Chapter Text
“Silco—”
His tether snaps. And his lips collide with yours.
And not even the Lanes, with all its neon colour, could hope to match the brilliant, catastrophic brightness that suddenly illuminates your world. Every single cell in your body is set ablaze by the sheer ferocity and passion of Silco’s kiss, and your hands fist in his vest; holding on for dear life as the universe tilts on its axis around you.
You moan, low and desperate and blissful against his mouth, and meet his hunger with your own; just as eager, just as voracious. His arm snakes around your waist to pull you even closer against him, and his fingers flex in your hair, tilting your face so that he can capture your lips more deeply. Kiss you more thoroughly. Consume you entirely.
Everything begins and ends here, with him. There is nothing else. Only the urgent press of his mouth. The heat of his breath. The velvet slide of his lips. The heavy beat of his heart beneath your palm. The emotive twist of his fingers in your hair. How safe you feel in the arms of a monster.
How Silco all at once destroys and rebuilds you.
The remnants of tobacco linger upon his lips, acting as a smoky taunt that slides incorporeal fingers between your ribs and lures you deeper beneath his thrall. You’re powerless to fight the impatient desire for more. To taste him.
You sweep your tongue past the guard of his lips and curl it over his own. He seems to jolt, as though taken aback by the intimate touch. But your hurried withdrawal is thwarted when he gives chase, surging forward to recapture your mouth and mimic the fervid lick you’d given him, and you almost combust on the spot with a small whine of pleasure. He tastes of smoke and spice and whiskey and pure, unadulterated sin.
Your hands run up the side of his neck, palming the sharp hinge of his jaw before curling into the short, dark hairs at the back of his head. And the deep, throaty hum that rumbles from Silco in response to the dig of your fingers proves to be utterly cataclysmic.
It sends a flaming hot spike of lust through you.
You plant your hands on his chest and push. Silco’s shoulder blades hit the arm of the sofa, and he blinks in surprise, half-laid out below you. And he looks so fucking beautiful – kiss swollen lips and lust hazed eyes. You waste no time in crawling your way into his lap; straddling your knees either side of his hips and pressing your body flush against him, before crashing your lips back to his.
He doesn’t kiss you back immediately, only lies slightly rigid beneath you with his hands hovering in the air, as though unsure where to put them. But an impatient nip from you breaks him from his stupor, and then he meets you move for move; a feverish dance of teeth and tongues and lips that sends your stomach somersaulting again and again until you’ve no idea which way is up.
His hands smooth up either side of your spine above your shirt, and your fingers delve back into his hair. Carding through the longer strands atop his head – thick and sable, and flexible despite the product that’s brushed through it. You trace the jagged valley of his teeth with your tongue and press yourself deeper against him; revelling in how solid and warm he feels beneath you. The golden clasps on his waistcoat jab a little into your stomach through your top, but that’s easily remedied.
You trail a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses over his jaw, and his fingers dig into your back; nails tugging fabric as he drags them down your spine. Your noise of approval vibrates directly against his skin.
You make quick work of his tie without even looking, and toss the cream silk carelessly towards the coffee table, before going straight back in to attack his shirt. Your mouth is greedy with his neck, and you manage only a few buttons before you become entirely distracted by the sharp jut of his clavicle. Your fingers slip beneath the loosened fabric of his shirt, luxuriating in the surprising softness of his skin, despite the smattering of scars that disrupt the smoothness of his chest.
You can’t resist dipping your lips to the now freed junction of his neck, and tasting the deep groove above his collar bone. Your teeth graze his skin, and Silco exhales sharply enough that it’s inadvertently vocalised into something rough and needy and godsthe sound of it threatens to be your undoing.
Already you’re devoted to his ruination, and nothing exists beyond the primal need to hear him whine again.
You grind your aching core purposefully down against his rock-hard length, and the noise that drags from his throat is the most beautiful, broken thing you’ve ever heard. But large, urgent hands latch onto your hips, stopping you from repeating the motion.
“W-wait—”
Your lips pop as they detach from his skin. He’s breathing heavily beneath you, and his wildly dilated eyes contain an edge of panic that he seems unable to hide, even as his gaze cuts away to the side.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” You ask breathlessly, brow creased and hands splayed either side of his rumpled, open collar.
Agitation drives him to gnaw at his swollen lower lip. You speak his name gently, turning his face back towards you with a finger upon his chin. You’re careful to keep your voice neutral as you ask, “Do you… do you not want to do this?”
“No, that isn’t what I—” he starts, before cutting himself off with a low, thunderous growl. The furious twist of his features and the determined sharpening of his eyes is the only warning you get before he grabs the backs of your thighs and sits up. In the span of a blink, you once again find the sofa cushions springing beneath you in protest of your sudden weight as you’re sent tumbling onto your back.
Silco rises to his full height between your knees, panting down at you with dark, flashing eyes. He looks delectably rumpled, with his open collar, dishevelled hair, and bruised lips. But something feels… off. It’s as though he’s misaligned from his usually steadfast centre of gravity. Like the innate confidence he wields so effortlessly is slipping from his grip, leaving him scrambling to clutch onto something so intent on getting away from him—
“I just think that you’re under some misguided illusion here,” his voice is so gravelly that it almost hurts your throat just to listen. Sointense that it almost quavers, “S-so let me make one thing perfectly clear.”
His gaze darts surreptitiously downwards, and the tip of his tongue flicks out to wet his lips. Clumsily, he seizes your wrists and pins them above your head, against the arm of the sofa. His jaw sets obstinately with the slow lowering of his body, until you lay trapped beneath his weight.
“I’m in charge.”
Oh the intent is there alright. Almost snarled with how much effort he puts into replicating his usual, unquestionable dominance. But it’s missing that unnameable essence of commandeering powerbeneath. You’ve always thought of Silco as much more than just the Eye of Zaun. But right now… there’s no Eye of Zaun in Silco at all. Only a poor imitation of that self-made monarch; enough to fool some, perhaps, but certainly not you.
“Silco, you’re—”
He swoops down with a hard, ravenous kiss that cuts you abruptly off. Your noise of surprise melts away into a desperate hum, and all thoughts scatter at the delicious heat of his mouth. The eager slide of his tongue. The zealous grate of his teeth.
You’re left gasping for breath as his mouth drags away from yours, burying deeply into the skin beneath your ear, kissing and sucking a deliciously sloppy trail down the side of your neck. You tilt your head back; granting him access to do whatever he damn well wants with you. Your mind spins and swims with how greedily he devours you, how urgently he presses against you. How vitally he seems to want you. Need you. The fever in your veins ratchets higher and higher until you’re driven wild by its blistering heat.
You wrap your legs around his pelvis and lock your ankles; rolling up into him in your desperation to ease the maddening ache between your thighs. His sharp inhale is followed by a choked off moan and his hips jerk as he chases the movement. He releases one of your wrists as his hand scrabbles for purchase on your thigh, fingers digging bruises into flesh as he hitches it higher upon his waist and begins to rut against you, dragging his clothed cock right where you need him in frantic, sharp thrusts.
Your now freed hand grasps the back of his neck, overheated and damp with sweat, nails clawing into the short hairs at the base of his skull. His breath burns against your jugular; hot, rough grunts in time with the turbulent rhythm of his hips. Harmonising with your own ragged whines and moans, falling from your open-mouth at the sinful push-and-pull against your clothed sex. Chests heave into each other, limbs tangled, clothes sticking to sweat covered bodies. All of it messy and carnal and incredible.
Your bones begin to shiver with tightly wound pleasure, and you twist your fingers urgently into Silco’s shirt collar, voice husky as you pant, “Wait, sto-hop, stop—”
It’s with palpable effort that his hips come to a halt; thighs shaking with restraint as he pulls back to look down at you in painful, wide-eyed desperation.
“I-I don’t wanna cum like this. I want you inside me Silco, please.”
His eyes go pitch black at your half-whined plea, and his lips part in a forceful, quivering exhale. The unmarred skin of his right cheek is dusky with glorious sunrise pink; flushed as warm as you feel. Too warm.
You yank at the top two buttons of your shirt, and it snaps Silco from his reverie. He takes over, tearing at least one button straight from the fabric in his urgency to undress you, but you couldn’t give any less of a shit if you tried, only relish the divine kiss of cool air against your skin as the material parts, leaving your torso entirely exposed beneath him.
Silco stares.
He stares at your breasts as though staring into the eyes of some terrible cosmic Deity; driven to madness as all the secrets and hidden knowledge of the universe unlock within his mind.
You huff a nervous laugh, “You look like you’ve never seen a pair of tits before.”
His gaze snaps up to yours, a spiky wave of indignance rising high within his eyes. A transparent wall of defence, doing nothing to hide the ever rising tide of panic behind it.
“Always so clever,” he sneers through grit teeth, “Incapable of behaving.”
“Ah–” a staccato cry mid-way between pleasure and pain from the awkward squeeze of your breast in his trembling fingers, palm massaging a wobbly circle over your hardened nipple.
“You’re shaking,” you whisper, anxiety creeping in as you watch the frantic battle of opposing wills in his gaze, “Silco—”
His arm snakes beneath your back, arching your spine right up as he locks his mouth over one pebbled peak. Tongue swirling the sensitive nub with a long, ardent suck that verges on too much when paired with the ravenous rumble of his lips, and your head tips right back with a long, low moan of your own—
The office door slams open.
“Dad I need some money forwoahhomygod—”
Everything happens so fast. Silco detaches himself from you, and almost topples over backwards in his haste to sit up, before realising that your tits are very much out and that his arousal is very much on display, and flinging himself back down on top of you again.
“Jinx!” He snaps; teeth and eyes flashing angrily.
The teenager panics and slaps her hands over her eyes, stumbling straight into the door in her attempt to back out of the room. She removes one hand to act as a guide as she fumbles her way through the frame.
“I’m so so sorry, please carry on, pretend I was never here,” she babbles, slamming the door behind her. The sound of hysteric, mildly horrified giggles fade away down the corridor along with Jinx’s hurried footsteps.
Leaving the office dense and quiet, and filled only with the combined sounds of your heavy breaths.
Your cheeks burn red hot both with embarrassment and residual lust. The leather cushion rasps against your hair as you turn your head towards Silco.
His attention is still fixed on the door, and he looks absolutely furious and completely distraught.
You swallow, and speak his name cautiously.
His focus returns to you only for a second, before he’s up and off the sofa; collecting his abandoned necktie and the now extinguished cigar. He turns his back to you and walks over towards his desk.
“I have work to do.”
The sharp dismissal in his tone is absolute, and the anxious knots in your stomach intensify, and twist with an oily pain that radiates up into your chest.
He comes to a stop in front of his window, and stares silently out the green tinged glass to the streets below as he buttons his shirt and re-knots his tie. His shoulders are bunched painfully high, and tension oozes from him in thick, oppressive waves.
You fix your top as quick as you can, and leave without another word – abandoning your untouched drinks on the table behind you.