#and then because i'm me that leaves about forty (the fuck) that are worth reading but not necessarily the ones i get yelly about

[leonstamatis]

also, belatedly joining the trend started by hen wtc and followed by others by creating an ao3 collection of some of the blaseball fics i'm proudest of. it's by no means comprehensive, but these are i think the major ones i'd like to point people to if they're looking for things to read.

[rogueddie]

Disabled Steve / Eddie Fics

Important: READ THE TAGS! Also, leave a comment and kudos! These fics are amazing and I love them and I hope y'all do too 🦻

give me a sign

findmeinthewychelm

It was sweet torture the way Steve was pining over him. Robin was sick of listening to him talk about Eddie, but she also hadn’t stopped him yet.

Words : 4,235 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

what would you trade the pain for (i'm not sure)

Library_of_Gage

Steve doesn't bother anyone with his chronic pain; it's something he'd rather keep to himself. And then it spikes in the Upside Down, in front of Eddie Munson, and Steve slowly starts to learn that, sometimes, sharing what hurts does help.

Words : 8,230 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

Our Love is Shown in the Letting Go

Xxbottlecapxx

Steve’s mother comes home and has to deal with the fact that she has no idea who her son is, and maybe never will.

Words : 10,189 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Not Rated

AO3 : x

Who Am I to Say What Any of This Means?

IndigoFudge

Eddie’s eyebrows are raised. He’s speaking deliberately. “My first grade teacher set up a meeting with Wayne and told him she thought I had autism. So Wayne took me to the doctors and it turned out she was right.”

He is still looking at Steve. Oh. Steve’s been staring at him like an idiot for forty seconds instead of acknowledging this important, incredibly personal detail that he has just shared. Steve remembers eye contact––one, two, three––then answers. “That’s cool.”

“Steve,” Eddie says, carefully. “Have you ever been tested? Because I’ve been noticing… When I look at you, I kinda see some signs.”

Words : 7,371 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

she'll know me crazy, soothe me daily (better yet, she wouldn't care)

jewishrat420

Eddie doesn’t really cry about this anymore. He’s long since shed his own personal tears of pity, spent enough time mourning a different life. He’s accepted it, for the most part, doesn’t really give a shit about being normal or whatever. No one’s normal.

But this…Eddie’s not used to this. He’s never had someone hold his face in their hands, look him dead in the eyes and say, “Eddie Munson. For better or for worse, and fuck, I know this is worse, I want to know you.”

Words : 3,988 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

the beginning of a bad joke

alligator_writes

At the beginning of his rant, lecture, whatever, Hottie stares right at him. He has a really intense stare. Pretty brown eyes set in a prettier face with even prettier hair on top of his head. Eddie gets distracted by all that pretty and by trying to make his point.

And he doesn’t notice until halfway through that Hottie isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s looking at his friend.

Eddie looks at her, too. Looks at her confused and focused expression. Looks at her hands moving rapidly.

Oh. G-d.

Hottie’s deaf, isn’t he?

Words : 7,083 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

I Took The Good Times, I’ll Take The Bad Times (I Take You Just The Way You Are)

steddieeddie

In 1984, Eddie Munson told Steve he was going to marry him one day laying in the quiet confines of Steve’s room.

In 1985, they broke up. It wasn’t because they wanted to, but because Steve thought they had to. They spent almost an entire year apart, hurting, wondering about what could have been.

In 1986, Steve Harrington was almost fatally injured in the final attack against The Upside Down, against Vecna. He spent seventy six days comatose, and then almost an entire year in the hospital learning how to be a person again. He learns how to open and close his hands, hold things, and how to feed himself again. Steve learns how to stand, how to walk, going from walker to cane by the time he is allowed to go home.

In 1987, he did just that. He goes home.

It was a slow process. Way slower than Steve wanted it to be, but it was worth it.

Sure, his hands were never going to work the same, there was constant pain in his arms and left leg, and he would never walk without a cane, but at least he’s alive.

He made it.

That was what mattered.

Words : 30,101 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Mature

AO3 : x

[lokorum]

what would you say is your favorite jonmichael fic..... im very curious and love to reread anything in that tag

oh but how can i pick only one when they all are so good??? (,,•᷄‎ࡇ•᷅ ,,)?

aaaaaa can i make the several honorable mentions of the fics that made me scream and roll on the floor?????? pretty please???

scheherazade was one of the first jonmichael fics that i found while going through all of the cher's works because, evidently, they have no fics that are not worth reading!! (i'm sorry if and forty feet down only confirming it!!!)

sleep inertia has one of the best dialogues i ever read!!! the way cruelzy writes michael's lines??? aaaaaaaaa its so delicious and believable and never for a second i thought i'm reading something out of canon?? its just that good. 

carousel is the only one fic (from what i found) that i set in the last season and its adds a lot of layers to that big jonmichael onion that torments my eyes for a while now ldkfjgkdfjg also it's messy?? i mean the whole situation in the fic?? its so humanly complicated and it does not gives you the chance to experience any of the feelings clearly and i love it!! screechfox somehow captured all of the complicated stuff in one fic, blendered it together and for the whole time i just couldn't take my eyes away from it. 

five times michael saves jon's life and one time he doesn't have to - is here to sooth our pain and heal our wounds. i reread it so many times!! the dynamic between jon and michael in it is one to live for!!! sometimes you think 5+1 kind of fics can't surprise you anymore and then the coolest author like paisleycowboys enters the room and proves you wrong. 

to be like super honest, the 100 ways to say i love you series, when i first saw it, made me think im not gonna like it? i love my fanfics long and scary and bittersweet and with a bad-very-not-good-endings, so the title of this one made me go "hmmmmm HMMMMM hmmmmm hmmmm?" but ive started to read it anyway, theres not that many fics on the ao3 for jonmichael, we cant afford to be capricious and gosh GOSH i was so fucking wrong!!! its sweet AND sad AND scary AND awkward (in a best way!!!) AND it made me giggle so many times!!! NeedsCaffeineRightNow can make even the edgiest of us enjoy the soft kinds of fics (its not hard when they are written with so much care and love.)

POSSESSIVE!! MICHAEL!! COMBING!!! JON'S!! HAIR!!!!!! what else do we need from life?

transition, every time i reread it or think about it, makes me painfully aware of how many things should coincide for something to work. it's not one of those fics that completely encompass you; nor its the one that leaves you with new headcanons or in a good mood, no, i think it's the one that leaves you in dissoray, making you want to argue with author, to ask them what were they thinking about, pointing on your weak sides like this?, giving you something precious and then stealing it away? pushing your old bruises? that is to say, i have nothing but deep respect for indefensibleselfindulgence. to write fic that makes you want to engage in conversation? thats powerful 

Our 'Angel' of Static and Bone is written so inexplicably good, that more than once i wondered, how NeverwinterThistle was able to do it? and then i realised they are one of my fave bg3 and dishonored authors phpphp but really, the care, the effort that went into this fic? they are literally visible! you can feel the amount of time and brain juice that went into writing it. and the neighbor character? they appeared like two times?? and still their addition left me speechless with how clever it is, how different!! absolutely amazing work.

adjective noun has jonmichael chapter (11) that destroyed me as a person i swear i laughed so hard i dropped my phone and just kept giggling face-into-the-pillow style!!!!!! its rare for the fics to bring you this childish kind of pure joy; the little in-between moment of forgetting about everything, good and bad, and just have a good time. this chapter is definitely one of those rare things and it also made me wish there would be more jonmichael fics from cuttoth. somehow they nailed everything that should be nailed about this ship and did it in a couple of pages, what a magical work!! 

and well, now here's my fave fic, the one that took my head, shaked it like it's a soda can, and then left it open, fountaining at first and then dented and empty. 

I ask for nothing, but maybe I'm lying is the work that made me grateful for the fact that i know how to read in english. its....mmmm, you know that feeling when fic makes you go through literally everything? and then, as a bonus, through all stages of grief as well?

first you get hooked up by the beautiful writing style and so you know the fic is gonna be good and you get comfortable and you turn yourself off from the rest of the world and you read. 

you love pov, you love mood shifts, you love pacing, you love when scenes are short and you pause to think about what happened / you love when scenes are long and you get overloaded with the simple things that make you feel complicated emotions, you love it all. 

then you start to wish it would never finish; you look at the scrolling bar from time to time, a little bit too aware of how much there's left to read, a little bit too anxious about it. and at the same time, the fic starts to make you feel safe, confident, that at least it's gonna be alright, its gonna be that one work that will replace the canon events for you. it was the

“Oh. Oh, Archivist, no. That’s not right at all,” you say to yourself as you watch him march into artefact storage, both hands clamped around an axe. 

On a whim, you decide to save him."

line for me for sure uhhh it still hits as good as the first time too 

and then you get to the ending and you just stare at the screen. that hollowing feeling slowly spreading inside you. *sigh* its the best sort of inspiration im sure, but its the worse one too. i have no idea how possessedradios and authors like them are able to write something that kills you, then reanimates you and then makes you sit in front of the tablet drawing hours non stop. ''I ask for nothing, but maybe I'm lying" is so beautiful its scares and fascinates me, just like the podcast did. hell, better then the podcast did.  i know its silly but i even named my fisrt fanart of michael as the title of the fic 👉👈

ahhhh SO i rumbled again SORRY!!!!!!! every time someone asks something from me its either "i'll reply later" (replies 10 years after) or "tolstoy, hold my fucking beer". but i really hope that fic writers, not only those who are mentioned here but like in general? know how much they affect other people!! how their work creates safe spaces for others!! how they make readers smile or cry, even if those readers (im not pointing finger on myself idk what you talking about pgphpphph) are little gremlins that leaving comments once in a decade....................

have fun time reading!! <3

btw im working on a little fanart rn............. (expressing my deepest grattitude to ao3 johmichael writers 😳🔪)

[ronearoundblindly]

Sneak Peek (Root of All Ransom pt. 5)

Warnings for language (that feels obvious at this point but I'm gonna keep repeating it) but I think that's it. Oh, and Thrombeys are dicks. WC 600

Ransom pulls out the chair beside his mother for you to sit in. He didn’t think about how you’d leave your Birkin by his coat in the foyer. You’re not like Linda that way either; she carried it at her side everywhere, even in the house. The least he can do is sit the beautiful young woman right next to that white-haired wench.

You look so feminine and regal compared to his mother’s teal power jumpsuit or whatever half-velvet, half-satin monstrosity she chose.

“Oh, hello, dear,” Linda chirps to you, watching Ransom sit on your other side, “don’t you look lovely.” His mother twitches her fingers like she needs a cigarette, and the whole night is already worth skipping any hanky panky before arrival. You do look lovely. It makes him look good. He’s winning.

When food is set down in front of the group by catering staff, you immediately offer appreciation, and Ran parrots the ‘thank you.’ He doesn’t think much of it. He just takes your cue. Ransom has always known how to be decent; he chooses not to be out of spite…except near you.

Meg, subtle as ever, word vomits “holy shit” in response to Hugh Ransom Drysdale thanking the fucking help. When Ran catches her eye, Meg raises her brows and snaps her wrist like she’s cracking a whip. He scowls back, but his cousin is too far across the table to curse without upsetting you, so he just mouths ‘get fucked’ at her.

“Well, Dad,” Walt starts too loudly for the table, “in celebration of your big day, I hope you don’t mind me sharing some news about our amazing quarter at the publisher’s.”

Harlan cuts into his meal, wearing his signature, catch-all smirk.

“‘Our,’ my ass,” his mother whispers to you, wine glass raised to cover her lips.

You very, very quietly giggle, and Ran doesn’t fucking like that one bit.

“Hell of a year,” Walt continues, oblivious, “hell of a year, but particularly great because we hit just shy of one point eight million in the last few months.”

“Oh wow,” Joni moans, pressing a bony hand into the ruffles of her blouse, and it is good news. Her eyes may as well morph into dollar signs.

“‘Night of the Dead Phoneline’ was a fun one,” Harlan mutters before another bite.

It is a tidy sum, one that his family would absolutely drool over, one that has taken decades to build, but also one that Ransom knows pales in comparison to what you handle on a daily basis. 

He only needs to glance at you to know not to say anything.

His mother does not notice your modesty, exuberant to swat her little brother back into place.

“That is nice, Walt,” Linda barely tilts the glass in his direction before turning to you. “Tell me, dear, I read that your home offices are being fully renovated for the first time since you took over the building. Must cost a pretty penny to upgrade all that.”

“Uh-huh,” you dodge while Ransom stares daggers over your shoulder.

Subtlety is not Linda Drysdale’s forté. “How much?”

“The last estimate I got was forty-three but was missing final approval from the technical department so…I’m preparing for fifty.”

“Thousand?” Jacob asks in the fleeting moment he’s not looking down at his phone.

“No,” you sigh, “million.”

Linda relishes Walt’s shock while Meg’s eyes bug out. Jacob simply scoffs, back to staring at his screen instantly. He’s annoyed—furious actually—that Linda claims your success for herself, gears turning to plot revenge in your honor.

Why is this family so damn fun to write??? It's not fair.

Interested? Start reading this story here!

[pitchshitterarchiver]

PITCHSHIFTER INTERVIEW IN 1998:

Back inside the cool, air-conditioned confines of the band's tour bus, which Jon has dubbed "The Dolphin" (affectionately or in spite, I'm not sure), we escape the heat and sit down to do the interview. I'm nervous as hell. I've been waiting a long, long time to see Pitchshifter in person, and to end up lucky enough to be able to speak with Jon Clayden beforehand is both a nightmare and a dream come true. Despite my foot getting stuck in my mouth a few times I find Jon (and all the band) to be generous and kind, well-spoken and intelligent, and, above all, to have a wicked, wicked sense of humor--but of course.

In the end I discover a tight-knit band, both musically and as friends, and who, after a long road together, are happy to finally have their music getting some well deserved notice, and glad to finally be allowed to focus on it exclusively on their own terms--all with the support of their new label.

How's the tour been so far? Any memorable moments?

J.S. Clayden: Oh, a million! The tour's been really good. America's always insane 'cause every state's a different country. We played in Reno the night before last night, and there's some curfew for under twenty-one's in the town center after nine-thirty or ten, or something mad like that! So you can be married, with kids, have your own business, but you're still not allowed to go into the town center. Things like that make me realize how insane America is. There'd be a riot in European countries if that was the case. It'd be like "RIOTTT!!!" Ha ha! There've been a lot of memorable moments. Meeting Jello Biafra in San Francisco. He came to the show and said he really liked our stuff, and talked about working together. My jaw hit the floor and I was like "Aaahhh!!! You're Jello Biafra and I'm no one!" That was really cool. Fear Factory came out to one of the shows. The weird chick from the Addams Family movies turned up for one--can't remember her name. It's been quite mad meeting those people.

So now that you've been from one end of the country to the other, and have spent a whole lot of time in-between in the midwest, what's your take on American culture?

J.S.: I think American culture is like any other culture--it's just tits, beer, and shit TV. It's the same in Germany, it's the same in England. We read The Sun newspaper in England, which has an average reader age of eight, and which is the highest selling newspaper; whereas a paper like The Guardian that actually does have some valid points is way down on the list.

But as in any culture there's fucking really cool things in America that you don't get in other countries. Because we are from four-thousand miles east, the way people perceive us is really different. I think we actually, and I don't mean it in an arrogant way, but when we come to America people actually take us for our worth. In England you're nothing special and you're instantly dismissed, even though when we play there we play for a thousand people. But you can never really make that jump in England to be like Nirvana or whatever 'cause of that mystique of coming from somewhere miles away and, you know… I think when we come to America people do listen to our music and go, "We don't have any music like this here. This is indicative of where they come from and what they do." We're taken more on the value of what we're worth rather than "being cool."

Well, people here have definitely been looking forward to seeing you come and play. I know a lot of people, including myself, who have been waiting quite awhile to see you actually make it out to the west coast...

J.S.: People say that, say stuff like, "I've been waiting for six years to see you play and stuff." And it just freaks me out and I feel kinda bad 'cause we're just the support band and we only do forty-five minutes. Sorry you've been waiting for six years, I wish we could play longer.

Leave them wanting more for the next time you come back…

J.S.: We're going to be back in October or November. After this tour we do three weeks around Europe on the Vans European Warped Tour with The Specials, NOFX, Civ and The Deftones. Then we do two weeks in Australia headlining, a week headlining in Japan, then a couple of gigs in the UK because everyone gets upset when we don't play in England for ages. And then we're going to come straight back to America.

Is it going to be another coast to coast?

J.S.: I hope so. It should be a couple of months, probably until around Christmas.

Do you like being out on the road?

J.S.: I don't think I have any option. Ha! I think yeah, it's a nice lifestyle. It's kind of compulsive and destructive simultaneously. There's a lot of benefits. You get to meet a lot of people, exchange a lot of ideas, see a lot of things that other people will never see in their lifetime, experience a lot of stuff. One day we're up the CN tower and the next day we're on a rollercoaster atop a tower in Las Vegas. You think, "God, what are we doing? It's madness!"

I dunno, you can probably squeeze in what would take nice people half their life in like three months. But it's also quite destructive. Don't get me wrong, I used to drive a delivery truck--a waste of all my years in college. This is a far more productive thing to do with your life, I think. But it can be really destructive--it's impossible to have a girlfriend. We all had girlfriends before this tour, and we all went, "Hey honey, I'll be back on Christmas Day." And they all went, "Don't come back." Heh. So there are negative aspects. Luckily none of us have children or pets.

[karmaischerryred]

🍒 NSFW 18+

🍒 Dazai Osamu from Bungou Stray Dogs

🍒 x Fem Reader

🍒 A/N: Hello! This would be my first time posting my work here. I create fan fiction on a different website but I'm linking all my R-rated chapters or one-shots here; also for y'all to enjoy, to whoever finds this.

🍒 Background:

The story I published on the other website is a book of Fem Reader x Dazai One Shots of them doing ordinary (and sometimes not-so-ordinary) things a couple would do. It's kind of parallel to the events happening in BSD, but they're not in chronological order. Every six short stories, I'll be uploading an NSFW 18+ one, and this is the first. Reader's character is consistent all throughout the stories.

🍒 My inbox is always open for suggestions, though I can't promise fast productivity because I have classes :) Enjoy! xx

Y/n took another sip from her wine.

She grimaced as she swallowed the warm liquor, disliking the smell. Normally, she'd prefer champagne over this, but she had associated the sparkling drink with parties and celebration.

And nothing was worth celebrating about tonight.

Under the dark blue glow, Y/n sat on the couch overlooking Yokohama's city skyline. The clock reading almost forty-five minutes past midnight.

She pulled her silk robe tighter to her body. Even with the air-condition off, the breeze at an hour like this still managed to make her chilly. The alcohol was only doing so little to heat up her insides, and her uneasiness wasn't helping either.

Dazai had left her a message earlier that afternoon that he'd be home late. And that could only mean the agency had assigned him a job that so much required his ability; a job that was most likely dangerous.

Y/n trusted in his ability, and himself even without them. But she still couldn't help but worry about him at times like these. She didn't want to see him suffer terrible injuries, or at worst, actually die.

A sudden clicking from the door lock fortunately snapped her out of her building worries.

"You're awake."

Y/n placed her wine glass on the small side table, not turning to look at him. Instead, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back on top of the sofa's backrest, letting out a sigh of relief. "You know I choose to wait for you to come home."

Dazai walked towards her. "Ah, I wish you wouldn't. I would always come home to you no matter what."

She felt Dazai's arms rest on both sides near her head. Opening her eyes, she was greeted by her smiling boyfriend. His eyes glinted in reflection of the city lights right outside the big floor to ceiling windows in front of them. He looked extremely handsome under the teasing of the darkness.

How did she get so lucky?

He kissed her forehead, taking the time to inhale her scent, before making his way to lay on her lap. "Seriously, you should rest. I'll be busy often so you can't keep tiring yourself."

Y/n stroked his dark, perfect hair. "What was the task tonight?"

Dazai unconsciously drew circles on her thighs, the tip of his cold fingertips leaving goosebump on Y/n's already freezing skin. "Just had to er, capture a weretiger."

"The tiger that's been on the news?"

"That's the one."

"Why did they send you after it?"

"Him," he corrected. "The weretiger's an orphan's ability even he didn't know about. Poor boy scared everyone away at the orphanage, even himself."

Y/n let him continue. He might not proudly announce or show it, but she knew that he was growing to love his work.

The side that saves people.

He sat up and stretched. "Not even a scratch on me. Okay, Y/n? There's nothing to worry about."

She hugged him by the neck and kissed him right on his jawline, the most convenient place to land a kiss considering their height difference.

"Wait." He chuckled, standing up and pulling Y/n with him. "The job was done in a warehouse, I should probably clean up."

"All right." Y/n yawned and walked towards their bedroom. "I'll head in first while you go take a shower, you do smell like dust."

Y/n hung her robe by the door before sinking to relax on her side of the bed. She was grateful Dazai had been coming home more often recently. He'd sometimes choose to stay in the agency's dorm when there was too much work or when he felt like he was being closely observed by an enemy of some sort.

She closed her eyes, still trying to keep herself awake until Dazai joins her.

The door to the room swung open and she could hear his footsteps drawing closer. Dazai likewise found himself under the cool, white sheets and spooned Y/n, kissing her on the cheek while doing so.

"Y/n, you're hot."

"Thanks," Y/n mumbled sleepily.

He smirked. "Of course you are, but I meant your body temperature, kitten. Are you sick?"

She shook her head. "I maybe had too much to drink."

"You didn't have work to take home?"

"I drank while working until you arrived," she admitted. "It helps keep myself in check."

Dazai sighed. "How many times do I have to tell you not to brood so much."

Before Y/n could answer, she felt him lightly kiss her neck, his breath teasing the shell of her ear— her weakness.

"D- Dazai," y/n warned, doing her best to suppress a moan. "Aren't you tired from the job?"

She tried to control her breathing as she felt him go hard against her butt.

"I'm not tired," he assured, pulling her closer to him by the arm as his lips continued to plant soft kisses on her neck. "Turn around."

Y/n was sure her cheeks were flustered red by now. Good thing it was a little dark, with only the glow coming from outside the windows as their source of light. She turned to face him, now laying face to face.

He cupped her face with both hands. "You're too cute when you worry, but I'm sure you stress yourself enough at your internship."

She closed her hand around one of his and kissed it by the palm. "I don't mind. I want to wait for you."

Dazai smirked. "Then we must do something to relieve that stress, no?"

"W-Wha—? Dazai!"

In one swift movement, Dazai was on top of her, pinning her down with both hands at the side of her head.

"You're always so stubborn, Y/n." Dazai's lips hovered above hers. "But it's my turn now."

His lips pushed hard against hers, Y/n struggling to suppress a smile. Dazai rarely asked for them to do 'it' and like today, he'd usually find a way to pin the need on her benefit.

"You're playing hard to get, huh?" He kissed the area between her breasts, his hand finding its way underneath her tank top.

"Why can't you ask for this like a normal person?" Y/n moaned as he continued to play with her breasts.

He hummed in amusement, now tracing a finger from her nipple down to the hem of her pajama shorts. "Because I'm not a normal person, love."

Y/n held her breath as Dazai's fingers circled around her clit.

"So I'm going to make you ask for it." He kissed her on the forehead and pushed a finger inside her without warning.

On instinct, Y/n gasped and closed her eyes at the sensation. He was too good with his hands that even though she wasn't an ability user, she could suddenly almost understand how it would feel like to be nullified by his touch.

"No." He grabbed her gently by the jaw with his free hand, making her open her eyes. "Look at me."

"Dazai..." was all Y/n could muster through her moans as he continued to flick his finger from inside, and that's only one. She barely held his gaze as her own eyes would threaten to retreat at the back of her head.

"Yes?" He stopped abruptly.

Before she could stop herself, Y/n screamed out, "No!" And immediately avoided his gaze.

Ugh.

"You were saying something?" Dazai started again, now going for slow thrusts with the same finger. It was sliding in and out easily now that her body had given in to him, betraying her mind.

"Now that you started it," she seethed. "Please."

Even though he was still climbing back to the quicker tempo he had earlier, Y/n squeezed his free left wrist, signaling to him that she was close.

Dazai's love for control flashed over his dark orbs, he loved it even more when it involved applying it to Y/n in bed. "Please, what?"

He pushed another finger inside her, his other hand teasing Y/n's bottom lip before inserting two twin fingers into her mouth.

Y/n sucked on them to conceal her moans. She was reaching a different kind of high compared to how close she was a few seconds ago.

"F-Fuck—" Y/n struggled to talk now that her breathing has quickened, mimicking the pace of Dazai's fingers, while also still trying her best not to break their gaze.

Her body went rigid as she clenched around him, her fluids slipping past his fingers and onto the bed sheets.

Dazai took his fingers out of her mouth and covered it to muffle what was almost a scream from her, while his other hand continued to work their magic from below. His weight now slightly pinned half of her body down as she squirmed, overcoming her orgasm.

Once she was done, he retrieved his fingers and stretched them out with a smirk on his face, admiring the fluid dripping from them. "Can you talk properly now?"

Tears were forming at the corners of Y/n's eyes. She was already too sensitive down there, but she wanted more of him.

It could only get better than this.

"Please," she said with a shaky breath. "Fuck me."

"I love seeing you helpless like this." Dazai pulled out his member and stroked the tip with the wetness from his fingers. "Your wish is my command."

He grabbed a pillow and placed it underneath her butt to elevate the lower part her body, since she was smaller and shorter than he was.

They kissed again as he thrust inside, slowly but hard.

Y/n gasped into his mouth but he was quick to claim it again. His elbows resting at her sides, barely pulling out of her as he continued to stroke deeper and deeper into her insides.

She grabbed his hair as they continued to make out, fortunately stifling their moans for their neighbors not to hear. Every stroke made her eyes water up more as she reached for her second orgasm.

"Dazai," Y/n whispered in between kisses. "Faster."

He pulled away and grinned.

"Good girl." He pressed his lips on hers before rising to support his weight with his hands. "Safe word if it hurts, okay?"

Y/n nodded as he picked up the pace of his thrusts. She tried to grab at the pillow underneath her head, but Dazai reached for her hand and held on to it instead.

No sound came out of her mouth as she struggled to regain proper breathing, even though she was very near screaming her brains out. Dazai, too, was close to reaching his peak with his own moans muffled on to his shoulder.

She couldn't feel anything else with the rest of her body except for the part that's being pleasured greatly down there. She was so wet she could hear the sound liquid with every stroke, together with the sound of skin slapping against each other.

She squeezed his hand to signal him again. "Dazai, fuck!"

"Me too," he said, focused. "Fuck, I love it when you're loud."

"Cum in me."

"What?" He started to thrust rougher at the same fast-paced jolts. It was starting to hurt but it turned her on even more.

And he knew this. He brought a hand up to her clit and started rubbing them.

"It's safe today," Y/n tried to catch her breath. She was dangerously close now that Dazai had done his final trick.

Her back arched as she arrived at her second orgasm, a bit more intense than the first one. She could feel Dazai empty himself into her, his jaw clenched as he slowed down.

He collapsed into her arms, whimpering in satisfaction. "You feel so good, Y/n."

She was too breathless to speak, her legs were shaking and she was throbbing down there. Y/n was in ecstasy, but the exhaustion came crashing down quickly to her.

"I'll go get you water." Dazai stood up and took a box of tissues from the dresser to clean his member off before tucking it back inside his boxers. He then left the room.

He came back with a glass of water, and assisted Y/n to sit up.

She took the glass gratefully and began chugging down the water. She then placed the glass on the bedside table once she was done, trying to get her breathing right.

Both of them shared a smile as Dazai tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You know I fucking love you, right?"

Y/n nodded. "And you love fucking me."

[artificialqueens]

Donatella (Taywhora) - Holtzmanns

read on ao3 | word count: 2924

George’s hand lingers on Tayce’s shoulder for a millisecond too long once he’s done adjusting his outfit, before he lets it drop to the side. There’s a tiny hint of disappointment that swirls in his chest upon the realization that he has to move on to another model, because the show is about to start any minute, and the last thing he wants to do is piss off the show director, who already has a vein throbbing along her forehead as she yells at the poor man fiddling with the lighting fixtures-

“Hey. Go ahead. I won’t take it personal,” Tayce murmurs, and the twinkle in his eyes lets George know that he’s absolutely taking the piss.

Nonetheless, he’s powerless to stop the upward curve of his own lips. “No?”

“Maybe a little.”

He swears he sees Tayce wink, but maybe that’s just the brightness of the fluorescents overhead.

A/N: Hi, I'm still alive, I swear. Life has been fun and also full to the brim of changes, though I'm trying my best to get back into the groove of writing again. Next chapter of vampire fic (and maybe level up) to be revisited soon for sure. In the meantime, enjoy this short and sweet oneshot and let me know what you think! Thank you Writ for betaing 💖

The final day of London Fashion Week tends to feel like the culmination of a week-long bender.

It sort of is, if the thin white lines of powder on blatant display on the dressing room tables are any indication. Not that George has gone near them, not today. Not when tonight’s the Versace show and he’s cut most of these garments and helped to sew at least two of them, and they’re going to be out on the runway in half an hour’s time. Grunt work is the opposite of glamorous when he’s hunched over a sewing machine at two in the morning, but it’s worth it at times like this, when he’s about to show his work with fucking Versace.

Well, not George’s own designs. Not yet. But he has to start somewhere, doesn’t he?

George tries not to wrinkle his nose when the model whose dress he’s pinning lights up a cigarette in between her fingers. Backstage at Fashion Week is never too strict when it comes to smoking, because hell, the big names would throw a fit. It does raise George’s blood pressure just a tad, though, when the ash that the model taps off of her cigarette falls just a little too close to the dress.

He refuses to have his creations ruined by accidental ignition.

It’s almost a relief from George to step away from her, moving onto the model beside her who’s not smoking, thank the heavens, except-

“I remember you!”

Oh, no.

Tayce, at least that’s what George thinks his name is, remains as gorgeous as he was during his fittings a few weeks back. Enough to make George’s carefully planned comebacks fall to the wayside, leaving his lungs empty because of the sharpness of Tayce’s jawline and the sparkle in his eyes. There’s something about Tayce that dries up any remnants of confidence swirling around in George’s system, enough so that he turns into a bloody schoolgirl with a crush.

Not that he has one. He’s at work, for God’s sake.

“I remember you too. Funny how memory works, isn’t it?”

Shy George can sometimes get snarky. Not in a mean way, though. He hopes.

Luckily, Tayce doesn’t seem very bothered. In fact, his smile grows bigger as George kneels down, fiddling with the sides of the trousers he’s got on for the show. The blue fabric isn’t falling quite right, but maybe George can take them in a smidge with a few pins so that they’re more streamlined-

“You’re cute when you’re focused with a handful of pins in your mouth,” Tayce’s wry voice distracts George from the fabric in his hands, and he nearly nicks himself in the process.

He curses internally, not only because of the poke on his finger but also because he probably looks right clumsy in front of Tayce. Model Tayce who knows he’s the shit, if the way he stomps down the runway is any indication, the very one who has an amused look on his face due to George’s internal turmoil.

“Are you trying to make yourself late for the runway?” George asks, but he can’t be stern the way he wants to, not when Tayce is so ridiculously charming and looking at him like he’s a challenge he wants to solve.

Tayce lets out a scoff. “Please. We both know these shindigs never start on time. My afternoon show was forty five minutes late and I wasn’t even the last one to show up.”

George snorts as he gathers the fabric once more. “Oh right, you were second last, weren’t you?”

“The cheek!” Tayce exclaims, crossing his arms, and George only has to shoot eyes in his direction for him to return to his original position, enough so that the fabric falls properly. “I’m on time, everyone else is simply early. Isn’t that the saying?”

George pauses. “Isn’t that from The Princess Diaries ?”

“So what?” Tayce shrugs. “I may have watched that movie but you have too, right? Recognized it and all.”

“Course I did. You don’t take me for someone with shit taste in movies, do you?” George asks as he gets back to his feet, scanning his gaze down Tayce’s torso to make sure his shirt is falling properly, nothing more.

He can feel Tayce’s gaze on him in return and it almost wants to keep him from looking up, because if he does then Tayce is surely going to notice when his cheeks inevitably redden.

Better to focus. Since he’s at work and all.

George barely taps on Tayce’s shoulder, a cue for him to turn around and Tayce readily does so without question, pushing his shoulders back. It’s as if Tayce already knows what George is looking for, anticipating his moves before he has the chance to make them clear. Nothing different from what Tayce would do with any other stylist responsible for checking his garments before a show, but it still feels as if Tayce is paying attention. Noticing George’s little routine.

It’s enough to make his heart beat just a little bit faster.

George’s hand lingers on Tayce’s shoulder for a millisecond too long once he’s done adjusting his outfit, before he lets it drop to the side. There’s a tiny hint of disappointment that swirls in his chest upon the realization that he has to move on to another model, because the show is about to start any minute, and the last thing he wants to do is piss off the show director, who already has a vein throbbing along her forehead as she yells at the poor man fiddling with the lighting fixtures-

“Hey. Go ahead. I won’t take it personal,” Tayce murmurs, and the twinkle in his eyes lets George know that he’s absolutely taking the piss.

Nonetheless, he’s powerless to stop the upward curve of his own lips. “No?”

“Maybe a little.”

He swears he sees Tayce wink, but maybe that’s just the brightness of the fluorescents overhead.

George can feel Tayce’s eyes on him as he moves on to the next few models, taking a fraction of the time because really, they don’t need that detailed of a onceover. It’s all for the best because the crowd is quieting on the other side of the curtains and the lights are bright enough to make George squint, even while backstage, as the line of models head out one after another.

Being in the audience for a show is night and day from actually working backstage - it’s as if the curtains dull all of the yelling, the quick-changes, the utter chaos that threatens to spill out onto the stage itself. Once the show starts George runs back and forth, darting between models to help them into their next looks, the rich colours draped along their figures looking straight out of an oil painting, one that he’s lucky to have helped to create. He almost doesn’t notice when he reaches Tayce once more, too caught up with the blueprints of all of the looks in his head until he feels a flick against his shoulder.

“Mighty brave, tugging on my clothes before even saying hello,” Tayce grins, somehow cool as a cucumber while shimmying into the blazer that George holds out for him, the patterns on the sleeves catching in the light.

George has to ignore the slight stammer that catches his tongue, hoping the chaos of the show is enough that Tayce doesn’t either. “I don’t see you complaining about it.”

“Who says I’m complaining?” Tayce throws back, holding George’s gaze before tilting his head to the side, “you’re better than old Muriel over there.”

George has to hold in a laugh as he follows Tayce’s gaze. The older stylist he’s pointing to has been on the scene for decades upon decades, working with the likes of Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell, and someone George could really learn from, though he’s learned to keep his distance. Probably for the best, because as George watches, she barks at the model whose dress she’s adjusting and passes her the sandwich in her grip so that she can use both of her hands for the job.

Tayce makes a face. “So pushy. And I swear, she wears the same perfume as my nan. Can’t forget the scent of Guerlain Shalimar.”

“Muriel’s bringing back those memories, then?” George asks, snorting when Tayce lets out a shudder.

“Just imagine Muriel as your nan. She wouldn’t feed you Sunday roast until she’d gotten you in cute little outfits with lace and petticoats, all the while threatening to put out her cigarette on your arm if you moved even a centimetre.”

“What an upbringing,” George whistles as he gives Tayce a onceover. “There. Good to go. Back to your place in line, then.”

Tayce blows a kiss, and George swears it’s for the sole purpose of making his face flush beet red, if Tayce’s delighted snicker as he walks away is any indication.

George finds himself peeking over at the curtains leading to the edge of the runway more than once as he’s running around backstage between the clothing racks and all the models, travel sewing kit in hand. Maybe it’s a bit pathetic to keep a constant eye out for Tayce every time he steps off the runway, but George can’t help it. Not when Tayce manages to catch his eye right back every single time.

Tayce sidles up to George once the show’s over and he’s packing up the clothes for travel, taking extra care of the ones he’s helped to put together. No matter how many collections he’s participated in, endless hours of painstaking work, it somehow still feels special. The excitement of it all hasn’t quite worn off just yet. George reaches for a garment bag but Tayce plucks it from the rack before he can, unzipping it so that George can stuff in the dress that’s currently draped across his arms.

Tayce grabs another bag and does the same thing, and it makes George pause for a second, look over towards him. “Don’t you have the afterparty to go to?”

George remembers his first Fashion Week back when he was a student, when the afterparties were glitz and glam and miles away from the clubs near Worksop. All the celebrities and the models and the designers that he would try to network with while they were drunk off their tits, so it would never get too far, anyway. Still, though, it felt almost thrilling.

Now, though, it feels like the novelty has worn off. The seventy-hour work week that is required during London Fashion Week, combined with very little sleep, means that the first thing George wants to do after helping with the pack up is go back to his flat and crash.

“I came here to ask you the same thing,” Tayce counters, rocking on his feet and not looking tired in the least.

George, though, shakes his head. “Me? Nah. I’m knackered.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Tayce gives him a look. “It’s the last day. What else are you up to tomorrow, anyway? You can sleep in, can’t you?”

“I can also sleep now,” George shrugs, and the dramatic sigh that Tayce lets out makes him grin.

It’s sort of nice to feel wanted, almost.

And so George acquiesces, because the possibility of spending more time with Tayce, with Tayce even wanting to spend time with him, is enough to set off a current in his veins and wake him up despite the late hour. “Fine. I’ll only come for a little bit, though. Then it’s bedtime for me.”

The triumphant yell out of Tayce’s mouth makes it worth it, even as Muriel shoots them a dirty look.

Sleep is overrated, George has decided.

It doesn’t come close to the alternative, his current reality where Tayce is tipping back a shot as the chains around his neck catch on the pulsing lights overhead. It’s Tayce’s second one in a row without so much as a wince, and maybe it’s because the bar has watered down the drinks the closer the clock gets to midnight, but it’s hard for George to look away nonetheless.

Tayce doesn’t call him out on it but instead grabs his hand with a glint in his eye, as if the attention is pure energy that charges his system. George swears he feels the electricity through their connected palms.

The way Tayce dances parallels his runway walk - he’s determined with his movements while simultaneously the mirror image of a gazelle getting used to its long limbs as he throws his arms up. Not that it’s a bad look on Tayce, not in the least. Maybe it’s Tayce’s confidence, or maybe it’s just the way George has fallen in too deep, but it works on him.

Tayce tugs on the corner of his shirt before he spins in place, his yell barely audible over the music. “Dance floors aren’t made for standing like a statue. C’mon, then.”

George can accept the fact that Tayce won’t remember tonight with his inevitable hangover tomorrow anyway, while simultaneously wanting to keep himself from looking like an idiot. “I don’t dance.”

“Sure you do,” Tayce chirps, lifting their intertwined hands as if they’re ballroom partners, but pauses when George lets out a squeak. “Wait. Babe, you’re stiffer than Dua Lipa attempting an eight count.”

“I told you!” George huffs, but the embarrassment he expects to feel doesn’t heat his cheeks up, because Tayce is too busy flinging his own limbs around in some sort of interpretation of the music.

It’s almost refreshing, the way Tayce doesn’t seem to care about what other people think, how he almost feeds off of the attention because none of it is ever negative. Even if it was, George isn’t sure that Tayce would ever let any of it tear him down, because he seems more the type to let it roll off of him without so much as a glance over.

It’s not until the remix overhead blends in some Gaga that George feels inclined to sing along, move his hips and his arms a little more because he’s self conscious, yes, but he also has an appreciation for the finer artists in life. He doesn’t miss the way Tayce’s face lights up, the whoop he lets out audible over the music before he grabs both of George’s hands once more as he dances.

“Atta boy!”

George wants to swear that the crowdedness of the dance floor is responsible for how close he’s getting to Tayce, because he doesn’t remember taking a step but Tayce is close enough that George can see the glitter on his cheekbones, the one hair curl swooping onto his forehead. It has to be the crowd that’s pushing them together for sure, enough that Tayce’s fingers are trailing down his biceps and along his waist and grabbing onto his belt loops to tug him in closer.

George lifts his eyebrows up in question, ignoring the way his heart is pounding and the racing thoughts in his head, because if he focuses too much on them he’s going to lose his mind. So instead he watches the way Tayce nods, biting his lip and the subtle waft of cologne that hits him when Tayce wraps his arms around his neck makes his eyes flutter.

Tayce kisses the same way that he moves on the dance floor - unabashed, taking, enough to leave George breathless and gasping, but who needs to come up for air when Tayce invades all of his senses so deliciously? George rakes his nails along the silk on Tayce’s back, and Tayce’s hiss against his mouth is intoxicating, muddying his thoughts more so than the alcohol flowing through his veins.

Tayce’s eyes are unfocused, dazed when they pull apart and it’s the first time George has seen him look anything less than in control. “Fucking hell.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” George can’t help the way his pitch rises in concern as he nearly has to yell over the music, because what if Tayce is more disgusted than anything-

“You idiot,” Tayce snorts, pulling him closer again with a hand on his waist, and George can feel the smile on his lips when they kiss. “What do you think?”

“Just checking,” George mumbles sheepishly, though the chagrin fades when Tayce pulls their hips up against each other and he can feel… oh.

A good thing, then.

“Happy end to Fashion Week, indeed,” George gets out, leaning in closer to Tayce, but it’s short lived when Tayce pulls back, and George has to stop himself from pouting.

Tayce looks entirely too gleeful as his fingers gather in the hair on the nape of George’s neck. “Shall we end it with a bang, then?”

“Oh my god,” George mutters, shaking his head, and it only exacerbates Tayce’s snickering. “Is that really how you get others into bed with you?”

“Is it working?” Tayce asks, and George pauses, his eyes catching on the curve of Tayce’s eyebrow, the sheen of his skin.

As if his answer would be anything else.

So George intertwines their hands, gives a little tug to pull them off of the dance floor, and snorts when Tayce lets out a whoop. Tayce is ridiculous yet somehow suave and hot all at once, a puzzle  that George hasn’t quite solved.

Though with their fingers linked as they head out the back door of the club, George is looking forward to getting the chance to do so.

[brasskier]

@badthingshappenbingo trope #3 (and this one was actually requested!)

Thank you to the incredible @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde for reading this one over for me!

Trope: Suicide attempt

Summary:  Yennefer's just running a few errands, and doesn't expect to end up talking Geralt's bard down from a rooftop. Jaskier is ready to leap, and doesn't expect a certain mage to interrupt his grand finale. Both of them might just walk away with a better understanding of one another. (Or, a character study in borderline personality disorder.)

TW for suicidal ideation/threats/gestures and reference to self-harm. The descriptions aren’t graphic and he doesn’t actually jump, but this whole fic deals with suicide and mental illness. Be safe y’all <3

Read it on my ao3 or below the cut:

The trip to Tretogor wasn’t supposed to last long. Replenish her stock after the utter disaster that was the dragon hunt, some odds and ends as she came upon them, maybe get absolutely shitfaced and forget the whole thing happened. That was all. And it looked like, for a pleasant change of pace, there weren’t going to be any complications. Errands finished, Yennefer was enjoying a hearty roast at one of the better taverns in the city when she noticed the early warnings of a brewing commotion. First murmurs, then the voices grew louder and more persistent, and then people were pushing outside. She ignored them; a petty barfight was not something she particularly wanted or needed to get involved with. The bar was still stirring, and eventually when she finally shifted her focus off her roast, the tavern was near-empty, only the drunkest of patrons remaining. Even the barkeep was shuffling outside. Clearly, something was happening. Something big. With a beleaguered sigh, she pushed up from her chair and headed out the door.

A surprisingly large crowd greeted her outside, more expansive than the usual clamor around a simple drunken brawl. She approached the barkeep, standing on the outskirts of the mob, and she didn’t even have to speak before the barkeep jerked his head skyward. She traced his gaze to the roof of a towering building casting its shadow over them.

“Poor sod’s gonna jump, I reckon,” the barkeep ruminated, eyes still fixed upwards. In place of the massive beast she fully expected to be perched atop the building stood the figure of a man, trembling at the very edge of the roof. She squinted, an uncanny familiarity settling into her gut.

She mumbled her half-hearted thanks, already pushing through a portal to the rooftop. The man, still frozen in place on the opposite edge, didn’t seem to notice the sudden company, and her uneasiness grew into a sinking dread.

“Jaskier?” she called, tentatively, afraid to startle him. Any last shred of hope that she was mistaken (though the intricately embroidered doublet was hard to mistake) was gone when he jerked his head back to face her. His mouth was agape, an uncomfortable mixture of surprise and disappointment drawn across his features. “What are you doing?”

“The fuck does it look like?” He snapped back. There was more than his usual sarcasm or mock-incredulity in his voice, real and deep-felt anger coloring his tone.

“Don’t do it,” she urged, surprising herself with the tenderness in her own words. “Come on now. Just come down.” Why did she care? The question gnawed in the back of her mind, and she did her damndest to push it aside. She’s a good person, after all, right? She’d do it for anyone, surely. None of Geralt’s not-getting-involved nonsense.

“Fuck off, Yennefer.” He let out a barking laugh, thin and breathy, pitching forward ever so slightly with the force of it. She felt her whole body tense, hands reaching out reflexively.

“Where’s Geralt? What happened?” This was, apparently, the single worst line of conversation she could’ve settled on, because he dropped abruptly to a squat and for a split second she was certain she was about to witness the man’s death. 

“I’m not his fucking keeper.” He was nearly at a roar now, a fever-pitch that sent a shiver down Yennefer’s spine. “Haven’t seen him in a week. Not since— not since—” Though she couldn’t see his face, his eyes fixed resolvedly on the ground below, she could hear the tears cut through his words, his breath hiccuping.

“Shh,” she hushed him. Clearly, something had happened after she stormed off. What, precisely, could wait until later, when he was back on solid ground. “I know. It’s not fair.”

“The fuck do you know about fair?” he scoffed, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his abdomen against the biting wind. 

“He fucked me over, too.” She should’ve been offended, and she would’ve been if she wasn’t far more concerned with making sure the bard didn’t fling himself into an early demise, which would be decidedly unfair. That sentiment did little to ease him, and withdrew no response. “Fuck Geralt,” she declared, trying again. “Damn brute thinks he can just take as he pleases.”

“And— and then discard you once he’s had his fill,” he mumbled, offering her the slightest glance back, tears glistening against the pink of his cheeks. 

“You’re better than that,” she set forth like a thesis. “You’re — loathe as I am to admit it — talented, bard. People like you. You’ll find plenty of material to write about.” Perhaps an appeal to both logos and pathos would be sufficient, at least enough to get him off the ledge. 

“It won’t be the same.” He frowned tragically over his shoulder at her. “I've lost it all, Yen. Look at me— I'm just a silhouette.”

“That's nonsense. He… you're more than him. He's not everything.” It felt ridiculous to her, throwing yourself off a roof over an argument with a friend. After all, Jaskier had always managed to exist in the spaces between Geralt before; teaching, or penning his next obnoxious ballad, or bedding married women, or whatever it is overgrown manchild bards do. But, then, she'd almost killed herself to restore something she knew she could never get back. So perhaps they were even.

“Look, this is awfully sweet of you, but—” he swept his arm, gesturing vaguely at nothing in particular. ��Just let me go. I’m doing everyone a favor.” He turned his attention back to the ground, wind rippling through his hair. “Should’ve done this a long time ago.” She felt her heart skip — a long time ago? This wasn’t just a histrionic reaction to whatever might’ve occurred between him and Geralt; gods knew how long he’d felt like this.

“You know I can’t do that,” she retorted, drawing tentatively closer. “Don’t make me portal you down.” He huffed, waving her off with a trembling hand. 

“Please, Yen.” Realistically, she knew it would be easy to oblige his request. Walk away, pretend not to hear the sickening thud, and carry on. He was only her ex-witcher’s ex-bard, after all. “I always knew it'd end like this. I’m just… I’m glad I even made it past thirty, really.” 

“That’s— I’m not— no, Jaskier. I’m not letting you throw yourself off a roof, for the love of the gods. That’s insane.” She wasn’t sure what was more insane, letting him go, or standing here arguing with him. “You’re going to be real glad when you make it to forty, bard.”

“Am I though, really? This isn’t my first time, believe it or not. And every time I live, or I back out, or I let someone talk me out of it. And I always regret it in the end.” Her mind reeled again — every time? How many had there been? She pushed the thought back.

“You won’t find out unless you get down,” she argued, drawing closer still. He tensed, sensing her presence, hands balling and unfurling repetitively. “Come on. Go to the tavern with me, get something to eat, have a—” she was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath now “—more drink. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning, and if you still regret it, well…” 

“Fine,” he finally agreed on the tail end of a sigh, turning to fully face her. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” She didn’t like the resolve with which he said those words, but he was agreeing to come down, which at least was a small victory. She’d handle tomorrow when it came around. In the meantime she needed to get them both down. “Or eventually,” he tacked on as she held her hands out, forming a portal back to solid ground. “Inevitably.” The word rang in her mind as she looped an arm around him and led him through the portal. As an afterthought, she summoned a blanket with a flick of her fingers; it was one of those cheap, thin blankets they kept at the inn, but it would do. She tossed it over his shoulders and he dug his fingers into the fabric, drawing it closer around himself.

Once they were back in the tavern, that thin blanket still draped over Jaskier's shoulders and mug of ale held in shaking hands, it was time to talk.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, dragging his thumb up and down the cool tankard, avoiding meeting her eyes at all costs. “I’ve caused such a fuss. You must be anxious to get out of here.” He finally glanced in her direction when he felt a hand land on his forearm.

“It’s fine, really,” she insisted, and he couldn’t bear the pity in her eyes. “Now are you going to tell me what that was all about?” He huffed a laugh, looked away again.

“It’s just, you know. Me and my theatrics.” He shrugged, running a hand along his jaw.

“Bullshit.” When, exactly, Yennefer had gotten so good at seeing right through him, he wasn’t sure. But he did know he definitely didn’t like it.

“I’m sorry. I just, I… I get like that, I guess,” he muttered finally, dragging his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“Suicidal, you mean? You just get… suicidal?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow, moving her hand up to his shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess.” He reached blindly, dropped a hand over hers. “When something goes wrong. Someone leaves me again. I just, I fuck up a lot, and I’m no good at dealing with the concequences.” 

“That’s— gods, I know you’re an idiot, but that’s really worth killing yourself over?” She tried to keep her tone light, clipped, maybe a little detached. He was uneasy with the attention, it was obvious, and she was also certainly not ready to admit that maybe, just a tiny bit, she sort of cared about him.

“Geralt, he ran me off,” he mumbled, sinking further into the blanket. “After the hunt, after your fight, he blamed me. For everything, the entire two decades of our, well. I guess it wasn’t friendship.” He chewed at his lip, a nervous habit, anger bubbling below the surface at the thought of that day. “Told me the greatest gift life could give him would be to take me off his hands.” Yennefer balked at him, finally hearing the context of his despair, and she was just about ready to portal right over to wherever Geralt had fucked off to and give him a piece of her mind.

“That’s terrible,” she told him, the best she could really offer. Nothing she could say would undo what’d happened, and nothing could change how much it hurt him. “He really is a bastard.” Jaskier nodded slowly, raised his tankard up in toast. “When’s the last time you ate? You must be starving.”

“Stew would be nice,” he replied quietly, meekly. She haled one of the barkeeps, ordered him a stew, and requested another round of drinks. “It’s not just the fight, though,” he added once the server was gone. “I don’t know how to explain it, Yen. Why I do the things I do, or feel the way I feel. It’s just, it’s all too much sometimes, you know?” She knew. All too well, she knew. She was only just beginning to understand herself, just beginning to feel some semblance of control. He was so young — perhaps not by human standards, but comparatively. 

“I know. It’s hard.” They felt like empty platitudes, like she had no idea how to truly connect with him, and it was frustrating. She wanted to help him, but she wasn’t sure how, wasn’t sure he wanted it. 

“Yeah.” He bobbed his head, picked at the wood of the table. They drifted into silence, neither sure how to fill it, neither sure this was a conversation either wanted to have. The stew arrived, and he picked at it rather than devouring it like he usually did his rations. 

“You know I’m sterile, right?” she finally broke the silence once he’d finished his food and pushed the bowl aside, leaning closer, her voice pitched in a conspiratorial whisper. He nodded solemnly, averting his gaze, watching the light catch in his amber ale. “And you know I’ve gone to great lengths to rectify that, correct?” Another slow nod.

“I know, Yen. I’m sorry, I know you have far more right to be miserable than I do. And here I am, wallowing like a toddler—” She waved a hand to cut him off.

“No, listen, stupid bard. It’s really not about being able to have kids. It’s about the fact that I don’t have a choice, that I’ve never had a choice,” she elaborated, hiking the blanket further up his shoulders as it started to slip.

“I know. And here I am, I’ve gotten everything I wanted. I got to choose; running away, going to Oxenfurt, becoming a bard, traveling. Gods, I followed Geralt to the ends of the bloody Continent for two decades of my life I’ll never get back — but that was my choice.” 

“Would you please let me finish my point, instead of interrupting me to wallow in guilt?” He gnawed at his lip, finally turning to face her. “It wasn’t about being a mother, it was about choice. So this—” she waved her arm dramatically, wondering for a moment when exactly she’d started picking up his mannerisms. “This isn’t about Geralt at all, is it?” After a moment of contemplation, he carefully shook his head. “Then what is it about?” 

“I don’t know, to be honest,” he muttered at the tail end of a swig from his tankard. “I’ve just always been like this,” he said with a sweep of his hand, palm upturned, string-callused fingers twitching aimlessly. Her violet eyes bore into him expectantly, and he felt angry for a flicker of a moment — she was a witch, right? He should be able to just sit back while she delves into the darkest crevices of his psyche, let her root around and not have to struggle to put his life into context and language. “Can’t you just, y’know…” He tugged at his fingers, tilted his head.

“Read your mind?” she finished the question, scooting closer to him, and he felt the hair on his arms rise. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” He nodded, and she pressed her forehead against his, pulling him in close, enveloping him in the lilac and gooseberries he knew Geralt loved so much. He understood why; he felt inexplicably safe, even as the logical half of his brain urged him to pull back. This was all for show, and he knew that— she didn’t need to touch him to read him. Either way, he was grateful to not have to give language to the nameless, that she could just see.

See Jaskier at seventeen, screaming at Valdo from across the courtyard, "if you leave me I swear the fuck to melitile I'll kill myself," knowing he's made this exact threat verbatim so many times Valdo can't believe him, unable to recall what they were even arguing about anymore. When they break up, his mother tells him the first heartbreak always hurts the worst; it hurts all the same every time thereafter.

Jaskier at twenty, slicing thin lines into his thigh for what had to be the millionth time, running out of unmarred skin, witcher/tentative friend asleep somewhere beside him in the darkness. If asked, he’s not sure he’d have an excuse. Sometimes to feel something, sometimes to feel nothing. Either way, this uncertainty is what keeps his wrists clean.

Jaskier at twenty-three, wailing great, hiccuping sobs, shoulders rattling, blind beyond teary eyes. Geralt, gods bless him, doesn’t know what to do, stands arm’s-length away, regards him with uncertainty and pity. They’d fought about something that didn’t matter and he couldn’t remember, and that rage washed over him, red-hot, balled fists trembling at his side. “Get out! Gods, are you thick? Leave, Geralt; I fucking hate you.” But then Geralt listened, because Geralt didn’t play Jaskier’s games, and now there he was, sobbing, babbling, “don’t leave me, I’m sorry, I’ll be better, I can’t lose you, it’ll kill me, don’t go.” Geralt stays; they pretend nothing ever happened.

Jaskier at twenty-seven, at the ashes of his latest burnt bridge, just another failed relationship that feels altogether more like death than separation. Grieving it more like death, too; sobbing until he could do little more than stare at the ceiling and try to breathe, mourning a cemetery of mistakes and a lifetime of failure.

Jaskier at thirty-two, depression blanketing him with the fresh snow, the man he'd tangled up his entire identity in fucked off to the mountains for the winter while he sludged through classes, distracting himself from having to confront the fact that he doesn't recognize his own face in the mirror. Jaskier does exist in the spaces between Geralt, but, sometimes, that Jaskier is a husk.

Jaskier a few days ago, marching back to Oxenfurt because that's all he knows, doubtful Jaskier even exists anymore, the emptiness in his mind unbearable and somehow terminal, altogether certain he's been incompatible with life from the very moment he entered it and resolved to rectify nature's mistake himself. 

Jaskier who, his entire life, has felt everything, too much, all at once. Who's always been led by his heart — and not in the beautiful, Romantic way, but messy, tragic, and uniquely Jaskier. A man so utterly at the mercy of his own mind, drowning in feelings he doesn't have the language to name, his entire being defined not by who he is but what he does and who he loves. 

Jaskier, on a rooftop in Tretogor, itchy feet ready to fling him off the ledge. He'd told Valdo once, in the in-between hours not quite night or morning when everything seems strange and far away, that he knew how he was destined to die. Pressed on, even as Valdo chuckled and called him presumptive, “I'm going to kill myself.” Not today, or tomorrow, but inevitably. He said it not with the certainty of someone who's seen into the future but the cynical resignation of a man who knows no other escape. And Valdo punched his arm, told him not to talk like that, promised it would get easier one day. He hates Valdo now, not that he remembers why, and that day has yet to come.

She pulled back eventually— finally — and swept a shaky thumb over his cheek. He chewed on his lip, staring expectantly with hauntingly wide eyes. 

“Jaskier.” It was barely a whisper, uttered at the end of a sharp exhale, and when violet eyes met his they shone with an uncanny recognition. He wasn't sure what, precisely, she'd seen, but he knew whatever it was had been enough. He'd invited her to the bleakest corners of his mind, and now she regarded him like a lame horse. He ducked his head, but she caught him with a hand on his chin. “You know that's not how destiny works.”

“Hmm?” He wracked his brain to figure what she might be referring to, coming up empty-handed. He didn't have a big, grand destiny like she or Geralt did. He was just Jaskier the bard, Jaskier the one-night stand, Jaskier the disappointment. 

“It doesn't have to end like that. You have a choice,” she elaborated, still painfully vague, but he understood. 

“This isn't the first time, Yen, I—” 

“I know. I saw.” Right, she saw, probably everything, and he had the wherewithal to feel humiliated for it. 

“I've cheated it enough times. I can't outrun it forever.” It felt nice, at least, to let his walls down a little, stop playing the perpetual naive optimist. Almost a relief, even, a weight off his shoulders. 

“I know. But you're strong, Jask.” She moved her hand from his chin to the back of his head, guiding it to rest against her shoulder. “We have more in common than I thought, you know.” He laughed, thin and heady, but with a little more conviction this time, and pressed his face against her neck. 

“Is that your way of telling me you're fucked up, too?” He asked, and, despite the levity in his tone, he truly was curious. 

“Yes, bard,” she hummed, reaching out to sip at her tankard.

“You're not going to give me any more than that?” He fought off a yawn, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth. “I just told you everything.” 

“Maybe someday,” she replied, setting the mug back on the table. “But right now I think you could use some rest. We both could.” She slipped out of the booth and he let his head tilt back against the wall, mourning the absence of her warmth. 

She returned a few minutes later, room procured, and hiked the blanket back over his shoulders as he reached for his lute and followed after her. It was a nice enough room, two beds on opposite sides, a bath he had no intention of utilizing. Exhausted, he kicked off his boots, shrugged off his doublet, and dropped onto the bed. He let his mind wander, dozing as Yennefer readied herself for bed, eyelids heavy by the time she blew out the candles.

“You won't try again?” Yen asked from across the room after a while, barely a silhouette in the faint moonlight. Jaskier rolled over to face her, finding her staring distantly out the window.

“You, uh, you have to be more specific,” he muttered, tugging the blanket closer to his chin. It smelled of lilac and ale. 

“How am I supposed to make that more specific?” It came out sharp, like her usual tone with him, but he could still feel an uneasy twinge to her words. 

“I mean, I don't know.” He felt stupid for reasons beyond his grasp. “Not today, or tomorrow. But I can't promise never.” There was a long pause, and Jaskier barely breathed, wondering if he'd managed to upset her as sleep crept up on him. 

“Not today is enough,” she said finally, sounding almost far away, and his breath hitched in his throat.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, voice thick with impending sleep. “When are you leaving?” The me he omitted at the tail end rang in his mind, unspoken but understood, heavy in the nighttime silence. She was supposed to leave in the morning, so he could either move on or finish what he’d set out to do; he wasn’t sure he wanted her to uphold that promise anymore.

“Not today.” He exhaled slowly. Not today is enough. And maybe, just maybe, enough not today's would add up to never. 

[thestarsaroundyourscars]

110 - 111 with Reddie for the smut prompts ? :)

110. “Do you think they can hear us through the tent?”

111. “Yes we can.”

Read on AO3

NSFW

The camping trip was Mike's idea. 

This time instead of making six different phone calls, he pitched the idea in their recently created group chat. 

That was how, almost a year after defeating It, the losers got together again. This time to spend a weekend in the middle of the woods, sleeping in tents and singing Kumbaya around a bonfire. 

Or at least, that’s what Richie was picturing.

Bill, Ben and Bev didn’t need much convincing. The first one, because he would say yes to anything Mike said and the other two, because they were the type of people who were always ready for an adventure. As if fighting a fucking spider clown wasn't enough adventure to last them a lifetime. 

Stan had agreed for the bird watching potential but had to cancel, with Patty so close to her due date he didn't want to leave her alone. 

Surprisingly, Eddie had agreed rather quickly, probably due to his new therapist. He was doing so much better with her help and the fact that he was willing to spend three days in the wilderness surrounded by mosquitoes, bears and no real toilets was proof of that. 

Richie was happy for Eddie. He couldn't possibly feel more proud, but he really wished Eddie was on his side for this, because then Richie wouldn't be the only one opposed to the idea. He pointed out that a bunch of forty year olds with back problems sleeping on the floor was a terrible idea, but even then no one backed out. Eddie even threatened to withhold sex for a month if Richie didn't come with them. 

So of course Richie reluctantly agreed.

But now he was wondering if it was worth it. 

(Of course sex with Eddie was worth it, but right now Richie had mosquito bites all over him, including places he didn't think a mosquito could reach. He was cold from falling on the lake after he stepped on a faulty rock. And he was pretty sure every muscle in his body ached from the short walk there.)

"I have some calamine. It will help with the itch." Eddie said, ducking his head to enter their tent where Richie was wrapped up like a burrito inside his sleeping bag, trying to warm up. Eddie pursed his lips.  "But I'm gonna need you to get out of there and out of your clothes to put it on you."

"You just want to get me naked." Richie said through gritted teeth, he had finally managed to get them to stop chattering from the cold. 

Eddie smirked, closing the flap behind him. "You caught me." He said, kneeling next to him. "All those hives are really doing it for me." 

Richie snorted, reluctantly exiting his warm cocoon. "Don't joke about that Eds, right now sex is the only thing that could turn this trip around."

Eddie rolled his eyes. "Come on, you big cry baby." He said, uncapping the calamine and applying some on every mosquito bite. Richie sighed in relief, feeling the itch beginning to disappear. Having Eddie's hands on him was also helping him with the cold, his body conditioned to heat up under his touch. "Feeling better?"

Richie nodded, relaxing when the need to scratch his skin off was gone. Eddie put the little bottle aside before returning his hands to Richie’s body, applying more pressure to his touch and relieving some of the ache on Richie’s muscles.

"Yes, fuck. That feels good." 

"I can't believe you're sore. We didn't even walk a mile." Eddie chuckled, running his hands up and down Richie's body, kneading his muscles and eliciting groans of pleasure from him. 

"I'm not like you Eds. I don't run every morning. I'm not ripped. I'm⎯ oh." His words were cut off by a moan when Eddie's fingers brushed over Richie's nipple. "I'm⎯ I'm getting a little worked up here, Eds." He said with a breathy laugh, feeling his dick start to harden in his pants. 

Eddie bit down on his lower lip, a half smirk curling at his lips. Richie noticed his eyes were slightly hooded and fixed on Richie’s rapidly growing erection. "I know, I thought I’d help you relieve some of the tension." He winked, moving to straddle Richie's legs, leaning forward to work on his chest. This time he brushed over Richie's nipples on purpose. 

"Oh fuck, okay." 

Eddie shushed him. "Just relax Rich. I'll take care of you." 

Richie bit down a whine. Eddie's hands moved lower, until they reached the hem of his shirt. He bunched it up under Richie's armpits and racked his fingernails down the exposed skin. Richie had to bite down on his fist to keep from shouting as pleasure shot through his spine. Eddie's fingers played with the hair on his chest, scratching and pulling. Richie was practically writhing by the time Eddie was undoing the cord of Richie's sweatpants. 

He palmed him through the fabric and Richie push his hips off the floor, hoping to get more pressure.

"Eddie, please." He whined, squeezing Eddie's thigh. "Touch me."

With a devious smile, Eddie dragged down Richie’s pants and underwear, just enough to expose his dick. The cold air hit his heated skin and he shuddered. Then Eddie was wrapping his hand around him, giving Richie a few strokes.

"Oh fuck. Holy shit." Richie groaned, pushing his hips up desperately but Eddie held him down, setting a slow, torturous pace. After only a few strokes, Richie was writhing. He had long since stopped feeling embarrassed for how fast Eddie was able to drive him to the edge. "Please Eds, I wanna come."

Eddie shook his head, running his thumb over the slit. "Not until you're inside me." 

Richie's breath caught in his throat, eyes widening behind his glasses. Richie didn’t think he would get to have sex with Eddie on this trip. And when Eddie started touching him and feeling him up earlier, he thought all he would be getting was a handjob. He never imagined he would get to fuck Eddie tonight. Suddenly, all thoughts about aching muscles and mosquito bites were gone. 

"Don't worry. I'll do all the work, you lazy ass." Eddie smirked, reaching for his toiletry bag. Richie let out a whimper when he let go of his dick to rummage inside. He wanted to grab Eddie's hand and put it back on him but he knew they would need the supplies, so he waited.

Eddie fished out a condom, a bottle of lube and wet wipes. Richie let out a snort, "I wouldn't have given you so much shit about bringing a toiletry bag to the woods if I knew what was in it." Eddie sent him a look while shucking off his sleeping shorts. Richie grinned. "I would've given you shit for bringing a fucking sex kit, instead."

"Shut up." Eddie snapped with no heat. He squirted lube on his fingers and Richie watched as his hand disappeared behind him. "I like to be prepared."

"Prepared to be dicked down?" Richie asked, reaching up to hold Eddie's hips and help him keep his balance.

"Shut the fuck⎯ ah!" Eddie moaned, mouth falling open. Richie couldn't see what Eddie was doing but he could see his arm moving and that was enough to imagine Eddie's fingers disappearing inside of him, having seen it before. "Fuck Rich, I'm still⎯ ah. I'm still stretched from this morning." He gasped, fingers speeding up. 

Richie had fucked him that morning before leaving, bending Eddie over the back of the couch. It was hard and fast because they didn't have much time before Bill picked them up. Eddie was probably sore and more than a little sensitive but based on his blissed out expression as he fucked himself on his fingers, he was loving it. 

"Fuck Eds, you look so hot." Richie groaned, running his thumbs over Eddie's hip bones eliciting a moan from him. "Yeah baby, hottest fucking thing I've ever seen."

"Richie." Eddie whined, Richie's voice going straight to his cock, bobbing up and down between his legs as he fucked himself on his fingers. "Fuck fuck fuck. Grab the condom. I'm ready." He said, panting heavily.

Richie grabbed the condom, hearing the urgency on Eddie's voice. He ripped it open and rolled it on himself, hissing when his hand touched his dick. Eddie had pulled out his fingers and was pouring lube over Richie, giving him a few teasing strokes. He positioned himself over him but before he could lower himself on his dick, he leaned forward to kiss him.

Richie moaned against his lips, mouth parting to slide his tongue with Eddie's. It was wet and sloppy and it sent a spark of pleasure straight to Richie's dick.

Eddie pulled back, grinning and Richie watched in adoration as he lowered himself on his cock, head falling back with a breathy moan when he bottomed out. 

"Eds jesus christ, you feel so good." He groaned, grabbing onto Eddie's hips with a bruising grip. 

Eddie hummed, eyes closed and face scrunched up as he focused on getting used to the feeling. He started to slowly roll his hips and Richie had to bite down on his lower lip so he wouldn't cry out.

"Fuck Rich. I love how you feel inside me. So good, shit." 

Richie keened at the praise, unable to stop himself from arching up. The movement made Eddie gasp and spurred him into action, he braced himself against Richie's chest and pushed himself up until only the head of Richie's cock was inside him and then pushed down. He did it repeatedly, setting a fast and brutal pace. 

Despite what Eddie said, Richie did some of the work, planting his heels on the floor to push his hips up when Eddie pushed down. Soon, his legs were killing him and there was a dull ache on his back but Eddie's breathy little ah ah ah's had him pushing through the pain.

"I'm close, I'm fucking close Eds." Richie cried, heat burning and fizzing in his stomach. 

Eddie nodded, picking up the pace. "Me too Rich, fuck. Touch me, please."

Richie wrapped one of his hands around Eddie's cock, hard and throbbing. The contact made him cry out, it was the first time either of them touched it since they started this. It was a loud sound, they had long since forgotten they should be trying to keep quiet. After all, the others were not that far.

"I think we're being too loud." Richie said, panting.

"What?" Eddie asked, distracted. He was too focused on bouncing on Richie's dick like his life depended on it. "Faster Richie, come on."

Richie nodded, stroking Eddie faster and pushing his hips up harder, aiming for his prostate. "We're being fucking loud. Do you think they can hear us through the tent?"

Eddie moaned when Richie circled the head of his dick with his thumb, his answer dying in his throat.

But Bill shouting "Yes we can" was really all the answer they needed.

"Big Bill, you perv!" Richie shouted with a laugh.

Eddie slapped him on the chest. "Focus, Richie." Either he didn't realize their friends could hear them having sex or he didn't care. "I'm so fucking close."

"I got you baby." Richie said, his friends disappearing from his mind. He tightened his hand around Eddie, moving faster. Eddie keened loudly. "That's it Eds, come on."

"Fuck Richie. Fuck!" He moaned, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he exploded all over Richie's hand. 

He continued moving his hips, clenching around Richie. "Eds oh my god, you're so⎯ fuck!" He couldn't form words, so close to the edge that he could feel his toes curling. 

Eddie pushed his hand away from him, leaning forward to place open mouthed kisses on Richie’s chest, hips still moving. "Come for me, Rich." He whispered and when he bit down on Richie's nipple it was like an electric shock going through his body and Richie was coming, emptying himself in the condom, inside Eddie.

They stayed like that, Richie sprawled out on the floor and Eddie's head against his chest while they got their breathing under control. Richie ran his hand through Eddie's sweaty hair distractedly.

"That better be your clean hand." Eddie muttered after a few seconds of silence. 

Richie snorted. "Of course it is. I value my life, you know." 

Eddie lifted his head, smiling softly at Richie in his post orgasmic haze. When he reached over for a wet wipe he groaned, feeling Richie slip out of him. They cleaned up as best as they could but Eddie still wrinkled his nose when he laid down next to Richie, on top of his sleeping bag. 

"I need a fucking shower." He said, glaring at the ceiling. 

“Sorry we’re out of those.”

Eddie pushed him lightly with a snort. “I feel gross.”

"You? I'm covered in sweat and fucking calamine."

Eddie chuckled. "We didn't think this through." 

"Yeah dude, for a risk analyst you fucking suck at your job Eds." 

"I was trying to make you feel better, asshole." 

"I know, I know and you did." Richie said, rolling onto his side and throwing an arm over Eddie. "But just so you know, I don't think I'll be able to walk tomorrow. I'm too fucking old to have sex on the ground. I'm pretty sure you made me throw my back out."

Eddie let out a snort, turning his head to kiss Richie's temple. "You're a whiny bitch you know that right?" 

"We all know that now!" Bill shouted, voice slightly manic. "We know more about you two than we ever wanted to!"

Richie snorted, Eddie covered his face with his hands, embarrassed. "Go to sleep Bill!" He could picture his friend flipping him off in the dark. 

"They're so going to make fun of us tomorrow." Eddie groaned, careful to keep his voice low. 

"Definitely. We should totally hide in here for the rest of the weekend." Richie said, moving closer to Eddie. "Safe from the mosquitoes and our friends."

Eddie laughed, tangling their legs together. "I like that plan."

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[xxisxxisxxis]

Gateway Drug | Part Forty-Nine

Table of Content or Part Forty-Eight

Wattpad

Word count: 3.9K

Warning(s): Explicit language, mentions of Drug abuse

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Vanity: something that is vain, empty, or valueless.

I watch with my water in hand as Vanity and Tansy dance like wasted strippers on the bar...granted they are wasted.

Sparkie and Nikki are in the bathroom, Vince is occupied with a bundle of groupies who waved him over, we're still waiting for Tommy to get here since it was date night with Heather but he still wanted to come out, so I'm sitting in silence with Mick and giving glances at anyone that looks like they may be interested in approaching me because I don't necessarily want to speak to anyone right now.

"So..."   I start, finishing me water. "...How've you been?"

Mick takes a sip of his drink and nods a little bit.

"Not too bad." He tells me. "What about you? Did you and asshole work your shit out?" He asks and I scoff.

"Yeah." I tell him, smiling a little. "We're good."

I honestly believed we were at that moment. Stupid of me.

"Good." He replies.

Nikki, Tommy and Sparkie all show up simultaneously, Nikki and Sparkie heavily under the influence of more tha just alcohol.

"Hey, man." Nikki smiles to Tommy, patting him on the back. "Haven't seen you since the wedding...over two months ago." His dimpled smile is a nice cover up to to underlying anger and bitterness woven into his words.

Tommy has been nearly disconnected from everyone since Heather and he got married.

I'm glad they're getting along that well, but life doesn't revolve around one person.

Even my codependent ass can leave Nikki to spend time with my other friends, and vice versa.

"Oh, yeah, dude, we've been really busy." Tommy tells him as they sit by Mick and I. "We just bought a new house and she's had some time off so we've been just enjoying it before she starts on a new project and the album gets going for us." He explains.

"Nah, I get it." Nikki scoffs, glancing at me. "Being married changes shit around."

"That's why I'm not marrying Tansy." Sparkie says out of nowhere, looking at the blonde as she and Vanity are a compiled of booze and giggles, nearly tripping and falling off the bar in their heels.

"Just depends on the person, I guess. I like being married." Tommy shrugs. "I'm about to grab a drink. Mick, you want another?" He gets up from his seat, motioning to the empty glass of vodka Mick's finished.

"Sure." Mick tells him.

"Get Saint Vivian another water while you're at it." Sparkie tells him, his tone a degrading scrape at me for not drinking, and the look he gives me stamps the confirmation of his aggravating attempt to rile me up some.

Nikki shoots him an unamused glare and I can practically see him cowering back into his shell out of fear of pissing Nikki off.

My ego gets a pat on the head.

He might have worn more makeup than me at times, been spazzing on coke one minute and nodding off on smack the next, but he could still kick ass up one end and down the other over me.

Tommy comes back with drinks for him and Mick, bringing Vanity and Tansy back with him.

The two girls sit down, hand in hand, whispering and laughing among themselves as they try to catch their breath.

"Where'd Vince go?" Tansy asks us, running a hand through her platinum hair and Vanity looks around.

"Oh, he's socializing." Vanity lets out and Tansy glances over in her line of sight to see Vince making out with a tan blonde in a mini skirt.

Before Tansy can say anything else, Vanity's reaching across the little cocktail table with a beaming smile directed at Tommy.

"Hi, I'm Vanity." She pipes and Tommy looks as if he knows who she is, but is still confused as to why she's hanging out with us. 

"Tommy." He replies, shaking her hand. 

"I'm Tansalyn's and Nikki's friend." She adds for explanation and he raises his brows a little, quickly shifting his eyes to Nikki, whose expression I can't quiet read...he looks kind of nervous.

"Yeah, I've seen you on T.V. some." Tommy strikes up conversation with her and she just glows at the fact she's well-known. "And a few magazines." He adds.

"I've done several differing magazine issues." She informs in, nodding. 

"Everything from fashion to Playboy." Tansy cuts in, grinning a little.

"So, that's how you two met?" I ask.

"Well, not exactly." Vanity explains. "We knew some people, who knew some people, who knew some people, who thought we'd be great friends and got us together and..." Her beautiful brown eyes catch on Nikki, who's nervousness seems more apparent, despite his neutral expression as he watches her. "...we just clicked from the beginning." She says softly, blinking at him before she quickly averts her attention back at Tansy, her hand squeezing at her's affectionately. "And have been great ever since." She adds.

"Agreed." Tansy nods, smiling at her.

"I need another drink." Nikki mumbles standing up. 

"Can you get me some more water, please?" I ask him and he nods, stepping to the bar.

"Why's he so tense?" Tommy asks once he's out of earshot.

"Must be the blow." Sparkie suggests with a shrug. "He spent good money on it and it wasn't worth a damn." 

I take it without question.

Vince is stepping to us before long, lip stick smudged on his lips as he tries to wipe it off before going home to his wife and child. 

I just give him a ball busting look and he raises his brows.

"Go ahead and say it, Viv." He tells me, sighing.

"Swine." He and I say at the same time, except he's being a smart ass and I'm being serious.

"So, how did you and Nikki meet, exactly?" Vanity asks me out of nowhere and my water glass is merely slammed down in front of me, causing the liquid to slosh out a little, and causing me to jump out of my skin, as Nikki sits back down beside me with an entire bottle of Jack.

He's giving Vanity a surly look and she doesn't even flinch, her curious expression focused on me.

"Tommy introduced us." Nikki shortly states before I can explain it myself.

"Well, that's not just what happened, Nikki, I mean, you two are married aren't you?" She argues politely to him. "I want the whole story."

"Tommy introduced us, dated a couple years, engaged, married, here we are." Nikki, again, interrupts me.

"Baby, it's not that big of a deal." I mumble to him, wondering why he's being rude to her.

"Yeah, baby, it's not that big of a deal." She repeats me, and I can't tell if she's mocking me or just being flirtatious with the way she says "baby."

He rolls his eyes, irritated.

Vince seems to be studying Nikki as Vanity and Tansy change the subject to the album.

I don't listen very much, neither does Nikki, apparently, because it takes Tommy repeating his name three times, and me nudging his leg with mine to get his attention.

"Yeah?" He asks Tommy and Tansy and Vanity let out some more cocktail induced laughter as his lack of enthusiasm.

"Tansy was just talkin' to you." He tells him.

"Oh, what Tans?" Nikki asks, sighing out a little.

"I was just wondering if you've gotten any songs up yet for the album?"

"No? Why would I? There's not even a concept." He states, borderline abrasive.

"You had some songs for 'Theater of Pain' written before the concept was decided on." I remind him and he just let's out a breath.

"Well, there goes that conversation." Tansy exhales, playing it off like Nikki didn't hurt her feelings.

Vince is now giving the slightest hint of a smirk to Nikki before it suddenly disappears from his lips and he's excusing himself to go get a beer.

Game recognizes game. And Vince--being the cheating bastard he was--had sat there and put together what he needed to in order to figure out Nikki either fucked Vanity, was fucking her, or planned on fucking her until further notice. The answer was all three. And he made no attempt to tell me...not even when Nikki later told him and confirmed it.

"We're still working on figuring everything out, Tans." Tommy tells her in a more polite way than Nikki.

"Like you would know what's going on since you've been up Heather's ass all this time. Literally." Nikki stifles out and I look at him.

"What is wrong, Nikki?" I snap.

He just lets out an exaggerated breath before getting up and heading outside.

"He's always moody." Vanity cuts in, rolling her eyes, lighting a cigarette.

I ignore her and follow after him.

"Nikki." I say, my heels clicking against the wet pavement as fine rain sprinkles down on us.

"What?" He asks, going to where we parked.

"What's wrong with you?" I gently pull at his hand, stopping him.

"Nothing."

"Nikki, c'mon, now, I'm not stupid." I argue, crossing my arms. "You're an asshole but I know when you're an out of character asshole."

He just unlocks his Corvette and slides into the driver seat, shutting the door.

Before he can crank it and get his window rolled up, I'm 'Dukes of Hazzard'-ing his shit and putting my legs through the window, scooting into his lap, my feet in the passenger seat, and he leans his head back and let's out a loud groan of irritation.

I just crank the car for him and roll the window up to avoid getting rained on, before turning the car off and waiting patiently for him to start talking, blinking up at him.

"Alright..." he gives up, rubbing his face before resting his arm behind me on the sill of the window. "...fine." he sighs. "I shoulda gone to the funeral, I guess. And I thought I was ready to go out and see everybody but it just--Vince is being Vince. And Tommy hasn't even acknowledged anybody since he got married. Good for him he's so fucking happy in his relationship he can't even call his best friend every once in a while but whatever. And Vanity--Jesus Christ--Vanity." He grumbles. "Like dragging my balls against shards of fucking glass anytime she opens her mouth."

"Then why're you friends with her?" I ask him, chuckling, and he rubs his lips together, looking at me.

"We're into the same thing." He tells me and I don't have to ask what he means.

"So, she's a drug buddy." I say as his fingers trace along my kneecap.

"Yeah." He replies quietly.

"Well, I think she's nice." I admit and he looks at me crookedly.

"No. You can't be friends with her, Viv." He chuckles with obvious distaste of the idea, and I raise a brow.

"Why not? She seems like a sweet girl."

"As much as I'm a sweet guy." He scoffs out. "People like her aren't good friends to keep."

"Tansy's like her." I argue. "You're like her and we're married."

"I never claimed that Tansy's a good friend or that I'm a good husband, did I?" He asks me in a stern tone, avoiding my gaze.

"Why do you think you're such a bad husband, Nikki?" I furrow my brows.

"I'm not getting in to--"

"'--No, baby, I'm serious. It's like your default when you're high is apologizing to me for being a shitty husband." I point out and he shakes his head a little.

"I just feel like I let you down a lot." He shrugs.

"I'm not perfect, Nikki, I let you down more than you do me." I assure him.

"No..." he looks as if he's thinking about something for a moment. "...you don't. I promise."

I was too caught up in Nikki's mood to notice the hole in the story Tansy had told me of Tommy taking Nikki out for our anniversary. But it was the first red flag that popped up in hindsight while assessing the situation after I found out he was having an affair.

Tansy had told me Tommy was taking Nikki out for our anniversary that year, that was the night me and the guys got locked up for a little bit.

That first night back out with Mötley and Vanity Nikki mentioned not seeing or talking to Tommy since his wedding...over two months prior.

What really happened on our anniversary: Vanity came to our house and was still there when Nikki came to pick me up from jail. Which is why he wasn't too eager for me to go back home with him.

My finger tips lightly brush over the scratch of his unshaven cheek and I give him my best smile, hoping it will cheer him up.

He just keeps his near frown and I decide to do to him what he does to me when he's trying to cheer me up.

My lips press to his cheek softly, then pepper random kisses all over his face until he's smiling, finishing off with one, long, passionate kiss to his lips.

"Okay." I breathe out, about to find a way to get out of his lap so we can go back inside.

He puts his arm across my legs, though and stops me, giving me a devious grin.

"We don't have time." I giggle, squealing a little as his fingers trail up the inside of my leg, going up my skirt as he says:

"There's always time."

Just before he can breach the fabric of my panties, a loud knock on our window has us both jolting.

It's Tommy.

Nikki sighs out cranking the car and rolling the window down.

"The girls are hungry." He explains to us.

"And?" Nikki asks.

"They want food, dude, c'mon." Tommy chuckles, nudging his arm.

"What're you kids up to?" I hear Vince next, and I lean my head back to lay on the open window frame so I can look up to see him and Tommy.

"Guys, let's go!" I hear Sparkie shout from the entrance of the club we were in and me, Vince, Nikki, and even Tommy, all share a collective eyeroll.

I think it's safe to say we simply tolerate the greasy bastard at this point.

"Ignore it, it'll go away." Nikki says, rubbing his eye.

"Guys!" Vanity calls next, the bubbliness of her personality in her tone.

"Why the hell is she so perky?" Vince asks next.

"She's been on a three day bender of base. That's why." Nikki replies flatly, rolling his eyes at the sound of heels coming towards us and my ears perk up, deciding to put the question on the tip of my tongue away for now.

He opens his door and Tommy helps me out of the car, Tansy and Vanity hand in hand.

"We're starving." Tansy tells us.

"The Rainbows's our best bet." Tommy suggests.

"Okay, let's go." Tansy shrugs, pulling gently at Vanity's hand, and Vanity's hand grasps at mine and pulls me along with them as we head to the Rainbow.

I wasn't good at making girl friends. Tansy came into my life before I adapted to mainly being around guys, so it was never hard to form a close friendship with her, but I got along better with men because Tansy, Tommy and Vince were the only people I really ever had relationship with before meeting Nikki, and Mick and my other friends I gained through them.

To this day, my list of close girl friends consists of Tansy, Susan--who I was motivated to get to be friends with because she's the step mother of Monroe, Brittany--who's married to Tommy...and is young enough to be one of mine and Nikki's miscarried children so I view her more like a daughter than a friend--and Sharise and I are still very close, despite her being divorced from Vince for 27 years.

Of course, over the years, I've had to adapt at being friends with everyone's girlfriends and wives until they split.

And most of them were sweet girls, so after a while it got annoying because I'd get attached to them and really like them, and then BAM! Divorce or sudden break up.

I learned not to get too attached to new lovers of any of my male friends. They wouldn't be around for long.

That being said, one of my girl friends, believe it or not, was actually my husband's mistress, for an entire year.

She just had a...er...learning curve, if you will.

I watch as Nikki goes back and forth from our bedroom, to the front door, going outside, coming back inside, and repeating.

"Uh...babe?" I call, raising a brow and he stops by the living room where I'm sitting on the couch in my pajamas, reading "The Art of War" and eating a granola bar.

"Yeah?" He raises his brows.

"Whatcha doin'?" I ask curiously.

"It's been over a month since Tansy was asking about the album concept and I realized I needed to start writing for the album, like, a month ago, so I'm cleaning up my shit in our closet and bedroom and kicking drugs so I can focus." He explains, walking back to our bedroom and I raise my brows, a little surprised.

"Do you wanna read my book?!" I offer.

"Nope, got my own strategy!" He replies.

"But is it on Sun Tsu's level?!"

"I'm getting a dog!" He explains and I furrow my brows, putting my book down and walking to meet him in the bedroom.

"A what?" I cross my arms as he's putting needles and trash into a garbage bag.

"It'll be like having a kid around, so I'll have more incentive--aside from you, and working on the album--not to shoot smack and keep away from blow." He goes on.

"A dog?" I repeat.

"Yep."

"You know if you're serious about kicking it this time, you're gonna have to distance yourself from some of your friends." I remind him. "No more Jason or any other dealers, no more Izzy--"

"--You're friends with Izzy, too." He argues.

"I'm not trying to get off drugs." I tell him. "And Tansy and Vanity."

"Okay, you three have sleepovers like fucking high school girls. How the hell am I suppose to avoid them when they're at my house all the time?"

"Well...Tansy doesn't have a house here in L.A. and Vanity's apartment gives me a God-awful feeling everytime I step foot in there." I inform him.

"Right, and I'm the paranoid one." He mumbles.

"Babe. When you're lying in bed and feel someone get into bed with you and start breathing down your neck, and nobody's freaking in bed with you when you turn to see who it is, you kinda never want to even think about going into the apartment it took place in ever again." I state and he chuckles.

"I would've asked it for a blow job." He comments.

"Nikki, I'm serious."

"I am, too." He defends himself and I give him an unamused look. "Alright, fine, for entertainment sake, let's say she has monsters under her bed. What sense would that make? She's up Jesus' ass as far as you are and I highly doubt dark shit stays around God fanatics." He brushes me off.

"Um, hard, mind altering drugs are a pretty good invitation for quote unquote 'dark shit' to hang around people. It makes it easier to get in their heads, break them down, and try to kill them."

"Kill them?" He tries not to laugh. "Are you on drugs?"

"Nikki, I'm being serious. I'm worried about our friend."

"Which friend? We've got, like, all of them on the highway to hell right now." He scoffs, tying off the full garbage bag.

"She's got a lot of shit she's carrying on her, Nikki, and I'm scared for her. And Tansy can say 'everything's fine' but I know she's got a lot of shit happening behind closed doors that she won't open up about, too."

"Everyone has shit going on behind closed doors, babe. That's life in this business. Smiles and good times out on the town, and demon filled bedrooms when we get back home." He shrugs.

"Is that not sad to you?" I ask and he sighs, stepping to me.

"Just pray about it. Like everything else you worry with." He wraps his arms around me and I roll my eyes, taking it as sarcasm. "Get all quiet and soft sounding so you don't wake me up, and start talking to the ceiling about bullshit that won't matter a month from now..." He grins, pressing a kiss to my neck and I refuse the urge to push him away from me because he's making fun of me. "...and after an hour of wasting your breath, you end it in 'in Jesus' name I pray, amen'. And then I think, 'wow, she's really has me fooled to believe she isn't on something, too'." He laughs out.

"Find it funny all you want. My prayers for your's and everyone else's bullshit doesn't fall on deaf ears or one of you would be dead by now." I state.

He smirks, before a lightbulb goes off in his eyes before walking to the closet.

"I'm glad we're on this topic of conversation because it's great foreplay for this." He pulls out a raunchy mockery of a catholic school girl uniform I completely forgot we had and I cross my arms.

"You don't get to insult my religious beliefs and then turn around and fantasize about a concept attached to a denomination of said religion."

"You can put it on and talk to me about getting on your knees all you want." He keeps his smirk and I grab the uniform off the bed, about to go hide it somewhere else in the house.

"We have plenty of film of me with this on to choose from. There's no need for a live show." I peck him on the lips and walk out of our bedroom with the skimpy clothing.

"I meant getting on your knees to pray!" He tries to tell me to get me to bring the outfit back and I laugh.

He was serious about quitting...but once he started getting dope sick, he got desperate enough to go out in the middle of the night, get the garbage bags full of used cottons and needles, and use the rinses of cotton to ring the smallest fix out of them before getting Jason back over as soon as possible.

And I knew he got back on crack when I came home from seeing Sharise and Skylar, to him and Vanity locked in our bedroom.

When I finally picked the lock, Vanity was having a base fueled arts and crafts session on the bed--wearing my clothes that I'd left in the floor--trying to explain the inspiration of her art was Jesus coming back for the rapture, while Nikki was screaming about his late grandmother, in the closet.

And that's typically what I would walk in on if they were at our house. It always appeared like they were way too far gone in their minds to even think about sex. So I honestly never thought anything about it.

But if there's a will, there's a way, and in the midst of Nikki waving a gun around, screaming, and Vanity laughing like a maniac while plastering glitter, styrofoam peanuts and Nikki's used cottons on a piece of construction paper, the two of them had the will and found a way to kickstart the demise of my already fragile marriage.

They truly were functioning addicts.

[lovelyirony]

Hello friend! I'm in a mood and just feel like reading something sad. Could you pretty please maybe write some sad winteriron? Maybe something to do with terminal illness but it's up to you!

Being human means that there are many things that could happen to you and you can’t help it. 

Like cancer. 

Or being hit by a bus. 

Maybe a heart condition that you didn’t know about until you were thirty-two, had weird chest pains, and then found you didn’t have genetic testing done and neither parent told you about any extensive medical history because they both were estranged from the family. 

Okay. That was specific. 

But Tony was laying in a hospital bed and the doctors told him that he wouldn’t live past forty and he would die of heart failure. 

He feels like he should be hit harder by this. He only has eight years left to live. He shouldn’t be in his kitchen making eggs, he should probably be hysterically calling Rhodey and Pepper and Happy and asking them about funeral arrangements and what he’s going to do and quite possibly if spending the extra money to get the executive suite at the fancy hotel in Switzerland is worth it. 

Except he doesn’t want to. 

Death is a messy process. Not for him, they assured him of that. But everyone asks you questions and your loved ones. You have to figure out where to bury someone if they didn’t do it beforehand. Sometimes you have debates about cremation. Other times about how much you want to spend on a casket. 

He really doesn’t want to look at Rhodey or Pepper or Happy when they talk about that because he knows that their faces will break into tears and he will see the tear tracks when they go home to their houses and cry some more. 

Nonsense. 

If he can hide it, then he will. He doesn’t want to be a bother, it would be...unfortunate. 

Besides. He’s lonely at the top, and there’s no climbing back down the mountain. He won’t pull a Scrooge and get visited by three ghosts. 

So he lives. 

He pulls some risky moves, but nothing that makes Pepper have the “are you up to something serious that could potentially cause my midlife crisis to go off-schedule” talk. 

Again. 

He donates more money to charities and helps people pay off medical bills and walks around New York late at night to wonder why he’s going to die in eight or maybe even seven years instead of the proposed twenty to thirty. (What? He wasn’t going to be too generous, he knew himself.) 

Tony wonders sometimes if he will meet someone and they will make him want to live so much more than he can. It will be like those romantic dramas with rainfall and hair plastered to foreheads and passionate kisses that leave some of the older women teary-eyed and wishing that their husband would do something like that. 

But he’s a genius, so he knows statistics like the back of his hand. 

There will be no one. 

Eight turns into seven. He celebrates by getting absolutely slammed on New Year’s Eve and wakes up to the shittiest radio station blaring. He’s pretty sure they’re playing Maroon 5, which fucking ugh. 

New Year, new resolutions. He doesn’t bother to make one. 

“Why not? You usually make a joke one,” Rhodey says. 

“We are all going to die,” Tony answers. “Why make a resolution if I don’t want to? If I were to die in a year, it wouldn’t really matter.” 

“Okay Lord Byron,” Rhodey says, rolling his eyes. “You want Hot Topic giftcards for your birthday? Huh?” 

Tony laughs. 

Rhodey always knows how to make him laugh. 

Tony doesn’t know how he’s going to make Rhodey laugh when he’s dead. So that’s a breaking point where he stares at the wall and starts to write random memories down, like the time they snuck up onto a hotel’s roof to see the city wake up and the wind chapped their lips and Tony swore that he’d never leave Rhodey. 

Except he is. 

And he realizes that he needs to let Pepper and Rhodey and Happy know that he loves them a lot. So he starts the letters. 

He writes a letter to Pepper to remind her about how much she regrets getting light blue nail polish every single time she gets a manicure, and she should never get it. (Yes, even for a wedding she’s in, get something, anything other than that.) 

He writes a letter to Happy that is basically just wondering about how they can troll asshole celebrities that they know. He doesn’t know, but maybe he will find some dirt so that if Happy ever falls on dire times, he will have some extra cash flow coming in. Not that Tony would let that happen, but say Happy ever did. Maybe someone stole his bank information. Who knows what will happen in seven or six years. 

Summer still sucks. He thinks maybe he’ll like it more, now that he knows that his heart is going to quit. But it still smells like piss and garbage on the streets of New York, people are still blasting shitty music and riding bikes too dangerously, and he still feels gross by two p.m. when he goes outside to face the world. 

Not even the treat of shaved ice helps this. 

“At least I won’t have to face another one in seven years,” Tony murmurs. “Thank god for that.” 

Seven turns into six. 

It’s around this time when an attractive redhead shows up at his office, bends down a bit lower than necessary, and Tony gets the feeling that SHIELD should really train their agents a bit better if they want something out of him. 

He organizes a meeting with Fury, walks in, and states that they cannot afford him. 

“You know that your help would be particularly useful,” Fury says. 

“For you to get what?” He asks. “Don’t bullshit me with some answer about compassion. Peggy Carter was kind, but she wasn’t a damned saint.” 

“There are new...developments.” 

Like the fact that they’ve found Captain America. And Bucky Barnes didn’t fall off into a random ravine, so the four different conspiracy theory documentary videos that Tony watched last year were about five hours of wasted time. 

They need somewhere to stay. Fury wants Tony to foot the bill. 

“What, can’t ask the government for funding?” Tony asks. “I’m sure if they can up the budget for military every year, that covers Cap and his old pal. Hell, I bet they’ll even open up the champagne fridges.” 

“They don’t know about it.” 

“And why would that be? Because you’d rather have idols to yourself?” 

It’s a low-blow. But Tony agrees to take them in. He just doesn’t want to see them, notably because his father was a bit of a Captain America fan, Tony had had a crush on the former sharpshooter when he was a younger guy, and it was all kinds of messed up. 

But he gives them their own little apartment, one of his safehouses. 

“This ain’t little,” Steve mutters to himself, unpacking a box of plates. Natasha has been nice enough to show them around and tell them about the changes she finds relevant. She forced them to listen to what she called ‘the goddess of pop’ in the car, and Bucky nearly clawed out the stereo after “Toxic” came on. 

“Fuckin’ palace,” Bucky mutters. “Who’s is this?” 

“A man in high places,” Natasha answers. “He doesn’t want to be known. Doesn’t exactly play well with others.” 

She leaves them be, and there’s so much that has changed. Steve is still looking for any sign of the past he can find in Bucky, and Bucky...

He’s not who he used to be. He doesn’t remember half the shit that Steve does. Perks of having your brain so fried up that you can barely remember your middle name. 

They eat together in silence. 

“I guess...I guess we have to figure out who we really are,” Steve says. “Because you’re not who I remember, and I’m not...I guess I’m not either.” 

Bucky nods. 

“Do you reckon we’ll like going out dancing?” 

The answer is a strong no, although Steve has to say the drinks have improved a hell of a lot more. He likes the ones that come with the small paper umbrellas. He doesn’t know where they get them, but it gives him an idea for an art project. 

Tony doesn’t hear much about the wonder boys. He doesn’t want to, not really. Natasha just says they’re getting more and more adjusted and she has evidence of Steve Rogers going clubbing. 

“Oh my god,” Tony groans. “Romanoff, do not.” 

“It’s funny.” 

“I don’t wanna know.” 

“What, you jealous that you’re not dancing with him?” 

“Hardly. Blonde and beefy isn’t my type.” 

“Then what is?” 

“Classified.” Tony answered. “Now, is there anything else you want SHIELD to suck out of me?” 

“Well, my manicure funding is getting rather low...” 

Tony snorts, but points towards the door. 

His chest hurts. It’s been happening. He’s actually gotten used to it. In a way, he’s more concerned when it doesn’t hurt. He went to another specialist. They say his death sentence is signed, even if they don’t word it like that. Here’s how it is usually worded: 

“I have a colleague who works at insert-clinic/hospital-here...I can refer you to Dr. So-and-So?” 

They can. But it’s another list of referrals of so-and-so’s and clinics and appointments at the most inopportune times. 

All for nothing, because Tony knows that he can’t be fixed. The human body sometimes works like a machine. But it’s not one. It’d be like Tony calling a dog a wolf. Similar, but no one wants to bring a wolf into their house as a pet. 

He gets a phone call from someone named Deputy Director Hill. 

-

He needs a new arm. 

Barnes needs a new arm. Of course he does. Tony should’ve expected that, of course. Hydra isn’t exactly known for revolutionizing prosthetics or being particularly kind to their projects that they work on. So Tony automatically has a one-up. 

He gets Barnes to come to this mechanic garage, surrounded by old tin signs and vintage cars that cost more than most of the monthly rent of penthouses in New York. 

Bucky does a double-take. 

“Howard?” 

“I hope not,” Tony answers. “Hop up on the chair for me, please. I’m getting you a new arm.” 

“This is fine,” Barnes automatically spouts. Tony can see the damage from here, and can even point out that the arm’s reaction time is probably the worst it has been currently. 

“If you want to stick to your Great Depression ideals, then by all means be my guest and go bitch in a grocery store about prices,” Tony responds dryly. “But if you want an arm that’s gonna be actually good, then sit.” 

So he does. 

Tony looks incredibly similar to his father. But there’s something different about him. Something softer, almost. Bucky didn’t know Howard nearly as well as others did, but he knew that Tony wasn’t his father. 

“How are you adjusting to the city?” Tony asks. 

"Still the shithole we all know and love,” Bucky swears. “I think the rats got bigger.” 

“They did. It’s amusing and horrifying at the same time. You ride the subway yet?” 

“Yes and I’ve come to terms with it. Lots of new things to learn about it.” 

Barnes’ visits become more frequent. They talk about New York stuff. Tony tells him all about the fun events that have happened that he missed while he was doing time as an icicle. 

It’s nice, talking to him. Tony finally has someone who understands fatalistic humor and doesn’t respond with 

“That’s scary, Tony.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Bucky just says “cheers” and decides to tell Tony about the time he nearly died in 1992 because he lost his footing on the Eiffel Tower. 

Tony laughs, and laughs harder than he thought he had in a long time. 

-

Six turns into five. 

Bucky gets closer, and they have...something. He’s not sure what it is yet, but he knows that they go on breakfast dates most of the time and he knows the coffee orders by heart. 

“I think you’ve found someone,” Pepper says, teasing. “Look at you.” 

“Yeah, look at me,” Tony murmurs. 

He has five years left. That’s plenty of time to date someone and break up, right? 

Except. 

It’s...wonderful to date Bucky. They go all over, have fun trying the shittiest restaurants in town, and even get Steve to get out more and socialize with the group. 

They date and celebrate holidays together and have fun candles and--

Five turns into four. 

“Not that bad,” Tony whispers to himself when he’s getting ready for bed. 

“What’s not bad?” Bucky asks. 

“Nothing, sweetheart,” Tony says. “Just got a new toothpaste.” 

They watch It’s a Wonderful Life and Tony can’t really focus, not when he’s thinking about the fact that he still hasn’t picked out a design for his urn. 

Not when he realizes that he needs to break up with Bucky and make it a whole big scene so that no one will talk to him. It has to be about two years before the date, he thinks. 

He goes to another Dr. So-and-So. They say he might actually have one more year, but who knows. 

He doesn’t. 

But he wakes up with Bucky every day and they make breakfast, and he thinks that maybe he could tell him? Maybe? 

The words get stuck in his mouth. 

He can’t. 

He meets with his lawyer for the will. 

“Why making sudden changes?” 

“Just like to shake things up,” Tony says with a smile. “Never know what’s going to happen, right?” 

“You are right about that,” the lawyer says. He’s a bit uncomfortable. Tony Stark looks at him like he knows that his life is short and that something else will come up. But it’s not the lawyer’s job to ask if things really are okay, and it’s not like Tony would tell him anyway. 

So he makes the changes to the will. 

Tony looks at Bucky as he’s napping, face so peaceful. 

He can’t ruin that. 

[flying-elliska]

yeah i know how it can be when you are bullied or criticized for your interests. and not only for that. I had to lie to seem normal, because i knew if even a little part of myself will show I'm fucked. lie to my parents, my teachers, my classmates, even my friends. I only started thinking about all this last year. It's insane. It's like I don't know myself at all. so you know i reading your messages. it helps me to think. will continue in another ask.

hey anon, i was waiting for your other ask but it didn’t come so i’ll answer this one. 

that’s rough. and i’ve been there. and i won’t lie, it leaves scars. because you start being so afraid of vulnerability, like you said, you don’t know who you are, you’re missing out on occasions to discover it. it becomes this automatic mask that you don’t know how to get rid of.  but you sound pretty young, so i’ll say this, with adulthood you do get more and more spaces of freedom. i hope you find them as soon as you can. 

and anyway, the self is, for anyone, always a little bit of a fiction. nobody ever entirely knows themselves, I think. A lot of people just go with the flow and overtime, lets their habits define them. the advantage of your situation is that you have to think about it. it brings a level of self-awareness that you can turn into an advantage. some people will have this crisis in their forties, (or they used to anyway, since everyone is having their midlife crises at 25 nowadays). you don’t have that luxury. but you have time. we’re pushed to believe that if we don’t reach all these milestones by a certain age we’re failures but that’s bullshit (and the best way to rush into things you will regret later, btw). what matters is you finding yourself and things that makes you happy no matter how long it takes or what strange roads it takes you on.

my advice, or what i would tell my younger self anyway, is be weary of that voice telling you there must be something wrong with you. it’s tempting, thinking if you’re hard enough on yourself, you will find ways to fit. if you cut away enough, overanalyze yourself enough, are harsh enough on yourself, you can avoid rejection. but that’s dangerous. it sabotages your most precious energy, that thing that belongs to you only. you’re in survival mode, right now, sounds like to me, and there’s nothing wrong with doing what you have to do. but don’t let it define you. cultivate a voice of tenderness and curiosity towards yourself instead. treat your inner self like a little baby deer you want to observe in the wild. you have to be careful with it, patient, let it feel safe, otherwise it will never come out of the woods. 

what i’ve been working on realizing lately is that nature doesn’t make mistakes. variation is how life on earth, and human societies, have flourished. but humans just still too often default to their instinct of being afraid of anything different. it’s normal to internalize that, since we’re all social creatures and wanting approval is part of who we are. but you do deserve space and people with whom you can grow to your fullest extent. and i promise they’re out there and you can find them. but in the meantime, you’re probably not as alone as you think you are. and you can find sideways, little doors to practice vulnerability and freedom and expressing yourself. 

i’ll tell you what one of my older friends told me when i was 20 and still living at home and struggling with this so, so much. she told me, go hunt. go hunt for your family of heart, for sources of real joy, for things that make you hungry, for the stories of those who have been where you are, for visions of the life you want to lead, for the mistakes that you need to make. 

you’ll learn that some parts of yourself you actually don’t want to cultivate, because everyone carries their own ugliness, but for that, you need to face them and be free to actually make that choice for yourself. not just pushing them down out of fear. and you’ll learn that some parts of yourself, when expressed, make you so strong. and you’ll find things to love so much, and things to do that matter so much, that who you are won’t even be that big of an issue anymore. and ultimately you’ll start to fill your own skin, and you’ll find yourself in a place where you don’t have to lie anymore. 

and that’s worth asking all the difficult questions for.