What if Astrid find a pic of young Silco by accident hehhehehehhehehehehhe
Snapshot
A Drink With Me ficlet
870 words || Established relationship || Silco x Astrid (but can be read as gen f!reader) || SFW but suggestive || MDNI
“Oh my Gods.”
“What?”
“Oh. My Gods.”
Time has stripped the photograph between your fingers of its glossy sheen and has left the edges blunt and frayed, but you would recognise those features anywhere; no less sharp nor striking through the faded sepia.
“This is you.”
It had slipped from between two ledgers as you’d perused Silco’s bookshelves – an activity more to entertain your idle hands than a genuine search for reading material. The image itself is simple and candid: A young man, seemingly oblivious to the fact his portrait is being taken, sat at a familiar bar, with eyes downcast toward a spread of papers.
That same man looks up at you now from a very similar spread of papers. “What is?”
“This.” You drift over to his desk and perch on its edge, all the while unable to tear your gaze from the photo in your hands. The pitch dark hair swept back into a low bun. The familiar strays – the same ones that even now will always be the first to escape any styling under the combing of agitated fingers – falling forward into his face, only far longer and thicker than you’re used to. His skin, unblemished and smooth, save for the chronic furrow between his brows – etched there long before time and tragedy ravaged the rest.
Silco hums absently; an indication that he acknowledges your discovery but finds little interest in it. You can imagine the man in the photograph making the exact same noise, were someone to distract him from his paperwork for a reason he deemed benign. You flip the photo over. No date.
“How old are you here?”
Silco exhales through his nose, places his pen down with a pointed clack, and extends his hand wordlessly toward you.
“Hah! Do you think I’m wet behind the ears?” you hold the photograph out of his reach, “You can tell just fine from over there thank you very much.”
He cuts you a scathing glance, before leaning forward in his chair with a foreboding creak to peer more closely at the image. His scarred lips purse slightly in thought.
“Mid–late twenties. I can’t say for certain.”
“You were hot.”
“Were?”
“Were and are,” you coo, reclining backwards over the desk into his space, one elbow pitched on his paperwork to hold your weight whilst you flap the photograph in front of his face, “Can I keep this?”
“For what reason?”
“Dirty ones.”
“Hardly necessary,” Silco says, the very corner of his mouth creasing upwards as he catches your wrist to halt your photo-flapping, “You have access to the real thing.”
“True, true, and you can be sure I’ll continue taking advantage of that.” You grin, shoving your captured, photo-wielding arm a little closer to him in emphasis, “But right now I’m talking about some alone time with this guy.”
Silco scoffs under his breath and releases your wrist. You twist onto your front, weight propped on both elbows as you admire the photograph in your grip. You trace a finger down the slender throat of the man in the photo, over the generous wedge of chest exposed by his open crimson collar.
“D’you think he’d notice me? If I came into that bar?”
“Oh I’m certain he would.”
“Yeah?” You lift your gaze from the man in the photo to the one before you – as equally breathtaking. More so. You catch your lower lip between your teeth. “What line would he use?”
Silco hums, low and thoughtful, leaning forward in his chair, closing in on your space. He picks up his abandoned pen, briefly twirling the implement until it’s poised between his elegant fingers like a cigarette. Nib safely facing his own palm.
“After downing the dregs of his drink for courage... he would have approached you.”
With sensual tenderness, he brushes the barrel of his pen along your cheek, warmed metal against warmer skin. Catching at the curve of your jawline, and tracing over your pulse in a way that makes it fumble a beat.
“Cast his gaze over each of your pretty, pretty features. One by one,” he murmurs, slowly drawing the end of the pen down your jugular, down the slope of your collar bone, to leisurely trail through the cut of your cleavage. The corner of your mouth hooks up. The warmth low in your belly coils a little tighter.
“He would have leaned in close,” Silco whispers, demonstrating just so, “Close enough that you’d almost taste the whiskey on his breath.”
Blunt metal drags a purposeful line up your throat, and your lips part softly as he tilts your face toward his with the barrel of his pen flat and firm beneath your chin.
“And asked you – very nicely – to stop leaning on his paperwork.”
You press your tongue against the inside of your cheek while Silco’s dual eyes sizzle with smug mirth. It’d be unthinkable, really – to forfeit either one for the sake of a matching pair.
You straighten and push off his desk, hips swaying as you saunter over to the bedroom with the photograph in hand.
“Well,” you say, pausing in the threshold and turning to him with a smirk, “If you need us, you know where we’ll be.”
For @catgoblinchelly - because she's a cutie and her asks always make me smile 💜
Silco x drunk!reader || Silco x Astrid || DWM universe || Established relationship || Drunk shenanigans || 1.1K words || SFW || She's absolutely hammered my dudes
The Eye of Zaun cocks his head a fraction of a fraction; an almost feline response to the sound of footsteps approaching his office.
A single set, heavy, unmistakably Jasper's. Yet the cheerful, slurred babbling that accompanies those footsteps couldn’t belong to anyone other than you.
The reason for the disconnect between voice and gait becomes apparent only moments later.
The door opens. And Jasper enters with you slung over his broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Silco takes a moment to admire your raised buttocks, before arching a single eyebrow at the disgruntled, green-haired bar manager.
“This one,” grumbles Jasper, tightening his arm across the backs of your thighs to pointedly jostle you, “goaded Sevika into a drinking contest.”
“And?”
Jasper’s annoyance gives way to begrudging admiration, “Yer right-hand is downstairs with her head in the toilet bowl.”
Silco smirks – a sharp, serpentine thing – and directs his praise towards your ass, “That’s my girl.”
“Izat Silco?!” You chirrup from behind Jasper’s back.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Weeeeeee!”
The uninhibited jubilation in your squeal warms the Eye of Zaun as equally as it tickles him, and he works hard to suppress the quirk of his lips in Jasper’s presence.
The ox-like man carries you to the office sofa, sliding you from his shoulder and laying you on the red velvet cushions with a gentleness that belies his gruff exterior.
“Wanted to take her home, but she insisted on comin’ up here instead.”
“Quite right too,” comes Silco's clipped response, rising from his chair and rounding the oaken desk.
“Hmf.”
“Would you truly rather drag her across the city in this state, leave her alone in her apartment, and risk her choking on her own vomit than entrust her into my care?”
"Yer think I would've just left her alone?—“
“Mnggaaaahwwksksp.”
Incoherent as your squawk may be, Silco recognises it for what it is: a plea for the bickering to stop, and a demand for attention. He cuts Jasper a brief, scathing glance, before perching beside you on the cushions.
“I hear you’ve secured yourself quite the victory this evening.”
Your head, propped up on the sofa arm, rolls in his direction and you beam; all tooth and pride.
“I see. And just how large of a bar tab has your ‘willpower’ accumulated tonight?”
You purse your lips, sucking on the truth like it’s a wedge of lemon. Either you decide to avoid the question outright, or else you simply forget what’s been asked, because your head lolls in a half-circle once again, this time coming to a stop to display coyly weighted lashes and a flirtatious little smirk.
“Hheytherecmmutiepie.”
Silco chuckles low in his chest, leaning a touch closer to purr, “Hello, sweetheart.”
An intense satisfaction swells in his chest at the way your alcohol flushed cheeks deepen three shades and you break into a fit of girlish giggles. Nice to know he still has that effect on you.
“Youssocute.”
Quick as a whip, your fingers shoot up, bury themselves in Silco’s hair, and latch onto the roots with surprising force. There’s little he can do but wince against the pain and pray to Janna that his skull remains connected to his spine as you begin to enthusiastically restyle his locks.
Before Silco can stop you, you’re yanking his head down, and the force with which you crash your mouth into his would undoubtedly chip his front teeth if that ship hadn’t already sailed.
“Mmph!—Alright, that’s quite enough of that,” he insists, carefully but firmly extracting himself from the clumsy kiss, and digging his fingers into your forearms until you loosen your hold on his hair, “We aren’t alone, don’t forget.“
“But Jasp knowswe’s loverrrrs.”
“Still, darling, I think a bit of decorum is in order.”
“Decrorum? Pfft. All’ese fancy words. Wheres you puttin‘em?”
To Silco’s dismay, you retighten your grip, twisting his head roughly side to side as though examining the shape of it.
“Dercorum. Decorcum oop!—” you release him and slap your hands over your mouth with a lewd snort, parting your fingers just enough to hiss between them, “Isaidcum.”
“I can manage from here, Jasper,” Silco sighs wearily, smoothing back his rumpled hair with a practiced palm, “You have my gratitude for bringing her.”
Evidently, the last thirty seconds have made the bar manager uncomfortable enough that he only hesitates briefly before leaving the office with a clipped grunt, closing the door quickly behind him.
“We should get you into bed.”
“Awyeahbabyy.”
“Let me reiterate that you will be getting into bed. I still have work to complete. Particularly now that it appears my right-hand will be out of commission tomorrow.”
“Butsithou’youslefthanded?”
Silco manoeuvres you up off the sofa and towards his quarters. A tricky feat, considering you possess as much control over your limbs as an electrocuted rag-doll. It isn’t long before the Eye of Zaun, (to your high-pitched delight), simply scoops you into his arms and carries you through to his ensuite bathroom.
Your wriggling energy persists for a little while as he tends to you – coaxing you to brush your teeth, to use the toilet, to finish a large glass of water – but shortly begins to fade. Your eyelids drooping as he gently washes away your makeup with a damp cloth. Head nodding as he redresses you for the comfort of bed. Breaths deepening as he settles you beneath the blankets with water and a small waste bin at your side.
Silco adjusts the duvet until it lays upon you to his liking; a feeble excuse to linger at your side a moment longer. The serenity of your face at rest squeezes at his heart, making it hard to turn away. It’s moments like these in which he feels the tiniest pang of resentment towards the work that keeps him so endlessly busy.
Before he can take even half a step towards the door, he’s halted by a hand closing around his wrist.
Your eyes are barely open, but still, beneath the soft eaves of your lashes, that beautiful light within your gaze still shines, and a small, hushed smile rests upon your lips.
“Do I get a goodnight kiss?” You ask quietly.
The corner of Silco’s mouth rises alongside the memory of a night so very long ago now. Of tucking you beneath his coat upon the sofa, and denying your simple request in favour of a whispered tease in your ear.
But times have changed. These days, Silco no longer finds himself able to deny you a damn thing.
He leans down, a hand upon the mattress and the other capturing your chin in a gentle pinch, and presses his lips to yours in a kiss that’s soft, sweet, and lingering.
“Mmmmmyummy,” you hum sleepily when you finally part.
Silco chuckles to himself, brushing a light, tender knuckle down your cheek as he straightens, and adjusting the blankets, one last time.
Me? Inky-Slowpoke-Dagger churning out a fic request just two days after it was sent in? It's a bloody Christmas miracle. Also yeah the title's a carpet pun. Sue me.
Shag Rug
Silco x Reader || Silco x Astrid || Established Relationship || NSFW || MDNI || Messy passionate floor sex || Oral [m!receiving] || Two horny idiots in love || Carpet burns || Wc: 1.9K
Written for Astro but can be read as general AFAB!Reader
Drink With Me Masterlist🥃
It’s a wonder you even made it into the office.
With how carelessly you’d rushed up the stairwell with Silco – far more concerned with ensuring your mouths remained connected than with maintaining safe footing on the steps. And with how you’d ricocheted down the hallway together like a horny pinball. Rattling the hanging decor as you crashed into the walls again and again, hopelessly entangled, tearing at each other with hands and lips and teeth.
And so it doesn’t surprise you in the least that you never make it to the bedroom.
Silco’s shoulders hit the office door hard, and it slams shut beneath your combined weight; pressed as you are against his front with your hands fisted in the lapels of his coat. Your teeth clack against his with the ferocity of your kiss, and he repays in kind by shoving his tongue at least two-thirds of the way down your throat.
Janna you love it when he gets messy. Such a change from his usual pristine control.
Although it hardly seems fair that he remains fully dressed (still in his outerwear, no less) whilst you yourself appear to have misplaced a shoe, and your top is clinging on for dear life after the loss of several buttons. But neither of you currently possesses the patience to achieve full nakedness. So you prioritise.
The crack of your knees hitting the floor is softened somewhat by the rug, and though your hands fumble in your urgency, you’ve done this enough times now that you’ve mastered the puzzle box that is Silco’s trousers.
You tear the fabric down around his thighs and his cock springs free. You had other plans in mind, but the temptation you’re faced with now is too great to overcome.
“Fuck,” the crown of Silco’s head thuds back against the door as you clumsily capture the bobbing head of his cock between your swollen lips and set to lavishing it. Whatever you lack in finesse, you make up for in wet frenzy.
He watches you beneath lust heavy lashes as you tongue and suck his glans until it’s as flushed and glistening as his parted, kiss-marred lips. Fingers tangle in your hair, tightening with a rough groan from above as you take him properly into your mouth, cheeks hollowing to glide hot and tight down his shaft.
Silco’s hips buck as he bumps the back of your throat, and you let out a needy whine, hand snaking between your own legs to palm your clothed crotch in a bid for friction. The fingers in your hair twist and pull, delicious pain blooming across your scalp as Silco yanks you off his cock, leaving you connected only by a thick string of saliva.
“Need you. Now,” he pants, chipped teeth and mismatched eyes flashing with a lawless, desperate hunger.
For the most part your communication with Silco is excellent. You’re in-tune with each other to a point that transcends verbal interaction. But it seems those unseen radio frequencies are currently scrambled by a swarm of hormones – because while you make to stand, Silco makes to kneel.
You crash into each other, losing your balance entirely and tumbling backwards into a tangled heap on the rug.
But Sump-Rats are hardly known for their decorum.
Between two pairs of scrabbling hands your trousers and remaining boot are cast aside, and then he’s swooping down upon you, his high collared coat fanning out to shroud you both like some vampiric cloak. And you’re so damn worked up that he sinks inside you with no resistance.
Your mouth falls open in an embarrassingly wanton moan at the brisk pace Silco sets. Each thrust culminating in a lewd slap of skin that gradually worsens with how your slick begins to coat your thighs. You cross your ankles within the crimson-lined cavern of his coat, pressing your heels into his lower back and rolling your hips up to match his feverish rutting. Baring your throat to accept each glistening jewel he sucks into your skin. Combing fingers through salt and pepper strands, twisting, tugging. Keeping his body pressed flush against yours. Ignoring the coarse fibres beneath your back, even as your shirt bunches up to your waist.
Completely, utterly lost within this incendiary cyclone of passion you’ve both conjured.
“Will you ever. learn. to behave?” Silco growls, punctuating each word with a snap of his hips.
Well that’s hardly fair. What were you supposed to do when he returned to the club from his dockside meeting? Just ignore the fact that he looked so yummy with sea-breeze mussed hair? You’re only human.
Besides. He didn’t have to come over to the bar when you gestured. Nor take a seat. Nor accept your offer for a cocktail. But he did, and you were therefore well within your rights to use the cover of passing him his glass to quietly inform him just how fuckable he looked.
He'd even responded with a dirty remark of his own, low enough not to be overheard by any loitering clubbers. And really he should know by now that you never back down from a challenge. He's just as much to blame as you for the resulting volley of surreptitious comments that had passed between you, each filthier than the last, until he'd snapped. Storming behind the bar and snatching your wrist, frogmarching you through the club and up to the balcony – the wrathful Eye of Zaun dealing with an unruly employee in the eyes of those who'd turned to watch your journey.
“Is that re-eally want you want? For me to start –ughn– behaving?” You clench your core around him to prove your point, and his brow twists.
“No,” the single word is closer to a whine than anything else.
“G-good. It’s much more fu–uhn misbehaving.”
“Brat,” he growls, more gristle than voice, “Beautiful. Insufferable. Brat.”
His lips crash into yours in a flaming kiss, capturing and swallowing the ragged whine which pushes from your throat as his quick thrusts morph into indulgently deep grinds.
“But you’re mine. My-ngh beautiful brat,” he babbles against your mouth between desperate kisses and rasping grunts, “You drive me m-mad. You—Intolerable. Hngh. Menance— Gods I love you—”
His words set you alight like an oil soaked wick and leave you burning. You’re never in doubt of Silco’s feelings for you, but he’s a man much more comfortable expressing himself through action. It’s a rarity to hear him voice his affections so plainly; those three words usually only reserved for moments of particular sentimentality, or instances of uncontrolled passion, such as now.
“S-Silc-oh,” you mewl, feeling for all the world like you truly are aflame. Driven closer to ultimate rhapsody by each rolling drive of his hips; both carnal and sensual all at once.
His fingertips drag clumsily over your features, “I adore these eyes. These lips—”
Your skin is on fire—
“Your heart—”
Like. Actually on fire.
“Hot ass,” you gasp.
Silco smirks, “That too.”
“No – I mean my ass— C-carpet burn.”
He stills instantly, right eye widening as he makes to pull out—
“Nononono,” you beg, locking your ankles and grabbing at his sleeves, “Don’t stop. Just— lift.” You lift your bottom a touch and he catches on, hooking his arms beneath your thighs, gripping your hips, and rising fully onto his knees.
The relief is immediate – your buttocks and most of your spine now elevated right off the rug. Half of you misses the intimate press of his body, but the other half of you thrums at this bizarrely hot bridge pose you find yourself in. The way you can look right up the length of your own arched torso to where he’s buried inside you. The way the position grinds his cock against your sweet spot just so.
“Yes— yes!—” your ragged chant rings out in approval as he picks up his sinful rhythm once more. Watching you greedily; how prone and lewd you are stretched beneath him. Long thumbs pressing into your hip bones, fingers digging into flesh, your legs squeezing tighter and tighter around him as your pleasure begins to mount—
—and slip away with the swiftly worsening burn of your shoulder blades; now bearing the brunt of your weight and offered little-to-no protection from the spiteful fibres of the rug by your flimsy shirt.
“No— no—” you whimper, flinging your arm over your face to hide your sulking pout.
But Silco is always your salvation. Silly of you to forget that irrefutable fact, really.
His grip on you shifts, tightens, and your vision darkens beneath his looming shadow only momentarily before you’re rolling. You come to a halt neatly straddled atop him.
“Your back—”
“Don’t worry about my back darling,” he insists, flattening out his coat beneath your knees to protect them from the rug, “I’m wearing more layers than you are.” He grabs your waist then, deepening the upward buck of his hips, “A-and I’m close.”
“Mmmn, my hero,” you swoon, leaning down to kiss him deeply, your pelvis rolling a passionate tempo that has you both breathing heavy, heady little sighs and moans into each other’s open mouths. Your fingers delve into the sea-salt-mussed locks that had lured you into this situation in the first place, messing the dark waves even further, “My handsome, magnificent hero. Love of my life.”
His green eye swirls liquid jade beneath a fan of lashes, the other molten amber in an obsidian sea, but both shine with an adoration that breaks your heart so beautifully.
“I would do anything – anything for you,” you vow between messy kisses, palms framing the narrow cut of his jaw, “Anything Silco. I’m yours – so completely.”
“Will you come for me sweetheart? Let me f-feel you. See you.”
There’s no need to confirm your answer, not when you’ve just promised him the world.
You steal one more bruising kiss, and your hands drag down Silco’s golden gilded torso as you straighten. Your thighs tremble not only from exertion, but from the explicit backbend you arch into, seeking to replicate the mind-blowing angle from before, reaching back to brace your hands upon his shins.
The snarl of approval Silco makes is more beast than man, and its rumblings spur you on. Fingers drilling into trousered flesh. Hips grinding in quick, feverish rolls. Chest pressing proudly outwards as his hand reaches up to splay upon your sternum, dragging down, down, until his thumb lands on your clit.
He doesn’t even need to move it. Your own rocking pelvis causes his pad to press and circle once, twice, three-times; and that is all that’s needed to send you flying.
You cry out your ecstasy, fingers drilling into his shins as you ride and grind your way through throbbing bursts of pleasure, each one battering your body like some tropical storm. Leaving you rain-drenched, exhilarated, howling euphoric laughter up to the thundering heavens.
But your true paradise lays below.
It’s in the elegant hands which wrap around your waist. The chipped pearls which peek between parted, kiss-stained lips. The eyes which in themselves contain full treasuries: emeralds and jade and turquoise, sun stones and garnets and onyx.
Paradise is in your name; uttered like a broken prayer as Silco finds his own paradise in you.
His warmth floods you, pulsing gushes between your thighs that have you sighing breathless praises. Telling him how beautiful he looks, with his hair all a mess and his face twisted in orgasmic ruin beneath you. So beautiful.
“Beautiful,” you whisper, finally collapsing atop his heaving chest.
His arms wind around you tight, holding you quietly close whilst you both catch your breath.
“Does it hurt?” Silco asks after a time, sliding a hand down your spine to stroke lightly over the smarting-raw skin of your backside.
“Mm just a little,” you hum, pressing up on his chest to drop three lazy kisses upon his lips between your words, “But I’m certain my hero will rub lotion on it for me.”
Silco’s mouth curls up at the corner, “Yes,” he chuckles, “I’m certain he will.”
Silco x Reader || Silco x Astrid || Established Relationship || NSFW || MDNI || Semi-public sex || Dirty talk || Light choking || Very slight belly-bulge kink || Rough sex || Sub/Dom Undertones || After-care || Wc: 4.2K
Author note: Written for Astro, but can be read as general sassy AFAB reader. Messy wet smooches to @insult-2-injury for beta-ing and being a general babe 💜 Also shout out to @a-gal-with-taste for boinking me on the head when I needed it. Thank you all for being patient with me and my slow brain. Happy Sinday lovelies 💜
Drink With Me Masterlist🥃
“Boss man says you’re to go up and see him in half an hour.”
It isn’t uncommon for Sevika’s greetings to cut straight to the point. But what’s less common is Silco requesting your presence in his office mid-shift. You raise an eyebrow at the tall, dark woman towards whom you nudge a generous glass of tequila.
“And did boss man say why?”
“Nope.”
“How come he doesn’t want me up now?”
“Just the messenger, princess,” Sevika dismisses flatly, already turning away with her drink in hand and her attentions set upon two pretty women across the dance floor.
You roll your eyes at her retreating back but don’t speculate on it any further. Likelihood is that Silco simply needs your help with his eye treatment, or else your input on some other work matter.
Half an hour passes quickly enough with the club at full capacity, and it isn’t long before you’re slipping out from behind the bar, with a quick word to Jasper, and weaving your way through the revelling crowds.
The tumultuous bass-line rumbles through the treads of your boots as you spring your way happily up the stairs to the balcony – bobbing your head along to the blasting beat of the music and absently singing along beneath your breath.
Gods the place really is heaving tonight. Seems every square inch is filled with thrill-seekers and trouble-makers alike. You slink through the narrow gaps left between bodies as a salmon would between riverbed weeds; fighting a current you’re built to withstand, but that pushes against you nonetheless.
You round the corner and begin to make your way past the row of private booths which line the final approach to Silco’s stairwell. Each alcove is fitted with a central table, two ox-blood leather back benches, and is dimly illuminated by a singular, moody chem-sconce mounted on the rear wall. Thick, three-quarter length curtains of deep plum velvet adorn either side of every entrance should those within require a little more discretion, and although they are only drawn across a handful of booths tonight, it seems that each one is occupied regardless.
You mind your own business; pointedly ignoring the illicit objects strewn across each table as you pass. Cards, drinks, drugs, money, weapons—
Quick as an asp, a hand shoots out from inside the penultimate booth, latching onto your arm and yanking you unceremoniously through the closed drapes. You land heavily in someone’s lap with a surprised shriek that quickly transforms into a spitting snarl as you twist, fist raised to strike your assailant. But once again he’s faster; snatching your wrist and halting it mid-swing.
The limited light dispels the gloom just enough for you to register a devious, sharp-cut smirk, and a glinting pair of mischievous eyes; one of sea-foam green, and the other of forge-fire orange.
“Asshole,” you hiss emphatically, even as you sag in boneless relief; spine moulding to the familiar shape of Silco’s front and head lolling back to rest atop his shoulder as you attempt to slow your stampeding heart-rate.
An arrogant little chuckle rumbles beside your ear, and Silco wastes absolutely no time in making the precise reason for your abduction abundantly clear.
His arms wind around you, pawing none-to-subtly across your breasts and stomach as he gathers you into a possessive embrace that grinds your ass insistently down atop his clothed erection.
Your sharp inhale catches in your throat, before expelling as a sultry laugh. You drop your cheek against the luxurious softness of Silco’s collar, bringing your lips to his ear to be heard above the relentless din of the club beyond the curtains.
“ Shit Silco,” you praise, voice a throaty purr to accompany the appreciative roll of your hips, “Been in here all alone gettin’ yourself hot and bothered?”
He drops a hard, proprietorial kiss to your throat, and his knees slip together between yours and begin to push them slowly, purposefully apart – unashamedly spreading your legs at his own leisure. Your feet dangle a half an inch off the floor from your boosted seat upon his lap, leaving you entirely at the mercy of the large palms which drag a tantalising promise up the insides of your thighs.
“I’ve been 'hot and bothered’ since you sauntered out of my office earlier wearing this indecent scrap of fabric.”
He arrives at the hem of your skirt and plucks reproachfully at the material to emphasise his point.
Your teeth prick your lower lip as he runs the seam between fingers and thumbs, knuckles skimming across your skin to the outside of your thighs before tracing back inwards again – a sensual, goosebump-raising metronome of touch that further stokes the molten heat oozing steadily outwards from your core.
“It’s called a skirt .”
Silco’s scarred lips shift infinitesimally, casting a hidden smirk into the trench above your collarbone, and you tip your head further back with a sigh, baring your throat to the heavens as his tongue runs down the swallow-tail of your clavicle to pinch a biting kiss to the top of your sternum.
“Surely not,” he drawls, dragging his mouth up the thrumming artery at the side of your neck to speak directly against the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. The horizontal graze of his knuckles diverts to a vertical drag that lifts the material of said skirt up over your hips to bunch around your waist, leaving your underwear as the only barrier separating you from his lap (if a thong can indeed be considered a barrier in the first place), “It barely covers you.”
“You don’t like it? I thought it rather suited me,” you sulk playfully, swirling your ass in a provocative figure of eight.
He grunts softly at the movement, before nipping at your neck in sharp penalty for misbehaving. Not that the punishment achieves anything other than driving your pelvis down harder atop the strain in his pants with a needy little gasp of your own.
“That isn’t at all what I said,” he croons in your ear. One hand sneaks up under your shirt to sketch cruel, taunting sickles on the undersides of your breasts, whilst the other slips a scant inch beneath the band of your underwear to tease the lowest reaches of your belly with light, ticklish strokes, “I think my opinions on this particular item of clothing are rather evident. Wouldn’t you say? I haven’t been able to focus on my work since you left.”
“And so you thought you’d come down here and interrupt my work instead of taking care of things yourself like a big boy?”
“ You caused this problem,” his fingers dip lower, skimming the periphery of your clit in three sadistic loops before continuing down to nudge at your slick-soaked entrance, “I think it only fair that you fix it.”
Your breathing shallows, lungs bound by the tightening noose of arousal clamping hot and heavy around every sense you possess. Your nails dig into burgundy sleeved forearms and your gaze darts towards the pervious swath of fabric that separates you from the mingling crowds just beyond. Yours and Silco's boots are already visible to anyone who might bother to look down, and the salacious arrangement of legs and footwear is hardly subtle.
“Aren’t you worried we’ll be caught? That people will find out about us?” You ask, even as you tilt your hips towards the promise of his fingers.
His chest rumbles against your spine; a low growl laced with an impatience that thrills you.
“You know just as well as I the numerous sins committed under this roof each night,” he insists, dark and gravelled, gluttonous hands dragging their way back to your hips, “I am certain that everyone will be far too busy with their own misdeeds to pay any attention to ours. Up,” he instructs with a brusque, stinging smack to the side of your bare buttock.
You obey instantly, gripping the edge of the table in front of you and pulling your weight up and forwards to hover above his lap. Balancing en pointe like some inelegant ballerina in your clunky Undercity boots. Silco’s sleeves brush the backs of your thighs as he tears at the buttons on his trousers beneath you.
“Were you always this horny before I came along?” You call over your shoulder, just loud enough for him to hear over the teeth-rattling drum and bass.
“Not since I was a teenager,” he rips your underwear aside and guides you back with a hand on your hip until you’re suitably poised for him to lewdly drag the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself with the evidence of your own lust. “Such is the effect you have on me.”
“Oh Gods,” you huff, half amused and half thick-throated desire, “Please don’t say that ‘I make you feel young again’ .”
“Again?”
You offer a cheeky, heavy-lidded smirk.
“On the contrary, sweetheart, ” he continues with a sharp yank at your hips that has you sinking down onto him oh so sweetly , “You very much make me feel like a man.” He punctuates his statement with the upwards snap of his pelvis – meeting you halfway and burying himself to the hilt.
The leather upholstery creaks beneath you both as you melt back against Silco’s chest. The hedonistic whine which falls from your lips a soulful counter-melody to the vacuous blast of the club music. No matter how many times he’s inside you, there’s a perfect divinity in the way you fit together that never fails to leave you breathless.
Silco’s arms encircle you once more, hugging you tight against his front with a ragged sigh of relief that stirs the fine hairs at your temple. Easing you into the thick stretch of him with slow, rolling thrusts that have your head tipping blissfully back atop his shoulder.
Your eyelids lower beneath the bewitching weight of his mouth pressing down the slope of your neck. Tongue curling hot and wet over skin in soothing licks even as he sucks flaming marks upon your throat. Claiming you. Painting you red and purple to match the lighting which slinks beneath the curtains in pulsing flashes.
The limited space between the table and bench restricts your movements a considerable amount. But you make do with any and all leverage available to you. Arching your spine to optimise the rock of your pelvis. Reaching back to curl fingers around the nape of Silco’s neck, to slide your palm down his tailored waist to the hinge of his hip, thumb slotting perfectly into the crease of his groin beneath your ass. Using the thickened toes of your boots and your Sump-Snipe thigh strength to slide yourself up and down the heat of his shaft if only an inch or two.
Not that you’re in any way complaining about such a gloriously deep-seated fuck.
Your head spins, caught in the whirlpool of sensation sweeping through your mind and body. The relentless pump of the music and unintelligible drone of a hundred voices pressing in all around you. Silco’s breath dampening your skin and the ravenous drag of his teeth and tongue and lips against any part of you his mouth can reach. The strobing lights which throw the world into sin-addled darkness only to rip it back to crimson brilliance a split second later like an eternal, ceaseless tug-of-war. The obscene feel of him filling you up so completely only intensifies with each upward buck of his hips.
Electric anticipation gathers like static around every nerve and synapse with each flawless grind of his cock against the trembling plush of your walls. Forever in amazement at how the shape of him seems so faultlessly crafted to knead all the sweetest spots inside you no matter the position you find yourselves in.
Erotic and scorching is the hand that once more slides up under your shirt to roll a pebbled nipple between thumb and forefinger. Your hitching gasp elicits a velvet hum of approval at your ear – a sound which lengthens and pitches down into something husky and bestial to accompany the splay of Silco’s other hand upon your lower tummy, pressing hard to feel for himself just how deeply he’s sheathed inside you.
“Always such a good girl for me,” he murmurs beneath your sharp inhale – high and ragged and pleading thanks to the pressure of his palm forcing your g-spot more firmly against the continuous burrowed-slide of his cock. “Always so obliging, despite that smart little mouth of yours.”
A soft, whimpering sob spills unbidden from between the pliant seam of your lips.
“What was that, darling?” He releases your nipple, hand smoothing up your sternum to emerge through the collar of your shirt. Palm blanketing your windpipe, fingers and thumb closing either side of your throat, “Were you agreeing with me? Are you my good girl?”
Your attempt to nod is crippled by the tightening of his grip, constricting your arteries just enough to heighten your already dizzying pleasure and to convey his unspoken instruction crystal clearly.
“Yes,” you babble skyward, head pressing further back into the sharp-boned pillow of his shoulder and voice rising as you’re driven closer to climax with each deep-seated thrust, “Ye- ss. I’m g- such a good girl for you. Puh- please. Silco— ”
“Shhhh,” he hushes, smooth as velour and arrogant as a king, releasing your neck to slide his middle and index finger over the crest of your chin and into your mouth, pinning your tongue flat. “We wouldn’t want anyone finding out your dirty little secret, hm?”
The hand on your tummy shifts too, dexterous pads sliding south to massage your clit in progressively quickening circles whilst his thumb remains solidly pressed above your pubic bone. Your pelvis jerks, even as your lips close around his fingers and suck with a greedy, muffled whine .
“What would they all think?” Silco growls, carnal grit colouring his words and dismantling his usual debonair grace, “If they knew that you let the Eye of Zaun fuck you however he pleases? When and wherever he pleases?”
You moan around his fingers, trapped tongue crudely lavishing the salt of his skin as much as you’re able. The movement of your hips now less of a practiced roll and more of a desperate writhe as you chase the promise of blinding pleasure that’s barrelling towards you. The pressure of his thumb relentless. His fingertips a blur upon your clit. Every cell in your body tightening, bracing for impact. All of it so impossibly intense that the corners of your eyes prick with zealous tears and you aren’t sure if the flesh you're driving your nails into is Silco’s or your own.
“Not only that – but that you’re spread and dripping for him at a moment's notice? That you love it?” He snarls, planting a harsh kiss to the hinge of your jaw and breathing you in deep. Scarred lips lingering against your skin and voice softening to a rasped whisper, “That you love him?”
You shatter.
Mouth flying open in a silent cry; caught and trapped in your chest by the paralysing force of your orgasm. Every tendon and muscle beneath your skin straining agonisingly taut, mortal body locked in place but mind and soul soaring with indescribable pleasure, rupturing through you in throbbing bursts.
And that is the tempo you lose yourself to, not the rhythmic beat of the jukebox. Dazzled not by club strobes but by blinding stars . Swept away upon euphoric swells which lick warm and wet through every inch of you.
Gone. Adrift. For a lifetime. Or for mere seconds.
Coaxed back to lucidity by a low-toned voice.
“Are you with me, sweetheart?”
Your lashes flutter, vision clearing, settling. Unravelled body slack within the arms of another. Spine supported against a long, lithe torso. Chest heaving with laboured breaths.
A pair of fingers slip from your mouth, trailing wet beneath your jaw, down the column of your throat.
“Yes,” you croak, exquisitely wrung out, dropping your cheek towards Silco and gazing up at him through drooped lashes.
He scans your face, his hips having slowed to a gentle, absent rock beneath your backside – ensuring you’re alright before even contemplating seeking his own release.
But Gods you can see how he needs it.
And you can see exactly what it is that he’s so sorely craving from the wild, animal edge in his eyes. A specific desire he no longer submits to without your endorsement.
Lucky for him, then, that you take such pride in being his good girl.
“Do it,” you pant, “I can take it—”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
Your insides lurch with the sudden motion of Silco shooting to his feet and hauling you with him. Not granted even a split second to find your bearings before the table comes rushing to meet you – or rather you it. The impact of your torso against the surface forces all the air from your lungs in one brutal rush, and your boots scrabble upon the booze-sticky floor to secure your footing before the beast at your back really goes to town.
Your palms squeak against the wood, top and skirt bunching ever higher as Silco seizes your hips and yanks you backwards into each vicious thrust. Driving into you with a merciless velocity that out-paces even the rhythmic pump of the music.
Mindless. Savage. Immaculate.
Silco fucks you totally and utterly dumb . Mouth hanging open, nonsensical sounds moaned directly into the wood beneath your cheek. What little strength remains in your quivering muscles is channelled directly towards arching your spine to send him plunging deeper.
You don’t even need to look to feel the laser burn of his eyes raking hot over your cock-drunk expression. Scorching down your spine. Setting your cunt ablaze as he watches himself piston in and out. Scratching this carnal itch that arises from time to time despite your partnership. Power. Dominance. Control.
Even over the unceasing clamour of the club you can hear the susurrant hiss of Silco’s breath pushing through bared teeth above you. Serrated grunts of exertion and depraved satisfaction that are far more gratifying to your ear than any music could ever be.
His vise-like fingers release your hips; blood rushing to flood the bruises he’s undoubtedly left upon your skin and restoring sensation to your numbed flesh. One hand shifts to the dip of your waist whilst the other hooks over the top of your shoulder. He bends close, his body heat a sweat-inducing shroud and the pound of his hips slowing in speed but not in ferocity. High, aquiline bridge of his nose pressing into your temple as he uses his grip on you to drive himself impossibly deep. Impossibly hard. Rattling the entire table beneath you with each pointed, barbaric thrust.
And you’re so utterly lost to Silco’s amorous frenzy that you’re completely blind-sighted by your second orgasm; spearing through you unexpected and sharp. Violent, blinding rays of bliss that send tears streaming over your lashes.
The feverish, pulsing clench of your sex pulls a coarse, ragged groan from the depths of Silco’s lungs as he too climaxes with staggering force. Sheathing himself completely, grinding deep, flooding you with decadent, throbbing warmth. Hips rocking steadily slower until he’s simply seated inside you, completely spent.
Your ribcage swings with fast, laboured breaths. Silco’s heavy panting stirs your ruffled hair, tickling your sweat-soaked neck.
His hands soften and smooth tenderly down your sides.
“Are you alright sweetheart?”
You nod, cheek still pressed into the surface of the table.
“You’re certain? I didn’t hurt you?”
You reach behind you to cup his face, thumb swiping along the hinge of his jaw in reassurance. Short of breath, and wielding a thick, clumsy tongue, “Yes I— I’m fine, Sil. I’m— Janna’s tits that was fucking incredible.”
Silco releases a lengthy exhale, allowing himself to fully relax atop you – slim body a welcome, comforting weight and the blade of his nose grazing affectionately behind your ear. Large, warm palms worship you in slow, roving strokes that have your muscles melting . Soothing your bruised hips. Trailing down the outsides of your thighs and over the swell of your backside. Caressing up your spine. Sweeping along arms. Brushing back messy hairs from your face with his knuckles. All of it so heartbreakingly gentle.
“You are—” he begins breathlessly, losing his words with a shake of his head and a quiet, awestricken huff. Planting soft kisses upon the skin of your jaw, lips brushing warm towards the corner of your mouth between low, earnest words, “Perfect. My beautiful, wonderful, perfect girl.”
You purr, happy and content, basking in his warmth and affection.
You grumble, petulant and sulky, when he disappears without warning.
“Bagh,” you complain. Scowling over your shoulder but remaining stubbornly recumbent on the table whilst he slips from you; long, sharp face pinching in a fleeting grimace. He sweeps a gentle, assessing thumb around your entrance, and once he’s satisfied that you’re truly unharmed he tucks himself away and conjures a clean napkin from a hidden pocket.
You snort softly against the wood, “Came prepared I see,” you mumble, “Cocky prick.”
Silco doesn’t lift his gaze, nor pause in his dutiful cleaning of your thighs and the apex between them – merely gestures towards his ear with a small shake of his head.
“Your hearing is freakishly good and you know it.”
The very corner of his mouth quirks, and his eyes tick up to meet yours.
Swift and deft as a fox, the soiled napkin is discarded, your clothing is fixed, and his warmth returns as he brings his mouth to your ear.
“Can you stand?”
You shift your hands beneath you and press yourself slowly upright, Silco’s palms a comforting presence on your waist.
You straighten.
And your legs promptly buckle.
But of course Silco is ready to catch you; arms wrapping easily around your middle with a low chuckle.
“Weak at the knees, darling?”
“Can’t help it. You’re just so dreamy, ” you swoon over your shoulder, batting your lashes for good measure.
His eyes glitter with silent mirth and he scoops you up, sitting back down on the bench with you tucked close against him – legs swung over his lap, head pillowed upon his collar, and nose grazing the perfumed silk knot of his tie.
From the first moment you met Silco, the rest of the world has always had a habit of simply melting away whenever you’re with him. Even now, the thunderous motley of music and nightlife feels like little more than background noise beneath the steady, calming swell of his lungs beneath your cheek. The spilt booze and body odour of the club negated completely by cigars and cologne. Strobing lights nary a bother behind the contented droop of your eyelids.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Silco murmurs, shaking you gently, “When you’re able to walk we’ll get you upstairs.”
You whimper longingly into his shirt, “I can’t leave Jasper in the lurch. Not tonight. The club’s rammed.”
“I’ll send Thieram to cover the rest of your shift.”
“You sure? You can spare him?”
“I’m sure.”
You smile, snuggling deeper into the crook of his neck with a happy little hum, “Whoever said that dating your boss was a bad idea?”
“Certainly not me. I did, however, say not to get too comfortable.”
“Too late.”
His chest depresses in a long-suffering sigh, but he gathers you closer in his arms regardless, and drops a kiss to your hair.
You remain quietly entwined together for a short while, sharing just as private and intimate a moment as those which preceded it. Curtained off from the rest of the world.
“Silco?”
“Hm?”
“I wouldn’t care, you know. If people found out about us.”
The fingers which had been sketching lazy circles to the outside of your thigh come to a stop. There’s a moment’s pause, before he answers carefully, “This is how it has to be. To keep you safe.”
“I know,” you sigh, lifting your head from his shoulder to properly meet his gaze. Fiddling with the gold trim of his waistcoat as you speak softly, earnestly, “So long as you know… That loving you – Silco – it isn’t some terrible secret I’m eager to keep.”
He releases a long exhale, shoulders sinking and lips thinning ruefully. There’s an apology in his eyes. One you don’t allow him the chance to voice.
“You don’t have to say anything,” you assure him gently, capturing his face between your palms, “I just want you to know that if I had bragging rights… I’d use ‘em.”
You brush a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips. And another when he gives chase – hand sliding to cup the back of your neck. Mouth pressing just a little deeper against yours. Tongue tips lightly brushing in a way that sends your stomach swooping.
Lips part, and foreheads join. His thumb circles tenderly over your pulse beneath your jaw.
“What did I ever do to deserve you?”
You smile, small and soft, “It’s so nice to hear you ask that in a good way for a change.”
He huffs the smallest of laughs, tucking some rogue hairs back behind your ear, “Come on, let’s head up.”
You blink owlishly at him.
He clicks his tongue, “In a minute then,” he relents.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said,” you murmur, happily tucking yourself once more into the crook of his neck.
Silco x fem!reader || Silco x Astrid || Lingerie || semi-NSFW || MDNI || 2k
Lingerie and rose petals was the winning option in Astrid’s poll. So that’s exactly what we’re serving. Drink up simps. Oh, and Happy Valentine’s Day 💜🥃
“I am the all-mighty Eye of ZAUN!”
Your dramatic statement booms around the empty office.
You snicker. Feels cool.
You pop the crimson lined collar of Silco’s coat a touch higher (to ensure you look as imposing as possible), and kick off the desk to send his high-backed throne (and thusly you) spinning around in a single circle.
“Bow before me! Peasant swine,” you sneer down your nose at the rug. And when it doesn’t heed your command you scribble a quick note on a nearby pad of paper – ‘Have Sevika murder office rug for insubordination.’
You wonder if Silco ever does any of this when he’s alone. He must do. How else would he have gotten so good at being scary?
The wall clock taunts you with its slow percussive song; marking the dragging passage of time. You sigh. It had taken all your wheedling skills to convince Sevika to help you out. All you’d asked was for her to lure Silco away from the office and keep him distracted for half an hour – something she already does most days anyway.
It’s been a whole forty minutes now, and you just know she’s doing it out of spite. She's fully aware how antsy you get whenever you’re forced to wait for anything.
You scribble another note beneath your first on Silco’s pad, and underline it several times, ‘No tequila for Sevika for a week.’
The pen skitters across the desk as you flick it away in a huff, and comes to a stop beside Silco’s humidor. You eye the glossy wooden box, fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the arms of his chair. You’re already in his coat. And at his desk. Might as well go full hog.
You crack the lid and take a moment to inhale the rich tobacco aroma rising from the neatly lined cigars, before selecting one that takes your particular fancy. You slice and light it just as you’ve been taught, and sink back into the leather chair with an indulgent drag — so distracted by the coiling patterns within the smoke unspooling from between your lips that you hardly notice the office door open and close.
“I don’t think those belong to you.”
The wry comment comes from a lithe, shadowed figure standing across the room – towards whom you puff a near perfect ring of thick smoke.
“Thirty-seven.”
“Pardon?”
“Thirty-seven,” you repeat, gesturing blithely with the smouldering cigar, “That’s how many cigarettes you’ve bummed off me since we first met. I’m merely taking what I’m owed.”
The forge-fire orange of Silco’s eye right stokes bright with silent amusement.
“And the coat?” He enquires.
You shrug, “Goes so nicely with my outfit today that I just couldn’t resist.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” he drawls, eyeing the fully buttoned garment, “However, given that it was custom made for me, I would argue that it suits my wardrobe best.”
You purse your lips in thought, reaching for his ashtray to stub out your stolen cigar. The worn-leather of Silco’s chair creaks as you rise and saunter lazily around the desk, thumbing open the coat buttons as you do and relishing the prickling heat of Silco’s attention.
You come to a stop in front of the desk, leaning your hips back against its gilded edge and allowing the coat to fall open. You cock your head coyly.
“Are you sure about that?” You ask.
Even from across the office you're able to fully witness his pupils swelling like spilt pools of ink.
Damn right too. Even you had stopped dead in your tracks to admire your reflection in the full length mirror on your way out of the bedroom. You’re groomed to perfection; hair and makeup just right, skin polished to a glowing lustre, and moisturised to delectable softness. After all, it would be a crime not to pull out all the stops given the sublime artistry of the lingerie set Max has so generously crafted for you.
The balcony bra and high-cut panties embrace your curves like a second skin, and the garter belt which cinches your waist and holds up a pair of silk-spun stockings ties the whole ensemble together flawlessly. Exquisite, charcoal lace trimmings sit against your exposed flesh like mink eyelashes, and frame tantalising panels of sheer burgundy that leave little to the imagination. And if the colour scheme weren’t already enough to stoke the fires of Silco’s highly possessive nature, then no doubt the ornamental golden finishes which so closely resemble those on his very own waistcoat will cinch the deal.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Silco, sweetie,” you purr.
It pleases you greatly to note the slight tremor in the long, heavy exhale which follows your felicitation. And his low murmured response is dark and thick as treacle, “Oh you wicked little thing.”
The coat shrugs free of your shoulders, and with it you drop all pretence of innocence. Your lips sweep into a devilish smirk; the finishing brushstroke to your lascivious portrait.
Silco stares at you the same way a starved man might a steaming banquet table; overwrought with desire and paralysed by choice. The deep lines on his face slackened with awe, and his two-toned gaze bright with barely contained frenzy. Those long fingers of his twitch down at his sides with the unconscious itch to touch, and the movement draws your gaze to the front of his pants, and the steadily thickening outline which disrupts the neat tailoring.
You peer up at him through your lashes, and crook a single finger. Your silent request breaks his trance, and he prowls across the room towards you with his typical long-legged swagger, clearly trying to remain cool calm and collected. But his impatience bleeds into the speed of his gait. Eager though he may be, Silco’s penchant for self-control is unwavering, and so it doesn’t surprise you in the least that he doesn’t immediately pounce. You know him to be the sort of predator who likes to play with his food first.
Still, he stops close enough for you to bask in his body heat, radiating into the narrow gap left between you, and his shallow breaths fan warm over your skin, as featherlight and tantalising as his skimming fingertips. He traces the shapes in the lace, follows their delicate tracks over the swell of your cleavage, sweeps the backs of his knuckles beneath your breasts in a way that has them growing heavy with desire, the gauzy cups thin enough to tent with your hardening peaks.
Silco’s expression is one of complete enthralment, and it makes you feel unspeakably beautiful.
Heat mounts in your veins, and slides south; journeying alongside the teasing scrape of Silco's blunt fingernails, dragging down the skin of your stomach on their way to toy with your garter belt. Every nerve in your body thrums with hot, electric anticipation. But you know better than to rush him, no matter how maddening the unsated throb between your legs becomes.
You grip the edge of the desk either side of your hips a little tighter, battling the urge to reach out and touch. An impressive feat of restraint, given that the front of his trousers now strains hard enough for the tented fabric to almost brush your hip.
Your gaze flits up and down, switching between the hungry burn of his eyes and the elegant fingers which trail down the lines of your garters. He slips a forefinger beneath one strap and runs the satin-wrapped elastic between his pad and thumb, knuckle grazing the skin of your thigh. You suck in a sharp breath, and hold it high in your lungs when he draws the strap abruptly away from your leg, and keeps it poised and taut above your bare thigh like the string of a loaded longbow.
Your eyes lock.
And you search the flame and ocean depths of his gaze for any clue as to when he’ll let go.
The scar on his lip shifts as the corner of his mouth hooks into a sinful little smirk.
The seconds pass in charged silence. Your breath bated until a prickling flush creeps up over your chest and into your cheeks. Your nerves squeeze tighter and tighter until you can hardly bear the anticipation any longer.
Only then does he release.
The garter snaps against your skin like the crack of a whip, sending a stinging burst of exquisite pain racing straight up your spine, and your mouth falls open with a gasping little squeak.
The pleased crease at the edge of Silco’s lips deepens, and he begins plucking delicately at the opposite garter, playing it like a harp string, sending the strap pinging lightly against your thigh over and over. The repeated stimulation of the same spot, no matter how softly, mounts in intensity until you’re squirming, and biting your lower lip to keep from whimpering.
He finally grants mercy with an arrogant little chuckle, and his broad palms smooth up over your hips to grip your waist. He takes the final step into your space, and gazes straight into your soul.
“You are the most divine thing I have ever laid eyes upon,” he murmurs, dark and gravelled, but so emphatically sincere that his words embed straight into the walls of your heart.
He leans close, but bypasses your lips in favour of grazing the sharp blade of his nose up your cheekbone, down over the hinge of your jaw, and lower still to nudge at your thrumming pulse point.
“You like your present, then?”
A rumbling hum is your answer, and a soft press of lips against your throat sends your head tipping back, eyelashes fluttering in bliss.
“I do, sweetheart, very much so. It almost seems a shame to unwrap it.”
You smirk to yourself, running your palms up his burgundy shirtsleeves whilst he continues to plant slow, sensual kisses upon your neck. You bring your lips to the shell of his ear.
“So don’t,” you whisper, nipping at his lobe, “The panties are crotchless.”
Gods the noise he makes against your skin at that is one you’ll spend your life replaying the memory of. Half ragged moan, half animalistic growl, embellished by the clatter of pens and paper as he pushes himself insistently against you, hard enough to rattle the entire desk.
Seems the limit on his control has been reached.
His hands drag and paw and squeeze over soft swells of flesh, and he attacks your throat in a hot, wet frenzy that makes your knees buckle and your head spin. You cup the back of his skull, fingers burying between the short dark strands to dig into his scalp. Unable to help the way you arch your body into him. Salivating at the thick, hard press of his clothed cock into your belly.
“You can’t have me here,” you pant, tugging at his hair.
He pulls back slowly, eyes glittering dark and dangerous, “Can’t?” The word slinks from his mouth in a way that suggests he knows of its meaning, but he does not accept that it could apply to him.
“Can’t,” you confirm with an impish smirk, brave enough to touch the tip of your nose lovingly to his even as he bares his teeth in a low snarl like some ridiculous man-dog, “You can have me on the bed, because that is where I scattered all the rose petals.”
“Rose petals?” The beast recedes just a touch and he arches a single, dark brow.
“That’s right.” Your voice drips with honey, thick and sultry, and you run indulgent palms over the lean lines of his torso, “A nice big bed, covered in rose petals, upon which I plan to romance you thoroughly,” you tip your face towards his to whisper against his lips, “and worship you the way you deserve.”
His chest brushes against yours with each of his shallow inhales, and his lust-heavy gaze is dark and ravenous. Your mouth pulls into a slow, wide grin, still half-pressed against his.
“What say you, handsome? Do we have a deal?”
“In essence,” Silco murmurs.
You yelp in surprise when he lifts you suddenly, grabbing his shoulders and instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist. His fingers sink into the giving flesh of your buttocks, and he strides towards the bedroom with you in his arms.
“However, darling, I think you’ll find that I will be the one doing the worshipping.”
astro car sex?? just for this silly little anon perhaps
Just for you silly little anon 🖤🚗 *beep beep*
Backseat Bumpers
Silco x Reader || Silco x Astrid || Established Relationship || NSFW || MDNI || Car sex || Oral [f receiving] || Overstimulation || Light bondage || Wc: 1K
Written for Astro but can be read as general AFAB!Reader
Drink With Me Masterlist 🥃
Hot air + cold surface = condensation.
Even you, an uneducated Trencher, can understand the basic science behind such a concept.
Another shuddering gasp streams from your mouth into the chilled interior of the carriage; a cloud of curling breath which further fogs the now nearly opaque windows. The cold is only partially responsible for the marble-cut peak of your nipples and the goosebumps which cover every inch of your naked skin – the rest is entirely Silco’s fault.
He kneels on the floor in front of the bench you’re on, seemingly rather content to sit back on his boot heels with your legs hooked over his vested shoulders and his face buried between your trembling thighs.
The leather seat creaks beneath you as you squirm in overstimulated pleasure, unsure whether you’re attempting to get away from the unceasing lap of his tongue and the unyielding vacuum of his lips around your clit, or trying to grind yourself deeper onto the three fingers plunged inside you; coaxing your poor, wrung g-spot with slow, meticulous strokes. You’re restricted either way by the silken neck tie which binds your wrists to the headrest behind you – reducing you to a powerless, writhing mess.
“Silco—” you babble; his name a half whine, half sob that trips over your clumsy tongue. A mystery even to you as to whether you’re pleading with him to stop or begging him to keep going. Your body crackles with too much blazing intensity to bear another second of this divine torture, and yet you teeter upon the threshold of further ecstasy, the likes of which would be unthinkable to abandon.
It’s a miracle he even hears you, given how tightly you squeeze your cum soaked thighs either side of his head. But he does. Of course he does.
Silco’s half-hooded, sea-foam eye lifts alongside its coal-stoked twin to peer up at you, the insolent gaze accompanied by an overtly lascivious hum of inquiry that has your jaw falling open in a ragged, drawn-out moan. The diaphragm-deep vibrations of his hot, wet mouth shove you over the edge, and send you plummeting through a blinding swathe of stars which haze your vision just as thoroughly as the fogged car windows. The very marrow inside your bones sparks with lethal electric pleasure – twice as intense as your last climax. Three times as intense as your first.
The flesh of your palms throbs from the crescent drill of your fingernails. Lashes soaked with rhapsodic tears which run and cool upon your overheated cheeks. And it’s only when your body goes limp and your nonsensical sobs soften to hoarse whimpers that his fingers finally slip from your spent cunt, and his lips detach from your swollen clit with an almost spiteful pop.
You sink lower in your seat, wrists suspended overhead and spine moulding to the sharp bend of the bench as Silco straightens with your knees still hooked atop his shoulders – the new position elevating your pelvis and leaving only your lower back upon the soaked leather cushions.
He peers down the length of his nose at you, folded and helpless beneath him whilst he towers long and lean above. Sharp, slender lines, painting the perfect picture of smug arrogance in a way that further stokes your seemingly insatiable desire for this insufferable man. The short, salt and pepper hairs at his temples stand on-end, wonderfully ruffled from the grinding rub of your thighs, and your release glistens upon his chin, a single wayward drop sliding down his throat to slip beneath the open collar of his burgundy shirt.
“You— you said you were g-going to— to drive me home,” you pant; breathless words misting in the chill car air.
The hook of his lip is so subtle you almost miss it; a self-assured curl to accompany the hand which snakes around the front of your thigh and reaches for the straining buttons of his trousers.
“So I did, and so I have,” he drawls, “Three times, if I counted correctly.”
You whimper lamely as he pulls his cock free, allowing its hot weight to flop onto your sensitive sex in an obscenely indecorous display. Broad, calloused palms curl around the fronts of your thighs, and sweep a warm and promising journey up to your knees. Unhurried – deliberate – he unhooks them from his shoulders and leans forward, pressing them towards your chest under his weight, folding you even further in half.
You gaze down the gap between his body and yours to where the long, scimitar curve of his shaft rests in the drenched cleft of your pussy. His flushed, flared tip leaking pearls in a promise that thickens your throat with gluttonous want.
His hands shift again – pressing outwards, leisurely spreading your legs, “And yet I haven’t received even a simple thank you for my generous service,” he reprimands with a disappointed click of his tongue, using his grip on your shins to push them farther apart, farther back, until your knees brush the leather bench either side of you, leaving you stretched and lewd beneath him.
“Not only have you no manners,” Silco croons, dragging his cock through your folds with teasing little rolls of his pelvis until he’s just as slick as you are, “but you have also ruined my upholstery. Truly, a terrible passenger. Luckily for you, I’m in a forgiving mood tonight… I’ll overlook your misdemeanours—”
He shifts his hips, catching at your entrance and sheathing himself to the hilt inside you with a single, devastatingly smooth thrust. Your cunt flutters greedily around him and you bite down on the hitching whine which bubbles from your throat, canines drilling into your lower lip and dampening the noise to a muffled, splintered groan.
He begins to fuck you slow and deep – filling the small carriage with yet more warm, breathy moans and the sound of wet, slick friction. The triumphant glint in his eyes is as dark and sharp as the promise on his tongue:
“— and I’ll even drive you home a few more times.”
Inky, may we please get a drabble about Astrid’s inability to behave when Silco wears his readers, I am on my knees begging 🙏🏼😖
Reading Glasses 👓
Silco x Reader || Silco x Astrid || Post DWM || Established Relationship || Silco in glasses || SFW but suggestive || wc: 800~ || AO3
Make sure you read til the end for a special surprise 😘
Water and toothpaste swirl in lazy spirals around the sink drain as you rinse out your mouth and plop your toothbrush back into the holder beside Silco’s.
Your toothbrush and Silco’s toothbrush. Just… sitting together in the same little pot.
A giddy flutter tickles behind your sternum, and you catch sight of your reflection’s lips twisting into a small, unbidden smile. You wipe your hands dry on your sleep shorts and press the cool skin of your knuckles to your flushing cheeks.
Ridiculous.
These dizzy, adolescent spells that are brought on by the simplest, most mundane of things. You swear you never got this flustered before you were together.
Well… perhaps that isn’t strictly true. But it’s completely different now. The things that flustered you back then were totally normal ‘fluster-able’ things. All the flirting and innuendos. Cigar smoke blown between mouths. Being pinned beneath his weight against the wall…
Not getting damn heart palpitations from secretly watching Silco work at his desk. Or blushing when he brings you morning coffee in bed on the days you stay over. Or getting light-headed at the shared proximity of your bloody oral hygiene implements.
It’s embarrassing; what he does to you.
And you wouldn’t change it for anything.
You tuck your hair behind your ears and allow the full potential of your smile to blossom in time with the warmth inside your chest. After all, why shouldn’t you? Being happy is no crime. You’ve earned this peace. You both have. And if the past couple of weeks at Silco's side have taught you anything, it’s that it truly is miraculous how much more in love a person can fall when they stop fighting the pull of gravity.
Seems every day with him is a new lesson; filled with small revelations that always seem to appear when you least expect them.
You flip the bathroom light off as you open the ensuite door, “Hey Silco? Don’t you think it’s stupid that the plural for toothbrush isn’t teethbrush? 'Toothbrushes' just sounds plain wrong—”
You freeze on the threshold, lips parting with a small pop as your jaw slackens. Suddenly very hard to draw breath. Suddenly very warm beneath your nightwear.
Silco looks up at you from his relaxed position on the bed; reclined atop the covers with a single knee bent upwards and bare shoulders propped against the headboard. His rose tattoos peek above the soft dark fabric of his sleep-bottoms, and the glow from the bedside lamp not only illuminates the pages of the book he has resting upon his thigh, but also further accentuates his whip-lean physique.
It isn’t a new sight.
What is new are the reading spectacles; perched perfectly upon the bridge of his nose. Round lenses set within thin, black wire.
His natural brow arches elegantly above the frame.
“I have to admit, Darling, I don’t spend much time pondering the etymology of the word ‘toothbrush'—”
Silco’s response is cut short by the sound of fabric hitting the floor.
You step free of your shorts and underwear as you stride swiftly towards the foot of the bed, propelled by a gut-deep, primal need that wraps red-hot around your insides like a flaming whip. Silco’s sea-foam eye widens in instinctual alarm behind the round lens at the intensity and speed with which you clamber onto the bed and crawl your way up his body to straddle his hips. You snatch the book straight from his hands and fling it blindly away a split second before crashing your lips to his.
He grunts in surprise at the impact – ferocious enough to knock his glasses completely askew – but quickly matches your hunger. Large hands pawing their way up your thighs and over your hips until his arms are wrapped tightly around your waist, dragging you closer as he sits up fully. So eager that he briefly overshoots, the solid bar of his forearms the only thing keeping you from tumbling backwards onto his thighs as he folds at the hip, before righting himself and pulling you with him.
Your fingers rake and tug through Silco’s hair. Mouths locking in rough, messy kisses. Teeth clacking, tongues delving, desperately seeking more. Lips parting only out of necessity to grab the hem of your camisole and rip it off over your head, chucking it across the room as Silco reaches up to remove his glasses—
“No,” you snatch his wrist and shove him backwards, pinning his hands into the pillow either side of his head and lacing your fingers together.
Silco blinks up at you, startled and dazed behind the round, lopsided frames. Sore lips parting in stupefied silence as you press your face up close to his.
And perhaps you’re spending far too much time with the mighty Eye of Zaun – because your husky demand is snarled through bared teeth in a bestial growl.
Silco x Astrid || Silco x Reader || Established Relationship || Domestic Fluff || Modern AU || Coffee Shop || SFW || Wc: 1.3K || AO3
For my scrumptious @sherwood-forests. Thank you for the prompt my sweet lil dumplin’ ❤️
It’s with no small amount of pride that you saunter back towards the well-worn loveseat you and Silco have commandeered in the corner of the coffee shop, and set the two porcelain cups carefully down upon the low, mahogany table.
Silco’s gaze rises from the pages of his book to instead peer down his nose at what you’ve placed before him. He appears to share none of your palpable excitement – his expression the picture of perfect indolence, save for the single eyebrow that arches gracefully above his reading glasses.
“It’s latte art,” you explain giddily, plonking yourself down onto the cracked leather sofa beside him and setting about arranging the two coffees next to each other for a decent photo, “Found this place on instagram last night.”
“Ah.”
The love-seat creaks as Silco sits forward to better inspect his cup. Milk foam whipped high and soft, with a clever rendering of a slumbering dragon formed from careful cream patterns and gradients of brown. You picked out a happy looking cat for yourself.
“I suppose that explains your sudden insistence on betraying our perfectly good coffee shop in favour of this one.”
“You betcha.”
He huffs a faint, mardy grunt as he continues to eye the miniature mountain of foam atop his latte with open disdain.
“And how am I supposed to drink this?”
“With your mouth.”
Silco’s gaze slides coolly over to you, and you give him a small, banal smile.
He maintains pointed eye contact while reaching for a stirrer, and seems to take far too much petty pleasure in piercing through the cloudy hide of the dragon to clear a hole through which to drink.
“Naww. Poor Puff.”
“Puff?”
“Puff the magic dragon? Who lived by the sea? You never sang that song in school?”
Silco doesn’t deign to respond. Simply takes a long, pointed sip of coffee, while gazing over the rim of his cup at you like some superior King of the World.
“If you ask nicely, I’ll sing it for you.”
“If I ask nicely, could you not sing it?”
“Spoil sport.”
Porcelain meets wood, and Silco relaxes back with his open book once more.
You stare.
Lips twisting tightly in an attempt not to smirk; a battle you’re rapidly losing.
Silco looks so studious . Reading about what looks to be the rise and fall of the Habsburg Empire. Wearing his crisply pressed slacks and fancy dark merino wool turtleneck. With his perfectly coiffed salt and pepper hair, and his very serious sexy glasses and his coffee foam moustache.
How hasn’t he noticed? Can’t he feel it? It isn’t even a pencil moustache, it’s a full, creamy chevron.
Not one to look such a glorious gift horse in the mouth, and with your camera already loaded from the coffee cup photos, you raise your phone and take a quick, surreptitious picture.
Unfortunately, you forget you’re not on silent mode.
Silco’s gaze snaps up to you from his book as you hastily lower your phone. His teal eye tapers to a suspicious slit.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you just take a photo of me?”
“Nope.”
“I think your nose just doubled in length.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
His eye narrows further, and he holds out his hand.
“Give me your phone.”
You clutch the device to your chest, “Nuh-uh.”
“I won’t ask twice.”
“Okay fine! I admit it. I took a nice candid photo,” your voice crackles like a poorly tuned radio despite your attempt to keep the laughter from it, “But only because you’re looking particularly handsome today.”
“And the reason you’re unable to pay such a compliment without smirking is?”
“Self satisfaction," you flash him a toothy grin, “That I’m dating such a fine specimen.”
He doesn’t look wholly convinced, but his mouth does soften and quirk just a little; shifting the foam moustache as it does.
A snort catches in your throat, and Silco reverts to full suspicion.
“Out with it,” he snips.
“Out with what?”
“Whatever it is you’re finding so dreadfully amusing.”
“What?!” You exclaim, tucking your phone into your back pocket lest he make a grab for it, “Can’t a girl can’t just smile for no reason nowadays? Is it a crime to be happy—”
He captures your chin with his thumb and forefinger and turns your face towards him. A deceptively tender touch, considering the formidable intent behind it. His gaze drills straight into yours; the same intimidation technique you’ve seen him use on many an employee.
The effect is dampened somewhat by the milky facial hair.
You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard .
“I know you intimately , Sweetheart,” Silco's voice pitches down to a bewitching murmur meant to simultaneously beguile and unnerve his victim, “I have spent many hours learning every subtlety and facet of you, and your smile.” He leans closer, and sweeps the pad of his thumb featherlight along the very outer edge of your lower lip, “And therefore I know when you are up to no good .”
Totally against your will, your small smirk widens to a mischievous smile, and Silco’s own lips shift in response.
“And so,” he purrs; insufferably smug, “Are you going to let me in on the joke? Or must I force it from you?”
You quirk an eyebrow at the sultry suggestion, but answer all the same.
“I’m just a little confused is all. I could have sworn I saw you shave this morning.”
“…I did shave.”
You cock your head, “In that case, I think you missed a spot.”
Silco’s brow knots, and he releases your chin to skim his fingertips along his jaw in search of errant stubble. Completely bypassing his upper lip.
You tip your head back with a shameless, wicked cackle that has Silco’s gaze sharpening and his mouth tightening.
“Come here Sweetie,” you laugh, finally deciding to be helpful.
You slide your palm to cup the back of his neck and pull him gently closer, pressing your mouth to his in a deep kiss, uncaring of who might be around to see. Relishing the feel of the soft shorn hairs at the base of his skull, the taste of coffee, and the fizz of microscopic bubbles bursting against your skin.
You suck his upper lip into your mouth, running your tongue along in a tantalising sweep to clear the creamy foam. Paying extra attention to the sensitive divot of his scar in a way that has him shuddering softly.
There’s a gentle pop as you part, only far enough to assess your handiwork, before leaning to plant two more kisses to the corners of his mouth, each with a sneaky flick of tongue to catch the final remnants of his inadvertent moustache.
You sit back, smiling at his mildly dazed expression and swiping your thumb affectionately along his upper lip to dry the glisten of your kiss. He comes back to himself in time to catch your wrist as it withdraws, and presses his lips to your knuckles, before lacing your fingers together and lowering your joined hands to rest on the sofa between you.
“Won’t you need that for page turning?”
“I’m certain I’ll manage,” he murmurs with a soft, barely-there smile. Demonstrating his capability by resting his book on his lap and flipping the page with his free hand.
You chuckle softly, and pull your own book from your bag before scooching closer. And when it becomes clear you don’t possess quite the same level of dexterity as Silco, he merely adjusts to instead wrap his arm around your shoulders and draw you close to his side, leaving you with two hands free to open your novel.
You both settle into companionable silence to read.
“I think I rather like this place,” Silco decides after a short while, eyes continuing to skim along the page and knuckles grazing absent circles against your arm, “It has a nice ambience.”
“Mhm,” you agree, nestling closer against his side with a small, contented smile.
