Top Posts Tagged with #silco reader insert

Birbs I ate that Silco shit up like it was my last meal on earth. Licked the plate clean and waiting for seconds mmmmmmmmm DELICIOUS

4/4 | HOBBYISTS & FINER THINGS. ; SILCO / READER

summary: dinner is planned, then cancelled. you’re angry with silco, but business is business. as it turns out, distance does makes the heart grow fonder.

rating: 18+ / this chapter includes a mention of physical violence against a sex worker and features canon typical violence when rectifying said instance. this work contains smut.

word count: 9k teehee

pairing: silco / f!reader

a/n: with permission, the header from this chapter is art done by the lovely @/harlot_of_zaun over on twitter! i really encourage you to head on over and show them some love. their silco art is stunning. this piece made me go WOOOO. a special shoutout to them for being kind enough to lend me their art as a chapter header!

but, here we are! end of the road. there may always be more, but for now, i hope you enjoy a nice little ending to this small story — the reception was really wonderful and thank you so much to everyone who’s read, commented, liked, breathed in its direction... you know how it goes. i love you all!

< previous chapter | read me on ao3

You’ve been trying to ignore the buzz of anxiety in your chest for the last three days.

On the fourth day, you’d finally let the electric storm get the better of you. It’s late, nearly two in the morning, and Lizbeth is with you in your office; she’s crouched by the hearth, feeding in pieces of useless requisition receipts Yeleni left behind. The paper makes good kindling, and the stack beside her is tall.

The work has slowed for the night. Only three rooms are open; they see a slow trickle. By three, most of Zaun will be asleep. Four in the morning herald’s the end of the day for the workers of the Lilac Lounge.

Lizbeth finished her shift an hour ago. She’s fresh from the bath, with rose oil still clinging to her skin.

You’ve known Lizbeth for the better part of your life — she’s a handful of years younger with warm, dark skin. You catch her scoff at a piece of receipt paper (a laundry list, complete with Yeleni’s fur at the top of the order) before tossing it into the fire with a flourished shake of her head.

You’re chewing your lip when she tosses you a look over her shoulder. She does a double-take.

“...You look like you’re about two seconds away from flinging yourself into the fire. What’s wrong?”

“I feel like it,” you rush out, eyes stuck on the dancing flame as you stand there with your hands on your hips; unprompted, you let the secret loose.

“I’m having dinner with Silco tomorrow evening.”

Lizbeth’s attention snaps back around.

There’s silence then — the crushing sort.

Finally, you pull your eyes from the hearth and offer a sheepish look. Her brown eyes are pulled wide in shock.

Lizbeth is... well, hell above. Sure, she’s surprised, but everyone knew something was going on between the Madam of the Lilac Lounge and Silco. Be it his boys who gaurd the door every night, Sevika — lovely, lovely Sevika, or anyone on the street. Of course the courtesans knew, but they knew better than to ask. After all, it was your personal business... Reliable protection and expensive paintings be damned.

“Dinner?” Lizebth asks, albeit in a rushed whisper.

Your face is flooded with anxiety as you nod, parroting her. “Dinner.”

“Oh — oh?” she’s standing now, pulling her robe closer as she serves you an incredulous look and rushes forward, “Like... Like a proper dinner—?” “Like a romantic, proper dinner,” as you ramble, your exasperation catches up to you, “So we can discuss our ‘endearments’,” you quote.

Lizbeth’s whole face goes wide with a surprised look. She pushes a thick loc behind her ear and leans forward as her jaw falls open. Once more, she’s nodding, parroting your words as if to try and parse them. “Endearments.”

Less of a question. More like she’s trying to understand, and you nod. Up and down and up and down — and then pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Lizbeth asks, brows knotted up, “You don’t want to go?”

“No — I do,” you whine as you drop your shoulders and rub the curve of your temple, “Perhaps a bit too much.”

“Ah.”

“Exactly,” you offer up, moving to lean against your desk. You fiddle with the wine-colored cuff of your sleeve and tug the shoulder up and back into place. The loose blouse billows as you throw your hands in the air, “Who am I? Some lovesick little girl—?”

“Calm down,” Lizbeth says, tilting her head and leaning to pop a hip, “You’re being dramatic. It’s alright to be excited — I mean, when’s the last time you went out to dinner with a nice man?”

Your glare is flat. You narrow your lashes. “Paid or unpaid.”

Lizbeth matches your look, however, is significantly less amused. “Be nice.”

“I’m serious,” you say as you push off the desk and move to toss a few more papers into the fire; you’re desperate to burn away this feeling. You mutter, “Also I think, catagorically, Silco would take offense at being considered a ‘nice man’—”

“But he is nice — to us, to you,” Lizbeth supplants kindly.

...It’s a good point.

Your shoulders sag as you squat before the fire. Your fingers trace the edge of a grocery list — complete with Yeleni’s own scrawled notes on a handful of worker’s favorite meals. Some of them no longer work at the Lounge. You decide, last minute, to spare this little note a firey death.

“Why don’t you get some rest, huh?” Lizbeth says as she bows her head to the side and moves to place a delicate hand on your shoulder, “It will be nice — to get out of here, if only for a night...”

She has a point.

When morning comes, you find as though you feel as if you’ve barely slept at all — and the warmth of your bed anchors you to a half-there, half-here state. Morning is more of a subjective term for the hour you and the rest of the Lounge usually rise... It’s nearly noon now, and the heavy curtains in your bedroom do little to keep out the glaring gray of the day.

However, it isn’t the sunlight that rouses you, today. Nor is it a cramped neck or an arm fast asleep or a hot huff when the comforter becomes too smothering. No, it’s a rapid knock on your door — seven, eight, nine, ten times.

“Madam!” comes a rushed voice, “There’s a call! For you!”

What...?

Your eyes are still half-closed when you tumble from bed; the thin chemise clinging to your shoulders hangs low as you yank the door open and blink blearily. It’s Gwen, the young receptionist. She’s flanked by nearly a dozen expectant faces.

It’s clear the trill BRING-RING-RING-A-BRING of the mounted landline in the front lobby had roused nearly half the house.

You’re fast to rub your eyes, sniffling as you step into the upstairs hall.

The whole of the house is watching — heads peeking from doorways, half-dressed workers lining the halls, some even pausing their morning powdering to get a glimpse of their Madam.

“Who is it?” your voice is hoarse as you move down the hall, rounding the corner to the stairwell.

“Mr. Silco, madam.”

There’s a bit of a pause in your step. The faded wallpaper is where you root your gaze — and from the bated breaths of the entire parlor, you suddenly become keenly aware that the little secret you slipped loose to Lizbeth has now become the whole of the establishment’s knowledge.

You cast Gwen a look over your shoulder; expectant and shy. Suddenly, the teenager is taken aback by your out-of-characteristically girlish look.

“What did he say?” you nearly whisper.

She winces. “Only asked for you, ma’am. Nothin’ else.”

Well, that does nothing to quell the rush of a raging fire in your chest. Lovely.

Seems there’s a crowd gathered to watch, too.

You’re fast to fly down the stairs into the lilac parlor room; your chemise’s hem is gripped tightly in your hand the whole way. Slept-on hair does little to paint you calm in any way of the word. When you reach the front desk where the intricately adorned box sits, you find the receiver placed delicately atop the dark wood. Suddenly, there’s a rush of hisses — barks from the older courtesans to be quiet!

You inhale, then reach to wrap your hand around the cool, smooth, obsidian handle.

“Hello?”

Across town, Silco is leaned over the callbox.

It’s outside one of the docking warehouses, a building more commonly used now by his people to load up shimmer shipments for Piltover. It’s just beyond the main dock, and Silco can see the entire harbor as he waits on the line.

It’s a cold morning. Gray as ever. It will snow later, he knows. He can feel it in his knees — in the aches of his palms. In a life long ago, he would venture into the mines on mornings like this and emerge to a world of off-white powder. It was beautiful, a sliver of promise. But even in Zaun, the snow was never as white as it was in Piltover. The smog promised that.

The harbor water sways.

Behind him, Sevika delivers a harsh blow to the face of a man already bound on his knees.

When your voice comes over the static crackle of the telephone, Silco finds his posture easing a bit. He pushes a gloves hand through his hair, tosses a look over his shoulder, and clears his throat.

“Madame?”

“Hello, Silco.”

Perhaps it’s comical.

The fact Silco is here, mid-interrogation. Having just learned a handful of Chem-Barons intended on making their arrival known tonight? All of this riding on the high news that three of his men had effectively disappeared with a month’s worth of shimmer shipment? He had growled so sharp in irritation, the man before him was shocked when Silco stepped back and lowered his knife. Sevika slipped him a knowing look, then. His other men, too, had dawning guilt written all over their faces.

Of course, they knew his plans.

He’d reserved the entire upper balcony of The Last Drop for you and himself tonight. He’d been dealing with a rather jealous little Jinx, and the nervousness that comes with a romantic dalliance after years of settling on avoiding them entirely.

I believe I have to make a call, Silco had said.

Better now than any later. His guilt will eat him alive. But such is the way of a Kingpin. He tries to stomach it.

It’s difficult when your voice on the other end is sweet enough to bring a wry smile to his face.

He lifts his eyes to the gray sky.

“I hope I didn’t wake you?”

“You did,” you say slowly, leaned fully on the desk now, “It’s rather nice, actually.”

The gathered courtesans seem to fly into silent hysterics at the very clear flirtation — you can see the wide smiles and slapped hands as they clamor to gather closer, to listen in, to hear the Kingpin of Zaun’s response. You sway a bit, bouncing on the ball of your foot.

The response earned is a rough, low laugh.

Somewhere in the background, a scream begins — and then it’s smothered by the wide palm of Sevika. Silco tosses a sharp look back at the group, and Sevika roughly tells the bloodied man to shut up, he’s on the phone, can’t you see?

"Well, I admit I wish I wasn’t having to call—”

Your gut sinks.

“Oh?”

“I’m not going to be able to make dinner, it seems,” he says slowly, almost tentatively, and you try to ignore the sudden rush of sheer disappointment that floods your figure. Though you can hear his apology on the other line, it does little to blunt the impact.

The gathered faces who are close enough to hear the exchange suddenly recoil. Their expressions are a mixture of angry, of confused, of bitterly rejected. A bit of how you feel, honestly. Suddenly, there’s a rush of questions being passed silently between the parlor; Lizbeth, looking on in front of you, shakes her head in confusion.

Ask why, she mouthes.

“Is... Is everything alright?” is the best you can manage. Your own thoughts are running a mile a minute.

“I’m sending extra security tonight,” comes his response; it’s thoughtful. Warm, almost. His voice dips a little lower as he leans his palm against the wall and toes his boot against the sea-worn floor of the warehouse, “Chem-Barons have called a meeting, and sadly I’m required to be in attendance.”

“Oh.”

Silco’s heart pangs. Your tone is distant — hurt, clearly. He leans back, posture slouching. From across the warehouse, Sevika can see her boss’ distress. A gloved hand reaches to rub the spot between his brows. He leans a little closer over the receiver. His voice is low. Quiet. Only for the two of you.

Unbeknownst to Silco, the entirely of The Lilac Lounge is eagerly attempting the eavesdrop of the modern era.

“I’m sorry, my lovely. I... ” he clears his throat, suddenly realizing how much he had been looking forward to a quiet evening with you. Silco rubs his jaw. “I—”

He’s about to suggest tomorrow night. Hells alive, the sad little quiver in your voice has the Kingpin feeling like he ought to be the one on the receiving end of Sevika’s fists.

But, it seems as though business has caught up to him again.

Suddenly, a scream cuts through the other end of the line and you blinks down at the receiver.

The anger at the interruption ripples through Silco like a rogue wave. He’s decided immediately Rocco will die for that as if his other mistakes weren’t worth that same weightier sentence. His head snaps around, and one void-black eye pins the man in place. The ring of his eclipsed pupil swivels, all burning rage condensed into a single look.

“Silco—?” you call, voice retreating as the receiver slips from his ear for a moment long enough to gesture with deft, gloved hands for his people to haul Rocco up, get the chains ready. He’s going for a swim.

The realization dawns on the once-loyal man as he begins a string of begging — no, no, no and please, please, I promise I don’t know anything!

“I’ve got to go, Madame,” he turns back, with a stoney expression; and you can hear it over the line, “My sincerest apologies.”

Then, the line clicks dead.

And you’re left in the parlor holding a silent, droning line.

⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘

A week.

You hear nothing for a whole week.

The good news is that a week is apparently plenty of time to work yourself up, calm yourself down, then grow bitter, then sad, then enraged and so-on and so-forth — you know, the usual cycle of heartache that comes with an apparent rejection.

You wonder if maybe that’s the curse of expectations — that being excited over new and exciting possibilities inherently spoil the entire rouse.

Admittedly, Silco’s little stand-up (could you even call it that? He had, after all, let you know he was unable to make dinner...? Are you putting too much weight on this? Do you deserve to be upset? ...Hm. You shoo that thought away. Yes, of course, you deserve to be upset) fueled enough of your hermit-like coping mechanisms to hole you up in Yeleni’s office for three days straight.

More good news: it was feeling less like Yeleni’s and more like yours. Clean. Cozy.

The worst news of all: the beautiful, attention-absorbing Friedlingmer was now the sorest spot of woe in all of Zaun, so much so that you’re genuinely considering throwing a bedsheet over it. Seriously. You could just hop up and be done with it. Cover it up! Then, you won’t be thinking about Silco every damn time you walk into your office.

You huff.

That would be cruel. A true disservice to Friedlingmer’s residency in Piltover. All over a heartache? No. No, no, no — fucking hell, Yeleni is probably rolling over in her grave right now. If she knew the current state of you, she’d laugh. And not a nice, cheer-up kind of laugh. No, the mean sort. The sort that tells you to pull up your britches and hike your tits up with a single wheezy, shimmer-lined cough.

So, right. A week.

Granted, on the seventh day, it isn’t as if he finally gives you a callback — he doesn’t soothe your burning anxiety that he lost interest, or found someone better, or finished playing...

No, it’s business that brings you to Silco.

The Chem Baron’s seemed to extend their stay in the Lanes — in turn, Silco had wordlessly extended his promise of upped security around The Lilac Lounge. That much you were appreciative of, but the new faces made you uneasy. Not just you, but the other businesses in the Lanes under his word.

The Chem Barons arrive on a metaphorical litter, dragging along henchmen and staff that support their endeavors. Be it chemists, be it enforcers, be it family. The Lanes are fraught with distinguished members of various affiliations.

Silco’s security is a double-edged sword. It protects his assets and reminds everyone who owns the Black Lanes.

You’re in your office when the commotion begins. It’s nearly midnight. The Lilac Lounge is busy.

“You can’t just go barging in—”

That’s Sevika’s voice.

Someone is arguing with her — which is enough of a shock to get you up out of your chair and away from ruminating on the Friedlingmer.

It's one of Babette's girls. She's a lithe little thing that nearly springs through your office door. You'd heard her shouts, all breathless and wild-eyed, as she barreled through the velvet hallways of The Lilac Lounge.

The prick of instinct has you bristling when she nearly beats your door down. You pull it open sharply, face met with the smoke-filled air of the brothel's back corridor. Beneath the Friedlingmer, a candle snuffs itself out.

"It's Mira — a-and one of Silco's boys," she's rushing out, hardly breathing and hardly making much of any sense as she stumbles over herself and her words; but you can sew together enough from her panic and her fear, "Babette's called for you—"

Mira. She used to work under Yeleni. You knew her. Only briefly. She was younger than you. Sweet. She preferred Babette’s management style to Yeleni’s. You can’t say you blame her.

There are faces, masked and painted-on, that have begun to poke from their lavishly curtained rooms. The haze of lilac smoke makes the air taste sweet. Eyes hang on your tensed figure.

Sevika, at the end of the hall, goes still.

You realize they’re suddenly looking to you — for strength, for an example, for leadership. All of it. All at once.

It wasn’t often that house-calls of this sort came and went. You remember Yeleni, though, when a fearful call for help came. She would waddle on, pulling up her jacket and promising she will be back. Be it Babette’s or Sygyn’s or any of the other working houses in the Lanes... you all worked together. A habitat of coexisting lives and work. You owed it to one another. You keep one another safe. No negotiating.

Eyes blink when you disappear from the view of the doorway. You return with a long, wool coat that's swathed with fur, and begin the arduous task of lacerating your meticulous hairstyle with long, dagger-like hairpins.

Yeleni’s.

They’re cool, smooth, matte metal. Sharp. She’d left them in a pearl case that snapped shut onto your finger like a lobster claw the first time you’d opened it.

The small charms that hang from them on delicate chains swing as you button your coat and pull on your gloves. Your strides are long.

Those expectant, worried faces follow you silently.

"Is Babette with her?" you ask calmly, leading her through the winding hallways that have grown silent.

The girl swallows; her voice is hoarse. She can hardly be any older than eighteen. She looks about Gwen’s age. "Yes."

"Is she alright?"

"Shaken up," she offers as she follows you through the hall. The Lilac Lounge hangs on the anticipation of your first enforcement. These were the expectations of Madams. Handle the business, protect the workers of the Lanes.

You admit you thought you might not be ready for this sort of confrontation. But, as you enter the stillness of the parlor, you realize that Yeleni had prepared you for this.

After all, she taught you everything you know.

She taught you how to be everything she wasn't, too.

In the parlor, you finish pinning your hair. Sevika stands beside you; her eyes are pulled across your face in a snap of tension.

You like Sevika. She’s... She’s an intricate soul with mean left hook. In the last week, you’ve noticed she’s been on door duty consistently. Not that anyone is complaining. Almost the entire brothel clamors to offer her a nightcap at the end of her shift.

“Who was it?” she asks tightly. Her voice is rough.

“I’m going to find out,” you say flatly.

Sevika tightens her jaw, then nods.

“You need me?”

You straighten your posture. You consider it, then inhale. “No. From the sounds of it, it might be best let Silco know he may be getting a visit from me tonight.”

Her nod is terse.

You push onward.

It’s snowing out. Your breath curls around you as the girl leads the way to Babette’s. You blink up at the grey plods of snow falling from the sky.

The snow is always whiter in Piltover.

Babette's brothel is a block down, almost directly adjacent The Lilac Lounge on Zaun's main bazaar. Here the smog carries the light so well you might confuse it for day — the hazy, pink glow of light-polluted signage has your eyes adjusting as you near. Dilated pupils swing around the street.

Seems as though someone let word slip there was trouble.

Your arrival outside on the main strip of the Black Lanes has heads turning, and whispers following every staccato step of your heels. Eyes follow you and the young girl as you step up to Babette's brothel. As quickly as you came, you disappear and leave the onlookers to their gossip.

The yordle is waiting for you inside.

"Is she alright?" is the first thing out of your mouth.

When Babette nods, you ask your next question.

“Who did it?”

"No idea," she heaves; you can see the weight of the evening beginning to wear on her, "I just know he was one a’ Silco’s. Figured you’d be able to help. Come on. Maybe you can talk to her. Poor thing is a wreck."

Babette isn't exaggerating — Mira is sitting on a couch holding a pack of ice to her nose. There are a handful of workers around her, cradled close, but it seems as if the worse of her wailing has calmed down. You can see, though, the creep of purple along her eyes. The bruising has started.

Your fingers twitch.

She seems to soften at your arrival. She recognizes you. Her eyes, big and green, widen as she scrambles to move towards the end of the sofa. Her friends hold onto her as you near, dropping to kneel before her with a sad look.

There is a bond shared between those of you in this line of work.

...You’ve been here — cradling friends after the darker dangers of this life creep in. You know this fear, this uncertainty. You know it well. You can count on two hands the number of times you’ve looked back and been astounded at how close you might’ve come with being snuffed out like candlelight.

You have to look out for one another.

Her fingers are bloodied. You hold them.

“He didn’t want to pay,” she explains angrily.

"Who was it?” is all you ask.

And you get your answer.

⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘

The Last Drop is busy.

Your arrival draws attention — no doubt Sevika had returned and made it clear that they should be expecting your appearance. Security parts, offering no resistance. Maybe it's Mira, who has her chin held high. Her hand is in yours. Maybe it’s the icey look on your face. Perhaps it’s the few of Sygyn’s girls that escort you to the doors, drawn in from the street, who chatter promises to Mira that good Madams sorts this business out. Babette follows.

Eyes falter. Screamed gossip slips past to the melodic thrum of the bar's music.

You're gestured upstairs by a man in a suit that has a whiskey stain on the sleeve.

You can feel the bass in your ribs, rattling your heart around. The haze of shimmer makes your head swim. The air tastes sweet. Better than the grimy sting of smog that the Lanes bring. No, in here? It's sex and sweat and shimmer. Not all that different from The Lilac Lounge. Less gentle though, more fists-to-mouth. Somewhere, a fight begins over a spilled drink. You're high above the dance floor when it ends with a stool coming down over a skull.

The VIP section of The Last Drop is quieter — more light, too, though it's as artificial as everything in Zaun. You recognize that there are Chem Barons here in attendance. Sardonically, you scoff at the fact they’ll be getting dinner and a show. A reminder of how business is done in the Lanes. In Silco’s Lanes.

At the back of the mezzanine, there's a booth swathed in security. Sevika stands to the right, hands clasped before her. Inside the plush, crimson booth there are two men there.

One with white hair. Tattoos. Twitchy.

Then, Silco.

It hurts to see him.

He's leaned back, attention focused on a burning cigar in long fingers. Those knuckles are kissed with scars. His collar is high, starched and sharp like all of him. He looks as if he’s ready to snap. The longer you look, the more you wonder if a kiss would draw blood.

You’re so angry you hardly have time to acknowledge the heartache burning your throat.

He’s put himself together meticulously tonight. His face is turned, speaking to the one you're here to deal with — and a curl of smoke passes around his head like a crown.

Ever the handsome leader.

He’s clearly irritated.

Babette makes a small sound of concern beside you.

Sevika meets your eyes.

Your fingers twitch. Mira, sets her jaw. You pause. Your entourage heels. You turn to Mira, cheek grazing the furs of your collar, and speak softly.

"Beside Sevika, is that him?"

You see the hatred snap in her eyes.

"Yes."

You reach. You brush her knuckles with your thumb.

"We’re almost done, Mira," you whisper, "You've done good."

Then, your eyes connect with Silco's and it's like a match to gasoline.

He knows why you're here.

Of course he does. And he knows, too, why your look burns so hot he nearly flinches. Suddenly, his tenseness thaws. You’re disarming — as always — but tonight you look every bit as powerful as freshly sharpened dagger. You look as if you want to hold it to his throat.

Perhaps he deserves that.

You watch the way he leans back a bit father and crosses his long legs. Gilded toe tips flash in the light. He is dripping in enough power to make most salivate. One eye as hot as ember and the other as cool as a placid lake. They both flick to man beside him.

His brows raise, and he gestures minutely with his cigar.

He's offering him up a platter.

Go on.

As if you needed his permission.

Sevika decides then to step aside. A perfectly timed shift in the guard, allowing you the room to press on and move forward,

The silence creates a divide. The entire balcony seems to suddenly be aware of what is playing out. They’re hanging on the tension, afraid the snap will ripple through the whole of the bar.

You step up.

Your heart is vibrating. Ready.

Mira had said the man’s name was something just as twitchy as him. Zam. It fit him nicely, actually. You wonder if that’s really his name, or if maybe something like Harold or Roger was unbecoming of someone in Silco’s ranks. Too plain, too normal, too easy. No, Zam was just right.

Zam moves to stand at your sudden appearance — too stimmed to really grasp what's going on. He looks like he’s ready to square up. You can see it in the hued ring around his irises. It's Sevika that urges him back down with a single rough push.

"Hey—" Zam cuts out, eyes bouncing between Silco and Sevika in protest.

"Sit down," you roll your words off your tongue slowly as you peel your jacket off and unceremoniously toss it on the table; it comes out steadier than you thought it would. Over your shoulder, Babette sticks close to Mira.

You offer Zam a level look; beneath it is white-hot rage. Your tone is hemlock-licked and enough to kill, "I believe we have business to settle, don't we, Zam?"

"I don't know what you're talkin' about, lady—" and another attempt to stand up, to weasel away.

Your hand roots itself with the spot where his collar meets. The grasp is sharp and fast, and you slam him back against the booth hard enough to startle him into really paying attention to you.

Zam stills.

You’re leaned in close. You snarl. “I said sit down.”

Silco is watching. There’s a stab of discomfort under his skin. He knows this isn’t in your nature but he also knows better than to assume you aren’t capable. There is a reason Yeleni left The Lilac Lounge to you. You’re doing fine. Making a point. Helping establish control for Babette who has long since relied on Yeleni for things of this sort.

Establishing who you really are.

A week’s worth of longing rushes up to meet him. You're a beautiful thing, and he can see the burn of Zaun in your eyes. It's the pride, the anger, the well-kept facade of luxury.

Your eyes connect with the Kingpin's once more as you speak.

"Mira?" you call, as your eyes bore into Silco's, "How many times did he hit you?"

Mira's voice is as hot as smelted iron. "Twice."

"Twice," you reiterate, "Right."

"Hey, listen lady, I dunno what sort of bullshit she’s been spinnin’—”

Then, with viper-like precision, a hairpin is pulled from your wound-up style and is plunged straight through Zam's hand into the table. The scream that cuts through the mezzanine is silenced when you dislodge the long hairpin with a scowl and, with the metal pin wrapped in your fist, strike him across the face.

As Zam teeters backward in the booth, gripping his mouth, and muttering a half-aware curse, you catch him by the hair. With one swift motion, you bring his face down against the table. The crunch is violent and wet.

Two hits. One more for good measure.

Faces flinch across the sea of onlookers.

Silco's breath is caught in his throat. He holds it there. Then, he lets it loose. Long and slow. Smoke curls from his nose.

Right.

You straighten yourself up and exhale.

Zam has crumpled in the booth, groaning and bleeding, and you mind only the pin in your hands when he falls to the ground. The bar's floor rises up to greet him, whiskey and grime clinging to him desperately as blood from his broken nose begin to run underfoot.

You begin the meticulous task of cleaning the pin on your sleeve.

Your voice is icy.

“I think we’re done here.”

You are. If the point hasn’t been made, then you’re not sure this job is for you. With any luck, this will be the most you’ll have to display for the next coming months. This sort of violence doesn’t suit you. Silco is right about that much.

"A word, madam,” comes Silco’s slow drawl.

Your look is stern as you pause. Silco leans to sip his whiskey.

For a moment, bodyguards led by Sevika pass through the bitter stare you land on him. They’re quick, hauling away the crying mess that’s become of Zam on the bar floor. No doubt he’ll be tossed to the back alley. Left to figure out how to fix his fuck-up on his own.

“I thank you for your time, Silco,” calls Babette, “And you Madam, for helping sort this out.”

She casts you a slow look. Mira frowns. Her voice is soft. “Thank you, madam.”

Mira's thanks are uttered into a kiss of your cheek — her fingers wind around your neck as she cradles you close. The warmth is genuine. Kind. She looks a little less afraid now.

"Go on," you bite, "I’m sure Silco won't keep me long."

He rolls his jaw. His reply is stoic. "Only as long as you'll let me."

There's something awfully romantic about that, isn't there?

...Fuck him.

Silco snuffs his cigar in the intricate, little ashtray on the table.

When he stands, you're reminded of just how tall is he. Waif-like and sharp — he smooths down the front of his vest with long fingers and clears his throat. He smells like smoke and velvet and something cuttingly masculine. Perhaps it's his aftershave or the salve he uses to keep his hair meticulously in place. You're not sure, but you do know that you like it.

You really do.

His hand falls along your lower back as you place your pin back in place. It feels mean now — to cast you aside for so long after a promise of endearments. And now, here he is. Touching you.

Silco gathers your coat from the table.

To others, it must look as though you’re both slipping away to discuss business, to rehash agreements over examples such as this.

The others in The Last Drop don’t hear Silco’s low, careful question posed to you as he leads you to his office.

"I take it you're angry with me, then?"

You dislike that he’s able to read you so well.

He leads you along, towards a back hall. It’s darker here, and you feel his hand flatten entirely against your spine, as if to hold you. You know why that sets you off, but you’re not entirely ready to admit it. The good news is that you’re far enough from prying eyes — you turn sharply and catch him mid-step, sending him backwards against the narrow hall wall. He backs up against it with an oof.

There’s a moment’s pause between you. Silco looks surprised. The music is far away now, crescendoing somewhere to sex and sweat and shimmer.

You find suddenly that... well, the hundred things you’d been rehearsing to let loose on the Kingpin suddenly won’t come out. The adrenaline rush of confrontation has sent your fingers into a wobble — and you try your best not to look as if you’re pouting.

“Yes,” is all you manage as you tilt your head to the side and inhale sharply, “Yes, I’m angry with you.”

The darkness of the hall is a bit suffocating – not that Silco minds.

He’s missed you.

He’s spent the last week wishing the Chem Barons would take their fucking leave from his Lanes so he could spare a moment away — he hardly even had enough time to spend with Jinx.

His good eyes relaxes. His expression morphs into something like acceptance.

Yes. He knew it. If given the reverse, he would be just as bitter. A canceled dinner? And then not a single call nor visit nor word since?

You try to hold his gaze. You do.

"You have every right to be.”

The honest admission has you blinking at the floor.

You turn your head sharply back down the hall and consider walking out then and there. After all, you’re not keen on letting Silco see just how upset you are. It makes you feel childish. Like a lovesick teen.

“Could we...” a slow question, punctuated by a lean into your field over vision, “Discuss the matter? Over sherry, maybe?”

“What is there to even discuss—?”

“Endearments, my lovely,” he breathes, “I assure you mine have not wavered, despite... how busy I’ve been. I owe you an apology.”

It’s low. Soft. Coaxing.

He can see you wavering — and for a moment, Silco’s heartstrings wind themselves so tight he’s sure he will be drowning his thoughts alone tonight. Just him and that expensive bottle of Sherry he bought just for his discussion.

“...Do you mean that?”

“Every word.”

You...—well, you hadn’t anticipated this.

No, no, no, not the relief? The promise of an apology? The softening of his smile in the dim light of the hallway? No, no — you were mentally prepared to skewer him on a hairpin. Just a minute ago the thought had crossed your mind. You could have, probably. Who would have stopped you?

Not Sevika, that much is sure.

Silco would welcome it.

You’re pouting. Truly, genuinely, pouting when you gesture finally to his office door and step back from him.

Silco blinks. Then, curtly, he steps across the gap in the hall with long legs and opens his office door.

You slink in behind him, arms crossed and eyes pulled narrow.

Silco’s office is in a more desperate state of disarray than you’ve ever seen it — not that you frequent it much. But still you remember, the first time you’d come here, how meticulous everything had been. Now, papers are strewn about. You catch a glimpse of the title of one. A territory agreement.

...Now you feel bad.

You’d been so angry and — ugh. Here he’s been, clearly trying to manage the unplanned upending of his usual business by the moguls and sharks that were praying for a single slip.

"You handled that well.”

His voice is warm — it floats into your hearing from the corner of the room. Back by the little cart with all his various spirits and whiskies. It’s looking sparse. You cast a long look at him over your shoulder and note that he’d taken your jacket and settled it over the shoulders of his desk chair. Lovingly, almost.

“I know it wasn’t easy.”

No. It wasn’t. But, the shake in your hands has all but subsided. The center of focus for your anxiety to feast upon is now Silco. Wholely him.

You are suddenly struck with how different this moment in his office is from the first.

You fiddle with your blouse’s sleeves. “It had to be done.”

“That much we agree on,” he rasps out; he turns and has procured to decently poured glasses of sherry in each hand, “Though I’m sorry it ever even had to come to that.”

“Should serve as a reminder,” you mumble, “I remember working after things like that. Was always a bit safer the months following a Madam making an example of someone. It sets a standard. Necessary violence. A means to an end. Whatever it takes to protect my workers.”

“Put quite eloquently for a woman who just skewered a grown man’s hand. Either way, he’ll no longer have a place in my rank and file. That shimmer habit was becoming a spot of bother anyways,” the Kingpin explains as he slowly crosses the dim office; the warm light from the lamp on the corner makes the sharp contours of his face look softer than usual, “You have my honest apologies, madame.”

He hands you the sherry.

Your mouth quirks. You’re quiet long enough to pass the glass between fingers and hesitate to sip. Before you so, you speak coyly.

“Is that really what you’re sorry for?” you tilt your head and then, sip the sherry, “Now that we’re in private, you can speak your piece... you know, about endearments.”

Silco clears his throat. He hesitates to sip his own drink. He finds himself looking you over, critically paying attention to the curve on your lips. You’re playing with him. Toying the apology out of the big bad Kingpin.

The rings along his fingers glint in the warm light. His posture against the desk is relaxed. One hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other raising the glass to his lips for another drink.

You watch, and you catch the smirk there.

“I need not be in private to speak about my endearments for you,” Silco leads with as he straightens up and stalks closer, “You should know as much.”

“Should I?” you ask honestly; for a moment, a clear indication of just how hurt you’d been slips out. You lift your face and flick your eyes across his face, and Silco sees the quiet wound in the light of his office, “I don’t enjoy playing games like this.”

His words dry up.

No, no, he doesn’t either. He sees that — the look of hurt. For a moment there’s a shred of panic that bubbles in his throat at the knowledge that feelings are a fickle thing. If this is to be the future between you, Silco will have to understand that seeing this hurt will not be the last. That’s the thing about love. It’s not always calm. Sometimes, it stings like the water in the harbors of Zaun.

“I should have come to you—”

You shut it down quickly. “Silco.”

He takes another step forward, and his brows are pulled tightly together. “I hurt your feelings, my lovely. It wasn’t my intention. With the Chem Barons in town—”

“—You were busy.”

Yes. Yes, he was.

More than you know — more than you need to know. Betrayal and recruitment and territory disputes and in the midst of it, sweet little Jinx had come down with a head cold that sent him into a spiral of worry deep enough not even Sevika could drag him out of it.

The aforementioned blue-haired terror is one floor up, fast asleep. Feeling better, too. Thank the lights alive.

Silco swallows.

“...I haven’t been completely transparent with you.”

You recoil slightly.

You blink.

“...You’re not married, are you?” you prod lowly, with a comedic hint of concern.

Silco’s worry splits for a moment, long enough for him to roll his eyes. “No—”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“Try a father,” he says curtly, bracing for the inevitable reaction.

All he gets is a quirk of your brow.

In truth, you’re pleasantly surprised at this little confession. This wasn’t exactly common knowledge — and it’s clear that Silco has gone out of his way to keep the aforementioned child out of the Zaun spotlight. Probably for the best. Zaun will burn you up quickly if you aren’t careful.

“Stop looking like I’m about to run,” you say with a slow smirk; you sip your sherry and move to lean back against his desk, “Really, that’s... charming.”

“Charming?” he says with a sudden escalation of amusement; you catch him scoffing, “Yes, the constant turmoil of a fifteen-year-old girl in the height of puberty is very charming—”

You laugh.

Fifteen. You remember that age. All fun and games and anger and frustration and loneliness and excitement. All of it, all at once. A whirlwind of everything, all of the time. Suddenly, you find your heart clenching at the thought of Silco trying his hardest to parent through this seemingly alone.

He absently toes your boot with the gilded tip of his shoe.

“...Were you really that worried about how I’d react?” you ask softly.

Silco swallows. “I wasn’t sure. Still, I... she’s not my blood but she’s every bit my daughter. I try to... keep her out of business.”

Business.

You tilt your head.

Your voice is as soft as velvet; Silco is drawn in by it.

“Am I business?”

He lifts his eyes. Standing before you, he looms. He can see the pass of vulnerability in your gaze when the question leaves your lips. Silco leans. As he speaks, a cool hand passes along your cheek. His thumb traces the round curve of your cheekbone. Your bottom lashes kiss the pad of his finger as he marvels in the warmth of your skin, the beauty of it.

“No,” he asserts warmly, “Far from it.”

Oh.

He drops the glass of sherry to the other side of your hip. He leans, bending to brace a hand on the desk and effectively trap you against the desk. The action itself is enough to suddenly stoke something horribly hot and hungry in your gut. You inhale, lip parted, and take the moment to admire him closely. It’s the expression laced in his good eye that leaves you to melt into the affectionate touch of his hand on your cheek.

“I care about you,” he speaks plainly in a whisper, “Very much.”

“Enough to kiss me?”

Silco’s smile is slow.

He — well, he’s thought about this moment for a long time now. In truth, it’s gotten him through the better half of this month, let alone the length of time he’s known you. If he’s being completely honest, he never imagined it would be here in his office, with his other hand landing along the curve of your thigh beneath your skirt’s cool fabric. He follows the plush, giving curve of your thigh, hand landing just above your hip.

“Plenty.”

His nose brushes yours as he speaks, and you’re left to stare at the way his mouth quirks. Charismatic. Charming. Like the man Babette had chortled about in his younger years. A smooth-talking man with a taste for good whiskey and cigars. Could talk a damned, starved dog off a meat wagon.

He puts his mouth to good use.

The kiss is slow — chaste, almost — to start.

Well earned. Tender. Deliberate and welcome.

Embarrassingly enough, it has you reaching to lace your fingers in his vest’s lapel and tug the Kingpin a bit closer. You hike yourself up, propped up on the desk, and happily sigh into the kiss when he steps between your legs and looms closer.

That little dance is enough to give him the permission to deepen the kiss.

It’s hardly his waltz to lead.

You nip eagerly at his bottom lip as you become half-pliant in his hands. One hand cradles the back of your neck while the other firmly plants itself to the curve of your hip. You lean backwards, just enough to have him leaning to chase you, and let him drag you back upwards toward him.

You taste like sherry and sugar. Silco’s lips are smeared red when he pulls away long enough to catch his breath. The disregard for the painted rouge on your lips is alarmingly attractive; it steals your breath right out from your lungs at the sight of it.

He catches you looking and reaches to swipe his thumb lazily across his bottom lip. His eyes are half-lidded.

“Oops.”

You’re smirking when he crashes down for another kiss, this time holding your jaw in his hand as he does. That other hand has moves to pull your hips closer to his own. He pull rips a small hum from your throat — enough of a pretty sound to have Silco huffing as he breaks to kiss a line across your jaw.

He mutters against your skin, though he isn’t even believing a single word he’s saying, “This is hardly the place for this—”

“I believe I’m owed my apology, at the very least,” you manage to sigh out as your head drops back and Silco nips a lovely little bite into the column of your throat. His hand is settled against your ribs now, effectively holding you still enough that he can dare nose farther down to your décolletage.

Oh.

Silco’s laugh is quiet. Knowing.

“An endearment and an apology,” he says as his hand ventures a bit higher, to ghost the swell of your breast, “If we’re keeping tally.”

“Right,” you mutter highly as you pull your bottom lip between your teeth; his hair is a mess, settling to hang in his eyes as he lifts his gaze. He’s amused. Smirking, “I mean after ignoring me for an entire week—”

He laughs. It’s rough. Low. Lovely.

“Let me make it up to you.”

So, that’s how you find yourself here, now — with one leg crooked and up on his desk, black chiffon skirt hiked up your waist and blouse torn open. Silco’s weight is pressed to your back, a calloused palm passing over your breast and the other hand gripping your hip tight enough you’re sure you’ll bruise. You brace yourself up on your hands, back arching just enough that you’re gasping the second Silco’s cock settles into you.

“Sh—shit.”

You can’t remember the last time you had sex like this – good sex. Sex where a man spends time learning how to touch you, and how to speak to you, and how to work you up and open. No, it must have been years now.

Silco had certainly done just that. With teeth and tongue and hand. You’re littered with little bruises, delicious little reminders of the way you’d arched off his desk with he’d loops your legs around his shoulders and purred into your soaked core.

All for him.

The cool metal of his belt brushes the curve of your ass as you whimper; Silco’s pace is slow, and steady, and he’s truly trying his hardest to keep himself calm enough to remember how to breathe. You’re tight. Warm. Perfect in every way. The most beautiful Madam in all of Zaun, here. His.

He’s sure that invoking his endearments was just as good as signing his death certificate when you lean back and grab his tie; the action brings him over you, spurs him forward. And when you crane your neck to kiss him feverishly with lipstick smeared across your face, Silco swears this is heaven.

He curses quietly, lips parted. You mimic his expression.

Fucking hell, you can’t believe you ever mad with him.

You wrap the tie around your fist a bit tighter, yanking him down for another kiss.

“Go on, then, Silco.”

...This is dangerous. Dangerous and lovely and he’s glad he locked the office door so he can take his time bowing to your wishes — so he can hear your gasp out his name a hundred more times like you just did when he rolled his hips up into yours.

You’re happy for the tie — because when the slow and steady bace yields to a more rough, steady, frenzied one it’s really your only grip on Silco himself. His hold has wound itself around your hips to maintain the very angle that’s making your toes curl, and to occasionally spread your leg a bit wider so that he can see the pretty sight of you bent over his desk.

His mouth slips to your neck and he almost shudders when you angle your hips back just enough to hit the spot that makes you tighten wonderfully around him. You immediately gasp, and Silco takes it as a cue to not slow down, to keep this sustained pace up — and he’s rewarded for it in a desperate kiss as you crane to smother a series of embarrassing sounds as your chest bounces.

Really, this might arguably be the best sex you’ve ever had.

Maybe it’s the setting, but you settle quickly that it’s mostly the man. Powerful and intimidating and Silco — cigar smoke and gilded edges and a glass of sherry knocked to the floor in the fray. Either way, you’re positive that you’re not angry with him anymore. How could you be? You’re going to be sore for days. You know that much.

The best kind of sore.

He says your name so desperately you’re rushing to fix your grip on the desk. He breaths hotly into your neck when you manage a prideful laugh — it’s enough to have him tighten both hands on your hips and press onwards with a touch more fervor.

It’s just enough to send you right over the edge.

It takes you by surprise.

The edge of your pleasure rushes up to greet you so fast you aren’t even sure what’s up or down — all you know is that you’re slapping a hand down to catch yourself on the desk as your thighs quake and your knee nearly gives out. All you can do and writhe and gasp and screw your eyes tight shut as Silco promises the orgasm with a continued pace.

It’s when you say his name, sweet and pleading, that he follows you down the cliff-side in a less-than-graceful tumble of hand and mouth. All gasps and messy, sloppy stutters and forehead-pressed-to-shoulder. Warm. Sticky. A right mess.

You can’t say you mind it.

Son of a bitch.

Silco has to take a second — just enough to blink himself back to Zaun and try to remember the sight. He exhales tightly as he pushes off from you, tucking himself away and buttoning his belt sluggishly; the entire time, he’s watching you with a sex-buzzed smirk.

You’re indisposed at the moment. Looking rather beautiful the entire time as a bit of him runs down the inside of your thigh.

Silco, in all his years, never considered how attractive the sight could be. And now, here he is, trying to ignore the pull to have a go at it all again.

When you finally do lift your head, you blink tiredly at the painting staring directly at you from across the office.

With a smirk, you toss a look over your shoulder as you stand up and straighten your skirt.

“Have I ever told you how much I like that painting?”

He laughs out loud.

When you turn, Silco is kissing you, hands working to easily dress your blouse to its correct state before he laughs. Your legs wobble a bit as you lean from boot to boot. Lazily you tilt your head.

“You can have it,” he mutters into your cheek, “After dinner, we’ll hang it in your office.”

“Dinner?” you ask, perking slightly.

Silco hums. He moves to snatch up your coat.

“I’ve worked up quite an appetite, it seems,” he smirks, “Care to join me?”

“How could I ever say no?”

So, perhaps coming into ownership of The Lilac Lounge was hardly as horrible as it seems. That’s all you can really consider as Silco helps you slip on your coat. A family, a business, a few Friedlingmer’s... Silco and his endearments.

Yes, this was quite alright.

Yeleni would be proud.

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