#Tw: Drugs

[inkxplashes]

I thought they were already confirmed as poppies?

Poking around the Slay The Princess fandom I've noticed people seem to identify the red flowers outside the The Thorn's cabin as roses, which I can sort of understand given the classic associations of red roses and romance and rose thorns, but they definitely don't have the classically romance English rose shape you'd associate with those tropes.

They could be more like a prim rose with their flat simple petals, but given their distinctive black stamen they look to me more like poppies. Poppies have that black center, commonly come in red, also have thorny stems, but are also symbols of deep sleep and death due to.... you know... Poppy seed and milk of the poppy being the main source of opiates -- opium, morphine, codeine, and heroin-- all traditionally used as painkillers and sedatives because they don't just dull the pain, they induce a sense of euphoria that overrides it. It's part of why they're so dangerously addictive.

A potent commentary on The Thorn's status as a version of The Princess so overwhelmed by the pain of abuse and betrayal, ensnared inescapably by cutting thorns, but numb under her garden of poppies, her self medication, her escape without escape.

[probably-impossible]

I couldn't find the original source of this meme but this is their dynamic for sure.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Thirteen Months- Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

If the Silco x Reader fics were realistic.

And not in a good way.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

tw: physical abuse, drug use, rough sex, mistreatment of sex workers

Snippet:

Migraine's ripening in his brainstem; the cigar's nearly dead. He stubs its smoldering butt into a crystal ashtray at the table. Sevika's eyeing him with a shrewd mix of caution and concern. 

Ghosts here, too. A shared bed, and the physicality of memory.

"How much sleep did you get last night?" she asks.

"None."

"Figures." Her face goes through a complicated series of micro-expressions. Then it resets into guarded neutrality. "Maven not doing her duty?"

"Maven is, as we know, a marvel."

"Doesn't answer my question."

Silco doesn't answer that, either.

Thirteen months, he thinks.

Thirteen months since his and Sevika's last time. He's not sure what the gap signifies, other than the fact it does signify something, else why'd he keep track of the tally? He's no idea what to call it either: this no-man's land between reproach and rapprochement, a space of tacit glances and barred doors, of shared history and estranged present.

He's got only two working theories. One: it's the symptom of an early midlife crisis, triggered by Jinx's blossoming adulthood and a city narrowly salvaged from hellfire. Two: it's not a crisis, but a crossroads, and Silco's finding himself, after years, in the uncharted territory of unmet need. The kind of need that summons live memory, and makes the memory ache: a shared smoke of brightleaf; a skull resting against a strong shoulder; a sinewy arm slung over a hard waist...

Silco doesn't dwell on the two theories, because there's a third. And he hates it, because it's the truth.

It's not about him. It's never been about him.

It's always, always, been about her.

He would never say he feels the lack. He keeps a revolving door of liaisons who spend the night at the Laguna Lounge, and fill his sheets when they're not filling his head with promises, platitudes, praise. It's a libertine's smorgasbord: from zaftig beauties in crushed velvet to sharp-cheeked high-rollers in bespoke pinstripe.

Except, in Silco's mind, they're an unspooling procession of flesh, like a carnival freak composed of a hundred different limbs. Only vague outlines and fleeting sensations last the distance. He remembers a cute little crooner who'd sing for her supper over his knee. A muscular dockhand with a cock like a bludgeon and an arsehole as pinkly unspoilt as the petals of a Demacian rose. A svelte tinkerer with elegant fingers and the vilest mouth this side of the Fissures; a late-night raver with hair like a halo of sparks and eyes incandescent with holy lust.

He recalls playthings on their knees; paramours at his feet. Recalls his darkest appetites fed; his worst hungers sated.

He recalls Maven.

Last summer, he'd summoned back to his service. She was a dab hand at spreading her lovely legs on command and seeing to his satisfaction without interrupting his twisting train of thought.

Better yet, she was unafraid of his proclivities. Whatever he dished out, she took in stride. Whatever he demanded, she gave.

Talent deserved recognition; Silco had rewarded hers generously. He'd set her up in the Laguna Lounge's east wing. Given her a corner suite, a maid of her own, a monthly stipend. Gifted her with luxury and leisure: anything from high-end threads to high-grade wines. Granted her access to his best, most potent, Shimmer.

He'd also given her an order: Come when called.

For six months, it was bliss. Then it devolved into a nightmare.

Maven was a whip-smart girl with a taste for decadence. But she also had her own vendetta to grind. Her life had been a constant peril, and she'd only made it thus far by making herself indispensable. Now, by a stroke of fortune, she was the Eye's favorite.

And she was determined—at any cost—to secure a permanent berth in his boudoir. 

In bed, she was quick to pick up on his cues; even quicker at cater to his whims. Full-body massages, tongue-baths, foot-rubs—the works. Silco awoke to morning suckjobs that could strip the chrome off a tailpipe. Drowsed to nightly kisses that'd drain the venom from a snakebite.

Sometimes, she'd treat him to wicked games of her own devising. Once, she'd greeted him at the Laguna Lounge's front door in nothing but a black leather harness and a set of gold clamps attached to her nipples. Let him fuck her on the marble-topped bar, and afterward, while he'd lazed back in the sofa and sipped a cognac, sucked him off with those same clamps twined around his balls.

Another time, she'd arranged for a trio of dancers—all male, louche and lithe and oiled to a shine. The first pair had swapped sloppy kisses with his cock between their lips; the third had ridden him for a solid hour. Maven, curled up in the sofa, had watched the proceedings with the feral interest of a cat eyeing a birdcage. After the show, she'd fixed him an icy gin cocktail, a hot-tub soak, and an exquisite dinner of seared filet-mignon, poached eggs, and the creamiest souffle he'd ever sampled.

Silco, replete, had asked if she was angling to become his personal chef. Maven, perched naked at the end of the table, had purred, "Among other things."

"What other things?"

"Whatever you want, my love. Whatever you need."

My love.

The endearment hadn't jarred him. She'd used it often. Yet it'd stuck in his palate that night, like a fishbone between the teeth.

In reply, Silco had taken her bent over the table, her cheek pressed to the linen and the tablecloth bunched between her fists, as the wineglasses toppled and a plate shattered beneath his boot. Afterward, to her wet-eyed dismay, he'd retired to the Laguna Lounge's south wing and spent the rest of the night alone.

A week after the dinner debacle, Maven had greeted him at the door, shiny-eyed and smiling. But in her hands, instead of his nightly brandy, she'd presented him with a box.

"What's this?"

"A gift."

"I've no taste for gifts."

"You'll enjoy this one." She nudged the box closer. "Open it."

Inside was a vial of bright-green liquid. Silco, the premier chem-baron of Zaun, recognized it at a glance. A potent psychedelic distilled from a rare strain of Fissure mushroom. The kick was so intense it made the walls breathe and the ceiling bleed.

"A fresh batch," Maven said, her cat-eyes a slow wandering across his face. "One of my old contacts hooked me up. Told me it'd make our lovemaking divine."

"Divine," Silco echoed.

"Even a devil deserves a taste of the divine. Right, my love?"

She'd gone on tiptoe and kissed him. Silco, tongue curling against hers, let it happen. It'd been a bad day. Another Firelight raid. Another fight with Jinx. Another not-talk with Sevika. He'd allowed himself to be persuaded.

It was a costly mistake.

She'd chosen a smooth-flowing jazz song from his record collection, and set the needle on the gramophone. Chosen a syringe, and a vein in Silco's arm. Chosen her favorite spot, and straddled him on the sofa.

Then, hands braced on his chest, she'd engulfed his cock in a wet glide as the world began its slow-motion collapse. 

For hours, Silco fucked, fought, fucked inside a kaleidoscope of colors. His brain was on fire with a thousand schemes. His cock was electrified with a thousand volts. Maven's hands were everywhere, melting, maddening, merciless. Her mouth, a living furnace. Her cunt, a nest of wet silk and wetter sin. Her screams, a chorus to his climax. The colors were climaxing, too.

She'd begged to be whipped until her buttocks were a nightmare of earthworm-red welts. Silco obliged, and she'd sobbed so sweetly, so wretchedly, as he flayed the meat off her supple young flesh.  She'd begged to be tied to the bedposts and fucked, and he obliged again. She shook and wailed and shook as his cock split her, a rapidfire barrage that had the bedframe jolting and the mattress springs shrieking and the walls coming down. Then she'd begged to be choked, and he obliged once more, and the colors were no longer climaxing but combusting, and Maven's eyes, her beautiful hazel eyes, were rolling back to show the white moon-curves, and her mouth was a perfect circle of rapture, and her thighs were quivering, her spine arching, her cunt squeezing and squeezing and squeezing—

And the high-pitched phantasmagoria liquified into a single blackened maw, and he'd found himself staring into Vander's face. 

"You'll lose everything, Blut."

And the high was stripped bare, and Silco fell into a depthless sea, and drowned.

When he resurfaced, there was a body in the room.

Not Maven. She was slumped by the headboard. Knees drawn up, her hands pressed between them, her head lolling forward.  Seizing her shoulders, Silco shook her awake. She stirred, murmuring drowsily. He'd sifted her tangled hair aside to take her pulse. It was strong. But there were dark fingerprints on her throat, her wrists, her thighs.  Her lovely eyes held a glaze of shock and a deeper, unreachable awe.

In the afterglow, she'd kissed Silco's knuckles, wetting them with tears. And, turning those cat-eyes eyes upon him, she'd breathed, "I won't tell."

The body belonged to a boy.

A lovely, long-limbed lad, with hair like a headful of black waves and eyes like the sun off a churning blue sea. He was a new hire—skittish, as new hires often were—whom Silco had summoned from the lobby, earlier that evening, to restock the bar.

Now he lay starfished on the carpet in a pool of congealing blood. There was a red-lipped gash in his jugular. Vander's knife—now Silco's knife—was planted hilt-deep in his left eye.

Silco had slithered out from bed and crossed the room. Knelt over the boy's body, and stared at the soft sea-glass eyes. It was a stranger's stare. It was his own stare: the face that he'd worn in another lifetime.

"I won't tell," Maven repeated, and Silco felt the icewater closing in.

The blackguards had disposed of the body; Posky had scrubbed down the carpets; the crew sent a fat severance check to the boy's family.

That's how Silco recalls it now: not bloodlust, but a hungover tedium of logistics and a cold stack of paperwork.

He'd not told Sevika. The crew, on pain of death, were likewise sworn to secrecy. Not because Silco dreaded the repercussions. He dreaded, above all, that Sevika would know.

She'd know it'd happened in a psychotic stupor. Know the root of it wasn't naked bloodlust, but naked need.

She'd know, and she'd never, ever, let him forget the truth.

The truth, that Maven was a marvel, but Sevika was worth a million in cold steel—and it wasn't for her grit or her guts or the sheer force of will she exerted in a crisis. It was the other side of her. That quiet side, so seldom revealed.  The  tether that'd quieted Silco's storm, in turn, and steered him to port. Into a bed that was always warm, and a body built of bedrock.

Except the port had denied him safe harbor, and the bed was empty, and the body beyond reach.

Thirteen bloody months.

Maven hadn't lasted half that time. She'd begun to believe their shared secrets gave her leverage. To believe, too, that Silco's devotion belonged exclusively to her. Bit by bit, she began spreading her tendrils across his private life. Began to intrude where she wasn't invited, and linger where she was least welcome.

Suddenly their late-night drinks were no longer a regularity, but a requirement. Suddenly, the backrubs had an agenda, and the footrubs had a catch. Suddenly, Silco could no longer relax after a long day, because instead of a suckjob and sweet silence, he'd get sulking and a strident earful of demands.

She expected no more playthings past his threshold unless she’d hand-picked them—be they crooners, tinkerers or dockhands with rosebud arseholes. No more games unless she lay down the law—be they on a bed of sweat-stained silk or a dirty rug that'd seen better days or a tub sloshing with wine as cold as a dead man's balls. And no more straying from the beaten path: if she didn't fancy a kink, it wouldn't make it to the negotiating table, much less see the light of day.

She was especially jealous of Silco's private time. She'd pout if he took a business call mid-fuck. If a blackguard intruded with an urgent message, she'd slam the door on his face. Once, she'd nearly gutted poor Posky for wheeling in the breakfast cart at an inopportune hour.

To a point, Silco had indulged her peevishness. A coping mechanism, he surmised, given the hellacious circumstances she'd faced in her formative years.  But then, she'd dared to bar Jinx's way into his chambers with the toe of a lacquered heel.

Silco's tolerance took a steep nosedive.

Jinx, to her credit, had given Maven the cold shoulder—nearly regal in its teengirly frost. She'd waltzed right in, a sashay to her stride, pecked Silco's cheek and unfurled the blueprints for a sump-drainage pump across his desk.

Silco had bestowed his usual praise, and the rare show of affection—a palm at the nape of Jinx's neck. He'd not missed Jinx's childishly flushed glee; nor the spite that etched itself at the corners of Maven's pretty, poisonous mouth. After, he'd signed off on the order for the pump's manufacture, and sent Jinx on her merry way.

"It's sweet how close you are." Maven clipped off the word 'sweet' like shears taking off the tip of a rosebud. "She must miss you terribly when you're busy. Why not make it easier on yourselves and move her in here?"

The sarcasm was treacle-thick and spiked with envy. She was testing his boundaries, as she'd been wont to do lately. For Silco, boundaries were ones that didn't need to be enforced. It was implicit that to cross them meant a blade to the throat.

Maven had an appreciation for his knifeplay. But a short memory for the blade's bite.

She'd need a refresher. 

"I'd have thought," Silco said, without lifting his eyes from the blueprints, "you'd prefer our privacy."

"Maybe I would." She slid onto his lap. Her dress, a sheer black number, was a curtain of smoke over his suit-clad legs. She circled her tongue over the shell of his ear, then whispered into it, "Or maybe I'd enjoy it if she invited Vi along, and they both watched."

That had done it.

Maybe it was the mounting pressure. Maybe it was the memory of dead boys and rivers full of corpses. Maybe it was his knowledge of Jinx's late nights, and with whom.

Or maybe, he'd simply had his fill: of the constant scheming, the endless death, the ceaseless want. And fact that his needs—his real needs—could not be satisfied, because they were not the needs of a monster but the needs of a man. 

His need for Vander's absolution. For Nandi's forgiveness.

For Sevika's touch, and the trust they'd once shared.

Silco needed them all, but none were his to take. 

So he'd taken it out on Maven instead.

The backhand was so hard she'd skidded off his lap and crashed to the carpet. A livid mark bloomed across her cheek. When she looked up, shock stole over her face, then an ugly, disbelieving fury. 

He'd never struck her before. There'd never even been any sign to suggest it. 

The Eye of Zaun was many things—each more atrocious than the last. But he was not a man who'd beat his girls. 

Maven was no longer his girl.

"How dare you?" Maven spat. "After all I've done for you—"

Silco's shadow, looming, killed the words in her throat.

"You've two choices," he said, deathly soft. "Leave, and do not look back. Or stay, and take the consequences. I'm giving you this choice because you've served me well. Do not presume that it entitles you to more." His shadow spread across the carpet; Maven's breath caught. "Do not presume anything, least of all what I owe."

The fury leached from Maven's face. Only gelid tears remained, suspended like dewdrops upon her eyelashes. 

And in those tears: fear.

Fear, that the man who had saved her life might yet end it, for a transgression so severe it verged on treason.

"Sir," she began, "I—"

"I said: choose."

Maven's lashes dipped; the tears spilled. Shivering, she turned her head, offering the unblemished side of her cheek for the second strike. 

The choice, and her penitence, were accepted.

Silco hadn't spared her. He'd taken his due. Taken her, after, on her elbows and knees, with an utter absence of mercy. Taken her until she was sobbing real tears, and barely able to keep her balance. Taken her, as he had the night she'd sworn herself to him: her body bared to his blade; the rest of her aching to prove her worth.

He'll call upon that vow again, before the end.

Since that night, she's slept in a huddle at the foot of his bed, shivering under a crisscrossing of welts. Stripes she's earned, and will wear without complaint. She'll crawl on her knees and abase herself for his pleasure. She'll greet his daughter with downcast eyes and a deferential smile, and she'll be twice as diligent in her duties to him.

And in her heart, where ambition and adoration entwine, she'll be twice as covetous. Twice as cunning. Twice as eager to prove herself worthy.

He'll use that, too, before the end.

And, the end's nearly in sight.

Silco's glad of it. A warm cunt's not a confidant, and Maven's a poor substitute for either. In her, he sees his hunger reflected. Sees the limits of what that hunger can take, and what it'll leave behind.

Blood. Bruises. Bodies.

He thinks of Sevika's steady hands and steadier eyes, and wonders what they'd see if they knew the truth. That, in the absence of a tether, he's let the storm run rampant, and it's taken him over a cliff's edge.

And now he's fallen into the deepest, darkest place of all.

His child: compromised, and no longer his own.

[shit-people-probably-didnt-say]

Klaus: Ive done a lot of drugs in my time but the hardest one? Sobriety. What could possibly be harder than reality?

Diego: Heroin?

Klaus: Nope

[feroshgirlsims]

Chapter 7.3 - You Can't Go Home

As they filter off the train, the smell of iron gets further away and Akira finally begins to relax.

He asks her a ton of questions, partly because he's curious and partly because he wants to keep the focus off himself. Alice is in the middle of talking about her class when her body goes rigid.

Akira scans for a threat but comes up empty. Train stations are generally pretty clear of supernatural creatures, except low-level spellcasters and baby vampires at night. They aren’t much use when you can transportalate, turn into a bat, or run for miles in wolf form. And the fae avoid them altogether. 

“You good?” 

She flinches when he reaches for her hand. “I-I’m fine,” Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Do you smoke? Weed, I mean, not cigarettes. I…I think I’m gonna smoke. Do you wanna come with me?”

“I thought you said you had to turn this assignment in,” he reminds her.

She stares across the platform, but he still can’t figure out what she’s looking at. 

“I’ll do it later. And you don’t have to come. That was weird of me to peer pressure you,” her laugh comes out high-pitched and wrong, “You're probably busy. I’m good. I’m gonna go. And you’ll go, and I’ll just see you later.”

She's babbling and her hands are shaking. There is no universe where he just leaves her like this.

“Yeah, I smoke," he takes her hand and leads her to the exit. "And I got time. No classes, remember?”

Akira has been to the Commons a few times (for creeper reasons), but he's never climbed the tower. The air is especially crisp, but Alice doesn't seem bothered by it.

Despite resisting earlier, he finds himself wishing she would extract some promise from him—some commitment to keep him tied to her. It's a terrible idea. He knows better. Akira has always been careful not to break one of the rules he’d learned by brute force.

“This is a shit weed,” he coughs.

“Hey!” Alice playfully points an accusatory finger, “I invite you to my secret perch and share my paltry stash, and you insult me?”

“You need a new dealer if this is your stash.”

“And a new bank account!” She laughs. “Try to chillax, my dude; you are working against the medicinal benefits.”

He tries. His lungs fill, but it takes three more rounds of coughing before he evens out. Alice, meanwhile, is a professional. She barely coughs, though she's had twice as much as him. He's not even sure she's high.

"Why photography?" he asks when she joins him on the bench.

"Most of the time, I get asked about painting; no one even thinks about photography."

He shrugs, "Your focus isn’t Fine Arts. Why am I gonna ask you about something you don’t do? You want me to guess?" When she nods, he waves a hand across the sky, pretending to paint a picture. "Art lets you remake the world in a more pleasing image, which is kind of nice because the world is shit. But you do photography because you want the shitty stuff upfront. No lies. You'd rather tango with the truth."

She straightens, suddenly alert. "Maybe. Kind of. But photography is also lies. All you do when you snap a picture is capture a moment in time. You can still tell yourself a story about the emotion you saw or what really happened. It's just a different kind of lie from painting."

The weed is definitely kicking in, but he likes her explanation.

"So what are you studying?" she asks.

Direct questions are the hardest to dodge. Especially now when he feels like he’s floating a hundred feet in the air. "I'm studying nothing," he says honestly. "I just follow what interests me."

"Why?"

"Because I have a lot of time." Infinite, actually, if he kept his head attached to his body and didn't end up on the wrong side of a curse.

"If I had time, that's what I'd do too. And catch up on back seasons of 7 Wild Dates."

Akira laughs, "Stop. I changed my mind. That show is moving to the bottom of my watch list."

“Don’t be mean!” Alice sticks out her tongue, "That's quality programming you're missing."

They smoke more and talk about nothing, which feels like talking about everything because Alice leaps from topic to topic. She knows a little about a vast number of subjects, like knowledge for her is a series of wading pools and she's just hopping from one body of water to another.

It's how Akira operates too. Once he gets the gist of something, he's ready to move on.

“Tell me one thing about you so you can stop accusing me of hanging out with a stranger," she says, "Where are you from?”

A flash of pink sky. 

A veil that never seems to part.

A home he can’t get back to.

The yearning is so real he jolts. “What if I told you that nothing about me or my life is what it seems? And because I don’t want to lie to you, you’re probably gonna find I won’t answer all your questions. Maybe any of them.”

Alice thinks for a minute. “I guess I’d say tell me what you can, not what you can’t.”

Akira wants to praise her wordplay. He wants to kiss her. He does neither.

“I love horror movies,” he confesses, “When I was like, 10, I snuck into the Moonlight Massacre Marathon at the theater downtown, and I was fuckin’ hooked.” 

The whole story comes tumbling out, even the part about Titania being a little shit and ratting him out to their parents. Alice laughs and complains about her step-sibling, and Akira viciously guards every drop of information she shares with him.

“I like horror movies too. If I throw in Moonlight Massacre II, will that elevate 7 Wild Dates on your watch list?”

His phone buzzes with a reminder about tonight’s job. He gets to his feet. “Next time,” he tells her.

“You promise?”

A promise is a dangerous thing. 

—A binding thing. 

A vow. 

No promises. 

Akira nods, “Yeah, I promise.”

PREV | NEXT

(Part 3 of 4)

[scholarofgloom]

[hibiscusbabyboy]

[filmdesque]

@billyhargrovc said: if i kissed you right now, would you be mad?

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ☪︎ . *. ⋆ JONATHAN UNDERSTOOD THAT THE BOTH OF them were a little bit buzzed right now, but the question still managed to catch him off guard. why would billy be thinking about kissing him? did he even know anything about him? did he even know what he was saying right now? it wasn't like he'd been hanging around billy the whole time they were here; for all he knew, the weed could have been mixed with ALCOHOL earlier.

maybe it was the drug talking for jonathan too, but he had kind of been staring at billy's lips the whole time. he'd never really gotten the time or space to really appreciate the other, and how down-to-earth he could be; maybe he was grateful to steve for throwing this party. but he still wanted to know. ❝ maybe not mad, but ... why would you want to kiss me? ❞

PROMPTS FOR NEW INTIMACY .

[the-real-yahoo-mail]

I just saw a blog on tumblr that advertises that they sell drugs on telegram (telegram was linked)

Anyone wanna help me and report it?

[postmortiem]

𝔸𝔹𝕆𝕌𝕋 ℂ𝕆ℕ𝔻𝕀𝕋𝕀𝕆ℕ𝕊 / 𝔸𝔻𝔻𝕀ℂ𝕋𝕀𝕆ℕ𝕊 .

Tw for addiction, mental illness, substance abuse, ask to tag

You ever ask yourself  " Hey, why the hell is Kiki like that ? "  ?  Yeah, me too. But I came to bring you the answers TONIGHT ! For free ! If you have read my badly written backstory for her, you have a vague idea. I will go a little more in-depth with this post.

Kiki spent around 10 years at Otto's Oddities, starting working there in her early 20s  &  was introduced to much stress, manipulation  &  the struggle to be seen  &  meet her boss' expectations. They were the only people running the shop so she felt like her own subsistence was on the table at all times. Which was, to be fair. Luring in visitors with success was only met with coming up with more obscene  &  grotesque items in their shop. Lots of creativity.

I took inspiration of Salvador Dalí  ( which I wrote a very extensive essay about for my college of further education in arts in the past ) . To not get too heavily into the topic, parts of his deal were that he tried to make himself develop mental illnesses, such as depression, to expand his creativity  &  art. Otto, Kiki's former boss/owner tried exactly that with her. She was his little guinea pig, testing out substances to first make her stay awake for vastly longer than usual  &  eventually drifting off to more harsher drugs meant for boosting her imagination  ( so she could come up with better stuff to sell customers ) . A little list of substances  &  herbs are down below, she still takes these to this day. The chamber in her mask's beak is for holding exactly that.

Unsurprisingly, Kiki became addicted over time  &  reliant on Otto  ( he knew the mixture  &  of course did not share the recipe with her to keep her obedient  &  disciplined ) . After the main backstory, she spent probably months figuring out the combination most similar to his.

Part of her ingame questline would be to make her overcome her addictions, because as much as it is practical in combat, it drains Kiki, obviously. Being dependent on that stuff obviously is not good or healthy. She calls it her medicine, like Otto did. Kiki is very vocal about how her medication is similar to everyone's morning coffee. Mind-altering, but becoming necessary for living. Getting her clean is also the last obstacle to cut ties with her past  &  Otto ; letting her finally heal completely.

[mothvalentino]

What do you remember of your childhood Val? Was it pleasant? Did you have loving parents a good home a warm bed and full belly?

ཐིཋྀ "Oddly on topic, isn't it..."

"... loving parents? Pfff, don't make me laugh. My mother was an Italian-Amercian prostitute, I don't even remember her name. When I was a kid, the fucker who got her pregnant with me ended up beating her to death while high and drunk. I was there when it happened, saw the whole thing. Other than that, my siblings and I lived in a mansion and traveled a lot, got roped up in the trafficking business, had it pretty well. There's a lot of money in drugs and whores. We could have whatever we wanted as long as we followed the big man's rules."

[niceascot]

Closed starter for: @norvillc Location: Shaggy & Velma's place

Sat in the armchair, Fred faced Shaggy as he watched his friend pack a bowl. When it was handed to Fred he took it along with the lighter on the table before lighting it and inhaling. He tried to hold the smoke in for a few moments but ended up letting out a fit of coughs, and the said smoke instead. Fred handed the bowl back to Shaggy then looked down to where Scoob was at by his feet. He smiled and scratched behind the dog's ears before looking back up. "So, what was this you were saying about a...'special food combination?' Should I be scared?" Fred asked with a halfhearted laugh. He looks back down. "What do you think, Scoob? Is he going to kill us this time?" he asked as he continued the joke. "Alright, fine. I know I'm going to get munchies so tell me about your idea while we smoke."

[aurumacadicus]

I was like "You know what I haven't done in a while? A 'Who did this to you' idea." Anyway sorry love you bye.

--

It was a favor to Natasha, Steve reminded himself as he stepped into the elevator up to Tony's penthouse. Or, it was a favor to Colonel Rhodes. Maybe Pepper, even. He simply could not believe that Tony had actually reached out to him for help.

He wasn't an idiot. He kept up on the news. Tony had dropped a new song that insulted his ex (he hadn't listened, because he didn't want to admit it, but there was always a lingering fear it was about him, even a decade later), said ex had outed themself by tweeting angrily at him, and now Tony needed to beef up security until the ex's fans calmed down about it, because they simply couldn't accept that their idol was fallible. Which seemed weird, considering how many of Tony's fans loved him because he was a hot mess.

Steve swallowed down a pang of guilt and hurt at the thought. 'Hot mess' was what Tony had used to describe himself, and he'd made a career out of singing about it. It clearly worked for him. And his fans seemed to love it about him. Steve wished he'd known, all those years ago, that that would ultimately be what would tear them apart: That Tony was like a feral animal, wanting to love and be loved so badly but always ready to run at the first inkling of conflict for fear that his vulnerability would be used against him.

It wasn't like it mattered. Steve hadn't been able to love the hurt out of him, and he'd finally broken it off the last time Tony crawled into bed at two in the morning, burning hot and pupils blown so wide his eyes had looked black in the darkness. He couldn't watch Tony burn out again. Tony had responded in his usual calm but chaotic way by revoking his access to the penthouse while Steve was out on his morning run, having Happy wait with a sesame bagel and an apologetic grimace at the door, and the explanation that all of his things would be shipped to the address of his choice by the end of the day.

And they hadn't seen each other since.

Avengers Protection was the best security in the business, so it made sense that they were contacted. For all that Tony never seemed to care what happened to him (so long as feelings weren't involved), his friends made up for it tenfold. And with the way he fell in and out of relationships the last few years, it was inevitable that he'd make a poor choice in partners. It was probably a favor for Colonel Rhodes, Steve figured, taking a deep breath as the elevator slowed to a stop. Colonel Rhodes had somehow managed to weather Tony's trust issues for most of their lives. And he'd only reach out if he thought it was serious.

He could do this, Steve thought, blowing the deep breath back out slowly as the elevator doors opened.

To his surprise, when he stepped into the penthouse, no one was there to greet him. He'd never heard the room so silent. Tony always had to have something going, fingers tinkering with electronics or music blasting at deafening volumes. He even wondered, for a second, if he was being pranked. Then he finally caught sight of Tony sitting at the kitchen island, bent over the counter, arms tucked in close like he was trying to make himself seem as small as possible.

Steve was starting to get the sickening feeling that maybe Tony had called and asked for his help specifically. He started walking toward Tony, feeling almost like he was in a dream, feeling wrong-footed and anxious, like the floor was going to drop out from beneath him.

Tony got up, circling the island so he could go to the coffee pot. Steve almost wondered if Tony was ignoring him, but then he saw that a steaming mug was left where Tony was sitting. Tony was getting him a cup of coffee. Trying to be a good (if slightly awkward) host, Steve figured.

He opened his mouth to greet him, or thank him for the coffee, or something, but then Tony finally turned, and Steve felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room, suddenly understanding why Tony had prolonged the moment before he had to face him.

Tony's bottom lip was cut, bruised and puffy. The bruising followed the left corner of his mouth, leading up onto his cheek, the round apple of it discolored almost to black. The purple splotches faded around his temple, but his left eye was blood shot, the vessels burst from some outside force. Tony tried to smile as he set the cup of coffee on the counter for Steve to take, and it caused the scab on his lip to crack, blood to drip down his chin, and he immediately lifted his hand to cover it.

Someone had beaten him, Steve realized with a sharp inhale, fighting the urge to curl his hands into fists. He took a step closer, fighting the urge to reach out. "Tony."

"It looks worse than it is," Tony rasped, finally setting the mug of coffee on the counter. He must have realized Steve wouldn't want it after he saw his face.

Steve's eyes darted down to his throat, and he felt white-hot rage flush through him so fast it left him feeling hollow and cold. There was bruising around his throat. He could see the outlines of fingers on either side of his neck. Someone had tried to strangle him. Had almost succeeded, too, if Tony's swollen face and bloodshot eye were any indication.

"Things are a little," Tony began when Steve said nothing, eyes fluttering over the room as if he had no idea whether he should meet his gaze or not. His throat worked, and Steve watched as the flexing muscles shifted the bruises on his neck into stark relief. It almost distracted him from how hoarse Tony sounded. "It's diff--different? This time? And I thought. Even if you weren't willing to work for me. You could. Suggest. S-someone. I--

"He tried to kill you," Steve said, but he had no idea what kind of tone he was going for. It mostly sounded like he'd been punched.

Tony turned his head away, but it didn't hide the shame on his face. "Well, we. We all knew it was coming?"

"I never once imagined someone would put their hands on you in an attempt to kill you," Steve answered, and this time there was some anger in his tone. He regretted it when Tony shrank back. "I mean--Tony, no one deserves that. Not you. Not anyone."

"Yeah," Tony rasped, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't look up at him, though. "Well. Anyway. I thought. Even if you couldn't work with me. You'd have suggestions for who could?" He cleared his throat and winced as if it had hurt. "I wouldn't have asked you to meet just for a recommendation, but. I figured that. Once you saw the bruises, you'd see it was serious."

Steve would rather have been physically punched in the gut at the realization that Tony had expected to be pawned off on someone else. As if he might deserve not getting the best protection. As if he should expect it, even. Steve had never felt at such a loss. "Why?" he finally asked, but he wasn't entirely sure what he was asking to know.

"I don't want to die, Steve," Tony whispered, and his eyes finally began to water, but he ignored it completely. "But I know if he corners me again--and he will. He's got that stupid innocent act down pat. And everyone knows I'm a hot mess," he added, trying to smile again, like he always used to when he insulted himself. "So they think I probably..." His smile faded almost as quickly as it came, shoulders hunching as he turned his gaze on the floor. "...I probably deserve it."

Steve stepped closer, finally allowing his hands to curl into fists. "Tony, who did this to you?" he asked, voice soft and carefully weighted.

Tony tipped his head up to stare at him, exhaustion in every bit of his features. "Why does it matter?"

Steve lifted his hands, slowly forcing them open, and reached out to carefully cup Tony's bruised and swollen cheeks. "Because you matter, Tony," he told him sternly, and then leaned down just enough that he could brush his mouth over Tony's swollen lips, opening his mouth to swallow Tony's desperate sob.

[the-smallest-star]

//More wifey oh no

[scholarofgloom]

[sapporodoggie]