#like maybe not all of them but some at least... its not like it matters

[mminghaos]

best friend seungcheol whom you have a crush on, but never told him. he doesn't know it either and y'all just bicker all the time as bsf, one day all of it changes when you finally say you found a match on some dating app. he realises it and bam! hot and heavy shit go down.

bitter crush , choi seungcheol x f!reader

SYPNOSIS: your bestfriend doesn’t know you’ve had a crush on him for years, but when you mention matching with someone on a dating app, everything changes.

WARNINGS: smut, fingering, kissing, teasing, mingyu as the failed date lmfao

requests are open, do send some in!!

you’ve been friends with seungcheol since high school, watching each other grow up — first jobs, first kisses, and everything in between, sticking together through the highs and lows. your friendship is built on bickering and teasing each other like it’s second nature. but now, the bickering feels different.

“i matched with someone on that app i told you about,” you say, placing your coffee down on the wooden table of the café you and seungcheol are sitting at.

you’d decided to give a dating app a shot, hoping it would help you take your mind off seungcheol. maybe meeting someone new will help you move on, or at least distract you from the constant thoughts about him. but so far, it’s just more of the same — swiping, chatting, but none of its ever seemed to match the energy you share with him. you might as well move on, since seungcheol has is own hookups and girlfriends, and none of them will ever be you. its frustrating, the way this burning crush for him is always shimmering beneath the surface, gnawing at you. this is going to be the death of you — that’s what you always tell yourself.

“so you’re telling me you’re out here swiping on strangers?” he responds, his voice laced with something you can’t quite place. “what happened to the whole ‘not needing anyone’ thing?”

“it changed.”

“really? that’s weird.” he says, his eyes never leaving you. “thought you were too busy to deal with anyone new.”

you roll your eyes, trying to brush it off. “yeah, well, apparently im not as busy as i thought.”

you’ve never been the type to casually date or get involved with someone just for the sake of it. but lately, things feel different. seungcheol’s always been there — constant, reliable, and annoyingly perfect in his own way — and it’s hard to ignore how your thoughts always circle back to him, no matter how many times you try to push them away. you’ve never said it out loud, never let him in on the truth of how much he’s been occupying your mind, and the idea of dating someone else? it almost feels like a joke. you’re not really here for some random guy who doesn’t know you like he does. but the more you try to distract yourself, the more you realize how little it helps. no matter how many matches you get, no conversation ever seems to compare to the effortless back and forth you share with seungcheol. it’s like you’re chasing something that doesn’t quite exist, and each swipe only makes you feel more frustrated. but you can’t exactly admit that, not to him, not to anyone. so you keep trying, hoping maybe this time will be different, even though you know deep down it won’t be.

“so, who’s this guy?”

you shrug, trying to keep your voice steady. “kim mingyu. he’s nice. we’ve met a few times before, actually — works at that bar down the street.”

seungcheol leans back in his chair, his arms crossed as he watched you. he clears his throat. “just don’t pick some random guy who doesn’t get you, alright?”

“what, are you jealous or something?”

“no.”

the date with mingyu went well. you two got along really great — there was no shortage of conversation, and the chemistry was comfortable. you both enjoyed the meal and found common ground in ways that made the evening feel lighthearted and easy. it was nice, actually, to just relax and enjoy someone’s company without any pressure.

even if the date was good, you and mingyu both agreed that you should just be friends, neither of you feeling the sparks you were hoping for.

you walk into your apartment, slipping off your shoes and placing your keys under the mat. its quiet, the only sound being the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. you head towards the living room, where seungcheol is sprawled on your couch, sorting through the groceries he offered to pick up for you earlier this week.

“you’re back early,” he says, glancing up with a smirk. “thought you were gonna be out all night with your… date.”

you roll your eyes, not really in the mood to talk about it. “it was fine,” you reply, shrugging as you drop your purse on the counter. “nothing special.”

seungcheol raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “really?”

you let out a breath, trying to sound casual. “yeah, well, turns out i’m not as interested as i thought.”

he tilts his head, looking at you like he’s trying to figure you out. “what do you mean?”

you hesitate, leaning against the kitchen counter, fingers tapping against the countertop. “we got along, i guess. but we just decided to be friends.”

“huh.” seungcheol shrugs, clearly unconcerned, though there’s something in the way he watches you that makes you pause. “so you’re saying you don’t feel any connection with him at all?”

you shift, rubbing the back of your neck. “it’s just… not there. but whatever. i’m fine.”

“you sure?” seungcheol presses, his voice dropping an octave, and you can’t help but notice how close he’s sitting now. “because i’m sure someone else would love the chance to—”

“ugh, please.” you cut him off, trying to brush it off. “i don’t need some random guy to be interested.”

he smirks, clearly not buying it. “really? sounds like you do.”

you bite your lip, trying to hold onto your patience, but it’s slipping through your fingers. you know he’s teasing, and usually, you’d laugh it off, but tonight feels different. there’s a tension in the air that you can’t ignore, something that’s been building for years. frustration bubbles up inside you, and before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“cheol, i like you, okay?” you blurt out, your voice trembling slightly, surprised by how easily it all comes rushing out.

he pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processes your words. there’s a moment of silence, and you feel like you’re about to suffocate under the weight of it. his gaze flickers to your face, then down to your hands, then back to your eyes, as if trying to figure out what’s really going on.

“wait,” he says slowly, his tone less playful and more cautious now. “you’re not drunk, are you? had drinks or something when you were out?”

you quickly shake your head, trying to steady your breath. “no, i’m not drunk. i just—” but the words feel clumsy on your tongue, and suddenly, you’re unsure of how to take them back.

“i shouldn’t have said that,” you mutter, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. “this was stupid, i’m sorry. i don’t even know why i—”

you start rambling, trying to downplay the confession that’s just slipped out. each word feels like it’s digging you deeper, and you just want to take it all back. “i mean, i don’t even know what i was thinking—this is—god, i’m so—”

but before you can finish, seungcheol pushes himself off the couch and walks towards you, stopping just a few inches away. his eyes still lock on yours. the silence stretches, and you feel your heart race, your breath catching in your throat. you want to say something, to apologize again, but all the words are caught in your chest.

“stop,” he says softly, his voice low, but there’s an intensity in it that you can’t ignore.

you open your mouth, wanting to explain, to take back the awkward confession, but the words jumble in your mind. “it’s just… i didn’t want to make it weird, and now i’ve probably ruined everything—”

seungcheol doesn’t say anything, just watches you with an unreadable look in his eyes, waiting for you to stop rambling. you go on anyway, trying to explain yourself, even though you can feel yourself getting more flustered with each passing second.

before you can continue, he steps forward, his hand gently cupping your face, cutting off your words. you freeze, eyes wide, but before you can process anything, his lips crash onto yours, effectively silencing you.

the kiss is deep and urgent, like he’s been holding back too. your brain barely registers what’s happening as your hands instinctively move to his chest, but the tension that had been building between you both for so long snaps. everything goes quiet in your mind, and for the first time tonight, all the chaos and nerves fall away, replaced by the heat of his kiss.

the kiss lingers for a moment, intense and raw, as if neither of you wants to pull away. your breath mingles with his, the world around you blurring until there’s only the feeling of him so close, so real. your heart pounds in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears, and you can feel the tension in his body as he holds you just a bit tighter, as if he’s afraid you might slip away.

when he finally pulls back, you’re left breathless, your forehead resting against his as you both try to catch your breath. his hands are still on you, one gently holding your face, the other resting on your hip, grounding you.

“you really don’t make things easy, do you?” he murmurs, his voice a little hoarse, the teasing edge back in his tone, but it’s softer now, more affectionate.

you don’t trust yourself to speak right away. all the words that had been stuck in your chest before are now lost, replaced by the overwhelming feeling of him so close, his touch still lingering on your skin. instead, you look up at him, meeting his eyes, trying to make sense of everything, but before you can say anything, he smiles slightly, a genuine, soft expression.

“i didn’t realise how much i liked you until you told me about that guy,” he admits, brushing his thumb over your cheek gently. “i was too stupid to notice.”

you dont get to reply because his hand moves down your back, pulling you closer, your chest pressed against his. the room feels warmer now, charged with something you can't ignore. your hands find their way to his chest, pushing lightly at first, unsure if you should pull away or let it happen. but he doesn't give you that chance.

his lips return to yours, but this time, there's more urgency in it, his kiss deepening as his tongue brushes against yours. you let out a soft sigh, the tension that's been building between you two for what feels like forever finally snapping. he groans, his hand moving to your neck, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss further. the heat between you both grows, and you can feel every inch of him pressing against you, making your pulse quicken.

seungcheol's voice is low, almost a whisper as he takes a step back, hands resting on your waist, grounding you both. "do you want to keep going?" he asks.

you nod, your heart racing, but your mind is clear. “yes.”

he doesn't say anything more, just nods and gently takes your hand, leading you through the apartment. when you get to your room, he lays you down on the bed gently, his hands never leaving you.

seungcheol hovers over you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation, any sign that you’re unsure. you can feel his body close to yours, the warmth radiating off him. “are you sure?”

“yes, cheol.” you let out a light laugh, pulling him closer. “im sure.”

his lips trail down your jaw, each kiss softer than the last before he moves to your neck, his teeth grazing slightly over the skin. you let out a soft sigh once he pulls back after reaching where your shirt starts. before he can say anything, you’re reaching for the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric over your head.

seungcheol takes a moment, his gaze lingering on you before meeting your eyes again.

“you’re so beautiful,” he says, unclasping your bra and slipping it off. “god.”

his hands find their way to your pants as he trails kisses down your chest, each one growing more desperate as his lips move lower. the warmth of his breath against your skin sends a shiver through you, and you can feel your heart race with every gentle press of his lips.

eventually, he pulls your pants off, discarding them somewhere on the floor behind him. “please.” you breathe out

“hmm?” he responds, his fingers slipping just under the band of your panties. “what do you want, baby?”

“need you inside me, please.”

he glances down at you, lips twitching up into a smirk. “patience.”

“no, no, no— cheol, please—” you whimper out.

“don’t worry, you’ll get what you want.” he cuts you off, pressing a light kiss to your collarbone.

when he finally stops teasing you and pulls your panties down, tossing them god knows where, you’re already a mess underneath him. every nerve in your body is on edge, anticipation building as he slides two fingers through your folds. “fuck, you’re soaking wet for me, baby.” a low groan escapes his lips, his restraint wavering as he fights to hold himself back.

he slowly pushes one finger into your pussy, giving you a moment to relax before he adds another and starts to curl them into all the right places.

“cheol!” your head falls back against the pillow, hand going to grab his wrist for some sort of stability.

“yeah, you like that?”

you’re already so close — just from the way his fingers move inside you, hitting every spot that sends sparks shooting througu your body.

you nod over and over again, hips rising to match the rhythm of his movements. “don’t stop— fuck— please, im so close.” 

your breath hitches, and you clutch at his arm, desperate for grounding as the sensations overwhelm you. every stroke of his fingers feels like its pulling you closer to the brink, and the tension in your body winds tighter with each passing second. “please—” the word slips out as a whisper, barely audible. your legs start to shake, the pleasure coursing through you almost too much to bear.

before you can even warn seungcheol, you’re coming undone all over his fingers, hips bucking up at the same time.

“god, thats so hot.” he mutters, but you’re too out of it to know if its to you or himself.

"you alright?" seungcheol asks softly, his hand resting on your hip as he looks down at you with concern. his touch is gentle, almost hesitant, as if he's checking for any sign of discomfort.

you nod, your breath still ragged, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "yeah, i'm good. just... didn't expect that." your voice is breathy, the lingering effects of the moment still making your body tingle.

seungcheol smirks, clearly pleased with the reaction. "you sure you're not too overwhelmed?" he teases, his hand moving to brush a strand of hair out of your face.

you laugh softly, the sound shaky but genuine. "im fine" you reply, looking up at him with a playful glint in your eye. "was that your way of saying you like me too?"

“it was.” he smirks, eyes locking onto yours. “think you can go for one more round?”

he really is going to be the death of you.

[randum-famdoms]

Something I have seen people complain about is when the story “stops” for a character to mentally think about their feelings regarding something.

I think that’s bullshit.

Like, okay. Think about it. How fast is your train of thought? Faster than your reading speed, right? Do your thoughts all happen in neat little sentences, or as more of a nebulous and/or choppy half-formed thing that *you* understand, but would sound like nonsense on a page?

Also, the character probably isn’t actually taking as long to think these things as you are reading it. “Character A feels xyz about this” isn’t taking ten seconds to actually happen, feelings coexist with action!

Now, there is a time and place for introspection. It is my personal philosophy to have the amount of introspection reflect the pacing of a scene. Fast battle scenes will be far more action-heavy and introspection-light compared to, say, a calm breakfast.

I think it balances the annoyance over pages of introspection completely breaking the flow of an intense section of the story (at least, from the perspective of the reader), while still maintaining some of that wonderful interiority (which is actually a new word for me, and I adore it).

I’m the first to admit that I am far from an experienced or professional author. I don’t have a professional editor, and my only education is via Highschool and middle school classes (and while I was always in the advanced classes, a few even college level, they were still restricted by being part of the American education system). I definitely can think of times where my grasp on the interiority slipped. Especially when it comes to describing things that wouldn’t necessarily be noticed by the pov character, simply because I as the author do know about it and think it’s funny or important.

I’d imagine a good rule of thumb regarding this would be to treat it like dialogue. People always say to read your dialogue out loud to notice any problems. Well, just act out the scene as though you are the pov character. Not necessarily irl, but in your head. (And maybe even irl if you can manage it, it can’t hurt!) What way are you facing? Would you be able to see that annoying dog? Would you focus on the person you are talking to’s face, or their hands? Is this activity one that you would space out during, or does it require laser focus?

Basically, all the things you would not think about if you imagine the scene like a movie as you are writing.

Picturing the scene as a movie can be helpful, particularly for things like imagery. But it does have its shortcomings, as op said.

It can work thematically for some stories, but when it comes to most writing that is not third person omniscient, it’s definitely something that can cause the reader to feel… distant, I guess. Less immersed.

It’s also something that, sadly, many writers will have to teach themselves and seek out to learn, because, as OP said, it’s becoming harder to find in modern works. This is doubly so do people who mainly read non-published works. I will sing the praises of fanfiction until the day that I die, and maybe even after, but the fact of the matter is that 99% of fanfiction authors are self taught. They may not know how to incorporate interiority. They may not even have ever read a work that had it.

I know a lot of people say that you should read the “classics”, and you may be thinking that could help here, but I for one am a fierce defender of not putting up requirements to be considered a writer, and that includes required reading. Yes it can help you learn skills, but so can more modern works. I learned a lot from reading Percy Jackson, and other lesser known books, and none of them are considered classics on par with The Great Gatsby or Shakespeare.

Instead, I propose this: if you want to get a better grasp on writing with interiority, try actually consciously focusing on your day to day life for a little while every day. Focus on your train of thought, on the things you focus on, on the things you see.

If you want to read something, great! Ask for recommendations, go to your local library and flip through books until you find one you think you will both enjoy and which has a good grasp of the concept.

First and foremost, however, in any writing, is to remember how we as humans actually live and interact with the world, and you’ve got a primary source of research at all times: yourself. Exclusively using other texts as sources will only ever end in a very broken game of telephone.

A lot of fiction these days reads as if—as I saw Peter Raleigh put it the other day, and as I’ve discussed it before—the author is trying to describe a video playing in their mind. Often there is little or no interiority. Scenes play out in “real time” without summary. First-person POV stories describe things the character can’t see, but a distant camera could. There’s an overemphasis on characters’ outfits and facial expressions, including my personal pet peeve: the “reaction shot round-up” in which we get a description of every character’s reaction to something as if a camera was cutting between sitcom actors.

When I talk with other creative writing professors, we all seem to agree that interiority is disappearing. Even in first-person POV stories, younger writers often skip describing their character’s hopes, dreams, fears, thoughts, memories, or reactions. This trend is hardly limited to young writers though. I was speaking to an editor yesterday who agreed interiority has largely vanished from commercial fiction, and I think you increasingly notice its absence even in works shelved as “literary fiction.” When interiority does appear on the page, it is often brief and redundant with the dialogue and action. All of this is a great shame. Interiority is perhaps the prime example of an advantage prose as a medium holds over other artforms.

fascinated by this article, "Turning Off the TV in Your Mind," about the influences of visual narratives on writing prose narratives. i def notice the two things i excerpted above in fanfic, which i guess makes even more sense as most of the fic i read is for tv and film. i will also be thinking about its discussion of time in prose - i think that's something i often struggle with and i will try to be more conscious of the differences between screen and page next time i'm writing.

[lilacxquartz]

sickly sweet;

kenjaku x f!reader

plot: just as you got ill, your once distant husband started to be caring again — themes: one shot, domestic dread, character study, problematic mindset/themes, manipulation — w.c: 2k • masterlist

a/n: this is a story about kenjaku but the reader is unaware of such a fact… so the name we refer to him as is via suguru/geto and why it’s tagged as such.

For the longest time, you thought that there was something a little… off-putting about your husband.

It wasn’t always this way, but ever since he came back home following an accident, he changed for the worse. Before then, he was vibrant and abuzz with energy and then… something simply just changed. You caught wind of something happening within the cult, but you couldn’t investigate too much—what with you being pregnant with your first child. When he came back seemingly and alive unscathed—save for the stitches that ran across his forehead—you didn’t care to ask too many questions for as long as he was safe and sound.

(A short-lived feeling though; for what lingered just beneath the surface, left dread in its wake.)

The decline of what once made Suguru himself was a slow one, like a thick seeping venom that took its good, sweet time to enter your system. Before you tell something was amiss, he was already deep within your bloodstream—you were hooked—poisoned, yet unaware of just how devastating the damage truly was.

If you had to go back to when you first noticed that something was off, then perhaps when he tried to reintegrate back into your life. It was an ordinary event. He was simply just getting back home late one night and greeted you in the hallway as he stepped inside. At a glance, this would have been normal, but something didn’t feel quite right.

You remembered that sinking feeling of realisation perfectly well.

That moment when you were looking back into the eyes of a stranger, wearing the skin of the man you once knew—of the man that you once loved.

He’d announce his arrival too, singing out your name in a melody that felt forced, “I’m home,” he’d say, his smooth voice feeling somehow rehearsed.

Suguru’s characteristic warmth started to fade the more that you noticed such quirks, the delicately crafted facade beginning to crack. The kindness was retained, but there was a certain underlying edge to it as if he was playing a fabricated role rather than being the man you wanted him to be.

Still, you chose to ignore it. At least at first. You told yourself that if there was an accident, then maybe it was just his personality that was off and if given enough time, it would all smooth over.

(Although, it never did.)

As the months passed you both by, and the man claiming to be Suguru grew colder and more distant, too. Sure, he lived with you and practiced small talk with you, but it all felt fake, somehow. It was as if you were a temporary obstacle in the grand scheme of things and he was simply humouring you whenever he cared to, often disappearing into the night without warning.

Initially, you suspected adultery. It wouldn’t have been too far of a reach, knowing that some people, no matter how well you think you’d know them, would still succumb to temptation… but that didn’t seem to be the case. Whenever he returned, he would be the same just as he was before. Cold and distant. Should you have tried to initiate something intimate too, then he wouldn’t deny you such pleasures, but it always left you feeling unclean, somehow used instead. The moves he pulled were certainly familiar and something that Suguru would do, but it was devoid of the same tenderness that Suguru had.

So for the most part, you stopped initiating and also, you didn’t pay too much attention to him again. For the time being, you cared more to focus on your pregnancy and then hopefully leave somewhere far away from this whole mess.

(But then you got sick.)

It was deep into your pregnancy when you fell ill, bordering just below the final term. A low-grade fever that crept into your system, throwing you off balance. While you initially thought it to be fine, it was hard to ignore by the end of the week. You didn’t think that whoever was occupying your husband’s body would notice such a thing, but something awoke in him from the moment he did.

This deeply caring side of him was hard to dismiss, too, given that it felt close to how Suguru used to be with you.

Just like before, it didn’t take too long for you to notice the changes in his demeanour, the differences being almost jarring by that point. You woke up to the rush of cold air spilling into the room, watching on through partially blurred vision as the sheer curtains wafted in the breeze.

Suguru’s voice played in the background as he addressed you, his voice smooth like molten honey, “You’re awake.”

You initially didn’t respond as you were still waking up. Your eyes flicked over to where he sat on the edge of the bed, watching somewhat warily as he smoothed his palms across your blanketed form, his touch almost reverent.

“Some fresh air will do you good,” he softly murmured before stepping away to the dresser, bringing over a cup of tea to your nightstand table, “I brewed you some tea too. Ginger and honey, just how you like it.”

You warily eyed the cup but didn’t refuse it. The pleasant aroma filled your senses and soothed you as the steam rose and after about a minute, you sat up to take a sip, finding that the warmth from the tea actually did help a bit.

Just as you set the cup down though, Suguru moved closer, extending his hand to press against your forehead, his touch feeling cold against your heated flesh.

“You’re so warm…” he whispered, his thumb brushing along your temple and down your cheekbones. “I should have been more… attentive. Forgive me for being so busy.”

You blinked up at him as the tea settled in your body. Something about this whole interaction filled you with unease as if the applied sweetness wasn’t genuine.

“I’m fine,” you croaked, “really,” you emphasised after a hot second.

Suguru however just hummed, his voice taking on a condescending tone, “Oh, but you’re not, are you?” he asked, curling his lips into a calm, measured smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, his gaze appearing devoid of any warmth, “worry not though, my love, I’ll take care of everything.”

Relief wasn’t quite what you felt however as he hovered around you for the remainder of your sickness, locking himself into your shadow day and night, seemingly abandoning his work to tend to you. He urged you to eat, and hydrate and even helped you bathe, prattling on about the importance of vapours when one felt congested.

“You’re not usually this caring,” you let slip as you settled into bed, regretting your word choice right away. The atmosphere of the room changed within a beat at such an admission and though you tried to backtrack, the dread had already settled.

Suguru’s smile faltered, seeming almost offended(?)

“I may have been busy, yes…” he trailed off, his eyes drifting away from you before giving you back his attention tenfold, “but you’re still… my wife, correct? I have to apply my priorities carefully. You’re… important to me.”

The way that he referred to you as his wife didn’t feel as comforting as his intention might have been; the term felt almost possessive as if laced with warning. The way he said it and how he said it, was a little bit too deliberate—as if he was trying to convince himself of a role he had to maintain.

Still, the hours dragged on throughout the rest of the evening without an issue, or so he thought. He encouraged you to sip on hot broth whenever you were lucid enough and sat at your side vigilantly, watching you with a sharp eye to ensure that nothing would go wrong.

Such intensely applied care, however, soon started to feel suffocating by the end of the day and all you wanted to do was to have a break and sleep the flu away. You didn’t mean to snap the way that you did, fully expecting him to nip or protest at your attitude from the moment you let your composure slip away, but he didn’t.

“—please,” you spat out, unable to hold back any longer as you pushed him away, “just—I… I need to sleep.”

For a moment, a brief hint of anger flashed across his features, but then he simply schooled his expression into that same cold smile from before.

“Of course,” he murmured, brushing your hair away from your eyes, “I should have known. Please, rest for as long as you need to.”

You gulped down all of your unease beyond that point, too exhausted to care, but later in the night—you woke up and something felt wrong. Your eyes fluttered open with a jarring start as your breath caught in the back of your throat. You tried to swallow, but it felt like sharp glass resided in your lungs, the sensation like fire when you tried to breathe in or out. Your eyes struggled to adjust to the dark, but a familiar figure sat unnervingly close to where you lay.

“Suguru…?” you called out.

He must have remained close to you the entire night, even after you had fallen asleep. His deep gaze fixed on you with such a grave intensity that it stole the rest of the air away from the room, leaving you barely able to breathe at that point, feeling suffocated from being so close.

Before you could call out to him again though, Suguru hushed you with the application of his fingers pressed right against your lips. He then leaned closer, allowing the smell of something vaguely metallic to fill your senses, but also medicinal or even herbal.

You listened to his silent request to keep in bed, feeling as his fingertips swept across the side of your neck using soft, featherlight strokes, to trace along your pulse point. His touch lingered for a little too long as he settled around the area, pressing firmly enough that you could feel the blood flowing.

(A warning, perhaps?)

“Go back to sleep,” he softly parted a bit clearer that time, following up with a gentle hum to the tune of a lullaby you didn’t know. Despite how soothing it felt, your innate instincts were screaming at you to distance yourself—to not let this person get too close—that this wasn’t Suguru.

(But your exhaustion simply took you over.)

“That’s right,” he whispered, his breath rolling hot against your forehead as he parted a delicate kiss against your skin, “continue to live in bliss and I'll give you the life you so desperately crave.”

You woke up slightly again as he strode over to the bedroom door, lingering in the frame as he looked back at you with that same unsettling, unreadable stare.

“Just, don’t misunderstand,” he couldn’t resist, his true self seeping through the cracks of the facade he wore so well, “I’ll only keep that up if you don’t snoop around too far,” he then paused, lowering his voice on purpose so that you couldn’t hear him, speaking more to himself than to you, “as long as you learn to keep curious—as long as you don’t figure out who I really am—then I can keep you safe.”

You didn’t reply, trying to pretend that you were already asleep. He knew that you weren’t though, choosing not to bother you.

“Sleep tight, my wife.”

The door then clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in that thick, oppressive silence that you had gotten to know so well. You didn’t dare break through it, though, not even as you felt the squeeze of his phantom fingers remaining wrapped around your neck, constricting around your throat like an invisible collar, binding you to a whole new nightmare; a silent reminder of just how much your life had changed ever since that day.

Of just how much… he had changed.

A part of you knew that it would never get better, but if being sick was what it took to get even a glimpse of your old husband back, then that’s something you wouldn’t hesitate to do.

Because even if he did come to annoy you in the end—it was better than accepting that he might truly be gone.

(So why not live a little in your delusions, just this once? Or twice? Or… however long it took to feel normal again.)

[rosenclaws]

Would you Fall in Love with Me Again (Alternate) || Worst!Logan x Reader

I will fall in love with you over and over again I don't care how, where, or when No matter how long it's been, you're mine

warnings: angst to fluff, description of violence, Wade being wade, he calls you princess

wc: 2.5k

a/n: This is the alternate plot to the other fic I wrote of the same name. You can find that here! I just really liked both plots and I think this turned out pretty good :) This is also 1k words more than the other one idk what happened there lol

Logan was having a really shitty day. All he wanted was to get drunk but some asshole in red spandex decided to come and ruin his day. Now he's sitting in someone's fucking hideout with no hope of getting out of this hell hole. At least there's booze here.

"You always take shit that doesn't belong to you?" He growls as he takes another chug.

"Fuck off." He turns to berate the unknown voice but stops dead in his tracks.

He sobers up real fucking quick as he takes in the figure before him. Without thinking your name slips from his lips. It feels so foreign coming from him. He hasn't said your name in years.

"Logan?" You take a step forward, could this really be him? No...I can't.

Your Logan would never be caught dead in that uniform. He refused to wear it, no matter how much you begged him to wear it. But this man, he just felt so familiar.

“Thor!” Your attention snaps to the other man in red.

As the commotion begins you slip back into the shadows. You don’t bother to listen to whatever nonsense is coming from the guy in red. Laura brought them here.

You knew she had a Logan, just like you. Except her Logan died. You didn’t know he could. It made you think about your Logan. They sounded pretty similar. Mean, angry, drunk. But had that softer side almost no one else saw but a select few. Your eyes land on the Wolverine standing by Red.

He hasn’t taken his eyes off of you. Maybe this was him. You want it to be him, but that little glimmer of hope refuses to shine. What if its not. You can’t lose him again. You think back to that night. That awful night.

He was going off to the bars again and you all asked him to stay. You begged him for one night to stay home with the team, with you. But he walked away. It was the dead of night when you heard them. You had been waiting for Logan to come home when you heard the footsteps and the shouting.

In a blink of an eye everything was gone. Friends dead. Mansion destroyed. You had fought back as best you could but they killed everyone. Everyone except you. You don’t know how or why you survived but apart of you wished you hadn’t. Then your thoughts drifted to Logan. What would happen when he came home? What if they had gotten to him too?

Before you could even think of finding him. Some assholes in these weird suits showed up. Zapping you with some thing and sending you here. Its been a long time since then. The void was your home now and these people were your family. Every day you wished you could go back to your world, find your Logan. But it seems he might have been brought back to you.

“I know this movie is R rated but if you two could keep the eye fucking to a minimum that would be great.” Red pipes up.

“Shut the fuck up.” Both you and Logan say. Glaring at the loudmouth man.

“Aww how cute, twining!.” He coos at Logan who raises his fist, ready to stick three claws right into his face. Red lets out a shriek and runs to hide behind you.

“What the fuck?” You ask as he peeks over your shoulder.

“Sorry honey bunches but I’m not ready to go another round with peanut over there so you’re my human shield.” You raise your eyebrow at Logan who puts away his claws.

“Fucking coward.” He stares at you before shaking his head and leaving.

“How rude, you think he’s be happy to see you and we’d get one of those notebook pride and prejudice style romance scenes.” He says before leaving you alone.

Seemingly unaware of the bomb he had dropped on you. A plan forms but you don’t pay any mind. So this is him. That is your Logan. He’s so different. Sure he was never the nicest man but he just seemed, broken now. Like all hope and love had been drained from his mind. Leaving only rage in its wake.

As night falls you see him outside, drinking by the fire. Laura sits with him. You wonder what it’s like for her to see him. If it was as jarring for her as it feels for you. Slowly you walk outside, not wanting to interrupt their conversation. Catching only a few words here and there. When Laura leaves he calls out.

“Whoever you think I am, you got the wrong guy.” She turns, catching your gaze for a moment before looking back at him.

"You were always the wrong guy." As she walks away you slowly walk towards him.

This isn't the reunion you expected. When you imagined seeing him again it was a lot nicer. You would find your way out of here and go home, find him and tell him how much you missed him.

"You just gonna stand there?" Logan's voice feels so much colder.

Though you see the instant regret in his eyes as he looks at you. He darts around before staring back down at the fire. You make your way over and sit on the log next to him. His sleeves are ripped and his suit bloodied. This was the suit you never thought you'd see on him.

"Logan, is it really you." You reach out to touch his cheek but he ducks his head away from you.

"Please, I've been dreaming of this day ever since I landed in his hell hole. Tell me that this is real." He can barely meet your eyes as he swirls the brown liquid in the bottle around.

He nods his head. A small part of him says to lie. Look you in the eyes and tell you he's not from the same universe. That he isn't the Logan who abandoned you, walked away from you. But fuck has he missed you.

"You look different, tired. Can it really be you?" You say softly as you turn your body towards him, moving closer. The grip on his bottle tightens as he builds up the courage to look at you. You're just as beautiful as he remembered.

"I...I'm not the man you remember." He says lowly. His face feels heavy in your hands. Like he's letting you bare the weight he's been holding.

"You're still my husband." You hum as you bring your other hand to scratch behind his ear.

"No, I've changed. I'm not the husband you remember." He closes his eyes, relishing in your touch. You used to do this to calm him down.

"Princess..." He takes your hands away from his face.

"I've done things. Horrible things. I...I'm no hero. I wanted to be one, for you but..." He stops.

"I was weak. But I've missed you. Every fucking day I think about you." The angry quips and drunken growls were gone. This was the Logan only you got to see. The tired, broken, vulnerable Logan.

"Would you still love me? Would you fall for me again? If you knew." He whispers. He's terrified of the answer. He became a monster. He didn't have the team or Charles or you to ground him anymore.

"What did you do my love?" You ask. His eyes darken, head hanging in shame.

"I came home and you were all dead. Every single one of you. I-" He stops, the memories pouring into his head.

"I looked for your body, through the smell of blood and death I could still smell your perfume. But I couldn't find you." He remembers staining his clothes with blood. Hands soaked as he searched the mansion for you.

"When I couldn't find you, I thought they had taken you. To experiment or something. So I tracked them down. I found them and I killed them." His eyes lit with a fiery rage. Tears were pooling in your eyes as you listened to what your husband had to go through.

"I killed every last one of them. Hunted them down until I was sure they were all dead for what they did. But I couldn't find you. You were gone and I didn't even have a body to bury." He spits.

He takes his hands away from you, closing himself off again as he chugs the rest of the bottle. Old habits die hard.

"After they were all dead, I couldn't rest. I was so angry. So I kept killing. Didn't matter who. I left a trail of blood and turned the whole world against mutants." He laughs bitterly as he tosses the bottle over his shoulder.

It shatters and a piece digs itself into his shoulder. He barely even notices. Like the pain is something he's used to at this point. Gently you take the piece and tug it out.

"So much for being a hero huh?" He looks at you, expecting the worst as he builds back the walls he had just taken down.

"Logan..." To his shock you weren't angry or disgusted. You were crying. Tears are falling down your face, a look of utter heartbreak as you see the ghost of the man you once knew.

"I'm so sorry." You cry as you wrap your arms around him. He's stiffens at your touch. Your sobs break his damn heart.

"Please don't cry princess," He begs.

"I lived. That night I survived and I tried to find you but they sent me here." Logan tenses. Those bastards sent you here. Alone and afraid. A part of him wants to tear those fuckers limb from limb, but the other part knows that if you hadn't been sent here. You'd be dead. He takes your face and wipes away the tears.

"I'm not worth crying over. Shedding tears for a monster..."

"My husband is not a monster!" You say angrily.

"I told you before I'm not your fucking husband anymore!" Logan snaps back.

You wipe your eyes and stuff your hand into your pocket. Logan's breath hitches as he sees your wedding ring. It wasn't much, he couldn't afford the diamond he thought you deserved. Instead he made it, carved the band from a piece of wood and found the prettiest gem he could.

"Are you not the man who gave this to me?!" You shout.

"Till death do us part Logan. I'm not dead, I'm right here. I've been waiting to see you again for years." You take the ring and shove it against his chest.

His hand curls around yours. You were sick of this, you love this man more than life itself. When will he get that? You never wanted the hero, you want Logan.

"If you're not my husband anymore than take it back." His hand grabs your wrist, refusing to let you go. He reaches into his suit, around his neck is a chain and sitting between his dog tags was his ring.

The one that matched yours. He says your name again. This time much quieter, much sadder. There's no doubt in his mind that he isn't good enough for you. He's never been enough for you. The day you said your vows chased away those fears but they always lingered.

Then he lost you and he had just been repeating it in his head over and over again since then. But now you're here, alive and somehow you're looking past it all. Somehow, you still love him.

"Don't you get it Logan. I love you. I love you so much it hurts." You sink to the ground and Logan follows.

Sweeping you up in his arms, protecting you from the dirt and leaves. You're in his lap, hands caressing his face as he holds onto you, arms wrapped around your waist.

"I'd pick you over and over, I don't care how long its been or who you think you are now. You will always be my husband and I will always love you." You lean your forehead against his. Closing your eyes you just take it in. This is real. You’ve found each other again and you won’t let go ever again.

“I’ve fucking missed you.” He growls as he smashes his lips onto you. His hands travel anywhere he can touch.

It’s been so long since he’s felt so desperate. His hand cups the back of your head as he leans you back onto the ground. Crawling over you as he uses his elbows to prop himself up. Your hands are tangled in his hair as he deepens the kiss. Breathless you pull away, ready to kiss him again. Footsteps grab both of your attention. Logan covers you as best as he can as he unsheathes his claws.

“Woah there, let us get the intimacy coordinator here before the two of you start the devils dance.”

“Shut the fuck up Wade.” Logan growls as he sits back up. You try and avoid Wade’s gaze as you sit up.

“I didn’t know they made Viagra for 200 year old men.” He says while unashamedly staring at Logan’s crotch.

“Get the fuck out Red.” You hiss.

“Sorry angel, big fan by the way, just came out here to check on peanut.” Logan makes a move to get up and Wade jumps back.

“Fine jesus sorry for being a concerned friend!” He huffs before marching back to the hideout.

“Does he ever shut up?” You ask and Logan grunts.

“No.”

The fire has been slowly dying and the light is fading fast.

“We’re leaving at sunrise for Cassandras. We’re getting out of here.” Logan looks at you with unease. He just got you back and now you’re going to risk your life again.

“We could stay here. This place ain’t so bad.” Not when you’re here. He could make this place a home if you’re with him.

“They need you Logan, they don’t stand a chance without you.” You hum as you pick a leaf out of his hair.

“What if I lose you again? I just got you back.” He can’t let you slip through his fingers.

“You won’t lose me my love. I swear. Laura believes in you and so do I.” He thinks about Laura. The girl who lost her own version of him. Whoever that man was, he was a hero. If he could be a fraction of him, then maybe he could prove he’s more than what he’s become. You love him but he could be the man he always wanted to be for you. He could be proud of the suit , of his title. He can make you proud.

“Okay. But you’re staying by my side the whole time.” You smile and kiss him once again. Sighing as you get to relish being in the arms of your lover again.

“Deal. Now, let’s get some rest.” You guide him to your bed, he curls up next to you.

Burying his face in your chest as you try and sleep. Logan's hold on you is iron clad, he's afraid that when he wakes tomorrow you won't be here, that this was all some strange dream. You place your hand over his, cooing soft words in his ear until he relaxes.

"I love you Logan." You whisper as you close your eyes. Ready to face whatever comes tomorrow with your husband by your side.

[vroombeams]

Wings/supernatural body features for Oscar and Mark??

from this prompt list

He finds the boy in his backyard, of all places.

Mark's first thought is that he looks a lot like a bird that's fallen from its nest. Huddled in the grass, curled in on himself, frozen with distress. And then Mark gets closer, and he starts to realize he's really not all that far off.

The boy's got wings, is the thing.

He's wrapped in them, draped protectively over his shoulders, baring teeth up at Mark as he approaches. He's naked as a newborn under the cover of tawny feathers. Narrowed eyes, pale cheeks, sweat-shiny skin. Sick, maybe, or injured. He won't unfold enough for Mark to make an educated guess.

"Hey now," Mark says, crouching with a bit of a wince. His knees aren't what they used to be. "Hey, I'm not gonna hurt you."

The boy stares silently. He's panting, Mark can see from this close. Chest heaving, back trembling. Definitely something wrong with him, but what's the etiquette here? Does he treat him like a lost kid, a feral? Or like an animal? Can the boy even talk?

Mark reaches out like he might with a skittish dog. Offers up a hand to sniff or bat away that the boy just looks at. Even though he's obviously distressed, he still looks incredibly unimpressed. Like his resting face isn't expecting much from the world and is still disappointed by it.

"C'mon out," Mark tries. He rubs his fingers together and resists making any weird noises, pspspsing or whistling. Might be offensive, he thinks. "Are you hurt?"

The boy blinks at him. His lips are parted in this way that isn't threatening, exactly, but isn't all that friendly either.

He nods, slow. Okay, good. He understands at least.

Mark shuffles a little closer, bare toes catching in the dirt. Somewhere in the distance there's something howling; dingoes, maybe, which doesn't exactly bode well. If the boy can't walk—or fly, for that matter—then he's easy pickings for whatever's out on the outskirts of Mark's farm.

His hand stays outstretched. The boy stays perfectly still, or tries to. Mark sees him shiver. It's getting cold, with the sun setting on the horizon.

"Listen," Mark says, "Why don't you come inside? You can get warm, at least." He'd prefer it, having the kid somewhere with four walls and a roof. Safe from scavengers, safe from the cold.

The boy swallows, throat bobbing visibly. He's pretty, Mark thinks, all softly rounded features and pink lips and pale skin and freckles, and—

He clears his throat. Not helpful. Not relevant.

"Come on inside," he tries again, gentler. "You can leave whenever you'd like, yeah? Just—for the night."

The boy is silent and unmoving for a long, long minute. For a second Mark is expecting him to suddenly scurry off into the underbrush. Maybe flap up into the low branches of the tree overhead. If he spooks and gets hurt worse, Mark's going to be drinking away the guilt for months.

And then—

"Okay," the boy says.

Mark doesn't know why he's startled that the kid can talk, after prompting him into it, but he is. He's got a flat voice, dry and small and vulnerable but trying not to be.

"Okay," Mark echoes. "Okay."

The boy lets him approach, then, folds his wings back to let Mark in to help him up off the ground. One wing is held more limply than the other. It's obvious, once the kid's standing, that he's favouring that side. He's also hot to the touch. Fever, maybe. Somewhat hysterically, Mark thinks of avian flu, and wonders if he's about to expose himself to some fun new infection trying to help this boy-with-wings.

"I'm Mark," he says, instead of any of that. The boy's arm is slung over his shoulders, and Mark's arm fits tidily around his waist, just below where bases of his wings join to his back.

"Oscar," the boy says. Mark doesn't understand, for a second. Has to piece it together—that the natural response to an introduction is to introduce yourself, and also that it makes sense that the boy would have a name at all.

But Oscar?

"Like the Grouch?" Mark jokes, as they stumble across the yard.

Oscar looks up at him flatly.

Mark clears his throat, pushes open the back door. "Never mind."

Once he's got Oscar settled in the guest room downstairs Mark really starts to examine his choices. He's got a birdboy in his house, possibly ill, definitely injured, that he's going to have to nurse back to health. He's taken on this responsibility. And he's never been all that responsible—ask anyone, especially his ex-wife—but he's also never been all that reasonable. He's impulsive. Driven by scattered bursts of emotion, usually negative.

Surely this is a positive one, though? Surely this is driven by compassion, and not the selfish need to have something to care for. And to care isn't all that selfish, is it?

It'll have to be a problem for tomorrow, he thinks, hauling a heap of extra blankets into the spare room and helping Oscar get them tucked around his naked body. Clothes should happen eventually. Probably. Food is the next priority.

He mutters something about getting Oscar something to eat, and then absently pats Oscar's head, and then freezes. Probably this is a faux-pas, condescending, offensive.

Oscar leans into it, though. Rubs his head up against Mark's palm. His hair is so soft it's like silk when Mark slips his fingers through it.

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 8/?)

Violence is a vicious cycle, one you learned long before Silco entered your life. The difference now is that he doesn't shy away from it; he embraces it, urging you to accept the brutality that once repugnant. It's your choice to accept or no.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 8,4K

Warnings: blood and violence, graphic violence, slight hints of reader's past, deaths, description of deaths, attempted murder, threats, use of drugs as medicine (shimmer), kidnapping, canon-typical Silco violence, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

This chapter was written in a non-linear manner, pay attention to the times specified at the beginning of each change of point of view to understand the sequence of actions.

Part 7

03:57 AM

It was easy to get used to.

You no longer had to prepare yourself to smile and please people whose faces would become nothing more than blurs by the end of each shift at the brothel. You no longer had to pretend to be charmed, to act as though it was all part of some glorious destiny, or that you genuinely cared. That forced smile, that nauseating submission, the feigned devotion to bodies and egos you could barely tolerate—all of it was behind you. No more idolizing them as if they were gods and you were a mere offering. With Silco, things were... different. Strangely simple, despite everything. And indeed, it had been far too easy to get used to.

Life at The Last Drop had its own kind of illusion. You walked the hallways with the apparent freedom of someone who seemed to belong there. No one stopped you; no one looked at you with disdain. You were recognized—or at least tolerated—and that gave the illusion of control. But it was just that: an illusion. Deep down, you knew. You felt the watchful eyes of the guards in every corner, aware of their constant vigilance. Pretending not to notice their scrutiny was almost a game. Just like pretending you enjoyed sleeping in, when in reality you spent your nights wide awake, staring at the ceiling or tossing and turning in bed while your mind relentlessly tormented you with things you preferred to forget.

The problem was that The Last Drop seemed to know how to unlock doors in your mind that you had fought so hard to seal shut. Every corner of that place carried an echo — not of physical memories, but of something deeper, more visceral. When you closed your eyes, the dreams came like an attack — memories of the past that you wanted to bury but now insisted on resurfacing, sharper and more vivid than ever. Mostly happy memories. But for some reason, those were the ones that hurt the most.

You were never good at dealing with grief. It had always been easier to bury it, to pretend it didn't hurt, that it didn't matter. But now, it seemed impossible. It was as if every moment in The Last Drop chipped away at that protective barrier, letting the pain seep out bit by bit.

Paradoxically, Silco helped. Not in a gentle or compassionate way, of course. His presence pushed the thoughts and memories away, replacing them with a suffocating anger and a frustrating attraction that consumed you. He was a constant storm, and being near him felt like clinging to a branch while the current threatened to pull you under. And in a way, it helped. The intensity of his presence clouded your mind, wiping away what you didn't want to feel. It was almost a relief.

But at the same time, you hated it. Hated how easy it was to deal with him, hated that he made everything simpler. You wished he were more difficult, more unbearable. Maybe then you'd have the courage to pull the trigger now.

His body lay asleep on the couch in front of you. Silco looked uncomfortably at ease, as if exhaustion had finally overpowered his eternal vigilance. You had laid him down after he'd passed out sitting up, his good eye closed in an almost peaceful expression, while the scarred one remained open, blank, as if still keeping watch — a detail that made him even more unsettling. Despite that, you were entirely certain he was deeply unconscious.

You'd made sure he was drained. Part of you took pride in that. Even though he wasn't exactly young, Silco had handled your energy well — perhaps even better than you'd expected. But that was irrelevant now.

In your hand, the weight of his revolver anchored an impossible choice. The gun was unlocked, the barrel pointed directly at Silco's head. Your finger hovered over the trigger, trembling, hesitant. It hadn't been hard to find the revolver. He kept it in one of the desk drawers, the same drawer where, curiously, you'd found something else. A piece of fine lace — your panties, which he had taken for himself during your last visit to the brothel a month ago. The memory stirred a mix of discomfort and nostalgia, but at this moment, it felt utterly insignificant.

You'd been standing there for at least fifteen minutes, motionless, lost in this internal battle. When you entered the office, this wasn't part of the plan. You hadn't come to kill him. You'd orchestrated this encounter because you needed to examine something you'd found earlier but hadn't had the time to analyze properly. You needed to act without worrying about Sevika's relentless shadow, whose routine you had memorized over the past few days. The middle of the night was perfect, with only the night guards on patrol, their steps and intervals quickly committed to your memory. All you needed was to keep Silco out of the way for a few hours. And you had succeeded.

But then you found the revolver. And now you were here.

He looked so human while he slept. His breathing was heavy but steady. The constant tension in his shoulders had vanished, leaving him almost... serene. So different from the man who seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders when awake. Even his scars looked less severe in the flickering light of the desk lamp. It was strange to see Silco like this, almost vulnerable.

But as you watched him longer, you realized that not even sleep brought him peace. Every so often, he would furrow his brow, murmuring something incoherent. Perhaps a nightmare, perhaps a memory haunting him. It made him seem even more... human. And you hated feeling that.

Silco was a monster. A trafficker who had turned Zaun into a suffocating chaos of despair and violence because of Shimmer. A manipulator who didn't hesitate to sacrifice lives to achieve his goals. A man who had very likely kidnapped a child — the child you had sworn to find. A cruel, heartless, soulless killer.

You hated him.

And yet, you couldn't pull the trigger.

Why?

You could blame that small part of yourself that had attached to him too quickly. Too strongly, like a silent plague that crept in before you realized it. The part that held onto the moments between you two as if they were precious relics, no matter how torturous they were. You had to admit, Silco had gotten under your skin, and that terrified you. It wasn't just the sex, though it was impossible to ignore how good it was — intense, almost transcendent, as if you both were trying to devour each other in an effort to feel something beyond just flesh. But it was more than that. Something you didn't want to name.

It was the little things. The subtle ways he showed affection, even in his twisted, fragmented way. Like how he always held you after sex, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin as if trying to memorize every inch of you. Or how he always seemed to want to touch you, even outside the heat of passion. Those touches were different, softer, almost reverent, as if he was making sure you were really there. And that damned look of his... A look that seemed to see right through you, beyond your armor, into the darkest corners of your soul. A look that said he saw what you were — and worse, accepted it.

Maybe that was what killed you. That unbearable acceptance.

Or maybe it was his obsession — twisted, dangerous — that somehow resembled affection. Not the kind you'd dream of, but something as chaotic and destructive as he was. Like cannibalism as a metaphor for love, a consuming that was both intimate and fatal.

And now, here you were, with a loaded gun aimed at the man you both desired and hated. Perhaps hatred was just another form of desire, a corrupted and impure version but inescapable all the same. You hated him, above all, for making you feel anything. For breaking through that hard shell you'd built around yourself.

And that was why he had to die.

Because deep down, you knew. Everyone you began to feel something for ended up dead in the end. It was a curse, a cycle you didn't know how to break. Silco would just be another name on that list; you convinced yourself of that. If there was even the slightest chance — no matter how remote — that this feeling, this damnable feeling, could grow, could become something worse, something stronger, you needed to cut it off at the root.

He had messed with your head in a way no one else ever had. More than your time at the Institute. More than the losses. More than anything.

You sighed, the sound echoing in the room like a muffled scream. Your hands trembled, but you moved with precision to open the cylinder of the revolver. Carefully, you removed all the bullets, leaving only one in the chamber. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it was courage. Maybe it was the only way to make this decision without overthinking it. Russian roulette. That was it. Fate would decide. It would be easier this way. Easier than facing the truth — that you wanted just as much to pull the trigger as to drop the gun and fall into his arms.

You closed your eyes, letting your finger rest on the trigger. One breath, two. But before you could do anything, the metallic sound of something hitting the floor interrupted your concentration.

You quickly aimed the revolver toward the sound, your senses on high alert. Something had fallen near Silco's desk, breaking the silence that filled the room. Your eyes scanned the beams in the ceiling, searching for any movement or suspicious presence, but you found nothing. Just in case, you glanced at Silco. He was still lying on the sofa, his body unmoving except for a slight shift, seemingly caused by the noise. His breathing remained steady. He hadn't woken up.

You began reloading the revolver, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly, though caution lingered. Your gaze returned to the floor, to the object that had disrupted the quiet. With calculated steps, you approached. The tension in your chest dissipated the moment you saw what it was: a small, cylindrical metal object with a design etched on the surface. A blue rat?

You picked it up, studying the lines of the drawing. It seemed childlike, crafted with care but lacking the precision of an adult's hand. Your eyes darted between the object and Silco's ashtray on the desk. The doodles were similar, as if made by the same hand. Involuntarily, you glanced again at the ceiling beams. Why did you feel like this hadn't been there before?

Either way, it hit you like a bullet — like a cold shower snapping you out of the chaos of your own thoughts. Reason returned like a violent tide, pulling you away from the impulsive and absurd decision you had almost made. What you were about to do to Silco... it was unthinkable now, seen under the stark light of lucidity. The weight of regret already pressed on your chest, even though the act hadn't been carried out.

You clutched the metal object against your chest, not caring if it could be dangerous. In truth, it seemed almost irrelevant. The simple cold touch of that piece of metal was what brought your good sense back. You stared at the thing, still confused about how that mechanical rat — which looked very much like an invention or a toy — had ended up in Silco's office. You didn't know its origin, but at that moment, you silently thanked its presence.

You holstered the revolver and walked to Silco's desk, your breaths heavy, your hands still sweaty. Carefully, you began sifting through the papers. The reason that had started this entire plan tonight was somewhere here.

And you found it.

It was a drawing. Simple, made by small hands and scribbled in bright colors with uneven lines. It depicted what seemed to be Silco — the scar on his face and the orange eye made that clear. Beside him stood a little girl with two blue braids. The caricature was clumsy but unmistakable. Your fingers gripped the paper tighter than you intended as you looked at the drawing and compared it with the metal cylinder. There was no doubt. The same style, the same child.

Jinx.

Or perhaps little Powder, if you were foolish enough to cling to false hopes.

You held both the cylinder and the drawing tightly, as if they were relics you couldn't let slip away. With quick, almost anxious steps, you headed for the door. Your thoughts spiraled, blending with the rapid thud of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. Suddenly, that office had become suffocating, and you needed to get out as quickly as possible. You needed to go somewhere safe, to calm down, to distance yourself from all of this.

From The Last Drop.

From your turbulent mind.

From your conflicting feelings.

From Silco.

Even if you were already taking something of his with you.

Silco's Pov━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━���

01:05 PM

Heavy breathing, trembling and bloodied hands, the raw pain of repeated impact throbbing in his knuckles. The metallic smell of blood mingled with the scent of aged wood and sweat. The body before him was still alive — at least in strictly biological terms — but the soul of that man seemed to have been beaten out of him. He lay on the ground, each muffled groan only feeding the tension inside Silco.

Silco closed his eyes for a moment, trying to control the wave of rage threatening to overflow once more. He took a deep breath, the air entering his lungs in short, labored gulps, as if the simple act of breathing was a monumental effort. He needed to regain composure. He needed to think. But the words of that miserable fool — that idiot who thought he could open his mouth and try to explain his failure — echoed in his mind, each syllable a cruel reminder of a failure Silco was unwilling to acknowledge.

She escaped.

The idea was so absurd he almost laughed. How? How could that even be possible? He had taken care of every detail. Not just the practical ones, but the emotional ones, too. He had been... generous, more than he normally would be with anyone. He ensured her needs were met, her requests heard. He even allowed her to keep a semblance of autonomy — a dangerous concession, but one he deemed necessary. All to ensure she would stay. That she would accept her new reality without resistance.

So, why?

Why had she escaped? Why had she abandoned him now?

The word lingered in the air: abandoned.

He hated the implication. It wasn't abandonment. It couldn't be. That would imply something he wasn't willing to accept about his own feelings. Something he refused to admit, even to himself. Silco stopped. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, fresh blood staining the cuff of his shirt. He felt an internal storm, a whirlwind of emotions he couldn't control: anger, frustration... and a pang of something he hated to acknowledge. Fear.

She was important. More than he was willing to articulate, even in his most private thoughts. And the idea of losing her after finally getting his hands on her was inconceivable.

He shook his head, trying to push the thought away. No. This wasn't the time to get lost in such musings. He had a problem to solve. And he would solve it, as he always did.

With a swift motion, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands, the movements almost automatic but lacking the care needed to remove all the grime. The stain of violence lingered, in the small cuts and scratches that formed trails of dried blood. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back with a nervous touch.

"I can't believe she managed to escape because of a damn blind spot during the guard shift." Silco growled, his voice deep and low but laden with an intensity that made the air in the room feel heavier. He wasn't yelling, but the anger in his words was as clear as the blood still staining his knuckles. "A single window..." he straightened, turning fully to Sevika, his eyes cutting into her like sharp blades. "How did you let this happen?"

Sevika, with her usual steel posture, swallowed hard before responding. "I gave orders for all the windows to be checked after the bar closed." her voice was firm, but there was tension beneath it. She knew it wouldn't be enough.

Silco took a step forward, the lamplight highlighting the harsh lines of his face, his expression a mask of frustration and disdain. "Then it seems your orders were being ignored." he retorted, each word dripping with contempt. "An unarmed woman, under constant surveillance, in my territory, managed to disappear without anyone noticing... How the hell does someone like her simply vanish before anyone realized it was too late?"

"The guards—"

"The guards failed!" Silco cut her off with a tone that felt like a whip. His voice wasn't loud, but every word was delivered with cruel precision. "Idiots." he muttered to himself, venom dripping from his tongue. "All of you, incompetent. You let her slip away right under your noses. I'm surrounded by amateurs."

Sevika stood firm, but the clenching of her jaw was evident. She was frustrated, maybe even furious with herself, but she knew that at that moment, any explanation would only anger him further.

"Silco, no one expected her to—"

"That's irrelevant!" he roared, cutting her off again, his voice cold as ice. "She's out. Which means she could be anywhere. Anyone could find her before we do. And if you think that's acceptable, you're all more foolish than I imagined."

He took another step forward, stopping just inches away from Sevika. His eyes, one blazing with fiery orange, pierced into hers with an intensity that made the room feel smaller. Silco could resemble a demon now. "Find her." he ordered, his voice now low but laden with absolute authority. "I want everyone looking for her. Every corner, every alley, every damn hole in this city. No matter the cost. No matter the effort. I want her back."

Sevika nodded firmly, though there was a glimmer in her eyes betraying her own frustration. "Yes, sir." she responded, her voice controlled, though tense.

The title of "sir" tasted so bitter now.

Silco didn't look away. "And get rid of that damn dead weight on my floor." he added, indicating with a slight tilt of his head the still-unconscious, bloodied body lying in the middle of the room. He then watched as the door closed with a dull thud after Sevika left, dragging the unconscious guard.

He remained motionless for a few moments, his fingers drumming softly on the surface of the desk as his mind raced, drawing scenarios, all of them undesirable. He knew she was clever — cunning, even. But the audacity to defy him? That was something he hadn't anticipated.

He ran a hand over his face, trying to dispel the rage boiling beneath his skin. The gesture was almost useless. The headache throbbed at his temples, a persistent buzzing filled his ears, and the beating he'd delivered to the guard hadn't done much to relieve the growing pressure in his chest. Silco disliked losing control, hated succumbing to emotion, but this day was testing his limits.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to regain control. Now wasn't the time to fall apart. Not now, when everything was already slipping through his fingers. Slowly, he moved to the worn leather chair behind his desk. He sat down with a weight that seemed to drag the entire room down with him. His eyes fixed briefly on the darkness beyond the window, but he quickly averted them, reaching for the injector in his drawer.

His fingers moved automatically, preparing the dose of Shimmer he needed. He didn't think about the gesture — it was something he did almost unconsciously, like a reflex conditioned by years of habit. Then, he stopped, tilting his head slightly upward.

"How long have you been there?" to an external observer, it might have seemed that Silco was talking to himself, but he knew he wasn't.

A childish voice responded, hesitant and thin, with a trace of apprehension. "Since you started beating the crap out of that guy."

He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping in a gesture of exhaustion. It wasn't just the anger or frustration that hit him now; it was the awareness that someone else had been watching. Someone who shouldn't have witnessed that.

"You weren't supposed to see that."

Before he could say anything else, he heard the sound of something falling directly onto the desk. A few papers slid to the floor, along with some random object. He turned in his chair and found Jinx there, curled up on herself.

She was sitting in her usual position — hugging her knees, her face partially hidden between them. Her eyes, which usually sparkled with a touch of mischief or curiosity, were distant, lost in some point within the office. In that posture, with her hunched shoulders and chin tucked in, she seemed even smaller than she really was. A reflection of the fragility she rarely let show.

"I see Sevika beating people up all the time..." her voice was low but carried a faint, false attempt at disdain. "So, whatever."

Silco sighed again, this time more controlled, almost resigned. He knew the world he was shaping around Jinx didn't allow for the absence of violence. She would have to learn to live with it, to see it, and eventually to execute it with precision and detachment. Still, there was something different when he was the one committing such acts in front of her. He felt there was a specific image he needed to preserve for Jinx — and a man acting like a mindless, violent animal wasn't part of that vision.

He moved the injector toward her, watching as Jinx hesitated briefly before taking the device. Her small fingers held the object carefully, and she stepped closer to the edge of the desk. Silco leaned back in his chair, tilting his chin upward to let her position it. He felt her hands on his face, still somewhat uncertain as she tried to find the right angle.

There was a slight tremor in her fingers.

"Keep your hands steady." he said, in a tone that even surprised himself. It was soft, almost paternal, as if the irritation he'd felt moments earlier had been washed away from his body. "You're not going to hurt me, Jinx."

"But you always writhe in pain afterward."

"There are pains in life that are necessary." he replied, shifting his eyes to meet hers briefly. His heterochromatic eyes gleamed under the dim light of the office, his expression calm and patient. "You'll understand that better when you're older."

Jinx pursed her lips into a pout, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. But his words seemed to be enough to encourage her. He saw her determination slowly return, and soon she was adjusting the injector to his eye and pressing the button. The sensation was immediate. The injection released the liquid directly into Silco's system, and the pain that followed was like liquid fire coursing through his veins. He felt his nerves throbbing, every muscle in his body contracting in involuntary spasms. The heat of the Shimmer seemed to intensify with every second, his heart pounding fast, almost erratically.

Silco arched his body slightly in the chair, his fingers gripping the wooden arms tightly. A single drop of Shimmer slipped from the corner of his scarred eye, a gleaming, purple tear that fell to the floor with an almost inaudible sound. He took a deep breath, steadying the erratic rhythm of his heart as he wiped his face with the back of his hand, dispelling the lingering trace of that searing pain. He was used to it, despite everything. The pain, the discomfort, the feeling of being consumed from within — it was all part of his routine.

"She could have killed you yesterday."

Jinx's words cut through the silence of the office like a sharp knife, thrown into the air with seemingly casual indifference. Silco lifted his eyes from where he sat, surprised by the sudden comment, but before he could even ask for an explanation, Jinx continued, her voice light, almost casual, as if she were recounting some trivial story.

"You were passed out on the couch." she began, her tone as nonchalant as if she were narrating an ordinary event. "And she just stood there... still. With the gun in her hand, staring at you. She looked like a statue, you know? Didn't move for almost half an hour."

Silco tilted his head slightly, frowning as he absorbed what the girl was saying. "She could've shot at any second." Jinx went on, curling back into her previous position, hugging her knees tightly, her eyes fixed on some point on the floor. "But she didn't."

The silence that followed was heavy, almost tangible. Silco didn't respond immediately. He absorbed the words carefully, letting them settle like a slow-acting poison. He had no reason to doubt Jinx. She wasn't the type to make up stories, especially something so specific. He should have been more surprised by the revelation that the woman, from whom he expected obedience and hatred in equal measure, had once again held a weapon against him. But, to be honest, he wasn't. Of all the betrayals that could occur, this one seemed almost inevitable. What bothered him more wasn't the attempt itself but the fact that she had hesitated.

Why didn't she pull the trigger?

That question lodged itself in his mind like a blade. He knew hesitation could mean many things — guilt, remorse, a fragment of something human she carried for him... or perhaps something more strategic, a game he had yet to understand.

Silco tilted his head slightly to the side, intrigued. "And then?"

Jinx shrugged, as if recalling something trivial. "Then I decided to throw a bomb to distract her."

"You threw a bomb in my office?"

"It was just a smoke bomb!" Jinx protested, looking up at him. "And it didn't even go off."

He leaned slightly forward in his chair, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface of the desk. "Did she see you?"

"No... I don't think so." Jinx replied, frowning as if trying to recall. "She turned in my direction. Looked up, right where I was. It was close... really close. But I hid before she could spot me. Then I ran out when she got distracted."

"You didn't see her leave the office?"

"No." Jinx admitted, looking somewhat embarrassed. "I'd already bolted. I don't know how or when she left."

"You should have told me about this immediately, child."

"I thought you already knew!" Jinx shot back defensively, though she avoided meeting his gaze.

Silco turned to her, his eyes locking onto hers, sharp and penetrating like a father educating his child. He knew she wasn't accustomed to handling situations like this — at least not with the seriousness he expected from her. However, Jinx's survival instincts were an asset, and he couldn't deny that, even in her impulsiveness, she had protected him from possible death.

"Next time, you inform me." he ordered, his voice icy but tinged with a paternal tone he rarely allowed to show.

Silco leaned back in his chair with a sigh, feeling the familiar, throbbing pain behind his eyes intensify. He was trying, with all his might, to analyze the events of the previous night pragmatically, separating the emotions that insisted on creeping in. But he was growing exhausted. Every piece of this puzzle seemed out of place, and the thought that he needed to confront that woman, to make her explain what the hell was going on, only fueled his irritation.

He knew he would find her. It wasn't a question of "if" but "when." And when that happened, she would have a lot to explain. However, as his mind worked relentlessly, one detail made Silco freeze for a moment. Jinx had been in his office. Last night. The same office where he and that woman... Oh, for the Gods' sake. A sudden chill ran down his spine.

"When exactly did you get here last night?" the question came out with a casual, controlled tone, though internally, Silco was on the verge of being consumed by embarrassment. He wouldn't know how to handle the realization that the child knew exactly what he did behind closed doors.

"When she was already standing in front of the sofa."

Jinx's response brought immediate relief. Silco almost exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. At least Jinx had arrived at the end of the night. That was something. He allowed himself to relax slightly, but not for long.

"Are you worried about her?" the question caught Silco off guard, but he didn't show it. He tilted his head, casting a glance in Jinx's direction. She now looked at him with an expression that was hard to decipher.

"No. I just want her back here."

"Why?" Jinx tilted her head to the side, her face twisting into something that resembled indignation. "She's just a prostitute. You can pay for another one."

If Silco had been at the edge of his patience before, that statement dangerously pushed him to the brink. He didn't allow himself to react immediately, but internally, he was both surprised — and, in a way, irritated. Not so much at what Jinx had said, but at the fact that she knew enough to make such a claim.

He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her carefully. It was evident that Jinx had more awareness of the world around her than he liked to admit. One thing was her becoming accustomed to the environment he had provided — violence, strategy, controlled chaos. Quite another was her having knowledge and understanding of... intimate details.

"How do you know she's a prostitute?"

"Sevika told me." Jinx shrugged, her expression indifferent, as though there was nothing wrong with repeating what she'd heard. "She said you pay her to keep you company so you don't feel lonely. If that's the case, you can just find another one, or I can stay here so you won't feel lonely. I'm free."

Ah... the sweet, uncomfortable, and relentless innocence of children. Silco had to resist the urge to rub his face with his hands, exhausted. He was not about to explain the complex and often dark nuances of human relationships to her. He didn't have the patience for it, nor the will.

"Her kind of company is different from yours."

Jinx frowned, visibly confused by the vague response. Silco remained silent, showing no intention of elaborating. The explanation stopped there, and he knew it would irritate her. As expected, the girl huffed in frustration, jumping down from the desk with careless energy that sent a few papers scattering to the floor.

Silco watched her as she moved around the office with her typical restless, clumsy motions, touching things she shouldn't and completely disregarding any notion of manners or decorum. Yet, there was something reassuring about seeing Jinx being Jinx, even when everything around him seemed on the verge of falling apart.

"Right before I ran off, I heard her mumbling something about 'going to a safe place.'" Jinx's voice broke the silence, her tone casual as if she were reporting something insignificant. She was now rifling through a pile of objects in the corner of the office, tossing small metal pieces from one side to the other, clearly bored. "Maybe she's in that so-called safe place."

Jinx's words, seemingly spoken without any awareness of their weight, made Silco bring a hand to his chin, diving into careful thought. A "safe place." That could mean anything, but he knew that for someone in her position — a fugitive at a disadvantage — a "safe place" was rarely an abstract concept. He could think of a few places where she might have scurried off like a rat.

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the wooden armrest as he analyzed the possibilities. He knew Zaun like no one else. The shadows of its streets, the narrowest alleys, the makeshift hideouts where the desperate curled up, believing they were out of his reach. Silco had eyes everywhere. No one could hide from him for long.

"This could be useful." Silco murmured, almost to himself. The low tone, however, didn't escape Jinx's sharp ears.

She knocked something over on purpose — a loud crash echoed through the office. Then she turned to him with a questioning look. "You're really going after her?"

"I thought I'd already made that clear." Silco replied, not raising his voice but with enough firmness to leave no doubt that the decision had already been made. He knew it was his responsibility, not just as a leader, but as a strategist. That woman's escape wasn't just an affront to his authority; it was an inconvenient reminder that he was still vulnerable to small missteps.

Jinx shrugged but didn't seem particularly convinced. "If she doesn't want to be found, it's gonna be tough. She seemed... smart."

The corner of Silco's lips curled into an almost predatory smile, devoid of any warmth or kindness. "No one in Zaun can hide from me for long, child. No matter how clever they think they are."

Jinx, however, quickly lost interest. She climbed onto a chair and started swinging her legs, her restless movements starkly contrasting with the heavy tension lingering in the air. Silco watched the scene for a moment, the contrast between his calculated calm and the girl's restless energy almost making him smile.

He let out a low sigh, his hand resuming its rhythm of tapping against the arm of the chair. This woman thought she could disappear, that she could find some refuge in his city without him noticing. Foolishness.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

01:10 PM

You covered your mouth with your hand, pressing it firmly to muffle the sound of your breathing. Your body was frozen, pressed against the rough, cold wall of the apartment as if trying to merge with the structure. Any movement, no matter how small, could draw attention too soon.

In the next room, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed on the worn wooden floor. Two men. You didn't need to see them to know they were big and bulky ��� the kind of enforcers who could break bones with a single blow. The rhythm of their steps was slow, almost lazy, but the tension in the air betrayed that they were alert, ready to act at the slightest sign.

Running wasn't an option. They were in the way of the only exit — the front door of your tiny apartment, which looked more like a crumbling ruin. You knew that if you tried to run, they'd catch you before you even made it to the hallway. That left only one option: fight.

All of this could have been avoided. You knew Silco would eventually send men to your home. That's why you were here — not to hide, but to gather everything that could connect you to Vander and take it somewhere safe, somewhere no one, least of all Silco, could find it. The plan was simple, straightforward, and would've been quick if everything had gone as you'd envisioned. All you had to do was grab the bag and disappear for just a few days. They'd only notice the disappearance later, when it was too late to track you down.

But something had gone terribly wrong.

The two brutes had burst into the apartment before you could leave. Maybe they had followed some trail, or maybe Silco was faster and more cunning than you wanted to admit. Now, instead of being on your way to the mines, you were cornered in the living room, forced to hide like a trapped rat. You had no idea how they had reached your apartment so quickly. The Last Drop was far enough away that you should've had time to escape.

You heard one of them rummaging through your room. The wardrobe door slammed open and shut violently, the contents inside being tossed carelessly onto the floor. Soon after, the sound of the bed being dragged scraped through the silence, followed by the bathroom door being opened in a rush. More sounds of objects falling and hitting the floor echoed around you. And as they did this, they talked to each other, but you couldn't focus on what they were saying.

Your mind was racing like a runaway horse, each thought slipping away before you could hold onto it. You needed a strategy — something that didn't force you into a prolonged direct confrontation. Not because you were a coward — you had already proven you weren't — but because you simply couldn't afford it. There was the risk of blacking out if you overused that, and in this moment, blacking out meant dying.

In an ideal scenario, you'd need to take them both down in under ten seconds. Beyond that, your chances of success would plummet to near zero. But there was a problem: they were too far apart, making it impossible to ambush them both at the same time.

Silco's dagger in your hand was heavy, though not uncomfortably so. It was the weight of something familiar, almost reassuring. The cold metal handle felt like it was molded to your palm, as if it was always meant to be there. A bitter memory surfaced: you were made for this. Every fiber of your being, every enhancement, every grueling training session — it was all for moments like this, for killing.

That thought gave you the certainty you needed. You rose from your crouched position, your muscles already tense, ready for what was coming. Instinct took over. In one swift motion, you kicked a metal can lying near you. The clang was loud, metallic, reverberating off the walls. Silence. One second. Two.

Quick footsteps came in your direction. Heavy, determined. They were moving like predators that had finally cornered their prey. Both of them stormed into the room at the same time. Each was armed with a knife, their eyes locked on you. The bigger one had an arrogant smirk on his lips, as if he had already won.

"Come on, sweetheart." he said, his voice slow and condescending. "Just come along like a good girl before you get hurt. We've got orders to bring you in alive, but accidents happen, don't they?"

You didn't reply. There was no need. They weren't here to talk, and even if they were, it wasn't something that mattered now. Your gaze fixed on the two men as you felt the steady pulse of adrenaline course through your body. The dagger's handle pressed against your palm so tightly your knuckles were white. You exhaled through your lips in a long sigh, like a pressure valve releasing, as a wave of forced calm took over your body. It was almost ironic, given the chaos about to unfold.

And then it happened.

That familiar sensation began. The world around you slowed down, as if time itself hesitated to move forward. The tingling started in your eyes, a subtle electric current dancing through your vision. The edges of your field of view flickered, and every detail around you sharpened. The man on the left, the more confident one, had a small, poorly healed cut on his lip. The other, hesitant, gripped his knife with stiff fingers, as if afraid it might slip.

They moved at the same time.

The first came straight at you, his knife aiming for your left shoulder. You dodged before the motion could complete, twisting your body to the side and forcing his blade to slash through empty air. A swift movement of your dagger in response left a trail of blood along his side before you repositioned yourself. The second man tried to capitalize on your supposed distraction, coming at you from the side. But your reflexes were beyond what he could anticipate. Your free hand grabbed his wrist, twisting it with a quick, brutal motion until you heard the dry snap of a dislocated bone. He screamed, but you didn't hesitate. Your dagger found his throat with surgical precision, a quick, clean slash.

The man dropped to his knees, hands clutching his neck as blood poured between his fingers.

The first had already recovered from the initial strike and charged again, his confidence now replaced by fury. He attempted a wide, lateral slash, but you lunged forward, closing the distance into his guard before the knife could reach its mark. A swift motion and your dagger found the spot between his ribs. His scream echoed through the room as you stepped back, letting him collapse to the floor like an empty sack.

Your body hit the hard floor right after, your knees striking the surface with a dull thud. There was no pain — or maybe there was, but exhaustion swallowed it before you could feel it. Everything seemed distant, as if the world around you was submerged in a dense fog. Your muscles were stiff, refusing to respond, while warm, sticky blood dripped from your nose, tracing lines down to your chin.

Five seconds. You'd spent five damn seconds.

Panting, you let the dagger fall to your side, your fingers trembling too much to hold it any longer. Your eyes, previously alight with that unnatural glow, were returning to normal. You blinked, trying to adjust your blurred vision. The room spun around you, the contours of the walls blending into a strange dance of shadows and light. The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth, mingled with bile threatening to rise. You tilted your head back, closing your eyes, trying to grasp at the remnants of strength you had left. But that damned side effect was like an anchor, dragging you down, draining every last ounce of energy.

You lay there on the ground for long minutes, perhaps longer than you should have. Time lost all meaning as you forced yourself to breathe, a simple task that now felt like an endless climb. But you realized you had made a mistake. You could have won that fight with ease. You knew that. After all, you had been conditioned to handle worse situations. But after all these years, your precision and practice had rusted. Complacency was a slow poison. And now, you were paying the price.

There were three of them.

You noticed this too late. The realization only came when footsteps began to echo around the small space, drawing closer until they stopped in front of you. Your vision was blurred by the effort, but even so, you forced your eyes open enough to take in the scene. A man was crouched, staring at you with a mix of boredom and curiosity. Judging by his relaxed posture, he no longer saw you as a threat.

"She took down two." he said, his disinterested voice cutting through the silence. It wasn't directed at you — that much was clear. Something gleamed in his ear — a communicator, probably. The device emitted a faint blue glow, and you recognized it immediately: Piltover tech. The bastard was talking to someone, and you could imagine who.

"Yeah, she seems to be retreating." he continued after a pause. His head tilted slightly, as though listening to a response. "Ten, maybe fifteen seconds? I don't know, I wasn't paid to count the seconds." another irritatingly long pause. "But listen, buddy... your boss paid us to bring her in, nothing more, so stop complaining."

Your hand slid across the floor, searching for the dagger that had fallen nearby. Your fingertips brushed against it, and you grasped it tightly, ignoring the pain radiating through your body. The man kept murmuring, perhaps to someone on the other side of that device, but you no longer heard him. It didn't matter. Only one thing mattered: you would not go back to Piltover. Not again. Never again.

The idea forming in your mind was suicidal. You knew that. But the alternative was worse. Going back to them? No. You would rather die here, now.

The familiar tingling returned to your eyes — a mix of adrenaline and desperation that allowed you to ignore exhaustion and pain but also reminded you there were limits, and you were dangerously close to them. Blood began to flow from your nose again, faster this time, a clear sign your body couldn't hold out much longer.

"Send more people to clean up this mess." his voice echoed through the room, each word carrying the weight of an irrefutable command. He didn't even glance at you as he spoke, exuding the arrogant confidence of someone who believed they had already won. Maybe it was the boredom in his posture or the lowered guard he displayed, but you knew at that moment he had made a fatal mistake. "That chemical baron will be a problem if he finds out—"

The sentence died in his throat.

The muffled sound of a blade piercing flesh and the sudden shift in his expression were almost cathartic. He froze, his eyes wide, disbelief written across his face. His hand instinctively rose to his neck, trying in vain to stem the blood gushing between his fingers.

You barely had time to register the scene. Your body gave out, too heavy to support anymore. Your knees buckled, and you collapsed onto the floor. Pain exploded at the back of your head as it hit the rough wood, but you could no longer focus on anything except the sound of the man collapsing beside you.

The blade was still embedded in him, the weapon he never saw coming.

Look at that — you really hadn't lost your touch. Silco was right, after all. You were like him. A trail of ruins followed your every step. But unlike him, you had tried — truly tried — to stop being the monster they had created. Tried to believe you could be something more. Something different. And yet, here you were, falling back into the same cycle.

The edges of the world began to blur, a black void swallowing everything. For a moment, you hoped this was the end. If you had to choose between going back or dying right there, on that filthy floor in Zaun, death seemed merciful.

Silco's Pov━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

01:45 PM

The scene in that modest apartment was, for Silco, a spectacle as unexpected as it was disconcerting. Not because he wasn't accustomed to the sight of bodies, the acrid smell of blood, or the chaos of a devastated space. Silco had seen more than his share of brutality. Zaun was a land that chewed up and spat out the weak without mercy, and he had long since grown desensitized to the sight of piled corpses and spilled blood. But something about this scene unsettled him deeply — perhaps because it wasn't supposed to be this way here, in this space, in what should have been her private refuge.

He stepped forward, his heavy boots creaking against the worn floorboards, breaking the oppressive silence as he approached the focal point of the carnage. Sevika was crouched beside the two bodies on the ground, analyzing them with her characteristic calm. When Silco drew close enough, she glanced up at him, her expression a mix of seriousness and faint cynicism.

"They're not our men."

Silco narrowed his eyes and took a few more steps, stopping beside her. He examined the bodies closely, leaning slightly. The stab wounds in their torsos and necks were precise, almost surgical. There were no signs of a disorderly struggle or desperate attempts at defense. Whoever had done this knew exactly where to strike — and how to kill.

"Find out who they belong to."

"He's alive!" a shrill voice suddenly called out, echoing off the aged walls of the apartment in a tone that grated on Silco's ears. He turned slowly toward the source of the sound, his eyes narrowing with an expression teetering between disdain and cold fury.

The young, wiry medic Silco had brought along as a precaution visibly flinched under the weight of that penetrating gaze. Trembling, the medic adjusted his glasses in a nervous gesture and pointed toward the third body in the room.

"Er—This one still has a pulse." the doctor stammered, his hesitation making his voice weak. "But it's very faint. The cut on the throat... it didn't hit the main artery, but he's lost a lot of blood. If we don't treat him soon, he won't survive."

Silco strode toward the fallen man, his footsteps echoing like hammer blows on the wooden floor. His presence seemed to fill the space, his shadow looming over the doctor in an almost suffocating way. He stopped beside the body, his gaze fixed on the faint rise and fall of the chest that confirmed shallow breaths. A life hanging by a tenuous thread.

"Make sure he stays alive." Silco ordered, the underlying threat in his tone as cold as it was precise. "Or you'll join him."

There was something about the calm, measured way Silco spoke that made the threat all the more terrifying. The doctor swallowed hard, hurriedly opening the small bag of supplies he carried. Bandages, glass vials containing various substances, needles, and a small tube of Shimmer were quickly spread out on the floor, his trembling hands working to stabilize the injured man.

As the doctor busied himself, Silco let his gaze wander around the room again. That's when he saw it. Near the body on the far right — the one the doctor was trying to save — the blade still glistened with fresh blood. He crouched and picked it up carefully. His dagger. The blade he'd used with her the night before in a very different context, now stained again, but this time with someone else's blood.

The dark, viscous blood stained Silco's glove, leaving marks that seemed to seep into the leather like an uncleanable curse. He stared at the stain with a mix of disgust and restrained fury. His lips twisted into a sneer as he slid the bloodied dagger into his pocket, as if tucking away not just the weapon but the promise of vengeance it carried.

For a moment, he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to crush the fallen man beneath his boot, to reduce that pathetic heap of flesh to a pile of broken bones. But Silco knew how to control his impulses. It wasn't blind rage that gave him power, but cold, calculated anger. He took a deep breath, burying the desire to kill under layers of self-control. There would be time for that later. First, he would extract everything he could from this wretched creature. Then, he would decide what to do with the useless lump of flesh. Perhaps leave him to rot in the gutters, a feast for Zaun's rats.

"I managed to stabilize him!" the doctor's voice broke through Silco's thoughts, tinged with relief and pride, as if he had just saved the world. Silco shot him a quick glance and noticed the faint purple hue around the wound. The man had used Shimmer. Clever, Silco thought.

"Take him to The Last Drop." he ordered, his voice low but razor-sharp. The command was followed immediately by a frenzy of movement from his subordinates, who began lifting the semi-conscious body with clumsy haste. "And get rid of the other bodies." he added with indifference. Those corpses didn't deserve the privilege of a burial. Their insignificant lives had ended as they were lived: worthless, disposable.

He didn't even glance back as he left the scene. There was nothing there that warranted any more of his time. She had been here. She had fought, survived. But she wasn't safe. That was as clear as the blood now staining his gloves.

Silco would bring her back, even if it meant turning all of Zaun upside down to do so.

Part 9

AUTHOR'S NOTES: The next chapter will be a little more violent than this one, so be warned. If you're here for the obscenity, you'll have to wait a bit. To make it easier to visualize both this chapter and the next ones, you can imagine her ability as a mix of the strength and resistance of the bestial version of Vander (in this case Warwick) and the agility of Jinx after Shimmer. Destructive for both the person being attacked and the attacker. You'll understand better as the story progresses.

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[yvainetres]

Scars

Ninjago Headcanon

Description: Ranked list of who I believe has the most to least scars in the Ninjago crew. (Early seasons) Plus how easily they scar. Bonus Sal (My OC) at the end.

List from most to least.

Jay - This boy definitely has the most scars when he joined the team. With the amount of machinery and tinkering he does, there is no doubt he has burnt, cut, and bruised every bit of his body at some point. Maybe not the biggest scars but the most, and he scars easily. Like ink on paper. He's practically littered in tiny/medium scars with one or two major scars after being with the ninja for a while. I also believe he loses physical awareness when he's focused, causing more injuries which causes more scars. The only thing that doesn't scar him is electricity, thank goodness. Otherwise, he'd probably be dead.

Kai - He worked in a blacksmith with sharp tools since he was a child. Considering the fact he has no self-preservation and he refused to let anyone help him (Nya especially), his body is practically a canvas of scars. A mix of small and medium ones. His skin scars pretty easily, which doesn't help, his hands in particular being the main victim to his normal injuries. The only reason he has less than Jay is he can't get burnt. Removing 50% of the scars he would have.

Coles - About the midrange of the team, Cole has a few scars, but due to being the Master of Earth, he has tough skin. Therefore, he doesn't scar easily, but when he does, he SCARS. Like scar scars. Massive scars that make a person question what animal he had to wrestle to get them kind of scars. Truthfully, none. He did mountain climbing for fun and has learnt many lessons from those scars.

Nya - The only reason she doesn't have many scars when joining the ninja is because her overprotective brother made sure she didn't get the chance to gain scars. And if she did get one, he had a herbal paste he used to prevent it from leaving anything visible (why he never used it on himself Nya doesn't know). However, when she joined the ninja, she started gaining a few. Kai too distracted to take care of them now. Still, she doesn't have many even though she scars easily, (not as easily as Kai).

Zane - Zane's a tough one because well... he's a robot. His synthetic skin does scar, but it doesn't heal the same way as a human, and it definitely takes a LOT to even break the skin. In order to repair it, he has to replace it or coat it with a special metal like paste. Something he didn't know about when he thought he was human, luckily his skin was pretty much perfect with maybe one or two cuts that just didn't disappear. Not until they discovered the paste. Zane hates having to replace sulynthetic skin, which is only done if damaged beyond repair (he's only needed to once). The fake skin is hard to find and leaves patches unless his entire skin is replaced. Something he has never done and luckily never has to do once he gains his titanium body. Overall, his body doesn't really scar thanks to its metallic qualities.

Lloyd - I wholeheartedly believe Lloyd can't scar. Like at all. And believe me, he's tried. With the mix of Oni and Dragon blood flooding through his veins no matter how injured he gets, there will be no trace of it once it heals. His skin is completely flawless.

Bonus:

Sal - When she joined the crew, she was in between Cole and Nya. She doesn't scar easily, and when she was on her own, she was very on top of preventing scaring. However, the moment she joined the ninja, that care was focused on their health rather than her own. Eventually, after a few major events, her level of scaring became roughly in between Cole and Kai.

[hauntingblue]

Cailtyn being so absent from arc 2 is not good... we just get the repercussions of her actions but nothing of what's going on inside her head

[thewardenisonthecase]

btw tw for talking about abuse

I've seen a lot online about how the game never mentions Caterina's abuse of Lucanis while he was growing up (being beaten and starved, which is mentioned in the Wigmaker Job) and I think there's a small mention to it if you're a crow (when asked, he says it was torture training under the first talon and that he resented her for a long time)

And while I do think part of the reason why this isn't brought up is just due to how sanitized this game is when it comes to the crows, I think I do understand why in world wise it's not possible to just be like hey lucanis, fuck your grandma.

It's really hard, loving someone who hurts you. Because you know they're hurting you and yet, you still love them. It's even harder when they're family.

Because its not like Lucanis doesn't know that she hurt him. He says so himself - he hated her, he resented her, and althought I do think him 'justifying' it by saying that at least it prepared him for the life of a crow, at least he still admits that it happened.

But the thing is that despite all this shit, she's still his grandmother. And like, yes, blood shouldn't excuse justifing this behaviour, I feel like it's cultural. Idk how spain or italy works when it comes to family, but here in brazil, you'll hear so many stories of physical abuse happening in families, and its still a situation like Lucanis - i hate them, i resent them, i love them, they're my family.

It's a...complicated situation and I think Lucanis's situation is made worst by the fact that he only has two family members alive and that he cannot let go of.

She beat him, she starved him, he hated and resented her, and he was afraid of dissapointing her, even if in her eyes, i don't think he could. I mean, he comes back an abomination and she still tenderly says 'my poor boy' when you rescue her in the Villa.

All in all...it's tought and I think that it would not be Rook's place to suddenly make Lucanis want to kill his grandma bc he wouldn't. Sorting out those feelings is something he has to do himself, and i'l almost glad the game doesn't make rook do a therapy session with him to talk about it.

[dapperrokyuu]

Needing a Sua perspective from the ALNST auditions to Round 1. I never put much thought into what happens to the cast post-Anakt Garden graduation (do they immediately go to the auditions? Is there a period of time where they dont see each other until they recognize each other at the audition? Theres a considerable amount of time between the auditions and their Alien Stage season, did they see each other often between then or...? etc.), but regardless, imagine being her and having to choose between sabotaging your own audition so you dont have to go the the Sing, Win, or Die Show or putting your in your all in hopes of winning and spending just a bit more time with this girl you love because you know itll likely be the last time you see her. Imagine...

[arolesbianism]

Take some Fydd's I just realized I never posted

[snekdood]

if ppl telling you "jewish ppl in israel were already kicked out of other countries and have no where else to go" makes you feel compelled to call whoever said that a "zionist", I really just dont think you give af about jewish ppl's lives quite frankly.

if your "free palestine" means "getting rid" of all jewish civilians in israel I think you're probably just a heartless asshole.

[thursdayg1rl]

one of the dramas from the wedding was one of the grooms cousins (on the other side not mine) just not wearing the clothes we had made for her specifically

[br1ghtestlight]

i love to make up horrible toxic fanon ships for my own ocs. its so funny 2 me and also interesting..... like every combination of characters that could conceivably happen i have thought about. some of them would 100% without a doubt make each other WORSE. some of them i genuinely think couldve worked if i had come up with them earlier and invested the time into their romantic relationship. some of them are actual jokes between my characters in "canon" bcuz specifically i think the idea of jayden thinking two is hot is funny Tbh. like he doesn't want u bro!!!!!! he barely even wants sunshine!!!!!

[thecherrygod]

/

[kisskissgotohell]

i just wanna point out that, like. it's okay to disagree with the main character. just because they're the pov of the story doesn't mean they're infallible or that their word is law? you can like that character that tried to kill the mc. you can think the mc made the wrong choice. you can forgive things that the mc would never forgive, or choose not to forgive things that the mc does, because you're not the main character. you are the reader of the story, and just because you can't change it (and it's not the author's responsibility to capitulate to fans) doesn't mean you can't form your own opinions about it. it's fictional! that's the point! have fun with it!!