Order of Operations
It's only fair that if you partake in a free show, you return the favor when asked.
5,177 Words - NSFW
Accidental Voyeurism, m and f!Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Dirty Talk, mentions of FWB
Everyone knows the order of operations around here. It’s drilled into you the moment you accept the contract, the verbal agreement that you’re more than just some expendable body that can and will be chewed up and spit out by the streets that Silco has them patrolling, the jobs he has them doing, the endless slog of footwork.
When Sevika had approached you, clapped you on the shoulder and told you that things were looking up on your end, you knew your time had come. An uninterrupted string of successes, a track record so clean that it rivals the streets of Topside. That was your legacy up to that point, and you’re thankful for the opportunity to be more than just a member of the nameless, faceless chattel that makes up the bulk of Silco’s gang.
You’re someone now, have been for months. With that comes a different sort of job, a responsibility that isn’t something to scoff at. The expectation is that unless you’re in real danger of dying, Silco is your first stop after any job. If he’s busy, then Sevika. But as you stumble into the bar, arm tucked close to your side to stem the bleeding of your injury, she’s nowhere to be seen. Silco it is.
There are others here, those that nod at you once without offering help. It’s past closing time for the bar, meaning the scant few that are present are under Silco’s employ, and the rules are known. Silco first, medical attention second. Getting up the stairs first, then Silco. Making it across the room, then getting up the stairs.
The railing is your lifeline, the gash in your side burning as you climb to the second floor and meander your way down the hallway that holds his office - and other rooms for storage, empty rooms that had once been for paying customers to sleep their drinks off in under previous ownership. You’re certain Silco’s own apartment is somewhere on this floor, maybe above you’re not sure.
The wandering of your thoughts is telling of your blood loss, cutting back on your restraint and the logical part of your brain that says you should knock first. Without that self control, you reach a bloodied hand to the handle of the door and push it open. The hinges are always maintained, it doesn’t make a sound as you step inside, subconsciously avoiding the creaking floorboard.
You should have knocked. In one swift moment, all of your faculties come back to you when you take in Silco’s chair turned to the side, his head bowed over himself, his left hand balled into a fist on the desk while the other is twisting strokes along his cock.
Sevika. You need to find Sevika, to report to her about your job for the night. Silco hasn’t seen you yet, there’s still time for you to quietly duck out and pretend that you’re not going to have this image burned into the back of your eyelids. Even as you know you need to get the fuck out of here, your feet are frozen and your hand grips so tightly to the door handle that your joints ache from the pressure.
Silco’s body jerks, hunching in on himself more as his hand must catch on something that drives sparks through him. Or, maybe he had a thought that ratcheted his pleasure to a new level. What you get is a raw response from whichever of those had done it, a groan leaving nose since his mouth is clamped tightly shut. It does nothing to muffle the noise.
A sick little part of you begs to hear it. You want to hear him come undone, this tightly-wound man that’s only just begun to see you as an individual worth investing his appreciation in to. Well, up until this moment where you’ve likely sealed your fate. That single groan echoes in your ears, rattling your brain until it rings and rings, distracting you enough that you don’t realize you’ve taken a step back into the creaking floorboard.
Silco’s head shoots up, his eye widens, and you slam the door shut in favor of stumbling down the stairs, forcing yourself to look nonchalant so no one can ask what’s on fire. A doctor, you need to find one to stitch you up before you lose both your blood and your mind. Your heart is racing, your hands shake, your knees feel weak as you push open the door to a clinic you frequent.
It’s a simple injury, the passing of a blade along your ribs that likely wouldn’t have killed you if you’d let it go for the night. Yet you need something to distract you, and that’s why you yank your shirt and jacket up to allow the physician to stitch you in ten neat loops. He knows you well enough that the bill gets put on Silco’s tab, and you’re sent off with unlabeled pain killers and a warning to eat something before you take them lest you throw them up.
Easy said, easier done. In your apartment you change into something loose, drink cold soup directly from the can like it’s a can of beer, and wonder if it’s ethically wrong to rub one out to the thought of your boss pleasuring himself when he assumed he was alone.
Silco hadn’t even locked the door. Wouldn’t you lock the door if you’re about to do something like that? Or at least wait until there’s no one around? Every time you walk by that door, all you’re going to imagine is the faint wet sounds his hand made as it dragged along his dick. The sound of that groan is still crystal clear in your mind, and with an angry sound you slam the rest of the soup, chuck it into the trash and drop onto the bed with a purpose.
Just once. You’ll get it out of your system just once, then be on your way. And gods forbid, you’re going to start knocking no matter what.
Sevika’s looking for you.
At first you think it’s going to be her looking for last night’s update, but instead she’s got you pulled in one of the curtained-off booths with two glasses and an unmarked bottle. It’s the hallmark of a tough conversation, and as she pulls hard on her cigar, she lays it out for you.
“I don’t know what you did,” Sevika pauses to offer you the cigar. That in itself is a telling sign of how badly you’ve fucked up. You take it, and she continues, “But he’s got two options for you. Go upstairs and talk to him, or leave and don’t come back.”
“You’re not going to throttle me?” You speak around the filter, and both her eyebrows raise as if you’ve said something unexpected.
Midway through your pull of the cigar, your cheeks welling with smoke, she asks, “Why? You do something to warrant dying? You’re worth a little more to the cause now that you proved you’ve got value.”
Better to not mention it, if she doesn’t know. Instead you blow out the smoke and hand the cigar back to Sevika in favor of pouring yourself a glass of her chosen alcohol for this little meeting. Swirling it, you don’t meet her eyes, “So my choices are face him or leave? Does becoming unemployed involve dying at some point?”
“Must have fucked up badly, if you’re worried about dying so damn much. Listen, I don’t know how to make it more obvious. Either go upstairs and talk to him - no dying - or go home and find a new job - also no dying. In fact, he made it clear you were not to die,” Sevika doesn’t drink from the glass, she instead grabs the bottle and takes her sip from that instead. It doesn’t put you off your own drink, rather makes you finish it in one swallow and flip it over on the table until it’s upside down.
“Better go see what he wants, then.”
As you push the curtain aside, Sevika’s voice stops you in your tracks, “For what it’s worth, he didn’t seem upset. More quiet than usual, but he wasn’t doing that shit where he chews on his tongue. You’ll be alright.”
Hearing that he didn’t want you dead was more soothing than anything else she could’ve said. Still, the lack of anger is good to hear, and you give her a wave over your shoulder as you duck out and beeline to the stairs. The club is busy tonight, business beginning to wind up as the evening begins. With any luck, you’ll be back down here in that booth with Sevika, a drink in your hand and only slightly-warmed cheeks.
Best to be honest about it, no lying. But to get to that point, you need to get in his office first, and you make it a point to rap your knuckles against the wood a few times to announce your presence. After a moment, his voice calls for you to come in. It’s neutral and smooth, a testament to his lack of fury. Except all you can think of is that sound of pleasure he’d made at his own hand, gravely and low.
Deja vu hits you as you push the door open, standing in the threshold and observing him. There’s no escape, the moment you enter you’re trapped by his gaze from the other side of the desk. His legs are crossed, his boot tapping absently against the side of his desk as he leans back in his chair with his arms crossed. Silco might not be upset, but he sure as hell doesn’t look happy.
A deep inhale before he drawls, “You have your manners, this time. Did you find them on the way home? Which gutter had you dropped them in, I wonder?”
As you close the door behind you, you already find yourself losing your self control once more and giving him snark, rather than the profuse apologies you had planned.
“The one where Drop Street intersects with Browning,” Your response isn’t appreciated, judging by the downward turn of his lips. Silco says nothing about it, however, he just continues his slow knock of his boot against the desk. It’s vaguely in time with the music downstairs, and league slower than the sudden pounding of your heart.
Silco shifts in his seat, uncrossing one arm to prop against the arm of his chair to lean his cheekbone on his hand, “You chose to come up here instead of leave. Why?”
“I like my job,” The answer is simple and honest, without a need to elaborate. Yet you do, “Wouldn’t have stuck around so long if I didn’t have a reason. You’re a pretty good boss, I’m sorry I barged in on you. I shouldn’t have done it without knowing what was happening in here.”
Something sparks in his eyes, his head tilting down just enough that it changes the perspective of his face, turning the expression from disinterest into one of expectation, “How long were you standing there?”
Long enough, you want to say. Long enough that you haven’t been able to stop thinking about the exact shade of pink the head of his dick had been. Long enough that you’re finding yourself thinking shameful things about a man you hadn’t seen as a sexual being until last night. Long enough that you’d found your release a shameful amount of times after going home.
Instead of revealing what may have become your darkest secret, you shrug one shoulder and avoid his eyes by looking at the stained window at his back. It’s answer enough, telling of your guilt to the point of damnation. A long breath leaves him as he considers what you’re not saying, and what his answer will be.
“You say you shouldn’t have done it without knowing what I was doing. If you had known…?”
It takes you all of four beats from the music downstairs, from his boot on the desk, to comprehend what he’s asking. There’s something laced in that question, and you’re not quite sure if it’s arsenic or something harmless. Swallowing hard, you carefully choose your words, hoping for clarification, “I’m not sure I know what you-”
“It’s a simple question,” Silco sits upright again, leaning forward to put both of his elbows on the desk to get a clear view of your expression, “If you had known that I was in here pleasuring myself, would you still have entered and watched me do it? Yes or no?”
What do you even say to that? The truth? Yes, that you would’ve still opened the door and gotten an eyeful of an arguably attractive and powerful man reduced to little more than his basest instincts? No, you held nothing more than a passing attraction to him and weren’t interested in violating his privacy like that?
In the end, you jam your hands in your pockets to hide the trembling and give him the honest answer, “Yeah, probably. Have you seen yourself? Not exactly bad on the eyes, boss.”
There, just for a moment. The hard line of his eyebrows loosens, his lip quirks at the corner just the smallest bit, his fingertips push into the desk as his hand tenses and relaxes. All of these add up to the conclusion that maybe you weren’t in as deep of shit as you thought.
“Then I take it you enjoyed the show?” The shift in his tone is enough to have you reeling, if you hadn’t clenched your fists and braced yourself for whatever answer he was liable to give to the closest thing to a come-on he’d get without you outright telling him that he caught your attention. That little curve of his smile is devastating, “And what did you do afterward? Go home and sleep off the injury I received a bill for? I don’t think that’s accurate.”
Silco knows. He knows what you’ve done, but the sick bastard is looking to make you say it. Grinding your teeth, your jaw moves back and forth as you chew on a thousand words you’d like to say. Rather than torture you more by making you spit them out, Silco lifts one hand from the desk and crooks his finger, a gesture for you to come closer.
One, two, three steps across the room until you’re in front of his desk, but Silco’s already turning his chair to the side. It’s a clear demand for you to come around the side and stand before him, one that you can’t bring yourself to deny as you stop just short of your toes bumping against the gold tips of his boots.
Looking up, eyes clearly dragging along your body and leaving your skin feeling heated in his wake, Silco lays out another demand, clearly spoken with no room for misinterpretation, “Show me, then. You got to see mine, it’s only fair you return the favor.”
“Is that what you want? To see what I did to myself while thinking about you?”
“You thought of me? I’m flattered,” A smile that’s far sharper, almost lascivious in nature crosses his face as he pushes away from the desk and gestures with a wave of his fingers to the surface, “Make yourself comfortable. Pretend as if I’m not even here, if that makes it any easier.”
Already kicking your boots off, you chance a glance up at him, “You’re not going to touch me?”
An honest-to-god laugh leaves him as he makes a show of getting more comfortable in his chair, watching the movements of your hands as you hook your thumbs in your belt loops, “Why would I do that? It’s not as if you touched me.”
He’s got you there. With a half-shrug and a tiny thought about if he’d have let you, you kick off your pants and hop up onto his desk, noting that there weren’t any papers on its smooth surface. He planned this. That alone strikes something in you, the fact that the only reason you were up here is because Silco wanted what he was owed.
Apparently, that means you sitting on his desk, your legs just parted enough so he can see the wetness that’s gathered on the fabric of your underwear. Both of his hands curl against the arm rests, gripping them as his eyes are trained not on your own, but the very beginning of what’s to come. Nothing happens at first, nothing from either of you besides Silco’s breath hitching and your blood rushing in your ears.
“What are you waiting for?”
“If I say ‘For you to say please’, is that going to change your mind about killing me?”
“I’m already rethinking that as we speak,” Yes his legs uncross and the obvious hardness of his cock tells a different story. Abandoning the temptation to make him beg for it - which he wouldn’t do, surely - you prop one hand out behind you while the other slides up your thigh toward what he’s impatient to see.
Merely cupping yourself is enough to make your breath shake, eyelids fluttering lower as you watch his face, the minute changes as he gives you all the attention you’d never felt from him before. Granted, you hadn’t known you wanted it until very recently, but it’s exhilarating to know exactly who is in front of you, watching as you dip your fingers past the band of your underwear to touch yourself in earnest.
Silco’s jaw tightens, as you dip your fingers through your wetness, sighing quietly in appreciation of the brief release in tension. You hadn’t realized how wound up you were about this until just now, and it’s quickly becoming an all-consuming sort of thought that throws any embarrassment out the window. There’d only been a miniscule amount to begin with, his forwardness leaving no room for it.
Satisfied you’ve gathered enough, you pull your fingers from your underwear and hold them in the light where Silco can see them. Your fingertips glisten in the light from the lamp on his desk, shining golden as you turn them to catch the shimmer. It’s meant to be a tease, to taunt him for not touching you like you expected, but he subverts you by reaching out to snatch your wrist and drag himself close enough to bring your fingers to his lips.
The feeling of his tongue dragging along your digits is so disorienting, the sensation immediately being equated to where that particular appendage would feel elsewhere. And damn, if Silco doesn’t seem to know exactly what he’s doing to you. Scarred lips close around both of your middle fingers, sucking the very last of what you had to offer and searching for more with that tongue of his. Enraptured, you hold his eye contact with all your willpower, using it to force your eyelids to not flutter, to not close and block the sight of Silco tasting you like this.
With a wet pop, Silco lets your fingers go with a jerk of his chin toward yourself, an obvious sign to begin again. Once more, you go down the front and pass your fingers across yourself, clit slipping between two fingers as you go. Your legs twitch, threatening to snap shut; Silco’s hands shoot from the arm rests once more, gripping your knees with bruising force and a growl of, “Shift backward. One foot up on the desk.”
It’s a lewd position, one that he directs you into while betraying his own vaguely-worded rule once more. Once you’re positioned, Silco stays far too close for a long moment, peering up at you as if he were judging you for doing this in front of him. For him, really - no one else could’ve gotten you to do something as bold as this, right in front of his very face.
Fingers drawing slow circles, you let your tight grip on your voice go. With it comes a sigh that borders on a whine, high-pitched and beckoning as your ring and middle fingers sink into you. With deft fingers, Silco all but rips the tie from his neck, loosening its hold around him and showing you the harsh flex of his throat as he swallows. His tendons are drawn tight against his skin, a testament to what’s happening to him from watching you.
It’s akin to watching an animal straining at the leash, desperate to chase after prey that sits just beyond its reach. And he’s desperate for it, enough to reach past you for the knife you’ve forgotten that’s embedded in the desk. With a sharp pull, it tugs free with a creaking of the wood, and its blade finds your hip just as surely.
Before you can stop him, maybe argue the case for your underwear’s survival, the blade dips beneath the fabric and is cut through at your right hip with one swift movement. Tugging your foot down briefly, he snaps the other side and roughly props your leg back on the desk. Suddenly, you’re bare before him on full display. Somehow that fabric had felt like a shield, the leash holding the animal back.
Yet he sits back heavily in his chair, a darkened look of hunger in his eyes as he watches you push your fingers inside again. Silco’s eyes burn you, leaving trails on your skin as he watches you touch yourself inches from his face. It’s maddening, enough so that you’re convinced it’s what’s pushing you steadily along to your end far more than any mere touch of your fingers could do.
Swallowing hard once more, nails scraping against the wood of his chair, Silco asks, “What are you thinking of?”
“S-Same thing as last time,” Talking is a chore, an expenditure of energy better used for the groan you let out when your palm presses against your clit. The sound seems to shock him, his shoulders jerking the moment it leaves your throat. Sweat is on his temple, catching the light as he tilts his head, questioning.
“And what might that be?”
Silco’s playing hardball. It’s teasing, despite the edge to his voice and the sharp lines between his brow that betray the nonchalance he’s trying to portray. Silco isn’t unaffected, that much is for sure, and that’s what makes your mouth upturn into a grin and your boldness to ooze through once more, “How your dick looked while you were stroking it. How it would feel inside me, the sounds you’d make in my ear if you bent me over the railing on the second level of the bar when it’s busiest-”
Fast as lightning, before you can comprehend the movement with your lust-addled mind, Silco nearly ripped the buttons off his pants in his haste to open them. Slim fingers take that very cock you’d been thinking about, and you’re treated to the side of his eyes rolling behind his single eyelid. The back of his head hits his chair with a thump, the same groan from the night before echoing through the room with his pleasure.
It’s instinct to roll your head back, but you force your eyes to watch him just as he watched you, taking in every inch of him with your eyes, memorizing the prominent vein on the bottom, imprinting that exact shape into your mind until it becomes the only thing you can think about. Unbidden, you whine his name as you strike something inside yourself that sends static through your senses, every one of them consumed with the sensations of your fingers and the sight of Silco bucking his hips up into his own hand.
Blinking rapidly, Silco gains enough of himself to grit through his teeth, “Was this what you wanted? Hm?” - he squeezes himself tighter, hisses through his teeth - “To see me like this? Does it make you feel powerful?”
As if. Your nails dig into the surface of the desk, scratching at the lacquered top to gain purchase against the swell in your stomach, the fire of your nerve endings burning themselves, “It… It makes me feel something,” And against your better judgment, what’s left of your logic after it’s been nearly carved out of you, you’re the one that begs, “Please fuck me, Silco.”
“Not this time,” Silco spits, disappointment hitting you hard before the implication of there being another instance of this takes over. Instead he looks you in the eye, burning through you with a physical feeling of want, as if he needs this as badly as you. Loosely, weak almost with his undoubtedly close end, Silco smirks, “Next time, if you’re good.”
It’s not praise, more like teasing if you examine it with a clear head like you will later, but your brain supplies the thought of Silco calling you that. Of Silco pulling you into his lap and squeezing at you and telling you that you’ve been good for him. It knocks you sky high, your eyes rolling as your arm gives out and you’re left on your back to buck into your own hand.
The wet sounds of your fingers moving harmonize with the steady pump of Silco’s, the chair creaking beneath him as he plants his heels on the floor as leverage to fuck into the curl of his fingers and palm. Even as your orgasm wanes, as your muscles tremble and your ears ring loudly enough that you can’t hear the muted bass from below, Silco’s only just now getting to that point.
Without warning, Silco shoots to his feet, slams his hand down next to your head to brace himself, and looks you in the eye as he grinds against your heat with long strokes. There’s no danger of him going back on his refusal to take you across his desk, but the feeling of his length against your cunt is euphoric enough that you don’t even care.
Silco leans close, enough that he can let loose the drawn out sounds he’d been holding back directly into your ear. Arousal burns through you at each one, making your fingers itch to thrust into yourself all over again for him to watch - but it’s not meant to be for your pleasure, but to tease you with it. Maybe a promise for more, if you please him.
With his free hand, he yanks your shirt up just in time for hot ropes to shoot across your stomach, settling against your skin and rapidly cooling as his head hangs. With a gasping swallow, his breath struggling to come into his lungs with his exertion, Silco looks you in the eye with something calculating and suddenly cold.
The ice is painfully familiar, paired with the uncomfortable stickiness against your stomach and between your thighs. It lingers long enough that you wonder if you’ve done something wrong, yes he assuages it by bringing his free hand to your chin to hold you still. You don’t expect the kiss, a chaste pressing of lips that doesn’t go further.
You hadn’t even had time to enjoy it, a complaint on your tongue that dies as soon as he gives you another, slower this time now that you hadn’t denied the first. Using your unsoiled hand, you brush the hair from his forehead as he pulls away, measuring the odd vulnerability that’s made its home on his face. Had he been unsure? You certainly were.
Silco pulls away, you push up onto your elbow to watch him leave you and right himself. You’re offered a handkerchief, kept in the top corner of his desk - it’s stained purple at the corner, which you avoid pointedly as you clean yourself off both at your stomach and between your legs. To your surprise - and a bit of your pleasure, you realize with a sick feeling - Silco doesn’t return it to the desk nor throw it away.
It goes in his pocket.
Something expectant crosses his eyes, his brow raising and body turned toward you like he thought you were going to say something about it. You hadn’t planned to before, and you definitely weren’t now. Rather than razz him about it, you slide off the desk and slowly redress yourself, sans underwear.
Unable to truly help yourself from being a little facetious now that the delirium has passed and you’re feeling more like yourself, you glance over your shoulder at him as he drops heavily back into his chair, “Next time, huh?”
“I told you the stipulation. Forcing me to repeat myself is counterproductive to what you apparently want so badly.”
Rolling your eyes to the ceiling, you focus more on the buttons of your pants rather than his face, “And you apparently don’t want it. I’m more than glad to find someone that does.”
“Remember your question about reconsidering ending your life prematurely? That would hasten it.”
A scoff comes from you as you finish and round back to the front of his desk to put some distance between you. This is not how you expected the conversation to go, much less the night itself, but both are still young and you can get the answers you want with a little prodding, “Are you asking me to be exclusive, Silco? Go steady, maybe?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I simply don’t like to share. It’s beneath me,” It’s said with his legs crossing much how they’d been when you arrived, this time without the incessant bumping of his metal boot tip against the side of the desk, “You can have one or the other, but keep in mind they won’t be able to do what I can.”
“What, jerk off in their office with the door unlocked?”
“If you remember right, you hadn’t locked it when you closed it earlier. You’re just as guilty of that as I am.”
Chewing on your lip, you size him up as he props his cheek on his knuckles again, looking for all the world as if he’s a cat that’s caught its prey. But you’re not prey, not in the slightest, and that makes you prickle at his presumptuousness, “Whatever. I’m leaving. If you’re gonna off me for not wanting to deal with your weird riddles, so be it.”
Half-turned away is where you stop when Silco’s long suffering sigh hits you, “I’m not looking for love. If you’d like me to be blunt so badly, I’m asking you to consider an… agreement of trade.”
“Way to make it sound unsexy.”
It strikes a nerve, because all of a sudden he’s carding his fingers through his hair in exasperation and gritting through his teeth, “We fuck each other and go our separate ways. I won’t seek it elsewhere, and I’d expect you to show the same courtesy. Is that blunt enough for you, or do you need a demonstration?”
Pouncing on that like the predator Silco seemed to view himself as, you turn back to him with a winning grin, “That’s what I was waiting for-”
“Get out. Don’t come back until tomorrow.”