#Silco gif

[jinxlovebot]

sevika headcanon - smut fem!reader

sevika definitely likes getting bitten or scratched during sex, yall know that one scene where cait bites her and she smirks? broooo

when sevika is fucking up into you while your sitting on her strap, shes praising you with kisses and dirty words like “yeah you like that?” or “want me to go harder?”. your so close and she knows that and it made her ego so high but when you bit down on her shoulder to hide your whimpers she stopped her thrusts and her eyes widened. “did i d-do something wrong? sorry for-“ she’d cut you off with a deep thrust and asks you to bite her again, she literally cums just from you biting on her and you always bring it up whenever she feels all smug and she definitely takes it out on you later.

and whenever your fucking in missionary she goes hard and fast just so you’d scratch her back with red lines everywhere on her back. she would purposely wear vest tops or a sports bra around people and constantly would have her back turned to people just so they could ask her what the marks were from and she’d say its from you with no shame.

and i also feel like she would definitely want a chubby girlfriend… 😫

not proofread lol

[piltov]

SILCO in ARCANE Season 1 Act 1

[subjectnr8]

"That day, I let a weak man die"

I'm about to hurt your feelings 🧪🧟‍♂️

Oh did you, Silco?

That day all you did was getting trauma you don't know how to heal from. You were lost after Vander betrayed you. You saw nothing good within you and yet you desperately tried to find worth in the breaths you fought for so desperately.

All you crave is safety. All your life you had searched for it like a distraught puppy. And as those you held closest to you hurt you, broke you, you swore you'd never let anyone hurt you like this again.

Even if it meant to give up on your comfort and needs.

You convinced yourself that your worth lies in those qualities that drove your life against the wall, shattering all you ever thought you stood for. Taking away those who were willing to choose you.

No one ever will hurt you like this, betray you like this. You swore it to yourself, no one will ever be allowed in your broken and shattered heart again. No one should see the endless voids Felicia and Vander had lef behind.

How did that turn out for you?

It's like your restless heart leapt onto that girl in the rain. Powder. So quickly, you wrapped your arms around her, took her in, letting that abandoned child take a seat at the empty dinner table.

You saw yourself in her, didn't you?

Alone, betrayed. Crying and losing her sanity. How did it feel when she jumped at you, seeking the comfort you yourself needed oh so desperately?

When you saw Vander's dead body, what did you feel? When you talked to him, saw the strong man became a lap dog to those who opressed you all your life, was it worse than the river?

If things had played out in a different way, would Vander stand beside you and not lie bleeding and dead on the concrete? Would his blood be bandaged and not washed away by rain?

You found a daughter that day. No, don't deny it. I see it in your abandoned little heart. I see the streaks of blue.

She reminds you a lot of your old self. The weak man. But was he truely ever weak?

The mines alone shoul've been proof that no, no you were never weak to begin with. You survived those conditions, found a family, friends. Vander. Oh Vander. How you held onto him. How you knew he'd be there for you. What a fatal belief.

Planning a revolution wasn't meant to be done by the likes of you. What is one person with a dream gonna do? You're a dirty little thing, a no-good rat like everyone called you.

Everyone but Felicia and Vander.

You thought Vander would stand with you. You were wrong.

You created the Lanes. You created Shimmer. You were so close to achiev what you worked for all your god damn life. And yes, it was a hard life.

Can you even call it life? All you ever did was plan a future for those who redeemed you of nothing. You fought for people who would toss you aside at any given chance.

You thought Felicia would stand with you. You killed her.

You thought Jinx would stand with you. She killed you.

You gave up your dream for her. Your daughter. The crying girl who you hummed to sleep, the one who made you countless drawings and gifts like you deserved them. A daughter's love was enough to make you feel again.

Was it painful when you died? Shot so quickly you must've fallen back into the pattern of betrayal, of heartbreak. A loved one hurting you was nothing new. But this time, you knew she didn't mean it.

How she ran over, cradled your head. You called her perfect, like you did every day. It's not Zaun you're leaving behind today, it's your daughter. And while you hope you won't become one of those demons in her mind, torturing her and giving her the burden of guilt, you, once again, did everything in your power to let her know how much you loved and adored her.

You're perfect. Just like your daughter.

Oh Silco. I hope the river cradels you well.

🫂❤️🧪

[mikimeiko]

Silco in season 1 of Arcane

(except the gifs that were in this gifset)

[marksbear2]

Silco x Enforcer male reader

Warning!!⚠️ Not really deep angst as it was last fic I wrote of him but still angst. It’s like unrequited love, but also Silco using your love for his own gain.⚠️

Beneath the surface

The streets of Zaun were alive with noise and chaos, but within the shadows, where the flickering lights from the neon signs barely reached, there was something different. A silence that clung to the cold walls of the underground lair that belonged to Silco.

You leaned against the doorframe, eyes scanning the dimly lit room where Silco sat, his back turned as he stared out of the window. The air between you was thick with unspoken tension. Months had passed since this... arrangement had begun, yet neither of you spoke of it aloud. There was no need. The silence between the two of you had become its own language.

The size difference between the two of you had never been lost on Silco. He was a smaller man, but he carried himself with such a commanding presence that it made up for it in spades. Your height was an advantage, but it didn’t matter in the end. Not in this dynamic.

He didn’t turn to acknowledge your presence, his fingers tapping against the glass. It was something he did often—silent, distant, lost in his thoughts. You could only wonder what was going on behind that cold gaze of his.

“I need you,” he finally spoke, his voice low and cold. It was the same way he always spoke to you. Not with warmth, not with affection—just with the weight of command.

Your heart tightened, but you stayed silent, obeying without question. "What do you need?" you asked, your voice betraying nothing. There was no place for weakness here.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Silco’s lips. He glanced over his shoulder, the faintest glimmer of something darker in his eyes. "Do you ever question why you're still here?" he asked, the power play palpable in his words.

Of course, you had questioned it. You were aware of the manipulation—the way he kept you close but never allowed you too close. The way he twisted your emotions into something that only fueled his ambitions. But you couldn’t walk away. Not anymore.

“No," you said simply, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside. "I’ll always be here."

Silco’s expression softened, just a fraction, but it was enough to make you pause. He wasn’t looking for love. You weren’t that naive. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, when his guard was down, he allowed himself a fraction of vulnerability. Just enough for you to see how lost he really was beneath the cold exterior. It was fleeting, but it kept you clinging on.

Without turning to face you completely, Silco’s hand reached up and brushed against your cheek, the coolness of his touch sending a shiver down your spine. His touch was always calculated, always just enough to remind you of the distance between you both.

“I’ve made you soft,” Silco murmured, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. “But I think you like it.”

You didn’t argue, not now. There was nothing left to say. He had you in the palm of his hand, and while you hated it, you could never escape it. His control over you was suffocating, but it was also intoxicating. You were too far gone, too deep into this twisted dance.

The size difference between you and Silco had always been a reminder of who held the power, yet every time you were alone like this, it felt as though the roles were reversed. The way he made you feel small without even touching you, the way his silence could break you, it all came together in a power play that neither of you fully understood. Or perhaps you did, but neither of you had the courage to call it what it was.

His hand dropped from your face, and without a word, he moved toward you, his steps slow and deliberate. You knew what was coming—a momentary lapse of control, a fleeting moment of intimacy that would be gone before you could process it.

“Come here,” he commanded softly, the cold edge still present in his voice. You stepped forward, your body betraying your desire to be closer, even if it meant continuing this cycle. His hands were all over you, pressing you against him, your larger frame somehow still dwarfed by his presence as he leaned into you.

He didn’t kiss you—not like lovers did. He kissed you like a ruler marking his territory. There was no tenderness, only hunger, and the need to remind you who was in control. The sharp press of his lips, the way his hands gripped your sides tightly—it all made your breath catch in your throat.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispered against your lips, his voice a quiet order.

You swallowed, the words feeling too familiar, too much of a surrender, but you said them anyway. “I’m yours.”

Silco smirked, pulling away slightly, eyes meeting yours. “Good. Never forget that.”

You were trapped in this world of manipulation and coldness, unable to let go, and even if you could, you knew you never would. No matter how often Silco reminded you of your place, how often he used you emotionally, it wasn’t enough to break the attachment that had built itself so deeply inside you.

In this power play, you were just as much a prisoner as he was—bound by the secrets you kept from everyone around you. And no matter how hard you tried to fight it, you couldn’t escape the way you needed him.

And in that moment, Y/N understood: this was his place, standing at the edge of Silco’s abyss, constantly yearning for the affection that would never come. But as much as he hated himself for it, he would always return to Silco. The cold, calculating man who used him emotionally, who toyed with his affections as if it were nothing.

But to Y/N, it was everything.

And so, they remained there in the dark, both trapped in their roles. One in control, the other consumed by love. Y/n kept trying, to search his gaze wanting to find anything that had a glimpse of love or affection. But what he saw was emptiness, as he knew loving someone like a Silco will forever will only lead into heartbreak.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Red Line - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Jinx narrates Ekko's life story.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

tw: death, police brutality, violence, sickness.

Snippet:

To make a short story long:

One night, many moons ago (twenty years to be precise), the Fissures were hit by what is known as Die Pest—not a mass extermination of rodents, but a deadly contagion known as the Ash Plague. It turned thousands of residents into hacking, howling, hole-riddled wraiths who had little choice but to be quarantined at great expense inside the Skylight Commercia's glass dome, under the Council's decree.

All access to the Bridge was restricted: Fissurefolk were barricaded from crossing over to Topside's salubrious climes, where well-heeled, well-met folks went about their business on the immaculately paved streets while a slow poison whittled down their sunless neighbors, leaving nothing behind but bones.

Two of the soon-to-be-damned were a couple with a young boy, barely a year old. They weren't wedded, this being the Fissures and nobody giving a rat's flea-bitten behind; the only ones in town who kept up the tradition were undertakers and tax collectors, both being in the business of last rites, though one was more lucrative than the other (and a damn sight more sanitary).

Point being: the couple were spared the penance but not the plague. Within weeks of its landfall in the Fissures, it spread through the community like wildfire. The woman died first; her man and baby boy both watched her heave her insides out until all she had left were tears and teeth, and not even a mouthful of either by the time she'd kicked the bucket.

It broke the man hard, her passing. She took everything but his breath.

Then the baby came down with the same fever, and threatened to leave him with nothing.

They say that when a person loses their heart, they have a bottomless hole in its stead. One that can be filled by whatever a heart can hold. This man didn't lose his heart; instead what died in him was cowardice, or maybe common sense.

So he fortified himself on zinfandel, swaddled the baby inside a cloth, and decided to do the impossible.

He slipped out of his family's hovel at sundown. Then he crept into the ginnel—that's a backalley, for the uninitiated—just beyond their stoop to check whether there was any blackshirts lurking. No one save for the Night Watch making their rounds, and he had two blocks on those blokes.

The man snatched up some ash, which was scattered across the streets in the remnants of that frosty Fissure evening. He rubbed it into his skin until his dark flesh held the same pallor as the ill.

Then down he went: as quietly as a rat stalking a scrap. He and his late lady-love were Tausendkünstlers. That's the local nickname for a jack-of-all-trades. In more esoteric circles, it has another meaning. The closest translation is "conjurer," but the wordplay is often lost on folks who don't have an ear for language.

Or a taste for magic.

This man and his partner had spent much of their lives defrauding people blind to the truth that, well, there ain't no such thing as magic. Only the odd miracle, and only if you've got enough coinage to make it happen. The rest's a matter of timing. Luck.

And for the truly savvy: trickery.

Which bought us to this fellow slinking through the shadows: dodging street lamps and dripping lines of laundry alike. To get out of quarantine, he'd need to conjure a few miracles.

And use up the rest of his luck.

So this man sprinted through the streets with his squalling babe against his chest, until he hit the jackpot. In a courtyard by the Black Lanes, there stood a vehicle.  It was a rudimentary motorcar, just the wheels and chassis really. The man had been fixing up the innards before his lady-love got sick.

Still, it was good enough to pass a cursory inspection at the Bridgeside, given the sheer volume of vehicles carting supplies upriver each day.

Our fellow had neither papers, nor permits. Not to mention a suspicious lack of supply boxes loaded into his trunk. He just had his hands on the wheel and something foreign banging around in his ribcage.

Maybe that was bravery? Or, as mentioned, magic?

Maybe it was love?

Whatever you call it, the man was in full grip of this feeling. He gunned the engine, and began a laborious ascent up the roughshod streets toward the Bridge. In the passenger seat, the baby wept in fitful bursts, while the man dabbed at his feverish little face with a cloth which, coincidentally, was all that remained of his lady-love's favourite dress.

That dress tells the story of how they met in three distinct panels:

The first panel: Him and a group of ruffians, headed by two epically hard-headed rascals known as Vander and Silco, taking a joyride in his motorcar—cobbled together from a hijacked Enforcer's paddywagon—when they knocked a woman off the sidewalk and ass-backwards into the muck.

They rush out in a panic—him the first to reach her—to find a charming pair of stockinged legs sticking out of a well-stitched woolen skirt, and an even longer seam of swear words flying out of a prettily-plump mouth.

The second panel: A slightly less raucous encounter, and the man apologizing profusely over a pint of ale to this fetching, foul-mouthed lady for his recklessness. Her face is a frigid moue; she's plainly not interested. At least, until they go outside and she sees him fiddling with the motorcar engine. A spark comes alive in her eyes: she's a tinkerer herself. But her passion lies in mechanized textiles—fashionable clothing made from "sensible cloth," a cotton-steel blend that's both stylish and stab-resistant.

She smiles. He chuckles.

Their eyes meet, and on this newfound common ground, a sweeter bargain is struck.

The last panel: they sit, side-by-side, in the musty dimness of Benzo's shop—in the backroom, where the real business is done without a single signature crossing the dotted line—working on a dress. It's got a special pattern of steel-meshed weave.  Stab-resistant, as mentioned prior. Also great at keeping shrapnel shards at bay. Better safe than sorry, especially now that she's running with Vander, Silco and his crazy lot, too.

Running with this man in particular, who wants only the best for her, even if that's not always possible to deliver. His love language isn't words; it's the hard work and honest sweat as he works with her on the dress, stitch after loving stitch, even though it leaves his fingertips sore.

It's worth it to see the way her tongue curls prettily between her teeth as she concentrates on aligning the seams. At the warmth of her arm, a smooth line against his own, and how he imagines the fabric unfurling between them, so he can see their shared future, sewn right in the steel flux: a chance encounter woven into courting danger and courting bliss in equal parts.

When the dress is finished, she throws her arms around him and laughs. His fingers ache, but his heart's fit to bursting.

Then she kisses him, and he thinks: 

 Boom.

Because a boom's always the best start to a love story.

That dress would take all kinds of hits during their days together—burns, bloodstains, the occasional stray bullet from fleeing the Enforcers storming Vander and Silco's underground rallies. Not the ideal lifestyle—nor a choice the man would've made.

But choice was slim pickings in the Undercity. And the past months had brought a lot less carousing, a lot more casing. Not too proud of it, but what else were they to do? There was no money in gadgetry. Not without a rich patron. The only means of true survival was smuggling, safe-cracking, and grand larceny on the wrong side of town.

Not to mention all the legups that came with having Vander and Silco's back, and knowing they had yours. 

The couple needed a legup. They needed someone in their corner.

See, they had a whelp on the way. A babe on a hip, soon enough. That'd keep any man's eye on the horizon.

In the passenger seat, the babe squalled. The man was catapulted back to the moment. Ash streaking his forehead, and his dead love's dress a crumpled heap in his fist.

The motorcar's creaky wheels rolled doggedly up the streets.

The man hoped to cross the Bridge before the curfew bell clanged. Hoped to trade the boy a worse fate for a better—the golden cage over the black pit. His plan—if it can be called that—was such: he'd get pulled over at the checkpoint. The guards would demand documentation. When they shone their lanterns at him, they'd see the grey grime smearing his cheeks. Instantly, they'd recoil, as Topsiders did at anything less than spotless.

In that moment, with them rearing away, he'd scoop the boy into his arms, snugly enfolded in his love's dress, and make a mad dash across the Bridge. 

All he had to do was cross the red line at the border. Once he did, he'd be under the jurisdiction of Piltover proper, rather than the Wardens. They could gun him down in broad daylight. But the child would be pronounced a ward of the state, which meant they'd place the little thing in an orphanage, where medicks would treat his sickness.

Where he might grow up healthy, happy and bright.

Where he might become someone, like his mother always wished.

The motorcar crept up the crumbling streets, skirting past piles of dead dogs, rats, cats—they'd all perished too. Flies swarmed in clouds over the mangled heaps of fur and flesh.

In the distance, the harbor glowed: a golden hand beckoning.

As the motorcar neared the Bridge's ramparts, the man spotted a squadron of Enforcers posted between two caravels across the road. The line to get past was long and winding. Each carriage took half an hour to inspect.

A long time. Too long!

By the time the man reached the front, the curfew bell would have rung.

Gods, all he needed was to cross that red line. To be given leave to enter the promised land. A small mercy, just a tiny scrap. Please. Why couldn't they give him that?

The man's eyes fixed on the checkpoint, jaw clenched so tight he felt his back teeth chip. The line crept forward one laborious inch at a time. Every bump in the road jostled his bones.

Halfway there, the curfew bell started clanging; the Enforcers lined up on the rampart, barring further entrance. All the vehicles waiting to cross were summarily turned away.

The man's stomach dropped to the car's floor, and then dropped through the floor, and straight down into the Pilt.

In the passenger seat, the baby wailed.

In a world of slim choices and shrinking odds, the man knew he had none left.

When you get only one chance in hell, what've you got to lose? Nothing—which is exactly what he had. He might be waylaid before he got halfway across, sure. A broadside could snaffle him at the wheel; his windows could shatter from a rifle stock bashing the glass in; a hail of lead could leave his guts spilled across the cobblestones.

His body, floating in the Pilt in the aftermath, a knife-edge moon in its reflection...

...but, if there was a chance his son might make it Topside?

He risked it.

Bracing a palm across the baby's chest, the man floored the gas pedal, screeching his way through the barricade like a hot blade through butter. He ploughed right through the middle of the blockade. Crates toppled. Enforcers scattered like loose coins. Shouts rang out, then a chorus of gunshots.

In the passenger seat, the baby let out a hiccupping cry.

 We're going to make it, the man thought. Just across the line.

Boom.

An explosion shook the Bridge, knocking the car sideways. Something massive, maybe a gatling gun—had blown out the car's tires. The wheels ruptured, sending the vehicle skidding off the pavement. It plunged, nose-down, into the vertiginous canyon below. Moments later, the gas line ruptured, sending an impressive fireball sky-high over the River.

Sparks rained down. Soot followed.

In the backdraft, the boy's scream rang out—clear, shrill, angry.

Alive.

By some miracle—or maybe old-fashioned Tausendküstler trickery—the man had snatched up the wee lad—snugly enfolded within his mother's dress—into his arms, and leapt from the careening car. They'd hit the cobblestones, rolling and rolling, as the car tipped off the Bridge.

They stopped—a hair shy of the demarcation. Right near the painted line separating the Undercity from Piltover.

The man ran.

One boot missing, his shirtsleeves shredded, his elbows and knees streaked with blood. And still, he held his son to his breast, and ran like hell.

 He kept running, even as the Enforcers greeted him with the traditional Topside salutation. Bullets ricocheting at his heels, ripping up stone, metal, meat, as he sprinted across the Bridge. As shouts rose, and sirens skirled, and a storm of brass buttons and spit-shined badges lunged in hot pursuit.

One bullet winged him across the temple. Blood sprayed.

Teeth gritted, he pushed hard. Twenty-five yards from home plate.

Twenty.

Fifteen.

Ten—!

Boom.

A third bullet went clean through his skull.

The man staggered, with less than half a yard to go. The baby squalling in his arms, his big brown eyes raised skyward to the golden city as the night and his father's life seeped away.

Finally, the man fell, tripping over blood-slick cobblestones.

He dropped to the ground inches from the red line, curling around the child in a final embrace, as the Enforcers advanced in jagged silhouettes, with rifles drawn and torches held high.

Which is where Benzo and Vander, in the vicinity after a supply run, found Ekko squalling in his dead father's arms.

Ekko would never cross the red line. Instead, he'd spend much of his early toddlerhood curled around the fraying dress, its bloodstains gone coppery-dark. The last relic of his parents, two Tausendküstler fools, taken in by the illusion of a golden elsewhere beyond the river, and the lie that is Topside's creed:

Progress.

As he grew up, Ekko's whole life would be spent in pursuit of something better. Something real. Something that he'd build right in the Fissures.

Because if a city could change, on the level, it must change together. Honesty, grit and guts would get you halfway there. But cleverness, greased gears and a fistful of audacity was what'd see you past the threshold.

Ekko was a Tausendküstler, too. But no fool. Even on the nights when his fingers ached, like his old man's once had, as he stitched together the threads for a brighter tomorrow.

 He just didn't know that a blue-haired girl, who'd lost her own family on the Bridge, would be the match to set the spark in motion. Two ends of a lit fuse. Different sides, same story. Same old fight: getting to the Promised Land, however many yesterdays it took.

Even if the Promised Land was their own doorstep.

But that story is still in progress. For now, there's only the boom.

And a pinch of magic called love to make up for the rest.

[neminomnom]

Favourite foods of arcane characters

Includes- Silco, Vander Violet and Jinx :)

Sorry this is short, it’s my first time writing headcanons and idk if this will get any attention, if it does then I’ll start taking requests and make them longer :)) My grammar isn’t the best so sorry for any mistakes!

Silco-

-silco absolutely adores fruit, his favourite is raspberries and blueberries, but he HATES apples and mango, he told me himself.

-meal wise, it’s probably stir fry, or just cigarettes.

-Depsite his love for sea monsters, he hates fish, he can’t stand the texture or the smell of it.

Vander-

- Any meat, apart from chicken, there’s so much you can do with it but on its own, he finds it disgusting, but his favourite would be pork.

- for a meal,beef stew, he loves it, it fills you up, it’s a big meal and delicious.

- he hates kidney beans, they are like a lucky dip, each one tasting slightly different, he hates it.

Violet-

-Her favourite would be fish, she loves it, or something really sweet like red velvet cake.

- Vi ADORES anything at Jerichos restaurant, she gobbles it up and finds it so scrumptious.

-overall violet isn’t fussy, she loves everything and anything, Vi would be that kid at a restaurant who would pick the most random thing on the menu and absolutely gobble it up.

Jinx-

- Like silco, she loves fruit, specifically plums or pineapple, anything crunchy or juicy she loves, but she HATES bananas, she finds them too mushy.

- Pasta with a bunch of butter is her best friend, it’s easy and scrumptious

- Unlike her sister, Jinx is a very picky eater, so I think she doesn’t like a lot of things, specifically peas.

————————————————————————

[opalescent--eye]

[gif by piltov]

[caitlynbuceta]

ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎

[iminmywritersdungeon]

This this this right here is getting to me. Gif is from @terrapia

Yeah you could argue this parallels Silco but it doesn’t really. Silco didn’t want to give up jinx because she’s his daughter. Sevika doesn’t want to give up jinx because she’s a zaunite

And you know who that reminds me of so fucking much?

That’s Vander’s ideology right there. Vander could have done like Grayson suggested, picked any rando off the streets to take the fall for the apartment explosion, but he wouldn’t, because those are his people.

Vander was weak and Vander was a coward but Sevika followed him once, and there was a reason for that

Silco may have been the Eye of zaun, but Vander is its Heart, and that heart is still fucking beating

[piltov]

SILCO in ARCANE Season 1 Act 1

[sandraharissa]

I love the little detail of Jinx scrunching up her nose when upset only on one side of her face and how she clearly got it from Silco.

Cos Silco's likely only emoting like that cos half of his face is paralyzed and so when he does it it looks natural, he just can't move that part of his face and it's likely that without the scar Silco would be emoting with his whole face.

However when Jinx does it it looks a little awkward. She has to keep half of her face relaxed meanwhile emote with the other half. So not only did she pick up this face expression from him but also the quirk of only doing it with one side of her face even tho for her it makes no sense. And not only does she mimic his face expression but she also acts a little like a literal mirror, with Silco emoting with the right side of his face and Jinx emoting with her left side.

[molinaesque]

No matter the universe, there's always his cheeky head tilt

[arcanegifs]

ARCANE LEAGUE OF LEGENDS: 2x06 - “The Message Hidden Within the Pattern” ↳ "Do you remember them?"

[terrapia]

ARCANE SEASON 2 ACT II