#silco pirate au

[cognacandlilac]

To the Depths - Part 3.2 (NSFW)

(Pirate!Silco x F!Reader)

Damned and Double Damned

Part One - Part Two - Part 3.1

AO3

A/N: the rest of part three. Enjoy ;)

Rating: Explicit, MDNI

Summary: You accompany Silco to Port Fairna and play your part beautifully. Too beautifully.

Chapter Tags: suggestive content, teasing, grinding, dirty talk, stabbing (not the fun kind), drunk and disorderly conduct, semi-public sexy shenanigans.

Word Count: 6.4k

It’s late afternoon when the barking of voices rouses you from sleep. Golden-green light fills the room, more vibrant than its meek morning counterpart. 

Silco still sits behind his desk, engrossed in a leger. 

You stretch, a soft sigh escaping you before you can catch it. 

Silco’s head snaps up. 

“Ah.” He closes the leger with a thump and pushes away from the desk. “I was just about to wake you.”

You slide your legs off the side of the bed. Your bare feet come to rest on the wooden floor. 

“I need shoes,” you say through a yawn. 

Silco moves to the door and bends down before chucking one boot toward you, followed by its twin. Knee-high, made of worn black leather that has certainly seen a fair share of rough going, and about your size. 

“What would possess a whore to leave her shoes behind?” You ask. “Besides your general countenance, of course.” 

“Charming even after a nap, I see,” he replies. “Jinx was kind enough to lend you a pair she no longer likes. She thinks they’re too plain.” 

You shove your feet into the boots. It’s a tight fit, but you’ve worn enough pinching heels that the discomfort doesn’t faze you. 

You stand to give your clothing one final inspection only to realize with a sharp gasp that in the rich light, your shirt is nearly transparent. You slap a hand over your chest, cheeks burning. 

“Is something the matter?” There’s that stupid little head tilt and barely-there smirk once again.

“I require a shawl.” You try not to grit your teeth.

“Unfortunately, I’m unable to accommodate that request.”

“A coat, then.”

“Impossible, I’m afraid.”

“A scarf.”

“What use do pirates have for scarves?” He turns away from you to open his wardrobe. At first, you think he’ll pull out a solution to your indecency. Instead, he makes a point of examining not one but three coats. He selects the simplest one, charcoal gray and frayed around the cuffs and hem. The other two are much finer. Fine enough to wear in many of Piltover’s respected establishments. 

“A coat is an impossibility?” You press. 

“If someone spots a harlot wearing a gentleman’s coat, she’ll be presumed a thief,” he explains. “That’s not a risk I’m willing to take on.”

“Yet, you’re willing to take me off the ship where I can scream for help the moment I spot a port authority?”

“You won’t be doing anything of the sort.” It’s not a threat, but a statement. The sky is blue. The ocean is deep. You won’t scream for help. 

You bite back a retort. His certainty that you won’t act out can only help you. 

The ship rocks as it bumps against a dock. 

Silco secures a belt around his waist before selecting a rapier and two pistols. Once weapons are sheathed and holstered, he tugs on the coat. “Ready, treasure?”

You nod, keeping your gaze on the floor as you approach him. He unlocks the cabin door and opens it for you. You step onto the deck, folding your arms across your chest, and hunching forward to make yourself look as small as possible. 

Silco moves ahead of you and you follow him to the gangplank. You even take his offered hand as you disembark. 

As soon as you set foot on the dock, his arm snakes around the small of your back. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, your voice barely more than a whisper. 

“Playing the part,” he says. “You’re meant to be my purchased travel companion. I ought to look like I enjoy your company.”

“Oh.”

You feel his eye studying you. Rather than meet his gaze head-on, like every nerve in your body urges you to do, you stare at your skirts. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, hoping you convey the right image. 

Demure. Compliant. Resigned. You’ve surrendered to your circumstances. You won’t cause trouble. When Silco looks away with a quiet grunt, you think you’ve pulled it off. Now, you just have to keep it up until you can flag down some help or slip away. 

Now that exhaustion no longer clouds your mind, you can accurately assess the opportunity you’ve been presented with. You can enact your last resort plan now. Sneak away, disappear. Hide until you find work. Start a new life. 

Guilt twists in your stomach right alongside a flutter of anticipation. 

You don’t want to believe severing yourself from your family is the only solution. But what if this is the best chance you’re ever going to get to live your life on your own terms?

You walk in quiet contemplation, willing to let Silco guide you through the bustling dock. When wood gives way to dirt paths, you look up. Something isn’t right. Yes, you were deep in thought but not deep enough to miss the expected exchange with a dockmaster. 

You glance over your shoulder. There is no one at the entrance to the dock. Not a single person looks to be in a position of authority. 

Port Fairna. You wrack your brain for any information you can dreg up. During your years at sea, you visited nearly every port between Targon and Ionia, but Port Fairna doesn’t sound familiar at all. 

You look around, determined to keep your breathing even and your expression placid. There isn’t a single flag. No sign of allegiance to any nation. No official presence of any government. 

The pieces click together in your mind. 

A free port. A pirate haven. No wonder he was so certain you wouldn’t call for help. There is no help to be found here. 

“There it is,” Silco’s mouth is at your ear, his voice light and taunting. “I was wondering when you’d figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Your attempt at ignorance is far from convincing as your mind struggles to rearrange your plans under new circumstances. 

“Did you honestly think I’d fall for your little act?” The tip of his nose brushes your temple. “So subdued and helpless. A perfect damsel in need of a rescuer. You’ll find no such thing here.”

You remain silent, jaw clenched as you’re ushered up the dirt road. Bustling establishments line the street, glowing from within with warm light. Scents of spices, perfume, fried dough, and woodsmoke fill the air, all layered over a persistent sourness. Rot, piss, and poverty. Laughter and music float through the air as well as shouts and arguments.

Brilliant bolts of brightly dyed fabrics stretch between buildings, creating a sort of tunnel over the street. Lanterns of blown glass in an array of colors hang from walls and are suspended from wires overhead. 

You’d like to take in the sights, always thrilled by the prospect of a new place despite the danger, but Silco isn’t finished taunting you.

“Not a bad performance, I’ll admit. That little charade would have fooled a lesser man.”

“Is there a lesser man than you?” You peer up at him, brows drawn and eyes wide. Mockingly innocent. 

Instead of frowning or glaring, he smiles and brings his face closer to yours. 

“Oh, yes. There are many of them. They’re here tonight, pulling whores into dark alleys, pissing in the streets, and spitting out bloody teeth. No doubt, they’re looking at you now.” He brings his free hand up to tug at a loose strand of your hair. “Such a pretty face. Much fairer than anything they’ve seen in weeks. Months, maybe. Do you know what they want to do to a beauty like you?”

You jerk away from his touch, refusing to show the fear his words have injected into your blood. He’s only trying to scare you into behaving. Nothing more. 

“I am your safety in a place like this, treasure. If you decide to forget that, all of the ransom money in the world won’t be able to save you.” 

He straightens up to his full height but keeps his arm around you. 

As you walk, your glance darts between every person you pass on the street. Most are too drunk or drugged to know where they are - let alone take notice of you - but you see enough leering smiles and violent gazes to understand Silco wasn’t just trying to scare you. 

He leads you through the swinging doors of a tavern. Bodies press together around the bar, shouting for drinks. Too many tables are crammed into the poorly lit space and every seat is filled. You can’t take a step without the risk of tripping over limbs or stepping on toes. 

Silco never moves his arm from your back, even when he pauses to greet others. The spaces between the tables are both highways for serving wenches to deliver food and drink as well as alleys for dancing. Women glide through the room, blouses pulled low and corsets pulled tight to display assets. 

You glance at your own outfit. You’d fit right in amongst their ranks. 

Silco moves to an empty wooden booth at the back of the tavern, half bathed in shadow.

You find it odd it’s been left unoccupied even though plenty of patrons appear to be waiting for a place to sit. Has this booth been left open for him, specifically?

He takes a seat near the opening of the booth. You move to slide in from the other opening, but a hand around your wrists stops you. 

“Your seat is right here.” He pats his thigh. 

“You’ve lost your mind.” 

“Look around,” he glances around the room. “Tell me what you see the other working girls doing.”

He keeps his hand around your wrist as you do so. It doesn’t take long for a pattern to emerge. If a girl is on her feet, she’s searching. As soon as she’s found a potential cull for the evening, she settles into their lap even if there is an open seat available. 

“I’m not sitting in your lap,” you hiss. 

“Suit yourself.” He releases you and turns his attention to the room. Before you can say anything, a sweaty man reeking of every sort of vile thing stumbles over to you. He doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t say anything as his hand darts forward to grab a fistful of your ass through your skirts. 

“How dare you?” You shriek, your hand flying on its own accord and colliding with the man’s bristly cheek. He stumbles back, confused but his brain is too addled with drink to fully understand what’s just happened to him. 

Beside you, Silco chuckles. 

Not to be deterred, the man comes toward you again. 

“Ugh. Fine.” You plop yourself into Silco’s lap before the stranger can make another grab. 

“Hey! Thassnot fair. I saw ‘er first,” he slurs. 

“The lady is engaged for the evening. I suggest you find your thrills elsewhere.” Silco’s voice is calm, almost pleasant but the threat beneath his words ripples through the air so strongly, even the drunken fool before you can’t ignore it. He stumbles away, muttering incoherently.

You wrestle with the sense of gratitude bubbling in your chest. As you try to find the right words, Silco turns to you. 

“Did we learn a valuable lesson, treasure?”

And, just like that, any inkling of gratitude is gone. 

“I’m not trying to learn anything about how to be a convincing harlot in a pirate’s port,” you bristle, earning a low chuckle from him. You take the opportunity to make yourself comfortable, ensuring you bump and elbow him as much as you can in the process. 

You sit sideways in his lap. He sits forward, facing the table. Your shoulder presses against his chest, facing toward the crowded tavern, your knees pointed toward the entrance. 

When you’ve landed enough little blows to make yourself feel better, you go still. You’re not comfortable at all, but you’ll deal with it. Then, Silco shifts under you. It’s a small movement, little more than a bump, but somehow it slots your body against his like a lock clicking into place. Every curve somehow fits against him. One arm wraps around your back, supporting you. The other reaches forward to rest on the table, creating a barrier between yourself and the rest of the tavern. 

A flick of his wrist summons a serving girl. The moment she sees him, she nods with understanding and rushes off. Within five minutes, two plates are placed before you along with two tankards. You don’t touch the tankard, but you eagerly devour the roasted potatoes and bread on your plate. You don’t even mind having to eat with your hands. 

There is some kind of fatty meat as well, but you can’t identify it. You decide to leave it alone.

Silco eats slowly, barely making a dent in his meal. He pushes his untouched bread to your plate and you don’t hesitate to bite into it. He sips from his tankard and watches the people flooding in and out. 

You aren’t sure what he’s looking for until two men enter the tavern. They approach the booth, ignoring the temptations of food, music, and women. 

“Gentlemen,” Silco nods as they slip into the booth. The conversation that ensues is difficult to follow. They speak of places you’ve never heard of and reference myths and legends as though they are fact. It quickly becomes clear they speak in code to prevent eavesdropping, so you let your attention wander until you realize you’re the object of conversation. 

“And she won’t say a word?” One of the men asks, his voice gruff and his gaze like flint. 

“Her?” Silco’s voice goes soft as he tightens his grip around you. “She’s the sweetest thing under the sun. She’d never hurt a fly, let alone spill secrets that could get someone killed.”

You nearly laugh at the description. No doubt, Silco chose his words to deliver a little dig at you in secret. What you don’t expect is to feel his forehead come to rest against your temple, to feel his nose nudge against your cheek. 

“Isn’t that right, treasure?” He prompts. 

You think quickly and elect to play the fool.

“Hm?” You sit up a little straighter and stifle a false giggle. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. I was listening to the music.” 

“Were you?” His laugh is as forced as your own, but the men across the table seem to buy it. “It’s rather lively, isn’t it? Perhaps, we’ll find a dance hall when I’m finished here. Would you like that?”

The thought of Silco dancing elicits a laugh you can pass off as one of delight. “I would.”

“Where’d you find one like that?” The second man asks. He does not attempt to hide the way he sizes up your body. “She’s high quality.”

“I found her in Piltover, believe it or not,” Silco says. You go tense against him only to feel his fingers press into your back in warning. 

“Piltover?” The first man chuckles. “That’s too rich for my blood. I’m not putting down a month’s wages for a night of fun.”

“I prefer to think of her as an investment.” Silco trails his fingers up your arm. You swallow hard as you fight off the urge to break his fingers. “Besides, Piltover girls are so desperately underfucked they pay for themselves within a week.” 

That pulls a belly laugh from both men as your cheeks burn. You’re doing all you can to keep a leash on your temper when you hear Silco whisper, “isn’t that right?”

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. The men have shifted their attention away from you and back to business. Their conversation quickly concludes and the men see themselves out. 

Once you’re sure you won’t be overhead, you look at Silco. “Underfucked? How dare you?”

“I need to sell a story to explain your presence. Forgive me, if I pull from reality to make it more believable.” He’s baiting you. You know it and you refuse to take it. Instead, you pluck a few potatoes from his plate and stew in silence. When you’re thirsty enough, you take a sip from your tankard. 

Low-quality beer. What else did you expect?

What you wouldn’t give for a glass of sparkling wine or even a sip of rich bourbon. 

The night continues in a similar fashion. Rough-looking men and women slide into the booth to speak with Silco. They speak in code so you quickly give up trying to make heads or tails of what they discuss. Any time your presence is met with suspicion, Silco turns into a most doting keeper, praising your sweetness and your discretion. 

You decide it’s in your best interest to play along. When he nuzzles into your hair, you nuzzle back. If he trails fingers up your arm, you trace mindless patterns over the back of his hand. 

It’s a funny little game of give and take, but it results in a convincing performance. 

“Only one more meeting left,” he says after the booth is vacated once again. You can’t help but notice that he sounds tired. Or, at least, disinterested. 

Before you can say anything, that same stupid drunk from earlier wobbles up to the table. 

“You’ve had ‘er all night and y’haven’t even fucked ‘er.” If possible, he’s even more in his cups than he was before. “Give someone else a turn.”

You shrink away from the drunk, pushing yourself deeper against Silco. His hand splays across your back, his thumb moving in tiny, reassuring strokes. 

“As I said before, the lady is engaged for the evening.”

The drunk pauses, working quite hard to process Silco’s words before shaking his head. “Let her engage in this cock and then you can have her back.”

He juts his hips forward, his shins brushing against your knees. You recoil, tucking your legs under the table. 

The movement sets the drunk off balance. He stumbles forward, catching himself with a splayed hand on your table. 

In a blink, Silco produces a dagger. From where you aren’t certain. You don’t recall him strapping a dagger to his person before you departed the Zaun’s Revenge. You expect Silco to use the knife to emphasize another threat. Instead, Silco plunges the dagger through the drunkard's hand, pinning him to the table.

The drunkard wails and thrashes, which only makes the wound worse. Blood bubbles up where blade meets skin, spilling onto the table’s surface, less than a foot from you. 

This is far from ideal. 

“Do you want to make your request again?” Silco’s voice is as sharp as his blade. 

“N-no,” the drunk whimpers. 

“Do you want to apologize to my companion?” 

“Sorry.” It’s barely audible through his slurring and sobbing. 

“Look her in the eye,” Silco demands.

Slowly, the drunk drags his gaze to meet yours. Sick satisfaction coils in your stomach, purring and pleased with the scene playing out before you. For the first time this evening, your smile is genuine. 

“Apologize,” Silco growls. 

“I’m sorry!” The man’s voice is pleading, desperate. 

Good. 

“Do you forgive him, treasure?” 

You cock your head to the side and take a long moment to consider. After an appropriate amount of time, you shrug as though you couldn’t care less. As though the man’s suffering barely registers in your mind. 

You look over your shoulder at Silco only to find him watching you rather than the man he has pinned. For a split second, you wonder how far you can push this. That pulsing, hot desire to unleash years worth of rage upon the drunken bastard battles against your morals. Your morals win out in the end. Barely. 

“Will you please remove your blade from the poor drunk’s hand?” You ask. 

“Feeling sorry for the lout, treasure?” 

“Not at all.” Your upper lip twitches in disgust. “I just don’t care to have him pinned so close to me. Wasn’t the goal to drive him away?”

“Good point.” With a sharp twist, the knife is removed from the blubbering man’s hand. As soon as he’s no longer pinned in place, you kick out with one leg. You misjudge the distance. What you wished to be a solid kick square to the chest is little more than a tap, but it’s enough to set him off balance. Clutching his hand to his chest, his back crashes into the dirty tavern floor. He’s too drunk and in too much pain to right himself, so he crawls away like the pathetic dog he is. 

“My, my,” Silco’s voice is like a velvet-wrapped blade in your ear. “Does your fiancé know you have a taste for violence?”

“No.” You turn your head toward him causing his nose to brush against the cut of your cheekbone. Why is he always so close? “I didn’t know I had such a taste until I met you.” 

It’s meant to be a scathing insult, but your voice can’t quite summon its usual edge. You hear it. More importantly, he hears it. 

You turn away sharply so you can watch the drunkard’s equally drunken mates attempt to drag him off the floor. The last thing you expect is the gentle brush of Silco’s fingers as he pushes your hair over your shoulder to expose the nape of your neck. A shiver glides over your skin and you suck in a breath to hide it. 

“I didn’t realize I had such an effect on you.” His breath tickles your skin as his fingertips trace a lazy path from the base of your skull, down the curve of your neck, to your shoulder. You fight through another shiver but can do nothing about the goosebumps that spread down your arms. 

“You don’t.” It takes all of your self-control to keep your voice even and unaffected.

“Oh?” His fingers move in gentle circles around your shoulder. You hone in on the sensation only to be caught off guard when his mouth presses into the sensitive spot behind your ear. 

You can’t stop the way your breath hitches in your chest nor can you stop the soft sigh that escapes your lips. 

“Are you certain of that?” 

Insufferable, smug bastard. 

You lean forward and force your back to go ramrod straight.

“Absolutely,” you bristle, cheeks burning. You pray the low lighting of the tavern hides the worst of your blush.

Then, an idea strikes you. 

Admittedly, it’s a stupid idea. A terrible idea, even. But you can’t resist the chance to give him a taste of his own medicine. 

You pretend to notice something amiss with your borrowed boots and lean forward until your chest presses into your thighs. You pretend to correct the imaginary problem, doing all you can to ignore his hand as he grips the soft flesh above your hip. 

Once you’ve spent enough time solving your imagined boot issue, you straighten up again, rolling your hips as you do so. Silco goes stone still. You’re not even sure he’s breathing. Believing you’ve caught him off guard, you roll your hips again. 

Quick as a viper, the hand at your side snakes around your middle and pulls you in tight, locking you in place. That wicked, wicked mouth brushes against your ear. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

“Finishing what you started.” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. You feel his chuckle more than you hear it.

“Considering the circumstances under which we met, I’m beginning to think you enjoy having me behind you.”

Oh, damn him. 

“I-” you start but your voice fails you as his tongue traces a faint line from the base of your neck to your jaw. Beneath your borrowed shirt, your nipples tighten into sensitive peaks. Every time you draw breath, the fabric brushes against you, only heightening the sensation. 

“What’s that, treasure?” The arm around your middle retracts just enough for his hand to splay partway between your hip and your lower belly. His fingers press into you as his grip tightens, urging you to move against him. “Something about finishing what I started?”

The mocking lilt in his voice stokes something molten deep in your core. You plant a hand on the table, careful to avoid the blood, to push yourself up and away from him. You’d rather walk back to the Zaun’s Revenge alone, dressed like a harlot than admit Silco has the upper hand. 

Before you can even get into a half-seat, slender fingers wrap around your neck while the arm across your middle pulls you back into his lap. 

“What’s the matter? I thought you wanted to play.” When his lips press into your neck once more, you feel the scrape of chipped teeth against your skin. Your body, the traitorous thing, moves of its own accord. Your hips roll again. This time, you feel something pressing into the bottom curve of your ass. 

Now it’s your turn to be smug. You’re getting to him just as much as he’s getting to you. You shift in his lap, just a fraction. When you rock your hips again, you press against him fully. Now, it’s his turn to fail at hiding the hitch in his breath. 

You keep going, rocking back against him as he presses into you. You bite down hard on your bottom lip to suppress a sigh. He’s hard beneath you and you can feel every inch of his length. 

The shatter of breaking glass draws your attention away from your ruinous behavior. You glance around the tavern, terrified you’ll be spotted and branded as a fallen woman but no one pays you any mind. You and Silco may as well be in another realm. No one cares what you’re doing in your shadowy booth in the back of the tavern. 

You let the din surrounding you fade into the back of your mind and allow yourself to relish in the sensation of Silco’s cock rubbing against you through your skirts. 

“I don’t want to play.” You turn your head to whisper in his ear. “I want to win.”

His hand slides from your neck to your sternum. “I’d like to see you try.”

You continue to rock against him, shifting in his lap to ensure you feel as much of him as you can. 

The hand on your chest dips lower, slipping beneath the billowy fabric of your shirt. He cups one breast, thumb grazing over your nipple in a fleeting, teasing movement. 

You swallow your sigh, hoping he’ll try again. No doubt he wants a reaction out of you as much as you want a slower, firmer touch. More kisses are pressed into your neck as his thumb finds your nipple once again. This time, he lingers, swirling gentle circles over the stiff peak. 

Now, you let your sigh escape as your head drops back. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So quick to give in. You want to be obedient, don’t you?”

“It’s not in my nature.”

“Yet, here you are.” He slides his hand over your hip. “Do all of Piltiover’s prized virgins know how to move their hips in such a way?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not among their numbers.”

“Oh?” He pushes up against you. “Has Vander had a taste of his sweet fiancée?”

“Don’t be absurd,” you snap, instantly disappointed in yourself for letting a genuine emotion slip in the middle of your game. 

“Ah.” The rumble of his laughter hums through your bones. “Who has been tasting your honey, if not your fiancé, treasure?”

“How is that any of your business, pirate?” You still your rocking hips only to feel him pull against you in an effort to keep the pressure of your backside against his cock. Warm satisfaction spreads through you as you relish the tiny shred of power you wield over him. A simple, primal power won without skill or strategy, but power nonetheless. “No doubt you’re the sort that believes a woman’s value decreases if she’s been with anyone but her husband.”

“Not at all.” A forefinger joins his thumb to lightly pinch your nipple, pulling a hiss from your mouth. “I care not for being the first. I prefer to dedicate my efforts to being the best.”

“Congratulations. You’re the best pirate to ever grope me in a piss-soaked tavern. How proud you must be.”

“Don’t act all high and mighty, not when we both know what’s to be found beneath those skirts.” The gentle pinch grows to a soft twist before the hand retracts. You nearly whine from the lack of contact, but you’re spared that embarrassment when he moves to your neglected breast, thumb taking up those slow, gentle circles once more. 

“Your arrogance is unmatched.”

The hand on your hip slides to the exposed slice of your leg. 

“Perhaps, I am arrogant,” he murmurs. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” 

As his hand moves to your inner thigh, you consider pulling away. The fact you’ve allowed this to go so far is ridiculous. You should stop. 

Then, this stubborn little voice rises inside of you. How many things have you done because it’s what you should do? When was the last time you did something because you wanted to? 

You can’t remember. Knowing it’s only because you shouldn’t want this, you part your legs just a little more. A small rebellion. 

His fingers drag higher before he comes to an abrupt halt. You recall your earlier choice to forgo any kind of undergarment and you’re willing to bet he’s just noticed.

“The Piltlie princess is naughtier than I realized.” His voice is a warm rumble against your neck and his touch slips higher. A thousand sharp remarks and insults fight for dominance on the tip of your tongue but they scatter and fizzle into nothing the moment the tip of his finger drags up the length of your slit. 

You know he feels how wet you are. There’s no denying it’s his doing. When he moans into your hair, you respond by grinding your ass against his cock. 

“Not just naughty,” he groans. “Dirty.”

He makes another long, slow stroke up your center, pulling a shiver from you. You eagerly wait for another, but something has caught his attention. His hand retracts from both your skirt and your top. You bite back a whimper. As much as you wish for the contact to return, you don’t want to be pathetic about it. 

You pull yourself from the haze of your arousal just as two more men settle into the booth across from you. You don’t bother trying to pay attention to the conversation that ensues. You won’t understand a word of it anyway. Silco has made sure of that.

Instead, you focus on getting yourself back under control. You’ve had your fun, but enough is enough. You can’t seriously allow yourself to entertain the notion of…

No, you can’t even bring yourself to think about it. 

You’ve played the part assigned to you. That’s all. 

Business concludes between the three men. When the two strangers leave, you half expect Silco to return his attention to you, but he doesn’t. He signals to the serving wench once more. Moments later, she appears with a paper box. Before you can ask what it contains, a bump of his hip urges you onto your feet. He slides out of the booth and wraps an arm around your waist before leading you out of the tavern.

Night has fallen and the streets have only grown rowdier. 

“Is that all?” You ask.

“Do you want more?” His voice is dark and dangerous, almost enough to make you forget yourself all over again. 

“I’m asking if you’re finished conducting business for the evening if you can even call it that.”

“I am,” he says. “But we both know that’s not what you were asking.”

You say nothing, unwilling to give him even the tiniest inch of satisfaction as he steers you back to the docks. A small part of you wishes to explore the port. To taste the foods hawked by street vendors and dance to music that seems to be interwoven into the very air. But you know it’s not safe to do so in a port like this. 

You’re ushered onto the Zaun’s Revenge. Jinx appears at your side with a hopeful look in her eye. 

“How’d it go?” She asks Silco. 

“Very well,” he replies.

“Anything…interesting?” She leans forward just a touch.

“Interesting?” He feigns confusion. “I don’t know about that, but I did find this.” He holds out the paper box for her, which she quickly plucks from his hand. She nearly shreds it to ribbons in her eagerness to open it, revealing a cluster of sugared sweets that look like little jewels. 

“I haven’t had these in ages,” she sighs, leaning her cheek into his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, minnow,” he says with an indulgent smile. 

Something strange tugs at your heart as Jinx hurries away with her prize. 

As soon as the gangplank is lifted, cutting off any escape you might have had the mind to make, Silco’s arm retracts from your waist. He moves up the deck, issuing commands as his crew hurries to unfurl sails and get underway. 

You make your way to the weather deck in order to get the best view of the port before the Zaun’s Revenge pulls away. It’s a lovely sight from this vantage point, away from the stench and unpleasantness. The streets remind you of stained glass with all of their colored lights. 

The ship pulls away from the dock. You don’t hear Silco approach. He simply appears beside you. 

“You behaved well,” he says. “I’m going to retire to my cabin. You’re welcome to join me or you can remain on deck.”

“You aren’t going to keep an eye on me?” You taunt. 

“Everyone aboard this ship knows to keep an eye on you after last night’s ill-fated escape plan,” he says. “Don’t think you can get away with anything like that again.”

“Does that mean I win?” 

He tilts his head. “Do you think our little game is over?”

“Isn’t it?” You say. “I’m not retiring to your cabin until I intend to sleep. You lose.”

“Oh, how sweet.” He takes a half step closer. “Tell me, what do you think I’d consider a victory?”

You have an answer, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. Fortunately - or unfortunately, you aren’t sure - he answers for you. 

“Just because I’m not carrying you into my cabin to spread your legs, doesn’t mean I’ve lost.”

“Isn’t that exactly what it means?” You match his matter-of-fact tone, holding his gaze. 

“Not at all.” He leans closer. “Perhaps, I won’t get to sink into that eager cunt I felt back

at the tavern. The real victory is knowing how badly you wanted it.”

You pull away from him, an indignant flush heating your face. 

“Don’t deny it, treasure. I felt the proof myself.” With a wink, he leaves you at the bow positively fuming. 

That arrogant, spiteful, infuriating, ridiculous man. You wish you had something to lob at his retreating back. 

Fine, your body may have responded to his touch in a certain way but you felt how hard he was beneath you. He doesn't have the upper hand here. If anything, you’re both humans that enjoy specific aspects of human contact. You can come to terms with that. 

But the fact he thinks he’s won something? Unacceptable. 

You might just sleep on the deck just to make him doubt himself. 

The Zaun’s Revenge drifts out to sea. The lights of Port Fairna fade away within the hour. You look up at the night sky, easily finding Eiredus amongst the glittering pinpricks of light. 

“I ask for help and you give me this?” You mutter. 

“Who are you talking to?” 

You turn to find a sailor stationed at the helm watching you with bleary eyes that point in slightly different directions. 

“The stars,” you answer honestly. 

“Do…do they talk back?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“That’s too bad. I get bored up here by myself.” 

You scan the deck and masts, spotting one crew member up in the crow’s nest and a few clustered together near the bow, deep in conversation. 

“You look tired.” You conjure your softest, tenderest voice. “Have you slept lately?”

“I didn’t sleep well last night. It’s getting to me now.” He yawns as he speaks. 

“Why don’t you take a little nap?” You offer. 

“I have to tend the helm.”

“Is the heading changing anytime soon?” You ask. 

He hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. 

“Take a little nap,” you urge. “I’m not going anywhere for a while. I can handle keeping the wheel straight while you get a little shut-eye.”

“I shouldn’t,” he mumbles, shifting from foot to foot as he fights another yawn. 

“Take half an hour,” you say. “You can’t do your job properly if you’re too tired to see straight.” You wince the second the words are out of your mouth, but the crewmate doesn’t notice your blunder. 

“Good point,” he nods. “Okay. I’ll be right back. Just half an hour.”

“I’ve sailed before,” you assure him. “I know what I’m doing.”

He leaves you in charge. No one clustered at the bow notices the switch. 

You decide to act quickly, just in case someone spots you. You grasp the wheel and turn the ship ever so slightly. You don’t cause a dramatic shift in movement. All you want to do is throw the Zaun’s Revenge off course, just slightly. Just to be petty. Just to create a headache for Silco in a few hours when he realizes his ship isn’t where he wants it to be. A little victory of your own.

A half-hour passes, and the crewmate returns to the helm. He notices nothing out of the ordinary and thanks you for helping him out. With a smile, you take your leave and make your way to the Captain’s cabin. 

Silco sits at his desk, the space illuminated by a single lantern. 

You don’t look at him as you remove your borrowed corset and climb into his bed. 

You aren’t sure how long it’s been when you’re startled awake by a violent boom of thunder and a harsh rock of the ship. Before you can sit up, the ship rocks again, nearly spilling you onto the floor.  You look through the window as lightning flashes. The Zaun’s Revenge has been swallowed by a vicious storm.

********

big thank you to @sherwood-forests @silcoitus and @ilikemymendarkandfictional for beta-reading. Drink up me hearties, yo ho!

[lullabyes22-blog]

Mal de Mer - Ch: 8 - Pirate

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the ‘Forward But Never Forget/XOXO’ AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

Snippet:

Silco hears, in her silence, all she cannot say.

"Banishment," he murmurs.

Nodding, Mel clings tight. Their skins are gluey with old sweat.  But the fit of their bodies, like two pieces of a broken vase, is nearly seamless. In her mind's eye, the shards come together: golden seams closing the gaps. 

"Banishment," she agrees. "No negotiation. Just the sentence, and its terms. A decade to make restitution, or lose the Medarda name. To prove myself worthy." She buries her face in the hollow of his shoulder. "In Piltover, I found myself free. Free from the strictures. Free from the shame. Free to explore the full spectrum of my talents. But not... free. Inside, I was still the same girl. Hungry. Lonely. Hollow. I learned quickly, though, that no man could fill the void."

Silco’s mouth shapes a sly curve in her hair. "Men, you mean."

"Yes." Mel's laugh, this time, is easier. "Nothing ever came of it."

"Certainly not you."

That earns him a tiny pinch of reproof. "Nothing worth keeping. And..." Her smile dies. "I believed myself immune. To closeness, or connection, or the promise of both. I preferred my solitude, and my schemes. They were strategic. They were... safe. People in our position can't afford attachments. Especially not to those who've sworn us fealty. We serve a purpose. To fulfill it, we must be unknowable. Unbreakable."

Silco nuzzles her hair, and she shuts her eyes. In the gloom, his voice holds a graveled softness.

"You can't say," he whispers, "it was the life what you wanted."

[fairy-writes]

1300 Follower Event!

Hello! I recently reached 1300 followers and am literally, like… lowkey crying?

I know I say this every time. But I seriously cannot imagine myself ever having gotten this far. I can’t imagine anyone actually enjoying what I write, much less wanting to follow my silly little writing blog.

But for this event! I’m hosting a cafe! Just like I did way back when! Basically, you guys order a drink, and I’ll write either headcanons, drabbles, scenarios, or one-shots!

The event will be open for two weeks starting today! It’ll be available from Monday, November 27th, 2023 to Monday, December 11th, 2023! 

ALL ORDERS ARE UNDER #fairy1300followers

Rules are: 

All orders are written as character x reader!

Everything is gender neutral reader unless specifically stated otherwise (ex: you request a female reader)

TWO ORDERS PER PERSON

Please send them in separately so I can keep track of everything!

You don’t have to choose an add-on special. Those are just if you want to have some extra fun!

Any orders that do not follow the rules will be deleted. 

I will write for the following people:

Arcane: League of Legends: Viktor, Silco, Jayce Talis, Vi, Vander, Caitlyn Kiramman, Mel Medarda

Bungou Stray Dogs: Nakajima Atsushi, Nakahara Chuuya, Dazai Osamu, Kunikida Doppo, Fukuzawa Yukichi, Saigiku Jouno, Suehiro Tecchou

The Case Study of Vanitas: Vanitas, Noé Archiviste, Roland Fortis, Dominique de Sade

Demon Slayer: All the Hashira (except for Muichiro), Akaza, Kokushibo, Douma, Kamado Tanjiro (aged up), Agatsuma Zenitsu (aged up), Hashibira Inosuke (aged up)

Doctor Who: The Doctor (9th, 10th, 11th, 12th), Jack Harkness, River Song

Fullmetal Alchemist: Roy Mustang, Greed (not Greedling), Riza Hawkeye, Jean Havoc, Envy, Alex Louis Armstrong, Olivier Armstrong, Edward Elric (post-FMAB), Alphonse Elric (post-FMAB), Ling Yao (post-FMAB)

Grimm (NBC): Nick Burkhardt, Hank Griffin, Sean Renard, Drew Wu, Monroe

Jujutsu Kaisen: Gojo Satoru, Fushiguro Toji, Geto Suguru, Nanami Kento, Itadori Yuuji (aged up), Fushiguro Megumi (aged up)

Moriarty the Patriot: William James Moriarty, Albert James Moriarty, Louis James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Fred Porlock, Sebastian Moran, James Bonde

Tokyo Ghoul: Uta, Kaneki Ken, Kirishima Touka, Kirishima Ayato (re: age), Nishio Nishiki, Tsukiyama Shuu

MENU

Sizes: 

Large: Imagine (500-750 Words)

Medium: Scenario (350-500 Words)

Small: Drabble (250-350 Words)

Extra-Small: Headcanons (new headcanon style with a short blurb at the end)

Drinks: 

Latte: Fluff

Black Coffee: Whump (physical pain)

Espresso: Angst (emotional pain)

Cappuccino: Hurt/Comfort

Mocha: Paranormal (idk what this entails, but I’ll figure it out, lol)

Americano: Platonic Relationships

Smoothie: My choice! Just send in a character and a size!

Add-On Specials: 

With Spice: Victorian Era AU

With Sugar: Pirate AU

With Cream: Domestic AU

With Ice: Soulmate AU

Extra Hot: Fantasy AU

Example Order: Hello! Can I please get a large latte with spice with Tanjiro from Demon Slayer? 

Translation: Hello! Can I get a fluffy Victorian AU imagine with Tanjiro from Demon Slayer?

Example Order: Can I please order a medium black coffee with Kaneki Ken from Tokyo Ghoul?

Translation: Can I please get a whump scenario with Kaneki Ken from Tokyo Ghoul?

[revelisms]

Excerpt: What You Needed

After years, Jinx and Vi are reunited—and starting to make amends.

From ‘heron blue,’ an AU where Vi and Jinx reconnect under different terms. Slow, rocky relationship rebuilding, found family messiness, and political schemings. CW: Abandonment issues, dissociation, psychosis, dysfunctional family dynamics Full story on AO3

Her painted fingers clink out a red-capped glass bottle, and hold it stiffly across from her. "You...still like the cherry ones, right?"

Vi takes it from her, slowly, criss-crossed on the blankets across from her. "You bet," she says softly. Her mouth makes a strange twist: not quite a smile. She turns the bottle in her hand. "Still like blueberry?"

Jinx screws off the cap of her own, a glittering spin off the stones. "Uh, yeah—best of the bestest."

The lights hum around them, a pleasant, blitzy static. Jinx draws up her knees, curls her arms around them, and sips. For a long, horrible moment, there's nothing for them to say. Nothing she can get out: the questions stuck in her stomach, in her heart, like lead on her tongue.

Why did you leave me—?

"When...when did you build this?" Vi's looking at the decorations all around them, the paint and the color and glow, with a quiet awe.

Jinx wonders, for a moment, if she means the alcove or the club itself. They'd kept the bones, but rebuilt it all, straight from the ground up. No more smelly storeroom—too many ghosts; all boarded up now. They'd cleaned and sanded and revarnished the floors; painted the rooms, retiled the bathrooms; brought in that beautiful imported glass to bubble around the walls, a new addition to the spaces wholly their own on the third floor, with the same old staff kitchen and storage closets and divots in the walls. 

Jinx shrugs, bobbing her knee. "Oh, I dunno—years ago."

Vi's smiling, now. She looks down at the bottle in her hands: twists off the cap. "I...I missed this, y'know. All your creations."

It lights up something in Jinx's heart, like a little lamp tuned to life. "I—I never stopped, really," she says, a flash of her teeth. "Painted up my room all pretty—oh—I just got this new color in from that big guy in the third district." She props closer, with a brightening grin. "It's, like, the prettiest blue—gonna put it on Whambo. He's gonna be a nail bomb. And I might use it for some details, on Fritz—he's a smoke flare, mostly, but he can double as a firecracker launcher—cool, right? I've been trying to get the combustion ratio right, for ages, but the thing keeps fizzlin' out too early—that old doc's tried to give me equations, but ugh—anyway. Work in progress, Fritz."

And then she's telling her about Jabberwock the ray gun, that she'd engraved with the emblem of a little seahorse—and about the Zing-Dusters she'd built: the respirators they used in the air dispensaries, that she was making a new model of—and the water filtration systems they were going to pilot in the rotted hovels of the Sump, once they got the right treated metals in.

She tells her about Tullo the mechanic, a giant of a man, with hair to his knees and tattoos gaudy as a pirate's, who she gets her imports from. Tullo, who Sevika got in a fight with the other day, after he'd called her arm just for show—and Sevika was a big old ogre, just as awful as ever: she ate blood sausage and grits for breakfast—yeuch!

She's rambling, on and on: the words pouring out of her: a runoff of shaky-laughed, tense-shouldered babbling.

There's so much she doesn't say.

She doesn't tell her about Little Man. She doesn't tell her about the voices in her head, or Mylo or Claggor, or her stuffed rabbit nailed to the wall, or how she spent years and years trying to carve herself in the chasm she'd left behind, not knowing why she wasn't enough, good enough, worth enough to bring her back; or how Silco would find her beating her hands bloody in the old arcade, or how he never laughed, not really, and never, ever cried, except when he talked about Vander, and then he nearly did both; or how, sometimes, when Sevika laid her arm around her, it almost, almost felt like hers—and she does not tell her about how Powder is dead and gone and drowned, drowned in a well, drowned by Jinx's own hands, and Jinx—Jinx is strong, now.

The voices ring through her ears: a pitching, endless drone.

It's too quiet, again.

Jinx swallows, fidgeting. She lifts her eyes from the roof. Vi is just looking at her, looking and frowning, with that burning sort of sadness Jinx hates. She's looking at her, and not saying a word—and for all Jinx doesn't tell her any of that, she is terrified that in some small, terrible way, she knows it, all the same.

"You're quiet," Jinx mumbles. She rips her eyes down, again.

Vi reaches over, wraps her hand beneath her own. "I know—I know. I'm sorry, I'm just..." She huffs out a breath, turning away, staring at the bustle of the streets. "I'm just thinking." She's nervous: her hands heavy and fiddling, so warm over Jinx's own. "It's—it's just..." Vi clears her throat. "It's been so long, I've been—I've been so worried about you."

Jinx scrapes her nail over her thumb. Those words hit something unpleasant inside her—worried about you—plunge a sickly chill in her stomach: a blazing knot of self-disgust, of rage; of sharp, splintered old hurt.

The words trapped in her throat bubble out, before she can stop them. "Why..." They stick like grease on her teeth. "Why did you leave me?"

She knows they cut at her sister. She knows they sting.

Part of her wants them to.

Vi looks down. She weathers her thumb over Jinx's own. "I—I tried to get back to you, I promise." The same as she'd said, before. "I did—but I—"

"You left me." It sounds so pitiful coming out of Jinx's mouth, and she despises herself for it. She yanks her hand out from Vi's own: tucks it under her knee. "I didn't—I didn't understand—"

"I know," Vi hushes. "I know, I—there hasn't been a day I haven't regretted it. Not a single one, from every damned night I was in that cell—but I—I just—" Her shoulders sink. She's looking away, forcing air through her teeth. "I needed time." 

Something blitzes up Jinx's neck: leaves her head twitching.

You're not ready!

She scowls slow at the tiles. "Away from me."

"That's not—"

I told you to stay away!

Jinx scrapes her nails against the stones. "Things changed, when you left." Air shudders against her teeth. She fights the heat broiling in her throat: blinks it quick out of her eyes. "I—I changed," she whispers.

Vi's hands fist between her knees. Something in her turns venomous: like it did in Silco, when someone said something that got under his skin; when he let his words turn harsh and biting, looming over his constituents, a shadow of a monster with red-tipped wings.

"If I'd known you were here," Vi is saying, a low firmness in the words—and Jinx knows where they're going, before she even speaks them; feels her shoulders draw firm as stone. "If I could have—I would have done anything to find you; I would have got you out of here, as soon as I—"

A numbness washes through Jinx's veins.

"Got me out," she repeats.

She feels so far away from herself. Floating. 

She's seeing Little Man, with his hair still short and his arms still gangly: his hand shackled around her wrist, hard enough to crush her, pleading to a girl who didn't exist—Powder, come with me, please—we've found a place in the sewers, away from all of this, where you'll be safe—whatever he's done, I'll make sure he never gets to you, again—

"I don't need you to save me," Jinx bites out. Tension gnaws through her fingers: turns them white-knuckled on her knee. 

Mylo's wrong, Powder. You're stronger than you think.

You're strong, now—just like you were always meant to be. 

She wrenches her head from the words, the memories: Vi's fist colliding with her cheek, Silco's thumb sweeping against it. "I never needed you to save me, I—I needed—"

Because you're a jinx! Mylo was right!

Jinx is perfect.

"Someone else," Vi mutters. Jinx falters, ice in her lungs. Stares wide-eyed at her. Vi is frowning at the green glow beyond them, rasping her thumb against the wrapping over her knuckles. She takes in a hard, gritty breath, and eases it out. "I know," she continues. "I left you, and he—" The look in her eyes turns so strange: bitter, scathing. "He showed up." It's like the words are pulling out her teeth. Her thumb presses hard into her knuckles. "And maybe, that's—that's what you needed."

Jinx tries to swallow. Heat burns and burns in her throat. "You want me to hate him," she tests, prickling with spite. "You don't want me to be here." Flashes of color outside the edges of her vision: eyes and faces and howling words. "You don't like him—you don't like any of them—well, none of you all liked me, either—"

"That's not true—"

Ghosts are picking at her ears and clawing at her arms and too loud.

"—because I—I was just some—some loose screw, screw-up, always screwing things up—shut up!" She wrenches her head into her hands, squeezes it tight, tight between her nails, to keep her skull from splitting open. "Shut up, shut up!"

Vi's looking at her like she's broken, a wind-up toy with all the cogs gone: like something she doesn't know how to fix. Carefully, her bandaged hand lays over her knee. "That's not true, and you know it," she says gravely. The words crack. "We loved you, Powder. Vander, and Mylo, and Claggor—"

"Don't." Jinx seethes it out, feral: wrenches herself away from Vi's burning hand. "Stop." She breathes long, cavernous, heaving. "Stop, don't—I don't want to think about them—I don't want to think about them, I don't—"

Vi closes her eyes, clenches her jaw. "Okay."

"I don't," Jinx hisses again. There's too much color in her eyes, too much noise in her head. 

Vi's holding her. She doesn't remember when she started holding her.

[silcoitus]

Do your have recs for any good canon divergent Silco AU fics? (Silco x Reader and otherwise?) I especially would love any fic exploring his relationship with Jinx and being a Dad! Thank you!

Ooooooh okay okay give me a second to grab some links! All below the cut

And you'll have to forgive me: these fics aren't finished. Idk if that's gonna be a deal breaker for you. I hope it isn't because these are too good to skip.

Bend But Not Break by Constant-Fragmentation

It's only on ao3 and not done, but believe me it is worth it. It's a regency AU and it's beeeeaaauuuuutifully written. Absolutely S-tier Silco/reader fic with a young Powder/Jinx. This hits all the things you asked for.

To the Depths by @cognacandlilac

Pirate AU! Mentioned in the poem but worth a separate shout-out. Pirate Silco and Pirate Jinx! With a sassy reader who you can't help but love.

Love Thy Neighbor by @sherwood-forests

Modern AU with Silco and young Jinx being nextdoor neighbors to reader. The fluff is phenomenal and I love the little family dynamics of reader, Silco, and Jinx. If I ever get the chance to go stargazing, I will be dreaming of CEO Silco the entire time.

Barton Hollow by me

Okay I'm tossing my (cowboy) hat in, too. Western AU with outlaw Silco and outlaw Jinx. This one is finished and I'm very proud of it! Each chapter title is a song title from the band The Civil Wars, so highly rec listening to them!

Happy reading, anon!

Love,

Your local Silco dealer

[mintysmp]

kinlist

this is huge!

otherkin

wolves

angels

faeries

changelings

androids

aliens

giants

zombie

tabby cats

dogs

dolls - teddy bears & fashion dolls

ghosts

vampires

bees - coping

dinos - copinglink

fictionkin & songkin

crybaby - k-12 album

shoyo ishida - a silent voice

denki - my hero academia

todoroki - my hero academia

dawn harper - nicky ricky dicky & dawn

draco malfoy - JUST ME - DNI DOUBLES

eleven - stranger things - JUST ME - DNI DOUBLES

jude - the fosters - on season 2!

suga - haikyuu - haven’t finished yet

beast boy - teen titans go + comics

heesung - given taken music video

carlos de vil - ID - descendants

evie - higher- descendants

arthur curry - aquaman + comics - medium kin

angela moss - medium kin

badlands by halsey

misha - oc

ice bear - we bare bears

charlie spring - heartstopper - tv

alexander lightwood - the mortal instruments movies

anakin skywalker - just me - no doubles

austin moon - austin & ally - JUST ME - NO DOUBLES

hunter 🐾 - nonfandom or teen wolf

baby - baby driver - a mix of both spiritual & coping

justin foley - 13 reasons why

sayori - doki doki literature club

landon callahan & piper callahan - no fandom

lexi caford - OC

mason and lucy - no fandom

peter parker - spider-man mcu + comics - NO DOUBLES

Philip “Lip” gallagher - shameless us - so far just coping

spencer reid - criminal minds - no doubles

spot - across the spiderverse

tyler - mako mermaids

alexander chase davenport - lab rats - highest

chase davenport - lab rats - higher kin

silco - arcane

jinx - arcane - highest kin

a bunch of characters - andi mack

aaron hotchner - the hotchner kids - ao3

adrien agreste - stopped at s3ep26 the miracle queen

antonio madrigal - encanto

alex standall - 13 reasons why

ender - enders game film

alex mercer - julie and the phantoms

luke patterson - julie and the phantoms

most of the cells - cells at work

alfie lewis - house of anubis

alice kingsley - tim burton 2011

ally - austin and ally - doubles iffy

america chavez - mcu - lowest kin

andi cruz - every witch way - low kin

andre kriegman - zero day au

cal gabriel - zero day - higher kin

kazuha - genshin impact

bakugo - my hero academia au

COPING KINS

derek morgan - criminal minds - body dysphoria - highest coping kin

grizzly bear - we bare bears - a mix of coping and spiritual - pet regression

bears - otherkin - lgbt + unlearning toxic masculinity

nerd - boyfriends fictionkin - haircare struggles

deku - my hero academia

icarus - greek mythology - please just let apollo adore me!

mason “dipper” pines - i want to be adored + paranoia episodes

maze - malcom in the middle oc

sam winchester - mostly coping - i need to eat more salads

adam davenport - lab rats

camilo madrigal - encanto

pepa madrigal - encanton

amethyst - steven universe

kaz + oliver short - mighty med

chonghyun - genshin impact

enid sinclair - wednesday

killua - hxh - started s1ep6

questioning kin:

jane — twilight

meredith grey — greys anatomy

hunter - the owl house

unknown - the big bang theory

unknown pirate - our flag means death

captain hook - book + once upon a time

synpath:

vi - arcane

[somedudenamedanthony]

Y'all I completely forgot my Mermaids and Pirates Arcane AU is a thing so this is me jotting everything down that I remember

Caitlyn is a mermaid that is really interested in learning about (and kissing) humans

Vi is a pirate captain that took over Vander's ship with Mylo and Claggor after he kicked it

Jinx is a mermaid hunter that mostly works along shores because she doesn't like the water (almost drowned as a kid but got her ass saved by Cait - she completely forgot about this because she was mostly unconscious but Cait never forgot)

I had a story idea written down where Vi and the boys force Jinx onto Vander's ship (should I call it The Last Drop? I'm gonna call it The Last Drop) because "Just looking at the water isn't gonna kill you Pow-Pow. I thought you liked killing mermaids? Where better to find them than in the ocean?". Then Jinx finds Cait and they fall in love, making Jinx reconsider being a mermaid hunter

Also:

The Firelights are also a pirate crew.

Viktor is some guy living by the ocean and studying mermaids because his partners (Mel and Jayce) are both mermaids.

Vander was a pirate and Silco was a mermaid hunter co-captaining The Last Drop when they were young (before the divorce yk).

Mermaids were created by magic when people studied Sirens and tried to become them to hunt sea creatures easier for food, but eventually people got really separated and now humans don't like mermaids.

Jayce is really interested in the old magic science behind making mermaids and wants to make Viktor a mermaid to see if that'll cure his terminal illness.

[arcane-ish]

Out of all the dumb fic attempts I'm never going to finish is one AU where Vander and Silco are actually Freljordians from some Winter's Claw tribe.

Because I went through all kinds of options of "what if they were born in X instead" and I actually think Winter's Claw Freljord would be the place where Silco would do the least clashing with the establishes structures. Mostly because there aren't a ton of structures.

Granted, in my head canon/fic he still clashes a little bit with it, but he's a lot more understanding for why those structures exist even if they don't work for him. (in my head canon Silco and Vander run off together eventually and move to Bilgewater to be pirates where they adopt the gang of kids but there isn't a ton of hard feeling on Silco's side vis a vis their tribe)

Anyway, here is my list of head canons on how well Silco would fit into the other regions (again presuming his basical personality is still maintained and it's not a case of "if he grew up pampered and rich maybe he wouldn't have a care in the world and would just be a sweet guy without a chip on his shoulder").

Ionia: On the plus side, there is a struggle going on that is generally societally accepted. On the other hand, I feel like maybe Silco wouldn't vibe 100% with the whole magic/nature stuff to the extent "you can't even build a house, you need to rely on a tree to willingly glrow you one". It's still fun to think what order they would go into (though I guess they could just duplicate the Zed/Shen conflict). Now the other interesting bit would be what if Silco and Vander were vastaya but there is the bit where vastaya are basically old by default so Silco's youthful anger wouldn't really fit. [I do love the idea of what Ionian!Silco would think of Riven. ]

Bilgewater: Bilgewater seems the most similar to Zaun, so one would think it would be the best fit with its anarchistic spirit. And yes, I agree, that's why in my head canon they eventually end up moving there. But I feel Bilgewater would probably be a pretty unpleasant place to grow up in and work your way up to the ships. Plus they have a pirate king/queen Silco could clash wish.

Noxus: I feel like he would be comparatively happy if he was a born Noxian and would gel with the Noxian meritocracy approach. However, I feel he would eventually get suspicious if Noxus really is as meritocratic as they claim to be or if in the end aristocratic families still do a lot of string pulling. I could picture him becoming zealous anti Black Rose, though Black Rose member Silco has its own appeal.

Demacia: LOL, I feel like he would hate them more than he hates Piltover, even if wasn't a mage (but of course doubly so if he was).

Targon: I think he would slot it pretty naturally with either the Lunari or with Pantheon's quest. I guess I just find Targon a bit boring as a region, hence why it isn't as prominent with me.

Shurima: Shurima is interesting to me. Aristocracy and lots of magic bullshittery and Noxian oppression going on. I feel like he would be borderline stumped which bit to rebel against first.

Ixtal is barely a region/we now too little about it and Void and Shadow Isles don't really have people in the conventional way (though I guess he could still be Buhru or a Shadow Isles treasure hunter).

[ao3feed-piltovers-finest]

In Shallow Seas, We Sail

by cybr

With resources becoming scarce, a few pieces of gold and a pocket-full of lint, she needed a plan, and fast. Grabbing her hip flask full of diluted rum, she took a swig big enough to make any tough seaman grimace and began to jot down half-arsed plans in one final plea to keep this boat alive.

OR

Cait/Vi Pirate-AU where nothing goes right.

Words: 2974, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/F

Characters: Caitlyn (League of Legends), Vi (League of Legends), Ekko (League of Legends), Mel Medarda, Cassandra Kiramman, Tobias Kiramman, Sevika (Arcane: League of Legends), Silco (Arcane: League of Legends)

Relationships: Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends), Caitlyn & Vi (League of Legends)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Eventual Smut, Pirate Vi but call her Virate, Sexual Tension, Pirates Doing Pirate Things, Alcohol, Enemies to Lovers, Caitlyn badass, Everyone is sick of Vi's jokes, Tags Are Hard

from AO3 works tagged 'Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends)'

[space-blue]

Pirate Captain Silco — Black Sails AU

Since I have to be the one feeding myself...

[cognacandlilac]

To the Depths - Part 3.1

(Pirate!Silco x F!Reader)

Damned and Double Damned

Part One - Part Two

AO3

A/N: Part 3 ended up being over 11k words so I am splitting it into two parts and will release the other part tomorrow lol whoops.

But tomorrow will bring something spicy at last!

Rating: Explicit, MDNI

Summary: Sleep deprived, you experience the joys of cohabitation with your pirate captor.

Chapter Tags: still sfw...for now, reader shamelessly checking out Silco, sass and sarcasm, corset malfunctions.

Word Count: 4.8k

All night, you stare at the bare back of your kidnapper. Every time he shifts or sighs, your body locks up, prepared for the worst. The worst never comes but that doesn’t mean you find any peace. 

To say your dress is uncomfortable is an understatement. Between the salt and sweat-soaked fabric and the unforgiving structure of your corset, you cannot find a comfortable position. You toss and turn, succeeding only in making your skin burn and your misery rise.

Hours pass before the gentle rocking of the ship finally puts you to sleep. 

For all of five minutes. 

Far too soon, an unforgiving morning sun streams in through the wide, deep bay window, illuminating the room in a pale green light. 

The window glass, you realize, is tinted green. The deep brown wood of the lattice is unusual as well. Not perfect straight lines crisscrossing in squares or diamonds, but curves and whorls comprising all manner of shapes that vaguely remind you of cresting waves. It creates a rather lovely backdrop for the little window seat laden with cushions and even a blanket. Anywhere else, it would be quite the cozy little nook. Nothing like that would ever be permitted on a naval vessel nor your father’s ships. In fact, you’ve never seen a window like this on any ship before. 

Did Silco have it specially made?

Through the muddled mess of your sleep-deprived mind, you decide it’s wise to take proper stock of your surroundings. You already know there is a multitude of weapons on display but perhaps you’ll find little clues that will lead you to something more valuable than a weapon. 

Information. 

As tempting as it is to grab a sword off the wall and show him exactly what you think of his hospitality, you rein yourself in. The tether holding your emotions in check is dangerously weak after so little sleep. Your growling stomach doesn’t help matters either. 

Slowly, careful to minimize the rustle of your gown, you sit up. You’re trapped between the wall and Silco. If you were in a quieter garment, you might try to scoot off the end of the bed and make a break for it, but the cabin door is locked. You have no idea where he put the key, not that getting ahold of it will do you much good. The only place you can go is the deck. 

Blinking away the bleariness hanging on your lashes, you study the room. Most of the cabin is taken up by a desk opposite the bed, its surface cluttered with papers. Maps, charts, and ledgers. Behind the desk is a low bookshelf, perhaps hip high. It’s crammed to the gills with books, rolls of paper, writing supplies, and all manner of trinkets from all over the world. 

The chaos of the desk sits in stark contrast to everything else in the cabin. The weapons rack is neat and orderly, everything polished to a perfect shine. The cushions lining the window seat are perfectly arranged, the blanket neatly folded. The wardrobe is closed, but you’re willing to bet the clothing inside is folded as well. 

Between the wardrobe and the shelves is an oddity you would never expect to find aboard a pirate ship. A vanity table, mirror and all. The only imperfection is one crack running the length of the glass. 

Beside you, Silco shifts in his sleep. He rolls onto his back, one arm lifting over his head to bend at the elbow. You spot lines of ink on the underside of his wrist but aren’t at the correct angle to see the full shape, only a curving line and a splotch of blue. 

Your eyes travel down to his face. That hellfire eye remains open and you find yourself wondering if it’s functional. Or if it hurts. 

Your gaze wanders down the collum of his neck to the lean expanse of his chest. You’ve never seen so much of a man’s body before, not even when you turned your charms on a besotted stable hand or footman for a ruinous tumble. Those quick, panting exchanges in shadowy corners never required the removal of clothing. You were in it for a brief escape and a chance to damage your prospects. You assume your partners had their reasons, as well. 

Bragging rights, perhaps. 

As you watch the steady rise and fall of Silco’s chest, you wonder what it might be like to feel someone else’s skin against yours. Slow and deliberate. Not a desperate grab or impersonal gloved hands clasped for a dance at a ball. Something…you can’t quite come up with a word for what you’ve only read exaggerated accounts of in dime novels you trade with your lady’s maid.  

You draw in a sharp breath, slicing through your train of thought. This is not the time to be recounting your past exploits or thinking of certain book passages. Especially, not with Silco stretched out beside you the way he is. 

You would not have expected such well-formed muscles on such a lean frame. Yesterday, you witnessed him pace the deck, posturing like a ruler over a stolen kingdom while his crew toiled away in the searing heat. The body beside you tells a different story, one of labor and hardship. Not to mention, he was able to throw you over his shoulder like you were nothing, dangle you over the open ocean, and barely reacted when you smacked him with an oar. 

That hidden strength is just another deception, a reminder that you can’t take anything about him at face value. 

Another tattoo splays across the right side of his ribs—a sea serpent wound to the point of constriction around a human heart. The fangs of the beast sink deep into the organ, its eyes filled with lifelike rage, maybe even anguish. You lean closer, half expecting the sea serpent to come alive and slither away, dragging the heart with it. 

Engrossed in your study of him, your gaze dips lower still and stops when you see the sharp curve of a hip. Heat streaks through you so quickly, you feel a touch lightheaded. You were aware that he’d stripped off his shirt before climbing into bed beside you, but did he remove any other articles of clothing?

You follow the slice of muscle arcing over his hip leading down…

With a jolt, you remember yourself and drag your eyes back up to safer territory. 

There is…beauty to him. A strange and savage beauty, but beauty nonetheless. Every harsh line reminds you of cliffs battered by an unforgiving sea, affected but indomitable. Even that cursed eye burns with layers of gold and umber. A precious stone set against black velvet.

Devil damn you, the lack of sleep is making you wax poetic about a most unworthy subject. 

You glance at his face once more only to find, to your horror, his dual gaze of ember and ocean fixed on you, a smirk on that infuriating, mocking mouth. 

You look away quickly, too quickly to pretend you hadn’t been looking at all. 

Devil double damn you. 

“Have I captured your interest so quickly?” His voice is thick with sleep, making the rumble of it all the more hypnotic. 

In a grating, annoying, infuriating kind of way. 

“When one is in the lair of a beast, it’s wise to keep an eye on the beast in question.” You smooth your bodice just so you have a reason to look anywhere but at him. 

You feel him move beside you. He flings the covers off his body. Before you can stop yourself, your eyes flick to your peripheral as he gets to his feet. The dark trousers he wore yesterday hang low on his hips. 

You release a breath you weren’t aware you were holding as you redirect your focus to your hands. 

The wardrobe creaks open and you glance up as he pulls a deep red shirt from within. A laugh rises in your chest and passes your lips before you can curb it. 

“What?” There’s a low warning hidden in the growl of his voice that you ignore. Perhaps, it’s foolish to do so but your brain has allocated its remaining dregs of energy to vital functions and bare-bones coherency. 

“Do you dress to match your ship on purpose or does that bad eye come with some color blindness?” You ask, fighting off another giggle. 

“Don’t try my patience,” he groans. “I didn’t sleep a wink because of you.”

“Because of me?” You bark out a laugh. “That’s rich. I didn’t realize I’d been kidnapped by the funny pirate.”

He carries on as if you hadn’t spoken, turning his attention to the cracked mirror as he buttons his shirt. When he’s finished, he places his hands on the vanity surface and leans closer, examining where you struck him with the oar. A tickle of pride swells in your chest. Maybe you dealt more damage than he let on.

“Your ridiculous dress is noisier than you are,” he grumbles. 

“That’s what happens when quality fabrics get wet,” you say as if speaking to a child. 

“You shouldn’t have gotten it wet, then,” he says, matching your tone with a sneer. 

“You dropped me in the ocean!”

“Because you wouldn’t stop thrashing.”

“It’s almost as if I objected to being kidnapped!” What a notion!

“You knew the terms of the arrangement when we started down that ladder.”

“An arrangement,” you scoff, “that was agreed upon by everyone but me.” Anger stoked into a blaze, you scramble off the bed to stand, hands on hips, in the middle of the cabin. 

“One doesn’t typically negotiate with the target of a kidnapping.”

“If you negotiated with me, you might have gotten some sleep last night.” 

“Oh?” He looks at you in the mirror. “How do you figure?”

“I wouldn’t fucking be here, for one thing.”

“A lady shouldn’t use such foul language. It’s unbecoming.”

“I’m surprised you know what half of those words mean.”  

“You little-” he snarls as you slip into the space between him and the mirror. He has no qualms invading your space -grabbing you, restraining you, throwing you over his shoulder- so you’re going to invade his right back. His payout is directly tied to your well-being, so he can’t do anything to you.

And if he could, frankly, you’re too damn tired to care. You relish the idea of him raising a hand to you. The tether around your anger grows looser by the second. Not just anger at your current situation, but years of anger you’ve stored away in the spirit of making life easier for everyone but yourself. You dare him to push you just an inch too far.  

“If you’re going to demand a royal’s ransom from my father, I think it’s fair you earn every stolen coin, don’t you?” You ask, leaning close to the mirror. Yesterday’s stretch in the sun has put a tint in your cheeks which only makes the dark circles under your eyes more dramatic. The rest of your complexion looks washed out and dreadful. Your hair is a mess.

“I’m starting to think they’re all relieved I took you. They might pay me extra to keep you just to spare themselves the headache.” 

You whirl around, a barbed retort ready on your tongue, but you miscalculate how close he stands. An ill-planned half-step has you bumping into his chest. You spring back, only to hit the vanity.  

Once again, you find yourself trapped by him as he places both hands on the vanity on either side of your hips. 

“I might accept such an offer,” he purrs. “A little training and you might just make a perfect pet. I do so relish a challenge.”

You bring your knee up, intent on dealing a blow to his most tender spot, but he anticipates your movement. He grabs your leg between your knee and thigh, fingers pressing hard enough to feel through your skirts.

“You’re predictable, treasure.” He gives a slight shake of his head to mark his mocking disapproval. 

“And you’re vile.”

“Is that why you were looking at me so intensely not five minutes ago? Because you find me vile?” 

“No, I’m simply fascinated by how someone can live without a heart. Don’t let the scientists at the Piltover Academy get ahold of you,” you warn. “They’ll put you in a cage and study you in a lab.”

“I didn’t realize I kidnapped the funny heiress. Try to keep those charms to yourself when we make port.”

“What?” You stammer. 

“I have business to attend to in Port Fairna. You are to accompany me.”

“You can’t be serious.” A plea to remain aboard and sleep nearly escapes you, but you don’t want to beg him for anything. 

“Do I strike you as someone who often jokes?” 

“You strike me as a joke if you expect me to accompany you while you do whatever it is pirates do when they make port.” You grab two fistfuls of your skirts and give them a shake. “Especially if you expect me to wear this.” 

He grasps his chin, running a thumb along his bottom lip as his eye rakes over your dress, lingering on the top of your bodice. “Yes, you will stand out too much if you wear that.”

He opens the bottom drawer of his wardrobe and produces a flimsy white blouse, a cheap-looking black corset, and a deep teal skirt. 

“Do you always keep women’s clothing in your cabin?” You ask as he thrusts the bundle of fabrics into your arms. 

“Guests have been known to leave a thing or two behind on certain occasions.” His mismatched gaze glitters with mischief.

With a shriek of disgust, you throw the clothing onto his bed. “If you think for one second I’m going to wear the discarded clothing of your whores, you’re in for a long day.”

“I assume every day is long for those in your company. Put on the clothes or I will put them on for you.”

You bite your tongue before you can dare him to try. 

As you gather up the clothes once more, you realize he makes no move to leave the cabin. 

“Do you mind?” You ask, glancing between him and the door. 

“Mind what?” The cocky tilt to his head tells you he’s playing the fool on purpose. 

“I can’t change with you in the room.”

“I’m not going to leave you alone with enough weapons to stock a small army, not to mention the other valuables,” he scoffs.

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes. “My monthly bill at the modiste could buy your ship ten times over. I don’t need to rob you of your little knick-knacks. Now turn around.”

“You don’t give the orders here.”

“If you want me to change, you’ll have to turn around. If you don’t turn around, I won’t change. What part of that are you struggling with?”

“Your lack of manners, for one thing.”

“Manners?” You all but cackle. The logical part of your mind wakes up enough to remind you that taunting a notorious pirate isn’t wise, but you’re well past that point now. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Your utter lack of any self-preservation instinct is the only laughable thing here. It would serve you well to remember that you are a prisoner.”

“You��ve trapped me on this ship with you, but it would serve you to remember that you’re also trapped with me,” you say. “I’ve made a career out of being an insufferable brat when it serves me. How do you think I slipped the collar of engagement as long as I did?”

“I assumed your personality was deterrent enough without any deliberate enhancements.” The cool smugness laced through his voice makes your mind turn murderous. 

Though, you have to admit you walked right into that one. 

You sway on your feet, mistaking the sensation for the natural bob of the ship through the water. Only when you realize nothing else in the room is affected do you make your way back to the bed. You perch on the edge, crossing one leg over the other and folding your arms across your chest. Your mind redirects all of its energy to not fainting or vomiting. You’re not one for sea sickness but the lack of water, food, and sleep is taking a physical toll. 

Anger leaves you in a rush, the rolling righteousness of it is just too much to sustain. You try to pull it back, needing that anger to shield you from the fear you refuse to let take hold of you. The spark doesn’t relight, but fear doesn’t rise up either. You’re left feeling hollow, wrung out. 

“Are you really going to sit there pouting like a petulant child?” Silco asks.

“I’m simply considering all of the ways I can make it look like you’ve broken your word.” You examine your nails as you level your threat, wishing you could summon more venom to your words. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“If my father finds so much as a bruise on my body, Captain Vander will put you down like a dog. I can starve myself to sickness. One careless step could lead to a laceration. I imagine infections are difficult to combat at sea.”

“You’d go that far?” He tilts his head. His gaze holds not annoyance or anger, but curiosity.

“Instead of wondering how fall I’ll go to ruin your plans, consider what you’re risking. It would be a pity for Jinx to lose out on a real home because you’re too stubborn to turn around while I change.”

Your words strike their mark, perhaps harder than you intended. Rage floods his gaze, but not the burning, breathing rage you’ve come to expect from him. What you see is cold enough to suck the life out of the room and the breath from your lungs. 

“You will not speak of my daughter.” His voice is so quiet you barely catch the words but the threat they carry is enough to make you rethink your next statement.

Still, you aren’t going to let him win this little stalemate. Call it pride, call it a habitual loyalty to propriety, or perhaps it’s a death wish in disguise. You’re going to make him turn around. 

It’s worth a shot appealing to his sense of reason. Besides, you aren’t sure you have the energy to make good on your threats to be relentlessly insufferable but you’ll be damned if he calls your bluff. 

“Look, Silco-”

“You will address me as Captain or nothing at all.” As soon as the curt demand leaves his lips, he realizes his mistake. 

“Nothing it is, then.”

You fall back into stubborn silence. The truce you nearly offered still lingers on your tongue like a half-dissolved sweet. You can either swallow it down or spit it out. 

Turns out, you won’t have to do either. With a long sigh, Silco turns his back on you. “Be quick about it.”

Hm. This little victory doesn’t taste as sweet as you hoped it would. How disappointing.

Undressing quickly is easier said than done. Under normal circumstances, you’d have a maid to assist with the laborious process of dressing and undressing. The lacings of your overdress provide a challenge, but you manage it with some twisting and a few popped seams. 

You lay the ruined garment on the bed. Heaviness settles in your chest. It seems silly to be sad over a dress considering your present predicament but you’re too tired to tuck the useless emotion away.

Glancing over your shoulder, you make sure Silco isn’t peeking at you. As much as you don’t want him to see you in any state of undress, you don’t want to give him the chance to mock you for mourning your gown even more. Once you confirm his back is still turned, you trail your finger along the embroidery at the hem. It’s beautifully done, except for one section. 

Six inches of the pattern was clearly done by another hand. Yours. The day the dress was delivered, you plucked a section clean and spent hours recreating it until it looked somewhat correct. You don’t have a particular interest in needlework or clothesmaking, but it’s a valuable skill to have in your arsenal. 

While you still cling to a thread of hope that you can make your father see reason before you’re forced down the aisle, you have a contingency plan in place. One you do not want to enact but your options are to lose your freedom through the shackle of marriage or lose everything else to gain your freedom. 

If it comes down to that final hour, you will run. 

You have enough money hidden away to buy passage on a ship and bribe the dockmaster to keep your name off the manifest. Wherever you end up, you’re certain you can find a seamstress desperate enough to take pity on you and offer an apprenticeship. It’s a plan that will lead you to months, maybe even years, of toil and discomfort. It’s a plan that will sever you from what little family you have and ensure you’re cast out of good society for the rest of your days. It’s a last resort but, if the time comes, you know you’ll have the mettle to carry it through.

“I cannot fathom what is taking you so long,” Silco snaps, pulling you back to reality. 

You say nothing and set about removing the rest of your layers. Complications arise when you grasp at the back of your corset. The lacings are stiff with dried saltwater and refuse to cooperate with your clumsy fingers. You can’t get out of it on your own. 

“I…find myself in need of assistance.” You keep your eyes on the floor as you hear Silco turn around. “The corset.”

The sound of his boots on the wood grows closer until you can feel a faint warmth radiating from him. 

“The laces,” you stammer. “If you just-”

“I am more than capable of relieving a woman of her corset.” 

You press your lips together as quick fingers prove his words true. The corset loosens. You press your hands to your chest to keep it from slipping down. You feel exposed enough as it is. You swear you can track the movement of his good eye as he takes in the sight of your exposed arms, shoulders, and nape. 

Something white hot and featherlight slips over your skin and twists in your stomach. Anticipation, you realize. Every nerve is alight as you wait for the brush of fingertips you’re certain will come. 

But they don’t. Sillco’s warmth disappears and his boots retreat. You wait a beat before looking over your shoulder. His back is to you once more, hands clasped behind him in a white-knuckle grip. 

You refuse to read his body language, to understand the meaning between tight shoulders and gripping hands. Instead, you dedicate yourself to the task of pulling on the new clothing while removing the old without leaving any part of your body bare. You examine parts of your body as you go. You’re patterned with raw patches where salt and ruined clothing wrecked your skin, rubbing the top layer to feverish irritation. 

The black corset sinches your waist but only reaches your underbust. The fabric of the borrowed shirt is thin, but after the discomfort of scratching fabrics against your skin, you’re glad for the lack of contact. 

You glance at your discarded underclothes, wondering if you should attempt to wear any of them for the sake of propriety, but you can’t stand the thought of the ruined fabric rubbing your skin even more raw than it already is. You forgo all undergarments, leaving yourself bare beneath your skirt. 

“Will this suffice?” You ask, turning around. 

He turns to face you slowly, his eyes roving over your body. 

“Not quite,” he says, approaching you. 

There is an instinct to move away from him, though you know there is nowhere to go. 

He kneels at your feet, the sight of him bowed before you evokes something you’ve never felt before. You don’t know how to name it. You don’t know how to rationalize it. 

The spell breaks the moment he reaches up your skirt. Your heart clenches though his fingers never actually touch your skin. The urge to kick out grips you, but something else lingers underneath. Curiosity. A tiny shift on your part would bring your leg into contact with his hand. 

Before you can decide, his fingers find a small slip of fabric. He pulls it from under your skirt and secures it to a tiny fabric hook sewn near your hip, leaving a high slit exposing part of your leg.

“Are you insane?” You pull away from him. 

“If you’re going to play the harlot, you’ll need to look the part.”

“Excuse me?” You stumble away from him. “Did you just call me a harlot?”

“Harlots don’t draw attention. Well, except in the usual way.” He rises off bended knee to see the shock written all over your face. His eye narrows, irritation ticking through his features. “Don’t look so scandalized. I’m not going to turn you out. No one will question your presence if you look like this.”

“And if someone mistakes me for an actual harlot?” 

Irritation shifts to dark delight. “Then I’ll have the joy of correcting them. Get some sleep.”

Your brows knit together. “Giving up on your promise to keep me within your sights already?”

“Oh, I’m not leaving this room.” He settles into the chair behind the desk. “I have more than enough to deal with right here.”

“And if I don’t need to sleep?”

“You can barely keep your head up, treasure,” he sighs, his attention diverted to one of his many papers. “Port Fairna will be easier on both of us if you’re not stupid with exhaustion.” 

You glare at the top of his head though you are unable to form an argument or even a final insult to throw at him, just to have the last word. Unfortunately, he’s right about one thing. You want to have your wits about you when you step off the Zaun’s Revenge. Your father has an office in most port towns. If you can get to one, you’ll be free of this nightmare and deprive Silco of your ransom. 

A metallic click followed by a hiss of air sucked through teeth draws your attention back to the desk. Silco holds some kind of device in his hands, like a syringe but not quite. His other hand presses a handkerchief against his ruined eye. Pain pinches at the corners of his mouth.

One deep breath restores his composure. The handkerchief and device are put away and a thin wooden box is produced. He opens the lid and plucks something from inside. 

A cigar, as well as a lighter and cutter. The cigar is snipped and lit with practiced movements. He takes a long drag, letting his head fall back. Your gaze flits to the stretch of his neck but, this time, you look away before he catches you. 

A long, slow exhale fills the cabin with an earthy scent, spiced and dynamic. A high-quality cigar, then. Where does a pirate get the funds and knowledge to be selective about cigars?

“Does it bother you?” He asks, a hint of mischief in his voice. 

“Not at all.” It’s not a lie. Your father prefers to host business meetings in the library of the estate. The rugs, curtains, and upholstery is imbued with the scent of many cigars. It’s almost comforting to you now. You’ve taken many a lazy nap in the library, a book left open in your lap or on your chest. 

Silco offers only a light grunt in response before looking back to his papers. Has piracy always come with so much paperwork? 

The rumple of covers and the promise of a soft pillow is too much for you to ignore. You stretch out on the bed, square in the middle. Above you, footfalls crisscross the deck as the crew sets about their daily tasks. The ship sways and you allow yourself to sink into the motion now that you don’t have to worry about bumping into your unwanted bedfellow. 

You slip your hand under your cheek, annoyed when you feel the scrape of shaped metal and gemstones. 

Your engagement ring. You’d forgotten about it. Obviously, you can’t wear it into Port Fairna. You may as well wear a sign that says come rob me. With a glance at Silco to make sure he’s absorbed in his papers, you slip the ring off your finger and tuck it beneath the mattress close to the corner. 

As soon as the weight of it lifts from your finger, you feel a little better. You settle into the pillows again and inhale the scent of smoke and sea, wood and paper. Tension bleeds from your body as sleep comes for you. 

********

thank you @sherwood-forests @silcoitus and @ilikemymendarkandfictional for beta-reading! Part of the crew, part of the ship!

[lullabyes22-blog]

Mal de Mer - Ch: 3 - Treasure (Part I)

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII

꧁꧂

How can you just leave me standing? Alone in a world that's so cold Maybe I'm just too demanding Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold?

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

The SS Woe Betide's promenade deck is a study in sun-drenched elegance.

The broad stretch of honey-gold planks is polished to a high shine. Floor-to-ceiling windows run the length of the walkway, their glass etched with sunburst motifs. Behind the glass, the water is dappled into a spray of gold and diamonds. The waves, rolling in drowsy combers of lapis lazuli and sapphire, call to mind a treasurebox tipped sideways: all its secrets spilling across the seabed.

A pirate's dream come true.

Silco’s outfit fits right in. He's clad in a loose red shirt with the sleeves rolled to the forearms. A worsted black waistcoat, long and narrow, drapes his angular shoulders and sways with his stride. His trousers, matching the jacket, are tailored in the style of sailor's breeches: unpleated, and tapering at the calves.  A pair of scuffed boots, pointed at the toes, complete the ensemble.

The effect is flattering, but ruthlessly functional. He looks ready to cross the gangplank to a pirate's cutter.

His smile, when he glances sidelong at Mel, is piratical too: full of teeth, and no good intent. 

"My dear," he drawls, "I asked you to lose the chiffon."

"This," Mel says, "is tulle."

"The difference?"

"A world of it."

"And yet the effect's the same."

His scrutiny is a physical paring down. Mel, not a woman given to blushes, feels a smarting heat. 

There is, she tells herself, nothing wrong with her day-gown. It's the plainest in her wardrobe. A square-necked cream frock, the hem ending at mid-calf. The bodice is a high-waisted, empire-line affair. The only adornments are the delicate golden embroidery edging the diaphanous sleeves. It's a demure look: a far cry from the haute-couture she usually favors—the ones Silco dubs Vehicles of Voyeurism. Even her calfskin boots, ankle-length and plain, are the closest she's got to seafaring. She'd chosen them, and the matching leather belt, for their durability.

Whatever her husband's plans, she'd rather not lose a pair of Tanzanite-studded Manolovas to the briny depths.

Silco, head tilted, appraises her footwear. "Are those Topside's idea of boots?"

"They're called oxfords." 

"They're a disgrace."

"You're not a shoemaker!" Exasperated, Mel smooths out her skirts. "I've never seen a pair like yours before. And my father was an admiral."

"You mean, mercenary."

"My point is: I have spent a lifetime on ships. I know seamen's boots. Those—" she gestures at Silco's, "—are anything but."

"They're Fissure-boots. We call them 'kickers'." He rotates his ankle to show her the sole. "The undersides are covered in rivets. For grip. They're useful for slippery surfaces. But if you snag them on a rail, or trip over a hatch cover, you can slip them off in three shakes of a rat's tail. All the better to run."

"Run from what?"

A ghost of a smile. "What do you think?"

"Enforcers."

"Enforcers aren't the only disasters belowground. Temblors. Fires. Cave-ins. We have all sorts." Musingly, he regards his boots. "Running's a way of life for us."

Mel thinks of her first descent into the Fissures. The smoke-clogged streets that denied visibility. The gaping pits of rubble that threatened each step. The clammy grip of moisture that slicked each surface. Everywhere she'd looked, she’d seen the endless scars of Topside's neglect. Afterward, the waft of destruction had clung to her skin. Like the phantom sensation of Silco's hand on hers, and the insinuating thread of his voice in her ear:

"Watch your step. Rough roads in Zaun."

She'd wondered how the Fissurefolk withstood their lot. Their suffering seemed unendurable: the weight of it, the sheer, crushing tragedy. No matter where her thoughts turned, it was always there: the knowledge that her city, the jewel of Progress, had been rotting away below her feet.

The people, trapped beneath, dying by degrees.

In those days, she'd been unnerved by that strange and alien world. Unnerved, too, by Silco. The duality of him was at once alluring and repulsive. His elegance was a facade, as thin as the film of iridescent oil floating on Zaun's waters.  Beneath, there was nothing but a ravenous dark. 

 And yet, she'd found herself returning. To the dark, and to him. And each time, the city's alienness seemed to peel away. The Fissurefolk, in all their idiosyncrasies, morphed from feral enigmas to fellow human beings. Even Silco, for all his unsettling contradictions, went from a terrible specter to a thrilling challenge.

A man, with his own stories. His own heartbreaks.

Bit by bit, his world had become hers. He'd made it so: with colorful tales about the murals peeking between the subterranean ruins at Factorywood. With sips of fizzy green lager brewed in the sunless cellars beneath the catacombs in Entresol. With strolls, arm-in-arm, along the pyrite studded rock formations that rimmed the shantytowns in the Sumps. He'd taught her the dances popular among the Fissurefolk—the Sumpside Waltz, the Drainpipe Fandango, the Lazy River Lope—and the meanings behind their twists and turns. He'd invited her to the most surreal festivals—the Equinox Feast, the Night of the Veiled Lady—and imparted the significance behind their customs.  He'd fed her delicacies from the food carts dotting the street corners—spiced mushroom stew, glazed eel, pickled beets—and shared the recipes behind their unique flavors.

And all the while, his voice had woven a spell. The longer she’d listened, the less Zaun seemed a hellhole, but a hidden gem. Each facet, a winking, ever-shifting kaleidoscope of human life—one as rich as any jewelbox in Piltover's Ecliptic Vaults.

Treasure, Mel thinks, isn't always gold.

"Perhaps," she dares, "I'll buy myself a pair of 'kickers'."

His brow quirks. "You'd be in for a rude surprise."

"Oh?"

"Our best boots are cobbled at the Commercia Fantastica. All the way down in the Black Lanes. You'd never find your way out."

"You'll show me."

"Will I?" His mismatched eyes take on a shrewd gleam. "And how will you compensate me?"

"By being your wife."

"Is that the new currency, now?"

"The press certainly say so."

Her mind is already sketching out a blueprint. She'll speak to one of her contacts in the publishing industry: a gazetteer of Fissure origins.  They'll contrive a series: maybe a pictorial. All the splendor of the Commercia Fantastica, faithfully rendered in glossy print. Piltover's glitterati will have their first glimpse into the heart of Zaun's manufacturing district. It will be a reminder that their cornucopia—be it custom-made or uniform—does not issue from an orifice hidden in clouds of smut. It materializes from an epicenter of artisanship: a beating, booming, pulsating hub.

One that's only a hop, skip, and jump away.

If previous efforts are a litmus for success, then one photograph of Mel in the latest 'kickers' will spark a stampede for the bootsellers' doors. In the surge, the adjacent markets will benefit: textiles, silversmiths and jewelers. And once the novelty wears off, the lull will be a soft landing for honest Fissure tradesmen eager to partner with Piltover's guilds. The latter, inured to the mercurial whims of high fashion, will now demand durability rather than design.  And the former, accustomed to the rigors belowground, will find the Piltover's middle-class an easier breed to please.

All that's necessary is a few photographs, and a dash of goodwill.

A small price, Mel thinks, for shared prosperity.

"You are," Silco says, with a degree of wryness, "scheming."

"Takes one to know one."

"I never scheme. I merely plan ahead."

"Same difference."

"Scheming requires an adversary. Planning, a vision."

"And what's yours?"

A corner of his mouth curls. "Good try."

Mel sighs. He is always maddeningly closemouthed about his agenda. It will take more than pretty prattle to pry the details loose. The only clues she can glean are from his choice of attire—and his critique of her boots.

Whatever his plan, it involves getting their feet wet.

Mel is wary. But she knows better than to fill the silence with futile queries. He proffers his arm; she takes it. Together, they stroll down the promenade deck. After a week confined to the cabin, the sea air is a heady tonic. The loose weave of her dress is a kiss against her skin.  She is still lit up like a klieg-light: her body hot and hyperaware after the morning's exertions. 

She seldom, as rule, makes love in the daytime. To her way of thinking, the act, in sunlight, loses some of its artistry. Everything reduced to the crudest mechanics. Every flaw in full relief. Even Jayce had been his loveliest in the twilight. All shadow, all suggestion.

With Silco, daylight is fast becoming her favorite hour.  Like the sun-warmed vista, she is all sensation.

Speculatively, Mel steals him a glance.  If it weren't the height of lunacy, she'd consider dragging him straight back to bed. To hell with the guests. To hell with his plans. They can return to their suite, and bolt the door. Spend the rest of the day, and the night, and the next morning, in a state of well-earned debauchery.

But the set of Silco's features warns her that's a losing battle. 

It's not tension, exactly. More a dark anticipation. Like the way he'd looked, at Zaun's Riverside Harbor, when they'd first met. He'd known then that Zaun would drag itself out of the depths. And Mel, meeting his eyes, had known too.

He'd been certain then. Now, the certainty is a riptide. And Mel, who's never been swept off her feet, can't help but be tugged along.

She's grateful for her boots. She suspects she'll need the grip.

They cross the promenade. Silco’s stroll is measured: a mark of ownership rather than a man marking time. Barely a week's span, and the ship is already seems to belong to him.  The crew, at his barest footfall, leap to attention. Even the Captain, an irascible old seadog, treats him with a distance verging on deference. Mel remembers the same phenomenon on her father's ship: the Cry Havoc. His crew were seasoned hands: calloused minds with checkered pasts. They'd spent a lifetime at sea, and encountered their fair share of the unfathomable. They were also superstitious, and possessed a healthy fear of the uncanny.

Silco, a figment of the fathoms, is uncanny through and through.

In a different life, Mel fancies, he'd be the silhouette idling on sharp rocks, his smoky voice pitched to wooing: Come, come, and never be lonely again.

Her husband, in this one, catches the eye of a passing steward. A nod is all it takes: the man turns on his heel and disappears belowdeck.

"Where is he going?" Mel asks.

"To fetch something."

"Fetch what?"

"What I've asked him to."

Another nod at a nearby sailor. The man hastens to the foredeck. There, Mel can hear a skiff—one of Piltover's quicksilvers—revving its engines. Readying to go where, Mel cannot begin to guess. They're miles off the coast. The nearest harbor—the Wuju port—is three hours away.

Unless Silco means to sail his guests directly to shore, his destination is a mystery.

Then again, she thinks, isn’t it always?

His palm cups her elbow. "Mel."

She stirs from her reverie. "What?"

"I have a request."

"A request?"

"Yes."

His hand, settling on her hip, guides her to a halt. He's not smiling. But there's a heat in his stare. It's not an easy heat to name. It's not desire, or even hunger. It's something deeper: a pull it takes everything to resist.

 "You must," he says, "make me a promise."

"You expect me to make promises, when you won't tell me a thing?"

"Only this: you're in for a surprise or two."

"Silco—"

"I've a plan. Not a pretty one. And it'll mean a bit of rough sailing. But what's true of storms is true of marriage." His mouth twitches. "There's no winners. Only survivors."

"You aren't doing a good job at selling this."

"I'm not trying to sell it. I'm only telling you that, when we're out there—in the ballroom, on the high sea—don't run."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because it's instinct. Trenchers run for survival. It's in our blood. Medardas run from loss. It's in yours." His eyes search hers. "I don't fault your blood. I only ask you to remember.  When the winds start picking up, and the waters get choppy, your instinct will be to take cover. But the storm's not what you think. And if you're going to stay on course, you can't retreat. You have to see this through." His thumb strokes her hipbone. "Promise."

"Even if you run us aground?"

"Do you think you've married a fool?"

"Do you think you're married to one?"

Their stares lock. The silence is charged. It is not challenge, but a quiet recognition of each others' roles. She is not a woman to expose herself to the raw elements. He is not a man to sit back and let the tides dictate his course.  Their relationship has been a negotiation, from the first to the last. Each taking a turn at the helm, and then trading it away.

Now, he's asking her to—what?

Trade, or give it up?

"If," Mel says, "there's a danger—"

"There isn't."

"But you believe I'll run."

"Not you. But the woman in there—" he tips his chin toward the ballroom, "—isn't the one who waxes poetic about painting me nude in the sunlight. She's a Medarda first, second, and last. And a Medarda always has an escape route."

"The woman in there—" Mel follows his chin, and sees, through the frosted glass, a knot of swaying silhouettes, "—is a Medarda by birth. She's married to you by choice. And I can't keep my promise, if I don't know what that choice means."

"Then I'll ask again." His eyes hold hers. "Trust me."

"Trust you? Or the man who's warned me not to run?"

"That's the point."

"Is it?"

"Trust that, whatever happens, the man you've married is the same man in that ballroom." His palm spans the small of her back. "I've no alter egos, Mel. Just moments where I show teeth, and moments where I hide them. And right now, I've a great deal to hide. But the endgame is the same as your schemes for my city: a step toward something greater."

"For Zaun, and Piltover?"

"I wouldn't put it that way."

"How would you put it?"

His mouth, mere inches from hers, crooks. "Compromise."

Mel's pulse skitters.

It's a hard bargain to swallow. A harder choice to make. And she, who's made a fine art of tipping the scales, knows that both are equally vital, if this union is to have a prayer of survival. And yet the urge to break away, to force a confrontation, is surging.

She's used to his obliqueness. She's not, and will never, be used to his unpredictability.

When he says Don't run, he means Hold your ground. When he says Surprise, he means Beware.

And when he says Compromise, he means, in his own words: Survive.

Then he says, "Trust me."

Which, she's learning, is his shorthand for, Trust yourself.

Mel's mouth pinches. Trust. Doubt. These are two sides of the same coin. His past, and hers, laid bare without veils. Moments like this, she's reminded of the enormous gamble she's taken by marrying him. She knows, from her own experience, how quickly trust can curdle into the opposite. And she knows, too, that doubt can devour the sturdiest edifice.

It had, after all, devoured her parents' marriage.

Ambessa Medarda, no sentimentalist, had not married for love. Her choice was pragmatic, and it was prudent. From a broad swathe of suitors, ranging from bluebloods to brutes, she'd selected Mel's father, a swarthy, scarred captain from the Targonian Isles. Known, simply, as Aziz, he'd possessed a devious head for deals, and a deft tongue for wooing. His clan were descended from a line of seafaring mercenaries. Over the centuries, they'd carved a bloody path on a shifting sea of wars, alliances, and compromises.

Aziz had met Ambessa during a trading venture. It had been, by all accounts, an explosive collision.

Ambessa had admired the way he squared his debts with a bladesman's exacting precision, and wielded his real blade with a cutthroat's clarity. He, in turn, was taken by her ruthless pragmatism, and her cold-eyed resolve.

There'd been no need, in the end, to seek approval from either clan. The match was mutually advantageous: her riches, and his ships, would forge a dynasty.

Theirs was not, by any metric, a love-match. Yet Mel remembers the heat, the intensity, and the sheer physicality of her parents' union. With Aziz, Ambessa became, despite her hardness, a creature of feeling. And Aziz, for all his wily ways, became a man of sentiment.

They'd quarreled often, publicly. They'd butted heads over business, and brawled over trifles. But they'd also made up in the same fashion: two titans, clashing in a storm.

Mel, since girlhood, knew never to knock on her parents' bedchamber door when she heard raised voices.

She'd witnessed the aftermath, once. After a particularly savage row, Ambessa had stormed from their marital suite, and headed for the stables. Aziz, stalking soundlessly after, had caught up with her halfway there. In the middle of the courtyard, they'd fought anew. Aziz, seizing her waist, had swung her in. Ambessa, kicking out, had knocked his legs from under him. Together, they'd fallen into the thatch of wildflowers behind the copse of cypress trees.

Their cries were not, Mel had realized with a dawning horror, cries of pain.

They'd been so preoccupied, they hadn't noticed her creeping closer. They'd not seen her stare, through the screen of foliage, as their fierce struggles devolved into a fiercer embrace. And as they did, a surreal alchemy took place: Ambessa, all wildfire and iron, began to melt. Aziz, all seaspray and stone, began to yield.

Mel, unable to tear her eyes away, saw the exact moment they transformed. A moment before, they'd been two warring elements. A moment later, they were one. And the power of it, the raw, unmitigated passion: it was a force beyond the comprehension of an eight-year-old girl.

That day, Mel sometimes thinks, is when she'd learnt that the strongest forces can be unmade by desire.

Love, fear, fury: they were not, as she'd childishly believed, discrete entities. They were all part of a single current, ebbing and flowing, and changing course with the tides.

Later, much later, her parents had subsided into a languid sprawl. Ambessa's head, pillowed on her husband's shoulder. Aziz's fingers, stirring through his wife's curls. Their bodies, twined, were a study in drowsy contentment.

"Never leave me," Aziz had whispered.

"Why should I," Ambessa had purred, "when I've already cut out your heart?"

"That you have. Now, it's yours."

Ambessa's lips, curving, had found his throat. "Then remember, Schatze, I'll do worse to any woman who dares to claim it."

Schatze.

That was her private designation for him. Treasure.

Her one and only.

And she'd meant it, Mel thinks now. Meant it in the way a warrior, who's seen a thousand battles, will fight her last. She'd fought him, and he'd fought her, and they'd taken shelter in each other. Over and over. For twenty years, their marriage was the stuff of legend: a dynastic alliance, and a private whirlwind. They'd begotten two children, lost two more before birth, and spawned a military empire.

Until their union, with the same suddenness as their collision, came undone.

Aziz had, during one of Ambessa's war-campaigns, chosen a mistress. This, in itself, was not unheard of. The men of the Targonian line were notoriously philandering, and the woman of the Medarda clan were notoriously pragmatic. Ambessa, who'd not only kept her own paramours, but had changed them with the frequency of a Piltovan noblewoman changing her gloves, had never begrudged her husband his dalliances. She'd even handpicked a few herself, including the mistress Aziz so doted upon.

The choice had proven fatal.

She was a pretty thing, Mel remembers. Pale as a lily, and shrewd as a serpent. She'd beguiled Aziz with her beauty, and bound him with her wits. In the span of months, her hold on him grew implacable. By the time Ambessa, returning from a year-long absence, realized what had happened, the damage was done.

She'd discovered Aziz gone, along with three-fifths of their battleships.

Ambessa was not a woman prone to tears. Now, her fury was a black inferno. She'd raged, and she'd razed, and she'd sworn to see the mistress decapitated, with her golden head on a pike. Her pursuit of the wayward pair had been relentless, and the carnage, legendary. She'd burnt villages to the ground. She'd sunk fleets to the bottom of the sea.

And when, finally, she'd had the chance to close her fist around her husband's neck... it was too late.

Aziz had succumbed to a tropical fever. He'd been bedridden and delirious when his ship was waylaid by Ambessa's fleet. The mistress, by then, had already fled with whatever riches she could carry. 

When Ambessa had stormed into her husband's cabin, Aziz, on the verge of death, had mustered a crooked smile.

"My lioness," he'd rasped, "have you come to finish the job?"

Ambessa's fury, like a house of cards, had collapsed at the sight of him. She'd flung her scimitar aside, and fallen to her knees at her husband's bedside. His ramblings—of repentance, of devotion, of the children he'd left behind—had been shushed by her kisses. The entire night, she'd sat vigil, cajoling and bargaining and finally, begging.

To no avail.

Aziz had perished at dawn. He'd died, as he'd lived, with a smile on his lips.

For Ambessa, the fearsome general who'd won a hundred battles, this was the first true defeat. But she'd not wept, or wailed, or rent her hair. She'd only kissed Aziz's forehead, and smoothed his lids shut. Then, with a composure born of pure iron, she'd ordered his body laid out onto a wooden funeral bier, and floated out to sea, before it was set ablaze in the Targonian custom with five dozen flaming arrows.

When the sun had set, and the smoke had dissipated, she'd hefted her scimitar and turned her eyes to the horizon.

There are a thousand and one ways a Medarda avenges a slight.

Aziz's mistress would learn them all.

And soon.

Ambessa's troops had cornered the woman, in a tiny port town along the southern coast. By then, she'd spent every last coin she'd stolen from her dead lover, and had nothing left to offer in her defense. Not that coin would've made a difference. When Ambessa, flanked by her honor-guard, arrived at the tavern where her quarry was hiding, there'd been no mercy, and no negotiation. The woman, bound and gagged, was dragged to the center of town, and flung at the feet of her former benefactress.

"For my Schatze," Ambessa had vowed, "I'll make this slow."

And she did.

In front of the entire town, she'd cut out the woman's tongue, and plucked out her eyes. She'd hacked her fingers and her toes. She'd flayed her skin, and slit open her chest. And as the woman's life bled out, Ambessa had at last carved out her heart.

It was, in its ghastly way, a fitting recompense.

In the years afterward, Ambessa had grown harder. More ruthless. The light that once shone in her eyes—that strange, fierce light, whenever she'd looked at her husband—had flickered, and faded away. She'd gone on to wage numberless wars. She'd had lovers by the score.  She'd built a legacy, and an empire.

But her husband, she never replaced.

Schatze.

She'd still call him that, whenever she reminisced. The endearment was its own admission; the sentiment, its own confession.

Ambessa Medarda did not marry for love. But she'd loved, and lost, nonetheless.

Schatze.

Mel, in the heart of herself, knows the word. It is worth its weight in gold—and the poorest possible investment. Men, as a rule, are faithless. Even the ones who seem, in the sunlight, like perfect princelings. And sharks, as a law, never stop swimming. Even if the water's blue for miles.

To trust one is to invite hurt. And to trust the other is to invite teeth.

Mel knows the price of a life-bitten heart.

And yet, in the depths of passion, she trusts Silco with hers.

Because, in the afterglow, languid and spent, she sometimes calls him Schatze, too.

Now, Mel meets Silco's stare. His eyes, even at their softest, hold an edge. But she senses no hidden blade. Only his palm, cradling the base of her spine. Only his body, a hairsbreadth from hers. And his words, in the space between: Trust me.

A choice, not a compromise.

Mel, slowly, nods.

"You'd better deliver,” she says. “I'm not sure my boots can handle anything worse than the waves."

"If you'd heeded my advice—"

"Don't."

Her tone brooks no argument. In turn, his humor melts.

He steps back, and bows. It's not a courtly gesture. It's like a wolf acknowledging a packmate. Mel, who's seen a hundred bows, is surprised by the sincerity of this one. It's a subtle, almost invisible dip. But she sees, in its execution, trust.

He, who is never truly vulnerable, is exposing the nape of his neck.

"Shall we?" He straightens with a small smile. "The parasites await."

"The parasites are our guests." Mel slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. "I hope you're ready to play the host."

His smile grows "Are you forgetting who I am?"

He stalks toward the ballroom door. His shadow, elongated by the sunlight, is a knife.

And Mel, her heart suddenly in her throat, knows this: She cannot run.

Even if, by a sudden inexplicable compulsion, she wants to.

The ballroom is an idyll of Art Deco delights.

A high vaulted ceiling, inlaid with mosaics of sea-nymphs, arches overhead. A chandelier, dangling like a glittering pendulum, sends a nimbus of refracted light across each polished surface.  The floor is a checkered parquet, alternating in shades of teak and rosewood. In the far-corner, a circular bar-island of carved cherrywood serves an array of spirits. A sunken dancefloor, honeycombed in a tessellation of rose marble, is ringed by a quartet of brass-trimmed alcoves. Inside, frosted glass windows, edged with intricate filigree patterns, frame different views of the blue horizon. 

Waitstaff bustle with trays of champagne flutes and silver-domed trays of hors d'oeuvres. The guests, in their daytime finery, are milling about. All seem mystified by the ship's anchorage. No doubt whispers have already begun stirring: mutiny, sabotage, ransom.

At Silco and Mel's entrance, heads swivel. The conversation eddies into silence.  

Mel thinks: It's like the moment before a battle.

She gives herself a quick mental inventory. Dress: immaculate. Persona: impeccable. Expression: impassive.

A soldier, Ambessa liked to say, is only as good as their armor.

Silco's hand, finding hers, imparts a squeeze: Ready?

Mel squeezes back. Always.

Then, falling away, they diverge to different ends of the room.

It is their formula: tried and true. He hates to be tethered. She hates to be steered. So they meet, and part, and find each other again. Two ships crossing the same sea, with a hundred currents swirling beneath.

And between them: the fulcrum of their cities' fates.

Silco drifts soundlessly to the bar. The crowd parts as he crosses. Mel, watching, marvels at the smoothness of his gait. His body, like a blade, cuts its way implacably through the tide.  Peeling it back, layer by layer, until all the pretense fall away. She notes who shrinks back, who stands their ground, who dares to come closer.  In their body-language, she reads volumes: curiosity, contempt, caution.

The Eye of Zaun has that effect. Even among the constellations of power, he exudes his own. It's nothing to do with size or swagger. It is simply that his presence, in any room, becomes a gravity well.  The most ambitious—eager for a taste of danger—drift closer. The most prudent—wary of his reputation—keep their distance.

Silco, in turn, exudes a usual glacial calm: his eyes taking in everything and giving away nothing. 

In that, Mel thinks, he is nothing like Jayce.

Jayce, a born idealist, radiated human warmth. It was a private foible and a public asset: his shining smile and his sheer, stubborn, indomitable belief in Progress.  In the beginning, Mel had been charmed his capacity for optimism. As his business partner, she'd seen the way his earnest goodwill thawed the frostiest investors. As his lover, she'd been seduced by his sheer, unabashed passion.

In a world of tepid greys, Jayce was abrash, exuberant burst of brightness. And his ardor was a gift that kept giving. He'd brought color back into Mel's life. He'd given her a glimpse of the world as it could be, not as it was: a place of endless possibility.

If they only had the will to grasp it.

She'd taken a gamble on him. And at every step, he'd rewarded her. He'd made her smile. He'd made her think. He'd made her want to be more than she was: more daring, more defiant, more dauntless. And she'd made him stronger, in turn. She'd guided him through the slippery labyrinth of politics, tempered his bullheaded choices with cool pragmatism, and steered him, on occasion, from complete disaster.

With her, he'd believed anything was possible. With him, she'd felt the same.  A perfect balance of ambition, beauty, and intellect.

The Golden Couple, the press had dubbed them.

But Jayce, for all his merits, was not a man to cut his own path. He'd never known the grinding ache of a hunger weaned by birthright. Never felt the keenness of the knife, twisting, with a mother's silence. Never known a world where privilege was not a promise kept, but a golden garotte around the throat.

For the Medardas, the ethos of power was not glory. It was survival. That was what the bloodline was bred for, and what it demanded: the need to claw its way to the apogee, and stay there.

But every apogee, a voice whispers, needs a nadir.

There is no peak without the abyss. And every climb is a fall, waiting to happen.

Jayce, born into a life of ease, never understood. And the brightness of his dream, pure and perfect, became Mel's blind spot. She'd seen the world, and their place in it: a vast, glorious expanse of the unimaginable. He'd stand by her, and she'd stand up for him, and together, they'd forge a new era.

Until, in the worst way, they had.

Their city ruptured. Their dream, in shreds. Their bond, an ash-pit.

Mel accepts the glass of pineapple juice a passing steward offers. Sipping, she thinks once more of Jayce: his easygoing smile, his boundless idealism.  Then she lets the golden memories fall away in favor of what is right in front of her: the man she'd found at the bottom of that ash-pit.

And he, finding her, had shown her a different dream. A darker one: bleeding and yet never dying. Two cities, joined, against all odds.

Rising, by any means necessary.

Their eyes meet across the room. Silco, in conversation with a sparse clutch of older men, is watching her with a quiet intensity. Under his scrutiny, she feels like a gemstone held up to the light. Like she did this morning: caught, and pinned, and in a state of sublime surrender.

A curl at the corner of his mouth says: I see you.

Mel lifts her glass in a mock-toast.

Enjoy the show.

Smiling, she steps into the fray.

If Silco is the gravity well, Mel is the sun. The moment she materializes, the atmosphere transforms: a gloriole of life. The silence swirls into animated chatter. The guests, like celestial bodies, align into orbit. A chorus of well-wishes rises: Mel, darling, how are you feeling? — Councilor Medarda, how splendid to see you on your feet!—My dearest Melusine! At last, you've emerged!

Mel, her smile calibrated to dazzle, accepts their tributes with grace. In diplomacy, timing is everything. And she, every word fine-tuned for maximum impact, knows how to walk the line between approachability and allure.  One moment she's regaling the group with a quip that dissolves them into gales of laughter. The next, she's demurring a bold overture with an artful pivot and a cool flutter of lashes.

It's an old song, and she's a seasoned player. Human emotions are a string quartet. She's learned, since girlhood, that her talent lies in knowing the right string to pluck. A smile to coax a dowager's taut cadences into a cello's mellow depth. A murmur to set off a young man's somber oboe into a high-spirited spill of arpeggios. A touch to elicit, from an aging general's lascivious violin, a full, rich chord of rapture.

And Mel: the maestra. Coaxing melody from dissonance, and bringing the whole ensemble into harmony.

Now, she plucks the closest string in reach:  the Demacian dignitary's wife. The woman's a social stalwart: moneyed, magpie-eyed, and a moralist of the first degree. Paired with a penchant for petty gossip, she is the chief purveyor of the aristocracy's scandal-mill. 

But her pedigree is a goldmine, and her support is a vital step toward Zaun's ascent into the global spotlight.

Mel, accordingly, makes her the target of a subtle campaign.

"Lady Dennings," she says, with a radiant smile. "How lovely to see you."

"Mel!" Lady Dennings, her peacock fan a blur of emerald and azure, flutters over. "By the Protector! What a fright you gave us! A week belowdeck—and nary a glimpse above!"

"I do apologize for the alarm."

"Alarm? My dear, we believed you were at death's door! And your husband, that dreadful man! He made a jape of it! Every evening, our queries about your health were met with a different tale." The fan flutters faster. "First, you were abed with ague. Then: bitten by a viper. And then—the final outrage—you were abducted by pirates!"

"Oh," Mel says, and can't quite stop the smile from curling,

"Oh? Mel, is that all you can say?"

"What else would you have me say?"

"Acknowledgment! The man's a rapscallion—and a devil!"

Mel's eyes go guilelessly round. "Devil?"

"Of the highest order!" The fan snaps shut, and the falsetto drops. "The word is, he forcibly confined you to your berth for six nights! All to conduct an infernal Fissure ritual. The bride, stripped and bound as a sacrifice to the dark gods. Then—" a shudder, "—a barbaric consummation. Is it true, my dear? Tell me it's not. Tell me you've not been brutalized in some pagan sacrament!"

Mel hides a smile behind the rim of her glass. Her mind conjures a vision of Silco, in a dark cloak, looming over her bound and naked body. The glow of his bad eye: a fire opal offset by a dozen low-burning candles.

The scenario is not, she admits, without its unholy thrill.

But the Dennings are a devoutly religious clan. Like the rest of Demacia, their stance on magic is unequivocally condemnatory. If they had their way, all practitioners of the arcane would be hung, drawn, and quartered. Even the mention of the subject is enough to provoke an apoplexy.

No doubt, during Mel's weeklong absence, Lady Dennings' imagination—and tongue—have been running rampant. Her mind, already primed to find fault with the union, will seize upon the most sordid scrap. In the process, she inadvertently reveals how little she understands of Zaun.

Or, indeed, what transpires in the privacy of the marital bedchamber.

The Dennings own marriage of a year, if Elora's reports are true, has gone unconsummated. Whether it's due to her husband's crippling bashfulness, or her own pie-eyed prudishness, is an open question. This voyage, at the behest of the Dennings patriarch, is a final bid for the pair to prove their mettle. A successful coupling—an heir—would seal a lucrative merger between their clans. Whereas a failure on both counts would see them disinherited.

Lord and Lady Dennings, on borrowed time, feel each bell-toll keenly. A pity they cannot share the same cabin together without squabbling incessantly.

Silco, possessing no surfeit of sympathy for prudish quirks and provincial qualms, has summed up the couple's predicament thus:

"Two virgins, and not a lick of sense between them."

It's a brutally sound assessment. But not, Mel thinks, without a measure of pity.

It must be excruciating to suffer the weight of a parent's expectations in such a private sphere. Not to mention the public mortification, should the failure come to light.  

Fortunately, Mel's mind has sketched out a satisfactory solution.

Somberly, she says, "It's true."

"Dear heavens! You mean—?!"

"Bound to the bedframe, with a length of silk." Mel circles a finger along the rim of her glass. "But not for reasons you imagine."

Lady Dennings, eyes wide, is already imagining a great deal. "Gracious, Mel! What was he thinking?"

"Chiefly, of my safety."

"Safety—yes!" Lady Dennings clasps one of Mel's hands in both her own. "Zaunite men are a barbaric lot! Look at their women: all pinched cheeks and blackened eyes. They're beasts, by any other name. The notion that a darling such as yourself—" another shudder, "—locked in a cabin, and subjected to deflowering...!"

Mel's eyebrows wing skyward. In her ear, she can practically hear Silco's drawl:

What, precisely, am I deflowering? Your left nostril? The right's seen its share of traffic.

Taking another sip of juice, she stifles her snort.  The Demacian peerage hold such archaic notions about chastity.  Silco, if he ever caught wind, would take fiendish delight in dismantling them.

Fortunately, Silco is elsewhere. And Mel, more fortuitously, has the perfect string to pluck.

"My dear Lady Dennings," she chides gently. "You must put aside those scurrilous pamphlets." 

"Scurrilous?"

"The ones from the gutter-press. Written, I wager, after a tankard of rotgut. I hear the stories, myself: the Fissurefolk, sacrificing virgins to demigods. Drinking the blood of newborn babes. Really, it's too much. One would think, given the scope of their enterprise, that their hours would be better employed." A sip of juice, sweet on the tongue. "They should write, instead, of Zaun's many wonders."

"Wonders?"

"Their herbal tinctures, for one." Her tone, perfectly balanced between soothing and secretive, reels the woman in. "You see, I'd been struck with a terrible fever. Sweats, delirium, and the most excruciating chills. If I hadn't been bed-bound, I might have taken a tumble down the stairs. Or flung myself into the sea."

"By the Light! And he—what, locked you up?"

"As a precaution. Nothing more.  Mine was a rather stubborn malady. After five days' vigil, Silco took it upon himself to brew a concoction. A tea, of sorts. Boiled from powdered red clover. Quite astringent, but most effective." Mel sighs. "I haven't felt so well-rested in years."

It did not occur in exactly that fashion. Mel was too woozy to summon the particulars. All she recalls is Silco's shadow looming in. A cup's rim, steaming, pressed to her lips. A bracing tang, and the slow, steady, searing drip down her throat.

She'd succumbed to sleep right after. But she'd awoken much refreshed, and lucid.

When she'd queried him, Silco had shrugged: It's a tonic for the blood. Fire it up, and sweat the fever out.

With the smallest of smirks:  Good for firing up the loins, too.

Lady Dennings is listening raptly. "He tended to you, personally?"

"Like a physician. Only sweeter." A wistful sigh. "It's a rare man who'll kneel at his lady's bedside." She doesn't, in fact, recall much kneeling. But every good story needs a spin. Diplomacy's bedrock is built on well-told fiction. "Truly, the tales of Zaunite men as brutes are wildly untrue.  In their own way, they're quite..." A delicate pause, "... devoted."

"Oh, indeed?"

"I dare not divulge too much. Modesty compels me. But..." Mel's register drops. "... I will say this: Zaunites may lack the polish of a Piltovan gentleman. But they more than make up for it with the... ardor... of their pursuit."

Lady Dennings' mouth forms a perfect 'O.' "Gracious!"

"Gracious? No. Gratifying? Certainly." Mel's lips curve. "And gratifyingly often."

Lady Dennings turns a telling shade of carnation. "Dear me. That's—how intriguing!"

"Isn't it?" Another sip, and a deeper smile. "The Fissures, I find, have much to teach us. I've only just begun my lessons. But I've made such fascinating discoveries. Did you know, for instance, that powdered red clover, steeped in tea, has an aphrodisiacal effect?"

"An aphro—really?"

"Really. It's quite potent. In fact, it can be used as an antidote for..." Then, as if remembering herself. "But forgive me. This is no place to discuss such a delicate subject. I must beg your discretion."

Lady Dennings, fan fluttering, has gone from carnation to crimson. There is, as Mel suspected, a great deal of pent-up frustration simmering below that prissy surface.

Mel makes her move: a single strum, and a long, sustained note of intimacy.

"If you're amenable," she murmurs, "I'll share more details with you. Perhaps over a quiet tea? Just us girls."

"I—yes! Of course! Red clover, you say?"

"A singular plant. It grows at the edges of the Fissure cliffs.  Many a scholar has written of the benefits." A conspiratorial dip of lashes. "You and your lord husband may find the taste a revelation."

"My, erm, husband," Lady Dennings stammers, "is quite—" fan dangling limply, "—fastidious."

"Then, my dear, it is high time he was reacquainted with his reckless youth."

"Oh, Mel, do you truly think...?"

"I shall do better." Mel imparts a light squeeze to the woman's arm. "I will send a gift with you: a small satchel, for your bedchamber. Try a spoonful, with two glasses of cold water. One for yourself. And the other, to share." A significant silence, then a final pluck. "The results, I promise, will be expeditious."

Lady Dennings' eyes take on a hopeful gleam. "How expeditious?"   

"Let's just say: by the summer's end, you'll be celebrating more than your wedding anniversary."

It works like a charm. Lady Dennings, clutching Mel's hands, exclaims, "My dear girl, you're a dove! I shall owe you a thousand favors!"

"None required." Mel's smile is sunshine through clouds. "Consider it a gift, from a dear friend."

"You darling thing! We shall have a girl's talk tonight. And afterward—" a flushing glance toward her husband, stoop-shouldered and sour-faced in the corner, "—why, we'll see what comes."

With luck, him, and you too, Mel thinks.

"Tonight, then," she says. "I'll have a basket sent up to your cabin. But remember—ssh. It is a private affair." Her fingertip, pressed playfully to her lips, earns a titillated twinkle. "Now, if you'll pardon me. I must catch up with the others."

"Oh, of course! I shan't hold you up." Lady Dennings' fan resumes its flutter. Her thoughts, plainly, are palpitating elsewhere. "And do send up the basket! I cannot wait!"

Mel, her work done, glides off.

One down, she thinks, sipping her drink. A half-dozen to go.

Red clover's effects are not, in fact, a fiction. Mel, during her research into Zaun's history, has read volumes on the subject. And experienced, firsthand, its efficacy.

She'd shared a spoonful with Jayce, back when they were together. Purely for research reasons, of course. She'd only given him a mouthful, and he'd been wild to have her—so much, she'd ended up with her dress in shreds, one slipper dangling from the ceiling fan, and the other flung straight through the window.

Afterward, Jayce had apologized shamefacedly. Mel, secretly charmed, had assured him the fault was hers.

They'd never touched the stuff again. But Mel has not forgotten.

By tonight, she suspects, neither will Lady and Lord Dennings. With luck, a little Dennings-to-be will soon be in the picture, courtesy of Mel's powdered charity. Mel, in turn, will have gained a pocketful of Dennings coin, and the political currency to bargain with Demacian traders for red clover as a mass-market commodity.

Soon, word will spread. The Fissures are in possession of miracles, in potentia.

Zaun's economy could use a healthy boost. And Piltover, by proxy, will feel the benefit.

Marriage: by any other name.

Satisfied, Mel's focus shifts to the next string.   

The string, as luck would have it, sails her way. Cevila, wife of the Piltovan exchequer: a statuesque ice-eyed blond who'd made Mel's life an unending misery back in her salad days as an emigree. A native Piltovan with close ties to House Ferros, she prides herself on her pedigree, her purse-strings, and her impeccable taste—or, in Mel's private reckoning, her impeccable lack thereof.

Since Mel's ascent into the corridors of power, Cevila's kept up an endless siege under a guise of cordiality. Barbs couched in a show of sisterhood; favors Mel cannot deny without close allies feeling snubbed; invitations she cannot refuse without offending the very people she seeks to woo.

It's a tedious dance. But Cevila's rank confers her with gravitas among the glitterati. Her opinion, when solicited, is considered gospel. 

Mel, the Madonna of Piltover, cannot afford to play the sinner.

"Cevila," she greets airily. "How are you faring?"

"Oh, my dove! Better, now that I see you're in fine fettle. But how peaked you look! It must be that frock. Quite lovely, but rather..." A critical once-over, "... plain."

Mel's smile, soft as a cat's paw, hides claws. "The style is from East Shurima.  A gift from the Sadja clan."

"Is it? That explains it. They're a droll set. All silks and scarabs. They'd wrap themselves in the city's flag, if they thought it'd give them airs." A barely-there squeeze of Mel's elbow. "No offense, my darling. I know you're a patroness of theirs."

Mel, noting the dig, pivots. "Whereas you, in your plumage, are a bird of paradise."

In fact, she resembles a harpy. The Ferros features, chipped from granite, accord the face a certain regal grandeur. But Cevila, with her penchant for feathered ostentation, has a way of transforming even the most sober attire into avian excess.

Today, she's swathed in a plum silk sheath studded with gold-chased amethysts. A matching choker, its collar encrusted with citrines, enfolds her neck. Her hair, lacquered within an inch of its life, is a helmet of pale yellow, and adorned with a nest's worth of diamond-and-pearl pinfeathers.

Mel, taking in the effect, feels an odd pang. The last time she'd worn such an extravagance of gems, it had been on the heels of her split with Jayce. Her mind had been in disarray. Her sartorial choices, likewise. Each dress, shimmering, had been a salve: a reminder that no matter how her heart ached, the rest of her could still shine.

Now, taking in Cevila's glitter, her mind pieces together a new puzzle.

"Your husband must be so proud," Mel says, "to have you on his arm."

"He is, yes." Cevila's grip, on her elbow, tightens a fraction. It's a tell, and Mel tucks it away. "Of course, his pride is not all that's on his arm."

I would doubt that, Mel thinks.

She already has the measure of Cevila's husband: a man twice her age, and whose sole claim to fame, apart from a family name two centuries old, is mediocrity incarnate. He'd married the ferocious Cevila purely for the prestige of the Ferros title She'd been, to pardon the pun, a feather in his cap.

Privately, it's no secret that his tastes run younger and far less discerning. Of late, he's been spotted frequenting the entertainment district of Zaun's Boundary Markets. More specifically, an establishment hosting two Shuriman-born dancers—brothers by blood, and by the rumor mill, bedmates.

Cevila is far from blind to her husband's proclivities. Mel, who's witnessed their tête-à-têtes at society gatherings, has noticed the strain behind their smiles. Two strangers, trapped in the same gilded cage. According to Elora's reports, she's making preparations to serve him with divorce papers. Once the split is finalized, she'll set her sights on a new target: younger, better-connected, and more importantly, better-funded.

The roster is long, and the contenders many.  Even Jayce, the poor dear, is rumored to be on her radar. 

Cevila's eye, however, is not on matrimonial bliss. Her goal is to secure enough funds to purchase a mining seam in the Fissures' southwest quadrant. Its yield is substantial: pure platinum and gold. To claim it, she's leveraged everything from her family's connections to a cadre of solicitors—to no avail.

Silco, rebuffing every overture, has made plain that the land is not for sale.

The refusal, in Cevila's view, is a personal slight. And Mel, as her chief adversary, has become a natural target.

"It is truly good to see you well," Cevila says, with a talonlike grip on Mel's elbow. "I was concerned, of course. But it was your husband who most needed a watchful eye. Why, a lesser man would've taken succor at the nearest port-of-call."

Mel, inwardly translating Harpy to Buzzard, smiles. "A lesser man, yes. Mine stayed firmly anchored."

"And decidedly taciturn! He wouldn't even deign to give an update." The twin flintlocks of her eyes turn Silco's way. "You'd think he was in mourning. His beloved, or his bachelorhood—it's difficult to say which."

Mel has yet to see Silco grieve anything beyond an errant hangnail. Cevila's remarks, as ever, serve no purpose beyond baiting her.

Taking the proffered string, Mel plays it for all its worth. "My husband is a man of few words." At least, when his tongue's occupied elsewhere. "As it is, he's accustomed to livelier pastimes. Compared to Zaun's vibrancy, a week at sea is a veritable lull." A sip, and a sigh. "Confined company does make a dull time of it."

The subtext is subtle, but unmistakable. Cevila, in her plumage, bristles.

"Confined—or refined? His manners are decent enough. But pedigree's the real test." Her chin cuts a scornful arc. "The Fissures, after all, are a pestilence pit." Then, catching herself. "I mean no disrespect, my dove. Marriage factors more than sentiment for our stripe, as we both know. One plays the hand one’s dealt. But we're women of the world, are we not? We both understand the value of preserving a legacy." Her eyes pass, speculatively, over Mel's belly. "And the consequences, should our choice fail to meet it."

The stab is plain: Silco, Fissure-born, is exemplary of his breed. Filth, mud, scum. Any child, a byproduct of that union, will bear the taint. A taint that will spread to Piltover's streets. To the halls of the High Council. To the very heart of the City of Progress.

Mel's fingers flex on the stem of her glass.  A thousand old slights, she'll bear with aplomb. But this, the freshest insult, makes her see red.

For a moment, she understands Ambessa's warpath. The primal urge, to defend at any cost. Mel has spent a lifetime keeping a lid on her own fire. But her mother's blood runs true. The anger is a hissing spark, ready to ignite. If she were a Medarda of the old guard, she would carve her name straight through Cevila's heart.

Up ahead, Silco is still slouched by the bar. Lighting a cigarette, he taps out the spent match. Behind the leisurely ribbons of smoke, his scarred profile is all insouciant angles. But Mel feels his focus like a hot brand. He has been listening, too. Not with his ears, but his eyes.  

And Cevila could find herself on the wrong side of a scope.

That decides Mel.

A Medarda's wrath is legendary. But a Zaunite's is fatal. Between their cities, there have been enough bloodbaths.

Diplomacy, and not daggers, must prevail.

So she smiles, and tugs on a subtler string.

"Legacy, yes." A slow sip of juice. "My husband and I have discussed it. In particular, provisions for the future."

"Provisions?" Cevila's keen eyes dart between Mel and the bar. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Only that the winds of change are never gentle. And when they blow, fortunes can shift." She swirls her drink. "I always caution my fellow Councilors against complacency. Or ill-advised investments in foreign ventures. A single declaration of war, and the trade-lines go dry. A few misplaced funds, and the whole enterprise goes belly-up. We must keep our assets, well, closer to home."

"Home?" Cevila repeats, astute as ever. "Or Zaun?"

"Zaun is our sister city. As it stands, her prospects are excellent. But Silco believes, and I concur, in strengthening our individual portfolios. Piltover, for instance, has ample potential for growth in the manufacturing sector. With Hextech, we have the means to revolutionize the market." Musingly, "In turn, Zaun has her mines, and the wisdom, age old, to refine their yield."

At the mention of the mines, a covetous gleam kindles in Cevila's eye. "The mines. Yes."

"Recently, the Fissure seams, thanks to diligent labor, have hit the motherlode. Soon, the output will be tripled. Even quadrupled." The morsel dangles: a succulent cut of red meat. Then: "Naturally, Silco is determined to keep the wealth concentrated in the hands of those who labored for it."

Cevila is brought up short. "In a matter of wages?"

"Oh, nothing so crass.  The miners' guild is a collective. Their assets are held in trust, for the benefit of the whole. Older seams, owned by barons, are likewise protected. But Silco believes in safeguarding his city's long-term interest. To that end, the Zaun’s recently enacted a decree for the lifelong preservation of the mines."

Suddenly, Cevila's feathers are a-quiver.  "I—I'm not quite sure I follow."

"Then allow me to clarify. For the last century, the Fissures have been a free-for-all. Foreign hands, ours and otherwise, have scooped up whatever they could. They've left the remainder in chaos. A dozen factions, battling each other for scraps. It's been a waste of resources. And, frankly, a waste of life." Her fingertips clink across the stem of her glass: a percussive counterpoint to the silence. "The Cabinet's new policy aims to restore a sense of order. No longer will foreign backers have unfettered access to the veins. Only Fissureborns—guilds or barons—will hold title to their respective stakes. All the proceeds will remain local, and invested in the betterment of the people. The clause will be embedded into the deeds. In perpetuity."

"Perpetuity?"

"Forever and a day." Mel goes solemn. "As my mother likes to say: Blood will always out. Only the children of born Zaunites will inherit the mines.  And those children, should the time come, shall have the final say in who holds ownership." 

"But Mel! Surely the Council cannot condone—"

"Dear Cevila. The Council's writ does not extend to Zaun. The Fissures, by Treaty, are a sovereign state." A grateful sigh. "I suppose it's a rare stroke of luck. By wedding a man of Fissure birth, I will enjoy greater access than most. And our children, by default, shall have the deepest roots."  She meets Cevila's eyes over the rim of her glass. "A legacy, as you say."

Cevila seems to have forgotten how to breathe. A small mercy: her talon has retracted from Mel's elbow.

"This is—well." With effort, she finds her composure. "This is unexpected news."

"Isn't it?" Mel, smiling, sets down her drink. She's dangled the lure, then snatched it away. Cevila, chewing on her loss, is now primed for any scrap. "Naturally, in wake of this decree, the demand for Fissure stones has begun skyrocketing. Do you happen to own any, Cevila? Perhaps a pendant or a bauble?"

Cevila rallies a smile. It's a ghastly effort. "I, ah, have a ring or two."

"Lovely. Their worth is about to treble. Do you remember my necklace? The blue diamond-drop?" 

"Vividly." 

"It was a gift. Designed by the artisans in the Boundary Markets. Their craftsmanship is second to none." A calculated pause. "If you're amenable, I'll speak to the artisan's guild. We can summon one of their agents to my apartments. Then, perhaps, commission a set?"

The gleam in Cevila's eyes brightens. "You—you'd do that? My dove, I couldn't possibly accept—"

"Nonsense. You are, after all, one of my closest friends. And the artisan's guild are a lovely group. They are headed by a close ally of Silco's. A Zaunite, and a first-rate entrepreneur. His family are descended from the ancient Oshra Va'Zaun line. Did you know, they once held dominion over the isthmus?"

"I do, yes." Cevila's beak wrinkles. "Until our Wardens cut off their privy purses—" re: confiscated their estates and sold the spoils at auction to foreign investors, "—and the rest were sent packing. Most sold off piles of heirlooms to stay afloat. And what's left are probably riddled with the plague."

"What's left are the mines," Mel corrects. "And Silco's friend, as fortune would have it, inherited much of the old Oshra Va'Zaun stock. He is, as they call them belowground, a gold baron."

Now Cevila's eyes are aglow. "A gold baron, you say?"

"A charming gentleman. Sadly, still unattached. But his means are considerable. And his tastes, exquisite. He is a patron of the arts. A discerning collector. I daresay he'd be an ideal candidate for a lady of your caliber."

For business—or matrimony—Mel doesn't deign to specify. She doesn't need to.

The hook is lodged deep. Cevila, her smile pure gluttony, is already planning her next coup. A Zaunite husband on her string, and gold at her fingertips. 

All it would cost her: pride, prejudice, and a single night's sleep.

"You know," she says, "I do pride myself on an eye for quality."

Mel purrs. "I have every faith that you will come away, well satisfied."

"I believe next month I have an open window. If your schedule can accommodate—"

"I'm sure we can work something out."

"Good. Good. I'll be in touch."  Cevila flicks a glance at Silco. The distaste is tinged with a new layer of intrigue. "And, of course, your husband will be present to broker the introduction?"

Mel lies, smooth as silk, "He'd be delighted."

In fact, she suspects, Silco would rather have his liver cut out. Between Zaun's bigheaded bourgeois and Piltover's self-aggrandizing aristocracy, his tolerance will be sorely tried. But, whatever else, her husband is a pragmatist. A potential trade with House Ferros is too lucrative to dismiss. Better still if it ends with a merger—literal—between Cevila and one of his barons. A symbol of unity—or, at the very least, shared gain.

Marriage: by any name.

Cevila, her high spirits restored, swans off. Pleased, Mel accepts another flute of pineapple juice from a passing steward. She is beginning to feel back in her stride. The crowd, once an unwieldy beast, is now a pliant and responsive chorus.

Serenely, she moves on to the next string. The Piltovan ambassador—an old fusspot fittingly named Hector.

As a high-ranking member of government, the voyage must suffer his presence. But Mel has heard Silco, in the privacy of their suite, wish him more than once to the bottom of the sea. One word on Zaun, and he's off: a diatribe on the perils of a lowborn populace without oversight, the undercity as the mouth of Hell, and Fissurefolk as the demons therein.

Mel, having the measure of his string, has learnt to play it deftly. Usually, she douses his rants with a few drops of sweetened condescension. Other times, she plays the ingenue, and laments his lot in life: a stalwart of the old order, trapped between the twin forces of progress and decay. If neither of those tactics serve, a flash of cleavage is enough to set him off-kilter.

Admittedly, the method is not the noblest. But she will not apologize for keeping a peaceable accord.  

"Lord Hector," she greets serenely. "How wonderful to see you."

"Mel!" The ambassador, ruddy-faced and portly, hauls himself to his feet. A plateful of trifle is hastily abandoned. "My Melusine, what a vision you are!"

"You flatterer." A kiss, pecked airily on his cheek. "I trust you're faring well?"

"Oh, the usual. Tallying the votes. Calculating the ledgers. Nothing a bit of good food can't fix." He casts a mournful eye at the trifle. "A pity the chef won't let me near the kitchens. If I could only get my hands on the caramel sauce for the mousse—"

"Now, now, Lord Hector." Mel's index finger ticks playfully. "We'd end up with a shortage."

"I'd not hoard the stuff, my girl! I'd only sample." The woebegone look is as patently false as his bawdy wink. "Sample liberally."

"Really, Lord Hector. You are shameless." Coyly, Mel tucks a dangling curl behind her ear. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were angling for a different dessert."

"Only if you're game, my dear. Though rumor has it—” Another wink, “you've already had a nibble."  

"Why, Lord Hector. Whatever are you insinuating?"

"You and that husband of yours. I'm told you were cooped up, the pair of you. Six nights, and a locked door." He chortles. "If there was no nibbling, I'll eat my hat. Is it true you'd come down with ague, or was the whole business a bedtime story?"

Mel puts on an abashed smile. "Oh, I was bedbound. But it was quite a dull affair. Fever, delirium, the works."

"Frightful! But your man looked after you, did he?" The wink becomes a leer. "Or was it he that left you bedridden? They say Zaunites are half-rabid, the lot of them. And yours, my dear, has a pack of knives for teeth. If I were you, I'd have been frightened out of my wits."

It's a vulgar turn, but Mel knows when to play her hand. "You're incorrigible, Lord Hector. My husband is the picture of civility." Her voice drops meaningfully. "And watching us as we speak."

A hasty glance over Lord Hector's shoulder confirms the fact. Silco, slouched with the remnants of his cigarette, is observing their exchange. His features project boredom. But his focus is keenly honed. Mel has the distinct sense that if Hector so much as breathed a lecherous sigh her way, he'd find himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

Hector, wisely, does not test the theory.

"Well, well," he says, and clears his throat. But his manner, with Mel, becomes a good deal more circumspect. "He's a watchful sort, isn't he? But that's no surprise. The Fissures are a foul pit. It takes a hard head, or a harder fist, to survive. Why, I had a letter from my cousin last month. She was telling me how her youngest, a delicate little thing, crossed the Bridge and fell ill!"

"Of Grey Lung?"

"Heavens, no! Just the sniffles. But, mark my words, the next epidemic will be upon us soon! I still recall, in the summer of sixty-three, when the harbor was beset with the Ash Plague. Hundreds of souls, lost in a matter of days. If not for the Council's swift action, and the timely quarantine, we might've all perished!"

Mel hides her frown.

She's done her research. The Ash Plague had, in fact, claimed thousands rather than hundreds. A majority of its victims were from the Undercity. And the Council, for all its posturing, had done little to address the root cause: the filth-encrusted streets, the sewage-bloated canals, the slums packed like sardines in a tin.

The quarantine, too, was little better than a farce. Fissurefolk, sickly and suffering, were barricaded belowground. Anyone who dared defy the order faced immediate arrest. The result was a public health catastrophe.  Topside, the epidemic's spread was halted swift;y. Belowground, it raged like wildfire, and took the young, the weak, the elderly.

Mel remembers Silco, once, describing the aftermath:  Bodies piled up like driftwood. Flies swarming so thick, they formed clouds.

The smell of death in every breath.

The story is a stark contrast to the Council's sanitized narrative: the triumph of science over superstition, under Piltover's noble hand.

But in Zaun, the truth will not be silenced. The scars, never erased.

 Mel, her juice gone tasteless, thinks: If I'd not met Silco, I'd still be in the dark.

"Dear Hector," she says, mildly. "The Ash Plague was decades ago. Why revive old fears?"

"Revive? Fie! The fears, my girl, like the Fissures' insalubrious air, are ever present! My own wife, last time she braved those wretched streets, came a hair's breadth from death!"

"Death?"

"She nearly fell down a manhole! And you know what happened next?" Hector shudders. "Her high-heel got caught, and she tumbled into the muck. She had to toss the whole lot! Why, it was a nightmare. It took three stout-hearted men and a crowbar to pry her free." 

Mel's eyes meet Silco's across the room. Silco’s lips barely twitch.

He’d been present during that absurdist tableau. In fact, he'd paid the very men who'd pulled Hector's wife free. The woman, a shrill-voiced dumpling with a penchant for frills, had been too busy shrieking to thank her saviors. Afterward, though, she'd found herself recounting the narrow save with a breathless lilt. Perhaps, Mel suspects, it was all that close handling by the stout-hearted men.

Since the Crowbar Incident, as it has come to be known, Lady Hector has developed a powerful fascination with the Fissures.  Indeed, Mel suspects the only reason she's prodded her husband to invite himself to this cruise is to gather juicy tidbits about Zaun.

Her ardent curiosity, paired with Hector's fecklessness, are twin chords of opportunity. Ones that, plucked just so, will make for a profitable duet.

So Mel takes a slow sip, and lets a sympathetic smile play.

"How dreadful. But, I daresay, you and your wife will fare better now."

"Oh?"

"Zaun has developed a reputable network of guides and concierges. They know all the best districts."

"All the best?"

"I've visited them personally." She names several: a jeweler's, a chocolatier's, a clothier's. "All within a short walk along the Promenade. Your little grandson, Remi, will adore the chocolatier's wares. Truffles in the shapes of beetles. Marzipan worms. And a lovely caramelized-pear confection." Her eyes pass from the plateful of trifle to Hector's portly belly. "You, too, would enjoy a liberal sampling."

Stirred, Hector leans in. "Well, I'll be. And these shops are safe?"

"Perfectly. Travelers from Piltover and abroad flock to them. The shopkeepers, I promise, are courtesy itself."

"And, I take it, the security is sound?"

"Every shop is guarded by a retinue of trained blackguards. The streets, paved and clean, are kept free of footpads. House Medarda often hosts private soirées at the Promenade. I've never once been accosted by a ruffian—much less a rat." A pat, fond and wholly fabricated, to Hector's shoulder. "You needn't fear, dear Hector. Zaun, these days, is the very model of civilized conduct."

Hector warms visibly. "Ah, well, if it's good enough for you, what's this old curmudgeon to worry about? I'll speak to my wife. She's awfully keen to, ah, venture farther afield. She's always been a curious sort." A wink. "A bit like you, eh?" His hand, clumsily, covers hers. "Tell me. If I were to visit, could you arrange a private tour?"

Mel, who'd predicted the turn, delicately extracts her hand. "Shame on you, Lord Hector. I'm a married woman." The implication being: were she unattached, her answer would've been very different. "But if it's a personal guide you seek, I have just the one." Mel names a service: the same one Silco's crew employs. "They'll arrange tours at your convenience."

"Splendid, splendid! You, ah, must tell me more about the clothiers. A few new shirts are just the thing." Another glance at Silco, now sizing him up with a more speculative eye. "Your Trencher dresses sharp, I'll give him that. Perhaps he'll spare me a tip or two. He is a Fissureborn, after all. He must know all the best garment districts."

"Oh, he does."

In fact, the identity of Silco's tailor is a closely guarded secret. The man, a wizened Shuriman refugee, has his workshop hidden away in the depths of the Commercia Fantastica. He sews, by hand, each article of clothing to the customer's measure. Silco has two-dozen suits from him, in varying shades and cuts. Black with merlot accents, charcoal grey with blue-green brocade, two-toned midnight blue with silver embroidery.

The styles are all distinctly Zaunite. Tailored to Silco's lean frame, they evoke a serpent's sinuous grace. They are also remarkably versatile. Mel has watched them transform him, chameleonlike, from a sleek statesman to a shadowy specter, and back again.

But more than statements of sartorial flair, they serve a brute utility. The fabrics are Fissure textile: light, flexible, and impervious to damp. In a pinch, they serve as body armor: a sleeve with a cleverly-crafted sheath for a concealed blade; a snug little pouch, discreetly cut into the waistcoat, for a smoke-pellet; a garotte, lined along the edge of a cravat, to slit a stranger's throat.

Mel recalls, at a Topside gala before their engagement, the sight of Silco, turned out in formalwear: a simple black suit with a white silk pocket square. The cut was, for all its sleek simplicity, more durable than appearance suggested. She'd learned firsthand when Silco, strolling arm-in-arm with her through the night-gardens, had been waylaid by an Enforcer who'd demanded to see his identification.

Whether out of a superabundance of caution, or a bigot's crude compulsion, Mel still isn't sure.

She'd moved to intercede. But Silco had checked her with the barest skim of fingertips at her wrist. Addressing the Enforcer with politeness, but not a jot of respect, he'd asked if he looked like a trespasser. The Enforcer shot back that he looked like a cutthroat.

Silco, never one to pass up a chance for roleplaying, had obliged by nearly slitting the man's throat. 

The officer, a greenhorn, had plainly not been expecting a real knife to materialize at his jugular. In his shock, he’d dropped his truncheon and hightailed it. Mel, amused and appalled in equal measure, had turned to Silco, a chastisement on her lips.

Only to find herself scooped up into his arms, then carried up a trellis and out of sight.

They'd spent the rest of the evening, astride the rooftop's shingles, discussing trade. The only time Silco's hands had strayed from her waist was to light a cigarette. Or to cup her cheek. Or to tilt her face up to his.  Meanwhile, seven stories below, a contingent of officers had frantically been sounding the alarm to outcries of highwaymen and abduction. 

When the hounds had arrived on the scene, Silco had scoffed so hard, he'd nearly fallen down the eaves. Mel, not wishing him to break his neck, had clung tightly. Somewhere between the third kiss and the fourth, she'd decided to tug him closer. He'd ended up treating her to what Zaunites called 'The Penthouse Plus'—making love right on the gritty shingles, her dress hiked up around her waist and his coat spread out beneath them.

The giddy thrill had opened her lungs. Only his mouth on hers, drinking her cries, had kept her silent.  

Afterward, smooth as a conjurer's trick, Silco had slipped them both downstairs and back into the garden. The search, by then, was over. The Enforcers, their bluster gone, had been reduced to scouring the hedges. Silco, his eyes dark with devious glee, had strolled casually past them, and into the ballroom, to fetch himself and Mel a plateful of dessert.

It had proved the scandal of the summer. Councilor Medarda, swept off at knifepoint in the middle of a gala. Then, miraculously, reappearing hours later: no worse for wear, and a good deal more cheerful, arm-in-arm with her assailant.

Whose suit, it should be noted, was perfectly intact. No rips, wrinkles, or even a rumpled lapel.

Afterward, Mel had summoned the rookie officer, and his Captain, into her office. A blistering dressing-down on misconduct was meted out. The officer had insulted her guest, and by extension, the goodwill between Zaun and Piltover. When she'd reintroduced Silco as her fiancé, the rookie's mortification was palpable.

Silco had taken the opportunity to renew his acquaintance: not with knife against the jugular, but with a smile twice as sharp, and a firm handshake that promised, without words, a fate worse than death if the man dared call him a crook again.

But afterward, alone in her chambers, Mel had found herself thinking: This is what his life has been.

Fighting to keep the ground under his feet.

And even now, at the zenith of his power, there was no place for him Topside. No welcome in these hallowed halls.  This, he'd told her, was why Zaun existed. To ensure no other Fissure child had to suffer what he had. And for him, the fight was not over. The world, not won.

Not until the last sliver of his city, and its people, were secure.

Smoothing the memory away, Mel summons a smile. "I'll do you one better, Lord Hector. Why don't we arrange an outing? You, your wife, Silco and myself. We'll tour the most exquisite spots at the Promenade. You will see that the Fissures are no hellmouth. And my husband will have the honor of escorting us, to ensure the journey is a comfortable one."

Hector's kneejerk distaste yields to temptation. Beneath his condemnation of Zaun lurks an avid desire: to sample the city's exotic otherness. Mel has seen it before, in the eyes of her fellow Councillors: a yearning for the novel, inverted into show-offish censure.

As though by damning Zaun's vices, they can exalt their own.

"We-ell," Hector relents, "if he can spare the time, I believe we could squeeze in a quick outing. It'd be, ah, good to get a lay of the land." His hand, again, gropes clumsily for hers. "A bit of a reconnaissance mission, eh? Always good to keep an ear to the ground." A third, utterly shameless, wink. "And one's eyes on the goods."

Mel, inwardly rolling her own, keeps her smile fixed. "Yours, Lord Hector, are a pair no lady could deny." Then: "You ought to return yours to the trifle. I do believe it's melting."

Lord Hector's wink falls askew. "Oh, drat! I'd best fetch another plate!"

Excusing himself, he bustles off. Mel, taking stock of her success, finishes off her drink.

A few discordant strings, but the symphony is well underway.  Soon, Piltover's entire social circuit will change its tune. That is, in sum, the spirit of this voyage.  Gathering allies. Making connections. Creating new opportunities, and exploiting old ones. Hecter's not the only guest with a taste for the unusual. Nor Cevila and the Dennings the only ones whose purse-strings, tugged the right way, will yield a hefty haul.

In time, Mel will cultivate them all.

And they, in turn, will cultivate Zaun's and Piltover's interests. 

Marriage: by any other name.

Then she hears, to the thunder of boots, a bark: "Medarda!"

Mel stifles a sigh.

It is the Noxian envoy—a damnable brute by the name of Garlen. The man is a wolf of the worst kind: festooned in blood-red, and slavering for a kill. A high-ranking brigadier of Noxus's military, he's spent his career subjugating swathes of the Ionian continent. Now, as part of a political alliance between Noxus and Piltover, he's been dispatched as a 'liaison'.

His actual duties, as far as Mel can discern, are to make a nuisance of himself. Negotiating with him is like wrestling a hound: an exercise in futility. Her gift for subtlety is met with brash disparagement. Her cleverness, dismissed as flirtatious banter.  And if she has the misfortune of sharing his company alone, he's liable to start groping. More than once, she's resorted to employing armed sentries, to dissuade his wandering hands.

In truth, the only thing keeping him from her throat is Ambessa.

The brigadier, knowing the threat of the General's retribution, is careful not to overstep. But his ambition is as deep-rooted as his lechery. He's keen to establish a foothold in Piltover. Mel, as a Councilor, makes an appealing target. Not only does she have access to the High Council's ear, but also to the coffers of the Medarda clan.

Once, to Mel's eternal dismay, he’d gotten drunk at a press junket, and dared to propose marriage to her before the cameras. A fortnight before her wedding, no less. Her fiancé—after a tiresome tirade on his low birth, his physique, his unsuitability—he'd threatened to disembowel on the spot.

Silco, who relished the pretext to make an ass out of anyone, had proposed a simpler solution: a duel to first blood.

It had been, in Sevika's blunt retelling, Like a fucking slaughterhouse.

Garlen was an able swordsman. But he’d underestimated Zaun's spirit of ruthless ingenuity. He'd walked in believing the fight was in his favor. Silco, in ten minutes, had turned the belief on its head. Then, he'd reduced the duel to a carnival sideshow.  First, he'd blinded his opponent with a faceful of sludge from the streets. Then, with a well-placed boot, he'd sent the Noxian envoy skidding into a gutter. Finally, as a coup de grace, he'd whipped out a switchblade and stabbed him. The blow, to the meat of Garlen's thigh, had nearly severed an artery.

Garlen, howling bloody murder, had been hauled away by his guards. He'd spent the rest of the week in Zaun's infirmary. The next morning, he'd boarded the ferry back to Piltover: tail tucked between his legs.

And his pride, as the Undercity saying goes, In a shit-stained shoe.

Since the incident, Garlen's been cautious about antagonizing Silco in public. But his contempt for the city is undiminished. His attitude toward Mel, accordingly, is one of open scorn. To him, she is the weakest link in the Medarda chain.

A pretty little chit, who, when the going gets tough, will cave to the strongest bidder.

The irony is not lost on Mel. Were she truly a spineless chit, she'd have sold herself a long time ago. And, likely, to a man like Garlen.  A dynastic marriage was a common means of doubling her clan's prosperity. But the prospect of a lifetime wrangling the brutish lout—enduring his crude lusts and his insufferable temper—was abhorrent. She'd never have consented to it, unless by force.

Silco, whatever else, has always respected her separateness. And his ambition to walk with her—not behind her or in front—is equal to her own. Their combined will is a potent force. One that will, in time, forge a brighter future.

For Mel, that is worth every sacrifice.

In her ear, Jayce's voice intrudes: a forlorn query in lieu of farewell.

"Even love?"

"Medarda," Garlen barks, louder. "I've got a bone to pick with you."

Mel's smile becomes an airtight lock. "Bones, Sir Galen? Aren't we feeding you enough?"

"What's the reason we've anchored off-course?" He sweeps a thick arm at the motionless horizon. "I was told we'd reach the Ionian coast before noon. The sun's almost overhead. If I don't make landfall by sundown, my troops will be wondering if I've gone missing." 

 "Surely you can wait another hour?"

"An hour? The blazes are we wasting an hour for? If we're going to float in the middle of nowhere, at least make it worth my time!" Leering, he slaps his thigh. "How about a floor-show? You look fit for one, all tarted up in that handkerchief. Why don't you sing me a song or two?"

Mel's features remain smooth. "You have, I'm afraid, mistaken me for a canary. But if you're keen for music, our orchestra would happily oblige."

"Feh. A bunch of prissy string-pullers? What use are they? Give me a proper band: men with brass pipes, and war-drums, and a real beat! Then I'll show you a performance." Garlen's eyes take their time crawling down Mel's body. "You'll see how a proper Noxian can make the ground shake."

Her countrymen, Mel thinks, are such a tiresome lot. Especially the military set. "On a ship, Sir Garlen, we call that seasickness."

"And this damn delay? What'd you call that?"

"A detour."

"Detour?" Garlen's bristly brows merge like thunderheads. "On whose blasted order?"

"Mine."

Silco materializes as if risen up from the depths.

The sunlight, white and warm, dapples the air. Yet the plunge in temperature is palpable.  It is, Mel thinks, not unlike two polarities—the dark and the light—aligning at once. A disorienting sensation, the first time it’d occurred: Silco stepping into her path, and the world tilting off its axis.

The guests, huddling closer, murmur warily. Cevila's face, heavily rouged, is a shade paler.  Lady Dennings' fan is a blur. Hector's gulp is audible. The rest of the party are paralyzed in place. All except Garlen, who has the temerity to laugh.

It's more bark than bite. He's already felt Silco's blade once. He won't tempt his teeth.

"Well, well," he sneers. "The blushing bridegroom."

"Sir Garlen," Silco returns, with a small nod. "Good of you to join us."

"I wasn't given a choice! We're supposed to be on land, not floating like a piece of flotsam."

"You're welcome to swim."

"Swim? To the Ionian strait? You're out of your mind!" Garlen strides closer, crowding Silco's space. The man is a foot taller, and twice as broad. Still, Mel notes that he stays out of striking distance. For a braggart, he's no fool. "I know you Trenchers know no qualms about playing hooky. But the rest of us have a schedule to keep. So get this ship back on course. Now."

Silco’s stare is inscrutable. "In time."

"Time? I'm a busy man. I don't have time to sit around on this damn tub!" Garlen squints suspiciously. "Unless you've hijacked this ship? ‘Cause if it's a ransom you're angling for—"

Silco’s smile is a gleam of serrated teeth. "Sir Garlen. I'm in the business of politics, not piracy."

"Hah! As if the distinction makes a difference."

Now the gleam is sharper. "I suppose it doesn't." He turns to the rest of the party. His low cadence rolls over the room like fog. "Allow me to explain. The delay is due to a last-minute excursion. We'll resume our course by early nightfall. But first, a short trip to the southern reef. A treasure hunt."

Garlen's confusion is writ large. "Treasure?"

"Enough, I'm sure, to satisfy everyone's appetite." His stare passes, one by one, over the assembled guests. "Ionia. Demacia. Shurima. Noxus." And, finally, alighting on Mel. "Piltover."

There is a susurrus of whispers. Mel, bemused, keeps the mask in place. He'd never mentioned her city was tied to this game.  Is he testing her? Challenging her?

Or—impossibility of impossibilities—bidding her to play along?

Silco goes on, "I wonder, Sir Garlen. Have you sailed this route before?"

Garlen, bristling: "I know the waters well. I've fought battles on every stretch of these seas."

"Won, too, I expect. You are a celebrated soldier. But an explorer?" A tip of the chin. "There's a difference."

"And what would that be?"

"As Councilor Medarda says, a world of it. Of course, she is referring to chiffon versus tulle. But the principle stands." A half-lidded smile. "One's for concealment. The other for transparency."

Garlen cuts in, "If you're trying to make a point, make it quick."

"My point is only this: if you've sailed the southern waters, you'll notice a peculiarity. The Ionian Strait, on Piltover's maps, is thirteen degrees north of this point. Zaun's maps, however, place it further west. A curious discrepancy. Have you considered the reason?"

"Why the blazes would I care about Zaun's maps? Noxian charts are the only ones worth a damn."

The barest nod. "Fair point. That's the charm of maps. They're carved out by conquerors. Every chart tells a story, depending on the hand that draws it. And every chart, in its way, reveals a truth—or at least a version of it. Noxus, as the reigning authority of these waters, will always be partial to its own perspective. Piltover, as a close ally, tends to lean." A beat. "Zaun’s maps tell a different story."

"Ha!" Garlen's fist thuds the closest table. "A story about slime and scum, no doubt."

"A story about survival," Silco rejoins. "About claiming a space where none existed. At least, not on paper."

A crook of his finger, and the steward from earlier rushes up. His arms are laden with rolled-up sheafs paper. Charts, Mel realizes. The largest, unfurled on the table, is marked in different colors: a web of seaways, straits and currents. Mel, scanning it, notes a discrepancy in the dimensions: the Ionian Strait appears much narrower on Piltover's cartography, whereas Zaun's chart, drawn with exacting care, depicts it as twice its width. A series of X's, in a serpentine pattern, lead from the southern reefs up to the coastline of Zaun. The same path is absent from Piltover's chart.

Silco's fingertip traces a trail marked in indigo. "This is the shortest route from Piltover's coast. We'll reach Wuju by today if we cut across here." His nail, tapping the indigo line, cuts right. "This, however, is the shortest path according to Zaun's navigation."

"Bullshit!" Garlen says. "There is no path there! That's a damned dead-end!"

Silco regards him steadily. "Is it?"

"You're wasting our time! There's nothing there except shoals!"

Garlen's disdain is tangible: a seething red cloud. Silco, immune to sulfurous fumes, only shrugs. "Shoals, yes. Or seamounts from thousands of years ago. Many, with extensive deposits of minerals. Silver, copper, lead. Even diamonds."

Garlen barks a laugh. "And you Trenchers found this how? By sniffing up the coal dust?"

Silco, unperturbed, spreads the chart with both hands. The chandelier's rays sheen his pomaded hair like a raven's wing. Beneath, his eyes are two blots of ink. "Zaun's seafaring charts, Sir Garlen, date to antiquity. In fact, most cartographers claim they're as old as the Shuriman empire—which makes them, by definition, prehistoric.  Once our city was a corollary of Shurima. Known as Oshra Va'Zaun, the City of the Sun Gates. Its routes stretched from eastern to western waters. Zaun, as its inheritor, maintains the same routes: one that, on Piltover's maps, don't even exist."

A chill tiptoes down Mel's spine.  He'd never told her any of this. Had never even alluded to such knowledge. And the way he phrases it, with such calm certainty, suggests this is no revelation.

He's known about these seamounts for a long time.

"You are," she hears Cevila interject, "speaking in hypotheticals."

"Hardly. Our seafaring charts date from centuries ago. But Zaun's current naval fleet is a vital force. Since our independence, we've updated all the ancient routes—noting, of course, changes in currents and wind patterns. Our Exploration & Survey Corps have established a nautical corridor, with dry docks along every port from Zaun to South Shurima. We've also discovered new channels and navigable passages. Some take advantage of rip current systems.  Others, thanks to hidden glyphs carved in the seabed, allow vessels outfitted with the right gems to sail directly to a corresponding outpost, between one blink and the next."

The crowd lapse into shock. Silco's voice—low-pitched, hypnotic—paints a vivid picture: a labyrinth of channels, each with a corresponding rune: a pathway between impossible places.

"You're saying," Hector dares, "they are like Piltover's Hex-Gates?"

"They function on similar principles. But their purpose is different. Piltover's Gates link distant ports for trade and communication. Ours link distant outposts for transport and protection."

"P-Protection?" Lady Dennings sputters. "From what?"

"War," Silco says bluntly.

"What?!"

"Civil upheavals. Foreign invasions. Call it what you will. Oshra Va’Zaun was a rich city. They did well to anticipate the worst. But for Zaun, the primary use of these routes is trade." His finger climbs homeward, to the northernmost rune. "This point, for example, leads straight to a small islet on Zaun's outskirts. It was once known as Smuggler's Cove. Now, it's called the Iron Pearl. A Free Trade Zone, where foreign goods will not be charged customs duties for transiting or storing."

There is a stir. Mel, scanning the crowd, feels a trickle of misgiving. Piltover, for decades, has had a hammerlock on premium exports. Trade taxed by the ounce. Goods vetted by bureaucratic oversight. Permits, stamped in triplicate, and revoked at the Council's whims. All to protect her city-state's reputation and interests.

Now, Silco proposes a rival haven. A Free Trade Zone, where foreign goods may come and go—unshackled by Piltover's red tape.

A new axis of commerce. And, Mel realizes, a double-edged sword.

If Piltover consents to the Iron Pearl's operation, it will grant greater her city access to foreign markets, and reduce import costs. But the arrangement also poses a threat: a competing port, under Zaun's governance, which will draw ships and revenue away from the City of Progress. Their status as the preeminent exporter will be—

Not erased, but halved.

Marriage: by any other name.

The guests are buzzing. Some with excitement; others with disbelief.

Hector echoes, "A Free Trade Zone..."

"It's been operating since Zaun's independence," Silco says. "Now we're in the process of expanding its capacity. The endeavor has taken years. A neutral zone, with an established route to any destination within a thousand leagues, with minimal delay. Better still, goods from anywhere in Runeterra can be stored and transited, for a modest tithe." He pauses. "All that's required is that our waters be respected. Along with the sovereign rights of our vessels."

Silence falls, heavy with implication.

Garlen, apoplectic, erupts, "Respect, hell! This is Noxian territory you're crossing!"

"Not on your maps. Nor on Piltover's." Silco regards him evenly. "Only on ours."

"Those waters, Trencher, are Noxian by right of conquest!"

"Not according to our Treaty with Piltover. These waters were ceded to us in exchange for recognition of our Independence." Silco eyes Mel sidelong. "The agreement, I believe, remains binding."

Garlen's fists curl like meat hooks. "You dare challenge our navy?"

"Breaching these waters without our permission is not a challenge. It's an act of trespass. As Zaun's ally, Piltover would be duty-bound to aid us in its defense." Silco's fingertip, tracing the Noxian routes, gently taps the demarcations. "Candidly, we'd rather not resort to childish games. Zaun welcomes Noxus' goodwill. Should your vessels wish to use our routes, you'll be issued proper credentials. You'll be charged reasonable fees for port-of-call. Your cargo will not be subject to scrutiny. In all ways, you'd be our honored guests. Provided—" His good eye slits, "—you extend us the same courtesy in return."

It is politely phrased, and delivered in the mildest tones. But the threat, its edge honed fine, cuts like a switchblade.

Garlen's face goes as red as his garb. "This is preposterous!"

"Is it? Zaun's treaty with Piltover was written with the consent of both parties. In the presence of diplomatic envoys. Noxus was among them. If your nation had a grievance, I'm sure they'd have taken issue. But the accord, I believe, is still in force."

"This is a damnable plot!" Garlen pivots to Mel. "Medarda, this is insanity! I demand you put a stop to this!"

Mel is stricken. But she is careful to let nothing show. Her mind races to mitigate the thunderheads swelling on the horizon. Noxian fury. International incident. Piltover caught in the middle. And Zaun, at the crux.

Trust me, Silco had said.

And now, it comes to this: her city caught between a rock and a hard place.

Fury sparks in Mel's chest. Half adrenalized burn-off, at finally having a concrete threat to face. Half slow-building horror, at confronting Silco’s cleverness in action. The man who, in one fell swoop, has backed her into a corner—while painting the entire thing in shades of diplomatic nicety.

Now, he is watching her.  Waiting—for what?

Then it hits her.

Waiting for me to run.

Run—the way she’d run the first night of their voyage. Run—by staying when she should've sided with him. Run—by choosing to smooth the waters, rather than spread ripples in her wake.

Run, run, run—and this is the consequence.

Mel, reeling, takes a breath. In a sense, Silco has done exactly what he'd warned: revealed a truth that cannot be refuted. Piltover's maps are, indeed, inaccurate: the product of outdated colonialism. The waters, ceded to Zaun by Treaty, are indeed theirs—as much as the treasures that lie beneath.

And, Mel realizes, Silco's maneuver has a third layer: a sly subcurrent.

He is establishing that Zaun, by virtue of charting prowess, as an entity equal to Piltover. But also adjacent to it. Not a rival, but an ally. A peer that cannot be overlooked—because its interests are too closely tied to her city's.

It is the flipside of matrimony: a give-and-take. One of substance rather than sentiment.

Except Mel cannot forgive the blindside.

Inside, rage fizzles. Her fingers curl. She nearly seizes the nearest champagne bottle, and lobs it at Silco’s head. He deserves no less. He deserves worse. The bastard. He’d planned this since the night they’d fought. To corner her in full view of her guests. To make her prove her mettle. To demand that she take a leap.

Or else, show to the world that her vows are hollow.

Seething, Mel thinks, I will make him pay.

Then, inhaling, she steps forward.

"Sir Garlen," she says. "My husband is correct. These waters belong to Zaun."

Garlen is nearly purple; a ripe plum ready to burst. "You're siding with this rat?!"

"I am stating a fact. Zaun cannot, without jeopardizing its sovereignty, rescind the right to self-governance. And Piltover cannot, without forfeiting its good standing, repudiate that agreement. To do so would violate the laws ironclad between us." Her stare locks with the warlord's. "In sum, it is not a matter of sides. Only jurisdiction. The question is, how do you, as Noxus' envoy, plan to navigate these waters?"

Garlen's jaw works. Before he can fire off the next volley, Mel lays a cautioning hand on his arm.

"Before you reply, I suggest considering the future gains. Your nation is, at present, embroiled in a number of wars.  Zaun, as a future ally, is offering to facilitate the transport of supplies—to and from Noxus's frontlines. Piltover, meanwhile, is willing to reopen discussions of a trade alliance." Beneath her lashes, Mel casts a winsome glance. "The question is, do you, as Noxus's representative, intend to pursue these opportunities?"

Garlen, a petrified bull, seems caught between charging or cowing. But, for all his bluster, the man's no fool.

"You," he growls, "are a conniving hell-bitch."

Undaunted, Mel offers a smile. "A Medarda, after all."

The warlord's teeth gnash. But his rage, though still hot, is no longer a blaze. More an ember, sullenly seething.

"So." A snort. "We're at an impasse."

Silco, at last, stirs.

"Hardly."

Rolling up the charts, he returns them to the steward. A single nod, and the man, in tandem with the staff, begin distributing life vests among the crowd. Bewildered, the guests receive the gear. Each is the same color: Zaun's trademark cadmium green.

Mel, accepting hers, is astonished by the weight. The fabric appears lined with something like lead. Runes, their meaning unknown, are stitched into the seams of the fabric.

"Impasse," Silco says, already shrugging into his own vest, "is a poor word for it." He turns to the crowd, a wary sea of faces. "I believe we are, at last, on the same page."

Hector, handling his vest with jittery fingertips, dares, "Are we—going for a swim?"

Silco smiles.

Mel feels, again, that vertiginous sensation. The world, tilting. As if currents, beneath the surface, are stirring.

And the only thing left to cling to, is the man who's dragging her down.

"Swim? No." Silco's smile spreads. "We're off on a treasure hunt."

[jennithejester]

And I’ll be damned if now I want to write an Arcane Pirate AU with Silco as the captain.

Yarrrrr.

[pixie-mask]

thinking about pirate!Silco finding Powder in the middle of the ocean on some of the remains of her ship after she accidentally caused an explosion that blew up her the ship she was aboard and killed just about everyone.

Silco and his crew saw the explosion in the distance (it was a huge fucking explosion) and sailed a bit closer and only got even closer because they spotted Powder.

Vi ended up floating off in a different direction and is saved by a Piltover Navy ship. Also the AU goes different and there not the focus of this thought process, but hey Vi instead of going to jail grows up to be the Will Turner to Caitlyn’s Elizabeth Swann. She still keeps an open ear to information about Powder

Aaaaaaaand.....that’s where my thought process ends

[zkyfall]

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have wips. (You can make your own post or reblog this one!) I have deemed that this isn’t just for writing either. Sketch titles? Comics? DnD campaigns? If you have an unfinished project, it counts!!  

Tagged by @bluedaddysgirl  💖🔥but I blame @spicedrobot for starting this 😭

Also I cant count this high after 6pm so just gonna tag two handfuls of ppl I want to share the PAIN with. @sweatandwoe  @fiddlezips @silcosentropy  @smallhorizons @simpfiles  @agoutighost @ironandglass @goddessofroyalty @x-amount-verbs @mazikomo @insult-2-injury

Feel free to ignore if you’ve played already or are sane 🥰

GOD no, there’s too many of them. Send help and snacks plz (all of these are for Arcane, the brain rot is terminal)

Silco x Anyone Chara other than Vander (yes this is srsly how I sort WIPs):

Courtesan Silco 

Eye Visit

Pirate Silco

Silco x Mek

Swain x Silco

Reader Fics:

Domme Reader

Multiverse Silco

Perfume

Side Effects

Silco x Henchperson Purple

Silco x Vander x Reader

Vander x Bartender

Gens:

Cait Fear Transweek

Jinx Growing Up

Trans Day 3 Fashion

Other ships:

Viktor Machine

Prison Therapist AU  (sinvanco)

andddd putting the Zaundads section below the cut because it is EXCESSIVE and even my titles are NSFW opps 😅😇

Zaundads:

Drifting Ch2-5

Dark Deal Ch1-4

A Lewd Negotiator

Zaundads Farm Life AU

Abusive

Oral Fixation Silco

Beau and the Beast

Companion Bot

Dads Brat

Drug Lord Vander ABO

Fight Club

First Time Part 2

Hidden Fun

Modern Abuse

Morning Light

Nightmare

Prisoner Silco

Private Dance

Roleswap AU

Sick Fic

Silco Mugging

Silco Vander ABO

Silco Warwick Breeding

Silco Warwick Size Difference

Stalker Vander

Vanco Aphro

Voyeur Vander/Silco

YanSilco Modern

Bonus Art WIP:

Silco Playing Card

Silco nap

Silco/Marcus

[kukutakos]

I'm in love with your modern au !

Can I ask more of the modern Firelight hideout, please? *puppy eyes*

I'm so glad you like it! And I've never been able to resist puppy eyes 😒

Absolutely nothing cool in that hideout was actually bought. It was all stolen right from under Piltover's nose (again, fuck capitalism).

Since there are so many kids in the hideout, best believe Ekko and the other older people in the Firelights gang need babysitting assistance. There are baby monitors all over the hideout, and the little kids have their own play area with one of those baby fences.

Oh my god, they have like ten iPads ready to be shoved into a crying toddler's hands.

Whenever they come back from a rough mission, all they have the energy to do is pop a hot pocket/ramen cup in the microwave and kick back and watch pirated movies.

Ekko has a mini-fridge in his room. Sometimes he gets so caught up in work that he can't even leave his room to go eat.

Man the Firelights are so swaggy that I just know they can breakdance. They're also viral on tiktok, and yes, they have tiktok beef with Jinx (her tiktok user is ZukoIsMyDad).

There is a dance dance revolution machine in the hideout. Ekko is upset because he is always second place on the leaderboard.

The hideout makes for the perfect paintball arena. The kids often play paintball all over the entire hideout (the older ones let them because it helps sharpen their shooting abilities). The place is never clean of paint.

There is a Firelights groupchat. The chaos is delicious.

Jinx posts so much shit on her Tiktok that she shouldn't that Ekko and the others will just watch her tiktoks to know what Silco is planning and thwart it.

There's always music blasting in the hideout. They have like, three Spotify Pemium family plans.