#regency silco | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

astudyincontrasts · 2 years

Text

The Baron’s Daughter

Regency!Silco x Fem!Reader NSFW

A very belated birthday gift for the sweetest, most patient @thesaltybuns ! Thank you for being such a darling, special part of this fandom 🖤 Here’s a little three part regency AU fic to celebrate you and all your beautiful art. I’ll be dropping a chapter a day for the next three days. Cameo appearances by Sevika and Singed, and some familiar henchmen too.

Tags: No Y/N, regency themes, arranged marriage, canon typical violence, blood, illness, virgin reader, longing, slight angst, smutty funtimes in later chapter sshhh

Part 1/Part 2/Part 3

Addendum 1

You’d never laid eyes on Silco until your wedding.

You’d hoped, entertained the notion for weeks after your father had broke the news of the marriage arrangement to you, that the man might come calling to meet you, or at least to set eyes upon his bride to be. At first you’d wishfully thought perhaps there might be a bit of wooing. Flowers, maybe, shy conversation. The days passed and the silly romance of that childish idea faded into a more sober hope that maybe you’d at least get a staid parlor introduction over tea.

The date of the wedding had crept closer and closer and soon you found yourself simply hoping perhaps he might swing by after a hunt to see your father and perchance you’d catch him briefly.

More days, more nothing.

Not a letter, not a single bridal gift. Nothing.

The first time you clapped eyes on him was the walk up to the altar on your father’s arm. Silco stood impassively up beside the minister, waiting, sharp profile aloof and set of his thin mouth severe. He did not turn to watch you walk toward him, and indeed, the dark patch covering his left eye prevented any manner of peripheral observation of your slow procession toward him. But instead of turning toward you, he simply pivoted to face the minister. Hands laced behind his back unmoving save for a slight, impatient tick of fore and middle gloved fingers in counter time to the bridal march the organ played.

He wordlessly accepted your hand when your father offered it, and let it drop the second custom no longer demanded it be held aloft.

Your father was a wealthy land baron with three sons, and you the only daughter and youngest. You’d known quite well for most of your life that your marriage would not be a thing of heady romance, but rather a ploy to build the family name, or coffers - or both. Silco was of no name at all, an industrialist, or so you’d heard, with wealth condensing so rapidly under his hand that there were rumors against its legitimacy and origins. Rumors of his origins too, but those you’d learned less about.

He repeated the vows quietly, did not spare you a glance as you watched the mismatched halves of his face curiously. Badly scarred across nearly the whole left side of his face, yet not unhandsome. The eye that refused to look at you was a soft teal, tired in its set, or else exceptionally disinterested, but not unintelligent. No, everything about the man beside you plighting his troth spoke of a resounding and almost menacing level of clever intelligence and hunger.

Far too nervous repeating your own vows back to him, eyes upon the minister as you followed his lead, to sneak another glance at Silco and see if he even deigned to watch you.

You held your own hand up yourself for his ring, no cradling touch under your palm, no hand to hold yours after the gold band slid over your knuckle.

The kiss he offered you upon the steps of the church after the ceremony was a dryly perfunctory peck on the cheek through your veil that he’d never sought to lift.

The touch of it burned softly on your skin as you sat alone during the wedding breakfast, your new bridegroom too busy talking business with other men in attendance, your father now included, to be seated at the head table beside you for a first meal together.

The coach ride back to his home was one of solitude as well. He’d not even helped you into the carriage, leaving it to your lady mother and father to see you up into the carriage and off to your new life with kisses and smiles and the unsubtle subtlety of whispered well wishes for the night to come. Silco meanwhile, had mounted his horse, preferring to ride rather than be confined to the boredom of a carriage with a new bride he’d not said one word to directly, and seemed impatient to be away, as if the whole day had been little more than a tiresome strain on his precious time.

Still, you caught his eye through the window as the carriage door closed and swore there was a flash of something there in that cool oceanic gaze that was not calculating, nor boredly irritated. No, instead it felt almost pitying? Or apologetic. It was there and gone too fast to track as he turned and wheeled his horse to the road with spurs dug in.

Mr. Silco’s holdings were not the same as your father’s large estate, though the house was no mean thing. It lay in the city though, not on a large land holding. And not in a particularly fine part of town… old, though it was no slum, simply one of those parts of town that had fallen to disrepair over the years and was now only slowly becoming reclaimed. The house was a large manor, oddly arranged on the point of a triangular city block so that its main doors sat directly on the point and the house was pressed on both sides by streets as it expanded outward, promising a strange array of rooms and architecture.

The household staff proved to be as odd as the home itself. A sinister lot; the valets all lumberingly massive brutes or else unhealthily skinny and slovenly looking wraiths, with no discernable butler among them. No ladies maid for you, though there were a few other women on the staff, looking just as rough and roguish as the men, as if they’d all found their way in from the lanes and never raised to service.

You were shown in by one of their lot and left in the hallway to watch your luggage carried inside, ignored as thoroughly as if you were one of the trunks or else a piece of new furniture no one quite knew where to place yet. Standing there, gloves in your hands, the kidskin wringing in slow tightening twists between nervous fingers, you waited, and let attention wander to the house itself.

Large, dark, but not unwelcoming. Rich, deep woods and wine-drenched colored fabrics interspersed with faded jeweltones that lent the candlelight a deeper warmth. The whole place had an air of slight elderly shabbiness to it, most recently plastered over with the wealth and slightly ostentatious air of rich trappings. The parquet floor was worn, varnish faded along the paths taken by many feet. High above you a soot darkened mural splayed across the foyer ceiling and beckoned back into the great halls.

You followed it, neck craning, stepping blindly out of the way of the staff as they ignored your presence. Let the artwork lead you on. The collections on the walls were an odd assortment, clearly acquired from a variety of estates and former owners, not a single portrait bearing any familial relation to your new husband.

One by one you explored the rooms; parlors and sitting rooms, a large formal dining room and a largely vacant and disused music room. A library conjoined with a comfortable study, and further back doubtless there were the kitchens and staff rooms. A billiard and games room jutted off the study, looking very well and frequently used indeed. The only room downstairs save for the dining room that had a fire lit.

He found you there, as you placed a hand upon one of the white ivory balls upon the billiard table and rolled it gingerly from side to side.

“Apologies for keeping you waiting.”

The sound of his voice made you jump, had you spinning to find him standing in the doorway, divested of his hat, gloves and overcoat from the ride. Clearly he’d not been in such a hurry to find you that he hadn’t found time to make himself comfortable. His smile was thin, taut, nothing of mirth living in the shape of it.

Silhouetted in the doorframe in shirtsleeves and waistcoat he cut a strikingly lean figure. Sharp set of shoulders and posture one of petulant authority, waist and hips narrow and legs long. He was a beautiful, sharp-edged slice of a man, and your words stuck in your throat as his hand slid from where it had rested upon the outside of the doorframe as he stepped inside.

You’d later come to learn that pace of his, the unhurried luxuriant roll of it, a stalking manner of walk that purred quiet power and intent.

“I see you’ve found your way around.” Quiet pitched velvet gravel in his tone that would have been flat save for the elegance with which he spoke and the slight touches of dark humor every now and again that caught his inflection.

“I’m sorry, I was tired of waiting and in the way.”

“Don’t be. This is your home now, I suppose.” He drew the ivory ball you’d lifted your hand from toward himself and spun it off across the table to clack lightly into the gathering of red balls at the far corner of the green felt. “You’re free to go where you like, though I ask you stay out of my office on the second floor. All the bedrooms are up there as well, I expect you’ll want to rest, if you’d like me to show you.”

Not tired in the least, but it seemed the agreeable thing to do, not to mention it felt as if you might have to find your own way to your new bedroom later if you declined the offer.

“Yes, please.”

He hummed something of approval and turned, let you follow him out of the room and back toward the hallways.

“Have you lived here long?” You asked, trailing in his wake.

“Not very. It belonged to an… an old acquaintance of mine previously, though.”

“I see.” You very much did not see. “Why did he decide to leave?”

“He died.” The reply was cold, matter-of-fact, and laced with something darker beneath its chill civility.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

That got you to hold your tongue, unsure what to think, and rather too alarmed to pry further. Silco led you up the stairs, taking a candelabra from one of the waiting servants to climb up into the stretching shadows as the late afternoon began its slide into evening. He pointed out his office as you passed it, left many of the other rooms unexplained, and showed you straight to the bedroom, opening the door for you and stepping aside. The trunks had been brought up but left unpacked, and a paltry fire was lit in the small fireplace with a singular candle left beside the bed. The room was well appointed, comfortable and large but held the air of a room only recently divested of dust and not very thoroughly at that, air stale.

Silco set the candelabra down upon the bureau just inside the door.

“Dinner is served at eight. You may join me, if you like.”

It was such an odd thing to say. Why wouldn’t you join your husband to dine on your wedding night, or any other night? You paused within, beside your luggage, and turned to stare questioningly at him. He seemed to take no note of the strangeness of his offer, continuing.

“Breakfast will be brought up to you in the mornings, lunch and tea are your own affair. Speak with the servants if you need anything otherwise. We keep late hours in this house, but none of that should disturb or concern you.”

“Did you wan-”

“You’ve settling in to do.” His already fleeting attention upon you slid to your things as he cut you off in your attempted offer that he stay and you get to know each other a little. “I’ll leave you to it.”

The door shut behind him with a soft click of finality that brooked no argument, leaving you alone in the gathering dark.

Eight o’clock was ages away, and it gave you time to both rest and unpack the majority of your things, to finish airing out the room with open windows and arrange things how you liked. In the end you were grateful to do it yourself since no other distractions existed to numb your growing unease and nervousness. Not to mention it did make you feel a bit more at home; to be left to make the space what you wished rather than beholden to the stiff formality of a ladies maid to tut her tongue and sigh as you bade her move things about or fix them.

By the time the little clock on the mantle had chimed eight you were rested, had re-dressed from the road for dinner, and were eager to see him again, to finally share a meal. You thought to find him already waiting in the dining room, but instead the space was empty. Room lit and table laid, food upon it. You were grateful the place settings were not at an informal opposite ends of the table but rather beside one another. His at the head and yours at his right hand.

It was closer than customary for two dining alone, but if he wished to have you in a seat where he could more easily see you it felt like an improvement over all the little ways you’d gone overlooked recently. You waited by your chair, waited long enough you were beginning to worry he didn’t actually plan to join you.

It was a quarter after until he strolled in, back in a smartly brushed coat, no longer the informality of shirtsleeves. He seemed surprised to find you standing there, waiting, but came to pull out your chair for you.

“You could have begun without me.” He pushed the chair carefully beneath you before assuming his own seat, reproach mild.

“I didn’t like to be rude, sir.” You replied quietly, holding forth your wine glass that he might fill it after his own.

He smiled thinly and poured the lovely rich claret nearly to the brim of your cup. Far too much. You’d have a headache later if you weren’t careful.

“Silco.” He corrected you, even if your deference seemed to please him, “We rarely stand on precedent in this house. I daresay you’ll find things a touch more relaxed around here than what you might be used to.”

You repressed the urge to remark that you already had found that to be the case and instead helped yourself to the nearest plate before offering it to him.

“I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable here.” You attempted, hollow politeness a bastion you’d been raised and trained to so thoroughly it was now second nature.

Silco breathed a dry, near silent little laugh as he carved the slice of cold ham on his plate into bite sized pieces, the fine dark brow over his teal eye quirking upward a touch.

“If you say so. The best I can offer is that no one here will bother you.”

You gazed at him in silent confusion. Half the things he said seemed to have a meaning only known unto him, and the other other half seemed to intimate some manner of sinister underpinning he had no intention of elaborating on. No one will bother you? Why should anyone bother you in your own home?

The meaning became a touch clearer later, after the remainder of the dinner had passed in an ever-increasing weight of silence, and you’d gone up to ready for bed after he excused himself to the study for a smoke and brandy. After you’d dressed yourself for your wedding night in the most comely nightgown you owned; a nearly sheer confection of a thing that your mother had gifted you, no doubt eager that you might get to the business of making her grandbabies and no delay. After you’d blown out a few candles to leave merely a romantically gloomy glow in the room, and sat perched upon the bench at the foot of the bed nervously awaiting him. After those nerves hit their crescendo and began the slow slide toward first concern and then down into disappointment as the hours ticked by, and disappointment subsided into exhaustion when you finally climbed into bed alone and blew out the guttering last stub of a candle.

No one will bother you. Not even your husband. Not even on your wedding night.

It felt mortifying the next morning, to lie there alone and pretend to be asleep as one of the household lit the fireplace, and later brought your breakfast tray. Unable to even look the servants in the face, a bride gone unwanted.

By the time you rose, had some tea and toast and dressed, you’d talked yourself into at least three excuses for why he hadn’t joined you, and lined up a few more in the wings for good measure. Perhaps he’d been tired, perhaps all the ever important business of his had pulled him away, perhaps he’d simply thought you deserved a better rest after a long day and a big change of circumstance.

So many excellent little reasons to hand to explain away his disinterest in you. And each of them fell away one by one with every subsequent night you were left to climb into bed alone after sharing a near silent supper with Silco.

You tried to uphold conversation on your end, and to his slim credit he was never dismissive or rude to your attempts. You simply struggled to meet him on common ground, as the whole of his focus and every day seemed to be swallowed by his work, which you knew precious little of. Asking after it did nothing to help, as that one topic he did refuse to discuss with you, gently but firmly shutting down any inquiry more prying than how his day had gone. He did not seem the kind of man to speak frivolity to and you were well out of gossip with not a single scrap of mail from any family or acquaintance for the first full week. And so after a few days of faltering attempts you both fell into a measured silence broken only occasionally by polite demands.

And he was always polite with you.

For all his assurance that first night that his house stood on no grounds of formality he never came to dinner in a state of undress, never seemed unsober, always pulled out your chair and served you before himself, made sure your cup was full and begged your pardon if he had to leave before you had finished. He never swore, even on days when his mood seemed black as a thundercloud and you hardly dared speak to him for the severity of his expression.

He never laid a hand upon you either. Not in anger, nor in affection.

And so with nothing else to do, you settled into learning of him, slowly. Gathered scraps of his story to yourself like sifting tiny flecks of gold from the silt of a riverbed. Tales of his past that you could glean from the servants, the fact he had a ward you had yet to meet, a young girl as inherited, it seemed, as the house you lived in, from that late acquaintance of his. Rumors of what he did for the very lucrative living he made abound, and the sound of them scared you off chasing down the truth too hard.

He became enigma; puzzling, frustrating center of your little world.

And his refusal to share your bed the most frustrating thing of all.

You supposed you ought to be grateful, that perhaps any young woman ought to be grateful not to be put upon to share herself with someone who by all reason was a total stranger… but. But you wanted him. In those silent hours every night before sleep took you, you’d come to realize quite profoundly how badly you really did want him, and not just in the manner of fulfilling some marital piety but because of the way the sound of his voice made your skin warm, because of how the shape of him and the way he moved pleased you so deeply to watch. How gazing at his face over the dinner table made your fingertips burn soft fire at the desire to touch, to trace his profile and pull his collar open, to run along the sharp thin shelf of his lower lip.

More than all this the yearning to be touched trumped all.

Those elegant, fastidious hands of his and their constant, easy motions an almost embarrassingly obvious distraction of yours, feeding the coals of quiet fantasies you would have been smart not to entertain. Yet you could not help yourself, and those lonesome nights began to turn from disappointment to frustration as surely as the green on summer leaves rioted into fall color.

By the third week you’d begun to resort to little wiles to see if you could not entice his affections. You laced the tops of your corsets tighter, chose dresses with the lowest possible cut of neckline so that you were all but spilling from them in generous offer. With nothing but time on your hands you could dote upon your appearance, every curl perfectly coiled, every tendril of hair laid just so in softness against your skin where it fell artfully from the piled intricacy of whatever style you could manage without the aid of a ladies maid. Scent chosen carefully, cheeks pinched to a soft flush, lips made pretty and plush with a softening beeswax balm, every little detail that could possibly catch his eye put on full display each evening.

And beyond the superficial, you had taken to exploring the house more, haunting its hallways, refusing to be relegated to just your bedroom, the ladies parlor, and the dining room on evenings.

One night, when you could not take the silence of your room another second, you had shrugged on a shawl and padded out of your room with a candle, determined to ransack the library for some form of diverting literature, perhaps even find a book worth discussing with Silco over your singular shared meal.

The rest of the house was dark and silent in the late hour, even the light from under the door of his forbidden office was out. The worn parquet and elderly oriental carpeting felt delicious under bare feet in a riot of sensation, and the chill of the night was just enough to feel soothing but not biting. Such a surprise then, to find a few candles already lit in the study, and just off of it, the billiard room a spill of bright light.

Curious, you set your candle down on the desk of the study and wandered toward the games room to find Silco within alone, bent over the billiard table with a cue in hand, lining up a shot. A glass of whiskey sat upon one edge of the table and a freshly lit cigar lay in an ashtray along the side table, smoke rising like heavy incense in a lazy, wavering line that plumed outward at its zenith.

He glanced up in surprise as you darkened the doorway and you, in turn, froze.

That black eyepatch of his was off.

You’d imagined all manner of thing beneath it in the few weeks you’d been here; a gaping dark socket, a milky white dead eye, perhaps nothing but a stretch of skin where the lid had been sewn shut… even perhaps just a normal eye incapable of sight and so ever distractingly off center or lolling wildly that he kept covered in an effort to maintain his precious air of irreproachable dignity.

Never in all your wildest imaginings had you thought to encounter the lidless, black sclera orb that gazed back at you with its hot glowing coal of an iris. It stared through you unblinking, watching your mouth part open and shock rush your features in spite of yourself.

Silco straightened, and almost immediately dug a hand deep into one pocket of his breeches for the eyepatch he’d removed.

“No. No, please.” You rushed a step or two in, the fraughtness of his desire to cover himself upsetting.

He paused and turned the contrast of cool teal and hot orange-red back upon you distrustfully.

“Please don’t.” Your tone softened from that initial pleading, and he slid his hand from his pocket empty.

“If you insist.” It was not pitiable, his tone, nor terribly harsh. Simply that cold, slightly clench-jawed habitual tenor.

Lips rolled inward as you fought to settle attention either upon him or the billiard table, unable to pick a focus. He was back in shirtsleeves, cravat gone this time and high, stiff collar open to reveal the lean column of his throat, sleeves rolled to just below his elbow, forearms corded muscle and sinew. He was a terrible beauty, made more terrible by that demonic half gaze that did nothing to ruin the attractive lines of his scarred face.

“Playing alone?” You asked, timidly grasping at conversational straws.

“Practice.” He explained flatly, “Makes perfect, or so they say.”

The smile you offered him was gentle in its curve as you turned to step to the cue rack, and selected one carefully to match your height and reach. His unscarred brow quirked upward.

“Care for an actual game?” You asked, examining the tip of the cue to avoid his quizzical and slightly scoffing gaze.

“You play?” Not bothering to keep the slight hint of incredulity from his voice, he set the table with its three balls back to start position and watched you grin.

“I’ve three elder brothers, Mr. Silco. If they desired to play doubles I was often called upon to fill the fourth. They regretted teaching me, in the end. Didn’t much like being showed up in a game ladies aren’t supposed to play.”

That earned you the first honest little laugh from him you’d ever had and it bubbled up against the bottom of your heart with delighted pride.

“Then by all means.” He stepped back and gestured to the table in a slight sweep of those long fingers you found so entrancing, “Ladies first.”

It was a fine game. He spared you not at all, pulling no shots, and you paid him the same respect, even if you could feel the vacillation between his delight and frustration as you steadily pulled ahead in points. Won match after match until he at last admitted defeat, tossing his cue upon the table in exasperation, but ultimately awarded you a polite quiet applause as well.

Glowing with pride, you reached into the corner pocket to retrieve your last shot, only to still as his fingers closed warmly over your wrist above where you hand lay buried in the latticed leather pocket of the table. A glance upward found him terribly close before you, yet you could not tear attention away from his touch, from the soft circle of a stroke his thumb made absently on the tender skin of your inner wrist.

That slow building ache that had begun weeks ago doubled in size and weight within, stealing strength from knees and breath from your throat.

You’d been conscious of him throughout the game, of his occasional nearness, of how he’d bent over your lean once, to judge a shot you were lining up for himself, of his gaze from across the table as your bend at the waist no doubt offered a lovely view down the neckline of your nightgown. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t watched him in the same manner as he took his shots. But this, this was wonderfully and intentionally close, and that blessed contact sparking warm fire that tingled up your arm and tickled in the crook of your elbow.

“To the victor goes the spoils.” He murmured quietly, and for a breathless second you’d thought perhaps you might’ve won the favor of a kiss. Face tilted upward and you nearly committed the embarrassment of offering a slight pursing of lips… when his hand left the grip of your wrist to dig into the hip pocket of his waistcoat and set two guineas upon the green felt.

Your incredulous gaze ticked from the coins to his countenance and back again as your hand withdrew from the corner pocket, the ball you had been retrieving well forgotten.

“I… I don’t want your money.” Voice touched by a bit more of your offense than you’d meant to show. It ruined your sweetness and you berated yourself for it even as you wrestled with his actions.

Silco, for his part, looked only mildly displeased, but not offended.

“Whyever not?”

Unable to help the way your brows furrowed in consternation as you looked up at him, you struggled with your composure, heat flooding your face far too obviously. So easy to fluster, so quick to temper, a foible you’d managed to keep well hidden with practice and hard lessons at the hands of your governesses, but unbreakable in the end.

“It was enough to play for the pleasure of your company. Sir.” Eyes ticked between his mismatched ones trained down upon you as something suspiciously close to surprise touched the usual stone of his expression. “If you had won, what would I have had to offer you?”

“What indeed.” He murmured after half a beat, turning your pink flush red, “I’m sure we could have come to an equitable arrangement.”

You were just opening your mouth as your brain struggled mightily with the notion he might have been keen to take you to bed had you just let him win, a sinking feeling that perhaps you’d wounded his pride and tricked yourself out of the very thing you longed for, with your inability to play anything but fair, when all of a sudden he cut the knees right out from under you.

“Perhaps a week in which you did not pester me for details of my work, or that I did not get reports of you bribing the servants for stories of my past?”

No sooner had he warmed your heart than he saw fit to punch it straight from your chest.

The pool cue in your hand slammed against the felted flagstone table with a resounding crack of a whip. It only made him smile, the villain.

“Why take a wife if all you desired was to be left alone?”

The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, hot and angry as that horrible eye of his.

Silco’s smile turned cruel, the frequently hidden teeth of his showing slightly, too large for the rest of his finer, more aquiline features, and the front pair chipped as if he’d been beaten badly in a brawl at some point in his past.

“Because neither my happiness nor your own came into the question of the union, my dear. Only your father’s gain. Not that I lost anything in the bargain. Far from it. What's a quiet meal at the end of the day weighted against one more business partner tied to my plans?”

You were breathing hard, world a sickly tilt and heart hammering in your ears as he pressed the tips of fingers to the softness under your chin to keep your face full upon himself mercilessly. And something about the way your anger melted into an undeniable ache of mourning at the sudden cold wash of the reality he sluiced over you seemed to give him pause. You could feel the sting of tears welling against your lower lashes, and the bite of nails within the clench of fists trembling at your sides. No need to try to wrench your face from the plinth of his fingers, the press of them eased and dropped on their own as his pleasure in hurting you faltered.

It was enough of an out to allow you to spin and take to your heels.

He caught you at your bedroom door, startled you by stopping your shove of it closed behind yourself, unaware he was even on your tail, let alone so close behind, far too lost in your own misery and whirling thoughts to have heard him behind you.

“Wait.” It was sharper than anything he’d ever said to you, the closest he’d come to a demand, and instead of pushing the door spitefully against him as was your first inclination, you paused, stopped, and released the pressure on your side of the door, stepping back as you fought tears valiantly, unwilling to give him any satisfaction in seeing you cry.

Far from looking hungry to cause you more harm, he seemed almost contrite, uncomfortable in what he’d done and even moreso in what was so clearly a role he was unfamiliar with as penitent. Your shawl that you’d forgotten in your rush to leave the billiard room was clenched in his hand. He hesitated awkwardly in its offer to you and you couldn’t find it within yourself to take pity upon him and relieve him of that burden, wrapping arms around yourself as you took another step away.

His arm dropped at your failure to reciprocate and accept the scrap of clothing back, his gaze upon you unreadable, but touched at its very edges with perhaps the closest a cold hearted creature such as himself could come to regret. He opened the shawl between both hands and stepped forward, draped it over your lifted and bunched shoulders and let it wrap warmly around you, hands smoothing its fabric over your upper arms in a touch that had one of the tears clinging to your lower lids shiver and drip free, before the contact fell away, hands tucked safely behind his back once more.

“Why were you downstairs so late tonight?” He asked quietly, eyes carefully avoiding the misery of your expression as they ticked up and down the rest of you, “In such a pretty little nightgown.”

The compliment shocked you after his cruelty, and had you wondering if he wasn’t baiting you into another row, or perhaps just offering you a backhanded nicety to condescend. You hated having to second guess the singular compliment he’d ever offered you. Hated where the promise of the night had led. You were suddenly very tired, tired straight down to the bone with dashed hopes and a bleak future stretched long and terrifying before you.

“I just wanted to find a book to read.” You admitted weakly, voice failing you with a soft crack. Unable to lift eyes from the floor between your bare toes and his boots, you simply closed them wearily. “Something to read and share with you.”

He didn’t make a perceptible sound, but the air in the room shifted. A moment later you heard his boots on the floor and opened eyes to find him disappearing out the open door. Shoulders slumped as you buried your face in your hands, fighting the ragged lump of a sob lodged in your chest, only to hear him clear his throat a moment later and look up to find him back, a book held out between you both.

“This has long been a favorite of mine. If it's reading you want, there’s a better selection on my office shelves than the ones downstairs. Simply ask.”

You reached out and took the novel from him, eyes straying from its worn and well loved cover to his face. For a second he looked as if he would say more, but ultimately turned away.

“Stay?”

You don’t know why you asked it, why you kept on wanting someone so hateful to keep your company, but you did. In spite of all of it, you did. So badly.

“I think I’ve imposed enough on your good graces for the evening.” He refused, but gently, and lingering in your doorway with his back turned, paused and fished those two guineas out of his pocket once more to lay them on the dresser.

The breath you drew at the return of the spiteful little coins was shivering.

“I don’t want your prize.”

He hummed a little noncommittal rebuttal of a noise, tinged with mirthless humor.

“Take it anyhow.”

He shut the door behind himself, leaving you clinging to that paltry excuse of an apology, leaving you to climb into bed alone again and curl around the gift of the book clutched to your chest. To come to grips with the chill reality of your situation and to curse your father through bitter, silent tears.

His only daughter’s happiness was never going to be any match for your father’s greed and business acumen. He smelled blood in the water surrounding Silco’s dealings and so he came swimming to join the feast, eager to use you to tie himself to the next big investment. Nary a thought or care for where that might have left you.

#silcoxreader #silco #arcane #regency silco #regency au #silco x f!reader #arcane silco x reader #silco fic #arcane fic #silco x reader #silco arcane #gift fic

563 notes · View notes

perfectlywingedsilco · 1 year

Text

Regency Silco ~

#silco #silco fanart #art and sketches #regency silco

173 notes · View notes

villainsidechick · 5 months

Text

When you're reading a fic and it's so good you don't realize you've read several chapters in one sitting. A Friday not wasted, reading with the puppies and a pot of chai tea.

Regency Silco is the new addiction. Thanks @meowsaidmissy for the rec on your amazing art posts!

Plus, me being the Cushing addict I am, all I can see is a live-action Peter/Silco playing the fucking Arcane version of Rochester from hell. I LOVE this character. OMFG. He's mysterious, mean, sinister, brilliant, arrogant, sweet dad, sexy as shit little devil. I love this bastard of a man.

Kudos to this author for combining Jane Eyre and Arcane. Masterful!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/38519608

#I'm just gonna start this first chapter #hours later: still reading #silco fanfic #regency silco #bend but not break #ao3 silco fiction #peter cushing

16 notes · View notes

a-gal-with-taste · 1 year

Text

Pauper (Oneshot)

After the Zaunite Isles take their independence, there is some expectation of a high-born bride to sooth-away the remaining stings of the rebellion.

As a simple maid to a high-born lady, there are some expectations to follow every order given. Even the order to take her place, her name, her face... And her expected-betrothed.

If only there was an order not to fall in love. It would make thing all the more simpler.

Inspired by @designfailure56 lovely art, found HERE

Silco X F!Reader | Wordcount: 5674 | AO3

Princess & Pauper/Regency AU, drama, romantic tension, love, banter, flirting, romanticism, guilt, lying, identity-reveal, angst, internal conflict, soooooo self-indulgent

There was no uncertain-part within you, that withheld the knowledge that you were risking doom and heartbreak by following this command in its entirety.

Surely, all those under the rule of the reigning family knew full-well that their loyalty, their dedication was not to be faltering, nor was it to be questioned upon the granting of direct-order.

A part of you, however, still hosted rebel thoughts, and wished you had simply ran, the very-instant Lady Clara of Piltover summoned you alone to her chambers. A certainly rare-occasion, for her ladyship seemed eager to host a certain hatred for all aspects that reminded her of her status; from her loathing of balls, glaring-eye towards lovely gowns, and even having a certain annoyance for the leagues of servants waiting on her hand and foot.

Having been the one on hand-and-feet for your entire life, you couldn’t exactly sympathize with her.

And yet, bound by duty and pay, you came at her call, and found yourself at her door upon her summons. Being summoned-alone was not the detail that aroused any suspicions or dread.

It wasn’t until Clara grinned at you, with a smile sparkling in secrets, did you think to feel the hints of dread at the sight of a gown in hand, and a vial of dye in her other palm, whilst her own attire was inconspicuously common, hair colored in your own shade.

Before that night, when a maid of Lady Clara disappeared, and her Ladyship seemed oddly quieted the following morning, you had always giggled at the coincidence of visage, between proper lady, and proper-pauper.

Half a year after taking her place, you cursed the resemblance you shared with the woman. Sometimes, you even cursed your own face, for this deception would, inevitably, be the doom of you upon its discovery, a fact you felt in constant-mourning over...

"My lady."

You not only mourned the forthcoming loss of your employment. You also mourned the fact that this would, regardless of inevitable outcome, be the final night you could reasonably be-allowed in the company of the man calling for you. A man, who made your heart beat louder upon the simple act of rousing your attention from more anxious-thoughts.

A legendary captain of the local waters. A headache to the high-borns you work for, and who they worked for. A gentleman, in theory, with hands far-more calloused and bloodied than your own, in practice.

A king. The King of Zaun.

The man was a king, and yet, he called to you with all the reverence and respect as if it were you who wore the crown.

"My lady?"

"... Forgive me. I am extraordinarily horrid, being lost in thoughts," You murmur, in true apology, as you reach up to pinch the edge of the solid-gold mask. The masquerade-theme of this season’s ball, had been an idea set in place long-before you took on the more-daring mask of the Lady...

A seemingly innocent fact that made you wonder, how just how long her true Ladyship had plotted this, with your damning obedience and familiar-face in mind.

Soothing the gilded-gold into place across your eyes, you suffered a quietly-sharp inhale, before turning smoothly to your companion.

Your companion, and Clara’s betrothed.

The fact made your heart beat even-louder, and more painfully.

“Good-sir,” Managing a brilliant smile, you raised your hand delicately with the back of your gloved-knuckles extended. Relief blossomed warmly as he took no notice of your lack of hesitation, and instead stepped forward, dipping to brush lips across your hand. “You are quite late. I feared your absence.”

Silco, king of the freshly-independent Zaunite isles and waters, rose slowly back to his full-height, with a barely-noticeable curl on his thin-lips.

Half his face was shrouded in a mask that was entirely scandalous, and partially hellish - a joke, you imagine, but there is more fascination than humor as you study. The deep contours meld in colors of blood, of black, punctuated in sharp-curves and ending with an even sharper-horn near his temple.

His eye, always hidden behind a dark-patch, is barely-visible behind the severe mask and glints like a ruby born from obsidian.

“Forgive me, dear lady,” Silco mused slowly, voice a low rumble that eased deep into your bones, and roused you again from your thoughts. “I had other business that required attendance this evening, though, I know that does not surely forgive my tardiness.”

“I have already decided upon forgiveness for your transgression,” You assured him, smiling as he tilted his head to the side, his own brand of mirth clear in his bright-green eye.

“Are you certain? Such a sin as lateness is not a crime to be overlooked so readily, even by the most gracious and forgiving.”

“Yet you have been a perfect-gentleman in all other aspects. Surely leniency can be offered now, due your prior good behavior.”

The smile widens microscopically on his face, and your heart beats like a drum at the sight.

“Still, condolences are a necessity, in light of my own rude actions,” He notes, turning on his heel, and offering an elbow out to you. The red-eye of his gleams behind the devilish mask. “Walk with me?”

He hardly needed to ask. You’d walk with him every step, every minute, of every life, if you could be allowed to; but by the present circumstances, you knew it was an impossibility.

You knew that whatever fleeting affections you have for him, were indeed required to be fleeting. While the true Lady Clara did not divulge the details of her return, from whatever grand adventure she sought to avoid future-engagement, you knew entirely well that her boredom would return, and then so would she.

What became of you then, was still unknown. Mayhaps she would pay you greatly, and dismiss you even greater-distances away, or perhaps she would desire little evidence of her escape, and only the Gods would know of what became of that poor, missing maid from her service.

You did not think Lady Clara capable of such cruelty. But, still, you would have never thought she was capable of forcing you to play her part in the first place, so your expectations of her were quite out-of-sorts.

Regardless, one thing was clear: The real Lady Clara would return, someday sooner, rather than later.

She would dismiss the betrothal, or she would endure it. Mayhaps her forever-unsatisfied personality would clash with that of the man of Zaun, and the engagement would break on mutual-terms.

Regardless, upon her return, your companionship with Silco would be at its end. A relationship doomed from the start, destroyed the moment you were tasked into removing the mask, not just of the masquerade, but of this entire affair. It was not only expected, but a necessity, to avoid rousing suspicion or risking detection of the scheme, should he see a lowly-servant bearing the same face, same voice of her Lady.

Upon the real Lady Clara’s return, you would never be allowed to walk at Silco’s side again.

With that melancholy thought, you swallowed thick at the lump in your throat, and slid your arm through his elbow, before he grew more concerned at your extended-silences of thought. You already did too many of those. “I shall walk with you, always,” You assured him, smiling with the lie.

He smiled at the lie too, and your heart was beating so fast, you swore it began to crack inside its confines. You would not be surprised, when it did.

Arm in arm, he guided you away from the already faint bustling of the dance-hall, into the privacy of the gardens. This was not the first time such privacy was sought, for you spent many mornings after the imposed-deception out here among the roses and fountains. Solitude was a well-treasured gift, when one is playing imposter, but in the arm of a king, it feels like a twisted-version of a reward for all your efforts.

All the strain, the headaches, panic and worry melt-away as you’re guided further into the gardens, stars-shimmering brightly overhead as the breeze gently ghosts over you both, prompting your body to seek closer-shelter against his side.

“Had I known it would take only the touch of wind to guide you to my side...”

“I pray, my good sir, that you are not attempting to tease me!” You said, incredulous even as you bit back a chuckle. “And so soon after I showed forgiveness...”

“Ah, I am but a scoundrel of the worst-breed, according to the betters of both you and I, my lady. I’m astounded you have forgotten.”

“Probably because you are anything but, at least in my eyes and experience,” You said, tilting your head back to gaze up at him, the light of stars catching on the gold-contours of your mask, and offering a bright-gleam to your eyes behind them. “You have more-often been a delightful gentleman to accompany... a man worthy of a crown, dare I say.”

His footsteps come to a slow stop, his green eye gleaming as it gazes down to you. A simple tilt, and both mismatching eyes look down at you for a long moment, emotions seemingly nonexistent, or too well-buried for many to discern his exact-feelings, but ultimately, there’s a softness in his volume and eyes that is impossible to miss when he speaks to you.

“Do you dare say I am worthy of anything else, my lady?”

Breath catching within your lungs, you inhaled quietly, holding the air trapped within you as you continued to behold his rare gaze of tenderness - reveling in it, for Gods know how much longer you were allowed to be looked-at in such a way.

“I say you are worthy of it all, good sir,” You whispered, breathless. “And I shall pray you receive all that is worthy of you.”

This time, the softness at the edge of his vision could not be imagined, nor could the odd, determined glint that flashed in his red-eye... solidifying of some sort of resolve, mayhaps? What it truly signified, you were unsure, for his arm tightened around yours as he escorted the way towards a marble bench, laden with creeping-vines of concrete and stone.

“Many would disagree with such sentiment, darling.”

“There are not many who know you,” You countered as he sat you down upon the bench. The chill was momentary, for while his arm left you, there was only a beat before his hand was offered, one you took into your own silk-covered palm with a delicate squeeze of your fingers. “Half year’s time is long enough for one such as I to know what kind of man you are, and what you deserve, in my opinion.”

Silco hums, hand warm around yours, with thumb stroking slowly over the ridges of your knuckles. “Would you consider yourself to be a person who knows me well, then?”

“I would certainly hope,” You said, honestly, but assured nonetheless. Again, all meetings between the Zaunite Ruler and ‘Lady Clara’ had been done through masquerade, and through physical and metaphorical masks, of politeness and courtesy. An unspoken clause to Zaun’s independence, the Lady poses as a well-standing, well-suited match to further solidifying the trade deals and strengthening the bond between the nations.

It had been for duty, something which Clara seemed eager to avoid all her life.

Upon introduction, it was clear Silco cared for little-else in comparison. Pleasantries were surface-level, with even that first, cold brush of lips against your knuckles feeling superficial. A dullness in his gaze, a careful shield that you thought entirely impenetrable even with your smiles, more enthusiastic, borderline hysteric efforts to ensure the gentleman enjoyed the company of ‘Lady Clara.’

For the first handfuls of meetings, it seemed fruitless. A man contented at performing his duty and little else, he had only been polite, and you had only felt more and more unsuited for the role-assigned to you.

You didn’t know this man at all, and truly believed that you never would.

Then, he mentioned a daughter.

Offhanded, brief and few-details beyond her passion for tinkering, but you had latched onto that information like a life-line, presenting the hope for salvation in the form of a top-line kit, paid with most of your previous-wages, with a smile as radiant as the sun at the next dance.

Expressing hopes that it would inspire the enjoyment of his tinkering-daughter, it had only earned his silence for the night, and you thought all the efforts were wasted.

But the reward came slow, steadily after. A walk in the gardens the following gathering, discussions growing more personable, less-plain, with even half-hidden eyes gazing at you with a shifting-light in the green depths, and glints of red beyond the mask/

You came to know Silco.

Not entirely, and perhaps you would never fully know the man, but he had come to know ‘Clara’ enough, that only another month of evening-gatherings came to pass, before the treaty of Zaun and Piltover was subtly-solidified when he referred to you as his ‘betrothed.’

“Lost in thought again, I presume?” The stern-edge to his voice was betrayed by the faint smirk on his lips when your eyes flashed back up to him, away from the edge of your ornate-skirt you had been worrying with your free-hand. “You look like you’re struggling with a puzzle in your mind.”

“You are indeed a headache to decipher,” Teasing, your own smirk softening with another slow-passing of his thumb over your knuckles, following an amused hum. “But despite this, I will not retract my earlier statement. Despite the mysteries, I consider you a man worthy of the crown, and all else that should pass. I shall pray it only ever be-good, from this moment on.”

“And what of you?”

Your breath caught; only partially for the subtle tightening of his fingers around your own.

Silco only smiled, leaning down to loom over you, but your heart clenched only for other-reasons besides fear.

“Do you think yourself worthy, sweet betrothed of mine?”

No, was the immediate, and true answer to such a question.

In your heart, as it sits, and wants, and awaits being-broken inside your chest, you knew all-too well that it was honest, despite the deception you had played. No-more were you worthy of him than if you still wore the attire of a maid in-truth - done-away with the gold and finery, and facing him as one amongst the lowest of the low.

That alone was enough to taint your deservingness, the deception-besides only solidifying the fact that you were unsuited, illegitimate to even be in consideration for the role of betrothed.

“Mayhaps I ought to pray for good-things to come to you as well,” Silco murmurs, gazing down into your eyes as his other-hand stretches up. The next-breath is released in a shudder, as his ebony-silk gloves touch at your cheekbone, temple, before soothing back wayward hairs - in the shade of the true Lady Clara - from your face. “If not because you deserve them, then because we shall soon be bound in matrimony. All good things to you, shall be good unto me.”

“Then I apologize in advance.”

“Do not. I am content to take the good, and the horrid, in-stride alongside you.”

Said so plainly, so matter-of-factly... you wondered if he was trying to break your heart, or if it was simply his basic-nature to do so, without even being aware of it.

“Careful, good sir,” You murmur, quiet enough that the sound of your voice-cracking goes unawares. “Or I'd accuse you of loving me.”

“A vile accusation.”

Your face grows cold in the night-air as his palm leaves your face, but warmth returns in abundance, as the man sits at your side. As risque as he dared, gloved hand slipped behind you and around, settling on your waist-side as his fingers splayed at your skin, tapping at one of the bones of your corset.

It brought you closer to his side, and even closer to his lips, as he murmured against the crown of your head, “Vile, but truth is so often an ugly thing, isn’t it?”

Hands curled into your thickly-layered skirts as you tucked your chin down. “Yes,” you whispered, guilt and delight mingling as a single, troubled entity inside you. “The truth is ugly.”

Silence reigned between you. Outwardly, there was peace between you, but inside of your heart was a swirling hurricane, the shrieking of distressed-winds only barely held-back behind your teeth, along with swirls of lies...

You feared its release as the silence drew on, his warm breath stirring at your falsely-coloured hair in the blissful, terrible silence, before he filled the air with smooth words instead, “Are you happy, with our engagement?”

Gods, you would be.

You could be, if it was truly a marriage between yourself, and him. Knowing it was for him and Lady Clara, however, made you anything but. “I am the most delighted,” You assured him, tone betraying the words, but a practiced smile balancing out lies with truth. “Such a union would make any woman pleased, and I, am certainly pleasured.”

“I am glad,” He said, speaking each syllable and letter in a low-harmony, that inspired you to lean closer, perhaps more than appropriate, against his chest. Silco’s hand tightened, enough to make you draw breath at the touch of his fingertips pressing into your side... the air all came out of you in a rush, when next he spoke, “We can marry tonight, should you wish it, darling.”

Tonight. Tonight?

Suddenly his hands felt too warm, and breath, even warmer and smelling faintly of spiced smoke, closed-in against your ear as he spoke in a whisper, smooth and rushed like a wave over what remained of your good-senses, “My ship lies in the harbor - the reason for my tardiness. We could be wed by moonrise, untouchable at sea by dawn, in Zaun by tomorrow’s twilight... and from there, bound for life, then eternity, if we are so lucky.”

Your heart breaks, and comes alive at the mere thought. Enough to reinvigorate you to at least attempt to speak at the wonderful, horrible plan.

“I-”

Fingers soothing over the ribs of your corset, somehow you froze even further when you felt the subtle smile against the curve of your ear. “Grand-ceremony is something neither you nor I desire... Piltovian grandeur is something you-yourself claim to disdain, I seem to recall.”

Only because you knew the work that went into it. The fair-share of Piltovian weddings of high-class were backed by days upon days of labor, sore hands and boneless exhaustion ignored for the sake of grand-ceremony, often lasting mere hours. Always thankless, even under the guise of your Lady, you found increasing discomfort at allowing the maids you worked alongside to do your bidding, something you had confessed in-confidence to the man not long-ago.

He remembered, and seemed to admire you for it. Enough to make concessions on your behalf.

“Y-yes, but,” You swallowed, suddenly feeling light, perhaps even faint. “There... There is the matter of paperwork. And surely the treaty-”

“-Would be satisfied. As I can promise you, you would so-soon be as well.”

You are no longer prepared to faint, but to absolutely swoon at such implications, paired with the hints of a roguish-smirk on the Zaunites face, brushing the tip of your ear whilst his fingers petted lightly at your ribcage.

Still. “My parents...”

“...Do you honestly want them in-attendance? They hardly seem to know you, my lady.”

“Do you still wish for it? To marry me?” Ever confident, always composed, the man without a crown says it almost simply. Any other would think his tone flippant, with what great-ease he exhibits when speaking the question.

And thank the Gods for it, or this deception would’ve been doomed from the very start. Your heart still races, from the fact that you want to say yes, when everything hinges on the fact that you say no.

A slow exhale, shocked-nerves crackling with both dread and want, becoming soothed at the barest touch. “Silco, I...”

But you know him enough that his simple question is far from simple, and his tone, flippant and easy, does not reflect the hesitation you know he truly feels.

You shouldn’t. It was not something meant for you, no matter how appealing it sounded, but- “I... of course, but I cannot-”

“My lady, you are being entirely contradicting of yourself. For your sake, perhaps I would suggest honesty?”

He sounds... entirely earnest. Calming, patient, like a hunter soothing a cornered-animal, which is too perfect an analogy for the way your heart feels ready to race from your very chest, every nerve sparking with the desire to run.

Run deeper into his grasp, or run away - you are unsure, and with his knuckles strumming lightly against your skin, his attempts to comfort you are both a blessing, and a curse to your heart’s desires.

You want him. He isn’t yours to want.

Both thoughts swirl and swirl, turning and turning, on and on - until Silco says your name, and you, like the hunted, give in to the instinctive urge to simply escape.

Not one to keep you trapped, the arm slides from around you, freeing your body from a cage, but entrapping your wrist in a smaller, subtler one when you attempt to stand. “Darling-”

“Forgive me, I-... I know it is in my duty, but I cannot-”

Silco says your name, again, and then, at last, you realize what he said:

He said your name.

He said your name, and not the name of Lady Clara.

CLICK HERE TO CONTINUE ON AO3

144 notes · View notes

iseutz · 2 years

Text

Finally found some time to put together a Regency/Mr Rochester Silco

#Regency era #regency fashion #regency silco #silco #fanart #fb #sketch #digital painting #mr rochester

320 notes · View notes

cmon-man · 1 year

Photo

anyways @constant-fragmentation I keep thinking about ur Rochester Silco especially that waltz scene from ur latest chapter, good shit

bonus

#my art #sketch #rochester silco #regency silco #bend but not break #silco fanart #silco #jinx

30 notes · View notes

silcoitus · 2 months

Text

#I think my next Silco comm will be him in a slutty white shirt #post-dunkage #lemme check my bank account #and sees who's got comms open hehehe #silcoitus #tiktok #not my tiktok #regency #period dramas #period romance #DUNK HIM

43 notes · View notes

missygoesmeow · 5 months

Text

more Bend But Not Break because its just constantly rotating in my brain

#pretend that hand looks fine #my-art #silco #arcane #arcane fanart #silco fanart #regency silco #bend but not break #sketch

149 notes · View notes

constantfragmentation · 3 months

Text

TWO MASKS

Okay kids. Here it is.

Regency Silco One-shot request by @popoisatan

TWO MASKS on AO3

Rating: Explicit

Silco/Reader Silco/You

Regency Silco AU

You are the daughter of a wealthy councilman. A bookworm and blue-stocking that isn't interested in marrying or interacting with the dull and pretentious people in Piltover society. Your father unable to marry you in the past two seasons, decides to throw a masquerade ball, looking for a husband for his only child.

The problem is, she meets a shadowy figure from the Underground and everything changes.

Here is a quick snippet:

A low chuckle emanated from the shadows and forced a little yelp from your throat as you lost your balance and gripped the stone to keep from falling over the edge. The moon's rays outlined a man leaning against the corner of the balcony.

He looked like the devil himself, draped in black from head to toe. Beneath the mask, one of his eyes glowed, and you wondered if he wasn't a demon sent to punish you for defying your father.

Pushing yourself back, forgetting about the dance card sticking out of the plant, the ribbons swaying in the breeze, you found your footing once more.

"Declare yourself, sir," your voice attempting some self-preservation.

The man smirked, striking a match to light a cigar. The embers flamed until he drew in the smoke, letting it billow in the hazy light. Long, slender fingers elegantly twirled the tobacco as your eyes followed the glowing tip until it raised to his mouth again.

Straightening your shoulders, your chin jutted in authority. You might not be the lady of the house, but it was still yours, and this man was a guest intruding on your privacy.

"I must ask you to leave, sir."

"Why? I was here first," he replied. "You leave."

The arrogance! You gestured him to the french doors.

"I came out here for some privacy if you don't mind."

"Ah, so did I," he remarked, a smile threatening to emerge. "And, I do mind."

#silco #silco & you #silco reader #silco one shot #silco fanfiction #regency silco

63 notes · View notes

space-blue · 2 years

Text

Vi is interrupted while lost in thought

Nobody saw it coming after a surprise 5 months hiatus, but the Arcane Regency AU is back! Digging into my first Caitvi ever, while next chapter will finally be Silco and Vander's dance.

#regency au #arcane #fanfic #jinx #vander #silco #vi #caitlyn #ekko #marcus #grayson #mel #regency ball #vanco #zaundads #caitvi #anatol swain #arcane fic

9 notes · View notes

a-gal-with-taste · 2 years

Text

Yours | Prologue

Or, a saga detailing the complex, and peculiarly prolonged courtship, between a Captain of Zaun, and his Lady of the Isle Promenade.

Silco X F!Reader - Regency/Persuasion AU Slow-Burn

3979 WC - AO3 - Next

Warnings: Regency AU, arranged-marriage, slow-burn, romanticism, courtship, family-dynamics, pining, some humor, some fluff, future angst, slight world-building, captain!Silco

You did not weep at the loss.

What good would it do? Certainly, tears didn't stop anything... it would not stop this rain from the bursting-heavens above, or the wind that allowed every droplet to patter against your skin, drenching your hair and your dark clothes. Unsightly, but the occasion allows some relaxation against common-courtesy, a respite against the properness that a lady of your standing should evermore display in the public eye.

Crying, however expectable it might be in the gaze of those around you, would do no-good against the blasted weather, nor would it bring the last of your family back. It certainly never brought your mother, nor your father home - your tears would not bring your brother back, and so you did not weep at the loss.

The water from the heavens above, thankfully, provided more than enough wetness to scatter across your cheekbones, granting you enough of a cover for the fellow mourners to murmur sympathies.

Murmur in theory, at the very least - in practice, they had to often sheepishly shout over the rumble of thunder overhead.

Eyes downcast, you were able to pass for the despairing younger-sibling of your two-person family with ease - stoic in your grief, hardened by previous agonies, and firm in your conviction to weather this recent tragedy, and this physical-hurricane besides. Truly, you had become a pillar of strength against the tide of life's pain, and death's constant touch.

A pillar that so, so desperately, wanted to return to the manor.

Of course, you held affection for your brother - oafish as he was, and ludicrous he proved often to be while he had been home, you loved him dearly. With a smile like sunlight and a warm, all-encompassing laugh like a hug within sound itself, how could you not?

But you had warned him the sea was treacherous. That a bright spirit, however glorious, could be smothered out by the blackest of waves. Sickness had taken your parents, making you both weary of life’s plagues, but you knew those calm, crystal waters of the Piltovian sea were many times more deadly... They were only playing at an innocent nature. When their nature, in truth, was anything but.

"Sweet sister, you mustn't fret so much!" Edmund had insisted, then reached over to prod at the space between your deeply-furrowed brows. "Wrinkles are the bane of women's existence, or so I am told... and you're younger than me!" He grinned, and you had little sympathy left to tell him he had a smear of food staining his upper-lip. "By the Gods, what will that say about me, if I have a little sister who's already gone gray...!"

You were the younger, true, but you were also assuredly the smarter. Even in youth, the tutors had claimed you to be the brighter of the two, a star pupil shining bright against your brother's, bless him, dull nature. While he collected an education of swords, physical prowess and the makings of a man in this modern time, you carefully cultivated an education of the mind.

But not even your practiced, keen-mind could persuade him from his journey, a path he seemed set to go on despite any warnings, or pleas.

"Fortunate lies in the line between sky and sea, sister!" Edmund had claimed amongst your warnings, protests and finally, pleas. Pointing a finger onto the horizon, and an arm wrapped comfortingly around your shoulders. At the time, the very horizon that had then hosted dark-clouds, was almost as dark as the ones that deliver the tempest onto your brother's funeral, today. "What fool am I, if I do not go to where fortune lies!?"

The biggest fool of them all, you thought, glaring down at the symbolic box before you. It held no remains - wherever its owner was, though, you imagined the coffin, wrapped in decorative-linen in the color of your aristocratic house, would soon find its owner at the bottom of the sea.

The biggest fool of them all, my sweet, stupid brother, who has now left me all alone.

And so, you did not weep at the loss. Not with the passing whispers, or shouts, of tender words meant to inspire comfort from the fellow mourners, nor as you gave a short, firm nod to the group of well-muscled men, who took hold of the copper-handles along the sides of the coffin.

You were surprised - you thought an empty coffin would provide little struggle, but there was some strain in the movements of the carriers. Enough pause given for one in the crowd gathered at the jutting-cliffside, to walk up to you, bending low to catch your ear.

"Mistress..."

"My lord," Tone flat, for pleasantries had been allowed to be bygones, you greeted him with all the properness that was expected, save for your physical attention. You kept your eyes on your brother's coffin. "I do so wish it were under kinder, drier circumstances."

"I agree. Such circumstances call for misery, I suppose... not the jokes," The Lord's voice bordered on a scolding at your dry remark, making your jaw twinge under the dark veil shrouded around your face. A pitiful blanket against the torrent, though it allowed you to eye the man from the corner of your gaze with fewer critiques on your lack in etiquette. "Still... we all must mourn in our own way. You have my sympathies, of course."

"Of course," You murmured in assent, some tension leaking from you when one of the grooms finally found purchase in the muddied earth beneath him, and the lengthy box was lifted from its stand.

A hesitancy, rare and brief, from a good Lord of the Isle Promenade - whose name you couldn’t be bothered to recall, though you imagined it included ‘the Third’ somewhere in his lengthy list of titles - and then he soon speaks again, with that same bland, presumptuous tone you had known all your life. If not from his lips, specifically, then from the mouths of a hundred other men, of his standing and his absurd self-assurance, "You also have my company, at your discretion. We've been neighbors for many, many years, my lady. I implore... I insist you reach out to me, should you ever have such a need for me."

A need. For him?

You didn’t even want him.

Gods be good, you sent a silent prayer above, just as lightning cracked overhead. "Forgive me, my good sir, for a fear I have little understanding. What sort of scenario were you envisioning, that would require me to have need of you?"

You did not have to look to know his face was as dark as the clouds at the flat tone, one you gave without bothering to hide the layer of dryness amongst the rain. The man seemed to despise humor, and despise his pathetically-underhanded attempts being called upon for answers even more so. Particularly, when you do them.

Still, by the time the carriers made it to the cliff's edge, bracing to heave your dear, foolish Edmund’s coffin from earth, and into the endless ocean below, the man softened for you. Just barely, and just enough that the hand he placed at the small of your back was, almost, acceptable.

"Comfort, my fair lady. Companionship, something which I believe is only a benefit for you at such trying-times... something I must insist upon, as you go through this dark, dark storm that is your life, all alone..."

Alone, indeed.

Miserable, you watched as a final shove, a shared grunt between gentlemen, and with a final burst of lightning across the sky, the mortal realm released the symbolic coffin of your brother tumbling down, into the greedy waters far below.

The last of your family, swallowed up by pride and by the waves.

The bones weren't even dry yet, and already, there's a man plotting out your future without a single thought or idea of having your own input - such a fate is far, far crueler than that of a simple ceasing of existence, courtesy by the thoughtless sea. It’s more painful, the idea of a conscious creature capable of thought, decides your future with so little regard to your own consultation, your own expectations and desires.

A common fate, but no less cruel.

You had always been content with the idea of a scholarly pursuit in life, in the familiar comforts of home. Though adventure had always prodded at your mind, a lap-full of pages and words had called to your consciousness far louder, and the presence of home, of Isle Promenade, was so sweet a song, that you shuddered to part-with.

But the good gentlemen beside you, whispers not of your life in decent comforts and familiarity. Much like his own character, he speaks of a stifling, boring existence before you - framed in a manner of suggestion, but the just-polite hand on the small of your back is forward enough for you to understand it’s what he’s chosen to be fact. A fact that you, unmarried, alone and the single remainder of a worthy family, are likely powerless to do anything but accept fact into truth.

It’s a life, methodically mapped out, as per his expectations of a gracious suitor and a future wife, a role he’s unsubtly casting you in as he speaks. Such an existence includes a secondary home in the grand, pointedly remote Piltover, proper summers at court, excellent boarding-homes nearby for children to come...

Misery.

It’s not a life - it’s a woven tale, full of misery , one you have never wanted, one you had never desired, and one that is being forced upon you like a wedding-ring made from a collar of obedience. Never, have you wept for the loss of family.

You could almost weep from this.

"Sister!"

At the sound of your brother's voice - impossible as it was, but the sound of gasps around you proved it was not some phantom or trick of the mind - you very near did weep, as you whirled around, your veiled hat becoming askew. In the wind, it tumbles to the ground in a flutter of dark shadows, but it matters not that the rain now soaks your face freely.

Rain now acts like a balm to your hot eyes, and the chill of an everfree wind now acts like a relief to your heart, and the sight before you, acts as a salvation to your mind.

Because there, at the road leading up the cliff hosting his own funeral, your brother half-hops, half tumbles off the fish-cart that offered him a ride, and grins. A man, bearded now, with a streak of gray near his temple, but a bright gleam in his eye and, oh!

Oh, it's your brother! And he's alive.

He's alive, and you no longer have any need to weep for loss, when you feel you are about to cry from the regaining of your family.

Cry, or forgo all aspects of proprietary and respectably, as you hike up your skirt well-above your needs, and abandon your stuffy-suitor in the pursuit of racing to be at your siblings-side.

A living wind, whipping through the throes of mourners, some of which are on the verge of fainting, others in pure-shock at the unsightly sight of your brother, dearest Edmund, still clad in the messy uniform of a sailor. But like the wind, you care not for a single living thing.

Nothing, except your brother.

You want to laugh as you grow closer, and spot the wrinkles he's gained along with the gray along his temple. The elder indeed, but there's a skip in his step all the same, one you recall far too well, and a gleam in his eyes as he jogs forward to meet you halfway. The boyish charm, the gift of a man who will never, ever truly grow up, is almost a joy instead of a headache to see, now that he is in front of you, yards, and now feet away...

And indeed, the urge to laugh in hysteric relief and unbreakable love, becomes too great to ignore.

"Sister!" Edmund says again, and you brace yourself. Brace to barrel into his body, a hug you'll loath to part from for a long, long time. Bracing, for words of sweet reunion, of family rejoined once more. To be braced for whatever comes your way, and knowing that you can weather whatever your dear brother has to offer, now that you can weather the storm, together...

"Sister," He proclaims, spreading his arms wide, and a grand grin upon his face. It's only until he continues, that his smile isn't exactly warm or loving - it's self-satisfied, like he's prepared for you to thank him upon his announcement, like it’s a fact of your life that he expects you to accept, no, rejoice as truth:

"You are to be married! I have found you a husband!"

Any idea of weeping is gone now.

You freeze, mind growing blank as you stare at your brother. At the sole other remainder of your family, and the man who had already plotted one of the greatest details of your life without any prior warning, nor even consent.

Had you been born first, the common-law of primogeniture, regardless of gender or sex, would’ve made you in charge of your estate, as well as your junior siblings’. Though the cards had not truly been in your favor to allow such coincidence, your brother always had been, and just as you never would have dared to demand his hand be given, you had never dreamed he would give yours away so readily, without warning or even conference from you - the marrying party herself.

And yet, here you stand.

Motionless, as your brother beams, arms-wide and ready for an embrace, and the words of your immediate, and unpredicted state of marriage still echoing in the air between you.

And in that windy sky, separating you from your beloved sibling you come to the terrible realization, that you had not braced for every tempest that had come your way.

But, there is some justice at being stuck off-course. It makes your reflexes quick, and your raising even quicker. And, unlike you, your brother had not braced for anything. Let alone your anger, grief, and frustration. Both at the recent restless-nights, the countless searches, preparations, and the far more immediate funeral in his honor.

Edmund is not braced for your misery, the idea of your life plotted out like a biography of simple facts, regardless of your own input, and dismissing the very notion that you might have the desire to take a quill, and write your own tale in verse.

Your brother, bless his foolish, stupid heart, has no knowledge of any of this. He is not a man that is braced for such volatile emotions to take flight, to unveil themselves before man and the Gods. Edmund, is not braced for any storm that comes his way.

Let alone the living-tempest that you have become at his announcement, with your furious fist, rocketing through the air like a bolt from the Gods themselves, colliding spectacularly, and soundly breaking his nose.

"Whom amongst the civilized wouldn’t want to be informed of their potential, upcoming marriage, through a messenger-party?"

"Whom amongst the civilized would want to send just a messenger?" Countering the snarked-reply with a cheeky-grin, co-Captain V. Houndsmen peered over to his fellow-captain. His gray eyes sparkled with mischief and crackled with the light of lightning in the far northern-horizon as he peered at the smaller, wiry man leaning stiffly against the railing, looking out over a familiar deck that was patched with sunlight that had begun to peek through the clouds. "Dear friend, some would think you a coward, for not going yourself."

He is, expectedly, unimpressed with the teasing. "Some, smarter, would think me considerate.”

Overlooking the bustling deck below, co-Captain S. Shimmerson is assured in the knowledge that those under his command can work without direct supervision, and instead levels his focus onto what lies in the palm of his hand, as a frown carves deeper into his face. A frown that not only spoke of a man knowing full-well he was playing the part of a fool, but also a man too deeply engrossed to play any-other role. "Ambushing her with the... good-news, would do little good. For herself, surely, but I fear for myself too, if I am truthful."

The initial impact would not have fared well - he had conquered a thousand seas, but Silco was wise enough to be wary of a woman’s wrath, over any tempest.

"Thought you lived for a fight, Sil."

"Not with her, Vander."

“In love already, are you?” His friend, partner, and brother in all but blood, smiled something bemused, and still endlessly floored by the circumstances that had led them here. And how swiftly they had arrived to the strange, odd new world, in which Silco wasn’t just admiring - the man was utterly, wholly besotted by a woman.

It wasn’t so much a gender that mattered, but rather that there existed such a creature that had captured the man’s attention.

It was not so far into the realms of the imagination, the idea that his co-leader's mind would forever be undivided, wholly encompassing, and entirely focused on the crew at hand... certainly, command and ship hadn't suffered the last several days. Even distracted, S. Shimmerson was skilled at leadership, and took the reins of command with steady, assured hands.

Such a trait gave many, including V. Houndsmen, the idea that the man could be distracted by very little, and distracted only briefly. But for days, S. Shimmerson had barely looked up from the locket he had cupped delicately in his hand.

It didn't so much as worry Vander, as it did bemuse him to no end. And confused him a bit more, besides.

"Careful, Silco," He teased once more, leaning to jostle his friend with an elbow. "Some will start to think you care. And then where will we be?"

Chuckling to himself as he turned, Vander was eager to get on with his own work, and escape before the piercing glare of the dark-haired man could stab through him like a blade. Only just-missing him, Silco still glared after the back of his friend and partner, before two eyes, the color of the slim space where green-seas mingled and danced with the cloudless blue-skies, returned to the locket at hand.

The locket, with a picture inside.

A picture of you.

Silco's face showed none of the twisting, uncertain and unfamiliar nerves coiling deep inside of him as he gazed at your miniature. Tracing over eyes that are captivating and intelligent, a smile that is faint, reserved in practice and yet earnest in truth...

A face lovelier than any other he had ever seen, and there was no uncertainty in his mind, that this picture didn't do justice to your stunning visage.

What had come over him was nothing short of an enchantment - something of a child’s fairy-tale. Something foolish, but like words of old comfort, it lingered annoyingly in every open-facet within his mind, sneaking in like a stowaway amongst his thoughts.

Unwanted, at first. Certainly, unneeded.

But since the moment the locket was pressed to his hands, a gift in response to the rescue for your quite oafish, quite clumsy sibling, Silco had been loathsomely drawn to the image, as he had once been drawn to water. It was a calling, like a siren to a hapless, doomed sailor - and certainly, with how quickly Silco’s fondness had groomed, he knew that he was entirely, and utterly doomed.

All consequences, thanks to the picture of you.

With great reluctance, and with an even greater necessity, Silco thumbs the gold-piece of jewelry shut. Round and round, the chain becomes wound around his palm as it's secured onto his person... though, in whatever remains of his heart, Silco knows the locket was already secured in his mind the moment he saw it.

Bringing it up to his lips, sighing heavily as he fogs the surface of the plain gold-piece, Silco looks back on a stormy horizon. Both riled and resigned, Silco gazes out into open waters and clouded skies, and tries not to think of the Isle they sail from. More residential than the ports he is used to traversing, but regardless of the lack of experience, the fight against the urge to land had been fierce and, even now, Silco wrestled with the idea of turning the ship back. A stupid, asinine idea, but an idea that tempted him nonetheless.

Closing his eyes, he attempts to wield such thoughts away - the thoughts of you are stubborn, and will remain, but the focus on his ship and its inhabitants must override any thoughts, any temptations, or desires that remain.

He had already been called to sea, tempted by the ocean with a desire to navigate the world by water.

Any other ambitions, even the ones that would lead his path to you, had to be put aside.

You.

Never before had Silco felt a desire for love, nor even affection or infatuation. Such flights of fancy were far-more Vander’s style, and Silco had never before played the part of a fool, not ever, and certainly not enough to give-away his heart.

His heart already had an owner besides himself, and once given, Silco had known that whoever was in possession, was destined to never part with it.

With his heart already belonging to the sea, body to the ship, soul and mind to the Sons and Daughters of Zaun aboard his ship, Silco had not planned to give anyone anything more. Not when he had nothing else he could afford to give.

Nothing but words he hoped would explain, or at least bring awareness to its reader. Privately praying that your witless sibling didn’t come close a second time to drowning, on the row from ship to the Isle Promenade, but also that he spared a thought for the letter that Silco had pressed with urgency into his hands, in equal vigor that Edmund had pressed the locket into his own grasp.

It was all that he could afford to give you, at this time. And he hoped it was enough to explain, or if not, at least free him from what plagues his mind and heart, and release him from his hold the moment you release the wax-seal from folded-paper.

It was all that could be allowed.

Straightening, Silco loops the locket over his head as the wind catches, long dark locks brushing past his face before he smooths them in time with a thumb catching over the smooth surface of the locket -the only act of affection he dares to perform, before duty overtakes his role of the besotted fool, and he strides towards the deck.

It’s not allowed, and unacceptable for him to turn away from his standing as co-Captain - and so, with some great reluctance, greater necessity, he turns from the horizon to face his crew, taking the steps two at a time to begin barking orders onto those populating the deck.

All he has, as ridiculously idyllic and fantastical as it was, was a locket and a desire. A locket he has loathed to part with, and a desire that refuses to leave. Privately, co-captain S. Shimmerson knows he doesn’t really want it to.

Certainly, a resolution is far more appreciated, but an entire fleeting of the foolish, but fantastical notion of his private desire - such was as unacceptable, as it was for him to try to follow the desire.

Desire of you, the desire of chance, the slim and too impossible prospect of being called yours...

Indeed, it is a siren’s song, and a call to his doom.

And one Silco fears that he would go all too willingly.

#silco #silco x reader #arcane #regency au #romantacism #regency #silco fic #arcane fic #arcane x reader #silco arcane #regency silco #slow burn #persuasion #persuasion au

117 notes · View notes