Hey can you write some fluffy Silco taking care of a stomach sick + feverish reader. I’ve been sick for like two weeks now and just wish he was here taking care of me y’know?
Silco paced back and forth in their small, dimly lit quarters above the bustling streets of Zaun. The constant noise of the undercity felt like it should be louder, but in this room, everything seemed muffled. The sound of the hissing steam pipes and distant shouts from the street below barely filtered into the room, a soft hum that felt insignificant compared to the weight in the air. The room, usually a sanctuary where he could unwind and plan his next moves, now felt like a cage. It was as though everything—every plan, every goal—paled in comparison to the figure lying in the bed.
You, the woman he had grown to cherish, were unwell, and it tore at him. The fever that had settled in your body seemed to burn hotter with every passing minute, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He hated that feeling, the one where his usual control slipped through his fingers like sand. He was the Chembaron of Zaun, feared and respected by many, yet right now, he was helpless. Helpless in the face of the one thing that threatened what he valued more than anything else: you.
The air was thick with his thoughts, his mind racing to find a solution, any solution, to ease your suffering. But the usual self-assured confidence that defined him, that drove his every decision, was absent. His eyes, sharp and calculating in any other circumstance, softened as they watched you lie beneath the blankets, flushed with fever. Your breathing was slow, laboured at times, and every shallow breath you took made his stomach twist. He felt as though the weight of the world had fallen on him, and all he could do was watch.
He hated it.
His footsteps, usually purposeful and confident, seemed aimless as he paced back and forth beside the bed. The dim candlelight flickered, casting long shadows on the walls, and yet it couldn’t hold his attention. All that mattered was you. You, with your untamed spirit, the one who had managed to slip past the walls he had built around himself. It was so unlike him to be this unsettled, but here, in the quiet of the room, with only the sound of your breathing filling the air, it felt impossible to ignore.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of your voice—soft, weak, barely a whisper. "Silco," you murmured, and his name sounded so fragile, it almost broke him.
He knelt beside the bed, his hands cold against your heated skin. His fingers brushed against your forehead, his brow furrowing in concern as he felt the heat radiating from your body. You shifted slightly beneath the blanket, your face scrunching in discomfort. His heart clenched at the sight of you so vulnerable, and he fought the urge to show just how deeply it affected him. He wasn’t sure if you could even hear him, but he needed to speak, needed to let you know he was here.
"How do you feel?" he asked softly, his voice laced with a tenderness he rarely allowed himself to show. His cool fingers traced your temple, brushing a strand of damp hair from your face. He was usually the one in control, the one giving orders, the one who took charge. But now, his hands were gentle, as though afraid to hurt you even more.
You let out a weak sigh, your eyelids fluttering open for a brief moment before they closed again. Your voice was a soft murmur, barely audible. "I feel... so tired, Silco," you confessed, your words fragile, almost broken. It was as if the weight of exhaustion had drained you of everything else.
His chest tightened at the sound of your voice, the vulnerability in it striking him more deeply than he expected. He could feel his usual confidence slipping, replaced by something foreign—something that made him wish he could take the fever from you and bear it himself. Anything to ease your suffering.
He reached for the damp cloth he had prepared earlier, pressing it gently to your forehead in a futile attempt to cool your burning skin. His movements were slow and deliberate, careful as though he feared disturbing you further. "Rest, my love," he whispered, his voice unusually soft. "I’ll stay right here, as long as you need."
You managed a weak smile, the corners of your lips barely lifting, but it was enough to remind him of the woman you truly were—strong, despite everything. You turned toward him, your eyes still bleary with fever, and though the smile was small, it was real. "You’re always so protective, Silco," you murmured, your voice light, trying to soothe him even as your own strength ebbed away.
His lips quirked up in a faint, affectionate smile that few ever saw. It wasn’t the usual smirk that accompanied his power plays or negotiations. No, this one was softer, tender. "Someone has to look after you," he replied, the words carrying an emotion that he rarely allowed himself to express. He brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his touch so gentle it almost felt like a dream. "No one else can."
His fingers lingered on your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw, and for a moment, he allowed himself to simply feel the warmth of your skin. In this moment, there were no Chembaron duties, no plans, no schemes. There was only you—fragile, yet fierce. He couldn’t help but wonder how it had come to this. How he, who had spent years building an empire, had come to care for you in a way that made every move feel insignificant in comparison.
You coughed softly, breaking him from his thoughts. Your breath came in shallow bursts, and you pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to find comfort despite the heat that consumed you. Silco’s brow furrowed with concern as he leaned closer, his hand moving to your back, rubbing it gently in soothing circles. His heart pounded as he watched you struggle with the simplest of actions.
"Are you sure... I’m not bothering you?" you asked, your voice quiet, filled with uncertainty, as if you thought you might be a burden.
"Never," Silco said, his tone firm, filled with conviction. "I would never think of you as a bother. You’re everything to me." His gaze softened as he looked at you, and his hand brushed the damp hair from your forehead. "Let me know if you need anything. I’ll fetch you water, or tea, or anything else. But for now... rest."
You nodded weakly, your eyelids fluttering shut once more. The exhaustion was taking over, and though your body burned with fever, the safety of his presence was all you needed to let go. The warmth of his touch was a comfort, and with his hand on your forehead, you felt the world recede just a little, enough to allow you to sleep.
Silco stayed by your side, his gaze never leaving you. The minutes stretched into hours, but he didn’t mind. His mind, usually buzzing with thoughts of power and strategy, was quiet for once. All he could focus on was you, your soft breathing, the way you shifted beneath the covers, the way your body clung to him even when you were unaware.
Eventually, the fever began to take its toll on you more than he thought it would, and your movements became restless. Your body shifted, searching for some comfort that the bed alone couldn’t provide. Silco stood quickly, his movements smooth and sure despite the concern wrinkling his brow. He lifted you into his arms with a gentleness that seemed at odds with the strength in his grip. The soft protest that escaped your lips as he cradled you close made something inside him ache, but he quieted you with a hushed murmur.
"I’ll make you comfortable," he promised, his voice a quiet balm to your discomfort.
He carried you to the chair by the window, positioning you so that the cool breeze drifting through the open shutters could offer some relief. The outside world, distant and far removed from the warmth of the room, seemed like an entirely different reality. But in this small space, with you cradled in his arms, Silco felt something he hadn’t in a long time—a sense of peace.
He sat down in the chair, settling you against him so that your back rested against his chest, his arms wrapped around you like a steady, protective shield. He breathed in the scent of you—warm, familiar, comforting—and let out a soft sigh of relief, feeling the tension in his body finally ease. He kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment, savoring the intimacy of the moment.
"You're going to be alright," he whispered, more to reassure himself than you. His voice was soft, his tone filled with a rawness he rarely showed. "I won’t let anything happen to you."
The world outside seemed to vanish as he held you close. The hum of Zaun’s underworld continued, the sounds of the city continuing to move in its chaotic rhythm, but here, in this small room, it was only the two of you.
And for the first time in a long time, Silco allowed himself to simply be. Simply be the man who loved you, who needed you, and who would protect you with every ounce of his being. The night passed in a quiet rhythm of care and tenderness, with only the sound of your steady breathing and the soft hum of Zaun’s underworld filling the space between the two of you.
For now, that was enough. And that was all he needed.
A few days had passed since Silco had first held you in his arms, gently nursing you back to health with every ounce of his focus. Your fever had finally broken, and the steady rhythm of your breath no longer seemed labored, no longer a constant reminder of your fragility. The fever had melted away, leaving you feeling weak but determined to regain your strength. The world had begun to feel like it was moving again, and you were grateful for the quiet moments you’d spent with Silco, his unwavering presence a balm to your soul.
But something had changed in the air around him, something subtle. You noticed it first when he helped you sit up on the edge of the bed, his hand brushing against your shoulder as he adjusted the blanket, his touch colder than it had been. At first, you thought it was just your mind playing tricks on you after days of being in and out of consciousness. But then you saw it more clearly—his movements were slower, his eyes darker, and his usual sharp gaze, which had been full of concern for you, seemed clouded with fatigue.
At first, you dismissed it, too preoccupied with your own recovery to notice anything more than the barest of details. But as the days stretched on, you began to see it more and more, as if he was trying to hide it, to push through it with his usual command, but failing. The way he would press his palm to his forehead when he thought you weren’t looking, or the subtle way he swayed when he stood too quickly.
It wasn’t long before the tell-tale signs were impossible to ignore.
=
One evening, as you sat in a chair near the small window, the soft evening light casting long shadows on the walls, you noticed him leaning against the wall, his shoulders slumped in a way that was uncharacteristic of the Chembaron. His normally flawless posture, the one that commanded respect from anyone who dared cross his path, was sagging with exhaustion. His hand, previously steady and sure, now trembled slightly as he reached for a glass of water on the table next to him.
"Silco," you called, your voice quieter than usual, a softness woven into it that he hadn’t heard before. His name felt foreign, but not in a bad way. It felt like a plea, a request for his attention. His head snapped up, his usual sharpness there for a fleeting moment, before his expression softened in resignation.
"You look like you’re fighting it," you observed quietly, your gaze narrowing slightly as you crossed your arms over your chest. His lips twitched in what could have been a smile, but there was no humour behind it.
"It’s nothing," he said, his voice slightly strained, but still carrying that commanding undertone that usually told you he wasn’t to be questioned. "I’m fine."
But the subtle sway in his stance told a different story. You watched him, your concern growing, and something inside you tightened at the thought of him facing whatever was ailing him alone, the way he had always faced everything else. Silco might be many things—powerful, ruthless, calculating—but he wasn’t invincible. And despite everything, you knew that.
"You’re not fine," you replied, your voice softer now, the underlying worry breaking through. "You’re sick, Silco. You don’t need to keep pretending."
He hesitated, just for a moment, his eyes flicking toward the floor as he fought against the vulnerability you were so gently calling forth. But even as his pride kept him from admitting it, you could see the signs in his face—the pale skin, the slight sweat beading on his brow, the exhaustion that clung to his every movement.
"I don’t need your pity," he muttered, but the words fell flat, hollow, lacking the usual edge. You could hear the weariness in his voice, a tone you’d rarely heard from him—almost a quiet surrender.
You stood, moving toward him, ignoring the small voice in the back of your mind that told you to be cautious, to not overstep. This was Silco, the Chembaron. The man who had built an empire with nothing but sheer will. Yet, here he was, his foundation cracked by something as simple as illness, and he couldn’t hide it from you anymore.
"Silco," you said softly, placing a hand on his chest, feeling the heat that still radiated from his body despite his attempts to mask it. "You’re not some untouchable force. Let me help you, like you helped me, please."
He looked down at your hand for a long moment, and for once, the walls he had built around himself seemed to falter. His hand rose slowly, covering yours gently, almost as though he were afraid of breaking the fragile connection between you.
"I don’t need your help," he said again, but this time, his voice was weak, his usual strength splintering like glass under the pressure of his illness.
"You do," you answered softly, and with a sudden surge of determination, you took a step back and guided him toward the bed, urging him to sit down. The exhaustion in his movements was more apparent now, the fight gone from his posture.
As he reluctantly sat, you moved around him, finding the damp cloth he had used for your own fever days before and gently pressing it to his forehead. He closed his eyes for a moment, his breath shallow, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. He had been the one to care for you, to hold you, to provide for you when you were weak, and now the tables had turned.
Silco’s hands rested in his lap, fingers clenched into fists, and despite his typical refusal to show weakness, he couldn’t hide the quiet tremor in his body.
"Just rest," you whispered, brushing his hair back from his forehead as you sat beside him. "You’ve done enough for me. Let me take care of you now."
For a moment, there was only silence, and then he spoke again, his voice hoarse. "I’m not used to this," he confessed quietly, and it was the first time you had heard him admit to any vulnerability. "Being... dependent."
You smiled softly, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand, a simple gesture that spoke volumes. "You’ve always had me, Silco. You’re never truly alone."
A slight shudder passed through him as he exhaled a long, quiet breath. "And I’ll never let you go, Y/N," he murmured, his voice thick with something more than exhaustion now—something that trembled on the edge of tenderness, something that, despite his efforts, couldn’t be masked.
As the night stretched on, you stayed by his side, tending to him in the way he had tended to you. The roles had shifted, the tables turned, and now it was your turn to care for him, to be the one who held his hand through the storm.
Silco, the Chembaron, was no longer the one who commanded everything around him. In this moment, he was just a man—your man—vulnerable and fragile, and you would stay by his side until the fever passed, until the sickness ebbed away, just as he had done for you.
Hopefully you have not received sooo many Arcane requests so far. If yes, I'm sorry that I'm one of them. It's also an angsty one so...double sorry 🥹
It's about the trio "Reader, Vander and Silco" (so it's about their younger selfes from Season 2) The tension between Reader and Silco was always meant to bloom into something big. While Vander was always aware of it, he felt something for Reader as well. But never admited it because he could saw their feelings for each other. But Reader and Silco never got officially in a relationship.
Until it came to the day, where everything changed: The day, where Vander tried to kill Silco, while Reader tried to get to them. Before Vander got the chance to hurt Silco (and also damaged his eye) Reader was instead the person, who got the full damage and nearly died. While trying to protect Silco (So maybe she is the one, who lost either an eye or got a scar on her face).
Out of his own sorrow and shame, Vander vanished and left Silco and Reader alone. Silco grabbed Reader and run to their shared apartment. He frantically tried to save her and succeded.
After she woke up, he admited his feelings for her and promised her, that nothing will ever happen to her again.
The three of you were inseparable once — Vander, Silco, and you — bound by scraped knees and revolution, by midnight whispers in the undercity and the unspoken oath that none of you would ever let go first.
You were young, wild with conviction and grief, trying to shape the bones of Zaun into something liveable, something proud. You dreamed with them on rooftops, ran with them through smoke-stained alleys, and bled with them in the quiet war no one ever acknowledged out loud.
Vander was the shield, strong-shouldered and steady, always putting his body between danger and the people he loved. People followed him, trusted his hands to catch them when everything else gave way. His loyalty was heavy — a burden he carried like a badge, especially when the world kept asking him to break his own morals in the name of survival.
Silco was the spark, sharp-eyed and eloquent, the one who could look into the rot and see possibility instead of despair. He was clever, careful — always watching, always planning. Where Vander was all brute heart and fists, Silco was shadow and cunning. But underneath the edge, he cared just as fiercely. He just showed it differently.
And you… You were the quiet constant. The voice of reason between the fire and the storm. You knew how to cool Vander’s temper with a word, how to tether Silco’s ambition before it spiraled too far. They both leaned on you — needed you. You were the fulcrum that kept the weight of them balanced.
But even back then, something deeper simmered between you and Silco.
It started small — a look held too long across a table stained with spilled whiskey, the way his fingers lingered a little too long when he passed you a tool, the way his eyes softened whenever you laughed, like the sound belonged only to him. You felt it, too — in the way your chest tightened whenever he touched your arm, in the moments of silence between you that felt far louder than any fight.
Neither of you said anything. Maybe you were both too scared of breaking the fragile peace you had, too scared of what it would mean to give that tension a name. So you held it. Quietly. Closely. Like a secret neither of you was ready to let out.
But Vander noticed.
He always did.
He watched the two of you when you thought no one was looking. Saw the way Silco’s gaze found you in a crowded room. Saw the way your voice softened when you spoke to him. Vander never brought it up — not once. But there was something haunted in his eyes the first time he watched you patch Silco up after a raid, your hands gentle, your voice low and worried.
He cared for you, too.
Maybe he always had. Maybe it started the day you took a pipe to the ribs for him, or the night you stayed awake by his side after a bad job, whispering stories into the dark to keep his mind off the pain. But he knew he could never give you what Silco did. That he could never reach that invisible thread that had already tied you to someone else.
And so Vander stayed silent.
Instead, he poured everything into the cause — into protecting the Lanes, into keeping you both safe. He built walls where bridges used to be, especially as Silco’s visions for Zaun grew more ruthless, more dangerous. He said Silco was pushing too hard, too far. That he was starting to lose sight of what really mattered.
But what really mattered had always been you.
And you were torn.
You loved them both, in different ways. Vander was warmth and strength and safety — he made you feel like you belonged somewhere. But Silco made your heart ache, made your thoughts race — he saw something in you no one else did, something dark and powerful and whole.
You spent years trying to keep the balance. To hold them together while everything around you began to fray at the seams. You calmed the arguments, stitched the wounds, swallowed your own desires to keep the trio from splintering.
But time sharpens edges, and old loyalties start to rust when the ideals that built them crack under pressure.
The fights came more often. Silco's ideas turned bold, then reckless. Vander grew colder, more commanding. He accused Silco of abandoning the people. Silco accused Vander of letting fear dictate his choices. And you stood between them like a dam in a rising flood, desperately trying to hold back the current.
Until the night the dam finally broke.
The night Vander saw only betrayal.
The night Silco refused to back down.
The night you ran — heart in your throat, the sound of shouting echoing down the alleys — praying you weren’t already too late.
The night everything shattered.
It was raining down at the docks — not the kind of rain that washed the grime away, but the kind that thickened it. Filthy droplets, slick with soot and chemicals, fell from the sky like the city itself was weeping oil. Thunder cracked overhead, echoing off the spines of half-finished scaffolds and the rusting bones of freighters long forgotten. The scent in the air was a cocktail of iron, salt, and something acrid that stung the back of your throat. You pushed forward anyway, lungs burning, boots splashing through shallow puddles slick with runoff that shimmered in sickly green and purple hues.
Then you heard it—shouting, raw and savage. Familiar voices, twisted by fury.
Your pulse spiked.
You turned the corner, skidding to a halt on the slick, narrow plank walkway, and your breath hitched.
Vander had Silco pinned against the edge of the dock, his forearm jammed under Silco’s chin, teeth bared in a snarl you barely recognized. Silco's back was arched, struggling against the crushing pressure, his fingers clawing at Vander’s wrist — not in violence, but in desperation.
“You betrayed everything!” Vander’s voice was ragged, drenched in fury and heartbreak, a decade of wounds bursting to the surface.
Silco coughed hard, choking, but didn’t raise a hand in defence. Not yet.
His eyes flicked over Vander’s shoulder and locked on you. The look in them — that flicker of fear, not for himself, but for you seeing this — sent ice slicing down your spine.
“Vander, stop!” you cried out, your voice breaking against the storm. “That’s enough!”
But the words didn’t reach him. Or maybe he just didn’t want to hear them.
The rain beat down harder as you sprinted toward them, your boots skidding on the algae-slicked wood. You could feel your heart clawing at your ribs, your mind spinning, screaming for time to slow down. The way Vander’s shoulders hunched. The way Silco’s lips turned blue. The madness in Vander’s eyes.
You didn’t hesitate.
You leapt onto Vander’s back with a snarl, wrapping your arms around his neck and yanking, pulling, digging in with every ounce of strength you had. Your fingernails tore into the collar of his shirt, scratched at his skin, and when that didn’t work — you bit down on his shoulder, hard, until the coppery taste of blood hit your tongue.
“Let him GO!” It was primal, animal, a scream ripped from somewhere deep in your chest.
But Vander just roared, shaking you like a wolf trying to break the neck of its prey. His hands slipped from Silco’s throat — and for one hopeful second, you thought it was over.
Until he turned on you.
It was instant.
The shift in him — from rage to shock to something darker — was terrifying. His eyes met yours, and they were wild with something unrecognizable. Not hatred. Not even anger. Pain. Betrayal. Confusion.
He didn’t see you.
Not really.
“You too?” he whispered, almost too quiet to hear. “You’re with him?” You opened your mouth — to explain, to plead, to say anything — but it didn’t matter.
His fist came crashing down, fast and brutal, slamming into your face with bone-shattering force.
The world cracked.
You heard something snap—maybe your cheekbone, maybe your orbital socket, maybe just reality itself. Light burst behind your eyes, sharp and electric. Your vision blurred instantly as you staggered back. The dock spun beneath you, tilted, twisted, and you couldn’t tell if you were screaming or just hearing the echo of your own blood rushing in your ears.
You stumbled once. Twice. Then the wood beneath your feet was gone. You plunged.
Into the river.
The cold hit you like a sledgehammer. The moment your skin touched the water, it was like fire — a chemical burn that sizzled along your flesh. The infected runoff bit deep into the cut on your face, the one Vander’s punch had opened. You gasped, and the water filled your mouth, choking you, drowning you.
You flailed in the darkness, the current pulling you under like claws. The pain in your face was unbearable. Your eye — your eye — it burned like it was being eaten alive. You couldn’t see out of it. Couldn’t even open it. You screamed, but all that came out were bubbles, lost to the sludge.
Your limbs grew heavy. The world blurred. Somewhere above the water’s surface, you thought you heard a voice — Silco shouting your name. A splash.
And then nothing but black.
Silco dove in after you.
The water was black — thick with runoff, waste, and the rusted taste of metal and chemicals. It stung his eyes the moment he plunged in, burning his lungs as he fought to stay beneath the surface, diving deeper, his body cutting through the murky depths as he reached out, desperate for you.
He didn’t see you at first.
He only felt you — limp, drifting just beneath the surface, your body weightless, lost in the current. His hands found your arm first, his fingers digging into your cold skin, then his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you close as his legs kicked frantically, struggling against the weight of the water and the drag of the sludge that clung to your clothes.
You didn’t move.
Your head lolled against his chest, like a ragdoll’s, your body a dead weight that made his heart race with every pump of his aching legs. He gritted his teeth, diving deeper into the polluted water, struggling to reach the surface. There was no sign of life — not a flutter, not a breath. Only your cold, motionless form.
Finally, they broke the surface.
The air was thick, tasting of ash and decay. His throat burned with each desperate breath he took, but it didn’t matter. He dragged you, with every ounce of strength he had left, coughing as he struggled to keep both of you above the waterline. Your hair clung to your face, slick and heavy, the dark strands like seaweed tangled around your cheeks. His eyes darted over your face, frantic, barely holding it together. Your skin — gods, your skin was too cold, too pale, like a ghost.
His heart stuttered in his chest when he saw the cut on your cheek. A simple wound from Vander’s punch — just a thin, shallow gash, but the polluted water had seeped into it, leaving it swollen, red, and angry. The contamination had infected it, and now it looked worse than it ever should have. Your left eye was swollen shut, blood mixing with the dark smears of filth, the streaks of tears stained pink with blood.
He then realised...
You weren't breathing.
“No, no—” Silco muttered, his voice cracking as he wiped the grime from your face with shaking fingers. “Y/N, come on. Please—”
He couldn’t think. There was no time for anything — no time to scream or shout, to rail against the unfairness of it all. His heart hammered in his chest, and he knew what he had to do. He didn’t even hesitate as he scooped you into his arms again, lifting you, cradling your limp form like the fragile, precious thing you were, your head falling back as he sprinted through the muck toward the shoreline.
His legs burned as he stumbled over the rough terrain, the jagged rocks tearing at his boots, but he didn’t stop. You were heavier now, your body colder, your breaths fainter. Every step he took, his heart seemed to beat slower, in sync with the fading rhythm of your pulse.
When he finally reached the shore, he didn’t waste a moment. He dropped to his knees beside you, his chest heaving as he pulled you onto the rocky earth, rough hands desperately searching for a sign that you were still there, still fighting. His mind raced, working on instinct. He knew what he had to do.
Your chest rose and fell, but it was too weak. He pressed his fingers to your pulse — faint, almost gone. His heart pounded harder as the panic clawed at him. No. He couldn’t lose you.
His hands moved quickly — he placed his palms over your chest, fingers pressing down hard, sending shockwaves through your still form. His body was shaking, his thoughts frantic, but he couldn’t stop. He breathed in deeply, then forced air into your lungs, over and over, praying for a response.
He did it again. And again. His hands slipping from the slickness of your skin, forcing himself to push harder, breathe deeper, scream into the silence between breaths, demanding you live.
Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, you coughed — sharp and jagged, your body jerking beneath him. Your chest heaved as you took a breath, a wet, ragged sound, but it was enough. You were alive. For now.
He didn’t let you go. He didn’t move from your side as he wiped away the water and blood from your lips, eyes locked on you as if he couldn’t bear to look away, afraid the moment he did, you would slip away again.
And then, as if the weight of the world had lifted just a fraction, your eyes fluttered open — one, swollen and bruised, but the other clear. For a moment, everything seemed to stop. You were alive. And for Silco, that was the only thing that mattered.
His breath was shallow, his voice barely a whisper. "Y/N, please... please stay with me."
He held you in his arms, your body trembling from the cold and the shock, but he didn't care. He couldn’t let go. Not now. Not ever.
There was no time to think. No time to shout or cry or rage. He then scooped you into his arms again, cradling your body like something fragile, broken — something irreplaceable — and ran.
=
The streets of Zaun were a blur of dark alleyways, flickering street lamps, and distant echoes of life. But none of it mattered. Silco barely noticed them. His legs burned, his chest seared with every painful breath. But still, he ran, driven by one single, raw instinct.
You took the hit meant for him.
Your body was growing heavier in his arms. He could feel it — feel your life slipping through his fingers as the streets stretched endlessly before him.
"Hold on," he whispered to you, but his voice was cracking under the weight of his fear. "Just hold on for me."
==
The apartment was barely more than a hole in the wall — a shared sanctuary of stolen quiet, dim lights, and old books, the smell of ink and metal. It had always been your space, your safe place. Now it would be your battlefield.
He kicked the door open, knocking over a chair in the process, and laid you down on the worn mattress, his hands already tearing through the drawers. Cloth. Scissors. Thread. The bottle of disinfectant you'd bartered for weeks ago — gods, please let it be enough.
Your skin was pale and clammy, your chest barely rising.
“Stay with me,” he whispered hoarsely, grabbing a bowl and filling it with boiling water from the kettle. “Just—just a little longer.”
He stripped your coat and shirt away carefully, muttering apologies every time you winced or whimpered in your half-conscious state.
The sight of your wound made his stomach turn. The flesh around it was blistering, angry, infected. The river water had already begun to rot the edges.
His breath caught. “No… no, no, no…”
He doused a cloth in the boiled water and pressed it to your cheek, holding you still with the gentlest pressure he could manage. You screamed — your body arching, hands twitching — but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He cleaned the wound again, and again, until his hands were soaked and slick with blood and your cries had quieted to whimpers.
“Shh… I know, I know. I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked. “Just hold on.”
He rinsed the wound with alcohol next — you jerked, nearly rolled off the bed. He had to hold you down with his arm across your chest, trying not to sob.
Your eye — your beautiful, sharp, knowing eye — was clouded over now, red and weeping. He couldn’t tell if you’d ever see out of it again.
He bound your eye with gauze — soft, clean, and tight — then wrapped you in every blanket he could find, settling on the edge of the bed to press his forehead to your hand.
He didn’t sleep. He didn’t blink. Every time your breath hitched, he flinched. Every time you whimpered in your fever dreams, he held you closer.
For two days, Silco never left your side. The air in the room was thick with tension, suffocating and heavy, but he didn't care. The world outside could burn for all he cared — you were all that mattered now.
His hands were never still. He spooned broth into your cracked lips, his fingers trembling as he tried to feed you. He wiped the sweat from your brow with cool rags, trying to bring down the fever that had you shivering beneath the thin covers. Every moment felt like an eternity. The rest of the world — the gang, the power struggles, the endless war in Zaun — faded away. You were the only thing he could focus on.
He slept in short bursts, curled up in a chair beside the bed, always within arm's reach, always watching, always waiting. A knife sat within his grasp, a silent promise to anyone who dared to disturb your peace.
He didn’t let himself think too much. Didn’t let himself process the fear gnawing at his insides, the horror of seeing you so broken. Instead, he kept talking to you, even when he didn’t know if you could hear him, his voice hoarse and raw, as though the words were clawing their way out.
“You’re the only thing I care about,” he said one night, as he gently wiped your forehead. “The only thing that ever made this place bearable.”
The words felt like a confession, but he couldn’t stop himself. There was no one else. No one else in his life who had ever made him feel like he wasn’t just a monster. Not until you.
He moved to sit by you again, his eyes dark and tired, but still wide with panic. "I should’ve stepped in," he whispered. "I should’ve seen what he was about to do…"
A jagged breath cut through him, raw and desperate. "You didn’t deserve this. I did. I should’ve protected you."
He could hardly breathe as the guilt welled up inside him, tightening his chest until it felt like he might suffocate under the weight of it. The anger at himself for letting you slip through his grasp, for not seeing the danger, for not being faster. He hated himself for it. Every breath was a sharp reminder of how he had failed.
"I’d trade places with you if I could," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. The words were foreign to him, strange and vulnerable. But they slipped out anyway, jagged like broken glass.
And he hadn’t even noticed the tears until they were dripping down, onto your bandaged cheek. His heart cracked wide open as they fell, his face tight with sorrow. He hated the weakness, hated the tears, but they came anyway, mixing with the blood and sweat and guilt. And they didn't stop.
=
On the third day, you woke. The world around you was soft and blurred, your mind slow to catch up with reality. The aching in your body felt like a distant echo, and the heat that burned behind your ribs seemed to settle only slightly. Your lips were cracked and dry, your eyelids heavy, but you managed to open them. The first thing you saw was the faint glow of candlelight, casting shadows across the room.
Then, you saw him.
Silco was there, his face half-hidden in the dim light, eyes bloodshot and wild. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. His clothes were rumpled, and his hair messy, but he was there. And that was all that mattered.
"Silco?" Your voice was weak, barely a whisper, but it felt like it carried a weight that was enough to shatter the silence in the room.
The moment your voice reached his ears, Silco was at your side, moving like a blur, his hand gently brushing the strands of hair away from your face. His breath hitched in his throat, his eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and relief as he looked at you.
“I’m here,” he choked out, the words barely making it past the lump in his throat. His heart was pounding in his chest as he knelt beside you, his hands hovering over you as though afraid to touch you too roughly. "I’m right here."
Your brows furrowed, confusion mixing with the exhaustion in your gaze. Slowly, you reached up, your fingers trembling as they touched the edge of the bandage that covered your eye.
“My face…” Your voice was a strained whisper, and the rawness in it cut straight through him.
Silco swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet your gaze. He didn’t know what to say. What could he say to make it better? What could he say to undo the damage?
“I know,” he said softly, his voice almost breaking. "But you're alive. That’s all that matters." His fingers brushed against the back of your hand, a desperate touch as if trying to ground himself in your presence.
The silence stretched between you, and you were quiet for a long time, your fingers moving over the gauze with hesitant curiosity. It wasn’t just the pain in your eye that you were feeling — it was the weight of everything that had happened, the hurt, the fear, the confusion. You had been through so much, and here you were, still alive, but not the same.
“Does it look bad?” You whispered the question like it was a secret, the vulnerability in your voice so soft that Silco’s heart shattered all over again. You were afraid. And that fear, the rawness of it, twisted something deep inside of him.
He paused, swallowing hard, his chest tightening with the weight of your words. He had to say something, anything that could ease the anguish he saw in your one clear eye. His hands trembled slightly as they brushed a lock of hair from your forehead, his voice barely above a whisper.
“No,” he murmured. “No, it doesn’t look bad. Not to me.”
He looked down at you, taking in every detail of your face — the bruising, the bandages, the rawness of it all. But you were still you. Even with the scars, even with the damage, you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. His throat tightened again, and he couldn’t stop himself from speaking the truth that had always lived within him, buried beneath his walls.
“You still look beautiful,” he said, the words almost sacred as they left his lips. "Even now. Even like this. You’re still… you."
The weight of those words hung in the air between you both. It wasn’t just about your appearance; it was about something deeper, something more than skin. He saw beyond the wound, beyond the bruises, to the heart of you, and that — that was the part that he loved.
A flicker of something passed in your eyes as you processed his words. You didn’t smile. But your fingers curled around his, and the world, for a moment, felt less jagged. The pain in your eye dulled, and the ache in your chest began to ease.
“I love you,” he said then, his voice hoarse with emotion, raw and unguarded. “I should’ve said it before. I should’ve told you a thousand times. But I’m telling you now — I love you. And I will never let anything happen to you again.”
The words, the rawness of them, the truth in them, settled between you both like a final, irreversible truth. Everything changed in that moment. The air shifted. The tension cracked. Your fingers tightened around his, and though you didn’t smile, something inside of you shifted, like a piece of yourself finally finding its place.
“Then don’t ever leave,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but filled with the weight of a thousand unspoken fears. You were holding onto him with everything you had left, and Silco felt the depth of that plea in his bones.
His forehead pressed gently to yours, his breath shaky as he whispered back, his voice steady with the promise that would echo in both your hearts forever.
“Never.”
And there, in the quiet of that shared breath, the unspoken promise was sealed. Neither of you would ever let go.
And as the years passed, as Zaun began to twist and darken into something unrecognizable, you stayed.
With Silco.
The city, once full of vibrant, chaotic life, was now a mere echo of what it had been. The streets, once filled with hope and the pulse of the working class, had been replaced by a suffocating air of dread. Every day, it felt like the city was breathing its last. The streets were filled with a haze of smoke, the scent of burning metal and decay lingering in the air. The sounds of distant gunshots and screams were commonplace, an unsettling rhythm that became part of the backdrop of life in Zaun. Yet, amid it all, you and Silco remained — standing firm in a world that seemed to be constantly breaking apart.
Zaun had shifted, transformed into something darker with each passing year. The towers of iron and steel loomed above you like dark sentinels, each crack in the city’s infrastructure a reminder of how far it had fallen. The underbelly of the city had festered, filled with criminals, mercenaries, and those who sought to exploit the broken system. And in the midst of it all, Silco had built his empire. An empire of shadows, of power wrested from the chaos that now ruled Zaun. The world outside had become more ruthless, more dangerous, and yet, you were still here. You had remained.
It wasn’t just the city that had changed. You and Silco had both grown. Time had carved new lines into both your faces, though for him, it was the sharpness in his eyes that spoke more of his transformation. He had become harder, more calculating. The warmth that once lingered in his gaze was now hidden beneath layers of cold, but when he looked at you, you could still catch that brief flicker — a glimmer of the man who had once been softer, more human. It was a rare thing, a piece of him that only you could see, and it was all you needed.
The scar on your face once a symbol of your pain, had become an indelible part of who you were. It had long since ceased to be just a wound; it had become a mark of survival. The wound that had once burned with the sting of injury had softened over time, but it still held the memory of the night everything had shifted.
The night that had bound you both together in ways that words could never fully capture. The night that had been the turning point, the beginning of your journey together. It was a reminder of the sacrifices made, the loss and the gain, and the moments where you and Silco had chosen each other. Through all the battles, the bloodshed, the betrayals — you had remained by his side. And now, after all these years, the scar had become your truth, your bond.
But there were days, dark days when the weight of it all pressed down harder than usual. Days when you caught your reflection in the broken glass of the nearby alleyways, and the scar that marred your face seemed to mock you. The scar, the mismatched eyes, the permanent reminder of that night, felt heavier then.
Some days, you hated it. Hated how it twisted your features into something foreign, something not quite you. The memories it brought, the way it made others look at you — they stung. You’d find yourself tracing the scar absentmindedly, wondering what you would look like if you hadn’t been the one to carry it.
=
One of those nights, as you sat across from Silco in the dimly lit room of his office, a glass of something strong in your hand, you couldn’t hide the sigh that escaped your lips. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the cracked mirror by the door, and the discomfort surged through you once again. The scar felt more like a burden than a badge.
“I hate it,” you muttered, barely loud enough for him to hear, but he did.
Silco, who was usually so wrapped up in the workings of his empire, paused, his sharp eyes flicking toward you. The softness in his gaze was almost imperceptible, but it was there — just for you.
“You’re still beautiful, you know,” he said, his voice low, almost gravelly, as he stood from his chair and approached you. “The scar is part of you now. But it doesn’t change who you are.”
You looked up at him, meeting his eyes for a moment, then glanced back at your reflection. His words felt like a balm, but they didn’t completely heal the ache.
“I’m not so sure,” you replied, your voice tinged with frustration. “Some days, it just feels like it’s all people see.”
His steps were quiet, measured, until he stood beside you. He didn’t touch you right away, but the weight of his presence was enough. After a long silence, he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.
“Let them see what they want,” he said, his tone fierce, possessive. “They don’t matter. It’s me and you, and that’s all that matters.”
He gently cupped your chin, turning your face towards his. His touch was tender, careful — as if you were made of something fragile, something he didn’t want to break. His eyes softened even more as they met yours, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside disappeared.
“That scar…” he continued, his voice quiet, but filled with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “It’s a symbol. Of everything you’ve survived. Of everything we’ve survived together. It’s a part of you that no one can take away.”
The way he looked at you then, with such utter conviction, made your chest tighten. In his gaze, there was no judgment, no pity. Only something fierce — something deeply protective.
And in that moment, the sting of the scar seemed to fade, just a little.
You swallowed, finding your voice again. “I’ve been through so much because of this city, because of everything we’ve done… But sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever be free of it.”
“You’re free,” he whispered, his fingers lightly brushing against your scar, sending a shiver down your spine. “As long as you’re with me. And I’ll always keep you by my side.”
He kissed your forehead, his touch gentle and grounding. “Zaun can burn. The world can crumble. But you’ll always have me, and I’ll always have you.”
In that quiet moment, you realized something — it wasn’t the scar that defined you. It was the journey you had taken together. The things you had survived. And most of all, the love that had endured through it all.
“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
“No need,” he said, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles. “You’re mine. That’s enough.”
And as the years went on, as the city continued to burn and twist around you, one thing remained unshaken — your bond with Silco. Even on the darkest days, when the scar felt like too much to bear, Silco’s words echoed in your heart, and you knew — you would never be alone in this fight.
synopsis. there’s a very thin line between the way animals fuck on the discovery channel and the way you fuck them. featuring shameless, rough sex with the arcane men, and a third secret option at the end. jayce, vander, silco, viktor.
“does she know?” you pant into his ear, grip strong and sweaty on his hips, and jayce feels dirty, the way he’s being mounted like a bitch. “does she know about the way i fuck you? the sounds you make when i fill your pretty hole up?”
he shudders, shaking his head, nails raking down your biceps as he tries to lift his head, to be less vulnerable in the way you’re taking him, but to no avail. he feels the hot burn of your palm at the back of his neck, and he finds himself back with his cheek pressed against the sheets, back arching with the violence of forcing his body to accommodate both pleasure and pain plowing away at his dignity.
“fuck!” he gasps, “let’s not, nnngh! talk about this. not, not right now.” it’s not the first time you’ve brought mel up in a conversation, but hardly ever more than an offhand comment, something to tease, something for fun. this… this was unknown territory.
“why? you don’t like it?” there’s a strange displacement in your voice, a touch whiny, as though you were pouting at his denial. jayce thinks he’s going insane, because as manipulative as you were, there was no way he could say no to you. not with that look on your face. the one he can’t see but knows it’s there.
“doesn’t matter,” jayce whispers. “it’s not ri- right.”
you want to laugh. it’s not right? so it’s all right and just if he sneaks into your bed almost every other night for you to get him off simply because said girlfriend never could—nights of sweat and sinful lovemaking that end with him sneaking out of your room with a limp—but it’s not okay if you want to talk about it? how was that fair?
“you don’t like her anyway, do you?” you mutter. “you should just get rid of her and be with me.” you tighten your hold on him. you want it to bruise. you want him to go home with your marks on his body. you want mel to ask about them and jayce squirming as he tries to think of a stupid excuse to fool her again. faulty gym equipment. sparring session gone wrong. you know all of his excuses. it’s funny, the way he tries to patch things up. “this is cruel… to the both of us. don’t you wanna get this over with?”
“it’s- unh, complicated!” jayce moans, but there’s nothing complicated about it, he just doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to feel the shame and guilt making his guts tangle and heart pound—the way you fit into him so perfectly, so innately, like you’ve always belonged inside him, a missing piece to his puzzle.
he bites back a whine as the thick head of your cock pushes against his swollen prostate, and he’s not sure if he can even feel his legs at this point. it’s humiliating, the way you’re cooing nasty words into his ear, handprints branding his hips as you tug him up only to slam downwards against him, pushing him further down into the mattress with every heavy thrust.
“why? what’s keeping you then? hah. don’t tell me. does she fuck you like this too?” you snarl, sucking hot purple bruises down the column of his neck, salt and iron underneath your tongue making you hungry, and he keens. “so desperate for cock you’d let your girlfriend fuck you, jayce? well? does she fuck you as good as i do?”
“noo,” jayce slurs, shaking his head, “nothing’s as good. you’re the best. love it. love you.”
“really?” you bark out a laugh, and he nods dumbly, like his body’s conditioned to respond to your every whim, wanting to please, to serve. “well, i don’t see it at all. only thing you could ever be in love with is my cock.”
“ah- ah, yeah, that too,” he whines, “love you more.”
“liar,” you growl, and he sobs out at the way your length drags across his walls, thick and girthy, missing his prostate on purpose. it’s a punishment, jayce knows. he’s sorry. he feels so guilty. “pretty slutty liar. you’ll do anything to get stuffed, won’t you? even if it means cheating on your little girlfriend. you’ll even enjoy it, the moment you break her heart.”
jayce shakes his head, tears blurring his vision. he can’t even say anything at this point, with the way you’re forcing him to take, fucking the words out of him. he can’t help being addicted to this. it’s too good. mel would understand, wouldn’t she? she would, if only she could have a taste of it. it’s not his fault. not really.
“you probably think she’ll never know. you probably think she’ll never find out.” you’re talking again, but the sounds buzz by, barely intelligible. jayce swallows, letting your accusation wash over him. he has been careful, hasn’t he. surely she won’t know. surely she can’t know. “the way you start crying when you’re about to cum. you think she’ll never know about that, right?”
he doesn’t know what you mean, but it’s so hard to think. there’s wetness on his cheeks and the low flame in his belly has blazed into a forest fire. he wants to cum. he needs it. he needs it hard and rough, bruises on his waist and hips and love bites on his collarbones, hard, heavy thrusts that make him feel dizzy and high and stupid, drowning him in the throes of pleasure that only you can give to him.
“please,” jayce begs, tears streaming down his face. “i want, ngh… ah, want your cum in me.”
and before he knows it, there’s the rush of hot cum flooding his hole, the sweaty press of your chest against his back, your hips trembling and bucking against his, and it’s so good it makes him see stars. but you don’t stop. it’s messy and filthy, and pure bliss when he feels you snake a hand into his hair and wrench his head up, rough and careless just the way he likes it.
his eyes roll back before his cock starts helplessly spurting at the sight of mel standing in the doorway, watching him being bred like a whore.
VANDER
. . . vander thinks he maybe maybe made a mistake, telling you to be rough with him. because this is exactly the kind of rough he likes.
“oh, fuck, sweetness,” he moans, arousal bleeding into his guttural voice as he arches his back and cants his hips backwards to receive your thrusts, taking you deeper inside, his ass bouncing every time you meet his hips with a wet, nasty ‘pap’. “t-thaat’s it, kid. right there, fuck, harder…”
he’s clutching his pillow tightly, waves of pleasure shackling him to the bed as you’re pounding away at his hole from behind. you’ve snaked a hand into his hair to wrench his head up roughly, and a low whine pushes its way past his lips, punctuated by a sharp, deadly thrust aimed at his prostate. he’s pretty sure his own cock’s rubbed raw against the sheets, spurting so much pre there’s a sticky, slippery pool underneath him—easing the steamy push and glide.
there are stars bursting at the corners of his eyes, threatening to consume his vision, and he can vaguely feel his toes curl and thighs spasm at every brush of your cock against his bundle of nerves. there’s sweat dripping down his face, a salty tang on his tongue, and he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, hearing nothing but his own heavy pants and groans, attuned to the rhythm of your thrusts. it’s too good. almost makes him feel young again. he’s halfway through his forties, and yet you’re fucking him like he’s twenty.
vander can feel your hands all over him, pressing heavy bruises onto the tender fat of his waist and hips, bodily dragging him back onto your cock every time you ram forward, making sure to put your entire weight behind it. the mattress is letting out horrible creaking sounds, the headboard of the bed slamming into the wall in perfect tempo, and the both of you are going to regret this later, but fuck, he doesn’t care.
it’s addicting. it’s violent. vander shouldn’t be enjoying this, but he is.
“fuck, love, y’er gonna make me cum already,” he chokes out, and it’s more of a drunken slur, really — there’s something about the way you’re treating him that makes him dizzy and weak at the knees. his fists are clenched, grasping at the bedsheets every time he feels like snaking a hand between his legs and jerking off to your thrusts. he wants to enjoy it, savour it—the way you’re taking him, pressing him into the mattress like you’re trying to break the bed before you break him, gaze hungry enough to swallow him up in your lust.
“go ahead and cum, vander,” you drawl, grabbing a handful of his ass before sharply spanking him across, the sting rewarding you with a full-body shiver. “i want you to cum like it’s your last night on earth.”
who the absolute fuck does this kid think he is, vander thinks, and he quickly buries his face back into the pillow because he knows he’s going to get loud. you’re insane. insanely bad at dirty talk, but your hunger makes up for it. he’s never liked dirty talking that much, but fuck, if you weren’t something different. cum like it’s his last night on earth? he really underestimated how greedy you were.
“cocky,” he wheezes instead, once he’s caught his breath, “y’er gonna, haah, hafta fuck me harder for that to happen.” it’s yet another bad decision, and he’s digging his own grave, he knows it. as if you aren’t already fucking him within an inch of his life—the bulbous shape of your cockhead digging into his prostate with such immaculate precision, pressing the shape of your handprints into his skin as you fuck him with your eyes, your hands and your cock.
hungry. intense. unforgettable. vander doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of it.
before he can even breathe, you’ve hooked one arm under his thigh, tossing him over onto his back like you’re flipping a fucking pancake, and vander’s not a delicate man by all means. without wasting a second, you’re pushing inside him again, groaning shamelessly as his wet, warm cave engulfs you perfectly. vander makes a desperate noise, eyes squeezing shut—there’s no pillow to muffle his cries or hide his expressions from you this time, but he’s far too close to be embarrassed.
the new position’s got you so deep inside him, and it’s getting harder to breathe, almost as though he could feel you all the way to his throat. it’s uncomfortable and very inconsiderate of his aching back, but the mind-numbing pleasure hammering away at his sweet spot makes up for it.
“s-so fuckin’ good, kid,” he pants out, arching his back with a moan as you reach down to grope at his tits, the muscles plump and soft with tender age, hole clenching around you tightly every time you tug at his perky nipples. his cock’s all leaky, drooling over his stomach and making a mess, and he’s so aroused it’s almost endearing. “fuck me… god, fuck me.”
he’s going to cum hands-free, vander thinks, and shit, you’re going to be so smug about this after you’re done with having your way with him. vander sneaks a glance at you—eyelids fluttering, making little grunts of pleasure every time you bully your way into his tight wet warmth. it embarrassingly makes the back of his neck burn, makes him feel all hot and sexy and wanted.
“yeah? best cock you’ve ever taken, vander?” you purr, and his breath stutters, seizing up with a yell and then he’s fucking cumming with you balls-deep inside him. guess you’ll take that as a yes.
SILCO
silco doesn’t know how long he’s been bent over in that same fucking position, but he doesn’t plan on making you stop anytime soon.
“darling, not so rough. . .” he gasps out, nails raking down the expensive wood of his office desk while you plow away at him from behind, his hole sopping wet but tight, as though you haven’t cum two times in him already. he can feel his knees knocking into the hard front of the desk with every brutal thrust, the weeping tip of his erection grazing the cool mahogany, the pleasure inside him making his lower belly burn with a flame he hasn’t felt in a long time.
“why?” you grin, draping yourself over his half-clothed stature, his pants yanked down to his ankles as he’s bent over to take. you shuffle forward, making sure his ass is pressed snugly against your crotch before giving an experimental roll of your hips, always reaching deeper, for more. “worried that they’ll hear?”
silco presses his lips together in a thin line, tilting his face away from yours, and if you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he were sulking. you laughed. it was just too easy to piss him off sometimes.
“i’m just playing around, baby. your office is soundproofed, no?” you straightened yourself, running a hand over the smooth, sensitive expanse of his back before returning to your firm grip on his bruised hips. he gave a shuddering sigh, trying to relax as you started to rock into him again with strong, steady thrusts.
“it doesn’t matter,” he rasps, “we’re, hah, being too loud… sweetheart. s-sevika is right outside.”
“don’t care,” you mutter. “i’m pent up. ‘least you can do is let me fuck you stupid. you’ll let me, right?”
silco makes a noise at the back of his throat, half from displeasure, the other half from the sharp curl of arousal in his lower abdomen, making his cock twitch and leak. fuck if it didn’t turn him on when you talked to him like this. he settles for burying his face into his arms, preparing himself for whatever you were going to put him through.
“be gentle,” he whispers, letting out a shuddering sigh. “i’m not so young anymore.”
you could feel a grin pulling at the corners of your lips. yeah. sure, you were going to be gentle with him. with him looking like that.
“hngh, r-right there…” silco mewls out, knees buckling repeatedly as he tries not to think about how loud he’s being. he supposes he could gag himself with something, your fingers, maybe, get them warm and wet for you while you use his face as leverage to fuck him harder, but he knows how much his noises spur you on, and right now he really doesn’t want to piss you off. not when you’re indulging him so well. “that’s it… you’re so good… darling.”
“not so shy anymore?” you hummed, licking a hot stripe up his neck, his gasp twisting into a whine. “think we can make you louder?”
“sweetheart,” he sighs as he feels your hand wrap around his throat, and he tilts his head back to let you grip it properly. “you already know what i want.”
“well, i don’t think so.” you smile, leaning down to press your cheek against his, working away from behind with short, firm thrusts that steal his breath away. “remind me. did we use the magic word yet?”
but just as he’s about to answer with snark, there’s the rap of fists against his office door, and silco feels his heart plummet. not now, when things were about to get good—this was the worst timing possible. “everything alright, boss?”
“yes,” silco pants, “fuck… yes.”
you can feel his nails dig into the back of your thigh, warning you not to pull out. you’re thick and heavy, resting against his stomach, and silco feels so fucking good and full. you can’t stop now. not until he’s had his fill. he can vaguely feel your warm seed trailing its way down his perineum in a slow trickle, and fuck, he wants more. wants to feel stuffed even without you inside him, drowsy and content.
he blinks, brows furrowing as he catches himself fantasizing about you yet again. should he even be having thoughts like these in his forties? was this healthy? sex with you was life-changingly—and now apparently hormone-alteringly good.
“sir?” sevika’s growl interrupts his train of thought. and yeah, not to mention—his second-in-command is right outside his office, while all he can think about is cock. shit. your big, leaky cock, buried to the hilt inside his hole. he wonders if it’ll be gaping once you’re done with him. and oh. cum. loads of your cum, filling up every inch of space inside him. making it hard to breathe. making him swel— “is someone in there with you?”
“yes,” silco wheezes dumbly as you roll your hips against him with meaning, forcing him to take you deeper. he trembles, shifting back slightly to fuck himself on your cock, forcing a sharp inhale from you. “we are busy. you’re, oh… dismissed, sevika.”
the silence is loud, save for the almost-silent squelches of your cock maneuvering inside him with all the cum stored in his belly.
you can feel his heart pounding from the way your chest is pressed against his bare back. or maybe it’s your own. his walls squeeze around you, sinfully tight, pulling a muffled moan from where you have your teeth sunken into his shoulder. fuck. he’s—silco’s actually into this. you’d have never guessed he would be such a freak, for lack of a better word, but with how things were going . . . you didn’t mind it. not one bit. it drove you crazy with want, if anything.
“... if you say so, boss.” the sound of retreating footsteps fills you with both relief and disappointment, but before you could even process what that means, you can feel silco gazing at you through his lashes, low and scrutinizing and something needy.
“did i say you could stop?” silco grunts. “fuck me.”
you let out a shaky sigh, hips already bucking back into the warm mould of your cock—and the next sound that drives past his lips is a loud and unabashed sob of your name.
you think you might have unlocked something new in your lover.
VIKTOR
“it won’t fit,” viktor slurs, moans tumbling out of his mouth as he gives a shaky roll of his hips. he’s not quite there yet, with only the tip sucked in, but he’s making good progress. “i’m terribly s-sorry, dear. your… appendage. it’s too big.”
his eyes flutter shut at the feeling of your hands forming a ring around his waist, strong and firm, a warm assurance that there was a possibility… although slight, that he’d make it.
“it’ll fit,” you murmur, kissing the sensitive spot at the back of his ear, the one that makes him suck in a sharp breath and shudder. “you’re doing very good, love. just… a little more, yeah?”
viktor looks down. it’s nowhere near a little more. you’re barely halfway in and he’s already thinking about quitting—has been, since the stupidly huge head of your cock breached his rim, making him feel a stretch that no amount of fingers or plastic toys could replicate. it was something extraordinary. overwhelmingly so.
“please,” he mewls, forehead dropping to rest on your shoulder. “t-touch me? i think i’ll probably, hah, ease up a little if you would… oh, yes. thank you, dear. thank you.”
it’s… in simple words, too much. you’re usually very considerate, taking your time with him with your fingers, rubbing on his tender walls until he loosens enough for you to slip another one in. the night would then end with you fucking his thighs, sticky and slick with his own cum. it’s good. it’s enough. that was until he started having thoughts of what it would feel like if you were inside him.
but viktor would’ve never imagined it would be like this. the difference in size was just… comical. you were so deep inside him already, the impossible girth forming an obscene bulge over his abdomen, making him whine with the fullness. if this is already what it feels like to have you inside, then just what would it feel like to have you spill inside him?
he can’t lie—he’s spent nights waiting for you to fall asleep first so that he could scoop up some of the cum you had missed on the sheets, quietly fingering himself with the cold slickness. it didn’t feel right, even if it was yours. it just wasn’t the same. he wanted, no, needed to feel it for himself.
it doesn’t help, the way you’re stroking him, ever so gentle with him. your huge palm covers his entire length without having to move much, huge thumb rubbing at his leaking tip, and viktor’s never been so hard before in his whole life. he’s so close already, hole fluttering around you uncontrollably, and it’s almost cute how it looks like it’s going to swallow you up. maybe it is.
maybe it’ll fit.
“last few inches,” you pant, fingers trembling slightly where you’re struggling not to press bruises into the cup of his hips. “can i-? please, vik. it’s so good. you’re so good. i just need a little more. please, baby.”
“yes,” viktor blurts out, before he realises just what he agreed to—but within the next second he can feel something abnormally large pushing its way past his tight walls, faster and rougher than before, even as he tries to clench and hold still—it’s mean and a little too much, but then the back of his thighs meets hot skin and he nearly blacks out with the stretch of it all.
“ngh,” viktor keens, trembling with exhaustion as he tries to settle into your lap comfortably with such a large intrusion within him. “soo full…”
you sigh in pleasure, hands going back to his hips where they belong, pushing him down until you’re satisfied that he’s properly taken everything you’ve given him. it’s not a demand, viktor thinks, more like a comfort. telling him that you’ve always known he would’ve been able to take you in the first place. that this is where he belongs, filled to the brim with you and you only.
he lets out a shuddering moan when you start to slowly bounce him on your lap, lifting him up with ease a good inch or two, before rolling your hips to meet his, pushing yourself deeper. “shit, vik…” you groan, and he cries out with every brush against his prostate, the sheer size of you making it impossible to miss it. “you’re so tight, baby… so perfect. i’m right here with you, okay? easy now, you’re doing so good.”
you’re so good to him as always, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, but it’s different this time, and fuuck. viktor thinks he’s dying with how good it feels. he tries to steer his hips, to actually ride you instead of having you manhandling him up and down your cock, but there’s hardly any friction left now that he’s properly stretched, and any attempt results in him collapsing back to his knees, the pleasure making him weak.
he settles for hanging onto you, arms wrapping around your neck and choking out little whimpers as you rock upwards into his waiting hole again and again, toes curling and nails scratching red trails down your back with the all-consuming pleasure.
it’s driving him crazy, the fullness, the simple thought of you pumping your seed and sperm into him, of making love with you. it’s nothing like the way it was written in the textbooks he had spent nights researching—it’s beyond anything he would have ever imagined.
“please,” viktor sobs out, feeling strangely empty every time you pull out halfway, as ironic as it was—as though there was a chance you would leave him fully. the thought of it hurt. if only you could fit inside him forever. if only. “stay…” he cries, “cum inside. m-make me yours.”
you lean forward, pressing your lips against his in a hurried kiss, at the same time grinding so deep viktor thinks, for a split of a second, that that might be you he’s feeling in his stomach. the broken wail he gives is loud and muffled, and you lap up the drool on the side of his face, watching as your lover’s eyes flutter shut at the feeling of being filled, properly this time, to the brink of spilling.
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