#x-amount-writes

“Wait here. Gotta report.”

You settle into the same booth you had that drunken night, glancing up at the floor above, to the shadows that hide the door to Silco’s office, as Sevika trudges to go give him the rundown.

What will she say? The girl is crazy. No; she made a mistake. You cringe. She doesn’t owe you that courtesy, and it would be a lie. She lost control and shot a kid. That’s the accurate one. Accidentally. No; without realizing what she was doing. And that’s the worst part, isn’t it?

Teeth pinch at your lip, fingers fidgeting with the rumpled sleeve of your freshly-dried shirt. Before you know it, you’re back to the calming pattern of wedging your thumb nail between the plates of your prosthetic sleeve, tracing up and down your forearm, plucking at hard thin edges. Just enough to tug at your nail bed, just enough to hurt.

Waiting is its own special torture. You can’t stop remembering the last time you were here. The sting, the burn, the ecstasy…

Cheeks flame, throat feeling constricted as you fend off memories of his hands.

You had bruises after that. Nothing horrible, but a subtle ache that brought the memory to mind if you sat on the edge of a seat, or leaned against anything that pressed into a mark. Not a bad pain by any means, but a bittersweet one. More bitter than sweet, all things considered. The regular shimmer taken for your arm made the pain and marks fade quick, but you may have spent a night admiring them. Wanting more.

You’re such a goddamned sucker. Wanting him so much, when you know better.

The brief flutter of hope in your chest as Sevika reappears gets squashed by your own hand as soon as you notice it. If he doesn’t care, you can’t either.

…Fuck, you should know better.

Her walk down the stairs is silent, and you can’t tell if the slight furrow of her brow and thin press of her lips is irritation, confusion, or - knowing Sevika - irritation that she’s confused. There’s not quite enough on her face to read, or maybe she’s not feeling anything strongly enough to show.

Or maybe you’re paranoid and trying to see something that isn’t there.

“…Head on up. He’s waiting.”

He’s waiting. Your mouth goes dry, anxiety gnawing like a mouse on a wire at the base of your skull. Every worst-case-scenario flips through your mind before you shove that list out of your mind and opt to just stop thinking entirely as you walk upstairs to his office door.

A knock.

“Enter.”

How does one word now carry so much promise?

You try to hide your tells, but can’t help the hard swallow after struggling to breathe past the nervous lump in your throat. Hopefully you don’t start choking. That wouldn’t exactly prove your stability. Is proving your stability even possible?

The chair is back. Cheeks flame as everything that had happened in its absence plays on quintuple speed in your head. Palms— then elbows— then your whole burning face pressed to the desk, the desperate need that had snapped inside you. And how he’d satiated that need. The hand on your back as he thrust gloved fingers into you, the presence of him, rocking against you in tiny sinful movements.

You almost feel lightheaded, remembering. Blinks come more rapidly than usual, trying to push the image out of your mind.

Silco isn’t looking at you. Instead, a long finger taps delicately at a paper set before him. It almost feels like mercy, for him to be focused elsewhere. As soon as his eyes start to rise, you panic and drop your gaze to his collar. That tie, a perfect symbol of professionalism and discipline.

Discipline. Oh gods, wrong word.

“…You stayed at the gym overnight.”

It’s an observation, not a question, but you still offer your affirmation. “Yes.” He makes no comment about dropping the honorific. This is more serious than that.

“Why.”

For a fraction of a second you meet his gaze, before looking down again. “I don’t know.” It’s almost a whisper, voice feeling so small. The silence isn’t oppressive, but you can’t help the shame welling up around you. It wasn’t what you meant to happen, you didn’t even realize what was going on before you felt the cold shower shock you to your senses.

“Why didn’t you come here?”

…What?

You don’t even think to hide the surprise on your face as you meet that uneven gaze, flicking between the pale sea and the hellfire glow.

It doesn’t feel quite like hellfire. Whatever it is you’re feeling from him, it’s not rage or heat. There’s something reserved about his demeanor. Subdued. Not gentle, but barely a hint of that authoritative grip; a statue unto himself.

“I…” Why hadn't you? Weakly, you shrug a shoulder. “I can’t answer that.” It’s a frank answer. No lie there; if the choice was conscious, it wasn’t one you remember now. In lieu of certainty, you can’t offer an adequate response.

He’s silent for a long moment. Hands in your lap fidget, but it isn’t the heavy expectant silence of some other meetings. You can almost see him carefully tasting his words, deciding how to approach the conversation.

“What happened?”

“Sevika said she was going to tell yo—”

“I’m asking you.”

Something twinges in your gut. You didn’t think his calm could hurt you so much, and you can’t tell why it does. Maybe you expected to be berated and ripped apart for your mistake; this even-footed respect is disorienting. Maybe it hurts because he can’t seem to meet you so evenly in… other matters.

Maybe you don’t think you deserve his patience.

Most likely, it’s some conflicted mess of all three.

“…I didn’t realize what I was doing.” Only barely loud enough to reach him across the desk. When he has no reaction, you swallow and continue. “The kid pointed a gun at me.” Eyes go blank as you try very hard not to remember it, but you can feel your chest tightening. “And I— shot him.” Breath coming faster.

You cross your arms, digging nails into your bicep, pinching hard, drawing awareness away from the rush of shame and fear and memory. Eyes drop to the desk, and you gnaw at the inside of your lip with one quick bite that’s too hard, immediately breaking skin and making you wince. Doesn’t matter, it’s serving its purpose. You blink away the empty, forcing yourself to continue.

“It wasn’t even a real gun,” the hint of disgust that turns your stomach is audible, brow furrowed. “He was a kid, with a paintball gun, and I shot him.”

He says your name quietly, but firm. Pulling your attention, even if the look you raise to him is pained. “The boy is fine. You didn’t kill him.”

Shaking your head, you focus on your lap once more, posture hunched, like you can somehow protect yourself from your own mess of frustration, revulsion, trepidation. “It’s not about killing him— or shooting him, even, it’s—” You choke on it, but soldier on. “I wasn’t there. I was…”

“You were here. Losing your hand.”

Drawing in a breath, you hold it, nodding stiffly. Again, he’s read your mind. You don’t think to wonder how he knows exactly what you were thinking in that moment.

There’s a silence again, and you just want him to take control. Give you something to do, someone to be, something to feel that isn’t this mess roiling inside you.

When it stretches on too long, you finally give in and look.

The mismatched gaze fixed on you is guarded: calculating, measuring you up. You’re wary of what it might mean, after… everything. But he doesn’t seem angry, or pitying, or stern, or any shade of malevolent, really. Not like he’s about to say you’re too unstable to be armed. He’s just… thoughtful.

Finally, he scoots his chair back and stands. Walking to you with measured steps, he offers his hand. Not for the prosthesis, either; skin for skin.

The burn of your ears seems to radiate heat as you look at his open palm. It feels— too close. After the disastrous way things ended the other day— and no glove. No barrier. No added protection of games and roles to fall into.

Just his hand, open for yours.

“What is this about?” You’re trying to ask more questions now, to keep things clear. This can’t be another moment he’ll just walk back later, leaving you once more alone.

Again, your name.

You want to take his hand. Badly.

“Indulge me. Please.”

It’s the please that does it. A wary glance up at him before you take his hand, heat zinging through you at the way he squeezes your palm as he helps you to your feet. Like a silly little girl with a crush, blush seeping across your chest and up your neck. Fixated on the ghost of calluses on his hand against yours, even if your eyes watch his face.

The hint of self-satisfaction in that hidden smirk makes your eyes narrow. Exactly what kind of plan is this?

For a second, you’re about to ask, before you realize he isn’t leading you away, but rather escorting you around to his side of the desk. Dropping your hand to lift the paper he’d been reading and set it in the corner of this desk. Clearing the center.

Your eyes linger on the empty space, recalling the last time his desk had been cleared.

Silco pulls the chair back, creating a gap plenty big enough for you. He gestures to the surface. “Sit.”

Warily, you hesitate. You said no more games, and this feels like it might be one— but part of you still wants to play. Or at least see what it is.

…You can call it off, if you need to. That’s your decision: see what he wants, and call it off if necessary. With that decided, you take the offered seat.

It’s a strange place, perched on his desk. Too many bad ideas flicker through your head as you settle, even as you beat them back into their hidden places again. (The things you’ve thought about doing on this desk— particularly after last week…)

“Comfortable?” Silco asks, standing with one hand on the back of his chair as he waits for an answer.

You shrug a shoulder, noncommittally.

A raised brow prompts a more satisfactory answer.

“Seems so.” …Okay, maybe you haven’t completely given up making things difficult.

There’s a twitch to his lips, that hidden smirk that flicks a thrum in your chest. In one smooth move, he’s seated, and you shift back as he grasps the edge of the desk to roll himself closer, pressing your knees open as he tucks his legs into the space beneath.

Involuntarily, your back arches for him, hips shifting nervously at how open and vulnerable your position feels. Thank fuck you wear pants nearly every day. At least there’s that consolation.

An appreciative glance rakes over your body regardless, sending heat straight to your core, though the position you’re in prevents you from properly relieving any of that newfound tension. Instead, the instinct to close your legs just presses them against his hands, earning you a knowing look that makes your face flush and eyelids feel heavy.

His eyes drop to your knees, and one hand flattens, his pinky brushing your inner thigh before he seems to think better of it and pulls away.

Once again you struggle to fend off thoughts of his hands roaming your body.

The clear eye closes, a slow intake of breath one of the most transparent tells you’ve ever seen from Silco. Trying to refocus, but on what?

He wheels back just enough to reach for his desk drawer. Suspicion pricks behind your ear, trying to recall anything you've ever seen him pull from the desk, and what drawer they were located in. You’re ticking through options that all feel too much too quickly when he pulls out the odd syringe you’d seen him use with Jinx. There’s a click as he locks one piece into place, then a soft tk tk of his finger flicking the barrel.

As neutral as you try to keep your face, there’s a certain confused notch between your brows. You can’t help but stare at the device, trying to determine how it works, before glancing to Silco’s face again.

There’s a very slight smile on his lips, but it’s more like a grimace. This isn’t something he looks forward to using, obviously. Fair: it looks painful.

The chair rolls between your legs again, and Silco leans back, gesturing with the device. “Like this.” He holds it well above the intended target, making sure to emphasize where the hand holds and where the fulcrum is on the lever, how low you can choke your grip while still being able to activate it. Squeezing the grip makes a click that reminds you of the injector you use for painkillers, and similarly a needle (even if this is much longer) stings out from the canister, a dose of cool-toned shimmer delivered into the air above his cheek rather than his eye.

Silco wipes the liquid from his skin with his other hand, not bothering to find a handkerchief. “Is that clear?”

“You… you want me to-”

He nods, already offering the syringe. When you don’t immediately take it, he pulls your wrist to him to place it there.

You jump at the contact. Anxiety makes your prosthesis tingle, hyper aware of what you should be feeling where his fingers touch you.

“…You’re sure you want-”

The firm way he says your name brokers no argument. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t believe you were capable.”

It shouldn’t steal your breath the way it does. He’d said it to Jinx, when she held his medicine in her hands. I trust you. That’s what this means. More than any I’m sorry, or I was wrong: this is an apology, and so much more.

He pulls the chair even closer, fully invading your space well before he leans back at an angle, watching you with an even stare, hands on the armrests. Ready. Prepared. Trusting.

Your ribs feel crushed, but you try to keep your hands as steady as possible.

“Take a breath,” he advises, voice low. You love that voice, when he speaks for an audience of one. “When you’re ready.”

A breath. Another.

You lean into his space, fully willing to complete the task, but unsure where to place your good hand to brace yourself.

Slim fingers take a gentle hold of your wrist, directing your fingers into his hairline, palm gently pressed against his forehead. The grip on your wrist is enough, but that brief combing hair between your fingers… Heat rushes through you at the contact, and right behind it a thin sparking wire of hurt, remembering the last time you got so close, and how he’d so quickly rejected you, striking right at your weakest points.

And now here he is. Baring his weakness to you, offering you a tool that can strike just as hard.

You look away from your task, examining his face, your own troubled.

“It’s okay.” His reassurance warms the air.

That thing fluttering in your chest won’t shut up. To silence it, you resolutely focus on the assignment, determined to do it right and not hurt him.

Lined up, eye socket in the cradle of the device. Hold your breath.

Click.

Instinctively the hand on his forehead drops to his shoulder, steadying him as he lurches forward, a grimace warping his features. You drop the device back on the desk and quickly steady his head again with the prosthesis. No sorry comes from your lips, because you already knew this would happen— you knew this is supposed to happen, even if seeing him in pain wrenches at your gut.

A trickle of shimmer leaks from the bad eye, and you swipe it away with a ceramic thumb—

A tiny noise of surprise catches in your throat.

Again, you swipe your thumb over the scarred skin. Then your other fingers. The tingling is brief, and settles, but you still feel warmth. You still—

Breath hitches, throat constricting, and you do it again.

You cup his cheek and run the thumb up the valleys of scars, barely brushing against skin. Softer than you’ve been able to achieve until now. Because now…

Tears spring to your eyes, fingers fanning across the scarred half of his face, breath uneven.

“I—” You can’t even find words.

For the first time in over a month, you have a hand again.

Every little divot, every puckered edge of old wounds, the heat of his cheek, the minuscule hairs on those areas left untouched— you feel it all.

There’s no attempt to hide the overwhelming flood that seizes you in its grip. Wonder and relief and bittersweet pain that you’d missed it for so long, all playing out across your face, inches from his. You still stare at his scars, at the ceramic fingers tracing along them— your fingers, finally feeling a part of you.

Flesh hand digs into his shoulder, excitement making you shift on your perch, push closer, reveling in the sensation.

It’s clear this is connected to the shimmer, because not every inch has gained feeling, just the textured finger pads that brushed the medication from his cheek. Realization clicks that that’s why your wrist tingled as well, once he took it with shimmer-touched fingers. Whatever mix he has, whatever specialized formula is in that syringe, that’s the key. Part of you wants to drench the hand in that mix, but you don’t want to let go.

A delicate touch follows the ashen curve beneath his eye, the half-missing eyebrow, then up along one deep scar to finger the start of the distinct light streak in his hair. A short breath breaks from lips parted with amazement at the fine texture freshly available to those fingers. Drawing down the scars again. Back up, in a slow lazy pattern.

Down, up, mapping his fault lines. Worshipping his injuries with your own.

It’s only his sigh of breath that makes you zoom out, to see more than just your fingers caressing skin. His good eye is closed, though there’s a small touch of concern pulling his brows together, just slightly. Lips are tight but not distressed exactly...

Again, it’s an expression you know.

Want.

Need for more, and a refusal to act on that need.

—At least, assuming you’re reading him correctly.

The thing in your chest beats against your rib cage frantically, heart speeding as you consider the choice you’re halfway done making.

Fingers cup his cheek. Ceramic thumb follows those lines again, down to the point where they meet his lip. It brushes across the skin there, running back and forth over lips far softer than you expected, marveling at every little ridge you can feel, how you can suddenly feel his breath hitting skin that no longer exists.

Maybe you didn’t consider this decision at all, because not a single consequence has cemented itself in your mind. Your body acts on its own, bending to close the distance between you. Hardly a fraction of a second of hesitation.

You press your lips to the corner of his mouth, to the spot where the scars end, still cupping his face with your ceramic hand. A kiss without kissing.

—

[Happy new year! Feels about time we get some real intimacy y’know? 😏

Anyway, I originally intended to post this Christmas Eve, but then I got in a car crash on the 16th (I’m fine, my car isn’t) and had to deal with all that while my parents were out of town, an underwhelming holiday, followed by a 12-to-24 hour stomach bug the day after getting back to my apartment. Overall, a bit of a mess for the holidays 🥲 Thanks go out to anyone who helped me shoulder the cost of all of that, it really did add up when it comes to the ridiculous price of a cross-state-lines car rental. And also, though they’ll never read this, thanks to my fellow Jewish families that I can rely on to feed me when I’m left alone on Christmas Eve/day 😅 Honestly, I was super lucky to have the friends and family I have, it made all of this mess bearable.

ANYWAY.

I only have like 85-90% of the next chapter written, and I want to find some way to bring it to at least somewhat of a conclusion, since I haven’t been able to write for shit lately, but want to give some degree of closure for loyal readers. We’ll see what I can manage, I guess! But the original intention of posting 29-31 before the end of the year… welp. That apparently isn’t going to happen >< Holiday complications were unexpected. Regardless, I have to do the regular plugs and requests, so; if you liked this chapter, let me know! Comments, reblogs, responses on the ao3 post, etc— and if you want to find more content (reverse POVs you may have missed, art you may not have seen (new art coming soon!), fics from friends, etc) you can find all of that on the story’s masterpost here on tumblr. If you want to be tagged in the next (and potentially last?) chapter of this fic, just comment on this linked post to join the tag list.

I love you all so much, it always thrills me to see people’s reactions, and this has been a bright spot in the mess of the last couple weeks. ❤️ -verbs]

The feeling coursing through you is fucking amazing, some combination of shame and bliss and indulgence, the pain a perfect complement to the guilty pleasure of it.

“…I seem to have lost count.” The evenness to his tone suggests otherwise, the smooth soft leather of the crop’s tress soothing heated skin. Little taps make you startle, anticipating another blow, but no, just teasing little thip thip thips before the flat presses between your legs again.

There’s not enough pressure to grind against the implement, but just enough friction for you to feel the damp pull along your folds. Mouth pressed tight, trying not to hum or whine, you fail on both counts.

Silco’s voice is low but lacking the usual cocky edge. Like all his attention is on staying even-keeled. “You are always welcome to voice your gratitude.”

And then it begins again, never dropping much below the highest level of the last set.

You’re practically panting by the fourth strike. By eight you’ve thanked him twice more, and have melted forward, half-collapsed against the desk. The next strike seems to miss its exacting target, instead hitting half on skin and half on the edge of your underwear.

To your mortification, you realize you’d rather not be wearing any. Your hand is halfway down to its target when Silco steps back, crop well away from your skin.

“Do you need-” to stop?

“No!” You interrupt before he can ask. “No, I just-”

You hesitate, fingers twitching as you register your own action. What are you doing? This is— this is—

…It’s not asking, though. It’s not pleading or begging or asking for him to touch you, not with words. Just…

Hesitantly, you bring fingers to the waistband of your underwear, plucking at the hemline unintentionally. Eyes stay squeezed shut, nervous sweat beading on the forehead you have pressed to the desktop.

The room falls into silence so complete you can hear the brush of fabric against your skin as you tentatively hook your thumb in the waistband and drag down, feeling the radiating heat from your reddened ass and thighs as you do so.

Cool air against your sodden heat makes you draw in an audible breath, movement faltering. Your courage wanes— or maybe your stupidity passes— and you clumsily bring your hand back to the desk, back to the position you know is acceptable and comfortable despite the pressure on your elbows, without finishing the job. Just half-lowered underwear left to barely cover you from Silco’s gaze.

It’s silent.

Completely silent.

Your brain starts to whirr, starts to panic, to replay the last few minutes and determine if you went wrong somewhere. He wants you, doesn’t he? Or is it a case of him finding you less attractive than the power he holds over you? Did you cross a boundary again? Will he pull away again? Leave you wet and wanting, displayed across his desk in all your shame?

The longer the stillness stretches, the tighter your head feels, the louder your labored breaths seem, the more constricted your throat.

Your stomach starts to sink. A different kind of fear, a different kind of anxiety, a nausea at the prospect that you have made a terrible mistake.

It simmers for too long.

The brush of the leather tress against your bare ass makes you jump, a pathetic sound of relief and blatant need pulling in your throat. On the verge of tears as the crop catches to - painfully slowly - finish the move you started, dragging fabric lower. The way the last bit clings between your legs is damning.

He’s so quiet.

The crop pushes the fabric down along one leg, until your spread stance offers resistance. Then it moves to the other leg to trace its way back up. The slow tease only serves to make your need that much hungrier. Fists tighten on the desk, lip between your teeth.

“Ah-!” The little snap against your sex makes you cry out, the wet of it making the slap sound that much more obvious. Toes curl, and you find yourself subtly shifting, opening your stance like it can tempt him to alleviate your gnawing hunger.

The crop drags against your lips before pulling back.

Still no words.

Please say something. Please. Tell me I’m good, tell me this is okay, tell me you want me, please.

Nothing.

Your disappointment is overshadowed, however, as you hear him - feel him - step forward. No longer a crop’s distance away.

Then soft leather brushes burning skin: two of Silco’s fingers whispering against the reddened marks, tracing the curve around, then down. Two fingers hardly making contact, splitting to a V to skim around where you truly need him as he pushes his hand between your legs.

Your frustrated whimper breaks to a sharp breath as his path back drags one gloved finger firmly down the center of you. It’s a hint of friction but not nearly enough, even if the slight press of his fingertip teasing at your entrance makes you clench.

Fucking hell, you need him. He’s so close, can’t he just—

Your groan of frustration burbles in your chest, followed by another whine. This is what he does to you: reduces you to wordless noise and carnal appetite.

As on-edge as you are, your ears practically prick up at the hint of noise behind you. A heavy exhale. A low hum.

Anticipation shivers up your spine.

A dry digit brushes one flushed thigh, very briefly. “…Step out of them.” His voice doesn’t need to be loud in such a quiet space.

Mouth dry, you hurriedly obey as best you can without being able to see your shoes, nearly falling sideways the first time one boot gets caught, and leaning forward to at least get one foot free and resume your position.

Please touch me. Please.

You can’t say it - won’t say it - only feel it: a mantra on repeat in your head.

Please please please.

The slight huff of a laugh sounds at your back, and then you hear fabric shift again. You startle at the feeling of his elbow knocking one sock-clad calf while hands skim down the other, and you curse high boots for existing and stopping you from properly feeling his hands as he lifts one foot for you so he can untangle the fabric.

He must turn his head, because an involuntary little squeak escapes you when breath breezes against you. The prospect of being face-to-cunt with him was not something you expected today. You feel entirely too seen, too examined, too self-conscious to have him staring straight at you so shamelessly.

But gods, you want more.

Hips shift like you can get him closer, already imagining his tongue rolling against you—

And then he’s standing again, so soon. The disappointed breath sighs out of you.

“Six more strokes,” he reminds you, smirk audible. “And four more, for staining my tools.” The smug tone of that smoky voice wraps you around his finger, toying with you like a cat with a mouse. “Impossible to get the smell of cunt out of leather. …As you may very well know.”

The rush of heat to your face makes you dizzy. Silco very rarely swears, and to choose to use it in this context, for your body…

Without any preamble, still distracted by his taunting, you’re caught off guard by the particularly harsh impact of the crop in just the right spot, and the keening cry you let loose is uncomfortably loud until you hide it against your good fist, still left breathing heavily.

The tongue of the crop smooths over the sting, but you need more. One taste of his hand wasn’t enough. You crave his touch, hunger for—

His hands rubbing away the pain, fingers straying to toy with your pussy, kneading your ass like a damned masseur—

His satisfied hum vibrates low in the air, and it has you whimpering against your own skin.

“…You really are more than I ever imagined…”

The words alone send a rush of arousal to painfully harden your nipples, clenching around nothing. Fuck— that didn’t make anything easier.

Another smack of the crop and you stifle your noise, mouth opening to pant against your fist, top teeth catching on a knuckle and digging in lightly.

Does he imagine you, then? The way you’ve imagined him? The way you're imagining him, cock in hand plunging deep into you in one rough thrust that makes your eyes roll and your body buck. Shit—

Two more snaps against skin in quick succession and you’re shaking. A little hiccup of surprise as the tool slides between your thighs again.

The little taps of the crop against your sex are so fucking teasing, but you swore not to plead, so you’re left with the hot wet breath of a half-gagged thank you moaned against your fist.

You are far from thankful.

Well— yes, you’re thankful, but he’s absolutely tormenting you, and all you want to do is beg him to touch you already, but instead your own stupid rules drag it out further when you just want him to fuck you, good gods—

A particularly well-placed slap of the crop’s tongue hits your clit and your body jerks forward with your muffled cry, eyes snapping open, back arching and hips squirming, legs trembling as you whimper after. Feeling halfway to orgasm already, your gaze is foggy, eyelids weighed down by lust, mind incapable of anything but being present.

It’s fucking amazing.

Any and all anxiety, self-consciousness, doubt— if it’s there at all, it serves a purpose: it’s for him, an offering, and he’s paying you back with unwavering attention. Fear heightens arousal, shame turning it all perverse and delicious, and despite being treated like a damned horse with the amount your flanks are being slapped, it’s validating somehow.

You feel demeaned, maybe, but— but you feel desired.

…Now you just need him to fucking touch you already.

The crop turns on its edge and drags through your folds on the way back, the curve of it teasing your entrance. You’re tempted to chase after it, desperate, needing anything for stimulation. But his hands were right there, even if not skin to skin, and you want more.

Please.

There’s a pause, and you sense words unspoken. What is he stopping himself from saying? You need to know, you need— him, you need him.

Please.

“…Have you had enough?”

“Nnnh-” You whine around your knuckle, remembering just in time that no is off limits.

Silco must be expecting a yes.

“…You don’t want me to stop? To find some alternative way of meting out your remaining punishment?” The question comes with a stroke of the crop against your heat that promises much more pleasant options.

But that’s not the point. That’s what you want (and desperately). But this is about proving he wants you. It’s the only thought left in your addled mind.

You don’t say no. You don’t say yes, either, despite how badly you want whatever alternative he’s offering. And you absolutely refuse to say please.

The crop pulls away and you tense expectantly for another strike. Instead, you almost jump at the sound of the item being placed on the desk.

The way he says your name is stern, but not angry. Being acknowledged that way immediately overwhelms you. The person you are now isn’t her, it’s someone with less agency, fewer expectations, blissfully free of difficult decisions. Reconciling that with your everyday identity is half terrifying, half thrilling.

“Speak freely.” His voice is low, even. “Do you want to stop?”

“I—” You choke on the word. Gods, can’t he just do? Why does he have to make you choose? Teeth sink into your skin again as you muffle your helpless whine.

“Do you want to continue?” This time there’s a touch of exasperation in his tone, and you feel like an idiot. It’s just a yes or no question, why are you making it such a big deal?

Because it matters. It matters that he wants this. That it’s not just indulging your perverse little whims, but something he chooses you for.

When you don’t answer, Silco lets out a tight sigh. “What do you want, sweet, I can’t read your mind.”

‘Sweet.’ Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s not how he means it, you’re sure, the dry delivery made his mockery clear enough, but still.

“I—” You struggle to find the words. “It’s— it’s up to you.”

A pause. You feel him shift closer again, feeling magnetized to his presence behind you. “…Up to me?” he muses.

You swallow. “Yes, Sir.” Please touch me.

The whisper of contact as his hand hovers above your lower back has you sucking in a sharp breath. Yes.

“…Jumpy…” he teases, tracing a finger along where your skirt has been flipped up onto your back, reminding you again of the embarrassing position he’s put you in. Leather brushes skin as he smooths down the round of your ass, delicately— before groping the bottom curve in a harsh grip.

Yesyesyesyes. You stifle your noise even as you throb for him, that itch behind your navel winding tighter.

“So if I chose to give the rest of your punishment a different way…” Silco’s gloved fingers barely tease your slit, rubbing that edge where your inner thigh ends. “You’d accept that?”

Mindless. You’re mindless for him, just needy. “Yes, Sir,” you breathe, trying to press yourself back into his grip, needing his fingers inside you.

The soft breath of laughter makes your face flood with heat for the umpteenth time. Burning up for him. “Hmm, I’m afraid only good girls get their hungry little cunts filled.”

Fuck— the words alone make your eyes roll back, flattening your cheek to the desk with a groan, as you lift to your tiptoes and try to grind on his hand.

The sharp swat discourages you, in theory, but instead you want more. Anything to keep his hands on you. Your hips shift restlessly, panting mouth nearly drooling around the already reddened knuckle wedged between your teeth.

“Rude little sluts get punished.” His kneading hand is rough, but the leather still manages to soothe the earlier heat from his aforementioned punishment.

The term is so completely unfitting that you can’t possibly see it referring to anything beyond your behavior toward him. You certainly haven’t slept with someone in a long while, and yet the filthy thoughts you’ve had about your boss quite easily put your real experiences to shame.

“‘Up to me,’” Silco repeats in a mutter; “You really want to do that?” An audible sneer belies the approving little hum that comes after, the assuring way he gives your hip a short squeeze.

“Yeh thuh,” spoken around your hand.

His thumb draws a little spiral absently as he shifts, and you hear one of the disciplinary implements sliding from the desk beside you, even if you’re turned away from it. You have your suspicions well before he steps back and you feel the cane sliding against your warmed skin.

“Six strokes left,” he reminds you. “And you prefer pain over pleasure?”

Your whine is in place of the no you both want and don’t want to say. Of course you’d prefer pleasure. But all the pain he’s doled out has only served to raise your arousal, blood flowing to those bits of your anatomy that are making you positively ravenous at the moment.

The cane taps lightly against you, making you tense in expectation, but it’s never hard. Just enough to keep you on edge. No answer means it’s not a yes. “Can you take it?”

A better question. “Yes, Si-” You squeak in surprise as the cane thwacks against your ass rather than your thighs. It’s somehow worse and much better. The pain still hurts, but there’s a much deeper satisfaction, a pleasant throb between your legs as you take it.

“One. More?”

You’re breathless, still recovering from your last strike, but manage a weak, “mhm,” of confirmation.

“Words.” The cane taps gently against you again, a warning. He can always add more to your tally.

After a second, you recover enough to say, “Yes, Sir.”

You’re expecting the next strike; it’s a little easier to take once you’re mentally prepared.

“Two. Still want to leave it up to me?” It’s practically a taunt. A warning. You realize he’s asking permission, asking if he can go harder than this.

“Yes, Sir.” After a split second hesitation, while he continues the teasing little taps, you add, “Thank you, Sir.” He could’ve just done it, he didn’t have to ask. Even if he hid it under a layer of mockery.

The cane stops for a second. “…You’re welcome.”

Then he hits hard, hard enough that you yelp, jolting against the desk.

“If you’re not careful someone might hear you,” Silco warns, a hint of wickedness to his tone. “That was three.”

You pant, legs weak. But bow your head to press your forehead to the desk and make sure you’re standing straight. “Thank you, Sir.” Another. You can take it, and you want to take it.

“Four.”

The cry catches in your throat and you hear rather than feel the ceramic against wood as your bad hand flattens from its fist, jerking out sideways as your knees give out just like they did the first time. It stings— and aches, in a way that reminds you of the day after a good workout, only the skin is far warmer.

But that all flees your mind entirely as a gloved hand massages the sting away. The cane makes its little clatter against the desktop and then both his hands are on you, and you have the sudden mortifying urge to cry.

“Good girl,” Silco’s voice is throatier than you expect, one hand rubbing a thumb in circles at your waist as the other soothing you far more gently than before. “Very good,” he hums, and it may be the warmest you’ve heard him.

Your whimper comes out more like a sob. It isn’t even the pain: it’s the affection. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Tears burn in your eyes, and so much of it is relief.

“Taking everything I gave you…” The low murmur is shockingly lacking edge. “Such a good girl.”

Okay, yes, you’re crying. It’s just— it’s such a relief. The pain, the soft touch afterward, the fizz of hormones flooding your system that have you half out of reality. And more than that— there’s something about this, about taking pain. It’s like… the ability to show your devotion without needing to say it out loud. Proving something without having to swallow your pride to admit it. And being rewarded for that devotion, with reassuring touch, even if it's not as much as you want. You want too much. You want to be surrounded by him— you want to touch him.

“I think…” His hand drops between your legs again, “perhaps an alternative, to settle your account.” Petting you, a teasing softness that hardly brushes slick skin.

You shiver and moan and bite your lip, humming to keep the please from breaking free as he strokes you gently, somehow tormenting you again after seeming to promise not to.

Unless…

Firmer, never seeming to fully touch anything quite enough, only ever dipping the tip of his finger but never going inside, only pressing around your clit but never brushing it directly. You try - really try - to get more friction, more pressure, just more— squirming and grinding and trying so damn hard.

The hand on your waist squeezes before shifting to press your back, push you firmly down on the desk. “Hold still, sweet; you still owe me two strokes.” You can hear the self-satisfied smirk.

Tears of relief are forgotten in favor of growing frustration, feeling yourself wound so damned tight that you’re sure you could cum the second he thrust inside you. But he doesn’t. Just rubs and teases and thumbs without ever fucking you like you need.

The throb between your legs is unbearable. The keening whine is as close to begging as you’ll allow yourself, eyes glazed and half closed, face twisted with desperation.

Arousal is smeared across his glove, your inner thighs— every motion lewdly audible in a way that shames you as much as it turns you on.

The next time he massages around your clit and then barely brushes the spot where you want more pressure, you let out a frustrated growl, bucking slightly.

His fingers disappear in an instant, a wet slap against your ass as the hand on your back renews its downward force. He’s moved closer; a more convenient angle to push you down, yes, but also maneuvering his hips to stop your wild squirming. But even better— the thing that makes your frustrated movement falter.

You suck in a sharp breath, foggy eyes going wide, a shock of ice and heat hitting you in quick succession.

If you wanted proof he wants you… the hard hot ridge pressed to your oversensitized backside is clear enough.

Silco’s hand comes around your hip to reach from the front to continue his torment, but you’re so fixated on his cock. Right there. Your subtle little gyrations - the best you can manage while pinned to his desk - rub the swell of your ass against him. You relish the subtle shift of his own hips, the pressure in little rolling motions barely discernible unless you stop moving, but the one time you do, just to check, you feel him continue the gentle rocking a second longer, and it feels so damn gratifying.

You feel yourself light up at the realization, a renewed vigor that fucks your brain far more than his fingers are. Your own fervid panting seems to spur him on, his hand bringing you very quickly to the same spot he had you before the brief spanking. His steadily increasing attention has your pulse racing, breath hitching, on the edge of orgasm.

Need coils in your gut, ready to snap, eyes closed as your motions freeze again, body stiffening, trying to keep his hand in the position it just was, in that perfect position you want to keep the pressure just right—

And he pulls away.

The dry sob is sheer agony.

“Punishment, my dear, this is a punishment.” His dark chuckle has tears prickling in your eyes once more. The mocking little coo of sympathy is too damn hot for what an asshole move it is.

“Only one more, sweet,” he promises, shifting his weight in a way that once again emphasizes the weight of his cock pressing against your ass. “…Though I suspect you may be more eager to make our little meetings after this revelatory afternoon.”

Your brain can’t handle his stupid fancy words. Just fuck me already. Pressing your forehead to the desk you groan as the perfectly wound tension loosens again. But you never say please. Won’t fucking do it. As much as he frustrates you, part of you is maliciously delighting in the treatment, loving to hate it, gluttonous for his attention and feasting on it.

“Just one more…” Silco murmurs, idly stroking your back as that hard won arousal ebbs slightly. He gathers your skirt at the waistband in his fist. You’re sad to feel his hips draw away, losing the reassurance of his hot length grinding against you. But then his hand comes back again from behind.

You sink into pleasure faster this time, eager to get back to the heights, to attain that ecstasy before he yanks it away again.

Apparently, your worry is utterly unnecessary.

Fingers stroke along your folds with that all-knowing ease, pressing and circling and rubbing just right, and then his hand turns and his thumb teases you before pressing in with one purposeful move that makes your mouth drop open.

You haven’t touched yourself since that day he gave you his glove; how fitting it is that his gloved hand be the follow-up performance. His thumb feels thick with the added girth of the leather, and the little hint of stretch feels perfect. (Though you assume his cock would be more perfect.)

His other fingers continue to massage and grind as his thumb carefully circles inside you, loosening any anxious tension, the base finding points around your entrance you didn’t realize could provide pleasure. Then Silco adjusts his wrist, places his fingers just so, and presses down.

“Ah-nh!” The mewling whine that pulls from your throat quickly fades to a continuous stream of moans and whimpers, his ministrations ushering you out of your mind as you rapidly ascend the heights.

Presence of mind is fleeting, but it does occur to you to ask— or attempt to do so.

“Can— nnhh— ca-an I— can—” Words are hard.

His hand pulls out and your needy sob is thin in the air before he simply turns his hand and presses a different two fingers in instead, finding that same spot to undulate against as his thumb finds new spots to play with.

“I give orders that can be obeyed,” Silco reminds you, sounding half-breathless himself.

Tighter. Drawn like a wire filament, with electricity humming through you as the voltage increases.

“That wouldn’t be one of them.”

One of what? You can hardly think. Body stiffens, trying to keep his hand right in that magic spot he’s found, clenching around him, already halfway there before he says it.

“Go on. Come for me.”

—

[next part]

[ 😳 *cough*

So uh. Anyway, that was 4k of pure smut ahahahah 😅 Hope you enjoyed?? Really got into some of the why of submission in a bdsm dynamic tbh; hopefully it resonates and/or explains something ><

Once again I ask that if you enjoyed you reblog the post, since I have no idea how tumblr tags pick what to boost or not. Also I love love love seeing the tags and comments y’all leave, both here and on ao3. I live off reactions to my work 😈

I may or may not end up writing a reverse POV for this whole business, but if I do you may want to be on the tag list so you know when it goes up, since the reverse POVs go up on tumblr well before they’re ever added to the ao3 series of reverse POVs. You can join the tag list by commenting on this linked post.

Thanks for stickin’ it out. I know this was a long time coming. Please don’t hate me for next chapter ;u; ❤️ -verbs]

“I’m looking for something… easy.”

Easy? That’s… not very specific. You edge toward the front counter, trying not to let your wariness show. It’s not that you’re scared of the notorious industrialist, you just… Well, yeah, okay, you’re a little scared. The guy has a reputation.

His eyes are inspecting the front room, chin raised in a vaguely haughty air, but his request had been politely respectful, if a little clipped. He doesn’t elaborate, just examines.

Your fingers fidget, picking at the edge of the counter. “With the air quality…” Your own gaze trails behind his, scanning the mostly-empty room, trying to see it as he might. Yeah, it’s lacking. All the nicest flowers have already been relocated. “We move the pretty stuff to the back at close,” you explain.

“I don’t know if I’d say that…” The man’s voice is smooth and smoky. There’s an unexpected lilt of humor to it, and your eyes are wide as they flick back to him and find him watching you. There’s the smallest lift to his closed lips, just a hint of— okay, you have to be imagining that. “…There’s still some very pretty things out here.”

Heat colors your cheeks as he holds your gaze for a moment. Maybe you’re just seeing things. His attention makes your pulse race; is he hitting on you?

But then he pointedly slides his gaze over to the little indoor pond (your favorite thing about this shop), and the floating water lilies that array themselves on the water.

“Oh— right.” Of course. Not you. Flowers. Duh. It’s a florist shop. “Well yeah, those don’t move. Pond’s too big,” you say, stupidly.

Silco’s steps are measured, completely dismissing any potential urgency of a store about to close in five minutes, as he makes his way to the pond. “Lovely plants.”

“Yep.” Was that rude? “I mean— yes, sir.”

There’s definite amusement in his good eye as he glances back over his shoulder at you, and you - once again - feel like an idiot.

“As much as I appreciate the sentiment, my dear, you do not work for me.” He turns his back to you, long fingers teasing the surface of the water as he circles the pond, and all you can do is watch as you mentally kick yourself. “I come seeking your expertise.” You can’t be imagining that hint of amusement as he adds, “Take a breath, I’m not here to kill you.”

A short nervous laugh splits the air before you seal your lips shut. Stupid stupid stupid. But yeah, okay, it’s admittedly a bit of a relief to get the confirmation. “Yes s-” You falter, blanking on an alternative.

“Simply ‘Silco’ is fine,” he offers. “As I said, I’m looking for something easy.” He straightens, pulling a handkerchief - a godsdamned handkerchief, in Zaun - from his front pocket. “Something hard to kill, but pretty. For my-” It’s his turn to lose his words, focusing instead on drying his hands. “My ward,” he finishes, diplomatically.

A ward? Despite yourself, something in you softens. You never really thought of the infamous Eye of Zaun as particularly fatherly. “How old are they?” You try to remember your first (disastrous) attempts to grow things. You were… around ten years old? Something like that, and distraught at your inability to keep the potted topside flower alive in your cramped window box. “Are you looking for something low maintenance, or just simple daily care?”

“She’s-” Again, he falters, and there’s something bizarrely humanizing in that uncertainty, the way his eyes drop to refold the square of fabric before tucking it away. Even in the warm-toned glow of the shop lights, you think you might spot a little color on his cheeks. “Twelve.” It’s said firmly, but the following mumbled, “I think,” isn’t lost to you.

Y’know, for all the cool confidence he walked in with, this guy… well he’s a sucker for someone, alright. You press your lips tight to keep from smiling, looking down at your desk and busying yourself straightening the writing utensils beside the register’s notepad. You kinda want to giggle. You won’t - because this is Silco, even if he is acting like a nervous new godsparent - but you’re tempted.

“I’m hoping to find something she wants to care for. Something she can’t kill.”

“Have you considered fake flowers?” The lighthearted joke (okay, half joke) slips past your lips before you realize it might not be the most polite choice.

You raise your eyes just in time to see his stare sharpen, fixing you with that inhuman iris as you squirm. But he softens again, seeing the mortified flush on your face. “They’re not out of the question,” he admits, wryly. “But I was hoping she might help something thrive. Even in the dark of Zaun.”

“Night blooming flowers?” You wrack your brain, trying to recall species that might be easy to care for. Technically, this is a florist shop, not a nursery, but flowers are a luxury in Zaun and don’t get sold as often as you’d like. The shop wouldn’t survive if you pre-made bouquets only for them to die before being purchased, so most of the business’s plants are maintained in-house, cuttings made at the time of ordering. Someone else is in charge of procuring the specimens from cultivars, but you at least know who to talk to. Even if you can’t find Silco something tonight, you can point him in the right direction.

It’s easier to relax once you’re doing something you’re good at (and maybe also when you aren’t constantly flicking your gaze back to Silco’s unwavering attention), so you keep your eyes on the notepad as you ask questions and make short notes about what the client is looking for.

“Is this to plant in the ground? A flower box?”

“A greenhouse.”

“Heat-controlled?”

“To an extent. Humidity-controlled, in sections.”

“Hands-off or hands-on?”

“I’m quite hands-on with my work, yes.” (You quickly shoo your thoughts back on track as he continues,) “But Jinx may do best starting with something less demanding.”

Jinx. “That’s adorable,” you mutter, crossing off one of the ideas you’d marked before, and jotting down something else on the other side of the list.

“She is, yes,” he murmurs, ruefully.

So stinkin’ cute. You chew at your bottom lip to hide the smile. A few more questions and you’ve picked out a couple options that may be in stock. He’d mentioned hoping to find his ward something that could thrive, and regardless of how pretty the exotics are, you know the best option is probably something more local.

“We might be able to take a couple cuttings from the nursery, if you want to come to the back?” It’s more question than offer, unsure if he’s expecting you to just deliver seedlings to his home. Again: florist, not gardening center, but there really aren’t gardening centers in the Undercity. …There aren’t really gardens in the Undercity, not like in Piltover, just a couple horticulturists and the upscale cultivars.

It’s only once you look up that you see how unexpectedly soft he looks, and— well yeah. Okay. It hits. His calm serenity as he reads over your notes just hits in a way ‘intimidating businessman’ Silco didn’t. A little flutter catches in your gut as he nods slowly. As soon as his eyes lift to yours, you look away, and it isn’t about fear this time. This is not at all what you expected to be doing on a closing shift, but—

“Shit!” You check the clock on the desk. It’s been ten minutes. “Fuck,” you mutter, sounding every bit your Undercity roots as you extricate yourself from behind the front desk and rush for the door. You very nearly trip over a stray vine, but right yourself just in time to not slam into the front door— right as the front door opens. You blink in surprise at the rather beefy figure who’s halfway through the door, but at a short clearing of a throat behind you, the man retreats and the door shuts again.

You turn to look at Silco. The softness has been briefly masked by mild annoyance. “My staff,” he explains, flatly.

“Oh.” Right. Yeah of course he has bodyguards and stuff. “I was going to lock the door.” You gesture vaguely at the ornate handle. “We closed five minutes ago.”

Silco waves a hand dismissively, and it’s such a strangely elegant gesture. “No one will bother us.”

He’s probably right. Actually, now that you think of it, him coming so close to closing means that no regular customers might have felt intimidated out of the shop. In a way, it was considerate.

Or not, maybe he just wanted special treatment; you certainly won’t deny one of the most powerful men in Zaun.

A powerful man willing to absolutely dote on his surrogate daughter.

Again, that flutter in the pit of your stomach. Your eyes are on the ground, watching for those traitorous loose vines as you head back to him. “Sorry about that, I—” Your awkward apologies are cut short, a brief humiliating squeak in their place as a hand rests on the small of your back and you stumble at the zing that shoots up your spine. It takes far too much self-control to stop the nervous laughter that wants to bubble from your throat. Anxiety response.

Your face flames at the low chuckle rumbling from the man at your side as Silco directs you to lead the way. “The nursery?” he reminds you.

Ha. Yes. That. You were going to do that a minute ago, weren’t you? His hand is barely touching you, just guiding you around the front desk, but you can’t help but fixate on the contact. Gentle but firm. Ears burn, your fingers awkwardly tangling together in front of you as you pass, and— yeah, that’s legitimate disappointment in your chest when his hand drops away.

You clear your throat, trying to remember your task. When there’s no desk between the two of you, his presence feels that much more overwhelming, drawing you into his orbit without even realizing. He’s quite magnetic.

“So-” Your voice is halting, regaining your train of thought. “I thought— right, your ward. We could go a few ways-” You launch into the options you’d narrowed down (one exotic that’s definitely in stock, one common that’s easy to find, and one more plebian variety that your shop doesn’t carry), but you’ve accidentally caught onto your own word choice. Where did the ‘we’ come from?

To his credit, Silco does seem to listen to you.

Attentively.

The longer he watches, the warmer you feel, and not in a bad way.

“‘But…?’” Silco prompts, and you suddenly realize you’ve trailed off mid-sentence.

“But—” You swiftly recall your point about the varietal in question. “-You can find it at any of the horticulturists in the lanes. It doesn’t sell to our usual entresol clients, because it’s too common. And they’re usually looking for flowers to show off in sunlight, anyway, not night bloomers or phosphorescents.”

“A commoner’s flower?” It’s not an accusation, more amused.

“It’s forgiving,” you explain, defensively. “I had one as a kid; it was the first thing I got to grow on my own, without fancy ventilation or anything.” And by that you mean— “It’s a survivor,” you insist. “Hard to kill. Like the best of the Undercity.”

“…Hm.” It’s such a simple noise, just a small hum of approval, but you’ve never felt so highly praised in your life. Silco’s lips twitch into that subtle humorous curve, head inclining toward you. “Like the best of us,” he agrees, smoothly.

You’d defended your choice with very Undercity-typical grit, and now you falter again. “Plus it’s pretty,” you mumble in a last bout of stubbornness, glancing down and away. “Kids like that they glow in the dark,” you add lamely.

“Undoubtedly she will as well,” he assures you. You can’t help but feel just a tiny bit patronized by his lenient tone. More so by his actions as he places a hand on your waist again (eliciting another little ping across your nerves), gesturing back to the front of the shop, as though he’s the one who works here. At least he does seem genuinely appreciative as he adds, “Thank you for your assistance. It’s been— illuminating.” Was that a pun? His face doesn’t give anything away as he glances down, fingers barely brushing your side as he walks you back to the register.

Once at the front desk, he rips off the top sheet of the notepad, then turns the blank page toward you, the pen doing a graceful turn in his long fingers as he holds it out to you. “The name of the plant, if you would.” You should really be the one offering to jot things down, it’s your job. But he’s undoubtedly the one in control of this situation— a fact made all too clear as he adds, while you’re mid-line: “And yours.”

You comply, heat creeping up your neck, that dumb little flutter back in your stomach again. It’s silly, really. You never realized Silco could be charming, but that’s undoubtedly the effect he’s having. You’re definitely feeling charmed.

Words fail you as he folds the page away into his pocket. Your usual thanks for stopping by seems flippant, and enjoy your bouquet is completely inapplicable.

His confident stride has Silco halfway to the door before you settle on, “Good luck.”

He pauses at the door, long fingers tracing the curve of the handle as he turns back to you. “I expect more of your expertise on the next one.”

Oh. “I— alright.”

With a succinct nod, he exits the shop.

It’s a full minute later you remember to lock the door.

-

[ ao3 link is in the source, but any love or boosts you can offer here or there is greatly appreciated!

A deep well of need yawns open inside of you. Even after all of this… even after whatever strange perverse ritual you’ve just shared…

It can’t be true. Not after that. Surely this was proof. You felt how much he wanted you, you could tell.

Swallowing, you blink slowly and shift your wobbly legs just enough to adjust your head to face him. Still with your cheek to the desk. Still exhausted. Looking up at him with too-clear eyes.

Silco is staring straight ahead at his office door, gaze unfocused as he smokes, expression neutral. Painfully neutral, after how intense that experience was for you.

After another solid minute watching him, he finally indulges you, blowing out smoke with a sigh before looking down at you. He’s waiting for you to say something. But you don’t know what to say. Not a single word passes between you, but you worry your pain from that silence shows.

Say something. Tell me you care. I don’t want this to mean nothing.

No words come.

The pain tears an edge of your chest, a little rip that aches.

This… This is… fine.

The usual mantra does nothing to reassure you.

Please touch me. Please kiss me. Please hold me.

It’s not hungry libido, it’s insecurity and doubt and vulnerability bleeding through that tear.

Please care.

…

He watches you like he’s waiting on some inevitable words, and you have none. He watches you with a challenge, expecting something you can’t offer.

Please love me.

The thought is fleeting, the pain of it hidden as you turn your eyes to the desktop, getting your arms under you and your feet firmly on the ground again as you lift yourself up without his aid. Maybe he’s just… being careful. Maybe, if you…

His eyes slide off of you as you stand, keeping a hand on the desk. Back to his pretentious contemplation of the middle distance, like he’s posing for a portrait. Any sign of arousal from earlier has gone.

Your ceramic hand audibly drags across the desktop until it falls off the ledge as you turn to face him, leaning your hip against the desk. Silently watching him perched on the edge. Willing him to look you in the eye and read your mind.

When he gives you nothing, you throw your vulnerability against the stone wall of his indifference. Prosthesis flexing, you reach for his knee—

And he shifts away.

You tried. You did. And now you’re just… hurting.

This is fine.

No it’s not. This is far from fine.

But you can’t deal with that here. You can’t collapse and crumble into tears over him. You’re better than that. (No, you’re not.) You deserve better than that. (No, you don’t.)

You have to be able to get past this. There is no other option.

He offers the perfect example to imitate, indifference to mirror. Gaze shuttering away the too much you’ve been showing him. Mouth neutral even as your throat feels tight. Shut it down. Shut it all down.

Cynicism fills the void.

“You changed your mind awfully quick.” Your voice is quiet, tone reserved.

Another slow draw, forcing you to sit through his contemplation as he lets smoke fall from his lips. “…About what.” It’s delivered with a flat nonchalance, hardly a question as his eyes drift sideways to you.

You’re not even sure how to answer. Already you can imagine his cold, detached tone as he drawls on about you reading too much into things. How his treatment is to keep you in line, keep you behaving and keep your recovery moving forward.

“You initiated this,” he reminds you, taking another draw as he looks down his nose at you. Another breath out. “I gave plenty of opportunities to stop.” He turns toward the door again.

He did. You know he did. Maybe you should have taken them, if you’d known this would be the aftermath.

…Oh.

Slowly, you shake your head, some degree of disbelief and disappointment dawning on you.

“…I can’t do this again.”

You’re too tired. You can’t handle this along with the rest of your life.

There’s a brief flash in his eyes, a sharpening of his gaze as it cuts to you, even if he still faces away. “Who else have-”

“We can’t do this again,” you clarify. It’s not the situation that’s repeating. It’s the two of you.

He watches his cigar as he takes another mouthful of smoke. Once that’s expelled, he says, almost demurely, “…Understood. We’ll return to financial-”

“I’d like to see the Doctor instead.”

He can’t hide the tiny turn of his head, the flash of confusion - shades of panic and anger - before it all shutters again. Back to cool indifference. “As I told you, Singed is busy with-”

“It’s five minutes, Silco.” It may be the first time you’ve addressed him like this: so informally, so assertively, interrupting him at every turn. “I’ll get myself to the lab. I’ll do mornings with Wren, I’ll figure out a training schedule.”

Eyes dart between yours, giving away the anxiety that otherwise doesn’t leak into his demeanor.

“You wanted attention.” There’s an edge to his voice, an angry clipped tone that belies the nervous tapping at his cigar. “Practically begged for it, nearly propositioning me drunk.”

You blink, unable to hide your surprise. You definitely don’t remember that. “So you indulged me?” Annoyance gnaws at the base of your spine. That’s what he’s calling this?

Never has the game been so clear.

“Of—” A frustrated huff of breath as he turns away, taking another short mouthful of smoke. “What would you call this, if not indulging you?”

“You called it punishment.”

“Your particular brand of punishment isn’t exactly standard practices, sweet,” he sneers. “I merely work to your predilections.”

You grit your teeth. Bullshit. “I don’t know, you were the one grinding his cock against my ass,” you spit, “I assumed it might be at least somewhat enjoyable for you, too.” The heat of righteous indignation serves to fill that hole, a shield serving to substitute for your still weak emotional walls.

The pink in his cheeks might be shame, but you suspect it’s a flush of anger, his cool facade crumbling more and more. “Your submission is-”

It makes you feel sick. You grip the edge of his desk with your good hand as the prosthesis at your side curls to a fist. “That’s really all you want from me? To play this part for you?”

“As if you don’t take every opportunity to fawn-”

“Shut up. I’m asking you a question.”

His eyes flash, and the lighter clatters against the desk as he drops it to reach for you— your throat, or the front of your shirt, whatever he intends to drag to him in a show of intimidation.

He doesn’t get a chance.

Wren would be so proud of the way you get your arms up fast, hook your prosthetic sleeve over his forearm and redirect it, tugging him - wide-eyed - half off the desk, your other hand already up and ready to defend.

It’s silent, both of you frozen.

Silco’s cigar smolders on the floor.

For a second there, you spotted it: fear. Now his expression is a grimace, and you’re sure yours is, too. This was too much. From both of you.

“…Let go of me.”

You obey. And take a half step back, as Silco rights himself, standing in front of you.

When you make no move to push the physical altercation, he lets out a breath. The cigar is picked up from the floor, placed in the ashtray that must’ve appeared on the desk while you were still blissed out. His humor is desert dry, when he finally speaks.

“Is this how you treat all of your sexual partners?”

“Not exactly a partnership, is it?” You keep the venom in your voice to a minimum.

Mismatched eyes examine your face, anger subsiding. His demeanor calms. There’s a short sigh. Then: “What do you want from me?”

Just let me touch you.

That hurts, that thought. How much you need him.

You stare right back, wishing he could just know. He’s just known so much, why not this?

Finally, you find the words. Quiet, but strong. “Do you like touching me?”

The expression is brief - a minuscule furrowing of his brow, tension in his mouth, eye narrowed - before it settles to something neutral but concentrated.

He says nothing.

And isn’t that answer enough?

Your own hurt is hard to hide. But you tighten your jaw and lift your chin, gaze fixed on his shirt collar, prepared to soldier on despite the sting that’s so much worse than any punishment he can dole out.

One long look at him, wishing you could press that hurt into his own chest, and then you shake your head and turn on your heel.

You leave the door open when you leave, but neither man nor words come after you.

—

There was no guard at the bottom of the stairs when you left. No one to witness your disheveled clothes as you went straight for the bathrooms to clean up, and no one to see the slightly-less-disheveled you that came out some minutes later.

That fucker still had your panties.

But pride absolutely refused to go back, not even for the miracle drugs you’d also be needing later today, opting instead to head straight home to shower. Get that clinging scent of sex and cigar smoke off of you.

As you scrub at your scalp, rinse the residue from between your legs, suds up every inch of you, your brain has already committed every moment to memory.

It had felt good. Freeing. The relief when he’d accepted your mortifying offering, when he still gave you the same attention even after you’d humiliated yourself that way. The firm strike of a disciplinary crop, bearing a clear expectation of consequences.

The euphoria of his hands.

Eyes flutter closed as you rinse.

His hands were… Gods, he played you like a virtuoso, all the perfect pressure and force and give, turning your suffering into symphony. It had been so gratifying, given that attention— that touch.

He’d been so good after the pain. Reassuring you with soft praises, soothing touches, comforting you with his thumb rubbing circles against your waist. But after absolutely unraveling you with his fingers, when your vision went white and you were perfectly limp and blissed out, he said nothing.

All you wanted was—

Your heart catches in your throat, blinking and shoving your face under the hot stream of water again.

You just wanted to touch him. Was that so bad? So unforgivable? He couldn’t just let you cling for a moment? He had to turn away when you felt so vulnerable?

He’d ruined everything with that. Everything. You may have been able to— Look, you know you shouldn’t, but if he’d just… The smallest thing. You don’t need declarations. You don’t even need a kiss, gods, you just wanted to show your stupid naive gratitude and have him accept it— have him accept you.

Cupping his hands in yours. Kissing his palms, his knuckles, the tips of his fingers. Gratitude for everything he gave you.

It’s a subtle but persistent pain. An ache that splinters into your chest, making breath difficult. You grimace through, muscle through, cinch that feeling tighter and tighter into the smallest space you can. If you can’t cut it out of you, at least that misery can languish in its tiny rotten hole while you try to move past it.

He’s seen too much of you.

Physically, sure, but more than that. He’s seen you broken, seen you needing, hopeless, in pain and in ecstasy. And if he can’t respect that, can’t at least suffer himself to receive your touch, then he doesn’t deserve it.

You’re doing the right thing. You know you are. You have to set boundaries if he won’t, have to cut things off when they’ve gone too far, even if it didn’t feel too far at the time.

It was the right choice.

—

Getting to the Doctor’s lab after practice the next day is harder without the escort you used to have, but you made the trip enough times in the last month to know the way.

He handles the device brusquely, rougher than Silco ever has, tugging it at an awkward angle to examine the base of the sleeve, or prying at the join of wrist and forearm. Asking the same question over and over again in different words.

Have you experienced any oddities around temperature changes? Any unusual discomfort when submerged or otherwise in contact with liquid? Have you noticed strange sensations in relation to elevation or barometric pressure? Have the joints shown any notable sign of wear or rust or chipping?

All this to say: any issues?

Over and over again, you answer no.

Then it’s ten ways to ask if you’ve felt anything, and again you give the same (increasingly curt) answers.

He doesn’t ask about your personal improvement. Doesn’t inquire about how you’re using the device at all, just how the device itself has functioned as part of your body. For all the questions about the hand, not a single one is really about you.

He begins undoing the bolt at your wrist without even informing you, and you snatch your arm away, only to find him frowning.

“I need to examine the residual limb, and I cannot do that if you are constantly fidgeting.”

“I can do it myself.”

“Then do so.” His impatience is clear, and you find your own hackles rising in response.

No asking permission, no pauses to allow you to answer unspoken questions, no care.

Your stomach sinks as you remove the sleeve yourself and grit your teeth at the still-unwelcome (if no longer nauseating) sight of scar tissue beneath. The Doctor’s hands are far from gentle as he jostles tubing and presses firmly against embedded wires. Your audible hitch of breath draws his eye just once, but it doesn’t soften his touch at all.

“You reported no unusual pain, and no sensation in the arm. Is that inaccurate?”

“No, I— the arm I can feel,” you explain through a tight jaw as he tugs a tube to better view the cap on it, and you wince at the disconcerting sensation beneath your skin, “but the prosthesis can’t— ah-” Your composure slips briefly, grimacing as he pulls the bundle of tubes awkwardly from between your metal bones to clamp two syringes into the ends, too-cool liquid seeping into your veins as he flushes the system. You can’t stop the— “Is that entirely necessary?” —from slipping between gritted teeth.

“No,” he answers, plainly. “Not if you’re doing the regular maintenance as you should. But I have no way of knowing that. So it’s more thorough to guarantee a clean line.”

Or you can trust me.

That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? That’s the difference staring you straight in the face. Singed doesn’t trust you to know your own experience, your own body, to tell the truth. Whatever experiments he runs on addicts and vagabonds and whoever else you’ve heard horror stories of from your coworkers, he doesn’t expect them to speak truthfully, either. He doesn’t respect them, either.

So Silco did?

That seems to be the logical conclusion. The same three questions he asked over and over again, they were tame compared to this exhaustive checklist. And he took you at your word.

It’s strange to realize after the complete shutdown yesterday, strange to only see that apparent respect in contrast to someone who lacks it.

But there are advantages to working with the Doctor; no unbearable tension simmering between the two of you, for one. No stupid fantasies playing through your head, no little skip of heartbeat when he hovers too close, just the general prickliness of being too close to strangers, the discomfort of being touched as he manipulates the hand and arm. Every shift in your seat presses on the bruises from yesterday, subtle little throbs that remind you of Silco’s idea of punishment.

Thank gods Singed isn’t him. And more importantly, you can ask about sensation.

“My current studies are far more important,” is the dismissive response to your inquiry.

Right, okay, well maybe that upside isn’t really playing out as you hoped.

“I thought the goal was to— to recreate tactile sensation, or something?”

“Yes, well, final goal. Still attainable, of course.” The loose gesture is flippant. “I imagine some invasive rewiring may help, but I doubt that was your intention.” He shoots you a pointed look. Invasive rewiring sounds far from pleasant. “The specimen still needs 16 more days of regular treatment as the body conforms to the modifications, before we can start innovating on the skeletomusculature and nervous system.”

‘The specimen.’ That would be you. The concept of having the Doctor innovating your organs, or whatever, feels a certain kind of horrific.

Your uncertain gaze draws a flat look and a short shake of the head. “Give it two weeks,” he clarifies, wiping your arm with a swab that reeks of alcohol. “Once your body has accepted the modification, we can rip out anything that is still failing.”

Rip out? Does he have to describe everything so heartlessly?

“In the meantime, I see no reason to meet you every day when every other will suffice.” —He says, before outright jamming a needle in the crook of your elbow.

You jump, hissing a breath through gritted teeth. Like he couldn’t fucking warn you? But already, he’s drawing blood into a vial. No explanation given.

Put it out of your mind. Professionalism. Treat this like a job. “Silco was having me in at 5 for the whole question and answer session, but I could come in earlier, or later, if you-”

“10pm please.”

Ten. 10pm.

“I’m up at 10am for gym work,” you point out.

“Can you not simply reschedule?”

The idea of cutting your day later, missing that brief window of time where Jinx is free, makes something in your chest twinge. Then something in your arm twinges as he starts to fill a second vial.

“10pm is far more convenient for me. My early day has already been dedicated, and after midnight I have my own personal projects to attend to-”

Not wanting to hear any possible details about those unfortunate subjects, you shake your head. “No no, for now it’s fine, I’ll talk to Wren. I can be here at 10 tomorrow.”

“Good.” He has a third vial halfway filled, and your arm is uncomfortably watery. “I simply want to run a few labs for data collection purposes before regular check-ins…”

You close your eyes and breathe slow, hating the feeling of having blood drawn. “Yeah. No, it’s alright.” Not like you have a choice. He didn’t even ask.

“—have you eaten today?”

You blink at him, incredulously. It’s 3pm.

His raised brows make no assumptions.

“Yeah. I had food before and after training.”

“Hm.” He disconnects the tube from the needle, shaking his head disapprovingly as he chucks the half-filled vial, along with the other two, into a nearby bin. Quickly the puncture is taped over. “For our future sessions, no food for eight hours prior to arrival.”

This fucker really thinks you’re gonna just starve yourself every day you’re supposed to meet? How disconnected is he from the realities of your life? And why the hell would he suck all that blood out of you before asking important questions?

“I can’t do that.”

The divot between his brows is something like affronted or confused. “But I need a clean sample.”

“I have training during the day, I can’t do that on an empty stomach.”

“Then reschedule training to after.”

“After 10pm?”

“Yes.”

This man. This man is completely divorced from reality.

You just blink at him. This is what you have opted for over Silco. This man.

…Shit.

He’s still frowning at you, not looking like he’s about to give an inch. If you have to push back, you’ll do it tomorrow. You let out a breath. “Fine. I’ll figure something out.”

—

[next part]

[Please don’t hate me. 🥺 Silco has a lesson to learn, and he can’t learn it unless he realizes he fucked up. And don’t worry. He’ll learn it. *cracks knuckles ominously*

Before posting 28, there’s going to be a pause from the main chapters, because a hefty reverse POV is coming. I haven’t finished writing it yet, but I’m hoping to do so over the next week, releasing the parts as I finish them. Oh yeah: it’ll be in parts. Cause it’s gonna cover 24-27. So like… probably gonna need 2-3 parts to cover it. 😅

As always, please boost the post if you want to combat the tumblr tags, and feel free to leave any and all comments and tags for me to greedily slurp up with my chic reusable silly straw. Any comments on ao3 also get replies! Sometimes sparking full-on conversations, even. So hit me up there if you want. And the inbox on tumblr is always open as well, if you want to anonymously (or not-so-anonymously) drop a line there.

If you want to be notified when the first part of the revpov gets posted, you can join the HH tag list by commenting on this linked post. If you have a side blog you want to be tagged instead, you can drop the @ for that blog in the comments, or in my ask box (with context, please).

Hold out for it, guys. Something great is coming. ❤️ -verbs]

Your brain knows, objectively, Silco is the worst person to lust over. At least some other chem-baron, like that new guy, Finn, would be acceptably hot. No one denies that. If you have to cast some monster in your carnal daydreams, Finn would at least be an acceptable piece of meat to objectify. 

And yet.

Something gnaws away in the pit of your stomach, eyes glued to the man who’s currently dressing down your associate.

You can’t look away. 

You stare at his lips. Too thin. Teeth chipped. He probably kisses like a dead fish, you tell yourself, stubbornly. Plus he’s too old for you. What is he, almost 40?

Brows draw together, a muscle in your jaw bunching as you frown at the Eye of Zaun. His voice is hypnotic, a low smoky drawl that carries so many shades of subtle derision beneath the more obvious superiority. He’s horrible. A villain. 

Even as you think it, his gaze lifts from its dismissive focus on his desk, skewering your associate. It’s only secondhand and it still knocks the breath out of you. A look. Your muscles tense, on tenterhooks for his judgment. Your body has swayed forward of its own accord, bated breath paused mid-inhale. 

Charisma. That’s what he has. Gravitas. No, beyond that; gravity. He is the gravity of the situation. The mastermind behind the scenes, the composer and conductor and—

A shock sparks through your system as mismatched eyes merely glance your way. Heat floods your body, skin prickling with a sensation akin to pins and needles. His gaze is on you for a fraction of a moment. You remember to breathe once he averts his eyes again, the slightest scornful curl to his lip there for just a moment before he leans back in his high-backed chair, fingers steepled before him. 

Spindly things. All knuckles and bone.

Nimble, your brain substitutes. Dexterous.

Fucking hell, he barely looked at you. You shouldn’t need to keep telling yourself how unappealing he is just to stop that thrilled - or terrified - rush. Fingers flex at your sides, not wanting to move too much, not wanting to draw his attention. Someone else is taking the fall right now; pulling focus to you, when they’re already deemed to be at fault, seems like piss poor decision making. You didn’t survive this long in Silco’s employ by being an idiot. 

Or, well shit, you certainly hope not. You’ve been doubting yourself, in the last five minutes of one-sided conversation from your boss to the three members of your particular (almost failed) assignment. Not for anything you did - the guy getting the sit-down treatment is the one at fault, you don’t doubt that - but for how much you can’t stop looking at your boss. 

Heat creeps up your neck as Silco’s words spin on in inky currents. Okay, you’ll give him that; sexy voice. If you even attempt to deny that to yourself, you’ll lose the rest of the argument. And he’s well dressed, you can’t argue that point either. He may not be a tank of a man, physically, he may not have the visual impact Vander did, in the old days, but he is imposing. Wealth and power are stitched into every seam of his meticulously tailored clothes, and yet you have no doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to get his hands dirty. 

…And now you’re thinking about the inexplicable desire to see him roll up his sleeves and bare those stupid pasty forearms.

Swallowing hard, your eyes flick elsewhere, berating yourself again. He’s not hot. He just isn’t. Aesthetically, he’s— he’s just well put together, but he isn’t attractive. 

And yet, loath as you are to admit it, you are attracted to him. 

Not him, you correct the thought quickly; surely you’re attracted to the money. Right? Everyone wants to be taken care of. 

But that money comes with plenty of strings attached, and it’s all teetering on the assumed success of this shimmer venture. 

Is it the position? He has influence, he has property— hell, you’re only one of probably hundreds of employees, the numbers rising every day. If he didn’t have that, he wouldn’t hold whatever bizarre allure he has, right?

The man in front of the desk is attempting clumsy excuses, and your eyes drift from the anxious twitchy movements of his half-hearted defense, to Silco’s eerie stillness. You don’t blame your associate as his words peter out into silence. The hold Silco has on the room is oppressive, and he isn’t saying a word. His silence alone pulled your attention right back to that uneven stare.

Wrong, you decide. If he didn’t have the criminal empire, if he didn’t have the wealth… he’d still have this. This particular brand of self-assuredness backed up by sheer grit. This determined control. 

Like he senses your intense study, his gaze flicks to you, and your lips press back together when you hadn’t even realized they’d opened that slightest bit. Your heart has launched into your throat, heat clenching your insides in a vise grip, a feeling almost like vertigo hitting you when he gives you his full attention. 

You’re swooning, some part of your brain observes. You daft bastard, you’re swooning over a man who’s probably about to order all three of you killed. 

Your body tenses, back straightening as you chide yourself back into top form. The determined set of your brows is back, trying to project the confidence you thought you had before getting called here, even with your pulse racing. Sheer stubborn will keeps you from breaking eye contact, though you’re not sure how long it can last, with blood rushing in your ears. 

He breaks first, but you know it wasn’t a competition. It was a test. And, as he looks away and your heart inches down your throat again, you spot the smallest twitch of his lips and realize: you passed. 

Which can’t mean anything good. 

[oh hello thanks for reading my first work in this fandom/on this blog: please boost it if you liked it! trying to get a foothold in a new fandom is always tough, so any way you can help is appreciated! ❤️ -verbs]

Skirt bunched around your waist and panties around your ankles as he drives into you relentlessly, wrapping a hand in your hair for grip, teeth bared with the ferocity of it.

Your slightly parted lips snap shut, swallowing hard. The rueful thought occurs to you that at least if you bend over right now he won’t witness the obvious sign of arousal tight against your blouse.

Apparently your dumbfounded look prompts clearer instruction. “Face front, forearms flat, and bend over the desk.”

Heat burns on your cheeks, cursing yourself for wearing a skirt last night even as you try to argue with yourself that this is somehow a win, that this will make it that much easier to prove your point.

When you don’t immediately respond, Silco adds, “Can you do that for me?”

Brows pull together slightly, confused why he’d word it in that way. Then you face front and slide your palms forward, leaning onto your elbows and—

“I asked you a question.”

Ah. That’s why.

“I’m already doing-”

THWACK

You fall forward, legs knocking against the desk as they give out, mind gone blank at the sudden sting across the back of your thighs. Did he… Did he just hit you?

Silco is silent for a moment as you regain your breath, pulse hammering in your throat in some messy combination of shock and pain and fear and— and something else. Something dark and pleasant, that you aren’t sure is a good thing.

There’s a noise beside you, and your gaze slides sideways to see a thin cane - too thin for walking - coming to rest by your side on the desk. Clearly showing you what caused the sudden pain.

A knot forms in your gut. You’re not sure how you feel about this.

This may be too much too fast, maybe you’re in over your head, maybe you need to stand up and say no, maybe…

“That’s the worst of it.” Silco’s voice is even, calm. Almost reassuring in its certainty, and… rounded. Free of any harsh edges. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he may even be apologizing.

For a second you think he’ll say something else, but he doesn’t. Still, it feels like a promise, somehow.

Swallowing hard, you take another second to breathe, then pull yourself up onto your elbows, legs getting under you again.

You make no move to leave the desk.

Silence. Tense silence. You can feel his stare on you, making you even more aware of your own body, of the burning welt cutting across the back of your thighs. In that instant you crave his touch, need his hand on your stinging skin, rubbing away the hurt.

Knelt behind you to soothe the marks left in his wake, lips pressed to the reddened lines, kisses working up the back of your thighs, then the inner curve, until his nose brushes your core.

“…Are you ready to continue?”

Are you? …You nod.

“Words.”

“Yes, Sir.” Your voice is a little breathless.

“…Good girl.” There’s a hint of softness, of unacknowledged apology. It makes your stomach backflip.

Another brief pause, before Silco walks back to his side of the desk and half falls into his seat.

A niggling annoyance blooms at the back of your mind as he opens a different desk drawer. He hits you, then leaves you to stew in it, bent over his desk while he continues his work? Rude.

But Silco doesn’t pull out papers. Instead, he pulls out a pair of leather gloves that immediately make your ears burn as you avert your gaze to the desktop. You still can hear his smirk. It makes you wonder if he’s aware of what exactly you did with the one he gave you.

A gloved hand fitting between your legs, finding you slick, sliding digits through your folds to grind teasingly around your clit, then back, then forward again as a leather-padded finger presses into your entrance-

Gods. Everything in your mind today is just… filthy. Sandwiching lips between your teeth, you close your eyes and take one steadying breath.

“Have you been practicing?”

Eyes snap open, face burning. “No,” is the immediate emphatic response, only half a lie.

The pale eye narrows. His seat rolls closer, gloved hand lifting to finger a strand of hair, twirling it. “I told you to practice.” Tighter around his finger, until the pressure tugs gently at your scalp. “Are you saying you’ve disobeyed me yet again?”

“No, I—”

Fingers fan to grab a thicker handful of hair, close to the scalp, and tug you forward across the desk. “There’s that word again,” a grimly amused hum.

You should not enjoy his hand in your hair nearly so much, but you can feel that helpless thrill fluttering behind your navel, despite - or perhaps helped along by - a low level of fear at the threat of the cane beside you. So close. He’s so close, and yet those stupid gloves stop real skin-to-skin contact.

The hooked smirk curls his lip as he tugs you closer by the hair, and you have to go up on tiptoes to reach across the desk as he brings his face just slightly closer to yours. “Let me be clear: you’ve disobeyed me again.” His voice is silk tightening around your throat and the danger is intoxicating. “I gifted you my glove for a reason, and I find it hard to believe you’ve been using it.”

Eyes widen without meaning to, and you quickly look down at his collar to avoid his too-observant gaze.

Too late.

“…Unless you’ve been using it for something else…”

Shit.

Cheeks burn. Just once. Only the once. After his rejection you’ve tried to avoid thinking of him in any positive way, even if it’s just your unfortunate (and seemingly inescapable) attraction. It’s frustrating that his guess is right on a technicality: ‘used,’ not ‘been using.’

“Well?”

You flick your quizzical gaze back to his, and his brow raises expectantly.

“Have you been misusing my gift?”

“No—” The word is hardly out of your mouth before Silco’s grip tightens. To your mortification, the noise that crests your lips isn’t a hiss of pain, or even a grunt of discomfort. It’s a breathy little “nh!” that’s transparently wanting. Or perhaps even wanton.

His soft huff of hidden laughter has you shooting him a sharp look, only to find his smirk not-so-hidden as he reaches his other gloved hand down to slide a drawer open. You can’t see it all from this angle, just the edge of the drawer, but that apparently isn’t necessary, because the item is soon pulled out, then neatly laid across the desk in front of you. Blood pounds in your ears, face flaming as you see it, undoubtedly to be used in the same manner as the cane.

A single riding crop.

It’s— humiliating. That’s what it should be, anyway, the prospect of being treated like a damned horse—

Rode hard and put away wet.

Oh gods. Your breath is a little faster, gaze lifting back to his face, as if you can read his intentions specifically.

Hungry eyes follow the line of your jaw down your neck. You are suddenly glaringly aware that at this angle he has a perfect view of your cleavage, probably straight down between your breasts as well, thanks to gravity.

“First manners, now honesty. We have quite a bit of discipline to teach you, hm?”

You can practically feel his eyes playing across that expanse of skin, tracing the curve, though soon - all too soon - they slide down your arm to the prosthetic hand flat on the desk.

The fingers in your hair loosen, slipping away and letting you rock back onto your heels. You swear you’re not disappointed.

“Again. Have you abused the gift given to you in good faith?”

You frown. “No, I told you-” Your words are cut off with an involuntary flinch as he plucks up the crop, even if he makes no move to strike you.

Instead, Silco leans back in his seat and waits for you to settle, then slowly brings the folded tip of the crop to your hand. It traces the reverse path his eyes took. Up your arm - making you startle as it trips from ceramic to fabric-covered flesh - and across your chest, then sliding up your neck to rest below your chin. Lifting your head with the slightest pressure.

“Open.”

Holy fucking hell.

Is he serious?

That hellfire eye seems to bore into you, and your own shocked gaze quickly cuts sideways to avoid it.

“Look at me.”

The blush burns, a shame that tightens every inch of your skin, as you find his unwavering stare. You wanted attention: you have it.

“Open.”

Slowly, you let your mouth drop open, seeing his gaze drop to it immediately. Suddenly you have the intense need to swallow, but can’t without breaking his rules.

The crop slides to the tip of your chin. Holding you in his unapologetic gaze as he drinks in the sight of you, the thick labor of your breath, the way saliva gathers in your open mouth, and your obvious anxiety over that fact. It has to be purposeful when the tip of the crop runs up your chin and past your lips, delicately pressing to your tongue.

To your absolute mortification, your first instinct is to suck. You quickly curb that instinct, but the alternative is possibly worse, as he exerts the slightest force on the crop and your jaw obediently drops wider— only for a thin line of drool to spill from slack lips as you let slip a pathetic whimper.

Humiliating. So why the fuck are you so turned on?

“I’ll reiterate our rules. ‘Please, Sir,’ ‘thank you, Sir,’ or ‘yes, Sir.’ If you cannot answer truthfully, do not answer at all. If I need you to speak freely, I’ll ask it of you.”

How did you get here? All the power plays were so silent, all implied - though just as intense - and now here you are. Bent over his desk with a crop on your tongue, and uncomfortably aware of your own arousal.

“Is that clear?”

Chills down your spine. Toes curling. Heat flows through you making your body practically hum with awareness. Gaze fixed on his, you only see that expectant quirk of brow.

Oh. “Yeh thuh,” you manage, followed by a short involuntary whine at hearing your own failure to speak with the implement in your mouth.

As soon as the crop is removed from your tongue, your head drops to hide the shame as you hurriedly swallow and wipe your chin against your sleeve. When you raise your head again, Silco is already halfway round the desk, just barely in the corner of your eye, and the crop hasn’t been returned to its place. Goosebumps break out over your skin as you register that meaning.

A second later, your theory is confirmed— and more.

“So.”

You suck in a tight breath of surprise when the still-wet crop teases up the back of one thigh, making you jerk forward despite barely touching you. That quiet tell of his amusement is audible, if only just, above the blood pounding in your ears as it slides higher, breaching your hem and—

A little hiccup catches in your throat as he outright lifts your skirt.

“You very clearly haven’t been—” His words falter.

After a pause, the crop pushes fabric further, until your skirt is fully against your back as you hang your head, eyes screwed shut, horrified that your arousal may be visible through your underwear.

“…Where’s the bruise from?” There’s an edge to his calm: confident swagger settled to a simmering restraint.

You’re trying to think of literally anything except his gaze on your ass, unable to figure what the fuck he’s talking about, when a leather-clad hand cups your thigh - eliciting a squeak as your brain stops functioning - and presses a thumb to a spot on the back of your leg that immediately throbs.

The pain serves to ground you even as Silco’s touch attempts to pull all your focus, and you’re left floating somewhere between the two. Gaze cloudy, but still present.

“It’s—” Now it’s your turn to choke on your words, mouth pressing closed.

“Speak freely.”

(Why does his control feel so— like this? Some kind of— gratifying.) “It’s nothing. I fell,” you explain.

His hand falls away— and in that moment you tense for a slap across your ass, a jolt of anticipation kicking your adrenaline up.

But it doesn’t come. Instead. The crop drags its wet edge over your other thigh. “Did you do this to yourself?” His tone is dark, lower than usual, and you can imagine the glare he’s leveling on you even if you’re not seeing it.

“No,” you assure him, though there’s some plea to it. “No, Sir.” Like that will help your case. “I didn’t have a spotter and my ladder fell, but the hand is fine, I swear.”

“And the host?”

Something in your chest squeezes. Flutters. “…I’m fine,” you say, quietly. “I’ve had worse.”

A moment’s pause. Then his flat look is audible in the sardonic tone. “Yes, I’m aware: that’s what brought you into my care to begin with, you’ll remember.”

…Right. Okay maybe the I’ve had worse was obvious, given the missing hand.

He said care.

Quickly you push that thought aside. He meant it medically. No need to have any kind of feelings about—

THWAP

It’s much less intense than the cane, at least, though it still makes you jump. The soft tress of the crop rests in the spot it hit on the opposite leg than your bruise, mirroring its placement.

“I think we’ve previously established that my investment isn’t to be endangered.” The crop rubs gently against the sting it caused.

A pause. The next slap of leather on skin draws the reply he’s waiting for. “Yes, Sir.”

“And your carelessness and impetuous nature seem to be putting both my property and my investment at risk.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

The crop stills from where it’s been soothing heated skin, then resumes. Oops. Not one of those approved phrases. And yet he still accepts it. …Makes you curious what else you can get away with.

What will it take for him to put down the implements and touch you? You refuse to ask for it outright, refuse to beg. You had a point, once upon a time, even if the gentle pain is the only thing keeping you grounded from slipping into a mindless fog now. You wanted to prove his words a lie, to prove he wants to touch you just as much as you crave being touched. So he has to initiate.

So far, so good, in that respect.

“...I’m sure you’ll make it up to me,” he murmurs, the tip of the crop tracing the curve below your ass.

You can’t help but squirm at the sensation, that area far closer to pleasure than pain. His disapproving hum makes an image flash through your mind; a hand pressing your torso down to the desk to keep you still, as the other pets between your legs.

The image is jarred from your mind’s eye as the crop slaps at your inner thigh and you let out another little sound. There isn’t enough space to build up momentum, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? Sensitive skin in delicate areas— it doesn’t have to hurt to make his power clear.

“Impertinent little minx.”

thip thip thip thip

One thigh, then the other, each a little harder than the last until you’re widening your stance with a whine.

“Nhnn-” Your tongue presses to the roof of your mouth and you censor any words as the next sharp snap of the tress hits that curve he traced earlier, and the reverberation lights you up. Another, and you feel your muscles flutter, rocking forward like you can escape the little electric current that links the spot he struck to your clit.

The strikes pause. Give you a moment to breathe. Your heart rate is up. Those last two strikes hit just right to give you a plethora of mixed signals making your arousal go haywire.

“Six days of subpar obedience. Two days of late reports. One day of truancy. One drunken display of willfulness.” Silco tallies up your offenses. “That’s ten.”

The next words out of his mouth take extra long to process, because the edge of the crop has traced that delicious curve again, and this time he takes advantage of your widened legs to press the flat of it against the cotton of your underwear. You can’t think for a whole second, legs shaking, a hunger itching behind your navel. A needy little whine pulls in your throat before you press lips together in an attempt to stop from pleading. He has to initiate. You need his hands on you so damn badly, but he has to be the one to do it of his own volition.

You may not be able to control much, but that’s the one goal you have.

Finally the rest of his words register.

“…Add in your failure to complete the tasks I assigned, and a stunning inability to follow simple guidelines for behavior today… and I think we can tot it up to fifteen.”

The crop taps gently between your legs, and you can’t help the little noise you make. The next tap is less gentle, a firm slap along the length of your slit that makes you cry out, hands curling into fists on the desk and head bowed. Need throbs in you.

“Fifteen strokes.”

When he pulls the implement away, you can hardly stop the thin whine as you bite your tongue.

He replaces that pain momentarily, the leather tress of the crop snapping against your ass. It’s better than your thighs, though not quite so good as the spot where both meet.

“One,” he counts.

Not so bad. Neither is the second, on the opposite side.

The intensity of every other strike amps up, slapping against already reddened skin. And then the unthinkable happens.

“Seven-”

“Th—” You quickly press your lips between your teeth, stifling the words that very nearly escaped.

Silco stops. Heated flesh burns, and you just want him to soothe it away, but the crop leaves your skin entirely. As soon as it’s gone, you crave contact. Any contact. You press your forehead to your fist, swaying hips back as you shift impatiently, eyes squeezed shut.

For a moment, the only sound is heavy breath, and you’re not sure it’s yours alone. Silence seems to ring with the echo of leather against skin.

“…Speak freely.” It’s unusually quiet. Maybe even careful.

“It—” Your own realization brings another rush of heat to your face. “It’s nothing, I— it’s fine, you can— You— nnh.” Nevermind naming what exactly he’s doing to you.

The way he says your name makes your stomach flip. Firm, but soft. Warning, but not intimidating. “What were you going to say?”

Swallowing hard, you have to clear your throat before the words come. Because you hadn’t stopped yourself from begging, hadn’t stopped the please from your lips. No. You’d been about to say-

“Thank— thank you.” It’s weak, choked out, embarrassment making your extremities tingle with pins and needles.

Silco goes still and silent.

—

[next part]

[Ahem. So uh. Yeah.

Anyway, I posted earlier than I meant to, cause I’m not done with 28 yet, but y’know what I wanted a sinday release. And the goal is for 26 to go up on thirsty Thursday, but tbh it may be a week-long wait and for that I apologize. I promise it’ll be worth it for what’s coming up. 4k+ smutty smutty content.

Standard begging applies: please boost this post if you like it! I load up posts with links and I think sometimes that affects what makes it to the main tags. And after this I am in need of REACTIONS, PLEASE. I know some people aren’t into impact (in which case uh… something else is coming next chapter I promise 👀) so please reassure me if this is something you DID stick around for. 😅 All tags are devoured, and all comments on ao3 get replied to (and most here as well).

If you missed the reverse POV for what happened between 23 and 24, you can find it here: Sobering Thoughts. And if you want to be notified when the next chapter and/or reverse pov posts, you can join the tag list by commenting on this linked post.

Sorry if anyone felt uncomfortable with this chapter >< ❤️ -verbs]