is the worst. I like them all! I don’t want anyone to leave.”

“Just wait until it gets down to the end and there are only a few bakers left…” you warn him.

The show ends and you both give each other a sad look.

“Do we know what the theme for next week is?” he asks.

“Botanicals!”

“Like flowers?” he asks with a confused look.

“Yes,” you smile.

“Wow, can’t wait for that!...heyyyyy why don’t we bake something doll?”

You do a double take. “You want to bake?”

“Yeah! I mean why not? I’m sure we can make somethin’ good.”

“OK! I’m sure we have the ingredients to put something together.”

You hop off the couch and head into the kitchen, opening a drawer to pull out two aprons.

“No way!” Bucky says when he sees what you’re holding up.

“You have to Buck! PLEAAASSSSSSSEEE…all the bakers wear one!”

“Fine,” he relents and takes it from your hand. “But I’m getting second dessert after this.”

He waggles his eyebrows as he looks you up and down.

“What are you a Hobbit?” you tease.

“A horny Hobbit!” he exclaims.

@hiddles-rose @lizette50 @buckysdollforlife @blackwidownat2814 @goldylions @randomfandompenguin @kmc1989

[marvelmaniac715]

If Hannah could hear all the Lords in Black as well as Webby:

Wiggly:

Wiggly *to the tune of ‘Santa Claus Is Coming To Town’*: You better watch out, you better watch out, you better watch out, you better watch out-

Hannah: Stop!

Wiggly: No. You better watch out-

Pokey:

Pokey *singing and dancing*: It’s… a… show stoppin’ number, a real show stopper, a show stoppin’ number come on!

Hannah: Stop.

Pokey: Okay… this next performance is something I like to call ‘One Man Hamilton’.

Tinky:

Hannah *talking to someone else*: If I zone out for a second, it’s because I’m trying to tune out the screaming goat in my head.

Tinky: Time travel is real! Time travel is REAL!

Blinky:

Hannah: *doing literally anything that would seem offensive to the Lords in Black*

Blinky: I saw that, bitch.

Nibbly:

Hannah *sobbing*: What are you doing in my house? What are you doing in my house?!

Nibbly: I want waffle fries.

Hannah: *screams*

[gingerbutnotaginger]

I think one of my absolute favorite things about heart stopper season 2 (other than Isaac and Elle/Tao) is that Charlie doesn’t forgive Ben. Like so many times in media we see abusers or villains get “redemption arcs” (you are NOT Zuko and you never will be) and the main character forgives them because they “changed” or “learned from their mistakes” or whatever but heart stopper didn’t do that. Like yes maybe Ben DOES realize what he did wrong and he genuinely is trying to change and be a better person but under no circumstances does that mean Charlie has to forgive him. Because no amount of character development will ever undo the real harm that was done to another person and the fact that the show actually said that, that bullies can change and grow and become better people but that doesn’t mean their victims need to forgive them is so important.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Ambitious King.

Long live the King of Beasts, he who shines like the sun.

He stands atop the heap, clutching victory in his righteous grasp.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

"We've come to finals of the interschool Spelldrive tournament!" an announcer blares over the stadium. "It's down to the wire, and this will be the deciding round. With the scores tied, it’s anyone’s game!!"

A crowd chomps at the bit for a winner to emerge from the field. They lean forward in their seats, clutch onto hope, stuff their mouths with soda and popcorn. This is a show, the players, actors, and they, the audience.

Leona allows himself a smirk.

We’ll give’m a real show-stopper then. That crown is as good as mine.

“What should our strategy be this time, sir?” a teammate—a Scarabia student—asks.

They’re huddled shoulder to shoulder, one student contributed from each of the seven dorms. Their allegiances may lie in different places, but they all wear the same black and violet uniform. They are all Night Ravens, united under one banner: his.

“We’ll finish this in a single decisive blow,” Leona replies, snapping his goggles on. “I’ll take the disc and score us that final point. The rest of you, cover me.”

“You heard the boss,” the smallest player says. It’s Epel, tiny but feisty—a contrast to his big blue eyes and lilac waves of hair. “Don’t worry, Leona-senpai! I’ll fer sure keep’m offa yer tail!”

“That’s what I like to hear, kid.” He raises his head and calls, “Clear!”

And with that, the players peel off into their own positions. The other team, uniforms pristine white and hemmed in royal blue, are patiently waiting. Leona pulls up to the center of the field where the referee and the opposing team’s leader await.

When he looks, he falters.

It’s a face that is frighteningly similar to his own.

The same skin color, the same lion ears and tail, the same construction of the features—if not softer and more friendly. His mane is held up in a ponytail, bright red-orange that fades into a golden yellow. He’s younger than he should be, missing the slight creases under his warm brown eyes and the lines that flank his perpetually smiling mouth.

“Falena?”

An icy dread creeps up from his core. The world around him seems to slow and come to a complete stop.

But this can’t be. My brother is 10 years older than me. He’s no longer a student, he’s—

“Leona? Is something wrong?” Falena inquires with a cheeky grin. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to play against family.”

Annoyance flares up.

Brother or not, Leona detests that smile. The smile of a man that has robbed him of everything.

“Dream on,” he snarls back. “I’m overthrowing Royal Sword Academy and you."

The referee lets the disc drop and blows into his whistle. “BEGIN!!”

"Aaand it's started!!" the announcer declares.

His body instinctively kicks into action. He swipes the frisbee, keeping it afloat in a blaze of blood-red magic.

RSA swarm him, magical pens at the ready.

“Protect him…!” he hears Epel shout. “Protect the king!!”

His team charges, each of them trained on their target. NRC and RSA, reflecting the other, copying movements as they bound around on the field, seeking an opening or cutting it off.

Leona blows into enemy territory, furiously racing to the goal post.

"What's this?! It looks like Captain Kingscholar of the NRC team has already devised a plan to secure victory. They're closing off any aid the RSA team can offer to each other!"

The crowd revs up like an engine coming alive, a slumbering city waking. Blood thunders in his ears, louder than his audience.

"Oh no, you don't!"

"Oooh, and here comes the upset! It's Captain Kingscholar of the RSA team, come to interfere with the game plan!"

Leona swerves, and a stream of fire narrowly misses him. "Tsk!"

A flash of red and gold, and there's his brother at his side. "Sorry, Leona. It won't be that easy."

"Knock it off. I don't have time to play games with you!"

He dives, trying to shake Falena off--but he pursues, relentless in the chase. They thread each other in the sky, trading spells.

Explosions of heat and color. Shards of ice whizzing by, columns of water. Windy whips lashing at them. All-consuming light and darkness.

"This is amazing, folks! We are witnessing a brotherly quarrel the likes of which we've never seen before... Look at that dazzling display of flight technique and spellwork!"

Through it all, Falena' laughs.

So carefree, so cheerful. A knife twists in his chest, and the anger spikes again.

"That's enough...! I'm ending this," Leona snarls.

His magic collects in a single sphere. There is no body to it, no true shape--only a contained vortex of gales. They violently churn in an endless cycle, raising a storm in a jar.

He sends it hurtling at Falena, who moves to conjure a barrier--

Too late.

The ball expands, releasing its energy in one deep sigh. The audience is slammed back into their seats, the players blown to the ground or sent crashing into the bounds of the stadium. They're dazed, confused, scrambling to rebalance on their brooms.

The path, he sees, is clear.

Now...!

He lets out a monstrous roar and blitzes for the goal post. The disc sparkles, charging with power for the final blow as he gallops toward his prize.

The announcer hops back on, his voice frantic. "Could this be it?! Can Captain Kingscholar of the NRC team reclaim the throne from his brother?!"

Noise builds around him. RSA players calling out to each other, NRC players changing his name, the crowd cheering.

It's now or never.

Leona spikes the disc with all his might. It clears, the winning shot like a shooting star. Some golden object encapsulated in a blaze of fire.

The adrenaline in his blood sings with triumph. His tired muscles, his heavy breathing, the sweat upon his brow--badges of honor.

The sound intensifies, joined by whistles and shrieks. Feet stomping, hands clapping. People standing and hugging their neighbors. (Leona thinks he sees Crowley among them, sobbing uncontrollably.)

“This is incredible, ladies and gentlemen! You’ve just witnessed history being made today…! Night Raven College has snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, breaking Royal Sword Academy’s 99 year win streak!!"

Leona slowly returns to the ground, dismounting from his broom. He lands beside Falena, who is sprawled on his back and wearing the usual smile.

"Ahahah, looks like you beat me," he says casually.

"... Fool. Get up, you look ridiculous. The acting king of the Sunset Savanna shouldn't be rolling around in the dirt." Leona looks away, but awkwardly offers a hand.

Falena laughs and accepts it, hauling himself up. "That's a funny joke. When did you get a sense of humor?"

He scowled. "I didn't make one."

"Are you still half asleep? And you still beat me?" Falena punches him in the bicep. "That's my talented big bro."

"What... big bro?"

There it is again: something cold and sinister inside of him. The lingering feeling of wrongness.

Suddenly, the adrenaline in him turns toxic, and he feels as though his flesh and bones are burning. Leona seizes Falena by the shoulders and shakes him.

"What the hell is going on... Gaaah!"

A metallic screech fills the stadium. Pain blossoms in his ears, and Leona rushes to guard them, hands dropping away from Falena.

"Oops, sorry! Technical difficulties, folks!" the announcer apologizes. "It looks like even our equipment wants to cheer for Captain Kingscholar of the NRC team, the star player of today! Let's give him a round of applause!!"

They explode with excitement, Clapping and calling out louder than he can think.

"What a judicious young man!"

"He controls such powerful magic with ease...!"

He stands there, shocked, at the rain of adoration. Him, recognized? Respected, saluted, and seen as the wonder he is? Him?

His mind clouds.

What is this,,,?

"Leona-saaaan!!"

He turns, finding his teammates jogging over, Epel at the head. There are members of his own dorm with them--Ruggie, Jack.

"We gotcha now, Leona-san! Thought you could get away without getting your fur ruffled, huh?" Ruggie snickers, then gives Jack a thumbs-up. "Alright, fellas. You know what to do!"

"Hah, the hell is this? I didn't ask for a surprise after working my tail off."

"Sorry, Leona-senpai! Ruggie-senpai's orders!" Jack says very seriously. "This is the only way to give you a proper sendoff for carrying us to victory... You've earned it!"

"1, 2, 3...!"

"Wha...?!"

Leona is seized and hoisted into the air with a collective whoop of excitement. Tossed up, up, up. The stadium lights glaring, sound blasting.

He returns back to his peer's arms, and heaved up again. Down and up, down and up. Each pass makes him more nauseous, blinded and deafened by the dizzying joy.

"Long live the king! Long live the king!!" they chant.

The king... me? Leona fights against it, pushing as hard as he can.

But his body is tired, his mental capacities drained, his emotions worn. The situation, too sweet, too cloying.

I'm... the king... I won. This is my prize.

He closes his eyes and lets himself fall.

This time, for good.

When he opens them again, he swears he sees a dark figure flying high above the stadium. Not on a broom, but floating of his own accord. A pair of horns protrudes him his head, and he glimpses a pair of ghostly white hands clapping.

One additional spectator with glowing green eyes.

"Congratulations, Kingscholar."

[rbvcdeluxe]

Hi im here to tell you why this part of Workin Boys is absolutely fucking amazing

Showstopper, in definition, is an act with a prolonged applause and impressive reaction from the audience enough to interrupt a performance. I really love how they used Show Stopping Number for this scene and it’s the most fitting shit ever. Before being shot, Hidgens was doing the iconic Workin Boys title number, which was also done in Show Stopping Number. And then the moment itself is a showstopper, there's screaming, horror and desperation coming from the audience and even claps coming from (drunk) Linda, a standing ovation.

It's also exactly how it's shown in TGWDLM. When Henry finishes the Workin' Boys bit (before the infected came) he goes directly back to the actual song. “I can't wait to get home to my boys! / A show stopping number / a real show stopper”

And oh god I wish I could explain it deeper but I don't have the words for it. I would also like to mention im so not normal about this, i lov workin boys sm

[alzirrx]

So apparently I’m the only person that actually liked the Tyler/Wednesday dynamic, despite a couple things, so I’m about to make an entirely uncalled for essay defending them because I became very emotionally attached in the one night I spent watching this show

To start, I liked how awkward Tyler’s character was right off the bat, because I feel like you don’t see that kind of character type as love interests in much media. A lot of the time it’s overshadowed for the Golden Retriever or Angsty Brooding Type™, and it was really refreshing seeing a different archetype as a love interest. The way him and Wednesday coupled together was always kind of awkward and uncertain, but it felt kinda more real that way considering that’s how a lot of high school romances start out. I really loved the idea of a kind of “baby hold my flower” dynamic between the two, crazy obsessive outcast gf/laid-back supportive normie bf who makes posters to cheer her on during her rampages

On the flip side, once the reveal happened there was so much potential. I wanted his redemption so bad. I wanted him to go back to how he was, while also letting loose more on his more angry feral side while also getting a scene where he got to be redeemed. I was waiting for him to turn to their side any minute, with a speech afterwards about how yes his actions were bad, and while they weren’t his choice persay he just might have enjoyed them, but that doesn’t mean he never liked her! That was all him! Because in all honesty I liked his sweet and caring side contrasted with her cold unfeeling demeanor, although I do see many arguments being made in favor of the serial killer/serial killer stopper dynamic which could be explored

And in terms of canon: the date was adorable, well thought out and showed he actually knew her (like how a scary movie wouldn’t actually scare her: a chick flick would), the way he liked her dancing at the Rave’N, how he always brought her quads, the birthday cake + coffee, all the little sweet gestures of his

(I know that’s only the things he did- but this post is more about him than Wednesday)

I’m fairness, the “I thought you were sending signals” bit felt a little out of left field since she acted the same the whole time, but I’ve learned from experience that if you like someone and you hope they like you back, you can basically turn anything they do at all into a signal

All I’m saying is, ship what you want, but I feel that they worked a lot better than some people give them credit for, and if he hadn’t have been the Hyde they would’ve been really good together, and they still could be

TL;DR, Wednesday x Tyler worked and would also have worked better under different circumstances

[king-of-all-platypus]

I got a cookie box for my birthday and it's the best cookie box ever created. It was handmade by my sister decorated with the full Dragon Age inquisition (yes they are...all...here. No one missing I swear!) It even had some dragon age cookies decorated with dragon age icing ;____; I love it so much.

And talking of icing,, the real show stopper is the big Solavellan painting on top, featuring Celwyn, my lovely Inquisitor.

Best Gift ever.

[lunarbuck]

Fever Pitch

pairing: steve rogersxf!reader (any race)

wc: 4.6k

summary: After an accident at a hydra base, you and Steve have to come to terms with your dire situation or face the consequences.

warnings: sex pollen, smut, oral (f receiving), swearing, stressful situation, friends to lovers

a/n: Hello! This is my (late) entry for week 3 of @the-slumberparty :) And the one I got from the generator was sex pollen!! I have never written something like this before so I hope you guys like it lol

my masterlist

The bunker is quiet as you examine the lab set-up. All the vials, chemicals, and files are labeled in Russian, so you snap some photos and send them to Bucky for translation. Somewhere in the distance, you hear gunfire, but you know Steve can handle his own. If he needs you, he’ll signal. The bunker is underground below the Hydra base you and Cap have been searching. You left the hatch open just in case you needed to get out quick. You don’t like being stuck.

“You there?” Bucky’s voice crackles through the comm in your ear. 

“Yup. What am I lookin’ at, Barnes?” You flip through a few pages of a file, looking for literally anything in English.

“So this lab appears to be where they were developing different chemical weapons,” he explains, translating the labels and descriptions you’d sent him. As Bucky speaks, you find your attention being pulled to the far end of the lab desk. Beneath a pile of newspapers is a little glass vial filled with gray powder. 

As you run the tube between your fingers, the powder seems to follow the heat of your skin, shimmering and practically moving. 

Bucky’s voice continues to drone on and on in your ear, but you��re not listening. The sound of gunfire in the hallway above the lab sounds muted and far off. You can’t take your eyes off the glass vial in your fingers.

Something loud crashes behind you, and a second later, you’re on the ground. The vial slips from your fingers, but you don’t have time to wonder what the gray powder inside is. You don’t have time to think about the consequences of dropping it. 

“Holy shit,” you grunt, trying to maneuver your hand to your gun holstered at your side. The thing that pushed you to the ground turns out to be Steve. His large body presses you into the concrete as an explosion sounds overhead. He covers you from any debris that falls through the entrance of the bunker.

Your heart pounds, but you smile at the way Steve looks down at you, blue eyes focused and intense.

“Language,” he replies, quirking an eyebrow at you. Steve’s teasing side is one that doesn’t come out often, but you love when it does. He’s always such a golden boy, perfect in every way, but when he’s giving other people a hard time, he feels so much more… real. It’s the real Steve coming out, not the version of him SHIELD wants. 

“Sorry, Cap,” you say as you laugh. Once he deems it safe, Steve shifts off of you, then helps you to stand. Bucky asks for confirmation that the two of you are okay, and once you get the all-clear, you show Steve the little lab table. With the information Bucky gave you, you have a better understanding of what Hydra was working on when this base was active. As you’re showing him the chemicals, you find yourself looking for the little glass vial again.

Frowning, you check the floor around you, only to find debris and dust everywhere. There’s glass shattered beneath your boots, and when you crouch down, you find the little cork stopper. Your footprints tracked the shimmering powder across the concrete. 

You stand, strangely upset about the loss of the vial. “There was this powder,” you explain, looking for more in the lab. “It was gray, and when it got close to the heat of my fingers, it was… attracted to it. It moved in the vial.” Steve crouches down and tries to examine the powder, running his fingers through it to investigate.

When you turn your attention back to the Captain, you find him on his knees, gazing up at you. Looking down at Steve is something you haven’t experienced before. The way his bright eyes shine in the dull light, the way his lips part, have your head spinning. Down on his knees in front of you, Steve looks softer. All those hard angles and sharp features look so much sweeter.

“Do you know what it was?” He asks, tilting his head. 

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. Something flashes in Steve’s eyes, but it’s gone a moment later. He stands, returning to his normal towering height, and you tilt your head to keep eye contact.

Steve sucks in a breath, his large chest expanding in his tactical gear. “We should get going.”

Even though you know you need to leave, you can’t help but feel conflicted. Steve must sense your apprehension because he steps behind you and guides you to the ladder. His hands hold your waist while you climb up the rungs, and the heat of his skin on yours sends fire licking through your veins. 

As Steve guides you through the base, you feel your body temperature rising. He isn’t touching you anymore, but he’s just inches away. You’re itching for the contact, for his hands to be back on you.

“Got an update?” Bucky asks, probably antsy to hear about what you’ve found. The only reason you and Steve made the trek to the base was to learn more about the Winter Soldier program. 

When Steve notices that you’re not going to respond, he updates Bucky for you. “We’re good, heading out of the base now. We’ll be back at the safehouse in about an hour. I’ll give you another update then.” 

Even though you’re keeping up with Steve, even though you’re doing your best to act normal, he’s still giving you sideways glances. It’s like he can tell you feel feverish, that something has changed. You can’t stop staring at him. His muscles, the way he clenches his jaw. 

Your thoughts swim with images of Steve during training, Steve pulling his tactical gear on before a mission, Steve toweling off after a run.

It’s not like you’ve never thought about Steve that way… you’d be lying if you said it’s never crossed your mind. After working with Steve for the past few years, it’s practically been inevitable that you’d develop feelings for Mr. America. 

But it’s never been this intense, this… desperate. It’s like your feelings have been amped up to 1,000. Every breath smells of him; everywhere you look, you see his face.

You finally make it outside and practically sprint to the car hidden in the woods near the base. Steve runs after you, catching up in an instant due to his super-soldier speed, but he doesn’t ask you what’s wrong. 

By the time you’re back at the safehouse, you feel like you’re dying. Your blood is hot, coursing through your veins and pulsating between your thighs. The entire ride, you tried your best not to rub your legs together to alleviate the feeling, but you’re not sure you did a very good job.

Steve does a sweep of the safehouse, leaving you in the car. The second he shuts the door, you let out a long, low moan. The air in the car smells overwhelmingly of Steve’s cologne, woodsy but sweet. It invades your nostrils, fills your lungs, and nearly sends you over the edge.

Your fingers fly to the zipper on the back of your suit, tugging it down and pulling your arms from the sleeves. It’s not quite spring, there’s still snow on the ground, but you welcome the chill of the air on your heated skin.

By the time you have your suit around your waist, Steve gives you the signal that the safehouse is clear. You clamber out of the car and into the house, not bothering to shut the door behind you. 

“Are you okay?” Steve asks as you shove your suit down your legs and kick it away from you. In your shorts and athletic t-shirt, you feel only a shred of relief from the heat. The material of your clothes is thin, made to help you regulate your temperature, but it’s not helping. Not nearly enough.

“I think I have a fever or something,” you groan, finding your way into the kitchen. The safehouse is a simple one-story home in a farming town near the base, and it’s stocked with everything you and Steve could need if you were stuck here for a prolonged period of time. 

You dig through the cabinets looking for fever medication and pop a few of them, chugging a glass of water. You lean against the counter, dropping your head as you take deep breaths. Your heart feels like it’s about to burst through your chest with how fast it’s beating.

Steve’s feet appear in your vision, and you drag your eyes up his figure. He’s still in his tactical suit. It’s fitted perfectly to him, sculpted to his muscular mountain of a body. When you finally reach his eyes, concern is written all across his face. He steps closer and places a hand on your forehead.

“You’re burning up,” he whispers, letting his hand cup your jaw. You lean into his palm, loving the way his calloused skin feels against your cheek. Just having him this close, having him touch you, brings you so much relief. But it’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough. 

You bite back a moan as his fingers brush down your jaw to your neck, feeling your pulse. “How have you not passed out yet?” he asks, furrowing his brow. “I need to call this in.” You whine at the loss of his touch when he pulls away. He comes back a moment later and holds his phone out, pressing the speaker button.

“Did you touch anything in that lab?” Bucky asks, voice tense. It’s a struggle to formulate the words. With Steve so close but not touching you, your brain feels like it’s scrambled.

“No, don’t think so,” you reply, clenching your hands into fists. Your fingernails dig crescent moons into your palms.

“Well, think harder. I need to know.” Steve watches you carefully, but you can tell he’s running through his memories in search of an answer.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you whimper, a new wave of heat rushing to your belly. Steve steps closer again and places a hand on your arm. Goosebumps jump up on your skin. “Fuck,” you whisper.

You can tell it takes effort for Steve not to chide you about your language, but in the end, his concern for you wins out. “What about that vial?” he asks, thumb brushing up and down your arm.

“What vial is he talking about?” Bucky practically shouts. 

“It was this tiny glass vial with gray powder in it,” you explain, voice tight. “I didn’t open it, but I dropped it, and it broke open.” You hear Bucky typing and a moment later, cursing under his breath. 

“I’m gonna send you a picture. Tell me if this is what you saw.” Steve’s phone pings, and he shows you the photo. The gray powder looks identical to what you saw in the vial.

“Yeah, this looks the same.”

“Did it react to your touch? To heat?” Steve’s fingers curl around your arm, giving it a comforting squeeze, but all it does is make you throb all over. You want his fingers somewhere else, squeezing something else.

“Yes.” 

“Shit. Sorry, I know, language, but shit.” Steve squeezes your arm harder.

“What’s wrong, Buck?” He asks, starting to pull the phone away from you. 

“This stuff is bad, Steve,” Bucky says, worry seeping into his words. “If you two were in there together, you’re going to start feeling it soon too. It’s probably only delayed because the serum is fighting it off as best it can.”

“Feeling what?” Steve asks, eyes flicking between you and the phone.

Bucky pauses, probably finding a delicate way to break the news to Steve. If you didn’t feel like your heart was about to explode from your chest, you’d probably find it funny. “Aroused,” Bucky ends up saying. “So aroused that you feel like the only way you’ll survive is to… get it out of your system.”

Steve nearly drops the phone. He stares at you and releases your arm, taking a step back. You ache to feel his skin on yours again. Without it, you can barely stay standing. You sink to the floor, crouching low. The seam of your shorts digs into your panties, providing only a sliver of relief.

“Get it out of my system,” Steve states in disbelief. His voice is low and gruff, and it sends a pang of need through you. You fist the fabric of your shorts. Images of Steve’s hands gliding into the waistband, pressing down just where you need him, flood your mind. 

You can practically feel his calloused fingers dipping into your panties, rubbing circles into your clit while he kisses your neck, covering you in marks. It takes everything in you not to reach down and just do it yourself.

“And what if we don’t,” Steve asks, running his hand through his hair. “Get it out of our systems, I mean.”

Bucky takes a long moment before responding. “You’ll be in too much pain,” he says. “Steve, you might survive, but I’m not so sure about–” Steve abruptly cuts off Bucky, but you already heard.

“Fuck or die,” you whisper to yourself. You laugh at the thought, scaring Steve. He watches you with wide eyes as you giggle to yourself.

Your heart is tight in your chest, constricting so much that you’re surprised it’s still beating. The feeling that’s settled in your belly, the one that makes every brush of your panties against your clit feel torturous, can only be described as need. But it’s so much more than that… how does Steve not feel it? 

Steve keeps talking to Bucky, but you don’t hear any of it. Your blood is rushing in your ears, and the only thing you can think about is the way Steve’s gear is beginning to strain around his dick. Your mouth waters, more like floods, and you know that if you don’t get away from him this second, you’ll pounce.

Even though it feels like you’re going to die as you do it, you push yourself up and bolt out of the room. You stumble into a bedroom blindly, throwing the door closed behind you before you toss yourself onto the bed. The sheets are cool against your burning skin, and you waste no time tugging your shorts off and pulling your shirt up over your head.

Your clothes stick to you, but you manage to rid yourself of every scrap, leaving you naked and heaving on the bed. In an instant, your fingers are between your thighs. You’ve never been this wet before, never wanted to come so badly before. It’s pornographic, the way you’re touching yourself, but you can’t hold back.

For a second, you worry you’re being too loud, but the thought is washed away by your impending orgasm. It’s so close you can practically taste it, but as you begin to crest over the edge, it fades. Instead of satisfying you, all the orgasm accomplished was making you feel somehow worse. 

You don’t even startle when you hear a knock on the door. “Are you okay?” Steve asks. You know he’s blushing; you don’t need to see him. He’s always so shy about this stuff. You don’t even know if he’s dated before. He’s a closed book.

“No,” you whimper, circling your clit with your middle finger. Normally, you’d be too sensitive after coming, but it’s like it never happened. You could easily go again, and again, and again…

“Are– are– are you decent?” You groan out a laugh. It’s adorable. 

“No.” Your orgasm builds again, and this time you use your other hand to press two fingers inside of yourself. You can’t reach the spot you need to hit, but the fullness is nice. It’s still not enough. The second you fall over the edge, the pleasure is gone. No relief, just endless, relentless want.

“I’m gonna come in,” Steve tells you. For a moment you consider pulling the sheets over yourself, but the thought of being trapped under the stifling sheets makes you cry out. 

The door opens, the light of the hallway flooding in, and you take in the sight of Steve. His suit is unzipped down to his waist, revealing his white shirt that is plastered to his chest. It shows off every muscle, the dip of his waist. He looks disheveled. His face is flushed, but it’s different than when he comes back from a tough workout. He looks like a predator.

The way his eyes roam over you is full of heat and danger.

“Steve,” you whimper. He’s beside the bed a second later, chest heaving as he takes you in. “Please, Steve, it’s not working,��� you babble, clutching the sheets beside you. “Nothing’s helping!”

“Bucky says you could die,” he whispers, clenching his fists. He battles with something internally, though you’re not sure what. “This isn’t the way I wanted it to happen.” You don’t have time to think about it because he’s kissing you. He holds your face in his hands and kisses you lifeless, breathless. The feeling of his lips on yours is like a salve, soothing some of your achings.

He pulls away only to push his suit down the rest of the way, revealing his tented shorts. He’s back on you in a second, and your fingers find the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over him. You know Steve always runs a little warm due to the serum, but he’s burning up just like you. The feeling of his skin pressed against yours is heaven, but you still need more.

“Oh my god, Steve,” you murmur as he kisses your neck. He’s being gentle, too fucking gentle considering the circumstances. “I need more, please. I need more.” Steve nods into your neck and moves his hands to your breasts.

His large hands cup you perfectly, palming you. His fingers find your nipples, and he toys with them, playing you like a fiddle as you writhe beneath him. Your hips grind against his dick, and he groans into you. It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him but one you’ve craved long before tonight.

“You’re killing me,” he moans, driving his hips against yours. You run your fingers down his back, scratching into those beautiful muscles, and pull him closer. 

“I need you, Steve.” Your voice comes out a whine, but Steve knows you’re in pain. He knows how much this is hurting both of you. He kisses you again before ridding himself of his shorts and briefs. 

Steve Rogers is built like a god. Like a mountain. In all his naked glory before you, he is a thing of beauty. For a moment, the noise in your head fades, and the severity of this moment comes into focus.

How long have you pined after Steve? How long have you wanted to tell him what you feel about him? 

This isn’t how I wanted it to happen.

It’s not how you want it to happen either, but maybe after all of this is over, you can fix things.

“I don’t feel like I can control myself right now,” Steve tells you, bringing you back to the situation at hand. His fist is wrapped around his cock, and he pumps it slowly, though you can tell it takes effort. 

“I feel the same way,” you say, attempting to comfort him. His brows are knit together with focus, but he nods. 

“Do you know if there are condoms anywhere?” he asks, somehow blushing harder. You shake your head, so Steve digs through the bedside table, then the cabinet in the bathroom, but comes up with nothing.

“I get the shot, and I’m clean,” you tell him, voice tight. Pain radiates through your body, making your toes curl.

“I’m clean.” As the words pass his lips, he climbs onto the bed. He settles between your legs, sitting back on his heels as he drinks in the sight of you. Your eyes devour him right back, eating up his muscular body, following the trail of his abs to his dick. He’s big, bigger than anything you’ve ever taken before, and you shudder at the thought of how he’ll stretch you. 

Your fingers grip the bed sheets, and you twitch just thinking about his dick. It sets something off in Steve; it’s like a switch flipped. He ducks his head down and takes your nipple into his mouth, one of his hands drifting down your body. His calloused skin scrapes against you, and you writhe beneath him. His fingers reach your clit, and he toys with it, tight quick circles that work you up, while his teeth graze your nipple. He nips at the skin around your breast, soothing each mark with his tongue, and the want that’s coiled in your belly seems to wind tighter.

He sinks lower, tongue tasting your skin as he descends until your legs rest on his shoulders and his lips are hovering over you. His breath is hot on your sensitive skin, and you do your best not to buck your hips.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he practically whispers before dipping down and dragging his tongue through your arousal. You burn at his words, grinding against his face. You’re past the point of being shy or embarrassed. He knows what you want. What you need.

“Steve,” you moan. The sound of his name on your lips sounds downright pornographic, and it spurs him on. He brings you right to the edge and grazes his teeth over your clit, sending you right over. This time, when you come, it feels so much better than when you’d been doing it to yourself. It only provides you a second of relief before the need returns.

Steve holds your legs apart, and his tongue darts out, licking his lower lip. You pant as you watch him sit up. He strokes his cock a few times before running the tip along your pussy. He collects your arousal, knocking your clit with his dick.

You can tell he feels conflicted. You don’t want him to regret this, to feel bad. “Stevie,” you whisper, pushing yourself up. Your body screams at you not to waste time, but this is more important. “Can I tell you something?” 

He nods, searching your eyes.

“I know it might sound stupid, but I’ve had a crush on you for forever,” you admit, trying not to drop his gaze. His lips part as he sucks in a breath. “I didn’t know how to tell you, and I didn’t want to live with you rejecting me.”

He shakes his head, “I wouldn’t have rejected you,” he whispers. “I’ve had feelings for you for a long time.” You grin at his words and lean forward, pressing a kiss to his abdomen.

“This isn’t how I wanted any of this to happen,” you say, echoing his earlier statement. “But I know you’ll take care of me. You’ll keep me safe. I wouldn’t want anyone else here with me.” Steve’s expression softens, and he leans down to kiss the top of your head.

“That’s right,” he says, guiding you to lie back down. “I’m gonna take real good care of you.” His words take on a possessive growl as he lines himself up with your pussy. He raises his eyebrows at you, silently asking if you’re ready.

“Please, Steve, please,” you beg. He pushes into you in one brutal thrust, stretching you around his length. You let out a guttural moan, and he starts moving. 

“Shit,” he grunts through gritted teeth. “You’re so tight, baby.” 

“Language,” you moan, earning you a slap to your inner thigh. Steve’s pace is punishing, his thrusts deep, and you feel him everywhere. His hands grip your hips, your breasts, your legs, anywhere he can get his hands on.

His focus is entirely on you, on bringing you right up to your peak. You’re so sensitive that it doesn’t take much to send you over the edge. Steve moans when you come and repositions you so your face is in the mattress and your ass is in the air.

When he pushes into you again, you feel him even deeper this time. The slam of his hips against your ass, his fingers digging into your hips, it’s almost too much. You crest again, chanting Steve’s name into the sheets. 

It feels like it lasts forever, but you can’t get enough. Steve whispers words of encouragement to you, but they’re laced with a filth you hadn’t expected from him.

Doing so good for me, baby. Squeezing me so tight. You look so perfect taking my dick.

It’s only after you’ve come down from your 6th orgasm, does your fever start to break. Steve has only come twice (only! You have no idea how he’s been able to keep going… must be the serum), but you can tell he’s getting worn out.

At some point, he’d pulled you to the edge of the bed so he could stand between your legs. Your ankles are hooked around his neck now, and you’re a puddle in his hands.

His fingers come up to touch your face, and he smiles. “Your fever is gone,” he tells you, slowly thrusting inside of you. “How do you feel?” You’re not sure you’ll even be able to speak, but you try anyways.

“So good,” you whisper. “So good, Stevie.” He leans down, bending you in half, and kisses you softly. He tugs your lower lip between his teeth before pulling back a bit. 

“Perfect.” He stays where he is with you bent in half and picks up his pace. Still, you can tell he’s already close to finishing again. He comes on a low groan that resonates through your whole body. You tilt your head up to kiss him again, and finally, that panicky need fades.

Steve pulls out of you gently, and you drop your head onto the mattress. Your body tingles all over, and you feel like you’re about to float away until you feel his tongue teasing your clit. 

“Stevie,” you whimper while you try and fail to wiggle away. 

“Please,” he whispers against your pussy. “You can give me another one, can’t you, baby? For me, please?” He licks your sensitive flesh with each word, begging you for just one more. And even though you’re sensitive, you don’t want to say no. 

Your fingers release the sheets and trail down to Steve’s head, where you tangle them in his hair. He understands what you’re asking. His tongue dips lower, licking up where his cum is leaking out of you and he pushes it back inside. He tastes every inch of you, soothing the soreness that is slowly starting to creep in. Your fingers tug his hair, guiding him to where you need him most, and he lets you.

The noises Steve makes as he eats you out are what put you over the edge one final time, and he laps it up eagerly. He presses kisses to the insides of your thighs before standing. You’re barely conscious as he carries you into the other bedroom and cleans you up.

As you’re beginning to fall asleep and he’s tucking you in, you hear his whispered words. “I’ll always be here to keep you safe. I’ll always take care of you.” Steve climbs into the bed and pulls you to his chest. He kisses your forehead, and you succumb to the warmth of sleep.

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[epiclamer]

HIGH IN THE MOUNTAINS, DEEP IN THE SPRUCE, ON THE SHORE OF THE LAKE, IT’S CAMP LITTLE MOOSE!!!!

High and Mighty

The villain had been debating entering the hero’s cell for what? Ten? Maybe fifteen minutes now? Graceful footing, yet awkward stance as they hesitated in front of the iron door.

It seemed like a terrible idea for the most part. But on the other hand, they owed the hero a visit.

When villain had been imprisoned, Hero had visited them more than once. Engaging in daily conversations and making sure they only received the best of treatments from the guards and other guests.

Yet after eight months of Hero’s capture, Villain couldn’t afford to visit even once?

They hated the feeling of owing a hero, but they hated the guilt of not showing up even more.

Villain braced themselves, placing a hand on the large metal handle. Whatever state the hero was in on the other side was not going to be pretty, eight months locked in an abandoned warehouse at whomever’s mercy was guaranteed to be a nightmare.

Even Villain felt sick when they saw the message shared throughout the villains community. Free use, Hero; tied up in a room full of tools, address is 2509 Pine Street, warehouse on the left, do what you please.

No note of who had caught them nor a tally of who had used them. Villain, honestly, did not want to know.

With one deep breath, trying their best to prepare themselves, and one steady push of the door, they were in.

The first thing to reach them was the smell, metallic and bitter. Bile rising to their mouth before they could see a thing.

Once their eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting, they noticed the stain on the floor. Maroon and sticky, not dried. Then the tools, shelves upon shelves of tools, ranging from dusty and never used all the way to dripping of fresh blood.

Villain wanted to swallow, but they couldn’t. Everything just got worse the longer their eyes stayed open.

“Hero…?” Their voice was tentative, like they weren’t even sure whether or not the person in front of them was who they thought. In the light, they definitely didn't look like their Hero.

The other didn't respond, lifting their face up slightly to catch a glimpse of the newest intruder, of their new torturer. But when their eyes landed on the villain--despite their multiple beatings--they couldn't wipe the grin off their face.

"F-Finally... took y-you a while, h-huh?"

Out of everything the villain had thought the hero might say, this was nowhere near their list. And the comedic aspect that they still managed to bring to the table only confused the villain further.

"What?"

Hero smiled even brighter, leaning their head back. "T-took you a while... 've b-been waiting~"

Villain didn’t trust their voice enough to respond. They were afraid it might crack or they might breakdown completely if so much as a sound escaped their lips. Guilt bubbled up inside them and seeped through their muscles into their bones, into their brain.

It hurt to see the hero like this. They couldn’t help but recoil even if just slightly at the sight. They had done this. They had allowed this to happen. And the hero had been waiting for them all along.

Unawarely, the villain’s eyes avoided the hero, it felt like the longer they stared, the more real it became. By a pure accidental movement, their eyes landed back on the many tools surrounding them. Hero flinched when they saw where the other’s attention had gone, but steeled themselves back over when the villain noticed.

“R-Ready?” Hero waggled their eyebrows jokingly, blood had crusted over them which took any and all lightheartedness from it.

“For what…” As soon as the villain had asked they regretted it. They didn’t want an answer. It was just out of habit to question.

The crime-stopper looked even more exhausted at this point. Having to explain to villain everything while trying to keep the mood light killed what little energy they had left.

Villain noticed for the first time just how small they looked, not all heroic anymore. Dragged by the hair off their pedestal to be ravaged by violent villains from all over.

“Kill me, Villain.” Their eyes began to water as their bottom lip shook. “Please, I-I can’t take this a-anymore—”

Hero kept talking, kept rambling through their emotions. Letting everything slip. Their steeled expression, cocky tone, hidden tears, everything.

Finally letting everything go.

The villain on the other hand, did not have the same idea in mind. “No.”

The mindless rambling stopped. Shutting Hero up so quickly that every word jumbled on their tongue. They looked shocked, but mostly betrayed. They had waited eight months for the villain, knowing they were the only one who would be willing to end their suffering.

And they had said no.

“I won’t kill you.” I can’t. “I’ll do you one better, I’ll kill whoever put you in here.” The villain stuttered, trying to get their thoughts in order. “You don’t deserve to be here.”

Villain took a step forwards, the way Hero flinched only fuelled their anger; their hunger to avenge. “Who.”

“Please, Villain…”

“Was it Supervillain? Superhero? It has to be one of the supers, you’re impossible to catch otherwise.” The criminal scoffed, discussing their thoughts out loud in hopes of the hero’s aid. Meanwhile, their hands got busy with untying the chain that restrained the other. Fiddling with the massive padlock at the end, they searched for something to pick it with.

Hero let their head fall, avoiding the villain at all costs despite having begged for their attention just before. Despite having waited for months for their arrival. Now they couldn’t face their own shame.

They didn’t even notice when their bonds fell to the floor, releasing them after so long. Only coming to when Villain’s hand gently took their chin and tilted their head up. “Who brought you here, Hero?”

Every muscle in their frail body tensed, tensed with shame and failure. The name felt like a bullet to the heart, “Sidekick.”

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Younger Gods: III

Younger Gods Master List Dream x fem!reader

Chapter 2

Dangerous magic and old friends lay the foundation of a fate foretold, and Morpheus spends too much time in the library.

Warnings: language, briefly referenced suicidal ideation, self-neglect/harm, extreme sleep deprivation, Dream is still his own damn warning

A/N: First - THANK YOU ALL. Seriously. You're amazing, I love you, and I'm working on catching up on comments. Now for the bad news. Ya'll broke chapter 2. Like, literally. I went to edit the tags list and Tumblr said nope. Imagine a small, family car with dozens of people stacked inside and hanging off the roof. It just won't go. The chapter also didn't show up in the story tags, at least whenever I checked. So...

*The taglist is officially discontinued*

I am making that up with something special, though, so make sure to read the A/N at the end!

Chapter 3: Darker Fates

“Gracious, darling, you look dreadful.”

She collapsed into the rickety café chair. Across the laminate table sat her oldest friend. Her one friend. And she immediately wondered how much to tell him. Only two days stood between her and her involuntary trip down memory lane, between her and the Sandman. She’d seen dark birds from the corner of her eye once or twice, but they always turned out to be crows and magpies. That didn’t mean Matthew wasn’t following her, of course.

She hadn’t escaped the consequences of her actions yet, and she didn’t want to drag one of the precious few people she cared about into the muck.

“What happened to your courtly manners?”

“What happened to your face?” He shuddered delicately, burying the real concern she caught in his sharp grey eyes with dramatics. Signaling the waitress behind the counter, he added, “We’ll need another pot of tea, please.”

The woman blushed and hurried off to fill the order. Doubtless, he’d been flirting while he waited. Damn silver fox. Although he was over one thousand years old, he wore it well. His greying curls and tidy beard looked playful rather than unkempt.

“Do you have what I need?”

He nodded. “Tea’s on it’s way.”

“Not the damn tea, Taliesin.”

The twice-born bard sucked on his teeth, glancing from the front windows to the back counter. Only spilled coffee stains and a sticky smear of jam occupied the other tables. He acted like this kind of deal might draw attention, and he had good reason to think twice about handling magical items in public, but no one cared what two people meeting up at two in the afternoon in a cheap café shared over a cup of tea.

He slipped his hand into his coat pocket and retrieved a small, stoppered bottle. The liquid inside moved like tar, oozing up the side of the glass as Taliesin angled it in the light. Even caution couldn’t banish his instincts as a showman.

“Understand.” He looked her in the eye, his scintillating smile packed away for a stone glower. “This is a cruelty, not a blessing. Now, I won’t ask why you need it. I wouldn’t insult you like that. But it’s my responsibility to tell you this is a bad idea.”

She could think of worse.

Before she could explain herself, the waitress pranced over with the tea. She set the pot between them and provided a fresh cup and saucer. Taliesin grinned, winked, and sent her on her way again with a word of thanks.

“One day your philandering will get you into trouble, old man.”

He sniffed and poured the tea, adding the slightest splash of milk, just the way she liked it. “I never begin something from which I cannot safely extricate myself. And, besides, a little teasing will make her day.”

He slid the cup across the table, and she wrapped her hands around the porcelain to drink in the heat through her chilly palms. She couldn’t seem to stay warm these past few weeks. Anyway, tea wasn’t what she’d come to drink.

“Will it keep me awake forever?”

“Nothing is forever. Nothing you can taste, touch, or smell.” He sounded both chiding and nostalgic. “But this will last seven years and seven days.”

“Good enough. What do you want in exchange?”

Tutting, he tucked the potion back in his jacket, and she sagged in her seat. “Tea first. I have grand and patronizing cautions to give.”

She lifted the cup, maintaining eye contact as she took the biggest, loudest slurp she could manage. It tasted nice, and its warmth felt even better in her stomach and throat than it had on her skin. Why did the bastard have to be right about everything?

The twinkle in his eye suggested he knew what station the train of her thoughts had left, and he slurped from his own cup in merry retaliation.

“First,” he licked a drip from his mustache, “and foremost: this is vile magic. It doesn’t gift wakefulness – it steals rest. The fae designed it with little prisoners like you in mind, to be taken in spaces where time melts and enchanted food will cheat the body’s need for sleep. Since – I dare presume – you do not have those safeguards, this could kill you.”

He left the words to sink in, trying to scare her off the purchase. When she reached out to see if he knew someone willing to make this potion, he’d leapt at the opportunity himself. It was his way of protecting her, and it gave him a chance to interfere with what he clearly saw as self-harm.

Since she wasn’t sure she could survive another nightmare like the one Dream hauled her through, she’d take her chances with death by her own hand.

“Consider me warned, but it doesn’t change anything.”

Taliesin bowed his head over his teacup, groaning. Any fantasies that he could talk her off her current path finally cracked. “You really are stubborn, rain cloud.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Oh, no. That you found all your own.” His smile grew back, wan but alive. His hand settled on the table, palm up, and she abandoned her tea to settle her hand over his.

“Just promise,” he said with a gentle squeeze, “that if you feel anything going off, if you even suspect something’s wrong, you’ll call your old friend Taliesin. Okay?”

She squeezed back, trying to smile for him, but she was too tired to make the expression stick. “Okay.”

Nodding to himself, he echoed the agreement again, “Okay,” and reached into his pocket. He slipped the bottle between their joined hands, and she pulled away to put it in her sweater.

“What do you want in return?”

“Well!” He smacked the table with both hands, grinning in a way that promised trouble. “I thought long and hard about it, but rather than jewels, or secrets, or power, I think what I would most like from a lovely young storm god is…” He paused, glancing meaningfully out the window at the dreary, grey-yellow afternoon. “A walk in the rain with my favorite little cloud.”

He sounded so damn happy about it he infected her with the feeling. It was nice to be needed. Wanted. Even if she’d just lied to his face.

A friendly rain gathered and fell as Taliesin got up to pay the bill. He left the waitress looking pleased with herself – and probably a generous tip. Then he came to meet his rain cloud at the door. An umbrella appeared from some hidden pocket and he grinned, holding out his elbow for her to link arms with him.

“I always come prepared,” he bragged as they stepped out into the shower.

“You say that like you don’t live in Wales.”

“I never said you were the only thing I came prepared for.”

----------------------------------------------

Given the mother’s name to track, Lucienne did eventually find the record of the little storm god’s dreams, but they were useless to Morpheus. He studied the handful of pages warped by the curse she wore around her neck with mounting frustration. Apart from reports of which nightmares feasted on her pain during her brief, forced rests, they gave him nothing.

Her mother’s dreams proved more illuminating. They, at least, gave him a line of inquiry to follow.

The woman dreamed about her child from the moment it was born, from the minute the father tore her away to trade. The mother wandered endless rooms, following a crying child’s voice while she slept. She dreamed of little coffins and wailing infants she couldn’t find in nurseries dripping with gore.

Arcane shapes and dead languages shadowed her sleeping hours as she learned magic. In the waking world, she became a capable witch. There, as in the Dreaming, every hope and wish bent to finding her baby.

She never gave up her pursuit.

But in the end, it was the daughter who found the mother.

Her favorite dream grew out of a memory. A rainy afternoon, a crack of lightning, and a knock on the door. A painfully thin teenager stood on the steps, dripping in a thunderstorm, looking up with wondering eyes. If Morpheus had any doubts as to the girl’s identity, the scars around her neck put them to rest. She still had blood in her hair, rusty smudges caught in the grooves of old scars, fresh hurts and healed wounds calling to the mother’s instinct to protect and care for.

Although she had plenty of nightmares about losing her daughter again – finding her bed empty, losing her in a crowd – the nature of her somnolescent musings shifted. Softened.

And a familiar face came to call. The Welsh bard, Taliesin, whom the demi-god child kept safe at the cost of her hands, brought little gifts to the old woman and her young daughter. His winks brought warm flushes to the mother’s dreams, and she rested easier at night knowing that her little girl would not be entirely alone in the end.

She had sacrificed ten years of her life to a fairy bargain that won her nothing but a hand-sized portrait of her baby girl during her long search. By the time the child returned, her mother had grown old. They only had twelve years together before the lost child lost her mother.

The woman died. The record ended. But Dream knew where to look next.

Abandoning his throne for the library, he wrestled against a growing sense that he was running out of time. Time for what? Time for whom?

He was still Dream of the Endless. He still had a realm and billions of dreamers to manage. The puzzle of the storm god who brought home his raven lingered like a toothache, but he could not abandon his responsibilities. Determined as he may be to remove the golden collar from both the Dreaming and the dreamer, the curse had lingered for decades without disturbing anything significant.

It had been months since he picked through her dreaming mind to discover more about her – more about the curse. Only now, as the things settled back into a comfortable kind of order, could he indulge his curiosity, his side-quest as Death mockingly called his interests. And he was more than interested. The longer the questions lingered, the more of his attention they consumed.

Perhaps it was the crossroads. The Fates said he’d already pushed the storm god towards a darker fate, but they never said it was too late to change that course, and the three often left the most important truths unsaid.

If only he knew what to look for. Perhaps that was why he spent so much time and energy researching the collar. It gave him a target. Without it, he felt like a dreamer caught in a pitch-black nightmare, groping blindly for anything with which to reclaim the light.

But he did not have to search alone.

“Lucienne.”

His librarian looked up from a stack of new, peering over the rim of her spectacles. “Did the mother’s dreams help you find what you needed, my lord?”

“In part. Though I need another volume.” He handed over the two records, the mother’s dreams and the storm god’s. Lucienne set down her tower of work and went to shelve the two immediately. They slotted beside each other, the mother’s name in curling script, the daughter’s blank.

“You know,” Lucienne said, “I only found the nameless one’s record because the mother’s kept reshelving itself with the daughter’s book. I fixed it twice before I realized. It’s rather sweet.” She sighed. “If vexing. What volume do you require, my lord?”

Morpheus spared the books another glance, wondering how much of the mother’s arcane studies had influenced her history of dreams. But she’d given him all she could, and now he must turn to the living for answers. “The bard Taliesin’s records, and anything else we have on his history.”

“That is more a section than a collection, lord.”

“Yes.” It wasn’t his first time encountering the bard. “I may need to speak with him, but he will be loathe to leave a story once he is introduced. I’d prefer to find answers in the records. Will you help me?”

“Of course. Give me a moment.” Lucienne paused. “Give me several moments, please, my lord.”

On Lucienne’s first trip, she retrieved the official record of Taliesin’s dreams. He’d lived a long life, and he dreamed vibrantly. The tome was several feet thick, and the library echoed when the librarian set it on the table.

“Thank you, Lucienne.”

“I’ll fetch the rest, sir.”

Taliesin’s early works, recorded on parchment and scrolls, sat between books published under a dozen nom de plumes in later centuries. When the librarian returned with a cart stacked high with history books referencing and theorizing over the man and his myth, Morpheus excused her.

“These should suffice, Lucienne. I will let you know if I do not find my answers here.”

“Of course, sir.” She brushed dust from her immaculate coat, checking the sleeves, before folding her hands neatly behind her back. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Already buried in the works of Taliesin’s unconscious mind, he shook his head. “Not at this time.”

She bowed and left. The library would be chaos without her. He could remember when it was. It was no mean feat, organizing a universe of stories. It made her wise in ways he had only just begun to appreciate.

The man whose dreams he searched enjoyed other kinds of wisdom. He’d gained a third of the world’s knowledge by accident, but he’d spent the better part of his life learning the other two thirds by choice. Advisor to kings, story-weaver, and a natural mage, he had the wisdom and craft to recognize some of the magic wrought into the storm god’s collar. He’d tried to take it off when they first met, and he studied for a means to free her after his escape.

Morpheus wanted to know what the bard found.

However, though his dreams in the past few decades often welcomed a shade of the storm god to play out adventures and tragedies as part of a colorful cast, Taliesin’s attention did not linger on the curse. It was little more than a bright shadow that pricked his conscience.

He sat back in the chair, glowering at the books that had failed him.

It seemed every whisper of progress led to more questions in this riddle, and not for the first time, he wished the library could offer more insight to the happenings of the waking world. He should not need to ask for help so often.

At least, unlike the storm god, the bard embraced his dreams. Like all great storytellers, he had explored his fantasies and fears ravenously. When he next slept, Morpheus would pry loose some answers. It shouldn’t be difficult. The bard dearly loved the sound of his own voice.

----------------------------------------------

Taliesin presided over a court of housecats.

He was aware enough to know the royal courtiers of Edward II did not, originally, have literal claws, but it made perfect sense in the moment. Edward and Gaveston were in the corner, playfully wrestling – maybe – while Isabella stalked closer with murder in her vertical pupils.

“This is not the way,” he huffed, plucking a kitten from the mob joining ranks behind Isabella, a gorgeous tortoise-shell with no interest in his opinion. The kitten sprang spread-eagle back to the floor.

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

His favorite idiot, his little rain cloud, curled under the steps to the dais. She’d found herself, once again, where she did not belong, and if her eyes didn’t reflect the torches set around the room, he never would’ve known she was there. It was the wrong court altogether, but she had a talent for trouble and a gift for surprises.

Dropping to his knees, he reached under the wooden platform to coax her out. She’d become a fetching little half munchkin, half Norwegian forest cat caught in the lanky middle ground between kitten and grown cat. A menace, to be sure, but too cute to ignore.

“Come out and play with your friends,” he said as she wriggled even farther out of reach. “It isn’t good to hide all the time. You need to do some seeking, too, lovee.”

But she was very determined and his arms just weren’t long enough, so he manifested a trail of nibbles to catch her attention. He could be patient. He could be tricksy. Good friends, he firmly believed, should be both, because sometimes people were just too stupid or too stubborn to accept the help they obviously needed.

He sat up to kneel below the empty thrones and clapped his hands on his thighs.

Well. He’d done what he could for now. Across the room, poor Gaveston was learning the price of being a king’s favorite. The yowls and cries almost distracted him to the point he didn’t see the massive black Maine Coon stalk into the throne room. The cat’s eyes glowed, both literally and metaphorically. In his kneeling position, Taliesin actually had to look up to see those eyes, and he gulped, wondering if he was about to be eaten.

“I have questions for you, bard.” The cat spoke with authority in a voice like honeyed night.

Taliesin recognized it, though it hadn’t come from a cat before, and he dismissed all thought of stupid whot, why, what, how demands.

It may be his imagination at work, but it was not his realm.

“Dream King.” He bowed. Then he remembered he was dreaming and squinted at the cacophonous mess of the long-dead king’s feline transformation. “Ah. This makes so much more sense.”

The cats blinked out of existence, or at least out of his dream, and he sat back on his heels. The stone chamber grew quiet. A plaintive meow from beside the stops, however, proved not all the cats had gone. The junior cat approached and let him sweep her into his arms, even purring when he scratched under her chin.

Still aware of the Endless – no longer in cat-form  – Taliesin allowed himself a moment to enjoy this imagined pleasure. The little storm god made an adorable ball of fur. “You’d never make this so easy in the waking world, would you?”

She sized his finger with claws and teeth to prove she wasn’t easy in any world.

“There is unwelcome magic in the Dreaming.” The Nightmare King didn’t wait for Taliesin’s focus, confident as any monarch that his words would be heard, that the listener would take note and action. “You have studied it.”

Taliesin nodded, taking his word for it and stroking his friend the kitten as he picked through his long memory for anything of interest to the King of Dreams. “I have studied many shapes of magic, lord.”

“This one is close to you.”

Some darker note in the Dream King’s voice snagged Taliesin’s ear, and he looked away from the cat to study his face. Lips bent in a frown, brows pinched, the king had his starry eyes pinned to the creature in the bard’s arms. Taliesin looked back down to see a phantom of the collar growing around the kitten’s neck. She writhed against it, mewling in pain, staring up at him like he could do anything to help her.

He’d tried, and he’d tried again. He still hadn’t given up entirely.

Couldn’t the poor thing’s shade at least find relief in his dream?

She scratched him in her fit, and he bundled her closer, pinning her fast and safe as he’d failed to do when she was small and alone and willing to suffer in his stead. Even if he couldn’t free her, he’d never abandon her.

The truth of the matter struck him. He felt the cat shudder against his heart when she’d been so calm and accepting a moment ago, and he knew.

“So, you’ve met my favorite idiot.”

“Yes.”

The word betrayed nothing, not how they met, not how he felt. But he wanted to banish the collar once and for all, and Taliesin could get on board with that.

“It’s fairy-make,” he said. “Broken in the waking world, but still manifests in the Dreaming.”

“I know. What I do not know is why. What terms closed the circle around her neck? It appeared to suppress her godly half in life.”

Taliesin tried to cradle the cat even closer without suffocating her. “If you do not mind my asking, lord, how do you know even that much?”

“I saw it,” the king said, casually, like it wasn’t one of the worst things the bard had ever heard, “in her dreams, in her recollection of the past.”

Closing his eyes, the bard took a deep, deep breath in through his nose. He had to hold it for a minute, because it desperately wanted to leave his throat with a string of curses Dream of the Endless would not enjoy. When he was sure he could exhale without heaping abuse on the dolt’s head, he let the breath go. He did it all one more time, and then he said, “I think I understand why she wanted to stay awake.”

Eyes still shut, he murmured to himself, “Why didn’t she tell me? Self-destructive little –”

When he finally looked, the world had changed. Gone was the castle, the throne, and the sweet little cat from his arms. He’d imagined a cheap bedsit in Cardiff, the kind of place the little storm god may stay on the run – and she was definitely on the run, from nightmares if nothing else.

The young woman lay sprawled in a puddle of moonlight, half dead, and fading fast. Her skin clung to her bones, eyes sunken, old wounds open and bleeding from malnutrition and scurvy.

The empty potion bottle sat on the windowsill.

Dream of the Endless studied the scene with clear interest, and Taliesin beat down his protective urges in the name of pragmatism. If she was running from Lord Morpheus, she wouldn’t turn to Taliesin for help when the potion dragged her to the brink of death. It wouldn’t be a life lesson she could grow through. It would be a life ended.

“She came to me a few months ago,” he said, hoping the Endless would care enough about the woman shackled to the curse to consider her in his grand schemes. “She wanted a potion to stave off sleep. I told her it was dangerous, and I thought she’d come to me for help soon, that I could teach her something, but –”

The body on the floor laid so still. How many months had it been? How close was this nightmare to reality?

“I said her dreams would be kinder when she next slept,” the king murmured.

He didn’t have to say he didn’t understand.

Taliesin crossed his arms and cleared his throat. Someone, at least, would learn something this night. “Well, she’s a storm, isn’t she? She isn’t capable of moderation. When she’s happy, she’s ecstatic. When she’s angry she’s electric. When she’s afraid she is very, very afraid. And she’s terrified of you.”

Dream looked over his shoulder at the bard, still looming beside the dying phantom.

“I neither wish nor intend her harm.”

“You don’t have to intend harm to hurt her.”

The Endless fully turned to him, and the bard spoke with all the confidence of being truly heard. Just as the king did upon entering this dream. “You, I presume, dug very deep in a very dark place. That hurt her. Frightened her. If you push her far enough she’ll chew off her own leg to get away, or didn’t you see the part where she nearly decapitated herself to escape the damn collar?”

Silence filled the room. An ugly, cheap place to die. Taliesin wondered how long it would take to find her if she really had gone to ground. He couldn’t trust the King of Dreams to care about anything beyond the Dreaming’s borders, and he wouldn’t trust her health with the one who pushed her to ruin in.

He had spells to find her, but he wasn’t sure he could hold her if she went into a panic.

In the stillness, they could hear her death rattle.

“What will your potion do to her?”

His potion. Yes, he supposed it was his fault. The girl really was like a stray cat, hiding under porches to die quietly rather than let someone help. He should’ve known.

“It keeps her awake. Eventually, she’ll feel too ill to eat. She may hallucinate. Her heart will fall out of rhythm and she’ll waste away until her body doesn’t remember how to function.” He smacked his head back into the wall, wanting punishment, hoping to jog some inspired idea free. “I warned her.”

Of all the Endless, and he’d met quite a few, Dream was the most inscrutable. Cold and detached, but prone to dangerous spikes of interest that spiraled into nearly obsessive passion. His vengeance came swiftly and his affection grew slow. But Dream was, usually, just. He didn’t enjoy undeserved suffering, and Taliesin had to hope that after walking through the little storm god’s dreams, he’d understand she’d earned none of her pain.

It wasn’t too late. He’d lost track of time, but a tableau this desperate wouldn’t come to pass for at least a year.

“If you are of a mind to assist, Dream Lord…” He pushed off the wall, suddenly and entirely desperate to move. “I have an idea.”

----------------------------------------------

Her fear grew bitter as her strength waned. She could taste it when she struggled to eat, and when she gave up meals, it poisoned the water she drank. Terror tasted like blood from bitten lips and dust on her dry tongue. Her hands shook, and her throat burned from stomach acid, but it wasn’t bad enough to call on Taliesin again. She knew what he’d say.

Whatever happened, she would not fall asleep.

Besides, she wasn’t dying yet. She was only sick. If the Dream Lord pulled through her bloody history again, she wouldn’t survive. If she had a choice, she’d pick a death in the waking world, free of the collar and safe from the Dream Lord who dragged her through horrors so callously.

She wasn’t convinced he believed in her innocence, either. If he knew he’d threatened someone trying to rescue his damn raven, surely he would’ve apologized.

Better to stay awake and ignore the cramps in her belly.

The rain soothed her. Fitful storms plagued the town she’d chosen as a hiding place, and the old folks grumbled to each other at the grocery store about the weather. Maybe they’d gotten used to it in the past few months. She hadn’t been out in a while.

She didn’t sleep, but she still rested. Her eyelids didn’t grow heavy when she sat by the window and watched the drops racing down the pane. She remained awake, aware, and as close to peace as her racing thoughts allowed.

The window became her favorite pastime, and she spent days studying the changing clouds as angry squalls rolled up the coast, how the grey sky trapped the light during gentler showers.

And she grew weaker. Quietly flirting with the line between sick and deathly ill.

She saw impossible things beyond the glass. It took her a few days to realize they were hallucinations, not a fae spell or some petty apocalypse.

When his reflection appeared behind her in the window, she thought she was seeing things again. And then he spoke.

“You are killing yourself.”

She jerked around, stumbling on numb feet to face the monster. The Nightmare King. Her hand wandered her neck, looking for the collar to prove this was a dream, but she found her scarf instead.

“You are in the waking world,” he confirmed. “You hid yourself well.”

He took a step towards her, and she lunged back. The same game in the wrong realm.

“You still think I’m some kind of threat?”

Another step towards her, another step back – she nearly tripped on the leg of a chair, but she refused to look away for an instant, even to save the scraps of her dignity.

“No.”

He moved the way he spoke, aware of every nuance, every shift, slowly drawing closer. Sure and smooth as a stormfront.

What did he want? She abandoned her home, gave up the precious little sleep she could tolerate, and he still pressed her. He didn’t look angry and cold, like he did on the beach. Something sharp glittered in his eyes, though, a keen edge ready to cut her.

They passed through the living room, through the kitchen, and she only had a few more steps before this slow chase met an abrupt end.

“I’m running out of ground to give, Dream Lord.”

“Good.”

A final step, and her heel met the wall. He closed the distance, keeping the same predator’s pace as she pressed herself flat against the peeling wallpaper.

“Do you want me to fight?” Her growing storm raged. Lightning sheered over the sleepy town, turning the evening bright as noon. Thunder rattled the windows, but the Dream Lord didn’t so much as flinch. “Do you want an excuse to hurt me?”

He stood inches away, eating up her personal space until she felt his shadow had already swallowed her.

“No.”

“Then what do you want?” A whisper with the desperation of a scream.

His razor eyes cut deep, and she quaked in place, afraid to move but wishing she could shrink, become so small he wouldn’t notice her.

“To turn you from a darker fate.”

He raised a hand, and she cowered from the expected blow. When none fell, she peeped at him sidelong. His palm hovered between them, like he was holding up a gift.

“Sleep.”

Stooping ever so slightly, he blew over his hand, sending a gust of sand into her face. She bucked against him, flinging one arm up to cover her face, the other to shove at his chest. But it was no good. By the time he curled his fingers back, she could feel her grip on the world slipping away.

“Poor little storm god.”

Her knees buckled, and she slid down the wall, losing herself by inches to the inescapable lure of the Dreaming and its master.

She slept.

Chapter 4 A/N: I've never done prompt requests, but I've never had 500 FOLLOWERS EITHER (holy shit). I'm celebrating, and you're invited. The rules are a little convoluted, I won't be able to do ALL the things, but you'll all get a say in what makes the cut by voting. To join the fun and check out the rules, go here. Even if you don't join in, there will be one-shots aplenty for you to browse.

I'll be working on a chapter each for my other two active fics while I wait for replies, so you may not see another Younger Gods chapter til next week. For those clamoring for more interaction between the reader and Morpheus, it will be well worth the wait.

[drconstellation]

"Not Even At Gunpoint!"

Future Echoes of the Past #3

I didn't plan this meta. Well, maybe...just a tiny, weeny bit...I had been keeping a parallel in mind for a while...but not in this context. But it was kind of one of these moments:

Lets start at the beginning.

@beebopboom has been exploring the three magic tricks that appear in the S2 opening sequence recently, and speculating how the third one might appear in S3, and I've been exploring the paintball fight scene at Tadfield Manor in S1E2 and how that relates to the Great War in Heaven that formed Hell, and the events around the Fall. The two topics intersect, as you have echoes of the Bullet Catch magic trick from the 1941 minisode in S2E4 appearing not once but at least twice at Tadfield Manor.

But...then I realised, there's more than one pointed gun. Way more.

I'd always liked this throwback line from Crowley in S2E1, when Nina asks him if he is a bookseller as well:

Who would want to be a bookseller when this could happen to you?

Shadwell, turning up at the book shop in S1E4, disturbs Aziraphale contacting Heaven through the portal (a modified Solomon's magic circle) under the oculus, and breaks in to confront him. The historical implications of Aziraphale's lines here are that before homosexuality was decriminalized in the UK meeting places for such people were often disguised as respectable looking book shops. Which makes Nina's question in S2E1 and Crowley's denial to her all the more...loaded? Ah, well, you can't fool Nina, now, can you?

Anyway, mah point is...Shadwell literally has Aziraphale at gunpoint, er, fingerpoint here. Loaded fingerpoint.

But then, this isn't the first time Aziraphale has had a gun pointed at him. He had one pointed at him in the church in 1941 by the Nazi agent double-crossing Greta. His biggest fear, as always, isn't actually "dying," or standing in front of the guns, its the paperwork that he knows will go with getting a new body from the Ineffable Bureaucracy.

Crowley turns up to rescue him, because he "didn't want to see [him] embarrassed." With a bit of equivocation between the two of them, all the time while at gunpoint from Greta, they team up to save each other.

This was even before we got to the Bullet Catch - his "show stopper!"

Back to Tadfield Manor.

As they enter, Crowley is lined up in the crosshairs.

Er, wait a minute...

Only Crowley is shown this way here, not Aziraphale. He's a target. I'm starting to ask what point in time this is referring to - the present or the past? Both. Yeah, why not both! The work I did in this previous meta in this series showed that Crowley was considered a target for early removal by the other demons-to-be prior to the Fall.

Then they are both shot.

I pointed out Aziraphale gets shot by blue paint, representing Heaven, but its a colour we don't see used again by any one in the fighting to come. But what I didn't talk about was WHERE he got hit - in the back. That's synonymous with treachery. Heaven has stabbed Aziraphale in the back, so to speak. wow. Nice - not.

And Crowley? He gets hit in the heart - just like the Norman/Lucifer parallel on the Yellow Team does a short while later during his "fall" scene - with the red paint, betrayed by the Red Team who represent the management in Heaven.

Seems the Ineffable Bureaucracy wanted both them out of the way during the Great War...it get more and more interesting each time I look closer at it...

So was Aziraphale ever in the crosshairs? Yep.

And, as @vavoom-sorted-art points out, this is a time Aziraphale chooses to pick a weapon, and to fight. He didn't want the simple, safe deception trick with the ropes - he wanted a weapon. He really is much more the warrior than Crowley. Aziraphale, I think your nature as a principality is showing!

Firing that gun made Crowley sick to his stomach, and so did this metaphorical loaded gun - the Book of Life.

As soon as he found out from Beelzebub it was a real possibility of being played he went back to protect Aziraphale. Crowley hates fighting - watch how often he will try shut it down as quickly as possible or try to escape it when he can. To him everyone has free will, and the person picking the fight with the other is imposing their will on them. That's 'not on' in his books.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, is still reacting with his ingrained Heavenly instincts - that he should follow his morals because they are 'right,' and more sophisticated weapons add weight to the moral argument. He thinks. Maybe. (Yeah, keep working on that doubt, angel.)

Az: Impressive hardware. I've looked at this gun, its not a proper one at all. It just shoots paintballs. Cr: Don't your lot disapprove of guns? Az: Unless they're in the right hands. Then they give weight to a moral argument. I think. Cr: [laughing] A moral argument? Really? *tosses gun away* C'mon. [Heads into the Manor.] [later, after Crowley changes the paintball guns to real guns...] Az: But there are people out there shooting at each other! Cr: Well -  Lends weight to their moral argument. Everyone has free will, including the right to murder. Just think of it as a microcosm of the universe.

I'll think I'll end this here and leave you with a small montage of the aftermath of all this gun play - everything going up in flames and smoke.

Bring on S3!

If you didn't follow the links in the meta, and want to read the first two in this series, they are here:

#1: The Great War of Tadfield Manor

#2: The Newton/Crowley Mirror-Parallel in S1

[wyvernne]

see you through til the day’s end (rewrite) teaser

taking a quick study break to post this for y’all. i have not read over it again nor has it been edited, so forgive me for any errors. i know a lot of you are also dealing with final exams, so good luck, and remember to take care of yourselves!!

————-

It was a stupid way to get caught. You’re not sure if it was the cold that dumbed you down, dulled your senses so gravely.

You slipped. That’s all it took. A single misstep is going to cost you your life.

What was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance on the growing Fatui encampments has quickly become the site of the last moments of your life.

You sigh. What a pathetic way to die. The soldiers did quite a number on you, too. You’re sure you have at least a concussion. Maybe a few broken ribs.

You tug halfheartedly on your restraints. The Fatui are no strangers to taking captives. Of course they know how to keep one tied down.

“Oh? What little mouse fell into the trap?” You freeze. It’s a voice you’ve only heard once before.

Your heart thumps sickeningly in your chest for a beat before you raise your head. It’s… a different one. A little older, but still a young man.

Dottore smiles at you. His face is entirely obscured by his mask, save for his eerie, chilling grin.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of officially meeting before,” you offer. You try not to sound afraid. Your heartbeat gives you away, certainly. You’re fucked. You’re so fucked.

Dottore’s smile never changes. “Is that so? You seem quite familiar.” He tilts his head. “Ah. Perhaps it’s the scent of the Abyss. It does quite remind me of that young man.”

He must be talking about the eleventh. You grit your teeth. “You must be mistaken.”

“Surely not,” Dottore replies pleasantly. He’s taking his sweet time getting to the point, really.

“Ah, that’s it!” He snaps his fingers dramatically, as if he’s suddenly remembered a particularly amusing factoid. “You’ve been in the company of a certain young winery owner before, too.”

A chill slips down your spine. You maintain your smile. “I’m merely a distant associate.”

Dottore’s doesn’t even grace you with a response, and the silence makes your heart beat faster.

You continue speaking, struggling to keep your voice steady. “I’m flattered that a lord harbinger himself is even gratifying me with his time.”

Dottore guffaws, doubling over in laughter. “Ah! So much spunk. It’s refreshing to have a subject who isn’t cowering in fear. How exciting.”

His laughter dies down abruptly. It’s just as chilling as when it began.

“Shall we run a little impromptu experiment?” he asks. Bile rises in your throat. You’d rather just have a swift end, really. Who knows what kind of circumstances Dottore will keep you alive under.

He draws a knife from his belt. It’s… it’s far more mundane than you thought. At the very least, it seems like he won’t be injecting you with some strange substance. “It’s a pity I don’t have my laboratory equipment with me here… but I supposed we’ll just need to make do. After all, the process is the fun of it.”

“Process,” you repeat, stupidly. It’s too cold, and your head was hit too hard. Your brain isn’t working like it should. You— you should be planning some grand escape. Instead you can barely follow the conversation happening between you.

“Do you know how much blood is in the human body?” he asks, spinning the knife carelessly in his palm.

You manage a dry laugh. “I haven’t measured. Don’t tell me you treat all your hostages with such hospitality?”

“How arrogant,” he scoffs. “You’re merely the delicious morsel of cheese. The real prize has yet to show itself.”

What the fuck is he on about?

He pulls something out of his pocket with his free hand. You spoke too soon.

You jerk against the restraints reflexively at the sight. A small vial. He pops the stopper with practiced ease, dribbling the viscous liquid over the length of the blade.

He pulls you up against him, sliding an arm around you. It’s like you’ve been already been drugged, your mind slow to comprehend what’s happening. His words keep ringing in your head. “You’ve a little more blood in you than… say, six and a half bottles of wine.”

And then there’s a sharp blow to your back, sending white hot pain jolting through your body.

You gasp, as if the air has been knocked from your lungs. The wheezing, wet sobs that rip from your lungs shake your body, but it hardly compares to the searing ache in your back. Dottore smiles. “I wouldn’t move so much, dear. Unless you’d like me to sever your spinal cord.”

He jerks his arm up, lifting you with the sheer force of his movement. He’s playing a dangerous game, cutting into you so blindly, so close to your spine—

You choke on the thought. He doesn’t care.

You don’t scream. Can’t. It’s like the air around you has been sucked away, and you can’t seem to get a single breath down. The only thing that comes from your mouth is a horrible, strangled gurgle.

He laughs, pulling the dagger out with ease. You sag, eyes wide. Move. Do something. Fight back.

You’re still gasping, choking on nothing. What is the point? Of this? Of any of it?

Dottore chuckles, wiping the dagger haphazardly on your shirt. “I guess you do bleed like we do. Shall we continue?”

You’re bleeding too much too fast. You can see it starting to pool around your feet, blossoming out in the snow.

You jerk against your restraints, throwing your knee up with a shout. You catch Dottore in the stomach, but he hardly reacts to your blow. He leans closer, so close you can feel his breath on your face.

“How impudent,” he mutters, smashing the hilt of the knife into your temple. A shock of pain shoots through your head, and you bite down to silence a sob.

Why is he wasting his time on you? Your thoughts feel hazy. Maybe it’s just pain for the sake of it.

Pain for the sake of it.

Why can’t you catch your breath? You’re teary, but still, no sound can form in your throat. You feel like you’re suffocating.

An agent materializes behind him, kneeling obediently.

“Didn’t I say to leave me to my work?” Dottore huffs, exasperated. He’s speaking so flippantly, like someone just interrupted his daily newspaper reading.

You can’t tell how deep the wound is like this. It’s— it’s long.

You have… minutes, maybe, until you’ve lost too much. There’s no fighting your way out of this. There’s no winning here.

You barely catch the last wisps of conversation.

“…Forgive me, lord harbinger. The Tsaritsa has sent a message.”

Dottore clicks his tongue in annoyance, tossing the dagger into the snow as he turns away. “Well, I’ve lost interest, regardless. Lucky little you.”

The agent slices the restraints down with a swift movement. You crumple to the ground, gasping desperately for air. Dottore starts away from you, but then stops and smiles over his shoulder. “Your life is ticking away, you know.”

You barely register his words. Every second matters, now. You clamber unsteadily to your feet. Despite the freezing snow you’ve started to sweat, your muscles trembling with the effort of holding yourself up.

You take a stumbling step backwards. Not a single Fatuus makes a move to stop you. They watch you with their robotic, empty gazes. You take another, and then turn on your heel and run.

It hurts. It hurts like death. But you won’t win a fight here, and Dottore is bitterly right. Five minutes, at most. Five minutes before you’ve lost too much blood.

Your movements are sluggish and stilted, and the world seems to teeter on your vision. Like hell you’ll let yourself die without putting up a fight.

It’s only a few yards to the cliff side. Water rushes past you and you sway for a moment, nearly losing your balance.

You feel ill. This rush of adrenaline won’t last you much longer, not with how badly he’s cut you. Not with how much this hurts.

It���s a long drop. You know better than anyone. Still, you launch yourself forward, feet slipping on the last rock, and plummet into the raging water below. If you’re going to lose your life, you’ll lose it to the torrents of nature. Not to some damned harbinger’s passing fancies.

———————————

You’ve broken… something. It’s hard to tell at this point, even as you drag yourself onto the snowy banks of the river. Everything fucking hurts. It’s a miracle you didn’t split your skull in half on the rocks below, although the intense throb in your right ankle says you didn’t make it out entirely unscathed. Thankfully it’s cold enough, and you’ve lost enough blood. The bitter ache of any broken bones seems dulled entirely.

You can see the fading lights of Dawn Winery in the distance, but you’ve lost your gamble. You have minutes left, at most. You close your eyes.

You’re going to die here, bleeding out in the snow. Pathetic. To survive the Abyss only to die like a drowned rat.

You’re tired. So, so tired.

Even in this unbearable cold you feel sleep calling you, soothing you from your wounds and fatigue.

It would be so easy, just to let go.

You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a drawn, shrill gasp, drowned out by the sound of the waterfall behind you. Fucking hell.

One chance. That’s all you have.

It takes tremendous effort to get your tongue in the right position. You suck in air desperately, flinching at the shock that travels up from your ribs, and blow.

It’s a weak sound, at first, but it’s all you have.

Luckily, her hearing is better than any human’s.

It takes… twenty seconds, maybe. Thirty at most. You hear her shrieks overhead, having spotted her prey. But she’s no ordinary bird. You’re thankful for that, at least.

She vanishes again, and you’re left alone in the snow.

You jolt, startled. You nearly fell asleep. But you can’t. Not now. Just a little longer.

It feels like an eternity. You can’t feel your hands or feet anymore. All that’s left is a dull ache, and each breath you take feels like an enormous amount of effort.

In. Out. In. Out. Stay awake. Stay awake.

Finally, there’s a murmur of voices, the thumping of feet along the ground. Hands coming up to lift you from the snowy bank. You can’t focus well. Spots dance beneath your eyelids, and your breathing feels fluttery and faint.

“Stay awake, now,” One of the voices whispers. You’d know it anywhere. The warmth, the scent. Diluc.

‘Sorry’ you want to say. The words don’t come. Nothing comes, after that. Just darkness.