You know what they say:
"Keep your friends close, but also your enemies even closer."
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Warnings: sensitive topics, explicit sexual content, graphic violence, unhealthy relationships, power dynamics, love and hate dynamics, dom/sub, specific tags in each chapter, Multi POV (Silco include)
Status: On going
The story, up to chapter 41, is set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.
I do not authorize translations or reposts on other platforms.
AO3
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Silco was at its limit.
The last few days had been a whirlwind, made worse by Jinx's eccentricities, which Sevika couldn't control. He was exhausted, his nerves on edge, so, as if it were the most obvious solution, one of his subordinates suggested that he relax… in a brothel.
The idea was so offensive that Silco almost killed him right there. But in the end, there he was and unfortunately or fortunately you are the lucky one who will serve him.
Little did they know how such a decision would completely change the course of their live, going far beyond sexual provocations and petty dramas.
When the past and present collide, there is no stopping the impending chaos.
Your non-traditional prostitute and crime lord fanfic
When you lose yourself, there’s a certain comfort in knowing Silco is there to gather what’s left of you.
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 8K
Warnings: blood and violence, angst, excessive use of medication, graphic violence, attempted murder, panic and anxiety attacks, suffocation, smut, gentle sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, praise kink, orgasm edging, Silco POV
Part 44
You slept a dreamless sleep, and yet you were achingly aware of everything around you—aware in a way that felt wrong, invasive, almost suffocating. Conscious without agency. Your mind floated just beneath the surface while your body lay still, trapped in that strange in-between where rest pretends to be peace.
You heard the sounds beyond The Last Drop: muffled voices slurring into one another, laughter that broke into coughing fits, the uneven footsteps of drunks stumbling through Zaun's streets. Every noise filtered in as if your senses had been sharpened to a painful edge.
You felt the weight and warmth of Silco's arm draped over your waist, his body pressed against your back as he held you from behind. You felt the rise and fall of his breathing, the subtle tension of muscle beneath skin, the faint scent of tobacco that clung to him no matter how long the night lasted.
Even the blanket above you betrayed itself: every small shift, every ripple of fabric registering like a wave breaking against your nerves.
But there was that melody.
It wasn't coming from the bar, or the streets, or even the room. It played only in your head—soft at first, almost shy. A tune you knew too well. A tune your bones remembered before your mind did. Your mother's lullaby.
The song became the fragile line that proved you were still asleep, even as your body felt disturbingly awake, fully operational, fully exposed.
The melody grew louder. Too loud. What had once been comforting twisted into something sharp, nearly shrill, vibrating through your skull until it drowned out everything else—Silco's warmth, the noise outside, the sense of weight and space.
And then you were falling.
You sank into the dark as if the ground had vanished beneath you, plunging in a silent freefall. The hypersensitivity cut out all at once, like a switch being flipped, and with it went every sensation you had been clinging to. No warmth. No sound. No gravity. Nothing.
You stopped feeling altogether.
You existed in the hollow space of your own mind, suspended in an endless void. You couldn't move. You couldn't breathe—not because you were suffocating, but because breath itself no longer meant anything. You had no body to command, no limbs to will into motion. You were thought without form. Awareness without control.
A sentient mind adrift in nothingness, watching yourself exist while being utterly powerless to do anything about it.
Until you were ripped from the darkness by force.
Consciousness crashed into you all at once, brutal and blinding. Your eyes flew open, blinking wildly as reality burned its way back in—too bright, too loud, too real. The world felt wrong, disjointed, as if your mind had been shoved back into your body without warning or care.
For a moment, nothing made sense. The light splintering at the edges of your vision, your head pounding as though it had been struck. You were awake, undeniably so, yet terrifyingly detached, like a stranger inhabiting your own skin.
It took a heartbeat—maybe two—for you to notice what was wrong.
Your hands were wrapped around Silco's throat.
Your fingers were clenched tight, digging into skin and sinew, thumbs pressing where you knew the pulse lived. You could feel it under your grip, frantic and uneven. His body was tense beneath you, his single good eye was wide, blown open in disbelief, fixed on your face as if he were trying to recognize the person staring back at him. His other eye burned faintly in the low light, the shimmer catching as he struggled to draw breath.
And then the pain hit.
White-hot and nauseating, it bloomed in your abdomen with sickening clarity. You gasped—and the movement drove the agony deeper, sharper. You looked down, vision shaking, and saw the unmistakable gleam of metal buried in your stomach.
His dagger.
Silco's Pov
━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━
Silco woke choking.
For a split second, the rational part of his mind tried to convince him this was nothing more than a cruel trick of memory. A nightmare. His brain dredging up old trauma and dressing it in flesh and pressure, replaying the familiar sensation of helplessness, of hands at his throat, of air being stolen away while his body betrayed him. But then he opened his eye.
She was straddling him.
Her body sat heavy and immovable atop his, pinning him to the mattress with terrifying ease. Her hands were wrapped around his neck, fingers locked in place, squeezing—not with frantic strength, but with a calm, horrifying certainty. There was no tremor in her grip, no sign of strain. It was the pressure of someone who did not need to try.
The dim light of the room caught her face just enough for him to see her eyes, wide open and fixed on his. And there was nothing in them. No recognition. No fear. No rage. Just an empty, glassy stare that reminded him too much of corpses from the Lanes—bodies long past the point of pain or mercy.
Dead eyes.
"Dove."
The word scraped out of his throat, broken and thin, robbed of breath before it could fully exist. His hands gripping at her wrists, trying to pry her fingers away. She didn't yield.
It was like trying to move iron bars bolted into place. His vision began to blur at the edges, a familiar heat building behind his eye as panic crept in despite his iron discipline.
He said her name.
And again.
Again.
Each time it came out weaker, dissolving into a hoarse whisper, his voice cracking as the air thinned. There was no response. Not a flicker. Not a change in her expression. She did not blink. Did not react. It was as if he were calling out to a body already abandoned by its soul.
Silco tried to shift beneath her, to buck her off, but her weight anchored him in place. She sat on him with deliberate stillness, hips locked, knees braced at his sides, giving him no leverage and no escape.
When his lungs began to fail him—when each attempt to breathe came back empty—Silco made a desperate choice.
His hand shot beneath the pillow by pure muscle memory, fingers closing around the familiar hilt of the dagger he kept there every night. A habit born long before her, one he had never abandoned—not even while sleeping beside a trained assassin. With the last of his strength, he drove the blade upward and into her abdomen.
The resistance was sickeningly brief.
And by the gods, it worked.
Her eyes flared almost instantly, igniting with that unmistakable, violent lilac glow of Shimmer—as if something inside her had been shocked back into place. For a heartbeat, that color burned too bright, before draining away and giving way to her real eyes. Human eyes. Aware.
The pressure around his throat vanished at once, her hands slackening completely as she recoiled from him like she'd been burned.
Silco dragged in air greedily, choking and coughing, his throat screaming in protest as oxygen finally rushed back into his lungs. His chest heaved, each breath raw and ragged, his vision slowly knitting itself back together as the room swam into focus.
She looked... destroyed.
She stared at him for half a second longer, horror dawning too fast and then she practically launched herself off the bed. She yanked the dagger out of her own body with a sharp, panicked motion and let it clatter uselessly to the floor.
Her gaze snapped to her hands, shaking violently now, her fingers splayed as though she didn't recognize them, as though they belonged to someone else entirely.
Silco watched her retreat step by step, backing away until her shoulders hit the opposite wall. She stood there trembling, wild-eyed and pale, like a cornered animal that had no idea how it had ended up in the trap.
"I tried to—"
"Kill me?" Silco cut in, his tone sharp despite the damage to his throat. His voice came out rough, shredded by strangulation, each word scraping painfully as he forced it past swollen vocal cords. "Yes, dove. You did."
He pushed himself upright with a wince, one hand instinctively hovering near his neck as if to reassure himself it was still there, still intact.
"Care to explain, why I woke up with your hands around my throat?"
"I don't know... I was falling... I— I'm sorry."
Her voice barely existed. It was no more than a breath — fragile and unsteady, as if any volume might shatter her completely.
Silco listened, chest still tight, throat burning with every swallow. Adrenaline hummed angrily through his veins, and yes—some part of him was furious. Nearly dying had a way of sharpening tempers. But the anger never found her. It couldn't. It dissolved the moment he looked at her properly.
What replaced it was something colder. Heavier.
Concern.
The woman he loved was fearless—reckless, even. A sharp-tongued menace who had looked him in the eye and told him she would kill him if she ever had reason to. A woman who would rather bite her own tongue clean off than apologize, at least to him. Pride lived in her spine, in the set of her jaw, in the way she met the world head-on without flinching.
This... was not her.
He watched as she slid down the wall, strength abandoning her entirely, until she crumpled onto the floor. She folded in on herself instinctively, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tight as if she were trying to hold herself together by sheer will. Her eyes never left him—wide, glassy, terrified. She looked like a child afraid of the dark, bracing for something unseen to reach out and grab her.
"It was like I wasn't in my body." she said, trying to explain, though the words came out uncertain, fractured. There was more doubt in her voice than clarity, as if she didn't trust her own memory of it. "I didn't... I didn't want to hurt you."
Silco exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as if the gesture alone might steady the mess of thoughts clawing at his mind. He knew that she would never choose this kind of cowardice. The woman he loved would rather kill him while looking him straight in the eye than strike from the quiet of the night like a rat in the dark. There was a code to her violence. Honor, even when it came to death.
"I know you didn't mean it, my love."
He shifted, preparing to stand, muscles tensing as he made to step off the bed. She was on her feet in an instant.
"No! Don't... don't come closer!"
Silco froze mid-motion, his eyes snapping to her in open disbelief. He didn't bother hiding the edge in his voice when he spoke. "What?"
"It's dangerous, Silco," she backing toward the door, one careful step taken with each word, as though the floor itself might betray her.
Dangerous.
The word settled heavily in his mind.
She was right. And yet, when it came to her, Silco had always carried a quiet, inconvenient death wish.
He swung his legs off the bed and rose despite the protest of his still-burning throat, his posture steady even as his body argued otherwise. "I'm not afraid of you."
"But I am."
The words stopped him cold.
Silco froze where he stood, whatever movement he had been about to make dissolving into stillness as the weight of her confession struck deeper. There was a vast, devastating difference between being feared by others and fearing oneself.
She didn't trust herself. Not tonight. Not after what she'd done without knowing she was doing it. And no amount of reassurance from him could bridge that gap. Words meant nothing when the threat lived beneath one's own skin.
So Silco did the one thing power, pride, and possession all demanded he not do.
He stayed where he was.
He watched as she opened the door and slipped out of the room, her movements tight and hurried, as if lingering even a second longer might tempt fate. She was gone, leaving behind blood on the floor, the echo of fear in the air, and a bed that no longer felt like shelter.
[...]
It hadn't been difficult to find her when dawned.
Not with patrols circling the bar at all hours.The trail had led downward, behind the counter, to the storage cellar he used for liquor and supplies. The door had been barricaded from the inside. Not sloppily. Not in panic. With intention. So thoroughly, in fact, that Silco had to call Sevika over. With a efficient swing of her blade, she cut through the wood.
The sight was... deplorable.
She was slumped on an old, dust-choked couch shoved into the far corner of the cellar, its fabric threadbare and stained from years of neglect. Her body looked wrong there—too still, too small, as if the shadows had swallowed her whole. One arm hung limp at her side, fingers slack, while the rest of her was folded inward, unconscious and defenseless in a way Silco had never once seen her be.
On the floor beside the couch lay a small, empty pill bottle.
Silco recognized it instantly.
The medication Singed had provided to help his sleep when even exhaustion failed. Silco remembered the weight of it in his palm when he had placed it in a drawer in his office. He remembered, too, that it had been half full.
Silco knew better than anyone that conventional drugs barely worked on her anymore. For those sedatives to have rendered her unconscious, she must have taken a dose that would have killed an ordinary person outright.
He crossed the room in three long strides and knelt beside her. Two fingers pressed gently to her throat, feeling for her pulse. Once. Twice. Then longer, counting. Steady. Strong. Alive.
As he already knew.
He sat back on his heels, eyes tracing the familiar lines of her face, the pallor of her skin under the cellar's dim light, the darkened smear of dried blood at her side where he had struck her.
His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face, careful, almost reverent. She didn't stir. Not even a flinch. That, somehow, hurt more than if she had recoiled. He let his hand linger, his palm cupping her cheek fully now.
He didn't need to look at Sevika to know curiosity was gnawing at her patience. Sevika was many things, but subtle was rarely one of them.
"Ask." Silco said at last, granting her the permission she was clearly waiting for.
Sevika's brow furrowed as she glanced past him, toward the unconscious figure on the sofa. "What happened?"
"She tried to kill me."
Sevika huffed quietly, unimpressed, and moved toward one of the shelves lining the cellar wall, reaching for a bottle.
"That's not exactly surprising."
"True, but there was something... wrong with her." Sevika popped the cork from the bottle and took a long pull, watching him now. "You know that look, when you kill someone. The moment when the eyes stop reacting because whatever made them present has already left."
"Hm... never really paid attention to details like that"
Silco wasn't surprised. Knowing Sevika as he did, anyone she killed stopped being a person the moment the decision was made. After that, they were just weight hitting the floor. Meat. Consequence without sentiment. She survived by not lingering.
"Well, she had those dead eyes. And when I managed to bring her back, she was completely disoriented."
Sevika stepping closer. She extended it toward him without ceremony. "So she realized what she'd done and ran down here to stop herself from doing it again."
"Precisely." Silco accepted the bottle and drank—longer than necessary. The alcohol burned its way down, grounding him in the familiar. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, exhaling softly. "It's the first time something like this has happened. And I don't understand how it occurred."
That admission didn't come easily.
"It's not a second persona. She has... certain psychological imbalances. Anyone who survives as she has does. But nothing on this level. Nothing that would erase her like that."
"I'm guessing you already have a theory."
Silco rolled the bottle once between his fingers, listening to the quiet slosh of liquor inside. "It may be connected to that Noxian cult I mentioned to you some time ago. Do you remember?"
As Silco's right-hand man, he thought it appropriate to tell Sevika a little about the woman's true origins. However, he kept the information as basic as possible. Sevika knew that her fiancée was not a normal human being—even if she already knew this for obvious reasons—but with the added burden of knowing she had this connection to Noxus.
The pause stretched longer than usual. Too long. When realization finally struck, it was visible—her posture sagged slightly, shoulders tightening as though something inside her had gone cold.
"Fuck..." she breathed. "What are we going to do?"
Silco shrugged, the motion deceptively casual. "Save her."
The word sat between them, heavy and absurd in equal measure.
Sevika laughed then—sharp, humorless, and edged with desperation. She didn't even try to stop it. "Save something damned..."
Silco straightened at last, brushing dust from his trousers. His joints protested immediately—bones grinding, muscles screaming their displeasure after too long spent kneeling on cold stone. A low grunt escaped him before he could stop it. Age is a patient debt collector; it always comes to collect what is owed to it.
"We're all damned, Sevika."
He's returning the bottle and gestured once toward her unconscious body—brief, precise. An order, an order that Sevika understood it without needing a word. Silco turned on his heel and started to leave that dusty space.
Behind him, he heard Sevika move. A heavier breath. The distinct mechanical whir of her prosthetic arm adjusting its grip. Then—glass shattering violently against the floor.
"Oh, damn!" Sevika swore.
Silco paused for half a second at the base of the stairs, eyes closing briefly. Great, in addition to the destroyed door, now he would have to replace a glass bottle.
By the time Sevika emerged from the cellar, she had her in her arms—Silco's dove, still unconscious, limp from the sedatives, head resting loosely against Sevika's shoulder. Her breathing was slow and steady, her body heavy with chemical sleep rather than peace.
"That drink will be deducted from your salary."
The tall woman was clearly displeased, but she didn't argue. Sevika followed him back to his office, or more precisely, his bedroom.
Sevika laid her down carefully on the bed, far more gently than anyone would have expected from her. The moment the weight left Sevika's arms, Silco was already there. He moved with quiet urgency, arranging her properly against the mattress, adjusting the pillow beneath her head until her neck rested comfortably. He crouched to remove her boots, setting them aside without a sound, then brushed her hair away from her face so it wouldn't cling to her skin or tangle when she shifted.
The motions were practiced. Intimate. Careful.
They didn't belong to the ruthless, authoritarian leader of Zaun—the man whose name alone bent rooms into silence. And yet here he was, smoothing blankets and tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering just long enough to make sure she was truly at rest.
Sevika watched from near the door, her expression unreadable. "She changed you, Silco."
It wasn't an insult. Just an observation. A statement of fact.
He considered the words—not defensively, not with irritation, but with a strange, distant thoughtfulness. And after a brief moment of reflection, he decided that it was the biggest load of rubbish anyone had ever told him and resolved to completely ignore that nonsense.
"I'll be unavailable today, and only bother me if something important happens." Silco then made a gesture with his hand dismissing Sevika's presence—he didn't even have the decency to look at her as he did it.
An angry snort was heard, and then the door closed.
[...]
"You were reckless."
That was the first thing Silco heard from her the moment she woke.
Her voice was serious, still rough with sleep and sedatives, but unmistakably hers. Awareness snapped fully into place then. He felt it in the way her body went rigid all at once—every muscle locking tight, coiled like a spring pulled too far. She lay with her back pressed to his chest, the two of them tangled in the narrow confines of the bed, his arm draped over her waist.
He felt her try to move.
Not violently. Just enough to test her range, to create distance. The second she shifted, Silco reacted. His arms tightened around her without hesitation, drawing her back against him. Like a serpent closing in—coiling, anchoring, leaving no room to slip free.
"Mm..." he murmured near her ear, unbothered by the accusation. Amused, even. "I believe I read somewhere that couples tend to pick up each other's habits over time." he dipped his head and bit lightly at her shoulder. "You've acquired my need for control and I seem to have inherited your recklessness."
Despite the lightness in his tone, the humor never reached her.
If anything, it only sharpened her irritation. Silco felt it immediately—the renewed tension in her body, the way she braced and pushed again, more force this time. Reflex met reflex. His hold tightened once more.
"You're going to crush me like this." she snapped, breath huffing out in frustration.
"Then that is entirely your fault. If you stayed still, I wouldn't have to hold you so tightly."
"Well then you could just let me go, Silco."
The suggestion earned a soft, humorless sound from him—almost a laugh, but stripped of warmth. "And have you run off again? No. That isn't happening, dove."
Fortunately—mercifully—the struggle ended almost as quickly as it had begun.
The fight draining out of her body, tension bleeding away as if whatever had been driving her simply ran out of strength. Her muscles slackened against his hold, resistance dissolving into a heavy, defeated stillness. Exhaustion won. Whether it was frustration, lingering sedatives, pain, or something deeper clawing at her from the inside, it overpowered her will at last.
She went still in his arms.
"What's wrong with me?"
The question was small. Bare. Stripped of pride. It slipped out of her like a confession she hadn't meant to make.
Silco closed his eye briefly, the sound of her voice tightening something low in his chest. He loosened his grip just enough to signal that she wasn't trapped anymore—only held.
"I don't know." he said honestly. "But I suspect it may have something to do with that Noxian witch. You said yourself she could tamper with your mind in the past. This may be... an echo of that. Or something she planted and left to grow."
"But what would she gain by trying to kill you using me? Or better yet... how the hell did she even take control of my body like that?" her voice rose sharply, edging toward panic. "It's been four years. Four. Why come after me now?"
The desperation was unmistakable. Not fear of death—but fear of not knowing. Of realizing that time hadn't buried the past as deeply as she'd believed.
"I wish I could answer that, dove."
She turned her head slightly, just enough to look at him over her shoulder. Up close, Silco caught the details he hadn't allowed himself to linger on before—the sleep-creased skin, lashes still heavy, concern etched beneath exhaustion. She looked worn down in a way that had nothing to do with wounds.
"I think it would be better if we slept in separate beds after tonight."
"No."
It came out flat. Immediate.
"Silco... think properly."
"I already have, and the answer is still no." he tightened his hold again. "Isolation will only make your mind more vulnerable. We don't yet know how you lost control of your body. But if this is tied to your mental state, then cutting yourself off is the equivalent of presenting yourself on a silver platter to that witch."
He felt her inhale sharply, sensed the shift in her chest as she prepared to argue. Before she could waste the effort, Silco spoke again.
"Unless you have a reasonable, coherent explanation and not a collection of sentimental nonsense about being afraid of hurting me, I have no interest in hearing it."
She narrowed her eyes at him in pure irritation—though it wasn't hatred. Not really. There was anger there, certainly; she had always despised when Silco simply decided over her, when he flattened her arguments with that calm, infuriating certainty of his. But beneath it lingered something else, something quieter and far more telling. A reluctant gratitude. As if, despite being the one to suggest it, part of her had been afraid he might actually agree to leave her alone.
"You're a manipulative little shit."
There was humor threaded through the words, even if they were spoken like a threat.
Silco's mouth curved slightly, a knowing, almost smug hint of a smile. "And yet, I'm the man you love."
She rolled her eyes dramatically, shifting at last, twisting within his arms. He let her move without resistance. A moment later, she was facing him, the space between them reduced to nothing—face to face, breath to breath.
"And who said I love you?"
"You did." Silco's smile deepened, crooked and unmistakably pleased. "Many, many times last night."
Her face began to flush the second she realized what Silco was talking about.
"Though, to be fair, the words 'I love you' were rather tangled up between... sounds. So I suppose it's possible you didn't notice." his thumb traced a lazy, absent line along her arm. "You did seem quite... out of your mind. Eyes rolling, body arching and begging me not to stop."
That was the moment she decided to attack.
She practically threw herself forward, hands flying straight for his mouth in a clear attempt to shut him up before he could continue the degradation. The impact knocked the breath from him in a quiet huff as they tumbled together, sheets twisting beneath them.
What followed was less a fight and more a strange, tangled struggle—arms and legs colliding, knees knocking, elbows threatening but never truly striking. Silco wasn't especially interested in overpowering her. Still, his pride refused to let her win outright. He blocked, redirected, shifted his weight just enough to keep the balance contested, a faint amusement threading through the effort.
Eventually, momentum betrayed him.
She ended up straddling him, pinning him neatly to the mattress, both hands pressed firmly over his mouth. Her hair spilled forward between them in a cascade, brushing his cheek, tickling his skin. She was breathing a little harder now—not from exertion alone, but from the thrill of it.
And she was smiling.
Silco's eye narrowed slightly in appreciation. Slowly, he placed his hands on her hips, fingers settling there with a gentle but unmistakably possessive squeeze. Then, without warning, he lick the center of her palm.
The reaction was immediate. She yanked her hands away from his mouth as if she'd been burned, recoiling with a sound of disgust, wiping her hand against her clothes.
Silco chuckled softly, finally free to speak. "There are better ways to silence someone."
"Oh yeah? And what would those be?"
"Dove, I'm certain you already know."
As she leaned in, the playful defiance in her eyes melting into something softer, warmer, Silco met her halfway. When her lips finally brushed against his, the world outside the dimly lit room seemed to dissolve into insignificance.
His hands, previously possessive and commanding upon her hips, slid upward. He cupped her face with surprising gentleness, his thumbs tracing the line of her jaw and sweeping over her cheeks. There was no roughness here, no demand for submission.
Even when their lips parted, he lingered in the aftermath, eyes closed, breathing her in as though she were the only clean air left in a suffocating world. For a moment, he allowed himself to exist there—unburdened by ambition, untouched by the ghosts that usually crowded his mind. Just this. Just her.
"I was so scared last night, Silco."
The words settled heavily in him. Fear was a language he understood intimately, but hearing it from her—feeling it woven into her voice—was strange, almost painful. His brow softened almost imperceptibly as he felt her nose brush against his, light and searching.
"It's all right now, my love. You are safe."
The promise came easily, but it was not hollow. Although he had no idea how to protect her from that situation, he would do everything in his power just to ensure that fear never touched her like that again.
"I know."
When her lips returned to his, he answered them with a languid, appreciative pressure. Lips parting to match her slow rhythm, the soft drag of her mouth pulling him deeper into the moment.
Silco remained remarkably still, surrendering the reins of their interaction entirely to her. He found he had no desire to reclaim his usual dominance; he simply wanted to witness her, to follow wherever her whims might lead.
He felt the deft, wandering motion of her fingertips as they traced the fine fabric of his shirt. One by one, he heard the tiny, rhythmic clicks of the buttons being undone. Just as she moved to peel the fine fabric from his shoulders, Silco broke the kiss.
"Is this what you want, dove?"
"Yes..."
The lethargy that had draped itself over his limbs evaporated instantly, replaced by a renewed vigor. With a grunt of concentrated effort, Silco shifted his weight, maneuvering his lean frame upright on the mattress. He didn't let her go for a second, keeping her firmly seated in his lap so that her warmth remained pressed intimately against his chest.
He shed his discarded shirt, tossing the garment aside with a careless flick of his wrist. His pale, scarred torso was revealed to her in the dim light, the musculature of his chest rising and falling with his quickened respiration. He didn't waste a moment before leaning forward to capture her lips again.
Between the feverish presses of their mouths, their movements became a coordinated dance of undressing, a frantic shedding of barriers. Guided by the nimble strength of her hands and the impatient guidance of his own, her shirt was peeled away, sliding down her arms to join his on the floor.
As her bare skin finally met his, the contact was electric a searing collision of heat and texture. Silco let out a low, shaky exhale against her mouth, his hands roaming downward to capture her curves, his palms stinging with the sudden, glorious sensation of her nakedness against him.
"God, you are magnificent." he rasped between kisses. "Every inch of you..."
With the practiced fluidness, he transitioned from sitting to hovering directly over her. He guided her onto her back, pinning her gently against the plush expanse of the mattress.
He descended upon her not with haste, but with a devastating, agonizing slowness. His lips began a torturous trek downward from her jawline, trailing kisses along the delicate column of her throat. He lingered in the hollow of her collarbone, his breath hitching as he inhaled the intoxicating scent of her skin, before moving lower.
When he reached her breasts, Silco slowed his pace to a crawl, his eyes momentarily lifting to catch hers, ensuring she felt every ounce of his focus. He captured one peaked nipple between his lips, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud before he began to suckle.
"So perfect..." he switched to the other side, his teeth grazing the tip just enough to elicit a gasp, before lavishing her with the same fervent attention.
Silco was relentless, his devotion to her pleasure bordering on the obsessive. He spent a long, indulgent time worshipping her breasts, his tongue and teeth working in concert to drive her to the brink of distraction. He lived for the way her breath stuttered and the way her skin flushed a deep, enticing pink under his ministrations.
It was the sensation of her fingers curling into his hair, a gentle but desperate tugging upwards, that finally snapped the tether of his restraint.
"I need you."
She looked beautifully devastated.
"Say it again." he demanded, his voice a low, vibrating rasp against her skin. "Tell me exactly what you need."
"Silco..."
"I'm waiting, dove."
"Fuck... I need you..." she pulled his hair again. "Inside me."
Once the command was satisfied, he moved with efficient, singular purpose. He stripped the remaining fabric from her lower body, discarding her pants and panties until she lay entirely exposed to his ravenous gaze.
He moved between her legs, spreading her thighs wide to gain full access to her core. He didn't dive in immediately; instead, he chose to tease, to prolong the anticipation until it was nearly unbearable. His fingers began to stroke her, circling her clitoris and dipping into her soaking heat. He worked her with a masterful touch, his digits sliding in and out of her, mimicking the rhythm of the thrusts she so clearly craved.
"Hmm... oh gods."
"Look at you,." his eyes tracking the way her hips bucked instinctively toward his hand. "Dripping for me. So impatient to be filled." he increased the pressure, his thumb finding her sensitive nub and applying a steady, bruising pressure that made her toes curl. "Hold on, dove. I'm going to give you everything."
Silco watched her with the rapt attention of a man witnessing a storm break. He delighted in the transformation of her body from the limp, melting surrender of a moment ago to the rigid, electric tension that now coursed through her. Her muscles were taut, her spine arched, and her breathing had devolved into short, jagged stabs of air. She was standing on the precipice, teetering on the razor's edge of total oblivion.
When she began to frantically try to clamp her thighs shut, a desperate attempt to trap the sensation or perhaps escape the sheer intensity of it, Silco wouldn't allow her the reprieve. He planted a hand firmly on one of her knees, pinning her leg wide to keep her exposed and vulnerable. Instead of slowing, he doubled his efforts.
"No, don't hide from it." he hissed, his voice a dark command. "Stay open for me. Take it all!"
He could feel the internal tremors beginning, the unmistakable, rhythmic contractions of her walls signaling the imminent explosion. She was right there the exact moment where the world would shatter for her. And precisely then, with a cruel sort of brilliance, Silco withdrew. He pulled his fingers out of her completely, leaving her gaping and empty, the sudden loss of friction leaving her suspended in mid air.
"Noooo..." her voice came out slurred, somewhat tearful, while her whole body writhed in agony at having her orgasm denied. "Silco, please..."
Silco couldn't help the slow, wicked smirk that curled his lips as he watched her unravel.
"Shh, shhh... easy, dove." he murmured, his tone softening into a low, soothing purr that contrasted the wicked glint in his eyes. He leaned down to press a lingering, apologetic kiss to her forehead, his hand stroking her damp hair. "I won't leave you hanging for long. I promise... I'll make it up to you."
He stood just long enough to discard the last of his clothing, his naked skin prickling in the cool air of the room. He didn't linger; the hunger in his eyes told her he was done playing games. He climbed back over her, his frame shadowing her form once more.
He moved between her thighs, positioning the tip of his cock right at her entrance, teasing the very rim of her soaked folds without actually entering.
"Silco, don't provoke me..."
"Right, right."
Without further delay, he began to sink into her, causing them both to groan in unison. As Silco eased himself into her, he felt the instant, desperate welcome of her body. She surged upward to meet him, her arms wrapping around his neck, her legs hooking firmly around his waist to lock him within her. There was no aggression in the movement, only an urgent, starving need to be whole again.
He began to move with a measured, hypnotic cadence slow thrusts that prioritized depth over speed. Each time he slid home, he went all the way, bottoming out against her cervix with a heaviness that forced the breath from her lungs.
The room grew silent save for the wet, rhythmic slide of their bodies and the soft, melodic sighs escaping her lips. Silco leaned down, capturing her mouth in a series of long, soulful kisses. These weren't the biting, territorial kisses of a conqueror, but the tender, lingering tastes of a man lost in reverence.
"There..." he exhaled against her lips, his voice a mere thread of sound. "Just like this."
He focused on the sensation of her internal muscles molding to his shape, the way she pulsed around him with every slow withdrawal and deep, grounding return. It was a serene sort of torture, a slow burn that promised an explosion far greater than any frantic pacing could provide. He watched her eyes, mesmerized by the way they clouded with a dazed, blissful haze as he filled her.
"I love you..."
The impact was instantaneous. Silco felt his carefully maintained rhythm falter. His hips stalled mid thrust, his breath hitching in his throat as the declaration reverberated through his very bones. Those three words possessed a terrifying, beautiful power to dismantle the fortress he had built around his heart.
He paused for a fleeting second, his forehead resting against hers, his breathing heavy and uneven. His mismatched eyes searched hers, drinking in the sincerity written in her gaze. A small, shaky exhale escaped him, a sound of pure surrender.
"I love you too."
Recovering his poise, he didn't return to the frenzied pace of a hunter. Instead, he doubled down on the serenity. He resumed those slow, deep, soul searching thrusts, but they were infused now with a new, reverent intensity. He moved as if he were handling something priceless, something that could shatter if he applied too much pressure, yet needing to feel every nuance of her existence.
The tranquility of their union began to fray at the edges, replaced by a rising tide of exquisite tension. The slow burn finally ignited into a wildfire. Her moans lost their melodic quality, turning into loud, unrestrained cries of pleasure that vibrated through his chest. Her fingers, once gentle, now dug into the muscles of his back with a ferocity that spoke of her nearing the limit of her endurance.
Silco felt it too the tightening of his core, the sudden, sharp awareness of every nerve ending. A massive wave of pleasure began to roll through him, coiling tightly in his gut. This buildup was heavy and inevitable, a tidal wave gathering strength in the depths of his soul.
With a choked groan, Silco succumbed. His body stiffened, his muscles locking as his climax tore through him. But instead of collapsing immediately, Silco refused to relinquish his hold on her.
His body was screaming, every inch of his skin suddenly hypersensitive, the slightest touch feeling like a bolt of electricity. The sensation of her wet, tight walls milking him was almost too much to bear, threatening to send him into a state of sensory overload. Yet, fueled by a selfless, driving need to see her find her own release, he gritted his teeth and forced his hips to continue moving.
As her climax crashed over her, her body tightening and pulsing around him in rhythmic waves, Silco felt his own strength fracture completely. The hypersensitivity from his earlier release amplified every sensation, and his muscles simply gave way.
With a low, exhausted groan, he collapsed onto her, his lean frame pressing down fully, his scarred chest slick with sweat against her bare skin. His breath came in heavy, uneven pants, the weight of his body pinning her gently to the mattress as fatigue swept through him like a tide.
He was spent, utterly drained yet deeply satisfied, the warmth of their connection lingering in the haze. His face nestled into the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent amid the mingled traces of their exertion. For a long moment, he simply lay there, his heart thudding against hers, the world reduced to the quiet rise and fall of their chests.
Eventually, he stirred just enough to lift his head, his mismatched eyes finding hers with a rare softness. One hand rose to brush damp strands of hair from her face. "Are you alright?"
She nodded in confirmation before pulling Silco back into her arms, hugging him and burying her face in his neck. Silco realized at that moment that he had no desire to leave her. Not now.
━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━
[...]
You stood at the edge of the platform, staring out at the stretch of land before you, the vast sprawl of Piltover unfolding beneath the sky like something unreal.
From up here, the City of Progress looked almost gentle. Its towers gleamed in the sunlight, glass and marble catching the light like polished jewels. It was beautiful in a way that felt wrong—too clean, too distant from the grit and blood that had paid for this view. A sight you never would have imagined witnessing in your lifetime. And yet, now it was yours. Something you could return to whenever you wanted.
At least until Piltover decided it wanted its airship port back.
It had been a few days since the night you had almost—really—killed Silco.
Whatever had tried to take control of you that night hadn't given up. You could feel it sometimes, like a shadow lurking just behind your thoughts, patient and persistent. Waiting. Thankfully, nothing as extreme had happened again. You were constantly monitoring yourself, policing every emotion, every stray thought, terrified that one wrong slip might open the door again.
It was exhausting.
And slowly, quietly, something else had started to happen.
You were dissociating.
A lot.
Sometimes you would be standing in a room and suddenly realize you had no idea how long you'd been there. Conversations would blur into meaningless noise. Faces would move, mouths forming words that took too long to reach you. The world would flatten, lose its depth, like you were watching everything through thick glass. More than once, it had been Silco's voice or Sevika's rough hand on your shoulder that dragged you back.
As if you were a boat slipping its anchor.
Singed had given you drugs to "help."
They dulled the edges, slowed the spirals, muted the worst of the sensations. But they also made you jumpy. Paranoid. Your thoughts raced in crooked patterns, every shadow feeling suspicious, every quiet moment threatening. Sleep became shallow. Dreams tangled with waking. You never felt fully present—or fully gone.
Just suspended.
You were lost in thought, yes—but not lost enough to miss the sound of footsteps approaching.
They were careful. Hesitant. Not heavy like Sevika's, not confident like Silco's. These steps paused too often, as if whoever was walking wasn't entirely sure they were welcome. You didn't turn around fully. You only tilted your head slightly to the side, just enough to acknowledge the presence without breaking the fragile bubble of silence you'd built around yourself.
"Hello, little one."
Powder stopped mid-step.
You could see it even without facing her—the way her whole body froze, the shock written into her posture. A second later, her voice followed, incredulous and almost offended.
"How'd you know it was me?"
"I'm your mother. I know everything." a small smile tugged at your lips. "Now... how did you find me?"
Her boots shuffled forward until she stood beside you, leaning against the railing of the airship platform. She mirrored your posture without realizing it, arms resting on the metal, eyes fixed on the distant skyline.
"I thought you knew everything."
You huffed quietly.
"Fair."
She hesitated, fingers tightening around the railing before she continued. "Dad told me... and he also told me about your... condition."
Powder caught one of her braids between her fingers, twisting it absentmindedly as she stared out at the city. It was something she'd done since she was little—fidgeting when she was nervous, pretending she wasn't thinking too hard about something that clearly mattered to her.
"Are you gonna be okay?"
The question was simple. The answer wasn't.
"I'm not sure." you admitted softly. "There are things that happen that I don't have complete control over, no matter how hard I try." you exhaled, a tired smile ghosting over your lips. "But I hope so. Because I don't plan on losing my mind anytime soon. Someone has to keep your father's tyrant tendencies in check."
She nodded, absorbing your words in that quiet, thoughtful way she had when she was trying not to panic. Then, without making a big deal out of it, she leaned into you, resting her light frame against your side. You smiled and slipped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer, holding her there.
"I always wanted to fly in one of these." Powder said suddenly, her voice drifting back into that familiar dreamy tone. She gestured vaguely at the airship beneath your feet. "You know. Like... really fly. Not just steal one and crash it."
"Well, then you're in luck. Your father's planning the first Shimmer export using an airship. Since we happen to control the port right now, it feels wasteful not to use it." you glanced at her sideways. "I can talk to him and have you sent along on the trip. I think it'd be good for you to get out of Zaun for a while."
Powder's eyes lit up instantly—bright, electric, full of that familiar spark you loved. The excitement lasted barely a second before something shifted. Her smile faltered. Her brows drew together.
"Are you... trying to send me away?"
"I would never do that."
"Mooom..."
You stared at each other. The wind tugging at loose strands of her hair, but her focus was entirely on you. She searched your face with unsettling precision, blue eyes narrowing just slightly.
You sighed, the sound somewhere between defeat and reluctant admiration.
"Fuck me... since when did you learn how to spot a lie?"
She smirked—small, crooked, devastatingly cute. "Lots of free time with Dad."
"I should've been suspicious." you admitted with a quiet huff, shaking your head. "Anyway... there really is going to be a trip. And I want you in charge of protecting the shipment before it leaves the port. The Firelights definitely already know we're planning to use one of our new acquisitions, and they'll try to stop it with everything they've got."
"Will you be there?"
"Maybe. Maybe not." you shrugged lightly. "I want you to handle this the same way you've handled the other shipments, whether I'm watching or not. And you'll only find out if I was there when you come back to Zaun with your report."
She seemed to think about it for a moment. Then she gently slipped out of your embrace.
Powder took a step back and crossed her arms, leaning her spine against the railing again in that deliberately casual way she used when she was trying very hard to look unbothered. Like nothing in the world could possibly go wrong.
"It'll be a piece of cake. Those assholes won't even see who hit them." a grin spread across her face. "I'll even debut Pow Pow 2.0."
"Pow Pow?"
"Oh. Right." she waved a hand dismissively. "I haven't introduced you two yet. My bad. She's my minigun. Well... my second one. The first one turned into a bomb... which, honestly, it was the prettiest explosion I've ever made."
She sighed dreamily, like someone reminiscing about a sunset.
You remembered she'd mentioned such a minigun during that super long report on the dock operation.
"You built it yourself?"
Powder made a face, her lips twisting into an unmistakably guilty grimace. "Uncle Viktor helped with the boring math parts..." she admitted. "But the rest? That was all me."
You blinked.
Once.
Twice.
"Viktor helped you build a weapon?" you repeated, incredulous, as if saying it out loud might suddenly make it make sense. "I am going to have a very serious conversation with your uncle, young lady."
Powder winced dramatically.
"Oh, come on!" she groaned. "Right when I finally convinced him to help me with my missile launcher."
You didn't even try to hide your shock.
"Absolutely not. You are not getting a missile launcher, Powder."
She stared at you like you'd just committed a personal betrayal.
"What? Why not?" she protested. "I can't do anything in this house anymore. Did it turn into a dictatorship overnight or something?"
You crossed your arms, mirroring her earlier posture, one eyebrow lifting. "Nothing you say will change my mind. You're not going to build weapons of mass destruction."
She huffed, rolling her eyes.
"It's not 'mass destruction,' it's just... moderately impressive destruction."
"Powder."
"Listen! I can give you a list of the advantages of letting me build a missile launcher."
And she actually started listing all the reasons why a missile launcher was necessary. And each reason was more absurd than the last. You didn't know whether to be impressed by the number of reasons she managed to fit into her argument or worried about your daughter's mental health.
In the end, Powder didn't actually get authorization for the missile launcher, but you allowed her to put a bomb launcher on the minigun.
In your defense, the girl was a fierce debater.
Part 46
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
I loved writing this cute smut between them.
Until the next chapter!
Fear is such a small thing—intangible, almost insignificant—yet it has the power to unravel even the strongest of men. And once it finds its way inside you, it doesn’t need strength to destroy you... only time.
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 9,7K
Warnings: blood and violence, graphic violence, description of deaths, attempted murder, threats, mention of torture, panic and anxiety attacks, smut, rough sex, against the wall, oral sex (f! and m! receiving), resolved sexual tension, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, angst, dom/sub dynamics, emotional manipulation, Silco POV
Part 43
The crowd rose before you in a single, restless wave — loud, unpredictable, feral in that particular way only Zaun could breed. Faces stretched out in every direction, eyes glimmering with a hunger you could never quite name. Some of them looked at you as though you were the living incarnation of a god — poor souls, truly — clinging to the idea that someone, anyone, might finally pull them out of the endless cycle of rot and survival.
Others watched you with narrowed eyes, distrust clinging to their expressions like grime. And yet... they were here. People were always drawn to the possibility of spectacle, to the danger of words that might change the air. Humans were curious, even when curiosity was a blade pressed right to their throats.
Behind you towered the imposing statue of Vander, his stone silhouette casting a long, heavy shadow over your frame, swallowing the edges of your outline like he was still trying to shield you from something.
And at your side stood Powder — tense, stiff, wearing that perpetual scowl she saved only for moments she hated but endured anyway. The symbolism wasn't subtle. Silco never did subtle. He wanted them to see you as the echo of their old protector, the spiritual successor to the man who had once carried Zaun on his back.
Vander's memory behind you, his daughter beside you... the message burned clear as the sun. And you could practically hear Silco's voice behind the idea, smooth and poisonous: 'Let them believe you stand where he once stood.'
Manipulative bastard.
Convincing Powder to join you had been... a trial. She fought you every step of the way, bristled at the idea, muttered complaints under her breath. But the girl had one weakness — that soft tone you saved only for her, the one that slipped in like warm light through a cracked window. When you used that voice, she faltered, grumbled, then inevitably gave in. So there she was now, close enough that you could feel the faint tremor of irritation running through her, but present. Loyal in her own jagged, reluctant way.
You drew in a deep breath, steadying yourself, recalling every word you'd rehearsed. This wasn't your first public address, far from it, but the weight of so many eyes always scraped against your nerves. The first time you'd spoken to a crowd like this, you nearly shook yourself apart — and even now, after everything, the anxiety still curled in your gut like a stubborn serpent refusing to loosen its hold.
"With great pride. I come to inform you that last week, I led an operation against two major Piltover strongholds." you began, your tone ringing with a confidence you were only partially borrowing. "And that operation was a complete success."
You stepped forward. Your voice rose, steadier than you felt, drifting across the thrumming sea of Zaunites before you.
"This strike, was only the beginning. The first blow in the eventual collapse of a city that has kept us under its gilded shadow for far too long. A city that's treated us like refuse, as though we were born to crawl beneath their boots."
It was easy to create euphoria in a crowd that had a common goal.
"This time, we will be the threat. Not the threatened. And the next time I stand before you will be upon the ruins of the Golden City itself and at the foundation of a true nation... the nation of Zaun."
The reaction hit like a shockwave. Cheers erupted, loud and raw, some voices cracking from the force of the scream, lively and euphoric. People slammed fists together, shouted your name like a battle cry. But woven through the uproar you caught the flickers of fear, the darting eyes, the stiffened shoulders. Not everyone was built for revolution.
Victory was a fleeting thing — a spark that could be snuffed out as quickly as it ignited — and you knew it better than most. In war, everything could change in the blink of an eye. But you would make those words real. You would tear the world open if that's what it took.
You were ready to speak again, ready to twist the already-burning crowd into something even hotter, when something in the sea of bodies snagged your attention. A shift. A ripple where the movements didn't match the rest.
Near the front, just a few meters away, a hooded figure was weaving forward, slipping between people with the quiet aggression of someone who didn't care if they were seen but hoped no one would look closely enough to understand the intent.
Powder noticed nothing — her focus was fixed on the crowd — but down by the statue's base, Sevika's posture changed. You saw her glance toward the figure, jaw tightening, then she lifted two fingers in a sharp gesture. A signal. Her men began to push forward, trying not to draw attention but moving fast enough that you realized she saw the same thing you did: wrongness.
And just as the thought hit you — 'He's going to'— the stranger moved.
You didn't see what his hand pulled from inside his coat. It was too fast, too obscured, swallowed by the crush of bodies. But you heard it. The sound that split the world in half.
A gunshot.
Your body moved before your mind could even process the threat. You grabbed Powder's hand and yanked her behind you, placing yourself between her and the danger.
The crowd erupted into chaos, screams slicing through the thick Zaun air as people shoved and tripped over each other in the scramble to flee. The world devolved into a frantic blur of movement.
Sevika's voice rose above the noise — commanding, though you couldn't make out the words. You caught only the motion of her charging through the scattering bodies, her mechanical arm gleaming as she slammed into the hooded figure. The impact was brutal, and the two crashed into the ground in a tangle of fists, metal, and snarled curses.
And as you watched them fight, watched him dodge with trained precision, the thought flickered through your pounding skull: He knows how to fight. Interesting.
Your thoughts were so far away that it took you a second longer to realize something was wrong with your body. A strange pressure blooming in your chest — warm, wrong, like fire spreading through cloth. A sharp sting radiated outward, electric and nauseating.
For a moment the world tilted; your knees almost buckled under you, but small hands grabbed you, steadying your weight. Powder's grip kept you upright even as she moved out from behind you, her breathing fractured, her face already twisting as she tried to understand what had just happened.
"Mom..."
Her voice broke on the word, raw and terrified. Those bright blue eyes — always too expressive, too volatile — widened dangerously as they dropped to your chest. You followed her gaze, already knowing what you'd see. Blood. A spreading red bloom across your shirt, soaking into the fabric in slow, heavy pulses. And then the other sensation — that buzzing heat — slithered behind your eyes, familiar as an old nightmare.
"Oh no... no, no, not again." Powder's voice cracked entirely now, breath hitching. She shook her head as if refusing the reality right in front of her. "Not again... not you—" her hands hovered near your chest, unsure whether to press the wound or pull away, fingers twitching with panic. You saw her shoulders rise and fall too fast, her pupils shrinking, the tremor starting in her jaw.
For a second — a torturous second — you no longer saw Powder's face in front of you. You saw Violet's face. Staring at you with that pre-death softness, with those eyes that haunted you. But just as quickly as it came, it vanished like a candle in the wind, and you returned to staring at Powder.
A Powder entering that spiral of decay while staring at the blood.
You reached for her hands, fingers closing around her trembling ones with the gentlest strength you could manage. Even with blood soaking through your clothes, even with pain blooming in your chest like a burning flower, your first instinct was still her. Always her. You pulled her closer, grounding her in the only way you knew how.
"It's all right, little one." you murmured, your voice softer than the chaos around you deserved, trying to steady the shaking in her body with nothing but tone and touch.
But Powder's eyes snapped up to yours — and the moment they locked onto your face, her expression twisted into something ugly and terrified. Confusion, anger, panic, grief — all crashing together at once. She stared at your eyes, unblinking.
"Why are your eyes glowing?" she demanded, voice cracking and rising in pitch, almost a whine of fear. "What— what's happening to you?!"
Oh, hell. You had forgotten about that little detail that the Shimmer caused in you... great, more explanations to give.
Powder wasn't stupid, she knew very well what kind of shine that was in your eyes and knew even better the consequences that the Shimmer could cause.
She looked so lost. So scared.
And you understood. She'd just watched you take a direct shot to the chest — a shot that should've dropped you instantly — and yet here you were, standing, talking, trying to soothe her when you should be gasping on the ground. And the bullet... you could feel it lodged inside you with every breath. A cold, foreign weight grinding against bone.
You should have told her the truth a long time ago. But it was convenient for Powder to never know about the worst sin Silco committed against you.
"Mommy's fine." you whispered, brushing your thumb along her cheek with a tenderness meant to anchor her, to pull her away from the spiraling panic. Your touch was warm, steady — intentionally so — giving her something solid to cling to. Anything to distract her from the glow in your irises. "Don't worry, sweetheart. It didn't hit my heart."
"That doesn't make it any less bad."
The frustration on her face wasn't real anger — it was the kind that came from terror wearing a different mask. You huffed out a laugh anyway, a weak, breathy sound that scraped your throat and dissolved into a pained groan. Humor had always been your shield; even now, bleeding, you reached for it.
You tore a strip of your shirt, the fabric ripping with a harsh sound. Powder winced at that alone. You pressed the makeshift cloth against your chest, not because you needed to — the Shimmer had already sealed the entry wound the moment your daughter saw your eyes shift — but because Powder didn't need to know that yet.
Your gaze drifted toward Sevika. She stood over the now-unconscious man, her mechanical arm gleaming, steam drifting from the joints where she'd struck hard enough to dent bone. The man lay crumpled at her feet, blood running from his nose and forehead in thin rivulets. His hood had fallen back, revealing a face you didn't recognize.
"Take him to Silco." you ordered, your voice steady despite the tightness gripping your ribs. "And send someone to fetch Singed. I want this damn bullet out of my chest."
Sevika didn't hesitate, she just turned her head and barked. "You heard her. Move!"
The men leapt into action instantly. Two of them hoisted the unconscious man like he was nothing more than a sack of grain — careless, rough, with zero concern for the fact that he might wake up with a concussion or three. Others sprinted off toward the Lanes, toward the Singed's laboratory.
Sevika made her way to your side and without a word, she looped her arm over yours, bracing your weight against her broad frame. You shot her a puzzled look — not annoyed, just... surprised. Sevika wasn't the type to offer unnecessary physical contact, much less support.
"You know I don't actually need help walking, right?"
She let out a low, rumbling grunt — her version of a half-laugh, half-grumble.
"Yeah. But half of Zaun just watched you take a point-blank bullet and stay standing like it tickled." her grip tightened as she guided you forward. "Might be good to pretend you're still human. Otherwise they'll start thinking you're a damn machine. Or some kind of celestial being."
You rolled your eyes, but... fine. She had a point.
"He hit you dead-on." Sevika added, glancing down at your chest.
"He wasn't aiming at me. He was aiming at Powder. That's why it hit my chest... he was going for her head."
Sevika froze for half a heartbeat, then let out a coarse. "Fuck." she resumed walking, jaw clenched so tight you could almost hear teeth grind. "Silco's gonna kill that poor bastard."
You didn't doubt that. The image of Silco's reaction flashed across your mind — cold fury, that eerie calm that always preceded violence, the way his voice dropped instead of rose. Whoever sent that man... they'd learn why it was foolish to miss.
Powder trailed close behind you and Sevika. Too silent. That wasn't normal for her. Powder quiet was never peace — it was the storm before the break. Her face stayed twisted in that mix of worry and confusion, and her fingers kept clenching and unclenching, like she was trying to decide whether to hold onto you or pull away entirely.
And then, out of nowhere, she spoke.
"Is that... Shimmer?" Powder's voice cut through the air, brittle and trembling, like a fragile glass about to crack under pressure. "That's why your eyes looked like that... it's Shimmer."
You and Sevika exchanged a look — one of those silent, heavy stares that spoke louder than words ever could. A single, unspoken thought passed between you both: Not this. Not now.
Neither of you wanted to peel open that old wound, the one buried. Powder didn't know — she was never supposed to know. And yet... the truth was prowling closer, claws scraping, demanding to be acknowledged.
"Yes. Is Shimmer"
Powder moved so suddenly you and Sevika both stopped. She stepped right into your path, planting herself in front of you like a furious little barricade, blue eyes blazing with hurt and anger and betrayal all tangled into one raw expression. When she looked at you like that, it felt like taking a punch straight to the heart.
"Why are you using that?" she snapped, her voice rising in disbelief. "I mean... I get why Dad uses it, but you? You?" she jabbed her finger toward your. "You always told me to never go near that stuff. I remember the sermons! Every single one!"
Oh shit, that really wasn't ideal.
"It wasn't my choice."
Beside you, you felt Sevika shift — not subtly, either. Her shoulders tightened, her jaw worked, her entire posture screaming I don't want to be here. And honestly? You didn't blame her. No Enforcer, no Chem-baron, no hardened killer wanted front-row seats to a family argument. But Powder deserved the truth. At least the part of it she could handle.
"You remember the first time I ran away from your father?"
Powder hesitated, then nodded. Slow. Cautious. Like she wasn't sure she wanted to remember.
"Long story short... he found me and by the time he did, I was dying. I think he thought..." you swallowed, the memory scraping like old glass lodged in your throat. "He thought he was saving me. Or doing what had to be done. Even if it meant doing something inhuman."
Powder's brows furrowed, confusion twisting with dread as she tried to connect dots she didn't want to see. But your girl was sharp — too sharp, sometimes — and it took only a heartbeat before her expression cracked wide open.
"He injected Shimmer into you."
You nodded slowly. Her face fell.
"And when I found out, I ran again. I found your sister. I brought you back to her. And the rest..." you gestured vaguely, weakly. "You already know."
You didn't mention everything. You couldn't. Powder didn't need that weight on her tiny shoulders — the full truth of what Silco had once intended for you, what he'd wanted to build with your body, your blood, your abilities. The plans to turn you into a perfect weapon, a prototype for more. The way he abandoned the idea not out of mercy, but because falling in love had ruined him in ways war never could.
No — that part of the story stayed buried. Powder didn't need to hear it. Not now. Not ever, maybe.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?" Powder demanded — and you realized, with the worst kind of timing imaginable, that you were having this conversation in the middle of a public square where you had just been shot. Sevika pretended to be deaf, and you knew that this was worse for her than for you. Well, this wasn't how you expected things to turn out.
"Because it wasn't something you needed to know."
Powder threw her arms out in disbelief, expression twisting as though you'd slapped her across the face.
"What? What do you mean I didn't need to know? I— I think I had the right to know my own father did something like that to my mother!" her voice cracked, high and sharp, her breath stuttering. "I had the right to know that it was his fault you disappeared! That it was his fault we went through all that messed-up shit—!"
"Watch your language, Powder."
She ignored you completely.
"Did you ever plan to tell me? Ever?" her voice was rising again, trembling with hurt and outrage and that teenage certainty that every withheld truth is betrayal. It's ironic that she had the same reaction as you when it came to omitting important things. Maybe you two loved hiding the truth, but hated having the truth hidden from you. "Were you ever going to tell me the truth?"
You closed your eyes for a moment — long enough to brace yourself, to gather the shards of patience left inside you, to prepare for the explosion you were about to trigger.
"No."
The way Powder looked at you didn't hold anger or hatred — nothing that simple. What flickered in her eyes was sharper, heavier, a disappointment so raw it felt like someone had driven a knife between your heart and twisted. Her gaze dropped to the blood soaking through the fabric on your chest one last time, her breath stuttering—
And then she turned and bolted.
Her braids whipped behind her like blue comets. Instinct kicked in before thought — your body lurched forward, a desperate need to catch her, to fix it, to not let her run away from you. But Sevika's arm clamped around you, holding you in place.
"I got more in common with cave lice than Jinx. But let's just say I didn't always see eye-to-eye with my old man." you frowned at her, brows tightening, head tilted as you waited for her to elaborate. She sighed. "She'll come to you when she's ready."
You exhaled sharply, the breath rattling in your wounded chest. "I really fucked everything up, didn't I?"
"It wasn't your best choice of words." Sevika admitted, lips twitching in something that was almost sympathy. "But hey... ripping off a bandage hurts like hell. Still better than peeling it slow."
You groaned. "No one warns you how impossible it is to deal with teenagers."
"You wanted to be a mother." she said dryly. "Now deal with it."
You shot her a half-glare, half-scandalized stare. "Gods, you're worse than Silco at emotional support."
"As far as I know, I'm not paid to be anyone's therapist." Sevika shrugged, already shifting her weight to drag you forward again, her arm still braced under yours.
"Thank the heavens... you'd suck at it."
Sevika snorted, the faintest smirk ghosting across her face. "Yeah, well, lucky for both of us I'm better at hauling stubborn idiots to safety."
She pulled you back into motion, boots thudding against the dirty concrete. Somewhere ahead, Powder was a streak of electric blue disappearing into the maze of alleys — a small, furious storm you desperately wanted to chase but couldn't.
Not yet.
And for now, all you could do was let Sevika's steady strength keep you upright while your heart ached in ways no bullet ever could.
[...]
You stepped into the warehouse, boots echoing faintly across the concrete as the door slid shut behind you. The familiar scent hit you immediately — cold metal, old smoke, and fresh blood. Silco stood near the central table, peeling off his leather gloves with slow, methodical movements. The gloves were darkened with blood and beside them lay his dagger, the blade slick, crimson still dripping from its tip.
He glanced over his shoulder when he heard you — just long enough to confirm it was you and not some poor bastard stumbling into the wrong room — then went back to stripping the gloves from his hands, tossing them onto the table with a wet slap.
He looked... disheveled by his standards. Vest discarded somewhere out of sight, sleeves of his deep-wine shirt rolled up to his elbows, tie loosened and hanging crooked around his neck. He was terribly hot, if you were honestly.
You walked past him toward the other figure in the room — or what was left of him. The man was tied to the chair, head tilted so far back his neck looked like a broken hinge. Eyes wide, staring at nothing, mouth slack. And the gash in his throat... gods. A sloppy, brutal slice. The blood still crawled sluggishly down his chest and pooled beneath the chair, the sound of it dripping almost rhythmic.
You leaning in slightly to inspect Silco's handiwork. Silco didn't offer a quick death. No. He purposefully made this man die in a painful way.
"You could've made a clean cut. Instead of leaving him to drown in his own blood."
"Not everyone is a trained killer like you, dove." his voice floated back to you, calm, cool — the click of a lighter followed, then the slow exhale of smoke curling into the air. He didn't even try to hide the exhaustion in that breath.
"True." you conceded, pushing yourself upright and turning toward him. "But you've got just as much experience as I do."
You crossed the space between you, sliding your arms around him from behind, feeling the rigid tension locked in his shoulders.
"You've stacked up just as many bodies as I have... maybe more."
He took another drag of his cigar, deciding to let you win that argument. "How was the operation?"
"Nothing unusual, but since sedatives don't work on me, I had to stay awake while Singed dug the damn bullet out of my chest." your arms tightened around him as if your body was trying to seek warmth it couldn't quite admit to needing. "Not exactly my idea of a delightful afternoon."
"I can imagine." Silco said softly. His free hand rose, sliding over yours where they rested across his sternum. His palm was warm, rough, grounding. For all his ruthlessness, his touch with you was always careful. "And Jinx? Sevika told me about the... exchange between you two."
"She's pissed." you sighed, letting your chin settle on his shoulder, exhaustion finally dragging at your bones now that the adrenaline was gone. "The last update from the guy I sent after her said she headed to the family's graveyard. Probably looking for some kind of transcendent, dead-people wisdom." a humorless groan escaped you. "She's mad at me for omitting the truth and mad at you for... well, obvious reasons."
Silco took a slow drag, the glow from the cigarette illuminating the sharp lines of his face, his blue eye darkening as he exhaled. The scent of tobacco swirled around both of you, familiar and oddly comforting.
"She'll move past it. Anger burns fast in her, but so does attachment. You are important enough to her that she won't stay away for long."
You huffed a tired laugh into his shoulder. "That's one way of saying she's emotionally volatile."
"That's one way of saying she's her mother's daughter."
You didn't respond right away. The weight of the day — the speech, the crowd, the gunshot, the fight, the Shimmer, Powder's voice — it all pressed down on you at once. You felt the dull ache in your chest pulse, not from the injury but from everything around it.
"You know, if she decides to stab you over this, I'm not intervening."
Silco laughed. "If anyone is going to stab me, dove, it would be you."
He finally turned his head enough to look at you, smoke trailing from the corner of his mouth, as if challenging you to refute that — which you didn't do because he wasn't wrong in that statement.
"So..." your eyes drifted back to the corpse. "Did you figure out who he was?"
"No one important." Silco replied, flicking the ash from his cigar directly onto the floor without the slightest concern. "Just the brother of some Enforcer you killed in Stillwater." his tone was casual, almost bored — as if discussing a broken tool rather than a dead man. "He's been clinging to this little revenge fantasy and as you may have guessed, you weren't the intended target. But he didn't expect you to step in front of the girl."
Silco's lip curled slightly, amusement mixed with disdain.
"Just a pathetic fool. Not even worth remembering by name."
Maybe you should have felt something for the man, for the pointless life he'd thrown away — guilt, pity, a spark of regret. But he had pointed a weapon at your daughter. That alone meant his life was worth less than the grime beneath your boots.
You loosened your hold on Silco just enough to look at him from the side. "How did he get through our blockade?"
Silco exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke. "Still investigating."
"That's not comforting."
"If it helps, dove... I am already considering which heads will roll if it turns out to be incompetence." a soft, humorless chuckle vibrated in his chest. "Or betrayal. I haven't decided which would irritate me more."
You let your arms fall, releasing him from your embrace. You walked past him and stopped in front of the table, where you picked up his dagger, inspecting the stained blade for a second before twirling it in your fingers and pointing it directly at Silco.
"That man got within meters of your daughter." you voice was low, dangerously steady. "Within meters. Someone either let him in or wasn't paying attention long enough for him to slip through. Either way—"
"—It won't happen again." Silco finished for you, eyes narrowing. Something sharp and quiet settled over his features, that particular kind of promise only Silco ever made. "I'll make sure of it."
"You better."
You dropped the blade back onto the table, along with your veiled threat, and then leaned against the furniture.
Silco studied you for a moment — really studied you, eyes narrowing the way they did when he was reading the small fractures beneath someone's composure. Then he stepped forward and handed you the cigar., his fingers lingering just long enough to tell you he'd already reached a conclusion about your state... and wasn't particularly thrilled with it.
"What are you doing here?" he asked quietly. "Not that your presence is unwelcome, far from it. But I know you despise witnessing the way I handle interrogations."
You took slow drag, letting the smoke burn down your throat, filling your lungs, blooming in your ribs like heat trying to melt everything you didn't want to feel. You exhaled through your nose, head tipped back slightly, eyes half-lidded.
"I'm frustrated." you muttered. "This entire day is falling apart, and it's not even night yet." you huffed a laugh with no humor at all. "I don't know how many more hours I can tolerate listening to my own thoughts. I just... I just want to silence my mind. For a second. That's all."
Silco tilted his head, gaze sharpening, weighing your words with that infuriating mix of tenderness and scrutiny he saved exclusively for you. "You know how I feel when you ask me to make you 'forget' things for a while."
You rolled your eyes hard enough he actually huffed a short laugh. You tapped ash off the cigar against the table with a small, irritated snap of your wrist.
"Yes, yes. 'Running away from it won't erase what happened.' 'Avoidance is only temporary.' Spare me the lecture." you turned your head just enough to meet his mismatched eyes, your voice dropping lower. "Just fuck me until I forget my own name."
It flickered across his face only for a fragment of a second before he stepped closer, one hand bracing on the table beside you, the other curling gently but firmly under your jaw, turning your face toward his. His touch wasn't demanding — it was grounding. Like he was trying to anchor you back into the room by force of will alone.
"I think I've spoiled you." he murmured, the words brushing your mouth like the ghost of a kiss. "Always comforting you with sex... perhaps that was a mistake. Now you're this needy little creature."
His fingers slid to the back of your neck. Not restraining — guiding. Drawing you in. You could already feel the shift in him, that razor-edged focus he slipped into when he was about to peel someone's mind open like a locked door.
His hand sank deeper into your hair. "If I am guilty of this, it is my duty to deal with it." his fingers tightened in your hair for a moment before Silco slowly let his hand slide out, releasing his grip. "On your knees, dove."
Silco stepped back, putting some distance between your bodies.
"If you're so eager for me, the least you can do is make yourself useful. Put that pretty mouth to work and get me hard."
Silco's Pov
━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━
He watched with a mix of amusement and dark satisfaction as she knelt before him. He made no move to assist her, letting her do all the work. When she finally freed his cock from the confines of his pants, Silco let out a low, approving sigh. Her hands wrapped around his shaft, stroking and squeezing, coaxing him to full mast. Silco could feel the blood rushing to his groin, his cock throbbing and pulsing in her grip.
Silco's eyes fluttered closed as he felt her soft, warm tongue begin to trace a path up his length. He sighed deeply, a shudder of pleasure running through him at the first touch of her mouth on his sensitive flesh. His hand tightened in her hair, gripping the silky strands as he fought the urge to thrust forward, to bury himself in the wet heat of her throat.
"Fuck, your tongue feels incredible." he groaned, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. Silco could feel her lips wrapping around the swollen head of his cock, her mouth creating a tight seal as she focused her attention on the tip. He could feel her tongue swirling around the sensitive glans, lapping at the bead of moisture already leaking from the slit.
With each pass of her tongue, each suckle of her lips, Silco felt his control slipping. His hips jerked forward slightly, seeking more of that delicious friction. But he gritted his teeth and held back, determined to let her set the pace, to make her work for his pleasure.
As she began to suck him in earnest, Silco leaned forward, bracing his hand on the table. He could feel the way her throat constricted around his length, the muscles fluttering and massaging his sensitive flesh as she took him deep. The lack of a gag reflex made the experience even more pleasurable, allowing him to sink into her hot, tight throat without hesitation.
"Just like that, my love..."
He could feel her nose pressing against his pelvis, could feel the way she held him there, deep in the clutch of her throat. Silco's hand fisted in her hair, gripping the strands as he fought the urge to thrust, to fuck her face with abandon.
Lost in the exquisite pleasure of her mouth, Silco found himself rapidly approaching his peak. The wet heat of her throat, the way she swallowed around him, it was all driving him closer and closer to the edge. Just as he felt his balls tightening, ready to erupt, Silco's grip on her hair tightened, and with a low groan, he pulled her off his throbbing length.
"You're going to make me come too soon." he growled, his voice rough and strained. Silco's chest heaved as he fought to regain his composure, his cock bobbing and twitching with the need for release. "Turn around and put your hands on the wall. Spread those pretty legs for me."
He watched as she obeyed, getting up from the floor, turning to face the wall and placing her palms flat against the surface. Silco was used to her obedience when he adopted a more dominant stance, but even in her submissive version, his girl was still a brat who grumbled and teased back despite obeying him. She wasn't being a brat. Maybe she really needed a second without thinking about absolutely anything.
Silco stepped forward, his hands coming to rest on the rounded globes of she ass. He squeezed the firm, supple flesh, enjoying the way it yielded beneath his touch even through the fabric of her dress. Then, Silco knelt down behind her, his face now level with her most intimate area. He pulled her panties to the side to expose her glistening folds to his gaze. The sight of her, already slick and swollen with arousal, made his mouth water.
That was a good thing. Even with her thoughts elsewhere, she seemed to be responding well to sexual arousal.
"I haven't even touched you yet and you're already wet." Silco leaned in, ran his tongue over her entrance. "Mmm, you taste divine... I could eat this pretty pussy for hours and never get enough." with that, he sealed his lips around her clit and began to suck, his tongue flicking over the sensitive nub as he ate her.
Silco took his time savoring her essence, relishing the way her body quivered and trembled against the wall as he pleasured her with his mouth. He could feel her thighs clenching, her hips rocking back to grind against his face, silently begging for more. The sounds of her moans, the way her breath hitched and caught in her throat, it was all music to his ears, a symphony of his own making.
But even as much as he enjoyed tasting her, hearing her fall apart, Silco knew what she truly craved. With a final, long lick through her folds, he pulled away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he rose to his feet.
Silco didn't even need to give her a direct order, as she was already turning to face him. She quickly lifting her leg to wrap around his hips. Her dress rode up her thigh, the fabric bunched around her hips as she opened herself to him. He, once again, decided to simply move the panties aside instead of taking them off.
With a single, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself inside her, burying his cock to the hilt in her heat. They both cried out, their voices mingling in a symphony of pleasure as he stretched her around his.
That sex wasn't meant to be anything significant, just a quick fuck in the middle of the 'workday' in a room where a corpse lay. Although the presence of a dead body was about as relevant as the presence of a fly at that moment.
"Oh fuck..." he groaned, his hips already starting to piston forward. He gripped her thigh, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he began to pound into her, driving his cock deep and hard with each snap of his hips. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by their escalating moans and cries of ecstasy.
Silco could hear the desperate little whimpers spilling from her lips as he took her. He angled his hips, grinding against that special spot deep inside her with each pass. As Silco lost himself in the heat of their coupling, he felt her fingers brush his cheek, gently turning his face to meet her gaze. He found himself staring into her eyes, absorbing every flicker of emotion, every micro-expression that crossed her beautiful face as he drove into her.
For several intense minutes, Silco kept his eyes locked with hers, her gaze boring into his very soul. He could see the pleasure building in her expression, the way her lips parted with each gasping breath, each moan that spilled from her throat. Her fingers slid from his face to grip his shoulders, her nails digging into his shirt as she clung to him, anchoring herself against the force of his thrusts.
Silco suddenly noticed how strangely quiet she seemed. Even though she was making slight noises, he knew his girl was vocal when it came to sex. She was scandalous, unfiltered, and shameless. She seemed...
Strange.
"More..." she moaned, almost as if she'd read his mind. "More... please..."
If Silco had been honest, he wouldn't have liked how that request sounded more like it came from a sane person than from someone lost in pleasure. Even so, he did what she asked. Silco hooked her leg higher, opening her wider as he drove into her, his hips slapping against ass with each brutal thrust. The obscene sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the room, mingling with their escalating cries of ecstasy.
Her fingers tangled in Silco's hair, gripping the strands tightly as she pulled him closer, the sharp sting of pain only adding to the intensity of their coupling. Her hips rocked to meet his, grinding her clit against his pelvis with each thrust. Silco could feel her walls fluttering around his length, could sense the telltale signs of her rapidly approaching climax.
Silco leaned in, his teeth finding the junction of her neck and shoulder. He bit down hard. She threw her head back, a guttural scream tearing from her throat as her orgasm crashed over her. Her body convulsed, back arching off the wall as she came undone in his arms. Silco could feel her cunt clamping down around him, rippling and squeezing his cock.
Silco's body tensed, his muscles coiled tight as he chased his own release. He could feel his balls drawing up, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside her, desperate for its own end.
With a hoarse cry of her name, Silco finally found his release. His hips jerked forward, slamming her against the wall as he buried himself to the hilt inside her. He could feel his hot seed spurting forth, painting her insides with thick ropes of his essence. Silco's body shuddered with the force of his orgasm, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thigh hard enough to leave bruises.
Silco was still breathless. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs, matching the lingering pulse in his hands — hands that only moments ago had been steady in their hunger, confident in their hold on her. Now they trembled faintly, spasms of aftershocks running up his forearm as he braced himself against the wall. His forehead rested against her shoulder, his breath ghosting hot against her skin, body sinking into that slow descent from bliss into awareness.
And then he heard it.
A small sound. Wet. Barely there — but close enough to his ear that it cut through the fading haze like a blade.
A sniff.
Then another.
Her fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his shirt, nails catching on the seams. It took him a second too long — too lost in the moment — to understand. But when he did, the realization snapped through him like cold water.
She was crying.
Immediately he lifted his head, the daze evaporating. He eased her back just enough to see her face. The sight hit him low in the stomach: tears staining her lashes, trembling along her cheeks, her lips parted around shallow breaths she was trying — and failing — to steady.
Silco's hand slipped from her thigh, letting her feet touch the ground. He fixed his clothes with automatic, thoughtless efficiency, and then he was on her again. Not with hunger this time, but with concern. His palms framed her face, thumbs brushing her wet cheeks.
"Did I hurt you?"
The question tasted like glass in his mouth. He hated asking it. Hated that it was necessary. Hated even more the idea that he might not know the answer.
Her breath shuddered, and she shook her head. "No... you didn't hurt me. It's just... it's that stupid post-orgasmic reflection thing... it made me realize—" she avoided his gaze, blinking too fast, lashes glittering with fresh tears. "I could've lost Powder today. Just like I lost Violet."
The confession broke out of her in pieces — torn, trembling pieces — carried on wet breaths and choked sobs that seemed to shake her entire frame. Her eyes were swollen and red now, the tears coming faster than her voice could keep up with, and Silco understood with a cold, sinking clarity that what had happened between them moments before, that momentary distraction she had asked for seemed to have had another effect.
Not so pleasant this time.
And now the thoughts were barreling through her with the force of everything she had been refusing to face.
"If I hadn't—" she stammered, her voice splitting open. "If I hadn't stepped in front of her, I'd be burying another daughter—" a sob tore out of her, raw. "Oh God... what have I done? She was in danger because of me. Because of me. Again. Oh no—"
For a moment, Silco simply stared. Frozen. Because it was the first time he had seen her cry again.
For four years after Violet, she had built a wall so high around herself that no one, not even him, had seen her break. He had watched her harden into someone who carried grief as armor. To see that armor crack—slow, splintering—felt like watching a patient unmask a wound he'd kept bandaged: necessary and terrible all at once.
He knew that trying to calm her down with words was a waste of time. So he did the only thing his hands remembered that wasn't violence: he pulled her close.
Clasping her to him, he anchored her body against his chest, letting the heat of his torso be a slow, steady metronome against the frenzy of her breath. She collapsed into him without resistance, her face pressed into his collarbone, her tears soaking through the open collar of his shirt.
"Easy." his palms found her scalp and rubbed in small, even circles. "Easy, dove... you're alright."
Silco was not a man built for emotional storms. He knew it. He could stare down death, war, betrayal, chaos — but crying? Panic? Shattered grief? He had never been good at navigating that terrain. He had never known how to soothe Jinx beyond keeping her from hurting herself or blowing a hole through a building. He could endure the spirals, survive the volatility, redirect it when necessary — but calm it? Ease it?
He was useless at that.
And this — this — was worse. Because Jinx's storms were loud, furious, feral. This was quiet. Fragile. Collapsing inward.
He rested his chin against her temple, stroking the back of her head, feeling every trembling breath, every shudder that ran down her spine. Her arms clung to him with a desperate force.
"I could've lost her." she whispered against his skin, voice muffled and cracking. "I could've lost my little girl."
"But you didn't."
"But what if next time—"
"There won't be a next time. I promise you... there will not be."
He pulled back just enough to lift a hand to her chin, fingers firm but careful, guiding her face upward until those tear-reddened eyes were forced to meet his. They were glassy, rimmed with exhaustion and grief, but still sharp — still hers.
"Have I ever broken a promise to you?"
She didn't answer.
Her silence lingered between them, fragile and heavy. Silco took it for what it was — not hesitation, but the quiet surrender of someone too tired to fight reassurance anymore. He accepted it without pushing. Instead, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
He let her remain in his arms after that, minutes stretching quietly as her breathing evened out. He felt the tremors gradually fade from her body, felt the tension ease just enough for her to stand on her own again — or at least pretend she could. Silco didn't rush her.
"Thank you..." she whispered. "Maybe you're not completely terrible at comforting people."
For a moment, Silco said nothing. Then he scoffed softly and rolled his eyes as he loosened his hold on her, stepping back just enough to restore that familiar sliver of distance between them. But, before either of them could say another word, sharp knocks echoed through the warehouse door. A beat later, a voice followed, unmistakable even through thick wood.
"Dad?" Silco closed his eyes for half a second. Of course, peace seemed like a sin that day. "Do you know where Mom is?"
He looked at the woman standing in front of him, still pale around the edges, eyes red but steadier now. Without a word, he gestured toward the door, a subtle tilt of his head telling her to answer it. At the same time, he turned away, grabbing a discarded cloth from the corner of the room and draping it over the corpse. He had no intention of letting Jinx walk in and see a bloodless throat and vacant eyes. His fiancée would skin him alive if he allowed that.
The door opened.
Silco turned just in time to catch the flicker of surprise that crossed Jinx's face when she realized who had answered. Her eyes widened, just briefly, before embarrassment rushed in to replace it. Her shoulders tensed, posture folding inward in that familiar, defensive way.
"Oh. Uh... hi, Mom. I was looking for you"
"What is it, my sweetheart?"
Jinx rocked back on her heels, then forward again, clearly floundering. "I... okay, so—" she scrubbed a hand over her face. "Ugh, damn it. I had this whole speech planned."
She rolled her eyes hard at herself, frustration bleeding through the nerves. Silco recognized it instantly — the way she did when emotions tangled faster than words could keep up.
"Alright, fine... I'm sorry for running off. I get it, okay? I was reckless. Especially since there was, you know—" she waved vaguely. "An assassination attempt and I probably shouldn't have gone wandering around alone and blah blah blah."
Silco rested a hand on his hip and watched the scene unfold in front of him. Jinx was... terrible at arguing. Always had been. Her thoughts came out sideways, tangled, spilling over one another before she ever reached the point. He'd considered, more than once over the years, trying to teach her how to funnel those thoughts — how to slow them, shape them into something sharp and coherent.
It never would've worked.
Being a little unhinged, a little chaotic, was simply how she existed in the world. Trying to straighten that out would've snapped something vital in her.
"I talked to Violet, you know?" Jinx continued, rocking slightly as she spoke, unable to stay still for more than a heartbeat.
Silco's expression twisted into something between concern and weary resignation. Oh, fantastic. Now the teenager was consulting the dead. As if this day hadn't already been overflowing with emotional disasters. He resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.
His dove nodded slowly, listening, absorbing every word without interruption — and Silco noted that, too. She was letting Jinx talk herself through it. A wiser approach than his own instincts would've suggested.
"She kind of helped me see things from your side. Like... you didn't lie to me because you wanted to. You did it because you thought it would protect me and stuff. Because that's what moms do. And you didn't even realize it could be bad."
Jinx's voice wobbled for just a second before she bulldozed past it.
"Not that I agree." she added quickly, eyes darting away. "I still think it sucked. But I get the whole vibe of not wanting me to get hurt and all that junk."
She spoke with her entire body — fingers snapping, feet shifting, shoulders rising and falling — like if she stopped moving, the words would collapse back inside her chest. Silco watched her closely, reading between every gesture. She wasn't calm. She wasn't fine. But she was trying. Gods help him, she was actually trying to understand something complicated instead of blowing it up.
That alone was progress.
The other woman finally moved.
She closed the distance between them with quiet resolve, lifting a hand to Jinx's face and brushing her thumb gently along the girl's cheek. The gesture was soft, instinctive — the kind of touch that carried more history than words ever could. Jinx stilled immediately, like a switch had been flipped. Her eyes fluttered shut and she leaned into the contact without hesitation, seeking it, trusting it.
"Can you forgive me, little one?"
"Yeah... I forgive you."
Jinx said quietly. Then she opened her eyes again and tilted her head just enough to deploy that expression — the cursed one. The puppy eyes. The only and most effective way to completely break the mother's posture.
Where had that girl learned to be so manipulative?
"Just... don't lie to me again... please."
"Never again, my sweetheart."
The woman pulled Jinx into her arms, and Silco saw the way Jinx folded instantly, composure dissolving like it had never existed. Her shoulders slumped, her weight sank forward, and she clung to her mother with a quiet desperation she would never allow anyone else to witness. For all her sharp edges and explosive bravado, in that moment she was just a child who needed to feel safe.
"The mommy won't ever lie again."
It was a lie. A gentle one, maybe even a necessary one — but a lie all the same.
Jinx needed to believe that promise was real. Needed the reassurance, the certainty, the illusion of absolute honesty to rebuild the trust that had cracked today. That meant things would have to change. They would have to be careful. Selective. Strategic. Not about whether to lie — but about what truths were worth telling.
More work, but Silco could handle that if it meant that Jinx wouldn't have another attack.
Jinx stayed in her mother's arms a few seconds longer before, without warning, pulling away and spinning on her heel toward the door. He exchanged a brief look with his dove — confusion mirrored between them. That kind of abrupt shift never meant nothing with Jinx. It always meant something.
She returned to the room at a half-skip, half-stomp, clutching one of her metal monkeys in both hands. The clink of metal echoed softly as she held it, fingers wrapped around it with a reverence that made Silco's spine stiffen. His eyes narrowed at once.
He was fairly sure it wasn't one of the bomb models. Fairly. The problem with Jinx was that certainty was a luxury no one ever truly had. She could have turned a harmless toy into a city-ending device without so much as blinking. Still... something about the way she held it felt different. Not gleeful. Not manic.
Focused.
"Little one, what is that supposed to mean?"
"Revenge."
Silco had exactly one second to tilt his head in confusion before the damn monkey was hurled straight at him.
Hard.
The motion was so sudden, so violently out of sync with everything that had come before, that his body lagged behind his mind. For a split second, he simply froze — instincts stalling as his brain scrambled to recalibrate. Move, something screamed belatedly inside his skull.
Too late.
Metal met flesh with a sickening crack.
The impact slammed into his forehead, just above the brow, a burst of white-hot pain exploding behind his eyes as the force knocked him backward. He didn't hit the floor, but the blow stole his balance completely. His boots scraped against the concrete as he staggered, shoulders folding inward as he bent forward, one hand flying up to clutch his head.
Pain pulsed in sharp, rhythmic waves, each heartbeat echoing directly into the point of impact. Warmth spread beneath his fingers.
Blood.
"Silco!"
He barely registered the sound of hurried footsteps before hands were on him. His dove caught him before he could fully pitch forward, her fingers covering his as she gently but firmly guided his hand away from his forehead. He hissed under his breath as cool air hit the wound.
She tilted his head up, forcing him to look at her, eyes scanning his face with clinical focus despite the panic flickering just beneath the surface.
"You're bleeding." she said quickly. "But it doesn't look deep."
Silco blinked, vision swimming for half a second as the world tilted and righted itself again. He let out a sharp breath through his nose, jaw clenched, anger already burning hotter than the pain. His thoughts snapped back into place with frightening speed.
He turned his head slightly, eyes locking onto Jinx.
She stood where she'd thrown the monkey, showing no remorse whatsoever. The metal toy lay on the floor nearby, harmless now — inert, heavy, smeared faintly with red.
Silco straightened slowly despite the woman's hands still bracing him, his posture stiff with barely restrained fury.
"That wasn't clever." he took a step forward, ignoring the throb in his skull, his eyes never leaving her face. "Would you care to explain what, exactly, was going through your head when you decided throwing that at me was a good idea?"
"I told my mom I was gonna throw the monkey at you so you'd be even." Jinx said, like she was explaining basic arithmetic. She shrugged, utterly unapologetic. "You made her bleed, now you bled. Seems fair to me."
Silco simply stared at her.
Then he heard it.
A laugh — half-choked, poorly restrained, unmistakably real.
His eyes snapped sideways, sharp and incredulous, landing on the source. His fiancée stood there with one hand clamped over her mouth, shoulders trembling, eyes bright with guilt and poorly concealed amusement.
Oh. Wonderful.
"You're supposed to be on my side, dove."
She cleared her throat, trying — and failing — to regain composure. "Silco, in my defense, I did warn you I wouldn't interfere if she tried to stab you."
He turned fully toward her now, disbelief written plainly across his face. "Did that look like an attempted stabbing to you?"
"Stabbing has always been more of a figure of speech, darling."
Silco pinched the bridge of his nose, immediately regretting the pressure as pain flared again. He exhaled slowly, jaw tight, then straightened, fixing both of them with a long, unimpressed stare.
"This is what happens when discipline erodes into sentimentality."
Jinx snorted. "Oh come on, you're fine. You didn't even fall."
"That is not the standard by which I judge assaults." Silco snapped back, though the edge in his voice had dulled slightly. He glanced down at the monkey lying innocently on the floor. "And for the record, fairness does not involve blunt-force trauma to the head."
Jinx crossed her arms, chin lifting. "The concept of justice seems contradictory when you are the jury, the judge, and the executioner."
Damn her.
Jinx was getting too clever.
He studied her for a moment — really studied her. The tension still coiled in her posture, the anger not gone but redirected. He was clearly at a disadvantage now. Then he let out a tired breath.
"Very well. Consider us even."
Her shoulders relaxed immediately.
"But." he added, raising a finger. "If you ever decide to 'balance the scales' again, you will inform me before you start throwing metal objects at my head."
Jinx grinned. "Deal."
Silco shot his fiancée a look. "And you—"
She lifted her hands innocently. "Hey, I promised not to lie anymore. I didn't say anything about taking sides."
He scoffed, shaking his head with a huff of disbelief, though the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. He reached once more to his forehead, wincing faintly.
Zaun was full of enemies, traitors, and fools. But this — this strange, volatile, painfully human chaos — was his family.
And apparently, bleeding for it was part of the arrangement.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
"Are you certain it will work this time?"
The man's voice cut through the chamber, low and edged with impatience. He circled her slowly, steps echoing against the polished stone floor. Shadows clung where they should not, bending subtly toward the woman seated at its center as though drawn to her presence.
"Because, if I recall correctly, darling, you were just as certain every other time you attempted this ritual. And yet, not once did you manage to establish the connection. The one time you nearly succeeded..." his lips curled faintly, something humorless flickering there. "It failed."
The woman did not move at first, she remained seated within the faintly glowing sigil etched into the floor, its lines pulsing with a restrained rhythm—like a heartbeat forced into obedience. When she exhaled, it was slow, controlled, carrying with it a trace of boredom she did not bother to conceal.
"It will be different this time, I can feel it."
Only then did she open her eyes.
Gold met red. There was no defensiveness in her expression, no urgency to convince. Only certainty—quiet, unnerving certainty.
"Thanks to our delicate interference, her mind has been worn thin enough. Fragile. Receptive." a subtle tilt of her head, as though listening to something beyond the room. "A whisper will be enough now."
The man stopped his pacing. His arms crossed over his chest, posture tightening as skepticism settled deeper into his frame.
"This little project of yours has cost us years and a considerable investment. And still, I see nothing that benefits our cause."
The sigil beneath her dimmed, then flared again. "What are years, to beings such as us, Vladimir?" she rose then, fluid and unhurried, the light beneath her fading as her feet left its center. "All this time, and you have yet to learn that perfection does not respond well to impatience."
He stepped closer, closing the distance between them.
"If I didn't know you, I might think you had grown... fond of the girl." he murmured, leaning just enough to let the words settle between them like a threat. "But you, LeBlanc, are incapable of feeling anything at all."
Silence stretched.
Then—
She laughed.
It was soft at first. Almost delicate. But it carried no warmth, no offense, no need to defend herself. It echoed strangely in the chamber, folding into the shadows. And yet, she offered him nothing more.
No denial. No confirmation.
Only that laughter.
Part 45
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
This chapter took a while, I apologize. But the update schedule has probably changed; I'll try to publish once a month, and if all goes well, more than once—but no promises.
It's a difficult period for me, psychologically speaking, but I'll spare you the bad news. But rest assured, I won't stop until I finish this work. I love this story, and a part of me would die if I simply forgot about it.
But that's it, until the next chapter.
This was definitely one of the most effective ways to bring my creativity back after a horrible writer’s block.
Jokes aside, I just want to say how incredible this is. I always thought it was the coolest thing when talented artists made drawings inspired by fanfics. I also remember seeing how happy those authors felt, but I never imagined something like that could happen to me.
And now that it has, I can’t stop feeling genuinely honored about it. It might seem like something simple, but it means so much to a writer. Knowing that someone took the time to create something this beautiful because of a story you wrote is such a mix of emotions. I feel truly happy.
So @xsilcoswifex thank you, from the bottom of my heart ❤️ Thank you for sharing a little piece of your wonderful talent with me.
P.S. I was so stunned that I think I spent about 20 minutes just staring at the screen in pure shock.
Pride is a curious thing — it can crown you like a virtue or stain you like a sin. But what’s one more sin to someone who’s already learned to live with them?
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 8,6K
Warnings: smut, praise kink, resolved sexual tension, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, angst, dom/sub dynamics, vaginal fingering, mutual masturbation, fight and argument, orgasm edging, Silco being a manipulator, emotional manipulation, violence, Silco POV
Part 42
The Last Drop was alive that night—too alive. Music thundered through the floorboards, laughter and shouting spilling over each other in a drunken storm of celebration. The air reeked of smoke, sweat, and Shimmer, thick enough to choke on. Two days since the dock and port fell, since Piltover had been forced to retret, and Zaun was reveling in its first real taste of power.
You and Sevika pushed through the doors just as another cheer went up, tankards slamming together. You hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. The adrenaline that had kept you moving was gone, leaving behind only exhaustion and a bitter, simmering fury that refused to fade.
You scanned the room and found him easily—Silco, lounging in his usual seat at the bar like a king holding court. The neon light painted his sharp features in green and purple. He was smiling, glass in hand, perfectly calm as the chaos swirled around him.
That smile was the match to your powder keg.
You didn't think. You just moved. The crowd parted instinctively as you crossed the room. Silco turned his head toward you, still smiling, raising his glass slightly as though to toast your success—your victory.
"Ah. Back from the front. You've done well—"
The sound of the slap cracked through the bar like gunfire. His head snapped to the side, the glass slipping from his hand and shattering at his feet. For a heartbeat, no one moved. No one breathed.vThe music died somewhere in the background, the laughter cutting off mid-syllable. All eyes turned to you—Zaun's angel— and the sovereign tyrant
"Everyone out. NOW!"
And the reaction was... almost comedic. The bar that had been overflowing seconds ago emptied like someone had pulled a plug. People practically trampled each other to get to the door, not one of them willing to stay trapped inside the blast radius of the inevitable murder scene.
Within moments, The Last Drop was a hollow shell—quiet, abandoned, echoing. Just you, Silco, and the ghosts of your patience.
Silco looked at you. There was no anger in his eyes—annoyance, yes, irritation simmering beneath the surface—but not fury. And the absence of that fury meant something clear: He knew he'd crossed a line. He knew why you'd hit him. He knew this was coming.
"I told you repeatedly. Keep our daughter out of this. But you—" you stabbed a finger toward him, your hand still shaking from the residual adrenaline. "You just can't keep your hands off a shiny new tool the second it shows promise, can you?"
"A talented girl..." his fingers brushing the reddened mark on his cheek as he straightened his posture, attempting to regain even a sliver of authority. "With your training, better than half our soldiers, and you expect me to hide her away? Of the two of us, you are the one limiting her. You're the one keeping her caged when all she wants is to take part."
"She's a teenager! She doesn't know a damn thing about what she wants or doesn't want."
It always devolved like this—two people carved from steel grinding against one another, trying to prove who bent first, who ruled the home, who ruled Zaun. Two leaders who didn't know how to step back.
"But you, Silco? You know exactly what it means to send her into a battlefield."
"I didn't force her." his voice was maddeningly calm. "Jinx volunteered."
"Oh, go fuck yourself." you shoved past him, storming behind the bar with the kind of focus usually reserved for killing. Your hands raked through bottles until you found something sharp, vicious, and ideally flammable. "She doesn't even know what an assault operation is."
"You have very little faith in our daughter, dove."
Your grip tightened around the neck of the bottle so hard the glass creaked. Of course he had to keep talking. Of course he had to keep feeding that fire, as if poking a beast was a reasonable hobby.
"So protective you can't see the potential she represents."
"Potential for what?" you slammed the bottle onto the counter so hard liquid splashed out. "To be a killer? To become a weapon? My daughter will not turn into me. I'll put you in the ground myself before you make her into something like that."
It was a threat. A real one. The kind only two monsters in love could throw at each other without breaking stride. And Silco—being Silco—laughed.
Not a warm laugh. A acidic thing, dripping irony and poison.
"You truly don't see it, do you? You're so blinded by your own fear you can't recognize what's right in front of you. For all the idiots you manipulate into worshipping you, Jinx is the only one who actually idolizes you. Enough to want to follow in your footsteps."
You tipped the bottle back and drank like you were trying to smother a fire inside your chest. The alcohol burned—sharp, bitter—but it might as well have been water. Sobriety clung to you like a curse, a lifelong punishment. No haze, no blur, no mercy. Just you, your rage, your fear—and Silco's damn voice echoing truths you didn't want to hear.
Gods, you wanted to drown it all.
To silence that part of your mind whispering that he was right. That you'd failed to shield her from the darkness Zaun naturally carved into its people.
"Keep her out of this shit." you wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Powder does not take part in attacks. That is not up for debate."
"I'm afraid that may no longer be possible."
Silco stepped away from the bar, putting just enough distance to keep out of reach—smart bastard. His steps arched toward the pool table, fingers brushing the edge, tracing lazy patterns on the wood as if this conversation wasn't peeling your skull open.
"Jinx is in charge of the operations against the Firelights."
The Firelights were what Silco liked to call street rats with delusions of heroism. A fledgling resistance group that had started sprouting the moment he took control of Zaun — because of course, if he was painted as the "tyrant," someone had to rise up to try and knock the crown off his head.
But despite the bravado, they were hardly a true threat. They would be more of an inconvenience. A persistent itch beneath the skin, too small to bleed from, too stubborn to ignore.
Their "operations," if one could even call them that, came mostly in the form of sabotage — crude attempts to disrupt Shimmer production, whether by slipping into the factories with homemade incendiaries or ambushing delivery convoys along Zaun.
They weren't important enough to deserve full attention, but they were loud. And in a city already held together by tension, noise could become dangerous if left unchecked.
You had said you'd take care of them. You meant to. But then the operation against Piltover began to occupy your time and somewhere along the way the Firelights slipped off your list of priorities. You didn't think much of it... until tonight, when the realization crept in that your daughter had apparently stepped into the role you abandoned.
"Since when?" you placing the bottle on the counter with deliberate calm — the kind that, in this moment and in this relationship, was a warning in neon.
"Since the beginning of the year."
Beginning of the year. And now... it was the end. Months. Nearly a full cycle of seasons, of operations, of threats, of decisions — all while you'd been buried in Piltover's mess.
But in an instant, the anger rippling through you ran up against a wall of clarity. Silco wouldn't — couldn't — have let a completely untrained Powder help Sevika. He wouldn't risk her dying. And he wouldn't risk her blowing up half the operation — literally or metaphorically. There were only two things in this world he safeguarded with absolute, ruthless consistency: Zaun's future and that girl.
"She had been slipping into some of the delivery convoys without my knowledge and handling the attacks herself when they happened. When word reached me, I went to her and she admitted what she'd been doing."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I knew exactly how you would react and Jinx did not want you to know. I put her in front of it when I realized she could handle herself. Otherwise, I would never have risked that much."
A pause.
"She reports to me when you aren't around." Silco continued, eyes following the line of the billiards table instead of you.
Oh, God.
You felt it — a clean, brutal fracture right down the center of your chest. You could take betrayal from Silco. You could swallow it, choke on it, spit it back in his face if you had to. You knew the man you were planning to marry. You loved him anyway, flaws sharpened and all.
But your daughter?
That hurt in a place you didn't know existed.
"You lied to me. Both of you. For an entire year."
"Omission is not lying, dove."
"We've had this exact conversation, you son of a bitch."
And just like that, your calm snapped. Your snatching the bottle from the counter and hurling it against the wall beside him. The sound was thunder. Shards exploded across the floor in glittering constellations; the remaining whiskey splattered down the metal panels like someone had opened a vein.
Silco didn't flinch. Not even a blink. Only his eyes shifted toward the dripping wall, then back to you, unfazed in that maddening way of his. It almost made everything worse.
"I had the right to know!" you snarled, every word punching its way out of your throat. "How could you hide something like this from me, Silco?"
You stepped out from behind the counter and crossed the room toward him. Your pulse hammered hard enough that you could feel it in your palms, in your throat, in the space behind your eyes. Silco watched your approach with that stillness of his.
"She's my daughter."
"Our daughter." he pushed off the billiards table andstepping a little closer to you. "You watched her grow. You trained her. You told me countless times how gifted she was, how sharp her instincts were. So why can't you have a little faith in her now?"
His tone stayed infuriatingly level — not mocking, not cruel, simply honest in a way that felt like standing under a spotlight with no shadows left to hide in.
"Why can't you see that girl isn't a something who needs to be tucked away from the world? She wants to be part of something. She wants to matter. She wants you to be proud of her."
"Because I don't want her to become like me. Damn it!"
Silco opened his mouth — but another voice cut clean through the air before he could answer.
"And what if I want to?"
You turned toward the stairs, every movement heavy, bracing because you knew that voice better than your own heartbeat. Powder stood partway down the steps, one hand gripping the railing, her braid messy, her cheeks faintly flushed, her eyes were locked on you.
"There's nothing bad about it, y'know?" she said, coming down one more step. "You're a big fat hero and it's a pretty badass title, okay? I like it."
"Powder—" you tried, voice barely steady, but she cut you off before you could take a breath.
"Look... the whole 'saintly, pure role model' thing? Not my vibe. But walking around and having people bow to you?" she grinned, stepping down another stair. "That's sick as hell."
She was joking — sort of — but the bravado was cracked at the edges. You could see it now that she was closer: the stiff way she held her shoulders, the way her hand reaching out to hold one of the braids, the nervous flicker in her eyes every time her gaze drifted toward the shattered glass.
She'd heard the fight. Every word. Every accusation. And now she was trying to plaster over her fear with confidence so loud it almost felt like a scream.
"And besides, you're, like... the most dangerous person in Zaun. Nobody here even comes close. Not even Sevika with her big-ass scrap-metal arm and she's literally built to punch walls." Powder rolled her eyes, then snapped her fingers. "Oh! And you trained me. You did. And I'm really good at it, okay? Like... really, really good."
Another step down. Now she was close enough for you to see the faint cut along her eyebrow — one she hadn't had.
"And you can ask anyone. Seriously. I mean, yeah, there was this one time I got distracted and some bastard cut my leg open—" she gestured to her thigh like it was nothing, "But I kicked him in the face after, so it's fine."
It was not fine.
You opened your mouth, but she kept going, desperate now.
"But I haven't killed anyone yet." she blurted out, hands flying up defensively, as if anticipating a scolding you hadn't even given. "Because I know you don't want me to have that whole 'blood on my hands' thing... so I just break a few bones and stuff. Nothing serious."
Powder skipped the next two stairs entirely, landing lightly on her boots with a little thud that made your heart vault into your throat.
"I made my own weapons and I really paid attention in your lessons, I did, I swear—" she said, the words spilling fast, as if her mouth couldn't keep up with her heart. "I just wanted to help!"
She hopped down the final step, braid swinging behind her like a comet's tail.
"Powder—" you tried again, stepping toward her, reaching for her with your voice, with your eyes, with anything that might slow her down. But she was deep into her momentum now, spiraling out every thought she'd been carrying.
"I saved the dock operation! And I did everything right! Ask Sevika. I didn't even blow anything up! Not a single thing! So maybe you could just... maybe you could be happy about it?" her voice wavered, climbing in pitch, cracking in desperation. "Maybe you could say you're proud of me instead of arguing with Silco, because I—"
That was where you cut her off. Not with words — you knew words wouldn't stop her now. Not with anger — she'd freeze, retreat, buckle.
You stepped forward and pulled her into your arms.
One second she was mid-sentence, hands gesturing wildly, and the next your arms wrapped around her shoulders, her back, her braid brushing your wrist as you held her tight against your chest.
The effect was instant.
Her voice died in her throat, snuffed out like a candle.
Her whole body went rigid — not tense, not resisting, just... stunned. Like someone had yanked the plug out of her internal wiring and she was left in a silent reboot screen. Powder's hands hovered awkwardly at her sides for several seconds before one of them twitched, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of your shirt, almost without her permission.
"You don't have to do any of this to make me proud of you." you whispered into her hair, your voice barely holding steady as your fingers curled at the back of her head. "You're already my greatest pride."
Powder let out a tiny breath, the kind that sounded like relief and heartbreak tangled together. Behind you, you heard the scrape of wood on metal — Silco dragging a chair, lowering himself into it with a quiet exhale. Even he wasn't immune to the weight of the last few minutes. Too much emotion, too much truth, all hitting too hard and too fast.
But right now, the only thing that mattered was the girl in your arms.
"You know Mama did terrible things."
"I know, but that doesn't matter to me. Bad people made you do bad things. That's it. That's all. You're still good in my eyes, no matter what you say."
Her arms slid around your waist, tight, clinging. Like she was trying to anchor herself to you or keep you from drifting anywhere she couldn't follow. She buried her face against your shoulder, and for a moment she was small again — the little girl who used to crawl into your bed after nightmares.
"I want to be like you, mom."
"But I want you to be better than me."
You pulled back just enough to frame her face between your hands, thumbs brushing her cheeks. "You're a prodigy. Our prodigy. And I would hate myself if you ever tried to live in my shadow. You're meant to outshine everyone, including me."
Powder leaned into your touch instantly, instinctively, like a cat seeking warmth. Her eyes fluttered half-shut, soaking in the affection. The gesture was achingly familiar, painfully young... and yet she wasn't a child anymore. She was growing into someone dangerous, brilliant, unpredictable — someone you loved more fiercely than your own breath.
"I need you to understand where I'm coming from too, alright? You're my daughter. I don't want anything to happen to you. Like this..." you ran a thumb lightly over the small, healing cut along her eyebrow — the one that should've never been there in the first place. "Because if something happened to you—"
"I know, I know!" she cut in quickly, her voice a frantic rush. "You'd lose control and do a bunch of awful stuff again. I get it." she pressed her forehead to yours, smiling that wild little smile that always made your heart lurch with equal parts pride and fear. "I'm careful, mom. I swear. I'm not stupid and I'm not gonna let myself get killed or whatever. I promise."
There was sincerity in her eyes — raw, earnest, young — but behind it was that flicker you knew too well. The spark that could burn everything down if she thought she had to. You felt the words she didn't say: I can handle it. I'm strong enough. I want to be someone you rely on.
She wanted to be a soldier. A protector. A reflection of you — the version she admired, not the version you feared she'd inherit.
And in that moment, you realized how fragile this girl still was despite the fire inside her. She wasn't untouchable. She wasn't invincible. She was trying so hard to be brave for you. So hard to be worthy.
So hard to be everything she thought you wanted.
"I'm going to let you stay in charge of the operations against the Firelights."
Her eyes widened so fast it was almost comedic — huge, bright, electric-blue circles of pure shock and pure thrill, like someone had just handed her a live grenade coated in glitter.
"But..." you continued, lifting a finger. "You report to me before and after every mission. And I mean every mission." you tapped her forehead lightly. "And I want to know exactly where you are at all times. Understood, young lady?"
She rolled her eyes dramatically — the full teenage experience — but she nodded with a grin tugging at her mouth. "Yes, ma'am."
You finally loosened your hold on her, but not before leaning in to pinch her nose between your fingers, giving it a playful little squeeze. She let out an indignant squawk, scrunching her face and swatting at your hand with exaggerated offense.
"Alright. Now tell me how the dock attack went."
Powder's face lit up like a fuse catching flame.
"Oh! Oh! Okay, okay, so—" she grabbed your wrist and practically dragged you toward the nearest table, talking before her feet even finished moving. "It was, like, insane. My group came from behind, so the Enforcers didn't even see what hit them. And seriously, they looked like blind rats, and this guy had this stupid mask that kept fogging up, and he tripped over a crate and I swear, Mom, I didn't even touch him—"
And she kept going.
For the next two hours — two entire hours — Powder gave you a blow-by-blow retelling of the operation. Every detail. Every misstep. Every dumb thing the Enforces tried. Every moment she nearly got hit but didn't. Every clever trap she'd set. Every improvised maneuver she'd invented on the spot. Every punch that landed, every explosion she didn't set off — a fact she brought up at least five times.
She used her hands for half the story — reenacting movements, mimicking the Enforcers' stupid yelps, showing how she flipped over a railing, demonstrating a kick she was very proud of but nearly sent a chair flying with.
And you realized at that moment that you had created a little monster.
[...]
You were in Silco's office the following night — but this time you were the one occupying his chair, the high-backed leather throne that carried the faint scent of smoke and cologne and authority. Your legs were folded under the desk, elbows braced on the wood as you sifted through two thick stacks of reports. Sevika's handwriting was its usual sharp, brisk scrawl; Remmi's was neater, but cluttered with side notes and frantic arrows.
You had ordered both of them to establish direct contact with the teams stationed in Piltover. Starting tonight, no gaps, no excuses: daily reports, immediate alerts, eyes everywhere. Now that the hardest part had begun — holding the political ground you had carved open — you needed information like you needed air. Control wasn't optional; it was survival.
And maybe — maybe — you had inherited a touch of Silco's fixation with knowing everything. The need to see every thread before it snapped. The need to monitor every shadow before it turned into a knife.
But exhaustion was beginning to eat you alive.
Sleep deprivation wrapped around your skull like a vice, squeezing behind your eyes, blurring the edges of the room. Your nerves were already raw from the earlier argument, the reconciliation, the worry for your daughter — and now you were asking your brain to process bureaucratic chaos on top of it.
The words in front of you began to slide. Just slightly at first — spacing out, drifting, stretching like they were trying to peel themselves off the page. The longer you stared, the worse it got. Letters stopped behaving. Sentences lost their shape. Entire paragraphs twisted into a messy tangle of ink.
You blinked hard, rubbed your temple with two fingers, tried to refocus.
Didn't help.
You blinked again, slower this time. Tried to read the paragraph you'd been on for the last... God, how long had it been? Two minutes? Ten? You weren't even sure. You started the sentence. Lost it. Started again. Lost it again. By the fourth attempt, you weren't reading anything — just staring blankly at shapes your brain refused to process.
"Perhaps it's time you rest, dove."
Silco's voice drifted across the room, low and smoky, floating through the haze of your exhaustion. You had almost forgotten he was there — though to be fair, it wasn't entirely your fault. You had stolen his chair and he'd taken the seat across from you without complaint. Now he sat reclined, one leg crossed over the other, a cigar smoldering lazily between his fingers. The ember flared with each quiet drag, briefly illuminating the worry etched into his features.
He was watching you like one watches a fuse that's burning too fast.
You still hadn't apologized for the argument earlier — and you wouldn't. Not when he had gone behind your back.
"I'll rest when everything is finished." you sliding a hand down your face before leaning back toward the report. The letters wobbled stubbornly again, blurring at the edges, but you forced yourself to continue. "I still have to plan a public appearance addressing the attack on Piltover. Then I need to visit Kiramman, run an inspection at the docks and the airship port, outline countermeasures before Piltover retaliates... which they will."
Your breath caught, but you pushed through.
"And on top of that, I need to make sure our daughter doesn't get herself killed fighting the Firelights."
When you failed to make sense of the sentence again, something in you finally snapped. The papers left your hands with a sharp, angry slap against the desk, scattering like wounded birds. You pushed away from the chair and marched toward the window, frustration clawing up your throat.
"Now I understand why you're always stressed."
Behind you came the soft hiss of a cigar being extinguished, then the quiet scrape of a chair shifting backward. A heartbeat later, familiarity wrapped around you — long arms sliding around your waist, a lean body pressing against your back, his presence fitting against yours like it had been carved to match.
Silco's lips traced a slow path along the side of your neck, warm breath brushing sensitive skin. For a fleeting moment you considered pulling away — you had work, responsibility, an entire city riding on your shoulders — but the will to resist simply wasn't there. Not tonight. Not with exhaustion dragging you under and his touch lighting something molten and dangerous beneath your ribs.
"You're in the early stages of stress." he murmured against your skin, voice low and maddeningly calm. "It can get much, much worse."
You rolled your eyes, though your body instinctively leaned into him.
"We seriously need to work on your comforting skills."
His arms loosened only to rise, sliding up your torso, fingertips brushing your collarbone before one hand settled gently at the side of your neck. With a soft tilt of pressure, he guided your head to the side — granting himself more access to your throat.
"Do you want me to comfort you with words.." he whispered, lips hovering just above the place he knew made you shiver. "Or with actions?"
A small, helpless laugh escaped you — the kind that sounded like surrender.
"You win that argument."
Silco stepped back only far enough to catch your hand. You didn't protest when he guided you toward the bedroom; the exhaustion sat too deeply in your bones, and a small, treacherous part of you trusted him more than you trusted your own judgement at the moment. The soft thud of the door clicking shut behind you sounding almost ceremonial — a boundary between the world outside and whatever this moment was becoming.
He didn't rush.
Silco reached for your shirt, undoing every button unhurried. One by one, each fastening slipped free under his fingers, until the fabric slid off your shoulders and onto the floor in a soft heap. You half expected him to continue, to peel away the rest of your clothes the same way — but instead, his hands settled on your shoulders.
And with a single, unexpected push, he guided you down onto the bed, your body landing on your stomach, the mattress dipping under your weight.
You blinked, breath catching.
"Silco, what are—"
You didn't finish the question.
His hands were already on your back.
Strong, steady palms pressed into your muscles, thumbs digging expertly into the knots that had formed across your shoulders and spine. He leaned forward, not fully siting on you, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him. The pressure was firm — almost brutal — but in that perfect way that made your lungs loosen for the first time in days.
A sound escaped you before you could swallow it — raw, involuntary relief.
"Oh..."
So this was what he meant by actions.
Your eyes fluttered shut as the tension bled out of your body under his touch. He moved with surprising precision, finding every place that hurt, every muscle pulled too tight from stress and lack of rest. You had always known he was skilled with his hands, but this was different.
"You're wound tighter than a spring." his thumbs traced slow circles between your shoulder blades. "No wonder your mind won't cooperate."
You hummed in response, too relaxed to form words, your body melting into the blankets. All the weight you'd been carrying, all the fear and responsibility and panic, began dissolving under each practiced stroke. The knot in your lower back finally loosened, and you exhaled a trembling breath you didn't know you'd been holding.
"Regarding your public appearance..." Silco began, as though you were not melting into the mattress under his hands. "I've handled the arrangements. It will take place this weekend, at Vander's statue. Prepare something... stirring."
His thumbs pressed into a sensitive point just at the base of your neck, and your entire body jolted with a shiver — the kind that felt like lightning spreading through your shoulders. He felt it. Of course he did. And of course he used it to his advantage, fingers circling that spot with infuriating precision.
"Kiramman arrived safely at the warehouse. Understandably furious. Refuses to speak. But I believe we can figure this out eventually."
He moved lower, fingertips sweeping along the sides of your spine, and your toes curled into the bedsheets. Your mind fogged in that dangerous, floating way only Silco could pull from you when he decided you needed it.
"I also spoke with Sevika. About elevating her position. A sort of... general for Zaun. Someone to take part of the burden from your shoulders. She'll handle inspections in your stead, coordinate countermeasures with you, and operate with broader authority. She's capable, and it will take pressure off your shoulders."
It took a long moment — too long — for your brain to even process the meaning of his words. The massage had you half liquefied on the bed, some boneless, pliant creature absorbing heat and pressure like it was life support. His hands slid down again, tracing the ridge of your ribs, and the thought simply refused to stick.
Until it finally snapped into place.
Wait.
Wait a damn minute.
"Hold on, you—"
"And lastly." Silco continued, ignoring every attempt you made to speak. "Even though you've agreed to let Jinx continue with the Firelight operations, I'm fully aware you're still... overprotective. So I spoke to her about suspending her missions until further notice and having you accompany her on the next one. See her in action. Put your fears to rest."
Just like that, your entire mountain of tasks — the endless list choking your mind — dissolved into nothing.
"When did you even do all of this?"
"The public appearance and Kiramman were arranged two days ago." he pressed a little harder at the base of your spine, fully aware he was strategically disabling your ability to stay mad for longer than five consecutive seconds. "The rest I handled today. While you were in that meeting with Renni and Smeech this morning."
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, turning just enough to glare at him over your shoulder — or at least attempt to. Hard to glare when his fingers were melting half your spine.
"And you let me sit in that office, practically losing my mind when you had already solved half of it behind my back?" your voice pitched higher. "Why the hell didn't you tell me, Silco?"
He finally stopped his movements — hands resting warm and steady on your back as he leaned over you, his shadow falling across your bare shoulders. You could practically feel the smugness radiating off him before he even spoke.
"I needed some form of revenge, dove. For the slap you gave me."
You stared at him. He didn't look remotely ashamed. Not even close. He looked... pleased with himself. Calm. Smug, even. Like observing you struggling to solve things that have already been solved. had been his version of poetic justice.
"Oh my god, Silco—"
He shrugged, completely unbothered. "You struck me. I responded proportionally."
"Proportionally?!" you sputtered. "You almost made me cry from so much stress."
"And I regretted nothing... you looked very adorable while you were frustrated."
"You... you petty, vindictive bastard."
Silco only smiled, that slow, self-satisfied curve of his mouth that said he was enjoying every second of this. "Petty?" he echoed softly, letting his fingertips trail up your spine again in lazy, devastating lines. "Fair. That would be the proper term."
You tried to shove him off — a weak, futile attempt that only made him chuckle as he pressed you back into the mattress with the easiest, gentlest pressure imaginable.
"You are the most aggravating man alive—"
"And you..." he murmured, pressing a kiss just below your ear. "Are worth the trouble."
Silco shifted his weight and rose off of you, the mattress lifting beneath his absence. You didn't even have to think before following him — your body moved on instinct, sliding into his lap the moment he sat at the edge of the bed. It was a familiar place, a natural one, your legs settling around him as though you were meant to fit there.
He didn't grab you or pull you closer. He didn't need to. His presence alone was a gravity all its own.
Silco's fingers found your necklace, tracing the chain before he began idly winding it around one finger. There was no tension left in his shoulders. The argument felt distant now—softened, reshaped, absorbed into the unspoken understanding that always lived between you.
Honestly, given the slap and your earlier rage, he could've retaliated in far crueler ways. This little stunt of his had been almost playful by comparison.
"Now that you've calmed down..." he murmured, tugging the chain lightly so your chest brushed against his. "Can you understand what we've accomplished? We forced Piltover to retreat. In all of Zaun's history, this is the first time we've struck back after everything that wretched city has done to us. A significant step for our people."
"So that's why you're so... pleased with yourself?"
"I'd call it satisfied." he corrected, his voice velvet-dark. "I'll be happy only on the day Piltover becomes nothing more than a forgotten ruin."
He released the chain, letting it fall back against your chest, and raised his hand instead to your chin. His thumb pressed just under it, tilting your face upward so your eyes met his. The dim light caught in the blue of his good eye, and in it, you saw something warm and sharp and devastating.
Pride.
Not the soft, gentle kind.
"You achieved something Vander and I dreamed of and though he'd never admit it in that self-righteous, heroic way of his, I'm certain he would be proud of you." his thumb brushed your jawline. "Because I am."
He knew exactly how to manipulate you.
The worst part wasn't even that Silco understood your need for approval — that soft, ugly, vulnerable part you pretended didn't exist. The worst part was that you let him use it. You let him press that weakness like a thumb over a bruise, let him draw out that electric, addictive satisfaction of making him proud. Nothing hit quite like it. Nothing carved into your ribs with such precision.
Maybe that's why you understood Powder so well — why she chased your approval. You weren't so different from her, no matter how much you pretended you were.
Your fingers curled in the fabric of Silco's vest, nails catching lightly on the seams. You tried to hold his gaze... but the intensity of it burned too bright, too honest, too certain. So you looked away — down, to the floor, to anywhere else but him.
"I... I don't feel anything." the confession leaving your throat like a shard of glass. "I know I should feel something like... joy, vengeance, satisfaction, but there's nothing."
A hollow space opened in your chest as the words finally slipped free. Something you hadn't dared tell even yourself. You had expected that striking Piltover back — finally—would ignite something inside you. Relief. Closure. Rage satisfied. A sense of balance at last for everything that had been taken from you. For Violet. For the life that was torn from your hands.
But instead, the emptiness was the same.
The same cold, aching void that swallowed you whole the night you fled the Institute with blood on your hands and a name that would forever be tied to disaster. The same numbness that followed every terrible choice you made to keep moving forward.
"Your anger is aimed at one person, dove. So perhaps you'll find that satisfaction when you take everything from Hoskel. In this case? Piltover. And everything she stands for."
His fingers drifted up the back of your neck, until they reached the base of your hair. Then he curled them there, not painfully, but with enough pressure to make your breath hitch. He guided your head back up, forcing your eyes to meet his. That orange eye of his pinned you in place — patient, knowing, unwavering.
"But if you want my opinion, I think you should enjoy the euphoria of victory. It's a merit worth celebrating."
He tugged gently at your hair, drawing you closer — close enough to feel the warmth of his breath ghost across your lips. His gaze flicked down to your mouth, his other hand slipped around your waist, fingers tracing the shape of you as he pulled you further onto his lap, erasing any space left between your bodies.
You knew exactly what kind of celebration he meant.
"Admit it." you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. "You just want an excuse to celebrate, Silco."
He laughed — soft, dark, indulgent. "Guilty."
And then he kissed you.
Not rushed. Not frantic. But deep, claiming, confident — the kind of kiss that made your thoughts dissolve and the world go quiet. His hand in your hair tightened just slightly, guiding your head to the angle he wanted, while the arm around your waist held you firmly against him. His mouth moved with purpose, with intention, as if this was the victory he truly wanted to savor.
Silco's Pov
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When kisses no longer seemed enough, Silco turned his efforts elsewhere.
His lips trailed down the column of her throat, leaving a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses and sharp nips in their wake. He could taste the salt of her skin, could feel the way her pulse raced beneath his lips as he worked his way lower.
As he reached the valley between her breasts, Silco cupped one of the soft globes in his palm, his thumb circling and teasing the peak. Her nipple strained against his fingertip, aching for more of his touch. Silco let out a low, appreciative groan.
"It seems my girl is just as eager as ever." he murmured, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "I thought I might have lost my touch, with all the chaos in Piltover keeping us apart. But it feels like you're just as responsive as the first time I had you writhing beneath me.
Silco leaned in, taking the peak into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the straining nipple, suckling gently.
He could feel her fingers tangling in his hair, her nails lightly scratching his scalp as she guided his head against her breast. The encouragement spurred him on, urging him to lavish even more attention on the mounds. He could hear her breathy moans, feel the way her body arched into his touch.
Silco took her nipple between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make her gasp. He could feel her trembling beneath him, could sense the way her hips rolled up to grind against his own.
"Oh fuck..."
"That's it, dove... let me hear you."
He sucked her nipple harder, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak as his hand slid down her stomach, over her hip, to grip her thigh. Silco hitched her leg up and out, opening her wider, allowing him to press closer to the heat of her sex.
Silco's fingers found her clothed sex, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the damp fabric. He could feel the heat of her even through the barrier of her pants. With a low, indulgent chuckle, Silco hooked his fingers into the waistband of her pants. "Let's get these off you, shall we?"
"Yes—" she groaned breathlessly, the answer coming automatically. "Please..."
"Such a good girl." he purred, his voice a low, approving rumble. "Since you're being so good, I think you deserve a reward."
Silco pulled away, but before she could miss his touch, he hooked his hands under her thighs, lifting her easily and tossing her back onto the bed. Making her bounce slightly on the mattress.
She barely had a moment to catch her breath before Silco was on her, his hands gripping her calves and pulling her down the bed towards him. He could see the way her eyes widened, the way her lips parted on a gasp as he manhandled her.
Reaching the edge of the mattress, Silco hooked his fingers into the waistband of her pants, starting to tug them down her legs.
"Lift your hips for me, dove."
She responded eagerly to Silco's command, lifting her hips to allow him to easily slip her pants down and off her legs. The garment joined her shirt on the floor. Then, Silco hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and tugged them down. As her panties joined the rest of her clothes on the floor, Silco took a moment to simply admire her, taking in every dip and curve of her naked form.
Despite the passing years, she retained a disarming youthfulness. It unsettled him in ways he would never confess aloud. Time, that greedy and unrelenting creditor, had carved its due into him with methodical patience—silver threading through the dark at his temples, the slow tightening of skin across sharp cheekbones, the permanent tension etched between his brows.
But on her... it lingered like a hesitant guest. Yes, there were faint lines at the corners of her mouth, subtle creases that spoke of smirks and restrained laughter, but they were not the marks of erosion. They were punctuation. On him, age looked like corrosion. On her, it looked like intention.
He had never truly examined how her condition marked the exterior. He had understood its implications—longevity, resilience, a defiance of natural order—but he had not lingered on what it meant in the slow, mundane cruelty of years.
He would wither. That was inevitable. His body already whispered the truth in stiff joints and in the fatigue that crept in after long nights at his desk.
A sordid thought had taken root in him over time, one he despised and yet nurtured in secret. If death came by the ordinary passage of years, it would claim him first. The notion coiled in his chest with a perverse comfort.
To leave before her.
To be spared the obscene reality of a world that continued while she did not inhabit it. He had survived too much already, but surviving her absence? That would be an indignity he could not toughen up. The undercity could burn. The empire he himself built could collapse. None of it would matter if she were no longer breathing somewhere within the same atmosphere.
"What are you thinking about?"
Her voice drew him back from the dark corridors of his own mind. Silco had not realized how long he had been standing there, watching her as though committing her to memory.
"About how beautiful you are."
And that wasn't a lie. It was unfair how she seemed to get more beautiful the more he looked at her.
He saw it in the way her lips parted before curving into a genuine smile. A laugh followed—soft, unrestrained. Color rose to her cheeks, a flush that deepened under his steady gaze.
If mortality was the price of being human, then he would pay it. Gladly. So long as he was spared the greater cost of witnessing a world in which she was only a memory.
Under her gauze, Silco began to undress, his clothes joining hers on the floor until he stood before her, bare except for his tie — which was now in his hands. He could see the way her eyes roamed over his body, taking in every hard plane and angle, lingering on his cock.
He gestured for her to come to him, his finger beckoning her closer. She obeyed without hesitation, sitting on the mattress.
Silco reached out, his fingers brushing over her cheek in a surprisingly gentle caress before he used the tie to bind her eyes, creating an improvised blindfold. Satisfied with his handiwork, Silco guided her to lie back against the pillows, arranging her just how he wanted her.
"There now..." he praised, his hand sliding up her thigh. "Open up for me. Let me see you."
And she does.
Silco brought his fingers to his mouth, wetting them with his saliva before gliding through the slick folds of her sex. She gasped at the first point of contact, her hips lifting off the bed as Silco's fingers found her sensitive clit. He circled the swollen nub with maddeningly slow strokes, applying just the right amount of pressure to make her writhe with need.
At the same time, Silco brought his other hand to his own throbbing length, spitting into his palm to slick the way. He stroked himself in time with the circles he made around her clit, the obscene wet sounds filling the room.
"You're so wet for me already, dove." Silco growled, his voice rough with lust. He could feel his own cock pulsing in his grip, the head already slick with pre-cum. "That's it, baby. Grind on my fingers, you're doing so well... such a good girl..."
"Stop talking like that!"
She demanded suddenly, but her voice lacked any authority whatsoever. If there was anything there, it was desire and a little embarrassment. Silco knew his girl loved praise as much as she loved degradation, and he was more than capable of offering both.
"Why? You seem to be enjoying this a lot." to emphasize this, Silco slid a finger inside her. As she was soaked, the penetration offered no resistance. "But if you don't want me to praise you, just ask, I'd be happy to trade 'good girl' for 'good little slut'."
Silco felt her tighten between his fingers. "Oh— oh God!"
Heavens... how he loved it when she arched her back and fucked herself on his fingers. Silco could stay there watching the scene for the rest of his life.
"It's rude not to answer a question, my love." he teased, knowing the poor thing wasn't even sane enough to reason. "You'd better choose, or I'll choose for you."
Silco increased the speed of both hands. If she was overwhelmed with sensations, Silco was worse. His balls were already aching with anticipation, and his cock was starting to get sensitive.
"Praise me!" she practically screamed. "Please, Silco, please..."
"See? It wasn't so difficult... I'm so proud of you."
"Damm it... I'm going to— "
"No, you won't." Silco immediately withdrew his fingers, which caused her to let out a groan almost like a cry. Her body tensed, her hips rising in an unsuccessful attempt to reach for something. Silco almost felt sorry for how utterly devastated she looked at being denied. Almost.
He brought his fingers, wet with her essence, to his lips to taste her—the taste was more delicious than any food he had ever eaten. "You can only cum when I'm inside you, understand?"
"Yes..."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's my girl."
Silco swapped his fingers for his cock, but without burying himself inside her. He decided he would prolong it.
He could feel her body trembling beneath his touch, could hear the desperate little whimpers and moans spilling from her lips as he teased her mercilessly. He could see the way her hips bucked up, seeking more of that friction, but he held back, denying them both the release they craved. It was torture, the sweetest kind, pushing them both to the brink only to pull back, leaving them aching and wanting.
"Patience, my sweet."
Silco could feel his own body throbbing with need, his dick getting harder every minute he rubbed against her. But he gritted his teeth and held back, determined to make this last, to draw out their pleasure until it consumed them both. He rubbed the swollen head of his length through her slick folds, coating himself in her essence, before notching the tip at her entrance.
Her whimpered, her fingers scrabbling at the sheets beneath her as she tried to pull him closer, to urge him inside. Silco could feel her body clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled. With a low, approving groan, he gave her what she wanted, sinking into her hot, tight heat with one slow, steady thrust.
"Fuck, look at you... so perfect."
Silco groaned deeply as he felt her walls fluttering and clenching around him. He could see the way her body trembled, could hear the desperate sounds spilling from her lips as he filled her so deeply. But just as quickly as he had entered her, Silco pulled back, until only the swollen head of his cock remained nestled inside her.
With a wicked grin, he began to move, rolling his hips in a way that allowed just the tip of his length to dip in and out of her—teasing her—denying her the deep strokes she needed. He held her legs open wider, giving him an even better view.
It was torturous to say the least, but at the same time the pain was so pleasurable. Almost as if the anticipation of what it would be like when he really fucked her made everything more exciting.
"Harder..."
Silco's gaze snapped up to meet her face, taking in the desperate, pleading expression beneath the blindfold. Her plea came so softly, so lost amidst moans and sighs, that Silco almost missed hearing it. Of course, he could have made her beg, but honestly, he was at his limit to prolonging it any further.
"As you wish."
Silco gripped her thighs tightly, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he began to pound into her with deep thrusts. The bed creaked and groaned beneath them, the headboard slamming against the wall with each thrust.
He could feel her body swaying with the force of his thrusts, her breasts jiggling with each impact, her head thrown at a strange angle, her mouth open, moaning shamelessly, her fingers gripping the bed sheets tightly.
Silco gritted his teeth, feeling the strain in every muscle as he pistoned his hips forward. Each thrust sent jolts of pleasure-pain radiating through his bones, his joints screaming in protest at the relentless pace. But even as his body ached, Silco knew he would endure it, would push through the discomfort for the exquisite sensation of her tight heat enveloping him.
The sheer bliss written across her face, even through the blindfold, made every ounce of pain and effort worthwhile. He could see the pleasure cresting inside her, could feel her body tensing, preparing to shatter.
"Such a good girl, taking me so well..." he praised, his voice a low, approving rumble. "I can feel you getting closer, do you want to cum with me, my love?
She didn't even have the strength to answer clearly, the answer came out confused — moans, sighs, words impossible to understand. But Silco understood perfectly.
Silco leaning forward, he covered her body with his own, his chest pressing against her soft breasts as he braced his hands on either side of her head. His hips snapping forward with increased urgency.
Her moans grew louder, until she was practically screaming his name. "Silco... yeah... just like that!"
Suddenly, Silco felt her arms wrap around him, holding him close as her body went rigid. A loud, wanton moan spilled from her lips, her inner muscles clenching and fluttering around his aching length. The feeling of her coming undone, shaking apart with her pleasure, pushed Silco over the edge.
"FUCK!" he roared, his voice echoing off the walls. With a few more erratic thrusts, Silco buried himself to the hilt inside her, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he spilled his hot seed deep within her body.
Silco held her tightly against him, and she practically had her nails digging into his back. Both completely breathless, sweaty and sticky, but neither seemed to care. That sensation—that peace after orgasm along with the warmth of her body against his—was one of the most pleasant sensations Silco had ever felt.
He only pulled away to manage to pull off her blindfold. Those beautiful eyes took a moment to refocus, but when they did, Silco could see how they seemed to glow as they stared at him.
"Hey..."
"Hey, dove." Silco kissed her temple. A simple gesture, but it seemed right at that moment. Like a kind of comfort after the roughness of sex.
"Did that seem like celebration enough for you, Silco?"
He pretended to think. "I think it's a good start."
"Good start?" a low laugh escaped her. "And you think you can handle another round, old man?"
That audacious woman...
"I'll give you a second to take those words back."
She leaned forward, her lips drawing close to his ear. "Old man."
Great, it seems he'd have to make that brat remember her place again. And the way that little perverse woman was staring at him seemed to be exactly what she wanted too.
"Si vis pacem, para bellum" — if you want peace, prepare for war. Because peace is always a justification for violence.
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 6,8K
Warnings: blood and violence, graphic violence, kidnapping, war and everything that involves it, weapons and bombs, Jinx (yes, she's the warning), mass manipulation, threats
Part 41
Humans are creatures of contradiction. Selfish to the core, deceit woven into their second nature. But... is that truly a sin? Would you condemn someone for acting out of self-interest if survival demanded it?
The truth is, context bends morality. Sometimes, selfish acts wear the mask of righteousness when they're done for a greater good. At least, that's what you tell yourself as you stare at the stars that night.
The alley is narrow, swallowed by shadows, and you have long since become one with them. Your body barely stirs, your breath shallow and silent, as if even air itself might betray your position. Nearly an hour has passed like this, every second stretched thin, your muscles stiff, your mind sharp.
'For a better future, war is inevitable.' That's the mantra you and Silco have fed the people of Zaun for the past four years. It slips easily into their minds, like poison disguised as prayer. You didn't even need to force it down their throats—they were already starving for something to believe in. And in their hunger, they began to look at you as if you were something divine.
A symbol.
Just as Silco had planned.
It had been... uncomfortable, at first, to play the sanctified role Silco had crafted for you. The idea of becoming some kind of holy figure felt almost absurd—until it wasn't.
The whispers he'd set loose in the alleys took on lives of their own, spreading faster than either of you could control. Rumor twisted into myth, and before long, your name carried a kind of reverence that made people bow their heads when you passed. You didn't correct them.
How could you, when faith had become such a convenient tool?
Still, that kind of worship always left a sour taste in your mouth. You were no savior. But you learned to wear the halo they built for you—light enough to dazzle, heavy enough to hurt.
Forgiving all the debts people owed Finn had been the first step in your performance, the grand gesture that cemented the illusion.
Then came the jobs—real ones, not the kind that broke people down into obedient shells. You treated them with dignity, looked them in the eye, spoke to them like equals. It didn't matter that it was all part of a plan; for the first time, they felt seen.
And that was the trick, wasn't it? You didn't need to force anyone to believe. People are desperate for something pure, something that tells them their suffering has meaning. So you gave them that illusion—an angel walking among them, a voice of mercy in a world that had long forgotten the word. They built their hope around you like scaffolding, and you let them.
Because hope, in the right hands, is just another form of control.
But for the ones who couldn't be swayed by lies or blind faith, there was always Silco. The shadow to your light. Where your presence soothed, his commanded. He ruled through fear, and the city bent beneath it. Together, you became a perfect balance of power—divine and devil, savior and tyrant.
When Silco took full control, there was no room left for defiance. Piltover's gates would never open for Zaunites, not after everything you caused. So they stayed. They worked. They obeyed. It was either serve Silco or die forgotten in the gutter, and most chose life—if it could even be called that.
You'd had to step in eventually—there was no avoiding it. Even you had limits, and watching Silco turn children into cogs for his Shimmer factories was the line that split you both apart. The argument had been brutal, Silco saw it as necessity, you saw it as something unthinkable.
He didn't yield easily. He never did. But you gave him an ultimatum one night, and in the end, he compromised in the only way he knew how. The children were replaced by addicts—broken souls whose payment came in the form of a few doses of Shimmer, enough to keep them obedient and quiet. It wasn't a victory, not really. More like a lesser sin. One you'd chosen to live with.
And Shimmer... Gods, the poison had spread far beyond Zaun by then. Its iridescent claws had already reached Piltover, curling around the throats of its highborn fools—and all thanks to Margot's girls.
The operation had been slow, almost elegant in its cruelty. The courtesans lured in their wealthy clients, coaxed them into indulgence, then introduced them to the glittering escape Silco sold so easily.
By the time addiction sank its teeth in, it was too late. Shimmer had found its way into the heart of Piltover's elite. His empire grew on the backs of their cravings.
You weren't blind to any of it. You saw exactly what he was doing—and what you'd allowed him to become. A weed thriving in the fertile soil of Zaun's pain. And you... you were the gardener who'd let it grow.
No, worse—you'd nurtured it. Protected it. Because every time Silco crossed a line, you were there to make sure no one stopped him. That the vision you both shared was worth the corruption it demanded.
Sometimes, late at night, the thought came to you like a whisper in the dark—soft, merciless, true: You were just as guilty as he was. Maybe more. Because unlike him, you knew better. And you still stayed.
At some point, you simply stopped caring. Somewhere between the compromises and the betrayals, the guilt had dulled into something quieter—numb, almost practical. Everything you'd done, every lie, every manipulation and every threatt, had led to this moment. The plan was in motion, and there was no room left for hesitation.
Four years of planning balanced on the edge of a single breath. This couldn't fail. It wouldn't.
There were two fronts prepared to strike the moment you gave the signal. Sevika commanded the dock operation, her soldiers spread through the maze of warehouses and loading yards like oil seeping into cracks. On the other end, Remi dealt with the airship port operation.
But besides giving the start signal, you had another task. Quieter, but far more crucial. The success of everything hinged on one move—one woman. The abduction of Cassandra Kiramman.
For months, you had studied her every step. You'd watched her move through the gilded streets of Piltover. You memorized her habits, her routes, the tiny rhythms that built her day. The way she always stopped for coffee at the same café, always glanced over her shoulder once before turning a corner, always walked with her daughter through the park during her free time.
You learned her patterns until they became second nature, until you could predict her movements as easily as your own.
The dirty work had fallen to you because no one else could do it. Silco's network had its limits; even his reach couldn't worm its way into the Kiramman walls. You, however, had experience in blending in.
The faint buzz crackled in your ear, the sound sharp against the quiet tension of the alley. Sevika's voice came through the interference, rough and low, the distant crash of waves bleeding through the connection. "Status."
"Delayed." you whispered, your tone flat, offering no further explanation. You didn't need to. Sevika knew exactly who you meant. Cassandra Kiramman—too disciplined to be careless, too predictable to be late—had suddenly decided to become both at the worst possible time.
"We'll miss the shift change." you rolled your eyes, the gesture lost in the dark. Sevika didn't need to tell you what you already knew. Every second that ticked by scraped against your nerves like a blade. An hour late. An hour of standing still while the perfect plan you'd built piece by piece began to strain at its seams.
Cassandra wasn't supposed to deviate from her routine. She was supposed to be home by now—guards swapped, patrols thinned, the window open for exactly twenty minutes. But instead, she'd decided to dine with Jayce Talis and Councilor Medarda of all people. The kind of unexpected social detour that sent entire operations spiraling.
You'd had to adjust everything on the fly—reroute Remi's team, delay Sevika's advance, recalibrate where Cassandra's kidnapping would take place. One mistake, one misstep, and years of work would crumble before your eyes.
"Hold your position." you said finally, voice low but firm. "Wait for my signal."
There was a grunt on the other end—half annoyance, half resignation. The sound of metal clinking, probably Sevika's prosthetic against her weapon. Then silence. The line went dead.
You exhaled, the breath trembling just slightly as you forced your pulse to steady. Patience had finally paid off. The faint rhythm of approaching footsteps echoed down the narrow street, soft at first—measured, orderly. You pressed your back to the wall, melting into the darkness that had kept you hidden for hours.
A figure appeared at the mouth of the alley, her silhouette framed by the dim, golden spill of the streetlamps beyond. Cassandra Kiramman. Even from this distance, her presence carried that unmistakable air of authority—shoulders straight, pace precise, every movement rehearsed by years of military discipline. Two guards followed close behind, the dull gleam of their rifles catching the light.
You waited until the first had passed, counting his steps beneath your breath. One... two... three. The second followed, a little slower, his head turning slightly, the faintest hint of suspicion flickering across his face. You moved before thought could interfere—fast, silent, efficient. One hand seized his collar, the other snapped against the back of his skull as you slammed him hard into the wall.
The thud of bone against stone cracked through the quiet like a gunshot. His body crumpled instantly, the weapon slipping from his grasp and clattering to the cobblestones.
So much for silence.
Both pairs of footsteps stopped abruptly. You could hear the faint rustle of fabric as Cassandra turned, the sharp click of her heels halting mid-step. "Stay back, ma'am." the guards barked, voice tight with alarm, you could hear him drawing his weapon.
Your fingers closed around the fallen guard's rifle, cold metal biting against your palm. You rose from the shadows, boots silent against the cobblestones. As you stepped out of the alley, the faint light spilling from the streetlamps finally revealed you—half-shrouded in darkness, half-bathed in gold.
Cassandra's composure fractures the instant her eyes find you, recognition flickering across her features like lightning. The male guard takes a hair more time — a slower processing, but when he did, his expression hardened. "Run, ma'am!" he barked, moving instinctively to shield her.
The moment Cassandra began to turn, you raised the rifle, finger brushing the trigger. You weren't aiming to kill—just to stop her, a clean shot to the leg, enough to end this quickly. But the guard is quicker than you expect. He fires first — a jagged, panicked shot that slams into the stone a breath beside your head.
His courage, or his stupidity, to aim high is what saves you from a bullet in the skull and makes him hang for a perilous second, rifle wobbling as he realises how close he came.
He tries to pull the rifle up again, but you're already close to him, your hand gripping the rifle. You feel that burning sensation behind your eyes as you twist the rifle up, train the muzzle toward the sky even when the man tries with all his might to stop you from doing it, and then close the distance.
Headfirst you hit him — not delicate, not theatrical — a solid, bone-crunching headbutt that folds his stance and sends stars across the night. He reels, losing balance, the rifle slipping from his grasp and skittering across the stones. He goes down hard, the breath knocked clean from him.
You level the rifle, which was still in your hand, at the fallen man. But, a voice, flat and cold, cuts across the street: "Stop."
Cassandra.
The single word rides the air with more authority than anyone in Piltover has a right to carry. You'd assumed she'd run, like anyone with sense would've. But no—she was still there, standing her ground, eyes fixed on you with that same unyielding defiance you'd only ever seen in Enforcers who hadn't yet learned what real fear felt like. Maybe she thought herself a hero. Maybe she was one. Either way, it didn't matter.
But curiously, there was something in her hands.
For a split second, your brain refused to register it—a double-barreled rifle aimed squarely at your chest. The question hit you before the fear did: Where the hell did she get that?
"Drop the weapon." Cassandra ordered.
You spare a second to think — too long in most fights, but this thing's never been about speed so much as control — and obey. Not because you respect her order, but because there's an advantage to be had. Before you lower the rifle you slam the butt into the back of the guard's head one last time; the impact is ugly and final. He folds like a rag.
You step forward empty-handed, palms open so she can see you mean it; the barrel is still aimed at your chest and you don't flinch.
Up close you can see the little things she can't hide: the way her knuckles blanch, the tiny tremor riding her forearms, the practiced steadiness around the muzzle that says she's trained to not miss. Her aim is damn near flawless — and yet there's something in her eyes that isn't hatred. It's calculation, yes, but threaded with something that might be pity or recognition; you can't tell which.
You stop a pace away, cold light catching on the little silver scrollwork of her barrel, and you meet her there.
"You've got two options." you tell her, voice low and even. "Come quietly, or..."
There's the show of menace — necessary theater. Then, to underline the point, you put your hand against the muzzle, fingers finding the seam where metal meets metal. You feel the Shimmer humming under your skin like a live wire, and when you press it, the barrel buckles under your grip as if it were warm wax. The metal folds obediently at your will.
Cassandra's eyes widen from the force of perception — she sees the choice split into a thousand thin threads and, faster than any punch you could throw, she follows the clearest path.
Her tension snaps. Her shoulders drop a fraction, the rifle tips, and it slips from her fingers. For a suspended, terrible second it hangs in the air as if she's deciding whether to snatch it back or let it fall. Then it clatters to the cobbles in a clean, defeated sound. She hasn't been bested by strength. She's conceded to something more subtle: the inevitability of what you represent.
"I'll admit, I'm a little surprised. I thought you'd be harder to convince."
"And give you a reason to go after my family? Not a chance." she turned of her own accord, hands slipping behind her back with quiet resignation. The movement was so deliberate it almost disarmed you. She was cooperating.
"A mother will do anything to protect her child," you murmured, pulling the cord from your belt. The fibers were coarse against your fingers, and you worked efficiently, looping it around her wrists, firm but not cruel. Enough restraint to keep her from trying anything clever, but not enough to bruise. "I'd burn a city to the ground for mine."
The sentence hangs heavy in the lamplight because, for better or worse, it isn't a metaphor. You'd go to hell for Powder.
You stepped back, checking the knots one last time before reaching up to your ear. The communicator buzzed faintly, the interference thick with static from the distance between you and the docks. You pressed your finger to the device, the motion automatic. "Sevika."
For a moment, nothing—just the low hiss of the channel. Then. "I'm here. Go ahead."
"Begin the attack."
You barely had time to breathe before pain exploded across your face. Cassandra moved with startling speed for someone bound; her head snapped back in a clean, brutal arc, connecting squarely with your nose. The impact made you stagger a few steps, not from the force itself but from sheer surprise. A flash of white heat blurred your vision. You caught the faint hiss of static in your earpiece—Sevika saying something, maybe—but you didn't bother to listen.
"You've got claws." you said, wiping the thin trail of blood from your nose with the back of your hand. "I can respect that."
She didn't answer. Her silence was sharper than any retort. So you stepped forward, closing the distance before she could think of another move. One arm slipped around her neck in a practiced motion, locking her into a chokehold while your other hand clamped firmly over her mouth. She jerked against you, body tensing, trying to twist away, but the ropes and your strength made that impossible.
Her struggles were desperate but predictable—elbows digging, heels scraping against the ground, breath coming in short bursts against your palm. You tightened your grip, feeling the pulse at her throat hammering against your arm.
Humans never go quietly. Survival is instinct carved into their bones. You could feel it in her, that fierce refusal to surrender, that primal drive to fight until the body gives out. It almost made you hesitate. Almost.
"Shhh..." you murmured against her ear, your voice low, steady, almost gentle. "It's alright. It'll be over soon."
It didn't take long before her body went limp, the last traces of resistance draining out of her muscles until she was nothing but dead weight against you. You held her there for a moment—long enough to be sure—then adjusted your grip and scooped her up into your arms. Her head lolled against your shoulder. You slipped back into the shadows, vanishing from the street as if you'd never been there at all.
The silence that followed was deafening. Each step echoed through the back alleys of Piltover, your boots crunching over the broken glass and discarded promises that filled the city's veins. That situation brought back memories. The kind of memories which was not particularly pleasant.
By the time you reached the extraction point, an hour had already slipped by. Keeping invisible with a body slung over your shoulder was no small feat. You'd taken the long route until the neon signs of the Golden Lily finally came into view.
To most of Piltover, it was a forgotten brothel buried deep in the industrial sector, far enough from the main streets to be ignored. To Zaun's underbelly, though, it was Margot's territory—neutral ground, safe haven, and front for a dozen operations no Enforcer dared to touch. The true owner, on paper, was some nobleman from the upper city, a polished marionette whose strings Margot had tied neatly around her fingers.
You slipped through the side door, greeted by a rush of perfume and cigarette smoke. The red lights painted everything in a soft, dirty glow—velvet curtains, mirrors cracked just enough to hide their own reflections, the low murmur of voices behind closed rooms.
"Your comm stopped working?" one of Margot's girls asked as she finished injecting the sedative on Cassandra. "Sevika tried to reach you. Said she needed backup."
"How long ago?" you demanded, already reaching for the earpiece. When you looked down at it, the faint blue glow that should've pulsed along its edge was gone. Dead.
"About half an hour."
You cursed under your breath. "Send word. I'm on my way."
The girl nodded, and you were already moving. The streets beyond the Golden Lily were half-deserted, so you didn't bother hiding this time.
[...]
You arrived two hours too late.
The docks were unrecognizable—transformed into something between a battlefield and a graveyard. Fire licked at the husks of shattered ships, their masts burning like pyres against the fog-choked sky. The acrid sting of smoke clung to your throat as you walked, boots crunching over shards of twisted metal and the faint scatter of shell casings. Here and there, blood marked the ground in dark stains, long since drying. Enforcers lay bound in a corner, stripped of weapons, slumped in unconscious heaps.
And everywhere—chemtanks.
Dozens of them, scattered across the perimeter, their bulky forms half-hidden in the haze, pumping out that faint, greenish vapor that made even the bravest bystander think twice before getting close. The air buzzed with low mechanical hums, the rhythmic hiss of pressure valves keeping anyone from crossing into the area uninvited.
You came in through one of the side streets, and the moment you stepped into the open, several rifles turned in your direction. But they were quickly lowered when they recognized you.
For a second, you just stood there, trying to process it. You'd expected chaos. You'd braced yourself for carnage, for a plan gone horribly wrong. But this—this was order, carved out of ruin. The smell of gunpowder and oil still lingered, the smoke still rose, but the docks were under control. Not Piltover's. Not the Enforcers'. Zaun's.
You moved through the wreckage in silence, your footsteps echoing faintly in the hollow quiet that follows victory. Every so often, someone glanced your way and nod the head in respect.
When you finally reached the control tower, the heavy steel door was ajar, the inside flickering with the soft pulse of emergency lights. You pushed it open and froze in the doorway.
Sevika was there, standing over a table littered with maps. She looked worn but alive, a few smears of soot across her jaw, her expression somewhere between exhaustion and grim satisfaction. Beside her stood Smeech, hunched over a console, muttering something under his breath about signal interference.
But it wasn't them who made your heart falter.
Your daughter was there.
Seventeen now— more taller, though still carrying that fragile, wiry frame that never quite grew into its strength. Her braids, those unmistakable blue ropes of rebellion, were long enough to pass her waist now. The shimmer of metal glinted at her hips where the pistol hung. There was blood spattered across her shirt, soot smeared along her neck, the telltale pink dust only her bombs ever left behind.
And then her smile died the moment she saw you.
Jinx's Pov
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Two hours before
Jinx was tucked behind the stern of a half-gutted boat, its hull propped up on rusted stands like a carcass waiting to be carved. She drew in a slow breath, deep enough that the sharp taste of salt coated her tongue—the sea was close, breathing with her, steady and indifferent.
Her eyes were shut tight, lashes fluttering as she tried to focus, tried to think. But the crack of gunfire and the raw sound of shouting just meters away crashed into her skull, loud and relentless, drowning out any clever plan she might've stitched together.
Not that she was scared. Please. Fear was for people who hadn't volunteered to jump headfirst into this mess. She'd offered to be here, to swoop in and save the day like some bloated, ridiculous hero out of a cheap comic. The problem wasn't courage—it was logistics. Firelights were annoying, predictable in their own preachy way. Enforcers were something else entirely.
Enforcers came armored, armed, and very comfortable with pulling the trigger until someone stopped moving. They didn't hesitate. They didn't listen. And they definitely didn't care who got caught in the crossfire.
Her jaw clenched as memories surged up uninvited. Enforcers on the bridge. Enforcers shouting orders she didn't understand back then, boots pounding, guns raised. The flash, the noise, the sudden emptiness where her parents had been. The same uniforms that dragged Violet to that prison in PIltover.
Killing them wouldn't be a mistake. Not really. Silco wouldn't lose a second of sleep over a few less Enforcers breathing. Hell, he'd probably call it efficient.
But she could already see it—the way her mother's face would fall if she found out. The quiet disappointment. The grief layered on top of everything else. That was the problem. That was the line. So... no deaths. Not by her hands, anyway.
Jinx's grip tightened around the strap of the minigun she had built—designed, engineered, obsessed over until her hands cramped and her eyes burned.
It was a beautiful thing. Heavy. Mean. Balanced just right. A masterpiece, really. But there was a small, inconvenient detail she kept circling back to: she'd finished assembling it yesterday. No field test. No real stress run.
Which meant there was a very clean fifty percent chance it would perform like perfection incarnate... and a very loud fifty percent chance it would detonate into a spectacular mess of shrapnel and regret. The rotating barrel assembly could combust if the friction spiked too high. She'd compensated. Mostly. Probably.
Whatever came first.
She sucked in another deep breath, lungs burning slightly as salt air mixed with oil and gunpowder.
'Silco trusted you with this. Don't screw it up.' The thought looped, sharp and insistent, like a nail tapping the inside of her skull. 'You just have to hold it together until Mom gets here in the worst case. Best case? Mission done.' Easy. Child's play. Barely an inconvenience. Violet could've pulled this off blindfolded, one arm tied behind her back, probably complaining the whole time about how boring it was.
Violet.
Vi wouldn't hesitate. She never did. She'd punch first, ask questions never, and somehow it would all work out. It always did for her. She would've flattened every last one of them by now. No overthinking. No spiraling. Just action.
A bitter huff of laughter escaped Jinx's throat. Great. Comparison time. Always helpful.
"I've got my fists. You've got your guns, Pow-Pow. Use them." Vi's voice rang loud and clear inside Jinx's head, sharp as ever, like it had elbowed its way through the gunfire and smoke just to get her attention. "Make her proud and kick those assholes' teeth in."
Yeah... kicking them in sounded like a fantastic idea.
A grin slowly crept across Jinx's face, crooked and electric, nerves finally snapping into something that felt suspiciously like confidence. Mom would see. She'd finally see that Jinx knew what she was doing. Because she did. Of course she did.
Hesitation was part of the act—dramatic tension, suspense, all that good stuff. You didn't just rush perfection. Jinx had a flawless plan. Unbreakable. Probably.
Okay, maybe "flawless" was doing some heavy lifting there, but still.
With that comforting lie firmly in place, she lifted a hand and tapped the comm tucked against her ear. Static burst through immediately, a harsh hiss layered with distant gunshots and shouting. Then Sevika's voice cut in, metallic and jagged, warped by interference and chaos.
"What is it?! Silco?!"
"The cavalry's here!"
A beat of silence. Then: "What the fu— Jinx? No fucking way." Sevika sounded stunned, furious, and—yeah—there it was. That sharp edge of surprise.
"Listen up! I've got a plan." Jinx let go of the minigun's strap. "We hit them from behind. Hard. On my signal, you push too. We squeeze them like a nasty little pimple until there's nothing left."
There was a crackle of static on the line, then Sevika's voice snapped back, unimpressed. "That's a shit plan, brat."
Jinx rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Wow. Rude. Okay, counteroffer: I can just leave and let you die here." she smiled to herself. "Your call."
Silence answered her—thick, heavy, broken only by another wave of gunfire and shouting bleeding through the comm. Then Sevika swore loudly, the sound distorted but heartfelt. "Fine. What's the signal?"
Jinx's grin widened. "You'll know."
She pivoted toward the small, ragtag group Silco had managed to scrape together in the precious minutes after Sevika's call for backup. They looked tense, under-armed, eyes flicking between her, the weapons, and the direction the shooting came from. Perfect. Fear kept people fast.
"You see the bag I threw on the ground?" Jinx jerked her chin toward it, already crouching to yank it open. Inside—scrap bombs, improvised charges, things that beeped, ticked, or just felt unstable. "Grab whatever you can carry and chuck it at those assholes. All of it. Rush them like your sad, mediocre lives depend on it. And try not to stand in my line of fire, yeah? I don't really know how to control this minigun."
That part wasn't entirely a lie.
Curiously—miraculously—the lunatics actually listened to her. And holy hell, that feeling? That was new. Electric. Addictive. Jinx burst out of cover, heart slamming against her ribs as she yanked the pins from the grenades she took from her bag in one smooth, practiced motion. A sharp grin split her face as she hurled them as far as her arm would allow, metal flashing through the air, followed by the little bombs her people lobbed with far less grace but equal enthusiasm.
Then—boom.
Gunfire vanished, swallowed whole by the sweet, beautiful chaos of explosions. Smoke bloomed outward in thick, rolling clouds—unnatural blues and violent pinks bleeding together, crawling over the docks like living things. The air vibrated. The ground shuddered. It was art. It was poetry. It was hers.
"KILL THEM ALL!"
Now that was a battle cry of respect.
They poured out from behind the boat like animals released from their cages, feral and reckless, screaming as they ran. The Enforcers didn't even see what hit them—just color, heat, impact. Somewhere through the haze, Jinx caught Sevika's voice crackling through the communicator, barking orders to advance, and then everything collapsed into noise. Shouts. Metal striking metal. The dull thud of bodies hitting the ground. A cacophony so loud it blurred into a single, continuous roar.
Jinx dove straight into the smoke.
Visibility dropped to nothing, colors staining the world as she pushed forward, boots splashing through puddles and debris. Her lungs burned, eyes stinging, but she kept moving until instinct screamed that things were tipping—too messy, too close. That's when she brought the minigun up.
The moment she squeezed the trigger, the world kicked back.
The barrels spun with a furious whine, and the weapon roared to life, bullets tearing through the smoke toward every flash of uniform she could make out. It was louder than she expected—stronger. The recoil slammed into her like a charging beast, shoving her backward step by step as she laughed, muscles screaming while she fought to stay upright.
The friction screamed. The gun rattled. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a tiny voice whispered combustion, but she drowned it out with adrenaline and noise.
And then—thud.
Her back collided hard with something solid.
No—someone.
"Your mother is going to kill you." Sevika growled, slamming her back against Jinx's to help absorb the savage recoil of the minigun, turning herself into a living brace while still laying down cover fire.
Jinx barked out a laugh, wild and breathless, adrenaline buzzing so loud it drowned out everything else.
"If I save your ass, you're gonna talk me up to her." she stopped firing for half a second—just long enough to swing the minigun like a club and smash the solid metal housing into the skull of some idiot charging straight at her. The impact rang through her arms. "Deal?"
"Deal." Sevika didn't hesitate. Her mechanical arm snapped open with a sharp hiss, the blade sliding out as she deflected incoming shots, sparks screaming as bullets glanced off the metal. "Down!"
Jinx obeyed instantly, ducking as Sevika surged forward. She twisted, hauling the minigun back into position and squeezing the trigger again, finger locked as bullets poured out in relentless bursts. The barrels screamed, the vibration rattling her teeth, and then—there it was. The one thing she absolutely did not want to see.
Smoke.
Thin at first, then thicker, curling up from the barrel assembly in ugly gray strands, cutting through the neon haze like a bad omen.
"Oh, shit."
"Is it supposed to do that?" Sevika shouted over the chaos, glancing back just long enough to clock the problem.
"No?"
In one brutal, fluid motion, Sevika ripped the overheating machinery straight out of Jinx's hands and hurled it toward the cluster of Enforcers ahead. The minigun barely had time to exist as a gun anymore—midair, it became a bomb. A screaming, sparking catastrophe. Jinx didn't even get to watch the payoff.
Sevika yanked her backward hard, spinning them as the explosion tore through the dock, and then Sevika's body was there—solid, unyielding—shielding her from the storm of shrapnel and debris.
The blast hit like a freight train. Heat washed over them. Metal screamed as it tore free from its mounts. Something slammed into Sevika's back with a dull, bone-rattling thud. Jinx's ears rang, the world collapsing into a high-pitched whine as blue and pink smoke churned even thicker around them.
For a split second, Jinx was very aware of Sevika's weight over her. Of the way she'd chosen to take the hit without thinking. The realization lodged somewhere uncomfortable in her chest.
Then Sevika straightened like nothing in the world could keep her down. "You got another gun?" she demanded, voice tight but steady.
Jinx blinked once—then grinned.
She pulled out a revolver. Silco's. Technically. He didn't know she'd taken it apart, tuned the trigger, adjusted the firing pin just a hair. Improved it. Borrowing was such an ugly word anyway.
Sevika snorted. "Of course you do."
"Try not to fall behind, you big brute!"
Then she ran.
She disappeared into the smoke, boots pounding forward, revolver barking sharp, clean shots as Sevika charged at her side. The world narrowed to movement and sound and instinct—no more plans, no more overthinking. Just momentum.
Visibility near zero, bodies and debris scattered, Enforcers shouting in panic as the attack collapsed around them. And Jinx? Jinx felt alive.
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Powder's eyes widened, and for a heartbeat, she looked thirteen years old again. Then, as though the sheer weight of your stare was too much, she ducked behind Sevika, hiding like a child behind a fortress.
Sevika exhaled sharply, rubbing her forehead before speaking. "You were unreachable, and we needed backup. Silco sent her."
"Silco did what?"
Powder flinched at your tone. You didn't even look at her when she whispered, "Mom..." her voice small, almost lost in the hum of machinery around you. She tried to step forward, maybe to explain, maybe to apologize. You didn't let her.
"Don't." you raised a hand, palm outward, and she froze mid-step. "Not one word."
The room felt smaller with every breath you took. Anger and fear tangled somewhere deep inside your ribs, fighting for dominance. Seeing her there, blood on her clothes, soot on her hands... It affected you in a strange way.
"You're going back to Zaun. Right now. If I see you anywhere near this dock again, I'll drag you home myself. Understood?"
Her mouth opened like she wanted to argue, to insist she could handle herself, that she wasn't a child anymore— but someone else spoke first.
"Ma'am." one of your men called out from the doorway, breath ragged from running. "There's a group of Enforcers approaching from the southern sector."
You exhaled slowly, the last thread of patience slipping through your fingers. "Sevika, with me." you said, turning on your heel without another glance at Powder. "And you—" your voice cut sharp through the room without looking back "Don't make me say it again."
You didn't wait for her answer. You were already moving, Sevika's heavy footsteps falling in behind you, the metallic click of her prosthetic arm echoing down the stairwell. "Give me a report." you said as the two of you strode toward the south end of the docks.
"Minimal losses. Ours and theirs." Sevika replied, matching your pace. "I called for backup when the frontal push failed... like I told you, the guard rotation window was already closed. They had reinforcements waiting, so they hit back hard."
You glanced sideways at her, reading the tension in her jaw. She wasn't the type to explain herself unless she thought she needed to.
"Didn't know Silco was sending the kid. Would've stopped her if I had. But.." she sighed, almost grudgingly, "If I'm being honest, she did good work. Damn good. She flanked the Enforcers from behind. Hit them with her explosives and a couple of our guys. They didn't see it coming. We boxed them in, forced them to give in."
You said nothing at first. Just walked. The sound of waves crashing against the pier filled the silence between you. The words landed heavy. Powder. Fighting. Killing. Her hands shaping chaos, just like you'd sworn she'd never have to do.
"And Remi? Did she succeed?" you'd deal with Powder later—with Silco, especially with Silco—but right now, you needed to finish what you started.
"Unlike us, her team pulled it off. Full frontal assault, clean and fast. They're holding position now, managed to take a few hostages, from what she said. Waiting on your orders." you gave a short nod. Exactly as planned. "And Kiramman?"
"Already en route to Zaun as we speak." you said flatly. "The operation was a success... in every sense of the word, apparently."
There was no triumph in your voice. No satisfaction. Just the cold, heavy aftermath of a victory that cost you something unseen. The anger simmered beneath your skin—not at the Enforcers, not even at Piltover—but at Silco. At his arrogance, at his willingness to drag her into this. Powder had no business being here, no right to stand knee-deep in blood and fire.
You pushed the thought down as you and Sevika moved past the clustered chemtanks stationed along the southern edge of the docks. Their armor gleamed dull and green in the firelight, the shimmer fumes leaking from their vents like breath from sleeping beasts. The low mechanical rumble of their suits filled the air, a reminder of how much destruction could be unleashed with a single order from your lips.
Beyond them, you could see the silhouettes of Enforcers through the haze—shapes moving with rigid precision, flashlights cutting through the smoke. The faint blue glow of their weapons pulsed in unison, a thin, trembling line of resistance holding back Zaun's tide.
And at the front of that line, you saw him.
Marcus.
Even from this distance, you could sense him—the stink of desperation rolling off him like steam. Rage and fear in equal measure.
Mirroring your stride, Marcus began to move as well. He was the highest-ranking officer, the closest thing Piltover had to authority in this chaos. And yet, as he came face to face with you, that authority felt paper-thin.
"Silco didn't tell me you were planning this."
You tilted your head slightly, a humorless smile tugging at your mouth. "And you really think he'd trust you with that kind of information? Come on, Marcus, even you can see how naïve that sounds."
He bristled, jaw tightening. "You realize the Council won't stand for this. They'll order me to take the docks and the airship port back by force. No matter how many of your people die in the process."
"Deaths on your side, you mean." you corrected, stepping closer.
He didn't retreat, but you saw the flicker in his eyes when your shadow fell over him, when the heat of the burning ships behind you painted your figure in molten light. You weren't taller, but somehow you seemed larger, presence swallowing the space between you.
"You see those metal things behind me? You know what they are, don't you? Hoskel has one."
That caught him off guard. A flash of surprise crossed his face—small, but enough to make you smile.
"Exactly... you're not the only one we have, dear." you continued. "And you know what those damn things do. They'll tear apart anyone stupid enough to come near this line. So if you care at all about your men, Marcus..." you leaned in closer, close enough for him to feel your breath. "You'll keep them the hell away."
You stepped back slowly, that small, knowing smile tugging at your lips.
"Besides, I can promise you the Council will have one good reason not to strike back. You'll understand soon enough. But if they insist... if they're stupid enough to retaliate—tell them we have hostages. For every attempt they make, we'll kill one."
Marcus's eyes widened, and before he could summon the nerve to argue, you delivered the final blow—cold and precise.
"That's an order."
The words hung between you, heavy as a verdict. You saw the war in his face, the twitch of his jaw, the anger building behind his eyes. He was balancing on the edge between pride and survival, between defiance and common sense. You could almost see him weighing whether it was worth it to tell you to go to hell—or whether he'd rather live to fight another day.
In the end, instinct won. His fists clenched at his sides, and he turned on his heel, barking orders for his men to fall back. One by one, the gun barrels lowered, the sound of movement fading into the hiss of fire and the distant hum of the sea.
For now, you had won. The culmination of every sleepless night, every heated argument and swearing, every frustration throughout the planning process, every day you thought you were going crazy.
And yet...
The silence that followed didn't feel like victory. It felt hollow. The kind of silence that leaves too much space for thought. You should have felt powerful—untouchable—but instead there was only a strange weight in your chest that wouldn't lift. Deep down, something inside you whispered that maybe this wasn't triumph. Maybe it was just another kind of loss.
Part 43
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Jinx before Shimmer is terrifying, and no one will prove me wrong.
Honestly, I would have loved to see a civil war between Piltover and Zaun, because I loved the political context of the first season.
Peace is nothing more than a fleeting illusion; a fragile pause between storms. It is in human nature to crave conflict, to seek chaos even when silence is offered.
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 6,5K
Warnings: references to deceased individuals, blood, references to scientific experiments, "death", use of drugs as medicine (shimmer)
Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.
Part 40
You were falling into the dark.
Not tumbling, not spiraling—just falling, endlessly, through a void that felt less like space and more like the inside of your own skull. You couldn't feel your limbs. Couldn't feel the air rushing past you. Couldn't even feel fear. There was only the descent, the quiet repetition of it, as if your mind had decided this was all it knew how to do now: fall, fall, fall, into itself.
And then—stillness.
The fall simply... ended.
You were standing in a white room so bright it bordered on painful, the kind of sterile luminosity that scraped against your eyes and made your instincts scream to look away. For a moment you nearly did, squeezing your eyes shut out of reflex, until your vision slowly adjusted.
You weren't alone.
By a cold stone window sat a woman. In her arms rested a newborn, small and impossibly quiet. The woman's voice was barely above a breath as she hummed a lullaby.
Your mother.
Your feet moved before you told them to. You crossed the room, only to notice that with every step, the white around you began to warp.
The white room folded in on itself.
Suddenly, there were walls—real ones. A ceiling pressed low overhead. The scent of roses, oil, and blood filled the air. Furniture appeared as if dragged from half-remembered corners of the past.
It was the bed that stopped you.
The mattress was soaked dark with blood, the sheets were twisted and torn, clawed by hands that had once fought to hold onto something. And there, lay the woman's body.
Her frame unnaturally still, her skin drained of all warmth and color. Pale. Waxen. Empty. Her chest did not rise. Her lips were slightly parted, frozen in what might have been a final, unfinished breath. Her eyes remained open, staring straight through the ceiling and into nothing, glassy and unseeing, like they had forgotten how to close.
You knew that body.
Your mind rejected it instantly.
No. No, that wasn't possible. You had her memories. Real ones. Her voice calling your name. Her hands in your hair. Her presence, solid and undeniable.
Before you realized it, you were stepping forward, reaching out, desperate to touch her, to shake her, to wake her up, to force this image to correct itself. This had to be wrong. A lie. A distortion. Another cruel trick of a fractured mind.
But, you never reached the bed.
A hand clamped around your wrist with sudden, bruising force and yanked you back. The pull was violent enough to wrench the air from your lungs, dragging you away from the mattress, away from the room, away from the blinding white and the blood and the impossible contradiction of it all. Reality peeled apart as you were hauled backward, the space screaming silently as it unraveled.
And in that split second—before everything collapsed—you saw who had grabbed you.
Your mother.
Her features were unmistakable. But her eyes—those were wrong. There was no warmth in them. No softness. No love. They were sharp... cold. Golden eyes, glowing faintly in the collapsing dark, locked onto yours with an intensity that felt ancient, judgmental... aware.
Your eyes flew open.
For a heartbeat, you couldn't tell where you were—or if you were even awake. The remnants of the dream clung to you like cold mist. The world felt wrong, too solid, too quiet. Then you blinked, once... and the shapes sharpened into something real.
Silco's face hovered above you, his expression pulled tight with a concern. His arms were still around you.
It was all just a dream.
A bad dream.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
"The ritual was not completed."
The woman's voice cut cleanly through the chamber — flat and precise —devoid of humor or panic, as though reporting a minor miscalculation rather than a fracture in a carefully layered design.
"And I believe she may have seen one of my memories." she continued, almost thoughtfully. "It seems she managed, somehow, to make use of our connection. Curious."
Across from her, the man stiffened.
In that single moment, all the indulgent arrogance he had worn so comfortably drained from his posture. "You should not find this curious, darling. You should find it concerning."
The pale woman turned to face him fully then. A faint smile curved her lips, her eyes glimmered with something far more dangerous than concern: interest.
"Where you see an error, I see evolution."
Evolution..." he repeated, tasting the word as if it might poison him. "Or the beginning of something you cannot bind."
"Everything worth creating resists its cage at first, Vladimir. That is how you know it is alive."
[...]
A few days later
Powder sat in Silco's lap while he braided her hair with the kind of patience only he possessed. It was early—too early for anyone sane to be awake—and yet there she was. She'd dropped from the beams above, nearly crashing into the desk during a quiet morning discussion about the war plan. None of you had noticed her up there, of course.
She'd been silent as a ghost until gravity decided to betray her. By sheer reflex, you caught her before she could collide with the table, and she'd looked up at you—hair a tangled storm, eyes too bright for that hour.
Now she humming faintly while Silco worked his fingers through her hair, parting and weaving the blue strands with careful precision. There was a strange domestic peace in the scene, something you still weren't quite used to witnessing in that room—the same office where deals were cut, orders given, and enemies buried. It shouldn't have felt warm. But it did.
"Your mother has something important to tell you." Silco said, his tone casual as he tied the first braid and started the second.
You froze halfway through a sip of coffee. Of course he'd do that—throw the weight straight onto your shoulders like it was nothing. Your eyes narrowed at him over the rim of your cup, but he didn't even glance your way. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.
Setting the cup down, you inhaled slowly, trying to steady the sudden rush of nerves crawling up your spine. Powder was staring at you now, wide-eyed and curious, those big blue eyes brimming with expectation. You'd faced down several assassination attempts without flinching, but somehow this—this look of innocent attention—felt harder to confront.
You weren't even sure why you were anxious. It wasn't as if what you had to say was particularly shocking. Still, something about it felt... significant. Maybe it was because, for the first time, it wasn't business or survival. It was something real. Something that had nothing to do with the war or blood and everything to do with the strange little family that had formed inside these cracked walls.
"Your father and I... are getting married."
The words slipped out softer than you'd planned, almost hesitant, like a confession instead of an announcement. For a second, the room went completely still. You half-expected Powder to gasp, scream, or fall into one of her chaotic fits of excitement—but she didn't. Instead, she blinked once and said with alarming calm.
"Oh, I already knew."
You stared at her, utterly thrown. "What?" the word came out thin and strangled, disbelief cracking through your voice. "How... how did you know?"
She shrugged, all nonchalance, twirling the end of finished braid around her finger. "I saw the ring when you caught me earlie.," she said, grinning as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Took you long enough though, don't you think?"
"Jinx." Silco warned, but there wasn't an ounce of real reprimand in it.
He tied the final braid, before releasing her. And then, like a spark set loose, Powder shot up from his lap, crossed the small space between you in a blur of blue hair and energy, and flung herself at you.
The impact knocked the air clean out of your lungs. You barely had time to catch her before she wrapped her arms around you, squeezing tight—too tight. You could feel her heartbeat against your ribs.
For a moment, you just stood there, stunned, your hands hesitating before finding their way around her small frame. You pulled her close, returning the embrace. There was laughter muffled against your chest—hers, bright and genuine, vibrating through you like something alive.
From his chair, Silco watched, silent but content, a faint smile ghosting over his lips. "You'll suffocate your mother if you hold her any tighter."
She didn't let go right away, of course. Typical. Instead, she mumbled something against your shoulder about "finally being official" and "about time" and you caught yourself smiling despite the ache in your ribs.
Powder eventually eased the tightness. She loosened her hold, though she didn't go far—just shifted to settle in your lap instead, her weight warm and familiar. Her small fingers immediately found your left hand, tugging it closer with the curiosity of a collector examining some rare treasure. The ring caught the green light filtering through the window, and she turned it this way and that, inspecting every detail with exaggerated seriousness.
"When's the wedding?"
"Not now." you replied, smoothing a loose strand of blue hair from her forehead. "We need to deal with this situation with Piltover first."
She let out a long, drawn-out groan—something between a whine and a growl—that could've meant anything from you're the worst to the world is unfair. "But that's going to take forever..."
"I know, but it'll happen. Don't worry."
It wasn't the answer she wanted, but it seemed to settle her. Powder gave a tiny huff of reluctant acceptance before leaning forward again, curling herself against you. Her head rested against your chest, the steady rhythm of her breathing syncing with yours.
You glanced up then, meeting Silco's gaze. Expression composed as ever. But behind that cool façade, there was something different—something gentler flickering in his eyes. A kind of quiet astonishment, maybe. For a man who'd built his life from chaos and control, who'd traded peace for power long ago, the sight before him must have been almost surreal.
He'd always spoken of loyalty, legacy, the cause. But this—this fragile thing sitting in front of him—this was something else entirely. Something he likely never thought he'd have again. His own small, imperfect family, stitched together from the ruins of what came before.
You felt his gaze linger for a moment longer before he looked away, a faint exhale slipping through the corner of his mouth. He moved then, opening one of the lower drawers of his desk. From within, he retrieved that strange device—the same one you'd seen him take almost every morning since you'd started sharing his bed again.
It had become a quiet ritual by now. He'd rise before dawn, slip out of the sheets, and leave for the office, always returning with that thing in hand before locking himself in the bathroom. You'd never asked what it was, though the question had lingered more than once on your tongue. Whatever purpose it served, it was clearly something he didn't intend to share.
You watched him now as he adjusted the mechanism. When he finally looked back toward you and Powder, there was that sharpness again.
"Jinx, it's been some time since you last trained."
At that, Powder's head lifted from your lap, blue braids brushing against your arm as she turned toward him. Her brow furrowed in that familiar, mock-offended way, but her curiosity got the better of her when he tilted the device in her direction. You could see it more clearly now—long and narrow, ending in what looked disturbingly like a needle.
She slid off your lap without hesitation, bare feet padding lightly across the floor until she perched on the edge of the desk beside him.
"That's because you keep doing it yourself." she said, taking the device from his hand with a mix of defiance and care. "You don't let me help anymore."
A small sound—half amusement, half approval—escaped him as he leaned back in his chair, tilting his chin up ever so slightly. Powder's small fingers steadied his jaw, her concentration sharp and almost reverent. She aimed it, angling the needle toward the damaged eye. She pressed the trigger.
A sharp hiss. The metallic sting of pain flashed across Silco's features. The low growl that tore from his throat wasn't loud, but it was raw—enough to make every muscle in your body tense.
Powder, though, didn't flinch. She withdrew the device carefully, watching him with patience of someone who'd done this before, who understood exactly how much it hurt and how necessary it was.
You were on your feet before you even realized it, crossing the space toward him with a quickness born more of instinct than thought. But before you could open your mouth, Powder was already ready for the questions she knew were coming.
"Silco has to take shimmer injections for his messed-up eye." she said matter-of-factly. "He does it every day."
"There's nothing for you to worry about, dove." Silco murmured, his tone even—almost gentle, though it came from a throat still roughened by pain. He leaned back into his chair, exhaling slowly. A thin trail of violet shimmer trickled from the corner of his damaged eye, sliding down the jagged scar like some strange imitation of a tear.
Without thinking, you reached out. Your fingers brushed against his cheek, wiping away the glimmering liquid before it could fall. His skin was warm beneath your touch, tense at first, then softening. He didn't pull back. In fact, he tilted his head slightly toward your hand—just enough to let you know he welcomed it.
Vander had told you that during the fight in the river, one of his blows had wounded Silco near his eye, hard enough to leave a deep cut before he tried to drown SIlco.
It wasn't hard to imagine how the polluted waters had poisoned the open gash, infecting his face until shimmer became his only way to keep the rot at bay. A cruel irony, really—that the same substance he used to build his empire was also what kept the infection contained.
"Does it hurt?" the question left your mouth softer than you intended, almost fragile in the space between you.
"It's tolerable."
You didn't believe him—not entirely. You could see the faint tremor in his jaw, the ghost of pain still flickering in the muscle near his temple. But he wore endurance like armor; it was who he was.
"By the way." Silco said after a long, quiet moment, his tone shifting with practiced ease. "You've yet to tell me how the training has been going."
You knew exactly what he was doing, deflecting from the subject of his eye, redirecting the conversation to steadier ground. Still, you let him. If he didn't want to talk about it, you shouldn't force him.
"With everything that's been happening, I haven't had much time to teach her anything new." you admitted, lowering yourself into his lap. His arm moved almost automatically around your waist. "But she's making progress. More than I expected, actually."
Across from you, Powder had made herself comfortable again—perched at the edge of the desk, legs swinging in lazy rhythm.
"She's also been learning a few things from Sevika in her spare time."
That got his attention. One brow arched, the faintest hint of surprise tugging at his features. "Sevika agreed to that?"
Before you could answer, Powder jumped in, her grin spreading wide.
"Yes! That big brute even taught me how to throw a proper punch!" her voice rang through the office, full of pride and barely contained energy. She mimed a punch in the air for emphasis, nearly knocking over an inkwell in the process.
You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you "My little girl has incredible potential."
"Don't call me that." Powder groaned immediately, turning her head away. The tips of her ears were pink, though the faint smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. "I'm not a kid anymore."
"To me, you'll always be my little girl." you teased, dragging the words out in that exaggerated, motherly tone you knew she hated.
Powder made a strangled noise in the back of her throat, the kind she used when words failed to express her full outrage. She spun toward Silco, blue braids whipping over her shoulder like banners. "Make her stop!"
He didn't even pretend to think about it. "And go against your mother? Jinx, I haven't gone mad yet."
The look on her face was priceless—wide-eyed betrayal, dramatic disbelief. You had to press your lips together to keep from laughing outright. She stared between the two of you as though she'd just discovered that her entire world had conspired against her.
"Two against one? That's not fair!"
Silco's lips curved into something dangerously close to a smirk. "Welcome to the real world, kid."
Powder let out a frustrated sound that was equal parts growl and laugh before throwing herself backward onto the desk with theatrical flair, limbs sprawling as if she'd given up on life entirely. The motion made a few papers flutter to the floor, and your laughter finally slipped free— genuine, uncontrollable.
You leaned back against Silco's chest, still shaking with amusement. His arm tightened around you in quiet acknowledgment, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your hip. Powder peeked at you from her dramatic position on the desk, pretending to sulk but failing to hide the small smile creeping over her face.
[...]
You knocked on Viktor's door — a soft tap first, then two quicker ones. You glanced over your shoulder just to be sure no one had followed. The door opened. Viktor's eyes flicked down the hallway before locking onto yours. Without a word, he stepped aside, and you slipped into the room. As soon as you were in, he turned the key, the metallic click punctuating the silence.
"You took your time."
"There's a blockade on the bridge." you pulled off your cloak, shaking off the thin layer of grime from the streets before hanging it on the stand by the door. "Had to knock out a few Enforcers to get through without drawing attention."
He hummed — a sound of understanding more than surprise. "They've increased the patrols again."
Without another word, Viktor moved toward the lab. He wasn't using the cane. His gait was uneven — a subtle limp, a rhythm still relearning itself — but it was his own. With a small exhale, you followed.
Viktor had already set up the collection equipment on the main table. He was sterilizing a syringe now, hands moving with the cold assurance of someone who'd done this too many times to count.
You remembered the letter that had brought you here.
Sevika had handed it to you that afternoon. Viktor requested your presence for a round of "sample collection." Nothing more, nothing less. You'd stared at the neat handwriting for longer than you'd admit before deciding to come.
You sat down on the chair beside the workbench. A few seconds later, Viktor took the seat across from you. The soft hiss of his gloves slipping over his fingers filled the silence. You offered your arm automatically, the gesture practiced. But instead of reaching for the syringe right away, his gaze caught on something else.
The light from the table reflected against your hand — against the ring on your finger. His eyes lingered there a beat too long.
"Congratulations on the engagement."
You smiled as Viktor finally picked up the syringe and positioned it in your arm.
"Thank you." you didn't flinch when the needle pierced your skin, the sting was familiar, expected. The soft draw of blood filled the vial, slow and rhythmic. "Actually... I was the one who proposed."
"I would be surprised if it were Silco who proposed." Viktor said, almost idly — though there was a faint edge of amusement beneath the calm. To your quiet astonishment, he even let out a short breath through his nose, something dangerously close to a laugh. "When is the wedding?"
"After all this mess with Piltover is over"
He nodded once. "I see."
And then the silence came back — that thick, heavy quiet that always seemed to stretch too far between you. You watched him move, the way his focus locked so completely on his task that it left no room for small talk, or forgiveness, or the things you never said. Maybe you'd been a fool to come here thinking there'd be something left to salvage. Maybe forgiveness wasn't something Viktor gave — maybe it was something he simply outgrew.
Still, part of you hoped. You didn't expect him to be your friend again, not truly. But some small, bruised part of your heart wanted to believe that the sharp edge between you had dulled, that he no longer saw you as just another miscalculation in his ledger.
"I..." the word caught in your throat, dry and unsteady. He didn't look up, still focused on sealing the ampoules, his movements almost hypnotic in their precision. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to speak before courage fled entirely. "I would like you to walk me down the aisle."
That did it. The motion of his hand froze midway. He'd just set the syringe aside and was reaching for a bandage, but the gesture stalled halfway, suspended in the sterile light. For a moment, he didn't move at all.
"What?"
"Look, I've never been to a wedding before." you started, words spilling faster than you intended. "But Vander once told me the bride chooses someone she trusts, someone important, to walk her down the aisle. And I can't think of anyone else but you."
The words left your mouth in a rush, tumbling into the quiet like a handful of stones breaking still water. You couldn't bring yourself to meet his eyes; instead, you focused on the small details around you — the instruments scattered across the workbench, the faint trail of steam rising from a flask, the trembling reflection of the two of you in a glass vial. Anything but him.
"But I'm not saying this to make you feel obligated or anything." you added, voice thinning under its own weight. "I just... wanted you to know."
When you finally looked up, Viktor was staring at you. Not with anger or pity, but with something unreadable—his expression steady, almost mechanical, yet there was a flicker behind his gaze that betrayed the precision. The silence between you grew thick, almost unbearable. You could hear the faint ticking of some unseen mechanism in the corner, counting the seconds you regretted opening your mouth.
He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just looked. And the longer he looked, the smaller you felt. The air seemed to press in around you, heavy with all the words neither of you had the language for.
You broke first. "You know what? Forget I said anything."
Viktor's gaze lingered a second longer before he looked away. Without a word, he reached for a bandage and began covering the spot on your arm—even though the puncture wound had already sealed itself.
"I think we're done here." Viktor said finally, voice calm, almost neutral. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
You stood up quickly, maybe too quickly, the chair legs scraping against the floor with a harsh sound. Across the table, Viktor was methodically sealing the vials that held your blood—each one labeled, handled, and stored.
You told yourself to leave. Your mind gave the order, but your body didn't move. Feet rooted to the floor, heart pounding with the weight of too many memories. You'd seen this before—how something once strong could rot from the inside, how loyalty could twist into bitterness, how friendship could turn into ruin. Vander and Silco had been proof enough of that. And for all your stubbornness, all your pride, you couldn't bear the thought of becoming another cautionary tale.
"I'm sorry. I never should've dragged you into this crossfire. You didn't deserve the stress, or the ultimatum. Any of it." you hesitated, breath trembling just enough for him to notice. "I just... hope that one day, you can forgive me."
Viktor didn't look at you. He simply finished storing the last vial. Then, without a word, he turned to his desk, flipped open his journal and pulled out a folded sheet of paper from between its pages. He handed it to you without explanation.
The paper was creased and smudged, as if it had been handled too many times. You unfolded it slowly, expecting data, notes, some formula you were meant to decode—but instead, you were met with uneven handwriting, letters looping awkwardly across the page in bright, childish ink. You didn't even need to read the signature to know who had written it.
Hi! I'm writing this because I want you to be friends with my mom again. I heard the conversation between you two (PS: don't tell her I was listening behind the door). So I kinda understand why you fought, I just don't get why you'd be mad. Like, you're from Zaun too, so why wouldn't you wanna fight for us?
Anyway, things ended bad between you two and my mom got really sad. She doesn't have many friends because most people wanted to hurt her, so you were her first friend after Vander, which is a big deal. Please just think about forgiving her. My mom's kinda dumb when it comes to friendships, but she really means it.
Signed,
Jinx.
You read the last line twice, maybe three times. "I didn't know about this... I didn't tell her to write it."
"I know." Viktor said quietly, taking the letter from your hand, eyes scanning the words with only a passing glance. "She gave it to me one day when I went to Singed's lab."
You exhaled, dragging a hand down your face as exhaustion settled in the space between you. Of course this would happen. Of course she would find a way to wedge herself right into the middle of things you were still trying to mend. "Powder shouldn't have done that. She had no right—"
"I disagree." Viktor interrupted softly, his tone even but firm. He set the letter down atop his open journal. "Children are far more perceptive than we give them credit for. And far more honest than any of us will ever allow ourselves to be. So, her letter made me think."
"And what conclusion did you come to?"
"That I cannot forgive you."
You'd told yourself to expect that. You'd known, deep down, that the wound between you wasn't one that could be stitched up with a few well-placed apologies and the memory of who you used to be. But still—hearing it out loud hit differently.
Then he added, softly, "Not now."
Oh... that dangerous flicker of hope — it caught in your chest like a spark landing in dry grass. Small, almost harmless at first glance, but you knew what came next. The heat, the light, the slow, consuming burn that left nothing untouched.
"I'll wait as long as it takes, Viktor."
"I know you will."
You stood facing each other, suspended in that strange, brittle quiet where goodbyes gather but never quite form. There was nothing left to discuss, not really. The conversation had run its course, and yet neither of you moved. Maybe it was inertia. Maybe it was something more fragile — an unwillingness to be the first to shatter what little peace you'd managed to build in this fractured room.
Seconds stretched. They could've been minutes. Hours. It didn't matter. The silence had weight, and for once, neither of you seemed eager to set it down.
You should've left. That would've been the sensible thing — to turn, open the door, and walk away before the calm cracked open into something harder to manage. But you didn't. You'd never been particularly good at leaving when you were supposed to.
Instead, you stayed. "I'd like to know how the cure's coming along. You know... because of the whole Singed situation."
"Oh." he blinked, as if remembering where he was, then straightened with that habitual composure of his. "Nothing particularly significant, but I can show you some preliminary results."
And he did. Viktor reached for another notebook — the heavier one bound in dark leather, its pages marked with careful tabs and annotations. He began to show you the data: columns of numbers, graphs with faint traces of blue ink, sketches of chemical chains that spiraled like veins across the page.
You leaned closer, scanning his notes as he explained the small improvements — a marginal increase in cellular response, a temporary stabilization in neural degradation. Promising, yes, but still imperfect. Every success seemed to drag the shadow of failure just behind it. For a while, the two of you talked like you used to, lost in the language only your two spoke — theory, process, hypothesis. It was easier that way. The ache between you both had nowhere to fit inside this part of the world.
When he shifted to discussing his own treatment, the atmosphere grew quieter again, though neither of you said anything about it. He spoke clinically, as though he were describing someone else's condition — the latest iteration of the serum, the refined synthesis, how it managed to suppress the symptoms longer than before. But not indefinitely. His illness, stubborn and unrelenting, always returned. The reprieve was temporary. The reprieve always was.
"The degeneration halts, for a time. Then it resumes. Like an old machine refusing to stay fixed." Viktor closed the notebook, the soft thud of its cover sounding heavier than it should have. "Perhaps there are limits even innovation cannot surpass."
It was like a serpent devouring its own tail — an endless struggle, creation and destruction feeding each other in a perfect, merciless loop. The cure held Viktor's disease at bay, kept it from advancing into the darkest corners, but it could never fully erase it. The thing that kept him alive also reminded him, constantly, that he was dying.
"The impossible is just a step that humanity is not yet sure how it will achieve, but it will eventually."
Viktor seems to recall the phrase. The same phrase that once came from his lips.
And so the two of you remained in that damned laboratory for hours, chasing ghosts through equations and prototypes that refused to yield. One failed test bled into the next, each result as disappointing as the last. You both kept at it long after reason would have told you to stop — Viktor out of sheer defiance, you out of pure and genuine rage.
You argued, of course. At first it was about methodology — the ratios, the energy conversions, the stability curve — but fatigue had a way of turning science into stubbornness. The debates grew sharper, more absurd, until you both sounded like children bickering over whose impossible theory had a better chance of rewriting the laws of nature.
He would dismiss your approach as reckless; you'd accuse him of thinking too small. The cycle repeated until it almost became comforting, a strange rhythm that filled the space where resentment used to live.
Somewhere in the chaos, two untouched cups of tea sat cooling on the corner of the table.
[...]
Spring... summer.... autumn... winter...
Spring... summer.... autumn... winter...
Spring... summer.... autumn... winter...
Spring... summer.... autumn... winter...
Marcus's Pov
━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━
Four years
It had been easy—too easy, perhaps—to grow accustomed to the silence that followed once the tension began to loosen its grip. Days bled into each other until they became weeks, then months, and eventually years. Four years was enough time for a wound to close... but not nearly enough to forget the one who caused it.
Piltover had long since lost any semblance of control over Zaun. Whatever fragile ties once held the two cities together had rotted away, leaving only resentment and fear in their place. Every attempt to reassert influence—to send a patrol, a diplomat, a spy—ended the same way. Failure. Every single time. And the reason was always her.
Marcus had seen it with his own eyes. That woman—if she could still be called that—had become a wall of flesh and willpower between the two cities. An unspoken warning that Zaun would no longer be touched. She was a guardian and a threat in equal measure, a phantom that haunted the border where Piltover's light dimmed into Zaun's smog. But what unsettled him most wasn't her ferocity—it was her restraint.
Whenever the Council forced his hand, ordering another group of enforcers to cross the bridge, Marcus already knew how the mission would end. He would stand there, jaw clenched, heart heavy, watching as she emerged from the shadows. She would drag the unconscious bodies of his men—sometimes two, sometimes five—across the bridge, leaving them in a neat line at the city's edge. Not a single fatal wound. Not even a broken bone. Just bruises, faint marks of a struggle, and the same unspoken message every time: Stay away.
Her mercy had been mistaken for kindness at first—a strange, almost gentle warning. Yet it proved far more effective than any display of violence. By now, the entire population of Piltover knew what had truly happened in Stillwater Prison.
The truth had slipped through cracks in the council's silence, whispered from one tongue to the next until it became common knowledge. And with that knowledge came fear. Not the kind born of ignorance, but of understanding. Everyone knew what she was capable of.
The boundaries between the two cities had never been clearer. What was once a blurred line of trade and quiet corruption was now a border marked by tension and survival. Within those boundaries, Zaun had begun to feed on itself.
Most of the people below had little choice but to work for Silco. He had made sure of that. Cheap labor, steady production, and a network of loyalty forged not by belief, but by necessity. Power had a way of gathering in the hands of men who never should have held it—and Silco was living proof.
Even Piltover wasn't immune to his reach. Shimmer had begun to appear in the upper city, hidden in alleys and traded in the dark corners of markets. Marcus couldn't trace the path it took, but he had his suspicions. Piltover's elite had the nasty habit of doing what they publicly condemned. Shimmer was a drug that relieved all worries, a dangerously addictive momentary relief. Perhaps the irony was meant to be funny.
What frightened the people of Piltover came from Zaun, as did the drug that calmed them.
Marcus often lay awake thinking about it—the inevitability of it all. The quiet before the fall. It wasn't a question of if Zaun would strike, but when. He could feel it building, like pressure beneath the earth, a storm waiting for its moment to split the sky. And when it did, Piltover's shimmering towers and golden ideals wouldn't be enough to hold it back.
Marcus hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep in his chair until he felt something tugging at his sleeve. The touch was small, hesitant. When his eyes blinked open, still heavy with exhaustion, he found Ren standing beside him, her little fingers curled around the fabric of his coat, pulling gently but persistently. It took him a moment to understand what was happening—to remember where he was.
A quick glance at the clock nailed to the wall confirmed what his body already knew: it was deep into the night, far past the hours when anyone should be awake—especially his daughter. He wiped at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, embarrassed by the tacky line of drool he found there, and forced his thoughts to focus.
"What is it, sweetheart?" his voice was rough and low from sleep. "Did you have a nightmare?"
Ren shook her head, her eyes wide but steady in the faint light. "There's someone knocking at the door."
Marcus froze. For a second, the room felt colder. Every hair on his arms stood on end as if the air itself had shifted. His mind, dulled by sleep moments ago, now raced. No one came knocking at this hour—not in Piltover, not at his door. Whatever arrived past midnight was never good news.
Marcus rose from his chair, his joints protesting after hours spent slumped over his desk. Without a word, he bent down and lifted Ren into his arms. She wrapped herself around his neck instinctively, her warmth a brief comfort against the cold unease creeping up his spine.
He carried her down the dim corridor to her room, each step careful, quiet—the kind of silence born of caution. When he laid her back in bed, he forced a calm smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Don't open the door for anyone but me, alright?" he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"Okay, Dad."
He kissed the top of her head, lingering for half a second longer than usual, then stood and crossed to the dresser. One of the spare keys to her room lay in his palm for a moment before he placed it on top of the wooden surface, where she could see it if she needed to. Then he stepped outside, closing the door gently behind him, and turned the key in the lock until it clicked.
Marcus slipped the key into a small vase on a side table nearby—a habit he'd developed years ago when paranoia became second nature. Just in case. Always just in case. His eyes flicked to the framed photo hanging in the hallway: Ren's smile, his wife's faint reflection behind her. The kind of memory that hurt to look at for too long. He tore his gaze away.
The knocks came again. Steady. Three beats. A pause. Then another. Whoever it was hadn't left.
Marcus exhaled through his nose, forcing his hands not to shake as he reached for the pistol, which he usually left on a small table near the entrance. He checked the chamber—loaded. Safety off. The familiar weight of it grounded him, though it did nothing to quiet the pounding in his chest.
He moved toward the front door, the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots sounding too loud in the stillness. Every sense was on edge now. When he reached the door, he undid the first lock, the metallic click echoing like a gunshot in the silence.
One hand hovered over the handle. The other remained hidden behind his back, fingers curled around cold steel.
But what Marcus found waiting on the other side of the door was not at all what he expected.
At first glance, he saw the uniform—familiar, official, unmistakably that of an Enforcer. But the longer he looked, the more wrong it appeared. The shirt was half-buttoned, patches of fabric pulled taut where others hung loose. One sleeve was torn, the brass buttons mismatched, and his belt hung crooked at his side, missing the standard issue baton. He looked as though he'd thrown the uniform on in a blind panic and run straight here without stopping to breathe.
The young man was drenched in sweat, chest heaving as if he'd sprinted across the entire city. His hair clung to his forehead, and his hands trembled as he tried to steady himself against the wall beside the doorway. Marcus felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Enforcers didn't come unannounced, not like this—and certainly not in the middle of the night looking like they'd seen a ghost.
"Airship port... docks... we lost ..." the words came out between ragged gasps, fragmented and desperate.
Marcus's brow furrowed. "Speak properly, damn it." he snapped, though the frustration was more a mask for the surge of dread tightening in his chest.
The young officer swallowed hard, his voice breaking. "Zaun... there was an attack... they— they attacked us."
So this was it. The storm he'd been waiting for.
Part 42
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
This was supposed to come out last week, but my computer suddenly stopped working, so everything was delayed. I'm sorry. Also, I finished college and ended up getting hired! My internship ended and they wanted to make me an official employee… so I'm a salaried worker now!
Anyway, welcome to the long-awaited war between Zaun and Piltover (with a little bit of Black Rose manipulation thrown in). We've reached Act 2 of Arcane, and now things are going to get really crazy.
And yes, no smut scenes for today. They'll be back, I promise.
Desire teaches you what to want. Claim teaches you how to take it.
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 9,7K
Warnings: smut, dry humping, mutual masturbation, praise kink, breeding kink, resolved sexual tension, cowgirl position, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, implicit cock warming, Silco being a tease, angst, Kindred being referenced, Silco POV
Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.
Part 39
"So, we're finally going after those Piltover bastards, huh?" the rat—no, Smeech—spat out, his voice far too eager for your liking. He had both grimy feet planted on the chair, hands pressed against the edge of the table as he leaned over the map spread before everyone.
"We're still in the planning phase." your tone was even. Then you shifted the queen and king pieces across the map, their bases scraping softly against the wood as your golden claws caught the light. "But yes. We'll strike soon. Directly. Here." you placed the queen over the airship port and the king at the docks. "Our targets."
"Cut the trade and external communication. Clever." came another voice—Chross. He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes narrowing as he studied the map.
Of all the barons in the room, Chross was the only one who could almost pass for civilized. Silco had told you that Chross came from Piltover, and it wasn't hard to believe. The way he carried himself—too clean, too measured—reeked of that upper-city arrogance. His posture was perfect, his coat tailored, and his words precise in a way that made you wonder if he still thought himself above the rest of Zaun.
"And here I was thinking we'd just blow up that damn Council tower." Smeech muttered, his tone dripping with disappointment. He slumped back into his chair.
"And risk every piece we have in one reckless strike, without the certainty it would end them in a single blow?"
Silco didn't need to raise his voice to command attention. He was seated at the head of the table, a cigar burned lazily between his fingers. He looked every bit the villain that people painted him to be—composed, dangerous, utterly sure of his place in the room.
"The plan is not to make a spectacle, it's to make Piltover bleed slowly. To force them into retreat." he leaned back in his chair, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "We take their ground, piece by piece. Piltover has resources enough to fight back, we cannot forget that. They'll counterattack the moment they smell weakness. So we strike in ways they can't predict."
You gave a short nod, catching Silco's eye across the table. A silent thanks. He'd said what needed saying before the room dissolved into a chaos.
"Exactly. They've lost a fair number of Enforcers since the prison incident, but don't let that fool you. Piltover is still the City of Progress. For every soldier they lose, there's a scientist ready to build something that kills twice as well."
Your claws went to the queen piece, taking it in your hand for a moment to prove your point.
"If we cut off access to the outside world, we don't just slow them down. We starve their machines before they're even born. No fuel. No supplies. The more isolated they are, the more desperate they become. And desperation..." you allowing yourself the faintest smile. "Is the doorway to oblivion."
"But that gives us more than just crippling their resources." Remmi said, already on her feet and leaning over the map, fingers ghosting the routes you'd marked. "The channels that we will have under our domain? We can reroute them. Smuggle in what we need, sell what we want. Turn their lifelines into ours."
Margot made a soft noise that could almost pass for pleasure if you ignored the predator in it. "Seems like we stand to gain everything, then."
Then Smeech piped up, the words sharp and impatient. "Hold on! didn't you say you wanted a simultaneous strike? Those two places are fortified to hell, and they're miles apart. How the hell are both attack groups supposed to hit on the exact same second?"
You paused for a moment, searching your memories—both past and present—for something you could use to answer the question. And a certain memory echoed in your mind: the sight of your old apartment, two bodies you had just killed, and a third man in your line of sight talking to someone wearing that device in his ear.
"In Piltover, there are these sound-frequency devices. They're used for long-distance communication. I'm not sure how we'd get our hands on one, but... I've seen a few mercs down here using something similar a few good months ago."
Chross's head tilted slightly. "You mean this?" he asked, reaching into the inner pocket of his perfectly pressed coat. When his hand emerged, he held a small object. The device emitted a faint blue glow, and you recognized it immediately. "It's a modified Piltover communicator." Chross explained, setting it down on the table. "I use them to keep in contact with my people at the factories. Range is limited in the depths, but clear enough above the lower levels."
You put the Queen piece back in its place. "And where did you get them?"
For a brief moment, Chross's gaze flickered—not to you, but to the woman standing beside him. Remmi caught the look, then sighed as if caught red-handed. "Finn sold me the originals." she admitted. "Said he got them through a contact of his from Topside."
Your jaw tightened before you even realized it. The sound of your own hand clenching echoed softly against the table—the tips of the claws dragging along the wood. You didn't need to say the name aloud; Silco's glance met yours across the room, a silent confirmation of the same conclusion. Hoskel.
"Do you think you can produce more of them?" Silco asked, tapping the ash from his cigar into an already crowded tray.
"I think so. My men ran reverse engineering on the samples Finn sold me, we can reproduce the communicators. Not with their level of precision, of course, but functional enough to get the job done."
"Then start production." Silco gave the order "Make sure they connect across long distances. No excuses."
Remmi hesitated for only a breath before asking. "And the deadline?" her tone was measured, but the faint twitch in her fingers gave away her nerves. No one in Zaun asked Silco for more time unless they wanted to bleed for it.
Silco didn't answer. He just turned his head, slowly, deliberately, and fixed his gaze on you. A wordless pass of command.
The silence stretched thin for a moment before you straightened, your body moving almost of its own accord into the posture you'd seen Silco wield so many times before—hands clasped neatly behind your back, spine straight, chin raised just enough to make eye contact feel like a challenge.
"You'll have as much time as you need to refine them." then you stepped closer to the table, letting your gaze sweep over the gathered barons. "We'll need cooperation from every one of you for this plan to succeed, If one link breaks, the chain fails. So if anyone here has doubts speak now."
You half-expected resistance. In truth, you counted on it. A part of you—the part that still saw the people before you as little more than rats in fine coats—waited for someone to flinch, to fold the moment real blood was mentioned. You'd seen it too many times before: bravado dissolving into silence, loyalty melting under pressure. Yet, for once, they surprised you. And not in the disappointing way.
Maybe it was confidence. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe they'd finally started to believe that, with you standing among them, the impossible could actually be done. Whatever the reason, no one moved to argue. And for a heartbeat, that silence tasted like power—thick, metallic, familiar.
"I'm in." Smeech said first, with the kind of enthusiasm only chaos could inspire. He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Not like I'd pass up a chance to kick those pampered bastards right off their pedestals."
There was always something feral about Smeech—too eager, too reckless—but for this? Recklessness might serve you well.
"My men will be available. Provided, of course, the plan remains... sound." Chross spoke, calm and measured as ever, his tone a stark contrast to the rat's. "I might even reach out to a few contacts still loyal to me in Piltover. People who owe favors. Discreet ones."
"My girls are still in high demand up in that city." Margot also joined the conversation, her tone lazy, unhurried. She examined her nails as she spoke, the gold of her rings catching the light. "Perhaps this little cold war of ours has made people... restless, shall we say. Either way, some of my clientele sit quite comfortably in the upper ranks of Piltover's finest."
Her gaze slid toward you, eyes dark with mischief.
"I can offer my girls as our eyes and ears among the elite. After all, as I'm sure you know, men will confess just about anything if offered the right kind of persuasion."
She punctuated the words with a wink. You caught it, and for a moment, you had to fight the pull of a smile. You knew exactly what she meant. You both came from the same kind of streets—ones that sold affection like currency and survival like art. You had walked that life once; she still danced in it, perfectly at ease, perfectly dangerous.
Before the thought could linger, Remmi spoke up. "If everyone's offering labor, then I'll offer equipment. I've got a few weapon prototypes and a handful of deactivated Chemtanks. With the right materials, I can get them running again for the assault, but let's be clear, I'm not funding this on my own."
"Of course." you nodded slowly. "Send your list to The Last Drop. We'll see that you get what you need."
As the words left your mouth, your eyes flicked almost instinctively toward Silco. He hadn't spoken since delegating the last order, just sat there with that same still, coiled composure—like a king who didn't need to raise his voice to rule. For a moment, you searched his expression for approval, the way a soldier might seek the faintest nod from a commanding officer.
And then it came: a small, nearly imperceptible tilt of his head.
When the barons began murmuring among themselves, voices weaving together in a low tangle of greed and strategy, you forced yourself to stay engaged. Your mind, however, was already fraying at the edges. Every polite nod, every carefully measured response felt heavier than the last.
Who would've thought that deciding the fate of an entire city could be such an exquisite form of torture?
You caught fragments of their chatter and tried to appear as though you were listening. But in truth, all you could think about was the pounding in your temples and how badly you wanted a drink. Maybe two. Maybe a week of sleep.
[...]
The moment the door shut behind the last of them, silence fell like a thick blanket. You stayed still for a few seconds, just breathing, your body running on the faint hum of adrenaline that hadn't yet burned out. Then you let go. The version of yourself that had stood tall through hours of tension—the Silco version, you called it—finally cracked.
You turned, leaning against the table, and then simply let yourself fall back onto it with a heavy thud. The impact rattled the chess pieces still scattered across the surface, but you didn't flinch. Your eyes closed, and a long sigh escaped your chest, half exhaustion, half theatrical surrender.
"I want to die." you groaned dramatically, voice muffled against your arm. The room was empty except for you and Silco now, which meant you could drop the iron mask for something far messier—human.
"No, you don't." came his voice, low and matter-of-fact. You heard the scrape of his chair across the floor, followed by the slow rhythm of his footsteps. Then they stopped, close enough that you could smell the smoke from his cigar. "Stop being dramatic. It wasn't that difficult, was it?"
"Easy for you to say..." you cracked one eye open to glare at him, though it lacked any real heat. "Oh, for gods' sake, why did you make me lead that meeting in your place?"
"Because you need to get used to it."
The simplicity of his answer made you want to throw something at him. But you didn't. You just groaned again, dragging your hand down your face.
"Remember what you told me once? If I'm ever gone, those animals will start tearing each other apart before the blood even dries. We can't afford that. We can't let Zaun rot from the inside just because there's no one left to keep them in line." you felt his hand settle on your knee. "If anything happens to me, you'll have to take my place."
The words landed heavy in your chest, cold and certain. You pushed yourself upright slowly, parting your knees just enough to allow him to position himself between them.
"I hope that never happens." you leaning forward, you pressed your forehead against his. The contact wasn't tender, exactly—it was too raw for that—but it was real. Two exhausted creatures holding the same storm at bay. "Did you notice how agreeable the barons were today? It felt... wrong. They're never that cooperative."
"I did notice. I expected to have to threaten one or two, but they were curiously civilized. Not entirely surprising, though." Silco replied, his breath brushing against your skin, his tone faintly amused. "Taking Piltover's place as the main city is profitable. Power concentrates money, money buys influence. If we become the governors, they fall right under us in caste."
"So it isn't about Zaun's revolution."
He gave a short, nasal laugh, something halfway between mockery and pity.
"Dove, it never really was about some noble cause for them. For the barons, Zaun is an enterprise. A means to extract value. They don't care about banners or slogans, they care about the ledger. Revolution is a story you tell to the people who need hope. For men like them, it's business expansion with less paperwork."
You pull back slightly, your arms looping loosely around Silco's neck. His hands settle on your thighs — not with desire, not this time, but with the steady weight of familiarity. The gesture is almost innocent, though the air between you hums with that ever-present static that never quite leaves.
It's strange how comfort and hunger coexist when it comes to him.
"All this planning is going to take a damn long time." you murmur, fingers absently toying with a loose strand of his hair that refuses to obey the slicked-back order of the rest. "You know that, don't you?"
Silco hums, low in his throat, a sound that could be a laugh or a sigh. "I'm a patient man. I've waited for this moment my entire life. What are a few more years?" he tilts his head into your hand, the faintest concession to tenderness, before pressing a kiss against your lips. "I believe we can allow ourselves to go home. It's already night, and we've been sitting in this place since morning."
"Actually... there's somewhere I want to go first." you pull back enough to meet his gaze. "Margot reminded me that we also have a spy network right at our fingertips. I think it's time we paid them a visit."
[...]
You knock twice before the small viewing slot slides open. A single golden-brown eye studies you from the other side, lingering just long enough to feel invasive. Then it shuts again with a soft clack, followed by the scrape of a lock turning. The hinges protest as the door creaks open, spilling the low amber light of the brothel into the corridor.
A man welcomes you from the other side. You can't recall his name, though you do recall that Babette trusted him enough and that he was a sort of bodyguard for her. Fortunately, he remembers you. Recognition flashes across his features.
"Wait here. I'll get Babette."
His gaze flicks past you, pausing on Silco, and for a brief moment the air thickens. No words are exchanged — only that silent. Then he turns on his heel and disappears behind a curtain, his heavy boots fading down the hall.
"This place hasn't changed a bit." you murmur, mostly to yourself, though you catch Silco's quiet grunt of agreement beside you.
The smell of cheap perfume and expensive liquor still clings to the walls. Laughter — brittle and practiced — echoes from deeper in the building. Everything here feels suspended between glamour and decay, just as it always has.
It doesn't take long before footsteps approach again — four sets this time. Babette appears first, followed by the man and two of her girls, faces familiar but names long lost to you. She stops just a few feet away, her chest rising and falling with the telltale rhythm of someone who'd run to be presentable.
Her eyes flicker once to Silco, then back to you. The room seems to shrink around that tiny gesture. You know she's measuring every breath, every word, not for your sake but for his.
"How may our humble establishment be of service to you?" Babette's voice carries that detached grace she wears so well — smooth, polite, and cold as glass. It's the same tone she used back when you were still one of her girls, a tone meant to draw lines without saying where they begin.
"I'd like to request a meeting."
Her head tilts slightly, a faint arch to one perfectly painted brow. "Just you?"
You nod once. "Just me."
Babette studies you for a heartbeat longer than is polite. Then she turns to the two women standing behind her. "Take Mr. SIlco to one of the private suites." she instructs, her voice slipping into that commanding rhythm that brooks no hesitation.
"May I request a specific room?"
Silco's tone is... unsettlingly gentle. Cordial, even — the kind of softness that carries teeth beneath it. The air changes instantly. You see the way Babette's spine stiffens, how her girls freeze mid-step and glance toward her for silent permission. Even when he's polite, Silco's presence bends a room out of shape — quiet dominance wrapped in civility.
"Of course." Babette says smoothly. "Girls, take Mr. Silco to whatever room he desires and make sure he receives only the best our house can offer."
The two women step aside immediately, heads bowed, creating a clear path for Silco. He moves without hesitation. He doesn't look back at you, doesn't need to — the gesture of trust is subtle but unmistakable. He's giving you the space, the authority, to handle whatever comes next.
But the moment he disappears behind the velvet curtains, something inside the room shifts. The air that had been taut with power relaxes into something personal. The scent of perfume feels thicker now, the sound of laughter from the distant hall too sharp, too fake. Without Silco's shadow beside you, the illusion of authority feels thinner... and Babette, for the first time tonight, truly looks at you.
Her gaze cuts through whatever armor you've built for yourself since leaving this place. There's no fear in it, no respect either — just disappointment, pure and unvarnished.
"So you finally came back." her tone steeped in acid but soft enough to sting worse than shouting. "But not in the way I imagined." her eyes sweep over you, taking in the fine details — the tailored coat, the golden claws on your hand, the quiet command in your stance. "Tell me, are you here as the girl I once took in... or as the new baroness everyone's whispering about in the streets?"
The words land like a strike. A slap would've been kinder.
You hold her stare, feeling the weight of it — the unspoken history between you, all the nights spent under her roof, all the lessons she gave you about power and survival and how both always come with a cost.
"Who do you want me to be?"
Babette's mouth twists into something that might have been a smirk once, but it's too bitter now. "Who you are now."
The silence that follows stretches out, heavy enough that you start to feel it in your ribs. A minute passes — maybe more — before she finally exhales and turns on her heel.
"Come." she says over her shoulder. "We'll talk in my office."
And so you follow her.
Babette's office is almost exactly as you remember it—the same heavy red curtains serving as both door and entryway decoration. The same panel full of masks hanging on the wall behind her desk that you always thought were bizarre but never quite admitted. The same roses she kept in a small pot, but which now bloomed in a large arrangement. That same reddish light coming from the lampshade on her desk, bathing the entire room in that color.
It's like stepping into a preserved moment, a place that refuses to move forward even as the rest of Zaun decays and mutates around it. It stirs something uneasy in you — nostalgia with a pulse of dread beneath it.
Babette sinks into the chair behind her desk, every motion elegant, practiced. You take the sofa, the same one where you used to sit while she read you the rules on how you should treat a customer.
"I heard about Violet." Babette says at last, her voice softer now, though not quite gentle. "My condolences."
You nod, the gesture small, automatic. You prefer to ignore the pain of grief most of the time. Because if you catch yourself thinking about it, that anger and pain come back like a tsunami. Violet already haunts your thoughts.
"If you know about her, then you already know I took Finn's place—"
She cuts you off, finishing the sentence herself.
"And that you went back to Silco and that you want to start a war against Piltover. Yes, I know all that." she exhales, a quiet, humorless sound, and reaches for her cigarettes. The scratch of the match flares orange across her features, catching on the fine lines time has started to carve there. "Still, I'll admit, hearing those things for the first time was... surprising."
You watch the smoke curl between you, silver ribbons twisting through the dim light. "I'm sure it was."
"Then tell me, what brings you here? You've already traded the cage for the throne. Surely you didn't come back to reminisce."
"I came to buy this place." you straighten your posture, meeting her gaze without hesitation. You're back to your 'Silco' persona. "And to bring your girls under my service."
For a moment, she doesn't react — only stares, her expression unreadable. Then one brow lifts. "Your service..." she repeats, tasting the words like they might be poison or gold. "And what kind of service would that be, exactly?"
"Espionage and persuasion." you say, settling deeper into the couch as you cross one leg over the other. The leather sighs beneath you, familiar and worn. "Zaun has two major brothels worth speaking of. Margot's, which only caters to those who can afford her extortionate prices, and yours, which serves everyone else. Yet despite that, this place is the most reliable, the most discreet. I need eyes and ears in the undercity, people who can tell me which rumors are gaining traction in the streets... and people who can help shape them, when necessary."
Babette leans back slightly, smoke coiling from her lips as she studies you. Her expression doesn't shift, but there's a flicker in her gaze — part disbelief, part curiosity. "And you believe my girls are fit for that kind of work?"
You can't help the faint smirk tugging at your lips. "Babette... I worked for you. I know exactly what your girls are capable of."
The humor doesn't land.
"This won't come cheap." she taps her cigarette against the ashtray. "Information never does. And loyalty? That's even more expensive."
"I'm willing to pay whatever you ask."
Babette watches you for a long moment. The pause stretches, until it turns into an awkward silence. Finally, she exhales, the faintest sigh slipping past her lips—the sound of someone deciding that a fight isn't worth the headache.
"Very well. I'll have someone deliver the contract to The Last Drop, along with some notes on the... espionage arrangements you requested."
You nod and rise from the sofa, smoothing the creases from your coat. The movement feels oddly ceremonial, like closing a chapter you didn't realize was still open.
"You'll remain in charge here." you continue. "I don't have the time to manage this place directly, and I trust you know better than anyone how to keep it running. My acquisition changes nothing about how you operate, only that this establishment will now fall under my protection. And, by extension, Silco's."
Babette lets out a quiet laugh — not mocking, but knowing. She leans back in her chair, the light from her desk lamp catching the edge of a smile that isn't quite kind.
"Being under your protection is the same as being under your command." her gaze flicks up to meet yours, steady and unflinching. "Don't bother dressing it up, dear. I know how this world works."
For a heartbeat, neither of you speak. The old wood of the office creaks softly, as if remembering the years between you. You could deny it, try to soften her words — but that would be a lie, and Babette's the kind of woman who smells deceit the way others smell smoke.
You move toward the exit, the weight of the conversation still clinging to you. Your hand — the one adorned with golden claws — reaches for the heavy curtain. The fabric yields under your fingers, but you hesitate before pulling it aside. There's a question lodged in your throat, sharp and splintered, one you've managed to swallow but can't seem to ignore now.
"Do you regret saving me that day?"
The words hang in the air, soft but heavy enough to still the room. You hear the faint metallic groan of her chair. Her eyes are on you; you can feel them, hot against the back of your skull, like fire tracing old scars. And for a moment, you almost wish you hadn't asked.
When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter than before — stripped bare, all the performance gone. "I have only one regret when it comes to you and it's not saving you."
You turn slightly, just enough to see her in your periphery. She's not looking at you like an adversary now, or even an equal. There's something raw in her expression.
"I regret letting you walk out of here after you woke up." she continues. "I should've kept you close. Protected you. Looked after you like Vander asked me to." her gaze drops onto the roses. "If I'd done that... maybe things wouldn't have turned out this way."
She pauses then — long enough for you to think that's all she'll say. You almost take the reprieve, almost push through the curtain. But then her voice finds you again, softer now, but cutting deeper.
"Maybe... you'd still be you."
Your fingers tighten around the curtain, the velvet bunching beneath your clawed hand. You knew you'd changed — how could you not? But the way Babette spoke, it was as if you'd become something monstrous, something beyond redemption.
You were still you, weren't you? Maybe colder, but still yourself. And even if you had changed, why shouldn't that be allowed? After everything you'd endured, after everything they had taken from you, wasn't it your right to become something new?
"That girl... that girl is dead. And I don't recognize what's standing in her place." Babette's voice came again, trembling with restrained emotion — a brittle mix of anger, disappointment, and something dangerously close to mourning. "My only advice to you, child, is to be damn sure you know what you're doing. Because if you don't—" her voice cracked, the mask faltering for a single heartbeat. "You'll condemn everything Vander fought to build."
You could have answered—wanted to, even—to argue, to tell her she was wrong, that you were doing what was necessary, that Zaun needed this version of you. But you didn't. You let her have the final word. Because some small, buried part of you—the part that still remembered warmth, laughter, the sound of Vander's voice calling your name—knew she was right.
The line between prosperity and ruin was razor-thin, nearly invisible, and you were dancing on it with blood on your hands.
Without another word, you pushed past the curtain. The fabric whispered against your arm as it fell closed behind you, sealing Babette and her ghosts away.
It was a strange way to end your relationship with Babette. Somehow you knew this would happen, because there was no place for her in your future. You became everything she hated most.
Your legs carried you through the corridors of the brothel on instinct. The scent of perfume, smoke, and old velvet clung to the air, wrapping around you like ghosts from another life. Before you even realized it, you were standing before that room—the one you knew Silco was in.
Yet, for a long moment, you didn't move. You lingered behind the curtain, fingers grazing the fabric, your mind drifting somewhere far away.
You'd stood here once before, in this very position, but everything had been different then. Back then, the thought of him waiting beyond the threshold had sent panic clawing up your throat, your pulse hammering at the idea of facing him. Now, that same presence on the other side of the curtain was the only thing grounding you, the only thing that felt remotely safe in a world that no longer made sense.
You drew a slow breath, the kind that felt heavier than it should've, and pushed past the curtain.
The dim light bathed the room in gold and shadow. Ornaments made of red roses were adorning the walls, a subtle change in the scenery. And there he was—Silco, the feared and self-proclaimed leader of Zaun, your fiancé. He was seated on the couch as if he owned the place—which, in a way, he did—his arms draped lazily over the backrest. His good eye found you immediately.
"You seem... stressed."
"I just bought this brothel." you said abruptly, the words tumbling out before you could even decide if it was the right time. "Technically not bought yet. I still have to sign the contract and send the payment, but Babette already agreed to sell, so it's basically mine. Ours. So... yeah. Anyway, are you mad?"
For a second, Silco just looked at you, his eyes half-lidded, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying amusement. He didn't rush to answer. He simply tilted his head, studying you as if your rambling were something endearing instead of reckless.
"Why would I be?"
"Because I did something without consulting you first."
He leaned back against the couch, that sharp, foxlike smirk crept onto his lips. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time."
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, which only made him chuckle under his breath. The sound was low, the kind of laugh he only ever gave you. Then, in that way only Silco could, he shifted from teasing to thoughtful without missing a beat.
"If I may say, dove... it feels almost poetic. We met when you were working as a prostitute, and now here we are, full circle, with you as its future owner." his tone softened, though the cunning glint in his eyes. "Besides, having another establishment under our influence isn't exactly a loss. More eyes, more information, more control... and a steady flow of income."
You exhaled, half-relieved, half-skeptical. "So you're not mad."
"No, my love. Quite the opposite, actually. You've learned to make decisions that strengthen our hold over Zaun. That's what a leader does."
The way he said it—leader—sent a strange chill down your spine. Because in that moment, his words didn't sound like flattery or manipulation. They sounded like belief.
Then you move towards Silco, just like that night.
When you reached him, he guided you down onto his lap, his hands finding your waist as though they had always belonged there. The pressure of his grip was firm, grounding—possessive in a way that didn't suffocate, but rather reminded you that you were safe, at least in this single fragile moment.
He leaned forward, his breath ghosting against your throat before his face buried in the curve of your neck. You felt him exhale deeply, the warmth of it brushing against your skin, the sound low and almost reverent.
"This position brings back... good memories." his lips traced the line of your neck in a slow, absent motion. "You looked so beautiful in that white satin dress."
You let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh if it weren't so unsteady. Tilting your head back slightly, you gave him more space to explore, the movement instinctive. "You still remember that?"
"I remember everything about you." he replied, the words low and unhurried, as if he were confessing something rather than simply stating it. "Your voice. Your warmth. Your taste..." his lips brushed the shell of your ear now, his tone lowering until it was a whisper that seemed to vibrate straight through you. "How you looked when you ride me for the first time."
Unexpectedly, Silco leaned back, his lips leaving your skin. For a moment, you thought he was simply pulling away to light a cigar—but instead, his hand slipped into the inside pocket of his coat. When it emerged, he was holding a small black box.
He said nothing as he handed it to you, only watching with that sharp, unreadable gaze of his.
You opened the box slowly, and the world seemed to narrow to the gleam inside. Nestled in the dark velvet was perhaps the most exquisite ring you'd ever seen—metal worked so precisely it caught the light like liquid, a gemstone that shimmered faintly. It looked expensive. Really expensive.
"Silco..."
"I've been thinking..." he began, his tone calm and even, though his eye betrayed the faintest flicker of vulnerability. "Whether I should wait until the wedding to give you a ring or if I'd rather the world know you belong to me now." he paused, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "And, personally, I find the latter idea far more satisfying."
"With a ring like this, they'll definitely notice." you laughed. "We'll have to tell Jinx."
"That little gremlin will probably blow something up in celebration."
He took the ring from its velvet nest with surprising care, then he reached for your left hand, his touch gentle—reverent, even—as he slid the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly, as though it had been molded around you, made not just for you, but of you. Knowing Silco, you wouldn't be surprised if that was the case.
"Perfect." he said, his voice low and certain, his gaze fixed on the way the gem caught the dim light. For a moment, he looked at peace—something rare enough to steal your breath.
Your hands finding his face. The golden claws dangerously close to his skin, but you held him gently, your touch delicate and sure. Then you kissed him—slow at first, grounding yourself in the warmth of his mouth, the familiar taste of smoke and iron that clung to him.
Silco responded almost immediately, one hand holding your waist again, the other found your hair, tangling through it until the pins gave way and the strands fell loose around your face. He guided your head with a quiet dominance that didn't need words, deepening the kiss until there was nothing left between you but the shared rhythm of your breath and the warmth building in your chest.
Despite all the shit that was happening and that was going to happen, you were happy. Really happy.
Silco's Pov
━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━
Sometimes Silco regretted not proposing sooner, but if he were honest, her proposing made perfect sense. This woman acted impulsively —the complete contrast to him — because while he debated the pros and cons of marriage, she was already there, openly accepting all the consequences without a care.
Silco's hands roamed over her curves as they kissed, caressing her body with a newfound sense of possession and love. He could feel her melting into him, her softness molding to the planes of his own body as their lips moved together in a sensual dance. The taste of her, the feel of her, the way she responded to his touch —it set Silco's blood on fire.
Silco broke the kiss and gazed down at her flushed, happy face. His dark eyes shone with adoration and a deep, abiding desire as he took in her beauty. She couldn't be real. Someone like her should be adored and venerated, and he didn't mind being the one to do that.
He guided her to lie back on the sofa, following her down to cover her body with his own.
The empty ring box fell forgotten to the floor with a soft thud, but Silco paid it no mind. His coat soon joined it, discarded carelessly as he settled his weight over her, his hips nestling between her thighs. Silco's hands slid under her shirt, pushing the fabric up and out of the way until he could feel the warm, smooth skin beneath.
Her eyes fluttered closed as Silco's fingers brushed over her breasts, her nipples pebbling under his touch. She could feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against her core, even through the fabric of his trousers. A soft moan escaped her lips as she arched into him, craving more of that friction.
Silco's lips found her neck, his teeth grazing over her racing pulse before his mouth opened to place hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat. He could feel her heart pounding beneath his lips, could hear the way her breath hitched and caught as he worked his way down to her collarbone.
However, she wouldn't let him go any lower. Holding his hair, she brought Silco's face back to hers. And he allowed her to kiss him.
Silco's hand slid down her side, gripping her thigh and hitching her leg up and around his hip. He used the new angle to press himself more firmly against her, the hard ridge of his arousal rubbing against her. Silco's hips rolled and rocked, dry humping against her with increasing urgency as the kiss deepened.
She gasped into Silco's mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair as she held him close. The friction of their clothed bodies rubbing together sent jolts of sensation racing through him, stoking the flames of his desire. Breaking the kiss with a soft nip to her bottom lip, Silco gazed down at her with darkened eyes, his expression a mix of hunger and tenderness. His hand slid under her skirt, pushing the fabric up and out of the way.
Silco's eyes locked with her, dark and filled with lust, as his fingers hooked into the waistband of her panties. With a swift tug, he yanked them off, exposing her glistening sex to the cool air. Almost simultaneously, Silco's other hand moved to open his trousers, freeing his hard, throbbing cock. He stroked himself slowly, his thumb swiping over the leaking tip to spread the bead of moisture around the swollen head.
"Touch yourself."
His own breathing grew heavier as he watched her trembling fingers delve between her slick folds, collecting the evidence of her arousal. When her fingers found her clit, Silco groaned at the sight of her circling the sensitive nub. He matched her rhythm, stroking his cock in time with her movements.
Silco's free hand slid up her thigh, squeezing the soft flesh as he watched her pleasure herself. He could feel her muscles trembling, could sense her body growing more and more aroused with each passing second.
"That's it, dove..." he encouraged, his voice a low, seductive murmur. "You're doing so well for me."
The image of her touching herself, combined with the way her back arched off the sofa and her breasts heaved with each ragged breath, pushed Silco closer to the edge of his control. He could feel his climax building, his balls drawing up tight as he chased his pleasure, all while watching her.
He turned his gaze to her face, intending only to catch a glimpse of her reaction, but what he found there struck him harder than any wound ever had. Her expression wasn't one of pleasure or carnal satisfaction. It was something far deeper, disarming in its purity: adoration. Not the kind born of admiration or fascination, but a quiet, unwavering devotion.
The world narrowed until there was nothing but her—her gaze steady, her lips parted slightly, her breath trembling with something that felt dangerously close to reverence. His own expression softened. The feeling wasn't one-sided.
What he felt for her was as inevitable as the tide, and just as unstoppable.
"I need you."
There was no way he could disobey her.
He then leans over her body again, positioned himself at her entrance, the swollen head of his cock nudging against her slick folds. In one smooth, steady thrust, Silco sank into her, burying himself to the hilt inside her. Silco paused for a moment, savoring the sensation of her walls clenching and fluttering around him, molding to his shape like a velvet glove.
Silco's hands slid down to grip her thighs, holding her steady as he slowly withdrew, only to sink back in with a deep thrust. He set a steady rhythm, rolling his hips in a way that had her gasping and moaning with each drive of his cock.
As pleasurable as having her beneath him was in itself, it still wasn't enough. It didn't quite satisfy that itch as much as a certain position would.
In one swift movement, Silco shifted their position, sitting back on the sofa and pulling her onto his lap. His hands slid up her sides, coming to rest on her hips as he guided her movements. There were good things about having her on top of him: the privileged view of her bouncing on him, how his cock would go deeper with each thrust, the fact that he didn't have to do the work but rather watch her work for the pleasure of both herself and him.
"Isn't this your favorite position, dove?" Silco teased, his voice a low, seductive murmur. He rocked his hips up to meet hers, the new angle allowing him to sink even deeper inside her. "Go on, enjoy it."
Silco leaned back against the sofa as her fingers dug into his shoulders. The focus on her face, the determination in her eyes as she set a steady rhythm, rising and falling on his cock, sent a surge of lust through Silco's veins.
He could see the way her breasts bounced with each roll of her hips, the soft globes rising and falling hypnotically. Silco's hands slid up her sides, coming to rest on the swell of her breasts, his thumbs teasing over her hardened nipples. He could feel them pebble beneath his touch, could hear the soft, breathy sounds of her pleasure as she took her own satisfaction from his body.
The sight of his own length disappearing inside her, over and over, was almost too much to bear. It was almost hypnotic to watch her body taking him to the hilt and then releasing him only to draw him back in again. With each deep thrust, the sound of the flesh meeting grew wetter.
"I... fuck..." she begins, though a moan interrupts her mid-sentence. "I'm not on birth control."
The statement is made so suddenly that Silco, for a second too lost in the sensation to even understand, but when he realizes... oh, it's as if the pleasure below his hip has intensified. He practically feels his balls twitch as not-so-pure thoughts begin to flood his head.
"Since when?"
"Since our last time, before our fight."
Silco raises an eyebrow. "It's been five months and you're letting me come inside..." her damn smile already gave him all the certainty he needed. "You perverted girl."
"Can you blame me? I like feeling you." she really shouldn't say that while she was moving up and down so fast. He tries to maintain his concentration, placing both hands on her waist. And to Silco's misfortune, she had sensed his internal struggle. "Don't you like it? How you fill me so well?"
He threw his head back, his eyes squeezing shut as he fought to maintain control. But her words, combined with the relentless roll of her hips, pushed him to the brink of his endurance. Even though he himself was trying to restrain himself, he made no attempt to stop her. For all intents and purposes, Silco was enjoying her little game more than ever.
"Don't say such things." his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he struggled to hold back the tidal wave of lust threatening to consume him.
"Why not? I'm just telling the truth." she guided Silco's hands from her waist to rest on her flat stomach, her fingers splaying over his as she pressed his palms against her belly. "Wouldn't that be nice, Silco? To have a little piece of both of us growing right here."
She definitely wanted to kill him. That was the only explanation
"Oh... God... stop talking."
That was perhaps the most deceitful phrase that had ever come out of her mouth. No, he didn't want her to stop talking. Her talking was turning everything into the most delicious kind of torture.
"I want you to fill me up, Silco... can you do that? Please..."
With each clench and ripple of her muscles around his throbbing cock, Silco felt his body beginning to betray him. When certain thoughts began to wander into his mind, his hips jerked up involuntarily, driving himself even deeper inside her.
At this point in his life, he already knew it was impossible for her to conceive a child. Yet none of that stopped his pleasure-soaked, drunken mind from conjuring images he had no right to entertain—visions disturbingly sweet, almost painfully vivid, of her holding a child born of the two of them. In those fleeting fantasies, the little thing would undoubtedly inherit her beauty. How could it not?
Maybe a girl, nearly identical to her mother: the same quiet fire in her eyes, the same smile that softened even the edges of his most violent days. Or a little boy—sharp, bright, stubborn—blessed with her stunning eyes.
He could almost see Jinx in that picture too, her grin broad and wild, declaring herself the "big sister" with a pride she would never admit she wanted. And unlike her own sister had done... no, Jinx would be different. She would guard that tiny life with teeth bared and claws out, the way a sister should. She would keep that child safe from every shadow, every threat, every echo of the past that had once broken her.
In his mind, their child would be born beneath the open sky—under the stars that Zaun's children were never allowed to see directly. But this one... this one would have the right to look up without fear. A child given what he himself had been denied for so many decades.
And Silco... Silco would offer that child the world. Just as he already offered it to his wife, and to his daughter. He would fight for them, bleed for them, burn cities for them if he had to.
It would be... perfect.
"Come for me, my love."
That was the last straw for Silco.
With a feral growl, Silco released her hand and gripped her hip with bruising force, pulling her down onto his cock with a final, devastating thrust. He buried himself to the hilt inside her, his thick length pulsing and throbbing as he hit the deepest part of her. At the same time, Silco's head dipped to her neck, his nose burying in the sweat-dampened skin at the junction of her throat and shoulder.
Silco's mouth opened, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh of her neck as his climax crashed over him like a tidal wave. He could feel his cock jerking and spurting inside her. The sensation was overwhelming, the most intense pleasure he had ever experienced. It felt as if his very soul was pouring out of him, merging with her as he filled her up.
"FUCK!" Silco roared, his voice echoing off the walls of the brothel. His hips jerked and spasmed, grinding against hers as he rode out the aftershocks of his release. He could feel her walls fluttering and clenching around his softening length, milking every last drop of his essence.
As the fog of lust began to lift, Silco found himself blanketed by a strange sense of peace and contentment. He held her close, his arms wrapped around her like a shield as he nuzzled into the crook of her neck. For a long moment, he simply breathed her in, savoring the feeling of their bodies joined together.
Silco felt it the moment her fingers slid into his hair, twining the dark strands around themselves with lazy familiarity. The sound of her soft laughter vibrated against his chest, light and satisfied, a sharp contrast to the weight still settling in his bones.
"Look at you... you lasted longer than I expected."
A low, wordless grunt escaped him, pressed directly into the warm skin of her neck. He had noticed the game she played, of course. He always did. Emotional pressure, delivered with a smile and gentle hands, was still pressure. Still manipulation. But honestly, he didn't care about being manipulated that way.
"You did that on purpose." he muttered, voice rough, breath warm where it brushed her throat. "Didn't you, you little pervert?"
She didn't deny it. Her fingers stilled in his hair, abandoning the idle teasing to trail down, slow and deliberate, until her hand rested at the nape of his neck. She kept it there—not pulling, not pushing—just enough to anchor him, to keep his face tucked against her skin. Silco was acutely aware of how willingly he stayed.
"It's not my fault you make your... tendencies so obvious. I just used what I already knew. There's nothing wrong with that." a pause, thoughtful. Softer. "Part of me wishes I could make that fantasy real."
The words settled heavily in his chest. He exhaled, a long sigh, tightening his arms around her without quite meaning to, drawing her closer on his lap.
"Maybe someday. I'm certain Singed could find a way to make it possible, even for us."
In Silco's mind, the idea had not been absurd. For someone like Singed—mad, unreliable, ethically hollow, yes, but undeniably brilliant—the impossible was merely another problem waiting for a solution.
If anyone in Zaun's twisted reality could engineer a future where a child between them existed, it would be him.
"If I had to choose between having a child through Singed's hands or never having that chance at all, I would choose the latter." her voice carried no hesitation, no softness to cushion the statement. It was resolved, almost premeditated, as if she had weighed the idea long before this moment and found it wanting. "A pure child shouldn't be tainted by the sinful hands of that creature."
It wasn't what he had expected to hear, though it wasn't entirely surprising either. Her hatred for Singed was uncompromising, rooted not only in disgust but in principle. She drew lines where Silco often blurred them for the sake of outcomes.
Then she shifted slightly on his lap, just enough to remind him that he was still inside her. The seriousness fractured.
"Besides..." she added, her tone turning sly, almost lazy with confidence. "I prefer the traditional way. It's far more pleasurable."
This woman is going to kill him with that damn lust.
Silco's hands slid upward almost without thought, fingers curving behind her neck as he drew her down to him. The kiss he claimed was unhurried, lazy in its intent—meant less to consume and more to silence, to stop the steady drip of provocation she wielded so effortlessly.
She answered him with the same quiet hunger, her hands bracing against his chest, trusting him enough to let him guide the rhythm. Silco felt it—the way she yielded without disappearing, how she let him take control without surrendering herself entirely. That balance fascinated him more than the kiss itself.
He only broke away when she did, much to his own irritation. She shifted, settling against him, her head resting over his heart, her body molding to his as if it were the most natural place in the world. Silence followed. Not an awkward one. A good one. Heavy, calm, earned. Silco had no desire to fracture it with words.
But it seemed she had other intentions.
"It's a mark of death."
The suddenness of it pulled his attention sharply back to the present. His brow furrowed as his gaze dropped instinctively to her, confusion flickering across his features.
"What?"
"The mark on my collarbone." she clarified softly. "It's a death mark. You know the legend of the Kindred, don't you?" at his quiet sound of acknowledgment, she continued, her voice steady, almost reverent. "It means recognition. Death deemed me worthy of living, but at the same time, it bound me to a destined end."
A pause followed, and then Silco sighed. "Fuck..."
And just like that, the reason for one of their most significant fights became known. And Silco didn't quite know how to react, both because of the truth behind that mark and because of her action of finally telling him after so long.
He didn't even remember it anymore. Ignored from his attention since he knew she would never tell him about it. But maybe–just maybe–he could see why she decided to keep it to herself.
Silco's hand shifted suddenly, firm but not rough, forcing her to lift her head from his chest so he could look at her properly. His fingers framed her jaw, thumb resting just beneath it, compelling her gaze to meet his. There was no anger in his eyes—only something sharper, more intent.
"Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because I want you to know everything."
And then she did.
She spoke, and once she started, there was no stopping it. The words came unevenly at first, hesitant, as if testing whether the ground would hold.
The memories of her mother, which she now held in her mind as if they were her own. The bizarre truth about her birth—how from the beginning she had been planned for a single, selfish purpose. The existence of that Noxian witch, entwining herself in her life like a parasite, using Vander's image in visions created solely to manipulate her.
That was the lowest thing anyone could do. Even by Silco's standards.
And of course, the most important and shocking fact. The moment she stood face to face with death itself—not metaphorically, not poetically, but literally, according to herself.
What she had guarded for months now spilled freely, as if the dam had finally given way. Trauma poured out of her in a steady current, not dramatic, not performative. Just relentless. Like something long held finally deciding it could no longer stay contained.
He did not offer reassurance, did not shape her pain into comforting phrases or attempt to dull it with promises. He knew better than that. Some wounds rejected consolation; they demanded to be witnessed.
So he stayed. Silent. Attentive. Absorbing every word, every pause, every place where her voice faltered or hardened. His arms remained around her, steady and unyielding, holding her as if anchoring her to the present while she unraveled the past. If there was judgment in him, he buried it. If there was fury, he kept it leashed.
Listening to her was not an act of mercy. It was not charity offered to someone laid bare by pain, nor a moment of softness indulged out of affection. Silco understood that distinction with absolute clarity. What he was doing was bearing witness. Nothing more, nothing less.
In that moment, he was not her savior, not her judge, not even her lover—he was a witness to the life she had lived before him. A past that did not belong to him, could never belong to him, and yet demanded to be acknowledged if it was to stop haunting the future.
He absorbed her story the way he absorbed everything that mattered: carefully, without flinching. Each revelation fitted itself into place, not as gossip or confession, but as intelligence. Context. Cause and consequence.
Being the listener served two purposes, and Silco was acutely aware of both.
To understand what she was.
And to understand what she might yet be capable of becoming.
[...]
She must have fallen asleep at some point. Silco realized that only later, in hindsight, because he had followed soon after—slipping into a shallow, unfamiliar doze without ever consciously deciding to rest. When he woke again, it was with the dull awareness of an uncomfortable position held too long.
They were still in the brothel.
He lay behind her, instinctively curved around her body, his arm was hooked around her waist, firm enough to keep her from rolling forward and meeting the floor face-first. It was a protective hold, unthinking, automatic.
It was only after a few steady breaths that he noticed something was wrong.
She was completely still in his arms—too still. No subtle adjustments, no unconscious shifts that usually came with deep sleep. And yet, one of her hands betrayed her. Her fingers twitched faintly at first, then more insistently, curling and uncurling in small spasms, as if reacting to something only she could feel.
Silco, carefully, shifted just enough to bring his hand over hers. The reaction was immediate.
The spasms stopped the moment his palm made contact.
Her eyes flew open.
For a split second, Silco thought he saw something off in her gaze—something distant, reflective, almost dead. Then she blinked and whatever he thought he had seen vanished. Her eyes were her own again, clouded now only by sleep and disorientation.
"Silco?" her voice was low, still thick with sleep. She shifted slightly in his arms and then lifted her head, eyes scanning the room as awareness returned in pieces. "We're still in the brothel."
"We should go home. It must be past dawn or close enough to it."
He helped her sit up, steadying her by the elbow as she found her footing. There was a faint stiffness in her movements. They dressed without ceremony. Zippers drawn, fabric smoothed, coats pulled back into place. By the time they were finished, they looked presentable again, as though nothing had been spilled between these walls.
Silco watched her as she moved. Whatever he had seen earlier, whatever had flickered behind her eyes, he filed it away without comment.
They left the room together.
The corridor outside was empty, hushed, the brothel caught in that strange, breathless lull between night and morning. Their footsteps were the only sound as they passed through, side by side, unremarkable to anyone who might have glanced their way. Silco didn't look back.
.
.
.
.
.
It was a shame, really.
A shame that neither noticed that the red petals carved into the wall's ornaments—once lush, once vibrant—had darkened. Roses now black as pitch.
Part 41
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
It is with great joy that I announce that Act 2 of Ma Meilleure Ennemie has come to an end. The next chapter will serve as the prologue to the third and final act of this story. So yes—we are in the final chapters now, even though I haven’t decided yet how many there will be.
In case it wasn’t clear, this chapter is practically a callback to the first one.
And that ending? It seems some enemies are closer than we might imagine—or, in this case, perhaps they never stopped being close at all.
Recognition is a cruel kind of clarity — knowing when a situation is beyond saving, admitting the weight of your own mistakes, and facing the quiet certainty of your mortality. It’s in that moment of acknowledgment that you realize: this is what makes you human.
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 7,7K
Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, Silco being a tease, oral sex (f!receiving), almost suffocatingly (you'll understand), angst, reference to the use of chemical weapons, mentions of drowning and death, Silco POV
Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.
Part 38
The Gray was a byproduct of the rampant industrial smog that pooled and festered beneath Zaun, a toxic haze born from unchecked factories and chemical waste. The only reason it no longer choked the alleys above was because of Cassandra Kiramman. She had designed a vast ventilation system that rerouted and stored the fumes, burying the danger deep underground where, supposedly, it could no longer reach the surface.
That was the official story, at least. It was what had been drilled into you during your years at Institute — you were expected to memorize every detail, because understanding the Council meant understanding your targets.
You had never been subjected to the Gray yourself. Not because the scientists were unwilling, but because even they had no access to it. Still, you understand its severity, its potential for devastation. The Gray was not a sickness that lingered; it was a corrosive force, one that seeped into lungs, blood, and bone, warping those who inhaled it.
What you knew was second-hand, pulled from records and half-censored accounts.
Silco, however — he knew.
And he was pissed.
You could tell by the way Silco's fingers dug into the cigar, pressing it so tightly you half-expected the wrapper to tear and spill tobacco across his desk. His single eye never wavered, locked onto Viktor, who stood rigid in the center of the office, his posture betraying how hyperaware he was of the room and everything in it.
Silco's irritation wasn't born from something as trivial as being interrupted — though being dragged away from the sex surely didn't help his temper. No, the fury running beneath his skin came from a far deeper place, one older and sharper than lust denied.
The true source of his anger was the reason Viktor was here in the first place. Piltover. Or more precisely, whatever Piltover was scheming now.
They were always scheming, weren't they?
If Viktor had come bearing bad news and judging by his stiffness, he had — then Silco's rage was already boiling over, directed at the messenger even if the man had no real fault in delivering the council's games.
You tried, just for a moment, to place yourself in Viktor's shoes. Standing there with only one way out of the room, surrounded by assassins. Yet Viktor remained still, composed in that quiet, almost detached way of his, though you could see the subtle flickers of unease in the set of his jaw and how he gripped the handle of his cane tightly.
He wasn't a fool, he knew exactly whose territory he had stepped into.
"Sevika mentioned something about you wanting to speak of the 'Gray.' You have my attention."
Silco's words cut through the silence, sharp and deliberate, smoke curling from the edge of his cigar as if punctuating his restraint. Viktor drew in a breath, the kind you take when you're about to gamble everything you have. You watched him steady himself, watched as he pulled every scrap of confidence into his frame, shoulders straightening as if bracing against the weight of the storm he was about to unleash.
"There was a council meeting today." he began, his voice measured, though you could hear the faint tremor beneath the surface. "They were discussing how they should deal with the current tense situation between both cities. Among the proposals, one councilor suggested that the Kirammans could open the ventilation system... and release the Gray into the streets. Force her to surrender."
The words settled in your chest like ice. The Gray—weaponized, a deliberate blade against you. Against Zaun.
It was monstrous.
"And who suggested that?"
Silco asked the question you yourself wanted to ask, even though the answer was already deep in your heart.
"Hoskel."
The glass shattered in your hand before you even realized you were squeezing it. Three pairs of eyes snapped toward you in unison. Silco's piercing glare narrowing in concern, Sevika's mechanical fingers flexing in instinct, and Viktor's startled gaze widening for the briefest moment before settling back into composure.
Shards bit into your skin, sharp enough to sear for the briefest instant before the sting dulled into nothingness, replaced by the steady, wet warmth of blood trailing down your wrist and dripping onto the polished wood floor. The sound of it — the soft, irregular patter of crimson against dark oak — seemed deafening in the silence that followed.
For a second, you didn't move. You just stared at the broken pieces in your hand, your reflection fractured across their jagged edges. And then, as if some hidden fuse had sparked alight in your mind, it hit you all at once.
Of course it had been him. Who else could possibly conceive of something so twisted, so callous, so deliberately cruel? Only Hoskel. Only that sanctimonious bastard would take what was once a tragedy born of neglect and turn it into a weapon — something to unleash, to smother entire streets with poison, to corner you like an animal until surrender was the only option. It wasn't just ruthless. It was the thinking of a man with no soul left to lose.
"How certain are you of this information?" the words were calm, perhaps too calm, but the weight in them carried your rage more than shouting ever could. Releasing the shards, you reached for a cloth from the table at your side. You pressed it against your palm, watching as the white fabric bloomed red almost immediately. "Who told you these things?"
"I was present at the meeting, along with Jayce."
"And why the hell were you there, Viktor?"
The question flew from your mouth sharper than you intended, and the moment it left your lips, you knew it sounded more like an accusation than concern. You hadn't meant it that way, but the damage was already done.
"Because Medarda invited Jayce. And he, in turn, invited me. Since we are... partners."
That last word carried a faint disdain, as though it left a bitter taste on his tongue. His cane clicked softly as he shifted his weight, eyes narrowing in quiet frustration.
"It seems she's pulling strings to push him into the council's fold. After all, Jayce is the prized mind behind our hextech research. And with her influence... he has shifted his focus. The project that was meant to open new frontiers, our Hextech gate, is being redirected toward weaponizing the gemstones."
If you'd had another glass in your hand, you would have shattered it all over again.
You were on your feet before you even realized you'd moved. The motion was so sudden, so sharp, that Viktor instinctively stumbled back two steps — without using his cane.
Silco reacted almost instantly. He said your name — just your name — but it was enough. That tone of his, low and commanding. It wasn't a plea; it was an order. And somehow, it worked. It reached through the fury clawing up your throat, anchored you just before you could tip over the edge.
You forced yourself to breathe, the first inhale jagged, the next one steadier. Your hands were fists at your sides, knuckles pale, a smear of blood still fresh where the cloth hadn't held. You exhaled slowly, eyes flicking between Viktor's guarded expression and Silco's watchful, simmering stare.
When you finally spoke again, your voice was quieter, but it carried a dangerous calm that made even Sevika shift her weight near the door. "Start from the beginning, Viktor. Please."
The "please" wasn't softness, it was restraint. A fragile layer of civility stretched thin over a volcano waiting to erupt.
[...]
When Viktor's voice finally fell silent, the last of his words dissolving into the thick air, the room seemed to fall into a kind of funereal stillness. The weight of it pressed down like smoke — heavy, suffocating, inevitable.
Across from you, Silco had just finished another pour of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light before disappearing down his throat. Sevika had claimed the sofa, cigarette hanging lazily from her lips. Viktor sat opposite Silco, shoulders drawn inward, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face.
And you — standing near the wide office window — remained motionless, hands clasped behind your back, fingers locked tight around your own wrist as if to keep yourself from unraveling.
Zaun stretched before you in shades of gray and green, the city breathing and bleeding beneath the dim glow of its lights. Once, it had been nothing more than a cage you fought to survive in. Now, it was a kingdom you were expected to rule. The weight of that realization was a constant pressure behind your ribs, a reminder that power, down here, never came without a cost.
Viktor's report echoed in your mind — the council's debate, the veiled threats, the mentions of "Gray". Thankfully, for now, it was only a proposal. The tall chairs of Piltover still had enough self-preservation to hesitate before unleashing that horror. But you knew that hesitation was fragile, a thin line that could snap the moment war truly began. And when it did, Zaun would burn first.
What lingered heavier than any of that, however, was the matter of the Hextech weaponry. "Countermeasures." she called them — words dressed up to hide the rot underneath.
And if that wasn't bad enough there was another detail that Viktor revealed. The idea that Hoskel might actually have one of the Chemtanks in his possession sent a cold current down your spine.
Fate—or perhaps the cruel humor of the city—had decided that Sevika's report that same day would confirm your worst fear. Of the ten Chemtanks that were stored in the old warehouse that belonged to Finn, one was missing. Don't trace. No witnesses. Just gone.
You were holding yourself together out of sheer stubbornness — because if you allowed yourself even a second of weakness, the panic clawing at your chest would spill out and consume you whole. Every nerve in your body screamed that things were unraveling again, just when you had started to piece yourself back together.
"They expect us to move first." you said finally, your voice even but edged with strain. "So we'll need to think carefully about our next move."
"We need something effective..." Sevika's voice came next. "Something that won't give them the chance to retaliate right away."
A low grunt was Silco's only immediate response, the kind that carried more thought than words. You heard the faint clink of glass as he set his drink down. "Currently, Viktor, what are the two primary trade routes Piltover relies on?"
"The airships." Viktor replied quietly, his accent softening the edges of his words. "And the ships."
Silco seemed to analyze the answer. You knew that the gears in his mind were moving, and knowing him as you did, you could already see where his thoughts were leading.
"In the worst-case scenario, our focus will be to take one of them. In the best, both." he explained a war tactic as if he were explaining a simple math problem. "Without an external communication route, Piltover will start to decay."
"But a move like that will trigger retaliation, Silco." Sevika interjected, her voice steady but edged with concern. Always the voice of reason, even when surrounded by madness.
"Unless..." you said, stepping forward before Silco could respond. "They have a reason not to." you stood behind Silco's chair. "For example, if they don't want to risk the life of someone important."
Silco glanced up at you then, and the faintest hint of a smile curved his lips—a dangerous, knowing smile. "Kidnapping." he said softly, completing your thought. He leaned back. "A classic."
"You're not actually thinking about kidnapping a Councilor, are you?" Sevika's voice carried that familiar mix of disbelief and irritation — the kind that would've been funny, if the situation weren't teetering so close to catastrophic. Her expression was halfway between a grimace and a smirk, as though she couldn't quite decide whether to laugh or punch a wall. "Oh, for fuck's sake... you're really considering this."
"It's not that difficult, really." you shrugged, casual, like you were discussing grocery lists rather than high-profile abductions. "All it takes is good planning. And a bit of luck."
You could feel Sevika's glare from across the room — that heavy, grounding weight of someone who'd seen too much of this already. You didn't meet her eyes.
"But we can't just aim for anyone." you continued, tone even. "If we're going to take someone, it has to matter. A Councilor whose absence shifts the balance, someone whose disappearance means as much as seizing one of the trade routes."
"Merdada?" Silco asked.
You shook your head.
"She's Noxian and one of the particular things I know about her is that her mother was a general. Old school Noxian brass. So unless we've got a plan that involves going toe-to-toe with an army, she's untouchable. For now."
You watch the way that lands on them: Sevika's jaw tightens, Silco's fingers drum a slow rhythm against table, and Viktor's nod is the smallest, most reluctant kind—agreement without enthusiasm.
"Heimerdinger?" Silco throws the name into the air and for a heartbeat you consider it.
"He's still the Council leader, right?" Viktor's little affirmative motion from across the table is all you need. You let the implied bits hang; yes, he's high-profile, and yes, he would be an easy mark in some ways, but the cost is different. "But he's exactly the sort of figure whose absence wouldn't break the system, only rearrange it. Replace him with another polite voice and the city keeps spinning."
You catch it before he says a word — the way Viktor's posture stiffens, how his eyes flicker down and away the moment you mention Heimerdinger like he's just another piece on the board. It's not anger, exactly. More like disappointment laced with guilt, the kind that seeps under the skin and stays.
For him, Heimerdinger isn't just a Councilor; he's a mentor, a relic of gentler ideals Viktor still clings to in. And here you are, talking about the man's replaceability as though he were a loose bolt in a machine. You understand it — even respect it — but understanding doesn't stop the tension from thickening the air.
"Hm..." you murmur, drawing out the thought as you circle behind Silco's chair, fingertips grazing the wood. "I think our best target is the Kiramman."
You reach for one of Silco's cigars as if you've been doing it your whole life. You clip the cap with his cutter quick, but before you can search for a light, Silco's hand is already there, taking the lighter with that casual possessiveness he has over small rituals. He offers it without a word, one tiny concession. You laugh, half soft, half something that smells like approval, and let your head tip so he can set flame to the cigar for you.
The smoke fills the space between you like a private language.
The warmth brushes your face, and when you draw in the first curl of smoke, it tastes like earth and arrogance.
"But she opposed the use of the Gray." Viktor's voice breaks in, gentle but firm. He looks at you then, his expression an uneasy mix of reason and pleading. "I don't think she's as cruel as the others."
"I know." you let the smoke slip from your mouth slow. "The Kirammans are what we might consider those who keep the council grounded; it's no wonder Hoskel called them 'the straight-laced ones'. Precisely why they're the fulcrum. Remove them, and the Council's arithmetic fails. You don't just take away their key to the Gray, you make them panic. Panic forces mistakes, and mistakes are how you topple an empire from the inside."
You savor the cigar and the fact that language still comes naturally to you. Deep down, you almost thanked Hoskel for teaching you how to destroy Piltover. Now you'd use that knowledge for your own benefit, not his. How ironic.
Silco's laugh comes, nasal and surprised, like iron scraping on metal when nobody expected music. He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. He folds the thought into that thin smile and then, with the sort of cold precision he reserves for business and blame, turns to Viktor.
"You won't be involved in this, but you will keep this conversation to yourself."
"Certainly."
"Good. If they make a move, keep us informed."
Viktor nods once, slow, as if the motion itself is an effort. When he stands the metal of his cane rasps against the floor — an almost polite sound, the scrape of a civilized life crossing the threshold into a mess. Silco turns then to Sevika.
"See him out of Zaun, and give him something for being cooperative with our cause."
Viktor bristles, brief and automatic. "I don't need your money, Silco."
Silco smiles without warmth. "I know you don't. But I insist. And you won't refuse my generosity, will you?"
There's no question in it — only a statement of fact. It reads like a promise: I give, therefore you owe. The room is small, but the meaning of that transaction is wider than its walls. You watch Viktor's face fold for a moment and then he lets the anger go, replaced by a hollowed-out compliance. He's not merely polite; he's compromised, made to fit into the shape Silco needs. Suborned, indebted, whatever word fits.
Viktor's gaze lingered a second too long before he turned to follow Sevika toward the door. The scrape of his cane against the floor marked each step, steady but tense — the rhythm of someone trying to leave before words could catch up to him. Yet you could see the weight in his shoulders.
"Do you realize what you just did?"
Your words cut through the low hum of the room, sharp enough to halt him mid-step. The soft click of the cane stopped. He didn't turn right away, but when he did, those golden eyes found yours — the same eyes that once burned with curiosity now clouded with something heavier, something human. Maybe... guilt.
"You chose a side."
He blinked, once, slow. "I thought I already had."
"No, you didn't." you said, shaking your head, your tone neither cruel nor kind — just honest. "That day, I forced you to choose. You didn't have room to think, to want. But now... you came here. You told us everything. No one made you. You made that call yourself."
If the realization hadn't struck him yet, you made sure it did. Not to wound him, it was never about that, but to let him feel the weight of the choice he'd made. To make him see what it truly meant. You weren't trying to shame him, only to hold up a mirror so he could recognize the same gravity you had carried. Because if he could feel it — the quiet ache of conviction, the sting of leaving something behind — then maybe he would understand that you weren't so different after all.
"I did."
The admission left him in a low, even voice, but it settled between you with the intimacy of a secret. For a heartbeat, the world contracted around that small confession. Silco's presence faded into the background; Sevika's shifting weight near the door disappeared entirely. The air seemed to change — thinner, quieter. You could almost smell the faint trace of tea and machine oil.
The image arrived uninvited: two figures in a laboratory, long after midnight, a pair of untouched mugs cooling beside them. You, exhausted. Him, bent over his notes, muttering theories. For a moment, that was all you could see — before the present crept back in and reminded you how far from that night you both had fallen.
"Do you regret it, Viktor?"
Viktor hesitated. His eyes broke from yours, finding the floor, then the far wall, before returning to meet your gaze. When they did, the hesitation was gone — replaced by something clear and unwavering, the same light you'd once seen in him when he walked without a cane in front of you for the first time.
"No."
Just that. Simple, absolute.
You took a long draw from the cigar, the burn steady and bitter on your tongue as you weighed what you were about to do. Consequences lined up neatly in your head like dominos, waiting for the smallest push — but you'd never been the type to count before setting them in motion. Caution had its place, just not in yours. You exhaled slowly, smoke curling upward in the dim light.
"I'm pulling the men I set to watch you and Jayce."
Silco spoke your name like a warning. The kind that didn't need volume to carry weight. His tone alone reminded you of what this meant — a dog without a leash is a dangerous dog.
"This is my decision." you didn't look at him. The words were for Viktor, and only Viktor. "I trust him."
Viktor seemed caught off guard. His expression flickered, surprise tangled with something softer, almost uncertain. For a few seconds, neither of you moved. You just stood there, watching one another across the room, as if trying to memorize what this strange equilibrium felt like. Then, slowly, Viktor nodded. No smile, no gratitude — just acknowledgment.
He turned and left without another word, the faint scrape of his cane fading down the corridor. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. Somehow, that made it feel more final — a clean cut rather than a wound. Cold on the surface, but beneath it, you sensed something like resolution. Maybe even peace.
When the door closed behind Sevika, the room exhaled with her. Silco finally did too, the sound halfway between irritation and resignation. His hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose, thumb pressing at the furrow between his brows like he was trying to smother a headache before it bloomed.
"You can't keep making choices like that."
"Why not?" the tease left your lips before you could stop it, smoke curling from your words like punctuation. "I showed you firsthand how to fix a friendship."
"Very funny." Silco muttered, his tone dry enough to scratch. But the faint lift of his brow, that almost imperceptible smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth, betrayed him.
With a subtle motion of his fingers, he beckoned you closer — that lazy, commanding gesture that always managed to undo your resolve.
You crossed the small distance between you and settled onto his lap, the old chair groaning its protest under the combined weight. The sound was familiar, almost domestic in its own strange way. His warmth pressed against you, grounding and dangerous all at once. You passed him the cigar without looking, your fingers brushing his as the transfer happened.
"You seem unsettled." he said after a moment, bringing the cigar to his lips. The glow caught the edge of his jaw, outlining the faint lines of exhaustion there. He inhaled, then exhaled through his nose, the smoke trailing lazily upward. "How are you, really?"
"Awful." you sighed, head tipping back against his shoulder. "Hoskel's got a Chemtank, we have a threat of Gray's use and the construction of potentially destructive Hextech weapons. Tell me, how exactly does it get worse than that?"
Silco didn't even hesitate. "It can always get worse."
You barked out a laugh — short, disbelieving — and smacked his chest lightly with the back of your hand. "You're terrible at comforting people, you know that? Honestly, you should be studied."
"I prefer honesty to comfort."
"Yeah... that's exactly what every emotionally stable person says before their downfall."
Silco laughed under his breath, the sound low and unhurried. He took another drag from the cigar before handing it back to you, but his hands didn't stay idle. They found the edges of your dress — the fabric thin, carelessly chosen in the rush before the meeting and smoothed along it as though testing its texture, its fragility.
He wasn't dressed for war either, just a half-buttoned shirt and dark slacks, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The casualness in him was as dangerous as his formality.
"There are other ways to comfort someone..." his tone was deceptively mild, as if the words were just another negotiation. His fingertips traced idle patterns along your thigh.
You inhaled at the wrong moment and nearly choked on the smoke, half-coughing, half-laughing. "You—" you managed, voice breaking with disbelief. "Are you serious right now?"
"I said comfort, not sex." Silco's grin tilted, unreadable. "I want to calm you down."
You twisted slightly in his lap to face him, searching his expression. "I don't need calming down. I'm fine."
Silco gave you that look — the one that said really? without needing a single word. A quiet, sharp arch of his brow before his eyes rolled skyward, equal parts exasperation and amusement.
"You crushed a glass in your hand, your eye's twitching, you've gone pale as death, and you're forcing yourself to breathe like you're counting it out. Not to mention..." his gaze flicked down. "You're strangling this cigar like it owes you money. You are clearly not calm."
"I—" The protest stumbled out, half-formed, half-shamed. He wasn't wrong. He never was when it came to you. The weight of his observation landed heavy in the small space between you, pressing against whatever mask of composure you'd been clinging to. "Damn it."
"Let me take care of you, dove." His tone softened, losing its edge but not its command. "Before we start dissecting wars."
You didn't move when his hand reached for yours. His fingers brushed yours, prying the cigar loose with a care that made the motion feel almost reverent. He took one last drag, the ember glowing bright between his fingers before he leaned forward to extinguish it in the ashtray. The faint hiss of burning tobacco filled the silence.
Then he looked back at you, eyes steady, voice low enough to ground you. "May I?"
Silco's Pov
━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━
"Yes..."
Silco's hands gently cupped her face, his thumbs brushing over her soft cheeks as he tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a tender kiss — his lips moved over hers with a hunger that was somehow gentle, his tongue delving into her mouth to taste her fully.
As the kiss deepened, Silco's hands slid down from her face, over the graceful column of her neck, to settle on the curve of her waist. He squeezed gently, the heat of his palms seeping through the thin fabric of her dress as he held her close. Silco's fingers dipped lower, skimming over the flare of her hips, before coming to rest on the outside of her thighs.
With a sudden surge of movement, Silco stood, pulling her up with him. He swept the papers and books from his desk with one arm, letting them clatter to the floor as he laid her down on the smooth, polished surface.
Her back arched slightly as she settled on the desk, her hair fanning out around her head like a halo. Silco took a moment to admire the sight of her, his eyes drinking in every curve and angle of her body as it lay before him. Silco's hands slid up her thighs, pushing her dress up.
He settled himself back into the his chair, pulling her body closer to the edge. He grasped one of her thighs, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he held her leg open, baring her most intimate area to his hungry gaze. Silco's other hand drifted upwards, his palm skimming over the smooth skin of her inner thigh until he reached the delicate fabric of her panties.
The thin material, still dry and untouched, presented a barrier between Silco's questing fingers and her heated skin. Silco could feel the warmth emanating from her core, could sense the way her body tensed slightly as his touch drew near.
With a slow motion, he traced the outline of her slit through the fabric, his thumb pressing lightly. Her hips canting up slightly as if seeking more of that touch.
With a wicked glint in his eye, Silco decided to take his time, to tease and torment her until she was writhing with need. He focused his attention on the small, sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her sex. He circled her clit with the tip of his thumb, applying the lightest of pressures, teasing her with a fleeting touch, just enough to make her gasp and shudder, but not quite enough to satisfy her.
Silco leaned in closer, his breath hot and heavy against her. His lips brushed over the fabric, the barest whisper of a touch.
She gasped, her body jerking as if to pull away from the stimulation. But Silco held her fast, his grip on her thigh tightening, keeping her pinned and open to his ministrations. With a low, approving murmur, Silco allowed his nose to graze over the sensitive peak of her clit, the light touch making her shudder and bite back a moan.
Before she could catch her breath, Silco's lips landed on that same spot, and he placed a feather-light kiss upon the fabric-covered nub.
"Why are you so tense, my love?" he ask, his mouth still resting against the fabric—now beginning to dampen.
"Shut the hell up..." there was a slightly aggressive tone in her voice, which made it all the more amusing.
Silco felt her fingers fist in his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp as she tried to pull him closer. At the same time, her hips bucked up off the chair, grinding her clothed sex against Silco's face with desperate need. He could feel the heat of her, the way her body ached for more contact, more friction, more of anything that would ease the building ache between her thighs.
As her movements grew more insistent, Silco pulled back just enough to meet her desperate grind with teasing fingertips. He stroked along her slit, feeling the damp patch on her panties grow larger as her arousal increased.
"Do you want my mouth, dove?"
"Fuck! Yes I want!
Silco's lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he heard her breathless plea. It was all the encouragement he required to proceed, to give her exactly what she craved. With a low, approving murmur, Silco hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties. He slowly peeled the damp fabric down her thighs, leaving to lie forgotten on the table.
His eyes darkened with lust as he took in the sight of her, glistening and swollen with arousal. He could see the way her pink folds trembled, practically quivering with the need for his touch. Unable to resist the allure of her silken skin, Silco leaned in, parting her slick lower lips with the gentle pressure of his fingertips.
Slowly, teasingly, Silco began to place open-mouthed kisses along the seam of her sex. His lips brushed over the delicate skin, tasting the salt of her sweat and the unique, intoxicating flavor of her arousal. Silco took his time, lavishing attention on every inch of her glistening folds as he worked his way up, his tongue occasionally dipping out to flick against her sensitive flesh.
When he reached the top of her slit, Silco paused, blowing a stream of hot air over the swollen peak of her clit. The sensation made her buck and writhe beneath him, a strangled moan tearing from her throat. Silco closed his lips around the sensitive nub, suckling gently as he gazed up at her face, taking in the way her features twisted with pleasure.
Silco dove between her thighs, his mouth and tongue working in tandem to taste every drop of her essence. He licked and suckled at her glistening folds, his moans of appreciation vibrating against her sensitive skin as he feasted on her like a man starved. The taste of her arousal was intoxicating, the sweet ambrosia of her desire flooding his senses and fueling his lust.
Silco wrapped his arms around her thighs, his fingers dug into the soft flesh, keeping her trapped and at his mercy as he pleasured her with single-minded focus. He could feel her squirming and writhing beneath him, could hear her cries of ecstasy echoing off the walls of his office.
Her hands fisted in Silco's hair, her nails raking over his scalp as she held him in place. Her hips rolled and bucked against his face, grinding against his mouth as she sought more of that exquisite friction. Silco granted her wish. Letting her lead the way she wanted.
He gazed up at her, taking in the exquisite sight of his lover lost in ecstasy. Her gaze was hazy, clouded with desire as she stared down at him, her lips parted and flushed a deep, inviting red. Silco could never tire of seeing her like this — wild with need, desperate for his touch, utterly consumed by the passion that burned between them.
"Holy shit..." she moaned before looking away, placing her other arm over her eyes as if to somehow block the weight of Silco's attention.
Cute.
Then, he replaced his tongue with his fingers, slowly easing one long digit into her. He could feel the way her walls fluttered and clenched around, trying to draw him in deeper.
It took time, a process of trial and error as Silco curled and bent his finger, searching for the perfect angle. As Silco's finger found that spongy, ridged patch of nerves deep inside her, he pressed down firmly, rubbing and circling the sensitive bundle.
At the same time, he leaned down to capture her clit between his lips once more, suckling and flicking the swollen nub with his tongue in time with the thrusts of his finger.
Silco could feel her body growing more and more tense as he continued his relentless assault on her. Her thighs clamped around his head like a vice, the muscles quivering and flexing with the force of her impending release. He could feel the blood rushing from his ears as the pressure around his skull increased, but still, Silco refused to stop.
"FUCK SILCO!"
Just as spots began to dance before Silco's vision and his lungs screamed for air, he felt her body go rigid. A strangled, wordless cry tore from her throat as her orgasm crashed over her, her walls clamping down around Silco's fingers with bruising force. Her hips bucked and jerked, grinding her spasming sex against his face as she rode out the waves of her intense climax.
Her fingers tangled in Silco's hair, practically yanked him out from between her thighs.
Silco collapsed back into the chair, breath tearing from his lungs as though he'd just surfaced from drowning. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing away the faint sheen of sweat and the aftertaste of her. For a moment, he simply breathed, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded in the low light that painted everything in green and shadow.
He had nearly died between her thighs, and if he were being honest with himself, there were far worse ways to go. At least it would've been in the service of something he genuinely enjoyed.
"A simultaneous strike!"
Silco thought he'd imagined it, that the echo had come from somewhere in the fogged edges of his mind. His head tilted, brow knitting, the rasp of his breath still loud in the quiet room.
"What?" he managed, the word heavy, half a growl and half disbelief.
"We could strike both trade routes at once." Her voice came out rough, still laced with the tremor of exhaustion, but her mind was already racing ahead. "A simultaneous attack would give us the advantage. The element of surprise. They wouldn't have time to respond to both fronts and they don't have enough Enforcers to cover them."
Silco blinked, the words filtering through the fog that still lingered in his head. For a heartbeat, he almost laughed at the absurdity of it — how her brain could pivot so cleanly from pleasure to strategy without missing a step.
"And whose fault is it that they don't have enough Enforcers, hm?"
"Ha-ha, very funny." she shot back, the sarcasm rolling off her tongue with the ease of someone used to his provocations. "But it's a good plan, isn't it?"
Silco studied her for a long moment.
"Setting aside the difficulty that would be of coordinating two full-scale assaults at once... yes, dove. It's a good idea. And, if I may add, since everyone's attention will be elsewhere, we could pull off a clean kidnapping." he murmured, pausing for a moment to think about it. It was a risky idea, but if successful, it would be a powerful coup. "Tell me, though, did you just come up with that now?"
"Yeah... maybe it's post-orgasmic reflection." she murmured, her voice slow, lazy, still half-drowned in the haze between thought and sensation. "You know... that moment after you come and suddenly understand the meaning of life."
Silco stared at her for a beat, then huffed a laugh startled out of him. Of course she'd say something like that. He leaned back in his chair, eyes falling shut as the laughter deepened into something looser, freer.
"So..." he drawled once the laughter tapered off, his voice roughened but amused. "What you're saying is... whenever I need a war plan or divine wisdom, I just have to make you come?"
The look she gave him was pure mischief. Then came her laugh — low at first, then rising, spilling warm and melodic into the dim air between them. It was a sound that made something in his chest tighten — too alive, too human, too beautiful for the world they'd built.
"Well..." she said finally, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of her eye, her grin unrepentant. "I certainly won't complain."
She sat up slowly, the movement still heavy with the languid exhaustion that followed their storm. For a moment, she stayed there — hair disheveled, skin glowing faintly in the green light — before sliding onto the edge of the desk. The gesture wasn't graceful; her muscles trembled, and she had to steady herself with one hand. But she did it anyway, stubborn as ever.
Her gaze drifted downward, unapologetically lingering on the front of his trousers before flicking back up to meet his eyes. "Need a hand with that?"
Silco's mouth curved in that familiar half-smirk, the kind that lived somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
"I said without sex, dove." He lifted a hand, fingers tracing the line of her jaw before tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "We'll need to bring the other barons into this. A strike like that isn't something we can afford to attempt alone."
She leaned into his touch instinctively, the gesture feline in its tenderness — a brief surrender before the world demanded her teeth again. "I need to be on the front line..."
Silco sighed, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth as he studied her. "I know." The words came out low, weighted with something that wasn't quite disapproval — more the ache of inevitability. "Though, personally, the thought of you in the middle of that chaos doesn't sit well with me."
She smiled — that same soft, disarming curve of her lips she used to calm Jinx when the girl's mind turned to lightning. "I'm not going to die."
"I know you won't, but I'd rather not relive the feeling I had when I found you in that warehouse after the kidnapping."
His tone darkened, the weight of memory pressing down. For a heartbeat, the image threatened to surface —the blood and dirt staining her body, her shallow breathing, the coldness of her body against his, the emptiness in her gaze. Silco exhaled sharply, forcing it away.
"It isn't death that concerns me, it's the thought of you not being able to come back."
She didn't flinch under his words. Instead, she let them settle between them, absorbing their shape and their truth. She understood what he meant — that Silco could not, would not, lose her again. Not to death. Not to distance. The bond between them was an anchor and a chain, equal parts devotion and possession. Silco would tighten that chain if it meant keeping her within reach.
"I'll always come back to you." she pressed a kiss against the palm of his hand as if sealing a vow. "I have to. I still need to marry you, after all."
Silco tilted his head, that razor-edged smirk curling back into place. "Keep saying things like that, and I might be tempted to move our honeymoon up."
She rolled her eyes — a gesture so effortlessly familiar that it almost made him laugh — before sliding off the desk. Her feet touched the cold floor, and immediately her balance faltered. She caught herself against the table's edge, fingers gripping the wood, legs still trembling from what had just passed between them. For a moment, she stood there and then she found her footing again.
Silco watched the entire process with patience. He already knew what was coming next, and sure enough, as soon as she steadied herself, she turned toward him — and the moment she climbed back into his lap, he inhaled sharply through his teeth.
He bit down on his lower lip hard enough to taste copper when she shifted, pressing against the part of him he'd so deliberately ignored earlier. He'd told himself he didn't want this — not now, not after everything but his body betrayed him with humiliating ease. The ache was sharp, insistent. It took every thread of his control not to move, not to give in to the very thing he'd just denied himself.
So instead, Silco redirected. He focused on what he could control: the heat of her skin under his palms, the silk of her dress rumpled between his fingers, the faint scent of tobacco clinging to her hair. She smelled like him.
"You kept your promise." she murmured after a long stretch of silence, her voice softer now. Her head rested against his chest, searching for warmth.
Silco glanced down, one brow arching. "You'll have to be more specific, dove."
"You found a way to kill me."
For a moment, the air in the room froze. Every sound seemed to stop. Silco's body went rigid beneath her, breath stalling halfway through his lungs. Then, with slowness, he exhaled and let his shoulders sink back into the chair. He wrapped his arms around her, chin settling atop her head.
If he were honest, he hoped she hadn't noticed that detail Singed — that loud-mouthed scientist — had mentioned. But of course she had. She was too sharp, too aware. Luck, as always, had long since abandoned him.
"The most effective method..." she continued, her tone eerily calm, almost clinical. "Is trapping me in a loop... dying over and over until my body finally gives in."
"For now." Silco corrected quickly, his tone firm, the kind that left no room for interpretation. "Singed is working on alternatives. Something less... torturous."
"It's alright, Silco." There was a touch of carelessness in her voice.
"No. It isn't."
That flicker of resentment in his voice wasn't for her, not entirely — it was for the casual way she could dismiss her own pain, for the acceptance that she might suffer and call it fine. To him, that was unbearable. Her indifference to her own life, her body — it was an affront.
"If I ever have to kill you, I want it to be quick. Clean. The least painful way possible." he explained it as if he wasn't stating the obvious. "I can be your executioner, but I refuse to be your torturer."
She went silent at that — not out of fear, but thought. The silence between them deepened, thick with the taste of something that wasn't quite love and wasn't quite control but lived somewhere in the borderlands between the two.
Silco took that quiet as victory, even if he knew better. He let his hand rest against her back, tracing idle circles against the fabric of her dress. His pulse began to steady, the earlier heat of anger dissolving into something more reflective, almost guilty.
He knew the hypocrisy of what he'd said. The irony didn't escape him — not wanting to torture her when he'd already done so in other ways, when he'd let Singed inject her veins with shimmer to keep her alive, when he himself injected the doses and called it salvation. But the contexts were different. Back then, he had been saving her, not killing her. There was a difference.
"You know what I just realized?" Her voice brought Silco back from whatever dark spiral his thoughts had taken. "There's a specific way to die that fits perfectly with that idea of being trapped in a loop, dying over and over again."
He exhaled through his nose, the sound weary enough to scrape. "Oh? And what would it be, dove?"
"Drowning."
Damn
The curse didn't leave his mouth, but it echoed sharp and bitter inside his head. Silco's fingers stilled where they had been drawing idle shapes across her back. His mind scrambled to piece together the parallels, the cruel symmetry of it all — and when it did, a bitter laugh nearly escaped him.
Drowning.
"Of course that would be the one."
She tilted her head slightly, sensing the shift in him, the way his tone wavered between grim amusement and something heavier. Her hand found his, gentle, grounding. "You see it too, don't you? The irony."
Silco's eyes flicked to hers. "Irony?" he gave a humorless chuckle. "I'd call it poetic cruelty... the universe does love its jokes."
"Yeah..." she murmured, her voice carrying the weight of quiet resignation and something heartbreakingly tender. The faintest of sad smiles tugged at her lips as she pressed herself more firmly against him, as if the closeness could anchor her against the truth she was admitting. "I just hope you'll never have to kill me. But... I'm glad it would be you, if it ever came to that." her words came out soft, almost a whisper, but they carved themselves deep into him all the same. "I love you."
Silco's breath left him in a slow, uneven exhale — not quite a sigh, but something close. He squeezed her hand.
In some twisted corner of his mind, Silco knew how wrong it should have sounded — this exchange of affection tangled with the quiet acceptance of death. But in their world, in his world, love was never gentle. It was sharp-edged, consuming, and territorial. It demanded everything — blood, breath, and the promise that, if destruction ever came, it would come by the hands that loved you most.
He tightened his hold around her, resting his chin atop her head again. The silence stretched between them, thick with the kind of understanding that didn't need words. And so, in the dim light of his office, a promise of death became a declaration of love — distorted, perhaps, but real.
"I love you too, dove."
Part 40
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Happy New Year! Thank you for making this year the most special for me, and may 2026 be even better! I hope to write even more stories with our beloved Silco and maybe with other characters! (Let's just say I spent some good days playing Dragon Age Origins and Dispatch, and I'm obsessed with these games!)
I wish you all a year full of joy and good things! Happy celebrations and be careful, okay? See you in 2026!
Gray lingers everywhere — in the smoke of his cigar, in the strands of his hair, in the dreams he poisoned long ago. Gray like the fumes that steal your breath and make you wish you had never learned how to breathe at all.
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 8,5K
Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, nuances of breeding kink, dom/sub dynamics, oral sex (m!receiving), face fuck, rubbing, jealous Silco, angst, reference to the use of chemical weapons, Silco POV, Viktor POV
Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.
Part 37
Silco's Pov
━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━
Silco watched her, his eyes darkening with a potent blend of hunger and possessive satisfaction, the kind that twisted deep in his chest like a vice. There was something intoxicating in the way she lowered herself before him, a slow surrender that struck him harder than any whispered vow ever could. A part of him marveled—though he would never admit such a thing aloud—at how effortlessly she seemed to understand him.
It was as though she could peel back the layers of his mind, glimpse the raw need festering there, and offer herself in precisely the way he craved. That ability unsettled him almost as much as it thrilled him. He had spent a lifetime mastering control, bending others to his will, yet here she was, unraveling him without even trying.
Her submission was not some hollow gesture to appease his temper, nor a fleeting indulgence meant to calm the storm he carried inside. No—this was heavy with meaning. The sight of her knees sinking into the floor was more than obedience. It was a declaration, sharp and undeniable.
Control, for her, had always been survival. In a reality where she was forced to bend over, getting on her knees for someone was something she would never do again. And yet, here she was.
That action was trust in its pure essence, twisted into a shape that belonged only to them, a vow stronger than any oath spoken aloud.
Silco watched her hands slowly trailed up his thighs. Her touch was a brand, searing his skin through the fabric of his pants, leaving no doubt as to her intentions. When she finally reached the apex of his thighs, she simply rested her head there. In that moment, she was the very picture of a contented kitten.
He brought his hand up to cup her cheek, his calloused palm a stark contrast to the silky softness of her skin. He marveled at the way she leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed as if savoring the gentle caress.
He pressed his thumb past the seam of her lips, feeling the softness of her mouth close around the digit. He could feel her tongue swirling around the pad, her lips sealing tight as she suckled gently.
"You look so beautiful like this, dove." he whispered, each word edged with a rasp of awe and hunger. "So beautiful it's almost a sin."
Her cheeks flushed a pretty pink, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she released his thumb from the warm, silken confines of her lips.
"Sin... shouldn't I confess since I'm on my knees?"
"Depends, how many sins have you committed?"
She pretended to think. "More than I can count and I'm about to commit one more."
Her hands deftly working at the fastenings of his pants. The moment her fingers closed around his bare flesh, Silco let out a low, guttural sigh. The sensation of her soft, warm hand wrapped around his throbbing cock was almost too much to bear, and he had to grit his teeth.
The sin of lust has never been so pleasurable.
She took her time, working her saliva-slicked lips along Silco's thick shaft with a leisurely, almost teasing pace. She could feel him hardening rapidly beneath her touch, his cock throbbing and pulsing with each pass of her hand.
Silco's head fell back against the leather of his chair, a low, guttural moan tearing from his throat as her skilled fingers worked over every inch of his aching flesh. He could feel the pleasure building with each stroke, his hips rocking slightly into her touch, seeking more of that blissful friction.
Just as Silco was about to demand that she put an end to her teasing torment, he felt the first flutter of her tongue against the base of his cock. The sensation was electric, sending a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust surging through his veins. His hands fisted in her hair, gripping the silky strands tightly as he fought the urge to thrust into her mouth.
She seemed to sense his growing desperation, and she smiled around his thick length, her eyes glinting with mischief and a hint of the dark satisfaction she derived from reducing him to such a state. Silco knew she was purposely avoiding the sensitive head of his cock, denying him the release he so desperately craved as she focused on mapping every other inch of his shaft with a maddeningly gentle touch.
Silco's grip tightened in her hair. "Enough teasing."
At his command, her lips parted, her tongue flicking out to kittenishly lick at the weeping slit of his cockhead. Then, with a flash of eyes and a wicked grin, she sank down, taking Silco's thick length into the wet heat of her mouth.
Silco's breath caught in his throat as he felt her lips slide down, down, down, her mouth engulfing more and more of his aching cock. He could feel her jaw stretching, her throat constricting around him as she took him deeper, so deep that he could feel her breath hitching in her nose, could feel the flutter of her throat as it struggled to accommodate his size.
"Fuck..." Silco cursed, his voice a loud moan that echoed off the walls of his office. He had forgotten just how incredible it felt to be sheathed in her hot, willing mouth, to have her take him so deep that he could feel the back of her throat, could feel the way it clenched and rippled around him.
Her name fell from Silco's lips like a prayer, a desperate invocation of the goddess who had ensnared his heart and soul. He knew he was lost, utterly and completely lost in the bliss of her touch, in the way she could reduce him to a shuddering, moaning mess with a mere flick of her tongue and a roll of her throat.
His hips had started to move on their own, his body acting on pure instinct as it sought to chase the pleasure that her mouth offered. In his lustful haze, Silco had forgotten himself, had lost sight of the fact that he was holding her head firmly in place as he began to fuck into her throat with shallow, erratic thrusts.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Silco forced his hips to still, his hands gentling in her hair as he pulled back slightly, giving her a much-needed moment to breathe.
"Are you alright?"
She pulled back slightly, her lips sliding with a wet pop as she caught her breath. Smiling up at him with a glint of mischief in her eyes, she gave his shaft a slow, deliberate lick from base to tip before speaking.
"I'm more than alright." she murmured, her voice husky and slightly hoarse from the thorough treatment of her throat. "In fact, I rather enjoyed it... you can continue."
Silco blinked in surprise, a flicker of shock and a hint of disbelief in his gaze. He had not expected her to take such a bold approach, but as the shock faded, Silco felt a rush of pure, unadulterated desire surge through his veins. The knowledge that she could handle his rougher side, that she could take him without flinching, only served to inflame his own hunger for her.
"Alright, dove." Grinning down at her, Silco brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face, his fingers lingering on the soft skin of her cheek. "If it becomes too much, just give my thigh a few taps, and I'll stop. Understood?"
She nodded, her eyes never leaving Silco's as she sank back down onto his thick shaft. He could feel her taking him deep, her throat relaxing to accommodate his girth, her nose pressing against the coarse hair at the base at the base of his cock, her soft gagging sounds only adding to his rapidly building arousal.
Slowly, almost hesitantly at first, Silco began to rock his hips, his shaft sliding in and out of her eager mouth with shallow, almost teasing thrusts. He was testing the waters, seeing how she would react to a more purposeful fucking, wanting to make sure that she was truly alright with his rougher handling.
But as he felt no resistance, no choking or discomfort from her, Silco allowed himself to let go. He tightened his grip in her hair, his fingers twisting in the silky strands as he began to really let himself go, his hips snapping forward with increasing force and speed.
Silco's body going taut as he lost himself in the slick, velvet heat of her mouth. The anger and jealousy seemed to dissipate like mist under the morning sun, forgotten in the face of the all-encompassing pleasure that her ministrations brought him.
He could feel his rhythm growing more erratic, his hips jerking forward with a desperate, almost frantic need as he chased his rapidly approaching release. That wet, obscene sound filled the room, punctuated by Silco's guttural moans and curses as he fucked into her mouth with wild abandon.
"Oh God..." Silco grunted, his voice strained and tight with the effort of holding back his impending climax. "Just like that..."
He could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in his gut, his balls drawing up close to his body as the first flutters of his orgasm began to ripple through him. As appealing as the idea of spilling himself down her throat was, Silco knew it would be a waste.
With a final thrust, Silco wrenched her mouth off his cock, the wet pop of her lips parting from his shaft echoing obscenely in the room. He could see the confusion and dizziness in her eyes as he pulled away, her cheeks flushed and her hair disheveled from his rough handling.
"Pants." Silco growled, his voice a low, commanding bark. "Get rid of those damn pants, now. And lean over my desk."
Silco watched as she scrambled to obey his command. Her fingers fumbled with the fastenings of her pants, a testament to her own growing arousal and desperation. Finally, with a soft, frustrated sound, she kicked the garment away, leaving her bare and exposed before him.
She turned and bent over Silco's desk, her palms flat against the polished wood, her back arched in a way that presented her glistening folds to his eager gaze. Silco stepped forward, his fingers trailing over the curve of her ass, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, mapping out the supple expanse of her skin like a man possessed.
As his hand drifted lower, Silco's fingers brushed against the slick, heated flesh of her sex, and he couldn't help but let out a low, dark chuckle. He could feel the wetness that coated her folds, could sense the way her body clenched and shuddered at his touch.
"Oh, you greedy girl." Silco murmured, his voice a low, teasing rasp as he circled her sensitive clit with a maddeningly gentle touch. "Getting this excited just from sucking my cock, hm? Such an insatiable little minx you are." her hips singing back against his hand, seeking more of that friction.
Silco then gives her what she wants. He grasped her hips and with a single thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her. They both cried out, their moans echoing off the walls of Silco's office as he began to move, his hips slapping against her ass with a force that made the wood of the desk creak and groan beneath them.
He could consider himself a benevolent lover most of the time, but in that particular moment, he was focused only on his own selfish pleasure.
It took Silco mere moments to reach the same fevered pitch he had felt when he was lost in the heat of her mouth. The wet, obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, punctuated by Silco's guttural moans and grunts as he chased his rapidly approaching release.
With a final, brutal slam of his hips, Silco buried himself balls-deep inside her. His body went rigid, every muscle pulled taut as he finally found his release.
"Damn it!" Silco roared, slamming his hand down on the desk hard enough to make the wood groan beneath his palm. His hips jerked and shuddered as he rode out the waves of his intense climax, he feel her body clenching and fluttering around him, trying desperately to milk every last drop of his essence.
Lost in the throes of his climax, it took Silco a moment to register the frustrated groan that tore from her throat. He could sense the way she was grinding her hips back against his, chasing her own peak.
Panting harshly, Silco pressed his forehead against her shoulder blade, his hips still twitching with the aftershocks. He knew he needed to take care of her, to give her the release she so desperately craved, but for now, he simply held her close, his cock still nestled deep inside her welcoming heat.
"Silco..."
Silco's chest heaved with ragged breaths as he slowly regained his composure, a breathless chuckle escaping his lips at the sound of her needy whimper. "Oh, poor thing... you want to cum so badly, don't you?"
He rolled his hips lazily, grinding his softening cock against her sensitive walls, drawing a sharp gasp from her throat. But just as quickly, he stilled, his hands tightening on her waist as he denied her the friction she craved.
Silco leaned down to murmur in her ear, his lips brushing against the delicate shell as he spoke. "This is your punishment for making me jealous." he punctuated his words with a sharp nip to her earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh .
"You son of a bitch..." the curse came out breathlessly, a mixture of frustration and pure rage. "Don't you dare, Silco."
"You're in no position to make demands."
Silco watched with a smug, satisfied smirk as her body went limp, her angry huffs of frustration doing little to dampen the sheer adorability of her pouting expression.
With a low, rueful chuckle, Silco pulled away, his softening cock slipping out of her dripping cunt with a gush of their combined fluids. He feel the ache in his muscles, the subtle twinge in his back as he moved, a reminder of his age and the toll the years had taken on his once-athletic frame.
He tucked himself back into his pants, the fabric of his slacks rustling softly as he straightened them. He took a moment to survey the scene before him — her disheveled form draped over his desk and the scattered paperwork. The decision was made with minimal hesitation.
She let out a soft yelp of surprise as Silco suddenly scooped her up into his arms, her body instinctively melting against his chest as he lifted her off the desk.
"You're lucky I'm feeling benevolent right now, dove."
[...]
The light filtered faintly through the curtain that had been forgotten open. It was difficult to tell whether it was morning or late afternoon—the glow was neither harsh nor dim, but something in between, a steady wash of pale brightness that softened the edges of the room. Silco stirred in the bed, a sluggish awareness seeping into his body as his senses returned one by one. His chest rose in a steady rhythm, and it was only when the warmth against him shifted slightly that he realized his arms were wound securely around another body. Naked, like him.
He blinked slowly, letting the haze of sleep loosen its grip, and drew in a quiet breath that carried the faint scent of her hair. The familiarity of it grounded him in a way that little else could. He stifled a yawn, the corners of his lips twitching into the faintest curve as he pressed himself closer to the woman in his arms.
His fiancée.
The thought still felt strange, even after days of wearing the word in silence, rolling it across the edges of his mind as though testing whether it fit. His lips brushed the curve of her shoulder as he pulled her nearer, the warmth of her skin feeding into his own.
She wasn't asleep—he could tell. The steady tension in her muscles, the measured stillness she held onto, betrayed her wakefulness. Silco doubted she had woken just now. No, there was something in the way she had remained there, silent, motionless, almost as though she wanted him to believe she was still lost to dreams. Perhaps she had been awake for minutes. Or perhaps for hours, lying in wait while the day shifted outside the window, letting him hold her without interruption.
"Even if sleep is not a need you seem to care for." Silco murmured against her shoulder, his voice low and roughened by rest. "I would worry less if you indulged in it now and then."
He tightened his embrace slightly, as though the pressure could anchor her in place, could coax her to yield to something as simple as rest. His lips ghosted over the fine line of her collarbone, his words melting into her skin. "Did you have another nightmare?"
"Violet."
That single word was all Silco needed. Violet. He understood without further explanation, because the sentiment was one he knew too well. The hollow echo of loss had its own language, one that needed no translation.
When Felicia died before his very eyes on the bridge, the image of her collapse had carved itself into his mind with surgical precision. Each night afterward, the scene replayed without mercy—the gunshot, the fall, the blood—and each night he attempted to rewrite it. To reach her in time.
To catch her before her body struck the ground. To change the inevitable. And each time, he failed. Failure upon failure, until the dream itself became a ritual of torment. It had taken years for the nightmare to loosen its grip, and even now, fragments of it returned in the quiet dark. Some wounds never healed. They only learned to scar.
He exhaled slowly, pressing her tighter against him, his lips traced a line of fleeting kisses along her bare shoulder, his voice dropping into a murmur that carried more command than comfort. "Don't step into that spiral, dove." he drew her closer still, his hand splayed over her ribs, steady and unyielding. "The sooner you accept there was no other ending, the easier it becomes to live with it."
For a moment, he thought his words might settle her, but her reply was sharp. "But what if I could have heard the sniper's trigger before the shot was fired?"
The implication landed with force, sinking straight into his chest. Silco's body stilled, the careful rhythm of his ministrations halting as though her words had doused the small tenderness he'd allowed himself. His lips paused against her skin, jaw tensing, and the line of his mouth hardened into something cold.
"Do not sour my mood so early."
But she turned her head slightly, her tone unwavering, insistent. "I'm serious, Silco. Think of it in that methodical way you always do. Strip away the sentiment. Look at it logically."
As much as he wanted to throw the irony in her face—that she, of all people, was asking him to strip away sentiment, when their greatest quarrel had once been born from him doing precisely that, of him doing something aiming at logic than sentimentalism—Silco bit down on the retort. A sharp reminder of old arguments would serve neither of them here.
Instead, he let the silence stretch, allowed himself a long, measured breath, and then released it in a sigh. If she wanted him to engage with this line of thought, he would.
"Alright. You want me to acknowledge the potential of this modification? Fine. I acknowledge it. Real power comes to those who will do anything to seize it even if it means going to the limit of what is humanly achievable."
His hand rose slowly from the curve of her waist, sliding with deliberate slowness until his palm settled at the hollow of her throat. He didn't squeeze but he held the weight of her there, a reminder of possession and protection folded into a single motion.
"You're already dangerous. With that advancement, you'd be unstoppable."
She began to smile, triumphant, the certainty of her own argument bright and foolish in his eyes. "See? You know I'm right—"
"However." His thumb pressed more firmly into her skin, not in threat but in emphasis, anchoring the gravity of his speech. "If you die, Zaun would pay the price. So, if you want my methodical view, stripped of all sentiment, here it is: I would not gamble the certainty of your destructive power for the illusion of something greater. Not now. Not while so much hangs in the balance."
It was as though his words had drained the fight out of her. She withered like a flower starved of light, her shoulders curving inwards as if the weight of his reasoning pressed them down. No sharp retort, no heated argument followed—only a long, slow exhale, heavy with reluctant acceptance.
Silco watched, silent, as she shifted against him, slipping free of the cage of his arms. He did not stop her. Instead, he let her move. When she turned to face him, the sight tugged at something low in his chest. Her face was still touched with the softness of sleep, skin creased faintly from the pillow, her hair falling in waves across her eyes. Perfect, unguarded, human.
"As you said yourself yesterday, that you'd set this matter aside... I propose we treat it as a plan B. Something reserved for... extreme measures. Not denied, but not acted upon prematurely, as you are so fond of doing." his hand moved lazily, almost careless in its grace, as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The faint lines of her expression were still there, the remnants of her stubbornness, but he could sense the acquiescence settling like a weightless anchor between them. "Are we agreed?"
She nodded faintly, leaning into his touch as though taking advantage of the rare indulgence, and Silco allowed it—let his fingertips trace the softness of her skin with idle, absent-minded precision.
"Since we're already speaking of yesterday." she began carefully. "You mentioned overhearing my conversation with Viktor... did you hear all of it?"
Ah.
Silco recognized that look in her eyes at once—that fragile blend of innocence and vigilance. She was already bracing herself for the answer, rehearsing her counterstroke no matter what truth he chose to give. And of course, he understood the true meaning beneath her ambiguity. It wasn't about the conversation itself—it was about what part of it he would choose to admit hearing.
He didn't bother pretending. Subterfuge was wasted between them.
"If you're referring to that so-called 'cure' you and Viktor seem to have devised, then yes, I heard. In fact, it explains quite a lot. For instance, why Viktor has yet to demand his share of our agreement." a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "He secured his salvation without me lifting a finger. Clever boy."
The words were not entirely cold. Silco allowed himself the faintest note of respect in them.
He let his hand fall away from her face, adjusting himself against the headboard with the calm of a man preparing for a meeting rather than indulging in a lover's respite. He sat upright, shoulders squared, the faint glow of light spilling across the planes of his scarred face.
It struck him with a flicker of amusement that what was about to unfold was, by all accounts, a negotiation—perhaps the most unorthodox he had ever conducted. Naked, disheveled, and still faintly marked by the intimacy of the night before.
"You're going to ask me... no, demand... that I stay out of this matter." he began smoothly, his tone carefully neutral, stripped of warmth or irritation. A statement, not a question. He spoke like a man who had already read every line of her intent before she voiced it. "So allow me to streamline the process. My condition for not interfering is simple: if the moment comes when it is necessary, I will have access to this so-called cure. And when that moment comes, you will not deny me."
The words hung in the air, weighty and final, though she showed no sign of recoiling. Instead, she straightened where she sat, mirroring him, her posture settling into the same poised discipline he so often adopted. It drew a brief, fleeting smile from him—thin, amused, dangerous. To see her copy his mannerisms, to wield them back at him like a blade—it was almost endearing, like watching a student dare to challenge a master.
"I have a condition as well." she countered, her voice steady, touched with that same calculating lilt. For a moment, Silco simply studied her, appreciating the way she met him head-on, the faint spark of defiance woven through her restraint.
"Go on."
"It won't be handed to you for just any reason. This isn't some polished formula Viktor and I perfected, it's unfinished and volatile. So it must be something... significant. Something like the day you were poisoned. Life and death. No lesser excuse."
"So that concoction you forced me to drink, was Viktor's cure."
It was not an accusation, nor even surprise—merely confirmation spoken aloud, a puzzle piece slipped into place. When she nodded in affirmation, Silco found himself less startled than he might have imagined he would be at such a revelation. Somehow, it felt inevitable, as if he had always suspected the truth and only now allowed himself to voice it.
"I accept your condition, dove."
"Then we have an accord."
She lifting her hand and extending it toward him. The gesture, absurd in its formality given the circumstances—the two of them unclothed, lounging amidst tangled sheets—drew the faintest quirk of amusement to Silco's lips. Yet he did not mock her for it. Instead, he took her hand firmly, the handshake sharp and businesslike, as though they were two lords of Zaun closing terms over a ledger rather than lovers in bed. For him, it was fitting. Every agreement was a contract, no matter where it was made.
"And tell me..." he asked after a pause, genuine curiosity threading into his usually guarded tone, "Just how potent is this cure of yours?"
"It held against your poisoning, against Viktor's illness, against Violet's as well. And this is still only the prototype. With refinement, Viktor believes it could be perfected, made even stronger."
This would be a great tool for the future.
"Well then, as the new mistress of the Slickjaws, you wield the power to bankroll Viktor's research. Make it worth the cost, dove."
She smiled faintly before leaning down against him, her head settling over his chest as though it belonged there. Silco's body responded automatically—his arms came around her automatically, enclosing her in the same instinctive hold he had woken to that morning. Her fingers traced idly along his chest, slipping between the ridges of his scars and muscle, and for a brief span of silence, the moment carried an intimacy almost dissonant with the subject they had just left behind.
"This almost feels like your relationship with Singed." she murmured, her tone carrying that teasing weight of half-truths.
"Almost, but the most distinct difference, my love, is that boy still seems to harbor some affection for you. Even after everything that happened... a fool's sentiment."
Her hand stilled, and in the next instant she gave him a sharp little slap across the chest, a warning more playful than punitive. "Don't say that."
Silco tilted his head slightly, his mouth curving into the faintest suggestion of a smirk. "Or what?"
She lifted herself from his chest then, pushing against him until her face hovered just inches from his own. The strands of her hair fell forward, brushing his jaw, and her eyes—though she schooled her expression into mock severity—burned with something far more dangerous than anger.
"I'll make you regret it."
Silco's smirk deepened, the predator in him savoring the shift in the air. His gaze dipped deliberately, lingering on her lips before returning to her eyes.
"Yeah?" Silco's voice dropped, hushed, intimate with anticipation "Then make me."
She closed the last inches of distance between them not with haste, but with a slowness, as if savoring the anticipation itself. Her lips brushed lightly against his first, a feather's touch, more suggestion than kiss. The contact was fleeting—an invitation, a tease—before she finally pressed into him fully. The kiss was calm, unhurried, a meeting of mouths without urgency, as though both had decided the world outside could wait.
Her hand rested firmly against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the deep thrum of his heartbeat beneath the scars that marked him. Silco, in turn, let his fingers slide upward, curving into the back of her neck with quiet possession. He held her there. Allowing her to remain in a close place to him that no one else had access to, but at the same time preventing her from leaving even if she wanted to.
There was no desperate clash of teeth or hunger. Instead, it was a slow burn, the kind of intimacy that grew heavier with every second it lingered. Silco allowed himself to leaning into the sensation.
He felt the soft press of her body against his as she settled herself in his lap. He could feel every curve and dip, from the gentle swell of her breasts to the flare of her hips, all of it molding against him like she was made to fit there.
As her hips began to move, Silco couldn't help but let out a low, appreciative groan. The slow, sensual grind of her body against his sent sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine, stoking the embers of his desire once more.
Silco feel his cock beginning to stir, to harden once more at the delicious friction of her naked body against his. His hands slid down to cup the rounded globes of her ass, kneading and squeezing the firm flesh as he ground her down against the growing bulge.
Her gasped and shuddered, her nails digging into Silco's chest as she rubbed herself against his cock. He could feel the slick heat of her essence coating his shaft as she rubbed herself along its thick, pulsing length. The obscene sound of their mixed arousal filled the room, the wet, sloppy noises of their coupling growing louder with each passing second.
Silco groaned breaking the kiss and letting his lips descend to one of her nipples, sucking the tip as he bucked his hips up to meet her downward grind.
"The way you're grinding on my cock... fuck, you're so wet and ready for me, aren't you?" Silco growled, his voice a low, guttural rasp. "Do you want me inside you again, dove?"
He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust of his hips, the broad head of his shaft catching on her entrance before sliding back out.
Silco could see the glazed look in her eyes, the way her pupils were blown wide with desire and lust. He could tell she was too far gone, too consumed by her own need to form a coherent response. Just as he went to tease her again, he felt her hips surge forward. In one swift, desperate movement, she impaled herself on his rigid shaft, taking him to the hilt inside her tight, clasping heat.
But before she could start to ride him with the wild abandon he knew she was capable of, Silco acted. With a growl, he wrapped his arms around her waist and threw her back onto the bed, following her down and covering her body with his own.
She let out a yelp of surprise, her back hitting the mattress as Silco loomed over her, his eyes dark and intense as he settled between her spread thighs, still firmly inside her. Silco braced his forearms on either side of her head, his hips nestled snugly against hers as he leaned down to rasp in her ear.
"Look at you... always so fucking eager. You think you can just take what you want?" to tease her, he moved his hips — slow, deep —, stirring his thick length inside her, stretching her inner walls around his girth. "I'm in charge here, dove."
Silco began to move, his hips rolling in a slow rhythm. He took his time, savoring the way her tight walls clenched and fluttered around his thick shaft with each deep, measured thrust.
He could feel her hands roaming over his back, her nails raking lightly over the hard muscle, tracing the lines of his scars. When her fingers brushed over the jagged, puckered flesh of the knife wound she had given him months ago, Silco shuddered, a low groan rumbling in his chest.
Silco pulled back slightly, his eyes locking with her as he gazed down at her. The look in his eyes was intense, almost feral, a mix of lust and profane devotion. Silco leaned down to capture her lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth to claim her once more.
Silco's hands slid down to grip her thighs, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he pushed her legs up and back, nearly bending her in half. The new angle allowed him to drive even deeper into her, to touch a spot that made she cry out in ecstasy. He swallowed her cries with his kiss, his hips never faltering in their slow, deep rhythm.
Just as Silco and she lost themselves in the throes of passion, a sharp knock sounded at the bedroom door. Sevika's voice echoed through the room, tinged with a hint of concern. "Silco?"
For a moment, Silco considered ignoring her, but then, his eyes flashing with annoyance, Silco broke the kiss. Rather than stopping his movements altogether, he simply covered her mouth with his hand, muffling any sounds she might make. At the same time, he began to speed up his thrusts. Her eyes widened in surprise at the sudden change in pace, her body jolting beneath Silco's as he drove into her with increasing force.
"Sevika." he barked, his tone sharp and impatient. "You better have a good reason for interrupting me right now. I'm busy."
"Viktor is requesting an immediate meeting with you and that woman, but I was unable to locate her."
The timing couldn't be worse.
Silco felt his climax building, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in his loins with each deep thrust. He could feel her body tensing beneath him, her walls fluttering and clenching around his shaft as her own peak approached. With a low, guttural groan, Silco threw his head back, his teeth clenched and his eyes squeezing shut as he fought to maintain control.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, his chest heaving as he struggled to calm the racing of his heart. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, strained rasp, thick with impending release.
"And what does Viktor want to talk about?"
"It seems Piltover is up to something involving the Gray'."
At the mention of Piltover and the Gray in the same sentence, Silco felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. The pleasure that had been building to a fevered pitch suddenly evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard knot of dread in the pit of his stomach. Silco's hips stilled abruptly, his body going rigid above her as he processed the implications of Sevika's words.
"WHAT?"
[...]
Viktor's Pov
━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━
Hours before
Viktor had always known when he was not welcome in a place, even if no one dared to say it out loud. He read it in the smallest gestures, in the quiet cruelties that most dismissed as invisible.
The fleeting glances that lingered a heartbeat too long on him, questioning his very right to be there. The subtle tilt of a chin, dripping with self-importance, that wordlessly announced superiority. The deliberate refusal to acknowledge his presence, as though ignoring him could erase him entirely.
These were things one learned to live with when one came from Zaun. They became as familiar as the smog-filled air, as inevitable as rust on steel.
What he could not quite decipher, however, was why Jayce had insisted that he be here. The reasoning eluded him. Perhaps Jayce needed an ally's face among the wolves Mel Medarda had gathered. Perhaps he wanted reassurance, a grounding presence in a room where every smile was sharp-edged. Or perhaps it was simply Jayce's stubborn belief that Viktor belonged here, in the council's gilded cage, no matter how ill-fitting that he felt.
He had to be honest though, it was strange to be in the presence of the Piltover Council knowing that one of them had orchestrated a military coup plan that only failed because the human weapon had rebelled.
"The investigation is still ongoing. We have not been able to locate her, and it appears that some sort of cult is forming in her name."
Marcus's voice echoed through the chamber, the weight of his words clinging to the air like dust. His tone carried more frustration than authority, though perhaps that was inevitable.
"How have we come to this point?" Heimerdinger's voice was the first to be heard.
The yordle stood by the high arched window, his small frame dwarfed by the city sprawling below. His hands clasped neatly behind his back, ears tilted ever so slightly downward, and though his voice remained measured, Viktor could tell there was worry in it. The professor's gaze lingered on Piltover's skyline as though searching for answers in its glittering spires.
"For too long the undercity has been left unchecked." Hoskel's deep voice followed, roughened by age and pride. He had allowed his beard to grow wild these past weeks, a far cry from his usual groomed appearance.
He still wore the faint discolorations of bruises around his jaw, remnants of the story he had spread—that Zaunite ruffians had attacked him during an attempted robbery. A convenient tale.
"We've lost contact with them." Shoola interjected, her tone colder, more practical. "They may not be your favored citizens, but they are still our people."
"The Undercity cannot be controlled. Not by us." Cassandra Kiramman's voice carried across the chamber, firm and unflinching. She spoke not as a plea but as a truth long acknowledged, and though some shifted uncomfortably in their seats, none dared to openly refute her.
"Then what are we to do?" Salo's question cut through the thick silence that followed. For once, he had given voice to something meaningful, though his tone carried more curiosity than conviction.
"One individual managed to dismantle an entire military outpost alone." Irius Bolbok interjected, his voice resonating with its metallic distortion. The robotic timbre lent his statement an air of inevitability. "So we must admit, even here, within these walls, we are not beyond the reach of an invasion."
The council, so practiced in its elegance, was rattled. They did not shout or tremble, but Viktor read the truth in their carefully schooled expressions, the tightness in their jaws, the darting glances that betrayed the thought each of them harbored but refused to voice: Piltover was no longer untouchable.
On the surface, they still clung to dignity. But Viktor, seated amidst them, could feel the undercurrent of fear pulsing through the chamber like a second heartbeat. To them, Zaun had always been a distant problem, a stain on their gleaming city that could be ignored so long as it remained below. Now the stain was spreading, darkening, seeping upward, and they were beginning to realize that it might not stop at their thresholds.
"In the streets of that city forsaken by the heavens, progress is being forged that we could scarcely have imagined." Viktor's eyes flicked to the speaker as the words rang out. It was Hoskel again. "You all saw that monstrosity of biomechanical. Do you truly believe it was an isolated creation? No. They are building an army!"
"We must resolve this matter with urgency." Cassandra Kiramman's voice cut cleanly through the rising tension. She did not raise her tone, yet there was force enough in it to command the chamber's attention.
"How convenient that you would say such a thing." Hoskel countered, leaning forward against the polished table, his gaze locking onto her with something between challenge and mockery. "Because I happen to know of a solution that your esteemed family could provide, Kiramman."
Cassandra's posture stiffened, her brow narrowing. "And to what exactly are you referring, Hoskel?"
He smiled. "Open those pipes of yours. Let the Gray seep through the alleys, drive the rats from their holes. Simple enough."
The effect was immediate and devastating. The chamber erupted in a cacophony of voices—indignation, agreement, outrage—all crashing over one another in a storm of competing tones. Some shouted of morality, others of pragmatism, each voice straining to be heard and in the end consumed by the collective noise. The order of the council fractured in an instant, civility crumbling beneath the weight of Hoskel's suggestion.
Viktor sat still, his body heavy against the chair, and let the sound wash over him like the roar of machinery. His mind lingered on the sheer brutality of what had just been spoken.
Viktor was far too young to remember, but he understand the horror behind the Gray. Heimerdinger had once confessed that it was fortunate the responsibility for such a weapon had been placed in the hands of the Kiramman family, for he trusted the line's sense of justice to restrain its use.
Even for Piltover, with its polished facades masking ruthless ambition, Hoskel's words transcended the limits of what Viktor believed they would dare. To deliberately poison the veins of Zaun, to flood its streets with toxins as though its people were vermin to be smoked out—this was no longer politics or negligence. It was extermination spoken aloud, dressed in the language of expediency.
He had expected little from this council, but hearing the thought spoken so brazenly still struck him deeper than he wished to admit.
"Have you lost your mind?" Cassandra was on her feet before anyone else, her outrage plain, her disgust written across every syllable. "You are seriously suggesting we commit a war crime? Have you conveniently forgotten the devastation that gas caused? There are innocents in those streets!" her tone left no space for misinterpretation; she was not merely protesting, she was condemning.
"If there are innocents, then why have they not cooperated with the investigation?" Salo interjected sharply, his voice rising above the noise.
"How could they possibly cooperate when we've given them no reason to trust us?" Heimerdinger's voice, though smaller in stature, carried a gravity that hushed the room for a fleeting moment. He had returned to his seat, his eyes fixed sternly upon Hoskel. His ears, normally folded in thought or concern, now stood rigid, betraying his indignation. "Tell me, Councilor, why do I have the growing impression that you may hold a personal stake in this conflict?"
"Of course I do!" Hoskel's voice thundered, his fist striking the table with a dull thud that reverberated through the chamber. "We all do! If this city falls, we lose everything we have built, everything we have bled for."
"Councilors, it seems we are at an impasse." Medarda's voice cut through the rising storm. Calm yet commanding. "We cannot stoop so low as to unleash something as destructive as Gray. But if we do nothing, we leave ourselves vulnerable to our enemies. More lives could be lost. Perhaps it is time we considered a solution more radical."
Even though Heimerdinger was the leader, it was obvious that she was the one in charge. Merdada didn't even raise her voice; her mere presence was enough to silence the entire room so she could speak.
"I believe we must prepare for an imminent war, but not initiate it, as some here have suggested. Piltover must be the defender, not the aggressor. If conflict comes, let history show we sought only to protect, not to conquer. Let us put this to a vote. Who among you would see fire opened first?"
The room hung in tense silence for a breath, then—like dominoes tipping—three hands were raised: Salo, Hoskel, and Bolbok. Their faces betrayed nothing, though the decision spoke volumes.
Mel gave a small nod. "Very well. Then it will not even require a second round. By four votes to three, the council has decided against a direct assault on Zaun."
"You're all going to regret this decision!" Hoskel stood up from his seat, clearly dissatisfied at having been contradicted, and then left the room without looking back.
"Well, with that settled. Let's talk about matters that will change our future." Merdada smiled at Jayce, who was hovering beside Viktor—also in complete silence, simply observing the scene unfold. "Jayce, tell us how the development of the Hextech gems is going."
"Oh... of course." and then Jayce took the lead, shifting the weight of a war discussion to the hope of a bright future.
[...]
After the chaos of the council chamber, Viktor and Jayce had parted only briefly. He went to talk to Heimerdinger, who was worried that the young scientist had felt uncomfortable with Hoskel's insinuations. Meanwhile, Jayce and Merdada also withdrew for a private conversation.
The proposal had been struck down, thank the stars, but Viktor could not shake the unsettling truth: three councilors had not only known of the consequences of Gray but had been willing to unleash it regardless. To carry such knowledge and still argue for its use—it spoke of a rot far deeper than mere arrogance.
He moved quietly through the polished corridors, his cane tapping against the floor in steady rhythm, intent on finding Jayce so that he could share his thoughts while the weight of the meeting still lingered fresh. But as he neared the his chamber, voices reached him through the slightly ajar door. He slowed, the sound freezing him mid-step.
"We should prepare our own countermeasures." Mel Medarda's voice was unmistakable.
"You want me to build weapons? With Hextech?" Jayce's reply came disbelieving, and Viktor could imagine the look on his face: wide-eyed, restless, his hands already in motion, pacing perhaps. "We would shatter any attempt at peace. Heimerdinger would never go for this—"
"Heimerdingers' inaction is what brought us here." a sigh "Everything I said at the meeting is true, but..."
Despite catching the conversation mid-way, you didn't need to be a genius to understand what they were talking about. And in that context, a 'but' was worrying on so many levels. Because in this type of conversation, 'but' is the prelude to something absurd.
"The peace is already broken, Jayce. War is inevitable. I'm only asking you to prepare to defend your people. If we're lucky, we'll never need to use it. The decision is yours."
For a second, they were both silent.
"I—I'll think about it. I promise, Mel."
"I know you will."
Her words lingered like smoke in the air as she moved toward the door. Viktor stepped back instinctively, but not fast enough. The door swung open, and there she was—Mel Medarda, composed as ever. She froze for only the briefest second when she saw him standing there — a shadow in the corridor — as if she were genuinely surprised by the presence of a third person in the room.
Then she glided past him without a word, her perfume trailing like a whisper of her presence. She did not look back.
Inside the room, Jayce looked up, startled. His face carried the expression of a man caught with blood on his hands, guilt rising before the accusations could even be spoken.
"How much did you hear?"
"Enough." Viktor's eyes narrowed as he entered the room. "You are not truly considering this, are you?"
The silence that followed was damning. Jayce looked away, jaw tight, his hesitation speaking louder than words. To Viktor, it was not the pause itself that frightened him, but the weight of it—the heavy contemplation behind it, the betrayal of how deeply Mel's words had already taken root.
"What if she's right?" Jayce finally whispered, his voice raw, almost pleading. "Are we just gonna stand by while they attack us? Watch people die when we could have acted sooner?"
"We are scientists, Jayce, not soldiers."
"We have the knowledge to defend ourselves."
"We agreed Hextech was to improve lives, not to take them."
Viktor was stating the obvious, so why wasn't that man listening?
Viktor's fingers clenched around the cane's handle until the wood groaned beneath the pressure. For one irrational second, he considered bringing it down upon Jayce's skull just to knock some sense into him. It was an ugly thought, but the frustration clawed at him, raw and unrelenting. Jayce's brilliance was vast, but his stubbornness... his blind faith in his own righteousness could be maddening.
"We may not have a choice, Viktor."
Perhaps hitting him over the head with the cane wasn't such a bad idea after all. "There is always a choice."
Jayce ran a hand over her face, visibly frustrated with the whole conversation. "There are people down there who seem hell-bent on destroying us."
From the change in Jayce's tone of voice, it seemed that he was now stating the obvious and that Viktor didn't understand the gravity of the situation.
"You know very well the kind of chaos those people cause. Don't you remember how they invaded my apartment that time and blew everything up? Not to mention that time they tried to rebel in the past and, more recently, the massacre in Stillwater. Innocent lives were lost that day!"
Jayce's voice rose, harsh with desperation. His eyes burned with something Viktor had seen before in countless Piltovans—the conviction that fear was reason enough to abandon principle.
"Why can't you see that, Viktor? The people of the Undercity are dangerous!"
A slap would have been less painful.
That phrase was so natural coming from him, as if it were a thought born and raised with him, to the point that Jayce couldn't even discern how destructive it was to say it. How could he generalize an entire society like that? An entire society living on the fringes of a city that preferred to believe Zaun was merely a shadow rather than a part of itself.
Indeed, a slap would have been less painful than acknowledging that the man he loved wasn't so different from the others.
"I'm from the Undercity."
The words were simple, almost quiet, but they struck with the force of a hammer. Jayce froze. For a heartbeat, the anger blazing in him flickered out, snuffed like a fragile flame caught in a sudden wind. In its place came a shadow of shame, heavy and raw, settling across his features. His mouth opened, but no sound came at first, only the visible weight of regret pulling his shoulders down.
He took a hesitant step forward, hand half-lifting as though he might reach out. But Viktor shifted back, the movement subtle but significant, a boundary drawn in silence. The rejection landed heavier than any spoken word.
"Viktor... I'm sorry." Jayce murmured, his voice unsteady, small in comparison to the bold proclamations he had made only moments ago. His eyes darted away, then back again, searching for forgiveness he had no right to demand. "I've got a lot on my plate."
"Then I'll let you deal with them first. Maybe then you'll come to your senses."
The moment Viktor turned to leave, Jayce's voice rang out, a tone of pure questioning and surprise bathing in it. As if he didn't understand why Viktor was leaving at that moment. "Where are you going?"
Viktor paused for a moment, pondering the question, though he knew the answer was already clear.
"To visit a friend."
Part 39
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Merry Christmas! Happy holidays everyone! (a little early but it's all good)
It's amazing how the original lines from the series can open up possibilities for various scenes if you change the context. For a large part of the dialogue during Viktor's POV, I used lines from the series itself (from different episodes) and I genuinely liked the result.
Little is known about Gray or how catastrophic it is, so for this story consider that this gas is indeed harmful. It's not deadly if you breathe it for a short time (but it's not pleasant either, after all, it's still a toxic gas), but it becomes deadly when exposed in large quantities and for long periods, causing mutations in internal organs and death in some cases.
What could be more dangerous than Singed’s inhuman experiments? The answer is simple — Silco’s jealousy. A force far more volatile, and aimed solely at you.
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 7,9K
Warnings: conversations about death, references to deceased individuals, references to scientific experiments, Singed is the warning itself, jealousy Silco, sexual tension
Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.
Part 36
You barely had time to see Powder's small body slam into the wall after your kick connected, a move she should have dodged if her timing had been right. The sound of the impact made your stomach twist, and in the same heartbeat you were already at her side, a flash of purple practically teleported closer to Powder. You gathered her up carefully, your hands running over her shoulders, arms, ribs—checking, fearing you'd find something broken.
To your relief, everything was in place. No sharp intakes of breath, no winces of real pain. Still, her face told a different story. The sting she carried wasn't in her body—it was in her pride. Powder looked up at you with wide, watery eyes, her little jaw tight, fighting the urge to cry. The frustration radiated from her more than any bruise ever could.
"Alright." you sighed, your tone softer than you meant it to be, brushing a stray lock of blue hair from her face, "That's it for today. Training's over. You'll hurt yourself if we keep pushing."
You didn't fully understand why she was so insistent on this. She was just a child, barely tall enough to reach your chest, and yet she begged you with those eyes that reminded you of a lost puppy—pleading, unyielding, impossible to refuse. And so here you were, spending the entire morning in her warehouse by the docks.
You'd started with the basics—simple footwork, defensive stances, the kind of things drilled into you at the Institute, things that were second nature to you now. For Powder, though, it was all new. She struggled, her small frame not yet strong enough to balance well, her movements too eager, too rushed.
But when it came to marksmanship? That was where she shone. Her hands, steady and precise, made up for the trembling in her stance. She had the patience to line up her shots, and when she truly focused, her perception of her surroundings was sharper than most grown soldiers you'd met.
Powder's wiry little frame gave her the potential for speed and agility—she could slip between crates, dart through alleys, climb scaffolding with ease. But when it came to actual combat, her body betrayed her.
She couldn't translate that natural nimbleness into close-quarters fighting, and you knew exactly why: she'd never been trained for it. Shooting, tinkering, observing—those were her talents. But throwing a punch, taking a hit, grounding herself against someone stronger? That was a different world entirely.
And so, against your better judgment, you had indulged her request. A simple sparring exercise, nothing more. Or at least, that was how you had intended it. But the instant your foot connected with her side—even though you hadn't put any strength behind it—her tiny body was airborne. She went flying and you regretted agreeing to this madness.
"No! Let's do it again, please. I can dodge this time." her voice was breathless but determined, and her wide eyes fixed on you with an almost desperate intensity.
"Absolutely not." you pulling her into your arms before she could argue.
"Mom..." the word left her lips in a childish plea, soft and aching, her voice so sweetly manipulative it nearly made you falter. She tilted her head, those impossibly big eyes looking up at you with a mixture of innocence and stubborn willpower that had undone you more times than you cared to admit.
"Don't 'Mom' me." you scolded gently, tightening your hold as she squirmed in protest. "And stop giving me that look. I won't risk hurting you again."
She huffed, frustrated, wriggling against you with more determination than strength.
"But I have to learn to fight!" her little hands pushed against your arms as though she could pry herself free, her brows knitting together in frustration. "If I don't learn, how am I supposed to defend myself?"
You let her go. "You don't need to learn to defend yourself, little one, that's what I'm here for."
You half-expected a small, relieved smile, a flicker of relief across her face. But Powder did nothing of the sort. Instead, she made that strange little expression she always got when she was trying to hide something, the one that made you want to scoop her up again just to check if she was okay.
She turned her face away from you, avoiding your eyes. "And what if you're not?"
"Powder..." you reached out instinctively, your fingers brushing her small shoulder, but she flinched just slightly and pulled back, still wrapped in her own little bubble of fear and frustration.
"I... I heard some of Silco's men talking... about a war against the Upper Side... and I know you're going to be in the middle of it, so what am I supposed to do if something happens and you're not there? What if you need help? What if you get hurt... and..."
She stopped herself, the sentence breaking off like the edges of a fragile glass, her body curling in on itself as if trying to hold in all the fear at once. She wrapped her small arms around herself, her blue hair flopping into her damp cheeks. Her eyes were glassy, rimmed with the shimmer of tears she was barely holding back.
"I can't... I can't lose anyone else."
The words hit you like a hammer to the chest. Everything suddenly made sense. This wasn't just about sparring or defending herself—this was about fear, the same raw, unfiltered fear that kept her small body tense, that made her cling to you in moments of uncertainty. And in that instant, the reason she had begged you to train her, the reason she had thrown herself into this with reckless determination, became crystal clear.
"Aw, my sweet girl..." you shifted closer, your hands moving gently to cup her small face, coaxing her to meet your eyes again. Her cheeks were warm beneath your palms, damp from the tears she hadn't quite let fall. You softened your voice, letting it carry the kind of warmth you reserved only for her. "You miss Violet, don't you?"
Powder sniffled, her bottom lip trembling before she gave the smallest nod, almost ashamed of admitting it. Her gaze flicked downward, her voice a fragile whisper.
"Sometimes I think I can still hear her voice in my head, but she doesn't yell like the other voices. She helps..." she stopped, swallowing hard before looking straight at you. "Do you miss her too?"
You gave her a small, sorrowful smile, the kind that never reached your eyes, and your fingers threaded gently through her tangled blue hair, stroking the strands back behind her ear.
"Every day." you admitted quietly, your chest tightening with the truth. "Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Most nights I'd rather not sleep at all, because I know she'll be waiting for me in my dreams."
Powder's little head bobbed once more, the tears finally slipping free down her cheeks, but she wasn't crying from loneliness alone—she was crying because she understood. Somehow, despite her age, despite her innocence, she knew that grief wasn't something you simply grew out of. She knew it lingered, heavy and raw, tucked into the corners of your heart.
You gave a shaky sigh, brushing your thumb tenderly across her cheek. "I try to bury myself in the boring things, adult responsibilities just to keep my mind busy. But when the day ends, when everything gets quiet again, she comes back. And it hurts all over again, like the wound never healed."
Powder didn't look away this time. She stayed still, her small hands reaching up to rest over yours, pressing your palms tighter against her face as though anchoring herself in the warmth of your touch. Her eyes told you what her voice didn't need to—she understood that pain, because it was hers too.
Perhaps you should give her more credit.
"Alright... if you really want to learn to fight, then I'll teach you. But you need to understand something first, you will get hurt in the process. That's not a maybe, Powder. That's a certainty."
"I can take it."
She said it with such certainty, such conviction, that for the first time you believed she wasn't just trying to convince you—she was convincing herself. That unshakable tone eased your fear, if only a fraction, though the thought of training her still left a knot in your chest.
Because you knew what your training had been for. You hadn't been molded to protect or to guard—you had been shaped into a weapon, honed for killing, for ending lives before they could threaten your own. And the last thing you wanted was to carve that same path into her.
Powder was your little girl. She wasn't meant to carry blood on her hands, wasn't meant to grow up with death pressed into her every breath. The very idea of it hollowed you out.
But another thought slithered in, darker and harder to ignore. Vi had been able to fight—better than most grown men — and it still hadn't saved her. Skill and strength hadn't been enough. The memory clawed at you, a wound that would never close. And looking at Powder now, so small, so fragile, you felt the same terror threatening to take root.
You couldn't lose her too. You wouldn't.
So if training her—shaping her into something strong, something fast, something dangerous—was the only way to keep her safe, then you would do it. Not to turn her into the killer you had become, but into someone who could survive. Someone who could end a threat before it swallowed her whole. If you succeeded, maybe you wouldn't have to bury another daughter.
You drew in a slow breath, brushing the last trace of fear from your voice. "Lesson one, is learning how to fall without breaking half your bones."
Powder blinked up at you, her face a strange mix of curiosity and suspicion. She clearly hadn't expected that to be the starting point. Her little nose scrunched as though she were about to protest, but then she caught the seriousness in your gaze and thought better of it.
"Falling is the first thing you need to master. Everyone falls, doesn't matter how good you are, how fast you are, how strong. One mistake, one bad hit, and you're on the ground. If you don't know how to land, the ground will finish the job your enemy started."
[...]
Hours later
Powder had just collapsed onto the floor, her little limbs sprawled out dramatically as though the world itself had crushed her, when the groan of the warehouse door's hinges cut through the air. The sound was sharp, jarring against the steady rhythm of her panting breaths. Instinct surged in you before thought had the chance to catch up—your hand darted beneath the folds of your clothes, fingers closing around the familiar hilt of the dagger you carried. Muscles tensing, ready to strike.
And then you saw them.
The lean silhouette of Silco stepping into the half-light, his gait slow and measured, Sevika's broad frame just a step behind him. Relief washed through you like a tide, you let the dagger slip back into hiding, smoothing your features as Silco's mismatched eyes swept across the scene before him.
"It's a courtesy to inform others of your whereabouts before you disappear for an entire day."
His words weren't sharp, but the cadence was deliberate—like a parent gently reminding a child of their obligations. Hands clasped neatly behind his back, he studied you with a calm intensity that left little doubt he was cataloguing every detail. No, not you. The state you were in.
You drew yourself up, brushing dust from your hands as though the motion could disguise the tension in your shoulders. "We were training."
"I can see that." Silco murmured, his gaze flicking past you. His brow lifted almost imperceptibly when his attention landed on Powder, lying limp across the mat like a discarded ragdoll. "Has Jinx passed out?"
"Of course not! She's only catching her breath. Isn't that right, little one?"
The silence that followed was long enough to make Silco tilt his head in question. Then, with a groggy determination, Powder's small arm lifted and her thumb poked upward, trembling but triumphant. It was all the proof you needed.
"See?" you glancing back at him with a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. "Perfectly fine."
Powder let her arm flop back to the ground, eyes still closed, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts. But there was a spark there—you could feel it. She wasn't quitting. She was simply... recharging.
Silco's eyes narrowed on you, the weight of his stare lingering long enough to make your skin prickle. He didn't buy your easy reassurance, not fully—but then again, he rarely did. His suspicion hung in the air for a moment, sharp and heavy, before he released it with a slow, measured sigh.
His posture shifted, as though he had decided that arguing over Powder's state wasn't worth the effort. Instead, he moved on to the reason he had sought you out.
"We have a meeting."
"With who?"
"Singed."
The name alone made your chest tighten with an immediate, visceral reaction. The sharpness in your reply slipped out before you could stop it. "Absolutely not, Silco."
"Dove..." a single word dressed in softness, but underneath it lay the edge of command. "This is important. So, I will ask you to act professionally. Remember the position you hold."
The reminder stung. You felt your jaw tighten as you looked at him, the weight of his words pressing against the contradictions that had followed you since your return. You had chosen this. You had chosen him. And with that choice came responsibility, whether you liked it or not. Even if it meant standing across from Singed again.
Your body betrayed you first—you rolled your eyes with all the dramatic petulance of a child caught doing something they knew better than to do. A small, defiant act, but a safe one.
"Fine."
You turned your attention to Sevika then, and as expected, you were met with that perpetual scowl of hers—the expression that seemed less like a fleeting mood and more like a permanent fixture of her very existence. Her face was a sculpture carved out of irritation, and honestly, you were convinced she wore it to bed.
You smiled. Sweetly. Innocently. Which only made her eyes narrow further, because she knew exactly what that smile meant—you were about to say something she wouldn't like.
"Sevika..." you began, your tone dripping with false politeness. "Could you watch Jinx while she finishes her training?"
"No fucking way. I'm not here to play babysitter."
You then pleaded. "Silco... please."
But Sevika thought your plea was a low blow and tried to keep her boss from acting according to his authority. "Silco!"
He exhaled, long and tired, the way a man did when he had no interest in wasting energy on a squabble he'd already decided wasn't worth his time. He adjusted his coat, turned toward the door.
"Do as she says Sevika."
The silence that followed was exquisite. Sevika's face froze, the disbelief painted so vividly across her features you almost wanted to frame the image. The shock, the indignation—it was beautiful. And you couldn't help yourself. Your lips curled into a wicked little smile, the kind that you knew would needle her down to her bones.
You closed the distance between you, raising your hands in a show of mock surrender, as if to reassure her. "Peace, Sevika. That's all I want."
And it wasn't even entirely a lie. For all the barbed words and simmering glares that passed between you two, there was no escaping the reality: you were going to be in each other's lives whether you liked it or not. With your engagement to Silco—news she hadn't yet been made aware of—you would no longer just be a thorn in her side. You'd be family. Of a sort.
"You won't need to do anything, just stay here and make sure she doesn't break her neck."
"Fine."
You nodded, satisfied enough to turn and leave her to it. But halfway to the door, something pulled you back. You pivoted on your heel, leaning down slightly toward her, lowering your voice in a way that was almost conspiratorial.
"If you could... maybe teach her a few things you know?"
Her brow arched, unimpressed, and her lips twisted into that sardonic half-smile she reserved for moments when she thought you were being ridiculous.
"Aren't you already drilling her? You're practically a machine built for killing, I doubt the brat needs much more than that."
"That's exactly the problem, Sevika." your tone was firmer this time, steadier, carrying the kind of weight you didn't often lay bare. "Most of what I know, wasn't about protecting myself, it was about ending others. It was about making sure whoever stood across from me never stood up again. That's not what I want for her."
You paused, letting your eyes drift to Powder, who was still sprawled across the mat in stubborn exhaustion, her small chest rising and falling as though every breath was a battle.
"I don't want her to become like me. She needs to learn how to defend herself, not how to kill. Not every child in Zaun should have to carry that weight."
Something flickered in Sevika's expression—brief, fleeting, so subtle you might have missed it if you weren't looking for it. But then it was gone, replaced by the familiar mask of indifference. She sighed, long and heavy, as though the conversation itself was a burden, and gave a short nod.
"When I was still with Vander." her gaze slipping away from yours as though the admission cost her something, "I taught the older one a few moves. Kept it simple. Just enough to get her out of trouble if she needed it."
Your breath caught for a moment at the mention of Vi, at the shadow of memory that hovered there between the two of you. There was history in her voice, the kind that came wrapped in loyalty and loss, and though she didn't show it, you could hear it if you listened close enough.
Sevika didn't linger on it, of course. She snapped the thread of memory before it could soften her too much, straightening her shoulders and fixing you with that same deadpan glare.
"Don't expect miracles. I'm not here to mold her into anything. But if she pays attention, maybe she'll pick up a thing or two."
And though she said it with all the reluctance of someone being forced into something they'd rather not do, you caught the faintest trace of sincerity buried beneath her words.
"Thank you, Sevika." the weight of the words genuine even if you knew she'd brush them off.
True to form, Sevika didn't so much as glance at you. She only lifted one shoulder in that familiar shrug of hers, the gesture both dismissive and strangely final, before moving toward Powder. You lingered for only a heartbeat, watching the unlikely pair, then turned on your heel and headed for the exit.
The air outside hit colder against your skin, the faint metallic tang of Zaun's haze clinging to your lungs. You spotted Silco immediately, standing near the edge of the pier, his profile sharp against the distorted glow of shimmer lamps that bled through the fog.
He didn't turn at once, but you could tell by the tilt of his head that he was aware of you, always aware. When he finally shifted, his gaze catching yours, he began to walk toward you with that unhurried grace that never failed to unnerve you.
"How goes this training of yours?"
With one hand, he slipped out of his long coat, the motion fluid, and draped it across your shoulders in an almost absentminded gesture of possession. It was intimate without being tender, protective without ever softening his composure.
You adjusted the coat lightly, its weight grounding against you, and allowed yourself a faint laugh.
"Surprisingly well." you admitted. "For all her clumsiness now, there's... something in her. An instinct, a spark. I believe there's enormous potential there. All I have to do is reach it and shape it."
You hesitated, eyes lingering on the warehouse door where you knew Powder was inside, probably already bouncing back to her feet with stubborn determination.
"She stumbles, yes. She falls more than she lands. But she learns. And when she gets it right, even once, you can see it, the fire in her."
Silco made a low sound in his throat, an acknowledgment more than an agreement, but you seized the pause to push forward. Your tone shifted, losing the softness it had when you spoke of Powder, sharpening into steel.
"But don't think for a second that I'll let you use her in your schemes. My daughter is not a weapon. And if you ever try to mold her into one, Silco, I swear I will kill you."
You didn't flinch as you said it. You wanted him to see the conviction in your eyes, wanted him to understand you weren't bluffing, that this was one line he couldn't cross. And you chose the word my intentionally, not ours. Powder was your responsibility, your anchor. She came before him—before all of this.
Silco, however, didn't look offended. His expression hardly shifted at all, save for the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, something that was neither a smile nor a sneer but hovered between both. It was almost as if he had expected this, as if he knew exactly how far your protective streak would stretch.
"You and your dreadful habit of always assuming the worst of me, dove."
You folded your arms beneath his coat, lifting your chin, unwilling to yield. "That's because I know you."
The walk was, if you were being honest with yourself, pleasant. You and Silco moved together in that peculiar bubble the two of you sometimes shared, where silence was never uncomfortable, where words weren't necessary to fill the space between you. You simply existed side by side, and for once, that was enough.
Of course, the illusion was only slightly disturbed by the shadow of two of his brutes trailing a few paces behind.
Still, you noticed the way the streets responded to your presence. As you descended deeper into the lanes, heads turned, necks craning to catch a glimpse of you both. Conversations stuttered, voices dropped to hushed whispers, only to rise again in a collective murmur once you passed. The weight of all those eyes pressed against your back, their curiosity and unease thick in the air.
You could almost taste it.
And strangely, it struck you with a wave of nostalgia, sharp and uninvited. Memories rose from the shadows of your mind like ghosts you thought you'd buried long ago. You remembered walking these same streets months before, your shoulders squared, Silco's coat draped around you like armor, the fabric heavy with his scent and the illusion of invincibility.
You remembered moving toward him with singular purpose—rage and grief coiled in your chest like twin serpents, hissing and hungry. Kate's death had driven you forward, had sharpened your edges until you were nothing but a blade aimed at Silco's throat.
And now? You couldn't even summon her face anymore. The woman who you considered the closest thing to a friend, had become little more than a blur in your memory, her name barely stirring anything in your chest. It was almost grotesque, how grief could consume you entirely in one lifetime and then vanish in another, leaving you wondering if it had ever been real.
How ironic that her death had marked the beginning of your descent—the first crack in the shell you'd built around yourself. The end of Kate had, in its twisted way, led you here: to Silco's side, wrapped once again in his coat, but with no vengeance on your tongue. Just silence. Just acceptance. Just... this.
The past was a strange thing. Cruel in its irony. Relentless in its timing.
[...]
Singed had been relocated to his old installation—what he insisted on calling his laboratory—after the last few months of reconstruction. The place looked different now, steadier, less like the broken ruin you had torn through on your last visit and more like the cold, precise sanctum it once was.
Last time you had walked these halls, your veins had been burning with vengeance, every step driven by the intent to kill.
The sterile air hit you first, that clinical sharpness that never seemed to fade no matter how many months passed. Singed stood exactly as you remembered him, his thin frame hunched slightly as he lingered over his desk. He didn't look up immediately, but you could feel his awareness, the quiet way he noted your arrival before choosing the exact moment to acknowledge it.
But it wasn't Singed who rooted your feet to the floor. It was the other presence in the room.
Viktor.
He stood by the far side of the laboratory, weight leaning against the familiar curve of his cane. And though you knew—better than most—that he didn't truly need it anymore.
As if sensing your gaze, his head turned, his eyes settling on you with that unyielding, analytical focus that had always been uniquely his. No smile greeted you, no warmth softened the hard line of his mouth. He looked at you as though you were not a friend, but another variable in the equation, another unknown to account for. Professional. Detached.
Still, beneath the steel of his expression, you saw the flicker of recognition—too quick, too restrained, but unmistakable to you.
You swallowed down the faint ache that tightened in your chest and broke the stare first, tearing your eyes from Viktor just as Silco brushed past you. He moved toward Singed with that calculated stride of his, neither hurried nor hesitant, and the two men exchanged the barest gesture of acknowledgment.
It wasn't camaraderie, not even civility—simply a curt recognition between employer and servant, between one monster and another.
Perhaps Singed sensed your mood—your silence, the tension knotted in your shoulders—for he spared you the usual tedious preamble and instead dove straight into business.
"As you already know, we've achieved success in extending the current limit of your ability." he began, eyes flicking toward you with a kind of detached interest. "From ten seconds to fifteen, Miss. But, as one might expect, with the increase comes an escalation in destructive potential as well."
He gestured to the surface of his desk, where a single folder lay waiting. He slid the folder toward Silco, who only glanced over the top sheets before turning, expression unreadable, and passing it into your hands.
He had already read this apparently.
You flipped the first page slowly, the sound of paper crackling against the silence of the laboratory. The reports were exactly what you had expected from Singed's hand—clinical, exhaustive, and grotesquely detailed.
Each line broke down the process of death in test subjects who had dared to push too close to the fifteen second mark. The language was sterile, detached, but the imagery was vivid enough: ruptured vessels, organ collapse, seizures that left the body twisted in ways it was never meant to bend.
None of it was unfamiliar to you.
You had crossed that threshold more times than you cared to count, brushed against death until its presence no longer frightened you, only gnawed at the edges of your endurance. You knew better than any of the figures on the page what it felt like—the clawing suffocation in your chest, the fire behind your eyes, the dizzying plunge into nothingness before you clawed your way back.
Singed's rasping voice pulled you from the paper.
"The process of death your body undergoes cannot be altered." he explained, his tone maddeningly matter–of–fact, as if he were discussing the mechanics of a machine rather than your mortality. "But beyond extending your current limit, I have also begun developing an experimental prototype. One that, in theory, could enhance your capacities by nearly one hundred percent."
Your eyes lifted from the folder sharply, narrowing on him.
"Elaborate."
"Consider your hearing. At present, it is already heightened, more sensitive than that of an ordinary human, though only when your ability is active. With the modification, however, such perception could become permanent."
He folding his hands neatly behind his back as though delivering a lecture to a class.
"Imagine being able to hear the fall of a pin several meters away, without the need to trigger your enhancement. Imagine sight sharpened to the point of perceiving details too minute for the human eye, reflexes that require no conscious activation. Passive, constant. As natural and effortless as breathing."
"And what are the consequences?" you asked the winning question.
"You would become acutely aware of everything in your surroundings. Such hypersensitivity would require you to retrain your focus entirely, lest the flood of sensation drive you to madness. It is not impossible, but it would demand discipline most do not possess."
You let the words settle, rolling them over in your mind. The implications were staggering. To hear even the faintest heartbeat, to sense the breath of an enemy before they struck—it was the kind of advantage that could end battles before they began.
In Zaun's growing war against Piltover, such a gift could tilt the scales entirely. You were already the deadliest weapon Zaun had to wield; with this, you might be unstoppable. Unbreakable. A force that no one could dare to challenge.
But the question that gnawed at you, was whether that kind of strength was worth what it would cost. You had already sacrificed enough pieces of yourself, enough fragments of your humanity, to become what you were now. How much further could you strip yourself down before there was nothing left but a monster in human skin?
Then you stepped closer, closing the distance between you and Singed, fixing him with a stare that refused to waver. Your hand lowered the folder onto the table, fingers lingering for a moment on the smooth paper before you pushed it toward him, deliberately slow.
"You called it a prototype. So it's still in testing." you paused, letting each word fall heavy between you. "What is the real chance of this modification actually working as you promise?"
For the first time, he hesitated—not long, but enough. His eyes flickered briefly down to the folder, then back to you. When he spoke, his voice carried no embellishment, no mask of reassurance.
"Now... approximately fifty percent."
From the corner of your eye, you caught the faintest twitch of Silco's face, his expression twisting into a rare grimace of displeasure. Clearly, he had known about the existence of this prototype, but not the true cost, not that the odds were balanced so precariously on the edge of chance. You could feel the shift in the air as he prepared to voice his objection, but you cut across the silence first, your words sharp enough to still him.
"What happens if it doesn't work?"
"Your body would enter a state of death immediately." his tone was clinical. "Naturally, the Shimmer would attempt to regenerate your systems, but the process would trap you in a cycle of decay and repair. Your organs would collapse one by one, unable to sustain themselves under such strain, until exhaustion consumed the body entirely. A slow death. Agonizing. Irreversible."
His eyes flickered briefly toward Silco, then back to you.
"It is, at present, the only method of killing you that I have been able to devise... at his request."
The words struck like ice in your veins. It was the first time, perhaps since Violet's death, that you had truly thought about your own. Somehow that didn't surprise you... in the end you couldn't escape that certainty. That the only force capable of ending you was yourself. The weapon turning inward, eating itself alive.
"I see." you said finally, your tone even, though the words landed like iron in your chest. It was all you could manage, two syllables carrying the enormity of the thought. "Increase the success rate, then. We can test whether I can truly die firsthand."
You turned, your body already in motion toward the exit before the weight of your own words had fully settled in the room. Behind you, you caught Silco's voice calling your name—sharp, authoritative, edged with something dangerously close to anger. But what struck you more was the other sound, softer: a startled "what?" from Viktor. So quiet you almost missed it.
You were already in the hallway when you heard the scrape of boots—you couldn't identify whose it was until the sharp tap of metal hit the floor. The unmistakable rhythm of Viktor's cane against the floor echoed once, then again, before his voice reached you, low but burning with restrained fury.
"Have you lost your mind?" the words were directed only to you, pitched too low for Silco or Singed to hear, but they struck with enough force to stop you mid-step. "You're not seriously considering this. Tell me you're not."
You didn't turn to face him. You couldn't. Instead, you tilted your head just slightly, enough that your profile caught the edge of his gaze. Your voice, when it came, was flat, almost weary. "And would you care if I did?"
"Well, when we scientists finally learn how to erase feelings... perhaps then I'll stop caring."
You recognized those words instantly, because once upon a time they had been yours. A memory, unbidden, surfaced—your voice saying something nearly identical the very first time you and Viktor had crossed paths, back when everything between you was raw possibility and not the wreckage it had become. How strange, how bitter, that now the lines had reversed.
"I always suspected you had a screw loose, but to gamble with yourself like this?" the steel of his cane tapped the floor again as he drew closer, his words punctuated with a deliberate step. "Have you forgotten that you have a daughter? If you care so little for your own existence, then think of Powder. Do you truly want to inflict another loss on that child?"
His words hit harder than he likely intended. Still, you forced composure, even a hint of a smirk that didn't quite reach your eyes. "I won't die, Viktor."
The assurance came out more as defiance than comfort. But it only seemed to fuel him further.
"You don't get to decide that." he snapped, the gold of his eyes burning as he stepped closer still. "Probability decides. And probability is not in your favor."
Finally, you turned fully to face him. The room seemed to narrow until it was only the two of you, his gaze locking with yours, unrelenting, unflinching. You stared into those golden irises you had grown to know, to trust, even to find comfort in. He looked tired, worn, as though the weight of everything he carried had stripped even the luxury of sleep from him.
"Where's your faith?" you teased softly, a faint curve touching your lips. And the look of sheer disbelief that crossed his face—wide eyes, a faltering composure—was almost enough to make you laugh. Almost. "If something goes wrong, just use our secret weapon. Remember? The cure-all we created, the one meant to solve everything."
For a moment, he only stared at you, words caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth. Then he exhaled, a sound half sigh, half growl.
"You..." he shook his head, eyes narrowing, shoulders dropping in that defeated way he had when your stubbornness bested him. "You are the most foolish person I have ever met. And perhaps the most impossibly hard-headed."
There was no real venom in the words. If anything, beneath his irritation, there was something else—something closer to affection, worn thin with worry.
"It's my natural charm, Viktor." The words slipped from you with a crooked smile, but it barely lasted a few heartbeats before the weight pressed down again. Your shoulders sagged, the humor fading into something heavier. "I know this is insane. And I'm terrified... terrified of what it might do to me, of what it might take from me. But even as Piltover's most finely tuned weapon, I still couldn't save Violet in time."
The air shifted. You saw it in the way his jaw loosened, in how the hard edge of his anger softened, if only by the smallest fraction. The rage simmering behind his eyes dimmed to embers, though they still burned hot.
"I'm not an easy target, Viktor. You know that. But Powder... Silco... you..."
The admission caught on your tongue, but you forced it out anyway, because if not now, when?
"The people I care about, that's how they'd get to me. That's how they'd win. And if I have to put myself through Singed's madness to stay one step ahead, then I'll do it. I'll go as far as I need to. Because losing Violet once was enough. I won't let it happen again."
He closed his eyes then, as if shutting you out was the only way to stop the storm building inside him. One long breath hissed through his teeth, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, the very image of a man exhausted by the mere act of feeling. Maybe your words had struck deeper than he wanted to admit. Maybe hearing himself grouped with those you loved—family, even—was too much for him to hold without something breaking loose inside.
"I truly did not want to care about you anymore."
The confession wasn't sharp like a blade but heavy like a confession pulled from some locked-away corner of his chest. It was anger, yes, but it was also something else—something closer to grief.
"I'll see if our prototype can soften the consequences of Singed's modification." Viktor said, his tone clipped, his words precise, like he was forcing himself into logic to avoid slipping into anything else. "But it's not certain if the cure is strong enough."
And just like that, he turned, the finality of his movement sharp as the sound of his cane against the floor. He was already walking away, already putting distance between you, retreating into the walls of the lab where it was easier for him to be a scientist instead of a man who cared.
You didn't think—you just acted. Your hand shot out, fingers closing around his wrist. Both of you looked down at the point of contact, at your hand clutching him, fragile and desperate in its quiet insistence. He tensed immediately, his body poised to pull back, but before he could take that step, before he could shut you out again, you moved closer and closed the gap entirely.
Your arms wrapped around him. God, how you had missed this—missed having someone you could call a friend, missed Viktor.
He froze. You felt it in the way his muscles went rigid, his arms hanging stiff at his sides, caught between instinct and memory. It was as though he had forgotten what to do with such contact. And still, he didn't push you away. He let you stay there, clinging to him, your breath trembling against his skin.
"I know you hate me." you whispered, your voice muffled against him, so quiet it was almost a confession meant only for yourself. "But I miss you."
Vulnerability always came at a cost, and you felt it in the weight of your chest as you prepared to let him go, to retreat back into the distance he had chosen.
But then—there was movement. Subtle, hesitant. His arm shifted, then the other, and suddenly you weren't the only one holding on. Viktor's arms encircled you, slow and careful, as though he was relearning the act itself. He held you—not tightly, not with desperation, but with something that spoke of memory, of hesitation, and of a part of him that hadn't yet been able to let you go either.
It was a shame that moment hadn't lasted longer. One second, Viktor's arms were around you, grounding you in a way you hadn't realized you needed, and in the next the sound of someone clearing their throat cut the air like a blade. The two of you jerked apart instantly, as though you'd been caught in the middle of something forbidden. And perhaps you had—at least to anyone looking in from the outside.
Given your place at Silco's side, the image of you holding onto Viktor like that could only ever look wrong. You knew that. You just hadn't expected the one to witness it would be him.
"Singed requests your presence... Viktor." Silco's voice carried no warmth, no subtle note of affection, only frost. He spoke Viktor's name like it was venom in his mouth, an insult rather than an identity.
Viktor's response was quick and sharp, the curt nod of a man eager to leave before the silence thickened further. He turned without another word, retreating back into the sterile walls of Singed's laboratory, cane clicking against the floor. That left only you and Silco in the quiet aftermath, his gaze heavy upon you.
You'd been with him long enough to read the signs. The blankness in his expression wasn't neutrality—it was the storm before it broke. He was furious, not loud, never loud, but furious in the kind of way that left the air colder, heavier.
"Silco—"
"Let's go home."
The seriousness and lack of any warmth in his sentence made you realize something you were afraid to revisit so soon: Silco in his angry, jealous form.
[...]
You had forgotten—or maybe you'd let yourself ignore it—that when Silco was angry, everyone felt it. His temper was not the kind that exploded in shouts or slammed doors; it was a slow poison, seeping into every corner of the room, into every person close enough to breathe it in. By the time the two of you stepped back into The Last Drop, the shift in him was already palpable.
He barely looked at you, his focus instead snapping outward. Orders spilled from his lips in clipped, cold commands. Subordinates scrambled to obey, avoiding your gaze as though you were somehow responsible for the storm brewing in their leader. And then—without a word for you—he shut himself in his office.
You lingered downstairs for a time, debating whether to follow, to speak, or to simply let him burn through it alone. You knew how tightly he held to his rage, how much sharper it cut if pressed before it cooled. So you waited. Hours passed, until the murmur of patrons and the clink of glasses filled the bar. Only then did you decide to move.
Up the stairs, past the muffled sound of laughter and music, you stood before his office door. You didn't knock. You didn't announce yourself. You simply turned the handle and slipped inside, locking the door behind you.
Silco's head lifted for the briefest flicker of a second, his mismatched eyes finding you before dropping back to the clipboard in his hands. His expression gave nothing away.
"Do you have a moment?"
"It's not as though I have much of a choice but to listen to you, is it?" his reply came sharp, almost mocking, as his pen scratched across the page.
He was still irritated.
If you didn't do something to ease it, it wouldn't just be you who paid the price, but every poor soul under his command who had the misfortune of crossing his path tonight.
"So this is still about that hug with Viktor? Is that what's got you so worked up?"
Silco didn't look up from the clipboard.
"Ah, yes. Because apparently, deciding to make yourself the test subject for an experimental modification that could very well kill you, without consulting me, isn't quite as relevant as a meaningless embrace."
You moved closer, closing the distance until you were standing at the edge of his desk. "So it is about the modification."
"Not solely that."
Your eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting as you caught his meaning. "So it's both, then? The modification... and Viktor."
Silco made a low sound in his throat—something between agreement and dismissal—as he flipped a page on his clipboard and scrawled another note. His focus seemed fixed on the ink, as though that task were far more deserving of his attention than you. The distance in it made you exhale hard through your nose, a sigh born of frustration and resignation.
"I'm sorry." you said finally, your voice quieter but steady. "I should've discussed the modification with you before making any decision. It was reckless, I admit that. But you have to at least try to see it from my perspective."
"I heard your conversation with Viktor. So there's no need to repeat your reasons." he replied smoothly, without lifting his gaze. The words landed with the sharpness of a knife, though they didn't surprise you in the least. Of course he had listened. Sneaky little bastard. "Understanding them, is not the same as agreeing with them."
You shifted closer, leaning against the edge of his desk, letting your weight rest there lightly. The wood pressed into the backs of your thighs, grounding you in a moment that already felt fragile, precarious.
"Then let me put it plainly, I'll reconsider Singed's proposal. I'll put it aside, for now. Not for me. For the sake of our family."
It seemed to be a resolution Silco could live with, because the tight line of his brow softened—just barely, but it was there. A small crack in the steel.
"Now, about the next matter..." you began carefully, shifting your weight against the desk as if bracing for another storm. "You do remember that Viktor prefers men, don't you? That hug meant nothing, at least, not in any sexual context."
Silco's pen stilled over the page. "The sexual preferences of others do not make it any less unpleasant to see my wife in the arms of another man."
You blinked at him, tilting your head. "I thought you were past this jealousy thing."
"Dove... I told you from the moment we met that I had difficulty sharing." At last, he lowered the clipboard, setting it flat against the desk as if to punctuate the point. His eyes locked onto yours, steady and unflinching. "That has not changed."
The words settled heavy in the air, not a confession but a reminder, an admission he made without shame. His possessiveness had always been part of who he was—woven into him like threads too deep to untangle. And yet, in the way he looked at you now, there was no malice. Only truth. An honesty that might have sounded ugly coming from anyone else, but from him—it was simply Silco, raw and bare.
"Then we have an impasse, don't we? You with your jealousy, and me with my affection for Viktor." you leaned on his desk, deliberately closing the space between you. The tension thickened as your face drew closer. "So what are we going to do about it?"
Silco, who had been half-reclined in his chair, shifted forward with ease, as though a predator answering a challenge. His eyes glimmered with something dangerous, but not unkind. Now both of you leaned so close that your breaths mingled, warmth brushing over skin, your heads tipped just shy of touching.
"You caused this, so it falls to you to resolve it."
Oh.
You knew exactly what game he had chosen to play. It was one you'd both danced around countless times.
A crooked smile tugged at your lips, and you let the tip of your nose graze his. A featherlight touch, a teasing brush that gave just the smallest taste of intimacy. The faintest brush of your mouth against his followed, not a kiss—no, only the ghost of one. An appetizer.
"I love you, Silco."
He drew back just enough to reclaim the throne of his chair, shoulders settling with all the gravity of a king reclaiming his crown. That aura of command wrapped around him like a cloak, his authority pouring off him in steady waves. His gaze locked you in place, heavy and unrelenting.
"Prove it."
Part 38
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Happy first anniversary of Ma Meilleure Ennemie!
A year ago, I wrote a small chapter after talking to a Silco bot and thinking the idea of a roleplay was way too good to leave in just that chat. I never imagined it would grow this much, to the point of reaching chapter 37, but here we are.
Thank you to everyone who made it this far, to everyone who’s been reading, and I promise this story will have an ending! A happy one, a sad one, a shocking one?
Who knows?
This is such a weird thing to send, but I saw this on tiktok and IMMEDIATELY thought of your fic
That was extremely specific and somehow makes perfect sense. I think I've called them a 'tragic couple' so many times already, but this definition fits perfectly. "Two stars colliding until they explode"—what a phrase, my friends, what a phrase.
But seriously, I can say it's basically incredible to know that a TikTok video reminded you of my story... oh, what a fucking good feeling.
A union in every sense of the word, bound beneath a sky of silent witnesses. The stars watched you then, and they will remain—unchanged and unblinking—until the day you draw your last breath.
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 10,9K
Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, vaginal fingering, Silco being a tease, public sex, exhibitionism, dry humping, orgasm denial, Silco POV
Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.
Music recommendation: Constellations by Jade LeMac
Part 35
Silco's Pov
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If there was one thing in the world capable of rendering Silco truly speechless—utterly without strategy, calculation, or composure—it was her. Or more precisely, it was the things that came out of her mouth. Because the moment those words left her lips, Marry me, his mind simply... stalled.
Not once. Not twice.
But several times, like a broken machine stuck in a loop, trying to process a command it had never been designed to understand.
He stared at her, silent, his eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that betrayed everything he refused to say. And for a moment, there was no world beyond her expression. No war. No city. No loyalties or enemies. Just her, soaked and radiant in the moonlight, water clinging to her skin like reverence, asking the one thing he had never prepared himself to hear.
And what did he do?
He laughed.
Not out of humor, not really. The sound was too strained for that. It was a breath of disbelief, rough and hoarse, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest that rarely saw light.
"You... do you even understand what you just said?"
It was the wrong response—that wasn't the kind of thing you said after someone proposed to you—he knew that. Knew the second the words escaped him that they were clumsy and cowardly, not befitting a man who prided himself on having an answer for everything. It was the sort of thing you said when you were drowning in your own uncertainty, grasping for solid ground that didn't exist.
She didn't take it personally, thankfully. Her eyes rolled, the kind of slow, indulgent motion she reserved specifically for him, and the corner of her mouth lifted into a smirk that could've slain gods. That expression—equal parts exasperation and affection—hit him harder than her proposal had.
Gods, he wanted to drown right then and there. Not in the river, but in her.
Because there was no logic, no plan, no five-move-ahead strategy for this. Silco had faced death, betrayal, revolution. He had stood at the edge of the Undercity's ruin and dared the world to challenge him. But he had never—not once—stood on the precipice of being wanted like this. Not needed.
Wanted.
It terrified him.
"No, Silco, I don't understand. Perhaps you could explain to me what marriage means?"
Her voice dripped with sarcasm, every syllable laced with that biting, knowing humor that slipped past every one of his defenses. It slithered under his skin like wildfire, burning through the thin fabric of composure he still clung to. That look in her eyes—that insolent, playful glint—should've infuriated him. She was making a joke out of something so serious, so earth-shaking, and yet...
He couldn't bring himself to be angry.
"I'm being serious, dove."
"And so am I." she shot back without missing a beat, her fingers returning to his hair with casual reverence, twirling wet strands around her fingers as if the moment hadn't just carved something irreversible into the air between them. "I know exactly what I said."
Silco wasn't sure what terrified him more—that she was serious, or that he wanted her to be. He could feel it, a cold weight in his stomach and something unplaceably warm blooming just beneath his ribs. Hope, maybe. Or doom. With her, they often felt like the same thing.
The idea of marriage had never belonged in his world. It was a luxury, a relic of the lives people lived when they weren't leading revolutions or clawing their way out of the gutter. Love, commitment—these were weaknesses in the eyes of men who fought for power. But she... she never played by the rules of weakness or power.
She played by her own.
And he had always let her.
"Well..." he murmured, trying to steady the tremor in his voice with a thin veil of wit, "I believe traditionally, I'm supposed to be the one doing the asking."
"You're too slow for that sort of thing."
A soft huff of amusement escaped him before he could stop it, the corners of his mouth tugging upward against his better judgment. Of course she'd take the lead. She always had, even when he pretended otherwise.
There was something infuriatingly right about that.
"I didn't know you were interested in that kind of relationship."
It was a deflection. He knew that. He was buying time—stalling—even if the question had been simple: yes or no. He wasn't fooling her. Hell, he wasn't even fooling himself. But it wasn't strategy, not this time. Not some careful calculation to manipulate the outcome. It was hesitation—genuine hesitation—the kind that felt foreign on his tongue and foreign in his bones. Because saying yes to her, to this, meant something permanent. Something irreversible.
And it wasn't that he didn't want her.
He did. Gods, he did.
But there was a difference between having someone and claiming them. Between surviving together and putting a name on the bond that tethered your lives into one. They had never needed titles. They didn't need declarations, or rings, or any of the nonsense that made other people feel secure. Their connection had always existed in the unspoken. In shared silence. In glances that meant life or death. In the way neither of them ever truly left the other's side, no matter how badly they hurt each other.
It was tacit. Implied. Steady as breath.
Yet here she was, cracking that silent pact wide open.
"When you're being hunted by some deranged lunatic who once turned you into a lab rat, and also happens to be a political leader of an entire city, you don't exactly think about settling into romantic commitments."
Silco felt his lips twitch with reluctant amusement despite himself. But then she sighed, and her voice softened in a way that caught him off guard.
"But... technically, we already are a family. Powder—Jinx." she corrected herself with a subtle wince "She sees us that way. We're her parents, in all the ways that matter. So why not make it official?"
He noticed the slip—Powder. The name she never used anymore. The name his daughter had buried. He could've said something. Could've drawn attention to it, reminded her that Jinx wasn't that girl anymore. But he didn't. There was no need for that fight tonight. Not here. Not now.
"Is this just for the child, then?"
He hated how vulnerable the question sounded. How small. It wasn't accusation—it was fear, coiled tight around his words. Fear that maybe this wasn't about him at all. That she was trying to put a name on something simply to make Jinx feel secure. That he wasn't the reason. That it was just... convenience.
"No."
Just that—one word—and something in Silco's chest unclenched.
He hadn't even realized it was tight until it wasn't anymore. There was no dramatic exhale, no visible reaction. But the quiet humiliation he hadn't wanted to admit, melted away with that single syllable.
"I want to have a... prize?" she said, uncertainty coloring her words as she tried to find the right one. "Maybe that's the wrong word, but... whatever. I want something waiting for me when all of this is done. When we've dealt with Piltover. Something that makes me feel like, 'Okay. Now I can finally have this.' You know?"
"I see."
Because he did understand. Perhaps more than anyone else ever could. That need for a future—not because it was safe or predictable, but because it was earned. A reward for surviving the fire. For making it through.
"So? What's your answer?"
Silco didn't speak. Because something in his gut told him that simply saying yes—just giving her the words—wasn't enough. Not for this. Not for her. She deserved more than another quiet confirmation tucked into half-light and hesitation.
So instead, without a word, he let go of her.
He turned and began wading toward the shoreline, the cold water dragging at his limbs as he moved. Behind him, he heard the splash as she followed, confusion starting to rise in her voice.
"Hey! Wait! Where the hell are you going?"
"Don't ask questions." he called over his shoulder. "Just follow."
He didn't have to turn around to know she was glaring at him, or that her brow was scrunched in that specific, impatient way she reserved just for him. But she obeyed. As always. Begrudging, curious, but faithful.
The moment both their feet touched solid earth, her mouth was already halfway to forming a question—but he didn't give her the chance.
He turned swiftly and crashed into her like a wave, both hands gripping her face, fingers weaving into the wet strands of her hair as his mouth captured hers in a kiss that devoured. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was fierce—possessive. The kind of kiss that says mine without needing to speak.
She staggered slightly, off balance, arms instinctively finding his shoulders, digging into his skin as if to ground herself. Silco didn't care. He held her like she was something carved from fire and glass and he intended to burn and bleed all at once. Every ounce of restraint, dissolved in that moment.
He hadn't answered her with words because words were too small.
How could he explain what it meant to be wanted by someone who saw him clearly? Who knew every filthy part of his soul and still reached for him like he was worth loving? There was no language for that.
So he told her the only way he knew how.
With hunger. With desperation. With every shattered piece of himself he could never name—but could offer.
"Wait... Silco, wait."
Her voice came breathless and raw, slicing through the haze between them as her palms pressed firmly against his chest—not to push him away completely, but just enough to pause whatever storm he was about to unleash. Her eyes searched his face, wide with something between alarm and confusion, and it was clear she needed a moment to catch her breath.
"What are you doing?"
Silco tilted his head slightly, an eyebrow arching in that infuriatingly calm way he always defaulted to when he was caught between amusement and desire. He hadn't exactly been subtle. He was practically on top of her, their bodies pressed so close it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
"Isn't it obvious?"
"It's obvious, yeah." She rolled her eyes, flustered and frustrated, cheeks pink from the chill—or from him. "But that's not what I meant. Why now? Why here?"
Ah.
There it was.
That stubborn part of her that refused to let anything be simple. That part that needed to understand, even when the answer was pulsing in the air between them like static.
Silco didn't speak at first. Instead, he raised a hand to his chin in mock thoughtfulness, as if her question required careful analysis.
"Hm..." He leaned in again and took her face in his hands. His thumb brushed along her lower lip, tracing the curve like it was something sacred, and he felt her tremble beneath his touch. "Because this is my answer, dove... yes."
It was—against all odds—adorable, the way her dazed, uncertain expression morphed in a heartbeat into something wild and genuine. Silco watched the transformation with something like awe, caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement. Her eyes widened, sparkling with a gleam so vivid it could've rivaled the moonlight washing over the river. That fractured glint of exhilaration, like she'd just been handed the keys to something she'd stopped believing was possible.
"Holy shit! I swore you were going to say no!"
Silco didn't even have time to feel offended—not really. He might've raised an eyebrow, maybe opened his mouth to reply with something cutting but affectionate—but then she lunged.
Launched herself at him like a live wire, reckless and grinning like a madwoman. The sheer force of her body hitting his knocked him off balance in a way that was eerily—unsettlingly—familiar. Like Jinx when she threw herself at him without warning, all knees and elbows and unfiltered affection. He had no time to brace, no chance to catch himself. The ground came up fast, hard and unyielding against his back, knocking the breath from his lungs.
But any pain was irrelevant.
She was already on top of him, straddling his lap, soaked and wild and glowing with so much life it made his chest ache. Her fingers were everywhere— clumsy, starved—tugging at buttons and buckles.
Silco leaned back onto the damp sand, the cool grains a stark contrast to the burning heat of his skin, the scorching desire that coursed through his veins. His fingers tangled in her hair as she worked her way down his neck, her kisses and licks leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He let out a shuddering groan, his head falling back against the sand as she marked him, branded him, owned every inch of him.
His other hand slid down the curve of her back, his fingers splaying across the damp fabric of her dress, the material clinging to her skin like a second layer. Silco's breath hitched as her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, her desperation making her clumsy, making her needy. He could feel the hunger radiating off her in waves, could sense the way her heart raced in her chest, mirroring the frantic pounding of his own.
Silco's eyes fluttered shut as she pushed his shirt open, the cool air kissing his heated skin, making him shiver. He could feel the cool breeze off the river, the gentle lapping of the water against the shore, a soothing counterpoint to the inferno that raged within him. And as her peppered his chest with kisses, Silco knew with a bone-deep certainty that he would never let her go, would never allow anything to come between them again.
He tangled his fingers more firmly in her damp hair, giving it a light tug as he pulled her face towards his again, until her lips were a mere breath away from his own.
At the same time, the hand that was on her back slid down to the curve of her ass, his fingers splaying across the supple flesh, encouraging her, urging her to grind down against the growing hardness in his lap. He rolled his hips up to meet hers, his cock pressing against her core through the fabric of his pants, a silent, wanton plea for more.
Silco's eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, locked with her as he leaned in to capture her lips in a kiss. He swallowed her gasp, her moan, the breathless sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that spilled from her lips. Silco drank it down like the finest wine, like the rarest of nectars, a balm to his weary, war-torn soul.
He felt the desperation in her kiss, the way her lips moved frantically against his, seeking, demanding, craving more. He heard the needy whimper that escaped her throat as she ground down against him, her hips undulating in a frenzied rhythm that sent jolts of electricity coursing through his veins.
But even as he reveled in the exquisite sensation of her body moving over his, Silco could sense that it wasn't enough. This sweet, passionate embrace, as wonderful as it was, couldn't quench the raging inferno that consumed her from within.
Silco gentled his grip on her hair, his fingers sliding from the silken strands to cup her face tenderly. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead, his thumb tracing the delicate arch of her eyebrow, the high, rosy cheekbone, the lush, kiss-swollen lips.
"I need you to tell me what you want." He nipped at her earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before he soothed the sting with his tongue. "Use your words, my love... Let me hear you say it."
Her breath came in desperate, needy pants, her chest heaving against Silco's as she stared down at him with wild, fevered eyes. "I want you." she gasped out, her voice raw and ragged with desire. "Please..."
Silco's lips curved in a wicked, knowing smirk, his eyes glinting with a dark, wicked light. He loved seeing her like this, undone and desperate, craving him with every fiber of her being.
"You already have me. I'm yours." His gaze dropped meaningfully to where their bodies joined, to the damp, aching heat of her core pressing against the rigid length of his cock. "Take what you want."
As her deft fingers worked at the fastenings of Silco's pants, he let his awareness bleed outward—to where they were, to what this was. The river stretched beside them, black under the moonlight, its surface rippling with the faint breeze. It was... audacious, even for them, to be here. Out in the open, no walls to hide behind, no shadows to swallow them whole.
They'd been reckless before—public places, where danger was just another spice in the air—but this wasn't that. This wasn't just a random place to burn through whatever heat was consuming them. This was the river. The place where his lungs had nearly given out under Vander's grip, where the taste of water and betrayal had burned into him so deeply it still lingered in his bones.
The place that, if Jinx's loose tongue was to be trusted, had been where Vander had pulled her from her own death, sputtering and half-drowned. Two halves of the same current—one trying to kill him, the other saving her.
Maybe she was right. Maybe Vander saw him in her.
And now, as Silco watched her fingers finally free his aching cock from the confines of his pants, he knew that she was his to protect, his to cherish, his to love. The river, once a symbol of their darkest moments, would now be a place to make new memories. Starting with this one.
Silco's hands slid to her thighs, his fingers sinking into the soft, supple flesh as he guided her, urged her to take what she needed, what they both craved.
As she reached down and pulled her soaked panties aside, Silco's breath hitched in his throat, his heart pounding against his ribcage like a drum. He watched, enraptured, as she slowly sank down onto his throbbing cock, inch by torturous inch, until he was finally, blissfully sheathed inside her tight, dripping heat.
Silco's fingers dug into the soft flesh of her thighs, his nails biting into her skin as he fought the overwhelming urge to grab her hips and take her hard and fast, to pound into her until they were both lost in the throes of ecstasy. But he held back, his body coiled tight with the effort of his restraint.
"That's it, dove... take your time."
Silco's chest heaved with his ragged breaths as her hands landed on his chest,. He could feel the cool air on his skin, could see the way her eyes fluttered shut as she steadied herself, bracing against him. And then, with a soft, breathy moan, she began to move. He could feel the heat of her, the way her body seemed to burn against his, and he knew that he would never get enough of this, of her, of the way she made him feel alive, whole and complete.
His eyes fluttered shut, his head falling back against the sand as she began to grind against him, her hips rolling in a slow, sensual circle that sent shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through his body. He could feel the way she worked his cock, the way her velvet walls gripped and squeezed and milked him, and he knew that he was lost, utterly and completely lost, a willing prisoner to the exquisite torture of her touch.
"You feel so fucking good around me... like you were made just for me."
"Yes..." she moaned drawn out. "I am..."
"Yeah?" He rolled his hips, a subtle, teasing movement that made her gasp, that made her grip his chest tighter. "Speak out loud."
With a voice rough and ragged with desire, she rasped. "I was made for you... just for you, Silco."
Silco's hands slid up from her thighs to her hips, his fingers splaying across the delicate bones. She was making everything more difficult for him. "Fuuck..."
As she began to move above him, Silco felt a profound sense of awe and reverence wash over him. He opened his eyes, his gaze drinking in the breathtaking sight before him, a vision of pure, unadulterated beauty that stole the very breath from his lungs.
Her hair, damp and disheveled from their swim, clung to her face in glossy tendrils. Beads of water slid down the elegant column of her throat, tracing the delicate lines of her collarbones, the swell of her breasts, before disappearing into the valley between them. The moonlight caressed her skin, bathing her in a soft, ethereal glow that made her look like a creature of myth and legend.
Silco's eyes followed the graceful arc of her throat as she threw her head back, a gesture of pure, unbridled ecstasy. Her lips, kiss-swollen and glistening, parted in a soft, breathy moan, a sound of pure, unfiltered pleasure. He could see the way her tongue flicked out to wet her lower lip, a gesture of unconscious invitation, of wanton, desperate craving.
Her body undulated above him like a wave, a sinuous dance of curves and lines that made Silco's pulse pound in his ears. He could see the way her breasts bounced with each roll of her hips, the way her stomach tightened and clenched as she chased her pleasure. The moonlight played across her skin, highlighting the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the long, lean lines of her thighs.
Silco knew that no painting could ever do justice to the sheer, breathtaking beauty of the sight before him. A painting could capture the lines and curves, the light and shadow, but it could never convey the heat, the passion, the all-consuming love that burned in his heart as he watched her. No, this was a moment that he would carry with him forever, a memory etched into his very soul.
As she leaned forward, her hair falling like a curtain around them, Silco's hand shot up to grip the strands in a firm, unyielding hold. He tangled his fingers in the damp locks, his grip tightening as he forced her to maintain eye contact, to look at him, to see him.
Silco could feel her hips jerk against his touch, could sense her instinctive movement to turn her face away, perhaps overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensations that coursed through her. But Silco's grip was firm, his fingers unrelenting as he held her in place, demanding her attention, her focus.
"Look at me, dove." Silco rasped, his voice a low, rough command. He could feel the heat of her breath on his face, could see the way her eyes fluttered, struggling to focus on him. "Let me see you, all of you."
Silco's other hand slid from her hip to the small of her back, pressing her closer, holding her tight as he rolled his own hips up to meet hers. He could feel every clench and flutter of her velvet walls around him, could feel the way her body tightened and tensed as the pleasure built to a fever pitch.
Her eyes were like a siren's call that he couldn't resist. It was like drowning in the very essence of her soul. Silco watched, transfixed and enraptured, as her eyes began to glow, the purple shimmer in her pupils demanding his full attention. That unnatural color he'd seen in other contexts that was symbolic of both his betrayal and her evolution. He would normally feel wary of that color—that gaze—but all he felt now was ecstasy.
Silco felt his own release crashing over him like a tidal wave, sweeping him away in its relentless, unstoppable surge. That gaze never dared to leave his again, and he didn't want it to leave anymore.
Her scream pierced the night air, a sound of pure, unbridled ecstasy that echoed off the river and the hills beyond. The sound of it, raw and primal, shattering the air around them, was enough to send Silco hurtling over the edge. With a guttural, animalistic roar, he thrust up into her one last time, his body jerking and shuddering as his orgasm ripped through him.
Silco's fingers tightened in her hair, his grip almost painfully tight as he held her through the aftershocks, his eyes never leaving hers, his gaze a brand of pure, unadulterated possession. She clung to him, her nails digging into his chest, her body shuddering and shaking, wracked with the force of her own devastating orgasm. Silco could feel her walls clenching and fluttering around him, could feel the gush of her release flooding his cock, their combined juices dripping down to soak his balls and his thighs.
When her body finally collapsed and she fell practically unconscious on top of him, Silco simply held her. He made no attempt to move to break that peaceful feeling, just let it linger.
She was right once again. They had until dawn.
[...]
Once she had claimed Finn's seat among the barons, the obligations that came with it fell squarely on her shoulders. She was now expected to attend the gatherings, to lend her voice to decisions that shaped Zaun's underbelly, and—whether she liked it or not—to endure the same cold, appraising stares that had once been fixed on Silco.
Her power, on its own, remained fragile. Killing Finn had earned her control over the Slickjaws—a prize in name, but one that came with teeth. By extension, it meant Silco now had another enterprise under his oversight, alongside The Last Drop.
The transfer of power had not been celebrated. Those loyal to Finn, did not welcome her as their new master. To them, she was an interloper—someone who had torn down their rat-king without earning the right to wear his crown.
Silco had already dealt with the worst of the vermin, quietly and without her knowledge, she had no need to trouble herself with such nonsense. Even so, influence in Zaun was not built in a day. Reputation was a slow, stubborn beast—it had to be fed, shaped, and, when necessary, broken into obedience. And in their world, reputation was just another word for threat.
Yet she was, in truth, a threat in her own right. The barons knew it; the memory of the last meeting still hung in the air. They had seen what she was capable of.
Regardless, Silco was already maneuvering the pieces so that those who had begun to see her as some kind of 'saint' since the Stillwater incident were quietly at her—and by extension, his—service within the Slickjaws.
After all, he wasn't foolish enough to ignore a workforce that had practically fallen into his lap, a group of loyal, desperate hands ready to follow anyone who carried authority and vision.
Two days had passed since the proposal, and neither of them had shared the news with anyone. Not Jinx, not Sevika, no one. He noticed, of course, that Sevika's suspicion simmered beneath the surface, the way her gaze lingered on the small velvet box he carried betrayed her instincts. But Silco did not acknowledge it, not outwardly.
Instead, his eyes tracked the other woman before him—the one who had twisted her hair into a bun for the fifth time in less than a minute, restless and fidgeting as they waited for the elevator to reach the floor where the barons were gathered.
Her nerves were obvious.
After all, there was a stark difference between walking into a room with the intent to kill, to make a statement, and stepping into a meeting where every word and gesture marked one as an equal. The stakes were entirely different. When the elevator doors opened, Silco caught her hand before she could step out, and then gestured for Sevika to go ahead.
"Warm them up first. I have something to discuss with her privately."
Sevika nodded and exited the elevator. Silco moved, pressing the button to descend to the ground floor before returning upward, creating a private loop.
Once the elevator doors closed and he began to descend, Silco stepped closer, handing her the velvet box to hold, a small gesture that also anchored her attention elsewhere. Then his hands moved to her freshly twisted hair, and in moments, the carefully crafted bun unraveled, the strands falling freely around her shoulders like a cascade.
"Stress doesn't suit you, dove." he lifting her chin with the tip of his finger as though the gesture alone could steady her. His eyes held hers with an intensity that left little room for pretense. "So tell me... why are you a bundle of nerves?"
"I... I don't know. It's just that... politics isn't really my thing."
"And it doesn't have to be." Silco said, his voice calm but firm. "Let me handle everything. Just stay by my side."
She rolled her eyes, the gesture sharp but faintly amused. "If I wanted to be a trophy wife, I wouldn't have taken Finn's place."
"Then decide. Are you going to walk into that nest of vipers like a frightened lamb... or are you going to claim the seat of baroness I know you're capable of holding?"
Her sigh was almost human, almost tender, and she leaned against the elevator wall, her posture loosening from its rigid, controlled poise.
"You make it sound so easy, Silco." she murmured, letting the tension slip from her shoulders, if only for a moment. Then her eyes flicked to the velvet box in her hand. "What's this, anyway? Are we threatening someone again?"
"Open it."
She raised an eyebrow, a flicker of curiosity sparking, but obeyed, lifting the lid to reveal the black velvet interior. Resting within was a piece of craftsmanship as lethal as it was exquisite—a hand claw jewellery, designed to fit her perfectly. Five elongated, filigree-gilded claws awaited to sheath a hand, each linked by delicate silver chains to a central, ornate piece.
Silco allowed himself a quiet commendation when her eyes widened at the sight of the piece, when her fingertips traced the sharpened tips with careful, reverent attention.
"Silco, this is—"
"Yours." he interrupted. Her gaze snapped to him, but he only tilted his head toward the box. "Try it."
She did—at least, she tried. The mechanism was not built for haste. Without a word, Silco stepped in, taking her wrist and settling the central piece against her pulse point, fastening the clasp so the weight sat perfectly. Then, one by one, he guided each finger into its sheath: golden claws, aligning to the natural curve of her knuckles. Delicate silver chains draped from each digit back to the ornate wrist plate.
By the time he eased the last ring into place and adjusted the tension, the fit was flawless—like it had grown from her bones. She flexed her hand under the elevator's pallid light, and the metal responded with a soft chime of chain and a golden shimmer—danger disguised as ornament. Her eyes caught the reflection and brightened, and Silco didn't bother denying to himself that the sight was... pleasing.
"Is this real gold?" she asked, still turning her hand to watch the way the claws caught the light.
Silco shrugged, the motion barely a ripple beneath the tailored fabric of his coat. "Finn was far too vain to wear a forgery."
He watching the exact moment her mind stalled to absorb the name. Her face shifted — confusion, then something like recognition, and finally an expression that made the corner of his mouth twitch with private amusement.
"Wait... what? Finn?" she breathed, then glanced down at the claws as if the pieces themselves were delivering the revelation. "Oh my... that's his prosthetic. Silco, that's... morbid, even for you."
"Is it?" he replied lightly, arching an eyebrow. "And what is that satisfied smile doing on your face, then?"
Her mouth betrayed her for a heartbeat — the corners fighting to lift — and she caught herself, rolling her eyes in mock chastisement.
"You're as bad as I am, dove."
She pushed past the last of her nerves with a deliberate, abrupt motion and, as if christening the piece, reached for his tie. The claws flexed, silver chains whispering, and in that touch there was no hesitation. She pulled him toward her. Where she had been fraught a minute before, now there was only precise appetite — the kind that could be turned outward as easily as inward.
Silco allowed himself to be drawn, to lean in the fraction she demanded. He felt the press of her palm against his chest, the contrast between the claws holding tightly to his tie and the delicate hand resting on his chest and decided, with a quiet, clinical pleasure, that the image would serve him well.
When she leaned in, aiming for the kind of kiss that would have sealed whatever private agreement simmered between them, Silco stepped back just enough to keep her from closing the distance. He watched the tiny disappointments cross her face.
"I taught you good manners, didn't I?" he asked, voice low and almost affectionate, the kind of tone that slid around an order until it felt like counsel. "What do we say when we receive a gift?"
Her laugh was soft and genuine, but threaded with something else now—pleasure, surprise, a warming confidence that had edged out the earlier tremor. "Thank you."
"Thank you what?"
She pulled the tie again, this time with more intent than flirtation. He let her use that motion as leverage: with a single, measured shift he placed his leg between hers, anchoring them together in a move that was as much about physics as it was about message. The contact made her inhale—just slightly, an unguarded sound—and that sound told him everything he needed to know about the change taking place.
"Thank you... sir."
Silco let a faint, satisfied smile curve the corner of his mouth. "Good girl."
Even though the context was starting to heat up, her gaze narrowed for a moment. "But I have to ask... Why are you giving me this?"
"Because an engagement ring seemed too simple, too... ordinary. For you, my dove, you deserve something extraordinary."
As he spoke, Silco slowly slid his leg higher, his thigh pressing against her core, that made her breath hitch and catch in her throat. He could feel the heat of her even through the fabric of her panties, could sense the way her body responded to his touch, soft and pliant and eager.
"Besides... I rather like the idea of you wearing a piece of our enemy. But if you think you need a traditional ring, well... I suppose I could buy you one." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he whispered, "Though I suspect you prefer the more... personal touch."
To emphasize his point, Silco's hand slid to her back, pressing her harder against him, he nipped lightly at her earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. He could feel her squirming, her hips rocking instinctively to meet his touch, seeking more of that delicious friction. The elevator walls felt cool against her back as her head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips.
Not content to tease her just with his thigh, Silco's hand slid up the elegant line of her neck, his fingers curling around the high collar of her shirt. With a deft tug, he pulled the fabric to the side, exposing the mark that adorned her collarbone. He had noticed that she often covered that particular part with her clothes, as if she couldn't bear to look at even the slightest glimpse of it.
Silco's eyes darkened as he gazed upon the mark, the reason for their fight and what could be something humiliating for her, that he was not yet aware of. He leaned in, his lips brushing against the inked lines, before he opened his mouth and suckled on the skin, his tongue tracing the shape of the mark.
He could feel her body tensing, her thighs clenching around his leg as she climbed higher and higher towards her peak. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her nails biting into the fabric of his suit jacket as she sought to anchor herself, to ground herself against the overwhelming sensation.
Her moans grew louder, more frequent, a symphony of pure, unbridled pleasure that filled the elevator and made Silco's blood sing with triumph. He could feel the way her body shuddered and quaked, the way her hips rolled and undulated against his thigh, chasing that final, blissful release.
Just as she teetered on the brink, her head thrown back and her lips parted in a silent scream, Silco abruptly removed his leg from between her thighs. The sudden loss of stimulation, the cruel denial of the release she so desperately craved, made her eyes fly open, a mix of shock, frustration, and lingering desire swirling danced in her irises
The elevator chose that moment to shudder to a halt, the doors sliding open with a soft ding to reveal their floor. Silco stepped back, his breathing ragged and his eyes dark with a hunger that was far from sated.
"We still have a meeting, remember?"
It took a heartbeat for her mind to claw its way out of the fog, and when it did, rage seized that lovely face with a clarity blush couldn't hide. She smoothed her clothes with brisk, efficient motions—the set of her shoulders regained, the tilt of her chin sharpened—though the color still burned high on her cheeks.
Silco watched, mildly entertained, as she swept past him without a glance, heels striking a staccato along the corridor. Ah, yes. Irritated.
She pushing the double doors suddenly, interrupting every side conversation mid-syllable. But she did not move to Finn's place as she should have. She couldn't. The chair was gone. Not merely shifted—removed. In its place: an empty gap at the table, clean as a pulled tooth. A petty act, and therefore a deliberate one.
Silco felt the smallest curl of satisfaction at the reveal; someone had chosen theater today. Good. Theater he could use. He let his gaze travel the perimeter with idle courtesy, lingering a beat too long on the ones who wouldn't meet his eyes.
He brushed past her, the faintest touch of his fingertips grazing the sharp tips of her claws—a fleeting contact, but enough to pull her focus from the room back to him. Without breaking stride, Silco moved toward his place at the head of the table.
To his satisfaction, his dove understood the signal. She followed, her heels measured, her expression schooled into neutrality despite the ire that still smoldered beneath her skin. A lesson she would have to learn swiftly in this den of snakes: every action drew a reaction, and weakness—any visible crack in composure—would be seized, twisted, and wielded as a weapon against her.
Silco lowered himself into his chair with unhurried authority, then extended his hand to her in a gesture that was both intimate and public. When her fingers touched his, he closed the distance in one pull, drawing her smoothly into his lap. The ripple that ran across the table was satisfying in its subtlety—narrowed eyes, faintly tightened jaws, the silent measure of insult and defiance cloaked in etiquette. If the removal of Finn's chair had been a message, this was his reply: sharper, clearer, impossible to ignore.
She would not be made to stand apart. She would not be left wandering, diminished in the margins of their assembly. If they dared erase her seat at the table, then Silco would grant her his own. At the head.
The barons might believe themselves his equals, but the truth had always been otherwise. They sat lower, scattered along the length of the table like scavengers circling scraps. He and the woman at his side—and now in his grasp—occupied the apex together. Two edges of the same blade: cunning and violence. The powers Zaun required, consolidated in one place.
His arm rested lightly against her waist, a possessive anchor that doubled as a declaration. He let his gaze sweep the chamber, patient, unblinking, until silence laid itself across the table like a veil.
"I believe we may begin."
The meeting began with Margot—a slight woman with pale skin, pink eyes and a short white hair tipped in green—clearing her throat. Her gaze fixed not on Silco but on the woman perched in his lap.
"Not wishing to cause any discomfort." she began. "But in a gathering such as this, one expects... a measure of decency."
The irony nearly made Silco laugh. Margot, of all people—madam of the Vyx, a brothel dressed in perfume and lies, clutching at respectability as if it could wash the rot from her business—speaking of decency. The hypocrisy was almost sweet in its transparency. Yet Silco found he did not need to waste his breath correcting her. His dove chose that moment to show her teeth.
The sound came first: a metallic rhythm as her golden claws tapped against the wooden surface of the table. Not hurried, not hesitant. A beat designed to claim attention. One by one, the barons' eyes fell to the jewelry gleaming on her fingers.
For those clever enough, the connection to Finn's old prosthetic was already forming, unspoken but undeniable. For the rest, the sharp edges on the fingers were message enough—ornament and weapon entwined.
"Decency is a matter of perspective."
She lifted her hand higher, turning the claws so every baron had a full view of their intricacy, the artistry that framed menace as elegance. Her head tilted, gaze narrowing in a mimic of curiosity as though she were simply observing, dissecting them in turn.
"Just as you find my seat indecent, I find your clothing indecent." Her lips curved, but her tone did not soften. "Yet you do not see me demanding you strip it away, do you?"
Silco's fingers pressed faintly into her waist, a silent reward for the way she had cut Margot down without hesitation. The barons, scavengers that they were, had witnessed her first strike at the table—and it had landed clean.
He was proud, though pride was not something he would name aloud. Better to feed it with subtle touches, measured approval, than risk letting her temper run unchecked on triumph alone. Pride too easily curdled into recklessness. And her temper was already a restless creature. Time to turn their attention elsewhere—business before irritation set its teeth in her.
"Renni." Silco said smoothly, his voice carrying easily across the chamber, cool command woven into each syllable. "How fares the latest batch of Chemtanks?"
"Oh, quite well." she replied after a pause, her fingers drumming against the arm of her chair as if she were itching to show off a new toy. "Thanks to your scientist's latest... refinements, we've assembled a respectable force. Enough to make Piltover sweat, should the need arise."
Her grin faltered then, ever so slightly.
"However... we've had to begin relocating certain units. The Enforcers' sweeps have grown more aggressive."
Silco felt it before he saw it—the shift in his dove's body against him, the sudden rigidity in her spine, the way her shoulders tensed like a string drawn taut. To the barons, she was still statuesque, unreadable. But pressed this close, he knew every tremor, every minute betrayal of her nerves. He let his hand drift lower, fingers spreading over the curve of her thigh, his thumb digging with calculated pressure into the soft flesh there. Not enough to bruise, but enough to remind her: control yourself.
"And where is this new locality?"
Renni's words faltered as soon as they left her mouth, like she regretted them before the sound had even died.
"A warehouse... a few kilometers outside Zaun, Silco." Her throat bobbed in a dry swallow, eyes darting to the side, the confidence from earlier already bleeding out. "Around ten units have already been relocated."
"And whose warehouse is this?"
Renni hesitated only a breath before she surrendered the name. "...Finn's."
He felt the turn of his dove's head beside his jaw, saw the way her lips moved with deliberate secrecy, words shaped only for him.
"That bastard Hoskel might have had access."
Silco gave her nothing in return—no flicker of recognition, no sign of agreement. Instead, he lifted his chin in a single, sharp motion, and Sevika stepped forward, the heavy sound of her boots on the stone floor punctuating the silence.
"You will give the address to Sevika." he said, gaze never leaving Renni. "From this moment on, responsibility for storage falls under the new mistress of the Slickjaws."
The words landed like a decree, final and without appeal. His dove seized the opening like a blade to the throat.
"Agreed." her voice cutting through the chamber with a clarity that left no room for doubt. "All of Finn's former obligations are to be transferred to me immediately."
The other barons hesitated only a heartbeat before offering their assent, their muttered agreements rolling around the table like the hiss of serpents retreating into the dark. And so the meeting continued. Silco steered the council as he always had—measured words, iron steadiness, the quiet force of inevitability that kept the vipers seated and the currents of Zaun moving. To any outside observer, it would have seemed as though nothing had changed. Yet everything had.
Still, there was a discordant note. A shift in rhythm. Not in the council, but in the presence at his side. The body sitting attentive in his lap, poised as though listening, but with a mind drifting far beyond the chamber.
He knew her too well not to notice. Too well to mistake that stillness for calm. He had spent long hours studying her—far longer than he would ever admit. Watching her movements, the subtle language of her body, memorizing the rise and fall of her breath, the way her gaze sharpened or softened depending on where her thoughts wandered.
Every detail of her had become as familiar to him as the maps etched into his own memory. And now, he recognized with surgical certainty that her thoughts had left the room entirely.
Silco did not fault her for it. The implication Renni had left hanging in the air would have been enough to gnaw at anyone. If even the faintest chance existed that one of Piltover's councilmen—Hoskel, no less—had laid his greedy hands on what had once belonged to Finn, then she was right to feel the weight of it. Such knowledge was poison. Not because the weapon might be used, but because Hoskel seemed like the persistent and probably spiteful type of person.
He could almost trace her concern like smoke unraveling from her chest. It was not cowardice. It was foresight. She knew as he knew: a man denied ownership of a weapon rarely forgets the insult. And if that man could not bend the weapon to his will? Then the only recourse was to see it destroyed before it could ever be turned against him.
Well, If Silco were in Hoskel's place, that's what he would do.
However, worry didn't suit that sweet little face of hers. And Silco knew the best way to distract her mind.
As the meeting droned on, Silco's senses remained acutely attuned to the woman in his lap, even as he appeared to focus on Smeech's droning update on the latest bionic upgrades. His hand slowly crept up the smooth expanse of her thigh, pushing her skirt up inch by tantalizing inch.
Silco's thumb traced a slow, sensual circle on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. He could sense the way she tensed slightly at the intimate contact. But he didn't stop. Instead, he let his hand rise higher.
"I don't see how that's relevant to our current endeavor against Piltover... rat." Margot's voice cut through Smeech's explanation of some kind of spinning blade he'd developed.
"Then let me finish... whore."
Margot, true to her traditional pimply elegance, simply leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the yordle. "Call me a whore again and I'll make you swallow that ridiculous hat of yours."
Smeech's smile already said that was exactly what he was going to do. So that meant he had to intervene and put an end to this childishness.
"Enough." Silco raised his voice. "You can kill each other after the meeting, now Smeech, continue your monologue."
Fortunately, this brought both of them back to the heart of the matter. As Smeech rambled on about the potential of integrating the new tech into the Chemtanks, Silco's fingers crept beneath the lacy fabric of her panties. Slowly, he began to trace the seam of her sex, his touch feather-light and teasing, a silent promise.
"And what about the current models? Would it be possible to retrofit them with these upgrades?" Silco asked, at the same time, his middle finger dipped lower, parting her folds to stroke along her slick, heated center.
He could feel the evidence of her arousal, could sense the way her body responded to his touch, even as her mind remained elsewhere. But suddenly, Silco felt her hand — the one not adorned with the claws — grasp his wrist in a tight, unmistakable grip. He remained still, his hand frozen beneath her skirt as he waited to find out if she wanted Silco to continue or not.
"It would be possible, yes, to retrofit the existing models with the new tech. But..." Smeech paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "I would need to run some experiments first, to test the compatibility and durability. If you're willing to let me use one of the units, I could have a success rate for you within a week."
"You have my permission. But you'll need to coordinate with the new mistress of the Slickjaws, to arrange a time for you to access one of the units."
Smeech nodded, his attention shifting to her, a look of eager anticipation on his face. "So?"
His dove took a shuddering breath and released his wrist, Silco felt her thighs parting slightly, a silent invitation. Silco didn't hesitate, his fingertips began to circle her sensitive clit, the rough pad of his finger rubbing slow circles around the hardened nub.
"We can resolve this after the change of location." Silco had to admit it was impressive to see her speak with that neutral and centered voice as if nothing was happening under the table. "I'll keep you posted."
He barely registered Smeech's response, too focused on the way her breathing grew more ragged, the way her hips began to make the subtlest of movements against his hand, seeking more of his touch.
"If you're going to do any experiments, I must be present." Renni's voice echoed, measured.
Smeech let out a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh, sharp and dismissive. He turned to face her. "And may I ask why?"
"The basic design of the Chemtanks is mine." Renni replied, chin lifted slightly. "It is my right to know what you plan to do with it."
The corner of Smeech's mouth curled into a sneer. He spat his next words with the kind of scorn that clung to him like fumes. "So you can steal my technology? In your dreams, princess." He lingered on the title, letting it sting, mocking her composure.
Renni's laugh cut the tension between the two — short, sharp, and utterly unimpressed. She leaned forward, a half-smile playing across her lips.
"Steal this junk you call technology? Please..." She waved her free hand lazily, as if swatting away a buzzing insect.
That was enough to shatter Smeech's brittle patience. His body jerked as he shot upright in his seat, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. His finger jabbed in her direction.
"Junk? How dare you? Listen here, you bitch—"
Silco watched with a mix of amusement and annoyance as Smeech and Renni began to hurl insults at each other like a pair of bickering children. Normally, he would have put a swift end to such unproductive behavior, maintaining the decorum and respect that was due in his presence. But tonight — with his woman on his lap — Silco found that he could not bring himself to care about their petty squabbles.
Sensing an opportunity to take advantage of the heated exchange and the distraction it provided, Silco slowly — almost languidly — slid two fingers inside her dripping core.
Her reaction was immediate and intense. Her back arched, pressing her chest against his as a shockwave of pleasure ripped through her body. Her hand slammed down onto the table with a loud, echoing thud, startling the room into temporary silence.
Four pairs of eyes fell on her, and Silco mirrored the others' curious looks, suppressing a smile as she watched her try to breathe deeply and act naturally.
"I don't think... we... we should deviate from the reason we came to this meeting."
Silco leaned in slightly, his voice low and calm as he addressed the room at large.
"Indeed, we have a main issue to resolve here, this pointless bickering between you two." Then, he turned to her, one eyebrow cocked in query "How would you suggest we put an end to this... headache?"
"Well, Renni has the—"
Just as she opened her mouth to respond, to offer a solution to the heated argument, Silco began to move his fingers. He curled them inside her, his fingertips brushing against that sensitive, spongy spot deep within her.
She froze, her body going rigid against Silco's as a wave of sensation crashed over her. Her nails dug into her palms, her claws biting into the soft flesh as she fought to maintain control, to keep from crying out in the midst of their meeting. Silco could see the struggle playing out across her face, could sense the way her heart raced and her skin flushed.
His expression a perfect mask of neutrality even as his hand continued its sensual onslaught. He raised an eyebrow, a look of mild confusion on his face. "I'm afraid I didn't catch that, my dear." he said, his voice a low— almost disinterested rumble. "Could you please repeat what you said?"
She cleared her throat, a sound that was slightly ragged and rough to Silco's ears, a sign of her heightened arousal.
"I... I was saying that Renni has the right to be present at the experiments. However, she cannot be in close proximity to any of the... the Chemtanks during the tests or Smeech's equipment." She took a shuddering breath, her voice a little steadier than before. "Only Renni can be present... none of her men or some kind of notebook or... something for notes"
Silco turned to the others, his expression inscrutable as he gauged their reactions to her suggestion. One by one, they nodded their agreement, murmuring words of assent and approval. He was surprised by how they accepted it without much apology. If Silco were honest, he thought he would have to intervene directly in this matter.
"Very well. We are in agreement then."
The meeting continued, the remaining topics discussed with a minimum of difficulty, the earlier animosity between Smeech and Renni having been somewhat mollified by her suggestion. Throughout it all — Silco kept up stimulate her — his fingers never ceasing their rhythm inside her.
He could feel her growing more and more restless, her body squirming and shifting in his lap as she struggled to maintain her composure. The way she bit her lower lip, the way her fists clenched tightly, the way her chest heaved with each shuddering breath.
Leaning in close, Silco's lips brushed against the delicate shell of her ear as he slowed the rhythm of his fingers, matching the intimate whisper to the more languid pace. "You're doing so well for me, dove." he murmured, his voice a low, approving rumble. "So well..."
She suppressed a moan, biting down hard on her lower lip as she fought to maintain control. Silco could feel her, could sense the way her body strained towards its release, her walls clenching and rippling around his fingers in a desperate bid for more.
A dark, wicked part of him wanted to give her that release. But another part of him, the part that took sadistic pleasure in her torment, wanted to keep her there, suspended in a state of constant, unbearable arousal.
Her body tensed, her back arching as she teetered on the brink of a climax. Silco could feel the way her walls clenched and fluttered around his fingers, the way her hips bucked and strained, seeking that final, blissful push. Just as her breath hitched, a silent scream building in her throat, Renni's voice cut through the charged air of the room. "Silco?"
The sound of her name, was enough to snap Silco out of his lust-drunk haze. He blinked, his gaze flicking to Renni and then around the room, taking in the expectant, almost accusatory stares of the other barons.
Silco's hand stilled, his fingers pausing in their sensual assault. At the same time, her body went rigid, a statue of taut, coiled muscle and denied desire. Again. The sudden absence of stimulation was a shock to her system, a cruel twist of the knife already buried in her core. She bit back a whimper, a sound of pure, frustrated need, as the claws of her free hand dug into the edge of the table, leaving crescent-shaped indents in the polished wood.
His voice was calm and collected, giving no outward sign of the tension crackling between them. "Yes, Renni."
"Is there anything else you want to discuss?" she replied quickly, which made it clear to Silco that she was eager to leave the room. Perhaps as were the rest of the others.
"I believe we've sorted out our priorities for now. I'll let you know when it's time for another meeting, you're all free."
And so the echoes of scraping chairs and hurried footsteps toward the exit were heard for only a few seconds before only three people were left. However, Sevika was quick to leave as well, the doors creaking as she closed them behind her. Silence returned to the room.
"I can't believe you were touching me in front of them, you depraved lunatic."
Her words were sharp and accusing, her voice shaking with a mix of frustration, embarrassment, and lingering arousal. She glared at Silco, her eyes flashing with a anger and indignation that only served to amuse him.
Silco merely smirked, a wicked, self-satisfied grin spreading across his face as he slowly withdrew his fingers from her dripping core. He held them up, the digits glistening with her essence.
"You could have stopped me at any time, dove."
He brought his slick fingers closer, holding them so that she could see the evidence of her arousal glistening on the tips. Slowly, deliberately, Silco brought his fingers to his lips, his tongue darting out to lap at her essence, to taste the intimate flavor of her desire. His eyes never left her, watching as a fresh wave of blush stained her cheeks, watching as her lips parted in a soft, surprised gasp.
"Delicious..." he murmured, his voice rough and low. "It seems to me that you rather enjoyed the thrill of it all. Your body certainly didn't seem to mind the audience."
Her face flushed with anger and humiliation at Silco's brazen words. She gritted her teeth, seeming to fight the urge to slap the smug grin off his face. Instead, she settled for a biting retort. "Fuck you." she spat, her voice dripping with venom.
Silco leaned back in his chair, a wicked, self-satisfied smirk playing across his lips as he regarded she with a critical eye. He could feel the heat of her body, could sense the way her muscles twitched and shuddered with pent-up tension. "It would be far more enjoyable to fuck you. Especially given your current...predicament."
He paused — letting the weight of his words sink in — relishing the way her breath hitched.
"Unfortunately." he continued, a note of mocking regret in his tone, "I find myself not in the mood for such... strenuous activities."
Her jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in her cheek as she glared at Silco, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. But Silco merely shrugged, a careless, dismissive gesture that only served to fuel her frustration.
He patted his thigh where she perched, a wicked glint in his eye as he jerked his chin towards the juncture of his legs. "By all means, though... if you're that desperate for release, I suppose you could always take matters into your own hands. I won't stop you."
Silco watched with a dark, knowing smirk as she huffed in frustration, her chest heaving with the sharp inhale. He could see the internal battle playing out across her face, the way her eyes flashed with anger and indignation even as a part of her yearned for the release he had denied her.
When she lifted her hips, shifting to straddle Silco's thigh, he felt a surge of dark satisfaction. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he held her in place, eagerly anticipating what was to come.
Her skirt rode up her thighs as she settled herself, the fabric bunched around her hips as she faced Silco. Her legs trembled slightly as she braced herself, her hands coming to rest on Silco's shoulders.
He watched, his eyes darkening with a mix of amusement and dark satisfaction, as she began to move her hips. Slowly at first, almost hesitantly, she rolled and undulated against him. The heat of her sex radiated through the thin fabric of her panties, the damp patch of arousal growing with each passing second as she ground herself against him.
The sight of she, flushed and panting and wantonly grinding against him, only served to fuel Silco's own desire. "That's it, dove" his voice a low, encouraging rumble. "Take what you need."
Gripping a fistful of her hair, Silco hauled her closer, tilting her head back to expose the column of her throat. He drank in the sight of her, his eyes roving over her flushed face, taking in every twitch and flutter of emotion that played out across her features.
Her moans grew louder, more wanton, as she teetered on the brink of ecstasy. Silco silenced her with a searing kiss, his lips claiming hers in a bruising, demanding press. He swallowed her cries of pleasure, muffling them against his mouth as he felt her body begin to shudder and tense.
Silco's other hand slid down to cup her ass, squeezing the firm globe as he ground her harder against him. He could feel the heat of her sex, could sense the way her walls fluttered and clenched, desperate for release.
He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down to her throat, his teeth grazing her racing pulse. That was enough to knock her off the edge. Her body convulsed, her walls clenching and rippling around nothing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.
Finally, as the last tremors of her release began to subside, Silco's lips returned to her mouth in a gentle kiss. He could feel the slick, hot evidence of her climax soaking through his pants, could smell the heady, intoxicating scent of her arousal.
Silco leaned back in his chair, a wicked, self-satisfied grin spreading across his handsome face as he surveyed the wrecked state of his dove. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips brushing against her flushed cheek with a tenderness that belied the dark, lustful haze in his eyes.
"Such a good, greedy little dove, taking her pleasure so eagerly."
Silco let her spent body collapse against his chest, her head coming to rest on his shoulder as she struggled to catch her breath. He could feel the way her heart raced, could sense the way her skin flushed and tingled with the aftershocks of her climax.
Wrapping his arms around her waist, Silco held she close, enjoying the way her soft, warm body molded against the hard planes of his own. He could feel the damp patch on his pants, the evidence of her release slowly cooling as they sat there in the aftermath of their tryst.
For a few long, blissful moments, Silco simply savored the feeling of she in his arms, the way her breathing slowly returned to a more steady, even rhythm.
"Do you think the barons knew what we were doing?" Her voice was soft and hesitant, a note of embarrassed uncertainty coloring her words.
He chuckled, a low, rich sound that rumbled through his chest. Pulling back slightly, Silco met her gaze, his eyes sparkling with a wicked, self-satisfied light.
"Oh, absolutely." his grin widening into a full-blown smile. "They may be a motley crew of greedy, self-serving imbeciles, but they are not fools. I assure you, they knew exactly what was happening beneath that skirt of yours."
Her cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of red at Silco's blunt admission. She ducked her head, trying to hide her burning face against his shoulder, a soft, mortified sound escaping her lips. "That makes everything worse."
"Don't be embarrassed."
"That's easy for you to say, Silco." When Silco let out a light laugh, she grumbled again. "Stop laughing!"
There was a pause. Silco could feel the way her body tensed slightly in his arms, as if she were thinking about something before speaking.
"We have to talk about the Chemtanks."
"We will, but not now."
He rested his chin on top of her head, his hand coming up to gently stroke her hair as he listened to her words. Silco knew she was right, that they did need to discuss the matters at hand, but as he looked down at her flushed, exhausted face, Silco felt that the matter could be dropped. At least for now.
"But—"
"You're not in the best state of mind to be discussing such heavy topics." He tightened his arms around her waist, pulling her more firmly against him. "Rest now, my wife..." Silco ordered gently but firmly. "I'll wake you in a little while, and then we can talk about whatever you wish."
She looked like she wanted to retort, but gave up a second later. She let a sigh escape her lips and snuggled closer to him. "I'm not your wife yet, remember?"
"Not yet, dove...not yet."
Part 37
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
The glove claws are basically inspired by this model: click here
Officially engaged!
Here’s a tip on how to keep a friendship: never force your friend to do something he don’t want to. Otherwise, you might end up like Silco and Vander.
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 8,2K
Warnings: manipulation, threats, emotional manipulation, mention of violence, revenge and murder plans, references to abuse and human experiments, references to child imprisonment, suicidal thoughts, a little surprise at the end
Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.
Part 34
It was well past midnight when you knocked on Viktor's door.
Your hood was pulled so far over your head that only your mouth and chin were visible, and Powder had practically burrowed into your side, hiding beneath your cloak as if she could vanish entirely. If anyone saw you two like this, you'd look like nothing more than a pair of strays — vagrants or fugitives — and maybe, in a way, that wasn't far from the truth. But you weren't just anyone. Not to him.
Viktor knew the rhythm of your knock. A soft tap, pause, then two quicker ones. Familiar. Specific. Yours. And one second later, the door creaked open, and there he was. Sleepy, disheveled, and startled.
He looked like he'd just woken from a nap he hadn't meant to take: sweatshirt crumpled, hair a tousled mess, and wide amber eyes blinking slowed. No cane. Which meant he'd probably fallen asleep at his desk again instead of actually making it to his bed.
"You." he breathed, voice tinged with surprise — and something else. Relief, maybe. Concern. Definitely concern. Then his gaze dropped lower, to the small figure half-hidden in your cloak, and something shifted in his face. His expression froze for a heartbeat. "And your daughter."
You nodded. "Can we come in?"
Your tone was flat. Not cold, not angry — but empty. Stripped bare of the familiar softness or sarcasm he knew so well. It sent all the right alarms blaring in his head, even if you hadn't said another word.
Without hesitation, Viktor stepped aside. "Of course."
He glanced once over your shoulder, checking the hallway before shutting and locking the door behind you both.
You slipped inside, the warm air of his apartment embracing you after the chill outside. As Viktor moved around, fussing with his clothes and running a hand through his hair to appear more presentable, you and Powder peeled off your cloaks and hung them on the old, overstuffed coat rack by the door.
You knelt beside Powder, cupping her face with both hands, your thumbs gently brushing her cheeks. "Are you alright, my little one?"
She nodded wordlessly, the tiny braids in her hair swaying with the movement. A ghost of a smile tugged at your lips, and you leaned forward to press a soft kiss to her forehead.
Then you guiding her gently with both hands on her shoulders until she was facing Viktor.
"I think it's finally time you two met properly." You offered him a warmer smile now, something a little more like yourself. "Powder, this is Viktor. The brilliant scientist friend I told you about."
Powder stepped forward and lifted her small hand toward Viktor, chin tilted up. There wasn't an ounce of hesitation in her voice, not even the tiniest flicker of shyness.
"Jinx, to you." she declared, sharp and clear. "Only my mom gets to call me Powder."
You blinked. Choked, really. A small, startled sound caught in your throat as your eyes widened — because that was not what you had expected. Not what you'd rehearsed on the way here, whispering assurances into her hair as she clung to your side.
But before you could react further, Viktor was already kneeling slightly to meet her height, his expression perfectly calm, touched with a sort of solemn understanding you hadn't expected from someone so often wrapped up in calculations and machinery. He didn't even flinch. If anything, the corner of his mouth curved up in what might've been the faintest smile.
"Then it's very nice to meet you, Jinx." he said softly, and he shook her hand. Carefully. Gently. Like he knew exactly how to approach her — like he'd been listening, all those times you'd spoken about her over late-night tea or during one of your anxious rants while he soldered something in the background.
And that knowledge... it did something to you. Warmed your chest in a way you weren't prepared for. He'd actually heard you. Actually paid attention.
Deep in your heart, you felt the pang of regret begin to sprout. But you forced yourself to ignore it.
Jinx gave a proud little nod and made an approving hum, but then — of course — her gaze dropped to his legs, brow furrowing in clear curiosity. "Where's your third leg?"
You felt your entire face catch fire.
"Powder!" you hissed automatically, eyes wide in pure horror.
Her irreverence was always a wild card, but gods — you really hadn't expected that. Viktor, however, didn't miss a beat. His brow lifted just slightly in amusement, and then he chuckled — low and genuine, not mocking at all.
"My cane?" he clarified, gently, watching as Powder nodded with all the seriousness of a child asking a scientific question.
He got up and moved slowly toward the couch and bent to retrieve the cane he'd clearly coughed aside earlier. He held it out to her. Powder hesitated for a second, clutching the cane delicately in both hands, and glanced up at you. Her eyes met yours, silently asking for permission and you nodded.
Just like that, her fingers tightened around the cane, and she took it in a smooth, practiced motion. There was no clumsiness in the way she held it — no awkwardness of a child fumbling with something unfamiliar. She tested the weight like she'd done it a hundred times before, mimicking the way Viktor had held it. Then, slowly, she tilted it upward, eyes narrowing as she studied the wooden handle with the meticulous attention of a craftsman. Or a weapons engineer. The line between the two blurred when it came to her.
"You know... you could put a gas-activation mechanism in this."
You didn't even try to stop the sigh that left your chest. So much for the plan. So much for playing the part of the sweet, quiet little girl — the harmless version of herself you'd hoped she'd present tonight.
But as you watched Viktor's expression shift — the way his eyes flicked from her hands to her face with growing interest — you realized something else: maybe this version of her, the tiny genius with explosive ideas and no filter, was actually more appealing to him.
He raised a brow, intrigued. "I hadn't considered that." he admitted, and then tilted his head. "Would you mind explaining how you'd do it?"
You could see the flicker of excitement bloom in her eyes. It was subtle, but unmistakable — the way her pupils widened, how she stood just a little straighter. Still, she tried to play it cool, clearing her throat with exaggerated seriousness before launching into the explanation.
"It's easy." she began, as if what she was about to say wasn't a borderline illegal weapons concept. "First, you'd hollow out the wooden shaft, completely, all the way through. That way, you've got space for whatever gas you wanna use. Then you build in a pressure-sensitive trigger mechanism right here—" she pointed to the underside of the handle, tapping it lightly "And connect it to a simple wired system that runs down to a false bottom."
With a confident flick, she turned the cane upside down and tapped the tip against her palm. "The gas would only release if you lifted the cane slightly. Otherwise it'd be sealed even though you pressed the button. You'd just need to make the end detachable for reloading or maintenance."
She looked so proud of herself, standing there with the cane held like a prototype rifle in a lab presentation. You almost laughed — almost — but mostly, you felt that familiar twist of pride in your chest. The one you always got when she showed just how much her mind could do. When she reminded you she was more than the chaos that sometimes spilled out of her.
Viktor, meanwhile, looked somewhere between astonished and deeply impressed. His brow arched even higher, and he stepped a little closer, clearly examining both the cane and the girl in front of him with a kind of reverent curiosity you'd only ever seen when he discovered a particularly beautiful scientific anomaly.
"And how do you know so much about this?"
"My dad has all kinds of gas mechanisms in his office." Powder said, resuming her grip on Viktor's cane as if it belonged to her now. Her tone was casual — way too casual, considering what she was saying. "He even has a replica of his gun. Modified so it releases gas instead of firing a shot."
Your stomach tightened slightly, because you knew exactly which gun she meant. After all, you had seen how it worked firsthand.
"He usually uses a sedative." she continued, completely unbothered. "But you can use something deadly. As long as you're wearing a mask when you activate it. Otherwise you just, y'know—" she made a dramatic choking sound and dropped her head to the side, tongue out. "You die too."
Viktor actually laughed — a short, startled bark of amusement that made your heart do something funny. And you, still crouched nearby, finally stood and reached over to ruffle Jinx's hair. Her little braids bounced as she looked up at you with a half-smile, the smug kind only she could pull off.
"She's my tiny criminal mastermind." you said, affection lacing every word.
"My specialty is bombs!" she announced, chest puffed out like it was the most natural thing in the world — like she'd just declared she was learning the violin. The way her eyes lit up made it almost too much. You had to stop yourself from grabbing her cheeks right there and squishing them like dough.
Viktor tilted his head, watching her closely — not judging, not alarmed. Just... fascinated.
"So you're the type who likes to make things." he mused, accepting the cane back from her with both hands. You noticed he didn't set it aside this time. Instead, he planted it firmly on the ground and leaned into it, settling into its familiar support.
"Yeah!" Powder nodded enthusiastically. "My mom said you make stuff too. Is it weapons? Or traps? Or those bug drones that explode?"
He smiled, not unkindly, and shook his head. "Not exactly. My partner and I are researching ways to create magic through science. Through technology. And no, they're not weapons."
Powder's eyes went wide, and her mouth dropped open just a little — like he'd just told her the moon was made of fireworks. "Magic through science?" she echoed, her voice practically vibrating with excitement.
Viktor chuckled again and gestured with the cane, nodding toward the back of the apartment — toward the lab you knew he practically lived in.
"Would you like to see it?" he offered, and it was impossible not to notice how his tone softened for her — warm, inviting, full of patience he rarely showed in public.
Powder gasped and looked up at you, as if asking silently again, but this time you didn't hesitate. You waved a hand and nodded toward the hallway. "Go on, then."
She beamed and darted after him, her boots scuffing lightly across the wooden floor, already firing off a dozen questions as she followed Viktor into the heart of his world.
You stayed behind, slower to move. Something about watching them — the awkward scientist and the too-smart-for-her-own-good child — stirred something deep in your chest.
You leaned against the doorway and listened as her voice echoed with excitement through the lab, mixing with Viktor's calm replies, and you realized — she needed this. Not the magic or the machines. Him. Someone who saw her mind before her madness. Someone who didn't flinch when she spoke of bombs and gas and blueprints. Someone who could help Powder develop her genius even further. However, you would doubt that after that day Viktor would accept being a part of her life...
Because of you.
Viktor reached for a metal box sitting precariously atop the chaos of his worktable — wedged between half-dismantled devices, old notebooks filled with unreadable equations, and a teacup that had long gone cold. With deliberate care, he brought the box down and opened the latches. A faint hiss escaped as the seal released, revealing a small, faintly glowing orb nestled inside.
The sphere shimmered an ethereal shade of blue, rough around the edges, with crystalline imperfections scattered across its surface like fractures in frozen water. It hovered just slightly above its metal cradle, pulsing slowly — almost like it was breathing. The interior of the box was lined with a dark velvet-like material, clearly chosen to cushion its volatile contents. But that wasn't what held your attention.
It was the way Powder leaned forward, transfixed — the light of the orb reflecting in her wide, amazed eyes, painting her face in blue. Her body had a soft stiffness that few people would notice, but you did. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She seemed too scared or too enchanted to move. As if she'd seen that blue object before, though you couldn't quite tell how.
Just in case, you approached her, to try to calm her down with your presence.
Viktor spoke without taking his eyes off the orb. "That is Hextech. Or more accurately... a crude prototype of what a Hextech gem may one day become."
You narrowed your gaze slightly, instinctively placing a hand on Powder's shoulder to ease her a step back. She resisted at first, still paralyzed, but eventually yielded to your guiding pressure.
"Is that stable, Viktor?"
Viktor let out a low breath and gently closed the lid, sealing the artifact back into its case. "Kinda." he answered, in that irritatingly casual way he used when something was probably fine, but maybe also deadly. He pushed the box back into its original spot. "But I suspect we have more pressing matters than Hextech theory."
You met his eyes and gave a slow nod.
You turned to Powder, softening your tone just a little. "We need to have a boring grown-up talk, alright? Can you stay in the other room for a bit?" You raised a finger. "And remember: do not touch anything. Understood?"
Powder, that had returned to its normal state, groaned audibly — the kind of exaggerated groan only children could manage — but she spun on her heel and skipped back toward the main room anyway, muttering something about "scientists being the worst at fun." You watched her go, exhaling only once she disappeared past the threshold.
Viktor waited a few more seconds, straining his ears to make sure she was gone.
Then the shift happened.
His expression tightened — brow furrowing, mouth thinning into a grim line. The light in his eyes dimmed slightly as the weight of reality settled onto his shoulders. When he finally looked back at you, he wasn't your patient scientist anymore. He was worried. Deeply.
"Your face is on every bounty board in the city." he said quietly, voice edged with unease. "They're saying you were behind the riot at Stillwater."
"It wasn't a riot." you corrected him, casually — far too casually, really. The words came sharp, clean, like a knife already honed. "I was the one who killed the enforcers."
Viktor blinked. "What?"
"Violet is dead, Viktor."
Your voice cracked like stone. No waver. No softness. But behind it — behind the barbed wire tight around your heart — was pain. Raw and bleeding. Anger, too, twisted into every syllable like a burning fuse. There was no attempt to cushion the words. No warning. Just brutal, unceremonious truth. You didn't have the energy to wrap it in metaphors or subtle grief. You couldn't.
"My daughter is dead."
And the room went silent.
You watched it hit him — like gravity had doubled. Viktor flinched, just slightly, as though you'd struck him. His hand braced against the edge of the table behind him as he leaned back, shoulders sagging with the weight of your words. He looked away for a moment, toward the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but at you — like if he didn't meet your eyes, the truth might not solidify.
He swallowed, hard. His lips parted as if to speak, then closed again. He was calculating, analyzing, not numbers this time — but grief. Yours. His own shock. And the thousand questions that were now begging to be asked.
"But... how? You told me her health was improving. That the medication was working."
You were about to say Hoskel's name and tell him the whole prison story as directly as possible, as you and Silco had planned earlier, but suddenly your voice stopped. You exhaled slowly, and for a moment you weren't the poised criminal strategist you'd pretended to be anymore. You were just you.
You were just a mother. That you really needed a friend.
"It wasn't the illness that killed her." you said, and the quiet in your voice cracked louder than any scream. "It was me."
Your control, the carefully rehearsed mask you'd built for this conversation, shattered like glass. Everything you'd prepared — the lies, the posture, the cold precision with which you'd planned to sway him — it all fell apart.
"I did this... she's gone because of me."
That was no lie. It was your fault. It sat on your chest like a mountain, suffocating. Your hands curled tightly at your sides, nails biting into your palms, as your mind echoed with images you didn't want to relive — her face, the blood, the way the world collapsed in that moment and kept collapsing, over and over, every time you remembered.
Against all expectations, you felt him hug you. It was awkward and a little embarrassing because hugging wasn't really Viktor's thing, so his hands weren't very comfortable around you, even though he tried. But why would he do something outside his comfort zone? The answer was actually simple. Because he knew you needed it.
Unlike him, you found comfort in familiar touches, and curiously, he knew you liked hugging him, even though he saw you holding back out of respect for him. So seeing Viktor go against his own will just to pull you out of the spiral of pain was more painful than a knife in the chest.
Viktor said your name, so gently that you would have preferred he had cursed you. He was making everything harder. "What happened?"
When that damned pang of regret returned, you distanced yourself from Viktor, then swallowed it and pushed that feeling down.
You forced yourself not to feel it. Not feeling the pain, the loss, not feeling guilt because if you allow yourself to feel it, it would only make it much worse. You forced yourself to remember the reason you had come to him, you forced that weak version of yourself to remain dead because you had a goal to fulfill.
Your fingers reached out, brushing over the clutter of tools on Viktor's workbench until they settled on a simple screwdriver. Nothing dangerous. Nothing extraordinary. Just a mundane object that fit too perfectly between your fingertips. You held it delicately, like something fragile, and then — without fanfare — snapped it clean in half.
The sound was soft. Barely a crack. But it rang through the lab like a bullet.
"You're familiar with the concept of a weapon of war, Viktor?"
Your tone was cold now, distant — like you weren't speaking about yourself, but rather narrating the details of a forgotten experiment. It was easier that way. Easier to speak when you didn't have to feel it.
"A weapon of war is anything created with the sole intention of causing destruction. It doesn’t matter if it’s a bullet, a blade, or even a human being. Sometimes, a human becomes the deadliest weapon of all. Shaped and reconfigured to serve a purpose they don’t always understand, but executes with precision... without fail."
A weapon doesn’t question. It doesn’t hesitate. It simply acts.
You saw the flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes, the subtle tightening of his mouth. He'd known something wasn't natural about you for a long time. He didn't say it to your face, but you knew he was fully aware that you were genetically modified. Of course, he only knew the healing and resistance part, not the ugly part. The destructive part.
You even remembered when he said you'd probably never tell him the truth about your origins. How ironic. But you decided to keep the Noxus part out of it. Viktor didn't need to know that you were a freak besides a weapon.
You let the pieces of the screwdriver fall to the table.
"The Piltover Institute of Ascension and Progress..." you said, your voice laced with quiet venom. "The dream of every Zaunite desperate to escape the misery we called life. A shining beacon of opportunity. Advancement. Salvation."
You paused. The silence pressed against your shoulders like a weight.
"All lies."
You took a breath, then exhaled through your nose, keeping your hands behind your back as you turned and walked slowly to the window. The glow of Piltover filtered in faintly through the glass — the bright lights stretched as far as the eye could see, the grandeur bathed in the moonlight.
"All they wanted was test subjects. Disposable, forgettable lab rats. And lucky me, I was their prize-winning specimen."
You always wondered how a place as white and sterile as that was responsible for causing the worst atrocities. How the lab coats always came back clean and spotless after being stained with blood. How your screams, no matter how loud, couldn't break the funereal silence of the place.
"I wasn't the only child." you continued, quieter now. "Not at first. There were dozens of us. Maybe more. I don't remember all their names. Sometimes their faces haunt me, though. If I try hard enough, I can see them."
You closed your eyes, just for a second, and there they were — flashes of eyes too wide, too hollow. Children who never got the chance to grow up.
"Every single one of them died within the first month. The surgeries, the experiments, the 'optimization'... it was too much for anyone. It was meant to be." You tilted your head slightly, and you could feel Viktor's eyes locked on your back — the weight of his attention was like heat on your skin. "But I survived... and they called me the 'perfect prototype."
You laughed. It was hollow. Cold. You hated how used to it you were.
"I was twelve when I killed my first person." you still facing the window, watching your reflection barely shimmer in the glass, empty eyes. Vander had been the only person you'd revealed that to, until now. Maybe that showed how attached you'd become to Viktor. "They didn't tell me his name. Just handed me a knife and told me to make it quick. As I had been trained to do."
You could hear Viktor's breath shift behind you, could feel the weight of his silence — thick, horrified. He didn't interrupt. Didn't move. But you knew what he was thinking. What he must be feeling.
"And after that?" you went on, almost idly now. "I lost count. Ten years, Viktor. I spent ten years in that place, and I have no idea how many people I killed. How many missions they sent me on. How many times I was told I wasn't human anymore, so it didn't matter. I was the weapon that would deliver Piltover to my master on a silver platter and help him build the city he envisioned."
Your hands were trembling now, hidden behind your back, clenched tightly enough that your nails bit into your palms. You didn't care. The pain helped. It anchored you.
"In places like that, they usually rely on brainwashing. It's how they keep control, strip you of identity, reshape your thoughts until obedience becomes instinct."
You took a slow step away from the window and turned to face him fully, your gaze heavy, unwavering.
"But strangely enough, at some point it simply stopped working for me. So when I had the opportunity, I made them pay."
"The Institute it burned down." Viktor said. "Every person who worked there was killed. People called it a massacre." He hesitated, just for a moment. Then. "It was you."
"Yes." you exhaled, slow and shaky, and stepped further into the light of the room. "After that... I tried to be better. I wanted to be better. I didn't want to be the monster they made. I just wanted to run. As far and as fast as I could. Far enough that they'd never find me again." You paused, eyes distant now, your voice growing quieter, more haunted. "But I was too naive."
You swallowed, and you could feel the sharp edge of the memory begin to rise again, just beneath your skin. The image was too vivid, too real. Rain. Screaming. Violet's eyes — wide, unblinking, fixed on yours as everything slowed.
"He found me... my former master." you said, flat and cold. "A member of the Piltover Council."
You didn't speak his name. Not because you couldn't—but because you didn't want it echoing in this place. You saw Viktor tense ever so slightly; after all, you had just explicitly said that a Councilor had created a weapon of war for personal gain as if it were nothing. It was understandable why he was tense.
"He took Violet. He used her as a hostage. He wanted me to return. To submit, but everything went wrong, and she..." You stared past Viktor now, your gaze distant, lost somewhere in a memory you'd tried so hard to bury it had started to rot inside you. "When she died... I lost control."
You looked down at your hands, the same hands that had taken so many lives. That had failed to save the only one that ever really mattered.
"All the people I killed that day... they're not enough to erase what Piltover has done."
Your voice was low — not broken, not enraged — just exhausted. Hollowed out and heavy with truth. The truth that had kept you awake every night since Stillwater. The truth you weren't sure you could outrun anymore.
"How many lives did those arrogant bastards take out of pure selfishness? How many Zaunites buried their children without names, without justice, because they decided didn't matter?" you looked at Viktor then — really looked at him — and saw the flicker of something behind his eyes. Recognition. Pain. Memory. "How many more lives need to be taken before someone finally listens?"
It took him a second. A slow, dreadful beat before the implication of your words set in. He was sharp. He was always sharp. "You want revenge?"
"I want freedom, Viktor."
The room fell into tense silence. The hum of machinery. The low flicker of unstable energy somewhere deeper in the lab. And then — the sound of his cane striking the floor as he took a step closer. And another. The rhythm louder now, matching the tension pulsing in your chest.
"Why is freedom always the justification for violence?"
He was close now. Close enough that you could see the lines etched deep into his face, the way his expression wasn't just angry — it was hurt. The kind of hurt that came only from hope slowly breaking.
"Innocent lives will be caught in your crossfire." he said, firmer this time. "You know what it means to lose a daughter. You know. Do you really want to inflict that pain on other mothers?"
You didn't respond. Couldn't, for a moment. Because of course you didn't. You weren't a monster. You were just... broken. And broken people cracked the world around them whether they meant to or not.
"That won't happen."
"And how can you be so sure?"
Viktor's voice rose then, frustration slipping out through his carefully constructed restraint. Not shouting — no, never shouting — but sharp. Sharp enough to cut.
"I'm not defending Piltover, but in a war, both sides lose."
"That's why I need you at my side." You catch Viktor's free hand before he can retreat, curling your fingers around his with firmness disguised as kindness. "You're the single most brilliant mind I've ever met and you can make a war less catastrophic. You've lived up here long enough to map every strength Piltover guards, every weakness it refuses to see. You understand the way these people think."
Viktor's jaw tightens. "And what makes you believe I would ever help you do this?"
"Because I know how much you hate the ceiling they've nailed over your head."
The words slip out soft as a knife. When he tries to pull back, you hold fast, thumb brushing the faint callus where a pen sits when he sketches circuitry at three‑in‑the‑morning.
"Stay here and you'll die an assistant, nothing more. They'll keep smiling while they use your mind but they will never see you the way I do. They will never trust your genius the way I trust it. Up here you will always be the Zaunite stray who got lucky, and nothing past that."
You look straight into his eyes, and even through the anger you spot the smallest flicker of resentment— a wound you've just pressed. So you press harder, even though it tastes like betrayal on your tongue.
"Tell me, Viktor... when Hextech finally changes the world, who do you think Piltover will crown as its savior? You? Don't fool yourself. At best they'll etch your name in fine print under Jayce's. More likely they'll leave you out entirely." You lean in, voice a low promise. "If we'd never met, if you had never started creating that cure, you would have died here, leaving nothing behind to prove you ever mattered."
The silence between you vibrates, taut as a rail about to snap. A piece of glass thrown on the table reflects your faces; for a heartbeat you and Viktor look less like conspirators than mirror images of the same discontent:
Two children Piltover tried to break— one remade into a weapon, the other shackled behind a gleaming desk with the false promises of a future.
You ease your grip but don't let go, voice softening, almost pleading. "Stand with me, Viktor. Help me design a future where Piltover can't grind another mind into dust, where Zaunites don't have to claw for oxygen while Councilors suffocate them in search of progress. Give Powder, give every child, a city that deserves them."
Slowly, you release his hand. You were low for using your daughter in that argument, but that's why you brought her, that's why you introduced Viktor to her. You were a horrible human being.
You watched him too long now. The hesitation wasn't just a flicker anymore—it was a full storm behind his eyes. Fingers twitching slightly at his side, jaw working, his gaze dropped toward the floor like he was looking for some hidden blueprint that could map a way out of this moment. You could practically see the war inside him.
But you already knew what his answer would be. Silco had warned you this might happen.
"Silco told me... if you hesitated, I should kill you."
That name twisted something in Viktor. He let out a bitter, humorless laugh, like it burned coming out of his throat.
"Silco... of course you went back to him." He turned his head, not quite able to meet your eyes, but his voice cut deep. "So that's what this is? If I say no, you kill me?"
"No." Your answer was immediate. "I would never kill you, Viktor."
You meant it. Maybe more than anything else you'd said that night. You paused, gave him a moment, before continuing—softer this time, almost gentle.
"I'll let you leave Piltover before the war begins, but only you. Every noble family in this city will burn." Alarm flared in his eyes, even fear. He knew you well enough to understand what you weren't saying. "The Medardas, the Kirammans... the Talis."
You saw the tremor in his expression. A storm trying to form—righteous horror, maybe. But you didn't stop. You couldn't afford to.
"It's the only way to break the spine of this system. If we don't destroy the foundation, it will rebuild itself, again and again, like rot growing back under gold."
He opened his mouth, but you kept going, voice firm now—steel under your words.
"If you say yes... if you help me, I'll make sure your name is remembered. I'll give you a title, the freedom to continue your work without someone else's name attached to it." you smiled, remembering an old phrase. "You're a survivor, Viktor. And survivors don't settle for scraps when they could have the entire feast."
You took one last step. No more than a breath of space between you. Viktor was taller than you, but for some reason it seemed like your presence overshadowed his.
"Furthermore, I'll spare House Talis. Jayce's family will survive and will remain under your protection."
You watched his face change—something between horror and heartbreak. You hated using Jayce as leverage, but it was the only card left. He might hate you at the end of this, it didn't matter. You had a wish, and it would come true, even if it destroyed the only friendship you had left in this life.
Viktor's silence stretched. You could see it weighing on him—the cost, the lines being redrawn in real time behind those thoughtful eyes. His hand clenched subtly around the cane, his knuckles pale. When he finally looked at you again, there was something new in his gaze. Less resistance. More resolve.
"I won't let you start a massacre." he said quietly, but with a tone that cut through the air like tempered steel. "Not while there's still a chance we can change this city without flooding its streets with blood."
You tilted your head, watching him with patience. You didn't interrupt.
"I know how much you've suffered." he continued. "How much they took from you. From all of us. But if you turn this into a bloodbath, they win. You'll become the very monster they always claimed Zaunites were... Let me show you there's another path, one that doesn't bury more daughters."
You stared at him for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle. There was that part of you, that wanted to scoff at his idealism. But the other part, the quieter voice that still remembered what hope used to taste like, couldn't help but pause.
"I'll consider it." you said eventually, folding your arms loosely over your chest. "But if you're going to play moral compass, then play it from within. Don't run. Stand at my side, like I asked."
Viktor was quiet again, but not for long. His jaw clenched, his breath shuddered slightly—and then he gave the faintest nod.
"I'll stay, but listen to me, and listen carefully." His voice was sharp now, eyes burning with something rare—defiance. "The moment I see this movement turn into something I can no longer stand beside... I will do everything in my power to stop you."
You smiled at that, slow and knowing, like you had just won a bet you never doubted.
"That's fair." you stepped past him then, brushing your fingers along his shoulder with casual fondness as you moved toward the lab door. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
Your fingers brushed against the doorknob, cool and still beneath your touch. You didn't turn it—not yet. Something held you there, rooted in place as your eyes traced the wood grain of the door in front of you. You could feel his gaze at your back, could almost sense the ripple of conflicted emotions radiating off him like heat.
"I'm sorry." you said, quietly, not turning around. "I never wanted to put you in this position."
The silence that followed was deep and brittle. For a moment, you thought he wouldn't answer. And then you heard it—a slow, weary exhale from behind. The kind of breath someone took when they were trying to hold themselves together with frayed threads.
"I'm sorry, too." Viktor said, his voice low but sincere. "For your daughter. For Violet."
You closed your eyes, a wave of something sharp and choking rising up in your throat. That wasn't what you had expected. You had steeled yourself for his fury, for bitter words and judgment. You would've preferred it. You didn't want his sympathy—it hurt more than the anger would have.
Your hand tightened slightly around the doorknob.
You didn't turn back. You couldn't.
"Just so you know..." you muttered, the hardness returning to your voice like a cloak you threw over trembling shoulders. "There are men watching you and Jayce." You let that hang in the air for a breath. "If you try anything reckless, they have orders to kill him."
The words were brutal and final. You didn't give him time to respond. You turned the knob, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the hallway—cold light bleeding down onto your face as if to bleach you clean of what just transpired. But just before the door closed behind you, a loud crash rang from the lab. The sharp clatter of metal against metal. The unmistakable sound of something—many things—falling, as though Viktor had lost whatever fragile composure he had left.
And then your mask fell. You stood there, pressed against the door, staring blankly, feeling your throat tighten and your eyes fill with tears as the weight finally settled in and you allowed yourself to finally feel everything you had been ignoring.
You had lost Viktor.
"Mom?"
Powder approached you, probably alarmed by the loud noise, and you did your best not to show your emotions. There was a smile on your face as you picked her up and carried her toward the apartment exit.
"We're done here... let's go back to your father."
[...]
You felt the lazy rhythm of the river's waves slapping against your body, their movement dragging you gently with them as if coaxing you to drift further into their depths. There was no urgency in their cadence—just a careless sway that lulled you into a strange calm. The cold wasn't a deterrent. In fact, it was welcome. It bit at your skin, sharp and honest, cutting through the numbness you carried inside. Your eyes remained closed, but you were anything but unaware.
You listened—to the weight of the water around you, the scent of algae and metal rising from the river, the wind kissing your wet skin like cold glass, and in the far distance, the faint echo of Zaun's sleepless chaos, carried across the current like a memory too stubborn to fade.
It had been weeks since you last spoke with Viktor.
And, to your mild surprise, he had been obedient—at least in the way he knew how to be. He helped Singed finalize segments of the research, occasionally shared fragments of information with Silco—nothing vital, nothing damning—but enough to prove he was cooperating. Playing along. Staying useful.
The two of you had resumed work on the cure. Quietly. Secretly. Silco couldn't even begin to suspect what you and Viktor had created. Then you instructed Viktor to continue working on it alone, with only sporadic visits from you when necessary.
Gone were the long hours of shared tea, the half-smiles passed over steaming mugs, the discussions that twisted science and familiarity into knots between you. Now it was all sterile efficiency. No warmth. No unnecessary words. Just tasks and checklists and the unspoken boundary that neither of you dared cross again.
You hadn't expected it to hurt so much.
But it did.
More than you had prepared for.
Some part of you had clung to the illusion that maybe—just maybe—you hadn't lost him. That there was still a remnant of that friendship, that fragile alliance that had once made the nights feel less heavy. But now, working with him was like looking into the husk of something you used to care for. It was unbearable in a quiet, private way.
Maybe now you understood why Silco never let anyone get close. Why he surrounded himself with loyalty instead of love. Allies instead of friends. Why he built walls so high. Because when you let someone in—really in—they could choose to leave. Or worse, stay and become a stranger.
Following this path—the one that asked you to shed every softness, every piece of yourself that once found comfort in connection—was a lonely one. But you were already too far down it to turn back.
You inhaled deeply, letting the night air fill your lungs before you slipped beneath the surface of the river. The cold embraced you instantly, wrapping around your body like an old friend. You didn't resist. You let yourself sink—deeper, darker—until the murky water swallowed every sound, every thought, every ache pressing against the inside of your chest.
The river welcomed you with the kind of quiet only it could offer, one that didn't demand answers or explanations. It just... took. And you gave in, grateful for the burn in your lungs and the weightless silence that came with it. Grateful for the numbness that drowning allowed you to feel.
It started in your eyes—the stinging, burning reminder that you were about to drown for real. But your body moved on instinct, long before your mind could make a decision. Muscles kicking, lungs screaming, you broke the surface just in time to suck in a sharp gasp of air before the water could claim your breath for good.
Above you, the stars stretched wide and distant across the ink-black sky, uncaring and unmoved.
You didn't flinch when you heard footsteps crunching along the sand behind you. You didn't startle, didn't whip around. Instead, you dipped beneath the surface again—just enough to glide closer to the shoreline. Only when you reached the edge did you rise again, water cascading off your shoulders, hair clinging to your skin as your eyes locked with the figure waiting for you.
Silco.
He stood like a shadow carved from the dark itself, his long coat brushing against the tops of his boots, leather gloves to protect himself from the cold. His eyes followed your movements with that same unreadable sharpness he always carried.
"How did you find me?"
"You're predictable, dove." You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. Silco tilted his head slightly, then added, "Besides, our daughter followed you. Told me where you went."
Your brow furrowed, surprise flickering beneath your exhaustion. "I didn't even notice her. I thought she passed out the second I tucked her in."
"That child's picked up your habit of slinking around like a shadow," Silco folding his hands neatly behind his back as he straightened his posture. His tone wasn't angry—just observant. "She was also worried you were going to do something stupid."
"Something stupid?"
Silco didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stared at you in that way he often did—his expression unreadable, one brow ever so slightly raised, as if he were waiting for you to fill in the blanks for him. The quiet stretched out, dense and familiar, until he finally broke it.
"She told me Vander once pulled you from this river. So, she asked me to do the same, if it came to that. She said you seemed... distant tonight."
Ah.
You blinked, the weight of memory settling over your shoulders like wet fabric. You remembered now—how over the past five months, between scattered moments of joy and fragile rebuilding, you had shared fragments of your story with Violet and Powder. You suspected that your suicidal tendencies had worried her, but you didn't realize it would be this serious.
"I wasn't trying to kill myself."
Silco didn't look surprised. He simply shrugged, his coat shifting slightly with the motion.
"I know, but that doesn't explain why you're here." He stepped forward, the river lapping gently against the tips of his boots now. The water didn't seem to bother him. "Are you regretting your life choices?"
"No... just enjoying the last moments of solitude." your fingers skimming lightly over the surface of the water. You watched the gentle ripples spread out from your touch, the way they shimmered beneath the starlight like liquid glass. "We won't have many moments like this again... not for a long time. Months, maybe years."
Silco's mouth twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile—subtle, but unmistakable. "I hadn't thought of that."
You turned your gaze to him, a small smile blooming on your lips despite the heaviness in your chest. "Well..." you said, lifting your hand toward him, palm open and inviting. "We have a few hours before dawn."
For a moment, he didn't move. He looked at your hand, then at the river stretching wide and dark around you. And then he looked at you—truly looked—and whatever calculation had been behind his eyes a second ago melted away into something softer. Something real.
Without a word, he shrugged off his coat, letting it fall soundlessly onto the sand, and began unfastening his gloves. The motion was unhurried, and when he stepped into the river, fully clothed, he didn't even flinch at the cold. You wondered if he was like you—craving the cold because it felt honest. Because it made you feel alive.
His hand found yours beneath the surface. It was colder than the river, sharper somehow, the kind of cold that anchored you instead of numbing. The kind of cold you had longed for.
You pulled him in deeper, the water rising to his chest as you moved backwards like a siren luring him from the shore. And he let you. There was no resistance in him, no hesitation. Just the quiet understanding that this night—these final slivers of peace—were yours to share.
You were both floating when he reached for you. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you close, his soaked clothes sticking to yours like a second skin. Then his lips found yours, and it startled you—not for its intensity, but for its restraint.
It wasn't like the kisses you'd been sharing lately—those desperate, bruising things born of hunger, grief, and fury. This one was... gentle. Chaste, almost. A ghost of affection rather than a demand.
It was rare to feel something like tenderness from Silco. But tonight, it was there—in the way his hand cradled the back of your head, in the way he held you like you were something precious rather than something sharp.
You clung to him like he was the only thing tethering you to the surface, fingers tangling in his hair as your legs wrapped around his waist beneath the water's dark sheen. Your mouth moved against his with aching slowness—unrushed, unyielding, unwilling to let the moment end. You kissed him like you could stay there forever, suspended in the stillness of the river, in the hush before the storm returned. And even though you knew it was impossible, you let yourself believe in the illusion for just a little longer.
There was something strange about it all—strange in the way it was tender. The way the heat between you had softened at that specific moment, cooled into something that wasn't any less intense, just... quieter. Measured. It wasn't the feral, desperate kind of passion that you normally felt—the kind that left bruises on your skin and clawed through your chest like it wanted to own you. No, this was different. This felt like a breath after drowning.
Like two people who had already ripped each other apart and somehow, impossibly, chose to stay anyway.
His hand gripped your back, firm and grounding, and the way he held you said more than any words ever could. Not possessive. Not dominant. Just there. Present.
The water lapped around you both, indifferent and cold, but it didn't matter—not when his lips brushed against yours again, not when his breath mingled with yours, ragged and slow. You felt the tremor in him when you moved closer, pressed your forehead against his, your noses brushing, your hearts beating too fast for something that was supposed to be calm.
It was fucked up, wasn't it?
That this softness lived in the same place as your hatred.
Because it was still there, under the surface—coiled like a serpent, hissing from the corners of your mind. That familiar loathing, the bite of betrayal, the memory of every cruel word, every violent silence, every power play. You knew he felt it too. It pulsed beneath his skin just like it did yours. And yet here you both were—so close, so intimate, it was almost sacred.
You couldn't decide if it made you feel sick or alive.
Maybe both.
Because somehow, some twisted part of you understood: the hatred you carried for him wasn't the opposite of love. It was part of it. It fed it. And maybe that was what made the two of you work—this awful, beautiful, volatile dance you did so well.
You pulled back from his mouth, just barely, your breath brushing against his as your forehead rested gently against his own. Your eyes met his—unflinching, unwavering. That mismatched gaze had always unsettled others, but not you. To you, it was hypnotic. The blue and the molten orange of his irises pulled you in like a tide you'd never escape—nor wanted to. You didn't blink. Didn't look away. You just let yourself drown there, in the limbo that was Silco's gaze, caught between violence and vulnerability.
There was something bitter-sweet clawing at the edge of your chest—something you'd only begun to recognize recently. A terrifying clarity. You could kill him, if you ever needed or thought it necessary. The part of you that once trembled at the idea of hurting him was gone. You could slit his throat without hesitation.
And yet... the very thought of living in a world without him left you hollow. Not afraid. Not broken. Just... wrong. Like some fundamental part of you would unravel in his absence. As if the sound of your own heartbeat would lose its rhythm if he wasn't somewhere in the world, breathing too.
You'd fallen for him.
Deeply. Irrevocably. Disastrously.
"You're staring, dove." he murmured, voice laced with amusement as he stole a soft kiss from your lips—a brush of affection more teasing than demanding. "A coin for your thoughts?"
You didn't answer right away.
Instead, you leaned back just enough to cup his face in your hands, your thumbs ghosting across his cheekbones, your fingers trailing over the ridges of his scar. You touched it reverently, delicately, as if trying to soothe something far deeper than flesh.
Love will be the cause of your death.
"Marry me."
Part 36
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
We proposed. Well... we had a few friendships destroyed and an existential void too, but it was worth it, wasn't it?
Love and hate — two opposites that should never meet, yet somehow they find harmony in him. Silco is both the wound and the cure, the reason you bleed and the reason you keep breathing. That’s the cruelty of ambivalence: it makes you crave what destroys you.
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 12,2K
Warnings: fight and argument, canon-typical Silco violence, jealous Silco, choking, against the wall, smut, hate sex, rough sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, biting, Silco POV
Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.
This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence, proceed at your own risk.
Part 33
Silco's Pov
━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━
The pale glow of morning leaked in through the half-drawn blinds, and the world outside was beginning to stir again, but in here, time had stopped at that specific moment, apart from the rest of reality around it. Silco lay flat on his back, staring at the cracked ceiling above, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. His arms were still warm from where she had been curled against him before rolling away in search of cool sheets.
Her scent clung to the room—familiar. His body was wrecked. Exhausted. Muscles aching. But there was something else underneath the pain.
Peace.
Real peace. A fleeting, impossible thing. But for once, it wasn't a lie.
He hadn't felt like this in... decades, maybe. The kind of warmth that wasn't born from a bottle, or a speech, or a perfectly executed plan. This was something raw and rare. Something he hadn't believed he could ever touch again, not after Vander, not after what he'd become. But here it was, in the stillness of the morning, in the weight of her body half-slumped on his mattress, in the quiet rhythm of her breathing.
This—she—was chaos. And still, somehow, the only constant he wanted.
His gaze drifted to her.
Still fast asleep. Still gloriously, unapologetically naked.
Her back was half-turned to him, one leg tangled in the sheets, the other stretched out with casual abandon. And gods—gods—her skin was still warm beneath his fingertips. Silken and damp in places where the night's hunger had never truly cooled.
He reached out, almost absently, brushing a few strands of hair away from her shoulder. The tips of his fingers glided down the curve of her spine, over the dip of her waist. She stirred, barely, a soft, sleepy murmur catching in her throat. She moved, now turning fully toward him as a soft, sleepy murmur caught in her throat.
His hand lifted again, now brushing a piece of her hair away from her temple. She stirred slightly again, but didn't wake. Her lips were parted, soft now—so different from the smirk she wore when she was about to ruin him.
He had let her ruin him and in some twisted way, he hoped she'd do it again. Because she wasn't some ghost conjured by his sleepless mind.
He'd spent months haunted by the echo of her voice in empty rooms, her shadow slipping through his memory like mist. And now—now she was here. Tangible. Real. Not just some torment that waited for him in the late hours of the night.
Carefully, he shifted, peeling himself away from the bed.
He regretted it instantly.
The moment his feet touched the cold floor and he began to straighten, everything hurt. Not a dull ache. Not the kind of discomfort a man could ignore. No—this was a deep, grinding pull in every muscle, every bone. He bit back a groan and pressed a hand to the small of his back, rolling his shoulders with a slow exhale.
"Shit..." he muttered under his breath, amused despite the pain. Not old, not yet—but definitely no longer in the flush of youth.
He made his way toward the small door near the balcony—a space he had recently converted into a private bathroom, not out of vanity, but necessity. The effort of walking to one of the shared washrooms in The Last Drop had grown tiresome, and he found himself resenting the interruption more and more as time passed. Privacy was a currency he could afford now, and he saw no reason not to spend it.
The room itself wasn't extravagant. Functional, like everything else in his life. Tiled walls, exposed pipes, a basin and a modest toilet—nothing gilded, nothing imported. The shower was open, without the pretense of curtains or delicate fixtures. But the water pressure was good. The construction solid. And it was his.
Still, there was one feature that stood apart from the rest. The only luxury he permitted himself—and permitted proudly—was the hot water.
Hot, clean water. A miracle in Zaun. A rare comfort denied to nearly everyone below the bridge. Here, filth wasn't just a condition; it was a sentence. The kind of grime that soaked into your skin and soul, hard to wash off even if you tried. For most people here, being clean was a privilege. But warmth? That was a legend.
Yet here he was—no longer fantasizing about it, but owning it. The steam, the heat, the indulgence... this wasn't for show. It was a statement. A reminder.
He was not like the others anymore.
He had clawed his way out of the gutter. He had drowned and survived. And now, when the city clawed at his back, when blood stained his hands, when ghosts screamed in his ears—he could step into this space, turn a knob, and let boiling silence wash everything away.
The water system had cost him more than he'd care to admit. Not in coin—he had plenty of that now—but in favors. Engineers pulled from the industrial sector, materials smuggled in from Piltover, weeks of negotiations and bribes.
Sevika had thought he'd lost his mind. "It's just water." she'd muttered when he told her the plan.
No. It wasn't just water.
He called it proof.
Proof that they didn't need Piltover's permission to have what they wanted. Proof that Zaun could be more. That he could be more. It was comfort. It was a slice of heaven carved straight from the bowels of hell.
And in moments like this, with the early morning chill settling over Zaun, his body aching from the night before and the weight of decisions still looming, Silco found himself grateful for this one simple excess.
Steam had already begun to rise by the time he reached the shower. He ran his hand under the stream, testing the temperature. Perfect. Scalding enough to wake him. Gentle enough not to peel the skin from his bones.
Silco stepped under the shower with the silent intent of exorcising what the night had left clinging to him—sweat, blood, her. The hot water struck him like a whip, and he winced, not from the heat, but from the sudden sting across his back. He'd forgotten—temporarily—that she had quite literally torn into him. Her nails had left paths of fire down his spine, and now the water traced every one of them like salt dragged across a wound.
He hissed quietly between his teeth, pressing a hand to the wall as the pain settled into something bearable. It would scar. Maybe not physically, not all of it, but he felt it. A rawness that no steam could soothe. And yet... he wouldn't have stopped her if he could. In fact, he knew—without shame or hesitation—that he'd let her do it again.
There was something holy in being marked by the woman you loved.
The water coursed over him in steady sheets. He tilted his head forward, letting it beat against the back of his neck, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to stop thinking. No Zaun. No politics. No enemies. Just the warmth, the faint scent of her still lingering on him, and the phantom press of her lips across his ribs.
The silence was rare. Precious.
And short-lived.
He heard her before he saw her. The unmistakable rhythm of bare feet, then the quiet groan of the doorframe as someone leaned against it. He didn't turn around. He didn't need to.
He felt her.
Her gaze was always heavy. Like a wire stretched tight between them, humming with tension. When it landed on him, it was impossible not to notice.
"Can I join you?"
Her voice was husky, wrapped in the remnants of sleep. That slow, lazy drawl that always managed to twist something in his chest. He looked over his shoulder then, just slightly, enough to catch her shape in the steam-filled room.
She stood there without shame. Entirely nude, arms crossed beneath her chest, that insufferably smug half-smile tugging at her lips. Her hair was a mess, her eyes still heavy-lidded from sleep, and she looked—fuck—beautiful.
He said nothing at first. Just took her in, letting the water continue to wash over him while the image of her slowly carved itself into his memory. There was no performance in the way she stood. No flirtation. She wasn't offering herself—she was just comfortable. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Only if you don't plan to break me again."
She tilted her head, smirk deepening. "No promises."
She stepped into the shower without hesitation.
Unlike him, she walked directly into the stream, tilting her chin up as the water poured over her face and down her body in lazy rivulets. Her eyes were closed, lips parted just slightly, as though she were savoring it—not just the heat, but the feeling of being here.
Silco watched, momentarily spellbound, as the droplets mapped a path from her cheeks to the slope of her collarbones, then lower—tracing every curve like a lover's touch.
Then she turned her head toward him, water still dripping from her lashes. "We didn't have hot water in prison. All the enforcers shared one shower, and the damn thing was always filthy."
She reached for him then—smoothly, without drama—and pulled him close. Her hands slipped behind his neck, fingers damp and firm against his skin as she leaned back against the wall, letting the spray continue to beat down over both of them.
"I didn't know you had hot water." she said, lips just inches from his. "Didn't know you had a private bathroom, either."
Silco placed his hands on her hips, gripping them lightly—not possessively, but like anchoring himself. Her skin was slick beneath his fingers, impossibly warm. Then she smiled. Just a little. Not the wicked grin she used when she was about to tease someone. This was different—sleepier, softer, still worn at the edges from the long night.
"I could get used to this..."
He leaned in closer, his voice low and rough against the sound of water hitting tile.
"It's all yours if you want it, dove."
He had just leaned in, lips barely a breath away from hers, hands still firm on her hips, when she turned her face at the last possible second.
"We have things to deal with."
It took him a heartbeat too long to process her words, his mouth still hovering near her jaw. "You want to deal with them now?" he asked, disbelief creeping into his tone. "In the bathroom?"
She didn't flinch. She didn't even blink.
"Of course." she replied, as matter-of-fact as if she were asking about tea. "Before we start fucking again and forget our new responsibilities for the rest of the day."
He blinked once. "The rest of the day?"
He didn't mean for it to come out quite so incredulous, but there it was. He stared at her, momentarily questioning if she was serious—or if this was some elaborate game to throw him off balance. But then he saw the look in her eyes. The glint of amusement. The corner of her mouth twitching.
She was teasing him.
"Five months, Silco," she said, tilting her head with mock patience. "We've got a lot of lost time to make up for, don't you think?"
The laugh that escaped him wasn't planned. It rose from deep in his chest—raw, unguarded, genuine. A sound that felt too unfamiliar, like an old friend he hadn't heard in years. It was warm. Alive. And for the first time in too long, it didn't taste like bitterness or regret.
"Your libido is going to kill me."
She grinned like she was proud of the idea.
Still chuckling under his breath, Silco reached back and turned off the water, the last hiss of steam filling the small room before silence settled in again. As the water stopped, he gently pulled away from her—not out of disinterest, but out of self-preservation. If he kept his hands on her any longer, no part of him would be making rational decisions for the rest of the morning.
"Fine." he said, voice still rough with amusement, "Let's talk. Before I change my mind and ruin your schedule."
"Now that I've taken Finn's place, we need to make sure his subordinates don't try to start a rebellion over his death. People need to see me as a symbol. Just like that original plan of yours."
This set off all the red flags Silco could have. For someone who had previously thought his plan was outrageous the first time he mentioned it, hearing she refer to it now was curious to say the least.
He moved around the small bathroom, still dripping, until his fingers closed around the bottle resting on the shelf. It was imported, a gift from one of your Shimmer buyers outside of Zaun—luxury soap, faintly perfumed, something he rarely used unless it was moments like this. He poured a measure into his hand and stepped back toward her, silent.
Without needing to ask, she turned slightly and swept her hair over one shoulder, baring her back to him. His hands met her skin again. He ran the soap over her shoulders and down the length of her spine, watching the way the suds clung to her curves before trailing downward.
"Gaining sympathy is simple. We could stage an Enforcer incident. Leak intel. Let them raid the Lanes. You stop them. Kill a few if you have to, or don't, doesn't matter. People talk and the rest will fill itself in."
He could almost see it as he spoke—see the scenes unfold like pieces on a board. The Enforcers busting into a warehouse under false intelligence. Her stepping out of the shadow, blade in hand, eyes glowing with righteous fury. The word would spread by morning.
"Let them believe what they want to believe." he continued. "Make them feel safe in your hands. You don't need to demand loyalty when they offer it willingly."
She was quiet for a few seconds after his last words— still letting him tend to her like it was the most natural thing in the world. But Silco could feel the shift in her presence. Her spine straightened just slightly, her shoulders tightened—not in rejection, but in thought. In calculation.
"Do you think you can make this plan work?"
"That, will be the easiest part, my dear."
And it was true. Pulling strings behind the scenes, fabricating an incident, manipulating public sentiment—these were tools he had sharpened over decades. The story would write itself if they laid the right bones. All it needed was blood and fire in the right place at the right time.
"But once we take this path, there's no return." he said, voice quieter now. Measured. Heavy. "No peace. No treaties. No illusions. We set the board on fire, and the only thing left between Zaun and Piltover will be war."
He let that word hang in the air like smoke.
War.
Not just skirmishes. Not silent sabotage. Real, open, irrevocable war. The kind that wouldn't spare the innocent. The kind that would split families, ruin cities, and scar generations.
The kind they had once tried to avoid.
She didn't speak at first. He watched her face—studied every flicker of thought as it passed across her expression. Then, slowly, she turned to look at him over her shoulder, meeting his eyes with a calm that startled him.
"This war didn't start today." That tone in her voice wasn't anger, or passion, or even vengeance. It came with clarity. "It started the day of the bridge. With you and Vander."
Silco felt it then—a cold thread of memory wrapping around his chest. The day everything changed. The smoke. The screams. Vander's betrayal. The chaos they'd unleashed, only to have it buried by silence and guilt. That day had carved itself into Zaun's bones—and into his. And now here she was, dragging it into the light again.
"What we're doing now is finishing it."
Only Silco knew the full weight of what stirred in his chest at that moment. Only he knew the pride that rose like smoke from fire—thick, consuming, earned. Her words weren't just a declaration. They were a coronation. A signal that the final piece had moved into place on a board he'd been trying to win for half a lifetime.
Only he knew the true satisfaction of hearing that conviction in her voice—clear, unwavering, cruel in its certainty. Not because she was cruel, but because she had finally shed the hesitation, the softness, the guilt. Because she had chosen this path now, not been dragged onto it.
She was the weapon Zaun had dreamed of wielding during their first failed rebellion—the one they'd needed when everything fell apart at the bridge. She was the checkmate in an impossible game.
His hands stilled where they had been methodically tending to her, the soap long forgotten. What he saw in her gaze was something no plan, no speech, no manipulation could have created.
Resolve.
Final. Inevitable.
She wasn't the same woman who had killed Cayden months ago. Silco remembered her then—wide-eyed, trembling, cracked by the weight of blood on her hands. That moment had fractured something in her. He'd seen it. He'd felt it. The mourning. The regret. The quiet horror.
That woman was gone.
The one standing before him now was the product of a metamorphosis. A slow, cruel, beautiful transformation born not from words or training, but from loss. From rage. From vengeance. He had tried to drag this version of her to the surface, once. Had pushed. Had prodded. Had nearly broken her trying to make her see. But now... now he understood that this wasn't his doing.
This was hers.
She had bled for this. Had buried her ghosts. Had let the monster inside her stretch, open its eyes, and breathe. And she didn't run from it this time. She had become what they feared.
And Gods... she was magnificent.
Silco had dreamed of a future where Zaun could rise with power—not scraps. Not diplomacy. Power. And now, that future was flesh and bone and fury, standing naked before him like a reckoning.
"We still need to deal with Singed."
Silco stilled slightly, not in alarm, but in acknowledgment. Of course she would bring him up. He hadn't expected her to forget the loose ends. She never did.
"He managed to increase the limit before the 'recoil', and if he was able to design a prototype based on my abilities... it means he knows too much. Far too much to be left to his own devices."
She hated him, but what came out of her mouth had value. It was a valid concern that Silco had asked himself many times. Singed had helped him thus far, hough not out of loyalty—never loyalty—but out of curiosity, out of madness. He was a man unbound by morality, and more importantly, unburdened by allegiance.
That made him dangerous.
Silco leaned in again, placing his mouth against the side of her neck. Slow kisses traced the line of her shoulder as his hands moved over her sides, sliding down the curves of her waist with a familiar ease. Her body reacted, subtly but instinctively, drawing closer to his with each pass of his palms.
"We can't let his brilliance fall into anyone else's hands." she said, barely tilting her head to allow him better access to the hollow of her neck. "Singed knows too much... and he doesn't care who he tells, as long as it furthers his work."
His lips brushing the skin just once before he murmured. "As long as I fund his perversions, Singed will remain obedient."
He meant it. Money, resources, freedom to pursue the grotesque—those were the only leashes Singed ever recognized. And Silco had made sure to hold them all tightly. The scientist had his lab, his Shimmer, his silence.
"A dog with no loyalty, will eventually bite the hand that feeds it. And if I even suspect he will... I'll kill him myself."
Silco let the silence linger just a little longer, then smirked faintly against her skin. "Good... That's exactly what I'd hoped you'd say."
He had nearly fallen back into the rhythm of her body again—hands on her hips, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, her voice still lingering in the steam-choked air—when something she'd said lodged itself in the back of his mind.
His movements slowed.
For a man as calculating as Silco, that sentence should have struck him the moment she spoke it—but it hadn't. Not until now. He pulled back just slightly, his brow furrowing as his thoughts caught up to the implications. His gaze dropped from her throat to her profile.
He stepped away another pace, enough to look her in the eye.
"How do you know Singed extended your recoil limit?"
Her expression didn't shift. She merely turned toward him, one brow raised, as if surprised it had taken him this long to notice.
He hadn't told her that. That advancement had only come during their separation, when she had vanished like smoke, and both Silco and Singed made sure that only three people knew about it, and between them there was only one possibility. A man who had come to him with no demands.
Or so it had seemed.
"Viktor."
The name left his lips like the click of a lock sliding into place. And the moment he said it, he saw it—her smile. That small, satisfied curl of her lips that told him exactly what he needed to know.
"Right on the first try."
She looked far too pleased with herself, and yet he couldn't bring himself to be angry. Not truly. There was a part of him that felt something bordering on admiration.
Of all people, Viktor. The quiet scientist from the underside of Piltover. The one who had buried his brilliance in half-finished prototypes and mechanical ethics. Silco had always suspected there was more to him than he revealed. But he never expected her to find him first and somehow convince him to be her double agent all this time. It was both impressive and worrying.
"How did you manage to get him to work for you?" Silco asked, voice low and genuinely intrigued. Because truthfully, he was curious.
He had offered Viktor more than just unlimited funding and a fully equipped lab; he had offered a cure for the disease that was afflicting him. Singed was already working on this on the side, as he couldn't divert his attention from the main plan. But even so, things were going exactly as Silco had planned, so what could she have offered him that he couldn't?
He didn't like the question, and he liked even less that he couldn't immediately answer it.
She gave no immediate reply. Not in words, anyway.
Instead, she slipped from his grasp like silk through fingers, her body moving in a slow, predatory arc behind him. Then he felt her—naked, warm, confident—pressing against his back, arms wrapping around his ribs. Her chest molded to his spine, soft in contrast to her voice, which was sweet but laced with mystery.
"A magician doesn't reveal her secrets, Silco." she whispered near his ear, amusement threading her tone.
Her hands roamed with lazy curiosity across his chest, fingertips tracing old scars and fresh scratches like she was cataloging them, claiming them. He should've told her to focus. He should've pushed her off and returned to the conversation—but there was a thrill in the way she spoke, like she knew he couldn't help but want to hear more.
"But if it makes you feel better, he's trustworthy. And when the time comes, I want him on our side."
Silco's jaw clenched.
Trustworthy.
That word echoed like a crack through his skull. She said it with such conviction, as if her belief in Viktor's character was as solid as concrete, as permanent as death.
He almost laughed.
"Viktor strikes me as an idealist, dove." he murmured, finally catching one of her wandering wrists just as her fingers began sliding far lower than the conversation warranted. His grip wasn't harsh—but it was firm. A warning. "And I don't think idealists are particularly fond of coups d'état."
She didn't resist. Not immediately. But he felt the shift in her breath—tightening, annoyed, just a touch playful. Still, he held her there, their bodies flush, her hands stilled.
"And if he threatens to expose our plans..." Silco continued, his voice colder now, a little harder, "You may have no choice but to kill him."
Silco turned his head just enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye. His voice lowered further, the gravel in it rising.
"You can't trust the people you think are your friends. They'll be the first to turn on you. You know that."
What she did next caught him completely off guard.
Contrary to what Silco expected—that she would tease him further, or perhaps soften with the weight of their conversation—she leaned forward and bit him. Hard. Too hard.
Right on the side of his neck.
Silco's entire body stiffened in response, more from shock than pain—though there was plenty of that too. Her teeth sank in just deep enough to test the edge of his skin, enough to make his breath hitch and his muscles tense involuntarily. Not quite drawing blood, but dangerously close. She released him only a second before actually breaking flesh, and it left a throbbing heat behind—both from the sting and from the sheer nerve of the act.
He opened his mouth, half ready to demand an explanation. But she spoke first, and the words she chose cut far deeper than any bite.
"Vander didn't betray you."
Blunt. Clean. Like a knife slipped between the ribs.
Silco froze.
He felt the words more than heard them, like something ancient and cold being unearthed from under layers of carefully constructed silence. His jaw clenched. His good eye narrowed, and the one ruined twitched faintly. Of course she'd defend that man. That coward..
"He tried to kill you because Felicia died." she continued, her tone maddeningly casual for the subject matter. "Yes, it was extreme. But grief drives people mad."
Silco exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound almost a snarl. He turned away from her touch without quite realizing it, trying to distance himself from the absurdity—the insult—of her words.
"I can't believe you're actually defending him. After everything."
He hadn't meant for his voice to sound like that—so full of venom, so bitter. But it poured out of him anyway, thick and involuntary. It always did when the subject was Vander.
It was foolish of him to think that her return would mean she had left that part of her past behind. Foolish to think that just because she chose him now, she had severed whatever twisted thread still tied her to Vander's memory.
But she had lived alongside that man. She had shared years of history with him, and no matter how much Silco wanted to rewrite it, that past existed.
And it haunted them both.
"Oh no... We are not having this conversation right now."
Her voice came muffled against his back, her forehead resting there in exasperation as she sighed—that deep, theatrical kind of sigh that suggested she was seconds away from simply walking out of the room to avoid the entire subject. Silco felt the weight of her press against him in reluctant surrender, her arms still loosely around his middle.
"It's too early to start debating which one of you was the real bastard."
"Well, at least we agree on something." he muttered, and didn't bother masking the passive-aggressive edge in his tone.
He didn't want to.
Not now.
The fragile thread between them—taut from the mention of Vander—snapped with the next question before it had any chance to repair.
"And since we're on the subject of things we'd rather not talk about... Are you finally going to tell me where that tattoo on your collarbone came from?"
He saw her back straighten before he finished the sentence. That alone told him he'd struck something deeper than he expected. The tension hit like a wave. Sharp. Heavy. Unmistakable.
And then came the sound—a guttural groan of frustration, loud and raw, pulled from her throat like it had been boiling there for days. She ripped herself from him so fast the air between them chilled. Without a word, she reached for the shower knob and turned it on, letting the water fall over her like a curtain. As if she could erase the moment just by rinsing it away.
He just watched her. Watched the way she ran her hands over her body, washing off the soap—and him—with a kind of irritated precision. Her back was to him now, and he could see the muscle in her jaw tighten even from behind.
"I told you it's none of your business, Silco. So stop asking."
"It is my business." Silco said sharply, stepping forward, his voice cutting through the rush of falling water. "And it's exactly because of this reaction that I know it is."
He watched her posture shift—not the bold defiance she'd worn just moments earlier, but something smaller, inward. She didn't flinch, not physically. But Silco knew what it looked like when someone tried to retreat into themselves without taking a step. Her shoulders tensed, her head dipped just slightly, as if bracing for something—not an argument, but a memory. Whatever lay beneath that tattoo wasn't just ink, if it is really ink. It was pain or shame.
Or both.
And that told him everything.
"Where did that come from, dove?"
She had snapped at him before, sure—but this was different. Defensive in a way she didn't normally allow herself to be. Controlled fury wrapped in fragile glass. And Silco... he'd shattered enough people to know when someone was about to break.
What could a single marking hold that made her fold like this?
Last night, when he'd kissed her skin and saw the ink below her collarbone—she had stiffened. Just for a moment. Just long enough for him to notice. And when he asked then, she had brushed it off with a smile and a "forget it."
He'd let it go. Blinded by the heat of the moment. But now? Now was different. Now they had silence. Stillness. And as she herself had said—now was the time to talk.
"Where. Did. That. Come. From?"
"Goddammit, Silco!" she snapped, finally turning to face him fully, her eyes wild with anger and something else he couldn't place. Her fists were clenched tight at her sides, her body taut like a wire about to snap. "You already got everything you ever fucking wanted! You have me, Finn's dead, Violet is rotting in the ground, and your dream of a free Zaun is practically in your fucking lap... what more do you want from me?!"
The water cascaded over her, flattening her hair to her face, glistening off every inch of her skin, but it did nothing to soften her rage. If anything, it made her look even more volatile—like she belonged to the storm she was unleashing.
"Not everything has to be about you." she hissed, her voice lower now, but no less venomous. "This is mine. My fucked-up, private problem. Not yours. So shut the hell up and leave it alone.
The warmth he'd offered seconds ago—the rare patience, the softened voice, the silent allowance of vulnerability—curdled fast into something colder. More familiar. His usual armor slid back into place, piece by piece. He didn't raise his voice, but his tone changed—sharpened, like broken glass beneath silk.
"You think I'm not trying? I'm trying harder than you realize. I've been soft with you, I've let you in in ways I wouldn't tolerate from anyone else. Because I know what kind of hell you've been through. I know how cracked your mind is after everything. But there are limits to my empathy."
He took a step back, only slightly—enough to reclaim some space, some air. Enough to draw a line.
"And right now, you're being childish."
That word.
He didn't even mean to say it at first. But once it was out, there was no pulling it back. It echoed around the tiled space like a gunshot, far louder than the water still hissing from the shower above them.
She went rigid.
Her eyes widened—not in shock, but in rage.
"Childish?!" she snapped, and it was like a fuse igniting. Her voice rose in pitch, cracked from emotion, fury pulsing just beneath her skin. "You're one to talk about being childish, you cold, selfish bastard!"
Silco blinked.
"What?!"
"You heard me." she snapped back, her fists tight at her sides, her entire frame tense like a coiled spring ready to strike. "You call me immature because I won't unpack some private, personal shit for you the moment you demand it, and you think that's justified?!"
Silco opened his mouth, but she wasn't done. She wasn't even close.
"You walk around like empathy is some fucking currency you hand out to the pitiful few who earn it, like it's a task, a favor, not something that's supposed to come naturally if you actually give a damn about someone!"
The muscles in his jaw were locked tight, the silence stretching just long enough to be dangerous. His gaze didn't move from her—hard and unblinking, like stone—yet something flickered behind it. Fury, yes. But something more bitter. Disappointment.
This was what it had come to.
She stood before him like a storm barely contained by skin, trembling from head to toe, teeth clenched so hard he thought she might shatter them. Her shoulders shaking beneath the weight of emotion she clearly hadn't planned to spill today. And yet here they were—naked, dripping, furious. No more intimacy. No more strategy. Just two broken people screaming through old scars.
"You think I'm childish? Selfish?" he said, voice low and venomous. "You think I haven't given enough? I would drown this city for you. Burn down every inch of Piltover. I've bled, I've lied, I've killed for Zaun and for you. And you think a question about a fucking tattoo makes me the villain? You are the one in the wrong in this story."
The laugh that escaped her lips was hollow. Mocking.
"You've always needed a villain. Someone to blame. Vander, Marcus, the Council, Piltover. Me. You build your entire empire on rage and then act shocked when someone doesn't roll over for your version of compassion."
Silco's hands curled into fists at his sides. He didn't trust himself to touch her. Not now. Not like this.
"You know what your problem is?" she went on, her voice cracking beneath the anger, like something was breaking open in her chest. "You took what happened to you, what Vander did, and you turned it into some goddamn religion. You drowned in it, let it rot you from the inside out. And then you preached it like gospel to everyone else. Pain is power. Control is survival. Trust no one. And now you sit on your fucking throne wondering why no one can stand you!"
Silco's mouth opened slightly, but the breath caught in his throat. There was nothing he could say fast enough to stop what came next. She leaned in, her voice quiet now—but sharp enough to bleed.
"Maybe Vander should've drowned you in that river!"
Silco didn't hesitate.
One second, there was silence between them. The next—he had her pinned.
His hand closed around her throat like instinct, and he shoved her back hard against the wall. The sound of her body hitting the stone was wet, brutal, but she didn't flinch. She didn't scream.
She grinned.
Her eyes, wide and wild with something between anger and affection, locked onto his with the fire of recognition. She moved with him, not against him, as if this was the only language they truly spoke. And in the same breath, her own hand snapped up, mirroring him—fingers around his neck, grip tight.
A twisted symmetry.
"There he is..." she said between breaths, voice husky and pleased. "There's the fucking Silco I remember."
Silco's fingers tightened around her throat, squeezing with a punishing force that would have made a lesser woman cry out in pain and fear. But she was no lesser woman, and Silco could feel her pulse pounding beneath his fingertips, could see the dark, wicked gleam in her eyes as she stared back at him.
"Shut your mouth."
She laughed. Low. Rough. That dark, velvet kind of laugh that wrapped around Silco's ribs and pulled.
"Make me."
He yanked her closer, slamming their bodies together, the slick, wet skin of his chest pressing against her breasts. Silco could feel every inch of her, every dip and curve and sharp, angular line, seared into his flesh like a brand. The heat of her, the feel of her, was seared into his every sense, into the very marrow of his bones.
He didn't understand it, couldn't begin to fathom the twisted, perverse reason why the sight of her, defiant and fierce and so fucking alive, should stir something dark and hungry and undeniably aroused deep in his gut. It went against every instinct, every principle, every fucking shred of sense and reason that Silco had ever known.
He was lost in her.
The way she fought him, the way she met his rage with her own, the way she clung to him with a savagery that matched his own... it ignited something in him, a hunger that couldn't be sated, a thirst that could never be quenched.
It didn't resemble the desire he normally felt for her.
It was worse.
Rougher. More primal. It sat beneath his skin like burning coal—rage and hunger feeding off one another until the lines between them blurred. He was angry. Angry at the way she looked at him, the way she knew exactly which parts of him to touch and then turn to ash. Angry at her words, at the audacity of her silence and the violence in her honesty.
He was angry that she'd left. Angry that she had come back. Angry that she hadn't apologized. Angry that he'd still opened his arms anyway. Angry that he loved her so deeply it bordered on hatred.
"I hate you."
The words fell like blood hitting water. They didn't echo.
They just settled. Heavy. Final. Contaminating the space between them like smoke that refused to clear. She didn't flinch when he said it. She didn't need to. Because there was truth in it.
And that was the part that terrified him most.
He hated her for what she had the power to do to him. For how she could reduce him to this—a man who had once carved Zaun out of chaos, now standing naked beneath warm water, seething with grief in the shape of a woman. He hated the version of himself she drew out. The version that needed. The version that felt too much.
And yet... He would kill for her. Burn cities. Poison rivers. Slit the throat of fate itself just to keep her breathing.
He hated her.
He loved her.
And in that moment, it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
Psychology had a name for it—ambivalence. The coexistence of contradictory emotions aimed at a single person. The duality of clashing desires living inside the same breath, the same heart. The human soul trying to hold a paradox and call it normal.
But Silco had never been normal.
He knew—deep down—that hate was never the opposite of love. No. Indifference was the true opposite. And Silco had never once felt indifferent toward her. Not even when she left. Not even when she returned. Not even now.
Love and hate were just two faces of the same coin he flipped between his fingers every time he looked at her. Every time she whispered something sharp, or walked away, or laid her head against his chest like she hadn't ripped it open months ago.
"I know you do, Silco."
Silco's hand slid from her throat to grip her jaw, his fingers sinking into the sharp angle of her cheekbone. He tilted her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze, to stare into the tempest of his eyes. The air between them crackled with a dangerous energy, a dark anticipation. Copying his action, she also released Silco's throat, placing her hand on his chest.
He closed the scant distance remaining between them, until their noses touched, until he could feel her breath mingling with his own, could taste the fury and the hunger that rolled off her in waves. Silco's eyes flicked down to her mouth, to the defiant curve of her lips, but he made no mention of kissing her.
In fact, she was the one who sealed the kiss.
She surged forward, slamming her lips against his in a clash of teeth and tongue and pure, unadulterated aggression.
She kissed him like she hated him, like she wanted to devour him, to consume him whole. Her teeth sank into his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, the coppery taste exploding across his tongue. Silco groaned, the sound torn from his throat, a guttural, animalistic sound of surrender and domination all at once.
Silco's hands roamed over every inch of her body, his grip rough and demanding, bordering on painful. He squeezed the soft swells of her breasts, dug his fingers into the dip of her waist, grabbed the firm globes of her ass hard enough to leave bruises. Silco didn't hold back, didn't temper his strength, and to his dark delight, she didn't shy away from it.
Instead, she arched into his touch, a breathless moan escaping her lips as she silently begged for more, for harder, for a pain that would make her scream.
Unable to resist the temptation of her throat, Silco wrenched his mouth from hers, only to attack the slender column of her neck. He could see her pulse jumping, could feel the heat of her skin beneath his lips, and with a growl of pure, unadulterated lust, Silco bit down—imitating what she had done before. His teeth sank into her flesh, his canines marking her, even though he knew the marks wouldn't even last on her skin.
She cried out, a sharp, keening sound of pleasure-pain that made Silco's blood sing in his veins. At the same time, her nails raked down his back, the blunt points digging into the skin, reopening the scratches and welts she had left on him the night before. Silco hissed at the sudden burst of pain, his hips jerking forward, grinding his cock against her stomach.
With a harsh, demanding jerk, Silco spun her around, flipping her to face the wall. Before she could react, he had her pinned, her cheek pressed against the slick tile, the chill seeping into her heated skin. Silco's hand gripped her wrists, and held them in an unbreakable hold.
His other hand fumbled for a moment, his fingers slipping on the wet porcelain before finding the showerhead. He turned the knob sharply, the pounding spray of water cutting off abruptly, leaving only the sound of their ragged breathing and the pounding of Silco's heart in the sudden, heavy silence.
Silco loomed over she, his frame dwarfing her. He pressed himself against her back, the hard planes and angles of his body fitting seamlessly against the soft curves of hers. Silco's grip on her wrists tightened, his fingers sinking into the delicate bones until he could feel her pulse jumping and fluttering against his palm.
He knew at that moment that he was only able to hold on to her because of the simple fact that she had no intention of actually pulling away. And that was all the certainty he needed.
He dipped his head, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he spoke. "You want to play rough, dove?" he murmured, his breath hot and heavy against her skin. "Let's play rough then."
Then Silco's hand trail down the slick skin of her side, his fingers leaving a path of goosebumps in their wake. He could feel her shivering, could sense the way her body ached for his touch, for more than just the warm caress of the shower water. Silco's hand dipped lower, his fingers skimming over the curve of her hip, the flare of her thigh, before sliding between her legs to cup her most intimate place.
She was wet, but not just from the shower. No, Silco could feel the slick heat of her arousal coating his fingers as he stroked along her. He could feel her hips twitching, could sense her fighting the urge to grind back against his hand, to seek more of that delicious friction.
She gasped, a sharp, breathless sound that echoed off the tile walls as Silco's middle finger delved between her folds, stroking along the sensitive ridge of her clit, circling the hardened nub with a maddeningly slow, teasing rhythm.
"You have no fucking idea how frustrating it was, being involved with you. Having you under my skin, in my head, haunting my every goddamn thought. Your absence... it fucking gutted me."
Silco's fingers moved faster, circling her clit with a relentless, almost punishing speed. He could hear the desperate, needy whimpers spilling from her lips. But Silco wasn't satisfied with just bringing her pleasure; he wanted to make her feel the same frustrated, all-consuming anguish that had plagued him for so long.
"You're blind if you can't see the destruction you leave in your wake." His words dripping with bitter contempt. "Thinking you can just save everyone, play the goddamn hero. Well, let me tell you something, dove... You can't. All you do is fucking ruin them, one way or another."
He punctuated his words with a sharp, brutal thrust of his fingers, plunging deep into her dripping heat. Silco could feel her clenching around him, her body desperate for more, for release. But he denied her, his fingers stilling suddenly, leaving her teetering on the brink, aching and empty and so goddamn needy.
"Loving you is the worst punishment a man could be condemned to. The sweetest, most cruel hell imaginable..." Silco bit out, his voice a low, vicious hiss. "A fucking death sentence."
He finally released her wrists only to slide his hand up and to wrap around her throat again, squeezing just hard enough to make her gasp, to make her feel the threat, the danger, the all-consuming darkness that loving her always seemed to bring.
"And yet, I can't fucking stop..."
He thrust his hips — harsh, sharp — rubbing his rigid cock against the curve of her ass. Silco could feel the heat of her, the way her body yielded to his touch, even as he sought to lay waste to her.
"You'll be my death sentence."
A pause.
"And you, mine."
Her breathless murmur hung in the air between them, a darkly whispered truth that Silco couldn't deny. They would be each other's ruin, each other's destruction, two fractured souls destined to shatter in a dance of passion and pain.
He couldn't bring himself to argue, to try and convince her otherwise. Instead, he wrenched his hand from her throat. Silco positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her slick folds, teasing, tormenting them both with the promise of what was to come. And then, with one brutal, merciless thrust, he surged forward, burying himself to the hilt inside her perfect, scorching heat.
Fuck, but she felt incredible... Like coming home, like finding a piece of himself that he hadn't even known was missing. Silco knew he would never grow tired of this feeling, of being one with her in the most primal, intimate way possible. No matter how many times he took her, it would never be enough.
With a low moan, Silco began to move, his hips rolling in a deep, slow rhythm. He didn't rush, didn't fuck her with the desperate, frenzied need that had consumed them both before. No, this time he took his time, savoring every inch of her, every clench and flutter of her silken walls around his throbbing cock.
One hand slid down the curve of her hip, over the swell of her ass, before dipping between her thighs. Silco's fingers found her clit again, circling the sensitive nub with a maddeningly slow pressure. He could feel her body responding, could hear the breathless, needy sounds spilling from her lips as he stroked her, teased her, pushed her closer to the edge.
Silco's other hand came up to rest against the tile wall beside her head, his fingers splaying across the slick surface. He leaned into her, his chest pressing against her back, his movements buried him deeper inside her with every thrust.
Silco's head fell forward, his forehead coming to rest against her shoulder as he lost himself in the exquisite sensation of her body yielding to his, accepting him, welcoming him home.
"You're right, last night wasn't nearly enough to pay for all the months you were gone. " He rasped, his breath hot against the skin of her shoulder. "You think a few hours of fucking could make up for the hell I went through without you?"
The obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh began to fill the bathroom, the wet, lewd noises of their coupling growing louder, more insistent with every thrust of Silco's hips. He could feel the heat building between them, the slick slide of her body accepting his again and again, even as he poured out the dark, anguished thoughts that had haunted him for so long.
"It was almost fucking celibacy," Silco bit out, his voice dripping with bitter, self-deprecating laughter. "Couldn't bring myself to touch anyone else, couldn't even think about it. Not when I had this..." He punctuated his words with another hard thrust, grinding his pelvis against her ass. "Not when I had you, fucking haunting my every goddamn thought."
Silco's fingers circled her clit with a rough, almost punishing pressure, stroking the sensitive nub in time with the deep, sensual roll of his hips. He could feel her body tensing, could sense the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in her core, and he knew she was close, so fucking close.
"And the memories..." he groaned, his voice a low, anguished rumble. "Fuck... you have no idea what it was like to relive them every damn night. To wake up hard and aching for you, only to spend the rest of the day fucking frustrated, refusing to even touch myself because it could never be enough. Because it could never be you."
Silco's movements slowed, his hips rolling with languid, almost lazy thrusts as he savored the feel of her body enveloping his cock. He could feel the sweet ache of his arousal, the painful throb of his flesh as it strained towards release, only to be denied over and over again. It was a exquisite torture, a delicious torment.
As Silco's thrusts grew slower, more measured, he could feel her beginning to move. Her hips, which had been still and pliant beneath his touch, suddenly came to life, rolling and undulating against him. She began to fuck herself on his cock, taking him deeper, harder, with every pass of her hips.
A dark, wicked laugh tore from Silco's throat as he watched her, his eyes glinting with a dangerous, almost feral light. He could feel the way her body clenched around him, could sense the desperate, almost frantic need that drove her to chase her own pleasure on him.
"There was a day, when I was so fucking irritated, so goddamn desperate for relief, I thought I could just lose myself in another body. Forget you, forget this..." Silco straightened his posture, his hands gripped her hips — fingers digging into the delicate bones. "I went to the brothel, looking for some whore who who could give me the release I so fucking badly needed."
He still doesn't move to bury himself in her again, letting her do all the work while he watches her. Both her hands are on the wall, using it as support both to keep from falling and to continue her movements against him.
"But the moment that woman approached me, the moment I saw her, all I could feel was disgust. Revulsion churned in my gut, and I couldn't fucking stand it. I couldn't bear the thought of touching anyone else, of defiling what we had with some cheap, meaningless fuck."
He punctuated his words with a sharp, sudden thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside her.
"You've ruined me, dove." When he felt her squeeze him, he let out a laugh mixed with a moan. "And you like that, don't you?"
With a growl of pure, unadulterated need, Silco began to move again, his hips rolling in a brutal, punishing rhythm that quickly gained speed. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the bathroom, a lewd, obscene symphony of their coupling, punctuated by their increasingly desperate moans and cries.
Silco could feel her body tensing, could sense the way she arched and writhed beneath him, meeting his every thrust with a fierce, almost feral hunger of her own. He could see her hand moving between her legs, could watch as she touched herself, stroking and circling her clit. But Silco didn't care. He was too far gone, too consumed by his own desperate need for release.
This was their sex, raw and brutal and so damn beautiful. It was a dance of rage and passion, of love and hatred, two fractured souls coming together in a tangle of limbs and a clash of wills. This was what they were, what they would always be. Two halves of a whole, destined to consume each other in a dance of destruction and desire.
As the pleasure crested, as the tension finally reached its peak, Silco felt himself teetering on the edge of oblivion. With a hoarse, guttural cry, he buried himself deep inside her, his hips jerking and stuttering as his orgasm washed over him in intense, overwhelming waves.
Silco buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he lost himself in the feel of her, the scent of her, the all-encompassing essence that was uniquely her. His eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, he was drowning, drowning in the sheer, overwhelming ecstasy of their joining.
Dimly, vaguely, Silco heard her scream, a sound of rapture and completion that echoed off the tile walls. He felt the sudden rush of liquid heat, the gush of her release as she squirted, her body shutting down in the throes of her own intense orgasm. Silco held her tighter, his arms banding around her like steel, keeping her anchored, keeping her with him, even as her limbs began to tremble and go slack.
"I got you, dove." Silco's lips moved against the damp skin of her neck, forming the words he knew she needed to hear. "I fucking got you."
They didn't move.
Not for several long seconds. Just stood there, pressed against the cold tile wall of the shower, chests heaving, lungs still trying to remember how to breathe. His body was flush against hers, both of them sweat-slicked, soaked, and shaking slightly—not just from the intensity of what they'd just done, but from everything that had come before it.
This hadn't been planned. Not by any stretch of Silco's imagination when he'd first stepped into that damned shower. He hadn't come here to fight. Or to fuck. And certainly not to bleed open old wounds. Yet here they were—pinned together, somewhere between chaos and craving, bruised with truth and desire both.
He only noticed the shift in her body when her hands tried—and failed—to push off the wall. Her knees gave out almost immediately, and he instinctively caught her again, a firm hand around her waist, the other splayed against the wall beside her head.
A sound broke from her lips—half a breath, half a laugh.
"I can't feel my fucking legs." she gasped, breathless, wrecked in a way that made her voice crack mid-laugh. "Holy shit. That was... intense."
She chuckled again, but it bled into a soft moan as the aftermath of it all pulsed through her. Her body trembled in his arms. And despite everything—the venom in their words, the spiteful way they'd clawed at each other minutes earlier—there was a softness now. A disarmed kind of exhaustion that settled over both of them like steam.
"When was the last time we were that angry?" she asked, voice low, amused, as if trying to recall a particularly stupid bar fight.
Silco thought about it.
Actually thought about it.
His brain sluggishly worked through the catalog of their many battles trying to find one that matched the sheer ferocity of this. And only one stood out.
"That time... near Vander's statue."
He felt her tense ever so slightly in his grasp, at first in confusion, and then came the sound of recognition. A soft "oh" from her lips, quiet and sheepish.
"Oh... right," she exhaled. "Well... maybe we should fight more often. Hate sex is the best kind"
Silco's head dropped forward until his forehead touched the back of her shoulder, water still dripping from the strands of his dark hair. He gave a short, humorless laugh against her skin. He could feel her smile at her own suggestion, the curve of her back pressing against him like she expected him to agree.
But he didn't.
"I refuse." he muttered, voice rough from exertion and smoke and too many feelings he hadn't asked to feel. Not because it hadn't been good. It had been... devastatingly good. But because it was exhausting.
She laughed again—short, breathy, still shaky—but then her head dropped forward. Silco felt the weight of her forehead as it came to rest against the slick, cool tile. The air changed with the long, heavy sigh that poured from her chest. A kind of weary resignation that cut deeper than the barbed insults they'd thrown at each other moments earlier.
"I shouldn't have said Vander should've drowned you," she murmured. Not exactly an apology, but something adjacent to it. "That was... too far. But everything else? I meant it. I'm not taking any of it back."
Silco arched a brow, lips twitching into a cold smirk she couldn't see. Not that it mattered. He wasn't surprised.
"I'm not taking back what I said either."
And then came the silence.
That same thick, suffocating quiet that always settled between them after the flames died down. It wasn't peace. Not really. It was more like the eye of a hurricane—still, deceptive, full of things unsaid but not forgotten. Still, Silco would take bitter truths over sweet lies any day. That was the only thing he respected about these moments between them. No masks. No pretenses. Just the worst of each other laid bare.
"Did you really go to the brothel to try and forget me?" she asked, and though she spoke quietly, there was something unmistakably offended in her tone.
Silco blinked once.
That's where she wanted to dig?
He turned his face slightly toward her, incredulous. "Out of everything that was said today, that's what you're choosing to focus on?"
"Of course," she snapped, whipping her head around to glare at him over her shoulder. Her hair stuck wet to her cheeks, her eyes narrowed in sharp accusation. "You cheated on me with some random whore."
Now he was offended by the accusation.
"No, I didn't." Silco snapped, more sharply than intended, but he didn't care. "I didn't even let her get close to me. Not the way you did with your friend."
The word came out so bitterly laced with contempt, it barely sounded like a word at all—more like venom spat from the back of his throat. Friend. It was practically an insult now.
"Friend?" she repeated, voice suddenly sharper, straighter. "Viktor? What the hell are you implying, Silco?
"I don't know. You tell me, dove."
They stared at each other, unblinking, unmoving—one full minute of absolute silence crackling with a thousand accusations. Then she broke it, her voice almost light with disbelief.
"You're jealous." It wasn't a question. It was an observation. "You're actually jealous of Viktor." she said, brow arching, an almost amused smile ghosting the corner of her lips. "You don't have to be, you know. He likes boys... Which, now that I think about it... might be something we can use when the time comes to solidify his allegiance."
Silco decided to complete the thought for her. "The most effective way to control someone is by threatening the one they love." He let his head fall against her shoulder again. "If you really want to try to persuade him, then by all means. He's yours to handle, but promise me... the moment he hesitates, is the moment you kill him."
There was no dramatics to it. No threat. Just a simple demand forged by decades of betrayal and the knowledge that loyalty was the most fragile currency of all.
She nodded once. "I promise."
"And what about that tattoo? Are you going to tell me anything about it now?"
"No."
"All right, then I don't want to know anything about it. If something happens, it's your problem, so don't come to me asking for help."
She made a noise of agreement. "Fair enough."
That was enough. Silco finally stepped back, releasing her body from where he'd kept her pressed against him, letting the steam fill the space they left behind. But before he could fully turn away, she caught his wrist.
"I'm not done yet." she said, her grip firm. He looked down at her, raising a brow in silent question. "There's... somewhere I need to go." she said, softer now. No scheming, no edge. Just her. Tired, but clear. "And I want you to come with me."
"Where?"
"You'll see."
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[...]
You returned to the cemetery just as you had left it after Vi's burial, but something had changed. The air still felt the same—heavy with grief and silence—but now the land bore signs of possession. High stone walls were in the midst of being constructed around the perimeter, as if claiming the space as something sacred, or at least privately owned. A sanctuary for the dead. A territory marked.
You didn't need to ask whose hands were behind it. You already knew. Silco.
Still, you said nothing. You didn't bring it up with him, though the acknowledgment hung unspoken between the two of you like the scent of smoke after a fire.
This—whatever this was—was more than just bricks and stone. It was an offering. A twisted kind of respect. From a man who had played a direct part in the death of three members of your family and had never once pretended to be sorry for it. It was ironic. Almost cruel. And yet, there it was. A final resting place, crafted with care and permanence. Maybe guilt wasn't in his vocabulary, but actions spoke when words failed.
You moved closer to the graves, your boots pressing softly into the damp soil. The tombstones had been changed too. Not scraps of metal anymore—memorials, carved from dark stone and engraved with names that still tasted bitter on your tongue. Vi. Vander. Claggor. Mylo. There was no grandeur in the design, just weight. Presence. Stone that would not crumble easily. Stone that would last.
If this was Silco's way of asking for forgiveness—through deeds, not apologies—you decided you would allow it. An unspoken apology was still an apology. Sometimes silence had more weight than hollow words.
Your eyes drifted across the site. You weren't the only one who had visited. Each grave showed subtle signs of quiet reverence. Melted wax clung to the ground near the headstones, puddles of white and amber where candles had once burned all the way down to their final flickers. Someone had stood here before you. Someone had knelt, waited, remembered.
At Vi's grave in particular, something caught your eye. Resting against the stone was an old bunny plush, worn with age and weather, its fabric dirtied, patched in several parts and one of its button eyes missing. You recognized it instantly. Her childhood toy.
You hadn't seen it in years, hadn't even known it still existed. It looked like it had been placed there gently, almost reverently. Someone had retrieved it from wherever it had been forgotten and brought it here—perhaps to let it go. Or perhaps to give her something familiar in death.
Powder had been here. And somehow, the realization made you smile.
Not out of joy, not really—but out of relief. Powder hadn't descended into the kind of grief that gnawed at the bones, hadn't drowned herself in the suicidal weight of loss. Powder never could hide what she felt, not truly. Her heart was always too open, too loud. She wore it in her voice, her hands, the trembling set of her mouth when she tried to lie. If she had come here, it meant something. It meant she was still trying. Still remembering. Still alive.
You moved on, your feet carrying you across the damp earth until you stopped in front of Vander's grave. The largest of them all. The stone stood tall, grounded and unshakable, just like the man it marked.
Behind you, Silco stood at a distance. Not close enough to intrude, but not far enough to pretend disinterest. He made no move to approach the grave himself, but he wasn't disrespectful either. Just... present. Watching. Listening.
There was a sad, crooked smile on your lips as you looked down at the stone. "If he saw me now... he'd be disappointed."
Silco shifted behind you, not quite stepping forward. "Why would you say that?" his tone was more curious than confrontational.
You didn't look at him. Instead, you knelt and placed the small bouquet of wild flowers you'd brought. "Because we're about to start a war."
There was weight in that sentence. A weight that Vander understood well and that you would now understand firsthand. The burden of bearing the burden of the deaths of thousands as a result of your choices.
"It's all but inevitable now. He would've hated that. He always said we had choices. Always. But that was a lie, wasn't it? A sweet, noble lie. He liked believing in it. Believing we could always choose a different path. But sometimes..." You trailed off, eyes narrowing as you stared at the name carved into stone. "Sometimes there are no good paths left. Just the ones that do the least harm. And even those cost too much."
Silco remained silent, but you felt his gaze settle heavily on your back. He, too, understood the weight of a war, and yet he was willing to enter another. Not out of pride, but out of respect, out of opportunity. To finally take back what those above had denied them.
Your love and blind loyalty to Vander made you ignore certain choices he made. Certain perceptions you believed were right. Vander would die for a cause, but he was no longer the same man who would fight for one.
"Vander loved you." you said after a long stretch of silence, your voice softer now, as if lowering it could make the truth hurt less. "Whenever he spoke about your past, about the two of you, it was never with bitterness. Never with anger. Not even sadness. Just... memory. You were his family, Silco. That never changed."
You hesitated before adding.
"Well, until you killed him, of course."
The words settled heavy in the air, but you didn't flinch. You weren't trying to wound him—just state what was already carved into history, both on the stone in front of you and in the scars that shaped the city around it.
You heard it then—the sound of footsteps brushing cautiously over the loose earth. A quiet approach, deliberate but not hesitant. Silco came to stand beside you, his presence tall and silent. His hands were clasped behind his back, posture stiff, gaze fixed on Vander's gravestone with the same cold detachment he wore like armor. But you knew better. You always had. You'd seen enough of him behind closed doors to know that silence didn't mean absence.
You wondered, not for the first time, if Silco had ever truly mourned his brother. You'd seen him read Vander's letter, but he hadn't spoken about it with you until now, hadn't questioned anything about your past with his former brother. But you knew something in that letter had stirred something in him—if not regret, then remembrance.
"I think Vander saw you in me, and since he couldn't save you, he saved me."
You didn't know why you said it—not really. Maybe it was just a thought that had been circling in your mind for too long. Maybe it was a thread you needed to pull, just to see if anything unraveled. Some part of you wanted to provoke a reaction, even if it was just a flicker of acknowledgment.
But Silco didn't flinch. Didn't sigh. Didn't scoff.
All he did was ask a single question, so simple it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.
"Did you love him?"
"Yes." You didn't even need to think. The answer came without pause, smooth and certain, like it had been coded into your body long ago—etched into your ribs, hidden in the quiet chambers of your heart. "He was the one who taught me how to love, in the first place."
If Silco felt anything at that moment—discomfort, jealousy, a twinge of something buried deep in the hollowed-out cavity where softer feelings once lived—he didn't show it. Or at least, he tried not to. But the tension in his jaw grew tighter, the corners of his mouth drew inward, and a shadow flickered across his face, subtle but unmistakable. You noticed. You always did.
And there was a flicker of something smug, something deeply, quietly satisfied in your chest. It wasn't revenge, not really. Just... acknowledgment. A reminder that for all his composure and carefully built walls, Silco was still human. Still capable of feeling things he claimed to have buried.
You ran your hand over Vander's headstone, brushing away a thin layer of dust and soot with your palm,
"But there's a difference between loving him and loving you." You heard him shift, just slightly. Not a full movement—just a tilt of the head, the way his gaze turned in your direction. Waiting. Bracing. "Vander was the first person I ever loved, but you... you were my first love."
The silence that followed was thick and charged, and you let it stretch between you for a heartbeat longer than it needed to.
"It's funny, isn't it? Seems like I was always meant to only have one of you. Never both."
You gave a soft, broken laugh—more breath than sound—as you stood, looking down at the grave, and then sideways at Silco.
"If I had been there the night Vander died, I would've killed you." You didn't wait for him to retort. "I would've saved my family, but I never would've fallen in love."
And that was the cruelest irony of all.
"Do you think there's a reality where you and Vander forgave each other?"
You weren't sure what answer you were hoping for—if any. Maybe you just wanted to hear it out loud, even if the answer hurt. Even if it was impossible. Because it was impossible, wasn't it? Vander and Silco were built like fault lines—destined to break under pressure, to tear apart everything around them.
Silco gave a low, dry scoff at the question, but there was something underneath it. Not quite bitterness, not quite humor. Recognition, maybe. That tiny crack in the stone that hinted he'd already asked himself the same thing—alone, at night, with only his regrets and the silence for company.
"When Piltover and Zaun live together in perfect harmony."
That made you laugh—really laugh—for the first time in what felt like ages. A soft, incredulous sound that slipped past your lips like it didn't belong in a place like this, but felt right anyway.
He laughed too. Not loudly, not carelessly. Just enough. It was the kind of laughter shared between people who had long since given up on fairy tales. You both knew that line was a joke. Piltover and Zaun coexisting in peace? That was the punchline to a cosmic comedy neither of you believed in.
In every possible version of existence, one city would always try to consume the other. Oil and flame. Chains and rot. They were never meant to grow together—only to bleed one another dry.
You let the laughter fade, replaced by the cool solemnity of the moment as your gaze returned to Vander's grave.
"He always told me he wanted Zaun to be a place where people could live better. A place where children didn't have to go through what he went through... what we went through. Where the air wasn't poison, where looking up at the sky wasn't a luxury, but a right."
You paused.
"I'm going to make that happen."
You stared at the headstone like it was a face. Like Vander was standing there in front of you. In your mind's eye, he was—broad shoulders, kind eyes hardened by the weight of too much sacrifice.
"Your nation of Zaun, will be born from the ashes and blood of Piltover."
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Silco returned to the cemetery later that same day, when she was already fast asleep in his bed. Alone— just the echo of his own footsteps against the damp stone path and the faint metallic clink of a flask against his palm. In his other hand, he carried a single white flower — plain, fragile, out of place among the grit and rust of the undercity.
Beside the bouquet his dove had left earlier, Silco placed the lone flower with care. For a long moment, he just looked at it — at the contrast of her offering and his own. Two tributes, side by side. One soft and full of remembrance. The other quiet, solitary, like a confession he would never speak aloud.
"I can understand why you loved her."
Silco straightened, twisting the cap off the flask. The smell of liquor rose, sharp and familiar, cutting through the chill air. He took a slow drink, letting it burn its way down his throat before lowering the flask again. The cold breeze tugged at the hem of his coat, carrying the faint scent of rain and rust.
"I'll take care of her... and of the nation we dreamed of. One of us has to finish the work, after all."
He looked down at the flask again, turning it once in his hand. Then, without ceremony, he poured the rest of the liquor out onto the grave, the dark liquid seeping into the soil. A final toast.
"Blisters and bedrock, brother."
Part 35
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
This chapter mirrors Chapter 3. At this point, I think it's become clear that I like referencing older chapters.
I really like this idea of love and hate not being counterparts, but rather two halves of a whole. And I think it fits these two perfectly.
And just to clarify, in case anyone has any doubts! No, Silco doesn't fuck the prostitute he mentions in the chapter!
In every other universe, you fall for him. And in every other universe, it ends in ruin. Maybe this time, in this world, you can rewrite the ending — or at least try.
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 3,9K
Warnings: smut, spooning, lazy sex, making love, resolved sexual tension, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, Silco POV
Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.
Part 32
Silco's Pov
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She hadn't been exaggerating when she said this would start a war. She was furious and she let Silco know it — swearing a few times under her breath as they both straightened their clothes and made themselves presentable to the rest of the world. Still, she walked beside him.
Sevika was waiting when they arrived—leaning against the outer wall, cigarette perched between her fingers, smoke curling lazily in the humid air. She didn't say anything. But the way her brow arched as she glanced between the two of them said she'd probably heard more than either of them would like to admit. The walls weren't exactly thick in that building.
"Handle the rest of Finn." Silco didn't stop walking as he spoke, his tone calm. "Throw him in the sea, feed him to something. I don't care where he ends up." Sevika nodded once, a curt motion that said she wasn't going to ask questions. "And bring me his prosthetic."
That made her pause. Her eyes flicked up toward him, something curious behind them—but again, she didn't ask.
He had plans for that prosthetic jaw, a symbol of Finn's arrogance and self-importance. It didn't deserve the anonymity of rot or rust. No. Silco would make something out of it. Maybe a reminder. Maybe a warning.
The walk back to The Last Drop was, surprisingly, uneventful.
It hit him the moment he stepped into his office—her at his side, his beloved little dove, unusually quiet. Too quiet. That should've been the warning. But Silco had been too wrapped in the buzz of adrenaline to fully register just how deep the trouble was he'd willingly thrown himself into. One second they were standing. The next—she had shoved him against the desk, and then the wall, and then they were in bed.
No words. Just fury, heat, and the kind of silence that said far more than shouting ever could. She kissed him like she was trying to erase the world, clawed at his skin like his sins were etched there and she intended to read every one of them. And he let her. She didn't want tenderness. Not then. She didn't want sweet nothings or even an apology. She wanted war. Revenge. And gods... he almost regretted it.
Almost.
If it hadn't been so unbearably satisfying to let her take everything from him. His control. His composure. His breath.
She devoured him.
She didn't hold back. Her vengeance was meticulous, thorough, and utterly devastating. She made him pay for denying her, and he—fool that he was—enjoyed every fucking second of it. She left marks. Deep ones that would probably sting for a week, if not more.
He wouldn't trade it for anything.
Now she hovered beside him on the bed, her fingers entwined with his, her back pressed against his chest, the rise and fall of her breathing slow and steady as sleep claimed her. Silco watched her in silence, a sharp, unbearable resolve tightening in his chest after the reckless, desperate frenzy of longing and anger they had just surrendered to.
He was condemned—condemned to love this wretched woman—and somewhere in the same dark corners of his heart, he hated her for it.
Why did he have to love her so fiercely, so completely, that the moment he closed his eyes, it would be her face haunting the shadows of his mind? Her voice, soft and laced with some dangerous fragility, would echo through the silence, impossible to ignore. Her warmth would become a hunger in the cold, a longing that clawed at him like some cruel, unyielding phantom.
The shadows of the past—of simpler, emptier days—taunted him now, mocking him with their ease. Everything had once been simpler, yes, but so hollow. Now, every moment with her was a combustible blend of perfection and peril, irresistible and unbearable at the same time.
Gods, he hated how that wretched woman could reduce him to a mere foolish, dreaming man. How, at moments like this — moments where all his defenses fell away — she could summon that version of him that had died in the river.
Silco pulled her closer.
Sometimes he wished he had never found her, simply to preserve the walls he had so carefully built around himself, to never feel this raw vulnerability again. Yet at the same time, he could not imagine a reality in which they had never collided, where her presence had never been etched into the marrow of his existence. The contradiction gnawed at him, bitter and unrelenting. How ironic that the very thing that threatened to destroy him was the only thing that made life feel fully alive.
"I can hear the gears in your head." her voice came, low and drawn, half-lucid, teasing yet intimate.
"Shouldn't you be asleep, dove?"
"I've lost sleep." she murmured, shifting beneath the sheets to face him.
Her eyes, impossibly bold and unyielding, invaded his without asking permission, sweeping through every shadowed corner of his soul as if she alone held the right to judge, to unravel him. In that gaze, he saw both everything and nothing at once—a paradox that twisted everything he thought was concrete.
"What are you thinking?"
"Nothing."
She laughed then, a light, careless sound that seemed almost too fragile to belong in the darkness of the room. "I knew you'd lie."
Silco rolled his eyes, a gesture both exasperated and begrudgingly amused. "If you knew I was lying... why ask?"
"To see if I would get it right." she moving to rest against his chest, molding herself to him with a confidence that was infuriating and intoxicating all at once. "And since I did, that means I know you very well."
Silco's eyes drifted upward, fixing on the ceiling as his hand rose to thread slowly through her hair. The motion was almost absent-minded, a small tether to anchor himself in the present while his thoughts wandered elsewhere.
Since the day he had found Vander's letter, he had caught himself circling back to countless possibilities—roads untaken, versions of himself that might have been. He never allowed regret to define him; it was a weakness he had long since stripped from his nature. Yet, the questions were valid.
"Do you think we find each other in other universes?"
The silence that followed lasted longer than he expected. She didn't rush to answer, and he didn't push her. Instead, he simply waited, as though he had all the time in the world.
Finally, she spoke, and her answer was not what he had anticipated. "I hope not."
"Why not?"
"Because I'd probably fall in love with you in every universe." she said softly, almost matter-of-fact, as if it were a truth she could not escape.
Silco's fingers froze, his caress faltering for the briefest heartbeat. The weight of her words pressed into him like a stone sinking into deep waters. He allowed himself the question anyway, low and careful, as though the answer might burn. "And would that be such a terrible thing?"
"That depends on the context." Her hand moved against his chest, tracing idle patterns only she could see, invisible etchings meant for her alone. "We could be enemies, lovers, strangers... whatever the narrative, someone would bleed. Someone would always suffer."
Though he despised admitting it, deep down he understood the insinuation. Perhaps—just perhaps—he was not the easiest man to love. He could blame Vander for shaping him into this fractured thing, for abandoning him in the river and forcing that part of him to claw its way to the surface. But maybe, if he were honest, that darkness had always been there.
Vander's betrayal had only stripped away the disguise, forcing into the open what was already inevitable. Silco recognized the ugliness within himself. He had never felt shame in it. To him, cruelty was not weakness—it was clarity. And yet it was precisely this clarity that made love so treacherous.
To love him completely was to love the grotesque pieces as much as the fragments that still resembled a man. And this woman—this maddening, reckless woman—was insane enough to do precisely that.
"Souls destined to meet, but not to stay."
Her voice broke into his thoughts, slicing through them like glass. He turned to look at her. She was watching him, her expression unreadable yet heavy with something that rattled him more than any open declaration of love could.
"Hm?"
"It's just something I heard once... it doesn't matter."
She shifted, lifting herself from where her head had been nestled against her chest, and leaned forward to steal a kiss from her lips. It was brief, almost fragile—gone as quickly as a flicker of flame, as fleeting as a whisper of wind.
He let the silence stretch between them, savoring the rare tranquility that her presence brought. There was only the weight of her warmth near him, the faint cadence of her breath, the undeniable reminder that she was still here. His gauze slid down, taking in her figure with patience until it halted at the mark etched along her collarbone.
He didn't ask since it wasn't the first time he noticed that. As she seemed to have no intention of talking about now he wasn't going to force it —for now.
When she pulled back, she pressed her forehead to his, her eyes falling closed as her hair slipped down like a veil between them. He could feel the warmth of her breath, the quiet rhythm of her presence, and it was disarming in a way battles and betrayals never were. So... she kissed him once more. Slowly, unhurriedly—simple touches at first—savouring his taste with reverence. Fingers reaching up to touch his face as she surrendered herself to their union. It was like every other kiss they'd ever shared, yet so different.
As Silco felt her move to sit on his lap, her naked skin pressing against his, he couldn't help but let out a low groan of appreciation. The sight was enough to make his cock throb and twitch. But as much as he loved the view of her straddling him, Silco had a better idea in mind. He broke the kiss, his hands coming up to grip her hips as he held her in place, stopping her movements.
"As much as I enjoy the sight of you above me, dove, I have a better idea."
Silco guided her to lie on her side, her back pressing against his chest. He wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her body flush against his own as he spooned her from behind. The other arm, he draped beneath her head, using as a makeshift pillow to cradle her as they lay tangled together.
He nuzzled into her neck, inhaling the scent of her hair, the sweet aroma of her skin mingling with the musky scent of their lovemaking.
Unable to resist the temptation to touch her, Silco let his fingers drift down the soft curve of her belly, over the dip of her navel, until he reached the slick, heated flesh between her thighs. He could feel the way her folds, still slick with their combined releases, fluttered and clenched as he brushed his fingertips over her sensitive skin.
Silco's touch was feather-light, his fingers trailing teasingly through her as he felt her beginning to grow wet once more. He could sense the way her body responded to him, could feel the pulse of her desire as it thrummed through her veins.
She let out a soft, breathy moan as Silco's fingers teased over her most sensitive spots, her hips canting back against him, seeking more of that delicious friction. Silco's cock, nestled against the cleft of her ass, throbbed and pulsed in response, already eager to bury itself inside her welcoming heat once more.
Silco continued his teasing touches for a while longer, his fingers circling and teasing her sensitive clit with expert precision. He could feel her growing wetter by the second, her arousal coating his fingers and dripping down her thighs. The sound of her breathy moans filled the room, spurring on Silco's eager touch.
He felt a growing need for his own pleasure. With a low groan, Silco positioned himself, notching the flared head of his shaft against her slick entrance.
She gasped, her body tensing for a moment before relaxing, allowing Silco to slip the tip of his cock inside her, just for a moment before he slides out. They both moaned in unison, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure through them both. Silco began to rub his shaft against her, coating himself in her slick arousal as he teased them both with the promise of more.
"You feel so fucking good, my love."
Silco's lips trailed over the smooth skin of her neck and shoulders, his teeth grazing her flesh as he left a trail of heated kisses in his wake. He could feel her shivering beneath him, could hear the way her breath hitched in her throat.
As Silco's hips surged forward, burying his thick length deep inside her, he sank his teeth into the soft flesh of her neck. He bit down hard, marking her skin as he claimed her once more. A low, possessive growl rumbled in Silco's chest as he felt her walls clench and flutter around his shaft, her body welcoming him back inside.
She cried out, a sharp gasp of pleasure-pain escaping her lips as Silco's teeth pierced her skin. The sudden jolt of sensation, the mix of pleasure and the slight sting of pain, sent a bolt of electricity shooting through her body. Her back arched, pressing herself further against Silco's mouth, silently begging him for more.
Silco obliged, his tongue swirling over the reddening mark he had left on her skin before he soothed it with a kiss.
His hand that had been teasing her slid down to grasp her thigh. With a firm squeeze, he lifted her leg, bending her knee and hitching it up and back over his hip. This new position allowed Silco to sink even deeper into her, the angle letting him hit that special spot inside her with every powerful thrust.
Silco's breath came in hot, ragged bursts against her neck as he lost himself in the sensation of her tight, wet heat. He could feel her body trembling in his arms, could sense the way her walls clenched and fluttered around his pistoning shaft.
He noticed her hand coming down to touch herself as he continued to hold her open and fuck her at a steady, unhurried pace. A part of him wanted to offer some compliment, to praise her for taking the initiative in seeking her own pleasure. But in that moment, with his brain fogged by lust and the intense sensations of their coupling, Silco found he couldn't muster the mental capacity to form a coherent thought beyond the primal need to keep bringing them both closer to the edge of ecstasy.
So instead of rushing to dominate her with words, Silco simply focused on dominating her with his touch. His hips never faltered, never hurried, as he continued to drive into her at a steady, relentless pace. He could feel her body responding to the dual stimulation of his cock and her own fingers, her walls squeezing him like a velvet vice as she chased her impending climax.
She suddenly grabbed Silco's face, her fingers sinking into his hair as she pulled him close. she turned her head back, bringing her face flush against him in an angle that was certainly uncomfortable to maintain for any extended period. However, in the heat of the moment, neither of them seemed to mind or even notice the awkward position of their necks and spines.
As Silco's face pressed against her, their eyes fluttered closed, their noses brushing, breaths synchronized, each inhale and exhale a mirror of the other's.
In that moment, Silco felt a sense of rightness, of belonging, that went beyond the physical pleasure of their coupling. It was a feeling of completeness, of two halves becoming a whole. He knew, with a sudden clarity that cut through the haze of lust, that she would never leave his reach again. She would never leave him again.
He wouldn't allow that to happen.
She had been right, painfully right, in wishing they would never meet in any other reality. What existed between them was not some fragile tenderness to be nurtured, but a force that consumed, a fire that devoured everything it touched. It was the kind of bond that promised no peace, only ruin.
To Silco, she was not simply danger—she was inevitability. His death wrapped in human form, a slow undoing he welcomed. She did not need to slit his throat or drive steel into his back to end him.
No—her weapon was far subtler, far more merciless. It was in the way her absence left a silence that clawed at him, in the way her presence pulled at every wound he thought he had long since cauterized. She could shatter him with a glance, undo him with the weight of unspoken truths.
And so he recognized it: she was the ruin he would never flee from.
Others might call it weakness, might say he had surrendered to something beneath him. But Silco knew better. There was a cruelty in desire, a violence in love that mirrored the chaos of Zaun itself. To escape her would be to deny the very hunger that drove him, the same hunger that made him who he was. He would not dare. He would not want to.
Better to burn under her shadow than wither in her absence.
"I'll always fall in love with you..." she whispered suddenly, her voice heavy and breathless. "Again... and again."
Silco's eyes fluttered open at the sound of her declaration, her words hanging heavy in the air between them. He didn't respond, instead, he let her words sink in, let them mingle with the intense sensations that consumed his body as he continued to drive into her.
Silco's gaze locked onto her face, taking in every flicker of emotion that played across her features. Her eyes remained closed, her lashes casting shadows on her flushed cheeks as her mouth fell open in a silent cry of ecstasy. The sight of her, lost in the throes of pleasure, her face twisting with each thrust of his hips, only spurred on Silco's own rapidly approaching climax.
Silco gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching as he fought to hold back his impending release. He wanted to focus on her, to watch her every reaction, every twitch and shudder as he brought her to the pinnacle of her pleasure.
With a final thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he finally found his release. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat, his hips grinding against hers as he emptied himself inside her.
As the final waves of Silco's climax washed over him, he released his grip on her thigh, allowing her leg to relax back down onto the bed. His body, still trembling with the aftershocks of his intense release, settled heavily against hers, blanketing her with his warmth.
For a long moment, Silco simply held her close, his softening cock still nestled deep inside her as he caught his breath. The scent of their lovemaking hung heavy in the air, the musky aroma filling Silco's nostrils as he nuzzled into her neck, breathing her in. Finally, as the fog of lust began to lift from Silco's mind, he pressed a tender kiss to her temple.
"Maybe in some universe, we could be a family, Silco."
Silco's answer came as naturally as breathing. "Maybe it is this one."
Her laughter, low and light, spilled into the dark between them as she opened her eyes. It wasn't mocking—it was something far more dangerous. Hopeful.
"Maybe..."
━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━
[...]
You waited until Silco was completely out, his breathing heavy and uneven. Only then did you dare to move and start your little escape. You'd slipped out of the Last Drop before without much trouble, but tonight... tonight was different. You had to admit, getting past the guards had been harder than ever.
They weren't slouching around, half-drunk and distracted like usual. Their eyes were sharp, their stances firm. It almost felt like Silco had listened when you mocked him about his men being incompetent, and, for once, actually did something about it. But you still managed to escape.
Your destination was already carved in your mind long before your feet carried you there.
The statue stood in the middle of the square, solemn and immovable, a memorial to a man who had once been the spine of the Lanes. Vander. The weight of his presence clung to Zaun even now, though reduced to cold, rusted metal. Climbing the platform wasn't hard—you'd done it enough times before—but the act itself felt like ritual, a small rebellion against the world that kept moving without him. From up there, you could meet him eye to eye, or at least as close as the craftsman had allowed.
You hadn't visited that statue in months. The last visit was that day, which would be the last day you saw Kate alive and slapped Silco after letting him fuck you against the wall nearby. Thinking back, that night had been a crazy jumble of events.
Your fingers brushed the statue's cheek, rough against your skin, and you lingered there longer than you should have. It was only a shape, a hollow replica, and still your mind filled in the gaps effortlessly. The set of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the steadiness in his eyes when he looked at you.
You could summon every detail with painful clarity, as if he were standing right there. But the truth gnawed at you: memory fades. Even the sharpest details blur if you let them, and you were terrified of the day when his face might slip from you completely, becoming no more than a vague outline you couldn't grasp.
You would never let that happen. You would never forget his face.
"I'm about to do something terrible, and I know you'll hate me for it." You leaned your forehead against his, closing your eyes as if that closeness might anchor you, as if cold metal could somehow return the warmth it once held. "It should've been you here. Damn it, I wish it was you. You were always better at this leadership thing than I'll ever be."
The night breeze stirred around you, sharper now, cutting through your clothes and raising goosebumps on your skin. You didn't move. Let the chill seep in, let it remind you that this moment—this fragile pocket of quiet—wasn't meant to last.
Slowly, hesitantly, you opened your eyes. And of course, you weren't surprised when it wasn't metal and rust staring back at you. It was Vander—his face as clear as if he'd just stepped out of one of your memories, patient eyes meeting yours, expression steady and kind.
You didn't need shimmer visions or the whispered tricks of that pale woman who could conjure ghosts. You carried him with you without her intervention. Which, really, only confirmed how messed up your own mind had become.
Still, you didn't flinch. You let the illusion—your illusion—wrap around you like an embrace you craved. And in the space between the rusted silence and your own heartbeat, a softer thought crept in, uninvited but impossible to ignore. You remembered the conversation in Silco's bed earlier, and that memory pulled the corners of your lips into a small, almost guilty smile.
"I hope in every universe you find me." you murmured, voice unsteady but sure in its longing, "Because I know in every single one, you'll always be my home."
Part 34
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
This chapter was short, just a bonus/special because it's my birthday! I'm the one celebrating, but you're the ones receiving the gift.
Nothing too significant story-wise, just a sweet moment between our couple.
PS: Since this chapter's theme was universes and possibilities, I like to think the gif at the beginning is a reality where the three of them live as a family. And as the author of this story, I can say that canonically, Vander would be the protective brother who wouldn't let Silco near Reader until he was sure of his friend's intentions.
Walking beside the devil doesn’t make you his victim—it makes you his reflection. And the longer you follow Silco’s path, the harder it is to tell where he ends and you begin.
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 11,6K
Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, oral sex (f!receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, a little bit of female domination, orgasm denial, manipulation, death, threats, blood and violence, graphic violence, description of deaths, canon-typical Silco violence, Silco POV
Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.
This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence, proceed at your own risk.
Part 31
There was a terrifying silence inside the elevator — the kind of silence that always seemed to come before something tragic. The air felt too still, heavy with anticipation. Silco and Sevika stood on either side of you, appearing completely unfazed, like this elevator ride was just another part of their routine. After all, they had probably done this a thousand times before. But for you? This was new territory, uncharted and dangerous.
Luxury surrounded you, but not the kind you had grown to associate with Piltover's gleaming towers. This wasn't clean, white, clinical wealth. No. This was Zaun's version of luxury — dark, oppressive, stained with oil and smoke. The walls breathed with history and corruption. The air tasted metallic, thick, like it carried years of violence and deals struck in shadows.
Your gaze drifted to the gas tank Sevika held with one hand like it weighed nothing. You couldn't help but wonder just how potent that thing was. Silco had warned you, in that calm, low voice of his, that the gas inside was extracted from the old mines of Zaun. Highly polluted. Dangerous enough to choke anyone who dared breathe it without protection.
He had even gone as far as to recommend you put on a mask the moment Sevika released it. Recommended... and then insisted when he realized you weren't taking it seriously.
You weren't reckless—not entirely—but you had your own plans for how this would go. You didn't want to hide behind filters while making your point. Fear had to be personal. Tangible.
This meeting wasn't going to be like the others. It was more than business tonight. It was strategy. Theater. War, played out in words, posture, and brutal demonstrations of power. You, Silco, Sevika... all three of you had rehearsed the steps to this dance. Release the gas. Let Silco do what only he could do—fill the room with dread just by speaking, letting every syllable drip with that controlled, venomous intensity that made people beg for air even before the gas hit them.
And then... you would step in. Deliver the sentence yourself. Finn's death wasn't just necessary—it was going to be symbolic.
Silco had given you full control over how to handle him. That trust was rare. Precious. You intended to make it worth something. You weren't just going to kill Finn. You were going to make the others watch as you did it. You wanted them to remember this night. Remember you.
You would make them fear you the way they feared Silco.
When the elevator finally groaned to a stop, the air seemed to shift, like it knew what was coming. Silco and Sevika stepped out first, their pace steady and unhurried as they made their way down the short corridor that led to the meeting room. You followed close behind, but your steps slowed just as you reached the end of the hallway. Even from here, you could already hear him.
That pathetic voice of his cut through the air like rusted metal scraping against stone.
"First, this wild attack in Stillwater... then those rats from the Enforcers storming the Lanes, tearing apart our shops, ruining our business and now the threat of the border shutting down at any second while we stand here talking. We're doomed to lose money and for what? So Silco can protect his little killer whore?"
Your jaw tightened instantly. The words hit like nails under your skin. You had almost forgotten how much you hated the way he spoke, how every syllable dragged with that oily accent, how every sentence carried that same self-important sneer.
You hated the pitch of his voice, hated the way it rose and fell like he thought he was rallying some grand army behind him. Hated how he could say your name—no, not your name, never your name—but refer to you with nothing but that same pathetic, degrading tone.
He knew exactly who you were. Exactly what you were capable of. And still...
Your fists curled at your sides before you could stop yourself. Every muscle in your arms tensed, the urge to storm in there and wrap your hands around his throat burning like acid under your skin. You wanted to watch the life drain from his eyes, just to shut him up for good.
"He's losing control... If we stand together—"
You didn't hear the rest.
Silco, without breaking stride, cast a quick glance over his shoulder at you—just a flicker of his gaze, but enough to check how you were holding together. His expression didn't change, but that brief look said enough. Stay focused.
And then, with one smooth motion, he pushed open the heavy metal door. The hinges groaned in protest, and the room beyond fell into sudden, uneasy silence. Finn froze mid-sentence, caught off guard with his mouth half open as every other Baron at the table turned toward the doorway.
All their attention now locked on the three of you.
"We aren't due for an assembly."
Silco entered the room with that same detached, commanding presence he always carried. The temperature seemed to drop by a degree the moment he crossed the threshold, that invisible weight of authority settling heavy over the room. Conversations died mid-sentence, bodies straightened instinctively, and every set of eyes—except one—lowered in something that resembled respect.
Finn.
The bastard didn't so much as flinch. Not fully. Though... there it was—the smallest tell. A flicker of surprise in his eyes when they landed on yours for the briefest second. That little widening of his gaze like he hadn't expected you to be here. Like your presence was something he hadn't factored into whatever pathetic little power play he was trying to pull tonight.
Good. Let him choke on that miscalculation.
Still, true to form, Finn pulled himself back together quickly. Slouched at the far end of the table like he hadn't a care in the world, one foot propped arrogantly on the seat of a nearby chair, playing the role of the bored rebel. The unbothered nuisance. His body language screamed indifference.
You let yourself take in the scene for just a moment longer, ignoring the thick wave of unease that rolled off the other Barons like smoke from a dying fire.
And damn it—you'd admit, even if only to yourself, there was a certain... beauty to the whole thing.
The room looked like something pulled from a twisted theater stage. The green light filtered in through the high glass panes, casting long streaks and reflections across the stone floor like slow-moving ghosts. Dust particles hung suspended in the beams of light, making the air feel heavier, almost viscous. Outside the windows, Zaun's overgrown foliage pressed against the glass, trying to claw its way inside.
But it was the flowers that truly stole your attention.
Massive blooms—deep violet and bruised pink—spilled open behind Finn, almost framing him like some grotesque portrait. The petals curled at the edges like they had been burned or poisoned by the very soil they grew from, but still they bloomed wide and defiant. Their colors seemed to bleed into the green that dominated the rest of the room, creating a contrast that was almost violent to look at.
It felt... intentional. Like the whole space had been designed to unsettle, to unnerve. To remind everyone that Zaun's beauty was as dangerous as its people.
"We should be." Finn shot back, shifting his weight as he leaned forward, propping one elbow on his knee like he was about to deliver some great, threatening proclamation.
The attempt at intimidation was almost laughable. You watched him with cool detachment, noting how his voice dipped lower, how he tried to drag some semblance of menace into his posture—like a dog puffing up its chest, barking loud enough to hide the fact that it was already halfway to tucking its tail.
"Ever since your... protected one pulled that little stunt in the Upper City." he sneered, making sure to linger on the words with just enough venom to make it personal, "The rest of us have been paying the price."
You didn't miss the way his eyes flicked toward you when he said it. Before you could even fully process how much you wanted to wipe that smug look off his face, another voice joined in.
"He's right."
Your gaze shifted toward the speaker. One of the two women seated there. You didn't know her name—not yet. She was older, tall, with sharp features and a dark auburn buzzcut that made her angular face appear even more severe. Her most noticeable feature, though, was the augmentation grafted onto her nose—a mechanical respirator unit with twin green tubes curling from either side like grotesque antennae.
Her voice had that tired, exasperated edge like she thought she was stating the obvious to a room full of idiots. You already disliked her on principle.
"The Topsiders are too afraid to cross, and the Enforcers that are coming down here? They're raiding our warehouses, seizing shipments... dragging our people off in custody. We're bleeding out, Silco. Fast."
There were a few scattered nods around the table, others too cowardly to speak but eager enough to show agreement when someone else took the risk.
And of course, Finn wasn't done.
"We're all wondering." he said, spreading his hands out with that practiced casual arrogance, like he thought he was somehow speaking on behalf of everyone in the room, "What's your grand plan to fix this?"
Silco walking toward the head of the table like he owned every inch of the floor beneath his boots—because, in truth, he did. Without a word, he set down the metal case he'd been carrying. The soft metallic thud it made against the table's surface was enough to draw a few curious glances from the Barons, but no one spoke.
He leaned forward slightly, one hand resting against the box, the fingers of the other lazily tracing along the edge of the lid as though he was petting some dangerous, sleeping thing inside. His tone, when it finally broke the room's stale tension, was everything but reassuring. Ironic. Provocative. Coiled with malice.
But not the kind of malice you enjoyed. This was something else. Something meant to play with them first—before the real damage started.
"You're all wondering, are you?"
That was the exact moment you caught it.
The faint mechanical click. Barely audible. Your eyes shifted just in time to catch Sevika's subtle movement near the wall panel. The overhead ventilation system—the massive fan embedded in the glass ceiling above—shuddered once, then whined as it powered down.
The spinning blades slowed to a crawl... then stopped.
No one else noticed.
"The way I see it... we cut a deal. Hand her over to Piltover." Finn said, motioning lazily in your general direction like he was discussing scrap metal and not a person. "Better some trade than none at all."
"The problem with the Enforcers is temporary. I'll handle them."
And then—predictably—Finn laughed.
That hollow, grating sound that made your skin crawl with every fake note of it. Too loud, too forced, far too rehearsed for someone who wanted to seem unbothered.
"Just like you've handled her?" he sneered, voice dripping with mock pity. "Rumor is... your dog's off her leash."
You didn't miss the collective shift around the table—the sharp inhale from someone, the nervous glance from another Baron—but Finn didn't stop. Of course he didn't.
"So tell me, Silco... how exactly do you plan to bring Piltover to heel if you can't even control your own people, huh?"
You'd always thought the connection between Silco and Sevika was something bordering on ridiculous—unnatural, even. It didn't matter that he hadn't given her so much as a glance, hadn't nodded or lifted a finger. She was already moving like they'd planned this moment a hundred times.
The sharp hiss of pressurized gas filled the room like a gunshot, echoing off the cold stone walls.
You turned your head just in time to catch Sevika, now fully masked, holding the tank like a trophy of war. The glow of the compressed gas spread through the air almost instantly, a dense, toxic fog blooming out from the tank and curling along the floor like it had a mind of its own.
You didn't flinch. Neither did Silco.
Instead, you both did the same thing at almost the exact same moment—pulled in one slow, deep breath and held it. You knew your limits. You could go several good minutes without air if it came down to it. Not comfortable by any means, but manageable. Silco though? That was a different question entirely.
But judging by the casual way he leaned forward against the box, fingers still tapping lazily over the lid like this was all just some boring distraction, you guessed he wasn't too concerned either. The tank hit the floor with a dull, metallic clatter, rolling a few inches before settling at an angle near the base of the table. Right on cue, the first coughs started.
"What's that?!" the woman from before questioned before starting to cough. The panic in her eyes was immediate and delicious.
Silco didn't even bother to look up at her as he popped the latches on the box and opened the lid with a lazy flick of his wrist. His voice remained low, slow, practically dripping with sarcasm, the kind that made your skin crawl even if you weren't the target.
"Oh... you don't recognize it?" He smiled, but there was no warmth in it—just teeth and venom. "Have you forgotten where we came from?"
The coughing intensified around you. People reaching for their throats like sheer willpower could clear the air clogging their lungs.
Silco pulled three gas masks from the box with infuriating nonchalance, dangling them from one hand as if debating whether these people even deserved them. Beside him, Sevika grabbed the last two, not bothering to hand them over either. Instead, she slid them across the table like scraps thrown to hungry dogs.
Watching grown, powerful people scramble across the table, clawing at each other just to get their hands on a mask... There was something beautifully pathetic about it.
"The mines they had us in..."
Silco stepped away from the box, moving toward the far end of the table. You watched as he passed behind that woman and the rat?... well, whatever that thing was sitting next to her. Was that a Yordle or a rat?
Silco paused just behind them, placing two of the gas masks down on the table like an offering—if you could call it that. An offering with teeth.
"Air so thick it clogged your throat... Stuck in your eyes."
You moved with him, shadowing his steps without needing instruction. Almost unconsciously, your feet mirrored his direction, pacing across the floor with practiced calm, observing each of the Barons in turn.
You took your time, taking in the sight of them—grown, hardened criminals now reduced to trembling figures, gasping behind their masks, still coughing even with the filters strapped tight to their faces.
The gas was thick enough now to see in waves, bleeding into the space with swirls of bruised purple and sick yellow. It hung low, drifting like slow poison. Everything looked distorted. Unreal.
You could feel the strain building in your chest.
You'd been holding your breath this whole time, but the warning signs were starting to build—pressure at your temples, that deep ache spreading through your ribs like someone tightening a belt around your chest.
If you were starting to struggle... you couldn't imagine what this felt like for Silco. And yet... He didn't even falter. Not a hitch in his breath. Not a pause in his step.
You wondered—maybe the mines had carved something permanent into him. Maybe years of breathing in toxic air and scraping out a life alongside Vander had made him immune to the same things that would bring others to their knees. Or maybe it wasn't about physical endurance at all—just pure, stubborn willpower.
"But I pulled you all up from the depths." Silco said, stopping just in front of Finn. You slowed with him, keeping close enough that Finn's gaze flickered between you both like he didn't know which threat to focus on first. "Offered you a taste of topside... and fresh air."
You noticed something interesting, unlike the others—who were openly coughing, gasping, clawing at their masks like drowning rats—Finn was holding on. Barely, but holding on. His face had flushed a deep, angry red, sweat already pooling at his hairline, but he clenched his jaw so tight you wondered how it hadn't cracked under the pressure. Every muscle in his throat strained with the effort to keep the coughs down, to not give Silco the satisfaction of seeing him falter.
But it was there. The tremble at the corner of his mouth. The slight quiver in his shoulders as his body fought against him. The inevitable was already creeping in.
"I gave you life. Purpose."
The disappointment in Silco's tone cut deeper than any shout ever could. There was no rage in it—just weary disdain, like he was scolding a spoiled child for breaking a toy they didn't deserve.
"But you've grown fat... complacent..." His gaze drifted over Finn with something that sat halfway between pity and disgust. "Too much time in the sun."
That was your cue.
You stepped forward, letting the sharp clap of your heels against the floor cut through the fog of gas and labored breathing like the start of a funeral march. Each step landed heavy, perfectly in rhythm with the choking fits echoing around the room.
You passed behind Silco without looking at him, moving toward Finn with slow, measured precision. Finn's shoulders twitched the moment you stepped into his line of vision, but you didn't slow.
You circled him like a shark would circle its bleeding prey, letting the sound of your footsteps fill the space between his growing, desperate breaths. You came to a stop just behind him, close enough that you could hear the thin, raspy wheeze rattling in his throat.
And if the poisoned air wasn't enough to crush him... then the two of you standing there—boxing him in, closing the distance, giving him no room to run, no space to breathe—would finish the job.
You caught the exact moment the fight drained from him.
Finn's body finally gave out, his arrogant posture collapsing like wet paper as he fell and hit the floor with a heavy, graceless thud. His coughing turned violent, uncontrolled, each breath more broken than the last. He clawed uselessly at the floor, twisting onto his side, spasming with every failed attempt to pull air into his lungs.
You caught the flicker of satisfaction in Silco's eyes as he watched it happen. The mighty, arrogant Finn—brought to the ground like any other weak, scrambling animal.
"We came from a world where there was never enough to go around, Finn."
Silco spoke Finn's name like it was something rotten in his mouth—something foul and unworthy of lingering on his tongue. The word dropped from his lips with pure disdain, each syllable dragged out just enough to make the humiliation sink deeper.
Then, with nothing more than a casual shift of his weight, Silco brought his boot forward and gave Finn a sharp, dismissive kick to the side. Not hard enough to do any real damage—no. That wasn't the point. It was just enough to roll him fully onto his back, forcing him out of that pathetic, crumpled position he'd fallen into.
More exposed. More vulnerable. More humiliated.
You knew—gods, you knew—that this wasn't the time or the place for certain kinds of thoughts, but still... there was no ignoring the heat that curled low in your stomach at the sight of it. The way Silco moved, every step, every word, every carefully measured act of cruelty, there was a dangerous sort of beauty in it. The slow-burning control. The veiled violence. Even this—the lazy cruelty of nudging a man lower when he was already gasping for breath—it was...
Well. It was a little hot.
"That... is why we fight."
Silco leaned down then, closing the distance between himself and the writhing mess on the floor. His voice dipped, soft but cutting, like it was meant for Finn's ears alone, but you caught every word.
"Do you remember?"
"S-sorry..." Finn choked, his voice wet and raw, desperation twisting each syllable into something ugly. His hands scrabbled at his throat, like if he just dug deep enough he could claw the gas right out of his lungs. One trembling hand reached toward Silco, fingers outstretched, shaking, searching for mercy that wasn't coming. "Please..."
The word hit the floor as pitiful as he was.
Silco didn't move. Didn't flinch, but he did lift his gaze—just for a second—toward you. Your breath caught in your throat, that split-second eye contact freezing you in place.
And just like that... your lungs finally gave out.
You drew in a sharp breath without thinking—lungs burning as the toxic air rushed in like a flood. Instantly, your hand flew to your mouth, instinctively trying to catch the cough before it could escape. But... it never came. No coughing fit. No desperate gasps. Only that familiar, stinging burn behind your eyes. Of course it couldn't kill you, but it wasn't really comfortable.
"Please..."
Finn begged again—his voice smaller, thinner, like a man already halfway drowned and realizing no one was going to pull him up. And Silco... Silco finally moved.
With a slow, almost theatrical motion, he lifted the gas masks to his face. His next inhale was deep, greedy—sharp enough that his shoulders lifted with the force of it.
But it was the way he closed his eyes afterward that really stuck with you. That single, unguarded second where you could tell—without question—that he'd been suffocating too. Choking down every word, every glare, every ounce of control just to keep from showing it.
You felt something twist deep in your chest.
Then, just as quickly, Silco pulled the mask off again and extended it toward you with the same casual indifference like he was passing you a cigarette or a drink. You took it, placed it over your face, and inhaled with everything you had. The clean rush of filtered air hit your lungs like salvation, making you dizzy for half a second. Your heart pounded in your ears as oxygen flooded back into your system.
You pulled the mask off just as fast as he had. And without missing a beat, you tossed it—no, hurled it—toward Finn. The thing landed against his chest with a hollow, dismissive thud. The way he scrambled to catch it... The sheer, frantic desperation in the way he clutched it to his face like a starving man thrown scraps from a table...
Gods, it was almost funny.
"Don't forget again."
And then, without another word, Sevika flipped the switch.
You heard the ventilation system groan back to life overhead, the big ceiling fan whirring sluggishly at first before picking up speed. The gas began to thin, swirling into the vents as the air slowly—agonizingly—began to clear.
Silco stepped back, walking toward the head of the table with that same unbothered, unrushed stride. He sank into his chair like this was just another business meeting, like the past minutes of suffocation and terror were nothing more than a warm-up act.
"Now that we've gotten that out of the way... I think it's time we heard some explanations, don't you, Finn?"
You didn't wait for him to catch his breath.
The second the words left Silco's mouth, you were already moving—closing the distance, grabbing Finn by the collar first, then switching to his throat with both hands before yanking him clean off the floor like he weighed nothing.
The panic in his eyes was immediate, wide and glassy as you dragged him up and slammed him down onto the table with enough force to rattle the metal case still sitting there.
His limbs kicked out instinctively, he clawed at your wrist with both hands, nails digging into your skin with pure, pathetic desperation. You kept the pressure steady, tight enough to keep him squirming, loose enough to make sure he stayed conscious for what came next.
You caught the flick of his gaze toward Silco, as if he thought for one delusional second that begging would save him now. But Silco just sat there, perfectly calm, legs crossed, too unconcerned with what was in front of him.
"Silco, what's the meaning of this?" The voice cut through the air—shrill, high-pitched even through the filter of a gas mask. Male. Definitely the rat. Or... well, Yordle.
Silco didn't even bother turning toward him. Didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Instead, he simply gave a nod in your direction The meaning was clear: Do as you like.
You didn't need to be told twice.
"What deal did you make with him?"
You didn't bother saying the name. You didn't need to. Finn knew exactly who you meant. You saw it immediately—the way his eyes widened just a fraction, the way the color drained from his already pale face.
When Finn didn't answer fast enough... you acted. With no warning, you pulling your fist back and driving it straight into the wood—right beside his head. The impact shook the table so violently that the sound echoed off the walls like a gunshot.
You pulled your hand back slowly, letting Finn get a good, trembling look at the dent you'd just left behind. The clear imprint of your knuckles was carved deep into the wood, as though the table itself had flinched from the force of it. Finn froze. Breath coming in short, panicked bursts, his gaze flicking between the dent and your face like he wasn't sure which one was the bigger threat.
"The next punch goes through your face."
Silco's Pov
━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━
Silco watched the scene unfold with a sort of detached curiosity, though inwardly, there was a flicker of amusement at how quickly Finn folded under pressure. One well-placed threat from her—a single show of force—and the man who had moments ago been trying to play the unbothered, smug Baron was now practically choking on his own confession before she even touched him again.
It was almost disappointing how effective it was.
"It was political!" he spat out, like the explanation might somehow save him now. "It's just politics! Just... just strategy! An arrangement."
Silco raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting Finn dig his own grave.
"I—He... Hoskel. It was Hoskel's offer. Said... said when he had you and... and when he had control of the Council... when he controlled Piltover outright... that I'd get Zaun. That once Silco were dead, I'd take over here. Full autonomy... a trade agreement, partnership between the cities... equal standing."
Silco let out a sharp breath through his nose, the sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh without humor. "Equal standing." he repeated under his breath. He dragging a hand down his face with a slow, bitter sigh as he leaned back in his chair. His eyes rolled toward the ceiling like the sheer stupidity of it physically pained him.
Of course.
It wasn't a deal. It was theater.
A hollow promise dressed up in diplomatic language.
Piltover didn't want an independent Zaun. They wanted a leash they could dress in silk and call freedom. And if Hoskel was the one orchestrating all this, then it was obvious. The man didn't need a war—he needed a puppet. Someone stupid enough to believe they had power when really, they'd just be another name on a list.
Silco could already see the future Finn had been promised: A Zaun with a new flag, a new title, and still crawling on its knees every time Piltover so much as sneezed. Finn's idea of "partnership" was just another layer of chains.
And Finn—gods, the fool—was too busy being ambitious to even realize how pathetic it all sounded.
She, however...
Silco's eyes flicked to her just in time to catch the way her expression shifted. That second of cold realization when the weight of Finn's betrayal, and Hoskel's involvement, really hit her. He watched as your fingers tightened around Finn's throat with a sudden, brutal squeeze—one that made Finn's back arch off the table as he clawed uselessly at your wrist.
"Why?" she hissed, the anger curling in her voice like smoke. "Why go after my daughters?"
"I-it wasn't me!" Finn croaked, barely able to force the words out. "It was Hoskel again! His idea! He knew... He knew they mattered to you! Said the girls... the Vander girls... meant leverage! Bargain with you! Break you down! Take one of them and trade for you... or kill her if he had to! When we... we couldn't get to Jinx... so... so we went after the other one. The oldest."
Silco's stare darkened.
He couldn't allow herself to imagine a world where that idiot had managed to reach Jinx and kill her. Maybe that was the same feeling his dove felt, although to her, they had really reached one of her daughters and taken her away from her.
"And how did he even know about my connection to them?"
Her voice came low, dangerous closer to a snarl than anything resembling a question. Silco's gaze sharpened at that. The shift in her tone, the way her shoulders tensed just slightly—it was enough to make him sit up straighter in his chair.
Finn froze, panic flashing again across his sweat-soaked face. For a second, it looked like he might lie—might try to scramble for some half-truth to save himself—but under the weight of your glare, he cracked almost instantly.
"He got that information from... from someone else. Some... woman. I don't know her name. Never met her. He just... he just called her the 'pale woman'."
Silco's brows furrowed at that.
Pale Woman?
The title meant nothing to him, but what caught his attention even more was the way her expression darkened the instant the words left Finn's mouth. There was no confusion on her face. No hesitation. The way her jaw tightened, the sudden burn behind her eyes—it was obvious.
She knew exactly who Finn was talking about. And judging by the sheer level of fury twisting her features... whoever she was... it wasn't someone her forgive anytime soon.
Finn, still gasping for air, kept talking—too scared to stop now, too terrified of what would happen if he did.
"She's the one... the one who told him where you were hiding... that time in Zaun." His words came out in desperate bursts, his body still trembling beneath your hold. "That's why he came to me, months back. Offered me the partnership... said we'd reshape things. That it'd be good for business. But he—he never said you were gonna be... this."
"Define 'this'"
Finn coughed again, the sound wet and ugly, then pushed out one last pathetic defense.
"I thought you were just... just some whore." He winced as the word left his mouth, like even he knew it might get him killed. "Some thing both Silco and Hoskel couldn't keep their hands off. I didn't know you were a goddamn killer."
Silco noticed the exact moment she made her decision. It was subtle, but unmistakable—the shift in her posture, the faint drop of her shoulders as the tension in her frame melted into something far more dangerous: resolve.
Of course, both he and she knew Finn wasn't leaving this room alive. That had never been in question. The only variable—the only true suspense left hanging in the air—was how the man would die.
And, if Silco was being honest with himself... he was curious.
After everything Finn had pulled... months of deceit, cowardice, secret negotiations behind his back... If it were up to him, the death would've been slow. Messy. Something that would leave stains in the wood grain of this table for years. Something fitting for betrayal.
But her...
She took a step back. Loosened her grip from Finn's throat and let him drop onto the floor like discarded garbage. Then, with a calmness that Silco found both admirable and mildly alarming, she gave the bastard an offer.
"If you can make it through that door." she said, her voice low, almost lazy, "You're free to leave Zaun. But if you can't..." She paused, and the smile that touched her lips was downright venomous. "Then I'll kill you right here. In front of everyone. And I'll make it hurt."
For the first time all night... Silco blinked.
That... was unexpected.
Clever.
Cruel in its own, poetic way.
Finn didn't need to be told twice. Without even bothering to catch his breath, he scrambled to his feet, staggering toward the door with all the grace of a drunk man. His steps were uneven, his body shaking, but desperation made up for what his coordination lacked.
The entire room watched in stunned silence as he bolted—barons with their masks half-on, others still coughing or holding their sides, each one frozen as they watched Finn make his pathetic run for freedom. He reached the door faster than Silco would've given him credit for.
Almost.
Because something—or rather, someone—got there first.
Silco barely saw it happen. One blink, and she was still standing by the table. The next... A flash of purple.
There was a chair toppling over somewhere to the side, startled shouts from the others in the room, one woman gasping loud enough to make even Sevika flinch. But Silco barely heard them. His focus stayed entirely on her.
On the way she appeared suddenly at the threshold, cutting off Finn's escape like a predator intercepting its prey. On the sound Finn made—high-pitched, broken, terrified—as she grabbed him by the collar, then the throat, and lifted him.
Lifted him.
Like he weighed nothing.
Finn wasn't a small man. Broad, thick in the shoulders—a body built to intimidate lesser men. But her fingers curled around him like iron, hoisting him off his feet with a single, brutal pull. Silco's breath caught for just half a second. Not out of fear, but because... This was the first time he'd actually seen her like this. Not the aftermath. Not the bloodied floors. Not the ruined bodies she left behind for him to clean up.
No... this was her in motion.
And gods...
She was beautiful in it.
Her eyes were burning. That unnatural violet, glowing bright and sharp. It wasn't just color. It wasn't just light. It was a siren's call. Beautiful enough to lull a man into staring too long, dangerous enough to drown him in the next breath.
Silco had seen many killers in his life. Had built most of them himself. But this... There was something different about her.
Her face remained disturbingly neutral, detached from the violence she was delivering as though her mind were somewhere far away, untouched by the sounds of Finn gasping and kicking. The kind of stillness that belonged to something cold-blooded and predatory. Her entire focus locked solely on Finn—like no one else in the room existed.
"Always hated the ones who talk too much."
Silco watched as she raised her free hand toward Finn's face. Unhurried. Like she had all the time in the world to decide how this would end. Her fingers curled against the edge of the gold prosthetic lining his jaw, tracing it like one might trace the rim of a wine glass—careful, almost intimate.
"That was always your worst flaw, Finn..." she murmured, her thumb brushing along the hinge of metal. "You never knew when to shut your mouth."
And then... the scream.
Finn's scream.
Raw. Ugly.
It tore through the air like ripping fabric, loud enough that some of the barons flinched back from the table. Chairs scraped. Another gasped. But no one—not a single soul in that room—moved to stop her. Too stunned. Too horrified. Too afraid.
Silco didn't blink. He kept watching. Kept watching as she wrenched the prosthetic from Finn's face with nothing but brute force and sheer, merciless intent.
Metal tore from flesh with a sickening crunch, wires snapping like tendons, bolts dragging out with bits of skin still attached. Blood spilled instantly, hot and thick and dark, painting her fingers, dripping in slow, lazy trails down her wrist, pooling at her elbow before splattering onto the floor below.
Finn's cries dissolved into wet, choking gurgles.
Minutes passed—or maybe it was seconds; time had twisted in that room—until finally she released him. Finn's barely-conscious body hit the floor with a sick, wet thud, twitching and gasping, still somehow clinging to life by nothing but instinct. And there she stood. Unbothered. With that shattered, blood-soaked piece of golden machinery resting like a trophy in her palm.
"As Finn will be... unavailable." she began, her voice steady, not a tremor of hesitation slipping through, "I'll be taking his place at this table. Everyone in agreement?"
The question was purely rhetorical. Silco could see it—clear as day—in the way her eyes swept across the remaining barons. As if anyone would dare voice dissent now. Not after what they'd just witnessed. Not after seeing her standing there, calm, covered in blood that wasn't hers, with the same casual authority they had spent years learning to fear in him.
No one spoke. Of course they didn't. Silence fell thick and heavy again, the kind that meant fear had done its job well. And then, with one fluid, almost lazy gesture, she tossed Finn's golden prosthetic onto the table. The metallic clang echoed off the concrete walls, punctuating the end of the meeting better than any formal closing statement could have.
"Since there's no objection, I believe this meeting is adjourned."
It was almost amusing to watch the way the barons scrambled, their chairs screeching across the floor, shoes dragging over the cracked tiles as they rushed to get out of the room. Like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Silco didn't miss the way one of them nearly tripped in their hurry. No one even spared Finn so much as a glance—not that there was much left to look at.
And then, just like that, it was quiet again.
Finn lay in a grotesque heap on the floor, choking and twitching, still clinging to life by some stubborn, useless instinct. Blood pooled around him, dark and spreading, soaking into the already stained floor like it belonged there.
She didn't spare him another look. Instead, she exhaled softly, the faintest trace of weariness creeping into her posture as she began to walk back toward Silco, crossing to the other side of the table like none of this had been unexpected... because for her, it hadn't.
Silco watched her with sharp, unreadable eyes. There was something almost... proud curling beneath his ribs, though he'd never voice it aloud. Not here. Not now. He let the silence linger just a moment longer, then finally broke it.
"Leave us, Sevika."
He spoke the words with smooth, cordial finality—soft but commanding, as always. Sevika, ever the loyal lieutenant, obeyed immediately without so much as a question. The heavy door groaned as it closed behind her, leaving only the two of them and the dying echoes of violence.
Silco rose slowly from his chair, smoothing out the front of his coat with casual elegance. He moved with the same grace he always did, reaching for a clean handkerchief from the inside pocket. Without a word, he extended it toward her. Not to wipe her arm, of course—that would be useless. But her fingertips... at least that much she could clean.
She accepted it in silence.
"Think I went too far?" she asked, her voice low but casual, as if she were asking about the weather and not the blood still drying on her skin.
Silco barely spared her a glance, giving a slow, indifferent shrug as he leaned back against the edge of the table, completely unbothered.
"Efficient, from where I'm standing." he said, his tone smooth, almost lazy. "They're all too much of a cowardly lot to even consider betraying us now... not when they've got something new to fear." His gaze flicked briefly toward Finn's crumpled body still lying motionless on the floor. "Finn was a fool but at least brave enough to try."
She made a low noise of agreement in her throat—a short, almost dismissive hum—before tossing the blood-soaked handkerchief onto the floor without the slightest trace of ceremony or care. The way she looked at him next...
It was strange.
That stare of hers didn't hold affection, nor anger. No resentment. No satisfaction. Nothing that could be easily named or pinned down. It felt... empty. Hollow. Like she'd put up a wall just thick enough to make sure he couldn't read past it.
"And you? Did I scare you?"
Silco's response came with a short, nasal laugh—dry, cutting, almost dismissive. The idea of her frightening him... absurd. Laughable.
"I'd never be afraid of you, dove."
Perhaps he shouldn't have let the arrogance bleed so openly into his voice when he said it. Because in the next second, she was moving toward him.
Silco caught the shift of her weight immediately, the click of her heels across the floor loud in the empty room. For some reason, each step made the air feel tighter, thinner in his lungs, and the irony of that wasn't lost on him—especially after the stunt they'd just pulled with the gas.
He straightened slightly on instinct, posture sharpening just enough to betray the alertness creeping under his skin.
"I have my doubts..." she murmured, raising a hand — that bloody one — with slow, deliberate intent. Her fingers ghosted across the fabric of his vest, trailing upwards over his chest until she stopped—right above his heart.
Her touch wasn't tender. Not really. It was light, controlled... but there was something dangerous in it. Something calculated. Like she was reminding him, in the most intimate way possible, of just how easily she could hurt him if she wanted.
"I could break your heart."
And Silco... he didn't for a second doubt that she meant it in the most literal sense. She wasn't talking about feelings. No. If she wanted... she could tear it out of his chest just as easily as she had torn that prosthetic off Finn.
Silco held his ground.
Resilience had always been second nature to him, and now was no exception. He didn't let the weight of her threat reach him—not outwardly. He refused to give her that satisfaction. Not a flicker of discomfort showed on his face, no tightening of his jaw, no shift in his breathing. If this was a test—if this was what she wanted—she wouldn't win that easily.
At least... that's what he told himself.
They were past this, weren't they? Past walking on glass and veiled threats masquerading as banter. Or at least, he had believed so. But clearly... she had other ideas tonight.
Since Vi's death... she had become something unpredictable. Untethered in a way that even he hadn't fully accounted for. The grief, the rage—it had twisted her into something new. Something volatile. Silco had watched her unravel and reform in the span of weeks, turning into a creature that could no longer be anticipated.
And right now... that unpredictability had a hand pressed flat against his chest.
When she deliberately dug her fingertips in—pressing just enough to make him feel like she could carve her way through flesh and bone if she truly wanted—he felt the unthinkable: his heart stuttered, then picked up pace. Faster. Louder.
And she felt it too. Of course she did.
Her reaction was immediate, like it had been the moment she was waiting for all along.
That smile.
It curled at the corner of her mouth, slow and wicked, pulling something feral to the surface. The vacant coldness in her gaze shifted—melted—replaced with something hotter, more alive. Hunger, amusement, something darker... it was all there, lighting her up from the inside.
She had never intended to hurt him. Not physically. No... she had only wanted this. To make him react. To get under his skin. To prove that she could still make his composure crack, even if just for a second.
"I can feel your heartbeat speeding up..." she murmured, her voice low and velvety, every syllable deliberate. "You're afraid."
Before he could craft a response, her other hand was sliding up, joining the first, both of them now curling around the back of his neck. There was no hesitation in her grip—just steady, undeniable control as she pulled him down toward her.
Her breath was warm against his lips. The blood still dripping from her arm smeared against the lapel of his coat, leaving deep crimson stains on the fabric.
Their bodies fell together like two pieces of something inevitable.
"Good..." she whispered against his mouth, voice nearly lost between them. And then...
She kissed him.
The kiss was all teeth, saliva, and tongue—messy and desperate in a way that said far more than either of them would ever put into words. It wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It was raw, unpolished, violent in its hunger. The kind of kiss that tasted like too many things at once—blood, smoke, power, and loss. The kind of kiss that came from something too tangled to name.
Silco barely registered the moment her hands slid up into his hair, fingers tangling in the strands with a brutal kind of intent. She pulled him down harder, as if dragging him closer could somehow burn through whatever distance still existed between them. And he let her. His own hands were already at her waist, fingers spreading wide, possessive, his grip iron-tight like he was afraid she might vanish if he didn't hold her there, anchored to him.
He didn't know what any of this was supposed to mean. Couldn't begin to unpack it. And honestly? He didn't care.
This was the absolute worst possible time for this... and yet, here they were. Tearing at each other like animals too far gone to think.
Her nails scraped against his scalp, sending sharp pricks of sensation down his spine. He felt her body push against his with reckless force, all sharp angles and unfiltered want. The heat rolling off her skin bled into him, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Silco realized she was trembling—not from fear, but from adrenaline. From everything she'd been holding back for far too long.
Her rage, her grief, her desire... it was all there. And he felt every ounce of it through the way her mouth devoured his, through the way her hips pressed against his, through the breath she stole from his lungs like it belonged to her.
Silco kissed her back just as fiercely, refusing to give her all the control. His teeth scraped against her lower lip, just enough to draw a sharp gasp from her throat. His grip on her waist tightened, dragging her flush against him with a low, guttural sound he didn't bother to hold back.
Lost in the haze of lust and longing that consumed them both, Silco acted on pure, instinctual impulse. His hands slid down to the backs of her thighs and lifted her up. He set her down on the edge of the table, stepping between her parted legs, pinning her to the surface beneath him.
As her fingers worked at the knot of his tie, Silco shrugged off his coat, the thick, heavy fabric falling to the floor with a muffled thud.
Silco's own hands slid under the hem of her skirt, palming the soft, silken skin of her thighs, reveling in the way she shuddered and trembled beneath his touch.
But, for a single, agonizing moment, Silco hesitated, his hands stilling on her thighs as a flicker of sanity pierced the red-hazed fog of his lust. The memory of her threat, the words she had spoken just moments before, came rushing back to him like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. And with it, the grim reality of the situation they found themselves in —Finn's lifeless body was still lying in the room.
With a herculean effort, Silco wrenched himself away from the intoxicating pull of her mouth, breaking the kiss with a gasp. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gusts as he stared down at her with a mix of desire and trepidation swirling in his orange eye.
But even as Silco paused, trying to gather the tattered remnants of his self-control, she showed no such hesitation. She continued her relentless advance, her fingers already tugging at his tie, loosening the knot with single-minded determination. The silk fabric slipped from her grasp, fluttering to the floor in a discarded heap as she leaned in, her lips finding the sensitive skin of Silco's neck.
Silco shuddered, a low groan tearing from his throat as her mouth worked over his neck, her teeth grazing his pulse point, her tongue laving the reddened skin. His hands clenched at his sides, fists tightening in the fabric of his trousers as he fought the desperate, almost overwhelming urge to give in, to lose himself completely in the sweet, aching pleasure of her touch.
With a strained, almost agonized sound, Silco reached up, his hands gripping her shoulders, holding her back just enough to meet her gaze.
"I don't think this is the best time for that, dove."
"I disagree..." The smile that was on her swollen lips was not a good sign. "This is the perfect moment actually."
Silco's protest died on his lips as he felt her hands sliding down his chest, her fingers deftly unbuttoning his shirt, baring his skin to her hungry gaze. He shuddered as her touch skimmed over his abdomen, his muscles clenching and tensing beneath her palms, as if seeking to draw her in closer, to mold himself to the curves of her body.
His body betrayed him, responding with a will of its own to her touch. He gasped as he felt her hands cup him through the fabric of his trousers, her fingers tracing the thick, rigid length of his cock, stroking him with a touch that was almost punishing in its intensity.
Silco's hips jerked forward, seeking more of that delicious friction, that maddening pressure. His breath came in short, sharp gasps as he felt his control slipping away, the last threads of his resistance unraveling like a frayed rope. Her mouth found his again, her lips claiming his in a searing, demanding kiss.
Any resistance was completely forgotten. And in that moment, Silco knew that she was right, that this was the perfect moment, the only moment that mattered. The rest of the world could burn.
Silco allowed himself to be pulled down onto the table, his body covering her as she lay back against the polished wood. He braced himself on his elbows, his hips nestled between her parted thighs, the heat of her core searing him even through the fabric of his trousers. His heart raced as he gazed down at her, taking in the flush of her skin, the wildness of her hair splayed out around her like a halo, the fire of her eyes blazing up at him with a fevered intensity.
Her fingers traced the jagged lines of his scars, a gentle caress that made him shiver despite himself. The touch was both soothing and arousing, a balm to his battered soul and a spark to the ever-present flame of his desire.
"Do you still love me?"
Silco's response was immediate, instinctive, the words spilling from his lips before he could stop them. "I do."
Her lips curved into a small, satisfied smile at his fervent declaration. But then her brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of something akin to disappointment in her eyes.
"Use all the words..." she chided softly, even as her fingers continued their teasing, maddening caress along the contours of his scarred skin. "I want to hear them."
"I love you."
Silco watched her hands leave the scorched path of his scars, trailing downwards to toy with the fastenings of his trousers. His heart hammered against his ribs, a staccato rhythm that matched the desperate, almost frantic pounding of his blood in his veins as her fingers worked at the clasps, slowly, torturously freeing him from the confines of his clothing.
He reached out, his hand covering her own as she tugged his zipper down, his fingers curling around hers as he helped her to release him fully from the tight, restricting fabric.
His eyes fluttered shut, his head falling back as he felt the cool air of the room kissing his newly exposed skin, the sudden rush of sensation making him gasp. He could feel every inch of himself throbbing, pulsing with a need so intense it bordered on pain, as her hand wrapped around his aching length, her fingers squeezing and stroking with a touch that was almost punishing in its intensity.
Silco's breath came in short, sharp gasps, his chest heaving as she worked over his cock with a single-minded focus that bordered on reverence. He could feel every ridge and vein, every quivering pulse of his flesh, as if her touch alone could set him ablaze, could reduce him to a puddle of pleasure and need.
With each pass of her hand, each teasing brush of her thumb over the sensitive crown of his cock, Silco felt the last threads of his control unraveling, snapping like over-tightened guitar strings. He knew he should slow down, should take his time, savor this moment of reunification and reconnection, but the hunger that gnawed at him was too all-consuming —too relentless to deny.
Silco watched, transfixed and utterly enamored, as she brought her fingers to her lips, her tongue darting out to taste the essence of his arousal. Even with the grim reminder of Finn's fate still marring the skin of her arm, Silco couldn't find a single thing repulsive about her. If anything, the macabre sight of the dried blood only served to heighten her allure, to make her seem all the more dangerous, all the more desirable in her dark and twisted perfection.
Drunk on the sight of her, Silco acted on pure, instinctual impulse. His hands gripped her hips, his fingers sinking into the soft, pliant flesh as he dragged her closer to the edge of the table. The rough wood dug into his back as he leaned over her, his body looming above her own, his gaze locked onto the tantalizing juncture between her thighs.
With a low, almost feral growl, Silco hiked up the hem of her skirt, the fabric bunched around her waist as he bared her to his hungry gaze. His heart stuttered, then raced, then hammered against his ribs as he tugging the scrap of lace and cotton aside, exposing the glistening folds of her sex to his ravenous eyes.
It had been so long, far too long since he had last seen her like this, had last drunk in the exquisite sight of her naked, wanting, and ready for him. The memories of their last time together had haunted him, tormenting him with the sweet, aching perfection of her body, the way she had clung to him, had cried out his name — had begged him for more.
"What are you waiting for, Silco?"
There was anticipation in her gaze, along with something close to defiance. Her hands flew back to his neck, her nails digging into his skin, urging him closer. Her leg wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his backside, spurring him on, demanding more of him, all of him.
Silco's hips surged forward, his cock driving into her inch by delicious inch, stretching her around him, filling her so completely that he swore he could feel her heartbeat pulsing in time with his own.
Every atom of Silco's being was focused on the exquisite, mind-melting sensation of being inside her tight, wet heat. It was a pleasure so intense, so all-consuming, that it bordered on pain, a sweet agony that set his nerves alight and made his blood burn like molten lava in his veins.
Silco's eyes slammed shut, his brows furrowed, his jaw clenched tight as he fought the overwhelming urge to spill himself inside her, to find his release in the scorching, silken grip of her most intimate flesh. He had dreamed of this moment, had longed for the feeling of her around him, and now that he had it, now that he was finally, blessedly united with her once more, he felt the last threads of his control fraying, snapping, unraveling like a spool of thread held over a flame.
But even as he teetered on the brink, Silco made himself hold back, made himself savor the feeling of her tight, rippling walls gripping him like a velvet vice. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a searing, desperate kiss as he began to move, his hips rolling in a slow, tortuous rhythm.
Silco could feel his carefully groomed appearance unraveling, his meticulously styled hair now a wild, tousled mess as he lost himself in the relentless rhythm of their coupling. Strands of black locks fell across his forehead, plastered to his skin by the sheen of sweat that coated his brow.
Her moans, once soft and breathy, now filled the room, a symphony of pleasure that spurred Silco on, urging him to increase his pace, to take her harder, deeper, until there was no space left between them. The table creaked and groaned beneath them, the wood protesting the force of Silco's thrusts — the violent — almost punishing way he claimed her body as his own.
A low, guttural moan tearing from his throat as he felt her arms wrap around him, keeping him captive in the circle of her embrace. One hand splayed across his back, the other curled around the back of his neck, her nails scraping against his scalp, anchoring him to her.
Silco's hips jerked and bucked erratically, his thrusts growing shorter, sharper, more desperate with each passing second. He could feel the heat building, the inferno that had started as a spark now a raging wildfire, threatening to incinerate him from the inside out. He could feel himself getting too close to the edge faster than he thought.
But just as he knew her body, she also knew his.
And at that moment it was not a good thing.
He shuddered, a cold chill racing down his spine as he felt her legs clamp down around him like a vice, holding him in place, trapping him in the slick, scorching heat of her body. He tried to pull back, but found himself unable to, held fast by the unyielding grip of her thighs. Interrupting any relief Silco was so eagerly pursuing.
Before he could formulate a response, before he could even draw breath to speak, he felt her face close to his ear, her panting breaths hot and ragged against his skin. The air crackled with a tension that had nothing to do with the pleasure that had, moments before, consumed them both.
"Never betray me again or I will make you regret it." she hissed, her teeth grazing the lobe of his ear, her tongue flicking out to trace the curve, the caress a darkly seductive contrast to the venom in her words. "Remember, you breathe because I allow it."
Silco's mind raced, his thoughts a whirlwind of conflicting emotions and realizations as he teetered on the razor's edge of climax, his body coiled tight as a bowstring, ready to snap at any moment. The cruel timing of her threat was not lost on him, the way she had chosen this precise, pivotal instant to assert her dominance.
It was a move of such cold, calculated strategy that Silco almost recoiled in awe of her ruthless cleverness. She had always been a formidable adversary, a woman who understood the importance of seizing the moment, of striking when her opponent was at their most vulnerable. But to use the very height of their passion, the pinnacle of their physical union, as a means of control and manipulation — it was a new low, even for her.
A part of Silco bristled at the blatant, almost brazen display of her power over him. His pride, his long-held belief in his own unassailable autonomy and control, reared up in protest at the notion of being so thoroughly, ruthlessly played.
"Be careful what you say, dove... You may not like the consequences of your arrogance."
He could feel the smile curving her lips, could picture the wicked, triumphant grin that he knew would be playing across her face, even as he couldn't see it with his own eyes. As much as Silco's voice had that authoritative tone, it seemed like she didn't even care.
"Oh, Silco... you still don't get it, do you? You're not in control here, I am." she purred, her voice a sinful purr that sent a shiver down his spine. "You belong to me."
Silco's breath hitched, his lungs seizing in his chest as the electric pleasure that had been so cruelly denied him a moment before came rushing back, surging through his veins like a jolt of pure, unadulterated bliss. His hips jerked, his body instinctively seeking more of that exquisite sensation, even as his mind reeled at the implications of her words.
In that moment, Silco finally understood the twisted, dark allure of wielding such power, of holding the very essence of a person's being in the palm of one's hand.
He had spent so long, for so many years, reveling in the heady rush of dominating, of controlling, of bending others to his will. He had taken a perverse pleasure in the way his name, his reputation, his very presence could strike fear and awe into the hearts of those around him. It had been a heady, intoxicating feeling, one that Silco had grown addicted to over time.
But until now, until this moment, he had never truly understood the sick, twisted thrill of having that same power turned back on him, of being the one to be possessed, to be owned, to be utterly, completely at the mercy of another's whims and desires.
He knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that he should be furious, but instead, he found himself... intrigued. Aroused. Fucking intoxicated by the sheer, unadulterated wrongness of it all.
"Again." he commanded, his voice a low, rough rasp, raw with a desire that bordered on reverence. "Say it again."
At first she said nothing, perhaps momentarily surprised by his reaction, but after a second, she seemed to understand the weight of that simple sentence and seemed to enjoy it a lot. Her arms tightened around Silco, however, she released her grip on his waist—a clear concession—as her mouth moved down his ear.
"You're mine, Silco."
Silco's head dipped down, his face burying itself in the crook of her neck as he felt the first, searing waves of his climax crashing over him. His lips parted, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh of her throat, biting down hard enough to leave a mark.
His body jerked and shuddered, his hips bucking wildly as he spilled himself inside her. It was a pleasure so intense, so all-consuming, that it bordered on agony, a sweet, sharp ecstasy that made every nerve ending in Silco's body scream with overstimulation.
For a long moment, Silco remained utterly still, his face pressed against her neck, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps as he struggled to regain some semblance of control. A part of him recoiled at the swiftness of his climax, the way it had overtaken him so suddenly, so violently, without warning or preamble. It seemed a poor showing, a lack of the restraint and self-control that Silco had once prided himself on.
And yet, as Silco slowly lifted his head to gaze down at her, he saw no censure in her eyes, no disappointment or disapproval. Instead, he found a dark, wicked gleam of satisfaction, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of her lips. It was clear that she derived a perverse pleasure of having caused that.
That damn woman.
Before she could voice any further commentary, Silco made his move. With a low, guttural groan, he withdrew from her warm, welcoming embrace, the sudden absence of her heat around him making him shiver with a mix of deprivation and anticipation. Silco waste no time in divesting she of her panties, practically tearing the flimsy fabric to bare her fully to his ravenous gaze.
Kneeling on the floor, Silco gripped her thighs, opening her wide, exposing her glistening, folds to his heated, hungry stare. He could smell the heady, musky scent of their coupling, could see the evidence of his own release trickling down her folds, and it only inflamed his desire.
Her voice, laced with confusion and a hint of breathless anticipation, drifted down to him as Silco dipped his head, his breath hot and heavy against her slick, scorched flesh. "What are you doing?"
Silco didn't bother with a response, he plunged his tongue into her dripping, glistening folds without hesitation, his mouth latching onto her like a man starved, desperate to sate a hunger that threatened to consume him whole.
He didn't recoil, didn't feel the least bit repulsed, by the mingled taste of their releases,he salty, slightly bitter essence of his own climax mingling with the sweet, tangy nectar of her arousal. If anything, it only spurred him on.
When he felt her thighs start to tremble, start to clench around his head, Silco's grip tightened, his fingers digging into the tender muscles, keeping her spread wide, keeping her open. He looked up, his chin glistening with her juices, his eyes dark and wild and drunk on the sight of her, of seeing the haughty, arrogant woman he loved so fiercely melting away, replaced by a creature of pure, raw sensation and need.
Silco could see it in the way her eyes fluttered shut, in the way her head tipped back, her throat bared and taut, as she struggled to draw breath between the fluttering gasps and moans that spilled from her lips. He could see it in the way her chest heaved, her breasts rising and falling with each ragged inhale, each desperate, yearning exhale.
Silco's eyes drifted shut once more, his world narrowing down to the exquisite sensations assaulting his senses. He flicked the tip of his tongue against her clit, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves with a feather-light touch, However, the softness didn't last long. The next second Silco sucked hard on her clit, his lips sealing around the sensitive nub, relishing the way it made her jerk and shudder against him.
He could feel her, hot and tight and perfect, clenching around his plunging tongue as he drove it deep, burying his face in her sex. The taste of her flooded his senses, sweet and heady and intoxicating, a flavor he had missed more than he had ever realized.
Gods, but he had missed this.
Missed the way she tasted, the way she responded to his touch, the way her body opened and welcomed him, accepting him as if he were a part of her, a piece of her very being. It went beyond the simple act of fucking, beyond the physical joining of their bodies. It was a connection, a bond that Silco had never felt with anyone else, a sense of belonging and rightness that he couldn't begin to explain.
He wanted to devour her, to consume her utterly until he could crawl inside her skin and live there for eternity. He wanted to hear her scream his name until it was the only word she knew, until it was seared into her very soul.
"SILCO!"
Her scream pierced the air, her voice raw and ragged as she cried out. The sound of his own name, shouted with such desperate, wanton need, sent a dark thrill racing down his spine. He knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that she was teetering on the brink, poised on the precipice of a climax.
For a single, agonizing moment, Silco debated. Debated allowing her that release, that sweet, hard-fought victory. Debated letting her come undone, letting her find that fleeting instant of perfection and completion in his arms.
But no.
Something dark and possessive and utterly, unforgivably selfish reared up inside him, snarling and clawing and demanding that he deny her, that he withhold the very thing she needed most. Silco's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as he wrenched himself away from her, tearing his mouth from her dripping sex with a wet, obscene sound.
"BASTARD!"
Silco could hear the fury, the betrayal, the white-hot rage that bordered on hatred in her voice as she screamed that single, damning word.
Silco sat back on his heels, his chest heaving, his breathing ragged as he watched her struggle to sit up, to regain some semblance of composure and control. He brought the back of his hand to his mouth, wiping away the glistening evidence of her arousal, the taste of her still fresh and vivid on his tongue.
His gaze remained locked on her, dark and intense and unapologetically possessive as he drank in the sight of her disheveled, desperate state. Her hair was a wild, tangled mess, her cheeks flushed a deep, angry red, her eyes blazing with a fury that made Silco's blood sing in his veins.
"You—" she began, voice hoarse, teeth clenched, but Silco didn't give her the chance to finish.
"This is what you get for threatening me, dove."
There it was again. That spark. He could see it, could feel it in the way her expression flickered—rage clashing with something brighter, more dangerous. There was a flash of amusement in her eyes then, of challenge, like she wasn't the least bit intimidated, not really. She let out a scoff, a breath that sounded more like a dare than a laugh.
"You don't want to start this war, Silco."
The corner of his mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
"Too late for that, isn't it?"
She leaned forward, her arm —stained with dried blood— extended toward him, fingers outstretched like she wasn't entirely sure whether she meant to strike him or touch him. Silco lifted his chin in answer, meeting her halfway—not in submission, but in acknowledgment. Their eyes locked. And they stayed like that. The tension that hung between them said more than words ever could.
To any outsider, the image would've been unthinkable. The Eye of Zaun on his knees, looking up at someone. Silco, the man who ruled through fear, whose presence alone made most men falter, kneeling for anyone? Absurd. As absurd as the sky bleeding pink instead of blue. But Silco felt no shame. Not here. Not now. This—this moment—felt closer to perfection than any grand display of dominance ever had.
Because there was something about being beneath her gaze that made everything else fade.
He remembered the last time he'd lowered himself to her feet. That night after the masquerade. But he also remembered how he looked at her from that position, like a sinner might stare at a goddess asking for forgiveness for they sins.
And here he was again.
On his knees for her.
Part 33
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
We're back…
I don't even need to tell you which episode from Arcane this chapter was inspired by.
If you were expecting a redemption arc for either Silco or his dove, I have to say that's not going to happen. I've always liked the plot of the hero gradually becoming the villain… although the villain is only a villain from the hero's point of view.
