Silco Fanfic - Tumblr Posts

If the effects of the flower last for only seconds in mammals...then those rats must've really liked each other...

Also, I can't help but imagine Singed coming back to the lab and finding the vials and stuff broken on the floor and like: "What happened here?" And the reader, immediately embarassed and trying not to show it: "Umm...I fell"

Taking Risks

[Explicit] AO3

Silco x f!reader, smut, sex pollen, workplace sex, handjob, penis in vagina sex

Word count: 4.3k

Posting a few hours early because why not! I've never been good about waiting until Christmas day to give gifts.

As one of Silco's scientists, it's up to you to research the local flora and fauna for anything that could be useful for the Eye of Zaun. When a mysterious red flower blossoms outside of Singed's cave, Silco gives you one week to find out what it can do. Against all better judgement and laboratory safety protocol, you personally find out the effects of the flower's pollen.

A bead of sweat trickles down your forehead into your furrowed eyebrows, your eyes unblinking as you concentrate on your task, hands shaking all the while. The small, delicate red flower in your hand flutters with each quiver of your hands, its petals bouncing along as if dancing with you. 

Almost… almost…

Finally, you manage to transfer the plant to its new home, a larger pot with more enriched soil. But you don't dare relax yet, not until you can get it into its glass case.

Once the clear door swings shut, you finally breathe a sigh of relief, your hands quick to remove the mask from your face. Your gloves are piled on top of your respirator as you slump into your chair.

You and Singed had discovered this new flora popping up around the cave. Despite all your studies, you know nothing about it. There is no literature on it, leading you and Singed to take a few samples to research.

Safety is paramount. Given some of the more… exciting plantlife that can be found in the Undercity, Singed stressed above all else protecting your lungs and your skin. So every time you've handled the crimson red flower, you've donned both a respirator and heavy duty gloves. 

You look up from your desk when you hear booted footsteps approaching the cave. The steady cadence is familiar and you rise to your feet, bringing both hands behind you as you wait for your employer. When he reaches the mouth of the cave, his form is cast in shadow, the afternoon sun backlighting him so that he's merely a silhouette. 

All except for his demon eye.

Swirling lava in a bed of obsidian, his left eye glows as he looks at you. As he steps further into the cave, you can make out more of his appearance, though you can easily predict what that would be, given his penchant for wearing the same outfit as if it were a uniform. Long, dark charcoal coat with gold trim and maroon lining; matching vest with intricate detailing; dark slacks with maroon along the sides. It's an ensemble you and the rest of the Lanes are familiar with.

“Good afternoon, Silco,” you greet warmly.

He nods to you, a subtle but unmistakable smile on his lips as he says your name.

“Afternoon.”

“Are you here for your medicine?”

“I am,” he replies, mismatched eyes scanning the cave. When his gaze comes across the crimson flower in its glass enclosure, he pauses, his good eyebrow ticking up in silent question.

“New flora that we discovered. We're trying to figure out what we can derive from it,” you explain.

He nods, lips pressed together.

“And?”

“Nothing yet, sir.”

His eyes track down the flower, studying it. Continuing their journey, his gaze lands on your workstation, ocean green and volcanic orange settling on the small pile of protective gear on your table.

“Better safe than sorry,” you offer.

He turns to you.

“Singed's idea?”

“Yes.”

A short exhale puffs out Silco's nostrils as the scarred corner of his lips curl up.

“He's always been so protective of you,” Silco hums. He steps closer to the glass, looking down his nose at the specimen. “It's likely why you haven't immediately figured out what this can do.”

Your eyebrows furrow.

“Sir?”

He chuckles.

“The good doctor has grown soft. Before you arrived, he would've already had this tested on multiple human subjects by now. Science is about taking risks.”

“That's reckless; taking precautions isn't ‘growing soft,’” you're quick to defend. “Until we know exactly what this plant is capable of, we have to treat it as if it is lethal. It very well could be.”

Silco turns to you, only his corrupted profile visible to you. The soft light from the flower’s tank somehow manages to smooth his rough features, the deep cuts along his cheek shallower and less pronounced than before. Finally, he nods.

His eyes linger on yours, waiting.

“Oh, right!”

You leap from your spot toward the back of the cave. After retrieving the small wooden box that houses Silco's medicine, you rush back.

“Here you go! Should last you another week.”

Silco takes it from you before slipping it into a hidden pocket in the lining of his coat. He gives a small, subtle nod in thanks before turning to the mouth of the cave.

His booted footsteps echo off the stone walls as he departs. Just as he reaches the entrance, he turns over his shoulder.

“I expect an update on this flower when I return.”

His footsteps continue on, softer and softer until you can no longer hear them.

You turn back to the flower in question, one of its stems raised up as if waving to you.

One week to figure this thing out.

Shit.

You spend the next two days going through your usual set of tests. All of them are inconclusive. As your deadline draws ever closer, your mind replays Silco's words.

“Science is about taking risks.”

You shake your head, waving your hand at the voice as if dispelling smoke. 

I'm not going to get myself killed just for some plant and arbitrary deadline.

And yet, you feel yourself drawn to the flower. It taunts you from its glass case, its deep red petals begging to be touched. 

You can run all the tests you want, but there's no denying that they can't replace the human experience.

What does the flower smell like?

How soft and delicate are its petals?

You let out a groan. There's no use asking such useless questions. Not when you still have so much work to do.

The next day, you start to grow more desperate. Singed has been busy with other projects, leaving this flower entirely in your hands. 

You grab your gloves and mask, leaving the cave for a change of scenery. Donning your protective gear, you trek to the small patch of grass where you had first discovered the plant. Perhaps studying its surroundings can prove beneficial.

When you arrive, you're stunned to find the makings of far more flowers than were there previously. Smaller buds rise up from the soil all around the original flower. 

Your eyes dart around the area, checking for any signs of animal interaction with the plant: a bite mark, a paw print, anything to let you know if another creature has been close to the flower and lived. Your lips purse together as you search, half expecting to find a half-eaten flower and a small corpse next to it, signaling to you that this plant is lethal.

But you find none.

In fact, the area surrounding the flower seems more full of life than before. Bees hover and buzz around the flowers, their little fuzzy legs dotted with the flower’s pollen. A few small, furry critters chatter and squeak excitedly behind a nearby bush. You crouch down to get a better look to find two wharf rats procreating rather enthusiastically.

You straighten back up, eyes narrowing.

Seeing such a display in your research is far from out of the ordinary, but what was odd was the manner in which they were mating. Most mating rituals between mammals of that type are very methodical. Get through it quickly, pass down their genes from their generation to the next, nothing more, nothing less.

You crouch back down, your curiosity getting the better of you. The two wharf rats are still going at it, and not only that, their pace is more languid, more deliberate than you're used to seeing in this species. A word whispers in your ears that you've never used to describe mating rituals in all your years of science.

Sensual.

You leap back to your feet, cheeks flushed with heat. Eyes wide and darting, you quickly make your way back to the cave and attempt to rid your mind of what you just saw.

The day before Silco's arrival, you cannot put it off any longer. There were no signs of death, decay, or sickness around the flowerbed. So the likelihood that this plant is lethal are low.

Silco's voice remains a taunting spectre, whispering in your ear as you stare at the flower that continues to elude you.

The small specs of yellow pollen that dot its stamen seem to glow, they twinkle in the soft light like little gems. The warm hue of the petals looks so inviting, such a beautiful color that you cannot tear your eyes away from. 

You feel a pull, a strong sense of yearning as you lean closer to the glass. All thought leaves you, replaced entirely by instinct, your body moving as if puppeted by an invisible hand. Your gloves fall to the floor, your respirator quick to follow. Hands reach out, delicate fingers wrapping around the small brass knob and pulling.

The aroma is instant, its scent intoxicating and irresistible. Like the sweetest of honeys.

You step closer, your hands a soft trace along a crimson petal. The second your skin makes contact with it, you feel a satisfying thrum shoot from your hand, up your arm, and down into your navel. When you bring your face to hover above the welcoming crown of petals, you take a deep breath in through your nose and are immediately met with warmth coursing through your veins. Your eyes flutter closed as you drink in the scent, allowing it to surround you. Warmth pools in your belly as your heart rate climbs, your chest heaving as your breathing grows shallow.

All thoughts of safety and protocol left you as soon as you had reached for that handle.

You're so enraptured by the aroma that you don't notice the sound of booted footsteps as they approach. It's not until Silco calls out your name that you jump out of your skin and turn to face him.

He smirks wickedly at you.

“Silco!” You shut the glass case behind you. “You're a day early!”

“And yet, it would seem not a moment too soon,” he quips, his stride a predatory, graceful pace as he closes the distance between your bodies. “Am I to witness the first human trial?”

He stops a few feet from you, his eyes raking over your body. All at once, you feel naked under his gaze and the sensation sends molten lava to settle between your legs.

“I…” You struggle to get the words out. “I don't know what came over me.”

“Not to worry,” Silco says as he brings Singed's stool around and makes himself comfortable in it in one smooth motion. “I can monitor you. Administer first aid if necessary.”

With his chin tilted up at you, you can see the long column of his neck peeking out from the collar of his shirt. Your eyes seem capable of seeing much more than before, pupils quick to catch the subtle pulsing of his heartbeat underneath his skin. Your heart beats in time with it, as if synchronizing with it. Eyes flick up to Silco's and your throat bobs when you see he's studying you just as closely.

“What do you feel?” He hums.

“I feel…” You let out a shaky exhale, your skin on fire underneath your clothes. You take a deep breath in and suddenly become acutely aware of the rise and fall of your chest and the way your nipples harden beneath your bra. “I feel… too hot and too cold.” Your throat bobs. “Like I have a fever.”

Silco's eyebrows pinch minutely as he rises to his feet. Without warning, he brings the back of his hand to your forehead. His skin is cool to the touch and you can't help the way your eyes flutter closed at the sensation, a feeling of relief like a cold drink on a hot summer day.

“Mmm,” he hums. “Yes, you are warm.” He pulls his hand away and you resist the urge to chase it. “Any other symptoms?”

“My… my mouth feels dry and my heart is racing.”

You can feel the heat of his body as he stands in front of you, warm and foreboding. He brings one hand up to your neck, fingertips pressing into your pulse point. 

As you stand like this, you can smell every bit of him: his oak cologne, the remnants of a rich cigar lingering on the fabric of his clothes, the faintest hint of his sweat underneath his many layers of garments. You feel drunk off his scent and all at once remember what you witnessed the day prior.

“Oh gods,” you whisper to yourself.

“What is it?” Concern paints the features of Silco's face as his hand leaves you. “Are you okay?”

“I know what the flower is,” you say, less spoken and more breathed out, voice like smoke rising to the ceiling.

Silco's eyes search yours, his head ticking to the side.

“It's an aphrodisiac,” you finally conclude, pupils blown out as they meet Silco's two-toned eyes.

Silco's eyebrows lift, his lips coming together in a curious pout. Your eyes track the movement, lingering on his mouth. Without thinking, you wet your lips with your tongue.

But then he's saying your name again and you're snapping out of it.

“Did I hear you correctly?”

You nod.

“You said it's an aphrodisiac.”

You nod again.

He steps closer to you and you can't help but step back, your back hitting the flower's glass case.

“Are you sure?”

Your eyes widen as you nod once again, as if the flower is equal parts truth serum, as if opening your mouth to speak will spill all your thoughts and feelings and wants and needs.

Like the impossibly strong need to feel the weight of Silco's body on you, to taste his lips, to caress his skin, to ride his co—

Silco's hand comes up, holding your jawline as he inspects your face. Your breath gets caught in your throat as he turns you this way and that, studying you. There's a burning fire under your skin where Silco's hand touches you, more heat rushing to pool at the apex of your legs.

He lets go of your face and you let out a shaky exhale.

“What aren't you telling me?”

Your eyes dart to the side, avoiding his.

“I… I can't.”

“And why not?”

“It's… it's just the pollen. I can't say it. It wouldn't be appropriate.”

His good eyebrow ticks up.

“Tell me.” His voice is a haunting melody, an enchanting song that you want to get lost in. “I won't hold it against you. After all, this is all in the name of science.”

I want to kiss you.

I want to feel you.

I want you to make love to me.

I want you to fuck me.

Your mind races through each desire. Somehow, even in your delirious state, you manage to keep the worst of it to yourself.

“I want to kiss you.”

“Oh?”

You nod, quick to add conditionals. “Like I said, that's the pollen talking.”

He takes a step back and you hold back a whine at the loss of his body heat. His lips turn downward into a small frown.

“I'm hurt. Am I so undesirable that only an aphrodisiac can make a kiss from me appealing?”

“What? No! Of course not!” You rush to reassure him. “I think you're a very attractive man—”

He smirks.

“Very attractive?” He repeats wickedly.

“Silco, please—” you breathe out, defeated.

“Please, what?” He steps back into your space and you feel lightheaded from his towering presence. His eyes track down your face, leaving small fires in their wake on your skin. His gaze lingers on your mouth, which has fallen open against your will. “Should I put you out of your misery?”

He slots himself between your legs and you let out a small whimper when you feel his clothed erection against your core.

“For science, of course,” he adds, voice dark and teasing. He rolls his hips against you and you let out a pathetic gasp as lightning shoots through you.

The pollen has worked itself so thoroughly into your system, replacing all your inhibitions with carnal, animalistic needs. All thoughts of professional, social, and emotional ramifications out the window as you fist Silco's vest in your hands, clinging to him. 

Your eyes dart between ocean green and volcanic orange to find that both his pupils are blown out, a dark abyss in his eyes that you find yourself willingly tumbling face first into.

The last of your reserve snaps and you crash your lips into his in a messy, frenzied kiss. He answers back in kind, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer as he takes charge of the kiss. His tongue a needy press to the part of your lips, quick to claim yours as his own. He tastes of cigars and top-shelf liquor.

It's not enough.

You push him forward, your hands moving to rid him of his coat. Without breaking off the kiss, he shrugs out of the sleeves, letting the fabric pool onto the stone floor as you both stumble through the cave. Your hands grab at him, tugging on the fabric of his shirt to untuck it from his pants as his slide over the swell of your ass. He lifts you and you're quick to wrap your legs around his waist, content to let him carry you to your workstation. Vials and supplies fall to the floor and shatter as he swipes one arm across the desktop to make room, planting you on the edge of the cold metal surface.

Foreheads pressed together, you break off the kiss as you both work frantically to rid each other of your clothes; your hands shaking as you unbutton the four gold buttons at the front of his pants while his hands yank your underwear down from under your skirt. There's the sound of tearing as he pulls the damp fabric off you, exposing your core to the chill air of the cave.

His hands tuck underneath your knees as he pulls you forward, your ass hovering over the edge of the table. You somehow manage to undo his pants without looking, your hand wrapping around his naked erection, a sigh leaving your lips as you feel the weight of him in the palm of your hand.

He lets out a groan as you do one experimental stroke from his shaft to his reddened head. And when you do it again, you're rewarded with the slick of precum dripping from the tip.

As you continue to work him, Silco buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot as he sucks a mark into your skin, claiming you. Your wanton moan bounces off the stone walls, filling the air.

Then, Silco's hands are at your blouse, pushing the hem up to expose your stomach and then your bra. The fabric bunches at your collarbone as he plants a series of hungry kisses along the top swell of your breast, mere inches from where you need him most. Then, as if reading your mind, he tugs the fabric of your bra down to wrap his teeth around your hardened nub. You let out a cry when he bites down on your nipple, your hand stilling its ministrations as you're overcome with a wave of pleasure, enhanced by the flower’s pollen coursing through your nervous system.

“Silco!” You cry out when you feel his hand at your core, long fingers massaging your glistening entrance as he gathers your arousal. Slick fingers glide through your folds before swirling a tantalizing circle into your clit, forcing a low moan out of your throat. But your relief is short-lived as Silco's hand leaves your core. Your eyes widen when he brings it to his lips, licking a long stripe along his fingers.

“Is that all for me? Or just from the pollen?” He asks, voice ragged.

You huff out a small laugh.

“Can it be both?”

He hums, bringing his hand back to the apex of your legs.

You continue to work each other, chests heaving, breaths mixing in the middle. It's not at all the sensual love-making you would have liked, but you can't complain, not when his fingers are massaging your clit so perfectly. 

It's still not enough.

“Silco— I need you,” you manage to get out between gasps. “Please.”

He lets out a low growl, teeth bared as he smiles down at you.

“Well, since you begged so sweetly.”

One hand wrapped around your lower back while the other holds his shaft, he presses his head against your entrance. You let out a whimper as he teases you open more and more. Then, with a rock of his hips, he presses into you, stretching your walls as he sheathes himself inside you. Your nails dig into the fabric of his shirt as you're overcome by the stretch of him, his girth alone almost sending you over the edge.

You feel so full and yet it's still not enough. You need more. The pollen in your veins insatiable as you roll your hips against him.

“Ah!” Your clit rubs against his pelvis as he rocks his hips up, sending lightning to shoot from your core outwards. You can feel it buzzing and humming in the soles of your feet and each of your fingertips.

One hand planted on the metal tabletop, the other tangling into your hair, Silco continues to fuck up into you, a low hum at his throat with each thrust. Your hands find their way to his ass and you let out a whine at the way his body seems to roll with each piston of his hips, the erotic movement of his body against yours sending more warmth to your core.

Your breath is hot on his neck, coming out in short puffs with each thrust. You've lost all semblance of modesty or shame as you lose yourself to Silco's movements, a slow, sensual rhythm that's equal parts erotic and carnal.

Your blood feels like it's on fire in your veins and as you feel your pleasure building with every roll of Silco's hips, every grunted breath against your ear, your eyes widen. This climax threatens to be the most powerful one you've ever experienced, one so strong you're not sure you can survive it. Will the pollen that's in your system burn you from the inside out the instant you reach your peak? Will you simply collapse into a heap after you know relief?

As Silco continues to fuck up into you, you find you don't care.

If this is how I die, so be it.

You drag your nails into the fabric at Silco's back, rolling your hips to match his rhythm.

There are worse ways to go.

Silco's hips stutter and you can feel him getting impossibly harder within you. As your cries grow in pitch and volume, Silco's muffled groans and grunts get louder as well. The sensuality of your union giving way to that visceral, carnal animal act. 

Just a little more.

You grind your clit against his pelvis, mouth hanging open as incoherent sounds leave you.

More.

Silco's lips are back on your neck, tongue a warm press against your pulse point, his breath hot on your skin.

His voice is ragged when he speaks and you can tell from the way his hips almost vibrate that he's getting close to his release as well.

“I should've— planted those flowers—ngh!—much sooner.”

Your eyes fly open.

“What?! You knew what they were?”

“I know everything, darling,” he growls, his pace picking up, threatening to send you over the edge. “I know the effects they have on mammals.”

A sharp thrust that leaves you sighing.

“I know they trigger arousal.”

Another thrust, sending stars to dot your vision.

“And I know that their effects only last for mere seconds.”

“Seconds?” you gasp out, holding onto Silco for dear life as he continues to fuck up into you. “So that means —”

“Yes, dear,” he purrs. “Everything else is simply your attraction to me.”

You want to be angry. To be insulted. But as you both charge at full speed to your peak, the only thing you feel with absolute certainty is alive.

You let out a cry as your walls flutter around him, you climax washing over you in a torrential wave. Clinging to him, you gasp through your orgasm as you feel overcome with pleasure throughout your entire body. As you come undone around him, he thrusts once more, as deep as your entangled bodies will allow, his hips stilling and his release following hot on the heels of yours. You can feel his cock pulsing while you ride out your high, stunned by the magnitude of your climax and Silco's revelation.

You find you don't have the energy to care at his subterfuge, not when you're so fuckdrunk off him that you can't remember your own name. As the last of your climax subsides, you feel every muscle in your body relaxing, the burning sensation under your skin finally cooling back to calmer waters.

You slump into Silco, your arms tucked to your chest as you cling to the fabric of his vest. His arms envelope you, holding you close as both your chests heave, your breathing ragged and labored.

When finally you regain your breath, you look up at Silco with half-lidded eyes.

“I can't believe you planted those just to get me to have sex with you.”

His good eyebrow lifts in response.

“No one forced you to smell them,” he counters.

You narrow your eyes at him but have no energy left to offer a rebuttal. He continues to hold you to his chest before chuckling. You look up at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“How do you think these flowers would look on my nightstand?”

You let out a soft, tired laugh.

“I don't know. Only one way to find out.”

A/N: I finally wrote a sex pollen fic! I wanted reader to be under the effects of it rather than Silco.

Taglist: @averagecrastinator @mazikomo @writingmysanity @insult-2-injury @ariaud @jennrosefx @ins0mniac-whack @steponmesilco  @sherwood-forests @leave-me-alone-silco @givemebeansnow @aeryntheofficial @dreamyonahill @lostbunn @eurydicethesage @thepineapplesimp @whatisafandom @violet-19999 @juicboxd @sageandberries-png @delta-is-here @beardedladyqueen @mutedwordz @fly-like-egyptian-musk @jennithejester @mrsdelirium @witheringblooddemon

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Omg, thos was so cute! I usually don't enjoy modern AUs, because writers often discard the places, the plot and just put characters in our regular world, so your spin on it is awesome, even though the modern aspect isn't really discussed (still the details like Silco still being The eye of Zaun and Zaun existing in general, are very nice). And I loved the detail about transactional love and being scared of accepting help from others! I felt hat so much ugh, that was such a callout XD

I loved the dialogue between Silco and the reader, it was so cute! I imagine the reader sobering up from the anesthesia and being like "I'm so sorry you had to see that Sil, that was so embarassing..." while he's like "I'm so glad I went with you." XDDDD

Oh and after they come back from the clinic and reader "meeting" Jinx? How funny would that be?? "What's wrong with them?" "They're on strong meds, so they're a little out of it." Meanwhile the reader's like "Your hair is so pretty...Who are you?" "I'm your daughter!" And reader turns to Silco like "WE HAVE A CHILD??" Omg the chaos would be awful XD

Hi, hello! Do you know those cute videos where couples interact while one of them is on hard pain meds after stuff like getting wisdom teeth removed? Well, I would like to request a Silco x gn!reader who had to undergo a procedure like that and Silco visits them afterwards, but they're still zooted on the meds and they don't exactly remember who he is or that they're together, but they do know (and are not afraid to tell him) that he is very handsome. Just completely at aw about him. And when he tells them they're actually together?? The pure adoration from the reader?? The idea is too cute, I'm sorry. Just something fluffy and fun. But if that is not your cup of tea, that is completely fine too. Thank you!

This premise is so stinking cute! Thank you, Robin!

Foreign but Familiar

Masterlist | AO3 link

Rating: Teen. 

Tags: Silco x gn!reader, fluff, domestic fluff, modern au, anesthesia, established relationship, feminine-style engagement ring but only because I like the thought of of Silco proposing with an emerald

Word count: 1,2k

Silco escorts you to get your wisdom teeth removed and is rewarded with a very loopy partner who doesn't remember becoming engaged to him.

“You promise you don't mind? I can get one of my friends to take me—”

“It's fine—”

“I just feel bad cause it's gonna be for a few hours and you're so busy. I don't want to pull you away—”

“I said it's fine—”

“Maybe I could call—”

Silco cuts you off with a stern call of your name. You blink, silenced.

“I told you I would take you, so that’s exactly what I’m doing,” your partner says, voice low. His mismatched eyes lock with yours, rooting you to the spot. 

It almost sounds like a threat, but you suppose that’s to be expected; you’ve never been good at accepting help from others. Your entire life, good deeds in your favor have been used as bargaining chips. Love was transactional, attached with strings. So it’s understandable that you have a hard time breaking those old habits, even when the person offering them is the Eye of Zaun. (Or perhaps because he’s the Eye of Zaun). 

The drive to the dentist is painfully quiet, allowing your mind to turn over anxious thoughts. You’d never been under anesthesia before. Your brain conjures up all possible scenarios—none of them good.

Silco must have sensed your unease because soon his hand is reaching past the gear shift toward you, palm warm against your knee.

“It’s going to be okay,” he coos, eyes focused ahead on the road. “It’s a standard procedure.”

You nod, lips pinched tight.

You put off having your wisdom teeth removed for far too long precisely because of your fear. It wasn’t until Silco encouraged you to finally get it over with that you made the appointment.

Everything goes by in a blur. Various people in scrubs give you forms to sign and tell you everything you need to know as far as the procedure itself as well as aftercare. You can barely hear them over the rushing sound in your eardrums, like an ocean wave that threatens to pull you under. You thank your lucky stars that Silco is there with you, nodding all the while as he listens intently, asking questions on occasion when he needs clarification.

Before you know it, you’re lying in the dentist chair, the bright yellow overhead light hitting your eyes. You squint and hear a calming voice next to you.

There’s a needle prick.

A few minutes of bated breathing.

Then sleep overtakes you.

When you awaken, you feel as if your body is weightless, like you’ll drift off and float to the sky if you’re not careful. Your face feels funny and your mouth feels full and dry. Groaning, you slowly take in the world around you. 

Everything is a blur of bright white walls and yellow lights, with the occasional blob of blue scrubs in your periphery. There’s shuffling and chatter around you, the dentist office busily moving along its day. 

You hear a voice somewhere to your right. It’s a low hum and strangely familiar, almost comforting. A soft (slightly loopy) smile on your lips, you lean toward the sound.

“Mmm…” you hum as you enjoy the melody of the voice next to you.

There’s a small chuckle at that as well as a call of your name and it sends you giggling.

“That’s me,” you say, grinning. “That’s my name.”

You lift your eyes to a blurry image of a face. Head tilting as you take it in, you see an ocean green eye on one side and a dark obsidian black eye on the other. Your eyebrows lift in curiosity as the figure comes more into focus.

Blush settles in your cheeks as you take in more of this stranger’s form. Deep valleys of scars along one side of his face, from his temple to his lips. 

His lips…

Without thinking, you lick yours before lifting your eyes to his, taking in the mismatched gaze.

“Ooooh…” you coo softly to yourself, your attention grabbed by the glowing orange of his corrupted eye. It swirls and dances, mesmerizing in its fluidity. You’re completely transfixed by it, unable to tear your eyes away in your drugged state.  “So pretty…”

The man calls your names and it startles you a little, breaking you out of your trance. 

“Hmm?”

He says something. You can’t quite hear it.

“What?”

He says it again. You can just barely make it out.

“How are you feeling?”

You offer the handsome man a wide cotton ball filled grin. “I’m feeling great.”

You hear giggling behind you from someone in a blue scrub. 

“It’s time to go home,” the man says. “Let’s go.”

Your eyebrows furrow as your head pulls back into your neck.

“Why would I… go home with you?” You squint your eyes at him. “I just met you.” You pout your lips, thinking as hard as the drugs will allow you. 

The man chuckles softly.

“I don’t care how handsome you are, you can’t kidnap me,” you mutter to yourself, but it’s much louder than you ever intended; volume control isn’t exactly one of the first things you regain after waking up. 

The man laughs at that one before reaching for your hand.

“Hey! What are you—”

“Do you remember when I gave you this?” the man asks, lifting your hand so that you see a beautiful ring on your ring finger, gold with a large emerald. It catches the light and shines in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Wow…” you breathe out, moving your hand this way and that so that it sparkles. 

You lift your eyes back to him, the gears in your foggy brain slowly churning. Looking back and forth between him and the ring, you manage to piece it together.

Though, not all of it.

Blush rushes to your cheeks and you bring both hands up to cover them, eyes wide.

“We’re married?!”

He shakes his head, laughing.

“Not yet, darling,” he coos. “But very soon.”

He lifts your hand again, his long fingers warm as they wrap around the tips of yours.

“I gave you this as a promise that we would.”

Your mouth hangs open.

“Well?” you ask. “What’s taking so long?”

He lets out a loud laugh at that one. You feel something warm within your chest at the sound. It feels both foreign yet comforting. Like it’s something precious and rare. Like it’s something only meant for your ears.

“You’re the one who set the date so far,” he explains.

You squint your eyes, unconvinced.

A beat.

“Actually, that does kind of sound like me…” you relent.

You find yourself in the passenger seat of a car, with absolutely no recollection of how or when you got there. Turning, you see that same man from before in the driver’s seat.

“Wait…” Your brain starts to slowly awaken, but not quite enough. “How am I supposed to marry you if I don’t even know your name?”

He chuckles, slowing the car down to a stop before turning to you. He smiles and it makes the lines in his scarred face seem shallower, his entire demeanor shifting to something softer.

“Silco.”

You blink.

“Silco…” you hum to yourself. 

Your mouth pulls into a small grin, secretive and giddy, as you allow your body to sink into the carseat. You repeat the name once more, liking the way it feels on your tongue. 

“Silco.”

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The Revolutionist

(masterlist in progress)

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

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 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.

alas i am tortured by visions of silco striding across the morning moors screaming his lover's name