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sadstonewrites · 3 months

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Piotr Rasputin/Colossus SFW Alphabet

hi, I'm still alive I promise! Still working on fics, but wanted to throw this out here as a fun little writing exercise with the SFW alphabet! So, without further ado...

taglist: @master-sass-blast @osmiumamygdala @black-but-mildly-sunny @seconds-2-midnight

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Piotr is a very physically affectionate man - pats on the back, a hand up if you’re struggling to climb over an obstacle, a hand on your shoulder and a squeeze as he passes. He would struggle at first if you didn’t like physical affection or were uncomfortable with being touched, but his next go-to would be acts of service. Dishes needed to be washed? Done. Laundry needs to be folded? He’s already on it and put on your favorite show so you can watch as you two pair the socks together; he likes making your life easier if he can.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

He’s the type of best friend who you know that if you go to for help, he’s going to help in whatever capacity he can. That being said, he’s the type to offer you solutions and advice as he’s doing it; if you need to vent, you’re going to have to tell him otherwise he’s going to try and fix it as best he can. The type of best friend to give you a lecture for ending up in a bad situation, but still comes to your rescue even if you're an hour away and it’s 3AM on a weeknight.

The friendship starts naturally, you’re a colleague of his at Xavier’s or a friend of a friend and Piotr just…fits in your life. He slots in and makes a home for himself in your life, and you in his.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

He’s a big fan of cuddles, although always very hesitant to initiate since he is one - very large and heavy - and two - covered in a hard metallic armor almost 85% of the time. You’re going to have to initiate and assure him you’re comfortable, and only then will he willingly cuddle up.

That being said, he’s a big fan of laying on his back with you nestled up to his side and your head on his chest. He’s got an arm draped over your side, lazily tracing patterns on your skin and holding you close.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

On paper he’d love to settle down, but knows the reality comes with conditions that he could never willingly ask a partner to be okay with. He’s still a superhero, and so many people would still need his help; if he had to choose between a mission where lives are at stake and you asking him to stay, he hates to admit how difficult a decision it would be. He doesn’t know if he could ever ‘retire’ in the traditional sense, settle down and leave the hero work on the shelf, but if anyone could persuade him, it’d be you.

He’s an alright cleaner in the fact he doesn’t make much of a mess to begin with. Piotr always picks up after himself, and is a very big fan of Marie Kondo’s mantra of keeping a clean and tidy space. As far as cooking goes, he’s good at cooking very specific dishes - Russian comfort food, anyone? But beyond that his cooking is a bit bland; the type to eat chicken breasts and steamed vegetables for every meal because it’s quick, easy, and keeps him fueled. You’re going to need to teach him to use seasonings.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

If there is one man in the world who gives people too many chances, it’s Piotr. He always wants to give people the benefit of the doubt, the chance to change or improve. That being said, the point where the relationship would end would be if a major boundary was crossed; at that point, it’s time to reevaluate and have a serious conversation about the trajectory of the relationship. It would be awkward, and uncomfortable, because he would never want to intentionally hurt his partner, but also he would be quick to the point. Not wanting to drag it on any longer than it’s already gone.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Piotr likes the idea of commitment, of having a partner to share things with. Not so much having a ‘better half’ but just having someone there for him, and someone he can be there for in turn. It would probably take him 3-4 years of serious dating before he would want to get married, although he’s the type to dream about it around 6 months into the relationship.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

As Colossus, he had to teach himself to be gentle - to not accidentally crush someone’s hand in a handshake or put his foot through the floor with each step - it’s carried over even when he’s not armored up. He’s extremely gentle, very aware of the strength of his hands or how his large frame fills a room and could very easily knock over an end table (or, god forbid, a person) with the slightest brush of his hip.

He would need to teach himself to be gentle with his emotions as well, his frustration or anxiety coming off as overbearing or lecturing at first (again, you’ll need to specifically tell him not to offer solutions when you just need to vent). That being said, he’s not the type that’s prone to emotional outbursts, but rather has the need to channel his negative emotions into action rather than sitting with them and fully processing them.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Loves hugs, is perfect for hugs, hugs his friends often (if they are okay with it). He’s a big bear hugger, the type to pick the other person up by the armpits and swing them around if the occasion calls for it.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

As soon as he knows the other person feels the same, he’s going to say it. Not the type to be subtle in his affections for his friends or romantic partners, so at most maybe 6 months into the relationship.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Piotr doesn’t get jealous; if you’re in a relationship together, then he trusts you and knows not to be jealous if you’re spending time with anyone else or aren’t giving him your full undivided attention. He knows you have a life outside of him and your relationship, and he actively encourages it.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to be protective. He’s not jealous because somebody is taking up all your attention, but he is absolutely moving and putting an arm around you if you show any outward sign of being uncomfortable; he’s going to physically move you behind him, if needed. He’s going to check up on you when you’re with your friends, a quick text to make sure you’re having fun and then another to ask when you’ll be home; he’ll wait up for you to come home and breathe a little easier when you walk through the door.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

If he’s armored up, his skin is cool to the touch and his lips are no different as they gently brush against yours. Butterfly soft, the smallest amount of pressure as if he’s afraid you’ll break under him. He’s a big fan of forehead kisses (it’s the easiest kiss to give when you’re almost seven feet tall) but also kisses to both your cheeks and then a soft, final press of his lips against yours.

Kiss his knuckles, his palms, and he’s a goner. He’s so used to his hands being used to smash through walls and push through obstacles, that the gentle press of your lips against his joints has him stopped dead in his tracks.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Loves kids, is fantastic around kids. He is very large and is the perfect jungle gym for rambunctious children, but also can be very gentle and encouraging with any of the shyer ones who are intimidated by a large man made of metal. He’s still a bit of a stickler for rules and structure, no desserts before dinner and all vegetables must be eaten, but makes up for it by just being a really fun adult that kids kind of gravitate towards.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Piotr’s mornings are typically his busiest time; if he’s not working out in the morning, then he’s preparing for the day ahead with his various lessons. Is a very early riser as well, has an internal alarm clock that goes off at 6AM regardless of whether or not it’s a weekend and makes it so he cannot fall back asleep.

Of course, that leads to morning cuddles if it’s the rare occasion where he actually doesn’t have a million things to do that day. He never takes those mornings for granted, holding you close and inhaling the scent of your shampoo and molding his body to spoon yours. If there’s nothing else to do that day, he’ll spend the entire morning like that.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Piotr’s night time routine is less strict than his morning one, mostly focusing on winding down for the evening and getting comfortable before going to bed. A nice shower, pajamas and a chapter of the latest book he’s reading before turning off the lights and waiting for sleep to come. He tries to avoid any screen time before bed, if he can help it, but absolutely will get invested in whatever show you’re watching and will watch an episode with you before bed.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Piotr is a fairly open type of person as far as revealing things about himself, although isn’t the type to say it out of nowhere without a proper relationship being established. If you ask him anything, he’ll almost always give you a straightforward answer, but won’t necessarily give the nitty gritty details until a proper relationship and mutual trust is created.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Patience of a saint, it takes so much to get him to show any frustration beyond general annoyance or displeasure. True anger is difficult to get from Piotr, and is usually reserved for very specific circumstances or people.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He is the type to make notes in his phone if you mention you like a certain brand of something or a specific snack. Those flowers you mentioned offhand? He has a note in his phone and a reminder to place an order to the florist on Valentine’s Day and your birthday. It's an effort, and doesn’t necessarily come naturally to him to remember all the little details, but wants to make you happy so keeps a running list of things that make you happy.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

There’s a moment in the relationship where the dynamic shifts, where it’s less ‘I am trying to impress/entice this person into a relationship’ and it becomes more ‘this is my friend who I love but also am romantically involved with and would tear this world down for’. That moment would be Piotr’s favorite, and it would be a casual moment; the two of you in pajamas, perhaps both in the same room but idly doing your own thing. And it’s then that Piotr looks over at you, in one of his t-shirts and a face mask while you scroll absentmindedly on your phone,and there’s something in that moment when you look up at him and smile that makes his heart clench. There’s nothing particularly special, but it’s you and him and he feels so…at peace in your presence.

It’s at that moment he knows you could ask him to do anything, ask him to jump and he’d ask how high, and it both frightens and exhilarates him to know that you - wonderful, imperfectly perfect you - have this much power over him. A man who regularly faces life or death for a cause bigger than himself as casually as some people court lovers, and he’d throw it all down for the person sitting next to him.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

He’d wrap you in bubble wrap if he could, carry you down every flight of stairs if it meant your safety. Not because he doubts your ability or because he wants to undermine your autonomy, but because the thought of you getting hurt - especially when he could have prevented it - would kill him. If he can’t protect you, what is he? He’s the shield for his team, the battering ram when the situation calls for it, but for you he’ll be an entire suit of armor.

Of course he knows that’s not feasible to always be there to save you, but it doesn’t stop him from always watching you a bit closer, having a hand at your side, or walking on the side of you that faces traffic. If you’d try to do the same for him, step in front of him or try to shield his body with your own - at first he won’t know what to think. He’s so used to being the one to take the hits, and to have someone willing to take them for him? Well, it’s going to take some getting used to, and it probably contributes to him falling for you a bit faster than he usually would.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

He puts in a lot more effort than he puts on when it comes to dates and anniversaries and holidays. He has it planned down to the letter - your favorite restaurant, the flowers that you mentioned offhandedly that you liked, and the outfit you said he looked so handsome in. Of course, it’s played off as effortless, just another part of his routine, and you’ll quickly see the cracks start to form if something goes off course.

Just kiss his hand and assure him it’s perfect, as long as he’s there beside you, and he’ll quickly resume sweeping you off your feet.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Stickler for routine, needs structure or else he will quickly fall into bad habits fueled by self doubt. Often questions his place in the grand scheme of things if he feels like he is not fulfilling his role as a protector, and can spiral very quickly into depression or self destructive habits.

Also, he will wear shorts and a tank top no matter how cold it gets. He’s that kid, you know the one.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Piotr’s interesting in this regard - he doesn’t so much care for his looks as far as aesthetics go. I’ve touched on this in previous asks and various drabbles, but he lifts and works out to be strong rather than to look a certain way. It’s functional, and he's more of a strongman than a bodybuilder, if that makes sense. He works out and stays fit because it suits his lifestyle and helps him be the Colossus his team needs him to be, getting ripped isn’t so much the prerogative. Of course, he enjoys looking strong and like he could tear the doors off a car without trying, and he’s the type to change if he notices a stain on his shirt, but for the most part he’s not a very vain person as far as looks are concerned. He dresses for comfort and utility rather than fashion most of the time, but he has the capacity to dress up if needed.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Incomplete isn’t the right word. He’d feel like something was lacking, like he was missing something that would otherwise make him happy, but he would still be able to function. You don’t make him Piotr, just like he doesn’t make you…well, you. It’s an added bonus of having another person around, and it would be great if you were there and he’ll certainly miss you if you aren’t there, but he’ll be able to function without you. He’ll have to, at least that’s what he tells himself.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Okay, so the Russian stereotype of drinking vodka like it’s water is very prevalent, and yeah Piotr’s able to drink a lot and stay relatively sober, but he doesn’t really like the feeling of being inebriated beyond a slight buzz. It’s a dangerous game to get him really drunk, not only for anyone trying to keep up with him, but also for him. Drunk Piotr is a sad, sappy Piotr who is going to hold onto his friends or significant other and cry into their shoulder while forgetting his own strength. He has absolutely broken a few barstools (and a few bars) by getting too inebriated for his own good and completely forgetting that he can smash through most surfaces with little to no effort.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

I think Piotr wouldn’t be a fan of people who are completely resistant to change or self improvement - he wants to grow and try new things with you! You can be hesitant, you’ll work up to it together and he’ll be the most supportive person in your corner, but to completely shut him down or resist it altogether would really dishearten him. I also think a lack of ambition would really turn him off - if you have a goal, no matter how small, he wants to be there to help you achieve it.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Once he settles down and is fully out cold, he does not move. Absolutely still, he’s conditioned himself to not to move or throw out an arm in fear it’ll strike out and break another bedside table. This will be doubled if you are sleeping beside him, he would be terrified of accidentally rolling over in his sleep on top of you!

#colossus #piotr rasputin #colossus x reader #marvel x reader #xmen x reader #stone writings #xmen #marvel #peter rasputin

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inbarfink · 7 months

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One thing about ‘Fionna and Cake’ the Show’s view of trauma and recovery is that it loves to emphasize the idea that a step forwards is a step forwards no matter how flawed it is.

Simon’s decision to embark on the Crown Quest is definitely the most obvious example. It was a terrible move that speaks both to Simon’s inability to see value in his old life outside of noble self-sacrifice and a deep streak of basically-suicidal self-destructiveness. Fionna is only really starting to fathom just how truly a terrible bad no good idea it is, and Simon has yet to really admit it at all.

But compared to where he was just moment before he made that decision, literally resigned to drinking himself away and waiting for death at the hands of the Scarab even though that will also doom all of Fionnaworld - self destructing so hard he was taking an entire universe down with him - that was still technically a Step Forwards.

It got Simon to take Fionna and Cake’s feelings into consideration and actually engage with them as Real People and not just another example of the universe kicking him when he’s down

And it kept him motivated enough to keep moving forwards and really helped him rediscover his capacity to feel happiness

And that’s how he and Fionna really made friends and developed a bond

And that is what saved Simon from the Magic Crown and his own self-destructiveness in ‘Jerry’, at least temporarily.

Him opening up to Fionna and allowing her to know him beyond just a Pathetic Old Weirdo Who Doesn't Even Have Magic Anymore is what allowed her to so quickly understand why letting Simon turn himself into Ice King is actually such a terrible thing.

And Fionna’s hesitation to give Simon the Crown and the chance she’s given to him to relive his happiest memories stopped - or at least delayed the most self-destructive part of Simon’s plan.

And I feel it’s pretty probable Fionna’s words and actions and the friendship they forged and the positive experiences the adventure has given him will have an effect on Simon’s decisions in the future.

However toxic and flawed Simon’s first step was, it still mattered to his overall recovery.

And you can say similar things about Fionna’s progress as a hero.

Most notably her blunder with the Obvious Trap in “The Star”.

Was it a Bad Terrible No Good Idea? Yes, absolutely. Both for Fionna’s psyche in specific and also for Literally Everyone in Vampireworld actually

But it was a Step Forward in the very very bumpy road of Fionna towards true heroism. Her earnest desire to truly help people and make the world around her just a little bit better and questioning authority - after blindly following the Winter King’s flattery in a quest to Defeat All the Baddies made her hurt so many people…

It shows how much her experiences affected her and mattered to her how much she’s trying to learn from her mistakes. Taking responsibilities for her actions, dealing with the consequences. Even as the people around her are, however well-intentionally, trying to tell her to pay it no mind at all

Fionna still understands that it is important to her to care about everything that happened and to try and do better. And she did really try to do better.

And after that little blinder went up in flames, she started trying to do better by being more careful. And that also wasn't perfect because she became kinda overly-careful and overprotective and put a huge wedge between her and Cake

But it's still an important step in Fionna learning to process the consequences of her actions. And because Fionna is now so much more invested in thinking things through and not wanting anyone to get hurt - that is also a big reason why she hesitated to give Simon the Extinctworld Crown. And it's probably going to lead to other good deeds in the future.

And that… doesn’t negate All the Terrible Things that happened as a result of her decisions - but it still mattered as a step forwards for her character as well.

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the-moon-devi · 11 months

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𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒆'𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒚 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒘𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 3 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌 𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒌𝒔 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔...

• ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊° .☆ . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊° .☆. • ☆ . ° • ☆ . ° .• *₊° .☆•

In my opinion the world overworks certain groups of people and we barely have time to do what we want and what we love. I believe life should be spent doing what you want. But we have evolved to something totally different. I think once people realize this. This will be a small step to gaining back power and actually living a fulfilling life instead of surviving. It's kinda absurd to think if you work 4 or 5 days a week 2 days should be enough to rest. And let's not forget the busy people out there who have children and a whole family half the time they don't actually get to rest on those days. It's OK to work hard but don't work on E because then there's no substance to your work.

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☀ Sunday- Sun day:

This is the first day of the week, look at how the planets align in the cosmos.... sun rules leo. So this is about self care. Sun represents shine so you know how people say put on your Sundays best yea this is it. You express yourself and let it all out. This is the day you truly rest and start to go inwards. This may be a day where you just do what you want and your favorite hobbies!

🌕 Monday - Moon Day:

Sounds pretty similar huh?? I think Moon day is a day where you get your home back in order. You rest & reflect. You drink water & plan out the rest of the week.

Why? Because Moon is represented by cancer. This is not a working day to me. I feel like this is when you should be cooking, self care, taking care of the home, and nurturing yourself/family!

♂ Tuesday - Mars Day:

This is pretty self explanatory. Mars is energetic! Moon Day gave you all the list of things you need to do & mars day you'll be ready to do them! You are usually doing things you usually don't have the energy for. I consider this a work day!

☿ Wednesday - Mercury:

This is air energy and we know our gemini's love to start mutiple projects. They love to learn and be on the go. I also think this is a great day for kids to go to school along with Thursday.

♃ Thursday- Jupiter:

Jupiter rules over education & expansion. This planet holds a large mass of energy and people are usually just ready to push everything out and wrap projects up from Mercury day. This is the best energy to end the work week/ school week off on. Your brain can take on a lot more and you still have the capacity to get work done. This is why I say mercury & Jupiter day are good days for kids. Maybe these should be the days where you actually teach kids and let them read and study.

♀ Friday - Venus Day:

Venus day might just be my favorite day of the week! This is when we usually get our paycheck. You want to get cute. You know some businesses let you have a free dress day or wear jeans ya know stuff like that. Your just chilling on Fridays like it's not much to do. Your in this self care energy. Getting your nails & hair done. Venus is all about self love, beauty, your style, shopping, luxury, money etc. So this day is perfect to kick start. Also a good day to go shopping! Whether that be grocery or just clothing. Venus is love as well so dates are good on this day as well.

♄ Saturday - Saturn Day:

This day you really should be taking it slow. You should be doing things that take time & patience. Idk if people notice but usually on Saturn days a lot of bad stuff happens espicially at night. So that's why I think you should stay in the house and take it slow. You should be reflecting on your week and taking time to do persistent growth. Start new healthy habits. Saturn is ruled by Capricorn. I think this is sabbath day as the religious people would say.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

It's very useful to use this method in order to plan your days out and distribute your energy for a successful week! The number of the day can also give you insight for what energy is at play.

Ex: Thursday October.25,2020

This is a number 3 day. The number 3 can represent a day where there is a abundance of energy. These are venusian & jupiterian energies at play. You may have be heavily in the energy of socializing and talking other people. There may be a lot of Joy on this day and spending a lot of money since. This is number seven day (25 = 7) this is all represented by Jupiter so there may be a lot of knowledge that you're accumulating a lot of spiritual attainment and luck.

Ps: Depending on the day you should also use your planet placement

ex: Sunday - Kayla has her Sun in Taurus 3rd house. So she should be talking to friends and resting. She should be studying/reading things that bring her joy & comfort. Or maybe your a leo rising and your sun falls in the 5th house. You should spend this day doing fun activities & hobbies. This persons sun might be in Sag so maybe they are researching or doing workouts this could be calming & apart of self care for them!

Also I say Mercury & Jupiter day should be days where kids are reading/ study because their brain and ability to concentrate will be more activated. Now mars day is the start of the week for them so they should be outside in nature and let all their lil energy out.

• ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊° .☆ . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊° .☆. • ☆ . °

I would love to make a post on numerology, I have a different pov when it comes to what the numbers mean! Let me know if you guys would like to see that & your thoughts on this post! Catch ya later lovelies! Til' next time....

~𝓒𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓵 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓼 xx🤎💋

𝓕𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓽𝔂 𝓒𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓵

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𝓓𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓓𝓮'𝓛𝓾𝔁𝔁𝓮 (masterlist)

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©𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓽𝔂 𝓒𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓵 (Do not copy or steal my work)

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hhawks · 2 years

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BELLYACHE.

✰ starring: hawks/keigo takami x fem!reader ✰ synopsis: as the number two hero, hawks has the ability to do conceivably anything he wants. spend any amount of money, travel to even the most remote places in the world, and even cover up the string of murders committed by the girl he’s deathly in love with. ✰ content: lovesick-to-the-point-of-crime hawks, serial killer on da loose, mentally-ill-but-also-not-really reader, slight domestic vibes, hawks wants to marry a serial killer <3, bloodlust, mentions of addiction, a liiiittle bit of consumption imagery, medical/anatomical problems because i'm Not a biology student i had to call my stem brother for advice ✰ warnings: descriptive murder, killing, wee bit of gore, clinical insanity tbh, INTENSE daddy kink, overstimulation, face fucking, somnophilia, mild dubcon at the end <3 ✰ word count: 14.1k ✰ a/n: it’s kinda fucked up but also not fucked up enough to warrant like, a psychiatric visit for me. part of my own one with the wind collab for the love of myyy lifeeeeee <3 lowkey self indulgent i just want to murder people

he lifts the police tape up with one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. the morning is gloomy, clouds on the precipice of pouring down tears, the air humid. it's one of those days he wishes he could spend at home, but alas; duty calls.

"what are we lookin' at?" he asks, sipping his latte. it's a little on the bitter side even though he'd asked specifically for extra sugar, but it'll be fine. he winces, swallowing anyway.

"mr hawks," the officer greets him. "good morning. it's another case."

"of?" stupid question. it's too early in the morning for his brain to function at maximum capacity, so it takes him a few seconds before he shakes his head. "oh. forget i asked."

"that's no problem mr. hawks," the officer nods nonchalantly. "the same lookup. drained of blood, needle puncture wounds in the wrists, elbows. sliced open from collarbone to diaphragm." they both look at the body on the ground, a pale girl with blonde hair, dark eyes wide open in a permanent state of shock. hawks almost feels bad for the girl, stripped naked down to her hips, her flesh split. he hopes the incision was made at least after she had died.

"so all the same markings of the crimson reaper then?" he takes another swig of his coffee. the girl definitely put up some kind of fight, with bruises on her arms, hands. but, as always, nothing of the killer is left on her body. not any skin under her nails, not any fingerprints. the crimson reaper knew what they were doing. they always do.

the officer nods, their cap tipped almost over their green eyes, hair tucked neatly into a bun. hawks looks down at them as they look at their notepad. "without a doubt," they say grimly. "that's the fourth case this month."

hawks remembers the day he was assigned to the case of the crimson reaper. he, endeavour, best jeanist; all of the top-ranking pro-heroes were called into the same hero safety public commission conference room on a monday morning, one just like this. gloomy, threatening to rain down judgement on the streets of musutafu. the president ran a hand through her hair, somehow greyer than it had originally been, eyes tired and sunken in. "good morning president," hawks chirped, trying to brighten the mood. "you look chipper as ever."

"thank you, mr. takami," she said, her tone clipped, blunt. "i'm sure all of you know why we've gathered you in here." of course they did. almost all of the pro-heroes were in the know of them, their signature killing style of draining the victim completely of their blood while still alive through various needles in the victim's arms and elbows, before slicing their chest open to leave a single, bright red rose petal.

dubbed the crimson reaper, this killer has ravaged the streets of musutafu, instilling fear within the hearts of the citizens. no one has any idea who it could be; the hero commission have vowed a full investigation into finding them, dead or alive. the crimson reaper doesn't discriminate; there have been no found connections or patterns in the victims that they take; only that they all end up with the same rose petal nestled safely between their lungs.

the problem, though, lay with the fear of the people. "we cannot let the crimson reaper take away the ability of the citizens to feel safe walking along streets, or in their homes," the president briefed. "we need to find this sick, twisted psycho, and bring them to justice."

23 cases in six months. it was beginning to be a persistent worry in the minds of many pro-heroes, but hawks especially. he had a weird, personal affinity to each case, and plus, the hspc president put him on the spot when she asked, "takami, we want you to be the leading agency on this case." and being their number one lackey, he couldn't say no.

so here he is. a small drizzle is breaking out above him now, and he watches the officers scramble to set up the tentage between the two walls of the alleyway, careful not to let rain tamper with the evidence. he looks up, at the crack between rain clouds and how a trickle of sunlight wedges its way between them. a blessed morning, despite everything.

hawks crouches by the body, looking for anything out of the ordinary, different from the previous cases. examines the clean, precise incision along the victim's chest, pink and crimson blending into a strangely beautiful medley of flesh and blood. the flaps of flesh have been stretched, pulled away, the gaping gash of her chest exposing her lungs and her heart, with the crimson reaper's signature left in the very middle; a single rose petal.

"i'm going to look around and see if any of the shops around have cctv," he announces, not taking his eyes off the woman. that poor soul. "finish with the photos, bag anything that could be of use and send the body to the morgue. also, any ID on her?"

"she has a school access card under the cover of her phone," one of the other officers pipes up, pointing at a phone left on the ground, a clear case with a blue and white student card in it. "name's kaida tomita."

"great," hawks gets to his feet, taking another swig of his coffee. "find friends, family, whatever you can. i want to know where she was the night she died, where she lives, everything."

there's a soft chorus of "yes sir!" as he walks off, nodding at them with a charming grin on his face. he tucks his wings closer to his body, careful not to move or touch anything at the scene of the crime. ducking under the yellow and black police tape, the rain greets him once more, small puddles of rain water gathering along the sidewalk. he walks, taking a right out onto the main road, looking for competent shops that may have had some kind of security footage that captures the alleyway.

something catches his eye. something not quite fitting with the colour palette, the doom and gloom of this dingy alleyway with a dead corpse mutilated on the ground. a flash of pink in the peripherals of his vision, laying haphazardly on the ground next to a pair of trashcans. hawks bends down, squinting slightly before sighing. one white glove, a gash tearing through it from the opening down to the base of the index finger. he picks it up and stuffs it in his back pocket, before straightening and continuing his walkaround.

it proves fruitless; the crimson reaper sure knows how to choose their locations. nothing but dilapidated shophouses for several streets, no one frequenting the area enough to be asked if anyone had any idea how this poor university girl ended up in an alleyway, completely drained of blood and her chest ripped open for everyone and their god to see. he commends them, just a little for the amount of thought they must have put into their killings. enough that the entirety of the pro-hero industry has almost been run into the ground with how much havoc they're wreaking.

by the time he returns to the scene of the crime, most of it has been cleaned up, the body transported in a bag to be sent for an autopsy. "shall i compile all the notes and have it sent to your agency?" another officer asks him, a pretty, young girl, and he nods.

"that would be great. thanks, darlin'," he gives her a small smile. "thanks for all your hard work here."

she flushes, a slight rosey tint to her pale cheeks. "it's no problem, mr. hawks," she grins back. "thank you for your service to musutafu."

he just manages a weak smile. seeing case after case like this, it's tiring. it's a shame to tell how used to it he's gotten, but there's no point in denying that he's at that point where waking up to a new pager specifically for this case just filled him with annoyance rather than dread. but he keeps his head up and keeps working. because that's the promise he made as a hero. to serve, and to protect.

"baby, i'm home."

keigo drops his bags by the door, and just like every single day before this, is greeted by approaching footsteps and the smell of apple honey. "daddy!" he hears, and the way his shoulders relax and the apples of his cheeks tip upwards as he sees you.

you, the picture of perfection, your plush legs and arms wrapping around him. "oh my god, i missed you so much today." you breathe into his neck, smelling of sweat and hero work and a long day, and a twinge of his expensive cologne lying under all of that. "it's been so long."

he chuckles, spinning you around. "it's barely been a couple of hours," he chides you playfully. "missed your daddy that much, huh?"

"i miss you all the time," you whine. "you need to quit your job and stay home with me all day."

that earns a hearty laugh out of him, and a warm, wet kiss on your forehead. "tell that to the hero commission, princess. you know how much i'd love to stay in bed with you all day."

you step on his toes, wrapping your arms around him as he waddles the both of you into the kitchen. it's spick and span, always is, with a couple of dishes left of the drying rack and half a ham and cheese sandwich lying on a plate. "were you eating that, princess?"

you shake your head. "ate the other half an' got full," you beam up at him. "left it 'cause i knew you'd want it."

he chuckles. "you know me too well," keigo reaches for it, letting you bridge the gap between it and his outstretched hand, passing the sandwich along. "how was your day? you managed to catch up on your sleep after staying up all night last night?" he pinches your cheek, and you giggle, swatting him away.

"yes! yes, i did, i did," you nuzzle against his neck. "was so boring at home without you though. been thinking about you all day," your words turn breathy, pushing yourself into him more and more and more, as if you were trying to fuse the two of you together. your voice drops low, a murmur barely audible to him. "couldn't wait for you to get home."

keigo smiles. he knows exactly what you mean what you say that, but he wants to hear it from your mouth directly. "is that so, baby girl?" he shifts you, hoists you by your waist up onto the kitchen counter. "couldn't wait for me to get home?"

you whimper, shaking your head, nuh uh. "couldn't," you stutter, spreading your legs just a little bit. "needed— needed to touch."

"touch?" he asks, voice mocking innocence. "touch what, baby?"

you whine, a little embarrassed by his question. "you know what i mean." the tension between you is palpable, and you need him to step in the gap you've made between your legs. "daddy."

"i don't think i do," keigo munches on his half of the sandwich, feigning complete obliviousness to your advances. "think you need to tell me what you mean, darling."

you groan, head tipping back in annoyance as you find his hand in yours and pull him closer to you. "needed you to touch me," you murmur, shy. you guide him up your thigh, his thick fingers, calloused from hero work so rough and skittish against your plush, soft skin. a shudder runs up your spine. "right here."

his hand ends up right between your thighs, your hands, tiny compared to his, holding his wrist in place as his fingers brush up against the thin cotton of your shorts. "ah," he exclaims, a little exaggerated. "my little princess cunt needed some attention from daddy, is that it?"

you nod vehemently, relishing in every purposeful brush of his knuckles against the damp spot right in the middle of your shorts. "mmhm," you hum happily. "missed you so bad today, daddy."

"yeah?" he steps closer to you, pressing his chest to yours, his hand still toying with your cloth-covered cunt. "gorgeous baby. so desperate for cock, aren't you?"

you whine. his words, so crude, so blunt but so true. it makes you flush furiously, shyness creeping up on you slowly, heat pooling between your clenching thighs. "for daddy's cock," you agree, looking up at him with begging eyes. "wan'— wan' daddy's cock so bad."

keigo kisses your forehead. "have you been a good girl for me today?" he asks, slipping your shorts to the side, toying with the slick that coats your pussy, stroking up and down slowly.

it's so sensitive you can barely speak, just the ghostly touch of his fingers, the featherlight intention behind every stroke. you don't want to answer him because, well, you haven't been. you're growing impatient with how he's taking his time with you, stretching out your time with one another. but you've been aching, throbbing for him all fucking day, so you squeeze his wrist harder, forcing him to stay where you want him to.

"baby," he warns. "don't be bad."

you grind helplessly against his hand, relieving all the pent up need and stress as you rut your hips pathetically up and down his fingers. "fuck me," you demand. "i need you to fuck me."

keigo tuts. a soft, yet sharp sound against his tongue. "disobedient slut," he murmurs. watching tears spring into your eyes as you hump his hand, too much to handle but too little to cum. it's the perfect torture for you; to make you desperate for him, and yet never give in to you in his entirety. "fuckin' so eager for me, huh?"

you ignore his punchy words, whimpering against his fingers. your thighs are aching a little from the position, the constant move of your hips against his thick fingers. "fuck me," you demand again. "daddy, daddy," you paw at his trousers, trying to undo his belt.

but you don't get far before he smacks your hands, harshly to make you stop. "stop it," he scolds, a low growl in his voice. "you're being so disobedient right now." he snatches his hand from between your thighs, tuning out your whines of protest and yanks you by the back of your neck. "get up."

you have no choice, the pinch on the back of your neck forcing you to comply. you get up and he pushes you down in front of him, down on your knees putting you in the eyeline of the bulge in his pants. your eyes light up just looking at it, your hands uncontrollable as they come up to paw at his buckle, undoing it. such an easy little thing, keigo thinks. just need some cock in your mouth and you're all good for me.

he helps you get his buckle undone, your soft, trembling fingers pulling down the hem of his trousers. the smell of him is intoxicating, the reeking stench of sweat and work and burnt ashes as you bury your nose in the crevice between his boxers and his thigh. you look at him and he looks at you and your pupils are dilated, almost frenzied. “my little nympho girlfriend,” he chuckles. “you’d die for my cock, wouldn’t you?”

you don’t have to answer. the hitch in your breath does it for you. the way your lip quivers and you can’t seem to find the words to protest. keigo just snickers. just pets your hair, and cradles your cheek against the hard bulge in his boxers. “answer me.”

“‘d die for your cock,” you whisper, daring enough to let your tongue poke out of your mouth, licking up his cock through the fabric. “i’d die for it, wanna ride it.” you pout, looking up at him. a breath leaves him in a shudder.

“go on, then.” he murmurs, cupping the back of your head. “take it out.”

your fingertips, cautious and reluctant, dig into the waistband of his boxers, and your teeth baring to bite the fabric softly. it comes down slowly, stretching over his hips, the apex of his thighs until his cock springs free, and your mouth begins to water. every single time you pull out keigo’s cock it surprises you. and every single time it does, he chuckles at your reaction, your eyes widening, your mouth gaping uncontrollably. it boosts his ego just a little bit, the way you shake quite a little, your fingers trembling with anticipation.

don’t think i’ll ever get tired of this.

you take your tongue and lick up a fat stripe from the base to the tip of his cock, worshipping his frenulum, sucking the head of his cock. you don’t think you’ll ever stop thinking it’s the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen in your sorry life. keigo shudders under your touch, the hand cupping the back of your head instinctively pushing towards him, forcing your cheek pressed up against his cock. the course hairs on his pelvis, shimmering and blonde, tickle your skin and you stop to giggle for a second.

“let me,” you’re insistent, squirming out of his hold and rearing back. “let me,” you repeat, dropping your jaw to fit the thick, mushroom tip of his cock into your mouth. it’s a lot, it always is; sure, keigo wasn’t the tallest guy, but he made up for it in how thick his cock was. in stature, the broadness of his shoulders, the thickness of his waist. even now, it’s a chore to work his cock into your warm, waiting mouth, but he had to control himself, not buck his hips forward and push the seam of your lips apart. you work to get the cock fully in your mouth, suckling and slurping on with, making obscene sounds. they’re music to his ears, he smiles, the sounds of you choking and gagging on his cock as he watches you swallow it down to the hilt.

“that’s it, good girl. good girl, taking all of daddy’s cock like that. fuck,” he seethes. “daddy’s gonna use your mouth now, okay? just keep your jaw— yeah, just like that. yeah, good fuckin’ girl.” his fingers twist into your hair, his other hand coming down to cup your cheek as he pistons in and out of your mouth. his breathing’s laboured, fucking his pretty girlfriend’s mouth like a pussy.

you choke back a moan every time the tip of his cock rams into the back of your throat. you’re quite used to this, to be honest; being used as a tool for keigo’s pleasure, but it made you even wetter hearing the whimpers and whines drool out of his mouth like liquid gold, knowing that you’re the reason he’s feeling so good right now. so you relax your jaw and let him use you the way he needs. because you can’t deny the fact that the space between your thighs is growing hot, slick with your own arousal as your lips stretch open with every thrust.

and then keigo’s pulling out of your mouth, tapping your cheek with his cock drenched in your spit. you whine, “you didn’t cum.”

“don’t wanna cum in your mouth today,” he murmurs. “c'mon. up."

he should get you a collar and a leash, he thinks. just so he can yank you along where he wants you, and god knows you'd follow him on all fours. you're pliable today, and thank god for that because he needs to sink his fat cock inside of you before he blows his load on the carpet. keigo tugs you along to the bedroom and shoves you down onto your stomach on the bed, knees hitching up. digs a hand under your hips and raises your ass.

"show me that pretty pussy," he whispers, cheek pressed against the fat of your ass. he can see the outline of your puffy pussy through the thin jersey cotton of your pajama shorts, fat and drooling. his fingers dig into your hips, warm tips slipping under the waistband. "no panties?" he asks, and even with your head in the pillows, back arched for him, you can hear the smug look on his face.

"no panties," you answer, a deep sigh into the pillows. you can't see what he's doing, but you pray to god he'll let you off and just fuck you till you're a sobbing, drooling mess. so it comes unexpected to you, but not unwelcome, when his hand rears back and lands on your ass with a loud smack. you squeal loudly, flinching at the contact but he stops you, wrapping a strong arm around your hips.

"stop running," he says, the low timbre of his voice, nearing a growl, making you stop in your tracks. even you, the biggest brat keigo's ever seen, wouldn't dare disobey him like this. "wanna act like a desperate whore, you get treated like one, yeah?"

the sheets become acquainted with your drool as he continues with you, landing a succession of spanks; one for every time you "disobeyed" him, asked for too much, stepped out of line. this is what he knows you love, being put in your place, him having his way with you. at the back of his mind he'd rather kiss you sweetly, have you on your back facing him, fucking you slow as he watches your eyes roll back with every kiss his cock delivers to your cervix, but this; this is what you need. a rough, harsh fuck, battering your ass and your pussy till you're raw and red and begging him to stop. until you stop being a brat, and you listen to what he has to say.

"fuck me," you cry out, muffled into the pillow. he pauses, smoothing a big palm along the redness of your asscheek. "daddy— please, please."

he leans down, draping himself over your back. "what was that?"

"daddy," you beg, his title so sweet on your tongue. like honey, dripping gold. "please fuck me."

keigo hums. "finally decided you're gonna be good for me, then?" he sits back on his haunches, hands gripping your hips. "finally mellowed down into the good girl i know?" you wish you could shut him up, but with his big, rough hand pinning your neck down there's no way for you to speak, no way for you to glower at him. so you lie there and you take it, take every burning fingerprint he scalds into your skin, the unpleasant sting of the cold air against your abused, reddened skin. he peels down your shorts, watching the way your slicked up pussy drools for him now, strings of arousal latching on to the soaked fabric as he peels it away.

your pussy clenches around nothing, exposed to the cold air. a small whine rips through your throat; wriggling your thighs slightly. "c'mon," you whimper. but keigo stays put. watches the mesmerising slick of your pussy, puffy folds all on display for him to watch. "it's embarrassing!" you protest, trying to get him to do something, anything. but if keigo's good at one thing, it's putting you in your place.

smack. you recoil as another excruciating blow lands on the fat of your ass, right where your thighs meet your cheeks. "behave. you get what i give you, when i give it to you. got it?"

you whimper quietly. keigo doesn't like that. doesn't like when you hide your answers from him. so he grabs you, stuffs two fingers in your mouth and pulls, forcing your head up painfully. "got it?"

"yeth!" you cry, muffled around his fingers. wincing, he lets you down, a rare gentleness in his rough hands. he smoothes a hand down your back, shushing your soft sniffles.

"prettiest fuckin' pussy," he whispers, and you can feel the hot breath against your skin. "gonna fuck you now, okay?"

a thrill skittles down your spine when you hear those words, your back arching, ass humping back. "yes, yes please," you breathe, twisting your neck so you can look back at him, kneeling over you. his boxers are shucked down to his knees, positioning himself at your cunt, and you can feel it; the slow, agonising rub of the tip of his cock against the slit of your pussy, threatening to fuck it open, stretch you out. "daddy— oh, fuck me!"

there's a line between demanding and begging, and you toe it every single day. you better thank you gods that keigo's ears deep in love with you that he overlooks it, that he chuckles to himself as the fat mushroom tip of his cock catches against the slit and pushes in. the both of you hiss, the contact of his cock in your gummy walls so familiar and yet you're completely thrown off by the sheer girth of him stretching your ill-prepared hole. no matter how many times you and keigo fuck, how many times he has you cumming on his cock beforehand, the first breach of his cock in your pussy will always sting. you clutch the bedsheets in your fist, silk bunching up and shielding your palms from the onslaught of your sharp fingernails.

he heaves a breath, leaving his lips with a shudder as his hands grip your flesh. tightening around the fat of your hips, he sinks himself deep into your eager, drooling pussy. "princess," he drapes his body over yours, broad shoulders and thick waist and so big over you. "god, princess, let me in."

it's so much, too much for your tight pussy to handle. "'m trying," you mumble. "s-slow down."

keigo chuckles, mouthing at your shoulder. "not so big and bad anymore, huh? where's my feisty little girl gone?"

it always happens. you just need a little bit of cock in your pussy and you're reduced to a blabbering, slobbering mess on the sheets, your hips mindlessly pushing back onto keigo's cock as you beg him to slow down. he could still himself and just kneel behind you and you'd find a way to fuck yourself to orgasm without him moving an inch. you may be a brat, may disobey him for a second to paw at his cock, but keigo knows all you need is a cock inside you and you're right as rain for him.

today is no different, he thinks as you fuck yourself back on his cock, watching your pussy stretch around him and swallow him down to the hilt. it's mesmerising, borderline insane the way you suck him in, the way you fuck him until you're satisfied and don't stop for a second until you're done. even with your head buried in the pillows you have control, squeezing the length of his dick until he's breathless.

"s-stop that," he stutters, his hand sliding up your back, pinning your neck to the pillows. "you're squeezin' me too tight, birdy."

and you can't answer, hands flailing, fingers flexing with the weight of him mounting you. you can feel him so, so deep inside you, it's like he's in your throat, pushing past your thoughts and residing in the forefront of your mind. "c-can't... 'elp it," you manage, a half hearted sorry dripping from your lips like the drool leaking out the side of your mouth. it's messy, overwhelming, but god if it's the only thing you live for.

keigo ruts into you, one leg planted on the bed by the side of your torso, holding your hips and bouncing you back onto his cock. "is that good?" he grunts, his sweat-slick hair falling into his eyes. "you like that, princess?"

"love it," you slur, dizzy from how deep his cock is pressing inside you. every single thrust feels like it's breaking the wall of your cervix, the slight sting of pain whenever he rams his cock as far as it'll take him. "h-haah," your fists tangle in the sheets before letting go, your right hand drifting down between your body and the sheets to find your clit, the sensitive bud dripping with slick, puffy and neglected. the first fingers make contact with it and your knees almost give out, the sensitivity of your clit sending shocks through your torso, down to your toes and up to your shoulders, a familiar feeling traversing through your veins.

"yeah?" keigo teases, his tongue darting out of his mouth, licking from your shoulder blade to the nape of your neck. "gotta rub your little clit? can't let daddy do all the work now, can you?"

and you whine in response, a pathetic inability to say anything. you can feel him in your throat and you've gone almost brainless with the thickness of him stretching your pretty pussy out. "n-need to," you whisper, shifting your head so you can glance back at him, and when you do, you almost choke.

keigo's the picture of debauchery. his face is tinted pink, ears tipped red and you're sure that if you cradled your palm against his cheek his blood would run so, so warm. he's looking at you with a frenzied look in his eyes, golden melting in his eyes, looking at you wth an intensity that threatens to frighten you. he's looking at you like land to conquer, wings ruffled and spread slightly. you know he loses control of them in times like these, and that they're one of the most sensitive areas of his body, beautiful crimson shielding the two of you like a dome; like he's covering the both of you from the world, and it's just the two of you right now. it is. to you, it is.

your jaw slackens as you rub your clit to the look on his face, the curves of his cheekbones, the angular structure of his jaw, his pink cheeks, the way he's grunting as he sheathes himself inside you again, and again, and again. "k-keigo," you whisper, the circles you draw on your clit getting messier and sloppier as the tightness in your core begins to build. it's excruciating. "daddy."

"i got you, princess," he groans. "you gonna cum?"

you nod, wordlessly. you don't think you could force yourself to say more than that, your heart caught in your throat and his dick in your tummy. you're so distracted that it takes you a couple of seconds to realise that he's snaked his own hand between your thighs, knocking your smaller one out of the way.

"need to feel you cum," you hear him say, strained, like he's speaking with his jaw locked and gnashing teeth. seeing how tense he looks, he probably is. keigo's fingertips are so calloused, so rough from work that it makes you squeal with how ungraceful he's being with your poor, bullied clit. "you're close, aren't you? can feel you— fuck, you're fucking squeezin' me."

"oh my god, oh my god," you cry, palming your stomach as if it'll help alleviate the overwhelming sensation of both your pussy and clit being bullied beyond recognition. "daddy, oh fuck, daddy!"

"i know," he shushes your cries, rubbing his free hand soothingly down your back, and then planting it by the side of your head. "gotta— don't cry, baby, 's just me." keigo sinks a little deeper, rubs your clit a little faster. "you're gonna make a mess on my cock, aren't you?"

you cry out at the crudeness of his words, trying valiantly to shake your head no. but you can't lie; you could feel the pressure in your navel. one small push, one more flick of his fingers against your clit and you're done for.

"come on, princess," he grunts. "need you to cum for daddy, got it? wanna fuckin' see you squirt all over me, come on," and with his renowned intent, keigo's thrusts became impossibly faster, driving impossibly deeper. one clumsy brush of his knuckles against your clit and you're gone, gone, gone, flung headfirst into a crashing orgasm. your eyes roll back and you see white, and you don't realise you're gushing liquid until you hear keigo curse, the lewd squelch of his cock plunging into your leaking pussy filling the room.

"fuck," he spits. "holy fuck, yeah. that's it. that's my fuckin' girl."

"fuck me," you barely manage. "f-fuck me through it."

and he does, never stopping the movement of his hips against yours, his fingers still circling mercilessly against your sloppy clit. you can barely breathe, the force of your orgasm still sending shakes down your legs. they're uncontrollable, too heavy and you have to drop them, your pelvis flat on the sheets. "'m sorry," you babble, "c-can't hold mys-self..."

keigo hushes you. "don't worry princess," he whispers in your ear. "don't need you to work anymore, yeah? just lie there and take daddy's cock now, okay?" he presses kisses down your spine, sweet and sugary compared to his words. "daddy's gonna use you now."

and that he does. keigo has a habit of getting carried away when he's on top, when he has power over you. he pins your hips into the sheets, making sure they don't move as he rears back until only the tip of his cock remains in you, before pushing forward and slamming his fat cock into you, over and over and over. your cum and squirt making for extra lube for him to violate your pussy over and over.

you're powerless to stop him, limp and crosseyed as he uses you to chase his own orgasm. just little whines and whimpers that escape your lips when he pushes particularly deep; but other than that, right now, you're keigo's warm, wet fucktoy with the perfect pussy to cum in.

"'m not gonna last very long," he whines. "where do you want it, princess? where do you want daddy's cum?"

"i'side," you whisper. "ins-side!"

"yeah?" his mouth quirks up, canines flashing. he drapes himself over you again, mouthing at your ear. "want me to cum inside?"

you nod, small uh huh, uh huhs spilling out of your useless mouth.

"want me to knock you up? give you my kids? when was the last time you took your pill, baby?"

"n-not," you barely manage. "not on t-the pill anymore."

"that's what i like to fuckin' hear," he chuckles, brows furrowing just slightly, feeling the tangle in his navel now too. "gonna make you all fat and round with my kids. yeah?" he presses a kiss to your shoulder blade. "maybe if i knock you up you'll finally listen to me."

you squeal as he drives himself into your one more time, tip of his dick nudging against the sweet spot inside you, threatening to push past the tight ring of your cervix. just presses his chest against your back and pushes, grinds the head against your walls. "daddy, too much!" you cry out, arms scrambling for purchase. his thrusts are brutal; you can practically feel the bruises he's pressing into your skin, pretty blue-black marks you know will show up tomorrow morning.

"shut up." he hisses, taking both your wrists in one of his own, pinning them above your head. "shut the fuck up and take it." keigo shudders, trying his hardest to hold on just a little more, just one more thrust before he's falling apart, a groan clawing through his throat and bubbling out of his mouth as he cums and cums and cums. it's overwhelming, the feeling of him filling you to the brim and more with cum. white hot and thick, dripping out the sides of his cock as he plugs you full.

you hear him sigh, arm collapsing and giving way until he's flopped on top of you, cock softening inside you. you welcome the warm weight of your boyfriend on top of you, hoisting one of his arms in your hands to tuck between you and the sheets, resting your cheek against the toned muscle of his bicep.

"long day?" you ask, finally. the smell of the both of you, your floral sweetness mixing with the sweaty hue of his tired body, drifting through the air. he's so tired, barely moving, but you don't mind the crushing. it was comforting, in its own way.

"the longest," he sighs, nuzzling his face into your neck before he snaps up suddenly. "oh. right," he reaches over to the side of the bed where he'd shucked off his jeans (you don't even remember him doing that, probably in your haze of lust.)

"mm?" you hum, smiling softly at him. he pulls out a white glove, one torn from the base to the index finger, and flicks you in the head with it.

"gotta stop leaving your traces all over the place, baby," he chides you gently. "never know what would've happened if someone found it before i did.”

keigo and you met years ago- at a coffeeshop near your university where you studied forensic psychology and he studied english. you'd spilt your matcha latte all over his shirt and apologised profusely, and he'd laughed it off.

"no worries, sweetheart," he took your chin in his fingers, a soft smile playing on his lips. "hey— enough apologisin' yeah?"

and after that, you began bumping into him more and more. it would have been worrying if you weren't so enamoured with his gaze, midas gold and luxurious, yet still held an air of comfort in them. like you could crawl into him and lay yourself to rest in him. you didn't realise the bright crimson feather that stuck itself to the bottom of your tote bag, following you wherever you went. by the first week, he knew your whole schedule. he knew which classes you were in, which dormitory you stayed in, the sound of your roommate's voice.

it wasn't his fault you were so pretty, so delicate, so vulnerable. it wasn't his fault he thought you needed extra protection. you were just so lovely, anyone would be lucky to even be looked at by you. what if you got into trouble? what if you needed help? it was just for safety, he convinced himself.

keigo thought you were stupid. thought you didn't know about the fact that he was tracking you. he convinced himself that, to him, you were another air headed bimbo to fuck and then move on to the next one. of course, he'd never gone to these lengths for any other girl before, but somehow, you were different.

and to you, he was different. your roommate warned you of those golden eyes, that warm smile that seemed a little too friendly. "he's fine," you insisted, looking at yourself in the mirror for the fifth time that night, pulling your skirt down, pulling your dress up as you waited for keigo to text you, to pick you up for your first date. "i'll text you if anything goes wrong, i promise."

and of course, the date went well. he took you to dinner and then to a lovely little park, and then back to his apartment to fuck your brains out. tugging your wrist in his, you remember the way you tripped over each other to get to his bedroom, pulling clothes every which way. it was almost embarrassing how fast the word daddy slipped out of your mouth that night. but how couldn't you, with the way he was prying your legs open, calling you his good baby? with the way he was feeding you his cock, slapping the fat tip of it against your slick folds? it was natural, almost sickeningly so.

you liked him. god, you liked him. an outrageous amount. like you couldn't stand to be without him for more than a day. and strangely enough, he found your neediness endearing. like he wanted to be the centre of your attention all of the time. keigo was so unfamiliar with the concept of actually liking someone that he couldn't tell how he felt about you until that night.

see, the thing with keigo was that even though he was wrapped around your pinky finger, he found it so hard to move on from his... prideful ambitions. and so every time you rounded a corner to see some skank's arm draped around his torso, or some bitch's hand stroking his wings, you broiled in a mixing pot of anger and jealousy. no matter how many times he reassured you, no, sweetheart, i'm not cheating on you and baby, you're the prettiest girl i've ever seen. it wasn't enough for you. not until you had them in front of you, motionless, pale, and drained of blood.

keigo had wondered where you went. you'd left your tote bag in your dorm room so he couldn't track you down. usually he’d leave it, roll his eyes and wait for you to reply but when you let his calls run to voicemail and you left him on read too many times, he decided to go out. tuck some crimson red feathers in the corners of buildings, alleyways just in case you came by. sent other feathers drifting around just in case you decided to stay in one place. and finally, after what felt like hours, he stumbled upon a small alleyway with a figure too closely resembling yours crouching down by the ground.

he listened to the soft choking sounds, the pleas of please, stop, it hurts. stood there and did nothing but watched. not because he was scared, no. but because he was curious. curious who lay in front of you, and why. he let your victim thrash about, writhing in pain before eventually stopping, laying limp in front of you, and when her head hit the ground with a satisfyingly hollow thump, he recognises her as the girl he talked to just earlier this morning.

keigo watches you, ominous fascination coursing through his veins, golden gaze pathetic. he was a hero, groomed and perfected by the safety commission, and he just let a girl die; for what? because he was so enamoured with the girl who killed her? because he was so infatuated with the way you breathed now, your shoulders rolling back like this is your first hit of a joint, relaxing and softening from weeks-long tension?

"impressive," is the only thing he says, and when you whip around, there's some sort of kindling ferocity in your eyes. he holds his hands up in surrender, a sign of innocence. "no, truly."

you have a quirk; when it manifested, your mother had you wear gloves, made you stay away from other kids. because through the sweat glands of your palms, you could drain any living being of blood within minutes. it was scary, naturally, for your mother to find that out. it explained why you always felt faint; that without draining somebody else's blood, you never really had enough on your own. blood didn't clot fast enough to stop you from losing blood rapidly. blood was precious, blood was essential to you. other people's blood.

the pints of blood the hospital supplied you was never enough. the blood donations, transfusions, nothing worked the same way as when you laid a hand, skin to skin on somebody's arm and drained them. that feeling of euphoria, of strength rejuvenating in your bones. it felt like breathing for the first time, a thirst quenched, a hunger quelled.

over the years you'd perfected it; sped it up so you could drained a whole average sized body in seconds, or learn how to tell when a certain amount has been drained. but though you learned to control it, to decide when your glands worked as needles, when your blood becomes too thin, or runs too low it's harder for you to control. harder for you to discern when you should or shouldn't utilise it. your god-given gift.

"like a vampire," keigo joked when you told him this.

"fuck off," you seethed, slapping his bicep. "what are you gonna do now? sell me out to your dumb pro hero agency?"

"it's the hero commission, sweetheart," he started. "and of course not. why would i do that?"

you shrugged. "thought you wanted to be the next big shot pro. can't do that if you're an accessory to a murder."

so you aren't as dumb as you seem. keigo smiles. as much as he loved the way you went dumb on his cock, or dependent hanging off his sleeve begging him to ask the counter for some ketchup, he liked you like this; scheming, plotting, always one step ahead. you were always one step ahead.

this wasn't the first time you'd done this. of course not, he thinks, it can't be. because as you slip a pair of pristine white gloves back over your right hand with a practiced precision, fishing out a rag and wiping down the surface of the skin, it was obvious this was like routine. "diluted bleach," you murmured, explaining the acrid smell. "gets rid of any fingerprints or dna."

he watched you clean any evidence of yourself from the corpse, before getting back up on your feet. "you're not gonna bury it?"

you shrugged. "they're gonna find it either way." you turned to him, a small smile on your lips. he would have thought it adorable if you didn't just drained a girl completely of her blood right before him. "and plus, i forgot my shovel."

keigo couldn't help but chuckle. but pull you into his chest and kiss you, slow and deep. "what a girl," he whispered in your ear. "that's my fuckin' girl."

fucked up couldn't even begin to describe your relationship with keigo after that.

and ears deep in love was an understatement to how keigo felt about you.

he ruined every crime scene, botched every manila file. protected you fiercely in every way he could in his position in the hero commission. never once did he question what he was doing; to him it was you first, everything else came after.

did he get reprimanded for his slowness on the cases? on the mysterious disappearances of forensic evidence? on the fact that no one was any closer to solving the case of the crimson reaper? of course. but he didn't care, because as long as he came home to his sweet girlfriend, your arms wrapping around his neck and peppering his face with kisses like a dutiful wife, he'd abuse any power to keep you safe.

and that included today. "ms president," hawks greets when he walks into the room, the clinical fluorescents washing out any life from the room. it feels sterile; the blank stares, the gloomy, overcast weather that painted the backdrop of the meeting through the large glass windows.

"mr. takami," she smiles, tightlipped. hawks could count the wrinkles that stained her forehead, etched like valleys, fruition of the canyons of burden she shouldered. "so kind of you to join us."

"of course, ms president." his hands, shoved deep into his pants pockets flexed, a small wring of anxiety that plagues him whenever he's called to these meetings. that they'd finally saw through him, and are coming for you right as they speak. "it's always a pleasure to be here."

he was taught since he was a little kid, since he was taken in by the commission; the job he was made for. the purpose he was born to fulfil. to make musutafu a better place, to protect civilians. and he did! he did a damn good job. but right now, more than anything else he'd been taught, there came you, who turned his nights into days and touched fleeting heart and turned it to gold.

"the other ranked heroes should be here soon," she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "how's the crimson reaper case? any good news?"

hawks' hands slip out of his pockets, straightening them by his sides and bowing slightly. "i'm sorry, ms. president. i can't say anything's any better than it's been since the last meeting."

her breath hitches, and with a grim expression, turns away from him. "no matter," she starts. "i know we are all working as hard as we can. we will get this killer," there's a certain acid in her tone, corroding and pooling on her tongue. hawks can hear the frown, the anger and the frustration in her tone. "and we will keep musutafu safe."

endeavour is the first one in the room after that, his big, hulking figure looming by the door way. "madam president," he greets, and then turns to hawks. "brat."

hawks scoffs. "rude."

the meeting runs as all the previous did; briefing everybody on the current situation, any updates, any findings, anything new that had come up. hawks explains the newest death; the background, who she was, the places she'd been before. "there's no connection between this victim and the rest," he continues. "which further cements that the reaper doesn't have a pattern. i wouldn't go as far as to say these victims are picked randomly, but that is how it appears."

"then everyone's in danger of being killed," edgeshot pipes up. "there's no way we can predict who'll be next."

there's a grim hum of agreement.

"an equal risk," hawks agrees. "there's no telling who s— they'll go for next."

"and you're sure," ryukyu raises her voice. "that we're nowhere closer to finding anything about them? after, what, 24 deaths? not a single piece of evidence?"

"really makes you wonder how much work you're putting into this," rock lock comments, the snideness in his voice not going unnoticed. "hawks agency not putting in enough hours?"

"why don't you fuckin' try it, wannabe?" mirko glowers at rock lock. “oh, that’s right. you don’t even have your own agency. why don’t you try becoming a ranked hero before you give your opinion?”

“ms. usagiyama,” the president clips. “mr. takagi. i would rather there be no internal conflict within the pro heroes when there’s a common enemy that deserves our utmost attention.”

neither of them say a word after that. blunt tipped tones and thick tension; it was natural for the frustration to get to them, have them saying things they’d usually be able to contain. hawks smiles weakly, mumbles a small, it’s alright, before continuing. “we do have several leads,” he starts again. “we are investigating especially those with blood-related quirks, since the signature style of the reaper is the victim drained of blood. we have yet to find a reason for this, why the blood is being used.”

“we had the tests run at all hospitals and donation drives in musutafu,” best jeanist adds. “testing the blood sample from the body to see if any of the blood had been donated. nothing came up. whatever it is, the killer’s using it for themselves.”

“well maybe we should check neighbouring cities,” kamui woods suggests. “the reaper only comes by once a week at most. they could be from neighbouring towns.”

“you think they’d lug five litres of blood to another town?”

“five litres is nothing. that’s a 5 kilo dumbbell.”

internally, hawks chuckles. he knows the drained blood has led them on a wild goose chase; any blood drained was already in your bloodstream, since the glands drained the blood from their body directly into yours. you’d only started puncturing holes with needles to throw them off; make them think that it was external instruments that aided in the blood collection. in fact, that was his idea, brought up one night at dinner when you were tossing ideas on how to make it more fun for you.

that’s what it was. fun. other than the element of needing blood— you didn’t need nearly as much as you were getting. one body could last you maybe a month or two if you stretched it right— you did this for fun. it's a thrill at this point, doing them closer and closer to the city centre, in places where people could peer into an alleyway and see you crouched by a motionless body. there's a glint in your eye, keigo notices, when you see somebody you want. an interesting quirk, a streak of your favourite colour in their hair; once you set your eyes on someone, you'll never take them off.

they were right, in that one thing about you. it was random. unpredictable. you never let them know what you're about to do next, and you liked it that way.

"we do," endeavour starts, clearing his throat. "have some eyewitness reports from around the area. the killing— this one, most recent one— happened around 3 to 5 in the morning according to forensics, and a, uh, miss miyazaki toi reported seeing a figure in green along the street, leaving the opposite direction from the alleyway at about 4:30."

madam president perks up. "any other indicators? hair colour? height?"

"she, uh, said she was too far away to make out anything of essence."

"gait? posture? anything?"

endeavour shakes his head. "nothing, madam president. i can get in touch with the eyewitness again, but it's not likely she'll have anything new to share."

hawks clears his own throat, thumping his chest once. whoever that miyazuki or whatever saw, that wasn't you. and he knows this because at 4:30 am you were fucked out, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he fucked you into his mattress. whimpering, drooling, clawing at his skin for him to slow down, his hips slapping against yours as he emptied his balls into your waiting pussy.

and also, you don't wear green. not your colour.

but he knows madam president, knows that she'll exhaust every avenue, every lead until it turns up dead at her doorstep. this eyewitness testimony just bought you a couple more weeks as they chase down whatever poor soul was walking along a street at 4 in the morning.

as the meeting concludes, several pro heroes pat hawks on the back, thanking him for working overtime for this case, taking such a genuinely draining case under his wing. he just smiles, murmuring in acknowledgement. he can see the tight rings of sleeplessness wound under their eye lines, and for a moment, he feels a speck of pity for them. maybe he does feel sympathetic, that a savage killer ravages the streets of his town. but he can't bring himself to condemn your actions. can't find it in himself to look at you with anything but utmost adoration, like a kitten who had brought a chewed up bird to him in its mouth, big doe eyes asking, are you proud of me?

keigo is. always has been proud of you. you made a name for yourself, never left a trace of yourself in your wake. you are such a clever girl, beautiful and kind, and you bring sunshine to your household with the aroma of the cookies you bake every saturday. keigo loves you. endlessly, relentlessly. if he had to jeopardise his career and watch the city of musutafu tremble in the wake of your actions just to see that smile on your face every time he came home, it was done. in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

he flies home that night. picks up a couple of custard tarts for you on the way, from your favourite bakery, and a bubble tea. maybe you'd eat dinner together and he'd sit you on his lap while you watched another shitty romcom that he would deny he loved. maybe he'd wash the dishes while you focused on your assignment, chewing on the back of your apple pencil from a habit you never really grew out of. either way, he's excited to come home, to see you, feel you in his arms again.

the sliding door is ajar when he lands in the balcony, tucking his wings tight behind him as he pulls it a little more open, slipping inside. he's hit with the aroma of curry wafting through the threshold before he spots you, his love and light, his achilles heel standing by the stove in your favourite pink and white apron, stirring a pot. he lights up; it's embarrassing how fast he drops his bags and shuffles over to the kitchen, quietly wrapping his arms around your front as he leans against your back.

"keigo," you murmur softly. "welcome home, baby."

keigo hums. "i missed you."

you giggle softly. "you always say that."

"because it's always true." he raises his head slightly, tucking it into the crook where your neck meets your shoulder and pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your skin. you have a litany of marks, varying in shades, deep blue or a fading red scattered along the plump skin. "i miss you every second i'm not with you."

you twist the knob of the stove off, giving the curry one last customary stir before pushing off the edge of the countertop, twisting around to face your boyfriend. you heave his heavy arms around your torso, under your armpits and slump back into him. "you're such a sap," you whisper, burying your face into his shoulder, tucking your head under his chin. he rubs his nose along your temple, sweet nothings murmured into the space between you.

"did you miss me too, baby?"

there's a flicker of embarrassment that flashes hot in your bloodstream, and you can't seem to brush it off. "yes, daddy," you whisper back, letting out a shaky breath. "missed you, so, so much."

he smiles, brings one hand up to tip your chin upwards before catching your lips in a kiss. a gentle, breathless one, one that has you swaying on your tip toes, clutching on to the collar of his work jacket. "that's my sweet girl," he murmurs. "wanna make you my wife one day."

and you giggle, rolling your eyes. "you're all talk," you chastise him, turning away again to begin plating your dinner. the lid of the rice cooker pops open and you scoop heaps for him, and just as much for you. "how much curry do you want, honey?"

"lots," he hums, wrapping his arms around your waist again, tucking his chin on your shoulder. "chicken?"

"yup," you pat his cheek. "your favourite."

keigo watches as you scoop ladlefuls of curry onto his plate, stewed chicken and vegetables in a rich traditional curry atop a bed of rice. god, his mouth is watering just watching you plate it. he has got to make you his wife.

as he sits next to you at the kitchen island, bowls of curry half eaten he looks over at you, chewing thoughtfully, eyes glimmering, and wonders what good he'd done in his last life to deserve someone like you. as you settle in his lap for your nightly movie, dead poets society playing on the tv, he strokes your hair, runs his fingers down your back. he wants to savour every hour, minute, second he's got with you. fall into a dimension where neither of you are needed anywhere but in each other's arms.

time is a leaking faucet, dripping and draining into the rippling river between the two of you, the rhythmic, drip, drip, drip reminds him that this time is finite, that there is nothing in the world that lasts forever and ever. and as hard as he might try, there will come a day that he will have to part from you.

but that day is not today, he reminds himself as you lean your tired head on his plush chest. you squeak softly when his grip around your waist tightens, and he pulls you closer to him. "i missed you," he whines, high and pitchy and so unlike the outer facade he had put on for his public image. "baby, oh baby, i fuckin' missed you so bad."

you giggle. "you said that already," you loop your arms around his neck. "say something different."

"like what?" he looks at you quizzically. "like, oh, i dreamed about fucking you all day."

"crude!" you slap his bicep. "another one."

he hums, in thought. "i couldn’t stop thinking about you."

"that's so cliche." you laugh. "come on, number two hero, most eligible bachelor in japan. hit me with your best shot."

"marry me." it's out of his mouth before he can stop it, before he can think. what usually was meant to be kept under lock and key, spoken into existence. what plagued his every day, clouded up his mind, finally out there for more than his subconscious to hear.

and the way your face changes, the subtle relaxation of your cheeks and your mouth, he watches all of it with bated breath, with a small glint of hesitation, of regret. he'd never regretted anything he did with you, but there was something to be said about the twist in his heart as he waited for you reply. "are you seriously asking me like this?" you whisper, eyes wide, mouth hanging a little.

"and if i am?" he asks, and before he has a chance to regret it, you kiss him, quick and fierce and so, so desperate, like you can't stand to be disconnected from him physically for even a second more. he breathes you in, shifting so he's sitting up a little more attentively, holding you down against him. you whimper into the kiss, his bruising grip on your arms returned by the way you dig your fingernails into his skin. like you're marking one another, leaving indents as evidence of your influence over each other's bodies.

your hand finds home on his collarbones, fingers splayed out over the warm flesh. you find his pulse point, pressing your thumb against it. "say it again," you beg, some kind of sick, twisted, desperate need to hear those words drip from keigo's mouth again. "again." you demand, pressing harder.

"marry me." it comes out strained, the pressure of your hands tightening around his neck cutting off blood momentarily. it makes him dizzy, but the figure of you in front of him is still crystal clear. "baby, marry me."

the world burns around the two of you. moves on, runs along, but the two of you are stuck here in this moment, visiting it and revisiting it. you hold him and he holds you, the only person he's ever genuinely cared about, the only person he's loved.

weeks pass, and the crimson reaper is all but gone.

this is the longest time in the last year since that name made the news with the finding of a new body. to be exact, it's been 34 days since the last crimson reaper killing. hawks can see that musutafu has breathed a sigh of relief, and the hero commission has stopped being so anal about daily reporting. patrolling has been a lot less stressful. pro heroes are getting a semblance of control back.

you're fine. hawks knows you are; you're just as chipper, bouncy, and lovely as you've always been. he wondered for a little bit if there was something different in that tomita girl's blood; so much so that you didn't need your regular weekly fix, or even the mandatory monthly one. but you laughed it off, telling him don't worry, baby, and that he'll see soon enough.

you're a smart girl. he trusted you to make good decisions.

after that night, his sudden question and your hand on his throat demanding him to repeat it, you found yourselves in the throes of progression. towards what, from what, you couldn't really tell. all you knew is that there was a softness within keigo that, even with how loving he'd been since you met, you'd never really seen till now. all you knew is that, to him, wife sounded so much better than girlfriend.

he hasn't proposed properly, he reminds you, and that until he can put a ring on your finger, that night was but a promise to greater things to come. but that didn't stop him from calling you his wife every so often, under his breath, over the phone. it was casual, yet subtly intimate. you couldn't help but flush some nights after that when he kissed you everywhere, and the word wife would drip from his mouth if he wasn't careful.

you thought it adorable. you loved— love— it. you tried the word husband on your tongue, once, twice. my husband. i'll have to ask my husband. i'm seeing my husband. it... fit. weirdly. of all the things in your life you would never have thought that you'd come anywhere near calling anyone your husband. but for keigo, it fit.

keigo's asleep when you come home.

it's ticking close to 3 now. all the lights in the apartment are off, save for a lamp in the hallway. keigo always leaves that one specific lamp on for you to come home to, and you always switch it off on your way to your bedroom. and that's what you do, adrenaline still rushing through your veins. you aren’t tired; you never are after a night like this. sometimes you wonder if keigo’s initial assessment of your quirk was right. vampire made so much sense with how much more energetic and powerful you felt after a kill.

synergy courses through your veins, up your arteries and through your beating heart. the adrenaline, the electricity, the excitement.

you pad through the living room and the kitchen, stopping to pour yourself a glass of cold water before shuffling softly back to the bedroom. keigo’s left it slightly ajar for you, and you can see, with the small sliver of dim orange glow, the man of your dreams splayed out on your bed, the covers pulled up and rumpled around his torso. keigo sleeps shirtless, always has, and from where you stand you can see a little bit of his golden skin, softened muscle under the covers.

he’s beautiful, peace and comfort painted across his face, the steady rise and fall of his chest signalling his deep sleep. you pad over softly, placing your water cup by your bedside and leaning over your boyfriend to plant a small kiss on his cheek before walking to the bathroom.

the water is warm against your back, rivulets of slightly pink-tinted water running down your body. sweat gives way and you start to feel clean, the smell of lavender and mint steaming in the room, fogging up your mirrors. you lean your head back against the cold tile, letting your eyelids flutter shut. it’s been a long day. college in the morning, work in the afternoon, homicide in the evening. really tuckers a bitch out.

but yet you can’t stop the trail of your fingers, the light, ghostly touch along the front of your torso. it’s been a long day, but you can’t stop yourself from thinking about keigo this morning, waking you up with his tongue on your clit, hands gripping the flesh of your hips so tight. you can’t stop the tingling of your hands, filled with the blood of the last victim you drank. all your energy, circulating to the heat in your core. you stifle a soft moan now, letting your soft fingertips inch down lower, and lower.

you like that, don’t you? you could hear keigo’s voice in the empty chamber of your mind, a smug smile on his lips peering up at you from between your legs, nosing along the sensitive top of your cunt. like it when daddy wakes you up like this.

you did. you do. you can’t stop thinking of it now, not as your fingers make contact with the swollen nub of your clit. you give it one tentative press and gasp, back arching into your own grip. the water is warm, so warm, beating down on your tired body and you just want to let your brain and all its stupid little thoughts to ooze out of your ears, wash away with the running shower.

“daddy,” you whimper softly, imagining his big, calloused fingertips instead of yours, his body caging you up against the wall. he’d hold you close to him, so close, chest to chest so that your tits press up against his pecs, his left hand wrapped around your back, his right playing with your sensitive pussy. you whine, just thinking of the way he’d shush your cries, coo at you as you bite down hard on his shoulder.

your thoughts are a haze as you dip your fingers shallowly into your cunt, sticky and slick with both shower water and your own arousal. the moans you let out are criminal, ripping through your mouth and through your lips before you can stop them. you need to feel him, any part of him now. now.

stumbling out of the bathroom, you dry your feet on the rug, patting yourself half dry before shuffling back to your bedroom, naked and damp. the bed dips where you kneel, sinking slightly and keigo stirs, but doesn’t wake. your hands are trembling, your need and excitement barely contained under a sheen of self control. need it. you need it.

you peel back the covers that obscure him from your preening gaze, miles and miles of tan, smooth golden flesh laying in front of you, sun spots and moles mapping along his torso. he’s so beautiful, it makes you want to devour him whole. he’s wearing a pair of grey boxers, the outline of his cock subtle but still, there. your mouth waters at the sight.

“daddy,” you whisper again, mesmerised by the way his skin glows in the low lamplight, greeting you as you pull the waistband of his boxers down. “‘m sorry, need it so bad.”

keigo’s still sound asleep, completely oblivious to your mischief. you pull his boxers down, over his hips and down his thighs, and there it is; his cock, already half hard, twitches as you touch it, let your fingertip drift along the underside of it. the patch of blonde curls brushes up against your knuckles as you touch him and it’s so soft. you whimper; you want his cock in your mouth.

so you bend down, and lick a stripe up from the base to the tip. keigo smells like fabric softener and an undertone of vanilla from your shared body wash, comforting and comfortable. gods, you want him so bad. you fit him into your mouth, and you hear a hitch in his breath, and you feel a spike in your heart rate at the prospect of him waking up to see his cock halfway down your throat, but he doesn’t rouse. just shifts slightly, and you continue.

keigo’s cock is so thick, so long, and whatever you can’t fit comfortably in your mouth you resort to stroking it slowly. your eyes flutter closed, like a baby with a pacifier. you’re quiet, humming and whimpering every so often, content with his cock in your mouth. you wish you could do this to him every night, give him a little surprise when he cums down your throat still asleep.

you bob your head along the length of him, swallowing as much of him down as you can that you choke, gag a little. the heat in your core is searing, never-ending, building as you moan around his cock, your slobber easing the glide of it down your throat. at this point you’re drooling all over his pretty dick, breath hot and eyes hooded, watching the rapid rise and uneven fall of his chest. he’s close, you can tell by the way his thighs are clenching, balls twitching. he’s fully hard on your tongue, tip flushed red and leaking, and you think it’s a waste to have him cum anywhere but right inside you, nestled right up by your cervix.

so you pull off his dick, smile at the slight huff from him, and climb gracefully atop of him. this is new to you; you’ve only ever sucked keigo off, played with his ass for a little while he was sleeping, but never went as far as to fuck him while he was asleep. it sends an unholy thrill down your spine, and as soon as you feel the blunt tip of his cock nudge along your slit, you’re dumb to the world.

it’s so exciting, your burning need met with his unconscious body, seating yourself on his cock. you whimper at the stretch of your ill-prepared pussy, unstretched, untouched, stinging with the intrusion of his fat cock. you fall forward, hands clattering to the sides of keigo’s torso, a gasp ripping through your lips as you slip, feel a sharp pop in your cunt before you swallow him down to the hilt. it’s not pain, not anguish that skitters through your veins, his long, thick cock bullying your walls and stretching you out. it’s familiarity. it’s the way your cunt is moulded into the shape of him, gummy walls giving way to him, your pussy spread around him, slick pooling on his navel.

it’s the familiar grumble of his chest, a grunt and a groan caught in his lips. “baby?” he calls for you, left hand reaching out to your side of the bed, as he does every night when you join him, just so he knows that you’re there. but his hands find blank canvas, and he whimpers, before his eyes flutter open just a little. and then the realisation sinks in; his body starts to wake up, synapses rousing from sleep, and he feels, feels your cunt pulse around him.

keigo groans. “baby.”

you giggle. “good morning, daddy.”

you raise your hips just slightly, moving up along his cock before letting yourself fuck me down against him. he slings an arm over his eyes, wanton moans ripping out of his throat, and his other arm comes around to grip your hips. he guides you up, down, lets you fall against his chest as you fuck yourself violently against his cock. keigo does nothing; lies there and coos at you, “baby, naughty little baby. couldn’t even wait for daddy to wake up to fuck her, huh?”

you whimper. “no, c-couldn’t,” you manage to croak out. it feels like his dick’s in your throat with how deep he is, pushing up against your cervix, bullying your insides. he holds you close, digging his arms under your armpits and holding you, chest flushed to his. “god you— you feel so good.”

keigo hums. “that’s my girl, that’s my girl. taking it so well,” he breathes, a stuttered gasp. “god, i’m close. did you— naughty fuckin’ girl, yeah— did you suck me off?”

you nod dumbly, panting into his mouth. “i did, daddy, couldn’t help it,” you babble, eyes crossing. “y-you looked so good, needed— ah, needed it!”

“just needed some dick in your mouth,” he hums, chuckling. “desperate little baby.”

you’re drooling on his chest, spit dribbling out of the side of your mouth. “feels— f-feels so good daddy,” you pant, trying to sit back up, planting your hands on his chest. “wanna— ride you properly.”

“go on,” he coaxes you, letting a hand drift down the side of your hip. “show daddy how you ride. make me cum.”

you fall apart, bouncing on his cock, the rough patch of blonde curls brushing up against your clit with every downward stroke. “daddy,” you whimper, head thrown back in ecstasy. “oh— oh!”

keigo grunts, the dim orange light illuminating the bounce of your tits, the vigour of your rhythm leaving both of you drooling, blabbering. “you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, captivated by the swell of your body, the pudge flesh and doughy thighs that encompass him. the tightness in his core begins to build, his balls twitching as he tries to stave off his own orgasm in favour of yours. “are you close?” he whispers, hand coming down to rub at your sensitive clit. “wanna feel you cum.”

“w-want,” you pant. “want you to cum first.” it’s a beg, a plea, a vow.

he grunts, eyes squeezing. “i’m pretty fuckin’ close, baby,” he whispers, thumb rubbing circles faster onto the swell of your clit. “cum with me, okay? wanna— fuck, wanna feel with milk me when i cum. can you do that?”

you’re brainless, pathetic, but hell if you were going to say no to something your daddy so politely asked. you bite your tongue, nodding slightly, and let your head tilt in pleasure, euphoria rippling through your bloodstream. he’s so deep, so good inside of you it drives you crazy, the bashing feeling of his cockhead against the gummy sweet spot in your pussy. your fists tighten, gripping him harder as you feel pressure build in your navel. “i-i’m close,” you stutter, trying to keep your eyes open. “want you to cum. c-cum for me, daddy, cum inside.”

he almost baulks at your crudeness, but obliges nonetheless. keigo’s given your everything you’ve ever wanted or needed, without so much as a second thought. “yeah? wanna feel daddy’s cum inside you?” he coos in your ear, his hands running up your thighs and settling by your hips. “want daddy to knock you up?”

you nod pathetically, mouthing, yes, yes! as he squeezes your flesh, one of his thick, giant hands pulling away your own on your clit, tinier and smaller, and replacing it with his own. “please, please, daddy—”

that does him in, bursts the tightening of his balls and feels himself empty into your waiting, welcoming cunt. all he can feel are the weak pulses of your gummy walls around him; a weak orgasm milking him for all he’s worth. his touch, grip on your clit doesn't move, just continues to fuck you through your heavy orgasm. you both cum at the same time, the gush of your cum paralleling the thick, white seed that stuffs you so full that you can feel it leak out of you through the sides of his cock. “just like that,” he whispers to you, halfway out of his own orgasm, voice still wavering and thighs shaking. “say thank you, daddy.”

“thank you daddy,” you whine, and despite yourself, you continue dragging yourself up and down his cock. it’s sensitive, painful, but you can’t seem to stop. keigo groans, hands stilling on your hips.

“slow down, baby,” he chuckles dryly, almost like he’s in pain. “daddy’s still cummin’— ah—”

“wanna make you,” you huff, some sort of twisted energy running through your veins. “make you cum again, daddy.” you usually only had enough in you for one round, especially at a time like this, but you couldn’t stop yourself now. the feeling of his first load of cum dripping down your thighs only served to spur you on, delirious, frozen in a state of abject desire and need. “fuck, daddy!”

he whines again, head tilted back, eyes wincing. “what’s gotten into you, kitten?” keigo trails his fingers along your hips, watching you bounce on his cock, eyes hooded with euphoria. “had a good kill?”

your kill. of course it is. the blood of someone else, someone so powerful, screaming through your ears, pumping like lead in your bloodstream. it’s almost oblong, despite the liquid nature of blood, causes your hands to tremble, fingers to shake. that’s why you feel ike this. that’s why you have so much energy. that’s why you need more. you grin at keigo, and for a moment, he feels fear.

your sharp canines flash in the moonlight, its dusty silver gaze glimmering in your body, in your eyes, in the way your nails dig deeper into his chest. for years, years, keigo has only regarded you with love. with subliminal adoration. with nothing but affection, holding you in his hands. but here, in the middle of the night, he notices a splatter of blood on your collarbone. winces at the sensation of your nails breaking flesh.

for a moment, he fears you. he fears you’ve truly lost it.

and to be truthful, you have. you’re delirious with ecstasy, you’re high— you’ve never felt like this before. killing has never come so close to feeding. blood has never come so close to addiction. but right now, you’d do anything for this feeling to last forever. the memory of you striking your victim down, your foot holding down his neck as he thrashed, looked at you with abject horror, shimmering like tears in his green eyes.

you’ve never felt so much fun in a kill. never craved those screaming pleas, those last gasps of breaths. never have you been so excited to roll up somebody’s sleeve and take off your glove, hold them with all five fingers, your full palm against their bare skin. but this man, god, was he tantalising. his deep voice, begging you to stop, begging you to leave him be. any amount of money, he’d promised. anything. just leave me alone.

but no money could give you this feeling. this excitement. you grinned, malice and cruelty trembling on your lips. “i’m so sorry,” you mocked his weeping tones. “i’m so sorry.”

“c-crim— ah— son… reap-per,” he breathed, choking out his words. “t-they’ll—” he coughed, gasping for air. puny, pitchy, desperate gasps for air.

“t-they,” you mocked again, gripping his arm tighter, feeling the rush of newer, fresher, stronger blood enter your bloodstream. “they’ll catch me? you have so little faith in me,” he winced, and you just laughed, flashing him your canines.

he turned paler, rosey tinted cheeks turning blue, gaunt. the life in his eyes slowly diminished as you sucked the last remaining litre out of his body. “y-you’ll never…”he trailed off, voice turning to a whisper, then to air.

you’ll never get away with this.

but you would. you knew you would. and that’s why you took your own sweet time cleaning the site where your hand just was, pulling your glove back on and fishing out your needles and making four incisions; one on each elbow, and on the back of each palm. just as you always had. you traced your gloved fingers along his jaw, cold and dead, the permanent plea on the tip of his tongue. it was such a pity, that he’d fought till his last breath and still lost.

it was true whatever they said about you, you thought as you pulled out your scalpel. that no one was safe from you. the only real way to put themselves out of danger was to keep themselves out of sight, out of mind. because once you set your eyes on someone, you didn’t stop chasing them until they were in front of you, your scalpel in their throat, dragging down, down, down.

the man’s skin split open like rubber, and once you made your initial incision, pinpricks of the little blood he had left rising to the surface, coating your pristinely white gloves, you dived in with greedy hands, like a vulture descending upon its prey. like a predator, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. your fingers, alive with electricity, the static of your feast before you.

you consumed. you devoured. you lived, fisting handfuls of flesh in each hand and prying it apart, the elasticity of the human skin the only testament to a dead man’s resistance. you uncovered inch by inch of glorious organ, of crimson stained ivory, of burst blood vessel. all pink and red and wet, and you want to make a mess, want to paint yourself in the remnants of this man’s blood and carry it home with you. you swore you have never felt so alive at the side of a dead man’s body.

one singular rose petal, fitted snugly in between the lungs.

your cheeks tingled, face numb, and walked back home.

“they’ve done it again.”

the whispers on the street whistle like fallen leaves kicked up in the wind, rustling against the cool asphalt of the road.

“the crimson reaper’s back.”

keigo barely makes it two seconds into his day before the pager buzzes.

“did you hear who they killed this time?”

you’re half awake when he asks.

“baby?”

you hum, softly, knowingly.

“who did you kill last night?”

you open your eyes, and look at him through hooded lids. he’s pacing your room, golden eyes distraught, and all you do is smile at him.

seems like you already know.

#keigo x reader #keigo takami x reader #hawks x reader #hawks smut #keigo takami smut #darkhera #tw.killing #tw.murder #tw.gore #tw.blood #tw.somnophilia #tw.daddy kink #hawks baby <3 #hera loves hawks #writing tag #owtw collab #.top

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lullabyes22-blog · 6 months

Text

Mel x Silco - Happy Ending AU - A Drabble Thing

Based on this ask by @elviriel <3

Part of an AU meta of the Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO universe.

tw: pandemics, terminal illness, death

cw: sex, angst

"When I am gone, you will have many who will offer their love. Take their love, but never trade on it. Love is not a currency. Love is a gift, and a gift given is a gift given freely.

I cannot give you mine, not any longer. But know that it was real. It was true. And it was yours."

Given the fraught relationship these two have with love and trust, I truly believe it would be a long time coming. For a woman like Mel, love has always been conditional. It comes at a price: trade of power for power. Her mother may have loved her in her own way. But it was a love contingent on her worth as a Medarda.

Ambessa promised her the world... but only if she could prove herself in her mother's eyes.

With Silco, love is nothing but a petty conceit. He's known betrayal and disappointment from those he once called family, and from those who claimed to love him. So he doesn't put any stock in it. It's just a word that people use to control others. If need be, he'll weaponize it. He'll say anything, to get what he wants.

And what he wants most, is Zaun's ascendancy.

But somewhere along the way, Silco's and Mel's lives entwine, and feelings begin to creep in. Certainly, there'd have to be a level of mutual chemistry between them—cerebral, verbal, physical—if they chose to flout their cities’ conventions and tie the knot despite vehement protests from their respective political parties.

Baseline: Mel likes Silco. He's not a good man, but she's drawn to his brilliance. He's an incredible tactician and a shrewd politician. And the more she sees of Zaun, the more she admires him for what he's built. His ruthless streak unnerves her with memories of her own mother, and yet it's offset by his capacity for intense tenderness. For Jinx, for the future of Zaun, even, if in a twistedly wry way, for her. Despite coming from two diametrically opposite social strata, their tastes are surprisingly well-aligned. They have a keen appreciation for art, music, fashion, philosophy. He denies it, but she thinks he's a fine dancer whenever he lets himself cut loose. And, when they're not trying to best each other in conversation, their silences are comfortable.

As a husband, he's not half-bad. He's attentive, in a hold-the-door-for-you and pull-out-your-chair sort of way. He's perceptive, and knows almost intuitively when she's tired or unhappy in need of a distraction. In an indulgent mood, he'll leave queer little tokens on her pillowcase or in her trousseau, like a funny note from a fortune cookie or a pretty dried flower or a small gemstone. And he's got an appreciation for her intellect that goes hand-in-hand with his admiration for her beauty. He'll notice when she uses a special perfume with the same astuteness as when he catches a coy innuendo or a well-timed pun. Sometimes he'll even smile when she's not looking, a crooked curve to his mouth, gone as soon as it's there.

But love?

There's something there, for sure, this quiet warmth that grows between them. Something that's a little like amusement, and a little like fondness, and a lot like family.

But she'll never put a name to it. Naming things brings them to life. Like a curse.

The Medarda bloodline has enough curses to go around.

As for Silco?

Baseline: he likes Mel, too. Granted, she began as an unforeseen complication. He didn't anticipate falling into a relationship with a Topsider, much less a member of the Council. Still, the gains far outmatch the costs. He gets to make a mockery of Piltover's hypocritical, stagnant elite. He gets an inside connection to the very seat of their power. He gets a gorgeous woman on his arm. Mel’s mind is an endless wonderland of strategy, she's got a tongue dipped in sterling silver, and that body is a gilded marvel. She can be a proud bitch, sometimes, but she's got a secret sweet streak that she's at pains to keep hidden. Marriage was never part of the plan, but now that he has it, he's got few complaints.

As a wife, she's an unexpected boon. She's no homebody by a long shot. He's never once seen her set foot in the kitchen; nor does he care to. Cooking's not his thing, either, unless it's a cookie-baking night with Jinx. They have staff for that. But when they do entertain, she's a consummate hostess. She's a deft hand at managing her social calendar and his own. She dazzles at every event. Half the chem-barons would give their left rib for one dance with her; the rest fall over themselves just to catch a glimpse. And, she's got a wicked sense of humor. Behind closed doors, he's had more than one glass of whiskey ruined by her sly commentary on the partygoers.

But love?

Let's cut that word out of the picture entirely. It's a fairytale; a fantasy. Zaun has no room for either.

Yes, sometimes, at night, when she's curled up against him, her soft breathing stirring the hollow of his throat, he'll feel a bite of possessiveness and think, Mine. But, the next morning, it's a fleeting memory, lost in the heady rush of conquest.

He's got a city to run. There's no room for foolishness.

Less for love.

And then Zaun is struck by the Ash Plague.

It's a mutated variant of Grey Lung, a disease that ravages the respiratory system, causing progressive weakness and eventual death. The victim’s skin turns gray and papery, and lesions erupt everywhere, like the flesh is sloughing off their bodies. Their lungs blacken and their coughs fill with blood. They grow progressively weaker, unable to do much more than lay in bed, struggling for breath.

Silco doesn't catch the sickness. His constitution is stronger than most, thanks to years spent working in the mines. And he's a careful man, washing his hands and covering his mouth whenever a new outbreak occurs. The Shimmer microdosage also boosts his immunity, making him less susceptible to common diseases.

Jinx, likewise, seems to have been blessed with an immune system forged of steel. She catches the colds and stomach bugs that go around the Lanes, but the Ash Plague slips by her, like a black cat in the night.

Mel, on the other hand, is vulnerable as a newborn.

She's possessed with a fine constitution. She takes scrupulous care with her hygiene. But her lungs have always been delicate. It's why she's seldom in Zaun without a mask. When the first cases are reported, Silco makes arrangements to escort her back to Topside, where she'll be safely ensconced in her private apartments, and guarded by a veritable battalion of doctors.

But on the day they're to sail, Mel comes down with a fever.

Silco doesn't panic. Not immediately. But by the time they've returned to the Undercity, she's already coughing, a wet, hacking sound that has him summoning Singed.

And that's when things go sideways.

When Singed examines her, his face darkens. He looks at Silco and says, "I am sorry."

The Ash Plague has a near-total fatality rate. The strongest of victims might last three months. The weakest, a fortnight. There is no known cure. Singed suggests an experimental Shimmer cocktail: a compound that should boost Mel’s immunity and buy her more time. But the odds are long.

"How long does she have?" asks Silco.

"Six weeks. Perhaps eight. It's hard to tell."

"What can I do?"

"Keep her comfortable. Make her last days happy. She is strong. With luck, she may even pull through."

Jinx, of course, takes the news poorly.

"It's not fair!" she shrieks, tears streaming down her cheeks. "We can't let her die! She's family, Silco! You have to help her! We can't just sit here and let her die! You gotta do something!"

But what can he do?

For days, he sits by Mel's bedside. He's seen her sleep before. But not like this. Her breathing is labored. Sometimes, she hacks, and a bloody spume froths from her lips. The lesions are appearing all over her body, like a child's drawing of the sun. The fever rages on, no matter how many icepacks Singed prescribes.

When the fever is particularly bad, she'll murmur. A single word, again and again: "Mother."

Ambessa has already received the news. Due to the Plague's severity, Zaun is under lockdown. No one may come in, and no one may leave. Not unless they wish to be quarantined, and see the Plague spread to other lands.

Ambessa threatens to declare war on Zaun if they do not let her through the ports. But her warnings fall on deaf ears. She may be a fearsome general, but she is nothing in the face of a pandemic.

Ambessa curses, and rages, and swears her revenge on Silco.

"She should never have married you, you blasted snake!" Ambessa snarls at him, over the speaking telegraph. "But you had to drag her down, to your hellpit, where your fucking plague will do your work for you, won't it? Well, when the time comes, you can bet your life that I'll be there to cut your heart out and feed it to my hounds, and—"

At this point, Silco hangs up.

But her words haunt him.

You had to drag her down, to your hellpit...

He says nothing of the conversation to Mel. She's barely sensate, lapsing in and out of fever dreams. If he's lucky, she'll stay awake a few minutes. He'll spoon broth past her lips. But most of her feeding comes through tubes. The Plague is cruel, eating away at her lungs. She grows thinner by the day, the bones in her ribcage and hips like fragile branches. He'll lay beside her in bed, feeling each racking breath she draws.

Sometimes, she'll look at him and smile, murmuring, "Silco."

And then she'll close her eyes and sigh, and sleep.

When she's lucid enough to talk, she asks, "How is Jinx?"

"She's worried," he tells her.

So am I, he thinks but doesn't say.

"Tell her not to be."

"How can she not be, Mel?"

"I'll be fine," she says. "Don't worry."

She closes her eyes and falls asleep again.

The Plague rages on. Silco devotes more hours to Mel's caretaking.

And her time grows shorter.

In the afternoons, Silco takes to reading to her. He'll select a book from his shelf, or hers, and read a few pages. She seems to enjoy that, so he does it more often. The story of a soldier who finds a magical thimble. The legend of the Lady of the Lake. A romance about two star-crossed lovers. Fantastical tales as far removed from their reality as possible. Other times, poetry is her fare of choice, and Silco will recite the verses in slow, smooth cadences. He's not a bad reader, though his voice doesn't quite suit the tone of most of the poets' works.

There is one in particular that Mel enjoys. Each time he reads it, she sighs raptly. After he's done, she'll say, "Read it again?"

He'll kiss the inside of her wrist, and promise to read it the next afternoon.

Inside, he'll wonder if there'll be another.

Mel is dying. He can see it. Her skin grows grayer by the day, the lesions deepening in color. Her breathing is getting shallower. And when she talks, it's only to aspirate a few words. He's helpless against the tide of inevitability. It's an opponent he can't corner. Can't negotiate with. Can't kill. And the harder he tries to hold back the waters, the faster the tide rushes in.

She's dying.

But he keeps coming back, every afternoon, with a book under his arm and a bowl of soup in hand.

"Read the poem again," she'll say, her eyes half-lidded.

"And again," she'll repeat.

"Just a one more time," she'll rasp.

Sometimes, Jinx will join him. She's deeply agitated by Mel's illness, but determined to put on a brave face. She'll bring a pile of throw-pillows and her toolkit and sit at Mel's bedside, tinkering quietly with a new contraption.

"I'm working on a present," she'll tell Mel, with a wobbly smile. "It'll make you better."

"That's lovely, Jinx," says Mel, closing her eyes. "Thank you."

And then, barely a beat later, she's asleep.

Silco takes his daughter's hand and squeezes it. They trade a wordless glance.

She's dying, thinks Silco.

She's dying and there's nothing I can do.

But he still comes every day. He reads her books. He holds her hand. He brings her tea and hot-house hyacinths and anything she desires. In the evenings, Jinx keeps vigil, her gift blossoming beneath her hands in slow-motion. It resembles a flower, an intricate copper-plate bloom with furling petals. But she tells him it's meant to be a music box.

"To sing her to sleep," she says, and her smile is sad.

"It's beautiful, Jinx."

"Not yet. It's not done. Once it's ready, it'll sing to her, and she won't have to die."

But she is dying, he thinks.

She's dying and Jinx's music box cannot save her.

I cannot save her.

One evening, returning from his duties, he finds the door to Mel's bedroom ajar. He creeps closer, barely within the ambit of the lamplight, and finds a scene that has his heart skidding to a stop.

Mel is sitting up.

She is in her favorite dressing-gown, a ruched silk-and-chiffon number in pale cream. Her dark skin has gone a mottled gray. She is coughing, softly, the wet sound threading through the room. There's a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. When she lifts it away, there's a red stain on the cloth.

She is smiling.

"...That's why you married him?" Jinx's voice floats over. "Because he quoted a stupid poem?"

Mel chuckles, the once-melodic sound coarsened by suffering. "Not just any poem. The one I liked best. The one that was... mine."

"What d'you mean, yours?"

"I'd read so many poems growing up. None were meant for me. They were... generic. Like a suit. You know, a man goes to a tailor. He says, 'Make me a suit. Make it black. Make it sleek. Make it smart. For the ladies.' And then he wears it. Maybe it fits, maybe it doesn't. It doesn't matter. Because the suit doesn't matter. It's a costume. An... illusion."

"What does that have to do with the poem?"

"When Silco quoted that poem... that poem I'd always felt was mine... it wasn't like he'd tailored it to a passing fancy. It was like..." Her breath shivers out, "...he lived it."

Silco stays hidden behind the doorway, listening in, spellbound.

"Huh," says Jinx. "I think I get it."

"It was a gift, you see," Mel goes on. "In those eight lines... I saw myself. I saw our future."

"What was the poem, again?"

Mel closes her eyes. "It's a short one. I've memorized it."

Then she recites a poem Silco knows well. The same poem he has read to her, day in and day out, since her illness.

"'Had I heaven's embroidered cloths/Enwrought with golden and silver light/The blue and the dim and the dark cloths/Of night and light and the half-light/ I would spread the cloths under your feet/ But I, being poor, have only my dreams;/ I have spread my dreams under your feet;/ Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.'"

Her voice falters. She's breathing hard. Her lashes flutter.

"Oh," says Jinx, softly.

"The poem is about an unequal match. A man and a woman. From two different worlds. Two different social strata. A love that can never be."

"You and Silco."

"Me and Silco," Mel agrees. "We could never be. Not by the laws of our respective societies. And yet we are married. We are together. Because we chose to defy expectations. And when we stand together, we are stronger. More than the sum of our parts. That's what the poem is about. A defiant love. A love that dares to be."

She's quiet a moment. She coughs. Her shoulders shiver.

"He loves you," says Jinx, quietly. "I know he does. Even if he won't say it."

"That's the beauty of the poem," says Mel, smiling. "I don't need him to say it. I feel it, every day, when he wakes me up with breakfast and sits by my side. Every time he reads me this silly poem over and over. It's his love letter to me. And I will treasure it. For as long as it's mine. Until the day it isn't."

Jinx's voice quavers. "You can't die."

"We all die, Jinx." Mel coughs again. She draws a sharp, shuddering breath. "But we do it... on our own terms. As best as we can."

Silco watches from the doorway. He can't breathe. His lungs have filled with icewater.

Mel coughs again. Her voice is barely a whisper. "Jinx. Do you mind... if we stopped talking now? I'm tired."

"Yeah. Okay." Jinx sniffles. "We'll talk more tomorrow, yeah?"

"Tomorrow," agrees Mel. She lays back on her pillows. "Goodnight, Jinx."

"G'night, Mel."

Jinx stands up and walks away. Silco sees the glisten of tears on his child's cheeks. But he cannot go to her, not right now, because Mel is still awake. Jinx has already lost so much. How much more loss can such a fragile girl bear?

He backtracks hastily before Jinx crosses the door, and pretends to have just come in. Jinx throws herself into his arms, and he holds her close. She cries a little, but soon composes herself.

"I have to finish my gift," she tells him. "It's almost done. It'll save her. I just have to figure out a few kinks, and it'll be perfect."

"Of course," says Silco. He's numb, unable to tell her the truth. He can't. "Go on. Work on your project. I'll take over for tonight."

"Thanks, Silly."

Jinx goes on tiptoe to peck his cheek, then races off.

When he returns to Mel's bedroom, he finds her asleep. She looks more peaceful than she has in days. Her favorite book lays facedown beside her, the spine cracked.

He sits down by her bedside, and stirs a fingertip through the book's pages. There's a loose scrap of paper tucked inside, a bookmark. He pulls it out. It's a folded square of parchment. He's seen the handwriting before, all looping lines and arcing flourishes in elegant cursive.

Mel's.

The note is brief.

Beloved,

This morning, I woke with the scent of your cologne on the pillow, and knew that you had come and gone, and left this parting gift: my favorite book, opened to my favorite poem. You always remember, even if I have not the strength to say.

And so, before the strength leaves me, I must leave you with this final gift:

When I am gone, you will have many who will offer their love. Take their love, but never trade on it. Love is not a currency. Love is a gift, and a gift given is a gift given freely.

I cannot give you mine, not any longer. But know that it was real. It was true. And it was yours.

Mel.

Silco reads the note three times.

His chest feels like a blade has cut his black heart in two.

He folds the note and returns it to the book. Then he sits, watching Mel sleep. She's fading fast, the plague ravaging her body, leaving only a ghost behind.

His fingers find hers, and clasp them gently.

"Thank you, Mel," he whispers.

He waits, the night passing slowly, his heart aching with each of her labored breaths.

After that, it happens quickly.

She wakes briefly in the early hours. Her eyes are fever-bright, and her skin is papery. The lesions are stark, deep-violet against her skin. She reaches for him, and he takes her hand. He can feel her, waxing and waning between life and death. Her pulse stutters, and her breaths are short, broken snatches.

She says only one word.

"Silco."

"I'm here," he soothes.

"Mother."

"She's not here. It's only me."

"Silco."

"I'm here. You're safe. Rest."

"Love..." she murmurs. "...love."

"I know," he says. "I know."

Her eyes close, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. She's slipping away, her spirit a candle guttering out. And yet, finally, there is a peace on her face that he hasn't seen in weeks. She is dying, yes, but there is a beauty, a lightness, a grace. Like a heavy weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She is treading softly, at last, into her dreams.

Silco leans in. He kisses her brow, her lips. His forehead, cool on hot, touches hers.

"I love you," he tells her. "And I always will."

Her smile is sweet and soft.

Her eyes close, and her breathing evens.

It stays that way, as the night bleeds away, and the sun fills the room.

The next morning, Silco finds Jinx working on her gift, the metal petals unfolding and unfurling. There's a delicate clockwork mechanism, with a single lever. The music box is beautiful, a work of art, a marvel.

"Look!" Jinx cries. "It's almost done! Just a couple more kinks, and then we can wake Mel up with it, and she'll be all better!"

Silco looks at the device. Then he looks at his daughter. She's staring at him with such hope, such joy, her eyes glowing fiercely. Her faith is unshakeable.

She doesn't understand that some bargains are more ironclad than others.

"She's not going to get better, Jinx," he says, quietly. "You have to let her go."

Jinx stares at him, her face crumpling.

"No," she whispers. "You can't say that. She'll get better. She has to. She promised."

Silco shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Jinx. But Mel's not going to make it. Not this time."

"But—"

"Singed and the doctors have tried everything. The Plague has taken hold. It's spreading. She'll only linger in pain."

"I can fix her! I just need a couple more days!"

"She doesn't have a couple more days, Jinx. She's fading. You have to let her go. She's going to die."

Jinx's face is wet.

"No," she whispers. “No no no.”

"Jinx. I'm sorry. She's gone."

"But she said—"

"I know. But it's not something we can fix. No one can. It's out of our hands."

Jinx is silent.

"Go to her," says Silco. "Tell her goodbye."

And Jinx goes.

When she comes back, her eyes are gleaming red. She's clutching her music box, which has finished unfolding into a magnificent metal bloom, the petals unfurling like a rose. But her smile is wobbly, and her hands are shaking.

"Mel liked it," she whispers. "She said it was the best gift she ever got."

Silco holds her tight.

"It's okay, Jinx. We're going to be okay."

"Are we?"

"I'm sure. I promise."

She sniffles.

"Y'know... for a sec... I thought..."

"What?"

Jinx lifts her head, eyes locking with his.

"For a second... when I was lookin' at Mel... I coulda sworn her lesions were smaller. Like... she was getting better."

"You're imagining things, Jinx. You're tired."

"Yeah."

"How about I read you a story? Something nice and easy, to get your mind off things. Would you like that?"

"Uh-huh," says Jinx. She nestles against him. "Read me that poem. I wanna hear the poem."

"What poem?" Silco says, as if he hasn't heard the words a thousand times, in a thousand variations.

"The one Mel talked about. While you were eavesdropping at the door. Peeping Silco."

Silco bites down a bittersweet smile.

"You knew?"

"I saw you duck out. I wasn't born yesterday, y'know. You're lucky I didn't call you out on it."

"You could've."

"And miss out on the juicy gossip? As if. Read me the poem, Silco. Please?"

"All right."

So Silco and Jinx settle together on the pillows of his couch, and Silco recites the poem, the words rolling from his tongue as if they were his own.

"Had I heaven's embroidered cloths/Enwrought with golden and silver light..."

The poem is brief. But it resonates, like a crystal chime, striking at his heart.

"'...Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.'"

"I like it," says Jinx, after a quiet minute.

"It's not your thing, though. Poetry."

"Maybe it could be. You think I can write poems? About Zaun and stuff."

"You can do anything, Jinx. If you put your mind to it. You just need practice."

Jinx falls asleep in his arms, and Silco sits in the silence, his fingers idly smoothing her hair.

Then he goes to check on Mel.

He's braced himself for what he'll find, and yet he is still unprepared for the sight.

Mel isn't gone.

She is sitting up in bed. Her skin is still gray, and the lesions are still present. But her eyes are clear. Her breathing is steady. She looks at him, and smiles.

"Silco."

He is silent.

"Jinx showed me her music box. It's ... extraordinary. I've never seen anything like it."

Silco steps closer.

"How are you feeling?"

"The same. But..." Her smile grows, "...a little better, I think."

Silco frowns. He can't quite trust what he's hearing. Can't believe what he's seeing.

Because Jinx was right. Her lesions are less pronounced. Less angry. Her skin holds a warmer hue. Her breathing is easier.

"I don't understand."

"Nor do I," admits Mel. She pats the sheets, "Sit with me?"

He does.

She reaches for his hand.

He does not give it.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"How are you feeling? Truly?"

"I told you. Better."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I'm fighting it off. Or perhaps—"

"Or perhaps what?"

Mel gives him a coy smile. A fleeting flash of her old self.

"Perhaps I've crossed over and returned. I'm not certain. It felt like... a dream. Like the world was made of glass, and I was drifting. But a voice was calling to me. Telling me I was safe. Telling me I could stay, or go to my dreams. The choice was mine. And I chose."

"You chose what?"

"To stay. With you." Again, she reaches for him. This time, he doesn't deny her. "I don't know how. And I don't care. Because the dream wasn't worth it, without you."

Silco's throat is a knot.

He says nothing. He urges her to lie down again, and she does.

"Sleep," he says. "I'll be back later. And we'll talk."

"I love you," she says, with a sleepy sigh.

He doesn't say it back.

He cannot be sure if this is a dream or not.

Instead, he summons Singed. The doctor examines Mel carefully.

"There's a remarkable improvement in her condition," he notes.

"What do you mean?"

"Her vitals are stabilizing. She's regained color. Her breathing is stronger."

"Is she cured?"

"Not yet. But it's possible."

"What does that mean?"

"It means..." Singed hesitates. "She's been granted a reprieve." A beat. "As have you."

Silco scowls.

"There are no reprieves. Only hard bargains."

"It appears your bargain has been struck. Whether you meant it or not. She's made her choice. And she's staying."

Silco turns away, unable to rein in his emotions.

"You think she's safe?"

"With our treatment? It seems so. The Plague has retreated. She's no longer terminal. In a month, maybe two, we may see her through it. She'll have some scarring. But she'll live."

Vertigo nearly overtakes him.

He'd been ready to say goodbye. He'd prepared for her loss. He'd steeled himself against her passing. And now?

He's not prepared to feel his heart beating again.

"Thank you, Doctor," he says with terse formality. "Keep me apprised."

"Of course."

Singed leaves.

Silco is alone, and he is reeling.

Hard bargains. Harder truths. And yet, somehow, by the grace of something he doesn't believe in, Mel is here. And she's going to live.

It's more than he deserves.

But he'll take it.

The next weeks bring more change. The Ash Plague continues its relentless ravage of the city. More are afflicted, and many more die. Zaun is locked down. Shops and factories are shuttered. People hunker in their homes, waiting, praying for the end. But Singed's serum is making inroads. More are recovering, albeit slowly. The disease is not gone, but it's in retreat.

And Mel is regaining strength.

Day by day, her lesions heal. Her color returns. Her energy. Her appetite. By the month's end, she's well enough to rise from bed. Silco has one of the guest rooms in their suite remodeled into a sun-room, where she can spend her afternoons, surrounded by plants and art. The view is the Undercity, and the sky, a bright jeweled dome.

Mel resumes painting. Silco has a small easel set up for her, and brings her supplies: acrylics, charcoals, watercolors. Sometimes, she paints flowers and fruit. Other times, the cityscape, or portraits of Jinx. The girl's gift adorns the table, a magnificent centerpiece. From its copper heart pour the sounds of Zaun, a tinkling aria of notes raised in celebration and defiance.

Silco is a constant visitor. Sometimes, he'll bring one of her preferred philosophical treatises and read aloud. Sometimes, a newspaper, so she can keep abreast of the political landscape in Zaun and Piltover. He'll discuss the articles with her, and they'll brainstorm strategies, and Mel's eyes will grow bright, her tongue sharp, her mind a diamond-faceted brilliance.

Other times, he'll bring her tea, and a new book. They'll read together, a few chapters a day. He'll listen to her talk about the book's themes, its characters, its symbolism. She's an animated analyst, full of incisive ideas, and he's fascinated, and more than a little aroused.

He keeps the desire to himself. Her body is not yet fully recovered. The Plague has left her weakened.

He will wait, until she is strong again.

In the evenings, they have dinner together with Jinx. His daughter has taken up residence in the guest room next door, and often, they'll eat in Mel's bedroom, playing cards and swapping gossip on the chem-barons and Councilors. Jinx's wild tales always make Mel laugh, and, sometimes, the two women double over bubbling with hysterics, while Silco sits in contented silence, taking in the beautiful sight.

After the third month, the Plague is receding. The Fissurefolk bestow thanksgiving to Janna. Theories abound. Perhaps it's the Shimmer compound. Perhaps a quirk of genetics. Or perhaps, says Mel, a miracle.

"Doubtful," says Silco.

"Hey, stranger things have happened!" Jinx insists.

"Like what?"

"Like me and you and Mel," she says. "Bein' a family."

He can't argue with that.

The third month stretches into the fifth.

Mel is well enough to resume correspondence with her colleagues in the Council. Her desk is awash with missives inquiring after her health. There are a dozen invitations to tea, and twice as many invites to dinners and parties. Then there is the intimidating crest of the Medardas on a red-bordered envelope.

Mel is reluctant to answer it. Ambessa's threats have not abated. And Mel has no desire to confront her mother.

"Not yet," she tells Silco, "There is work to be done between our cities."

Silco agrees, and leaves her to it.

Week by week, their disrupted rhythms smooth back into a semblance of normality. The Plague is contained. The chem-barons are slithering out of their strongholds, and Silco is needed to keep them in line. He spends more time in his office, and less time hovering by Mel's side. But they send each other a brisk succession of messages, and he drops in to see her daily.

He's just returning from a meeting when one of his messengers finds him.

"Boss. There's a letter from the Missus."

Silco unfolds it, and skims through it.

Urgent.

You're needed at home.

It's a shock, to read the word.

Home.

Home is his office, and his desk, and the clutter of his plans and maps, and the view of Zaun from his window. But his home has also become Jinx's and Mel's laughter, and the burnished warmth of the sun-room, and the gleam of Jinx's music-box, and the floral lilt of Mel's perfume.

And now, this summons.

His pulse spikes, and he rushes home, his blood thundering in his veins.

Has the Plague come back?

Has Mel relapsed?

But, when he gets to the penthouse, the space is quiet. The lights are dim. He heads to Mel's room, and finds her door ajar.

He enters.

It's dark, the drapes closed. The room smells of hothouse hyacinths.

"Silco."

Her voice comes from the bed. He sees her, lying under the covers, and his heart drops to his toes.

"Are you all right?" he demands.

"Better than all right."

Her voice is low. Musical.

Aroused.

"What's wrong? Why the summons?"

"Come here."

He does.

She's reclined on the pillows.

The bedcovers are pulled to her breastbone, revealing only the tantalizing slope of her neck and shoulders. Her face, in the dark cloud of her unbound hair, holds an alluring glow.

She looks...

"You've been ill," he begins, cautiously.

"No longer. I'm well."

"But—"

"Silco," she whispers.

And her voice is a siren song, her lips a dark temptation. He's leaning in, and she's rising to meet him, and then their mouths find each other, the kiss slow, deep, drugging. He feels her arms loop around his neck. Her fingers curl through his hair. And then she is drawing him down, tugging at his clothes, pulling him closer, until he is braced above her.

"We shouldn't," he gasps one final time. "Not until you're—"

"Stronger? I am."

"But—"

"Shhh," she murmurs. "No more talk. Only us."

She's naked beneath the covers, he discovers, as his hand slips into the sheets. Her skin is deliciously hot, and the seam between her thighs is slick as melted butter. Her eyes hold a heavy-lidded radiance, and he is caught, a fish on a hook, a drowning man, powerless against the pull of the tide.

"Mel," he groans.

"Shh."

He lets her drag him under. He's already lost, his thoughts unraveling, his will dissolving. And she is exquisitely sensitive, arching and curling beneath his questing hands, his teasing fingertips, his ravenous mouth. He savors the way her breath catches as he parts her, caressing her with his thumb. She moans, a melting croon, and he dips his head and tastes her, his tongue teasing the silky nub of her clit. Her fingers claw into his scalp, holding him there, and he delves into her, drinking the sweetness of her need, the music from her throat, the symphony of her joy.

When he rises over her, she's trembling, her skin sheened, her eyes molten.

"Yes," she breathes.

He sinks into her, inch by inch.

She sighs, her body stretching to welcome him, and the hot, liquid squeeze makes him groan. He pauses, gathering his self-control.

"Don't stop," she says. "More."

And then he is moving, the rhythm a languid glide, his body making itself heavy on hers, her palms starfishing his spine. They've done this before, numberless times. But this is different. So different it's almost a dream. A fantasy. When he kisses her breasts, she arches her neck, and he laves her nipples, suckling gently, until she is keening.

"Silco..."

He's going slow. Slow, because he doesn't want to hurt her. Slow, because he wants to remember every detail. How her eyes are liquid gold, her mouth a swollen bruise, her body a sleek mold to his own. She flows with him, skin-to-skin, a river with a hundred secrets, and he wants to know them all, to learn her inside out, to drown in the dark velvet of her: heat and honey and salt.

Her breath is catching.

"More," she begs. "Please."

"No," he rasps. "Slow. Don't rush it."

"I can't—I can't—"

"Slow."

But he's not much better, the fulcrum of his control teetering. His muscles are coiling, his mind sluicing down black headwaters. She's so tight, the grip of her a sweet torment. He can feel the gathering tension in her body, the fluttering spasms that presage her completion, the way her nails are scoring his skin, her breaths sawing frantically.

The heat of her is a burning sun.

Mine, he thinks, with a surge of sudden fierce elation. Mine.

They've changed rhythm somehow, and he isn't sure if it's hers or his, only that they're grinding against each other, the pressure an unbearable sweetness, the friction sparking a fire through his nerves. Mel's breaths come wet and shaky. One broken sound, a gasp that is nearly a sob, escapes her. She is crying, tears streaking her skin, delirium reducing her words to a single whisper.

"Please," she begs. "Please."

Silco doesn't speak. He can't.

So he gives her what she needs.

He rocks harder, faster, driving her deeper into the sheets, her body a pliant curve, her legs locked around his waist. The headboard is rattling against the wall, a dirtysweet percussion. And the room is full of their cries, a ragged duet spiking into crescendo and then softening, softening, softening into a single, shuddering gasp.

Afterward, they lay entwined.

Mel’s body, dewy with sweat, is fused to his. Her hips stir lazily. He's still half-hard, but for the moment he's sated, the blissed-out aftermath resonating through his bones. He kisses her forehead, and she nuzzles his jaw.

"Well," she murmurs, "that was..."

"Good," he says, and she laughs, a breathy, satisfied purl. Stretching beneath him, she winds her legs round his, tracing his back with her palms. He's a canvas of old scars. Always has been. But now a few cicatrices linger on Mel's own skin: on her left cheek, below her collarbone, upon her right breast. Silco kisses each one, like a benediction.

"My warrior queen," he murmurs, tracing the mark on her breast. "The scars are badges of your valor. You won the battle."

"Did I?"

"You survived. That's more than I could ask. More than I deserve."

"Sssh." She lays her finger against his lips. "I'd never have, if you hadn't taken my hand."

He kisses her: slow, savoring sips.

She breathes, "I heard, you know."

"Heard what?"

"That night. When I was... fading. You said you loved me. That you'd always love me."

His pulse trips.

"Did..." Her lashes dip. "Did you mean it?"

He can't lie to her. Not anymore.

"Of course I did."

"And now?"

His eyes lock with hers.

"Always," he says.

"Then it wasn't a dream. You called me back." She smiles. "The poem took care of the rest."

"Poems don't save lives, Mel. Only progress can."

"Poetry opens the doors of possibility," she insists. "And sometimes, the best poetry is the poem that you live."

He has no answer to that.

So he kisses her, a hot, deep, hungry kiss.

Her eyes flutter shut, and she sighs.

"We have much to do," he says, a husked warning.

"Mmm. I know. My mother’s missives..."

"I meant us." The kiss deepens: a promise. "The missives can wait for another day."

Her answering smile is a thing of beauty: a bright golden blossom that unfurls like Jinx's gift.

"Tread softly," she teases, "because you tread on my dreams."

Silco only kisses her again, their bodies folding together in the dark.

He doesn’t need to tread far.

His dream is already here.

#asks #arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward (never forget)/xoxo #forward but never forget/xoxo #arcane jinx #jinx #arcane ambessa #ambessa medarda #arcane mel #mel medarda #silco x mel #melco

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many-but-one · 1 year

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Things I didn't realize would happen as I started trauma therapy

To preface, this is written by Vivian (he/him), the current "main" host of the Many but One system. I am a trauma holder for childhood and teen trauma, but I am also highly functional despite this due to the fact that most of my really severe trauma is even further compartmentalized--I am one of those "alter with alters" type of subsystems.

So, this post is going to explain some of the things I didn't realize would happen to me, Vivi, as I progressed in trauma therapy.

I had to re-learn how to say "no." This was very hard to do in the beginning. My entire "purpose" was very heavily focused on "just let it happen, just let it happen, it'll be over soon" regardless of what the actual circumstances were. Even in a non-SA environment, I found it difficult to say no to people or to remove myself from situations I felt were uncomfortable. When my therapist helped me realize that I had CHOICES and could make them freely (within reason) that was...seriously mind-blowing. Intrinsically, I know that I am allowed to say no. I know that I can make my own choices. However, when faced with the actual situation or if I think too deeply about the freedom I have I actually lose my fucking mind just a little bit. It's like my internal wiring is so deeply set to "NO! You sit there and you take it, it doesn't matter how uncomfortable you are, you just let it happen." Going against such deeply ingrained beliefs about myself has been a doozy, but it's been such a relief to finally have some freedom from those lines of thinking.

I am not as apathetic and hateful as I thought I was. Don't get me wrong, when I get into a "mood" I can definitely be this way, however, upon working on healing myself I realized I actually, genuinely, enjoy helping people or taking care of them. I was never like this before because I was so deeply focused on keeping MYSELF safe, that I didn't even have the capacity to think or care about others. I was incredibly self-centered, and not in a bad way, in a survival way.

I don't have to let myself suffer all the time. If my body hurts I can take care of it. If I am hungry, I am allowed to eat. If I am uncomfortable in any given scenario, I can leave. I don't have to "just suffer through it." Suffering is not a virtue, and it doesn't make me stronger. It only makes me weaker.

People aren't as bad as I thought they were. From my limited experiences in the external world as a child and teen, every single interaction I ever had with someone was typically highly traumatic. Such is the way of a trauma holder who kind of "specializes" in the SA side of things. So as you can imagine, becoming a host and having to interact with people on a daily basis made it very hard to trust anyone around me. However, the more I interact with genuinely good people, the more I realize that "Humanity is Okay, actually." Yeah there are some really fucked up people, like our abusers, but there is so much genuine GOOD out there, and having my walls up at every second made it literally impossible to even see it. Learning how to trust and be vulnerable is still something I am working on. But I am doing it, and it hasn't backfired yet. Knowing who to trust has been hard because I typically just go "NOBODY," or at least, I used to. So I am very careful about who I put my trust in, and it has paid off immensely.

I am a genuinely good person, even when I do "bad" things. When I say bad things, I don't mean abusing others or things of that nature. But moreso, things that myself, our system, our brain, has ingrained in us as "bad." Such as coping with negative coping mechanisms (alcohol, drugs, impulsive spending, self harm), engaging in trauma reenactment scenarios, or being overly reactive (or the opposite, apathetic) to others around me. Just because I relapse into bad behaviors doesn't automatically make me a bad person, that just makes me human. And thinking that I'm going to get through this hell called "Trauma Therapy" without relapses is just ridiculous. Being kinder to myself has been a good step.

I am allowed to make mistakes. Kind of with the above, mistakes don't automatically mean I need to punish myself for making the mistake. Making mistakes is part of life, no matter how big or small they are. Showing myself grace when I do these things has been life-altering.

I am a human being. This one is kind of sad. A lot of our trauma holders feel very detached from being a person, including myself. A saying we have to remind ourselves of constantly is "We Are Human." We are a person, not a thing, not a demon, not a monster, not a faerie, not a statue, not a robot, not a doll, not an angel, not a god. We are human, and we deserve to be treated with the kindness and grace of one. That is the LEAST we deserve, is to be treated like a human. Unfortunately that has not been the case for a lot of our lives. But things are different now. And we are finally starting to understand that.

I don't have to live with one foot in trauma time and one foot in the present. This might be a bit confusing, but something our therapist noticed with a lot of us is that we often have one foot in the present and one foot still in trauma time. We often feel like we have to hold on tight to those experiences. During trauma anniversaries, we HAVE to relive them, that's our job. This may just be a personal system experience, but we didn't get closure when the trauma ended, so we never knew when it would happen again. There are so many parts in our system that are so sure it's going to start again even though it ended 15 years ago. They are still certain that "this year is different, this year they will come for us" which leaves us panicked and paranoid. Something we did to cope was essentially relive the trauma or reenact the trauma internally during those trauma times because we were so used to being traumatized the same ways all the time at the same times of the year, that when we suddenly weren't, we panicked. However, in therapy we have slowly started learning that the cycle is OVER and we don't have to live like this anymore. It's so hard. But we are making it work.

I hope by sharing these few things it will instill maybe a little bit of hope for those of you who are working through trauma therapy. I truly never thought I would be where I am today. I was considered one of our most self destructive persecutors for a long time, I would burn every bridge I could to keep people away from me, I would self harm and drink alcohol excessively, I would be reckless and impulsive to the point where there were many times that our gatekeepers had to frantically yank me out of the front so that I wouldn't end our life. The levels of pain I felt (and still very often feel, I am not "healed" yet) were so fucking immense that I just didn't want to be here anymore. But seeing where I came from versus where I am now has given me a lot of hope for where I could be in the coming months and years. I don't think I've ever truly had hope for the future, but now I am at the very least curious what it will bring. I think even just a mere curiosity is enough. You don't have to be excited for what is to come. Simply being curious is good, too.

I hope you all have a blessed day,

🪷Vivi👑

Many but One

#vivian🪷#did osdd #manybutone #trauma therapy #trauma treatment #trauma recovery #therapy #dissociative identity disorder #otherwise specified dissociative disorder #cdd #odd #did #actually did #actually traumatized #traumagenic #traumagenic system #dissociation

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luminalunii97 · 1 year

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What we, Iranians mean by "help iran" and what we don't

Do we want military intervention? Absolutely not. If USA is smart enough they wouldn't even think of that as an option. We've defended our lands in an unfair war once, we'll do it again. There's a patriot mindset in iranian culture, that's why no foreign interference or colonizing attempt has lasted here. Plus west is currently in a financial crisis, I don't think they have money to fund a war. But you know who's doing that? Aiding islamic republic with tropes and equipment? islamic republic supporters in the region.

Do we want to be taken advantage of? Robbed? Being denied our wealth and resources by foreign powers? No, but do you think only west can do that? Have you ever heard about Russia and China being best pals with islamic republic? You don't think that's "friendship", do you? What do you think this is?

(if you're interested to know more, search 25 year long iran-china agreement)

Don't think we're only fighting islamic Republic. But one economic giant and one warmongering power are standing behind islamic republic! Eastern powers are just as big and bad as western ones.

What do we want and need? We need to to be on the news so that the non-iranians would know what's going on here. People, citizens and civilians have the power to push and hold back their governments if public opinion is set.

How would that help? Iran's regime holds back the massacre when the world is watching, it's been their way, they mass murder us in darkness. Western politicians will be forced to break the silence. Our regime wouldn't be able to convince west to lift the sanctions (yes, sanctions are good. It puts our regime under pressure. Without sanctions islamic republic would have been rich enough to occupy the entirety of the middle east and establish Chinese-style oppression in iran. People would still be poor.)

What are our demands from western politicians and governments? One, don't help our regime in any capacity. Don't sell them weapons, don't send them money, don't strike contracts with them, Don't do any sort of business with them. Believe it or not west have done these before. Two, don't give them credibility. We Iranians are shouting and crying out that this regime doesn't have legitimacy, that we don't know them as our representatives. By inviting them to international meetings, you're offending our people. Islamic Republic having a sit in women's rights councils at the same time they're killing women for wanting their basic rights is a fuckin insult to us people.

There are international organizations out there that exist to support and help humanity, they don't actually do it but they exist so we should force them to do their jobs. There are international unions that can put our regime at disadvantage by simply not negotiating or working with them.

In 2009, Obama helped Iran's regime "indirectly" to suppress protesters by releasing part of iran's blocked money. That is iranian people's money, by giving them to our government not only it won't help people, but it will also be used against us.

So, help iran by not helping islamic republic.

I also want to remind y'all that islamic republic has a history of meddling with other countries' businesses. The most known one is their direct involvement in killing Syrian protesters. They also do terroristic attacks on whoever puts their reign in danger, here are some examples:

When I say islamic republic is not just dangerous for iran I mean this. And when I say international action I'm not only talking about USA.

PS, I forgot to mention iran is currently commiting international crimes such as mass executing protesters (crimes against humanity), kill rape and torture teenagers (crimes against children) and use ambulances and firefighting vehicles to arrest people or move anti riot forces and weapons (war crimes). Therefore it's international organizations business!

#iran #mahsa amini #iran protests #iran revolution #politics #human rights #middle east #help iran #islamic republic of iran #free iran #stop executions

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mllemaenad · 3 months

Text

The Magnus Protocol: Putting Down Roots

Well, Colin is the most interesting character. It might just be because I've done IT. Never mind the supernatural. That error does not mean anything. You're seeing that error because it's the last thing that failed, but it only failed because nine other things failed before it. The first thing that failed is the actual problem, but you don't know what that is because you currently can't get to the top of the log file because of all the other things that crashed. So what the hell is wrong with you, you stupid machine?

It's all very relatable.

That said, a ".jmj error" does seem likely to be the text-to-speech programs crashing, so it probably is a supernatural error and it probably does mean something.

For the moment, it still seems most reasonable to speak as though "Norris" is Martin. It may not be, of course. It could be a disembodied voice with no personality attached to it at all – but what do you do with that, until the narrative makes something of it? It could be somebody else entirely, but in that case I know nothing about them or their motives so there's nothing useful to say until they reveal themselves.

So for now: Occam's razor. It sounds like Martin and it came into being after the conclusion of The Magnus Archives, so the simplest guess is that it is Martin. If and when useful evidence to the contrary surfaces, I will change my mind.

Also: Norris told a story about a man who killed his love and then lost himself so badly that he turned into a tree like bloody Harold from the Fallout series. It also dealt very much with feelings of being forgotten and unnoticed:

Norris/Samuel Webber I can’t go home. Not for a few days at least. And I’ll have to avoid the usual haunts until they forget about me again. That won’t be difficult. What’s one more stressed doctor. Just a grey man in the crowd, unnoticed until I’m useful. The Magnus Protocol: Putting Down Roots

That's a problem from Martin's past, but also a problem he might reasonably said to be having now, if he's explaining the horrors of the world to people and nobody (with the possible exception of Sam) is listening.

If that isn't Martin, it is something doing an uncannily good job of explaining why Martin might not be having a great year.

And, while this is evidence of nothing, for the moment I am much amused by the idea that a ".jmj" error is the cast of The Magnus Archives continuing their longstanding tradition of complaining about statements. One of those creepy messages comes in and Martin just wails "Again? Seriously?" and the whole system blue-screen-of-deaths. It may not be true, but it's funny in my head.

I do note that the new format gives a much greater capacity for bad or ambiguous endings to the tales. There's a thing John says in season four that sticks with me:

Archivist One thing that always strikes me when I read statements like this is… the bias of survivorship. With one or two notable exceptions, the only statements the Institute receives are those where the witness has successfully escaped whatever terrible place or being has marked them for a victim. I wonder how many don’t make it out. How many of those shapes in the water were once just like Mr. Shakya. – The Magnus Archives: Submerged

And he's right: there are a few instances of letters-to-be-read-in-the-event-of-my-death, and a few cases where a person who is clearly still being pursued by something stops in to tell their story before being run down, but most of the stories end in an escape. They aren't exactly happy, but they do tend toward the hopeful: by luck, tenacity or skill you may survive. Even the cavalcade of horrors in season five has finally has something you could call a happy ending: you can assume most of those people lived, and even went home.

If you compare the first four stories of The Magnus Archives with the first four stories of The Magnus Protocol, you get a very different pattern.

The Magnus Archives:

Nathan Watts of Anglerfish outwitted the titular monster – he spotted that the voice did not come from the figure's mouth, and got away.

Joshua Gillespie of Do Not Open outlasted the coffin, using music ice, and apparently an iron will to resist its siren song.

Across the Street is the odd one out: while Amy Patel seems to have survived the experience unscathed, the story is clearly about Graham Folger, and the monster very definitely got him.

Dominic Swain of Page Turner was rescued by Gerard Keay.

But in The Magnus Protocol, because the stories are harvested, they can just end – and so far, they do:

Harriet Winstead's fate in First Shift is unclear: did she escape, or was she killed or taken? She is last seen in fear for her life and seeking shelter.

Likewise, in the episode's second story, RedCanary's fate is somewhat unclear, although only in the sense that there isn't a definitive ending: there's a clear implication that their explorations had permanent consequences. More than that, while it is uncertain if Harriet got help, it is certain that RedCanary did not. Due to the anonymous nature of the forum, they were warned and banned when their behaviour began to reflect the peculiar things that were happening to them. Nobody went to help.

Daria of Tweaking lived (at least so far), but is afflicted and changed by whatever the tattoo artist did to her, and the most distressing thing is that she seemed largely unaware of that fact. She knew that the tattooing itself was weird and invasive, but did not seem to find her persistent self-mutilation odd, and is merely awaiting further "inspiration" to continue the process.

Samuel Webber of Putting Down Roots turned into a tree, and while it is not completely clear if that means he died, he's definitely gone – his belongings simply found among the roots.

There has not, so far, been a story that matches the general pattern of The Magnus Archives, in which a person who is at least broadly fine describes the weirdest thing that ever happened to them. People here ... they disappear.

Everything feels much worse in this universe.

In terms of the overarching plot, Alice's plot against Colin seems unnecessarily petty, and also weird. I've turned her logic over in my head a few times, and I do not believe it. There might indeed be occasions where a bigger IT department would be better at troubleshooting problems than the one local guy, but those occasions probably do not include a scenario where you're running 30-year-old proprietary German software that is mysteriously haunted by text-to-speech programs that should not be there. Colin freely admits he does not understand the system – but it is highly doubtful that anyone else does either.

She also says this:

Alice All I’m saying is that Colin tinkers with this system all the time and I don’t see any oversight. If you queried upstairs asking about it, all bambi-eyed and innocent, some alarms might go off. They might even come down and do a refresh or reboot or whatever. – The Magnus Protocol: Putting Down Roots

This contradicts a lot of what was said in First Shift, in which Colin was indicated to be essential personnel who might not be allowed to quit, and that he was being leaned on by a minister to accomplish ... something. Now, granted, Alice may simply mean that a senior IT person isn't monitoring him – but it does seem that the people "upstairs" are aware of Colin's activities, and seem to be in contact with him about them. And her insistence on a "refresh or a reboot", aka "turning it off and back on again" is interesting in light of the earlier conversation:

Colin Do you have any idea what will happen if this thing finally managed to extinct itself? Alice We’d go home early? – The Magnus Protocol: Putting Down Roots

Calling in IT only makes sense in the context of killing the system: shutting down whatever they are using and migrating to something consistent with what everyone else is using. Then they could be supported the same way everyone else is, and have their software updates managed at an enterprise level. And what would that do? Stop the voices? Unleash indescribable horrors on the world? Couldn't say.

But the core of the episode is a small-scale power struggle over the stark difference between Colin and Alice's attitudes to their work.

Colin seems overworked, highly stressed and oddly dedicated: he learned German to help his crappy IT job, for a start. He is suspicious of the system and what it is recording, and disinclined to be "friends" with it, but also seems to regard its failure as potentially catastrophic. He is under some kind of pressure from above that indicates that someone regards his work as critical, but does not seem to have clearly stated what that means to anybody – or if he has, they weren't listening.

Alice is committed to the idea that their work is meaningless, and engages with it as little as possible – she sticks around while Colin is fixing her workstation, but exits to make coffee the moment Norris starts talking again. She's stated previously that she believes they only exist as a forgotten department and is unmoved by the thought of their programs finally biting the dust.

Sam, as the new guy, is caught between them: he's naturally more engaged with the stories than Alice is, and has clearly been looking into the history of The Magnus Institute, but he's also closer with Alice than with Colin and being mentored by her.

The plot goes nowhere, because Sam declines to participate. It's impossible to say who is right and who is wrong, or if both characters are just screwing around because their jobs are awful – but it is interesting that this ideological difference escalated so early.

Something strange is happening. Do we care, or do we not?

Of course, it's also fair to note that the characters themselves may be unreliable. John continued to pretend to disbelieve the statements in The Magnus Archives long after he'd worked out the correlation between the ones that required the tapes and the ones that were true – because he believed that was the prudent thing to do. It may be that Alice is deeply invested in everything that is happening here and simply refusing to say. But you can't know these things until the characters crack so, for now: Alice is committed to not caring, and Colin is committed to finding things out, and this is becoming a problem.

The story ends with a minor spat between Gwen and Alice, which is interesting because it sheds a bit of light on Gwen's past. Her surname is Bouchard, which makes it easy to make assumptions – but it's hard to tell what is still true in an alternate universe. Apparently The Shining and A Nightmare on Elm Street still got made, but The Magnus Institute is in Manchester so all bets are off.

In this instance, however, there seems to be a pattern: Gwen, like Elias, seems to have come from money.

Alice Let me guess, fancy gowns, champagne, bathing in the blood of the poor – that sort of thing? Gwen You know we make the same, Alice. An old friend just made partner at her law firm. She wants to celebrate. Alice You sound thrilled. Gwen Oh I can’t wait to catch up and tell them I’m still working in the same cesspit I was last time they asked. – The Magnus Protocol: Putting Down Roots

Elias, however, was something of a feckless stoner whose most notable trait was an utter lack of a defence mechanism for dealing with the supernatural. I would not describe Gwen as feckless at all, and while Elias was picked as a means for an immortal to hold on to life and power, and thus ostensibly rose quickly to the top of The Magnus Institute, Lena seems to be actively stymieing Gwen's career.

But it creates an interesting pattern. The OIAR is implied to be a place with a high turnover rate and little security – and it's a bastard of a job that no one enjoys and seems to be accomplishing little. It's easy to wave your hand at Sam: he's here because of whatever weirdness has led him to research The Magnus Institute.

But. It's him, but not just him. Sam is overqualified for the job. Gwen has connections, which usually lead to better prospects. No idea what Alice has been doing with her life, but ...

Alice Fine. Yes, I’m working that night. I’m working every night. I was born down here and I’ll die down here. Happy? – The Magnus Protocol: Putting Down Roots

So why are these people still here?

#the magnus protocol #the magnus protocol spoilers #the magnus archives

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yesimwriting · 1 year

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Gingerbread

A/n small christmas drabble i talked about earlier,, just a cute little holiday snippet

Summary: Billy and Stu don’t particularly care about Christmas, but they like being around you.

----

His words are sinking in because it’s been long enough and you can’t just stare at Stu forever, but you can’t think of a way to react. After all, one of the most enthusiastic people you’ve ever met just casually admitted to not being super into the holidays.

The holidays aren’t something people are or aren’t into. They’re a state of mind, a ritual, a time of year to put aside the pretext of angst in order to take joy in the simple things like decorating little cookie people and walking around to look at everyone’s lights.

“You’re ‘not into the holidays’?” Stu blinks, a pinch of humor playing into his expression at your disbelief. “What do you mean you’re ‘not into the holidays’?”

“What I said, sweetheart,” he hums with a casualness that’s nearly suspicious because you’re still not convinced, “I’m not nine so I’m not super into it.”

It. “What’s there not to be into?” You feel a bit like a kid with your insistence, but come on--it’s weird that Stu, who’s all energy and pro anything that gets him time off school is indifferent about the holiday season.

Who’s indifferent about the holiday season? You get why some people might hate this time of year and you don’t expect everyone to be all deck the halls, tinsel coming out of every crevice of their being, or anything--but this much flatness? It’s weird. Especially from him.

Stu’s eyebrows pull together. He’s clearly enjoying something about your shock. “It was fun when I was a kid, but you grow out of the holly jolly. The decorators come, Leslie pops in, and we get gifts. It’s nothing world changing.”

The bit of insight only vaguely helps, shifting your total disbelief into something a little more downcast. His apathy seems to stem from his family dynamic at least a little. “Well, what about you?”

Billy angles his head in your direction, leaning against the island of your family’s kitchen. His pause is cut short by Stu, “Oh, don’t even try with Billy. He’s the real Grinch here.”

Your head snaps towards Billy. “You hate Christmas?”

“Hate’s a strong word,” Billy answers, his flatness ruined by the slight amusement at your total shock. When you don’t ease, Billy shrugs, eyes dropping to focus on the granite countertop instead of your face, “Christmas was my mom’s thing.”

You have to bite your tongue to keep from asking if you heard correctly. Billy mentioning his mom in any capacity is shocking enough, but hearing him talk about her so casually and with such blankness is something else entirely.

“My dad and I just aren’t that into it.”

Nodding once, you’re not sure there’s a good way to continue. “So no baking cookies? Got it.”

Stu leans forward, nudging you with his elbow. “I didn’t say that, princess, I’ll play house with you.”

It takes a second of reflection, but you guess you can see how Stu found a way to weasel in that angle. You weren’t thinking of it when you brought up the cookie thing, but you should have expected it. Stu has a talent for reading between lines in a way that makes it easy to translate subtext into anything he wants it to be. You don’t think you get why he’d want to perceive it that way, but decide that a dip into psychoanalysis will derail the afternoon.

It’s not too weird, you guess, at least not too weird for Stu. His parents aren’t around much so all those little things need to be found in friendship. It’s the defense you use for a lot of Stu’s tiny comments and actions. It’s a fair excuse, and not the worst way his potential parental issues come out, and--

Okay. This is the exact psychological deep dive you didn’t want to take. If you think too hard on it, you feel bad about it. What kind of friend needs to over observe and read into everything like that?

“Yeah?” You tap your nails along the granite, “Willing to wear an apron and everything?”

Stu tilts his head, leaning forward and lifting his hand to your cheek. He pinches the skin of your cheek too quickly for you to protest. “You’re the one with the legs for it.”

It’s dumb enough that you should be able to think of some kind of retort, but the way he says it, voice all low and eyes too focused, derails your train of thought entirely. “And you’re the one with the legs that can reach the top shelf where the flour is.”

----

“I’m doing it right.” It’s little more than a huff and it’s quickly followed by a full, unashamed pout. “You just like being bossy.”

Glaring at Stu as he squishes the dough between his fingers instead of fully flattening it, you cross your arms across your chest. It’s a bad idea, because flour is coating both of your hands and more powder smudges against your shirt. You’re surprised that you didn’t think to expect such a mess. “Do not.”

“The power trip’s adorable.”

“And how cute will you find it when I kick your ass?”

He does the most offensive thing possible. He grins, full teeth and not even the tiniest bit menaced. “Yeah? You’re gonna kick my ass?”

His reply is equal parts teasing and something you’ve never been able to name but have always known not to push too far. Winding Stu up is fun until it’s not and the line shifts with little warning. “Maybe,” it feels more like a retreat than you’d like.

“I wouldn’t try her,” Billy’s voice comes out half disinterested as he continues to mostly do as told, evening out the dough Stu un-smoothed. “She can be mean.”

You fight a smile, “Not mean--fair.”

Billy pauses in a consideration so deliberate it almost feels like he’s making fun of you in a lighthearted way. “Tough.”

Nodding once, you move to press your palm into the dough. “I have to be to keep two specific people I can never shake in line.”

“Two people you can’t shake.” Billy’s thumb presses into the side of the dough stiffly, flattening the dough too thinly. “Sounds like you have some stalkers.”

You move your hand to adjust the distribution of the dough, your fingers brushing against the side of Billy’s hand. “Nah,” you hum casually, “They’re nice in their own weird way.”

Billy turns his hand, skin settling against yours in a way that’d feel intentional if it wasn’t for the way he dutifully returned to evening the dough. “Weird?” It’s said softly enough, a touch of lightheartedness etched into the word.

You’re about to make some joke about how weird is a total understatement when you’re yanked back with no warning. Your body has barely moved a full step, but the sudden, firm grip on your waist and left forearm forces you to bite your tongue to avoid yelping. Flour puffs into a cloud that gets all over you and up your nose.

“Stu!”

He laughs, not letting go. “What happened to keeping us in check?”

The jab makes you feel like you could kill him in order to prove a point. You squirm aimlessly, too offended to manage anything else. Stu’s relentless in his hold as you twist until you’re facing him. His expression leaves something in your stomach on edge. It’s not genuine panic or comfortability either. You can’t decide whether that makes you want to move or stay in place.

Stu angles his head downwards and you slowly raise a hand. He doesn’t question it until it’s too late and you’re opening your palm in order to let out a quick, sharp breath. Flour strikes Stu in a way that seems to genuinely catch him by surprise. It’s enough to make you laugh until his stillness sinks in. His hold on you feels firmer now and you’re not sure if the change is new or if you had been too distracted to notice before. Your lower back presses into the kitchen counter as you instinctually shift back.

The bubbling of your internal awkwardness combines uneasily with the humor of earlier. It sits and builds with no where to go until you blurt out, “You in check yet?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Don’t get a big head, babydoll.”

You’re not sure you get the framing of his words and their uncharacteristically stiff undertone. Before you can dwell, Billy sighs. “You two are little kids.”

Any hint of edge that had just started building up vanishes as Stu turns his head. “Moody.”

“Yeah,” you echo, feeling like your proving Billy’s point, “We should dump flour on Billy.”

“An entire bag,” Stu angles his head to face you again, slowly releasing you, “We could wait for him to go to the bathroom and ambush him.”

“You hide around the corner and I’ll hide behind the couch. No escape.”

Billy rolls his eyes. “You’re conspiring in front of me.”

“Maybe I’m just trying to lure you into a false sense of security and I’m actually planning something a lot worse.”

His eyebrows draw together, a desperate attempt at annoyance. “You wouldn’t make a good bad guy.”

You let out a sound of mock offense. “You have no idea what I’m capable of plotting. I could be a total evil mastermind.”

With a loud snort, Stu brings attention back to him. “You’re better off sticking to the cookies.” Before you can protest, Stu challenges your irritated expression with a question, “Okay--slasher movie, how do you take out your first victim?”

You’d point out that you weren’t trying to prove you’d be a fantastic killer in a scary movie, but they’d take that as giving up. Especially since you should have known that one of them would go there eventually. “Those things are unrealistic because half the time not getting caught isn’t a priority.” The answer feels a little bit like a cop out, and so you take a second to actually think it through, “But, I guess, off the top of my head I’d take out the first victim way before the others to make the crimes seem disconnected.”

Billy asks, “Then what?”

Ugh. You don’t love being put on the spot and this could easily turn into a sore subject with how seriously they take their scary movies. You’re not in the mood to be made into a joke as they pick apart your murder plan without taking into consideration that they gave you no notice. “I don’t know--take out the second victim alone to allow suspense to build and then attack the last of them all at once at some place I’m supposed to be at and then injure myself to make it easier to frame someone close enough to the victims to already have the police’s eye on them.”

“Boring,” Stu exhales, dragging out the two syllables, “You left out the good, bloody details. Think you’d look cute all stabby--”

“You want to see me stab happy? Because I guarantee you won’t like the outcome.”

“Ouch,” Stu drops his head onto your shoulder, feigning a pain to rival an actual wound, “I’d let you live if I was a killer.” Not breaking at what’s clearly a compliment, you cup some more flour into your hand before blowing it into his face again. “You’re mean.” The whine is followed by him burring his head into his shoulder as he pretends to cry, affectively forcing the flour all over your shirt.

Billy leans forward, grabbing a cloth rag from the other side of the counter before dropping it in front of you. “Clean up before you get it on me.” He catches the look behind your eye before you even realize what you’re doing. “Don’t.”

His warning isn’t serious to constitute a threat or ruin the mood, but you’re not in the mood to make this painful. He’s already precarious enough when it comes to Christmas as is. “You’re no fun.”

----

Baking cookies has never taken you this long in your life. You’re sure that you were a better cookie assistant when you were a toddler than Billy and Stu were today, but you don’t mind.

You had to take a quick shower while the cookies were in the oven because there was no other way to get all of that flour off. Stu did the same once you got out of the bathroom. Though, according to Stu and his never ending jokes and little comments, the truly practical thing would have been to shower together.

But now you’re dry and clean and Stu finally put on the shirt you stuck in the wash back on, you’re all left with a tiny army of gingerbread men. Yours are decorated a little cliche, gum drop buttons and crooked frosting smiles. Stu took creative liberties in the making of his thanks to help from the red food coloring he found in the back of the kitchen cabinet. Billy’s was surprisingly the neatest but was only decorated as an average guy in order to be a victim to Stu’s axe wielding gingerbread man.

You rolled your eyes, but the amount of background and voices that went into the production of the mini massacre that only spared your cookies was funny.

"So, sugarplum.” The nickname forces your nose to wrinkle and you fight a laugh the same way a parent who doesn’t want to encourage bad behavior in a toddler would. That much affirmation could lead to sugarplum joining the already lengthy lineup of pet names Stu rotates through on a regular basis. “What’s your heart’s Christmas wish?”

Okay--you’re not made of stone. A laugh that’s a little too loud slips out. “You don’t need to be that cheesy, all I did was get you to bake cookies.”

Stu forces out a mock gasp, eyes flitting towards Billy. “Can you believe her?”

“I can’t believe you used ‘sugarplum’ and ‘Christmas wish’ in the same sentence.” Billy lifts his head up from the couch long enough for you to catch his slight smile. You laugh again, a little more comfortably.

“Yeah, yeah, gang up on me,” Stu says this like he has never been this tired or this victimized in his life. He moves to sit on the couch, taking a second to comfortably adjust before patting his thigh. “If I get one of those hats will you sit on my lap and tell me what you want?”

You roll your eyes, fighting against the burning sensation in your face. “Yeah,” flopping onto the couch at what you consider a safe distance, you continue, “And then if I’m lucky you’ll put me on the nice list.”

“There’s an easy way to g--” He’s cut off by a pillow hitting the edge of his chin before smacking against his chest and landing on his lap. Stu gasps with an over the top level of offense. “What? I was going to say all you had to do was get me another cookie from the kitchen.”

It’s blatant bullshit. “Mhm,” you cross your arms, settling on your spot, “I’m sure.”

“Cross my heart.” He makes a point of tracing the ‘X’ motion over his chest. “I’m easily pleased.”

Billy gently kicks his foot against Stu’s. “Since when?”

“Since always.” Stu sits up, turning his full attention back to you. “But seriously, princess, what do you want for Christmas?”

The question makes you feel awkward despite it’s casualness. “Um...” Every time people ask it, your mind instantly wipes and you can’t think of anything you’ve ever desired or needed. Besides, gift buying is inherently awkward when it’s talked about. “Nothing really, as of right now, I guess.”

Stu practically whines like your response is a seriously, deeply personal issue. “Don’t pretend, it just makes Christmas shopping harder.”

“You don’t have to get me anything.”

“Like I’m not getting my best girl anything.”

Sitting up a little further, you’re not sure what you to say to that. Sometimes Stu’s joking flirting is a little hard to laugh about when it’s that blatant. “You guys should help me put up some lights in my room. Last year I almost broke the curtain rod so now I’m banned from doing it alone.”

You stand before any further comment can be made, fully aware of how transparent and flimsy the transition feels, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You’d much rather be playing with colored lights as Stu gets too comfortable climbing up stepping stools and furniture than having whatever that conversation would have been.

#scream #scream x reader #Stu Macher #stu macher x reader #billy and stu #Billy Loomis #billy loomis x reader #Scream 1996 #ghostface #poly!ghostface #Poly! Ghostface x Reader

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