[lavshaze]

(eli)se, 21, made of crushed little stars

⤐ collective works

⤐ personal side-blog

[sexy-people-contests-2026]

Tumblr Sexyman Contest 2026 Round 1 Part 83

Wheatley (Portal)

Silco (Arcane)

Jason Todd (DC)

Remaining time: 2 days 19 hours

[aromansoul]

I’m gunna need like a year to recover from this show.

[thecollectibles]

Succubi by Aleksandra Wojcik

[silcozaunite]

painting depicting silco freaks stripping in his office chanting “please, one chance,” in unison while the poor guy is just trying to work towards the complete political and economic liberation of zaun in peace

[the-sin-hole]

navigation ep1: stanley pines was saved by a mermaid

sea grunk era stanxreader, 4.5k words, sfw, no warnings apply.

You’re stuck, and you have no idea where to go. Stan and Ford have been everywhere, and they’re almost home. The lake holds more secrets than the three of you combined, which is saying something.

When a pair of intriguing old men come to the small lakeside town that’s been your prison for the better part of a year, who could blame you for getting so interested so quickly? Especially when the way one of them smiles at you makes you feel… nauseous? Huh. That’s weird. Must just be the seasickness.

+++

it's time! it's finally time! i'm very pleased to announce my newest entry into my series where i'm normal about old men: navigation! i'm back in the longfic business baby, and this one's gonna be a real doozy. hit the read more to check out the first chapter, or hit that link to read it on ao3.

Stanley Pines was saved by a mermaid.

He swears it- that’s the only thing it could have been. When the boat jerked and threw his inattentive ass overboard, the cold shock of the water made him forget all the safety tips. He fought his own natural buoyancy, arms flailing as the freezing water short-circuited his nervous system. He didn’t hold his breath, didn’t try to let his lungful of air do the work to pull him up, and his inability to even find up to begin with was only making things worse. The water was murky from the storm, green like long-oxidized copper, and the low light of a dusk shrouded in thick heavy thunderclouds didn’t help.

He could only see the hands attached to the arms that grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him upwards. Well, that, and a brief glimpse of the face.

He saw it for only a second before he was thrust back up into the realm of sweet, salvative air and choppy waves separated them. The dim sunlight fighting to pierce the turbid water revealed it to him: the curve of a jaw, a stream of bubbles shooting from the nose, terse lips and a furrowed brow, all distorted by the water’s refraction. But the eyes under that furrowed brow were clear as day when they snapped down to him at the very last second, looking wild, pissed off even, shooting like arrows through his nearly-asphyxiated brain. It’s those eyes that stay in his mind as he surfaces, suddenly alone, before being swiftly ensnared by a life preserver and reeled back to the boat by his highly-frustrated brother.

It’s obvious. There’s only one thing that fits the description of his savior.

“There are no mermaids in Lake Michigan, Stanley,” Ford says, exasperated, as he digs in a large wooden chest to grab dry clothes for his sopping, shivering twin standing in the doorway of their cabin. He clutches a ratty blanket around his shoulders. It is failing to keep him warm, just soaking up the water and becoming yet another wet layer for him to endure.

“Oh, come on! We see selkies in a pond at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and that’s normal, but I’m a dumbass for thinking a mermaid could be in the world’s biggest lake?”

“First, Lake Baikal is Earth’s biggest freshwater lake by volume,” he starts, and Stan does not restrain the eyeroll that follows. “Second, as I’ve already informed you, my extensive preemptive research confirmed that the only creatures in the lake of any flesh or blood are fish, lampreys, and the occasional wayward Näkki. All other possible anomalies are incorporeal. Your fear and the lack of oxygen must have induced mild hallucinations.”

“I didn’t hallucinate someone grabbin’ me and pulling me out of the water, Ford! If I did, how’d I get back up?”

“You got lucky and the tumultuous waters expelled you,” Ford says simply to the chest before standing, dry clothes bundled in his hands. Stan starts to walk towards his brother to take them, but Ford gives him a quick “eh eh”, eyes darting down to the puddle that’s growing under Stan’s feet. Stan groans and begins removing his clothes where he stands.

“You’re as bad as ma.”

“That’s patently untrue. I’ve never made you vacuum the walls, now have I?”

Stan snorts. “Not yet.”

Ford releases his hostages and Stan changes into a set of clothes effectively identical to the ones now piled into a waterlogged heap next to him. The blue jeans slip on easily, well worn. The red beanie caps his damp silver hair. The collar of his plain white t-shirt tugs at the gold earring on his left ear as he pulls it down over his head.

Neither the hole or the ring that hangs from it are new. While picking out his swashbuckling attire back in Gravity Falls, Stan happened upon the simple gold ring he wore for a stretch of his youth in a box at the bottom of his closet. He laughed to himself, at first, as he held the small thing in his palm, remembering how cool he thought it looked. He was on the verge of discarding it when he suddenly wondered if the hole in his ear once pierced by a sewing needle sterilized with a Zippo lighter persisted. He slid the post in with only a bit of finagling. He looked in the bathroom mirror, and with a small “huh”, found he still thought it looked cool. So it stayed.

He sops up the puddle left at his feet with the failure of a blanket, gathers it up with his wet pile of clothes, then heads up to the deck. The air is still thick with residual ozone after the storm, but the agitated winds are enough to make up for it. He tosses his laundry over the taffrail. The blue jeans and brown jacket snap in the wind, droplets of water flinging back into the lake where they belong. Once he’s satisfied they won’t slip into the lake, probably, he straightens, rolling his shoulders back and raising his head to take in his surroundings. The grey-pink glow of a muffled sunset pours over the docks their trusty Stan O War (2) now rests against. He quickly scans the surrounding slips. Still no neighbors.

They’d called ahead for a slip at the small marina, but as they pulled in they realized how unnecessary that was. Out of the dozen rows of docks extending from the beach out into the lake only one other spot was spoken for. They, at the southernmost row and in the slip furthest from land, were far enough away from the other occupant that they couldn’t even shout to get their attention if they wanted, which suits both twins just fine.

The last marina they called their temporary home was almost claustrophobically crowded. Feeling crammed in a tight living space with your brother on a boat is one thing, that boat being crammed in between nosy and raucous strangers is another. They were on their last legs and final nerves during the ten seaday journey through the Great Lakes-St. Lawrence Seaway, the series of locks and channels that bridge the aforementioned lakes with the Atlantic Ocean. This peace and quiet is much needed.

Stan gulps down a deep breath of dense air. His eyes cast back out onto the lake, the low waves churning slightly against each other. Each small crash of water looks like the flip of a large tail as his thoughts wander back to the (one hundred percent real, despite what some know-it-alls may say) mermaid. Ford’s been wrong before. He could be wrong about this, too. He’ll just have to be the one to prove it. His large nose crinkles as he cycles through a sigh, finally registering the aroma around him. Lake Michigan doesn’t smell like an ocean. It’s more… fishy. Still, he finds it a nice change of pace after nine months of swallowing salt. After a few more musty inhales he turns, crossing the deck and going back down the few steps that lead into the cabin.

It’s a nice space, really. Nicer than you’d expect considering the humble exterior.

To the right of the entrance are a pair of plush swivel armchairs separated by a side table, next to two portholes. A couple of large bookshelves with closing doors sit on either side of the nook, which is nestled right up against their kitchen counter. A tiny stove, a satisfactory microwave, a sink, and plenty of cupboards tuck into the port stern. The starboard side holds a number of chests and a tall cabinet nailed down by the doorway. A dinette juts out from the wall, two wide bench seats sandwiching a thick table parallel to the nook with its own two portholes, and behind that lies the twins’ bunks.

The beds also protrude from the wall of the cabin, stacked close to fit in their low-ceilinged quarters. Stan had immediately called the top bunk, and kept it despite the many nights he almost slipped down the short and narrow ladder, and it only took Ford thirteen accidental collisions between his forehead and the hard wood of the frame above before his muscle memory took the hint. This is where Stan goes, grabbing the red jacket hanging from a nail haphazardly shoved into the wall and reaching his arm under the bottom bunk to pull out a pair of dry and somewhat dusty back up boots.

“You wanna go into town and find some grub?” He asks Ford as he sits on his brother’s bed and starts lacing his boots. “I ain’t looking for day ten of bean delight for dinner.”

Ford nods. “Yes, I’d also prefer a change of cuisine. Additionally, I need to see if they have a supply store- someone’s been a little too aggressive with the cleats and we could use some new ones.”

“Well you want the rigging secure or not?”

They bicker toothlessly as they make their way to the shore, docks creaking under their heavy steps. The pale stretch of beach that separates the marina from the town is narrow. Only a few yards from the shoreline and the sand suddenly ascends, forming a ten foot dune that runs parallel to the water. Tough bundles of dark green beachgrass line the top, interrupted only by the broad wooden staircase climbing up the sharp slope for convenience. Grains of sand whirl across the cracked oak with each burst of breeze coming from the water. The very tops of pines and maples and aspens are visible as they ascend, green with new spring growth.

No sounds trickle down the stairs to greet them, no commotion from the town just beyond the crest of the dune. Only the noise of winds and waves pressing at their backs.

Sand meets asphalt as they enter Waaban Cove. Smaller than Gravity Falls, they can see almost the entirety of the downtown area as they stand on the edge of it. It’s a matryoshka doll of infrastructure: a square of low red brick buildings surrounding a square of sidewalk surrounding a broad grey street which surrounds a tall and proud clocktower at the very center, by far the tallest manmade structure in sight. The only way out is along the street that breaks through the two northern corners, running east and west before sharply turning up into the forest that sandwiches this small slice of civilization between the water. The enclosed arrangement of brick and asphalt is hostile to residence, catered to commerce. This is a town with a singular purpose: tourism.

Stan and Ford begin a self-guided tour of the large block, passing by business after business with narrow doors and tall display windows packed together on each street. The only other living souls in sight are an older couple shuffling by on a ritualistic evening walk and a hunter, still in camouflage, carrying a freshly-crossbowed turkey by the legs as he strolls in the direction of the forest, returning to some humble abode nestled between the trees. The shop fronts they pass feel nearly identical at first blush.

Unreasonably-priced boutiques, a fudgery, a few restaurants, a small convenience store, a hardware store, a supply shop, all struggle to differentiate themselves from the brick that binds them together. Some do this with painted doors, a bright yellow or turquoise trying to impart a little whimsy. Others slap large decals on their windows, screaming about deals, steals, and hot meals. A few have carefully crafted handmade signs either hanging or standing by the doorway. Each and every location has some small distinguishing factor once you look close enough. There is one thing they do have in common, though. They’re all closed.

“Seriously? It’s not even seven!”

“Yes, well, you know how small towns operate. On their own schedules.”

“Schedules shmedules. If I have to eat beans outta the can again tonight I’m gonna die and I want the mayor of this town held personally responsible.”

“Held responsible? Would you prefer the mayor go to jail or erect a giant statue in your honor?”

“D’you even have to ask?”

Ford nods with a slight smile. “Giant statue it is.”

They finally locate the only storefront with any sign of life, resting on one of the broken corners. Lakeside Party Store. A dim neon light fashioned in the shape of a beer can informs that they’re open. Stan pushes inside- if he’s going to have to eat beans again tonight, he might as well wash them down with some alcohol.

The store is tiny, grimy, and silent. Formerly-white tiles stained beige by years of booted customers tracking in mud, snow, and salt sit loosely on the cement foundation. Wood that looks to be (and very well could be) over a hundred years old lines the walls between cooler doors. Rickety metal shelves hold small conveniences like Twinkies that are probably not much younger than the antique wood. Stan briskly walks past the register by the door and locates his prey at the back. He grabs a six pack from a cooler door.

He turns back to look at Ford hovering by the front of the store- he wordlessly asks if Ford wants in.

All those stories and tales you hear about twin telepathy are, of course, exaggerations. But they’re also not entirely unfounded. Spending your earliest formative years so closely entwined with another human can easily lend the ability to perceive and interpret one another’s slightest movements. Eyebrow raises, smirks, half-shrugs, all can hold sentences’ worth of meaning if you’re paying attention. And to Stan’s great satisfaction, the wordless twin communication they had as children came back more easily than expected once they hit the high seas together.

Ford wordlessly responds that he does, indeed, want in. Stan grabs a second six pack and heads back up front.

He’s about to tell Ford it’s his turn to buy when he spots the woman behind the counter. Bored, lazily flipping through a Bass Pro Shop catalogue, the forty-or-fifty-something barely seems to register that anyone else is in the shop with her. She’s small-town pretty, fried blonde hair and maroon acrylics signaling like plumage to Stan that this is a woman he can try to flirt with, probably.

He coughs to get her attention. She starts a little, her reflex being a bit of a glare in his direction.

“Anything else?”

“Nope,” he says, trying to get a read on her, trying to find a way in. He sees the catalogue. “So. You, uh, like fishing, huh?”

“S’cuse me?”

“That magazine there. You like fishing?”

“Naw, I was just looking at hats.” She finishes typing the costs into her till. “Twelve fifty-eight.”

He plucks his wallet out of his pants, finds a twenty.

“Well ya know what they say about bait hooks,” Stan starts, eyebrow raising over a cheesy grin, completely missed by the woman whose eyes are lingering on the catalogue. She musters a meager “mmm?”, the barest possible gesture of recognition.

Romance hasn’t been a primary objective for Stan during his travels, but he’s pursued opportunities when they arise. Or rather, he’s tried to. His track record over the last nine months leaves something to be desired. His most successful endeavor to date climaxed with an almost kiss, right before the man he had brought back to the deck of the Stan O War turned into a terrible eldritch abomination and tried to drag him down to the bottom of the ocean to make him his consort. Or his jester. Stan wasn’t really sure. Regardless, he hasn’t exactly been killing it in the romance department, and he would be lying if he said it didn’t shake his confidence. The brick wall of a woman currently in front of him isn’t particularly encouraging. But, he reminds himself, Stanley Pines is no quitter.

“They’re a real pain in the bass.”

The woman levels Stan with a look of withering scorn; Ford walks backwards out of the store as if retreating from a wild animal.

The walk back to the Stan o War is silent. Ford is occupied with drafting a mental shopping list of supplies they’ll need to keep the ship in shape; Stan is busy considering the pros and cons of shoving rocks into his pockets and walking directly into the lake. Neither speak until they’re settled back into the cabin, eating spoonfuls of beans between sips of watery beer as they go through their plan.

Ford smooths out a crinkled map across the dinette table, revealing the entirety of Lake Michigan and its surrounding shores: the left half of the mitten of Michigan’s lower peninsula to the east; the sharp rounded curve that hosts Chicago to the south; a shred of Wisconsin to the west; the sloping bottom curve of Michigan’s upper peninsula to the north.

He pulls the drawstring of a small satchel and upturns its contents onto the map. Tiny clay figures, painted Monopoly tokens, repurposed beads, and more tumble out- all to be used as various markers for their map, gifted to them by a crafty niece. He moves a glittering yellow Monopoly boat to the southern curve of the upper peninsula, marking their current location. He pushes puffy alien and ghost stickers to various spots in the lake, including a few small islands, then slides a number of tiny plastic baby figurines into the green, sparsely populated woods to the north.

Satisfied with their arrangement, Ford clears his throat. Stan settles in, knowing a monologue when he sees one. These are mostly for Ford’s benefit, a way for him to synthesize and summarize their information and goals, though Stan will admit he finds them helpful- he can’t always pay attention to his brother’s mutterings about UFOs and the space time continuum.

“As previously discussed, there have been documented hauntings on all the Great Lakes for hundreds of years. I am uncertain if these hauntings are unique to the commercial vessels that riddled the area with the encroaching French, British, and American colonization efforts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It’s possible that there are legends among the Indigenous peoples that coincide with these events from The Ottawa and Ojibwe nations that traditionally resided here. The earliest documents I was able to find on our way in regarding sightings of the strange date back to the eighteen-forties, almost immediately after colonialist forces began moving into the area in significant numbers. Newspaper articles, diaries, even advertisements have all made reference to odd and frightening phenomena for over one hundred and sixty years now, a clear sign this is not some stray flare up or fluke. The anomaly hotspot I’ve detected in this region is not the strongest, but it does cover quite a bit of ground. Or water, to be specific. I don’t have the exact location of its epicenter yet- one of our main objectives is to triangulate and nail down that location precisely. Whether it’s a thinning of the lining of reality or the result of a singular entity, we’ll need to approach with caution.

“Naturally, we’ll have to do a general skimming of the lake. We have to determine if what stalks these waters is corporeal, incorporeal, human spirits, demonic mimics, or some elaborate holographic illusions created by local millionaires attempting to retain ownership of their land. We also will want to investigate local lighthouses- lighthouses are a classic focal point for hauntings. These two here,” he points to an island with a lighthouse at both the north and south points, “will be a great starting point.” Stan leans over and sees the name of the land mass.

“Heh. Beaver Island.”

“Yes, very good,” Ford deadpans. His fingers go to a cluster of markers in the woods to the north.

“We can also investigate the surrounding towns- I heard from some fellow boatmen these rural towns hold secrets. Whether that’s relating to this anomaly hotspot or some small town mayoral scandal remains to be seen.

“And of course there’s the beach. I was thinking tomorrow we can do a simple trawl, get the lay of the land, do some vigorous hiking in the nearby woods-”

“Slow your roll there Sixer,” Stan says, interrupting his own sip. “You’re supposed to be takin’ it easy, remember?”

Ford restrains a sheepish look. “Well, yes, but it’s been two weeks already. The swelling is almost completely gone, and…” he falters under Stan’s judgmentally-raised eyebrow.

“I’ll take it easy,” he says with a sigh. “Now who’s as bad as mom?”

“Pshh, please, only reason I’m buggin’ you to take care of yourself is ‘cus I don’t wanna have to play nurse.” He says it as a joke; Ford twitches a smile in return. Stan leans to the side, peering under the table to look at Ford’s leg.

“You need your ice pack?” Stan is already lifting himself off his seat as he asks, but Ford preempts him, rising swiftly and heading to the mini-fridge in the corner. Stan lowers himself back down, keeping a wary eye on his brother, looking for a limp. He finds a slight one, enough to keep him concerned. Ford grabs the cold compress and returns to his seat, applying the pack to his right knee.

“It is better, right?” Stan asks behind his beer can.

“Yes, it is. You are right, I do just need to be mindful.” He gives a small hollow laugh. “How funny that out of all my years hopping dangerous dimensions, all the paranormal horrors I’ve faced over the decades, my fiercest opponent is my own ligament.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Sixer. That werehog had a little somethin’ to do with it.”

Ford smiles earnestly this time. “Yes, he can certainly bear the brunt of the blame on that.” He takes a sip of his beer- still his first, lagging behind Stan’s third- and then lowers his can slowly.

“I’m sorry your attempt at romantic initiation earlier was unsuccessful.”

A few months ago, Stan would have assumed Ford was mocking him, but he knows now when his brother is being genuine- it’s clear in his voice. There’s always a line of hesitance underneath, like he’s not entirely confident in what he’s saying. Stan shrugs.

“Eh, you can’t win ‘em all,” he says simply.

“That’s quite an improvement compared to when you spent days moping around after that siren turned you down back in the Gulf of Mexico.” Ford has a slight cheeky grin on his face. Just as it took time for him to learn when his brother was being genuine, there was a similar learning curve when it came to his teasing. Stan used to think he was being crudely insulted and would react defensively, but after several, entirely avoidable arguments, he now knows a lighthearted rib when he sees it.

“Yeah yeah, what can I say, I’ve really matured after nine months in a boat isolated from civilization.”

Ford sees Stan taking the rib in stride, but knows not to go too far. He switches tracks back to their plans, negotiating the level of physical exertion Ford should be allowed to indulge in.

They resolve to start small and poke around the town tomorrow, when all establishments should actually be open. No vigorous hikes or long distance beach strolls, yet. After one more pair of drinks they decide to call it early, both eager to enjoy a night’s rest free of noise pollution. No shouting frat boys, no booming music, no bright spotlights left on all night. Just an inky blue sky and endless small waves swashing up the beach.

There, laying in the soft dark as he hears his brother’s breathing gradually slow beneath him, Stan closes his eyes and wills himself asleep.

One thing both twins were surprised to learn they shared after thirty years apart was an absolutely terrible relationship with dreams. Typically ranging in severity from “stressful” to “waking up shouting”, neither of them really look forward to the act of sleep. It’s an unfortunate fact that had the upside of bonding them early on, each stumbling through the act of comforting the other after being awoken by a three a.m. yelp. It’s hard for both of them to talk openly about what plagues their subconsciouses, but in some ways, it’s harder for Stan. Ford’s dreams feature grandiose backdrops, unimaginable torments, traumas that just feel more real to Stan. He can’t help but feel that his own pale in comparison.

Often they’re little more than painful amalgams of fears and feelings. Trying to navigate through a labyrinth of cold dark cement, or falling perpetually in a bottomless pit while countless hands try to grab at him, or finding himself at a hippie music festival, overwhelmed by tie dye and patchouli with no way out. Though not enjoyable, those dreams are at least more tolerable than the rest.

Occasionally, they’re random memories from his younger days. Like that time he had to fight off two pug smugglers going after his loot, one of them slashing his arm as he escaped, making him resort to stitching up the wound with shoplifted dental floss in a pharmacy bathroom. Or that other time he was traveling door to door selling painted chicks passed off as baby ostriches, and a seemingly-interested housewife invited him inside their house, only to attempt a kidnapping to ransom his fake company for the safe return of their wares. Or that other time he had to chew his way out of the trunk of a car. He always wakes up with the taste of felt in his mouth after that one.

The worst, though, are the ones featuring his most painful moments in excruciating detail front to back. Even with his brother asleep mere feet away from him, he still experiences his loss thirty years ago over and over again. Even with Weirdmageddon successfully averted, he still conjures up the crushing fear of those days wondering if his family was alive or dead, the sky an oppressive red, the warped creatures that ran rampant. Even with Bill eradicated, that fucking triangle still manages to wriggle its way through the wrinkles of his brain, twisting and morphing and cackling as he chases after everyone Stan has ever cared about.

Tonight, however, is different. Tonight he’ll dream of mermaids. Two of them, circling him as he floats submerged in clear, green-tinged water. They’ll mind their own business, swimming after each other in a placid ouroboros, for the most part. Every once in a while the smaller of the two will come in close, giving a quick caress to his arm or his face before returning to its place. He’ll know it’s a dream, and he’ll strain to commit everything to memory- the cool water, the assuasive cycle of the mermaids, the loving touch of the one that ventures to him.

Stanley Pines won’t remember this dream, but he’ll sleep better than he has in years.

[radioactive-yuri]

silco really did just force his own unhealthy coping mechanisms onto jinx, thinking it was the only way to help her.

the "eye of zaun", the "jinx", they're both turning their traumas into a brand. silco's fixated on the river he almost drowned in, framing it in his mind as not trauma, but an important lesson. a baptism. a rebirth. all to avoid the fear he actually felt. he can dismiss the pain and terror as the emotions of someone other than himself entirely, some other version of him that he let die, so that he never has to actually confront it.

and he thinks that that's what jinx needs to do too. to let powder die, to become someone else. reframe her trauma, make it her identity. and she does. she names herself jinx, she draws the things she has flashbacks about over and over again until her room is covered in the proof of her "rebirth" as jinx.

but it doesn't work for her the way it "worked" for him. she's younger, she was way younger when it all happened to her, it's imprinted into her brain in a completely different way. she can't repress it the way he does. all of the reminders only do that; remind her. she hallucinates and has breakdowns and none of this is healthy for her. she can't recover, not in this environment of constant triggers.

silco doesn't understand that, because it "worked" for him. he wears his trauma as a role, a mask, a brand. the eye, a very real permanent disability of his, becomes a logo and a signature. the river becomes a metaphor for rebirth and change, instead of what it actually is: a large body of water full of toxins that he almost drowned in. sort of off-topic, but this is the main reason why the song "dramaturgy" reminds me of silco so much: he's performing his own trauma as a role. he's purposefully leaning into the dramatics of it, the themes, he's turning his own life into a compelling story. because that's easier for him than confronting the actual horror of what he went through.

there is, however, one moment in s1 where we see silco express a raw sort of terror directly because of his trauma, and that's when vander wraps his hand around his throat in episode 3. only for a moment, the reality of it all sunk in again. he'd spent years wearing his trauma like a costume, but right then, he was forced to acknowledge once again that that costume was him. vander's hand wrapped around his throat, and he was that boy again, terrified and choking, drowning, lungs burning, being beaten to a pulp and strangled by someone he thought he could trust. for just a moment, that elaborate coping mechanism he'd built for himself crumbled. the eye is just an injury. the river is just a river. drowning isn't rebirth. he's just that traumatized boy. he'll always be that traumatized boy.

until the mask slips back on, and he forces that meaning into his own suffering once more. now he's the eye of zaun again, and he has to kill vander. that's a compelling story, isn't it? and it has to be. it has to have meaning. he'll make sure it has a meaning.

[oochilka]

being all seductive

[art-of-arcane]

Behind the Scenes Arcane Photos

[fankiiv]

Im always thinking about him.

[silcozaunite]

NEED YOUR HELP SILCO FANDOM

our beloved @ink-and-dagger (InkAndDagger on ao3), and author of the iconic Silco fanfic ‘Drink with Me’ has had their work plagiarized & monetized by a large erotic audio company called 'Best Kept Secrets' WITHOUT her permission.

→ plagiarized YT video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rsdI4oLcPpU

Inky has not compensated, nor even credited. she has attempted to reach out to them to resolve it, but those attempts have been ignored.

if y’all can spare few minutes to flood that video’s comment section on youtube to call them out on their theft, it could help put the pressure on them to respond to her.

SUPPORT INKYS WORK HERE

Post by @ink-and-dagger · 3 images

💬 7  🔁 139  ❤️ 984 · Drink With Me 🥃 · Banner by @kikorenart 🖤 [Main fic link 👆🏼 ] Silco x Fem!Reader | Explicit, NSFW | Wc: 138K Slow Bur

[lavshaze]

Hiii!

Nothing much to say, just came back to tell you (for the third time) just how much I love your Silco fanfictions !! Im probably annoying but your writing is genuinely beautiful. Really looking forward for the sequel :3

Hey!! Thank you so much for the kind words, I'm kind of caught up in the hardest point of this semester but I plan to hopefully outline the chapter soon so it's done by late june/early july? Long time i know, but last time I did take a whole year to update so idk!! Improvement to me!

[lavshaze]

There's a whole thing about making your 'x reader' character an oc in their own right

If the author didn't give the reader a personality with flaws and fuck ups, they'd just be a Mary Sue making for a quite frankly terrible story. I know people desire to see themselves in the reader but that's never going to be 100% achieved, there will always be someone out there who thinks "i would never do that" when they're reading your reader character

To go into x reader fics and expect them to be a clean blank slate is to go into the fic and expect no story at all, there's no story if the character is meant to contribute to every single reader with their actions, and that sense of entitlement is honestly really annoying

[blorbosinfectingmybrain]

Silco seems like the type to wake up like way moms do when you wake them just shooting straight up and gasping

[leo-artista]

Comfort characters (both believe they're screw ups who ruin everything and deep down they just want their families to love them again)

[lavshaze]

My lovely friend @silcozaunite reminded me recently that Silco's damaged eye does close, we just don't see it often, and that kind of blows my mind still

[ysssssart]

Reupload on silco fanart

[lavshaze]

🖤 | Your girl

✧ a/n :: sometimes it takes you a full year to write about silco sexscapades, but what matters is that you write them! this is dedicated to all the wonderful friends I have that proofread smut for me and all the amazing ones I've met since I wrote my very first silco smut, I love u and I love silco for bringing us together, please enjoy <3

✧ contains ⤐ once again, smut. bits of angsty feelings here and there, a good variety of positions. reader has a tiny crush on sevika, living her bisexual truth. silco and reader are grown adults who can't talk about it. w.c ~ 5.1k

Part 1 / Part 2 / Ao3 version

 

Admittedly, you don’t do much talking after. 

You’re almost starstruck by post-coitus Silco, sweat covering pale, tattered skin.  You trace the scars covering his chest closely, committing as much as you can to memory. The silence between you is fragile, a delicately woven web that you feared to trample upon by saying the wrong thing. And even though he’s gentle, loving in his mannerisms, there’s a peculiar feeling stirring in your chest.

He runs you a bath, ever the gentleman, and washes your back with utmost care. Receiving this much affection from someone you’ve been used to holding at arm’s length makes your stomach coil, urging you to put your tongue in his mouth all over again. You fuck in the bathroom, and he makes you come twice more before you make your way back to bed. 

By the time you’re in one of his dress shirts and under the covers again, you’re absolutely spent. The only talking you do is the whispered conversation about what tomorrow brings and whether you should sneak out or allow everyone— including Jinx— to catch sight of you leaving his chambers in the morning. The thought makes you flush with embarrassment, but it is too tempting to completely disregard, the idea of a public relationship with Silco.

You fall asleep before you make a decision, and Silco follows soon after. 

Knowing that this is probably the most, and best, that Silco has slept in years, you don't have the heart to wake him up the next morning. Getting up before him is a feat in itself, and it gives you the chance to get dressed without facing the consequences of last night. You're well aware that both of you are too old for these games, but you're also aware that it's a frail matter, that maybe it's not something you're ready to face quite yet. 

You shove the soiled underwear in your bag and take one final look at the sleeping man before you go. Looking between his closed eye and the eye patch you'd placed on the other one, you debate planting a kiss on his face before you leave, but decide it's best to let it lie. For now. 

You make your way down the stairs unsteadily, looking down on the  bar as the steps creak underneath your weight. 

The ground floor is strangely serene when it's empty, like any structure that's usually buzzing with noise when it's left behind. Hollow, alluring, countless untold stories. Your mind involuntarily goes back to Vander and you wonder what it was like when both Vander and Silco resided in this building. You realize, with a flash of heat, that the memory of you and Silco in intimate positions just became one of the stories commemorated in this building. 

You wonder what Sevika would say when the news reach her, if they do. You imagine her face contorting into a grimace, shaking her head to get the memory of her boss and his only friend out of her head. Then, you imagine her warning you, telling you that Silco is a dangerous man, and that you must’ve known that before you went to bed with him. But, at the end of it, you imagine the relief on her face when she realizes that Silco finally had someone to take it out on, in ways that aren’t limited to sultry conversations and late night drinks. 

Despite the swirling mix of emotions in your chest, you find yourself smiling on the way out. 

The week that follows is excruciatingly slow. 

 You go to your job, you do your best as a seamstress who’s just trying to make ends meet, and you muffle your groans when you accidentally prick your fingers because the rich red fabric reminds you of the devil himself. You don’t expect to hear from him, so you’re not surprised when he doesn’t even send Sevika with any messages, but you’re admittedly disappointed, even though you try not to be. 

The fact that this is Silco you’re talking about, the man that’s spent his entire life fighting for one thing and one thing only, it grows glaringly obvious every time you wake up alone in your bed with a gnawing feeling in your chest. You didn’t think it would be easy, nothing about Silco is, but you hadn’t expected the silence that would follow to be this loud either.

There’s no wet dreams this time, just silent hope that it will make sense when you see him again.

But you should know by now that it’s never been that simple with Silco. 

It’s the same as it is every week, dark rooms illuminated with neon lights, drinks and shimmer being passed around like water to deprived populations. Sevika is at the pool table with Ran tonight, seemingly more relaxed than the last time you saw her, you’d heard things were going more smoothly this week. Any signs of a rebellion against Silco had disappeared; you had to wonder if the same would happen to you once you made it to his office.

Now that you’re stepping foot into The Last Drop again, you realize that the desperation is turning into anxiety, accentuated by your pulse bounding under your skin. You re-consider the pros of being away from him for a few days and you seriously consider what would happen if you just didn’t show up tonight, something you’ve never thought about in all the years you’ve known each other. 

You had a silent deal of trust, and you couldn’t afford to damage the little bit of stability that you maintained in your relationship right now. 

When you walk by Sevika, she raises a suspicious brow at you. You wonder if the news already got to her. No one saw you leave that night, the bar was a perfect image of quiet stillness. Your mind wanders to Jinx, who came to see you at your shop on Monday, unable to patiently wait for you to show up. Part of you is glad she came to see you, another regrets that you didn’t have an excuse to show up earlier. 

Everyone else fades into oblivion as you approach Silco’s office. You usually don’t knock, a nasty habit that he’s criticized you for endlessly, even though he’s never doing anything particularly interesting when you barge in, always seated at his desk, and always doing paperwork. You wonder if he’s ever planned to have someone over, the sort that you could pay, and your chest burns with an unnamed feeling. Was it too early to lay your claim?

The old door creaks when you push it open, and you’re almost relieved that it reveals an empty office. Silco’s grand chair is turned to the left, a stack of paperwork that you assume is finished is neatly placed in a pile to the right. You step in closer to look at where he left his pen, suddenly fascinated with the intimate details of his work. For a second, you think it’s a shame that you didn’t fuck here instead, but the idea that it’s still possible makes you smile to yourself. 

You choose to sit in his very own chair, having grown tired of the couch and what it entails. You adjust it so it’s facing the desk and peer over at the pile of paperwork, picking up the first paper of the pile to observe his handwriting. The neat curves of the letters never cease to amaze you. How Silco, who grew up as much of a bastard as any of you did, managed to turn into this posh sense of power, you could never fully comprehend it. 

Thinking back on your own past, you wondered if you could’ve ever grown to be like him. Granted, you were missing the best friend-slash-lover’s betrayal, and the strong sense of determination that he had, as well as the decaying glow-in-the-dark eye, but you wondered if Silco could ever turn you into a force to be reckoned with. Then again, anyone who sleeps in his bed, when both his eyes are closed — at least one of them is— is already powerful enough.

You could have reached out and harmed him at any second, slit his throat open, but you didn’t. The reminder that Silco actually trusts you, given his awful track record in terms of trusting people, especially near his neck, makes your heart pound. The image of his bare chest comes to mind, how he’d trusted you to be near his most sensitive spots, it sends sharp heat directly to your lower abdomen. 

“Already replacing me, are you?” 

The bedroom door opens and you nearly jump out of your seat, dropping the paper you were holding. The dirty thoughts that were accumulating in your head dissipate as you watch the paper flutter to the ground, landing close to where Silco stands. He raises a brow in judgement, making no move to grab it. Under the heat of his gaze, the anxiety from earlier melts into something inexplicable, something that you’re used to feeling around him. 

“I could never replace you, Silco.” His name tastes different this time; the idea of having him wrapped around your finger makes the verbal games you play a lot more fun. 

“Good, get out of my seat.” 

You push yourself off the chair, smiling at him. He eyes the paper and looks at you expectantly, you scoff at the silent order. 

“You just want to see me bend over.” 

The sharp smile that graces his lips almost makes you regret being so bold. 

“Don’t I always?” 

You pick up the paper and set it down on the top of the pile, adjusting it to be as you found it. When you turn back to look at him, he’s staring at you knowingly. This gives you a chance to fully drink him in, eyes traveling over his form, pausing at the pants that proved to be an obstacle last time. You find your cheeks heating when he slowly chuckles, and you realize everything is written on your face, as clear as day. 

“Everything alright in the bedroom then?” 

He grunts, moving around the desk to settle in his chair, your eyes follow. “As it usually is, yes.” 

“Well, it can’t have been totally alright if you weren’t in your office when I first came in?” He’s silent, flipping through the pages that you were messing around with, almost like he doesn’t trust you. Impulsively, you go on, “would you happen to have someone in there? A special friend perhaps?” 

The idea of friendship with Silco is a perfectly absurd term. He doesn’t seem to have many friends, and when he does have friends, he seems to fuck them at one point or the other. 

“Does it interest you? My bedroom activities?” He looks up at you over the rim of his precious paperwork, his face unreadable.

You bite your lip subconsciously, “as long as they include me, yes.” 

That seems to be the right answer. He arranges the papers with a satisfied hum and gets up again, making his way over to you with those dangerous long legs. As if you weren’t distracted enough. 

In the middle of his office, you stand face to face with the eye of Zaun. He towers a considerable amount over you, but you realize his power doesn’t lie in his natural stature. It lies in the way he carries himself, in his voice, in the words he uses, and most importantly, in his hands, and those long, rough fingers. You wonder if he misses the feeling of your wet tongue around them, you wonder if he thought about that night as much as you did. 

A moment of silence passes. He isn’t afraid to meet your eyes, you’re curious about something.  

“You haven’t said anything since last Saturday,” feeling bold as ever, you go on, “do you regret it?” 

“Is that what you think?” 

You chew at the inside of your cheek, “I’m not sure what to think, Sil. It’s difficult to read you sometimes.” You laugh, despite yourself, “well, all the time, you’re a difficult man to pin down you know?” 

A ghost of a smile graces his face. Your heart rate picks up.  

“That’s quite true, it’s an advantage when you’re running the lanes, but,” his eyes trail down to your lips, “it’s quite difficult to escape your grasp, dearest.” 

Under his hot gaze, the tension between you coils until the strings holding you back snap completely.

His mouth tastes as sinful as you remember, and his hands are just as firm as they were last time. Kneading at your ass, trailing up your backside to push you closer, every sound that leaves your mouth is efficiently muffled by his own. 

The sight of his tall office chair from the corner of your eyes gives you an idea. You pull back quickly and Silco looks confused, and frankly disgruntled, when you gently push him backwards. You sit him down on his chair and his eye flickers with recognition. You struggle with his belt, again, for a good minute before he settles for helping you once more. Before he has the chance to throw a snide remark your way, your mouth is on his and your legs are on either side of his thighs. 

He only separates from your kiss to trail down your neck and to your chest, sharp teeth against your sensitive skin, making sure to leave a blooming trail in their wake. He unbuttons your top and wastes no time before his hot mouth is on your breasts, his hands pushing against your back to bring you impossibly closer. 

You’d opted for this position to give him as much power as he wanted even when you were on top, but the tingling sensation of his hot mouth over your chest makes your eyes flutter close, momentarily distracting you from your mission. You wonder how many people have suffered at the hands of this same mouth, and how unlucky they were to never experience the pleasure it could bring.  

When he’s done with planting the love bites that you know you’ll admire for days to come, you take the chance to stand up and take off your underwear, thanking the gods above that you chose a skirt, again. 

You might need to buy a lot more skirts after this. 

You nearly wobble over taking the underwear off your leg and Silco reaches over to stabilize you, “slow down, darling, you’re going to hurt yourself.” You plant a wet kiss on his mouth, voice fading into a feral whisper, “I can’t, Sil, I need you now.” 

“You will have me, be patient.” 

He reaches underneath the hem of your skirt, relishing in the light gasp you let out when he draws closer to your inner thigh. Your skin is warm to the touch, and when he grips your thighs to push you in for one more kiss, you let out a frankly embarrassing moan. His fingers slip inside you before you can deter his plans and you nearly collapse onto him, extending an arm to hold onto the chair. 

“Silco.” 

He breathes against your mouth, lips curling into a smirk as his fingers find his way around your sensitive walls. “Always so tight, so ready for me.” 

A strained whine leaves your mouth as his fingers find their way around your cunt once more, the smell of your arousal encompassing this area of the dark, smoky office. You throw your head back as his mouth latches onto your chest once more, giving him easy access to your neck. The view of the green window that decorates the room is becoming a very dear memory to your heart. 

You bring your mouth to his once more when you feel the high of the moment approaching, allowing his mouth to contain all your pleas and soft moans as your eyelids droop heavy. You can’t bring yourself to completely close them, not when the sight of his glowing fiery eye stares back at you. For a moment, when you're falling apart on his fingers, it looks like a bright star in the middle of the dark night sky. You wonder if that says anything about your relationship.

He keeps a firm arm around your waist as you come down from your peak, allowing you to grab onto him for those few precious moments, his arms taut underneath your grip. 

Eagerly, you reach down between the two of you to ease his cock out. He doesn't move to stop you, eyes fixed on your face. You wonder if your lips are as swollen as they feel, if your bare marked chest is to his liking, you hope he enjoys the show. 

You're so wet you don't struggle to push his cock into you. 

The feeling is as electrifying as you'd remembered it to be. He stretches you out nicely, but it doesn't hurt. It feels right, like you were always meant to find each other and fuse at the hips. It’s the most full you’ve ever been.

You ease yourself into it, allowing your body to get used to him once again, biting down on your lip to stifle your sighs. His fingers rest on your shoulder, subtly digging into your skin when you move down to take him further. Once he's fully in and you're struggling not to groan at the fullness in your lower abdomen, the fingers trail up to your neck, wrapping around it in a firm grip.  

He shifts his hips and the quiet act you're trying to put on immediately falls apart. You let out a few soft sighs as he guides you to grind over his throbbing cock. Your back arches as you push yourself into him, chasing the delicious friction that takes place every time you come in contact. 

The sensual pace eventually picks up and his grip around your neck is more firm, more demanding. The cool air of the office hits your bare bouncing tits and the sensation almost drives you crazy. Every time he grinds you onto him, electricity shoots through your entire body. You try to memorize this feeling again, burn it into your memory, eager to collect all the dirty sensual memories you can get out of this man. 

Your pleasured sighs are only ever interrupted by soft moans of his name, something you can tell he thoroughly enjoys because his grip around your neck tightens. Your hands grip onto his shoulder, occasionally wandering down to his clothed chest. You desperately wish you could have him fully naked again, pale skin exposed for you to leave your mark as he does on you, but you hesitate to tread such murky waters again.  

You'd have him in any way he offers. 

Although he's fairly quiet this time, you drink up every quiet groan like a poached man in the desert. His eyes are on your face the entire time, only occasionally wandering to your tits and the great canvas he crafted over them. You wonder if he prefers ass or tits, and you wonder if he would like to cum on either of them sometime soon. 

The hand around your throat shifts to the back of your neck, pushing you forward. Your hips stutter helplessly when he re-positions himself so his cock reaches a new angle inside you. Your skin is on fire, the sensation of his callused fingers gripping your hips sure to leave another bruise. There’s a sense of pride swelling inside your chest at knowing that Silco loves marking what's his. 

Ever the experienced man, Silco reads your body like an open book and reaches between the two of you to rub your clit, deliciously amplifying the pleasure coursing through your veins. The relief is sharp, accelerating the building high that you're chasing. When you fall apart this time, the hand behind your neck forces you to look into his eyes. Your brows are furrowed, your mouth wide open, you watch your face reflecting in his eyes. 

For a man with so much power, you get the feeling that he doesn't get to watch people like this often. 

You gasp out his name as you come, your voice becoming the only palpable energy in these confined walls. Inside Silco's office, he takes his dear friend in his very own, important businessman chair. You want to desperately scrunch your eyes closed under the force of the pleasure you're feeling, but the look you're witnessing in his eyes makes you want to never close your eyes again. 

You collapse into him after, not having the chance to wonder if that's okay before both his arms encircle your waist. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, hair messed up and lipstick smudged, feeling a sense of confidence grow in you. This time, you don't wonder what your relationship is, or what's allowed and what's crossing the line. This time, as you stare into your dazed reflection in the emerald office window, the hand running up and down your back is the silent permission to take it all, to step over every possible line you could cross. 

This time, you know Silco is yours. 

You find yourself shopping for more and more risqué choices after that. Shorter skirts, red and black lingerie sets, perfumes that could make your skin more irresistible. The desire to put it all on the line for Silco is ever-growing, and you find yourself fantasizing about Saturday night the whole week. You even come up with a list of positions you'd like him to put you in. 

That week, you tackle the mirror dream. You start by getting on your knees in his office, something he has a hard time rejecting. And although you've had your fair share of experiences giving blowjobs, sucking Silco off until he's forced to be more vocal about his pleasure is probably the best you've ever had. 

He takes you against the mirror at first, bare tits pressing up against the cold glass. The feeling is heavenly for your hard nipples, sending shivers all over your body. Your hands grip onto the frame as best as you can without breaking it, your ass is angled over the vanity table towards him. His hands are on you again, like he'll die if he can't keep them there. 

This time, you're stripped entirely naked. The clothes you'd put on especially for him in a messy pile on his office floor. It's scandalous to think about someone walking in and finding them, but it excites you to no end. You're moaning before Silco puts it in. 

Face planted against his mirror, you look over your shoulder, admiring the loosened top around his neck. He'd let you have a sliver of skin this time, allowing you to undo his tie and pull his shirt open. 

His cock is inside you once more, rubbing against your sensitive walls. Your eyes roll back in pleasure as he fucks into you, it's even better than the dream could've foretold. His hands find comfort gripping your hips when he isn’t holding onto the vanity, and a part of you wants to reach out and hold them again.

He fucks any coherent thoughts out of your brain. And when you're close, he pulls you back from the mirror and closer to his clothed body. This time, when you look in the mirror, he doesn't look back. He's too busy burying his nose in your neck, inhaling the scent of jasmine that you purposefully sprayed in his favorite spots. The damaged eye stays open, but both his eyes are irreversibly fixed on you. 

This time, when you come, the declaration of love is on the tip of your tongue. 

The days in your apartment blur into one duration of time where you have to take care of yourself on your own. There's a sultry tone always playing on your vinyl player, an old gift from Silco to ‘enjoy quality music’, and you're always staring up at the ceiling, recounting how his hands felt when they were on you. 

It often ends with your hand between your legs, chest heaving as you imagine all the things you’re going to do the next time you have your hands on him.

You can't help but think of him every time you're naked. The way his eyes look when you're so close to orgasming, the sounds he tries to keep in when you suck him off, and most importantly, the bruises he leaves on your body. The sharp teeth that have explored every inch of skin your body has to offer. You almost wish that you could grow a new layer to offer it up to him, something new to be explored. 

The thought stops you one day when you're finishing up a suit for an important customer. Most likely from Piltover, but you wouldn't know, they always send their servants for them. When you're sewing the delicate buttons onto the black fabric, the thought strikes you so sharply that you prick your own fingers, again. 

The blood is gushing out of your fingers before you realize what you've done, and you bring it to your mouth, brows furrowed in pain, but it doesn't distract from the idea swirling in your mind. 

Silco could desire someone new. 

He could get bored of you, and your body that he's explored over and over again every week. You've offered yourself up to him so desperately that you failed to think that maybe, just maybe, he would grow tired of what you have to offer. 

It's just like marriage, you have sex with the same person over and over. And it's not supposed to get boring, at least you don't think it is, because you love each other. But this isn't marriage, and you've never called it love— at least not out loud, at least not in front of him. 

You put down your needle and you find yourself an empty seat that's not crowded by fabric or tools. It's dark outside, as it always is in Zaun, and it's only Monday. When you last saw Silco, it was his face buried in your neck as he fucked you over his desk. You remember the feeling of the wood under your fingers, and you remember the bruised lips that called out his name like a prayer. 

The other seamstresses are not around. Your chest coils with some awful, dangerous feeling every time you think about Silco and what he might feel about you now. Does he think about you at all? Does he look at his office and remember everything you've done together? 

Or is it easy to push you to the back of his mind? Just a body to pass the time.

You lock the front door to the shop, flipping the open sign around. You make your way to the full-length mirror in the back and strip down to your undergarments. The mirror shows you the recent marks of your latest love affair, you almost needed to reassure yourself that they were still there. You turn, observing your sides and your behind. 

Could Silco get bored of this? 

The bitter realization that you don't know the definite answer floods your senses. Suddenly, it's a lot harder to breathe in this small backroom. 

You linger outside the Last Drop. You don’t find a cigarette in your hands often these days, but this particular week calls for the occasion. 

The bouncers eye you suspiciously, you assume they're as confused about your hesitance as anyone else on his team would be. Usually, you'd be in his office, completely naked by now. They don't know the last part for sure, but everyone suspects it. Silco’s little fuck buddy. 

You're blowing smoke and pulling your jacket tighter around yourself when someone familiar walks through the double doors.

“A bit cold for you out here, isn't it, doll?” 

Sevika's familiar figure is a welcome distraction from the fuckery going on in your head. You give her a big smile as you offer the rest of your cigarette. The more you got to know Silco, the more you got to know his team— the people who work under him, the people who maintain the fickle power balance in the underworld. Sevika has always been more than qualified to be his right hand woman, and as the moments you shared with Silco faded away, you'd always found her as someone you could have easy conversations with.

She was a good looking woman, something you never failed to appreciate. As her full lips curl around your cigarette, you find yourself asking impulsively. 

“Sevika, how come we've never slept together?” 

The cigarette nearly drops from her hand, eyebrows drawn together in surprise. You meet her gaze as you ponder your own question. Why hasn't she ever made a move on you? 

Guaranteed, you might not be her type, but she's made quite a few flirty comments that were too suggestive to pass off as friendly. And while Sevika might be too much of a flirt for her own good, you know she sticks to her words. You've seen the way she is around the brothel workers— charming, sweet— you almost envied them. 

“The cold got to your head or something?” 

Your scrunch your nose, “it's a bit much tonight, but I'm serious. Why haven't you fucked me?” She snorts. “Or at least tried to? Am I not pretty enough for you, vika?” 

She leans against the wall next to you, shaking her head in disbelief as she blows smoke. She smiles in amusement, “you're not as smart as you are pretty.” 

You give an offended laugh, “that cannot be your answer.” 

“It can be, when you ask such a stupid, obvious question.” 

You watch the wisps of smoke as you rake your head for any reason in her words. She scoffs at the clueless look that doesn't leave your face. 

“Do I really have to spell it out for you?” 

You give her a dumb smile, nodding eagerly. 

She sighs, putting the cigarette back to her mouth. “You were off limits the minute he talked to you in that bar, sweet thing.” 

Recognition flickers in your mind, she goes on. 

“Silco is not only a very dangerous man, he's a force to be reckoned with. But he's also very possessive. And I knew, as well as anyone in the lanes did, that once he laid his claim on someone, it was far too late to try and snatch them away.” 

Your mouth moves as if to say something but nothing comes out, the gears are still turning in your head. She looks at you, something akin to remorse on her face. 

“And even though it took the two of you three years to fuck, everyone always knew that you were Silco's to have and keep. I'm sorry princess, the rest of us never stood a chance.” 

She crushes the cigarette underneath her boot, walking away before you can object. You watch her silhouette fade in the distance. She leaves you in the stinging cold, engulfed in smoke.