#Silco/Reader

[tea-effect]

BE BLESSED FELLOW SIMPS

[x-amount-verbs]

A Helping Hand - Part 30

[start here] || Part 29 || Part 30 || Part 31

[silco x f!reader] [3.4k words] [no y/n] [during timeskip] [touch-starved reader] [henchwoman!reader] [rated M] [discussion of ptsd] [🙃]

(posting early enough that y’all should have time to read before New Years ^^)

AO3 Link

“Where’s Jinx?” You’re babbling, just to fill the air, as Sevika escorts you to The Last Drop. By now your clothes have been dried, though you’d grimaced at the mess made of your kit. You’ll just have to buy some new gear, that’s all. An expense you’d rather not deal with, but that’s what you get for unintentionally making pastry soup in your waist pack.

“I assume somewhere at the Drop,” Sevika says wryly. “That’s the benefit of early morning asset retrieval: no babysitting duty.” Asset retrieval. Right.

A valid sentiment from her, you suppose, but there’s a hint of anxiety gnawing away in your stomach. You both want to see the kid and dread her finding out what you’ve done. You dread Silco’s response to your behavior. It’s frustrating, and embarrassing, when your mind just hijacked your body and acted completely out of line. Scary, too, if you look at it too closely. The idea that it could happen again, that you’ll lose time, lose control, lose yourself like that… not the most promising prospect.

It could be a blessing or a curse that you won’t have to dread Silco’s reaction much longer, entering the bar.

“Wait here. Gotta report.”

You settle into the same booth you had that drunken night, glancing up at the floor above, to the shadows that hide the door to Silco’s office, as Sevika trudges to go give him the rundown.

What will she say? The girl is crazy. No; she made a mistake. You cringe. She doesn’t owe you that courtesy, and it would be a lie. She lost control and shot a kid. That’s the accurate one. Accidentally. No; without realizing what she was doing. And that’s the worst part, isn’t it?

Teeth pinch at your lip, fingers fidgeting with the rumpled sleeve of your freshly-dried shirt. Before you know it, you’re back to the calming pattern of wedging your thumb nail between the plates of your prosthetic sleeve, tracing up and down your forearm, plucking at hard thin edges. Just enough to tug at your nail bed, just enough to hurt.

Waiting is its own special torture. You can’t stop remembering the last time you were here. The sting, the burn, the ecstasy…

Cheeks flame, throat feeling constricted as you fend off memories of his hands.

You had bruises after that. Nothing horrible, but a subtle ache that brought the memory to mind if you sat on the edge of a seat, or leaned against anything that pressed into a mark. Not a bad pain by any means, but a bittersweet one. More bitter than sweet, all things considered. The regular shimmer taken for your arm made the pain and marks fade quick, but you may have spent a night admiring them. Wanting more.

You’re such a goddamned sucker. Wanting him so much, when you know better.

The brief flutter of hope in your chest as Sevika reappears gets squashed by your own hand as soon as you notice it. If he doesn’t care, you can’t either.

…Fuck, you should know better.

Her walk down the stairs is silent, and you can’t tell if the slight furrow of her brow and thin press of her lips is irritation, confusion, or - knowing Sevika - irritation that she’s confused. There’s not quite enough on her face to read, or maybe she’s not feeling anything strongly enough to show.

Or maybe you’re paranoid and trying to see something that isn’t there.

“…Head on up. He’s waiting.”

He’s waiting. Your mouth goes dry, anxiety gnawing like a mouse on a wire at the base of your skull. Every worst-case-scenario flips through your mind before you shove that list out of your mind and opt to just stop thinking entirely as you walk upstairs to his office door.

A knock.

“Enter.”

How does one word now carry so much promise?

You try to hide your tells, but can’t help the hard swallow after struggling to breathe past the nervous lump in your throat. Hopefully you don’t start choking. That wouldn’t exactly prove your stability. Is proving your stability even possible?

The chair is back. Cheeks flame as everything that had happened in its absence plays on quintuple speed in your head. Palms— then elbows— then your whole burning face pressed to the desk, the desperate need that had snapped inside you. And how he’d satiated that need. The hand on your back as he thrust gloved fingers into you, the presence of him, rocking against you in tiny sinful movements.

You almost feel lightheaded, remembering. Blinks come more rapidly than usual, trying to push the image out of your mind.

Silco isn’t looking at you. Instead, a long finger taps delicately at a paper set before him. It almost feels like mercy, for him to be focused elsewhere. As soon as his eyes start to rise, you panic and drop your gaze to his collar. That tie, a perfect symbol of professionalism and discipline.

Discipline. Oh gods, wrong word.

“…You stayed at the gym overnight.”

It’s an observation, not a question, but you still offer your affirmation. “Yes.” He makes no comment about dropping the honorific. This is more serious than that.

“Why.”

For a fraction of a second you meet his gaze, before looking down again. “I don’t know.” It’s almost a whisper, voice feeling so small. The silence isn’t oppressive, but you can’t help the shame welling up around you. It wasn’t what you meant to happen, you didn’t even realize what was going on before you felt the cold shower shock you to your senses.

“Why didn’t you come here?”

…What?

You don’t even think to hide the surprise on your face as you meet that uneven gaze, flicking between the pale sea and the hellfire glow.

It doesn’t feel quite like hellfire. Whatever it is you’re feeling from him, it’s not rage or heat. There’s something reserved about his demeanor. Subdued. Not gentle, but barely a hint of that authoritative grip; a statue unto himself.

“I…” Why hadn't you? Weakly, you shrug a shoulder. “I can’t answer that.” It’s a frank answer. No lie there; if the choice was conscious, it wasn’t one you remember now. In lieu of certainty, you can’t offer an adequate response.

He’s silent for a long moment. Hands in your lap fidget, but it isn’t the heavy expectant silence of some other meetings. You can almost see him carefully tasting his words, deciding how to approach the conversation.

“What happened?”

“Sevika said she was going to tell yo—”

“I’m asking you.”

Something twinges in your gut. You didn’t think his calm could hurt you so much, and you can’t tell why it does. Maybe you expected to be berated and ripped apart for your mistake; this even-footed respect is disorienting. Maybe it hurts because he can’t seem to meet you so evenly in… other matters.

Maybe you don’t think you deserve his patience.

Most likely, it’s some conflicted mess of all three.

“…I didn’t realize what I was doing.” Only barely loud enough to reach him across the desk. When he has no reaction, you swallow and continue. “The kid pointed a gun at me.” Eyes go blank as you try very hard not to remember it, but you can feel your chest tightening. “And I— shot him.” Breath coming faster.

You cross your arms, digging nails into your bicep, pinching hard, drawing awareness away from the rush of shame and fear and memory. Eyes drop to the desk, and you gnaw at the inside of your lip with one quick bite that’s too hard, immediately breaking skin and making you wince. Doesn’t matter, it’s serving its purpose. You blink away the empty, forcing yourself to continue.

“It wasn’t even a real gun,” the hint of disgust that turns your stomach is audible, brow furrowed. “He was a kid, with a paintball gun, and I shot him.”

He says your name quietly, but firm. Pulling your attention, even if the look you raise to him is pained. “The boy is fine. You didn’t kill him.”

Shaking your head, you focus on your lap once more, posture hunched, like you can somehow protect yourself from your own mess of frustration, revulsion, trepidation. “It’s not about killing him— or shooting him, even, it’s—” You choke on it, but soldier on. “I wasn’t there. I was…”

“You were here. Losing your hand.”

Drawing in a breath, you hold it, nodding stiffly. Again, he’s read your mind. You don’t think to wonder how he knows exactly what you were thinking in that moment.

There’s a silence again, and you just want him to take control. Give you something to do, someone to be, something to feel that isn’t this mess roiling inside you.

When it stretches on too long, you finally give in and look.

The mismatched gaze fixed on you is guarded: calculating, measuring you up. You’re wary of what it might mean, after… everything. But he doesn’t seem angry, or pitying, or stern, or any shade of malevolent, really. Not like he’s about to say you’re too unstable to be armed. He’s just… thoughtful.

Finally, he scoots his chair back and stands. Walking to you with measured steps, he offers his hand. Not for the prosthesis, either; skin for skin.

The burn of your ears seems to radiate heat as you look at his open palm. It feels— too close. After the disastrous way things ended the other day— and no glove. No barrier. No added protection of games and roles to fall into.

Just his hand, open for yours.

“What is this about?” You’re trying to ask more questions now, to keep things clear. This can’t be another moment he’ll just walk back later, leaving you once more alone.

Again, your name.

You want to take his hand. Badly.

“Indulge me. Please.”

It’s the please that does it. A wary glance up at him before you take his hand, heat zinging through you at the way he squeezes your palm as he helps you to your feet. Like a silly little girl with a crush, blush seeping across your chest and up your neck. Fixated on the ghost of calluses on his hand against yours, even if your eyes watch his face.

The hint of self-satisfaction in that hidden smirk makes your eyes narrow. Exactly what kind of plan is this?

For a second, you’re about to ask, before you realize he isn’t leading you away, but rather escorting you around to his side of the desk. Dropping your hand to lift the paper he’d been reading and set it in the corner of this desk. Clearing the center.

Your eyes linger on the empty space, recalling the last time his desk had been cleared.

Silco pulls the chair back, creating a gap plenty big enough for you. He gestures to the surface. “Sit.”

Warily, you hesitate. You said no more games, and this feels like it might be one— but part of you still wants to play. Or at least see what it is.

…You can call it off, if you need to. That’s your decision: see what he wants, and call it off if necessary. With that decided, you take the offered seat.

It’s a strange place, perched on his desk. Too many bad ideas flicker through your head as you settle, even as you beat them back into their hidden places again. (The things you’ve thought about doing on this desk— particularly after last week…)

“Comfortable?” Silco asks, standing with one hand on the back of his chair as he waits for an answer.

You shrug a shoulder, noncommittally.

A raised brow prompts a more satisfactory answer.

“Seems so.” …Okay, maybe you haven’t completely given up making things difficult.

There’s a twitch to his lips, that hidden smirk that flicks a thrum in your chest. In one smooth move, he’s seated, and you shift back as he grasps the edge of the desk to roll himself closer, pressing your knees open as he tucks his legs into the space beneath.

Involuntarily, your back arches for him, hips shifting nervously at how open and vulnerable your position feels. Thank fuck you wear pants nearly every day. At least there’s that consolation.

An appreciative glance rakes over your body regardless, sending heat straight to your core, though the position you’re in prevents you from properly relieving any of that newfound tension. Instead, the instinct to close your legs just presses them against his hands, earning you a knowing look that makes your face flush and eyelids feel heavy.

His eyes drop to your knees, and one hand flattens, his pinky brushing your inner thigh before he seems to think better of it and pulls away.

Once again you struggle to fend off thoughts of his hands roaming your body.

The clear eye closes, a slow intake of breath one of the most transparent tells you’ve ever seen from Silco. Trying to refocus, but on what?

He wheels back just enough to reach for his desk drawer. Suspicion pricks behind your ear, trying to recall anything you've ever seen him pull from the desk, and what drawer they were located in. You’re ticking through options that all feel too much too quickly when he pulls out the odd syringe you’d seen him use with Jinx. There’s a click as he locks one piece into place, then a soft tk tk of his finger flicking the barrel.

As neutral as you try to keep your face, there’s a certain confused notch between your brows. You can’t help but stare at the device, trying to determine how it works, before glancing to Silco’s face again.

There’s a very slight smile on his lips, but it’s more like a grimace. This isn’t something he looks forward to using, obviously. Fair: it looks painful.

The chair rolls between your legs again, and Silco leans back, gesturing with the device. “Like this.” He holds it well above the intended target, making sure to emphasize where the hand holds and where the fulcrum is on the lever, how low you can choke your grip while still being able to activate it. Squeezing the grip makes a click that reminds you of the injector you use for painkillers, and similarly a needle (even if this is much longer) stings out from the canister, a dose of cool-toned shimmer delivered into the air above his cheek rather than his eye.

Silco wipes the liquid from his skin with his other hand, not bothering to find a handkerchief. “Is that clear?”

“You… you want me to-”

He nods, already offering the syringe. When you don’t immediately take it, he pulls your wrist to him to place it there.

You jump at the contact. Anxiety makes your prosthesis tingle, hyper aware of what you should be feeling where his fingers touch you.

“…You’re sure you want-”

The firm way he says your name brokers no argument. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t believe you were capable.”

It shouldn’t steal your breath the way it does. He’d said it to Jinx, when she held his medicine in her hands. I trust you. That’s what this means. More than any I’m sorry, or I was wrong: this is an apology, and so much more.

He pulls the chair even closer, fully invading your space well before he leans back at an angle, watching you with an even stare, hands on the armrests. Ready. Prepared. Trusting.

Your ribs feel crushed, but you try to keep your hands as steady as possible.

“Take a breath,” he advises, voice low. You love that voice, when he speaks for an audience of one. “When you’re ready.”

A breath. Another.

You lean into his space, fully willing to complete the task, but unsure where to place your good hand to brace yourself.

Slim fingers take a gentle hold of your wrist, directing your fingers into his hairline, palm gently pressed against his forehead. The grip on your wrist is enough, but that brief combing hair between your fingers… Heat rushes through you at the contact, and right behind it a thin sparking wire of hurt, remembering the last time you got so close, and how he’d so quickly rejected you, striking right at your weakest points.

And now here he is. Baring his weakness to you, offering you a tool that can strike just as hard.

You look away from your task, examining his face, your own troubled.

“It’s okay.” His reassurance warms the air.

That thing fluttering in your chest won’t shut up. To silence it, you resolutely focus on the assignment, determined to do it right and not hurt him.

Lined up, eye socket in the cradle of the device. Hold your breath.

Click.

Instinctively the hand on his forehead drops to his shoulder, steadying him as he lurches forward, a grimace warping his features. You drop the device back on the desk and quickly steady his head again with the prosthesis. No sorry comes from your lips, because you already knew this would happen— you knew this is supposed to happen, even if seeing him in pain wrenches at your gut.

A trickle of shimmer leaks from the bad eye, and you swipe it away with a ceramic thumb—

A tiny noise of surprise catches in your throat.

Again, you swipe your thumb over the scarred skin. Then your other fingers. The tingling is brief, and settles, but you still feel warmth. You still—

Breath hitches, throat constricting, and you do it again.

You cup his cheek and run the thumb up the valleys of scars, barely brushing against skin. Softer than you’ve been able to achieve until now. Because now…

Tears spring to your eyes, fingers fanning across the scarred half of his face, breath uneven.

“I—” You can’t even find words.

For the first time in over a month, you have a hand again.

Every little divot, every puckered edge of old wounds, the heat of his cheek, the minuscule hairs on those areas left untouched— you feel it all.

There’s no attempt to hide the overwhelming flood that seizes you in its grip. Wonder and relief and bittersweet pain that you’d missed it for so long, all playing out across your face, inches from his. You still stare at his scars, at the ceramic fingers tracing along them— your fingers, finally feeling a part of you.

Flesh hand digs into his shoulder, excitement making you shift on your perch, push closer, reveling in the sensation.

It’s clear this is connected to the shimmer, because not every inch has gained feeling, just the textured finger pads that brushed the medication from his cheek. Realization clicks that that’s why your wrist tingled as well, once he took it with shimmer-touched fingers. Whatever mix he has, whatever specialized formula is in that syringe, that’s the key. Part of you wants to drench the hand in that mix, but you don’t want to let go.

A delicate touch follows the ashen curve beneath his eye, the half-missing eyebrow, then up along one deep scar to finger the start of the distinct light streak in his hair. A short breath breaks from lips parted with amazement at the fine texture freshly available to those fingers. Drawing down the scars again. Back up, in a slow lazy pattern.

Down, up, mapping his fault lines. Worshipping his injuries with your own.

It’s only his sigh of breath that makes you zoom out, to see more than just your fingers caressing skin. His good eye is closed, though there’s a small touch of concern pulling his brows together, just slightly. Lips are tight but not distressed exactly...

Again, it’s an expression you know.

Want.

Need for more, and a refusal to act on that need.

—At least, assuming you’re reading him correctly.

The thing in your chest beats against your rib cage frantically, heart speeding as you consider the choice you’re halfway done making.

Fingers cup his cheek. Ceramic thumb follows those lines again, down to the point where they meet his lip. It brushes across the skin there, running back and forth over lips far softer than you expected, marveling at every little ridge you can feel, how you can suddenly feel his breath hitting skin that no longer exists.

Maybe you didn’t consider this decision at all, because not a single consequence has cemented itself in your mind. Your body acts on its own, bending to close the distance between you. Hardly a fraction of a second of hesitation.

You press your lips to the corner of his mouth, to the spot where the scars end, still cupping his face with your ceramic hand. A kiss without kissing.

—

[Happy new year! Feels about time we get some real intimacy y’know? 😏

Anyway, I originally intended to post this Christmas Eve, but then I got in a car crash on the 16th (I’m fine, my car isn’t) and had to deal with all that while my parents were out of town, an underwhelming holiday, followed by a 12-to-24 hour stomach bug the day after getting back to my apartment. Overall, a bit of a mess for the holidays 🥲 Thanks go out to anyone who helped me shoulder the cost of all of that, it really did add up when it comes to the ridiculous price of a cross-state-lines car rental. And also, though they’ll never read this, thanks to my fellow Jewish families that I can rely on to feed me when I’m left alone on Christmas Eve/day 😅 Honestly, I was super lucky to have the friends and family I have, it made all of this mess bearable.

ANYWAY.

I only have like 85-90% of the next chapter written, and I want to find some way to bring it to at least somewhat of a conclusion, since I haven’t been able to write for shit lately, but want to give some degree of closure for loyal readers. We’ll see what I can manage, I guess! But the original intention of posting 29-31 before the end of the year… welp. That apparently isn’t going to happen >< Holiday complications were unexpected. Regardless, I have to do the regular plugs and requests, so; if you liked this chapter, let me know! Comments, reblogs, responses on the ao3 post, etc— and if you want to find more content (reverse POVs you may have missed, art you may not have seen (new art coming soon!), fics from friends, etc) you can find all of that on the story’s masterpost here on tumblr. If you want to be tagged in the next (and potentially last?) chapter of this fic, just comment on this linked post to join the tag list.

I love you all so much, it always thrills me to see people’s reactions, and this has been a bright spot in the mess of the last couple weeks. ❤️ -verbs]

Tag list: @hawk4president @mello-jello29 @jennrosefx @dad-dumpster @ellhd-imagination @zuckerwattencupcake @meep-moop-mystic @sherwood-forests @ariaud @witxhy-lexx @mazikomo @leave-me-alone-doctor @antoine-tte @wisteria-songs @imalovernotahater @eriseffigy @leorioaki @artificialwords @hehicular-hanslaughter-lecter @ironandglass @ughhhh177 @faraige @ilikemymendarkandfictional @jennithejester @insult-2-injury @iz-zy5 @rinadragomir @queenofspades6 @cuddlejeongin @differentladynerd @leo-the-undead @silcoitus @stepsonsilco @commotionpotion @averagecrastinator @eurydicethesage @mialobo @wierdestmoppet @bumble-bee-17 @sonicbananawithbowtie @venommie @sheisacryptid @cuckconnosieur @yew-over-there @zaunite-leo @im-forgetful @rando-compilation @valkyrie05x

[whirlybirbs]

BIRBS WRITING FOR SILCO??????? (SLAMS THE BUTTON) WEE WOO WEE WOO

HOBBYISTS & FINER THINGS.   ;   silco / reader

summary: perhaps all this trouble is worth it. or, you come into ownership of the lilac lounge and after a business inquiry, find you've earned silco's interest.

word count: 2.1k

pairing: silco / f!reader

a/n: a little something i've been stewing on. enjoy what will undoubtedly become a little series, knowing me. this pretty gif is by @aestheticsicrushon from this set here!

read me on ao3  |  next chapter >

"Tea?"

You're beginning to think this whole thing was more trouble than it was worth. By 'thing', you quite candidly mean the fact The Lilac Lounge — one of three brothel's residing along the Lanes' main strip — was now under your ownership.

You'd be lying if you said it hadn't come as surprise.

(The sort of surprise that had riled half the Lanes the next morning — your screams of disbelief had ricocheted down the strip, the squawk sending whatever poor gutter rats and ravens fleeing from their morning meals. WHAT?!)

You and Yeleni — the previous owner — had never really seen eye-to-eye. She was a disgruntled, old courtesan who could rarely admit a single fault, and yet you stuck around. Be it loyalty or stubbornness, you're still not quite sure. You were one of her best girls; you've spent the better half of your life working in that plush, little brothel.

Those rooms have seen your maturity sharpen.

Whatever. Fuckin' Yeleni. She put your fuckin' name on the deed. Then, she up and croaked. Slipped away in her sleep. Not exactly the way you'd imagined her going, but it happened. You always thought there would be more screaming, more clawing — a last, desperate cling to life just like she clung to her vanishing creams smuggled from Topside.

Eugh.

There's a whole pile sitting on your desk back at The Lilac Lounge. You can't seem to get rid of them fast enough. You thought handing off a dead woman's half-used beauty regime would be easier. Turns out it's quite the contrary.

...Perhaps Silco...?

You silence the intrusive quip with a quick flash of your lashes.

You have to admit — you anticipated the man before you to be a bit more... garish. From the way Yeleni had spoken of him, it seemed as if he was a pain to look at. From her stories, every interaction between the two verged on violent. Though, you suppose that eighty-six-year-old whore rarely had any sort of functional relationship with any of her coworkers, patrons, or protection. It was charming... in a twisted way.

His back is to you now. He is in the corner, by the phonograph. There's a cart there with a myriad of pretty little bottles and pretty little spirits. The offer of tea comes as a surprise.

From your place between the two of his enforcers, you shift in your chair. Your cross your legs and rest your knotted hands on your stockinged knee when your coat has parted.

"Sherry," you speak slowly; the point in your words remains pleasant if not professional, "If you have it."

Across the room, Silco takes pause. His own drink is forgotten for a moment — and he's suddenly struck with the fact you are not Yeleni. You're... well, little old Yeleni would have already threatened to castrate him for suggesting he didn't have her tea ready on her arrival.

"Not a fan?"

She'd been a mythic woman. Quite small, but mighty. Respected.

Why she left The Lilac Lounge to you remains to be seen.

He moves, the lip of the crystal tinkering neatly against the glass. He turns back, both drinks in hand.

"No," you explain lightly, "I can never get past the sting of the water."

You get a good look at him then, backlit by the jade windows that suck in the dim light from the Lanes outside. Your chin is held high, posturing rigid as a board. Silco is a bit surprised to see you've kept your coat on. The high collar brushes your cheek.

He offers the sherry and your gloved fingers brush his.

He holds your gaze.

You're a pretty thing. Beautiful, even. Not in a delicate sense, but in a pointed sort of way. Sharp. Perhaps it's the wicked way your eyes narrow ever so slightly when they meet his.

Hm. No, not bad to look at. Not at all, you reason.

His eyes lift and with a wave of his hand, he gestures for his men to wait outside. You watch, sherry raised to your lips, and only sip once the door has clicked shut. When your head swivels back, he's still watching you.

Finally, he leans back and ventures around the center table to his rouge loveseat.

The spirit stings your throat. It's nice.

"You know," comes the slow drawl as he leans and gathers a cigar before dropping down to the sofa, "Your predecessor would have threatened me four times over at this point in our meeting..."

You snort into your drink. Quiet. Lady-like, still. Your voice echoes in the crystal as you hesitate a sip.

"Would you prefer I begin now or later?"

Silco almost laughs. Almost. The corner of his lips tug. You see a flash of intrigue narrow his good eye. The other, burning bright as embers, stares on.

"Hardly," he leans forward, elbows on his knees. Gracefully, he clips the cigar and procures a heavy, gilded lighter from the same box. He snaps it open with a satisfying tink before lighting the expensive piece of tobacco. It's a gesture. Reminding you where you are.

"Yeleni thought highly of you."

It's Silco's turn to snort. "Did she now?"

"No," you cut it down, resting your glass on your knee as you watch him extend back like a cat. He props his arm up and takes a long drag of the cigar; your smile is cunning, "But, she never thought highly of anyone but herself. So, perhaps let me rephrase: she respected you."

Silco lets that settle in the air between the two of you.

"And you?" he asks after a moment.

You swirl the glass. Your gloves are sheer. Dashed with glimmer little bits of woven metal. It flashes silver in the jade light of the office. When you lift your eyes, they inadvertently land on a painting over his shoulder. Your face snaps, a tension breaking, at the sight of—

"A Friedlingmer?"

Silco blinks.

His head turns, following your gaze.

...Ah.

The painting of the idyllic topside pasture has ensnared your attention long enough for Silco follows the trail of your figure. The glitter along your cheekbones catches the light as a stream of light filters in from the afternoon.

"It was a gift," he speaks into his whiskey, ignoring the stroke of admiration that blooms in the wake of your interest.

"It's beautiful," you speak slowly, eyes still trained on the intricate frame holding the painting, "And rare. He only completed eight paintings in his time spent Topside. You're the sole owner of one, it seems."

"...You're an academic, then?" Silco prods, "It's not often I have the pleasure of holding company who can speak on Friedlingmer's residencies."

Your laugh is melodic. Like a diamond. Pretty and rough and rare. "You flatter me, Silco."

His name is honey-sweet on your tongue. It rolls off easier than you mean for it. Silco's lip tugs again.

"It was merely an honest inquiry."

"No, no, I — I'm a hobbyist, if you will," you wave it off, your attention turned back to the man before you, "But, at the end of the day, we all chase the beauty of things we cannot have, don't we?"

Oh.

Lights alive, you're something.

...He gets it now.

This is dangerous. This little feeling that's nibbling at his heartstrings. This is — fuck.

Silco clears his throat after a long moment.

Stick to business.

"Yeleni and I had an understanding," he speaks carefully as his cigar burns between his fore and middle finger. The smoke rises up, dancing in fine lines of smoke around his face, "I take it you were aware."

"I'm looking to extend the terms of the agreement."

Silco almost chokes.

He smothers his surprise, masking it as a clearing of his throat. He leans forward, a hand falling along a crossed knee. He's a lithe man — but long. Tall. Lean and sharp. Handsome, still. You can't help but feel a bit of a bitterness creep up. Yeleni should have warned you as much.

"Our agreement was extensive—"

"I want security present for twelve hours every other day," you say sharply, as the web of the conversation begins to unravel just as you'd hoped, "For an increase to ten percent of our earnings."

"I don't have the men for that."

"Lying is unbecoming."

Your gazes connect and it's white-hot. Like gasoline on open flame.

Silco almost snarls.

"Twenty percent."

"—As if I'd give you anything more than eleven."

...

He misses Yeleni.

But, it seems you're not finished — and for yet another time in the ten minutes, he realizes just why Yeleni left The Lilac Lounge to you.

"We're vulnerable. Shimmer puts us in a dangerous position. The work we do is sought after and demand hits a new peak with every month. Protecting us puts good faith in you. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."

Silco exhales. Then, he takes a long drag of his cigar.

"Ten percent," he affirms after a stretch of contemplation. His yield is granted with a small tip of his head; his eyes are roaming your face, "And I'll give you ten hours, three men, everyday."

Your brow lifts ever-so-slightly.

"...That's kind of you, Silco."

"Consider it good faith," he remarks dryly before lowering his voice, "I... owe Yeleni as much. She... She was a good woman. And I'm sorry for your loss."

His lips quirk when you bark out a laugh. This one is less lady-like. Honest, maybe.

"As I said before," you harp, "Lying is unbecoming."

"Please," comes the rather comedic urge for a shred of composure, "She's dead—"

"Isn't that a blessing?"

Before Silco can split the air with his own dry laughter, you continue.

"We'll settle, then," you offer your hand across the gap, "Eleven percent for ten hours, three men, every day."

A hum of appreciation settles in Silco's chest. Your insistence on a fair settlement is... different from his day-to-day. Based on principle.

He sets his glass down, drops his cigar to the ashtray, and leans. He catches your hand in a warm shake. Firm. Sturdy. The foundation of a great partnership.

He ignores the burn that clings to his skin when you pull away.

"I appreciate your time, Silco."

The sherry is slipped back and finished in a swallow. His eyes follow the gesture.

"You're a busy man — I won't keep you," you explain as you gather yourself up and gently offer the empty crystal glass to him. The rim is stained with the painted color from your lips. Your perfume threatens to drown the office in a delicate femininity that's all but lost on the space. It stokes a frightening sense of longing in him.

He stands quickly and rounds the table.

"Regardless, I appreciate your time, madame," comes the courteous reply, holding more poise than the official title; and while not entirely unwelcome, the title of madam is still one that you're not used to. Madam of The Lilac Lounge. It has quite the ring to it. You're not too sure of the tune, though. Not yet.

Then, a slow reach for your hand. You allow him to take it.

He offers a chaste press of his lips to your knuckles. The sheer material there does little to save your skin from going alight at the heat. His eyes, all the while, bore into you.

Your expression flits into something akin to interest. It's fleeting. It's replaced with a slow kiss of your lashes to your cheek. You bow your head.

"Be well, Silco."

"Until next time, madame."

When — a handful of days later —a carefully wrapped parcel arrives in the arms of two of Silco's men, you find yourself smothering surprise. It's big, and as the two muscle it through the brothel at the earned attention of nearly the whole house of staff, you can't help but hiss and ha at the roughness with which they treat it.

There's a note attached, tucked into the pretty blue twine.

FOR YOU, A GIFT. REVERENTLY YOURS, SILCO

You pull back a torn corner, and then immediately slap it back.

Your head snaps to the doorway of your office, where a gaggle of your workers have gathered. They stare at you owlishly. Your eyes are a mile wide, you reason, because you're met with an excited chatter of gossip. They leer in, rushing forward in a sea of masked, painted-on lovers.

It's a Friedlingmer.

Perhaps this whole thing was all the trouble it was worth.

By 'thing', you quite candidly mean the fact you're now the owner of an original pasture piece by Friedlingmer and The Lilac Lounge.

And apparently the interest of Silco himself.

[a-gal-with-taste]

MIf you don’t mind, could you please write a Silcoxfe!reader where the reader is extremely protective of Jinx, as a mother would be, and ends up saving her from harm, but seriously injuring herself in the process? And after being absolutely furious that his lover was hurt, he is extremely worried—in his Silco way—and tries to distract her from her pain, perhaps by pleasuring Reader? Entirely up to you. I hope you’re doing good, thanks!

Naw, thanks for the idea, love me some mom!reader for Jinx! I decided to make half of this focused on the Jinx and Reader aspect (thank @sweatandwoe for it, just rebinged all of Secret Ingredients plus chapter 14 and like always, it's just 👌👌👌) but I hope you still enjoy the Silco/Reader half (be happy to add more/Part 2 if requested!)

2k+, Established Silco X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Suggested themes but nothing explicit. Language, violence/blood mentioned, implied Mental Health issues (Jinx), parents/couples fighting, injured!Reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, Silco earns himself the couch for a couple nights by being a bit stupid with his emotions/how he processes seeing someone he cares for hurt, briefly implied NSFW themes

The moment you hear her say it, nothing else matters. The moment that little girl, who you've only known for less than a year, with eyes wider and bluer than the far-away skies, looks at you and says "Mom?"

This deal going horribly wrong much too quickly, doesn't matter. The hands brushing along guns, knives or curling into fists, in the bar that is dangerously, stupidly underprotected, doesn't matter. The fact that backup is at least minutes away, and it would be stupid to whip out a weapon now, doesn't matter. Not even the fact that you feel the cool circle brushing against your side, matters to you in that moment, as you stare back at the girl.

The girl who just called you mom.

The girl who is looking at you with eyes seeking protection, defending and security.

Your little girl, who has a man's dirty, soon-to-be-dead paw on her shoulder, looks to you for help and there is not a single other damn thing in the world, that matters to you more in that moment.

Putting your hand on your hip, you lock your fingers around your weapon, bare your full-set of teeth and begin to see red-

-

-and then you open your eyes again on blue.

Jinx, tossing aside her markers, immediately buries her face into your neck with arms squeezing around you, as you rest on the cot. She attempts at being careful with the healing scars as she clings to you. But you wouldn't dare to tell her that even the softest of her iron-clad hugs make your body ache.

Silco doesn't show up. Sevika, instead arrives, and after her obligatory 'you are an fucking idiot' speech, consisting of a repeat of those exact five words, several times, along with a multitude of glares, she stops, sighs and drags her flesh-hand down her face. "He looks like hell, worse than he normally does."

"No shit," You managed out, running your fingers through azure locks. You glance at the seat where the girl had been sitting at, pulled up close to use your clothes as a makeshift coloring-board. The 'get well,' 'you kicked ass' and one large, bright blue 'I miss you,' make it hard to be frustrated at the new state of your clothing.

You can, however, find a bit of frustration and a pang of hurt in the knowledge that there's only one chair. And no sign of another. Or that there even has been another during your time of recovery.

"Where is he?" Sevika pauses, a small pursing of her lips, before gruffly, and with the closest thing to sympathy in her voice, "Working."

-

"I've always consitered you a smart woman, so let me ask you one question - when did you become so incompetent?" Not the hello you were expecting, but you don't dignify that with an answer.

Just like Silco doesn't even dignify your presence by looking up from his paperwork, the cool, short movements of his pen not ceasing in the moment of tense silence between you. "Perhaps I was just blind to it out of habit. Willfully ignorant in your lack of patience, wit and good-sense-"

"He had a hand on Jinx," You finally snapped. "A hand on our girl, and you expected me to, what? Whistle cheerily and twiddle my thumbs like she wasn't sitting there, clearly scared to hell?" "Of course not," His grip tightens on his pen but he still doesn't raise his gaze. "The man was going to die for it, but you don't bring an audience to a butchery; not unless you wish to send a message. The message you sent, and what's spreading through Zaun, was that we, by association with specifically you, are rash, unwilling to compromise and bold-"

"If we weren't bold, we wouldn't have made it this far." You retort. "If weren't bold, we wouldn't be sitting here right now, building our empire, and building our nation from nothing, Silco. Don't try and spit on my boldness; that's exactly what has gotten us here." Gesturing around the office, you hide the scowl as the movement pulls at a fresh stitch on your shoulder, but not the hiss.

Silco's hand pauses at the sound, a dark scowl on his face gathering like a storm. "You made us look like amateurs. You made us look reckless, weak. I can't have weakness, this mission can't afford weakness-" That was it. You stormed up onto your feet from where you'd been sitting on the couch, the action immediately making your snarl turn into a yelp as you doubled over, pain and nausea rippling though your body at the fast-action...

"Don't." You snarled as you glanced upward, meeting your partner's hard eyes and face, juxtaposed by how quickly he had raced around his desk and had held out an arm to you. "I'm going to be fine. Yeah, it hurts like a bitch, but I will bounce back from this... but do not mistake my injuries for a weakness, Silco. Or else I'd be looking at your scars in a different light."

The red eye seemed to burn through you, the teal one a mere slit. Coolly, he informed you that you were now benched until further notice, to remain at The Last Drop until he states otherwise. "Great," You retorted as you forced your aching body to straighten, turning and staggering to the door of the conjoined bedroom. "And I guess I shouldn't expect you to be at my side during that as well, right?"

If he responded, you didn't hear it over the sound of you slamming the door shut behind you, and locking it.

-

Weakness. Weakness, he dared to call what you did. After everything the two of you had been, had done together...

You weren't blind. You knew he spoke from a place of worry, and, though he'd never show it, fear. Fear of losing you, after everything you'd been and done for one another, but that didn't sooth your anger any further, and exasperated by your sore pains, kept you from opening the door that night.

If he knocked, or had tried to pick the lock to get in, you didn't hear any attempts to do so, even as you remained awake half the night, and tossing and turning for the other half. He was already settled back at his desk when you re-emerge in the morning, and though he only gave you a short reminder of your current stay-in-the-building orders, said very little else to you.

You responded in kind, and chose to ignore the equally dark bags under his human-eye as you removed yourself from the office.

"-even Sevika looked sick beating up those jerks!" Jinx babbled, plopping herself into your lap at the signature booth of the bar, as soon as you hobbled your way downstairs. You watched her in bemusement as she doodled the scene in question, even giving Sevika a proper, almost dignified look in her drawings. "Heh, it got so messy, you kicked ass."

"That's my job," You reminded her, reaching up to gentle tousle her blue locks and hide a yawn behind a smile. Getting Jinx hadn't been easy, and definitely had not been part of the plan. But you knew from the moment you saw those big, red-rimmed eyes in the pouring rain, a silly, sentimental part of you was firmly in her hands, and you knew you would never get that piece of your heart back.

Silco held a similar piece, but for entirely different reasons. Whereas the affection for Jinx was a instinctive, material bond of storge that you knew, now more than ever before, that you would kill to defend, your affection for Silco was an entity of its own. You knew his flaws, just as he knew yours. He knew your thoughts, your emotions and body, and though you knew Silco still attempted to mask his feelings, you knew the man just as much as you knew yourself.

A love of it's own unique, unyielding brand, is what you and him had. That's why his attitude about this whole situation pissed you off so much.

Jinx must've sensed it, because she frowned, and stopped swinging her legs as she tilted her chin back to look up at you. "Are you and Mr. Silco fightin'? He didn't come visit you once when you were with Mr. Burn-Face, and now you aren't talking with him at all."

"It's Singed," You corrected her, and gave a small smirk as you side-stepped the question. "And when we're talking again, I am absolutely telling Silco you still call him Mr, while I get to be 'mom'." You leaned down to boop your nose to hers, smirking. "Does that mean I'm your favorite?"

"Nuh-uh!" Jinx grumbled, freckled face flushing as she jerked her face back down to her paper. "Y'just... I dunno. You seemed like a mom at the time, that's why I said it." Humming thoughtfully, you peek up over the top of her head to look over her paper, softly asking, "Do you miss your mom, Jinx?"

Jinx halted her hand, staring at the blank stick-figure she'd been drawing beside what you assumed to be yourself, based on the coloring. "... I dunno." The little girl admitted, a small jerk of her head as she glanced off to the side, before quickly turning her gaze back to the paper as she dug her nails into her fist. "I-i... I don't remember mom. I don't know her... i-i'm supposed to, I-i know, I know I'm supposed to remember, but I don'-"

You could tell the girl wasn't technically speaking to you anymore, and smoothly, ignoring the wince at the action, slipped your arms around her to hold her together as she muttered and whimpered under her breath. "It's okay. It's okay, Jinx. You don't have to decide how to feel about it, okay?" Swallowing back a grunt as your stitches pull when you tighten your loose hold into a secure hug around the girl, you're rewarded from the pain by the warmth that fills your chest as she wiggles in your arms, to turn and tuck her head under your chin.

"Moms are a weird thing, y'know? And sometimes you don't know how to feel about them, but that's okay. If you want to feel something, that's fine. If you don't, that's fine too, okay?" A hesitance, before you decide to toe over the line, tilting your head down to press a kiss atop the blue locks. "You don't need to decide anything about 'moms.' Moms are happy to give their kids everything, they don't need much in return."

A small sniffle at your collar, before you feel a single jerk of a nod as you gently rub circles into her back.

Then, quietly, "Can... can I decide to keep calling you mom?"

You swallow, a lump in your throat suddenly. As you confirm, a bit hoarsely, that of course it was okay, you got the sensation of someone watching, and flicked your eyes up to the balcony above the two of you.

Silco turned quickly to slip back into the office. But, you knew him well enough, and the slight sag of his shoulders as you had met his eyes, was sign enough of his tired, but relieved and contented look at the sight of the two ladies in his life, safe in the few ways he could ensure it in this city of his.

-

That look didn't earn him access to his bedroom back, of course. Actions and expressions of affection were one thing, the petty need for an apology was another. That didn't make the second night you spent alone any easier, sleep still evading you like the plague, your hand absently brushing along the empty covers beside you.

You missed him.

Missed him in your bed, and though you had been unconcious part of the time, had missed him during your recovery from the fight.

Closing your eyes suddenly as a small shift sent a dull throb through the deepest of your cuts and lacerations, you felt a small whimper tug from deep within your throat at the pain. It passed, leaving your breathing a bit heavier, but not heavy enough to hide the subtle attempt of a quiet jiggling of the doorknob, a response and a desire to get to you after hearing such a sound. You squeeze your eyes shut a bit tighter at the quiet knock, but don't try to psyche yourself from the idea as you bite back another groan, and limp over to the door.

Silco has the courtesy to pocket the lock-pick just as you open the door a crack, just enough to catch his exhausted expression and couch-raggled head of hair. He stares at you for a moment, while you give him a tired, slow blink in response to his silence. "I... I couldn't see you. Not like that, not..." A pause, and Silco swallows a bit. "... not like how I found you. It was cowardice, but I couldn't sit there and stare at your battered, broken body like that."

You nod; it makes sense. Your partner shied from little, though you could imagine seeing you brought to the unconsciousness in such a pummeling would be enough to turn even Silco's stomach. "Still shitty. I would've wanted you there when I woke up."

"I know." A beat. "... it wasn't a instance of weakness, either. Or incompetence. It was strength. Strength that those who oppose us may not see, at first, but will soon grow to fear." A small flicker on those scarred lips. "I heard you were quite terrifying."

"The scariest. I made you look like a teddy-bear." You confirm, feeling a long-miss warmth in your chest at the tiny chuckle that passes through him. He places a palm on the door, letting a wall down in his teal eye as he looks at you tiredly, and with wanting as he mutters your name, "Let me in. Please." You let out a small sigh, and raise a brow, tiredness making your sarcasm a bit more longer-lasting, "Too good for the couch, are you?"

"No. I need to be beside you, I've already missed you enough. Please."

Not the sorry you were looking for, but you find yourself stepping back, and letting him back in. You'll have him properly expressing his regret soon enough, but for now, he takes no chances to allow you to change your mind. Stepping in to gently secure your face between his hands after he shuts the door behind him, Silco begins pressing a series of slow, gentle kisses on your lips as he guides you back to the bed.

You've seen this man blackmail, torture and murder countless times. It'd be laughable to anyone but you, to see none other than Silco, dreaded overlord of Zaun, be the one to gently, almost tenderly lay you to rest on the bed. Removing himself only momentarily to change out of his more restrictive day-clothes, leaving on his undershirt and pants. Too impaitent to strip off anything more, he's returning shortly after to lay himself down beside you.

You can't help a tired smirk as you hear a muted groan of relief as his body finally dips back into onto the soft bed you share. "Deserved it." You murmur, eyes cracked open to watch as he leans over to cup your cheek, pulling your face close so he could press his mouth to yours again. "I missed you."

"I missed you as well," He mutters smiling at the hum as he traces the curve of your cheekbone with his thumb. "That's why you're not leaving the building for the foreseeable future, I'm afraid. Need to catch up on my time with you, and more some."

"Hmm... might go stir-crazy. Might need to sneak out."

The tease earns you a familiar, deeper purr, a more pressing kiss to your lips as he snakes a hand down your body to your hip. "Hmm... might need to get some locks then. Might need rope or two, just in case." His trail of fingertips end immediately at your rough hiss as he passes a still-healing bruise. Taking a breath, you give him an apologetic smile with tired eyes, "Easy there, Sil. Plenty of time for that later... just, be with me now?"

Impossibly, his eye softens further, an expression saved only for you, and until extremely recently, Jinx. "Of course, darling." Again, frightening gentle for a man of his profession and standing in this underworld, he helps to move you over so he could curl an arm under you, tucking both beneath your chest as you recline your back to his.

Respecting your need for peace, at least for now, Silco's hands don't wander in the position you share with him. Though he takes full advantage of the back of your neck being exposed to his mouth, leaving brief, warm flickers of flesh along behind your ears, hairline and neck as you hum and sigh in quiet, peacefulness. You feel his proud nose nuzzle into the back of your skull as you drift off into sleep at last, in the arms of your partner, body finally content and warmed by his presence to get some proper rest.

[wood-white-writer]

"In the Land of the Blind" - Masterlist

~ Arcane ~

"In the Land of the Blind" [Silco x Toxicologist!Reader]

Summary:

"In the Land of the Blind, the One-Eyed Man is King"

As one of the few denizens in the Undercity who qualifies for an adequate medic, life is never void of surprises.  Occupational hazards aside, you manage to pull through as well as you can, wanting nothing more than some peace and quiet despite the current state of the city.  However, when the King of the Underground himself pays you a visit to aid his troubled daughter, the notion of living a relatively quiet life in the Lanes comes to an abrupt halt.

TW: Contains mature themes. Minors DNI.

AO3 Version here

Chapter I "A playground with no Children"

Chapter II "A loose Cannon in the making"

Chapter III "Passing Words"

Chapter IV "Favor for Favor"

Chapter V "A Deal with the Devil"

Chapter VI "Don't f*ck with the Escort Agencies"

Chapter VII "Just Business"

Chapter VIII "Oil and Water"

Chapter IX "Survival is a Necessity"

[th3h0nkz]

Some x Reader fanfics plots for my favorite milfs/dilf from Arcane part 2

Part 1 for those who're interested

This one is based on THAT scene from HTTYD 2, where Reader and Ambessa were married for a long time, but Reader was always bothered by Ambessa's agressive way. After having Mel, Reader thought that Ambessa would change but then the worst happened, Mel was expelled from the Medarda family and with that Reader had enough and runned way to Piltover with their daughter. Years later Ambessa finally finds them, and apparently not even years apart destroyed their love for each other.

Reader is a famous stylish from Piltover, so famous that Silco himself decides to hire them for an important event between the Chem-Barrons. But apperantly, fiding clothes that satisfies Silco isn't the most difficult part of the job.

AU based on this video and this video only, where Reader is a singer working at the Last Drop and who's tired to trying to flirt with Silco and Sevika and failed every attempt, so, giving themselves a last chance, Reader decides to seduce them one last time. Unfortunately they fail, but that seemed to be enough to someone else be interested in them and bring to the surface the jealousy side of the King of Zaun and his left hand.

You're Marcus nanny and babysitter since he became the sheriff, and after some years working for him you couldn't deny it anymore, you were attracted to him. Luckily things seems to work your way when Marcus catch you masturbating with his sheriff's jacket.

After a mission on the Lanes, Grayson and her man agree to go the borthel and celebrate their successful mission. There, the sheriff is surprised to see an old lover working at the borthel.

[viktorshands]

Vampire AU - Part II

Silco x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Drinking

WC: 3720

Chapter II: An Unexpected Welcome

Part I here!

Sky came with you to clean out your office the next afternoon, which was fortunate because you promised yourself you would cut Jayce down to size if you saw him. Potential verbal slander aside, you were actually in a decent mood while packing up your things together, the possibility of a new job opportunity left a bubbly feeling in your gut. Not to mention, that voice on the other end of the phone left a very different feeling in your head.

The two of you got back to your apartment before the sun set, and Sky went to hop in the shower. Your nail-biting anticipation got the better of you, and you booted up your laptop to check on your application. You opened your email first.

Your heart paused in your ribcage as you refreshed the screen once, twice. The email read similarly to the job posting. Blunt. To the point. Still, it filled you with joy all the same as you clung to every word:

𝗬/𝗡,

𝗪𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗼𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗶𝘁��𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝗣𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗧𝘂𝘁𝗼𝗿. 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶����𝗹 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝗱𝗱𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗼𝘄. 𝗔𝗿𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗼𝗻 𝗦𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝗮𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗽. 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘃𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗹𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗰𝗸.

𝗜𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝘂𝘀 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗿 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝘅𝘁 𝗳𝗲𝘄 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗵𝘀.

𝗥𝗲𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗱𝘀.

𝟭𝟭𝟯𝟰 𝗡 𝗟𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗗 𝗟𝗔𝗡𝗘, 𝗭𝗔𝗨𝗡

“Hey Sky!” You called, drawing her name out over a couple seconds to get her attention.

“What is it?” She pops out of the bathroom with a face mask and a towel covering her soft body, steam billowing into the hallway.

“You’re going to have this place all to yourself for a little while, because I got the job!” You shouted with glee.

“That’s amazing!” She joined you in jumping up and down, “We are going to celebrate tonight, obviously, hurry up and get ready!”

-

Your bar of choice, nestled right in the heart of the Piltover City Arts district was buzzing with patrons, yourself and your best friend blurring into a seemingly endless sea of faces. You bravely stalked over to the bar, hand in hand with Sky, shepherding her through the packed bar. You were taller than her, and with heels, you were a towering statue carved of the finest stone. One of the bartenders caught your eye immediately, her striking neon green hair done up in braids laced like a crown on her head. She checked the both of you out as you laid your hands on the sticky, glowing bar top.

“Two espresso martinis please!” You gave the green-haired beauty your card.

“And two shots of tequila!” She gave you that look with her eyebrows. “We’re celebrating, aren’t we?”

“Celebrating? Yes. Getting drunk the night before I have to start a new job though? I might have to pass.” Your words didn’t even convince yourself, let alone your friend who knows you better than you do.

You smile your thanks once more at the bartender before picking up your shot glass. “Bottoms up!” You clink your glass with Sky and down the hatch it goes. The burn from the alcohol, like Silco’s pronunciation of your name, warming your ears down to your toes.

-

Several drinks later, Sky had wandered off to hypnotize an unsuspecting handsome man with her sweet charms no doubt, and your advances at the green-haired bartender were being returned. Your mind felt blissfully cloudy like fairy floss. 

A shove on your shoulder leaves you stumbling a step to the side. Flames coming from your ears you whip around, ‘Excuse you!” 

“It’s me you goof!” Sky shoves you playfully again, “I have been trying to get your attention, but it seems like your own name doesn’t even register with you, have you seen the place that you’ll be going to tomorrow?”

Your buzz fizzled out, that same feet-kicking excitement you felt last night on the phone replacing the booze. “No, why?”

“Okay, well, I can’t have you going somewhere that I’m not familiar with.” She paused, making sure you were following, “So I looked up the address, and you have got to check these pictures out.” She held up her phone for you to see what she was looking at. 

You were awestruck, sure enough, the address was that of a manor, but like, one from an old-timey film or something. The photos showed a wrought iron gate with a grey brick driveway up to the home. The home looked spectacular and looming. Lovely and terrifying all the same. 

“You think that’s good? Wait ‘till I show you the lord of the manor.” Sky grabbed her phone back and opened another tab. “There is only one single photo I could find, but here.” She handed it back to you.

You beheld a black and white photo of, what you could only describe as, a man from another time. He looked regal, poised like a king as the camera had captured his right side profile. His nose was long and straight, his eye was an emerald mixed with aquamarine, and the way he was looking down made you feel like a peasant just for glimpsing an eclipse of his strong, hard features. He was terrifying and handsome.

-

You roll out of bed to your alarm, get ready in a hurry, and toss your suitcases in the back of Sky’s coupe. It’s nothing short of a miracle that you’re not hungover from your drinking last night. The two of you stop for drinks at the nearest coffee shop and are on your merry - not so merry since neither of you are a morning person - way out of Piltover City.

Sky passes you the aux and you put on your favorite playlist to pass the time while mindlessly chattering. Several hours later, the morning clouds had cleared and left a gorgeous, sunny sky above. Perfect driving weather.

The road turned from paved concrete to cobblestone as you turned off the long road and into the town of Zaun. The car went up and over a hill and you sucked in a sharp breath as you beheld the view. A picturesque town lay in the middle of a clearing surrounded by trees of every height and shade of green. A small river drifted along on the north side of the town. Wildflowers and lush grasses gently swayed in the breeze, beckoning you forth. Slate-colored and classic red bricks made up the majority of the houses and shops, with rooftops which made the homes look like they were covered in a sea of reds, browns, and oranges. A clock tower in the dead center of the village chimed loudly, a swarm of black and grey birds fleeing from the nearby roof shingles and the bells rang out. 

Time slowed as you continued onward, and you felt unnerved suddenly. There was no one out and about even though the weather was perfect. Weird. Not only could you not see anyone, but when you rolled down your window and paused the music, you couldn’t hear anyone either. The town was silent barring the sound of the tires rolling over the ground and the birds singing in the air. 

“Okay, do you feel like we entered a different time period, or is it just me?” Sky sounded truly baffled, exactly matching how you felt inside. “I almost feel guilty driving my car along these old roads, I hope I’m not causing any damage to the town's history or anything like that.”

You agreed with her, “It’s like we stepped in a time machine or something. But don’t worry about the roads, the history of this town lies in its historical figures and legends, not their architecture. I mean, homes and small buildings like these haven’t been replicated in centuries, this town is old old.”

Sky’s navigation system led you through the narrow, winding streets of the town, finally straightening out and turning into a dirt road leading into a dark forest. It continued for about half a mile, well enough away from the town that if you weren’t on a well-traveled path you would certainly not know which direction to go. The trees grew closely together and blocked out the sun above. Someone likes their privacy, you thought.

Finally, you saw the blue sky again from between a break in the trees not too far up. You both blinked in astonishment at the land that laid out in front of you. A massive green grassy lawn sprawled as far as the eye could see on each side of the path, which turned from dirt into grey and red brick. Small shrubs and hedges lined the edge of the road as you continued at a slug's pace. In front of you stood the absolutely massive manor. It could have been a castle; it was so big.

You had gone to parties and events in Piltover penthouses, but you had no idea someone’s house could be so big. The front of the home was made up of smooth rock, pieced together like a beautiful mosaic of grey. Long arms of ivy trailed up and wrapped the pillars and front archway in thick, lush green leaves and vines. Wrought-iron framed windows glinted in the mid-afternoon sun. Slate tiles on the roof were interrupted at uneven intervals with chimneys reaching up towards the heavens. Smoke could be seen emanating from half of them, the grey and white vapor dissipating in the blue sky above.

The vast front doors had wrought iron handles, and intricate stained glass twin windows depicting a scene befitting an old church. It looked like a sacrifice of an animal or something. You didn’t get a full look before the right door clicked twice from the inside and swung open with a well-oiled, near-silent creak. The dim interior lit the silhouette of the tall person in the doorway, but you could make out her strong arms, stiff posture, and complete scowl on her face. She had a scar in a thin line underneath her left eye, trailing down the deep brown skin of her cheek and to her neck. She wore a uniform made up of a brown leather jacket with a neatly folded collar and lapels. The black button-down shirt underneath was tucked neatly into her crisply pressed brown trousers and held up with a gold-buckled belt. Even her shoes were shined to perfection, the leather reflected the daylight behind you even though she didn’t step a single foot beyond the threshold.

“You must be Y/N.” The tall woman said plainly.

You instantly recognized the deadpan voice from over the phone, “Yes, that’s me, and you are?” 

“Sevika.” A one-worded answer, the shorter the conversation the better it seemed. But you couldn’t help but ask one more thing.

“What do you do here, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

“I am the head of security.” She delivered only what you asked, no more, no less.

“Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Sevika. This is my friend, Sky, she is one of my teaching colleagues and she drove me here.”

“Pleasure.” The word didn’t match her still-stoic expression. Sevika then turned to you and said, “Someone will be along in a moment to assist you with your bags.” She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving the door open. 

“I can manage -” you spoke too late, Sevika either didn’t hear you or didn’t care. Or both.

Sky looked at you and you looked back at her and shrugged. You studied the myriad of emotions dancing across your friend’s face before she opened her mouth to scoff, “What’s with the stick up her a-”

“Okay! That's enough,” you replied quickly, cutting her off just in case Sevika was secretly listening, “I’ll call you later, alright?”

“Alright,” she hugged you tightly, “tell me immediately if you need me to come get you, promise?”

“I promise.” 

You watched Sky get back in her car and pull away, just as she almost disappeared from view with you waving, you heard someone, a man, clear their throat behind you. 

The excitement that you’d be meeting the lord of the manor so soon left you as soon as it came on, as a bald-headed, thin, white man stood and gestured to your suitcases. “May I?” Was all he said in a gravelly voice.

“Yes please, thank you very much.” You allowed him to take your bags from you, save for your purse which was strapped to your body. The man held the door open for you, allowing you to step through the doors.

The first thing to hit you once you stepped inside was the cold, stale air. Like a mausoleum. The shiver that skittered up your back stopped halfway, giving way to the sudden sense of calm at the scents of oak, mahogany, and, you took a deep breath, leather.

The finest room you could ever dream would have come up short to the grand entryway surrounding you. The floor was made up of dark, polished wood cut in a herringbone pattern, darting back and forth towards the center of the room, which interrupted the pattern with a medallion inlay of a starburst. The gold in it glittered. A traditional brass chandelier glowed directly above the starburst, illuminating the room with a gentle, flickering candlelight cast from ivory candles of varying heights. Directly ahead was a wooden staircase, leading up to a mid-level, then splitting off towards the two upper wings of the mansion. A thick, deep red carpet ran the length of the stairs, and other carpets of varying dark colors lay around the floor, dressed with long-backed armchairs, settees, coffee and end tables, and stone sculptures. 

The man closed the door roughly behind you, making you jump at the sudden sound. He beckoned silently with his white-gloved hand, and you followed him. Your casual shoes squeaked across the floor, then settled softly into the carpet as you ascended the stairs, going up and to the left. He led you down a wide hallway, lit dimly with yellow sconces. The navy blue carpet soaked up the light, and so did the dark mahogany trim on the walls. You squinted as you passed two, three, then four closed doors, pausing in front of the fifth door. The man turned the brass knob and it let out a small click. Just like at the front door, he gestured to have you go ahead. 

You walked in and had to hold your breath so you didn’t scream with excitement. The Victorian-style bedroom was grand, to say the very least. A magnificently large four-poster bed lay in the middle of the back wall, covered in a thick, plush cream colored duvet crowded with a multitude of ornate decorative golden and sage green pillows of varying sizes. A large oak wood armoire stood politely off to the right side, with a matching vanity nearby. The set was complete with a wooden vanity chair tufted with a velveteen cushion which sat upon a fluffy circular rug. A personal sitting area was to your immediate left, containing two sage green armchairs with a pinstripe pattern and an oval shaped coffee table. A desk, grander than any desk you ever had at university, was backed against the wall and filled with writing utensils and numerous drawers for storage. Lastly, a great window was on the far left side of the room, the heavy forest-green curtains open wide and tied each with a golden sash. It cast a beautiful glow in the room, as it faced the western skies and let in plenty of afternoon light. A cushioned bench completed the window, topped with a single cylindrical pillow, perfect for an afternoon of writing, drawing, or anything.

You were in disbelief at first. “Is this where I’ll be staying?” 

“Is it to your satisfaction?” He asked earnestly.

“Uh, yeah, it’s amazing!” You turned around to see him lay out your suitcases, starting to open them for you. “That’s okay, I can take care of those myself.” 

He straightened, placed his gloved hands at his sides, gave a brief nod, and walked towards the door. He placed his hand on the handle and said, “If there is anything that you need, please let one of the staff know.” With that he closed the door, the handle clicking once more. 

You couldn’t help yourself but flop down on the lavish bed, letting out a sigh at the feel of the comfortable blankets. You didn’t let yourself lay around too much, so you texted Sky:

𝗝𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝗻𝗼𝘄! 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗺 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗺𝗮𝘇𝗶𝗻𝗴! 𝗣𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗳𝗲𝗹𝘆!

You rose from the bed, tossing your phone down on the comforter and walking over to your suitcases. You opened the large mahogany armoire and started putting away your clothes, relishing in the excitement flooding through you. Once you were finished hanging up your clothes, you went to work setting out your teaching supplies. 

Your second of the two suitcases weighed so much you honestly couldn’t believe you had hauled it into Sky’s car on your own. You also could not believe that the frail-looking old dude had hoisted that and your clothing suitcase up the stairs with no effort. Maybe there’s a gym in this huge place and the guy is jacked underneath those long sleeves. 

Unzipping the giant suitcase, you started to take stock of your inventory. You had brought with you numerous books, for academic purposes to assess the student’s reading level, history textbooks, and books to read for pleasure. You had packed binders stuffed with sheet music for piano, though you didn’t see one downstairs so you felt a little sheepish for assuming they’d have one. You brought sketchbooks and plenty of watercolors, charcoal, and colored pencils. You also had various crafting tools, odds and ends, bits and baubles. Miscellaneous items were always a favorite of yours, you never knew what you could turn into something useful. You laid it all out in a neat fashion on the coffee table and on the desk, mind eagerly playing over what you could start with tomorrow. The excitement of teaching and meeting your new student thrummed in your heart, giving you that bubbly feeling down in your toes. You stepped back, satisfied, brushing imaginary dust from your hands. With a hum to yourself you decided to take a self-guided tour of the rest of the mansion. With luck, you’d come across an art studio or a grand piano to utilize tomorrow. Or maybe the gym where the butler works out, you joked to yourself, snickering as you opened your door and started down the hall.

Walking with purpose, you checked each of the four doors back down the hallway you were in. Three of the four doors were, to your disgruntlement, locked. But the one closest to your room was open, a bathroom. You only peered in it briefly, noticing a door inside the bathroom that shared a wall with the room you were staying in. Makes sense. You briefly noted the black and white diamond-shaped tiled floor, simple toilet, claw-foot bathtub, and the ivory sink, complete with golden fixtures. Fresh towels were laid out in a lovely sage green color. The soap was a honeysuckle scent which matched the single unlit candle. The single yellow light above the sink lit the room nicely. After doing a quick once-over in the mirror, you continued down the rest of the hall until you reached the main landing. 

Pausing, you considered your options, one, you could go down the stairs. Two, you could cross the landing and go towards the right side of the immense second floor. You chose the path of least resistance, in this case, the latter. Your footsteps were muffled by the carpeting lining the floor and you paused once again to look over your right shoulder. You observed the utter silence in the house below, the glow of the chandelier, the inside of the foyer that took your breath away not but an hour ago. Imagine greeting guests like this, like a king observing your peasants.

You didn’t hold the fantasy too long, as your curiosity got the best of you and pulled you by an invisible string down the hall. You tried two doors before the third one’s handle clicked and gave way. You hesitated, the feeling that you were intruding overcame you, but only for a moment, as you gently pushed the door open wide enough to peer your head in. 

The room was a vast office. The far wall was covered in heavy, forest green velvet curtains pulled tightly together. You blinked as your eyes adjusted, stepping one foot in, the only light source at the desk. A small but effective bulb covered by a thick green shade. It cast a sickly glow on the back of a deep blood red upholstered office chair that faced away from you at the door, clearly empty. The desk was darker than the rest of the mahogany wood making up the bookshelves lining both walls of the room, and it had golden inlay detailing on it. There was an enormous black fur rug on the floor, made of a beast you couldn’t imagine could be anything other than what was once a bear. You stepped another foot inside, wondering what kinds of books lay collecting dust on the ceiling-height shelves. You reached for the nearest light to gain better visibility, pulling the first and then the second strands of the floor lamp resting in the corner. 

Just as you did, you heard a shuffle, the moving of papers or something. You whirled around to see that tall-backed chair behind the desk swiveling around and the world seemed to move in slow motion.

The right side of the man’s side profile struck you through your chest, and you instantly recalled back to last night, the sight in front of you matching that photo that Sky had showed you. He stopped there, not letting you glimpse the rest of his face. A chill rushed up your spine as his visible right eye fixed itself on you. You were trapped in that blue-green lake, floating or drowning, you couldn’t yet tell. You let your eyes fall to his lips as he parted them to speak.

“By all means, come in uninvited.” 

-

Part III

[darthzero22]

I respect you

Silco x Reader

It's been a long, long day, and you just wanted to rest. But it's quite possible that your intentions to rest will be interrupted. You can't keep something from Silco for long. 

Warnings: nudity, dirty talk, strong language, mention of an injury

Added to the Masterlist 

Like every day, every time you finished a job, you went to Silco's office to see him. He was almost always in his office, it was his favorite place, and although he didn't admit it so easily, he always wanted to have you by his side. You knew him, so you knew he was always looking for a work-related excuse to avoid saying what he really meant, like ordering you to go see him every time you finished a job. What Silco really wanted was to see you, to know that you were okay. 

Silco cared about you, a lot, but in his own way.

This time, when you entered his office, you didn't find him. He must have gone to attend to a personal matter, so the only option was to wait for him, and you left your report on his desk for him to read later. A matter that required Silco's presence had to be serious, otherwise Sevika would go in his place. 

You didn't know when he would return because you didn't know how long he had been gone, and the reality was that you were tired. It wasn't one of the best ideas, but you did it before, so you would do it now. After drinking a glass of liquor, you sit down on the couch and then lay down on your back. You needed a nap, at least an hour's sleep.

It didn't take you long to fall asleep, you were really very tired. From then on you couldn't tell how long you were asleep, maybe an hour, half an hour or just twenty minutes.  Suddenly, in the middle of your dreams, you feel a hand stroking your forehead and you thought it came from your dreams, but when you start to open your eyes, you see a silhouette since your vision was blurred. You knew who it was, it couldn't be anyone else, and you heard his voice.

"You know? My couch is not a bed" 

“Hmm... For other things it is a bed, but not for a nap...” you smiled, your voice was sleepy. “I understand your priorities now, Silco...”

Silco chuckles and you feel him caress your forehead again, his touch was always soft. He was sitting at the small table in front of the couch. You run your hand over your eyes to wipe them and regain your vision, and you could finally see him. 

“Come on, I have a meeting in a few minutes and I don't want you to be seen sleeping here” 

“Why?”

“You're not serious”

“It was a joke. So... who are you meeting with?” you straighten your back to sit on the couch, and he helped you. “Marcus? Or with another idiot?”

“Another idiot" Silco caresses your lower lip, and now he could see your eyes much better. “Hmmm. There's something you're not telling me"

Maybe your eyes gave you away, maybe the shoulder area of your clothes gave you away, but you couldn't hide it from him. You take off the top of your clothes to expose your shoulder, and Silco manages to see what you had, so you see that he raises his eyebrows in surprise for a moment. 

“What happened?” he asked. You had a knife wound in your shoulder, as if someone had tried to stab you. 

“You know, some sons of bitches trying to sabotage our work"

That wound seemed to be more serious than it looked, and in fact it was quite close to the area of your heart. Did someone send those people to kill you? Silco already suspected as much, in fact he was sure that's what happened. 

“That's not a surprise, but did you take care of them?” 

“No... Not all of them. Sorry for that...”

Silco runs his finger across your shoulder, without touching your wound. Luckily your wound was closed, a doctor had already healed it. Then he brings his hand behind your head, so you rested your forehead on his left shoulder.

"Don't apologize for that” Silco said, his voice is soft. “We will take care of them. They won't go far. I will make sure they get what they deserve" 

The reality is that no one should mess with you, because if someone messed with you, they would also mess with Silco.

“I know... But I couldn't take care of them...” you said, and now rested your cheek on his shoulder. “I’m weak sometimes”

“That doesn't make you weak. You see, there are very reasons why no one should tell you that you are weak. Some are visible, some are not. But there are enough reasons to say that you are strong”

“That's difficult because you're the only one who knows me well"

“Do they have to know you to respect you? I already respect you, and that's enough for them to understand that and not dare to insult you” he rests his left cheek on your head. “You worry too much about nonsense”

“I don't worry about nonsense” 

“Hmmm”

“... not always"

“That's better” he hears you chuckle. “What's funny?”

When Silco said he respected you, he also said he loved you. You rested a hand behind his back, slipping your arm under his arm, practically hugging him.

“I’m thinking...” you smile. “I guess it took me a long time to earn your respect”

“Not as long as you think”

“Oh, really?”

“Your tricks don't work on me. I'm not going to tell you the whole story because you already know it"

“Well, I had to try”

“Then use your wits for something other than trying to tease me”

“Like...?” you break away from the embrace and look at him.

“You are clever, find out for yourself. And now I'm going to ask you to...” 

You interrupted his words by grabbing his face with both hands and put your mouth together with his. Silco was surprised by such a sudden gesture, but instantly reciprocate that kiss, and rest his hands on your waist. You stayed like this for a few moments, kissing, until the lack of air appeared in both of you.

“What were you going to ask me?” you asked him after you separated, still with your hands on his face. 

“Hmm" Silco chuckles a little. “Well, I guess it doesn't matter now”

“Oh? What about your meeting?”

“What meeting?”

You didn't expect that answer. Now Silco is the one who starts the kiss, and you reciprocate, but the kiss now was different. It was more passionate, deeper. That's why he forces you to lie down on your back on the couch with him on top of you, and all the time you are still kissing. Now the kiss was completely passionate.  

The rest was going to be more than perfect. 

[spookynebula]

Y/N: How would you keep me warm at night?

Silco: I would sensually walk to the thermostat and turn the thermostat up to a sensible 74 degrees.

[amooks-arc]

That moment when you’re writing a Silco/ Reader fic and it suddenly turns into a Sevika fic instead. This is what happens when you’re bisexual and every character in this goddamn show is so hot.

I mean just look at her 🤤 how could you not???

[kaffeine-headache]

Freckles

my rat brain took that myth about freckles and haunted me until i wrote something. i’ve never in my long fandom life written a reader insert so that’s how powerful that thought was. 

Silco/gn!Reader

NSFW, Mature (sexual themes, depictions of nudity), Soft!Silco 

“You know, I’ve heard that prominent freckles on one’s skin symbolize where past lives’ lovers have kissed you.”

You laugh, more breathless puffs of air than anything, and run your fingers through the fine hairs at the base of his skull all the while he peppers your body with sensual kisses.

“I wasn’t aware you subscribed to those types of things,” you murmur, arching into the feeling of his lips on your sternum hoping to get him closer to something; your chest or that sensitive spot on your neck or god, even your lips. Your soft, pitiful whine gets you a soothing hand on your ribcage and ‘patience, dove’ murmured against the tender skin at the base of your throat.

“I wouldn’t normally, no.” And finally Silco takes pity on you, enveloping your nipple in his mouth. Soft, wet suction and his wicked tongue has you whining again at the ceiling. Tingling pleasure burns through your veins straight to your toes and you can’t help how they curl as he moves to the other nipple. One hand comes up to pinch and roll the bud he left while his other hand finds yours, interlacing your fingers and pinning it to the bed besides your head.

Silco lets up, a string of saliva connecting his glistening lips to your chest. He gives it one last peck before leaning back, taking his hands back and resting them just below the juncture of your thighs and hips. He gazes upon his handiwork, the red splotches on your chest and around your throat, your glistening skin rising and falling with your quickened breaths, the beautiful flush on your cheeks. His right fingers so softly travel down your thigh before tenderly sliding under your knee and bringing it up onto his shoulder. He turns his face into your skin and places a long, wet kiss there, holding you captive under the burning gaze of his ruined eye.

“But,” he whispers so softly, like his words for your ears alone, “I am very intrigued by the idea that my kisses could permeate through lifetimes and resurface on another version of you. Proof that you were very well loved, adored, worshipped.”

Your breath escapes you in a sharp exhale, taken aback by the intense devotion this man has for you. You can’t help the way your throat bobs around the sudden tightness there, the way your eyes sting. His visage becomes blurry around the edges, but you can see clear as Piltover’s sky his face, soft in a way you’ve yet to see in your years together with him.

Life has not been kind to him, but he somehow in all of it finds it in himself to be the most wonderful partner to you. You can only hope that you’ve done the same in return.

You smile at him, albeit a little wobbly, and reach your hand towards him. Silco as always meets you halfway, so gently grasping your fingers and pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles then a longer one to the ring that sits upon your finger.

You tighten your grip on his hand as you whisper, afraid your voice will crack if you speak any louder, “I love you endlessly, Silco.”

It’s a beat before he’s over you again, kissing you like it’s the last time he ever would. He pulls away to hide his face in the crook of your neck.

“When our time here is over and we meet again, many lifetimes from now, you’ll be covered in them. And I’ll spend every lifetime after this one filling in the spots I missed.”

[buttermynutter]

The Name They Gave Us | Silco x Reader

A one shot inspired by Richard Siken! Does not follow canon timeline. Warnings: Mentions of alcohol and smoking Word count: 3.5K

━━━━━━━━

It was cold outside when he had no pride to wear. 

It was colder under the streetlamp by the river, his reflection illuminated in the macabre puddle of equal parts of blood and water that he lay in. 

The little bit of strength leftover from heaving himself out of the channel seeped away as quickly as his reflection did through the cracks of the cobblestone road. A pattering against the rocks rang through his head as he lost consciousness, his last thoughts wondering if it was incoming rain. 

"Silco, you bastard," you had chided, only yourself and the empty warehouse to hear. The words echoed like your footsteps had against the stone when you spotted him, though the singular thing you heard in the moment was your heart beating between your ears. 

You had carried him to the closest abandoned building nearby, not difficult to find in Zaun. He was heavy, but you were never sure whether it was because of the water soaking his clothes or the weight of betrayal. 

He woke while your hand was still pressed against the side of his face, breaking your silent thanks that he wasn't conscious to suffer from the painful disinfectant of the rag you were holding, the last few years teaching you how he could tolerate countless black eyes but never the sting of chemicals.

Silco had swatted your arm away before realizing who it was before him, his movements still lethargic - though the look in his eye was anything but unwary. 

Once he caught sight of you, he had sighed, the only noise he made a slight croaking. There was a moment of confusion before you realized it was because he was unable to speak, and you delicately shushed him before continuing your cleaning, his hand coming to rest on your wrist. 

Only one of his eyes was visible, but in it was enough helplessness to drown oceans. The two of you had sat in silence, the night bustling and chaos of Zaun peculiarly dead.

Silco couldn't feel his tears among the water dripping from his hair. 

"I'll kill them all."

He had said the words like someone would say they were hungry, a simple afterthought. You glanced at him, noticing the swelling of his face had already gone down within the week from the night the pair of you left unspoken.

"You could," you mused, running a pair of scissors through the deep red fabric that was to become a coat. 

"High collar," Silco had said earlier, his slender fingers pressed together. "Very high." And although he hadn't said any more, the both of you knew it was to hide the side of his face. 

A sharp snip at the end of the cloth caused him to flinch slightly, his brooding demeanor broken.

"You could," you repeated, turning to face him. "Or, you could prove them right. One seems much crueler."

Silco's eyebrows raised, further defining their sharp angles. Abruptly, he scowled, swiping at the hair that came to drape like curtains around his face. "I won't be doing anything at all with this in the way," he snapped, gesturing vaguely at the bangs sticking to his exposed wound. "At this rate, the skin will grow over my hair."

You looked down at the shears in your lap, tracing its curves with a finger.

"I have an idea."

Silco's lighter flicked open, its flames chasing after the end of his cigar. His hands were shaking, and you thought to yourself that his left eye looked more red than usual. You were afraid he would burn into ashes with the tobacco. 

His plans were now running smoothly, but he seemed drastically on edge. You watched the smoke circle around his head - even smog avoided him. 

"I am a baron," he had snarled, tapping anxiously on his desk, the firm knocking reminding you of your feet against the cobblestone so long ago. What was it now? A year? Two years? With how Silco was behaving lately, it felt as if it had never happened. 

"Yet, people still feel the need to swap petty gossip concerning me," he continued, his gaze swinging every way in the room but yours. "Can you believe it?"

You were paying more attention to a cut on your forearm that you hadn't noticed until now, Silco's rants like radio noise to you more and more each time. 

"They're saying we are a couple." He sneered, the leery smile positively dripping with contempt. Still, you caught his eyes flitting towards you, the red iris identical to the ring of fire outlining his cigar tip. Though you acknowledged it was the first time he had looked at you since you had sat down, you didn't care for what reason. You didn't remember him ever being this blatantly spiteful, the malice he had spoken with squeezing your heart like he was juicing an orange. 

You wanted to do nothing but pull him towards you by the collar, the regal outfit he donned looking more like a costume than anything. You wanted to scream at him, about how you picked up after him and his dirty work, about how you saved his life, about...

Your thought tripped, tumbling over the folds of your mind before it hit a wall, in each brick scrawled a different moment leading to your realization: the way his back would arch when leaning against his desk, the low growl that accompanied his subtle praises for you, the small shudder of his body after his shimmer injection, still rejecting the chemical sting after all this time.

About how you loved him. About how you hated yourself for it.  

You remember having dashed out of the office, leaving nothing but a rattling chair, its revolving seat tilting to and fro. 

Silco's calls pursued you like smoke.

You had slammed the card down on the crate, your cries of hubris only encouraged as those gathered behind you cheered, Sevika's shout barely heard over the clamor.

"Another pint for the victor!"

Despite her loss, she was smiling, nimble fingers sliding the card back towards her to shuffle into the deck for yet another round. 

Vander banged the beer glass on the makeshift table, stray drops of foam soaking into the wood.

"At this rate, we'll be going from 'The Last Drop' to none at all!" 

You had grinned up at him, the split second of eye contact conveying a stream of words that could never be said, a silent betrayal concerning every party involved. You would never ask him of his fight with Silco, as he wouldn't yours. 

The mug of beer was quickly emptied, the cheers of the accumulated crowd only growing.

A flare of orange caught your eye, the cigarette clamped between Sevika's teeth swiftly lit. Your heartstrings tightened, coiling with the thought of the man you had left behind. It had already been several weeks, but even a vague reminder of Silco stirred your mind back into a sad, solitary puddle. 

But, the night went on, and several pints later - not to be unaccompanied by a brawl or two - you made your way home. 

A headache quickly clambored over your heartache the next morning, the searing pain amplifying as three firm knocks reverberated through the abandoned submarine you called home. The metal clangs sounded distant as you made your way to the door. 

You had cursed yourself as you tried to turn open the hatch, your strength impared both by the hangover and morning grogginess. 

Because of the combination, you weren't quite sure whether you were hallucinating or not once the door swung open, though that hadn't stopped your mind from descending into a sudden frenzy. 

For what seemed like eternities, you and Silco stared at each other. The repressed emotions brewed in you by the gallon; you didn't let yourself even blink, afraid that when you opened your eyes, he would be gone again. 

"I'm sorry."

And the gallons bubbled over. 

He was the first to step forward, falling into you as your mind shot through dozens of possibilities, all which made your heartbeat quicken a little more; but you remembered you had bottled them up for a reason. 

"Why are you here?"

So, he had told you, the hours and hours on end he had spent searching for you on foot, the discovery that the shimmer medication made him more aggressive with each injection, the blood and bourbon spilled that only stained his loss, never concealed it.  

Of course, you couldn't forgive him. Not now, at least. You trusted the person in front of you, not because of him, but because of the untidy, spontaneous boy that you would walk the wires of Zaun with, that you shared warmth with when the only other alternative was setting a building on fire - not that either of you wouldn't have done so for each other. The boy that Vander still respected, so you would too. 

Months flew, as did your spirits, Silco and you back to business partners; though he proved himself to be much more. His initial apologies were accompanied by a cigar or a small collection of flowers - always half wilted from the pollution of the Undercity, but that didn't stop you from thinking they were perfect. You could never admit to him that you didn't share his affinity for cigars, so in a few weeks you would return it under the guise as a gift of your own, sometimes wondering if it would find its way back to you once more. 

Naturally, he would have his subtle moments.  He asked you into his office for the most trivial of reasons, one time even to help him find a pen which - you realized after leaving the room - he had never dropped.

Each interaction flustered you a little more, each knotting of his tie, the nimble fingers ducking in and out of its folds, not to mention whenever he asked you to do it for him. With each flicking of his lighter, it felt as if it was to set your heart on fire.  

Soon, you grew accustomed to being in his office at all times, the two of you working side by side once again, both figuratively and literally, the oil of his lamp sometimes burning out in the middle of the night as you worked. 

The first time it happened, Silco had even laughed. 

The same laugh followed you through the markets of Zaun, Silco's arm around your shoulder. 

"Only for safety," he had told you. "These people are all scum, I couldn't stand being lost among them." You had simply raised an eyebrow at him, trying your best to conceal a dubious smile.

The smile returned especially now as the street you were on was nearly empty, your companion's cologne rubbing shoulders with Noxian spices and the sweet incense masking inevitably sinister businesses, Silco no doubt owning a portion of them. 

He had stopped abruptly, nearly causing you to trip over a pothole. You were just about to berate him before he hissed, "Did you hear the shopkeeper that we just walked by? Saying to their customer what lovebirds we were?"

"Calm down," you hummed, pulling him forward by the waist, surprised he made no objection to your contact - though, the feeling that woke within you as you were reminded of the last time he had made such a comment was much more bleak. "I'm sure they say that about everyone." 

Silco's hand left your shoulder, and you had felt a glimpse of sadness before he grabbed onto your hip and pulled you into the nearest alleyway, interrupting two crows' fight over a crust of bread, their caws fading with the street noise.

He had pressed you to the wall with one hand, the other leaving your hip to rest beside your head, sighing so heavily that you were surprised you weren't blown over.

"What if I wish they didn't?"

You could only cough awkwardly, the position you were situated in preventing you from thinking properly. 

Silco pressed his lips in a thin line, a single finger tapping the brick by your head before elaborating, "What if I wish they didn't say that about everyone?"

Your mouth opened instinctively, but you couldn't say anything - it wasn't that you had nothing to say - rather, the opposite. You wanted to ask why now, why at all, if this was what you thought it meant, if you would have to walk out all over again.

His tone had been rigid but the stability seemed forced, and you could swear that if you listened hard enough, his voice would be pleading. "I will never forgive myself, and some part of me wants to tell you to turn away, to remember what I did that forsaken day."

Your rational thinking slowly regained its footing as you weighed his actions, though your heart never stopped screaming that he had redeemed himself from the moment he began to speak.

"The other part of me loves you."

The footing was lost, yet you ascended, all the speculation and late nights suddenly endowed with a new meaning. You had given Silco a small grin, trying not to give away how truly elated you were. His expression was hopeful, and his lips almost trembled as he bit the bottom one, Adam's apple noticeably bobbing as he swallowed. 

"Every part of me loves you."

He had lit up instantly at your response, and you sealed his smile with yours, your dreams pressed between your hands, its scars shifting under your fingers with the movement of his mouth; Silco left your lips wet and your body warm.

You thought back to what he had said, that you should turn away - you knew it was about more than the past. Your future was bound to be tarnished now, but you didn't care, as long as it was intertwined with his.

You might as well have already been marked once you had helped him to his feet in that crowded market long ago, a stolen fruit concealed within one of his hands, a dagger in the other. It was the first time you laid eyes on him, but you somehow knew it wouldn't be the last. 

With a relationship, you'd be just as good as tacked with a red pin; but if you knew Silco at all, you knew that in spite of either choice, he would do anything and everything in his power to protect you. 

He had handed you a knife, but you took it by the blade. 

You were proven right only a month later, sat down in Silco's office chair with a syringe of poison lodged in your shoulder, the injury fortunately minor, as the tip of the needle had broken, causing none of the liquid to be injected - the perpetrator had been quite clumsy for an attacker. Nonetheless, Silco was in ruins, delicately removing the weapon before crushing it beneath his heal, shouting at nobody in particular only to abruptly kneel in front of you. 

After a dozen promises to murder the assailant and yet a dozen more apologies, he fell silent, his head buried in your lap. His outburst worried you more than the attack itself had, highly uncharacteristic of his usual placid and calculating self. Silco's hair was unkempt from the number of times he had stressfully ran his hands through it, so you pushed the strands away from his forehead, his heavy breaths warm against your thighs. 

He had looked up at you, the look in his eyes tying your stomach into knots. The dim light emitting from the desk lamp was just enough to catch the tears welling in them, a red ring swimming through the black sea of his eye. 

"Stay with me," he had whispered. You lifted your hands to wipe away the liquid, leaving mirroring damp trails from the corners of his eyes.

"Where else would I go?"

Silco had stood looking out the window twirling a vial of shimmer between his fingers. You looked up to admire him, the records you were sorting through sprawled around you on the carpet. He was trimmed as ever - albeit except the lack of the typical waistcoat, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. 

Despite only another handful of years passing by, his hair had begun to grey. 

You huffed and leaned back, letting the papers you were holding fall to the ground. 

He turned around with his usual elegance, his pose mirroring a sovereign painting. You swore the sun set because this man brought it to its knees each night. 

After a moment of consideration, Silco sat down next to you, giving it another bit of thought before deciding to lay down as well, the papers crinkling pleasantly. 

"Do we seem like sweethearts to you?"

You glanced at him, amused but bewildered. "Sweethearts?"

He gave an affirmative grunt, saying, "I've heard people call us that. It seems a bit sickly among the others. Sweethearts, lovers, tyrants, freaks... evil."

He had listed the terms like they were lines of a poem, each with their own potent connotation. 

"For someone who looks down on others for their obsession over things like this, you've certainly made it a hobby of your own." 

Silco rolled on top of you, cornering your head between his elbows as he lay his chin on one hand, the other tracing your jaw. The sensation tickled slightly, and you closed your eyes as he responded, "Ultimately, I don't care what labels they give - as long as it's me and you."

You don't remember ever getting up from the carpet, only his breath imprinted on your face. 

The days blazed by, an assassin for every other month, a bribed Enforcer for the next. You dug yourself deeper in the pit of danger, trying to convince yourself it was simply wider. Either way, Silco was by your side - a tie you embroidered around his neck, a lock of his hair inexplicably straying from the rest. 

Nothing else mattered when he would tip his head onto your shoulder, when he would inspect your wounds with as much fragility as one would when picking a flower, when you woke up covered with a coat you knew hadn't been there the previous night. 

The foyer of your memory was pristine, recollections framed and hung at a perfect angle. But the hallway was strewn with heavy furniture of heavier words, mismatched but ever-present, the wallpaper a myriad of conflict, some without their resolution, some of it torn from other people - the shiniest frames and the fullest drawers always belonged to Silco.

Your mind opened the door to the living room. 

And here you are.

Only knee-deep in water, yet still drowning, wondering if you left a latern lit by the door, if you forgot the key in the gate, if the children of the Enforcer could hear him scream from the pier. 

Silco's heavy coat weighing on your shoulders does a better job of keeping the cold inside you rather than the night air out. 

You hear his voice, but it feels more like you're reading his lips than anything, the words barely tangible above the officers' yells and rattling weapons.

"It's okay, darling. I was rebirthed in this water."

He tilts your head upwards, the slightest of tremors in his hand.

You glance up to the night sky, and a star winks at you like it has a secret to tell, like it has some way to whisk you away from this predicament. 

"There won't be a birth this time, Silco," you say, suddenly aware that your throat is dry. You consider having a drink of the river; as if that would be normal, as if any of this is normal. 

The side of his face is ironically mangled, this time by an Enforcer's baton. Water creeps up your legs, begging to pull you down and swallow you before anything else can. His hand is in yours, though you're not sure whose fingers are whose, intertwining like the branches of mingling veins, like the pool of combined blood dripping into your palms. 

Your heart folds together with the endless skies, a fleeting thought jumping through your head pondering which of Silco's eyes looks more like a star. 

He speaks up again, this time his voice hollow, an empty frame, remorse still clinging to its edges. "I think death forgot about us." Clutching your hand a bit tighter, he whispers, "As much as you're one to be remembered, I truly wish its memory was good enough for only me."

His voice cracks during the last line, the scars of his face deepening as the Enforcers' flashlights move closer. How grotesquely amusing, you think, that if you looked down from the sky, the ring of officers wading through the river would look almost like the iris of an eye, its pupil a couple. Couple? Lovebirds? Freaks? 

Maybe sweethearts wasn't too bad after all.

"You really are fate's fool," you murmur as his chapped lips press to your forehead, the action so deliberate and heartfelt you swear it would leave a mark. 

"No," he utters. "Just yours."

There you stand, trapped in a snowglobe of acid seas and blood skies. Or, would blood seas and acid skies be more fitting?   

You wish you had time to debate such trivial matters with yourself, but you focus on only Silco, trying desperately to memorize the pattern of the blood slicking his neck, the adoring gleam in his eye, the position of every last strand of hair, foolishly considering if you could cut it one final time. 

The only movement you're aware of is of his lips, each word falling from them like glass that you couldn't be more eager to catch and save from shattering.

"I'm sorry about the blood on your hands, dear. I only wish it was mine."

He pauses, as does the world.

"I love you."

The Enforcers sound a thousand miles away, though you notice there's a sudden bout of yelling to which you only make out a few words. The shouts carousel through your head, each statement of theirs that you assume seeming less likely than the last. Did the captain tell them to close in? To make an arrest?

"I love you too." 

A sudden heat blossoms in your abdomen. 

Ah, you think to yourself.

Open fire. 

Somewhere, a star burned out. 

[x-amount-verbs]

A Helping Hand - Part 26

[start here] || Part 25 || Part 26 || Part 27

[ @dad-dumpster ’s art for 25 if you missed it!] [Ivy art by @thesaltybuns ]

[silco x f!reader] [4.3k words] [no y/n] [during timeskip] [touch-starved reader] [henchwoman!reader] [explicit] [D/s] [glove kink] [impact play] [light humiliation] [sadism/masochism] [good tears] [sexual content] [edging] [crop, cane, hands]

AO3 Link

It’s a long pause.

Did you do something wrong? Say something wrong? Oh gods, did you cross some line?

Tempted to bite your cheek, you instead opt to apologize. “I’m s—” The word becomes a yip of surprise at the firm snap of the crop.

“Again. Correctly this time.”

Another snap.

The words are mostly just breathed, but they’re clear in the silence of the room. “Thank you, Sir.”

The feeling coursing through you is fucking amazing, some combination of shame and bliss and indulgence, the pain a perfect complement to the guilty pleasure of it.

“…I seem to have lost count.” The evenness to his tone suggests otherwise, the smooth soft leather of the crop’s tress soothing heated skin. Little taps make you startle, anticipating another blow, but no, just teasing little thip thip thips before the flat presses between your legs again.

There’s not enough pressure to grind against the implement, but just enough friction for you to feel the damp pull along your folds. Mouth pressed tight, trying not to hum or whine, you fail on both counts.

Silco’s voice is low but lacking the usual cocky edge. Like all his attention is on staying even-keeled. “You are always welcome to voice your gratitude.”

And then it begins again, never dropping much below the highest level of the last set.

You’re practically panting by the fourth strike. By eight you’ve thanked him twice more, and have melted forward, half-collapsed against the desk. The next strike seems to miss its exacting target, instead hitting half on skin and half on the edge of your underwear.

To your mortification, you realize you’d rather not be wearing any. Your hand is halfway down to its target when Silco steps back, crop well away from your skin.

“Do you need-” to stop?

“No!” You interrupt before he can ask. “No, I just-”

You hesitate, fingers twitching as you register your own action. What are you doing? This is— this is—

…It’s not asking, though. It’s not pleading or begging or asking for him to touch you, not with words. Just…

Hesitantly, you bring fingers to the waistband of your underwear, plucking at the hemline unintentionally. Eyes stay squeezed shut, nervous sweat beading on the forehead you have pressed to the desktop.

The room falls into silence so complete you can hear the brush of fabric against your skin as you tentatively hook your thumb in the waistband and drag down, feeling the radiating heat from your reddened ass and thighs as you do so.

Cool air against your sodden heat makes you draw in an audible breath, movement faltering. Your courage wanes— or maybe your stupidity passes— and you clumsily bring your hand back to the desk, back to the position you know is acceptable and comfortable despite the pressure on your elbows, without finishing the job. Just half-lowered underwear left to barely cover you from Silco’s gaze.

It’s silent.

Completely silent.

Your brain starts to whirr, starts to panic, to replay the last few minutes and determine if you went wrong somewhere. He wants you, doesn’t he? Or is it a case of him finding you less attractive than the power he holds over you? Did you cross a boundary again? Will he pull away again? Leave you wet and wanting, displayed across his desk in all your shame?

The longer the stillness stretches, the tighter your head feels, the louder your labored breaths seem, the more constricted your throat.

Your stomach starts to sink. A different kind of fear, a different kind of anxiety, a nausea at the prospect that you have made a terrible mistake.

It simmers for too long.

The brush of the leather tress against your bare ass makes you jump, a pathetic sound of relief and blatant need pulling in your throat. On the verge of tears as the crop catches to - painfully slowly - finish the move you started, dragging fabric lower. The way the last bit clings between your legs is damning.

He’s so quiet.

The crop pushes the fabric down along one leg, until your spread stance offers resistance. Then it moves to the other leg to trace its way back up. The slow tease only serves to make your need that much hungrier. Fists tighten on the desk, lip between your teeth.

“Ah-!” The little snap against your sex makes you cry out, the wet of it making the slap sound that much more obvious. Toes curl, and you find yourself subtly shifting, opening your stance like it can tempt him to alleviate your gnawing hunger.

The crop drags against your lips before pulling back.

Still no words.

Please say something. Please. Tell me I’m good, tell me this is okay, tell me you want me, please.

Nothing.

Your disappointment is overshadowed, however, as you hear him - feel him - step forward. No longer a crop’s distance away.

Then soft leather brushes burning skin: two of Silco’s fingers whispering against the reddened marks, tracing the curve around, then down. Two fingers hardly making contact, splitting to a V to skim around where you truly need him as he pushes his hand between your legs.

Your frustrated whimper breaks to a sharp breath as his path back drags one gloved finger firmly down the center of you. It’s a hint of friction but not nearly enough, even if the slight press of his fingertip teasing at your entrance makes you clench.

Fucking hell, you need him. He’s so close, can’t he just—

Your groan of frustration burbles in your chest, followed by another whine. This is what he does to you: reduces you to wordless noise and carnal appetite.

As on-edge as you are, your ears practically prick up at the hint of noise behind you. A heavy exhale. A low hum.

Anticipation shivers up your spine.

A dry digit brushes one flushed thigh, very briefly. “…Step out of them.” His voice doesn’t need to be loud in such a quiet space.

Mouth dry, you hurriedly obey as best you can without being able to see your shoes, nearly falling sideways the first time one boot gets caught, and leaning forward to at least get one foot free and resume your position.

Please touch me. Please.

You can’t say it - won’t say it - only feel it: a mantra on repeat in your head.

Please please please.

The slight huff of a laugh sounds at your back, and then you hear fabric shift again. You startle at the feeling of his elbow knocking one sock-clad calf while hands skim down the other, and you curse high boots for existing and stopping you from properly feeling his hands as he lifts one foot for you so he can untangle the fabric.

He must turn his head, because an involuntary little squeak escapes you when breath breezes against you. The prospect of being face-to-cunt with him was not something you expected today. You feel entirely too seen, too examined, too self-conscious to have him staring straight at you so shamelessly.

But gods, you want more.

Hips shift like you can get him closer, already imagining his tongue rolling against you—

And then he’s standing again, so soon. The disappointed breath sighs out of you.

“Six more strokes,” he reminds you, smirk audible. “And four more, for staining my tools.” The smug tone of that smoky voice wraps you around his finger, toying with you like a cat with a mouse. “Impossible to get the smell of cunt out of leather. …As you may very well know.”

The rush of heat to your face makes you dizzy. Silco very rarely swears, and to choose to use it in this context, for your body…

Without any preamble, still distracted by his taunting, you’re caught off guard by the particularly harsh impact of the crop in just the right spot, and the keening cry you let loose is uncomfortably loud until you hide it against your good fist, still left breathing heavily.

The tongue of the crop smooths over the sting, but you need more. One taste of his hand wasn’t enough. You crave his touch, hunger for—

His hands rubbing away the pain, fingers straying to toy with your pussy, kneading your ass like a damned masseur—

His satisfied hum vibrates low in the air, and it has you whimpering against your own skin.

“…You really are more than I ever imagined…”

The words alone send a rush of arousal to painfully harden your nipples, clenching around nothing. Fuck— that didn’t make anything easier.

Another smack of the crop and you stifle your noise, mouth opening to pant against your fist, top teeth catching on a knuckle and digging in lightly.

Does he imagine you, then? The way you’ve imagined him? The way you're imagining him, cock in hand plunging deep into you in one rough thrust that makes your eyes roll and your body buck. Shit—

Two more snaps against skin in quick succession and you’re shaking. A little hiccup of surprise as the tool slides between your thighs again.

The little taps of the crop against your sex are so fucking teasing, but you swore not to plead, so you’re left with the hot wet breath of a half-gagged thank you moaned against your fist.

You are far from thankful.

Well— yes, you’re thankful, but he’s absolutely tormenting you, and all you want to do is beg him to touch you already, but instead your own stupid rules drag it out further when you just want him to fuck you, good gods—

A particularly well-placed slap of the crop’s tongue hits your clit and your body jerks forward with your muffled cry, eyes snapping open, back arching and hips squirming, legs trembling as you whimper after. Feeling halfway to orgasm already, your gaze is foggy, eyelids weighed down by lust, mind incapable of anything but being present.

It’s fucking amazing.

Any and all anxiety, self-consciousness, doubt— if it’s there at all, it serves a purpose: it’s for him, an offering, and he’s paying you back with unwavering attention. Fear heightens arousal, shame turning it all perverse and delicious, and despite being treated like a damned horse with the amount your flanks are being slapped, it’s validating somehow.

You feel demeaned, maybe, but— but you feel desired.

…Now you just need him to fucking touch you already.

The crop turns on its edge and drags through your folds on the way back, the curve of it teasing your entrance. You’re tempted to chase after it, desperate, needing anything for stimulation. But his hands were right there, even if not skin to skin, and you want more.

Please.

There’s a pause, and you sense words unspoken. What is he stopping himself from saying? You need to know, you need— him, you need him.

Please.

“…Have you had enough?”

“Nnnh-” You whine around your knuckle, remembering just in time that no is off limits.

Silco must be expecting a yes.

“…You don’t want me to stop? To find some alternative way of meting out your remaining punishment?” The question comes with a stroke of the crop against your heat that promises much more pleasant options.

But that’s not the point. That’s what you want (and desperately). But this is about proving he wants you. It’s the only thought left in your addled mind.

You don’t say no. You don’t say yes, either, despite how badly you want whatever alternative he’s offering. And you absolutely refuse to say please.

The crop pulls away and you tense expectantly for another strike. Instead, you almost jump at the sound of the item being placed on the desk.

The way he says your name is stern, but not angry. Being acknowledged that way immediately overwhelms you. The person you are now isn’t her, it’s someone with less agency, fewer expectations, blissfully free of difficult decisions. Reconciling that with your everyday identity is half terrifying, half thrilling.

“Speak freely.” His voice is low, even. “Do you want to stop?”

“I—” You choke on the word. Gods, can’t he just do? Why does he have to make you choose? Teeth sink into your skin again as you muffle your helpless whine.

“Do you want to continue?” This time there’s a touch of exasperation in his tone, and you feel like an idiot. It’s just a yes or no question, why are you making it such a big deal?

Because it matters. It matters that he wants this. That it’s not just indulging your perverse little whims, but something he chooses you for.

When you don’t answer, Silco lets out a tight sigh. “What do you want, sweet, I can’t read your mind.”

‘Sweet.’ Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s not how he means it, you’re sure, the dry delivery made his mockery clear enough, but still.

“I—” You struggle to find the words. “It’s— it’s up to you.”

A pause. You feel him shift closer again, feeling magnetized to his presence behind you. “…Up to me?” he muses.

You swallow. “Yes, Sir.” Please touch me.

The whisper of contact as his hand hovers above your lower back has you sucking in a sharp breath. Yes.

“…Jumpy…” he teases, tracing a finger along where your skirt has been flipped up onto your back, reminding you again of the embarrassing position he’s put you in. Leather brushes skin as he smooths down the round of your ass, delicately— before groping the bottom curve in a harsh grip.

Yesyesyesyes. You stifle your noise even as you throb for him, that itch behind your navel winding tighter.

“So if I chose to give the rest of your punishment a different way…” Silco’s gloved fingers barely tease your slit, rubbing that edge where your inner thigh ends. “You’d accept that?”

Mindless. You’re mindless for him, just needy. “Yes, Sir,” you breathe, trying to press yourself back into his grip, needing his fingers inside you.

The soft breath of laughter makes your face flood with heat for the umpteenth time. Burning up for him. “Hmm, I’m afraid only good girls get their hungry little cunts filled.”

Fuck— the words alone make your eyes roll back, flattening your cheek to the desk with a groan, as you lift to your tiptoes and try to grind on his hand.

The sharp swat discourages you, in theory, but instead you want more. Anything to keep his hands on you. Your hips shift restlessly, panting mouth nearly drooling around the already reddened knuckle wedged between your teeth.

“Rude little sluts get punished.” His kneading hand is rough, but the leather still manages to soothe the earlier heat from his aforementioned punishment.

The term is so completely unfitting that you can’t possibly see it referring to anything beyond your behavior toward him. You certainly haven’t slept with someone in a long while, and yet the filthy thoughts you’ve had about your boss quite easily put your real experiences to shame.

“‘Up to me,’” Silco repeats in a mutter; “You really want to do that?” An audible sneer belies the approving little hum that comes after, the assuring way he gives your hip a short squeeze.

“Yeh thuh,” spoken around your hand.

His thumb draws a little spiral absently as he shifts, and you hear one of the disciplinary implements sliding from the desk beside you, even if you’re turned away from it. You have your suspicions well before he steps back and you feel the cane sliding against your warmed skin.

“Six strokes left,” he reminds you. “And you prefer pain over pleasure?”

Your whine is in place of the no you both want and don’t want to say. Of course you’d prefer pleasure. But all the pain he’s doled out has only served to raise your arousal, blood flowing to those bits of your anatomy that are making you positively ravenous at the moment.

The cane taps lightly against you, making you tense in expectation, but it’s never hard. Just enough to keep you on edge. No answer means it’s not a yes. “Can you take it?”

A better question. “Yes, Si-” You squeak in surprise as the cane thwacks against your ass rather than your thighs. It’s somehow worse and much better. The pain still hurts, but there’s a much deeper satisfaction, a pleasant throb between your legs as you take it.

“One. More?”

You’re breathless, still recovering from your last strike, but manage a weak, “mhm,” of confirmation.

“Words.” The cane taps gently against you again, a warning. He can always add more to your tally.

After a second, you recover enough to say, “Yes, Sir.”

You’re expecting the next strike; it’s a little easier to take once you’re mentally prepared.

“Two. Still want to leave it up to me?” It’s practically a taunt. A warning. You realize he’s asking permission, asking if he can go harder than this.

“Yes, Sir.” After a split second hesitation, while he continues the teasing little taps, you add, “Thank you, Sir.” He could’ve just done it, he didn’t have to ask. Even if he hid it under a layer of mockery.

The cane stops for a second. “…You’re welcome.”

Then he hits hard, hard enough that you yelp, jolting against the desk.

“If you’re not careful someone might hear you,” Silco warns, a hint of wickedness to his tone. “That was three.”

You pant, legs weak. But bow your head to press your forehead to the desk and make sure you’re standing straight. “Thank you, Sir.” Another. You can take it, and you want to take it.

“Four.”

The cry catches in your throat and you hear rather than feel the ceramic against wood as your bad hand flattens from its fist, jerking out sideways as your knees give out just like they did the first time. It stings— and aches, in a way that reminds you of the day after a good workout, only the skin is far warmer.

But that all flees your mind entirely as a gloved hand massages the sting away. The cane makes its little clatter against the desktop and then both his hands are on you, and you have the sudden mortifying urge to cry.

“Good girl,” Silco’s voice is throatier than you expect, one hand rubbing a thumb in circles at your waist as the other soothing you far more gently than before. “Very good,” he hums, and it may be the warmest you’ve heard him.

Your whimper comes out more like a sob. It isn’t even the pain: it’s the affection. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Tears burn in your eyes, and so much of it is relief.

“Taking everything I gave you…” The low murmur is shockingly lacking edge. “Such a good girl.”

Okay, yes, you’re crying. It’s just— it’s such a relief. The pain, the soft touch afterward, the fizz of hormones flooding your system that have you half out of reality. And more than that— there’s something about this, about taking pain. It’s like… the ability to show your devotion without needing to say it out loud. Proving something without having to swallow your pride to admit it. And being rewarded for that devotion, with reassuring touch, even if it's not as much as you want. You want too much. You want to be surrounded by him— you want to touch him.

“I think…” His hand drops between your legs again, “perhaps an alternative, to settle your account.” Petting you, a teasing softness that hardly brushes slick skin.

You shiver and moan and bite your lip, humming to keep the please from breaking free as he strokes you gently, somehow tormenting you again after seeming to promise not to.

Unless…

Firmer, never seeming to fully touch anything quite enough, only ever dipping the tip of his finger but never going inside, only pressing around your clit but never brushing it directly. You try - really try - to get more friction, more pressure, just more— squirming and grinding and trying so damn hard.

The hand on your waist squeezes before shifting to press your back, push you firmly down on the desk. “Hold still, sweet; you still owe me two strokes.” You can hear the self-satisfied smirk.

Tears of relief are forgotten in favor of growing frustration, feeling yourself wound so damned tight that you’re sure you could cum the second he thrust inside you. But he doesn’t. Just rubs and teases and thumbs without ever fucking you like you need.

The throb between your legs is unbearable. The keening whine is as close to begging as you’ll allow yourself, eyes glazed and half closed, face twisted with desperation.

Arousal is smeared across his glove, your inner thighs— every motion lewdly audible in a way that shames you as much as it turns you on.

The next time he massages around your clit and then barely brushes the spot where you want more pressure, you let out a frustrated growl, bucking slightly.

His fingers disappear in an instant, a wet slap against your ass as the hand on your back renews its downward force. He’s moved closer; a more convenient angle to push you down, yes, but also maneuvering his hips to stop your wild squirming. But even better— the thing that makes your frustrated movement falter.

You suck in a sharp breath, foggy eyes going wide, a shock of ice and heat hitting you in quick succession.

If you wanted proof he wants you… the hard hot ridge pressed to your oversensitized backside is clear enough.

Silco’s hand comes around your hip to reach from the front to continue his torment, but you’re so fixated on his cock. Right there. Your subtle little gyrations - the best you can manage while pinned to his desk - rub the swell of your ass against him. You relish the subtle shift of his own hips, the pressure in little rolling motions barely discernible unless you stop moving, but the one time you do, just to check, you feel him continue the gentle rocking a second longer, and it feels so damn gratifying.

You feel yourself light up at the realization, a renewed vigor that fucks your brain far more than his fingers are. Your own fervid panting seems to spur him on, his hand bringing you very quickly to the same spot he had you before the brief spanking. His steadily increasing attention has your pulse racing, breath hitching, on the edge of orgasm.

Need coils in your gut, ready to snap, eyes closed as your motions freeze again, body stiffening, trying to keep his hand in the position it just was, in that perfect position you want to keep the pressure just right—

And he pulls away.

The dry sob is sheer agony.

“Punishment, my dear, this is a punishment.” His dark chuckle has tears prickling in your eyes once more. The mocking little coo of sympathy is too damn hot for what an asshole move it is.

“Only one more, sweet,” he promises, shifting his weight in a way that once again emphasizes the weight of his cock pressing against your ass. “…Though I suspect you may be more eager to make our little meetings after this revelatory afternoon.”

Your brain can’t handle his stupid fancy words. Just fuck me already. Pressing your forehead to the desk you groan as the perfectly wound tension loosens again. But you never say please. Won’t fucking do it. As much as he frustrates you, part of you is maliciously delighting in the treatment, loving to hate it, gluttonous for his attention and feasting on it.

“Just one more…” Silco murmurs, idly stroking your back as that hard won arousal ebbs slightly. He gathers your skirt at the waistband in his fist. You’re sad to feel his hips draw away, losing the reassurance of his hot length grinding against you. But then his hand comes back again from behind.

You sink into pleasure faster this time, eager to get back to the heights, to attain that ecstasy before he yanks it away again.

Apparently, your worry is utterly unnecessary.

Fingers stroke along your folds with that all-knowing ease, pressing and circling and rubbing just right, and then his hand turns and his thumb teases you before pressing in with one purposeful move that makes your mouth drop open.

You haven’t touched yourself since that day he gave you his glove; how fitting it is that his gloved hand be the follow-up performance. His thumb feels thick with the added girth of the leather, and the little hint of stretch feels perfect. (Though you assume his cock would be more perfect.)

His other fingers continue to massage and grind as his thumb carefully circles inside you, loosening any anxious tension, the base finding points around your entrance you didn’t realize could provide pleasure. Then Silco adjusts his wrist, places his fingers just so, and presses down.

“Ah-nh!” The mewling whine that pulls from your throat quickly fades to a continuous stream of moans and whimpers, his ministrations ushering you out of your mind as you rapidly ascend the heights.

Presence of mind is fleeting, but it does occur to you to ask— or attempt to do so.

“Can— nnhh— ca-an I— can—” Words are hard.

His hand pulls out and your needy sob is thin in the air before he simply turns his hand and presses a different two fingers in instead, finding that same spot to undulate against as his thumb finds new spots to play with.

“I give orders that can be obeyed,” Silco reminds you, sounding half-breathless himself.

Tighter. Drawn like a wire filament, with electricity humming through you as the voltage increases.

“That wouldn’t be one of them.”

One of what? You can hardly think. Body stiffens, trying to keep his hand right in that magic spot he’s found, clenching around him, already halfway there before he says it.

“Go on. Come for me.”

—

[next part]

[ 😳 *cough*

So uh. Anyway, that was 4k of pure smut ahahahah 😅 Hope you enjoyed?? Really got into some of the why of submission in a bdsm dynamic tbh; hopefully it resonates and/or explains something ><

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I may or may not end up writing a reverse POV for this whole business, but if I do you may want to be on the tag list so you know when it goes up, since the reverse POVs go up on tumblr well before they’re ever added to the ao3 series of reverse POVs. You can join the tag list by commenting on this linked post.

Thanks for stickin’ it out. I know this was a long time coming. Please don’t hate me for next chapter ;u; ❤️ -verbs]

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[whirlybirbs]

“what endearments am i allowed?” for silco???

 chp.3  |  HOBBYISTS & FINER THINGS ; silco / reader

summary: you catch him on a bad night at the last drop. a lilac drink is had, plans are made.

word count: 2.7k

pairing: silco / f!reader

a/n: ah yes. more pining and another gif by @aestheticsicrushonfrom this set here! this fic is now up on ao3, as well. to the few of you who saw this chapter drop there first... no you didn’t shh

< previous chapter  |  read me on ao3  

The Last Drop is busy.

It is a Saturday night; you knew that when you agreed to this meeting with the other Madams, you were agreeing to more of a show of power than anything. You were important now, more important than before, and that meant rubbing elbows with Zaun's elite to keep the peace.

It meant... god, what had Sevika called it?

...Networking.

That's right.

The pack that moves with you is made up of sex workers who have climbed the ladder, who have clawed their way to the top. They're experienced leaders in this vein of undercity's business.

Though you've lived this sort of life long enough, you still have trouble settling on the fact you're one of them now. After all, you were eighteen when you'd first met Babette — now, a decade and some odd years later, she was still a fixture along the mantle of role models you kept near and dear.

You stick to the back of the group with the yordle in question.

On approach, the long line to get into The Last Drop is scoffed at.

One of the older women, a matriarch among the out-workers, only gives the bouncers a look that grants the gaggle entry. Her hair is piled higher than her drawn-on brows. She is crested in a coat with deep, purple feathers, and slipped into a pink dress that begs to cling to her youth. Her name is Sygyn.

You quite like her.

The doors open, and a sudden wash of nervousness swallows you whole.

It's hot and humid inside. The bass is the sort that rattles your ribs, the sort that you feel deep in your heart. Immediately, the saccharine sweet smell of shimmer begs to cling to your skin. The lights are dim, catalyzed by the flash and bow of strobes, and the pulse of the bar's sound system. All in all, a sea of bodies clutters the bottom floor — limbs tangled with limbs, and heavy-poured drinks on tongue and cheek.

You catch eyes following you all — and for the first time since Yeleni left you The Lilac Lounge, you let yourself bask in the intoxicating buzz of pride.

You hold your chin a little higher when a bouncer offers to take your coat with a love-sick look.

Now, bare shoulders and back are bore for all to see. This dress — be it old and well-loved — is long, almost kissing the ground as you follow the experience gaggle of Madams towards the staircase winding up the mezzanine. The high collar allows for a facade of modesty. The truth is that the silken material, stamped with intricate patterning mimicking some of Piltover's most popular textile artists' work, clings to your figure in a way that makes you feel as though you have earned your place amongst Zaun's elite.

(It had taken a bit of goading to get you into it, honestly.

...It's just been a bit.)

You can hardly think; the bass and the lights are making your head swim. As you follow the eccentric collection of undercity leaders through the bar's dance floor, roll your shoulders back and remember to tighten up your posture. You're important. Powerful.

—Beautiful.

He hadn't been expecting to see you tonight.

No, no. Tonight was... Tonight was full of mishaps. Full of correctional action. Full of shimmer shipments gone missing and three pieces of gutter trash responsible. He’d forgone his tie an hour ago, left it with his composure in his office before going with Sevika and a handful of others to the docks to handle this messy business.

Heads held under until truths spilled out. Punches thrown and horrific threats echoing across the still, midnight harbor.

FIND IT. GET OUT OF MY SIGHT.

His knuckles are split on each hand.

He’s tired.

In all fairness, it wasn't as if you hadn't been on his mind — to that point, there's one of those lovely, expensive cigars you'd gifted him tucked behind his ear.

He's been considering another ride down to The Lilac Lounge; but, to heed Sevika's warnings, he knew people were growing curious.

The streets talk.

You need only listen.

The yearning that he's been mindfully smothering worsens when, with what was originally an authoritatively irritated sweep of the main floor, his heavy-lidded eyes land directly on you. A pale, sea green eye grows wide in a sudden flash of surprise.

It's gone in a flash.

The feeling remains.

It's as if he's been socked in the chest. Silco, from his spot on the balcony's railing, manages to level his breath. He rolls his jaw. Instinctively, his fingers tighten around the crystal of his whiskey tumbler as he tosses another swig back. His exhaustion ebbs, then. He pushes a bruised hand through his disheveled hair and leans forward on the railing. A long streak of grey hangs in his face.

Something, at that moment, tells you to look up.

As you lift your eyes to the upper mezzanine, you blink heavy lashes in the swing of a purple-hued light. You take another step, face cast up into the light, and suddenly you see him.

Silco.

That same wave of nervousness is back.

It crawls up your spine. Nearly roots you in your spot then and there.

Your gazes connect. It’s only for a second, but you swear the whole of the universe slows down just long enough for you to get a good look at him.

Sharp in every manner of the word.

People swim around you both blissfully ignorant of the shared hitch of breaths between two souls. All while The Last Drop spin feverishly on a head, tipping into the hedonistic beginnings of a long night. In the lights, in the haze of shimmer-shined kisses.

You hold his gaze long enough to know he’s seen you, and then the room kicks back into it’s full-tilt swing.

Every step up the catwalk has your heart catching.

You’re rather ceremoniously herded to a table on the upper mezzanine that sits neatly in a deep-red booth. You hold the hem of your dress in your hand, stepping up and settling in nicely beside Babette. The leather is cold against your lower back. Drinks are brought round nearly immediately, and you note the usual of Yeleni is slid your way by the waiter.

Lilac martini.

Fitting.

“To our newest addition.”

The tinkering of glasses rises above the smiles and laughter of the gaggle of Madams — you offer up your best smile at Sygyn’s call to honor. The weight of the sleek glass has you taking pause. Your fingers, donned with sheer black gloves that crawl up your arms and settle well past your elbows, grip the glass tightly. In a way, Yeleni’s legacy sits in your hands. In the form of some stupidly ironic cocktail.

You pluck the garnish out and drop it behind your ear with a deep inhale.

Then, you revive the smile on your face and take a delicate sip as the Madams descend into their conversation.

Eugh. 

Gross.

All the while, you’re painfully aware Silco is lingering somewhere just beyond your shoulder — or maybe he’s gone, slipped away to tend to business far more important than your appearance at his establishment. The girlish part of you wants to look back, to cast long lashes over your shoulder and seek him out amongst the crowd. You want to find him staring still, maybe posed back against the railing. You want to see longing. Yearning. Desperate reciprocation of the youthful tug he has on your heartstrings.

You know better.

People will talk.

They always do, though — and maybe this sort of entanglement doesn’t need to be as precarious as Babette had threatened. Maybe it won’t be a bad business venture; at the very least, perhaps it would be nice break from...

All of this. Madams and courtesans and brothels and dinner and board and paperwork and paystubs and —

God, this drink is atrocious.

Of course, Yeleni would have loved it... Typical. Eugh.

Of course.

..Of course.

A pang of sadness rushes through you — as rare as they are. You exhale quietly and cast another look at the drink.

Fine. Fine, fine. Another sip.

“Ah! If it isn’t the man himself!”

You almost choke on your sentimentally indignant commitment to honoring Yeleni when Sygyn lifts her hands and calls out to someone over your shoulder.

You don’t have to look to know it’s Silco.

You lean forward, drink held out, and snatch a napkin to smother your gasp into. The neon green napkin is brandished with the bar’s name — now, it’s smeared with a dash of your dark lip stain. Beside you, Babette serves you an incredulous look.

This little meeting of the Madams came about every few months.

He knew the importance of saying hello at the very least.

Even when Sevika had rolled her eyes at his disembarkment from her side. She knew why he was really venturing over to the dangerous gaggle. You couldn’t pay her to wander over. No, no. Those Madams will pick your bones if you aren’t careful. Powerful people. Enchanting people.

And yet, you. Silco likes you.

Silco likes you enough to bear the burden of small talk.

“I apologize for interrupting,” comes a low rasp that’s punctuated with politeness, “I was told that the most beautiful souls in Zaun had made their way to my establishment. I simply had to see for myself.”

Sly bastard.

The charming jest earns him a round of coy laughter from the gaggle at the table. Some of it is polite, some of it is enamored. Either way, Silco is younger than most of the Madams at the table — to them, he’s a boyish flirt. A man in a position of power, still, but... Now, at this moment, he’s playful. Good-natured.

You turn slowly, turning your cheek over your shoulder.

Immediately, his eyes meet yours.

Framed by painted eyes and long lashes, he swears the look is enough to undo him then and there.

His attention is rooted on you.

Babette shoves her nose in her drink at the dawning realization that — lights alive. This is worse than she thought. She’s never seen Silco like this. Not in all the years she’s known him. Before and after Vander.

“I trust Yeleni’s order was to your liking, Madame?”

His tone is chaste. His hands are behind his back. The pet name riles a few lingering glances to your rigid posture.

You try not to stare at his usual lack of polish. Tonight, Silco seems almost bare without his tie and vest. Only his overcoat and usual burgundy dress shirt remain. His slacks lack their usual starched seam. There’s mud on his boots. Boots. Not the delicately gilded wing-tipped shoes he’s usually worn.

No, it seems you’ve caught him off-guard.

His throat bobs as you drag your eyes back up to his face.

You lean your elbows on the table, bracing the drink in both hands.

“It’s no sherry,” you say slowly, lifting a brow, “But Yeleni and I differ on many things. That’s the beauty in it. Differences shared.”

There’s an appreciative hum across the table.

You hold his gaze.

There’s a shift there, something like genuine longing. Tired, exhausted, burnt-out longing — and it only lasts half a second before it’s gone. The pinch in his brow smooths out, and his posture settles.

Suddenly, Silco is clearing his throat. The request is low.

“May I steal a moment of your time?”

He offers you a hand.

Shit.

Your heart catches — and when you seek permission you’re waved on by a handful of Madams who meet Silco’s request with a chaperone-like assessment. Babette narrows her eyes, and you offer her an apologetic look as you gather your drink and your dress.

You take Silco’s hand.

You stand, level the iridescent lavender martini, and find a hand falling flat to the bare small of your back.

The Kingpin of Zaun leans, gesturing for you to lead the way.

It’s an excuse to touch you.

Your skin is as soft as he’d imagined.

You welcome it, turning to catch his eyes. Your faces are close, then, and you can smell the cigar tucked neatly into the lapel of his overcoat. It’s then that you see his momentary hesitation at the closeness. Once more, another hitched breath is shared between two souls while the whole of the bar swims on.

“After you.”

You move towards the bar.

When you settle at the end, he finds a spot beside you.

His bruised knuckles rap on the white-illuminated, sleek counter. It makes his face look sharper. The bartender procures a whiskey in a flash; it’s slid his way with ease.

You narrow in on the purple and yellow that paints his skin every shade of bruised.

Silco notices.

He lifts a brow coolly as he sips his whiskey. "What?"

You speak as you lift your own drink.

“I caught you on a bad night.”

Less a question, more a statement. Silco rolls his jaw once more and sets the glass down gently. He shifts in his boots and moves to brace one elbow on the bar counter.

“It was simply business.”

You hum.

Then, Silco watches you peel off one glove. Without a word, you lean around him to snatch a napkin and unceremoniously reach into his whiskey. You steal the two cubes, bundle them in the little neon favor, and gesture for him to pass his hands over. The Kingpin watches the way you drop a finger easily into your mouth, lapping at the access whiskey that dares to run down your wrist.

His lips are parted.

He huffs.

He files the visage before him away.

His gaze falls when he finally offers up his bad hand. The same leaned on the counter. Two of the knuckles are swollen. Silco grits his jaw when you tenderly place the ice atop them.

“I didn’t steal you away so you could lick my wounds—”

There’s a flash of mischief at his words. Silco immediately regrets his word choice.

You’re smirking. “Careful.”

He scoffs in response.

“Why did you, then?” you ask, lifting the ice. You frown and pass a thumb over the small split in the skin there. Silco winces minutely, “Steal me away, I mean. To save me from the wolves?”

“To tell you that you look beautiful.”

You almost choke.

Immediately, your eyes flash to him. The compliment settles nicely along your cheeks. You shift in your seat and try to quell the startled kick of your heart. You cross your legs and ignore the way your dress splits and settles nicely along the curve of your outer thigh. Silco doesn’t ignore it. In fact, he’s sure the sight will be burned into his memory for as long as he lives.

“Careful,” you say again, shifting your eyes to the faces of the Madams who are watching keenly. You do not lift your face. Instead, you focus on your posture.

“Every soul in here is thinking it,” comes the slow reply of the man before you, “You’re breathtaking.”

You busy your bashfulness with his other hand. A gentle pat of the napkin steals his attention.

“You’re being generous with your endearments tonight,” you mumble.

“Is that a problem?”

“...I’m not sure,” you say, syllables slow and punctuated, “Is it?”

Ah. The back and forth. The uncertainty. The weight.

Silco tilts his head. He watches you. He speaks, finally, after a long trace of your features with his good eye. The expression there is brimming with affection, you find, when you look up. You lashes flicker.

“What endearments would you allow me, then?” he asks honestly.

You swallow.

You sit up and roll your neck. Your earrings glimmer in the light, dangling by your throat. Silco watches the movement reverently.

“Plenty.”

It’s whispered with velvet-laden confidence. In truth, you aren’t completely sure where it came from. Perhaps it’s the prospect of him touching you again.

Silco swallows tightly.

He shifts, boots drawing him closer.

A hand settles once more along your back; his time, his knuckles run the length of your spine in an endearing motion. It doesn’t burn. No, it stokes a different sort of flame in the pit of your stomach.

“Perhaps, dinner?” he asks quietly, “And we can discuss... endearments?”

You can hardly breathe.

Painted lips part. You nod. Silco hangs onto the sight.

Then, as he has many times before, he pulls away.

“Friday evening,” you say suddenly as he gathers up his whiskey and downs the rest, “I’m free.”

Silco stills. And then he smirks.

“Then Friday it is.”

[aidemint]

Eclipse, A Faithful Pass | Like Real People Do: Part 3 | Silco

part one | part two | part three

summary: yearning bleeds into reality. light and darkness finally meet, and destiny is fulfilled.

word count: 5.7k+

pairing: Silco/GN!Reader, Silco x GN!Reader

warnings: canon-level violence

notes: the final part to the soulmate au i’ve toiled for months on! our dearest reader and silco finally meet, and everything unfolds. i hope you enjoy :)

dedicated to the lovely @chickenparm​ , @simpfiles​ , and @arcanescribbles because jesus fucking christ have you seen their silco works???

“Jericho, I’m really starting to think that you don’t have my best interests in mind.”

The roll of gauze in your left hand is nearly emptied when you look up at the chef with a raised brow. Rows of blisters dot your right hand, scorched into existence by an untimely grab at the side of a pan. The chef on your left chortles, voice muddled as he gargles his response.

“What do you mean ‘I do, sometimes?’ It’s supposed to be all the time!” you fume, ripping off a small piece of packaging tape and sticking it to the end of the gauze ribbon, “Don’t I do all the hard work for ya? I thought my efforts would be appreciated a little bit more.” Jericho grumbles a compromise and you ease a bit, interest piqued.

“Okay, but you’re paying.” He garbles his agreement, and you’re soon back on your feet, chopping vegetables for the next customer at the stand. Muffled chatter plays in the background as the stove burns, alive with fire and oil, grilling cubed onions to top off a fried dish. Over the roar of the flames, you happen to overhear a conversation between two people sitting closest to you.

“Did you hear about what happened during the shimmer raid this afternoon?” one figure mumbles with a mouthful of kebab, “Fuckin’ green bugs burned everything that was goin’ on a shipment ‘cross the river.” His friend looks nervous, poking the end of his skewer against the counter.

“You think the boss’s gonna be mad?” The man beside him shoots him a look, brows raised in disbelief, lips parted enough so that bites of unswallowed meat fall out between them. You look away, wincing at the saliva-covered particles.

“Entire shipment of cargo got trashed.” He scoops up the fallen bits and shoves them back into his mouth. “What do you goddamn think?” A shrug comes as a response.

“Dunno. I ain’t really met the guy yet, but I heard his daughter was kinda looney, maybe he’s the same.” You hear the other customer scoff while biting off the last of his meat-on-a-stick.

“You right about the kid, girl’s a fuckin’ lunatic.” He sighs, setting his foodless kebab on an empty plate. “But Silco ain’t gonna be happy ‘bout the yield, that’s for sure.”

Silco.

Mindlessly piling the caramelized onions onto a plate of messily battered fish and assorted slaw, you test the way his name rolls off your tongue, mouthing the syllables. You ring the bell at the front, slide the dish in hand to its customer, then check the next ticket with him still on your mind.

You’d only heard rumors about him, much like this one, never having seen the man with your own eye before. It seems that, with the amount of suspicions and gossip floating around the undercity, even the Lanes, you’re not alone in this. But from what you’ve gathered, working on the main street, he’s lanky, semi-proportioned with a tall nose and thin lips, and charming when he needs to be.

Others say that his most defining feature is his left eye—an eclipse-like iris surrounded by the blackness of space, unblinking. Petrifying. Enchanting. Terrifying.

Some say that all it takes is one look at it and you’re dead—it’s a grossly exaggerated story, but you laugh at the idea of a skinny man with snakes for hair, in accordance with an old Ionian legend.

Zaunian society has different opinions of him, regarding his leadership and means of assuming it, but it collectively recognizes him as the Kingpin. His title is power and prestige recognized into a position that allows for him to control the masses despite not housing the physical capacity to bend the city to his will.

Tiana’s voice rings inside your head when you’re tossing a batch of minced tentacles in sauce with furrowed eyebrows.

Hatred isn’t the right word.

It’s more like fear. Fear or admiration, often a mix of both. It’s his tenacity and striking perseverance in the face of seemingly unconquerable feats, his dream of Zaun, his ambitions to guide his people to independence that brings about submission.

There’s the shimmer, too. You watch a puff of purple come out from the mouth of one of the diners and cringe at how it sparkles.

Shimmer runs rampant in the underground and you know that everything leads back to him. All rivers of communication, all dealings, all markets.

The thought instills a bit of apprehension within your bones, but also a shred of hope—because if there’s anyone that knows anything about who your soulmate is, you suspect that it’s Silco, given his reach.

Your gaze flits over to the neon green eye at the end of the street.

The thought of being so close to an answer sends chills down your spine.

“Graghogarpogoh pgroda!” Jericho’s gruff shout yanks you from your fantasies and puts your mind and body back behind the stall. He shoves your shoulder and gives you a disapproving look after he stares at an unfinished ticket hanging in front of you. “Gangomo, donokha.”

“Yeah, yeah, I gotcha big man,” you grumble, getting to work on the last of the dishes before the final bunch of customers flock in, “Just a little lost in my head.”

The rest of your shift is spent cooking wordlessly, spare the few exchanges you have with Jericho, who wonders what you were thinking about.

When you’re at the back, scraping gunk off of dishes, he moves closer to you and gibbers quietly, a small question. You smile softly and scrub harder at the plate in your hand.

“I’ll tell ya later, I promise. It’s about that soulmate stuff again.” He groans and does what you think is an eye roll, which you chuckle at. “Look, I just think I got a lead. That’s it.” His tone is somewhere in between sarcastic and disbelieving when he mumbles a response and gets back to tending to the grill.

Soon, once the last of the food is served and the customers leave, the fire is shut off and everything’s packaged and placed where it needs to be. Jericho takes his wooden arm board off, putting it on a stand, hanging his apron on a knife’s handle before taking yours when you gratefully place it in his open hand.

“Where do you wanna go tonight?” you ask, staring at the man in front of you, “We got a lot of time on our hands, so.” Jericho thinks for a moment, fingers scratching the top of his parted lips spread over pointed teeth. A few names come and go in mumbles until he mentions one that livens your eyes.

“Grigandho domokoyee gahgraboragah?” A word of confirmation. You nod.

“That sounds great.” Jericho’s grin gets just a little wider when he beckons you to follow him.

“It’s like I know the answer is staring me in the face, I know it.” You down the rest of your whiskey with a groan, wincing at how the alcohol burns the fine lining of your throat. “I don’t know why I haven’t fucking found them yet. I really don’t. I haven’t seen anyone with this damn scar in my entire life.”

Jericho offers a gurgle of pity, a large hand patting your shoulder. You sigh, appreciating the sentiment but too tipsy and frustrated to really make sense of it.

“I know I’ll find them eventually, but just— after all this time I just want an answer. Something to go off of so I don’t drive myself off the fucking edge.” You pause, biting the inside of your cheek. “Maybe I can find some help elsewhere.” The man beside you makes a startled noise, yellow eyes widening when he garbles in protest. You laugh at his alarm, punching his shoulder playfully.

“I’m not going to leave you Jericho, so don’t worry—not done repaying you for everything you’ve done for me just yet.” He shudders in relief, shoulders untensing enough to allow him three shots, which he throws back with ease.

“Gorbhajagomgrahkgograhgagpago. Pego.” The chef raises two fingers after he wipes his mouth and walks them along the countertop until they stop at your empty glass. “Braheo, drejogahagoeugaega. Gra, gro, gra.” A giggle erupts from your throat when Jericho taps on the cup with a nail to mimic knocking.

“It can’t be that easy.” You turn to face him, laughter dying down when he shows no sign of joking. “Can it?” He only shrugs in response, a half-hearted you decide coming from him before he orders another round for the both of you.

“Wait but if you know so much why didn’t you tell me until now?” you say when Jericho receives his rum and slides you a Bloody Mary, “I’ve already opened up about this whole soulmate biz, you coulda at least given me some tips.” The man beside you babbles a reply, tipping his glass in your direction. You think you can detect sass in his voice, but it’s quickly covered up by the bubbling of alcohol.

“I mean— Okay, yeah. You know what? That’s fair.” A sigh leaves your lips. “But do you really think I can just waltz in there? Without… ever having been to the Last Drop before? Knock on his door like that?” Jericho mumbles something and you stare reluctantly at him.

“You sure? You’ve seen people turn out good?” He gurgles something else to combat your hesitancy, and you finally cave. “Never hurts to try, I guess.” Sipping somewhat bitterly at your Bloody Mary, your eyebrows furrow at the thought.

Jericho doesn’t leave much time for brooding, as he smiles and gives you a pat on the back, a sign of reassurance, then a hum after your submission. You’re slow to grin back but do it anyhow, appreciation illuminating your bright irises.

“Thanks, Jerry.”

You think that the air stings your lungs a bit more when you take in a sharp breath as you draw nearer to the Last Drop. It bites your insides, acidic yet addictive, reminiscent of Zaun but different enough to remind you that you’re in new territory. It’s a warning.

But you continue to move, breaths coming steadily, chest rising and falling with each.

Clenching your hand around a sack of coins in your fist, your fingers tighten around the drawstring as you march forwards, gaze pinned on a heavy-set man guarding the entrance. He’s supposed to look unapproachable, intimidating, dangerous to dissuade any wayward wanderer, but after so many years of working with Jericho, you think that your definition of “scary” has shifted a bit.

You tilt the tip of your raised hood upwards and adjust your jacket to a more open position.

When you’re at the front, you’re met with a smirk and a look up and down, no words exchanged. The bouncer’s eyes are all you need to see to know that you’re not welcome.

“Whaddya want?” he grunts, “Got the wrong address or somethin’?” You shoot him a glare.

“I have business with Silco.”

“I don’t remember the boss needin’ ta meet with a street food vendor.”

“Well now I know you’re not just fucked in the face, your head’s a problem too.” Your voice is icy, sharp and demanding. “Let me in.” The doorman scoffs, lips twisting into a sneer at your insistence.

“Fucked in the head, huh?” he growls, stepping towards you, “I’ll fuck up your head real soon if you keep that up.”

You roll your eye at his tone, bringing up the pouch of coins clutched in your hand to hover it above his.

“Maybe this will suffice as necessary persuasion.” You press the medium-sized sack of gold into his palm as gently as possible, the satchel clicking when you set it in his grip. “It seems to do wonders universally.”

The doorman looks incredulous, words suddenly stuck in his throat, unable to get through a thickened lumen. You try to not enjoy the way his eyes bug out in disbelief, but you bite the inside of your cheek to suppress a smile when your gaze settles on his loose jaw and flared nostrils.

He glances at the sack hesitantly as if to reason with himself on whether or not accepting the bribe is okay. Pausing for a moment, he flits his eyes upwards to regard you with detestation, forcing as much of it as possible into a single glance, but eventually relents and allows you access to the room behind him with the grumble. When you walk by, he gives you a small card—a pass, of sorts. A green eye stares upward at you from the piece of cardstock and you tilt your head at the odd piece of imagery.

The Eye of Zaun. How ironic.

You keep your stare trained on it as you walk through the mob, a hand covering your mouth in an attempt to inhale the least amount of secondhand shimmer possible. Creeping through the main lounge, you eventually emerge into a subsection of the club, a small, concrete pavilion of sorts with a rickety table set up in the middle. There, two men groan and throw their cards down on the surface, cursing as a woman smirks in front of them.

“Bad luck, boys.”

She matches the description that Jericho gave you—tall, dark-skinned, bulky, hair half-up, half-down, a purple cloth draped over her left arm—and you can only hope that she knows a way to Silco. As you step into the yard, you feel several pairs of eyes bearing deep holes into your figure, laser-precise and trained on the part of your hood you keep lowered.

“Sevika?”

“Who’s asking?” Her voice is gruff, indicative of the irritation lining the edges of her irises.

“Someone that wants to speak to you,” you respond calmly, turning to the two men accompanying her, “Alone.”

The three of them exchange looks before the other two gather what’s left of their meager winnings, and exit the room. Their jeering expressions point back at you for a moment, just before they disappear into the raging horde inside the Last Drop.

“Guessing you didn’t come here to fight.” Sevika’s still sat in her chair, clicking a cigar back to life with a metal lighter. You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eye.

“You’re stating the obvious here.” She scoffs at the comment, taking a drag before replying.

“We don’t give shimmer handouts.”

“That’s not what I want. I need help to find somebody.” Her brow raises, face maintaining an unamused expression.

“You got the wrong place if you’re looking for a detective,” she grumbles, a puff of smoke blowing past her lips, “The undercity might be an enterprise, but it’s not the kind you're looking for.”

“I’m not asking you to hunt down a person.”

“Stop with the details and just get to the point,” she groans, “I know a damn person asking for a handout when I see one. You’re wasting my time.” Your eyes narrow, semi-slitted, as you raise a hand to clutch the thin fabric of your jacket, patience wearing thin.

“I just was wondering if you’ve ever seen someone that looks like me.”

Nimble fingers pull off your hood to showcase your scar, raw and untouched. You look at her, head tilted downwards, and you watch her eyes widen. After a brief glance at your hands and arms and a little time to think, Sevika blinks a few times, processing your request with something new in mind. Your appearance seems to have struck something—a personal memory, perhaps.

“I’m not guaranteeing anything,” she says slowly after a period of thought, “So don’t get your hopes up.” At least it sounds like an agreement, so you nod in understanding and follow her after she gets up with a grunt.

The two of you swiftly thread through the mob, spare a few malice-laced glances that slow your step. However, they’re quick to depart, wiped from certain faces just as fast as they came, ultimately shut down by a glare from Sevika. Though you find it weird as to what prompted her sudden attitude change, you don’t question it, as you’re soon ascending a flight of stairs to an overhead lounging area—a place built to emulate an apartment, but doubles as a headquarters of some sort.

Staring at the worn floor, you notice how the wood creaks with every step, the smell of dust and old air rising instead of fog clogged by thickened shimmer. It’s oddly refreshing (as refreshing as the undercity can be, anyways).

“You’re only getting one chance.” Sevika comes to a stop at the wooden door at the end of the hallway. “Nothing else I can do if it doesn’t work out.”

“That’s alright,” you reply, “Thank you.” She tears her gaze away from you with a sigh, eyebrows arched when she turns to knock at the door.

The silence is meant to be a quiet, wordless existence in the presence of tension, but the world fills with the sound of rushing blood as it blows past your ears, heart rapidly thundering in your chest. It crashes against your ribcage with heavy thuds, the pace elevating as it continues to pulse faster. The quietness gives way to an opportunity to properly process all that has happened.

You’re overwhelmed, an influx of feeling, sensation, building up until you feel like you might burst—is it excitement, anger, or anxiety? It seizes you, swinging your consciousness into an ever-growing loop that pulls you in for more.

It persists until someone on the other side speaks a phrase that grants Sevika permission to enter.

“Come in.”

The voice is masculine, muffled enough so you can’t really tell who it is, but you hope that it’s the person you’re looking for. Sevika doesn’t regard you when she goes in and you think nothing of it at first. Coming in without a bribe was a fuckup, plain and simple, but when you look at her, you notice that her eyes are averted almost forcibly—as if she doesn’t want to look at you.

“Someone’s asking for you.” The door shuts behind her, muting the last half of her sentence, and you frown.

You can listen to her steps echo, the sound growing fainter and fainter. When she’s far enough away, you press your ear against the door, hoping to listen in on the conversation.

A small scuffling inside acts like radio static, messy and unclear, but you’re able to tune in without a problem seconds later.

“Get to the point.” You freeze, breath hitching, tongue suddenly caught in your throat.

It’s a voice—his voice. Commanding, clear, with a powerful presence that cuts through the air without difficulty. The pads of your fingers push further against the wood of the door in anxiety.

Sevika’s next comment is muffled due to a loud clunk coming from somewhere in the vents, but the conversation resumes fine without it.

“Where are they now?”

“Waiting to be let in.”

Screwing your eyes shut tight, you pray that he, who you presume to be Silco, doesn’t disregard you, a kind of desperate hope surfacing when you listen to him sigh.

“Then let them in. And close the door on your way out.” Your heart nearly jumps out of your mouth when heavy footsteps draw nearer, pacing towards your direction. Quickly moving away from the entrance, you clasp your hands out in front of you and wait patiently, as if you’d been in the same position all this time, not snooping where you shouldn’t be.

The outline of Sevika’s boots pool into two shadows at the crack at the bottom of the door and you can almost feel the weight of her hand on the knob.

“Good luck.” There’s no time to whisper your thanks before you’re ushered into the room by a small twitch of Sevika’s fingers, quickly shedding your jacket as you approach the space.

The slight separation between the door and wall gives you the view of a couch on the left side of Silco’s office—red, puffed, and regal. It’s studded with matching velvet button pins, matte and consistently placed over the surface. As the gap widens, you’re given a clearer look at the object, the piece of furniture growing longer, more detail embroidered into its fabric and carved into its wooden base, twisting and turning with shocking preciseness—

—until you lose sight of it completely, and all you can see is a blazing, crimson iris.

And the scar that surrounds it.

For just a moment, the world goes silent.

The blemish is muted, smudged over with concealer that doesn’t match his skin tone, an eyebrow drawn on top of the coverup job. Though it’s barely noticeable, how it fades from his left side to his right, after so many years of staring at your own deformity, you’d recognize it in a heartbeat.

And you notice how he looks at yours. Your left is raw, uncovered, perhaps even somewhat proudly displayed. Deep red lines and pink flesh hardened by time split your cheek and dig deep into the soft crevice of where your eye originally laid. His gaze traces over the sight, running a familiar path down a blackened cleft that meets the rich tone of your skin.

Silco’s stare holds an indecipherable emotion—his pupils are blown wide, but within his clouded irises there’s conflict. Even the bright vermillion eye seems to dim when taking a moment to study your features. Stone-faced and unreadable, he sits with a soft frown at the cushy chair behind his desk, regarding you as you peer at him cautiously.

No judgement lies behind those eyes—blazing crimson and deep black with dirty white and brilliant blue—despite all that remains unknown about what swirls around inside his head. You know, and you feel your chest tighten at the realization.

“Would you like to sit down?” Silco asks smoothly, voice silky. Your approach is less graceful than his invitation, as you hesitate before slowly nodding and easing onto the couch on his right, posture rigid, spine straight, still occupied by the reveal.

You hear the uncorking of a whiskey bottle, then a soft pouring sound as the liquor hits the inside of a clean glass.

“This must be a very shocking turn of events for you,” he hums, threading his fingers through his hair, “After everything.” Slowly, you nod after what feels like forever.

“Yeah.” Your throat bobs when you swallow, mouth dry and tongue cemented to the floor. “It’s just… I can’t believe…”

“Believe what?” Silco chuckles, taking careful sips of whiskey, “I can’t know anything if you don’t tell me.” His multi-colored irises stare pointedly at you, expecting.

“It’s you.” You feel tears brim your eyes, the whites surrounding your irises growing hot at the moisture. “I just can’t believe that it’s you. After all this time.” The man to your left takes upon a wistful expression, lips gently pursing and gaze far-off, in deep thought.

“What exactly is so hard to believe?” he muses, “Never expected a fellow, humble servant of Zaun to be connected to you?”

You’re about to respond with a curt objection, some kind of phrase that indicates your Piltoverian background, his misconception, but you catch the subtle glint in his eye first. Digging your thumbnail into the pad of your index finger, you keep quiet.

Of course he knew. How could he not? This was some kind of test, it had to be.

“I— I—” you stammer, the right words dying on your tongue, “It’s not… hard.” You cringe at the crude phrasing of what you want to say, but you find that it’s all you can muster. Silco gazes tauntingly at you.

“Then what is it?”

You don’t need to look at him to know that there’s likely a smirk on his face. Or so you think.

“Is it so impossible to understand,” you breathe, “That the introduction of you has resolved quite possibly most of my problems in my life?” A period of silence proceeds the comment, allowing for thought to happen, guiding the moment forward with shaking pushes.

“I’m afraid that I don’t quite follow,” Silco hums, finally breaking the stillness, “Could you elaborate?” You know better than anyone that he needs no elaboration. He simply craves the story.

You wonder if it’s some kind of twisted powerplay, but continue anyhow.

“You may know of my history, from the lap of luxury in a respectable house from the upper city to the Lanes,” you say, running your tongue along your bottom lip, “I… never really had any problems during my time in Piltover, at least for the half of it. There was always enough food to eat, plenty of lavish goods, and I had the privilege of knowing exactly what my future held.”

“But then…” You gesture to your scar with a slight, sad smile. “This happened. And within a week I was homeless and abandoned, beaten to shame. I’m sure you know too much about that.” Lifting your chin, you turn to Silco for an answer, but he retains his neutral expression. You sigh.

“In the end, I was abandoned because of my scar.” My scar. Silco’s head tilts to his right ever so slightly, and you notice with a flicker of your eye in his direction. “But I’m sure there are other questions you’d like to ask, Silco.”

You give him time to speak.

“Why did you come here?” comes out of his mouth when the waiting period ends. “Even the worst life in Piltover is better than what’s best here.”

A breathy laugh brushes past your lips, features shifting to reflect a sense of bittersweetness, perhaps longing or regret—culminating into pity, for someone, someplace, for yourself or others.

“I would rather live the life nobody in Piltover wants than die at their hands.”

The Kingpin’s lips quirk upwards as a silent shiver trickles down his spine. A sudden warmth blooms in his chest, pulsating fervorously to shoot a clementine high through his system. Despite this, he does his best to maintain his neutral facade, though you realize that he’s sitting a little straighter than before.

“Death? I didn’t know that was a concept people considered on the topside.”

“Admittedly, most don’t,” you say, “Not before others find out that they don’t belong, anyway.”

“Don’t belong?” Inflections of curiosity cross his tone when he raises the question.

“It seems that there are even things that you don’t know about Piltover, huh?” Silco remains silent, and you take it as a cue to go on. “Don’t be blindsided by its reputation. It’s divided amongst itself, even without the concept of Zaun. They forgo humanity in the pursuit of progress and in turn drive their own out because of trivial differences that’ll hinder its role in the economy. It’s a multi-faceted establishment. Not a city, not a community.

“I think you can guess what that means for people like me.” You give him a moment to ponder the possibilities.

“I’m not aware of a steady stream of immigrants from the topside to Zaun,” Silco muses, “If I was, I don’t believe I’d be surprised by your presence.” Silence takes the place of an amused chuckle, your eye remaining dark when met with his perspective.

“That’s because they don’t immigrate. They can’t move.” A chill settles deep inside your bones, making a home for itself in blood-bound marrow when you swallow the lump in your throat.

“They die.”

Silco looks unfazed, but seems to beckon you to continue—which you do, braving the topic.

“Many were driven to suicide. Other deaths were the result of mob violence. Lynchings. Arson. Murders. Public executions. All done under the veil of secrecy, gone before dawn. The darkest side of a radical society in Runeterra.

“For those forgone by their home, their graves are hidden away on the outskirts nobody tends to or touches. It’s the only way I know that they’ll be safe, finally at peace after everything, despite it all.”

Your hands curl into fist, balling atop your lap, clutching the fabric of your pants. Silco’s drawl enters your ears from an unfortunate memory and you grit your teeth, jaw clenched, joint protruding.

“And when you ask me why, why I came here and stooped so low for some stupid purpose, this is why. I would have died sooner or later. Whether it be by my own volition or the doing of somebody else. It was considered a type of mercy to some, remaining untarnished until the bitter end. I saw what lay in front of me and despised it, and subsequently did whatever I could to avoid it.

“And if I couldn’t pursue what I’d yearned for for so long I saw no purpose in remaining.” Your words run out, and you’re left sitting there, a whirlwind of thought blowing through your tundra of a mind. “So I came. To find you.”

“Hm.” A low, rumbling hum comes from the man across the table when he finishes listening, setting down his glass of whiskey. “Is that the truth?”

“Excuse me?”

“I asked you if that was the truth,” Silco repeats, voice somehow softer, more relenting, “But that’s not all, is it?” Fear suddenly hauls you into stillness, grips your shoulders until they fold in on themselves, bones cracking under the pressure. Your brows furrow as your face contorts into something desperate.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him when you shake your head.

And he says nothing.

Silco just remains, patient, staring at you until you gather yourself.

“I was lucky enough to find kindness in Piltover.” You tug your bottom lip in between your teeth and shake away the memory of refuge. “Someone that cared, loved me not for my name. A person kind enough to— A person— A… A person kind enough.”

Your voice breaks in the middle, a pathetic lilt taking over what little stability you have left. The acridness of bile nips at the back of your throat, forcing you to bring a hand up to your lips, stomach twisting in knots at the sensation.

“Then the explosion happened, and everything fell apart.” It comes as a whisper, barely a breath exhaled in the midst of certain devastation. “I wanted an escape, a way to dream. So to Zaun I went, and in Zaun I stayed. To find my soulmate. To find you. The bane of my existence and the light of my life all the same.”

A heavy breath rattles your frame, knuckles turning white as you cling harder onto the cloth of your pants for stability. Bit by bit, you attempt to turn your head, averting your eyes from the lavish paintings hung on the wall across from you to gaze at the figure who you’re supposed to be speaking to.

“We… We all deserve a chance at love, right?”

You pause to swallow, still daring to speak despite your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth, dry.

“To love. To be loved. Why else would we have this fate? To share each other’s pains, to mourn the loss of flesh and bone as if the injuries were our own, as if another’s life was our responsibility?”

The ground distorts as your vision fogs up, blurred with tears that you desperately try to blink back.

“Or maybe I’m just selfish. And I don’t want to feel alone anymore.” Your eye closes and a stream of tears follow, drawing thin, colorless lines down the bridge of your nose, dripping onto the floor when the collective drop gets too heavy. Taking the inside of your cheek in between your teeth, you bite back a sob as your shoulders begin to tremble.

It’s pathetic; you feel pathetic and lost, coming undone like a sad piece of twine, unraveling completely at the mercy of the hand that pulls you loose.

“Nobody wishes for loneliness, my dear.” Silco’s voice suddenly draws your eye open. “You forget that I have also awaited your arrival, just as you have anticipated mine.”

At this, you finally look at him, and you’re met with a softened expression, not one of scorn or displeasure, but sentiment, welcoming in every wrinkle and sharp turn of his angular face. He seems gentle, despite his blazing orange eye, the same that could glare and paralyze, maim and destroy; he seems capable of love, of adoring and receiving that same, simple kindness.

Silco looks human.

Then his arms part just a little and his fingers lay flat against his desk, a small movement, but it’s enough.

Your heart clenches as you stand, legs threatening to give in, but you start to walk towards him.

As you approach Silco’s desk, he makes no move to run, no move to go, and simply stays, frozen in place—perhaps awaiting your eventual arrival. Your steps grow smaller as you near his figure, stopping only inches away from the wooden table.

Lifting your chin and mustering all your courage into a trembling arm, you reach out—

—and take his hand, fingers loosely intertwined with his.

Your bottom lip starts to tremble when you find that the action meets no resistance, but instead a gentle squeeze that tightens the hold. You clench your jaw and furrow your brows, a soft sob leaving your lips when he slowly gets up and embraces you with a sigh, chin resting at the crook of your neck.

“I have waited so long to find you.” The murmur rumbles through his chest, the surface vibrating against your own when he holds you closer. “Seeing that every minute spent waiting was worth it, I am grateful that I did.”

“Silco,” you whimper, “Oh God, this still feels like I’m dreaming. Just to hold you, to love you like this, it seems so unreal. Please don’t let this be a dream.” The Kingpin chuckles, pressing a soft kiss on your forehead.

“I can assure you that I’m very much real, my lovely.” His hand comes up, threading his fingers through your hair, cradling your skull. “What I’m hoping is that you can tell me you are too.” You laugh, joyous and real and ever-present.

“I am,” you say with a smile, “I am.”

“Seems as if both of our fears were irrational, then,” he responds, “But I’m glad.”

“I don’t think I need to say anything to tell you how I feel.” Your grip against the middle of his back tightens and you feel him stiffen, skin steadily growing in heat. Silco swallows slowly when you shift against him.

“No,” he says, breathing out steadily, “You don’t.”

You smile. “Thank you.”

Then, you think that you’re enough.

[wood-white-writer]

"In the Land of the Blind" [Chapter VII]

"In the Land of the Blind, the One-Eyed Man is King"

Pairing: Silco x Toxicologist!Reader

Summary: In which Silco makes a profound discovery

Read the AO3 version here | > Chapter VIII

You’re already headed for The Last Drop the day after, with half a plan and a bottle of venomous secretions tucked safely in your pocket. There’s no way of knowing how tonight is going to turn, and you’ll rather take on the risk of death by toxic inhalation than whatever Silco might inflict if he registers this as potential insubordination.

It’s barely been months since Vander kicked the bucket, yet the changes around the Undercity are already making headlines at this point. Carriages pass you by, as do the masses. No doubt the work of the Chem-Barons, who perceives this development as advantageous to their overall influence.

The bar, which previously served as a beacon of the underground, has since been lit up with neon signs that make epileptic seizures probable, and outside of its grand entrance stands two bouncers fit for the role of both the welcoming committee and the warning crew. You’ve seldom indulged in visits to the establishment, less so since the decline of the Hound, but even less now with all these recent developments. Death visits these streets more frequently now that there’s no guard dog to keep watch.

As soon as you approach the entrance, the bounces are quick to evaluate you. Granted, you probably stand a sore thumb by comparison to their usual guests, with your mundane clothing and lack of shimmer intoxication, but that does little to decrease their reservations. If you’re not here for pleasure, you’re here on business, and one might argue that the latter serves as the more dubious alternative.

“Just here for a drink,” you brief them, hoping that they’re not going to ask any questions.

The bouncers turn to look at each other, a non-verbal exchange passing between them before they finally grant you entrance.

The life of the underground is presented in front of you via drinks, partying, and questionable substances of variable nature. The music blasts its way through your eardrums, threatening to combust them with the sheer volume alone. Oh, you miss your clinic already, but you’re not turning back. Not yet.

Yeah, The Drop has changed since you last passed through these doors. Vander’s Drop was more of a tavern, with a serene and calm atmosphere to accommodate its patrons. This is the pinpoint definition of a hellhole, for a lack of better phrasing. There’s dancing, there’s sex, and there’s even the occasional shimmer injection in the far corner of the bar, yet none seem to register these acts as potentially dangerous. To them, this is the way things have always been.

Normal .

“Damn,” you murmur to yourself, your voice falling short against the reverberating music. With a defeated shrug, you push your way through the crowd, evading the party members as you walk. Some take offense to your opposition whereas some leave you be as you are. Either way, you successfully get to the front counter of the bar with all of your limbs intact.

The bartender is quick to turn to you. He’s younger than you are, and the light in his eyes suggests he has yet to lose his blissful naivety, even for his age. That’s a rare thing to come across, especially nowadays. Maybe it’s for the best, or maybe there’s an explosion waiting to happen once the truth slaps him in the face. Either way, it’s none of your concern as far as you make it so.

You seat yourself atop a chair in front of the wooden counter, but don’t say a word before he opens up the possibility of conversation.

“So, what can I get y-”

“I wanna talk to your boss,”

He freezes like a deer in headlights, fumbling with a half-cleaned tumbler in his hands as he musters a response. “I- Uhm, Sevika isn’t-”

“I’m not talking about Sevika,” you incline your head to the staircase leading up. “I’m talking about the Eye himself. He occupied?”

“I- I wouldn’t know.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” You almost feel sorry for the sod. He doesn’t grasp quite how serious him being here is, and you can’t blame him. What better way to make your usefulness profitable than serving drinks to the kings, and simultaneously maintaining your anonymity? Maybe anonymous doesn’t quite fit the description, but no one is going to question a bartender without reason.

“While I wait for him to be available, make me an Old Fashioned?” you offer with the auspicious wave of your hand.

“I- I’m not sure when-”

“Thieram, stop being such a pussy and make the goddamn drink already.” Sevika orders as she positions herself on the seat a few feet from yours, a bottle of hard liquor already tightly attached to her good hand. On cue, the guy is quick to scramble up the necessary ingredients to concoct the beverage.

You scoff, feeling the weight of the vial play in your left hand as you consider your current circumstances. With the flick of your finger, you can make the entirety of this establishment drop dead on your command. The Last Drop Dead would’ve been their next name. “I suppose you’re the woman I need to refer to to get to him.”

“He’s busy with one of those topside lickspittles,” she grumbles sourly under her breath, her voice almost drowned by the background of the bar as she swirls the bottle in her grip. “He’s almost done.”

“Hmm.” You glance at her left hand, which rests concealed beneath the comforts of her poncho. “Are the painkillers effective?”

“Huh?” For a moment, she looks confused. Then, her trail of thoughts merges with your own and she shifts to her artificial arm. “Oh, right. Yeah, they’re useful, I guess. It doesn’t … itch anymore.”

“Good.” Just as you finish your response, Thieram places your drink in front of you. To be honest, it doesn’t look quite as … appealing as the kind Vander used to make, but as long as it contains alcohol in its list of primary ingredients, you’re appeased with ingesting it. You do, and its warmth burns down your throat like wildfire in a vast forest. Makes your predicament all the more manifested, somehow.

Long story short, it tastes like absolute horseshit.

Sevika turns her head to you before swinging the bottle to take a proportionate gulp of her own liquor. It doesn’t lessen her mood, but she forces it down with a surprisingly stoic disposition. Half of it, in fact. However disgusting it tastes, her mood outweighs its bitterness by tenfold. “What do you even wanna talk to him about anyway? Any chemical troubles we should be aware of?”

“One of your colleagues has been making hell for the workers at Babette’s.”

She is quick to cease her drinking, and a look akin to murderous adorns her marred face. “Who?”

“A bouncer named Dex,” you supplement, placing the tumbler back down with a firm thud. “He made a mess of their receptionist. A young girl, hardly old enough to make a decent worker. He’s due several ribs. Maybe a few additional bones to throw in the lot.”

“Nellie?” you glance up at her, curiosity riddling your face. Sevika’s face is surprisingly abysmal, and the need for adequate compensation shows clear as day. “That fucker went for her?”

“You know her?”

“She… She’s a good kid. Not the brightest bulb in the tanning bed, but she’s good.” You can tell that the look in her eyes reveals sincere concern. Sevika heaves a hard sigh as her face crumbles against her fist on the counter. “Did he do anything to her?”

“A broken nose and a few bruised ribs from what I could gather, but she’ll be fine. He didn’t touch her if you get what I’m saying. Not for a lack of trying though.” The grip around your glass tightens to the point where cracks almost establish themselves on the rims. “He will get what’s coming for him. With or without Silco’s aid.”

Sevika doesn’t seem to oppose the sentiment, but her obligations are another matter. She has responsibilities seeing it as she’s one of Silco’s primary workers. She’s valuable. You’re not. If she can’t see this through, then you will, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that you’re capable of it.

You don’t have anything keeping you back. No family. No allies. No nothing. You’re only putting yourself on the line, and it doesn’t appall you as much as it should.

After a few moments, she peeks a glance up the staircase. “You can probably go up there now, just make sure that you knock first. He doesn’t like being interrupted.”

“Is that a fact?” You stand up from your seat, searching your other pocket for a few coins to grant the poor bartender. They make an impact against the counter with a clank, and a few even dare to roll against the edge. Thieram makes no move to collect them at first. “Thank you for the warning.”

“Hey, doc.”

“What?”

She holds up her bottle to you, a sign of begrudging respect. “Make him pay real fucking good.”

You say nothing, but your intent is clear with tilt of your head before you make your way up the stairs.

The corridors on the second floor are lacking, void of neon signs displaying “SILCO’S OFFICE”, but it somehow affirms that you’re on the right path. It’s quiet, even with all the background noise. Eerie.

As you’re about to pass a seemingly standard door, it slams open with a firm hand, and a man wearing the gear of a Piltovan enforcer exits. You halt in your steps just as your respective paths are about to intertwine, and he does the same. Just by looking at you, you can tell he’s disgusted, the premature wrinkles on his otherwise youthful face making it obvious to anyone with the gift of sight.

“Get out of my way, gutter rat!” he orders and grasps at your shoulder, but you won't budge at first. He tries again, more forceful now than before, but your only response to this is to provide him an acidic scowl.

“Let her be, Marcus.” Silco’s cool voice from within his office speaks. “I would advise against exasperating her.”

This enforcer – Marcus – begrudgingly removes his hand. Whatever’s been discussed in the office has not earned him any favors. With one last glare, the sharp heels of his feet announce his departure down the staircase, and you can’t help but glare at his descent. The Undercity’s disdain for enforcers is something you share with the crowd, but not without reasons.

“You are welcome to enter, you know. Or do you intend to linger instead?”

For its clear tone, Silco’s voice doesn’t leave much room for opposition. Heaving a deep breath, you decide to enter, shutting the door behind you.

For all his dealings, Silco’s office doesn’t strike you as suspicious in any way or fashion. It’s clean, it’s neat. Fit for a businessman in every sense of the word. Even has its own view. However, there’s the unmistakable atmosphere of something sinister lurking about, and it’s almost enough to make you second-guess your visit for just a split second.

You’re standing in dangerous waters now, and if you don’t tread carefully, the shark in the abyss will swallow you whole. Bones, flesh, blood, everything will be gone, with only wavering ripples left as evidence of your existence.

The Eye of Zaun – King of the Lanes – is seated on the only couch in the room, a lit cigar settled between his lips and legs crossed, like a regent fit for a throne. He looks vaguely amused by your entrance. “Miss Toxicologist. What a lovely surprise.”

“Silco,” you acknowledge, your lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line as you regard him. He tilts his head to the seat opposite of him, and you obey. The seat still lingers with the remaining warmth left behind by the fuming enforcer. Whatever arrangements took place prior to your arrival, Silco had benefited from it.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, both eyes aimed unwaveringly at yours. “It has to be severe if it warranted a personal visit.”

“It’s not personal, I assure you.”

“Not even a little?”

“I won’t waste your time. I’m here for one of your bouncers.”

He raises an eyebrow, his curiosity momentarily piqued. “Why?”

“He assaulted one of the workers at Babette’s.”

Whatever he was previously about to vocalize dies at the tip of his tongue, and his entire façade freezes up as if time itself has ceased moving at a regular pace. Facially speaking, he doesn’t look any different from what you’re accustomed to, yet there’s a shadow over his eyes that remind you of liquid Sulphur. Simmering. Brewing just beneath the surface, ready to erupt from the slightest misstep.

“When?” he asks, and though he’s not raising his voice in the slightest, you can tell that the ice-cold layers of his composure are gradually melting.

It’s potentially hazardous for you to remain, but you’re here on an endeavor, and your determination to see this through is not quivering, regardless of the cost it might warrant. “Last night.”

“Any casualties?”

“No, but the receptionist suffered grievous injuries. I patched her up, but the girl’s conditio–”

“Girl?” He looks like he’s halfway through biting the cigar clean in half.

Your demeanor doesn’t change despite the evidential shift in his’, but it’s gradually on its way to. The Eye never struck you as the kind of person to care about what happened to a young woman – a child – but given his current role as the caregiver to a rather turbulent girl not much younger than Nellie, maybe there was something that hit a little too close to home in that department?

“A child, really. Barely in her late teens by the looks of it. According to the courtesans, the guy was apparently into that kind of … service.”

Truly, you’ve underestimated his sheer capability of remaining self-possessed, though it was to be expected given his line of work. It must have taken years to master it, but if the tight creases along the back of his couch atop which his arms rest serve as any indicator, it’s that he’s one bad word from unleashing the beast he’s so gracefully tried to contain.

It’s admirable, in a way, and you could probably admit that to yourself without falsehood.

Silco takes a deep, hollow breath through his nostrils before finally dipping the remnants of his cigar into the ashtray on the table, though you can’t help but note the way he all but mushes it beneath his thumb. Ashes smear across his otherwise clean skin, but he makes no effort to acknowledge or remedy it.

“The perpetrator. What’s his name?”

“Dex.”

Realization seems to wash over him like a bucket of scalding water, or it might be the simmering rage making it seem like his head’s about to combust.

Meanwhile, all you can hope to do now is to keep your head low and pray that the poison in your pocket will have no use here. For the first time since you’ve met the man in person, you can tell that he’s angry, and that’s putting it mildly. Even Vander, with his overwhelming size and strength, couldn’t hope to hold a candle to this display of wrath.

For all your reservations about being here at this very moment, you’re curious as to what Silco intends to do about this. A part of you, however small, hopes that he’s going to take the necessary actions to prevent this kind of incident in the future. If Babette’s words hold any meaning to you.

Or, he might view this as an act of defiance, and that’s when the image of rippling water makes resurfaces in the back of your head. A stone in the withering waters, only visible for a few seconds before merging with the darkness below.

That’s what you’ll become. A sinking rock. The one who thread too far. The one who leapt before she tested the waters.

You dig your hand into your pocket, tumbling with the small container still there, yet it doesn’t make you feel much safer. It should; it always had, whether it regarded unruly patrons or dangers on the streets, it’s never failed to make you feel like you have some kind of hold – control – over your circumstances.

Up until now.

It speaks volumes of Silco’s hold over you, however unintentional or unwilling.

Finally, after what feels like hours of unnerving quietness, he tilts his head to the side, eyes never straying far from yours as he retrieves what shred of composure he momentarily lost. “The bouncer will be dealt with, I can assure you. You may convey to Babette that no further harm will come to her establishment from my workers in any near future.”

“Do I have your word.”

“You have my word. Babette will have her pound of flesh.”

You release a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, relief coursing through your veins in a near-uncharacteristic sense. “Good.” Your business has concluded, and so you get up to your feet and straighten your coat. “Then I will take my leave.”

“Is that the only reason you were here?” he asks. “There was no other issue that needed discussing? All this for someone else’s cause?”

“That was all,” you confirm. “I thank you for your time, Silco, but I’m sure you’re an occupied man, so I won’t keep you any further.”

“… Very well, but before you leave, would me mind indulging me an answer?” Matching your stance, Silco stands up from his seat and takes a few steps closer to you. Close enough to catch wind of the tobacco lingering in his breath, but far enough that physical contact is not a risk.

It’s in moments like these when you’re reminded that, for his slim build, his sense of authority cannot be misplaced by anyone, yet there you stand. “What do you get out of this?”

You shift your head to get a better look at him, attempting yet failing to deduce whatever underlying implications grace the surface of his eyes. Was this an attempt at mockery, or a genuine inquiry? For someone who looked halfway about to commit murder mere moments ago, he’s recollected himself profoundly well on such short notice. A snake shedding its former layer of skin in favor of a fresh disposition.

Taking your silence a sign of confusion, he continues, “Was this just business on your end? Secure more patrons for your establishment by posing as their protector. After all, the term of our contract was that our respective works would have no effect on each other, and yet here you are, going out of your way to inform me of the misdemeanors of one of my men on behalf of another. Rather charitable of you, wouldn’t you say, for someone who claims to hold no obligations for matters outside of her own work?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d believe that he appeared somewhat disappointed by the notion. 

“Don’t mistake this for charity, Silco,” you reply as firmly as you can muster. You straighten your back, this time facing him completely with a sharpness to your gaze. “I’m no one’s savior, but we both know that no one fucks with the escort agencies. No one is above that rule. Not even the men of the powerful Industrialist himself. I merely intended to remind you of that.”

There’s a shift in his demeanor as you say this. Admiration. Heat. Understanding. Your words might have been taken as an insult with the way you carried them, but Silco does not seem to harbour any animosity. If anything, he’s enamoured.

“It seems you’re a walking contradiction, my dear,” he speaks softly, so much so that you almost strain to hear it. He arrives with clarification before you can even request it of him. “You hold loyalty for your fellows, even when you mean to convey otherwise.”

“Loyalty? Is that what you believe fueled this visit?”

“Was it not? Not even for Babette?”

“I came here as a messenger for Babette. Nothing more. What difference does loyal obligations make?”

This time, he leans in closer, his warm breath tingling the outline of your face. Under any other circumstances, this might have been perceived as an intimate encounter, but both of you are very well aware of the nature of your relationship. It’s just business.

“Plenty,” he murmurs barely above a whisper. “After all, if I told you that I had no intention of dealing with this matter, what would you have done? Let it lie, or handled it yourself?”

He already knows your answer. What your voice fails to reply with, your eyes make up for.

“I would’ve taken care of it.” 

There’s no question about it. There’s a fire in your eyes that burns hotter than any sun, though the owner would prefer to let it be perceived as mere embers to avoid garnering suspicions. But he sees through it like glass. What’s resting underneath your calm exterior is a wildfire, and it’s the same one he’s been attempting to catch a glimpse of since the day he first met you.

He watches you intently up until the moment where the door shuts behind you, and the sound of your feet gradually vanish down the hallway.

You’re an enigma, he decides, and he’s always harbored an affinity for puzzles. He’s gotten one answer from this meeting, and it’s that – for all your apathetic regards – you’re loyal. Perhaps not to him, not yet, but at the very least for the city in which you both reside. This event has more than proved that, even if you would prefer to pretend otherwise. 

You’re loyal in the sense that you would cast your own well-being aside to deliver a message towards arguably the most powerful man in Zaun, and you did so without wavering even once.

A quality like that is seldom found, and you just handed it to him on a platter. 

Sevika arrives shortly, and he doesn’t even question why the offending bouncer at the centre of all of this is currently thrown bruised and beaten on his floor, like cattle sent to slaughter.

First things first, it is time to make an example.