#silcoxreader

[astudyincontrasts]

A Kiss With A Fist  Chapter 11

Silco x Fem!Reader (SFW)

Synopsis: Lore faithful, reader insert as OC, set in the time skip between act 1&2 of the show.  Now fully plotted but started as pwp, no ragerts, Reader is a sex worker wearing out her welcome when Babette sends her to Silco as a gift.

Author’s Note: This chapter dedicated both to @abitohoney and @sherwood-forests , the two sweetest beans who have kept on loving this story and being kind, supportive friends even though my attention strayed from it for so long.  And thank you for the patience of all the readers while I focused on other projects.  It’s still going to be slow going here but I’m determined to see this one through.

TW:  Abduction, angst, torture, forced drug use, eye horror

"It's ...a key."

"As ever, your powers of observation are impeccable."

Silco did not look up from the book he had open, underlining a passage of note and marking a page.  He read a lot you'd come to realize.  Books constantly littering his desk and office in piles of disarray.  He had no respect for the things, but that wasn't unusual.  Actually quite in keeping with so much of what you'd learned of his mannerisms.

Sat there, perched on the edge of his desk, waiting to give him the usual injection, instead of pulling open his desk drawer and setting the brass injection device in your hand instead he’d surprised you with a little red lacquered box, the stylized violent slashes of his own eye design upon its lid in gleaming gold.  

Some bauble you'd assumed, pleased that he'd want to gift you some little decoration of jewelry.  Something to wear with as much delight as you took in the marks he left on you.  Instead within lay a little brass key.  Not even a chain attached to indicate it some manner of symbolic gesture.

His sarcasm earned him a cool stare from you over the lid of the box, and the kind of weighted silence he hated.  Had him finish his research and flip the book closed with one fine finger to look up at you, expression almost businesslike as he laced hands loosely, elbows upon the desk.

"I'm afraid if we'd like to carry on, our situation needs to change."

That didn't sound great, opened a cold and yawning pit in your stomach as you set the box back upon his desk.  Mismatched eyes tracked your relinquishment of the gift.  Lingered on the little box as he continued.

"I cannot keep being seen at Babette's.  It speaks of favoritism and makes things… vulnerable.  It's also not terribly safe for you."

Gaze flicked up to catch your own and hold.  Forcing you to swallow a half formed retort already at the back of your tongue. Fine fingers plucked the little box back up and set it in your hands once more, and of all things, he offered you the slow curl of a half-tilt smile, as if he were amused with himself at his offer.

"I believe it's called keeping a mistress.  Though I'm not sure how that term applies to the unmarried." He said quietly. Seemed to ebb in his delight as your silence stretched too long.

Your life had been a gilded cage since you’d met him, many fine things once out of reach now entirely possible.  Yet you hadn’t strained toward them or sought them out, simply accepted what came with the territory and treated yourself to a wardrobe befitting someone whose company he paid to enjoy.  A wardrobe you knew he’d appreciate, nothing else.  

You’d committed to being, as he’d put it so many months ago, his creature.  And accepted the golden bars surrounding you; the bodyguard escort, the mark it left on you, the way it had separated you from your peers at Babette’s or downstairs in the Drop.  The way your time belonged to him and not yourself, to all of it.  Accepted it gladly and delved in deeper.  But the door to that cage had always been open, or so it felt.

Now it was like you’d stepped on a spring trigger and the grate of the cage had come crashing down.  Paradise flipped in an instant to a suffocating enclosure.  His mistress?  His kept thing.  Irrational panic closed the walls of your throat tight and the future flashed like photographic negatives across your mind’s eye.  

Locked away in some apartment alone waiting on him.  Days of domestic boredom stretching into months, years?  No freedom, no privacy, no ability to just pack up and go with no one to answer to.  Well, the ever present guard at your door had seen to the start of the end of that freedom anyhow, hadn’t it?  

And what would happen when he was bored of you at last, as all men became?  What then, when he had no more to take and you had nothing new left to give, or he found a new plaything, someone fresher to bend and break for his hand?  Out on the street, with youth used up and his mark still on you, no one willing to touch his leftovers with a ten foot pole, lest they risk his anger…  or worse perhaps, simply left there, alone, in empty, silent, cold comfort to succumb to your own bitterness and loss.  To be left behind like an abandoned pet in an empty home.

 Pet.

His derogatory little nickname chafed at the edges of your mind.  Just a little pet, kept in a little golden cage somewhere high and safe until the novelty wore off.

Your hands were shaking visibly as you stared down at them, and not even closing fingers tightly on the little box stopped the tremor.  Lungs refused to draw even a quarter capacity the air you knew they could, head starting a slow, hot spin even as you shook it slowly.

“No.”

It was barely a whisper of a word but you watched it stiffen every line of him in your periphery.

“What?”  Silco’s tone soured to sharp, though he attempted to keep the blade of it safe behind the fisted velvet glove of his voice.

Eyes turned up slowly from your shaking hands to him and you could feel the blood draining from your face as you stared back at him.

“I said no.”

It would strike you later that it was not a word you’d used with him before, not like this.  But now, in this instant, rational thought and detached observation were distant memories.  You were living heartbeat to hard thudding heartbeat as it drummed behind the burn of your brain and the wide of your eyes.

“I don’t… I don’t want to be kept.  Like some, some princess locked in a little tower all safe from the world.  I don’t even want your stupid meathead guards, you think I want to be squirreled away in some place somewhere all alone?  No.  No!”  

Like a dam breaking, the words started at a trickle and soon increased to a rushing flood, a tidal pouring drench that you couldn’t stop even as you heard your insulting tone and cringed, the agony of your own rude sharpness only making you more angry, more vicious, like there was nothing for it but to descend into the mire the second one foot got caught in its sucking pull.  

Sat back in his chair, Silco looked for a moment like you’d struck him before that dark thundercloud descended upon his expression, a livid and barely leashed rage rocking him forward as he planted a hand on the arm of his chair in a white knuckle grip, the other balled to a taut fist upon one knee.

“This was a gift -”  

Not even the harshness of his snarl through the clench of gritted chipped teeth was enough to stop your spiral or plug the terrible rush of all the horrifying words that came spilling out of you as you jumped from your seat on the desk, your own fists balled tight, the edges of that little box biting into the grip of one palm.

“A gift?!  Only you could keep taking and taking and call it a gift!  I don’t want your ivory tower, I don’t want your illusions of safety, I don’t want  your leash or your chains, I don’t want your money and pretty things.  I don’t want to be told what to do and where to go and when to speak and sit and sleep and eat and what to think.  I belong to me!  To myself! ”

Your hand stung with how hard you slapped the box back on his desk.

He glowered up at you.

“No one has ever said otherwise.”  Tone like a high tensile wire ready to snap under the strain, to cut free and whip violently in any and every direction at once.  “If that’s how you feel then leave .”

“Gladly.”  You spat back, and rounded the desk, your heart a hard stone caught in the sinking mud clogging your chest, a dull angry ache radiating outward so every hard pounding of it felt like a deep, stabbing pain.  Heat pricked at your eyes and all of it made you blind with bitter anger; the only familiar outlet to all these uncomfortable, unfamiliar and awful feelings.  You slammed the door as hard as you were physically capable of doing and stormed out of the Drop.

Fuck whatever idiot guard had to try to keep pace.

Back in your room at Babettes you stood there, shaking, recalling the last fit of anger that had caused you to do violence to your own things.  That had been his fault as well.  It took everything in you right now not to start smashing furniture into matchsticks.  

I believe it's called keeping a mistress.

You turned and put your fist straight into the wall.

Your knuckles were still screaming later when you pulled open the door to Babette’s inner sanctum.

The elderly yordle, though to be fair they all looked ancient no matter what their inestimable age, sat behind her desk wreathed in the smoke of the near finished cigarette dangling from the end of her silly long filter holder.  Two of your fellow workers sat lounging and drinking, enjoying the end of their shifts on both of her tufted velvet couches, so similar to the one in Silco’s office, if a bit more ostentatious and luridly red.

Babette took one look at your face and plunked two little bags of coins on her desk, tipping out her waiting girls.

“Give us the room, darlings.”  She took a breathlessly long drag on the last of her cigarette, watching you intently.

Both girls climbed to their feet, grabbed their shares and hustled out past you as you rocked a shoulder back to allow them by before shutting the door behind yourself.  Babette gestured to the seat before her desk and lit a fresh cigarette.  Not for the first time you wondered how many years off an impossible lifespan chain smoking could skim away.  The yordle regarded you with weary, rheumy eyes under all that garishly thick blue eyeshadow and summoned a puckered smile.

“What did you need, my dear?”

“My contract is over.”

Babette choked on her inhalation of more of that putridly thick smoke.  Not spiced and scented and fine tobacco like those cigars Silco preferred, but gutterweed tobacco, cheap and harsh and cloying in thick layers to every surface of her office in a nicotine yellowing haze.  She coughed, eyes watering as she gogged at you.

“Wh- what?”

“My contract.  It's done.  I’ll go back on the line tomorrow night.”  

She stared at you like you’d sprouted a second head and a few extra limbs to boot, blinking slowly as she hacked out the last of her coughing fit.

“I don’t understand.  We had everything ready to help you move out-”

That angry pounding in your brain doubled in tempo as you leaned forward in a sudden, sharp lurch.

“Are you… are you telling me you knew Silco was going to ask me to leave ?  And you were just… fine with that?  What did he do, come here and ask your blessing like you’re my parents?  How could you…  And you just agreed??”

You thought you were angry before.  Now you were seeing red, breath coming in hard, uneven, fast little jags, nails cutting into your palms and the knuckles you’d put through drywall oozing blood between clenched digits.  Head felt fit to explode, a wordless shard of a scream stuck cutting the inside of your throat.

The fact that everyone but you seemed to be conspiring to move you about like a little pawn on a chessboard or trade you like a slab of inanimate meat at market had you reeling in your rage.  Babette stared down your obvious fury, unflustered, those large eyes of hers narrowing slightly.

“Of course I agreed.  Don’t take this the wrong way, my dear, but did you leave your brains in the nightstand again?”

You bared teeth at her, feeling ready to split from all the fury squeezing you in ever shrinking tight bands.

“ What ?”

“Yes Silco let me know he intended to ask you to leave.  You’re my employee.  Are you telling me you spent all this time around him and didn’t pick up an ounce of knowledge about good business practice?”  She huffed a rasping, coughing little laugh and cast you an up and down appraisal in derision.  Utterly unimpressed with the cauldron of murderous anger you were currently simmering in.

“And I’m assuming instead of taking the best opportunity you’ll ever get to leave this life behind you threw his generosity back in his face?  I wish I could say I was disappointed in you, but that would mean I had expectations to begin with.”

Her words stung like a slap come across your mouth knuckles first.

“You always were your own worst enemy, kid.”  She sighed, dropping her gaze and attention back to her ledgers, giving you a little wave of her tiny lacquered nailed fingers in dismissal.  “You want to go back to selling yourself to whoever comes through the door?  Fine.  But our last conversation still stands:  One foot out of place, one single hair harmed on any customer that didn’t explicitly ask for such a service and you’re out.”

She glanced up toward the ceiling, considering for a moment, before she leveled that tired gaze at you once more and smiled unhappily.  

“Perhaps you should go ahead and pack the boxes we got for you anyhow.  We both know you’ll never be able to keep that promise.”

Stomach tied in hot knots and mind a livid blank, you rose and kicked the chair you sat in against the near wall before stomping out, Babette’s dry, mirthless little hacking laugh following you out the door.

No guard awaited you at your door when you returned, come to think of it none had been stood out there when you’d left to speak with Babette, either, but you were in too much of a snit at the time to notice.  Miraculous that in the ten fold grip of a full on tantrum you were able to register it now.  Well, good.  Fine.  You’d kicked the golden bars of your cage open and good riddance.

The longing to take your unfocused rage out on something, anything was coming in hot waves.  But if you were going to start working again tomorrow as you’d told Babette, you couldn’t afford to trash the place you’d need to do it in.  The salon had seen better days anyhow.  You’d let it slide into a comfortable, relaxed abode instead of the sultry parlor it should have been kept as.  Let it become your little private apartment where none of the frou-frou trappings of all the pretty fantasy rooms needed to matter.

Well, you’d fix that up tomorrow.  It felt a good enough use of the surplus of funds Silco had lined your pockets with.  You’d give yourself your own posh little bower and fuck whomever you liked in it, thank you.  You practically ripped the lovely outfit off you’d put on for him tonight and crawled into bed, suffering your anger in silence only to find the pillow smelled like him.  The sharp, unbidden urge to grab it and pull it close had you chucking it across the room as well as kicking the sheets and covers to the foot of the bed.  

Finding no irony at all in laying there cold and uncomfortable, you chased sleep that refused to come as each argument that evening replayed itself over and over again in worse and worse spirals.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

It left you exhausted and cranky the next morning, with a crick in your neck and a bitter stomach, but laying there being miserable wasn’t going to get you anywhere.  You climbed up and into clothes, grabbed your bag and as much coin as it felt safe to carry in one trip, along with your little knife.  In the bathroom you scowled at the little remnants of him left behind that confronted you.  His toothbrush, toiletries, straight razor.  You ought to have tossed them all into the trash, instead you yanked open a drawer and scooped them within, slammed the drawer shut hard.  You could toss all his stuff later, you told yourself.  Along with clothes he’d left there and anything else of his.

Back out in your bedroom you paused to grab your small knife off the nightstand and stopped.  Jinx’s little get well card that you’d framed sat there, staring up at you with its lurid colored little face and scribbled bright blue hair.  

Memory came back as unwelcome as a ghost.  

Sevika watching over you, having carried you home, and then never mentioning it again or looking for even so much as a thank you.  

Silco’s warm weight denting the bed, curled protectively around your broken body, blood on his hands.  For you.  

The little card, evidence he’d been so enraged and concerned even his kid knew something bad had happened to you.  And he’d brought it here, set it by your bed.

Made love to you like your face hadn’t been ruined with a black eye and swollen, split lip. Like you mattered more than your pretty.

No.  No, fuck it.  It was going in the trash with everything else when you got back.  

But you’d never had a get well card before.

Never had anyone who cared if you lived or died or survived the day.

Well, you’d never had it before so you’d get by just fine without it again.  

You slapped the framed card face down, laced up boots and left for the markets.

A thick, dark coffee and a pastry at one of the food stalls made a world of difference for your disposition, though didn’t do much for the persistent dull headache that stretched back across your scalp, the slow throb of it mirror to the ache you were steadfastly ignoring within your core.  An empty, hollow feeling to the pit of your stomach that you were determined to pay no mind to.

Instead you filled the void with shopping; picking out new trinkets and toys, new drapes to soften the ceilings and walls of your salon and multicolored crystal lamps to hang that would create a soft, seductive illumination and throw shards of color wherever the light pierced them.  Fresh sheets and a multitude of pillows to create an inviting nest of the bed.  Silken rope for restraints, because why not?  Lovely incense and an entire crate of candles, all ordered, packed and carted back to Babette’s by a few of the vendors’ helpful lackeys.

A new perfume was just what you needed next, and then perhaps some different outfits or lingerie.

The perfumer’s shop was tucked just on the edge of a crossway alley corner and the main strip of marketplace, ostentatious yet peeling yellow paint coating its facade, large glass windows decorated around their outset with frosted etching and leaded panes that curled and twined into various flowers evocative of the scents held within all the gorgeous little stoppered blown glass bottles within that lined the shelves like little jewels in an array of glittering colors, sizes and shapes.

The wizened old man at the counter ignored your presence save for a bored and sedate little nod of his head upon your entrance, though you felt the weight of his rheumy gaze track your unhurried progress around the room periodically as you sniffed the occasional bottle stopper curiously.

He waited until you were running out of options and clearly torn between two fragrances, neither of which you terribly preferred, to point toward the hallway past his counter.

“More choices in the back.”  He croaked.  “If you don’t like the blends there’s simple essence ones back there as well.”

Considering the two bottles in your hands and deciding neither suited you, you set both down and ducked through the sheer silk curtain dividing the front rooms from the further ones down the hall.  

You made it just through the doorway of the first room to open up to your right when a hand clapped over the lower half of your face and one strong arm barred itself around your middle, pinning arms in tightly.  

The shock of it had you inhale sharply, nearly sucking into your mouth the soft cloth that hand was mashing to your face.

The skin around your nostrils and mouth burned, and eyes watered. Sweetness flooded your senses, a pungent sweetness like fresh cut grass or greens.  The world swam as you kicked legs to stay afloat, everything heavy, so heavy.  Each limb and both eyelids weighted leaden, head rolling fit to snap on a neck that suddenly felt far too fine and brittle for its weight.

Then nothing.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

The cold woke you like a slap.

Gasping, dripping, blinking blearing drops of water from your eyes as you sputtered and sucked air.  Drowning?  No.  Firm floor under your feet.  Hard chair under your bottom.

Sensation and rational thought both came back slow, trying to build on shifting sands and sort out reality and the still humming, heavy buzz of that dreamless black void you’d just been yanked from.

Seated, yes.  Arms ached and the attempt to move them proved that pain due to being tied down, quite tightly, with little to no concern for circulation.  Fingers prickling at their tips as you worked them to get blood flow.  Another rope tight around the base of your throat and one across your forehead.  Another coiled round your midsection, stopping you filling lungs to full capacity.  And all the ropes curiously padded from full contact against your skin, lined with cloth or towels to prevent them biting into flesh or leaving more than faint bruises.

Water you’d been so rudely awakened with dripped off your nose and chin and eyelashes, down your throat and soaked the neckline of your shirt, making it cling uncomfortably to damp skin prickling with the chill.  

It was dark and the air was dank, even for the undercity standards, like a sub-basement with no circulation.  

Blinking in the dim light, a group of men came into focus; a semi-circle of perhaps ten or more before you, clustered randomly about the central point of one particular man sat comfortably in finery that could only belong to one of the Barons.  He was an older man, with a neatly kept goatee and thinly connected mustache gone white, opulently outfitted with a brilliantly yellow coat draped over his shoulders, with dark, cresting shoulder padding that added substantial bulk to his lithe frame, its studded black lapels disinviting the notion of touch.  Thinning, snow white hair was swept back in a severe ponytail that ran long down his back, and he watched you from the deeply crinkled, hooded amusement of dark, elongated, narrow eyes set over the warm copper cheekbones of his aging face.

His demeanor was far more relaxed than those around him, particularly the youngest man who stood beside him.  A boy still clearly in his teens with chill pale eyes that glared at you unblinking, both hands curled into fists at his sides, something vaguely familiar clenched half hidden in the grasp of one of his hands.  He grinned coldly as he watched your attention fall on the thing he held.

“So.  You’re Silco’s plaything.”  The older man began, the dry observation for some reason earning a tittering of unpleasant laughter from the gathered lot.  Fuck.

“No…” You repressed that natural inclination toward sass, but barely.  Hard not to let a certain irritation show at being unceremoniously abducted, knocked out, and tied up.  Still that ‘no’ drew out a bit patronizingly and the old man cocked a thinning brow.

“No?  You are a well known piece of decor in his office.  And while I would not put it past Silco to only keep such living art around as a hobby or an offering to his guests… I highly doubt he’d then make regular visits to that same glorified footstool at the brothel where she lives.  Or provide her a near constant escort.”

Well, he had you there.  Almost.

Mouth tightened in a hateful little grin back at him.

“Did you see my escort today?”

It didn’t even give him a moment’s pause.  He merely shrugged shoulders under the swallowing drape of that imposing, brilliant jacket.

“No.  A very fortunate stroke of luck for us.”

“Not all that fortunate.  I don’t know what you want, but I can make some guesses.  If the first name out of your mouth is Silco’s, and you think I’m ransomable or that hurting me will get to him, you’re wrong.  You didn’t see an escort because I’m not employed by him anymore.  Sorry.”

The young man stepped forward sharply and cracked his hand in an opened palm slap across your face that should have wrenched your head to the side, were you not affixed to the chair as you were.  

Apparently that had been a little too much sass creeping into your belittling tone.

The old man sucked his teeth and shot an unappreciative glance up at the boy as he returned to his side.  Cursing under his breath in a language you did not speak that heavily accented both their voices, the young man spat vitriol at you and the old man chided him in return.  

“I said no damage that might show, did I not, Finn?”  The old man asked hotly, staccato of his tone sharpening.

“Yes, grandfather.”

The old man sighed and turned back to you with an ironically apologetic lift and drop of his brows.  Kids, huh?  Whatcha gonna do.

You glared back, unimpressed, cheek and the corner of your mouth stinging harshly.

“You left his employment?  Or he dismissed you from it?”  He asked, slowly, carefully, in a way that suggested that there was a right way and a very wrong way to answer those questions. “Margot seemed quite convinced he’d never let you go, but I’d rather hear the truth of it from your own mouth.”

The exhalation of breath left you slow as you set your jaw stubbornly.  This was stupid.  They were stupid.  Only the profoundly stupid would attempt to use a working girl to get to someone like Silco, for whatever their ends might be.  And fucking Margot.  Of course she’d happily give you up as a little pawn to be played.  Bitch.  You were done with this.  You weren’t his creature any more and they could like it or lump it, same as him.

The old man looked more tired at your digging your heels in and stoic silence than he had at his grandson’s outburst.  

“I take it you’ve seen one of these before?”  He held open a palm lazily and Finn placed the object he’d been holding into it.  A very familiar brass object, with its little trigger and long guard to the open end.  It was slightly rougher looking than Silco’s injector, perhaps an early prototype or an unskilled reproduction.  

The swallow you made worked against the rope that ran across your throat.

The old man smiled grimly and toyed with the brass contraption, turning it over in careful fingers.

“You look quite healthy, if you don’t mind me saying so.”  He observed.  “I don’t imagine you’ve ever joined your, ah, boss?  In his addiction?  How ironic that so many of your fellow professionals have quite a taste for it and he’d pick one who didn’t partake in his stock and trade.  Not that I’d stoop to accusing Silco of getting high off his own supply, mind you.”

He handed the injector back to Finn and you watched the boy’s fingers curl tightly around the barrel of the thing as his pale glare stayed fixed on you.

“Did Silco ever give you a tour of one of his factories?  Show you his labs?  Was he ever kind enough to give you a post-coital lesson in the varieties of that lovely purple drug that’s put him on the top of the heap down here?”

You had it in you to continue to refuse to answer, but it felt a bit pointless, especially with the way that kid was eyeing you. And so you shook your head, insomuch as the ropes allowed.  No.

“Ah.  Well.  What he takes isn’t exactly what he ships out across the trenches.  There’s quite a few subtle varieties, all good for different things.  The least refined make excellent monsters out of good men.  A touch more refinement and a bit of clever proprietary mixing makes a wonderfully heady drug, and so on into medical research, healing properties or analgesics.  His good doctor really is quite a genius.  Terribly dangerous, as most men with a dream are”.

Said with the exhausted gravitas of a man toiling within the machinations of his own dreams.

“Suffice it to say the manner of product Silco enjoys is difficult to get ahold of at best.  You’ll have to forgive that we were unable to acquire it.  What’s in that little device will have to suffice instead.  At least for our purposes.”

He gave Finn a little nod and the boy grinned sickly as he stalked toward you again.  The chair you were lashed to was solid, heavy, and immune to your struggles against it.  His thumb dug into your upper eyelid, peeling it up and back as he settled the cage of that brass device over your eye.  Bile rose in your throat as the inherent urge to struggle waged war against the knowledge that if you were moving when the plunger of the needle came down you well could be blinded.

You barely caught the tightening of his fingers upon the trigger before the searing heat pierced your eye down to its core.  Half of vision cut out in a blinding purple shock as the shimmer burst through the gelatinous membrane and flooded fine veins that fed straight to brain matter.  The world dialed down to a pinprick before it exploded violently.  Every emotion a rage, every muscle a rictus of agony, the noise of the world a deafening, unceasing, clashing roar.

It lasted perhaps thirty seconds, but felt like a week.

The chokehold grip of the drug released suddenly, like being dropped unceremoniously back into the puddle of your own pathetic existence, leaving you wrung out, weak and shaking uncontrollably.

“Hmn.  Perhaps a bit harsher than we were led to believe.” The old man observed as you struggled to fit the bits of yourself back together again, terrified to open your eyes, terrified that you’d find the vision in the one injected permanently gone.  

He waited for you to come around, waited until you worked up the nerve to blink eyes open and adjust to the fact that yes, you still had full vision, even if it felt like the injected eye had been salted, set on fire, and was now full of wasps.  He smiled mock kindness at you and rested his chin upon folded hands.

“Now then.  Which was it?  You left, or you were dismissed?”

Which was it?  He had dismissed you but it had been your choice, hadn’t it?  So hard to think, to set pieces straight, hard enough to know what lines went where with Silco anyhow.  No, no.  It had been your choice.  This, or rather, that had been your doing.

“Left.”  You croaked.  Throat felt like you’d walked several hundred miles through a desert wasteland.

“Oh good.”  The old man replied, almost gleefully, if such a term could be used with his staid and respectable demeanor.  “In which case, tomorrow, when you are recovered, you will return to his employment.  By whatever means necessary.  Do I make myself understood?”

Another self-important man telling you what to do.  

Teeth grit as you glared across at him, hawked back whatever little precious moisture still clung in your throat and spat.  It sailed in a neat little arc that landed well short of his feet.

Finn was already stepping toward you again and the panic that welled up played second fiddle to all the hot rage that boiled within.  You had a temper, yes, but this was something animalistic, something primal and insatiable and dangerous.

He came within reach and you kicked out.  The bastards hadn’t tied your legs down.

You got him, right in the balls, and hard.  He crumpled like a house of cards with a sickly wheezing sound that gave you no end of hateful joy.  

Out you kicked again and that little brass injector went flying.  All around you the other men were in a state of chaos, some scrambling for the injector others unsure what to do.  

One more kick, this one a rounding arc, and you’d leveled the young fucker.  He lay on his side at your feet gasping, hands clenched between his thighs upon the crotch you’d punted straight up into his pelvis.  It should have been enough, but you couldn’t stop.  Couldn’t stop that eruption of blinding violence that had nowhere to go but out.  Down to the only limbs that were free.

His jaw made a sickening crunch with the very first hard stomp of your boot heel.

The boy himself made a noise caught halfway between a broken steam whistle and a strangled cat.  

They’d managed to get him out from under your feet by the third stomp, two men dragging him off and away until the noises he made vanished into the surrounding dark.  The old man was glaring at you, all semblance of cordial warmth washed clean off that wizened face.  He nodded and two of the others, careful to approach from the side, closed in on you.

Again, and again, and again.  That little plunger of the needle came down.

Not in your eye this time, thank fuck, but that only spared the horror of fear.  It did nothing for the pain, the sickness, the disgusting inhuman sensation of the fleeting high or the overwhelming nausea welling in the pit of your twisting stomach.

They took their time about it.  Waiting for each wave to pass before subjecting you to it again. Found new, fresh skin to inject each round.  Leaving nothing behind but a miniscule little pinprick that would be invisible the second the small beading of blood dried and flaked away.

No marks, no evidence.

You were reeling by the time the old man held his hand up.  Weak and retching, tears streaming cold down your face and as plentiful as the glass of water they’d tossed on you earlier. Your fingers and toes felt broken in the intensity of their uncontrollable constriction, air a harsh gasping fire in the unwelcoming vacuum of lungs.

A small, quiet part of your brain wondered if they’d kill you now.  Hoped for it.  Surely the nothing of being dead was better than this agony.  

“Can you speak?”  The old man asked, patience returning to the timbre of his voice.

You gaped like a fish at him, mouth working to no effect.

“Ah well.  But you can listen.  And if you do not want to remain here… or find yourself back here again like this, you will listen.”  He watched you writhe in your misery, eyes rolled up toward the ceiling as you shivered from the marrow of bones and quick of teeth on out to the burning surface of skin caught cold fire.  “Nod.”

You nodded frantically against the ropes, swiveling gaze back on him.

“I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings here.  And while we have regrettably gotten off on a bad foot- “  He paused to smirk at his own turn of phrase, gaze drifting to the very boot that had pulped his grandson’s pretty face, “I’d like our partnership to be an amicable one.”

You huffed a breath he took for laughter and he smiled generously at your pathetic gogging.

“I bear no ill will toward your employer.  Far from it.  I think he’s doing an admirable job organizing the undercity.  But.  He is consolidating an alarming amount of power.  Such a thing is never good under just one man.  Inevitably something happens to them, control is as much a drug as that purple poison running through your veins right now and just as corrupting.  Silco plays his cards far too close to his chest for my liking.  And while every hand he’s dealt to myself and the other Barons have been terribly generous, there may come a time when that well runs dry.”

He glanced down, examining the cleanliness of his nails, picking at a spot lodged beneath one as he continued and you struggled to keep a grip on his meandering train of thought and your own slipshod sanity.

“All I want is information.  You are in a unique enough position to provide that, along with whatever other little insights you might glean.  You have access to him, his paperwork, his office, his conversations and meetings, and of course whatever he might let slip while in the pleasure of your…”  Dark eyes glanced up, cast you up and down disparagingly, “charms.”

He rose, resettled the jacket on his shoulders with a finicky little shrug.

“Do this, and live.  Do it well and I’ll pay you handsomely.  If you do not, then I can hardly see the value in keeping you around.  It would be better if you tell me now if you plan to reneg on this agreement.  I will make the end quick.”

He caught your eye once more and all that easy cheer evaporated like a fine mist.

“It will not be quick if you lie to me or choose to reneg later.  Do you understand?”

Slowly, you forced the muscles cramping in your neck to work a single nod.  Exhausting.

“Good.  Then, we have a deal?”

Another excruciating nod.

“A pleasure doing business with you, Miss.”  He dipped his own head in a deferential little nod back and turned to go, pausing only to address the pair of men still standing, waiting at either side of your chair.

“Knock her out.  Leave her somewhere she’s less likely to be accosted.  She can figure out how to make her own way home after what she did to my grandson.”

The stifling sweet burn on the rag held over mouth and nose was a welcome balm as the dark  nothing slipped in over the agony, drowning it in lapping, deep, black waves.

Tags List: @illegalcerebral @basichextechml @imalovernotahater @eriseffigy @sukurachiidee @go-flow-bro​ @velvetviolet​ @marvel-fangurl3000​ @nickiinator​ @somethingthatsaysbubbles​  @peonysink​ @lackofhonor​ @avid-main, @ironandglass​  If you don’t want to be on this tags list or want to be added just let me know in the notes or drop me an ask

[worldimaginedreaming]

Imagine Becoming Warwick and your lover couldn't let you go

Starring: Silco x Reader x Vander x Viktor Summary: Once the heart of the family — a wife to Vander and mother to Vi, Jinx, Mylo, and Claggor — you were lost to a chemtech disaster that turned you into a monster: Warwick. But you weren’t gone. Not really. Now, it’s up to three very different men—Vander, Silco, and Viktor—to bring you back. For the children. For Zaun. For love. Word Count: ~1,200 Warnings: Emotional trauma, body transformation, family grief, tenderness, past violence, found family

You weren’t supposed to be this. Not the growling, pacing thing that snarled when it saw shadows. You were her the woman Vander married, the mom who kissed scraped knees and kept the kids fed, the one who somehow made Zaun feel a little less dark.

But that all got ripped away the day the chemtech accident happened.

Vander found you first or what was left of you. He didn’t scream. He didn’t run. He just knelt there, calling your name like it was the last thing on earth he could do.

And damn, did it break him. I mean, watching him hold you the monster that wasn’t quite a monster it tore at everyone who cared. You could see it in Viktor’s eyes, all sharp and busy, but losing it behind those glasses. And Silco… well, Silco was the hardest to read. His face didn’t crack, but the way he touched your arm, like you weren’t just a science experiment, said more than words ever could.

They all wanted you back "the real you " but it wasn’t like flipping a switch.

Viktor spent nights locked away, his hands shaking as he mixed chemicals and fiddled with his machines, chasing some miracle that could turn beast back into woman.

And Vander? Vander just never left your side. He talked to you like you were still there, telling you stories about the kids, about how much they missed their mom. Sometimes, he’d catch your eyes or what was left of them and you’d swear you saw a flicker.

Silco wasn’t the family type, but he showed up anyway, always quiet, always watchful. There were no sweet words from him, no promises. Just a stubborn, fierce presence that said: I’m not giving up on you.

One night, after everyone else had gone, you reached out. It was just a small movement a twitch of a finger, a hesitant touch on Vander’s hand. And it was like the whole room held its breath.

Vander squeezed your hand gently, eyes watering, voice thick with something he couldn’t quite say. “We’re not done. Not by a long shot.”

And you? You felt something too. A little spark maybe hope. Maybe love. Or maybe just the faintest echo of home.

You weren’t just a monster. Not yet.

A/N : this one is for u @coolgirl32 I hope u like it it's short but I think completed^^ I hope I respected ur asking!

Have a good reading u all !! Lot of love ! Big kiss ! 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

[giantmultifandommasterlist]

Giant Multi-Fandom Masterlist Guide (Alphabetized)

KEY:

✏️ = written blurb for each fic is given

✨= soulmate AU

(#/#) = number of chapters, completed

FANDOMS:

Anne with an E (Gilbert/Anne) ✏️

Arcane (Silco/Reader & Viktor/Reader) ✏️

Avatar: The Way of Water (Neteyam/Reade & Jake/Neytiri/Reader)

Balder's Gate 3 (Astarion/Reader) ✏️

Bridgerton (Anthony/Kate & Colin/Penelope)

Byler (Mike Wheeler/Will Byers)✏️

Criminal Minds (Spencer Reid/Reader)

Detroit: Become Human (Connor/Reader)

Dune (Paul Atreides/Reader) ✏️

Game of Thrones (Brienne/Jaime & Tyrion/OC) ✏️

Ghosts UK (Captain/Havers)

Grishaverse (Kaz/Darkling/Matthias/Nikolai/Reader, Darkling/Alina) ✏️

Harry Potter (/Reader)

Hunger Games (Finnick/Annie, Peeta/Katniss, & Snow/Reader)

Hunter x Hunter (Gon/Killua)

IT (Richie/Eddie)

Little Women (Laurie/Amy)✏️

Marvel (MCU)

Phase 1 /Reader (Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Loki)✏️

Phase 2-4/Reader (Bucky Barnes, Bob Reynolds, Moon Knight system, Matt Murdock, Billy Russo, Frank Castle, Peter Parker, TVA Loki) ✏️

Peter Parker Whump, Wanda Maximoff Whump, Frank/Karen ✏️

Peacemaker (DC) (Adrian Chase/Reader) ✏️

Star Wars (Cassian Andor, Din Djarin, Cal Kestis, Ezra Bridger, Boba and Jango Fett/Reader, Kylo/Rey)

Stranger Things (Steve Harrington/Reader, Nancy/Robin)

The Last of Us (Joel/Reader, Sarah lives)✏️

Umbrella Academy (Dolores/Five, Klaus/Reader)

Wicked (Elphaba/Fiyero)

Miscellaneous (LOTR, TWD, Vikings, Narnia, Star Trek)

[oraeliaa]

If anyone has any SilcoXreader/ SilcoxFOC, etc recommendations, plz shoot em over, ya gurl has a mighty need

I don’t mind if they’re first person etc, only stipulation is no X instead of a name, it makes my brain 404 hahahahaha

[aspenmissing]

omg idk what it is about you writing creatively inclined readers but i LOVE IT, and i’m not even musically inclined ;^; . i had an idea, what about silcoxreader where the reader is a relatively famous musician that jinx really LOVES, like her music really speaks to her and the loud sounds and stuff. soooo silco being the good father he is takes her to one of her gigs under his and sevika’s surveillance only to realize that they both know her and that he kinda had a thing with her in his youth, maybe they can go out for a drink after the show? reminiscing on the past, and questioning the present? idk feel free to change this to whatever fits your ✨creative self✨the best. love your work :333🫶

ᴄʜᴏʀᴅꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ

ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ || 3138 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ?

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ɪ'ᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ

The bass was pounding through the old walls of the venue — a run-down warehouse tucked between layers of Zaun smog and forgotten alleyways. Once, it might’ve been a shipping depot, its bones made of rusted steel and reinforced concrete, the kind of place that saw too many hands and too little care. Now it pulsed with life. Fluorescent neon strips twisted like vines up the metal support beams, casting violet and crimson shadows over the sea of moving bodies. Smoke machines hissed in the corners, sending plumes into the rafters where old signage still clung, chipped and stained with time and ash.

The crowd was wild. Unapologetic. Youthful, furious, desperate. They danced like they were trying to shake the world loose from its hinges.

Jinx was already lost in it, her boots grinding into oil-stained floors as she bounced to the rhythm. Her manic laughter burst through the strobes like lightning. She swayed like a live wire, her blue hair whipping in time with the snare hits, arms thrown up like she was trying to catch the sound itself.

“Isn’t she amazing?” Jinx shouted, turning to Silco with wide, dilated pupils and a grin that carved straight through the noise. She clutched her face in mock-reverence. “Her tracks sound like a bomb going off in your soul, right?! Like—like everything's on fire and it’s beautiful! Gods, I think I’m in love.”

Silco said nothing.

He hadn’t said anything for the last two songs.

He stood rooted to the edge of the chaos, his black coat dragging like a pool of shadow, absorbing the flash and frenzy around him. The crowd flowed around him without touching him, like they could feel the gravity he carried—like something coiled inside him might snap if disturbed.

But he wasn’t looking at Jinx. Or the crowd.

His eyes were locked on the stage.

On you.

You emerged in a blaze of light and sound. Not as someone he recognized—not at first. No. You were a storm given flesh, backlit by crimson strobes and framed by digital flames. You hit the first notes like they owed you a debt, voice cracking through layers of distortion and synth like a war cry. Hair damp with sweat, eyeliner smudged into sharp wings, you gripped the microphone like a blade, like it was your only weapon in a world too cruel to yield.

Behind you, the projection screen exploded with your name in graffiti-style lettering—sharp, jagged lines that pulsed with every drop of bass. The visual shattered, rebuilt, morphed. The letters danced, burned, faded into cityscapes and glitching stars.

Your music was pure defiance. Anarchy and art stitched together with neon thread. You didn’t just perform—you claimed the stage. Claimed the room. Commanded every wandering eye like gravity incarnate.

And Silco… Silco had been staring for nearly three minutes before he realized he wasn’t breathing.

Not fully.

There was a tick in his jaw. A subtle tilt of the head. The slow narrowing of his eye as something clawed its way up from the depths of memory. Familiarity. Disbelief.

“No,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

He took a step closer to the edge of the crowd, ignoring how Jinx kept dancing, shouting her praises with abandon. Ignoring Sevika’s side-eye from where she leaned against a pillar, cigarillo glowing faintly in the gloom.

Another spotlight arced across the stage. You spun with it, caught in the light.

And then you smiled.

That crooked smile.

The same one you used to flash him across low-lit tables in bars that reeked of sweat and electricity. The one you wore when you sang him your unfinished songs, barefoot and drunk on possibility. The one you gave him the night before he walked away—for a cause he chose over you.

His blood ran cold.

He didn’t hear the crowd anymore. Not the static of the speakers, or the thump of the bass, or Jinx yelling something about “murder-synth soulcore.” He didn’t hear Sevika stepping closer, or the hiss of smoke at his shoulder.

All he saw was you. You, alive. You, still burning. You, not a ghost like he’d convinced himself.

“Shit,” Sevika muttered beside him, exhaling slowly. “You didn’t know, did you?” Silco’s jaw clenched, the muscles twitching.

His voice was barely audible. “I thought she was dead.”

Sevika scoffed, dry and bitter. “You thought she would die quietly?”

The memory hit him like a punch.

You, throwing your boots up on his table, demanding he listen to your demo. You, shouting at him in the rain outside the Last Drop, tears mixing with stormwater. You, laughing in bed, half-naked and strumming your guitar with chipped black nails. You, gone before the war started in earnest—vanished without a goodbye.

He’d told himself you ran. Got out. Got lost. But part of him had mourned. Quietly. Privately. He’d never expected to see you again.

And now here you were, standing under a sky made of smoke and lasers, electric and untouchable, and singing like you had a score to settle with the gods.

Your last note rang out like a scream in the dark. The lights faded. The crowd erupted.

Jinx was still howling, now practically vibrating with excitement. “That was insane! I wanna die and come back as one of her guitar strings!”

She was halfway through tackling a merch girl for signed posters and a guitar pick when Silco turned away from the stage, his expression unreadable. He nodded once toward Sevika, who took the gesture without question.

“Deal with the crowd,” he said, his voice low and tight.

Sevika grunted. “You going to talk to her?” He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if he could. Because there you were—his past, his what-if, his Y/N—very much alive.

And walking straight toward the green room at the back of the warehouse.

The corridors behind the stage were narrow and hot, the walls stained with decades of grime and layered graffiti. The air was a cocktail of ozone, sweat, and the tang of electrical burn. Overhead, exposed copper wiring pulsed like veins beneath flickering overhead fixtures, casting sickly light across the concrete floor. Every few feet, speakers mounted with duct tape and rusted brackets buzzed with residual feedback, a ghost of the music still echoing.

Silco walked slowly, footsteps silent on the worn metal grating. His presence made people part around him, even back here—stagehands, lighting techs, and a bassist vomiting into a bucket. None of them met his eye. None of them dared to.

He moved like a shadow, a storm wrapped in black wool and leather. His coat brushed the backs of his calves, weighted at the hem, and in his gloved hand he carried nothing but time—measured and heavy. He passed cases of battered equipment, tangled cords, a cracked amp with your name stenciled on it in peeling neon ink.

Your name.

He hadn’t seen it in years.

And he hadn’t known—not truly, not until the lights hit your face—that it was you.

His Y/N.

He had stood still in that pulsing warehouse, like someone sucker-punched him clean in the gut. Watching you—alive, electric, on fire beneath a sea of ultraviolet chaos—had made the rest of the world drop away. Gone was the thrum of bass. Gone was Jinx’s delighted shrieking. Gone was Sevika’s voice in his ear.

All that remained was you. Like you always had been, in the places that mattered. In the quiet corridors of his mind that shimmer hadn’t touched.

Now, as he approached the dressing room, the air thickened. The hallway narrowed like a throat. He could hear the gurgling pipes in the walls, the hiss of an ancient ventilation system wheezing above him, the buzz of a half-dead neon arrow pointing toward your room.

He stopped in front of the door. Chipped paint. A faded sign that once said “Talent Only” now read “Ta__nt O__y.” He didn’t knock.

He pushed it open.

Inside, the room was a cluttered shrine to noise and heat and memory. A cracked mirror stretched across one wall, its corners yellowed and rust-specked, ringed with old band stickers and torn setlists taped in crooked lines. A string of coloured bulbs hung haphazardly above it, only three of them still working. A vanity littered with makeup, empty bottles, guitar picks, cigarette butts.

And you.

You sat on a worn leather stool, elbows on your knees, head slightly bowed. A towel hung around your neck like a medal from battle, damp from the performance, curling at the edges. Your eyeliner was smeared down your cheekbones in the way Silco remembered—effortless chaos. A chipped ceramic mug steamed between your hands.

For a second, you didn’t see him. Then your eyes lifted—and found him. The tension hit the room like a dropped amp. Your whole frame stiffened, knuckles going white around the mug. The moment stretched like a guitar string pulled too tight.

“…Silco.”

The name escaped you like breath punched from lungs. Quiet. Staggered. But unmistakable.

And it did something to him.

His spine locked, his fingers curled slightly at his sides. You saying his name—it echoed in him. Like it always had. Not a greeting. Not yet. But recognition. Memory.

“You remember,” he said, and his voice was lower than the room, smoother than the ruin in his face would suggest.

You scoffed. One corner of your mouth quirked upward, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Hard to forget the man who gave my sound system its first explosion. Literally.”

That smile. Still dangerous. Still sharp enough to draw blood.

Silco huffed, just a shadow of a laugh. “You always said the acoustics in The Sump were shit.”

“They were,” you said, standing slowly, the towel slipping from your shoulders. “You didn’t have to detonate a bass amp to prove it.”

His eyes traveled over you with something like reverence—haunted, careful. You looked older. Hardened. But not broken. Never broken. Your boots were still scuffed, laces fraying. Your jacket was patched with mismatched fabrics, sleeves rolled to the elbow to reveal forearms inked with soundwaves and jagged lyrics. Your hair was wilder than he remembered—longer, streaked with fresh color—and your eyes had that same molten fire behind them.

“You’ve changed,” you said finally, voice softer, not accusing—just noting.

“So have you.”

“The world forced us to.”

You walked past him then, slow, deliberate, and tossed the towel over the back of a folding chair. The room felt too small for the two of you now. Too cramped with unsaid things, shared ghosts. You picked up a half-smoked cigarette from the edge of the vanity and lit it, exhaling toward the ceiling.

“It nearly killed me. Twice,” you said after a moment, voice bitter around the smoke. “But the music? Still mine. Still loud. Still me.”

Silco didn’t move. Just studied you in the mirror’s fractured reflection.

“I looked for you,” he said, eventually. Your gaze snapped to him. He continued, slow and honest. “After the Undercity burned. After the refinery riots. I searched for months. I asked everyone.”

“And when they told you I was dead?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His jaw clenched. “I believed them.” You turned away, shoulders rising and falling with something held back. The smoke curled around your fingers. “That night,” he said, “the fire by the old rail yard—”

“I made it out. Barely,” you cut in, tone clipped. “No thanks to you.” Silco took the blow without flinching. He deserved it. You both knew it. “But I stayed gone,” you continued. “Let people think I didn’t make it. Easier that way. Cleaner. No attachments.” He let the silence settle.

Let you have your breath.

“There’s a bar not far from here,” Silco said finally, voice quiet. “Quiet. Safe. I’d like to talk. Just… talk.” You didn’t respond right away.

Instead, you looked at him—really looked. Your eyes moved over his face, the scars, the strange stillness in his frame, the ache in his expression he probably didn’t realize he wore so plainly. The silence stretched again, this time different. This time uncertain.

Then—your shoulders lowered. Just a fraction. The wall cracked, only slightly, but enough.

“…Ten minutes,” you said, reaching for your bag. “I pack fast.” Silco nodded once, turned to go—but your voice stopped him again. “Silco.” He glanced back. You met his gaze. “I thought you were dead too.” Then you turned away.

And Silco stood there a second longer, letting those words sink deep into the place in him that still burned, still bled, still remembered you.

The bar was nestled deep in the industrial underbelly of Zaun, tucked behind a set of rust-flaked freight containers and a chain-link gate no one bothered to lock anymore. It wasn’t the kind of place you stumbled into by accident. No neon sign blared its name; only a dangling green bulb buzzed above the door like a half-dead firefly. The door creaked on its hinges when you pushed it open, reluctant to welcome guests. The interior was a dim sprawl of shadows and amber light, with low ceilings and peeling wallpaper the color of dried rust.

The few patrons inside didn’t look up. Regulars, mostly—men with oil under their fingernails, women in soot-smeared coats, the occasional Shimmer-burnt junkie curled in a booth like a warning. Smoke hung in the air like old memories, clinging to the warped wooden beams overhead. A radio in the back crackled low, the signal warped and static-laced, playing some jazz tune that had no business surviving down here. It was a place for ghosts and those who hadn’t realized they were ghosts yet.

You slid into the cracked vinyl booth across from him without a word. The seat hissed beneath you. The table between you wobbled slightly when you leaned your elbow on it. Silco was already seated, his coat draped neatly beside him, shoulders tense beneath the clean lines of his black suit. He hadn’t touched his drink.

You glanced down at his glass—brown liquor, ice long since melted—and then to your own. Whiskey. Cheap, warm, but sharp enough to hold your attention. You took a sip and let it burn down your throat before you spoke.

“So,” you said, casually, as if the question didn’t ache behind your ribs. You tapped a slow rhythm against the side of your glass, just three knuckles brushing the rim. “Is this nostalgia… or guilt?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite denial.

In the amber light, Silco looked smaller somehow. Still sharp around the edges—those knife-like cheekbones, the molten scar that split his face like a broken seam—but the years hung on him now like extra weight. He looked tired. Older. Not just in the grey at his temples, but in his posture, his eyes. In the way he sat like the world still had teeth.

“Is it wrong to say I missed you?” he asked, voice low, barely rising above the hum of the bar.

You studied him for a long beat. Watched the way his fingers curled around the base of his untouched glass, the way his gaze stayed on the table like it might crumble if he looked up. You remembered that voice. That silence. The way he used to speak only when the words truly mattered.

“Not wrong,” you said softly, “just late.”

Your fingers never stopped moving. They traced a lazy beat on the rim of your glass, a sound only the two of you noticed. You always tapped when you were thinking. He’d once called it your metronome—your way of keeping time in a world that never stopped trying to take it from you.

“I waited for you once,” you said, the words heavier than the glass in your hand. “Back when you disappeared after the refinery raid. Everything went to hell, and you just… vanished. No note. No word. No body.”

He flinched, barely perceptible. But you saw it. Felt it like a drop in pitch.

“I thought you were dead,” you went on, quieter now. “Or worse—that you chose to walk away. To let go of everything we built.”

“I didn’t think I had a future to offer you,” he said, voice frayed at the edges.

You watched the shadows move across his face. His eyes flicked up, met yours. Still sharp. Still unreadable.

“And now?”

There was a pause. A beat in which the world seemed to lean in, listening.

“Now I have a kingdom of ash,” he murmured, “and a daughter who only smiles when she listens to you scream into a microphone.”

You blinked, startled. Not at the metaphor—Silco had always spoken in poetic ruin—but at the word.

“…Daughter?”

He gave a single nod. “In every way that matters.”

You sat back, brows furrowed. “The girl with the grenades and the warpaint?”

He exhaled, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. “Jinx.”

You let out a low breath, almost a laugh. “She’s… electric. Beautiful, in a terrifying way. I didn’t know she was yours.”

“She isn’t,” he said. “Not by blood. But by choice. I took her in when the world abandoned her. Or maybe she found me. Hard to say anymore.”

“And my music?” you asked, softer now. “She listens to me?”

“She memorizes your lyrics. I hear her singing them in the dead hours of the night. When she thinks no one’s listening.” He paused. “It’s the only time she’s truly calm. Your music gives her something that isn’t rage. That isn’t pain.”

You stared down at your drink. Your hand had gone still.

“That means more than you know,” you whispered. And it did. More than applause, more than credits or fame. That it reached someone.

A silence settled then. Not the brittle kind that comes before a fight, or the aching kind that follows regret. This was heavier. Thicker. Full of things unspoken—of years lost and moments too fragile to touch.

Silco leaned forward. His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Stay. Just for a while. Play more shows here. Let her have this. Let me have this. Even if it’s only a flicker of what we lost.”

You didn’t answer at first. You couldn’t. You looked at him—really looked—and saw not the man you’d once loved, but the remains of him. Scarred and shrouded, built of ash and fury and compromise. But somewhere under the soot… the ember still burned.

You slid your hand forward, fingertips grazing his.

“For one drink,” you whispered, “and one song.”

He didn’t smile. Not fully. But his eyes lit with something old. Something vulnerable. And you both knew.

There would be more.

[mangohgeckoh]

Gunpowder and green shells (Silcoxreader) chap 2

Tags: mermaid reader, pirate silco, Piltover and zaun are islands, violence, nsfw, major character death

Chapter 1

It burned.

The sensitive exposed flesh of his wound mixing with the saltiness of the sea stung, but not as much as the events leading up to his injury.

Vander.

He could feel the last of the air in his lungs start to dissipate as he slowly drowned. His stomach churned as he recounted the events that had just taken place.

Silco’s body was thrown against the deck of the ship. “How could you?” Words hissed through Silco’s chipped as he gripped the small of his neck where he had just been held. “You took it too far!” The captain, his brother, shouted. The crew were silent as they watched the fight unfold.

Silco, who was much thinner than Vander, gasped for air, my windpipe still sore from being choked. “Too far?”

Vander started for him, his boots booming against the wooden deck of our ship. His eyes burned with a rage that Silco had never seen before. “You never saw anything as too far.” Silco seethed, watching him come to a stop before the smaller man. The captain’s breathing had quicked, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Silco didn’t see the dagger emerge from his holster until it was too late.

Heat seared through his eye. Sharp metal slicing through his face. Again. And again. Until he was thrown overboard, the surface of the ocean felt like cement under his spine.

Silco’s brother…

Betrayed him…

And he will have no redemption…

As he…

Drowned…

-

Silco shot up from his sleep, sweat covering his body. Long fingers reached for the makeshift tourniquet he had made to stop the bleeding from his injury. Even feeling along where the shirt fabric served as a barrier between his fingers and his eye, the wound stung.

The sound of splashing made him whip in the sand around from where he had slept on the beach.

You had just returned from Piltover's coast. They had the healthiest of waters, which happened to be the perfect environment for a particular algae that you had set off to find. Taking fistfulls of it, you scooted yourself along the beach of the sea cave you had left the drowned sailor at.

“Leave me be.” Silco had hissed, his hand instinctively tethered to his cutlass but came up empty. He cursed under his breath as he shot up to his feet, ready for a fight.

“It hurts?” You ask, gesturing your webbed hand towards your left eye. The aggression oozing from his voice didn’t intimidate you. The man only stood still, studying you like you were going to pounce on him.

“Come, I can help.” You say with a smile and raise your hand full of algae. Since you were beached, you needed him to come to you. Despite your relaxed demeanor, you couldn’t help but feel anxiety due to not knowing much English.

The man’s lip curled in disgust, wincing from the pain that stabbed within his eye. “It may be infected. I can help, please.” You urged, unable to leave the beach.

Well, what else were his options?

Begrudgingly, the sailor slowly started towards you. He paused when his boots were submerged under the salty water. Sensing that was as far as he was willing to go, you pushed yourself closer to him, tail dragging in the sand. Silco gulped, frozen in fear once noticing your lower half that was now in view.

He’d never seen anything like you before.

Your webbed hand grabbed his arm and yanked him down to his knees. “Stay still.” You say with a smile. His green eye was careful in observing you unwrap the tourniquet. Once fully unravelled, you observed the grim sight. His eye had become necrotic. The eyeball itself was black and dry, completely obsolete.There was no hope in saving the sight in that eye now. Where skin should be around his eye lid, was marred and had thin streaks of torn flesh covering his left cheek.

Working quickly, you squished the algae in your palm, causing liquid to ooze from it. Once the liquid was completely out, you smeared the green paste on his face.

Not without him wincing at your touch. “Damn it.” You heard him curse as he tried not to squirm. “Still. Stay still.” Your voice was soft as you focused. Out of your peripheral vision, you could see his hands ball up in pain. His injury must be worse off than you had suspected.

While applying the medicine, Silco couldn’t help but tear his focus from your face to your inhuman tail. Vastaya were not unheard of in Runeterra. Hell, there were even fish Vastaya. But he’d never spy a Vastyan that looked like you. The creature at his aid had a long winding grey tail that resembled that of a shark’s. Under her armpits were red lines that if he didn’t look closely he would assume were stab wounds, but the flaps of flesh flickered under the water, which made him assume that they were gills.

Even from on his knees, he could notice a sharp dorsal fin that was erect on her spine, also resembling a shark’s fin. And her eyes. They were navy blue with the strangest pupils he had ever seen. Silco winced at the pain that clawed at his eye.

“Sorry!” You cried out before turning back into the water, disappearing momentarily.

His hand went to his left eye that had been completely covered by the algae. Shortly afterwards, she came back with seaweed.

“New bandages.” She said, offering the long green vegetation to the man. He sneered, still grossed out by the amount of squishy green sea life that would be on his body. ‘Why was this creature so insistent?’ He thought.

Her back arched as she wrapped the seaweed around his eye, making sure it was nice and tight. Silco, however, was having a hard time looking away from her bare chest, which was almost completely in his face while she worked. Whatever she was, she was not well adjusted to the social concept of shirts. This made his cheeks burn red, unsure of what to do or how to feel. Would it even be okay if he was attracted to this creature?

“Why,” He cleared his throat of the salty air, weakly peeling his eyes from your human breasts. “Why help me?” At the question, she turned to face him, her lower body sinking slightly back into the water.

“Why not?” She asked with a confused look. Lips forming a disappointed line, Silco didn’t know how to react. ‘Is this broad for real?’ No one helps anyone for free.

“If you want coin, you’re helping the wrong bloke.” He hissed, staring her down with his healthy eye. Despite his threats and cold exterior, he was dumbfounded at how you would giggle at him.

“You were drowning!” You said with a smile, rows of sharp teeth visible in her mouth. “So I helped you, it isn’t that hard to understand.” You honestly didn’t know why he had been acting so strange. You saw someone needing help and helped them, that's all.

Silco was at a loss for words. His face was void of emotion as he sized you up. He had never met anyone who could smile after a threat, who’d have a jolly tone of voice in a dark situation, who’d help someone for free.

To be fair, he also hadn’t met someone like you before.

“What's your name?” He asked, his expression softening, though he had his suspicions about our intent. But you only tilted your head at the question.

“Name?” You gave him a confused look. “I don’t have one!” Your voice was cheerful which irked the man.

Silco had so many questions bubbling inside of his head.

A girl with no name? Who also had a fishtail?

How could someone be this nice and friendly?

He grimaced. Is she trying to steal his organs? He recalled some legends of mermaids he had heard from sea-shanties but, at the time, had disregarded them for what they were: myths. But as his good eye examined her body now, he started to match some of her characteristics with that of the mythological creature.

Stories from legends flooded his brain while he eyed her suspiciously. Mermaids were known to be beautiful yet sinister in nature. To seduce the weak and drown them in the depths of the sea. They had enchanting voices that aided their mission to devour vulnerable men.

Silco felt his throat bob. ‘What do you have to gain?’ He asked you within his mind.

After a few minutes of silence, you felt as if you were scaring the human again. “I…I guess I need to get you back to land?” You ask tentatively, he looked as if he was ready to run at any second. But, since he was in a sea cave, he had nowhere to run.

“I’ll find my way out.” He huffed, scraping the wet sand off his knees as he made to stand. This only made you tilt your head with a giggle. “How?”

Ignoring you, he walked to the back of the cave, analyzing it’s integrity. To his disdain, there were no tunnels or holes that would allow him to escape. You watched with a smile as the thin man angrily stared at the inside of the cave before slowly stomping his way back in defeat.

“If there is a way out, how would I find it?” His eye was glued to the beach, embarrassed enough not to look at you. That was a good question. Never had you ever been in the position to help a human before and by the looks of his physiology, he doesn’t have the capacity to breathe seawater.

Without saying anything, you quickly returned to the water and exited the cave. The man couldn’t go anywhere even if he tried! As fast as you could, your tail swung back and forth against the water causing you to cut through the sea with speed you hardly ever use.

Once you had thought you arrived at the desired location, your eyes darted above you, ensuring no boats were nearby. After concluding it was safe, your body began to ascend within the harbor’s waters. Your face breaking from the surface, you spotted a small dinghy that had been tied to one of the less populous docks.

You dipped your head under the gentle waves, getting closer to the dock. A webbed hand snaked around the rope that tethered the dinghy to the dock before you used your claws to slice the rope in half.

Careful not to be seen, the small boat was tugged by your hand from under the water. If anyone were to spot the runaway dinghy, they would think it had not been tied to the dock correctly, being caught by the current.

After making some distance between you and the range of the harbor, your pace quickened until you finally arrived at the cave. The drowned sailor was perched atop one of the larger rocks that littered the beach inside the seacave. His face perked up at the sound of wood groaning against the water.

Hopping off the rock, he made his way to shore where you gave the boat one final push closer to him. When you finally returned to the surface, your eyes landed on the sailor’s. One eye had been covered in a seaweed tourniquet, while the other was flaring with ambition. He was ready to return to where he had come from. The smirk accompanied his eye’s longing due to unfinished business.

“Well,” With one quick movement, he thrusted himself into the boat. Your arms perched themselves on the side of the boat, the rest of your body submerged under the water, and looked up at him. “I guess it’s goodbye.” You interrupted him, but were surprised to see him shake his head. “The boat has no oars. I have no way of getting to the nearest port on a stationary vessel.” His voice was beautiful, calculated, and strong.

Slowly, you recalled the harbor you had taken the boat from and nodded. “I can get you there.”

[renaaccion]

This my first time in Tumblr to expand my art skills to different SOCMED platform.

Btw this is my fan art of my OC with Silco ❤️❤️

(made it into pins (thankies Jules)

(I really ship them the time I met young silco)

The best thing is my friend recommended me a silcoXreader fanfic, which I got so invested that end up I am the only ones keep updating her.

Anyway, @beskars love your work, I'm currently making fanarts of your story, soon I'll be posting it throughout my SOCMED accounts. (Truth is, I entered tumblr for ichthyological studies updated😜)

✌🏻

ichthyological studies keep me alive and love Silco more (even though I love to have an Ekko boyfriend but wanting a Silco husband 😂😂😂😝)

[ink-and-dagger]

hi new follower here, found you on ao3 when searching for silcoxreader, best silco fic ever😮‍💨😮‍💨

Welcome to my funny little home! Ignore the smell, and I'd advise keeping your shoes on for safety reasons.

[its-sweet-serotonin]

so my acct here is super new, but im thinking of doing some silco fanfic. i would love other silco fans takes on my ideas, and if anyone would want to be potential beta readers in the future that too for sure. i think I would do two versions, one with the oc i thought of and one for my silcoxreader enjoyers. my worry is that the type of dynamic/vibe of the reader/oc isn't one ive seen too much of and im worried that it's because it wouldn't be interesting. so i guess dm me if you'd like and thank you for reading this rambling either way

[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

[insult-2-injury]

Taking the Shot

A gift for the lovely @x-amount-verbs- a massive, 6.5K smutty one-shot inspired by her brilliant story, A Helping Hand. (If you're not reading it, I don't know what you're doing). Big thanks to her for allowing me to put her OC, Ivy, into some very compromising positions.

[Silco x f!oc (using helping hand reader/OC)] [6.5K WC] [NSFW MDNI] [gun range setting] [Mirror Sex] [Fingering] [Facefucking] [Praise Kink] [Manhandling] [dom silco] [Lots of teasing] [Dirty talk] [Fluff at the end]

Note: gun target practice, no gun violence, no gunplay

Bang.

The gun recoiled in her hand.

An almost deranged smile stretched from where she’d bitten down on the center of her plump lips, joy rampaging through her chest like a wildfire as she hit her target dead center. An almost painful relief. Such a delicious welcome from the depression, the feelings of uselessness that had tightened their iron grip around her heart like a vise since the accident.

She could still do this.

Could still close her eyes and feel those subtle vibrations in the air, shifting like the plucks of tiny harp strings, carrying her bullet forward and straight into the heart of her victim. Which, in this case, was the top of a soup can, painted crudely in a neon green.

She was in a run down, abandoned textile warehouse on the outskirts of Zaun. The roof had caved in a long time ago. Decrepit place. Standing mirrors, dusty furniture, piles of unused fabrics were scattered haphazardly.

But Jinx had helped fix this movable target practice up, the funny little mastermind. She smiled to herself, thinking about the way the girl had sat there comically with a blowtorch and giant goggles, grinning ear to ear.

She’d hesitated when Jinx had proposed the idea. Had thought maybe this was too big of a step and too quickly. Mostly worried about her own self-doubts. Whether she would cripple when she found out she wasn’t that same talented sharpshooter as before.

But no. No. She was still good. Hadn’t lost a lick of that talent.

She revved up the machine again, transferred the gun to her prosthesis, closed one eye and watched the little targets rise, whir past. Adjusted her grip until she got that feeling.

And making quick work of it, she hit three more consecutively, something devilish about the way her stomach flipped and her lips curled.

“Impressive.”

She choked on a gasp, body stiffening. She would be able to recognize that crooning voice out of a line-up of hundreds. Thousands. How could she not when the sound had utterly consumed her thoughts as of late.

Like a rocket ship seconds before liftoff, her heart rate picked up to a swift patter before she even turned.

How long had he been standing there?

Silco was supposed to be out for the day on shimmer business. No therapy, no planned contact. She’d already mourned over the minor loss, for Janna’s sake. Something oddly indignant had her lips forming a thin line and, clutching the gun with a suddenly damp hand, she spun around finally.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she stuttered, feeling immediately stupid.

Silco’s lithe form leaned against the splintered door frame, hands in his pockets, something she’d come to recognize as dark amusement glittering in his eyes. He must have just returned from a business engagement because he was wearing that damned coat.

His gaze dropped sharply to her prosthesis.

“On the contrary, my dear.” Silco’s eyes flicked back up to hers. “I go wherever I please.”

He shouldn’t be out alone, without protection. No, she disciplined herself, not for the first time. He could take care of himself. She knew that.

“Jinx helped me set this up,” she offered, at a loss for words.

“She is who directed me here,” he said, brow quirking as he peeled from the door frame, beginning a slow saunter toward her. “And curiosity, I suppose.”

Oh, he was wearing gloves, she noticed right away, a blush beginning a heated track across her cheeks. She tried not to let her shameful gaze wander as she fought off every instinct to take a step back for each one of his forwards.

Because this wasn’t his office. This was entirely new territory.

“About?” she asked lightly, turning from his approaching form, lest he spot something in her expression that he shouldn’t.

It was supposed to be a surprise, she thought, that she’d taken to practicing. Well, with her gun, of course. She wanted to pout. She wasn’t a child, she didn’t need to perform tricks for the man.

But she wanted to, didn’t she? Wanted to impress him. Hated that she ached for that praise.

“Your progress, of course.”

She nodded, swallowing down the sudden dryness in her throat as he inspected the area, eyeing the crudely made moving targets, dragging two sinful fingers across the surface of a nearby table until he came to a halt in front of a gold-plated, full-length mirror, contemplating.

There was something… excitable about him tonight, a feverish energy prickling the air around him like a live wire.

Hm.

“Your meeting go well?”

Silco’s head canted just enough for her to see the slow, evil curl of his lips from the shadows.

“More than well.”

His crimson eye sharply tracked the movement of her violent shudder from over his shoulder before he turned on his heels, making his way back.

She couldn’t feign indifference anymore when his boots stopped inches away, looming over her.

Silco’s voice was soft, but the glint in his eye was a knowing one.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d been practicing?”

She peered up from under her lashes and shrugged. Elected, instead, to stare intently at the silk tie that cinched his thin neck.

“I was planning on it.”

“Were you?” he asked, studying her a moment before stepping back, arms gesturing wide, flippant. “Demonstrate.”

Demonstrate… again?

She stared, unnerved. It was a pretty simple request, really, and it wasn’t as if it were the first time she’d been asked to perform for him. It was just different somehow,when these strange new boundaries seemed to be evolving, mutating by the second.

“Show me,” he repeated, eyes steady on hers, brooking no room for argument.

She turned to the whirring machine, a single target remaining. Her body felt alight with jitters, tremendously aware of the way his gaze stripped her down to her center, capturing and devouring her uneasiness like a cat with a mouse tucked beneath its paw.

She had 12 rounds. Nose twitching, she released a cleansing breath and took aim.

“Ivy,” he chided, and she grit her teeth.

They weren’t in his office. This wasn’t therapy.

She felt his searing satisfaction as she begrudgingly switched her gun to her prosthesis.

Closing one eye, she lined up her shot, peripheral vision blurring until the only thing down her sight was the moving target.

Her finger tightened on the trigger and-

She practically leapt out of her skin as something brushed across her back lightly, sending her shot firing upward. Whirling, she found Silco on her other side now, feet away, looking entirely unapologetic, fixing his glove.

“So sorry, do try again.”

She stared, unblinking, something irreparably destabilizing in the light touch of his hand, a cold shudder clanking down her spine.

11 rounds.

She could do this. Silco knew it, too, had been watching her for Janna knows how long before announcing his presence.

She squeezed her eyes shut, breathed, adjusted her stance.

And shuddered. It never worked. Never. Whenever she had to try. No, she had to feel it. But all she could feel right now was that paralyzing gaze, much too close as it darted across the angles of her profile.

Squinting in concentration, her shot fired out, skimming just outside the little target.

10 rounds.

“Try again,” he commanded harshly from her side.

She bit her lip, took a deep, quaky breath, trying to dispel the odd tremble in her limbs, the slow, crawling heat that was blooming softly in her belly. She raised the gun once more.

And missed.

She’d just done it. He’d seen.

9 rounds.

“You’re rushing. Again.”

Her throat constricted.

Was that excitement in his tone?

Another miss.

8 rounds.

“Again.”

She lowered the gun limply to her side, glaring pointedly ahead.

“I can’t,” she muttered, thoroughly humiliated.

“Oh, come now. Don’t be like that.”

And again, there was something… volatile in the chime of his voice. Like he was playing with her.

He stepped forward, tapping her bicep.

“Up.”

She jolted at the contact and with an almost embarrassing speed, did just as he asked, heating blooming across her cheeks at her unconscious submission.

With a low, approving hum at her side, he altered her grip on the gun, scarcely touching her, the hem of his coat brushing ghostlike across the backs of her knees.

Heart clattering like a tin can, eyes squeezed shut to try and lessen the quivering in her limbs from his proximity alone, she waited for him to release her wrist. But he didn’t, instead dragging his firm grip upward to rest on her elbow.

“There you are,” he said breezily, “Now, try again.”

The shot rang out.

Went completely stray, wood shattering somewhere in the recesses of the room.

7 rounds.

“It wasn’t but five minutes ago you were hitting every one.”

She let out a stuttering gasp when his arm progressed upward to wrap almost painfully tight around her upper arm.

“I wonder what it is that has Ivy so unsettled.”

Silco was hardly touching her. And she was melting, desperately trying to center herself from the crashing wave of almost nauseating desire that swelled from the single point of contact.

“For one, I can see a few improvements to be had,” he tsked, “One being your stance. Too stiff.” A booted foot wedged between her legs, kicked out her back foot, bringing his heat that much closer to her wobbling form.

Breath lightly caressed the shell of her ear, tone holding a cunning note of underhanded bemusement.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d been practicing?”

Because she wanted to impress him.

“Hm?” he prompted after a prolonged silence.

“I wanted to get back into shooting,” she exhaled, “That’s all.”

A rumble of disapproval hummed through his chest.

“Try again,” he commanded.

And she carried out his orders, how could she not? Squeezed the trigger, hardly aiming anymore, the shot once again going wide.

6 rounds.

A hand lightly grazed up her side, paused, almost in permission, and she found herself leaning back on her heels just slightly, searching for the heated planes of his stomach. Finding empty air, his body circumventing hers, always withholding.

His movement resumed as her breathing hitched, his knuckles just barely brushing the outside curve of her breast before traveling back down, fingers bracing almost tenderly around the soft skin just above her hip bone.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d been practicing?” he asked again, voice lethally quiet.

“I wanted-“

She stopped. It was too much, too humiliating. Because he was just going to mock her, step away and she’d have to go home, suffer the lonely consequences.

But then his nose brushed the curve of her ear, tracing the shell. And one of her knees buckled as she choked out a telling gasp. His palm slid around to her abdomen, splayed there, not so much bracing her up as just resting lightly, taunting.

“What is it? What did you want?”

She grimaced, couldn’t help the way her head drooped in embarrassment. Her voice was small, weak. Just like her subsequent words.

“I wanted you to be proud.”

Silco’s dark chuckle in her ear was practically a purr, sent a flurry of tremors racing down her stiffening spine.

“Did you?” His pinky moved a fraction, brushing just slightly across the top of her waistband. Her knees locked, nails latching onto the wrist of his offending hand. “And do you think I’m proud of you?”

Her lips thinned and she turned her glare away from his line of sight,

“I don’t know,” she mumbled, humiliation scorching like a wildfire across her cheekbones.

“Allow me to rephrase. Do you need more attention?”

All she could manage was a quick, indecipherable jerk of her head.

“Your words,” he commanded.

Another rough swipe of his pinky across her navel and she squeaked, pressing desperately backward, trying to escape the hot shock of desire that accompanied the miniscule motion and only managing to entangle herself further into him.

She let out a string of garbled nothings.

“What was that?” he taunted, nose grazing her temple. “Is it my attention you want?”

The gloved hand gripping her bicep traveled upward slowly, across the gentle curve of her shoulder, up the slope of her neck and into her raven hair, where it expertly massaged her scalp. She vibrated against him like an overheating engine, breathing shallow and head clouding with a heady lust.

“Yes,”she panted, eyes closing at the sensation. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl,” he crooned, exhaling a quiet laugh as she clenched her thighs together, the words traveling lightning quick to the pooling wetness between them. Just as he knew they would.

And she’d just begun to relax into the gentleness, into something almost resembling a lover’s embrace, when his hand fisted roughly in her hair, yanking back until she had to arch her back to accommodate. Her hoarse cry echoed obscenely across the empty warehouse.

Silco’s words were ragged, hissed into her cheekbones, his knife-bladed nose pressed tightly against her hairline from where her head now lay across his shoulder.

“Have you considered, Ivy, the implications of holding my attention?”

Of course she had.

“Y-yes.”

And he tightened his fist further. The unoccupied gloved fingers dipped just beneath the hem of her pants, sitting there unmoving, and she bucked in his grip, eyes blurring with a heady mix of pain and pleasure.

“Make the shot.”

Her jaw slackened when he responded to her hesitation with an agonizing tug, the nails of her flesh hand digging red crescents into his forearm.

No, came a stubborn little voice inside her head.

But Janna, she wanted to hit that moving target for him. And she hated that she did.

“Hit the target, Ivy.”

Perhaps, she thought, a compromise.

With a frustrated cry, she locked her arm, fixed her sights elsewhere, finger pulsing like mad against the gun trigger until she’d unleashed all 6 rounds, the empty chamber clicking furiously several times before she finally relented on it.

Her arm dropped limply to her side.

And what followed was the purest form of silence, with only the weighted sounds of their oxygen intertwining as they both stared at a now busted dress mannequin with six perfect bullet holes in its chest.

See? She was fully capable.

She listened, with a subtle, growing anxiety, to Silco’s increasingly ragged breath fanning across her cheek, his fingers having loosened in her hair.

Had she messed this up?

She turned, painfully slow, afraid of what she might find, of the devastating, smirking outcome. But as the tip of her nose brushed his, she found it was the lack of humor that terrified her the most: a crazed intensity there that nearly consumed the beautiful teal of his right eye.

“Sir?”

He attacked. Hauled her wriggling form backward like she weighed nothing at all.

“Oh, you,” he snarled into her ear, “That wasn’t what I asked for at all, was it?”

She clung onto him for dear life.

“Complying just enough to strike innocent.”

She was propped up dazedly in front of the stand-up mirror, feeling very much like the ruined, lead-filled mannequin lying prone behind them.

“But do you want to know what I think?”

A gloved hand wrapped the front of her throat, pressing just enough to make her dizzy, the other traveling up the muscled planes of her abdomen.

“I think you tremble when I’m near,” he spat, emphasizing with a brush of his thumb across the fluttering pulse of her neck, pulling a pathetic whine from her.

It was near impossible to comprehend the mirror’s reflection, Silco’s chin resting on her shoulder, his calculating, frenzied eyes holding hers in a perilous deadlock.

“I want you to see yourself, Ivy, just how desperate you really are.”

As if on a mission to prove his point, she pressed backward dazedly, seeking out his heat through the small gap between their bodies.

She couldn’t be the only one.

She reached behind, trailing up Silco’s thigh.

And cried out in fresh pain as the roaming fingers on her stomach shot upward, locating and twisting her nipple hard through her t-shirt, serrated nose driving into her temple as he harshly reprimanded.

“When did I say you could touch?”

She entrenched her claws hopelessly into the smooth skin of Silco’s forearm, as if he had her dangled over an active volcano. Fingers dipped beneath her waistband, thumb brushing teasing strokes across the sensitive inner junction where thigh met groin. Each narrow pass of his digit left her trembling, just as he’d said, the pulsing between her legs fringing on painful.

She protested. “Why don’t I get to tou-“

Silco squeezed her windpipe, lips quirking villainously in the mirror as he choked the span of two breaths, her back bowing mechanically, backside grinding backward into an impressive erection.

“You’ll get your chance,” he said, “So long as you beg for it.”

Ivy was never one to sulk. She took life’s abuse with a hard glint in her eye, with her jaw clenched firmly against the storm. Therefore, the fact that the man was able to elicit such a quivering pout out of her was alarming to say the least.

Spotting her growing petulance, his thumb swiped once, hard, across her clit. A throaty cry cracked through the air as her knees buckled, head thrown back against his shoulder, resting on the wide lapel of his coat.

Panting, she desperately tried to paddle back to shore through the crashing onslaught of blood rushing through her now ringing ears, hardly catching Silco’s theatrical sigh through the haze.

Silco’s breath tickled the exposed column of her throat as the fingers around her throat dipped into the V of her shirt.

“I’m undecided as to what to do with you, Ivy,” he crooned. “Such a good girl for practicing on your own.”

Something delightful and warm snaked through her chest at the praise.

“But to keep such progress from me?”

“I’m s-sorry,” she rasped, voice tight.

“Oh, I know you are.”

Silco pinched a nipple between two fingers, paired it with another hard swipe across her clit, wrenching another moan from her throat.

“Look at yourself.”

Hesitantly, she cracked her eyes open, peering dazedly at the salacious scene.

Silco hunched, one hand lazily massaging her breasts, the other one down her pants. Her cheeks ruddy, chest heaving with fruitless gasps as she clung to him like a cat on a high branch. And he lay in wait below, arms splayed, a gold and crimson-tinted thorn bush.

“All I need you to do, Ivy, is beg.”

She knew he’d spotted it, that emblematic precipice she stood on. It reflected plain as day in her lust-filled eyes, how he’d won her subservience.

Something victorious and equally vicious quirked his lips into a devilish smirk.

She would beg. She would do it. But she was dragging him down with her.

And he did falter just the slightest when her nose brushed his jagged cheekbone as she turned to ghost her words hotly across the lobe of his ear.

“Please,” her breathlessness entirely genuine, chest heaving against his palm. “I need- I need you to touch me.”

And at the tattered, uneven breath in response, she surrendered, loading the final bullet in the chamber, pressing her damp forehead into the lapel of his coat, sighing into his neck.

“Please, sir. Please, Silco.”

Like a hot stove, she was released suddenly, and there was a long moment where her stomach free fell in anxiety.

Clearing off a nearby table with a ferocious swipe of a single arm, he yanked it in front of her, its legs squealing raucously across the concrete flooring.

With a shocking, cobra-like speed, he had her torso driven into the surface, one hand on her midback, the other going to work on her pants. Dexterously, he unclasped the buttons with a single hand, tearing her pants and underwear down to her ankles in one fell swoop.

Two gloved hands smoothed across the globes of her buttocks, spreading her to the cold air, exposing the wetness she knew full well was glistening on her inner thighs.

She dropped her forehead in a sudden wave of embarrassment and was quickly reprimanded with a tight fist in her hair, his eyes scorching into hers from where they hovered over her head.

“Oh no, you don’t get to look away from this.”

One hand gave her backside a rough thwack and she instantly pushed backward, shamelessly seeking him out.

“Look at you,” he breathed almost reverently.

Silco hardly allowed her the time to feel self-conscious as he released her hair, his now free hand hovering for just a moment in front of her panting mouth before she found herself suddenly invaded, leather fingers pressing inward, exploring the cavern of her mouth, scissoring, shoving slowly across the pad of her tongue until she gagged, eyes watering.

He slipped them out again.

“Bite,” he commanded.

And it took her a few dazed seconds to understand, vision misting. She quickly closed her teeth around the tip of his middle finger, allowing him to tug backward, to free his hand from the glove.

The second it was unencumbered it dove between her legs. Once again, her head thudded onto the table with a vulgar moan, quickly morphing into a whine of despair when his hand disappeared, clapping again at the soft flesh of her backside.

“What did I say?” he reprimanded, and she raised her head obediently.

“Good.”

His fingers danced across the backs of her thigh, kneading softly up to the place he’d just spanked and she bit her lip, hardly caring about the smugness twisting his features, nothing else more important than getting his fingers between her legs again.

“You said you want me to touch you?”

“Yes.”

“Where, exactly?”

Her eyelids fluttered in frustration as Silco’s warm digits danced across her inner thighs, merely outlining her throbbing core.

“Touch m-“ she stuttered, nearly incoherent, “Just touch me.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, dear.”

“Put your fingers inside me,” she snapped, and was rewarded with a third, sharp spank. Another painful fist in her hair.

“So shameless, so ill-mannered.”

But she didn’t miss the way his erection dug into her side approvingly.

“Please, sir” she pleaded.

Silco chuckled darkly, hinging forward from the waist, booted feet on either side of one of her quivering legs, lips tracing the shell of her ear.

“Remember this, Ivy,” he said, voice dangerously soft, as he kicked her insole, successfully widening her stance. “I’m not without mercy.”

And two fingers bee-lined to her clit, performing a quick circle around the sensitive bud. A shattered gasp tore from her throat and she only just managed to catch her head from dropping in pure, sanity-shattering bliss.

Silco dipped his fingers carefully between her wet folds, eyes wild and calculated as he drank in her reactions like a fine wine, chin coming to a rest atop her head.

“You are a needy thing,” he murmured quietly, and she shuddered at the feeling of his jaw working, at how docile she remained, pinned beneath him. “Perhaps I should have paid you better attention.”

He spread the growing slick, wanting her to feel how wet she was for him.

“Alleviated you sooner.”

Silco relented to her whining pleas, pushing two fingers slowly inside her, hooking them in a way that had her jaw dropping in euphoria, a low, satisfied groan puncturing the air, her nails digging into the wood from where her arms framed her head.

“You are under my supervision after all.”

He soon pumped with a third finger, refraining from speech, forcing her to listen to the sounds of her arousal, of just how drenched he’d made her.

Silco’s gloved hand released her hair, forging a lazy trail down the center of her back.  The gentleness sent shivers of pleasure through her already quaking form as he stroked across each vertebra until he reached her tailbone.

Bending, arm encircling her hips, leather-covered fingers located her aching bud, and she jerked forward, grinding against the unmoving digits.

He withheld any compassion, instead watching with a predatory head cock as she struggled against him in a desperate bid for friction.

“I suspect this isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself writhing against my glove, is it?”

And her stomach dropped, frenzied, lust-filled eyes connecting with his own in the mirror. It should’ve been shameful, the recognition, and it was certainly there, that twinge of embarrassment. But more than anything, it was a freeing acknowledgment of the tension that had been building over the course of a week and a half.

And she felt oddly fine with him knowing exactly what he did to her.

Her chin squeaked against the surface of the table as she jerked her head back and forth, finally tilting it to the side so she could speak.

“No. It’s not.”

Silco’s expression dripped in a villainous self-satisfaction and he finally moved, dragged another tight circle around her swollen bud, paired it with a particularly deadly hook of his fingers within her, sending her hands clawing forward.

“And would you ever have told me?”

He began a steady rhythm, working her, each pass of the ridged seam of his glove across her clit coinciding with a desperate moan.

Silco repeated the question, she shook her head fervently, unable to speak.

“It seems to me you’ve been awfully withholding,” he crooned, breath fanning across the small of her back, eyes fixed to hers in the reflection. “First your little set-up here, now admitting you’ve been fucking yourself with my glove.”

The sound of the spat curse from his lips had her clenching hard around his fingers, a familiar heat stoking in her lower belly, coiling insidiously slow.

“Perhaps I should stop.”

“No, no, no.”

Voice so tight it was practically a screech, her fingers scrabbled for purchase as the heat continued to build, as the tidal wave quickly approached.

“Hm?”

Any semblance of control she’d had was far gone. All she knew for certain was that he couldn’t. Couldn’t stop. Not when she was this close. So, snatching the string of a single, coherent balloon floating by, she babbled the only word she could come up with, muttered it like a prayer.

“Please, please, please, please.”

“Are you going to cum, Ivy?” he purred into the dampening skin of her lower back.

“Please,” she nearly sobbed, stomach tightening like a pulled back rubber band.

“Then, cum.”

The climax smashed into her devastatingly hard, her back bowing violently as that band snapped.

Mouth opened in a silent cry, brows knitted in ecstasy, she determinedly held his evil, gloating gaze until she couldn’t any longer, that tidal wave of pleasure finally crashing through. The weight of it dragged her forehead to thud against the table as she released a strangled moan, stars bursting across her vision.

He drew it out forever. Fingers hooking in time with each violent, perfect convulsion, thumb still circling her clit slowly.

He eased her gently through, not stopping until she was a shuddering, boneless heap on the table, twitching from the overstimulation.

Hair stuck sweaty to her forehead as she pressed it to the cool wood, breath coming out in short puffs, the post bliss of release tingling across her skin. And she thought, if she could, she’d fall asleep right there.

But a light brush of soft lips to her tailbone brought her dazed thoughts back to the man behind. Who still very much had his long fingers pressed inside her.

She raised her bleary gaze to his.

With a slow deliberateness, he pulled his fingers out of her, and she twitched violently as she was hit with an aftershock, clenching around him, the resulting squelch obscene in the otherwise quiet room. At her low groan, the hard outline of his cock twitched against her outer thigh.

For a man so chatty just thirty seconds ago, he was unnervingly quiet now.

She propped herself up with shaking arms, eyed her prosthesis, tried to force away that surge of familiar, venomous self-doubt.

She crawled up onto the table, ignoring, as best she could, his sizzling gaze as it flicked across the side of her face. Swinging her legs up, she tugged her pants the rest of the way off and pulled her boots off one by one, socks to follow, discarding them on the floor with a dull thud. She took a deep, cleansing breath, despising that he could see her fumbling hesitation, the way her eyes kept darting to her hand.

The wetness weeping from her cunt reminded her of what he’d done, how he’d touched her. That he’d wanted to touch her.

 She scooted to a kneeling position before him, butt resting on her heels, knees spread slightly, looking down uncertainly.

A gloved hand tipped her chin up, held it there while three curious fingers came to rest at her lips, waiting, and she darted her tongue out, catching the bitter taste of herself. Sucking his fingers greedily into her mouth, she gazed up at him from beneath her lashes.

“Good girl,” he whispered, thumb brushing with uncharacteristic tenderness across a small scar near the crease of her lips before he pulled away.

Fabric rustled as he bent, and two hands were skimming up her hips, stopping at the hem of her t-shirt. She jerkily raised her arms for him to draw it up and over her head.

Until she was entirely bare to him.

Silco swatted at her when she instinctively attempted to cover herself.

“We don’t hide, Ivy.”

She frowned, blinked curiously at his phrasing.

“Be still. Hands atop your thighs,” came the reprimand again as she curled inward. “Let me look at you.”

She could feel his eyes as they slid across her naked form, felt that golden ribbon of arousal curl between her legs once again as he cupped two hands beneath her breasts, thumbs rolling slow, tantalizing circles over her pebbled nipples as she squirmed and whined.

“It’s hard to be the only one without clothes,” she rasped finally.

“Oh,” he paused his ministrations to taunt, “That must be so difficult.”

Only fair to allow her a remedy.

The table creaked beneath as she redistributed her weight, reaching toward that intimidating erection in his pants. And he struck, quick as lightning, seizing both wrists, yanking her toward him, her knees sliding forward until they were flush against his upper thighs, chest thrusting upward in order to lean decidedly away from his face, suddenly so close.

“What did I say about touching, Ivy?”

It was a long moment before his words from minutes ago emerged through the thick fog of lust clouding her mind.

“That I’d get my chance,” she said, “So long as I begged.”

Silco rearranged her wrists into one long-fingered hand, snatching her jaw in the harsh, punishing grip of his other.

“Yet I haven’t heard so much as a please.”

An honest attempt was cut off with a hiss as her teeth scored into her cheeks.

“What’s that?” he murmured, half-lidded eyes dropping to her wet mouth. “If this is what you want, you’re scarcely trying.”

If he let go of her, she would fall. In more ways than one. She was lost. Lost in the familiar, smoky scent of him. Disappearing in the orange swirl of that obsidian eye. And she hardly thought she’d make it out.

“Can I touch you, please?”

His gaze drank her in from up close, eyes darting, and she beat him to it, knew exactly what he was opening his mouth to ask. Where?

“Your cock. I want to touch your cock, sir” she said, words strained from her awkward positioning.

Silco’s teal eye twitched.

“May-may I?” she stammered again in the silence.

A look of genuine, dare she say fond amusement crossed his features before he balanced her, pulled forward until her hands twisted into the stiff fabric of his coat, until their lips were inches away.

“Off the table. On your knees.”

He gave her hardly a body’s worth of space to do so, but the approval ignited a fire under her skin, and she eagerly wedged herself between him and the table, slid down his front until she knelt on the floor below him.

With a flourish, he shoved the table out of the way, giving him full view of her backside in the mirror.

Her flesh hand reached forward tentatively to meet one of the buttons of his pants, eyes falling to the strained fabric at the front.

“Both hands, Ivy,” he said, her name stretched into a soft, breathless exhale as she brushed across his clothed cock, moving to undo his buttons with remarkable speed, despite her quivering form.

She reached for the other side and found her wrist in his stern grip once more.

“I said, both hands.”

In a sudden bout of frustration and shame, her forehead pressed forward against his hip flexor, nose nuzzling inward, his skin twitching as she warmed the fabric there with her hot breath.

How shameful. Couldn’t she be allowed to forget about her disfigurement, her defect, just for a moment in time?

Fingers tangled gently in her hair and her eyes rolled to peer up at him, her core pulsing wildly at the feral edge he tried to contain within that impassive expression, crooked teeth visible through his slightly parted lips.

She’d use her prosthesis. She’d do anything if he continued to look at her like that.

I’m doing this for you.

Her pleading expression urged him to understand as she struggled with the final two buttons, her captured wrist released to her once finished with an uttered praise from Silco.   

She ran her hand along the hard bulge, feeling it twitch against her palm.

Appeasing him finally, she tugged at his waistband, releasing him, eyes widening a fraction at the generous length.

She took him into palm, prosthesis planting against his hip, thumb swiping teasingly against the sensitive skin around his cock. A tattered breath was released above her and she looked up again, hungrily devouring his reactions.

Her lips were so close. She could taste him if she wanted, was sure he wouldn’t mind. Maybe flick out her tongue a bit.

She met his gaze questioningly, pumping her hand slowly up and down his shaft, swiping her thumb across the head, gathering the beads of precum there, adoring the way his tongue pressed against his teeth in response.

“Do you want to take me in your mouth? Is that it?” he asked, words holding a serrated edge.

She nodded, biting the plush of her bottom lip.

“What are you waiting for?”

Nothing anymore. She darted her tongue across the tip, groaning softly when his hand tightened painfully in her hair, and even more when she wrapped her lips fully around the weeping head, tongue swirling lightly.

Taking deep, calming breaths through her nose, she eased him slowly into the warm, wet cavern of her mouth, and he expelled a ragged, drawn-out groan in tandem with her own as the sound of his pleasure shot straight between her legs.

“You’ve wanted this since the very beginning, haven’t you?” he grit out, and her eyes shot to his. “Pleasured yourself to my fingers between your legs, to your lips wrapped around my cock like this.”

She moaned out an affirmative yes around him and he hissed.

“Dirty girl.”

As she found her rhythm, his straying hands found their way to her face, pushing the sweat dampened hair back, clearing his line of sight, calloused thumbs dragging frenzied patterns into her temples as he began to take control, fucking steadily into her.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, voice strained.

The praise warmed like fine liquor in her chest, his groaning satisfaction pushing her to take more of him with each thrust, to please him. Tears rolled down her cheeks as he hit the back of her throat, as she struggled to breathe, relaxing her jaw, eyes rolling upward as his pleasure intensified her own.

Her hand released her grip on the base of his cock, snaking its way between her legs instead.

“Look at you,” he panted, thumb swiping gently at her tears, “Working yourself so good for me.”

She keened around his cock as she worked her clit furiously, provoking a ragged growl out of Silco that was positively sinful.

“Let me see you.”

She lifted her wild gaze to his, cunt clenching around nothing at the equally untamed glint in his eye.

Let him see you.

She spread her knees wider, and her thighs burned as she pushed her body slightly upward, arching her back so he could see the outline of her fingers pumping, palm grinding as his gaze honed on the mirror’s reflection.

And all the while he uttered crooning, breathless praises to her, petting her hair as he increased pace, eyes darting between her and the mirror as if she would disappear any second.

Pleasure ripped through her and she cried out, throat widening just that last amount to push her fully forward, both hands flying out to grab his legs in support as her nose smashed into his abdomen, fully encasing him inside her humming throat.

With a shattered groan, he followed suit, his release spilling down her throat, fist tightening so excruciatingly in her hair she would have squealed if she could, eyes rolling back as pain and pleasure formed an exquisite concoction.

 She rode out the cresting waves of her orgasm with her hands wrapped tightly around the backs of his thighs until she was a twitching mess beneath him.

The blackness that had begun to take hold at the edges of her vision had her smacking his fingers on her head with increasing desperation, and he finally released her, gasping for air.

She slumped forward against him.

She breathed him in, wanted it to freeze itself, this strange moment in time: her forehead pressed reverently against his thigh, his fingers rubbing gentle, absentminded circles into her temples. She didn’t know when she’d grabbed the wrist of his left hand with her prosthesis, but it gripped there all the same.

“Clothes on.”

The tone of his voice was cryptic. Quiet.

Her body sagged and she allowed herself one final moment to mourn what may well never transpire again.

Then, swallowing dryly, did as she was told, not looking at him as she dragged her clothes back on, wondering what the hell happened now.

Grabbing her abandoned boot from in front of the mirror, she paused, eyes on her prosthesis as another wave of venomous self-doubt washed over her, brought a swell of angry tears to her eyes. At how utterly broken she was.

Tearing her gaze away, she laced her boots, standing up straight only to find Silco beside her.

Turning slow, she faced him fully, uncertainty wrinkling her brow as she dared to look upon his face, fearing something smug. Finding only a searching softness.

Ironing out the space between her brows with one thumb, he took her prosthesis in the other, eyes darting across her features as he raised it, cupping it gently across the scarred side of his face.

“We don’t hide, Ivy.”

<3

I think, with this being my first smut piece, I may have gotten a little carried away, but there you have it folks, 6.5K words of my filthy, rotten brain.

Again, I highly encourage everyone to check out @x-amount-verbs A Helping Hand, although I know most of us are obsessed with it already :) I have heart eyes for her OC and for the complex way she writes Silco. And on top of that, she's also just a lovely person.

AO3 Link if you want to toss me a kudos or a comment. It makes my entire day :)

I don't have much under my belt yet, but am starting a master list and am always looking for requests if anyone wants to send em' my way. Or just send me any and all of your unhinged thoughts, this fandom is hilarious.

Much love! <3

[op1umeyes]

Ill never be normal about him

Penance X

Priest!Silco x Fem!Reader AU (nsfw)

A nsfw multichapter little fic, dedicated to @purpurniymstitel���s inspired prompt.  One last chapter of fluff and fuckery before the proverbial shit hits the holy fan.  This one fought me, guys.  If you want warnings its just breakfast and blowjobs.  Not even a little sorry.  So much thanks to @ink-and-dagger  and @x-amount-verbs for their support and help.  🖤

“Come have breakfast when you’re ready, lamb.”

It was terribly tempting, the sudden whim that struck you to slide out of bed and make your way across the loft and into the kitchen completely nude.  Just to see what he’d do.  To relish the look on his face and see if he’d drop eyes respectfully once more as he’d done when you’d sat up in bed and the sheets had pooled under your bare breasts.  Or if he’d stare, perhaps leer silently in that sternly amused way of his, so constantly stoic save for that thin hint of a dark little smile that consistently flipped your world upside down and shook it like a snow globe.

Keep reading

[worldimaginedreaming]

Imagine Old Feelings Colliding in a New War with Silco & Vander

Part 2 – Vander x Reader x Silco

Summary: Feelings long buried rise to the surface when Silco and Vander each reach a breaking point and you're the storm between them. One shows up at your door, too angry to pretend. The other waits in the dark with regret he won’t name. You never asked to be loved by both, but now you're faced with what it means to matter this much and to maybe lose it all. Pairing: Vander x Reader x Silco Word Count: ~1,300 Warnings: Bittersweet tension, romantic confusion, longing, love triangle, unspoken hurt, implied heartbreak

There was never a right time to fall in love with two men. Especially not those two.

Not Vander, with his arms always open for everyone but his heart locked shut. Not Silco, with his words sharp enough to cut and his silence even sharper.

And definitely not in Zaun where soft things don’t last long, and love always costs more than you’re ready to pay.

But it was too late now.

Things between them had shifted. You could feel it, like tension in the air before a storm. The way Vander barely looked Silco in the eye anymore. The way Silco walked around Vander like a blade waiting to be drawn.

And you? You were stuck in the middle again.

You weren’t sure what cracked it open. Maybe it was that night Vander kissed your temple like he was saying goodbye. Or maybe it was Silco showing up on your doorstep again, same bottle, same clenched jaw, but this time staying.

He didn’t speak for a long while. Neither did you. He just sat beside you, shoulders tense, like touching you would set something off inside him.

Then he said your name. Just your name.

Quiet. Careful. The way someone says a prayer when they aren’t sure they believe anymore.

You looked at him, eyes tired but kind. “You didn’t come here to drink.”

“No.” He held your gaze. “I came because I can’t pretend anymore.”

You felt your breath catch. “Pretend what?”

“That I don’t care. That I’m fine watching him stand next to you like he’s the only one allowed to matter.”

His voice cracked near the end. He didn’t look away this time.

You didn’t know what to say.

Because truth was, you’d been carrying both of them in your chest for too long.

You didn’t choose. How could you?

Vander was a home you always came back to. Solid. Strong. He made you feel safe.

But Silco… Silco made you feel seen. He knew the mess inside you and didn’t flinch. He liked that you weren’t perfect.

And somehow, that meant more than anything.

The silence between you stretched.

Finally, you whispered, “I never wanted to hurt either of you.”

Silco looked at you like it physically hurt to hear that. “Then why does it feel like bleeding, every time you look at him that way?”

You didn’t answer.

Because maybe… he was right.

Later, you found Vander behind the bar at The Last Drop, knuckles raw from training.

“You talked to him,” he said without looking up.

“I did.”

“Do you love him?”

You hesitated.

“I love you both.”

That shut him up.

Then: “You know that can’t work, right?”

You stepped closer. “I didn’t say it would. But it’s the truth.”

Vander leaned on the bar. His voice broke around the edges. “You’re the only soft thing left in this place. He’ll ruin that.”

You reached out, hand brushing his cheek. “He’s not the only one who’s changed.”

He caught your wrist gently, eyes full of something ancient and aching. “Then maybe we all lose.”

You didn’t cry, though gods know you wanted to.

Because Vander was right.

Zaun didn’t give people like you a fair shot. It gave you war. Hard choices. Broken bonds. Love with teeth.

Still… when you left that night, neither of them stopped you.

Not Vander. Not Silco.

Maybe they didn’t know how.

Or maybe… they were hoping you’d come back. But this time, choose on of them To end the war.

A/N: Here's Part 2 and last part of" Imagine Being Taken Back to the Old Days with Young Vander and Silco" . Hope u like it @mverickss !! Have a good reading ! Lots of love ! ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Don't forget to Like, Share and Subscribe !! 🩵🩵🩵

[roxnpens]

Firefly

Chapter Two: Smokes to Ashes

TW: [child abuse] [gore] [description of psychological abuse]

If those are triggers for you please be careful or wait for the next chapter. Thank you bunnies 😘

Thanks to @deny-the-issue and @juniper-sunny for beta-reading. 🥰

__________

Chapter summary:

We take a deep dive into your past. A past full of darkness… and pain.

Taglist: @juniper-sunny @deny-the-issue @fantadym @mmartos @astudyincontrasts @averagecrastinator @ace-of-zaun @artwithvivien @zaunitekiwi @x-amount-verbs @chaoticlicense @silcosentropy @silcoitus

All the good girls go to Hell

'Cause even God herself has enemies

And once the water starts to rise

And Heaven's out of sight

She′ll want the Devil on her team

My Lucifer is lonely

There′s nothing left to save now

My god is gonna owe me

There's nothing left to save now

Your encounter with Vander left a serious impression on you. Just from his looks, you would have never thought that he would be a gentle giant. But he seems to be a good guy and you kinda liked that you pulled the gig on the enforcers together without even the need to exchange words.

While you were walking the streets heading to the Last Drop you were caught by the impressions around you. The rain stopped pouring like floods from the sky and was now more like light summer drizzles. The mud under your boots began to recover from the flood treatment it received and slowly began to dry. You walked by many little alleys with old and crumbling buildings… if you were honest with yourself the name “shacks” would describe it better since it's just building ruins that received an “Undercity treatment” of metal plates, nails and a LOT of good hope. The noise of children playing before the shacks pulled you out of your observations and captured your every ounce of attention. The tiny humans played catch and their laughter echoed from the metal surrounding them and you enjoyed the sound it made.

The next thing you encountered were other children who didn’t play but instead stood around a metal bin from which a fire rose steadily into the air. A certain smell got up your nose - rising further and further up your nose like vines crawling up a house wall to reach the shining sun. When the smell reached your brain it triggered a mechanism that reopened a long-forgotten memory - pushed so far down the well of remembrance that you could physically feel the monster sinking its claws into your flesh again.

The smell that caught up in your nose was the scent of burning oak, mixed with burning metal. You kept walking down the gloomy streets, but your demon caught up with you and they brought you back to your childhood, where the monsters had human faces…

You were what - 6, 7 years old? When the Enforcers brought you to Piltover. Away from your family and into a world you could have never even imagined. For the first time in forever, you had your own room, and your own bed… but no family.

Right from the beginning you were put aside, like the cast out that you are - or as the other Piltover kids said with their noses high up in the sky: “The amphibian from the Undercity”. It hurt a lot every time they said that but your dad could land harder punches than that, and while those roaches thought about new ways to hurt you, you learned and learned and learned everything you could get your hands on. In the end, you were the one with the best grades and the best results overall in school.

But after school… oh… you hated the time after school. Every day you had to train your arcane magic in the well-known academy of Piltover… which didn’t work at first. In the first months, you couldn’t even ignite a spark in your hand, while in the Undercity you could throw fireballs the size of your head and as hot as the sun. Your overseer was a grim and cold-hearted Junior Sheriff Enforcer and his name was Jackal Sparks. A name that will burn itself into your memory, never to be lost in the fog of oblivion that clouds many minds with increasing age. Junior Sheriff Sparks was a tall and expansively broadly built man, who was brimming with strength that you couldn’t help but imagine that he would break your neck like he breaks matchwoods in half. He has black well styled hair in which he took a lot of pride - measured by the frequency he touched it. All of his subordinates feared him and his rage tantrums - which he mostly unleashed upon you. True to his name, he mostly used electrical run weapons on you like his beloved Long-Rod-Taser he named “Tickler” … for obvious reasons. During one of your lessons on using your magic, there was this little, hairy, doglike creature standing at one of the windows of the academy. He was watching as you tried your best to perform something that was praised to be outstanding and world-changing. Yet - you couldn’t help but notice a steady sad glance in his eyes - like he was pitying you for what you have to endure. Many months later after your first exchange of sights, he found you crying and shaking, leaning on a wall in the academy. You recovered from one of Sparks’ treatments to bring out your magic, where he burned your back so horribly that it was covered with large burn bubbles, hot and wet as a sauna. You remember crystal clear how he reached for your hand, petting it without words as you cried your eyes out. He said not a single word so that your wailing was the only sound that echoed through the corridors.

After some time - you couldn’t say how long it took for you to finally adjust a bit to the pain, he spoke to you with the most calming voice you heard so far.

“Now dearest, is it a bit better?” Fascinated by the voice and still hoarse from your everlasting cry episode you could only nod in consent. The little creature put on the sweetest smile which gave you a feeling of security like nothing had in a long time.

“Good, very good. My name is Professor Heimerdinger and what’s yours, little butterfly?” he asked, his voice still soothing your physical wounds. With a trembling voice, you tell him your name and strangely enough, it feels good to do so. Professor Heimerdinger seems to be one of the nicer people on this planet, so you ask him the one thing that you wanted to ask him since you first saw him watch your “training”.

“Professor Heimerdinger… Why did you watch my training back then? You always seem so sad while watching…”

Heimerdinger clears his throat and gives you what you would classify as an unsure look. “I…”, he clears his throat again, “… was accidentally walking by one of the windows that led to one of the training halls. When I saw what they did to you… I couldn't avert my eyes from it. The sight was simply horrific - to see a young beautiful girl getting tortured to the very brim of her existence…and knowing I can’t intercept this malice.”, he explains.

You couldn’t understand much of what he said because he used strange words you had never heard before, but it sounded like he was not fine with the way you were being trained. So you asked, “Professor - it is training like it should be isn’t it? So you don’t need to be sad about normal things.”

Heimerdinger sighed, “No dear… what you have to endure… nobody else has to and it shouldn’t be `normal` for it is not.”

He suddenly takes a look behind him where heavy footsteps could be heard. “Now dear, you need to see a doctor or your injuries will get worse,” he informs you and you stand up slowly. He takes your hand again and you both quickly leave the corridor into another one to avoid the approaching footsteps which could only be Enforcer boots. Heimerdinger takes you down endless corridors inside the academy, past boards for students who study mechanics, history, mathematics, even art, and past laboratories for chemical experiments until you reach a huge iron door. Your newly acquired skill of reading tells you that here is the academy's sick wing. Heimerdinger reached for the handle of the door but unfortunately was too short for it. You reacted immediately and pushed the handle down yourself.

Again with a smile on his face, he said, “Thank you dear - unfortunately Mother Nature didn’t expect that people from my species will have definite problems in a ‘bigger world’.” You smiled for the first time in a long while and it felt good - like a little spark that warmed your chest. Together you walked through the iron door and closed it behind you.

You stood in one of the largest rooms you've ever been in. The ceiling of the room was so high, that you had problems seeing the exact pictures and statues at it. You kept walking - your mouth wide open from astonishment, watching everything that your eyes could lay sight on. Unfortunately, your astonishment couldn’t last very long, because a new wave of pain leaped through your body - making you bend your back backward in an attempt to release the pain. Heimerdinger flinched a little in your direction and waved to an elderly woman, judging from her clothing, a nurse, to come over to him. You stopped a few feet from them still caught in the wave of pain, but a small clear of his throat broke the focus of the pain on you and your head turned to him.

He called you to his side and introduced you to the nurse. “Little butterfly, this is Madame Wonders - as her name suggests: she can heal your every wound like magic. Not real magic like yours, but something equally impressive. Now why don’t you go with her and let her patch you up?”, he suggested and his hands directed you to Madame Wonders.

A little unsure if you can trust her, you put one foot after another. Madame Wonders extended her hands to you and spoke with her warm elderly voice, “Come, dear, let's get you fixed up so that you can play with the other kids and go to school again.”

“I don’t want to play with the others - they’re mean and I don’t want to practice the stupid magic anymore. That’s what got me here and I don’t want it anymore - I don’t want to get hurt anymore…”, everything that you’ve been carrying in your little heart just started floating out your mouth and you couldn't stop yourself. You wanted somebody to hear what you have had to bear throughout the last months. Madame Wonders and Heimerdinger listened patiently to every word you said and only the Madame’s hands on your shoulders stopped you from crying again.

A brief exchange of glances between them and Heimerdinger said just one tiny sentence that put your mind to rest, “Never again - I … will … find a way so that you don’t get hurt anymore.”

After Madame Wonders put you on a padded treatment table with your back to her, she started to treat the burns on your back. She cut your shirt open and removed it as carefully as she could, then she examined the burns which had already started to blister. Every time she started to do something, she explained it and you could always ask further questions. This way you learned how to classify burns and how to treat them. Plus your pain wasn’t that present during the procedure, because Madame Wonders always kept your brain on the subject. At the end of the treatment, your back was covered in a cooling ointment and bandaged completely.

“Now dear…”, she said, sitting right next to you, taking one of your hands. “… your burns are bad, which is why we need to change your bandages every day or the burns will stay for a long time. So for the next time, you will just go to school and do no training.”

Your eyes began to shine and the fire inside you started to flare out again.

You felt it again - the “Amber of the Undercity” as your mother called it. The power within you creates the heat on your skin until a thought ignites it into a raging flame. You could feel how the fire magic once again made its way through every fiber of your body - breathing new life into every cell of your body. ‘What a bit of safety can do‘ you thought to yourself and concentrated your magic to the palm of your right hand. At first, just heat rose from your open palm, so you concentrated more and a little amber ignited. It was tiny, very tiny and that was not enough for you, so brought your thumb and index finger together and snapped them. A full-grown flame ignited high and hot from your palm - illuminating the room with a new source. Heimerdinger and Madame Wonders watched you invoke magic - full fascination and on Heimerdinger’s site with a little bit of fear.

Your eyes began to shine and you looked at Heimerdinger full of joy like a kid on Christmas Day “I … I can do it again. Professor - I can do it again. I can summon the fire again,“ you said with tears of relief in your eyes.

At this moment, a loud clapping startled you out of your euphoria. Sparks stood at the door, clapping his hands with a wide smile on his face. Instantly the flame in your hand went out and fear painted your face in every shade of horror.

“Well done little one, well done. Finally, we can train you properly and for what you were brought here,” he said while walking towards you.

In an attempt to get away from him, you jumped behind the treatment table and crouched. You know it was not effective, but you just needed to buy some time to find a physical weapon, since your fear cut off your magic. On one of the tablets you could spot a scalpel, so you dashed toward it, grabbed it, and held it against your tormentor. A look of amusement graced his face and he walked towards you while holding his arms outstretched beside him.

“Now, now, little rat - don’t get feisty with me. Be a good little rat and come to the cat.“

“That is enough, Junior Sheriff Sparks,” said Heimerdinger with a serious voice and walked in your direction.

“Careful now, yodel. You were allowed to watch the training session because the sheriff had a liking for the little rat. If you get in my way, I will teach you a lesson and if somebody asks how you got yourself the treatment - I will simply give them a lie,”, the smile on his face widened as he looked at Heimerdinger from the corner of his eyes.

What a bad man. What a truly devilish creature. Like a nightmare that climbed off an old Undercity fairytale. The kind of fairytale, which was used to teach you to fear the Enforcers and all of Piltover - like the thing your mom told you - about the boy and the dream.

The boy that stood on the bridge to Piltover looking at the waves of the river imagining a better life, when an Enforcer walked up to him. The Enforcer asked the boy why he stared at the waves and the boy answered that he wanted to go to school and become an industrialist. The boy said he wanted to make the life of everybody better and proof that the Undercity also has things to offer people would want. The enforcer said 'You wish’ and pushed the boy over the railing of the bridge into roaring waves. You never got to know what became of the boy, but you don’t want to end up like him. Ever.

Sparks chuckle ripped you out of your memory and you focused on him. In a desperate act of fear, you ducked away under his arms and stabbed him in the stomach with the scalpel. He howled in pain as his face contorted in anger. He grabbed the handle of Tickler when the iron door burst open and a new wave of enforcers entered the room including a young woman who looked very important with the way everybody made way for her.

“Sparks - what are you doing? Where is the girl?“ she asked in a harsh tone.

“Sh-, Sheriff Grayson, ma‘am,“ Sparks stuttered - holding his midsection where the scalpel was still in place. The fear of Sparks was still turning your face into a grimace, but the young sheriff walked to you slowly and reached out a hand in your direction.

“It’s alright, little one. Nobody will harm-“

“Liar!!“, you screamed in her face and Sheriff Grayson involuntarily shrieked back.

Salty streams ran down your cheeks as you stood in shock in the sick bay. Sheriff Grayson came closer, but it was too close for your hurt soul. You fell on your knees cowering on the ground and hoping, praying to Janna that they would finally leave you alone.

As if “the Amber” could finally detect the danger surrounding you - it activated itself and surrounded you in a wall of flames. They covered your body completely, without burning you. The flames tore off the bandages within the first moments of the flare and revealed to everybody the damage you had taken. Yet only Sheriff Grayson grimaced in shame and sympathy, while from the other enforcers, only whispers could be heard. Things like: “What an abomination of nature.”, “We should kill her before she can kill us.” Or “Sparks was right - the rat has no worth beyond her fire shit.” The flames licked over every single wound, every single bruise, and as if by magic they disappeared, leaving little scars on only the worst. Sheriff Grayson could only watch - her eyes a mixture of fear and fascination. When you were exhausted beyond your physical limits - your vision blackened and you sagged sideways. Whatever happened now was beyond your control.

“My my. Poor child,” said Sheriff Grayson with her eyes on you. You looked like a miserable bundle of meat. Now rage sparked in her chest and she turned ferociously towards Sparks and gripped the handle of the scalpel. Face to face she asked him, “What have you done with the girl that she is so afraid - huh?”. She shakes the scalpel a little in the wound, which got Sparks howling in pain.

Quickly his eyes shoot back to Grayson with a devilish smile and an emotion behind those eyes that can be described as hell's gates in his eyes - dark, sinister, and all bad. And with this smile, he answered her: “You wanted me to train the little rat, only that she refused to follow my orders and didn’t train at all. So I got the lazy rat running. And… all it should take… was a little… encouragement…from Tickler.”

Sheriff Grayson couldn’t believe what message her ears and head just received. It felt like a call to arms, where you know that you march into a fight that can not be won, no matter how hard you fight. “Sparks… you are hereby demoted from your rank as ‘Junior Sheriff’ and I’ll order an investigation with subsequent legal proceedings against you. Let your wound be treated and report to the Council representative for any further questions regarding legal consequences. Dismissed!"

Spark kept smiling while he walked past Sheriff Grayson only answering a short, “Yes Ma’am”, and walking to Madame Wonders to let his wound be treated.

Meanwhile Professor Heimerdinger walked up to her and they both walked outside for a little private conversation. “Well done Sheriff, well done. Justice prevailed once more today!”, said Heimerdinger with an unknown happiness in his voice, but Grayson knew it better.

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Professor. Sparks has friends in high places and to make matters worse: the council hates the Undercity and its people even more than all of the Noxian legates who are present in Piltover right now. This action just now could also be me sailing against the wind… who knows…”, she held her head down, lost in thought if she really made the right decision.

“Nonsense dear.”, cuts Heimerdinger's voice through her fog of thought. “Your decision was right - no matter where we come from or under which circumstances we are born, everyone deserves a chance to reach the very top of their abilities.”

Grayson was downright impressed, she never really thought about it that much, but she agreed with Heimerdinger. With a smile on her lips she asked, “Did you make that up right now?”

“No dear…”, now Heimerdinger smiles too “… it is a part of my ‘Back to school speech’. It’s as old as these hallways.”

You awakened in your room again. But surprisingly your back didn’t hurt anymore - but your whole body was kind of sore. Moaning and groaning, you sat up and were greeted by a letter on your nightstand. You grabbed the fancy-looking paper and opened the envelope.

“Meet me in my office, when you’ve rested. Be dressed for training, and don’t fear Sparks - he won't be there for a while.

~ Sheriff Grayson”

You had to read the letter three times over before you could really realize its existence in your hand. The Sheriff orders you to come to her office… fear crept up in your chest again. Opening up a pitch-black hole which eats everything light and happy. You dropped the letter like it burns your skin and crawled into the far corner of your bed. You couldn’t go - they would kill you as soon as you opened the door, for what you did yesterday… and then you would end up like the boy… buried in the river waves.

‘No, no, no, no, no!‘, you said to yourself like a mantra to command the evil demons from you that want to devour your heart and mind. Eat you alive and drag you to the deepest depths of Janna‘s punitive prison for all the wrongdoers and criminals. Because that's what you are by birth - a criminal… a rat from the Undercity. Worthy of nothing but the dirt under someone else's boots. You fold your hands protectively over your head - reliving the torture of Sparks in your head for the God-knows-how-many times. You cried, cried even more, cried until you ran out of tears and further. The demon wouldn’t let go of your heart and body, squeeze it, twist it, tormenting itself. Then all of a sudden you heard a scream outside of your window. You shrieked hard but at the same time your attention shifted fully to the scream. There was another and another and another - not screams of pain… more like battle cries. While standing up from the bed you dried your tears with the tip of the shirt you wear for sleeping and slowly walked to the window.

The moment your eyes peeked outside of the window, you could see the rising sun, and standing in the rising sun were men bathed in sweat, training. You saw people doing hand-to-hand combat - fists flying so fast you could barely follow them until one of them landed on the ground hard, a cut on his face. In the other corner of the training field, you could see people training with long sticks - they were as long as two third of their body, so you guess. Swinging them like athletes in a circus the men hit each other with the stick parrying, blocking, dodging, and landing blows. You could barely hear the whistle on the outside of your window, but the men suddenly stop and give their sticks to other men and, then started the stick-fighting.

In the down left corner was a separate space, which was marked and only walkable through a single entrance. You see Enforcers with pistols and rifles aiming at drawn silhouettes of people.

You hear someone shouting “Ready…Aim…FIRE!!“ and then you hear countless bullets fly, hitting the silhouettes in various places, hitting the wall behind them, flying into the red to blue drawn sky.

“CEASE FIRE!!!“ and every person shooting immediately stops and secures their weapon. Now they all walk to the tattered papers and seem to discuss who’s bullet flew where and why. You roll your eyes - totally boring. Then you see her - the sheriff standing on the side, watching her soldiers like a shepherd does his sheep. Her eyes wandered over the training ground - watching every move, every behavior between the soldiers. She seems lost in thoughts for a moment and her eyes climb up the house walls like sunbeams illuminating the world and she spots you at your window. You can only vaguely see her smile, but she waves at you and gestures for you to come down to her.

Her smile was as warm as the sun and the warmth filled you inside out, blasting away all the demons that had held their deadly grip on you. With the sunlight making your feet fly, you got dressed for training and flew out to the training grounds.

You stormed out of the front door to the grounds only to be met with angry men looking at you like you’re yesterday's toast. So you stopped dead in your tracks, terrified. But you stood your ground, didn’t flinch, didn’t move a bit.

“It’s ok boys, let her go - she’s going to train with us for a while now.“, said a female voice. A big ‚OH‘ made its round among the men and everybody went back to their training. You saw Sheriff Grayson making her way to you, just casually walking between the men like she is on a stroll in the city center. She stopped right in front of you and smiled. “So little one, are you better now?“

You nodded because your voice just had the idea to make itself comfortable in your throat and not come out of your mouth.

“Does your back still hurt?“ You shake your head to say ‚no‘.

Sheriff Grayson tilted her head to one side. “Can you still speak or did you snore so loudly in your sleep that you lost your voice?“ she said and her smile now changed into something challenging. You could hold yourself from giggling. “Now little one, I don’t want to call you ‘Little One‘ all day - so please tell me your name.“

You tell her your name and hold out your hand to Sheriff Grayson like your mother taught you. Grayson bows down to your level takes your hand and gently shakes it.

“It’s very nice to finally meet you properly.” she said. You began to really like Sheriff Grayson - she never talked you down all the time and treats you like an actual human being with dignity.

She signals you to follow her and the both of you walk to the area of the training ground she calls “the martial arts mats“. You had no idea what ‘martial arts‘ are - but you were sure that you would soon find out. On arriving at the mats you saw an elderly man, shouting orders at the Enforcers and them obeying as their life depended on it. He turned to the Sheriff once you were close enough, saluting.

“Vise, I give our new recruit to you - train her in everything she needs to know for our job. About her other…“ she stumbled a bit on how to describe something, “… ability - we will find out how to train it. So please focus on making her a model Enforcer - I know she has the capabilities to be the best in our core.“

The old man's face showed an expression that you could mistake for a smile of excitement and happiness - you really couldn’t say for sure. Sheriff Grayson grins for a moment before walking away. Then all of a sudden Vice grabbed your left wrist and dragged you right into the middle of one ring. There he stands opposite you, fists his hands, and takes the position of a heavyweight boxer. The front fist is at his shoulder level and the second fist provides a cover over his chest.

“Try this, grasshopper.“, he says with a smile, his eyes pointed directly at you. Without an answer, you try to mimic his position and when you had a good stand, he quickly threw a punch at you. Your eyes widen your heart rate increases, and the fear of being hurt rattles your entire body. In an attempt to protect yourself, you step backward and by a hair's breadth, you dodge it.

“You are a natural, grasshopper,” says Vise and motions for you to attack him. You are y so scared you could shit yourself, so you step now forward, close your eyes, and hope to land the punch. A fist lands in your face so hard that you are thrown off your feet and painfully land on your back.

“NO GRASSHOPPER, NEVER CLOSE YOUR EYES. NOT UNLESS YOU WANNA DIE,“ Vice yells at you and his face starts to glow red in rage. He has the same commanding voice as Sparks and every brain cell in you engages unknown defense mechanisms within you. You step back in fear, every fiber in your body screams fire, and on your shoulders, flames start to flare up. You hold your hands in front of you as a defense against your opponent. Now all eyes are on you in a mix of fear and fascination for the unknown. Vice steps back - rather than fear, confusion painted his face. Sheriff Grayson came running towards you but stopped dead in her tracks when she sees you’re unharmed- also watching you in fascination.

“Don’t hurt me…“ your voice cracked and you started crying again. Your body started hurting again, which only fueled your fire. The mats around your feet began to crack open, change colors and burn up slowly. Know you can hear weapons being drawn and pointed right at you from various directions - all with malicious intentions.

“Stand down!“, Sheriff Graysons’ voice echoed through the tense air but yet nobody intended to follow her orders. “I SAID STAND DOWN!“ she yelled.

After that incident and after you calmed down Vice apologized for his temper and that he yelled at you and the Sheriff explained that Sparks tortured you for your fire powers. That his treatment probably caused trauma inside you. Vice didn’t answer - he instead took you by the arm again and you got into the ring again. This time he explained the steps more patiently and you quickly adapted to them. You trained all day until the sun went down - you didn’t even notice how time flew.

“That’s enough for today, grasshopper. We will continue tomorrow,” Vice said and he made a proud face. “You did well on your first day of training. Have you had to fight before?“

“Well…“, you tried to remember when exactly you fought for the first time. “… I had to fight a lot in the Undercity. There is never enough for us - I was hungry a lot of times because other kids stole my food. So I had to show them that they shouldn’t do that. Then there was that thing in the mines…“

Vices brows shoot up. “You were in the mines? Children shouldn’t be there!“, he said and you just shrugged - did he have no idea what’s going on in the Undercity?

“Yeah I was in the mines. It’s the only way to get money to buy food.“, you shrugged again - he really had no idea how things run down there. “It’s actually not that bad, but thanks to my special ability people thought I could withstand the toxic gas better than others. I couldn‘t - but in time I could breathe the air in the mines more easily. And so I could earn more money for more food - easy math right?“ The next hour you both stared into the sundown until the sky was covered in dark blue and sprinkled with the prettiest of stars - shining like diamonds in a light beam.

The whole team was shocked to hear Vice apologizing to somebody at all - he was not exactly known for having any feelings. But after training together - you and Vice became very close on a professional basis and of course, Sparks returned after the “internal investigation“ went by “without any recognizable misdemeanors“. So of course he was responsible to train you again. This time under close supervision of Vice and the Sheriff. But whenever Sparks was alone with you - the torture continued until you graduated and got a job as a special force enforcer. After that Sparks couldn’t get close to you anymore, but every time you met him, he had this… absurd behavior of staring at you with his slimy smile and a disgusting shine in his eyes.

During the rest of your training, you learned everything an Enforcer needed and perfected every skill to the highest level so that you became a model among the Enforcers. You know every martial art style from Piltover (Vice even trained you in the martial arts style of Noxus - the country where he was born), you learned how to spy, how to silence your target from the shadows, how to shoot with any kind of short distance weapon, how to sharp shoot people in the distance and how to squeeze information out of people to and use it against them. They called you a “Model rat“ behind your back. Just like in school, it hurt - but your father still could hit harder.

Yet ever since that moment of self-defense nobody except Vice and Sheriff Grayson looked at you like a person but more like a real-life monster…

End of Chapter 2

Billie Eilish „all the good girls go to hell“ (end of chapter)

[aspenmissing]

hope you are doing well!!! i’ve missed your writing so much i love reading your stuff before going to sleep 😭🫶. would you maybe mind writing silcoxreader where they meet when they are younger (like freedom fighter silco) and reader is like a musician, a singer to be precise (a lucy gray type of person). they have this complicated relationship bc they love each other but bc they are young, but most importantly have bigger things going on (fighting for a free zaun through fight and music respectively) they kind of forget to emotionally mature and communicate their feelings properly. then maybe it cuts to them in the future as chem baron silco and reader as a very successful singer crossing paths again, now that they have both matured

ꜱᴏɴɢꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴄɪᴛʏ

ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ || 3846 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ?

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏᴏᴏᴏᴏᴏ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ! ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ, ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴏᴏ! ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ɢʟᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ʜᴇʟᴘꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴀʟʟ ᴀꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ (ʜᴏᴘᴇꜰᴜʟʟʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ!). ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ, ɪ ᴀᴍ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ꜰᴀɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴘʟɪᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴜɴꜱᴀɪᴅ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ʙʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ

The sounds of Zaun were alive in a way few could understand—an eternal cacophony of clashing gears, groaning pipes, and the hum of restless energy that filled the air like smoke. Beneath that constant buzz, the city’s heart beat not in rhythm but in survival, in survival at any cost. Yet amidst the ceaseless grind of machinery, there was a quieter pulse—a heartbeat, steady and resilient—that belonged to the few who still believed in something beyond the steel and smoke. For Y/N, that pulse was music. Her voice rose above the noise, cutting through the grime and despair, a melody woven with dreams of freedom and hope.

She would sing in the shadowed corners of Zaun’s hidden taverns and underground gatherings, where the only light was the flicker of candles and lanterns struggling to stay alight. Her songs were both a tribute and a weapon. A tribute to the resilience of the downtrodden, a weapon aimed at those who sought to silence them. She sang for the broken, the forgotten, and the dreamers. Her voice echoed down the alleyways, weaving through the air like the last vestiges of sunlight breaking through the smog.

=

One evening, when the dim light from the lanterns cast long shadows across the floor, Silco first found her. He had heard whispers of her—a singer whose voice could stir the soul, whose presence could quiet even the most hardened hearts. But nothing could prepare him for the raw power in her music. He had never been one to care for sentimentality, for dreams or idealism, yet as he stood at the edge of the crowd, watching her with an intensity that seemed to cut through the haze of his own thoughts, he felt something stirring inside him. Something he could not name.

He had been fighting for Zaun’s freedom for so long that he no longer remembered a time when he had a purpose beyond it. It consumed him—every strategy, every attack, every sacrifice. But here, in the presence of her music, he remembered something else: hope. Not the naive, ungrounded kind, but the kind that had long since been buried under layers of bloodshed and broken promises.

When their eyes met, there was no instant understanding, no sudden connection. She was too absorbed in her music, in the passion of her performance, and he was too wrapped up in the endless cycle of his revolution. But something about her presence unsettled him. She was a distraction, he knew that. Yet every night he returned to listen, drawn to the music that seemed to call to a part of him he had long since abandoned.

It became a routine for him. The secret underground tavern, dimly lit and filled with smoke, was where he found her every week, every time he could steal a moment away from the fight. She would be there, standing in the center of the room, her voice raw and beautiful, her eyes closed in passion, as if she was pouring out everything she had into each note.

=

One night, after a particularly fiery performance, he found himself closer to the stage than usual, his eyes fixed on her. Her music made his chest tighten, a feeling that had no place in his hardened existence. The crowd thinned as her song ended, but she lingered in the silence, her gaze catching his from across the room.

"You're always here," she said, her voice low, but it carried a softness to it that caught him off guard. There was no accusation, just curiosity.

“I find your music... stirring,” Silco replied, his voice measured, as if he was speaking to a potential ally, though he wasn’t sure why he added the latter.

“You don’t seem like the kind of person who enjoys something as... fleeting as music,” she said, tilting her head with a soft smile, though her eyes were full of an understanding that made him pause.

“It’s more than that,” he answered, and then, sensing his words falling short, he looked away. "Sometimes, it's the only thing that makes sense."

She hummed a soft tune under her breath. "I understand," she said quietly. "Zaun is... many things. But it doesn’t have to be all noise." She set her guitar down, leaning on it as though it were the only thing that kept her grounded. "What’s your name?"

"Silco," he said, no hesitation in his voice. Names didn't mean much these days, but something about her made it feel like she deserved to know.

"Silco," she repeated thoughtfully. "Why are you really here, Silco?" Her voice, though gentle, carried an edge to it—a challenge.

He shifted, feeling the weight of her question press down on him. "Fighting for a future. A better Zaun," he said, his words clipped, careful. The city he fought for was a world away from the music that filled this room, and yet it all seemed to hang together in a strange kind of harmony.

"That’s all?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. “I think you’re here for something more.”

His gaze snapped back to hers. There it was again—the sense that she could see past the surface, deeper than anyone ever could. It unsettled him, but it also intrigued him. “Maybe,” he muttered, unsure of himself for the first time in a long while.

The tension between them was palpable, the air thick with unspoken words. He wasn’t sure if it was the quiet understanding between them or the sharp intensity in her eyes, but there was something drawing him closer.

But just as he took a step forward, a shout broke the moment. The tavern door flew open, a man barging in, calling for Silco. Without missing a beat, Silco turned away, his duties pulling him back into the harsh reality of Zaun’s underworld.

The days continued to blur together, their meetings growing more frequent but no less complicated. Silco would walk into the tavern, his footsteps quiet yet purposeful, and find her there—always singing, always in control of the space. Each time he arrived, he found himself drawn to her, to the way she made the chaos around them seem less overwhelming. He never fully understood why he couldn’t stay away, but he couldn’t fight the pull either.

Y/N, for her part, had grown used to his presence. She’d begun to expect it, and yet, the uncertainty between them never quite faded. They never spoke of the growing tension, the attraction that seemed to hover just out of reach. Instead, they spent their time in quiet conversation, sharing moments of silence that spoke louder than words.

=

One evening, as Silco entered the tavern, he noticed a different energy in the air. The usual din of conversations and laughter seemed distant, muted. Y/N was sitting at the bar, a glass of water in hand, but her eyes were distant, as though she were lost in thought. He approached cautiously, his gaze drawn to her.

She looked up when he reached her, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them felt heavier than usual, more palpable.

Finally, Y/N broke the stillness. “I have something to tell you,” she said, her voice soft but firm.

Silco regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “What is it?”

She hesitated, but then let out a breath, as though she were gathering the courage to share something important. “I’ve been offered a deal,” she said quietly, eyes meeting his. “Piltover wants me to sing at one of their high-profile events. They want me to perform for their elite, for a price that... well, let’s just say it’s more than I’ve ever imagined.”

Silco’s brow furrowed, his gaze hardening. “Piltover?” He couldn’t mask the scepticism in his voice. He knew what Piltover represented to Zaun—oppression, control. He didn’t trust them, not one bit.

Y/N nodded slowly, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her glass. “I know it sounds like a dream, a way out, but it’s not just about the money. It’s a chance to make a name for myself, to reach a wider audience. Something bigger than this... than all of this.” She paused, her voice growing softer. “But the thing is, I don’t want to go alone.”

Silco’s gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, she could see something unguarded in his eyes. “You want me to go with you?” he asked, his voice low, the weight of his question hanging between them.

Y/N took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. “Yes,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to come with me, Silco. Not just to Piltover, but to something more. I don’t want to keep doing this... pretending like everything is just business, like we don’t feel what’s between us.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Silco couldn’t speak. His mind raced, thoughts swirling with the weight of the decision she was asking him to make. Piltover, the city that had never given Zaun a second thought. How could he, the leader of Zaun’s revolution, abandon his people for a life of luxury and fame? He’d always told himself that he couldn’t afford to care about anything beyond the revolution, but now, faced with her words, he wondered if he’d been lying to himself all along.

Y/N’s eyes were searching his, hopeful but uncertain. She could see the conflict in his expression, the way his mind was torn between two worlds.

Finally, Silco spoke, his voice rough, as though the words were difficult to shape. “I can’t. I can’t leave Zaun, not like that. Not for a life of... comfort, no matter how much it might offer.”

She swallowed, a wave of disappointment crashing over her. She had known, somewhere deep down, that this was always going to be the answer. But hearing him say it, hearing the finality in his tone, still stung.

“You have your revolution,” she said softly, her gaze dropping to the table. “And I have my music. I guess that’s just how it’s meant to be, huh?”

Silco didn’t know what to say to that. He couldn’t deny the truth in her words, but it didn’t make the pain any easier to bear. He couldn’t explain the emptiness that filled him as she spoke—empty, yet full of longing, like a part of him was already slipping away.

“You don’t have to make a choice between those things, Y/N,” he said quietly. “But I’ve made mine. This city... it’s everything to me. I can’t just walk away, not now.”

There was a long pause before she spoke again, her voice tinged with sadness but resolute. “I understand. I knew, deep down, you’d choose Zaun over everything else.”

He didn’t reply right away. He couldn’t. The words felt like they’d get stuck in his throat. Instead, he reached for her hand across the table, a rare gesture of tenderness. “But I’ll always be here,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on her. “In my own way.”

Y/N met his gaze, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause, as if the weight of everything they had shared was hanging between them, suspended in time.

“I’ll be here too,” she whispered, though there was a sense of finality in her tone. She would leave for Piltover, pursue her dreams, but she would never forget this—never forget the connection they had. It would always be a part of her.

And so, they sat there for a long while, the space between them both tender and painful, as the world outside continued to move on.

The years had carved their mark on Zaun, and even deeper on its people. The streets, once full of hope, were now a patchwork of broken dreams, dark alleys, and the bitter scent of lost possibilities. Silco, the man who had once fought for the freedom of his people, had become something darker—a king in the shadows. The fire that had once burned in him for a better Zaun was now a cold, calculating flame, fueling his hunger for control. The ideals of revolution had become a distant memory, replaced by the harsh reality of power. His vision for Zaun had transformed into a kingdom built on fear, a system in which loyalty was purchased and trust was a currency few could afford.

Y/N, too, had changed. The girl who had once dreamed of music as a means to heal the broken city had grown into something far more complicated. She had become a celebrated voice, not just in Zaun, but in Piltover as well. Her songs, filled with the cries of the oppressed, had spread like wildfire through the streets, reaching ears in both the gilded halls of Piltover’s elite and the crumbling tenements of Zaun. But as her fame had grown, so had the distance between her and the world she once fought for. The songs that had once been her lifeline, her way of connecting to the people of Zaun, now felt like an echo. The fire in her heart that had once burned with passion had long since dimmed, leaving behind only embers of a love she could never fully shake.

Despite her rise to fame, the city she had once sung for felt increasingly distant, as if it belonged to someone else. She was a symbol, a figurehead of resistance, but she no longer felt that spark of hope she had once had. Her lyrics, filled with the same yearnings for freedom, seemed hollow now. She had become a voice for the voiceless, but even her own voice felt like it was starting to fade into the background of a world she no longer understood.

It was at one of the grandest galas Piltover had ever thrown—a celebration of the wealth and opulence that kept the divide between the cities wider than ever—that Y/N would once again cross paths with the man who had been the fire in her life. The room was glittering with jewels and expensive perfumes, filled with the laughter and chatter of Piltover’s finest, while the streets below pulsed with the ache of injustice. Y/N stood at the side of the stage, her heart heavy as she prepared to perform. The music was her escape, her way to reach across the divide between herself and a world she no longer recognized. But tonight, it was different. The weight of the city, the weight of her past, was pulling her down.

She had known she would be performing at this gala, but she hadn’t expected to feel this pulled, this disconnected. The spotlight was on her, but her mind kept drifting elsewhere—back to Zaun, back to the past she had tried so hard to leave behind. And then, as her voice began to fill the room, her eyes landed on him. Across the hall, standing near the back, was Silco.

He was impossible to miss. Even in the opulence of Piltover, his presence cut through the room like a knife. He stood apart from the crowd, his posture rigid and his eyes cold and calculating. He hadn’t changed much. The sharpness of his features was still the same, though they had grown more weathered over the years, his face harder, as if time had sculpted him into something more unforgiving. The fire that had once driven him to fight for Zaun’s freedom had been replaced by a cold, unyielding resolve. He was no longer the passionate leader of a revolution, but a ruler of something far darker.

For a moment, Y/N faltered, her voice catching in her throat. The lyrics to the song felt heavier, more poignant, as if they carried the weight of everything that had passed between them. She tried to focus on the crowd, to lose herself in the music, but Silco’s gaze burned into her. It was the same gaze he had given her all those years ago—the same look that had once ignited a fire within her. But now, it felt like a distant memory, a ghost of something long lost. The song spilled from her lips, but the words felt different now. They carried the ache of her own yearning, the heaviness of a past she could never escape.

When her set was over, Y/N quickly retreated backstage, her breath shaky. The song had been harder to sing than she’d expected, and the moment she had locked eyes with Silco had only intensified the weight on her chest. She tried to steady her hands, to shake off the remnants of the emotions that still clung to her, but it was impossible. Her heart was still racing, her mind still reeling from the brief moment of connection. She had hoped—no, she had convinced herself—that she could move on. That she could forget him, forget Zaun, forget the dreams they had shared. But seeing him again, standing there as if nothing had changed, shattered that illusion.

She couldn’t ignore it any longer. She had to see him.

=

Later that evening, as the gala continued in full swing, Y/N slipped away from the festivities, her movements quiet and deliberate. She had always been good at disappearing, at slipping into the shadows when she needed to. She made her way through the corridors, away from the prying eyes of Piltover’s elite, and found herself in a quiet, dimly lit alcove. And there, in the half-light, stood Silco.

He hadn’t moved from his spot, and he didn’t seem surprised to see her. He stood as if he owned the shadows, his dark eyes scanning her with that same unreadable expression. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word, but she could feel the years of distance between them in the silence. It wasn’t the reunion she had imagined. She had thought there would be words, maybe anger, maybe even reconciliation. But it was only the weight of what had been—and what could never be again.

“You’re still here,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. There was a touch of surprise in her voice, but more than that, there was a tinge of something old, something that never quite left. A reminder of the woman she had been before she had let the world break her.

“I never left,” Silco replied smoothly, his voice still as cold as she remembered. “I just changed the way I play the game.”

Y/N’s heart tightened at his words. She had expected bitterness, maybe even anger, but his calmness felt like something else—a finality, a resignation. He had moved on. He had become something else entirely, something she no longer recognized. She had expected to find a version of Silco who still fought for Zaun’s freedom, a man who still cared for the city they had once dreamed of saving together. But instead, she saw a man who had become lost to it all. The revolution was over. The dream had died, and Silco had buried it along with everything else.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of all those years she had spent trying to forget him. She had left Zaun, left him, and in her mind, she had thought that would be the end of it. But here he was, standing before her like some ghost of her past, and the truth was—she hadn’t ever really left him behind.

Silco’s lips curled into a half-smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “You left Zaun behind. But Zaun never really leaves anyone, does it?”

Her chest tightened. He was right. No matter how far she had gone, no matter how much she had changed, Zaun was still there. It was in her music. In the air she breathed. In the choices she had made. She had tried to outrun it, to escape the city and the people who still haunted her, but Zaun was never far behind. She had tried to outrun the woman she had been, but the past always had a way of catching up.

“You’re still the same,” she said softly, the bitterness creeping into her words. “You still think you can change the world by controlling it.”

“And you still think you can change it with songs,” Silco retorted, his tone sharp but not unkind. “But what good are songs when they’re only heard by those who already agree with you?”

Y/N flinched, the words stinging more than she cared to admit. But the truth of them struck deep. What had she been singing for? Who had she really been singing for? She had tried to fight for a better Zaun, but now, after everything, she wasn’t sure what she was fighting for anymore. What had once felt like a cause worth dying for had become a hollow echo of itself.

“You’ve changed, Silco,” she whispered, her voice softer now. “You’ve become something else. Something I don’t know if I can still reach.”

Silco stepped closer, his eyes darkening. “I’ve always been something else, Y/N. I just didn’t know it until I had to.”

Y/N shook her head, the memories of what they had been—what they had meant to each other—flashing through her mind. “I wanted to believe in you,” she admitted quietly. “I wanted to believe in us. But we were never what I thought we were.”

Silco’s gaze softened for the briefest moment, but it was gone just as quickly. “What does it matter now?” he asked, his voice low. “We’ve both sacrificed. We’ve both made choices. There’s no going back.”

A silence fell between them, heavy with the years of distance, the unspoken words, the pain of everything left unresolved. Y/N felt the weight of it press down on her chest, the realization that they were both no longer the people they had been. There was no turning back. There was no way to recapture the dreams they had shared, no way to fix the broken pieces of what they had lost.

But then, as if the years of silence between them had suddenly shifted, Y/N took a step forward, her voice trembling but steady. “I don’t know if I can let go of what we were. What we could have been. I don’t know if I can forget you.”

Silco’s expression faltered for the briefest of moments, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. “I never wanted you to forget me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I never wanted to lose you.”

For a long moment, they stood there in the quiet, two people caught between past and present, torn between what they had once been and what they had become. There were no more words left to say, no more promises to be made. The past was gone, and with it, the hope they had once shared.

In the end, all that remained was the weight of their choices—and the silence that had grown between them.

[insertmesoftly]

Priest! Silco x Newcomer Y/N

In which Silco personally takes it upon himself to teach you how to best ‘serve the lord'.

Passionate and devout, no-nonsense. He almost died in the water, but he survived, and he saw it as his baptism to become a better person in this, his second chance at life. He's been clean of vice for years, rose the ranks steadily, and now he's respected among his peers and in his town as the head of their church.

You were a survivor from another town that was torn by natural disaster. You came into town, alone and without a dollar to your name. The people led you to the church. Silco was called, and when he first laid eyes on your crumpled, defeated form, he thought this was the perfect opportunity to have a successor.

He took you in on the condition that you were to be obedient. Afterall... it's not like you have anywhere else to turn. He feeds you, clothes you, makes sure the wounds still fresh on you are properly bandaged. He has been nothing but doting, and this has made you reliant on him and eager to be what he wants. The more you open up, the more earnest and honest you prove yourself to be to him, the more endeared he becomes. Finding people like you is rare; you have nothing to hide and all the love in your heart to give. Adorable, really.

He can't help favor you, giving you gifts, praising your work... petting you. The people that have known him for years are surprised at his change around you, but ultimately pleased. They’ve never seen him be soft. They'll chalk it to his being your mentor, the parental instincts kicking in. And yet. There is a night where he has to check your wounds again. You've told him they've healed, but he still saw you limping. It's dark, save for the candle he used to go to your room. He lifts your leg like he's done before, tracing the healed tissue. He keeps asking questions. You're trying to answer… but you can only focus on his touch.

He's mulling over calling the doctor. He's still observing the extent of the scars. He hadn't realized how far down up of his hands had gotten, until he hears a choked moan. His first thought was you must have hiccuped. He was going to ask if he should bring you water. But the candlelight showed a different side of you. Embarrassment. Shame. Unable to hold his gaze and lips bitten. Only then did he notice his hand grasping at your thigh. So close to something else.

He let go immediately and got up. He'd check again tomorrow. He storms out. His mind was clean. He was pure. He's had no vices since his second baptism. He gets to his room and locks his door. He's sweating. Shame. He made you feel shame. It was his fault for not noticing, but you should have said something. Unless....

You minx.

Maybe this was a test. he thought you had nothing to hide, but there was a spark of sin in your eyes that he only noticed now. He strangled a laugh. He would not be dragged to your level. He sighs into his hands, fearing to look at himself. He had to fix you. He will not fall. He extinguished the candle and climbed into bed, ignoring the carnal desire that betrayed his soul. He was not going to lose.

Silco gets more intense with making you 'perfect.' Now seeing everything you do with lustful eyes and blaming it on you. Going mad from it. He insists he can fix you, but everything he does with you backfires. Whipping? He'll flog your back when you're particularly provocative, perhaps he caught you trying on a dress a villager donated, and this 'exposure of skin' could not go unpunished. You're still wearing it, the red of your blood giving its white material pretty splotches. He enjoyed the sounds of your tears. When he's done, he's still riding that high, deciding to come and comfort you, cradling you in his arms and promising to put healing salve on the wounds. You know he'll always treat whatever ails you.

He has you on his bed as he puts it on, cold fingers make you whine. He shushes you, it'll be alright, you've learned your lesson, now all that's left is to heal. Seeing you grasping at his sheets has him sweating, and he has you walk to your room when he's done, despite your sorry state. He shivers as he looks at his bed, the smell of the salve and the outline of your body filtering his mind. He crumples to the ground. How is he so weak?

(There’s a Part 2 Here <3)