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[powerhungry]

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SILCO

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it's what god would want

[powerhungry]

[ It's not quite courting, or rather, it's courtship through a different lens. Where the word is meant to evoke tenderness — flowers exchanged, soft sentiments given voice, the fluttering heartbeat of first love — between them, it's wielded like a knife. A continued escalation, a beat prolonged, waiting to see which one of them will slip and slice open their finger first.

As the straps of her dress comes down, he holds her gaze, too. Time seems to stretch, pulling like taffy until he lets his eyes tick down, degree by degree. They could call it here, make short work of the dress and pull her panties back down, put an end to this back and forth (indulge the heat curling in the pit of his stomach, the suggestion made by her pert nipples)— but where's the fun in that?

His hands settle on either side of her, just barely brushing her chest. As before, he— arranges her, urging her dress further down, far enough to accommodate the bustier. That done, he nods to her arms, a simple, ] Up, [ followed by, ] Turn around, please, [ once she obeys his instructions.

As deliberately as he's done everything else, he pulls the piece on, going so far as to adjust the straps to her height before pulling the clasps together. Next — and if his fingers graze her skin, the swell of her breasts in the process, what of it — he pulls the top of the dress back into place, defying base instinct as he pulls the zipper back up, too.

On a breath, acutely aware of her silence: ] There.

[nightsung]

[ Despite every opportunity foisted on them--the hunt, the candies, the ritual, the house's unsubtle maneuvering of its guests toward each other like pieces on a lanceboard--Shadowheart has yet to fuck anyone here, by compulsion or her own desire.

She doesn't think of how she's kept Gale's room precisely how she found it, tucking herself into one side of his bed rather than sprawling, her belongings tidy on his nightstand and in his wardrobe. If Shadowheart doesn't leave a mark--if she doesn't sink into this place, the way it so clearly wants her to, then maybe she'll be able to leave.

Silco left, once. He knows what it is to lose time and memory, and Shadowheart finds her pulse thrumming at her wrists and throat as she turns for him, lets him touch her, dress her.

Shadowheart pulls her braid over her shoulder, lifts her arms and stays quiet, listening to the soft click of the fastenings, Silco's breath. The bustier fits perfectly, because of course it does: lifts her breasts sweetly to the neckline of her dress, where his fingers brush just enough bare skin to send a twist of heat through her belly, a flush to her chest.

I like when you give me instructions, she doesn't say, nor does she turn around, yet. Shadowheart waits for Silco to finish, then walks to a small bench beside the racks and sits, knees pressed together. ]

I thought of your hands. Each time I laced and unlaced that corset. [ She pulls the hem of her skirt up her thighs, thumbnail pressing into and dragging up her skin, leaving a long white mark that fades as soon as it appears. ] Garter?

[powerhungry]

[ Maybe, once, he'd have thought the same thing — that not making too much of a mark might make it easier to leave. But as he looks down the paths set out before him, that particular lead disappears into darkness. There's no leaving for him, not really. Just— a more permanent end. (Only Jinx knows that. He hasn't brought it up with anyone else, hasn't made any allusions toward his death, but it hangs like an anchor from his neck, turning this place not just into a prison but a final lease on life.)

As Shadowheart sits, Silco picks out a garter, fingers running over the little bow that serves as its focal point. Her words don't stop him cold — though his ear strains after the whisper-silk of her voice — but they're a call back to earth, back to something warm and vital after the glance he'd spared toward the cold of death. ]

How funny, [ he says, deliberately lightly, as he turns back toward her. He doesn't move quickly, per se, but he moves without hesitation, dropping to one knee (demanded, given the context — it'd be more ungainly for him to try this any other way, craning down in some futile attempt to preserve his dignity) in front of her, the garter clip coming loose in his hand.

His touch is a little more certain this time — has to be, when putting on something so snug in fit — looping the garter around her thigh, making sure he's not pinching her skin as he pulls it closed.

Then, catching her gaze as he completes the thought: ] I thought of you, too.

[ But he doesn't stay on his knee for long, instead rising to his feet and casting a nod toward the nearest mirror. ]

Well? What do you think?

[nightsung]

[ There's an anticipatory swoop in Shadowheart's belly as Silco drops to one knee, and she spreads her own legs for ease of access, breath soft through her nose as he fastens the garter. She watches his face, close enough now to get the measure of his scar, deep lines tracing the contours of his temple and cheekbone like rivers through rock.

And powder settled in them, the color of his skin. Something about that softens her to him: vulnerability, in covering a perceived weakness. A subtler armor than chainmail or leather.

As Silco begins to rise, Shadowheart reaches for the tie at his throat; doesn't pull him to her or back down, just lets the fabric slip through her fingers as she holds his gaze.

She stands, at the question, and steps in front of the mirror. Armored herself, in a way, with garments of Silco's choosing. ]

Hmm. [ A thoughtful sound, as Shadowheart smooths her hands over her stomach and hips, glancing at him through the mirror, ] I think I should let you dress me more often.

[powerhungry]

[ The air is thick. Different from the tension of endless negotiations with the Chem-Barons for the fact that he hasn't thought about intimacy — about sex and attraction — or made any room for it in his immediate orbit until arriving here. It hadn't been necessary, but here— it's all there is. He resists swallowing as her hand finds his tie, keeping himself still until they're both back on their feet.

Once again, his reflection flickers like a shadow in the mirror, his eye almost seeming to glow as he finds her gaze again. ]

It'd be my pleasure.

[ And then, as if they haven't been stepping oh-so-carefully around flirtation since the first moment they ran into each other (as if this isn't the date in question): ]

Don't let me keep you. Your date will be waiting.

[nightsung]

[ Shadowheart turns, perhaps with the thought of leaving. There is no other date, obviously: though what Silco doesn't know is that there isn't anyone else she's sought out like this, initiating and coming back for more.

It is easier to look at it slightly askance: through the mirror, side-stepped, some cards kept close to the chest. Pleasure is currency, here, and Shadowheart doesn't mind it so long as she's herself. Choosing her desires, rather than having them picked for her.

But instead of brushing past him, Shadowheart closes the distance with a click of her heels on the polished floor. She presses her palms to his chest, slips slender fingers to the knot of his tie again, then her thumb to the center of his chin.

Voice low, ]

I wouldn't mind being kept by you, Silco.

[ Her eyes on his, and then his mouth, and she's lifting up on her toes for a kiss. ]

[powerhungry]

[ It's a bold declaration, somehow even more striking than her careful undressing in front of him, than the touches that skirt the edges of intimacy. Tension drawn specifically from the strange wellspring of this place, when none would dare speak to him this way — let alone touch him — in the whole of Zaun and Piltover both. (Only Jinx, always Jinx, the curlicue scribbled over his grid of straight lines.) But motion pulls through him like a surfacing echo, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back, a point of pressure to keep her suspended in the air as their lips meet.

He should, he thinks, close his eyes. It occurs to him as he watches hers flutter shut, the whole of her softening as she leans into him. But it only crosses his mind in the way that people consider fixing a creaky door and then put it off — he looks at her instead, at the pretty set of her features and the scar that runs from her nose and over her cheek. Hints at the hard life he knows she veils, at odds with the softness he catches in the odd falter or the pillow of her lips.

The kiss is a tide. The wash of a wave over fine sand on its crest, gentle in its fall back to the sea.

He doesn't pull back straight away, letting her keep him there with the hold she has on his chin. ]

Wouldn't you, now?

[ Rhetorical — a question to be answered more fully when they've more between them than a few meetings. ]