Down a Dark Hall

The wall clock taunts you with its slow percussive song; marking the dragging passage of time. You sigh. It had taken all your wheedling skills to convince Sevika to help you out. All you’d asked was for her to lure Silco away from the office and keep him distracted for half an hour – something she already does most days anyway.

It’s been a whole forty minutes now, and you just know she’s doing it out of spite. She's fully aware how antsy you get whenever you’re forced to wait for anything. 

You scribble another note beneath your first on Silco’s pad, and underline it several times, ‘No tequila for Sevika for a week.’

The pen skitters across the desk as you flick it away in a huff, and comes to a stop beside Silco’s humidor. You eye the glossy wooden box, fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the arms of his chair. You’re already in his coat. And at his desk. Might as well go full hog.

You crack the lid and take a moment to inhale the rich tobacco aroma rising from the neatly lined cigars, before selecting one that takes your particular fancy. You slice and light it just as you’ve been taught, and sink back into the leather chair with an indulgent drag — so distracted by the coiling patterns within the smoke unspooling from between your lips that you hardly notice the office door open and close.

“I don’t think those belong to you.”

The wry comment comes from a lithe, shadowed figure standing across the room – towards whom you puff a near perfect ring of thick smoke.

“Thirty-seven.”

“Pardon?”

“Thirty-seven,” you repeat, gesturing blithely with the smouldering cigar, “That’s how many cigarettes you’ve bummed off me since we first met. I’m merely taking what I’m owed.”

The forge-fire orange of Silco’s eye right stokes bright with silent amusement.

“And the coat?” He enquires.

You shrug, “Goes so nicely with my outfit today that I just couldn’t resist.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” he drawls, eyeing the fully buttoned garment, “However, given that it was custom made for me, I would argue that it suits my wardrobe best.”

You purse your lips in thought, reaching for his ashtray to stub out your stolen cigar. The worn-leather of Silco’s chair creaks as you rise and saunter lazily around the desk, thumbing open the coat buttons as you do and relishing the prickling heat of Silco’s attention.

You come to a stop in front of the desk, leaning your hips back against its gilded edge and allowing the coat to fall open. You cock your head coyly.

“Are you sure about that?” You ask.

Even from across the office you're able to fully witness his pupils swelling like spilt pools of ink.

Damn right too. Even you had stopped dead in your tracks to admire your reflection in the full length mirror on your way out of the bedroom. You’re groomed to perfection; hair and makeup just right, skin polished to a glowing lustre, and moisturised to delectable softness. After all, it would be a crime not to pull out all the stops given the sublime artistry of the lingerie set Max has so generously crafted for you.

The balcony bra and high-cut panties embrace your curves like a second skin, and the garter belt which cinches your waist and holds up a pair of silk-spun stockings ties the whole ensemble together flawlessly. Exquisite, charcoal lace trimmings sit against your exposed flesh like mink eyelashes, and frame tantalising panels of sheer burgundy that leave little to the imagination. And if the colour scheme weren’t already enough to stoke the fires of Silco’s highly possessive nature, then no doubt the ornamental golden finishes which so closely resemble those on his very own waistcoat will cinch the deal.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Silco, sweetie,” you purr.

It pleases you greatly to note the slight tremor in the long, heavy exhale which follows your felicitation. And his low murmured response is dark and thick as treacle, “Oh you wicked little thing.”

The coat shrugs free of your shoulders, and with it you drop all pretence of innocence. Your lips sweep into a devilish smirk; the finishing brushstroke to your lascivious portrait.

Silco stares at you the same way a starved man might a steaming banquet table; overwrought with desire and paralysed by choice. The deep lines on his face slackened with awe, and his two-toned gaze bright with barely contained frenzy. Those long fingers of his twitch down at his sides with the unconscious itch to touch, and the movement draws your gaze to the front of his pants, and the steadily thickening outline which disrupts the neat tailoring.

You peer up at him through your lashes, and crook a single finger. Your silent request breaks his trance, and he prowls across the room towards you with his typical long-legged swagger, clearly trying to remain cool calm and collected. But his impatience bleeds into the speed of his gait. Eager though he may be, Silco’s penchant for self-control is unwavering, and so it doesn’t surprise you in the least that he doesn’t immediately pounce. You know him to be the sort of predator who likes to play with his food first.

Still, he stops close enough for you to bask in his body heat, radiating into the narrow gap left between you, and his shallow breaths fan warm over your skin, as featherlight and tantalising as his skimming fingertips. He traces the shapes in the lace, follows their delicate tracks over the swell of your cleavage, sweeps the backs of his knuckles beneath your breasts in a way that has them growing heavy with desire, the gauzy cups thin enough to tent with your hardening peaks.

Silco’s expression is one of complete enthralment, and it makes you feel unspeakably beautiful.

Heat mounts in your veins, and slides south; journeying alongside the teasing scrape of Silco's blunt fingernails, dragging down the skin of your stomach on their way to toy with your garter belt. Every nerve in your body thrums with hot, electric anticipation. But you know better than to rush him, no matter how maddening the unsated throb between your legs becomes.

You grip the edge of the desk either side of your hips a little tighter, battling the urge to reach out and touch. An impressive feat of restraint, given that the front of his trousers now strains hard enough for the tented fabric to almost brush your hip.

Your gaze flits up and down, switching between the hungry burn of his eyes and the elegant fingers which trail down the lines of your garters. He slips a forefinger beneath one strap and runs the satin-wrapped elastic between his pad and thumb, knuckle grazing the skin of your thigh. You suck in a sharp breath, and hold it high in your lungs when he draws the strap abruptly away from your leg, and keeps it poised and taut above your bare thigh like the string of a loaded longbow.

Your eyes lock.

And you search the flame and ocean depths of his gaze for any clue as to when he’ll let go. 

The scar on his lip shifts as the corner of his mouth hooks into a sinful little smirk.

The seconds pass in charged silence. Your breath bated until a prickling flush creeps up over your chest and into your cheeks. Your nerves squeeze tighter and tighter until you can hardly bear the anticipation any longer.

Only then does he release.

The garter snaps against your skin like the crack of a whip, sending a stinging burst of exquisite pain racing straight up your spine, and your mouth falls open with a gasping little squeak.

The pleased crease at the edge of Silco’s lips deepens, and he begins plucking delicately at the opposite garter, playing it like a harp string, sending the strap pinging lightly against your thigh over and over. The repeated stimulation of the same spot, no matter how softly, mounts in intensity until you’re squirming, and biting your lower lip to keep from whimpering.

He finally grants mercy with an arrogant little chuckle, and his broad palms smooth up over your hips to grip your waist. He takes the final step into your space, and gazes straight into your soul.

“You are the most divine thing I have ever laid eyes upon,” he murmurs, dark and gravelled, but so emphatically sincere that his words embed straight into the walls of your heart.

He leans close, but bypasses your lips in favour of grazing the sharp blade of his nose up your cheekbone, down over the hinge of your jaw, and lower still to nudge at your thrumming pulse point.

“You like your present, then?”

A rumbling hum is your answer, and a soft press of lips against your throat sends your head tipping back, eyelashes fluttering in bliss.

“I do, sweetheart, very much so. It almost seems a shame to unwrap it.”

You smirk to yourself, running your palms up his burgundy shirtsleeves whilst he continues to plant slow, sensual kisses upon your neck. You bring your lips to the shell of his ear.

“So don’t,” you whisper, nipping at his lobe, “The panties are crotchless.”

Gods the noise he makes against your skin at that is one you’ll spend your life replaying the memory of. Half ragged moan, half animalistic growl, embellished by the clatter of pens and paper as he pushes himself insistently against you, hard enough to rattle the entire desk.

Seems the limit on his control has been reached.

His hands drag and paw and squeeze over soft swells of flesh, and he attacks your throat in a hot, wet frenzy that makes your knees buckle and your head spin. You cup the back of his skull, fingers burying between the short dark strands to dig into his scalp. Unable to help the way you arch your body into him. Salivating at the thick, hard press of his clothed cock into your belly.

“You can’t have me here,” you pant, tugging at his hair.

He pulls back slowly, eyes glittering dark and dangerous, “Can’t?” The word slinks from his mouth in a way that suggests he knows of its meaning, but he does not accept that it could apply to him.

“Can’t,” you confirm with an impish smirk, brave enough to touch the tip of your nose lovingly to his even as he bares his teeth in a low snarl like some ridiculous man-dog, “You can have me on the bed, because that is where I scattered all the rose petals.”

“Rose petals?” The beast recedes just a touch and he arches a single, dark brow.

“That’s right.” Your voice drips with honey, thick and sultry, and you run indulgent palms over the lean lines of his torso, “A nice big bed, covered in rose petals, upon which I plan to romance you thoroughly,” you tip your face towards his to whisper against his lips, “and worship you the way you deserve.”

His chest brushes against yours with each of his shallow inhales, and his lust-heavy gaze is dark and ravenous. Your mouth pulls into a slow, wide grin, still half-pressed against his.

“What say you, handsome? Do we have a deal?”

“In essence,” Silco murmurs.

You yelp in surprise when he lifts you suddenly, grabbing his shoulders and instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist. His fingers sink into the giving flesh of your buttocks, and he strides towards the bedroom with you in his arms.

“However, darling, I think you’ll find that I will be the one doing the worshipping.”

Not that he would have a difficult time finding a partner if he so chose to pursue one. With his impeccable fashion taste, confident swagger, piercing eyes, and velvet voice, Silco is far from undesirable. On the rare occasion that he makes his way down to the bar, you have caught your gaze lingering just a touch too long on his face, your eyes following the rivers and valleys of the scars along his left side. When he looks at you, heat builds in your cheeks from the fiery depths of his corrupted eye, beautiful in its raw power. 

You may or may not have developed a slight crush on your boss in the nine months of your employment. 

Not that you would ever tell him. 

Or anyone for that matter. 

You tuck that small torch under a basket, never to be revealed.

Early in the morning, after a particularly busy night at the club, you make your way around the booths, rag in hand as you wipe down all the tables. As you lean down to reach, you jump when you hear a familiar voice right behind you calling your name.

Turning, you see Silco, standing in his signature waistcoat with both hands clasped behind his back. His look is neutral if a bit weary.

“I’m sure you know what day tomorrow is,”  he says, his tone even.

You nod quietly as you straighten up to turn to him. 

“Will you be needing the night off?”

Your eyebrows furrow, confused. You’ve been working all week under the assumption it was business as usual. When you don’t answer right away, he clarifies.

“Some staff members have requested off for the night in order to celebrate the…” his lips thin to a line as he searches for the word. “Holiday.”

The word isn’t exactly spat out with venom, but there’s an undertone to it. It’s not disgust or bitterness, but something else you can’t quite put your finger on.

“Oh,” you say, turning back to your work. “No, I ummm… don’t have any plans.”

When you chance a glance back at your boss, you see his good eyebrow ticked up slightly.

“Is there a partner somewhere that needs reminding of what day it is?”

You laugh at the implication of Silco threatening your imagined spouse for not treating you to a romantic dinner.

“No, there isn’t.” You turn back to him, carefully stepping around his slender form to move onto the next table. “I don’t really have anyone to uhh... celebrate with.”

He hums in thought, as if a bit surprised by your answer.

“It seems it’s for the best.” You’re about to rebuke what seems like a pretty callous comment until he continues. “I would not have been able to offer you the night off anyway. Too many of your coworkers had already requested off.”

Oh, figures.

“However…” he looks down at his boots as he takes a step towards you, his chin lifting when he comes to stand opposite you. “I can offer you the night after tomorrow off. I hope that will suffice.”

You nod, hand squeezing the rag when you realize just how close he is to you. He considers you for a moment more when you finally remember your manners.

“Thank you, sir.”

He nods before turning on his heel and ascending the staircase up to his office.

As you watch him leave, you can’t help the way your eyebrows furrow in confusion.

That was weird.

Silco never speaks to you directly when it comes to your shifts; you have always worked with your manager to set your schedule.

So why did Silco feel the need to see to this personally?

You feel about ready to barf.

It’s hour two of working the bar on the accursed holiday and you don’t know how much more of this you can take. While The Last Drop is known for its ability to pair Zaunites with each other in provocative and sensual ways, it seems to be even more indulgent tonight. It seems every patron of the club is one half of a couple, from the people on the dancefloor to the ones in the booths behind velvet curtains.

The only silver lining to the night is that each couple seems to be tipping very generously. You’ve already made more in tips in the first two hours than you did all last week. So you grin and bear it, mixing drinks behind the bar while it seems all of Zaun celebrates their love.

At one point, it must’ve been hour four of your shift, you look up to see Silco standing at the balcony, both his hands grasping the railing as he looks out into the crowd. Even from the bar, you can see the glow of his orange eye and the way it seems to pan side to side, surveying his empire. After a moment, he turns to the side, his attention drawn elsewhere. You follow his gaze to see a tall woman in a long black dress striding toward him. There’s a sharp pang in your chest when you watch Silco offer his hand out, which the mystery woman takes in hers. He leads her to his office and your need to vomit returns. 

You shake the feeling off with a shake of your head, turning your attention back down to your work.

He could have anyone he wants.

You blink back the sting behind your eyes.

Did you really think he would want you?

Over time, the club starts to empty out, the pairs setting off for more private establishments to continue their evening activities. After the last guest walks out the door, you go to the back room and grab a mop. As you work to rid the dancefloor of all the spilled drinks and shimmer, you hear footsteps above you. Keeping your eyes down, you peek through your periphery to see what looks like Silco escorting the woman from before down the stairs, along with Sevika.

“Escort our guest out the back way,” Silco’s voice instructs his second-in-command. You hear the sound of stiletto heels and rubber boots making their way down the hallway towards the back door. But then, your throat bobs when you hear the distinct clink of Silco’s boots making their way toward you.

Turning over your shoulder, you bring your mop back to the bucket in an attempt to pretend you didn’t see or hear anything. As you’re dunking the mop into the murky water, Silco calls out your name.

You turn, careful to keep your eyes on his shoulder. You fear that he’ll be able to read you if you look directly into his eyes.

“My drink cart needs refilling. Bring up the usual.”

“Yes, sir,” you say with a nod.

He turns and makes his way back up the stairs.

After putting away the mop (the rest of the dancefloor can wait), you grab a tray and go to the back room where all of Silco’s more expensive selection is kept. After grabbing two bottles, two glasses, and a bucket of ice, you carefully ascend the staircase.

Balancing the tray on one hand, you knock on the door to Silco’s office. You hear him bid you entry with a low hum and open the door, beelining for the drink cart next to his desk.

Silco pays you no mind, his attention on a clipboard in his hand. After you set the tray down, you gesture to one of the bottles in offering.

“Would you like me to pour you one?”

He answers by way of a short, silent nod.

You drop two ice cubes into one of the tumblers with the gold pair of tongs before pouring one finger of bourbon into the glass. Just as you’re about to pick it up and place it on the desk, Silco interrupts your movements with a surprising offer.

“And pour yourself one as well.”

Your eyebrows lift but he still doesn’t turn to you.

You pour yourself a finger of bourbon before carefully picking up both glasses and making your way around the desk. As you place the drink with ice on the desktop, Silco finally addresses you directly.

“Have a seat,” he says, one hand coming up to gesture to the wooden chair opposite him.

You do as you’re told, sitting down while you cradle your beverage in your hands at your lap.

Silco swirls the drink in his hand before taking a small sip, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Busy night?”

“Very.”

A hum.

“Good.”

You fill the silence with a sip of your bourbon, but can’t help the small hum you make when the liquid moves past your lips and onto your tongue. It’s the smoothest bourbon you’ve had in your life and you’re certain that all others are spoiled for you now. When you look up, you see Silco’s scarred lips curling slightly at the edges in a smirk.

“I see you take your bourbon neat,” he remarks.

“I don’t usually,” you explain. “But with one of this quality, watering it down seems sacrilege.”

Silco’s head tilts a miniscule amount to the side, seemingly impressed, before he raises his glass up in toast. You mimic the movement before you both take another sip. All the while, his ocean green and volcanic orange eyes pin you in place.

You’re still not sure what you’re doing here or why Silco has decided to share his top-shelf booze with you. As you sit uncomfortably before him, you become hyper aware of the silence growing between you two. The clock above the door seems to tick just a bit too loudly behind you, the thoughts in your head buzzing to deafening levels.

You debate filling the void with talk, but find you can’t think of anything to say. 

Maybe ask him a question?

You take another sip.

Yeah, but what?

Silco puts you out of your misery by speaking first.

“How long have you worked here?”

He sets his drink down before lacing his fingers together and leaning back in his chair, bringing a booted foot to rest on his opposite knee. You do your best to not track the movement with your eyes.

“It was nine months last week, sir.”

“Just Silco is fine,” he replies. The foot at his knee bobs up and down idly as the orange of his corrupted eye swirls. “Nine months,” he echoes, voice hushed as if speaking only to himself.

He leans forward and reaches for a cigar in his humidor, readying it with practiced hands as he speaks.

“And in those nine months, not once have you requested off.” He brings the cigar to his lips, taking one long leisurely drag before tilting his chin up and blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. “Why is that?”

You shrug.

“I like working and keeping busy, I guess,” is all you can manage to come up with. You take another sip of your drink, hoping you don’t sound like some loser with nothing better to do.

“Well,” he says as he leans forward to tap the cigar end to his ashtray, “As I said yesterday, you’re free to have tonight off since you worked the holiday by yourself.”

“Thank you, sir—” you’re quick to correct yourself. “Silco.”

He smirks at that and takes another long drag from the cigar before snuffing it out into the ashtray. As he blows the smoke out, he stands and slowly makes his way around the desk toward you. Unsure of etiquette in these circumstances, you place your glass down on the desk before also getting to your feet, torso turning to track Silco’s journey.

He stands in front of you, hands behind his back, eyes raking over your form appraising you.

“And what will you do with your time off?”

You try not to show your surprise at how much interest Silco seems to have in you today with all of his questions. Shrugging again, you rack your brain but come up empty. Knowing you, you’d probably just read a book and pass out on the couch as usual. But that’s not a very good answer, is it?

Your eyes cast to the side to avoid his gaze.

“I’m not sure.”

Silco takes another step forward and it commands your attention. You’re acutely aware of every cell in your body and their proximity to him.

“May I offer a suggestion?” he asks, his voice smooth as the bourbon he shared with you.

You look into his eyes and nod sheepishly.

“Have dinner with me.”

Your eyes widen at that and Silco is quick to catch it, a soft chuckle at his throat.

“Come now,” he coos, bringing one long-fingered hand up to cradle your jaw. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? The way you look at me. The way you don’t look at me.”

Your throat bobs and you find yourself unable to speak.

“Or perhaps, more tragically, did you think I wouldn’t want you?”

Your breath hitches at that as his thumb swipes a tender line along your chin, his mismatched eyes dipping down to your lips.

Finally, you find your voice.

“But— I thought that you—” You stumble over your words. “That woman earlier… you…”

“A business associate,” he explains. “Nothing more.”

His eyes track back up to yours and you’re certain he must see the way your pupils dilate at his touch.

“So…” he smirks with a fire behind his eyes you’ve never seen before. “What do you say?” His hand comes up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Dinner?”

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You feel the heat of that gaze tracking your cocky saunter across the office towards his desk. The vellus hairs on the nape of your neck rise in response to the quiet creak of leather at your back, just as you deposit the bourbon upon the cluttered, wooden surface. 

His footsteps are cat-like, no more than a leather-soled whisper across the rug, preceding the metallic click of a lock. 

You turn, and perch back against the metal trimmed desk.

Silco remains facing the door, fingertips skimming over the contours of the brass handle as though lost deep within his thoughts, and his voice comes as a low murmur directed towards the wood.

“I regret that we were interrupted at such an inopportune moment the other day.” 

His head turns a fraction, piercing sea-green peering at you from the corner of his eye. Almost something predatorial in the motion. A jungle cat hidden within the underbrush, observing potential prey. Biding his time.

“Interrupted?” You ask as he turns to face you fully. Your tongue tip sweeps along the edge of your teeth, catching and toying with the corner of your lip, “Far as I remember, we concluded things rather… delectably.”

He hums in dissent, hands folding behind his back and brows knotting to a ruminative pinch, “I suppose there are some who might think that way…” He moves from the door, pacing deeper into the room by way of mediative zig-zags, “I may lack experience in this particular area… but I like to believe that my manners are at least a cut above average. You once called me a gentleman, after all, and it pained me to allow you to leave that room unsatisfied.”

“Satisfaction comes in many forms. I promise I didn’t leave discontented. Far from it.”

Silco doesn’t respond, nor move any closer – simply prowls back and forth across the rug like a zoo animal assessing the boundary of its enclosure. Eyes fixed on you. Shoulders rolling lazily like a panther on the prowl. His energy thrumming, coiled tight.

You cock your head, and lean your weight further back upon your palms, “Is there something you’re after, Silco, sweetie? I thought I made it clear the last time, that when it comes to you…” your knees fall open a touch, “I’m always happy to oblige. All you need to do is ask.”

His chest expands with a deep, determined inhale, and he closes the last few feet of distance. The desk groans under your combined weight as he presses his hands flat upon the surface, caging you in with only a splinter of space left between your bodies, forcing you into a delicate backbend to accommodate the way he looms over you. His coal dark gaze drags over your features in turn, his shallow breaths fanning warm over the skin of your upper lip. The heady smell of him fogging your mind and pulling you ever deeper under his thrall.

“Tell me what you want, Silco,” you whisper.

His mouth hardly moves around his low-toned request, “I want to touch you.”

“And where is it that you want to touch me?”

The soft part of Silco’s lips allows a slivered view of his lower incisors, tongue resting just behind, scarred mouth looking so damn delectable that you begin to salivate. His elemental gaze meets yours, salt-waters swirl beneath a heavy lid, and he breathes his answer upon a gravelled exhale. 

“Everywhere.” 

A pink dash of tongue wets his lips, and his throat bobs above his tie. He leans a little closer, voice as quiet and dark as midnight, “I want… I want to learn how to touch you… How to make you feel good.”

Your lashes cast a shadow across the top of your vision; lids lowering beneath the beguiling weight of his voice. Your blood oozes through your veins thick and hot and slow. Pulse thumping so hard it rattles your skeleton. Mind sweetly scrambled by the smell of spiced cigars and thoughts of him. Close enough now for the blade of his nose to whisper featherlight against yours.

“I want… to make you feel as good as you made me feel… with your hands… with your mouth…”

Your chests brush with each inhale, and you can almost feel the shape of his words upon your lips.

“I want—”

A stack of books topples over beneath the nudge of your elbow, spilling across the desk in a loud clatter and sending several pens skittering right over the edge to the floor.

The disruption breaks the thick, dreamlike spell in the air, and Silco’s jaw tightens. But you only huff a quiet roll of laughter, casting your eye quickly over the cluttered workspace behind you before peering coyly up at him, fingers rising to toy with the golden piping on his waistcoat, “Perhaps we’d be more comfortable in the bedroom? Mm? More space to play.”

Silco stares at you for an inordinate amount of time with an expression so carefully neutral. You wait patiently, breath bated and nerves balancing on the edge of a knife – becoming less stable with each second that passes in fraught silence. His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the surface of his desk, then over in the direction of the sofa, lingering a few seconds upon the red quilted fabric before finally sliding back to you.

He takes a single step backwards, and gestures towards his quarters with a smooth and innocuous, “After you.”