#the pain the torment THE DEVOTION

[strwbrymlkshake]

who up praying for downfalls 🤨

[themadsonneteer]

No More Desire for Light

By Bud Koenemund (Written: April 2023) I know one way to express devotion: Offering my entire heart and soul – Withholding nothing; risking emotion Perilous; braving passion uncontrolled By intellect. And, the cost has become Too dear as torment strips vitality, Inducing me to wish all feeling numbed – Surrender slouching toward finality. In truth, love has caused me nothing but pain. Though, I doubt any revelation Of zeal could bring joy when such unrestrained Affection only invited destruction. I will feign no more desire for light; Leaving my soul abandoned and blighted.

[featherymainffins]

I thought I would walk some additional 14 km today and thus burn my accidental lunch (caved into peer pressure and went to a restaurant and had a salad instead of eating my perfectly counted can of tuna) and as such I agreed to go have breakfast with some friends tomorrow to celebrate the end of the excursion.

But I did not walk those 14 km because I wasn't able to get water + I just finished 12 hours of lectures + my arches were killing me + it was raining + I wanted to shower + I wanted to study + I was fucking freezing.

Which means I have to punish myself for my lack of discipline and I also have to make up for the food and that means I CANNOT have that breakfast. In fact I cannot have anything. For 2 days. Just to be sure.

So now I'm trying to figure out what lie I can make up. Currently thinking about saying that I just started to feel really nauseous all of a sudden and as such I unfortunately cannot eat breakfast oopsie. It feels really random and not really believable though.

[cherie-doll]

𓆩♡𓆪 Headcanon: When They Propose

=͟͟͞♡ Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rudy, Phillip Graves, Keegan, König, Horangi, Nikto

Price

How else could he show that you were more to him than a just another episode in life? whatever it is he might've been through, maybe you didn't shake him, maybe you didn't turn his world upside down, causing a storm of feelings brewing violently and rapidly in his heart

But you've been a wonderful experience, more heartfelt than any other, striking the chords that resonated the warmth and comfort he needed at his point in life, the best things do come later

You were something to be savored, contemplated, admired slowly and with a timely manner, a study he'd want to devote himself to for the rest of his life, so gingerly he asked if you'd accept

Ghost

Very similar to when he had to admit he had taking a liking to you; a quiet conversation at sunrise, or sundown, or midnight or-

He wanted to spent the rest of his life receiving and returning that serenity you had given him from the turbulence of life, from all those times he'd feel strangely secure and safe in your presence, unable to spend longer periods of time away from you

Always seeking you in a room full of people, what comfort did you bring to him, he wanted to do the same to reciprocate that time and energy, the feeling and sentiment you'd given him and what better way than to make a promise to you that he'd spend his life doing so?

Soap

Wants to find you in whatever world, reality, or universe there is, for you to be his sun or moon, his stars, his heaven or torment, his life or death, for you to be the cause of pain in his heart at the mere thought of you

Would drop the question at the most inconvenient time because "no time will be better" to pour his heart out, the words that come spilling from his mouth without warning

He wants to take care of you like no one else will, to cherish you like no other, to weave himself into you over the years and never leave your side; this is his promise

Gaz

The soft emotion in his eyes; showing the genuine feelings he has for you, eyes not drifting away from yours not even for a second as he holds your hand, seeking that connection physically while saying it through his words

As he professed his love for you and your heart felt as if it was being lifted, falling in love all over again

How did he go so long without spilling his entire being out to you? You've caused so much build-up of emotion he's practically rewriting the definition of love with his words, his only regret in all of this is not telling you sooner

Roach

Beyond nervous

Breathes in and out slowly, not wanting his voice to come out weak

He knows what he feels for you isn't fleeting, it's real, it's pure and he wants to communicate it exactly

He's brought you a collection of things that remind him of you, a carefully folded note with your phone number written on it, a thread that came off a sweater you wore often and that he loved on you, a bead that fell off of your jewelry, insignificant seeming things that showed that every small actions of yours made up his world

And hopefully you'd accept him in yours

Alejandro

Rehearsed over and over again, how he would string his sentences together with precision

Ended up ditching the entire planned out dialogue and just saying what he felt at the moment which flowed more naturally and had a deeper effect

Oh, and how impassioned were his words, such intensity in them that you felt as if your legs would give out from underneath you

Holding his hands as you listened, and overcome with joy as you said yes and collapsed into his arms

Rudy

There was simply no one like you, and he wanted to show you now more than ever

He knew you didn't need the extravagant or showy proposal to accept, maybe something like a quiet scenery, tranquil yet impressionable

Alone with you, with glances sent your way, more meaning in his eyes with every look, soft touches that made you feel warm all over

It all made him want to ask you to spend eternity with him, he's got nothing to lose but that future he's envisioned with no one but you

He can't wait, can't you say it back?

Phillip Graves

Thought a lot about how he wanted to propose to you; where, when, what ring, what to wear, what to say, literally everything down to the smallest details, you're just everything and more to him, how could he not think of you in everything?

He's never had a problem with confidence till now, not that he doubted your love for him, but he couldn't help but keep checking his reflection in the mirror or any transparent surface for that matter

Kept glancing at his watch as he anxiously looked for you, the sentiment already building in his heart, piling in his throat, impatient to know whether you'd stay in the palm of his hand for life or not

Keegan

The strange high and lows he's experienced with you, the constant lovers' quarrels and bickering laced with playful banter and teasing had grazed his heart, leaving behind a scorching flame he'd be willing to devote the rest of his life to keeping alive

Maybe the proposal, which is more of a confession, comes out rushed and under heavy rain, but it's palpable, the ice-cold water soaking him to the bone, leaving no thought or feeling unsaid

Oh, end his agony and accept already :(( or else his soul may forever be condemned to torment

König

Begging with his eyes for you to be his, forever, that look that lasts a lot longer, it lingers on you, seeking for an answer which will either silence him forever or lead the fellow through what he believes is the gateway to heaven

Maybe he asks on a quiet evening, you're alone together, he's resting his head upon you, only a pillow separating him from you, and he realizes that maybe this is the peace his mind has secretly been wanting all along

And it's not just anyone who grants him such valuable thing, he wants to spend every waking moment, from when he's awake and feeling to when he's asleep but in his subconscious knowing he's in your embrace and you in his

Horangi

Possibly he'd been spooning you, gently holding you in his arms, practicing being tender and soft when it occurred to him he wants to do this always

It's not just anyone that sets your soul on fire when you touch, for who else could make him feel so lively? his heart beating for you, spinning out of control

He so desperately hopes you accept, despite his impulses, his imperfections and build a future with you, even if it means bickering everyday, to do laundry and go grocery shopping with you every weekend, anything but stay in this middle and never become anything

Nikto

To be loved is to be understood, to be known, to say "I love you" to confess such an intimate and vulnerable thing can be over in mere seconds but take a lifetime to understand

You had shown him love in different forms, all those serene moments, you never pressuring him but instead igniting a flame; the whispering of love which had staggered him

He wouldn't want to wake up not being able to feel your presence next to him, your weight making the bed feel warmer, your hand which he reaches for just to make sure you're still there, the hugs you give him when he least expects it and he secretly loves although he never admits it

Yeah, you'd be unforgettable and a missing piece in his life, a custom he'd never be able to just shrug off

[opt1mistic]

TAKE A BITE OUT OF ME

❦ vampire!caitlyn x reader .𓏲 cw: cannibalism, smut, blood, oral(r!receiving), pain kink, orgasm denial, caitlyn is a little crazy... tis is some nasty i am not gonna lie. this was proofred at 3 am so if there’s any errors pardon any and all. wc: 0.8k. viewers discretion is advised.

note: testing the waters…. masterlist | caitlyn masterlist

𖥻 ───── dim lit room, shadows of the moon over your bare torso. fresh darkened blood leaking from wounds of fangs, as lips slips away, in silence it hangs. her tongue drags over your pussy, eating you like a starved beast.

one arm warped around your hip, the other traveling up your shivered thigh, over the hip, to your stomach. her bloodied palm leaving a print that may stain.

caitlyn's lips, cold, sucked your clit, bruising. it felt good, the pain of sweet torment. her nails digging into the skin over your left rib cage; drawing silver. caitlyn's palm is moving down your body again, hooking her arm around you other hip.

blood leaping from the cavity of your chest, the feeling of pain traveling down your veins, sending more shivers over your body, a body aching in misery. her touch hurt, it's pain is agonizing on your skin. it claws at your insides, twisting like a serpent, tightening with every breath.

a tight knot in the very pit of your abdomen, on the verge of release. the feeling of that knot untying getting oh so close, and it all stops. the knot disappearing, perishing into thin air. chin of slick moving up your body, kissing every inch in sight.

the freshly created wound by her hand, blood still flowing out. caitlyn's lips latch onto it, smothering blood over her lower face. your blood was like cruel kiss on her tongue, iron heavy, spilling into the soul and coating every thought with it's unholy sweetness.

"mhhaa-" you feel her sharpened fangs dig into the already torn skin of your chest. punctuating the holes she made with her nails even deeper. and she's giggling. psychopathic laughter, caitlyn is enjoying the fact that you're in pain. that her pleasure is your pain.

she completely pussy whipped, high off you. the saccharine flavour of your blood and juices mixing, swirling around in her mouth. your fists are clenching the bed sheets, your knuckles are white.

the abused vessel you call a body, attempting to withstand pain is a form of torture. pain you endure because it makes her feel good. the more blood she take from you the more empty you feel. the tension slowly leaving your limbs and your lids feel heavy.

tears pick up in your eyes, salty droplets of water seeping down the sides of your face. it hurts so much, but it feels too good to stop. caitlyn wasn’t some evil monster, if you didn't want this she’d stop. but you've never wanted the pain to stop. you favoured it. you wanted— needed, longed, for more of it.

"b-biahhhte...bite. me...." you yelped, as a new wave of pain filled your body.

your words hung in the thick clouds in that dark filled room. bite me... caitlyn has done it many times, but she knew what you meant, what you really wanted. you wanted her to take a bite out of you. to eat you.

you wanted her to taste your skin. the muscle that layed over your bones. the meat around you, to devote yourself to her, tell her that you loved her.

so, her teeth pierce, let your flesh give way, for in the taking, you believed love would stay. a devotion carved in blood, in pain, in skin, a vow that began where fangs sunk in.

to be consumed was to belong,— belong her, to feel her cold touch was to be strong. if surrender was love, then you'd bare your soul, your body the offering to make you whole.

your skin rips, the stretch of it as she rips, rips and rips. the small flesh she's taking is forever to be hers. her small piece of you that she would remember forevermore, a scar you'd carry till always.

caitlyn lifts up from you, straddling your exposed hips. she's smiling, happy. blood falling from her lips, and the cluck of skin she just swallowed filled her up like a feast.

chopper, laced with poison, your poison, you feed it to her. bloodied limbs, you're too weak to move, to say 'thank you', you stare at her satisfied expressions. caitlyn is joyed, in bliss.

swiping over her lip, blood filled lips, shoving her bloodied finger into your mouth. making you taste the silver poison. caitlyn is pressing her chest against yours, her lips find yours and she kisses you.

the burning pain of her bite forced more tears from your eyes. blood gushing out from your chest, excessive amounts of blood. you try to grasp onto thoughts but it's too much, then your hand reaches to cover your wound, as you feel the sensation of your fingers on the hole, you go limp.

closed eyes, with one final thought you grasped onto: will i wake up? or will she eat me?

you wished to see the light tomorrow, to wake and find her by your side. but deeper still was the quiet yearning — to be taken, loved, and lost to her hands, a tender end you couldn't deny.

taglist: @r3starttt @sapphicides @halle5s @child-of-plut0

©opt1mistic

[thedragonkween]

King Baldwin IV Headcanons! ♔🤍♕

A/N: So, here we are. I could not resist this mysterious and tormented king's charm. His silky voice makes me dream! These are some headcanons I've collected off the top of my head. The Reader is implied to be female and married to Baldwin IV. Please, do feel free to hit my inbox to ramble about our king because I'm literally dying of pining and yearning.

tags: female!reader x baldwin iv of jerusalem (from kingdom of heaven); reader is married to baldwin iv of jerusalem; fluff; slight angst towards the end

wc: 1150k

reccomended songs to listen to while reading: "Summertime Sadness" by Hildegard von Blingin; "Right Here" by Ashes Remain; "Blood, Sweat, Tears" by BTS (orchestral version)

"Many are the tales of the King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem and of his Queen. Despite the varying accounts of their deeds, each one of them agrees on one aspect: the King of Jerusalem loved his Queen dearly, and the world is richer for it".

Baldwin IV is mysterious, intense, valiant, noble and utterly devoted to you, his Queen. But what does this devotion look like?

Firstly, he would believe in you like no other and would always be ready to give you his best advice whenever the weight of your responsibility becomes too much. Foreign rulers would soon learn of your qualities - there would hardly be a piece of correspondence where the King of Jerusalem does not praise the intellect and insight of his dear wife. He would glance at you from time to time, while you both work at your desks sharing the burden of paperwork, silently thanking God for having sent him not only a beautiful, but reliable life companion as well.

He values your opinions greatly and has the utmost regard for your views on political, military and state matters. Disagreements happen, yet your overall values are aligned, which is why Baldwin understands your vision and where your point comes from. During the discussions regarding complex decisions, he would let you speak and explain, then he would offer his honest thoughts on the matter, should he see another, different way from yours. 

Playing chess is a favorite way of spending quality time together in your chambers, away from the chaos of the court. If you know how to play and are proficient at it, he would delight in the thrill of challenge, as he would finally have found a true equal. If you do not know how to play, he would teach you with patience, taking pride whenever you make an unexpected and astute move. He would be such a nerd while he explains the rules to you and would be delighted to see how your mind works when devising a plan.

"Congratulations, dove. You have a checkmate."

I can also see Baldwin taking you on long rides, if his health allows it. He would sweetly check the reins and saddle on your horse before mounting on his steed and leading you away to enjoy the cool early morning breeze, before the heat of Jerusalem becomes too sweltering. You would have a nice and secluded spot to enjoy and to pretend that you are a couple of young lovers without responsibilities and crowns weighing on your heads.

Your presence brings him safety and comfort, which is what would convince him to remove his mask when he is alone with you and the physicians. He would especially love to rest his head on your lap as you gently caress his curls while the physicians tend to his skin. It is a sacred moment. He does not know how he went so long without your presence during this delicate time. Speaking softly to each other, you would distract him from the pain with talk of your hometown, fairy tales from your culture, or even simply reflecting on a happening of that day. On these occasions, you learn how to best take care of him, watching the physician tend to his arm while you tend to the other, delicately dabbing the cloth over his wounded skin. Baldwin feels so protected and safe in your presence. He thinks you are God’s greatest gift to him.

Now, jealousy. Baldwin knows he boasts the honor of having an exquisite flower such as yourself to call his own. As do powerful men and courtiers from distant lands. Many covet your loveliness as one would a precious gem. Should one of these foolish people try to take you from him or even stare at you for too long to be considered proper, they would be met with a pure force to be reckoned with. Should a knight’s eye linger on you for too long, he would be quick to put him in place in his signature glacial, elegant way. Before long, everyone learns not to disrespect the Queen consort of Jerusalem.

“Perhaps you would have understood my point, had you not been so insolently ogling my wife”. He takes out his whip. “On your knees. You will pay for insulting the Queen”.

He would protect you with his life. He swore to protect Jerusalem and, as its Queen, that includes first of all you. Should a courtier doubt your devotion and mistake it for thirst for power, or should he learn of an orchestrated attempt on your life, he would waste no time in employing his best forces in your service to defend you.

His enemies and templars alike fear him, yet with you he is as gentle as the morning breeze that gently caresses Jerusalem. This powerful king who makes armies tremble and kingdoms shake is the same person who holds and kisses your hand (when in public, bringing your fingers to the lips of his mask), who silently admires your loveliness from afar and sighs to himself, who longs for your warmth after a tiring day. 

He would write you letters. Lots of them. And not always when he is away. Maybe he just liked the way the sun reflected in your eyes that morning. Or maybe when you helped a servant, he was moved by your kindness. Your every action inspires him, so much so that he has to let out his thoughts on paper. You have a pretty wooden box brimming with delicate papers penned by Baldwin in your honor. He is not only the King of Jerusalem, but also the king of pining, of yearning. Even when he has you near, he yearns for you.

I love to imagine him letting you accompany him to battle. He would love it too, in theory. You make him so strong, the both of you would be quite the sight, meeting your enemies head on, as one, donning your best armors. Yet, at the same time I cannot imagine him resting easy knowing that a loose arrow, a desperate soldier seeking glory for killing the Queen of Jerusalem, or fatigue and sickness could take you from him. It pains his heart to be parted from you, yet he cannot risk your safety. Instead, Baldwin would trust you with ruling the kingdom. He has absolute faith in your intelligence, willpower and cleverness, especially after all he has taught you about running the realm. He longs for you every second he’s away from Jerusalem, yet his heart is at peace knowing his kingdom is in the most capable hands.

When he feels that his time on this Earth is nearing his end, he calls for his most trusted advisors, including Balian and Tiberias. He would ask them, almost begging, to protect you always, at all costs, when he is no longer there to do so. Balian and Tiberias would exchange a quick glance to each other, vowing to respect their King’s wish until the very end.

“Protect her. Please.” “Always, my Lord”.

Poems, songs and stories would be written in honor of your love even centuries after your passing. Many tales would speak of Baldwin IV of Jerusalem and his Queen. Different pieces of art, such as paintings and ballads, would inspire people from all over the world to find a love as devoted and unshakable as yours. Until the very end.

All in all, to love Baldwin means knowing your time together is limited. As is the time of all creatures on Earth. He would beg you to go on after his passing, to live for him. He shall wait for you and protect you from above. Until the very end.

[velvet4510]

Here’s the thing.

Many Bagginshield shippers, especially in fics, focus on how Bilbo never got over Thorin, to the point where some describe Bilbo’s entire life as sad and empty and unfulfilled because of that loss.

Don’t get me wrong: I do agree that he suffered terrible loss and undeserved torment by the Ring. And the fact that he never married probably did have some connection to the memory of Thorin.

But, y’all, don’t forget or ignore the fact that, in Tolkien’s text, Bilbo does move on from grief and live the rest of his life well.

He does not become bitter from his pain. He retains his kind heart.

He is generous with his wealth, helping in every way he can the very community that ostracizes him.

He sees in Frodo a kindred spirit and takes it upon himself to be the parental figure that Frodo so badly needs as an orphan.

He and Frodo develop an uncle-nephew (really more like father-son) relationship built on trust, keeping no secrets from each other, to the level where he tells Frodo the truth about his encounter with Gollum. (And probably the truth about his feelings for Thorin, too.)

He and Frodo have so much fun, going for walks every day, studying the Elvish languages, and throwing big birthday parties to show the community a good time. It’s plain to see that caring for Frodo filled that massive void inside Bilbo, finally giving him someone to love and devote himself to looking after, after his first chance at that (albeit the first being a different kind of love) was taken from him.

He does not see himself as superior to the lower class despite his riches, and always treats the Gamgees with the utmost respect.

He teaches Sam to read and write.

He tells his story to the younger hobbits, inspiring more of them to want to learn more about the outside world and not be so sheltered and ignorant…an effort which ultimately saves Middle-earth because the Travelers learn from him to be curious and interested in the lands outside the Shire, and he inspires them daily, as they constantly say to themselves “if Bilbo could go there and back again despite great danger, so can we.”

He even learns to love having a tarnished reputation, ultimately taking advantage of being “mad” to play a fun prank.

When he is no longer at rest in the Shire, he gifts Frodo all his property which will ensure Frodo is set for life, and through all his passive aggressive gifts to his relatives, he gives the Gaffer genuinely useful items that he knows will help him, including ointment for creaky joints.

He gets a peaceful retirement among his Elven friends, which he spends writing his memoir so that future generations will know all about his lost friends.

And ultimately, he embraces the special gift of an exception from the Valar and rare permission to set foot in the Blessed Realm for one last adventure, where he will continue to look after his beloved nephew.

And the fact is, he never would’ve gotten any of these things if he’d stayed in Erebor. He would never have developed that special bond with Frodo - he may never have even met him - and consequently, Frodo may never have met Sam.

Yes, a lot of his life was lonely and somber. But much more of it, even after experiencing such a tragedy, was full of love and joy and fun and excitement. He became an invaluable caretaker and mentor to the next generation of hobbits, got a taste of fatherhood, passed on his expertise and his story, and spent his last years surrounded by friends and family.

Bilbo Baggins may have lost the love of his life, but he did not give up on life itself, and he lived a full one. Don’t forget that.

[sylus-doll]

Synopsis: The things Sylus is afraid of and the one thing he isn't. Despite everything, it's still you.

Warnings: Mentions of death.

Author's note: A little headcannon of sorts. Comments and reblogs are appreciated. <3

Sylus is afraid of you. He understands better than anyone the effect that you have on him. If others think he is smitten, then he will say that he is devoted. No one is able to comprehend the yearning for your touch or the love that he harbours for you. It feels like sin devouring him whole; clawing its way through his heart and into his throat. Worship threatens to spill, his vessel not nearly enough to be capable of containing it. But he keeps silent, lest the overflow scares you away again.

Sylus fears that you might leave him. He can tell that you are still wary of him, and he cannot fault you for it. After all, was he not the very reason you are still this guarded? The nature of him— of his environment— makes him observant. He sees apprehension in your eyes and how it causes your body to tense, locked by your bones. Watches patiently when your voice trembles, when you hesitate to choose. And because he has already mastered being attuned to you, he simply waits.

He doesn't doubt that you will choose him. You have done so before, and you will do so again. He is still your Sylus, your quite literal soulmate. For you, he will have the patience of a saint.

Occasionally, you catch him in a disheveled state.

“Do you know what a mirror is?” Sarcasm rolls off your tongue— second nature. But your hands are gentler, more honest. You card a hand through his hair, sweeping his silky locks into place.

He only gives you a half-hearted smirk. Cocky thing. Sylus chalks it up to knowing that he's good-looking, reflections be damned for it will never do him justice. Yet that's not the case. He doesn't tell you about how that shopkeeper's words linger in his mind. And since then, Sylus tends to avoid mirrors. He knows that he is being irrational; he does not appear as a Fiend in this life. But how could he look at himself knowing that you were or might still be disgusted by him?

“On a subconscious level, she's either rejecting you, scared of you, or... Disgusted by you.”

Above all, Sylus is terrified that he will lose you without choice. Yes, you can leave him, ask him to not pester you anymore. And he will respect your decisions. He will fulfill your desires, as he always has, even if it means to tear him apart. But he cannot fathom the idea of your life lost to tragedy and mocked by whatever gods care to gaze upon you both. He defied fate before and he continues to do so all for you. By any means necessary, he will give you the life you demanded all those lifetimes ago.

The only thing that Sylus does not fear is death. He will jeopardize himself, put his body on the line because he cannot die. You made sure that he couldn't, so why not use that to his advantage? Excruciating pain is a price he is willing to pay for the comfort that he will die by your hands. This one solace, can grant him this mercy. Is it not comforting, to know that the only fate he cannot defy is his beloved's loving hands torment?

[bloddysnow]

Love me more

By Sylus

"Tell me... tell me that you love me more than them"- his voice trembled as he held your hands tightly as if afraid that you might disappear, peering into your eyes. His look was tense, full of expectation and anxiety. You felt his heart beating, his every breath echo in you.

Sylus knew that he was not the only one in your heart, and this knowledge did not give him peace.

He knew you spend more time with Rafayel. This fact burned him from the inside, because he understood that you love him for the mercy and naivety that made him so special for you. He was tormented by the realization that you find solace in Xavier's arms. Thoughts about how Xavier embraces you, how you seek comfort in his hands, did not give him peace. But most of all he was tormented by the knowledge that you love Zayne.

He knew that Zayne had a special place in your heart. You loved Zayne not just for his qualities, you trusted him.

They give you their love through gifts, walks under the moon, romantic dinners and confessions. Their feelings were sincere and strong, and you appreciate every moment spent with them. They created for you a world full of beauty and happiness, a world in which you felt loved and desired.

But he believed that his love surpassed all this. He didn't need loud gestures and magnificent expressions of feelings. His love was quiet but deep, it permeated every cell of his creature. He was ready to endure pain and suffering for you, he was ready to sacrifice his happiness for your well-being. He wants to know that you see his efforts, that you notice his presence. He will become anyone for you.

Do you like a submissive partner? He's ready to be like that for you. He will kneel in front of you with a collar around his neck. He will beg you if you order him to do it. His hands will reach out to you, but he won't touch you if you don't allow it.

"Tell me, - his voice was quiet, but persistent, - that I'm more for you than they are. That you feel for me what you don't feel for them. That I'm really important to you. That I belong to you… Please."

He’s waiting, his eyes did not break away from yours, hope and fear were read in them. Sylus wants to hear that every time he touches you, you feel the same as him - deep affection and desire to be close no matter what. He wants your heart to burn with the same passion, that your soul would strive for him as much as his soul wants you. He wants you to know that he would always be there to support you, hug you and say that everything would be fine. He wants you to feel this devotion, so that you would know that nothing is more important to him and dearer than you.

You've seen him struggling with his doubts, trying to find answers in your eyes. His soul was naked in front of you, and he was waiting for your words that could dispel his fears.

[muletia]

my brain is literally fried because I’ve been sick with the flu for a few days, but I had to get this off my chest

as it turns out, tormenting your favorite scrimblos to make them feel even worse than you do has surprisingly therapeutic properties lmao

Thinking about obsessed!Optimus being utterly devastated by his own feelings. Withering away from love for you because it no longer allows him to function normally. About attempts at recharge that fail because your silhouette always flickers before his optics. About dreams that are always about you. About the way you constantly fill his processor. About his silent cries in your direction, begging you to free him from this hell, to accept all his flaws, perhaps even overlook them, so he could finally take a full, unburdened breath of relief, knowing he no longer has to suffer from loneliness.

But also about the boundless love he feels for you. About how much he would be willing to sacrifice to make you happy, even if it comes at the cost of his own well-being. About how he would offer you his spark on a silver platter, ripping it out with his bare servo, if you expressed the slightest desire to see it, asking for nothing in return—only to then ask if there’s anything else you might wish for. About how, for your happiness, he would spill hectoliters of his energon just to see the faintest hint of a smile on your face.

About how he would rather let himself be devoured alive by scraplets than cause you the slightest discomfort. How he would rather rust away than bring you pain. He tightens the chain wrapped around his own neck, struggling to protect you from himself and his wretched, impure feelings. Delirious. Haunted. Unworthy. And yet, still so full of love. Needing you more than energon itself, ready to give up everything for you.

About how you have complete control over his life, and yet he will never be able to tell you that. About his trembling frame when he hasn’t seen you in too long. About the incompetence he exhibits when you disappear from his life for even a few days. About the vacant look in his optics, the lack of reaction to anyone’s calls. About the frequent patrols, hoping to catch even the faintest glimpse of you. About the thousands of tears he sheds as his entire being howls with yearning, even though he can’t help himself.

He is indisputably and unconditionally devoted to you alone. Yours and only yours, even though you will likely never be his. Loyal as a dog, returning to you every time, seeking solace. Trapped in a cycle of madness, condemned to eternal torment no matter how sweet the suffering born from you might be. Consumed by love, love that has sunk its teeth into his metal and will never let go. Beautiful but merciless. Addictive and terrifying, yet sweet all the same.

Because despite the agony, the slow destruction of both body and soul, Optimus cannot give up your conversations, your shared drives and patrols. He cannot stop loving you, completely blinded by devotion, desperately clinging to the scraps of kindness you show him when your eyes meet.

Lost, certain that his love for you will ultimately kill him, yet still humble — for death by your hand would be the greatest honor he could ever receive.

[0silver0dreams0]

Love against hatred

When affection turns obsessive, even hatred cannot extinguish love. A lover, consumed by longing, refuses to accept rejection as the end. To him, hatred is not an end but a challenge — a sign that feelings still linger. While the beloved sees betrayal and pain in every glance, the lover envisions a future where their bond is restored. With unwavering devotion, he will stop at nothing to bridge the divide, for in his eyes, love against hatred is still love — and worth any cost.

✦ Jacaerys Velaryon was never one to shy away from his emotions. From the moment he could understand the concept of affection, he had felt drawn to you, his cousin. Your grace, your wit, your strength — they all captivated him, like a moth hopelessly drawn to a flame. As children, your laughter had been his favourite sound, your approval his greatest reward. Yet, as the years passed and tensions between your families deepened, that love turned into an obsession, a need to protect you, to have you near, despite your growing disdain for him.

✧ Jacaerys had always admired your poise and strength. To him, you were the embodiment of everything noble and pure, a light in a world often tainted by ambition and betrayal. When you were children, you had been his confidant, the one person who could make him laugh, who made the burdens of being the heir to the Iron Throne seem lighter. He remembered how you used to smile at him, how you used to hold his hand without hesitation. But those days were long gone.

✦ After the fateful night when Aemond lost his eye, everything changed. The bond that had once united you both was shattered. You blamed his family for the pain inflicted upon your brother, and that blame extended to him. The warmth in your eyes turned to cold indifference, then to outright hatred. Yet, Jacaerys could not bring himself to let you go. If anything, your rejection only fuelled his determination to win you back.

✧ Your hatred hurt him, but it also fascinated him. How could someone so perfect harbour such a fierce, burning loathing? He told himself that it was born from misunderstandings, from the poisoned words of those around you, that Aemond and Alicent were at fault. If only he could make you see his devotion, his unwavering love, you would surely come to love him again.

✦ Jacaerys would watch you from afar, his dark brown eyes lingering on you with a mixture of longing and frustration. He hated the walls you had built between the two of you, but he respected them enough not to tear them down outright. Instead, he sought to find cracks, little moments where he could remind you of what you once shared. A fleeting glance, a stolen conversation, a carefully chosen gift left at your chamber door.

“She hates me,” he would tell himself late at night, lying awake and staring at the ceiling. “But hate is not indifference. At least she still feels something.” It was a twisted comfort, but it kept his hope alive.

✧ In his mind, your hatred was a challenge, a test of his love. He would endure it, weather it, and prove to you that he was worthy. No matter how many times you spurned him, he would not falter. To him, your rejection was not a door slammed shut but a wall to be scaled.

✦ His tendencies manifested in subtle ways. He ensured that no one else could come close to you, quietly sabotaging potential suitors and watching them retreat in confusion. He would find reasons to be near you, orchestrating encounters that seemed coincidental but were anything but. Even in the council chambers or the training yard, his thoughts were never far from you. From a distance, he watched over you, guarding you in ways you never noticed but always ensuring your safety. Rhaenyra, whether knowingly or not, only fed these tendencies. She often spoke of how much he cared for you, how his devotion was proof of his strength as a man and a future king. Her words validated his obsession, turning it from a private torment into something he felt was righteous and inevitable.

✧ Yet, despite his obsession, Jacaerys’ love for you was genuine. He wanted to protect you from the harshness of the world, to shield you from the political machinations that had driven your families apart. He dreamed of a future where you could forgive him, where your laughter would fill the halls of Dragonstone once more.

✦ But for now, he endured your hatred, clinging to the hope that, in time, love would prevail. Even if it meant waiting a lifetime, even if it meant enduring the sharp edges of your scorn, Jacaerys Velaryon would never stop loving you. To him, your love was worth any price, even the pain of your hatred.

Because, in the end, love against hatred was still love — and that was enough to keep him going.

Taglist:

@ursinaw @dakota-rain666 @laura-naruto-fan1998 @pookiedragonfire @jjggdfvvy @maryldrsstuff @1soultaken @ceramic-raven @eissaaaa @moodyblueberrytree @xadaboo @labryel @zoeyburton @hopingtoclearmedschool

[t-a-a-1]

YOU ACTUALLY COOKED WITH YOYR DANDILION FIC🔥🔥 MY OWN HEART WAS SQUEEZING I ACTUALLY FELT SO BAD FOR OPTIMUS BUT IM SO HAPPY SHE WAS ABLE TO GROW PAST THE REJECTION 🫠🫠 I FACT HE WOULD PROBABLY LIVE WITH THIS LONGER THAN SHE'LL BE ALIVE

Thank you so much reading! And yesss I am all for angst but I still think reader has feelings for Optimus on this fic. I think at some point Optimus would just get really angry at you because you make him feel envious and possessive (feelings he is very unknown to and doesn’t understand) and those feelings build up until he aggressively confesses his love for you. Like …

...

“I don’t understand why you are so angry?” You say, running towards the big grumpy robot who had just kicked your boyfriend out of the base. “If Alex did something that bothered you then you have to tell me so I can-“

“He does not respect your autonomy.”

Optimus keeps walking, desperately needing to go back to his private quarters.

“What? But he does!”

You are getting tired. Having to run and scream at the same time for him to hear you feels pathetic. But you rather have this conversation now than later.

“He holds your hand without permission. He does not call you by your proper name and calls you his own.”

Optimus stops walking, finally allowing you to relax.

“You are no ones property. I cannot stand it when he calls you mine."

There’s that stupid thought again. Your mind making you believe that Optimus might be jealous is ridiculous. You won’t fall for that again. He just doesn’t understand human affection. That has to be it.

“No, you don’t understand. Prime, those things-“

“Will you just end my torment?”

He puts a hand on the wall and another on his chassis. He leans onto the wall as if the pain was too much to bear.

“I cannot do this anymore," His voice box becomes a little static as he finally turns to look at you. “My Spark is in too much agony and I beg you to please end my misery.”

“What are you saying?”

"Do not play the fool with me," he raises his voice. You are not afraid but startle because the desperation on his voice was something you never heard before. "You must know. You must know that everything. All of it ..."

Optimus knows that he is not making any sense. That he is rambling because his feelings have reached their limits and now they are overflowing. With such pure devotion, adoration and fascination for you.

"Is my affection not enough for you to understand how crucial you are to my existence?"

....

Well, something like that! But your last sentence gave me an idea so let me cook and maybe I'll write more! Thank you for reading~

[starsofang]

Change of Heart

hitman!simon x f!reader / part 8

previous part

tw: alcohol use, angst, mentions of death

When life has completely and utterly failed you, you hire a hitman to take you out, too afraid to do it yourself. Instead of killing you like you had planned, he strikes up a deal with you, and you're too stubborn to bail out.

Waking up the next morning was the biggest slap in the face. It singed your skin with a burning sting, leaving you disoriented and lost. It was as if the brutal force of realization had hit you so hard, it knocked any form of thought right out of your mind except for pain. Irrepressible pain that caused you to feel numb.

Simon had left. All of your worried texts proved futile. What once showed as blue was now a sickening green that glared back at you. Your number was blocked, your messages unable to go through, and you were left an even shattered version than before. You were glass shards left to lay on the floor, you were a broken wind chime that could no longer provide a charming ambience.

You were broken and useless, tossed to the side like a damaged piece of scrap.

Simon had lived up to his name, and disappeared like a ghost. Drifting off into shadows of darkness, seeping into them and becoming one, never to be seen again.

You were hurt. Scratch that, that was a nice way of putting it – you were devastated. The walls you had so graciously taken down for him were now jagged pieces of debris with no mortar to glue them back together one by one. They were unrepairable, crumbling far too much to be saved.

Everything you ever learned about Simon felt like a lie, because that’s what he did – he lied. The glass was too foggy to tell the difference between what was a lie, and what wasn’t. If there were any parts of Simon that were truthful, you didn’t believe it. There was no grace of god to be there to lend a guiding hand to point you in the right direction. All you had was your gut, telling you deranged criticisms.

He lied to you, this was all a game, and you fell for it.

You should’ve known, really. A man like Simon was not one to love and be loved, not when he had an apparition named Ghost to steer him away from any attachment. After all, spirits could not grow devoted to a mere mortal woman who had nothing left to offer. You were stupid to think otherwise.

Graves was a bad enough person. He hurt you, tormented you, claimed you in order to assure your life was a living hell, with or without him. Now, the smallest part of you didn’t think he could be as cruel as Simon at this moment. It was a brainless thought, one you knew was far from true.

Simon never hurt you, nor did he treat you as bad as Graves.

But at least Graves didn’t have the gall to abandon you like an unwanted dog on the street.

Your mind was ping-ponging back and forth between truth and deception. You didn’t know what was real. It hazed over you, muting out every bit of you that was left inside and replacing it with nothing but cracked foundation.

Nothing was real. Nothing was worth it.

You didn’t leave the house for the entirety of the day, nor the next. You stayed in the confinement of your own home, feeling like a caged animal with no way out. You were slowly decaying away, losing the truest part of yourself, no longer able to see her in the reflection. She stared back at you with a ghostly image, whispering about how disappointed she was in you, how hateful she felt towards you.

She whispered about Simon, burdening you with reminders of what could’ve been if you were simply a little less broken. Bringing him up just to dig the knife in more, twisting it under your skin and basking in the bloodshed.

You were spiraling, just like you always did, because it was all you were good for. Simon was another excuse to crumble back into a deeply rooted self hatred. He was just a chess piece, a single card in a stack of dozens, while you picked it up and returned to your old game of reckless entertainment.

Day fourteen came before you know it. And you spent it completely by yourself, pondering why you ever made a deal with the devil in the first place.

It was easy to fall back into old habits when there was nothing there to offer recovery. Relapsing was what you did best, even when Simon was around, and you’d be damned if you didn’t do it again with him gone. It was a part of you, this endless cycle of self abuse, and it wasn’t going anywhere. It was simply on a temporary pause, now returning with more fiery persistence than before.

Alcohol was the only home you ever knew. It warmed you to the bone, engulfing you in a buzzing fervor. It welcomed you back with open arms, holding on to you with no intent of letting go. You were its lovely hostage, and you had grown Stockholm Syndrome.

Weeks passed by of tireless nights filled with the bitter taste that burned in your throat on repeat. Weeks were spent holed up in your apartment, nursing the only friend you had. This time around, you weren’t picky. You took whatever you could get, uncaring of the repercussions

And even in those weeks, Simon never left your mind. It was like a punishment for being good enough to fuck, but not good enough to stick around. It tortured your mind to the point of insanity.

The more alcohol you had, the more the memory of him became cloudy. It was exactly why you drowned yourself in it. You didn’t want to picture Simon’s face. Didn’t want to picture the way his eyes lit up when he saw you, or the way his smile was a bit crooked and off center. You didn’t want to picture him, and the future you grew too eager for, one that consisted of the two of you. Two puzzle pieces fitting together, only to be wretched apart and pressed down in separate corners.

You were completely losing yourself. All over a man who had broken you.

The cycle repeats. And repeats. You let it repeat, until hopefully one day, the alcohol would prove to be enough to give you the death you so greedily wanted.

It wasn’t until nearly four weeks in utter disarray that the cycle began to morph, railing off of the tracks that you worked so hard to have control over.

Deep into your daily routine of excessive drinking and wallowing in your own self-pity, the door knocked. You nearly missed it, brushing it off as your imagination. You didn’t have visitors, and the only one who cared to take that spot until leaving you was Simon.

Glancing around your apartment, you visibly winced at the disheveled sight of it. Bottles were thrown around carelessly, littering the kitchen counters and living room floor, where you were currently residing with a nameless show playing on the television. Hell had flown through your apartment, and it was your fault it had gotten this way again.

Old habits die hard. And you were always its unfortunate victim when those habits needed a host to leech on to once more.

Clambering up from where you sat on the floor, you somehow made your way to the door by the grace of god. It was late, and if you read right from the clock on the stove, it was past midnight. Anybody could be outside – a killer, an intruder, a thief. It was a mix between not caring about dying, and having enough logical sense to know nobody dangerous would knock first, that had you opening the door.

An unfamiliar man stood tall in the frame, bushy facial hair, sunken eyes that barely held a spark, almost as broad and stiff as Simon. But it wasn’t Simon, and this man was a mere stranger.

“Jesus,” the man muttered under his breath at the state of you. You frowned, feeling small and weak in comparison. After a moment, he cleared his throat, speaking again. “Need to talk to you. Can I come in?”

“I don’t even know who you are,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes.

“M’a friend of Simon’s,” he explained woefully. The sound of Simon’s name coming from somebody else’s lips and not yours had your heart clenching with a dull ache. It sent ice cold chills running through your veins. “The name’s John Price.”

You stared at him with a look of disdain. You never heard Simon mention him before. The more you thought about it, you never heard Simon mention anybody. He was an enigma that you fell into too easily without even knowing a lick of who he was outside of your temporary protector.

“If you’re looking for him, I don’t know where he is,” you replied dryly, gripping a hand on the door and beginning to close it. Before the hinge could click into place, John’s boot stopped it, wedging itself between the door and its frame. He gave you a tight smile, one that had you tensing.

“I know where he is, dove. I said that I need to talk to you.”

The two of you became trapped in a staredown, one that you were too exhausted to fight to be the champion of. Begrudgingly, you opened the door wide enough to allow him to slip in, shutting it behind him. You watched as he took in your apartment, surely judging the whirlwind of it. He wasn’t exactly the type to hide away his distaste, if his mockingly amused expression was any type of indication.

“What do you want?” you asked him, disregarding your own mess and instead focusing on him. He turned to look at you, flashing you another smile. It seemed trusting enough, kind even, but by this time, you knew better.

“Came to offer you a deal, of sorts,” he vocalized. “Might I sit?”

You glanced over at the living room, shame bubbling in you at the sight of the bottle you’d been indulging in before he came around. “Sure.”

You trailed behind him when he took his seat on the couch, letting out an exaggerated sigh, leaning back into it. His display of comfort made you feel uneasy. You made no effort to join him, opting to stand in the middle of the room.

“You were rather close with Simon, weren’t you?” he asked, causing you to scoff to yourself.

“Sure. What’s that got to do with anything?” you asked grimly.

Price hummed to himself, tapping his fingers against his knee. It caused a faint, muted sound of rough, calloused fingertips to chafe against the material of his pants. “Figured so. Allow me to ask you somethin’. You know of Simon’s occupation, right?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Silly me, that’s how you met, isn’t it?” He chuckled to himself. You weren’t sure what was so amusing. “Well, here’s the thing – his performance has been a bit… hindered as of late. I have a strong inkling that it’s because of you.”

The air in the room was tense, nearly suffocating you. Price had such a soft aura that was hiding menacing intentions. You could see through it.

“I need a favor from you, doll.”

“And that is?” you asked carefully.

He smiled at you, cocking his head. “I need you to reject him. Tell him you’re better off, that you don’t need him, whatever you can say to make him get his head back in the fuckin’ game. This job of ours isn’t a joke, you see. I can’t have him slackin’ off. That’s how he’ll end up caught and thrown in jail. Once it reaches that point, I can’t help him out of it. That’s why I need you to help me before that happens.”

Your eyes widened in bewilderment at the sheer nerve of Price. Asking you to tell Simon off, to lie and say you were happy without him? Fuck, the proof was in the pudding – you weren’t, and you could almost guarantee that Simon would know you were lying from one single word. Sure, you were mad at him – pissed – but you also wanted no part in this game Price was playing.

The more you sat on it, the more it became twisted. You were thrown in a tangled web of deception and betrayal, stuck to it like glue, fighting for your way out.

But how much of it was betrayal? How much of it was trickery?

Price’s words echoed in your mind on repeat. They formed together, creating a clear picture.

Price had been the one to have Simon toss you out. He was the reason for your harrowing spiral. He was why Simon had left you, treating you as if you didn’t exist. Just a pawn in his game, and you were too stupid to realize it all sooner.

“You did this?” you snapped. Price raised an eyebrow at you, but said nothing. “You… you’re the reason for all of this, and now you’re asking me for help to lie to him? Are you insane?”

His expression twitched into a flash of annoyance before returning back to a mask. Alarms rang in your head. “I’m doin’ this for Simon. You’re a little bird he fell into when he shouldn’t have, and now I’m tryin’ to fix it before it’s too late.”

“Bullshit. You’re doing this to save your own ass.”

“I’d highly advise watchin’ yourself, doll,” Price muttered in warning, eyes narrowed and expression darkened. “You don’t know anythin’ about what we do. Don’t know how dangerous it is for you to be involved with Simon, and for Simon to be involved with you. I’m savin’ Simon’s ass from fuckin’ up one too many times.”

The atmosphere was even thicker than before. It was hard to breathe. It made you queasy, as if poisoned with a heavy gas that may just kill you if you inhaled it for too long.

Price and you stared at one another, both stubborn and pulled taut. His anger simmered to a low boil once the two of you took that silence to gather your thoughts, but it didn’t entirely vanish. You could still see a flicker of a flame in his eyes.

He was dangerous. Not somebody you wanted to get tangled up in, but you had no choice. You were too deep into this webbed mess, and it was only a matter of time before it came to bite back at you.

“What’s wrong with him?” you finally asked, voice quiet and solemn. You crossed your arms over your chest, turning your gaze away from him so you didn’t have to see his display of weak sympathy and mock judgment.

“He fell in love with you, that’s what’s wrong,” Price bit back, sneering. “Now he’s weak. Can’t do his job correctly, got his head in the fuckin’ clouds, snaps at everybody who tries to talk to him. He’s riskin’ himself, riskin’ us, and I can’t afford losin’ a brother over some girl.”

Price’s words were bitter and cruel. It only irritated you, pricking at your skin until it drove you mad. All calmness that had festered in your brief silence washed away, replaced with the old flame of your anger.

“Losing him?” You laughed bitterly, throwing your head back in disbelief. “Sounds to me like it’s your fault and not mine. Have you ever thought that maybe you’re the reason he’s all fucked up?”

Price stood from where he sat on the couch. There were no longer kind features adorning his face. It was replaced with twisted anger, morphing into something unrecognizable. When he stepped closer to you until you were nearly nose to nose, it was like looking into the eyes of a feral wolf, ready to tear you apart at any given second.

“Wise words comin’ from an alcoholic,” he muttered lowly. It was a hard pill to swallow. “I was tryin’ to be nice, doll. I was givin’ you an option. A choice. You’re just as fucked up as Simon. The difference is that you’re goin’ down a path nobody can save you from. I can save Simon.”

The words slapped you harsh in the face. It was brutal and cruel, and he showed no remorse for the damage he was doing. This was a man who got what he wanted, hurting everybody in the process so long as he achieved it. His goal was to save Simon from his impending doom, and he was willing to take you down to make it happen.

“If you really cared about Simon, you would’ve never let him get to this state in the first place,” you retorted back just as cruelly. “It’s not my fault, and I’m not going to sit here and let you blame me for it. Take a look in the mirror and you’ll get your answer on why he’s being this way.”

Silence. Aching, deafening silence. It tinged the air with a sour smell. The two of you were making no moves of backing down, and it was simply a recipe for disaster.

You didn’t know why you were defending Simon. After what he did, he didn’t deserve your care. He didn’t deserve to have you bandage over his name from the countless wounds he’d inflicted on it by leaving you behind after taking all of you in this very apartment.

However, with a missing puzzle piece being added to the pile, that being Price, you couldn’t help but offer your support from afar. It was clear he had no hand in this game. He was a pawn, just as much as you.

“I’m not helping you toy with his feelings,” you whispered. This time, you sounded defeated rather than angry. Broken, sad, dejected. “He doesn’t deserve that.”

Price sucked in a sharp breath, stepping away but keeping his gaze pointed to you. He said nothing for the first few moments, eyes flickering over the worn out lines on your face. Empty eyes, ones that were surely full of life at some point in your life. Perhaps even lit up with Simon around.

He had taken that away from you, and it was only then he was realizing how cruel he was being. All of it, for the sake of protecting his own, of protecting Simon. He was so consumed by the thought of keeping Simon out of trouble, that he only sought to create more for you. A civilian, one who simply got wrapped up in the wrong crowd.

No outsider had ever cared for Simon like Price, Gaz, and Soap did. They were all each other had, bound together by an unfortunate calling. Nobody was allowed in, or out.

Then you came along, and Ghost had quickly become Simon again.

“You’re not goin’ to make this easy for me, are you?” Price sighed, shoulders deflating, releasing its built up tension.

“No. I’m not,” you agreed grimly.

“Stubborn one, you are,” he hummed, and dare you say it, he sounded amused. “Can see why Simon likes you.”

You glanced up at him, noting the faintest of smiles on his face. It was barely visible, a ghost on his lips, but even through your hazed exhaustion, you could see it.

“Tell you what,” he began, crossing his arms to match your stance. “I’ll talk to him. See what I can do. M’not promisin’ anythin’. This isn’t the type of life I want you wrapped up in, but I can see that you’re only goin’ to wallow here until you drop dead. I don’t want that blood on my hands.”

“What are you saying?” you asked suspiciously.

“I’m sayin’, that I’ll try to see if it could work. Again, m’not promisin’ you anythin’, doll. But if you’re the reason Simon can get his head out of his ass and stop doin’ sloppy work, then I’ll see what I can do.”

It was no guarantee, but Price was trying. One moment, he was begging you to hurt Simon to the point he’d never think of crawling back to you. Now, the story had changed, and he was making a peace offering.

You weren’t sure whether or not to trust him. You shouldn’t. It was a bad idea.

But the thought of seeing Simon again, to mend the broken bond you had formed, caused you to agree.

Simon was fucked. He’d drowned himself in a world of pure guilt ever since he’d blocked your number and called it quits. He was miserable, more than he’d ever been.

He didn’t feel guilt. In fact, he wasn’t supposed to feel anything at all. He was Ghost, after all, and ghosts didn’t feel. Yet with you, the narrative had switched. It was as if the gates of heaven had opened up, offering him a chance at redemption. He felt everything all at once – love, care, affection, longing, heartache.

Everything felt right with you. It was like he had finally found his home, only to have it torn away from the grasp of his hands. No matter how much he tried holding on to it, it proved a fruitless effort. It was gone before he even resided.

Simon’s mind became a jumbled mess. He returned to the empty shell he was before when nothing mattered and he only saw the world through a red-colored lens. It was straining, it was harsh. It hurt to wake up everyday and see a colorless world waiting for him.

His shattered, frail mind affected everything he’d ever known. Work became a chore. He was messy, careless, and the darkest part of him wished he would be caught so he could force himself into punishment for hurting an angel sent from above that was placed in his life to nurture him.

It was what he deserved. Simon was a man who fell in love, and Ghost was the devil that reminded him that he was undeserving. Unworthy.

You deserved better than him. You deserved the world, and Simon was the one who would take from it with greedy hands caked in the blood of God’s creations.

Everyday burned with an itch to see you, to send you a text. He missed you, but he hated himself more. It stopped him from reaching out, caused him to pull back on the reins and pace himself. Nothing could scratch the burning itch except for the brutal reminder that you deserved better.

The weeks were hell without you. He’d grown agitated at everything around him, going as far as to snap at Gaz and Johnny when they attempted to console him, to snap at Price out of unfiltered rage at what he made him do. He was too far gone, and the only foundation he had left was beginning to crumble, all because of him.

Damn Price for taking you away, and damn you for making him fall in love.

Simon didn’t know how much more he could take. It was eating away at him, like a parasite feeding off of its host, draining him of all soul. Even now, as he sat in his own apartment, hidden on his balcony and smoking all of his worries away with hopes of succumbing to the nasty tar that threatened to rise in his throat every time, he was decaying. Withering away, like a fragile flower.

The night was dark. The stars didn’t shine as brightly as they did on your balcony. The air didn’t feel as pure without you to share it with him. The smoke didn’t wisp up into silly, little shapes, and instead, tainted the air with polluted illness.

It was positively suffocating.

As Simon nursed the cigarette to the very end, stubbing it out with his boot and carelessly leaving it littered with the rest of them on his balcony, he heard the faint knock on his door. He silently prayed it was death, here to take him away and rid him of his pain for good.

It wasn’t death, but it was damn near close.

“Price,” he grumbled at the sight of the older man. It was too late for him to make an appearance, so he wasn’t sure why he did. Maybe Price had truly given up on him and was here to offer mercy.

Price didn’t care for greetings, stepping past Simon and into his apartment. Simon followed after him with his gaze, mentally preparing himself for another lecture. It was bound to happen at this point, seeing as Price was fed up.

Simon knew he was putting their lives on the line by being reckless. He just didn’t have it in him to care.

Closing the door behind him, Simon kept his distance, not uttering a word until Price spoke first. The man in question lingered around his apartment, seeming to stall with time, too choked up for words.

“You need somethin’, sir?” Simon finally asked. Price lifted his eyes to look at Simon. For a moment, they were unreadable. Masking away his thoughts, tucking them far in the back of his mind.

Price let out a deep exhale through his nostrils. He stood there in silence for what felt like eternity. Simon could see the gears shifting in his mind, working overtime.

“Go and get your bird back, Simon,” Price sighed, but to Simon, it sounded like church bells ringing on a Sunday morning, beckoning him home.

so many of y'all thought the last part was the end, but i'm not that cruel ;( i promise

[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 on 'recoil'." 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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[kirain]

I don't get people who say Gale just whines about Mystra all the time. Like do they not realize WHY? Do they not realize there's a perfectly understandable reason for it!?!

Yeah, I don't get it either. Every character "whines" about someone. Astarion whines about Cazador, especially during the second and third act. Lae'zel whines about pleasing Vlaakith, especially during the Crèche mission. Hell, she'll even betray you if you fail her persuasion checks. Shadowheart whines about Shar and snaps at you if you criticize her goddesses of darkness. Then, if you prove she's being used, she falls into a deep depression and still whines about Shar. Wyll whines about Mizora and she's a constant presence in his life, to the point that she'll park her abusive ass directly in your camp just to torment him. If you romance him, she sees everything. She watches you 👀. He has no privacy. I think Karlach might be the only companion who doesn't constantly whine about someone, but she does complain about her engine a lot.

But these aren't criticisms. They're absolutely, 100% justified. Astarion has every right to whine. Lae'zel has every right to whine. They all have every right to whine. I just want to emphasise the hypocrisy when it comes to how players judge Gale. Every character has a dark past looming over them, our chatty wizard included. If you get mad at him, it's only fair to keep the same energy for all the other companions, because they're in the exact same situation. They're trapped. They're victims. They're suffering. Of course it's going to be a major talking point, especially when there's a person/goddesses/devil responsible for that pain.

Honestly, I think the only people who get annoyed when Gale talks about Mystra are would-be romancers who get turned off when he doesn't immediately throw himself at their Tav's feet. Have you seen the somewhat viral video where a streamer drools over him, but goes full jealous mode when she sees him conjuring the image of Mystra in his palm? It's funny, but she acted like they were already a couple ... but at that point in the game Gale didn't even know she was interested! I'm certainly no expert, but isn't that how relationships work? It's pretty hard to find someone who doesn't have an ex, and he only talks about Mystra in a positive light before you express interest. He's insecure and he feels lost without her, but if you romance him it makes him realise how messed up their "relationship" was in the first place. It's a healing process, not a competition. He never compares you to Mystra in any way other than to say that you're better, and that's only if you ask.

Gale is also arguably the most romantic character out of the bunch, so I don't know why people get so upset. Mystra, much like Shar, Cazador, Mizora, etc., is a constant negative in Gale's life and the reason he's dying. She could remove the orb with ease but she won't, so of course he's going to "whine" about her. He feels guilty at first, then he feels used and angry, and by the end you can either convince him to become her Chosen again (which is entirely on you, though you remain his priority) or you can convince him to reject Mystra and leave the crown in the sea. The orb remains lodged in his chest, because Mystra's too petty to remove it, but it becomes completely inert. Either way, he's happy and he devotes himself entirely to you, not Mystra.

[kanonakin]

Left Behind

It was foolish to believe he had chosen you, when in fact he had chosen her.

WARNINGS - Angst, hurt with no comfort

Logan Howlett x Reader

☆═━┈┈━═☆ ☆═━┈┈━═☆ ☆═━┈┈━═☆

You weren’t stupid, maybe a little blind but far from stupid. You knew being in a relationship with Logan was not going to be easy. Not like anything ever was.

Anyone with eyes could see the way his eyes would instinctively look for her. But then he’d remember he had a girlfriend and turn his attention to you immediately after, with a few more glances around the room when you weren’t looking. He was trying. You had somehow convinced yourself that was trying. Conveniently ignoring how he would blatantly strike up conversations with Jean any chance he got, whether it was in the middle of an important mission or he’d miraculously run into her and Scott in the halls or kitchen.

No one could make sense of his infatuation with her. Yes, Jean was absolutely beautiful but you’d never seen anyone fall so hard for a person they’d just met. It was as if the moment he laid eyes on her, he bound his mind, body, and soul to her without a second thought.

You could still remember the day you and him were brought to the professor’s office and how he looked at her. It hurt a little. After that, it was as if he had completely forgotten about you. While you roamed the halls and talked to other teachers and students trying to get used to having so many other mutants around, he had clung to Jean. At one point neither of you had seen each other for 2 whole weeks. The highest amount of time you’ve spent apart from him in the many years you’ve been together after finding him passed out in an alley drunk and with no memory of his past but a dog tag.

But after being rejected multiple times and Jean going back to Scott every time, he finally took the hint. At least that’s what you had hoped. How could you not think that when he had kissed you in the kitchen claiming he missed you after days of only seeing you in the halls for a few seconds while he went off with Jean? It wasn’t your first rodeo with Logan. You were traveling together for years, you were bound to sleep together a couple times to get through the loneliness. But you were a fool to have caught feelings in the process. So when he had come back to you that night after getting rejected for the 100th time, you had hoped he had realized that it was you he loved.

Hopeful thoughts.

The couple of months he had tried to fully devote himself to you were some of the best. But what seemed like paradise had come crashing down on you when the team had come back from a mission without Jean. You asked where she was. No one said a word. Logan, pushed past you without even a glance and went straight to his room, locking himself in for days. Scott doing the same.

After that, the mansion’s atmosphere became bleak and lifeless. Scott looked to be on autopilot rather than be fully conscious. Logan had drifted further away from you. Father than you could have ever imagined. Your days merely consisted of waking up, eating, teaching, and going back to bed. Simply waiting. For what? You don’t know. It was safe to assume at that point that your relationship was already gone.

Until the night Logan had come knocking on your bedroom door, drunk. He had come back to you, just that one night. Until it wasn’t that night anymore. It became consistent. He’d back to you only at night though. Only when he needed to someone there to help him get through the pain he was feeling of Jean’s death. It was never just a talk though.

You hated what became of your relationship with him. What had started out as a friendship lasting years to a romantic relationship, and all that was left was lust and grief.

Then she came back. Tormenting you from the grave wasn’t enough, she had to come back and once again took Logan away from you.

You watched from the bottom of the mountain of bodies and rubble as Logan struck her, killing her for good. His scream of agony could be heard all around.

He was gone. That you were sure of.

Days after Logan had left without a word to anyone. Soon you did too. In your car, you sat contemplating everything. Logan had left you and everyone else. You watched as the waves in the lake in front of you swirl and dance around each other. You wished to be free of this torment too.

★──────────★─────────★

“There you are.”

You looked behind you to the source of the voice. A rough looking man with dark hair in the shape of cat ears stared at you from the bottom of your driveway. He made his way up to you as you stumbled back holding your grocery bags tightly.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

An awkward smile appeared on your lips, “Sorry, I think you have the wrong person. I don’t know you.”

You watched as his small smile slowly dropped from his expression and he stepped back. His eyes wide in shock. As much as you wanted to pry and maybe help him find the person he’s looking for, you needed to get back inside your house.

The man stares for a few more seconds before closing his eyes. His lips pressed together and his jaw grinding. He looked angry.

“Right, sorry to bother you.”

You couldn’t help but watch as he turned around and walked away. A sense of familiarity but not enough for you to remember him. He must’ve not been important.

━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ━━━

A/N: Not sure if I wanna turn this into a series or not. But if I do a part 2, it’ll def be through logan’s pov.