thespicybuns

[thespicybuns]

hey so you know this ss?

well i made this for twitter weeks ago, said i’d improve it, then totally forgot about it. anyway. take ur gutter food and go. git. scram. (under the cut for shameful mildly nsfw reasons)

[thespicybuns]

Pussy from someone at their wits end

[thespicybuns]

astro rug sex plzzzz

Me? Inky-Slowpoke-Dagger churning out a fic request just two days after it was sent in? It's a bloody Christmas miracle. Also yeah the title's a carpet pun. Sue me.

Shag Rug

Silco x Reader || Silco x Astrid || Established Relationship || NSFW || MDNI || Messy passionate floor sex || Oral [m!receiving] || Two horny idiots in love || Carpet burns || Wc: 1.9K

Written for Astro but can be read as general AFAB!Reader

Drink With Me Masterlist🥃

It’s a wonder you even made it into the office.

With how carelessly you’d rushed up the stairwell with Silco – far more concerned with ensuring your mouths remained connected than with maintaining safe footing on the steps. And with how you’d ricocheted down the hallway together like a horny pinball. Rattling the hanging decor as you crashed into the walls again and again, hopelessly entangled, tearing at each other with hands and lips and teeth.

And so it doesn’t surprise you in the least that you never make it to the bedroom.

Silco’s shoulders hit the office door hard, and it slams shut beneath your combined weight; pressed as you are against his front with your hands fisted in the lapels of his coat. Your teeth clack against his with the ferocity of your kiss, and he repays in kind by shoving his tongue at least two-thirds of the way down your throat.

Janna you love it when he gets messy. Such a change from his usual pristine control.

Although it hardly seems fair that he remains fully dressed (still in his outerwear, no less) whilst you yourself appear to have misplaced a shoe, and your top is clinging on for dear life after the loss of several buttons. But neither of you currently possesses the patience to achieve full nakedness. So you prioritise. 

The crack of your knees hitting the floor is softened somewhat by the rug, and though your hands fumble in your urgency, you’ve done this enough times now that you’ve mastered the puzzle box that is Silco’s trousers.

You tear the fabric down around his thighs and his cock springs free. You had other plans in mind, but the temptation you’re faced with now is too great to overcome.

“Fuck,” the crown of Silco’s head thuds back against the door as you clumsily capture the bobbing head of his cock between your swollen lips and set to lavishing it. Whatever you lack in finesse, you make up for in wet frenzy.

He watches you beneath lust heavy lashes as you tongue and suck his glans until it’s as flushed and glistening as his parted, kiss-marred lips. Fingers tangle in your hair, tightening with a rough groan from above as you take him properly into your mouth, cheeks hollowing to glide hot and tight down his shaft.

Silco’s hips buck as he bumps the back of your throat, and you let out a needy whine, hand snaking between your own legs to palm your clothed crotch in a bid for friction. The fingers in your hair twist and pull, delicious pain blooming across your scalp as Silco yanks you off his cock, leaving you connected only by a thick string of saliva.

“Need you. Now,” he pants, chipped teeth and mismatched eyes flashing with a lawless, desperate hunger.

For the most part your communication with Silco is excellent. You’re in-tune with each other to a point that transcends verbal interaction. But it seems those unseen radio frequencies are currently scrambled by a swarm of hormones – because while you make to stand, Silco makes to kneel.

You crash into each other, losing your balance entirely and tumbling backwards into a tangled heap on the rug.

But Sump-Rats are hardly known for their decorum.

Between two pairs of scrabbling hands your trousers and remaining boot are cast aside, and then he’s swooping down upon you, his high collared coat fanning out to shroud you both like some vampiric cloak. And you’re so damn worked up that he sinks inside you with no resistance.

Your mouth falls open in an embarrassingly wanton moan at the brisk pace Silco sets. Each thrust culminating in a lewd slap of skin that gradually worsens with how your slick begins to coat your thighs. You cross your ankles within the crimson-lined cavern of his coat, pressing your heels into his lower back and rolling your hips up to match his feverish rutting. Baring your throat to accept each glistening jewel he sucks into your skin. Combing fingers through salt and pepper strands, twisting, tugging. Keeping his body pressed flush against yours. Ignoring the coarse fibres beneath your back, even as your shirt bunches up to your waist.

Completely, utterly lost within this incendiary cyclone of passion you’ve both conjured.

“Will you ever. learn. to behave?” Silco growls, punctuating each word with a snap of his hips.

Well that’s hardly fair. What were you supposed to do when he returned to the club from his dockside meeting? Just ignore the fact that he looked so yummy with sea-breeze mussed hair? You’re only human.

Besides. He didn’t have to come over to the bar when you gestured. Nor take a seat. Nor accept your offer for a cocktail. But he did, and you were therefore well within your rights to use the cover of passing him his glass to quietly inform him just how fuckable he looked.

He'd even responded with a dirty remark of his own, low enough not to be overheard by any loitering clubbers. And really he should know by now that you never back down from a challenge. He's just as much to blame as you for the resulting volley of surreptitious comments that had passed between you, each filthier than the last, until he'd snapped. Storming behind the bar and snatching your wrist, frogmarching you through the club and up to the balcony – the wrathful Eye of Zaun dealing with an unruly employee in the eyes of those who'd turned to watch your journey.

“Is that re-eally want you want? For me to start –ughn– behaving?” You clench your core around him to prove your point, and his brow twists.

“No,” the single word is closer to a whine than anything else.

“G-good. It’s much more fu–uhn misbehaving.”

“Brat,” he growls, more gristle than voice, “Beautiful. Insufferable. Brat.”

His lips crash into yours in a flaming kiss, capturing and swallowing the ragged whine which pushes from your throat as his quick thrusts morph into indulgently deep grinds.

“But you’re mine. My-ngh beautiful brat,” he babbles against your mouth between desperate kisses and rasping grunts, “You drive me m-mad. You—Intolerable. Hngh. Menance— Gods I love you—”

His words set you alight like an oil soaked wick and leave you burning. You’re never in doubt of Silco’s feelings for you, but he’s a man much more comfortable expressing himself through action. It’s a rarity to hear him voice his affections so plainly; those three words usually only reserved for moments of particular sentimentality, or instances of uncontrolled passion, such as now.

“S-Silc-oh,” you mewl, feeling for all the world like you truly are aflame. Driven closer to ultimate rhapsody by each rolling drive of his hips; both carnal and sensual all at once.

His fingertips drag clumsily over your features, “I adore these eyes. These lips—”

Your skin is on fire—

“Your heart—”

Like. Actually on fire.

“Hot ass,” you gasp.

Silco smirks, “That too.”

“No – I mean my ass— C-carpet burn.”

He stills instantly, right eye widening as he makes to pull out—

“Nononono,” you beg, locking your ankles and grabbing at his sleeves, “Don’t stop. Just— lift.” You lift your bottom a touch and he catches on, hooking his arms beneath your thighs, gripping your hips, and rising fully onto his knees. 

The relief is immediate – your buttocks and most of your spine now elevated right off the rug. Half of you misses the intimate press of his body, but the other half of you thrums at this bizarrely hot bridge pose you find yourself in. The way you can look right up the length of your own arched torso to where he’s buried inside you. The way the position grinds his cock against your sweet spot just so.

“Yes— yes!—” your ragged chant rings out in approval as he picks up his sinful rhythm once more. Watching you greedily; how prone and lewd you are stretched beneath him. Long thumbs pressing into your hip bones, fingers digging into flesh, your legs squeezing tighter and tighter around him as your pleasure begins to mount—

—and slip away with the swiftly worsening burn of your shoulder blades; now bearing the brunt of your weight and offered little-to-no protection from the spiteful fibres of the rug by your flimsy shirt.

“No— no—” you whimper, flinging your arm over your face to hide your sulking pout.

But Silco is always your salvation. Silly of you to forget that irrefutable fact, really.

His grip on you shifts, tightens, and your vision darkens beneath his looming shadow only momentarily before you’re rolling. You come to a halt neatly straddled atop him.

“Your back—”

“Don’t worry about my back darling,” he insists, flattening out his coat beneath your knees to protect them from the rug, “I’m wearing more layers than you are.” He grabs your waist then, deepening the upward buck of his hips, “A-and I’m close.”

“Mmmn, my hero,” you swoon, leaning down to kiss him deeply, your pelvis rolling a passionate tempo that has you both breathing heavy, heady little sighs and moans into each other’s open mouths. Your fingers delve into the sea-salt-mussed locks that had lured you into this situation in the first place, messing the dark waves even further, “My handsome, magnificent hero. Love of my life.”

His green eye swirls liquid jade beneath a fan of lashes, the other molten amber in an obsidian sea, but both shine with an adoration that breaks your heart so beautifully.

“I would do anything – anything for you,” you vow between messy kisses, palms framing the narrow cut of his jaw, “Anything Silco. I’m yours – so completely.”

“Will you come for me sweetheart? Let me f-feel you. See you.”

There’s no need to confirm your answer, not when you’ve just promised him the world.

You steal one more bruising kiss, and your hands drag down Silco’s golden gilded torso as you straighten. Your thighs tremble not only from exertion, but from the explicit backbend you arch into, seeking to replicate the mind-blowing angle from before, reaching back to brace your hands upon his shins.

The snarl of approval Silco makes is more beast than man, and its rumblings spur you on. Fingers drilling into trousered flesh. Hips grinding in quick, feverish rolls. Chest pressing proudly outwards as his hand reaches up to splay upon your sternum, dragging down, down, until his thumb lands on your clit.

He doesn’t even need to move it. Your own rocking pelvis causes his pad to press and circle once, twice, three-times; and that is all that’s needed to send you flying.

You cry out your ecstasy, fingers drilling into his shins as you ride and grind your way through throbbing bursts of pleasure, each one battering your body like some tropical storm. Leaving you rain-drenched, exhilarated, howling euphoric laughter up to the thundering heavens.

But your true paradise lays below.

It’s in the elegant hands which wrap around your waist. The chipped pearls which peek between parted, kiss-stained lips. The eyes which in themselves contain full treasuries: emeralds and jade and turquoise, sun stones and garnets and onyx.

Paradise is in your name; uttered like a broken prayer as Silco finds his own paradise in you.

His warmth floods you, pulsing gushes between your thighs that have you sighing breathless praises. Telling him how beautiful he looks, with his hair all a mess and his face twisted in orgasmic ruin beneath you. So beautiful.

“Beautiful,” you whisper, finally collapsing atop his heaving chest.

His arms wind around you tight, holding you quietly close whilst you both catch your breath.

“Does it hurt?” Silco asks after a time, sliding a hand down your spine to stroke lightly over the smarting-raw skin of your backside.

“Mm just a little,” you hum, pressing up on his chest to drop three lazy kisses upon his lips between your words, “But I’m certain my hero will rub lotion on it for me.”

Silco’s mouth curls up at the corner, “Yes,” he chuckles, “I’m certain he will.”

[thespicybuns]

[thespicybuns]

i hope i'm not just a tumblr blog to you but someone you'd pull into the bathroom at a party to make out with

[thespicybuns]

SILCO WEARING COPIA’S FACE PAINT

I GOTTA POST A FIC (NOT HERE) AND THEN I'M DOING THIS EDIT

[thespicybuns]

when I die I need 'wrote first scrooge eating pussy fic' on my gravestone

[thespicybuns]

astro car sex?? just for this silly little anon perhaps

Just for you silly little anon 🖤🚗 *beep beep*

Backseat Bumpers

Silco x Reader || Silco x Astrid || Established Relationship || NSFW || MDNI || Car sex || Oral [f receiving] || Overstimulation || Light bondage || Wc: 1K

Written for Astro but can be read as general AFAB!Reader

Drink With Me Masterlist 🥃

Hot air + cold surface = condensation. 

Even you, an uneducated Trencher, can understand the basic science behind such a concept.

Another shuddering gasp streams from your mouth into the chilled interior of the carriage; a cloud of curling breath which further fogs the now nearly opaque windows. The cold is only partially responsible for the marble-cut peak of your nipples and the goosebumps which cover every inch of your naked skin – the rest is entirely Silco’s fault.

He kneels on the floor in front of the bench you’re on, seemingly rather content to sit back on his boot heels with your legs hooked over his vested shoulders and his face buried between your trembling thighs.

The leather seat creaks beneath you as you squirm in overstimulated pleasure, unsure whether you’re attempting to get away from the unceasing lap of his tongue and the unyielding vacuum of his lips around your clit, or trying to grind yourself deeper onto the three fingers plunged inside you; coaxing your poor, wrung g-spot with slow, meticulous strokes. You’re restricted either way by the silken neck tie which binds your wrists to the headrest behind you – reducing you to a powerless, writhing mess.

“Silco—” you babble; his name a half whine, half sob that trips over your clumsy tongue. A mystery even to you as to whether you’re pleading with him to stop or begging him to keep going. Your body crackles with too much blazing intensity to bear another second of this divine torture, and yet you teeter upon the threshold of further ecstasy, the likes of which would be unthinkable to abandon.

It’s a miracle he even hears you, given how tightly you squeeze your cum soaked thighs either side of his head. But he does. Of course he does.

Silco’s half-hooded, sea-foam eye lifts alongside its coal-stoked twin to peer up at you, the insolent gaze accompanied by an overtly lascivious hum of inquiry that has your jaw falling open in a ragged, drawn-out moan. The diaphragm-deep vibrations of his hot, wet mouth shove you over the edge, and send you plummeting through a blinding swathe of stars which haze your vision just as thoroughly as the fogged car windows. The very marrow inside your bones sparks with lethal electric pleasure – twice as intense as your last climax. Three times as intense as your first.

The flesh of your palms throbs from the crescent drill of your fingernails. Lashes soaked with rhapsodic tears which run and cool upon your overheated cheeks. And it’s only when your body goes limp and your nonsensical sobs soften to hoarse whimpers that his fingers finally slip from your spent cunt, and his lips detach from your swollen clit with an almost spiteful pop.

You sink lower in your seat, wrists suspended overhead and spine moulding to the sharp bend of the bench as Silco straightens with your knees still hooked atop his shoulders – the new position elevating your pelvis and leaving only your lower back upon the soaked leather cushions. 

He peers down the length of his nose at you, folded and helpless beneath him whilst he towers long and lean above. Sharp, slender lines, painting the perfect picture of smug arrogance in a way that further stokes your seemingly insatiable desire for this insufferable man. The short, salt and pepper hairs at his temples stand on-end, wonderfully ruffled from the grinding rub of your thighs, and your release glistens upon his chin, a single wayward drop sliding down his throat to slip beneath the open collar of his burgundy shirt.

“You— you said you were g-going to— to drive me home,” you pant; breathless words misting in the chill car air.

The hook of his lip is so subtle you almost miss it; a self-assured curl to accompany the hand which snakes around the front of your thigh and reaches for the straining buttons of his trousers.

“So I did, and so I have,” he drawls, “Three times, if I counted correctly.”

You whimper lamely as he pulls his cock free, allowing its hot weight to flop onto your sensitive sex in an obscenely indecorous display. Broad, calloused palms curl around the fronts of your thighs, and sweep a warm and promising journey up to your knees. Unhurried – deliberate – he unhooks them from his shoulders and leans forward, pressing them towards your chest under his weight, folding you even further in half.

You gaze down the gap between his body and yours to where the long, scimitar curve of his shaft rests in the drenched cleft of your pussy. His flushed, flared tip leaking pearls in a promise that thickens your throat with gluttonous want. 

His hands shift again – pressing outwards, leisurely spreading your legs, “And yet I haven’t received even a simple thank you for my generous service,” he reprimands with a disappointed click of his tongue, using his grip on your shins to push them farther apart, farther back, until your knees brush the leather bench either side of you, leaving you stretched and lewd beneath him.

“Not only have you no manners,” Silco croons, dragging his cock through your folds with teasing little rolls of his pelvis until he’s just as slick as you are, “but you have also ruined my upholstery. Truly, a terrible passenger. Luckily for you, I’m in a forgiving mood tonight… I’ll overlook your misdemeanours—”

He shifts his hips, catching at your entrance and sheathing himself to the hilt inside you with a single, devastatingly smooth thrust. Your cunt flutters greedily around him and you bite down on the hitching whine which bubbles from your throat, canines drilling into your lower lip and dampening the noise to a muffled, splintered groan.

He begins to fuck you slow and deep – filling the small carriage with yet more warm, breathy moans and the sound of wet, slick friction. The triumphant glint in his eyes is as dark and sharp as the promise on his tongue:

“— and I’ll even drive you home a few more times.”

[thespicybuns]

he did not need to sit like that 

[thespicybuns]

I'm not casual I will kill us both

[thespicybuns]

Did you have a goodSpotify Wrapped? I didn’t! during…. ahem…… private times 🫢 I would listen to a pathetic moaning anime boy audio that is disgusting but now it’s #3 in my yearly listens and I don’t know what to do! WhT would you do in my situation???? My friends are asking for my Wrapped 🙈

I think this is my favorite anon I've ever received, actually

[thespicybuns]

imagine silco wakes up with a huge ass boner in the middle of the night but his so is sleeping very tight. he feels bad waking them up but he can’t resist so he starts acting like a horny teenager, kissing their lover’s back and humping over their ass and…and…….sorry….

Never apologise for putting the words ‘Silco’ and ‘humping’ in the same sentence. One hotdog and a vanilla milkshake coming right up! 😘🌭

Stuck in a rutt

Silco x Reader || Silco POV || Established Relationship || NSFW || MDNI || Buttjob || Soft sleepy sexytimes|| Weary old man just wants boner to go away so he can get some sleep please god || Wc: 1.5K

Reader is gender neutral. No pronouns or anatomical descriptions used.

Thank you @insult-2-injury for beta-ing and to @sweatandwoe & @astudyincontrasts for early feedback 🖤

The edges of Silco’s typically razor-sharp mind are dulled by coils of sleep. He drifts around the fringes of consciousness; in and out of the shallow waters of a dream as thick and sweet as honey. 

The curves and lines of your body recognizable to him even through the distorted lens of his dreamscape, bending and arching in a dance of pleasure. Soft sighs and moans formed from memories of your voice, and the sensation of your touch sending a whispering, frisson wave up his spine. 

All of it a faded echo compared to the real thing of course, but nonetheless seductive enough to linger beneath his skin as a warm, yearning buzz when he lands fully on the side of wakefulness.

Silco’s singular, unpatched eye blinks groggily open. Dark, wooden rafters above the bed come slowly into focus as his vision settles. He drops his cheek to the pillow, deliciously cool against his skin, and his gaze goes to the small timepiece on the nightstand. 

Hours yet before he’s due to rise for duty.

Shame his dick didn’t get the same message.

No need to look down at the covers to know he’s pitching a tent.

Silco exhales wearily through his nose, hand trailing down the length of his torso to adjust his erection more comfortably – tucking it up beneath the waistband of his loose, sleep bottoms. His palm remains flat on his abdomen, rising and falling with each slow, steady breath he takes in an attempt to drift back to sleep.

Inhale…

Exhale…

In…

Out…

In… and in… pushing ever deeper into your tight, warm—

Silco’s eye snaps open, molars grinding together with the set of his jaw. His skin feels too tight over his bones. Too hot. And his brain is full of susurrant whispers, diverting all thoughts south to the unsolicited request his body is deigning to make of him.

He expresses his displeasure in the form of a low, throaty grumble – quick and quiet so as not to disturb the nighttime peace of the room.

His hand slides down from his stomach to palm himself over his pyjamas. Just enough to alleviate some of the pressure as he tries once more to switch off his mind and body.

Inhale…

Exhale…

In…

Out…

In…

Out…

In… out… In. out. In out, in out, inout, inout inoutinoutinoutharder, faster—

Silco traps another frustrated growl behind grit teeth, and forces his hips to stop rocking up into the cup of his hand.

Pointless to try and suppress his arousal. He needs release if he ever wants to quell the maddening buzz beneath his skin.

His gaze falls to you, sleeping soundly at his side with your back to him, and his heart swells to aching in his chest. Gorgeous. He needn’t see your face to know it – he’s come in late from work enough times to be able to perfectly picture the smooth serenity of your features at rest. 

Your ribs shift with each steady, sleep-slow breath. Blankets tucked cosily up to your shoulder, and hair a tousled halo upon the pillow.

Gorgeous. Heartbreakingly tranquil.

He could go to the bathroom. Briskly absolve himself of this torturous itch and leave you to sleep in peace. But the mere thought of dragging himself out of bed is repugnant. Certain parts of him may be wide awake, but that doesn’t mean he is. Silco is tired. He’s always tired. His mind is weary. His bones are heavy. The sheets are soft and warm… And you’re here…

Silco slots himself against your back, moulding to the length of your body, arms snaking around your middle in a gentle embrace that gathers you closer, further seeking to eradicate any space between you.

A sleepy hum drones low in your throat, accompaniment to the soft kisses he trails down the slope of your neck, little more than a brush of scarred lips upon skin. A noise of contentment, given how readily you nestle back deeper against him.

He battles the temptation to run his hands over you, to trace and tease and worship. He won’t disturb you any more than he must for his own sanity.

His mouth presses a little deeper into the crook of your neck, a whisper of tongue skimming your skin in time with the shallow rock of his hips. How is it that the fluttering lust in his stomach both abates and worsens with each careful thrust against the swell of your backside. The friction both easing and aggravating the heated pressure in his groin.

Another hum rumbles from your throat, more cognisant this time, and tinged with disapproval.

“I’m asleep,” you mumble, voice thick.

“I know darling, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, genuine guilt in his words, even as he draws the blade of his nose sinfully up the sensitive skin behind your ear, inhaling your intoxicating warmth deep into his lungs, “I simply can’t resist.”

Despite your quiet grumbling you tilt your pelvis just a touch, and Silco feels the pleasant shiver which runs down your spine in response to the warm huff of air he exhales over your nape as his clothed shaft slots shallowly into the cleft of your ass.

“Will you be good for me? Hm?” Silco begs softly in your ear, unable to suppress the urge to rock his hips into the inviting divot of your buttocks, “Will you allow me to be selfish with you? Let me use you for my own wicked gain?”

Yet another hum, long and low and drowsy, but warm with consent.

“Mmn, so good,” Silco whispers, lips pressing warm, lingering kisses down your jugular, over the curve of your shoulder, “Always so good to me. My sweet, lovely pet.”

“Y’owe me,” you slur, half-way back to sleep.

“Of course,” he promises, hand splaying in a sensual stroke down your stomach, thumb hooking over the band of your pyjamas and tugging them down over your bottom, “Relax now, love. Let yourself drift. Dream of how you might have me repay your generous favour.”

The corner of your mouth hooks up in a dozy smirk, and Silco leans over to press his lips to that small slice of a smile, pushing the constricting fabric of his own sleepwear down and out of the way.

His hand smoothes over the shape of your ass, thumb tracing the split of your cheeks, before spreading you apart and settling his cock in the warm canyon between your buttocks.

Silco can’t help the soft, throaty huff of relief that spills from his lips at the first rock of his hips. The sweet lick of pleasure in his gut is a merciful confirmation that he needn’t be buried inside you to achieve the completion he seeks.

The rhythm he sets is languid. Long, thorough strokes that have his hip bones grinding deep into the giving flesh of your backside. Sensitive cockhead sandwiched between the warm press of bodies, pearls of arousal smearing into the skin of his stomach and upon your lower back.

His breath stirs your hair, the blade of his nose grazing your scalp and lips parted in soft, blissful exhales against the nape of your neck. Arms a loving wind around you, hugging you close whilst he indulges in the heat of your buttocks. His eye flutters closed and he immerses himself entirely in every sweet sensation. In the molten pleasure which coils in his navel like a sun-warmed serpent.

Your glutes squeeze around his cock in drowsy pulses.

“Shhsh,” Silco hushes into the skin of your neck, his hand dragging to cup your buttock, pressing down to tighten the valley he’s fucking, “Rest, darling. You’re already dohing enough.”

Your sleepy hum is deep and encouraging, and to Silco’s sex-addled mind sounds deliciously salacious. 

His thrusts quicken – chasing the tantalising promise of release that lays almost close enough to touch. Unable to bring himself to remonstrate you when you clench your buttocks around him once more, the vice-like squeeze sending the pressure beneath his skin through the roof, balls tightening almost painfully—

Explosive pleasure shoots up Silco’s spine like a flare, bursting inside his skull and flashing bright colours behind his eyes. Hot ropes spill up your back and over his stomach with each dwindling, climactic throb.

Silco relaxes deeper into the mattress, his body and mind melting like mist on the water – finally, sweetly released from his torment. His pulse a brisk beat despite his languorous movements.

“Thank you,” he breathes against your neck, praising you further with soft mothwing kisses upon your skin, “Thank you. My sweet… mgorgeous…” his voice tapers off, vision darkening behind the heavy droop of his lid.

“MnSilco,” you complain sleepily with a feeble prod of your elbow back into his ribs, “Clean up. Dirty man.”

“Hmnf,” he replies grumpily, blindly pulling both your pyjama bottoms up again and using the edge of the blankets to wipe away the worst of the mess, “In the morning,” he insists drowsily.

“Nmn,” you acquiesce as he settles down once more and draws you close against his front. The in-out drag of your breaths gradually syncing, and deepening as you drift off, together.

[thespicybuns]

if you’d call young silco a prettyboy but you wont call in his fourties and half his face mcfuckingdestroyed silco a prettyboy you are a Coward

[thespicybuns]

Ok someone needs to write drunk sexy viktor and reader pronto 😂🤣 JUST A SUGGESTION OK

[thespicybuns]

hey uh I hate to tell you this but your golden retriever boyfriend comes from a pet store and not a reputable breeder

[thespicybuns]

When It All Falls Down - 1

Summary: What do we do when it all falls down? Marcus has been searching for the answer. When Silco re-enters his life, perhaps he'll find it. Tags: Marcus x Silco; MDNI, Mature, Nanowrimo project, Slow burn, Dads falling in love (eventually)

Welcome to my Nanowrimo Project! I'm not taking it seriously so we'll see how it goes. If you want to be tagged, please let me know!

Tags for this chapter: Depression warning, Talk about child mistreatment, talk about child abuse. 4.1k Words.

Ao3 Link

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Sunday.

Six Days. 

His alarm goes off at eight am. Brown eyes open, blinking a few times before he turns in his bed, moving to stare up at the ceiling. The marks are the same, never unchanging, but he still has his eyes drifting over them. Letting his mind remain blank while laying in bed just until the sun starts to filter through his windows through deep green curtains. 

He dresses, not bothering to shower yet, though he does stare at his face this morning. Eyeing the patchy beard, and the long black hair, both are starting to fleck with gray. His eyes look more sunken in, despite getting the proper rest now. They look worse now than when he was working twelve-hour shifts. 

He avoids his appearance in the mirrors he passes and heads downstairs. 

At nine am, he’s out of the house. Onto his first jog of the day in just an old enforcer sweatshirt and faintly matching sweatpants. Waving to several of the neighbors he now knows by at least last name. Greeting some when he passes by, eyeing the pale stone houses with different colored shingles for the roofs. Green, red, blue, a bright purple one for a cousin of the Kiramans. 

When he comes to take his break in front of a familiar black-iron fence, the roof is a pale yellow. Matching the hair of the woman sitting on the front porch. 

“How are you this morning, Mrs. Weatherby?” He asks, voice only coming out in light pants, sweat dripping down his back. The sweater hides it well.  

“Fine, just fine this morning.” The old woman smiles, sitting in her bench swing, with a wooden hoop in her hand and some blue fabric clipped into it. Her eyes don’t look up, focused on the task at hand as she pushes a needle with red thread, through the hoop. “Did you know we’re actually expected to get some rain later this week, Marcus? Wednesday apparently. It’s all Dorothy, you know the one down by the hill, could talk about.” 

He pants, stretching out his arms. Marcus can recall when he did these talks all the time, older people who were just searching for someone to talk to. A connection. “She’ll be excited, I’m sure. Been some time since we got a good rainstorm.” 

Mrs. Weatherby leans forward like she’s telling a secret and not speaking loudly to cover the distance of her yard. “Do you think you could speak to some enforcers about getting some sandbags up here? Just in case?” 

They were a few miles too high in case any flooding would happen. The plumbing was to go straight down to Zaun anyway, filling up the lowest floors if it got too bad. But still, he nods, “I can try, Mrs. Weatherby, but they don’t like talking to their ex-boss very much.”

“Oh, you were a great Sheriff, Marcus. I’m sure they’d all love to hear whatever you have to say.” 

The former Sheriff smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be sure to ask, Mrs. Weatherby. But I should start heading back now.”

“Ah yes, your daughter, Marcus.” He freezes, hating the way her tone softens. “Does she like pink?”

The tall, thinner man holds in a breath, letting it fill his lungs before he sighs it out. “Yes. She loves it.”

“My next one will be for her then. See you tomorrow, Marcus.” 

He will. 

It’s a part of his routine. 

He continues running until he circles back to his home. Leaning against the fence for five minutes, enjoying the sight of the clouds above him. Then he turns back to gaze at his home. 

It was technically a downsize, both in price and space. An old limestone building with a deep olive green roof that matched the front door to the home. Fresh ivy crawls up the right side of it. Two bedrooms lay inside, one designed for a little girl while the other was a plain bachelor’s room, with little more than a bed, a dresser, and a few spare weights hidden beneath the bed. 

The garden is what made him buy it. The front one is massive and he can see how his fickle rose bushes are doing from a distance. In the back garden, there’s a view of the harbor and the ocean. 

Ren had wanted it, her hair looking almost gold in the light when they explored the house together, and she had grown excited when they came to the back garden. He had signed for the mortgage right after. 

Marcus stares at the house for a long moment, large and empty, before he walks into it. 

A quick shower, a change of clothes, and makes a black coffee before heading out into his garden. The enjoyment he’s found in it has been a surprise, but it keeps his mind busy and focused on those fickle rose bushes instead of other things. In Piltover’s center, where his old row house had been, there had been no room and he’d have no time for it. 

But now he has plenty of room and lots of time. This neighborhood isn’t in the center of Piltover, but on the outskirts, near the Pilt Bridge. A quick walk and one short elevator ride down into the Promenade, the one area in Zaun that resembled Piltover’s rich shops with a clear atmosphere, and rich socialites around every corner. Though it still carried that unmistakable scent of Zaun, despite how much it attempted to dress up and pretend it wasn’t. 

He lets the thoughts of the shops in the Promenade go into his mind, zoning out, while he weeds his garden. Then waters it, before double-checking for any weeds. His tomatoes are growing nicely, enough that he can pick one off to let redden in his kitchen. 

A light snack of some vegetables he got at the market on Saturday, then he allows himself to lie on the couch and read for an hour. 

Then at four pm, he puts on some fresh sweats and a t-shirt and heads out for another jog. Cool air meets his skin when he steps out of the house, autumn fast approaching, but he doesn’t dawn a jacket. This time when he runs, it's in the opposite direction. Across the fence that leads into the Bridge, seeing a handful of people who are speaking to an enforcer. One of the youths is carrying a large bag, and even from afar, Marcus can see that it’s gleaming with gilded coins. 

He runs past them without a second look. It was no longer his job to look into that sort of thing. And besides, he had taken bribes. Even if it wasn’t entirely willingly. 

Running home is far easier than looking back. 

Once home, he makes a small dinner for himself, a sandwich while he decides what to do with the tomato. Maybe a sandwich for it too, or a nice salad. He does the dishes afterward before he showers again and then settles into bed with a new book. 

He lays there for the next three hours until the clock winds to ten thirty. 

And then Marcus lays there and stares at the ceiling until he falls asleep. 

Monday. 

Five Days. 

His alarm goes off at eight am. Marcus wakes up, lies in bed for some time, and then rises. Today he makes a coffee before his run, but he’s still out the door by nine am. 

Mrs. Weatherby is in the same spot on the porch. Moving the same red thread through the same hoop with the same blue fabric attached. “Good Morning, Marcus.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Weatherby. How are you doing today?” 

“Fine, fine. Did you hear about Mr. Taylor’s Petunias? Oh, some hooligan painted them. Painted them! Blue and pink, such an awful color combination.” 

They’re Ren’s favorite colors, along with purple. But he doesn’t say that. He only makes a vague noise of agreement and lets her continue on. 

He heads home shortly after. He waits at the gate for ten minutes today, before he goes inside, showers, changes, and then heads into the garden. He weeds, he waters, he goes inside and reads. 

He runs. He makes dinner. He reads. 

He stares at the ceiling until he falls asleep. 

Tuesday. 

Four Days. 

He wakes. 

He runs. 

“Good morning, Marcus!” She has green thread today. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Weatherby. Anything new?” 

“Oh did you hear about Mrs. Norris’ boy? Shame what happened to him.” 

He heads home. 

He showers. 

He gardens. 

He runs. 

He forgets dinner. 

He stares at the ceiling. 

Wednesday. 

Three Days. 

It rains. 

Marcus wakes before eight am to the sound of it falling against the windows and the roof. Brown eyes stare at the window instead of the ceiling, watching as the rain hits it. Creating far more interesting patterns than his blank ceiling. Slowly he rises out of bed until it’s well past nine am, and he moves to open a window just slightly, to better hear the water hitting everything outside. 

It’s a different feeling to the day and so, today he makes breakfast. Fried eggs on toast is, simple but he enjoys it and he takes his time so he knows it will be good. Next he grabs something nonfiction from his shelf and lays on the couch, tapping his feet the whole time he reads. There’s an urge to run, to go out into the rain, but he reels it in and looks over some more information about a Ghost Seaweed that grows along the cliffs of Bilgewater. Not something he’d grow but it’s interesting to still read about. 

And it passes the time. 

He makes a small lunch, using that tomato he pulled a few days earlier, now red and ripe. It tastes fresh and tangy on his tongue. The salad is nice, and he has a coffee while he stares out of the living room window, into the wide amount of plants in his garden. 

There’s a slight thought that he should grow more harvestables, like peppers, maybe some cabbage, strawberries-

Ren’s favorite. 

Brown eyes turn to a calendar, one of the several he has hanging up. Each Saturday is circled in bright red marks. Three Days. 

Once it hits four in the afternoon, he changes into some sweats and a hoodie today. Running along the fence to the bridge. No enforcers or young people today, instead he only spots an odd huddled figure nearby the old elevator. It doesn’t get much use when it rains hard like it is now. 

But Marcus pauses in his run, spotting the wisps of deep blue hair. Too small to be Caitlyn, and too many different patterns of clothing stitched together to be anyone from Piltover. When she turns, gazing around, he can see the hint of freckles and bright, wide blue eyes and cheeks growing pinker while the rain cascades around them. 

Her pant legs are soaked through, and she’s shivering in the small jacket she has on. Her hair is soaked beneath the hood. 

It’s the first time he’s seen Jinx truly nervous, maybe a little frightened. 

He knows better, he really does. or at least, he should know better. But all he can imagine is the time he took Ren out into the rain and how she had been dry coming back in but still had a cold for two weeks. And how Jinx is soaked nearly to the bone. Despite the fact that she is Silco’s daughter, she’s still a kid. Despite everything, she’s still a child. 

And maybe that’s why he makes his way to her. 

“Jinx.” Blue eyes turn to him, growing wider when she spots his approach, and he falls to a stop at the sight. His hands hang loosely at the side, so she can see them clearly. “Where’s your dad?” 

Her lower lip trembles, but recognition floods her face after a moment. Now she shivers, glancing away from him, lips pursed together and clutching her bag close to her chest. “He’s at The Drop.” 

Marcus’s brow furrows. “Where’s your escort?” From what he could remember, Silco always assigned guards out with Jinx if she wanted to go shopping or, do anything really outside The Drop, and he wasn’t available. 

“I ditched him.” Her legs wobble, and she moves to adjust the bag against her chest. A can falls out, rolling out onto the ground and Marcus moves to catch it with his foot. 

A can of pink spray paint. “Were you tagging?” At her fearful look, his shoulders sag, while he moves forward to hand her the can. “I’m not an enforcer anymore. You’re not going to get in trouble. And I’m not going to tell your dad.” There’s a pause and he holds out the can a little farther when she doesn’t take it. Marcus could recall dealing with frightened Piltover kids before, and his stomach twists at how casually he once treated Zaunite children. So he offers a very small smile, holding the can loosely. “Those flowers were an eyesore anyway. Who wants yellow and pink petunias?” 

She stills, glancing at the spray paint before glancing back at him. A small hand grabs the can, snatching it back once she had her fingers around it. Her gaze turns down to it, frowning before she glances up at him. There’s still some worry there, searching his face. “They were really ugly.”

“Oh, they were absolutely dreadful.” And then she smiles, toothily enough that Marcus knows she’s at least finding him amusing. “Now what do you say, we get you out of this rain. I’ll send a notice to your dad, okay?”

There’s some hesitation, one that he expects, and she narrows her gaze up at him. It’s searching, but Marcus doubts he would’ve posed any threat even if he was still an enforcer. In fact, if he was an enforcer still, he’d be under Silco’s thumb and she’d have little to fear. 

After a few long moments, she finally asks. “I didn’t eat lunch.”

He glances at his watch. “Almost dinner time. I can make you a snack while I prep that.” Holding out his hand is a risk, but he’s willing to wait. 

She takes his hand when he promises her cheese and crackers. 

“Your garden is much nicer.” Jinx says when they enter his yard, eyeing the colorful plants he has. “Lots of pink and blue!” 

“My daughter’s favorite colors.” He explains easily, opening the door. A towel for Jinx is made the first priority, he doesn’t have any clothes in her size so she’ll have to remain in the soaked ones. 

Cheese and crackers are whipped up next, and she gobbles them down like a ravenous shark instead of a girl of maybe thirteen, though he supposes she doesn’t act like a thirteen-year-old either. Marcus had never stopped to ask her age, and he doesn’t now, while he preps a simple dinner of pasta. Mac n Cheese seems to always be a favorite no matter anyone’s age. 

While the water is boiling for the pasta boiling, he gives Jinx some spare crayons and paper while he writes a note. There’s a messaging tube not far from his home. 

He lets Jinx pick out a spot on the fridge, and lets her choose a bright purple star magnet for her artwork. Her brow furrows when she stares at the fridge after a long moment, “Where’s your daughter’s artwork? Does she not like to draw?” 

The girl stares at him like her question did not just stab right through his sternum. “She does, she just hasn’t in some time.” 

“Isn’t she hungry for dinner?” 

“She’s away right now. Not home.” He sets down the bowl of steaming cheese and macaroni, and she’s quick to sit at the kitchen counter. 

Jinx doesn’t ask when his daughter when is to return, he doubts she cares in this moment, but she does ask something far worse. “Do you miss her?” 

Now the stabbing is going upwards, into his throat while he swirls some mac n cheese around with his fork. He remembers making it for Ren. He remembers her laugh when she was a toddler and he’d make the fork an airplane so she’d eat her vegetables. He remembers sitting her down on the countertop many times while he put a bandaid on her knee because she loved to explore and had a tendency to scrape her knees while she did it. 

“Every day.” 

Jinx doesn’t ask him more questions about that and instead asks him about why he left the enforcer job, what books he’s reading, and what his favorite plant out in the garden is. 

The dishes aren’t going to get done, while he instead runs out to drop off the message in a tube. Hopefully, Silco will send a goon out tonight, before bedtime to collect Jinx. He hopes not Sevika, with her tendency to glare at him like she could see everything wrong that Marcus already knew about himself. 

But it grows later into the night and Jinx is exhausted. Sleeping on the couch has her pouting, and sensing a fuss, despite the way his stomach is forming knots, he leads her upstairs. 

“This is her room.” He explains, slow enough that Jinx seems to know to enter slowly too. Bright blue eyes take in the room, narrowing at the sight of the shelves, the toys, and even the bed. 

“How long has she been away?” 

Marcus blinks. “What?” 

“There’s dust everywhere.” Her hands wave around to indicate it. She turns to him, a curious tilt to her head and her eyes are very bright. “Is she still alive?” 

“Yes.” The answer is short, and his shoulders tense. But he drops them when blue eyes widen. “She’s alive. Just away.”

“Is she at one of those schools? I heard about those on Silco’’s radio one time. Bored Schools?” 

Marcus nods because lying is so much easier than the truth of it. “Yes. I should clean her room before she comes home, do you think she’d like that?” 

“Depends. Does she like dust?” Jinx’s question isn’t sarcastic or malicious. It’s simply curious. 

The former Sheriff remembers the rumors from when he’d walk into the halls of The Last Drop. Of how he’d rarely heard Jinx’s name from anyone’s mouth besides Silco’s. 

The little menace. 

The boss’s mistake. 

The brat. 

Yet, Marcus, having been the father to a young girl for some time now, sees little difference in Jinx and a child that had seen far less than she had. Perhaps a little emotionally immature for her age, and a bit too inquisitive, but he has seen far worse. 

Children that were spoiled. Children whose parents had long ago stopped the wonder out of them. Children who were hurt so badly, that it made everyone hurt around them. 

Marcus didn’t miss being an enforcer. 

But with Jinx here, it does make him miss being a father. 

Three Days. 

Once Jinx is in bed, he leaves the room and heads back downstairs. The nonfiction book is picked back up, and he settles on the couch. Reading until the words begin to blur together, and he swears he can see that poisonous seaweed hanging from his ceiling before his vision goes black. 

He wakes on the couch to the sound of thunder booming outside. The rain is pouring down heavily, clattering against the stone of his home, each one creating a rhythmic sound that feels nice under the safety of his roof. 

The thunder booms again suddenly, but this time it comes from his front door. Then again it booms. Not thunder but someone is beating down upon it. 

Still in his day clothes, Marcus doesn't even put on his slippers. He opens the door and feels the blood drain out of his face. 

"What's the problem, Sheriff?" Silco's voice is carrying a cruel note, though he doesn't smile. "You look as if you weren't expecting me." 

He looks the same, Marcus thinks, his hair is the same cut but there's grey starting to come through at his tight temple. The jacket he's wearing is new, carrying a large collar and in a shade of similar burgundy that Silco always tended to wear. Reds, black, and gold. 

A year had passed and he looks so much the same. He isn't sure how to feel seeing Silco so unchanged while Marcus can feel the hair tickling the top of his spine, he knows he has certainly changed. 

The former Sheriff swallows, fingers holding out the door wider, and Silco steps into his smaller home, eyes dragging along the unknown foyer.  "Thought you might send someone for her." 

Silco doesn't bother to wipe his feet, teal eye narrowing while he takes in the home. "You're a father, I thought, Sheriff, you should've known better than that." The mismatched eyes slide onto him next, taking in his appearance and there's a slight curl to the edge of scarred lips. "But apparently you're not even taking care of yourself. How could it be expected that you could rightfully take care of a child?" He glances towards the couch, a cold gaze flicking back to Marcus. “Where is she?” 

Marcus can feel his stomach twist at the words, the obvious bait. This is an old game and one he is too tired to play. "I'm not the Sheriff anymore." Is all he can say, turning to walk up the staircase. 

Silco being behind him is easier, he doesn't have to look at him. But he does have to hear them. "Ah yes, no longer the prized Sheriff of Piltover. Robinson has held your position for a quarter of the time and has done thrice the job you ever did."

Again, he doesn't nibble the bait. "Good for her."

There's quiet behind him then. Likely Silco expected this to fall into their old routine, and as much as Marcus wants to fall into something familiar, the tightness in his chest won't let him. 

Jinx is asleep in Ren's bed, sprawled out and snoring. The blanket is off of one foot, while she drools onto the pillow below her. 

Silco pauses in the room, not making quite the beeline to Jinx like Marcus hoped for. Instead, he speaks, not with that cruel note from before but something more confused. If he glanced at the older man, Marcus is sure his brow would be lined. "Where's your daughter Marcus?" 

He hates how his heart still flutters when Silco says his name. Fingers curl into fists at his sides and he steps further in the room so Silco can follow more. "She's away." 

"Not surprising." Silco steps into the room, eyes roaming over the dusty toys and shelves. "Does anyone like to be around you?"

His chest tightens, but Silco is moving to the bed. Jinx is untucked from the blankets but doesn't wake even when Silco scoops her into his arms. Held in the safety of his arms, her small form seems to relax even further. 

Silco regards him with a cool look, eyeing the long hair, the patchy beard, and maybe the fact that the former enforcer is at least five years younger than himself but already Marcus has more grey in his hair than the man before him.  Maybe the way his body still carries muscle but has grown thinner these past few months. Whatever he sees, it's enough for him, not to even indulge in a comment about it. The Eye of Zaun simply heads out the bedroom door and down the stairs, he doesn't say thank you or goodbye, but Marcus wasn't expecting him to. 

The front door slams shut behind him when he's left the house. Raindrops soften against the stone walls, as though frightened by the thunder of Silco's movements. 

Marcus sits in the bed, feeling the sheets and blanket. Remembering when the room was filled with laughter five months ago when Ren was beaming up at him before bed. And he remembers carrying her downstairs, not unlike how Silco had carried Jinx. Her eyes closed, and asleep, but he had been sprinting down the stairs while she didn’t wake in his arms. 

He grabs one of her toys, a little lion with a dusty mane. One shaking finger runs over it, carefully moving over the once-soft fur. The sewed eyes are black but glint silver in the moonlight rain. 

Three days, he thinks, trying to stop the shaking that is beginning to take hold of his body. Bringing the stuffed toy to his forehead while he attempts to breathe through the tightening of his throat. 

Three days. 

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Note:

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[thespicybuns]

Just loungin' on the neon stairs

Yay for tumblr lifting the nudity ban! wanting to teach myself how to make neon lighting in photoshop and figured Silco on the neon steps would be a good bet, but that in itself is kinda dull so i pantsed him.