Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The desire to smugly prove Fel wrong outweighs his sincerest desire to flake, as he is wont to do these days. She’s got him a job pulling pints at the bar she works in, says he’d be doing the owner a favour since the place has been rammed with not enough hands on deck, but they both know what this is in aid of.

Silco finishes off his cigarette, fingertips warmed as the cherry burns down too close, edged on by his eagerness to suck every last bit of nicotine out of the thing. He flicks the butt carelessly, barely audible extinguishing hiss as it plops into a murky rainwater filled pothole on the road. 

It’s drizzling, but that’s not enough to put a dampener on a Saturday night when you’re under the age of forty. Hens and Bachelors stumble out of bars and clubs straight into another, that same revolving door of blow up sex dolls and white veil headbands, university students and beer bellied men splitting the G. 

This isn’t Silco’s usual haunt. 

It’s exactly why Fel already told her boss she had a friend who was looking for work, didn’t mind cash in hand or late Saturday nights that bled into early Sunday mornings. She has absolutely zero faith in him to actually show up, which, again, is the driving force behind him being here. ‘The Last Drop’ is busy because it’s an old building overflowing with enough history to have long standing regulars, cheap enough drinks for students, space to dance and an owner who’s apparently run it himself for years.

Silco pushes past patrons at standing tables, groups bobbing to what he makes out over the hum of chatter and laughter to be The Clash until he breaks through to the bar. Felicia is busy serving as he slips around to meet her, a stab of satisfaction at the genuine surprised raise of her plucked thin brows.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in! Found room in your busy schedule, then?”

“You always take top priority, darling, where else would I be?” If Silco’s smile is a little sharp, a little forced, it can’t be helped.

Fel doesn’t dignify that with a verbal response, swiping up a plastic beaker of water for a drink instead. The edge of her hairline shines, greased with perspiration, under the warm yellow lights. A few baby hairs curl wildly around her temples and ears, broken free from her low ponytail.

Felicia is beautiful and a whirlwind but no less sharp for it. 

Even now, her speculative gaze picks Silco apart for any odd ends or loose threads but while she believes herself a master of his tells Silco has gotten all the better at hiding them. He’s already numbed his gum lines rubbing them with coke to perk him up, long enough ago he’s not noticeable wired upon scrutiny and thank god he’s such a clever little thing, too, because-

“You must be the infamous Silco Fel’s told me so much about.” Says the brick shithouse that sidles up beside his friend with a pleasant smile, framed with a well maintained salt and pepper beard that Silco immediately wants to wet between his legs. Mental note to check Grindr on his break, but guessing this man’s age he’s either technologically handicapped, riddled or unfortunately straight. “Vander.”

“Ah, so my reputation continues to proceed me.” Call and response. Silco’s bony hand is like a pearl nestled safely in the fleshy inside of a clam when surrounded by Vander’s much larger one. His skin is so warm and tacky with sweat but strong, years of pulling pints and lugging kegs from storage, he imagines. “I hope she at the very least left out some of the gory details.”

“Oh no, I include every sordid bit, especially the illegal stuff!” Fel tosses a smirk over her shoulder as she scoots past Vander, a familial pat on his upper arm before she’s sucked back into the thick of it. In her brief absence a shoal of patrons have swelled against the front of the bar, not rowdy yet but enough to distract from conversation. 

That leaves Silco and Vander, then, who makes a move to give him a short tour and a run down. The low hum of his voice might as well not be there, background noise to the insistent pull of his trepidation. 

What did Felicia tell him? 

Please give my oldest friend a job. He’s a mess and the sense of responsibility, like he owes somebody something will work better than dragging him to a rehab centre-

Silco is not an addict. She’s chewed his ear off about this concern of hers far too many times, on nights with his mouth tinged with stomach bile and vertigo cranked up to eleven. It’s not a habit, stumbling his way to her flat and laying into the intercom buzzer. It only happens when things get scary.

“You won’t have to lift any kegs, don’t worry.” Vander’s voice cuts in, taking Silco’s lapsing silence as hesitance. The bulk of him mostly blocking the opened up doorway with old wooden stairs that plummet into darkness. No one in their right mind would voluntarily carry or drag kegs, he’s worked as a barman in the past, but that constant flame inside of him flickers.

“I may look small but I’m more than capable, thank you very much.” Slender arms, trim build, pianist fingers and long hair spilling like ink over his shoulders draws typical judgement. The smudged kohl around his eyes doesn’t help the stereotypical picture he paints, either, but it helps cover bags. 

“I don’t doubt that, I know you could do it.” Vander says, as if he knows anything, closing the door on the dark below. It’s not a big place, not like the clubs he frequents, it is intimate and built for regulars. “I’m just, y’know, big.”

“That you are.” Silco flirts automatically, “I bet bachelorette parties adore you, and frankly I don’t blame them.”

“Careful now, trouble.” Vander says, voice that tiny bit rougher with warning, but the uptick to his lips is anything but. He jerks his head towards the bar in dismissal and when Silco glances back as he passes the beast goes ahead and gives him a smug wink.

Perhaps this might be worth his time after all.

-

The first night is uneventful but fills his usual busy Saturday night well enough. It’s all according to Felicia’s master plan, if he’s there she can keep an eye on him, if he has a promise to keep and cash in his pocket he won’t skulk off anywhere unsavoury. That’s all well and good for a bit, slow midweek shifts mostly spent playing one sided flirty ping pong with Vander in hopes of garnering a reaction or tactfully finding out as much as possible about his life without revealing much of his own. Saturday nights down the drain with the back of his neck burning before the itchiness starts.

Like clockwork; check the time, numb the gums, wait for the bus, have a fag, start work, internally squirm under Vander’s undivided attention, make jaegerbombs on autopilot until his break, mood depending have a smoke out the back or a sneaky line in the bathroom, flirt shamelessly to no result, finish up and make the depressing early morning commute home. 

Except nothing goes to plan tonight. 

The bus is late and the traffic is a state so it leaves no time for a pre shift, bolstering hit of nicotine to carry him through the first couple of hours at The Last Drop. Silco starts the painful act of clock watching, fingers twitchy and temper flighty because no, we don’t do frozen margaritas for the fifth time and yes, I need to check your ID. He’s preparing himself to announce he’s slipping out for ten minutes when the front door bangs open and a bunch of rowdy university lads spill in, hooting and singing off key, clearly already pissed as they collapse around the nearest empty table.

The leader of the pack targets him at the crowded bar, leaning just too far over the liquor damp countertop to order.

“Three pints of Carlsberg, a Thatcher’s and a rum and coke.” His grin is wide and wobbly, mouth jammed packed with teeth but it’s the eye watering stench of the cologne the man has bathed his navy polo shirt in that Silco notices above all else. There’s a notable lack of any pleases or thank yous as the drinks are lined up on the bar.

“Twenty pounds, ten.” Silco outstretches his hand across the distance, can’t stifle the sigh watching the notes and pennies get tossed onto the countertop instead like he’s invisible.

“What time do you finish?” As if.

“Not interested.” He responds bluntly, swiping the coppers off the edge of the bar and into his waiting hand to be disposed of in the till drawer. There’s no need to mentally count luckily, the inside of his skull throbs sporadically, demanding attention in the background.

“Why not? We could have some fun.”

“Just no, how about that?” Silco snips, patience already at an all time low after wrong outcome after wrong outcome today. His shoes meet resistance when lifting away from the sticky floor, the dark mesh of his shirt clings irritably to sweat wet skin and chafe his underarms, loose strands have escaped his ponytail and tickle the nape of his neck and now this asshole has clamped a hand around his boney wrist like he has the right to.

“Bet you’d change your tune if I paid you, huh? Y’look like a dirty-“

“Get your grubby hand off of him.” Vander’s bulk eclipses the warm bar lights, swallowing their patron in the cast of his shadow. As if he wasn’t already absolutely massive, his impressive arms cross over the swell of his chest, shirt material stretched to its very limits over the tense muscles of his biceps. If Silco were a tad more sexually repressed he’d physically swoon, expecting to be caught in waiting arms, real bodice-ripper stuff, as it stands he silently enjoys the exaggerated show of masculinity.

“We were just talking.” The drunk unhands him immediately under the intensity of Vander’s unwavering stare, but his ass hasn’t shifted from the stool he’s perching on yet.  

“I think you were just leaving, actually.” 

“Wait, hang on-“ Silco decides to take Vander scruffing the guy like a kitten and hauling him out the front door as his exit cue. There’s commotion as his group of friends follow suit, throwing apologies and protests on their way but it’s all silenced when the fire exit clicks shut behind him, drowned under the muffled thrum of bass. 

Out here Silco can breathe properly, think properly. His skin prickles as goosebumps break out across his body, chilly night air easily slipping in through the tiny holes in his poorly chosen outfit, always opting for style over practicality. Temperature only mattered when you were sober, anyway, a stark reminder of how miserable he was feeling tonight with his routine ousted. Thank you very much public transport.

A cursory glance around before he slips his fingers into the depths of his back pocket for his phone, wedged in there between restrictive material and his frankly lacking asscheek. The screen lights up automatically, flooding the area around him and his retinas with synthetic light. It’s just gone midnight, perfect. Silco digs his chewed down thumbnail between the edge of his phone and the black case surrounding it, jimmying it loose to retrieve the treasure squirrelled away inside. 

A tiny plastic baggy calls to him, no weight to it at all but enough snow contained for an uplifting bump Silco is way overdue. His stash is starting to run dangerously low, occupied enough to have let his usual diligence with stock upkeep lapse. Silco slips his phone away momentarily to squeeze the seal open between thumb and index knuckle, gently teaming the contents onto the back of his left hand in as straight a line as he can manage on short notice.

Silco much prefers to lay it out and cut it nice and pretty but, needs must and all. He hesitates with a squint, shifting his held up fist to try and determine if it’s pure white or slightly pink, but the low light in the back alley isn’t enough to provide much clarification. Whatever. Speed or coke or some back garden shed shit Singed made, he’s closing the distance and sniffing it, expecting the irritation along the sensitive skin inside his nostril, the body’s instinct to sneeze and waste it. 

He flicks the plastic aside to land amongst the black bags piled up waiting for collection in the morning, sniffing the tickle inside his nose away. Next port of call is a cigarette, plucked from his trusty pocket packet and old reliable flip lighter, plumes on his first exhale more prominent out in this temperature. The nicotine flush mixes pleasantly with the much needed hit of dopamine, brain pumped with helium and only just anchored in his skull. Silco huffs out a smoke tinged laugh, back bumping up to rest against rain damp brick. 

That may have been the last of his stash, but he’ll turn over every last drawer when he gets home later, flip the mattress, empty all the cupboards. For now Silco resigns himself to less drastic measures - scrolling through his lengthy contact list for any links who would be up for trading when the sun is starting to rise in a few hours. His screen stops, thumb hovering over R, heartbeat picking up now but it’s not because of this, it’s because of the high, that’s all.

Are you around about 5ish?

Silco knows better than to get an immediate response or even a lengthy one. He only crawls on his hands and knees to Reg when he’s foolishly coasted along until the last dregs and can’t stomach the thought of scrambling around like a junkie last minute. They have an arrangement sporadically, that Silco does as he asks, debases himself for the greater good, heading home with a bag weighing heavier on his shoulder and his palpitations soothed. 

Yes. Just c or other stuff?

Well, Silco won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Whatever. Happy to pay anything, too. 

The response to that is pathetically quick, one of the few times Reg will break and show his hands is when it comes to sex - the promise of it, the having it, and the using of it. He’s a dealer, so it’s only in his nature to work around what can be gained from every single interaction in his life and Silco’s body tends to be his preferred brand of currency.

5. See you then.

No use in responding to that boring close off, business concluded, meeting booked. Silco focuses on finishing up his smoke, pinging out a few other half assed texts to other men he’s fucked for various reasons when the fire exit door creaks open a few steps down the alley. He’s expecting Fel, maybe one of the regulars he’s sparked up rapport with, but no, Vander’s unmistakable figure joins him instead.

“Sil? You alright?”

“Yes.”

“It’s okay if you’re not, he was a prick.” Vander grunts, moving the few steps closer to Silco before slumping against the alley wall opposite. Those arms, that chest, yet again taunting him. “He’ll be waking up with a sore jaw for the trouble tomorrow, mortified too, I imagine.”

“There was really no need for all of that, believe me when I say there’s barely any honour left to defend.” Silco sniffs, knuckling his nose. Any other night, if he’d been drunker or higher, he’d have probably said yes and let that asshole use him in a bathroom stall for a dirty handful of cash or a couple of grams.

“That’s for me to decide, isn’t it?” Vander’s boots scuff the floor as he shifts closer, wide open palms raised placatingly, expecting the cornered street rat to scarper off into the dank hole he crawled out of. 

“Right.” Silco blows out his last lungful away from his face, fag butt joining the rest of the rubbish, narrowed eyes assessing which outcome is likely to play out here. He doesn’t expect Vander to wrap a giant paw around his slender wrist, deceivingly gentle, as if he deserves that treatment. “If you say so.”

“You’re worth more than a couple of bruised knuckles, love.” Which is definitely the most romantic thing anyone on the face of the Earth has ever said to him. Sure, he’s heard a plethora of compliments but they mostly revolve around his body and the pleasure it can wring out of someone else’s- you’re so tight, your mouth feels amazing, no one has ever let me go this hard before. 

All in all Silco would price himself at enough tranquilliser to stop a human heart and enough speed to start it right back up again. Anyone can make of that what they will.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Vander still hasn’t released his wrist, could easily close the tip of his index finger and thumb in a complete circuit around the knobbly joint. Silco scoffs, plasters on that chipped shark tooth grin.

“I’m not opposed to a bit of pain.”

“So that’s why you’re always covered in bruises then, by choice?” 

And what is he expected to say to that? Silco has been working under the assumption that their relationship would naturally unfold the way the majority of them do when the other person unashamedly stares at him day after day (although usually it’s on a quicker timescale). Vander hasn’t been fantasising about him, then, but assessing. What an open book he must be; Felicia’s charity case crack whore of a friend who slithers into his bar battered and out of his bin on god knows what. 

“What do you want?” Silco answers Vander’s question with one of his own, radiating painful defensiveness. The skin of his neck itches as blood bubbles molten beneath it, rare for him to feel any sense of shame nowadays but feeling caught out is coarse salt rubbed against a tender wound. He knows men. He knows what they expect and he doesn’t like when it’s different. 

“Just came to see if you were alright-“

“No, Vander, I mean I’ve noticed the way that you stare at me.” The holier than thou, white knight shit isn’t going to fly with him, even if a sinister whisper of daddy issues drifts up from the violently repressed recesses of his mind. 

“Do you think I’m thick?” Vander asks bluntly, some of his usual warmth bleeding out. It takes quite a bit to rile him up, Silco seems to be learning faster than most. 

“Well-“

“I know exactly what you’re trying to do, what you’ve been trying to do since you started here.” Whether Vander notices or not, his fingers are beginning to curl tighter around Silco’s wrist, radius and ulna meeting with a popping kiss. “This little game you’re playing, you’ve not tricked me into fucking you, if I wanted to I would’ve. Is that clear?”

Crystal, but Vander isn’t outrightly shutting him down with a lip curled up in disgust, or even just bluntly turning him down. That is an experience no one is exempt from every now and again, not even himself. They’re still standing out here in the privacy of shadow, alone in the world and too close for comfort. Sue him if he’s feeling even more brazen than is typical, riding the rocky waves of anxious adrenaline, coke sweats and gut punch horniness for a burly man looming over him. 

“What’s stopping you, then?” Silco tenses his captured hand up into a fist, giving a halfhearted tug to test the give of Vander’s hold. He barely moves, doesn’t even dignify the attempt with shifting his attention from his face. He’s not entirely certain if the pin pricks spattering across exposed flesh is excitement or the starting of rain, dark clouds rolling in to steal what little light they do have by blocking the half moon. “I’ve made it obvious I want you to look, yes? So why don’t you go ahead and touch me, already?”

The cover of night makes people braver, to say things they wouldn’t say in polite company, to touch the way you might not touch with the bedside table lamp on, to swallow or inject shit there’s no way in hell you’d have swimming through your bloodstream if you saw the state of your dealer’s fingernails. Maybe, just maybe, this is why Vander runs a bar of all things, to be seen as the guardian of the inebriated rather than any other assumptions people make of him.

“Let me take you back to yours.” Vander says instead, bypassing the proposal, allowing it to fester between them. Silco is abruptly reminded he despises self-titled knights in shining armour. He is not a fragile petal likely to shatter apart at the first rough touch, tender treatment is unwarranted. His twenty four wild years have rarely known kindness, moments of affection crammed in short supply between pure shit, and cruelty, and escapism. He doesn’t need saving now, and he doesn’t need unnecessary concern. 

“Or..” Silco drags the vowel out, “I can finish the last hour and a half of my shift.”

“I don’t give a toss about that, Sil, y’know I don’t. Come on.”

Heel. 

Silco is definitely not high enough to submit so readily, even if Vander’s baritone voice liquifies his spine until it has pooled in the gusset of his underwear. He could snap his arm and pin him like a dead butterfly, spread out and primed for inspection. There would be no way, no possibility to fight off a man his size, never mind one with such strength held under thick corded muscle and liberally fur dusted skin. One hand would be enough to cover Silco’s entire mouth and both nostrils, it’s never going to happen like that, though, and looking less and less likely to happen in any capacity.

“Let go. I don’t need the theatrics, thank you.” Silco says hypocritically, dusting imaginary dust off of his front once released. His barely there clothes are damp from that ceaseless drizzling rain, clinging and irritable across his entire hyper aware body. Vander is just as miserably persistent as the endless rain, dumb old dog he is still staring waiting for a change of heart and a willing victim to deliver safety to their own doorstep. There’s a slim chance he would have wanted inside, finally sink into the only soft, giving space Silco’s prickly vessel has, but, well, no one is allowed entry into the only place he can be truly alone.

Plus, it’s a pig sty. Embarrassing. If Silco had ever had a mother who gave two shits or wasn’t half lobotomised when he raised himself, she’d be rolling in her grave right now at what her only son grew up to be - and that’s excluding the (basically) prostitution and substance abuse. 

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine, yes, you can take me home.”

He can blame it on the crushing weight of living and how fucking uncomfortable it is sometimes for the reason he relents. Immovable object unfortunately conceding to unrelenting force. Silco’s internal clock nervously reminds him if he didn’t take the out he’d have to serve drinks in clothes damp and sucking like a leech to him, only to then be withheld the simple joy of passing out in his own messy, musty sheets in exchange for getting drilled at his dealer’s place. The only reassuring thought is that his cunt, if Reggie will go for it, makes him cum quick without fail every single time. 

Faster Silco wraps that up the sooner he can float off into blissful unconsciousness with sweet, filthy thoughts.

“Wait here and I’ll just go grab my jacket.” Vander says, taking a few blind backwards steps toward the fire exit door, keeping an eye on Silco like he’s prone to bolting.

He plucks his fag packet back out, pops another preroll between his lips more so to appear busy than anything else, a reason to stay and wait like he’s been asked to, best behaviour and all that. Silco doesn’t need another smoke so soon, doesn’t even really fancy it, but he’s sparking up nontheless and puffing away. Muscle memory, zoned out and tracing the grouting between grimy bricks, ashy inhale in and exhale, repeated until the door is squeaking back open and he’s no longer unsupervised. Silver catches lowlight swinging from Vander’s fingertips, keys jingling as they walk side by side down the short length of the stinking crush between buildings. He’s heard it mentioned before, but not seen it for himself until now-

Vander’s motorbike. 

It’s basic black, has touches of more classical looking parts whilst also appearing modern and that’s about as much as Silco could care to think about it. It’s of no interest to Silco until Vander is swinging one of those tree trunk legs of his over the body and jerking his head in silent command for him to hop on the back. So, then, there is some appeal. A leather seat between thighs, scooting up close to a warm body and wrapping slender arms around a firm fat and muscle lined stomach. The helmets are a mood killer but rather that sacrifice for twenty minutes than splashing brain soup down a storm drain.

The engine rumbles to life beneath them, soon gentling into a pleased kitten purr under Vander’s capable hands as they peel out of the alley and onto the main road. 

The pavements are littered with stumbling drunks and smokers gathered outside of pubs or clubs. It’ll be coming up to last call soon, and longer standing, salt of the earth businesses might chance a lock in, an opportunity for laughter up until sunrise and cheeky cash in hand. They get lucky with green lights, flying through stops and out of junctions without much cause for slowing down. Water sprays up from the wheels, wetting already damp, ripped jeans at the ankles but it’s all secondary to the heat bleeding out from Vander’s hips snug between his spread open legs.

Silco rests his forehead (the front of the protective helmet) against the slight curve of Vander’s spine, convinces himself if he closes his eyes and focuses he can smell his sweat, the leather from his jacket, the cologne he wears that ages him but there’s an allure even to that, isn’t there? I know who I am and what I’m doing, I’ve lived long enough to not give a shit what people think. Vander owns a sticky floored bar and sticks his nose in where it doesn’t belong, stands up for people. He offers bratty twinks a lift home to be nice, supposedly, even if he flirts back and looks his fill like a pervert. He has a bike he no doubt takes ridiculously good care of in his free time due to lack of offspring but somehow makes ‘midlife crisis’ look appealing, or, ultimately the powder he sniffed earlier was cut with nasty shit that’s melting his capacity for judgement. 

They survive the short trip and pull up to the curb outside the rundown house share Silco has the misfortune of residing within. It’s too expensive to rent a place alone nowadays, at least here his housemates keep to themselves and he has his own bathroom. No comment on the shit hole kitchen and perpetual fridge stink no one can get rid of, or empty cup and piled plate city the shared living room coffee table has become. As is polite and expected of him, he invites Vander inside for a drink, fully and naively expecting the offer to be rejected as is polite to do in return, only-

“Yeah, that’d be nice, thanks.” Vander says with a small, amused smile like the smug bastard he is and takes his spare helmet from Silco’s frozen hands. He’s kicked the stand on the bike to leave it sitting there waiting for him to come back and Silco isn’t confident it will be. He knows the offer wasn’t genuine but this is the game they’ve fallen into playing with one another, toeing over the line, testing how far they can push the boundaries. 

Silco’s silent internal prayers to non-existent gods are answered, for once, when he unlocks the front door to discover the house in darkness. The others must all be fast asleep or out on the prowl given how late, or early it is. They are surely used to his comings and goings at all hours now, three am kettle boiling and microwave pinging, four am bedroom door banging shut, shower running, five am chain smoking out of his window or the back garden, et cetera.

The only abnormal thing about this is Silco bringing someone home. He’s hit with an off putting wave of uncertainty, then, standing there with Vander waiting at his back. At a bar or in an alley, making trade, it’s a full view chessboard Silco has a fair hand in. This isn’t an even playing field, in his desperation to meet this man blow for blow he’s forced himself onto the back foot, weak point exposed. 

Vander’s silhouette comes into view, blocking out the living room skyline made up of the ratty three seater the house pitched in twenty quid each for, overflowing coffee table and a creased, worn rug someone is yet to flatten. He’s never brought anyone here, and the thought of guiding anyone upstairs to his own private domicile nearly sends him retching.

“You’ve gone all quiet.” Vander says, keeps his voice hushed, thoughtful of the others he’s distantly aware of. Silco can practically feel him wanting to ask if he’s okay, if he’s sure he’s alright, if he needs anything. Fuck off.

“It’s late and I don’t want to piss off my housemates.” As if he gives a shit.

“How considerate, but that’s not what I meant.”

“Care to share with the class, then?” Silco snips, his stomach twisting pleasantly at the embarrassment of it all. He painfully enjoys the way Vander thinks he knows him, the way his eyes never stop seeking him out, attempting to solve what he’s all about.

What would his assessment be if Silco truly, honestly flayed himself open for inspection?

Please, feast your eyes upon the fetid pile of weeks old, dirty laundry and months of unchanged, sweat smelling sheets. Coke and speed sprinkled bedside tables decorated with antique drained, sticky monster energy cans and numerous half empty foil popped prescription drugs packets. The only thing worth any pride is his leaning tower of CDs with partners in crime player and speaker system with tangled wires included.

“You’re nervous.”

Silco scoffs, indignation kick starting his frozen body to reboot and loosen his locked up joints. It’s too juvenile to argue no I’m not back so he grinds his teeth, swallows it down like acidic bile. His momentary lapse of confidence stokes the usual fire burning inside him until it’s almost roaring out of control, skin prickling hot and heart picking up the pace. Sweat swells in his pores again, brain like butter in a sizzling pan.

“Did you want tea or coffee? I’d offer something stronger but you don’t seem like the drink and drive type.” Silco says in an attempt to course correct, internally shaking off the awkwardness, a scrappy dog with a heavy, rain sodden coat. Vander’s hand easily snags his bicep as he moves to bypass him, if he tightened his grip there’s a possibility his thumb and middle finger tip would meet. 

“It’s because of what we talked about, back at the bar, isn’t it?” Well, it’s not not about that. It’s the closest Silco would get to throwing himself down on a platter, cracking his own sickly shell open and revealing tender, juicy flesh he’d told Vander to go ahead and stick his fingers in, touch me. Being ignored is worse than being rejected, being mollycoddled and dragged back home like a vagrant out past curfew.

“I’m a big boy, Vander. I can handle being turned down, so don’t go losing any sleep over it.” 

“I didn’t say no.”

“I can’t be bothered with this weird, cryptic bollocks right now-“ And suddenly Vander’s hand is a red hot iron clasp around his arm, driving him with controlling pressure back up against the closed front door. Silco’s combat boots knock clumsily together as they shift, rubber squeaking and scraping black streaks against hard wood flooring. It’s a grave error on his part to have forgone flicking the light switch on as he came in, the disadvantage he’s left himself with growing more and more apparent as events unfold. 

Are Vander’s pupils blown wild and wide just for him? Is his skin flushed with blood under the protection of coarse facial hair? He can’t make out anything properly, the only consolation is the same could be said in reverse. 

“I’ll make it simple, then.” Vander grunts, saintly patience stomped out under the sole of Silco’s shoe. He has a way of getting what he wants in the end. He has a lovely big set of fists that could split his lip like over whipped cream, no doubt there will be souvenir bruises wrapped Pamela Anderson style around his biceps to fawn over tomorrow from how firmly he’s being gripped. “If you want something from me, ask nicely. You can flirt and show me as much skin as you want, I’d be a fool not to enjoy it, but I won’t give you what you’re obviously gaggin’ for unless you ask.”

Silco clenches up around nothing, eyes flickering to pick out details the more he focuses, optic nerves adjusting gradually. His pleasure seeking usually involves an unhealthy dose of pain, touches that spark dull aches through his nerves and jump along tendons and blood cells to ignite in his pussy. If he’s really hankering for it, a blurred flurry of fists landing where he’s sweet and vulnerable works better for disconnecting his brain than any class A’s. 

But, at the end of the day, what’s more physically revolting and painful than pure, unfiltered humiliation?

He is not unaccustomed to the act of grovelling, even the idea of it brings back a whirlwind of phantom sensations. Bruised kneecaps, earth coating his tastebuds, grit between his teeth as he licked boots clean, blood crusted knickers and shame enshrouded trips to the pharmacy all to chase bigger highs and longer lasting hits when cash was not an option. 

“Touch me.” Silco tries, again, an echo from the alley.

Vander’s hold has not slackened or tightened as he waits, knowing it’s inevitable because Silco is an open book fallen right into his lap. Was it so obvious what a fucking unstable mess he was? That he needed someone to come along and whip him into line? He’s one bad day away from bursting at the seams, hobbling from one mind numbing rush to the next, float through precious days half unconscious in bathroom stalls or face down on a stranger’s disgusting mattress. 

No winning this game of chicken.

“… Please.”

“Show me where you need it, go on.” Vander commands him, deep voice somehow pitched even lower. There’s a gruffness to it, like the first words spoken when the sun breaks through the blinds or after puffing indulgently on an expensive cigar. It is impossible not to drop his hands to the front of his trousers and start popping the silver studs through their holes, shudder as he drags the zipper down and pries open metal teeth. There’s some distance between them now Vander has released him, heavy lidded eyes and blown pupils magnetised to where Silco peels down his clothes and fuck it, his dampened underwear too. A grand reveal of the pale expanse of his milky upper thighs and at the centre of it all the full, wiry black bush decorating his pubic mound. The hair peters off in a trail up towards his bellybutton and back around his asshole, a personal preference to not waste time bending at all angles and blindly waving a razor between his legs. 

Silco feels almost virginal again under such intense observation, although he’s physically the furthest he could be from it. His knees part as much as they can with denim and cotton restricting his thighs, the first touch against his blood swollen clit from the pads of his index and middle fingers have him gasping. He needs it firm and broad, not light and tight, can hear the slick sound of his labia parting open as he rubs wide circles over his cunt to collect wetness and spread it eagerly.

“Vander.” Silco pants softly, blinking up at his stupid, handsome face. He’s confident in the picture he paints, wanton and waif-like slumped against the door, fruit ripe and ready to be plucked from the vine and devoured between gnashing molars. He has had fifty years to master the language of sex, what it means to have your name gasped in a siren call. Vander fills the space between them once again, batting pianist fingers aside to replace them with his own. Now that first touch is better than his own, two of those thick fingers part his folds wide, rub against the exposed head of his clit with a sensation akin to shoving a metal fork in a plug socket. 

“Fuckin’ soaked. What do you want? Want me to hurt you, sweetheart?”

Silco’s legs quiver in response, hands scrabbling at Vander’s firm biceps, a flailing, drowning kitten digging its claws into the first solid thing it comes across. If his painted nails hurt when he digs them cruelly in to the exposed flesh just under the cuff of his shirt sleeve, Vander doesn’t even flinch. That maddening flame licking back and forth over his cock doesn’t cease, makes it harder to think clearly, to do much more than nod like an imbecile.

“Yes.”

”Yes, what?”

”Yes, please. Asshole.”

“We can work on that.” Silco’s begrudging obedience is rewarded with Vander snatching his saturated fingers away, only to swat his open hand down. There’s no respite between one and the next, wet claps fill the empty living room with each slap, slap, slap. He bites down violently at the fleshiest part of his fist to stifle the wails threatening to burst out of his chest, hips twitching instinctively to shy away from the abuse even as his brain fights to surge forward into it. TV static crackles over his puffy pussy lips, juices sluicing in viscous, drooling blobs down the insides of his shuddering thighs. 

Is it selfish to take what he’s given like a good boy and offer no reciprocation? His fingers couldn’t retract from where he’s buried them into the plush give of Vander’s arms even if he tried, muscles atrophied from the electric currents radiating out from his abused cunt. He doesn’t pause, not even when Silco’s muffled grunts tip over into hiccuping gasps and snotty whimpers, not even when his body violently shudders uncontrollably for several beats after each smack, a ripple of destruction. 

On the next crack against his oversensitive clit Silco howls, a humiliatingly childish owww drawn out and puppy like. Sweat slick palms clumsily grope at Vander and he’s suddenly, glaringly aware of the fact they didn’t properly discuss what this means or what’s expected of him. He’s not kidding himself by believing Vander doesn’t know he’s a junkie. He probably sniffed it out immediately that Silco’s high for every shift, is high right now but lucid enough for plausible deniability.

“Just stick your cock in me.” Silco says- no, demands, because he still holds some control here even if his breaths judder out of his lungs. Tonight is a direct result of his effort. Weeks of shameless come-ons and batting mascara clumped lashes, slender fingers lingering against the swell of Vander’s chest, outfits one inch away from getting him slapped with a public indecency charge. All the usual tick list tactics that gets him forcefully bent over and taken after one night haven’t worked as quick this time, so, Silco deserves this, deserves to feel wanted, useful.

Vander coos condescendingly in response, pressing forward scarily easy against a death grip to slide and sink his middle finger into Silco’s arousal slackened hole. It is by no means a tight fit. His vagina is hardly a novice when it comes to being stretched open, but the massaging at his insides is a pleasant balm against the itchy pins and needles vibrating across the sensitive outer area. Tenderness after aggression, water logged clouds bursting after a long, dragging summer’s drought.

“You can take another.” A non-question to which Silco nods blearily in response. A shaky sigh leaves him to make room for the next finger pressing in beside the first. If he can fast forward through this part he can finally get what he’s needed; prove himself, he’s not all mouth, has potential to be the best Vander’s ever had. Despite how young and reckless he is, or the fact he’s a dirty slut, there’s copious evidence his body at least still feels good.

“Stay with me, don’t drift off.” Vander says, square thumb an unignorable, blunt pressure against Silco’s agitated cock. All sense of control rapidly flies through his fingers, burning rope with a sinking anchor weighing down the other end. The killer combination of pumping and curling up against the squishy give of his insides and a hard grinding thumbpad would have anyone mewling pitifully like a babe.

Silco bites back the pornographic clichés of fuckmefuckmefuckme that threaten to burst free with every screw inside, nauseated at how badly he wants it. His cunt squelches audibly, Vander’s fingers crooking to release suction, fight against the fluttering and instinctual clenching of his guts at every shock of pleasure. It feels insane because he’s not gentle with it and fucks his hand up like it’s his cock pounding Silco open and sloppy. Wetness dribbles down the back of his knuckles to gather and drip from the bend of his wrist, tense palm meat striking his tingling, swollen clit directly.

“Fuck, ah- wait, wait! I’m getting close.” 

Vander does not stop. He doesn’t stop, predator instincts urging him to clamp a hand in a collar across Silco’s Adam’s apple the moment his body starts writhing. Meek little rabbit pinned beneath the weight of its killer, gaping, smacking maw pouring famished saliva through hundreds of sharp, shiny fangs. It’s getting harder to think clearly as the fog of pleasure bleeds in, laboured breath clipped short and then stifled altogether as the hand around his throat clamps his windpipe shut.

In classic prey response Silco wildly scratches and grips shamefully at Vander’s exposed wrist, hisses and bucks but it is ultimately useless. There’s no fighting him, there’s no fighting how fucking silent the storm grows inside of his skull either when submitting like this, accepting death at the hands of someone else much like sinking into the knockout hit of tranq. 

“That’s it, I’ve got you, love. Just let go…” 

God only knows how he must look. Silco’s mouth flaps open and shut mindlessly to eek out the tiniest, pitiful croaks of ecstasy as the swelling wave of his orgasm breaks, eyes unable to resist rolling back into the darkness of his head. Vander of course watches it unfold, always watching, the bastard. He grinds the heel of his hand painfully up against his gushing pussy, swallowed up middle fingers milking his spasm, fleshy insides for all they are worth. The lack of oxygen flowing to his scrambled brain and Vander’s soaked, thick fingers relentlessly working him through his climax swirl together in a lethal cocktail.

“Ngh-“ Silco grunts, remarkably intelligent and poignant. The TV static has migrated outwards from his abused cunt to his extremities, flexing fingertips and curling toes prickling, constellations dancing in the night sky closing in at the outskirts of his world view. The only awareness his body can focus on is what feels like a gaping, tender wound between his uncontrollably quivering thighs until Vander releases his throat and the entire room spins with the rush of full lungs.

An attractive, gasping death rattle for breath as Vander leaves him, open and dripping, tickled as rivulets of come lose the battle against gravity and run down the sensitive skin of his quivering inner thighs. It’s no use, with his puppet strings now cut Silco feebly slumps forward into expectant arms. Reciprocation is not a priority. The only desire at the forefront of his mind is crawling upstairs, lighting a fat spliff and dozing off on musty sheets to one of his more low-key albums.

“I have condoms upstairs.” He offers instead.

“As tempting as that is, this was about you.” Vander chuffs a laugh as he wipes residual Silco off of his fingers to soak into the fabric of his overshirt. He hopes it’s never washed, kept balled up and crusty under Vander’s pillow for him to bury his nose in with a fist around his cock on lonely nights. “Next time, mm?”

“What?” Silco shoves away from Vander to straighten up. He half-asses fixing his clothes, tugging his underwear back up that immediately slurps up a healthy amount of slick and clings to his puffy lips. He leaves the fly of his jeans hanging open. “Don’t be silly.”

“I wanted to get you out of that head of yours, make you feel nice.”

Has anyone ever considered him whilst taking their fill before? Silco is a blurry ghost in the drug addled memories of most men he’s spent time with, as they are in his. Nothing to write home about or sigh wistfully over. He’s a nameless, tight hole bent over a cistern, a gagging throat in the backseat of a car, a concave stomach to blow rails off of.

He’s not a person to love, or know, or even think fucking twice about and he’s certainly not to be treated nicely.

Chapter Text

“You’re being weirder than usual.”

Is what he’s pretty sure Felicia says, except the words muffle around the spliff hanging out the corner of her mouth and the end of one bleeds into the start of the next. The cherry burns bright in the dark of the room, weeping out smoke that curls lazily up towards the ceiling where luckily Silco beat the fire alarm to death not long after moving in.

“I’ve been busy.” He lazily lifts his head up from its resting place on the floor to look at her, lounging on his bed like she owns the place. It’s not all bad, and he can’t chew her ear off about getting high in here when he’s rarely in the room unless he’s off his head or unconscious. 

“I get you a steady gig and you start picking up random hours at other bars instead, Sil, c’mon.”

“Don’t be jealous, darling, it doesn’t suit you.”

“It’s not even that, actually, it’s because you just stopped coming.” Felicia says, dropping fag ash onto the old sheets that Silco can’t recall when he washed them last. They’ve gone threadbare and pilled, the odd dark ringed hole where he fell asleep with a burning butt dangling between slackened fingers and nearly killed himself. 

“So?” Silco rolls onto his side to pluck his own spliff back up from its very responsible resting place in an ash tray, which is really just a saucer he’d nabbed from the kitchen on their way upstairs. 

“So… Vander doesn’t give a shit, but, hear me out.” Felicia squirms around on the bed until she’s at the foot of it, unruly baby hairs and loose strands fallen free from her half assed ponytail as she peeks over. “I’m your friend, and I’m gonna worry when you ghost me for two weeks.”

“Like I said, I’ve been busy.” In lieu of an apology, again, because he’d already said he was sorry. Asshole that he is, deciding to finally answer her texts and missed calls just to invite her over and get blasted as a catch up.

“Silco, is everything okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Silco deflects instinctively and suddenly the weed isn’t actually working like it should be. Nothing kills a gently warming high like a buzzkill conversation, too heavy for featherlight brains. 

She gives him her look, expectant.

“Fel, I said I was sorry.” Silco says, putting the bubbling over annoyance into grinding the end of his joint with a hiss against the plate. It’s fucking pointless now, can’t mellow out enough to drift, can’t switch off his brain and knock himself out with the speaker system blurting out background noise. 

“Did something… bad happen?”

He loves her, god does he ever, but Felicia is a dog with a bloody bone. She’s jumping to conclusions now, every possible scenario; did he owe a dealer too much money? Did he change his mind mid fuck and get ignored? Did he lose the gamble and finally catch something he can’t shake?

“No, nothing happened.” Ultimately, it is more humiliating in its simplicity. A few weeks of sneaking off into the back alley behind The Last Drop to let Vander slip his hand down the front of his trousers and stretch his cunt to nearly tearing around too many fingers, too fast. The shame of being driven home after work and walked to the door.

How mundane, to start choking on the embarrassment of letting someone touch you over and over but being denied reciprocation, not deemed worthy of the only thing he’s ever actually been good at. 

This was not familiar. 

People liked to use him for pleasure, that much was true, but this was different. Vander enjoyed making him say yes please to every open hand slap between his legs or thank you to every clip across the face. It’s about power, it’s always about power with the men he messes around with and it’s his own fault for seeing tenderness where there wasn’t any.

Maybe he’s not as mysterious as he fucking thought he was.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, I mean, anything, nothing is TMI.”

“Yes, yes I know.” Silco waves her concern off with a loose flick of the hand, desperate to squash the conversation but touched at the heart of it that Felicia still, despite everything, continues to show up for him. He can’t understand it, so doesn’t dig too deep in case it turns out that squirming inside his head is right, that it’s too good to be true. “I’m fine. C’mon, enough about me.”

The bleed into a playful tone placates his dear friend, lips twitching fondly and he knows she’s already planning on circling back to this at a later date. Felicia is also not stupid. There’s no way on god’s green earth she isn’t fully aware of Silco and Vander’s sordid affair, artful deductions made from knowing them both has no doubt led to the conclusion it is this; not romantic, barely even sexual by Silco’s standards, something close to playing with one’s food.

She just can’t figure out who’s the predator and who’s the prey.

Silco can also tell she’s dying to pry about what drugs he’s been taking, because a bit of weed is okay in her eyes but she’s so above anything else. Like he doesn’t remember her popping tabs during the first year of college together and spinning out in some random guy’s bedroom who was too old to be sniffing around them.

Felicia tilts her head with the next drag of her spliff, not giving up on it yet. Visibility has significantly decreased through hazy, lingering smoke and the natural weight to their stoned eyelids. Silco’s room is honestly small enough and crammed with so much shit they are practically hotboxing every time they do this here. 

“I saw Connol again, the other night.” 

“Connol?”

“Y’know, buzz cut, took me axe throwing last time.” 

“Are they the nonbinary one?” Silco asks, eyebrows furrowed and eyes glazed as he flicks through his mind for past conversations. Felicia admittedly has many dates, and many stories to share, it can be hard to keep track.

“Nah, that didn’t work out, but uh…” Felicia huffs a laugh, skin pinkening up pretty at the apple of her cheeks. Silco adores her and if he wasn’t a flaming fag maybe he’d want her, but then, they’re both opportunists which leaves no room for a lavender marriage. “Here, look.”

She’s quick to fumble out her phone, purple beads hanging in a decorative loop out of the bottom of its case, clacking together. Her thumb swipes frantically for a minute, smoking momentarily paused, before she turns the full brightness screen around to flash bang Silco. 

Connol does have a bleached buzz cut that is crying out for a toner and ears that look like the edge of a ring binder. His face is no less punctured, lip and nose and brows. It’s no stab in the dark to assume he’s tatted, either, which Fel confirms upon questioning.

“I like him. He’s fun, and matches my effort. He wants to see me again this weekend, and I’m… excited.”

“He can consider himself lucky.” Silco says, honestly. The giddiness that tinges the edge of her words and the twitching at the corners of her smile are both impossible to ignore. He’d have to have a heart of stone to be unaffected by it, and as it is, finds himself smiling slightly too. “I struggle to think of anyone that could ever be good enough for you.”

“Don’t I know it! So, you’ll cover me on Saturday, yeah?” Smug bitch she is setting the trap he mashed his foot right in. What was his previous plan for this weekend? He’s luckily got his rent covered this month thanks to all the extra hours he’s been picking up to purposely have an excuse to not be around Vander, and he hadn’t been in the headspace to divert Fel’s questioning. “You owe me one.”

“Alright, fair’s fair.” Silco says on a resigned exhale, he’s apologised for going MIA but a gesture goes a long way in patching the holes in their cobbled together relationship. He’s painfully aware of how hard it is to be around him, to give a shit about his wellbeing when Silco can’t handle it himself most days. He is sharp, and he is judgmental but ask anyone and they can't deny he’s a laugh with a drink in him, loosened inhibitions and tongue. 

“Nice, I already told Vander you would, anyway.” 

Because of course she did. 

_

Silco has adapted.

A creeping metamorphosis that’s left him with the ability to sleep through the sun bursting through the gaps in his blinds, housemates pottering about and any heart racing dreams his brain spews. He’s nocturnal now, sees more dark skies than bright ones, used to faces being lit up by artificial light, skewed by unnatural colours.

He’s an endlessly starving creature that prowls the night for his next prey, food to play with until he’s bored or gets something back in return. He doesn’t nurture romance, and he can count on one hand the amount of people he truly considers friends. People he’s known for years, outside of this person he’s become, people who fall outside of the perimeter of transaction.

Vander is… Incompatible. 

No. Silco doesn’t have feelings for him, it’s much too early doors for that mushy shit and again, to really hammer it in, he doesn’t do serious relationships. Even if he did, they are at vastly different stages of life. Vander is a forty something year old who has been single for a concerning amount of time, for no apparent reason, and pours all of his time into what little assets he owns; his bar, his bike, his friends. He’s told Silco he likes reading, god forbid, sitting in a plush armchair sipping and swirling rich whiskey, long enough occasionally his eyelids droop. 

Silco unfortunately cannot afford to waste time curled up like a docile kitten in a daddy bear’s lap unless he’s being paid kindly for it. FOMO and the disturbing itch he can’t figure out how to scratch chase him out of his bedroom every sunset, keen sniffer dog senses leading to strobe lights and dry ice, bass boosters that disguise the irregular pounding of his heartbeat. 

Tonight required more from him, get Silco out of his head and planted far from lingering thoughts about potential. Speed handles lethargy well, the initial rush of tingling pleasure after the Rizla wrapped pill dispersed into his stomach acid, chewed up and drip fed into the blood stream. He’s done this enough times to know how it affects him, how he transforms into a better version of himself, honestly, at least temporarily. 

Against all odds he buzzes behind the bar. It’s a Saturday night which naturally draws in the crowds, and ‘The Last Drop’ is a popular haunt for many. He’s lost count of the amount of jaeger bombs he’s poured, fingers smelling like copper from handling change, the soles of his heavy boots weighed down further by the sticky sweet spillage on the rubber grid beneath them. 

A few familiar faces pass by in a haze, leaning over the bar top to shout in his ear hole over the admittedly decent music tonight. Silco has been inadvertently flashed too many times because of this, the plunge of darkness between cleavages or the peek of sweat shiny collarbones but more inclined towards the latter. The gist of most muffled conversation consists of the following;

It’s been a while! I thought you left the city? I haven’t seen you since- Have you spoken to-

Clumsy, alcohol soaked oafs that Silco hilariously cannot muster any annoyance towards whilst floating on the electric guitar riff his chest feels like tonight. Even Vander can’t ignore the shift, decidedly leaving a buffer between them as they serve the never ending swell of patrons waving bank cards and pocket crumpled notes to grab attention. 

Reprieve arrives with the first few notes of Mr. Brightside, a certified Caucasian magnet powered up under the floorboards that forcefully drags them from their mission of stealing oxygen from bartenders. 

They’re not truly alone but Vander sees an in and takes it, a fellow opportunist after all. The bulk of him leans against the back counter beside Silco, tail bones squished against smoothed metal. He loudly swirls a plastic beaker of half melted, clinking ice cubes, snapped mint sprigs and tap water. 

Silco plucks it out of his hand to amuse himself and gulps a mouthful, sighing breath through his nose at the chill across the tender roof of his mouth, and then pulls another glug just to push his luck. Despite knowing he can’t want to pursue this, how shitty it makes him feel to have his needy, grubby hands batted away like an unruly child. It's a tender wound Silco can’t leave well enough alone. 

There’s a fish hook curled into the thin flesh stretched taut over his ribs that tugs, hard, at the funny quirk to Vander’s mouth. Entertained, then, by the little minx’s theatrics and needling, purposefully abstaining from any outward reaction as per usual which is half of the fun. 

“You’ve been busy.” Vander says. 

“That I have.” Silco rolls his head onto his shoulder to finally dignify Vander with direct attention, now split from the writhing, blurry monster the mass of bodies has congealed into. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I’ve been inconsolable, ask anyone.” Vander’s sarcasm doesn’t land as well as it could, not when his eyes can’t seem to stop straying to the line of Silco’s throat. Splotches of varying shades of purple, blue and green litter pale skin, nasty deep ones that won’t budge for weeks, hesitant brush strokes that barely leave a reminder. 

“I’m terribly sorry to have left you so bereft.” A pleasant heat surges up the length of Silco’s spine, prickling the base of his skull.

“S’okay.” Vander murmurs, turning to lean his hip against the counter and face Silco now. He plucks the cup from his hand and takes a hearty swig himself, like it’s a pint, mouth sealing over where Silco’s had been in an indirect kiss. “I’m sure you can make it up to me, hmm?”

The prickling turns to tingling, spread out to infect the palm of his hands and the arches of his feet. His body is perspiring, sweat swelling in every available pore to soak into the tight, dark fabric of his clothes. The crease of his groin and the backs of his knees itch, chest and neck turning blotchy. 

It’s so fucking hot in here. It’s really hot, and he wants the mesh of his practically non-existent top to be torn open by Vander’s beastly hands until nothing remains. He wants to be taken for all he’s worth, which isn’t much, but it’s something, isn’t it? One man’s trash and all that. 

“I would if you weren’t impotent.” Silco crosses his arms over his chest, not in a defensive way of course, but if it happens to provide a barrier between the hummingbird thrumming of his heart and any potential listeners it’s a net positive. 

There’s a baffled beat, music playing overhead and bass bumping to fill what would have been silence had they been elsewhere. Silco resolutely stares ahead, eyes unfocused, continuous feed on loop of squirming figures and flashing lights. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Look, I get it, you’re older and it’s embarrassing, maybe you just like to play with someone younger because it makes you feel powerful.” Or some shit like that. Isn’t that what it’s about? Vander snapping his fingers and expecting Silco to come crawling, tail wagging and legs spread hoping he’s granted the godly gift of a quick finger bang. 

Wow. If this is what his life has amounted to he’s a very lucky boy.

“Now, hang on just a minute-“

“If it’s because I’m too dirty for you to even dream of letting me touch you then I’m not interested. I mean, what kind of man turns down getting sucked off?” Disregarding the fact Silco had been made to orgasm by Vander’s hand alone several times over and had nearly, nearly begged for his cock just two weeks ago, consumed by it. Why now was he not considered a good enough hole to fuck of all things? And by the only person Silco had genuinely wanted to do it in a long time.

“I don’t think we should talk about this here.” Vander says through his teeth, the cut of his jaw jumping with the clench of bone on bone. The annoyance creeping in at the edges of his tone is practically an aphrodisiac for Silco, ever the glutton for punishment. He wants to wiggle bony fingers under sweaty skin, peel pliant flesh and dig out every atom of shame Vander feels, gorge himself on it until there’s no room for his own.

“Mm.” Silco hums back, half assed. He’s wired and awake, sure, but now the flatline high is starting to viciously spike and plummet. The galloping of his heart had been energetic before, rapidly transforming into something uncomfortable, heart battering against the inside curve of his ribcage. “I see. You can stick your fingers in and knock me around but god forbid we talk about it.”

“I didn’t say we couldn’t, just not right now. Jesus, you’re hard work…”

“Oh, piss off.” Silco hisses, can’t resist it now, has to look at Vander which only makes his entire body thrum. People are beginning to gather again at the bar edge, itching for another drink in hand to replace the previously drained one. He couldn’t give any less of a shit. "At least other perverts can admit it to themselves, get off on it or- or pay me but what do you do, Vander? You just watch, like it’s entertaining, or like you’re doing me a fucking favour.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to, alright?” Vander huffs impatiently, side eyeing the audience they’ve gathered. In the back of his mind sober Silco’s choking on the sheer embarrassment of it all, the behaviour he’s showcasing right now. Sure, he’s notorious for being sharp and brutally honest, but not an outright bitch. “Shit. Can we talk about this after close?”

“I need a fag.” Silco says bluntly, swallowing the sudden flooding of saliva in his gob triggered by the squirming creature of discomfort along the length of his intestines. The protruding peak of his shoulder collides with Vander’s bicep as he stumbles by and the sheer unmoving bulk nearly sends Silco sprawling. He bursts out of the back exit into lung burning fresh air, not loyal enough to the bar or its owner to care about leaving them hanging and very nearly bolts but Felicia, well.

It’s amazing how much sway pride has over his actions. It’s not optional, it's a necessity to prove he’s not a bad friend even though admittedly he is one. Silco might not be a good person but he can’t be alone because of it, might just shrivel up and die if all he had left waiting for him each day was the drooling hungry mouths snapping at his heels. 

In an unfocused daze Silco huffs vigorously through one cigarette that doesn’t even touch the sides, without pause the butt is ground under his boot and another takes its place between his lips. He’s halfway through this one when the metallic shriek of the fire door yowls out into the alley, an emergency alert for impending doom.

“You want to fuck off for a few weeks and leave me wondering what I did? Fine, but when you swan back in and start acting like a prick, we’ll discuss it on my terms.” Vander says, firm like he’s Silco’s father. His dad never knew sweetness in his entire life, did he? Vander has decided, for reasons unknown to Silco, to take on this role of boyfriend or carer or fucking sponsor. Honestly it’s more handler than anything, expecting skittishness and slashing unsheathed claws, poor abused kitty who will be fussed over whether it likes it or not. 

“…Is that all you came out here to say?” Silco mumbles around the filter between his lips.

“You’re-“ Vander cuts off with an irritated scoff which unfortunately does the job of drawing his attention, albeit only out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, alright, alright. Let’s talk, right now, since you want to be a bloody pain in the ass. Benzo can manage on his own in there for a minute.” 

They stare each other down; Vander unafraid to go whole hog, full and undivided attention a heat seeking missile headed right his way. Silco can only keep up the side eye for so long before he huffs and splits away. The sting of losing burns bright and quick, a flash fire right between the ribs.

“Forget it, I don’t care. I’m only back because I owe Fel.”

“No one makes you do anything you don’t want to do, even Felicia.” Tickles Silco, how untrue that statement actually is. His entire life has been built upon actions he’s been forced into by others or by needing something from others. A baby doesn’t want to cry until their throat grows painful but they must, just how he doesn’t want to prowl sweaty crowds to score but, alas, he does.

“Look, I’m not here to see you again or anything even close, so get that idea out of your head-“

“Tell me straight then, go on.” Vander cuts in bluntly, rough rusted edge to his words that tear through whatever Silco planned on bitching about next. Now chatting about this weird thing they had going on is the last thing he wants.

His cigarette has burnt right down, heat dangerously close to his chilly fingers with not much left to give. Silco flicks it carelessly aside, a giddy part of him hopes it catches on a black bag and starts a stinking rubbish fire just to inconvenience Vander but all it’s done is leave him without anything in his hands.

“What did you mean, ‘you didn’t think I’d want it’? You know me Van, I get around, that’s hardly breaking news.”

He scoffs, scuffing the worn down toe of his boot against gravel. “You thought you could fix me, that’s what this is. Pull me out of the gutter and scrub me clean? Some noble little martyr move?” 

“That’s not what this is-“

“No, no. Refusing to fuck me is your way of ‘helping’, isn’t it? Like you’re sparing me. Like I should thank you.”

He pauses, an uncontrollable wry, sarcastic smile curling at his lips. The endorphins were back with a bang, the thrill of spilling this vitriolic blather sparking in the air between them.  “You’re no better than the rest of them. Just more fucking sanctimonious.”

“You’re the one who’s scared shitless when someone tries to kiss you, Sil. Let’s talk about that.” Vander lords his intimidating height over him, crowding in closer but not enough to be of concern to any strays passing by. Plausible deniability, this saintly patience he retains for everybody can be upheld even when faced with someone as inferior as Silco.

He hungers for the mask of perfect calm to slip, time and time again, reserved only for these moments of privacy between them.

“I don’t kiss people.” Silco despises how juvenile it sounds when said aloud. He is a bitey, flighty little child again who never fit right and fought too hard. It is easier to be purposefully misunderstood than known and hated for it.

“What are you so afraid of? That you’d open yourself up for once? Fucking hell, wouldn’t dream of anybody genuinely caring about you.” Vander restlessly pushes a hand through his hair with a great whooshing breath of irritation. This moment feels cataclysmic, both of them overheating stars orbiting one another, gravitationally pulled closer and closer until they collide in an apocalyptic light show. “Yeah, I want to fuck you. I think that’s fairly obvious, but I’m not going to do it unless you let me in, that’s just how I work.”

“You’re serious?” Silco barks out a dry laugh, disgusted at being tossed a measly ultimatum such as this. He could get his kicks anywhere, no need to sniff around a bar man like a mangy stray, whimpering and begging for scraps and head scritches. “You won’t have sex without-“

“I’m too old for these kinds of games you insist on playing, Silco, so I’m laying it out plain.”

Neither of them move. It is not the grand closing to a grand, sweeping romance novel that drives the two of them into the circle of each other’s arms, a final loving embrace to conclude the tumultuous journey the story has taken. All bets are off when it comes to which side of Silco will come out on top this time; stubbornness and pride? Or the embarrassing tiny kernel of hope, affection, an up and coming contender demanding attention.

Silco wets his lips, stomach alive and squirming, blood pooling in lusty weight between his thighs. Vander’s boots scuff the dirt as he jerks forward, a mindless puppet on a string at the mere tease of his tongue, the unpromised aforementioned kiss that will not come. He presses in close, traps Silco’s lithe body between his own and the old brick wall, shirt back snagging. 

Vander’s open mouth meets the bare curve of his neck instead of his lips, moustache whiskers causing an itch that is soon scratched by the heated scrape of teeth. Silco writhes helplessly, hissing as blood rushes up through his epidermis in search of Vander’s tongue, vessels bursting and seeping.

“First it’s just a kiss, then you’ll grow more demanding, won’t like me seeing other people."

“Isn’t that normal in a relationship?” Silco nearly knifes him for even daring to speak that tainted word. Instead he settles for the less violent option, planting both palms against Vander’s solid breasts and shoving with all his strength to rip them apart. He hastily smoothes out non-existent wrinkles in his clothes, avoiding Vander’s eyes burning holes through him, the deafening bafflement bouncing down the length of the alley and back again like a weakening echo. 

“I’m leaving now.”

“Sure.” Vander says, drained, wiping a hand over his mouth and shaking his head. “Do me a favour and don’t come back then, yeah? I’m done being messed around.”

Silco wildly has to strangle down the urge to apologise, perhaps his erratic behaviour? How unpredictable he can be, avoiding men like the plague one week but purring under their touch the next. It’s not his fault he doesn’t want the same thing Vander does, it’s not his fault he can’t seem to stay the fuck away, either. 

-

Silco’s wearing thin over the next week trying not to think about Vander, which only brings him to mind more. Just considering laying on his back and spreading his legs is like acid in his mouth, can’t bring himself to do it, the disgust oddly winning out for once. Silco ends up meeting with an old contact of his who doesn’t want sex, but gets off on specifically having his balls kicked back up into the clutch of his body by thick soled boots.  

It’s hardly a chore, really, even if the guy is a balding, divorced creep who’s only reason for living is getting the shit kicked out of him on his days off of teaching biology to uninterested and mean fourteen year olds. 

The crinkled stack shoved into Silco’s waiting hands after is enough to cover his extra curricular activities, bills already covered by the odds and sods shifts he’s plucked. He’s taken it upon himself to supply for Sevika’s birthday and acid is on the menu. The best place to get tablets that turn your skull into a pinball machine is Singed.

He doesn’t like to hang around long. Singed is… Strange, to put it mildly. More stick insect than man, grown out buzzcut with a duck’s tail at the nape, so pale his skin is almost translucent which is no doubt a direct result of his work. Singed spends his time locked inside his outdoor shed, black lights and heat lamps, fire stained beakers and pill bottles his entourage. He is by no means a conversationalist and never asks for anything more than money, exudes a blindingly uninterested aura Silco can only respect as he dishes up payment. 

These pills are something new he’s cooked up, he says, compressed purple powder with the indent of an eye stamped on the top. Still workshopping names, but should coast the birthday bash through a psychedelic ride later on tonight when the first few rounds of shots have loosened them up nicely.

Silco doesn’t ask what they are exactly, persuaded easily enough by the fact they’re cheaper than acid but according to Singed, pack a harder punch and drag out even longer.

Win win. 

Except now it is an hour post swallow and nothing has hit. The only buzz is the delay to his visual input as he drags his eyes between each present party at the crowded table, synapses firing sluggishly with vodka tainting his blood. The table top shines with knocked over beers and sloshing shot glasses, growing stickier as time ticks by through obnoxiously loud conversation. 

There’s a pretty thing draped in Sevika’s lap, face hidden as she whispers and giggles into the woman’s ear. It’s no wonder she’s a dyke magnet, dark stained lips complete with ring and kohl smudged eyes, self confidence oozing through the velvet purr of her voice. Her lone bicep would have most gym rats pissing down their legs in submission and her thighs could peg Silco into oblivion.

Unfortunately the salacious conversation is too low, too intimate to be heard by any of the others gathered around, especially not over the thumping bass of EDM. Silco can’t even entertain himself by listening in. God. He can barely concentrate and as much as he likes Sevika; he can give or take the majority of her pals.

It’s not hitting. It’s not hitting and he’s sweating, and his clothes are restrictive in all the wrong places but leave him prickling where he’s exposed and free. Some guy he’s never met keeps nudging the length of their thighs together beneath the table, smearing a cocktail sticky hand against Silco’s bare forearm like an unruly toddler.

“Let’s play a game!” Is Silco’s blaring emergency alarm to shoot up out of his seat and mutter in a rush about needing the toilet, awkwardly knocking knees against wooden bar stools and shuffling dancing feet as he squeezes through the crowd. He bursts into the men’s bathroom, ignoring the glances thrown his way from the two men standing at the urinals for his abrupt entrance before finding an empty stall. 

The dark tiles lining the walls don’t help with how oppressive the room feels and that combined with the poor choice of stoner green lightbulbs nearly has Silco drowning himself in the toilet bowl. Marker ink fills the metal cubicle walls; phone numbers and stranger’s names, crude cartoon penises and scribbled out slurs, a collage of random stickers blurring together before his very eyes. 

Lulled by the white noise of muffled bass and electro Silco’s mind begins to wander as he slumps down onto the closed toilet lid, head hanging between his shoulders. Big, firm hands crafted for his body, motorcycle leather rumbling between the legs, stupid fucking Sundays wasted reading, like it didn’t matter, like it was enjoyable to melt into a warm lazy lump. He can’t stand it, someone looking at him and trying, genuinely trying to understand but giving up because he’s just too much hassle at the end of the day, isn’t he? 

Silco doesn’t even want to be out tonight, a first for him as he never rejects a piss up but his brain has unfortunately rotted.

There is, however, a solution for this predicament. Completely unadvisable but there’s nobody here to stop him, right? Besides, Silco’s body is a carefully crafted temple able to withstand torrential rains and weather any natural disaster. Candyflipping won’t kill him, it’s not like he’s reduced himself to shooting up like a common junkie.

Silco fishes out his personal stash, two compressed blue powdery pills he’d uncovered earlier that had fallen behind the back of his chest of drawers. No, he didn’t plan on splitting with the birthday girl, she was lucky enough Silco had burnt a hole in his wallet getting her supplies from Singed, good friend that he was. This was for him, a bolster. 

He turns to straddle the toilet seat and tosses the baggy onto the flat top of the cistern, shooting a cautious glance along the lip of the cubicle walls to check for nosey neighbours. Luckily he is isolated within these four walls, an ammonia stinking, squeaky shoed prison of his own making. Silco crushes the tabs between the meat of his fist and hard porcelain, working out remaining hard lumps amongst the fine powder filling out the plastic. He closely inspects his handy work, deciding it’s as good as it’s going to get given the circumstances and pinches the seal of the tiny bag open to teem the contents out onto the only questionably hygienic flat surface available. 

Cutting lines with an expired debit card, snorting snow until the pinkened inner walls of his nose burn, wetting a finger with saliva to swipe up any remaining dust and public bathroom grime to grind the chalky texture against the tender edges of his gums; it is all familiar enough to be inconsequential. It is what it is. 

As is custom Silco gives himself a once over in the cracked mirror. Upturned jaw to check for any visible or condemning nasal remnants, refluffing the texture of his hair, confirming that chosen slutty outfit still remained as slutty as when he bounded out of the house hours earlier.

“No shitting in club toilets, unspoken rule.” Sevika remarks when he re-joins the group, now a few people down who have been sucked into a dancing vortex. There’s berry cream kisses and bites smeared in stops and starts across her cheek, jaw, neck and even a daring one at the brazen swell of her cleavage but the culprit is no longer in sight.

“What do you take me for? A heathen?” Insulting.

“No, of course not, ‘s too kind.” She runs a hand through her hair, natural texture too straight to hold any volume but its clear the humidity in the air is weighing it down now. There’s a sheen to her Cupid’s bow and clavicle, perspiration snatching rapidly shifting strobe lights like embedded jewels. 

“Charming, no wonder you scared your little vampire away.” Silco says snootily but Sevika is built of tougher stuff, the kind of cobbled together brick and mortar human being that takes no shit and he happens to be drawn to. 

There’s a perpetual cheap fag ash scent to their friendship, shared cigarettes behind the studio building back in college when they couldn’t be assed to show up or deal with the droning sound of their tutor’s voice. They’d barely been eighteen and already scraping the barrel for inspiration outside of doing whatever the fuck they felt like in the moment, getting trashed and lovingly bullying one another.

“Nah, I told her to move on, thought you’d be ODing in there or something embarrassing like that.” 

“That’s pencilled in for Monday, never waste a perfectly good Saturday on a suicide.” Silco snatches an abandoned drink from the table top, liquid indistinguishable besides the colour brown, but the medicinal taste bursting across taste buds and scorching down his throat reveals the drink to be a jaeger bomb someone mixed but decided against. 

Between the two of them they empty the remaining glasses, or, in reality Silco tilts his head back and drains them to mix a lovely but lethal cocktail in his stomach acid whilst Sevika watches on, sipping her rum lemonade. They wont be left to bench warm or coat watch much longer and he refuses to allow the birthday girl to pass up dancing. It takes surprisingly little effort to convince her and in what feels like the blink of an eye they’re amongst the throng. 

One bass heavy, synth overloaded song blurs into another, serpentine length of body and wind swayed branches waving instinctively to the beat. The room is lost to alcohol weighted eyelids forced shut, flesh red blasts of light permeating through the thin skin, head growing lighter and lighter and suddenly a stone is dropped into the liquor flooded depths of his stomach.

The floor fades from beneath the soles of Silco’s feet, rhythm twitching fingers numbed as a scorching silk blanket contorts to every dip and crest of muscle before slipping free from his sweat damp skin. It’s not noticeable at first, but his ears have tweaked frequency, locked in on tinnitus FM playing their number one hit ‘annoying constant high pitch ringing’ rather than what the DJ is pretending to mix live in the venue. He’s a floating balloon for a head, nothing but string for a body but his blown wide pupils rapidly, desperately scan down to confirm that no, no he’s still got all limbs attached. Bathed in a sickly wash of neon colour his skin blooms open in kaleidoscope, sharp edged squares twirling and warping into triangles that throw Silco’s balance out of whack. He clumsily knocks into the strangers around him, elbow points digging bruises into the soft flesh around his wobbly spine.

Fingers grapple clumsily at his sweat slimy skin, struggling to stop his movement, slipping free through the churning mass of figures. Faces contort between each quick shift of strobe lighting, melting wax bone structures and gaping maws, dull eyes that follow Silco’s every move like haunted paintings. He’s a modern day Sisyphus, destined to live a life endlessly pushing through a sea of booze and sweat stinking bodies with no light at the end of the tunnel.

Silco’s ankle twists over someone’s foot, sending him sprawling out onto the grimy club floor, knees hitting concrete with a sickening internal crunch that reverberates through the inside of his cotton stuffed skull. There’s no pain when there’s no body, though, can’t even feel the reddening sting across his flattened palms. 

“-Good?” A disembodied voice floats down from above, Silco’s brain flounders as he tries to tilt his head up and look at who’s talking down at him. They are merely a silhouette, cloud bursting rays of light surrounding this benevolent creature. Not a single discernible feature.

Silco’s heart jackhammers worryingly in the prison of his ribcage, thrashing around wildly enough to knock against his lungs, makes every inhale a mission. 

“Huh?” 

“You throwing a whitey?” Hands hook under his swampy armpits to haul him up onto Bambi like legs, knobbly knees trembling with uncertainty over their own existence. The crowded dancefloor is jumping, sardines packed and vacuum sealed into a minuscule can. Any moment now the lid will be cracked open, his flesh peeled apart and weak spine plucked from within. 

“-Outside, outside.” Mysterious saviour screams over the pounding of Silco’s ear drums, their words scratchy from a dry ice fried larynx. In other circumstances it might be sexy, but he can’t even coordinate his limbs at the same time as his breathing right now without the fear of either one ceasing production. 

Between heavy blinks and a few stumbles that see more bruises pressed into the tenderised muscle of his upper arms Silco is, assuming this is real, outside. The freezing witching hour air is a gelatinous cube that swallows him whole, fresh and crisp oxygen prickly along the overripened depth of his lungs. Each drag hits harder than nicotine and triggers vertigo in much the same way.

There might be stars and blue birds circling the crown of his hairspray crisped hair, who’s to say?

Silco moans pitifully, spine wilting, body thudding against the nearest wall to slide down the length of until his flat ass meets the chilled, frost sparkling pavement. No nausea, just derealisation; he’d rather chuck his fucking guts up, honestly, than be left so stupidly vulnerable like this and on a night that’s not his own. 

Mortifyingly, his waterline itches as tears well up.

“Oi! Did you want me to call someone for you or what?” Poor soul lumped with the responsibility of Silco, blasted out of his mind and waiting for the next wave to come crashing over him. A lesson in patience, next time, for Singed’s death pills to slow release in the emptiness of his guts before he takes anything else. A solid hit of coke could bring him round, a metaphorical smack across the jaw, bring him back down into his astroplaning body. 

Unfortunately, there’s only one person that keeps creeping back in around Silco’s mental barricades, one solution that will fix everything that feels just plain wrong.

-

The first thing Silco notices when he blinks sleep crusted eyes open is Vander’s slumped over form sitting in his beloved, worn down leather armchair. It has been dragged in from its usual spot, if memory serves right, beside the living room bookcase.

The second is the stained plastic washing up basin judging him from the floor beside the bed, half full of bile soaked folds of toilet roll and acidic stinking vomit that luckily seems to be mostly yellowy tinged liquid. Nothing more unsightly than blowing chunks, right? Except maybe having a bad, hallucinatory trip that results in sobbing and waiting to be rescued by a man who won’t even stick his ridiculous cock in him.

Recollection is hopeless but the night did not end on the pavement outside the club. It’s hazy, but between gaps and blank spaces of that closing chapter and this bright new morning there had been a muscular arm supporting Silco’s midriff as he sloppily fumbled up a flight of stairs, and a chilled wash cloth against his feverish forehead. 

Silco automatically moves to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear before pausing, blindly feeling where it’s all been neatly tied back and out of the way. His derelict stomach lining quivers, mouth flooding with nauseated saliva at the knock out punch of Vander’s overwhelming thoughtfulness.

“Morning, love.” Vander croaks after a big yawn and stretch that has his comfy sleep shirt riding up to reveal an enticing slice of fur swirled stomach fat. 

Silco promptly loses his internal battle, retching over the edge of the mattress and praying he miraculously hits the basin and not the laminate flooring.

Chapter Text

Admittedly, he has reached a new lowest low, a personal best in getting fucked up beyond belief. Silco might’ve been a free floating balloon last night but now all that’s left is trampled, overstretched plastic sitting in the dirt.

“Christ, I bet you’re feeling very fucking pleased with yourself right now.” Is the first thing Silco croaks out instead of anything close to gratitude. 

“I won’t lie, I am a bit.” 

Borderline Christmas coloured pajama bottoms, green and red plaid with a drawstring waistband the husky swell of Vander’s hairy belly hangs enticingly over. What Silco wouldn’t give to roast him on a spit and break apart his crackling fat, crunch and grind it between his teeth.

He is a man in every way Silco is not. Softness where he is hard, smoothed edges where he prickles, big square shovels for hands that eclipse his pianist fingers with ease, fresh stinging cologne against deodorant pushing on its forty eighth hour. 

Vander seems to have his life figured out in that way everyone says no one can do, which in all honesty, makes Silco feel like an even bigger fuck up than usual. Every meeting ends up feeling like an intervention with himself; why is he not the kind of person who deserves a smooth sailing and long-lasting relationship? 

If last night wasn’t enough of a harsh slap of reality, then sitting here staring back into a face with nothing but tenderness after humiliating himself was. Silco swallows down his instinct to make some biting remark or toss out nasty vitriol because he doesn’t have a leg to stand on, doesn’t even know where his shoes are right now or the clothes he left the house in yesterday afternoon.

Pride shattered, Silco admits defeat under Vander’s unwavering and expectant gaze.

“… Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” Vander says, which translates to was that so hard? or perhaps good kitty. Between the stench of his own armpits and that god awful booze sweat leaking out of his pores, Silco can practically smell the satisfaction oozing out into the cozy bedroom. If he had anything left lining his stomach he would’ve lost it, but as it stands the barrel has well and truly been scraped clean. 

“I should-“

“I threw your clothes in the wash, ‘cause I thought you’d want a shower before you headed home?” Vander plants his hands on the arms of his chair, leather creaking alongside his own grunt as he pushes himself to his slipper clad feet. Silco’s eyes follow him across the room, frightened kitten hidden under the safety of a duvet, as he clicks open a cupboard and pulls out a navy bath sheet. The only open door leads out into what Silco can see is the living room, so the other closed one must be an en-suite.

Detective extraordinaire. He’s proven right when Vander holds the door open and commands Silco out of his protective sheets with a beckoning jerk of his head. Luckily his legs don’t buckle beneath him when he stands, soles meeting morning chilled laminate, fake wood knots and all. Goosebumps race up the bare length of his calves, dark hairs standing on end but any further bodily reactions to the cold are hidden beneath the borrowed shirt he’s currently drowning in. 

Vander must have stripped him down to his underwear last night for his own comfort, not to take advantage of a young man with soup for brains. It’s a low bar indeed, but however Silco looks at it, whatever he denies feeling, there’s a reason he asked for Vander in such a vulnerable moment, a reason best left bolted down and untouched. 

Silco plucks the offered towel as he squeezes past Vander in the bathroom doorway, the fluffy fabric retaining warmth from where it had been pressed against a gas or water pipe in the closet. His arms tighten minutely, leeching from it. 

“Thank you.” Silco says, again, breaking a personal record for doing it twice in one day. “I won’t take ages.”

“Take as long as you want, sweet. I’ll make you a cuppa for when you’re out. How’d you take it?” Vander’s voice grates pleasantly against his eardrums, scratching fingertips through the hair at the nape of his neck, fur standing on end and nearly drawing a purr from Silco’s chest. It’s all sleep deep and manly, barely touching conversation volume but there’s no need to with their bodies so close. 

“Black, one sugar.” Silco shuffles into the empty bathroom, bones locking up at the shock of cold tile underfoot. He clings onto the folded towel for dear life, half closing the door before pausing, thinking he better play nice, at least temporarily. “Please.”

Inside the safety of the small bathroom he shoves his underwear down and slumps onto the toilet seat. He cringes at that uniquely pungent smell of crotch sweat that dampens the fabric around the leg holes and gusset of his knickers before kicking them off into a crumpled heap in the corner, borrowed shirt joining shortly after. Silco empties his stomach and bladder, confident Vander has fucked off into the kitchen and is too far to hear anything but does it matter? He witnessed worse last night, no doubt.

The shower isn’t rocket science, hot and cold taps spun as far as they’ll go to trigger rainfall echoing through the tiled space. Silco invites himself to rummage around under the sink between toilet rolls and beard oils, luckily finds spare toothbrushes and paste. His mouth tastes like a small beast crawled inside, curled up and hit rigor mortis on his tongue and it takes an overflowing mouthful of minty foam to banish that.

The edges of the mirror start to fog over the hotter the room gets, but Silco is afforded precious time to look at the mess reflected back. Frankly, he appears to have been dragged through a hedge by the ankles; dark hair a crunchy bird’s nest atop his head, mascara and eyeliner a messy smear across insomnia bruised under eyes and his bottom lip sports a dried over split, a mystery taken place during his black out. 

Guilt is nauseating. Not only did Silco willingly put himself in such a state, he had to rely on someone else to sort him out during it. Someone who told him not to bother seeing them again, who was tired of being messed around. 

Fuck.

Silco steps into the cubicle and pulls the glass door shut with a satisfying click, locking the outside world away for what he aims to be a blissful fifteen-ish minutes. In here, the white noise runs over the bumps and valleys of his battered brain, smoothing out imperfections like a pebble on a riverbed. Searing water caresses sweat sticky skin, cleansing his sins and carrying them away to infect Zaun’s sewer systems, poison any unlucky vermin.

Silco washes his body clinically with Vander’s pleasantly spiced body soap, paying special attention to his pits and bits, absolutely no wish to stumble back out reeking of OD sweats to humiliate himself further. There’s a detachment he tries (and fails) to have when forcefully facing what an idiot he is, how much of a fucking fool he’s made of himself again and this time it wasn’t infront of a friend who’s grown accustomed to the show. He’s in a man’s flat, using his body wash and toothpaste and struggling to swallow around the thick lump taken residence inside the cramped space of his throat. Can’t leave it well enough alone, plucking at a wound that is desperately trying to heal over. 

VanderVanderVanderVander

Too enticing to imagine the taste of aged skin, salt burst sweat, how their bodies might finally come together, crashing like relentless waves against the jagged rocks at the edges of the harbour. He is out of his depth, an unstable ship caught in the middle of it all, destined to be left battered.

Silco scrubs his hair and face clean roughly with the same soap and offers an internal, silent apology for how much it’s going to dry him out. It is unlikely Vander keeps proper make up remover or moisturiser handy, but then, evidence shows he has a penchant for twinks so it’s not entirely implausible.

The flat is a bearable temperature but even still, leaving the cocoon of warmth the steamy en-suite has become sends a shudder through his entire body. The towel wrapped around his body only traps so much heat, snugly covering his mosquito bite tits, fabric twisted and pinched under the clench of his arm pits. Hilarious to pretend modesty matters but admittedly, Silco feels like a cracked glass sculpture, one tap would be enough to completely shatter his entire facade. 

A mug sits innocently steaming on one night stand, rich dark tea calling out to soothe Silco’s sore throat. The sick basin is gone, as if it had never even been there at all, and a fresh shirt, soft worn jogging bottoms and underwear lay out flat on the made bed. 

It all adds up that Vander does this on autopilot, maybe in another life he would’ve been a great father to a snotty nosed child, spoiled them absolutely rotten. Those genes would be strong, perhaps produce a son who’d sky rocket to six foot in his teens, or a pocket rocket daughter, rough and ready rugby players.

Whatever. 

Silco can hear pots and pans clinking, metal spatula scraping and the smell of spitting oil and bacon seeping into the bedroom in search of his despairing stomach. His guts clench and revolt at the idea of eating, but give a yearning growl for satiation at the same time. He’s not eaten anything since midday yesterday.

He tugs the borrowed shirt on that immediately clings to the damp spots of his skin and then the underwear, both items too big but it will do for now. The joggers swamp around his bare feet immediately, enough that Silco has to hike them up around his waist as high as possible before aggressively tugging out the draw strings, cinching and bunching the fabric before tying a tight knot. 

Unbelievably sexy, of course, drowning in borrowed clothes and feeling as fragile as a flower. They smell homely, folded amongst fresh washing, all mingling and stewing in the residual cotton powder smell. 

Silco is the sweetest he’s ever been, perched on the edge of a mattress, cradling a cup of tea in both hands, listening to Vander make breakfast for them, like this is deserved, like this is his life. But it is not. His life is a rotten house share he pays for with his hole, and clothes that cling to the stink of never quite drying properly. It’s coke residue and being on the edge of never full enough, starving for something at all times, an itch he cannot scratch.

He does not deserve patience, or gentle hands, or having tea brewed perfectly and left waiting for him because Silco doesn’t have the capacity to reciprocate. There’s no harm in playing pretend for a short while though, is there? 

Vander’s heavy footfall signals his approach and Silco’s stomach roars, a well trained beast intelligent enough to recognise when a meal is at hand. He’s not entirely certain what happens, from him being in the doorway with two plates to sitting on the bed and handing one over, what makes that particularly stirring but-

Silco kisses him. 

He twists his spine and kisses Vander. Anchors a hand at his jaw, fingernails scratching through the bristles of his beard and inhaling down a tea flavoured exhale to fill up his lungs as the slippery tips of their tongues brush together. Silco had forgotten how good it felt to do this, so simple but so disarming. A heavy sigh rushes from his nose tinted with a pleased hum, the jagged edge of his chipped front tooth pinching at Vander’s suck plumped bottom lip as he pulls away.

“Hang on- just hang on a minute.” His hands steady their plates.

“Surely I’m not that out of practice?” Silco’s voice ticks up, tangled with an uncontrollable teasing lilt. He should crank up the charisma, in any other situation would have, but this is different. Vander isn’t one so easily fooled by mere surface value, he digs beneath the skin and has successfully left Silco feeling flayed and vulnerable. 

Vander gives him a gut wrenching look of fucking pity, bushy brows furrowed and eyes softened up. The last thing Silco would ever long for is sympathy, he’s no charity case, he’s fine. He is absolutely fine.

“What are you doing?”

“Kissing you, obviously.” Silco says, suffocating on the humiliated heat crawling up from his chest to paint the length of his neck. He honest to god cannot recall the last time he did this, even wanted to, this wasn’t how it was meant to go. He’d anticipated being scooped up and cradled, necked until his lungs burned and then, finally, split in two on Vander’s now unlocked cock. 

“If you’re just doing it out of obligation because you think that’s what I want or- or fucking expect, Silco, Jesus, then-“

“Spare me. Normal people don’t deliberate over trivial shit like this. I don’t understand why you can’t accept what’s readily offered to you?” It shouldn’t be this difficult. At this point Silco’s certain there’s no winning outcome here, that the task of getting into Vander’s pants has been rigged from the get-go. 

He picks up his briefly forgotten sandwich and takes a sharp bite, frustration pouring into the way his teeth rip through meat, grind crispened fat between molars. Breakfast typically consists of black tea and a cigarette, pleasant mixture of staining leaves and lung tar. It’s a surprise to Silco how quickly the plate empties in his lap, seed rich brown bread and salty bacon inhaled to sit in a chewed up lump in the dark pits of his stomach. 

It’s painfully awkward. Every quiet slurp of tea or crunch of Vander’s chewing like a gun shot that reverberates through his bones. This is why Silco didn’t open himself up to relationships, or allow potential romantic partners to worm their way under his spiny protective layer. 

“If you’re not bothered about me anymore that’s another story and I can only apologise for kissing you.” Silco breaks mid torture, dutifully taking Vander’s empty plate to stack ontop of his and place it on the bedside table. His mug is three quarters empty too, but he’s never going to finish it, never does.

“Nothing to say sorry for.” Vander says, maintaining his frown from earlier, like he’s struggling to figure out why the boiler isn’t working, not looking at a human being. 

“Right…” Gods above. Talk about getting blood from a fucking stone. Silco cannot be the better conversationalist here, cannot carry the weight of an open and honest chat about feelings and what it all means for them. He clears his throat, bitten sore fingers playing idly with the drawstrings of his borrowed jogging bottoms. 

Distantly the dryer beeps to signal the end of its cycle, a cleaver through the tense quiet. Saved by the bell. 

“My clothes should be dry enough, now. I’ll go change and be out of your hair.“ Silco stands, hesitating as he looks down at Vander who’s, of course, looking right back. His furrowed brow has softened some, an internal question answered it seems because he’s curling a big paw around Silco’s hip

“Wait. Sorry, hah, it’s just..” Vander shakes his head bashfully, tugging him easily that one step closer. His bare feet take up the space between old man slide on slippers, fur lined so no socks required but of course he’s wearing some anyway. “You knock me on my ass. I don’t know what to do with how I feel about you.”

The safety strap around his heart snaps and sends it plummeting down the height of his torso, only to bungee rope and snap right back up. His stomach rolls, his chest flares, even the pores on his palms open and begin to perspire. Silco rests his hands on Vander’s capable shoulders to steady himself, no trust in his swooning legs to uphold him. 

“Van-“

“Just, let me get it off my chest and then you can do what you want with it.” Vander sighs, heavy skull dropping forward so his brow bone comes to rest at Silco’s belly. His fingers tighten absentmindedly, grinding skin against the protruding shape of his hip bones and if the grip stayed this strong for long enough blood would bloom pretty and purple just under the surface, a parting gift. 

“Alright.” Silco has no choice but to be lenient and pleasant after everything he’s been given, bites his tongue that desperately wishes to thrash and whip acid at anyone in his vicinity.

“Since the first night you picked up a shift at the bar you’ve been driving me crazy. I thought maybe I’d- shit, I thought approaching you the way I did would make you think better of me, yeah, you weren’t wrong.” Vander confesses this to the minuscule concave beneath Silco’s ribs. “A part of me wanted you to need me? I liked being able to give you something you were itching for, the way you’d look at me when I hit you. I haven’t been in a relationship in a long, long time and I’m a fucking bastard, I pushed, I withheld without talking about why-“

“Oh please, as if I wasn’t using you to get off. You said it yourself, I messed you around and you were done with me.” Silco’s hands pulse around Vander’s shoulders, thumbs swiping what he hopes is a soothing back and forth arch.

“I lied.” He pulls back enough to tilt his chin up, pupils blown and heated the moment they lock onto Silco’s. Biceps jump, tugging their bodies closer, trembling, barely restrained desire fit to burst forth from their chests xenomorph style. “Honestly? You’re in my head. All the time. Whatever you need from me, I’ll give it to you. Why'd you think I came as soon as you called last night?”

It should be disturbing feeding into someone’s desire to be needed but Silco’s expertise in burying his issues are failing. The desire to make other people feel good using his body just to feel useful, the addiction to switching off, secretly wishing someone would truly know him and still, still choose to stay. Vander ticks all the boxes in one package. 

He is, scarily, becoming more willing to compromise on his previous distaste for men with saviour complexes. 

Silco relents to Vander’s clinging and settles onto the throne consisting of two muscular thighs. His knees dig into the mattress, skeletal fingers spreading across solid breast tissue before he shoves, commanding, to spread this beast out in submission on the flat of his back against the sheets. 

He is clean, he is warm, he is fed and he is cared for even if it’s in its own peculiar way. Is this what fitting the mould means? Bearing his throat and accepting a life of munching toast side by side in bed, being coddled and kissed, maybe, finally, a cure for that mind numbing itchiness that spreads like wildfire through flesh and demands he seek out danger, banish all self respect.

“So, what? You love me?” Silco peers down his nose at Vander, like he’s nothing more than shit on the sole of his shoe.

“No. You fucking haunt me, sweetheart.”

“Shut up.” Silco hisses out and immediately follows it by leaning down to trap Vander’s mush spewing mouth beneath his own. Actions speak louder than words and all. This is a preferred method of conversation, letting their bodies do the talking. He doesn’t have to ponder over the correct response or break and shatter his ribcage open to reveal his heart’s secrets. 

Gulping down sighs and gasps between spit slick slides of their lips, the nerve prickling scrape of Vander’s beard against the skin at his chin, the instinctive drive to start rocking his ass up and down along the solid line of cock beneath it. His heart thumps heavy, pumping molten blood to pool generously between his spread thighs, cunt growing heavier and heavier with each grunt punched out of Vander’s insides.

Silco drags his mouth in a wet smear across bristles to a thrumming pulse point and it’s too tempting to resist, to not let his maw drop open and fangs to sink into tender skin. Vander sucks in a breath through clenched teeth before releasing it with an agonised sound, hips bucking up and very nearly dislodging him. His giant hands cling on, thumbs pointedly bruising pelvic bones. 

“I could take care of you, sweet, you know I could. You'd never want for anything with me, just have to let me in, yeah?” Vander’s voice drops lower now, roughened up with sickly sandpaper lust. It rumbles up from the depths and washes over Silco with a shudder, distracting him long enough to end up on his back, hungry beast above and drooling. 

It’s a rushed flurry of hands, then, untying drawstrings and pulling off pajama tops, kicking legs to rid themselves of bottoms and underwear all discarded in sloppy piles on the floor. Their naked bodies collide again, Vander’s bulk forcing Silco’s knobbly bruised knees to fall apart to accommodate. 

He can’t think straight. 

His brain produces white noise and it’s impossible to conjure more than that with Vander biting and snarling in the space between jaw and shoulder, leaving bruises and possessive marks on any free real estate. The tiny space between their bodies grows hot and damp with sweat, heavy cock sliding alongside Silco’s arousal plumped clit. 

He’s so big, everything about him colossal and insurmountable. Pitifully it echoes and bounces around the inner walls of his empty skull; Big big big. Strong strong strong. 

“Answer me.” Vander says, firm and edging on a growl, no room for arguments. Somehow one of his hands ends up fisted in Silco’s shower damp hair, grip sudden and tight, sparks jumping along his nervous system to ignite in the core of his cunt. Wetness pathetically blurts out of him, clinging to the rutting length of Vander’s dick. 

It’s happening. 

The tinnitus ringing in Silco’s ears, the unbearable fight to keep his eyelids propped open, the disconnection between making sensible choices or what the fuck comes out of his mouth. The feeling of being free and untethered to how much of a shitty person he is, something that only typically comes from shit like an unadvisable amount of substances or getting the living daylights beat out of him. 

“What about..” Silco’s mind sluggishly picks through the rubble, helplessly searching for an excuse. What about blowing rails? Or fucking men that make him physically hold back retching just so he can cover rent? What about never feeling comfortable or safe? Or worrying his friends, constantly?

He can still fix it. He has time to fix all of this.

“You need pain, don’t you, Sil? I can give it to you. Y’know I can get you out of your head better than anything else. You don’t need a fix, won’t ever have to again if you say yes, let me take care of it all.” The pure animal weight of Vander’s body on him is suffocating, he’s pinned down like a dead butterfly. Silco could not fight Vander off if he changed his mind, would have to accept an inevitable fate. The idea thrills him to no end, that he could hand over the keys, let Vander decide what’s best, what he deserves, no escape. 

“Fuck. I want it.” Silco pants his confession out, waterline stinging at the tightening grip in his hair, fingers wound tight amongst inky strands. Vander hasn’t ceased the rocking of his hips, leisurely sawing his cock between his folds. It’s a smooth ride, eased by the copious amount of juices slathered between his shivering thighs. Every pull back of Vander’s hips creates a sticky sound that stokes the gentle flames of humiliation in his gut. Barely more than dry humping, a bit of biting and he’s soaked like a virgin.

Unbearable.

“What do you want? Tell me, I’ve got you, angel.” Vander detaches from Silco’s sore throat, leading a path of hot open mouthed smooches down his heaving chest. There’s the ticklish scrape of teeth against the imprint of ribs through thin skin that sends him squirming, legs cutting in tight against a trunk of muscle. He doesn’t stop his worship, every jutting bone or scar or bruise gets attention until Vander’s crooked nose is nuzzling into his pubes. 

“You. I want you. I want you to- to-” It makes him feel weak. The words clog up in his windpipe, preferring to choke him until his head blooms blue and his body goes stiff in death over admitting to being changed, that he’s begrudgingly coming to terms with entrusting his care to another. “Come on for fuck’s sake, you know what I need, hurt me, make me-“

The first scorching drag of Vander’s tongue snatches the words out of Silco’s mouth. A sensual, slow lap with the wide flat of his tongue from taint to clit, savouring the musky taste. His head thumps back against the mattress, hands flying to grasp at the head of hair between his legs, bitten down fingernails scraping against scalp. He’s a fucking mongrel with it; eating loud and sloppy with a thick searching tongue that rubs delicious taste bud texture against the raw exposed tip of his cock, woofing great exhales from flared nostrils that fan hot air across his pubic bone and belly. 

Silco hisses through janky teeth, humping up to meet Vander’s bobbing head and mouth suctioned around him. Two substantial fingers begin to press in where he’s softened and ripe for the taking. His whole pelvis throbs at the relentless blunt pressure, screaming for the emptiness to be filled, the rim of his cunt gone taut and tugging with every pump. The jump from nothing to this burns, but it hurts too good to put a stop to it. 

Vander isn’t afraid to use his strength to his advantage, keeping Silco’s wriggling body trapped against his devouring soaked mouth with a single firm hand wrapped around a quivering thigh. The sensation of wet stubble scrubbing against oversensitive skin burns his nerve endings, molten pleasure blurring into a deep, writhing itch in his marrow.

The end is approaching embarrassingly quick, a snowball collecting weight and morphing into an unstoppable force. Silco writhes against the bedding, sheets creasing beneath his heels, fingers twisting until hair strands strain and cut off his blood supply, hanging open mouth blurting out incessant noise up towards the ceiling. 

It feels insane. It feels so fucking good Silco can’t contain himself and it’s the most honest he’s ever been when he orgasms. There’s no faking how his clit pounds with his heartbeat against Vander’s tongue, no pretending when his juicy insides flutter around the fingers stuffing them. He’s by no means a talented enough actor for the death rattle gasps of breath his lungs keep attempting, he flexes his tingling toes and releases his grip on Vander’s hair the moment his soul slips back into its shell.

“Oh god…” Silco whispers softly, arms going noodle limp onto the bed beside his sweat shimmered torso. It’s likely so intense because he’s refrained from having sex for a few weeks, coincidentally the last time being with Vander himself. Just happenstance. No relation. It’s not like he couldn’t stomach it, or that he couldn’t switch off like he’s trained himself to do. 

Or maybe he’s screwed. 

It sinks in just how screwed when Silco can finally peel his sleepy eyes open and is hit with the brain melting visage of Vander with a beard soaked in pussy juice and animalistic, fat pupils. 

“Always taste so nice.”

“Mm?” He’s never-

“Y’think I didn’t suck my fingers clean anytime you let me finger you out back?” Vander’s reddened lips close around his swollen cock again, suckling sweetly, a teasing flick back and forth against the exposed head to make his skeleton jolt uncontrollably. It’s way too much, too soon. Everything clenches up, screws turning and turning, getting tighter and tighter until his teeth squeak from gritting. 

Silco claws at the peaks of Vander’s shoulder blades, red raw streaks of warning, legs kicking just to be shoved wide and pinned with a deafening hip socket click. He wails like a banshee but he wouldn’t dare beg to stop, not even with the skin under his fingernails or when tears bead at the edges of his lids. His body squirts out liquid onto a skillful, collecting tongue and a match is struck. Flames dance wherever Vander’s mouth leads until the thread catches, fuse burning up when he pulls back and lands a deafening open palm slap to the slobber soaked space. 

Silco’s cunt feels like a violently ripped-open wound, outer lips puffy and raw from prickly facial hair abuse and only growing fatter with each harsh spank that draws more and more blood to the area. He loses count after seven and the clap of a damp palm against slick skin becomes ambiance to accompany his hiccuping breaths and mewls. 

The intensity grows and grows until it transforms into a feeling similar to panic; this sudden sharp and overwhelming quivering in his guts that has him crying through it. Silco’s spine arches, head snapping back with a loud, pained grunt of effort as the next orgasm is quite literally beaten out of him.

“There you go, all glazed over and sweet as a kitten.” Vander coos condescendingly, the whole of his big paw enclosing the entirety of his scorching vagina. It only traps the heat, starts slow cooking him from the inside, makes the residual stinging all tingly and tasty. A thumb rubs a settling arch back and forth over his pubic bone, dead set eyes never breaking concentration. “See? Don’t even have to ask. I’ll give you what you need.”

Silco’s tongue darts out to wet his dry lips, throat parched from all his obscene moaning and bawling. The evidence that supports Vander’s telepathy only grows when he sits up onto his knees and reaches over to the bedside table for water. His now gentle hands manoeuvre Silco to sit up and bring the rim of the glass to his lips, tilted patiently for him to sup at. 

He can’t stop shaking. He can’t wrestle back control of his body just yet, even when Vander takes the cup away and presses several firm kisses to his hairline. The mask is well and truly destroyed now, revealing the frail attention starved baby that hid beneath for years. This is the perfect opportunity to strike Silco when he’s down, jab the knife in and twist his intestines around the blade, torture him for the games he’s played.

Instead he’s awarded patience in abundance. Rough hands rubbing his bare, goosebumped skin, lips pressing against the cut of his cheekbone, his brow, the bump at the bridge of his slender nose and finally his mouth. It’s all grounding tactics to bring Silco back into his body, ensuring he physically feels what they’re barrelling towards next. 

“You with me?” Vander asks, the words husky and shared like smoke between kisses. Silco hums quiet confirmation in response, leisurely pulling back, sucking the taste of himself off of his tongue before fully detaching. There’s a brief moment of respite to take in that heated stare before peace is expelled with a sharp slap of a flat palm across his blood flushed cheek.

“Answer me properly.” A lightning bolt strikes with pin point accuracy, buzzing every notch of his vertebrae. Silco’s hole drools shamelessly, greedily soaked up into the duvet pillowed beneath him and maybe he’d feel bad about it if Vander’s cock wasn’t rock solid along the bottom of his eye-line.

“Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m here with you, Vander.” Silco’s voice scrapes with effort, consciousness a dingy, flickering LED bar sign on its way out. Still, through the pleasurable smog that’s blanketed his awareness, a lightbulb pings in the distance, a faint echo of be good, keep being good. “Please fuck me?”

The corners of Vander’s mouth curl up uncontrollably, mean daddy dom defeated when faced with Silco melting into a pretty, docile angel in his hands. It is the perfect adversary, practically purring when he’s kissed lovingly again in what can only be a reward for good behaviour. 

“Lay on your front for me, go on.” 

Strength can be found in pride, but god, if it doesn’t feel incredible to unspool obediently across the sheets. Silco presses his belly down and spreads his legs, cheek pillowed on folded arms. He has no time to become restless because of course Vander is right there with him, the hot length of his furry body plastered against his back, thick thighs spreading Silco’s wider and wider still. 

“Good boy, I’m-“

“I’m clean. I don’t have anything.” Silco rushes out on an exhale, a very tactful approach for skipping the ‘do you want me to use a condom?’ conversation, of course. The shells of his ears ignite and are immediately snapped between Vander’s teeth to get him squirming, or he would if he wasn’t so effectively imprisoned under a tonne of pure fat and muscle. Every inhale has ticked up in difficulty, not so instinctual anymore. 

“Wouldn’t even stop me if you did, at this point.” Vander says dangerously, a secret spilled directly against Silco’s ear that drips into his ear canal and poisons his brain. It’s so idiotic but ultimately pathetic how fucking romantic he finds the notion, that this man would tie himself to the dead weight he is and let it drown him. “I trust you.”

Silco gasps wantonly at the first teasing brush between his folds, head collecting slick before skidding off past his taint and sliding along an asscheek. His fingers curl up tight, fisting the sheets, biting back the urge to start pleading again. 

He’s been polite enough, hasn't he? Doesn’t he deserve this after laying himself bare?

Suddenly there’s two overwhelming pinpoints of pressure; a heavy, sweat tacky hand pressing down between his shoulder blades, and the broad tip of Vander’s cock forcing the rim of his pussy to stretch around it. Silco breaks fast, great heaving breaths tinged with whimpers as his body is given no choice but to accommodate (and he’s never thirsted for something more).

“Fuck, you’re… You’re-“ Saliva pools under his tongue before rushing to overflow out of the corner of his mouth, a viscous pool collecting beneath his own cheek smushed into the bed. It’s like Vander’s cock is wringing him out, squeezing liquid from every available orifice to make room for itself. He can have it. He’s never wanted to give somebody else so much of himself so eagerly but now a fear is brewing; if he loves this, how will he stop? Could he stop? Will Vander just take the place of old vices?

“I know.” Vander grunts from behind him, understanding but taking no mercy. It’s a constant driving force, inch after condemning inch until the entire length is sheathed in the sacred clutch of his innards. Silco slurps drool disgustingly, a weak attempt to lift his own head up that’s denied with a rough hand snagging a fistful of hair, shoved back into a mouthful of mattress. 

The first back pull and full slam inside triggers Silco’s flight response; the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, bony fingers scrabbling at the sheets, legs kicking out as if electrified. Vander’s blood surges predator hot, claws digging in at hip and shoulder to bodily drag his prey back for the next attack. He whines pitifully, shuddering and dipping his spine to open himself up for the taking, begging to be mounted or eaten, he can’t be sure. 

It’s a hazy mess of wet clapping and delicious friction. Vander’s bare foreskin rubbing the inside of his blood heavy cunt scratches the deepest of itches, the honey thick mixture of their fluids bubbling from his opening to collect at his pulsing clit, splattering with every loud clap of hefty, furred balls. Silco’s drowning in it, could sustain himself for the next several decades on the sound of Vander’s animalistic huffing and grunting in his ear. 

He grinds in hard, cramming the weeping tip of his dick into depths no others have dared to wander. It hurts. A sharp possessive ache in his abdomen, gut instinct screaming wrong, psychotic, cock-dumb brain crying out for more! more! more! With every Bang! Bang! Bang! 

“Nngh-“ Silco grits out, teeth biting down, jaw clenching tight against the waves of painpleasurepain washing over and over with every swivel of Vander’s hips. He takes it like a champ, face dragging against spit slimy sheets, pounded until he can’t contain it much longer and howls.

“Shit. S’that nice, sweetheart? You’re soaked, can feel you getting tighter.” 

Silco cannot afford that. His pussy would snap like a rubber band if he even dared to clench for a second. He’s stretched to the brink, can feel the burn right through his taint, folds spread wide open. He’s gagging for a repeat performance already, sick fantasies of fresh blood staining Vander’s dick, marking him as his own forever. 

We’ve made a blood pact now. You can’t ever leave me.

That’s what Silco would say. He’d clean the remnants of himself away, cradle it in the shallow dip of his tongue and feed it back to Vander. He’d totally rock with it, eating his own cum and Silco’s, that secret spice of iron because he’s a damn mutt with a single minded mission, right? To capture Silco and lock him down.

The comfortable swell of Vander’s belly slots perfectly into the elegant curve of Silco’s spine, his hefty cock ironing out his insides and filling every crevice right up to the mouth of his cervix. Flat edges of teeth dig into hypersensitive skin when a gaping maw latches onto the pokey peak of his shoulder. This is the closest he will ever get to a religious experience, for no gods answer the prayers of guttersnipes.

It’s too overwhelming, brain rolling wildly like a beer tacky fruit machine, fingertips dragging down the bed as he’s ripped onto his knees by a handful of hair. Silco’s breath punches out of his chest, faster than light, scalp burning bright and hot where follicles refuse to unplug. His back is forced into an over extended, uncomfortable arch, the muscles on either side of his spinal cord twitching in protest, hips jumping every time Vander collides with his non-existent ass. 

“You have no fucking clue how bad I’ve wanted this, do you? Maybe I should tie you to the bed, keep you stuffed full and bruised up and mine.” Vander snarls, panting hot and damp against the curve of his ear. It’s followed immediately by a gross and clumsy lap of his fat tongue that sadly makes Silco’s head drop back against a waiting shoulder and mewl. He’s getting close again; pressure cooker growing hotter and hotter, pot lid rattling and steam billowing out of every orifice in great clouds.

“Don’t stop, hah, don’t you dare stop!” Silco chokes out, losing the battle to keep his eyes from rolling back into his screwed empty skull. It’s an instinctive descent into chasing each other’s pleasure, then. Vander’s thrusts become so violent it borders on hatred, precum and pussy juice frothy where his cock pistons in and out of his gaping hole and drool down his slapping balls, stirring and permanently rearranging Silco’s body to accommodate him for the rest of his life. 

It cannot be classed as a scream and it’s definitely not a moan, but something pained and ear-splitting forces its way out of Silco’s throat when his climax peaks, bouncing around the modest bedroom to echo back at them. Vander only seems spurred on by the sound, demanding hands pulling him back to meet each punishing drive of cock into his quivering, post-orgasm raw pussy.

Silco’s nose smushes flat when his face meets the duvet yet again, dragged back and forth and shoved around carelessly like the plaything he is. Now, this, he is used to; huffing the barest snatches of oxygen whilst being ridden hard. Vander pins him by the back of his sweat slippery neck for the final stretch, blinded in his pursuit of pleasure, hips clap clap clapping against Silco’s glowing cheeks until-

“That’s it, Sil, that’s it. You feel- Fuuck..” Vander groans out long and low, dripping in masculinity and riding the sweet wave of orgasmic bliss. He keeps rocking into the sex loosened grip of Silco’s cunt, milking every pulse of cum from his twitching balls, muscles jumping and lungs giving satisfying hitches of breath if he dares to clench and tease. 

An expected hesitation once both of their hearts have calmed down from arrest level, neither one of them wanting to be the first to suggest pulling out. It’s a messy affair, after all, and an uncomfortable one at that. What man would want to throw their poor dick out into the cold after being bundled up snug and warm in a nice, loving hole? Silco’s not mentally prepared to handle the embarrassment of queefing out the thick load Vander just dumped into his guts, either, decidedly less glamorous but very real. 

Instead Silco goes for the subtle approach; squirming and stretching his limbs out like a luxuriating cat, groaning at the satisfying snap, crackle and pop of his wrist and elbow joints. He even manages to get a few out of his fingers, wriggling the slender digits and pressuring each under the pad of his thumb. Vander makes a vaguely sympathetic noise from behind him as his softening cock is forced out with a slick bubble of noise and he isn’t a huge pervert about it, either. The great oaf flops down onto the messed up sheets beside Silco rather than wasting time spooning his cum back inside, jostling the entire bed frame with his movements. 

Calm before the storm. He counts roughly fifty six seconds of tinnitus ringing filled silence before Vander can’t stand it anymore and shatters the faux post-coital bliss. 

“The first person you thought to call last night was me.” Vander says to the ceiling, fingers twitching in the millimetres of space between their hips. Static jumps the gap, a phantom touch. 

“Yes.” 

“That means you trust me too, then.” 

“I suppose it does.” Silco shifts to fold his arms beneath his cheek, blinking sleepily at Vander’s side profile. Manly bump on the bridge of his nose from a thoughtful break, bushy brows, shocks of silver strands through fuck messed hair. He is devastatingly Silco’s type and Silco has never hated himself more than he does now, for slipping up, for allowing himself to get caught in the undertow and grow feelings he can’t control anymore. 

Vander turns his head, gazes connecting, a key sliding with a click into the perfect lock. Shoot him fucking dead for daydreaming such drivel.

“I’m willing to give this a go, Sil, if you are.” 

And really, when all is said and done, when has Silco ever turned down the chance to try and destroy himself beyond recognition?