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It all started almost as it always did.
The light was dimmed. There was warmth from their touch, the air was heavy with scents that had long since become shared—tobacco, dust, metal, and leather. They sat too close, speaking in hushed tones. Silco’s fingers drifted along Vander’s forearm; Vander laughed at something that wasn’t even particularly funny, leaning in closer…
"Wait," Silco said, placing a hand on his chest. Gentle, yet firm.
Vander stilled, glancing at him with a flicker of concern.
"Is something wrong?"
"Quite the opposite. It’s just..." Silco’s lips twitched into that familiar smile Vander was beginning to fear, for there was always something lurking behind it. "I have a proposal for you."
Silco had been nurturing this idea for weeks. It wasn't a spontaneous whim — he was not the kind of man to act recklessly.
The truth was, every time they walked the streets of the Lanes and he heard people whispering, calling Vander the "Hound of the Underground," a sharp, almost painful sense of possessiveness flared in Silco’s chest.
The moniker had appeared recently, crawling through the smoke-filled alleys as respect for them grew and their power and leadership took root in the heart of Zaun. The higher they climbed, the more Vander became a symbol to the people — a symbol of unrestrained, loyal strength standing guard over the Undercity.
Silco loved this moniker. It smelled of power, devotion, and animalistic fury. But above all, he relished the realization: to the rest of the world, Vander was a fierce predator, feared and admired, but Silco was the only one the beast actually listened to. The only one he reckoned with, and the only one to whose feet he always returned after every battle.
He had ordered the collar from an old saddler, spinning some story about a large dog, though the old man had likely understood everything by the way Silco meticulously checked the softness of the lining. Silco wanted it to be perfect.
He reached for the bedside table drawer — blindly, never taking his eyes off Vander. His fingers found what they were looking for. The metallic sound of a buckle clicking. And then he pulled it out. A leather collar. Massive. With a ring at the front and a short, sturdy leather lead.
Vander blinked in surprise. His gaze darted from the collar to Silco—and back again.
"This is…"
"Yes," Silco interrupted, his voice nearly a purr. He savored Vander’s moment of confusion. "A leash. For my Hound."
"And you want me to…" Vander didn’t know what he was feeling. He wasn’t annoyed, nor truly embarrassed — rather, he was caught off guard by the sheer depth of Silco’s thoughts.
"I do. Come now," Silco tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "That’s what everyone has been calling you lately, isn’t it? The Hound of the Underground. The most fearsome, the most loyal. Your reputation precedes you."
Silco leaned toward him, closing the distance on the bed. He wanted to see this symbol of submission on the man who made the entire Undercity tremble.
"People see a beast in you, one that rips throats out for a cause," Silco whispered, stopping just an inch from Vander’s face and resting the collar on his shoulder. The heavy leather chilled the warm flesh. "And now… I want to see this beast with my own eyes. Only for myself. Humble. Obedient. Mine alone."
Vander swallowed hard. He remained silent, feeling a strange, hitherto unknown desire stir within him — to submit to this hand, to become the very beast Silco wanted to see.
His gaze, heavy and contemplative, was fixed on the collar like a sentence he had signed himself. Then he slowly moved his eyes to Silco. Finally, he exhaled — a deep, weighted sigh.
"You certainly know how to ask," Vander grumbled. He bowed his head, commanding yet vulnerable at once, exposing his throat.
Silco caught his breath. His vanity sang. Slowly, he pulled the ends of the collar apart and wrapped it around Vander's neck. The heavy leather settled over the hot, pulsing artery. Silco watched the muscles in Vander's shoulders tense, watched him go still, completely surrendering control into those slender hands.
Click.
The metallic snap of the buckle rang out in the silence of the room like a gunshot. Silco pulled the strap tight enough for Vander to feel the constant pressure, yet loose enough to breathe freely. He tucked the loose end of the leather into the keeper and ran his fingertips over the ring that now glinted just below Vander’s Adam's apple.
"There," Silco whispered, his voice carrying such syrupy tenderness it bordered on obsession.
Vander sat across from him, so close that Silco could feel the heat radiating from his massive frame.
Silco took the leash. The leather strap settled into his palm. His gaze slid down to the iron ring on the collar, then locked onto Vander’s eyes once more.
"It suits you," Silco whispered.
He touched the sensitive spot behind his ear, running his palm through the thick hair, tugging slightly to force Vander to look directly at him. He truly petted him the way one pets a dog—confidently, pressing slightly against the skin, knowing exactly where it brought pleasure. Beneath his hand, Vander tilted his head slightly to the side, unconsciously leaning into the touch, and this gesture of absolute trust made Silco’s heart skip a beat.
"Look at this beauty… A true fierce beast of the Undercity. My Hound."
He was testing the limits. Every movement was a challenge: How far will you let me go? How much do you trust me?
"Will you serve your master?" Silco’s voice dropped to a barely audible rustle; he leaned in so close their noses almost touched.
Vander simply nodded. Brief. Decisive.
"On your knees," Silco commanded. It wasn't a request. It was a cold, ringing order that brooked no argument.
Silco settled himself on the edge of the bed, knees parted. Vander lowered himself to the floor directly before him, moving with a slow, heavy grace. Because of the vast difference in their height, they now met each other's gaze almost at eye level.
Silco looked at him and could not get enough of the sight. Vander — the man whose very name made Enforcers grip their batons tighter. A symbol of resistance. He was kneeling before him now, the lead from his neck resting in Silco’s hand.
And the sharpest part was the realization: Vander had not been broken. His strength hadn't gone anywhere. Silco saw those massive fists, resting peacefully now on Vander’s thighs — they could punch through a wall or tear Silco in two. Vander’s body, heavy and powerful, remained a weapon.
But he chose to be here. To kneel before him with a bowed head. He chose to restrain his internal storm for the sake of one man. In this absolute, voluntary submission, there was more power than in any rebellion.
Silco gave the leash a light tug, forcing Vander to raise his chin a little higher.
"Good boy," Silco said with a venomous sweetness that masked a boundless fascination. "Now, prove that you truly know how to listen." Silco tugged the leash again, almost lazily. "That’s it, closer."
The leather strap pulled taut, and Vander — without a sound, obeying only that barely perceptible jerk — crawled forward on his knees. Silco watched him from above, and the sight was better than any drug. Vander stopped right before him, between his parted legs; disheveled, his heavy, hot breath searing Silco’s knees through the fabric. His gaze was directed upward — devoted and expectant.
"Pants," Silco said quietly.
Oh, this was a sweet intoxication of power. Vander smiled ever so slightly at the corners of his lips — he saw the heady excitement in his partner's eyes and relished it. He lowered his hands to his belt, slowly, with a deliberate pause. The metal buckle clicked, the belt slid, but just as Vander’s fingers touched the zipper, Silco jerked the leash upward sharply.
A short, defiant movement. The collar bit into Vander’s throat, forcing him to freeze.
"No hands."
Vander went still for a moment, then slowly raised his gaze.
"Why the look?" Silco smirked, running his fingers almost tenderly over the ring on the collar. "You wanted to serve, didn't you? Then go on. Prove you are worthy of your name."
Vander didn't answer. He only lowered his chin slightly and slowly leaned forward, fully accepting the terms of the game. His lips brushed the metal fastener; his cheek slid against the rough fabric of Silco’s trousers. The tension in the air pulsed like the current in flickering lamps. Vander moved incredibly slowly, using only his lips, teeth, and tongue.
He managed. Without hands. Carefully, silently, demonstrating a kind of intricate obedience that seemed impossible for a man like him. When the fabric finally slid down, exposing his underwear, Vander froze. His face stopped right there, his hot breath hitting the thin fabric in heavy bursts, where everything was already painfully pulsing with anticipation.
Vander was ready to finish what he started — to catch the edge of the boxers with his teeth and set him free. But again — a sharp tug of the leash. Commanding. Ruthless.
"Quiet, quiet, puppy... Don't rush."
Silco whispered it with that honeyed satisfaction that only came when he was in total control.
"Don't you have to ask properly?"
In that moment, something wild settled in the room. Silco could have sworn he heard a growl. Low, deep, chesty. It wasn't a sound of threat; it was the sound of restrained hunger. Vander’s gaze snapped up. His pupils were so blown that his eyes looked almost black, gleaming with the thrill of a true hunting hound awaiting the command to strike.
Silco felt a cold shiver run down his spine. His smile shifted—a note of excited fear appearing within it.
"Go on," Silco whispered, burying his fingers in Vander’s thick hair, drawing his head closer. "Show me how you ask your Master."
He dragged out the moment, savoring every second of the humbled waiting. Silco’s voice was like treacle — thick and sticky.
And Vander did it. Without uttering a single word, he bowed his head in an act of supreme devotion. Without using his hands, he began to drag his tongue directly over the fabric where Silco’s arousal throbbed. Slowly. Deliberately. One long, wet stroke. A second. A third. Until the thin fabric was completely soaked, turning translucent, and Silco began to gasp for air, feeling his composure slowly fraying under these ministrations.
"Ahh..." escaped Silco before he could stop himself.
He wasn't supposed to sound like that — wasn't supposed to show how deeply this beast on his knees was piercing his stoicism. But Vander’s warm breath, seeping through the now-wet fabric of his underwear, hit the mark perfectly, incinerating the last of his self-control.
Then Vander slowly rubbed his cheek against the inside of Silco’s thigh. It was a gesture of entreaty. As if he were seeking affection, as if he were truly looking into the essence of what he had become in this moment — a creature whose sole purpose was the satisfaction of his Master.
"Good dog," Silco whispered, trying to bring the former coldness back to his voice, but he only shuddered instead.
Vander raised his eyes again — dark, hungry, and stubborn. There was nothing "good" in that look. It held a hidden triumph: he saw how Silco’s knees trembled, how his breath hitched.
"And that look in your eyes..." Silco whispered with a half-smile. "Any moment now, you'll pounce on your prey..."
The leash pulled taut once more. Silco gave a short jerk, drawing Vander flush against him. He felt the Hound’s hot breath hit his collarbone — heavy, erratic, ready at any second to break into a true growl.
"But the prey must be earned. Isn't that right?" Silco said, his voice laced with a challenge.
He ran his index finger along Vander’s cheek, barely brushing the wet lips.
"You may,"
The command was careless, tossed like a bone, but for Vander, it was the signal to attack. Silco didn’t look away—he wanted to drink this moment to the dregs. His hand still rested on the lead, feeling every movement of the body before him.
Vander began his work. His lips slid a few more times over the fabric that was already stretched to its limit. He did not hurry. With devilish patience, he pulled the boxers down, freeing what so overtly demanded attention. His careful touches were like a ritual... and a sophisticated form of torment. He brushed with the tip of his tongue, forcing Silco to arch his back and dig his fingers into the mattress, yet he withheld the desired fullness of sensation.
"Enough... waiting," Silco rasped, feeling the leather leash in his hands become the only thing separating him from a fall into the abyss.
Vander completely ignored the flesh itself, focusing on the skin around it. His tongue, hot and rough, slowly traced circles along the inner side of Silco’s thighs, rising toward the groin but bypassing the target at the very last second. Vander breathed directly there — heavy, wet — making Silco flinch at every warm gust of air, yet giving him not a single touch.
When Silco, unable to take it anymore, yanked the leash to pull his head closer, Vander finally touched him. But it was no gentle kiss. These were heavy and broad laps of his tongue, sending a wave of heat through Silco that nearly knocked him senseless. Vander acted with that specific, animalistic thoroughness that left no room for doubt: he traced a long, wet line from the very base to the tip, gathering every drop of pre-cum.
There was something overtly canine in these movements — the way he pressed with the broad surface of his tongue, the persistent and crude way he marked his territory even while in the role of a subordinate. Each such stroke made Silco shudder, feeling the weight and power hidden behind this "submission."
Vander pulled back just a breath away and looked up. In the semi-darkness, his eyes gleamed with both cunning and obedience. He seemed to be asking, "Am I serving well? Do you like it?"—though he could perfectly hear the frantic beating of Silco’s heart and see him struggling to keep the last shards of his control under this commanding, wet onslaught.
"Vander..." Silco’s voice broke, becoming sharp and thin. "That’s an order. Don’t... don't play games."
Vander let out a low sound. He took the head into his lips but didn't swallow deeper. Instead, he began to slowly — exhaustingly slowly — swirl his tongue around the frenulum, applying just enough pressure that the pleasure teetered on the edge of pain. He sucked only at the very tip, creating a vacuum before releasing it instantly, leaving Silco to groan in frustration.
He tortured him with this "half-spokenness." Every time Silco thought Vander would finally take him fully, the man reverted to light, almost weightless kisses. He wrapped his massive palms around the shaft — not to stimulate, but simply to hold it, demonstrating the stark contrast between his raw strength and the profound way he was restraining it now.
Vander could feel Silco’s fingers digging into his hair, feel him pulling the leash until his knuckles turned white with pain. It was true agony: Silco had the power to give orders, but Vander had the power over exactly how to execute them. And he did it in such a way that Silco was ready to beg for roughness, for that very animalistic strength he had just tried to lock away in a collar.
Silco could bear it no longer. Vander's sacrilegious delicacy had scorched away the remnants of his patience. He needed submission.
With a jerk that made his joints pop, he yanked the leash toward himself. The collar bit into Vander’s throat, forcing him to choke on a half-breath and snap his head up. With his other hand, Silco gripped the thick hair at the nape of Vander’s neck roughly, possessively, coiling the strands around his fist.
"Enough..." Silco hissed, his eyes burning with that same feverish fire that usually appeared before a riot. "Stop playing games. You are my Hound. I am your Master. So serve me properly."
He shoved Vander’s head forward, literally forcing himself into the hot depth of Vander’s mouth. It was crude, careless, and filled with desperation. Silco wanted to feel the boundaries; he wanted to shatter the calm rhythm Vander had been imposing on him for the last few minutes.
Vander didn’t even flinch. Fortunately, he had never struggled with a gag reflex; instead of pulling away or coughing, he opened his eyes, locking his gaze onto Silco’s.
There was no resentment in that look. There was pride. Vander relished his partner’s flash of fury; he loved that he could drive this cold strategist to such a state. He allowed Silco to use him as a tool, as an inanimate object destined only to receive this onslaught.
It suddenly brought him a strange, almost religious relief: he no longer had to be the "leader" or the "protector of all." Right now, he was simply Silco’s property.
Vander relaxed his throat, letting Silco go as deep as he desired, even leaning into it slightly to assist him. It was a silent challenge: Go on, Silco. Take everything. I can withstand any rage you have.
Silco’s breathing was sharp and ragged. He felt his fist tighten even further on the back of Vander’s head, forcing it back. It was a feeling of absolute triumph: the 'Hound of the Underground' was on his knees before him, a collar around his neck, fucking his throat without a single sound of protest.
The pre-cum, mixing on his tongue with his own saliva, created a sticky, salty taste that Vander felt with every thrust. He only squinted, his hands resting heavily on Silco’s thighs, steadying him, providing the very "serviceable" support Silco so desperately needed in his madness.
Silco’s hands began to tremble. One gripped the leash tightly; the other slid into Vander’s hair once more, not to jerk him away, but to stroke his head. To encourage. To praise. He was no longer commanding; he was merely gasping, biting his lip, and even then — smiling.
"Ah-aah..." a raspy sound escaped him.
But even then, Silco tried to compose himself. He sat up straighter, running a palm along Vander’s neck like a trainer who refuses to admit he is losing control over his dog.
"Good," he whispered hoarsely. "You know what you're doing. But this... this means nothing yet."
He grabbed the collar again, pulling Vander’s face flush against his aroused body. His eyes burned with a feverish glint, and his voice became as sharp as a razor, even as he barely held himself together.
"Look at me," Silco hissed, forcing Vander to meet his eyes without breaking the process. "Look at how your Master falls apart because of you. You like this, don't you?"
He let out a short, jagged laugh that bled into a groan.
"You are nothing but a tool, Vander. My pride... my loyal dog. You were born to serve, weren't you?"
Vander continued, his movements becoming deeper, more confident, and Silco felt the darkness begin to cloud his vision. He gripped the hair at the nape of Vander’s neck again, pressing his head closer, trying to dominate even in the moment of his final undoing.
"Go on... swallow every last drop. Show me how well you’ve learned your place... on your knees. You are nothing without my leash, Vander."
The words were thorny, almost humiliating, but they carried such a deep-seated need that they sounded like a confession of love. Silco savored this poisonous mixture of power and helplessness.
"Fill yourself with me..." he exhaled, feeling the first pulses of pleasure surge through his spine. His smile became nervous, almost wicked. "My loyal Hound..."
When the end finally crashed over him, Silco gripped the leash so hard his knuckles went bone-white. He didn't take his eyes off Vander, trying to sear this moment into his memory: his own complete, shameful pleasure and the absolute, silent submission of the great man who took in everything Silco had to give.
"Oh... good..." slipped from his lips along with a final rasp.
Silco finally slumped back onto the bed, naked and exhausted. His pale skin burned, his chest still aching from the rapid breathing, and the leather leash hung limp from his fingers — a final, almost illusory symbol of control.
Vander rose from his knees. He took his time. Every movement was heavy, imbued with a latent, coiled power. He sat on the edge of the bed, looming over Silco like a massive shadow. His hot breath tickled Silco’s face, and Vander’s gaze — dark, focused — tracked every shiver of his body. He waited.
Silco’s eyes were unfocused at first; he blinked several times, swallowing air convulsively as if he had only just remembered how to breathe. But when he finally focused on Vander’s face, a smile bloomed on his lips. Slow, lazy, and hopelessly arrogant.
His fingers found the leash again. A weak tug — more of a gesture than a real action. Silco leaned forward, whispering directly into Vander’s ear, searing him with hot words:
"Good boy."
The silence stretched, becoming almost unbearable. Silco’s smile grew deeper, darker, filled with vain triumph.
"Sic 'em."
Vander didn't need to be told twice.
He moved instantly — predatory, greedy, as if the chain that had held him all this time had finally snapped. It was pure elemental force, a need that was no longer subject to any control. No softness remained in his movements — only raw, physical hunger.
Vander acted with lethal accuracy, as if every subsequent step had been calculated in his head the moment Silco first pulled out the collar. He bore down with all his massive weight, pinning Silco to the mattress. His lips sank into the pale neck, his teeth meeting in a short, authoritative bite — not enough to draw blood, but hard enough to leave a mark.
He flipped Silco onto his stomach with one sharp motion. Vander’s palms, broad and hot, gripped his thighs firmly, fingers digging into the tender skin and leaving red welts. He hauled him closer, roughly and silently. Now Silco could not see his face, but he felt with every nerve the dangerous, predatory smirk frozen on Vander’s lips.
Vander was no longer asking for permission. The leash now lay tangled between them, forgotten and useless, for the real power had shifted to the one currently spreading Silco’s thighs. He was taking what was his — a hard-earned reward, his prey, his treat.
Silco’s fingers clawed at the sheets, feeling Vander’s rhythm begin to crowd out every other thought. He wanted this — wanted to be crushed by this strength, wanted to feel his "Hound" finally slip the leash and fill him to the brink.
Vander entered him with one powerful thrust, without ceremony, forcing Silco to cry out his name into the pillows. It was crude, it was Zaunite, and it was exactly what Silco had dared to ask for when he spoke that short command. The collar around Vander’s neck clicked softly in time with their movements — the only sound of metal in this chaos of flesh and breath.
In response — only heavy, ragged breathing, a head pressed into the pillow, and a body that no longer knew whether to flee from this agonizing pleasure or press into the bed even harder. But Silco did not resist. He had teased this beast himself. He had let the leash slip from his hands. And now — he savored every second of his defeat.
His cheeks burned against the pillow, his body shuddering in small tremors, but not from fear. It was an electric current coursing through every tendon. Silco could have stopped this with a single word, a single gesture, but instead, he only offered himself up to every thrust, gripping the fabric of the sheet so tightly it was as if he were holding onto the edge of a precipice.
Vander moved from behind — heavy, merciless, with that particular Zaunite roughness. The temptation was too sweet to swallow all at once. He teased his partner: one moment slowing down to barely perceptible shifts, making Silco arch his back in frustration, the next moment driving in to his full depth, knocking the very breath out of him.
"Ah-h-hh..."
"What’s the matter, Master?" Vander’s voice came far too close, husky and vibrating with suppressed laughter. "Can't handle your own dog? Lost your grip on the leash?"
He covered Silco with his entire mass, pinning the smaller man’s fragile frame to the mattress without breaking his stride. Vander was marking his territory, asserting his right to be there with every thrust. And when Silco tried to respond — with a jagged breath or some caustic remark — Vander drove into him so deeply that any words died in his throat.
"It’s alright, it’s alright," he whispered softly, almost condescendingly, though his actions were far from merciful. "It’s good that your dog… loves to serve you."
Silco’s face split into a grin. He wanted to laugh at his own defeat, but the sound broke into a strained groan that tore from his very chest.
"You can... break me," he exhaled, hurling one last challenge. He knew that after such a request, Vander would cast aside any lingering gentleness.
But Vander looked at him with unexpected warmth. And that was the most terrifying part. It was more devastating than any rage. His "Master" was gasping beneath him — arched, stretched thin, slick with sweat — and still trying to dictate terms.
To keep Silco from crying out so loudly, Vander did exactly what Silco had subconsciously dreamed of. He snatched the leather leash still attached to the collar around his own neck and shoved it into Silco’s mouth. The leather, dampened by Vander’s breath, now pressed down on Silco’s tongue. Silco bit down on it convulsively, and his next cry rang out muffled, suppressed from within.
"There. You can still hold the leash, can't you, Master?" Vander pinned his head to the pillow, staring into Silco’s blown pupils.
Arousal? Shame? There was no longer any difference. The boundaries had blurred in this chaos.
Vander leaned down to Silco’s pale neck, tilted his head, and bit him again — slowly, like a beast. Marking his own. Sharp, leaving a vivid mark right by the carotid artery. Silco’s skin instantly flared with heat, and the leash in his mouth became the only anchor keeping him from dissolving entirely in this searing proximity. Now he truly belonged to his Hound — completely and utterly, just as the Hound belonged to him.
He drove deeper into him one last time, shattering the last of Silco’s composure. From behind, Vander wrapped a broad palm around his neck — not choking, just holding him firmly, fixing his victory in place.
"This is what you wanted," Vander whispered into his ear.
Silco’s groans grew quieter, turning into a broken rasp. Vander looked down at him, and there was no longer any game in that gaze—he didn't see a competitor or an ideological partner. He saw his person. His only weakness.
The rhythm grew more erratic, harsher, reaching the limit. After all, Silco had asked to be broken — and Vander executed the order with exhausting precision. He pressed in one last time, filling Silco completely, forcing out the last bit of oxygen and the final remnants of his will.
When it was over, a heavy, warm silence settled in the room. Silco lay on his back, propping his head up with one hand; his chest was still hitching, but that same predatory irony had already lit up in his eyes. He looked at Vander — who lay beside him, cheek pressed to the sheet, with the stillness of a great beast that had finally sated its hunger.
Silco smiled slowly — arrogant and intoxicated. His fingers, still trembling slightly, touched the collar around Vander’s neck.
"Well then, puppy," he whispered hoarsely, "did you enjoy our little game?"
Vander looked up. A tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Instead of answering, he pulled himself closer and leaned toward Silco’s shoulder, where the fresh bruise from his bite was already darkening. Vander sank his teeth into the exact same spot — hard, deliberate, marking his territory one last time for the night.
Silco let out a soft sound — somewhere between a moan of overindulgence and a short laugh.
"You liked it, then. Just as I thought. Well, after all, 'we become responsible, forever, for what we have tamed.'"
"Next time," Vander grumbled, his lips never leaving Silco’s shoulder, "I’ll shove that leash even deeper down your throat. Just you try teasing me like that again."
"Ha," Silco smirked, squinting with pleasure. "You're the professional when it comes to a deep throat. I trust your expertise."
The verbal barbs quickly dissolved into an embrace. Bodies still aching from the tension found peace in familiar warmth. Silco’s hands slid over Vander’s broad back; Vander’s lips touched Silco’s pulsing neck. There was no rush, no orders.
In this silence, they finally became equals. Two powerful men who daily breathed the dust and blood of Zaun, seeking power, but finding in each other something far more dangerous — quiet.
Master and hound, hunter and prey — the roles could shift every night, but behind all these masks, only one thing remained: a desperate need to be close.