#but a drunk Kiki will | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kikiiswashere · 2 years ago

Note

Thank you so much for commenting on my post, first and foremost! ❤️

One of the ideas I have, that I hope you're up for writing, is along these lines...

Reader w/ a temper, but it only shows when she's in a fight, or if someone insults anybody she's fond of. She has had horrid prior relationships and fears ever trying again, so she tends to just stick to being alone outside of working as an assistant for Silco.

While she's intoxicated, she overhears a patron (rather boldly) badmouthing Silco in his very establishment, and decides to get into a brawl with the patron. That's when she realizes that she's developed some strong feelings for her boss, and ultimately, she ends up having to explain herself directly to Silco, including why the fight started in the first place.

If possible, a resolution/response with Silco after her drunk admission to feelings would be so awesome. ;-; I'm always down for angst, too.

I'd love to see it written, but again, only if you're up for it! Thanks again! ❤️

Thank you for your patience with this, Love! Thank you for letting me breath a little life into your OC/Reader-insert.

I hope you like it <3

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Recover

Summary: See Ask

Warnings: None/SFW, canon typical violence, drunken confessions, a lil' bit of vomit

WC: 5.6K

Notes: Silco x Reader . . . ? Maybe??

Free drinks were one of the perks of your job.

It made the sting of working as Silco’s assistant mellow just a tad.

You knew most would assume that the sting came from the kingpin’s turbulent temper, his meticulous micro-managing, or his insatiable appetite for power. And while each of those attributes could be challenging at times, none of them actually got under your skin. On the contrary, they were traits you admired: his passion, his vision, his drive.

Admired . . . yes, that was the word. You would entertain nothing else.

There was no point to anything else.

A sardonic huff burst through your lips, sending the bourbon beneath them rippling in the glass. Knocking back the last of your drink, you set the tumbler on the bar top with a hefty, slightly careless thunk. Thieram looked up from the glass he was drying, brow furrowing.

“Another, please, Thieram.” You tapped the bar for good measure.

Thieram gave the glass in his hand a couple more squeaky wipes before setting it down and turning to the wall of liquor behind him. As he fetched the expensive bottle from the top shelf (if all your drinks were free, why not lean in?) your eyes slid around The Last Drop. While it was late, it wasn’t quite late enough for the bar to be in its infamous, full, raucous swing. Older, tired Trenchers (people left over from Vander’s days) sat heavily at the bar around you; small huddles of weary faces sat shoulder-to-shoulder at tables; a small group played a relatively quiet game of billiards over at the large, felted table.

As Thieram returned and poured another two fingers-worth into your glass, your eyes spied Sevika at the far end of the room. A murky plume of smoke rising above her and the two men she was currently swindling in cards. Her full lips hooked in an insufferable grin around her cigarillo as her playthings upped their antes. The next thing your eyes meandered to were the stairs that led to The Drop’s upper levels. To the club’s balcony. And then the private quarters. To Silco’s office. Where you had left him after he thanked and dismissed you for the day.

A perfunctory thanks mumbled from your mouth as you lifted your freshened drink to your lips. The liquor burned delicious and warm down your gullet, grateful for the way it soothed your tired body, relaxed your tangled mind, and numbed your aching heart.

Placing the drink down, your hand swiveled the bottom of the glass against the lacquered bar top, watching as the liquor within spin in a small whirlpool. You didn’t want them to, but your eyes lifted to the neon clock above Thieram’s head. In about an hour’s time, you knew, the club would fill with younger, louder Zaunites and the more rambunctious of Silco’s goons. The lights would pulse. The music would rattle the bar’s foundation. Cheap liquor would flow. Shimmer would be smoked. Gambling. Soliciting. Probably at least one fight.

And he would be there.

You hated that you knew that. Hated that you still knew your ex’s schedule. Hated that he didn’t have the decency to frequent a different club, knowing that this was the one you worked in. He had been the one to break up with you, so his insistence on showing his stupid face was aggravating and spiteful.

You’d be loathe to admit it, but it hurt you.

And it hurt that he knew that, but he still came to The Last Drop like clockwork. Like the time you spent together was some sort of meaningless joke.

Asshole.

At least he hadn’t been as bad as . . .

You stopped that thought in its tracks and knocked the rest of your drink back. A mistake, you quickly realized, as your esophagus rebelled against the onslaught of liquid fire trying to surge its way to your stomach. Catching the cough behind your teeth, some of the beverage rose back up into your mouth where it found refuge in the rounded bubbles of your cheeks.

Luckily, no one but Thieram seemed to notice.

“Smooth.”

Wrestling down the wayward booze, you sneered at him. “Swallowed wrong.”

“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “That stuff isn’t meant to be shot. Didn’t the boss explain that when he first let you taste it?”

Another unwelcome, unfounded zing scratched across your heart.

You bit the inside of your cheek and glared at the bartender. After a beat, you pushed the empty tumbler across the bar toward him and firmly tapped the space next to it. Thieram’s deep set eyes fell to the glass, unimpressed.

“Don’t waste it this time,” he warned, snatching the heavy ornate glass bottle back off the shelf. He poured a finger’s worth and turned to put the bottle back.

“Hey!” you cried. Thieram stopped and looked back at the incredulous expression on your face. Gesturing to the too-empty glass, you said, “What gives?”

His fingers tightened almost protectively around the neck of the bottle.

“I don’t want you wasting it,” he answered. “I don’t need Silco asking me why the books aren’t adding up at the end of the month.”

Your eyes rolled so far back that you thought you might’ve glimpsed your brain.

“Free drinks are part of my compensation, Chuck.” A thrilling, warm tingle shivered under your skin as you watched him flinch at the nickname. “Silco allows me that bourbon. Pour me that bourbon.”

Thieram hesitated a moment more before he stepped back up to the bar and tipped an additional splash into your tumbler. Holding his gaze, you brought the glass to your lips – pinky up! – and took an exaggeratedly small sip. He pursed his lips and rehomed the bottle on the top shelf, surreptitiously nudging it a little farther back than its neighbors, before tending to other patrons at the bar.

With the barman’s attention gone, your hackles drooped and a heavy, lonely feeling pressed under your skin. You took another sip of your drink, relishing the warmth wrapping you up from the inside out. As you continued to nurse and appreciate the fine liquor, the unwelcome sense of being watched interrupted your balmy journey into inebriation.

You may ‘only’ be Silco’s assistant, working relatively safely within the confines of his office . . . and at his side –

That weird little zing ricocheted behind your ribs again, like a little bird beating its wings against its cage, trying furiously to free itself. You cleared your throat and your mind of the previous thought.

You may ‘only’ be Silco’s assistant, doing paperwork and pushing pencils, but you had worked for him long enough, lived in Zaun long enough to know when you were being eyeballed.

The rim of the tumbler rested on your lower lip again, and while you took another smooth sip your hooded eyes nonchalantly skirted the bar. No one seemed to be paying you any mind, instead favoring shoulder-cramping hunches that kept their eyes in their drinks. Setting your glass down, you swallowed and casually turned right and left on your stool, miming a search for your bag. As you did so, your eyes briefly lifted to the patrons who were closest to your sides.

Bingo.

A stool down from you to your right, some old codger kept sneering at you and then muttering into his beverage. Continuing your charade, you turned your attention back to your drink. Your elbows rested steadily on the bar top and your hands gently cupped your glass. The amber liquor within wavered a bit, the surface catching and flashing the bar lights prettily. A too-steady calm grounded your bones. You waited and listened.

“What was that?” you asked suddenly and sharply, snapping your head in the man’s direction.

The man jerked in his seat, his drink sloshing a bit over the rim of his tankard. Grumbling, he snatched up a bar napkin and wiped away the small spill. He looked over at you.

“What?”

“That’s what I asked you,” you said, voice steady and cold. “Did you say something to me?”

“For Janna’s sake,” he muttered dabbing the napkin against his scraggly mustache and beard. “I didn’ say nuffin’ to you.”

“Oh? You keep staring at me and then mumbling into your ale. You sure you don’t have anything to say to me?”

The liquor in your veins began to bubble with stupid courage. Normally, you would ignore such a person. Tonight, however, the combination of booze, an aching heart, and a weary mind was sending a confrontational itch under your skin. You spun your body on your stool to face the man and sneered at him. Booze streaming hot reactivity through your body swiftly washed away the thought that this might not be a wise idea.

The man glowered back at you, his teeth grinding together. You prayed he took the bait.

After a moment, he clucked his tongue against the back of his teeth and answered your prayer.

“I ‘s just musin’,” he began, bleary eyes falling back to his mug, “how it is tha’ Silco,” he said the name as if it were a rotten, dirty thing to be spat into the dirt, and it made your temper flare, “can afford t’ stock the bar wif that fancy dreck – which I ain’ never seen an’one but you drink, by the way – but apparently don’ave the coin to fix th’mess he’s made.”

Your fingers tightened around your glass. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The man scoffed and took another sloppy swig of his beer.

“The Drop ain’ what’t used t’be,” he slurred, almost nostalgically. “Vander’d blow ‘is lid if he could see the place now.”

“Vander betrayed us,” you spat, putting the same emphasis around The Hound’s name as the man had around Silco’s. “He made deals with Topside that kept Zaun from progressing.” You licked your lips, deciding whether or not to delve this argument further into the murk with another controversial topic. Taking the plunge, you added, “And then he abandoned the Lanes with his kids when they screwed up. Silco came in and cleaned his mess up.”

The man’s eyes lit up with a fire that almost took you aback. “Abandoned us, did’e? Naw, girl. I’m no fool. Vander was’n trouble, but he’d never skulk off wiff his tail ‘tween his legs. Not The Hound. I know tha’s the lie you n’ the rest o’ his lot try’n tell us, but I’ll lick Heimerdinger’s boot a’fore’ll believe he left wiff’is kids to leave the Lanes in the slimy hands o’ that rat-faced bastard.”

He took another swig of his ale, half of which dribbled down his chin.

“’Sides,” he continued, “Vander didn’ take all them chitlers wiff ‘im, did’e?” His eyes slid upward to the balcony above you.

Against your better judgement, your head turned and tilted up. A scrawny leg with a too-big shoe dangled from the edge of the upper-level, gently swaying off-beat to the jangly music that filled The Drop. Jinx didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything but the small handful of metal scraps between her fingers. A screwdriver was tucked between her lips and her brow was crunched in concentration as she fiddled with her contraption. She was allowed to meander around The Drop until night fully fell and the club became rowdy with debauchery. At that point she was sequestered back in her and Silco’s living quarters an additional floor up.

“Even though that one’s always been a’bit of’n . . . odd duck,” he continued, “Vander wouldn’t’ve left her.”

“Leave her out of this,” you warned through grit teeth. You’d taken a shine to the young girl Silco brought back from the cannery and your protectiveness of her was only rivaled by that of Silco’s.

The drunk huffed a wheezy laugh. “Oh yeah, wouldn’ wanna bad talk the great Eye of Zaun’s crazy new toy.”

Your fingers squeezed so tightly around your glass that you were surprised it hadn’t shattered.

“I worked wiff’im, Lass,” he slurred, leaning in with a condescending sneer etching his face in deep, craggy channels, “in the mines. Him n’ Vander. Was always a selfish, meddlin’, no-good pipsqueak. Always tailin’ after Vander, ridin’ his coattails. Even now, tha’s what he’s doin’. Vander did all the hard work t’get The Lanes steady n’ then that opportunistic rat scurried in with his mindless, spineless goons n’ did ‘im in. Silco don’ care a lick for t’Undercity. He’s an ugly, schemin’, chinless, buck-toothed – “

You were not in control of what happened next. Even though you were the one who reacted. In a flash, your drink – your expensive drink – was thrown into the man’s face. He cried out and squeezed his eyes tightly as the alcohol burned them. Next, you smashed your tumbler over his skull. The glass shattered and he wailed, toppling off his barstool.

Blood pounded in your ears. Your vision tunneled in on the man scrambling off of the floor. Your arms and legs tingled with adrenaline and fire, rage curdling your blood, as you launched to your feet. Swiping the man’s tankard from the bar and hurling it in his direction. So blinded by your fury, so intent on beating the bastard to a pulp, you didn’t hear or see the bar’s reaction to the sudden fight.

Thieram had yelped and dropped the bottle he was pouring from. The other patrons at the bar jerked their attention away from nursing their drinks; some even backed up and away from your fray. One of the people at the billiards table jumped and scratched a jagged hole in the table’s felt top. The two men playing cards with Sevika spun in their seats, and the Lieutenant herself dropped the cards she was shuffling. Jinx’s body jolted and she tucked her legs up into her chest, big, dewy eyes wide with fear as she watched you attack the man. After a moment, she leapt to her feet and ran upstairs.

The man managed to throw an arm up that prevented the mug of ale from clocking him in the temple. The beer spilled across the floor and the stein bounced and rolled away under a table. Grabbing the man by the collar, you hauled him to his feet, intent on smashing his stupid face into the bar railing. However, as you lifted him (with strength you didn’t know you had) his hand swept across the bar, grabbed a dirty glass and cracked it across your face.

Yelling, you stumbled back, bumping into your stool. One of your hands cupped your numb cheek and felt wetness beneath your palm. He lunged at you, crashing his head into your ribs and wrapping his arms around your middle, causing you both to tumble back.

You hit the floor. Hard. Your spine spasmed and what air was left in your lungs was forcefully pushed out in a stinging wheeze. Your hand wrapped around the leg of a barstool and pulled, crashing it onto your assailant’s back. Something cracked. He roared. Hooking your legs around his waist, you squeezed and rolled the two of you over. Now on top, you bared your teeth and pummeled his face with alternating punches.

Too soon for your liking, a large metal hand grasped the back of your neck and lifted you off the man’s chest. Hissing and kicking, you did your damnedest to try and break free from Sevika’s grip. She was saying something to you – dressing you down – but you couldn’t hear it through the mighty pumping of your vengeful heart. To your abject horror and disgust the man clambered to his feet and spat some teeth onto the floor. He fixed his eyes on you, hot and furious, and took a step towards you and your keeper.

“Back off, buddy. It’s over,” you managed to hear Sevika say.

Over? Over? Like hell it was over! The idea of letting this ass-hat walk out of here after bad-mouthing Silco and Jinx renewed your need to fight. The idea of having to return to your melancholy mind sent destructive fear through your veins. Wriggling under Sevika’s iron grasp, you managed a lucky kick to her groin. She gasped and buckled forward, dropping you.

Freedom sent adrenaline surging through your veins and you launched yourself back at the drunk, fists thumping against his ribs. He coughed and sputtered, staggering back. Clawing at your shirt, he immobilized you enough to jut his knee up into your stomach. A choked cry tore from your bloody mouth and you fell. Before his boot found your hand or head, you scurried back, grabbing a pool cue someone had dropped. The cue extended your arm enough that is it swept through the air it caught your adversary behind the knees. He buckled and crashed to the ground with an outraged wail. As you rose to your feet, you thrust the cue in Sevika’s direction as she made another grab at your shirt. The larger woman snarled, but you didn’t care.

The cue smacked and cracked against the floor as you tried to deliver a blow to the fallen man, but he rolled out of the way and used a grip of the bar railing to clamber to his feet. Abandoning your broken weapon, your hand found a tight grip in the man’s dirty hair and you bashed his face against the bar top. Once again, you failed to notice his wandering hand and he spun back, clocking you across the face with a liquor bottle.

You screamed and reeled back into Sevika’s arms. Before your attacker could hurl himself back at you, bottle in hand, his eyes suddenly went wide and he screamed in agony. You were confused until you saw a familiar, lanky, red, coal, and gold figure in your wavering periphery.

The man was stopped in his tracks by the knife Silco had speared through his free hand, pinning him to the bar. The Eye of Zaun’s lips curled in a bone chilling sneer and he yanked the bottle from the drunk’s hand. To his credit the bloodied and beaten man did not cower in Silco’s presence, despite the Eye’s imposing figure and the blade skewering his hand. The two men stared at each other; Silco’s chin held high, glaring down his nose at the drunk. The drunk huffed breaths through swollen and bloody lips, his eyes bulging with hate as he looked up into Silco’s face before spitting into it.

Without missing a beat, the kingpin cracked the bottle across the drunk’s temple. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed, slumping against the bar, the knife tearing into his hand as the weight of his body heaved to the floor.

“Back upstairs, Jinx,” Silco barked as he took a pocket square from his waistcoat and wiped the saliva from his scarred cheek.

Your eyes jumped over to the stairs and you saw the young girl watching all of you with wide, scared, but interested eyes. Her hands fidgeted and tugged at her shirt’s hem and her bottom lip was tucked safely behind her top teeth. She looked to Silco and then to you, her eyebrows ticking up behind her jagged bangs.

“Jinx,” Silco insisted, firmly yet kindly.

Her eyes went back to him before turning heel and pattering back upstairs.

The Eye of Zaun turned back to the bar, his eyes landing on you, still slumped in Sevika’s arms. Since his appearance, your wrath had ebbed, replaced by a sense of embarrassment and . . . something else. He looked down at you, taking in your injuries with practiced neutrality. Perhaps you wished it, but you thought something flickered behind his eyes.

It couldn’t be worry, could it?

Before you could search for the look again, he turned his attention to the unconscious man at his feet. His lips curled.

“Get him out of here,” he ordered Thieram. “Tell Lock and Jasper he is not allowed back on the premises. Sevika, take her up to my office.”

An annoyed groan rumbled through the Lieutenant’s arms as she hauled the both of you to your feet. Now that your adrenaline had time to wear off, physical pain was beginning to creep its way into your consciousness. A weak, protesting garble slurred past your swollen lips as Sevika lifted you into her arms. She ignored it, as well as the weak wiggle you gave, and followed Silco back upstairs.

Once in his office, Silco strode to his grand desk.

“Put her on the couch,” he said as he began sifting through the desk’s drawers.

Sevika did so, probably with more care than she wanted to do. Your bottom melted into the couch’s cushions and your spine heaved against the tufted back. Now that your head was back over your shoulders, your vision swam and your brain throbbed.

“You’re dismissed,” came Silco’s voice.

Sevika’s fuzzy form hesitated only for a moment before stalking out of the office, slamming the door behind her. You couldn’t bring yourself to turn your head to look at Silco. Partly out of self-consciousness, partly because your stomach was beginning to curdle and squeeze and you feared you may vomit all over your employer’s furnishings.

As if sensing your thoughts, Silco appeared in front of you, a garbage pail in one hand, a cloth and bottle in the other. He set the trash can next to your knee and sat himself down on the coffee table across from the couch. You made a point to stare at the spot above his head.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

You scoffed, protecting your ego from the ridiculous question. Even though it did take you a beat to remember it. You heard yourself finally answer. Silco nodded as he uncorked the bottle.

“Do you know my name?”

“Silco.” That one was easier.

“Do you know where you are?”

“In your office . . . in The Last Drop.”

“What nation do you live in?”

“Zaun.”

A more satisfied nod bobbled Silco’s head as he dampened the cloth with liquid from the bottle. It smelled strongly of astringent. Too strong. Your stomach roiled, sending you pitching over your lap and vomiting into the wastebin. Silco set the antiseptic and cloth down and reached forward to pull your hair away from your face.

Once your throat was raw and your cheeks streaked with tears, you carefully sat back up, Silco’s hands on your shoulders, gently guiding you back. Once you were propped up, he returned to dosing the cloth.

“What happened?” he asked, leaning forward and pressing the saturated cloth to your cheek.

You hissed at the sting and squeezed your eyes shut. An action that sent another almighty throb through your skull.

“I fought a guy.”

“Yes, that’s what Jinx told me,” he said patiently, dabbing blood off your cheek. “What led you to assault a customer?”

Your now empty stomach dipped. Was he angry? Disappointed? Were you about to be fired? Your jaw moved side to side and you chewed on your tongue, not realizing you didn’t answer his question.

Silco’s dual-colored eyes searched your distant face as he continued to wipe it clean.

“I’m wondering if I hired you for the wrong position,” he quipped. Your breathing stilled as you looked at him. Silco didn’t smile, so you assumed your rattled brain was imagining the small tilt of his lips. “I didn’t know you were so quick on your feet or ferocious in a fight. Perhaps your skills are wasted being my assistant – “

“I like being your assistant.”

The words flew from your mouth before you could stop them, much less think about them. Silco stilled in his attentions and your face flushed horribly. Embarrassment bolstered by liquor coursing just under your skin in cherry red splotches.

Silco’s face softened, as did his voice. “I like you as my assistant, as well.”

Your heart fluttered something horribly wonderful behind your ribs. The flush of your cheeks deepened.

“That doesn’t answer my question, though,” Silco said, tone back to something commanding. “What cause did you have to fight that man?”

Once again, you averted your gaze, dropping your eyes down to your cracked, bruised, and bloodied knuckles.

“He . . . he,” you stammered, unwilling to admit what had sent you into such a blind rage.

The sound of Silco saying your name pulled you from your whirling mind. You bashfully looked to him, seeing his aqua and red eye fixed on you.

He really does have lovely eyes, the liquor in your blood whispered.

Silco spoke before any other intrusive thoughts could sing under your skin.

“You know I value loyalty above all else,” he said. “Honesty is a tenant of loyalty. Now tell me, why were you fighting that man?”

“Because he was speaking poorly of you,” you admitted, your eyes darting away from his.

Silco’s hand paused in its cleaning of your face. You felt his eyes on you in a meaningful way. He let out a small sigh before taking up one of your hands and began to tend to your knuckles.

“There are plenty of Zaunites who do not agree with my leadership,” he mused and you watched his fingers tend to your own.

He held your hand so, so softly. Not as if he were fearful of hurting you, nor as if he didn’t want to touch you. He held it reverently. You couldn’t remember anyone ever touching you in such a way.

“Even the Chem-Barons have their qualms about me,” Silco continued. “For the most part it is petty jealousy parading as gossip. Childish, but benign and meaningless. I will not spare my thoughts or energy on those who do not like me. I am only interested in freeing Zaun.”

Well, I’m interested in you, the booze swimming in your head countered. You hiccupped as a means to stop that thought from coming out of your mouth.

“Why do you give your attention to such people?” he asked, switching the hand he was working on.

“Because everyone should understand and respect how hard you’re working,” you mumbled through swollen lips. “They should be grateful for your passion.”

His thumb swept affectionately over the top of your hand as he cleaned your knuckles. It was the action that proved to be your undoing. Sighing, you allowed your careful mind to rest and let the looseness of liquor coat your insides. Your fingers curled gently, awkwardly around Silco’s hand. It was very warm. Soft in some places, but firm in others where chronic calluses used to blossom and build. His hand stilled in your own, but he made no attempt to pull away. You weren’t certain, but he may have even firmed up his own grip.

“I am grateful for your passion, Silco,” you murmured. Finally, you lifted your gaze to his. “I like being your assistant because I get to see you up close. Your passion, your vision, your drive. It inspires me. I’ve never seen anything like it. I wouldn’t want to work the streets because I wouldn’t get to be with you.”

Silco’s lips parted infinitesimally, and his blue eye widened a touch. He reached his free hand up and gently touched your sore and swollen cheek. An unbidden hiss swept through your teeth and the swell of your cheek rose up in a wince. The little wonder left Silco’s face, his brow furrowed and hand dropped away.

“No!” you cried, vocal cords cracking under the sudden explosion of sound.

Your body leaned forward to chase his hand, but the bourbon and fight made you body sloppy and heavy. The lean veered over to the right, and you would’ve toppled ass-over-tea-kettle if Silco hadn’t caught you, his large hands cupping each shoulder blade. The plump cushion of your cheek smashed against his chest and your leadened arms looped around his thin waist.

“You smell good,” came the drunken mumble from your lips, voice muffled by the silken fabric of his waistcoat.

Silco’s ribcage spasmed in a huff. You weren’t sure if it was amusement or disgust. However, as his hands pressed into your back and held you closer, your foolish heart leapt, fueled by disbelief and hope. The warmth brushed against the scarred wounds etched in the organ, and your logical brain surged back on line. But before you pressed yourself away from his chest, Silco rested his cheek against your hair.

“Thank you,” he whispered, “for your fierce and unwavering loyalty. For me and Jinx. For Zaun.”

Like a switch, your brain flipped back off and your drunk heart melted further against his. After some time, Silco carefully lifted you up, his hands shifting to hold the fronts of your shoulders. Your watery gaze slid up to his. Once again, he went to brush his thumb against your bruised cheek.

“This cut is very deep. I’m wondering if – “

Silco’s wonder was cut off by the press of your mouth on his. A most un-kingpinly squeak peeped out from him, but he didn’t pull away. He tasted like cigars, Shimmer, and warmth. And home.

With a loud smack! you broke away from him and flopped onto the couch.

“I like you, Silco,” you slurred, eyelids and head growing heavy.

Your feet shifted against the rug, knees knocking in together as you considered standing.

“I should go,” you yawned. Your legs didn’t move. “Am I walking to the door yet?”

“No,” came Silco’s voice. A combination of something amused and baffled. “You’re not leaving, anyhow.”

“No, no. I can’t stay. You’ve already done enough – “

“Nonsense. You’re concussed. And drunk. You’re staying.”

Silco rose to his feet, cupping the back of your legs, gently spinning you on your seat until you were horizontal on the couch. He propped your head and back up with several cushions and retrieved a blanket from the steam trunk behind the couch, covering your body.

“Silco, you don’t have to do this,” you grumbled, although you did nothing to stop him.

“Shush. The Brothers and Sisters of Zaun are loyal to each other. I will work and keep an eye on you,” he murmured, brushing the hair out of your face.

“Are you doing this just because I said I liked you?” The question mumbled through your lips, as you rubbed your face snuggly into the back of the couch.

“No,” he answered. You were on the fringes of a drunk sleep, so you weren’t sure if you imagined him saying, “I’m doing this because I like you, too.”

It felt like you slept a thousand years. At least, you felt like you were a thousand years old as you awoke the following morning. Your body ached, but it was nothing to how your head throbbed and pounded. The bed beneath you felt strange and stiff. Perhaps because it wasn’t a bed at all, you realized, but a couch. You dared to crack your eyes open and you saw red upholstery. Then you smelled . . . cigars.

Your body jerked and jolted up. An action you quickly regretted as the column of your spine spasmed and skull exploded. Groaning, your arms gathered around your knees and dropped your forehead to them. As quickly as your addled brain could piece thoughts together, the previous night swam up in wavering ripples and puddles.

You nursing a chronically aching heart with the expensive bourbon Silco allowed you.

Listening to some twat talk out his ass.

Knocking said twat on his ass.

But he got a few hits in, too, remembering a glass and bottle to your dome.

Silco stopped him before he could rattle you any further.

Silco tended to your wounds. He pulled the hair from your face when you threw up.

Cautiously glancing down at the floor, you spied a clean waste basket. On the coffee table there was a tray that held a silver pitcher and a waiting glass. And a bottle of painkillers.

Your stomach reeled, but not from your aching head. How you had behaved, what you had said, what you did flooded your mind. The blood and warmth drained from your hungover face. Nervously, your eyes peered over your shoulder.

Thank Janna.

He was not at his desk. You might still be able to get out of here with what was left of your dignity. Gingerly, your feet found the floor and your toes flexed inside your boots. Gripping the seat cushion, you prepared to haul yourself onto your woozy legs, but your eyes got stuck on the tray of water and medicine in front of you. Where he had sat.

Silco tended to your wounds. Held your hair from your face. Held you to him when you tumbled forward. He didn’t pull away when you kissed him – GODS! You couldn’t believe you did that! You knew better! Professionally and personally. He didn’t rebuke your drunken . . . confession . . .

The ground felt like it crumbled beneath your feet. Your insides went cold.

You liked him. Not just admired. Liked. Crushed. Infatuated.

Despite the fact that prior relationships had taught you better, you fell again. For your boss.

For the Eye of Zaun.

You were screwed. You’d never recover from this.

The office door opened and you jumped.

“You’re awake,” Silco noted, closing the door behind him.

He was dressed just in his trousers and button-up shirt. His hair wasn’t quite coifed yet and his scar laid bare. The green light streaming in from the window beyond his desk bathed him in an eerily beautiful light. The picture of Zaun itself.

His face was soft in the morning and its light. He smiled.

“May we talk?”

Maybe you wouldn’t want to recover from this.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes: Thank you for reading this too long one-shot! If you liked it, please comment/reblog :)

#silco #silco fanfic #silco x reader #ask kiki #soft silco #drunk reader

113 notes · View notes

una-hopeless-romantic1118 · 2 years ago

Text

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈: 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐀 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐃𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐬?—𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐑𝐨𝐣𝐚𝐬/𝐑𝐡𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐬

a/n: by this part, it’s been a few weeks after Y/N and Warren met on the yacht. a little snippet of how karen and y/n met bc they’re platonic soulmates and they’re both badass

timeline: ep. 3 (band is still in hiatus)

here’s the good stuff y’all signed up for :p

Part 1

This chapter: Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5 (in the works!)

Epilogue

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

warnings (of this chapter): sexual tension, warren being horny, reader being horny, smoking, angst, cursing, drinking.

summary (of this chapter): weeks has passed and Warren still found himself pinning over a stranger, and Y/N, realizing the cost of fame, found herself bound to be lonely for as long she succeeds under the limelight. Will she take a chance at love? Or is her career too much of a blessing that she can’t risk ruining over anything?

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

•─────⋅(cut to documentary)⋅─────•

Interviewer: So how did you and Y/N meet?

Karen: Uh, *chuckling* it was all thanks to a shitty driver that just...had to drop me off in the middle of nowhere.

I was supposedly, on my way to the boys’ house for the first time. I had no clue where I was, nor did I have people to ask around for help. It was literally in the middle of nowhere. Just sand, and drought.

But if it weren’t him, I would’ve never gotten a ride from that woman in a purple polka-dotted bikini who had clearly just gone out of the water from a nearby beach.

*her eyes widen playfully at the camera* If it weren’t for that arse driver, I would’ve never met my best mate.

Interviewer: What was your relationship like afterwards?

Karen: *grinning* How’d she describe it?

Interviewer: *slight chuckling* She said “like two schoolgirls who never grew up.”

Karen: *nodding* Sounds about right. *she chuckles*

•─────⋅(cut back)⋅─────•

“He’s been drooling about you every damn day, Y/N!” Karen whisper-shouted into the telephone. “This is witchcraft you placed on this man. Never seen him so quiet and...smiley.”

Y/N imagined her friend to be on her bed with the telephone. The conversation was about Warren, who Y/N found out was Karen’s bandmate that, she quotes, “uses his dick as a compass.” Whenever they talked about Warren, with Y/N’s obnoxious pleadings, Karen would take the telephone to her bedroom, where Warren and the boys can’t hear.

Karen flipped on her back. “I think you’re a maniacal genius, love, but isn’t this too far? A crime of some sort?”

“What do you mean?” Y/N asked with a mouthful of chips. After swallowing, possibly too fast, she coughs out. “My name is Flora, though.”

“Are you alright?” Karen chuckled at her friend, who goes on to have a coughing fit on the other end of the telephone.

She continues anyways. “Y/N, love, ... he’s going to get hurt.”

“What happened to his dick being his compass?” Y/N, teary eyed from the coughs, drags herself out of bed to her kitchen to get a glass of water. She takes a long drink before getting herself back to the phone. “Honestly, I think he’ll just throw a tantrum, get drunk, and his dick will reactivate. There’s more of me he can find and fuck. No biggie.”

“No biggie?” Karen repeated, disbelief sending her to sit up. “He’s been looking everywhere for you! Pestering me about some Flora that worked for Y/N L/N—Also! Took me a while to piece it all together, y’know! You’re a pain in the arse for this!”

“Calm down, hun.” Y/N giggled. “I thought it was fun.”

“He’ll think otherwise, Y/N!” Karen scolded. “You don’t know the effect you have on this man.”

“Oh, I do.” She reassured. “I still think it’s funny.”

Y/N took her friend’s frustrated groans as a way to explain herself. “Don’t worry, Kiki,” she insisted with a laugh. “I’ll have enough designing to do that I’ll be stuck in my condo for months. He won’t see me anywhere in parties any time soon either. By the end of this season, he’ll forget all about me.”

There was only silence now, Y/N could only picture her friend on the other end constructing a plan on how she could possibly restrain her for being so reckless.

“I’m gonna go surf till I come out like a pruny grandma,” she informed her. “Wanna come over?”

“I’ll come over after lunch.” Karen yawned. “You’ll be pruny enough then, yes?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Alright, until then, I’ve got some errands to run for my three sons.”

The friends said their good-byes and love-yous before ending their call.

The beach was right outside her condo, ready for Y/N to surf in and relax, but she didn’t head out immediately after the call.

One thing Y/N knew too well about, was how hard it was to be noticed.

Sure she had the fame, the money, the success, the perfect condo with the beach for her backyard. But in the height of her success, Y/N is lonely, and no one notices.

Her designs and her fame so easily drowned her in the background. Because it wasn’t her who mattered to them, at least, not who she really was as a person. Her art were an extension of herself, but the fans don’t see that. Not really. Her private life was empty, filled with no one to celebrate her successes with.

So maybe that’s why she depends so much on her fame—it’s all she really has.

Her family is all the way in France. And while they loved each other, Y/N would much rather die than ask them to accompany her, or for her to go back home just for their company.

Because she can’t admit she’s lonely. She can’t admit how miserable she really feels, even to her friends. The guilt of asking them for their company feels like desperation to Y/N.

Maybe she regrets putting off a love life. How long did she expect to be working like this, anyways?

So then she goes to her vinyl player to play something. The Six album, to be precise, and she pays attention to nothing else but the drums in the background, who were also easily drowned out.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

•─────⋅(cut to documentary)⋅─────•

Interviewer: While Karen visited Y/N that day, what were you doing?

Warren: *chuckling and shaking his head* Karen never visited her that day.

Interviewer: ...What do you mean?...

•─────⋅(cut back)⋅─────•

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Warren paces around the porch of the blue beach house with a folded piece of paper to fidget with.

He unfolds the piece of paper to reread the address written.

It was her address. Flora’s. Long-awaited, that was for sure, and Karen just figured out her address for him as if she knew it all along.

The neighborhood was nice, and from examining the cars and the people coming in and out of the houses, it was a rich neighborhood. It looks very unlikely for someone who just works for a fashion designer to be living in something like this.

Suddenly, he hears clicking inside, like a locked doorknob trying to be opened. When it stops, he hears a sliding door open and close promptly.

Then, nearing barefoot footsteps. “Sorry you had to wait!” There was giggling behind this door, and Warren watches the doorknob turn, and ultimately the door opened to a soaked and rosy-cheeked Flora in a white, two piece bikini.

Warren took note of the wide smile she had on when she opened the door, but it seemed to disappear once she saw who was behind it.

“Hey, Flora.” He managed to say, breathlessly. He does everything in his power not to stare too long at her dripping body, not missing the thin, golden chains with charms of stars around her waist, and how that bikini hugged her body the right wa—

Y/N closed her agape mouth and forced a small smile. “Um, hey!” She greeted awkwardly.

Silence filled them both. The wind breezed at them and at the palm trees around the neighborhood, accompanied by a gray sky.

Y/N’s body shuddered in response, and Warren couldn’t help but laugh at her body’s reaction.

She laughs along with him. “I’m sorry, do you want to come in? It looks like it’s gonna rain in a bit.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” He accepted the invitation, maybe a little too eagerly.

“I’ll mop the floors in a bit, just watch your step.”

Warren obliged, making his way to the living room where Y/N motioned him to.

“I have so many questions,” Y/N snorted. “How’d you find me in the first place?”

“A friend of mine...” Warren sat down carefully, examining his surroundings. “Karen.”

She nods, scoffing like she should’ve seen it coming.

There were enough evidence for Warren to conclude that a fashion designer owned this place. The rich neighborhood, the rolls of cloth against almost all four walls, the two sewing machines, the bits and cuts of cloth scattered on the table in front of him.

Warren looked up to meet Y/N, who was not at all ashamed for hiding her true identity.

“Surprise!…” She drawled out, carefully because she’s aware of the embarrassment she caused him, but also with no shame that she’s led him on like this.

He shook his head with a small smile, taking into his hand the nearest piece of cloth. “I assumed you were her when you left.” He said, his voice low. “I asked around.”

“Should’ve done that in the first place,” she giggled with her back turned to him as she looks for beer in her fridge. “Now you’re stuck in this mess.”

Warren shrugged, taking the beer from her hands. “You make it sound like it’s the worst thing on the planet.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her glistening legs.

Y/N laughed out. “Drink your beer, Warren. I’ll go shower and we can have a proper conversation like two civilized civilians.”

“Who said we have to be civil?” He insisted further, leaning back on the comfortable couch. “Who said we have to talk at all, I mea—“

“Drink the beer, Warren!” She yelled from down the hallway.

•─────⋅(cut to documentary)⋅─────•

Warren: She’s got that charm, y’know? I mean, as embarrassing as it was, I was hooked. I didn’t even mind she lied to me at all. Piecing it together and realizing the good friend Karen gushes on so much about, the fashion designer taking over the world with her talents, and Flora, were the Y/N L/N, you couldn’t blame me.

•─────⋅(cut back)⋅─────•

“How upsetting would it be if I told you the storm is going to last the whole night?” She slumped down beside him on the sofa.

Warren, with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, could only praise God silently for this disastrous weather.

“What makes you think it’s going to last the whole night?”

Y/N squinted her eyes at him sarcastically as the sound of the thunder roared loudly, even inside.

“Noted,” Warren rolled his eyes at her. She was clearly drunk, but Warren can’t help but tease her just for the sassy remarks.

“So, anyways, I was thinking I might get a dog or two.” Y/N brushed the ends of her hair in thought, laying the side of her head on his shoulder. “I’ve wanted dogs for so long, I’m taking you coming here as a sign.”

“I’m flattered.” Warren laughs out.

“You’re very welcome.” She sniffed.

“Can I ask why?” He chuckled, stubbing out the cigarette to talk to her face to face without blowing smoke at her face. “I’m kind of scared to ask, not gonna lie.”

What he didn’t expect was for her to place her hand atop his head, patting down his hair. “You’re hair.” She smiled sleepily. “I’ve noticed it the first time we met.”

Warren could only laugh at her drooping eyelids. “You tired?”

“No, I’m not tired,” she crossed her arms, turning her body away from him. “I’m wide awake.”

“Baby, you’ve been falling asleep in the middle of your sentences for a while now.” He cooed. “C’mon, I’ll carry you to bed like a man servant.”

“I am not tired,” she insisted.

He tucks a rebellious strands of hair behind her ear. “If you fall asleep here, I’m sleeping on your bed.”

“Don’t you dare,” she drawled out. “My bed is reserved for me only. The only thing you can do it...the only thing you can do to it,” she giggled, “is fluff my pillows. Like a man servant.”

He laughs, with her strands of hair still in his hands. He twirls it around his own fingers gently, careful not to cause her pain. He’s closer than before now, and without her moving her head so much he noticed the constellation of freckles across her cheeks.

When Y/N starts stirring into her first few minutes of sleep, Warren attempts to move his hands beneath her to carry her, only for her to open her eyes again.

“Damn it, Y/N.” He scolded her.

She smiled blissfully, closing her eyes again. “I want you to fuck me.”

Warren stills. For the first time, his first instinct was to move away rather than accept.

He was too scared to move. Did he give her the wrong impression? Not that he didn’t want to fuck her at all, but it’s not right to do so when she’s drunk.

Y/N opens her eyes to find him flushed. “Isn’t that what you wanted in the first place?” She snorted.

“You’re drunk, Y/N.”

She threw her hands up in surrender. “I give you full consent.”

“It doesn’t matter, you’re not thinking straight.” He goes to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“So...you’re saying you don’t want to fuck me?”

How could someone not? Warren thought miserably to himself. Even in her long, white cardigan that could pass off as a grandmother’s cardigan and black silk sleep dress that revealed most of her soft skin, Warren was ready to take all of her in.

When she’s sober, he convinced himself. If she even feels the same when she is.

Warren’s next move was to wait until she falls asleep and to deny, deny, deny, but Y/N grabbed him by his chin to face her.

Despite her droopy eyelids, Y/N forced herself to look up at him. His breaths fanning her face were like rescue breaths to her.

She couldn’t help but nudge his beautiful nose against hers, while Warren continued to have an internal battle.

Y/N understood her own rules well, and didn’t fail to acknowledge his respect for her current state.

So all she did was bring him closer by the chin and kissed him deeply. She feels Warren respond obligingly, though, still cautious.

It was a kiss that Y/N could need for the rest of her life, the way his lips reached into hers desperately like how she always wished a man would reach for her. The way his hand cupped the back of her head like how she always wanted to be supported and cared for.

The sudden adrenaline of hope that Warren felt was too much to handle. He never felt the so conflicted over something he’s wanted, but he knew he couldn’t have.

He didn’t want himself holding her back. She has too much potential and talent, he would just make a fool out of himself.

Y/N ended the intimate kiss with a peck on his nose. “For now,” she smiled against his jawline, before she could feel herself tire completely on his shoulder.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

few more parts to come!!

taglist (aka beautiful people): @pinkdaiisies @mlwriting5 @teletubbysteroids @linatells @stanzie @arsonkween @rexorangecouny @lisbeth122605 @cultsanrio @thatoneawesomechicka @magicalmiserybore

#djats #daisy jones and the six #daisy jones #Daisy Jones and the six imagines #Daisy jones and the six fics #djats imagines #warren rojas x you #warren rojas x y/n #warren rhodes x you #warren rojas x reader #warren rojas #warren rhodes #warren rhodes x reader #warren rhodes x y/n #karen sirko #warren rojas fluff #warren rojas smut #warren rhodes fluff #warren rhodes smut

618 notes · View notes