Summary: Ekko finds that Silco is alive and well with his wife by his side in the alternate timeline. He feels the need to tell you about it
Warnings: fem!reader (called wife at some points), no pronouns used though I believe, canon death mention, AU mention, implied Timebomb, angsty : ) , mentions of canon unhealthiness that comes with living in the Undercity, timeline is screwy but idc and neither should you LOL
Word Count: 2.3k
A.N: listen, i know he was a little fruity with Vander in the AU BUT i still need this man desperately, don't worry about the timeline i stg, this is actually pretty sad lmao, have fun with it
•
Ekko stares at the man behind the bar; face simultaneously instantly recognizable and drastically changed. The scar was the same mangled mess across one side of his face, but that was where the similarities ended.
In his timeline, Ekko remembers Silco as a cruel bastard with only room in his heart for his wife and Jinx. He never smiled nor ever had reason to. This Silco had a glint of brightness in eyes, even in the orange mutated one, that he would've never associated with the crime lord. The boy stands there, facing the middle-aged man in front of him as he waves his goblet around, body flowing with movement; no strain evident in his posture.
He's talking, Ekko knows this, they're all speaking to him like they aren't either dead or an enemy. But they aren't--these versions of the people he once knew in his own timeline are different.
His eyes drift briefly to you, teeth bared in a smile he hasn't seen since he was a child. You look like that one day, seemingly ages ago, when you kept and eye on him, Powder, and Violet, just days before the uprising. At that point you hadn't been corrupted by the deaths of your closest friends or your husband's vile need for justice. You had a sort of youth to you, though your hair was twinged with greys like Vander's and Silco's, you were practically wrapped around his slender frame, gesturing wildly.
Life had not just been given to Vander, but to you and Silco as well.
His breath hitches and his head throbs with a sharp pain unlike any other.
Ekko squeezes his eyes shut, the vibrancy of the Anomaly imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. Distantly, he hears Powder's voice, like a song in his ear, with a type of kindness he's almost completely forgotten.
When he snaps back to reality, whatever that now meant, he was sitting at a table, away from the bar, with Powder to his right and Mylo and Claggor across from him. They watch him, expecting him to act normal, like he was meant to be here.
"I think you might actually be going crazy," Powder laughs, the sound like a sweet summer breeze as it drifts by him. Her eyes scan over him worriedly.
Ekko swallows roughly, willing the wave of sickness to pass quicker. "I--I'm fine. I think I'll just grab water or something?" Swiftly he rises from his seat, partially unbalanced. He hates that his clothes are a perfect fit and his shoes are comfortable enough he can wiggle his toes around.
He walks to the bar, the sounds of rowdy laughter and girlish giggles surrounding him. The ease of it all is overwhelming.
"What'll you have, Ekko? Your usual?"
Ekko glances at you, taking you in now that you're within arm's reach. The only sign of age are your laugh lines around the corners of your lips. Gone are the sunken, tired eyes and ghastly paleness of skin caused by the contaminated air of the Undercity. You were healthy; sure there were a few scrapes here and there, but your cheeks were filled out, Ekko noticed.
"U-usual?" He manages to croak out before the silence got too concerning.
Obviously worried, your brows furrow and lips purse. "I'll just get you a water then, huh? You're not acting like yourself." You busy yourself, bringing up a glass from the shelf at your knees.
Silco is on the other side of the bar, talking to strangers with Vander. He barks out a laugh, nothing he's ever heard before, and runs his free hand through his already ruffled hair.
The glass clinks on the wooden table in front of him, snapping him out of his trance.
"Are you sure you're ok, Ekko? You don't look so good..." You place the back of your hand to his forehead, reaching over the bartop. The coolness of your skin brings him relief, but he knows you're not going to find he has a high temperature. Physically, he was mostly fine. Mentally, however, was another story.
He thinks about how most of these people are dead men walking or empty shells of their former selves back where he's from. Ekko can't shake the empty feeling he has in his heart.
This was the way things should have been.
"So how are things with you and Silco?" He asks, ignoring your previous question as you bring your hand back to your side.
Leaning against the bar you inspect him for just a moment longer. The boy picks up his glass and almost drains it in one go, which seems to satisfy you for now.
"Me and Sil?" You glance at him quickly, face burning. "We're married, kid, we bicker and are right pricks to each other...but in the end we love each other more than anything in the world. That's how it goes." You sigh, resting your head in one of your hands thoughtfully. "Why do you ask?"
Ekko fiddles with the collar of his shirt. "He just seems so happy. Despite...everything, y'know?"
Lips tilt down slightly in a solemn frown. "It was hard for him, forgiving, that is. He thought we had to endure bloodshed to assert Zaun's rightful existence; he thought it was the only way to get Piltover to listen." Your eyes glance down to the polished wood holding you up. "It was all he knew. And after the incident...after losing our friends and his eye...it was all just a hard pill to swallow."
Silco's laugh once again echoes through the air. You smile immediately, head perking up at the mere noise of your husband. "I never thought I'd see him smile after what we lost--after Vander's wakeup call." Ekko watches as your eyes grow wet with unshed tears. "But here he is, my Silco, living the life he always dreamt of..."
"And you?" Ekko shifts from side to side, feet shuffling below him.
"What about me?" You ask, willing the tears away, busying yourself with wiping the countertop between the two of you.
"Are you happy as well?"
For a moment, you pause, pondering the weight of his question. Ekko, the boy you've come to treat as your son, the boy you trust your Powder with, looks at you like you're not quite right. His eyes gaze into your soul with an intensity that's hard to decipher.
Little moments from your life flash before your eyes; swaying to music with Silco in your kitchen as dinner cooks on the stovetop, you and Vander venturing into Piltover to get more supplies for the bar, Silco's soft gaze and his warm lips against your skin.
"I never thought I could ever be this happy." You tell him truthfully, voice just slightly above a whisper.
Something breaks in his eyes, in his demeanor, but he nods anyway. Something wasn't right--that much was obvious, but before you're able to pick his brain he leaves you at the bar, almost sprinting back to Powder and his friends. She greets him with a smile but her fingers twitch nervously under the table.
With a huff you attend to the other patrons at the bar, occasionally catching Ekko's eye as you walk around your space. He watches you and Silco work in tandem like husband and wife. Even with Ekko's mind already severely overwhelmed with the world around him, he notices when your fingertips purposefully brush when handing glassware over to the other and the small kisses that accompany some flirtatious or loving remark. His head spins and senses buzz with the overload of what could have been.
He leaves without saying goodbye to you or Silco, thought you do call out to him before he exits, you, wrapped in Silco's arms.
"I don't know how to tell you this--or even if I should tell you this." Ekko sits in front of you, tinkering with his hoverboard. Jinx stands feet away, quietly eavesdropping while glancing over blueprints she probably already knows by heart. "But Jinx said you might wanna know."
With a frown already etched into your face, you raise your eyebrows at him. You hadn't spoken to Ekko in years especially since Vander's betrayal of your husband and Vi's abandonment of Jinx. But with Piltover and Zaun under attack, he requested your presence with the Firelights. You parted ways with your husband's right hand man Sevika, hoping that you would see each other again, but predicting that that simply wasn't realistic.
"Just spit it out, kid." You reply, exhaustion lacing your words. Fatigue had infiltrated deep in your bones; Silco's death had taken a large toll on you--you were the last of you little makeshift family alive, though Vander was dead to you long before his final breath left his body.
You were quite the contrast to you counterpart in the alternate timeline. Ekko knew this before, but the accentuated frown lines and lifelessness that surrounded your very being just hit him full force.
He takes a deep breath, cautious of how you were going to react. "I went to an alternate timeline and Silco was alive there." Ekko forces out in one breath.
You stare blankly at the boy, your mind somehow not registering what he was saying.
"That was my reaction too..." Jinx murmurs, her voices echoing in the vastness of her metal lair.
A wave of vertigo washes over you, submerging you in its depths. It's hard to breathe. But somehow you will yourself to stay calm in present company. Now was not the time to be weak.
"An alternate timeline?" You manage to ask weakly, drawing your arms closer to your chest and uneasily wrap them around your frame.
"Don't even ask me to explain it because I don't think I could," Ekko chuckles humorlessly. "But it was a timeline where Zaun and Piltover were at peace, where you could openly cross the bridge and not worry about what would happen to you. Zaun and Piltover thrived together."
You scoff at the notion, shaking your head in disbelief. "Are you sure this wasn't a dream?"
"No. This was real." Ekko's deep brown eyes gaze into yours, something painful swimming in his irises. He's different from the boy you once knew; he's seen something, dealt with something he had lost--had to leave behind. The seriousness laced in his tone convinces you.
You nod, indicating that he can continue as you pick at your nails. You try to brace yourself for whatever he's about to say, but you can't. There was no way to predict what was going to come out of his mouth. But the thought of Silco being alive somewhere kills you inside; your stomach churns and your heart aches for your one and only.
Ekko only sighs before explaining to you what he saw, occasionally pausing to recollect his thoughts or add another component onto his hoverboard.
He tells you about the Silco that could have been--should have been--yours. How his laughter filled the already boisterous main room of The Last Drop, how when a certain song played he would drop everything just to twirl you around behind the bar. Ekko described the brightness of his once clouded eyes and the genuine smile that was always present on his face. Your love was so palpable wherever the two of you went.
Powder confessed once, he told you, while looking over countless notes and equations late at night, that if she were to ever get married, she would want exactly what you and Silco had.
Ekko has you clinging onto each sentence trying to savor each and every word as if you were on your deathbed. You try to picture him in your mind, the greying tousled hair, healthy figure, and tendency to smile. The images are faint against the darkness of your eyelids, blurry from the passage of time.
"He's happy?" You ask quietly.
Ekko nods.
"And am I--Is she happy?" You ask again, stuttering at the thought that this person was not you. You were not the one sharing these intimate moments with your husband; these were strangers, who you could've been.
Again, Ekko nods silently, eyes cast downwards.
You feel your bottom lip start to tremble and tears fight to escape and fall down your cheeks. The lump in your throat grows bigger.
What could've been had haunted you ever since Vander's attack on Silco. It had loomed over you and your husband and suffocated you after his death. To know it was so much sweeter than you ever could have imagined...
Your breathing is uneven when Ekko finally stops talking; other than your labored breath the room was silent. You attempt to collect your thoughts and your emotions but they keep slipping through the cracks between your fingers.
"I shouldn't have told you..." Ekko mutters, apologetically. Eyes swimming with pity, he lays a comforting paint-stained hand on your shoulder. Behind him, Jinx stares blankly down at her boots.
"No it's ok, kid." You sigh, willing away the waves of tears threatening to spill over. "It was good to hear."
"Really?" He looks at you, unconvinced.
"It's good to know that me and Silco get a happy life, y'know?" Your attempt at a small smile partially works, but Ekko can still see the distraught written so clearly all over your face. "One where we can smile and laugh and live. If it couldn't be here, I'm happy it was at least in another lifetime."
Ekko helps you stand, still concerned for you.
With an uneven sigh you turn away from Ekko and Jinx who watch you intently, projects forgotten on the floor or scattered across a small table.
"I need some air." You tell them, ambling slowly to the exit, hoping for the cool polluted air to swallow you whole.
BIRBS WRITING FOR SILCO??????? (SLAMS THE BUTTON) WEE WOO WEE WOO
HOBBYISTS & FINER THINGS. ; silco / reader
summary: perhaps all this trouble is worth it. or, you come into ownership of the lilac lounge and after a business inquiry, find you've earned silco's interest.
word count: 2.1k
pairing: silco / f!reader
a/n: a little something i've been stewing on. enjoy what will undoubtedly become a little series, knowing me. this pretty gif is by @aestheticsicrushon from this set here!
read me on ao3 | next chapter >
"Tea?"
You're beginning to think this whole thing was more trouble than it was worth. By 'thing', you quite candidly mean the fact The Lilac Lounge — one of three brothel's residing along the Lanes' main strip — was now under your ownership.
You'd be lying if you said it hadn't come as surprise.
(The sort of surprise that had riled half the Lanes the next morning — your screams of disbelief had ricocheted down the strip, the squawk sending whatever poor gutter rats and ravens fleeing from their morning meals. WHAT?!)
You and Yeleni — the previous owner — had never really seen eye-to-eye. She was a disgruntled, old courtesan who could rarely admit a single fault, and yet you stuck around. Be it loyalty or stubbornness, you're still not quite sure. You were one of her best girls; you've spent the better half of your life working in that plush, little brothel.
Those rooms have seen your maturity sharpen.
Whatever. Fuckin' Yeleni. She put your fuckin' name on the deed. Then, she up and croaked. Slipped away in her sleep. Not exactly the way you'd imagined her going, but it happened. You always thought there would be more screaming, more clawing — a last, desperate cling to life just like she clung to her vanishing creams smuggled from Topside.
Eugh.
There's a whole pile sitting on your desk back at The Lilac Lounge. You can't seem to get rid of them fast enough. You thought handing off a dead woman's half-used beauty regime would be easier. Turns out it's quite the contrary.
...Perhaps Silco...?
You silence the intrusive quip with a quick flash of your lashes.
You have to admit — you anticipated the man before you to be a bit more... garish. From the way Yeleni had spoken of him, it seemed as if he was a pain to look at. From her stories, every interaction between the two verged on violent. Though, you suppose that eighty-six-year-old whore rarely had any sort of functional relationship with any of her coworkers, patrons, or protection. It was charming... in a twisted way.
His back is to you now. He is in the corner, by the phonograph. There's a cart there with a myriad of pretty little bottles and pretty little spirits. The offer of tea comes as a surprise.
From your place between the two of his enforcers, you shift in your chair. Your cross your legs and rest your knotted hands on your stockinged knee when your coat has parted.
"Sherry," you speak slowly; the point in your words remains pleasant if not professional, "If you have it."
Across the room, Silco takes pause. His own drink is forgotten for a moment — and he's suddenly struck with the fact you are not Yeleni. You're... well, little old Yeleni would have already threatened to castrate him for suggesting he didn't have her tea ready on her arrival.
"Not a fan?"
She'd been a mythic woman. Quite small, but mighty. Respected.
Why she left The Lilac Lounge to you remains to be seen.
He moves, the lip of the crystal tinkering neatly against the glass. He turns back, both drinks in hand.
"No," you explain lightly, "I can never get past the sting of the water."
You get a good look at him then, backlit by the jade windows that suck in the dim light from the Lanes outside. Your chin is held high, posturing rigid as a board. Silco is a bit surprised to see you've kept your coat on. The high collar brushes your cheek.
He offers the sherry and your gloved fingers brush his.
He holds your gaze.
You're a pretty thing. Beautiful, even. Not in a delicate sense, but in a pointed sort of way. Sharp. Perhaps it's the wicked way your eyes narrow ever so slightly when they meet his.
Hm. No, not bad to look at. Not at all, you reason.
His eyes lift and with a wave of his hand, he gestures for his men to wait outside. You watch, sherry raised to your lips, and only sip once the door has clicked shut. When your head swivels back, he's still watching you.
Finally, he leans back and ventures around the center table to his rouge loveseat.
The spirit stings your throat. It's nice.
"You know," comes the slow drawl as he leans and gathers a cigar before dropping down to the sofa, "Your predecessor would have threatened me four times over at this point in our meeting..."
You snort into your drink. Quiet. Lady-like, still. Your voice echoes in the crystal as you hesitate a sip.
"Would you prefer I begin now or later?"
Silco almost laughs. Almost. The corner of his lips tug. You see a flash of intrigue narrow his good eye. The other, burning bright as embers, stares on.
"Hardly," he leans forward, elbows on his knees. Gracefully, he clips the cigar and procures a heavy, gilded lighter from the same box. He snaps it open with a satisfying tink before lighting the expensive piece of tobacco. It's a gesture. Reminding you where you are.
"Yeleni thought highly of you."
It's Silco's turn to snort. "Did she now?"
"No," you cut it down, resting your glass on your knee as you watch him extend back like a cat. He props his arm up and takes a long drag of the cigar; your smile is cunning, "But, she never thought highly of anyone but herself. So, perhaps let me rephrase: she respected you."
Silco lets that settle in the air between the two of you.
"And you?" he asks after a moment.
You swirl the glass. Your gloves are sheer. Dashed with glimmer little bits of woven metal. It flashes silver in the jade light of the office. When you lift your eyes, they inadvertently land on a painting over his shoulder. Your face snaps, a tension breaking, at the sight of—
"A Friedlingmer?"
Silco blinks.
His head turns, following your gaze.
...Ah.
The painting of the idyllic topside pasture has ensnared your attention long enough for Silco follows the trail of your figure. The glitter along your cheekbones catches the light as a stream of light filters in from the afternoon.
"It was a gift," he speaks into his whiskey, ignoring the stroke of admiration that blooms in the wake of your interest.
"It's beautiful," you speak slowly, eyes still trained on the intricate frame holding the painting, "And rare. He only completed eight paintings in his time spent Topside. You're the sole owner of one, it seems."
"...You're an academic, then?" Silco prods, "It's not often I have the pleasure of holding company who can speak on Friedlingmer's residencies."
Your laugh is melodic. Like a diamond. Pretty and rough and rare. "You flatter me, Silco."
His name is honey-sweet on your tongue. It rolls off easier than you mean for it. Silco's lip tugs again.
"It was merely an honest inquiry."
"No, no, I — I'm a hobbyist, if you will," you wave it off, your attention turned back to the man before you, "But, at the end of the day, we all chase the beauty of things we cannot have, don't we?"
Oh.
Lights alive, you're something.
...He gets it now.
This is dangerous. This little feeling that's nibbling at his heartstrings. This is — fuck.
Silco clears his throat after a long moment.
Stick to business.
"Yeleni and I had an understanding," he speaks carefully as his cigar burns between his fore and middle finger. The smoke rises up, dancing in fine lines of smoke around his face, "I take it you were aware."
"I'm looking to extend the terms of the agreement."
Silco almost chokes.
He smothers his surprise, masking it as a clearing of his throat. He leans forward, a hand falling along a crossed knee. He's a lithe man — but long. Tall. Lean and sharp. Handsome, still. You can't help but feel a bit of a bitterness creep up. Yeleni should have warned you as much.
"Our agreement was extensive—"
"I want security present for twelve hours every other day," you say sharply, as the web of the conversation begins to unravel just as you'd hoped, "For an increase to ten percent of our earnings."
"I don't have the men for that."
"Lying is unbecoming."
Your gazes connect and it's white-hot. Like gasoline on open flame.
Silco almost snarls.
"Twenty percent."
"—As if I'd give you anything more than eleven."
...
He misses Yeleni.
But, it seems you're not finished — and for yet another time in the ten minutes, he realizes just why Yeleni left The Lilac Lounge to you.
"We're vulnerable. Shimmer puts us in a dangerous position. The work we do is sought after and demand hits a new peak with every month. Protecting us puts good faith in you. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."
Silco exhales. Then, he takes a long drag of his cigar.
"Ten percent," he affirms after a stretch of contemplation. His yield is granted with a small tip of his head; his eyes are roaming your face, "And I'll give you ten hours, three men, everyday."
Your brow lifts ever-so-slightly.
"...That's kind of you, Silco."
"Consider it good faith," he remarks dryly before lowering his voice, "I... owe Yeleni as much. She... She was a good woman. And I'm sorry for your loss."
His lips quirk when you bark out a laugh. This one is less lady-like. Honest, maybe.
"As I said before," you harp, "Lying is unbecoming."
"Please," comes the rather comedic urge for a shred of composure, "She's dead—"
"Isn't that a blessing?"
Before Silco can split the air with his own dry laughter, you continue.
"We'll settle, then," you offer your hand across the gap, "Eleven percent for ten hours, three men, every day."
A hum of appreciation settles in Silco's chest. Your insistence on a fair settlement is... different from his day-to-day. Based on principle.
He sets his glass down, drops his cigar to the ashtray, and leans. He catches your hand in a warm shake. Firm. Sturdy. The foundation of a great partnership.
He ignores the burn that clings to his skin when you pull away.
"I appreciate your time, Silco."
The sherry is slipped back and finished in a swallow. His eyes follow the gesture.
"You're a busy man — I won't keep you," you explain as you gather yourself up and gently offer the empty crystal glass to him. The rim is stained with the painted color from your lips. Your perfume threatens to drown the office in a delicate femininity that's all but lost on the space. It stokes a frightening sense of longing in him.
He stands quickly and rounds the table.
"Regardless, I appreciate your time, madame," comes the courteous reply, holding more poise than the official title; and while not entirely unwelcome, the title of madam is still one that you're not used to. Madam of The Lilac Lounge. It has quite the ring to it. You're not too sure of the tune, though. Not yet.
Then, a slow reach for your hand. You allow him to take it.
He offers a chaste press of his lips to your knuckles. The sheer material there does little to save your skin from going alight at the heat. His eyes, all the while, bore into you.
Your expression flits into something akin to interest. It's fleeting. It's replaced with a slow kiss of your lashes to your cheek. You bow your head.
"Be well, Silco."
"Until next time, madame."
When — a handful of days later —a carefully wrapped parcel arrives in the arms of two of Silco's men, you find yourself smothering surprise. It's big, and as the two muscle it through the brothel at the earned attention of nearly the whole house of staff, you can't help but hiss and ha at the roughness with which they treat it.
There's a note attached, tucked into the pretty blue twine.
FOR YOU, A GIFT.
REVERENTLY YOURS,
SILCO
You pull back a torn corner, and then immediately slap it back.
Your head snaps to the doorway of your office, where a gaggle of your workers have gathered. They stare at you owlishly. Your eyes are a mile wide, you reason, because you're met with an excited chatter of gossip. They leer in, rushing forward in a sea of masked, painted-on lovers.
It's a Friedlingmer.
Perhaps this whole thing was all the trouble it was worth.
By 'thing', you quite candidly mean the fact you're now the owner of an original pasture piece by Friedlingmer and The Lilac Lounge.
summary: you catch him on a bad night at the last drop. a lilac drink is had, plans are made.
word count: 2.7k
pairing: silco / f!reader
a/n: ah yes. more pining and another gif by @aestheticsicrushonfrom this set here! this fic is now up on ao3, as well. to the few of you who saw this chapter drop there first... no you didn’t shh
< previous chapter | read me on ao3
The Last Drop is busy.
It is a Saturday night; you knew that when you agreed to this meeting with the other Madams, you were agreeing to more of a show of power than anything. You were important now, more important than before, and that meant rubbing elbows with Zaun's elite to keep the peace.
It meant... god, what had Sevika called it?
...Networking.
That's right.
The pack that moves with you is made up of sex workers who have climbed the ladder, who have clawed their way to the top. They're experienced leaders in this vein of undercity's business.
Though you've lived this sort of life long enough, you still have trouble settling on the fact you're one of them now. After all, you were eighteen when you'd first met Babette — now, a decade and some odd years later, she was still a fixture along the mantle of role models you kept near and dear.
You stick to the back of the group with the yordle in question.
On approach, the long line to get into The Last Drop is scoffed at.
One of the older women, a matriarch among the out-workers, only gives the bouncers a look that grants the gaggle entry. Her hair is piled higher than her drawn-on brows. She is crested in a coat with deep, purple feathers, and slipped into a pink dress that begs to cling to her youth. Her name is Sygyn.
You quite like her.
The doors open, and a sudden wash of nervousness swallows you whole.
It's hot and humid inside. The bass is the sort that rattles your ribs, the sort that you feel deep in your heart. Immediately, the saccharine sweet smell of shimmer begs to cling to your skin. The lights are dim, catalyzed by the flash and bow of strobes, and the pulse of the bar's sound system. All in all, a sea of bodies clutters the bottom floor — limbs tangled with limbs, and heavy-poured drinks on tongue and cheek.
You catch eyes following you all — and for the first time since Yeleni left you The Lilac Lounge, you let yourself bask in the intoxicating buzz of pride.
You hold your chin a little higher when a bouncer offers to take your coat with a love-sick look.
Now, bare shoulders and back are bore for all to see. This dress — be it old and well-loved — is long, almost kissing the ground as you follow the experience gaggle of Madams towards the staircase winding up the mezzanine. The high collar allows for a facade of modesty. The truth is that the silken material, stamped with intricate patterning mimicking some of Piltover's most popular textile artists' work, clings to your figure in a way that makes you feel as though you have earned your place amongst Zaun's elite.
(It had taken a bit of goading to get you into it, honestly.
...It's just been a bit.)
You can hardly think; the bass and the lights are making your head swim. As you follow the eccentric collection of undercity leaders through the bar's dance floor, roll your shoulders back and remember to tighten up your posture. You're important. Powerful.
—Beautiful.
He hadn't been expecting to see you tonight.
No, no. Tonight was... Tonight was full of mishaps. Full of correctional action. Full of shimmer shipments gone missing and three pieces of gutter trash responsible. He’d forgone his tie an hour ago, left it with his composure in his office before going with Sevika and a handful of others to the docks to handle this messy business.
Heads held under until truths spilled out. Punches thrown and horrific threats echoing across the still, midnight harbor.
FIND IT. GET OUT OF MY SIGHT.
His knuckles are split on each hand.
He’s tired.
In all fairness, it wasn't as if you hadn't been on his mind — to that point, there's one of those lovely, expensive cigars you'd gifted him tucked behind his ear.
He's been considering another ride down to The Lilac Lounge; but, to heed Sevika's warnings, he knew people were growing curious.
The streets talk.
You need only listen.
The yearning that he's been mindfully smothering worsens when, with what was originally an authoritatively irritated sweep of the main floor, his heavy-lidded eyes land directly on you. A pale, sea green eye grows wide in a sudden flash of surprise.
It's gone in a flash.
The feeling remains.
It's as if he's been socked in the chest. Silco, from his spot on the balcony's railing, manages to level his breath. He rolls his jaw. Instinctively, his fingers tighten around the crystal of his whiskey tumbler as he tosses another swig back. His exhaustion ebbs, then. He pushes a bruised hand through his disheveled hair and leans forward on the railing. A long streak of grey hangs in his face.
Something, at that moment, tells you to look up.
As you lift your eyes to the upper mezzanine, you blink heavy lashes in the swing of a purple-hued light. You take another step, face cast up into the light, and suddenly you see him.
Silco.
That same wave of nervousness is back.
It crawls up your spine. Nearly roots you in your spot then and there.
Your gazes connect. It’s only for a second, but you swear the whole of the universe slows down just long enough for you to get a good look at him.
Sharp in every manner of the word.
People swim around you both blissfully ignorant of the shared hitch of breaths between two souls. All while The Last Drop spin feverishly on a head, tipping into the hedonistic beginnings of a long night. In the lights, in the haze of shimmer-shined kisses.
You hold his gaze long enough to know he’s seen you, and then the room kicks back into it’s full-tilt swing.
Every step up the catwalk has your heart catching.
You’re rather ceremoniously herded to a table on the upper mezzanine that sits neatly in a deep-red booth. You hold the hem of your dress in your hand, stepping up and settling in nicely beside Babette. The leather is cold against your lower back. Drinks are brought round nearly immediately, and you note the usual of Yeleni is slid your way by the waiter.
Lilac martini.
Fitting.
“To our newest addition.”
The tinkering of glasses rises above the smiles and laughter of the gaggle of Madams — you offer up your best smile at Sygyn’s call to honor. The weight of the sleek glass has you taking pause. Your fingers, donned with sheer black gloves that crawl up your arms and settle well past your elbows, grip the glass tightly. In a way, Yeleni’s legacy sits in your hands. In the form of some stupidly ironic cocktail.
You pluck the garnish out and drop it behind your ear with a deep inhale.
Then, you revive the smile on your face and take a delicate sip as the Madams descend into their conversation.
Eugh.
Gross.
All the while, you’re painfully aware Silco is lingering somewhere just beyond your shoulder — or maybe he’s gone, slipped away to tend to business far more important than your appearance at his establishment. The girlish part of you wants to look back, to cast long lashes over your shoulder and seek him out amongst the crowd. You want to find him staring still, maybe posed back against the railing. You want to see longing. Yearning. Desperate reciprocation of the youthful tug he has on your heartstrings.
You know better.
People will talk.
They always do, though — and maybe this sort of entanglement doesn’t need to be as precarious as Babette had threatened. Maybe it won’t be a bad business venture; at the very least, perhaps it would be nice break from...
All of this. Madams and courtesans and brothels and dinner and board and paperwork and paystubs and —
God, this drink is atrocious.
Of course, Yeleni would have loved it... Typical. Eugh.
Of course.
..Of course.
A pang of sadness rushes through you — as rare as they are. You exhale quietly and cast another look at the drink.
Fine. Fine, fine. Another sip.
“Ah! If it isn’t the man himself!”
You almost choke on your sentimentally indignant commitment to honoring Yeleni when Sygyn lifts her hands and calls out to someone over your shoulder.
You don’t have to look to know it’s Silco.
You lean forward, drink held out, and snatch a napkin to smother your gasp into. The neon green napkin is brandished with the bar’s name — now, it’s smeared with a dash of your dark lip stain. Beside you, Babette serves you an incredulous look.
This little meeting of the Madams came about every few months.
He knew the importance of saying hello at the very least.
Even when Sevika had rolled her eyes at his disembarkment from her side. She knew why he was really venturing over to the dangerous gaggle. You couldn’t pay her to wander over. No, no. Those Madams will pick your bones if you aren’t careful. Powerful people. Enchanting people.
And yet, you. Silco likes you.
Silco likes you enough to bear the burden of small talk.
“I apologize for interrupting,” comes a low rasp that’s punctuated with politeness, “I was told that the most beautiful souls in Zaun had made their way to my establishment. I simply had to see for myself.”
Sly bastard.
The charming jest earns him a round of coy laughter from the gaggle at the table. Some of it is polite, some of it is enamored. Either way, Silco is younger than most of the Madams at the table — to them, he’s a boyish flirt. A man in a position of power, still, but... Now, at this moment, he’s playful. Good-natured.
You turn slowly, turning your cheek over your shoulder.
Immediately, his eyes meet yours.
Framed by painted eyes and long lashes, he swears the look is enough to undo him then and there.
His attention is rooted on you.
Babette shoves her nose in her drink at the dawning realization that — lights alive. This is worse than she thought. She’s never seen Silco like this. Not in all the years she’s known him. Before and after Vander.
“I trust Yeleni’s order was to your liking, Madame?”
His tone is chaste. His hands are behind his back. The pet name riles a few lingering glances to your rigid posture.
You try not to stare at his usual lack of polish. Tonight, Silco seems almost bare without his tie and vest. Only his overcoat and usual burgundy dress shirt remain. His slacks lack their usual starched seam. There’s mud on his boots. Boots. Not the delicately gilded wing-tipped shoes he’s usually worn.
No, it seems you’ve caught him off-guard.
His throat bobs as you drag your eyes back up to his face.
You lean your elbows on the table, bracing the drink in both hands.
“It’s no sherry,” you say slowly, lifting a brow, “But Yeleni and I differ on many things. That’s the beauty in it. Differences shared.”
There’s an appreciative hum across the table.
You hold his gaze.
There’s a shift there, something like genuine longing. Tired, exhausted, burnt-out longing — and it only lasts half a second before it’s gone. The pinch in his brow smooths out, and his posture settles.
Suddenly, Silco is clearing his throat. The request is low.
“May I steal a moment of your time?”
He offers you a hand.
Shit.
Your heart catches — and when you seek permission you’re waved on by a handful of Madams who meet Silco’s request with a chaperone-like assessment. Babette narrows her eyes, and you offer her an apologetic look as you gather your drink and your dress.
You take Silco’s hand.
You stand, level the iridescent lavender martini, and find a hand falling flat to the bare small of your back.
The Kingpin of Zaun leans, gesturing for you to lead the way.
It’s an excuse to touch you.
Your skin is as soft as he’d imagined.
You welcome it, turning to catch his eyes. Your faces are close, then, and you can smell the cigar tucked neatly into the lapel of his overcoat. It’s then that you see his momentary hesitation at the closeness. Once more, another hitched breath is shared between two souls while the whole of the bar swims on.
“After you.”
You move towards the bar.
When you settle at the end, he finds a spot beside you.
His bruised knuckles rap on the white-illuminated, sleek counter. It makes his face look sharper. The bartender procures a whiskey in a flash; it’s slid his way with ease.
You narrow in on the purple and yellow that paints his skin every shade of bruised.
Silco notices.
He lifts a brow coolly as he sips his whiskey. "What?"
You speak as you lift your own drink.
“I caught you on a bad night.”
Less a question, more a statement. Silco rolls his jaw once more and sets the glass down gently. He shifts in his boots and moves to brace one elbow on the bar counter.
“It was simply business.”
You hum.
Then, Silco watches you peel off one glove. Without a word, you lean around him to snatch a napkin and unceremoniously reach into his whiskey. You steal the two cubes, bundle them in the little neon favor, and gesture for him to pass his hands over. The Kingpin watches the way you drop a finger easily into your mouth, lapping at the access whiskey that dares to run down your wrist.
His lips are parted.
He huffs.
He files the visage before him away.
His gaze falls when he finally offers up his bad hand. The same leaned on the counter. Two of the knuckles are swollen. Silco grits his jaw when you tenderly place the ice atop them.
“I didn’t steal you away so you could lick my wounds—”
There’s a flash of mischief at his words. Silco immediately regrets his word choice.
You’re smirking. “Careful.”
He scoffs in response.
“Why did you, then?” you ask, lifting the ice. You frown and pass a thumb over the small split in the skin there. Silco winces minutely, “Steal me away, I mean. To save me from the wolves?”
“To tell you that you look beautiful.”
You almost choke.
Immediately, your eyes flash to him. The compliment settles nicely along your cheeks. You shift in your seat and try to quell the startled kick of your heart. You cross your legs and ignore the way your dress splits and settles nicely along the curve of your outer thigh. Silco doesn’t ignore it. In fact, he’s sure the sight will be burned into his memory for as long as he lives.
“Careful,” you say again, shifting your eyes to the faces of the Madams who are watching keenly. You do not lift your face. Instead, you focus on your posture.
“Every soul in here is thinking it,” comes the slow reply of the man before you, “You’re breathtaking.”
You busy your bashfulness with his other hand. A gentle pat of the napkin steals his attention.
“You’re being generous with your endearments tonight,” you mumble.
“Is that a problem?”
“...I’m not sure,” you say, syllables slow and punctuated, “Is it?”
Ah. The back and forth. The uncertainty. The weight.
Silco tilts his head. He watches you. He speaks, finally, after a long trace of your features with his good eye. The expression there is brimming with affection, you find, when you look up. You lashes flicker.
“What endearments would you allow me, then?” he asks honestly.
You swallow.
You sit up and roll your neck. Your earrings glimmer in the light, dangling by your throat. Silco watches the movement reverently.
“Plenty.”
It’s whispered with velvet-laden confidence. In truth, you aren’t completely sure where it came from. Perhaps it’s the prospect of him touching you again.
Silco swallows tightly.
He shifts, boots drawing him closer.
A hand settles once more along your back; his time, his knuckles run the length of your spine in an endearing motion. It doesn’t burn. No, it stokes a different sort of flame in the pit of your stomach.
“Perhaps, dinner?” he asks quietly, “And we can discuss... endearments?”
You can hardly breathe.
Painted lips part. You nod. Silco hangs onto the sight.
Then, as he has many times before, he pulls away.
“Friday evening,” you say suddenly as he gathers up his whiskey and downs the rest, “I’m free.”
girl PLEASE do another part of ‘hobbyist & finer things’!! it is in the top 3 of the best silco fics i swear.
chp.2 | HOBBYISTS & FINER THINGS ; silco / reader
summary: you're late on payment. silco pays you a visit. your courtesans are curious. it's rather romantic. read part one here.
word count: 3.8k
pairing: silco / f!reader
a/n: you all really enjoyed the first part of this little work of mine! thank you all for leaving such kind little notes and reblogs. i'll probably by using a mastertag to track this series - so if you want to check my blog for any updates, check the hobbyists & finer things tag! yet again, this pretty gif is by @aestheticsicrushon from this set here!
< previous chapter | read me on ao3 | next chapter >
You're three days late on payment.
Sevika makes a point of letting him know.
Set in the center of the bazaar, The Lilac Lounge is a ten-minute ride down the Lane. It's tucked neatly between shops nearly adjacent to Babette's own establishment. It creates a stream of pink and lilac light creeping into the streets, carried by the open doors and open arms of eager workers. The Lilac Lounge is a teetering two stories — the first is a sprawling maze of velvet-walled rooms for services and the like; up a winding staircase in the back sits the second floor where workers were boarded.
Once upon a time, the brothel would have been considered fashionable, but as time crept on, Yeleni was hesitant to change her ways.
Seems as though you've ushered in the new era, however — the previous sign has been removed in favor for one that glows brightly in the inky black evening air. The lilac florescent bleeds into the fog. Below the sign, curling clouds of shimmer waft towards the street’s lamplight.
There's a rag-tag gaggle outside, men and women gathered to leer and look through the windows, to consider the services — a few girls hang off their arms, goading them to come inside, to warm up, to get comfortable...
He ambles down from the carriage and shrugs his overcoat closer. It's nearly winter now. The days, as dim as they are, have grown shorter. He can see his breath now, mingling with smoke from his cigarette. He flicks the dying ember to the ground.
Silco's gold-tipped shoes meet the cobblestone. In one move, he leans and smothers the light with his heel. His leather gloves, as soft as silk, pass along the carriage door as he snaps it shut.
His men flank him as the carriage peels away.
The sea of bodies — watching owlishly at the appearance of the Undercity’s reigning Kingpin — parts with ease.
His good eye slips across a few of the faces — he meets them with level disinterest.
Silco, tall and lean, ducks through the open door of the brothel.
He's visited one brothel in this life of his. Babette's. He was young, then. Not a boy, but still half the man he is now. Vander, then, was tied to his hip. Now, older and wiser, he's settled that this sort of work perplexes him. More than anything, he respects it. Deeply so. It's the price of the truest vulnerability. Physically exhausting. Mentally draining. The list is long.
Immediately, heat greets him. The snap and crackle of a well-maintained fire burns in the corner. There's a girl behind the main desk — but she's far off in a book. The walls are a pale purple, rimmed with intricate, merlot top and bottom trim.
Silco inhales and moves to peel his gloves off.
You've touched up the wallpaper. Added a few new pieces of furniture.
He drops them on the counter. Still, no stir. He continues to take in the establishment, to look at the faces of workers and patrons alike. Then, for good measure, he reaches to ring the bell by the stack of pamphlets detailing services.
Suddenly, he realizes lobby of The Lilac Lounge has gone silent. Packed to the brim with pretty faces. The phonograph in the corner drones on some low tune.
The girl behind the desk — she's young, maybe a few years older than his Jinx — is looking at him with eyes wider than a mile when he finally finishes his lackadaisical inspection of the lobby.
His head lolls to her, attention torn from the piece in the corner. It’s new, he thinks. He can’t remember. Yeleni never had an appreciation for art. You are different.
"H-How may I help you, sir?" comes a timid question.
Silco speaks as warm as ever; he leans with one arm on the counter. His face softens. The girl is young.
"I'm here to see the Madam, sweet dear."
Her posture is straight as an arrow. Silco watches as she swallows. Her eyes seem to seek comfort in the sea of workers around her. They seem just as unsure as her.
"Th-The Madam is very busy," she explains in a rehearsed manner; Silco is left to wonder then how many visitors have come asking for you by name, "She is only to be seen by appointment."
Hm. Curious, he tuts.
Suddenly, Silco can hear your voice.
While this room has gone still, the winding river of workers and patrons has not slowed in the hallway beyond the lobby. The calls of chatter are equally comfortable as they are poised. Flirtations and jeers, music and sex. All of it blends together in the electric atmosphere of the brothel on this busy weeknight.
"Take them straight home to your mother," you call as the figure of man rounds the corner. Silco sees that you're pushing him by the shoulders out the door; there's a box in his arms, and he's laughing, and you've got a warm smile on your face, "Get these damn creams out of my brothel—"
The corners of his eyes crinkle, painted with lilac shadow and shimmer. He stills, however, at the sight of Silco.
You do, as well.
Oh.
Immediately, you’re assessing the situation in the room with a matronly concern. In a flash, you’re looking at Gwenievere — the young girl behind the main desk. She looks apologetic; guilt washes over you in a flash. Clearly, she’d heeded your instructions to beat back visitors by insisting on appointments. And... Well. You pride her in her dedication for insisting the Kingpin of Zaun needed a damn appointment.
"Silco."
Your voice is warm. A rush of relief, almost. Silco wonders if perhaps that’s wishful thinking.
"Hello, Madame."
The smile he offers is lopsided but warm.
His voice is warm. Cordial. Very bit the gentleman.
But, why is he here? To pay a visit? Or —
“To what do I—?”
Suddenly, you snap rigid.
Silco, at first, isn't sure how to read the expression — in truth, he's a bit preoccupied by the rather Edwardian state of your attire. Your blouse is tucked into trimmed trousers, and the sleeves billow around your elbows in a mismatched roll. It's a very different appearance than the one you'd manicured when you'd visited him for business. This one, loose and easy, seems to speak more to your nature.
Rather charming, really. Horrifically so.
You've clearly been busy. There's a quill behind your ear. A smear of ink is dashed across your chin.
You round the counter in a few long strides as your hand reaches up to your lips, hoping to smother a look of sudden remembrance. As easy as breathing, you touch the sleeve of his overcoat.
Silco settles his weight on one long leg as he leans against the desk and tries to reign in his look of appreciation.
The whole room hangs on the interaction.
The whispers are starting. Faces peering in windows, courtesans hanging from the doorframes. Eyes watching.
The Madam touched Silco.
"I knew I'd forgotten something," there's a squeeze then, and an apologetic exhale that tells him enough about your current state of affairs. Your eyes are heavy with a genuine sort of look that makes Silco feel as if he's been completely disarmed, "How many days?"
"Three," he replies easily, almost bored. His gaze is rooted on you.
More whispers as more heads duck back into their rooms. Since when does Silco go easy on debts owed? Will there be trouble? He doesn't seem angry—
"—Shit," you curse in a whisper as you press your fingers to your brow.
Suddenly, you're painfully aware of your less than impressive appearance.
If you had known he was coming, perhaps you'd have worn something a little nicer. At the very least, maybe fix the mess of your hair.
God, you have ink all over you.
And here he is — oozing power, as magnanimous as it is. He's prim. Not a hair out of place. His aftershave is sharp. Masculine. Handsome. The whole of him is entirely so.
You've not gone a day without think of him, not with that beautiful painting hanging in your office.
"I understand you've been quite busy, Madame," Silco explains slowly as he inhales and pulls himself up from this lean, "And I had yet to see The Lilac Lounge under its new management. I chose not to pass up the opportunity."
Ah.
You note the tone. Cooler now. Like you're back in his office, dancing politely around business dealings. The danger lay in the implications.
So, this is one of those moments — the ones Babette mentioned.
He will show he holds the leash. Be ready for it.
But, this seems different.
"I'd offer a tour," you say lightly, testing the waters, "Though I have a feeling some of my courtesans would be eager to volunteer first."
A compliment. The corner of his lip quirks. You notice.
"Kindly, I'll have to decline. Perhaps, though, a tour of your office? Or, would I need an appointment, miss?”
His smile is inclined Gwen’s way. It’s kind. Fatherly. The girl bites her cheek shyly.
“I think we can pencil you in. What do you think, Gwen?”
“Yes, Madam.”
With that, Silco nods to his men behind him. They ease up, reminding you that despite Silco’s calmness there are others who are keen to act. You give him a thankful look. He gathers his folded gloves in his hands and gestures for you to lead the way.
More chatter passing between lips and ears now. And did you hear about the painting? He's going to her office alone, now—
Silco doesn't mind the narrow hall you lead him down. He does feel a bit like a piece of meat, in all honesty, when eyes follow the both of you to the office at the far end of the long hall. His shoes pad along quietly, long strides following your lighter, more graceful ones.
Masked and painted faces stare back at him with every colorful, bright room passed. Giggles and whispers crescendo at your passing, silenced by the older courtesans clearly encouraging the younger ones to mind their business — all while their own eyes narrow in critically on their Madam and the Kingpin.
Finally, your office.
It's rather...
Cute.
Silco looms behind you, his hands tucked neatly into his overcoats pockets, as you lead him through the open door.
Your voice is quiet. "I apologize about the mess. Admittedly, it’s been quite the week.”
“Appointments...?” Silco asks quietly as you move to nudge the door to your office closed. He watches you over his shoulder as you flick your eyes down the hall one last time; you’re aware of the curiosity this little visit has drawn. They’ll talk. You decide to let them.
Your exhale is tired as you move across the room, clearing off a plush little armchair for him adjacent to Yeleni’s — no, your desk.
"I’m sure you know how it is. Transitions in power always garner attention,” you explain as you struggle with a stack of paper. You plop it down on the long table in the middle of the room, set between two loveseats. It’s cluttered with various boxes and stacks of paper you’ve procured from God knows where. You rub your cheek as you turn back to him, “Some of the Chem Barons were hoping I’d forgo Yeleni’s previous contracts and seek new, exciting, profitable opportunities.”
You waggle your fingers. Your tone indicates your lack of interest.
Silco scoffs.
You laugh a little at his reaction, then move to the fireplace against the far wall. It’s dying — and you prod it lightly with one of the glimmering pokers Yeleni had kept over the years. The crackle is satisfying.
Then, his attention turns to the painting you’ve ceremoniously hung behind your desk.
Hm.
It fit nicely. Just as he’d hoped.
You take a few steps closer, padding gently on the carpet, and extend a hand. “Let me take your coat?”
Silco’s attention is torn back to you. He obliges. For a moment, the tension between you is thicker than smog. You blame the proximity.
So, you take the heavy, wool overcoat from his shoulders and hang it neatly on the back of the tall chair across from your desk. You smooth it down. It’s warm. Smells like his cologne. Smoke clings to the collar.
When you turn back to him, he’s adjusting his golden cufflinks. His eyes are still on the painting.
“Missing it?” you ask playfully.
Silco’s good eye squints a bit in jest. “I believe it’s better suited with you.” Then, a pause. His voice falters. It’s quiet. “Do you like it?”
“Like it?” You sidle up beside him. “I love it. Thank you. Truly, Silco.”
He hangs onto that. It settles neatly in his heart. If he had a locket, perhaps he’d write the words down. Tuck them away.
“I’m... I’m glad.”
“Yes, well, I really went and showed my appreciation, didn’t I?” you sigh and move across the room to your desk, “Three days... I’m sorry, Silco—”
“I figured you were busy,” he chirps, bending at the waist to pluck up a stack of... budgeting expenses? From... god, from seventeen years ago? “With... this?”
The keys in your hand jingle. You close the top drawer of your desk. The eyeroll is as exasperated as the expression on his face.
“Welcome to my new life.”
“She kept...” he wets his thumb and flips a stack of pages; his eyes flick across the parchment, “All of this?”
You roughly unlock the bottom drawer to your desk. In it sits a neat silken satchel of coin currency. The gold tinkers as you set the heavy little purse down on the desk. You wag the key at him. “With no organizational system. I’ve been finding laundry notes mixed in with things like that.”
Silco sneers. “Why not just burn it all?”
You lean back in the large chair, head dropped back against the lilac leather.
You sag a bit.
“Because,” comes the tender reply, “Suddenly, I’m... Suddenly, I’m mother to forty people who... w-who rely on me to make sure they eat, that they have somewhere to sleep. And I have no idea how Yeleni did it.”
The Kingpin’s expression softens.
“You’re overwhelmed.”
Less of a question. More an assessment.
Your gaze connects with his. You’re quiet for a while. “Babette told me not to let you in on to that little secret.”
Silco’s laugh is more like a little puff of air. His eye closes briefly. He places the stack of papers down, and tucks his hands in his pockets. His voice is gravelly and low. “Yes, well, Babette and Yeleni both adored me—”
It’s your turn to snicker. You stand and move towards the small cart in the corner by the sonograph. “Babette seems rather proud to claim you visited her brothel—”
Silco stiffens. He almost snarls. “Please. She’s still spinning that tale? It was decades ago."
With a smooth pop, you uncork a bottle of wine. It’s by no means the sort you’d ever dream of offering Silco, but he seems to beat your preemptive warning as he nears the cart. You pour some for yourself in a shallow little glass, and the Kingpin moves to take the bottle from your hand.
He’s had plenty of bad wine in his life.
It’s humbling.
“Is that not what happened, then?” you raise a brow and lean back against the table as Silco pours himself a glass, “She warned me — that Silco, she said, quite the charmer...”
Ah.
So this is what we’re doing.
He pauses, stream stopped, and flicks his eyes up to you. “Do I seem the type to indulge in...”
He waves a hand around him, gesturing to the office. To the brothel as a whole. Then, he finishes pouring his glass.
“...All this?”
“No, you’re far too busy,” you say quickly as you swallow a mouthful of wine, “But, you did gift the Madam of The Lilac Lounge an authentic Friedlingmer — to which she is incredibly thankful, had I said that yet?”
“You did,” he clinks his glass to yours. There’s a glimmer of something in his eye. Mischief, maybe?
“Yes, well. You're a smart man. Surely you’re aware of how that looks?”
“Painfully so,” comes the rough swallow; Silco’s mouth is red from the wine. It’s by no means the worst he’d had. He takes another sip and straightens his posture. He places the glass down on the cart and easily recorks the bottle with the heel of his palm; he considers his next words carefully, “And pray tell, perhaps that is what I intended? What then, Madame?”
Oh.
You’re suddenly aware of how close the two of your are standing. The room is warm. Your skin is hot. Your cross your arm across your chest, holding your wine delicately as you tilt your head and hold his gaze.
“I’d be flattered.”
“But...?”
It’s quiet. He asks as if he’s anticipating it.
For whatever reason, that stings. Your brows twitch. Silco can see it. He breaks from your gaze to eye his wine. He swirls it absently and exhales.
“There’s no disqualifier. I — I am flattered,” you step away, moving towards your desk, “Though I have to be completely clear that I’m the Madam of this house. If you’re expecting trade for gifts, I regret to inform you I no longer offer those services.”
Suddenly, you hear him choke over your shoulder. Silco slams his fist into his chest, coughing roughly. Lights alive.
“You misunderstand—”
Your brow rises sharply. Silco pushes a hand through his hair, moving a flash of greying strands back.
"Do I?” you ask, confused.
“Yes,” he urges, then snaps his good eye shut, “No, not entirely — that sounded horrible. I apologize. I hadn’t meant to insinuate that... this...”
His hand falls. His words die. He pinches his brow.
“You thought I was propositioning sex?” he asks then as he looks up at you with a pained expression, plain as day and dry as the wine.
You roll your eyes and your posture sags; you kick the edge of your desk and lean against it. “No, no. I — not at first. I thought the gift was lovely — but, then I had plenty of chattering little courtesans making me think I was giving it more weight than it truly held.”
“I intended for it to... be heavy. To have some meaning.”
Your gaze catches his. He looks utterly distraught. Almost embarrassed. There’s something charming about the erosion of his usual icy composure. You find you like it quite a bit — his concern about your respect.
You tug the inside of your cheek between your teeth.
Fuck it.
Then, Silco watches you move quickly towards the second drawer to the top on your desk. You’re focused, gently procuring a small wooden box. When you stand, Silco catches a glimpse of a gilded little seal running along the front.
You set it down.
He watches you.
“These are for you.”
His attention bounces between you and the box. As he nears, you set his wine down gently on the desk. You can see the flash of surprise on his face.
Cigars.
Expensive, Piltover-finest cigars. Cigars wrapped in gilded labels, sealed tightly in a cedar box. There’s a gauge on the side, reading out the humidity of the inside. Clean, dark paint. Clearly well-minded. Imported.
His face softens.
He clears his throat.
“Do... Do these have weight, then, Madame?”
Your heart catches a bit. You exhale, ignoring the dreamy flicker of his lashes when he scans your face. There’s hope on his face, you realize. Silco tries to smother it before you see it, but it’s too late.
“They do, Silco,” you answer honestly.
His fingertips run along the seam. The action is... Well. You file that away.
“These were expensive.”
“Perhaps you can forgive me for being three days late on payment, then?” you jest, trying to lighten the tension. It’s wrapped itself around your heart.
Silco’s lip quirks. He pulls back from the box, swigging his wine. He sets the empty glass down and wets his lips. When he looks back up at you, you have to try not to squirm.
His voice is low. Honest. Warm. Tender.
“You were forgiven the moment I saw you again, my dear Madame.”
You swear then that your heart is his hearth. His words are wood, and your affections are the flames lapping eagerly up at them.
He's rather proud of himself.
He feels a rush of boyish pride at your parted lips, at your soft look — in the chaos of your office, he's made you slow down. He is the center of your attention. You, the beautiful Madam of The Lilac Lounge.
Suddenly, the grey in his hair and the ache in his knees and the lines on his face aren't so apparent.
Silco straightens his tie.
"Is this the payment in full?" he asks, gesturing to the velvet purse.
You nod, still holding your wine. You watch him.
With ease, he sweeps his overcoat on. The collar, high and crimson, kisses his cheek as he snaps the front down. He gathers his gloves, slides them on, and begins the arduous task of snapping each button. He makes the task look near poetic. Pretty.
He pushes a hand through his hair and bends to gather the gold.
Then, Silco extends a hand.
You graciously give your own.
This time, there's no glove to keep his lips from your skin. The kiss he presses to your knuckles is chaste. The look he slides up at you amidst it is dangerous. You know yourself well enough to steal your breath, to bide your beating heart. Your fingers twitch. Silco straightens himself and lets them slip from his grasp.
It's all... very romantic.
He gathers the cigar box and gingerly tucks it beneath his arm.
"I thank you for your time, Madame."
When he pulls the door open, you hear the scatter of footsteps. His head drops, and his laugh is quiet. You both know well enough that privacy is a rare enough gift in a place like this. You worry your lip and take one more sip of your wine.
Your face is hot.
"Silco?" you call as he steps into the hall.
He turns, inky black eye casting you a forlorn look over his shoulder.
"Yes?"
"Do tell me how the cigars are."
...He will.
He smiles at you — toothy and sharp — and begins down the hall.
You watch and watch and watch until... he's gone. And the brothel sighs with ease and the halls flood with expectant faces and eager looks and gossiping little smiles.
But, lights alive, what do you have to say for yourself?
After all, you were three days late on payment.
And that's all the courtesans get out of you for now.
Birbs I ate that Silco shit up like it was my last meal on earth. Licked the plate clean and waiting for seconds mmmmmmmmm DELICIOUS
4/4 | HOBBYISTS & FINER THINGS. ; SILCO / READER
summary: dinner is planned, then cancelled. you’re angry with silco, but business is business. as it turns out, distance does makes the heart grow fonder.
rating: 18+ / this chapter includes a mention of physical violence against a sex worker and features canon typical violence when rectifying said instance. this work contains smut.
word count: 9k teehee
pairing: silco / f!reader
a/n: with permission, the header from this chapter is art done by the lovely @/harlot_of_zaun over on twitter! i really encourage you to head on over and show them some love. their silco art is stunning. this piece made me go WOOOO. a special shoutout to them for being kind enough to lend me their art as a chapter header!
but, here we are! end of the road. there may always be more, but for now, i hope you enjoy a nice little ending to this small story — the reception was really wonderful and thank you so much to everyone who’s read, commented, liked, breathed in its direction... you know how it goes. i love you all!
< previous chapter | read me on ao3
You’ve been trying to ignore the buzz of anxiety in your chest for the last three days.
On the fourth day, you’d finally let the electric storm get the better of you. It’s late, nearly two in the morning, and Lizbeth is with you in your office; she’s crouched by the hearth, feeding in pieces of useless requisition receipts Yeleni left behind. The paper makes good kindling, and the stack beside her is tall.
The work has slowed for the night. Only three rooms are open; they see a slow trickle. By three, most of Zaun will be asleep. Four in the morning herald’s the end of the day for the workers of the Lilac Lounge.
Lizbeth finished her shift an hour ago. She’s fresh from the bath, with rose oil still clinging to her skin.
You’ve known Lizbeth for the better part of your life — she’s a handful of years younger with warm, dark skin. You catch her scoff at a piece of receipt paper (a laundry list, complete with Yeleni’s fur at the top of the order) before tossing it into the fire with a flourished shake of her head.
You’re chewing your lip when she tosses you a look over her shoulder. She does a double-take.
“...You look like you’re about two seconds away from flinging yourself into the fire. What’s wrong?”
“I feel like it,” you rush out, eyes stuck on the dancing flame as you stand there with your hands on your hips; unprompted, you let the secret loose.
“I’m having dinner with Silco tomorrow evening.”
Lizbeth’s attention snaps back around.
There’s silence then — the crushing sort.
Finally, you pull your eyes from the hearth and offer a sheepish look. Her brown eyes are pulled wide in shock.
Lizbeth is... well, hell above. Sure, she’s surprised, but everyone knew something was going on between the Madam of the Lilac Lounge and Silco. Be it his boys who gaurd the door every night, Sevika — lovely, lovely Sevika, or anyone on the street. Of course the courtesans knew, but they knew better than to ask. After all, it was your personal business... Reliable protection and expensive paintings be damned.
“Dinner?” Lizebth asks, albeit in a rushed whisper.
Your face is flooded with anxiety as you nod, parroting her. “Dinner.”
“Oh — oh?” she’s standing now, pulling her robe closer as she serves you an incredulous look and rushes forward, “Like... Like a proper dinner—?”
“Like a romantic, proper dinner,” as you ramble, your exasperation catches up to you, “So we can discuss our ‘endearments’,” you quote.
Lizbeth’s whole face goes wide with a surprised look. She pushes a thick loc behind her ear and leans forward as her jaw falls open. Once more, she’s nodding, parroting your words as if to try and parse them. “Endearments.”
Less of a question. More like she’s trying to understand, and you nod. Up and down and up and down — and then pinch the bridge of your nose.
“No — I do,” you whine as you drop your shoulders and rub the curve of your temple, “Perhaps a bit too much.”
“Ah.”
“Exactly,” you offer up, moving to lean against your desk. You fiddle with the wine-colored cuff of your sleeve and tug the shoulder up and back into place. The loose blouse billows as you throw your hands in the air, “Who am I? Some lovesick little girl—?”
“Calm down,” Lizbeth says, tilting her head and leaning to pop a hip, “You’re being dramatic. It’s alright to be excited — I mean, when’s the last time you went out to dinner with a nice man?”
Your glare is flat. You narrow your lashes. “Paid or unpaid.”
Lizbeth matches your look, however, is significantly less amused. “Be nice.”
“I’m serious,” you say as you push off the desk and move to toss a few more papers into the fire; you’re desperate to burn away this feeling. You mutter, “Also I think, catagorically, Silco would take offense at being considered a ‘nice man’—”
“But he is nice — to us, to you,” Lizbeth supplants kindly.
...It’s a good point.
Your shoulders sag as you squat before the fire. Your fingers trace the edge of a grocery list — complete with Yeleni’s own scrawled notes on a handful of worker’s favorite meals. Some of them no longer work at the Lounge. You decide, last minute, to spare this little note a firey death.
“Why don’t you get some rest, huh?” Lizbeth says as she bows her head to the side and moves to place a delicate hand on your shoulder, “It will be nice — to get out of here, if only for a night...”
She has a point.
When morning comes, you find as though you feel as if you’ve barely slept at all — and the warmth of your bed anchors you to a half-there, half-here state. Morning is more of a subjective term for the hour you and the rest of the Lounge usually rise... It’s nearly noon now, and the heavy curtains in your bedroom do little to keep out the glaring gray of the day.
However, it isn’t the sunlight that rouses you, today. Nor is it a cramped neck or an arm fast asleep or a hot huff when the comforter becomes too smothering. No, it’s a rapid knock on your door — seven, eight, nine, ten times.
“Madam!” comes a rushed voice, “There’s a call! For you!”
What...?
Your eyes are still half-closed when you tumble from bed; the thin chemise clinging to your shoulders hangs low as you yank the door open and blink blearily. It’s Gwen, the young receptionist. She’s flanked by nearly a dozen expectant faces.
It’s clear the trill BRING-RING-RING-A-BRING of the mounted landline in the front lobby had roused nearly half the house.
You’re fast to rub your eyes, sniffling as you step into the upstairs hall.
The whole of the house is watching — heads peeking from doorways, half-dressed workers lining the halls, some even pausing their morning powdering to get a glimpse of their Madam.
“Who is it?” your voice is hoarse as you move down the hall, rounding the corner to the stairwell.
“Mr. Silco, madam.”
There’s a bit of a pause in your step. The faded wallpaper is where you root your gaze — and from the bated breaths of the entire parlor, you suddenly become keenly aware that the little secret you slipped loose to Lizbeth has now become the whole of the establishment’s knowledge.
You cast Gwen a look over your shoulder; expectant and shy. Suddenly, the teenager is taken aback by your out-of-characteristically girlish look.
“What did he say?” you nearly whisper.
She winces. “Only asked for you, ma’am. Nothin’ else.”
Well, that does nothing to quell the rush of a raging fire in your chest. Lovely.
Seems there’s a crowd gathered to watch, too.
You’re fast to fly down the stairs into the lilac parlor room; your chemise’s hem is gripped tightly in your hand the whole way. Slept-on hair does little to paint you calm in any way of the word. When you reach the front desk where the intricately adorned box sits, you find the receiver placed delicately atop the dark wood. Suddenly, there’s a rush of hisses — barks from the older courtesans to be quiet!
You inhale, then reach to wrap your hand around the cool, smooth, obsidian handle.
“Hello?”
Across town, Silco is leaned over the callbox.
It’s outside one of the docking warehouses, a building more commonly used now by his people to load up shimmer shipments for Piltover. It’s just beyond the main dock, and Silco can see the entire harbor as he waits on the line.
It’s a cold morning. Gray as ever. It will snow later, he knows. He can feel it in his knees — in the aches of his palms. In a life long ago, he would venture into the mines on mornings like this and emerge to a world of off-white powder. It was beautiful, a sliver of promise. But even in Zaun, the snow was never as white as it was in Piltover. The smog promised that.
The harbor water sways.
Behind him, Sevika delivers a harsh blow to the face of a man already bound on his knees.
When your voice comes over the static crackle of the telephone, Silco finds his posture easing a bit. He pushes a gloves hand through his hair, tosses a look over his shoulder, and clears his throat.
“Madame?”
“Hello, Silco.”
Perhaps it’s comical.
The fact Silco is here, mid-interrogation. Having just learned a handful of Chem-Barons intended on making their arrival known tonight? All of this riding on the high news that three of his men had effectively disappeared with a month’s worth of shimmer shipment? He had growled so sharp in irritation, the man before him was shocked when Silco stepped back and lowered his knife. Sevika slipped him a knowing look, then. His other men, too, had dawning guilt written all over their faces.
Of course, they knew his plans.
He’d reserved the entire upper balcony of The Last Drop for you and himself tonight. He’d been dealing with a rather jealous little Jinx, and the nervousness that comes with a romantic dalliance after years of settling on avoiding them entirely.
I believe I have to make a call, Silco had said.
Better now than any later. His guilt will eat him alive. But such is the way of a Kingpin. He tries to stomach it.
It’s difficult when your voice on the other end is sweet enough to bring a wry smile to his face.
He lifts his eyes to the gray sky.
“I hope I didn’t wake you?”
“You did,” you say slowly, leaned fully on the desk now, “It’s rather nice, actually.”
The gathered courtesans seem to fly into silent hysterics at the very clear flirtation — you can see the wide smiles and slapped hands as they clamor to gather closer, to listen in, to hear the Kingpin of Zaun’s response. You sway a bit, bouncing on the ball of your foot.
The response earned is a rough, low laugh.
Somewhere in the background, a scream begins — and then it’s smothered by the wide palm of Sevika. Silco tosses a sharp look back at the group, and Sevika roughly tells the bloodied man to shut up, he’s on the phone, can’t you see?
"Well, I admit I wish I wasn’t having to call—”
Your gut sinks.
“Oh?”
“I’m not going to be able to make dinner, it seems,” he says slowly, almost tentatively, and you try to ignore the sudden rush of sheer disappointment that floods your figure. Though you can hear his apology on the other line, it does little to blunt the impact.
The gathered faces who are close enough to hear the exchange suddenly recoil. Their expressions are a mixture of angry, of confused, of bitterly rejected. A bit of how you feel, honestly. Suddenly, there’s a rush of questions being passed silently between the parlor; Lizbeth, looking on in front of you, shakes her head in confusion.
Ask why, she mouthes.
“Is... Is everything alright?” is the best you can manage. Your own thoughts are running a mile a minute.
“I’m sending extra security tonight,” comes his response; it’s thoughtful. Warm, almost. His voice dips a little lower as he leans his palm against the wall and toes his boot against the sea-worn floor of the warehouse, “Chem-Barons have called a meeting, and sadly I’m required to be in attendance.”
“Oh.”
Silco’s heart pangs. Your tone is distant — hurt, clearly. He leans back, posture slouching. From across the warehouse, Sevika can see her boss’ distress. A gloved hand reaches to rub the spot between his brows. He leans a little closer over the receiver. His voice is low. Quiet. Only for the two of you.
Unbeknownst to Silco, the entirely of The Lilac Lounge is eagerly attempting the eavesdrop of the modern era.
“I’m sorry, my lovely. I... ” he clears his throat, suddenly realizing how much he had been looking forward to a quiet evening with you. Silco rubs his jaw. “I—”
He’s about to suggest tomorrow night. Hells alive, the sad little quiver in your voice has the Kingpin feeling like he ought to be the one on the receiving end of Sevika’s fists.
But, it seems as though business has caught up to him again.
Suddenly, a scream cuts through the other end of the line and you blinks down at the receiver.
The anger at the interruption ripples through Silco like a rogue wave. He’s decided immediately Rocco will die for that as if his other mistakes weren’t worth that same weightier sentence. His head snaps around, and one void-black eye pins the man in place. The ring of his eclipsed pupil swivels, all burning rage condensed into a single look.
“Silco—?” you call, voice retreating as the receiver slips from his ear for a moment long enough to gesture with deft, gloved hands for his people to haul Rocco up, get the chains ready. He’s going for a swim.
The realization dawns on the once-loyal man as he begins a string of begging — no, no, no and please, please, I promise I don’t know anything!
“I’ve got to go, Madame,” he turns back, with a stoney expression; and you can hear it over the line, “My sincerest apologies.”
Then, the line clicks dead.
And you’re left in the parlor holding a silent, droning line.
⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘
A week.
You hear nothing for a whole week.
The good news is that a week is apparently plenty of time to work yourself up, calm yourself down, then grow bitter, then sad, then enraged and so-on and so-forth — you know, the usual cycle of heartache that comes with an apparent rejection.
You wonder if maybe that’s the curse of expectations — that being excited over new and exciting possibilities inherently spoil the entire rouse.
Admittedly, Silco’s little stand-up (could you even call it that? He had, after all, let you know he was unable to make dinner...? Are you putting too much weight on this? Do you deserve to be upset? ...Hm. You shoo that thought away. Yes, of course, you deserve to be upset) fueled enough of your hermit-like coping mechanisms to hole you up in Yeleni’s office for three days straight.
More good news: it was feeling less like Yeleni’s and more like yours. Clean. Cozy.
The worst news of all: the beautiful, attention-absorbing Friedlingmer was now the sorest spot of woe in all of Zaun, so much so that you’re genuinely considering throwing a bedsheet over it. Seriously. You could just hop up and be done with it. Cover it up! Then, you won’t be thinking about Silco every damn time you walk into your office.
You huff.
That would be cruel. A true disservice to Friedlingmer’s residency in Piltover. All over a heartache? No. No, no, no — fucking hell, Yeleni is probably rolling over in her grave right now. If she knew the current state of you, she’d laugh. And not a nice, cheer-up kind of laugh. No, the mean sort. The sort that tells you to pull up your britches and hike your tits up with a single wheezy, shimmer-lined cough.
So, right. A week.
Granted, on the seventh day, it isn’t as if he finally gives you a callback — he doesn’t soothe your burning anxiety that he lost interest, or found someone better, or finished playing...
No, it’s business that brings you to Silco.
The Chem Baron’s seemed to extend their stay in the Lanes — in turn, Silco had wordlessly extended his promise of upped security around The Lilac Lounge. That much you were appreciative of, but the new faces made you uneasy. Not just you, but the other businesses in the Lanes under his word.
The Chem Barons arrive on a metaphorical litter, dragging along henchmen and staff that support their endeavors. Be it chemists, be it enforcers, be it family. The Lanes are fraught with distinguished members of various affiliations.
Silco’s security is a double-edged sword. It protects his assets and reminds everyone who owns the Black Lanes.
You’re in your office when the commotion begins. It’s nearly midnight. The Lilac Lounge is busy.
“You can’t just go barging in—”
That’s Sevika’s voice.
Someone is arguing with her — which is enough of a shock to get you up out of your chair and away from ruminating on the Friedlingmer.
It's one of Babette's girls. She's a lithe little thing that nearly springs through your office door. You'd heard her shouts, all breathless and wild-eyed, as she barreled through the velvet hallways of The Lilac Lounge.
The prick of instinct has you bristling when she nearly beats your door down. You pull it open sharply, face met with the smoke-filled air of the brothel's back corridor. Beneath the Friedlingmer, a candle snuffs itself out.
"It's Mira — a-and one of Silco's boys," she's rushing out, hardly breathing and hardly making much of any sense as she stumbles over herself and her words; but you can sew together enough from her panic and her fear, "Babette's called for you—"
Mira. She used to work under Yeleni. You knew her. Only briefly. She was younger than you. Sweet. She preferred Babette’s management style to Yeleni’s. You can’t say you blame her.
There are faces, masked and painted-on, that have begun to poke from their lavishly curtained rooms. The haze of lilac smoke makes the air taste sweet. Eyes hang on your tensed figure.
Sevika, at the end of the hall, goes still.
You realize they’re suddenly looking to you — for strength, for an example, for leadership. All of it. All at once.
It wasn’t often that house-calls of this sort came and went. You remember Yeleni, though, when a fearful call for help came. She would waddle on, pulling up her jacket and promising she will be back. Be it Babette’s or Sygyn’s or any of the other working houses in the Lanes... you all worked together. A habitat of coexisting lives and work. You owed it to one another. You keep one another safe. No negotiating.
Eyes blink when you disappear from the view of the doorway. You return with a long, wool coat that's swathed with fur, and begin the arduous task of lacerating your meticulous hairstyle with long, dagger-like hairpins.
Yeleni’s.
They’re cool, smooth, matte metal. Sharp. She’d left them in a pearl case that snapped shut onto your finger like a lobster claw the first time you’d opened it.
The small charms that hang from them on delicate chains swing as you button your coat and pull on your gloves. Your strides are long.
Those expectant, worried faces follow you silently.
"Is Babette with her?" you ask calmly, leading her through the winding hallways that have grown silent.
The girl swallows; her voice is hoarse. She can hardly be any older than eighteen. She looks about Gwen’s age. "Yes."
"Is she alright?"
"Shaken up," she offers as she follows you through the hall. The Lilac Lounge hangs on the anticipation of your first enforcement. These were the expectations of Madams. Handle the business, protect the workers of the Lanes.
You admit you thought you might not be ready for this sort of confrontation. But, as you enter the stillness of the parlor, you realize that Yeleni had prepared you for this.
After all, she taught you everything you know.
She taught you how to be everything she wasn't, too.
In the parlor, you finish pinning your hair. Sevika stands beside you; her eyes are pulled across your face in a snap of tension.
You like Sevika. She’s... She’s an intricate soul with mean left hook. In the last week, you’ve noticed she’s been on door duty consistently. Not that anyone is complaining. Almost the entire brothel clamors to offer her a nightcap at the end of her shift.
“Who was it?” she asks tightly. Her voice is rough.
“I’m going to find out,” you say flatly.
Sevika tightens her jaw, then nods.
“You need me?”
You straighten your posture. You consider it, then inhale. “No. From the sounds of it, it might be best let Silco know he may be getting a visit from me tonight.”
Her nod is terse.
You push onward.
It’s snowing out. Your breath curls around you as the girl leads the way to Babette’s. You blink up at the grey plods of snow falling from the sky.
The snow is always whiter in Piltover.
Babette's brothel is a block down, almost directly adjacent The Lilac Lounge on Zaun's main bazaar. Here the smog carries the light so well you might confuse it for day — the hazy, pink glow of light-polluted signage has your eyes adjusting as you near. Dilated pupils swing around the street.
Seems as though someone let word slip there was trouble.
Your arrival outside on the main strip of the Black Lanes has heads turning, and whispers following every staccato step of your heels. Eyes follow you and the young girl as you step up to Babette's brothel. As quickly as you came, you disappear and leave the onlookers to their gossip.
The yordle is waiting for you inside.
"Is she alright?" is the first thing out of your mouth.
When Babette nods, you ask your next question.
“Who did it?”
"No idea," she heaves; you can see the weight of the evening beginning to wear on her, "I just know he was one a’ Silco’s. Figured you’d be able to help. Come on. Maybe you can talk to her. Poor thing is a wreck."
Babette isn't exaggerating — Mira is sitting on a couch holding a pack of ice to her nose. There are a handful of workers around her, cradled close, but it seems as if the worse of her wailing has calmed down. You can see, though, the creep of purple along her eyes. The bruising has started.
Your fingers twitch.
She seems to soften at your arrival. She recognizes you. Her eyes, big and green, widen as she scrambles to move towards the end of the sofa. Her friends hold onto her as you near, dropping to kneel before her with a sad look.
There is a bond shared between those of you in this line of work.
...You’ve been here — cradling friends after the darker dangers of this life creep in. You know this fear, this uncertainty. You know it well. You can count on two hands the number of times you’ve looked back and been astounded at how close you might’ve come with being snuffed out like candlelight.
You have to look out for one another.
Her fingers are bloodied. You hold them.
“He didn’t want to pay,” she explains angrily.
"Who was it?” is all you ask.
And you get your answer.
⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘
The Last Drop is busy.
Your arrival draws attention — no doubt Sevika had returned and made it clear that they should be expecting your appearance. Security parts, offering no resistance. Maybe it's Mira, who has her chin held high. Her hand is in yours. Maybe it’s the icey look on your face. Perhaps it’s the few of Sygyn’s girls that escort you to the doors, drawn in from the street, who chatter promises to Mira that good Madams sorts this business out. Babette follows.
Eyes falter. Screamed gossip slips past to the melodic thrum of the bar's music.
You're gestured upstairs by a man in a suit that has a whiskey stain on the sleeve.
You can feel the bass in your ribs, rattling your heart around. The haze of shimmer makes your head swim. The air tastes sweet. Better than the grimy sting of smog that the Lanes bring. No, in here? It's sex and sweat and shimmer. Not all that different from The Lilac Lounge. Less gentle though, more fists-to-mouth. Somewhere, a fight begins over a spilled drink. You're high above the dance floor when it ends with a stool coming down over a skull.
The VIP section of The Last Drop is quieter — more light, too, though it's as artificial as everything in Zaun. You recognize that there are Chem Barons here in attendance. Sardonically, you scoff at the fact they’ll be getting dinner and a show. A reminder of how business is done in the Lanes. In Silco’s Lanes.
At the back of the mezzanine, there's a booth swathed in security. Sevika stands to the right, hands clasped before her. Inside the plush, crimson booth there are two men there.
One with white hair. Tattoos. Twitchy.
Then, Silco.
It hurts to see him.
He's leaned back, attention focused on a burning cigar in long fingers. Those knuckles are kissed with scars. His collar is high, starched and sharp like all of him. He looks as if he’s ready to snap. The longer you look, the more you wonder if a kiss would draw blood.
You’re so angry you hardly have time to acknowledge the heartache burning your throat.
He’s put himself together meticulously tonight. His face is turned, speaking to the one you're here to deal with — and a curl of smoke passes around his head like a crown.
Ever the handsome leader.
He’s clearly irritated.
Babette makes a small sound of concern beside you.
Sevika meets your eyes.
Your fingers twitch. Mira, sets her jaw. You pause. Your entourage heels. You turn to Mira, cheek grazing the furs of your collar, and speak softly.
"Beside Sevika, is that him?"
You see the hatred snap in her eyes.
"Yes."
You reach. You brush her knuckles with your thumb.
"We’re almost done, Mira," you whisper, "You've done good."
Then, your eyes connect with Silco's and it's like a match to gasoline.
He knows why you're here.
Of course he does. And he knows, too, why your look burns so hot he nearly flinches. Suddenly, his tenseness thaws. You’re disarming — as always — but tonight you look every bit as powerful as freshly sharpened dagger. You look as if you want to hold it to his throat.
Perhaps he deserves that.
You watch the way he leans back a bit father and crosses his long legs. Gilded toe tips flash in the light. He is dripping in enough power to make most salivate. One eye as hot as ember and the other as cool as a placid lake. They both flick to man beside him.
His brows raise, and he gestures minutely with his cigar.
He's offering him up a platter.
Go on.
As if you needed his permission.
Sevika decides then to step aside. A perfectly timed shift in the guard, allowing you the room to press on and move forward,
The silence creates a divide. The entire balcony seems to suddenly be aware of what is playing out. They’re hanging on the tension, afraid the snap will ripple through the whole of the bar.
You step up.
Your heart is vibrating. Ready.
Mira had said the man’s name was something just as twitchy as him. Zam. It fit him nicely, actually. You wonder if that’s really his name, or if maybe something like Harold or Roger was unbecoming of someone in Silco’s ranks. Too plain, too normal, too easy. No, Zam was just right.
Zam moves to stand at your sudden appearance — too stimmed to really grasp what's going on. He looks like he’s ready to square up. You can see it in the hued ring around his irises. It's Sevika that urges him back down with a single rough push.
"Hey—" Zam cuts out, eyes bouncing between Silco and Sevika in protest.
"Sit down," you roll your words off your tongue slowly as you peel your jacket off and unceremoniously toss it on the table; it comes out steadier than you thought it would. Over your shoulder, Babette sticks close to Mira.
You offer Zam a level look; beneath it is white-hot rage. Your tone is hemlock-licked and enough to kill, "I believe we have business to settle, don't we, Zam?"
"I don't know what you're talkin' about, lady—" and another attempt to stand up, to weasel away.
Your hand roots itself with the spot where his collar meets. The grasp is sharp and fast, and you slam him back against the booth hard enough to startle him into really paying attention to you.
Zam stills.
You’re leaned in close. You snarl. “I said sit down.”
Silco is watching. There’s a stab of discomfort under his skin. He knows this isn’t in your nature but he also knows better than to assume you aren’t capable. There is a reason Yeleni left The Lilac Lounge to you. You’re doing fine. Making a point. Helping establish control for Babette who has long since relied on Yeleni for things of this sort.
Establishing who you really are.
A week’s worth of longing rushes up to meet him. You're a beautiful thing, and he can see the burn of Zaun in your eyes. It's the pride, the anger, the well-kept facade of luxury.
Your eyes connect with the Kingpin's once more as you speak.
"Mira?" you call, as your eyes bore into Silco's, "How many times did he hit you?"
Mira's voice is as hot as smelted iron. "Twice."
"Twice," you reiterate, "Right."
"Hey, listen lady, I dunno what sort of bullshit she’s been spinnin’—”
Then, with viper-like precision, a hairpin is pulled from your wound-up style and is plunged straight through Zam's hand into the table. The scream that cuts through the mezzanine is silenced when you dislodge the long hairpin with a scowl and, with the metal pin wrapped in your fist, strike him across the face.
As Zam teeters backward in the booth, gripping his mouth, and muttering a half-aware curse, you catch him by the hair. With one swift motion, you bring his face down against the table. The crunch is violent and wet.
Two hits. One more for good measure.
Faces flinch across the sea of onlookers.
Silco's breath is caught in his throat. He holds it there. Then, he lets it loose. Long and slow. Smoke curls from his nose.
Right.
You straighten yourself up and exhale.
Zam has crumpled in the booth, groaning and bleeding, and you mind only the pin in your hands when he falls to the ground. The bar's floor rises up to greet him, whiskey and grime clinging to him desperately as blood from his broken nose begin to run underfoot.
You begin the meticulous task of cleaning the pin on your sleeve.
Your voice is icy.
“I think we’re done here.”
You are. If the point hasn’t been made, then you’re not sure this job is for you. With any luck, this will be the most you’ll have to display for the next coming months. This sort of violence doesn’t suit you. Silco is right about that much.
"A word, madam,” comes Silco’s slow drawl.
Your look is stern as you pause. Silco leans to sip his whiskey.
For a moment, bodyguards led by Sevika pass through the bitter stare you land on him. They’re quick, hauling away the crying mess that’s become of Zam on the bar floor. No doubt he’ll be tossed to the back alley. Left to figure out how to fix his fuck-up on his own.
“I thank you for your time, Silco,” calls Babette, “And you Madam, for helping sort this out.”
She casts you a slow look. Mira frowns. Her voice is soft. “Thank you, madam.”
Mira's thanks are uttered into a kiss of your cheek — her fingers wind around your neck as she cradles you close. The warmth is genuine. Kind. She looks a little less afraid now.
"Go on," you bite, "I’m sure Silco won't keep me long."
He rolls his jaw. His reply is stoic. "Only as long as you'll let me."
There's something awfully romantic about that, isn't there?
...Fuck him.
Silco snuffs his cigar in the intricate, little ashtray on the table.
When he stands, you're reminded of just how tall is he. Waif-like and sharp — he smooths down the front of his vest with long fingers and clears his throat. He smells like smoke and velvet and something cuttingly masculine. Perhaps it's his aftershave or the salve he uses to keep his hair meticulously in place. You're not sure, but you do know that you like it.
You really do.
His hand falls along your lower back as you place your pin back in place. It feels mean now — to cast you aside for so long after a promise of endearments. And now, here he is. Touching you.
Silco gathers your coat from the table.
To others, it must look as though you’re both slipping away to discuss business, to rehash agreements over examples such as this.
The others in The Last Drop don’t hear Silco’s low, careful question posed to you as he leads you to his office.
"I take it you're angry with me, then?"
You dislike that he’s able to read you so well.
He leads you along, towards a back hall. It’s darker here, and you feel his hand flatten entirely against your spine, as if to hold you. You know why that sets you off, but you’re not entirely ready to admit it. The good news is that you’re far enough from prying eyes — you turn sharply and catch him mid-step, sending him backwards against the narrow hall wall. He backs up against it with an oof.
There’s a moment’s pause between you. Silco looks surprised. The music is far away now, crescendoing somewhere to sex and sweat and shimmer.
You find suddenly that... well, the hundred things you’d been rehearsing to let loose on the Kingpin suddenly won’t come out. The adrenaline rush of confrontation has sent your fingers into a wobble — and you try your best not to look as if you’re pouting.
“Yes,” is all you manage as you tilt your head to the side and inhale sharply, “Yes, I’m angry with you.”
The darkness of the hall is a bit suffocating – not that Silco minds.
He’s missed you.
He’s spent the last week wishing the Chem Barons would take their fucking leave from his Lanes so he could spare a moment away — he hardly even had enough time to spend with Jinx.
His good eyes relaxes. His expression morphs into something like acceptance.
Yes. He knew it. If given the reverse, he would be just as bitter. A canceled dinner? And then not a single call nor visit nor word since?
You try to hold his gaze. You do.
"You have every right to be.”
The honest admission has you blinking at the floor.
You turn your head sharply back down the hall and consider walking out then and there. After all, you’re not keen on letting Silco see just how upset you are. It makes you feel childish. Like a lovesick teen.
“Could we...” a slow question, punctuated by a lean into your field over vision, “Discuss the matter? Over sherry, maybe?”
“What is there to even discuss—?”
“Endearments, my lovely,” he breathes, “I assure you mine have not wavered, despite... how busy I’ve been. I owe you an apology.”
It’s low. Soft. Coaxing.
He can see you wavering — and for a moment, Silco’s heartstrings wind themselves so tight he’s sure he will be drowning his thoughts alone tonight. Just him and that expensive bottle of Sherry he bought just for his discussion.
“...Do you mean that?”
“Every word.”
You...—well, you hadn’t anticipated this.
No, no, no, not the relief? The promise of an apology? The softening of his smile in the dim light of the hallway? No, no — you were mentally prepared to skewer him on a hairpin. Just a minute ago the thought had crossed your mind. You could have, probably. Who would have stopped you?
Not Sevika, that much is sure.
Silco would welcome it.
You’re pouting. Truly, genuinely, pouting when you gesture finally to his office door and step back from him.
Silco blinks. Then, curtly, he steps across the gap in the hall with long legs and opens his office door.
You slink in behind him, arms crossed and eyes pulled narrow.
Silco’s office is in a more desperate state of disarray than you’ve ever seen it — not that you frequent it much. But still you remember, the first time you’d come here, how meticulous everything had been. Now, papers are strewn about. You catch a glimpse of the title of one. A territory agreement.
...Now you feel bad.
You’d been so angry and — ugh. Here he’s been, clearly trying to manage the unplanned upending of his usual business by the moguls and sharks that were praying for a single slip.
"You handled that well.”
His voice is warm — it floats into your hearing from the corner of the room. Back by the little cart with all his various spirits and whiskies. It’s looking sparse. You cast a long look at him over your shoulder and note that he’d taken your jacket and settled it over the shoulders of his desk chair. Lovingly, almost.
“I know it wasn’t easy.”
No. It wasn’t. But, the shake in your hands has all but subsided. The center of focus for your anxiety to feast upon is now Silco. Wholely him.
You are suddenly struck with how different this moment in his office is from the first.
You fiddle with your blouse’s sleeves. “It had to be done.”
“That much we agree on,” he rasps out; he turns and has procured to decently poured glasses of sherry in each hand, “Though I’m sorry it ever even had to come to that.”
“Should serve as a reminder,” you mumble, “I remember working after things like that. Was always a bit safer the months following a Madam making an example of someone. It sets a standard. Necessary violence. A means to an end. Whatever it takes to protect my workers.”
“Put quite eloquently for a woman who just skewered a grown man’s hand. Either way, he’ll no longer have a place in my rank and file. That shimmer habit was becoming a spot of bother anyways,” the Kingpin explains as he slowly crosses the dim office; the warm light from the lamp on the corner makes the sharp contours of his face look softer than usual, “You have my honest apologies, madame.”
He hands you the sherry.
Your mouth quirks. You’re quiet long enough to pass the glass between fingers and hesitate to sip. Before you so, you speak coyly.
“Is that really what you’re sorry for?” you tilt your head and then, sip the sherry, “Now that we’re in private, you can speak your piece... you know, about endearments.”
Silco clears his throat. He hesitates to sip his own drink. He finds himself looking you over, critically paying attention to the curve on your lips. You’re playing with him. Toying the apology out of the big bad Kingpin.
The rings along his fingers glint in the warm light. His posture against the desk is relaxed. One hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other raising the glass to his lips for another drink.
You watch, and you catch the smirk there.
“I need not be in private to speak about my endearments for you,” Silco leads with as he straightens up and stalks closer, “You should know as much.”
“Should I?” you ask honestly; for a moment, a clear indication of just how hurt you’d been slips out. You lift your face and flick your eyes across his face, and Silco sees the quiet wound in the light of his office, “I don’t enjoy playing games like this.”
His words dry up.
No, no, he doesn’t either. He sees that — the look of hurt. For a moment there’s a shred of panic that bubbles in his throat at the knowledge that feelings are a fickle thing. If this is to be the future between you, Silco will have to understand that seeing this hurt will not be the last. That’s the thing about love. It’s not always calm. Sometimes, it stings like the water in the harbors of Zaun.
“I should have come to you—”
You shut it down quickly. “Silco.”
He takes another step forward, and his brows are pulled tightly together. “I hurt your feelings, my lovely. It wasn’t my intention. With the Chem Barons in town—”
“—You were busy.”
Yes. Yes, he was.
More than you know — more than you need to know. Betrayal and recruitment and territory disputes and in the midst of it, sweet little Jinx had come down with a head cold that sent him into a spiral of worry deep enough not even Sevika could drag him out of it.
The aforementioned blue-haired terror is one floor up, fast asleep. Feeling better, too. Thank the lights alive.
Silco swallows.
“...I haven’t been completely transparent with you.”
You recoil slightly.
You blink.
“...You’re not married, are you?” you prod lowly, with a comedic hint of concern.
Silco’s worry splits for a moment, long enough for him to roll his eyes. “No—”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“Try a father,” he says curtly, bracing for the inevitable reaction.
All he gets is a quirk of your brow.
In truth, you’re pleasantly surprised at this little confession. This wasn’t exactly common knowledge — and it’s clear that Silco has gone out of his way to keep the aforementioned child out of the Zaun spotlight. Probably for the best. Zaun will burn you up quickly if you aren’t careful.
“Stop looking like I’m about to run,” you say with a slow smirk; you sip your sherry and move to lean back against his desk, “Really, that’s... charming.”
“Charming?” he says with a sudden escalation of amusement; you catch him scoffing, “Yes, the constant turmoil of a fifteen-year-old girl in the height of puberty is very charming—”
You laugh.
Fifteen. You remember that age. All fun and games and anger and frustration and loneliness and excitement. All of it, all at once. A whirlwind of everything, all of the time. Suddenly, you find your heart clenching at the thought of Silco trying his hardest to parent through this seemingly alone.
He absently toes your boot with the gilded tip of his shoe.
“...Were you really that worried about how I’d react?” you ask softly.
Silco swallows. “I wasn’t sure. Still, I... she’s not my blood but she’s every bit my daughter. I try to... keep her out of business.”
Business.
You tilt your head.
Your voice is as soft as velvet; Silco is drawn in by it.
“Am I business?”
He lifts his eyes. Standing before you, he looms. He can see the pass of vulnerability in your gaze when the question leaves your lips. Silco leans. As he speaks, a cool hand passes along your cheek. His thumb traces the round curve of your cheekbone. Your bottom lashes kiss the pad of his finger as he marvels in the warmth of your skin, the beauty of it.
“No,” he asserts warmly, “Far from it.”
Oh.
He drops the glass of sherry to the other side of your hip. He leans, bending to brace a hand on the desk and effectively trap you against the desk. The action itself is enough to suddenly stoke something horribly hot and hungry in your gut. You inhale, lip parted, and take the moment to admire him closely. It’s the expression laced in his good eye that leaves you to melt into the affectionate touch of his hand on your cheek.
“I care about you,” he speaks plainly in a whisper, “Very much.”
“Enough to kiss me?”
Silco’s smile is slow.
He — well, he’s thought about this moment for a long time now. In truth, it’s gotten him through the better half of this month, let alone the length of time he’s known you. If he’s being completely honest, he never imagined it would be here in his office, with his other hand landing along the curve of your thigh beneath your skirt’s cool fabric. He follows the plush, giving curve of your thigh, hand landing just above your hip.
“Plenty.”
His nose brushes yours as he speaks, and you’re left to stare at the way his mouth quirks. Charismatic. Charming. Like the man Babette had chortled about in his younger years. A smooth-talking man with a taste for good whiskey and cigars. Could talk a damned, starved dog off a meat wagon.
He puts his mouth to good use.
The kiss is slow — chaste, almost — to start.
Well earned. Tender. Deliberate and welcome.
Embarrassingly enough, it has you reaching to lace your fingers in his vest’s lapel and tug the Kingpin a bit closer. You hike yourself up, propped up on the desk, and happily sigh into the kiss when he steps between your legs and looms closer.
That little dance is enough to give him the permission to deepen the kiss.
It’s hardly his waltz to lead.
You nip eagerly at his bottom lip as you become half-pliant in his hands. One hand cradles the back of your neck while the other firmly plants itself to the curve of your hip. You lean backwards, just enough to have him leaning to chase you, and let him drag you back upwards toward him.
You taste like sherry and sugar. Silco’s lips are smeared red when he pulls away long enough to catch his breath. The disregard for the painted rouge on your lips is alarmingly attractive; it steals your breath right out from your lungs at the sight of it.
He catches you looking and reaches to swipe his thumb lazily across his bottom lip. His eyes are half-lidded.
“Oops.”
You’re smirking when he crashes down for another kiss, this time holding your jaw in his hand as he does. That other hand has moves to pull your hips closer to his own. He pull rips a small hum from your throat — enough of a pretty sound to have Silco huffing as he breaks to kiss a line across your jaw.
He mutters against your skin, though he isn’t even believing a single word he’s saying, “This is hardly the place for this—”
“I believe I’m owed my apology, at the very least,” you manage to sigh out as your head drops back and Silco nips a lovely little bite into the column of your throat. His hand is settled against your ribs now, effectively holding you still enough that he can dare nose farther down to your décolletage.
Oh.
Silco’s laugh is quiet. Knowing.
“An endearment and an apology,” he says as his hand ventures a bit higher, to ghost the swell of your breast, “If we’re keeping tally.”
“Right,” you mutter highly as you pull your bottom lip between your teeth; his hair is a mess, settling to hang in his eyes as he lifts his gaze. He’s amused. Smirking, “I mean after ignoring me for an entire week—”
He laughs. It’s rough. Low. Lovely.
“Let me make it up to you.”
So, that’s how you find yourself here, now — with one leg crooked and up on his desk, black chiffon skirt hiked up your waist and blouse torn open. Silco’s weight is pressed to your back, a calloused palm passing over your breast and the other hand gripping your hip tight enough you’re sure you’ll bruise. You brace yourself up on your hands, back arching just enough that you’re gasping the second Silco’s cock settles into you.
“Sh—shit.”
You can’t remember the last time you had sex like this – good sex. Sex where a man spends time learning how to touch you, and how to speak to you, and how to work you up and open. No, it must have been years now.
Silco had certainly done just that. With teeth and tongue and hand. You’re littered with little bruises, delicious little reminders of the way you’d arched off his desk with he’d loops your legs around his shoulders and purred into your soaked core.
All for him.
The cool metal of his belt brushes the curve of your ass as you whimper; Silco’s pace is slow, and steady, and he’s truly trying his hardest to keep himself calm enough to remember how to breathe. You’re tight. Warm. Perfect in every way. The most beautiful Madam in all of Zaun, here. His.
He’s sure that invoking his endearments was just as good as signing his death certificate when you lean back and grab his tie; the action brings him over you, spurs him forward. And when you crane your neck to kiss him feverishly with lipstick smeared across your face, Silco swears this is heaven.
He curses quietly, lips parted. You mimic his expression.
Fucking hell, you can’t believe you ever mad with him.
You wrap the tie around your fist a bit tighter, yanking him down for another kiss.
“Go on, then, Silco.”
...This is dangerous. Dangerous and lovely and he’s glad he locked the office door so he can take his time bowing to your wishes — so he can hear your gasp out his name a hundred more times like you just did when he rolled his hips up into yours.
You’re happy for the tie — because when the slow and steady bace yields to a more rough, steady, frenzied one it’s really your only grip on Silco himself. His hold has wound itself around your hips to maintain the very angle that’s making your toes curl, and to occasionally spread your leg a bit wider so that he can see the pretty sight of you bent over his desk.
His mouth slips to your neck and he almost shudders when you angle your hips back just enough to hit the spot that makes you tighten wonderfully around him. You immediately gasp, and Silco takes it as a cue to not slow down, to keep this sustained pace up — and he’s rewarded for it in a desperate kiss as you crane to smother a series of embarrassing sounds as your chest bounces.
Really, this might arguably be the best sex you’ve ever had.
Maybe it’s the setting, but you settle quickly that it’s mostly the man. Powerful and intimidating and Silco — cigar smoke and gilded edges and a glass of sherry knocked to the floor in the fray. Either way, you’re positive that you’re not angry with him anymore. How could you be? You’re going to be sore for days. You know that much.
The best kind of sore.
He says your name so desperately you’re rushing to fix your grip on the desk. He breaths hotly into your neck when you manage a prideful laugh — it’s enough to have him tighten both hands on your hips and press onwards with a touch more fervor.
It’s just enough to send you right over the edge.
It takes you by surprise.
The edge of your pleasure rushes up to greet you so fast you aren’t even sure what’s up or down — all you know is that you’re slapping a hand down to catch yourself on the desk as your thighs quake and your knee nearly gives out. All you can do and writhe and gasp and screw your eyes tight shut as Silco promises the orgasm with a continued pace.
It’s when you say his name, sweet and pleading, that he follows you down the cliff-side in a less-than-graceful tumble of hand and mouth. All gasps and messy, sloppy stutters and forehead-pressed-to-shoulder. Warm. Sticky. A right mess.
You can’t say you mind it.
Son of a bitch.
Silco has to take a second — just enough to blink himself back to Zaun and try to remember the sight. He exhales tightly as he pushes off from you, tucking himself away and buttoning his belt sluggishly; the entire time, he’s watching you with a sex-buzzed smirk.
You’re indisposed at the moment. Looking rather beautiful the entire time as a bit of him runs down the inside of your thigh.
Silco, in all his years, never considered how attractive the sight could be. And now, here he is, trying to ignore the pull to have a go at it all again.
When you finally do lift your head, you blink tiredly at the painting staring directly at you from across the office.
With a smirk, you toss a look over your shoulder as you stand up and straighten your skirt.
“Have I ever told you how much I like that painting?”
He laughs out loud.
When you turn, Silco is kissing you, hands working to easily dress your blouse to its correct state before he laughs. Your legs wobble a bit as you lean from boot to boot. Lazily you tilt your head.
“You can have it,” he mutters into your cheek, “After dinner, we’ll hang it in your office.”
“Dinner?” you ask, perking slightly.
Silco hums. He moves to snatch up your coat.
“I’ve worked up quite an appetite, it seems,” he smirks, “Care to join me?”
“How could I ever say no?”
So, perhaps coming into ownership of The Lilac Lounge was hardly as horrible as it seems. That’s all you can really consider as Silco helps you slip on your coat. A family, a business, a few Friedlingmer’s... Silco and his endearments.
"Revolutionary!Silco wearing the costume to hit on people in bars by telling them if they are naughty or nice and what he would put in their stocking." oh my god?
❆ — happy holidays ; revolutionary!silco x reader
a little note: this anon sent me for a loop and i'm glad i'm not the only one, so enjoy this little holiday morsel!!!
It's the holidays in the Lanes.
Tonight, the acrid haunt of war is forgotten in favor for stumbled-over carols and holiday well-wishes — for a long night of crowded merriment in The Last Drop. It's a ragtag celebration, brimming with laughter and alcohol and baked goods scrounged together on rations.
Vander is behind the bar. He's got his hands in a few huddles of patrons, of friends, of fellow fighters. There's a stalk of mistletoe behind his ear. His big smile is warm with whiskey.
Benzo is off in some corner, churning bets over a dice game — as he usually does. There's a curled, lopsided beard on his face that's snow-white and half-taped on.
And then, there's Silco.
The voice of the movement — the eloquence to Vander's brutalism.
A man you'd consider mythic by all standards; a man who is currently staring at you like you've hung the stars for him and him alone.
He's here, shit-faced, with a red and white Santa's hat plopped on his head. It's crooked, and there are a few long dark strands hanging in his face threatening to slip from the messy bun at the base of his neck.
He's leaned beside you at the bar, one arm braced up with his whiskey — the other is reaching to lift the curve of your chin. Silco's face splits into a smirk when you roll your eyes at the touch.
"So, my lovely," comes the croon as he slides up against you — as warm as a hot hearth, "Naughty? Or nice?"
"Try sober."
He offers you his whiskey then with a near-comical roll of his hand and head — and all you can do is stifle your own laugh into your sleeve. Vander, over the bar, tosses a look at the two of you. It's knowing. Amused.
"And how about now?" he asks, leaning back on his elbow and reaching up to adjust his hat — all as the music shifts in the jukebox and yet another popular carol bounces across the bar.
The merriment, in the glow of the lights hanging above the bar? In the glad, drunken sea of your compatriots? In the music, in the laugher, in the small promise of hope?
...For the first time in weeks, you find yourself thinking that maybe everything will be alright.
You smile at Silco with a glimmer of contented mischief in your eyes.
Would you ever consider writing part 5 of Don't Ask Just Tell?
DON'T ASK, JUST TELL: Pt 5/? — Silco x Fem!Reader
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
REQUESTS: OPEN
You told him you need him. He's only stared down at you since, observing your face. Giving him the answer he asked for, you're unsure if it's the one he wanted. But he asked, so you told.
Don't ask if you don't want me to tell.
But he would instruct you to only tell—never ask for anything.
So, why ask you at all?
"Sir, what I said," you start.
"I heard you," he finishes.
"But what I meant," you try again.
"Is relevant only to you," he replies easily.
"Oh."
Swallowing, your shoulder is still aching, and you've reprimanded yourself several times over now, going back and forth. You cried, but you stopped. He saw, but thus far, he's said nothing about it. It should be fine. You're fine. Humans leak.
I'm fine. A pause. I'm fine, aren't I? Frowning hard, you try to stand. No use. Given the combination of his hand on your uninjured shoulder and your sprained ankle, you remain seated. That's right. I landed hard on my ankle. In all the commotion over your shoulder, you had forgotten. Now, it throbs uncomfortably.
"Hard landing, I take it?" he asks, shifting subjects.
"...You could say that," you murmur uncertainly. "Long fall." He eyes you. "Ask Sevika."
"I'm asking you."
"I mean," you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose, "yeah. Yeah. Sevika's good at trust falls, what can I say? Except she wasn't there to catch me after letting me go. I had to catch myself."
You sound bitter, more than you mean to be. Still, you can't help it. You are bitter. At least a little.
"We often do," he says morosely.
Circling your crumpled form, you've all but given up. You're floating in the sea as the shark circles your bleeding form, sniffing a taste of your blood. Inhaling, Silco stops behind you, places his palm against the side of your neck, and leans opposite to speak in your ear.
"But you caught yourself, you see? And you finished the job, which is more than I can say for most others I employ."
A snort. He doesn't mean to hire idiots, but they slip in. They're just smart enough to avoid him directly, but if they're unlucky, as they often are, they will encounter Sevika. Like everything else, she'll "take care of it" for him.
As he speaks, you tense. Arms wrap around your body as you listen, attempting both to shelter yourself from an assumed storm, but in addition, to catch a shred of warmth. It's unbearably cold up here. When did that happen?
I just can't get warm. You eye the package. Will he open it? You doubt in front of you. Likely after you leave and only when he's certain you're gone.
His hand near your throat, tempting your pulse point, and the way you swallow have him tense as you lean your head back warily. Locking eyes with him, you see each other from a new perspective—literally, a new angle—and were you not so deliriously exhausted, you would have laughed. Were he not so broodingly serious, you like to think he would have, too.
"Am I fired?" you prompt.
"No."
"Good." You close your eyes for a moment. "I'm going to put my shirt back on now."
"Ah."
Silco removes his hand, goes to his desk, and tends to the cigar he had abandoned when you first entered his office. Lighting it up again, he keeps his back to you for privacy. You try to redress, though you struggle. Hearing your plight, sets his cigar down back in the ashtray again and returns to you. Through half-lidded eyes, it's hard to tell if he's disappointed or tender, and you delusionally decide the latter.
"Are you mad at me?" you prompt.
"No." He's used to such childlike prodding. He is a father, after all. "I'm not mad at you. The job was done, albeit...with an unintended twist ending."
"Like a book," you laugh.
Trying to stand again, you groan. If anything, the lack of time on it has resulted in further swelling and discomfort, and Silco? He's noticed.
"Like a book," he sighs. "Your ankle." He kneels down. "You told me it was just your shoulder."
His longer fingers seek the source, at which you wince when he finds it. Ouch! That hurts!
"Easy," you whine. "Please..."
"There, there," he says. It rolls off his tongue too well. "Relax."
Alleviating the pressure, he slides your ankle into place as best he can with your squirming. Standing, he slips one hand into his pocket, as if attempting to appear casual. The other hangs loose at his side.
"You'll need time to recover. Take it."
It's like a pattern. Will he call you back like he did before? Or was this your last job? He said your job was safe, but...
"I can't afford to keep taking time off."
"You'll be compensated well for your efforts. I thought that was obvious."
"Oh."
You feel stupid, but also, you are half within and half without. Part of you is sitting, watching Silco from your body, yet the other stands in the corner, observing you both with a moderately unimpressed expression.
What are you doing? It's what you ask yourself.
I don't know. It's the only answer you can give.
"You won't be able to make it home on your own," Silco finally says. "I'll have someone take you."
"Not the bartender, I hope," you tease. "He's best suited here."
"Thieram?" He knows everyone's name, you notice. Even if he pretends not to. "No, not him."
"And not Dustin," you tease. The pain must be making you delirious. "I'll walk it off."
"Hardly."
"Worried? About me?"
The silence is deafening. As if from drunk to suddenly sober, you stiffen in your seat.
"You said you needed me," he reminds you. "Or was I mistaken?"
"No. No, you weren't. I-I...I did."
"You should know—better than most; no, more than most—I need my people," he says. You can't help but feel initially disappointed. "And you? You're one of those people. I need them." A beat. "Which means...?"
A ghoulish smile. Sometimes, you admit to yourself that he frightens you, but you always come back. He says your name, which you only partially register, and you turn your face to meet his looming expression.
When had he gotten so close?
"Sir..."
And when he seeks your stare, you close your eyes. You can't help it.
Read More for Length. Currently SFW, but will be NSFW later. If we like it, I'll continue it. If not, it'll be a neat one-shot for the archives. I always have Professor Silco in my heart. Share the vision with me. Current reader is pretty GN, but I am semi-writing it with a female reader in mind.
SUMMARY: You never found history entertaining enough to indulge in beyond memorizing a few dates and writing half-hearted essays, let alone worth pursuing so feverishly. These days, you're finding yourself enrolling in extra courses and even considering changing your major. All because of the department head. Professor Silco Rivière is your new fascination. You? His new subject of interest.
CONTEXT: Modern/University AU with Student/Teacher trope. Zaun and Piltover are rival schools. You attend Zaun University, which is across the river from Piltover's more established campus.
First chapter is mostly scene setting and context creation, a bit of background, and some establishing connections. It'll get spicier from here.
When you enrolled in Zaun University, it wasn't because of some moralistic alignment to stay away from Piltover, nor was it out of loyalty. It was your best opportunity, and when presented, you took it. A sophomore now, you've more or less adjusted.
You tell yourself that when doubt creeps in.
They say that for every ten successful Piltover graduates, a gem from Zaun emerges. Campus diversity is vast, catering to all types and chosen paths. Some students are there to truly better their lives, while others see it as a party school and little else.
While you have your major of interest, a minor was suggested. Filling it half-heartedly, you chose history because you figure it looks good, and assume it wouldn't take up most of your time in pursuit of why you're really there.
Now? You're contemplating changing your entire major to history. It wasn't your plan, and it's not like you fell in love with the subject. You're not so easily swayed from your interests and the focuses that drive you in life, but the heart...?
Rumored to be a tough man, you were told Professor Silco Rivière was someone unwilling to budge, yet wholly vehement about the subject, and prone to monologues. Older, likely in his mid-forties to early fifties, and demure. It gave you a lot to imagine, but nothing prepared you for the real deal.
Sighing, you push a piece of your hair back, put on a hat for the cooler months of fall that have breached the already grey atmosphere, and pursue the local coffee shop. It's run by a nice man who owns an adjacent antique store. An odd combination, but you figure the zigzagging city interwoven among the campus itself gives a unique opportunity for life and business to prosper.
The man named Benzo encourages his employee, a boy called Ekko, to take your order. He's nice, cute enough, and polite, all of which you appreciate. Adjusting has been difficult, and you find yourself a bit on the outskirts. Life here has been more vibrant than you expected, and while you knew university would be a change from high school, you weren't aware of how different this newfound independence would be.
And not only for you, but for everyone around you. Some people seem able to handle the pressure.
A boy named Claggor is flourishing in his newfound popularity, while his best friend, Mylo, seems to flounder under the pressure. A girl named Powder reluctantly enrolled, yet enthusiastically has come around, especially with Ekko by her side. They're younger than the others, known around campus as the advanced students, and Powder's siblings, who you're learning are many, are all quite protective of the pair.
Good for them.
If you were their age going into university, you'd feel even more nervous than you already are half the time.
Your anxiety can often get the better of you, but you figure this is your chance, too.
Powder's tough older sister with a penchant for punching, while not exactly a student, hangs around often enough. Their primary father figure, a man named Vander, runs the local bar near campus, where most senior students go to drink, and professors try to be left alone and unbothered. You've gone twice, too shy to sit alone for long and watch others socialize.
Still, it was a nice enough experience all the same. The bartender remembered your name the second time, and while you embarrassingly forgot his name, his smooth recovery ended up leaving you flattered while he served you with ease and charm.
Vander.
You committed it to memory in case you ever went back.
Grabbing your coffee, you bid Ekko farewell, call out to Benzo, and hit the cobblestones that lead you to a cluster of campus. The History Department is where you've been spending most of your time these days, studying in open rooms and at accommodating tables. It's an old building, fitting for the subject it houses.
Made up of old stones and heavy wood, things that would survive general age and resist weather, and while it's great small talk, you never took much time to think about it.
"Professor. You're here early."
In the main hall, you notice him lingering on what you assumed was his way to his office. Silco was the figure in the corner of your eye that caught your attention foremost.
He wanted me to see him. He'd be in his office by now if he really wanted to.
Because that, as you know, is in the back of the building. Therefore, it's not unusual for him to pass through here, but it doesn't take more than the shake of a lamb's tail.
You assumed he was (probably) waiting, as if trying to get your attention. Are you being too presumptuous? The man is entirely out of your league, but he's been hinting...
You wonder if he'll ask you to accompany him. To your credit, you believe you have some reason that could be his motive, given your last encounter.
Otherwise? So far, it's all been decidedly friendly between the two of you. Perhaps too friendly.
The professor has shown a lot of zeal and enthusiasm regarding your education, specifically, and has been subtly (and not so subtly) pressuring you to switch majors. He has even suggested that you could TA for him.
Ah, never mind it. Best to see what he wants, right? After all, this building is pretty dead today. In fact, it's dead most every day. Aside from TAs, junior professors, and a few spirited enthusiasts, this building is usually empty.
You stop looking at your phone and slip it into your pocket. When you stand, he only stares at you. For that, you decide to go for a direct approach. Literally.
The man looks good today. Slicked back hair, perfect makeup, and an outfit as fashionable as ever. He's holding a black briefcase, adorned with gold seams and locks, and a streak of pink marker you're sure says DADA across the bottom. Is he a father? You've never been confident enough to ask.
Where other professors opt for casual, he's always dressed to the nines. Today, however, he's a bit lax, albeit layered, and you're admiring the sweater weather look he's got going. A deep maroon with a collared, white undershirt, a clasped brown and gold belt, fitted slacks, and shined leather shoes all combined to make the statement he's still here for work, no matter how approachable he might appear.
To you, he's stood out to you from day one. From the rumor mill, you're not the only one with interest. No matter how discouraging it is, you can't blame anyone else for catching a crush. You did after your first lecture.
"I have tests to grade and essays to review. My TA has been out sick for several weeks now. Makes for an intense workload, you see?"
"No TA, huh? Bummer." A beat. "I could help. If you have an answer sheet...I could grade your tests? Essays are all you, Professor."
"A noble offer," he says. "And an appreciated one. Always nice to have a volunteer." He looks you up and down, brow quirking. "Especially when it's you."
"Glad I can help."
You give him a small salute, to which he quirks his right brow.
"If only more of my students were so enthusiastic. I'd be a happier man, I'm sure."
"Is that so?"
You frown. Is that all it would take? You have your doubts. While he hasn't been too revealing with you, he has suggested there's a reason he dons an eyepatch, and it isn't because of an inherited condition.
An old injury, he told you one day over tea and a private lecture on a war you've honestly forgotten the name of. You could likely remember if you weren't so fixated on his passion, fervor, and dedication. The way his bangs come undone, and how he slicks them back so easily without breaking his verbal stride. You listened as he paced, nodding every so often to express your focus.
Hands in your lap, you hardly touched your tea, instead your mind swimming. In a strange moment of trust, he had looked at you with an intensity you hadn't recognized in a man before. He must be the only one capable of conveying such raw emotion while maintaining such remarkable poise.
"These days, I'm rather easy to please," he drawls. While it's not exactly true, he isn't being intentionally deceitful. He changes the subject as you two approach the large wooden door to his office. "You still have time, you know? To switch over. Your second year, it wouldn't be so unusual."
"You want me in your program? For real?" you press. When he unlocks the door, you follow at his request. Taking a seat when he tells you to, you ask, "It's just so different from my major. I minored in it because..."
"You thought it would be easy?" he says, calling you out.
"Er, well," you laugh sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck. Removing your hat, you wring it between your hands. "It's not exactly like that, but..."
"I understand. You wouldn't be the first, and I'm sure not the last I'll come across in my career. Still, I believe you have promise in the field."
"I'd be bothering you all the time," you propose. "I wouldn't even know what kind of job to get, let alone how to be promising in the field."
Silco is well aware that you're testing him.
"I think we both know," he says, opening his briefcase after putting it on top of his desk, "that you're hardly a bother. I only welcome back company I enjoy having around. I don't offer private tutoring sessions often." Or at all. "They aren't exactly..." Appropriate. "...my thing."
Pulling out a stack of papers, he grabs a marker from one of his desk drawers.
"As for what you would do after your time here," he continues, "that is up to you. I could put in a good word, should you keep up the tenacity. Falter or fail, and you'll get nothing from me."
Harsh.
So, you spend your morning grading tests while he annotates essays. When you announce you have to go to class, he halts his pen strokes, sets down an obviously plagiarized piece, and lifts himself from his fancy chair.
"You'll consider it?" A delay. "...Switching my program?"
"I have been," you reply earnestly. "You're very convincing. Your love for the subject is pretty contagious."
"I aim to inspire," he says easily.
Coming from around the back of his desk, he faces you, leaning against the front edge now. His hands come to rest along the ridge, fingers curling beneath as he watches you.
"Well," you laugh nervously, "you're very inspiring, Professor."
"Good," he quips. "You're free to go now. I won't keep you any longer."
Keep me as long as you like.
How you wish you could be honest with him, but you realize now that the longer you spend in his office, the more reluctant you are to leave.
"Right," you cough into the back of your wrist. Embarrassed by your thoughts, you step back, grab the handle awkwardly, and give him your best smile. "I'll see you later?"
"You will." And he sounds so assured. "I'll no doubt need your assistance again. Perhaps it'll continue to inspire you? If you decide to take the plunge, I'll make it well worth your while. I don't think my TA is suited for this position, but I believe you are. It's yours if you want it. Granted, you do switch."
Ah, there's always a caveat, though it makes sense. Besides...
I do want it.
And for him? You'd switch. Bottom, top, whatever. Though you've given yourself quite the illustrious set of fantasies. Subsequently, you have decided that he must be the dominant one. It's not a baseless assumption. These days, you study him more than your textbooks. Still, you can't imagine him on his knees if not to indulge. He always retains power.
Power. Something he has that you have always lacked. Is this why you seek him out over others? He has something you've always wanted, or thought you did, but you're realizing you want him partially because he is powerful. Attractive, of course, and gentlemanly, and more demure than had been promised.
"I'll take it," you swear. "If I do, that is." A bit of teasing never hurt, almost like playing hard to get. Admittedly, you lack time if you're going to go through with this. "And if I do? You'll be the first to know." You squint. "I promise."
Finally opening the door, you can hear a small bustle of energy down the hall. A dull moment fades, and you prepare yourself to step back into the real world. Demands of daily routine beckon you to rejoin the land of the living.
"A promise is a promise," he calls to you as you leave. "I'll hold you to it."