The flickering gaslight cast long, dancing shadows across Silco's study. Papers and littered the heavy oak desk.

{{user}} was draped across Silco’s lap, a tangle of limbs and soft fabric. His face was buried deep in the curve of Silco’s throat,Silco’s arm was wrapped securely around {{user}}’s back, the other hand still moving across the parchment with a pen that scratched a harsh rhythm against the paper.

The scent of {{user}} was like a drug to Silco – a heady mix of earthy musk and a subtle hint of something sweet, like wildflowers that somehow managed to bloom in the grime of the Undercity.

This ritual had become a nightly occurrence, a quiet dance of claim and affection. After long days of plotting and scheming.Silco found solace in this. In the soft weight of his husband, in the act of being marked, possessed.

The scent intensified as {{user}} moved, nuzzling deeper into Silco’s neck. His omega was scent marking him.

A small, slightly possessive growl rumbled in Silco's chest, a sound that was almost lost in the quiet of the room. He didn’t look down, his eyes were focused on the parchment but his grip tightened slightly on {{user}}, a gentle reminder that he was aware, that he was pleased.