powerhungry | SALTBURNT

[ it’s indulgence after indulgence today, and maybe her recent meltdown helped secure special treatment, but his request for a sign, for her thoughts, predated all that. ]

they like the direction management is taking

[ and for all she careens around the place (and the chat, for that matter), jinx takes this seriously. the first thing she’s been with him in from the start. ]

and they hope it’s everything u wanted

It is.

It'll be good for us.

[ Us, typed out after some consideration as to whether or not to keep the bit going. ]

The sign is perfect, by the way.

[ us us us better even than you you you. she still isn’t sure what that means, in terms of the girls, the clubs, the manor — but she’s willing to see it through, for silco. ]

only the best for the boss

speaking of
got a surprise for ya 🎁
to celebrate

[ ‼️ ]

Oh?

I could bring champagne.

depends
did u squirrel some away in ur office
cause im already there

Do I seem the squirrelly type to you?

[ A little pink, as far as text can convey. ]

The cabinet in the back.
I’ll be there soon.

Edited 2025-05-24 02:15 (UTC)

when i want ya to be

[ A truth, albeit one she doesn’t always know how to weaponise. He’ll find the wider club empty, obviously, but for the jukebox (rigged up the same as in the Lanes by Jinx herself), alight and playing an old song.

When Silco was a host, he tried on her fantasies for size — half-formed and incoherent though they were. She doesn’t know his just yet, and she figures asking is out of the question, for someone instinctively secretive, so doing is their only option. He’s been favouring pretty girls lately, like Ani, so she can’t help but wonder if that’s a starting point.

With her hair tied back (three smaller braids folded into one that trails down her back), Jinx dresses herself not out of insecurity, then, but curiosity: A black slip of a dress in place of her usual belts and buckles and patterns. She veers towards the masculine in her style, she knows, having modelled herself after Vi and then, well, him, looking as much like his daughter as she does Felicia’s. This isn’t a permanent change, it’s just — a gift, emphasised by the bow-like collar, affixed to her throat.

(In her mind, he gave her the handcuffs in part because of what she confessed to sharing with Nami, so why not let him have what she tried on Lottie, too? She was his first, so it’s only fair.)

Perched atop his desk like she owns the place — doesn’t she? — her crossed legs seem endless, bare apart from her usual boots. She tried on little heels and strappy things, but they felt wrong, in a way the rest didn’t.

Speaking of— ]

I didn’t get glasses! [ called out when she hears the far door click shut, heightened senses attuned to his footsteps. ] Board’s above all at, no matter how handsome the boss is.

[ ‘Cause she wants to hear that, too, to listen for him fumbling the glasses or pausing to try and catch a glimpse of her through his shuttered window. For much the same reason, she pops the champagne, laughing when it fizzes onto her hand. ]

[ When he enters the club, the sound of music hits him like a wave. (Like another life. Like Vander and Felicia at the bar, smiles never far from their faces, warm in a way the rest of the Undercity never was. And what he forgets, in this moment, is that that happiness had been temporary.) There's a pause at the door, then the patter of movement. First to the bar to collect a couple of flutes (to check his reflection, fix his hair, his collar — the kind of thing he'd cared about for entirely different reasons, before — registering the faint glow that handsome, from her, leaves on his face); then to the door, knuckles gently rapping against the frame before he opens the door.

The set of his features is more open, though it takes a moment for the rest of his frame to follow suit — ice, frozen for eons, melting in the heat of her proximity — the line of his shoulders rounding as he crosses the room toward her, offering the glasses up to be poured. Then again, maybe it hardly matters when the way he looks at her is nothing if not an open book, as adoring of her laugh as he is of every other part of her. And it's adoration that colors his gaze first, even before desire or lasciviousness, when his eyes track down her frame, taking in the collar, the dress — the effort.

He'd find her beautiful no matter what — already does, a burst of untamed color flashing through his subconscious — but he likes this, too. The peek of her tattoos through the latticed sides of her dress, the way the bow bobs with her breath. For him. (That's the fantasy, in the end.) ]

There's my girl.

[ New phrasing, the shapes of the words unpracticed in the reedy timbre of his voice when he's only ever spoken them to her, and even then, only in the last few weeks. Just as new is the way he leans forward, his nose brushing hers in greeting while his hands remain occupied. Remnants of a kinder life, dug out from under decades of sediment under the auspice of safety, security. ]

I hope the board doesn't expect me to take minutes.

[ She pours, watching the bubbles through her long lashes, delighted by how quick they fill, the physics of it all, how the angle of the glass slows their rise, the way little grooves in the flutes seem specially designed to create the fizzing trails in champagne. An inventor and a young girl both, distracted by the unfamiliar luxuries of this world until he nuzzles close. She giggles all over again, pleased by the attention.

That’s new, too. The freedom with which he reaches for her after holding back for so long. He always looked, she knows, but she only caught him in the act a few times. And she so prefers this, his attention narrowed to the point of her. There’s my girl, better than any song, spilling from the warmth of his mouth. ]

Hm. [ considering how much she wants to play — to tease — as she kitten licks champagne from her fingertips. ] Bet you can remember everything important without any notes, smart guy.

[ She sips her drink, grin barely obscured by the slim glass. ]

So long as you pay close attention.

[ Unable (unwilling) to keep herself from reaching for him any longer, catching his collar between her thumb and forefinger to tug him closer. He is handsome, after all, delicate-yet-rugged the same way she’s fragile-yet-vicious. Contrarian. Complex. She likes him so much, it makes her heart fill to bursting. ]

— Congrats, daddy.

[ Quick as the cock of her head, the knowing flash in her violet eyes, before she kisses him. ]

[ The pitch of her amusement sounds like puzzle pieces clicking into place, the raised crags of abutting tectonic plates suddenly smoothing out, inhospitable land made green again. Green in the way his eyebrows slant up rather than down when he looks at her, his eyes wide as though it might help him see more of her at once. He only recovers, a little of that haplessness coiled back, as she pinches his collar, huffing a laugh — a faint breath, the slight twitch of his features that he knows she's inherited as a habit. Pretty, on her features, but not as pretty as the way she smiles, laughs, plays. Utterly unique in his life, in this world, and if this place is any indication, every world beyond.

Of course he'll remember. There's no world in which he'd forget, just as he's never forgotten the first time she'd made something just for him (cups and ashtrays, decorated with neon markers and paint), or the first time she'd accepted a gift from his hands.

It's a peck, at first, then more — the fizz of bubbly on her tongue, the smudging stickiness of her lip gloss, more intoxicating than any champagne, enough to set his heart racing as if it were one of her toys, wound up and let loose. His breath catches when he pulls away, just far enough to press his forehead to hers, to whisper, ]

Congratulations, my dear.

[ Between them, he raises his glass, the sound of the toast as clear as a bell. One clarion tone to mark good fortune.

Careful, tentative: ] —Kiss me again.

Edited (word repetition sry) 2025-05-28 18:10 (UTC)

[ She must have kissed him a hundred times now, but it still feels novel. To meet him somewhere as an equal, at eye level, where his wanting matches and interacts with her own like chemicals, like explosives, a boom that causes a chain reaction. Jinx throws an arm around his neck, swept up in the act. Her nose brushes his, another laugh in her mouth.

Congratulations, he says, as though it’s as much hers as it is his, and — it isn’t, really, in the sense that she remains an observer, hands-off, but she appreciates the sentiment. The inclusion. An improved position from that of the wayward daughter and wily lieutenant. The partner. She’d wonder what the staff thought of it all, except Jinx has never cared how she was perceived before, and she won’t be starting now. ]

Only ‘cause you’ve been so good to me.

[ With a smeared kiss at the corner of his mouth. Like she could deny him this, all dolled up for him and him alone. Glass set aside in the blink of eye so she can walk her fingers up his chest and catch her nails on the buttons of his shirt. ]

—To us.

[ Because that’s what they are now, a union sealed in kisses and claims and stolen champagne. She crashes into him more forcefully, then, loosing a button in the process, unable to be anything but what she is. A tornado of a girl, leaving only destruction in her path. It isn’t so much that Silco weathered the storm, but that he came back and forgave the damage. ]

[ And then there's this: the fact that she treats him like something precious, as much father as the last cog needed to make an engine purr, a toy as beloved in adulthood as it had been when she was still a child. Something— someone worth treating affectionately and holding close. Granted, he's always known that to be the miracle of her love. It doesn't sand her sharper edges down so much as it provides a lens into the bright colors of her existence, those soaring highs and lows the only possible explanation for the depth of her feeling and the wild spread of its according blast radius. Not destruction but new life, even if she doesn't see it that way.

For a moment, she's all there is. The warm weight of her in his arms, her fingers spidering over the front of his shirt. His own wander — through her hair, over her cheek, through the gaps in her dress, like he's mapping her out. ]

To us, [ whispered against the bridge of her nose. A necessary echo. Then again, like he hadn't registered it the first time, ] To us.

I'll be—

[ He pauses — to drink her in, to adjust the shape of his mouth to words he's not used to saying, the same way he's learned to adjust the way he moves around her. More open, more tender; clearer, to give her what she deserves, to leave less room for miscommunication. His hand finds hers, holding it still over his chest. When he steps back, their fingers are still intertwined, tugging her gently toward the couch.

He thinks, I love you. He says, ] I'll always be good to you.

[ To us to us to us. Agreement. Adulation. The partner she’s always needed but never had. Balancing her high energy with his low menace, her outbursts with his steadfastness. The splay of his fingers in the slats of her dress, sinewy, only calloused where he holds his pen. More obviously rough where she feigns softness. Maybe he couldn’t see it before, but surely he sees it now: That unlike the flimsy butterflies in the club who pretend to be tough, to be dangerous, she’s the real deal. He made sure of it.

For the first time, she wants to tell him everything she did. That she killed half the damn council. That she sent their toxic gas back the fuck up where it came from. It wasn’t on purpose, really, but it still matters. She didn’t let it die with him. But he says, I’ll always be good and her thoughts scatter like ash. How long is always, for a dead man? What’s good to monsters like them? One hundred childish questions in her mind, plaguing her heart, and she voices none of them, following the pull of his hand to the sofa.

Instead, she lilts— ]

You think I mind when you’re bad?

[ when he fights for control, for her, that means she’s worth the trouble. The shouting, the attention, the troll of a babysitter (Sorry, Sevika). She fights for him, too, even when it isn’t necessary — as if she has control of any of it, like the impulse now, to push him to the cushions and climb atop his lap. Thought, then done, in a violet blur. ]

S’not like I know how to be good.

[ All she knows is this, the crush of their mouths, the drag of her nails on his throat. She can only be sweet for so long, at least with him. ]

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