Silco pushes the door open, then steps aside, leaving you to enter first.
Beyond the opening, darkness stretches outward in every direction. The black clouds you watched from the bridge hang above two suspended windows. The one on your right tapers to a point around a saffron light. Beside it, the circular window from Silco’s office floats upside down in a blue-green glow.
A piano progression rises, and the melancholy chords gather around the circular frame. You move toward it, glancing back to make sure Silco hasn’t left.
On the other side, an argument is underway.
“They were selling to Topsiders right under your nose for months,” Jinx says.
Silco’s composure is worn thin. “How many times do I need to tell you not to interfere?”
“It was just one shipment. If I hadn’t rigged it, the Enforcers would’ve taken it.” She drops her cheek onto her folded arm with a grin.
“They were meant to,” he snaps. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”
Her head lifts.
“…You’re working with them?”
His hands clench at his sides.
“Stay out of it.”
Without another word, he turns and walks out.
You find your own fingers curled into your palms. When you look back up, Jinx sits across from him in the office.
“Still giving me the silent treatment, huh?”
Silco reaches for a cigar, barely hearing her until her tone grows impatient.
“If you care so much about me playing your stupid revolution game, speak up now.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ve had enough headaches.”
Her anger begins to waver.
“If it’s some sort of trap…” she says, her voice small. “Just tell me what I did wrong. I can fix it.”
“You’re not a part of this, Jinx. And you never will be.”
You watch the fight drain from her face before she disappears out the door. Silco overturns the sheet of paper on his desk.
It’s a contract.
Twelve consecutive shipments are to be made in good faith.
Each shipment is to be received by six o’clock on the final day of each month.
Failure to deliver constitutes a breach of the arrangement and restarts the twelve-month term.
Upon completion, Violet will be released from Stillwater.
Your father’s signature sits at the bottom.
Long after the delivery has been made, Silco is still waiting. When Jinx doesn’t come back, he grabs his coat and leaves the office, checking her workshop first and the old arcade after that. His pace quickens after finding each space empty, and with every step, your own pulse climbs.
The bridge comes into view ahead. Near the railing, Jinx stands with her shoulders slumped, staring out at the water. Relief hits first.
“Jinx.”
She turns her head just enough to glance back, and his heart sinks when he sees her face.
Smudged makeup trails beneath her eyes, but it isn’t the tears that break him. It’s that they’ve already dried.
He takes a step toward her.
“Let me explain.”
She meets his eyes, but something in them has changed. His little girl, who had always looked at him with the certainty that her father would come, now looks at him as though she already accepted he wasn’t going to.
Her voice comes out tired.
“You’re too late.”
Her gaze falls away and her arm shifts. A small metal pin slips from her hand. Your breath hitches as a white flash erupts in front of her, swallowing her silhouette before overtaking everything else.
When you finally turn to face Silco, the same man is looking back at you. Only now, you understand some of what it cost to make him this way.
Before you can find the words, another piano melody begins, and your gaze seeks out the second window. It’s the cathedral-like window overlooking the alley behind The Last Drop, the back route you always took because it was discreet.
Its amber light no longer looks warm. It burns against the darkness until fire is the only thing your mind can make of it. Your stomach drops, and you turn to Silco, shaking your head.
“I don’t want to look.”
Silco watches you, the hurt in his expression deepening as you take a step back.
Rating: Mature || Chapter Word Count: 1.7k
Chapter Content Warnings: hurt/comfort, idiots in love, reference to violence, pining, post-rejection awkwardness, cliche appearance of bad guys at the end
Masterlist || Previous || Next || AO3 Work Link
no beta. sue me.
A/N: hahaaaaa, sorry this took me two years to pick back up. life has been life-ing and, as such, i have been very busy. enjoy this update, and hopefully the next chapter won't take me as long :)
Your sleep is a dreamless one, like an endless drifting. Time passes slowly, every hour taking its sweet time instead of rushing past like any other night. You only wake up when the sound of heavy footsteps rings out nearby.
Without thinking, you know it’s the staircase, just by the subtle creak. Then the office door opens and the heavy footsteps continue for a few seconds, followed by muffled voices.
“Here’s their clothes. How are they?” It’s Sevika.
“Alive,” Silco responds. “Shaken and bruised, but alive.”
A few seconds of silence pass and you’re entirely awake now, propped up on your elbows and listening closely, the darkness of the room around you growing brighter as your eyes adjust.
“Any idea what happened?”
“Attacked at their apartment.”
You wince at the reminder.
“You think it’s related to why they had to crash here in the first place?”
“It is.” Even past the door you can hear the rumble in Silco’s voice, the agitation that’s seeping into his words.
He continues. “I will get detailed descriptions for you at a later date but all I know is there were two men.”
“I’ll keep an ear open then.” Sevika’s heavy footsteps begin once again and the door opens, closes, and she recedes down the stairs.
You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, listening closely as Silco rolls his chair back and his footsteps come closer. The door opens softly under his hand, and he peeks inside.
“What time is it?” you ask, and Silco’s body follows his head through the doorway.
“Almost noon.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep for that long.” You’re a little embarrassed now, not sure when you even went to sleep yesterday. Just adding onto the pile of stress, you had hoped to sleep off whatever Silco Fever you had last night, from fantasizing about him to kissing him. But your temperature is still rather high in that department.
“No apologies needed,” Silco says, waving you off as he wanders over, “you needed the rest.” He drops some clothes on the bed next to you before veering off to the closet.
You pick them up, and quickly recognize them as spare threads from your locker downstairs.
“Thanks, I forgot about these,” you say, looking up at Silco who’s grabbing his coat from the closet.
He’s going somewhere, you think to yourself, and ignore the pang in your chest. He feels distant, and this is making it worse.
“Are you going out?” you ask, almost scared of the answer you might get.
Yes, I’m leaving you because you’ve crossed a line. Be gone by the time I’m back.
“We’re going to get food. I’d think you’re rather hungry now,” Silco says, shrugging on his coat.
Oh finally!
You’re so hungry by now you can’t be bothered to worry about your feelings and complications with Silco. Without thinking, you jump up and grab your clothes, running to the bathroom to change. It feels good to be in your own stuff, no offense to Silco. He has provided you with a lot so far, but his old clothes are sort of scratchy, and big on you.
You emerge from the bathroom to find Silco has already left, so you quickly rush out to meet him. He’s not in the office, the hall, or the bar; he’s somehow made it all the way outside.
“How did you get down here so fast?” you say, a little breathless from your hurry.
“How did you take so long to get dressed?” he quips back. If it weren’t for the hint of a smile on his lips you would be more offended by his comment, but you're instead pleasantly reminded of your banter the night you hit him with a pillow. You brush it off with a shake of your head and follow when Silco starts off down the street.
“Where to?” You’re inwardly hoping it’s Jericho’s that you’re headed to.
“Anywhere you’d like,” Silco answers passively.
“Jericho’s,” you say quickly, and Silco smiles.
“I was hoping you would say that.”
Silco digging into the greasy, messy delicacies of Jericho’s Seafood and Snacks is a funny image, but you’re not surprised. Silco’s rather old, so he’s probably eaten at every place in the undercity by now.
Usually traveling with Silco includes backroads and hidden alleyways, but you must have caught him in a good mood because you’re treated with a stroll through the main streets of the Lanes. The walk feels longer than it really is, with your growling stomach and all, but it is very amusing. The amount of room allotted to you and Silco by other passersby is comical, the sight of so many cowering from him sort of empowering.
I could get used to this, you think to yourself.
Upon making it to Jericho’s, you promptly order and Silco pays, not getting anything for himself but instead striking up conversation with the large, Fish-looking chef known as Jericho. When your food is ready, Silco sits down next to you and watches, amused, as you begin to scarf down your meal.
The food takes away from the awkwardness eating away at you, but it still weighs heavy. The worst part is you thought kissing Silco, or feeling the need to, was just some part of your emotional and exhausted delirium. It wasn’t. The only thing you regret is what he said after–how uncomfortable he looked.
“About last night,” you start, watching the grease dripping from your sandwich as you find it incredibly hard to look Silco in the eye. You take a breath to say something else, another apology, some half-assed excuse, but he stops you.
“It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it.” When you look up there’s a gentle smile on his face, and all of the breath leaves your lungs at once.
Thank Janna.
You continue to eat your sandwich, savoring every bite. The pauses you have to take to swallow and breathe are as quick as you can make them, trying to fill the bottomless pit that has become your stomach.
“Can I ask you a question?” Silco says, and you look up at him. “About what happened at your apartment.”
You nod, not sure you can rely on your voice to keep steady if you speak.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” His voice is soft, gentle. “I would have handled it quietly–I will handle it quietly–and it bothers me that those men are still out somewhere.”
He’s irritated, angry, but not at you. His anger is justified and it makes you feel justified. It’s validating. But, he is asking a good question. You never told him what was happening until it was too late. Despite his power, his influence, the means and will to hunt down a man. You’ve seen all of these things, witnessed them first-hand, but still you didn’t say anything. Why?
“I was just hoping it would blow over,” you answer meekly.
“Don’t take that risk again,” Silco says, looking at you now with those earnest red and green eyes. “I will be here to help and assist in any way I can. I will not judge, ridicule, or reject you. I would prefer, for your sake, that you tell me if something even feels wrong.”
You nod, a little taken aback by the genuine look in Silco’s eyes, the one you thought you would only see last night, especially after your actions. But he bears his trust and his heart to you again.
Warmth blossoms in your chest as those words sink in, the reality that you can really trust Silco and that he trusts you in return bringing a fluttering sensation to your chest.
“Thank you,” you say, before picking up your sandwich again. That’s all you can manage to say without choking up with tears.
You continue eating in silence until Silco pipes up again.
“There’s an assembly with the barons I must attend today,” he sighs. “You are welcome to join me. I would rather not leave you by yourself, but it is ultimately your choice.”
You swallow and reply. “I’ll stick with you.”
“Very well then,” he says with a nod. “We’ll go once you’re done. We’ll be early.”
You nod back and, after polishing off your sandwich, head off with Silco. You quickly realize food was an excellent idea, as you feel more energized and stable–mentally and physically–now that you’re working on a full stomach.
In all the years you’ve worked for Silco, you have gone to one other chembaron assembly, and it was not a good experience. Boring, long, very redundant, and full of horrible people. Killers, old farts, and wannabe tyrants. Worst of them all was Finn, with a loud mouth in place of his brain. You had the displeasure of holding a small conversation with him, which turned into him getting very much in your face and hitting on you. Nothing more than an annoyance really, but you do hope he won’t try that again. Or, even better, you hope he won’t be at this meeting at all.
You take the elevator up with Silco and it’s all vaguely familiar, with a few things changed since you were last there a few weeks ago. Upon getting to the assembly hall, you find that you and Silco are not the only ones early, even though you are a good twenty minutes ahead of most of the other attendees. Much to your dismay, you’re immediately greeted by Finn, who throws a sharp comment that you ignore entirely. Silco ignores him as well and the two of you stand off to the side.
“How he’s managed to not be killed yet is beyond me,” Silco huffs, obviously talking about Finn. “I’ve come close to doing the favor myself.”
You smile at his quip, and are about to say something yourself when you look over at Finn in his yellow jacket. He’s in the opposite corner of you, and your words die before they reach your tongue as you see the two men he’s standing next to.
They’re large, both with shortly trimmed hair, and even at a distance you see them eyeing you. One with a red X tattooed on his cheek, the other flashing a silver grill across his teeth.
Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021)
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Silco (Arcane: League of Legends)/Original Female Character(s), Connol/Felicia (Arcane: League of Legends), Silco (Arcane: League of Legends)/Vander (League of Legends)
Characters: Silco (Arcane: League of Legends), Vander (League of Legends), Felicia (Arcane: League of Legends), Connol (Arcane: League of Legends), Jinx (League of Legends), Vi (League of Legends), Jinx and Vi's Parents (League of Legends), Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s)
Additional Tags: Angst, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Developing Relationship, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Young Silco (Arcane: League of Legends), Young Vander (League of Legends), Zaun (League of Legends), Mentioned Piltover Council (Arcane: League of Legends), Piltover and Zaun Bridge Battle (Arcane: League of Legends), Piltover Galas and Parties (Arcane: League of Legends), Zaundads if you squint, Not Beta Read, Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Summary:
After a harrowing discovery that changes everything he’s ever known, Silco struggles to move forward, feeling like a stranger in his own story.
Lucky for him, he doesn’t have to go through it alone, not when he inadvertently makes friends with a young woman from across the bridge.
Dark clouds had sealed the sky from horizon to horizon, and you could no longer remember the last time you saw one of the white flashes. Walking the city blind lost its appeal, and eventually, you stopped venturing away from The Last Drop.
You pour yourself another drink in an effort to break the monotony, and after a time, you become aware of music seeping through the walls. You search for where it’s coming from, but never find it.
When the awful song finally stops, another begins just as discordantly. After enduring enough of them, you’re forced to conclude that you actually are in hell.
The songs continue to come and go, their timing as mysterious as their source. Some carry an inexplicable sense of nostalgia, and sometimes images come with them. The visions are never clear, but they make the room feel less empty while they last.
The building begins to feel colder than it used to, and before long, the green blanket rarely leaves your shoulders. But the cold becomes the least of it...
A debilitating rigidity takes hold in your arms and legs, making even the smallest of movements feel punitive. You keep to the couch, but when you do rise, it’s always for the same reason. Your fingers find the handle to the second door, and when it doesn’t give, the ache in your chest worsens. The pain behind your eyes burns badly enough that you slide down the wall, one hand resting near the thin sliver of warmth emanating from beneath the door.
When you wake, it’s to the sound of a piano ballad drifting through the hall. The pain that had plagued your head has melted away. You stand, letting the blanket fall to the floor, and walk toward the front door. Outside, the black clouds remain overhead, but farther off, a break has opened where light barely shines through. Without questioning why, you head toward it until the empty streets lead you to the bridge. High above, light flickers in soundless pulses, like a storm too distant to be heard. You stand there without understanding why you came, unsure what you expected to find.
Then you hear a voice.
Silco is standing in the river with his back to you, the water placid around him.
“There’s this thing,” you hear him say. “Whispering in low tones to let it in.” His fingertips skim the surface of the water before lifting to his face. “Like it’s holding you.”
His gaze remains fixed on the Piltover skyline.
“And it feels as though every problem in the world will fade away.”
The melody carries through the haze until the final notes disappear into the quiet. The clouds overhead thicken, closing around the last of the remaining light. Even standing there, Silco already seems more distant. Involuntarily, you take a step toward him, then stop, remembering the pain that came the last time he was close.
And yet, that wasn’t what frightened you most.
It was the endless hours you’d spent at the bar, cold and aching, setting out a glass for no one, consumed by a desolation that had nearly broken you. Returning to that feels far more harrowing than anything else.
You take another step.
“Silco—“
He turns his head at the sound of your voice. When his gaze finds yours, you don’t look away. It has been so long since you’ve seen those eyes looking back at you, and you realize, devastatingly, that you could endure the pain if it meant being spared the loneliness for even another second.
“…can you stay a little longer?” you ask quietly.
An unexpected softness crosses his expression.
“As long as you need.”
Before you can second-guess yourself, you walk slowly toward him, bracing for the crushing pressure inside your skull. But it never comes. Instead, the water recedes and the fog begins to dissipate, revealing a staircase ascending into the darkness one illuminated step at a time.
Together, you begin to climb. At the top, the familiar hallway stretches ahead, and you move past the office until the second door stands before you once more. This time, you aren’t the one who reaches for it. Silco steps forward and rests his hand on the lever.
After a moment, he takes a deep breath, presses it down, and pushes the door open.
People like to believe there’s a bottom to misery, a point where things can’t possibly get any worse. They're usually wrong.
Silco x fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 12,4K
Warnings: references to physical and psychological torture, threats, death plans, Russian roulette, kidnapping, canon-typical sicco violence, reference to suicide, smut, sexual tension, a little bit of female domination, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, praise kink, Silco POV
Part 45
The retractable blade of Sevika's mechanical arm was pressed tight against Cassandra's throat, the metal edge sinking just deep enough into her skin for you to see thin, trembling lines of blood forming along its surface.
It wouldn't take much. One wrong movement, one small twitch of Sevika's wrist, and the blade would open her up. And yet—strangely, disturbingly—Cassandra Kiramman didn't react the way anyone in their right mind should. No gasp. No pleading.
You knew this was going to happen. Anyone who had once dared to headbutt you was clearly made of something harder than fear.
She sat there, bound to the chair, shoulders straight despite the ropes cutting into her wrists, chin lifted in quiet defiance. Her jaw was clenched, lips pressed into a thin, unwavering line, eyes fixed on Silco with an almost insulting steadiness.
Even with a blade buried against her throat, she refused to bow. Refused to shrink. And judging by the way Silco's expression shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible—you knew he had finally noticed it too. This woman wasn't going to break. Not the way others did.
You had warned him. More than once. Torture wouldn't work on her. Cassandra wasn't built like the people who screamed and begged when pain found them.
She was the kind who swallowed it whole and dared it to do worse. She would choose death long before she chose betrayal. Long before she handed over anything about the Gray's pipes —about the hidden systems her family kept sealed. Systems that, if opened, could flood the Undercity with toxic gas in minutes.
Of course you could say that Silco wanted this information to protect Zaun. Which wouldn't be entirely untrue. But you knew him. One of the reasons he was so desperate to uncover the secrets behind the Gray's pipes wasn't just to protect Zaun from Piltover's interference. It was to see if the flow could be reversed.
To find out whether those toxic gases—so carefully contained by the Kiramman family—could be sent upward instead of downward. Back into the clean lungs of the Upper City.
A message written in poison.
If Piltover had ever planned to suffocate Zaun... Silco wanted the option to return the favor.
You stood behind the reinforced observation glass, separated from the interrogation room by thick layers of metal and chemtech. The barrier dulled the sound, but not the tension.
Two hours.
Two long, suffocating hours.
Your muscles ached from standing in the same position. Your patience had worn thin somewhere around the first hour.
"Yeah..." a familiar voice murmured beside you, light but edged with unease. "This... doesn't really look like it's working."
"I warned your dad." you replied quietly, finally crossing your arms. "But he's stubborn as a brick wall."
You glanced sideways at Powder. She had arrived about half an hour ago, brought by one of Silco's men. You, of course, weren't very happy about her presence there, but you didn't send her away.
She leaned against the glass, hands stuffed into the pockets of her oversized jacket, bright blue hair falling into her eyes. Her expression was conflicted—half curious, half disturbed. Like she couldn't decide whether she was fascinated or horrified.
"You can leave if you want, you know?"
She shrugged, trying for casual, failing slightly. "I know, but Dad said I should start getting involved in family stuff."
You raised an eyebrow. "Does that include interrogations?"
"Especially interrogations." she replied with a crooked grin. Then her gaze drifted back to the glass, and the grin faded. "Though... this one feels less like 'getting answers' and more like... free torture."
You let out a soft, tired huff of amusement.
"In your dad's dictionary, those two words mean the same thing."
Powder snorted quietly.
Time dragged on. Inside the room, Sevika pressed Cassandra harder. Silco leaned closer and she still refused to bend.
You yawned, covering your mouth with the back of your hand.
"We've been stuck here for two hours." you shifted your weight, feeling the stiffness in your legs. Then, more softly, you turned to Powder. "It'd be better if you didn't follow your father's footsteps."
"Relax..." Powder said lightly, waving her hand in front of her face as if shooing away an annoying fly. "Dad's methods are super orthodox. Outdated. I'm not really the torturer type, you know? I prefer something simple."
She turned to you, as if she were about to give a presentation.
"Think about it. You lock someone in a sealed room, toss in a fake bomb with a fifteen-second timer, and start the countdown the moment you shut the door." she snapped her fingers. "People start talking real fast."
Slowly—very slowly—you turned your head to look at her.
Your eyes widened. Your mouth fell open just enough to make the silence between you feel deafening. For a split second, all you could do was stare at her.
You already knew her 'Jinx' version was terrifying—nothing like your sweet Powder—you just didn't expect it to be this bad. She's definitely spending too much time with Silco.
"You do realize, that this would count as psychological torture, right? It's still torture."
Powder lifted a finger, already preparing a counterargument, her expression turning thoughtful. She froze mid-gesture. Her brows knit together as she replayed your words in her head, actually considering them. After a moment, she lowered her hand.
"Okay. You got me there."
You exhaled sharply and dragged a hand down your face, fingers pressing into your eyes as if that might push away the headache blooming behind them.
Teenagers.
"Just leave the torture to me and your father."
She nodded in agreement and in the very same second, the door slid open with a sharp metallic hiss.
Silco stepped into the observation room. His expression was bitter, stripped of any trace of humor, and the moment his eyes landed on you, they hardened. "Don't say anything."
You held back a smile with impressive discipline, lips pressing together as you lifted your hands in mock surrender. "I wasn't going to say anything... but—"
"Oh, for the love of—" he muttered, rubbing his temple as if already regretting stepping into the room. You ignored the grumble completely.
"If I were going to say something...."
"Don't start, dove."
"I did warn you."
Silco rolled his eyes so hard you were half-convinced you could physically see his fury peel off him and stain the air. He was already angry—raw, simmering, exhausted—and you poking at him like this was only throwing more fuel onto an already raging fire.
You shifting your focus to Sevika. She no longer wore that predator's grin or the promise of violence she'd carried earlier. Now there was only boredom etched across her face, the kind that came from realizing this whole ordeal wasn't going anywhere interesting.
"Escort Powder back to the bar." you said evenly. "Please."
Sevika gave a short nod, already turning, but Powder had other ideas.
"Wait, wait! Hold on!" she rushed out. "What if I go to Singed's lab instead? Uncle Viktor's gonna be there today."
"Fine." you barely needed a second. The answer slipped out of you almost automatically.
Powder's face lit up instantly.
"Sevika, have someone escort Powder during the visit."
Another nod from Sevika. Powder bounced on her heels, grinning, then threw her arms around your waist in a brief, impulsive hug before darting away. Moments later, the door slid shut behind them both, cutting off her laughter and the sound of boots retreating down the hall.
The room felt emptier without her.
You barely had time to register the silence before you heard the soft click of a lighter. A spark flared in the dimness, followed by the unmistakable scent of tobacco curling through the air, thick and familiar. Silco stood near the wall now, smoke drifting lazily from between his fingers.
"Perhaps..." he said after a slow drag, voice deceptively calm. "You should try."
"Me?" you pointed to yourself, the motion automatic. "I'm the one who kidnapped her. At best, she'll open her mouth just to curse my entire existence."
"Still, it's worth the attempt. We don't have many options left, not when she won't break under conventional methods."
He lifted one hand and made a small, dismissive gesture toward the interrogation room—an unspoken order for you to go in. The motion earned him an immediate eye roll from you, sharp and unapologetic. Pure defiance. Not because you didn't understand the logic, but because you already knew the truth of it.
This wasn't strategy anymore; it was attrition. Time and breath being wasted on someone who had already decided the outcome the moment she was captured.
Cassandra Kiramman was a sealed iron coffin. And the two of you were trying to pry it open with blunt force.
The door slid open with a dull mechanical hum, and the instant you crossed the threshold, Cassandra lifted her head the moment you stepped inside, eyes snapping to you with razor focus. That iron fiber you'd noticed before surged back into place. She didn't spit an insult. Didn't curse your name.
She simply raised her chin.
Her gaze followed you as you approached, measuring each step, cataloging every movement. You stopped directly in front of her and, without asking permission or giving warning, reached out and took her chin between your fingers. Her reaction was instant—muscles tensing, teeth baring just slightly as a low, furious sound vibrated in her throat. Not quite a growl, but close enough to make the point clear.
You ignored it.
Your eyes drifted instead to her neck, to the place where Sevika's blade had pressed earlier. Thin cuts. Shallow. Already clotting.
"Superficial cuts." you murmured calmly, thumb brushing just close enough to make her flinch. "You'll survive."
You released her chin, letting your hand fall back to your side. That was when Cassandra finally reacted.
Not with the venom you had half-expected. Of course not. She was still very much herself—composed, controlled, the iron-willed matriarch of the Kiramman family.
"Of course." she said coolly, voice steady despite the tension still coiled in her throat. "You need me alive to ensure Piltover doesn't retaliate."
You didn't bother hiding the flicker of surprise that crossed your face. Your brows lifted slightly, lips parting just enough to betray it. "I should have known that by now you'd already figured out what's happening."
Cassandra's mouth curved into a smile. "Thank your guards. They love to brag." she shifted in the chair as much as the restraints allowed, straightening her spine, reclaiming her posture inch by inch. Even tied down, she made herself larger. "Not keeping your men focused may become a problem."
You exhaled a quiet breath, more amused than offended. "I'll take the advice under consideration. Thank you, Lady Kiramman."
Slowly, you began to circle her chair. Your footsteps were unhurried. You let the silence stretch, allowed the sound of your movement to fill the room. Cassandra's eyes tracked you the entire time, never losing sight of you for a single second.
"You know, this whole business of trying to pry answers out of you is a waste of time. You're not going to talk."
You stopped behind her, placing both hands on her shoulders. Her muscles tensed so much it felt like you were touching a piece of rock, not flesh.
"The authority to control the Gray was given to your family for a reason. The Kirammans were deemed the most honorable among the traditional houses. Trusted. Reliable." you gently squeezed her shoulder. "You'd put your own life at risk if it meant keeping Piltover safe."
Deciding to give the poor thing some relief, you finally stopped touching her and returned to her line of sight.
"That's what your family has done for generations and it's what you'll keep doing. You. Your children. Their children after them... an unbroken lineage of sacrifice, dressed up as duty."
"Did you study us during those four years?"
You let out a small breath that might have been a laugh if it had carried any humor.
"Actually, no. I've known everything about you since I was... fifteen, maybe... you learn your target before you strike. It's the basics for a coup d'état."
That earned you a look you hadn't seen from her yet. Not anger. Not disdain.
Confusion.
Okay, you'd have to give her more hints to make her realize.
"You people on the Council don't trust one another and yet it never crosses your minds that one of you might actually betray the rest."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"The original plan was to eliminate you all in your sleep." you said, and even now you remembered it with unsettling clarity. "Quick deaths. My former master wasn't interested in making a spectacle."
Cassandra's eyes widened just a fraction. "What?"
"The daughter would have been first... she was just a child back then." you paused, letting the weight of that sink in. "Can you imagine? Someone calmly planning the death of a person who doesn't even understand the world yet. Someone who has no idea why they're being targeted."
Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
"Then your husband and lastly you... of course, the rest of the Councilors would also be killed."
The more her face twisted in genuine confusion, the thinner your patience became. You let out a slow, sharp breath.
"Oh, come on... the Piltover Institute of Ascension and Progress. Doesn't that ring any bells at all? It's impossible that you, of all people, thought it was normal to have scientists in an institution that was supposed to help children in Zaun..." your voice came out with that irritated tone, and any patience you had vanished. "I'm the monster, remember? The one who killed several people at the Institute and in Stillwater, besides crushing a weapon like it was nothing. You certainly know that a normal human being isn't capable of that, so guess who created this monster.""
At first, Cassandra's expression remained fractured—brows drawn, lips pressed together, mind racing through old memories. Then something shifted. Her eyes widened just slightly. The confusion began to rearrange itself, morphing into something else entirely. Recognition. The realization crept in slowly, cruelly, like dawn breaking over a battlefield.
And then—
Shock.
You felt a dark, almost sweet satisfaction bloom in your chest as her face contorted through it all. Confusion gave way to dawning horror, and finally to stunned disbelief. It was beautiful. You savored it.
"Hoskel." she breathed.
You smiled.
"Ever wonder why he grew a beard? It's to hide the scars... the ones I left on him that day in Stillwater because he was there, he was responsible for all those deaths. I may have been the executor, but it was his fault."
For a long moment, Cassandra simply stared at you, breathing measured, eyes sharp but shaken. The silence between you felt charged, dangerous.
"All I wanted was to escape his clutches, but it didn't work out and we ended up here. So you can blame him for your kidnapping too."
You crouched down until you were level with her eyes. Close enough that she could see every flicker of intent on your face. Close enough that there was no escaping the truth of it.
"You can call everything I'm doing selfish, and you wouldn't be wrong. This is personal."
The iron coffin you'd described earlier hadn't opened, but dents were forming.
"I want to destroy the thing Hoskel values most. The thing he built his identity around. The thing important enough that he was willing to orchestrate an entire coup just to secure it. It was for Piltover that he ended thousands of innocent lives and turned me into this.
Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.
"He doesn't care about people, Council or Zaun. He cares about legacy. About being remembered as a visionary while controlling his finest creation, which is Piltover." you leaned in just a fraction closer. "And I intend to turn that legacy into ash. Whatever the cost."
Cassandra finally looked shaken.
Good. Let it stay that way. That steel-forged composure of hers had been scraping at your nerves for far too long. Watching it fracture—even slightly—felt earned.
You straightened, smoothing the tension from your shoulders as if this were merely another negotiation, another tedious conversation. Your voice, when you spoke again, was calm. Measured. Almost kind.
"I'll give you a choice, you give me the information about the Gray, and I let you walk out of this city. With your entire family, alive, and whatever you can carry with you." a faint shrug followed. "I truly have nothing personal against you."
That part was almost true.
You raised one finger, tilting your head just slightly.
"Or, I can give you a reason to talk. I know exactly what it feels like to watch your daughter die in front of you." your jaw tightened despite yourself. Memory clawed up your spine, unwanted but familiar. "To be powerless. To realize too late that all your principles, all your honor, mean nothing when the person you love most is bleeding out."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"I would hate to inflict that same suffering on you."
Cassandra finally reacted again. And she was furious. "You wouldn't dare."
"I don't make threats I'm not prepared to carry out."
You stepped back from Cassandra and moved toward the observation window. Instead of seeing Silco on the other side, you saw your own reflection staring back at you. Calm on the surface. Controlled. Too composed for what you'd just said.
You knew he was there anyway. You could feel it—the weight of his attention, following every movement you made.
"I'll give you time to think. When I come back, you'd better have a satisfactory answer."
You lifted your hand and knocked twice against the glass. Then you made a vague gesture—nothing specific, no prearranged signal. Just something that said we're done here.
For a split second, you wondered if he'd ignore it.
He didn't.
A second later, the door slid open and one of the guards stepped inside. He didn't bother pretending to be gentle. He roughly undid the ropes, grabbed Cassandra by the arm and hauled her up from the chair. She stumbled once but caught herself quickly, pride refusing to let her fall.
As she was dragged toward the exit, her eyes found you again. Not defiant this time. Not unbroken. There was something raw there now—anger tangled with fear. She didn't say a word. Neither did you.
The door swallowed her, the sound of her boots scraping against the floor fading down the corridor.
And as she left, someone else entered.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Silco step into the room. He closed the door behind him, the sound final, sealing the two of you inside.
"Emotional manipulation." Silco remarked casually. "A classic."
His voice was light, almost amused, as if he were commenting on a well-executed card trick rather than the unraveling of a woman's life. Through the reflection in the glass, you watched him cross the room and stop by the chair Cassandra had occupied only moments ago. He rested one hand on its back, fingers tapping idly, then sat down as though claiming it.
"I just find it funny, that when I suggested using her daughter as leverage, someone very nearly tried to hit me over it."
You snorted softly.
"Well, between the two of us, you're the one with fewer scruples." you shrugged, tone flat. "And you'd absolutely kill her daughter if you thought it would get results."
"So, it was a bluff."
"No." you replied immediately. "But I'd rather not have to go that far." you turned away from the window at last and faced him fully. "That kind of psychological torture, is a level I'd prefer not to inflict on another mother."
Silco let out a nasal laugh, shaking his head as if genuinely entertained. "Empathy suits you, dove. It always has."
Of course he would poke at you for it. Of course.
"Oh, shut up." you rolling your eyes as you started toward him. "But one of the things I said back there was a very obvious bluff. Care to guess which one?"
"About keeping her alive."
You smiled. "You know me so well."
You stepped closer and lifted your foot, placing the heel deliberately on the chair between his legs. Your knee bent slightly as you leaned in. The position was intimate in geometry if not in sentiment—your leg between his thighs, your presence pressing into his space without hesitation.
Silco's gaze dropped to your heel resting there. He didn't flinch. Didn't shift. If anything, he looked mildly bored by the provocation, as though you had simply set a book down in his lap instead of a challenge.
"As soon as she opens her mouth and we no longer need her to keep Piltover restrained, we kill her. Quick and clean."
Silco exhaled through his nose, the sound halfway to a scoff. His eyes rolled slightly, unimpressed.
"If we are going to execute a Piltover councilor, it should be a spectacle."
His hand lifted—slow, unhurried—and his fingers found your calf. The contrast was almost absurd. His touch was light, almost absentminded, tracing along your skin as if contemplating fabric rather than fate.
"A demonstration." he continued, gaze lifting back to yours. "A declaration that Zaun is no longer content to exist in the shadows." his fingers tightened just slightly against your leg. "A public square. Stripped of dignity. Slow enough that every scream echoes through the fissures."
"A spectacle turns her into a symbol. Piltover will rally around her. They'll paint her as noble. Brave. Sacrificed by monsters." you leaned in closer, lowering your voice. "Then we become exactly what they already believe we are. And we give them justification."
"You would deny our people the satisfaction."
"I would deny Piltover the narrative."
The sharp tip of your heel slid forward on the metal seat, brushing dangerously near a very sensitive part of Silco's anatomy. It wasn't intentional at first—but when you noticed the proximity, you didn't correct it. You let it linger there, a subtle threat disguised as carelessness.
His gaze dropped briefly, then lifted again without a flicker of embarrassment. If anything, it sharpened.
"I am the war chief, Silco. So I decide how we handle this."
Silco's jaw tightened faintly—not anger, but resistance. Authority did not sit well when it wasn't his own.
"And I'm the leader of Zaun. Anything that concerns this city passes through me." his fingers slid higher along your thigh, not seeking permission. Testing boundaries. "Including the fate of our prisoners."
His touch wasn't rough, but it was possessive in its confidence. His good eye held yours, dark and bright at the same time, that dangerous glint simmering beneath the surface. You knew that look. It wasn't just desire—it was competition..
"Seems we have a conflict, dove."
Your heel pressed just slightly more, a reminder that he wasn't the only one capable of subtle escalation.
"And how exactly do you propose we resolve it, Silco?"
His hands continued their slow ascent along your leg until they stopped just above the holster strapped securely around your thigh. His fingers paused there, resting just above the leather strap that kept the weapon in place. For a moment he simply lingered, thumb brushing lightly across the edge of the holster like he was confirming something already familiar.
The pistol inside wasn't just any firearm.
It was his gift.
You remembered the day clearly. Your last birthday. Silco had appeared with a velvet-lined case and that thin, knowing smile of his. Inside had been two custom-made pistols, crafted to mirror each other down to the smallest engraving. One for him—since Powder had already stolen his old one— and one for you. Matching weapons for matching monsters.
You preferred blades, truth be told. They were faster. More intimate. A knife required no reload, no maintenance beyond sharpening, and it never jammed at the worst possible moment. But sometimes you carried the pistol anyway.
Tonight happened to be one of those nights.
"I have something in mind."
His fingers slipped beneath the strap of the holster with practiced ease, pulling the pistol free. The metal caught the harsh light of the interrogation room as he turned it in his hand, inspecting it almost fondly. His thumb traced the polished grip briefly before he popped open the chamber.
You watched in silence as he removed the rounds one by one, the soft metallic clicks echoing in the otherwise quiet room. Brass cartridges collected in his palm before he let them drop onto the floor.
One remained.
Just one.
You already knew where this was going before he even spun the chamber. When the cylinder rotated with that familiar mechanical rattle and he snapped it closed, you couldn't stop yourself from rolling your eyes.
Zaun Roulette.
The two of you had invented the ridiculous ritual months ago. One bullet in the chamber, the cylinder spun, each of you took a turn pulling the trigger. Whoever had the bad luck of firing the shot lost the argument.
It had started as a joke. A way to settle petty disputes when neither of you wanted to back down but neither wanted to escalate either. Who chose the next smuggling route. Who owed the other a favor. Once it had even been about who had to apologize to Sevika after one of your plans exploded—literally—in her face.
Stupid things.
Trivial things.
Never anything that actually mattered.
And yet here he was, calmly cocking the hammer like the two of you weren't discussing the fate of a Piltover councilor and the political balance of two cities.
"I think you're making a mistake."
Your voice was steady as you said it, though your eyes never left the gun in Silco's hand. He had already raised it.
The barrel pointed directly at you, unwavering, the dark hollow of it staring straight between your eyes. His finger rested comfortably on the trigger as if it belonged there, like the act carried no more weight than lighting another cigarette. That crooked, perverse smile of his tugged at the corner of his mouth while he watched you.
The two of you held each other's gaze in a long, unmoving moment. Then, he turned the barrel away from your face and pulled the trigger.
Click.
No explosion. No recoil. Just the dry snap of the mechanism.
A heavy breath left your lips immediately afterward—not the breath of someone who had been holding fear in their lungs, but something else entirely.
Excitement.
It rushed through your chest like a spark finding powder.
Silco noticed. Of course he did. His eye narrowed with quiet satisfaction as he lowered the pistol and spun it once in his hand before offering the grip toward you.
You took the gun from him without hesitation.
Your fingers wrapped around the familiar weight with practiced ease, the metal cool against your palm. In the same motion you lifted it and pressed the barrel against his forehead.
Right between his eyes.
The chair creaked softly as he leaned back slightly, giving you a better angle if anything. His hands rested loosely on the side, posture almost casual, as if the weapon against his skull was merely a curious decoration.
"If it's a mistake, why haven't you stopped yet, darling? Hypocrisy is such an ugly thing."
You almost wanted to hit him. Almost.
Just before pulling the trigger, you shifted the gun downward, turning the barrel away from his head and aiming toward the metal floor beside the chair.
Click.
Again—nothing.
The hammer snapped forward into another empty chamber.
Silco let out a quiet chuckle, deep in his throat. You could see it in his eyes now—that same dangerous spark you felt crawling under your own skin. The thrill of the gamble. The strange intimacy of trusting the other person not to let the bullet be the end.
You handed the revolver back to Silco without a word, then, slowly, you withdrew your foot from between his thighs. Instead of stepping away, you moved closer—you deliberately lowered yourself onto his lap.
Silco received you without hesitation.
His arm slid around your waist almost automatically, steadying you as you settled against him. The other hand still held the pistol, and he lifted it again, the barrel coming to rest beneath your chin. The metal nudged your skin just enough to tilt your face upward.
"Getting comfortable, are we?"
There was that tone again—half amusement, half challenge.
Instead of answering, you simply held his gaze.
Silco slowly moved the gun away from your chin. The metal traced along the curve of your jaw, then drifted lower. The barrel slid slowly along your throat, the cold steel dragging against warm skin until it came to a stop just above your heart.
Silco's eyes lifted from the weapon to your mouth.
You didn't even realize you were doing it until the movement was already finished—your tongue briefly passing over your lips, moistening them in a reflex that was as unconscious as breathing.
His grip tightened immediately. The hand at your waist pulled you a little closer, fingers pressing into your side as if anchoring you there.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
It was almost ridiculous, when you thought about it. Minutes ago you had been arguing over the fate of a Piltover councilor, over strategy, power, war. A decision that could ripple across Zaun and Piltover alike. And somehow the two of you had once again turned it into this.
A strange, dangerous dance.
Four years.
Four years of sharp words, dangerous plans, late-night arguments that ended with one of you refusing to back down and the other refusing to walk away. Somewhere along the way that tension had stopped being something to fight and had become something you both leaned into.
Power struggles had become foreplay. Arguments became games. And every now and then the line between them blurred so completely that neither of you could tell where the fight ended and the desire began.
You never seemed to tire of Silco. And the unsettling truth was that he didn't tire of you either.
If anything, the longer you spent together, the worse it became—like two forces that should have burned each other out years ago but instead only grew more volatile with time. Every argument. Every shared victory, every failure, every quiet night together only fed the strange gravity that kept dragging you back into each other's orbit.
Two predators circling the same kill. Or perhaps something worse. A serpent devouring its own tail, endlessly consuming itself just to keep existing.
The revolver moved away from your chest.
Silco's wrist shifted lazily, the barrel dropping toward the floor as though the weapon weighed nothing in his hand. Without ceremony, without warning, his finger tightened on the trigger.
Click.
Silence again.
Both of you exhaled at the same time.
Not relief.
Something closer to frustration.
There was an odd hunger in the air now—an anticipation neither of you would admit aloud. Each empty chamber stretched the tension tighter, the uncertainty dragging the moment out longer than it should have. Part of you had expected the shot already. Had braced for it. Had almost wanted the finality of it.
The confirmation.
The revolver remained stubbornly quiet.
Your body shifted slightly against his as you adjusted your balance on his lap, and the movement dragged a low breath from both of you. The closeness it had begun affecting you physically. And judging by the unmistakable reaction beneath you, you weren't the only one feeling it.
Without breaking eye contact, he lifted the revolver and offered it back to you.
You took it.
You mirrored his earlier motion and pressed the barrel against his chest—right above his heart. Your free hand slid upward until your fingers curled gently at the back of his neck, resting there as though anchoring yourself.
"I can't believe I'm letting you do this."
Silco rolled his eyes immediately.
"Oh please... don't pretend you're above it, dove. You're enjoying this just as much as I am." he scoffed softly. "And besides, this is the only way. You won't yield, neither will I. So we let fate decide."
You pressed the barrel harder against his chest. "You know I don't believe in this nonsense about fate."
Silco's smile widened immediately.
"Sounds like the words of a sore loser." he murmured, leaning slightly forward. The movement brought your faces closer together, his breath brushing faintly against your lips. "If I remember correctly, you've lost the last three times we settled things this way."
His eye gleamed with that infuriating confidence.
The kind that made you want to wipe it right off his face.
Gods, it would have been satisfying if the gun had gone off when he held it. Just once. Just enough to make that smug expression crack for half a second. To remind him the universe didn't always bend itself around his ego. But fate, apparently, had other ideas.
The barrel aimed toward the ceiling.
You pulled the trigger.
BANG.
The gunshot exploded through the interrogation room like a thunderclap. The recoil snapped through your wrist as the bullet tore into the metal above, the echo rattling through the walls and ringing in your ears. Smoke curled faintly from the barrel.
For a heartbeat, the world felt suspended in that aftermath.
Silco's grin only grew wider. "Four times."
The smug bastard.
The revolver slipped from your hand and clattered loudly against the floor, the sound sharp against the fading echo of the shot. Before he could continue—before that insufferable mouth of his could unleash the victory speech you knew was already forming—you grabbed the front of his vest and yanked him forward.
Then you shut him up the most efficient way you knew how.
You kissed him.
It was angry, heated, almost violent in its intensity. Your lips crashed against his with all the frustration that had built up during the argument, during the game, during the endless back-and-forth that defined the two of you.
Silco responded immediately.
There was pride in the way he kissed you back—something triumphant. His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you closer against him as if he had been expecting this outcome all along.
The kiss deepened quickly, rough and hungry.
The argument was still there, coiled beneath the surface. So was the power struggle, the rivalry, the endless competition that had threaded itself into every corner of your relationship. But right now it didn't matter. Right now it was just heat and breath and the sharp taste of gunpowder still lingering in the air.
When you finally pulled back, it wasn't because either of you wanted to. It was because breathing had become necessary again. But even completely out of breath, Silco was already moving to continue what the two of you had started—however unintentionally. His hands—wandering, as always—were already making their way to push your clothes aside.
"We certainly shouldn't continue with this..." you managed to say, though your voice came out practically breathless. "We don't have time."
"I could make the time, dove." his nose brushed your temple, a near-affectionate gesture that somehow felt more intimate than the kiss. "We'll be quick..."
"Silco..." you tried to regain your common sense, even though your body had already decided to keep going.
"Please, my love..."
It was that "please," whispered in that soft and almost submissive way of his, that brought you to your knees. You just nodded in agreement.
Silco's Pov
━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━
A part of Silco deeply appreciated the fact that she always yielded—not because he forced her to, but simply because he gave her the confidence to do so.
He was a man who liked to build the mood; he enjoyed the anticipation and leaving her yearning for the main course while teasing her. There was an extra pleasure in the waiting and the slowness. But he wouldn't deny that the times they grappled like two animals in heat were also pleasurable. The longing and hunger for each other being so intense that they didn't care if they didn't have time or if the place was inappropriate.
That moment felt like one of those times.
His hands fumbled with the fastenings of his trousers. She was there to meet his urgency, her own hands working in tandem to hike her skirt up her thighs and sweep her panties aside.
With a low, guttural growl that was half snarl and half moan, Silco gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh to anchor her. He drove upward, a single, thrust that forced the air from her lungs as he buried himself deep within her warmth.
"Fuck, Silco..."
The sensation was overwhelming, a violent collision of pleasure and relief that made his vision swim. "Gods, my love..." he rasped, his grip on her waist tightened, his knuckles white. "You're going to be the death of me."
He had been prepared to lead, to drive the rhythm and dictate the pace, but she had other ideas. She seized the reins of their passion with a fierce, unyielding autonomy, her hands clamping onto his shoulders like iron as she began to move.
Silco sat there, momentarily stunned, his head tilting back against the hard wood of the chair as she began to ride him. The sensation was visceral—the rhythmic, heavy slide of her hips against his, the way she used her weight to grind against him with a desperate, hungry intensity.
His fingers digging into her skin to provide a semblance of stability, though he was mostly just trying to keep himself grounded as she worked him. He was a passenger in his own body, a spectator to the magnificent, primal display she was putting on. Every time she descended, the impact sent a jolt of electricity straight to his spine, forcing a low, ragged groan from his chest.
As she moved, the dim, flickering light of the interrogation room caught the sweat on her skin and the shine of her eyes, making her look almost ethereal amidst the grime and the shadows.
He watched her, mesmerized by the way her hair swayed with her movements and the way her expression shifted between intense concentration and pure, rapturous bliss. In that moment, she was the most magnificent thing he had ever seen.
But that was normal. She always looked like a goddess when she was on top of him.
"Yes..." he groaned, the word a ragged, broken thing. His eyes hooded, dark with a mixture of lust and profound admiration. "Take it, dove. Take everything. You look... magnificent like this... so beautiful... so—"
The sudden warmth of her palm against his lips caught him completely off guard. Silco's eyes widened, iris glowing with a startled, amused intensity. He had been in the middle of a verbal tribute to her beauty, only to be silenced by the very woman he was currently worshipping.
"Shut up." she commanded, her voice a sharp, breathless whisper that carried more authority than most of the chembarons he dealt with daily.
A part of him wanted to offer a dry, witty retort about who exactly was being commanded in this moment. He could almost feel the words of a playful protest forming on his tongue, a desire to tease her, to remind her that he was not a man easily tamed.
But then, he saw the way her jaw was set, the intense, singular focus in her eyes, and the slight tremble in her hands as she fought to maintain her rhythm. She wasn't just being bossy; she was in the throes of a desperate, driving need to reach the precipice, and his voice was a distraction she couldn't afford.
The urge to be a brat died in his throat, replaced by a profound, quiet respect. He realized that in this moment, her pleasure was the only law that mattered. With a subtle, yielding tilt of his head, he pressed his face into the softness of her palm, effectively accepting her silent decree. He closed his eyes, his breathing becoming shallow and silent, turning his entire consciousness inward to the sensation of her sliding against him.
"Good boy."
Silco groaned against her palm. A low, needy sound. That compliment of hers—that utterly humiliating phrase—shouldn't have affected him like that.
That damned phrase certainly shouldn't have made him almost cum with appreciation.
In response to her compliment, he slid one hand away from the curve of her waist. His fingers traveled downward, tracing the path of her descent until they found the slick, pulsing heat of her core. The moment his fingertip made contact with her clitoris, the effect was seismic.
She faltered. Her rhythm broke—a sharp, hitching gasp escaping her as her hips shuddered mid motion. For a heartbeat, she seemed to lose her footing, her body momentarily paralyzed by the sudden, concentrated explosion of sensation.
But she didn't stay stalled for long. Instead of collapsing, she seemed to draw strength from the very sensation that had nearly undone her. With a low, guttural cry, she surged back into the motion—her ride becoming more violent, more desperate, and infinitely more fervent.
Silco let out a choked sound, his head thumping back against the chair as he met her renewed ferocity. He increased the pressure of his thumb—his movements becoming a masterful blend of the frantic pace of her hips and the friction of his hand.
The synchronicity between them was absolute, a terrifying and beautiful alignment of two souls caught in the same violent current. Silco could feel the tremors starting deep within her, the unmistakable, rhythmic pulsing of her walls that signaled the end of her restraint. He was right there with her—the pressure in his own loins building to a point of near agony, a heavy, thrumming tension that demanded release.
The moment her hand slipped from his lips, the silence he had so dutifully maintained was shattered. He didn't use the opportunity to speak, instead, he surrendered to the animalistic urge that had been simmering beneath his skin. He lunged forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her damp skin.
He sucked at the sensitive column of her throat, his lips creating dark, bruising marks that would serve as a testament to this moment long after the adrenaline faded. He bit, a sharp, stinging nip that elicited a cry from her, only to soothe it immediately with the soothing heat of his tongue.
His hips were moving with a frantic, punishing speed now, mirroring the desperate tempo of her own. He was driving himself into her with everything he had, his entire world narrowing down to the point where they met, the taste of her skin, and the impending, glorious catastrophe of their dual climaxes.
When Silco looked up, wanting to see that beautiful, sweet expression she wore right before reaching her climax, he noticed that—even though she hadn't slowed her pace—her attention was focused away from him.
Her eyes were fixed on the observation window—or rather, on their reflection in the glass. That reflection gave Silco a perfect view of her body bouncing against him, and for a moment, he imagined she was simply admiring the sight of them fucking. But there was something off about the way her gaze was locked onto that image.
It didn't look like the look of someone indulging in a bit of exhibitionism. She seemed almost... scared? But not in a reactive or panicked way—more like taken by surprise, as if she had been suddenly hypnotized.
If Silco had been on edge due to the ecstasy drawing near, another feeling was now settling deep in his spine: uncertainty.
Uncertainty as to whether, in that moment, his dove was still her—or that thing that had tried to kill him.
Without breaking the motion of his hips—but slowing down—he reached up. His hands moved to frame her face. He didn't grab her roughly, but there was an undeniable firmness to his touch, a command in the way his fingers pressed against her cheeks. He gently but insistently turned her head, forcing her to abandon her wandering gaze and bring her eyes back to his.
"Dove..." he rasped, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that demanded her attention. He leaned in closer, his forehead almost touching hers, his breath mingling with hers in the heated air. "Are you still there?"
At first, her expression was confused and then calmed. It was she who touched their foreheads. "Yes... still here."
The tension in his shoulders bled away as her gaze cleared. The fog lifting to reveal the familiar spark of her consciousness brought a wave of relief that nearly eclipsed his own arousal. Silco didn't need an explanation; he only needed her back.
He leaned in, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was less about heat and more about grounding. It was a slow, deep communion, a way to weave their senses back together and steady the erratic beat of her heart against his own.
As the kiss deepened, the fire that had been momentarily dampened roared back to life. The rhythm of their bodies resumed, no longer frantic and desperate, but full of a deliberate, searing purpose. They were no longer just seeking release; they were seeking each other.
As the peak approached for the second time, Silco didn't just want her body; he wanted all of her. When the first tremors of her climax began to ripple through her, he reached up and pulled her tight against him, his arms wrapping around her in a protective embrace. He held her as if she were the most precious thing he had ever possessed, his own body shuddering in violent, rhythmic synchronization with hers.
"Sil—oh, oh God! Fucking God! Silco... Silco, please..." her voice came out in broken gasps against his lips; he felt her fingernails dig harder into the fabric of his shirt. "Just..."
"I know... let it come... I've got you, my love... always."
He buried his face in her shoulder, his voice a broken, distorted whisper as he surrendered to the final, crashing wave of pleasure. "I've got you." he murmured, his fingers digging into her back, anchoring her to him as they both spiraled into the white hot abyss of their shared release, clinging to one another until the world ceased to exist and there was nothing left but the two of them.
Silco could not have said how much time had passed.
At some point after the intensity of the moment had faded, exhaustion had simply claimed him. One minute he had been aware of her weight against him, of the warmth of her body curled atop his; the next, the darkness had pulled him under. It was a rare thing for sleep to take him so completely. His mind was usually too restless to surrender so easily.
Yet with her there, he had.
When awareness finally returned, it came gradually. The distant hum of Zaun beyond the walls. The muted creak of the chair beneath their combined weight. The steady rise and fall of breathing that was not his alone.
The frantic pounding of his heart had long since settled into a calm, measured rhythm. The lingering heat beneath his skin was fading, replaced by the comfortable heaviness that followed deep contentment.
She remained exactly where she had been when he drifted off.
Her body rested limply against his. Her head was nestled against his shoulder, while his own leaned lightly against hers. They fit together with an ease that neither of them ever seemed capable of finding anywhere else.
"Are you all right?"
He felt her move slightly against him.
A small nod.
"Do you want to talk about what happened?"
For several seconds, there was only silence. Then she spoke.
"It was nothing. I thought I saw my eyes change color when I looked at the glass, but they're normal now. I think I was seeing things."
The explanation did little to satisfy him.
He knew fear when he saw it. He knew the difference between imagination and genuine concern. Most importantly, he knew her.
Still, he could hear the uncertainty in her own conclusion, as though she was trying to convince herself as much as him.
His arm tightened slightly around her waist.
"Should I be worried?"
Another small movement.
This time, a shake of her head.
No.
And he quickly listed that on the long list of things that worried him, and he listed it with the priority alert.
"Do you want to stay like this a little longer?"
He felt the immediate nod against his shoulder.
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.
Of course she did.
And truthfully, so did he.
Silco tightened his embrace and settled back into the chair. One hand drifted lazily across her back, resting there without purpose beyond keeping her close. Outside, Zaun continued its endless motion. Deals were being made. Rivalries were unfolding. Somewhere, someone was plotting against him.
The world could wait.
The city could burn, scheme, and claw at itself for a few more minutes. Because right now, everything that mattered was already in his arms.
And for those few precious moments, Silco allowed himself the luxury of simply existing there beside her, listening to her breathing, feeling the steady warmth of her against his chest, and pretending that the rest of the world had ceased to exist beyond the glass.
━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━
[...]
You were still smoothing your clothes back into place when the knock came. Three sharp raps against the metal door. You and Silco froze for half a second, eyes snapping toward the sound, then toward each other.
"Boss." came the muffled voice from the other side. One of his guards. The poor man sounded like he regretted existing. "Sorry to... interrupt."
Silco's expression darkened instantly, irritation settling over his features like a familiar coat. "It better be important."
You reached up without being asked and adjusted his tie. You straightened the knot, smoothed the fabric down his chest, brushing away wrinkles. He watched you as you did it, one brow lifting slightly, the corner of his mouth threatening to curl.
On the other side of the door, the guard swallowed audibly.
"The Sheriff of Piltover is here." he said quickly. "And he's demanding a meeting."
Silco inhaled deeply—so deeply it felt like he was trying to drain the entire room of oxygen. His jaw clenched, shoulders tightening as he processed the information. Of all moments.
Of course.
You couldn't help it—you laughed softly under your breath at the look on his face. Without thinking too much about it, you leaned forward and pressed a quick, light kiss to his lips. Just enough to disrupt the scowl forming there. Just enough to remind him of where his focus had been thirty seconds ago.
"Don't look like you're about to commit murder, Silco."
He exhaled slowly through his nose, the irritation melting into something cooler. His hand slid briefly to your waist.
"He doesn't demand anything in my city."
"No." you agreed softly. "But he can complicate things... you handle Marcus and I'm going to check on our daughter."
"Leaving the tedious diplomacy to me." Silco muttered, though there was no real bite in it.
"You've had more than enough entertainment for one evening, darling."
Before he could reach the handle, you caught him by the tie you had so carefully straightened moments ago. Your fingers wrapped around the fabric and tugged him toward you with sudden decisiveness. Silco didn't resist. If anything, he leaned into it.
You kissed him.
It was meant to be brief, a composed goodbye before stepping back into the political battlefield waiting outside that door. But restraint had never been either of your strongest qualities.
His hand slid into your hair without hesitation, fingers curling at the base of your scalp, tightening just enough to tilt your head. The kiss deepened instantly, losing its diplomatic edge and turning into something far more consuming. You felt your back hit the door with a soft thud as he pressed you there, the metal cool against your spine in sharp contrast to the heat of his body.
Your breath caught, but you didn't pull away.
His mouth left yours only to trail downward, until his lips brushed the curve of your jaw and then your ear. He bit lightly at your earlobe, just enough to make you inhale sharply.
"I am considering, ignoring Marcus entirely."
His hand remained tangled in your hair, the other braced against the door beside your shoulder. You were effectively caged between him and the metal, and you knew very well that if you truly wanted to move, you could.
You just didn't.
"Locking you in here until tomorrow." he continued softly. "That glass looks like it could serve... multiple purposes."
The whisper sent a shiver down your spine despite yourself. You hated how easily he could do that—how quickly he could blur the line between authority and intimacy.
"And leave the Sheriff of Piltover waiting? That would be irresponsible."
His lips brushed your throat in response, unhurried. "I've been irresponsible before."
"Yes, usually when I'm involved."
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The world outside the door—Marcus, Piltover, Cassandra, Zaun itself—felt very far away. There was only the pressure of his body, the heat of his hand still tangled in your hair, the quiet promise humming between you like a live wire.
Then discipline snapped back into place.
Slowly, you lifted your hands and pressed them flat against his chest—not pushing him away hard, just creating space. Enough to breathe. Enough to think.
"Later, Silco."
His eyes searched yours, weighing the promise. Satisfied, he released your hair at last, his fingers trailing briefly through the strands before falling away.
"Later."
You turned and opened the door before either of you could reconsider.
[...]
Singed's laboratory was mercifully absent of its master when you stepped inside, the heavy door groaning shut behind you. The air still carried that sharp cocktail of chemicals and metal—acidic, medicinal, wrong in a way you had long since learned to tolerate.
You found it at the central worktable.
Powder was sprawled across it on her stomach, legs kicking idly in the air, a pen spinning between her fingers. Blueprints were scattered everywhere—half-sketched mechanisms, measurements scribbled over and then scratched out again, margins filled with frantic notes in her handwriting. Beside her stood Viktor, posture straight despite the faint stiffness in his frame, one hand resting on the table as he leaned slightly toward her. His other hand traced a neat diagram of a rotating barrel assembly.
"If the rotational velocity increases beyond this threshold the structural integrity of the housing becomes... questionable."
Powder rolled onto her back dramatically, staring at the ceiling. "So we reinforce the housing." she replied as if it were obvious. "Or make it lighter. Or both. Or—"
"That..." Viktor interrupted gently. "Is how one creates an explosion."
"And what exactly are my two mad scientists plotting now?" you asked as you approached, voice dry with amusement.
Powder's head snapped toward you so fast the pen flew from her fingers and clattered across the table. Her eyes widened the second she recognized you. She scrambled upright in the chair, nearly knocking over a stack of schematics in the process.
"Mom! What are you doing here so early?"
You caught the faint smudge of graphite on her cheek, the ink staining her fingertips. There was oil on her sleeve. Of course there was.
Viktor, in contrast, merely leaned back against the table, arms crossing over his chest as he regarded you with that restrained, knowing smile.
"Early?" you echoed, stepping close enough to reach her, your hand settling on the crown of Powder's head before ruffling her already chaotic hair. "You do know what time it is, don't you, little one?"
"Early?" she parroted back, but the mischief in her voice gave her away instantly.
In one fluid movement she slipped her arms around your waist, pressing in as if distance from you was something to be corrected immediately. She tipped her head back so her chin rested against your stomach, forcing you to look down at her. Those enormous blue eyes—too bright, too open, too carefully weaponized—locked onto yours with devastating precision. It was shameless. It was practiced. It worked far too often.
"Can I stay a little longer?" she asked, voice softening into that syrupy sweetness she only used when she was about to attempt emotional warfare. "We're almost done with the calculations... Pleeease, Mommy?"
Mommy.
There it was.
That word landed exactly the way she intended—gentle, intimate, unfair. Powder only pulled it out when she was committing fully to the act, when she needed every possible advantage. Most days, it cracked your resolve in seconds. Most days, you would have sighed, kissed her temple, and told yourself that a few more hours wouldn't matter.
But today, you held firm.
"Sevika is waiting for you outside." your voice was calm, final in a way that didn't invite negotiation. "Go."
The shift in her expression was immediate—not anger, not quite disappointment, but a sharp little fracture of it. Her brows knit, mouth pulling into a small pout that would have been theatrical if it didn't look just a bit genuine underneath.
"And you're not coming?"
"I still have things to discuss with your uncle."
Powder recoiled as if you had just announced something unspeakably unfair—eyes widening, mouth falling open in pure, scandalized disbelief. In her mind, this was not a minor inconvenience. This was betrayal of the highest order.
"Why do I have to go and you get to stay?"
"Because..." you said patiently, reaching out to pinch her nose between your fingers. "First, I am your mother."
She scrunched her face immediately, swatting at your hand—then, true to form, snapped her teeth at your finger like a feral little gremlin. You pulled back just in time, years of experience making the motion effortless.
"And second, those are adult privileges. When you grow up, maybe you'll have them too."
"Maybe?"
"Maybe." you repeated, entirely unmoved.
Powder let out a loud, theatrical groan and buried her face against your stomach, the sound muffled through fabric as her shoulders slumped. Her arms, which had been looped stubbornly around your waist, slid down and hung uselessly at her sides in a display of exaggerated defeat. For all the dramatics, she didn't let go right away—lingering for a few seconds longer, as if soaking up whatever comfort she could steal before surrendering.
Then, with visible reluctance, she pushed herself upright.
If she had to leave, she was going to make it everyone's problem.
She pivoted abruptly and launched herself at Viktor without warning, arms wrapping tightly around his middle. The impact made him stagger half a step, caught completely off guard. His hands lifted instinctively, hovering in the air for a confused heartbeat as if his brain had momentarily lost connection with his limbs. Physical affection was clearly not something he encountered at high velocity.
"Powder—" he started, voice tight with surprise.
Then he exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders, and carefully lowered his arms around her in return. The hug he gave back was gentler.
"See, Uncle Viktor? I clearly live in a toxic environment..." Powder declared in a pitiful, trembling voice so dramatically insincere it bordered on performance art. She even dragged the back of her hand under one eye as if wiping away imaginary tears.
You sighed—long, tired, profoundly unconvinced.
"Yes, yes. Utterly toxic." Viktor agreed with solemn gravity, the corners of his mouth betraying him as they twitched upward. He gave her a few light, awkward pats between the shoulder blades. "Now go. Obey your mother."
Powder pulled back with a wounded gasp, as though stabbed by betrayal from both sides. Her eyes flicked between you and him, clearly hoping for a last-second reprieve that never came. When none arrived, she huffed hard enough to ruffle the loose strands of hair hanging in her face, spun toward the door, and stormed out with all the righteous indignation a teenager could muster.
You watched her go—boots scuffing louder than necessary, shoulders squared in protest, voice carrying back through the corridor as she muttered furiously about not being allowed to do anything in this life, about oppression, injustice, and other catastrophes that apparently included bedtime. The door slammed behind her with theatrical emphasis.
"She takes after you." Viktor said after a moment, pulling a chair closer with a scrape of wood against stone before lowering himself into it. "Stubborn as a door."
You let out a short breath that might have been a laugh and sat down where Powder was before. "You mean you, don't you? Because as far as I know, between the two of us, the most hard-headed one is the scientist, not the assistant."
Viktor rolled his eyes—a small, elegant motion that somehow conveyed both irritation and reluctant amusement. He did not argue. That alone was argument enough. A faint color touched his cheekbones, whether from embarrassment or the effort of not rising to the bait, you couldn't quite tell.
He knew you were right. He was, ironically, far too stubborn to admit it.
It wasn't easy for you to get to this point. Regaining Viktor's friendship was like climbing a steep mountain.
Trust, once broken, didn't mend like glass glued back together. It came back slower than that—layer by fragile layer, thin as paper and just as easy to tear. The first months had been the worst of it. Conversations that collapsed into arguments. Silences that stretched too long. The constant sense that one wrong word would send everything crashing back to the beginning.
More than once, it had.
There were nights you walked out of rooms certain the effort was pointless. Certain that whatever bond the two of you once shared had been burned down to ash long ago. Viktor had never been good at forgiving things he believed were fundamentally wrong—and you had given him plenty of those.
Even now, he still didn't agree with most of your choices. Probably never would.
The two of you had fought about it more times than either of you cared to count. Sometimes the arguments circled the same ground like stubborn storms, dragging you both right back to the start line as if the progress between had never happened.
And yet... somehow, slowly, painfully, the distance had begun to close.
Not because Viktor suddenly changed his mind. But because Powder existed.
You had discovered it by accident at first—that small, inconvenient softness buried somewhere in Viktor's carefully guarded heart. The moment he saw Powder dismantling a broken mechanical timer on your kitchen table with a screwdriver twice the size of her hand, eyes blazing with curiosity rather than destruction, something in him had paused.
He recognized it.
The hunger to understand.
The inability to leave something untouched once the question of how it works lodged itself inside your head.
She reminded him of himself.
And once you noticed that... well. You would be lying if you said you hadn't used it.
Powder became the bridge neither of you had been able to build alone. When she was around, Viktor's walls lowered just a fraction. His sharp edges softened. The guarded distance in his voice faded into something more patient, more open. And you slipped through those small openings whenever they appeared, carefully rebuilding what had once existed between the two of you.
Your daughter opened the door.
You walked through it.
What you hadn't expected was that the feeling would run both ways.
Powder adored those evenings.
On the rare nights you brought her with you to Viktor's apartment, her excitement started long before you even reached the door. She would practically vibrate beside you on the walk there, peppering you with endless questions about what Viktor might be working on that day.
Inside the lab, she became a whirlwind of fascination.
Some strange little device sitting forgotten on a shelf would capture her attention completely. Viktor might demonstrate a small experiment—something simple by his standards, like altering the pressure inside a sealed chamber or adjusting the gears on a prototype engine—and Powder would watch with wide, reverent eyes, absorbing every detail like a sponge.
She listened when the two of you talked, too.
You had noticed that early on.
Most children would have lost interest the moment the conversation drifted into theory, but Powder didn't. She sat nearby, swinging her legs from whatever surface she had climbed onto, quietly following along with a focus that felt almost unnatural for someone her age.
And sometimes... she interrupted.
Not rudely. Just suddenly.
With questions. Sharp ones. Or worse—ideas.
Half-finished concepts about how something might work better, delivered with the reckless confidence of a mind that hadn't yet learned the limits of the possible. Some of them were absurd. Some were chaotic. A few of them, to Viktor's visible shock, were actually good.
Those were the moments that changed things.
At first Viktor corrected her like he would any student—carefully, methodically, explaining where the math failed or the design would collapse. But slowly the tone shifted. The explanations became longer. The demonstrations more deliberate.
Before either of you realized it, he had begun teaching her.
Not formally. Viktor wasn't the type for structured lessons. But he started guiding her curiosity instead of simply answering it. Showing her how to approach a problem. How to test an idea instead of assuming it worked.
Powder soaked it all in like sunlight.
Putting the two brightest minds in Zaun in the same room had turned out to be a dangerously good idea.
Powder's inventions had always been extraordinary—wild bursts of creativity scribbled into the margins of battered notebooks, mechanisms dreamed up faster than she could properly test them. Brilliant, but chaotic. Sometimes unstable in ways that made even you nervous.
Viktor changed that.
Where Powder saw possibilities, Viktor saw structure. Where she improvised, he calculated. The two approaches fit together with a strange, almost perfect balance—her relentless imagination sharpened by his precision. Ideas that once lived only as sketches in her idea book slowly transformed into real machines under his guidance.
Stable machines.
Deadly machines.
More than a few of them eventually found their way into Silco's arsenal. Modified firearms. Shock devices. Explosive mechanisms refined just enough to make them terrifyingly reliable. Powder had watched each finished piece with glowing pride, practically vibrating with excitement every time something she imagined actually worked the way she intended.
She never tried to hide how proud she was.
"So... how are you?" Viktor's voice was soft, almost careful, like someone stepping onto unfamiliar ground. You noticed the slight hesitation before he continued. "Jinx told me about your... situation."
"I'm handling it."
Viktor's eyebrow lifted immediately. "Are you?"
The look he gave you was calm but unmistakably skeptical—the same one he used whenever someone presented a theory that sounded suspiciously optimistic. You answered with a low monosyllabic noise that landed somewhere between a grunt and a tired groan.
"Well, there haven't been any more assassination attempts. From me, at least. If that's what you're asking." you rubbing the back of your neck. "The medication Singed gave me helps."
"Helps?" Viktor repeated slowly. The word carried more suspicion than relief. "That is... new."
"I have no idea what kind of drug he put in those things. But it works." you exhaled through your nose. "Barely." your fingers drummed once against the metal edge of the table. "But if I haven't tried to kill anyone again... I suppose that means they're doing something right."
Viktor still looked thoroughly unconvinced.
You couldn't blame him for that. If the situation were reversed—if Viktor were the one claiming that Singed's mysterious concoction was keeping his mind stable—you would have doubted every word coming out of his mouth.
Probably more.
"There are side effects?"
You shrugged one shoulder, gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if the answer might be written somewhere between the pipes and hanging cables.
"Maybe paranoia, but honestly that could just be me."
Your fingers idly traced one of the scratched grooves in the table while you thought back over the day. The memory surfaced with uncomfortable clarity.
"And... I might be seeing things sometimes... earlier today I was interrogating someone. There was a glass panel in the room, I glanced at it and saw my reflection. But my eyes weren't mine. They were gold."
The words sounded strange even as you said them aloud.
"But I'm not completely certain. The lamp above the room had this warm yellow glow. It could've reflected weirdly on the glass. Or maybe the angle was wrong.... could've been nothing."
"Hallucinations and paranoia." his mouth tightened just a fraction. "That is not a reassuring combination."
You groaned softly and let your head drop forward until your forehead thudded gently against the surface of the table. The position was childish. Petty, even. But you didn't particularly care.
"I can feel your judgment from here, Viktor."
"That is because I am judging you."
You groaned louder.
"Look, I know the situation isn't exactly ideal." that was putting it mildly. "But before I do something... bad, I'm going to make sure of something first. I'll make sure, that I can't hurt anyone again."
Viktor didn't need a detailed explanation. He just knew.
"Knowing that one of your contingency plans is killing yourself isn't particularly comforting."
His hand moved almost unconsciously across the table until it rested over yours. The touch was light, tentative—like he wasn't entirely sure whether he was trying to comfort you or anchor himself. You lifted your head slowly, eyes dropping to where his hand covered yours.
For a moment you just stared at it.
Viktor had never been a particularly tactile person. Affection, even something as small as a reassuring touch, didn't come naturally to him. Which meant this gesture wasn't careless. It was deliberate.
Careful.
You shifted your own hand beneath his, turning it slightly until your fingers slipped between his. The contact felt oddly grounding—warm, steady, real in a way that helped quiet the constant static humming somewhere in the back of your mind.
"If something happens to me..." you said quietly, your thumb absentmindedly brushing against the side of his hand. "Take Powder and get her as far away from this city as you can."
There was no dramatic pause. No visible hesitation.
Viktor simply nodded.
The movement was small, almost imperceptible, but it carried the full weight of a promise. He didn't ask questions. Didn't demand explanations. Viktor understood you well enough to know that if you were saying this, you had already thought it through a dozen times.
And if you were asking him, it meant you trusted him to do it.
Silco loved Jinx.
That much was true.
But that love had teeth.
You had seen firsthand what it did to people—the way it reshaped them, sharpened them, drowned the softer parts. Silco didn't nurture what was fragile in a person. He forged it into something stronger. Something harder.
You knew exactly what that process looked like. Because he had done it to you.
If you were gone, there would be nothing stopping him from doing the same thing to Powder. Slowly, patiently, he would chip away at the parts of her that were still bright and open. The chaotic brilliance would remain, yes—but the girl beneath it would disappear piece by piece until only Jinx stood in her place.
You had allowed that transformation to happen to yourself.
You would not allow it to happen to her. Not even in death.
The laboratory fell into silence after that.
Not an uncomfortable silence. Not the kind that pressed awkwardly against the ears. This one was... different.
Quiet in a way that felt almost rare. Outside these walls, Zaun was never truly still—there was always noise somewhere. Machinery grinding, voices shouting, distant explosions. The city breathed in smoke and exhaled chaos. But here, for a moment, the noise seemed far away.
You and Viktor remained where you were, hands still loosely entwined across the table. Neither of you felt the need to pull away.
After so long living in constant tension, the stillness felt almost foreign. Your shoulders gradually loosened without you noticing, the tight coil in your chest easing just a little.
It was almost funny, in a strange way.
How easily you gravitated toward Viktor's presence.
Silco was different.
With Silco, everything felt like standing on the edge of a cliff during a storm. The two of you clung to each other while the wind howled around you, both fully aware that the ground beneath your feet might give way at any moment. It was intensity. Loyalty forged in shared ruin. Falling together and refusing to let go even as gravity dragged you down.
Viktor wasn't like that.
Viktor steadied you.
Where Silco pulled you into the fall, Viktor was the quiet hand catching your arm before you could step too close to the edge. Not restraining you—never that—but reminding you that the ground still existed beneath your feet.
That the abyss wasn't the only direction left.
Your fingers reluctantly slipping free from Viktor's as you straightened. "How are things going up in the City of Progress these days?"
Viktor's expression shifted almost immediately.
"That is actually why I intended to request a meeting with you today."
That was enough to make one of your eyebrows rise.
Viktor rarely initiated meetings without reason. If he had come looking for you, it meant something had already begun moving somewhere above the river.
"Jayce has successfully constructed a weapon using Hextech."
You felt your brain absorb that information and simply go into complete meltdown. For the next few minutes you just remained motionless, staring at Viktor without any reaction on your face.
"What?"
"At present he has completed two prototypes. A rifle and a long-range sniper." he continued the explanation. "I'm guessing I already know who the sniper is meant for."
"Kiramman."
Viktor gave a small, knowing nod.
"I haven't had many direct interactions with her." Viktor went on, voice thoughtful as he considered his words carefully. "But Jayce mentioned that Caitlyn is... not quite herself lately. The kidnapping of her mother affected her more than anyone expecteda nd with Cassandra absent, Caitlyn has effectively become the acting matriarch of the Kiramman household."
He folded his hands loosely together.
"You understand the implications of that position better than most."
You did.
Power rarely came alone.
Influence, expectations, pressure, political eyes watching every movement—those things followed right behind it. For someone already emotionally compromised, that kind of weight could warp decisions quickly.
"And if someone chose to manipulate her right now, the consequences could become... significant." Viktor finished as if you hadn't already realized it from the beginning.
You brought two fingers up to the bridge of your nose and pinched it gently, already feeling the faint pulse of a headache forming behind your eyes.
Great.
Just what you needed.
The situation wasn't ideal—far from it—but you forced yourself to think through the practical side rather than the political noise swirling around it.
Two weapons.
Dangerous ones, yes. Hextech made even simple designs exponentially more destructive. But at the end of the day, a weapon was still just a tool. And tools required hands to use them. If necessary, you could remove those hands.
Problem solved.
Caitlyn Kiramman, even shaken, was still Cassandra's daughter.
That mattered.
The girl had inherited her mother's spine if nothing else. As long as Cassandra remained alive, Caitlyn would hold herself together. She would cling to that example the way children often did when the world around them began to collapse. She wouldn't snap easily.
At least... that was the hope.
You lowered your hand from your face and leaned back against the table again, releasing a slow breath.
"Well, two guns, no matter how fancy, aren't impossible odds." your mouth twitched slightly with tired humor. "All things considered, it could definitely be worse."
Then you tilted your head slightly, studying Viktor's expression.
"There's no way it gets worse than that, right?"
The question was clearly meant as a joke.
But something in Viktor's face made the words hang in the air a little longer than expected.
"Actually... yes."
Every alarm bell in your head started ringing. Whatever he was about to say, you were not going to enjoy hearing it.
"There appears to have been a variable we didn't anticipate."
He adjusted slightly in the chair, the movement slow, stalling just long enough to organize his thoughts before delivering what clearly felt like bad news.
"Thanks to Jayce's rather inability to keep secrets from me... I learned that Councilor Medarda recently constructed a private dock on her estate."
"A dock?"
"Yes." Viktor nodded once. "Not large enough to function as a proper commercial harbor. But more than large enough to receive a vessel of considerable size."
He paused.
For a brief second he seemed to be weighing how exactly to drop the rest of the information into your lap without detonating it outright.
Then he finished the sentence.
"A Noxian vessel."
You pushed away from the table so abruptly that the chair behind you scraped violently across the floor. You just stared at Viktor as if hoping he would laugh and tell you it was some elaborate misunderstanding.
He didn't.
"No..." you said quickly, shaking your head before he could continue. "No, don't tell me—"
"Ambessa Medarda has arrived in Piltover... and she brought an army."
Part 47
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
When they say the OA3 curse is real, believe it! And another thing, if you get hit by a car, no, you won't go to an isekai, you'll go to the hospital (personal experience).
Joking aside, yes, I kind of had an accident, so that's the reason for my disappearance. Don't worry, I'm fine, still recovering, but much better and ready to come back as soon as possible.
I apologize for the lack of chapters! It really wasn't my intention.
a/n: guess what i said i'd write and then never fucking delivered on. this has been sitting in my drafts, half written, since feburary 2025. maaaan, what do i even say to that
It had been a long day at The Last Drop. Silco had been wrecking his head over the recent attacks on his shimmer shipments. He knew he needed to do something so nobody would question his authority and capability.
There was also going to be a meeting with the other Chembarons in two days and he already dreaded the event. They were always trying to undermine or overthrow him. So now he had to once again plan what to do about that.
Meanwhile his partner had taken on the role of barkeeper. Just something to keep you busy while he sorted things out in his office. Also, the bar had to keep running either way so you decided you might as well make yourself useful.
To be honest, the role of barkeeper was kind of fun. Sure, there were some awful drunks now and then but in most cases Sevika would just throw them out. Other than that you had a lot of fun mixing drinks and chatting with people.
It also led to you hearing a lot of gossip. And earn some surprisingly large tips. People just loved talking to a dashing barkeeper that kept their intense but friendly gaze on only them while polishing glasses.
But, just like every other night, the last customers were being firmly reminded that the bar was closing by Sevika. It always struck you as funny how scared everyone was of her. Then again, you couldn't really blame them - not everyone had the luck of knowing her.
After she locked the door behind the last guy stumbling out, she gave you a silent nod. It had become a nightly routine. You just thanked her and wished her a good night as you made your way upstairs.
To get to your and Silcos shared bedroom you had to walk through his office. Usually you'd just quietly walk by him, maybe loop around his desk to press a soft kiss to his temple. But not today.
Today you needed him to come to bed as well. Mostly for his own health. He was always staying up late but he always came to bed eventually. Silco was a bit of a night owl and you were used to falling asleep without him.
However, you always woke up next to him. He would always come to bed long after you'd fallen asleep and then he would stay asleep for a while after you got up. But not this morning. You had woken up shivering, missing the warmth of his arm draped around your waist.
So he hadn't slept at all last night. It worried you. When you stepped into his office he didn’t look up from his papers, probably hadn't even noticed you.
With one look at him you could tell how spent he was. He was more tense than usual and his face was even greyer. His good eye was bloodshot and he wore an irritated expression as he blinked a couple of times to focus on the paper he was holding.
You were still holding the door as you took him in, so you swung it closed with enough force to make Silco jump slightly. It wasn't a particularly loud noise, he was just sleep deprived. His eyes landed on you as you made an effort not to look at him.
You raised your arms above your head and yawned loudly, wearing your best tired expression. Not that you had to play that part too much, you were legitimately tired. Without saying a word to your partner you slowly wandered straight to your bedroom, rubbing your eyes along the way.
This irritated Silco immensely. You always gave him a tired smile and a kiss when he was visibly stressed. It helped relax him. So now, when he was more stressed than he had been in a long time, you ignored him completely?
He grumbled to himself angrily as he tried to focus on the paper in his hand again. It was of no use though, the letters were a blur and he couldn't hold his eye open long enough anyway. On top of that, he now also started yawning.
With a scoff Silco put the paper down and stood up to walk to his bedroom. You were already in bed, reading a book that he had given you. Still irritated, he got ready for bed to then join you under the covers.
As he was changing out of his day clothes you had to concentrate on fighting a smug smile creeping onto your face. You knew how much Silco loved and craved your affection, so not giving it to him was a surefire way to get him to come to you.
You quickly forced your eyes back to your book as he turned towards the bed again. With some grumbling over almost walking into the bedpost he finally reached the mattress.
You ignored him as he laid down next to you, deliberately turning away from you. He was trying to play your game, but you knew that he would cave sooner than later. And sure enough, you had barely reached the end of the page when he stirred again.
But - Silco was a proud man after all - he refused to turn around just yet. "You're doing this on purpose." You instantly, and badly, fought back the smug grin that was trying to settle on your face. "I have no idea what you mean."
Silco turned halfway, squinting at you disapprovingly. You couldn't keep it together any longer. With a chuckle you put the book on your nightstand. "Of course I am, silly." You settled down in the bed properly and opened your arms for him. "Come over here."
It took a little bit of manoeuvring before you had both settled comfortably but in the end, Silco's head rested on your shoulder with your arm curled around him, gently stroking his hair. His arms had snaked their way around your waist, holding you as close as he could.
Sometimes you wondered how some of the people of Zaun would react if they knew what the great, big, scary Silco was like when the two of you were alone.
You hummed contently before speaking again. "Sorry about that. Needed to make sure you actually go to bed tonight." Silco sighed. "Am I really that predictable?" You chuckled lightly. "Only to me." With that you pressed a kiss to his forehead and felt him lean into the kiss, enjoying what he had been craving.
"The only problem is, I'm not convinced I can even fall asleep with all the planning that I still need to do." He sighed again, so you stroked his hair some more for comfort. "Even so, just laying down and resting will do your mind some good." Silco still wasn't convinced but he was now also so drained of energy that he didn't even consider getting up again. "Let's hope you're right."
The two of you laid like that for a while and you realized he was right, he really wasn't falling asleep that easily. He certainly was resting, but his thoughts still ran so wild that he was nowhere near falling asleep. So, you remembered a little trick that you hadn't had to use in a long while.
You moved a little so you could get a better look at his face, specifically his nose. Then, you moved the hand that was still threading through his hair to his face, gently touching his nose with your fingertips. Silco crinkled his nose a little before opening his eyes to look up at you questioningly.
"You have such a pretty nose, do you know that?" You almost whispered the words. Silco breathed out through his nose, not quite a scoff, maybe almost a laugh. Then he settled back down on your shoulder, closing his eyes once more.
"You said that to me a couple of times back when we first met." His words brought fond memories back into your mind that made you smile. Memories of simpler times. "It's still true." Silco sighed, almost contently, as you let your fingertips gently trace down the curve of his nose.
You continued the movement, calm and gentle, slowly soothing his racing mind by allowing him to focus only on the sensation of your fingers moving along his nose. Soon enough, not even five minutes later, his breathing was evening out, soft and steady.
Another smile formed on your lips. "Still works like a charm." You whispered the words before pressing another kiss to his temple. Soon enough, you also fell asleep, holding him close.
He can't help it. Something about the idea of planting his seed gets him hot and bothered.
He tries to hide it, but sometimes when he's especially frustrated and in need of a full release, he will whisper the filthiest things in your ear.
"Darling, let me fill you. You'll look so beautiful, round with our pup."
"My love, can't you see how badly I need you?"
"You're soaking wet, Love. Let me ease your suffering."
And you blush, covering your face as he waxes poetical about how he wants to keep you just like this, exposed and open for him, ready to take what he gives.
The dumb animal part of your brain wants it too.
So you don't deny him when he slides into you without the condom. You only moan with him as he penetrates you fully.
As he fucks you, he continues talking about how he can't wait to get you pregnant.
"You'll be so perfect. So radiant. I can't wait to fill you up."
You can feel his breathing speeding up, and his thrusts becoming hurried and frantic. You hold him tight, feeling him straining, reaching for that final push over the top.
"Yes, yes!" He gasps, and you gasp too as you feel liquid heat shoot inside you.
"Take it, take it, Love." He groans, holding you firm against him, letting nature take its course as he breeds you.
And you moan, running your hands over his back, feeling the knobs of his spine while you both come down from your shared high.
In a few months, you both will know this rather spur of the moment barebacking will have consequences. But for now, you both are too fucked out to care.
