2-cal-2-furious

[2-cal-2-furious]

This is a wheel with 250 fandoms, people, topics, specific words, etc. Spin it once.

Whatever you landed on has completely disappeared from Tumblr. Any posts including or referencing it have vanished, and none will ever be made again. No one else notices its absence, and no one else will ever ask about it.

[2-cal-2-furious]

HELP I JUST HAD A THOUGH

WHAT IF

What if....

Blunt reader became a harbinger

I have NO idea how that would go but im here for the crack lol

I BEEN WAITIN FOR THIS ONE-

(and to use this gif more importantly they're all so hot here lol)

Sun: Reader (you/they/them), Blunt Language AU :D

Orbit: Headcanons-ish, crack treated srsly (yes im using ao3 tags atp)

Stars: Harbingers!

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: none known & Trigger Warnings: none known.

Please comment if I missed any. /gen

☆

SO thought I’d update anyone missing out bc of the new year but-

I made this silly thing called Blunt Language AU, that was my 1st post for this blog/fandom actually! :D

I’ll link it here, but TLDR: it’s just our modern speech sounding “ancient” to the Teyvatians, who speak really flowery/fluffy/lots of context in comparison!

That’s all you rlly need to know to read this I think, so enjoy! :)

☆

u fall into Genshin Impact, and Snezhnaya is where you land first type of energy lol

weird golden star falling from the sky? that sounds like a prophecy the Tsaritsa knows abt alright

so they sent Childe, one of the friendliest (if not The Friendliest) Harbinger, to see if it was a valid claim you’d finally descended,

and ofc as soon as the redhead heard you try and talk to him, he knew the claims by the small village nearby (who had taken u in from the cold weather/taken care of you) were legit

pantalone did manage to squeeze some examples of what you’d possibly sound like into his head before he left so while Childe personally has a tough time talking to you, it doesn't mean he’s not willing to try!! >:)

he mostly just kept asking questions forever until he understood what you meant, and as soon he got u were asking abt the Tsaritsa, the other Harbingers, himself, even how to get Sneznayan-made clothes lol

he was like: 👀👀👀???!!!!

it wasn't so much recruitment at first as it was “omg the exalted one wishes to learn abt us, the Tsaritsa and her Harbingers? abt me?? well would your highness like to come to our palace perchance???!!!!”

= have u ever been seduced and worshipped by a god and her country?? would you like to- ??? ← Childe actually

and with that convinces you to come straight to the Harbingers/Tsaritsa’s very home

No, you’re not just spoiled.

No, you’re not just pampered.

You are cosseted and coveted.

The Tsaritsa makes her first in person appearance to the people in decades to personally announce your return, and to get a festival going to literally parade you into the capital lol

And tbh it was kind of shocking how quickly the people of Snezhnaya are able to whip out the party supplies, within days of traveling via horses/sleds/carriage/trains all kinds of transportation, u arrived at the capital in full swing of a parade for you

The Tsaritsa herself in what looks like a genshin-ified kokoshnik, the elaborate headress draped with a veil so thin it looks like frost covering her face,

flocked on either side by her harbingers in full (kinda goth) ceremonial outfits waiting on your arrival too

needless to say you are properly smitten intimidated

and you stay nervous around them for the first few days or so,

that is before you run into the weekly, what you would call “family dinner nights”, but they call “dinner reports”…

in which Childe, the only one you’d been comfortable enough around to be a bit more genuine to, and surprisingly the only one to quickly adapt to your speech after traveling with you for days, would translate for you what tf you were saying to them vs. what everyone at the table was saying to you/around you

you would also like to propose other titles for these weekly dinner meetings you’re invited to, aka “family feud dinner night/family fight night/harbinger on harbinger hate night/fruit on fruit crimes, if you will” 💀

the Tsaritsa is just peacefully talking to you abt any and everything, bc ofc Pierro’s on her right, and ur on her left

(she and Pierro are surprisingly soft spoken, very polite, and able to say something interesting/take an interest in whatever subject you all end up on)

u don't think you've ever been more comfortable and on such equal footing around ppl sm older than you (what are older ppl to you, but to them ur literally fucking eldritch with how ancient u are, and u can tell with how they treat u like it lmao)

hard cut back to the rest of the table:

an argument that just gets louder and louder has broken out between Childe, Dottore, La Signora, and Pantalone abt who should get free time with you first/get to do smth with you first as you get over ur adjustment period here, Childe has taken his butter knife to throw and just barely missed Dottore’s eye, and it is now embedded in the back of his fancy chair (the servants placing down dinner courses just move abt w/the most bored expressions on their faces)

(u send half the table if this group gets out of hand and u just: “Please shut the fuck up, each of ur comebacks take 30 minutes and it’s killing me” 💀 bc they're the most likely to understand u too, even Pierro/Capitano/Pulcinella chuckle a little, and u think the Tsaritsa smirked under her veil)

ur honestly too scared to see what Scarmouche, Sandrone, and Arlecchino are arguing about, because they're arguing so silently further down the table. They have murder in their eyes.

Columbina and Capitano are having a peaceful collab over weapons, armor, and clothing to offer you, Pulcinella is close enough to both participate in that convo and in you, Pierro, and the Tsaritsa’s convos too

by the 2nd week you've decided to choose chaos, and get them to play board games together sometimes (they cant all make it all the time, tbh u don't know if u can handle that either) but groups of them will play at a time

u remembered early on what a dick Dottore was, and sentenced asked if he’d like to play this new board game called “Monopoly” from ur world with Childe, Pantalone, Pierro, Arlecchino, La Signora, and Scaramouche all together :)

(so what ur trying to bring khaenri’ah part 2 down on his head as punishment?? u owe scara and collei that at least)

Columbina is more than happy to help get you Harbinger-like clothes to wear since ur so interested in the style!! (yes yesss get converted, she already has a title picked out for you)

she also giggles anytime u talk abt whether u like an outfit or not, bc u just “no thank you I’d rather wear a trash bag than that shirt, but lets try another?”

meanwhile the tailors in the background u could literally edit them to one of those videos where it just zooms in on their faces with a vine boom of shock

like Pierro, ur unranked, just above the other Harbingers really, as it wouldn't do to make you the 12th Harbinger or smth

the names they gave you being, “The Playwright” or “The Renaissance” or even “Drammaturgo”

(pls anyone who speaks Italian correct if I'm wrong ToT )

ok but the first time, unsurprisingly, one of them got snappy with you, likely Scara I would think,

Scaramouche, pissy: “And what shall we do if it appears our almighty god is perhaps a descender who is entirely human? Why I dare say you’d be transgressing on privileges that were never yours to begin with!”

Every other Harbinger, the Tsaritsa herself, the servants, the frost on the walls: 😶😦😨😶‍🌫️

You, unbothered, still eating and fully expecting this moment: “I don't want to hear it from someone who has god-mommy issues. You shouldn’t have an opinion about me, ur biased.”

yeah, so obviously, they’re emotionally all attached now whether they know it or not, and this was of course the moment they realized they're god would fit in so perfectly here

(the other nations are going to have to pry you from Snezhnaya from their cold dead hands, esp since u now have legal deniability to visit bc ur technically a Harbinger, only commanded by her majesty lol)

(Scaramouche, Arlecchino, and Sandrone were fighting about who gets the room nearest to your quarters lol)

(Capitano won, somehow??)

☆

sorry ive been slow lately guys, been just trying to work on alllll the fics these past weeks/days/however long its been??

anyway had the shift from hell last week so wish me luck with work this week if u see this 😭

hope u enjoyed this old ask/crack treated srsly post orah!! :D

Safe Travels,

💀♒

If you wanna join a taglist, DM me what for! "Pspspsss, please tag me for [All SAGAU posts, Only SAGAU Language AUs, diff fandom, etc.]!"

(If you ever wanna drop, just DM me! "No more taglists/[specifically this AU/fandom] please!")

♡the beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza / @genshin-impacts-me / @wholesomey-artist / @thedevioussmirk / @the-dumber-scaramouche / @chocogi / @fallen-starr / @areaderofbooks / @devilangel657 / @esthelily / @justinsomniachild / @nanithefuck / @questionotmystopit

@kiyomi-uchiha777

[2-cal-2-furious]

I know I just sent in that eremite hcs thing but idk if your requests are open and I'm shy💔

I really love your writing and I was hoping you can do Dottore x eremite reader, GN is pref but I would like descriptions of them being big and muscular (because they are, they're better than most playable models i fear) if ever

maybe eremite reader being the representative that will form an alliance with the fatui?

or..Dottore disguised as a regular person (we all know he can ehapeshift, or atleast his segments) and gets bumped into yadda yadda to see if Sumeru has changed since his last visit, only to be greeted with absolute kindness from eremite reader? :3

(I’ve seen your previous messages anon, and mmmm do I love your interpretation of modern Dottore’s design and small influences of eremite culture in it. I know this is not what you exactly wrote, but I needed to let this out of my system. For all those requesting more Dottie stuff, this is for you)

✦ An Oasis in the Desert of Heretics 

(Zandik/Dottore x Eremite Reader: sfw) 

✧ Imagine the astonishment of your tribe when you return one day with a scrawny kid dragged by the collar in your hands. He looked disheveled, and a single glance at his Akademiya Jellabiya was clearly indicative that he was some wandering fool from Sumeru City. Your peers were confused, who was this blue-haired kid and how did you even find him amidst the desolate dunes of Deshret’s lands? 

The youth was disgruntled when you dragged him here, however, the elders of your tribe warned him to be thankful. Had it been anyone else, he wouldn't have made it in the desert alive. 

✧ It took a couple of days for this young man to recover. After he was nourished and offered plenty of water and rest, he was the one who slowly moved out of his shell. In the scorching sun of the day, he sat silently in the shade of the tents, observing you training with your Eremite peers. When you sparred and moved on with your duties, it looked as if Deshret’s gaze itself blessed your sun-kissed skin. And in these moments, the youth realized how far from home he was; even if he never considered Sumeru City his home.

You offered him company, but he often remained apprehensive between the Eremites. You weren't surprised, you thought he'd be another student who looked down upon your folk. But this boy showed none of such inhibitions - what you saw was genuine pain and fear in his ruby eyes. 

✧ After much coaxing and several Ajilenakh Nut candies, this young man began sitting down with you more frequently. Whenever dinner was served, you offered him a seat amongst your people. When he silently stood in the cool shadows of the desert night, you were the first who'd welcome him by the fire. It was in these moments that you learned his name, Zandik. And it was by the stillness of the night he confessed about his exile from the Akademiya, of his heresies.

You listened patiently to every word. Though you did not promise him paradise amongst your tribe, the young boy never forgot your words: “In the desert, we're all exiles. Is there a difference where you come from when we're all abandoned by our Gods?” 

✧ From here on out, Zandik could be found lingering in your secluded tribe. Perhaps it was an unofficial welcome, but you often showed him the ropes of your community. His once tousled uniform was forgotten, and instead, people provided him with more suitable clothes to protect him from the harsh desert sun. His silent brooding slowly shifted into timid approaches. At least he didn't ogle you whenever you trained in the mornings, he now asked you to train him. And though he was awkward at first, he didn't have the heart to confess his eyes were drinking praise of your muscles whenever you taught him.

Your peers joked and called him the foreigner of the tribe. Zandik never rebutted; he said it was better than being called a heretic. He just relished sitting next to you on the carpeted floor, listening to your chatter and chuckles as everyone ate Tahchin for dinner. 

✧ Zandik wasn't gullible though, he knew he shouldn't take your hospitality for granted. Eremites were cautious of outsiders, and no matter how he may look, he is one. The eremites saw hardships more than his young, inexperienced self did, thus his ignorance was transforming. Even without the Akademiya, he learned you valued any knowledge and books your people collected. The folk of the tribe were not uneducated. If anything, the people here welcomed topics that were often shunned in the halls of the institute. 

Whatever books and notes Zandik had on him when you found him in the desert, he felt more compelled to share them with you. In the silent hours of the night, you and he would share a tent hurried in some books he brought. He listened to you in awe when you said your tribe was never prohibited from exploring the Valley of Darhi and the giant Ruin Guard slumbering there. 

✧ But even your tribe harbored a tumor no one could eradicate – Eleazar. Many elders suffered from it, and more symptoms were showing in some of your peers. Zandik watched with a solemn gaze as you toiled and helped with whatever resources your tribe had. It was a grave topic in your tribe, to take care of those suffering, or honor those who passed from it. However since the young man had academic knowledge in biology and medicine, he wished to provide medical help. 

When his hand reached for vials of medicine, your own jolted to grasp his in a warning. You stopped his interference, telling him not to meddle. Zandik only gazed at you, a silent plea: “...You don't trust me yet?” Alas, you remained silent.

✧ Zandik’s restlessness was evident. With unbridled determination, he desired you to teach him to be competent in the desert. If he wants to be of use for the Eremites and his own research, his academic knowledge would not suffice under Deshret's red sand. Zandik instead followed you, like an eager child ready to mimic and learn, he desired to accompany you beyond the safe grounds of the tribe and venture forth on expeditions. 

You taught him to wield a spear first. It didn't take long for him to lose his footing and get a face full of sand… But after much trial and error, you mentored him with a claymore. Your hand was often on top of his when you guided him to hold onto the hilt, his skin getting warmer than usual. 

“Okay, maybe the heavy weight of the weapon will make sure you stay on both your feet for now.” 

✧ You were surprised at how much of a chatterbox he became wherever the two of you ventured on expeditions. He'd blabber endlessly about the numerous academic matters regarding the ruins you two found; of the leylines and its history. He never spoke for so long whenever the two of you were in the tribe. Yet as the sun cast its golden hues upon you two, Zandik realized he never found the desert sun cumbersome while trekking alongside you. When he smiles a boyish grin, his shoulders brushing against yours, the sunset becomes a queue to find shelter and set up camp for the night. 

In a secluded nook hidden from the endless expanse of sandy dunes, the dim glow of a single lantern illuminated the small makeshift tent. Within its confines, Zandik found himself nestled close beside you. It was his idea to push the sleeping pads together - to save space, as he had suggested with feigned practicality. Yet now, with his head resting on your arm and his short, unruly curls brushing against your shoulder, the throes of cold desert nights faded into irrelevance. All that remained was the tender warmth of your embrace, a solace he quietly cherished, cradled in the stillness of your presence.

✧ Perhaps this is why, after many centuries, a certain Harbinger was adamant about finding a cure for Eleazar. Having been recruited by the Jester, the Doctor rarely visited the lonesome desert of Sumeru. Yet it didn’t stop him from gazing off with wistful melancholy at the land. Perhaps the ever-shifting sands had since swept the evidence of yours and his footsteps, but his fond memories of trekking with you alone never faded. 

All his relentless research, the unyielding pursuit of knowledge and cures – were all to honor your people and the memory of your smile that lingered in his dreams, cradling a young Zandik in the warmth of your embrace.

(My headcanon stays, Pierro just magically teleports and appears to those he wanted to recruit. No questions asked, he just adopts them)

[2-cal-2-furious]

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[2-cal-2-furious]

stranger things headcanons.. pt 1.

THEME: How the characters deal with your flirtations (friendship stage)

CHARACTERS INCLUDED: mike wheeler, will byers, jane hopper, lucas sinclair, dustin henderson, maxine mayfield, billy hargrove, steve harrington, nancy wheeler, joyce byers, jim hopper, dmitri antonov, eddie munson, jonathan byers.

READER: male reader with a sarcastic, flirty, witty and a slightly cynical personality.

Mike Wheeler;

- dude is either OVER it or does not catch on at all.

- like seriously, your touches would linger for a bit too long and he'd think “oh, that's weird. whatever.”

- you mess up his hair every chance you get and he goes livid.

- “don't touch my hair, man!” is what he'd say and in return you'd just mock him. then a 'playful' fight ensues. he has ruined like five of your shirts now, accidentally tearing it while fighting.

- whenever you say something flirty or out of pocket, you would get two different reactions. The most common one being “ha ha. very funny.” with a sarcastic smile. and the other one.. god, he would just stare at you with a concerned look on his face, not even saying anything.

- for a little while, Mike just stayed oblivious to your 'advances', per say.

- you would do stupid dirty shit behind mike's back when the party's attention was on you just to get some laughs from them. it always worked but it ended up with mike scolding the shit out of you and calling you different names.

- one time at a random party, you invited Mike to dance. He disagreed, of course, and brushed you off with a laugh, but for a moment he almost said yes. Which was very weird for him. Dude was borderline panicking.

- you would call him “mikey” just to piss him off and he hated that nickname with a passion.

- “Mikey-” you'd start, and mike would immediately interrupt you with “get the fuck out of my house. Like right now.” with a blank look on his face while aggressively pointing to the stairs.

Will Byers;

- consider the dude dead. anytime you flirt.

- yeah he's a little slow but when he gets what you meant he goes red in the face.

- like he's blushing so furiously that even the tips of his ears are turning pink.

- he starts fidgeting with his fingers and blinking more profusely, as if that'd help anything.

- “will, you're sleeping with me, right?” you asked once, at a sleepover. He paused. “ay, I'm not opposed to whatever you're thinking but I meant you're sleeping in my room?” you cleared up.

- Oh. oh. “Yeah- yep, I'm sleeping- in your room, yeah.” he responded after swallowing hard. Lucas laughed so hard he started crying.

- he's a sucker for physical contact, truly, so whenever you'd press up against him, or your hands would brush, literally any physicality and he's tensed up, his heart beating out of his chest. It's not that he likes you, but your flirting certainly fucks with his mind. He's not that dense.

- due to your flirty personality, most of the time he would avoid eye contact with you. Because any time your gazes met, you'd wink. And it wasn't that big of a deal, truly, but Will just couldn't help it, it made his breath hitch ever so slightly.

Jane Hopper;

- oh lord. most of the time, she doesn't get it. she just smiles and nods.

- you think it's funny how oblivious she is, it is stupid but hella adorable.

- when it is explained to her, she barely has a reaction to it.

- so in conclusion, she doesn't even answer you. Unless you talk to her about it. But that is literally it. She doesn't deal with your flirtations, you have to deal with her obliviousness.

Lucas Sinclair;

- dude laughs it off when you first start flirting with him. Then he gradually becomes more and more concerned.

- he takes it pretty seriously. But he doesn't care that much, mostly because it doesn't bother him nor does it make him uncomfortable.

- immediately assumed you were into men when you made a slightly over the top joke (not that it was wrong).

- told dustin, will and mike what he thinks. they didn't believe him. Like at all.

- next time you said something flirtatious to Lucas, he didn't waste a second looking over at the others.. who seemed to have taken your flirting as a joke, something you'd say between buddies, you know?

- so after a long long long contemplation, Lucas abruptly asked “are you into dudes?”...

- everyone went dead silent.

- you answered after a beat. “..wasn't that like.. obvious?”

- “WHAT?!”

Dustin Henderson;

- HE FLIRTS BACK.

- you flirt, sure, you give it a hundred percent. Dustin, though? Dude gives it his ALL. Everything and anything he has.

- he sends you air kisses, he loves physical contact, he loves giving gifts (and receiving them), he loves talking. To make it short, he's love in human form.

- any time you guys have playful banter it turns into heavy flirting. Also, you two express appreciation by flirting, too.

- “don't make me kiss you, henderson.”, “dude,” he paused to put on chapstick. After he did, he turned his focus back on you. “i'm ready, kiss me.” he'd say.

- of course, others would whine and complain about it. Especially Steve, god he hated when you two acted like that.

- “i think my ears are bleeding,” would be Steve's response.

- at one point, you and Dustin had a wedding.. a platonic one, but a wedding nonetheless. He's never been happier that he got to be the wife.

- all jokes aside, you always expressed physical affection to Dustin because you knew that he'd be more than willing to receive it. Hugs, forehead kisses, simple gentle gestures, head pats, shoulder pats, etc. etc.

Maxine Mayfield;

- you low-key think she's scary but shoot your shots nonetheless.

- albeit, they're always met with frustrated silence, sarcasm or judgy glances.

- she acts like she hates it. Yeah, sometimes it truly pisses her off if she's in a bad mood and her social battery is low, but other than that, she kinda enjoys the attention from you.

- she actually liked you since she met you. not like.. actually like you, but you seemed nice, you seemed to have an understanding others lacked.

- she catches onto every single flirtatious remark you make. Every. Single. One.

- if you say something she doesn't like at all, she hits you in the back of the head, flicks your forehead or punches you in the shoulder. Fuck, her flicks are deadly.

- “can I braid your hair?” was a question you asked once. Max just turned to look at you with a soft smile. “Fuck no.”

- “oh-”

- physical contact is not her strong suit. Of course, she loves it, but not every time. It also depends on how she's feeling. A thing she can never get tired of though is quality time. You could spend days with her and she wouldn't mind at all. As long as you don't bother her too much.

Billy Hargrove;

- the moment you open your mouth around him, you're playing with fire. Seriously. You don't know what is gonna set him off.

- fucking hates it. hates it hates it hates it.

- to say that he's your friend is.. an overstatement. He just tolerates your presence. Does not like when you say stupid shit.

- “you've got such a pretty face.” you complimented him once.

“i'm gonna beat the fucking shit out of you.”

“ohhh-kay.”

- would laugh it off but he knows you're into guys. he done seen it from a mile away bro 😭 gaydar strong as shit.

- was a bit bothered by you liking guys at first, though over a span of a damn week he couldn't be bothered enough to care.

- says he hates when you're around him but has spent more time with you than with anyone else.

- he's gotten too used to being around you.

- “where are we going?” you asked from the passenger seat of his car.

“a date, are you fucking-” he paused, blinking a couple of times. “my date.” he pulled over almost immediately, in a heart beat. “get out of the damn car.”

“you just-” you stammered for a moment. “good luck on your date.” you said in an encouraging tone, feeling defeated as you got out of the car, not even knowing where you are.

“don't need it.” he said bitterly as he drove off. Well, okay.

Steve Harrington;

- either laughs or gets flustered (doesn't show it).

- mocks you so much in return.

- DEFLECTS your compliments with mean comments like crazy.

- “ya look good today, Steve.”

“Couldn't say the same about you. Jesus, have you looked in the mirror this morning?” he said with a concerned smile.

- cheeky little shit. he'd jump in traffic if it meant he'd avoid saying a simple 'thank you' to your compliments.

- he thinks you don't know that your flirting affects him. it's way too obvious. dude's hands get clammy, unclenching and clenching his fists, rubbing his hands on his pants or his stance shifting after a compliment. the signs are subtle, sure, but not invisible.

- the tension between you two is CRAZY. yeah he gets flustered if you say something out of pocket but he's not scared to hold eye contact. I mean, if you're not looking. if you are, he's not sparing a damn glance your way.

- CHECKS YOU OUT SO MUCH. AND FOR NO REASON. dude's a natural flirt.

- he has flirted back like a total of 5 times. otherwise he'd just brush you off fr.

Nancy Wheeler;

- SOMEBODY GET THE DAMN AMBULANCE.

- if she likes you and your vibe, she flirts back. SHE FLIRTS FIRST MORE.

- you thought you'd get her flustered? Nah, she's giving you signs dude.

- she'd make 'accidental' physical contact with you, like gently brushing her hand against yours and shit like that. just to tease you.

- shameless with her flirting. Seriously. She doesn't say much in front of others but if you're alone you can't catch a break.

- she'd speak a sentence that has a clear implication of something dirty and then when you ask her about it, she'd give it another meaning.

- eye contact eye contact eye contact, she loves it

- one time, the two of you were hanging out in your room. You were going to a wedding tomorrow, and Nancy knew that.

“fuck, I don't have any nice clothes. What do I wear for tomorrow?” You asked her, hoping for some advice.

“i'd rather you wear.. nothing.” she said mindlessly, flipping through a book.

“..Nance.”

“what, you asked me, I answered.” She said with a small chuckle.

Joyce Byers;

- she catches onto your flirting but she overthinks it and eventually comes to the conclusion that you're just being friendly.

- a good thing about your flirting is that it would lighten her mood if she's upset or deep in thought.

- she jokes back at your flirting but immediately regrets it, thinking she sounded stupid

- she loves when you wrap an arm around her shoulders, it gives her a sense of security. Some sort of it, anyway. Always gives you a small slightly awkward smile when you initiate physical contact with her, too.

- so afraid of being misled that even when you sent her flowers, a huge bouquet of it, she thought it was a friendly gesture, again. Jonathan and Will argued with her about it.

- is finally convinced that you're into her when you wink at her across the room, being discreet.

- no seriously, all of that and the only time she thinks you're into her when you're winking at her. Not when you're openly flirting with her or sending her gifts..

Jim Hopper;

- DOESN'T EVEN LOOK AT YOU.

- everyone at the police department knew you flirted with Jim. But due to him ignoring you constantly, you gave your pick up lines to his co-workers, and made them say the cheesy words to him. Ended them with a 'yours truly, [Name]'. Always.

- that got him to talk to you. He was pissed off, sure, but he still talked to you. And that was better than nothing. Told you to stop - you didn't.

- dude threatened to arrest you for harassment.

- he'd clench his jaw whenever he had to stand next to you.

“Can't tell if you're tense because you want to kiss me so bad or because you wanna beat the shit out of me.” you said, your tone amused yet held a hint of fake seriousness.

“I'm about to shoot you.” He answered, his tone flat and nonchalant.

“hm. not really fond of that idea, thanks though, Jimmy.”

That was his last straw and he genuinely pulled a gun on you.

- of course, after that, it didn't stop you from flirting with him anyway.

- whenever his colleagues see you nearby, they point you to him and urge him to ask you out. He was starting to hate everyone because of you.

Dmitri Antonov;

- Acts annoyed when you gush over his russian accent. though it makes him feel more comfortable about it, more confident.

- most of the time he flirts back in English. Or just says “oh yeah?” with a small smile of disbelief.

- whenever he responds to you in russian.. he is talking shit about you. Not that he hates you, but sometimes your words are too much for him and the only thing he can do is let it out through violently shit talking you. To convince himself that you're 'not all that'.

- deep down hle knows that you are though.

- if he feels flustered, he averts his gaze, shakes his head and/or buries his face in his hands.

- avoids talking to you at any given time, only does it when he has to.

- touch him in any sort of way and he's STIFF AS FUCK. dude's a statue. Unless he pushes you off.

Eddie Munson;

- feels extremely flattered when you flirt with him.

- of course, he flirts back.

- does an eyebrow wiggle anytime you say something suggestive.

- somehow manages to turn your normal sentences to awkward ones when he makes a dirty joke out of your words.

- “I lost my bracelet in a ball pit like a year ago,” you complained once the conversation turned to speaking about lost things.

“ball pit?” he asked, a small smile creeping up his face.

“Yeah?” You said with a raise of your eyebrow.

“Ball.. pit?”

“Dude.” you deadpanned.

- made a bet with Dustin that you're into him, that you're not just joking. Dustin had his suspicions but you didn't seem the type to like.. men. Or even if you did, you would've told him already.

- that's the biggest loss of his life. lil guy was FLABBERGASTED.

Jonathan Byers;

- cannot hold eye contact for the life of him.

- he gets kinda nervous when you're flirting. The first time you flirted dude was a stammering mess, fidgeting with his sleeves like a maniac.

- despite an established shyness he had around you, he enjoyed your company. you were a good friend.

- friend? You have never given someone so many hints that you like them.

- Argyle, when he was high, told Jonathan to just get together with you already because the pining was giving him second hand embarrassment.

- Jonathan has been even more shy around you since then.

- “That's a good photo, when'd you take that?” you asked simply, your eyes locked onto the photo in Jonathan's hand.

“Like-.. last month, uhm, during the trip-” he stammered out after a short pause, his head lowered. HE WAS BEET RED DUDE.

- “you have GOT to give me a kiss, I did such a good job?” You said in a joking manner.

Jonathan died inside, right then and there on the spot. His mouth hung open, staring at you wide-eyed.

Once you notice he was baffled, you huffed out a laugh. “I was kidding, you know. But I won't turn you down if you decide to actually kiss me-”

“[Name]—” he groaned out a whine of your name, disappointed by your last sentence as he tried to gather himself.

[2-cal-2-furious]

..

...

All Bark and Bite (Art only)

FURRY ART JUMPSCARE 😱😱

Based on @nvuy 's Boothill dog energy post, reader is wearing hoodie!

[2-cal-2-furious]

Do you see Wrex and shepard together? Because I low-key think they have like sexual chemistry

OH BOY DO I!

It starts as enemies to firends to lovers, but then quickly spirals into forbidden love territory once he acquires the throne.

Remember that first meeting scene in ME1?

When the Citadel C-sec were too intimidated by Wrex to even dare and hold him down? The krogan assumes all humans tend to cower in front of someone his size.

How Shepard literally marches in there, calls him by his first name, then offers to shake his hand so casually? Full of confidence and poise? Not afraid to meet his eyes.

Yeah, that scene? Every single pixel is flooded with sexual and romantic tension.

Both Paragon and Renegade Shepard have the best chemistry with Wrex full stop.

The scene after it where Wrex deliberately disobeys Paragon Shep command to spare this guy's life, shooting him in the head because "he had a contract" Testing the limit to what this human allows him to get away with, pushing boundaries.

How Shep immediately snaps at him, addressing him down as a commander still despite him disrespecting your authority.

Showing him that this isn't the way things work around here, you won't tolerate this act from him a second time. He already used his one chance, and he better be on his best behaviour going forward.

Genuinely catching Wrex off-guard, he never expected the humans to have barks, let alone the power to follow it with bite. A part of him is even a little ashamed of his action, but he'd rather die than apologise to a human he just met, so he just gives a vague promise not to do it again.

Which might seem small, but to a contractual killer krogan who never trusted a single soul ever since he left his planet young, it's so much more.

The first building blocks to the long bridge of trust being established between them was set by Wrex.

And if you finish his target alone without bringing him along, what does Wrex do? He pays you. He hands you what he views as your rightful share for aiding with his job.

It's established early on that Wrex has honour, he has pride and more self-awareness that anyone would ever expect of him. He keeps his temper in control, is more cunning and logical than people expect of a "krogan"

How he doesn't hesitate to leave a situation when something feels off, his intuition and gut feeling had saved his life countless times.

-

You keep trying to have small talks with him whenever you come down to the dock of your ship, and he just doesn't understand why.

What are your intentions? Is it just curiosity from him being the first Korgan you see? Or are you just digging for information out of mistrust, doubting his abilities as a capable mercenary.

He always hated the employers who kept peering over his shoulders, poking their nose into things that do not concer them.

The job you assigned him will get done, stop bothering him.

In fact, that's why he shares the story about his previous employers. The various times he was ruthless just to get a job done, even when he had to face a friend in combat. Painting himself as a hardened soul.

...so why are you looking at him like that?

See? He has no heart, in fact, despite the three pumping in his chest. So are you convinced yet?

Yes, he is the epitome of the big, strong scary Korgan. The same one all the other species warned you so much about.

Instead of being impressed, intimidated, or both. You look at him with concern, as if he's a bird with broken wings that fell into your palm.

You inquire about his homeplanet.

The usual bitterness that threaten to come out in a pile upwards his throat each time he retells this story...is less severe this time around. It's easier to get out, to go more into details around you.

You never interrupt him, you let him talk. Thoughtfully listening, only speaking when it's your turn.

He doesn't know what to say.

By the end, you...apologise.

For someone to finally acknowledge the wrongs that have been done against his own kind, the injustice the krogans continue to suffer to this day.

A salarian would've gone into a long tangent about why it was a necessary evil, an asari would've offered faux pity before reminding him of the shiny statue in the citadel as if that makes up for the billions of krogan stillborns every year. A turian would've acted as this was a righteous punishment, that krogans should never be trusted until they prove they're capable of civility.

But you, human...Shepard, apologised.

Next time you stop by, he doesn't know why he even brings up the family crest. The rotten armour has been buzzing at the back of his mind like an annoying fly.

Wrex just blurted it out, his tongue loose around you for some reason, something he noticed but was still in denial about–either way, you make a promise to retrieve it.

He snorts.

Okay, he'll believe it when he sees it, Shep.

...

..

.

Standing there in front of the platinum wall locker, Wrex claws tremble as he opens the door. The urge to dislodge the thing from its hinges gnaws at the back of his mind, but he resists it. He knows better than to risk damaging the container of what's supposed to be a centuries old piece of armour.

He can't fucking believe his eyes.

It's there, in his hand. As ugly and vile smelling as he imagined.

And you by his side, you pawny little human who invaded this base like a storm, what a deadly force you are.

For the first time in decades, Wrex is hopeful again. Shepard reignited the flame of determination that always were inside him, the same snuffed out so cruelly by his father that forsaken day.

-

He followed you to Virmire, fully ready to risk his life for your cause. Not out of some obligation or contractual work, but because he believed in it, he believed in you, commander.

So why can't you extend him the same courtesy? Why must you oppose him when a cure is practically at the tip of his fingers?

It pains him as he raises the gun, the same sting he felt the day he drove the knife into his father's chest, the same despair wrangling his heart the day he put a bullet through his only friend's skull.

You expressed your sympathy for the tragedy of his people, didn't you? Or was it just a game of pretend to gain his trust?

So why can't you understand!

You of all people! He thought you would understand better than anyone.

But he doesn't pull the trigger.

You raise your gun, both of you know it won't do shit against him. A krogan shell can endure many bullets before any real damage is done, your squishy skin however? Yeah, not so much so.

No. The gun was akin to a flare instead. Gives a good reason for your crew to come running to your aid, for the salarian special unit to herald a shower of bullets upon him under the guise of "defending the human soldiers"

It will spell his doom in a much more painful way than the simple bullet he planned to plant directly into your heart ever could've.

The singular delicate human heart, how small it must be inside your chest. Yet this one fragile organ infected his three sturdy hearts with its determination.

How you risked your one heart for him that day you helped him retrieve his family crest.

Wrex...

is tried.

Beyond anything, he is so tried and sick of constantly fighting all the time.

He lowers his gun.

Yet the soldiers around you don't lower theirs until you do.

He tries not to let it get under his skin.

He fails.

Swallowing his pride, Wrex recollects the remains of his dignity. He must be in control of his emotions, never show too much fury, otherwise the world will weaponise it against him, claiming this is exactly why krogans don't deserve to join the rest of the galaxy yet.

They can choke on his dick.

-

There are just so many other scenes! I can go on forever.

The biggest one of them all, Grunt and how his whole mission could be interpreted as the best romance subplot between Wrex and Shepard.

Shep finds a Krogan teen who's going through puberty and what's your next course of action? Take him to his homeplanet and visit your ex the Krogan you may or may not have had a situationship with, the one you inspired to change his entire life, to go make a difference in the world.

Shep is Wrex's biggest muse, a nymph from the woods that flipped his world upside down. More deadly and dangerous than all the other warriors he has ever seen, as determined and inspiring as the greatest leaders. The krogan equivalent of a warrior angel.

And what does he do when this Valkyrie whom he thought had died walks back into his life so casually?

He is absolutely rejoiced. Couldn't give less of a shit about Cerberus or anything. Shepard is still Shepard, and you're here, alive, well, in front of him. As gorgeous as the day he lost you.

Not only that, but you came with a child. And you're asking him for guidance and help on raising him? Shepard, you shouldn't toy with a man's heart this much. Otherwise, he'll get the wrong impression.

Wrex practically treats Grunt as his own son and adopts him by the end of the mission. Not only that, but there is a big chance the "mating request" sent in for Shepard afterwards was actually Wrex's.

You get to play family for a day. Your son is just as powerful as you are. Wrex gets a glimpse of what it would've been like to raise him by your side, the life he could've had with Shepard.

But he cannot, he has obligations, ones he actually likes this time around. The krogans need a leader, the planet needs restoration. It's time to take responsibility for the state of his homeworld and not just chalk it up to "how krogans always were" Because that's simply not true.

The women remember it, their art, history, and beautiful complex culture. The men have gone senile with the war, Wrex needs to beat some sense into them. He'll drag all the clans with him to a better life whether they like it or not

And part of him...well. He knows you're the one he wants most, but is he the one you really want? Everyone in your crew is already drooling over you, Wrex is more dignified than to be just another obnoxious suiter chasing after you.

Not to mention, it's part of his job to get married to a krogan so the clans get another leader. You're a human, it will never work out. You have your own life, your own obligations and mission to save the galaxy.

It makes his dream to restore his planet pale in comparison, but Wrex isn't so fragile in his security that he'd get intimidated by that. If anything, it makes him yearn for you even more, admire you whole, impressed by your every achievements that outweigh his, rather than trying to dampen your blinding brightness.

Maybe, in the–hopefully near–future, your children and his can play together on this very same land. But instead of rubble, it will be grassy fields, you and Wrex taking a stroll in the gardens nearby while watching over both of your kids.

And for a moment, Wrex can close his eyes and pretend the ring pressing gainst his skin as he holds your hand, is a one that he gave you.

Would it be Wrex Shepard or would you prefer the Urdnot lastname?

Don't tell him.

He'd rather dream.

He earned it, after all that he sacrificed and everything gave in order to restore the glory to his people, he earned the right to dream.

[2-cal-2-furious]

thoughts on being engaged to duke!sunday, the head of the oak family, an incredibly influential figurehead within society, the close subordinate of emperor gopher wood who brought him and his sister in and raised him like his own, and the villain who faces a tragic ending in a novel you recently finished — the very same one you just so happen to find yourself transmigrated into. he is as cunning as he is blinded, a trait which brought ruin to many in the empire, and one which ultimately brought ruin to himself at the hands of the protagonists.

as luck would have it, you became a barely mentioned side character from a marquis family, whose role was to be the villain's wife stuck in a one-sided love who, too, would get caught up in the tragedy alongside him. however, now that it's you who is stuck in this position, you're determined to try any means necessary to deter him from going down that path, all in an effort to escape your predestined doomed fate!

of course, you didn't expect it to be easy. the day of your arrival in this world was already the night before your wedding, so you had little time to prepare yourself for the nonchalance of your supposed family, how they viewed you as but a means — a tool — to boost their influence and prosperity, the dismissive mannerisms of the household servants, and the absolute beauty of a man you will be married to.

(seriously. the novel descriptions did not do him justice. he was like... like... like he was handcrafted by god himself! and not to mention his sister, robin, was the very epitome of an angel! perhaps you're destined to perish by the god-tier visuals instead...)

to say the least, the wedding ceremony went by quickly. safe to say you didn't spend the night; he was cordial and gentlemanly upon letting you know that he won't do anything until you're ready, that you can take this relationship slow, but somehow you ended up feeling a tad insulted. like, who leaves their newly wedded alone in a big cold bed as they walk out on their own? a sick bastard that's who!

well, whatever. it's not like you need nor want to consummate with him! besides, you have bigger things to worry about — things such as your impending death. and, of course, the only way to stop sunday that you can imagine working is by chipping away at his resolve bit by bit, and opening his eyes to reality.

he is a tragic character, one who cares more about the well-being of penacony and its people than anyone else, but was manipulated into getting his hands dirty in the emperor's stead. you knew this. you sobbed over his story, cursed out the protagonists, and even fought internet randos on novel forums about sunday's motivation and how,

no, he is not just a stupid villain. he is a complex character with flaws and humanity and was cruelly taken advantage of by someone he considered family. he was deceived through the suffering the emperor wanted him to see to make him easily manipulated, creating a rift between him and robin to have that prominent separation. you know what? maybe you're just a !%#@ who can't even #@?"% read properly!

and yet you still find yourself at a loss when faced with the walls he has in place. your initial efforts went as well as it possibly could have; you trying to earnestly help him, while he "kindly" dismisses your offers! well, "kindly" being more condescending since you could read between the lines of his mannerisms and amiable demeanour, but that's fine! you expected this! that just means you have to double down on your sincerity, get through to his heart (somehow), and help him realise humanity isn't as weak as he's led to believe!

you have three years until the novel's plot officially starts, and another year after that until your demise. that's plenty of time to get him to warm up to you!

it was easier said than done, but after your valiant effort and abundance of time put into this relationship, which admittedly you could do with some of that lost time back, you could give yourself a pat on the back with the progress you made! while you definitely could have done without a lot of the headaches, it's safe to say sunday has significantly warmed up to you in comparison to your wedding day. he now willingly eats all his meals with you with some real conversation, takes garden strolls with you in the early evenings, invites you out for dinner at a restaurant at least four times a week, hell he's even joked and laughed with you more frequently! but most importantly, he has begun asking for your opinion before finalising any decisions he is required to make. and he actually listens and considers your side! now, that certainly is the best outcome you could hope for after all this time, and it most definitely will help in your endeavour to save you both from the protagonists!

however, you've noticed he's been more... affectionate? well, at the very least he now willingly holds your hand when in private (not just in moments when you're in the public eye and he has to make sure the family's reputation is spotless), sometimes he will hug you out of the blue ("i just need to... recharge. you have a way of calming me down. i hope you don't mind." ...how could you say no to his supreme god-tier face card? that's just a losing battle you won't even bother fighting against.), oftentimes he opts to just gaze wordlessly at you (robin had mentioned over one of your tea times how it almost appears as though there is no one but you in the world when sunday gazes at you with, in her words, "the eyes of a man so deeply in love!" ...whatever that's supposed to mean...), but a more recent development has been his sudden interest in kissing you; well, more specifically giving you a kiss to the back of your hand or on your forehead — certainly not anywhere near the lips! (besides, he's probably just gotten comfortable with you, enough where he can freely act without judgement. nothing more, nothing less.)

well, either way, development is development! soon enough, the time for the main plot to start has arrived. it of course follows what you remember, from the organised balls to the protagonists meeting to the political aspects of it all. the only difference is sunday's less active involvement in all the schemes and the emperor's ploy. rather, he seems more focused on you and the future of your marriage and even displayed a sudden interest in your practically non-existent relationship with one of the foreign diplomats, aventurine— wait...

"[name]," he calls your name out so sweetly you nearly disregarded it as someone else he was talking to. well, perhaps you would have done had he not suddenly appeared before you, a tight-lipped smile tugging the corners of his lips as he steadily approaches you.

oh. he doesn't seem very happy, if his tense figure is anything to go by. you wonder if one of the nobles grated his nerves a little too much this time?

sunday comes to a halt a step away from you. "i don't like that... gambler being so close to you. it... it brings me a rather unpleasant feeling." there's a slight, trembling pause. not a moment later does he close the gap between you, one knee on the ground as he matches your seated height on the fountain rim, your hands gently enclosed in both of his.

you idly wonder if this is what robin meant by the so-called "eyes of a man so deeply in love" she constantly gushed about, for the way in which he gazes up at you is enough to render you breathless.

"tell me, [name]," he begins once more. there is an underlying desperation woven within his tone, one which has your head spinning and heart thumping wildly as his trembling gaze holds you in place. "tell me, what am i to do with this fervent love and overwhelming adoration i hold for you?"

oh.

...oh.

perhaps your impending doom should be the least of your concerns when you now find yourself in the arms of a clingy husband...

(though, it's safe to say you did, in fact, manage to prevent him from succumbing to his tragic fate! you just gained a loving, yet slight slightly emotionally challenged husband along the way.

well, you can help him work through it; you have the rest of your lives now to figure it out, after all.)

[2-cal-2-furious]

(KILLER CHAT) RONIN X READER

Every time Ronin kisses you, you feel his grin on your mouth.

Not that it's the worst thing. Objectively, this should be the least of your worries. But sometimes his teeth knock against yours, and it feels like you're middle-schoolers trying your hand at a sweet first kiss. You kiss and kiss and kiss again — it never seems to go away, that damning smile of his. So you talk to him.

"Ronin," you tell him breathlessly one time, your face a hair's breadth from his; your eyes hazy, lazy, and half-lidded, "I can't kiss you properly if you keep smiling and laughing."

He'd only grinned again: a sly, sly thing. His thumb traces circles under your jaw. "Thought I was kissin' you pretty well there, baby. Weren't you enjoying it at all?"

"Ronin," you try again — but he outright laughs, this time, and you flush indignantly.

"So desperate, so pathetic," he says, and presses his joyous mouth right on yours. It lasts: one moment, two moments, three moments, four. Just as you begin to melt into him, he pulls away. Ronin laughs again at the look on your face: want, want, want. "What a pretty, pathetic darlin'. All for me, hm?"

 You sigh, leaning down to hide your face in his neck. "God, you're horrible."

He gasps mockingly. "Fuck, really? Hadn't noticed."

"Ronin."

"And to ask me to give up one of my only means to express joy?" he continues, thumbing at the space under your ear. You shiver, sighing into his neck. "Such a cruel lover. You're trying to ruin me, aren'tcha?"

"Fuck you," you mutter, eyes fluttering shut.

"Brutal," Ronin says, grinning, and coaxes you from your hiding spot. "Fuckin' wicked, baby." 

When he kisses you again, you think he's doing it on purpose: bumping his teeth into yours, his lips slipping past your own and onto your cheek; and his smile, stretching wider than ever.

[2-cal-2-furious]

Metal Band Guitarist Ronin x Drummer MC?? 👀👀👀

What is taken, is given

( killer chat ) ronin x reader ... band au ... given inspired

trigger warning:

character death / mention of suicide

slight gore

Drumming was your means of survival, not just music. From the moment you were old enough to hold sticks in your small, trembling hands, you felt it deep in your marrow. At five, you didn't know what rhythm was in any formal sense, but you knew how it felt. It was the wild, chaotic thudding of your own heart, the pounding of your feet as you ran barefoot across cracked pavement, the desperate, incessant hum of staying alive in a world that always felt too sharp – and you did it.

At six, you built your first drum kit. You used whatever you could find: old pots and pans, coffee cans, anything that could take the beating of your hands. The skin on your palms split sometimes, little rivers of red tracing the lines of your tiny fingerprints. You didn't care. The pain was nothing. It was just a necessary offering to summon the sound.

The drumsticks came later, as a gift from someone whose name you don't even remember. You held them in your fists like weapons, determined to beat the silence into submission. Every strike of wood against metal or plastic sent vibrations through your arms, shaking loose the tension that lived in your small body like a parasite. You hit harder and harder, chasing a release you knew was coming.

By seven, your passion had become an all-consuming obsession. You carved patterns into the walls with the tips of your sticks, tracing rhythms you had to unleash. Your parents yelled, but you were too busy listening to the pounding in your head to hear them. You were too busy listening to the ghost of a snare drum that hadn't been born yet, the phantom echo of a kick drum that lived only in your dreams.

The neighbours complained about the noise, but I told them noise was better than silence. Silence was suffocating. It was a gaping maw that swallowed you whole and left you stranded in your own thoughts. The drums were loud, messy and alive. Each hit was a defiant scream of existence, a reminder that you were still here, still fighting.

At eight, you got your first real drum kit – a battered, secondhand set someone had abandoned in a garage sale. It was a Frankenstein monster of mismatched pieces: a snare with a dented head, a kick drum missing its front skin, cymbals with cracks spidering through their edges. But to you, it was beautiful.

You bled for that kit, and you meant every drop. Your hands bled, forming blisters that popped and reformed, leaving streaks of red on the drumheads. The sight of it made you feel alive in a way you could not and would not explain. Pain was part of the process. It was the cost of creating something that felt bigger than yourself.

By nine, you knew drumming had changed you. It was more than just a hobby. It was a transformation. When you played, you were no longer the quiet, awkward kid who flinched at loud voices and harsh words. You transformed into something else, something raw and primal, someone who demanded to be acknowledged.

The drums demanded everything from you. You practised for hours until your arms ached and your muscles trembled under the strain. You kept going despite the fatigue, the sweat dripping into your eyes, the sting of salt mixing with the rawness of your skin. You played until the world narrowed to nothing but the rhythm, the sound, and the motion.

At ten, you grasped the darker side of your passion. The drums were more than just an escape; they were an outlet for everything you couldn't say and everything you couldn't feel safely. Anger, fear, despair – they all came pouring out in relentless cascades of sound. Sometimes you hit so hard that the sticks splinter in your hands, the shards cutting into your skin. You'd pick them out later, and they'd be there, tiny splinters embedded like memories you couldn't quite shake.

The kit was the target of your wrath. The skins were stretched taut like a body under stress, taking every blow without complaint. But it wasn't enough. The noise wasn't loud enough. The strikes weren't hard enough. You wanted to fly, to break free from the crushing weight of expectation that hung over you like a guillotine.

Your parents simply didn't understand. They called it a phase, but I know better. I'll grow out of it. They scolded you for making too much noise and spending too much time on something that didn't matter. The drums mattered more to you than anything. They were your voice when words failed, your lifeline when the world became too much.

The beat was relentless and unyielding. It followed you everywhere, even in your dreams. You'd wake up with your fingers twitching, mimicking the patterns you had played earlier. The rhythms lived in your body, a second pulse that kept you grounded even when everything else threatened to fall apart.

But the passion came at a cost. Your hands were a patchwork of scars, the skin rough and calloused. Your back ached from hours of leaning over the kit, and your ears rang from the constant crash of cymbals. You questioned whether you were destroying yourself, piece by piece, for the sake of the sound.

And yet, you simply couldn't stop. The drums were my addiction, my need as essential as breathing. You played through the pain, through the exhaustion, through the doubts that crept in when the world grew quiet. You did not let anything stop you. When you played, you felt invincible, untouchable, alive.

By the end of each session, the drumheads were streaked with sweat and sometimes blood, the sticks worn down to nubs. The room reeked of exertion, determination, and endurance. You sat there, breathless, staring at the kit as if it were a living thing, a beast you had tamed for a fleeting moment.

The drums defined you. They were your identity, the thing that set you apart from those who drifted through life without purpose. They were your rebellion against the silence, your refusal to fade into the background – and you made that clear. And even as they demanded more and more from you, you gave willingly, knowing that the cost was worth it.

The drums were your lifeline, not just music. In a world that often didn't make sense, they were the only thing that did. As long as you had them, you knew you could keep going, keep fighting, keep living. It hurt, but you kept going. Even if it bled.

The drumsticks felt weightless in your hands at first, like extensions of your own body. You joined the band at fourteen and it was everything for a while. The beat became your heartbeat, the rhythm your breath. It was freedom, pounding through your veins as the snare and cymbals roared beneath your touch. When you played, the world faded. The noise inside your head was drowned out by something louder, something yours.

You met him there, the boy who would change everything. He was sharp and edgy, with soft eyes that fascinated you from the start. He played the bass with an effortless ease that made you jealous. His name was Ezra, and when he smiled, the world tilted.

At first, it was just stolen glances and shared laughs between sets. But it didn't take long for something deeper to grow. He saw you in a way no one else ever had. He peeled back the layers you'd carefully constructed and touched something raw inside you. He made you feel like you were living, not just surviving.

You loved the nights. After practice, you sat on the hood of his car, legs dangling over the edge, talking about everything and nothing. He lit a cigarette, the cherry glowing like a tiny ember in the darkness, and you watched the smoke curl into the air, wishing you could be as free as it looked.

You fell in love quietly, like slipping into a warm bath. It wasn't sudden or dramatic, but it consumed you all the same. You didn't tell him right away, but you didn't have to. You were confident that he would understand. He knew. You could see it in the way he looked at you. He looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in a room full of people.

He kissed you for the first time behind the venue after your first gig. Your hands were shaking, not from nerves but from the adrenaline of the performance, and he grabbed them to steady you. His lips were soft and tentative, and you felt something inside you crack open, like the world was finally letting a little light in.

But light doesn't last.

You didn't see the darkness creeping into him at first. He concealed it skilfully, masking it behind his genial demeanor and keen intellect. But there were moments, brief but intense, when the mask came undone. You'd catch him staring into the distance, his eyes hollow, as if he was somewhere else entirely. When you asked, he simply shrugged it off with a smile that was too quick and too practiced.

The fights started small, with inconsequential issues that were easily overlooked. He'd snap at you over a missed note or disappear for days without explanation. You told yourself it was normal, that everyone had bad days, but you knew better.

Then came the silence. This wasn't the kind of quiet you found comforting, like the pause between drumbeats. It was stifling, laden with all the words he chose to leave unsaid. He stopped coming to practice and stopped answering your calls. The band felt empty without him. It was like a song missing its melody.

You found him one night, slumped against the wall of his room, the floor littered with empty bottles and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale, and he looked at you as if he didn't even recognise you. He told you he was fine, but you knew he wasn't.

You didn't know how to save him, but you were going to find out.

You were the one who found him when it happened. That memory is seared into your mind, a wound that never stops bleeding. You can still see the crimson pooling around his wrists, the stillness of his body in the dim light of his room. The bass guitar he loved so much was leaning against the wall, untouched, as if mocking you.

Your scream was inhuman. It felt like something was ripping you apart from the inside, shredding every part of you that had ever felt whole. You fell to your knees, your hands shaking as you tried to stop the bleeding, even though you knew it was too late.

The funeral was a blur. A cacophony of muffled sobs and whispered condolences that meant nothing. You refused to look at his parents, unable to bear the weight of their grief, which mirrored your own. You sat in the back, your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palms until they drew blood.

Drumming was no longer an option. The sticks felt foreign in your hands, the beats hollow and meaningless. Every time you touched the drum set, you saw his face, heard his laugh, and felt the weight of his absence like a phantom limb. The music that had once saved you now felt like a curse.

You tried to move on, but the guilt was relentless. You replayed every moment in your head, searching for the signs you'd missed and the things you could have done differently. You told yourself it was your fault. If you'd been better and stronger, he'd still be here.

The band simply couldn't go on without him. The others tried to keep it going, but it was obvious it wasn't the same. The rhythm was all wrong and the energy was gone. You drifted apart, each of you bearing your own burden of grief and scars.

Nights were the worst. The silence that once comforted you now felt like a void, engulfing you. You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, your mind a whirlwind of memories and regrets. You reached for the drumsticks, then stopped. The weight of them was too much to bear.

You dreamed of him sometimes. In your dreams, he was alive, smiling, his hands warm against your skin. But even in the dreams, you saw the shadow behind his eyes, a stark reminder that he was gone. You wake up gasping, tears streaming down your face.

You cut music out of your life for a while because the sound was too painful. Even the sound of a snare drum in a passing car made your chest tighten. The memories flooded back in vivid, agonising detail.

People told you it would get better, that time would heal the wound. They were wrong. But it didn't. The wound wasn't healing. It was festering and infecting every part of you until you didn't recognise yourself anymore.

And yet, deep inside, you knew that you couldn't let go completely. You kept his bass guitar, even though you didn't want to play it. You kept the setlists from your gigs, the ones he'd scribbled on, his handwriting messy but unmistakable.

You carried him with you, in every note you couldn't play and every beat you couldn't hit. He's gone, but he's still there. He's a ghost haunting the spaces between the rhythms of your life.

You were unsure if you'd ever find your way back to the drums, but you knew one thing for certain: the silence was unbearable. And you know what? One day, you'll find a way to fill it again.

Graduation was coming, and you knew it was a milestone you should have been celebrating. Instead, it felt like a noose tightening around your neck. The cap and gown hung in your closet, their fabric ghosting against your fingers every time you reached for something else. People called this time of life bittersweet, but you knew it was only bitter – a cruel joke wrapped in the pretence of moving forward.

The halls of your high school were the same as they'd always been, but you could feel them emptying around you. Your past lover's absence clung to you like smoke, lingering in places where he used to stand, in the faint echoes of laughter that would never return. The band was gone, and so was he, and without them, every passing day felt more hollow than the last.

Your classmates spoke about college, careers and futures, their voices ringing out like a chorus around you. You nodded when they asked about your plans and offered vague smiles when they asked how you were doing. But inside, you knew you were spinning your wheels in the mud. What future could there possibly be without him? What future could there be without music? The guilt tightened its grip on you with every congratulatory word, their smiles blind to the storm raging behind yours.

On good days, you felt numb. On bad days, you felt like the wound your past lover left behind was bleeding all over again, staining every part of you that tried to move on. Nights were the worst – long, suffocating stretches of time where the silence grew louder than anything else. The nightmares were relentless, dragging you back to the moment you found him, to the stillness of his body, to the crimson that refused to leave your hands no matter how many times you tried to scrub it away.

There were moments when you felt his absence acutely, even in the ordinary things. An empty chair in the classroom, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke as you passed someone on the street, the strum of a bass in a song you hadn't heard in years. Each reminder cut deeper than the last. The universe itself seemed to be conspiring to keep him fresh in your mind.

You stopped telling people about the dreams. They simply didn't understand how vivid and real they felt. In them, he was alive and kicking. He was vibrant, laughing, teasing you about your drumming or sharing secrets under the stars. You'd wake up gasping, reaching for something that wasn't there, and the crushing weight of reality would settle back over you like a shroud.

The graduation rehearsals felt like another cruel reminder. The stage where you'd receive your diploma stretched out in front of you, a symbol of achievement you didn't care about. Your past lover had always joked about the future, about how he'd watch you play drums on bigger stages one day. You were stepping onto this stage without him, and you were going to own it.

The school counsellors advised you to speak to someone, but you were not prepared to do so. What could they possibly say that would make a difference? The guilt was too deeply rooted and the pain too sharp. You were walking through life with open wounds, and talking would not sew them shut.

Your parents tried to help, but they didn't understand. Graduation was a celebration and a reason to push forward for them. They failed to grasp the immense weight it carried for you. Every step towards that stage felt like a step away from the life you'd known, the life you'd lost.

You avoided the drums altogether, unable to touch them without feeling like you were desecrating something sacred. They sat in the corner of your room, gathering dust, a monument to what used to be. The silence they left behind was deafening and it seeped into every part of your life.

Your friends invited you to parties, to hangouts, to plans for after graduation, but you turned them down. The effort it took to be around people was too much, and the idea of pretending to be okay was exhausting.

The weight of it all grew heavier with each passing day, a constant pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. You knew you didn't deserve to be here, to graduate, to move forward. Your past lover was supposed to be here too, and without him, it all felt meaningless.

Some nights, you sat on the edge of your bed, staring at the crumpled graduation invitation on your desk. You thought about the future you once dreamed of, the one where your past lover was by your side, where the band was still together, where the music still made sense. That future was a cruel joke, a distant echo of something you could never have.

But deep down, you knew you could keep going. For him. For the dreams you shared. You knew you would play that music again, even if you couldn't bring yourself to do so.

You didn't know what graduation would bring, but you were determined to find out. You were equally determined to find out if you'd ever feel whole again. But you knew one thing for certain: your past lover would not have wanted you to stop. He wouldn't have wanted the music to die with him.

As the day drew closer, you tried. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't pretty, but you did it anyway. You found the rhythm again, picked up the pieces of yourself that had shattered when he left. And you found a way to carry him with you, not as a weight but as a reminder of the love you'd shared, the music you'd created, and the life you'd both fought so hard to live.

The desperation gnawed at you, testing the limits of your resolve until you felt raw and hollowed out by the need for something—anything—that could keep you afloat. The debts piled high, each letter in the mail like a strike to the chest, each reminder that you were sinking faster than you could swim. There was no doubt about it. The job interviews blurred together, and each rejection weighed heavily on your shoulders. By the time you met him, exhaustion had become a part of you, as natural as your heartbeat.

It was in some dimly lit corner of the city, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and smoke, a cacophony of sounds ringing in your ears. You strode purposefully to the door, your steps faltering only briefly as you pushed it open. The music inside was loud and raucous, the kind of noise that made your bones ache. That was when you saw him – Ronin.

He stood like he owned the world, the stage his throne and the guitar in his hands a weapon. Every note he played was violent, shredding through the air with a ferocity that felt almost tangible. His grin was sharp, cocky and infuriating. It was the kind of smile that made you want to punch him as much as it made you want to stare.

You stayed because you didn't know why. He played with such passion, it was as if he was bleeding onto the strings, every note a cut across his soul. He commanded the room. His presence was magnetic, pulling you in despite yourself. Or perhaps it was simply that you had nowhere else to go.

The show ended and the crowd dispersed, leaving behind the faint buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses. You stayed, lingering near the bar, and you were going to ask him anything – work, connections, a sliver of opportunity. He approached you instead, his smirk even more infuriating up close.

"You look like you've got nowhere better to be," he said, his voice a low drawl that carried over the din of the room.

You were offended but you stayed. "And you look like you enjoy hearing yourself talk."

He laughed, a sharp, biting sound, and you hated how it made something inside you twist. He introduced himself with the kind of arrogance that made you want to roll your eyes. He was Ronin, guitarist, metalhead, and self-proclaimed genius. But there was something there, something raw and jagged that mirrored the chaos inside you.

He offered you a job soon after. It wasn't a glamorous job and it wasn't something you could put on a resume, but it paid well. You'd be a roadie, a band assistant, hauling equipment and dealing with their mess. You weren't going to take it. You didn't want to be around him. His sharp tongue and sharp eyes made you feel uneasy. He seemed to see right through you. But you needed the money.

The first few weeks were hell. The band was loud, chaotic and constantly on the move. Ronin was worse. He was demanding and impossible to please. His expectations were as high as the volume of his guitar. But he was also brilliant, his talent undeniable. You couldn't help but admire him.

He pushed you, and it felt both infuriating and exhilarating. He challenged you, called you out on your bullshit, and made you feel things you hadn't felt in years. And at some point, the lines between anger and attraction got blurred.

The nights were the hardest. No doubt about it. The silence after the shows felt suffocating, the memories you tried to bury clawing their way to the surface. Your partner's ghost lingered in the quiet, his laugh echoing in the back of your mind, his absence a constant, gnawing ache in your chest. You hated how much you missed him and how much you hated yourself for moving on even a little.

Ronin noticed. He did, of course. He could see right through you and force the truth out of you, whether you wanted to share it or not. He didn't pry or push, but he was there, a constant, grounding presence that was also, infuriatingly, comforting.

He had the same effect on you as your past lover did. It wasn't about looks or actions. It was about how he made you feel. You realise you're not as broken as you thought. You knew there was still something left of you worth saving.

Ronin wasn't your past lover. You refused to let yourself forget that. He was unpolished and unyielding, a force of nature where your ex-lover had been gentle and composed. He was everything you weren't supposed to want and everything you weren't supposed to need.

And yet, you were drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. It was dangerous, and you knew it, but you couldn't stop yourself. He had a way of pulling you out of your head and making you forget how much it hurt to breathe.

The guilt gnawed at you, a constant reminder that you didn't deserve this. You knew you didn't deserve to feel anything but the pain you'd been carrying since the night you lost that lover. Ronin didn't let you wallow. He didn't let you drown.

He was your opposite: fire to your ice, chaos to your control, life to your grief. And for the first time in a long time, you knew you could survive this.

The work was hard, the days long, but you found solace in the rhythm of it. The music, the noise, the chaos – it was a different kind of drumming, one that made your blood sing in ways you hadn't felt in years. And Ronin was there, always there, proving you were never alone.

But the shadows still lingered, the ghosts still haunted you, and the scars you carried weren't so easily healed. You didn't know where this path would lead, but you were determined to find out if you could truly move on. But for the first time, you knew you didn't have to do it alone.

The stage lights blazed into your vision, intense and overwhelming, cutting through the smoky haze like a knife. Every time you sat behind the drum kit, it was like stepping into a war zone. The crowd roared like a tidal wave, their voices colliding and swirling into an unholy storm of sound that rattled your chest and shook your bones. The bass reverberated through your ribs with each beat, hammering against your skin as if it were trying to split you open. And at the centre of it all was Ronin, silhouetted in shadows, his guitar screaming like it was alive.

Playing in the band was pure chaos, an unstoppable force that burned through every part of you. The crash of the cymbals, the pound of the toms, the relentless heartbeat of the kick drum – it was all-consuming, a cacophony that drowned out the world. You hit harder than you needed to, driving the sticks into the drums with a force that seemed to try to punch through them. It was about survival, plain and simple. It was a primal release that kept the darkness at bay.

Ronin thrived in the chaos. His energy was infectious, wild, and unpredictable, and his riffs cut through the air like jagged glass. He locked eyes with you mid-song, his grin sharp enough to slice through the noise, and you hated how it made your heart race. He played with the intensity of a world-changing blaze, and you were just trying to keep up, to match his heat.

The band was a paradox: a sanctuary and a battlefield in one. The music was your armor, your shield against the grief and guilt that still lingered. It also tore you apart. Every song was an exorcism, dragging out the pain and anger you'd tried so hard to bury. You gave everything you had to the drums, every beat a scream, every rhythm a plea for something you couldn't name.

Ronin pushed you harder than anyone ever had. His demands were relentless and his standards were impossibly high. He didn't coddle you. He didn't let you falter, and he didn't let you fail. He was harsh on the critiques, rare on the praise, but when he did nod in approval, it felt like you'd conquered something insurmountable. You hated him for it, but you respected him even more for it.

The music couldn't always mask the pain. No matter how hard you tried to drown it out, the grief clawed its way to the surface on those nights. On those nights, you found yourself watching Ronin from across the room. You saw how he tuned his guitar with precise, almost obsessive care. You saw how his fingers moved over the strings like they were extensions of himself. His intensity and focus made you feel less alone, even if he never said a word.

The band's dynamic was volatile, with a constant push and pull between chaos and control. Fights erupted over nothing and everything. There were creative differences, missed cues and a lot of tension simmering beneath the surface. Ronin was often at the centre of it, and you found yourself clashing with him more often than not, because his temper was as fiery as his playing. But the fights never lasted. The music always brought you back together. It was a shared language that transcended words.

On stage, the world fell away. There was only the music, the lights, the crowd, and the feeling of being part of something larger than yourself. Ronin's guitar roared and howled, his solos cutting through the air like a blade, and you were his backbone, the steady rhythm that grounded the chaos. Together, you created something raw and alive, something that felt like it could shatter the world.

Things were messier offstage, without a doubt. The long nights, the endless miles on the road, the pressure to keep up the momentum – it all took its toll. The camaraderie you felt on stage didn't always translate to real life. There were times when the silence between you and Ronin felt heavier than the music ever could.

But there were moments of clarity, too. The walls came down, if only for a second. Ronin had a way of surprising you. His sharp edges softened when you least expected it. A shared laugh over a stupid inside joke, a quiet conversation in the back of the van, the way he handed you a water bottle after a particularly gruelling set without saying a word – those moments were proof that staying was the right choice.

The music was catharsis, but it was also a constant reminder of what you'd lost. Every time you picked up the sticks, you thought of your past lover, of the way he used to watch you play with a smile that made your heart ache. The guilt was always there, a shadow that lingered at the edge of every note, but the band gave you a way to channel it, to turn it into something tangible, something real.

Ronin never asked about your past, and he didn't need to. He saw it in the way you played, in the way your hands trembled when you thought no one was looking, in the way your eyes glazed over when the memories became too much. He didn't pry or push, but his presence was unwavering and anchored you. It was more than enough.

You began to notice the little things about him: the way his jaw clenched when he was concentrating, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about a new riff, the way his laugh rumbled low and deep like distant thunder. You hated how much you noticed and cared, but you couldn't ignore it.

Ronin had a magnetic pull that drew you in, no matter what you wanted. He was everything you weren't supposed to want, everything you weren't supposed to need, but you couldn't stop yourself. He made you feel alive in a way you hadn't in years, and it terrified you, but you couldn't stop yourself.

The band was a lifeline, a chance to start over, but it was also a stark reminder that you couldn't outrun your demons. The ghosts of your past still haunted you, the scars still ached, but you faced them head-on with the help of music.

Ronin was a part of that, and you couldn't get away from it. He was fire and chaos, raw and untamed. He forced you to confront parts of yourself you'd rather leave buried. He challenged you, pushed you, and made you better. You hated him for it as much as you were grateful.

Every night on stage was a battle. A fight to prove to yourself that you could still create something beautiful despite the pain. The drums became an extension of yourself. Each beat was a heartbeat, each rhythm a reminder that you were still alive. And Ronin was there, always there, his guitar screaming alongside you, a partner in your chaos.

The band took you places you hadn't been before. They kept up a relentless pace, but you were up for the challenge. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were part of something bigger than yourself. The music was messy, chaotic and imperfect, but it was yours.

And so was Ronin. He was a part of this now, a part of you. Like it or not. He was a constant, a steady presence in the storm, and there was no way you could imagine doing this without him.

The road ahead was uncertain and the future was a blur, but you had the music, the band and Ronin, and that was all you needed. And that was enough.

The air backstage still hummed with the echoes of the performance. The thrum of the bass lingered in your bones, an electric pulse that refused to fade. The world was still reeling from the impact of the show, and your heartbeat thundered like a drumbeat, steady but intense. You wiped sweat from your brow, your fingers still slightly shaking from the adrenaline, but you were unphased. The crowd's roar was fading, but the rush was still there, and it wasn't going anywhere.

Ronin was there too, his presence unmistakable in the haze of the after-party noise. His fingers still curled around the neck of his guitar, as if the music hadn't left him. He was standing near the corner, his posture loose but guarded, looking more tired than he was willing to admit. His hair was tousled, wild from the heat of the stage, strands sticking to his face. His eyes, though, were bright and intense, burning through everything, searching, restless. You caught his gaze, and for a brief moment, the noise of the room dissolved, like a world where only the two of you existed.

He didn't smile yet, but his gaze softened just a little. You moved towards him, drawn by an invisible thread that had been there since the first chord you'd struck on the drums together. The silence between you was a low hum, an unspoken promise that the world around you had stopped for a moment.

The space between you shrank, and then your hand was at his side, boldly taking the lead, testing the waters with a tentative touch. He didn't pull away. His chest rose and fell with every breath, steady and strong, but you could feel the tension radiating off him. Your fingers grazed his arm, and you felt the heat pass through you, electric and alive. For a heartbeat, you both stood there, suspended in the moment, before he closed the distance between you.

Ronin was never one for gentleness, but there was something in the way he leaned in now, his mouth brushing against yours with a kind of quiet force, as if he had been waiting for this, too. His lips were warm and soft, urgent and insistent. The kiss was a slow unravelling, like a thread being pulled through fabric, one inch at a time, making you shiver from the intensity of it.

It was more than just passion, more than just heat. There was something deeper in the way he kissed you. It was unspoken, raw, as though both of you had been waiting to be seen in this way for so long, and now, at last, you were. The world around you blurred, dissolved completely, and it was just the two of you in the quiet of the backstage, the weight of the unspoken between your breaths.

His hands found your shoulders, fingers pressing down and pulling you closer. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he needed to be closer, needed to feel the heat of you against him. You kissed him back, slow and deliberate, savouring the moment. He responded with equal intensity, deepening the kiss and pulling you into him even more.

The sounds of the backstage, the chatter, the music still playing faintly in the distance – all of it faded, leaving only the pulse of the kiss. Your heart pounded against your chest, matching the rhythm of the music you had just played, as if it were still alive within you. Ronin's grip tightened on you, his touch possessive and powerful, igniting a deep, primal response. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, an answer to everything you had been too afraid to say out loud.

For a moment, you felt as if you were on fire. His mouth moved against yours with such intensity, such fervour, that you were consumed by the heat of it, flooded every inch of your body with sensation. You could feel the urgency in him, the way he needed you close, like he couldn't breathe unless you were there. His hand moved to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer until there was no space between you.

Your hand slid around his waist, feeling the tension in his muscles and the smooth curve of his back as he pressed against you. The kiss was slow and deliberate, yet there was an undeniable intensity and a slow-burning desire that surged through both of them. His lips tasted like the night – sweat, smoke and something wild, something untamed.

The kiss went on longer than you thought it would. It went on longer than you expected it could. By the time you pulled away, you were both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other, the air thick with the weight of what had just happened. You could feel the faint thrum of his heartbeat under your hand where it rested on his chest. In that moment, you knew you were close to him and needed him.

He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, but his eyes never left yours. There was no awkwardness between you. You understood each other, you accepted each other. You didn't need to say anything. The silence between you said it all.

At last, you knew you were where you were meant to be. The world outside of this moment didn't matter. The band, the crowds, the wreckage of your past – none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was here, now, with Ronin. And even though the music would continue to play, even though the world would continue to turn, for just a few minutes, the only thing that was real was the quiet between the two of you, the feeling of his breath on your skin, and the shared silence that told you everything you needed to know.

The kiss was the beginning. It ignited something between you. 

Ronin's lips still tasted of you, lingering in the cool air between you both as you stood there, bodies close but not quite touching. Your heart beat strongly in your chest, a steady rhythm that pulsed beneath the heavy silence. The weight of your lost boyfriend still sat on your shoulders, heavy like a stone you had carried for far too long. But now, there was something else. Something warm, new and undeniable was there, like the dawn breaking through the darkness.

You didn't know how it had happened, but you knew when you had crossed that line from mourning to moving on. And you could feel it now. Ronin is not a replacement, he is not a shadow of what you have lost. He was his own person, a force to be reckoned with, raw and real. The love you had for your late boyfriend still lingered, like the scent of old roses. But it wasn't the same kind of love anymore.

The quietness was a stark contrast to the pain of loss, but it was not overwhelming. It wasn't suffocating you, not like it once was. You could still see your late boyfriend in the corners of your mind and hear his voice in the back of your thoughts, but now it was distant and faded. A memory you can revisit, but not live in forever. You had been carrying that grief, that love, as if it was a burden. Now, with Ronin, you could set it down gently, just for a moment, and let it breathe. Breathe.

Ronin's eyes were fixed on you, searching, as if he too had felt the shift between you. His fingers twitched, a subtle movement as if he was waiting for you to speak. But there was nothing to say, not yet. You had to get the words out, but they were still tangled in your throat, wrapped around the pain of the past and the warmth of what you felt now. No words were needed, not now. The moment between you two stretched on, infinite in its quiet understanding.

You loved him. You felt it deep in your bones: this strange new love blossoming in the wake of the past. Ronin was not just a replacement. He was not something to fill the space that had once been occupied by your late boyfriend. He was more than just a replacement. He was something entirely new, a person you could breathe with, a person you could grow into. You still loved your late boyfriend, but you were ready to move on. It was a gentler, more transient feeling, like a memory you can touch but not hold onto forever.

Ronin was someone you could love. He was chaotic and calm, contradictory and passionate. In that quiet moment, you realised you had already begun. You had already allowed him in. Slowly but surely. The space in your heart that had once been filled with grief had, over time, made room for something else. Something living. Something was here with you in this moment, not a ghost but a presence.

The kiss was the first step. It was the breaking of something, the opening of a door that had been locked for far too long. But now, it was more than just a kiss. This was the start of something new. It wasn't about erasing the past; it was about building on it. Like roots stretching into the earth, reaching for something that will nourish you and heal you.

As you stood there with Ronin, you felt the world opening up to you, full of possibilities you'd not believed in for a long time. The pain was still there, but it didn't control you. It does not define you. It was just a part of you, and you could sit with it next to the love you were beginning to feel for him, for Ronin, without it drowning you.

You didn't need to replace or force love. It wasn't something to be filled; it was a space to grow, stretch and bend. And now, with Ronin, you can let it stretch. You can let it fill you up again, but in a way that doesn't erase the past. It will make room for the future. Ronin was not a ghost. He was not a shadow. He was real. He was here.

[2-cal-2-furious]

You (And I):

Silco x f!reader - 2.6k words - SFW

cw: best friend!silco, fluff, banter, mutual pining, idiots in love, mentions of cat-calling and harassment (not silco), mentions of poverty, soft silco my beloved, a little bit of angst in the form of reader being anxious about not knowing who is climbing through the window, but it's just the boy

summary: Your best friend misses you, so the only logical solution is for him to climb through your bedroom window at three in the morning, without telling you beforehand… It’s a good thing that you love him (and it’s an even better thing that he loves you too).

It’s taking you a little bit longer than usual to drop off to sleep as you lie in bed, curled up under the covers, trying to keep as much warmth in as possible. Your room is right at the very top of your parents’ bar, The Last Drop, which is also where you’ve just started to work full-time instead of just the odd job you’d helped out with growing up.

But now, with money for food tight and the threat of closure even tighter, you’ve found yourself doing pretty much anything to help keep the bar afloat, from running errands and setting up during the day to serving customers all evening and cleaning up after a long night. 

Your first proper job; you’d think with how exhausted you were you’d drop to sleep the very second your head hit the pillow. 

Not tonight, it would seem. Tonight your mind appears to be far too preoccupied to let your body relax. 

Your train of thought easily wanders to what you’d usually be doing on a Friday evening. More often than not you’d be holed up in the corner of a tiny café, trying to read your book while Silco asked your opinion on every little detail of whatever scheme he was working on at the time. 

Or you’d be forcing Silco to give you a piggyback through the streets after raiding the market for the cheapest items you can find, Vander in tow carrying all the loot. 

You can’t help but smile at the memories, a fuzzy, warm feeling spreading through you at the recollection of your best friend. Just the thought of him calms you; your lighthouse even in absentia. 

And it seems to do the trick, eyelids just starting to feel too heavy to keep open, a sure indicator of incoming sleep, when a scrabbling noise outside your window causes you to frown.

…you really hope you don’t have rats again.

Of course, the sensible thing to do would be to get up and investigate. But you’ve only just gotten warm and sleepy, and not only is the window on the other side of the room, but you’re laying on your side with your back to the glass, and honestly who in their right mind would want to get up in the freezing cold just to have a staring contest with some rats?

Scrunching your eyelids even tighter closed, as if it would block out the sound, you attempt to lull yourself back into that bliss you were so close to achieving, vowing to deal with the little rodents in the morning.

Almost like magic, the scrabbling stops and you sigh in relief.

Until you hear the unmistakable sound of the window creaking open.

Your eyes shoot open and your blood begins to pump urgently around your body. 

Fuck, why didn’t you lock the window before getting into bed? You must’ve forgotten in your sleep deprived state. 

One hand slowly inches towards the knife you keep under your pillow as two, almost-silent thuds resonate across the floorboards. 

Your heart practically leaps in your chest when you hear a series of soft footsteps approaching your bed, but you manage to keep yourself as still as possible, your only movement hidden beneath your pillow as you grip the knife handle tight.

A beat. Then another, as you wait for the exact right moment with bated breath. 

The intruder pauses by your bed and you inhale sharply, preparing yourself to strike.

Without warning, you abruptly swing your body around, throwing off the covers as you blindly leap towards them.

But they’re faster, shoving you back down against the bed with their lithe body and clapping a hand over your mouth before you can even think to scream out.

The knife slips from your hand, leaving it to clatter to the floor while you thrash about in your assailant’s grasp. 

“Stop it, it’s just me!” a familiar voice hisses down at you, halting your movements instantly.

You gaze up at the figure in bewilderment, slowly but surely recognising those jet black waves and hooked nose with every rapid heartbeat. 

It’s just Silco. 

He must spot the very moment that recognition sparks in your eyes because he’s soon grinning down at you, boyish, slightly crooked, and entirely too cheeky for his own good.

“Hey,” he says smoothly.

You push him off you with an unamused scoff, aiming to send him tumbling off the bed as you sit up and try to calm your erratic breathing. 

No such luck though, he just stumbles to his feet and quickly drops down next to you on the bed while you plant your feet on the cold wooden boards, running your hands through your bedraggled hair. 

Silco’s hand rests gently against your lower back and you glance up at him from your hunched up position of elbows on knees, palms against your forehead. 

You’re filled with the sudden urge to yell at him. Loudly. 

But your parents are asleep and they’ll be positively furious if they discover Silco in your bedroom in the middle of the night, so you settle for hissing at the ridiculous boy like an angry cat. 

“What the fuck are you doing climbing through my bedroom window at half three in the morning?”

Silco appears completely unfazed. 

“I left my lockpick at home, so I couldn't get in through the front door,” he replies, swiftly dodging the smack you try to deliver to his arm and instead catching your hand to press a chaste kiss to your knuckles. “And I missed you.”

You roll your eyes and snatch your hand back, but you’re unable to prevent your heart from swelling in your chest at his sweet words. Damn that natural charm of his. 

Luckily, a glance down at the knife by your feet distracts your wandering heart. 

“Why didn’t you say anything? I could’ve stabbed you.”

“Nah, you couldn’t,” he says dismissively until you shoot him a murderous glare. He returns it with a nonchalant shrug. “Thought you were asleep.”

“So why even bother climbing in?” you ask with a frown. 

And then, from the corner of your eye, he begins to look the tiniest bit bashful, gaze dropping to the floor as he starts to draw random shapes on the material of his trousers with his nails. 

“I, uh… I was gonna wake you up and ask if you wanted to go skip stones in the river.”

Your expression drops as you slowly turn to stare at him, which he meets with a dorky little grin. You groan and flop back down onto your bed, swinging your feet up so you can lay your head against the pillow, completely and utterly exasperated. 

Your best friend has been possessed by a five-year-old boy, you’re sure of it. 

Silco watches your dramatic display with clear amusement. 

“I’m gonna take that as a no, then?” he asks. 

“How do you have so much energy?” you whine, throwing your arm up to hide your face in the crook of your elbow. “Didn’t you have work today?”

“I had some work today,” he says, eyes quickly darting away from you. “Just not at the mines.”

Now this causes you to frown, peering over your arm at his trying-too-hard-to-look-relaxed body language. 

“What kind of work?” you question, which he promptly ignores, so nudge him with your foot, concern growing by the second. “Sil… what kind of work?”

He lays down next to you, propped up on his side with one elbow, and starts absentmindedly playing with your hair. 

“So, how was your day? You didn’t get any creeps trying to feel you up again, did you?”

You sigh heavily, knowing you’re not going to get an answer to your question. To be honest, you wish you didn’t have to give one to his. 

It had only happened once or twice since you’d started working late shifts in the bar, and it hadn’t been as bad since your parents had begun to shut it down everytime a patron got a bit too touchy. 

But it still didn’t make it right. 

“No, just the odd comment,” you reply, suddenly overly-interested in your nails. 

Silco wraps his arm around you and pulls you onto your side so he can hold you against his chest, chin resting on the crown of your head. 

“I’ll hang around during your next shift and kill anyone who even looks your way,” he declares, with a ridiculous amount of conviction. 

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. Dramatic boy. 

“Don’t be stupid,” you say, lightly tapping your palm once against his back as a half-hearted scold. 

“You’re right,” he agrees with a resolute nod. “I’ll let you kill them yourself, you deserve it.”

Your sigh is laced with exasperation but you still shift to cuddle him properly, arms wrapped around his midsection. You just want to enjoy his presence while you have it, even if he is a pain in your ass. 

“I missed you too,” you say quietly after a peaceful silence, recalling his words from earlier. “It sucks working so much, I feel like I never see you anymore.”

“I know,” he hums soothingly, hand now rubbing tiny circles into the small of your back. “Just means we gotta make the most of the times we do.”

Snuggling him even tighter feels like the only appropriate response, so that’s what you do. 

You could honestly stay here forever. No responsibilities, no stress, just Silco. 

“You free tomorrow lunch? We could grab something to eat and then climb up to the roof of that factory by the river, if you want?” Silco asks. 

A warm smile tugs at your lips.

“Yeah, I’m free.” 

Your parents had been kind enough to give you the afternoon off tomorrow, but you were still expected to help out in the morning and evening as usual.

“Is Vander coming too?” you ask.

Silco shakes his head above you. 

“Nah.”

“Oh,” you respond, surprised the third member of your ragtag trio won’t be joining you. “Why not?”

“I thought it could just be a you and me thing, you know?” Silco reasons confidently, although you do spot just a hint of insecurity in his voice, like he’s nervous you’ll interrogate him further. 

Butterflies twirl through your stomach at the phrasing. You and him. You and Silco. A duet in this city of lonely hearts. 

“Okay. That sounds nice,” you say, trying to keep the smile out of your voice. 

He squeezes you once before he sits up a little, twisting around to pick the duvet up from off the floor. The covers are soon pulled over you both, where he tries to wrap his arms around you once more only to be met with you aiming little kicks at his legs. 

“Oi, shoes off, you heathen,” you demand, ripping the duvet away from him. “I just washed these.”

Seriously, you didn’t spend all morning washing, drying, and ironing all your clothes and bedding just for him to muddy them with his filthy shoes. Janna knows where he’s been in them or what he might’ve stepped in (especially considering you’ve never seen him clean them in all the years you’ve known him).

“Alright, alright,” he grumbles, muttering a sardonic little,“Bossy boots,” under his breath. 

Surprisingly, he does actually take the time to unlace them and even places them carefully under the bed, instead of just lobbing them across the room like you expect him to. 

Only then do you allow him back under the covers, shifting about until you’re both comfortable in each other’s arms, legs tangled together to ensure you’re as close as possible. 

“You know, you should really lock your bedroom window,” Silco comments after a few moments. “You never know who could be lurking about this time of night.”

You huff an amused breath through your nose.

“What, like you?”

“No, like some weirdo with nefarious ideas,” he insists, annoyed that you’re not taking him seriously.

You pull back in his arms to look him square in the face.

“...so, you?”

Silco pouts so adorably, you have to hold yourself back from just kissing him right there and then. 

“You’re mean,” he says, looking like a little boy who has just had one of his toys stolen in the playground.

In lieu of kissing him, you boop him on the nose with your finger and give him a cheeky, affectionate grin.

“You love it.”

But your heart sinks in your chest when Silco’s face drops, gazing at you intently as if he’s searching for something. Then his gaze darts away, the tips of his ears turning red, and you start to panic that you’ve said or done the wrong thing.

Instinctively, your hands hold him a little bit tighter, scared that he’ll just get up and go. 

“You know, my parents are going to kill me if they see us in bed like this,” you whisper over his shoulder, desperately trying to lighten the mood before he scarpers. 

“Well, as long as they don’t kill me, then that’s fine,” he whispers back, and you can tell by his timbre that he’s smiling through the words. 

You smack his shoulder, relief flooding through you in abundance. 

“Idiot.”

There’s a pause. 

Then, he says tenderly, (almost too tenderly for your poor heart).

“...Yes, but I’m your idiot.”

Patterns are happily traced against his back until you finally notice just how tired you are, leaning back to twist your head away from him so you can yawn into your hand. 

Silco watches you quietly, stroking your cheek with his thumb like a slow, soothing metronome. 

“You should get some sleep,” he says softly, his expression etched in quiet adoration. 

Your eyebrows lift at the sheer audacity. 

“Bitch, you’re the one who woke me up,” you protest sleepily.

He makes a show of turning to look over his shoulder and then back at you, pointing at his sternum with a quizzical frown. 

“Who? Me?”

So, you sneak your cold hands up against the back of his warm neck until he yelps. Silco wrestles your hands off his neck, clasping them in between his palms until he lets you tiredly wrestle them back and smoosh your face into his chest, giggling into the front of his shirt. 

He gently runs his hands through your hair as you both settle down once more, his own quiet laughter feeling like a blessing.

You almost don’t want to sleep now. You don’t want to miss any more time with him. 

“Sil?” you murmur. 

“Yeah, Squidge?” he replies.

Your nickname, from the time he threw a leftover tentacle at you from Jericho’s, named after the absolutely ridiculous noise it made when it slapped against your face. You love to hate it, which of course only makes Silco love it more. 

“We’re always gonna be best friends, right? No matter what?” you say, deep down hoping you don’t sound too clingy. 

You just can’t bear the thought of drifting apart from him. You honestly don’t know what you’d do without him. 

Luckily, he soothes your worries without even a hint of the usual teasing.

“Absolutely,” he affirms, carefully running his nails along your scalp in a calming, repetitive motion. “You’re stuck with me now, come rain or smog.”

“Good,” you nod happily. “Just checking.”

Basked in Silco’s warmth, you’re far too exhausted and cosy to fight against closing your eyes, drifting off to sleep while the boy presses a delicate kiss to your head. 

And right before you fall, he mumbles, oh so gently, into your hair.

“As if I’d want to be anywhere in this world except right here next to you, my perfect girl.” What a coincidence. There’s nowhere you’d rather be than right here, next to him.

[2-cal-2-furious]

another part of 'Drunk Mind, Sober Heart'? Yeees please

A/N: Thank you for requesting!! <3 -el x

young!silco x gn!reader, 2.7k words, SFW

Warnings: fluff, slight angst, hangovers, love confessions, slow dancing my beloved

Part 1 | Part 3

-

Up until now, you’d despised the nights when Silco got drunk because more often than not, it led to your heart breaking a little bit more each time he did. But the outcome of this particular drunken escapade had been the exact opposite. 

It had healed your heart in a way that you never thought would be possible.

You’d woken after a brief, restless sleep with Silco’s confession still rattling around in your head. Blankly staring at the ceiling, you’d then spent the next twenty minutes fighting the urge to scream in frustration, if only to avoid waking up the very man who was haunting your every thought.

He probably wouldn’t even remember that he said it, so what’s the point getting so screwed up about it?

No matter how much you tried to convince yourself that he was just drunk and definitely didn’t mean it, you couldn’t shake the feeling that alongside everything else he’d said and done last night, there was something more to it. 

Silco was known for choosing his words carefully, drunk or not. 

Driven by the need to check on him, you force yourself to get up and make your way down  the corridor to his bedroom, a heavy, indescribable feeling brewing in your chest with each trudging step. But he’s not there.

A quick check reveals that he’s not in the bathroom either, as you find the door wide open and the tiny room empty. 

Hmm. You really hadn’t expected him to be up so early, not with how much he’d obviously had to drink last night. 

So you begin to make your way down the stairs to the bar when the rolling sound of Silco’s voice halts you mid-step. You unceremoniously clutch onto the bannister to stop yourself from tumbling down the stairs, the old wood faintly creaking in the wake of your desperate motions.

Frozen in your tracks, you listen intently, trying not to make any noise that would reveal your presence. 

“Seriously, Vander, I’ve fucked everything up,” you hear Silco mutter in his rough morning voice, that always makes your heart feel all fluttery. 

“What exactly did you say?”

“I literally said goodnight, I love you,” Silco recounts, punctuating it with a heavy sigh. 

Ah. So he did remember. 

“Shit, Silco…” Vander exhales, “Well, do you?”

You wait in anticipation for a concerning amount of time, enough that your stomach begins to twist in horror at the very obvious silence. 

Maybe you had read it all wrong. 

Fuck, you’d gotten your hopes up for nothing when he was just drunk. You’d-

“Yeah, of course I do,” Silco finally replies, in a tone that leaves absolutely no room for interpretation. 

Your breath catches and it feels like the whole world has just burst into colour.

He loves you back. Silco loves you back. 

As you exhale shakily, you can’t help the giddy smile that takes over your face. 

But Vander’s voice soon cuts through the euphoria, “What are you gonna do now?” 

“I don’t know, I-”

A minute shift of your weight means that you accidentally hit the creaky part of the floorboard on the step, and you’re forced to continue your journey down the stairs in a panic, lest they figure out you were eavesdropping the whole time. 

As you enter the bar, walking as casually as you can, Silco’s gaze instantly snaps over to you and his eyes widen slightly, which you probably wouldn’t have noticed if you’d not been looking for it. He’s slumped on a bar stool whilst Vander is behind the bar, sluggishly cleaning a pint glass on auto-pilot. 

“Morning, boys, how’s the hangover treating you both?” you say cheerfully as you cross over to them, your heart still beating rapidly in your chest. 

They both groan and you chuckle in response. 

Placing yourself down on the stool directly next to Silco, you can’t help but jostle his shoulder when you notice that he’s still wearing the same clothes he went out and slept in.

“Nice pyjamas,” you parrot his own greeting to you last night.   

Silco gives you an unimpressed look that would send anyone else running, but it only prompts an entirely innocent smile from you. 

Oh, this man is going to be sorely mistaken if he thinks you’re not going to spend the next few months winding him up over last night.

You turn your attention to Vander, surreptitiously bringing the beer mat Silco had gifted you last night out of your pocket.

“Pour me a pint, Vander, I want to put my new gift to good use.”

Both men look at you like you’re crazy until you wiggle the beer mat in front of you. 

Silco groans loudly in embarrassment.

“Hey, Van, did you know that I’m smoo-”

You’re abruptly cut off by Silco clamping his hand over your mouth. 

“Stop,” he groans, extending the vowel exaggeratedly, “Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough?”

You giggle and remove his hand from your mouth, leaving him to cover his face with his hands, all the while thoroughly messing up his bed hair even more with his long fingers.

“So, what are you up to today?” you ask.

“Oh, you know, thinking about tossing myself into the River Pilt.”

You shake your head at his dramatics. This boy. This ridiculous, foolish, gorgeous boy. 

“I’ll come and watch then, I can give you a score out of 10 for your diving skills,” you tease. 

“Cheers,” he mumbles through his palms. 

“Well, I gotta go down to Benzo’s and sell him some junk so we can pay off our tab from last night,” Vander cuts in, closely watching the two of you bicker like an old married couple.

You almost blanch at the sound of his booming voice. To be honest, you’d forgotten he was standing there, too preoccupied with how Silco was doing to even remember the other presence in the room. 

Sil grunts in response while you simultaneously nod at Vander in acknowledgement, leaving him to stumble tiredly out of the bar mumbling something about Sevika stealing all his money.

But before he disappears through the door, he manages to give Silco a very pointed look, which Silco returns with his own meaningful glare. A silent conversation that you’re pretty sure you understand after overhearing their conversation earlier. 

When Vander is gone, you’re struck with the realisation that for the first time since last night, you’re once again alone with Silco. Except this time, you finally know for certain that Silco loves you back.

One glance at him reveals that he’s looking a little more worse-for-wear than you’d originally realised. You lean forward to peer at him more closely. 

“Seriously, though, are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, just got a headache” he replies, before sheepishly rubbing his forehead, avoiding your gaze, “Hey, uh, thanks for last night… I really appreciate it.” 

“Of course,” you tell him sincerely, automatically even. 

The exchange feels eerily familiar up until you recognise it as being almost verbatim from the night before, except this time you’d been brave enough to give him the response he deserved. 

You suddenly feel an inexplicable change in the atmosphere and Silco finally looks up at you. You wonder if he felt it too. 

His expression drops into something you struggle to name, whilst his eyes tick over your face like he’s only just truly seeing you for the very first time. 

You put a hand on his knee and lean in slightly closer, his eyes widening at the contact. 

“Silco, I think we-”

Loud footsteps on the stairs cause you to jump and whip your head around, just in time to see Sevika trudge into the bar. She looks just as hungover as the boys, if not more. 

And just like that, all the air has been sucked back into the room, the little bubble you and Silco had been in now popped. 

“Morning, Vika,” you call across the bar. 

“Shut up, you’re far too loud,” she snarls, slumping into a booth.

You can’t help but laugh.

When you turn back to Silco, he’s still looking at you in the same grandeur way as before, but you quickly decide that there’s no way you’re talking to him about his confession whilst Sevika is in the room. 

It crosses your mind that you should probably come up with a way to properly tell him. You know, make it a special moment, one that really shows him how much you care about him. 

“Right, I need to go pick up some stuff from the market,” you say, gently patting his knee twice before standing up, “I’ll let you have some peace and quiet.”

But Silco obviously isn’t done with you yet because he grabs your hand as you move to leave. Like a car being jump started, the sudden contact from him acts like a spark for an idea on how to finally tell him that you love him. 

You slowly look down at the way he’s holding your hand and then back up at his face.

Silco says your name in a low, bordering on desperate voice, but you cut him off before he can speak again. 

“Hey, when you’re done perfecting your diving, come find me later. I want to show you something,” you tell him, offering him a smile. 

And that must satisfy whatever he was going to say because he returns your smile and nods, causing your heart to beat rapidly in your chest again. 

Gods, the effect this man has on you. 

“Alright, I’ll see you later,” you say, quickly squeezing his hand and letting go to leave the bar.

You were going to make sure Silco knows exactly how you feel before the day is over. 

-

With the beer mat Silco had given you now proudly sitting on your desk as decoration, you’d gotten dressed in your best outfit, ready to finally reveal your long-held feelings to him. A reminder of the happiest day of your life thus far, you’d planned to treasure that little piece of cardboard for the rest of your life (or at least until Silco gets fed up with you teasing him mercilessly about it, of course). 

Now walking through the dusty streets of Zaun with the man himself, you fight the urge to hold his hand, if only to not spoil the surprise when you finally disclose that his feelings aren’t as one-sided as you’d both thought. 

He’s looking much better now after a shower and a change of clothes, and is no longer squinting at the city lights since you’d also bought him some painkillers at the market with your meagre savings. 

It was completely worth dipping into your funds though. To physically see his headache melt away from him, his features infinitely more relaxed than they were this morning in the bar. 

But, there’s barely enough time to admire his profile as you walk beside him because you finally arrive at your destination, stopping abruptly outside the entrance to the abandoned cannery. 

Silco looks surprised as his eyes dart from the building’s entrance to your face, his eyebrows raising in curiosity. But all you offer him is a knowing smile, leading him through the dark building and down the stairs until you’re in front of the huge glass pane carved out of the underground rock. 

You both approach the glass slowly, drinking in the deep dark of the underwater, the glow of the sealife lighting up the murky waters. There’s life down there that you never even knew existed. The River Pilt being so toxic from run-off pollution, you doubt the majority of Zaun’s citizens were aware that it housed an entirely new population, one that wasn’t too dissimilar to Zaun itself. 

There’s a brief moment where you forget that Silco is even there, caught up in the beauty of the scene in front of you, until his fingers gently bump against yours.

Your attention is quickly snatched away from one exquisite sight to another, as you gaze up at Silco standing beside you. The expression in his seafoam eyes paints a picture of pure wonder, like he’s witnessing the discovery of an entirely new world. 

You take in the way his jaw is slack and his crooked teeth peek out between the flesh of his scarred lips. His breathing is almost as shallow as yours. 

A creature suddenly shoots past the window and your eyes snap back towards the river, drinking in the scene for a few more spellbinding moments. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” you whisper, almost like you’re afraid you’ll scare it all away if you speak too loudly. 

“Breathtaking.” 

At the sound of Silco’s gravelly voice, you turn to look up at him again, finding him already staring at you. He immediately takes notice of the tiny quirk of your lips.

Silco begins to snake his arms around your waist and pull you towards him, but before he can you grab his hand and lace your fingers with his, holding it up in the air. He pauses and his brows furrow in confusion when you tentatively place your other hand on his chest. 

“Excuse me, I was pinky promised a dance,” you say coyly. 

There’s a few beats of silence before he smirks in recognition. 

“I think you’ll find that you promised me a dance,” he replies. 

“Ah, so you do remember.”

“Of course I remember,” he smirks. 

Silco’s arm continues its journey round your waist and his fingers gently squeeze yours as he begins to sway you both a little bit. Your breath catches and your eyes instantly drop down to your hand splayed on his chest. 

“I wonder if you remember some of the other things you said to me last night,” you mumble nervously, “And this morning to Vander.”

When your eyes flick up to gauge his reaction, you feel your stomach twist at his fallen expression. He stops moving but keeps his grip on you, like you’d fade away if he let go for even a second. 

Silco mumbles your name in a tone that sounds heart-wrenchingly cautious. 

“I… I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I just-”

The hand on his chest moves up as you put your finger on his lips, shutting him up immediately. 

“Silco, it’s fine. I feel the same,” you tell him softly. 

You watch in fascination as his expression melts from worry into pure surprise. In fact, he looks so shell-shocked, you find yourself curling your hand up and around his shoulder. A gentle squeeze breaks him from his reverie. 

“You do?” he says in an adorably hopeful voice.

You nod, unable to stop the grin from spreading across your face. 

Silco’s features soften into pure happiness as he pulls you even closer, drinking in the warmth of your love. 

“I was worried you didn’t mean it because you were drunk, but when I heard you talking to Vander this morning…” you say, hoping he understands your trepidation. 

His hand drops yours to gently cup your cheek, so he can deliver his next confession whilst staring deep into your eyes. 

“I love you. I’m in love with you.”

Suddenly, it’s as if nothing else in the world matters. Nothing but him and you. 

“I love you too, Silco. Have done for a long time,” you whisper shakily.  

He smiles again and takes hold of your hand, resuming your slow dance. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks curiously. 

“I don’t know… I guess I was worried you wouldn’t feel the same,” you admit. 

“Well, I do,” he affirms, “And I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt it.”

Silco’s arm around you tightens until you’re flush against his chest and he leans down, capturing your lips in the sweetest, most ardent kiss you’ve ever had. 

His scarred lips moving against yours feels overwhelmingly natural and you swear it’s going to be your downfall. 

When you both pull back for breath, you rest your head against his shoulder and allow him to lead you in a serene slow dance, accompanied only by the peaceful sound of the underwater and your intermingling sighs of contentment. 

You dance long into the night, until you can’t remember anything except the feel of Silco pressed against you, just like he was always meant to be. 

PART 3

-

A/N: slow dancing with silco is the only thing that will fix my broken heart, i’m convinced of it 😔

- Taglist: @anotherromanticpoet @pinkrose1422 @steponmesilco

[2-cal-2-furious]

Drunk Mind, Sober Hearts - 100 followers special!!

young!silco x gn!reader - SFW

CW: drunk silco, drunken confessions, terrible flirting, fluff, pining, mentions of working in the mines as children, reader was orphaned

2.5k words

Summary: Taking care of a young, drunk Silco is as much of a handful as you’d anticipated, but when he makes a startling confession to you in his drunken state, your enduring feelings for him grow stronger than ever. 

A/N: A counterpart to my other one-shot ‘I love him’, but this time with young silco!! Thank you so much for 100 followers, I appreciate every single one of you! i can’t tell you how much it cheers me up to read all your lovely tags and comments, thank you all for reading <3 -elsie x

PART 2 | PART 3

-

It’s nights like these that you wonder what your life would be like if you hadn’t met your true love all those years ago, both of you covered in soot and hands blistered from hours of back-breaking work.

You’re currently lying in bed in your room at The Last Drop, the new headquarters of your revolutionary group, the Children of Zaun. Despite your room being the smallest of the lot, you couldn’t help but think it was a damn sight better than sharing a creaky, rusting cot with another orphan. 

You’d met the co-leaders, Vander and Silco, as orphaned children working tirelessly day in, day out in the mines of the Undercity. A hard graft for a bunch of terribly malnourished children.

Afficher davantage

[2-cal-2-furious]

Yes or No?: Pt. 2

Silco x gn!reader - 3.1k words - SFW

Warnings: fluff, humour, flirting, soft silco, young jinx, tired dad silco, self-doubt, vulnerability 

PART 1

-

Silco should have known better than to expect Jinx to stop meddling in his love life. But alas, that particular expectation was clearly just wishful thinking on his part, because Jinx would seemingly stop at nothing to ensure he finally took you on a date. 

Barely three days after the ‘Yes or No Fiasco’, Silco finds himself at his desk, frustratedly trying to plan the perfect date for you.

Granted, he’d liked to have started planning much sooner, but an unfortunate incident at one of the factories had taken all of his attention for the past few days.

Afficher davantage

[2-cal-2-furious]

Yes or No? (Part 1):

Silco x gn!reader - SFW

2.6k words

Warnings: fluff, humour, flirting, soft silco, reciprocated feelings, young jinx, tired dad silco

Summary: Jinx decides to play matchmaker between you and Silco, but is less than subtle when she forges a note designed to finally bring the both of you together. 

PART 2

-

Jinx had gone too far this time, of this he was certain. Silco knew the young girl meant well, but sometimes her lack of subtlety was, quite frankly, astounding.

How could the child who easily matched the skills of any Topside professor when it came to designing and building complicated contraptions, also be the same child who would cut holes in his socks when she was annoyed with him?

It made little sense to him.

He’d found her latest stunt atop his desk after returning from an exhausting and entirely tedious meeting with the chem-barons, finding himself craving a stiff drink and a cigar before he got back to the mountainous pile of paperwork waiting for him.

But it was clear that that plan had been thrown out the window, as he’d collapsed wearily into his chair, his brow furrowing the very second he’d spotted the scrap of paper sitting conspicuously on top of the mahogany wood.

Picking up the curious piece of paper, Silco had been bewildered to discover a note reading:

Afficher davantage

[2-cal-2-furious]

Don't Go (One-shot):

young!silco x gn!reader - 3.6k words - SFW 

cw: angst, fluff, breakup conversations, happy ending, reconciliation, arguments, silco struggling with his emotions, little bit possessive, soft silco, suggestive ending (this one is pretty angsty but don’t worry, it all works out in the end!)

summary: Silco, your long time boyfriend, does something you’d begged him not to, so you regretfully decide that you need a break from him. Silco has other plans. 

You didn't want to go. Not really. 

But after Vander’s revelation, you felt like you had no choice. 

Silco had been all fired up the night before, ranting and raving about his latest (and quite frankly terrible) plan of breaking into the Sheriff’s office Topside to gain information about any upcoming raids in your neighbourhood. 

The surprise Enforcer raids had been hitting businesses across Zaun at random, an M.O of storming in and ransacking each place with no clear means or motive, and definitely without any warning. 

Understandably then, Vander, Silco, and you had been particularly concerned that a raid would hit The Last Drop any day now, and despite every effort to hide anything that could give you away, there was a real fear that your revolutionary group would be discovered and brutally dismantled. 

But the idea of breaking into the Sheriff’s office of all places was beyond dangerous and to your frustration, you just couldn’t get Silco to listen to reason.

You’d pleaded with him not to do something so risky. You’d tried to calm down, told him to just wait until you could all discuss it together as a group and come up with a plan that wasn’t so grandiose, and in your view, completely and utterly stupid. 

Eventually, Silco had gotten frustrated and rolled his eyes, grumbling that he wouldn’t go as he’d slunk off downstairs to no doubt drink the night away in the bar. 

This morning you’d woken with him fast asleep by the side of you in bed and, assuming he’d wasted the evening drinking himself dry, you thought nothing of it until later this afternoon when you’d found out the truth from Vander. 

Silco had gone Topside to scout out the building that housed the Sheriff’s office. 

Vander had desperately tried to reassure you that Silco wouldn’t have done anything stupid but it had done absolutely nothing to douse the flames of anger and hurt spreading through you. 

The damage was done. 

Now, salty tears finally drying on your cheeks, you stand in your shared bedroom packing your belongings into the rucksack laid out on your bed. 

Silco is still out running errands so there's a note placed carefully on the desk in your bedroom. It's not ideal, but it's for the best. 

However cowardly it makes you feel to reduce your breakup to a measly note, you're too emotionally drained to even think about having another argument with him.

You just can’t deal with it right now. 

Planning to stay with a friend until you found somewhere you could afford by yourself, you convince yourself that if he truly wants you back, if he truly wants to fix things, he’ll come and find you.

You’ve already packed the easy things, like most of your clothes and your toiletries from the bathroom. The real challenge now it would seem is the more sentimental items, like the pile of gifts currently lined up on the bed that you’d received from Silco over the years. 

The little toy poro he'd scrimped and saved to buy you for your birthday that one year. Or the matching sunglasses he'd stolen as a little souvenir from your third date. 

As you stare down at the gifts on the bed wondering if you’ll have enough room to bring them all, the door opens behind you.

You freeze, knowing exactly who it is before he’s even spoken. 

"There you are," Silco announces, his voice clearly tired but still laced with a hint of relief. "Vander said you were-" 

He cuts himself off as he undoubtedly takes in the state of the bedroom before speaking again in a tone of pure shock. 

"What are you doing?" 

You can’t bring yourself to answer so instead busy yourself with shoving all of the gifts into your bag before he can see them. 

"No," he breathes out from the doorway as it dawns on him. 

It sends a horrible pang of hurt ringing in your chest, only made worse when he pleadingly says your name.

"Please don't do this." 

"I have to, Silco," you sigh, trying to keep your heart as closed off as you can. It hurts enough as it is without you letting your emotions run wild. 

"You don't,” he says. “You don't have to." 

You stop answering because you can tell this particular line of conversation will just go in circles. 

Behind you, he shuts the door with a click and it irritates you into shoving more into the bag, no longer caring about being neat or if you should leave anything behind. 

"Is this because of what happened last week? I already told you that wasn't my fault," Silco continues when you don’t respond or turn to face him. 

He's referring to the incident where he almost got shot after taunting some enforcers for no good reason.

Truth be told, that incident had absolutely terrified you, but it was just one of the many reasons why you couldn’t keep doing this. 

"No, it isn't because of that," you say flatly. 

"Then why?" 

You finally turn to look at him, the first time since he’d left the bar this morning. (He looks gorgeous and like he's on the verge of heartbreak and you hate that you still love him despite it all.) 

"Where did you go last night?" you ask flatly, looking him square in the eyes.

As expected his expression instantly turns stony, but after years of learning and reading his tells, you can see the twitches of regret in his eyes. 

A few beats of silence pass and you know he’s too stubborn to admit it out loud. 

Your response is quiet. Resigned. 

"That's why."

Turning back round to face the bed, you begin to shove down all your belongings as far down into the bag as they can go, making sure you have enough room for the last bits that you know are in the wardrobe. 

"Look, I'm sorry for doing it behind your back, but I had to go," he starts, and it feels like the beginning of the heated argument that you were so desperately hoping to avoid.

Your cool facade broken, you whirl round to face him straight on, built-up ire finally pouring out of you in reams. 

"No, you didn't have to go! You went because you wanted to and you went even though I asked you- no, begged you not to," you yell at him.

He flinches minutely at the sudden raise in volume, but keeps his own voice calm and steady when he crafts his response. 

"You don't understand, this is important," he emphasises. "They cannot find out what we’re doing to fight against them, not when we’re this close to finally having the lives we deserve, that all of us deserve.”

It takes all your strength not to give in to his words and continue the argument with an incredulous scoff.

As if you don’t know all that. As if you didn’t spend your days fighting for Zaun as well. 

As if you didn’t fight every second for him. 

You shut it down immediately, twisting back round to face the bed. 

"I'm not doing this," you say blankly. 

"What?" he replies, clearly stunned. 

"I'm not arguing with you, Silco. I'm leaving." 

It breaks your heart to say it, but in this moment, you see no other way forward. Not if he’s going to keep on like this. 

Silco says nothing as you pack away the rest of your belongings into your bag, briefly recalling that you still have a few last bits in the wardrobe. You're almost certain that his anger is charging up in the silence, readying himself to launch into a whole speech about how wrong you are.

But when he does speak again, the sound of his choked-up voice feels like a shot directly to your heart.  

"You can't leave." 

Your heart sinks into your stomach and everything within you practically screams to cross the room and hug him, but you know that if you even look at him you’ll end up changing your mind. So, you move over to the wardrobe instead and pull open the doors to ensure he’s not in your line of sight. 

Silco says your name in that horribly soft timbre he only uses when he’s desperate and even though it pretty much tears you apart to ignore him, you focus on pulling the rest of your clothes from the closet.

He speaks your name again, this time even more desperately and you suddenly find yourself biting back tears. 

Fuck, why did he have to come home early? Why couldn't you just have some time to grieve by yourself? 

"Silco, it's over," you bite out, just wanting this horrible situation to be done with so you can work on healing. 

Finally moving into the room, you hear his footsteps creak on the old wooden floorboards behind you. 

You brace yourself for him to take your hand or wrap his arms around you but to your confusion, his footsteps halt in the centre of the room and you hear an unexpected rustling sound instead. 

Spinning around, you find Silco holding your backpack upside down in the air, emptying the contents back onto the bed with vigorous shakes. Your belongings drop onto the sheets in a crumpled mess, undoing all your work to get them all into the rucksack. 

Silco glares at the bag with tight-lipped hatred, as if it’s the reason you’re leaving, the longer strands of his hair falling down and bouncing with each rough movement of his arms. 

You stare at him in disbelief, your jaw slack until you find the words to confront him.  

"What the fuck, Silco? Put them back!"

He grips the bag even tighter. 

"No." 

And just like that, your astonishment slides into anger. 

"Silco," you warn, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Put. Them. Back." 

"Not if it means you'll stay," he replies obstinately. 

He continues to shake the bag but, ever the impatient boy, gets too frustrated and decides to drop the bag onto the bed. Rapidly taking out handfuls of your belongings until the backpack is empty, he then throws it at the wall furthest from you with a grunt. 

Silco’s gaze slides to look at you from across the room and you both stare at each other breathlessly, chests borderline heaving. 

A clear challenge. 

Unfortunately for Silco, you can be stubborn too. 

Without another word, you reach into the wardrobe and pull out his backpack, moving over to the other side of the bed to restart your packing. 

This time, Silco rushes around the bed to you and tries to grab your hand, but you pull it away, taking a step back. 

"Just stop-" 

"Please don't leave me," he pleads in the most heartbreaking, riven timbre you’ve ever heard him speak in and your heart wrenches. 

He sounds like the little boy you’d met all that time ago in those dark mines, the one who was so desperate to no longer be alone. 

"I'll do anything, I can't do this without you," he begs. 

"Do what without me?" 

"Any of it," he blurts out, running a distressed hand through his hair. "Some days, the only thing that gets me through the day is knowing that you'll be here when I get home."

Your insides jolt at such a vulnerable confession from such a headstrong man, but it’s nothing compared to the feeling you get when he suddenly drops to one knee in front of you, taking one of your hands in both of his. 

Heart racing ten to the dozen, you watch in horror as he glances up at you. 

He’d better not be doing what you think he’s doing…

"Silco-" 

"I love you," he says. "I love you more than anything in the world." 

You watch as tears line his lashes and soon find yourself matching. 

Fuck, you were expecting yelling and anger, not this. 

You’ve never seen him like this before. 

"Please," he repeats and it cracks your mask in two.

Your knees give out and you let yourself sink down onto the floor with him. 

Silco immediately throws his arms around you, only just stopping you from falling back with how quickly he presses his body against yours, burying his head in the crook of your neck. 

On instinct, you wrap your arms around his frame, one hand rubbing his back whilst the other cards through his inky strands as he rocks you gently from side to side. 

Little whispers of “Don't go,” and “I need you,” are mumbled into your hair, and you’re almost certain the wetness on your neck is from those tears that had been threatening to break free. You kindly decide not to mention it. 

Eventually, you sigh and rest your forehead on his shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut in a pitiful attempt to ease the difficult conversation up ahead. 

"Sil, I can't keep doing this."

He sniffles a little and pulls back to look at you but doesn’t let go. (He never lets go.)

"Doing what?" he asks, brows furrowing in that cute little way he does when he’s confused about something. 

"Watching you destroy yourself." 

"I'm not-" 

"You are, Silco, and it's hurting me," you enunciate, holding his cheeks to force his gaze on you. He needs to understand how serious you are about this. 

The horrified expression on his face instinctively causes you to brush some of his hair back tenderly while he processes your words. 

"I want a better Zaun too, but not at the cost of you sacrificing yourself," you continue, keeping your voice quiet but firm. 

He’s clearly overwhelmed, seafoam eyes so wide and trenched in deep-rooted panic. But with a lack of response to distract you, you’re forced to take notice of the pain spreading through your back and legs at the awkward sitting position you’re in. 

You shift your body, pulling away from him to situate yourself in a comfier position, but the second you loosen your arms from his thin frame, his hand desperately grip you even tighter, clutching onto you like a child to their mother’s leg. 

"No, I-"

"I'm not going anywhere, I just need to move before my legs go numb," you’re quick to reassure him. 

At this, Silco relaxes slightly, allowing you to move so your back is resting against the side of the bed. His fingers clasp onto your shirt the entire time and the very second you’re planted in a spot that doesn’t completely ruin your spine, he pulls you against him once more. 

"What- What can I do to make you stay?" he says between a harsh swallow. 

 You sigh, swiping a hand across your face tiredly. 

"I need you to stop this ridiculous crusade you're on. Or," you add when he goes to protest, "at the very least, include the rest of us in it." 

He bites the inside of his lip and entwines his fingers with yours. 

"You can't keep making reckless decisions by yourself, Sil. It affects all of us. Especially me." 

Silco keeps quiet for a few moments, so you give him time to think while his thumb rhythmically traces your knuckles back and forth. 

This can’t be easy for him. He’s pretty independent by nature (most Undercity kids are), but Silco is especially so when it comes to the fight for Zaun’s freedom. 

But if he wants you to stay, you’re going to need some compromise. 

"Okay," he eventually says, breaking the silence to gaze at you with muted hope. 

You’re not letting him off that easily. 

"Okay what?" you say expectantly. 

He sighs and suddenly he’s transformed into that petulant little boy again. 

"Okay, I'll run things by you and Vander before making any big decisions," Silco heaves, like it physically pains him to say. 

"And?" you prompt with a raised eyebrow. 

Silco stares at you with a look of disbelief, but his lip is curled in clear disgust. 

"There's no way I'm running anything by Benzo," he scoffs. "It'd be more useful talking to a brick wall." 

You slap his arm half heartedly and bite back a laugh. 

"No! I meant, are you going to stop throwing yourself into stupid situations for no reason?" 

"I knew you were still upset about last week," Silco replies, a knowing expression melting across his features. 

"Of course I'm upset about it! They almost shot you!" you fire back with indignation. 

As if you wouldn’t be horrified at the idea of your boyfriend getting seriously hurt and potentially arrested just for being an idiot. 

Silco gently combs his fingers through your hair, eyes tracing your features as that smug little smirk you secretly adore colours his lips. 

"The key word in that sentence is almost, my lovely." 

The glare you level him with is met by a crooked grin, but it’s soon wiped off his face when you jab his stomach with your elbow, ignoring the “Oof,” in favour of cuddling up to him even closer.

Silco lets out a sigh of relief and rests his head against yours whilst one hand sneaks up behind you to surreptitiously wipe his eyes dry with his sleeve. 

You allow yourself to relax for a few quiet moments, slowly calming each other down with soft touches until your breathing syncs up with the boy holding you close to his chest. 

Silco soon murmurs into your hair, hand smoothing along your waist. 

"So you'll stay?" 

"Yes, I'll stay," you reply softly, nestling into the crook of his neck. 

It’s seemingly not enough to soothe his nerves because he leans back and tilts your chin up with one finger until you meet his anxious gaze. 

"You promise?" 

"I promise, Silco." 

Relief melts through his whole body, but with it brings a cool wash of physical and emotional exhaustion that you wish you could wipe clean. 

"You know you can always talk to me, right?” you tell him gently, pinky finger delicately tracing along one eyebrow until the lines of his face relax. “I know you're always so busy trying to keep us afloat but you don't have to do it all alone. You can tell me when things are bothering you, it doesn’t make you weak or ‘less of a man’." 

He gazes at you in profound wonder before lightly cupping one side of your face with his hand. 

"I really do love you," he whispers, tenderly tracing one thumb down your cheek.

It feels like the weight of your near-breakup is lifted off your shoulders when you finally say it back. 

"I love you too, Sil." 

He leans down to kiss your head and you find yourself desperately hoping that he keeps his promise. You never want to have to go through this again. 

But for now, graced with another chance to stay with the only person you’ve ever loved, you focus on the present, needing to change the heavy atmosphere stifling the room. Your tone shifts into a light, coy thing that immediately grabs his attention. 

"You know, if you hadn't rushed in all guns blazing last night you'd have had the chance to listen to my plan for getting the info we need," you tell him. "Y'know, one that wouldn't get you thrown in Stillwater." 

Silco stares at you with a frown and you struggle to keep in the smile that threatens to break. 

"What plan?" 

"The one where I seduce a poor, unsuspecting enforcer and use a bit of good old-fashioned lip service to get what we need," you say coquettishly, batting your eyelashes at him innocently despite the clear innuendo lacing your words. 

Instantly, (brilliantly), his seafoam eyes darken with a delicious combination of jealousy and lust, sending a spark of hot desire through your body. 

"Not in a million years," he says gruffly, pulling you even closer to him. 

You twirl a playful finger through your hair. 

"I don't know, I think it's a great plan if you ask me," you reply with an air of teasing nonchalance. 

"I wouldn't let you anywhere near them,” his grip tightens on the fabric by your waist. “You're mine.”

Leaning forward, you whisper in his ear, knowing exactly what it does to him. 

"Prove it." 

There’s a beat of electrified silence before Silco abruptly stands, pulling you up with him until you’re both on your feet.

He smoothly coils one arm around your waist, the other snaking around the nape of your neck until his lips hover tantalisingly above yours. And just when you think he’s about to finally close the gap, he pauses.

You frown, chest flooding with anxiety that you’ve done something wrong, or he’s changed his mind, or-

Silco removes the hand resting behind your head and before you can voice your concerns, he suddenly grabs the bed sheet, ripping it off the bed in a move that sends the mess of your once-packed belongings tumbling to the floor in a cacophony. 

"Silco!" you admonish him, already envisioning the amount of time and effort it would take to pick everything up and put it back in its rightful place. 

"What?” he says, like butter wouldn’t melt. “We can put it back in the morning." 

Then, he swiftly picks you up and tosses you onto the mattress, making you squeal in surprise. 

Silco kneels onto the bed and climbs until his body is hovering over yours, arms caging you in as you heat up, warmth flooding downwards in anticipation. 

"Now, I think it's time I make it up to you, sweetheart," he purrs, leaning down to hotly trace your ear with his lips. “I’m going to make sure you never want to leave this bed again.”

- A/N: don’t mind me, just casually obsessed with the idea of silco emptying out your bag to desperately stop you from leaving and then frenziedly trying to propose to you when he doesn’t know to deal with his emotions 💁‍♀️

[2-cal-2-furious]

It’s Because:

Silco x gn!reader - 1k words - SFW

cw: fluff, angst, pining, denial of feelings, falling in love, brief mentions of death, injury, and trauma, happy ending

summary: Silco is not in love. At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

a/n: i’ve never written anything like this before, i hope it works!! (it really hurt to type as well but my physio told me i had to.) inspired by the song i’m not in love by 10cc

Silco is not in love.

Unequivocally, categorically not in love. 

He doesn’t even know what love is when he meets you as a jaded, starving teenager, too busy trying to make ends meet to even think about something as trivial as love. But he does know that the easy way you smile when you meet his eyes makes his day just that little bit brighter. 

He’s not in love when he spots you a few years later, standing quietly amongst the meagre crowd in the bar, listening to his rallying speech of change and independence. Although, the spark in your eyes as you watch him is like a match to the burning in his chest, and for once in his life, it makes him feel alive. 

Silco isn’t in love when he accompanies you on mission after mission, learning to trust one another as he watches your back and you watch his in return, securing resources, and medicine, and meals for the starving children of his city. It’s just the adrenaline from the sprint back home, as you both narrowly escape the Enforcer’s clutches, that sets his heart racing to the dozen.

He can’t be in love when he watches you from across the bar, laughing, and singing, and dancing along to the jukebox, unaware of how effortlessly you light up the room. And so what if deep down he wants to join you and bathe in that light, soaking you in until you're his? It’s not like it means anything anyway. 

There’s no such thing as love on his birthday when he refuses to tell anyone the significance of the day, instead scowling down at yet another shipping manifest. Except, when you hand him a cupcake and kiss his cheek as you walk through the bar on your way to the market, he hopes the red of his ears and the longing expression isn’t too noticeable. 

Love isn’t present on the night you cry in his arms, heaving sobs that wrack your body as you mourn those lost in the fight, yet more casualties in this never ending fight for freedom. It’s simply the right thing to do when he lulls you to sleep, shushing your cries until your breathing slowly evens and your heart beats sync up with his. 

Silco tells himself he isn’t in love when you sit side by side, legs dangling off the little bridge that crosses the river as he gifts you a starburst necklace that once was his mother’s. And it certainly doesn’t mean anything when you gaze up at him with the softest smile, intertwining your fingers with his while you gently rest your head on his shoulder. 

He is not in love the day you stand with him in the little alcove across the street from the bar, sheltering from the rain that drips down to form galaxies of puddles along the square floor. You’re up on your tip-toes, his arm is around your waist, and when your nose bumps against his, his heart beats so loud he’s sure you can hear it-

But then his brother is suddenly there, pulling him away from you as he insists he goes for a walk with him, and Silco makes the worst decision of his life and agrees. 

In thunder and rain, Silco knows that love ends in nothing but betrayal when he is forced to disappear, body pulsing with pain, mind in tatters. He’s hurting, and angry, and beyond scared. But weaved in between it all, he thinks of you and pictures the way you looked and felt beneath his fingertips, and thinks that maybe it’s not all bad. 

There’s no time to think of love when, years later, he finally gets his revenge and reclaims his bar, his home; a second chance at raising the city his people deserve. Though, it’s almost like serendipity when he happens to take a break from arranging his schedule to look through the window down into the square, and there you are, standing in the middle of the street silently watching his workers carry in new furniture. 

He isn’t in love when he runs down to you, nearly tripping down the stairs in his haste, pushing through the doors until you’re right there in front of him, the only place he truly feels safe. But when you don’t scream or slap him or curse him for leaving you, instead striding across the distance to throw your arms around him in a tight embrace, he forces himself to choke back his tears and allows yours to soak into his shoulder instead. 

Silco continues to remind himself that he’s not in love in the coming months, while you sit beside him day after day, helping him put his plans into motion, listening to every word, every worry, every whisper. Really, who can even tell that his heart skips a beat when he spots that you’re still wearing his mother’s necklace, still so mirandous even after all this time?

He’s not in love the evening you sit atop the bar, laughing as you retell a story from your youth, caught delightfully off-guard when he can’t help but surge forward, capturing your lips while his hands cup your heated cheeks. It’s just one of those things, he supposes, to finally feel content standing between your legs, your own lips pressed in a smile against his, in a way that kick starts his once dead heart. 

But now, nearly two decades after he’d first laid eyes on you as a naïve boy, he lays next to you in bed and watches you sleep peacefully, tangled in the sheets the same way you’ve weaved yourself into his heart. And in the quiet lull of the night, he runs his fingers over a shiny, jewelled ring, custom-forged to match his mother’s necklace that still rests around your neck. 

He thinks of easy mornings and four-word questions, and for the first time in his life, allows himself to simply feel. 

Maybe, just maybe, Silco is in love.