#Warnings of manipulation

[dangeroustaintedflawed]

[egophiliac]

I loved your drawing(and I love your style in general) with Leia in your recent post! If/when you have time can we see more of her in your style? I get so happy whenever I actually see people mention/talk about her and she’s not just forgotten because we didn’t get to see much of her. 😭

thank you! 💙💙💙 Leia/Leah/Lea/whatever is fascinating to me. she is the ultimate unknown. what was she like? how involved (or even aware of any details of the invasion) was she? Silver's basically a physical carbon copy of his biodad, so what did he get from her? like, I understand why the two of them kind of have to stay as these super vague and mysterious figures -- the whole point of them is that their story ended 400+ years ago and they're not really relevant anymore (and. well. the more that gets explained about them, the less that can just kinda be handwaved as "oh the politics were Very Messy") (we can sit here and theorize all day but let us acknowledge that, ultimately, canon gave us almost nothing about them post-Meleanor and we'd just be making things up). I do still wonder about her though! RIP Lea, we never knew you and we probably never will.

actually you know what, as long as we're here, I think I WILL go ahead and just make some stuff up about what Silver might've inherited from her instead.

[weird-coby-core]

Jul 25, 2024

[lunarfuneral]

Kingdon + things you said when you were drunk :))

read on ao3 or below :)

Mel didn’t love Lawrenceville. 

Especially not on a Friday night. The streets swell with people and noise bubbles over from every bar and restaurant along Butler. From the river, the breeze sweeps through, at least helping to cool the late summer air.

But Trinity had asked, and asked, and then pleaded. “But it’s emo night,” she’d whined, paired with her best puppy dog eyes. “We need more people! Samira’s going, Huckleberry … we still have to celebrate when I held a heart in my hands on our first day, remember?” 

That was only two weeks ago, and she felt like Trinity had been playing a game even in the short amount of time that had passed—who could get Mel out to the bars? But she does want to make friends, so she’d agreed, much to Trinity’s delight.

“Yes! Mel’s coming to Belvedere’s! Oh my god, Melvedere's,” she’d cheered, laughter loud in the break room. 

Belvedere’s is packed. She’s only been there a few times before, a music night here and there, karaoke once with some girls from college. Trinity heads straight for the bar, taking everyone’s order and insisting the first round’s on her. Mel holds off on drinks until they’ve already found a good spot in the room with the pool tables and danced to a few songs. Samira lets Trinity twirl her around to Fall Out Boy while Mel heads to the bar and orders one of the only things she didn’t hate the taste of.

She's only the one green tea shot in when she spots him at a table near the end of the bar, head hung low.

He's wearing a white shirt and dark pants. She can't believe he's here. She'd looked for him again at the end of their first shift together to say goodbye, but he was nowhere to be found. Just like the next shift. Then the next. When she asked, all they'd tell her was that he'd be taking an extended leave of absence. Everyone around her was tight-lipped, no matter who—or how many times—she asked.

She guesses it's true what they say: Pittsburgh's a small city, even if it doesn't seem like it. You never know who you'll run into. 

"Oh! Dr. Langdon!" She makes her way through the throng, brushing against the people waiting in line for the bar. There's two empty chairs next to him at the table, each with a beer standing unattended. He's facing away from her, looking down into his half empty glass. 

"Dr. Langdon?" she tries to repeat gently, but he still can't hear her over the DJ and drunken crowd singing along. She gets closer, taps on his shoulder lightly, and can't help the way her stomach flips when she feels his warm skin under his shirt. 

Startled, he turns to her, before breaking into a smile. "Mel!" She goes red at just her name. She likes the way he says it, like he'd been waiting all night to see her. So bright. 

"What are you doing here?" he asks, looking around, like he’s shocked she's in a bar.

Mel tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She'd worn it down, and she's suddenly very glad she did. She watches him watch her, following her hand until it rests back at her side. The same one she tapped his shoulder with, still tingling. 

"Oh, uh." She doesn't want to tell him other people from work are here. She wants to keep talking to him, just them. "It's emo night." 

"You like emo night," he says disbelievingly and straightens up. The light catches him, and Mel can see his face clearly now. Under the purple lights, he looks pallid, red-eyed and disheveled. His movements are slow, sluggish—she realizes that can't be his first beer. Or second. 

“Are you feeling okay, Dr. Langdon?” Mel frowns. Something is different about him. He looks flushed, and while it is warm in the bar, his hand shakes slightly around his glass, indicating another cause. His fingers tap, tap, tap on the rim, a strange contrast to how steady they’d been, how competently he curled them, setting the Le Fort III fracture. Every few moments, his eyes flit somewhere else, unsteady.

“Yeah, yeah, just out with some—” he shrugs, sloppy, “uh, friends of mine. Some guys I know from undergrad.” He’s leaning heavily against the table.

“Okay,” she says, locking her hands together to squeeze her own fingers. Mel’s never been one to be able to hold something in, not something that’s been bothering her every day for the past two weeks, so she has to ask, especially when he seems so excited to see her now, “Why haven’t you been back to work?” Why didn’t you say goodbye? Why did you say you needed me if you weren’t going to come back? 

He groans and leans forward. The table sways, threatening to spill the beers.

“Mel, I fucked up. I—I hurt my back, right? And it’s not like I’m an addict, I just was trying to manage my pain, you know?” The music is so loud and people keep streaming through the door. She has to step forward, crossing over into Langdon’s space. He looks her up and down as she does with his bloodshot eyes. 

“It was just a few pills. Overprescribe some benzos, take a couple … just to manage my own symptoms. I swear, Mel, you have to believe me.”

Oh, she immediately understands, this is withdrawal. That’s what she sees under the inebriation—the panic setting in, nausea soon to come, tremors and palpitations and headache. He’s in an active medical emergency.

“We need to go to the hospital,” she says automatically. He needs help, now.

“No, no, Mel, I don’t want to detox there—I only stopped a day ago, it’s going to get so much worse, oh my god. I still haven’t told Abby, I haven’t told anyone. I thought getting hammered was a—” he laughs, and Mel doesn’t know why, “a good idea. I’m a fucking doctor and I don’t know what to do.” He’s practically leaning off the table into her by now. She can smell him, nicotine and sweat and beer, but also something she recognizes from her first day, and she wants to bend down and breathe him in deep. “Please,” he says, looking up at her. 

She hasn’t heard him beg before.

There’s never been a time in her life where she didn’t at least try to do the right thing. She shouldn’t listen to him. She should take him to the hospital to get the proper care. She should call his wife, maybe even Dr. Robby. She doesn’t want to imagine what would happen if she doesn’t help. He’s in crisis, spiraling, desperate and scared. 

She’ll take him home.

That’s still close enough to the right thing, she reasons. She’s a doctor, she can help. She’ll monitor his symptoms. Better her than his absent friends, than any of their coworkers or superiors. Better than his wife. 

His friends choose then to return, loudly talking as they come to the table. Mel flinches at all the noise, heat spreading out from her chest, feeling like everything is closing in. Before they leave, she needs a minute. She’s going to take Frank Langdon home and she suddenly feels that green tea shot in her stomach and the past few nights where she thought of him come rushing up and she needs a fucking minute. 

“Hey, Frank, who’s your friend?” one asks, smiling at Mel. 

She doesn’t let Langdon answer. 

“Can you watch him for a minute, please?” 

His friend frowns but acquiesces. Mel rounds the bar and heads to the bathroom. She doesn’t bother telling Trinity she’s leaving—she doesn’t want to explain it and she doesn’t want to lie, not right now. She figures she’ll text them later once she can come up with something to say other than I’m going to take Dr. Langdon home because he’s about to start benzodiazepine withdrawal. 

When Mel comes back from the bathroom, Langdon isn't with his friends, and the rest of his beer is gone.

"Where did Dr. Langdon go?" Mel asks, alarmed to find his seat empty. 

One of his friends—she can't remember his name—shrugs and looks around the room. "He probably went to get some air. Or a cigarette." 

Mel wasn't sure what kind of friends Langdon had, but she knows he needs better ones than these. She doesn't try to find their coworkers, just heads out the door into the crisp night air. There are a few people near the front door smoking, but Langdon isn't one of them.

Her nerves get the best of her and she jogs down the street towards the gas station. She doesn’t see his white shirt among the people walking, not in any direction on the corner. When she goes back the other way, she turns down the block and thankfully finds him there against the building, eyes closed, trying to take deep breaths with a hand to his chest and the other holding him up off the ground where he’d knelt.

He’s in bad shape. She can’t believe they were both at Belvedere’s, what were the odds? She also can’t believe she’s seeing him like this, and that he needs her again, begging her in his weakest moment.

She bends down and says his name in a low, quiet voice. He reaches for her out of nowhere, wrapping her wrist in his big hand.

"Mel, please," he gasps, holding onto her wrist hard. "Don't make me go home, please. I think I’m going to be sick. I came out here—I don’t—I don’t know where to go. I don't want to see her—" he stops himself and groans. "I don't want my kids to see this."

She doesn't want his kids to see him like this, either. She doesn't want anyone to see him like this. She wants to be the only one. He won't let his wife see, won't let his friends—but she's here with him, crouching in front of him on the corner of Butler and Fisk, and he's letting her see.

“Frank,” she assures, “it’s okay. I won’t make you go home.”

He opens his eyes and meets her gaze. He looks incredible, sweating through his shirt and swaying, all gaunt and afraid, on the verge of spilling over onto the sidewalk.

“We can go to my place. I can take care of you there.”

The look he gives her is full of gratitude and swollen blood vessels.  

She orders the Uber and waits with him on the ground while people pass by, zig zagging along the sidewalks drunkenly. He mostly just tries not to be sick on the concrete while she keeps watch, checking for the car. When it comes, she pulls him up bodily, relishing the way he feels against her, grabbing him greedily, delighting in the way his cool skin feels against her warm palm.

Mel sits with him in the backseat and lets him lean into her, head lolling against her chest, while he mumbles and clutches at her side. The however-many beers he had, and god knows what else, must be really hitting him. He’s all loose, curled into her. "I just ... I wanted to see you," he slurs, spitting along her jean jacket as he moves. "Couldn’t stop thinking about you. I wanted—" 

It's all he gets out before the Uber pulls up to her place. Mel wants so badly to ask what he means—she thought about him too, lots of times, especially at work, wondering where he was, or in her bedroom, late at night—and she goes warm imagining that he did too. 

Langdon can barely keep his eyes open and head up as they stumble to her door. She doesn’t have time to let it sink in that Langdon is in her house. Her living room, then kitchen, then bathroom. That’s three rooms already that she’s going to walk through, remembering that he’d been there, and there, and there. 

He scrambles out of her grasp when she opens the bathroom door. Moonlight streams in through the small window by her sink and illuminates him as he falls to the floor and reaches for the toilet bowl. The pale light catches off his ring when he grips the porcelain tight. Violently, he shakes and pitches forward. 

Mel should leave him be. She wouldn't want anyone seeing her in that state, let alone a coworker, let alone someone she barely knew. He wasn’t in the right state of mind. She should turn around and close the door and check on him once he quiets. 

But he's so frenzied, everything tense, fingers like claws, back arched and head bent, making sounds he can't help, fighting against something he can't control. Slowly, she steps up behind him to place a gentle, cool hand on his hot back, a touch he rises to meet. His back is damp with sweat as she rubs it, soothing circles while she coos, tells him it's okay, it's okay, mapping out his straining muscles as he falls sick over and over.

This is what he’d look like straining, panting, thrusting forward, chasing it, oh—  

"I'm sorry, Mel," he whimpers, "oh, god." It takes him again, and again, and again. She wants to slide down behind him and press herself to his back; he wouldn't be able to throw her off. He'd probably lean back into her, grateful for the comfort, and she'd let him rest there against her chest for as long as he needed. She could gather him up, keep him, right there on her bathroom floor.

Her face flushes and she straightens. Pulling her hand away, already missing the feel of him, she says, "I'll be back," and rushes for her hall closet. 

She grabs a washcloth for him, a cold compress would help, she thinks, but all she can hear is the sound of his retching interspersed with pained moans. The back of her neck is hot. Her jean jacket feels too tight, so she strips down to her t-shirt, light purple, like their first day. 

She stops short of going back into the bathroom, deciding rather to stand with her back up against the wall next to the door. She can hear him so well. She just wants to listen, just for a moment. 

Unable to help herself, she slides her hand down the front of her pants and grinds the heel of her palm against her clit, biting her lip to stay quiet. Hungry, starving—she listens to the way he breathes, so heavily in her silent house, quiet enough she can hear the clink of his wedding ring hitting the bowl. 

Devouring each long, drawn out gag, she grinds down again in a circle, imagining how it would sound if she were underneath him, if maybe he were inside—

She dips the tip of her fingers between her lips, feeling how wet it makes her just to listen to him. 

Shaking, she tries to go deeper, when she hears him say her name. 

“Mel?” he calls with a hoarse voice. He sounds like a child, lost somewhere unfamiliar. “Mel, please come back, I’m sorry, please—I need—” He whines so high it sounds like a cry. 

She wants him so badly. He needs her, he’s begging for her. She takes her hand from her pants, cunt still throbbing, and goes back into the room.

She gets down on the floor with him, letting him know she’s there. He’s leaning his head against his arm, resting. His back rises and falls with his rapid, fearful breaths, and she moves in close on her knees, nearly whining when his back finally meets her chest. Sweat soaks through immediately and she can feel the dampness on her breasts.

“I’m scared, Mel,” Langdon admits, voice muffled by his arm. She has no idea what he’s been doing since his last shift. Apparently, lying to his wife and going on benders, but otherwise she can’t begin to guess. Something tells her, though, that he doesn't have many people in his corner. She’s the one that caught him running scared, trying to hide from the hard part.

“I won’t let anything happen,” she soothes. She watches his pulse jump in his neck and tucks her face against it. She is still so wet and warm between her legs. His breathing picks up, each inhale shorter and shorter, while it builds in him. This is just the beginning. Five or so more days of this lay ahead of him. Mel’s not sure what’s going to happen, but she’d like to be there for it. Her heart races thinking about it, so covetous. “Frank, I’m here.”

When he tenses again, she’s right there. His neck stresses and bows. She follows him when he goes forward again, staying close, and she feels it come up his throat, feels the way his esophagus clenches and releases right against her cheeks, and he spasms and bucks like some wild animal, so Mel slides her hand around to his stomach, trying to ease him. He jumps and twitches at her touch, in a different way than before. He’s still pitched over the toilet, but he doesn’t shy away from her hand, rather moving his hips forward like he’s searching for her touch.

As a doctor, Mel’s seen countless people on the worst day of their lives. She wonders if this is Langdon’s. While he throws up with her writhing in tandem with him on the floor, following his movements, not shying away, showing him I’m here, I’m as close as I can be, I won’t look away, she wonders if his wife would. Had he tried to show her, and she looked away? 

The thought nearly makes her whimper. She might be the only one. 

Langdon calms again, sagging back against her. She still has the washcloth she grabbed from the closet. She doesn’t want to, but she gently peels herself from him, cool rushing in and prickling her chest. She moves him slowly, easing him back against the wall, sitting him up. Quickly, Mel wets the cloth in the sink, squeezing out the excess and folding it nicely.

She wipes his face softly, brushes the hairs sticking to his cheeks out of the way. He’s so out of it, puke on his lips and letting her move him like a rag doll. Mel takes him in, looking at him over her glasses, thinking—he’s the most beautiful he’s ever been, she knows. She wants to kiss him, she wants to devour him fucking whole. She puts the rag down and she picks at his soaked shirt, skitters her fingers down to his pants and doesn’t think as she undoes the button. Then the zipper, loud even under Langdon’s breathing. Mel’s heart pounds in her chest. She’s never done anything like this before, ever. She’s never wanted to. Frank Langdon makes her want to. 

He lets her slide his pants and underwear down to the middle of his thighs, trapping him there.

He’s sick. She’s a doctor. She’s going to take care of him. 

She leans down and takes him in hand and she’s surprised to find him already getting hard, growing in her palm. He’s slumped against the wall, eyes nearly closed, but he’s looking at her, a pinched look on his face while he tries not to get sick again, and he doesn’t stop her.

He’s big, but it’s not like Mel could compare it to anything. She’d thought it would be, though, and her mouth waters knowing she’d been right. It was the way his voice was deep and gentle in the break room, the way he spun around to talk to her, how he’d looked at her when she noticed he’d come back, all confidence, all ease, riding the ER like it was nothing. She’d known. 

In the pale light, she can see how red he is, so swollen. She lowers herself until her chin bumps the tip of him and she makes note of every detail, unwilling to let any of this go. She’s going to remember everything about him. There’s a thick trail of hair leading from under his shirt to surround his cock, dark and full. He has a mole on his left thigh, far up where the hair thins out over his delicate skin. 

She leans down and kisses it and his legs jump a little, just so. Sweat salty on her lips, she opens up and slips his cock into her mouth, closing around his head right away.

For something she’s never done before, she immediately knows she wants to do it again. He twitches then, still moving like molasses, but he thrusts up with a little groan, and Mel sinks down further, thrilled, wishing she could touch herself, too. He fills up her entire mouth, curving with her tongue down her throat, and she gags around him, spit slipping down the length of him. She grips him at the base, getting a better handle on him. 

“Mel,” he moans, alert enough now that he’s fully opened his eyes, still bloodshot, still blue. “What are you—that feels so good,” he pants. She lights up at his voice, curling her toes and flexing her hands. “Please, fuck.” 

He’s said please for her so many times tonight. Langdon may be starting his withdrawal, but Mel’s only starting her addiction, she thinks. She’s never going to stop chasing the way that word sounds in his voice, directed at her, needing her. 

With buzzing ears, cotton-filled, hazy, she starts a rhythm, up and down, slow but sure. She likes the flutter of her throat when she chokes, and so does he, pressing his back into the wall to push closer into her, arching up. His hand messily tangles in her hair, holding her head, wedding ring cool on her scalp, and moves his thumb back and forth sweetly. So grateful, all in the palm of her hand. 

“Baby,” he slurs, the word dripping out like honey.

Mel moans around him, so pleased, so happy to be the one with him, the one he’s calling baby, the one he’s surrendering himself to, limbs pliant and cock hard. He shakes when she does. She swallows around him, trying to put him all in her mouth, because he really seems to like it. 

She slides her legs out underneath her, laying on her stomach in front of him, the cold tile giving her goosebumps across her skin. It’s easier this way to go deeper, press down as far as she can go until she can’t breathe. She can’t take it all just yet, but she tries her best, and she thinks she’ll be able to work up to it. He doesn’t seem to mind at all, torn between his pleasure and being sick, stuck somewhere in between. 

He moves his hand down to cup her neck as she moves quicker, getting messier and messier, spit wetting her knuckles and leaking down her chin. 

“Baby,” he says again, more of a warning. She doesn’t move away. She doesn’t know what it’ll be like, but she doesn’t care, she just wants him. 

Everything pulses, and she feels him come in her mouth, so warm. She keeps her hand on him as she swallows, drinking him down, until he’s whimpering. 

When she looks up and wipes her chin, he’s smiling at her. She likes his smile. She likes everything about him, even if she doesn’t really know anything. Other than how kind he was to her, how he found her across the ER, how quickly he understood her.

“Mel,” he muses, mystified. The moonlight cuts across his face, glimmering like little stars over the sheen of sweat on his cheeks.

This isn’t over, not by a long shot. They’ve barely crossed the startling line. He’s going to be sick again, probably soon. It’s going to get so much worse before it gets better.  

“Can I stay with you? Mel, I can’t go home. I really can’t.”

His voice is so ragged and tired. She can’t get enough. It doesn’t matter why he can’t go home. Nothing matters except he’s here with her, sick all down his shirt, splayed out, all hers. She has never wanted something more in her entire life. She would never say no to him.

She doesn’t know how any of this is going to work. She doesn’t know what will happen in the morning when his wife starts to wonder where he is. Or what she’ll do about Becca for the weekend, or what she’ll tell Trinity. But none of that really matters. Not when Langdon asks her so sweetly, so weakly, on her floor, just looking for some mercy, for her gentle hand, her eager mouth. 

“Yes, as long as you need,” she says, heart breaking open, “I’m here.”

Especially when no one else is.

She’ll be there.

[ironandglass]

The Descent - Chapter 1 - Second Circle

Silco x female reader dark slow burn modern au. Stalker Silco.

A strange man moves into the apartment across from yours, he likes to watch and you start to like him watching. What could go wrong?

Warnings: stalking, violence, trauma, home invasion, sexual assault, threats, fear, panic, robbery, weapons, gun, romanticised toxic behaviour, toxic relationships, power dynamics, mental health probably, sex mention, swearing, bad editing (notsorry), evil silco, dark Silco, cold Silco. He’s not gentle and sweet ya feel? No jinx in this storyline bc I don’t know how to share. 🤷‍♀️

Chapter one

Second Circle

You peek out through the cheap venetian blinds to see him, leaning on his balcony railing, in the building directly opposite yours. Smoking cigarettes and watching.

He was always watching your apartment. You'd noticed it a few weeks after he had moved in. He made no effort to hide his blatant voyeurism. It seemed you had captured his attention somehow and that unsettled you. Living in the city for as long as you had meant you were no stranger to such things but something about his boldness made you especially uneasy. Some instinct in your gut warning you that this creep was not a typical window licking, peeping tom.

Yet, as the months pass you start to ignore that instinct. He makes no move other than to passively watch, so you try to keep your curtains closed and ignore him as best you can.

--

Sometimes your thoughts would turn to the bizarreness of the situation. This stranger who watched you. You had recently, and playfully started to consider that it was quite flattering actually. Saying to yourself that this was an admission of your value that anybody should pay that much interest in you.

Joking about it made you feel more in control, it took away the sting of fear and unsureness.

"My good lookin guy, very good at looking." you would mutter when you noticed him.

Despite all the jokes, In a strange way, it did make you feel special.

--

One night you were too drunk to notice that your windows and curtains were wide open as you rolled your hips on top of the nameless man that you'd procured from a nearby dive bar to satisfy your needs for the night.

You opened your eyes as you got close, relishing the rising anticipation of your hard earned, imminent orgasm. Bliss rises up your spine as you look out at the city lights panting and moaning shamelessly in a drunken haze.

Then you notice him, watching intently from his balcony through the large glass window of your modern apartment.

His eyes meet yours and you climax hard. Your orgasm ripping across your being with a quaking intensity you hadn't experienced for a long, long time.

--

After that, you dress and undress each morning and each evening, letting him see, going out of your way even to make sure he had a good view.

You start buying lingerie and sexy pyjamas to wear around the house.

If anyone ever asked you, you could never explain why you encouraged this. Other than admitting that you simply enjoyed the attention. There was something about being watched that seemed so harmless, a safe way to tease and taunt the man. His desire seemed to give you a strange confidence. You enjoyed ignoring him, pretending that you never even noticed he was there. That was part of the game for you.

He stood dutifully on his balcony for the show each morning, knowing your routine, chaining cigarettes, eyes like a wolf. Sometimes he missed the afternoon showing, you were always secretly disappointed.

--

You’re out of your usual routine one morning, running late. You walk out onto the street just as he is walking out of his apartment at the same time. You both freeze, like two mirrors across the road from each other. His considering gaze catches your own for a long moment before you panic, breaking the spell as you turn away down the street.

He doesn't follow.

--

In bed.

Your eyes snap open.

CCCCCRRUNCHHH

You're up.

You run towards the sound.

Splintering wood.

Your front door - It's being kicked in.

You scream but it's cut short as a massive man, unfamiliar, bursts inside, gun trained on you. Your heart beats a frantic rhythm as you look down the barrel of the weapon, frozen in terror, blubbering appeasingly.

Everything becomes a blur, suddenly, finding yourself giving any answers asked of you.

Briefly, over the muscular shoulder of the intruder you see your watcher across the way, holding a phone to his ear. Is he seeing all this? You hope he's calling the police. Who knew your sick games with this pervert would pay off. You would be more amazed if you weren't so absolutely afraid for your life.

The large invader riffles through your valuables. He drags you roughly by your upper arm like a rag doll from room to room, taking your laptop, jewellery and your purse.

He pushes you away demanding you stand against the back wall while he does a final sweep, roughly tearing cabinets open and swiping through your cupboards. You pray he will just leave but when he finishes his quick search instead of the door he wheels towards you. Eyes gleaming as if he just noticed that you are in fact worthy of his consideration.

Something in his eyes makes you step back into the picture frame behind you as he approaches.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, pinning you against the wall with his body. Running the tip of the cold metal gun slowly from your temple, down your neck, to rest just in between your cleavage.

"If I had more time I'd steal a lot more from you sweetness." The threat trailing his warm breath over your face.

With a gut wrenching start you realise you can feel his hard cock pressed against you through his pants.

He grabs your face with one hand, thick fingers holding your jaw as he forces your eyes up to his. "Too bad." He says as if you are missing out on a special treat. He pulls away from you smirking and backs out of the room, gun still trained on you.

"Next time" he says blowing a kiss before striding out the front door.

—

After the burglar leaves you wait, frozen in place for a short while, shaken and gently sobbing before running out into the street. You look left and right and who should be leaning against the bricks on the sidewalk out the front but your ever vigilant watcher.

You run across the road towards him and he looks shocked momentarily, taking a step back away from your rapid frantic approach before you shamelessly wrap your arms around him hugging him and crying. Needing support from someone, anyone.

Hadn't he always been there?

Slowly, unsurely he wraps his arms around you, reciprocating.

"Its okay" he says, his voice is pleasant. A low vibrating rumble against you.

"I called the Police, I'll wait with you."

He keeps one arm wrapped around you, rubbing patterns along your back soothingly as he receives a call with the other. It sounds like he's talking to police, here he was just handling this for you. Taking care of it as if it were his own problem.

When the police arrive you are still crying gently in his arms.

"Is this your... girlfriend Sir?"

"Yes." He says not skipping a beat. Okay that was strange, maybe he’s just trying to make it seem … not as strange as it actually is?

When he gives a statement he gives his name as Silco. You realise then, you are just now learning his name, he already seems to know yours which gives you pause, you had never spoken to him. But you weren't really in any position to worry about that having already thrown yourself at the man.

—

Police pour into your home, taking fingerprints and photographs. Its not long before one of the forensic team approaches you on the street and explains it might be a while before you could return home, definitely not till tomorrow morning at the earliest.

"Oh, thank you." You say, still quite shocked.

At this news you finally unwrap yourself from the stranger now known as Silco. Starring blankly out in the street you stifle a yawn feeling exhausted now that all of the adrenalin had worn off.

Embarrassment starts to sneak in, should you apologise to him? You wonder, turning your eyes up to his.

He looks down at you thoughtfully, as if you are a problem he needs to solve.

"Would you like to come in for a warm drink while you wait?" He asks gesturing towards his apartment across the road. His manner is cold and calculating but his actions had been nothing but generous and kind. It was a confounding combination.

You look up towards his apartment, probably not the best idea but you agree with a nod.

The thrill of the situation and the shock of the home invasion made everything seem less insane and more reasonable.

"I'd like that... thank you." You admit gratefully.

--

In his nice, high end apartment he stands across from you behind the kitchen island where you sit perched on a high stool.

He meticulously prepares you a warm drink before making some coffee for himself.

"It's a shame that we're finally meeting under such unsavoury circumstances." He says gently, pouring steaming liquid into a glass coffee mug.

You smile gently pushing a marshmallow around in your hot chocolate.

"As opposed to our usual unsavoury circumstances?" You laugh gently before sighing and resting your cheek against your hand.

"I like our thing." You confess keeping your eyes low.

"Me too." He replies softly before bringing the cup to his lips.

It felt good, to hear him say that.

Still, you knew how dangerous this was. Despite how comfortable you felt right now, there was something not right about this man, an air of malevolence (but that was thrilling too).

“Do you… “ you falter, unsure if you should continue but when you raise your eyes up to his one eyebrow quirks up, as if waiting patiently.

You clear your throat trying to rally your courage.

“Do you… watch other people?” You ask, almost instantly regretting it.

He takes another sip of his coffee, calm, unhurried.

His eyes never leave you. You struggle against the urge to squirm in the silence.

His focus on you was always so intense. Of course you enjoyed it, but being in a room together now, up close. It was something else, hot, fierce, like standing too close to the fire.

“I think that you want me to say no.” He murmers, eyes gleaming as he steps back away from you. Slowly, deliberately making his way around the long marble kitchen island that separates you both.

“I think, you enjoy my attention.” He continues, his lazy gait, unhurried on the tiled floor.

“I think you crave it.” his shoe clicks on the tiles, closer now.

He places a hand next to your hot cocoa, palm flat on the counter and leans in.

His other hand stays at his side, controlled.

“I think you enjoy being… just, out of reach.” He says closing in on you.

He leans in slowly, inch by inch, his breath brushes your cheek. Your heartbeat stutters. His lips near your ear.

“Just you.”

You stop breathing, the words settle on your skin, like ash. Hot, final, branded.

You don't move, his breath is still warm on your cheek.

Then he turns away, without a word. He walks towards the coat rack shrugging on a dark winter coat, it looks custom, fitted, clean.

You watch in silence as he walks back over towards you and grabs some of his personal items from a bowl on the counter.

He slides a key over the marble towards you with a shhhk.

“This is a spare key, you may come and go as you please.”

You stare at it.

“Are you… leaving?” the question feels louder than expected.

He doesn't answer at first, checking his phone.

”I have work.” he says simply.

“The spare room at the end of the hall is made up as a guest room. You’re welcome to stay while I'm out”

You nod slowly, processing this before asking.

“What … time do you usually come home?”

He pauses.

“Five ... Maybe six”

“AM?” You ask.

His eyes flick up.

“Yes"

That's all, Just one syllable. Heavy as stone.

He turns towards the door.

“Wait!” You call after him, stepping forward and reaching out, catching his coat sleeve.

“Thank you.” You say, meaning it, trying to show it with your eyes.

“It is nothing.” He says looking away and gently, but firmly pulling his arm away from you.

You watch his back disappear through the door. It closes slowly with a click.

Silence.

—

The spare room is immaculate, almost clinical, clean, comfortable and impersonal. Like a hotel room.

You go to the ensuite bathroom and splash water on your face, wincing when you see the large dark bruise blooming on your arm where you'd been dragged from room to room like a ragdoll. Helpless.

You quickly turn away from the mirror, and lay on top of the bed instead. You stare at the ceiling, mind racing, a deep sigh deflates you.

After about fifteen minutes, tossing and turning, you give in.

Of course you need to look in his room. Just in case there is some kind of creepy shrine dedicated to you, surrounded by candles or something.

You push the large door open, walking in to see black silk sheets on a large bed. You scrunch your nose at how typical it was of a wealthy strange man. His large walk in robe is filled only with fine clothing, all in shades of black and red. No shrine. You pick a discarded business shirt up off the edge of a laundry hamper and for some reason, you bring it to your face and inhale.

It smelled like cigarettes and aftershave and a subtle, spicy body odour. You knew this was weird of you but you were staying in your stalkers house after someone just threatened your life so you also felt like if there was a time you deserved a pass, it was now.

Through the long hallway of his walk in robe was the entrance to his bathroom, refined, spacious, stylish.

You’re pretty impressed by this point, and smile as you make your merry way back through to his bedroom. Now fully committed to disrespectful hedonism, you climb on to his bed and lay down with your head on the pillows. Sprawled out on top of the silk sheets you’re annoyed to admit they feel really nice.

Then you accidentally take a moment to let yourself think about everything that had happened in the last few hours. How blindsided you had felt, how helpless.

This time the tears well up in your eyes and you start to cry uncontrollably. The sadness and fear of what you had experienced pour out of you in shuddering, loud, uncontrollable weeping. You cry for a long long time, curled up on the black silk sheets, trembling as you weep. Staining them with your salted tears and smothering yourself in the scent of the strange man that watched you undress from across the road.

—

Silco comes home early, having delegated out as much work as feasible. It had been a long night, despite finally having held the woman of his desires in his arms for the first time. He sighs as he shrugs his slender shoulders out of his fitted coat, hanging it up on the rack before striding over to empty his pockets into the bowl on the kitchen counter. Noticing the half empty hot chocolate mug you had left in place, he pauses thoughtfully.

Turning his gaze up towards the hall where the spare room was.

He hesitates for a second before quietly and slowly padding up the hallway, he places a hand carefully on the doorknob and turns it, opening the door just enough to see...

Ah. It’s empty, she’s gone.

Of course, it was sensible and probably even polite for her to be gone.

Silco runs his fingers up through his hair and makes his way back out into the kitchen, reaching for his cigarette case and lighter, he strolls out through one of the large glass sliding doors onto the balcony, leaning on the railing and lighting his cigarette.

He looks out towards your apartment. The curtains are wide open as usual, the place was a mess but the police had all left at least. Silco glanced at the bed, empty. The couch, also empty.

Hmmmm, he didn’t like not knowing where you were. He also didn’t like not knowing things about you. He would resolve that, if you had family members or friends nearby that you had gone to stay with, he wanted to know.

He stubbs out the cigarette and strolls back inside, swinging the door to his bedroom open he starts unbuttoning his shirt, getting ready for bed.

A small noise makes him freeze, whipping his head to finally notice you, curled up delicately in the centre of his bed.

His breath catches for a moment at the sight and he wonders at it.

How your small soft form is so vulnerable, the gentle rise and fall of your breaths.

Hand curled towards your chest.

The slight parting of your lips, so peaceful.

So close.

Then your eyes flick open.

—

Your eyes snap open to see Silco, standing across from you, unbuttoning his shirt. You panic, realising that you’d slept in his bed, and now he was undressing as he approached you?

Oh no no no he was a creep, you knew it and you shouldn’t be surprised by it but this was too much. This was crossing the line, well further over the line. A new line?

You sprang up backing out of the bed and standing with your hands raised.

“I don’t want to sleep with you!” You blurt out defensively.

“Why are you in my bed?” He asks calmly, lowering his hands, leaving the top few buttons of his shirt open.

You falter.

“I offered you the spare room, at the end of the hall.” He says sternly pointing in that direction.

“I… I” You have no defence for this. Maybe you are the creep here?

He waits for a moment tilting his head.

“You what?” He asks. “Was there a pea under the mattress?” Taunting you now.

Your mouth snaps shut with your frown and you storm past him, making your way out of the bedroom door. In times like these, the best defence was a strong offence.

He turns cooly, watching you as you pass.

“Glad I could help.” He quips, following you at a measured distance.

His words still you briefly.

You turn to him, expression angry.

“Thank you for your help.” you bark awkwardly.

He gives a slight incline of the head. No more than that.

Then you storm out the door doing your best not to slam it like a child.

Definitely not your best work.

--

After the door shuts, Silco exhales through his nose in amusement.

"Her pride has teeth" he thinks, "but no aim."

Retreating into his room, he lays down, fully clothed on his bed, inhaling deeply.

It smells like her.

End.

——

Thanks for reading 🔪📖🖤

I have been really enjoying writing this so I hope you dig it!

Also- there’s A LOT more of it already written, so if you want more, let me know and I’ll try and make time to edit it sooner.

<3 Iron

—

>>>Continue on to Chapter two

Bonus - Chapter 2 teaser Silco POV short

[bleedingpeace]

[l-in-the-light]

About his "trigger warnings"

I mentioned here on tumblr that I used to have a number one favourite book writer. I guess not anymore. After all the SA allegations and other stories that got leaked by people around him (his collegues, co-workers etc.), I realized he's an abusive asshole and I owe you all to say that openly here. And some of the assaults date back decades now, which means he didn't just wake up one day and changed into an asshole, he most likely was always one.

I read the foreword to his book Trigger Warning again. I feel like I took a peek beyond his fake persona there. He writes about trigger warnings like it's some exotic curious little trend that kids on the internet came up with, finds it a bit peculiar like a daddy trying to understand their kid's hobbies, then proceeds to use them like a funny teasers for his short stories ("can you find the big tentacle hidden among the pages somewhere?"), only to finish it all up with a punch straight to your face: real life doesn't have trigger warnings, so always watch out for yourself. On the surface level? This all sounds like a slightly misguided, maybe even witty intro. Nothing is said with malice, right? And yet, the message underneath it all was always to discredit trigger warnings as a concept. That's why that delivery line is at the very end of that intro. You're supposed to be lulled into agreeing how silly it all is. I dunno if he did it on purpose or did it without thinking much about it, by habit, but that intention is there and it's disguised with concern and attempts to sound kind. A peek beyond the nice guy mask. No wonder I could never finish that anthology of short stories. The cognitive dissonance caused by the foreword sticked with me like a bad aftertaste. My intuition told me this was all wrong, I just couldn't find the words to express it.

And you know why it works so well as a disguise and why we tend to believe he didn't do it on purpose? Because hey, he just said the facts, the truth! Reality indeed doesn't have any trigger warnings, what's wrong with saying that! Yes, that statement is true. Using real statements in carefully woven context to sell a lie, is an example of an excellent manipulation. So allow me to untangle it or, in other words, to reveal the magic trick behind it.

Why do trigger warnings exist? Isn't Gaiman right, aren't they counterproductive, you might think, because by avoiding triggers you will never get better at dealing with them? Indeed, here's the catch, because the answer isn't a simple yes or no here. Yes, often to recover from trauma, you need to expose yourself to it in some way - like for example, through exposure therapy (or even just classic psychotherapy). But also No, because there's no rule that says you will officially recover only after you're fine reading fiction about sexual assault (for example)! Some triggers will dimnish, some will not, and the best you can do for the latter is to avoid them altogether. Triggers are extremely personal, but you can learn to manage them, in ways that respect your own boundaries, but never by giving up your right to selfcare. You see the difference?

Back to therapy bit for a moment. To recover, often you need to go through with it. But here's the thing - you do it in *controlled environment*, accompanied by a specialist that is there to help and calm you down afterwards. And you only start to do that once you feel *ready* to face it. Now compare it to a situation of reading a book (yes, a book, which usually never has any trigger warnings, because that's such a silly fanfiction thing). You come upon your trigger without any warning, preparation or support around you, you're left with the aftermath of possible panic attack or other symptoms completely on your own. It might take you weeks to recover from it, because perhaps you weren't yet in any therapy that could help you manage your triggers more effectively. But then you tell yourself it's fine, minimizing your own emotional reactions, because *it was just a book*. But, you realize, even years later you still remember it and you might finally accept the harsh truth that you're still not fine with it.

Now imagine same situation, but the book did have trigger warnings listed. For example, about sexual abuse. You would see that and leave the bookstore without the book, because you would know you're not *ready* for that. And it's fine not to be ready, be it yet or ever. This is about consent and selfcare, both are essential to process through trauma and recover. The books without trigger warnings rob selfcare, consent and a choice from us. They teach us we should always ignore our triggers and push through. It's sadly a reality that is widely accepted so Gaiman is right, nothing in reality will flash you a warning. But he's also wrong: it doesn't mean we can't make the life a tiny bit easier for those of us who are traumatized, instead of leaving them with all of that on their very own. This part, he doesn't want you to even consider. He doesn't want you to imagine the positive side of living in a world in which real books warn you about triggers, because then it would prove that it *can* become a reality in which real things (like books) warn you of triggers. They can't shield you from everything, but that's also not the point: it's just to make some things feel more safe, for everybody.

(As a side note, being triggered is not the same as stepping outside your comfort zone - those are two different matters! Though yes, stepping outside your comfort zone in an extreme way CAN become traumatic as the result as well).

I guess Neil Gaiman just thinks some people are too sensitive and should just get over themselves. You don't need those warnings, they won't protect you anyway. Have you tried not getting traumatized? How dare you think your selfcare is more important than reading my questionable fantasies? You're missing out if you skip my book (that has no proper trigger warnings) and you have only yourself to blame! I provide you a safe environment to explore your traumatic triggers, you should be grateful! And how is your book providing a safe environment exactly, author? Did you even try to put a safety net there for your reader? Do you even care? Of course you don't. But you will pretend like you do: by providing a very ingenuine effort that is mostly meant to be a pat on your own back for cleverly dismissing the very concept of trigger warnings, while pretending to play along with it and exposing their lack of power in the process. Disguised as a coincidence, lack of understanding or unskillful attempt written by a slightly ignorant daddy-like figure. What an irony that you do it by nearly surgically focusing on the blind spots of the concept, proving at the same time you do know the mechanism behind it pretty well. You knew what you were doing and how you were doing it.

Or at least, this is how I see it: I might be wrong on the details, but I'm sure I caught the gist of the manipulative behaviour there. An abuser always wants you to step out of your comfort zone, get surprised by a trigger, and to make sure you're outside your safety net. Because then you're an easier target, more likely to agree to harmful things (be it real actions or just harmful beliefs delivered to you by the author of a book, like in case of *trigger warnings being pointless*). They want to groom you into thinking that you're just being silly and see things that aren't there.

Trigger Warning's foreword is exactly that and I feel disgusted, now that I finally recognize my own feelings about it. I probably didn't find words for it before, because I wanted to believe Gaiman had good intentions behind it, they just didn't work out very well. Except that was never the case and that's why it never felt right. That good intention was never there, but it sure *looked* like it was. Also it took me way too long to realize people do things like that on purpose. You know what, Gaiman? Thanks to gaslighting efforts like yours it took me also way too many years to accept that selfcare IS OKAY.

So many people now think nothing was ever genuine about Neil Gaiman because his nice guy mask slipped. A mask he used to hide his autism behind and appear neurotypical/feel accepted thanks to it. Whenever a really advanced mask like that slips, the cognitive dissonance becomes a huge gap between a mask and actual self in perception of other people. Still, your autism is not an excuse for things you do and say, and definitely doesn't excuse assault as simple miscommunication - and yes, he did try to justify lack of consent this way. "I'm autistic, I read the body language wrong and wasn't even aware of it". Hey, you could have, like, asked. There's no shame in getting confirmation in words :P but it's just a poor excuse anyway, the truth is he didn't care if it was wanted or not, as long as he got adoration and powertripping thrill out of that, and that's the best case scenario here.

I believe the allegations. I won't be able to read Gaiman's books anymore, I honestly can't see them the same way I used to anymore. I loved Coraline and The Graveyard Book, and Smoke and Mirrors. I feel disgusted knowing that he openly claimed to be a feminist while at the same time assaulted so many people and used emotional manipulation so they won't #metoo him. He even went as far as to claim "always believe the victims", but once the allegations flew his way, what did he do? Blamed the victims, even called them mentally ill! I also feel now like his books are also just full of deception, meant to hide harmful beliefs under quirky words and imaginative tales. And I might never be able to stop feeling this way and I don't owe him a second chance anyway.

Good Omens stays in my heart though, because sir Terry Pratchett put a lot of work into it and it shows. I feel like I would show him disrespect if I discarded it. Let's say it becomes a Gaiman Who Might Have Been But Never Was, for me.

[why-am-i-so-bad-at-being-good]

Yk people are actually being quite hostile towards HG after the most recent DDVAU chapter, and now it's gotten just insufferable to me.

This will be a rant and an expression of my thoughts, so feel free to skip if you're not a fan of HotGuy from DDVAU.

Yes, HG has his flaws, but you can't pretend that Scar is a perfectly goody two shoes otherwise. I've not seen Scar's Hermitcraft videos much so I'm not sure how he carries his character in that SMP, but he sure as heck isn't a cinnamon roll that people are making him out to be.

Like really? Just take their fight in Third Life. You'd say that even after seeing how Scar turned on Grian after he didn't pick up the no kill pass? True loyalty here imo would have been that Scar would go and straight up kill Bdubs. But he didn't. If my memory serves me right, he also appeared all buddy-buddy to Bdubs (till the Nokia watch incident lol) and then killed him too.

His loyalties have forever been himself, and not to mention he is a cunning salesman with a silver tongue and a maxed out charisma stat. This is what makes Scar Scar. He's not helpless, he's not lawfully good. He does what he can to survive and even thrive. And people really need to start accepting that tbh.

Coming to HG now. In the scene, it is definitely him manipulating Grian to get information out of him. But get this. Scar's job is to be THE Emerald Soldier. Many lives depend on him. Heck, the government does too! And he needs this information BADLY. He cannot let Mother Spore harm more people. He's already seen people close to him get hurt.

So what does he do? He imposes his presence onto Grian. Forces the information out of him. From what I know about Grian's character, (not just the DDVAU one, more like in general) he would have probably lied to save his friends. Or maybe take the blame. Or even hide some information. I think Scar knew that. So that's why he resorted to manipulation.

Scar can be ruthless if he wants to, and we just saw that. Whether he had any internal emotional qualms about his actions or not, we'll know in the following chapters. However to me it feels just that he swallowed his morality for a bit, for the greater good. He had to appear intimidating to get his point across, and he did just that. He needed the power dynamic to shift blatantly and give him all the power, and he did that, as he usually does in the Life Series too. It's subtle but it's there for sure.

And yes, I felt bad for Grian and would give him head pats and tell him it's all okay, but I also recognize that Scar just did his duty, albeit in a very unforgiving manner. This can coexist.

This will surely result in a very big emotional segment when Grian realizes the person behind the mask is actually Scar, but oh well. That's the fun of angst.

[barlowstreet]

I just thought of something kind of awful.

Ellie is kidnapped by a group of people, locked up, and isolated while scared out of her mind. Then the leader of that group comes in and talks to her like she's an adult. They tell her they're the reason she wasn't killed by their group and she should be grateful for that. They bring up someone she cares about and make her feel guilty about them getting hurt. They tell her that she's special and that other people aren't like her, and they ask her to do something for them they think only she can do. They don't give her a choice in the matter, really.

Who am I talking about?

Marlene or David?

[queenoftheimps]

I'm so obsessed with the episode opening with Louis insisting that Armand's method of killing "Those half in love with easeful death" isn't violent, as if to make it seem like it isn't really murder --

and when we see it in being put into action on young Daniel, he pushes back at Armand several times, insisting "I don't want to rest" and "I like my life", not exactly the easily entranced victim even after he's been held hostage for four days, and oof is it unsettling to see play out with someone who very clearly does not want to submit to this

[messangerforthestars]

“We need more morally gray characters” you guys can barely handle topaz and jade.

[glow-worms-are-believers]

Identity Theft (dp x dc)

Dan was furious.

Probably angrier than he’d been since his fight with his wimpy younger self, though that wasn’t hard since he’d spent most of the time since then in one of the Fenton Thermos. He had forgotten how tiny and cramped it was in there. He had hated it but Dan had figured he’d bide his time until an opportunity to escape arose when he could then exact his revenge upon his younger self along with his puny friends and Jasmine.

And the opportunity had indeed come, and much faster than he would have thought. Someone had actually released him voluntarily. Mentally celebrating, Dan had prepared to kill the poor fool in return when he’d felt something settle around him and suddenly he couldn’t move.

“I’ve got you!” said the man holding a glowing scepter. “Did you think I wouldn’t find you again, Phantom?”

Dan would have groaned if he could, because of course this was about the brat.

“I only had to follow your ecto-signature my dearest Lydia procured for me,” the stupid man continued on. “Did you think the Fenton thermos would protect you from me?”

There, the man laughed and Dan promised himself that he would kill the other man slowly and painfully as soon as he got out of this.

“Nevermind your cowardice, you’re mine now.” The man smiled and snapped his fingers, a red haze fell over his vision and Dan couldn’t think anymore.

He wasn’t quite sure how long he was lost to the haze and all his memories were half-formed things that made no sense. There was a circus tent, some people screaming and the never ending spiraling colors within the ringmaster’s scepter it could’ve been a few hours or a decade, Dan couldn’t have told you.

Next thing he remembered was blinking away the red as a shattering sound registered to his ears. Coming back to consciousness was like trying to get out of a ball pit, slow and tortuous.

“Are you alright?” Someone was saying.

Dan turned to look at a man who was all green and was wearing a cape for some reason.

“My name is Martian Manhunter, I am part of the Justice league. May I offer you some assistance?”

“I’m alright,” Dan said as his just-recovering brain took in all the other masked and costumed heroes talking to some of what Dan assumed were the ringmaster’s victims. As his eyes went over the superheroes, a wicked idea bloomed in his mind.

“My name is Phantom,” Dan started as he tried to make himself appear smaller. “I’m a vigilante, I guess you could say? I protect the living from ghosts trying to cause havoc.”

“Ghosts?” asked a man wearing a dark costume with two ear-like things on his head

“Most the ringmaster’s prisoners are ghosts,” Dan explained.

“So you’ve fought him before?” asked the dark-cowled man.

“Yeah but he would never have gotten me if it hadn’t been for Danny,” Dan started as he let his shoulders slump, time to sell this. “He - he’s a clone created to destroy me and take my place and he did just that.”

“That’s awful,” said one of the heroes, a young man in black and blue.

“He stole my appearance and transformed me into this,” Dan said as he gestured to himself in mock-disgust. “My sister and friends have all been manipulated by him and believe him over me. I don’t know how to fix it, I just know he’ll stop at nothing to keep Amity Park under his thumb.”

The heroes looked at each other before the eared one spoke up. “The Justice League would be glad to offer assistance to a fellow hero, Phantom. How can we be of assistance?”

Dan had to stop a smirk from stretching on his face.

[wildernessuntothemselves]

“How long have you been kissing for?” He pushes curiously and you groan. “Just now. Just this once. I just wanted to know what it feels like before I'm bound to my soulmate forever. Please don't make this a big deal.”

You’re pleading your case, hoping he’d understand why you did this and not expose your ass. But of course, that wasn’t what was on Beomgyu’s mind. “Why didn't you ask me?”

You cringe at the offended tone in Beomgyu’s voice. Of course, he’d make this into a competition. “I thought about it but I knew you wouldn't be able to keep your mouth shut.

“What are you talking about?” He scoffs, now seriously offended. “I'm great at keeping secrets. I didn't tell Soobin that you have a crush on him. I didn’t tell you that I've found a couple of your underwear under Soobin's pillow.”

You and Soobin's eyes widen comically.

“Oops.” Beomgyu grins. That bastard did it on purpose. “Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag. I like you both too and I want to be involved in whatever this is.”

Hold on. Hold on. Soobin likes you? Beomgyu likes you? What the hell is going on? This is too much information at once for your brain to process, and you try to ignore the way it all makes your heart flutter in your chest. You can't think about this too much. Your soulmate's name will be revealed to you soon. It is useless to think about what feelings who has for who.

[ironandglass]

The Descent - Chapter 2 - Reflections  

Silco x female reader dark slow burn modern au. Stalker Silco.

A strange man moves into the apartment across from yours, he likes to watch and you start to like him watching. What could go wrong?

<<<Go back to Chapter One

Warnings: stalking, violence, trauma, threats, fear, panic, romanticized toxic behavior, alcohol drinking, toxic relationships, power dynamics, mental health probably, sex mention, swearing, bad editing (notsorry), evil Silco, dark Silco, cold Silco. He’s not gentle and sweet ya feel? No jinx

Chapter two

Reflections

-- 

There are few things worse than crying yourself to sleep in your stalker’s bed. Waking up in it while he undresses might be one of them. 

-- 

Back home, you’re abruptly confronted with everything as you enter the recently repaired front door, closing it behind you. Locking the deadbolt and the slide chain across.    

In that moment you wish there were more locks. 

Leaning back against the door you feel a pang in your chest that rises up into your throat like a painful stone. You rake your fingers up through your hair, a ragged breath escapes you.     Your home was a wreck, the police had left fingerprint dust stuff on walls and moved everything awkwardly. Bringing to reality the stark reminder that someone had broken in, so easily, to your private space and threatened your life.    

You take a few deep breaths. Running your fingers through your hair again and again, not even realising you're doing it.   

You try to push it all down. 

Suddenly gripped by a realisation, you stride across the apartment to pointedly close all the curtains. Silco wasn’t on his balcony, you assumed he had gone to bed. Or maybe he was washing the sheets after your intrusion.  

Oh no, how embarrassing, you hadn’t meant to fall asleep in his bed like that. You hadn’t planned on crying your little heart out till you fell into a deep sleep. If you were being honest, that was the best sleep you'd, had in a long time.   

You sit on the end of your bed, re-hashing your excruciating awkwardness. So what, the man watched you. You encouraged him by parading around In lingerie. So what if you came hard when you noticed he was watching you fuck somebody in your bed.  

You liked it, you like his eyes on you. He called the police for you when you were robbed. He supported you through it, as you cried in his arms. He was actually there for you. He even gave you a place to stay and made you a hot chocolate and sure, it was a little creepy that he knew your name and he said you were his girlfriend but everything else kind of balances that out… right? 

You flop back onto the bed, blowing air out of your mouth and letting your legs hang. 

Am… I the creep? You start to wonder. 

— 

That night you dream the door won’t lock.   

No matter how many chains you slide across or bolts you twist, it won’t hold. 

Someone’s on the other side and you can’t tell if you’re scared… or if you’re hoping it’s him. 

 — 

Over the next few days you wrestle with your behavior, feeling guilty for being rude to the man after violating his privacy. You supposed you had felt entitled to it because he always invaded yours, but… had he? Honestly, all you really needed to do was close the curtains. It was almost less invaded and more invited.  

It was impossible to try and justify your behavior by normal morals or logic, because you were both a little twisted. The rules seemed different between you two. 

You keep the curtains closed. 

 — 

The police call, requesting you come in and identify a lineup of potential suspects involved in your robbery and even though you'd rather walk slowly over hot coals you agree, because it seems like the correct thing to do.     However, a few anxious hours before you’re meant to attend, you get another phone call from the same officer advising that it’s cancelled.     “Don’t come in.” They say, no explanation, no reschedule.    

At first you’re annoyed at the lack of justice and potentially effort from the police but that is quickly replaced by a huge wave of relief.  

 — 

It’s a little over a week before you start to open the blinds up and see Silco again, because it takes you time to slowly ease back into your confidence.    

He gives no indication of annoyance or impatience -you do though. He feels so far away now.  

  You reflect on his words.    

Just you.    

The memory of that moment, his warm breath against your ear, feeling it sink gently down your neck. 

You desperately want more of whatever that was.  

 — 

Feeling inspired, you decide to thank Silco for helping you somehow. Maybe a gift? A token of appreciation? What do you give a wealthy man to say thank you… on a normal human budget?    

Wracking your brain, it takes you a while before you come up with the perfect idea. A small perfume sampler card of your signature scent (sprayed generously in store of course, unwilling to waste your own stock).    

Eventually, after visiting a frustrating number of stores, all over the damn city, you find a place that sells his brand of cigarettes, imported, black with a gold ring around the filter.    

You press your lips to the perfume sampler card, leaving a stained lipstick kiss and write on the back “Thank you Silco xxx" and sign your name.    

You tie the card and cigarette packet together with a luxurious dark red, silk ribbon, matching the deep red shirts he seemed to favor.     You beam down proudly at the final product before carefully packing it into a box and mailing it to his unit.     -and wait.   

 — 

The wind is so cold your fingers feel numb and clumsy through your thin gloves. You can barely see the footpath carrying a large and awkward parcel home from the nearby post office.  

  Regretting agreeing to pick it up for your best friend Mia on short notice. You did owe her though, and you know that she would do the same (and more) for you in a heart beat. That thought eases your frustration slightly. 

You’re only a few blocks from your front door when you hear an unfamiliar male voice laugh behind you. 

“Let me help” 

You open your mouth to protest but you feel the weight is lifted off your hands before you have the chance. You step back around the large bulky parcel to get a look at this mysterious helper.  

He is wearing the most obnoxiously bright yellow tartan suit you have ever seen in your life. More annoyingly, it looks quite good on his lean muscular frame. He’s covered in tattoos, you see them peeking out at his ankles and wrists, they’re also all across his face, he smirks at you and his shocking pale green eyes throw you off centre momentarily.  

“I don’t mean to be rude, drink it in, but it’s fucking freezing, and I‘ve got places to be.” 

You shoot him a half smile and gesture forward with your chin, not taking your eyes off him as you both start walking up the street. You, silently and thoughtfully, taking in this unexpected curiosity.  

“Seems like you don’t actually have time to help” you press as you walk together. 

He huffs a brief laugh and looks at you with an incredulous grin. 

“Honestly, you looked like a more independent type so… I was expecting you’d say no.”  

It was your turn to now to half feign offence while lowkey being actually offended. 

“Here’s fine…-" 

"-Finn” he interjects, catching your eye as he lowers the parcel to the ground. 

“Thank you Finn” your smile follows him as he stands to his full height. You pointedly do not offer your name, even after he gives you an encouraging look.  

“Tch, You’re difficult, … I like that.” He says looking down at you, his gaze seems to deepen with a predatory glint and he cuts a handsome smirk to match it. You hold his gaze, keeping your head high, this man, “Finn” was cocksure, and apparently just obnoxious as his suit. 

“See you round, difficult girl.” He gives you a sharks grin as he turns away up the street. 

You watch him go, unsure what to think, but also to make sure he doesn't see which building is yours before you pick the parcel up, cross the road and go into your��apartment. 

 — 

Reading, on your couch, a small flicker of light out of the corner of your eye lets you know Silco is home and has moved onto the balcony to smoke. Possibly enjoying his small but hopefully meaningful gift.   

You turn slightly in his direction to smile warmly at his half lit outline for a moment before turning back to your reading, as one might greet a dear friend.  

His presence was a soothing balm, comforting after a long day at work. After some time, you found your thoughts drifting to how you clung to his warmth and how his fingers traced soothing patterns on your back to calm you. His expensive high end apartment with the marble countertop and large bathroom. His smell, his delicious hot chocolate, his warm whisper in your ear.  

You absently trace your thumb over your lip. You want more of him, but you’re not sure how, or why or… if you should?  

You flick your eyes towards him without turning your head. The curtains are drawn and he has retreated. Your heart sinks at the realization that he’s no longer watching, he’s not with you.  

You’re very much alone. 

Maybe it would be better to have a normal healthy relationship… or at least let off some steam.  

One of your friends, Mia, had been trying to get you to come out to something, anything… you decide in that moment to take her up on it and message her. 

YOU: "When are you coming to pick up this massive fucking parcel?" 

She replies quickly. 

MIA: "Awww are you missing me? Haha I can come grab it tonight! After work, Oooooh also, I have news!" 

You pause at that last line, that was never a good sign, it usually meant you were about to be dragged into something. 

You walk to the cupboard and pull out two wine glasses and a bottle in preparation. You had to admit though, her schemes were never boring and you catch yourself smiling.  

Before you sit down you pull the curtains closed.  

 — 

You don't have to wait long before you hear footsteps at your door, a key fumble in the lock awkwardly for a moment followed by the crash of a heavy keyring falling loudly to the floor and familiar cursing. 

You laugh and go to the door, opening it as an act of mercy. 

"How have you made it this far in life?" You ask at the grinning woman sheepishly clutching a set of keys covered way too many novelty keyrings. 

"There she is!" She says throwing her arms around you enthusiastically giving you a tight squeeze. "My favourite door opening, parcel receiving, goddess!" 

You snort a laugh and close the door behind her, locking the dead bolt and slide bolt in place as well as the new extra lock you had installed.     Mia glances at you over her shoulder for just one second before doing a little twirl into the room, towards the couch and pulling another bottle of wine out. 

"I come bearing tribute!" She says dramatically, bowing as she places it on the table, your traditional festive grounds. 

She flings off her large bright coat, tossing it over the back of one of a stool revealing a stylish bright ensemble with large earrings. She always looks amazing. 

You pour two glasses of wine before tilting your head to the package.  

"So what is it? Besides heavy?" You ask. 

She stomps her heels on the ground rapidly in excitement.    

"It's my wheel!" She says her eyes lighting up. 

"Like... a pottery wheel?" You ask. 

"Uh yeah, a pottery wheel! I'm sick of paying for classes like a peasant. I want to be at home with myself in the zone with that stupid song playing. Ohhhhhh myyyy looovvveeee…"  

You grin as you take another sip and she shows you photos on her phone of some of the things she has made. Some are bent and awkward but you can see as she progresses through the album her improvement, some of them are starting to look really good.  

"Damn, some of these actually look great." You admit smiling.  

She falls back on the couch smirking. "I'm full of surprises babe."   

"I'm gonna make vessels and talismans, maybe even urns, you know, for dogs or something."   

You giggle at the idea, joining her on the couch.     It's not long before both of you kick your shoes off and slump into lazy comfort with your feet lined up resting on the coffee table. Talking playfully and laughing a little too loudly, but in the best way. 

Suddenly Mia's spine stiffens and she looks at you like she just remembered something scandalous. 

"Ooooh that's right, my news!" She exclaims. 

"Don't make that face" she chastises you gently, slapping your thigh. "You'll love this!"    

Mia wiggles herself forward to lean in closer to you, conspiratorially.   

“So, get this—I met this guy. Tall, tattoos, gorgeous in a very bad idea kind of way.”   

You try to feign parental concern without smiling. “Oooh nooo.”   

“Ooooh yes,” she grins. “He came into the gallery looking like trouble in a yellow suit, asked all the right questions, bought two paintings, and might have invited me to a fancy charity ball.”   

You choke on your wine. “Wait—what?”   

Mia shrugs, way too casual. “It’s this weekend. Super posh. He said I could bring a friend.” She points at you. “You. Obviously.”   

You blink at her. “You want me to go to a rich people gala with a man you just met in a banana suit?”   

“He’s hot! And charming! And rich! And it’s for charity. Plus, he already arranged a dress fitting. Free couture, babe. Couture.”   

You stare at her, uncertain. Part of you wants to laugh, the other part wants to scream. But Mia’s looking at you with those big, hopeful eyes, practically vibrating with excitement.   

“…You in?” she tempts.   

You sigh, long and dramatic. “If we end up murdered, it's on you.”   

Mia squeals and launches at you with a hug. “We are gonna be iconic!    -- 

Watering your plants on the balcony, you glance up to see Silco’s not there—the large, empty glass windows of his apartment still and silent. The sun is high in the sky, so this isn’t unusual. You usually only saw him from dusk till dawn, maybe only a handful of times in daylight. 

Standing barefoot in the bright, natural light, tending to your plants, all of that feels far away. You enjoy this quiet moment with nobody watching, alone, but not lonely. 

The smell of damp soil and the weight of the watering can, sloshing gently with your movements, ground you. 

You hum a song to yourself as you move from plant to plant, enjoying the warmth. 

  -- 

The espresso machine hisses like a warning, sharp and sudden, not quite drowned out by the ambient music of the cafe.  

You'd promised yourself you'd take an actual break but for some reason you were still reading work emails on your company laptop. 

You don't notice him until the air shifts, something feels off, like pressure changing before a storm. Then the chair scrapes.   

"Relax" he says calmly sitting down opposite you. "I won't stay long"     You look up at him, eyes wide in surprise, your mouth half open. 

"Silco." You say dumbly, watching as he draws a card out of his pocket and places it in the middle of the table between you. 

"Your handwriting is terrible" he says. "But your perfume's better than I expected.” 

You stare at the card, then up at him.   

"You got it" you exhale. 

"I did" he replies, picking the card back up. Your eyes linger as you notice him brushing his thumb gently over it once before tucking it away into the breast pocket of his coat. "And I meant to thank you properly, after all it was a bold gesture." 

You freeze, like a deer in the headlights. Flustered and proud and nervous all at once. 

He leans in slightly, as if feasting, his eyes watching yours with exquisite precision. Always so intense. 

Your lips part slowly to say something. 

"-Do you know who I am." His question throws you off completely. 

You stumble for a moment, brows furrowing."... I mean sort of? You're my... Neighbour and... I know your name?"  

He nods towards your laptop. 

"Open a new browser." 

You do so, looking up at him. 

"Now type in my name." 

You raise an eyebrow at this but comply, the five keys clattering gently. 

The search loads instantly. 

Silco, Zaun Industries CEO wanted for questioning in relation to the disappearance- Industrialist allegedly linked to underground crime- Arson attack- Crime and corruption in- Undercity Kingpin -  several bodies found branded with the Eye of Zaun- Politicians revealed to have dealings with- police found no evidence- on and on 

Hundreds, no thousands of articles, boardroom photos, headlines, grainy security footage.  

All of it, him. 

Him. 

Your breath falters as you take all of this in. Before slowly looking up at him. 

"This is you" you say. 

"It is." He says, cold, unapologetic, honest. 

"I thought you were just... rich" you admit. 

He raises one eyebrow, mildly amused. "I am." 

"I mean like, eccentric, quiet, controlling rich... I didn't think-" 

"-That I was dangerous?" 

You fall silent at this. The words hit like a truck. 

He reaches over and takes a sip of your coffee, like it's a test, or a claim. 

You search his face, desperately clinging to the man you thought you knew. As if familiarity will ground you. 

"Why tell me this?" You ask. 

"I don't want you to remain ignorant." He says softly this time. 

A moment passes and your mind is racing, trying to make sense of all of this. "So what... Is this a threat?"  

"If I were threatening you" he says, eyes meeting yours.  "You'd feel it." 

You believe him. 

Your brows furrow deeper. "So why now? ... Why are you telling me this now?" 

He looks at you, considering for a long moment. As though he's deciding if you should know the truth- or something else. 

"You sent me a gift." He explains slowly. "You put something of yourself into it, thoughtfully and freely." 

A pause. 

"And you deserve to know what you gave it to."  

You blink at this. 

"I didn't know it was like that." You admit. 

"I know." He says, eyes flicking back up to yours. 

Silco leans back in his chair, relaxed. Calmly assessing your reactions, witnessing your thoughts. He takes another sip of your coffee, setting it down neatly. 

You close your laptop screen slowly and rake your fingers through your hair. "I don't know what to do with this." You confess. 

"You don't need to do anything." He says pausing. "Not yet."    Something about the way he says the last part makes your stomach drop. 

You narrow your eyes at him. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

Silco stands and tucks his chair in, the legs scrape softly against the tile. 

He adjusts his coat, and taps the breast pocket he had tucked your gift into, looking down at you. 

“You handed me a piece of yourself, and I accepted it.”  

A smile curls his lips. 

“That part of you belongs to me now... and it won't be returned.” 

He turns, walking toward the door. Calm, unhurried. No drama. No threat in his stride.    “You should’ve known better than to offer something you couldn’t afford to lose.”  

Just before the exit, he glances back at you smirking, like he already knows how this ends. 

And then he's gone. 

-- 

"And you deserve to know what you gave it to." 

That night you keep the curtains closed, sore eyes staring at the cold glass in front of you. On the screen is yet another news article. The screen is paused on the image of Silco. His face set firm, uncompromising. Two large bodyguards stand either side of him.     You blow a loose strand of hair out of your face and allow yourself to relax, sinking into the couch behind you. The muscles in your back easing after hours of tension.    For hours now, you had been researching him trying to make it sink in that this is the truth, the reality of your situation. Reading and reading until you can't anymore. You have to accept it, it seems impossible, but this is the man who you let watch, let him see so much of yourself.   “That part of you belongs to me now... and it won't be returned.” 

The man was so much worse than you could ever imagined. In every way. 

Dangerous, powerful, violent and you pranced around in your underwear for him and sent him tokens of affection. 

You drop your face into your hands. 

But you meant it. The man you knew, before you knew that, he was still the same man. Just ... significantly worse and most likely dangerous to be near.  

You sigh deeply. How the fuck did you get yourself so tangled up in this? 

And even after everything, why do you still think about how he held you that night.    “You should’ve known better than to offer something you couldn’t afford to lose.”  

You curl up tightly into a ball, like you can fold yourself away from it all, and you cry.  -- Thanks so much for reading Chapter 2! 🔪📖🖤 I have been really enjoying writing this so I hope you dig it! If you're comfy doing so, please let me know what you think! : ) Super curious to know what YOU want to happen? Or what you want to see more of or know more about?

I can promise you, shit is about to get WILD next chapter, I hope you're ready. <3 Iron

PS - If you’d like to be added to the taglist for “The Descent” let me know!✨

--

>>>Continue on to Chapter three

<<<Go back to Chapter One

[starcurtain]

Some Speculation on Kaveh’s Father

I actually started this post right after the Parade of Providence event last year, but never got around to finishing it. However, in light of Kaveh still not appearing on a banner, I decided to dust this one off and get it finished, so that I’d have at least a little Kaveh content in my life after being so cruelly denied by Hoyo.

So, without further ado, some stuff about Kaveh’s father I did not see discussed elsewhere but which I think is especially interesting.

1) Kaveh’s father likely first became depressed/disillusioned with humanity after witnessing (or possibly being the victim of) a murder attempt.

Without knowing the full situation and reading all the additional text from the Parade of Providence event, I feel like this might have been easily missed, but the entire “Kaveh’s dad became disillusioned and depressed and retreated to the desert to help people” seems--at first--like it came out of nowhere. He had a lovely family, was the pride of his darshan, and was eager and excited to win the crown to bring it home to his son. Yet theoretically, he did not win the crown (and, in fact, the crown was stolen before the last event and may not have been there during the Avidya Forest fight, so when, as the non-winner, would Kaveh’s father have come into contact with it to encounter Sachin through it in the first place?) Why would Kaveh’s father’s personality take such a massive turn all the sudden? What would drive an excited, happy person to suddenly withdraw from everything he loved and everyone who loved him, if he didn’t actually win the diadem to be influenced by it in the first place?

The event implies there was a trigger:

Huvishka’s friend (who is described as “honest and kind but vulnerable and sensitive”--obviously Kaveh’s father) went into the Avidya Forest with the other contestants, where no one was watching, and we’re not told what happened except that the Akademiya responded to whatever occurred by shutting down the entire competition and banning any sort of events in the future that cause contestants to become so desperate they would “fight to the death.” 

This is a pretty obvious implication that Kaveh’s father either witnessed two other contestants attempt to kill each other or was the victim of an attempted murder himself, which prevented him from winning the competition even though he was the favorite to win by a long-shot. This feat of betrayal, demonstrating the depths to which humanity would sink, likely shook the idealistic world views of a sensitive person such as Kaveh’s father. This brush with death and with humanity’s capacity for evil in the forest would have been the exact trigger needed to make Kaveh’s father particularly vulnerable to Sachin’s message of nihility and despair, leading to the downward spiral that sent Kaveh’s father into the desert.

- 

2) Sachin may have way more culpability for Kaveh’s father’s death than Kaveh realizes. 

For a while after the event, I was under the impression that Kaveh’s father must have met Sachin’s consciousness through the diadem and that’s where he got the idea to go into the desert. However, something was always a bit odd about the timeline, because...

Sachin was still alive when he gave the Akademiya his estate. This is why no one actually knew/believed he was fully dead, even to the present--because he willed the Akademiya the estate while he was alive and told them he was going to be personally watching over the contestants to award his estate to them if he deemed them worthy successors to himself. 

So did Kaveh’s father run into a fragment of Sachin’s consciousness... or did he run into Sachin himself? The game doesn’t really clarify:

The fact that Sachin’s recording recognized Kaveh’s appearance as familiar makes me think it is much more likely that the consciousness preserved in the diadem already had knowledge of Kaveh’s father at the time it was preserved. Aka, Sachin actually met Kaveh’s father in person. This also makes sense of why, even though the diadem was stolen away during the last event and Kaveh’s father did not win it, he would still know about Sachin and Sachin’s research. (However, as a counterpoint, I guess we could say that the Diadem!Sachin had enough sentience to maybe have its own memory, separate from the real Sachin? And reached out to Kaveh’s father mentally even though he didn’t win the diadem? Maybe?)

Still, there’s one really notable aspect of the timeline that I think is important: Right after the Interdarshan Competition twenty years ago, the one which Kaveh’s father competed in, we know that Sachin went back out to the desert. 

Who else went out to the desert exactly 20 years ago? Kaveh’s father, obviously.

This overlap in the timelines makes it seem very likely that Kaveh’s father, who failed to win the competition because of a murder attempt (and therefore never got the diadem), was nevertheless reached out to by the real Sachin, who saw in Kaveh’s father the kindred disillusioned idealist he was looking for to pass his research torch onto. From this connection, Kaveh’s father was driven to either directly accompany or at least pursue the still living Sachin into the desert. (This works even if we say it was only Sachin’s consciousness he was contacted by--in either case, he would have been driven go to out to the desert to meet the real, temporarily still living Sachin to join his quest to help the desert people.)

Only for Kaveh’s father to meet his end there while trying to aid a caravan that had fallen into trouble. What a tragic coincidence, a completely unpredictable twist of fate.

Or... was it?

How odd, in the same quest that Kaveh’s father’s connection to Sachin is discussed, that we’re given an account of a caravan that appears to have been deliberately sabotaged, where money was taken (from Sachin) and somehow sparked a betrayal, a “trial of human nature” that caused many people to die, with the takeaway being the exact belief Sachin wants to pass on and reinforce in others, that humans are horrific creatures who can only make the world a worse and worse place. 

We know that Sachin’s “research” specifically consisted of doing this exact thing, manipulating situations to test humans’ moral character, conducting trials/experiments on “human nature” to reinforce his belief that humans were fundamentally selfish beings.

(It’s no accident the merchant ledger we receive uses the exact same words as Sachin does, “trial of human nature” and “experiments on human nature.” We’re supposed to assume what happened to the caravan in the note was deliberate sabotage on Sachin’s part, to create a scenario where he could observe the cruelties of humanity.)

Why would the game go out of its way to give us an account of a caravan being deliberately sabotaged and used as an experiment if there was no connection at all between what happened with this caravan and what happened to Kaveh’s father, who was also killed helping a floundering caravan?

It’s just too much of a coincidence to accidental. I think the implications of the ledger Dori gave us and the similarities in the language on that ledger to Sachin’s ideas was supposed to lead the audience to wonder:

Could Kaveh’s father have died in one of Sachin’s final “human nature experiments”? 

Was the caravan Kaveh’s father tried to help one that Sachin deliberately sabotaged, expecting to observe humanity’s selfish, self-preserving nature?

I think there’s enough evidence in the story to suggest that we players are at least supposed to consider this a possibility. (There’s no reason to give us the ledger about the manipulated caravan otherwise.) And if you consider this a possibility, it would mean that Sachin didn’t just indirectly cause Kaveh’s father’s death--he would be the direct cause of Kaveh’s father’s death, an actual murder brought about by Sachin’s beliefs that humanity’s self-centered nature made everyone beyond saving.

This idea transforms Kaveh’s father’s sacrifice into the ultimate rejection of Sachin’s beliefs. This would mean that, even in a situation manipulated to bring out the worst in human beings on purpose, Kaveh’s father gave everything to protect the lives of others, for no gain at all of his own, doing everything he could just to desperately try to make the situation (the world) better.

SO yeah. I’m not saying we have hard evidence here, but I think the quest was trying to lead players to speculate very, very hard on the possibility that Kaveh’s father’s death was no accident.

-

3) Finally, a cuter piece of speculation to brighten things up after that despair bomb I just dropped: it’s highly likely that Kaveh’s father had more than one Aranara buddy!

During the Parade of Providence, we hear about an Aranara who learned to read from Kaveh’s father:

However, this is a bit confusing, because later in the event, we hear someone else say that Kaveh’s father taught an Aranara to write specifically when he was a child:

While of course it is possible that Kaveh’s father taught the first Aranara, Arakasyapa, to both read and write, I think there’s also another possible answer here about why Kaveh’s father would separately mention teaching an Aranara to write:

Because there is an entirely different Aranara in the story which was taught to write by a “good Nara” who was a child--Arashakun, from the quest “Courage is the Heart.”

In this sweet little world quest, the Traveler discovers a flower talisman that has been snatched by some hilichurls, and seeks to return it to its rightful owner, a timid and shy Aranara named Arashakun. 

We learn that Arashakun once had a kind-hearted “good Nara” companion who taught him to write (sound familiar?), and who, in order to encourage the poor Aranara, gave him a single flower dubbed “courage.” In describing this child companion, Arashakun specifically states that his companion was no strong warrior like the Traveler’s twin, but instead a gentle, comforting presence who never teased the Aranara.

All of these descriptions line up particularly well with Kaveh’s father, who the game repeatedly describes as vulnerable, kind-hearted, and giving to others.

To drive home the possible connections to Kaveh’s family even further, this quest takes place very, very near to the Palace of Alkazarzaray. 

Although we don’t have any guarantee, I think it is strongly implied that the “good Nara” mentioned by Arashakun is indeed Kaveh’s father, and the “courage of the heart” that he extended to Arashakun as a child is the very same courage, kindness, and generosity that drove him to reach out to the people of the desert, hoping to make a difference in their lives--even at the cost of his own.

The takeaway? Kaveh’s father was a truly good person who aided everyone he came across, from timid Aranara to people whose very lives were in danger. He never meant to leave his family, and especially not his son, but repeatedly fell afoul of the worst humanity had to offer and was driven into a situation in which all he could do was offer his very life to uphold the altruism that was central to his idealism--the same idealism and goodness that Kaveh carries as “courage” in his own heart.

[insanegingerprincess]

WARNING

This (old) guy messaged me literally like 5-6 minutes ago! obviously, his first language isn’t english, but he still knew that i was underage, yet he continued to message me inappropriate things. Thankfully, he didn’t send or ask for any nudes; though he was still weird and creepy. This is a warning for the younger girls here on this app- there are so many old men that will try to prey on you; DONT LET THEM!