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words-in-starless-skies · 18 days

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Second chapter of "Hold My Hand, I'll Walk With You My Dear"

Summary: 5 times Buck and Tommy talk about their fears and 1 time they defeat fear together.

Sometimes, Tommy’s mind is like a stormcloud, soaking up bad thoughts until it’s ready to burst.

He can feel it. The way everything seems a little darker. A little heavier. Like the sun being swallowed by the fog of an approaching thunderstorm. And he tries to not get lost in it, but the cloud is growing every second and he can’t escape its shadow.

Today, the cloud is a wall towering right in front of him. He looks at Evan through its murky gloom and all he can think about is the end.

Right now, they are having dinner together and everything seems to be nice. Stable. But what is a single moment in the overwhelming presence of time?

Time is a river and it only flows forward, disappearing in the distance, behind the up-and-down hills of life. No one can see where it’s going. No one can know how far their river reaches until it drains somewhere in the future.

There is no way to trust a moment because no one can ever know how long it’s going to last. Everything good has an end. Everything good dies. Everyone good leaves.

The past has proven this.

Tommy looks at Evan, who happily rambles about his lasagna recipe and he knows the smile is frozen on his face.

It’s unfair. Evan doesn’t even know what’s going on. Tommy should tell him. But he doesn’t want to kill the mood. Doesn’t want to be the reason this brilliant smile fades from Evan’s face.

Evan is a good person without a doubt. Sweet in a way no one has ever been before. The way he knocked at the door, grinning and holding the lasagna and bouncing on his feet had Tommy actually swoon a little. Dangerous, he knows. It’s dangerous to open up too fast. Too much. Too early.

The stormcloud thoughts are eager to remind him.

He saw the guy who was flying a cool helicopter into a hurricane. The hot capable funny pilot? That’s who he has a crush on. Once he’s going to discover what’s behind that role you play, he’s going to be disappointed or spooked. Maybe he's still going to try because he’s sweet like that. But you’re going to feel it like you’ve felt it all the times before. The beginning of the end.

“Are you okay?”

There it is. Tommy winces. Evan is looking at him with his head tilted to the side and his smile falling, making place for a worried expression.

Tommy nods and forces his lips up into a reassuring smile. Even that feels heavy. “Yeah. Totally. I’m great.”

That was too much reassurance. He can see it in the way one of Evan’s brow ticks up. He is an attentive person. Tends to get easily - adorably - distracted by his surroundings, but once he focuses on something, he doesn’t let it go. He won’t let this go either, Tommy knows. And dreads.

Doesn’t matter. You can tell him now. Better sooner than later. It’s going to feel like a bandaid being ripped from a wound. No one wants to stay with you anyway.

“You’re a bit pale,” Evan notes, glancing at the rest of the lasagna in alarm. “Was it something in the food?”

“No. No, the food was great,” Tommy says. He runs a hand over his face, sighing. “I … I’m just having a bad day. Look. I’m going to be completely honest. I’m not going to be much fun to be around today. So you don’t have to stay. I get it. I really do.”

It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last.

Evan stares at him for a moment, his mouth slightly open. “You … You don’t have to be fun all the time,” he finally says slowly. “That’s … that’s not what a relationship is about. It’s about sharing good and bad days, right?”

A relationship. He said relationship? Stop getting excited about it. He probably didn’t find another word to describe what this is.

Tommy swallows and looks down at his plate. “You don’t want to be around me on my bad days, Evan. Nobody does.”

Stop sulking. What are our guests supposed to think?! Can’t you at least smile a little more?

Funny. The stormcloud starts to sound like Tommy’s deceased mother. He shudders.

“Well, I’m still here. And I’m not going anywhere,” Evan says, smiling softly, but then quickly adds, “Unless you really, really want me gone. Then I’ll go. But … I don’t want to. That’s what I’m trying to say. No pressure.”

Tommy glances up, seeing Evan looking at him so … openly and warmly. He’s so different than everyone else. Still. Tommy should tell him to leave. That’s what would be best for both of them. Evan won’t have to waste energy trying to cheer Tommy up. And Tommy won’t have to be scared of being seen. When he’s alone he’s safe.

Yes. He should tell Evan to leave. Now.

But he can’t. Somehow he can’t. Despite the stormcloud, despite all those bad thoughts, there’s something inside him, a warm glow, that just wants to trust Evan’s words.

This man wants to take care of me. And I want him to. Is that a crime? Can’t I be happy, even if it’s just for the moment? I’m not able to look into the future anyway … So what about living right now?

Tommy gathers his courage. It’s tough to walk through the wall of bad thoughts. One of his hands instinctively curls around his own thigh in desperate need of grounding. “I think I’d like you to stay. If you want to.”

“Sure,” Evan says. “Do you want to eat dessert?”

Tommy shakes his head. “Not really. Not now at least. Maybe later. Can we just … sit on the couch and talk?”

“Of course.”

Outside, the sun is setting, the light bathing everything - including Evan’s curls - in golden light.

Tommy feels exhausted even though he hasn’t done anything stressful today. He folds his hands in his lap, tilts his head back to rest it on the cushion and sighs. “Sometimes it feels like every possible bad thought hits me at once, you know? It’s like a big dark stormcloud. And I can’t escape it. A lot of those thoughts are stupid. Irrational. But they are there and sometimes, they are louder than the rational part of my brain.”

Evan hums. “That sounds familiar. I think I have such a stormcloud too sometimes. I feel lighter when I share those bad thoughts.”

“I grew up in a family that used to hide behind facades,” Tommy says bitterly. “And I was taught to keep secrets. My Dad was a drunk. My mother tried to keep up the impression of a perfect little family. No one was allowed to know. No one was allowed to see what was happening behind the curtains. And I was … I was different. I was quiet, awkward, didn’t make any friends and I liked to stay in my room, drawing or reading. My mother didn’t like it.”

Evan is quietly listening. Now that Tommy started to open up the gates, he somehow can’t keep the thoughts from flooding through. But this is different from usual. He kind of doesn’t want to stop. He feels heard.

“After my Dad drank too much, drove his car against a tree and died, it was only her and me. She always tried to make me into something, someone, I wasn’t. But I tried to adapt, tried to please her, because of course, I wanted her to love me and she was obviously seeing me as some kind of husband substitute. It was a constant balancing act. Don’t be weird. Smile like you mean it. Be the strong and confident son she craved. Otherwise, she would snap at me and insult me for days. She was ... never exactly stable, emotion-wise. I learned how to cook and repair stuff. I held her arm when we were in public and smiled at the neighbours. I learned how to be funny and charming at the right moment. I was trying to be the son she wanted.”

Tommy falls silent for a moment, feeling phantom pain split his pain. “And then she left me. Ran away in the middle of the night with some fling I didn't even know about. Never saw her again.”

Evan inhales sharply.

“She left me a note. Wrote that she needed to live and that I was old enough to manage. Well. I was kind of lost. But then the army came to recruit. And that’s how I ended up flying choppers.” He smiles. “The first time I felt really free was when I was up in the air. Alone. Finally, I was able to breathe.”

“I’m so sorry you had to go through this,” Evan says quietly. “Your Dad leaving. Then your Mom.”

Tommy shrugs. “I’m used to it by now. People leaving is kind of a recurring theme in my life.”

Shit. Tommy curses himself. That was … not a great timing to say something like that. He looks at Evan and is almost sure to see he’s hurt. But instead, Evan looks thoughtful. “You think I’m going to leave too?” He asks quietly.

Tommy swallows. “It came into my mind, yes. I’m sorry, Evan. You don't deserve that. You’re … a good person. I really like you. Sometimes, this feels almost too good. And I start to be scared again. Scared that this is going to be over soon …”

Evan abruptly reaches out, taking Tommy’s hand in his and squeezing gently. “I’m here.”

“You are,” Tommy breathes, looking at their hands. His throat feels tight with emotion. “You are.”

“And I’m going to stay. Look at me.” Evan leans over, cups Tommy’s face and looks him straight in the eye. “I’m going to stay.”

Tommy drowns a little in the honest warmth in Evan’s eyes and he finds that he can almost believe it. Maybe, with time, he can trust those words. Can accept that this is his reality and maybe, the stormcloud will dissolve piece by piece until there’s no more wall. Maybe.

He really wants that to happen. But for now, he just leans into the touch and tries to enjoy the moment.

#bucktommy #evan buckley #tommy kinard #bucktommy fanfic

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onecanonlife · 3 years

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careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 8,506

Chapter Warnings: swearing, blood, major injury, seizure, character death

Chapter Summary: In which the sun rises.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Twenty-One: morning sun

He has a lot of thoughts on poetry. Poetry, he often finds, is just music without the tune. The rhythm is there already, and the words can be their own melody, if they’re written right, with a shape and a contour and a buildup and a decrescendo. He knows poetry. And poetry can tell stories, too, can tell whole narratives, can show a hero’s journey from the beginning to the bitter, bitter end, because something he noted a long time ago is that in the old stories, the old poems, in the meter and rhyme, there are few heroes who get happy endings. There are few stories that end with the hero growing old and finding peace. The heroes in the stories he was drawn to, the stories that Technoblade told him as they grew from children to lanky teenagers to adults, the heroes in those stories come to tragic ends.

So, he knows poetry.

Is there poetry in death?

Once, he would have said yes. Once, he would have said that death, perhaps, after a long fight, after a struggle lost, after all the world goes caving in and the hero stands alone knowing how far he has fallen, knowing there is only so much further to go, knowing that every cliff has its bottom and every sea its floor, after all of that—once, he might have said that death, after all of that, was the most poetic thing of all.

But he thinks he knows better now. He thinks that death is not poetry at all. He thinks that death is pain and suffering and hurting those who were left behind, and death is an ending that cannot

(is usually not, and perhaps he needs to examine that, too, needs to start considering himself lucky for the second chance that no one else ever gets, because he gasped back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes and there has been so much pain since then but there has been beauty and now revelation)

be revised once the pen has left the paper, and all the best stories are edited before they are consumed.

But life is not a story, and he is a person, not a role, even if that thought turns everything upside-down, forces him to consider everything he thought he knew about the axis on which the world spins.

And dying cannot be poetry, because he thinks he is dying, and there is nothing lovely about it at all. Not now.

(and not then, either, though you were not ready to know it)

“Shut up, you’re not fucking dying,” Tommy says, and with the words come a wash of cold clarity, focus that he clings to desperately. It might be a mistake, because the pain comes back to the forefront, too, sharp and everywhere and overwhelming and he wants to retreat from it, and he thinks he’s going to retreat from it, if it keeps on like this, so it’s a matter of how long he can manage to hold on.

He’s only just recovered his footing. He’s not going to let himself slip away. Not when he’s only just figured out he wants to keep standing.

And then his heart spasms, sending a burst of hot pain ricocheting in his chest, and he is reminded that he might not have a choice in the matter. He tries to draw in breath, and finds his airways blocked. He tastes iron on his tongue. He tries to draw in breath, and he can’t, and his lungs are burning, burning—

“Turn his head,” Tubbo says sharply, “turn it, he’s choking—”

Someone wrenches his head to the side. He coughs, once, twice, and then he’s wracked with them, curling in on himself as best he can, hands coming up to clutch at his chest, his throat, and he can feel the blood spilling from his mouth, pooling in his cheek and splattering on his lips. Blood. It waters the vines, the vines that are turning to dust. The blood vines are watered, and nothing at all happens, because the vines are dead.

The vines are dead, and he is dying, because he’s pretty sure that his internal organs are all giving out.

“He’s coughing up blood,” Fundy says, near hysterically, “why is he coughing up blood, what’s wrong with him—?”

“The Egg hurts you when you hurt it,” Tommy answers, matching his tone, his high pitch, his fear. “The Egg—and I fucking forgot, oh my god, why did I let him do it, we should’ve figured this would happen—”

“Does anyone have pots?” Tubbo demands. “Does anyone have pots, because I don’t.”

“I didn’t grab any,” Fundy says, “it all happened so fast, I didn’t think to grab any—”

“Wait, shit, I’ve got one,” Tommy says. “Here, c’mon.”

He feels hands on him, gently pushing him out of the position he’s folded himself into. And then, he’s leveraged to sit more upright, and he groans, something in his abdomen screaming in protest at the shift. He doesn’t have the strength to keep his head up, so he lets it fall back, and it hits someone’s chest. He’s propped up against someone, and as his vision clears, just a bit, he sees Fundy crouched to one side, hands hovering over him, and Tommy kneeling right by him, tugging on the cork of a potion, so it’s Tubbo that he’s leaning against.

“Here, Wilbur, just,” Tommy starts, and then the glass is being held to his lips. He parts his lips compliantly, and he feels the liquid slide across his tongue, but there’s too much blood in his throat for it to go down smoothly, and in the next second, he’s coughing again, sputtering, trying to suck air into a throat that’s too clogged and lungs that won’t quite inflate. He jerks, and Tubbo’s arms come up from behind him, grabbing his shoulders and holding him steady even as his body tries to escape the inescapable.

“C’mon, Wil, please,” Tommy says, and his eyes are wide and so very blue, and there’s a sheen across them. Tears. He’s making Tommy cry. “Please, you’ve got to swallow.”

He can’t get in a good enough breath to be able to tell him that he’s trying, that he would very much like to swallow, it’s only that absolutely nothing seems to be cooperating with him at the moment. But surely Tommy knows that, knows that he would if he could, and he’ll keep trying, even though—even though everything hurts, and really, there’s no other way to put it than that. Everything hurts, every inch of him, like his skin is being stretched too tight and he’s boiling from the inside out.

(but then again, Tommy doesn’t know the realization he’s just come to, he just sees his brother limp on the ground and fading away before his eyes and coughing up the potion he’s given him, coughing up what might be the best chance they have to save him, and that is what Tommy sees, so is there any wonder that he automatically assumes that)

No. No, he needs Tommy to know. He needs all of them to know that he doesn’t want this, that he doesn’t want to go, that he’s not giving up.

Tommy presses the potion to his lips again, desperate, insistent. He parts them again, and this time, some of it goes down. A bit goes down the wrong pipe, in fact, setting him to coughing again, but that burn is nothing compared to everything else. He can feel the magic begin to take effect right away, racing inside of him, trying to repair what has been broken and torn apart, and because he can feel it at work, he can feel exactly what’s wrong, can feel it try to patch holes inside of him that the Egg’s death throes ripped open, can feel it surrounding his heart, trying to encourage it to beat in a steady rhythm again, can feel it in his lungs, trying to reopen one that has half-collapsed. He can feel it all, and he knows that even if he managed to down the whole flask, it wouldn’t be enough. Not for this.

Because magic can only do so much. Because magic only goes so far.

Despair pools in his chest along with the fire, but he bucks against it, because he doesn’t want

(he doesn’t want to die and it took him so long to decide as much to understand himself enough to realize it and he doesn’t want to die but his body is giving out even as he fights to stay and this cannot be how it ends, it cannot be, because the world is cruel and the world is unfair but he cannot believe that it would be so unjust as this, so unjust as to take away what he has only just realized he wants to keep)

(but then again, the world does not often listen, does not often care for what is good and what is fair, because the world simply is, and that was a lesson he learned long ago, chased from the podium, the arrow in his back, betrayal and desperation playing a counterpoint melody, and it would never have happened if fairness was something the world at large took into consideration)

(but then again, does the universe not listen, when it well and truly counts? though to say as much would be to imply that it never counted before, when it did, did and still does, still does, because perhaps he can heal if given the chance but he will not forget and neither will anyone else)

to die. He doesn’t want to die. And if ever there was a moment to fight against despair, to fight against despair and win, for once, it is now. It is now.

“I’m trying,” he gasps out, and then immediately has to stop, has to struggle for air again, his chest heaving. He’s shaking, his bones trying to flee his skin.

“I know,” Tommy says. “I know, just come on—” The potion is back, and it’s the last of it, and he manages to force down some more. His vision sharpens, his breathing becoming just ever so slightly easier, but it’s not going to be enough. His heart falters, skips several beats, sends deep pangs shooting through his ribcage, and he knows it’s not going to be enough.

“I am trying,” he insists, as soon as he has enough air for it, “I am, I don’t—I don’t want to go—”

He coughs. Something inside him shifts, grating against other things, and fuck but that hurts, and there’s blood dribbling down his lips again. Hot and sticky. Damning.

“Okay, okay, that’s good, you’re not going anywhere,” Tommy says, “you’re not, we’re not gonna let that happen—”

“Comms are still down,” Fundy says. “I’m not getting through to anyone. Should I—should I go and get someone? I’m a fast runner, I can make it there and back.”

No.

No, no, he—it makes sense, what Fundy is suggesting, but he doesn’t want his son to leave him, because what if he leaves and he—he never gets to tell him all the things he wants to say, all the things he should have said a long, long time ago, what if he leaves and the last that Wilbur sees of him is his retreating back and that’s all, that’s all there is for either of them, what if he dies here and now and he never gets to—

(a scene, imagined: the sun setting over the water, a warm, lazy breeze rustling his hair, and they are sitting side by side, quiet and companionable, and they are fishing, their lures bobbing together in the lake, and all is not fixed and all is not forgotten but there is peace and forgiveness and an opportunity to repair the once-burnt bridge and he wants that he wants he wants)

He moves his arm. The first time, it flops back down uselessly, but he tries again, expends far more effort than he should, and he hooks his fingers into Fundy’s sleeve. Fundy stills, and Wilbur looks at him. Really looks. Meets his eyes and keeps his gaze there. And he doesn’t know what he looks like, doesn’t know how bad he must appear at the moment, but though there is worry on his son’s face, there is something else there, too, something more complicated.

“Wil?” Fundy says softly.

He might not get another chance for this.

“I love you,” he says, and he can feel the words sliding into each other even as they leave his mouth, but he hopes he’s comprehensible. He prays, because he needs Fundy to know this. “I love you, and—I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry. I wanted to be better this ti—”

His heart squeezes, like it’s doing its level best to collapse in on itself, and he breaks off with a strangled squawking sort of noise. And Fundy makes an odd noise of his own.

“Shut up,” he says. “You’re not—you’re going to be fine. Stop talking like you’re going to—you can’t leave again, okay, you can’t do this to me again, you can’t—”

He’s hurting his son. Hurting his son just like he has all along, and he’s powerless to stop it, powerless once again. And there is some measure of gladness in it, in knowing that Fundy does not want him dead, but he is hurting him, hurting him when he never wanted to do so again. When all he really wanted was a chance to make things better, if he could. If he would be allowed.

He tightens his grip on Fundy’s sleeve. Fundy’s face shutters, and then he reaches over with his other hand and pries his fingers off, and Wilbur thinks that actually he might die right here and now.

Except then, Fundy takes his hand and intertwines their fingers, clutching them tightly. He tries to squeeze back and only manages a flutter, but it’s enough.

(because all is not well between you and perhaps it never will be, but know this, know that your son still loves you)

“I’m so sorry,” Tubbo says suddenly, and he can’t crane his neck to look at him, so he has to settle for listening to the words. “If I hadn’t used the totem, maybe—”

“Oh my god, don’t fucking say that,” Tommy snaps, and Wilbur quite agrees, because if Tubbo hadn’t used the totem, then perhaps this would feel very different, and perhaps he would not be terrified of the sensation of his life slipping away from him, because he would have death’s most effective preventative measure resting in his hand, waiting for his heart to still in order to repair the damage. But if Tubbo hadn’t used the totem—and he didn’t see exactly what happened, occupied as he was, but he can guess well enough from the still-present echoes of terror on Tommy’s face—then Tubbo would be dead. And that is not an acceptable loss.

“It’s the truth,” Tubbo insists.

“No,” he forces out, “no, that wouldn’t—that wouldn’t be any better—”

And then, his muscles seize. His back arches, and he hears himself cry aloud, and then the world goes away for a bit.

When it all returns, it crashes in on him at once, and he feels disoriented, exhausted, like his brain is seeking anything recognizable, anything to help make sense of what’s happening, and coming up with nothing. It takes a moment for him to remember where he is, what’s just happened, and even then, he feels dazed, almost outside of himself. He still hurts, but it’s distant. Like it’s happening to someone else.

He’s lying fully on the ground. There’s something soft under his head. A jacket? There is no one holding his hand, and a low keen rips itself from his throat. But no one’s listening—sound filters back in, and it takes effort to parse the voices from each other, speaking over themselves as they are.

“—going,” Fundy is saying, and Fundy, Fundy, he’d like Fundy to come back and be next to him, but he forces his head to flop to the side and sees that Fundy is standing now, standing with the rest of them. “I’m going, we need help, he’s—he’s literally dying right now—”

“He’s not fucking dying,” Tommy says, “would you stop saying that, he’s not—”

“If you’re gonna go get help, then go and hurry up up about it,” Tubbo is saying at the same time, and—

That’s right. He’s dying. He might have just had a seizure. That’s probably what that was. Caused by—seizures can be caused by traumatic brain things, right? Injuries? Having the Egg fucking around in there probably counts, and even beside that, he felt it die, felt it as the power of the universe flowed through the sword in its hand and tore it apart, even as it took him down with it.

(and there are some things that a mortal mind is not meant for, and surely, surely, the universe in its glory and its infinity is one of them and yet it is in your head always humming always there and it will not leave even when you do not pay it heed)

So that’s that. He’s just had a seizure, and he thinks his body’s gotten to the point where it’s given up on trying to fix anything, because the pain is fading, fading back into numbness, as if all his nerves have collectively decided that this situation is a little too fucked up and there’s nothing they can do, no point in working on it anymore. No point in signaling that anything’s wrong when nothing’s being fixed.

He’s dying.

(he doesn’t want to go)

“No way he gets back in time,” someone says. “You’ve got minutes at most.”

He’s not sure who spoke, but he agrees. Short of a miracle, he’s—he’s dying, and he wants to cry, because he doesn’t want to go. His surroundings blur.

He’s alone. Why isn’t anyone next to him? They’re standing, around him but not with him, talking to each other, voices so frantic and scared, and they’re just kids, and it’s so unfair that any of this is being put on them at all, and he doesn’t blame them for it, of course, but he thinks that if anyone was going to go for help, it should have been done right away. Not now. It’s not going to do any good now.

If he’s going to die, he doesn’t want to be alone.

(he intended to die alone, at the end of it all. he intended for himself to be the only one to be hurt. that’s one of the only reasons why he didn’t blow it all to hell sooner, because people were there, people talked him down, people like Quackity, people like Tommy, and they didn’t talk him out of wanting to do it but their presence reminded him that he didn’t want them to be hurt, he only wanted himself to hurt, because that was what was fair and that was what was right)

(but he didn’t die alone, at the end of it all. Phil held him, and he felt a little less afraid under all that relief, and the last thing he remembers from that day is warmth overwhelming, and if he’s going to die again, he doesn’t want to be cold, alone, alone)

He tries to talk, to say something, but he really is having trouble breathing now. His chest rises and falls in quick, short pants, too shallow to supply enough oxygen, too little to support his voice. He tries to move to get their attention, but his limbs don’t respond to his commands.

And then, Fundy’s taking off, running for the entrance, and no, no, no—

He finally manages to meet Tommy’s gaze. Tommy’s crouched by him again in an instant, and Tubbo is, too, grabbing his hand, and he’s glad of it, glad for the contact, but—

“It’s okay,” Tommy tells him. “You’re gonna be fine, Wilbur, Fundy’s gonna go get someone, and they’ll bring more pots, and, and another totem, too—”

His vision is darkening. He wants Fundy to come back. His heartbeats are growing more erratic, slower, weaker.

“Tommy,” Tubbo says, voice small, and stops. Tommy goes silent for a moment.

“No,” he says, then, and his voice is a sob. Wilbur wants to comfort him. He can’t move. “No, no, this isn’t fair—”

He knows. He knows, and he can’t do a thing about it.

“I—” he manages, pushing the word out with what little air is circulating through his lungs. “I don’t want—”

He can’t finish.

“I know you don’t want to go,” Tommy says, “I know, so, so you won’t, you won’t, you’re going to be fine—”

“We’re here, Wilbur,” Tubbo says. “We’re right here.”

He’s glad. He wants to stay with them.

“Jesus, Wilbur.” There’s that voice again. Not Tommy’s, not Tubbo’s. Soft and exasperated, and perhaps a little bit concerned, but he’s not sure. His ability to think, to reason, is slipping from his grasp, and one some level, that terrifies him, but on another, he can no longer care. “You giving up?”

The peculiar combination of derision and amusement is familiar. He opens his eyes; he hadn’t realized he’d closed them. Above him, a face hovers, upside-down from his vantage point. Dark hair, scruff, chipped horns, a blue sweater. Schlatt.

How long has he been here?

“Is this how you’re gonna go out?” Schlatt asks him. “Taken out by a—whatever the hell this was? You know, I’m still not clear on that. None of you assholes ever explained it to me. Some kind of demon bullshit. But you’re just gonna let this happen?”

Somehow, his voice cuts through the haze that’s filled his mind, cuts through even where Tommy and Tubbo’s voices have blended together, becoming one with the background. Perhaps it’s the sudden burst of annoyance, an energy he thought he no longer had; of course he’s not letting this happen. There’s just not a whole lot he can do to fight against acute organ failure. Does he look as if he planned this?

“You don’t want to go, though,” Schlatt says. “I heard that. Good on you, I guess. Deciding that life’s worth something after all. I’m real proud.”

He tries to glare at him. He has no idea whether his face is doing anything or not. If it is, he hopes that the boys don’t think he’s mad at them.

“Okay,” Schlatt says. “Okay, you know what? Let’s give this a try. You’re a real jackass, though, you know that? I want to make sure you know that. I need you to remember that to the end of your days. I want you to put it on your tombstone when you do finally kick it. Here lies Wilbur Soot, he was a real jackass.”

He doesn’t understand what Schlatt is trying to say. He’s rambling, as if to himself. And the world is sliding away again.

(he’s trying to hold on but there’s only so much he can do if the entire cliff face gives way there’s only so much he can do to fight against it there’s only so much)

But then, he feels it. The tether. The rope that binds them. The trailing connection. It opens up, pulling like gravity on his heart, and there’s that familiar sensation, energy leaving him, flowing down the line, except this is energy that he truly doesn’t have to spare, and the last embers of his panic flare up again, because surely Schlatt can feel it, can feel that he has nothing to give, that this is only going to kill him quicker, within seconds if he keeps this up and he may not have much of a chance here but he doesn’t need Schlatt making it worse—

“Holy shit!” he hears Tubbo say, backed up by, “What the fuck are you doing?” from Tommy an instant later. He can’t see them. He can’t see anything. Their voices are far away, and he’s trying to reach them, but he’s falling, and he can’t stop it, can’t stop himself, and the void is close.

(and he’s scared)

“Hey Tubbo,” he hears Schlatt say. Distantly, from a long way away, and getting quieter. Everything is dim. He’s floating. “You deserved better than me, kid, you really did.” A pause. “Tell Fundy the same thing, would you?”

His heart beats. Once. Twice. And then does not beat again. He’d be in pain if he could still feel it. But it’s all gone. All falling away, and the void is close, the void is reaching out to him, and he is—

And then, the tether reverses.

Energy flows back into him. What Schlatt took, and somehow, inextricably—more.

He slams back into himself all at once, gasping for air, back arching off the ground as he is hit with—everything. Sensation, in his fingers, in his toes. Pain, in every inch of him, every atom. Lungs that inflate, barely at first and then more fully. Ruptured places repairing themselves. A heart that starts again, and beats, beats, beats.

“C’mon,” Schlatt is muttering, over and over, and though Tommy and Tubbo are still talking, it’s the only voice he can latch onto. “C’mon, c’mon.” His hand is splayed across Wilbur’s chest, firm and solid, pressing down. “C’mon.”

He has sight again. Schlatt is still there, is still leaning over him, strain written on every line of his face, and Wilbur doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand what he’s doing, doesn’t understand where this energy is coming from, doesn’t understand how it’s—healing him. It’s healing him. Though—Schlatt is a ghost, is usually intangible, has to rely on Wilbur’s lifeforce if he wants to do anything, but perhaps that doesn’t mean Schlatt has none of his own. Perhaps it’s just not enough to sustain him. Perhaps it’s not enough to form him a body, not enough to create life from death.

But perhaps it’s enough for this.

Just as he works through it, Schlatt loses his solidity. His hand slips down, passing through Wilbur’s chest, and he shudders at the sensation, tingling and cold. But Schlatt doesn’t pull away, and the energy keeps flowing, and then, Schlatt starts to flicker, his form wavering in and out of reality.

And finally, Wilbur thinks he understands.

(reciprocity is something they both know well, and a connection once opened can flow both ways)

“You’re giving too much,” he says, though he’s practically mouthing the words, so thin is his voice.

“Yeah, well,” Schlatt says, his voice echoing and distant and staticky. Like a snowfall. “Maybe I want you to prove me wrong.”

Prove him wrong?

(a sunny day, flowers twisted absently in his hands, blue flowers to match the blue sweater, blue sky above, and Schlatt’s voice saying, people like us don’t change, and he once believed that, believed that his role was set and there was no going back, and he believed that for Schlatt as well, believed that for the both of them there could be no redemption, but now he isn’t so sure, and he looks into Schlatt’s eyes and he thinks that perhaps)

“Schlatt,” he whispers, and Schlatt gives him a long look. Hard, but not cruel, measured, but not mocking, considering, not dismissive. And perhaps, just perhaps, there is a little bit of regret there, too.

(regret for the boys they once were, full of life and ideas and hope, tongues sharp and minds sharper, and what good friends they used to be, in the days of their youths when they were free and unburdened and war was a tale from the past and politics a distant future and betrayal a joke and a game, when they were young, when they were young)

“Prove me wrong, Wilbur,” Schlatt says, and then, he is gone. He winks out of existence, and there is no shimmer of blue in the air, no feeling of being watched, of eyes on him, and the tether breaks, snaps apart, and he lets out a soundless shout as the backlash hits him, like a rubber band snapping back into place. The energy stops, and there is nothing in its place, and he reaches out, instinctively, searching, and finds nothing. Where the ghost was, there is blank space. Only the world, and no hum of the stars.

(the hum of the stars is in your mind and your mind only and you are alone inside of it and there is no other not anymore)

And he is alive.

“What the fuck,” Tommy is saying. His hands paw at his neck, pressing up to find his pulse, and Wilbur can feel it. The touch is warm. “What the hell did he do to you, that fucker—Wilbur? Wilbur, c’mon, answer me, man, are you still—”

“Here,” he says, and Tommy falls silent. “I’m here.”

He is here. He is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and the vines are still turning to dust above him. He is here, and he hurts, still, deeply and acutely, every inch of him aching, but his heart beats steadily, his lungs expand when he breathes, and there is no catch in his throat, no urge to cough, no churning in his stomach, no convulsions wracking him, and his vision is clear.

“Wilbur?” Tubbo asks. His voice shakes.

“I’m here,” he says again. “I’m not going. I’m still here.”

“Oh my god,” Tommy says, and then, Tommy’s all but on top of him, lying on his chest, wrapping his arms around him, knocking the breath right out of him, and Tubbo follows a short second behind, taking up all of the space that Tommy isn’t. He wheezes, but it’s a good sort of wheeze, even if it hurts. It definitely hurts. But he’s hardly about to get them to stop.

They pile on him, grabbing onto him like their lives depend upon it,

(or like his life depends upon it)

and he feels warm, and present, and here. Still here.

(safe)

(alive)

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. That’s about all the volume he can manage; his throat feels shredded. “I’m so sorry I scared you.”

“You’d better be sorry,” Tommy chokes out. “I thought you were gonna die.”

“I thought I was too,” he says. “But I didn’t want to. I fought it, I swear. I don’t want to go. I mean that.” They’re on top of his arms, pinning them. He gives them a nudge, experimentally, but they don’t give an inch, so he’s going to have to settle for not hugging them, apparently. “I’m staying right here. I don’t want to die.”

The words are novel. He thinks he’d like to say them over and over again, just to test them out, to feel the truth in them. He doesn’t want to die, and more than that, he rather thinks he wants to live. What a revolutionary thing it is, to want to live.

“You dickhead,” Tommy mutters, and buries his face in his shirt, which becomes damp in short order. He won’t call him on it.

“Please don’t do that again, though,” Tubbo says. “That was actively terrifying.”

He manages a laugh. The sound of it surprises him. “I’m not planning on it,” he says.

Despite the heavy weight of two teenage boys resting on him, he feels lighter than he has in weeks. Since he woke up in that forest, rain falling on his face, and turned to the arctic, to the snow and the tundra and the promise of family that he didn’t know how to feel about, the promise of a family that was scattered and broken into too many pieces. Since seeing his brother again a scarce day later, standing in the rain, the notes of the guitar fading in the air. Since the Egg, since the prison, since arguments and tentative reconciliations and everything that’s happened between now and then. And the thoughts still lurk. He can sense them in the shadows of his mind, ready to swell forth again, ready to tell him all about what he deserves and how he will be betrayed and how everyone hates him and he hates himself but for now—

For now, in this moment, he wants to live, and he wants to live well, and he pushes aside the whispers of what he deserves and lets himself be, and lets himself love.

(and lets himself be loved)

And then: footsteps. Several pairs, rushing down the corridor. He can’t get a good look, and the boys don’t seem inclined to take much notice, either. But he has a feeling as to who it is, and his suspicion is confirmed a moment later, as Fundy’s voice floats toward him, saying, “—bad, I mean, it’s really bad, I really think he’s literally dying, and I don’t, I just don’t—” He sounds as though he’s been keeping up this litany for some time, perhaps more as something to say than anything else, something to focus on, something to distract him a bit. His voice gets closer, and then stops. “Oh my god, is he dead?” His voice pitches upward, and overlaps with a sharp inhalation—Phil’s, he recognizes.

So there’s only one thing to do.

“Help,” he rasps, “I’m being crushed.”

There is a long moment of silence, and he almost wishes that Tommy and Tubbo would get up so that he could see the looks on their faces. Almost, but not quite. He’s content to stay like this for a good while longer.

“Oh my god, he’s alive,” Fundy says, and there is a sharp exhalation, also from Phil.

“You fucks,” Phil says, relief audible. “Do you know how scared I was?”

“I wasn’t,” Techno says. “I wasn’t worried at all.”

Finally, Tommy stirs, lifting his face from his chest and glaring off in the direction of the entrance. He also lifts a hand and flips them off.

“Fuck off,” he says. “We’ve just had a traumatic experience, we have. Are you going to stand there and be—and be twats, or did you bring anything useful? Like—” He stops, looking back down at him. His face is vaguely tear-stained, though Wilbur’s pretty sure that most of it is in his shirt. “Do you still need some pots? Or did—what the hell did he even do, anyway? How did that—you were definitely dying, and then he was there, all, all like that, and then he disappeared and you were better. What did he do?”

“Changed, I think,” he murmurs, and judging from the expression on Tommy’s face, he doesn’t get it. But that’s alright.

“Okay,” Phil says, and then he’s sweeping toward them and kneeling. His wings are on full display, he notes, no effort at all put toward hiding them, and maybe it doesn’t really mean anything, but he can’t help but feel glad. Phil should never have to hide his wings, no matter what condition they’re in. “Alright—here, Tubbo, could you move over a bit?”

Tubbo shifts off of him, too, his breathing unsteady. His eyes are slightly red-rimmed to match Tommy’s. He doesn’t say anything, just shuffles to the side so that he’s sitting next to Tommy. Phil shoots a quick smile at him, one that’s probably supposed to be reassuring but comes off as strained, and then, his hands are on Wilbur’s shoulders.

“You think you can sit up, Wil?” he asks, and Wilbur tries. He tries, but immediately gives it up as a lost cause as all his core muscles cry out in immediate protest.

“Sitting up ability is currently on strike, I believe,” he says, and Phil’s brow furrows in concern, but he takes it in stride. Behind him, Fundy and Techno are both hovering—though Fundy’s far more obvious about it. It is a bit funny how they’re both doing it, though, and the contrast between them, Techno’s bulk and general everything next to Fundy’s fidgeting. Fundy keeps casting glances at Techno, too, nervous ones.

Phil pulls him into an upright position, and he moans, his head swimming for a second before the lightheadedness abates. He hunches forward, letting gravity pull him back down a little; he thinks he’d flop over like a ragdoll if it weren’t for Phil steadying him.

“Where are you hurt the worst?” Phil asks, voice quiet. “Fundy said you were coughing up blood. And that you had a seizure, I’m guessing, judging from what he told us.”

He can still taste it on his tongue. Sharp iron. And his limbs are all very sore.

“A bit everywhere,” he admits. “I’m pretty sure all my organs were giving out on me at once, so I don’t think there’s one specific area that needs attention.” Phil’s expression widens into open dismay at that, and something very much like fear, and perhaps he shouldn’t have phrased it quite like that. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so blasé about his imminent death in front of the man who he begged to take his third life and definitely emotionally scarred in the process. But he’s still a bit wrapped up in the fact that he’s alive at all, alive and glad to be so.

“Okay,” Phil says, in a way that implies he definitely does not think that it’s okay, but he’s trying to keep it together. “Okay. That’s—okay. Do you think you could get down a regen?”

He pulls a face, but nods. Regen potions have never been his favorite; their magic is rough, unsubtle, far more concerned with function over comfort. But he likely needs one, or two, or several, or as many as his body can keep down, because he is alive, but probably far from alright, still; the continuing ache is evidence enough of that, and he’s fairly certain that if he tried to stand, he would tip over immediately. Phil has no reservations, bringing out a pot from his inventory and holding it up to him, a mirror of Tommy’s actions a minute before. Only this time, he brings up a shaking hand to help support the glass, even if he can’t hold its full weight, and he swallows all of it without coughing.

It gets to work. He winces, and then decides that he’s been on the ground long enough. The energy from the pot is more than enough for him to attempt to get up.

“Whoa,” Phil says, “wait, Wilbur—”

He’s up. His vision blacks out for a second, but when it clears, he’s still up, if woozy. He imagines he might need help to walk any significant distance, but he won’t need to be carried, at least. Which is nice. Being carried is undignified.

“You should absolutely not be standing up,” Tommy snaps, and he raises an eyebrow.

“And yet,” he says, spreading his arms. Once again, he gets the impression that he’s being far more casual about all of this than he should be. He imagines that it will hit him later, the horror of it, seeing Niki’s face twisted in rage, letting the Egg inside his mind once again, almost being unable to pull himself out, almost dying right after he figured out that he didn’t want to. It will all his him, he’s sure, but for now, he would like to walk out of here under his own power, his family by his side, everyone alive and unharmed, the trouble dealt with at last. “I’m alright. I actually mean that. I’m not going to keel over.”

He inhales. Wrinkles his nose. Actually, it doesn’t smell very nice in here.

“Is the rest handled?” he asks, glancing at Phil. Phil is standing very close to him, wings flared, likely ready to catch him if he needs it. He won’t, though he appreciates the gesture.

“We felt the Egg go,” Phil says. “It was like—like the world itself distorted for a second, and then patched itself back up. We were already on our way here when Fundy came to get us. In a nutshell, yes, it’s handled. Dream was still up when we left, but the rest of the Egg people just sort of—stopped. And nobody on our side went down hard. Eret and Puffy got the worst of it, but they’ll both be fine, last I saw.”

“But Dream was still up,” he says. Beside him, Tommy’s shoulders hunch.

“Not for long,” Techno says. His gaze is fixed behind them, on the Egg. “We would’ve stayed if we weren’t sure of it.” His eyes drift to Tommy’s for a second. “The others are handlin’ it. But we can go see.” And then, to Tubbo: “The totem came in handy.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Tubbo says, expression inscrutable. “It did. Thank you, Technoblade.”

Techno shrugs. “I gave it to be used,” he says dryly. “Let’s not make a habit of it.” And that is a Techno way of saying you’re welcome, of burying the hatchet as much as he is able, and it’s not nearly enough, but it’s a first step. And then, Techno literally steps forward, and Wilbur is a little too concerned with the way that Tubbo stiffens to notice exactly what his intent is, which is why it takes him by surprise when Techno takes his head in his hands and presses their foreheads together.

Just for a second. But it’s an old gesture, a familiar gesture, and not one that he ever expected to receive again. His breath catches.

(you were kids the first time he did this, the first time he butted his head against yours, impossibly gentle, tender in a way you hadn’t realized Techno knew how to be, and it wasn’t until later that Phil explained it to you, explained piglin instincts and the concept of a sounder and how Techno always, always feels far more than he lets on, and always, always cares, perhaps too much, and he still does, despite everything, he still does)

And then, Techno walks forward, past them, to the husk of the Egg that lies behind, and the moment is over. But it was there. It was there, when it didn’t have to be, when Techno would still be well within his rights to hold back from them, from him, to keep his distance. But here he is, displaying open affection, and he’s not naive enough to think that means it’s all fixed, but—

Hope is a dangerous thing, but he feels in the mood to indulge. And beside him, Tubbo relaxes, and Tommy, just for a second, wears an expression that suggests a bit of hope of his own.

He turns to watch Techno as he roots through the dust, a crumbling, greyed-out monument that barely holds any shape. A reminder, and nothing more. An empty shell, and that, too, will disintegrate soon enough, leaving a room of dust and lava pools, and statues long abandoned.

Techno huffs. Reaches down. And from the middle of the Egg, he pulls out—

“Is that fucking Skeppy,” Tommy states, flat as a fucking pancake.

He blinks. Because it—is. Somehow. Fucking Skeppy. Though he looks different; parts of him are the same blue, but many patches are discolored, greyish white, and as Techno hoists him up, Wilbur thinks he sees red slipping off of him, like runny paint.

“Oh my god,” Tubbo says. “Was the Egg Skeppy this whole time?”

“I was wonderin’ where this guy got off to,” Techno says, and throws Skeppy across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, apparently unconcerned. “He hadn’t been by to bother me in a while. And BadBoyHalo kind of just sat down and started cryin’ about him, which, I won’t lie, I had no idea how to handle, not my area, but I thought he might be here. Are we leavin’ these two here, or takin’ them?”

Niki and Jack. Both on the ground, chests rising and falling. Free of the Egg, now, but he’s not sure where that leaves them. Though it would likely be—

“Leave ‘em,” Tommy says, startlingly vehement. “Just, we’ll come back, leave ‘em here for now.”

“I don’t think he meant to,” Tubbo says quietly. “I think it just happened really fast.”

“Don’t care,” Tommy says. “Leave ‘em.”

He looks back and forth between them. Gold still dances across Tubbo’s skin. And he wasn’t turned around, didn’t see what happened, but he thinks he can guess, based on everything, based on Niki’s sword at Tommy’s throat and Jack pinning Tubbo to the ground, based on their desperate, misdirected need for vengeance and the way Jack shouted and a boy who would do just about anything to ensure Tommy’s safety. Hears I don’t think he meant to, and thinks about other times, darker times,

(and meaning does not always matter, because intent is washed away in impact, and he never meant to hurt them)

and he decides not to ask. Not now. Not yet. Though it should be addressed. A lot of things should be addressed, a lot of things that they have not, yet, because there has been no time, because everything has been moving at a breakneck pace, but the pace will be slower now. The pace will be slower, and they will have time.

He looks to Fundy. Fundy stares back, not saying anything at all. His eyes are wet.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Fundy murmurs. Quiet enough that he doesn’t think anyone else hears it.

“Me too,” he says. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

A start. A first step. There are so many of those that still need to be taken. For now, Fundy’s lips curl into what might be the ghost of a smile.

They will have time.

***

The scene they return to is this: some are standing, some are sitting, all gathered in the courtyard of the castle. The gates lie wide open. The vines are gone. The sun is rising.

There is Eret, standing tall, though blood still runs down from a wound on their shoulder and another long gash on their arm. Their crown is blood splattered, their glasses still perched on their nose, though slipping down, and Wilbur glances away before he can take in something he’s not meant to see. There is Puffy, kneeling, her blood on the grass around her; it is her leg that is wounded, though it is difficult to tell how badly. There is Sam, shifting, uncertain, a lost look in his eyes as his fingers flex around his trident. There is Purpled, on the outskirts, on guard but perhaps an ally, though he has no reason to be. There is BadBoyHalo, sitting, curled into himself, tears running down his face, which is less ashen. The other members of the Eggpire cluster around him, seemingly in various states of shock. None of them move. They are mostly ignored.

There is Ranboo, also sitting. His eyes are wide. Tears are streaming down his face, too, and a bit of steam rises from his skin. He pays no mind. He’s trembling, occasionally gasping for breath through a sob.

There is Quackity, still standing, hands clutched around an axe like it’s the best protection he knows how to have. He wonders if there’s any truth to that; Quackity has never been one for fighting, though he tries.

(he wonders if Schlatt wanted to say anything to him, too. wonders if it would have done more harm than good)

And then there is Dream, lying on the ground. There is George, crouched by his side. There is Sapnap, kneeling, all his weight on the sword piercing Dream’s chest. Dream’s chest rises and falls, shallow and slow, and nobody moves. Sapnap’s face is flushed, tears in his eyes, and whether they are from anger or grief, he can’t tell.

Dark smoke puffs out from under Dream’s mask and dissipates in the air. Tommy makes a small sound, and Wilbur fits his hand into his. Tommy doesn’t look at him, doesn’t look away from the sight in front of them, but his fingers curl around his.

Sapnap moves as if to draw the sword out. Dream’s hand comes up and wraps around the hilt, stopping him.

“No,” Dream says, voice a reedy whisper, free of shadow. “You need to be sure it’s gone.”

And so they stay. The only sound is crying, and Sapnap’s harsh breaths, hitched and desperate. Both angry and grieving at once. George’s hands inch forward until they’re curled into Dream’s hoodie. It’s like a painting, the three of them. The sun crests the walls of the castle, and the rays fall on them like a caress, and the smoke stops appearing. The sigils carved into the sword dim.

Dream stops breathing. Quietly, and without fanfare. Like a sigh.

As one, more than a dozen communicators chime.

Tommy exhales shakily.

(is this closure? is this what he wanted? he doesn’t know, but there is no going back, no going back to the old days, when they were all still friends and the war was a game)

(and after everything that Dream did perhaps it feels wrong that this should end so abruptly or that he should not shove the sword in his chest himself for what he did to Tommy or that Tommy should have no say in his fate but at the same time perhaps it is right and perhaps this is the way the circle breaks at last)

Techno sighs, walks over to where Bad sits, and dumps Skeppy in front of him. As if a spell has been broken, Tubbo moves, too, crossing to Ranboo and crouching before him, speaking to him in low tones. Several others start moving, like the world was on pause and has only just resumed. Sapnap draws the sword from Dream’s chest, but he remains there, kneeling by the body.

Dream looks peaceful. Though with his mask still on, it’s impossible to tell. No one motions to remove it.

Tommy presses close to him. On the other side, Fundy steps closer. Against his back, he feels one of Phil’s wings brush against all of them, a promise of shelter, of safety. Perhaps this time, it will be kept.

Just like that, it is over. Can it be over?

(is it ever truly over?)

(but in every ending there is a beginning, and the world still spins, and the grass still grows, and the sky is still blue, and finally there is more reason to look forward than back)

The sun rises. Is rising, has risen, will rise again and again and again. And he’s lived to see it.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #tubbo #fundy #technoblade #philza #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #deep breaths everybody deep breaths

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pparkerpoetry · 3 years

Text

Face Reality (Part 7)

Title: An Arena to Watch Your Sins Fight (will they ever be free?)

Summary: Purpled wakes up, and they have a discussion on where he'd been. (he hates his past) Ranboo looks around and realizes that this family is the best thing to happen to its members. (he needs it, too) Puffy snitches on how much Sam actually cares. (she does, as well) (and sam? sam finally snaps. but they don't have to know about that)

Part 1 Part 8 Masterlist

_______

Purpled woke up a day later. It was unexpected, mainly because he just… woke up out of nowhere. It had been a pretty slow day until that point, then he stumbled out of the room that he’d been put in, eyes glossy and breath panicked.

Sam stood up immediately. “Whoa, hey, buddy. Are you okay? What are you doing up?”

Purpled had just looked up at him, no recognition in his eyes. “What..? Where am I?”

“You’re at my base, in the Dream SMP. Do you remember who I am?” Sam asked, putting an arm around him and guiding him to the couch. He removed his arm quickly though, at the flinch from Purpled.

“Yeah… you’re Sam, but… how did I get away?”

“Get away from what?” Ranboo asked, just entering the room. “Fundy and I were hanging out in the woods and you just collapsed in front of us.”

Purpled appeared to get agitated. “I… Why’d they let me go?”

“Who?” Sam said softly. There was no response. “Hey, just start at the beginning if you want to, okay? Where were you… let’s start with what you remember, okay? What’s the first thing you remember?”

He gulped. “I remember Tommy and Tubbo leaving to… to go fight Dream. They were going to say goodbye to everyone, but I didn’t show up.”

Sam’s eyebrows furrowed. “Purp, that was years ago.”

The younger man nodded. “Yeah. I, uh, I left after that because I didn’t want to be there… I didn’t want to be there when Dream brought their bodies back.” Ranboo had left, and brought back the rest of the people who lived there. Purpled looked shocked to see Tommy and Tubbo. “How did you survive?”

Tommy shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I can tell you later. What’s going on?”

“He’s telling us where he’s been.” Sam said, and motioned for Purpled to continue. “Go ahead.”

“I… I went to the Bedwars server to try and clear my mind a bit, get some practice. Take a break from this SMP, and such, but after one of the games…” He started shaking a bit, and Sam wanted to hug him, but held back. If the other physical contact was any indication, Purpled wouldn't appreciate it.

“You don’t have to continue if you don’t want to.”

He still did. The memories were coming back, faster now. He almost wished they didn’t, because they weren’t pleasant. “After one of the games, a group of men approached me.”

____________

Purpled sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow. It had been a tough game, and he was tired. He just wanted to go home, wherever that was. Did he even have one? He wandered over to collect his prize, though he’d probably end up giving it to someone else since he didn’t really need it. It’d just get stolen from one of his chests in the SMP, anyway.

After, he stumbled towards the lobby with the intent of joining another game. He probably should’ve stopped a while ago. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop what happened next.

Three men went up to him while he caught his breath on a bench. One of them had a long beard, and he was the one who spoke. “You look pretty tired, ay? I saw you fighting though, you look like a pro for someone so young.”

Purpled straightened his posture in an effort to look somewhat lively. “I’m not that tired. Thanks, though, I appreciate it.”

One of the others, the one with a sick moustache, held out a water bottle. “Here, you want a drink?”

His mind was already foggy enough that he didn’t remember all of the warnings that he’d been told since he was young of the group that kidnapped Bedwars players to make them compete in illegal fighter rings. Purpled took the water, drinking it. Almost immediately, his legs started to give out. What kind of a potion was the water laced with?

“Whoa there, let me help you.”

Purpled didn’t know which one said that. He feebly tried hitting at them, but he could barely move. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t. His nerves were going haywire, someone was taking his arm, he had to move-”

He blacked out.

He woke up in a cell, and as his mind slowly came back to him, the panic set in. He knew the answers to all his questions, but he didn’t like it. It seemed like ages, but at some point, someone finally came to see him.

“Purpled, ay?” It was the one with the beard. He chuckled at Purpled’s silence. “Not much of a talker, huh? Well, I hope you’re more of a fighter in the arena than you were when we grabbed you, otherwise I might have to get a new source for information.”

“What?”

The beard-man smiled. “Ah, he speaks! Well, I’ve got a source that told me you were a formidable competitor, and wouldn’t be all that missed, so having a fighter from the famous Dream SMP will bring in the big bucks. I’m taking chances with you, none of the others wanted to nab a kid. Somethin’ about morals.”

Purpled scowled. “What happens if I refuse to fight, or if someone comes to find me?”

“I don’t think that you’ll find either of those an issue. We’re well secluded, and if you don’t fight, well,” The beard-man held a sword to Purpled’s throat. “Suddenly it won’t be much of my issue, anyway, will it?”

Purpled swallowed thickly and fell silent. He hoped someone would look for him, maybe.

They didn’t.

Each competition was it’s own little hell. He tried to fight the first time he was brought out of the cell, but they learned that it was just easier to drug him. He’d wake up in a base, in an arena surrounded by an audience, and when the shrill alarm went off, the fighting began. The first few times, Purpled would refuse to fight, but he learned that the pain that came afterward wasn’t worth it. He grew used to looking away from his opponents. He hated seeing the light dim, knowing what they would go through for failing to win.

Better them than him, though. In this world, it was kill or be tortured. He was never given the luxury of death to dull the pain.

He quickly rose in the ranks, challenging the best fighters in this underground arena. As he improved, so did the security. He learned to only use enough of his abilities to win. He’d let them underestimate him, because if no one was coming to rescue him, he’d have to do it himself.

The first time he tried to escape was during a competition. About half-way through, when security was the weakest, he barged through the doors and overpowered the guards. He got pretty far, but he was tackled and hauled back to his cell in a muzzle and a straitjacket. He wasn’t given food for a while. He wasn’t even visited.

The next time he saw someone, it was when they grabbed him to fight again. They had kept him constrained, so they didn’t bother with the drugs, which he liked. He felt alive again.

He tried to get away again, and though he was stronger, the security was better. He managed to exit the stadium, only to be shot down. He was dragged back to his cell by his hair, which was greasy and dirty by now. They’d taken the arrow out of his leg, but they weren’t too gentle about it and didn’t bother bandaging it. He spent that night shivering, hands still bound, wondering if this was where he died, in a puddle of his own blood.

A medic came the next morning. They couldn’t have their biggest source of money dead, but they could let him suffer.

He won the next competition, and the one after that, and the one after that. He didn’t hesitate anymore. It wasn’t worth it. He was hurt for any pausing of his blade, and it was just easier to win.

Purpled became the crowd favorite. The noise of their cheers hurt his ears, and soon, he was broken. He came out of his cell willingly, he wasn’t tied up for movement, he just walked with his guards to the arena. He barely remembered life before the fighting ring.

It was only after he blacked out during a competition, woke up surrounded by bodies and liked it, that he realized he needed to leave. He would lose himself if he stayed any longer, and he was all he had left.

He started putting a plan together, but it took time for him to finally escape. He started blacking out more, waking up victorious. He started smiling at the bloodstains on his clothes. He hated himself for it. He knew his opponents would just respawn, but the punishment they faced for losing would be worse than death.

Everything started to be worse than death. Maybe even life.

Purpled took a different approach to escape the third time. It was years after he’d been taken. He doubted anyone outside even knew his name anymore. He waited until he’d won the competition to start going through the doors. They only sent one guard, because they thought he was compliant.

He walked slowly, as if defeated. When he saw the big double doors, he sprinted. He had a head start, and the guard was taken by surprise. He took out a knife that he’d bought and hidden, and when he heard the footsteps behind him as he approached the portal to leave the arena, he held it out.

He spoke for the first time in what felt like forever. His voice was gravelly. “I know how much I am to you.” He flipped the blade to rest against his side. A stab there wouldn’t be fatal, but anything else would. They wouldn’t be able to hurt him if he stabbed himself, because they would risk him respawning alone, while everyone was here. “No one get closer, or I’ll do it.”

Purpled stepped into the portal. He set his destination as the Dream SMP. Maybe he’d be safe there.

He made it pretty far until he heard someone chasing him. He didn’t hesitate, and plunged the blade into his side. It hurt like a bitch, but he needed to escape. Adrenaline flooded his body as the blood flowed out, and he heard a voice yell at everyone to stop running after him. If he died and respawned, they’d need people back in the Bedwars server to catch him.

Purpled ran into the nearest forest he could find, hoping to lose the people still chasing him. He must’ve succeeded, and then he was just running blindly with no destination.

His side was bleeding still, and his head was starting to become fuzzy again. Distantly, he heard voices, but they sounded soft. Not harsh. He took his chances and stumbled towards them.

He emerged from the trees, and could feel himself fall. The voices sounded miles away, but he heard his name. The darkness called to him, and this time, he had hope that it would be better when he woke up.

_____________

“And, yeah. Then I woke up here.” Purpled laughed nervously.

Sam exhaled slowly. “I can’t believe no one noticed how long you’d been gone. I’m so sorry, I should’ve realized.”

Purpled shrugged. “Not really your fault.”

It was silent for a moment, and Ranboo couldn’t help but sympathize with Purpled. He’d heard stories of the illegal fighting, but he never thought he’d know someone affected by it. He was horrified.

As he looked around the room, Ranboo realized that so was everyone else. He was a very good noticer, he liked to think. He saw that everyone in the room was messed up in their own ways, but their dysfunctional family was a place for them to find comfort, recovery, and peace.

He saw it in Fundy, in the way that he always made himself smaller when someone raised their voice, and how he never liked to be left alone in the house, but he loved to curl up at the foot of one of the beds in the bedroom that everyone shared despite there being plenty of others.

He saw it in Tommy and Tubbo and the way their eyes would get glassy while they dreamed and show reflections of battlefields and violence. He saw every time Tubbo woke up with a gasp from dreams colored red, white, and blue, and reached for Tommy. Tubbo would begin preening Tommy’s wings for comfort, slow and meticulously. Tommy always let his family touch his wings, but anyone else would get snarled at. When Tommy woke up to Tubbo petting his feathers, he always would wrap one around the smaller boy and snuggle back into the blankets. Their breathing was softer after that, when they clung to the other as if they would disappear.

He saw it in Purpled, especially, in the next few days. Purpled always froze when someone touched him, and insisted on getting his own food, but he fit into the family dynamic well. He liked movie nights especially, particularly stupid comedies that made him laugh. Purpled let down his guard in the walls of Sam’s house, and didn’t feel the need to constantly be armed. He wasn’t scared of blacking out or liking the smell of blood.

He even saw it in himself. He wasn’t worried about being abandoned again, he wasn’t scared of his powers. He might forget to speak English in the mornings every now and then, he might wake up crying and need help to stop, but he let himself fall into the embrace of his family when he needed the help. There was always someone to help me.

He maybe saw it in Sam the most. No one was completely sure of Sam’s past, but the way he hissed every time someone startled him, or tried to hide how he coughed up gunpowder occasionally probably had something to do with it. Sam was so focused on building, whether it be with materials or a safe family, that there had to be something in his past with destruction. No one asked, though. They just leaned against his shoulder whenever he wedged himself on the couch between them.

Ranboo’s mind wandered further. He hadn’t seen Puffy or Niki in a few days, and though he wasn’t concerned, he missed them.

“I think I’m going to see Puffy this afternoon. Does anyone want to come with me?” He asked, breaking the lengthy silence that had settled over the room. They were all just lounging, but Sam was looking out the window towards the woods. He was letting out a soft sizzling noise, and walked towards the door.

“I don’t think so, Ran. You wanna walk with me a little bit, though?” Sam asked, and Ranboo got up to follow.

“What you looking at, big man?” Ranboo asked, trying to ignore how Tommy was rubbing off on him.

“Oh, just thought I saw something that I want to double check, and you’re going this way anyway.”

They reached the edge of the forest, and Sam held out a hand to make Ranboo stop walking. He looked around a little, then lunged towards one of the bushes. He came out with one hand grasped around the collar of a man with a large moustache.

“So you were the one I heard the other day. Are you one of the people who were hunting Purpled?” Sam hissed, and Ranboo knew his throat was burning with the feeling of gunpowder.

The man flinched at the harshness of Sam’s voice. “I was just looking for him. He’s been staying with us for a while and he ran off, we were hoping you knew where he went?”

Sam crouched and squinted. “How much of an idiot do you think I am?” Ranboo was surprised at the coldness in Sam’s voice. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you right here for how much you hurt him. You’re lucky I don’t just slit your throat for coming here and threatening the safety of my family.”

The man cowered. “He doesn’t have any family. I don’t even know who you are.”

Sam laughed, but it wasn’t the kind one that Ranboo knew. This chuckle was harsh and unforgiving. “You wouldn’t have a reason to. I tend to stay in the shadows until something needs to be done. I suggest you leave now, and I suggest you don’t come back.”

Ranboo liked to think that he knew what Sam was planning on. So, once Sam had stood back up and let the man go, he asked, “How long of a head start are you giving him?”

Sam laughed and started leaving. “Not long.”

(Sam was gone for awhile. They got the news a few days later that someone had gotten into one of the fighting rings and dismantled the entire operation. No one was sure how, nor who it was. One was dead: the man with the long beard. There were small holes from explosions, and the air smelled of gunpowder. No one would come for Purpled after that.)

Ranboo shrugged and continued on his journey, eventually finding himself on the steps of Puffy and Niki’s house. He knocked on the door, and Niki opened it with a smile and pulled him into a hug. “Hey, Boo! It’s been a hot minute, where’ve you been?”

“Just hanging out! Tubbo, Fundy, and Purpled have joined us, so the bedroom is getting a little crowded.”

Puffy walked over as Ranboo was ushered into the house. “Didn’t he spend an entire day renovating his base to have bedrooms for all of you guys though? I remember he showed me blueprints and they all had names on them.”

Ranboo paused. “You mean… He planned on housing us?”

Puffy shrugged. “Yeah, it was either him or me. We figured all you guys deserve a break, some peace, after all you’ve been through.”

Ranboo hummed. “Interesting.”

“Just don’t bring it up to him, though.” Niki piped up. “He’ll never admit to it. Too humble. Tea?”

“Yes, please, dear!” Puffy said, and Ranboo said he’d have some too. It was incredibly domestic, just sitting at the dining room table, sipping tea, and talking about everything. Niki mentioned how she was working on a garden, and Puffy said she was going to make an apiary, so Ranboo sat and listened to them chatting.

He told them about the new additions to the family, and they said they’d have to bake cookies for them or something. They ended up making brownies that afternoon, and Ranboo helped. By the time they finished, it was dark, so the two women convinced Ranboo to stay the night and they’d go with him to deliver the brownies in the morning.

When the group of three did go back to Sam’s house, they stayed for most of the day. Why would they leave, when the couch was so comfy, and the laughs were plenty, and Tommy’s wings needed preening?

#ranboo #purpled #awesamdude #tubbo #fundy #captain puffy #morning #nihachu #dreamsmp #tommyinnit #angst #fic #ao3 #hurt/comfort #not much comfort tho tbh

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the-great-imagines-of-1812 · 4 years

Text

Through The Years pt. 5 (Bucky Barnes x fem!Stark! Reader)

A/N: feedback is appreciated, as always!

the tags: @the-romanian-is-bae @a-girl-who-loves-disney

the warnings: torture (nothing too intense, but still.), explosions, wounds, captivity, angst, fluff at the end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NOVEMBER 3RD, 1943.

KRAUSBERG, AUSTRIA. A HYDRA BASE.

4:00 HOURS.

“Vake up! Vake up!” Was the first thing you heard when you woke up, laying strapped down on a cold metal table, in a dark room, with a light shoved right in your face. A thick German accent.

Oh no.

You tried to open your eyes to the best of your ability, albeit they still hurt and your whole body stung with pain beyond imaginable. “Hurry up!”

A harsh slap to your face.

If this didn’t make you open your eyes, you feared what was next. As you opened them, the light which was once harsh on your face now illuminated a good part of the room. Despite the pain in your neck, you were able to turn your head and see-

Bucky.

No. You wouldn’t let them hurt him. “Bucky, baby please- are you okay?” you were able to say through tears, feeling a sob on it’s way. He doesn’t seem to hear you at first. It’s as if he’s blanked out on reality, in another world. He then proceeds to snap out of it, turning his head to you. He too is strapped to the table.

He lets out a cough before letting out a relieved breath. “Doll, hey.” he seems to lose his breath for a second. “I won’t let them hurt you, darlin’. I promise.”

“I should be saying that Barne-”

“SILENCE! Project Survival has begun.” the man said. Turning your head as much as the pain allowed you to, you were able to catch a glimpse of him. He was an average height, with some hair on his head and round glasses.

Arnim Zola. The one and only right hand man to Johann Schmidt. You had heard about him before, while in several briefings with Erksine. That was now in the past. He was no longer a name and a photograph. He was a reality.

Laying your head back once again, you thought of Howard. What would he do without you? Would he be able to rest at night knowing this is how you met your end?

No. You couldn’t. As he said, many more birthdays to celebrate.

Shifting uncomfortably under your armor and clothes, your breathing picked up and went short as Zola rolled a table between you and Bucky, full of bottles and syringes, scissors and scalpels.

He fills a syringe up with a blue liquid from a bottle. He then proceeds to shine it in the light. “Who shall go virst, hmm? The lady-” he looks at you. “Or ze gentleman?”

“NO! i won’t let you hurt her. Give it to-” Bucky said, desperately; his eyes darting between you and Zola.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Barnes, I thought you knew better. Ladies first, is that not correct?”

Zola then proceeds to walk over to the end of your table with your head on it, grabbing it by the chin and setting it straight so it won’t move.

“Just a little zomehting, hmm?” a pause. “To enhance that little ability of yours.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “W-What ability, sweetheart? What’s he talking about?”

There are no more words from any three of you and Zola plunges the needle into your neck in such a harsh manner, making you scream and causing your whole body to thrash. It causes your whole body to go numb and a pounding headache to arise.

The last thing you hear before you black out is Bucky yelling a “NO!” and Zola laughing.

This was going to be a long day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NOVEMBER 3RD, 1943.

KRAUSBERG, AUSTRIA. A HYDRA BASE.

12:00 HOURS.

You wake up slowly and easily this time, the sunshine on your face. The room was quiet this time. No Zola, no harsh light in your face. Just a numb body and a migraine.

The straps didn’t hurt anymore, for some reason.

You turned your head to see Bucky, also waking up from his -chemical- induced sleep. “What’d they do to you, Buck?” He turns his head. The tear marks are evident on his face. He sighs.

“More like what didn’t they do? I feel awful.”

This brought tears to your eyes. “My feet hurt so much. I can’t feel much else. It’s pretty numb. Buck. I’m scared.” He stares back at you, tears welling up in his eyes. All he wanted was to keep you safe. If it were up to him, he’d whisk you off to Brooklyn, right now. Maybe you could meet his Ma, Rebecca too. You could be the best of friends.

He would take you dancing, after you’d both reveal the relationship to Howard. He’d be mad at first, but then able to see eye to eye with you. he would dress in his tailored navy blue suit, only one he had. Oh, and you’d be wearing that stunning sky blue dress you told him about once, with a red lip and victory curls. Absolutely beautiful.

He thought about it more. He’d pick you up exactly at 9′o’clock, your brother greets him at the door. You’re still getting ready, and Howard reluctantly invites him in. You’d eventually come down the stairs, a little bit out of breath, but stunning nonetheless. Howard is happy, but he’d never show it in front of Bucky.

You’d dance cheek to cheek. He brings you home exactly at 10:30, like Howard instructed demanded. He’d kiss just your cheek, knowing Howard is probably watching, probably holding a bat. Made of wood. Or maybe metal. Or maybe both. You’d go up to your room after saying goodnight. You’d put on a nightgown, and just before putting your hair in rollers you’d hear him climbing up the fire escape to give you a proper kiss, just as Howard walks in with the bat in hand, ready to shoo him off.

It would be perfect, albeit a bit chaotic. But there be peace and no pain, and that’s what mattered.

The tears stream down his face. “Darlin’, what was he talking about? What ability? Enhance what?”

Your eyes start to tear up as well. “I’m sorry! I was so scared!” You break and before you know it, you’re crying so much it shakes the table.

“Doll, you don’t have to tell me now-”

“I want to. I should’ve a long time ago. It’s called Telekinesis. I can move objects with my mind, if I focus. But it’s still hard sometimes. I don’t know what he did to me!”

“Hey, sugar. Oh, my love. It’s alright. We’re going to be just fine, I promise ya. Just close those eyes for me. I’ll still be here when you wake up, alright?”

Nodding, you laid your head back and relaxed, as much as you possibly could.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NOVEMBER 3RD, 1943

THE ALLIED POWERS’ BASE, ITALY.

19:00 HOURS.

The thunder was as loud as gunshots and could probably be heard all the way in Spain. But the rain made the mood all the more bitter as Steve sat drawing in a little sketchbook.

“Hello Steve.”

Steve, hearing Peggy, turns around. She seems sad, tear marks on her face. “Hi. What are you doing here? Is everything okay, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She quickly wipes her face with her hands. “Officially, I’m not here at all.That was quite the performannce.”

Dodging his head back to the ground, “Yeah. I had to improvise a bit. Most of the crowds are a bit - are a bit more.. twelve-.” He looks back up at her. “But you’re dodging the question. Are you ok?”

“Schmidt sent forces out to Azzano. There were two-hundred men went up against him, led by newly appointed Lieutenant General Y/N Stark. Less than fifty returned. Your audience contained what was left of the 107th. The rest where either killed or captured, we don’t know.”

Steve’s heard perks up. “The 107th?”

Both hiding under Peggy’s coat, they ran to General Phillip's tent under the rain. They walk in to a frantic man, talking to the General so fast, he might just run out of words.

“Captain Andrews, I’ll need you to calm down.” he turns to Peggy and Steve “Ah, the Star-Spangled man with a plan. What’re you up to?”

“I need the casualty list from Azzano. I just need one name-”

“You’re not one to give me orders, son.”

Both men are interrupted by Captain Andrews. “Excuse me sir, my name is Tommy Andrews. I-I’m a Captain, I serve in Lieutenant General Stark’s Company.”

Steve looks at him with a range of emotion on his face. “Hello, Captain. What can you tell me?”

Tommy takes a deep breath to calm himself before continuing. “We had just set up camp in Bordeaux, resting up before invading Azzano. It wasn’t time yet. but we were too late, and we were ambushed. The Lieutenant General told me to run away with as many men as I could. Told me to contact General Philips. Both the Lieutenant General and your friend, Sergeant Barnes were captured. I’m sorry.”

Steve shook his head. “There’s no need to be sorry, Captain. You did what was right, following your orders.” he turns to General Phillips.

“Since when is Stark a Lieutenant General? When did he-”

“She. His sister. Not him, Rogers.” General Phillips cut him off.

“But how-. Look. just give me their names. Tell me their alive. B-A-R-N-E-S and S-T-A-R-”

“I’ve signed more condolence letters than I care to count. Her brother is devastated. But Barnes does sound familiar. I’m sorry, son.”

“General, but what about a rescue mission?”

“They are 30 miles behind enemy lines. In some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. Possibly in the world. We’d lose more men than we’d save. You wouldn’t understand, chorus girl.”

“I understand just fine.”

“Then go understand somewhere else. From what I know, you’ve got somewhere to be in 30 minutes.”

“I do.”

Phillips starts to say something, but Steve already took off, Peggy behind him.

While he’s putting on a jacket and helmet, Peggy asks “Are you insane?! What’re are you going to do, walk to Austria? And as the General said, they’re probably dead!”

“These are my friends, Peggy!”

“You don’t think I- Y/N’s been my best friend since secondary school. She’s the older sister I always wished I had! It like losing family, Steve!”

Steve walks out of the tent, loading his stuff in the car. “You told me before I was meant for more than this. Did you mean that?”

There’s a silence as the pair stare into each others eyes. “Every word, Steve. But let me help you.”

~~~~~~~

On the plane, Peggy is showing Steve a map, where he’s supposed to be headed. “The HYDRA camp is in Krausberg, between these two mountains.”

“We should be able to drop you off right at their doorstep.” Howard said from the cockpit, in a cold tone.

“Just get me as close as you can. Howard, how are you holding up?”

“Listen here Rogers. You don’t talk about her, don’t think about her. You didn’t know her like I did.”

“Sir, with all due respect, she was my friend-”

“WELL SHE WAS MY SISTER! She was all I had left. Now if you don’t bring back her Company and ease that poor Captain Andrews’s soul, I will make sure the rest of your life is miserable.”

There’s a sad silence throughout the plane. Peggy speaks up. “Stark is the best civilian pilot I’ve ever seen. He’s brave enough to man this airspace. We’re lucky to have him.”

Gunshots are heard, and the trio knows they’ve arrived at the destination. Steve approaches the door, ready to jump out. “When I land, you turn this thing around and go back, understood?”

“You can’t give me orders!”

“Like hell I can, I’m Captain!”

~~~~~~~~

NOVEMBER 3RD, 1943.

KRAUSBERG, AUSTRIA. A HYDRA BASE.

20:00 HOURS.

“Bucky-Bucky, wake up!” you say, trying to get him to open his eyes. He does, but once again stares off into space. Once he hears you crying, he turns his head. “Hi. Are you okay? How much does it hurt, sweetheart?”

“It’s almost nothing. Something is different, although. I can feel it.” you said, through sobs.

“We’re gonna be alright. You know that, right?”

You take a deep breath and nod. “You think we’re gettin’ out of here?”

“We can only hope.”

You close your eyes and tilt your head back as gunshots are heard outside, and someone running down the corridor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the narrow corridor, Steve hears a groan and cries from the ‘operating’ room the soldiers had told him about. Looking both ways before going in, he enters the room slowly, with caution. As he pears in further, he sees to people strapped to tables. He make his way closer to them, and there laying there-

Bucky, Bucky and you.

He walks over to undo the straps on Bucky’s body. “Hey, Hey Buck, it’s me.”

Bucky is able to focus his eyes on Steve “Hey. Steve”. Laying a hand on his shoulder, Steve whispered “I thought you were dead.”

“And I thought you were smaller. Please, I need to help her, Stevie. She’s hurting.”

Realizing who he’s talking about, he walks over to you, laying conscious on the table and undoing the straps. You come to and turn to see Steve and Bucky.

The crackle on gunshots is heard outside. The three of you flinch.

You are able to support yourself a bit better now. “Steve, hi. How are you doing? You ok?”

“Stark, I should be the one asking you that. Let’s get out of here.”

“Stevie, how do you two know each other? What happened to you?”

“I joined the army, all thanks to her and her Howard Stark.”

“You’ll have to tell me about it later.. Did it hurt? Is it permanent?”

“Only a little Buck. And yes, permanent so far. I hope it is.”

Coming from outside, the three of you hear an explosion, causing the three of you two walk down the hallway as quick as possible. You make it to the bridge above the power plants, and the three of you climb to the top, hoping to find an escape route, and quickly.

But like everything else today, it didn’t go as planned, as a thick German accent cut through the air. “Captain America! How exciting! I am a great fan of your films!” Schmidt said, being followed by Zola.

You whimper in fear, and as Bucky hears this, quickly tucks you into his side, stroking your hair in an attempt to calm you down. “Y/N Stark! I am a very very big fan of your work! Hydra would be blessed to have someone like you.”

Schmidt turns to Steve again. “So, looks like Dr. Erksine managed it after all. Not exactly an improvement, but impressive. I have to give it to him.”

Steve then proceeds to wack Schmidt across the face with his shield, which results in him knocking Steve back with a swift punch. Now on opposite sides of the bridge, Zola pushed a button that made both sides seperate from one another.

“You see, no matter what lies Erksine told you-”

You cling to Bucky in fear.

“I was his greatest success!” Schmidt then proceeds to take the skin off his face, to reveal a new, bald, red skull. “You pretend to be a simple soldier, Captain. But you refuse to admit that we’ve left humanity behind! Unlike you, I choose to embrace it proudly. Without fear!” Zola and Schmidt then proceed to go into an elevator, that carried them far away from the two of you.

There are more explosions from below, and Steve leads you both to climb another set of stairs. On this bridge, you encounter a narrow beam made of iron. The only thing separating you from the other side. “Okay one at a time.”

Steve looks between the two of you. “Y/N you first, please.” You shake your head. “I’ll be able to make it anyways. I have the serum. It’s in my blood.”

“That’s a story for another time. Bucky, i guess it’s you then.”

“No! I can’t just cross to the other side and leave here here!”

“Bucky, please just do it! I’ll be fine.” He proceeds to give you a quick peck on the lips and Steve helps him mount the beam. The beam creaks and falls down as he walks, but luckily he jumps just in time.

“Go on Buck! Get out of here!” you yell.

“No! Not without you guys!”

You back up to the side as Steve makes a brave jump across the bridge. That only leaves you on the platform. “C’mon! You can do it! I Know you can!”

Taking a deep breath, you unbutton your uniform coat, revealing the chest plate of your armor. Whipping out a sword, you throw it to the other side and jump.

The sword catches you in mid air, as one hand stuck to the railing. Steve and Bucky help you up.

“Let’s get out of here, boys.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NOVEMBER 4TH, 1943

THE ALLIED POWERS’ BASE, ITALY.

9:00 HOURS.

“I took a chance on you, Agent Carter. Now not only is America’s golden boy dead, but my Lieutenant General too. All because you had a crush.” General Phillips said.

“It wasn’t that, General. I believed in him.”

“I hope it’s a comfort to you when they shut this division down, Agent.”

Outside, there were a bunch of soldiers running. Not from, but to. “What in the hell is going on out there?” General Philips seemed to ask himself, as he made his way outside, Peggy following him.

There marching right beside Steve, were you and Bucky. The 107th had gone through hell, and made it back alive. Soldiers started cheering and clapping, approaching the group. There was even one who exclaimed “Look who it is!”

Howard hears all the commotion from his tent and goes outside to see what’s going on. He stands behind Peggy, hoping to catch a glimpse of what caused so much ruckus in the once silent base. It couldn’t be. You were supposed to be dead.

“General Philips, these men need medical attention.” said Steve, as you and Bucky stood at his side. Your turn to Bucky. “Told you we’d make it out, darlin’?”

“Maybe I should trust you more, Buck. Thank you.” You said as he locked his eyes with your own, wrapping his arm around you. “You better. I plan on having you around for a long time, sweetheart.”

“Really, now? I sure hope so, Buck. You’re my person.”

A smirk makes it’s way onto his face. “I’m your person? Well, then. I ain’t planning to let you go forever plus a day. I’m so happy to have you.”

“You better do something about it, wise-guy. I see Colonel Johnson eyeing me from the tactical tent-”

Before you can finish your sentence, he swoops you up, pulling you into a deep kiss as he lifts you off the ground and gives you a small spin.

“Barnes you are someth-”

“Y/N!” you and Bucky immediately pulled away from each other, and you turned to see Howard right in front of you. “Y/N! oh my god!”

You start to fiddle with the buttons on your uniform. “Howard! I’m sorry you had to find out like this-”

“Nonsense! I’m just glad your home. Even if it involved getting with- him” Howard said, making a hand gesture towards Bucky, who was behind you, cowering in fear. You wrapped your arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry, Howwie. I hate to make you worry.”

“Well, I also hate that you make me worried, but it isin’t your fault” You pull away from Howard’s hug and Bucky holds out his hand.

“I’d like to formally introduce myself, Mr. Stark. You haven’t let me introduce myself. My names James Buchanan Barnes, sir. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, without you threatening to fight me.”

Howard, hesitantly holding his hand out, “The pleasure is all mine, James. I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. All I want is to see my sister happy. Which, you obviously do so- maybe I won’t chase you with a bat.”

“Howard!”

He lets out a laugh. “I only want the best for you, you know that. Now, I’m pretty sure Phillips wants you to give a debriefing.”

You nod. “See you later, Buck?”

“You know it, darlin’” he walks off.

“He loves you, you know. You can tell from his eyes. You’ll always be able to tell from someone’s eyes, sis.”

“What would you know? I be t you don’t even remember that one girl’s name!” you said, crossing your arms.

“Of course I remember. Maria, from New Haven. moved here to learn how to play piano. You’ve got to meet her sometime.”

“I hope so. Give her the sibling talk?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me.” you said, walking away.

“Wait-wait. This conversation isn't over!” he chases after you.

~~~~~~~~~~~

This was a long one, good god. anyways i spent an entire day on it so please show it some love. <3

- Talya

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #marvel #marvel imagines #marvel x reader #marvel x you #marvel x y/n #Steve Rogers #peggy carter x best friend! reader #peggycarter #Howard Stark #howard stark x sister reader

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imaginesblvd · 4 years

Text

Title: Be My Baby

Steve Harrington x Reader

The request was for Steve x reader, a fake date cliche or something with Steve saying stuff off the fluffy prompts list like “could you hold my hand” or “you can’t leave without hugging me” or “don’t pull away yet”. I hope everyone that reads enjoys! Requests are open!

You hear the annoying smacking sound of gum and already know who’s coming your way. Carol leans against the locker beside you, you glance at her out of the corner of your eye. She’s blowing a bubble with the pink strawberry flavoured gum. You wonder what brought her to you, what gossip does she have to share with you, that she didn’t share in class. The gum pops and you turn to her brows raised

“Billy’s going to ask you out” She lowers her voice as a group of girls pass by “and if I were you, I’d think up a lie to tell him because you don’t want to go on a date with him, trust me”

“Okay, let’s pretend for a second that what you say is true, why don’t I want to go on a date with him?”

“Just trust me, okay?”

She squeezes your shoulder before leaving you standing alone at your locker. You’re not even friends with her, and yet she’s warning you about Billy. She's not the first person to warn you about him, in fact the first person was Steve. Carol’s warning though is different, she’s pleading you not to go with Billy as where Steve doesn’t want you anywhere near the problematic teen.

Cursing lowly as you remember Steve is waiting for you outside. You gather the rest of your books in your bag before slamming the locker shut and racing towards the double doors. When you step out you see Steve sitting in his car, his fingers drumming the steering wheel. Seeing him makes a smile spread across your face, and all thought of Billy and Carol leaves your mind.

“Hey” Billy’s unexpected arrival causes you to step back in surprise “I was thinking, maybe me and you go on a date tonight” so Carol was telling the truth

“I actually can’t” Your eyes flash towards Steve, an idea popping into your head “I already have plans with Steve tonight”

“Harrington?” He laughs as he pulls a smoke from the worn pack in his hands “That’s a shame, where’s he taking you?”

Steve meets your eyes, and you smile over at him. He looks as if he wants to get out of the car but you hope he doesn’t because the lies your spewing out to Billy right now probably won’t sit well with him. He’s getting out of the car and now you have to act fast, and get Billy moving or he’s going to say something to Steve and this might all come crashing down.

“We’re going to the arcade, and maybe catch a movie, we don’t have a solid plan yet”

“Let’s make it a double, I’ll see you at the arcade”

Billy leaves with a wink. Cursing under your breath as you race over to Steve. He wraps an arm around you, and his other hand cups your cheek looking you deeply in the eyes. The anger behind his eyes forms a pit in your stomach, as he rushes you into the car. He’s acting as if Billy had hurt you and begins to rant about how Billy needs to stay away from you.

You can’t tell him. You don’t want to tell him, he’s already so worked up as it is. Not only that, but what if he says no? Or worse, what if he says yes? And then it all leads to some big fight. Steve isn’t much of a fighter, you’ve seen what he looks like after a fight. He gets all banged up and you have to clean him up and worry about if anything’s broken. You don’t think you’d be able to handle actually seeing it.

“What did he want anyways?”

. . . . . . .

Steve pulls at the collar of his shirt, he doesn’t remember it being this tight before. His jelly like legs carry him up to your door. He clears his throat and realizes he forgot something in the car. He races back and picks up the flowers from the passenger seat. He smells them and turns to see you standing at the door. He curses under his breath.

“Hey! I got these for you” Steve races back up the walk away as he hears a chuckle come from you

“They’re beautiful, thank you” You take the flowers from his outstretched hand and smell them

Steve had waited outside while you ran the flowers inside. When you come back out he walks at your side, and gets the car door for you. He sees the faint smile you try to hide grow on your face and feels warmth spread throughout his body. He races to the opposite side and climbs in. He wants to make a comment about Billy, but decides against it. He sees your nervous and doesn’t want to make it worse.

Steve plays the music low, low enough to have a conversation over but neither of you say anything. He hates that Billy put you in this position, but at the same time he wants to thank him. Steve’s been trying to figure out ways to ask you out and he knows this isn’t the best way to do it, after all you put a lot of emphasis on how this won’t mean anything. He gets to have you as a fake girlfriend for one night.

“I could always beat him up, you know?” Steve jokingly says as he pulls into the arcade parking lot

“I hate when you fight, you always get so banged up and who has to clean you up after?” You pause but don’t give him time to answer “me, and it hurts my heart seeing you like that”

Steve nods, a soft smile forms on his lips. He gets out of the car and races over to the other side to let you out. He bites his lip, as he turns to look into the window of the building. Billy’s already inside with his date. He goes to make a joke but when his eyes land on your nervous form he can’t make it.

“Could you hold my hand?” He softly asks instead

He chuckles softly when your hand quickly intertwines with his. He pulls you into him and wraps his free arm around you, he kisses the top of your head and whispers encouraging words to you. He feels you relax a little in his arms, and starts to gently pull you along with him into the arcade.

. . . . . . . .

Billy and Steve are at each other’s necks. They keep trying to one up each other no matter the game. His date looks bored, she keeps looking at the clock like that’ll speed time up. Honestly, you wish time would speed up. It wasn’t that you were bored, it’s just it’s getting hard to pretend.

“Babe! Did you see that!?” Steve’s grin makes you smile as you nod

He’s so sweet and loving. You can’t take it anymore, because when you look over at Billy and his date you remember why you're here. You remember that after tonight things will go back to normal and you don’t want that. You’re happy with Steve, more happy than you’ve ever been. You want more than just a night with him.

“What’s wrong?” Steve’s voice catches you off guard

“Nothing” you smile “I just- uh- I have to go to the bathroom”

“You can’t leave without hugging me” he teasingly whispers into your ear, and you shiver slightly at the feel of his breath on you

You wrap your arms around him and after a moment he pulls away. He presses a lingering kiss to your cheek. Warmth spreads across your cheeks as your heart hammers in your chest. Before you walk into the bathroom you turn to look at him, and he’s already looking at you. You blow a kiss to him in a joking manner and he laughs.

After doing your business, your standing at the sink washing your hands. You hear the familiar smacking sound of gum and see Carol standing in the mirror behind you. You press your lips together tightly as you turn, a brow raises in question.

“It’s good you’re not here with Billy”

“Why?”

“Billy bet Tommy 50 bucks that he could get you to sleep with him on the first date, that’s why I warned you earlier, I didn’t want to see you get hurt over something so stupid”

“Thank you, Carol”

. . . . . . .

Steve had caught you by the waist, he had never seen you look so angry before. He managed to get you as far away from Billy as possible. He sits you down outside on the curb and starts pacing in front of you. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know where to start. First you say he can’t fight Billy, but you give yourself a green light to try and whack him across the face!? He crouches down in front of you. He takes your hands in his.

“What’s wrong?” He asks as he watches you lick your lips before shaking your head “Y/n” his tone is stern but you still shake your head

He hangs his head. He wonders if it’s the fake date that got to you. You wouldn’t whack someone for that would you? He knows that’s not you, you couldn’t hurt a fly. His grip tightens on your hands, causing you to look up at him. The frown you wear causes a pit to form in his stomach, he hates seeing you like this.

“I can’t fix it if you don’t tell what’s wrong?”

“He made a bet with Tommy, that he could sleep with me on the first date”

Steve’s blood beings to boil. He lets go of your hands and stands. He sees Billy standing next to Tommy, he could beat up both of them with the rage he’s feeling. Tommy first, he’s been wanting to beat Tommy up for a long time, then Billy and he’ll get Billy real good. No one should be talking about you like that, he thinks.

“I’m going to kill them” Steve snaps and starts for the door but you grab hold of his sleeve, he stumbles back

“No, can we just go?” You plead

Steve looks from the guys and back to you. The dip in your brow, and the frown on your lips makes his stomach sink. You need him more than they do. He nods, he pulls you up and guides you to the car. He opens the door for you before getting inside. He starts the car up and takes your hand in his.

“Steve you don’t have to, it’s over” you say as you begin to pull away

“Don’t pull away yet” Steve pleads, he doesn’t want to have to let go yet.

Steve pulls into your driveway. His hand is clammy, but he’s not pulling away. You’re not pulling away either so he takes that as a good sign. He lets out a shaky breath as he turned the music down. He wonders if this might be bad timing, but he doesn’t want to hold off any longer.

Tonight proved to him that what he feels, what he’s been feeling for you is real. He didn’t have to play pretend, everything felt real even if he wasn’t meant to feel anything. He just hopes you didn’t pretend, that you felt something real with him tonight. He licks his lips nervously and turns to you, your eyes already on him. He clears his throat before asking

“Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“We were just on one”

“No, y/n, a real one, just you and me”

“I’d love to”

#steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things imagine #stranger things x reader #stranger things drabble #stranger things fic

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mrs-hollandstan · 6 years

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Tom and Female Reader Reader is unable to say I love you to Tom which makes them both angry at each other but then turns into them doing the deed lol

School and work are kicking my asssssssss right now. And I work Thanksgiving, tomorrow, one to five. 😒. Kill me. But enjoy this!

NSFW below.

"Why can't you just say it?" Tom growls, slamming the front door behind him. You sigh, tossing your jacket over the arm of the couch,

"Tom... it's not that simple. We... we haven't been together long enough. It's not that I don't feel comfortable enough, it's just... I'm not ready."

"Oh so you're ready to take my cock in your mouth but you're not ready to say you love me?" Glancing over your shoulder you scoff,

"Wow... that's low. Even for you Tom." He crosses his arms, shrugging,

"I thought we were both ready, but apparently you'd rather completely shut yourself off and fuck me than go out on a fancy date and confess that you love me." Crossing your own arms, you can't help but swallow back the tears. Your heart hurts that he's practically calling you a whore. He stands unphased despite the hurt look on your face,

"Get the hell out of my apartment." Only then does he look shocked or affected at all.

"Get out!" You reiterate louder this time, unable to hold the tears back. They stream down your cheeks when you shove at his chest, his eyes sparkling in something different that you can't read. Almost like he's confused as to what he's said and where he's gone wrong. Just before you close and lock the door, you hear him mumble, "babe" under his breath but you close him out.

After a few hours of sitting on your couch wallowing in self pity and doubt whilst eating ice cream and watching Netflix, you can't help but wonder what really would have changed if you had just said it. Sure, you'd said it loads of times to friends and family, but being in a committed relationship with the man of your dreams and not being able to while he holds your hand and whispers it breathlessly like he's asking for your hand in marriage is different.

You're pulled from your thoughts when there's a knock at the door. You try to ignore it but they get louder and more urgent the longer you sit. Finally, with a groan, you stand and walk to it, opening and almost having to catch Tom. He glances up, his eyes dancing across your face. He smells of alcohol but you can see I his eyes that he's perfectly capable of making rational decisions.

"Uhh… hey. I uhmm… I went to a bar and had a long think and... before I went home, I thought I'd come back and tell you... that I'm uhh… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hurt you the way I did. I just... I want to tell you that before either of us stew in hatred any longer. You don't deserve what I did and I completely get it if you want to end this but... I-I want you to know that I love you." He rambles, his eyes cast down as he plans out his next words. He swallows and looks up, giving a nod to say that he's done and pleased with what he said. You blink at him a few times and just as he turns to leave, you reach out and catch his arm. He turns, looking down at his arm in your hand. You swallow yourself before opening your mouth to speak,

"I'm sorry too. I should be able to say it but I was scared. I just... I don't want you to leave me or... I don't know. I know you're not like that and I should have thought it through better. Would you... would you like to come in and we can... talk... or something?" He nods, holding his place for another moment before turning and crashing into you in a hug. You heart beats against his and you take his face in your hands, holding it in place so you can press your lips to his,

"Love-"

"Make love to me Tom. Show me what I'd be missing." He wants to say no so desperately. This is exactly what he was saying earlier. This was the touchy subject from earlier. But he couldn't say no. He found himself lifting you off your feet before his brain could catch up.

Pressing you to the wall, he grunts when you pull his hair. Holding your body against his, he kisses across your neck, making you giggle when he drops you against your bed and pounces.

Pulling your sweats and underwear off, he unbuckles his belt and kneels between your legs,

“You're sure about this?” You nod, reaching down to hold his wrist as he pushes his pants and boxers off, pulling his t-shirt over his head as you pull your sweater off. Relaxing against the sheets, he crawls up your body, slotting himself between your legs. Taking your comforter in his hands, he bows his head to kiss your neck again as he draws the blanket up over his waist.

You hold him to you, holding his hips in place with your knees as he reaches down, gently gliding his cock through your folds, his eyes locked in yours. You give a small nod just before he pushes up into you, his heart stuttering in his chest as you whine.

Binding your arms under his, he sucks in a breath when you dig your fingertips into his shoulder blades, his hips halting when he bottoms out. He holds his place for just a moment, kissing your chin,

“Can I move darling?” You nod, holding his shoulders as he gently rocks back in forth. This is the first time he's been gentle with you. Normally you're pressed against walls face first or tossed on couches, half dressed as he pounds into you. Most times its after a date and you can't help but cry out, your dress hiked up as you dig your nails into his stomach presented behind an unbuttoned white top. This is a new feeling, the tip of Tom's cock gently skirting along your sweet spot. And you're surprised how fast your high is building.

He grunts and groans, pressing your hip into the bed, your legs binding around his own. Your stomachs rub together, his forehead pressed to yours,

“You're so fucking beautiful baby girl.” You whimper, threading your fingers through his hair,

“Tommy.” He grunts again,

“Tell me baby.” You whine and moan some more, Tom's fingers threading with yours above your head as you both chase your highs. Your hips buck up into his and he groans each time your clit rubs against his abdomen. Just before you reach the peak, you're ready to say those words,

“Tommy…” He licks his lips, his eyes wandering your perfect, blissed out face,

“Cum for me sweet girl.” His words send shivers down your spine and as your orgasm rakes through you, you gasp out those words,

“I love you.” This spurs Tom on without him even knowing it, a gasp rising in his own chest before his heart explodes and he spills into you, his ears ringing as he replays the words over and over again.

He doesn't care how you said it. He doesn't care where it was said. The only thing that matters is all his fear of not being loved is being validated. His heart is leaping out of his chest with joy, endorphins running wild as his orgasm subsides and a goofy, sleepy smile crosses his face. At first you don't see it, your eyes closed as you work through post coital bliss, but when you open them, you're met with soft, excited, coffee colored eyes,

“What?” He leans in, kissing you gently and releasing your hands,

“You said it. You said you love me.” You giggle as he rolls off of you, propping himself up on an elbow,

“Yeah… I… I do. I did earlier but saying it is… it's a lot. I was just scared but… I'm not anymore. I love you Tom. With everything in me.” He smiles wider, cradling your face in his hands,

“I love you too angel.”

#tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker smut #peter parker x reader #my writing #nov 16

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merciattire-blog · 6 years

Text

My Top 12 Thrift Finds and How I Style Them

Welcome back, readers! This week, I will indulge in writing about one of my most loved hobbies: thrifting. Not only am I a sucker for affordable clothing (college budgets, right?), but I also love bringing worn pieces back to life. Plus, it’s a much more sustainable option than purchasing clothing brand new.

Now, if you haven’t tried it, I certainly recommend a trip to your local thrift store. You never know what you may find. As a matter of fact, these items are some of my most worn pieces from my closet! That being said, my goal here is to show that you don’t always have to spend tons of money in order to find pieces you’ll love. Furthermore, I hope this will encourage you to give thrifting a try. So, let’s get into it!

Now, there’s a reason why this item is first on the list. This is, by far, the most worn jacket I own. Ever since I found this gem last year, I’ve looked for every reason possible to wear it.

How I Style it:

Black on black on black—literally my style in a nutshell. If you’ve seen me in real life, there’s about an 80% chance I was wearing this outfit. By throwing on a white graphic tee, the contrast makes this look really “pop”. Of course, I chose to add some leather booties to match the lettering on this jacket and the Harley vibes.

This is definitely the priciest item on the list. However, it is important to consider the brand and condition. Plus, how often do you find a pink leather jacket?

How I Style it:

To align with the feminine hue of the jacket, I layered it over a sheer blush blouse and added some pumps. With the addition of jeans, this look is not too casual, yet not too fancy. Score!

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking—no, I did not steal this coat from the local flea market. Actually, as my boyfriend and I were driving home one day, we saw some signs that said “Free Sale”. (If that isn’t an oxymoron, I don’t know what is.) Naturally, we decided to check it out. Low and behold, the signs were true and there was a whole building of free stuff! Who doesn’t love free stuff? So, long story long, I saw this jacket and fell in love.

How I Style it:

This is literally the perfect fall coat; it’s so cozy! Therefore, I layered it over a chunky knit sweater for extra warmth. With some green jeggings and taupe booties, this fall palette-inspired look is good to go.

Okay, how sweet is this shirt? I saw this at the local flea market and I just had to have it. However, it took me a year or so to put it to use.

How I Style it:

Obviously, my inspiration for this look is Sandy from Grease. After trying on this piece with several outfits throughout the years, an all-black outfit does it justice. I added in a statement double-sided belt to break up this monochromatic look.

When this shirt shrunk after a few washes, my brother-in-law was sending it on its way to Goodwill. (So, in a way, that’s kind of thrifting, right?) Anyways, I got my hands on it first and have cherished it ever since.

How I Style it:

This gem makes up yet another one of my go-to outfits. A tip when it comes to oversized t-shirts: never underestimate the power of tucking or tying a knot to keep it snug. Rolling the sleeves helps, too. With some leather accessories, this simple tee is instantly stylish!

When thrifting, I never fail to do a thorough search for band tees. Why? 1. Music from the 70’s-80’s is the best and 2. they make for a totally rockin’ outfit. Therefore, my closet contains around 10 vintage band tees. (Sadly, I have yet to get a vintage Eagles tee, but then again, who would ever give THAT up?)

How I Style it:

Here we go again—the good ‘ol knot and sleeve roll to the rescue. If I didn’t do this, I would be wearing a dress because this shirt otherwise reaches my knees. With some distressed jeans and Vans, this tee looks right at home. A baseball cap doesn’t hurt either.

Okay, this shirt was just too rare (and cheap) not to purchase. I mean, La Crosse Oktoberfest, baby! I have no idea what year this is from, but judging from the cut and condition, I’d definitely categorize it under “vintage”.

How I Style it:

Due to the shortness of this shirt, I tucked it into some high-rise jeans. Furthermore, what says “fall” more than a good pair of comfy combat boots? To finish off this look, I threw on a belt to tie into the brown autumn footwear.

Here’s another one of my favorite thrifted pieces. I’m pretty sure this sweater wasn’t always supposed to be cropped, but hey, those are totally in now! Also, I recently found out Zara has been around since 1975. Who knew?

How I Style it:

Another signature Paige look: black and white. With this simple contrasting base, I added in a maroon belt for an unexpected twist. This base also gives the gold accents of the accessories their chance to shine!

Usually, I’m not one who wears floral, but when I saw this dress… all bets were off. I had finally found the perfect summer sundress!

How I Style it:

For this ensemble, I planned around the accent colors in the dress itself. Some candy pink heels and a light blush purse effortlessly complete this romantic look.

With the 90’s slip dress and velvet trends coming back into style, I couldn’t NOT purchase this dress. I literally found exactly what I was looking for with this one. It was an incredibly lucky find!

How I Style it:

I went for a wearable, casual look for this piece. The t-shirt-under-a-slip-dress certainly roots back to this popular 90’s trend. However, this dress also looks amazing with some black opaque tights and pumps (another popular 90’s look) to serve as a great New Year’s dress.

When I came across this dress, I was searching for a trending color that was a little out of my comfort zone: mustard orange. Needless to say, I found what I was looking for. Plus, it was only 7 bucks!

How I Style it:

Being that this is an autumn-colored long sleeve dress, I went for a cold-friendly outfit. These suede thigh-high boots are just the answer! Thus, my Thanksgiving of 2017 attire was born.

I’m not going to lie: shoes are a toughie in the thrifting world. The odds of finding footwear that is in your size AND in good condition are slim. Needless to say, these boots are precious to me.

How I Style it:

With statement boots like these, I tend to keep the rest of my outfit more laid-back. These square toe boots give off a strong 70’s vibe. That being said, I styled them with a white embroidered off-the-shoulder top to complete this natural look.

So, there you go. My favorite thrifted finds! I will end with some tips I’ve accumulated throughout the years.

Top 5 Thrift Tips:

· Visit Often – I am, hands down, THE pickiest shopper when it comes to clothes. Therefore, I must make a disclaimer that, more often than not, you are going to walk out of the thrift shop empty-handed. It happens! I have been thrifting for about 5 years now and I only have about 15 thrifted items. So, my point here it that it takes time. However, keep in mind that the turnaround rates of these shops are typically pretty high. So, visit often and don’t give up!

· Look for Trends – One main thing that actually turned me on to thrifting is the prevalence of bounce-back trends. Sure, you could buy a vintage-inspired Tommy Hilfiger tee at Urban Outfitters for $50, or you could find an ACTUAL 90’s Tommy tee at Goodwill for $5. Bam! You’re instantly trendy. See what I mean here?

· Try it on – This is a given. One of the things I like to do is to picture in my mind the various ways I could style a certain piece. If you can’t think of any reason as to why you would ever wear it, then it’s probably not ever going to get worn.

· Keep Your Standards – So, you find an “okay” looking shirt. You typically wouldn’t buy it, but its only 3 bucks! Impulse purchase made. Let me tell you now that it probably isn’t worth it. This is a mistake I made in my first few thrifting trips and I never ended up wearing the clothes. My point here is that, no matter how awesome the price, don’t buy something you don’t love.

· Switch it up – Sure, you may feel the need to limit yourself to women’s size medium, but you might be missing out! Take my Harley Davidson jacket, for instance. This was found in the men’s section, size large, as were my Hard Rock Café and AC/DC shirts. My point here is that there may be potential in other sections that you shouldn’t overlook.

Photo cred: My sister, Tiffiny—I definitely owe you a free night of babysitting.

Thanks for reading! What’s your favorite look? Also, are you a fan of thrifting? I’d love to hear in the comments below!

#MKT400UWL thrifting fashion style

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quinnsthinking · 3 years

Text

TOO MANY SECRETS

Too Many Secrets

AN F. B. I. setup, a thug named Packy, and an entire family wiped out by a homicidal maniac all while I was listening to the ball game.

I was enjoying a beer at Falcos bar and grill in Cork town, listening to the Tigers on the radio as they gave in to the Yankees at Briggs Stadium over on Trumble, just a few blocks away.

Why wasn’t I there in person? Because my favorite secretary, Mrs. Ferguson, who bought the tickets I needed, left them on the dining room table, where Isaiah, her six year old grandson was enjoying a tall glass of milk. Needless to say, I am at Falco’s in Cork town listening to the Tigers as they gave in to the Yankees on the radio.

“You oughta fire that secretary of yours, Blake,” Joey said.

I smiled. Something I hadn’t been able to do for over a year, not since the house on Chapel.

Joey was Joseph Highland. He ran his own trucking company. Seven days a week 15 hours a day. He does pretty well. Good enough to own his own home on Brush Street.

He went to great lengths to make sure he had no pick-ups or deliveries this day. His plan was to sit in foul territory along first base line and catch a Tiger foul. That was before he discovered that six-year-olds with milk should never be in close proximity of Tiger tickets.

I had been looking forward to this day for the last two weeks. I had been working my ass off for over a month and that included weekends and was looking forward to coming up for air. Some of the guys in this bar I haven’t seen in a few years. Mike Lombowski, everyone calls him Jimmy though no one knows why, was the first guy I met when I wondered into Detroit ten years ago with nothing more than a suit, a hat and a half-empty deck of Camels. He gave me a place to stay, a full belly and friendship, something I wasn’t used to. I don’t know how many times I’ve repaid the favor but I still felt as though I owe the guy. And probably always will. I hadn’t seen Jimmy in almost two years. He sort of withdrew after a drunk driver took his wife out of this world and into the next. He read about me in the papers and the case that changed my life, finding those kids in the basement, and dealing with the incident on Chapel. He came to see me in the hospital and was right there when I came home. Then there was Joey. Joey did a bit in Jackson Penitentiary waiting on death row for what started out as murder but later turned into Justifiable Homicide. His then girlfriend wouldn’t let the murder charge stay. She hired me to find the truth. Spent every last dime doing it. It paid off for her. I was able to come up with enough evidence for the D.A. to reopen the case and six months after that he was released. He showed his gratitude to his girlfriend by marrying her two weeks after he breathed free air and the two of them haven’t looked back since. Charles Madison was a carpenter from Southfield. I hired him to do some work in my apartment and some how we ended up closing bars every now and then.

I was finishing off my second beer, Falco wasting no time drawing the third, when Williamson homered in the fourth and brought the Tigers within two. That’s when a giant colored man that had the features of a mean Mexican walked in and right up to the bar, picked up the beer meant for me and downed the entire glass in a setting. He thumped the empty mug back on the counter, turned around and walked back out again. Leonard Claring watched the big man leave and with amazement in his eyes he turned to me and said,

“What was that?” Falco drew another beer with a sly smile and set it in front of me and I said, “That was Tommy ’Corners’, I told him to stop by and have a drink.”

“And?”

All of us said in unison,

“He did.”

Tetterton struck out and ended the inning. Outside it was a day created by the gods just for baseball. There was no humidity to cling to your skin. The sun watched over the city occasionally playing a game of hide-and-seek behind scattered clouds. Falco had the front door open to the bar and some of the Detroit riverfront stepped in and reminded us that this city was an okay place to live in.

Homicide Detective, Lieutenant Franklin Miles walked in, getting an early parole from home. Miles broke the color barrier here in Detroit becoming the first negro detective. He brought Fishburn with him.

Webster Fishburn wasn’t a very likeable guy and I hated him even more, then again I didn’t like Miles much either, but we had a mutual respect for each other and that made it all right. Falco invited Miles here today and that was fine with me. A day like today made you forget you could actually hate someone. It was the first time I’d actually seen Miles without a coat and tie; he was twice as big without ’em. Arms the size of tree trunks with the height to match. I have to admit, I’d pay big money to see Miles and Tommy ’Corners’ go at it and I was pretty sure that if the gods didn’t catch me sleeping, I would one day.

Miles slapped a bill on the counter and called for two beers, and before Falco could lift the buck I said,

“Put it away Miles, it’s on me. Drink all you want.”

He just stared at me with a bag of suspicion.

“What’s a matter Lieutenant? Too good to accept a handout from a shady detective? It’s on me. Fishburn too.”

Fishburn smiled and said,

“Hell, if a loser like you is buyin, I’m closin the bar. Fill ’em up Falco and keep ’em commin.”

Falco smiled, poured the drinks and turned up the radio. That was Falco; leave your racism at the door. As far as Falco was concerned the colored mans money spent just as well as the white mans.

The beers were flowing and the smiles were passed on from man to man. Baseball had a way of doing that to men like us. No matter what the problems two men had with each other, if they couldn’t talk about anything else, there was always baseball.

Yeah, today was a gift from the gods to a bunch of losers like us. Baseball, beer, a few friends and a couple of enemies, all gettin along for nine innings, and with any luck the Tigers would get that extra push to tie the game and take us all into extra innings.

Like I said before, the gods have got a sense of humor. The game was rounding the sixth inning and just like that I was reminded just how much they hated me. And how I hated them.

“Hey Ritchie, telephone,” Falco brought the phone to me and that was the end of a great day and the beginning of a bad one.

“Yeah. This is Blake.” The noise was picking up, Williams just struck out.

“Yeah! This is Blake! Who?” I stuck a finger in my open ear.

“Mr. Olden... What? You’ll have to speak up the games on. You-... Now? Yeah, yeah I hear ya! All right...All right...No... No...10 Minutes!”

I gave the phone back to Falco and hit Miles on the arm and motioned to the door. Miles looked into my eyes and I don’t know if it was his disdain for me or his police instincts but his smile slipped away like sand through a net.

Outside he said, “What’s up Blake?”

“My office. That was Ronald Olden, he’s assistant manager at the Penobscott Building.”

“I know Olden. He’s a good man.”

“Something’s wrong, it could be nothing. He says he’s been looking for me for the last hour. He got a hold of Mrs. Ferguson and she told him where to find me.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“He didn’t say. But I’ll tell you this much; Olden’s not prone to panic.” “I know.”

“He didn’t sound right on the phone. Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he sounded terrified.”

It took us less than ten minutes to get to my building. The Penobscott was a testament to man’s achievement. Fifty floors of cement and steel. A concrete stake in the heart of Detroit. My office was on the twenty-second floor.

We walked through the giant lobby, our heels clacking on the marble floor. Saturdays at the Penobscott Building was like late night at the bus terminal. Just a few hardworking joes getting in a few hours of overtime. There was a guy in a dark suit sitting on a bench reading a paper and another smoking a cigarette talking with one of the security guards. I signed in at the counter and Miles and I took the elevator, up... to hell.

When the doors opened it was impossible to miss, blood. Several, small, smeared patches of red all leading down the hall and toward my office. We stepped off the elevator careful not to touch anything. The bloodstains were heavier coming off the elevator across from us. The smudges faded the closer we got to my office door and the footprints became more pronounced. The tiny footprints of a child. Inside my office he stood there in a petrified state. His face a blank sheet of paper, his body covered from head to toe and back again. Covered in blood. Mr. Olden stood behind Mrs. Ferguson’s desk, his bloody hands still clutching the phone he used to find me.

Miles holstered the .38 he snatched out when the elevator doors opened.

“You know him?” He said. I shook my head. He looked familiar but I couldn’t place him there was just too much...

Miles crouched in front of the boy and gently spoke,

“What’s your name kid?”

The boy didn’t answer; he just stood there staring off into nothing. I turned to Olden.

“Do you know who this is?”

Olden was fixed on the little boy.

“Olden!” I yelled.

He turned seeing me for the first time.

“Mr. Blake. My God.”

“Time for that later, do you know who this is?”

“Au-Augy. Augy Martin.”

“Augy?” I couldn’t see it before, but yes, it was. Augy. I’d only met him once or twice.

August Martin. What was he doing here?

Miles called to Augy as softly as possible. There was no response at first and then as if an alarm clock had awakened in the little boys mind, August Martin let out a scream so chilling that it could put fear into a dead mans bones.

“Blood!” he screamed. “Blood!”

“Where are you going Blake?”

“To find out where that blood came from. It’s obvious it didn’t come from the kid. His father has an office upstairs.”

“Hang on,” he said. Miles knocked Olden out the way and grabbed the phone.

A few minutes later he and I were on the 23rd floor looking at a hall painted red. Miles stepped out of the elevator his .38 swallowed up in his beefy hand and I followed. There was no need for him to ask where Mr. Martin’s office was he just followed the bloody trail.

The door read Diamond Import Export right above the bloody hand prints. It was open just enough to see a blood covered foot lying on the floor. We both stood on either side of the door frame. Miles held the rod in his left hand and rapped on the window with his right.

“Police!” He yelled. “We’re coming in.” He gave the door a shove. It hung up on the dead mans leg.

Even though I was pretty sure that whoever brought about this carnage was long gone I was still nervous about stepping through that door.

Miles entered slowly, his gun straight out in front of him.

The only living things in this office were the flies. A natural phenomenon when there are three people hacked up, most of there blood on the floors and walls.

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wazafam · 3 years

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Adapted from the non-fiction novel Wiseguy by Nicholas Pileggi, Goodfellas chronicles the rise and fall of mobster Henry Hill (Ray Liotta). The movie is populated with intriguing characters such as Tommy DeVito (Joe Pesci) and Jimmy (Robert DeNiro) but Henry's wife Karen Hill (Lorraine Bracco) stands out in a lot of ways.

RELATED: Goodfellas: Henry Hill's 10 Best Quotes

Through Karen's words, viewers get a clear perspective of the mob life. She acts as the film's second narrator and provides plenty of laughs and shocks along the way. She is a phenomenal character, as critics have acknowledged. For her portrayal of the character, Bracco received an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actress.

10 "All Of Them Were Named Peter Or Paul... And They Were All Married To Girls Named Marie."

During her wedding to mobster Henry Hill, Karen is introduced to all the relatives and as per her confession in a voiceover, there is hardly a variety of names at the ceremony. Apparently, every man either goes by the name Peter or Paul (Paulie). And all the women have no other name than Marie.

A similar scenario is seen in The Sopranos, in which a couple of characters share names. Tony Soprano and his cousin Tony Blundetto are referred to as Tony A and Tony B by those who know them both.

9 "There Are Women Who Would Have Left The Minute Their Boyfriend Gave Them A Gun To Hide. But I Didn't."

Early in their relationship. Henry surprises Karen by brutally assaulting a man who had disrespected her. He uses the handle of a gun to beat up the man before handing over the weapon to Karen to hide it.

In a voiceover, Karen admits that such a thing wasn't normal and it could have scared many women off, including many of her friends. But she was different. What Henry did made her attracted to him even more.

8 "They Don't Feel Like You're In Construction."

Henry proves just influential he is while taking Karen out for the first time. Instead of waiting in line at the Copacabana, he takes her to the back door and walks in through the kitchen. A table is then brought to them near the stage.

RELATED: 8 Actors Considered For Roles In Goodfellas

As they are enjoying their drinks, a curious Karen asks Henry what he really does for a living. He lies to her he is in construction. To verify his claims, she takes his hands and feels them. She comes up with the conclusion that his hands don't feel hard enough for someone in construction. He again lies that he is one of the bosses, not the laborers.

7 "Rossi! Janice Rossi, Do You Hear Me? He's My Husband! Get Your Own Man!"

Movies and TV shows about the mafia have show that it's a common thing for mobsters to have "goomahs" "comares" — mistresses. But that doesn't mean it's the right thing to do. In Goodfellas, Henry Hill cheats on Karen with a woman named Janice Rossi. When Karen finds out, she heads over to Janice's apartment to give her a piece of her mind.

Through the intercom, she orders Janice to open the door so that they can "talk." Janice refuses, so Karen begins yelling. She tells Janice that she is going to wait there and tell everyone who walks into the building that there is a "husband-snatcher" living in Apartment 2R.

6 "Who The Hell Do You Think You Are? Frankie Valli Or Some Kinda Bigshot?

Karen isn't too happy when Henry stands her up on their second date. She gets even angrier when he shows up the next night and pretends like it wasn't a big deal.

Well, Karen isn't having it. She tells Henry that he needs to dial down on his sense of self-importance. He is not Frankie Valli, after all. Valli was the frontman of the popular Four Seasons rock band.

5 "When Henry Picked Me Up, I Was Dizzy."

The very first time Karen has to hang out with the rest of the mob wives at Mickey's hostess party, she doesn't like it. According to her, it was a very dizzying experience for her.

RELATED: The 10 Best Gangster Movies Ever Made, According To Rotten Tomatoes

The mob wives talked about nothing else but their kids and how they always beat them with broom handles and leather belts for messing up. Karen also takes a shot at their poor sense of fashion, claiming they applied too much makeup and wore nothing but pantsuits and double knits.

4 "Our Husbands Weren't Brain Surgeons. The Only Way They Could Make Money Was To Go Out And Cut A Few Corners."

After being married to Henry for a while. Karen gets used to the mob life. In another voiceover, she explains how it all felt normal to her. She even liked the way her husband was making money.

According to her, other men were sitting around every day waiting for handouts from their bosses at the end of the month. Mobsters were different. They went out every day and came back with money. To add weight to her statement, the scene then cuts to Henry and Tommy hijacking a truck.

3 "A Few Bucks To Keep Things Quiet, No Matter What They Found."

Karen also reveals what it was like dealing with the police. Apparently, they'd show up at the house frequently with subpoenas and warrants. They enjoyed harassing mobsters but most of them never really had the intention of arresting. All they wanted were handouts and they'd go away.

According to her, such warrants made them find a lot of incriminating evidence. However, they didn't do anything about it so long as money changed hands.

2 "We Always Went Together. No Outsiders."

Explaining what the life of a mob wife was like, Karen says that they always accompanied each other everywhere. No matter what great city or exotic island they visited, they were always together. As time went by, she found it fun.

RELATED: 10 Best 90s Biography Films, Ranked (According To IMDb)

The reason for this was to prevent outsiders from coming across any incriminating information about the mob. Each mob wife knew what her husband did, hence she could talk freely. There wouldn't have been the same kind of freedom if outsiders were involved.

1 "Wake Up, Henry!"

Understandably, Henry's affair doesn't sit well with Karen. One morning, she wakes him and when he opens his eyes, she is on top of him with a gun pointed at his face.

She demands to know whether he loves his mistress but he refuses to answer. She then admits that she can neither bring herself to hurt him or leave him, no matter how disappointed she is. She just loves him despite his numerous misdemeanors.

NEXT: The Sopranos: 10 Actors Who Also Appeared In Goodfellas

Goodfellas: 10 Best Karen Hill Quotes | ScreenRant from https://ift.tt/2R03Pd0

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commanderquill · 7 years

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One Step Closer

Pairing: Tim Drake/Jason Todd

Rating: Not Rated

Genre: Adventure/Mystery

Words: 100K+

Summary: Tim Drake can’t help it, he’s a sucker for mystery and there isn’t a mystery like Batman and Robin. There’s something taboo, forbidden and thrilling to hiding on rooftops for hours just to catch pictures of them in action -- pictures no one else has ever taken. These misadventures lead him to an odd acquaintance with a tire thief named Jay, who becomes an unexpected constant during Tim’s nighttime escapades.

When Jay disappears and no one will tell him where he’s gone, Tim figures it’s up to him to rescue his friend. But for some reason, amongst his investigations into the strange uprise of human disappearances around Gotham, Robin is there, preventing Tim from getting into too much trouble -- and trying to keep him away from his search for Jay.

The network of kidnappings only seems to keep getting bigger and bigger, until Tim finally turns his sights to the one percenters of the city, because Bruce Wayne is acting suspicious and Tim will find a connection to these human disappearances if it’s the last thing he does. After all, rarely are people ever what they seem, and in Gotham, rich money is always dirty.

CLICK HERE TO READ

Excerpt From Chapter 2:

“I ripped him off.”

They’re sitting on a low rooftop sandwiched between two taller buildings. Beneath them, Tim can feel the pulsing of a nightclub, the beat thump-thumping through his thighs and into his chest. The sun is low in the sky but not yet fallen, though it’s well into the evening anyway due to the summer time hours.

“You ripped your broker off?” Tim asks. Their conversation is oddly quiet despite the loud music. Slow and almost emotionless. That’s fine by him. They’re both still digesting the day’s events. “I thought it’s supposed to be the other way around.”

“It is,” Jay says. “That’s why he’s pissed.”

“Oh.” Silence.

“Y’know, I wouldn’t of done it if he’d give them their fair cut,” Jay frowns. “What he’s doin’ isn’t right. The other kids’ll pick pockets and steal and bribe to get a handful of shiny things or whatever he’s callin’ for and he sends them off with barely half of what it’s worth and they can’t do nothing about it ‘cause he’s the only one in town. Only broker. So I lied ‘bout the tire. Carved in new tread, made it too thin on purpose so it wouldn’t last. Polished over the name, lied about the type. Ripped him off by a couple hundred bucks. He barely gives out hundreds to start, but he thought it was real nice.”

Tim nods.

“And then I threw a bottle bomb in his office. His favourite couch has a hole in it,” Jay finally smirks.

Tim doesn’t even mind. “And of course, I pepper-sprayed him and his buddy.”

“Of course.”

“Twice.”

Jay huffs a laugh. Another moment passes before Tim joins him with a small smile of his own.“Y’know,” he says, finally turning to Tim. “We make a pretty good team.”

“Yeah,” Tim admits shyly, looking down at the muddy toes of his sneakers dangling off the edge of the roof. “I guess we do.”

Tim ultimately decides that the day has been given enough thought and turns his attention to attempting to judge what song is playing based on the beat reverberating through his limbs. He thinks it might be a remix of Mama by David Guetta, not like that song doesn’t have enough remixes, when Jay speaks. Tim almost doesn’t hear him.

“You’re still lookin’ for Bat and brat, right?” he asks innocently. Tim turns to him in surprise.

“I--uh,” he stammers, embarrassed. “Yeah.”

“Cool. Lemme know if you catch ‘em.”

The comment is so absurd that Tim can’t help but hang his head and laugh at it. “I’m not trying to catch them. They’re not Pokemon.”

“They probably were in another life,” Jay shrugs. He’s trying to hide his mirth but Tim can see it in the quirk of his lips. “What are you tryin’ to do, then?”

Tim has to think about that for a moment. “Not sure,” he finally says. “I think I just want to know that I did it. That I figured out who they are. The biggest mystery in modern-day Gotham, solved by the little kid nobody thought anything of. Plus, they’re...kind of my role models. Robin is, anyway.”

A smirk. “You wanna find out who bird brains is so you can ask ‘im out?”

Tim elbows him. Jay winces for a split second, his ribs must be bruised, but he recovers before Tim can apologise. “No. I don’t know. Knowledge is power, I guess.”

Jay nods in understanding. “I get it.”

“You do?” Tim asks. “The people I know don’t. They’re all thinking about...other things. Social status and stuff. What people are posting on Instagram.” He pauses, not sure if Jay wants to hear more, but the boy doesn’t say anything, just looks at him blankly and Tim finds himself talking before he can think about monitoring what comes out. “Like, no one pays attention in my science class, but my teacher loves to talk and he’ll go on about anything, and last week he started talking about what Gotham was like when he was little. He’s really old. And no one was listening, but then he started talking about the abandoned Subway tunnels. So I looked it up, and you wouldn’t believe how big it is. It connects anything and everything and no one remembers it exists. But there’s these pictures on the Newtown construction page. It’s at the very bottom of this 90-something page paper about politics and rules and stuff, but it’s there, and I found it and printed it out and put it in the box under my bed.

“I like to learn more about anything I hear, no matter how useless people think it is, because you never know when you’re going to want it. Sometimes I’ll hear something and my first thought is, ‘That’s useful’, but I don’t know why it’s useful and I don’t know what I’d use it for,” Tim finishes. “But I keep a note of it anyway, just in case.” Jay doesn’t say anything for another moment, just kicks his legs. “It’s not like that here,” he says finally. “I mean, yeah, what’s useful is a bit different, but… If you know these streets, you control these streets.” He looks at Tim, trying to see if Tim understands, and must see that Tim doesn’t because he tries elaborating. “Like Tommy. My broker you pepper-sprayed? He knows the street kids in these parts, and he’s all buddy-buddy with the gangs. He knows where to walk and where to not. He knows who to rip off and who to stay away from, so he can get money in all the right places and no one can stop him because then he puts a stop to them. Gangs don’t bother him because he knows enough secrets that he can hold it over them, make sure they don’t mess with him because he has something in his head they’re afraid of.

“It’s all about the secrets. A street looks like any other street, it’s what’s goin’ on behind the walls that you gotta worry about, that you gotta know, because if you have nothing to take from someone else, someone else is gonna take from you.” Jay nods to himself. “Yeah. Knowing too much is better than knowing nothin’ at all.”

It’s...comforting, hearing Jay say all of that. “There’s a lot I don’t know, though,” Tim says cautiously. “Like how the streets work. You’re the one with the street smarts. I’m just book smart.”

Jay cocks his head curiously. “Yeah? Don’t expect you to. You’re not from ‘round here.”

“Doesn’t mean I should be stupid about it.”

“What’s your point?”

“If I hang around long enough, you’ll teach me, right?” Tim asks. He knows he’s asking for a lot, but he doesn’t know whether or not it’s too much.

Jay frowns. “Teach you?”

“Yeah. Show me what it’s like here. Or at least, how to live here.”

That earns him an eyebrow raise. “You’re gonna have to actually live here for that. But…,” Jay continues before Tim can feel disheartened. “Sure. Hang around me. Shouldn’t be too bad. But I got rules.”

“Like?” Tim prods.

“Like, you gotta listen to what I say. If I say do something, you do it. Even if it seems weird. Also, I do all the talkin’. I can make you look like a rat, but anyone hear the way you talk and they’ll throw you to the wolves. You gotta learn how to not paint a target on your back.”

Tim nods slowly. “I have a rule, too.”

Jay’s eyes narrow. “Yeah?”

“No throwing either of us to the wolves,” he smiles. “You have my back, I have yours.”

Jay looks surprised, like that’s the last thing he expected to come out of Tim’s mouth. Oddly enough, that fills Tim with a sense of pride. He sticks his hand out. Jay looks at it like he can’t figure out what a hand is, and Tim feels a bit comical, but he’s nothing if not determined. He leans forward to whisper conspiratorially: “You’re supposed to shake it.”

Jay scowls and grabs his hand. Tim gives it a single, firm shake. “Then it’s official.”

“What is?”

“Our friendship.”

A sense of victory floods Tim when Jay’s mouth breaks out into a grin. “Whatever, Sherlock.”

They sit in companionable silence before a thought occurs to Tim. “If I’m Sherlock, are you Watson?”

“Isn’t Watson an idiot?”

“Only in some versions.”

“Go figure.”

#fanfic #jaytim #detective tim #robin jason #robin #photographer tim #stalker tim #kid tim #kid jason #pre-slash #happy ending #slow burn #civilian tim #no character death #jason lives

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