#pre-canon silco x gn!reader

[nausicaaandhermouth]

The Revolutionist

masterlist

pre-canon!silco x gn!reader [2.5k] [AO3]

cw: implied/referenced suicidal ideation, implied/referenced depression

summary: at a particularly melancholy night that drives you to the heights, you meet a stranger in the shadows who coaxes you from the edge.

tags: pre-canon, sexual(?) tension, depression, suicidal ideation, undercity, smoking

a/n girl iono what this is, but here's to my first one shot (clinks glass) idk why i'm nervous (btw requests & taglist are open if you're interested)

From this dizzying height, the Undercity unfurls below. A tapestry of ethereal greens and golds, luminescence piercing through the murky haze—stark silhouettes of buildings jut upwards, defiant sentinels of black and grey amidst the swirling miasma. Its signature sickly green fog blankets the metropolis; coils around structures and seeps into every crevice, a suffocating embrace.

Your feet graze over the edge, toes curling over where solid ground gives way to a yawning abyss. The boundary between life and oblivion is razor-thin here. One small shift, imbalance, and gravity would claim you.

The wind whispers seductive promises of flight, tugging at your clothes, daring you to test the limits—it’s a heady mix of terror and exhilaration.

The precipice beckons, a siren call you’ve never heeded this far before. Each step tracked each loss that then etched into your very bones. First, it was your father, consumed by the blight. Almost expected. It was a degradation the Undercity-born was familiar with. Then, your sister, life snuffed out by an enforcer’s merciless fist. The brutes. Now, your mother, long adrift in her own ocean of grief. You’d become little more than ghosts haunting the same halls, the world’s greed carving an insurmountable chasm between you.

Logic screams that your presence here is madness. The need for comfort, for solace only another soul can provide, wars against reality. You long to bridge the gap, find someone’s warmth, spit out the bitter poison fed by the relentless suffering.

If not today, then tomorrow, or the day after—the world will take again. This grim lottery where Death deals the cards. Will it be the fist of an enforcer or the invisible killers that saturate every breath?

Are you really contemplating this?

“Bit dangerous, don’t you think?” a voice, velvet and silk, cuts blade-like through your contemplation.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. A jolt of surprise sends you teetering forward. Heart pounding, you stumble back from the edge.

Whirling around, you fix the intruder with a glare. His dark silhouette materialised a few feet away like some spectral apparition, leaning against the roof with an infuriating nonchalance. A cigar dangled between his fingers, wisp of smoke curling around his face.

His eyes, half-moons of disinterest, survey you with the casual indifference of someone observing an insect. It makes a look that makes your spine straighten, your earlier melancholy rapidly morphing into irritation.

“Sort of the point,” you spit back, words tasting of bitterness and bravado. You slide a step away, creating further distance between you and him. The roof suddenly feels too small. Who is he? What does he want? And more importantly, how dare he interrupt your affair with oblivion?

He responds with a half-shrug, somehow making it an eloquent gesture of his impassivity. Drawing a deep breath from his cigar, he exhales a cloud of smoke that hangs in the air like a tangible manifestation of your growing annoyance.

Your mind races and falters. Is he really just going to stand there? Not that you want to be stopped, but his nonchalance was… unsettling? A highly irregular response to finding someone conversing with non-existence. Though, the idea was not novel—a common fate for many under dwellers.

You turn back to face the sprawling cityscape, trying to ignore the insidious tendrils of smoke that start coiling around your senses. The question burns in your mind: What is he doing here? This moment was supposed to be yours alone. You hadn’t anticipated a witness for your last moments.

Unable to resist, you shoot him another glare, only to find him utterly disinterested in your turmoil. He’s busy scraping something off the underside of his boot, as if the grime of the city is more worthy of his attention than your life-or-death deliberation.

Frustration boils over, and your words escape you before you can stop them. “Are you just going to stand there?” the question cuts through the silence and he looks up, meeting you gaze with those half-drooped eyes.

His face remains a mask of calm, thoroughly unaffected by your hostility. It’s a further irritant how much your obvious displeasure slides off him.

“You want me to catch you, or something?” he drawls, tone a perfect blend of sarcasm and boredom that makes your blood even hotter.

His words hang between, a challenge and a dismissal all at once.

“What are you doing here?” you strike back, impatience sharpening your words.

He takes another languid drag from his cigar, smoke veiling his face. “What—can I not be?” his voice carries a hint of amusement as he pushes off from the wall. Each step towards you is a study in fluid grace, soft and languid. “Like you, I can appreciate Zaun’s skyline. Seems we just have a point of preference,”

He halts a few feet away, gaze drawn to the cityscape below. The proximity allows you to truly observe him for the first time, the details etching themselves into your memory with startling clarity.

His eyes, a stormy blue, almost grey when drenched behind mist. They’re set in a face that could have been chiselled from marble—all sharp angles and clean lines, giving him an almost shark-like profile. Long, dark hair is gathered into a careless bun at the nape of his neck, rebellious strands escaping to frame his face, softening the harsh edges ever so slightly.

A spark of gallows humour flickers to life within you, at last a defiant flame against the dark. “Ah,” you nod, wariness still evident in the tension of your shoulders while a sardonic smile curls your lips. “Planning a dive, too, are you?”

A huff escapes him—a sound that might charitably be called laughter, but falls short of genuine mirth.

Suddenly, the name snaps you back to reality. Zaun. The word carries with it its reputation and weight. So few people use the name that it stands more so for people that had “rebel” ideas rather than what it was created for. Your eyes narrow. “You’re one of those… revolutionists, huh?”

He turns to you, face still angled downward, but his gaze locks onto yours with an intensity that momentarily catches your air. You fumble for composure, scraping together the dregs of your wit.

“Nation of Zaun, children, brothers, sisters,” you intone, bobbing your head in mock-solemn gesture as you attempt to recall the group’s motto. The words taste foreign on your tongue, like reciting a prayer to a god you’ve never believed in.

His brow shifts slightly. “Is that mockery?” the question hangs, but not accusatory, rather tinged with a gentle curiosity that catches you off guard.

You shrug. “Sure is an idea,” you mutter, words running away before you can fully process them. You’ve never given it much thought before, too entrenched in the sorrow that’s dogged your family’s steps like perpetually wet shoes, leaving its trail of misery.

This time, he turns to face you fully, his complete attention zeroing in on you. It halts you momentarily, but you push through, averting your gaze as you continue.

“Idealistic. Hard-headed,” you pause, then look up to meet his eyes, your own gaze hardening. “Unrealistic,”

His head tilts slightly, reminiscent of a predator assessing its prey. “You don’t agree with us?”

You exhale sharply, a sound caught between a laugh and a sigh. The revolutionary ideals tumble around you head like a well-worn shopping list. Independence, rid of topside’s clutches, own leadership, own government. “No, I do,” you admit, surprising yourself. Your brows furrow, grappling with the contradiction between your words and your earlier mockery. “Just ballsy, I suppose. It’s never been done, uncharted waters and all that,”

He nods, absorbing your perspective with a thoughtfulness that makes something in you quiver as if in surrender. You find yourself studying his eyes, that stormy blue-grey gaze that seems to hold secrets of their own. They flicker with an inner light as he searches for his response, and you're struck by the intensity of his conviction.

“Then how are we ever to find new land?” he says finally, his voice low and resolute. The simple statement carries an undercurrent of determination that sends a shiver down your back.

“We seem to be surviving fine,” you say, your words dripping with trying humour, a brittle shield.

His response isn't the sad attempt at laughter. Instead, his brow quirks upward, a subtle gesture that feels like a probe into your very secrets. “Then what drove you here?”

You're caught off-balance. How did he read you so easily, peeling back your layers in mere moments? Your gaze darts away, then back to his piercing eyes, discomfort radiating from every pore. “That’s hardly your concern,” you attempt a smile, but it's a weak thing.

“But I can bet it’s one of the following,” he drawls, taking a long, deliberate drag from his cigar. The smoke curls around him like a living thing as he continues. “Lung blight from working in factories, lung blight from working in the mines, or a stray enforcer who got a little too… harsh,” the smoke drifts and drowns you both, swarming your heads in a little bubble.

You inhale, feeling the intoxicating tendrils crawl up into your head, a silent song of temporary escape. Your eyes fix on his cigar, mesmerised. Does it fuel his poetic responses and that maddeningly indifferent stare? You wonder, your hands rising of their own accord, reaching to pluck the cigar from his grasp.

You rest it between your lips, inhaling deeply. The acrid smoke fills your lungs, a familiar burn that grounds you in this surreal moment. With practised ease, you exhale, your tongue crafting perfect smoke rings that float lazily between you. They dissipate against his face, a ghostly caress that lingers.

Your lips twitch, suppressing a smile as his eyes bore into yours. Is he entertained? Infuriated? His face remains an impassive mask, giving nothing away.

“Been trying to learn that,” he says, gaze flickering between the cigar in your hand and your eyes. There's a hint of something else in his voice.

You shrug, aiming for nonchalance. You hope your demeanour mirrors his earlier bored facade. “It’s all the tongue,”

His eyebrow arches slightly. “Is that so?” he murmurs. “And here I thought it was about control,”

You take another drag, letting the smoke curl around your lips before speaking. “Control is part of it,” you concede, voice low. “But flexibility is key,”

He reaches for the cigar, fingers brushing yours as he takes it. “Show me,” he challenges, eyes never leaving yours.

You lean in, forcing your gaze to fixate on the smoke and its origin. Nothing else. “It’s all about the right pressure,” you pause, your breath a ghost drifting from you, as if absorbed by him. “Too much, and it falls apart. Too little, nothing happens at all,”

He inhales deeply, eyes latched onto yours, then attempts a ring. It’s clumsy, dissolving almost instantly. “Pitiful,” he huffs, frustration and amusement colouring him.

You can’t help but chuckle. “Close,”

As if instinctively, he rolls his eyes. “Don’t be kind,”

Is that a dare? Your brows twitch in brief process. You take the cigar back. “Relax your lips, circular,” your eyes fall to his mouth, mimicking yours subconsciously. “Bend your tongue down. Tip on the bottom of your mouth,”

“Mhm,” he hums.

You demonstrate, creating a perfect ring that quivers over his shoulder.

“I see,” he mutters, watching, mesmerised. Whether by the ring or your mouth, you don’t want to know.

Nodding, a slow smile spreads your lips. “Delicate,” you raise the cigar his way.

He takes it with his lips, hooking his fingers around and taking a long drag.

You find yourself captivated by his attempts at smoke rings. As he inhales, his eyes close, a moment of quiet concentration. They flutter open to witness his handiwork—thin, frail rings that dissipate quickly in the air. The corner of his mouth twitches, a hint of a smile breaking through his stoic facade.

He tries again a few times, clearly taken by this newfound skill. His presence has shifted, no longer infuriating but almost... playful.

Emboldened, you gather your courage and circle back to his earlier question. "All of the above," you say, your words herding his attention back to you. Your voice is steady, but there's an undercurrent of pain you couldn't quite strap back. “My dad worked in the mines, and my sister... she got in with the wrong crowd. Crossed some enforcers on the wrong day.”

His eyes soften, a wordless apology that's more than enough. You've never been one for overly expressed sympathies anyway.

“And mom's been showing…” your voice trails off as your mind drifts to your mother's face, the image of her becoming more gaunt with each passing month etched painfully in your memory. It's a familiar process, one you've seen play out in countless Undercity families. Someone's mother or father always showing signs of the blight. Now it's your turn to watch it unfold in your own home. “Declining,” you finish, the word heavy on your tongue.

The light atmosphere dissipates, replaced by a shared understanding of the Undercity's—no, Zaun's harsh realities. You stand there, smoke curling between you.

“It’s never easy, is it?” he says softly, words simple but sincere. He takes another drag of the cigar then offers it back to you. "But we endure," the tone seems to challenge your earlier actions—asking, are you still thinking about it?

You accept the cigar, fingers brushing his. With a long drag, you let the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling slowly. "Guess it's just what we Zaunites do, right?" you take a step away from the edge, nearing his side.

An amused smile finally tugs at his lips.

He was a stranger mere moments ago, and yet here you are, mixing tastes and sharing ideologies. Names seem almost irrelevant. Still, you offer yours, falling from your lips like a confession.

He repeats it, sounding entirely new as his voice wore each letter in that silk tone, escaping his mouth alongside whispers of smoke.

“Silco,” he gives back, the name igniting a spark of recognition that raises your brows as you return his cigar.

The name echoes in your mind, often whispered in the same breath as 'Vander'—the two faces of the revolution. The muscle and the voice of a movement that promised to reshape Zaun's future.

“Mm,” you murmur, your eyes tracing the contours of his face with newfound interest, drinking him in. Each line, each shadow takes on new significance as you piece together the man behind the name. “Not just a revolutionist. The revolutionist,”

A short laugh escapes him, a rare sound that seems to surprise even him. He brings the cigar to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours. There's a burning in his gaze that pins you in place, making you acutely aware of every breath.

He takes a deep drag, the ember glowing bright in the dim light of Zaun's eternal twilight. As he exhales, your attention is drawn inexorably to his mouth.

A more practised smoke ring emerges, expanding and drifting between you. It's a marked improvement from his earlier attempts, a physical manifestation of how quickly he learns, adapts. You find yourself wondering what other skills he might possess.

[star-reaper]

Arcane Silco x Reader One-shot - I Trust You

Synopsis: After the incident with Vander, you find what remains of the Silco you left at The Last Drop the night before. Now heart shattered, terrified, and close to death, he grips on tight to the only thing he has left as you try your best to comfort him and aid his wounds.

Young!Silco, Pre S1, Implied Fem!Reader but could be read GN, mentions of injury, blood, typical canon violence, knife mentioned, Hurt/Comfort, angst, established relationship, Medic!Reader

I've been inspired after wasting DAYS reading Silco fics, thank you fellow Arcane fanfic writers ❤️ Maybe I'll write more for the fandom?????

The cracked cobblestone paths of the cramped Undercity clack loudly under the worn soles of your boots. Your medic bag hangs loosely over your shoulder, the parched leather splitting at the seams as you toy with the fraying material between your nails.

You don't need to be told that tonight's highly-anticipated Uprising was a failure. You can judge its success based solely on the amount of rioters you saw in your office today; chipped teeth, brutal burn wounds, broken limbs, concussions. The unrest between Zaun and the ever-oppressive Piltover thickens with each passing minute, Enforcers becoming more violent and Zaunites only more angry.

Tonight's rally was meant to be the turning point, Zaun would fight back and push past the bridge, securing their futures with an iron grip and hearts full of hope. Vander spoke of it just yesterday evening, eyes gleaming with ambition saccharine sweet as he raised his glass of ale high in cheer. Silco, your Silco, with a smile so sure, so wide, you were certain you'd never seen him so excited.

"You're sure you can't make it?" He's asking you, shoulder jostling your own as he slides into the seat beside you at the bar. The cacophony of cheer around the bar following Vander's inspiring speech seems to die down and reduce to a droning chatter of voices and clinking dish ware.

Your eyes peel away from Vander — who is serving patrons left and right with an energy so radiant you can't help but shake your head at him, a small smile gracing your features — to meet Silco's sea-foamy green ones, peering down at you from the slant of his nose.

"You know riots mean people tend to get hurt. I'll be more needed at the med center, that's where I can do my part." You say, and it's true. The Undercity lacks in abundance, especially lacking in individuals with medical knowledge, much less an affordable one, or even a doctor you can trust. You've become an important addition to The Children of Zaun, and even more important to the citizens you look out for.

Silco nods, understanding, albeit disappointed that you won't be by his side. He wraps an arm loosely around your shoulders, pulling you in so he can press a chaste kiss to your temple.

"I know. This will be a big one, an important one. We'll be needing you down here."

You smiled softly, "You'll be careful, won't you?"

"As careful as I always am." Silco smirked.

"Great, so I'll be seeing you tomorrow night in my office is what I'm hearing?"

"Well, when you make it sound so scandalous I couldn't possibly miss out, my dear."

You're rolling your eyes at him, nudging him back with your adjacent shoulder as he chuckles. A peaceful silence overcomes the two of you as you soak in your surroundings at the bustling bar. Felicia is bickering with Vander at the counter, her vibrant purple braid flicked over her shoulder and Vander is laughing at her playful scowl.

"What will you do, if you succeed?" You ask suddenly.

Silco doesn't hesitate a second, "Not if. We will. We must succeed." His brows furrow for a moment, "I don't know what I will do. I'll come back for you, and then I suppose we will figure it out together like we always do. You trust me, don't you?"

You can't help but grin at that, "Of course I trust you."

Trust has always been one of the most important values holding you and Silco together. No matter what, you would always trust each other, to the ends of the earth. And you'd never stop reminding the other.

Your next thought is interrupted by Benzo, at least six ales down.

"There will be celebrations all through Zaun tomorrow night just you wait! In just another twenty four hours we will be commemorating our victories with each and every Zaunite throughout the city!"

But, as you make your way home it becomes blatantly apparent that there are no celebrations raging through Zaun tonight, there was no victory, and instead just an evening full of shattered hearts and broken bones.

Needless to say, Silco never did make it to your office tonight, and now as you walk back home on tired feet in the early hours of the dawn you find yourself wondering what state he could be in.

Silco may not be the strongest, but he's quick, and he's so painfully smart you can bet he hadn't been caught by Enforcers — but then if not carted away to Stillwater, why hadn't you seen him at the med center as you usually do after a riot? The nerves bite at your system, and you can only hope he is safe and sound at The Last Drop where you left him yesterday night, waiting for you to find in a few hours. First, you know you need to sleep off the fatigue of tending to the injured all night long.

You turn right into the alleyway that cuts through the block of stacked houses and cross the street to your home. As the door comes into view it is then that you feel a prickling sensation of unease creeping into your very being. You remove your hood from your head, peering at your surroundings cautiously in an effort to calm yourself. There's no one around. Nothing to explain the worry woven into your deepest instincts as you quicken your steps to the entrance of your abode.

The single key fished from the pocket of your med bag rattles in the rickety doorknob before the lock unlatches. The wood swings open with a creak.

There's water everywhere. Puddles of the polluted brown liquid spreads from the front entrance. It trails through the house where cabinets and drawers are left ajar and furniture lies knocked over on the uneven floor. You freeze in horror at the state of your belongings before spotting the streaks of blood on the floor and the counters of your kitchen. Whoever had trespassed had done it in a panicked struggle, things haphazardly left out all around the property. You huff a swear before dropping your bag as silently as you can at the front door, your tiredness suddenly swept away and replaced with unfiltered adrenaline. Survival-mode kicks in, and you're creeping with predator-like stealth to the kitchen. A peek into the open drawer confirms your suspicions, and whoever had broken in had stolen the large kitchen knife you stored and was likely wielding the weapon somewhere in your home.

You go for the next best thing, a rusted but still sharp pair of cooking scissors which you grasp tight in your palm, blade poised.

Following the trail of blood and water, your head swiveling vigilantly in every which direction, you make your way up the short flight of stairs to the second floor. Your bedroom door is wide open, a handprint of blood smeared across the edge of it in a rush. You take a deep, shuddering breath before slipping through the threshold.

The bed is left tidied and made, moth eaten sheets folded over the top of the frayed duvet and curtains billowing softly from the cold breeze which spills through the crack in the window. It's all in the state that you left it in. Your brows furrow in confusion before spotting the faint light which emanates from the crack under the adjoining bathroom door.

Your hands tremble as you creep towards the door, wondering if what lies behind it is the means to your fateful end. Teeth wearing into the flesh of your bottom lip, you stop and lean against the wall beside the bathroom. You listen, ears straining hard to hear through the barrier before you catch it.

It's the faint sound of someone crying, notable only by the quiet, shuddering breaths and wet sniffling that periodically breaks the whimpering noise.

It's then that you hear the low whisper interrupting the soft sobbing, the voice tinged with abysmal pain and fear, "Fuck—,"

Silco.

You're not even thinking as the scissors fall from your grasp, hitting the floor with a metallic clang before you wrench open the door and burst inside, heart thrumming viscously in the cage of your chest as you recognize your lover's voice.

Your breath catches hard in your throat at the sight before you; Silco, curled tightly in the basin of your bathtub, head to toe in soaking wet clothes stained with blood which drips from his face. His wet black hair hangs disheveled over half of his features, cloaking him in the raven locks. Your missing kitchen knife is clasped rigidly in between both hands, blade sticking straight out and bobbing with his labored breaths. His one visible eye widens in what you think is fear and his whole body freezes up at the sight of you, his legs scramble against the edge of the tub like he's trying to get away from you but all you can think is, he's hurt. You have to fix him.

"Silco," you rasp, reaching for him frantically with tears brimming in your eyes but before you know it he's yelling, pointing the blade of the knife at you and waving it around haphazardly.

"Stop—" He's crying, but the syllable comes out guttural and hoarse, "Don't touch me!"

You freeze, hands up to show you mean no harm and falling back on your knees to be eye level with him.

You swallow before you try to say anything, but the lump in your throat only grows ten-fold.

"Silco," you try, tentatively. "What happened?"

"Felicia's dead." Is what he manages to gasp, teeth gritting hard and eyes squeezing shut, another stray tear falling down his face.

You don't realize you're treating him like a patient until you're halfway done examining him with just a glance. His nails are bent and broken like he had scratched desperately at an unrelenting force, the torn collar of his jacket reveals blooms of a deep purple encompassing the surface of his throat and neck, blood pours from what you could see of his cheek, down his jaw and off the point of his chin. His eyes are swollen and bloodshot and his nose is definitely crooked— likely broken and the bruising is beginning to swell beneath his eyes. It doesn't take a genius to tell he had been asphyxiated, and beaten, hard.

Felicia. Felicia is dead. You're trying to hold onto your resolve, face relaxed as to not alarm him any further but your heart wants to cry out in agony. Another good soul, lost to a helpless cause. Another loved one, gone. You want to ask where Vander is, where Benzo is. Whatever it is that happened at the Uprising has clearly shaken Silco to the core, nearly unrecognizable with fear and shame and you worry that if you break down now nothing will be left to hold the rest of him together.

"I don't know where to go. I don't have anyone else." Silco is rambling now, voice sore and body shaking. "I can't go back. I can't go back, he'll finish me off."

"Silco, who? What's happened to you? I don't understand—" You can feel the tears spilling over and you choke on a sob, terrified for the man you love.

Silco shakes his head rapidly, he opens his mouth like he'll try to explain but is cut off by a cry so anguished you feel your own soul shattering. His shoulders tremble and you realize he must be freezing, his clothes saturated and the chill of the night air permeating his figure.

"I'll be right back. I'm going to get you a blanket and I'll come right back." you say gently.

He nods and hangs his head low, avoiding eye contact.

You retreat to the bedroom and pull your duvet right off the bed, also grabbing the forgotten glass of water left on the nightstand from the night before. You stand at the threshold of the bathroom peering in as non threatening as you can before taking a deep breath.

"I need you to put the knife down." you whisper.

Silco glances at the object in his hand and stares at it in shock for a split second, like he had not even realized he'd armed himself with your household items.

"I would never hurt you, Silco."

He takes a deep breath, and flips the blade before handing it over to you, handle out.

"Thanks," you whisper, placing the knife on the bathroom counter across from you. You trade it for the glass of water. "Here. Can I touch you?"

Silco takes a deep breath, eyes shut before nodding and wiping crudely at his cheek with the back of his hand, the skin pulling away wet with his tears.

You sit at the edge of the tub and pull the thick duvet into the basin, pausing over Silco's soaked figure.

"Do you want to take your clothes off? We can get you dry and warm."

He shakes his head no, but does pull off the bulky jacket, the wet fabric slapping against the surface of the porcelain bathtub. You drape the blanket over his shoulders, wrapping it around to his front and tucking it around him the best you can manage. He takes a long sip of the water, grimacing as he swallows and you try to catch a glimpse of the bruising on his neck.

"It's okay, I got you." You whisper. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it, but I need to know what's wrong so I can fix it. You can even just point." You say, hand massaging tenderly over his blanketed shoulder.

"I-I can't see out of my left eye," He says, voice low and gravelly, "it hurts."

"Can I look?"

Silco lifts a hand and runs it through his long hair, pushing most of it back out of his face but a few unruly tresses fall back over his forehead. You can't help the gasp that falls from your lips as you survey the gashes running across his eye and mutilating the whole expanse of the area. Blood oozes from the wounds and the flesh swells bright red and pink and you know it's already infected. You can't save the eye, that much is evident.

"I need to clean it before the infection spreads any further, I'm sorry." You cringe, "It's going to hurt but you could die if I don't treat it now."

He nods. Silco seems to be of sounder mind now. Not relaxed by any means, but his breathing is controlled, his good eye is focused and he's understanding you.

You turn around to retrieve your personal medical supplies in the linen closet and find the bottle of antiseptic and gauze, when you turn around you meet Silco's gaze, his brows pressed together with worry and mouth pressed into a deep frown. The blood from his eye drips on the fabric of your blanket and stains it the color of rust.

"It was Vander." he says.

You freeze up, nearly dropping the bottle, "Vander did this to you?" you ask incredulously.

Silco nods. "I didn't mean to get her killed. I didn't mean it, none of this was supposed to happen, I—" he breaks off into silent tears again and you gently hush him.

You've never seen him cry in the many years you've spent together, now to witness it so many times in one night you have no idea how to handle it.

"It's okay, you can explain later. I trust you." You assure.

You tilt his chin to look at you and wipe the tears from his face.

"I trust you." You say again.

"Okay." Silco appeases, "I trust you, too."

It takes nearly an hour to clean out his wounds, by then the sun is beginning to rise, a blue haze filtering in through the windows and casting a glow on everything the light touches. Silco has stripped from his wet clothes and showered, but had asked sweetly if you would wait for him in the bathroom to which you comply.

He changes into dry clothes he had left here ages ago and now lies in your bed, curled up on his side. The blankets are tucked over him and he lays silently beside you while you card your fingers through his hair. His sighs against the skin of your shoulder.

You know he wants to sleep but fears the playback behind his eyes of the events of the failed Uprising, but his body can't physically stand to move anymore. His injured eye is packed under gauze and medical tape and you can only hope you did all that you could.

His eyes flicker up to yours, "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I owe you a proper explanation. Thank you, for caring for me."

"I'll always care for you, Silco. You don't owe me anything, this is what I'm here for. You can tell me when you're ready."

"Okay." He replies, stroking your cheek with the backs of his split knuckles before tangling gently in the hair at the nape of your neck. You lay like that together for a while, you drifting in and out of consciousness as the adrenaline wears off and the chaos of the day becomes a memory. You trace the sharp angular features of Silco's face lovingly, pressing a sleepy kiss to the corner of his mouth. Your mind wanders to Vander, to Felicia, to Felicia's two beautiful children and Benzo and The Last Drop.

You wonder if things will ever be the same again and your heart aches at the silent answer. You know you'll never be able to forgive the man who hurt Silco like this; destroyed him at his very core and you know he will never be the same again.

"We can't trust anyone now. Only each other." Silco says, voice thick with pain.

"I'll always trust you." You reply softly, "Sleep, Silco. You need to rest. We will figure it out in a few hours."

Your eyes drift closed after that, the last of your sentence trailing off as you succumb to your exhaustion. The last thing you see is the pretty green-blue eye of your lover, half lidded and glistening in the light of the sunrise.

"I love you."

[a-gal-with-taste]

Flu-Season (Oneshot)

Summary: You stayed with him, partially because you know the stubborn man would mount an escape-attempt the moment someone looked away, regardless how close he came to hacking out his lungs.

You also stayed, because you loved the fool.

Tags: Sickfic, banter, humor, established relationship, young!Silco, pre-canon, cuddling, Silco X GN!Reader, 1067 Word-Count

A/N: Quick-gift for a sick-friend, everyone is legally obligated to write @ink-and-dagger get-well card, and this is mine

There was something to be said about the stubbornness of man.

It was unshakable. Undaunted, rivelless, much to your chagrin, and ceaseless annoyance.

"Sit down," You commanded, lowly and eyes narrowed into blazing-slits, not so different from the deadly-edge of blades pulled from fires. "Sit. Down."

Taunting you silently, Silco braces his palms harder against the surface beneath him and raises an unimpressed brow when your tightly pursed-lips go bloodless. He swivels, enough to let his legs dangle over the cots-edge with a glint in his pale eyes, that is as-much rebellious, as it is feverish.

Opening his mouth, you expect he wants to make a grand-speech to christen his revolt against your order.

Instead, he bursts into a coughing fit.

"Idiot." 

Another harsh length of coughing, when the Son of Zaun tries to deny the accusation.

"Dumbass," You chided tiredly, walking forward with one hand releasing the thickest blanket you found to push back on his shoulder, unsympathetic to the familiar coughs, and unaffected by the insulted-look he gave you when you nudged him again. "Hey, no one told you two to take a dive in the river-"

"It was that, or arrest," He insists in a rasp, looking at you incredulously. "Would you rather be dealing with Enforcers for our release?"

"Honestly, I'm debating whether or not to turn you in myself, let them handle you."

"Such loyalty, darling," He said with an eyeroll, apparently using the last of his strength to perform it. The next push had him bouncing back onto the bed, an action that left his sweaty dark-locks in a damp halo around his head, and a drawn-out whine slipping from his mouth.

Smothered quickly, when you tossed the comforter over his body and face.

"Yeah, loyal enough to assure the rebellion doesn't end in a cough and a whimper," You sigh, allowing him to settle, albeit grumpily, before you give his body another firm push. Deeper into the already-thin mattress, and further to the side. “I’m also loyal enough to make sure you don’t go-running. Scoot.”

“I wouldn’t run-”

“You’ve tried to escape. Six times now.”

“Because this is humiliating. Uncalled-for. A blight on my reputation-!”

The very instant he tried to raise his voice, in response to rising ire and indignation at the insult of being tended to, he burst into another coughing fit that you watched flatly. Such dramatics had become the norm in the last couple days, as a dip into the cold-waters of Pilt had transformed a simple annoying cold into a full-fledged bout of flu, that seemed to strike at the Son of Zaun with a vengeance. 

The fourth-time he tried to sneak out on patrol, shivering, sweating, wheezing, and looking so-absolutely pathetic, that you almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

But you stopped sympathizing at the third-attempt to leave his bed. 

“Save your breath. Move over.”

Silco possessed a glower that would send most Pilties quivering in their boots and heels, but the slight pout to his lips, paired with his huddled-position under the comforter, made it difficult to take him even remotely seriously. Thankfully, he realized this for himself, and wasted only a short uncoughing sigh before shifting, relieving some room onto the mattress for you to sit down on.

“Your immunity is preposterous. How are you not sick?”

“Too smart to get sick. You, however, jumped into a river.”

“Again. It was that or an arrest.”

You doubted that was the only two options, but it mattered little at this point. Nudging off one boot, toeing off the second, you soon reclined back on-top of the comforter with a lingering sigh. “Keep-on telling yourself that, champ,” You murmured, reaching over to pat the top of his head, patronizing despite the deepening-scowl it earned you.

When you tried to pull your hand away, a weak, but steady set of fingers locked around your wrist, thumb tapping out a thoughtful beat on your pulse as your eyes slipped closed, basking in the near-domesticality after a day of playing the role of two.

As much as you could.

Despite your efforts, no one could replace the headache, the whiny-baby, the absolute buffoon that was the man who was supposed to be resting beside you.

The very same man who didn’t know how to shut up and save his breath, evident by his croak, “You don’t have to stay with me.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” Opening your eyes, you tilted your head until your cheek rested on the mattress, eyes finding his hazy, thoughtful and quickly-tiring green gaze. “And besides that, besides how infuriating you are, I want to stay with you.”

Because, stubborn as he is, only Janna-knows what the fool would attempt to do without a guard to watch over him to quash any escape attempt.

You also loved him. 

As if reading your mind, those green-eyes slipped closed as a faint, resigned smile bloomed onto his face, coaxed out by your hand lowering to cup at a fever-heated cheek. “So sweet to me.”

“You don’t deserve it,” You assured him, half-joking. “Not after jumping into a river.”

“Vander jumped too.”

“So maybe I should go cuddle-up with him then-” The threat, again only half of a joke, was thwarted-immediately by Silco turning over over, enveloping you in body and comforter as his arms pulled tight around you, squeezing when you grunted out his name in surprise.

“Don’t you dare,” He murmured, pressing you tighter against him when you shifted to get comfortable. It wasn’t all-that difficult, even if the fever from his body was quickly-seeping into the thicker layers of comforter and clothes, you found it easy to grow comforted in the man’s arms as his rasping breathes evened-out.

A good thing, because even as exhaustion wore him down into rest, the strength in his arms never-faded - you imagined you would be here a while. The thought made you sigh, but also smile wearily, as hand traveled up to smooth the dark-ink of his hair back, murmuring affectionately about how gross and sweaty it was to the now-napping man.

It was indeed, very gross, but nonetheless, you did not leave him.

Partially because you imagined the stubborn fool would still attempt a retreat upon awakening, despite clearly lacking the strength to make it anywhere beyond the room.

And also, because you loved him. As stubborn, gross, and idiotic as he was.

And even after a week after he was back on his feet, it was your turn to start coughing.

[beef-bakery]

I'm thirsty for fluff&angst and if i can ask for young!SilcoXreader something like their own newborn daughter died after birth, but Silco finds a newborn (baby Jinx) next to her dead parents (and toddle Vi if you want <3) and reader with Silco are just in love with their baby girl (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)

Thank you! thank you

Um wow I love this idea?? I had so much fun w this?? Muah kisses 4 u ;)

Square One

Rating: pre-act one!Silco x gn!Reader - SFW - 2.2k words

Warnings: death of a baby, not graphic, canonical type violence, no pronouns used for reader but gave birth so take that as you will

Silco really needed fresh air. Obviously he couldn't get much down where he had hidden himself, so going against his morals, he headed East. Everyone, even Zaunties, knew the air was better in Piltover.

Silco’s heart ached at that. If only he could've done something, provided more, done more, it wouldn't have ended up this way.

Silco tried to push that line of thinking out of his mind but, much like the air in Zaun, it was suffocating. He couldn't think of anything else but what had happened.

You were closing in on the end of your pregnancy, belly nearly big enough to burst. He had done all he could to provide you comfort, delegating as many jobs to his associates as possible, trying to spend as much time with you as he could.

He still hadn’t been there at the most important time, when your daughter was born. It wasn't pleasant, coming home to your sobbing body wrapped around a lifeless lump.

A stillbirth, the doctor said. Most likely a side effect of the poor quality of life in Zaun. It wasn't uncommon.

Silco hadn’t seen the body. He zeroed in on you, having someone take your child away. He held you as you fought against him, screaming to let you go. He held you as you beat against his chest, crying tears into his shirt. He held you as you went limp in his arms, eyes dry and lifeless, staring at nothing.

You didn't have energy anymore. It had been taken like the baby’s first breath, gone like it was never there in the first place.

And yet Silco stayed by your side, feeding you what little you’d accept, tending to you when you wouldn't move.

Silco felt the cabin fever setting in after the sixth day. He had spent all his time with you, neglecting his own needs. He didn’t mind, but he needed to recharge his own battery.

Saying goodbye to you was hard, and Silco pressed a kiss to your forehead as he left Sevika to tend to you.

Silco realized he wasn't experiencing the same kind of grief as you. He’d formed a bond with the baby, of course, but he hadn't carried her, hadn't felt all of her movements until they stopped. Perhaps he was overcompensating with you, suffocating you with every action to make up for the lack of grief he felt.

His footsteps echoed through the empty streets. Although it was night, which tended to bring out the partiers, the rain had driven them all away. It had stopped a few moments ago, leaving Silco only slightly damp.

As he approached the bridge connecting Zaun and Piltover, Silco stopped smelling fresh air, instead inhaling smoke and ash.

Against his better judgment, Silco continued forward, curious. The bridge was alight, most likely a mission gone wrong from what was left of the Children of Zaun. The rain had done nothing to quell the fire; it must have been gas.

Silco neared closer to the bridge, observing it with keen eyes. Several enforcers worked to put out the fire, siphoning water from below. Silco snorted. If there was one thing he had learned from living in Zaun, it was that the water wasn’t good for anything; not even putting out fires, gas or other.

Silco observed, amused, leaning on a pillar as he watched the men work.

They should really use something to smother the fire, he thought. They would get nowhere with water.

Silco turned back around, deciding he had enough, when suddenly he heard the sound of sniffling to his right. Silco turned around, eyes searching for the source of the noise, only to be pulled down to the floor.

A couple feet away from him on the bridge was a little girl, no more than three. She crouched in front of a limp body, hands rocking it side to side. Silco was about to leave again - orphans were no rarity in Zaun - when he heard a small whine.

Turning back around, Silco noticed a small bundle at the little girl’s feet. It began to stir, small arms emerging from the blanket it was wrapped in. The little girl picked up the bundle in one hand, using her other to push against the body.

“Shh,” she shushed the baby, a tearful sound. “Mama, come on, wake up, Mama.”

Silco found himself moving unconsciously, crossing over to the girl in a few swift steps. He gently took the bundle from the girl, soothing it with a few sways. Surprisingly the girl allowed him, giving up quickly. She rested her head on top of the body, her own wracked with silent sobs.

Once again, Silco found himself reaching down to soothe the girl, running a hand along her back. She soothed almost instantly at the touch, her body openly relaxing. She calmed ever so slightly before coming back to her senses.

She looked up at him with wide eyes before attaching herself to his leg. Snot and tears dripped onto his pants as she gripped onto him with such force that Silco thought she was trying to stop the blood from traveling through his leg.

He gently pried her from him, but she latched onto his arm next, looking at him with such desperation that he could see himself in her watery eyes.

“Please,” she begged, her voice raspy from crying. It was a cadence he was familiar with, having spent his past few days with you. “Don't leave me.”

“I won't,” Silco promised, pulling his arm out of her grip to take her hand.

She held onto him as if he were a lifeline, following him as they headed back West.

The trip was longer than it would've taken had he come back solo. The little girl didn't say anything the whole way, not even when she tripped into a puddle. She only gathered herself quickly, running back to his side like if he left she’d never see him again. She never seemed to grow tired, only more resilient as they trekked farther.

It seemed to have taken ages to get back to the house when he finally nodded to one of his underlings. The door opened and no one was as eager to get into the house as the little girl.

She rushed in, immediately stepping in front of him, arms out. Silco cocked his head to the side, confused.

“Powder,” she said, indicating to the baby in his arms. Silco leaned down, placing the baby, Powder, into her outstretched arms. Silco hadn't realized it before, too preoccupied with the girl in front of him, but the baby was uncharacteristically good.

From what you had read to him from the baby books, babies were often fussy over anything, needing to be changed, lack of sleep, hunger, or even uncomfortability. The baby - Powder - was good, sleeping through the whole journey back, her chest rising with deep breaths.

Only when Silco moved the baby did she finally fuss. She turned over in the blanket, reaching for something, settling the cloth of the girl’s shirt when the girl cradled her tenderly. Powder gripped onto it with tight fists, breathing in her sister’s scent. She relaxed again, gurgling quietly.

Silco found himself smiling. He hadn't thought he’d like children, sans his own, but the scene in front of him was so sweet that he couldn't help it. He wiped the smile from his face as soon as he noticed, schooling his features into a neutral expression.

The little girl bounced the baby when she fussed again, looking up at Silco with wide eyes.

“Sorry sir, but do you have food for her? She's hungry.”

Silco stilled for a moment before nodding. He walked over to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. He mixed powdered baby formula in before heating it up. After testing the temperature on the back of his hand, Silco transferred the formula into a bottle. He turned around to give the bottle to the little girl, but found that she had fallen asleep on the floor, the baby still in her arms.

Silco set the bottle on the counter, gathering the girl into his arms, depositing her on the couch. He pulled a blanket over her and gathered Powder in one arm, bottle in the other. He sat at the kitchen table, being able to see both the girl and the front door.

Powder took the bottle well, latching on and sucking heartily. It made Silco’s heart flutter ever so slightly, watching the baby, so content with so little. Once she finished the bottle, Silco set it in the sink, taking her to the nursery.

It had become a graveyard over the past six days. Anything that reminded you of your lost child had been condemned to the nursery. The bassinet stood tall, something he had built for your baby, who was now gone.

He placed Powder inside and she almost instantly fell asleep. Silco stood there for a moment, admiring her vulnerability. She was content with so little, just like you.

You hadn't asked for anything more once you had him back. Once he came to you, limp, body unforgiving from the cool water of the River Pilt. You hadn't asked for anything even when he healed, when he gained enough awareness to know what he wanted and finally take it with no regard for the wellbeing of others.

It was a peaceful sight, the baby in the bassinet. He could almost delude himself into thinking Powder was your baby. He pulled himself from the sight, walking back through the living room to get to his bedroom.

The girl was in a deep sleep, her arm thrown over her head carelessly as she snored, quietly, but enough for him to huff a small chuckle.

He walked back into your shared bedroom.You hadn't moved from the bed, an unmoving lump surrounded by an array of tissues. He approached quietly, his footsteps padded by the carpet. He leaned over and smoothed back your hair, seeing that you were asleep. Sleep seemed to be the only peace you’d had since your daughter had passed.

He pulled back the covers and slid between them, his arms coming to rest on your waist. Unconsciously, you leaned into his touch, your back slotting against his front; a perfect fit.

Perhaps he would’ve been more inclined to observe your tranquility, especially since it was so rare nowadays, but he found sleep overtaking him sooner than he’d pleased.

The stale air woke him gradually. Silco’s sleep-addled mind reached out for some semblance of warmth, only to be met with empty bed sheets.

Alarms went off in his mind as his fingertips touched the slightly warm area where you had lain. Silco’s eyes snapped open as he sat up in bed, his head swimming with sleep.

The door to your bedroom was slightly ajar and movement could be heard from outside. Silco got to his feet, pushing open the door wider.

As he stepped into the main threshold, he saw that the girl was gone, no longer asleep on the couch. Silco approached the nursery, where the noises seemed to originate from.

He opened the door slowly, praying that the girl’s disappearance didn't have any heinous ties to yours. Silco was pleasantly surprised when he saw you in the middle of the room, bouncing the baby on your hip, the little girl running circles around your feet.

The little girl smiled a toothy grin, giggles escaping breathlessly as she ran faster. You turned quickly, keeping the baby from her. You turned to your right and Silco caught a glimpse of you.

You were smiling - a genuine, large smile, one that took up your entire face. You looked refreshed, not nearly the same person who had been bedridden the past couple of days.

“Uh-uh, Vi,” you chided playfully, pulling the baby higher up on your hip. “You have to calm down if you want to hold your sister.”

The girl - Vi - was breathless as she spoke. “I will!” She held out her arms, her chest heaving. “Now can I have her?”

You leaned down carefully, placing Powder in her arms. With the baby in Vi’s arms, it was shocking to realize how little she was. By herself, Vi looked capable, despite her small size. But the comparison once she held the bundle was alarming, Silco became acutely aware that she herself was only a child as well.

Your eyes met his as you straightened, your smile widening further. “Hi,” you said softly, reaching out for him.

He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth and pulled away slowly, looking deep into your eyes. The shine was back, almost as if it had never left.

“Hi,” he replied tenderly, and although the two of you held each other as if you were the only two people in the world, both of you were keenly aware of the children a few feet away. With them there, it almost made your world whole.

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