powerhungry | SALTBURNT

Likewise. Would you believe me if I told you this is only my second-worst abduction?

If only because I couldn’t imagine how it’d behoove you to lie. Dare I ask about the first?

It's a long story that might be best told in person. Ideally over a bottle of wine.

[ Not one Shadowheart's shared with anyone outside their group, either, but with a moment's consideration, she thinks she would tell him. He's proven discreet thus far, and there's some degree of understanding between them; besides, the Cult of the Absolute doesn't seem to have any reach here. ]

If you have a free evening, I was wondering if you'd like to meet again.

[ It's not a willingness he takes lightly, secrecy having been established as a fundamental part of her order early on. ]

Tonight? You pick the venue, I'll bring the wine.

Tonight. Where we first met.

[ Unconventional, and not a question. Shadowheart doesn't entirely know why she says it, when there are quiet corners of the grounds that she's growing fond of, or any number of restaurants and bars that would likely afford them reasonable privacy.

But she doesn't think he'll say no, nor does she think he'll fluster, and that interests her. ]

[ It's a bold choice. It's tempting to say that it's to be expected, from a bold woman, but that's not quite the term he'd use to describe her — there's a tender timidity underneath the iron curtain of discipline and devotion, a soft underbelly. Regardless, he doesn't have the time to pause and consider her proposition, not if he wants to keep the hand he has. ]

As you wish.

[ He picks — from the extensive collection available — a bottle of merlot, ignoring the anxious flitting of one of the maids around him as he looks through the wine cellar. It's held in hand when he arrives at the Boudoir at the appointed time, erring on the side of early, and dressed as he typically is, in a neat, trim suit just a degree or two removed from what one would consider normal in a place like this. ]

[ Shadowheart ventures to the Boudoir well before they're set to meet, largely to ensure their privacy. The dressing room is empty but well-appointed, as before: she suspects, given the nature of this place, that none of this is coincidental.

She wonders what she's looking for, with Silco, but only skims the surface of that thought, a swift on the wind rather than a diving bird plunging deep. Here, every captive is allowed to do as they please, fed and watered and left wanting for nothing. It doesn't sit well with her, and she knows it doesn't sit well with Silco, either.

So she seeks his company. Perhaps it can be as simple as that.

Shadowheart is lounging on a velvet settee when Silco arrives, dressed much like before-- in a simple, form-fitting black dress, long-sleeved and high-necked, her hair done up in its usual braid. She's lacking accessories, though, instead offering the impression of a blank canvas. The fabric, clinging to her curves, leaves little to the imagination: she's a blank canvas underneath it, as well.

Shadowheart's gaze flicks over Silco, open enough in her appraisal (and appreciation). When she rises, she wanders to one of the lingerie racks. ]

I wondered if you might choose something for me, again. Since your taste served me so well before.

[ Mild, confident enough, though her composure masks the tension of one who's braced for potential rejection.

With slightly more ease, looking back at him from the silk shift she's examining, ]

But we should also enjoy the wine, of course. Thank you for bringing it.

[ Company, a curiously loaded word in a place like this, when so many of them are strangers. It hasn't escaped him that he'd do well to make friends, when much of what comes to pass here relies in one way or another on strength in numbers. He's already at a disadvantage, being new, on top of lacking any strength or durability (on top of being mortal, when gods walk the grounds, here).

He's of no use to anyone (to Jinx) if he doesn't make himself useful, and this is what he knows how to do. There's an uneasy ache in his chest, one splintered into each scarred-over bullet hole, that suggests he could stop, that going past the veil of death should be a release. But he can't let go, not in a place like this.

Shadowheart makes it easy, besides. He doesn't have to stare to know that there's only bare skin underneath the fabric of her dress.

As he sets the bottle down, looking around to see if there are glasses — two, conveniently, placed on a silver tray: ] It's poor manners to come empty-handed.

[ Like he comes from the kind of wealth that makes that a given. He makes short work of the cork, pouring twice before setting the bottle down. When she casts her gaze back at him, he's quick to meet it, eyes narrowing briefly in an approximation of a smile. ]

Tell me, what's the occasion?

[ There's another reason she's been drawn back to him, Shadowheart realizes: while the manor pushes them all together in a number of ways, the shared privacy of the Boudoir being one, there's markedly none of the compulsion she's felt elsewhere. The shivering intensity of the hunt, the magic-imbued candies... Nothing that's taken her wholly outside of herself, but the loss of control still puts her ill at ease.

And yet she's handing some level of control over to Silco. Of her own accord, she thinks, and that's what makes the difference. ]

Hmm. [ Shadowheart pretends to consider the question, picking up her glass and lifting it to him, in an informal toast. ] A first date, I think.

[ Never mind the fact that most everything here is too sheer, too short, too tight for a first date. ]

[ Likewise, there's nothing about him that seems so affected — whatever interest he has in her skirts, accordingly, along the sharp edge of purpose, not dangerous unless she puts her hand out to it. (And she has already, hasn't she? She's the one who'd invited him here in the first place.)

He nods as he raises his own flute, the glasses clinking lightly in the otherwise quiet confines of the room, leaving behind the sound of fizz as they both drink. A first date — appropriate for the kinds of lingerie that decorate the walls around them only in a place like this, when the ability to quickly hook another's interest is more a necessity than an idle skill.

The silence drags out as he begins looking through the pieces on offer in earnest, a beat passing before he removes a bustier and its accompanying bikini from the wall. ]

Something simple, perhaps.

[ Spoken lightly, as though unaware of the fact that her trying them on would necessitate shedding the only garment she's wearing. ]

[ Shadowheart remembers few details of her undercover missions for the Cloister, but she senses a hazy echo of them in what the two of them are doing, here. She knows she's slept with marks, before; she knows detachment serves her better than any kind of earnest interest.

But Shadowheart is interested, even if she manages to smooth her interest into something cool and coy on the surface. The wine sparkles on her tongue, not too sweet, and she observes Silco with mild curiosity as he sifts through the racks of clothing.

She supposes the set he chooses must reveal something about him, or at the very least reveal something about what he thinks of her. Truthfully, it's similar to pieces in her wardrobe here: sleek, flattering, and simple, as he says. There's not much to glean from it, at least at first glance. ]

Not a bad choice. I like the back. [ She sets her glass down so she can touch, though she doesn't take the garments from him, rubbing satin and then mesh between thumb and forefinger.

Shadowheart could tell him to sit, or ask him to turn around, or retreat behind one of the velvet curtains to change. She considers each, and instead unhooks the panties from their hanger, leaving Silco with the bustier. ]

Would you hold onto that, for a moment?

[ Less of an active role than lacing her corset or helping with a necklace clasp, but Shadowheart doesn't think he'll be disappointed. She turns her back to him and bends at the waist, stepping into the bikini with her heels and dress still on. As Shadowheart pulls it up her legs to sit snug at her hips, her skirt bunches up with it, revealing pale thighs and the sweet curve of her ass--well-muscled, but a little softer for having spent a month in relative comfort, no longer walking miles on foot each day. She lingers in the reveal, a moment, before she arches her back to stand tall again, and smooths her skirt back down. ]

[ That he's expecting it — or something like it, her intention telegraphed from the moment he'd seen what she was wearing — makes it no less of a thrill. She'd commended him before for being discreet, but this is deliberate. Not a test, not exactly. A way of taking the temperature between them, more like, and he suspects she's eager to get burned.

So: ] May I?

[ He steps forward, shifting the hanger he holds to his elbow as his hands brush over the swell of her hips, helping set the fabric of her dress straight again. Unfolding a wrinkle in the hem, smoothing it out so it sits evenly against her thighs. He's good at this — the details, making sure things look the way they ought. He'd learned, early on, how to compensate for a lack of brute strength in a world that prized it, fashioning himself after the very same people he longed to carve away like so much rotted flesh. ]

You'll need a garter, [ he decides, as he steps back to admire her. And it is admiration, this time, a step removed from the modesty he'd exercised before. ]

But first—

[ First, the bustier. A little more difficult to put on without getting fully undressed, a half-challenge issued as they continue to move game pieces across the board. ]

[ Silco touches her, and her lashes flutter. Hardly skin-on-skin, with his fingers smoothing the fabric of her dress, but anticipation warms her quickly: Shadowheart has thought about his hands since they first met. Deftly cinching her corset, knuckles brushing her nape. She imagines she could have asked for more before now, could have taken him up on undoing her, as he'd so kindly offered.

Shadowheart doesn't take things slow. Or--she doesn't remember doing so, because she's never had the luxury of time. She doesn't get to court people. Through the smeared ink of her memory, she knows that much: she has no attachments, nothing that ties her to anyone or anything.

This isn't quite courting, but she likes that she's wanted Silco for more than this moment. She likes that he gives her thoughtful answers, that he doesn't ask more than she's ready to give.

Shadowheart does want to give, now that they're here. She sees the way he looks at her, more openly than before, and turns to face him again, her hands reaching up behind her to tug down the short zipper at her back.

Her breath deepens, chest rising with it. Shadowheart lifts her chin to hold Silco's gaze as she pulls down one strap and then the other, baring only her shoulders, for a moment, before she peels the fabric down under her breasts, nipples taut before they're even exposed to the air. There are men who would stammer and stumble here, and she's fairly certain Silco isn't one of them. ]

[ 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.

[ 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?

[ 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?

[ 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.

[ 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.

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

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retconning her out of a high neck into a strappy dress bc it's hotter

it's what god would want

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