*clicks post and runs screaming*
What Lurks Below - Part 6
please check out @designfailure56’s art that i wrote this fic for!
HERE IS DAY EIGHTEEN!
With a difference in culture, you should have known that there’d be consequences for actions you take, no matter how well-meaning they are. What’s concerning is how good you happen to be at unknowingly following the courtship traditions of Finfolk.
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1,970 Words - SFW
The tide is high today, flooding the beach and leaving you to meet Silco on the old dock. The boat bobs happily next to it, almost beckoning you to take it out onto the open water. Unfortunately, there aren’t any oars, and you’re not about to ask Silco to push it when you could stay safely on the dock, legs crossed and a new book in your lap.
A bag of cotton candy sits open, prepared for you to reach inside and take a tuft for yourself or to feed one to Silco who waits almost impatiently, despite the way his arms cross on the dock and he lays his cheek on them to listen to you.
You’ve been out here most of the day, the sun having long since begun its descent, painting the sky in a smattering of pinks, purples, and deep blues. It sends his scales into a glittering of iridescence, making your breath catch and your mouth trip over the words you’re barely registering. Silco is beautiful, you’d never be able to deny that.
Especially in moments like these where time slows down and the world is quiet, the only sound being the gentle tapping of water against the supports of the dock, high with the tide, the crinkling of the bag as you hold another piece of cotton candy out for Silco to reach a dried hand to take from you.
His fingers are slim, webbed between to facilitate his swimming, you assume. They’d almost be human-like if not for the extra addition. They’re warmer than you expect when they brush against you, when they wrap around your ankle to anchor himself to the dock. As he pops the spun sugar in his mouth, you distantly wonder what those hands would feel like if they ran through your hair much like you do for him.
The thought of the odd sort of intimacy that’s begun to be tentatively broached makes your heart skip. You’re looking into it too much, thinking of things that shouldn’t and couldn’t be. Silco is in the same boat you are, dealing with a quiet loneliness that’s temporarily soothed by the presence of each other, and maybe that’s why you’re attributing things to this when there’s no place for them.
You’re lonely. That’s all. And you’re projecting onto an unknowing man who likely sees you as a friend.
Silco is your friend. Maybe even your best friend, despite being unable to speak to one another. It sure would make it easier, both getting to know one another and understanding what’s happening and why. Is he simply as touch-starved as you? Is there more going on here that you’re not understanding? You’re not sure; all you know is that you don’t want it to stop.
The sun touches the horizon, the world beginning to truly darken, and it’s your cue that you have to go home for the evening. Silco almost seems reluctant to let you go, something almost melancholic in the way his hand reaches for your knee, palm pushing into the skin. Again, you wish you could just understand one another, if only to be able to properly tell him that he never leaves your mind.
That might be too much, you decide as you remove his hand from your knee in favor of squeezing it with your brightest smile. That’ll have to do for now. Almost on reflex, Silco’s hand returns the gesture with just as much force, almost as if he doesn’t want to let you go. You don’t want him to either, you realize.
The world is quiet, until it no longer is.
You feel the ground shake a millisecond before the sound happens. It vibrates your very bones, sending ripples through the water that expand outward into the river at a rapid pace. Turning over your shoulder, what greets you at the source is the sight of shattering glass, crumbling walls, a firewall rolling rapidly outward from the epicenter of the explosion.
The grip on your hand turns bruising, and all at once you go from feeling the searing heat on your face to the frigidness of the river. Arms gather you close, pulling you into a solid chest as your head breaches the surface once more. The shore grows farther away as you’re pulled safely from the fires.
Your breath comes in short gasps, startled from both the water and the snapping of panic in your gut that paralyzes you. Your hands are clumsy as you brush the water from your eyes, nearly smacking yourself with your unresponsive limbs. Their incoordination adds more stress, worries on top of panic on top of the shore burning.
Flickering reds and oranges catch your eyes, trapping them in the sight of roaring flames so familiar to the bridge that you lock up. Silco’s arms around you turn from ones of urgent rescue to something akin to comfort when he feels your muscles tense. The trembling could be from the river, it’d be easier to explain it away as that. But you know the truth, and maybe Silco does too.
It’s not something you’ve confronted - the nightmares, the shakes when you veer too close to food stands that cook with open flame, the phantom feel of heat on your face and at your back. Yet here you are, face to face with a memory made manifest with no real rhyme nor reason. All you can do is watch as the fire catches on the building next to the ruined warehouse, then the next, traveling along the waterfront.
There aren’t any screams. That should clue you in that this is different, that this isn’t the tragedy at the bridge. Many of the warehouses are used for storage of boats and equipment, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying. It’s almost beautiful in a way, the fire licking at windows that glow white-hot from the inside.
Silco hisses in your ear, the unknown name he uses for you. It snaps you out enough that you realize your fingernails are digging into his shoulders as you cling to him, leaving red crescent-shaped indentations in his skin. Against your legs, you can feel the brushing of his tail as it works to keep your limp weight afloat.
Rather than allow you to keep kicking your legs after you notice your inaction, Silco dips one hand beneath the water to hike one leg around his waist, then the other. Arms around your back, hands pressing between your shoulder blades and at your lower back, you find yourself turned away from the destruction happening on the shore.
But you can hear it. There are voices in the distance now, shouting orders that you aren’t able to make out with the blood rushing in your ears. You’re tensing again, your ankles locking around Silco’s back as you let him support you in the water. Even facing away, the light reflects out onto the water with muddy mixtures of warm tones, unfocused even further by the sudden welling of tears in your eyes.
Your emotions are catching up to your racing thoughts, and all at once it’s morphing into something overwhelming.
And as soon as it starts, the shuddering breaths and grasping hands at his back, fingertips brushing his dorsal fin, Silco shuts it down with the briefest gesture. A thumb brushes your lower back in a soothing circle, rhythmic and catching your attention with its subtlety. It’s grounding, a reassurance that you’re fine and you’re safe.
It’s Silco reminding you that he’s got you.
A rumbling starts against your chest, felt more than heard at first until it rises in volume. It changes in pitch after rising, dipping low and then higher in a pattern you realize is a song. Silco is humming to you, chin propped on your shoulder as he keeps watch toward the shore. Your heartbeat must be racing in his ear, a staccato revealing your panic that’s beginning to ebb away with his efforts.
It’s familiar, knocking against something in your head that you have to clear the haze of your thoughts away from. The song you sing to him, the one that calls him to shore when you’ve arrived. At least, you like to think it does, despite him likely watching and waiting. Weakly, you try to hum it back, your tone pitchy with your tears. Silco doesn’t complain, he only leans his head against your own.
There’s something profound happening, and you can’t put your finger on it. The harmonizing of your singing, the thudding of his heart against your chest. The palpable desperation in the way he holds you, as if he’s expecting you to disappear once he lets you go. It takes your mind away from the moment, tucking you somewhere in the spaces between his ribs where you’re safe and sound.
Your song comes to a quiet end, the last notes trailing off over the water. They don’t echo back. The sound of burning wood, cracking timbers, wildfires eating through the string of riverside warehouses. That punctuates the silence, and it makes your skin crawl at the familiarity of it all.
“Silco,” Your voice is so watery that it nearly fades into nothing. Silco’s grip tightens on you for a moment to acknowledge you, even if he can’t understand what you’re telling him, “Y-You’ve saved me twice.”
There isn’t an answer, and you don’t expect one. Despite understanding the circumstances, it still hurts. You want to talk with him, to speak and understand in turn. To learn about the intricacies of what makes him who he is. To ask if he thinks about you as often as you do with him.
Even though it goes unasked, the answer to your last question comes easier than you think. As you bury your face in his neck and inhale the smell of salt, Silco’s one head turns to press what you’re certain is a kiss to the side of your head, lingering long enough to inhale, then exhale. His ribs expand beneath your hold, all the way to the brim before he lets out the air that undoubtedly smells like you.
You’re safe. Logically, you know you’re safe. But Silco still keeps you in the water, you still hold tight, and neither of you move from the chilled water until the flames begin to die down and darkness creeps in across the river.
Something is hissed in your ear. It might be a question, it’s hard to tell with the difference in inflection between his language and your own. It isn’t until he pulls away enough, nearly having to pry you off so he can look at you directly. The glowing red of his eye scans over your face, faintly illuminating the ridges of his scars and pulling you into a quiet trance.
Is this what his prey feels like? You certainly don’t see yourself as prey, not while he’s looking at you with unmistakable softness. Again, he asks the maybe-question, and you realize he’s checking on you. The answer is hoarse from your quiet crying, cracking even as you keep the volume low, “I’m okay… Thanks to you.”
Maybe it’s written on your face what you mean, because he smiles. Small, barely-there, but it’s enough for you to fling your arms around him again and squeeze so tightly that he laughs. It’s odd and wheezing, but it’s undoubtedly Silco.
Your heart, filled with panic only moments before, is bursting at the seams with something far softer, pushing a soft warmth through your veins. It’s a terrible idea to let it happen unfettered and not fight back, but Silco’s fingers push into your back, pulling you into another embrace. It becomes glaringly apparent that there would be no resisting against something like this.
And you don’t want to.
A Helping Hand - Part 15
[start here] || Part 14 || Part 15 || Part 16
[Silco POV for ch14 if you missed it]
[silco x f!reader] [2.7k words] [no y/n] [during timeskip] [touch-starved reader] [henchwoman!reader] [sfw] [tween jinx]
Your resolve for loneliness doesn’t last as long as you’d hoped.
Cleaning the marker off stabs you with guilt (a fitting punishment for the presumption of caring about the boss’s daughter, obviously), and as you suspected, the puzzle is good practice for the hand, maneuvering pieces into different alignments. But the more you try to focus on reading the book as you do so, the more that paper of instructions seems to be mocking you. Taunting you, whispering doubt and anxiety into the back of your mind.
Well, if you’re gonna relent to something, let it be the minor addiction to friendly attention from a child.
…Yikes, sounds sad when worded like that.
You tuck your new toys into a waist pack and head back to the Drop, like a quitter. Skirting around the milling patrons (afternoon crowds are pretty tame, though the latest night crowds have been getting rowdier and rowdier in the last few months) your first instinct is to head to your so-called office. Predictably, it’s empty. The clock on the desk says just past 4, so you’ve got nearly an hour to kill.
Okay. So… practice. Practice…
Immediately your face flushes, remembering the last time you told Silco you had practiced with the hand. That memory triggers another—
‘When given the time to do so, I expect you to practice with that hand, regardless of whether or not you are being observed.’
He couldn’t have— He didn’t mean—
Ohohoho no. No way. You aren’t about to do— that. Not here.
Shit, he’d given you the day off.
…No. Nuh uh. Not a thing, that isn’t a thing! His behavior last night wasn’t the demanding presence of the morning; the day off had been a gift, not some kind of wicked temptation. He didn’t mean it like that.
…Shit shit shit.
Your good hand drags down your heated face with a moan of frustration. This man is toying with you. He’s not even denying it. And then he goes and acts like he did last night, and turns everything on its head by being normal— but not, too soft for normal, but not in that underhanded manipulative way like he had been on his knee feeding you, just normal normal—
“Ugh.” You can’t with him. He’s the bane of your existence, and you both crave and dread seeing him again.
Taking the puzzle out of your pack, you start fidgeting with it. If you’re gonna be stuck overthinking, might as well be doing what you’re supposed to. Might as well be proving him right about your so-called ‘willing obedience.’ Gods, that was maddening. He was right, was the problem. He’d pegged you in an instant, apparently, knowing you’d just roll over like an obedient little lapdog.
Your fingers move faster, the segments clacking, and you pace the room.
Maybe you need to draw a line. It’s inappropriate. He’d said— what had he said… ‘You’ve made some limits clear.’ Maybe you need to make more. Maybe you need to tell him to keep his distance, to keep things professional.
You can almost imagine him with that hidden smirk. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t ever asked you to do anything inappropriate. My intentions are pure as the driven snow. That fucker. Brushing your lip like that hadn’t been innocent, that was for damn sure. You’d seen that look in his eye. He must’ve felt the hum in the air just as much as you had.
Letting out a long breath, you straighten your shoulders. You’ll say something. You’ll march up there and say something, tell him you aren’t some project he can toy with, that if he wants you to take this seriously then he has to as well.
You make it all the way up to the door. Technically, you make it a step inside, even if his usual “enter” made your determination waver.
But it all goes to shit as soon as Jinx throws herself at you.
It’s a brief hug (too brief), more like a tackle that she releases almost as soon as it starts, and it’s enough to utterly shatter your plans.
You glance at Silco momentarily, torn, knowing you have to say something now, but well aware it’s not a conversation to be overheard by Jinx. But the little blue-haired menace demands your attention anyway, tugging your wrist to guide you to the sofa.
“So I was thinking about Poppet.” She launches into an explanation of plans, complete with multicolored diagrams, and your chance to speak up disappears in cookie crumbs.
She’s just finished explaining how she’s going to modify the compression chamber and barrel of her prototype when she spots the puzzle that’s half forgotten in your prosthetic hand (some part of you is pleased that you didn’t unthinkingly drop it, despite being unable to feel it; that seems like a victory of some sort).
“Oh, cool! I have one kinda like that, Silco gave it to me when—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head, “Look, you can do this-” She plucks it out of your hand without asking (though you would’ve given it to her regardless, so you don’t have much room to complain) and in 30 seconds she’s folded all the segments into a perfect ball. Of course she can do it; kid’s an engineering whiz.
“And—” Speaking of which. “I picked this up for you at the day markets.” You pop back open your waist pack, pulling out the little wind up toy. “I guess you might already have one of these, too, I didn’t think of that…”
Jinx lights up, and y’know what? Fuck all that noise; it was worth it. You’re a sucker, and she’s happy, and you feel cool— which makes you feel dumb, but not dumb enough to stop feeling cool.
“Nice!” She takes it from you and immediately winds it up, turning it in her hands with interest as she realizes the way the strangely angled legs move. Looking up again, she seems to notice something. “Oh— you look pretty.” (You’re not preening over the compliment, you swear.)
“Jinx,” comes an absentminded chiding voice from the desk.
It’s like you’d somehow forgotten he’s there. It’s amazing how much he tones down that inexplicable gravity when Jinx is in the room.
“Oh right,” remembering her manners, Jinx carefully thanks you by name, before returning to her previous point. “What’s the thing?”
Wow that’s vague. Your lips twist into a flat line, giving her a look that says kid, I can’t help you unless I know what you’re talking about. When she gestures to your braid, you reach up in confusion and brush the prosthetic fingers over it— immediately regretting that choice as a strand catches in a joint and tugs painfully from your scalp. But the faint scraping noise near your ear tells you what she meant.
“I used to braid my hair all the time,” you answer. Gesturing to the two twin braids that reach halfway down her back, you add, “Kinda like yours. But people like to pull braids, so I put this in it,” you gesture to the short braid on the side of your head, and the little spikes sticking out of it that trail down into your loose hair as well.
“Can I get one?”
“Uh—” Unsure, you glance back at Silco. Apparently, he’s busy with something, eyes shifting between a paper in each hand. “I mean…” Stalling doesn’t help, as his brow just furrows, lips twitching into a frown as he sets down one page and traces a finger along it. Definitely not paying attention to the two of you. Once again, you’re basically a babysitter.
Well fuck, you’re a cool babysitter at least.
“Yeah, sure.” You use your good hand to feel out the clips holding your own braid in place and start undoing them. “I only have the one with me, sorry. Your—” Nope, not gonna make that mistake again, “-Silco can probably find you more. Some armories will have lengths of it, or places sell studs and leather and you can put them together yourself.” Though perhaps giving Jinx access to an awl is a bad idea.
You have a few different straps you’ve bought or made over the years, different styles and lengths as you grew it out (some too long now that you’ve lopped off a bit). This particular one is tied into your hair and clipped, rather than the ones that cinch. Undoing the braid is a little disappointing, really, given how long it took you to do, but Jinx looks so damn bright-eyed that there’s no way you could deny her.
You make the mistake of brushing your right hand through your hair and wince at the tiny prickling of caught strands. Sure enough it comes out with bits caught in the knuckles that you look at, flatly. Brought this on yourself, really. Not sure what else you expected. Maybe if you use oil or something…
Jinx is already turning her back to you. “Put it on!”
The amused smirk comes unbidden. “I have to braid it in, this one can’t go on top.” That would probably be better for her though, even if it’s way more complex to make. Then again, if you need a project working with your hands, maybe it’s the way to go.
She’s already scrabbling at the ends of her braids, fingers tangling in blue locks as she rushes to undo them.
The laugh bubbles its way out of your throat unexpectedly. Not a mean or even a sharply humored laugh, but delight at Jinx’s delight. You use your good hand to help shake out hair so long it nearly sinks between the cushions. “So just one braid? No pigtails?”
“Silco can do the other,” she answers simply.
The prospect brings a little edge back to your grin, prepared to silently roast the man for being his daughter’s hairdresser, but when you look up to shoot him a smirk, he’s already staring. The momentary surprise there clears in an instant, but you still feel unsteady, like you saw something you shouldn’t have. Like he keeps showing you things he shouldn’t.
You look down at Jinx’s hair again, being extra careful with the tips of your bad hand as you comb it back from the crown of her head. “I think Silco’s busy with-”
“Very well,” he interrupts, easily, already standing in one graceful move. “In a moment.”
Eyes snap back to him, surprised he took her up on it, and you surreptitiously watch as he sweeps his papers into a pile and slides them into a drawer. That hellfire eye flicks up to catch you, and you return your gaze to your work, but still you’re hyper aware of his movements.
Jinx, for her part, is happily messing with the puzzle again, forming it into a new shape, humming as you slide your good hand against her scalp, soothing any little aches from inevitable cowlicks that always made undoing your own hair a pain in the— well, made it a headache, literally. Could do with a brush or a comb or something…
Out of the side of your vision, your curiosity is piqued as a panel of the wall that you hadn’t really noticed before opens. What had Jinx said yesterday? Something about a second bedroom… You hadn’t realized it actually adjoined the office.
It’s tempting to stare, to look into the mysterious dimly lit room that Silco enters, but you focus instead on the pleasant closeness of Jinx, and the surprising smoothness of her hair. She must actually take care of it way more than you’d expect of such a rowdy kid. Or maybe someone else does, for her.
When Silco reappears, closing the wall behind him, he has a few items in one hand, and gestures to Jinx with the other. Without even needing words, Jinx stands up and scoots the coffee table a little bit closer, sitting on it with her back to you.
While your eyes are on her, turning to resituate, Silco slides into the gap she left.
You swallow. He is very close. Closer than ever. Body heat seems to burn off of him, the inches between your leg and his feeling charged with electricity, as if getting any closer will arc a static shock. Hopefully your hands aren’t shaking, drawing a clumsy part in Jinx’s hair.
You’re so focused on not looking at him, it takes a subtle clearing of his throat for you to risk a sideways glance.
He’s holding a glove out to you, expectantly. At your blank look, he murmurs, “It may be too big. But… for the hand.”
Why would— Right. No, that’s smart actually, to keep the prosthetic joints from snagging.
Pulling away from Jinx, you take the glove, and then spend far too long struggling to get it on properly. The longer you struggle, the hotter your face gets, and you fumble more and more while you’re focused on keeping your breathing steady and not potentially hyperventilating.
The whole time, Silco is calmly brushing out Jinx’s too-long hair, with strokes that look practiced— the way he holds higher up while working any tangles from the ends, just to keep from tugging too hard. He takes such care with it, acting so purposefully, so self-assured, even when you know plenty of people would witness such behavior and think him weak.
But you certainly don’t.
Silco is far from weak; he’s intentional. When he does things, he does them well and does them fully, and that’s how he’s handling raising Jinx. It’s how he’s handling your recovery, too.
He reaches around to the right side of Jinx’s hair, pulling it back to continue his work, and in shifting to do so his leg presses against yours, the full length of your thigh.
You stare at the contact longer than you should, hating how thin the leggings are, but immensely grateful you have an extra layer of the skirt to hide any fidgeting on your part. Though he can probably feel as you shift uneasily, scooting that little inch away. Just a bit of space. Just enough you might possibly breathe. Maybe.
Having the glove to put on is a good excuse for your silence and inattention to the task you promised to do for Jinx, even if that isn’t the struggle threatening to overwhelm you.
From this side, you can mostly see Silco’s good eye, the expressive one, as he shoots you a sidelong glance, sparing a moment to observe your struggle. His own fingers, deft and practiced, continue their task even as lips quirk slightly. “Don’t tell me you need a hand?”
Jinx’s snort of laughter answers your shocked disbelief. Yeah, you’re not imagining things. That was a pun. A dumb pun. A dad joke. It’s so dumb - and a little insulting - that you should feel irritated. Instead, you’re only imagining him holding your wrist and tugging the leather tight over your ceramic digits, and it’s enough to make cheeks warm anew.
Thank Janna Jinx starts talking again. It’s a relief, having her chatting about the little wind up toy, words a babbling brook to cool the inexplicable heat between you and your couchmate.
Silco parts her hair like it’s nothing, cinching each side, before offering you the comb he used to part. “A sign of goodwill,” he explains in a wry murmur. “I have a feeling I’ll win this race, so perhaps you deserve the head start.”
Jinx snickers. “Head start.”
Your own involuntary huff of a laugh at her silly observation has you turning your face aside, avoiding Silco’s attention. The fingers brushing your wrist make you jolt, a spark coursing across your skin even as the tool is placed in your hand.
“You okay?” Jinx asks, starting to turn.
A surge of panic has you looking to Silco with wide eyes, but he’s already straightening his daughter’s head. “Face front, Jinx, or you’ll have bumps.” But the look he offers you is a coolly raised brow.
It feels… fraught. There’s still that hold on you, that tension, that draw that wraps you around his finger.
And then it’s gone. Whatever he was thinking, he sets it aside, paying full attention to the kid instead.
Glove on and comb in hand, you try to regain your breath and do the same.
[Y’all, no offense to this chapter but next chapter is bomb. A little bit of everything. But it has to wait until I’m fully moved into my new place and 19 is written (which it definitely isn’t, at this moment).
As per usual, please boost the post if you liked it, cause tumblr tags are weird and don’t like to show chapters. And if you feel so inclined, I live off of reactions to my work and love love love seeing tags (even just emojis!) and comments, both here and on ao3. To join the tag list and get notified of new updates for the fic, comment on this linked post.
Thanks for sticking around everyone, sorry if I’ve been spotty on writing lately; life things do tend to get in the way, and right after moving I have a big trip for my brothers wedding so… wish me luck. 🙃 In the meantime, if this is too soft for you, I recently wrote some authoritarian Dom Silco for a friend’s professor au, for a oneshot (Learning the Rules). ❤️ -verbs]
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Mermay- Day 18
(If you wanna know what happened in this chapter of What Lurks Below, go find @chickenparm and have your mind blown 🤯)
Between Sleep (Oneshot)
Had that fluff-Friday feel going for me today, so here. Some unapologetic sleepy, secretary-simping, fluff that warmed my own heart and made me tired, ENJOY!
Be it a reality or a figment of the brain’s tired imagination, at the very least, you knew you wouldn't get fired for this.
Silco's permission had been groggy, but a product of reality, that much had been certain - from his voice underlined in exhaustion, and in your hearing, impacted by similar tiredness - but it had been coherent enough that you didn't immediately fear repercussions.
And so with that, you promptly grabbed Silco's coat from its nearby hanger, cared naught for causing wrinkles as you swung it over your shoulders, pulled tight for warmth, and flopped face-down onto the couch.
"Aren't you in charge of the Underground?" A questioning hum, more like a grunt than anything elegant sounded. You decided to turn your head from where it was buried in the couch to repeat the question into the open air, where it could be heard. "If you're in charge, can't order someone else to do the paperwork?"
"Why do you think I hired you?"
“...My good looks?"
You imagined the sound Silco made would've been a laugh at any other time. But after several hours tolling at papers, drafts, treaties, ledgers and those damn reports, without break, it sounded more like a croak.
"I hired you for your brain, actually... however, I fear it will be overtaxed and be rendered fairly useless if I dare suggest we continue, and then where would you be?" Eyelids heavy, you watched through slits as Silco stood in his long sleeved shirt - tie and vest long since discarded as the night dragged on. Visibly wincing as he raised his arm overhead with a stretch, the sounds his back made were just as concerning for you, as they were a cathartic-release for him, if Silco's relieved, albeit trembling sigh was anything to go by.
Then he glanced at your direction, and his eyes softened.
Perhaps you were even more tired than you thought - Silco, softening at the sight of you. Laughable.
"You look concerned."
“And you look ready to pass-on from this world. Rest isn’t only for the wicked, you know.”
You hum in response, not overly impressed at the rather unnecessary metaphors at this time,as your eyes blinked slowly and shallowly. And long enough that, when your heavy-eyes finally cracked back open, Silco was right in front of you - elbow propped on a knee, fist beneath chin as he studied you, and came to a surprisingly thoughtful, and extremely obvious conclusion, “You’re exhausted. You can sleep, I can be...” A flicker of green and red goes over to his coat of red, black and gold, draped over your body. “... accommodating, this one time.”
“It’s appreciated,” You mumble around a yawn, embarrassed enough to try and hide it within the couch-cushion beneath your face. Judging by the way his breath catches on the following exhale, in a suspiciously humored-fashion, you imagine you’re unsuccessful in the attempt. “Doubt you’re any better...”
“No, but i’m not actively trying to fall asleep in the presence of my employer,” A pause. “Well, employee, in these circumstances.”
“You told me I could...”
“That I did.” With sleep-leeching at your very senses, it’s unknown if the quiet tone of his voice is what is in actuality, or if your mind is already so-adrift it’s simply imagining your employer's voice taking on a tender tone with you. True, you’re not one of his henchmen, who are often dealt harsher words than one would expect even Silco to use against his secretary, but it’s still Silco.
Not cold, and not incapable of emotion, as you’ve come to find out during your time under his employment. But he wouldn’t show such warmth, such capability of compassion to you.
That’s why what you blink your eyes open to next, is a mere impossibility.
Fingers are weak in the way they tighten along the coat draped, and now tucked around you. It’s warm, but not nearly as warm as the surface your head now rests against. You breathe out slowly, eyes fluttering but not nearly strong enough to open, especially not when both sleep, and the repetitive strokes of fingers along your hair, seem fully-intent to drag you back into peaceful darkness.
You heard yourself murmur in fading echoes, your mind once more beginning to lose itself in the depths of unconsciousness, "Am I dreaming?"
The long-fingers pause briefly along your hair - they pause a second too long, you're already mourning the lost-sensation with a faint whine before they return a moment later, carting and soothing along your scalp. "I hope not," Silco's voice admits among the murkiness of your awareness, his own voice sounding hoarse with exhaustion to your ears. "I much prefer this reality with you, over any dream..."
A hum rumbles weakly in your throat, and you turn, shuffling and nudging against the warm beneath you. It jerks, and there's a brief moment where the fingers tighten within your hair. Barely, and not even enough to be confirmed as fact or figment, but the grip relaxes almost instantly to smooth away any potential ache.
It's all so intimate, and tender, that you know it's a dream. But even with the imaginary version of Silco, you can't resist whispering out in rebuke of his underlying statement, "I'm not worth any dream of yours, Silco."
"You are." He says, immediately, long digit catching a rebellious lock, and tucking it behind your ear as you sigh in sleepy bliss. "You are."
What you are, without a doubt now, is dreaming. But debating with this imaginary concoction of Silco is not one of the objectives you are even close enough to consciously consider, so you allow your barely-opened eyes to slip shut fully, and bask in this fantasy.
It’s not a bad one, certainly.
For all that Silco is a slim, wiry man, your head resting on his lap is certainly a position that’s comfortable, if not outright lulling you with senses of security and, daresay, warmth from a man who oftentimes seems to display anything but.
Except now, when Silco seems incapable of displaying anything short of gentleness, in the way his hand passes over in calm repetivity along your head, fingers tracing the hairline along your temple as he murmurs, “You may forget this in the morning, and I could accept that, knowing at least of of us will remember...” There’s another catch of his breath as you let out a low, questioning hum, which changes to something more blissful as his nails gently scratch behind your ear, earning another quiet chuckle from him. “... forget this later. Rest now.”
“Yes. Now sleep.”
It’s hard to disobey that order, not just because of who is giving it, but also because you are very, very tired. Extremely so, if the fantasy of falling asleep within the far-too intimate proximity, and gentle caresses of Silco’s touch, is anything to go by...
Even if it’s a dream, you try to cling on to such a fantasy for as long as possible, before even the dream is consumed by the darkness of slumber.
Taglist: @sweatandwoe @mazikomo @betasuppe @bb-8 @syx-00 @ironandglass @dropssofjupitter @agoutighost @lackofhonor @atalldrinkofcaprisun @wanna-plan-world-domination @zillahvathek @littledollll @aboveasphodel @ladykatakuri @intpthinkinginquiet @beansandmorebeans @my-awakened-ghost @rosemariner @soullessbody @arrlaauud @marina-and-the-memes @livingandlivid @gooseberries88 @yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy @sengawolf @bloodmoon-bites @shuttlelauncher81 @stabmemaybe @of-the-argonath @masterjedilenaaa @foppishish @dad-dumpster @beef-bakery @nyx2021
Silco but he's a spooky scary vampire ooO0Ooo
idk, I wanted to take a swing at an AU idea I've already seen art of, but put my own spin on it. (He already has the personality and looks of a vampire anyway, so I totally get it lel.)
This kinda just turned into me experimenting with lighting, but I got lazy with some of the bat ones though; most were the last ones I finished. Heck, maybe I'll add to this idea later with a whole monster au (I've got ideas already). I already have a AU specific origin for his scar, hence it looking different.
I'd like to remind you that in no way shape or form does silco need jinx. He keeps her around because he WANTS her around. If anything, it would be easier to get rid of her than to keep her but he insists on being with her, till the very end.
The Wrong Place at the Wrong Time: pt. II
Silco x f!reader - SFW
CW: swears, injury, non-consensual medicinal drug use, some angst
Summary: After your less-than-ideal first meeting with the kingpin, you find yourself waking up once more in unfamiliar territory. Luckily for you, that means you have another opportunity to get to know the one person you should not be this attracted to.
A/N: this idea was originally meant to be a one-shot, but just like when Dorothy and Toto met the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz… I got a little bit carried away. Hope you enjoy!! -elsie x
Also, there’s a cheeky little reference to ch11 of @x-amount-verbs work A Helping Hand in this one. If you’re not already obsessed with it like I am, please go read it!! I also highly recommend their wonderful one-shot Show A Little Skin, too (NSFW) (I hope you don’t me tagging you x)
Waking up after passing out felt like falling in love; gradually and then… still pretty darn slow to be honest. I mean, you had just experienced a head trauma and you’d be damned if it didn’t feel like someone had jam packed it full of cotton wool. It felt like an eternity had passed before you could even begin to open your eyes, but once you were there, it only took a few blinks until your vision cleared up from its blurry state. Thank Janna for that.
Strangely enough, the first thing you remembered from your rather eventful Tuesday evening was the feeling of Silco brushing his fingers against yours when you were tied up back-to-back, and again when he’d held you just before you collapsed onto him. You sighed softly at the memory before your brain clicked into gear and you realised just what that meant. Silco. You’d met the King of the Undercity last night. Mr Danger himself. Oh, shit.
Like pieces of a puzzle being slotted back into place, your mind sorted through your memories of the whole experience and you found yourself cringing at everything you’d said and done. Calling him rude and snarky, trying to comfort him when you thought he was hurting, taking over the whole situation by pretending to be his employee when he could have easily handled it by himself. But then you remembered how gently he’d held you and how soft his expression had been when he looked down at you, and you felt all cosy again. And then, of course, you entered self-sabotage mode and recalled the final thing you’d said to him before you’d blacked out. You’d told him you thought his hands were lovely.
Trying to draw shutters down over your embarrassing memories, as if it would make it so they had never happened, you turned your attention to the world around you, instead of the one in your head. Naturally, you expected to be lying in your apartment, since that was the only place you ever found yourself waking up in, but alas, you were not in your apartment. Instead, you were in a small, bland room, with little to no decoration. Your head hurt too much to move it and look at any place other than the patch of ceiling above you, so you continued to do just that. Yes, it concerned you that you had absolutely no clue where you were, but you didn’t have enough energy yet to fully panic about it. Besides, you weren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Well, at least I’m not in a gutter,” you spoke aloud, in an (oh so alluringly) scratchy voice, thanks to your parched throat.
“Why would you be in a gutter?”
This routine of you waking up, speaking your first ridiculous thought, and then being terrorised by a previously unknown presence was beginning to feel unnervingly familiar to you. It only felt right to react in the exact same way you had done when you’d met Silco. You screamed. Only this time it sounded more like the noise a strangled cat would make, due to your dry throat.
Despite the pain it caused, your head snapped up to the source of the intruder and you were baffled by the sight of a young, blue-haired girl sat cross-legged atop the dresser. Her stare was eerily similar to, but not quite as intense as, the man who’d gazed down at you last night when you were curled up against the warehouse floor. Furrowing your brow and consequently deepening your headache, you hoped to Janna that you hadn’t accidentally adopted a child while you were blacked out. You wouldn’t put it past yourself.
“Who am I? Where are you?” you babble accusingly at her.
There was a brief pause as you realised the jumbled nature of your words and she looked at you with wide, amused eyes.
“Wait, no, that’s not right. I meant, who are you? Where am I?” you try again.
The young girl giggles playfully at your confusion and you stare back at her suspiciously. Pulling yourself to sit up so your back is against the headboard, you try to get a better look at the room you’ve found yourself in and the young girl who seems to be haunting it. She couldn’t be much older than 12, you noted, wincing as your aching body screamed at you for moving from your previous position.
“You haven’t answered my questions,” you inform her gently. The last thing you wanted after the whole ordeal you’d just been through was to make a poor child cry.
“I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you. Silco said I have to let you rest but he didn’t say I couldn’t look at you or talk to you,” she told you brusquely, as if you were thinking of snitching on her for finding a loophole in his instruction.
Wait. This little girl knew Silco? Now that you were properly awake, your brain ignored the fact she’d just told you that Silco wanted you to rest and instead decided to panic about the fact you were somehow still involved with the kingpin. As the blood drained from your face, it was that very same feeling of panic that prompted you to speak to her again in a low, worried tone.
“Am I a prisoner?”
“I don’t think so, the door was unlocked when I came in. Plus, prisoners usually live in the basement and we’re not in the basement, so…”
You skipped over registering just what that comment meant in favour of asking a question you were sure you already knew the answer to.
“Is he going to kill me?”
She rolled her eyes at that.
“Nah, he’d have already killed you by now if he wanted you dead.”
Oh. Well. That’s good, then…Right?
“Will you draw with me?” she interrupted your disorganised ruminations, her legs now dangling over the side of the drawers as she looked at you expectantly.
You were taken aback by the question. To be honest, you were taken aback by every aspect of your reality at that point, but this was not the time to argue semantics with yourself. You were so bewildered and tired and stressed by the whole situation that you really couldn’t see any other option.
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
The girl lets out an excited squeal as she drops off the furniture with a heavy thud, mumbles something about waiting there, and races out the door before you could even yell to ask if she was okay. Left alone in sudden silence, you place your aching head in your hands and sigh deeply. Okay. You need to figure out what the hell is happening.
You knew that wherever you were, it had something to do with Silco. It didn’t take long for you to recall the order he’d given to the woman who’d come to your rescue during last night’s debacle. We’ll take her back to the Drop.
The Drop? It was common knowledge that Silco ran his base of operations out of The Last Drop, a bar you’d never even dared step foot in before due to its reputation for serving some rather unseemly patrons. No, it had never sounded very appealing to your tastes. You felt much more at home using your powers of persuasion on unsuspecting shoppers at the market than being surrounded by intoxicated shimmer-heads.
Was that where you were then? The Last Drop? You couldn’t hear any music or other sounds that might indicate you were in a bar. Looking around the sparse bedroom, your mind struggled to accept the idea that anyone could be living at the most infamous bar in the Lanes, let alone housing children, and the one you’d just met seemed very comfortable dashing about the place as if she owned it. Turning your head to the side, you spot a cup of water sitting on the bedside cabinet and take a large swig of it, until you have the sense to think you should probably double check it definitely was water you were drinking. Too late now, considering you’d chugged down most of it in that one gulp.
Before you could even begin to panic about what could have possibly been in the drink now sitting in your stomach, the girl returned and shut the door behind her with a click. She grins at you, holding a wad of paper in one hand and a handful of crayons in the other. For a brief moment, you think she’s going to climb onto the bed and shove some paper into your face, but instead she stops in the middle of the floor and plonks herself down rather unceremoniously.
It takes a few moments of you staring at her, dumbfounded, before she meets your gaze and lifts one eyebrow expectantly. Well, what are you waiting for? You wondered where she learned how to command such authority with just a single expression, and even considered asking her to teach you. It seemed like a handy trick to have when your job involved copious amounts of persuasion and cajoling. It hadn’t escaped your mind that you probably should be at work right now and your boss would no likely be wondering where you were, but your brain was too addled to really care. Besides, you were far too busy trying to appease your new friend.
You pushed the blanket off your body (finding yourself in the same clothes you were wearing when you were kidnapped) and slowly manoeuvred yourself down so you were sitting on the floor, your back against the side of the bed. It took all your effort not to wince at the pain that shot through your aching body as you did, but you managed it. Luckily, the young girl didn’t notice your discomfort, far too preoccupied with scribbling furiously on the paper in front of her.
You slowly reached for the nearest crayon and began doodling, hoping it would somehow help you make sense of whatever the heck your life had turned into.
“What’s your name?” she asks, thoughtfully.
You tell her and watch her repeat it to herself slowly, like she’s memorising it.
“What about you? What’s your name?”
“I can’t tell you. I don’t want Silco to be mad with me.”
You frown at that.
“Why would he be mad?” you inquire softly.
“Because I’m not meant to reveal information to people I don’t know very well.”
It sounded like a quote, likely one she’d heard many times, as if it had been drilled into her. You take another look at the crayons sprawled across the floor and suddenly remember Silco telling you he had a daughter, just before you’d decided to caress his lovely hands. You’re certain you’ll never be able to recall that little mishap without your face flushing in embarrassment each time.
“Is Silco your dad?”
“Uh… kinda… I guess,” she mumbles, not looking up from her drawing. Her little brow furrows and the scribbling motion she’s making becomes much more focused as she presses down hard onto the paper, enough to make an imprint of the floorboards on the page.
She doesn’t speak again and you decide not to tell her that Silco had referred to her as his daughter when you’d inquired about the crayons on his coat. Whatever had happened to her, you didn’t feel like it was your place to pry. Most people you knew wouldn’t have cared one iota about the wellbeing of a little girl, not when it was so difficult to take care of your own wellbeing as a resident of Zaun. But, you weren’t most people. And just like you did for her father, you felt a sudden urge to make her feel better.
You pointed to one of her doodles and smiled at her warmly.
“Hey, this is brilliant. You’re a great artist!”
“You really think so?”
“Absolutely. If you ask me, it belongs in an art gallery. In fact, I’d buy it myself and put it up on my wall at home.”
She giggles and the sound makes your chest feel like it’s been lit up.
“How much do you think it’s worth?” she asks.
“Oh, at least one million hexes.”
“Alright then,” she looks at you dead in the eye, with the most serious expression you have ever seen.
Your face drops in horror. What? Shirley she couldn’t be serious. Oh no. You’ve done it again, haven’t you? You and your big mouth. You clearly don’t have a million hexes. If you did, there’s no way you’d be living in a dusty, old apartment, slaving away at a market stall six days a week just to afford rent and a decent-ish meal twice a day.
You begin to stutter out a measly excuse, trying to find the best way to let this poor girl down gently, when you notice her mouth pull into a wide grin. She’s joking.
“Geez, don’t do that!” you admonish her, chucking a crayon her way but purposefully avoiding hitting her.
“You shoulda seen your face! As if you have a million hexes!” she howls, clutching her stomach as she laughs at you falling for her trick. It should annoy you, but instead it instantly makes you feel better after unintentionally upsetting her earlier.
You both go back to colouring, you with an expression of mock annoyance and her with a grin that never fades back to neutrality, always haunted with the ghost of a smile. She begins to ask you questions and you answer them all honestly. I mean, at this point, what have you got to lose? You’d already survived a kidnapping and facing the most terrifying man in all of Zaun, surely no harm could come from opening up to a sweet, young girl.
She asks where you live, what you do for a living, what your favourite colour is, what your favourite game to play is, if you know how to re-wire a smoke bomb. Wait, what was that last one? You brush past it quickly, bringing her attention once again to one of her colourful doodles.
And truthfully, you were having such a lovely time colouring with your new friend, you’d almost completely forgotten the trauma you’d experienced the night before, just as the door opened to reveal a strikingly familiar face. Except this time it wasn’t as blurry in your vision and seemed much more steely and unreadable as he took in the sight in front of him. You take a sharp inhale of air and instantly stop drawing, staring blankly at Silco like a deer in the headlights.
All of a sudden, your chest aches with a mixture of emotions. You’re scared of what might happen to you next, embarrassed at your actions from the night before, confused at your relief from being able to see him again, attracted by the sight of him out of his coat with rolled up shirt-sleeves… all in all, you’re a mess. Noticing the way he looked between you and the girl, it dawned on you that not once had you stopped to consider the potential consequences of fraternising with Silco’s daughter. A person you didn’t realise had existed before today and probably for good reason, given the numerous possibilities for blackmail if anyone were to understand that Silco cared for her.
Silco quickly glances at you before crossing the room to kneel down next to the girl opposite you.
“Jinx, I told you she needed to rest,” he says to her, in that soft tone you’d heard for a only brief moment whilst tied to the chair.
Ah, so her name was Jinx.
“I didn’t tell her anything, I promise!” she protests innocently, staring up at him with wide eyes.
“I’m sure you didn’t, pumpkin, but she’s not supposed to be out of bed yet, she was injured yesterday.”
Jinx tells him your name and some of the details you’d told her during your one-sided game of twenty questions and he looks up at you for a moment, meeting your wide eyes with a searching gaze. You don’t have the chance to figure out what that means before his attention is drawn back to Jinx, who is pointing to one of your doodles on the page.
“She’s nice but she’s terrible at drawing,” she openly tells him as if you weren’t in the room, “Look at that one, I don’t even know what that’s meant to be!”
You’re not really offended. You knew deep down in your heart that art had never been your strong suit, but it didn’t stop you from scoffing in mock offense at the girl’s blunt assessment of your work.
“Well, cheers, I didn’t realise I was trying to impress a pair of art critics,” you drawl, allowing your words to drip with heavy sarcasm.
Both sets of eyes snap up to your face and instantly soften at your shit-eating grin. And then it happens. Something you’d never expected to hear in a million years. Silco laughs. It’s more of a huff than a proper expression of joy, but the amusement laced in the little noise can’t be denied. You’d made Silco laugh.
Jinx’s laughter is much louder and brighter and it fills the room like a thousand fireflies lighting up all at the same time. It’s a sound you’ve missed, you note with no small amount of melancholy. At the arrival of that particularly sombre thought, you barely register Silco standing and helping Jinx gather up the paper and crayons, before telling her to go and wash her hands for lunch. She moves to the doorway reluctantly and stops, turning to face you.
You can’t help but smile warmly at her, which she happily rewards with her own heartfelt grin before dashing off down the hallway. There’s no time to reflect on how much you already liked the girl because your attention is drawn to the looming presence above you, looking down at you with rapt interest. Silco. You gape back up at him.
He repeats your name in a questioning tone and it’s clear he’s asking you to clarify that Jinx had told it to him correctly.
“Yes, sir” you answer meekly.
It’s not until the words leave your mouth that you realise just how awkward of a position you’re currently in. You’re practically kneeling at his feet. ...Oops. Silco must realise it too because the corner of his mouth twitches and he inhales sharply before taking a step back. In turn, you scramble to get up and seat yourself once again on the bed, your back resting against the headboard.
You take the opportunity to fully admire him now that you’re alone together. He looks infinitely more composed than he did in the warehouse, with not a single hair out of place. His outfit appears to be almost exactly the same in style, just minus the coat. A deep burgundy shirt hidden under an intricately designed vest and a cream tie to contrast the darker colours of his outfit. It’s a well thought-out look. One that oozes affluence and power. And it’s this very observation that halts you in your tracks. Oh no. You should not be finding a literal crime lord this attractive.
But you do, gods you do. It’s all you can do but scramble to push the shameful thoughts into a tiny little box in your brain, mentally lobbing the key into a labyrinth to make sure it couldn’t be found again. So, it wasn’t just the concussion that had planted those thoughts in your head when he was holding you. Honestly… Trust you to have a crush on the most unavailable man in the Undercity.
“Despite your apparent ease in impersonating one of my employees, you don’t have to call me sir,” he informs you, his voice returning to its smooth timbre. It’s noticeably different to the soft quality it had held when he was talking to Jinx and you feel a flicker of disappointment at that revelation.
Then you feel your heart stop as you register his words. A tiny (foolish) part of you had hoped he would somehow forget to bring up everything you’d said and done in response to finding yourself in a situation that seemingly promised your death. You can’t help but default to rambling again as your blood ran cold.
“Listen, I’m really sorry about all of that, you know, the whole snapping at you and pretending that I worked for you and speaking for you and complimenting your hands and, you know, just being an absolute eejit in general and-”
“How are you feeling?” he cuts you off.
It’s enough to throw you even more off-kilter, which you honestly didn’t think was possible, but alas, here you were. Since it couldn’t have been the concussion this time around, it must have been the water you’d drank from the bedside table, you decide.
“Like I want to do a belly flop into the River Pilt” you respond automatically.
His brow tightens a miniscule amount and he blinks once.
Shit. Wrong answer.
“Uh, I mean, I’ve still got a bit of a headache and I’m quite tired. How long have I been asleep?” you try to recover, hoping he’ll miraculously forget your odd confession.
“About 30 hours, give or take.”
You watch as he pulls a chair from the corner of the room closer to your bed and sits down, one leg crossed over the other with his hands folded in his lap. Part of you is surprised he wants to sit in a wooden chair after being unwillingly tied to one for so long. You’re certain you don’t ever want to sit in one again, but you reason with yourself that it may be an impractical mindset to take, given society’s penchant for the little wooden bastards.
“You did wake up momentarily during your medical treatment, but I suspect your body was too tired to acknowledge it.”
“What kind of treatment?”
“A healing solution my doctor developed a number of years ago. It appears to have eased the marks from your bindings,” he gestures to your wrists and you suddenly notice there are no marks there at all.
A quick glance down at your ankles reveals no signs of injury there either. You didn’t know what to say. You have no idea what kind of medicine could just erase that kind of discolouration almost overnight. There should have at least been some bruises or burns there, given how tightly the ropes had been around them.
“Well, thanks for getting me a doctor and for letting me sleep here, I really do appreciate it. I should, um, probably get out of your hair, shouldn’t I? You must be a very busy man,” you mumble as you shuffle your body forward into the middle of the bed, swinging your legs over the side.
“I do require you to remain here.”
Oh. So, you are a prisoner. You should have known better than to take Jinx’s word for it. You peer openly at him, now facing each other head on, as you perch halfway off the bed. The antithesis to the position you’d been in when you’d first met.
“One of the fools who kidnapped you managed to escape and has no doubt returned to his employer and informed him of the situation. Since he will now be able to identify you, it would be best if you completed the rest of your recovery here.”
One of the goons escaped? You didn’t dare ask what had happened to the other one, although you think you can guess. Silco must be able to read your hesitance because his tone softens slightly, as does his facial expression.
“I assure you, once Hendrick and his pathetic little gang have been eliminated, you will be free to leave.”
“Good. I’m already sick of staying in a room that looks like it was designed by the Mother Superior of a convent.”
Oh, fuck. Why did you say that?? After he so graciously allowed you to live AND got you medical attention and let you stay somewhere safe. He’s going to change his mind and kill you now. You just know it. You’d taken such a risk to save yourself from being killed and less than 48 hours later, you’d ruined it by (once again) insulting the literal Eye of Zaun.
To your surprise, he just laughs. You flinch at the unexpected sound.
“I apologise if the décor does not meet your standards.”
“Uh, that’s okay,” you tell him quietly, your face flushed with humiliation.
“I must confess, I did my research on you while you were out. I was surprised to learn that you’re a civilian. Where did you learn to talk your way out of situations like that?”
“I’m just used to convincing customers to buy stuff from the market stall I work at.”
He nods thoughtfully.
“I was impressed by your ability to persuade them to untie us, given your complete lack of experience in this world of mine,” he gestures vaguely around him, evidently unwilling to say the words ‘criminal empire’ outright.
“Why didn’t you say anything to them? I mean, you’re pretty well-known for your ability to negotiate.”
“I could barely get a word in edgeways. Besides, I knew my right-hand would find me, sooner or later,” Silco replies in a cocky manner.
Now that you’re less afraid he’s going to kill you for your insolence (after repeated offences with no consequences as of yet), you begin to settle comfortably into your preferred means of communication.
“Ah, so your tactic was to just wait there like a damsel in distress? Smart.”
He snorts and you revel in your astonishing ability to make the kingpin laugh. But there’s an observation you feel compelled to make, so you skip the opportunity to hear the sound again in favour of asking something serious. Something that’s been niggling at you throughout the whole conversation.
“Honestly, I expected you to leave me at the warehouse,” you tell him, your face dropping from its amused expression to one of sincerity, “I don’t understand what I did to deserve such kindness from you.”
“You risked your life to protect me, it’s only pertinent that I return the favour,” Silco answers without any hint of sarcasm or condescension.
You don’t know what to say to that and you can’t read his expression when he looks you in the eye. By the way his own eyes flicker between yours, you think he might be hiding something, but you’re not sure you want to find out. He inhales and exhales deeply, breaking the moment you were sharing.
“Sevika, my right-hand, will bring you some food up momentarily. Tell her if you require any more painkillers.”
With that, he stands and carefully places the chair back in the corner. You’re just able to mumble out a quiet breath of thanks as he crosses the room, opens the door, and stops in the doorway. His fingers grasp the door handle and his eyes meet yours, searching your gaze again as if he’s trying to figure something out. Silco nods once and gently closes the door, leaving you alone in your convent cell.
There’s no other way to say it. You’re utterly confused. Not only had he made sure you saw a doctor after your injuries, he’d gone as far as to give you a room to stay in, and even brought you under his protection, ensuring your safety from any potential gang threats. The only question on your mind was: why?
You flip through your options going forward. You could just leave. You doubt he’d put up much of a fuss if you just found the exit to the building and made your way back home. But a part of you just doesn’t want to. And for some reason, that terrifies you. How had you gone from fearing the King of the Lanes, like any other resident of Zaun who had some sense, to actively wanting to stay within his grasp?
You lie down sideways across the bed, your feet still dangling off the edge, and ponder this new dilemma you’d found yourself in, that was somehow more unsettling than the last.
You stay at The Last Drop for two more nights. In that time, your life seems to have altered so suddenly, that ‘past you’ would have cackled with laughter at the mere suggestion you would effectively be living with the Eye of Zaun. Not only are you brought food, Sevika also brings you a change of clothes and shows you where the shared bathroom is. And despite your stay being a very short one, you begin to slip into a little routine that you can’t help but enjoy.
During the daytime, you find yourself dragged down to the empty bar by Jinx, who directs you in playing games with her, watching her take apart little machines she’s put together, and scribbling some more doodles, despite how brutally she’d criticised your first ones. You’ve even begun to put up some of the artwork she makes you in the little room you’ve been allowed to stay in, with tape you’re almost certain Jinx has stolen from Silco’s office. You hope he doesn’t mind.
At one point, Silco catches you both pretending to have a pirate-themed sword fight with two umbrellas you’d found abandoned in a store cupboard. You spot him up on the balcony smirking down at you both, as you try to dodge her attacks, and the temporary distraction earns you a whack on the stomach from Jinx, who promptly forces you to walk the plank.
On your second evening, Jinx demands that you join her and Silco for dinner, and you’re surprised when Silco agrees, inviting you up to his office for the most luxurious meal you’ve ever had. He still wears his carefully cultivated mask, but you can tell it’s starting to crack with each little interaction the two of you share. Truth be told, you begin to treasure the moments of smooth banter between you both, the way you’re able to trade quips in rapid succession, the shared laughter as Jinx attempts to steal both of your desserts. You feel like you’re floating in outer space by the time you go to bed that evening.
By the third morning, you’re summoned to Silco’s office again. After being bid entry, you find yourself rooted on the spot by the door, your nerves starting to get the better of you as you’re unsure of the purpose of this meeting. Seated behind his desk, he politely tells you to sit down and you can’t help the affronted glare you give the wooden chair placed in front of his desk, as if by staring at it so intensely, you might be able to make it catch fire. Little bastard. Silco notices and waves his hand in the direction of the sofa, and you sit, but not before you spot the slight lift of his lips in response to your, quite frankly, ridiculous new vendetta.
“Hendrick is dead.”
“Oh, right,” you reply awkwardly, “did you kill him?”
Silco frowns. You hope he doesn’t think you’re being sarcastic this time. You’re not. You just don’t really know how to respond to a guy telling you he just killed someone, in all honesty. It should disgust you, make you want to run screaming from him. But it doesn’t. And that might be the most concerning part of this dangerous little dance you’ve become embroiled in.
“What about the other goon who kidnapped us?”
“Also dead. And the rest of the gang appear to have disbanded following the removal of their leader, so you don’t have to worry about one of them hunting you down.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” you tell him sincerely. He nods and the action causes a sinking feeling in your stomach. Truthfully, you’re missing the playful banter that’s usually present in your conversations with the man. There’s something about the drowning tone this discussion is taking that makes you feel like your forced vacation is coming to an end. You desperately don’t want it to.
“Since there is nothing keeping you here now, it is safe for you to leave.”
Now, that’s not strictly true. You could think of a few things that could keep you here. Your mind skips through those very reasons like you’re playing hopscotch across stepping stones in a brook. It wasn’t all just about his looks or his poise. Since you’d been given the tiniest window into the true nature of the man behind all the scary titles, you’d begun to admire how he acted behind closed doors. The way he treated Jinx with more reverence and love than you’d seen in a long time. The way he’d made sure you were taken care of, despite having no real obligation to do so. The undeniable way you both seemed to click, in a manner you never had with another person.
But you couldn’t say all that out loud because really, you’d only just met the man. Instead, you nod sadly, hoping he couldn’t identify the sheer amount of disappointment that drags through you like a sinking stone.
“I appreciate you spending time with Jinx; she will certainly miss you,” Silco says in a way that places a deeper emphasis on those last words, as if it has a double meaning that he’s not quite willing to admit.
“I’ll miss her too, she’s a great kid. Whereabouts is she? I want to say bye to her before I go.”
“I’m afraid she’s out with Sevika.”
What? What does he mean she’s gone out? He must have killed Hendrick last night and so he must have known he was going to inform you of the news this morning. So why would he send Jinx away? You have a strange, horrible feeling that he’d done it on purpose, but for the life of you, you can’t figure out why. It didn’t make sense to deny you a goodbye to your new friend but you choose not to say anything to him. It’s not your place to dictate how he parents.
As you turn to face him, you’re stunned by how perplexed Silco looks as he openly studies your face. What the hell is going on in his pretty little head of his? There’s an elongated silence as you stare at each other, neither one backing down from this challenge you’ve found yourself in. You think he’s going to say something as his lips part, but he doesn’t, instead somehow looking even more conflicted than he already was. You concede the battle and speak first.
“Oh, right, you’ll have to tell her I said goodbye then. Well I guess I’d better be off. I should probably go and see if I still have a job.”
You stand from the sofa and cross over to the door, missing the way Silco’s eyes follow you every inch of the way. Maybe you’ve already become too accustomed to their mannerisms because you find yourself lingering in the doorway, fingers lightly grasping the doorhandle in a direct mirror to the way both father and daughter had done a few days before. You find the troubled look on his face to be so heart-breaking, it makes your stomach twist and you’re sure by this point it must have tied itself in a knot. You decide to break the tension the only way you know how. Some good, old fashioned torment.
“Don’t get kidnapped again anytime soon, I’ll be too busy begging for my job back to come running to your rescue, princess.”
“I’ll cancel the plans I’d made for next Tuesday then.”
Good. The ice is unbroken after its temporary freeze-over. All is well again.
As you’re walking away through the corridors of The Last Drop, you wonder if you’ll be able to see him again soon. But you can’t think of any legitimate reason to, bar from the fact that you just want to. You briefly consider if a career change might bring you closer to the kingpin. You could become a bartender? But you can barely walk from your sink to your kitchen table without dropping a glass, so that wouldn’t work. You could train to become a deadly assassin that he trusts with the most dangerous of missions? …Nah.
None of your fanciful plans to keep the man within arm’s reach seem to fit. Maybe you’re just The Wrong Person for him, you deliberate, with no small amount of disappointment. But gods, you wish you were the right one.
Your final thought on the matter as you make your way through the Lanes and back to your apartment is that maybe he’d be kind enough to just let you visit once in a while. If not to work for him, maybe just to visit Jinx and keep her company. Regardless of how you manage to wriggle your way back into his world, you hope deep down in your heart that this isn’t the last time you cross paths with the King of the Undercity.
A/N: Cut to Silco playing Crush by Tessa Violet alone in his office after reader has left. Sorry if this one was a bit rambly. Also, the ending was more bittersweet than I’d originally planned but don’t worry bc there will be a part 3, so the angst won’t last forever! Okay, hope you enjoy the rest of your day/night!!
Tag list: @htmlbitxh
The Politics of Power- Chapter 2
Modern AU! Professor Silco x FemReader
The enigmatic Professor Silco takes you in as his grad student assistant. It's only one semester, just how hard could it be?
| 2.5k+WC | Chapter 1 | AO3 Link
Reader Insert, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Romance, Fluff, Student/Teacher Relationship
For a man with such lithe, unhurried grace in the classroom, he set an infuriatingly swift pace. You trotted just a step behind Professor Silco, nearly colliding with his back as you struggled to untangle yourself from your bookbag strap after your hasty exit from his classroom.
Staff and students alike parted unconsciously as he strode down the center of the buzzing hallway, a flagship cutting a wake through the high seas, with you towed closely behind. The sheer force of his presence, the way it was projected outward, it was an almost exhilarating challenge to make camp at his heels, to try and remain within his potent sphere.
You observed him again.
The sharp slants of his shoulders. His jagged profile. The fixed glower he seemed to aim at simultaneously everybody and no one at all, something effortlessly unyielding about him as he staunchly, and rather comically, ignored any bold soul’s attempt to address him.
A fascinating study. And a striking diversion to help blissfully distance you from your surroundings.
Professors greeting in passing. Students reconciling after months apart. Not so riveting small talk about the topic of the summer’s record heat.
People were choosing their clans. Networking.
Networking. You should be doing the same. Although, it felt little more than a collaborative joke of a word at this point, the notion having been beaten into your skull so fiercely by now that it had lost all meaning.
It was integral to not have your name lost among the masses, apparently, but what an exhausting and disingenuous concept it proved to be in action.
You should be trying harder. Playing the game. Rubbing a few elbows. You were fully capable, worth your salt. There just wasn’t much of a point, you thought, when you hardly knew what it was that you wanted in the first place.
Were you a little bitter? Probably.
You thought you'd known what you wanted when you’d started here.
You’d just gotten, well, a little lost among the masses.
Professor Silco’s bladed jaw tilted toward you only minutely, but it was enough to rip your focus away from him and back to the dwindling chatter as you neared an elevator.
That dinged once as it began to shut on a group of excited, babbling students.
Professor Silco muttered under his breath but didn’t falter, veering sideways into a shadowy alcove between two massive marble pillars and disappearing, ascending the narrow, winding metal staircase nestled into the hollows of the stone wall.
Impatient of him. But fitting.
On first impression alone, there was no universe in which you could imagine this man waiting for an elevator.
You jogged to catch up, overzealousness driving you up two steps at a time.
But the echo of his steps tricked you. And you nearly collided.
Professor Silco halted stiff as you only just managed to stop your hurtling form from crashing into his back again, feet scuffing clamorously, nails digging into the stone wall on either side of the narrow staircase. Before he could react, you had already exhaled an apology, heat blossoming across the apples of your cheeks.
The razor edge of his profile was no less captivating as he addressed you over his shoulder, aggravated, his teal eye glinting sharply from the soft glow emanating from the tiny, paned windows patterning along the rise of the outside wall.
“I didn’t realize I’d hired a leech.”
You propped there, wide-eyed, somehow not flung backward by his sudden proximity. Taking a single step down, you moved to clasp your hands in front of you, an ineffectual safeguard from that scorching gaze as it dusted across your reddening cheekbones from above.
“Well, I don’t know how you missed it,” you breathed quietly, forcing yourself to maintain the piercing eye contact, “It was right there in my profile.”
If he found you funny, he certainly didn’t outwardly show it. But there was something strangely close to amusement in the almost theatrically unimpressed narrow of his eye.
He turned wordlessly, using his arms to lever himself upward again. You hung back a beat before following, drew in a cleansing breath, catching for the first time the scent of tobacco that wafted lightly off his retreating form, an oddly pleasant smell.
“Your tardiness was a one-off, I hope,” Professor Silco’s voice spiraled melodically downward.
“Yes.” You hated how tinny you sounded. “Sorry I interrupted class. I wasn’t thinking.”
You thought you heard a low hum.
“I don’t tolerate discourtesy well.”
No, not well at all, according to some scathing reviews online. And he hadn’t seemed opposed in the least to discrediting you in front of the entire class, either. Humiliating you.
“It won’t happen again, sir.”
There was a short, peculiar pause, where only your gentle pants, the arrhythmic stomping of feet punctuated the silence.
And there was a serrated edge to his tone when he spoke next that seemed to cast a cool breeze down the narrow passage, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.
“I’m sure it won’t.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The top floor. Professor Silco’s office was on the top floor and by the time you practically limped out into the corridor behind him, your mind was solely focused on trying not to wheeze. You glared daggers at the back of his head as you walked, more than a little peeved that he’d forced his stubborn method of transportation onto your now burning thighs.
You supposed you could understand now how he kept that slender form.
He stopped before an open door, reaching with one long arm to switch on a light. Stepped back again.
“For office hours.”
You peered inside.
Was it an office? Could it really be defined as such?
The walls were a chipped, unsightly off-white. Barely enough room for the tiny wooden desk within, and the rolling, tattered-looking office chair that looked one sit away from self-destruction. None so much as a potted plant, an unsightly painting to draw from the distracting lack of distractions.
It looked rather like a tiny prison cell, almost purposefully designed to provoke madness. You looked to the man beside, suppressed a shudder at the searching, downward tilt of his head, eyes seeming to drink in your uninspired expressions like they were a fine wine. Had you speculating whether this was some sort of punishment. For what crime, you didn’t know.
But you could make it work. Had to make it work. Besides, it was just four hours a week.
All you really needed was a straitjacket.
“It’s… adequate,” you said finally.
His mismatched eyes glittered, and you got the impression he was pleased at your word choice.
“Adequate. Good." He turned, beckoning you with a haughty incline of his head. "At the risk of echoing our previous correspondences, your office hours are 2-4 Tuesdays and Thursdays following class. Otherwise, your work is with me.”
You quickly shut off the lights to the tiny room, following him a short distance down the hall to a set of thick oak doors with gold, gilded handles.
And a stupid little gold plaque.
Professor Silco- Political Theory
He pulled out a particularly ostentatious set of keys, making quick work of the locks and allowing you in.
And what you found was quite cozy. At least to your standards.
The room held the same dark, unearthly energy that the rest of the campus did.
A colossal, mahogany desk, back and center, held by four curling, golden lion paws. A red wine-colored Victorian couch to the left. Bookshelves to the right, bending under the weight of their impressive collections, so tall they needed a sliding ladder.
Wrought iron windows, twisting uneven patterns across the glass that spanned the entire wall behind his desk, where you could see the University’s spires rising like thorns out of a rose’s unruly stem.
Maybe it was your lower-class upbringing. Maybe it was because you’d completed your undergrad at the local community college, where the staff offices were less extravagant, more built just for function.
But this room reeked of new money, unquestionably gorgeous, in a wildly intimidating sort of way.
The place was teeming with antiques: a large, faded globe, several scattered piles of well-read books, a shining gramophone sitting beside his desk on a side table. Portraits upon portraits within gold-lacquered frames- some of long dead philosophers. One of looming mountains casting their reflection upon a dark, impenetrable sea.
You stood, you thought, in the entryway to a King’s private quarters, feeling strangely out of place fiddling there in your ratty little skirt and hand-me-down coat. You corrected your feet as they started to turn inward, like an anxiety-ridden child’s, nudged your chin up a touch.
And were immediately startled by the impatient brush of Professor Silco’s vested shoulder against yours as he breezed inside.
“Hang your coat and place your things at your desk.”
You scowled at the back of his prowling figure, not appreciating the command.
Year of promises. Year of promises.
You bit your tongue, heading over to the simpler, yet none the less extravagant table tucked into the corner to the right of the doors, placing your bag on its surface, letting your fingers linger on the cool, dark wood for just a moment. A small rose window shed a dim, eerie cast over your assigned little nook.
A little tremor of excitement had you bouncing on your heels slightly. This would be yours all semester. And you didn’t think it possible to have a grander view.
The company? You weren’t so sure about yet.
As Professor Silco settled, you walked the room quietly, tucking your coat further around you in a small rebellion.
You paused before a portrait. Machiavelli. One hand on a book, the other holding a pair of gloves. Lips forming a thin, sinister smile.
Skin prickling with awareness, you turned to find Professor Silco hunched, palms bracing his upright form as he studied you impassively from behind his desk.
Bright as a fallen fragment of sun. What had happened to that ruined eye to make it glow so brilliantly?
“There are too many portraits of men,” you remarked.
“In this room?”
“In the world.”
There was a short, contemplative pause before he pushed off from the desk. Began a slow, casual saunter toward you. And suddenly, you were intensely intrigued by anything but his approaching form, fighting every instinct to take one step back for every one of his forward.
“History is, as I’m sure you’re aware, broadly canonized by men.”
Professor Silco stood, spine impossibly straight, a half step in front of you, observing the portrait. A fair, respectable distance away, yet his proximity burned, forcing you to take one step to the side, surrendering to that strange field of energy.
You cleared your throat softly.
“Yet driven by the women standing behind the portraitist.”
“Much of the time, yes.”
Your steady gaze prompted him to meet yours, and your lips ticked upward in wry amusement.
“Is that why all these men look like they’ve been sucking on a lemon? Because there's someone behind the painter flipping them off?”
Amusement took the form of a soft exhale and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think the sound surprised him just as much as it did you.
“Maybe. Or perhaps dourness is just the price of enlightenment,” he said, eyes never leaving yours.
“Or perhaps this is all one portrait artist with a powerful vendetta against men.”
“That certainly could be,” he relented, lips quirking almost imperceptibly.
“Or maybe powerful men just get off on subduing women,” you said, "By defrauding them, stealing their ideas and posing for the camera."
Professor Silco studied you, orange eye hard, sharp, and as glittering as a sword. And you did the same, taking but a moment to inspect the marred side of his face up close, concealer covering what you presumed was the worst of the damage, but unable to hide, fully, the painful-looking trenches etching downward.
“I would argue they don’t hold much power if they have to result to such tactics," he said lowly, words coasting across your skin like a satin ribbon on a breeze, tying your insides in liquid knots, a surge of golden heat flaring between your legs. "To subdue."
His gaze flicked between the reddening tips of your ears, face still remarkably impassive as you tore your focus back to Machiavelli, who judged you with a smirk upon his mouth.
"Wouldn't you agree?"
"Perhaps," you answered only when you were confident that your voice wouldn't crack.
Unaffected, he broke away, back toward his desk, the moment over. You exhaled.
“Vander wrote a glowing recommendation letter for you.”
Curious, that thread of poison that crocheted through the name whenever he spoke it, never deigning to use Vander’s title. Perhaps, they knew one another.
And what was more disconcerting, what had you curling your coat just a fraction tighter around you, shifting on your feet, was the way his tone had grown just the slightest lilt. You could almost mistake it for playfulness if you weren’t so attuned. It was almost as if he were telling an inside joke. One between him and himself.
He settled into his high-back chair, the outline of it sharp against the misty backdrop of the University.
“Did he?” you tested the waters, stomach flipping when his mouth curved into the tiniest smirk. “I hope to live up to it.”
Professor Silco hummed low.
Did he suspect? That Vander hadn't written that letter at all?
No. He couldn't.
God, you had so many questions. So many. But now was not the time to inquire as to why he’d chosen you out of everyone else who was leagues above you. You’d graduated with honors and a 4.0, sure. Double majored it, even. On paper, you were impressive, and you’d managed to skate under the radar quiet yet well-liked. Had been offered a Journalism scholarship to one of the most highly acclaimed Universities and like a lost, wandering pup, had been hand-plucked off the streets by Vander’s capable hands.
You were grateful, no doubt, yet the cynic inside was loud. You hadn’t completed your undergrad at some snooty University on the coast. No, you’d gone to the local community college.
And Professor Silco had never even met you, hadn’t so much as laid eyes on you as far as you knew.
But you couldn’t say any of that. Couldn't appear so insecure.
The lyrical chime of your name from his lips pulled you quickly up and out of your reverie.
“Sorry,” you muttered, crossing the expanse of the room to primly take a seat across from him, thighs pressed together tightly. “You know Vander, then?”
“Is that what your little band calls him?”
The fingers of his hands fluttered over the ends his armrests in a thoughtful, hypnotizing pattern that had you fighting not to stare.
“Professor Vander,” you corrected.
At the title, something wicked, wrathful eclipsed the dispassion on his face for just a breath of a moment.
There was a drawn out pause.
“He’s an old friend.”
You nodded, swallowed. And like a trained bloodhound, his gaze honed on the nervous movement.
“I trust you had plenty of time in class to re-read the syllabus?”
Eyes flicked back up to yours, face ironed back into a careful neutrality, yet tone holding a suggestion of dark, self-satisfaction.
“Yes, I did,” you said indignantly, holding his gaze, insides withering like a flower under the beating sun.
“Oh, good." Professor Silco leaned forward, his long-fingered hands joining upon the desks smooth, dappled surface.
"Then, shall we begin?"
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Thank you for reading!
Oh, and please go check out @x-amount-verbs one-shot based on this fic! Learning the Rules
Also, please DM if you want to join taglist and I will add you- I lost track of who all wanted in. (And I have no idea what I'm doing). So sorry.
@x-amount-verbs @distinguished-jeseter-things @of-the-argonath @sweatandwoe
Betwixt Fate and Circumstance
Summary: after your less than ideal last encounter, you go to great lengths to avoid Silco. Unfortunately, fate has other plans for you.
Rating: Silco x F!Reader - SFW - 2.7k words
Warnings: drinking, blood and gore (not terribly explicit, but mentioned offhandedly), aftermath of a depressive episode, cliffhanger whoops
You hadn't gone back to The Last Drop since the incident, your cheeks heating at the mere thought of going back to the crime scene.
You let yourself mope for a while, finally pulling yourself together after the fourth day. You washed away the grime, feeling better with each splash of the water. The refreshing feeling was almost enough to ignore the hollowness that burrowed into the pit of your stomach.
You cleaned up the trash that had accumulated on your apartment floor: empty soup cans, plates you had left dirty in your haste to get back to the comfort of your bed, and used tissues. Dear Janna, there were so many tissues. The first day you had nearly rubbed your eyes raw with them, silently screaming at yourself to quit crying over someone who never wanted you.
You grimaced as you picked them up by the handfuls. You were eager to rid yourself of them: the sooner you could abandon the bad memories they represented, the sooner you could move on.
Cleaning up took a few hours, and by the time you finished, it was nearly 7. And if things were as you remembered, you could clock in for your shift tonight.
You grabbed on your coat from the chair, remembering how you had clutched it to your chest like an anchor that night, weaving through the dispersing crowds at a hasty speed. Your grip around the fabric tightened before burying it in the back of your closet, opting for a different one.
Taking a deep breath, you looked around your apartment before locking the door and heading to The Last Drop.
The Last Drop was nearly empty. Not that you were expecting it to be packed: it was extremely early in the sense of the evening.
Vander was behind the bar when you walked in, drying a glass. His eyes flicked to yours when the bell tinkled, a greeting dying on his lips once he saw you. His eyes widened as he put down the glass, throwing the rag over his shoulder. He said your name almost silently, as if he didn't really believe you were actually there.
“Hey,” you said weakly, expecting him to chide you for blowing off several pre-planned missions. To your surprise, he only enveloped you in a hug.
“So, you're not mad?” you asked him when he finally pulled away.
“Oh, I'm mad,” he said, placing his hands on his hips and doing a fair imitation of what you’d imagine a mother to be. “But I understand, and that's worth more than my anger.”
You nodded, feeling tears well up in your eyes. This time was far different from the last time you cried, full of gratitude and understanding instead of sorrow.
“It's honestly my fault, and I didn't get to apologize.” Vander rubbed the back of his head. “I know I was drunk and all, but it was never my place to-”
“It's okay,” you said suddenly, cutting him off. “I got my answer, and even though it's not what I wanted, I know it now, and it's better to find out this way rather than… I don't know, asking him out with a grand gesture or something.” You were rambling at this point, unsure as to whether or not you were trying to soothe Vander or yourself. You found that there was an unexpected truth in your words: you were, in a way, glad that you had found out. Perhaps you would have preferred something more tactful, but there was no changing what was already done. “My point is, I'm not mad either.”
Vander smiled widely, although there were still hints of concern in his eyes. “Are you here for your shift?”
“Yeah.” You rubbed the back of your head awkwardly. Vander had slipped into his business persona so quickly you hadn't had time to register it.
“Hmm,” Vander rubbed his beard in thought. “We weren't expecting you to come in today so we did schedule another bartender, but I can get someone to notify her.”
You smiled gratefully. “Thanks, it means a lot.”
He nodded absently as he headed to the back, muttering something to himself about whether or not he should send someone or go himself. You breathed a sigh of relief. You hadn’t gotten yelled at and you had a job tonight to keep you from your own thoughts.
Standing at the bar made you remember why you preferred going on missions as opposed to being the barkeep. The bar was in full swing and you were working harder than ever. Sweat had accumulated as a sheen on your forehead as you moved swiftly behind the counter.
“Just a second,” you said hastily to the man standing on the other side, who was trying to occupy himself by looking around. You scooped a sloppy cup of ice, spilling a few cubes on the floor. “Shit,” you whispered under your breath, quickly assembling the drink and pushing it into the man's hand with a quick apology.
You turned around and dropped to your knees, scooping up the ice cubes you had dropped on the floor. Once you had gathered all of them, you got to your feet and promptly dropped all them with a yelp.
Blue eyes bore into yours from across the counter. “Fuck,” you swore, dropping once more to the dirty floor to pick up the melting ice.
“How's the view from down there?” Silco asked cheekily, resting his head on his chin, looking down on you from underneath his long eyelashes.
“Better now that I'm not looking at you,” you muttered, falling into old habits before remembering yourself.
You wiped him from your mind and focused on picking up the cubes one at a time, desperate to avoid eye contact. You knew that if you kept conversing with him like everything was normal, you'd regret it in the morning, when you found yourself falling for him all over again.
He let out a low chuckle that yanked something in your heart. You straightened and dumped the ice into the sink, rubbing the excess water onto your apron before fixing him with what you hoped was a businesslike stare.
“Is there anything I can get you?” you asked, deadpan. His eyes danced with amusement as he observed your change in demeanor.
“So businesslike,” he said, fluttering his eyelashes. You repeated your question, stone-faced. He frowned. Usually his provoking proved successful, you snapping back with a comment, him retorting back, ending with the two of you bantering for hours.
“Uh, I'll have a whisky, neat,” he said, still processing what could've caused your abrupt change in behavior.
You poured two fingers before sliding the cup over to him and helping the next customer. Silco took his drink a couple of chairs over and watched you work, sipping slowly as he pondered what he could've done.
Once Silco was out of your line of sight, you let out a breath of air. It wasn't that looking at him made you cry. It was more so that looking at him reminded you of how you felt, and how he didn't reciprocate the feelings.
Turning to the next customer, you overcompensated, smiling cheerily: “What can I get for you?”
“I'll have a beer.” He smiled at you, showing chipped teeth. You didn't recognize him, so either he’d been recruited within the last four days while you’d been gone, or he wasn’t a member of the Children of Zaun.
You told him the cost and he slipped the amount into your hand, purposefully brushing your fingers. “Keep the change, sweetheart,” he said with a wink.
You smiled at him to cover up the disgust that welled up inside of you. As you grabbed the beer out of the refrigerator you felt a gaze on your ass. You quickly tugged your skirt down. Yes, you’d worn this skirt to get more tips this evening, but it always surprised you how earnest customers were to engage in perverted behaviors.
You turned around, a false smile cemented on your face. You held the drink out for the man, gritting your teeth silently.
“Thanks, love,” he said, making no move to leave. Your eyes unconsciously flicked to Silco, who had his tumbler in a death grip.
You thought you spotted something in his scrutiny. Was it… jealousy? You quickly wiped that thought from your mind. There was no use in making fantasies from unfortunate reality, especially not with him. You had to move on, or, at the very least, keep him at the back of your mind.
“Is there something I can help you with?” you asked, resolve growing thin.
“Yes, actually. Would you like to go out with me sometime?” he asked, flashing you what he probably believed to be a winning smile.
“You're too funny,” you laughed politely, your stomach churning at the thought of going anywhere with this foul man. When he didn't reciprocate, your laughs grew awkward. You switched to your go-to response in this situation. “Actually, um, I'm already spoken for.”
The man’s eyebrows shot up to his forehead. “Oh! I'm so sorry.” You laughed awkwardly again, desperately wanting him to leave. “Yeah, don't worry about it, it actually happens all the time.”
He turned around to walk somewhere far away from you. “Have a nice night!” you called after him.
Feeling another gaze, this time on your neck, you turned around. Silco gave you a pointed look before loudly sipping his drink and spinning around on the barstool.
He kept his distance for a while after that, and you couldn't decide if you were grateful or frustrated. Yes, in the previous situation, you’d been the one doing the avoiding, but now you only felt shittier than ever. It had been a while since you’d last seen him, and you’d been on bartender duty ever since you blew off your missions.
“You need to earn our trust back,” Vander had said with his arms crossed, although there was no malice in his expression.
You supposed it was fair, but it didn't make serving drinks any more exciting. You were closing up when Silco stumbled in.
“Look,” you said, annoyed after a long day of work. “I know you're a Son of Zaun or whatever, but you don't get special treatment unless you want to pour your own drink and clean up after yourself.”
Silco’s eyes flicked up to you, and you could see that he was in no mood for games. “Does it look,” he said through gritted teeth, “like I'm looking for a drink?” Silco moved his hand to the side, revealing a long, bloody gash running down the side of his ribs.
“Holy shit,” you breathed, dropping the rag you were wiping the counter down with and walking briskly toward him. “What happened?”
He collapsed in the nearest chair, wincing as he sat. “I was up in Topside, ran into some enforcers who could tell I was ‘zauntie trash.’ Long story short, they roughed me up in an alleyway and I landed on a rusty… pole? I don't even know what it was.”
“Why would you? Who gets injured and immediately wants to know exactly what kind of rusty material they landed on?” Silco laughed at that but quickly stopped, flinching at the pain it brought.
You helped him take off his coat, taking in a sharp breath when you saw how bad it was.
“Stay right here. I'll go get the first aid kit.” You pushed through the employee’s only door and reached for the first aid kit inside the cabinet. Heading back out, you saw that not only had Silco taken off his coat, but he was beginning to unbutton his shirt. Unsuccessfully, you noted.
“Hey, stop, let me help,” you said, reaching out for him. His fumbling hands relented and allowed you to finish the job.
You finally got his shirt undone, gently slipping it off his injured side. He grimaced and you gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry,” you whispered.
“It's fine,” he grunted out, shifting to his good side.
You observed the wound, lightly running your fingers over it. He took a sharp breath and you stopped, looking up at him. Silco nodded, letting his breath out slowly.
“It was rusty?” you asked, continuing your examination. He nodded. “You know that for sure?” He nodded again. “Alright,” you said, reaching for the bottle of vodka you had snagged on the way back.
Unscrewing the cap, you poured a small amount onto a rag. You looked up at him for confirmation. He nodded, looking away. After a moment, you abandoned the rag and began pouring the alcohol directly into the gash. The wound was deep, after all. Stifling a scream, Silco covered his mouth and twisted in his seat, only furthering his pain.
“Hey, hey, don't move, it's only going to hurt more.” You were going for soothing, only it came out as more of a chide. He glared at you from behind his hand and slowly turned back, vodka and blood oozing from the lesion.
You dabbed at the liquid secreting from the open wound, trying to apply as little pressure as possible. “Stop moving,” you chided as he leaned down and took a swig of the liquor. “Stop that, it's the good stuff.”
“You're really using the ‘good stuff’ on me? I'm touched, truly.” He placed a hand over his heart in mock warmth. You rolled your eyes and threaded a needle. “Hey, hey whoa there, wanna discuss where that needle is going?”
“What's there to be discussed?” you said absently, focusing on the thread. “You're gonna need sutures, and I don't see anyone else around to help.”
Silco huffed. “It still would've been nice if you told me in advance.”
“I did,” you said as you stabbed the needle through his flesh, pulling it out the other side. He flinched away, causing you to grab his good arm and pull him closer to you. You were a breath apart. “Stop moving.” you whispered, trying to pull your gaze away from him. You looked into his eyes as something darker filled them.
His yelp pulled the two of you out of your trance as you looked down and saw that you had pulled the thread too tight. “Fuck, I'm sorry.”
“It's fine,” he said, looking back up at you. You didn't see, focused on stitching him up as quickly as possible. It wasn’t good for you to be in such close proximity to him, especially in such an intimate moment.
“Hey,” he said after a couple moments of silence. “Talk to me.”
“I can't,” you said. “I'm busy trying not to sew your arm to your abdomen.”
“I'm serious.” You paused to look up at him; it looked like he was staring at you with something akin to tenderness. You pushed that thought away. You were definitely imagining things. Maybe you were delirious from something gone rotten over at Jericho’s stall.
“What's there to talk about?” you asked stiffly, avoiding eye contact once more. It was only when your chin was grasped between his forefinger and thumb that you finally looked up.
“You've been avoiding me,” he said plainly. You pulled yourself from his grasp and looked away.
“I really don't want to talk about this.”
“You were gone for four days, and I've tried to give you space, but clearly something is wrong and you need to talk about it.”
“There's nothing to talk about.” You could tell you’d pulled that next stitch a bit too tight from the way he flinched. “Sorry.” you added lamely.
“Look, is this about-”
“No,” you said a bit too quickly. “It doesn't have anything to do with you.” You knotted the thread, getting to the end of the sutures. You cut the thread and stood, stiffly tidying the kit. Silco was silent, observing you. The silence was becoming unbearable.
“Look, I have other people to talk to about this kind of thing,” you said at last.
“Like who?” The words were accusatory, but the delivery was soft, almost caring.
“Vander, Benzo…” you trailed off. Silco opened his mouth. “Regardless, I have people. You don't need to worry about me.”
You got up quickly, leaving him with his words going unsaid.
June is less than a week away, which means LGBTQ+ Pride Month is almost here. This year, we’re celebrating Pride with a special Arcane event celebrating trans identities and experiences: Trans Arcane Week!
Trans Arcane Week runs from June 19 to June 25, with daily prompts to inspire you. This event is intended to celebrate and encourage the creation of fanworks focusing on trans characters: genderfluid Ekko, trans woman Mel, agender Caitlyn… any and all trans headcanons, identities, and experiences are welcome!
To participate in this event, you can post on tumblr or twitter using the tag #transarcaneweek, and can ping us on tumblr @/arcanefandomweek or twitter @/Arcanefanweek. You can also submit your work to the TransArcaneWeek2022 collection on AO3, which will open the first day of the event.
Event prompts are pinned on our blog. Please also check out our Rules and Guidelines!
We can't wait to celebrate Pride with you!
A late birthday drawing (*_*)
Yes they are eating the strawberry cake I couldn't enjoy...oh well
#ink and dagger
Hi Retro! May I request Silco stealing his boyfriend's hoodies? I have like an abundance of them and sweaters lol
I never would've imagined Silco in a hoodie until today
(Arcane) Silco x Male Reader
Note: It’s a little shorter, but I made it short and sweet here. Hope you like it <3
“Silco, what’re you doing?...”
I walked into our room, noticing Silco going through my side of the closet, humming as he was rummaging through my clothes
“mm, nothing” Silco sighed in defeat, his hands no longer running through the sleeves of my hoodies
“Then what were you doing through my clothes?” I asked, sliding behind him and wrapping my hands around his waist, his back against my chest. I hid my face into the crook of his neck and gently peppered the side of his neck with kisses while he leaned in a little,
“I just wanted to see something...” he mumbled, but he stayed in place just so I could continue to hold him near.
“Silco-- isn’t that M/n’s hoodie?” Sevika glared, arching a brow as Silco walked in his office with a drink in his hand, “It is” Silco mumbled in a matter-of-fact tone
“Does he know you have it?...” Jinx piped in as he twisted around in Silco’s chair
“He does not” Silco replied, moving over to his desk
“So you stole it” Sevika huffed with a sly smirk on her face, crossing her arms in amusement since this greatly-feared man was wearing his own boyfriend’s hoodie. Silco shrugged, trying to come off as unbothered, but his the tips of his ears betrayed him as they turned a slight shade of pink along with his cheeks.
“I’m sure M/n would find you so cute in his hoodies” Sevika teases, leaning closely towards Silco before backing away at his grunts of disapproval
“I was just- I’m just borrowing this for today. My clothes were dirty and M/n’s out at the moment going to get them cleaned” Silco explained, only telling half the truth
“He’s spoiling you” Sevika chuckled, walking towards Jinx to push her out of the chair.
“Only a little, I’ll admit, but it’s not like I’ve been planning this” Silco defended.
But in reality, Silco has been planning this. Ever since he met M/n, he’s noticed that M/n’s clothes were mainly based on hoodies and sweaters. Silco always loved seeing M/n look for new ones, and seeing him try them out. Silco loved seeing his M/n happy.
And he even loved the idea of wearing something that M/n loves.
It was romantic for Silco, and he was ashamed to admit it.
“Silco?” I froze as I entered back home with Silco’s pile of clothes in my arms, I caught Silco wearing one of my sweaters while working on paperwork.
“M/n, you’re back!” Silco smiled, attempting to hide his slight shock that I had returned before expected.
“What’re you wearing?” I asked, hoping to any God up there that this isn’t some dream where he stole my sweater.
“Ah-- well seeing as I didn’t have my clothes, I decided to wear yours...” He explained, his voice slightly faltering the more he spoke.
“Are you sure it isn’t because you really just wanted to wear my clothes?” I questioned, walking over to him and placing my hands on the sides of his face to see his reaction. I could see his half-lidded eyes as he leaned his head cloer to my hands to show the trust he had in me.
I cooed at the small action and kissed his forehead, “If you want to keep stealing my sweaters, I’d be fine with that...” I offered, to which he excitedly smiled in agreement before clearing his throat to put himself back in his place,
“You’d be okay with that?” he asked.
“Of course, Silco... I think you look really handsome in my clothes. I wouldn’t mind seeing you in them...” I smiled, caressing the side of his face.
From that moment on, Silco likes to wear your hoodies and sweaters in his office when he knows he isn’t expecting guests to enter or when he’s home with you. He just loves to see you watching him, admiring him while he wears your clothes, and with the faint smell of you on the sweater?... He’s practically in Heaven
i just KNOW Silco and Jinx watched Lilo and Stitch together at least once a week
Guys this took me longer than I meant😭 But I decided to group a handful of my comfort characters that have a lot of similarities among themselves and uhhh I doodles them hehe👀
Kaz Brekker (Shadow and Bone), Silco (Arcane), Joker (Heath Ledger), Rumplestiltskin/Mr. Gold (Once Upon a Time), and Zemo (Marvel)!
Also yeah, Kaz is literally just a younger Silco- legit though they have so many similarities guys it’s insane😳🤌
Bonus points if you name the pattern(s) among my simps lmao😆
All interactions are appreciated!❤️
Hc request for Silco dating a s/o who talks in their sleep please. Bonus points for sleep walking too lol
when is started, Silco didn’t think much of it
everyone mumbles in their sleep, if anything, he was just slightly annoyed it would wake him up
when coherent phrases and sentences start being said is when he pays more attention
it’s usually just random things that mean nothing but occasionally he’ll hear his name
“Silco, why is your office underwater again?” “You have such fluffy hair, Silco.”
he brings it up when you’re awake and you’re slightly embarrassed but shrug it off since it’s harmless
when the sleep walking starts is when problems follow
the first time it happens, it scares the living shit out of him
he shoots out of bed, knife gripped haphazardly only to see you flipping through clothes in the closet like you’re picking an outfit for the day
he calls your name a few times but you pay it no attention
then it clicks in his mind that you’re sleep walking
there’s not much he can do besides watch so he does just that
soon enough, you put yourself back to bed
he’s unable to fall back asleep for the night
when he brings up this new development you’re embarrassed but again, it’s harmless right?
harmless for you perhaps but one time Silco grabbed the wrong end of the knife in his panic and sliced his palm open
that you felt bad about but still teased him for
even as it becomes more frequent, he finds he can never adjust
if you’re up and about then so is he
he has to take a nap during the day to make up for the lost sleep
but he'd rather do that than no have you in bed with him every night
hc requests always open!
Arcane art part1
Y’all could have fucking told me Arcane was gonna screw me up, but no. You lured me in with your gay shit, and I got traumatized sisters.