Chapter Text
As luck would have it, Silco never ended up killing you.
In fact, you didn’t hear anything from the man for weeks after your first meeting; at least, not until Marcus had unceremoniously diverted your course to the Undercity one intended date night to pay an unexpected visit to the industrialist.
Unexpected on your part, to be fair. The men in your company had apparently been privy to replacing your dinner plans with toxic air and politics for some time.
While the seemingly spontaneous conversation had been chilly at best, the two men must have spoken at length since you'd all last been in the same room together — for when you were presented with the option to become an amicably shared asset of Piltover and the Undercity, the Sheriff and the Industrialist pitched identical terms: Both men led busy lives. Too busy to individually give you any more than part-time attention. However, they'd also come to a rare agreement that they’d much prefer to share you between the two of them rather than collectively lose you altogether to a third (or more specifically as Silco stressed, fourth) party.
Pending your consent, you would visit Silco one day per week. Not the worst terms to hear, you'd reflected; his silence after what had transpired in the Sheriff's living room had left your curiosity wanting. Strange as your dynamic with the man had been, you'd enjoyed the experience. Some part of you, despite the wiser choice being to forget the whole event, had mulled over his promises to get back at you for what you'd done. Looked forward to them, even. Much to your disappointment, however, these visits held no mention of Marcus’s presence – nor Silco’s, when the Sheriff had you the rest of the week.
Perhaps it was too tall an order to push for such a thing.
You’d agreed on the condition that you were given power to dictate your own movements. Autonomy was integral, as was your ability to call off such an arrangement at will. The idea of becoming a toy for the two to squabble over wasn’t nearly as appealing as the idea of two extremely tentative allies finding compromise in putting themselves – and each other – ahead of the competition. The right to see you on permitted days was in fact a privilege. Neither were entitled to you so much as they were permitted to you.
Neither the Sheriff nor the industrialist were wholly content with your grab for power. Not when your own terms made winning you from the other a much more difficult task.
They accepted, nonetheless.
Weeks passed. The routine began to establish. You would spend available nights (and the occasional morning) with Marcus, who’d finally grown the spine to make your relationship public. Ren seemed to like you, which was a relief given you were the first person Marcus had brought home since her mother’s passing. Mondays were your Silco days; where you travelled to the lowest levels of the Undercity. Socialising with the man’s subordinates was a rare occurrence, but much like Ren, it seemed they weren’t accustomed to their patriarch having a strange woman suddenly lounging around on a weekly basis. The arrangement helped to curb some of the animosity between the Sheriff and the Industrialist. Bitterly as he’d state it, Silco came to recognise you as Marcus’s Woman; less an object and more a perk that came with ensuring he treated Marcus well.
Not that he didn’t swiftly begin making attempts to undermine your agreement.
Marcus’s work stress had visibly lessened, but it occurred to you that Silco’s already overbearing presence in his life — while less overtly threatening — was beginning to take a turn for the annoying.
As it turned out, Silco was kind of clingy.
It didn’t take long for a casual schedule to become rife with pedantic new terms and conditions, designed specifically to push the boundaries of rules that hadn’t before been in the Eye of Zaun’s favour. What had been ‘Silco is allowed to be alone with you on Mondays’ just one month ago had quickly turned into ‘Silco MUST be alone with you on Mondays’. Already, he was pushing for his time to commence at 12:00AM sharp. More and more, there needed to be a dedicated period in which you were his and his alone, and while you enjoyed the tension that came with their petty battle over minutes of your time when they could spare their own, you could sense the stakes of competition rising.
SIlco played the long con; he wouldn’t be happy with seeing you casually forever.
Similarly, Marcus took great pride in having you referred to as his on paper, and Silco encroaching on that territory was already stoking bad moods on Sunday and Tuesday.
He did a fine job of keeping it to himself, but it didn’t take a genius to see that he was flatter than usual, lately. Almost as if he’d already taken the defeat of expecting you to be at Silco’s beck and call the moment the clock ticked over.
You took offense to that. Silco may have been pushing the envelope recently, but regardless of how much control he desired, this arrangement was on your terms. It wasn’t intended, you were sure, but his slights against Marcus were now becoming a slight against you. Disrespect. Ownership.
Watching the Sheriff leave with drooped shoulders after kissing you goodbye that morning, already distracted by the influx of messages piling up in his front hallway, you decided it was time to set the record straight.
What better day to drop by his office than today, anyway?
He was hunched over his desk when you found him, comparing a dense pile of reports with one hand raking through his scalp and a concentrated frown on his perpetually tired face. His office was dimly lit as usual; an attempt to deliver serenity to the high-stress space, rendered futile by the very man occupying it.
Marcus didn’t look up until you’d closed the door behind you, not even registering he had company until the click of the lock announced your presence. He straightened out, eyes lighting up minutely. Then, concern overtook.
“Is everything alright?”
You offered a small smile, crossing the space to round his desk. “Just dropping by.” You answered, sliding the packaged food onto the desktop. His expression softened when you leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead, and he hummed contentedly when you failed to pull away, dotting another on his cheek.
“Happy Father’s Day.”
Marcus opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the Tink! of a capsule shooting out of the mail pipeline and into the metal receiver. The Sheriff jolted at the noise, jaw tightening in irritation, and when your gaze shifted to the receiver, it became clear why.
It was nearly overflowing.
“Thank you,” Marcus mumbled, returning to his slouching. “But you’re running late.”
You frowned at that, crossing the room to inspect his mail. “Monday’s still here for another dozen hours.”
“Those aren’t his terms.”
“Exactly. He agreed to my terms.” Popping a capsule open, you inspected its contents:
I’m expecting a guest.
- S
Then another:
Where is she?
- S
“They’re all like that.” Marcus informed you. “Thank you for the lunch, but I won’t keep you. You’re not mine today.”
Mine.
Had they both backed down from their word? Was this really now such a contest of control? You weren’t about to become an outlet for the man’s weakness in the face of a competitor. However — the way he sounded so defeated — it made your chest tighten.
You turned back to him, setting the capsule on the desk, ignoring the sound of another hitting the receiver. Silco must have been in a mood today.
“I’m yours every day.” You clarified.
“Tell that to him.”
“Why don’t you?” You asked, sitting back against the wood. “Stand your ground. Remember how much fun you had last time Silco tried to take me away?”
He either didn’t notice the bait, or he was refusing to acknowledge it. Instead, his forehead just dropped into his hands, fingers tugging at his roots to offset the tension of his frustration. “Because this is how he works.” He grunted. “Silco doesn’t share, and until he gets what he wants, he’ll keep pushing. He knows I have to read all of these — just in case one out of the dozens in there is a message from Talis. Soon, he’ll want you ready by Monday’s start. He’ll stagger you when you leave. One day becomes two, then more, and then soon enough the only time I’ll ever see you is when I have to visit him.”
You crept closer to the deflated man, reaching out to touch his armoured shoulder. “And you think the slim chance of that happening would keep me from you?"
Marcus’s lips pressed into a thin line, attempting a smile. Minimally reassured.
“Thank you for the lunch. Really.” He said, quietly, once again pushing finality to your conversation. Urging your leave as if the satisfaction of miserable confirmation bias outweighed the security of being wrong.
That wouldn’t do.
“I’m yours.” You pressed, leaning into his space, altogether keeping him from returning to his work. Fingers swept up the nape of his neck, light enough to make the man shiver. “You need reminding just as much as he does.”
Only when your other hand splayed over his chest did Marcus get your meaning. His ears flushed crimson, eyes widening, scandalised gaze darting between you and the office door.
“Wh-what?” He choked. “Here? I’m — I’m at work.”
“You’re on break.” You encouraged, dipping down to kiss him, revelling in the pleasant sigh that vibrated in his chest when you did. Self-satisfied smile tugging at your mouth, you broke away to secure your victory. “Come on, Sheriff. You really plan on celebrating alone tonight?”
He followed you when you pulled away, convinced enough by the kiss alone to chase you back up against the desk, lips crashing into yours when there was no more space to put between you.
Your heart leapt at the change in pace. Core tightening, blooming heat creeping its way into your belly at the warmth of his front flush against yours. Papers rustled behind you, swept aside to clear a space before his hands found your waist and lifted you to sit atop the desk. When your tongue slid past his lips, the man all but gasped, gripping you hard and breaking away for air, or at least one last moment of clarity. You wouldn’t allow it, instead turning your attention to that particularly sensitive spot just beneath his jaw, right where you could feel his pulse at its strongest. He stumbled, knees momentarily weakening. Recovering only by angling that spot away from your reach.
“God, this is breaking so many codes.” Marcus murmured into the crook of your neck, palms gliding up your parted thighs. Pushing, spreading, shifting his hips between your knees despite his protest.
“You’ve done worse.” You countered, giving his belt a little tug. “I think part of you likes it — being bad — twelve hours a day acting like a paragon of virtue —“
“Fuck—“ Marcus shuddered at your touch before swallowing back his nerves and tightening his hold on you, stepping into that cruel confidence he reserved only for his job — and for you, when the mood struck. One hand remained on your thigh while the other yanked at your underclothes. “What about you, then?" He asked, almost accusatory, too enraptured by the sight of your cunt to look at your face. "You get off on this? You like being passed between me and that monster in the undercity?”
There was a twinge of anger to his voice that made you hesitate. It caught his attention, and right when he fixed you with a dangerous look, his thumb pressed to your clitoris. He kept still, exerting just enough pressure to frustrate. To make you want to roll your hips in search of friction.
Instead, you frowned, hard, steadying the breath in your lungs while your heart rate climbed. Resisting whatever punishment he was trying to hand out for a situation he'd agreed to. Pitched to you, even.
“I asked you a question.”
“Don’t be an ass.” You bit back.
“You walk into the Sheriff's office and don't expect an interrogation?” Marcus spoke darkly, and it occurred to you that oh, that's how he wanted to play this. “I could be less kind, but I’d like to give you what you want.”
His thumb rolled over your nerves.
“You just have to talk to me, sweetheart.”
Giving resistance one last effort, you grimaced, attempting to outlast his patience. He'd grown visibly hard since you'd convinced him to partake. Surely he couldn't hold out that long.
He stopped, however, and in your frustration, you gave in.
“I preferred you both at the same time.”
“That so?” Marcus mused, rewarding your admission with gentle little motions, back and forth, back and forth, borderline gleeful at the way your legs pressed against his hips in an attempt to urge him closer. “You think about that a lot? Letting him come in your mouth while I’m fucking you?”
Tink!
Another capsule hit the receiver, and Marcus paused. Whatever camaraderie he’d been leaning into dissipated with the reminder of Silco’s lack thereof. They weren’t sharing. They were competing, and Silco was incapable of waiting his turn.
“You’re mine, right?” His voice had softened.
“If I’m with him, it’s only because you say so. If you both have me, it’s only because you agreed to it.” You assured him. “I’m yours. Show him I’m yours.”
Then, the Sheriff finally seemed to get the memo. He nodded hastily, hands leaving you to fumble with his uniform. “I’ll show him.” He muttered while he unfastened his trousers, bulky gloves sabotaging increasingly impatient attempts to be graceful about it. “I’ll — …god, if these — clips would just…”
By no means a solo effort, Marcus managed to work himself from his trousers while maintaining the rest of his uniform intact, hurrying to compensate for the wasted seconds by blindly shoving between your thighs, lining his cock up with wherever seemed warmest and wettest. Either through luck or sheer force of will, he found his target, and with a shuddering hum, Marcus sank into you. Heat bloomed in the wake of your muscles working to accommodate him, leaving you with a contented sigh, bracing your hands on the desk behind you for balance while the Sheriff's forehead dipped to your shoulder. He gripped your hips, hard, keeping you anchored to the spot with your legs slung over the crook of his elbows. You felt him slide out of you — not all the way, thank god — and listened to the hiss escape through his teeth, worrying his bottom lip as he watched himself sink back in.
He worked into a slow rhythm, brow furrowing, gaze caught between admiring your face and your cunt.
“Have to — be quiet —“ He breathed, likely more for himself, “Someone could hear — know what we’re doing—“
Tink!
His hips stuttered. Hesitating. One little sound, drawing his building momentum to a halt.
“Focus, Sheriff.” You encouraged, clutching at his collar when that distinct curled lip tugged at his expression and his head raised to check the receiver. He snapped out of it enough to increase his pace again, nodding his acknowledgement and letting you tug him down to rest his forehead against yours. Absent were the usual babbles and sighs and curses. This time, he remained quiet, concentrated. Thumb sliding vacantly across impatient nerves.
He was listening out for it.
Silco wasn’t even present and still managed to be actively sabotaging the man. Perhaps that made it worse; last time they three of you were in the same room together, he was at least able to retaliate.
Now, it was all he could do just to keep it from digging too deep into his subconscious-
Tink!
Marcus’s palm hit the desk, hard. Within moments, he was tearing himself out of your embrace, leaving you abandoned atop his furniture while he tucked himself back into his underclothes and stormed over to the receiver. Drawing your knees together, you watched with a wince as Marcus cracked the most recent capsule. Fury twisted his face, and he returned to the desk, slapping the paper down next to your ass.
He began rifling through the clutter on the desk, and while he did so, you glanced at the newest letter:
Empty.
The bastard had been spamming Marcus with blank mail just to keep his attention. There was no way he could have known what you were doing, and still, there was no way he wasn't aware of the effect he was having.
The Sheriff’s lip stayed bit between his teeth when he finally located a pen and hunched over the desk. He scrawled in block letters, taking up half the page – with no presence of the practised cursive of Silco’s messages, nor the patronising signature:
PISS OFF.
He rounded the desk, resealing the capsule, and sent it off.
Then, he waited.
Seconds ticked by with him frozen by the receiver, and you growing increasingly annoyed.
It was a full minute before Marcus seemed content with the silence from the Undercity, and with a self-satisfied scoff, he made his way back to you.
He noticed the irritation, and for just a moment, he looked sheepish. "What?"
"Really? Pausing mid-fuck to tend to the mail?"
"Thought you weren't pressed for time." He retorted, leaning into your space, palms resting atop your thighs.
"My mind's changing." You warned, drawing only a crooked little smile from the man. Fingertips ghosted over your hips, hooking around the band of your underclothes, tugging until you gave in and lifted yourself just enough for him to pull them down and off your legs.
Amused gaze still on you, he pulled off a glove and set it down. "Whatever you say." He drolled, lowering, settling on his knees and breaking eye contact only to turn his attention to your cunt. He wasted no time dipping his head between your legs, giving a moment's consideration to the taste of you with one broad sweep of his tongue. The moment he reached your clitoris, however, his focus sharpened; singling out that bundle of nerves and immediately running through the routine, up and down, back and forth, pace slowing and quickening until fuck, he found the right balance to have your fingers grasping at his roots. Then, the bastard had you.
You couldn't help the whimper that crept out of you, head already swimming at the sudden surge of pleasure after being made to wait. Gloved fingers dug into your thigh. A warning.
"Keep it down, sweetheart—" He murmured, breath shaking and hot against you, not even waiting for a response before resuming.
Amidst the coiling tension and the waves of heat lapping at your cunt, you summoned the sense to look down, watching his shoulder shrug while he pawed at his cock through his clothes. Momentarily drawing out his own patience before that same hand disappeared beneath your legs. Bare fingertips slid through the well-established slick of your entrance, pressing — just short of penetrating — just like he knew you hated when you were far enough along.
"Marcus—" You hissed, fingers curling through his choppy hair, tugging stiffly. At least finding some semblance of a reward when a muffled keen slipped from him.
Then, as if it were payback, his fingers pushed inside, already curling against the front wall of your muscles, seeking out that one spot that oh—
"Fuck — there. There, baby."
He complied immediately, gaze locked on the flush creeping up your neck and over your slackening jaw, each second bringing you closer and closer—
"You wanna come?" He pulled back again, voice ragged.
You whined, clutching at him with trembling fingers, barely summoning the ability to nod. “Make me come. You feel so good — please — just —“
His composure almost broke. You could’ve sworn he shuddered at your pleas. All the same, the Sheriff removed himself from you entirely.
"Not here, you won't."
Just like that, all your build-up was eclipsed by scorn. Fingers loosened while Marcus rose back up into a stand. Your gaze hard and furious on him while he tugged his cock back out of his underclothes. A thumb sweeping over your clitoris broke up that rage in an instant, bringing you back to shivering desire.
“You can come with that monster knowing I've already gotten you halfway there. Gotten you ready for him." Marcus told you, punctuating his words with slow little strokes. Bringing you to his mercy. "You’ll go to him this wet because of me, and if he makes you come, it’ll be because I helped him. Understood?"
You could have ended it with a no. A simple refusal, to bring his impatience to the surface. Undermine the act. Have him abandoning the power-grab and begging you to let him fuck you. You might have, had you not been brought close enough that sustained pressure alone felt almost earth-shattering. Had it not been the promise of more from his cock twitching between your legs. Had today not been specifically to celebrate him.
"What are you waiting for, Sheriff?" You bit. "Planning to finish yourself off all alone while he gives me what I want?"
Anger cut through Marcus's smirk. His fingers abandoned you, urgently guiding his cock back to your cunt. He bottomed out in one hard roll of his hips, unforgiving, barely giving you a moment to savour the euphoria of sparking nerves, bleeding into the divine ache of being filled so completely. Marcus drew back, sinking back into you with the same force, establishing a punishing rhythm that had you gasping. Giving you little option but to steady yourself using his shoulders and just let him take.
“Gonna — dirty up this pretty cunt —“ The words alone seemed to spur him on, driving deeper into you, belts and fasteners clinking with each thrust. His hands slid beneath you, suddenly yanking you up and closer to the edge of the desk, so much so that you’d fall if it weren’t for him. “Gonna — fuck — gonna leave something — just for him.”
The swell of him drawing close was unmistakable. His pants became punctuated with breathy little grunts. You gasped when the head of his cock dragged along the nerves gathered at the front wall of your cunt. The new angle insisting upon an assault that bordered on overwhelming in combination with your overworked core muscles trying to keep you upright. You had to hold out without complaint, at least while the new pressure felt this good. At least while his fringe still danced out of place over his forehead. At least while his reddened lips still mouthed breath-quiet little praises and admissions of adoration, threatening to spill into existence.
Yes, you were outraged that he was denying you an orgasm, but fuck if this stasis right at the edge wasn’t just short of divine.
“Already?” You taunted, amusing yourself with a tug through his hair and the resulting whimper against your neck. God, he put in so much effort to take the lead just for the theatre of it — it was easy to forget how easy it was to turn the tide. You didn’t think you had the heart. Not when he was already fighting to maintain his composure. His hips lost their rhythm, stuttering, but he scowled at you all the same, retaliating by slipping his hands under you.
You were lifted from the table – mere centimetres shy of it, but Marcus had your whole weight balanced in his arms now, pulling you up and letting you drop back down against his hips and fuck, it felt good to give into him. No more strain on holding yourself up. Free to clutch at his neck, holding him close, gasping against his ear with every thrust.
"Oh god—" You could hear him whimper, "Oh, god — oh my god—"
He was struggling. He was well past the point of no return.
Fuck it.
You drew back, pressing your lips to his, breaking up whatever remaining thread of self-control he'd been holding onto with a mutually-held gaze.
“In me, baby — come in me.”
That did it.
Your hand clapped over Marcus’s mouth the moment a cry spilled from his throat, diminishing the noise into a pitiful muted whine. His gaze remained fixed on you while he rode out the crest of his orgasm, brown eyes desperate and adoring – just a few more rocks of his hips until it all became too much and you felt the table beneath you once more. The Sheriff curled against you, seated as deep as he could situate himself in your cunt until it ached, and you felt him twitch within you. Hot, ragged breaths swept over your hand, almost — but not quite — in time with the rhythm of his pulsing cock. Then, when it all finally began to slow, Marcus's dampened forehead fell to your shoulder, and in your embrace, he caught his breath for a moment.
"I'm..." He panted, eyes still half-lidded. "My, erm—"
"You okay?"
"Legs. Think my legs are gonna give out."
Summoning what little strength he had left, Marcus wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you with him when he slid back into his office chair, careful to ensure he didn’t slip out of you. He melted into the seat, exhausted, half-conscious and shuddering each time your muscles seized insistently around his spent cock, seeking out continuation that he could no longer deliver. You were content to relax into his hold all the same, sore inside and out.
You weren’t certain how long the two of you remained there in your recovery, but the expanse of those minutes went uninterrupted by man awaiting you in the Undercity.
Marcus’s chin grazed the crown of your head, as if your thoughts had been enough to stir him. He pressed a kiss to your temple, and you hummed, happy to make the most of your time together before the reminder of your departure soured the mood.
“Happy Father’s Day.” You reminded the man, earning a quiet chuckle.
“Thank you.” He sighed.
Pleasant silence stretched between you.
Then —
“Silco has a kid, you know.”
Matter-of-fact. Calm. Not an ounce of the animosity you’d expect to hear laden in those words. Their contents surprised you nonetheless, however, and you leveraged against Marcus’s chest to sit up and shoot him a puzzled look.
“He what?”
There was no way. Granted, you’d only found yourself in Silco’s network for a couple of months, but in that time, you’d become certain that the Eye of Zaun sired no young.
Marcus hardly reacted to your surprise. He looked transic, as if he’d just returned from the bathhouse. “Adopted.” He clarified. “But that shouldn’t exempt him. Almost feel bad, keeping you here when he has no one to celebrate with.”
“You're calculating after you come. You know that?” You asked, taking the cue to lift yourself off of him, careful not to subject his uniform to the mess that could follow if you angled wrong. He shivered at the movement, overstimulated and still half-hard, watching you scour the office for your underclothes while he tucked himself back into his own.
“Take a cable car. Don’t need to be filthy when you visit.”
God, he didn’t even want you to shower before going.
You cast an incredulous look over your shoulder. “You’re cruel after you come.”
His office chair squeaked, and you felt his approach from behind, buckles fastening and layers smoothing back into neatness. Warm arms wrapped around your waist, and you smiled into the kiss he delivered from over your shoulder.
“How else is he gonna be reminded that he’s sharing?” Marcus murmured. An ungloved hand slipped down your thigh, hooking under your skirt. Sparking want followed the wake of his fingertips, reigniting need with each agitated nerve until he finally reached your clitoris. It wasn’t fair, how he could have you automatically pressing back up against him at a ghosted touch, wanting more.
“Remember what I said.” His breath curled against your ear.
If he makes you come, it’ll be because I helped.
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll see you tomorrow anyway.”
Arrogant bastard.
You were halfway convinced you’d marry him if he asked.
Contrary to Marcus’s expectations, the only anticipation your journey into the Undercity held was for boredom. Yes, the Eye of Zaun — as he liked to refer to himself — had a certain degree of intensity about how he sought out your presence, but unbeknownst to the Sheriff, today had by far been your most eventful Monday since this agreement began.
Over the span of your handful of visits, Silco had scarcely touched you. Not intimately, anyway. Any contact seemed to be reserved for shepherding you around by the small of your back or with your arm locked loosely over his. You were a trophy piece. Brought out like old silverware for guests and rivals to glance at and question in silence. Left to sit around and wait out the day while Silco scribbled away behind his desk.
It wasn’t all bad, despite the boredom. When he was in a rare conversational mood, he had a particularly dry wit that you found charming, and he didn’t appear to regard your presence in his proximity with as much blatant irritation as he did most other traffic in the room. When you offered your opinions, he listened. When you spoke of your interests, he’d prompt you to elaborate. He relayed stories of youth and revolution endlessly — which you suspected might have been an effort to impress you — telling and retelling tales of past adventures from times before he was obliged to lead from an office. Silco was passionate beneath that facade of indifference, and when that passion broke through, he could be downright magnetic.
Considering he had all the opportunity in the world to display otherwise, you felt respected by him. Perhaps it was a byproduct of stepping into the ring with the man and coming out victorious. You weren’t going to complain if that were the case; he could have easily killed you by now if your first meeting had pissed him off enough.
Curious, however, that considering your victory during that first meeting had in-part consisted of him shaking beneath you, he made no effort to seek out such contact again.
It was as if he’d never blown a load down your throat in the first place.
The whole thing reminded you of Marcus’s initial hesitation; how the threat of Silco finding out about you kept him from taking the next step. That was all done and dusted now, though, and from the way Silco flaunted you in front of his political rivals, his reasoning couldn’t have been the same as Marcus’s.
Up until today, you saw no rhyme nor reason for it. However, at the Sheriff’s mention of Silco’s adopted child, it was as if a piece had slid into place.
Silco, you were convinced, was a virgin.
A lack of intimate talk or touch was more easily understandable once you put it in the frame of possibility that he simply did not know how to carry out such tasks. As familiar as you were with the density of the air whenever he called you over to proof-read his writing by his side at the desk, it might have been the case of him being completely unfamiliar with taking things further beyond tension. After all, he’d scarcely done anything last time beyond receiving — and that little whispered promise of next time, darling — next time I’ll —...
It lingered in your thoughts more often than you'd like to admit. Yet here you were, and no matter how many times you imagined Silco bringing closure to that proposal, you went disappointed. Whether he knew it or not, Marcus had condemned you to wait until you returned to Piltover to get the satisfaction you sought.
Resigned to that thought, you moved through the depths of the Undercity, catching more glances the further you wandered into the black market district of the lowest level. Silco’s domain. Silco’s people.
You were given a wide berth as per usual; a state that had you feeling more embarrassed with each passing visit. What had you been branded with down here for no one to even bother asking what business you had? Did they regard you as Marcus's stand-in? Silco's lover? How much did they know?
Your reception at the last drop was a more intimate, if polarised one. Staff, hospitality or otherwise, either met your gaze with curt nods of acknowledgement, or loudly ignored your presence. It was a room full of people who despised the man who’d taken you on his desk not an hour earlier — yet worshipped the man who’d demanded your presence upstairs. It was weird territory to tread, and no one could be blamed for wanting to have nothing to do with the whole situation.
You crossed the bar in silence, and as you approached the stairs, Sevika rose from her booth to intercept you with little more than an incline of her head. The woman wielded enough power that she had to do little else. You diverted your course, angling so that she wasn’t required to speak up or lean in.
“You’re late.” She muttered, clear breath disrupting the smooth tail of smoke swaying out of her cigarette.
“Am I in trouble?” You asked. It must have been a stupid question from the way she squinted at you. The observation was simply a non-greeting.
“Consider yourself lucky.” Sevika said, drawing in a drag, offsetting immediate irritation at her next words. “Jinx just left.”
“Okay. Thanks. Who’s that?”
Sevika paused for a moment, as if she were teetering between amusement and astonishment. “That uniformed crook, Topside. Got a kid, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Congratulations. You’re a mother of two.”
Apparently, she’d chosen the former.
Sevika was turning away from you before you could hope for an elaboration, leaving you with a chuckled good luck amongst the snickering and stares of everyone within earshot.
Feeling the blood drain from your face, you ascended the stairs.
As usual, the door to Silco’s office was closed. Ordinarily, you knocked, waited for his acknowledgement, and entered. This time was no different, although an extended pause on the other side of the door made Silco’s mood well-known in advance.
“What is it?”
You entered, and while Silco’s expression did not change, the shift in his posture from hunched to straightened upon seeing you gave him away. To some degree at least, he was pleased to see you. His thin lips pressed into a thin line. Refusal to be the one to speak first. That was fine by you. He wasn't the first moody man you'd dealt with today.
Shutting the door behind you, you made your approach, breaking away from what was fast becoming a scowl to observe the clutter on his desk. Not an unusual sight; the man basically lived in that chair. Stacked books and stationery typically framed the reports and maps unfurled beneath his elbows. Today, there was a surplus of neon-painted trinkets; at least a dozen more than usual. Several explosives sat amongst the pile, swimming in an opened bag of loose candy. Jinx's doing, you assumed.
All along, those funny little mugs and ashtrays he kept close by had been gifts from his kid.
“You look spoiled.” You commented, shaking off encroaching fondness before it could take root in your subconscious, approaching to inspect what she’d left for him.
It proved a good distraction to whatever confrontation he'd been looking for in you. Silco's gaze broke, briefly surveying the clutter, arms folding over whatever report he'd been reading. "My daughter is rigorous when it comes to gifts. If...indiscriminate."
You inclined your head, resting your palms atop the table, across from him. "I get the feeling you're not complaining about the bombs."
"Do I not give the impression of a sweet tooth?" The slightest quirk of his mouth almost made Silco look amused for a moment there. You reached out to take one, only for him to swat your hand away. Your offense was regarded with a cautionary look. "Not the wisest move. She re-wraps the ones she doesn't like."
"Marcus's daughter's getting to that same age."
It was Silco's turn to look offended.
"Jinx is sixteen."
...
"Oh."
Silco turned briefly to reignite the cigar that had been resting across his ashtray, holding the stick with more tension between his teeth than necessary. He was still upset. "Had you been on-time, you would have been able to meet her."
"Had you told me you were a father —"
"Of course I'm a father. You think I painted these myself?"
"You really thought it would have been a good idea to introduce us out of the blue?" You shot him an expectant look. "Does she know about me?"
"It would have been fine—"
"Silco—"
"No, she doesn't." Silco bit, smoke rolling out of his mouth. "It might have been a good opportunity, were you not with the Sheriff. His woman, she does know of."
You frowned at him, hard. "Are you using your daughter to make me feel bad for you?"
“Today is my day.”
“The day I allow you to see me. Not the day I belong to you.”
Silco's face tightened.
He did not like that.
“Did he make love to you?”
His voice was clipped, doing little to mask his irritation. The audacity of him assuming he had the right to feel offended by your established relationship — as if he did little but benefit from this arrangement — as if he hadn't been the one to propose it in the first place.
As if he even bothered to go anywhere near you, despite it all.
"Don’t derail this." You shot back, temper flaring at the dismissive roll of his eyes. “This is about you having no regard for boundaries, and no respect for my terms.”
"He did, didn’t he.”
You met his glare with your own. “I’m not going to bend for you, Silco. If you can’t adhere to the agreement-“
"The agreement," Silco bit, dabbing ash off of his cigar, "Clearly needs refining. If this is what I'm to expect from you, we can call the whole thing off."
Anger finally boiled over. "What do you care, anyway? All you do is have me exist here. It wouldn't make a difference if we did call this off."
For just a moment, something else flashed through Silco's expression. Hurt, immediately covered with a stony mask and a deep inhale. He watched you, dangerously.
"Come here." He ordered.
You hesitated, defiance outweighing fear of consequence. Seconds passed, and when it became clear that he wasn't going to give in, you straightened out and rounded his desk. Silco raised a hand to indicate when you'd gotten close enough, and when he did nothing else but return to scribbling away in his reports, you rolled your jaw in irritation.
"Yes?"
As if he knew just how much it irked you, the man continued his business for a few more painful seconds before even opening his mouth. "Turn around. Lean over the desk."
Your brow furrowed. "Pardon?"
Finally, the scratching of pen on paper stopped. Silco sat up, chair swivelling just slightly as he turned to regard you, fixing you with a half-smile. Sardonic.
"Bend."
…
Oh, that fucking bastard.
You bordered on seething, and yet something tightened within you; a mortified thrill at what he was demanding — what he was using against you. A reminder of your unanswered frustrations, and as much as you tried to suppress it —hope, that today might be your lucky day. That stoking Silco's fury might have once again coaxed him into touching you.
Summoning whatever sensible outrage you had to appear indignant, you did as instructed with a grunt. Resting your forearms on the desktop, torso tilting at the hip until you were well and truly bent over. Exposed to the chill of the air, fighting a wave of apprehension at Silco's silence while his gaze no doubt raked over your behind.
The pen balanced between his fingers swept beneath the skirt of your dress, pushing it up and out of the way, and your throat ran dry.
He tutted behind you, no doubt observing the aftermath of your earlier encounter stained through your underwear.
For a moment, you felt ashamed under his scrutiny. Likely just the result he was hoping for. His breaths were quiet, body stilled, giving no indication of movement. He just sat and watched, and you did your best to match his performative indifference. Perhaps he’d been aiming for you to break completely; grow nervous, attempt to break the silence, apologise, even. You’d refuse. You’d witnessed his inexperience for yourself.
You’d happily call his bluff.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself.” Silco muttered, abruptly turning his attention away with the swivel of his chair. “You’ll be giving me those hours back. I’ll let Marcus know not to expect you until tomorrow evening.”
“That’s not fair.”
”Nor is having you delivered to me covered in another man’s—“ The words halted in his throat. Too scandalising for him to verbalise. “I request that you don’t do this again.”
”Fine. Can I get up now?”
He paused, before turning back to his work. “No. You can stay like that until I’m done. I don’t have to bear your pouting while I work.”
”Sure you don’t just like staring-?"
“Quiet. I’m busy.”
Exasperated, you slumped back down, resting your elbows on the table. The two of you fell into stubborn silence amidst the scratching of Silco’s pen.
Boredom crept in as the minutes came and went. Your gaze wandered; from the walls to the floors, to the increasing stack of papers Silco set between you on the desk, building sheet by sheet while he worked. To the blunted ends of otherwise long fingers grasping his pen in an unsustainably tight grip. To the divot in the desk where Silco was seated, giving you just enough scope of his lap and the erection straining beneath his hunched form — evidently an attempt to conceal it from you.
There it was again.
That coiling heat. Temptation to bait him out of whatever show of dominance he was vying for. Your patience for all of today's guilt-tripping had waned into a sliver, and you'd benefitted little. He deserved it, anyway. If all he planned to do about your relationship with Marcus was complain, the least you could do was taunt him with it.
You slipped closer, drifting your body along the desk until your hip grazed his forearm. His whole body seemed to jerk in response, and your delight at the furtive glance on his part was fast-eclipsing the earlier hostility.
“Stop that.” Silco grumbled, shifting his paperwork further away.
You didn’t. The further he inched along the table, the farther you chased him. Amusing yourself with how he folded in on himself once leaning away would run him the risk of tumbling out of his chair.
"Enough."
"Hm?" You cocked your head, watching him over your shoulder. Ears flushed crimson. Outraged scowl trained on his work. "What's the matter? I’m bending.”
Silco scoffed at that. “You’re being a brat—”
At a punctuated wiggle against his arm, Silco finally seemed to summon at least enough courage to push you away himself; palm pressing into your thigh, arm extending until you'd stepped far enough away. It wouldn't do, you decided, placing a hand over his, listening the hard intake of breath as your fingers traced over his knuckles, encouraging him not to remove himself from you. The victory was yours when you withdrew your hand — and his remained — too nervous to do anything but stay frighteningly, frustratingly still in the face of your increasing desire for him to just squeeze.
Perhaps if you stayed well-behaved enough — perhaps if you kept on with this for another harrowing few months, he might develop enough of a spine to do so. To smooth a broad palm across the swell of your ass. Slip his fingers beneath your underclothes and trace them over your cunt. Abandon his work completely in favour of leaning in and tasting you — standing, drawing his cock out of his trousers and ensure you stayed in place with his weight against yours, fucking you, both of you sighing away that frustration with the other, hitting that unfulfilled spot to have you spasming around him in minutes and keep fucking going—
Silco's hand left you, and the squeak of his chair as he leaned back brought you back to present.
"I — need you to proof-read." He muttered, placing his final page atop the stack and sliding it toward you. "We have a meeting with Chross this evening. This — and you — need to be tidy. After you're done, you can wash up."
"And my clothes?" You asked, barely concealing annoyance.
"I'll send someone up to the market."
"Pity." You tutted.
"Before you say something crass, I'll remind you Chross has more connections topside than anyone down here. We need whatever resources we can source from them. If you can't behave, you can wait here for me until I get back — but I won't be bringing you anything from Jericho." Silco met your gaze with a stern look, then. "Read it for me, please."
Please.
It was like he knew how much you enjoyed hearing it.
With a sigh, you gave in. However, you had no intention of calling an end to the game.
“Pardon me—“
“What-“
Silco’s words died in his chest when you side-stepped and seated yourself directly on top of him, knocking the wind out of him momentarily. His outrage didn’t curb as you got comfortable in his lap, wiggling back to sit against his front while he squirmed beneath you. The arousal he’d tried to conceal was clear as day now, jammed between the two of you. Tempting as it was to respond to it, however, you opted for revenge. He wasn’t going to get away with humiliating you without taking it in kind.
Already, you could feel the damp absorbing into his trousers where you sat; both your own and Marcus’s presence soaking into Silco’s lap. A grunt rumbled in his throat — presumably from disgust or indignance — and you responded with another wiggle, stilling him completely.
“I’m trying to read.” You informed him, leaning over the desk to focus on the task he’d given you. “If you quit distracting me, I’ll finish quicker.”
“Do you really have to-“
“Anyone ever told you your 4’s look like 9’s?”
The offence he took to that seemed to work a treat. While Silco went out of his way not to touch you — fingers digging into the wood of his armrests — his temper was diverted. “I write quickly.” He bit.
“It shows. Makes you seem…” With a punctuated roll of your hips, you drew a choked sound from that snarling, rotten mouth. “Nervous.”
”Just read it, already.”
That wasn't happening. Not while you had him pinned like this.
“So tell me.” You began, ignoring him. “Why all the letters demanding my presence when you behave like you’re terrified to be near me?”
No response.
“I have a theory about you, Silco.” You mused, minutely, slowly rolling your hips back against him. He went rigid under you, breath hitching, and had it not been for his change in posture you might have savoured your victory. However, the angle pressed against dormant nerves that you’d neglected to satisfy earlier.
The throb of desire hit you hard. You needed more.
“I think that day in Marcus’s living room was the furthest you’d gotten with someone, physically. Am I right?”
“Not— not necessarily.” Silco shivered, just barely pressing back up into you. “Today’s marking some — new developments.”
“Never had someone in your lap?”
“Certainly never felt someone’s heartbeat between their legs.”
You stopped.
Despite his nerves, he knew he had you there.
You could practically feel the crooked little smirk on his face.
“Oh, I see. Perhaps Marcus was right. Perhaps you really are just cock struck.” Silco mused, breath rolling over your shoulder. He’d gotten closer. Confidence building. “Contrarily, perhaps you’ve gone without. Has our Sheriff failed to satisfy you, darling?”
“His exact words were if he makes you come, it’ll be because I helped him.”
The pause at that coloured his annoyance.
“The latter, then.”
“You think you could? You haven’t gone near me.”
“Forgive me for assuming the woman I threatened might not be inclined to be physical with me after—“
“After what? After you said you’d kill me?” You questioned. “Or after I sucked your cock?”
“I thought —…” Silco went quiet for a moment, slackening beneath you. Almost defeated. “I didn’t —…I don’t want you to feel forced. I thought if you approached me—"
“I am approaching you. You have my permission.” You told him, watching his hands tremble on the armrests. “Touch me. I want you to.”
Whatever thread keeping the man still finally snapped. In an instant, his hands were on you. Clutching, clumsy, roaming your waist. Your ribcage. Your hips. The heat in the wake of his fingertips pulled a little gasp from you, and the moment your head dipped back against the chair, sighing into the touch you’d been craving, Silco’s mouth found the crux of your jaw and your throat. As if he’d memorised exactly where Marcus had targeted last time.
You rocked back against him at the feeling, and his hands found their way to your thighs, gripping hard and grinding you down onto his confined cock with a hiss.
“Tell me what to do.”
"What about my reading?"
"To hell with the report — just —" He was trembling, you realised. “Show me how to make you feel good.”
“Just me?”
“Last time was selfish. I intend to repay the favour.”
“Is that so?” You taunted, sitting forward a moment to help him undo his trousers. “You don’t want me to turn around? Ride you?”
“What I want is beside the point.” Silco hissed, tugging himself out of his underclothes and almost lurching when you took his cock in-hand to guide him between your thighs. “I’m — ah — not going to be the second man to make love to you today, and still leave you wanting.”
Unexpected generosity. You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your mouth.
“We’ll see how long you can stand by that.”
Tugging interfering material aside, you seated yourself in his lap once more with a contended hum, nerves buzzing with excitement at the heat of his cock straining at the junction of your thighs, already wet enough to glide along the length of him with the slightest movement. Silco, however, held you still, craning his chin over your shoulder to watch your lashes flutter at the feeling, getting himself accustomed to being between your legs.
“What—“ Fuck, he sounded ruined already. You pressed your knees together, tightening the hold on him. With a gasp, his hands slipped over the swell of your breasts, cupping just a little too hard. “What I want, is to take you from him. Purge you of him. Make you forget you were ever with him. I want to make love to you, and I want to never leave you suffering as he has right now. But I can’t do that until I know how.”
Warmth flushed your ears, your chest, creeping up your neck at his words. Stoking want with his eagerness as much as his jealousy irritated you.
“Silco-“
His Adam's apple bobbed at the sound of his name on your tongue, swallowing back a sound you wished you'd gotten to hear. His hips jerked, cock angling, pressing flush against your vulva now. It had to be accidental. He couldn't have known how good that action would feel from intuition alone. There was no way he wasn't terrified over your shoulder, vulnerabilities safely unobserved while you, for the most part, were on display so long as he looked down.
“So, I intend to practice.”
He was good at masking it. He was good at drawing out that throbbing need in your core.
You managed a nod, reaching for his wrists. Guiding one down between your legs while keeping the other concentrated on your chest. “Sit back.”
Already breathing hard, Silco acquiesced, allowing you more space to move. To use him. He didn’t resist while you guided him, watching intently over your shoulder, lips pressing to your flesh every other second. When you led his fingers to your clitoris, the man fell silent in the wake of your shiver and the surging want that had you trembling against him almost immediately.
”Like this.” You remembered to instruct him, half-dazed already, pushing his fingertips down, keeping your nerves concentrated in one spot — before sliding down the length of his cock with a roll of your hips.
The “Oh —“ slipped from between his teeth before he had a chance to stifle it, and you felt his body tense. It took no small amount of self control to stifle your own sound just to listen to him. Unlike the Sheriff, he had committed himself purely to your enjoyment, and yet here he was, just as affected as you were. Breath quavering, Silco angled to watch as best he could, lips parting at the sight of his hand over your cunt and the head of his cock peeking between your thighs each time you rocked back against him. You fell into a slow, experimental rhythm, seeking some kind of balance between teaching him adequately and chasing your own pleasure.
Fortunately for you, he caught on quick, swallowing back a sigh with a little rotation of his hips, taking some of the labour of the task away from you. His fingers pressed harder, tentatively rolling over your nerves, dampened to the knuckle thanks to how much slick his cock had swept over your cunt. If he was bothered by the wet sounds of his ministrations, he gave no indication of it. You sighed and hummed and gasped with each oversensitive push and pull, and he drank in all of it.
"Do you —" Silco choked, "Do you think about me when you're with him?"
You no longer had the sense to dance around him. "Yes." You muttered. "Think about — both of you—"
"Greedy thing. You think about me taking you? Fucking you?"
"If you want to fuck me — say it."
The jerk of his hips spoke a resounding yes, but Silco wasn't caving. "Told you — I'm repaying a favour."
Propping your heel up on the chair beside Silco's knee, you relinquished your hold on his hands to find purchase using his armrests. The effect was instantaneous; broader strokes, more control, more pressure. With a bit-off curse, Silco turned momentarily limp in his seat, heat hitting the cushion, and the sigh that worked its way out of him was nothing short of reverent. You wanted to speed up. You wanted to finish it. Let go of that torturous tension. You wanted to come, but fuck, you wanted to feel him come undone with you, in you.
"Don't you want to know what it feels like?" You taunted, biting back a grin when his free hand moved to your hip, simultaneously snatching at the control you were fast-revoking and holding on for dear life. "Don't you want to send me back there — the same way he sent me to you?"
A strangled noise was the only response he could offer when you sped up, shivering when a particularly long stroke caught the head of him at your entrance — right before slipping back over the surface of you. So close, it was so close.
Silco's finger's increased their pace, fighting back against having you outlast him, dragging you far too near to your end for comfort. Another catch. Another choked curse over your shoulder.
Fuck.
You couldn't wait any longer.
"Ah—" Silco's chest heaved against your spine. Fingers losing rhythm. He was close.
"You want to feel me come?" You managed, voice all but abandoning you to a gasp. "You want to be in me?"
There was no worded response. No considered retort. Your answer came with Silco frantically reaching, grasping himself on the backdraw, lining up with your entrance. You ground against him once more, catching for the last time. There was no going back once you’d felt the first inch fill you. Not when your aching muscles finally had something to clutch at. Certainly not when his back arched behind you and he fucking trembled. You kept going, sinking onto the poor man while he all but sobbed at the feeling, gripping your dress with white-bled knuckles until he was inside you to the hilt.
Relief. Warmth. Need. Fuck, it felt divine.
Then, with another minute rock up into you, Silco brought you undone, maintaining just the right amount of pressure while his fingers rolled over your clitoris. Your composure broke as the tension in your core finally gave out, flooded with heat and pleasure and absolute need to ride out the feeling for as long as you had the sense to keep yourself balanced.
It didn’t work. You shuddered and jerked in his lap with a keen, barely registering the desperate gasp behind you. Something animalistic snapped in you, seeking purchase on the edge of the desk to shove back against Silco, driving his already hilted cock into you as deep as you could muster, grinding mindlessly against that one little bundle of nerves. The surging raged on, dragged out by Silco’s haphazard rubbing and your own transic movements.
A warning sound shot out of Silco, free hand alternating between trying to hold you still and push you off while the other remained committed to dragging you through the entirety of your orgasm.
Bless him, he was doing his best to keep up.
Finally, the peak waned into release, and your muscles delighted in the swell of him drawing close, brought to his own end simply by being within you. A broken whine erupted from his throat, and Silco’s arms coiled around your waist so tight it was almost suffocating. His forehead pressed hard against your spine, shaking gasps hot on your skin. His hips rolled, just slightly, and with one final responding twitch of your muscles, Silco was done for. His cock pulsed within you, twitching hard enough that you could feel every inch of him contracting, and he near-sobbed through the height of his orgasm, voice worn and ragged. Warmth spread through you with the easing rhythm, and whether it was from the dawning soreness of your insides or from the sheer heat of what he was leaving in you, you weren’t certain.
Silco’s grip slackened with each passing twitch until he finally eased back into the chair, arms draped over your torso.
You relaxed against his front, angling just enough to watch exhaustion and bliss bleed into his expression, open mouth still catching breath. His hair was a mess, and a patch of makeup over his drawn-on eyebrow had been smudged away, leaving a darkened smudge in its absence.
His gaze lifted when you tucked a too-close lock of hair away from his amber eye. In response to the little smirk playing on your lips, he vied for a soured, if dazed, look.
“That was cheating.”
“Technically a team effort.” You replied. "By the way..."
That earned you a stern look.
"Don't say it."
"Happy Father's Day."
Silco hummed, half in annoyance, half in acknowledgment. His eye closed, hands keeping you flush against him. “Still owe you one.” He mused.
“Then you can still look forward to practicing.”
“I take it that was satisfactory, then.” He paused, contemplating. “So was that me, or the Sheriff?”
“Team effort.”
His eye opened, and he tilted his head to offer a tiny smile. “You’re saying I owe you two.”
He looked nice like this, you decided. Wrecked. Watching you almost shyly in the afterglow. It was worth it to have him stick around this time, post-orgasm. It was tempting to kiss him. Offer him some sense of reassurance that he’d done well for a first timer. That he hadn’t doomed himself to a once-only scenario. The intimacy aspect was undiscussed territory, however. The aftercare alone felt as if it were skirting some emotional line better left ignored for the sake of keeping this arrangement purely physical. The way his eyes flickered down, though — as if mirroring your thoughts — it made it a challenge to cast to the back of your mind.
"Should get cleaned up." You mentioned, angling your gaze away from him before it became too late to deny yourself.
Silco's head drifted back against the cushion in your periphery, eye closing again. "Give it a minute."
"If you fall asleep in me—"
"Merely thinking we ought to re-schedule tonight's meeting." He murmured. "Prior engagements. Unexpected setbacks. So on and so forth."
You grinned at that. "You can't walk, can you?"
...
"Shut up."