Archive of Our Own

Lock isn't quite sure what Silco wants with him, but he doesn't question the boss. Apparently blond-and-arrogant stalking around the cannery complaining about everything is what they need right now. Deckard doesn't look like he'll have a very long shelf-life, Lock is honestly surprised he's lasted even this long. His particular brand of oblivious arrogance doesn't tend to go down well in the lanes.

Right now, as usual, Deckard is complaining, "I've been sat outside that damn bar for almost a week. Nothing's happening. Can you at least tell me what I'm meant to be looking for?" 

So far Silco's gone pretty easy on him. Deckard seems to have interpreted this as immunity and throws around what little weight he has to the annoyance of everyone else. Maybe Silco doesn't see the kid as important enough to kick back into line. He's barely paying attention to him, pouring over some old curling notebook with Singed. Lock can't say he likes Singed either, but at least the scientist keeps to himself and doesn't winge all the time. He's tolerated because Silco needs him. Tolerance for Deckard is wearing thin.

"Just ... keep looking." Silco answers vaguely.

"If I'm looking, I can't run my own jobs. I'm getting hungry." 

"You're getting annoying." Silco snaps back, eyes narrowing. Lock can recognise the signs of danger, but Deckard seems almost suicidally unaware. The boss won't put up with this kind of attitude forever.

Silco's eyes flicker towards him and Lock can't help a smirk twitching up at the corner of his mouth. Looks like Deckard's immunity just ran out. 

"Don't break him." Silco finally says, rolling up the notebook and motioning Singed to follow him. "I need him alive."

"Do you need him to talk?" Lock rumbles. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the panic start to flicker across Deckard's face, the look of a drowning man releasing his emergency air supply ran out several hours ago. Smashing that pretty little jaw would be beyond satisfying, but Silco scowls and shakes his head.

"I said don't break him. We'll be in the lab." Silco doesn't even look at Deckard as he leaves, Singed spares him a slightly pitying glance and a what-did-you-expect shrug.

And then there's just Lock, arms folded across his chest while Deckard splutters and backs away and looks around desperately for the exit. 

He doesn't bother speaking, there's nothing to say, just reaches forward and grabs the kid by the front of his worn jacket, lifting him and slamming face first over the recently vacated worktop. Deckard gives a groan, winded by the blow. His hands scrabble weakly against the surface but he's not fighting back, just fighting to breath. He can't fight back, he's got nowhere else to go.

It only takes one hand over his back to keep Deckard down, with the other Lock finds his belt buckle and unclips it, then yanks his trousers down over those narrow hips. Deckard finds his voice again enough to give a cry of protest.

"No! Please don't... not that..."

Lock lets go of his trousers and forms a fist instead, slamming it down directly near Deckard's wide frightened eyes. The bottles and papers on the worktop jump and tremble. Lock is pretty sure a fist into the boy at full strength would genuinely rupture something.

"What would you prefer?"

Deckard's arrogant, but he isn't brave. Nor is he stupid. Lock watches as the tears well up in his eyes and his shoulders start to shake. Then he goes back to Deckard's arse, ripping away the flimsy underwear and laying one large hand over the side of it, thumbing open the trembling crack to see his prize.

"Please don't, can't you, just..." Deckard chokes out. Lock doubts it's his first time doing this. He knows enough to try to relax at least, but clearly not enough to prevent a thin choked cry as Lock's thumb presses forward and forces him open.

"Fuck!"

Lock can't tell if the kid is actually trying to get away, or if the struggling is just automatic. The hand between Deckard's shoulder blades raises briefly to slap hard across the back of his head. "Keep still."

"How can I keep still when you're - aahh!"

He doesn't bother stretching the kid out, just makes sure there's enough room for his cock to fit in. Deckard sniffs and squirms pathetically as Lock gets his cock out, spitting down on it and jerking himself to hardness. Nothing to say he can't enjoy himself on the job. He can just about see through the glass into the lab where Silco and Singed are working. They must be able to hear, but they make no sign of acknowledging what's going on.

Deckard starts crying before he's even inside, his body shaking and arching, trying to get away from the painful intrusion. As commanded, Lock goes slowly and doesn't rip or tear into him. Just needs to make it clear that if Deckard behaves like a whiny bitch, he's asking for a whole world of hurt.

When he's fully embedded into the boy, Lock bends down to the level of Deckard's ear. Smells the fear and sweat on him, and keeps his voice low, "You don't antagonise the boss, right?"

"Y-yes, I won't, please, it hurts..."

"You don't try to boss around the rest of us."

"A-ahh! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please..."

"He wants you to sit outside a bar for three weeks, you do it."

"I will, I'll - I promise, whatever, just ... oww ..."

With a snort, Lock straightens up and gives the back of his head another slap. Deckard whimpers and his hands ball into fists against the worktop. He stops struggling, body going limp and eyes glassing over. 

Lock takes his time. It isn't often he has a chance with something so young and fresh. The boys at the brothel are worn down to hard edges, pain-wrecked and cynical. Deckard is soft and tight, spasming around his cock in delicious warmth, whimpering and gasping as Lock's hips snap against him. He's careful not to leave too many bruises - Deckard will be sore but he won't be marked in any way that might make it difficult for him to do his job.

He comes deep inside the kids arse, mouth twitching at the relieved sob Deckard gives when he feels it. He buttons his trousers back up again and is back to attention as Silco and Singed come out of the lab, Silco sparing a brief unimpressed glance at the mess of Deckard sprawled over his bench. 

"Get up, boy. Clean yourself up. Then get back to the bar."

Deckard staggers upright, his legs weak and shaking. His face flushes at the feel of the stuff inside him, but there's nothing he can do except pull his trousers back up and stumble over to the stairs. Silco's eyes follow him until he's left, and then flicker back to Lock.

"Enjoy that, did you?"

Did you? Lock wants to ask, but unlike Deckard, he knows where the lines are. He gives a nod.

"Good." Silco answers dryly, nodding towards the stairs. "Make sure he's alright. I wouldn't want him trying anything too ... desperate."

It's unlikely, Lock thinks. Deckard's too much of a coward to want to end things. He'll barter his pride for life any day, his arse for safety, his body for power.

Lock wonders if maybe that's why Silco is keeping him around.