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sluttymutty · 2 years ago

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The Art in the Heart - Chapter 5

Silco is a man of many words, but is he a man of action? He has many promises to keep…

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Everybody Lives AU | Pre-Act I | Silco x Reader | Female!Reader | Slow Burn | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Mild Angst || SFW | TW: Stalking | WC: 2.27k

taglist: @sherwood-forests @deny-the-issue @let-the-monster-out

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The scissor lift raises you to the top of the wall. You lift the plastic sheeting and rest your palm gingerly against the mural: it’s dry, and none of the paint seems to have washed away. Seems like your earlier precautions were adequate.

It might not be a good time to pick up where you left off, though. The weather report predicted it might be a couple more days before the rain stops completely. No point in making some more progress only for it to potentially wash away.

You feel a desire to linger, though. Silco might still stop by. At least you hope so. After he spent the night at your place, you’re more positive that your relationship has progressed from ‘acquaintances’ to ‘friends’, if not something more. Recalling the events of that night makes you laugh quietly to yourself.

________________________________________

After making Silco repeat his promise, you excuse yourself to the bathroom. Ostensibly to brush your teeth. What you really need is a moment to compose yourself.

You look at yourself in the mirror and shake your head. What the heck is wrong with you that you’re getting so worked up about a stranger dying? Because that’s all he is to you, or should be to you. People die in Zaun every day. Sometimes it’s not even at the hands of Enforcers, but just plain bad luck.

In another life, you probably could have been one of the Children of Zaun. Maybe working alongside Silco. After all, you do love the Undercity just as much as any one of them. Even if it weren’t for your lack of fighting prowess, you’re sure you could have made yourself useful to them in some other way.

Who are you kidding, though? Your current job is much less hazardous— and more preferable— than getting into scraps with Enforcers. Probably the most dangerous thing you’ve encountered in ages was a poorly trained Poro at the home of a Piltie merchant family. While the Children risk arrest, bodily injury, or death on every single mission.

No, if the Children find exhilaration in their exploits, it’s too anxiety-inducing for you. Hadn’t the overwhelming stress of tonight’s events proved you weren’t cut out for that kind of life?

What would Silco even think of you joining the Children?

Your head droops against the mirror. It’s too late at night to be asking these kinds of questions. You’re so tired that your sense of judgment is compromised. Not to mention how stupid it would be to throw away everything you worked for just for some guy. And he hadn’t even asked you to join the Children.

Or had he? Was he joking when he asked you to join him on his next mission? Or was he being sincere?

“Time for bed,” you mutter to yourself. Serious life decisions can wait until the morning, after a good sleep and breakfast. And after Silco leaves.

When you exit the bathroom, you find your guest lying on the ground at the foot of your bed. He’s folded his backpack into a makeshift pillow.

“What are you doing?” you ask, yawning.

“Could I trouble you for an extra blanket?”

“Get in the bed,” you point at it.

“Excuse me?” He props himself up on one elbow. Looking at you, confused.

Oh, right. He doesn’t know that you have a sleeping bag. You pull it and an extra pillow out of a storage box.

“The ground is more than good enough for me,” he protests.

“Get in the damn bed, Silco. And go to sleep,” you say as firmly as you can, considering that you’re ready to flop onto the floor yourself. Instead you walk over to the light switch. Ready to turn off the lights.

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he gets up and tucks himself in.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“Don’t mention it,” you grunt.

You turn off the lights. When you crawl into your sleeping bag, you sigh loudly. The warmth encompasses you entirely and lulls you into slumber.

Silco calls out your name into the dark.

“Mmm?” you hum, too sleepy for words.

“Good night.”

“Good night, Silco.”

You wake up first the next morning. Something must be wrong with your alarm clock, as its usual low beeping seems extra loud today. Of course, last night of all nights, you just had to forget to turn it off.

You hurriedly smack it off, but when you look at Silco he continues slumbering peacefully. Thank goodness for small mercies.

It’s hard to make breakfast silently when your apartment is so small. Even though you’re doing your best to keep the noises to a minimum. He wakes up and shifts in the bed, rolling over to look at you.

“Good morning,” you chirp at him. Determined to make up for your grumpy attitude last night. “Hope you’re hungry.”

“Good morning,” Silco yawns. He sits up and frowns. “You made breakfast?”

“Yeah, it’s almost ready. Your clothes are in the dryer.”

“You needn’t have troubled yourself, I should get going—”

“It’s still raining, buddy. You’re not going anywhere.”

You point out your window, where the skies are still steel-gray and wet. Silco opens his mouth as if to argue, but the harsh tapping of the rain on the window drowns the thought before he can give life to it. He dips his head, bemused.

“I must have been a better man in my past life to be honored with such generosity,” he stretches his arms high. Unfolding himself like a cat as he steps out of your bed. He pulls his clothes out of the dryer, then heads to the bathroom.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like so I made a little bit of everything,” you call out to him. You start plating a full spread: bacon, eggs, toast, sausage, and fresh fruit.

Silco exits the bathroom wearing his outfit from last night. You let yourself sneak a glance at him out of the corner of your eye: his waist is somewhat narrower than his broad shoulders… what it would feel like to wrap your arms around—

“Do you normally eat breakfast standing?” He looks amused at the notion.

“Oh, no. Can you help with the table?”

You point to your drafting table. It’s adjustable so it’s good enough as a makeshift dining table. Despite its heft, he pulls it to the center of the room with ease. He pushes it level just in time for you to set the food out.

After handing out refreshments and dining utensils, you both dig in.

“Would you mind me asking what you were doing at the councilor’s last night?” he asks.

“Salo wanted a status update on the mural,” you say. “Could you pass the salt?”

“Really,” he doesn’t phrase it as a question. Silco hands you a salt shaker. “Was that the full extent of his intentions?”

“Sure,” you shrug. “What else could he want?”

He pushes his eggs around with his fork, as if he might find the right words to say on his plate.

“You were dressed quite… well. And you were upstairs.”

“So?” you continue munching away.

“His sleeping quarters were upstairs.”

You look up from your food, nonplussed.

“Perhaps you weren’t off the mark about Salo wanting a Zaunite mistress,” he jokes.

“No way,” you snort. “As if a gentleman of his caliber would ever deign to consort with the fissure folk.”

“You were invited to dinner at his home, no?” he smirks.

“I’m his employee. That’s all,” you shake your head.

“You’d be surprised at how many men find that appealing, as opposed to a deterrent.”

“Salo may be a Piltie prick, but I doubt that a Zaunite would ever be good enough for him,” you state matter-of-factly. “Most Topsiders will never see us as worthy, no matter what. I thought everybody knew that.”

“I must admit I don’t know many from the Undercity who work in such close proximity to Piltover’s elite,” he says. He resumes eating. “You’re the only one I know, actually,” he adds thoughtfully.

“I’m not much better than ‘the help’ to them,” you grimace. “If anything, Topsiders like to hire me to show off how charitable they are. Giving a gutter rat the opportunity to ‘rise above the circumstances of their birth’. But not too high, of course.”

You spoon more food into your mouth to stop yourself from rambling more. Gods, you’re complaining about your clientele not respecting you when too many Zaunites are straight-up unemployed and living in poverty. You’re luckier than most. Better remember to be grateful for what you got and stop complaining.

“Those sound like less than ideal circumstances to work under,” Silco looks at you sympathetically.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say hastily. “I’m really lucky to have a job I love. And it pays well.”

You put your fork down and look out your window. The cloudy skies are whitening, and the rainfall is now a soft and gentle drizzle.

“Everyone in the Undercity deserves a better life, whether they can or can’t work for it,” you say quietly. “I just wish more Pilties knew that too.”

He nods in agreement. “That’s perhaps the most difficult mission the Children have yet to complete: to earn the respect of Topside.”

“Maybe if we work together, we can get it done,” you grin at him.

“Our joint efforts would be a force to be reckoned with,” his lips quirk upwards. “We could burglarize the whole of Topside together.”

“We’ll teach them to respect us!”

“The Nation of Zaun would flourish under our leadership,” his smile widens.

“Wow… ‘the Nation of Zaun’... I like the sound of that,” you say in awe.

The conversation moves on to lighter topics after that. Considering the rocky start to your relationship, you have a decent amount in common with Silco: you were both born roughly around the same time and raised in orphanages, albeit different ones. Your childhoods were lean and tumultuous.

The similarities end there. Whereas your career as a painter pulled you up and out of Zaun, Silco worked as a miner for many years. He and his companions managed to carve out the Lanes, and the Children of Zaun was founded.

It’s fascinating to hear Silco’s history. His story and Zaun’s are one and the same, even if the Undercity was founded long before his birth. You could listen to him tell it over and over again.

When you’re both finished eating, the two of you squabble over putting away the dishes. He insists on helping. You’re not having any of it though, and you instead direct him to your storage box where he can find the blueprints he requested all those weeks ago. He packs those up along with the photos from last night.

Silco looks out the window to see that the rain has finally stopped. He turns to you with regret on his face.

“I’ve abused your hospitality for far too long,” he says. “I must be off.”

“Silco, it’s fine,” you reassure him. “You’re not the worst guest I’ve ever had.”

“Do you host such delightful sleepovers for many?” he asks. His tone is casual, but his eyes are bright with curiosity.

“Only when I’m babysitting,” you answer. “Sometimes actual babies.”

He cocks his head, about to ask for details. You’re distracted by the thunk of a metal cylinder dropping into your pneumatic tube receiver.

“I have to take care of this,” you sigh. “Do you have everything?”

“Yes, thanks to you,” Silco pats his backpack.

As you walk him to the door, you feel tempted to reach out and grab his arm. Instead, you clear your throat to get his attention.

“Silco… you’ll come find me before the raid, right?”

“Of course,” his eyes are gentle and bright. “I would be remiss not to warn you. Should the worst come to pass—”

“But it won’t, right?” you cut him off. “You made a promise.”

He places a hand on the doorknob. He pauses contemplatively before answering, “Yes, I did, didn’t I.”

“Yeah. You better not break it.”

Silco opens the door. His black hair is dark against the backdrop of the bright skies.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he smiles.

He finally leaves. It takes all of your willpower to force yourself to stay inside. Even though you really want to watch him leave.

________________________________________

You haven’t seen Silco since that day, but you’re not worried. There’s no way he would break two promises.

You carefully drape the plastic sheeting back over the wall. Regardless of whether you can work today or not, right now is a good time to take stock of your supplies. Some of your brushes might need replacing and you’re definitely running low on certain paints.

As you take inventory of your materials, a stinging tingle crawls up the back of your neck.

It’s happening again. Someone is watching you.

You swing your head around frantically. There’s nobody there. But the tingling doesn’t stop. In fact, it’s getting worse.

The stinging turns into a stabbing pain.

Running footsteps approach you.

You instinctively crouch down. Pushing your face into your knees. Covering your neck with your hands. Trying to control your hyperventilating.

You slap a hand over your mouth.

The footsteps grow louder…

Then louder…

Then they pass. Fading away into the distance.

You take a deep, gulping breath. The back of your neck relaxes.

As you stand, you chastise yourself for being distracted. Whoever— or whatever— was watching you might be gone now, but the Undercity is never free from danger.

If it comes back again, you might not be so lucky.

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sluttymutty · 2 years ago

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Baby Steps

Silco x gn!Reader Summary: When you first started working for Silco, you had some idea of what the job would entail. Fighting? Sure. Corruption? Of course. Murder? Only if you get on his bad side. But looking after the baby he had inexplicably taken in? Not part of the job description. Rating: G Words: 6.7k Additional tags: Baby!Jinx, reader is good with kids, Silco is trying his best, Silco tending reader's wounds (best trope lbr)

I wanted to try writing more fluff, and baby Jinx + dad Silco absolutely melts my heart so... have this. I might write a part two if ppl like it/I get inspo. Anway, feedback is much appreciated :) Enjoy <3

[Part 2]

—

Silence.

It’s a rare thing to come across in the heart of the Undercity; this moment of calm, quiet and tranquillity. The poetically inclined might even call it bliss or serenity, but such souls are even rarer.

Regardless, it’s something you cherish, especially on a night like this.

You had all but collapsed through the doors of the Last Drop, dragging yourself to the bar on aching legs that were supporting quite the battered torso, garnished by a wearied face that has certainly seen better days.

You can practically feel your eye-bags dragging you down to the wooden countertop (such is their weight) though you’re saved from the grimy surface by a last-second coaster sliding onto the target your forehead is aiming for. You mumble something along the lines of ‘thanks, Thieram’, but you’re not sure how well the message travels through the barriers muffling it.

The young bartender is clearly accustomed to such clientele, because you’re afforded a ‘no problem’, closely followed by the dense sound of a full glass being placed gently next to you.

It’s with immense effort you peel your face off the coaster and lift the glass to your lips, all but sighing into the soothing burn that chips away at every newly-earned cut and bruise on your body.

You like your job. Really, you do, but those newby Shimmer dealers can be so damn greedy sometimes, and you have no idea how many times Silco needs to send his more trusted employees to teach them a lesson before the next round of sellers learn that skimming profits may set them up for life, but a pointedly short life at that.

These ones had been pretty decent at fighting back, though, and they got more hits in than you would like to admit.

There’s no doubt in your mind that Sevika will make fun of you for it come morning, starting with the red mark on your cheekbone and ending with the hastily patched up gash on your thigh. But right now, she’s not here, and by some miracle neither are any of the other mercenaries you share a payroll with.

Why would they be, anyway? The music has been shut off, the bar (mostly) closed, and the partygoers have gone off to their next destination. All-in-all, the perfect combination for a quiet night of winding down and soothing the wounds of a needlessly complicated job.

Or, it would be, if not for the incessant crying coming from upstairs.

It had been echoing through the club when you left, and though you prayed it would have ceased upon your return, it’s clear your faith did not prove strong enough.

You wince at the thought of what it must sound like at the source, if it’s this persistent through the barrier of a door, a hallway and an entire level of flooring.

“Still going?” you ask in vain, fogging the rim of your glass.

“Strong as ever,” a very tired Thieram responds, and it’s with a mixture of pity and amusement you note that his eye-bags are almost as deep as yours.

“Not even a little break?”

“Here and there, but I gave up on hope. As soon as you think it’s over, it just starts again.”

“Tell that to my ribs. Just when I thought the last bastard was down, he got me good.”

“Any of them still around? Wouldn’t mind a hit to the head right now, at least that’ll give me some peace.”

“I will give you literally every coin in my possession if you go upstairs and tell Silco that right now.”

Thieram lets out a laugh so dry, it could rival the most expensive whiskey on the shelf behind him, “What good’s your money if I’m dead before I can spend any of it?”

“Wanna move up to selling Shimmer instead of drinks? We need more dealers who understand that concept.”

“Tempting, but no.”

“Well then, next time I take a foot to the ribs it’ll be your fault. I expect free alcohol as compensation.”

“The way you said that implies you’re gonna pay for that drink,” he motions to your glass with the cloth he’s holding.

“I will, and I’ll give you a bonus of all my money if you just go upstairs and tell Silco—”

“No.”

“Will you pay me if I do it?”

“Yeah, and I’d take it all back before your blood finishes drying.”

“Come on, it’s not like I’d just knock on his door and say, ‘Hey, tell her to shut up already.’”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean, I do feel sorry for her.”

“I feel sorry for myself.”

“And him. If it’s this loud down here he must be on the verge of going deaf.”

“Maybe he already is. That’s why it’s not stopping, he just can’t hear her anymore.”

“You know, I reckon I could calm her down. I’m pretty good with kids.”

“Since when?”

“Since I worked in the orphanage my aunt ran.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Dunno,” you say offhandedly, swirling the liquid around. “A while.”

“Don’t you think you’re out of practice?”

“Wanna bet?”

“Sure. How ‘bout my pay for the month.”

You extend your hand immediately, “Deal.”

The amused laugh initially aimed your way quickly divulges into something much more morbid. “You’re not serious?”

“Why not? What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You… die?”

“For offering Silco to help calm down the baby that has literally not stopped crying in a week? That’s employee of the month material right there.”

“Are you sure you didn’t get kicked in the head instead?”

“Ninety percent. So, we on?”

“No, we’re not— where are you going?” the bartender asks, but you’re already halfway up the stairs and looking down at him with an assured smile.

“I’m going above and beyond as an employee of this fine establishment.”

“I’m not giving you any money!”

No matter how many times you come face-to-face with the door that leads into the Eye of Zaun’s office, it always feels just as imposing as the last.

In truth, you didn’t really come upstairs with the intention of offering childcare services. It’s just insanely easy to stress Thieram out, and free entertainment is good entertainment.

No, you’re here because screaming baby or not, business is business and Sevika had so graciously tasked you with the task of giving Silco a report of the job you had both done.

Not that she harbours any fear for the Industrialist, but the high-pitched wails coming from behind the door in front of you would make anyone want to avoid this particular room (more than they already do).

It’s with that in mind you knock louder than you normally would. It’s not like the sound could get worse.

Hearing what sounds like ‘come in’, you are proven wrong the moment you step through the door. How one panel of wood did that much to dampen the sound, you’ll never know, but it seems to shoot through your eardrums tenfold once inside.

And she’s not even here.

You surmise the sound is resonating from the left side of the room, past the other door that leads into Silco’s personal quarters, and you don’t even want to think about how loud it must be through that door.

A stern call of your name has you snapping out of your rumination, and directly into another that tells you he must have said it more than once, if the irritation on his face is anything to go by.

“Sorry, sir,” you say quickly, “I’m here to give you the report but if now’s not a good time I can come back—”

“Now is fine,” he says from his desk, and you take a few steps forward to hear him better.

“Right. Well, it was like we thought from the manifests. The profits from the city’s south-east zone were too consistent. They were being forged to skim cash from the top, just like last time. And the time before that, and… well, you get it.”

You’re met with a deep sigh, followed by two of his fingers digging into his temple, “And how many more times will I have to deal with this particular headache?”

You don’t need to be particularly close to Silco to see that he’s vexed, but you’ve been under his employ long enough to know that said irritation isn’t aimed at you, or even the imbeciles you just dealt with. It’s a tired displeasure, clearly stemming from exhaustion, and you don’t need to guess what’s to blame for that.

“I can’t predict that as well as profit trends, but if I had to guess, probably not for a while.”

“And your reasoning?”

“Sevika was pretty sick of it, too and she got, uh… creative with some of them. The next ones would have to be astronimically stupid to try the same.”

One eyebrow arches. “Astronomically?”

“As opposed to extremely stupid, which is where the majority fall into.”

You would be lying if you said your chest didn’t swell up — just a little bit — at the barely-there curl of his lip at your words; another thing you’ve learnt to pick up on in your time working for him.

Thieram’s words about not getting too hopeful echo in your head, deflating your chest in time with the wail that fractures the easy-ish atmosphere that was settling into the office space. The smile (if that’s what you can call it) quickly inverts into an expression you’re much more familiar with, and it’s back to business.

But as intimidating as Silco is, you had slowly begun to establish a sort of… amiability with him. A slow going one, sure, but amiability nonetheless.

You often think back to the night in his office, when your eyes had grazed the bookshelf in the room for a moment too long. You thought he would have reprimanded you for lingering and wasting his time when there were no more reports to be discussed, but he had instead asked which book had caught your attention. When you told him rather nervously that it was the one on m-m-marine creatures, he mentioned that it was one of his favourites, and so began a conversation on deep-sea animals you weren't fully sure was just a figment of your imagination once you left the room, some thirty minutes later.

Afterwards, every trip to his office (save for those regarding urgent matters) was often punctuated by such conversations. Chats about oceanic life soon evolved into discussions on the rest of the books lining his shelves, followed by broader literature, which then turned into conversations about all the little, unimportant things in both of your lives. You hadn’t realised how much you enjoyed those rare opportunities to see Silco as someone other than the Industrialist, until you didn’t anymore.

One day, seemingly out of nowhere, a new permanent resident joined the Last Drop. She was much smaller than the rest of the lineup. Younger too, and infinitely more innocent.

They say anything can happen in Zaun, and you always believed that. But Silco just… taking in a baby? That’s not ‘anything’, it’s a damn paradox.

“It’s a long story,” was all Sevika had said when you asked what the hell happened. Because as friendly as you had become with Silco, you weren’t just going to knock on his door and ask him how the joys of fatherhood were treating him.

Not that there’s much to be joyful about, if the infant girl with the lungs of an opera singer has anything to say about it.

“Is there anything else?” Silco asks aridly, shaking you out of your thoughts once again.

“No, sir,” you say before he can repeat himself again, lest that bitter expression turns any more sour.

He excuses you with a flick of his hand — a far cry from the more good-natured dismissals you were growing accustomed to. In fact, he doesn’t even look at you; just goes back to the various papers piled on his desk, and you can’t imagine the stack has diminished much under these working conditions.

Echoes of your conversation downstairs begin to replay in your mind, free of the nonchalance with which you had expressed yourself. You are good with kids, and you do feel sorry for Silco. Jinx, too. You hadn’t seen the little girl that much, but you had come into the office a handful of times while Silco was rocking her to sleep. She was a gorgeous little thing, and it warmed your heart to know that save for Sevika, none of Silco’s other personnel had seen him with her. It almost felt like a privilege.

That particular thought opens the floodgate for another; one that hits you with the realisation that you haven’t been privy to the sight since the seemingly endless crying began.

It’s with that in mind you stop yourself at the door, fingers ghosting the handle, caught between reeling back or committing to your departure.

A particularly brutal cry solidifies your decision, and it’s with no small amount of hesitation you turn and pray you’re not signing your own death warrant.

“S-sir?” you ask meekly, but to no avail.

“Sir?” again, and Jinx wins out easily.

Your third — louder — call coincides with a rare lull in the crying, and if the little girl didn’t know any better you would swear she did it on purpose.

“What?”

“I, uh, couldn’t help but notice that Jinx is… upset…”

The look he gives you makes you want to cut out the middleman and just take a knife to your throat with your own hands, but you manage to steel your nerves.

“I mean, obviously. I have ears. But I also noticed that she hasn’t really stopped and I was thinking—”

“And you think that I haven't reached the same conclusion?”

“What? No, no, definitely not.”

“You think I haven’t noticed my daughter has barely stopped crying in nearly a week?”

“No, of course you’ve noticed, I mean, we all have and—”

You don’t even realise you’re once again stepping closer to his desk until he’s rising from his chair and stalking towards you.

“You think it has somehow skipped my mind that there is something wrong, and nothing I do will fix it?”

“Absolutely not, I would never think that, I swear.”

The only thing separating the two of you is the length of the couch between you, and you seriously consider dashing towards the door and living the rest of your life in hiding.

“You think I haven’t tried everything in my power to help her?”

Perhaps you spoke too soon about who exactly is and isn’t astronomically stupid.

He makes no other moves towards you, only stares down his nose at you with a seething anger. It’s the type of ire that sets him ablaze; the kind that casts his green eye in a flame so hot it matches its red counterpart with its scorching tenacity.

Just as you feel you’re about to be reduced to ashes, though, you see something else beneath the embers. A flicker of another emotion, so clouded by smoke it’s almost imperceptible. But you know what to look for.

Sure, you’ve pissed him off, but you can see you’re not the true source of this fire, only the kindling.

So, you take a deep breath, actually think about what you want to stay, and speak with all the steadiness of lapping waves that slowly drown the blaze out.

“I’m sorry, sir, I really should’ve expressed myself better — that’s not what I meant at all. I don’t doubt you’ve all but threatened the gods to make her feel better.”

He seems to calm down a touch at your words. At least, the tension in his shoulders lessons a fraction, and his good eye stops twitching. It’s as good a sign as any to keep going, you suppose.

“It’s just, I have a lot of experience with kids. Babies included, and I’ve come out of tantrums worse than this one unscathed, if you’d believe it. But this much crying... I just hate the idea that she’s in any kind of pain, and if it’s making me feel like this, I can’t imagine what it��s doing to you.”

He mulls over your words for what feels like a timeless stretch, and it seems like even Jinx wants to give him time to process them — not that the silence lasts long.

“And you think you can get her to calm down?” he finally says, halfway between indignation and accusation.

“I can’t promise anything, but I can try.”

Another stretch passes, and the flame is little more than a warm coal when he comes to a decision.

“Stay here.”

You don’t dare move while he crosses into the room adjoining the office, despite how tempting it is to peer into the space. Moments later he exits, Jinx in hands, looking even more tired than when you had first entered.

You also realise (none too happily) that in offering your help, you’re experiencing the crying firsthand, with not even a door to barricade it.

You reach for her slowly, and despite his usual proficiency at masking his emotions, the hesitation written on his face could not be more legible.

“It’s ok,” you say calmly. “The only kid I know who ever got dropped on their head is me.”

Despite your doubts, the infinitesimal smile makes a brief reappearance, present only while he hands her over to you. You take her without missing a beat, immediately rocking her slowly in your arms.

You hadn’t really seen her up close before, and though you could always tell she was a cute little thing, it seems like far too light an adjective to use now.

She’s precious; a tiny bundle with a shock of blue hair that could rival Piltover’s cloudless sky. That, paired with the roundest cheeks you’ve ever seen and eyes that could put any ocean to shame, has you in silent awe.

That makes one of you, at least, because the distraction of a stranger doesn’t prove interesting enough to cut the crying for more than ten seconds.

“Aw, come on, just when I was about to tell you how pretty you are,” you coo, smiling down at her despite her obvious displeasure.

More screaming.

“Well, you’re still pretty,” you say softly, cradling her gently in one arm and softly rubbing her tummy with your free hand.

“May I?” you motion to the couch and Silco gives a wordless nod, immediately taking a seat next to you and you find it endearing how close he wants to be to her.

“Well? What’s wrong with her?” he presses.

Your lips quirk briefly at his uncharacteristic anguish, though you quickly disguise it as smiling at Jinx.

“Hold on,” you say with a hint of that grin colouring your voice, “I can’t just start poking her the second she’s in my arms.”

He seems to accept your reasoning, though he doesn’t so much as blink as you cradle her and whisper soft words while giving her little hands the gentlest of squeezes.

“There you go,” you whisper when she starts to calm down a touch.

Making the most of the opportunity, you begin to squeeze a bit firmer around her arms and legs.

“What are you doing?”

“Seeing if there’s any aches around her body that might be causing this,” you respond, taking the ensuing silence as permission to keep going.

When the crying doesn’t increase, you hold her up, pressing your ear to her heart, then her stomach.

“Heartbeat sounds normal,” you tell Silco before he can question you, “and I can’t hear anything weird from her tummy, so probably not indigestion. Is she eating okay?”

“It’s one of the few times she doesn’t cry,” he responds wearily.

“What are you feeding her?”

“Formula. From Piltover, the best on the market.”

You don’t doubt that for a second.

“And she doesn’t choke on it at all? No wet burps or gagging, and she’s gaining weight normally?”

“Her eating habits and growth are both fine.”

“Okay, so acid reflux is off the table too. What about temperature?”

“I take it twice a day, it’s always normal.”

“And what has your doctor said?” you ask, not even needing to clarify he’s taken her to some sort of professional.

“He has run all the tests he can, but paediatrics is not his speciality, as he keeps telling me,” Silco says with poorly hidden displeasure.

“Oh, well I know plenty of doctors around here who are great with kids, I could—”

“No.”

His venomous objection is immediate, and it takes Jinx kicking up a fuss in your arms for you to realise you’ve frozen up.

“Can I ask why?” you inquire timidly, rocking her once again.

A deep breath inflates his chest before he lets it out measuredly. Clearly he didn’t expect the outburst either.

“I know the exact location of every doctor that could help her within walking, running and carriage distance from here, but I cannot risk taking her. Very few people know about her, and if someone saw me with her, or if the doctor decided to become loose-lipped in exchange for some coin…”

“It would put her in danger,” you deduce.

“I won’t risk that, not unless avoiding it would present a bigger threat to her life.”

He rubs his temple once again and your heart aches for him. Never did you think your pity would be extended to Silco of all people, but here, now, he is not the Industrialist you work for, or the Eye of Zaun that rules this city. Nor is he a drug lord, crime boss, or kingpin. Rather, he is a father (and an exhausted one at that) who has all the power in the world but cannot use a fraction of it to help his suffering daughter.

Your eyes widen when his gaze drifts towards you, quickly schooling your expression into something more neutral, but it’s fruitless.

“I don’t appreciate being pitied,” he hisses, before continuing in a marginally softer voice. “If you cannot find what’s wrong, I won’t hold it against you. You may go.”

You offer him another smile, this time of solace. “I never said that.”

He studies you wordlessly in a silent order to continue.

“She’s about two months old, right?”

“Nearly ten weeks.”

“And there’s absolutely no other symptoms?”

“None,” he grimaces as she lets out another well-timed wail.

“You know, sometimes no symptom is the biggest symptom of all.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Wait here,” you say, offering Jinx back to him and biting back the smile that threatens to appear when you see how readily he holds her.

“Where are you going?” he asks, half-exasperated but you’re already out the door.

“I’ll be right back,” you call from the hallway before heading down the stairway and stopping in the middle. “Thieram!”

The bartender lets out a shriek at his name, looking up to see you almost hanging off the railing as you lean your torso over it.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

Ignoring him, you point to the small radio playing soft tunes behind him, “You using that?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Not anymore you’re not. Give it here.”

“What? No, that’s the only thing stopping me from tearing my hair out cos of the… wait, did she get louder?”

“Yep. And if you want her to stop, give me the damn radio.”

“Please don’t tell me you actually told Silco you could help her.”

“Okay. I didn’t tell Silco I could help her.”

He gives you a tired look before finally relenting, reaching for the small device and tossing it up to your waiting hands, “If he asks, I had nothing to do with this.”

“You’re gonna be kissing the ground I walk on next time I come down these stairs.”

Radio in hand, you make your way back to Silco’s office, where a very upset baby and a very irritated kingpin greet you.

“I don’t appreciate my staff ignoring me when I speak to them,” he says stiffly.

It occurs to you that perhaps you could have handled that better, but what’s done is done. And besides, it’s hard to really feel the threat when he’s cradling a baby in his arms.

“I know, I’m sorry. But I think I figured it out,” you say sheepishly while your hands occupy themselves with the radio’s tuner as the device flicks through a catalogue of genres.

“What is it?”

“Well, she’s not sick.”

Classical.

“No fever, and there’s nothing on her body that’s causing her pain.”

Rock.

“She’s eating just fine, too.”

Electronic.

“And she’s hit eight weeks recently.”

Static.

“There we go,” you say when you land the radio on a dead channel before placing it on the coffee table.

Clearly at his wits end, Silco stares as you switch on the lamp at his desk and make your way to the light switch by the door, hovering your finger over it in a silent request for permission.

He nods, watching as you make your way to the couch in the now dimly lit room and ask for Jinx.

You spare a glance at him while you lean on the couch’s arm and resume rocking the baby in your arms. The confusion painted across his face is evident, but just when he looks like he’s about to demand an explanation for your puzzling actions, it shifts into the closest thing to awe you’ve ever seen on him.

“She stopped.”

The silence that settles across the room is richer and more alleviating than the alcohol you had nursed yourself with downstairs, and infinitely more indulgent. You let yourself bask in it, relishing in the quiet that had become something of a cryptid in the Last Drop, partially to enjoy it and partially to ensure it’s not just a short-lived blessing.

When it stretches on, you follow Silco’s gaze down towards Jinx, and the look of peace gracing her face all but melts your heart.

Fluttering eyelids finally close shut, free of tears brimming their edges, while her nose and mouth lose their scrunched up disposition and the redness of her cheeks slowly desaturates into a rosy pink, in time with the increasingly tranquil rise and fall of her chest.

The look that he gives you half-convinces you that you just hung up the sun, and you barely hear the whispered ‘how?’ that leaves him.

“Colic,” you whisper back.

“What?”

“Colic,” you repeat. “It’s really common in babies her age.”

“Is it serious?” he asks gravely.

“No, not at all,” you reassure him quickly. “It’s barely even a condition. More like an unexplained crying fit. No one really knows what causes it, but it peaks around this age.”

“How do you cure it?”

You pause for a moment while Jinx stirs in your arms. “You don’t. There’s not really much you can do other than wait, but sometimes white noise helps.”

He diverts his attention towards the radio, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone so content to hear static.

“It helps them sleep,” you bring a hand to her stomach and start rubbing softly. “So does this, sometimes. In case of gas bubbles.”

He watches you, utterly transfixed as his daughter falls into deeper and deeper sleep in your arms, and the three of you stay like that for what feels like a peaceful eternity.

Once you’re sure she won’t be waking up anytime soon, you hand her back to Silco, albeit with a touch of hesitation. You’re not sure if it’s your exhaustion, or the events of the day, but a strange sensation of peace has washed itself over you, and you don’t really want to breach its surface.

Either Silco doesn’t register your reluctance, or he simply ignores it in favour of staring at Jinx’s sleeping form.

You also find yourself unable to look away. There’s a light in his eyes that warms you like a halo of sunshine peeking through the clouds. It’s so unlike the low burn or scorching blaze he so often weaponises, and though you want to stay and bask in it, it almost feels intrusive.

So, it’s with more hesitation than before that you speak up in the most hushed of tones, rising from your seated position and taking a step back. “I’ll leave you to it then, sir.”

He must feel the resounding calmness, too, because he doesn’t respond right away. You’re debating repeating yourself when he casts his gaze over you, and you can’t deny the flicker of warmth it sparks within your own eyes when the two pairs meet.

“Sit down.”

“Oh, um… why?”

The ensuing look thrown your way has your feet carrying you to the couch’s edge of their own accord.

You watch in apprehensive silence as he walks back to his rooms (radio in hand), presumably to put Jinx in her cot.

When he steps back out, he does so wordlessly and with a small metal box in-hand instead of his sleeping daughter. You’re also not afforded any kind of explanation when he takes a seat at your side and flicks the latch; only an order.

“Move your arm.”

You do so quickly, with no small amount of confusion painted across your face.

Your bewildered expression clearly does not show up on his radar, even when it augments to accommodate for the surprise of seeing him pull out gauze and a bottle of what looks to be rubbing alcohol from the box perched on his knee.

“What’s that—”

“You’ve been bleeding for the past fifteen minutes,” he says plainly, and it’s only then that your attention is diverted down to the gash on your thigh you thought you had fixed up.

Apparently not.

All you can manage is a soft ‘oh’ while you wait for him to hand you the gauze, but he makes no move to do so, even after dousing it with alcohol.

Your silence earns you a tsk and a roll of his eyes before he brings the white cloth down to your leg himself.

You stiffen up immediately, trying to back away despite being pressed against the couch, “It’s ok, sir, you really don’t have to—”

“Quiet,” he interjects brusquely and with no room for protest. “I’ve seen your stitch-work before, and you’re not nearly as good with a needle as you evidently are with children.”

“Oh… thank you?”

Try as you might, you cannot make any sense of what’s happening right now, and you’re almost grateful for the burning sting of the alcohol seeping under your skin for the distraction it provides from your whirlpooling thoughts.

“Are you fond of these pants?”

The startling question is punctuated by the cool sensation of a knife pressed flat against your skin, and you have no idea which of the two is more responsible for the new home your heart has found in your throat.

The impatient tapping of Silco’s thumb against the blade’s handle has your words clogging in your throat, wholly unable to form a coherent sentence.

Your inability to conjure a straightforward ‘yes’ seems to be answer enough for him, evident by the way he slices around your wound. When the torn fabric falls away after four quick motions, there isn’t even the trace of a line on your skin, and the small part of your brain that isn’t currently short circuiting finds itself transfixed by the expert way he handles the knife.

A brief glimpse of your own face in the steel’s angled reflection is revealed to you as he twirls it once around his knuckles before closing his fingers around the handle when the flat of the blade is tucked in parallel to his wrist.

You quickly school your expression into something that less resembles a fish in its wide-eyed, open-mouthed condition, clearing your throat just in time to be treated to the sight of Silco unwrapping a length of bandage around his hand.

“Lift.”

You do nothing, and the vexation in his voice at his repeated order has you tearing your gaze away from his hands and up to his face, where you are greeted by a flat set of eyebrows, one half-lidded eye and lips folded into a thin line. The picture of displeasure could not be clearer, and — not wanting to be the reason it becomes any more detailed — you quickly raise your wounded leg, glancing at him when your boot hovers over the coffee table to give itself something to prop up on.

The briefest of nods sees you balancing your leg’s weight on the wooden structure; not too heavily, and far away from the cigars neatly lining an intricate humidor. You wouldn’t want to scuff something that likely has a price tag steeper than your rent, and—

And then your thigh is being supported by Silco’s hand while its twin wraps the bandage around the newest addition to your collection of knife wounds.

“It’s alright,” Silco murmurs, and you find yourself staring at him once again, bewildered by the fact that he’s comforting you, clearly under the impression that your shrunken pupils are a result of the tight wrap.

You say nothing. You don’t trust yourself to. Where the confidence that had seen you remedy his daughter and leave without his dismissal ran off to, you’ll never know. But there’s no denying that it’s gone.

“What happened?” he questions when the bandage makes a second loop around your leg.

You disguise your hesitation in a shallow breath, in time with the white wrap tightening. “One of them was holding me up while the other rushed me. He had my arms in a lock so I could only kick the other guy away when he came in with the knife.”

“I take it he got lucky with the blade?”

“No, I let him have that one.”

There’s a playful lilt to his voice. “How so?”

“Well, it was either do nothing, get stabbed in the stomach, and die. Or, knee him at the last second and cop a knife to the thigh instead. That one seemed like a sweeter deal.”

“What was Sevika doing?”

“…Fighting off the other three.”

“Ah, so you got the lighter load.”

You hope you’re imagining the squeak in your voice as a response to his teasing. “I mean, I could’ve taken all five but that would’ve been selfish, you know?”

“Of course. How humble of you.”

Like a hooked fish being pulled out of the water by a fisher’s taut line, you find yourself suddenly thrust outside of the strange limbo you had been pensively toeing in whenever enveloped by Silco’s presence. The discomfort that ebbed at you whenever you stepped foot in his office since Jinx’s crying fit began flushes out like a vacuum in space, leaving you with nothing but the star that flickers in your chest when the two of you peel away the customary professionalism.

You missed its warmth.

“Well,” you begin with a slight tilt to your lips, not wanting your silence to be mistaken as unease, “I can’t be the best child carer and fighter in your employ. Sets the standard too high, don’t you think?”

“Seeing as the former doesn’t apply to my terms of hire, I’m afraid you’re obsolete in that regard.”

“Do you make sure all your obsolete staff don’t bleed out in your office, or do we just have a very different definition of that word?”

“Perhaps it would do for you to borrow one of my dictionaries and dedicate some time to vocabulary, as opposed to sea creatures.”

“There’s no way a dictionary could be more interesting than leviathans.”

Your lips mirror Silco’s in their amused quirking, both tightening in time with the last loop of the bandage around your thigh.

As has become apparently customary, your smile is quickly warped into something more suited to the widening of your eyes when his hand envelops yours, bringing it to the top of the bandage and pressing it down.

“Keep the pressure on,” he instructs as smoothly as ever, either unaware or indifferent to the redness on your cheeks while he leans back to rummage through the first aid kit once again.

You’re still staring — unashamedly, at that — when he faces you again, bandage clips in hand.

“Be more careful next time,” he says while setting the clips in place.

“I- I will,” you say, perhaps too quickly, when his fingers once again graze yours.

The spiked thrumming in your chest fills the ensuing silence, and you take the clicking of metal clasps on the first aid kit as your cue to stand.

“Thank you, by the way. For the, uh, treatment.”

He rises too, clasping his hands behind his back and looking down at you with a smile that borders amusement. “It’s the least I could do.”

Silco never struck you as the type of person to say thank you, and you surmise that’s the closest thing you’ll get to vocal gratitude. Not that the way his hands treated you didn’t more than make up for it.

You immediately wash that thought away while he’s distracted by the humidor on the table, lest those cunning eyes hone in on it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?” you clear your throat before continuing. “After the Boundary Markets job?”

“You will. In one piece, I hope.”

“I’ll do my best,” you quip with a smile of your own, lingering at the door. “But maybe stock up on more bandages, just in case.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You’re halfway out the door when a call of your name hooks into you just as firmly as the bandage clip’s teeth are dug into the wrap. Turning wordlessly, you eye the motions of his hand as it fishes a lighter from his pocket.

“I trust that should anything else arise with Jinx,” he says around the cigar in his mouth, pausing to light it.

“Of course, sir,” you offer immediately. “Anything at all, I’m happy to help.”

You mentally curse the smoke for obscuring the way his mouth angles in the infamous smirk that is just as unique to Silco as his whiskey, cologne, and tailored clothing.

“That will be all.”

You nod and close the door gently, feeling less hostile to the grey haze for the fact that try as it might, it did nothing to hide the smile from his voice.

“Well, let’s hear it.”

Sevika’s voice is drowned out by the incessant crowd weaving around the two of you as she pushes off the wall she was leaning against. “Hear what?”

You eye her dubiously, matching her long strides despite the protest coming from your scarred thigh.

Instead of giving her verbal ammunition, you motion broadly to yourself, hands gesturing around the purpling splotch on your cheek, and the white bandage visible through (a different pair of) torn pants.

She scans you once, before casting her gaze forward again. “You get a pass this time.”

You can’t blame your leg for the way you nearly trip up. “Uh… why?”

“Because Silco told me you’re the reason I walked into a silent office today. I don’t know what you did — and I don’t care,” she preemptively cuts you off before you can offer an explanation, “but you’d have to fuck up monumentally before I insult you today.”

Her arm extends in front of you, effectively halting you.

“There they are,” she says, nodding in the direction of the contacts you’re meeting with today.

The pair see you, and after a silent exchange you and Sevika make your way to a more secluded area of the markets, trusting that they’ll follow suit when they’re sure no one is watching them.

You’re only half paying attention, though. You hadn’t really expected Silco to tell Sevika you were the one that had put a stop to Jinx’s indefinite crying fit, but the idea that he spoke well of you — to his right hand, at that — reignites that flickering warmth in your chest.

Not that it lasts long, with the unimpressed look Sevika is staring you down with.

Quickly working your expression into something less telling, you take advantage of her earlier promise and give her shoulder a brief clap before throwing a shit-eating grin her way, just as your contacts round the corner.

“Just wait ‘til she starts teething.”

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sluttymutty · 2 years ago

Text

The Politics of Power- Chapter 1

Modern AU! Professor Silco x FemReader

The enigmatic Professor Silco takes you in as his grad student assistant. It's only one semester, just how hard could it be?

Eventually Explicit | 2.3K WC | AO3 LINK

Chap 2 | Chap 3

Reader Insert, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Romance, Fluff, Student/Teacher Relationship

Thank you to @sweatandwoe and @truthandadare for helping me out with ideas on where to take this story! <3

Chapter 1

To say you were hot was an understatement. And the oppressive cashmere clinging to your neck and torso did little to abate the warm flush that was quickly dampening your skin. It was still early fall, the world autumn-tinted enough that it would have tricked any reasonable person into packing away their summer clothes, you reasoned.

Cruel Fates.

Damn this school for its lack of public transportation. And damn yourself for choosing to wear a turtleneck on today of all days.

A black twill trench coat was slung across the crook of your arm as you raced across campus. You had briefly toyed with abandoning the bulky thing on the bus stop bench to remove its weight, except, it really did complete the outfit. Layered you, you hoped, in an air of professionalism that separated you from the other grad students. Covered the ratty backside of your pleated skirt that kissed the tops of your kneecaps.

You’d so wanted to put on a good face for your first day as a teaching assistant, look half decent for once, and now you’d be showing up late, sweaty and red-faced. He was going to think you uncivilized.

Although, from word of mouth alone, the man was a bit unrefined himself.

You’d done your research, asked questions, read the online reviews.

Professor Silco. The way he was portrayed, he seemed one, big contradictive conundrum. Passionate yet aloof. Accessible yet reclusive.

‘Tough grader.’

‘Hard to please.’

It appeared those with weak knees didn’t make it far in his class.

But people were meddlesome. People were callous. And most of what you’d plucked off the social grapevine about him surrounded the topic of his scars. The ones that allegedly decorated half of his face.

You’d been sitting at the library only days prior when you’d overheard. Hideous. Hard to focus on learning when- And that was as much as you had been able to tolerate out of two particularly scorned students before you had excused yourself abruptly from your seat, a sickly, unexpected anger slithering through your stomach as their conversation had continued.

This year was a year of promises. And you’d promised yourself to only blow up on very special occasions.

Not to say the man didn’t sound anything short of an asshole.

Based on his email responses to you, he was no-nonsense, replying to your valid inquiries with short, sometimes one-word responses that were on the fringes of belittling. It had you wondering what had made him select you, what qualifications you'd had that had stood you out from the rest. Or perhaps no one else had been daring or stupid enough to apply in the first place.

Vander had drawn a hard line when you’d raised the idea, expressly forbidding you to accept the position under him. Hadn’t given a reason as to why. Just that the guy was bad news. But frankly, you didn't much care. You weren’t one of Vander’s elite wunderkind anymore, and hadn't stayed number one for long. You'd been too quiet and perplexing to hold onto his attention, but clever enough to stay in his good graces, feeding off the opportunistic scraps his little fellowship provided.

But still, despite your several glowing recommendations and a pretty robust resume, Professor Silco had quite strangely been the only professor to accept your application. Deep down, you were a bit stung by it, but they would have to knock you out and drag you off campus to get you to forfeit those tuition benefits.

Vander would just have to tolerate it. Once you told him, that is.

So, stalwartly, you pushed forward with no small amount of eagerness about meeting the eccentric man, and a healthy amount of trepidation at the chastising you’d most likely receive at being late on your first day.

The University of Zaun was like a standalone Gothic village, tucked away from bustling Piltover in a valley between two mountain ranges, shrouded always in a translucent fog. Obscured by high peaks from East to West, the sun just barely touched here, glinting brilliantly across the tops of the University’s towering, spired architecture.

The rose windows. The jutting stone buttresses. The vaulted arches that made you feel so deliciously small. It was like walking across the courtyard of a stately castle.

Some people found it dreary here. You found it rather cozy.

The only thing you had time to relish in right now, however, was the temperature drop as you booked it across campus, the sweat cooling on your skin.

Yanking open the giant oak doors of the social sciences building, you shoved your way through several perturbed students, searching as you went. There were no numbered doors here, no, that would be much too tacky. Instead, adjacent to each door there were gold-embossed plaques etched with class names, in no discernible order. Frankly, you’d always found them stupid. And haughty.

Anthropology 101, no. Economics, definitely no.

Bingo. Political Theory.

There was no sliver of window to peek through, but a deep, melodic voice drifted from inside. Made you want to just stand there and listen for a while. But you couldn’t.

You flung your coat on haphazardly, cinching it tightly around your waist, and wiped a bead of sweat off your brow.

You turned the handle as quiet as you could manage, the door squeaking on its hinges.

The voice abruptly stopped.

It would have been best, you realized in dismay, if you had just waited outside until class ended. Followed those silly little gold plaques to his office and stood outside it, prepared with an excuse and your sincerest apologies.

Bit late for that, you thought, hiding still behind the security of the half-open, wooden door.

“Either come in, or don’t.”

The low warning was formidable enough to push you forward and into the small classroom. Oh, how profoundly aware you were, standing there, of the fact that the full room’s attention was on you. But this was no time to lose your nerve. You ignored the sea of eyes, instead locating the only pair you cared the opinion of, to send him an apologetic glance.

And you faltered again.

Professor Silco was slanted back against the front of his desk, one booted foot hooked behind the opposite ankle, arms crossed easily, yet you could feel the chokehold he had over the room, even as he eyed the intruder.

Those scars. Ruinous and etched deeply into the skin on the left side of his face, like rivers carving through a canyon. They began a few inches above his temple, clawing their way down to the bow of his thin lips.

And his eyes. You couldn’t find your way out of their hellfire if you wanted to. The one nearest you was a shocking shade of blue. Teal almost. Half-lidded in its probing judgment. The other was pure obsidian inlaid with a fiery ring of orange.

You needed to see it up close. Needed to be under its flickering damnation. Just to see how it felt.

You shook away the bizarre inclination.

You’d known full well he was younger, early forties at most. Yet, somehow, surprise lit into you anyway, still half expecting, based on your brief interactions over email, to see a cantankerous old man, teaching well beyond his years, wrinkled and scowling.

And he was scowling alright, but he was decidedly handsome in a wicked, unconventional way. And maybe that was what had you standing there like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler.

For a moment suspended in time, you swore there was mutual surprise, a split-second glint of an unfed curiosity in his gaze as he swept your nervous form.

Then it was gone, his face ironing into a perfect impassivity as he uncrossed his arms, shifted himself forward to address everyone with an upward lilt in his tone that told you everything going forward was at your expense.

“What is fifteen minutes late, anyhow, right class? What say we allow my new assistant to introduce herself, since she’s so keen on disrupting.”

The hand wrapped around the handle of your book bag tightened into a hard fist, your nails digging into your palms, centering your wobbling grasp on reality.

“Come, then.”

It was mortifying, the moment you realized that you’d been staring blankly at him for God knows how long, lost in your swarm of buzzing thoughts.

“Right,” you stuttered, face heating up. “My name.”

The unscarred corner of Professor Silco’s lips tilted up into a smirk of mild amusement and you had to tear your gaze away, feeling like a bitter little bug under a microscope as you made your way to the front of the room.

You were good at a lot of things; improvised public speaking was not one of them.

Vander had always pushed you to practice ‘using your voice’, acting as if you’d been born with an innate politician’s tongue and were just too timid to break out of your shell. But you weren’t the orating trailblazer he’d imagined you to be. You just weren’t the monologuing type.

And granted, introductions were extremely doable. You’d done those hundreds of times in your 27 years of life, in front of hundreds of people. But never him. Somehow Professor Silco’s proximity had your mind going haywire, attempting to form words like a broken compass trying to find north.

So, after a long, uncomfortable pause, you quietly introduced yourself to the students, hating the looks of pity you received out of a select few. Your name. Your degree. Your interests. Some hilariously woven fiction about being positively fascinated by the study of politics.

And all the while, you felt his mismatched gaze darting across the planes of your face, your reddening ears, your hair. A burning antagonism at the man clasped hands with self-consciousness as you closed out with a small smile.

After a moment, Professor Silco gave a small nod, instructing you to go sit with a haughty tilt of his head.

You couldn’t help it, your smile dropping purposefully, the curtain of your hair hiding from the rest of the class the look of wrath you leveled him with as you passed. A far-off warning bell clanged as his features darkened, something dangerous and intoxicating lifting his lips into the ghost of a smile, as if he knew something you didn’t.

The moment was over in the breadth of a heartbeat.

Thankfully, a couple of students up front were kind enough to scoot over so that you could take a seat at the edge of the table. You fanned out your work neatly, preparing to jot down clarifying questions on the syllabus, wanting to be fully prepared for the semester.

Tougher in practice, it seemed.

That voice. The one that rolled so darkly across the room like a distant clap of thunder. It was near impossible to brush aside.

You tried not to look at him as he spoke. You could tune out. You’d already taken this class. Aced it. Albeit with a different professor. The only thing you needed to do right now was familiarize yourself with the schedule.

But you did peek.

Because he was expensive looking. A crisp, burgundy dress shirt clung perfectly to his stream-lined torso, tucking into black, slim-fitting dress pants, cinched with a large, brass-buckled belt. He was hugged by a waistcoat, also black, decorated exquisitely with gold detailing. Boots of the same two color schemes fitted his feet and a cotton, raven-colored scarf wrapped his neck loosely.

Professor Silco was trim, his features impossibly sharp, chiseled of a brilliant marble. His dark hair was styled back, a single, sophisticated band of grey striping backward from his hairline. A refined nose, its blade sharp, cut through the air as he spoke passionately, about what you didn’t know, as you were too busy watching those long-fingered hands wave through the air to emphasize each word as if hammering them into your skull one by one.

You shook your head.

Resolutely, you glared down at the syllabus. And each time his brilliant gaze fell on you, you’d sense it at the crown of your head, startling slightly, gaze pulling upward like a magnet of an opposite pole. And it was always a second too long that he held on, you thought, before he’d roll onward to his next victim. Or was it all in your head?

What did it matter anyway?

Before long, class was dismissed and you sat as quiet as a mouse, observing him unabashedly beneath your lashes. Students filed out, some stopping to greet and introduce themselves to you. Most to Professor Silco. It was hard not to smile slightly at his general aloofness.

And then there were two.

Professor Silco wasn't paying you mind as he gathered his things in his gold-clasped briefcase, and you didn't want to interrupt.

Would he abandon you? Forget you were sitting here at all?

It wouldn't be the first time.

Facing the chalk board at the front of the room, he addressed you suddenly and your brain hit refresh on all mental processing. You were tossed through hyperspace, your name sounding so utterly profound passing across the threshold of his lips. You blinked, something subtle and strange pulsating gently in your lower stomach.

“Yes?”

He took his time before turning to speak.

"We have much to discuss."

But he was sauntering toward you, not away.

You used your entire arsenal of willpower to even attempt to keep still as his palpable presence slowly stretched well into the limits of your comfort zone. Until he was standing right there, hips almost brushing the front of the desk.

Professor Silco gazed down at you like you were a funny little thing, perched below him all simply, and you didn't surrender, questioningly cocking your head in lieu of speaking. You wet your suddenly dry lips, and his keen eyes darted to the movement before trailing the curve of your throat as you nervously swallowed.

They lifted to yours again.

“I expected more decorum out of Vander’s prodigy.”

It was the way he said it, a trace of venom lacing through his velvet tone, that made you frown.

“Well, don't," you said bluntly.

His good eyebrow cocked.

"I'm not Vander."

“No,” he said after a moment, something about the furtive, knife-edged tilt of his mouth sending a warning shiver down your spine. "You aren't, are you?"

You couldn't speak. Were entirely mute under the spotlight of his attention.

"Come," he said, turning abruptly.

And you followed.

If you enjoyed and feel inclined, please leave a kudos or comment on AO3. Thank you for reading!

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sluttymutty · 2 years ago

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Guys I'm gonna cry this is such a sweet fic

The Art in the Heart - Chapter 1

You’re a painter by trade, but an unexpected splash of color crashes into your life in the form of a handsome stranger. Something tells you he’s no ordinary work of art…

Everybody Lives AU | Pre-Act I | Silco x Reader | Female!Reader | Slow Burn | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Mild Angst || SFW | WC: 2.07k

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Zaun is a beautiful canvas.

Not many would agree with you, but you’ve always been able to sense it. Whether it’s literal graffiti in crumbling stone alleyways beautiful enough to rival anything in a Piltie art gallery, or a stubborn dandelion piercing through concrete and thriving against all odds in the chem-choked atmosphere.

You wish more people could see it the way you do.

It’s always been your calling to bring color to the Undercity, and you’re one of the lucky few Zaunites who got to turn it into a respectable profession. Now, you’re working on your biggest piece ever, literally: a mural on a large, gray brick building high enough on the Promenade to bask in the sunlight, but still visible to anyone in the Entresol who could be bothered to look up.

Being outdoors makes for a refreshing change from your usual gigs in stuffy Topside mansions, painting portraits of families who smell too clean and take themselves too seriously. They always insisted on making the most boring small talk, demanding your attention and drawing your focus away from your canvas. All your clients have too much money, but they can never seem to afford the patience to pose in silence.

No, it’s better to be alone when working. All you have for company is your supplies, a small gramophone, your sketchbook, and your satchel. No one could hope to interrupt you on your scissor lift high above the ground.

It surprises you, then, when the sound of running footsteps below pulls you away from the wall. You peek down at a thin, dark-haired man sprinting for his life.

Passers-by aren’t uncommon here, but most prefer to stroll silently as to not draw attention to themselves. So it’s mildly intriguing that this man has chosen speed over stealth.

He disappears into a gap between two buildings and into the shadows.

His pursuers make themselves known: a pair of Piltover Enforcers, navigating the urban landscape with much more clumsiness and caution than their prey.

“He can’t have gone far! Damn gutter rat…”

They crawl over debris and litter, making their way towards you. You hold your breath until they’re directly underneath you, and then—

SPLAT!!

The paint cans you kicked over land a direct hit on both Enforcers, drenching them in white and pink. They curse and whip out their batons.

You press a button to collapse the scissor lift, a melodramatic expression of remorse on your face.

“I’m soooo sorry, officers! It was an accident, I didn’t see you there—”

“Damn, woman! What the hell—”

“I’m sorry, if you want to be reimbursed for your uniforms just let Councilor Salo know and he’ll cover the costs.”

The namedrop makes them pause. You hand over your business card and a golden engraved crest. One Enforcer takes them, examining the crest in particular: it’s a pure gold, extravagantly carved letter “S” set in a delicate filigree of a leafy bush laden with berries. Given only to contractors who report directly to the councilor himself.

“It’s genuine,” he mutters to his partner and hands it back to you. The business card stays in his hand. He clears his throat and addresses you with a calmer, more formal manner. “And it’s not a problem, ma'am. We won’t bother the councilor with something so trivial. Have you seen a—”

You gasp exaggeratedly. “Your uniforms! You need to wash them right away! Or else they’ll stain permanently!”

The Enforcers glance at each other impatiently. “It’s fine. We’re looking for a—”

“And your skin! Did you get any on you?? It’ll stain you too!”

That gets their attention. One of them starts scooting away, eager to leave. You push the other with all your might.

“Scrub your bodies with tomato juice and then soak in onion peels! That’ll get it all out! But hurry!!”

One Enforcer stumbles over himself, and they both finally break out into a run. Out of Zaun and back to where they belong. You snicker to yourself and toss the crest in the air, catching it on the way down.

You catch a glimpse of something twinkling in the shadows. It’s a pair of eyes— are they green? or blue?

They disappear just as quickly as you spotted them.

Well, as interruptions go that was one of the more entertaining ones you’ve experienced lately. You ascend on the scissor lift and get back to painting.

The next day is business as usual, for the most part. Painting the wall is going smoothly. Out of nowhere, you suddenly feel prickly and uncomfortable— it’s an Undercity instinct, a warning that someone you can’t see is watching you.

The discomfort is the worst at the top of your head… so they’re looking down at you, like a bird of prey before it swoops.

You take a deep breath to settle your nerves. Then, you press a button that extends the scissor lift to its fullest height.

It brings you level with a frowning man on the roof, his arms crossed. He’s tall, sharp, and lean, with lanky black hair that drapes over his narrowed eyes. They’re neither green nor blue, but a teal that’s a perfect inbetween.

It’s such a beautiful color… you’re itching to replicate it by blending your paints.

“You know it’s dangerous to get involved with a stranger’s affairs,” he intones. His voice is low and smoky, with a hint of gravel. He scrutinizes you under furrowed brows.

“Just wanted to help a fellow ‘gutter rat’, that’s all,” you reply, shrugging.

His eyes tick open wider in surprise. He scans you up and down.

You hold back a sigh. Early in your career, you mastered the art of code-switching between the two disparate cultures of Topside and the Undercity. It’s a necessity for anyone who lives in Zaun but works in Piltover: if you’re not presentable enough in both manners and wardrobe for your Piltie clients, they’ll dismiss you out of hand; but if you wear your nice Topside garb in the Undercity, you’re practically screaming to cutpurses that you’re a wealthy mark.

While you couldn’t care less what most Topsiders think, it always hurts a little when one of your own doesn't recognize you.

Anyone could see that this man is the archetypal Zaunite: his clothes are thin and well-worn, but the leather straps and shoulder pad are in good condition, and the brass trappings are highly polished. It’s typical Undercity fashion, where cheap clothes have to be preserved as long as possible so as to not waste money on unnecessary replacements.

He’s more handsome than most men you know, though, with high cheekbones and a long shapely nose. His wiry form speaks to a man who prefers speed over brute strength, and—

“Now that’s not an attitude you encounter every day in the Undercity,” he muses, interrupting your thoughts. You must have passed whatever silent inspection he was conducting with his eyes, although he still regards you with wariness.

“What can I say? If I see an Enforcer, I just wanna mess with them, you know?” You grin at him.

“That, I do understand all too well,” the thin line of his lips quirks upward before settling into a straight line of neutrality.

He wields his stony demeanor like armor, but there’s something curious about the fact that he allowed you to approach him at all… it makes you want to get past his defenses, for some reason.

Even if it's only to satisfy the intrigue of getting to know a good-looking stranger.

“You’re welcome for yesterday, by the way,” you joke. “For saving your skin from the Enforcers. It looks like I saved you from a trip to Stillwater.”

His impassive facade cracks. He bares his teeth, bristling. “I did not need your help. I was perfectly capable of—”

“They were pretty close to catching you,” you raise your hands and make a grabbing gesture. “Good thing you’re so skinny. They can’t arrest you if you’re just literally going to slip out of their fingers.”

That gets him to step close to tower over you, glowering. Shit, he’s tall.

“What I lack in musculature, you seem to lack in intelligence. What on earth makes you think it would be a good idea to antagonize someone wanted by Enforcers?”

“Ooooh, the Enforcers want to lock up little ol’ you. You’re such a big baddie,” you tease. “If they had it their way, they’d have every single one of us locked up. You’re not special.”

He leans forward, curling his hands over the ledge of the roof. He lowers himself closer to you and sneers. “Perhaps I’ve done something especially terrible to warrant particular attention from Topside.”

“Let me guess,” you purse your lips as you examine him. “You pickpocketed some Topside nobles?”

He smiles slyly. “Worse than that.”

“Kidnapping a pet Poro?”

“You’re getting closer.”

You shake your head in bemusement. “What was it?”

“Seducing a Piltie noblewoman,” a mischievous glint shines in his eyes. “I all but rescued her from a cold, loveless marriage. Unfortunately, her husband didn't seem to appreciate that.”

“Really?” You laugh again, more out of surprise than humor this time.

“No,” he chuckles. “Just breaking and entering.”

The conversation seems to be going well. You got him to admit something personal about himself, even if it was on accident. Excitement fills you at the thought of getting to know him better.

“You better be careful, mister. Maybe I’ll turn you into the Enforcers now that I got a good look at your pretty face.”

Shit you hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud.

He raises his eyebrows at your slip-up. He steps back and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “Surely you wouldn’t have this ‘pretty face’ thrown into Stillwater, would you? There’s quite a dearth of us in the Undercity.”

Wow… when you fully see his face, “pretty” is a big understatement.

“Are you kidding? Pretty faces are a dime a dozen,” you smirk. “And I'd probably get a big reward for turning you in to Councilor Salo—”

At the sound of the councilor’s name, his eyes widen in fear. It’s like your words set him on fire with how fast he dashes away from you. The sounds of him running on pipes and rooftops echo in the distance.

You smack your head against the ledge and groan. You pushed him too far and almost got him to break the cardinal rules of living in Zaun: don’t trust strangers, and especially don’t trust strangers who work for the Council.

Damn you and your big mouth…

________________________________________

One reason why your worksite is prime real estate is that despite its proximity to the underground, it’s free from the omnipresent chem-smog. Any smells that don’t belong are carried far and wide in the fresh, untainted air.

When you arrive at the wall, you're greeted by the scent of cheap cigarette smoke. There’s no one on the ground, so you look up to confirm: on the roof is the man from yesterday, smoking. He’s all sharp angles even as he slouches with one arm on the ledge.

A warm feeling of relief blooms in your chest. Thank Janna you didn’t scare him off.

Your unexpected eagerness to talk to him makes you clumsy. All your supplies tumble out of your hands onto the scissor lift. You clamber onto it and trip, almost crashing into the 'ascend' button.

His eyes track your progress upwards, and you’re suddenly struck by the urge to fiddle with your paints.

When you’re finally level with him, you eye him shyly. “You came back.”

He doesn’t respond, looking down his nose at you. Finally, he drops his cigarette and grinds it underneath his boot.

“I seem to owe you my gratitude, again, for not taking the opportunity to send Enforcers to hunt me down,” his smile this time is somewhat guarded. It touches his lips but doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Don’t want to make their jobs easier for them,” you reply with a small grin.

“Why, thank you so much for thinking of me,” he says with a light sarcasm. The ends of his lips twitch upwards. “I would hate to be taken away before having the privilege of knowing your name.”

You give it to him. He extends his hand out for you to shake.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Silco.”

Chapter 2

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sluttymutty · 2 years ago

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Trying out brushes

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sluttymutty · 2 years ago

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sluttymutty · 2 years ago

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someone must have done it before, but i really wanted to do it too. (he wants more of your kisses, but he won't tell you about it.)

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sluttymutty · 2 years ago

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!!!Minors DNI!!!

Silco receiving some stress relief after a hard day~

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sluttymutty · 2 years ago

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Silco sketches

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sluttymutty · 2 years ago

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DRINK WITH ME - The Virgin AU

Dearest Darlings 🖤

I'm sorry this took so damn long. I was smacking the back of my head like a ketchup bottle but the damn thing just didn't want to come out for a while.

But here we have it, part 2 of the DWM Virgin AU. A rewrite of ✨The Taproom scene✨ from Chapter 12.

Thanks again to my dear one @sweatandwoe for the virgin Silco prompt. I hope you all enjoy. 🖤

NSFW || 8.3k

Part 2 [Chapter 12 rewrite]

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

“Tap needs changing.”

“On it,” you call over your shoulder to Jasper; already slipping out from behind the bar to head back-of-house.

Sevika’s visit earlier has replaced your dread with resolve, and you’re eager for a moment away from the noise of the club to hear yourself think. The music dampens as the door shuts behind you, and you lean back against the wood with a sigh of relief.

You’d promised Jinx last night that you’d visit her today. But perhaps afterwards you could head up to Silco’s office; charm him into letting you stay for a drink and then fawn over him like your life depends on it.

You push off the wood and head towards the taproom staircase a little further down the corridor.

Maybe you should just show up at his door naked? It lacks finesse, but it would certainly get the point across.

Or maybe you’d just end up melting his brain again.

Honestly, you’re unsure whether to be flattered or concerned. Either way, your mind refuses to be rid of his overt reaction when he’d first set eyes on your bare tits. And no matter the logic behind Sevika’s theories on control, you can’t shake the niggle of unease regarding how… off his whole demeanour had been.

Maybe it’s… been a while for him. He’s a busy guy after all. Keeps himself well guarded. It’s not hard to believe that his… excursions could be few and far between, despite his quite frankly ridiculous sexual magnetism.

You’re spared any further thought on the matter when the side entrance to the club bangs open ahead.

Silco looks even more intimidating than usual thanks to the imposing cut of his coat and his clearly thunderous mood. You can practically see the storm clouds above his head. Anyone with any sense would turn and run in the other direction if faced with this version of the Eye of Zaun.

But you’ve never been particularly sensible. Especially not when it comes to him.

He stops so abruptly when he sees you that Sevika almost walks straight into his back, and his expression becomes painfully neutral.

His Right-Hand gives you a pointed look over his shoulder, and it’s beseeching enough that you’re certain she’ll forgive you for being so blatant in front of her.

You summon your best flirtatious smile, the one that sells so many drinks, and top it off with your tried and true eye technique; the open drag of your gaze up and down his body, lingering for two-seconds on his lips, before finishing with coy eye-contact through your lashes.

It works a treat.

You smirk to yourself as you descend the taproom stairs and hear him follow a few moments later after a muttered word to Sevika.

The arched cellar is dim, dusty, and filled with shelved rows of bottles and battered metal casks. You set straight to work swapping over the beer kegs for Jasper, and try to calm the anticipatory quickening of your pulse when the click of Silco’s boots enter the room behind you, and the door shuts with a pointed snick.

“How’s Jinx feeling?” You ask as you work.

“Better. Tired. She’s spent the day in bed.”

“I’ll go visit later. I owe her a proper apology,” you lock the coupler into place over the fresh keg.

Silco merely hums in response.

“And how are you feeling?”

No answer. You brush your hands off on your trousers as you straighten and turn. He’s barely three steps into the room, standing with his back to the closed door. His hands are clasped casually behind him, and he still wears the practiced mask of indifference he’d donned upstairs.

You tilt your head playfully, “You seem a little irritated.”

Once again there’s no answer, but the rise and fall of his chest seems to quicken just a little in response to the tone of your voice. He watches you like a hawk as you begin to stalk your way slowly over to him, and if you swish your hips a little gratuitously that’s no-one’s business but your own.

“Rumour has it that you’ve been a little grumpy for a few days now. I wonder why that might be?”

“Rumour?”

“Mhm,” you hum in confirmation as you arrive in front of him, “Is it true?”

He considers his words before carefully answering, “I suppose I might be feeling a little more… stressed than usual."

You tut your displeasure with a pout, “We can’t have that,” you croon, stepping into his space and walking your fingers up the lapels of his coat. The cold from the outside clings to the material; a crisp contrast to the delicious warmth of his body heat.

“I’m wondering if there’s anything I can do to help relieve the tension?”

The question alone appears to crank up his tension even more. His throat bobs, “What did you have in mind?” he rasps. Unbearable anticipation hemming the fringes of his voice, as though he’s unsure if he even wants to know the answer. Unsure what he wants the answer to be.

You smooth your hands back down his chest, before slipping your arms around his waist beneath his coat and pressing your body flush against him. His hands remain clasped behind his back, but his chest hitches in a tiny micro breath and his energy thrums.

You tilt your face to press a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to the underside of his jaw. He exhales through his nose in a shivering stream that ruffles your hair.

Lay yourself at his feet.

Your hands trail down his sides as you lower yourself to your knees.

And there it is again – that edge of trepidation in his eyes. The sense that his controlled confidence is flailing within his grip like a fish out of water.

The collar of his coat rises with the steady bunch of his shoulders.

Your brow furrows, and your palms follow the crimson seam up his thighs in a movement that’s intended to be as comforting as it is alluring.

“I don’t like to see you so tense, Silco, sweetie,” you coo softly.

The front of his trousers strains tighter by the second, thighs quivering beneath your touch. His complexion seems locked in battle between paling and flushing, and the muscles in his unmarred cheek tic in response to the pointed snap of a single button beneath your fingers.

“No better way to unwind than with a nice massage, hm?” You undo a second button, “After all, you're always complaining about my clever little mouth,” a third button, “I’m eager to defend its honour.”

The final, fourth button.

Silco’s throat drags in a thick swallow, and even from down here it’s impossible to miss the dilation of his pupils.

You hook your fingers over the top of his trousers and pull them down just enough to free those beautiful inky roses. You press your lips to them, one by one, and run your tongue over their velvet petals. Silco shivers, a small, gasping breath catching in his throat above you.

You nuzzle your nose into the trail of dark hair just beneath his navel, and exhale a long, warm breath out over his skin. His pelvis twitches and you grin, tightening your fingers and tugging the waistband lower—

Silco grabs your wrists hard. The fine bones and tendons within grinding together from the urgency of his grip.

When you peer up, you’re greeted with undeniable panic.

Ice shoots up your spine like a frozen fuse and your stomach turns with a sickening flop. You immediately unfurl your fingers from his trousers and back your head away to a less invasive proximity.

“Are you okay?” You ask earnestly, “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

As stark as a flipped coin; Silco’s fear becomes anger.

“The only thing going on is that you’re taking far too long,” he hisses venomously, “Get on with it, or don’t bother at all.”

He may as well have slapped you.

Your skin becomes clammy. And hurt – as thick as mud and as cold as pressed oil – oozes sluggishly through your veins. You stare up at him for an age, attempting to fathom the dichotomy of his cruel expression and his fearful gaze.

Your whispered question is hoarse, “Why are you lying to me?”

His nostrils flare, and his lips thin to a sliced line.

“What are you afraid of—”

You almost fall forward as he spins on his heel and lurches away towards the door.

A burst of fury, embarrassment, and unjustified heartache propels you to your feet; voice harsh and shrill, “If you walk out that door you won’t see me this Friday, or any Friday that follows.”

The threat stills his hand upon the doorknob – knuckles bleeding white and fingers shaking with the ferocity of his grip.

You fling your arms upwards in silent exasperation, not that he’s even looking at you to witness the gesture. They drop, and the smack of your palms against your thighs fills the silence.

“The fuck is wrong with you Silco?”

He doesn’t turn nor speak. All he offers are the bunched lines of his shoulders beneath his coat.

“This isn't you,” your throat aches as you battle the unwanted constriction, “This isn’t the man I know—”

You’re silenced by a horrific grate of laughter; cold and sharp as hewn flint.

“If you think me incapable of a little callousness then you know absolutely nothing.”

“I know your brand of cruelty and this isn’t it,” you snap, willing away the sting at the corner of your eyes and suddenly very thankful that he’s facing away, “It’s a blatant defence for whatever it is you’re hiding, and I am sick of being left in the dark.”

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even appear to breathe.

“So?” you prompt, “Are you gonna explain what just happened?”

You hear the grind of his teeth.

“I simply wasn’t in the mood.”

“Your raging boner said otherwise.”

His fingers rip from the door handle, and the silence is filled with the incisive refastening of his trousers.

“So that’s it then?! You lead me on for months. You finally kiss me. And now you’re done with me? Is it all in the chase for you? You’ve lost interest now that you’ve caught me?”

“No.”

“No? What does that mean no?! Why can’t you be honest with me? I thought we trusted each other. I thought we were friends—”

“I am nobody’s friend, sweetheart,” he sneers, head snapping to the side to glare at you from the corner of his hellish eye, “You are my employee. The other night should not have happened. It was inappropriate for us to—

“Oh you can cut that bullshit right now,” you yell, thrusting a finger in his direction, “You’re a fucking crime lord, you’re hardly concerned with workplace ethics. And even if you were, you and I both know you lost the right to that pathetic excuse long ago—”

“I would seriously reconsider your tone—”

“You can’t just use me and discard me like trash!”

Your accusation echoes off the bricks and settles heavily between you. His scars tighten, and that one, piercing eye averts its gaze. Your lungs struggle as though you’ve just run up a flight of stairs, and you despise how small your voice is once it re-emerges.

“I just— I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

The pathetic words hang in the air just as prevalently as your previous ones. Silco’s head turns back towards the door – jaw clenching in a repetitive pulse if the shift of his ears is any indication.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” he grits out eventually.

Perhaps his answer should assuage you, but it only makes you feel worse. Your anger and frustration reignite in an immediate blaze.

“Then why am I being punished?”

You receive no answer.

The inside of your skull buzzes like a hornet’s nest. Damn your pride. You’ve hardly any left at this point, and you’ll trade what remains if it’ll only buy you a little fucking clarity.

“Do you want me or not?”

Silence. Your jaw sets.

“Do you want me. Or not?” You grit out from behind clenched teeth.

Again, you receive no answer from Silco beyond the agitated curl of his fingers below his gilded cuffs, and the ever tightening bunch of his shoulders cranking higher by the second.

“For fuck’s sake Silco!” You explode, “It’s a simple fucking question! Do you want to fuck me or not?!”

He spins and swoops upon you like a storm; hand closing around your wrist in a bone crushing clamp as he drives you backwards with gale force strides. His eyes flash with forked lightning, illuminating frozen blue and flaming red set within an expression twisted in feral fury.

“Yes, I want to fuck you,” he snarls through sharp, bared teeth. Spittle pooling at the corners of his mouth like some rabid animal. Close enough for you to taste the tobacco remnants on his breath. Your thighs hit the kegs and your spine bends backwards under his looming might.

“You have no idea how badly I want to fuck you. How often I’ve thought about it. How I have pictured every position in which I wish to take you in explicit detail.”

Silco’s venom infused rage is staggering, and you’re left completely breathless and utterly wanting beneath him.

“I have wanted to fuck you for months.”

His words snap you from your desirous daze; acting as an accelerant to the flames of your own anger. You bare your teeth right back, “Then why don’t you?!”

“Because I have never done it before!”

Silco’s bellowed admission crushes your lungs and brings all brain activity to a grinding halt. And in the resounding silence that follows you watch painful rays of clarity break through his storm cloud gaze as he realises what his outburst has revealed.

The space between you fills with heavy, mingled breaths, and your wrist remains clamped within his unrelenting grip; now beginning to tremble slightly from anger or adrenaline or both. Slowly, your mind begins to churn, and your lips form the first shapes of a hundred questions, until your tongue finally manages to follow through on the simplest, and most vital of all.

“You… you’re a virgin?”

Silco’s jaw creaks, and his eyes flash beetle-shell dark. The lack of verbal confirmation is answer enough. He releases your wrist as though scalded, and you drop heavily to sit atop the kegs and gawp silently up at him. Struggling to comprehend the months of loaded interactions. All the dirty comments and double entendres and the confidence with which they were delivered.

“But… but you flirt with the skill of a world-class whore,” you say lamely.

Silco’s expression becomes even more thunderous, “That’s right,” he snarls dangerously, “Make your clever little jokes at my expense.”

A wave of nausea turns your stomach, and you shake your head, “I’m not mocking you, I’m trying to understand,” you gaze imploringly up at him, “Do you honestly believe I would ridicule you for this?”

You receive no response beyond a flicker of vulnerability that’s gone so quickly it’s a miracle you even caught it in the first place. Quiet horror prickles over your skin, and your nausea deepens.

“…Has someone ridiculed you for this?” You ask quietly.

His gaze strips the meat from your bones, and his lips become a bloodless line with how tightly they press together. Your stomach knots with disgust and indignance on his behalf.

“Silco,” you breathe emphatically, rising slowly from your perch to stand toe to toe with him, “They’re wrong. This is nothing to be ashamed of.”

The natural downwards tilt of his mouth deepens, and his eyes become steely. You can practically feel the eggshells beneath your feet.

“I wish you had just told me.”

He expels a short, sharp breath through his nose as though you’ve just made the most ludicrous suggestion he’s ever heard. His lips curl into an ugly sneer, “When did you expect me to slip such a topic into conversation?”

“I’d say you had a pretty good opening the other night,” you counter smoothly, “When I was straddling your lap and asking if you wanted to continue.”

Your teeth ache listening to the agonising grind of his molars in the dusty, brick-lined quiet.

“What were you gonna do if Jinx hadn’t interrupted? Just… plough on ahead and hope for the best?"

“Something along those lines,” he mutters tightly after a few seconds; uncharacteristic defeat lying beneath the bitter chagrin.

Your heart aches, and the poor, caged thing compels your hand to reach out on it’s behalf. But riverside history repeats itself. Silco jerks away, spinning on his heel and stalking for the door.

But you’re quicker this time.

You dash ahead and flatten your back against the wood – blocking the exit with barely a second to spare, leaving you trapped beneath Silco’s towering figure once more. You hold his gaze, attempting to quell the primal fear that zaps through every nerve in your body at the flash of unbridled outrage in his eyes.

“Move aside,” he warns, lethally soft.

“I’m not letting you leave like this,” you babble, desperate to make him understand.

“I will not ask again.”

“This doesn’t change how I feel about you, Silco.”

“Final. Warning.”

“I still want you—”

He shoves you back against the door hard, a rough hand on each shoulder and long thumbs pinning your collarbones as thoroughly as two needles through the wings of a butterfly. His sharp nose presses close to yours, eyes and mouth alike spitting venom as skilfully as a cobra.

“I am not interested in your pity.”

“It isn’t pity—”

“Do not lie to me.”

“If our roles were reversed would you pity me?”

Silco’s fire recoils. And dwindles, just a touch.

“Would you think any less of me?” You add gently.

He stares. And little by little the ferocity sheds away like old paint, leaving behind a tight, quiet wariness. And without his anger acting as a barrier, you begin to comprehend just how close he is. Every place your bodies touch. Every place they don’t.

Your heart patters like spring rainfall on a tin roof, and your insides glow furnace warm. Time slows and thickens to syrup, and everything that isn’t Silco falls away – forgotten and unimportant.

You tilt your face until your lips hover barely a hairs-width away from each other. Eyelids – both yours and his – droop to half-mast as breath skims over skin.

“Would you stop wanting me?” You whisper.

Several beats precede the sombre shake of his head.

You smile, small but genuine, and your fingers toy with the open part of his coat down by his hips, pulling him carefully closer until you’re both enveloped within the same cocoon of dark material.

“I feel the same,” your words are so quiet, but Silco is so near. His hands soften upon your shoulders and you shudder at the grazing trace of his thumbs up the vee of your clavicle, “My attraction to you has never been dependent on how many others came before me.”

His gaze drags thoughtfully over your face, and your heart races ever faster. Vulnerability captures you within a tight and sudden grip, drying your mouth to dust. And yet your tongue continues to dance against your better judgement.

“All I know is… is that I look forward to seeing you. That I like spending time with you. And… and I think about you… a lot.”

Silco's throat bobs, and his eyes switch slowly back and forth between yours. You wet your lips – no more than a fleeting, nervous dart – and still he tracks the movement like a hound.

“And there’s no pressure. No… time limit.”

His green eye is barely visible anymore beneath the heavy drape of lashes, but you know from the ever exposed flame of the other that his gaze is fixed upon your mouth. You find it hard to speak. Each word heavy; an effort to form and vocalise.

“I’m not going anywhere, Silco… I’ll be here. Wh-when you’re ready. If you want me… you— you can have me.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

And you’re burning. Your heart slams against your ribs and you slowly suffocate beneath the encompassing press of his body-heat. From the depth and intensity of his gaze. From the terrifying euphoria pressing up under your skin like a damning brand. Too much. All of it. It’s all too much.

The wood at your back groans beneath your combined weight as Silco leans closer, and all at once you’re granted clemency in the form of a semi-stiff bulge at your hip.

Sex. Sex is safe territory. Sex doesn’t necessarily equate to—

Your lungs loosen, and your head clears a little.

You peep up at him from beneath the lowered fan of your lashes.

“Would you judge me,” you breathe, sliding your leg between his and grazing upwards, “if I told you that I quite like the idea of being your first?”

He sucks in a sharp breath as you reach his crotch, stiffening further beneath the teasing press of your thigh. You dip your hands through the opening in his coat and hook your index fingers over his trousers – pulling him against you with a provocative roll of your pelvis that has him grunting softly.

You look him dead in the eye, and don’t bother to hide the lust dark husk from your voice.

“That I really like the idea of making you feel so fucking good that you’re ruined for anyone else.”

Silco’s lips are forced apart by a harsh, wobbling exhale, and you feel his rapidly hardening cock jump within the confines of his trousers.

“Mmm,” a pleased grin spreads across your face, and you treat him to another roll of your hips; as well-received as the first, “Good to know you approve of my devious plan.”

He growls low in his throat, and you’re swallowed whole by the animalistic hunger that swells in his eyes. His hands steal the air from your lungs with their unhurried caress; one palm dragging down to your waist, and the other sliding to frame your throat. Beautiful fingers enfolding your jaw with a quiet command that has your chin tipping towards him.

Silco’s voice is a low, smoked murmur that you only just catch.

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your heart shoots into your throat like a star, but before you can say or do anything further – he’s kissing you.

And who are you to argue against that?

Your toes curl inside your boots, and you arch more fully into him with a gratified little sigh.

The heat between you has in no way dispelled since your office tryst a few nights prior – it only continues to mount. And yet the way Silco kisses you now is so… considered. As though he’s deconstructing every element that comprises the way in which two mouths can be joined; studying the ingredients one by one.

Capturing first your bottom lip, and then your top. Gifting you with a soft brush of tongue, followed by a more thorough tasting. A graze of teeth which gradually sharpens to a bite. A tentative suckle that evolves into a ravenous tug. Copying you whenever you introduce a new move. Repeating anything that elicits a positive response from you in the form of a breathy sigh or an approving hum. Diligent hands map your body all the while. A slow drag over your ribs, your waist, your back. Fingers sketching your jaw, and weaving through hair. Palms sliding down to cup your buttocks, followed by a hedonistic squeeze.

The attention with which he explores you is unfairly hot, and somehow far more sexually fulfilling than any form of intercourse you’ve shared with any past partners you can think of.

And that fact is… something to examine at a later date.

Lips part with a wet pop, and your foreheads rest together as you both catch your breath. Two pairs of hands continuing to enjoy the shape of each other in slow, roving strokes.

“Silco?”

“Hm?”

“How much of a… how much experience do you have?”

He chews over his answer before admitting, “The other night was… new for me.”

You curl your fingers into the shorn hairs at the back of his head with your gentle question, “Was I… was I your first kiss?”

He shakes his head, “No. But the others were… rather they weren’t so…”

“Intense?”

“Yes.”

A small smile pulls at your mouth, “So I was your first steamy make-out session?”

Silco’s eyes roll briefly towards the ceiling, but his lips mimic the shape of your own, “I suppose you were.”

An odd, bashful sort of pride has you pulling the plush of your bottom lip between your teeth, and Silco’s gaze ticks down.

“You’re a really good kisser,” you compliment softly, grazing the tip of your nose up the side of his.

His lashes flutter almost imperceptibly at your tenderness. “Likewise,” he murmurs, before rocking forwards to slant his mouth over yours once more.

Your stomach cartwheels, and you slip your arms tightly around his back, the inner lining of his coat as warm against your skin as his lips.

Whether intentional or accidental, Silco’s thigh slips between your legs and presses upwards so sweetly. And the inadvertent little noise that spills from you in response acts as a lit match dropped upon an oil-soaked fuse.

Within the space of a few galloping heartbeats the kiss transforms into something torrid. You can almost feel your lips swelling from the savagery with which Silco tears at them. Not that you’re in anyway discouraging such behaviour. In fact, you match it. Relishing the crush of his mouth and the sting of his teeth and the greediness of his tongue. Your head swims with it all. With the ever insistent hardness that juts into your hip.

Fuck, he lights up your entire body in a way you’ve never experienced.

His mouth drags to your jaw, and your head tips automatically to grant access to the column of your throat.

“S-Silco?”

He growls in response, but doesn’t cease his eager exploration of your neck.

“Can I— can I touch you?”

His mouth stills, and a few moments pass before he detaches himself from your skin and pulls back to meet your gaze.

He nods, slowly and emphatically.

Your pulse races as though you’re the inexperienced one. Skin tingling in a head-to-toe shiver.

Your fingertips trail down over the golden edging and shining clasps which adorn his abdomen. Further – past dark-clad hip-flexors to gently trembling thighs. Carefully watching his expression the entire time. But the uncertainty from before is gone, and beyond a few nerves which you’d consider standard given the situation, all you see is desire.

His lashes flutter as you lightly trace the length of him over his trousers.

“We’ll take things slow,” you whisper, popping open the top two buttons on his pants, “Okay?”

A single dip of his chin is his answer.

You slip your hand down the front of his underwear, and wrap your fingers around him.

His pelvis jerks with a sharp inhale at the contact, and his forehead hits the door beside your ear with a dull thump. You hush soothing noises against the skin of his neck, and offer one long, slow stroke of his heated length.

And the sigh that drops from his lips is one of bliss. It makes you smile into the crook of his neck to feel how his tension ebbs away with each languid pump that follows. You press deep, lingering kisses beneath his jaw, and hum in encouragement when his hips begin to rock to compliment the work of your hand.

“That’s it sweetie,” you praise, “Tell me what you want. Tell me what feels good.”

You rub your palm in a circle over his sensitive cockhead, smearing his leaking wetness into your skin for better lubrication. He sucks in a shaky breath, body shivering against yours and pelvis stuttering once more.

“Ha-everything you’re d-doing feels good,” he mutters, tightening the wrap of his arms around you.

You hum again, adjusting your grip to something a little firmer, and enjoying the low, throaty rumble you receive in response. The tip of your tongue meanders through the curving shell of his ear, tracing down to his lobe which you suck into your mouth with a kittenish tug and a playful nibble that has his cock twitching.

“I’m glad,” you coo, pressing more slow kisses to his neck between words and pumps, “But you can tell me what you want too.”

You emphasise your point by increasing your tempo and adding a gentle yet effective twist that has him groaning softly before cutting himself off with a snap of teeth.

“No need to censor yourself with me, handsome,” your fingertips drum a chiding tease against the underside of his shaft. His mouth falls open with a quiet inhale beside your ear, “The noisier you are, the better I can make you feel.”

You reestablish your hold, this time with your thumb closest to the base as you work him. Squeezing your fingers in a rewarding, rhythmic pulse when he begins thrusting a little more earnestly into your fist with a series of halting grunts.

You brush your lips over the thrumming artery in his neck, repeating in a whisper, “Tell me what you want, Silco.”

His forehead unsticks from the wood of the door and he draws back until you’re nose to nose. Finally you’re able to take in his fogged expression. Lips still kiss-bruised. Eyes pleasure glazed and dark as sin. Facial muscles contracting in micro twitches to accompany the continuing efforts of your fist.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, “Y-hou were going to u-use your mouth earlier?” He asks, voice as quiet as it is ragged.

“Yes,” you respond with a small smirk.

“I want that.”

You tip your face to his and take the opportunity to slip your tongue beneath his upper lip in a tantalising sweep along his gum-line.

“You want me to use my mouth on you?” You murmur; directly into his.

He nods jerkily, unable to offer anything verbal beyond heavy breaths and a small, rough whine as you suck his lower lip between your teeth and tug, before releasing it with a slow grin.

“I want that too. Been thinking about it for a while. What it’d be like to get my lips around your cock—”

“Don’t tease, sweetheart.”

You pout demurely up at him and remove your hand from his pants. He whines like a wounded animal and you huff a laugh, palming him over his trousers, “Shh, you’re awfully impatient.”

Teal eye narrows, and he grabs your wrist – keeping your hand exactly where it is as he pushes his clothed erection harshly into your palm with a ragged, commanding growl, “I said, don’t tease.”

Your thighs press together at the show of dominance. Undoubtedly a taster of what’s to come once he finds his sexual confidence; knowing Silco as well as you do.

And the automatic submission that spills from your mouth isn’t faked.

“Yes, Sir.”

His pupils swell further, and darken to an otherworldly shade of obsidian.

“Good girl.”

You clench around nothing, and a small, high peep catches in your throat, much to Silco’s quiet amusement. His lips curl into a sly smirk, and he begins to walk backwards, tugging you along both by your wrist and by the gravitational pull of his eyes.

He leads you towards a stack of wine crates at the side of the room, and the drab wood may as well be ornamented gold for how he manages to transform such a rudimentary seat into a throne. You stand between his legs in a bewitched haze, gazing down at him despite feeling for all the world as though he’s the one towering above you.

His hands alight upon his thighs; needing nothing more than the calm, velvet power of his voice to make you yield.

“Kneel.”

You sink to your knees in a daze, and shuffle yourself as close as you’re able between his boots. But as soon as you place your hands on his shins – the spell breaks. The confidence he’d momentarily gained begins to crumble when faced with the reality before him, and the waters of anxiety begin to seep in through the cracks once more.

“Do you still want to do this?” You ask gently, smoothing your palms up over his knees to his thighs, “It’s okay to change your mind.”

After a split second he dips his chin, sliding his fingers around your wrists and guiding them higher towards his crotch, “I want this. I want your mouth.”

As though to emphasise his point, he shifts a little closer to the edge of he crate, and thumbs open the final two trouser buttons himself.

Anticipation fizzes behind your sternum, and sets your cells tingling as you push the open material of his pants out of the way and hook your fingers over the top of his underwear. You meet his gaze, and offer another sincere reminder.

“You’re in full control, Silco. I’ll stop the second you give the word, and you’ll receive no judgement from me.”

His throat bobs above his tie, but you wait for the tiny dip of his chin before continuing.

You tug the fabric down, and he springs free.

You stare openly, mouth going a little dry. Sure – sticking your hand down his pants had given you a pretty good idea of what to expect, but it’s one thing to feel it, and quite another to find yourself face to face with it. As long and elegant as the rest of him is, with a beautiful scimitar curve that you know is certain to hit all the right spots. Particularly with such a shapely cockhead.

“What’s wrong?” He asks sharply from above, the shift of his hips giving away his self-consciousness.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you reassure quickly, flashing him a grin, “I was just thinking that it’s no wonder they call you King of the Lanes.”

He blinks slowly, and it occurs to you that his lack of sexual experience would mean he has no way of knowing how he sizes up to the general populous. No previous reactions to go by. No chance for comparison.

“You’re huge,” you inform candidly, tucking the waistband of his underwear beneath his balls to free both your hands, “Easily the biggest I’ve been with.”

The golden details on Silco’s waistcoat catch the dim, chem-bulb lighting with the swell of his chest, and the green of his eye gleams.

“Oh?”

“Definitely the best looking,” you purr, wrapping your fingers around his shaft and pulling back the soft skin in a long, indulgent stroke, “Not that I expected anything less, given your proclivity for immaculate grooming.”

His gaze is as sharp as his small, creased smirk.

You lean forward and ghost your mouth over the head of his cock, and your whispered words fan over his flushed skin, “Bet you taste good too.”

There’s a small whistle of air through chipped teeth as you brush a kiss to his leaking tip, before tilting your face to blink innocently up at him; knowing full well the centre-most plush of your angelic smile is now glazed with his precum.

His chest depresses with a harsh huff as you glide your tongue out over your lips, savouring the glistening salt tang of him with an involuntary flutter of eyelashes.

His left hand twitches at the side of his thigh, “You look so v-very pretty – down on your knees.”

There’s a hint of dark wildness curling at the edge of his features, and fool that you are, you’re determined to coax that particular beast from its cage in earnest.

You reach for the uncertain hand and guide it to your head, encouraging him to tangle his fingers in your hair as you pout, “Down on my knees for who?”

His eyes flash, his spine straightens, and your heart skips a beat as the true Eye of Zaun emerges.

“Down on your knees for me.”

The pure, predatorial power in that growl worsens the slick between your own thighs, and you nod with a breathy sigh.

“For you,” you agree, before dragging a lengthy lick over the head of his cock, curling the tip of your tongue against his frenulum as you pass.

There’s a smack of skin above you as Silco slaps his free hand over his mouth; muffling a strangled moan that accommodates the backwards roll of his eyes.

It makes you even more determined to please him. To make him feel good. He deserves it. He works so damn hard.

And if this is his reaction from the first touch of your tongue, then you’re about to blow his fucking mind.

Rough, muffled grunts continue behind Silco’s palm as you pamper the head of his cock with rolling caresses of your tongue and little suckling kisses. Working his length with your fist all the while. Gradually easing him into the more intense sensations you’re able to offer.

You dip forward and grant his balls the same careful attention whilst your thumb continues slow, circular stimulation at the tip.

“You want more?” You mumble against his skin, peering up through your lashes.

Silco’s palm drags up his face, and his fingers fist at the crown of his head just as tightly as he grips your hair. His brow twisting in pleasure-filled yearning to accompany his husky response.

“Yes.”

You paint a long stripe up the underside of his cock from balls to glans with the flat of your tongue, and finally grant him the full wrap of your lips; bobbing forward to take the first few inches of him into the heat of your mouth.

Silco’s hand slams down onto the crates, fingers curling around the edge hard enough to for the wood to buckle slightly under-palm with a painful creak, whilst the other fist tightens in your hair until your scalp stings perfectly. You grind your pelvis down upon the heel of your boot to try and alleviate some of your aching arousal, and he responds to the vibrations of your needy, muffled moan around his length with a desperate rasp of his own.

You ease him deeper with incremental bobs, and his breaths quicken and become increasingly jagged the closer your lips travel towards his rose adorned pelvis. One hand steadies the base whilst the other cups his balls in a gentle fondle, cheeks hollowed with the tight vacuum of your mouth as you glide up and down his length. A little faster. Lavishing the underside of his shaft with your tongue. Unperturbed by the squirming rock of his hips or the wet, lewd sounds which echo off the bricked arches. Focusing only on your breathing, on relaxing your throat until you’re able to go for gold; taking his whole cock in one smooth slide and swallowing around him—

“Stop.”

The single word is urgent enough that you immediately pull off him, snapping the string of saliva connecting you with your sleeve and rising up on your knees to capture Silco’s face in your hands. A pang of concern echoing through the chamber of your ribs at his painfully screwed expression, green eye locked away behind squeezed lids.

“Are you okay?” You rasp quickly, “Was I doing something you didn’t like?”

He shakes his head, taking a few laboured breaths before speaking, “I was— I was going to…”

You huff a small laugh, borne more from relief than humour, “You can cum in my mouth,” you inform in a sultry lilt, “I’d quite like you to, in fact.”

“I would like that too, I assure you,” he opens his eye to peer at you, “I’d just rather it didn’t happen so quickly.”

“You’ve already lasted a lot longer than most people in your position would.”

“Regardless, that isn’t…” he trails off, scanning your features as though only just realising how close you are… how tenderly you’re holding his face. You hurriedly drop your hands to the lapels of his coat instead, and it snaps him from his thoughts, “I’m very much enjoying all that you’re doing, and I would like the experience to last as long as possible.”

A kernel of warmth plants itself inside your chest, and your lips twitch into a small smile.

“Alright,” you acquiesce, dropping your palms to his thighs and sinking back onto your heels, “Let me know if you need me to back off. And when you’re ready…” you scoop the fresh pearls that have gathered on the head of his cock with your tongue, and take your time in savouring, and swallowing, “I’ll not waste a single drop.”

Silco watches slack mouthed, and you flash him a winning smile before sliding your lips over him once more.

Only four bobs of your head have his fingers tightening urgently in your hair again. You pull back, and lavish the dark, flushed tip with teasing kitten licks, waiting for his grip to loosen as a sign to continue.

Over and over this happens. A game of stop and go. Stop and go. Until you barely make it one bob before he’s quietly whimpering and yanking your head urgently backwards, panting above you like an overheated dog.

Beads of sweat cling to his brow and upper lip – sliced scar hooked high from the grimace which displays his teeth, and dark, mussed hair fighting the waxed pomade that coats it. You stroke comforting palms over his thighs and rise on your knees again until you’re eye level with him.

“Silco, sweetie,” you reason softly, “You’re torturing yourself. This is supposed to be pleasurable.”

“It is,” he whines roughly through his teeth.

“It’s alright to let go.”

He shakes his head. “Too soon,” he grits.

“It’s not,” you breathe, reaching a hand to continue pumping his twitching shaft; just enough to keep him near the edge, but not enough to send him over it.

The internal battle he’s waging is evident, and so you seek to offer candid reassurance.

“If you think that this is the last time I’ll have my mouth on you then you’re badly mistaken.”

His eyes burn into yours, scarred mouth open with heavy exhales and large hands petting messily through your hair as though you’re his only tether to reality.

Janna you want to kiss him so badly.

“Let go for me Silco? Please?” You beg sensually, spine arching in a provocative display that pushes your clothed breasts against his chest, lips hovering just over his with your silken pleas. Suddenly feeling as heavy with thick, molten want and desperation as though you’re the one teetering on the edge of climax, “I want to taste you. I want to feel you unwind. Please. I’ll give you total control. I’ll let you fuck my throat—”

“Fuck—” Silco chokes, “Y-yes, yes okay.”

You drop like a stone back and recapture the head of his cock between your lips, hands landing purposefully upon his thighs as you wait; peering dutifully up at him.

He stares at you like you’ve just offered him the moon and her stars. His fingers wind a little tighter in your hair, and he pulls your head down in an experimental bob. And when he realises just how pliant you are for him, he does it again. And again. Gaining in confidence, speed, depth, until he’s fucking your mouth like a sailor on leave. Hips snapping forward upon the crates with enough zeal to send tears streaming down your face.

You gaze up at him and try to communicate just what he does to you. How crazy he makes you. How much you’re enjoying this. How much you’d worship him if he’d let you.

But of course it isn’t long before the inevitable happens. Before his head snaps back to hide his expression. Before his ragged grunts transform into a wrecked, drawn out moan. Before he loses all control of his hips and hands, and you take over once more to work him through his orgasm; sliding his throbbing cock deep into your throat again and again to draw out his pleasure, swallowing the hot fountain of his release and massaging his shaft with your tongue until he’s near sobbing above you.

And only then do you work yourself back up the length of him, wiping your mouth and tears clean on your sleeve before tucking him carefully back inside his trousers and refastening the buttons. You curl your hands around the backs of his calves and pillow your cheek on his thigh, gazing up at the underside of his jaw.

His chest rises and falls heavily still, and at least half a minute passes before he finally dips his chin.

The man looks like he’s just seen the face of God.

Green eye apple-crisp, the left swirling like liquid fire, the rest of his features awe-slackened.

“Marks out of ten?” You ask cheekily, voice hoarse.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

You chuckle softly, and gnaw your swollen lower lip.

He gazes down at you, scanning your face in silence, but amusement creases his features when he looks at your hair. He begins to brush his fingers through it; no doubt smoothing his handiwork back down to a more work–appropriate style.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you practically purr like a cat in his lap. Relishing in the tender touch, sinking your cheek deeper to the wired muscle of his thigh.

“I’m suddenly struggling to remember why I ever believed you overpaid.”

You snort and crack open a single eye, “Way to make me feel like a prostitute,” you smirk.

“A noble profession.”

“Sure, but it’s not my profession.”

A low chuckle floats down to you, and you open your eyes fully to an expression you can only describe as soft. The fingers that had been running through your hair now skimming to your cheek… tracing the swollen shape of your lips. Lingering upon the central part when you purse them slightly, capturing the pad of his finger with the lightest brush of a kiss.

“How do I taste?” He muses; hushed and dreamlike.

His hand falls away from your mouth as you rise slowly, slipping a knee either side of his hips and sinking into his lap. You wind your arms around the back of his neck.

“Why don’t you come see for yourself?” You murmur.

You dip your lips to his and he opens for you with a hum that deepens when your tongue slides against his. His hands grip your waist and tug you closer as he leisurely explores the inside of your mouth.

You grin lazily as you draw back, and he reciprocates with an indolent smirk of his own.

“Good, huh?”

The nature of his smirk softens a little. You might almost call it a smile. His gaze drops to your mouth and he nods absently whilst you play with the cowlick at the crown of his head.

“Can I ask a personal question?”

The curl of Silco’s lip falters, and he hums warily.

“If being a virgin bothers you so much, then how come you never visited a brothel?”

His dual-gaze searches yours for a time, jaw shifting as he sucks his teeth in deliberation.

“I considered it on occasion…” he begins eventually, “But ultimately could never go through… When I was younger all my spare coin went straight into the cause. Then after the river the idea of being physically vulnerable with another person was… too difficult. And a stranger? Impossible.”

You fiddle with the edge of his coat collar, “I get that… these things – first experiences – they need to be with someone you can…”

“Trust.”

You meet his gaze, and the air between you takes on weight.

Nerves rise in your throat, and you attempt to swallow the thick lump they form back down. Your cheeks heat as warm as the palms which alight now on your thighs, and your breathing shallows with their slow, northwards slide.

Silco watches your face intently, ocean eye as heavily lidded as both of yours, his thumbs skimming steadily up the inside seam of your trousers. Desire thickens your blood, and your pelvis begins swirling in tiny, unconscious circles to match the ones Silco draws with his pads as he nears the apex of your thighs—

An irritated call of your name sounds from the top of the stairs outside.

You empty your lungs and sag. Silco’s jaw tightens, and his gaze flicks darkly towards the door.

“Yeah?” You call grudgingly.

“It doesn’t take twenty minutes to change a keg,” Jasper snaps, “What are you doing down there?”

“Felt a little woozy, so decided to sit down for a few.”

There’s a pause, and then his boots begin to sound on the stairs. “You alright?”

“Yeah!” You respond quickly, “It’s just I— I didn’t eat much today.”

Silco’s eyebrow ticks upwards, and he tilts his head with a suggestive little smirk. You swat his chest silently.

“My fault really. Should’ve remembered breakfast,” you continue, glaring back at him in warning despite the twitch of your own lips, “I’m feeling better now though.”

Jasper’s footsteps pause, “Sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back up in a minute, I promise. Count this as my break.”

“Alright then,” he answers carefully. Pausing for a few heavy beats before finally retreating back up the stairs.

You let out a heavy sigh, and twist your mouth to the side, “Guess I’d better head back up,” you mumble.

Silco hums his reluctant concurrence, hands moving to a less salacious position on your hips.

You go to stand, but his fingers drill into your flesh; stopping you. His expression is placid, but there’s an expectation in his eyes that has your heart fumbling half a beat. The corner of your lip hooks up, even as you press them to his in a slow, deep kiss that he eagerly reciprocates.

“See you on Friday?” You ask as you draw back, ensuring he doesn’t miss the sensual promise in your tone.

His throat bobs, but he responds with a deep, even, “I look forward to it.”

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