[ He sees her, between then and now, at the host club. They're busy, for the most part, pieces shifting as Jinx drifts in and out of orbit. There's a sort of humor to it — a materialization of her modus operandi as soon as she'd spoken it aloud. Her time's worth something. The club makes it so. Or at least, it makes that transaction more transparent, even though there's nothing like payment really involved.
It's a week or so after the club opens that he approaches her again, carrying a cage containing a blue morpho (unceremoniously "liberated" from the menagerie's butterfly garden) in a gloved hand. Maybe the staff will reclaim it, maybe she'll hate it, either way, such creatures only live for so long. At worst, it's hardly as though the little cage can't be unlocked. ]
Ani.
[ He doesn't smile, but the exchange is his attention, focused entirely on her — on her gaze, despite the tightly-drawn latex of her dress. ]
Come with me to the prom.
[ Better to ask in person (even if it's not quite phrased as a question). ]
( silco's attention has all the (un)subtlety of a hot poker — sharp, intense, wanting you to feel the sear of it. ani doesn't feel colder in its absences, those spaces between; she makes it a point to be busy, her schedule a curated performance of her own desirability — every hour booked, every glance bought and paid for. the reminder that she isn't waiting around for anyone. her time, exclusive. her presence, a limited edition. it's always been the case — the host club has just made it a matter of official, public record.
that's all to say: she's never needed sparkle and shine to guarantee attention when she's already the brightest thing in the room. still, there's a difference between background noise and silco's tunnel-vision stare — intent, calculated. a man that doesn't want her with the same intensity of sloppy boys fumbling over their feet, or giggly girls melting into her lap — but with a desire closer to precision, closer to strategy, closer to war. like he's in it to win it, no matter the cost. the type of guy drawn to a conquest. the type of guy who will bored of the victory, once he's seized it from her.
her head tilts, the vibe of a queen weighing the worth of a tribute, eyes watching the fragile flutter of butterfly wings. it feels as pointed as silco's usual brand of gift-giving: never lacking substance, always having something to say. her plant might be a resilient little fucker, but this — ani plucks the cage from him, trying not to think of what message he's sending this time. if it's commentary on beauty that has an expiration date, or a creature that knows it was meant to live fast and die young. in a cage, of all things, trapped.
still, it's pretty, one of her favorite things. fuck him for that. )
What, no corsage?
( her painted mouth twists, easing out a snort. her fingers wrap around the cage, a decisive verdict — like she's already chosen to keep it, despite the hard-ass treatment, despite how the demand grates. like her yes is inevitable, a purchased service in the transaction. )
You got shitty manners, making demands and all. ( she says evenly — not offended, and pointedly not flattered. ) Ask nice.
[ War is apt — living is an act of war for those born with nothing, isn't it? Eating, breathing, sleeping, all of it requires snatching a loaf of bread, a spare moment, a place to lay your head from the hands of those who already possess them. Violence will do the trick, but not violence alone, lest it bring retribution thundering down like the head of a hammer. There's also this: the terms she's set, borrowed from what one might call polite society, demanding a pretty show of respect to thread the needle the rest of the way. His wardrobe, his demeanor. The tools of his enemy. (He knows she doesn't number among them — wouldn't be here if she did. He plays for keeps, and he has no use for a spoiled, silver-spoon brat.)
Still, "nice" makes him laugh, just a little, like flipping a page to find a torn sheet in his usually steely book. Not a word ever associated with his name in Zaun nor Piltover, he expects, except to stress that he's the exact opposite. He wants to say it's hardly a demand, that he knows that nothing he could say or do would move her if she didn't approve of the gift — and more to the point, if she didn't want to go with him to begin with, but that's a presumptuousness that's just asking to be cut off at the stem. ]
Would you be my date for the night?
[ The words come out a little more gently than he means for them to, though he lets them go with the awareness that they can hardly be spooled back. A gift on its own terms, as much as the butterfly, as much as the plant. Their sharper edges often come to oppose each other without their meaning to — he can afford to let go of a moment of softness, all the more because she's asked for it. Well, not so much asked as demanded in much the same way she'd accused him.
So he weighs the next word that leaves his mouth, giving it over with a slight bow of his head. (He'd knelt, that night at the club. He's not likely to go that far again, not straight away.)
( it's a good performance, the kind of shit they would lap up at the club without thinking twice. roughspun, with just enough polish to make you believe it's a glimpse into something rare, cubic fucking zirconia parading itself as a diamond — passable, until you go to examine it in the light of day, and not the neon flicker of a club. a little gravel in the voice, a little hush on the end of the sentence — a little softness in the right place, and clients think they've gotten somewhere with you. that they're a special exception to the limits you live by, the rules that keep girls like ani safe. that there's a sweetness in her that's not for sale, waiting for them to reach the core of it.
she's watched him run the same playbook back-to-back while he held court in that booth of his like a king. sat on her smoke break, heels off, puffing on her vape with a side of entertainment, all those pretty little things crowding his lap, bending easy. breathless for a second of his attention — like he hadn't trained every one of them to feel his gaze like a benediction. like it meant something, being chosen. like they weren't all the same, at the end of the day. just pets salivating over a treat when it's been offered by an expert hand.
like ani hasn't run the same game to empty a fat wallet, working like the rent is due.
it's fucking impressive. it's also fucking bullshit, like consuming empty calories — a craving you regret indulging later. she laughs, more airy than substance, a cloud of warm smoke from her mouth. making him work for the pleasure of the sound, even now. )
Damn, Daddy. ( unrepentant, mock-innocent. her lashes flutter, butterfly-winged. ) You don't gotta beg.
( a bubble of gum snaps in her mouth, weighing an invitation she's already taken, acceptance between her fingers as she spins that pretty cage around. it doesn't have to be sentimental. it doesn't have to mean anything that, out of his gaggle of admirers, he's asked ani. probably because she knows the score, like he does. it's just business, mingled with a side of pleasure. she knows where the boundaries are, how to keep it clean. )
Sure, I'll go with you. ( she pats him on the chest, indolently flippant. ) Wear somethin' nice.
Not one of those suits that makes you look like you got a hot date with a boardroom and not me.
[ It's just business, but he smiles anyway, swaying gently on his heels as her hand finds his chest. He's good at this, at indulging the harder edges of girlishness. Ani's the only one who's really seen that, here, besides Jinx. They're not cut from the same cloth, but they're songs written with a chord in common. Too sharp to be pushed around, too changed by some previous hurt to be truly soft even if they wanted to be. He'd be lying if he said he didn't like that about her.
But like is immaterial in the end, unimportant in comparison to what they can do for each other. And it doesn't matter that that doesn't totally account for why they choose each other. His choice is one thing. Hers — he hardly believes she's the kind of woman who wouldn't have any other offers — is another. ]
And here I thought you liked me on my knees.
[ His gaze falls to the butterfly. At least for the moment, it sits relatively still, shimmering blue wings lazily beating as its feet cling to the flowering branch that serves as its company. One more gift, approved, though he wonders what she'll do with it. A little life in her hands, more delicate and more readily visible than a plant's. He hadn't meant to follow one living thing with another, but perhaps that's its own sign of value. What's more precious than a life? A principle, he might once have said. An ideal. But he's had that luster cut away on the blade of a loving knife. ]
Tell me when you've picked a color, then, [ he adds, curbing any chance for the prior thought to linger. That he can bend doesn't mean he particularly likes to, though one more thing that Ani and Jinx have in common is a knack and desire to push him to it anyway. ]
( it's not the sway of a tree moved by the wind, the bending of nature to a greater force. ani knows the choreography of concession, clocks it for what it really is — an allowance of softness, slipped into her hand with the same smoothness of twenty crumpled in a g-string. not a gift, but an earned trade. permission to feel strong, pretend she's the one in control. like his edges wouldn't carve into her palm, if she ever mistook herself as having the sincere, real power to break him, push him, soften him. not a delusion she'll ever let herself entertain.
the nostalgia of the moment tastes perfumed on her tongue, like otherworld booze and silco on his knees. ani's gaze does doughy with feigned concern, virginally doe-eyed, flicking down to silco's knees. up again, with a lazy grin that cuts into the illusion. )
Wouldn't want 'em to crack. Every girl's gotta take good care of her toys.
( case in point: the butterfly wings fluttering around like a heartbeat. ani's nails slip away with a graze, tapping against the golden slats of its cage, recognition in her eyes. all that fight in something made small, made ornamental, raging against its imprisonment. beautiful for its short lifespan. later, she'll unlatch the door, let it decide for itself — stay perched on her windowsill, drunk on sugar water because it wants to stay, or fuck off into whatever version of freedom still exists out there. maybe it'll be more real than ani's. she pivots on her heel, turns to leave. casts a glance over her shoulder, lashes low. )
Pink. ( easily. there's a sparkle in her eye, imagining it — beauty and the beast, more used to his bruised blacks and reds like blood, condemned to sequin damnation. she flips a silky wave of hair over one shoulder, parting with a sugary murmur: ) I look good in any fuckin' color. Try not to get outshone.
Edited (the embarrassment of repeating yourself in prose aha) 2025-05-11 02:08 (UTC)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
→ 🎬
It's a week or so after the club opens that he approaches her again, carrying a cage containing a blue morpho (unceremoniously "liberated" from the menagerie's butterfly garden) in a gloved hand. Maybe the staff will reclaim it, maybe she'll hate it, either way, such creatures only live for so long. At worst, it's hardly as though the little cage can't be unlocked. ]
Ani.
[ He doesn't smile, but the exchange is his attention, focused entirely on her — on her gaze, despite the tightly-drawn latex of her dress. ]
Come with me to the prom.
[ Better to ask in person (even if it's not quite phrased as a question). ]
no subject
that's all to say: she's never needed sparkle and shine to guarantee attention when she's already the brightest thing in the room. still, there's a difference between background noise and silco's tunnel-vision stare — intent, calculated. a man that doesn't want her with the same intensity of sloppy boys fumbling over their feet, or giggly girls melting into her lap — but with a desire closer to precision, closer to strategy, closer to war. like he's in it to win it, no matter the cost. the type of guy drawn to a conquest. the type of guy who will bored of the victory, once he's seized it from her.
her head tilts, the vibe of a queen weighing the worth of a tribute, eyes watching the fragile flutter of butterfly wings. it feels as pointed as silco's usual brand of gift-giving: never lacking substance, always having something to say. her plant might be a resilient little fucker, but this — ani plucks the cage from him, trying not to think of what message he's sending this time. if it's commentary on beauty that has an expiration date, or a creature that knows it was meant to live fast and die young. in a cage, of all things, trapped.
still, it's pretty, one of her favorite things. fuck him for that. )
What, no corsage?
( her painted mouth twists, easing out a snort. her fingers wrap around the cage, a decisive verdict — like she's already chosen to keep it, despite the hard-ass treatment, despite how the demand grates. like her yes is inevitable, a purchased service in the transaction. )
You got shitty manners, making demands and all. ( she says evenly — not offended, and pointedly not flattered. ) Ask nice.
no subject
Still, "nice" makes him laugh, just a little, like flipping a page to find a torn sheet in his usually steely book. Not a word ever associated with his name in Zaun nor Piltover, he expects, except to stress that he's the exact opposite. He wants to say it's hardly a demand, that he knows that nothing he could say or do would move her if she didn't approve of the gift — and more to the point, if she didn't want to go with him to begin with, but that's a presumptuousness that's just asking to be cut off at the stem. ]
Would you be my date for the night?
[ The words come out a little more gently than he means for them to, though he lets them go with the awareness that they can hardly be spooled back. A gift on its own terms, as much as the butterfly, as much as the plant. Their sharper edges often come to oppose each other without their meaning to — he can afford to let go of a moment of softness, all the more because she's asked for it. Well, not so much asked as demanded in much the same way she'd accused him.
So he weighs the next word that leaves his mouth, giving it over with a slight bow of his head. (He'd knelt, that night at the club. He's not likely to go that far again, not straight away.)
Lightly: ] Please.
no subject
she's watched him run the same playbook back-to-back while he held court in that booth of his like a king. sat on her smoke break, heels off, puffing on her vape with a side of entertainment, all those pretty little things crowding his lap, bending easy. breathless for a second of his attention — like he hadn't trained every one of them to feel his gaze like a benediction. like it meant something, being chosen. like they weren't all the same, at the end of the day. just pets salivating over a treat when it's been offered by an expert hand.
like ani hasn't run the same game to empty a fat wallet, working like the rent is due.
it's fucking impressive. it's also fucking bullshit, like consuming empty calories — a craving you regret indulging later. she laughs, more airy than substance, a cloud of warm smoke from her mouth. making him work for the pleasure of the sound, even now. )
Damn, Daddy. ( unrepentant, mock-innocent. her lashes flutter, butterfly-winged. ) You don't gotta beg.
( a bubble of gum snaps in her mouth, weighing an invitation she's already taken, acceptance between her fingers as she spins that pretty cage around. it doesn't have to be sentimental. it doesn't have to mean anything that, out of his gaggle of admirers, he's asked ani. probably because she knows the score, like he does. it's just business, mingled with a side of pleasure. she knows where the boundaries are, how to keep it clean. )
Sure, I'll go with you. ( she pats him on the chest, indolently flippant. ) Wear somethin' nice.
Not one of those suits that makes you look like you got a hot date with a boardroom and not me.
no subject
But like is immaterial in the end, unimportant in comparison to what they can do for each other. And it doesn't matter that that doesn't totally account for why they choose each other. His choice is one thing. Hers — he hardly believes she's the kind of woman who wouldn't have any other offers — is another. ]
And here I thought you liked me on my knees.
[ His gaze falls to the butterfly. At least for the moment, it sits relatively still, shimmering blue wings lazily beating as its feet cling to the flowering branch that serves as its company. One more gift, approved, though he wonders what she'll do with it. A little life in her hands, more delicate and more readily visible than a plant's. He hadn't meant to follow one living thing with another, but perhaps that's its own sign of value. What's more precious than a life? A principle, he might once have said. An ideal. But he's had that luster cut away on the blade of a loving knife. ]
Tell me when you've picked a color, then, [ he adds, curbing any chance for the prior thought to linger. That he can bend doesn't mean he particularly likes to, though one more thing that Ani and Jinx have in common is a knack and desire to push him to it anyway. ]
And I'll pick something to suit.
🎀
the nostalgia of the moment tastes perfumed on her tongue, like otherworld booze and silco on his knees. ani's gaze does doughy with feigned concern, virginally doe-eyed, flicking down to silco's knees. up again, with a lazy grin that cuts into the illusion. )
Wouldn't want 'em to crack. Every girl's gotta take good care of her toys.
( case in point: the butterfly wings fluttering around like a heartbeat. ani's nails slip away with a graze, tapping against the golden slats of its cage, recognition in her eyes. all that fight in something made small, made ornamental, raging against its imprisonment. beautiful for its short lifespan. later, she'll unlatch the door, let it decide for itself — stay perched on her windowsill, drunk on sugar water because it wants to stay, or fuck off into whatever version of freedom still exists out there. maybe it'll be more real than ani's. she pivots on her heel, turns to leave. casts a glance over her shoulder, lashes low. )
Pink. ( easily. there's a sparkle in her eye, imagining it — beauty and the beast, more used to his bruised blacks and reds like blood, condemned to sequin damnation. she flips a silky wave of hair over one shoulder, parting with a sugary murmur: ) I look good in any fuckin' color. Try not to get outshone.