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corners and walls | silco x f!reader  

Summary: the grief of loss shakes apart the friends of four, leaving silco and her to pick up the pieces of the complex affliction between them

warnings (TW): slight spoilers for arcane season ii//act ii, swearing, mentions of death, alcohol mentioned, general trauma, violence (implied)

tags: established relationship, honestly for once NOT dumbasses, angst… comfort?, affection

notes: i think this is a oneshot. Im not completely sure (im kinda maybe sure) that this is a oneshot… im allowed to write about my interests! (pt 11 of snapshots in my drafts rn its a complicated ch im wrestling w myself about posting)--- but im in arcane brainrot…. I love dissecting it and unfortunately for all of u i LOVE silco……… hes a questionable character…… but the way the action of season ii is going i need something familiar in my life while looking at (doomed) victor/jayce (heavy sighs) — if u don’t wanna read i understand this is a moonie want (and need) — love youuuuuu <3 

word count: 2.6k

| masterlist | 

There were corners of her he did not know. 

Folds of her linens and clothes he moved to uncover in the past months. She was quiet, silent in the visage he had drawn of her, but stubborn (something familiar) and something of great consistency to him. 

It was hard to quantify her, easier to dismiss. She was not special. Of common stature and of common shape. Plain colors adorned her closet, plain and even temperament, plain tone, and of plain face. 

That is what they would say when uncovering her past. Now that she was part of this mess, part of the mess he had sheltered her into (part of the mess Vander had shepherded her into). The dream of a larger nation, of overarching architecture and structure and reasoning. A voice, they figured between the four of them, a voice that would listen and learn and speak loudly in the face of the injustices they had survived and crawled through. 

But he figured they would only comment on her appearance, perhaps. Of her coal stained shoes and the dirt under her picked nails. 

They would not know the woman behind it all. Would not know of Felicia either (now). Not with the violence inflicted on the bridge. Not with the weapon staining his hand (an accident he had sworn to them both). 

He knew of the woman before him though, knew of her mind and spite and grit. Knew of her work and the lengths and dredges she had come from. Knew of her grief. Something he sequestered in the back of his mind. Survive survive survive. She had once compared Zaun’s residents to roaches. Unkillable, dirty, and strikingly annoying. She meant it in an endearing way, she had to. She was a roach too. 

It was a different kind of insect, a different animal, that drove him to draw a gun on the woman he loved so dearly. He wouldn’t have thought to wrap a finger around the trigger if it weren’t for the feral instinct of preservation. He could discern danger like a sense, it came as easily as smell, as sight, as breathing. But it had him stuttering now, seeing her on the other end of his warranted violence (was it warranted?). 

She was a structure of poise, like usual. Another reason to keep the gun drawn to her. The silence in her acceptance of his decision. He knew though, that if they both survived the grief of his mistake she wouldn’t forgive him- never forgive him for registering her as a threat. How could she be? 

He had been waiting for the retaliation. He hid away in corners and along dark walls in wait. He waited for Vander to seek a sort of violence in him, the last violence the large man would ever do. Seek blood in the name of their shared friend, for the orphans he made. He was sick, sick with the thought of it most days. But composed, up until this point. Up until Vander used his last facilities to shake his roach of a mind from the corners of the nation they once dreamed of in the depth of caves and between stone-cold walls. She was it, was that thing that would make him waver, and he knew that. 

She had her palms raised, hands shaking. But composed, as usual. It was hard to shake the structure of her. She was rarely surprised by violence, much less the plights of men. She wasn’t quick to anger, wasn’t weepy at the thought of destruction, and stood as strong as cavernous walls, sturdy against the infrastructure of the Undercity. He admired that, he loved that. 

She had only shaken a total of three times, in front of him. Only bent her head and neck and bowed before him in emotion all of three times. Imprinted in his mind, the cascade of her hair, the shaking of her shoulders, and the sightless grief in her eyes. 

The first was the first time he truly saw her. She consumed herself with work. Whether it be their laborious job in the mines or the turmoil of finding justice in an unjustified upbringing. She had broken one day, that very first day. 

She was a sightless, unknowing girl in the crowd. But something about her hunched structure had struck him differently that day. He was younger then, only twelve. He knew of empathy but had yet to experience it. But he was shackled by it then, that day, when he first saw her. Hands bloody through her miners' gloves, shoes holey from the trek to and fro. She was younger, by a year or two. It was not unusual to find distressed children in the Undercity, perhaps more common than people would like to comment. Children, like they were, grew along the walls and innards of the city, meshed into stony hallways and bridges, faded into noise and paint of the background. It should go unnoticed by most, a crying child. But it struck him differently, then. 

The second, the day she confessed unfounded feelings. Years in the making, the dredges of the relationship between them. Even now, he could not comprehend the strings that were strapped between them. It was more than stuttered words and whispered confessions. It felt undying between them, an acceptance. 

She had been confused at the progression of their relationship, as was he. No reference to be found between them of a structure to hold their relationship. They took it in stride, took and molded their wants between them to breathe easily. Wind through a metal chime, ultimately peaceful, but prone to knots. Their strings overlaying, knotting, tightening. He had never thought to unweave them when he fled. The tug of knots and her heart led her back to him anyway. 

The third time would be now. The shake of her hands and the draw of her legs. The shimmering tears rounding along her chin. She was beautiful. She never liked when he said so, but she was captivating. He didn’t enjoy seeing her cry, it unsettled a deep dark part of him. One he would crush and stamp down, that domineering possessive part of him. He thinks of drawing the gun to his foot, squeezing the trigger at his incompetence and attitude to make her cry (this was the second time now, he swore, two strikes in the threads between them). 

“Please.” She never pleaded. “Please Silco, come home.” The grit of her teeth against a stutter, the shuddering of her breath in the cavities of her chest. Grief, unfounded. 

“You know I can’t, dear.” Too quick for his liking, he responded. He had backed himself into a dark corner, grown leaves into walls, and hid in shadows of the Undercity bridges now. It would have to be without her though, he grieved again. He had sunk so far into the stones, in the murky water of the Undercity, it wouldn’t be safe for her to follow. 

“I’m sorry.” An afterthought. A forethought. What he apologized for was lost between the notch of string on his belt and the thread leading back to her shirt. Was it for Felicia? His grief? Or was it for leaving her? (Was it for the children? For the young girls that remember his visage in Felicia’s home? For the blue-haired pixy girl that asked for him between shattered bombed dreams? The girls she shushed and rocked and cried to sleep?) 

She liked to think it was for all of it. Her stupid heart forgave him anyway. 

She was far from naive, far from gullible. 

She knew of men and violence and dark waters by the ripe age of nine. Something she would teach Felicia’s daughters now too. It was why she lived, why she breathed still, her unwillingness to bend and snap her neck in the face of shadows and men. But she had forsaken that for him, craved a subjugation in his waters, and wished to follow him up ivy walls and read the ink scrawled on his stupid notebooks. Wanted to breathe life into his ideas and into Zaun. She’d follow him into the dark, knowingly leaving the unsaught dawn behind her. 

She only bent because she knew the power between them was equal though. She was sure of exactly three things when it came to Silco. 

The first being that he was flippantly deep. That he thought not in breaths but in paragraphs. That he could not speak but write for hours on end, that he could comprehend and listen and swallow and accept, and that he did not react in haste. He was full of purpose and determination. It was more than endearing, almost blindingly inspiring that he wished for not better but only ever the best. 

The second being that he was a perfectionist. That his scripture was scrawling and hard to read, but comprehensive. That he enjoyed messes only because he enjoyed the meticulousness of planning and cleaning up. That he loved the structure of homes and corners of houses and the craft of cleaning something that was truly his. 

The third being that he loved of equal measure, that she was most sure of, could recognize in the dead of the night, in the depth of caves. That he was severely serious when it came to the strings strung between them, and not because of the disorder of them. He would have color-coded, would have untwisted knots, and lengthened rope if he wanted to. But that was the truth of it, that he was the farthest from a perfectionist when it came to love. That he didn’t measure distances and didn’t note words between them, because he threw away the scale of them long ago. Pulled her close, twisted words between them, and sang and hummed to her in crooks of her neck. That he wished for her continued safety above anything, and far above his own. She knew for a fact, was sure of it as she was of the red-pitched brick outside the bar. It was as cumbersome as the smoggy sky, but as easy to swallow as any dark liquor. That he loved her in dark corners that made him. 

But there were dark corners of her he did not know of yet. 

That the consuming grief of her long-time friend sent her into a rage, that the stabilization and measurements between them fell and broke when he was not there for her to confide in. She wished above all else that he had stayed, that he had faced Vander’s anger. She had stayed, breathed, and swam the storm of their mutual friends' grief. Stayed for the children and for their grief also. Did that make him a coward?

“For what.” She asks, the caverns of her lungs shaking now. Her hands weak, falling to her side. “Don’t say that, don’t say that if you don’t know what for.” It was senseless and miscalculated of him to say sorry. He is so purposeful, so full of preserverations. She just wished he did not feel he had to preserve himself in the face of her. 

The gun shakes now, dropping to his side, his finger poised along the trigger still. The depth of the scarcity of her image still shook him. It had been weeks, what felt like months since he’d seen her face. 

He had seen her in crowds, seen the children marking her frame and clutched in her arms. It shook him to not wake up to her face anymore, much less her smell or her frame or her voice. Her face though, the visage of tears and the weakness of her arms, awoke something in him. 

He had to remember himself, why he left. To build a nation, to structure a future for her. For the new shadows of Felicia that followed in her wake now. 

“Everything.” He meant. “For everything, my love.” 

She sighs deeply, tired. Her head tilting to the left on instinct. Powder made a home in the crook of her neck most nights now. 

It was striking to see him. She dreamed of him between nightmares and dreamless sleep. Dreamed of waking up to him, of the quirk of his lips and the crook of his nose. The smell of him and the warmth of his embrace. The fold of his jacket around her shoulders and the breath of a kiss along her brow. When she woke she could not decide the ups and downs of walls, couldn’t decide if it was a tortuous nightmare to be awake or to be asleep. 

It strikes her when he steps forward from the shadowed corner she had backed him into. His hair is longer, his eyes deeper and darker, his clothes caked with dirt. She thinks to be insistent again. Thinks of bringing him home despite Vanders’ anger, despite the grief they shared between them. But wasn’t Silco grieving also? 

He approaches with stuttering steps. Unsure of the length of strings between them, grasping her to tie her tight again to him, when he reaches for the curve of her cheek and jaw. 

“Don’t cry.” He commands for the third time in her life, sweeping his thumb and fingers along her wet cheeks. She shutters around it, breathing between the mess of string and space between them. 

“Good.” He hums, bringing his fingers to the nape of her neck, curving her neck up in revelation. He bends his own in subjugation to her, curving his shoulders and bowing to her visage to meet familiarly between them. Curving his slight frame and lips against her own warmth, the common parts of her beat faster at the affection. It burst between them, the movement of endearment and familiarity. She forgot about this above all, missing the plainer parts of life you don’t know to miss until they are gone. 

She’d miss him again and again, would string along strings and set fires in dark paths and along walls searching for him. They’d say goodbye now, and say goodbye again once she traced him back down to the cobblestone he had slid into and out of. She’d look for him in architecture and in the children of the Undercity, she’d swear and kiss away it all now, though. Anything to push off the knots between them, anything to stop a stuttering goodbye between them that was as inevitable as her own death. A thousand of them, these tiny goodbyes, she’d take though, if it meant he lived. 

Lived farther down below than she’s ever been. But then again, there were corners and foothills in her mind he did not know of, yet. 

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GODS THE MAN THAT YOU ARE 🥴😍🥵

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I need young Silco fics right now or else I'll perish

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Sebastian is definitely cool to get a job in an Auror or something and wear a solid suit, but I think he's also absolutely hot in the countryside, covered in dirt and sweat, working on a farm 😫💓

I think it would be good, like Dad!Seb, who usually works in London in a cool suit, but on his days off he is at his holiday cottage in the countryside, relaxing and farming with his partner and their children...😍

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Knight Sebas

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i'm so glad this was useful for so many people!! i keep getting notifs on it almost every day, thank you!

i'm back on my hogwarts legacy fixation bc some friends joined the ride, so i might repost this with an addendum for brief summaries of wand cores, length & flexibility! 👀

WAND WOODS, BRIEFLY

hello friends! today i thought i could bring you something that some might find a bit useful, since many in the hogwarts legacy fandom may be interested in defining the wandlore for either their original characters, or existing characters, but can’t be bothered to read through all the wand woods, either because it would take too damn long, or you’re for one reason or another not fond of using the Pottermore website

so here it is, from an (embarrassingly) long-time HP fan, all wand woods summarized, concisely, for you to easily reference whenever you like :)

Acacia

refuses to produce magic for the non-owner

unusual, compatible with the gifted

refined magic, peculiar temperament

Alder

helpful, considerate, likeable owner

best suited for non-verbal magic

Apple

suited to owners of high aims & ideals

well-loved, long-lived, charming owners

mixes poorly with Dark magic

associated with the ability to talk to magical beings

Ash

owners are stubborn & steadfast in their beliefs, but not crass or arrogant

loses power when passed down

Aspen

outstanding charmwork, often makes for good duellists

strong-minded & determined owners

for revolutionaries

Beech

for the wise beyond their years

not for the narrow-minded or intolerant

capable of subtlety & artistry in magic

Blackthorn

best suited for warriors

needs danger & hardship to bond with its owner

loyal servant, whether it’s used for good or evil

Black Walnut

owner of good instincts & powerful insight

loses power if owner is self-deceptive

flair in all kinds of charmwork

Cedar

calls for strength of character & loyalty

owners are not to be fooled or crossed should harm come to their loved ones

Cherry

possesses lethal power

if paired with dragon heartstring, must be used with self-control & strength of mind

Chestnut

attracted to those with gifts in Herbology, tamers of magical beasts & good fliers

with dragon heartstring, owners are overfond of luxury & material things

with unicorn hair, owners show predilection for matters of justice

Cypress

for the brave, bold & self-sacrificing

owners are unafraid to confront the dark flaws in themselves & other people

Dogwood

quirky, mischievous, of playful nature

looks for owners who can provide excitement

performs well in difficult situations

Ebony

suited to combative magic & Transfiguration

for those brave enough to be themselves

owners not swayed lightly from their purpose

Elm

owners with presence, magical dexterity & dignity

produces fewest accidents & foolish errors

sophisticated & highly advanced

English Oak

for good times and bad; loyal

demands partner of strength, courage & fidelity

Fir

the survivor’s wand

demands staying power & strength of purpose

favors owners of strong-minded & intimidating demeanors

suited to Transfiguration

Hawthorn

complex & intriguing owners

adept at healing & curses

at home with conflict & inner turmoil

Hazel

reflects owner’s emotional state

wilts after its master’s death

outstanding in the hands of the skillful

Holly

considered protective

works best with those who need to overcome wrath

pairs well with those in dangerous  & spiritual quests

Hornbeam

talented owner with a single, pure passion

absorbs their owner’s code of honor

fine-tuned & sentient

Larch

hard to please & tricky to handle

exposes hidden & unexpected effects

Laurel

commonly paired with those who seek glory

does not tolerate laziness in its master

Maple

natural travelers & explorers

prefers ambition, not stay-at-home wands

shines with fresh challenges & changes of scene

Pear

best in the hands of the warm-hearted, popular

never in possession of Dark Wizards

quite resilient, appears new after years of use

Pine

users tend to live long lives

for the independent, individuals who are perceived as loners

enjoys being used creatively

will adapt easily to new methods & spells

Poplar

to be relied upon, consistent, and with integrous strength of power

chooses masters of clear moral vision

Red Oak

good duelling wand, for those with fast reflexes

light-of-touch, quick-witted & adaptable masters

often creators of trademark spells

Redwood

attracted to those with good luck

generally live exciting lives

Rowan

favors defensive magic

likes the clear-headed & pure-hearted

outstanding in duels

Silver Lime

performs best for Seers & those skilled in Legilimency

particularly handsome wood

Spruce

requires a firm hand

for bold spellcasters, with a sense of humor

loyal to their owners

produce flamboyant effects

Sycamore

eager for new experiences

ideal owner is curious, vital & adventurous

Vine

uncommon type

owners seek greater purpose & vision beyond the ordinary

Walnut

for the highly intelligent, inventors & innovators

may resist spells foreign to the nature of its master, unless they are sufficiently skilled

handsome wood, very versatile & adaptable

makes for a dangerous match with owners of little conscience

Willow

great healing power

often matched with owners with hidden insecurities

selects those with great potential, rather than those who believe they have little to learn

Yew

rare kind of wood

ideal match is unusual & notorious (whether as heroes or villains)

fearsome reputation in duelling & curses

owners tend to be fierce protectors

never chooses a timid nor mediocre mind

well, there you go! i hope it’s useful to you somehow :) i may end up reblogging to add a few notes on the wand cores too

also potential wand headcanons post soon for the HL characters? idk if anyone’s interested but i’m certainly thinking about it

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happy pride month!

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Shipping fictional characters isn’t representative of your moral values. It’s representative of your particular psychic damage and the themes and motifs that haunt you. Hope this helps.

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So I made a thing

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*kar'niss has taken a liking to you*

*perhaps a bit too intensely*

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Pretty flowers for my pretty drider

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Gale has bewitched me body and soul. NSFW under the cut. I'll still be using my old tagging system but also adding "x reader" for anyone who wishes to filter these sorts of posts out. I understand they're not everyone's cup of tea and that is perfectly gucci!

Is it over?

You've no clue. The alleyways and promenades of Baldur's Gate feel too small, too cramped. Adrenaline sings between your bodies; Gale touches the small of your back, urging you onward, your pulse thrumming in your ears. The rest of the party lingers, lost somewhere in the throngs of onlookers as you slip away from them and toward the tavern without a second thought.

A mystery solved, a murder prevented, you're sure it's something along those lines. You simply cannot care. All the praise and congratulations in the world cannot break you out of the haze that's hanging over your head, delirious with something that feels like a wine-drunk stupor. Your companions can stay behind to bask in the heroics, and you're certain they deserve it, but they're as good a diversion as any. Likely the last one you'll have for quite some time, you think, locking the grand suite doors behind you and dropping your bag at the entrance.

Gale is quiet for the first time since you've known him. There's no time for waxing and waning poetic, and even he knows this. He's dragging you across the suite without a word, his fingers searching for gaps in your armor before you reach his bed. All the magic in the world can't help him unlace you any faster and you can feel his frustration in the way he buries his mouth in the crook of your neck, kissing and nipping and whining when your hands slip beneath his open robe.

You imagine the patrons below can hear the clatter of weapons and trinkets hitting the floor, the shuffling of your feet over the worn floorboards as he crowds you onto his bed. There's no time for the rest of your armor. He'd love to lay you bare and lavish you, to fawn over your body in the warm sunlight, but this is urgent. The party could be on the stairs now, and it would be such a waste if he couldn't even touch you in the time it takes for them to find the keys.

He has to touch you. Has to taste you. Even just for a second, just enough to keep the imagination going until another time. He yanks your pants over your hips, working you free of one boot until your leg is free, dropping to his knees with a graceless thump. There's no prelude or banter, no sweet and gentle kisses. Just the strength of his broad hands pulling your ass to the edge of the bed, hooking around your thighs as his mouth finds the heat between them.

No frills, no romance or bells and whistles. His tongue flattens against you and your mind blanks, your hands winding into his dark hair for balance. He laps at you like a man starved, pushing his face so desperately against your core that you can feel his teeth skim past his lips at times, searching for all the places he knows will make you unravel the fastest.

Gale, you whisper, tugging at his shaggy bangs. He peers up at you from beneath heavy lashes, buried in you, only half-listening as his tongue dances around your entrance. Gale, I want you to--...

A chill graces the back of your neck, slipping beneath your armor before yanking you down onto the mattress. It scatters over your skin like static as he leans into you, one hand palming the curve of your ass and the other locked over your leg. His beard burns against the soft skin of your thighs and oh, this is obscene, explicit beyond imagination in the way he fucks into you with his tongue and shudders at the taste.

His thoughts cut into yours briefly, strained with effort. He's enjoying this just as much as you or maybe more, delighted in devouring you like this, promising you there'll be time for him later. Hurried little gasps and whispers of things he wants to do to you; he can't concentrate enough to form coherent thoughts, not when he knows you're already teetering at the edge of a climax he so dearly wants to swallow whole.

When he feels you buck against his face, chasing the tension coiling in your hips, he cups his mouth around his prize. The most sensitive part of you, begging for pressure or friction, pulsing with white-hot pleasure as he swirls his tongue again and again. The pull of his lips around it, sucking it so slightly into his mouth, the sounds and his fluttering lashes and his moans and sighs--

You've tipped over the edge so quickly that it blindsides you, your back arching off the bed as if to shy away from his mouth. He traps your legs over his shoulders and kisses your core again and again as your climax washes over you in waves, following the little jolts and aftershocks with his tongue as if to encourage another.

He looks up at you again with bright eyes this time, letting you push up to your elbows as he eases away from you. The rush of cool air makes you gasp and he smiles, covering you with a warm hand, laughing at your sensitivity when you jump at his touch. He wants so terribly to say something that you can almost feel the words forming like a physical manifestation, but there's Karlach's laugh outside, just below on the street.

No time. He wipes his face on the inside of your thigh, pulling your trousers up before you can protest. You're presentable at best by the time the others reach the stairs, and Gale is pretending he's preoccupied with preparing tonight's dinner; the irony isn't lost on you and he knows it.

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hi tumblr i am once again obsessed with a disaster wizard

so i bring an offering

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Reminders for new ao3 users (in no particular order):

- filter your searches like you would on a library website or in an online catalogue

- don’t post placeholders, fic searches, or recommendations as fics. DON’T! It’s against ao3 TOS

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- ao3 is a non profit. that means it doesn’t sell ads to make money — it only survives on donations. this is why it can show you so many fics without ever flashing an ad or pop up at you!

- report fics that break TOS when you see them (I.e., placeholder fics, searches) to help other users navigate better

- the tag “dead dove, do not eat” doesn’t equate to gore/awfulness automatically. it is a complementary tag that enhances current tags. E.g., if the fic is tagged “gore” and “dead dove, do not eat” the author really wants you to mind the gore tag

- most fandoms have a variation of “no beta, we die like (x character)” and they all link back to the “No beta” tag

- publishing a new fic sometimes means it won’t show up in the fandom/pairing tag for a few minutes

- subscribers receive update emails at different times, depending on when you update/publish your fic. there’s no good way to predict when an e-mail will be sent — it can be in 30 seconds, or two hours later

- some fics are restricted by authors to those with ao3 accounts only. if you see a blue lock in the upper right corner, that fic is only visible to logged in ao3 users

- you can block commenters now! this didn’t use to be a thing

- updating a fic just to stay at the top of the pairing tag/fandom tag is a dick move. unless you’re legitimately editing or adding chapters, this just annoys readers and fellow authors, and people will skip over your fic

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THE LORD OF THE RINGS: THE TWO TOWERS 2002 | dir. Peter Jackson

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doodle