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hawberries · 15 hours ago
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never learned to raise my hand, was too busy raising hell
[image is a digital drawing of Ekko and Jinx in stylised combat; Ekko is leaping up and swinging a length of pipe over his head, while Jinx is stepping forward and drawing her pistol. their gazes are locked on each other; Ekko is smirking, Jinx grinning manically. an image of Ekko’s pocketwatch hangs behind them and fiery plumes of smoke or dust are kicking up around them.]
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zanephiri · 16 hours ago
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Currently trying to get SO to watch Arcane.
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acchuli · 23 hours ago
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i guess some people call it anarchy !!!!
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cottoncandyofterror · 12 hours ago
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I’m so excited for this show and those characters I can’t even
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hawberries · 20 hours ago
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i watched arcane. never speak to me or my extremely violent daughter again
[image is a digital drawing of Jinx, sitting hunched over on an invisible platform, glaring out balefully, her long braids trailing to the ground.]
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garethamm · 21 hours ago
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Don't cry, you're perfect.
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myomikan · 12 hours ago
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This post by @piltover-sharpshooter cracked me up so much, I had to do a comic! To round it off I added a beginning and end panel. Hope you enjoy my version! :D
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juluia · 8 hours ago
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lil monkey
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siivka · 10 hours ago
I was amazed by the animation, rhythm and emotionality of this scene.
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Perhaps Ekko deliberately called Jinx not just to fight, but invited her to play the way they did in childhood. In this way, he awakened certain memories in her that made her use the tactics that she used when she was little, and then her actions became predictable for him. Including this helped him, finally, get ahead of her.
But he didn’t realize that if those memories were still alive in the depths of Jinx's heart, then Powder was still alive too. And maybe Ekko was ready to take revenge and finish off Jinx...
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...But he couldn't kill Powder 
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rejected3faq · 15 hours ago
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 random Jinx :3
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estoriacawcaw · 18 hours ago
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don't cry me: *Proceeds to have a mental breakdown*
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katcadecascade · 23 hours ago
Silco x Reader WIP
A/N: I got sucked in, maybe it’s daddy issues, maybe it’s maybelline. I’m still writing a lot more stuff, this is more or less the prologue/meet cute. Idk yet if this is gonna be multiple chapter or one loooonnng thing. Anyway enjoy!
Title: Pressed thin like your favorite page
Summary: You teach the children of the undercity how to read and write. That is if they still want to. The number of students in your alleyway-turned-classroom has dwindled down since the end of Vander’s era. Now you’ve been recommended to teach the child under the care of the one and only Silco. 
Word Count: 4542
“My hand hurts.”
You kneel down next to the wooden crate, it’s brittle wood is a decent desk for the skinny child under your temporary care. 
“You gotta loosen your grip, Tyson, here may I?” Your hand guides over the boy’s, straightening out his bent wrist and adjusting his fingers holding the pencil. “There we go, feeling better?”
“Uh huh,” Tyson continues with his scrawling, a far cry from the alphabet that he’s been studying for over the course of a week. 
You ruffle up his hair, ignoring how greasy it is. There hasn’t been any running water in your neighborhood lately, something about trash clogging the pipes. It was an issue that was brought up to Vander but…
“Teacher, Teacher! Lookie here!” Another small child with a wide open smile latches to your arm, pressing parchment to your cheek. 
“Ouch!” You dramaticized, holding your wounded face, “You nearly gave me a papercut Franny.” 
“‘Orry,” the kid mumbled in a rush still waving the paper, “but look! I wrote it, I wrote it!”
Indeed, on their brownish stained parchment are the words ‘My name is Franny!’
It’s not in a straight line, dipping down and the name is written bigger than the rest of the sentence. The childish script and lopsidedness all warms your heart.
“Oh my word, you certainly did!” You stood up carefully, picking up the child under the armpits to twirl around in celebration. “It’s beautiful Franny!”
“Hey, me too!” Tyson jumps on top of his desk demanding, “I want up too!”
Franny stuck their tongue out and blew. Fortunately you aimed the spit away from the grumpy boy. 
“You’ll get your chance too,” You patted his back and gently nudged him back on the concrete floor. The crate was wobbling a little too much for your comfort. “After all, you two have my full attention today.”
The two kids cheered as you force a smile. 
Last month you had nine kids bored yet curious in the alleyway right outside the dank and old apartment you call your own. You were patient with the younger kids and challenged the older ones. The stubborn ones stuck around the most.Vander was the one who sent kids your way, the ones who squinted at posters or traced shapes onto the dirt stained windows. The artistic kids swung by to pick up new words, treating the alphabet as another thing to graffiti. 
You remember laughing as the kids rushed to paint ‘SUCK’ to fix ‘ENFORCERS SUKE’.
Those were the early days with so many students ready to pick up your broken pencils and paint brushes with tattered hairs and used notebooks. You all had such a nice time despite the daily struggles of the Lanes. 
It lasted for as long as it could. 
Last week you had six students show up to learn. 
Today it’s only two because one lives in the apartment above you and the other doesn’t want to clean fish buckets in his parents shop. You haven’t seen the other four at all. 
It’s been quiet since word got around about Vander’s death. 
You’re scared of the power vacuum that is bound to come. People on the street are getting more bold, careless and drunk. No one is keep each other in check because there is no more figurehead of this hellscape. 
Honestly you have no clue on what’s going to happen now. Who’s going to take up Vander’s place?
One part of the undercity is mourning, the other is ready for revolution, and the last division doesn’t care at all. 
You sadly align with the third description. 
Yes, Vander’s death brought great pain onto your heart, so did Benzo’s death. You took one day to mourn, to truly cry your heart out and feel absolutely weak for depending on those two for so long. It’s an exhausting feeling to the point of numbness. 
You appreciated and respected Vander for a long time. Yet learning about his death felt inevitable. 
Vander was a man too good to be true, and you said those words to his face once.
He laughed that deep and heavy laugh that mimicked the smoky pipe that’s always on his lips. 
“I could say the same about you. Teaching these kids how to read. A humble origin story, ain’t it?”
Humble, that word means little to you. You know the real reason why you teach these kids. It’s an investment, a long game where one day these kids are able to make it out on their own in any world in any language. 
Because the topside would never give them this opportunity to know the value between pages. You know these students of yours will always be underestimated. You desperately want them to succeed in at least something to give Piltover hell.
These kids find their genius in art, in their knuckles, in spotting out who is weak or strong. They all have their strengths and you know yours.
Reader. You love books and writing.
You share that knowledge with kids who aren’t good at drawing or fighting or cleaning up their parents' shops. It’s the best you can do and you keep doing it after Vander’s passing. 
So with your two students, you teach them how to properly hold a pencil. 
As sad as it is that there aren’t many students, there’s at least more paper. 
Vander didn’t truly see your passion in teaching and now he never will. You prefer it this way. 
So after a single day of tears and dread, you locked your grief back into its book. Shelved it into your full bookshelf that’s cramped with your other failed ideas and unfinished dreams. 
Because you rather have your face in a book than look up at the fumes of the undercity. 
“Alright you two, how much have you been reading those books I gave you?” 
Eager as always, Franny tugs their book out of their knapsack. The paperback is immensely water damaged somehow and you dare not to question that. 
Instead you give Tyson a questioning glance as the boy pulls at a loose string on his shirt sleeve. 
“Um,” his lower lip pouts out, Tyson won’t meet your eyes as he mumbles, “Lost it.”
“Tyson,” You sighed, “you promised me, pinky promised, that you’ll bring it back.”
This is not your favorite part of being a teacher, telling your students what they did wrong and them getting hurt in the process. 
Tyson refuses to look up, digging his chin to his chest and you crouch down right before you hear his little hiccups escaping his lungs. 
“Hey, hey, look at me, I’m not mad.” You tilt your head way low, trying to meet his eyes, welling up with unshed tears. “We love that book, it’s your favorite, Tyson. Or do you hate it?”
“No,” he meeped out, sniffing loudly. His hands ball up the edge of his shirt, stretching the material with every twist. 
You gently hold your hands over his, once again guiding his fingers to uncurl. His hands immediately squeeze yours and you cast a smile at how tiny his hands are. One day these hands will hold a real pen. 
“You care too much to lose that book,” You tell him. Tyson looks up finally, nodding once before rubbing his wet eyes to his shoulder. “Here let me,” You reach over to press the end of your jacket sleeve to his cheeks. “See, these tears prove how much you love that book. What happened Tyson?”
He sniffled a bit, taking a few deep breaths to get his lungs under control again. “It was really cold last night. The fire was getting small.” 
“Oh,” You ignored the ache in your chest, focusing on the new tears on the child. “Tyson, it’s alright. Last night was very chilly.”
“Yup, yup,” Franny helpfully added, “I got blue toes!”
Reactedly, You shot the little kid with an alarmed gasp. 
“Do you wanna see?” They don’t even wait, docking their butt onto the dirty alleyway ground and tugging on a boot. 
“Did you lose a toe?” Tyson quickly wiped his eyes clean to get a better look. He also lets go of your hands to get closer to Franny. 
“No I didn’t,” Franny pouted.
Back with you, you take a deep breath in and out. You shouldn’t be surprised that kids can change the mood like a sucker punch. 
“Kids,” you begin slowly, a certain chill in your voice like lingering frost of the night, “there better be letters on those toes otherwise this does not count as reading time.”
The two kids blink at you and then Franny grins and suddenly there’s a charcoal pencil in their hand. 
“Franny no!”
“I’m practicing writing, Teacher!”
Even with just two students, it’s a tiring afternoon. The three of you read out of Franny’s book. A storybook about a girl with three necklaces jingling so loud that it alerts a hungry lion. You’re not sure any other teacher would give this to their students but hey, you and other Lane kids really enjoy this tale. 
You had Franny and Tyson take turns reading. They recognise the pacing of the story so they’re getting better at connecting words to the picture in their heads. Stories are always the best way for a person to learn from.
Tyson’s book, a story about a lost duckling, is another story you’ve come to love. You’re not sure if you can find another copy of it. Maybe you’ll assign him to rewrite the story but that’ll take up a lot of paper you don’t have. You’ll have to remember to get more supplies, most of your pencils are chewed up by Franny. Ever since the number of students dwindled down, Franny has been treating all the pencils and papers as free real estate. 
It’s been a while since anyone else has come to your classes. You’ve seen most of your former students out and about in Zaun seeking out food or fights. They ignore your presence and you’ve stopped encouraging them to return. There’s this look in their eyes, they had their fill on being educated. They’ve learned the minimal of the basics and now they need to learn the real skills to survive down here. 
You don’t blame them on that. Even you can admit that reading a good book won’t help on cold, starving nights. These kids are now in a world without Vander, they won’t get the luxury of having their nose in a book.  
As for yourself, you know you can never let go of a book. You tuck them deep into your chest, consuming it while it consumes you. Your dirty fingerprints stain over the worn papers that imprint ink and dreams under your eyelids. 
Your greatest weakness is books. A world away from the one you sit in. Your crude classroom that’s littered with trash and crates that once held smelly animals. The broken pencil you savaged from bins, the paint brushes with its bristles snapped, and the notebooks half ripped out. 
This is your best as a teacher and for your last two students. You wonder when they’ll leave you like the rest. 
Then it will be you and your old books. Alone with inked fantasies that will feed on you and you will submit. 
Like footsteps in a quiet alleyway, it’s an ending that will one day find you and- 
Wait no, those are real footsteps in your alleyway you hear.
“You’re Reader.”
The newcomer marches like she expects no threats or dangers in this corner tucked in the Zuan. The woman is imposing with her tall stature, glaring down at you with your students still reading. You’ve reached the page about the lion prowling closer to the little girl. 
“Who’s asking?” You eye her up, not recognizing her at all.
You figured you’d recall any new rumors about a buff lady losing an arm. There’s dark cloth wrapped around her arm stub. 
“Come with me.”
The good news is that you don’t see a gun on her. The bad news is that fact scares you more than it ought to. 
Because the real sense of danger always comes from the eyes, you’ve learned that lesson from way back when, a period of time before you learned to read. 
Her eyes read of dissatisfaction, that you are merely a chore and she’d rather do anything but walk into your half assed classroom and escort you out. 
“Alright,” you comply easily, swallowing down a lump of nerves. “Tyson, go finish the book in Franny’s house. We’ll meet again later.”
Tyson has his hands back into your own, “Is she gonna kill you?”
Your shoulders hunch up, your soul crumbles at the sound of his meek voice. “No, um, no. I’ll be fine.”
It’s a gut feeling, or a desperate hope, that whoever this woman is with, these people want you alive. No one has ever tracked you down and wanted you alive before. That’s a type of thing people like Vander get to experience because he’s important.
You are not important. You are easily discarded, you must be, and yet this buff woman is glaring at you demandingly. 
“Can I have your room if you die?”
“...No Franny, you cannot.” 
“Then can I burn it?”
Without hesitation you answer, “Yes you can do that Franny.”
“Yes!” They cheer and immediately grabs Tyson by his shirt collar and drags him up the stairwell.  
Again you take a deep breath in and out. You nod to the woman and dust your pants as you stand up and follow her out of your classroom. 
You know better than to strike up conversation, idle comic relief risks getting punched and you would rather avoid that. Yet as the woman heads off to a familiar direction, dread build up and up within your brain. The frosty claws of fear scratch the back of your skull and dives into your heart at the sight of The Last Drop.
“What are we doing here?”
You barely recognize your own voice, blunt and clumsy than the usual patient tone from the teaching mannerisms you’ve picked up. 
“The new owner wants to see you,” the woman gifts you with a mean smile, opening the door wide open to you. 
Ever since Vander’s death there has been one consistent rumor that has everyone awaiting for the inevitable power vacuum to suck the undercity dry. 
Silco, a name from Vander’s youth, came back from hell and seeks a new throne. 
Everyone has been avoiding the bar not out of respect for Vander but out of fear of whatever this man has planned. 
“You must have the wrong person.” Your throat tightens up from breathing too fast. Damn it you should’ve been annoying and asked pesky questions just for her to beat you up and toss you to the junk heap. That would be way better than this! “I’m just a teacher, hell a bad one too! Have you seen my students’ grades? Terrible! It’s my fault and-”
A hand targets onto your throat, effectively silencing you even though she hasn’t squeezed down too hard. “Shut up. You’re exactly who he’s looking for.”
With that she pulls you inside. 
The Last Drop is empty, a rare sight that you don’t feel blessed with. A shameful feeling makes you face the ground, as if you broke a pinky promise to return something but instead burned it out of necessity. 
The woman moved her hand from your neck to your shoulder, pushing you all the way to a back room that you vaguely recall seeing only seen Benzo allowed in. You don’t feel worthy to be walking in his path of a trusted friend, in a home to someone so important in this tiny and murky world of yours. 
Yet here you are, guided in by this unknown henchman to an even more mysterious rumor that terrifies all of Zaun. 
You’ve imagined something feral from the name, from the knowledge that he is Vander’s downfall. 
In this large office with the fading sunlight bathing the room with warmness over a man doing paperwork. His posture is poor, slim body curved over the fancy darkwood table, yet the rest of him oozes off sleekness and confidence. No one dresses this nicely in the undercity, a waistcoat and with muted palettes that draw in shadows. If not for one thing you would mistaken this man as just another businessman from topside. 
One detail ruins the image of pristine Piltover privilege. The left side of his face, gashes long since healed with divots from his jawline to over his left eye and up to his forehead. 
There instead of an eyeball is this black sun, a miniature eclipse that captures your universe in chilling fear. 
“Sevika, you may leave now.” 
Your guide huffs boredly and hefts off, shutting the door behind her, and leaving you alone with the man that took down the Hound of the Underground. 
Silco straightens up in his chair, no longer entertained by his papers. He stares at you, only his right eye actually moves. The rest of his face appears to not express his full range of emotions, which right now just appears to be absolutely reserved and unreadable.
You on the other hand can’t help but fully project your nervous thoughts. Your hands hide in the sleeves of your jacket, balling it in your sweaty grip. You know your eyes are wide and there’s a slight tremble in your spine that threatens to remove the strength in your legs. 
There’s a sense of power from just standing in this man’s presence, trapped in a room no less. It’s dangerously close to consuming you in ways you know you won’t recover from. 
“You teach Zaun children how to read and write.” Silco doesn’t ask which means one thing.
“You need a teacher.” Your eyes flicker to the desktop, “I’m pretty confident you can already read and write.”
His hum is short, maybe it counts as a laugh but his serious face dismisses any room for comedy. 
“I am well educated,” Silco stands up and makes his way around the table, “and I’m confident that my handwriting is not at all a disaster.” 
“Are you making a dig at my handwriting,” you spat, too insulted and so delayed logically asking, “What do you even know about my handwriting?” 
Silco leans against the table and without breaking eye contact, slides a piece of paper off and presents it to you. “Since you’re asking for my opinion, I’d say it could use some improvement.”
Petty anger overcomes your fear for this and for only this type of thing. Books may be your greatest weakness but your personal craft of literature is a close second. 
You march up to the devil and snatch the evidence of your supposedly disastrous handwriting.
After studying it for three seconds you grumble, “I wrote this in a rush.”
Silco merely rests his hands on the table for him to relax his weight, still very much unconvinced. 
“And in the dark,” you belatedly add.
“Ah, have you always practiced in the dark?”
“No,” you frown and avoid the judging stare, “I do that sometimes but this one is only very bad because it was late and Mylo refused me from leaving unless I wrote him this!”
On the paper reads ‘Vi is a mean fuck face for stealing Mylo’s last bag of chips and much more!’
You reread the report of sibling conflict. It goes on for two more paragraphs. Ignoring the heaviness building into your heart, you toss it back on the table, unable to look at it anymore. You disgruntledly ask, “Why do you even care about any of this? Do you need a teacher or are you just bored?”
“Very bored, indeed,” Silco replies with a casual glance around the room, as if you’re more unentertaining by the minute. “But I do require a teacher. I still don’t know why it has to be you.”
He said that to himself, you know it, but it’s still annoying that he said it like you’re not right in front of him. 
“Why am I here then?” You ask seriously, nervousness returning. This could’ve been easy if he brought you here just to entertain him. A singular use that could result in you either dying or at least discarded for him to move onto his next victim. 
Silco pushes himself away from the desk with a smooth, graceful movement. He stands taller than you, a height that forces you to tilt your chin up. 
“You were recommended.”
“By who?”
“Hi Mx Reader.”
That tiny and shaky voice is the last thing you expected to hear.
“Powder?” Your heart lurches, a coil unwinding at an intense speed, and your turn so swiftly to the little girl hiding behind the desk. 
Her head peers over and she slowly walks over to you and your frozen state. 
You haven’t heard much about Vander’s kids either, that is you refuse to actually hear any of the news about them. All you knew was they were all gone but now there is only one kid left. 
You shakingly kneel down as the little girl approaches you, wary that she’ll run off at any moment. Considering everything Powder has been through, you’re not completely sure how she hasn’t broken down. Or maybe she has? Right now you can’t tell because you simply raise your arms out and she comes running in.
Thin arms latch around your neck and blue hair tickles your chin. Her tiny frame shakes as you embrace her. 
Soothing down her wild hair, you hum, “There, there, I got you Powder.”
“No!” Her shout is muffled as she buries her head into your shoulder, “Don’t call me that!”
Surprised, you take a moment to brush your fingers through Powder’s hair. It calms her a bit as her sniffling lessens. 
“Alright, I won’t,” you assure her, “I promise.”
“Pinky swear?” She mumbles.
You carefully untangle your arms to carefully cup her cheek. “When have I ever broken one of those? Never, that’s when.” 
Your thumb glides over to poke her nose, getting a laugh out of the little girl. With your other hand, you begin to wipe her eyes where tears were ready to shed. The sight of such a small and lonely girl always made you want to run away or bribe them to stop. That always leads to messy situations. 
But here, listening to what she wants and showing her that you’re on her side, it’s the best path to get kids back to smiling.
You raise up your pinky and she has one last big sniff before locking her little pinky with yours. 
“So what should I call you then? Blueberry? Tinkerbell?”
She takes her head and hides her face against your chest once more. 
“Alright, when you’re ready, tell me, okay?”
Movement at your side catches your attention and that’s when you remember the other man in the room. You prop your head on top of the girl, eyeing up how Silco has been watching this entire thing. 
The man is simply standing there, his hands moved behind his back, making him appear like a waiting gentleman. By the way his head is tilted, how his one good eye squinted and pointedly only watched the little girl in your arms, you guess that he was studying this exchange. 
You rearranged your arms, one arm holding the girl’s back and other under her knobby knees. With her safely cradled in your arms, you properly turn to Silco. 
“What exactly do you want me here for?”
“She wants you to continue teaching her,” he answers, holding your gaze only for two second before looking at the girl. 
“That didn’t answer my question.”
He frowns at you, a little huff in his silent sigh. Silco fixes his posture, standing a bit straighter, “I want her to reach her potential.”
There’s something missing about his answer, you conclude as your gaze shifts between him and the girl. 
A flash of irritation goes over his face, “Excuse me?”
You shrug with your one unoccupied shoulder, “I’m just thinking, you’re a prideful and smart man. Why not you teach her?”
“I’ll be busy with other matters,” he begins but gets interrupted by the girl hanging onto your neck.
“He’s grumpy that I wanted you and not him to teach me,” she shrugs too. “You’re already my teacher.”
“Ah,” your response is barely passing as a laugh, making Silco’s eye twitch. “I see, well I’m very honored.”
“You should be,” Silco states with a shaper voice but his frustration only makes you want to grin stupidly.
It’s just fun to be a child’s favorite. Makes you feel appreciated and flattered.
“I’ll always be your teacher,” you bounce the girl up a small bit and you both laugh as you spin her around. 
She smiles that brilliant and jubilant smile of hers. You never imagine that at this happy moment she tells you this.
“Jinx,” she grins, “I wanna be called Jinx from now on.”
Bad luck.
You stop spinning her around, your confusion all over your frown and squinting eyebrows. The moment she sees that, Jinx’ lower lip wobbles.
“You promised,” she said in her innocent and wounded voice that immediately gets you to mask your current emotions.
“I did! I’m just taking it in.” You nod a lot with a happy smile, “Jinx, huh? Do you know how to spell that?”
Jinx shakes her head.
“Then that’ll be our first lesson. Mr. Silco here has pencils and papers here right? Let’s go write your name all over them.”
“Now wait a moment-”
“Yeah!” Jinx jumps out of your grasp and dashes over to the desk. 
Her crash landing onto the big chair has its wheels rolling all the way back to the window. That gives you enough time to find some blank sheet paper and gather up the rather important ones. 
You hand over that stack to Silco, ignoring some words about Enforcers and territories to target. 
“We’re probably gonna be here a while.”
Silco’s jaw drops, “This is my office.”
You tilt your head from side to side in a thinking manner, “You’re telling me this when really you should be telling her.” 
Pointing your head at Jinx, who now has scooted the chair to the desk, she’s already snatching up the closest pens with both hands. She’s not ambidextrous despite always catching her attempt to be so.
Jinx grins up at Silco, “I wanna write my name.”
The man that has all of the Lanes in fear has absolute frustration and dissatisfaction on his face as he stares down at this tiny, smiling child. 
Silco accepts the papers out of your hand to smack them to his forehead, hiding his face but you see and hear the way he shortly groans and his shoulders lose their tension. 
He brings his papers back down to glare at you, “I want this lesson done in an hour.”
You smile not kindly but you don’t push the man’s patience more than it already has been. Simply you nod and ask Jinx to refresh her alphabet.
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fizzie-bubbles · 12 hours ago
I just wanna know how the interaction of Jayce convincing Viktor to come to the council meeting and tell them what Jayce did was like. 
Jayce: Viktor, I did something, just a little something, and the council is going to hate me for it. I brokered peace with Silco. But I have an idea!
Viktor, already a little panicked: what
Jayce: So I have this brilliant idea, why don’t you, who hates public speaking and hates the council and hates being the center of attention, why don’t you tell them what I did.
Viktor: ...but they hate me. And i’m from Zaun.
Jayce: yes, exactly, it’s brilliant.
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“You can’t love Silco because Silco created Jinx” first of all he didn’t create her, he just cut the crusts off her sandwiches every day
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southeastgaysian · 23 hours ago
y’all be like jayce and viktor will never happen and why do y’all think they’re lgbt in the slightest OH BUT SILCO WAS A GOOD DAD?? OH HE RAISED JINX?? OH HE DIDNT HAVE OTHER INTENTIONS & DEF WASNT RAISING HER SELFISHLY??? character analysis thrown right out the window smh
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