Primary is @stepsonsilco but treating this as my main. You can call me Steps ^^ 26|she/her but comfy with any pronouns|Pan. I like to draw and would do anything to have Silco break me in two XX
In February I flew out to South Africa to be with him after hearing his cancer returned after a year of treatment last year.
I've been in South Africa for the entire year. Staying with my mom and sister and spending as much time with my dad as I could. Unfortunately his cancer was an incredibly aggressive brain cancer that was basically untreatable following a second surgery in Feb.
This meant that he was in hospital for most of the year. He lost the ability to speak and his right side was completely paralysed.
There was a time when things looked a little hopeful. He could speak a bit and I got to hear his voice again. But all things come to an end. And following just over a month in the hospice, he left us peacefully on the night of the 14th of August.
I was extremely close to him. We would spend hours and hours listening to all his favourite bands from his youth in London in the 70s. He was a great person. He taught me alot and made me the person I am today. He has done so much for me and for so many.
This year has hit incredibly hard.
And I imagine it will continue to for a while.
But in time I'd like to come back.
I'd like to continue drawing and sharing my art with you all.
Thanks for the request Jasper! Here's some Young!Silco x Lil fluff for you! 💜
Tags: Drunk Silco, Fluff
Rain always chased people away. Nobody wanted to venture out, even if they were desperate for a drink. Which meant bad business for the Drop. She had served three people, one of which was Silco, who was currently sitting at the bar with his head resting on the scratched wooden surface of the bartop.
Lil had cut him off after his third drink, stating that he didn’t have enough body fat to hold anymore alcohol in his system. He had protested loudly for a few minutes, trying to persuade her to give him more every time she came near him. Eventually, he had given up and assumed his current position.
Lil sighed as she placed the last clean glass back on the shelf. Even if he was a skinny beanpole, he wasn’t exactly light. If she had to drag him back up to his room, she was going to have quite the task in front of her. She wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to where he was resting. She rapped her knuckles on the wooden surface beside his head, which earned her a pained groan.
“Rise and shine.”
A muffled grumble was the only response she got.
“Didn’t quite catch that, please repeat.”
Silco turned his head so the side was resting on the bartop rather than his forehead.
“I’m all shined out and I have no desire to rise,” he said.
“Are you planning on spending the night at the counter?”
Silco opened one teal eye to look at her.
“Will you be joining me?”
Lil snorted at his question, shaking her head.
“No thanks. I have a bed to get home to. But I need to clean up your puddle of drool first, which means you need to remove your face from it.”
Silco’s other eye opened and he scowled at her before lifting his head off the bartop. He ran his hand through his mop of dark hair as he moved his head around in an effort to work out the kink in his neck he had no doubt given himself by staying in that position for so long.
“Can you walk up to your room or do you need help?” Lil asked.
Silco gave her another scowl as he moved to stand from his seat. It deepened into a frustrated frown when his first attempt was not successful. After the third attempt, he let out an annoyed huff and looked at her again, this time with a pout.
“I may need assistance.”
Lil rolled her eyes and moved around to the other side of the bar to help him. Pulling one of his arms over her shoulder, she began walking him in the direction of the stairs. She had no idea how she was going to get him up the stairs by herself. Luckily, Silco seemed to have enough stability to help her, and they made it up with only a few stumbles.
Eventually, they made it to his doorway. Lil pushed the door open and guided him inside in the direction of his bed. When she tried to ease him away from her, he unceremoniously plopped down onto the soft surface, landing in a twisted position. Lil shuffled his long, gangly limbs and pulled at him until he was in a decent position to sleep off his drinks. As she looked down at him, she wondered if he would be alright if left alone.
“Do you think you can manage to not get sick if I leave you unattended for a little bit? I’m going down to finished closing everything up.”
Silco let out an unintelligible grunt.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Lil said before leaving the room and its occupant.
She headed back down to the bar and cleaned up the last of the small mess for the night. She made sure everything was locked up and turned off the lights before heading back up to Silco’s room. When she arrived, she placed a glass of water down on the table beside his bed and looked over at Silco.
He had turned over onto his stomach and was hugging his pillow tightly against him, a dopey smile on his lips. Lil figured he was going to be alright, but she wanted to stay with him, at least until Vander and Benzo returned from their run. She turned away from the bed to grab the rickety chair from the corner of Silco’s room, hoping to at least have a place to sit while she watched over him. A gentle touch at her wrist caused her to pause and turn back toward the bed.
“Silco? Are you okay?”
“Please stay…” he said quietly.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. I just want to get the chair.”
The light grasp he had on her wrist tightened as he wrapped his fingers around it. He pulled on her hand until she was standing right up against the bed. Silco had turned onto his side and was looking up at her with a sleepy smile.
“Do you know how wonderful you are?” he asked, his words slurring together as he spoke. “Wonderful and beautiful and kind and beautiful…”
“You said beautiful twice.”
Silco blinked at her and his smile widened into a toothy grin. His chipped front teeth made the expression even more ridiculous.
“That’s because you are very beautiful!” he said, every word louder than the one before.
Lil pulled her wrist from his grasp and tucked his hand back onto the bed.
“And you are very drunk.”
“So? That doesn’t change anything.”
Lil laughed softly and leaned over him to pull the blanket up to cover his body.
“Drunk people think everyone is beautiful,” she said.
“Not Benzo. He’s still ugly,” Silco stated, firm in his opinion.
Lil smiled at him, which only made him grin again.
“I’ll be sure to let him know you think so,” she said as she moved to straighten up again.
Silco reached up and touched the side of her face, causing her to pause in her ascent. His grin had disappeared, replaced by a much softer expression. His glazed eyes roamed her face as his thumb passed over her cheek.
“I really mean it, Lil. You are beautiful.”
Neither of them moved for a few moments, their eyes never breaking contact as silence filled the room. Lil could feel her heart pounding in her chest, sure that Silco could hear it too. He had never said anything like that before, so she wasn’t sure if he was truly being honest or if it was just the alcohol talking.
She reached up and grabbed his hand, removing it from her face. She held it in her own for a few seconds before guiding it back to rest on the bed beside him. Having removed herself from his grasp, she was finally able to grab the chair she had been trying to get before, pulling it to the side of the bed and sitting down.
“Get some sleep, Silco. I’ll stay here until the guys come back.”
“Can I have a goodnight kiss?” he asked.
Lil raised an eyebrow in response to his question. He sure was being bold tonight. She leaned in and placed a soft kiss on his forehead, right between his eyebrows.
“Now, go to sleep.”
Silco’s dopey smile returned and he closed his eyes, burying his face into the pillow once more. Lil could feel her own lips lifting into a smile as she watched his breaths even out, indicating he had finally fallen asleep. She wasn’t sure if he would remember this when he woke up the next morning, but she would never forget the tenderness in his eyes when he called her beautiful.
[silco x f!reader] [3.4k words] [no y/n] [during timeskip] [touch-starved reader] [henchwoman!reader] [rated M] [discussion of ptsd] [🙃]
(posting early enough that y’all should have time to read before New Years ^^)
AO3 Link
“Where’s Jinx?” You’re babbling, just to fill the air, as Sevika escorts you to The Last Drop. By now your clothes have been dried, though you’d grimaced at the mess made of your kit. You’ll just have to buy some new gear, that’s all. An expense you’d rather not deal with, but that’s what you get for unintentionally making pastry soup in your waist pack.
“I assume somewhere at the Drop,” Sevika says wryly. “That’s the benefit of early morning asset retrieval: no babysitting duty.” Asset retrieval. Right.
A valid sentiment from her, you suppose, but there’s a hint of anxiety gnawing away in your stomach. You both want to see the kid and dread her finding out what you’ve done. You dread Silco’s response to your behavior. It’s frustrating, and embarrassing, when your mind just hijacked your body and acted completely out of line. Scary, too, if you look at it too closely. The idea that it could happen again, that you’ll lose time, lose control, lose yourself like that… not the most promising prospect.
It could be a blessing or a curse that you won’t have to dread Silco’s reaction much longer, entering the bar.
“Wait here. Gotta report.”
You settle into the same booth you had that drunken night, glancing up at the floor above, to the shadows that hide the door to Silco’s office, as Sevika trudges to go give him the rundown.
What will she say? The girl is crazy. No; she made a mistake. You cringe. She doesn’t owe you that courtesy, and it would be a lie. She lost control and shot a kid. That’s the accurate one. Accidentally. No; without realizing what she was doing. And that’s the worst part, isn’t it?
Teeth pinch at your lip, fingers fidgeting with the rumpled sleeve of your freshly-dried shirt. Before you know it, you’re back to the calming pattern of wedging your thumb nail between the plates of your prosthetic sleeve, tracing up and down your forearm, plucking at hard thin edges. Just enough to tug at your nail bed, just enough to hurt.
Waiting is its own special torture. You can’t stop remembering the last time you were here. The sting, the burn, the ecstasy…
Cheeks flame, throat feeling constricted as you fend off memories of his hands.
You had bruises after that. Nothing horrible, but a subtle ache that brought the memory to mind if you sat on the edge of a seat, or leaned against anything that pressed into a mark. Not a bad pain by any means, but a bittersweet one. More bitter than sweet, all things considered. The regular shimmer taken for your arm made the pain and marks fade quick, but you may have spent a night admiring them. Wanting more.
You’re such a goddamned sucker. Wanting him so much, when you know better.
The brief flutter of hope in your chest as Sevika reappears gets squashed by your own hand as soon as you notice it. If he doesn’t care, you can’t either.
…Fuck, you should know better.
Her walk down the stairs is silent, and you can’t tell if the slight furrow of her brow and thin press of her lips is irritation, confusion, or - knowing Sevika - irritation that she’s confused. There’s not quite enough on her face to read, or maybe she’s not feeling anything strongly enough to show.
Or maybe you’re paranoid and trying to see something that isn’t there.
“…Head on up. He’s waiting.”
He’s waiting. Your mouth goes dry, anxiety gnawing like a mouse on a wire at the base of your skull. Every worst-case-scenario flips through your mind before you shove that list out of your mind and opt to just stop thinking entirely as you walk upstairs to his office door.
A knock.
“Enter.”
How does one word now carry so much promise?
You try to hide your tells, but can’t help the hard swallow after struggling to breathe past the nervous lump in your throat. Hopefully you don’t start choking. That wouldn’t exactly prove your stability. Is proving your stability even possible?
The chair is back. Cheeks flame as everything that had happened in its absence plays on quintuple speed in your head. Palms— then elbows— then your whole burning face pressed to the desk, the desperate need that had snapped inside you. And how he’d satiated that need. The hand on your back as he thrust gloved fingers into you, the presence of him, rocking against you in tiny sinful movements.
You almost feel lightheaded, remembering. Blinks come more rapidly than usual, trying to push the image out of your mind.
Silco isn’t looking at you. Instead, a long finger taps delicately at a paper set before him. It almost feels like mercy, for him to be focused elsewhere. As soon as his eyes start to rise, you panic and drop your gaze to his collar. That tie, a perfect symbol of professionalism and discipline.
Discipline. Oh gods, wrong word.
“…You stayed at the gym overnight.”
It’s an observation, not a question, but you still offer your affirmation. “Yes.” He makes no comment about dropping the honorific. This is more serious than that.
“Why.”
For a fraction of a second you meet his gaze, before looking down again. “I don’t know.” It’s almost a whisper, voice feeling so small. The silence isn’t oppressive, but you can’t help the shame welling up around you. It wasn’t what you meant to happen, you didn’t even realize what was going on before you felt the cold shower shock you to your senses.
“Why didn’t you come here?”
…What?
You don’t even think to hide the surprise on your face as you meet that uneven gaze, flicking between the pale sea and the hellfire glow.
It doesn’t feel quite like hellfire. Whatever it is you’re feeling from him, it’s not rage or heat. There’s something reserved about his demeanor. Subdued. Not gentle, but barely a hint of that authoritative grip; a statue unto himself.
“I…” Why hadn't you? Weakly, you shrug a shoulder. “I can’t answer that.” It’s a frank answer. No lie there; if the choice was conscious, it wasn’t one you remember now. In lieu of certainty, you can’t offer an adequate response.
He’s silent for a long moment. Hands in your lap fidget, but it isn’t the heavy expectant silence of some other meetings. You can almost see him carefully tasting his words, deciding how to approach the conversation.
“What happened?”
“Sevika said she was going to tell yo—”
“I’m asking you.”
Something twinges in your gut. You didn’t think his calm could hurt you so much, and you can’t tell why it does. Maybe you expected to be berated and ripped apart for your mistake; this even-footed respect is disorienting. Maybe it hurts because he can’t seem to meet you so evenly in… other matters.
Maybe you don’t think you deserve his patience.
Most likely, it’s some conflicted mess of all three.
“…I didn’t realize what I was doing.” Only barely loud enough to reach him across the desk. When he has no reaction, you swallow and continue. “The kid pointed a gun at me.” Eyes go blank as you try very hard not to remember it, but you can feel your chest tightening. “And I— shot him.” Breath coming faster.
You cross your arms, digging nails into your bicep, pinching hard, drawing awareness away from the rush of shame and fear and memory. Eyes drop to the desk, and you gnaw at the inside of your lip with one quick bite that’s too hard, immediately breaking skin and making you wince. Doesn’t matter, it’s serving its purpose. You blink away the empty, forcing yourself to continue.
“It wasn’t even a real gun,” the hint of disgust that turns your stomach is audible, brow furrowed. “He was a kid, with a paintball gun, and I shot him.”
He says your name quietly, but firm. Pulling your attention, even if the look you raise to him is pained. “The boy is fine. You didn’t kill him.”
Shaking your head, you focus on your lap once more, posture hunched, like you can somehow protect yourself from your own mess of frustration, revulsion, trepidation. “It’s not about killing him— or shooting him, even, it’s—” You choke on it, but soldier on. “I wasn’t there. I was…”
“You were here. Losing your hand.”
Drawing in a breath, you hold it, nodding stiffly. Again, he’s read your mind. You don’t think to wonder how he knows exactly what you were thinking in that moment.
There’s a silence again, and you just want him to take control. Give you something to do, someone to be, something to feel that isn’t this mess roiling inside you.
When it stretches on too long, you finally give in and look.
The mismatched gaze fixed on you is guarded: calculating, measuring you up. You’re wary of what it might mean, after… everything. But he doesn’t seem angry, or pitying, or stern, or any shade of malevolent, really. Not like he’s about to say you’re too unstable to be armed. He’s just… thoughtful.
Finally, he scoots his chair back and stands. Walking to you with measured steps, he offers his hand. Not for the prosthesis, either; skin for skin.
The burn of your ears seems to radiate heat as you look at his open palm. It feels— too close. After the disastrous way things ended the other day— and no glove. No barrier. No added protection of games and roles to fall into.
Just his hand, open for yours.
“What is this about?” You’re trying to ask more questions now, to keep things clear. This can’t be another moment he’ll just walk back later, leaving you once more alone.
Again, your name.
You want to take his hand. Badly.
“Indulge me. Please.”
It’s the please that does it. A wary glance up at him before you take his hand, heat zinging through you at the way he squeezes your palm as he helps you to your feet. Like a silly little girl with a crush, blush seeping across your chest and up your neck. Fixated on the ghost of calluses on his hand against yours, even if your eyes watch his face.
The hint of self-satisfaction in that hidden smirk makes your eyes narrow. Exactly what kind of plan is this?
For a second, you’re about to ask, before you realize he isn’t leading you away, but rather escorting you around to his side of the desk. Dropping your hand to lift the paper he’d been reading and set it in the corner of this desk. Clearing the center.
Your eyes linger on the empty space, recalling the last time his desk had been cleared.
Silco pulls the chair back, creating a gap plenty big enough for you. He gestures to the surface. “Sit.”
Warily, you hesitate. You said no more games, and this feels like it might be one— but part of you still wants to play. Or at least see what it is.
…You can call it off, if you need to. That’s your decision: see what he wants, and call it off if necessary. With that decided, you take the offered seat.
It’s a strange place, perched on his desk. Too many bad ideas flicker through your head as you settle, even as you beat them back into their hidden places again. (The things you’ve thought about doing on this desk— particularly after last week…)
“Comfortable?” Silco asks, standing with one hand on the back of his chair as he waits for an answer.
You shrug a shoulder, noncommittally.
A raised brow prompts a more satisfactory answer.
“Seems so.” …Okay, maybe you haven’t completely given up making things difficult.
There’s a twitch to his lips, that hidden smirk that flicks a thrum in your chest. In one smooth move, he’s seated, and you shift back as he grasps the edge of the desk to roll himself closer, pressing your knees open as he tucks his legs into the space beneath.
Involuntarily, your back arches for him, hips shifting nervously at how open and vulnerable your position feels. Thank fuck you wear pants nearly every day. At least there’s that consolation.
An appreciative glance rakes over your body regardless, sending heat straight to your core, though the position you’re in prevents you from properly relieving any of that newfound tension. Instead, the instinct to close your legs just presses them against his hands, earning you a knowing look that makes your face flush and eyelids feel heavy.
His eyes drop to your knees, and one hand flattens, his pinky brushing your inner thigh before he seems to think better of it and pulls away.
Once again you struggle to fend off thoughts of his hands roaming your body.
The clear eye closes, a slow intake of breath one of the most transparent tells you’ve ever seen from Silco. Trying to refocus, but on what?
He wheels back just enough to reach for his desk drawer. Suspicion pricks behind your ear, trying to recall anything you've ever seen him pull from the desk, and what drawer they were located in. You’re ticking through options that all feel too much too quickly when he pulls out the odd syringe you’d seen him use with Jinx. There’s a click as he locks one piece into place, then a soft tk tk of his finger flicking the barrel.
As neutral as you try to keep your face, there’s a certain confused notch between your brows. You can’t help but stare at the device, trying to determine how it works, before glancing to Silco’s face again.
There’s a very slight smile on his lips, but it’s more like a grimace. This isn’t something he looks forward to using, obviously. Fair: it looks painful.
The chair rolls between your legs again, and Silco leans back, gesturing with the device. “Like this.” He holds it well above the intended target, making sure to emphasize where the hand holds and where the fulcrum is on the lever, how low you can choke your grip while still being able to activate it. Squeezing the grip makes a click that reminds you of the injector you use for painkillers, and similarly a needle (even if this is much longer) stings out from the canister, a dose of cool-toned shimmer delivered into the air above his cheek rather than his eye.
Silco wipes the liquid from his skin with his other hand, not bothering to find a handkerchief. “Is that clear?”
“You… you want me to-”
He nods, already offering the syringe. When you don’t immediately take it, he pulls your wrist to him to place it there.
You jump at the contact. Anxiety makes your prosthesis tingle, hyper aware of what you should be feeling where his fingers touch you.
“…You’re sure you want-”
The firm way he says your name brokers no argument. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t believe you were capable.”
It shouldn’t steal your breath the way it does. He’d said it to Jinx, when she held his medicine in her hands. I trust you. That’s what this means. More than any I’m sorry, or I was wrong: this is an apology, and so much more.
He pulls the chair even closer, fully invading your space well before he leans back at an angle, watching you with an even stare, hands on the armrests. Ready. Prepared. Trusting.
Your ribs feel crushed, but you try to keep your hands as steady as possible.
“Take a breath,” he advises, voice low. You love that voice, when he speaks for an audience of one. “When you’re ready.”
A breath. Another.
You lean into his space, fully willing to complete the task, but unsure where to place your good hand to brace yourself.
Slim fingers take a gentle hold of your wrist, directing your fingers into his hairline, palm gently pressed against his forehead. The grip on your wrist is enough, but that brief combing hair between your fingers… Heat rushes through you at the contact, and right behind it a thin sparking wire of hurt, remembering the last time you got so close, and how he’d so quickly rejected you, striking right at your weakest points.
And now here he is. Baring his weakness to you, offering you a tool that can strike just as hard.
You look away from your task, examining his face, your own troubled.
“It’s okay.” His reassurance warms the air.
That thing fluttering in your chest won’t shut up. To silence it, you resolutely focus on the assignment, determined to do it right and not hurt him.
Lined up, eye socket in the cradle of the device. Hold your breath.
Click.
Instinctively the hand on his forehead drops to his shoulder, steadying him as he lurches forward, a grimace warping his features. You drop the device back on the desk and quickly steady his head again with the prosthesis. No sorry comes from your lips, because you already knew this would happen— you knew this is supposed to happen, even if seeing him in pain wrenches at your gut.
A trickle of shimmer leaks from the bad eye, and you swipe it away with a ceramic thumb—
A tiny noise of surprise catches in your throat.
Again, you swipe your thumb over the scarred skin. Then your other fingers. The tingling is brief, and settles, but you still feel warmth. You still—
Breath hitches, throat constricting, and you do it again.
You cup his cheek and run the thumb up the valleys of scars, barely brushing against skin. Softer than you’ve been able to achieve until now. Because now…
Tears spring to your eyes, fingers fanning across the scarred half of his face, breath uneven.
“I—” You can’t even find words.
For the first time in over a month, you have a hand again.
Every little divot, every puckered edge of old wounds, the heat of his cheek, the minuscule hairs on those areas left untouched— you feel it all.
There’s no attempt to hide the overwhelming flood that seizes you in its grip. Wonder and relief and bittersweet pain that you’d missed it for so long, all playing out across your face, inches from his. You still stare at his scars, at the ceramic fingers tracing along them— your fingers, finally feeling a part of you.
Flesh hand digs into his shoulder, excitement making you shift on your perch, push closer, reveling in the sensation.
It’s clear this is connected to the shimmer, because not every inch has gained feeling, just the textured finger pads that brushed the medication from his cheek. Realization clicks that that’s why your wrist tingled as well, once he took it with shimmer-touched fingers. Whatever mix he has, whatever specialized formula is in that syringe, that’s the key. Part of you wants to drench the hand in that mix, but you don’t want to let go.
A delicate touch follows the ashen curve beneath his eye, the half-missing eyebrow, then up along one deep scar to finger the start of the distinct light streak in his hair. A short breath breaks from lips parted with amazement at the fine texture freshly available to those fingers. Drawing down the scars again. Back up, in a slow lazy pattern.
Down, up, mapping his fault lines. Worshipping his injuries with your own.
It’s only his sigh of breath that makes you zoom out, to see more than just your fingers caressing skin. His good eye is closed, though there’s a small touch of concern pulling his brows together, just slightly. Lips are tight but not distressed exactly...
Again, it’s an expression you know.
Want.
Need for more, and a refusal to act on that need.
—At least, assuming you’re reading him correctly.
The thing in your chest beats against your rib cage frantically, heart speeding as you consider the choice you’re halfway done making.
Fingers cup his cheek. Ceramic thumb follows those lines again, down to the point where they meet his lip. It brushes across the skin there, running back and forth over lips far softer than you expected, marveling at every little ridge you can feel, how you can suddenly feel his breath hitting skin that no longer exists.
Maybe you didn’t consider this decision at all, because not a single consequence has cemented itself in your mind. Your body acts on its own, bending to close the distance between you. Hardly a fraction of a second of hesitation.
You press your lips to the corner of his mouth, to the spot where the scars end, still cupping his face with your ceramic hand. A kiss without kissing.
—
[Happy new year! Feels about time we get some real intimacy y’know? 😏
Anyway, I originally intended to post this Christmas Eve, but then I got in a car crash on the 16th (I’m fine, my car isn’t) and had to deal with all that while my parents were out of town, an underwhelming holiday, followed by a 12-to-24 hour stomach bug the day after getting back to my apartment. Overall, a bit of a mess for the holidays 🥲 Thanks go out to anyone who helped me shoulder the cost of all of that, it really did add up when it comes to the ridiculous price of a cross-state-lines car rental. And also, though they’ll never read this, thanks to my fellow Jewish families that I can rely on to feed me when I’m left alone on Christmas Eve/day 😅 Honestly, I was super lucky to have the friends and family I have, it made all of this mess bearable.
ANYWAY.
I only have like 85-90% of the next chapter written, and I want to find some way to bring it to at least somewhat of a conclusion, since I haven’t been able to write for shit lately, but want to give some degree of closure for loyal readers. We’ll see what I can manage, I guess! But the original intention of posting 29-31 before the end of the year… welp. That apparently isn’t going to happen >< Holiday complications were unexpected. Regardless, I have to do the regular plugs and requests, so; if you liked this chapter, let me know! Comments, reblogs, responses on the ao3 post, etc— and if you want to find more content (reverse POVs you may have missed, art you may not have seen (new art coming soon!), fics from friends, etc) you can find all of that on the story’s masterpost here on tumblr. If you want to be tagged in the next (and potentially last?) chapter of this fic, just comment on this linked post to join the tag list.
I love you all so much, it always thrills me to see people’s reactions, and this has been a bright spot in the mess of the last couple weeks. ❤️ -verbs]
Been meaning to get to this for awhile, @ink-and-dagger and I figured since my brain won't allow me to write much else right now, I'd write about an old man crying during sex. Here!
Aka: Me luring you into a sense of mild safety before things take an extreme turn for the worse around 400 words in. Idk what happened, i'm so sorry
NSFW Explicit - Cursed Crack fic I'm so sorry
You ascended the stairs of the Last Drop slowly, that half-cocked smile and burning gaze emblazoned into your mind’s eye, suffusing you with the kind of nervous jitters that made you weak at the knees.
Janna, it was really happening, wasn’t it? Weeks he’d lorded over you from above, his heated eyes watching you from the balcony, making his desires quite clear as he’d watched you work the crowded bar so well. Perhaps Silco liked a smooth talker – someone with a bit of bite.
Then tonight, the small, inconspicuous nod before he’d melded with the shadows; as he’d dared you to gather your courage and climb your way to the lion’s den.
And there you stood in the doorway of his office, cocked hip and easy smile doing little to hide the rigidity in your muscles, the nerves lighting through your veins.
Silco smiled, amused but not unkind.
“Drink?” He offered graciously, completely poised.
You exhaled something between a sigh and a laugh. “Please.”
It was strange, how at ease he made you feel straight away, your conversation making its way over to the couch. Knees touched, a hand fell innocently to rest upon your knee and before you could even put words to the spectacular pull of him, you were nearly entangled, the tips of your noses brushing delicately.
“I must confess, I’ve been eyeing you for quite some time now.”
“Well,” you said, palm sliding teasing up his thigh, thumb brushing lightly across the hardening length in his trousers, “you weren’t very subtle.” He chuckled, throat thick with lust. “And I must confess, I have… ideas about you.”
“Oh? Do tell.” His breath was hot against your lips.
“I think…” you swallowed. “I think you like it rough.”
He hummed in amusement, but the spark in his eyes had you continuing with a growing fervor.
“Not just rough, Silco, I think you like it mean.” You straddled his lap, “I think you want me to be mean.”
His lidded eye fluttered closed momentarily when your hand slid to fully grasp him, sliding up to slowly unclasp the buttons of his pants.
“Hm?” You leaned into his ear, demanding an answer and he released a shaky laugh before bringing his hand up to cup your cheek.
“Give me your very worst, darling.”
All clothes were shucked quickly and your tongues battled for dominance like when you put two betta fish in a tank together and they say “fuck you man, this is my house”.
It wasn’t long before you’d sunk down onto him. Your palms rolled up his bare chest, hairless with nipples that were probably the teeniest you’d ever seen. So teeny that you’d probably mistake them for insect bites if you didn’t have basic knowledge of anatomy. Very teeny.
“You’re so smooth, Silco. Like your skin has never been touched by the sun. Don’t get out much, do you?”
You twisted a teeny nipple between thumb and forefinger. “Do you like it when I’m mean?” The subsequent groan and quick rise of his chest was telling, but you wanted to hear him say it. “Do you want me to call you names? Insult you?”
“Y-yes,” he said, and it’s like he can hardly believe you’re real, his cheeks flushed and his hands gripping your hips so tightly. His orbs penetrated your orbs sexually and emotionally. “I do.”
“You want my attention so badly, huh?” You leaned down and whispered into his ear. “Starved for it?”
“For someone with such power,” you continued, “you sure do crumble easily.”
“Fuck,” he spoke between clenched teeth.
“Slut,” you said and he jackhammered up into you like you were a slab of hard concrete. As if his penis was the jackhammer and a jackhammer had been deemed necessary for this particular construction endeavor.
“But you’re so dirty beneath all those nice clothes. And so bony.” You gripped his slender arms and squeezed. “I’m surprised you can keep up, old man.”
He released a gasp and smashed his lips against yours before murmuring against them. “You won’t be able to walk when I’m done with you.”
“Sure.” You dragged your hands through his styled back hair as you bounced on him, his cock so long you actually had to fully stand on the couch cushions in order to reach the tip. “Ever considered using a comb?”
Something odd glimmered through the haze of lust and his brows furrowed in confusion. You grinned. “You have a funny little cowlick. Seems to me like the Eye of Zaun should have himself a proper mirror.”
“...Hey…”
You flicked the tuft of hair.
“HEY THAT’S NOT FUNNY.” And he suddenly shoved you off of him, marching to the giant window behind his desk and dramatically looking out upon the buzz of the city below, one palm attempting to smooth down the tuft.
After a long pause, he murmured your name so softly. “...I try really hard. To get it to stay down.”
His dick and balls kind of just hung there and you wondered how it must look to everybody outside because it was definitely dark out there and he was very very visible in here with the lights turned on.
“What?”
He spun around and his expression was seething, but it seemed a protective mechanism to mask the tears very visibly dripping down his face. His bare ass now pressed back against the office window and since it was so flat in shape, you worried that anyone outside would probably be able to see up his entire butthole.
“You think I don’t try?!”
You opened your mouth but he interrupted. “I work hard to make sure this tuft stays in place.” His shoulders drooped. “But it just… won’t.”
You patted the couch. “Please come back and sit with me. I’m sorry for what I said. I truly didn’t mean it.”
Trudging back to you, he slumped back into the couch, his hand combing nervously through his hair.
“Hey. Hey. You don’t have to do that. I think it’s perfect, Silco, I really do.”
In honor of both our beloved ratman and the glorious Arcane fandom, it is with great pleasure we offer all our fellow simps the 2023 Silco Calendar! This work of friendship and love is dedicated to everyone that has created and built this fandom in the past year and to the amazing people who call it home. A gift of gratitude to everyone who shares the love of this incredible show and it’s amazing characters.
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—@astudyincontrasts & @mazikomo
Things are mixed up in your head. A jumble of reality and memory, mashing together that night and minutes ago. You don’t even realize you’re going the wrong way until you’re halfway there, limbs feeling stiff and squeaky as you walk.
The Damascus street gym is locked. You stand outside, blank, for some amount of time. You have to be here in the morning anyway. Convenient if you could just blink and have it be morning.
It’s unclear how long you’re there, staring at a locked door. Eventually, exhausted, you press a hand to the metal, rest your forehead against it as you close your eyes. Your body has started to calm down, but your brain is still messy. Voice stolen, mouth sealed shut. A buzz in your head that keeps you from fully thinking anything out, so loud to drown out noise around you.
A questioning voice calls your name, and you turn your head, opening bloodshot eyes to someone half-familiar. You know a name and a face, but only in passing.
“You looking for—” They falter. “…You okay?”
“Hn.” Your single nod shouldn’t be particularly encouraging, not when you can’t even get yourself to speak, but you don’t know each other so they take it at face value.
“Need to be let in?”
“Mmhm.” Lips pressed thin into a polite smile more like a grimace, you give another, “hn,” to substitute for thanks as you peel away from their path after entering, and head straight for the locker rooms.
Should take a cold shower. Something to shock you out of your head.
Leather slapping against your skin, forcing you into the present. An inability to focus on anything else.
That would work, too.
The shot was ranged, not close enough to splatter, so your clothes are free of blood. But you still wear them into the shower as if they aren’t, too tired to change, and sensing the blood there regardless of its existence. Palms on the tile, the cold water drags your mind to the surface, like an anchor pulled to the bow, crystalizing behind, a solid block of ice to stop you sinking deep again.
By the time you realize what a completely fucking stupid idea you’ve had, it’s too late.
“…Shit.” You drag your hand against your face, clearing water from your eyelashes as you push aside the curtain and step out.
Fucking idiot.
You fumble to undo your holster, your belt, letting it all drop onto the floor. So much for saving that food for later, it’s undoubtedly ruined by whatever water made it into your belt pouch. Your gun shouldn’t be submerged either, so who knows what damage that’s caused. You attempt to tug off your boots, unable to balance until you lean against the wall and scrabble at the laces, tipping a good quarter cup of water out of them once you have them off. Dumbly running a hand through your hair, you grimace as the prosthetic fingers tangle in the braids from earlier.
“Stupid…” You grumble, wrestling off half-soaked clothes one item at a time.
They cling. The more you notice it the more claustrophobic you feel. The more claustrophobic you feel, the more desperately you try to pull, the more they seem to cling.
By the time you’ve stripped down to your underwear, panic is choking you. You lurch back into the shower stall, gasping under the cold water, finally feeling able to breathe as you unhook the front of your bra and peel it away.
Just cold water. And breath.
Just breath.
Breathe.
…
Fuck shit fucking dammit. What the fuck is going on. Why did you do that? Why did you do this?
Goosebumps bloom under the freezing cold water, but you feel more awake than ever. Fingers carefully undo the wet ties on the braids you’d made to match Jinx’s, grimacing as hair tugs and pinches.
This is bad. You’ve never felt so… detached before today. Divorced from your own body, your own mind, somehow gone and trapped at once. It doesn’t make sense, when you’d succeeded that night— the night of the shooting, you’d saved a life, spared another (for the time being), and been completely in control the whole time. Adrenaline had kept you sane and steady, had let you stay calm despite not knowing the fate of your hand.
But one fake gun pointed in your face and it all crumbles?
You comb through wet hair, jaw tight to stop your teeth from chattering. Eventually you let yourself turn up the heat to something warmer than straight ice.
It’s terrifying, if you think about it head-on, if you confront the reality of what just happened. Shooting someone without fully making the decision to do so. So you try not to remember, try not to look at the situation directly. Think around it. Let it stand as a blank space, a fogged haze, as you deal with the rest, to confront later.
Where are you now? What’s your current predicament?
Well, it’s some time after… who knows. After 11? Maybe midnight, or 1. You have no idea how much time has passed. Could be minutes, could be hours. For all you know, the sun is coming up in Piltover right about now.
You’re supposed to be at this gym at 10am. At least, that’s the schedule you’ve been keeping to. You managed to warn Wren one day that you might be late the next, and she’d been shockingly understanding. Hopefully she’ll be understanding of you showing up hours early and - you realize the inevitably of it - sleeping in the locker room.
Well, it won’t be the first time you’ve napped here, at least.
Don’t think about what happened, think about how to fix it.
Right. Yes. Good.
You have to get used to guns again. Whatever it takes. You’ll lurk at the shooting range all day if you have to. Hear gunshot after gunshot.
Stop— stop it, stupid stupid pulse, calm down, this is theoretical. Stop the racing, stop the tightness in the chest, just— stop.
You turn the faucet back to colder water, angrily; if your body won’t cooperate, you’ll just shock it again until it does.
This is sane and normal behavior and I am totally fine.
Gods, you don’t believe a solid third of your self-talk these days.
The cold water does its job, leaving you shivering and blue-lipped, but all signs of panic retreated in favor of responding to the physical shock of it. Turning the heat up again, you shed the last of your forgotten underwear and try to actually bathe, wash your hair, do all of those good reassuring things that make you feel normal and human.
You’ll sleep here. You’ll talk to Wren when she gets in.
You’ll get past this.
You have to get past this.
—
“Hey— not to alarm you or anything, but what the fuck.”
Opening bleary eyes, you find Wren looking down at you, brows furrowed in a transparent concern you rarely see on anyone in the Undercity.
“Hn. Morning,” you mumble, good hand rubbing at your eyes as you struggle to sit up.
“Gods—” Wren averts her eyes, holding out a hand, “keep the towel on, please.”
You glance down blearily. “Oh. Yeah.” Didn’t have dry clothes. At least you had the foresight to drape the wet ones over another locker room bench. You half ignore Wren’s request, letting the towel fall to your waist as you look around for your stuff. It doesn’t look that much drier than when you fell asleep. “What time is it?”
“6:30.” Again, she pleads, this time by name.
“Fine, fine,” you gesture loosely with the prosthetic hand and use the towel you’d had as a pillow to wrap around your shoulders. “I don’t see what the big deal is, you have boobs too.”
“It’s— different.”
“Not really. So yours came later, it’s all the same general stuff.” Gods, you’re sore. You grimace.
“Not cause— not cause you’re naked, cause it’s 6:30 in the morning and I’m supposed to be opening the gym and instead I come in to find a wanted woman, nude, sleeping in my locker room, potentially drunk-”
“Wanted?” That wakes you up. “Janna, I’m wanted? By who? The kid was trying to steal from me, it was— I mean, at least it was somewhat justified; I didn’t kill him.”
“Kid?” Wren’s gaze sharpens as well, embarrassment ebbing in favor of shrewd evaluation. “What kid?”
“You answer mine first.”
“Silco. Or Sevika. Maybe some other chem baron and they’re getting to you first, don’t know, just know eyes are out looking for you. Didn’t tell me why, just heard you weren’t at your place when they went looking. You drunk?”
They went looking? It shouldn’t make your stomach flip that way. You should feel scared or ashamed, not fluttery. “No. Sleep-deprived, but not drunk.”
“Then why the hell you sleeping in my locker room?”
You stare for a second, the reality of the situation coming back to you. You can feel the pained furrow between your brows as you look away. “I dunno. I freaked out. Or— I blacked out, I don’t know. A kid tried to mug me and I shot him. And then I was here. I’m not—” You feel your heart rate picking up again, and grit your teeth, forcing your breath steady. “I don’t think anything else happened in between. Just came here and— and took a shower. I mean, I have to be here in three hours, anyway.”
“…In your clothes?” Wren’s wry words are almost a relief, and when you look at her she has a brow raised at your clothes draped over the other bench.
“Didn’t want to pay the laundry service,” you say, tone dry.
“…They do like to overcharge.”
Something loosens in your chest. She doesn’t hate you, isn’t mad at you, doesn’t think you’re insane— probably, at least. And maybe you’re not. No: you definitely aren’t insane. It’s just… just bad memories, that’s all. Fucking with your head. You’ll get over it.
“So I guess I’m in early.”
“And you need a change of clothes.”
“That too, yeah.” You hesitate. Finally, some degree of shame creeps in. “…Can you help?”
The look she turns on you is uncharacteristically soft in the eyes, despite the firm line of her mouth. “Thought you’d never ask.”
You never would’ve. Before your injury you never needed to, content to handle everything alone. You are too damn lucky to have allies like Wren. Friends, even.
By the time you’re dressed in some spare clothes from the community storerooms, you’ve realized just how exhausted you are. When did you fall asleep, 1? 2? And awake again just a few hours later? All of that after whatever happened last night - this morning? - that had you a shivering wreck.
Yeah, you’re fuckin’ tired.
Wren gives in to your not-so-subtle pleading to skip out on opening the gym and doing the end-of-night (or earliest morning) drills that some graveyard shift regulars like to do. You will never understand people who go to the gym after work instead of heading home, when it’s any time past 2am.
Instead, she opens up the makeshift infirmary that’s usually locked unless there’s an emergency, and directs you to the cot.
“When you’re awake, we should talk plans for the day.”
Oh good, you were worried she’d ask what happened last night, ask for more details. You cannot handle that right now. Possibly not ever. Ideally this whole incident will be completely forgotten and you’ll never have to think of it again.
They went looking for you.
The sudden rush of heat as your face flushes with mortification makes your head spin, and you roll over to face away from the infirmary door. Gods, they went looking for you. You made enough of a fool of yourself that they had to seek you out to mitigate the damage. And then Wren just assumed you were drunk… You really did humiliate yourself that night at the Drop, didn’t you? If people are so quick to assume you’re a drunken nuisance.
You groan, closing your eyes. At least you can hide from your responsibilities just a little bit longer.
—
Inaccurate: your responsibilities have found you.
A few hours later, when your body is satisfied that it’s gotten enough sleep, you surface from unconsciousness to find Sevika dozing in a chair. Specifically, in a chair placed unavoidably between you and the door to the infirmary.
For a hot second, you consider pretending to be asleep again, waiting for her to wake up, get bored of waiting, and leave— but 100% you know she’ll wake you once she runs out of patience. Kinda shocked she let you sleep as long as she has. What time is it, anyway?
Habit has you reaching for the spot on your waist where you’d usually keep your timepiece, before remembering it’s still with your wet clothes after your mindless trudge into the shower after midnight. Grimacing, you wonder how ruined your kit is.
“Awake?” You must’ve missed Sevika’s stirring. Or maybe she really was half awake the whole time.
“No,” you mumble, half sheepish half spiteful.
Sevika’s scoff at least sounds somewhat amused. Can’t tell if it’s with you or at you, though.
“Fuck, girl, what the hell happened last night?”
She doesn’t know? “I shot a guy.”
“Yeah, we picked up on that part. But why weren’t you at your place?”
Your brain gradually dissects her loose tone. Not angry, not even strict; she really is amused.
“I shot a guy,” you repeat, pointedly.
Sevika’s brows quirk, bemused. The way she says your name has dry humor to rival Silco’s. “That’s literally your job, kid. You shoot people a lot— or used to, when necessary.”
Ok— well, she’s right, but- “This guy didn’t need to get shot.”
“You didn’t kill him,” she points out, shrugging a shoulder. “I’m sure it was justified-”
“I didn’t mean to do it,” you blurt. A flush burns on your cheeks, your ears, your neck.
Grey eyes narrow. Lips thin. But she doesn’t say anything.
The burn feels hotter, more ashamed. “He pointed a gun at me— it wasn’t even a real gun, Sevika, gods— he pointed a gun, and it was that night all over again.”
Her silence is far from reassuring.
You babble to fill the empty air. “It was a fucking paintball gun. I shot him because he had a paintball gun,” you can’t help the hint of disgust in your tone. “And then I— I don’t know. I just blacked out, and then I was here.”
All amusement has disappeared from her face, the bluish scars on her cheek seeming etched deeper. “…You know I have to tell him that, right?”
You blink. “If I’m honest, I kinda already thought he knew.” You’re not sure why. It just… feels like he’d know, instinctually. Which is stupid. You haven’t seen him in nearly a week, there’s no reason he should know anything about your life, let alone what was going on in your head when you shot a teenaged mugger.
There’s no question of who he is. Sevika is Silco’s right hand, and— Well, your right hand is his.
“You really had people out looking for me?”
Sevika grimaces. “Not quite. There’s a kid paid to keep an eye on your place - to make sure no one’s going after the investment, all that - and he usually gives the ok when you’re back at your place for the night.”
The blank expression you give her hides a flurry of emotions. Surprise, yes, but more importantly some mix of indignant and flattered. Some little spark of hope that you quickly stifle. Some hint of care. Should you be angry that Silco has you watched? Or have this fluttery feeling that he’s trying to protect you? You’re the investment, he’d made that clear— to you, at least, if not his people.
“When that didn’t come, someone traced back to the lab, heard about a shooting, your description, but all witnesses seemed to think it was justified. …Kinda the risk of mugging someone,” she muses with cynical humor.
Brows lift, tilting your head. She’s not wrong.
“He asked me to check your place, so I did. Since you weren’t there, we put out some feelers.”
Is it weird that her use of ‘we’ is as heartwarming as it is embarrassing? It’s nice to know people look for you when you’re missing, even if it’s mildly mortifying that while they were looking for you you were half-catatonic, fully clothed, in a cold shower. You cringe.
Sevika’s tone goes wry again. “We called it a night and then 7-fucking-AM I get woken up and told Wren called it in, and you’re both alive and crashing at the gym.” Her tone makes it clear that she sees absolutely no logic in choosing this place.
“I have 10am practice,” you mutter, cheeks stained.
A beat of silence, and Sevika snorts. “No you don’t.”
Your brow furrows. “Uh, yeah, I do.”
Her lips are curving to a knowing smirk as she shakes her head. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
Another scoffed laugh. “Kid, it’s 2pm. And if you think you aren’t being called straight to the boss’s office, your brain must still be M.I.A.”
Well, if it wasn’t, it is now.
—
[Welp. It’s been a bit. In all honesty, my writing ability has kinda up and disappeared, but I had 2.8 chapters in the backlog, so as a holiday/new year gift, have 29 and 30 (and hopefully 31, though I need to figure out how the heck to end it). I’m notoriously bad at finishing things, but hopefully these three chapters will offer resolution on… 👀 a few things.
Funny how last time I said I’d post on the 15-16th, and… well, I guess I’m 3 months late, but it IS the 16th, and I AM going out of town today, so I was technically telling the truth! 😅 I know I haven’t been replying to comments (typical shame and guilt for not updating), but I’ll be getting to those now that I have a plan for posting, and have accepted the hard truth that brain no like write right now. Regardless, I still love reading peoples thoughts and reactions, so please drop a comment or tag!
Insert your usual plugs-per-chapter; give it a reblog if you liked it, check it out on AO3 (I always recommend subscribing, so if/when I update, you don’t have to be checking every single day and be disappointed ><), and you can find the reverse POV pieces on AO3 and tumblr. Get added to the tag list by commenting on this linked post, so you’ll know when the last of the end-of-year gifts drop! ^^
I can’t thank y’all enough for sticking around and loving this fic, even if I’m flaky as hell when it comes to finishing things when my brain won’t cooperate 🤦♀️ I adore each and every one of you, and appreciate you to the ends of the earth. Also… I may have commissioned a few pieces of Ivy (reader OC) that I’ll try to post before the end of the year as well. There are some amazing artists on tumblr, and I love just searching the ‘commissions open’ tag and finding cool styles to comm. Some discord friends have already seen me freak out over comms, so they know what’s coming 😁 Thanks for all the support, and hope you’re staying cozy this winter! (/cool this summer, for the Southern Hemisphere folks) ❤️ -verbs]
Summary: A raging storm threatens the lives of everyone aboard the ship. You do what you can to help, but the real storm comes in the form of your volatile Captain.
Chapter Tags/TW: explicit sexual content, p in v, power dynamics, dirty talk/taunting, spanking, punishment, denial, improper nautical safety procedures, a sprinkling of murder,
Word Count: 11k
Rating: Explicit/MDNI
You grasp at anything you can sink your fingers into.
Silco is on his feet, shoving on his boots and buttoning his shirt.
"What's happening?" you ask, knowing it's a stupid question and you'll likely get an insulting answer.
"Storm," he grunts before striding out of the cabin. You hear shouts between crew members and quickly realize the ship isn't facing a simple squall.
You tug on your boots and leave the cabin.
The deck is in chaos. The lanterns have been extinguished by the storm. The only source of light comes from rapid flashes of lightning. You dart into the fray. You might not be the savviest sailor of the bunch but storm protocols had been drilled into your head as a precaution.
The crew scurries along the deck and up into the rigging to secure the sails so the Zaun's Revenge doesn't get pulled further into the storm.
You move without thought, grabbing a line and yanking with all your might. The twine digs into your hands as rain pelts your skin but you keep pulling until your line gives way, but yours is one of three that can sheet the sail in question.
The tattooed man that rowed you aboard yanks on one, but the third seems to be stuck somewhere along the mast.
Rain comes down in violent sheets, pelting you hard enough to leave welts on your skin. It hurts to tip your face to the sky but something has to be done about the jammed rigging.
Lightning flashes just as you happen to steal a quick glance at the sails. For a split second, the world is thrown into light and you spot twin streaks of bright blue shimmying across the yard of the foresail.
A dark wave smashes into the port side, sending you reeling back. Even Sevika loses her footing and hits the railing with enough force that the tattooed man has to grab her to keep her from tumbling into the raging sea.
Another bolt of lightning has you glancing up at the foremast. Jinx is nowhere to be seen.
The ship is thrown into darkness once more. Waves rise and fall on all sides of the Zaun's Revenge, some high enough to blot out the low-hanging stars strung between the horizon and the storm clouds.
Between the rain and waves, you’re caught in a constant downpour. Your clothing sticks to you like a second skin, offering no protection from the biting wind. With great effort, you make it to the base of the foremast. You reach out to steady yourself against the wood only to touch a shoulder instead.
You're struck by bits of metal woven through braids as Jinx spins around.
"Hold this!" she demands before you can process relief that she's not fighting for her life overboard in the dark. She shoves a length of rigging into your hands. "Hold tight and brace yourself."
You wrap your hands around the line but you aren't sure what you're meant to brace for. You're already doing all you can to stay upright as the ship bucks against the sea.
When the next lightning strike hits, Jinx fires a single shot. The line in your hands goes slack. If the line is severed, how can the sail be secured?
"Pull," Jinx instructs, taking up some of the rigging. You pull with her, fully expecting the line to come down around your feet but it doesn't.
Somehow, Jinx fixed the rigging with an impossible shot, using a pistol that still fired after being thoroughly drenched. You don't have time to ponder that mystery.
A terrible crack rings out over the roar of the storm.
You fear the worst, expecting to see one of the masts fractured, careening toward the deck. Thankfully, that hasn’t happened. One of the remaining unfurled sails has broken loose from the rigging and flaps around like a beast in a trap.
You turn to Jinx only to find yourself standing alone.
Turning your back to the wind, you drag yourself toward the stern. There is nothing you can do to secure the loose part of the sail, so you fall in line with the rest of the crew working to get it at least mostly furled. The sail will not escape being damaged in the storm, but it also won't catch the wind and drag the Zaun's Revenge further into the heart of the storm.
You repeat the process over and over, following the lead of the crew members around you. They say nothing to you aside from an occasional correction. Most seem glad to have an extra pair of hands able to fight against the wind.
Your hands sting, burning both from the roughness of the hemp lines and the vicious chill in the air, but you push on until all of the sails are tucked up.
Now, the Zaun's Revenge only has to battle the water. The notion brings you no relief as a cresting wave pours onto the deck, knocking you off your feet.
Sputtering and scrambling, you grapple for purchase and attempt to orient yourself.
You spot an orange glow, an ember in the dark. Lightning splinters across the sky revealing Silco at the helm. Eyes shining and teeth bared, he snarls at the storm as if he would dominate a very force of nature. As if he would succeed in doing so. As if it were a question of pure willpower and nothing else.
And here you are, crumpled on the deck, unable to move, completely and utterly captivated by him.
The trance breaks only when you're roughly hauled to your feet. You aren't sure who pulled you up. Whoever it was is already gone. Remembering yourself, you focus on being useful, lending a hand where you can.
You aren't sure how much time passes when a hand takes hold of your forearm. You don't have to look to know who it is. His touch has already become recognizable to you.
Silco pulls you across the deck, ensuring you stay upright when waves assault the hull. He doesn't look back at you and you can barely make out his shape through the rain.
Above, you think you see slivers of moonlight breaking through the clouds. You consider that a good sign. Perhaps the worst of the storm is over.
Silco brings you into his quarters, shutting out the storm when you're both inside. The quiet of the room shocks your senses, though it's far from silent.
The ship creaks and groans as she's thrown about like a child's toy in a bathtub. The wind howls as rain slams into that unusual window. Yet, it's still quiet enough for you to hear Silco's labored breathing as he braces himself against his desk. Your own breathing is far from quiet as well, though adrenaline stops you from feeling the effects of so much physical labor.
Your heart pounds. You're shocked you can't hear it.
"You shouldn't have been out there," Silco says after regaining much of the composure you've come to expect from him.
"You needed all the help you could get."
You move toward the desk, deciding the bed isn't solid enough to brace on. If you lie down, you'll never get back up. Once you catch your breath, you have every intention of going back out to help.
The ship pitches and you can't correct yourself in time. You brace, prepared to crash into something when Silco's arm slips around your waist and pulls you flush against him.
You gaze up at him, lips parted in surprise. Weak moonlight, fighting against the thick storm clouds with all its might, bleeds into the room. Soft green light just barely allows you to see Silco's face in the dark, save for that eye which gives off a faint glow of its own. He looks surprised to find you so close to him though he's the one who pulled you in.
His good eye dips to your mouth.
Something tightens in your core. You feel the ghosts of his touches in the tavern gliding over your skin. Warmth blooms on your neck exactly where his lips brushed your skin before. Your shirt, made completely translucent by the rain, does nothing to conceal the stiff peaks of your nipples.
The ship rocks again. Your chest brushes against his and a soft sigh escapes your lips.
That's all it takes. That little sound shatters the frost-thin barrier of restraint between you and him. The arm around the small of your back tightens and his free hand grips your jaw.
He kisses you hard, not giving you even a moment to think before taking your bottom lip between his teeth. He bites down hard enough to make you gasp. The tip of his tongue glides over your lip, soothing the small hurt he just inflicted.
The cabin pitches, pulling you backward.
You grab fistfuls of his shirt with the intention of keeping yourself in place against him but he pushes forward, using the momentum of the ship to direct you to the bed. Between feverish, almost desperate kisses, you take the chance to bite him back, pulling a deep laugh from his chest.
"Little fighter," he murmurs against your mouth right before he pushes you back onto the bed.
Your skirt flares around you, leaving your legs exposed. You gaze up at him from the bed, his figure a dark slash through the moonlit room, eye glowing like a tiny sun.
He runs both hands up your legs as he leans forward. One hand comes up to pinch a nipple through your shirt while the other urges your legs apart. He covers his body with yours, slotting his hips between your thighs. You wind a hand into his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours.
He rocks into you, groaning when you push up into him. You feel him straining against his pants. He pushes, you push back. You grab at him, he grabs at you. You match every bite and tug and pull, inflicting yourselves on each other until he pulls away just enough to look at you.
You know you must look a sight. Chest heaving beneath your soaked-through shirt. Lips swollen from violent kisses. Cheeks flushed and hair fanned out around you in a messy halo.
You expect him to look undone too if the fierceness behind his kisses and the hard press of him against you is anything to go by. Except he doesn't. At all.
He looks at you the same way he looked at the storm. Like you're a force to be dominated and he relishes the challenge.
The way he watches you stirs something in your chest, something beyond a simple desire for carnal pleasure. You swallow it down before lifting your head, eager to wipe out every thought with more kisses.
He doesn't let you kiss him. Delight glitters in his good eye as he denies you. The corner of his mouth lifts into something between a smirk and a sneer.
"For such a mean little creature, you're very needy."
Anger stokes inside you, creating a twin flame to your desire.
"For someone so above it all," you say with as much disdain as you can muster, "you're awfully desperate."
A hollow chuckle tears from the hard set of his mouth. His beryl eye narrows as he studies you, searching for something.
No, not searching, you soon realize. Waiting.
A breath before you start squirming under his scrutiny, a long-fingered hand binds your wrists together and pins them over your head. The movement is so fast and fluid you don't have a chance to react until it's too late. He has you pinned.
His free hand drags up your thigh and higher still. A sharp, stuttering gasp rips from your throat as he drags an icy finger through the slick heat at the apex of your thighs.
"Are you wet for me again, treasure? Or are you wet for me still?"
That infernal smugness, that damn self-assuredness, makes your blood boil.
"I could ask you the same question, pirate," you snarl, remembering who you are. You arch against him, pressing yourself against his length. "Have you been aching and hard since the tavern or do I have that strong of an effect on you?"
"You're asking the wrong question," he murmurs.
"What question should I be asking?"
"Not how hard you make me." He removes his hand from between your thighs to press himself into you. "But if you want it"
You open your mouth to answer only to stop yourself by digging your teeth into your bottom lip.
"Don't go quiet on me now," he taunts. "That bratty little mouth of yours must have plenty to say."
You clench your teeth, unwilling to bend your pride so quickly.
"Come on, treasure," he purrs. "Do you want it?"
"Yes," the word bubbles from your lips before you can rein yourself in. But why should you rein yourself in? You want him. You want him so badly, you could bottle your desire and sell it to fools and romantics alike.
Fabric bristles as he frees himself from the constricting fit of his trousers. You wiggle your hips in an ineffective attempt to get your skirt out of the way. He lowers himself, the head of his cock brushes against your center. Every nerve in your body hones in on that little point of forbidden contact.
Your gaze flicks up to his, your eyes meet, and the world seems to go still and quiet. The ship ceases her rocking. The wind silences its ravenous howl.
Then the ocean's chaos ignites once more. Lightning flashes, bright and blinding, as he slides into you. Roaring, booming thunder cracks through the world, masking the cry that rips from your throat as he buries himself to the hilt.
While it's been several years since you'd been intimate with anyone, no amount of practice could have prepared you for this.
For him.
Thick, throbbing, and hard as steel, you struggle to take him. He isn't gentle or slow as he plunges into you again and again, yet you relish the shocks of pain deliciously woven into the pleasure.
His head drops, his mouth finding the tender spot he lavished tiny, teasing kisses upon only hours ago. You expect more of those kisses now only to cry out once again as he sinks his teeth into you.
"Too rough for the soft, pretty heiress?" he laughs against your skin, content to give you those feather-light kisses now. Arms still pinned above you, the only thing you can do is turn your head toward him. Your lips brush his ear. The moan that escapes him is a gravelly echo of the thunder rumbling all around you. You do it again and again until you find his earlobe...
And bite.
Your canine punctures delicate skin. Silco's breath hitches as he pulls back.
Surprise, shock even, simmers behind that burning eye and lingers in the twitch of his upper lip. You enjoy it, both the sight and the knowledge that you can catch him off guard even when you're on your back, hands pinned and thighs spread.
Even with his cock buried inside of you, pulling your mind deeper into a haze of pleasure with every punishing thrust, you are not outmatched.
Free from the confines of your world, a world of rules and expectations forever keeping you off-balance - your poor imitation of peace as fragile as an eggshell - you can go head-to-head with the most fearsome pirate in the realm and catch him off guard.
Now that you've had that little taste of power, you want more. You want it as badly as you want Silco's next thrust or bite or kiss.
"Rough enough for you, pirate?" Now it's your turn to laugh, to let him see you mock him.
His snarl sharpens as he brings his face closer to yours, the glow of his eye casting faint firelight on your cheek. Perhaps he intends to intimidate you but you're long past that. You lift your head as though you might kiss him only to run your tongue over his expectant lips before snapping your teeth as though you would bite him again.
A low growl reverberates through his chest, humming through your skin, deep into your bones.
"Not nearly," he speaks in the lowest murmur.
His words should have been swallowed by the screaming storm, but his voice is the clearest sound to you. The hand grasping your wrists vanishes, finding a home in a loose grip around your neck while the other slips behind your knee to drape your leg over his shoulder.
His next thrust sinks deeper. New sensations, new pleasures unlike anything you've ever felt before shoot sparks through your body.
The ship rocks suddenly, so violently you find yourself tilting at nearly a ninety-degree angle.
Silco stumbles back, leaving you spread on the bed as he catches himself on the desk. Now that your hands are free, you push yourself up, ready to yank Silco back to you, until you spot a chance you cannot pass up. You're on your feet in half a heartbeat. When he sees you standing, he moves toward you.
You could let him catch you. Pin you down again. Dominate you. You could let yourself drown in him. A considerable part of you wants that, but a bigger, hungrier part wants to make him drown in you.
The rocking of the ship works in your favor. You collide with him, pushing him back toward the cushioned alcove.
Between the surprise of your advance and the unpredictable movement of the ocean, he can’t overpower you. He's at your mercy as you use every advantage to send him tumbling back against the cushioned seat.
Instinct moves your hand faster than the rest of your body. You cup the back of his head as he falls back. You can't have him cracking his skull on the lovely lattice of his strange green window.
His back hits the cushion and his head comes to rest on one of the many plush pillows. You use the momentum of the rocking ship to propel yourself forward so you're straddling him.
Once he realizes he's pinned beneath you, he glares up at you. Snarling and furious. You can only laugh as you lean forward, brushing your lips against his ear as you lift your hips.
"Looks like I've won our little game." You pull away to watch his face as you place both hands on his shoulders to pin him in place. You know he's stronger than you. He has not hesitated to prove that at every opportunity and you don't want to lose your advantage, this delicious upper hand.
His hand shoots up as if he means to grab for your throat but you're faster. You lower yourself, taking him inside of you once more. The fury in his eyes flickers out. His ocean eye flutters closed as his head falls back. Chipped teeth sink into his bottom lip as you ride him with excruciating slowness.
"You think this is your victory?" What begins as a taunting laugh melts into a groan as you sink down once more.
Hands grip your hips, fingertips digging hard into your skin.
"Isn't it? I've got the Eye on his back."
"And I have a silver spoon heiress riding me like I paid for her. Seems like I'm the victorious one."
"And if I should stop?" You go still above him, the head of his cock just barely inside of you. Cutting yourself off from the pleasure is painful, but worth it if it means depriving him.
"Do you want to stop?" he asks, peering up at you as another flash of lightning slashes through the storm clouds.
You shake your head, unable to voice the truth of it, that you'd sink much lower than you already have if it meant you could keep playing this game.
"And if I were to take control?" Just like that, the game is on once more. Your smile returns, laced with mockery and spite to mask the true, untempered desire writhing just beneath your skin.
"You aren't in a position to take anything unless I give it to you."
"Oh," he grins. "Is that what you think?"
You open your mouth, a sharp parry ready on the tip of your tongue, but those words never get the chance to pass your lips.
Silco's hands slide from your hips to the narrow of your waist. His grip promises a constellation of bruises on the morrow. You attempt to lower yourself again, certain you can regain control if you can just take him within you once more. He doesn't allow you to move an inch. You try to pull back, but you're unsuccessful.
"What's the matter, little treasure?" He thrusts up slowly, inflicting the same torturous pace on you as you did on him. A low, pleading whine rips from your throat, equal parts begging and anger.
You never had the upper hand over him. Perhaps, you caught him by surprise when you pressed your advantage but he knew exactly how he'd play this the moment his back hit the cushion. You may be on top of him but he has control.
"You don't need to fight so hard," His voice is gentle and warm. Another one of his many deceptions. Does he have anything that resembles a true self? Or is he just layer upon layer of masks, tricks, and farces?
He sits up, pulling you deeper into the seat of his lap. Your knees slot against his sides as he buries his face in your neck. Hands still around your waist, he holds you suspended, refusing to enter you fully.
"So lovely, yet so stubborn," he purrs. "Don't you want to feel good, treasure?"
You do. Damn you to the frozen abyss, but you want every little drop of pleasure he offers. You'll lick it off his fingers and drink it from his lips. You can admit that to yourself. Admitting it to him is an entirely different beast.
"Yield to me."
Something fractures in you. You cave under the weight of always wanting what you can't have and always fighting for a scrap of control you never had a chance of holding in the first place.
You relax into his hands, allowing him to hold you up.
"Good girl," he hums into your skin, holding you as he fucks you in earnest. "I'm going to take good care of you."
One hand leaves your waist, traveling to the low neckline of your sea-soaked blouse. One sharp tug rips the fabric. It hangs useless against your sides as Silco marks a trail of nips and kisses from your neck to your breasts.
You suck in a breath and wait for the scrape and bite of teeth, eagerly anticipating pain to mix in with pleasure. When it doesn't come, you wait for whatever tease he has planned. Surely, he has something planned to get back at you for trying to turn the tables on him.
The tip of his tongue glides over your nipple in a soft, slow lick. He does it over and over again, the sensation starkly contrasting the powerful thrusts of his hips.
His mouth, fiery hot against the chill of your skin, closes around your nipple. Each gentle, honey-sweet suck of his mouth makes you whimper. You want to beg, but you aren't sure what you'd beg for.
Every time his cock brushes against a certain spot deep within you, something you never knew existed before now, the burning coil tightens low in your belly. Yet the tender ministrations of his mouth have you floating on soft clouds. The dueling sensations are almost too much to handle but if he were to stop, you fear you'd die of want on the spot.
How dare he reduce you to a wet, whimpering mess? How dare you enjoy it so much?
You hate him.
You hate him.
You hate him... and he's going to make you cum. That coil inside of you is going to spring loose. You clench around his cock, earning an appreciative groan that vibrates over the nipple in his mouth.
Your gaze lifts to the whorling window lattice just in time to see a wave slam into the glass. It does not break, but the force of the wave's impact pitches the ship. You fly backward, smacking hard into the desk.
Silco staggers to his feet, reaching for you. You grasp at his forearms, aching for him and furious that the storm robbed you of your release.
You look at Silco as bolts of lightning illuminate the cabin. You could scramble to gain an advantage over him again. No doubt similar thoughts are running through his mind as he stares at you.
Another rough wave has you both scrambling for balance. The realization hits you both simultaneously.
You could spend hours fighting each other for dominance but the sea can rip you apart whenever it pleases. While fighting each other is fun and frustrating in equal measure, you could work together to take your respective pleasures despite the storm's fury.
"The desk is bolted in place," he says. "Find a way to take hold."
One look at the desk tells you the only option is to bend over the surface and grip the edge. You do so without a second thought.
Silco is right behind you, lifting your skirts and circling a fingertip over that sensitive bundle of nerves before you've had a chance to grip the wood of the desk.
He slides into you with a grunt and leans forward, his chest against your back. His hands find yours, guiding them to the edge of the desk.
"Hold tight, beauty. I won't be ripped from you again."
You nod and curl your fingers around the lip of the desk.
"So good," he murmurs, his mouth at your ear. "So tight and wet and perfect."
You arch and push your hips against him, urging him deeper with every buck of his sharp hips. You flip one hand, turning it palm up against his. He laces his fingers through yours and still manages to keep hold of the desk.
"Do you know what I'm thinking about, little treasure?" he groans.
"I can guess," you reply, swallowing your own moan to do so.
"I'm thinking about your wedding night."
Oh. No, you could not have guessed that.
"Why?" is all you can muster in response as each push of his cock winds that coil inside of you ever tighter.
"Because when you fall back on your honeymoon bed, you won't be thinking of your new husband."
"Oh?" That coil winds ever tighter, growing hotter by the second.
"You'll be thinking of me," he murmurs. "When you lie back for him you'll hear my voice in your head. You'll see my face when you close your eyes. And when you cum, it will be my name that spills from those pretty lips."
Indignation lights up your blood but you can't hide the way the very thought makes you clench around him.
"You like that, don't you?" he chuckles as one of his hands leaves the desk to slip between your thighs. He strokes you as he fucks you, sending you hurtling toward your release. "Say my name and I'll make you cum sweeter than you ever have before."
You bite down hard on your bottom lip, unwilling to give him the satisfaction even though you've given him everything else.
"Still fighting against your own desires?" His laugh is a dark, mean blade that slices through your thoughts. "Poor darling."
He bucks into you, each thrust pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
You're close. So painfully, exquisitely close. All you have to do is say one little word. Two syllables. That's it.
"I want to feel you when you come undone," he sighs. "Just say my name, little treasure."
"Silco," you whisper into the wooden surface of the desk.
"Louder, beauty. I can't hear you." His breath hitches in his chest as his thrusts quicken.
"Silco!” you cry.
A moment later, the combination of his skillful fingers and relentless cock shatter you. You don't bother hiding the sounds that tumble from your mouth as you cum. He buries himself inside of you, throbbing with his release, as violent as the storm surrounding you.
A shudder rips through you when he pulls out. You expect him to leave you where you are, legs trembling as you grapple with the pleasure fog that coats your mind.
Instead, his hands find their way to your middle. He coaxes you upright, catching you against his chest when you can't quite manage to stand tall.
"You've impressed me, treasure," he says.
"Thank goodness. I don't know how I'd survive if you didn't think I was good in bed,” you scoff.
"I'd hoped you'd be so pleasure-addled, your natural venom wouldn't return right away," he chuckles.
"Hope is for fools, pirate."
The ship rocks again. You'd be on your ass if Silco weren't holding you up.
"How is it that you are more cynical after drowning in carnal bliss?" He asks. "Do you need me to drown you again?"
Yes. Yes. Yes. More. You want more. You don't care if your body can’t handle it. You want him to turn your brain off and rip you from reality.
"Come along, little treasure." He urges you to step forward, supporting you as you move. Another rock of the ship has you clinging to him like a lifeline.
"You're so much more docile when you're cock-drunk," he murmurs.
"Yet, you're still an ass when you're cunt-struck."
He falters for a moment before barking out a laugh with a toss of his head.
"Oh, that's unfortunate," he chuckles, leading you to the bed. He guides you as you crash into the mattress. Your legs still feel wobbly beneath you and the thrashing ship has now become a hindrance rather than an advantage.
"What is?" You roll onto your back as he lifts your legs onto the bed.
"I think I'm starting to like you, treasure."
Your mind is too thick with pleasure, adrenaline, and fatigue to come up with anything clever to say in response.
You look in the direction of his voice only to find he's no longer there.
Figures.
You settle into bed, face turned toward the ceiling. Something lands beside you with a soft whomp. Before you can figure out what it was, a hand grasps beneath your knee and opens your legs.
A little thrill runs through you though you aren't sure you can take him again. Not so soon. Not when you're still so sensitive. Not when every nerve is still alight.
Instead, something cool and damp presses against your center, soothing the burn and the ache. It moves in soft, gentle circles. You lift your head to find Silco bent over you, a hand up your skirt while the other holds your legs open.
Understanding washes over you. He's cleaning you. He's tending to you. You almost can't believe the gentle touch you feel now comes from the same man who just pushed your body to its limit, leaving a map of bruises and bite marks in his wake.
"You-" you stammer but you can't quite find the words. Your confusion must come through in your voice, for Silco's gaze snaps to yours as he removes the cloth.
"I'm not as monstrous as you think me to be."
A flash of lightning illuminates the cabin and the sharp lines of his face. Something lingers beneath his expression, bleeding through the neutrality he wears as one of his many masks. The cabin is thrown into darkness once more before you have a chance to decipher it.
"Besides," when he speaks again, his voice carries its usual lilt, controlled but with a hint of amusement. "If I don't take care of my playthings, they break before I can use them again."
You turn away from him with a scoff and he releases your leg.
"I've put dry clothes on the bed," he says, standing up and stepping away. "You may change when you're ready, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't completely soak my bedding."
"Are you staying in your wet clothes?" you ask, lifting your head.
"It wouldn't be very smart of me to change only to soak them through again the moment I step outside."
"You're going back out there?"
"It's my ship that's getting tossed about. My crew battling the elements. Of course, I'm going back out there."
"So am I." You lift your head but can't seem to do much else.
"You are to remain here," he says. "I can’t be worried about you causing trouble or falling overboard."
"Here? With all these pretty, shiny blades?"
He's hovering over you in an instant, so close his nose brushes against yours.
"By all means, help yourself," he challenges. "You'll be restrained and searched. Thoroughly."
"You shouldn't make your threats sound like promises," you smirk and force an edge into your voice. You want to go back to familiar territory. Barbed words and uncloaked disdain. You know how to handle that.
He chuckles as he pulls away but says nothing else as he makes for the door. He pries it open, allowing the storm's chaos to spill into the cabin. Biting wind slices at your exposed skin, making you curl onto your side in an attempt to escape it.
A harsh, needy instinct grips you. A need for warmth, for contact. To be held and sheltered.
The cabin door slams shut. The wind stops. You're able to push those silly needs out of your mind long enough to change into dry clothes.
Silco provided you with only a shirt. One of his. Long enough to keep you covered but not very warm. You burrow into the driest parts of the bedding hoping the rest will dry soon so you can wrap yourself thoroughly against the chill.
The room is cold, obviously, but it's so much colder without Silco sharing the space. You tell yourself that's how rooms work. Rooms are warmer when they contain more sources of heat. People, in this case.
You don't want Silco, you just want warmth. You repeat that thought every time a shiver shakes your body. Every time your teeth chatter.
The longing for contact only grows but you ignore it. You'll warm up soon and those unhelpful feelings will go away. They always do.
================================================
When you next open your eyes, the sea is calm and quiet. Unnervingly so after last night's violence. Pretty green-gold light fills the room.
Footfalls thunder overhead. It doesn't strike you as unusual until you hear shouting. Not the normal shouts of a crew relaying information but shouts of anger and alarm.
Dread pools in your belly as the shouts grow louder and the footfalls more erratic.
Logic tells you to stay put but what if The Hound has found you? If this was a rescue, surely you should get on deck quickly.
You scramble out of bed only to remember your state of dress. You can't leave this room in nothing more than one of Silco's shirts. You rub the deep green fabric of his sleeve between your fingers as your gaze settles on the wardrobe.
You grab at the skirt you left discarded on the cabin floor. It's still damp. Heavy and cold. You decide to rifle through the wardrobe in search of garments discarded by... previous guests.
Something sour twists in your stomach as you realize you've added yourself to Silco's no doubt lengthy list of conquests.
It shouldn't bother you. You didn't do everything you did last night because you thought it meant something. You're not a fool in that regard, at least.
You find a pair of fitted black breeches. They don't look like Silco's but they don't seem like they've been worn, either. You hold them against your hips. They should fit. It's not like it has to be perfect. You just need to be decent.
You wiggle into the pants and pull on your borrowed boots before pulling on the cabin door. You half-expect it to be locked but it opens easily.
Briefly, you wonder if the unlocked door is some kind of test. He didn't say as much but surely Silco expected you to stay put until he returned. He didn't want you out in the storm.
In fairness, you didn't particularly want to go back into the storm. But the storm is over. There's no reason he should expect you to stay in the cabin now that the weather is fair. If he does, it's his own fault for not voicing his expectations.
Not that you would have heeded him. Just because you allowed him to take control last night doesn't mean it carried over into this morning.
That decides it. You pull open the door only to find Silco at the top of the short flight of stairs leading to the deck, his back to you.
You move quietly, listening intently. The shouts have quieted, which is less than helpful.
"You should return to your ship while I allow you to do so," Silco's voice is cold and deadly under the guise of a gentleman's speech.
"You will not listen to my offer?" An unfamiliar accented voice speaks, as cool and languid as Silco’s though not nearly as effective. It’s as if the stranger is trying to mimic Silco but doesn't have the skill or power to do so.
"No." Silco's answer is absolute.
"Terrible business practice," the stranger tuts.
You crouch low as you move, peeking around Silco's legs. You're definitely not getting rescued.
The stranger wears an ostentatious golden coat, leaving his chest bare to display an array of detailed tattoos. Your gaze ticks to his face and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from gasping.
The tattoo of a realistic human jawbone, teeth and all, over his fully flesh jaw, is jarring enough, but... his eyes. Catlike. Reptilian. You aren't sure which.
It's not the inhumanness of his eyes that puts you off. You'd been looking at Silco for two days, after all. His molten eye is far more dramatic than the eyes of the stranger, but the stranger's eyes are much colder. Meaner.
You can't put your finger on it, but the stranger scares you more than Silco ever has.
You sink down a step, fully out of sight. You don't know who that man is or what he wants but you want nothing to do with him.
You should have stayed in the cabin.
"Are you dissatisfied with business of late?" Silco asks. "Don't tell me you've already spent the coin from your share of the Montras fang payout?"
Montras? Your brain snags on the name. A childhood fairytale leaps to the forefront of your mind. A legendary, immortal creature of the deep. A whale of sorts, though it doesn't truly fit into that category. Its teeth are said to have life-extending properties.
Silco spoke of several mythical beasts and artifacts in the tavern. You'd assumed he spoke in code but now you were less sure.
"It's not your concern," the stranger says. "But kidnapping an heiress and keeping the money and glory all to yourself is my concern."
Silco chuckles. "You feel entitled to a cut of a job you didn't plan and didn't execute? Come now, Finn. You're not that stupid."
The stranger, Finn, chuckles. "Of course not. That's why I've taken this most serendipitous meeting to make an offer."
"I'm listening."
Your blood goes cold. You make another attempt to scoot down the stairs, but you slip. You hit the next step down with a thunk. It's not loud, but loud enough for Silco to hear. His head twitches to the side as if he means to look at you, but he catches himself.
"Is that where you're keeping her?" Finn asks. "Let's see the pretty heiress, hm?"
Silco looks over his shoulder, fixing you under the gaze of his good eye. You can't get a read on his expression.
"Come here, treasure," he says, his voice equal parts coaxing and commanding.
You shake your head. You don't want Finn to see you. You don't trust the slime oozing through his voice. You don't trust those reptilian eyes.
"Nothing is going to happen to you," Silco assures you. “Come here."
You could bolt back into the cabin now that you don't have to be worried about stealth. But what good would that do? There's nowhere to run, whether you stay put or try to hide in the cabin.
You weigh your options though, if you're being honest, you have none.
You pull yourself to your feet and climb the stairs. Silco extends an arm, guiding you to stand at his side. He drapes that arm around your shoulders, an obvious display of dominance, ownership even. But this display isn't a stunt to keep you in line, but a signal to Finn.
Realizing this, you allow yourself to nestle against his side. Your hand takes a secret, but fierce grip on the back of his coat. This is just another game, you assure yourself, like the one you played in the tavern.
"You'll be fine," he whispers before jerking his chin at Finn. "Here's the heiress. What's your proposition?"
"You hold her for ransom, yes?" Finn asks.
"No, I'm giving her a pleasure tour of the far isles." Silco's annoyance bleeds into the air. "Of course, I've organized a ransom."
"Say you are set upon by a band of corsairs," Finn says, "You give her up to save your own hide. Return to her father and offer your expensive tracking services. You make more than the original ransom and your fleet gets a cut for their cooperation. A win across the board."
Fleet? Silco has a fleet? Since when do pirates organize fleets?
Silco looks over your head to Sevika, who looks as though she's about to keel over with boredom. Today, she wears a tri-forked blade attachment instead of a hook or wooden hand.
"Am I wrong or has Finn grown stupider since we saw him last?" Silco asks her.
"He's definitely stupider," Sevika snorts. "What should we do about it?"
"I could always take her," Finn says, pushing his coat aside to reveal a pistol. "Claim the ransom myself. Get what I'm owed."
"Owed?" Silco chuckles. "Tell me, what are you owed?"
"I wait with the others for orders," he sneers. "We go weeks, sometimes months without word from you."
"I didn't realize I prevented you from supporting yourself between assignments. Sevika?"
"Yes, Captain?"
"Did I issue a command that prevents any of the Sea Barons from providing for themselves while I search for work?"
"No, Captain."
"That's what I thought." Silco looks at the deck as he makes a show of thoughtfully rubbing his chin. "I know what you want, Finn."
"The riches promised to me when I joined your fleet."
"Perhaps," Silco nods. "But more importantly, you want to sit on your ass on a ship I provided you, surrounded by a crew I provided, and rake in a cut of the profits regardless of whether or not you contributed."
"I-" Finn starts but Silco doesn't allow him the chance to get a word in.
"You want a slice of the prize my little heiress will net." His grip tightens on you. "Tell me, where does she live?"
"Piltover.”
"More specifically," Silco prompts. He waits a moment. When Finn doesn't answer, he presses on. "What is her father's annual income? How much is the ransom? Where will the exchange take place? Who is her fiancé? Can you even tell me her name?"
Finn remains silent.
Silco scoffs. "You board my ship and demand I alter a plan that has been in motion for months so you can weasel out a cut."
Months? No, that's impossible. You would have noticed something amiss, that you were being watched. Targeted. Wouldn't you?
"As I said. My crew and I have been without work for far too long. We are prepared to relieve you of the heiress."
Only now do you notice that not everyone on deck is part of Silco's crew. Many of the faces you look upon aren't familiar to you, but nearly a dozen sailors draw weapons on Finn's order.
Silco doesn't seem worried, even with an arsenal of weapons pointed at his chest.
With a snarl, Sevika draws her pistol and raises her arm, letting her triple blade catch the sunlight. The tattooed man draws two formidable axes. Everyone on deck besides you and Silco have weapons drawn.
You shrink behind him though you don't take your eyes off Finn until you see a blue head appear from the galley stairs.
Jinx takes in the tense situation with a curious frown. The moment she spots Finn, her sapphire eyes narrow, and her upper lip curls in disgust.
"What's going on?" she asks, weaving through the deck, taking time to size up every pirate that doesn't belong on the Zaun's Revenge.
"Nothing more than a boy throwing a tantrum while masquerading as a man," Silco spits.
Finn glances at two of his crewmates, the two closest to Jinx.
Finn gives a single nod. From there, everything happens too quickly for you to process.
Silco leaves your side right as Jinx's gaze snaps to Finn's crew members. Fast as a whip, Jinx draws two pistols and fires perfect shots clean through the skulls of the two crewmen advancing on her.
Finn draws his pistol and aims for Jinx. A cry claws at your throat but Finn never fires. Silco is upon him before he gets the chance, plunging a blade through his chest.
You stagger back, hands clamped over your mouth to muffle your scream as Finn's chest turns red, blood pouring thick enough to cover his tattoos. He crumples, lifeless, his blood seeping into the deck.
Silco cuts through another one of Finn's men. You watch Sevika cut down three of them without hesitation.
Jinx scrambles away from the thick of the fight, wild-eyed as she watches Silco. Her fingers never leave the triggers of her firearms.
Within a minute, it's all over. Every one of Finn's crew members lay dead.
Silco wipes his bloodied blade on a nearby body before sheathing it.
Jinx still stands, pistols drawn. Her breath comes in jagged puffs. Silco moves toward her, hands out.
"It's over, minnow," he says gently.
Her eyes snap to his. After a moment her breathing evens out. She lowers her weapons. Only then does she seem to take in the bodies strewn across the deck.
"Did I... do this?" she asks, her voice pinched.
“You only did what was necessary,” Silco insists. “Those fools sealed their fates the moment they followed Finn onto our ship."
She nods, though she still looks a little... frantic.
"Why don't you work on one of your projects for a time, hm?" Silco suggests. "I'm rather curious about the magnetic cannon balls."
Magnetic what now?
"I don't have a working prototype yet," Jinx mumbles, looking at her feet.
"That's of no matter. Genius takes time," he reassures her. "I'll check on you later. Perhaps, we can puzzle through it together, yes?"
Jinx nods and offers him a half smile before slinking back down below deck.
As soon as she's out of sight, Silco turns to Sevika. "Dump the bodies overboard then blast Finn's ship to splinters."
Bodies are lifted and tossed while you linger on the steps between the deck and the captain's cabin. The urge to hide grips you, but you can't make yourself move. You curl up on the stairs, your eyes glued to the deep red stains left behind by bodies sent to the sea.
The Zaun's Revenge turns about and prepares their cannons. You sit, numb, as Silco orders cannon fire on the other ship. You hear shouts when the first round hits its mark. Shouts quickly turn to confused, pleading screams, wood splinters with a crack as loud as last night's thunder. A part of you wants to see it all unfold, but you don't think you can stomach it so you stay put.
You'd never seen death before. Not like this.
When your mother died, it was gentle and quiet. No blood. No horror. Just sorrow and loss and grief and anger. So much anger.
Today, you feel as though you've seen death's true form. Ruthless and quick. Blood and horror.
You think of your father, your aunt, and everyone else who tried to convince you that death and peace were one and the same. You never believed it. You heard what your mother's doctor said. She was in agony even if she didn't show it. She was strong for you.
Perhaps the men that died today got the better end of the deal. Their deaths were quick, for the most part.
Nausea rolls through you but you keep it at bay. You won't be sick here. It's shallow and small of you, but your pride won't allow it. You breathe through it.
"Who manned the helm last night?” Silco asks, his voice low and dangerous.
Your throat constricts as the sailor you tricked slowly raises his hand, keeping his head bowed.
"I appreciate your honesty," Silco says. "You will receive five lashes, rather than ten."
"Thank you, Captain," the poor helmsman mumbles.
A thank you? For five lashes? Silco can't possibly mean to -
"Sevika. Fetch the whip," Silco commands. As Sevika disappears to retrieve the instrument of torture, you find your legs again. You march right up to Silco, putting yourself between him and the helmsman.
"You cannot punish him," you say, holding your chin high and your back straight even as your legs tremble beneath you.
"Can't I?" Silco arches his singular brow. "We have drifted off course into not one, but two dangers. I cannot allow that to go unpunished."
"Then punish me," you say.
"I beg your pardon?" His good eye narrows.
"I took the helm last night," you say, "for one half hour."
Sileo whirls on the helmsman, eyes blazing. "You abdicated your duties to our hostage?"
"I-" the helmsman stammers.
"I convinced him!" You speak up, wedging yourself once more between Silco and his target. "I tricked him!"
"And he failed his duties," Silco counters. "Ten lashes. Five for his failure. Five for his foolishness."
"Don't you dare," you snap. "I set the ship off course. On purpose. I never imagined we'd run into that awful storm. For that, I'm sorry, but the fault is entirely my own."
Silco fixes you with a stare so intense, you nearly take back your declaration. You've just seen him take several lives and now you're putting yourself at his mercy.
But the helmsman doesn't deserve to be punished for your stupid, rash mistake.
Sevika returns with a coiled whip of fine leather. Silco takes it, running elegant fingers along the braiding.
"Those ten lashes belong to me," you say, loudly enough for the entire crew to hear, "I am at fault and accept full responsibility."
Silco's glare is positively murderous as the crew murmurs amongst themselves. You know he can't put you to the whip, not if he wants your father's money.
"Do you think the terms I struck with your fiancé will keep you safe?' Silco asks, tilting his head to the side. You’re reminded of a bird of prey.
"Will you dole out an unjust punishment to assure your profit?" you challenge.
He stares at you for a long while before throwing the whip to the ground.
"No," he snarls, "I can punish you without flaying your pretty skin."
He takes you by the elbow and yanks you toward his cabin. Your mind scrambles in an attempt to anticipate what he'll do. You can't predict anything. You've been aboard less than three days, you don’t know how things work here.
If Sevika was telling the truth about your exchange day happening two weeks from the day you were snatched from The Hound, Silco can do quite a lot to you.
A bruise can fade in a week. Why did you think his word to do you no harm meant anything? How did you allow yourself to believe for even a second that he is anything other than a greedy, murderous pirate?
He can hurt you.
The same man who tended to you after fucking you so thoroughly, the same man who put a blade through someone's hand for getting too close to you, can hurt you. Will hurt you.
You've been fooled by another one of his masks.
You're thrown into the cabin with enough force to make you stumble but you manage to right yourself before you fall.
Silco slams the door before locking it.
"Are you telling the truth?" he asks without looking at you. "Are you the one who set the ship off course?"
"I am," you say without hesitation.
"You put my crew in danger," he says.
"I know."
"You damaged my ship."
"I know."
"Because of you, we had that lovely little run-in with The Slickjaw's crew. And now, they're dead."
"I didn't make you kill anyone. I didn't make you fire upon that ship," you snap.
"Should I have let Finn take you instead?" he asks, stalking closer. "Do you think he would have treated you kindly?"
"Do you think I would have acted as I did if I'd known the dangers?" you challenge.
"If you didn't understand the dangers, then you're a fool. But I wouldn't expect anything else from a Piltie heiress."
"Then what is my punishment?" you ask, holding your chin high.
Your question catches him off-guard. You want to relish in your ability to continuously surprise him but fear blocks your smugness.
He can hurt you. He wants to hurt you.
"Let me think," he taunts, moving away from the door to advance on you. You hold your ground, unwilling to yield to him twice in the span of twelve hours. "I can't mark you up too badly, can I treasure?"
"Do your worst, pirate," you spit back. You aren't willing to let him know how much he rattles you.
His arm wraps around the small of your back and pulls you tight against him.
"I can't hurt you. Not really," he murmurs into your hair. "But I believe I can make you suffer."
He pulls away so quickly you stumble forward. Silco grabs his desk chair and hauls it into the center of the room before taking a seat. He may as well be a king sitting on a grand throne.
"Lay across my lap," he says.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Get on your knees and lay across my lap," he repeats, his voice as cold and as hard as iron. "I'll make you if I have to."
You don't wish to be manhandled again. Briefly, you consider diving for one of the many weapons in the room but decide against it. If you injure him, his crew won't be kind about it.
So, you straighten your back and hold your chin high. You approach him with the grace and composure of a queen.
When you reach his chair, you sink to your knees and lay yourself over his lap.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" His fingers stroke through your hair, deceptively gentle but that doesn't stop you from enjoying the touch. Had anyone ever run their fingers through your hair before?
You don't think so.
You like it.
His hand trails through your hair, over your back, to the curve of your ass.
"Seems you've helped yourself to the contents of my wardrobe," he says. One hand slides between the sharp of your hip and his thigh. Quick, clever fingers have your borrowed trousers tugged down to your mid-thighs leaving your ass completely bare. “Funny. If you stayed in here, unclothed, you would have avoided your punishment.”
“Get on with it,” you mutter in a show of bravado.
“Where is the enthusiasm you showed last night?” He asks, his voice dripping with mockery. “You sang my name so sweetly. You yielded so perfectly. Where is the sweet treasure I fucked?”
“She washed away with the storm.”
“Pity.” He traces his fingers in slow, tormenting circles over the curve of your ass. “She might have been spared ten lashes.”
You realize what he’s about to do to you. Anger flares in your chest but it’s not strong enough to make you wiggle away from him. It’s also not the strongest emotion swirling within you. Anticipation takes that prize.
“Utter a single word, make a single sound, and the count will reset,” he threatens.
You press your lips together in a hard line, not to stop words but to stop a smile. He has no idea how accustomed you are to holding your tongue. If he expects you to crack and give him the chance to deal more than ten lashes, he’s doomed to be disappointed.
He gives no warning when his palm collides with your skin. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip as stinging pain radiates from the point of contact. He smooths a hand over your skin. You feel every callus that marks his palm.
You’re better prepared for the second strike and the third. He takes his time, letting the sting fully spread through your body to color your skin. Heat and pleasure tingle through you. By the fifth strike, you know you’re soaked. By the tenth, you nearly let loose a whimper but manage to keep yourself under control.
“Hm,” he murmurs. “You did well. How disappointing. I should have liked to punish you further.”
A shudder passes over you, one you can’t contain. He sees it. He feels it just as you feel the hard length of him pressing against your side. You slowly start to writhe, rubbing against him as much as you can. Your punishment has been dealt. Surely that means something more playful is in order.
You’ve become uncomfortably tethered to reality since last night’s storm. Surely, Silco can take you back to that place of mindless, fucked out bliss. You much prefer that state of mind over your current predicament.
You never pretended to be a virgin, but you did very much sleep with another man while engaged. It’s not guilt you feel, exactly. You didn’t agree to the engagement. You don’t want to get married at all, but you are still bound by an agreement. Last night, you dishonored that promise.
Despite your prickly nature and that certain wildness your family longs to stamp out, you view yourself as an honorable person. Captain Vander doesn’t deserve to be dishonored by his future wife.
Or does he? He made an agreement with your father knowing full well you weren’t looking to marry anytime soon. Yes, it’s how things are done but does that excuse putting your clear objections aside? No, but if a respectable marriage is the only way he can secure a prestigious promotion, then he’s as caught in the net of social expectations and rules as you are. He clearly benefits from it more than you do, however.
Resentment rolls through you, doubling your desire to be removed from your own mind.
You were ordered to remain quiet through the lashings and you did so. You are under no orders to remain quiet now, so you allow a pleading whimper to break past your lips.
“What’s that, treasure?” Silco murmurs. His fingers trace a lazy pattern over your ass and up the small of your back before doubling back again. “If you want something, you need to use your words.”
Arousal and shame sting your cheeks. Are you really going to voice your depraved desires to a man who has no issue using them against you? Pride and longing wage war within you. Pride wins and you go silent.
“I think I may know what you want,” he says, his hands roving around the curve of your ass to trace along the backs of your thighs. “Pity you can’t tell me, otherwise I might indulge you.”
Deep need twists through your veins. Your tongue takes command of itself to whisper, “Touch me, please.”
“Please?” Silco chuckles. “Are those Piltie manners finally showing themselves?”
He’s toying with you and you know it. Devil damn you, you’re enjoying it. He doesn’t have all the power, but he has most of it. You like the way he leverages that power against you.
It makes your head spin. People have been using their power against you your entire life, forcing you to play the part of a pretty Piltovian socialite, forcing you into an engagement you don’t want, forcing you into a life you’re not suited for. Yet when he uses his power against you, you feel only an aching need that isn’t going to go away on its own.
His fingers move toward your needy cunt but stop just short of actually touching you the way you need to be touched.
You let out a frustrated whine because you can’t bear to beg. Apparently, you’re willing to bend your pride but not that far.
“It’s always the pretty, perfect society girls who have the darkest desires lying in wait just beneath their skin.”
“How do you know what perfect society girls are like?” You ask, realizing too late that you’ve let jealousy bleed into your voice.
“Surely you’re not unaware of the rumors that surround the most devilish of pirates?” His chuckle is the most infuriating sound in the world.
“You aren’t most pirates,” you spit.
“True,” he says. “But I am still a pirate, nonetheless.”
“So, you make a sport of ruining highborn girls?”
“No, pet,” he says. “But I am most happy to ruin you. Don’t pretend you don’t want it. A ruined girl can’t be allowed to marry a respected navy man. Let me ruin you.”
That’s all you want, though you loathe to admit it. It seems that Captain Silco holds the keys to your prison.
“Then what are you waiting for?” You challenge. “I said please.”
“So you did,” you hear the grin in his voice. “That was so very nice of you.”
A single finger trails up the length of your slit. You feel his cock twitch against your ribs. He presses his fingertip against your clit. Gods help you, you let out a deep, earnest moan as you arch your back and part your thighs so he can have more ease of access.
“Do you want my fingers inside of you?” He asks as he strokes you gently.
“Yes,” you sigh.
“That’s too bad.”
You go stone still in his lap.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he chuckles. The sound is cold and mirthless. “Did you think you’re finished with your punishment?”
“I-,” you stammer, but you aren’t sure what to say. “I took the ten lashes.”
“Little taps, nothing more,” he scoffs. “But now that I know what you want and how badly you want it, I can deny you.”
Oh, that bastard. You realize now that you’ve fallen into a trap.
“Do you want to cum, sweet girl?” He asks.
You hesitate. You could lie, but even your most convincing performance won’t fool him. He’s already felt your dripping cunt. He knows what you want. There is no point in playing the fool.
“Yes,” you sigh.
His fingers oblige. He strokes you with one hand while the other winds into your hair and pulls your head back so you have to look him in the eye.
“Tell me when you’re close,” he whispers. You can barely manage a nod as your brain goes haywire. Your hips twitch, eager to force more contact but he doesn’t allow it. Your whimpers and moans grow until you feel yourself rapidly approaching your peak.
“I’m close,” you shudder. “So close.”
“Good girl,” he purrs before retracting his hand. A horrible whimper tears from your lips as you arch your back, desperate to feel his touch again.
“Please,” you say so softly you aren’t sure he can hear you.
He bends low so his mouth can rest beside your ear. “Those lashes weren’t your true punishment, pet. This is.”
“What?” You whisper, still arching and writhing in an attempt to bring his touch back to you.
“You will not find that sweet release unless I allow it.”
“You forget that I have fingers and an active imagination,” you grumble.
“Do you think I’ll let you be alone long enough to pleasure yourself?” His laugh is wicked and cold. “The next time you cum, dear treasure, will be because I allow it. Remember that.”
“I’ve gone years without release before,” you say. “Your punishment won’t be an issue.”
“Oh, it’s not just a lack of release I have in store for you,” he says. “Blood was spilled on your account, so you will be the one to clean it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Is that not fair?” He asks as he pulls your stolen trousers into place. “If you had not made yourself known, I could have sent Finn and his crew on their way. You owe a life debt and I’ve decided you can pay it by scrubbing.”
“You think scrubbing is worth a life?”
“The lives that were taken today are worth little,” he snarls. “But when you leave this room, you will report to Sevika. She will put you to work and through that, you will be able to pay your blood debt.”
“You’re not serious.” A laugh bubbles up in your throat but you shove it back down. There is no humor in his face. Not a single trace of the man you glimpsed during the storm. He has put his mask back in place.
“I’m always serious, treasure.
******
huge thank you to the most dearest @astudyincontrasts @silcoitus @juniper-sunny @ilikemymendarkandfictional @mmartos for beta-reading.
Chapter tags: Silco x f!reader, bodyswap, eventual smut, no outline, just vibes, inconsistent bodyswap mechanics, idk wtf i'm doing, nudity!, female masturbation
Chapter word count: 3.6k
Chapter Beta Reader: @ink-and-dagger
Total word count: 17.6k
Series summary:
By some terrible, cosmic force that is surely enjoying your suffering, you and Silco—the Eye of Zaun—swapped bodies. It's a terrible inconvenience.
It becomes obvious after two impossibly long minutes alone in the alley that you are not returning. With a scoff, Silco steps back out onto the sidewalk.
Who does she think she is?
Fuming, Silco walks through the Lanes. Without realizing it, he starts to head towards your apartment. Not that he knows the way, but your feet seem to have no trouble taking him there. Instinctively, Silco's arms press the purse at his shoulder into his chest, keeping it close and out of reach of any pickpockets. With practiced legs, he ducks and weaves through the crowd, cutting through it gracefully.
She could be an assassin with how stealthily she moves.
Torso arching backwards, he narrowly avoids getting clotheslined by a long piece of metal carried between two burly men, clearly on their way to a construction site.
Her skills are wasted as a bartender.
Your heels make a satisfying clacking sound on the pavement as he walks. While you are shorter than him even in heels, Silco can't help but feel tall, an air of confidence with every step.
Thank Janna for her muscle memory. Otherwise, walking in these would be impossible.
Silco's thoughts are interrupted when he notices his feet have come to a stop. Looking up, he sees an apartment building, three stories high. Stepping into the lobby, he realizes that he doesn't actually know your apartment unit number.
As luck would have it, there's a call box on the wall. Going down the residents list, he spots your last name next to 216. After taking the stairs, he finds your door, fidgeting with your purse to grab the keys.
When he opens the door to your unit, he sees he was right to assume your space would be much like you: colorful, a little eccentric, but otherwise inoffensive and stylish. It’s by no means a pigsty nor is it an immaculate vision of minimalism. A small studio apartment (no doubt due to the humble wages you receive from The Last Drop), it’s a well-loved, comfortably lived in apartment that you made your own.
The abstract art you have hung on the walls is vibrant, matching the bright blue blanket draped over the couch. You have a few plants throughout, though one of them looks a little worse for wear, its leaves drooping. A respectable number of books on your shelves and some interesting trinkets that Silco recognizes from various continents.
So she’s well traveled. Or she has friends that are.
He locks the door behind himself, lets out a relieved sigh as he kicks off the heels, then continues further into the unit, eyes taking in everything.
Making his way to the kitchen, he can’t help himself from opening the fridge and pantry, curiosity overtaking him; fridge is a little lacking but the pantry is well-stocked.
Once satisfied snooping in that area, he walks to the bedroom. Tastefully decorated, with a few pieces of laundry hanging over a nearby chair. The bed groans as he sits on it, allowing himself to lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
He momentarily forgets why he came here in the first place. He had just been running on autopilot, specifically your autopilot. Perusing your space, the rage towards you he'd felt before is nowhere to be found, replaced instead with intrigue.
He won't pretend that he hadn't wondered what your living space was like, what your life outside The Last Drop looked like. On the contrary, there had been a few times you had piqued Silco's curiosity.
One time in particular he thinks about a lot, in fact.
Silco had been pouring over the latest shipment manifests, migraine blurring his vision from a Chem-Barons assembly that had gone awry. When you walked in, he didn't even look up from his work.
"Thank you, Wade," he said, voice gravelly and clearly exhausted.
"You're welcome," you had said with a hint of teasing. "But Wade's a little busy. You'll have to settle for me instead."
Silco looked up quickly at the sound of your voice, thrown off by what is clearly not his bar manager. It's rare for you two to see each other, usually left to work off in your own separate domains of the club. In fact, Silco had never really seen you from the waist down, his view of you usually concealed by the bar.
As he considered you, he felt his migraine starting to subside, vision clearing to reveal you. Mismatched gaze raked down your form: your crimson painted nails as you held the tray of glasses and bourbon, the smirk on your lips at his surprise. As you leaned forward to set the tray down on the drinks cart, Silco immediately took in every curve of your body, perfectly accentuated in the tight pair of black pants you had chosen that day.
It's a sight he'd rather enjoyed. Sharp wit worked quickly to devise an excuse for him to see it more often.
"Yes," Silco agreed, eyes returning to his work, pointedly avoiding you. "Perhaps I've overburdened his workload."
You straightened back up, hands coming to rest behind you. Silco noted the way you stood tall, chest out, a peek of cleavage between the open part of your blouse.
You were breathtakingly beautiful.
And you knew it.
"You're to bring me my drinks from now on," Silco said, tone almost bored. A mask for the heat he had felt building within him.
"Can do," you said agreeably, lips—painted red to match your nails—curling into a smile.
With a nod, Silco silently dismissed you, eyes never leaving you as you turned, giving yet another delicious view of your backside.
In the present, Silco's lips curl into a smile.
Why Silco never acted on his clear attraction to you remains a mystery even to himself. Every excuse he would give himself is easily remedied.
Too busy.
But he could make time. He is in charge after all.
Too messy.
But there are ways of cleaning up any unwanted messes.
Regardless of the reason, after weeks of not acting, he now finds himself laying on your bed. In your body. With no knowledge of when the two of you would be returned to your original states.
Silco sits up, scanning the room.
He said he wouldn't stare. He offered to keep her modesty intact. Not an outright promise, but he had basically given his word.
But as he sits in your living space, breathing in your scent, surrounded by the things that make you you, he can't help the thought.
How would she know?
Lips curl into a devilish grin.
She doesn't have to know.
He lays back down on the bed, eyes staring at the ceiling, one hand clutching the sheets beneath him.
And who's to say she hasn't already done the same with my body in our time apart?
Tentatively, he brings a hand up to his face, crimson-painted nails in his periphery as he lightly caresses his cheek, stroking downwards to his neck. Eyes closing, Silco can feel his breath growing shallow from anticipation as fingers trace down, over the fabric of your blouse to the curve of your chest. He hums as the hand palms the weight of your breast and squeezes.
His eyes shoot open and he bolts upright as another idea hits him. Looking around the room, he spots a full-length mirror hanging off your closet door. Climbing over the mattress, he sits on the bed directly across from it, staring into his reflection.
Such a beautiful girl.
A hand comes up to wrap fingers around his neck, chin rising to get a good view in the mirror.
A beautiful sight.
Silco feels his pulse start to pick up underneath his thumb.
Would be even better with my hand there.
Head tilting, he takes in the rest of your form. Slowly, deliberately, he works the buttons on your blouse, savoring each new bit of flesh exposed with each button undone until there’s a slit going down his torso with a hint of a black lace bra underneath. Shrugging out of the blouse, he lays it carefully next to him before focusing on your pants.
He’s not surprised that your panties match your bra or that you look absolutely divine in them. What does surprise him is that he can’t seem to bring himself to remove any more of your clothing. Hands behind his back, fingers at the hooks of your bra, he pauses.
A heartbeat.
Another.
No.
His hands fall to his sides.
Perhaps if we’re still in this predicament tomorrow.
He continues to look at the reflection in the mirror, admiring the skin already on display.
Hand comes up to his neck again, tracing a line with the tip of his middle finger down his throat along his sternum. Tentatively, he dips his hand underneath the cup of one bra to palm a breast, skin warm and supple under his touch. Another satisfied hum escapes him as he massages, watching in the mirror.
What had he been waiting for? Why hadn’t he just taken you already as his own? It’s obvious from the way your body has reacted over the course of the last twenty-four hours that you want him just as badly as he wants you.
Maybe that’s why.
Up until the switch, he didn’t know you wanted him. He had suspected, but he didn’t know for sure. Always one to keep his cards close to the vest, Silco wasn’t going to act on anything that wasn’t a sure thing. The possibility of such a partnership working in his favor did not seem worth the risk of being caught in a vulnerable position if he turned out to be wrong. If it turned out to be one-sided.
But now…
His free hand squeezes your thigh as he continues to massage your breast before taking the stiffened bud there and pinching it between fore and middle finger. That earns Silco a sweet little jolt of electricity from nipple to core, a shiver running down his spine from the thrill and the chill of the air.
The hand at his thigh starts to wander, trailing a delicate line along flesh. He hovers briefly over your panties before gently placing his hand there, fingertips at your folds, separate only by that one thin layer of fabric.
So warm already.
Silco traces a line up along the front of your underwear before dipping under the waistband, roving until he can feel the short shorn hair at your mound. Dipping lower and searching with purpose, he slowly spreads his legs until—
A heady exhale escapes crimson lips as Silco finds that sweet sensitive bundle of nerves and rubs a curious circle into it, eyes fluttering closed. When he opens them, he’s met with a delicious sight in the mirror: you, mouth hanging open, with a flush in your cheeks as you pleasure yourself.
If Silco had his cock right now, he knows it would be impossible to hide the erection he’d have. But as things stand, he instead finds himself experiencing a sensation he’s never quite known before: the need to be filled.
Fingers dip through folds to find his entrance soaked and he bites down on his bottom lip as he allows your body to take over, to do what you do behind closed doors in the privacy of your room. Middle and forefinger slide in easily and Silco gasps at the exquisite feeling, so different but so perfect. Fingers curl and his breath hitches, a soft whimper let out into the air. The sound of it is music to his ears and he curls fingers again, desperate to hear it once more.
So warm. So wet. So soft.
Oh what he would give to be able to feel you like this with his own fingers. What more he would give to bury himself in you to the hilt. To hold your body close as he fills you up.
Your body reacts to that thought by way of letting out another needy whimper, deep from within your throat.
Palm grinding into his clit, fingers curling and pumping, Silco can feel his orgasm building. As his breaths come out shallower and his eyes fog over with lust, he can’t tear his gaze away from the reflection before him, utterly enchanted by what he sees.
Beautiful, dirty girl.
Eyes alight when he realizes what else he’s missing, what wonderful sound could be added to the symphony of your ecstasy.
The words come easy. Almost too easy. As if you had said them many times before in this very room, doing this very thing.
“Silco, please—gasp!—I’m so close.”
At the sound of your voice pleading and saying his name, walls clench and thighs start to tremble, signaling the beginning of the end.
“Fuck! Yes! Silco plea—”
The cry is cut short as the hand at his breast pinches the hardened nipple again, sending Silco toppling over the edge to his release, walls clenching and pulsing around his fingers as he gasps and whines through his climax. Sweet, sweet cries of ecstasy that he wishes he could bottle up and drink like a tonic.
His orgasm washes through him and he can feel it behind his eyes, lighting every synapse to spark a blissful sequence of firelights in a beautiful dance.
Just as he thinks his climax will subside, it keeps going at just the same intensity. His eyes shoot open and he watches his reflection in shock as his release continues, his palm still grinding into his clit. Jaw hanging open, eyes wide, he draws out his orgasm for as long as he can manage—in stunned disbelief that it's lasted this long—before flopping onto his back, spent and out of breath.
He's no stranger to vaginal and clitoral orgasms, giving many throughout the course of his life. But being on the receiving end of one?
He pulls his hand out from underneath your panties to lay it on your stomach, mindful to not let his glistening fingers touch your skin there.
How could one go back after an experience like that?
Maybe I just… hold onto this body for a little while.
Heartbeat in his ears and a cockdrunk smile at his lips, he drifts to sleep.
.
Silco awakens, briefly forgetting where he is or what he was doing. He doesn't know how long he was out for, but judging from how the light pouring in from the window is about the same as it was prior, he determines it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. Looking around with post-climax clarity, it becomes obvious what he had done.
Enlightening.
He's never passed out from an orgasm. But, then again, he's also never had one quite like that.
Sitting up, he pads his way to your bathroom to wash his hands and clean up. Stepping back into your room he notices your closet and remembers the reason you had wanted to visit your apartment in the first place. Perhaps his hesitancy to undress you fully was misplaced. It’s not like you would want him to change only his top layers and not his underwear. Mind made up, he decides to choose an outfit for you, your words ringing in his ears.
"Try not to stare."
To his credit, he does try. He removes the bra and glances at the newly exposed skin with the intention of just a quick peek, but finds he can't tear his eyes away.
Breathtaking.
Already, he can feel the urge to have his way with your body again, but he shakes off the thought, spent. But as heat rushes to his core again and his walls clench around nothing, he is reminded rather quickly: this is your body, not his. And your body could go again and again after climaxing.
Silco steps in front of the mirror and watches himself slowly pull the lace panties off before stepping out of them. Straightening up, his eyes drink in the reflection of your naked form.
If only Silco had his body back so that he could press it against yours, pin you to the wall, and have his way with you. How he'd like to grab you by the hips, fingers bruising the flesh there with how tightly he holds you.
More heat rushes to his core and soon his hand is snaking down your body again, fingers trailing down before sliding through your glistening folds. Silco steps forward, free hand pressed flat against the mirror to hold himself up as he begins to work himself again. Mind racing through all the different ways he'd take you if given the chance.
Bent over his desk, your hands grasping the edges of the tabletop, holding on for dear life as Silco pounds relentlessly into you from behind.
That earns Silco a needy little whine and the two fingers inside him curl, walls clenching around them.
Your legs draped over his shoulders as Silco eats you out on your couch, tongue ravishing your clit as his fingers work you just as they are right now.
"Oh, fuck!"
Silco presses his forehead to the mirror, reflection fogged as his breath comes out hot and heavy, already getting closer to another release.
Fucking up into you against this very mirror, hands holding you up by your thighs as he captures your lips in a hungry kiss.
"Oh gods!"
Silco's second climax hits him with somehow more force than his first, a long wail escaping his lips as his fingers continue to pump and his palm continues to grind into his clit. Eyes squeezed shut and eyebrows curled inward, he lets wave after wave crash over him. How he can have another orgasm so soon after the first—and of a higher intensity level, too—leaves him at a loss for words as he gasps for air.
When he finally slips his fingers out and opens his eyes, he stares in awe at the reflection of you; utterly wrecked. Lips curl into a grin and he catches his breath enough to make his way to the bathroom. After relieving himself, he washes his hands for the second time.
That's it. No more.
He makes his way back to your closet.
Just get changed for Janna's sake.
After tossing your used underthings into the hamper he rummages through your dresser. He dons a new pair of panties and matching bra before sifting through your wardrobe in search of an outfit.
Where is it?
Silco remembers one blouse in particular that you had worn that he had committed to memory. The way the fabric clung to your bosom was flattering to the point that it was almost distracting. He finds it on a hanger and starts to unceremoniously pull it on. A burnt orange sweater of soft, stretchy material, with a scooping neckline and sleeves down to his elbows. He feels something funny on his arms and realizes that there are a row of buttons on each sleeve and he folds over the hem to reveal them. Satisfied, he finds a pair of form-fitting black pants and matching black boots to finish the ensemble.
Looking in the mirror, eyebrows raise in surprise.
Not bad.
A smirk.
Although it’s easy to style when the canvas itself is already so stunning.
Stepping back out into your living room, he plants himself on your couch, plotting his next move.
It’s obvious that the two of you left things in a very precarious spot. You seemed to be upset with him for… what exactly? For not doing a good enough impression of you? Surely, that can’t be all.
I had also insinuated that she was an idiot.
Silco knows you’re no imbecile. Far from one. You had proven your worth not only as a bartender but as a confidant when you handled the meeting with Marcus with poise and cunning. Yes, you had taunted and teased leading up to the meeting, but once the show began, you almost seemed to take pride in your play-acting as the Eye of Zaun.
Oh…
That’s what it is.
That’s where he went wrong.
You had given him the respect enough to take your role seriously, to give it an honest try. You knew what was at stake if anyone—let alone Marcus—found out the big secret. You memorized your lines dutifully, delivered them with Silco’s mannerisms and tone in mind, and performed well enough to fool Marcus.
While Silco…
His baseline mannerisms override yours as he brings two fingers up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, a frustrated sigh at his lips.
I made a fool out of her in front of Wade.
There’s a groan at his throat as he tries to cast the thoughts aside.
Why am I worrying about some bartender’s feelings when I should be worrying about getting my body back?
He stands and begins pacing around the living room, muttering to himself all the while.
Yes, but that bartender has my body and effectively all of Zaun in her palm.
Hands clench into fists at his sides.
I cannot afford to have this woman angry. Not when there is so much at stake.
He pauses when he reaches the window overlooking the street and watches as people go about their day, completely unaware of the delicate position their lives are in. Blissfully ignorant of the powers at play and how precariously everything hangs in the balance.
She has all the power.
He chews at his lip and tastes lipstick as he replays the last moments in the alley. You were clearly angry but there was something else behind your eyes right before you stormed off. Not just rage but hurt.
Silco lets out a long sigh, eyes downcast as he presses his forehead to the window.
Chapter tags: Silco x f!reader, bodyswap, eventual smut, no outline, just vibes, inconsistent bodyswap mechanics, idk wtf i'm doing, nudity!, female masturbation
Chapter word count: 3.6k
Chapter Beta Reader: @ink-and-dagger
Total word count: 17.6k
Series summary:
By some terrible, cosmic force that is surely enjoying your suffering, you and Silco—the Eye of Zaun—swapped bodies. It's a terrible inconvenience.
It becomes obvious after two impossibly long minutes alone in the alley that you are not returning. With a scoff, Silco steps back out onto the sidewalk.
Who does she think she is?
Fuming, Silco walks through the Lanes. Without realizing it, he starts to head towards your apartment. Not that he knows the way, but your feet seem to have no trouble taking him there. Instinctively, Silco's arms press the purse at his shoulder into his chest, keeping it close and out of reach of any pickpockets. With practiced legs, he ducks and weaves through the crowd, cutting through it gracefully.
She could be an assassin with how stealthily she moves.
Torso arching backwards, he narrowly avoids getting clotheslined by a long piece of metal carried between two burly men, clearly on their way to a construction site.
Her skills are wasted as a bartender.
Your heels make a satisfying clacking sound on the pavement as he walks. While you are shorter than him even in heels, Silco can't help but feel tall, an air of confidence with every step.
Thank Janna for her muscle memory. Otherwise, walking in these would be impossible.
Silco's thoughts are interrupted when he notices his feet have come to a stop. Looking up, he sees an apartment building, three stories high. Stepping into the lobby, he realizes that he doesn't actually know your apartment unit number.
As luck would have it, there's a call box on the wall. Going down the residents list, he spots your last name next to 216. After taking the stairs, he finds your door, fidgeting with your purse to grab the keys.
When he opens the door to your unit, he sees he was right to assume your space would be much like you: colorful, a little eccentric, but otherwise inoffensive and stylish. It’s by no means a pigsty nor is it an immaculate vision of minimalism. A small studio apartment (no doubt due to the humble wages you receive from The Last Drop), it’s a well-loved, comfortably lived in apartment that you made your own.
The abstract art you have hung on the walls is vibrant, matching the bright blue blanket draped over the couch. You have a few plants throughout, though one of them looks a little worse for wear, its leaves drooping. A respectable number of books on your shelves and some interesting trinkets that Silco recognizes from various continents.
So she’s well traveled. Or she has friends that are.
He locks the door behind himself, lets out a relieved sigh as he kicks off the heels, then continues further into the unit, eyes taking in everything.
Making his way to the kitchen, he can’t help himself from opening the fridge and pantry, curiosity overtaking him; fridge is a little lacking but the pantry is well-stocked.
Once satisfied snooping in that area, he walks to the bedroom. Tastefully decorated, with a few pieces of laundry hanging over a nearby chair. The bed groans as he sits on it, allowing himself to lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
He momentarily forgets why he came here in the first place. He had just been running on autopilot, specifically your autopilot. Perusing your space, the rage towards you he'd felt before is nowhere to be found, replaced instead with intrigue.
He won't pretend that he hadn't wondered what your living space was like, what your life outside The Last Drop looked like. On the contrary, there had been a few times you had piqued Silco's curiosity.
One time in particular he thinks about a lot, in fact.
Silco had been pouring over the latest shipment manifests, migraine blurring his vision from a Chem-Barons assembly that had gone awry. When you walked in, he didn't even look up from his work.
"Thank you, Wade," he said, voice gravelly and clearly exhausted.
"You're welcome," you had said with a hint of teasing. "But Wade's a little busy. You'll have to settle for me instead."
Silco looked up quickly at the sound of your voice, thrown off by what is clearly not his bar manager. It's rare for you two to see each other, usually left to work off in your own separate domains of the club. In fact, Silco had never really seen you from the waist down, his view of you usually concealed by the bar.
As he considered you, he felt his migraine starting to subside, vision clearing to reveal you. Mismatched gaze raked down your form: your crimson painted nails as you held the tray of glasses and bourbon, the smirk on your lips at his surprise. As you leaned forward to set the tray down on the drinks cart, Silco immediately took in every curve of your body, perfectly accentuated in the tight pair of black pants you had chosen that day.
It's a sight he'd rather enjoyed. Sharp wit worked quickly to devise an excuse for him to see it more often.
"Yes," Silco agreed, eyes returning to his work, pointedly avoiding you. "Perhaps I've overburdened his workload."
You straightened back up, hands coming to rest behind you. Silco noted the way you stood tall, chest out, a peek of cleavage between the open part of your blouse.
You were breathtakingly beautiful.
And you knew it.
"You're to bring me my drinks from now on," Silco said, tone almost bored. A mask for the heat he had felt building within him.
"Can do," you said agreeably, lips—painted red to match your nails—curling into a smile.
With a nod, Silco silently dismissed you, eyes never leaving you as you turned, giving yet another delicious view of your backside.
In the present, Silco's lips curl into a smile.
Why Silco never acted on his clear attraction to you remains a mystery even to himself. Every excuse he would give himself is easily remedied.
Too busy.
But he could make time. He is in charge after all.
Too messy.
But there are ways of cleaning up any unwanted messes.
Regardless of the reason, after weeks of not acting, he now finds himself laying on your bed. In your body. With no knowledge of when the two of you would be returned to your original states.
Silco sits up, scanning the room.
He said he wouldn't stare. He offered to keep her modesty intact. Not an outright promise, but he had basically given his word.
But as he sits in your living space, breathing in your scent, surrounded by the things that make you you, he can't help the thought.
How would she know?
Lips curl into a devilish grin.
She doesn't have to know.
He lays back down on the bed, eyes staring at the ceiling, one hand clutching the sheets beneath him.
And who's to say she hasn't already done the same with my body in our time apart?
Tentatively, he brings a hand up to his face, crimson-painted nails in his periphery as he lightly caresses his cheek, stroking downwards to his neck. Eyes closing, Silco can feel his breath growing shallow from anticipation as fingers trace down, over the fabric of your blouse to the curve of your chest. He hums as the hand palms the weight of your breast and squeezes.
His eyes shoot open and he bolts upright as another idea hits him. Looking around the room, he spots a full-length mirror hanging off your closet door. Climbing over the mattress, he sits on the bed directly across from it, staring into his reflection.
Such a beautiful girl.
A hand comes up to wrap fingers around his neck, chin rising to get a good view in the mirror.
A beautiful sight.
Silco feels his pulse start to pick up underneath his thumb.
Would be even better with my hand there.
Head tilting, he takes in the rest of your form. Slowly, deliberately, he works the buttons on your blouse, savoring each new bit of flesh exposed with each button undone until there’s a slit going down his torso with a hint of a black lace bra underneath. Shrugging out of the blouse, he lays it carefully next to him before focusing on your pants.
He’s not surprised that your panties match your bra or that you look absolutely divine in them. What does surprise him is that he can’t seem to bring himself to remove any more of your clothing. Hands behind his back, fingers at the hooks of your bra, he pauses.
A heartbeat.
Another.
No.
His hands fall to his sides.
Perhaps if we’re still in this predicament tomorrow.
He continues to look at the reflection in the mirror, admiring the skin already on display.
Hand comes up to his neck again, tracing a line with the tip of his middle finger down his throat along his sternum. Tentatively, he dips his hand underneath the cup of one bra to palm a breast, skin warm and supple under his touch. Another satisfied hum escapes him as he massages, watching in the mirror.
What had he been waiting for? Why hadn’t he just taken you already as his own? It’s obvious from the way your body has reacted over the course of the last twenty-four hours that you want him just as badly as he wants you.
Maybe that’s why.
Up until the switch, he didn’t know you wanted him. He had suspected, but he didn’t know for sure. Always one to keep his cards close to the vest, Silco wasn’t going to act on anything that wasn’t a sure thing. The possibility of such a partnership working in his favor did not seem worth the risk of being caught in a vulnerable position if he turned out to be wrong. If it turned out to be one-sided.
But now…
His free hand squeezes your thigh as he continues to massage your breast before taking the stiffened bud there and pinching it between fore and middle finger. That earns Silco a sweet little jolt of electricity from nipple to core, a shiver running down his spine from the thrill and the chill of the air.
The hand at his thigh starts to wander, trailing a delicate line along flesh. He hovers briefly over your panties before gently placing his hand there, fingertips at your folds, separate only by that one thin layer of fabric.
So warm already.
Silco traces a line up along the front of your underwear before dipping under the waistband, roving until he can feel the short shorn hair at your mound. Dipping lower and searching with purpose, he slowly spreads his legs until—
A heady exhale escapes crimson lips as Silco finds that sweet sensitive bundle of nerves and rubs a curious circle into it, eyes fluttering closed. When he opens them, he’s met with a delicious sight in the mirror: you, mouth hanging open, with a flush in your cheeks as you pleasure yourself.
If Silco had his cock right now, he knows it would be impossible to hide the erection he’d have. But as things stand, he instead finds himself experiencing a sensation he’s never quite known before: the need to be filled.
Fingers dip through folds to find his entrance soaked and he bites down on his bottom lip as he allows your body to take over, to do what you do behind closed doors in the privacy of your room. Middle and forefinger slide in easily and Silco gasps at the exquisite feeling, so different but so perfect. Fingers curl and his breath hitches, a soft whimper let out into the air. The sound of it is music to his ears and he curls fingers again, desperate to hear it once more.
So warm. So wet. So soft.
Oh what he would give to be able to feel you like this with his own fingers. What more he would give to bury himself in you to the hilt. To hold your body close as he fills you up.
Your body reacts to that thought by way of letting out another needy whimper, deep from within your throat.
Palm grinding into his clit, fingers curling and pumping, Silco can feel his orgasm building. As his breaths come out shallower and his eyes fog over with lust, he can’t tear his gaze away from the reflection before him, utterly enchanted by what he sees.
Beautiful, dirty girl.
Eyes alight when he realizes what else he’s missing, what wonderful sound could be added to the symphony of your ecstasy.
The words come easy. Almost too easy. As if you had said them many times before in this very room, doing this very thing.
“Silco, please—gasp!—I’m so close.”
At the sound of your voice pleading and saying his name, walls clench and thighs start to tremble, signaling the beginning of the end.
“Fuck! Yes! Silco plea—”
The cry is cut short as the hand at his breast pinches the hardened nipple again, sending Silco toppling over the edge to his release, walls clenching and pulsing around his fingers as he gasps and whines through his climax. Sweet, sweet cries of ecstasy that he wishes he could bottle up and drink like a tonic.
His orgasm washes through him and he can feel it behind his eyes, lighting every synapse to spark a blissful sequence of firelights in a beautiful dance.
Just as he thinks his climax will subside, it keeps going at just the same intensity. His eyes shoot open and he watches his reflection in shock as his release continues, his palm still grinding into his clit. Jaw hanging open, eyes wide, he draws out his orgasm for as long as he can manage—in stunned disbelief that it's lasted this long—before flopping onto his back, spent and out of breath.
He's no stranger to vaginal and clitoral orgasms, giving many throughout the course of his life. But being on the receiving end of one?
He pulls his hand out from underneath your panties to lay it on your stomach, mindful to not let his glistening fingers touch your skin there.
How could one go back after an experience like that?
Maybe I just… hold onto this body for a little while.
Heartbeat in his ears and a cockdrunk smile at his lips, he drifts to sleep.
.
Silco awakens, briefly forgetting where he is or what he was doing. He doesn't know how long he was out for, but judging from how the light pouring in from the window is about the same as it was prior, he determines it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. Looking around with post-climax clarity, it becomes obvious what he had done.
Enlightening.
He's never passed out from an orgasm. But, then again, he's also never had one quite like that.
Sitting up, he pads his way to your bathroom to wash his hands and clean up. Stepping back into your room he notices your closet and remembers the reason you had wanted to visit your apartment in the first place. Perhaps his hesitancy to undress you fully was misplaced. It’s not like you would want him to change only his top layers and not his underwear. Mind made up, he decides to choose an outfit for you, your words ringing in his ears.
"Try not to stare."
To his credit, he does try. He removes the bra and glances at the newly exposed skin with the intention of just a quick peek, but finds he can't tear his eyes away.
Breathtaking.
Already, he can feel the urge to have his way with your body again, but he shakes off the thought, spent. But as heat rushes to his core again and his walls clench around nothing, he is reminded rather quickly: this is your body, not his. And your body could go again and again after climaxing.
Silco steps in front of the mirror and watches himself slowly pull the lace panties off before stepping out of them. Straightening up, his eyes drink in the reflection of your naked form.
If only Silco had his body back so that he could press it against yours, pin you to the wall, and have his way with you. How he'd like to grab you by the hips, fingers bruising the flesh there with how tightly he holds you.
More heat rushes to his core and soon his hand is snaking down your body again, fingers trailing down before sliding through your glistening folds. Silco steps forward, free hand pressed flat against the mirror to hold himself up as he begins to work himself again. Mind racing through all the different ways he'd take you if given the chance.
Bent over his desk, your hands grasping the edges of the tabletop, holding on for dear life as Silco pounds relentlessly into you from behind.
That earns Silco a needy little whine and the two fingers inside him curl, walls clenching around them.
Your legs draped over his shoulders as Silco eats you out on your couch, tongue ravishing your clit as his fingers work you just as they are right now.
"Oh, fuck!"
Silco presses his forehead to the mirror, reflection fogged as his breath comes out hot and heavy, already getting closer to another release.
Fucking up into you against this very mirror, hands holding you up by your thighs as he captures your lips in a hungry kiss.
"Oh gods!"
Silco's second climax hits him with somehow more force than his first, a long wail escaping his lips as his fingers continue to pump and his palm continues to grind into his clit. Eyes squeezed shut and eyebrows curled inward, he lets wave after wave crash over him. How he can have another orgasm so soon after the first—and of a higher intensity level, too—leaves him at a loss for words as he gasps for air.
When he finally slips his fingers out and opens his eyes, he stares in awe at the reflection of you; utterly wrecked. Lips curl into a grin and he catches his breath enough to make his way to the bathroom. After relieving himself, he washes his hands for the second time.
That's it. No more.
He makes his way back to your closet.
Just get changed for Janna's sake.
After tossing your used underthings into the hamper he rummages through your dresser. He dons a new pair of panties and matching bra before sifting through your wardrobe in search of an outfit.
Where is it?
Silco remembers one blouse in particular that you had worn that he had committed to memory. The way the fabric clung to your bosom was flattering to the point that it was almost distracting. He finds it on a hanger and starts to unceremoniously pull it on. A burnt orange sweater of soft, stretchy material, with a scooping neckline and sleeves down to his elbows. He feels something funny on his arms and realizes that there are a row of buttons on each sleeve and he folds over the hem to reveal them. Satisfied, he finds a pair of form-fitting black pants and matching black boots to finish the ensemble.
Looking in the mirror, eyebrows raise in surprise.
Not bad.
A smirk.
Although it’s easy to style when the canvas itself is already so stunning.
Stepping back out into your living room, he plants himself on your couch, plotting his next move.
It’s obvious that the two of you left things in a very precarious spot. You seemed to be upset with him for… what exactly? For not doing a good enough impression of you? Surely, that can’t be all.
I had also insinuated that she was an idiot.
Silco knows you’re no imbecile. Far from one. You had proven your worth not only as a bartender but as a confidant when you handled the meeting with Marcus with poise and cunning. Yes, you had taunted and teased leading up to the meeting, but once the show began, you almost seemed to take pride in your play-acting as the Eye of Zaun.
Oh…
That’s what it is.
That’s where he went wrong.
You had given him the respect enough to take your role seriously, to give it an honest try. You knew what was at stake if anyone—let alone Marcus—found out the big secret. You memorized your lines dutifully, delivered them with Silco’s mannerisms and tone in mind, and performed well enough to fool Marcus.
While Silco…
His baseline mannerisms override yours as he brings two fingers up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, a frustrated sigh at his lips.
I made a fool out of her in front of Wade.
There’s a groan at his throat as he tries to cast the thoughts aside.
Why am I worrying about some bartender’s feelings when I should be worrying about getting my body back?
He stands and begins pacing around the living room, muttering to himself all the while.
Yes, but that bartender has my body and effectively all of Zaun in her palm.
Hands clench into fists at his sides.
I cannot afford to have this woman angry. Not when there is so much at stake.
He pauses when he reaches the window overlooking the street and watches as people go about their day, completely unaware of the delicate position their lives are in. Blissfully ignorant of the powers at play and how precariously everything hangs in the balance.
She has all the power.
He chews at his lip and tastes lipstick as he replays the last moments in the alley. You were clearly angry but there was something else behind your eyes right before you stormed off. Not just rage but hurt.
Silco lets out a long sigh, eyes downcast as he presses his forehead to the window.
As a Jewish person who suffers from bipolar disorder, I have no sympathy for Kanye West. Bipolar disorder turned me into an apathetic, irresponsible person, sure, but it never turned me into a fucking Nazi. There is no manic episode that could make me shout racist slurs, or spew such vile things. When I was manic, I turned into a promiscuous alcoholic, not a bigot. Turning into a Nazi isn't in the DSM5, I can assure you.
Kanye West has more followers on Twitter than there are Jews worldwide. He is one of the most famous people on earth. The fact he can go on an antisemitic rampage without consequences is terrifying. If you're not a Jew, your Jewish friends need your allyship more than ever right now.
Kanye West isn't an asshole because he's bipolar. He's a racist, antisemitic asshole who happens to be bipolar.
