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larapeachsstuff · 6 days ago

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all the ways i resist you (and all the ways i don't)

summary: you and silco are arguing, has the couch in his office always been this uncomfortable?

pairing: Silco x reader

w/c: 3.2k

notes: established relationship, angst, couple arguing/fighting, smut ahead!!!, angry sex, biting, fluff at the end, they’re stupid and i love them, your honor

read on ao3: here masterlist

You shift again, the couch groaning beneath the movement.

Frustration burns in your chest as the stiff armrest refuses to offer even a hint of comfort. It’s never felt this miserable before—so lumpy, so unyielding—but tonight, every imperfection of the old piece of furniture feels magnified. The room feels colder than usual, as if he’d kept all the warmth with him when he stayed behind in the bedroom.

It should be easy to ignore his absence, you should be able to easily fall asleep out of complete spite. After all, you’ve napped here countless times, waiting for Silco to finish his work. It had never mattered that the cushions were uneven or that the legs creaked beneath the slightest movement. His presence had always been enough to soften the discomfort—the muted hum of his thoughts and the rhythmic scratch of his pen lulling you to sleep.

The blanket you always use—the one draped over the back of the sofa as if waiting for you—offers no consolation. It fails to warm you like it normally does, fails to soften the reality of your own decision, instead punishing you for your pride, for your need for a dramatic exit from the bedroom.

Silco is usually the one banished to the couch when tempers flare—when neither of you are willing to yield, mutual stubbornness clashing like fire against steel. You don’t fight often, but when you do, the silence that follows becomes its own petty battlefield, neither of you willing to be the first to surrender.

Tonight, though, you had been the first to walk away, with the intention of making a grand exit—storming from the bedroom with sharp words lingering in the air, making sure he felt the weight of your absence. It had felt right in the moment—a dramatic exit, fueled by righteous indignation and the fire of your wrath.

Now, hours later, as a spring from one of the old cushions stabs into your side, you’re regretting everything. Just not enough to swallow your pride and turn back.

It had been a stupid fight, you know that much. But this was about principle now, about proving a point. (No matter how ridiculous that point had become.)

The room is unnervingly quiet, save for the distant hum of the Undercity beyond the iron-clad window. The world outside is his domain—he reigns over it with a brutal certainty, a man who’s mere presence commands respect, who’s voice alone can strike fear. He does not tolerate defiance. He makes and breaks men without blinking.

And yet, here you are—curled up on the sofa in his office, stubbornly clinging to your pride, proving once again that in all the world, you are the only person in this city allowed to contradict him.

He usually loves that about you. Usually.

The couch is miserable, the silence unbearable. And worst of all—you suspect Silco knows you regret it.

You feel him before you hear him—the measured steps, the slow exhale. Despite everything, your body reacts with an involuntary awareness as you pretend to be asleep. You can feel the deliberate way he stops behind you and waits, as if giving you a chance to abandon your act before calling it out directly.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Silco mutters, voice low and edged with exhaustion. “Come back to bed.”

You keep your breathing slow. Even. The furniture creaks beneath even the smallest of your movements and you can feel a cramp forming in the side of your neck, but you remain stubborn.

He scoffs. “You’re a terrible actress. I know you’re awake—you snore when you sleep.”

The sheer audacity of that statement causes indignation to flare hot and immediate within your chest. “I do not!”

His chuckle is low and laced with something infuriatingly smug. “You do. It’s adorable, in fact.”

“That’s a lie.” You huff, still refusing to turn over.

“If it were a lie, you wouldn’t have responded.”

You glare into the darkness, gripping the blanket tighter, refusing to let him win that easily.

“Scoot in,” he orders.

You don’t move.

A pause—and then, without hesitation, his hands find your waist, firm and impatient, and practically shove you deeper into the couch. The motion forces a startled gasp from you, but before you can protest, he’s wedging himself in behind you with infuriating determination, fully committing to this absurd act of retaliation.

The heat of him is immediate—solid and unyielding as his chest presses flush against your back, his breath skimming the nape of your neck as he attempts to fit into the impossibly small space. The couch groans beneath the added weight, protesting as he tries to adjust his position into some semblance of comfort.

You don’t need to turn over to know how ridiculous he looks—you can already picture it. The way his long legs dangle awkwardly off the edge, one foot braced against the floor in a desperate attempt to balance, limbs bent at angles that cannot possibly be comfortable.

His arm, trapped between your body and the back of the couch, twitches slightly as he tries not to completely lose circulation, but he doesn’t get up. He exhales again, slower this time, settling into the discomfort like he’s decided that if you’re going to be stubborn, he’ll be worse.

You should be annoyed, livid. But instead, you feel a slow, childish satisfaction creep in.

It’s petty. It’s immature—the satisfaction of knowing that, for all his effortless power—for all the ways people shrink beneath his gaze, how his name alone commands obedience—he is entirely, utterly helpless against the sheer, humiliating inadequacy of his very own couch.

You had stormed out for dramatic effect, meant to exile yourself with purpose, meant to make a statement. And now? Now, he has turned your exile into his own inconvenience.

Serves him right.

You shift just enough to make it worse for him, hearing the faintest grunt of irritation in response.

"This is ridiculous," he mutters.

"You should’ve let me sleep, then." you hiss, voice barely above a whisper.

The silence stretches, thick with lingering irritation, neither of you ready to let the fight go.

Then, a low, pained groan from the man behind you.

"Has this damned couch always been this uncomfortable?"

You don’t bother hiding your smirk. "Wouldn’t know. It usually belongs to you after a fight."

Silco exhales sharply through his nose, clearly unimpressed. "I’m starting to think I’ve committed some kind of sin against my spine."

"You have," you agree. "It’s called arrogance."

He huffs, adjusting once again behind you as if any amount of repositioning will make the couch tolerable.

(It won’t.)

You could tell him that. But you say nothing, because you are far too pleased with the way he’s struggling to fit.

“I’m still mad at you.” You murmur.

“Likewise,” Silco replies without hesitation.

“We’re still fighting.”

“Obviously.” He grunts.

"I’m still not talking to you," you declare.

"That’s fine," he mutters. "But this arrangement is beneath us. Separate beds will not be tolerated."

Even though he can’t see you, you roll your eyes at his dramatics. It’s hardly the first time you’ve slept apart. Hell, most of the time, it’s his fault—either because of stubbornness, or business, or whatever else keeps him locked away in his office long past midnight. He acts as if the nights he’s spent locked away in his office, wrapped in work and silence, have never existed.

And yet, here he is, declaring it like some unbreakable rule.

Another pause. His body shifts behind yours, adjusting to the sheer impracticality of squeezing himself onto the ancient couch. You should feel victorious about it, should relish the way the situation is entirely his fault for insisting on being here instead of leaving you in peace.

But you don’t feel triumphant. Just restless.

Still, he’s warm against your back—his breath slow, steady, making it impossible to pretend you’re unaffected.

Because no matter how stubborn you are, how much you want to cling to your anger, you simply cannot ignore the way his his body molds so effortlessly to yours despite the sheer impracticality of the sofa beneath you, the way his slow, even breathing betrays exhaustion, causing goosebumps to spread across your skin.

Even as your irritation simmers, there’s a part of you—the smallest, most insufferable part—that can’t help but notice how well you fit together, even here, even like this.

You shift slightly, just enough to make him even more uncomfortable.

It’s petty. It’s immature. But still, it makes you feel just a little better.

You lie there, feeling his body press against yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin. The silence between you is thick with unspoken words and lingering anger. But as the minutes tick by, you become aware of something else—a growing hardness pressing against your lower back. You freeze, your eyes widening in disbelief.

"You cannot be serious right now," you mutter, exasperated.

He hums softly, a low vibration against the back of your neck. "What can you mean?" His voice is laced with amusement, which only serves to irritate you more.

"You cannot seriously have a hard-on right now," you groan, stabbing an elbow to his side in an attempt to dislodge him, but he only presses closer, his arm tightening around your waist.

He shushes you gently, fingers tracing light patterns on your belly, just below the hem of your shirt. "Quiet, now," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, "you're not talking to me, remember?"

You can feel the frustration rolling off of him, mirroring your own as he continues to touch you. You both know your fight was stupid and petty, but it seems neither of you are willing to back down yet.

“Still mad at me, I see.” you mumble, your voice laced with a mix of desire and annoyance as his fingers trail lightly over your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He takes his time teasing you, his touch maddeningly light as he explores your body.

Silco scoffs in response, not stopping his ministrations. “Oh, I’m mad alright. Mad at you for being so stubborn, so infuriatingly proud.”

His lips are on your neck, kissing, sucking, marking you as his. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the hardness of his cock pressing against your bottom, but he makes no move to rush, perfectly content to draw out your torment.

His touch sparks a familiar heat that spreads throughout your body despite your best efforts to resist. You feel him inch higher, brushing the underside of your breasts. You suck in a sharp breath, trying to ignore the way your traitorous body responds.

You’re still mad at him, so mad, but your body doesn’t seem to care. It’s all too eager to respond to his touch, his kisses. He cups you fully, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, causing you to shiver at the stark contrast of his calloused fingers against the soft, sensitive skin. You bite your lip to suppress a moan, trying to hold onto the frustration that keeps slipping away with every stroke of his fingers, every nip of his teeth.

His hands are skilled, knowing exactly how to touch you to drive you wild. He rolls your nipples between his fingers, pulling gently, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You squirm, trying to press against him to ease the ache building inside you.

His cock is hard and insistent against you, and you can feel his desire even through his anger. He wants you, despite being mad at you. You feel a sense of satisfaction in that—a primitive, feminine pride. You drive him just as crazy as he drives you.

His hips begin to move—a slow, deliberate rutting against your backside, the hardness of him unmistakable through the thin fabric of your sleep clothes. You can feel every inch of him in the way he grinds against you, stoking a fire that you can’t ignore.

“Silco,” you whisper, voice hoarse with need. “Please.”

He chuckles, a low, knowing sound. “Please what, my dear? You’re not supposed to be talking to me, remember?”

You groan, your body arching back against him, seeking more friction, more of him. “You know what I want,” you manage to bite out.

His hands leave your breasts, trailing down your belly, teasing the edge of your sleep shorts. He kisses a path down your neck to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin, leaving marks that will linger long after the night is over. You feel your pulse racing, your body aching with need. He’s taking his sweet time, the bastard.

His fingers dip below the waistband of your panties. You hold your breath as his fingers immediately find your center, wet and ready for him. “My, my…Is this all for me?”

He doesn’t wait for a response as he begins to circle your clit, his touch feather-light and driving you mad with need. You push against him, urging him on. Silco obliges, sliding his fingers inside you, his thumb taking over the torment of your clit. You moan, eyes fluttering closed as you give into the sensation, your body moving with his, taking everything he offers.

His rutting becomes more insistent, his own breath coming in ragged gasps. You can feel his desperation, his need, and it only serves to heighten your own pleasure. You’re close, so close, body wound tight and ready to snap.

“Come for me,” He growls close to your ear. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you do, your body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. He rides it out with you, his fingers slowing as you come down from your high. “More, Silco, I need more.”

“Tell me what you want.” He grunts, his cock still hard and ready against you as he pulls you close. “Be specific.”

“Your cock,” you beg, grinding back against him, desperate for more. “I want your cock.”

He shimmies your sleep shorts down frantically, fingers brushing against your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He positions himself at your entrance, but doesn't push in, just teases you with the head of his shaft.

"You're so wet for me," he murmurs, his voice laced with smug satisfaction. "So ready."

"Stop teasing," you snap, your voice a mix of desperation and annoyance. "Just fuck me already."

He chuckles, but obliges, just barely—pushing in slowly, inch by inch, drawing it out, ensuring you feel every single inch of him. You moan, your body clenching around him, but you refuse to give in completely. You refuse to let him win that easily.

"Still mad?" he asks, his voice a low rumble in your ear as he moves, slow and deliberate, driving you insane.

"Very," you manage to bite out, your body moving with his despite your best efforts to hold back.

He smiles against your neck, biting down hard with jagged teeth, nearly drawing blood. "Good. I like it when you're feisty."

"Please," you beg again, quickly becoming desperate. You can feel the way he stretches you, fills you, and it's simply not enough. You need more. “I need—"

"For someone who's not talking to me, you have a lot to say, my girl."

Before you can shoot something back, he bottoms out all at once, hitting that perfect, sweet spot that takes all intelligible thought out of your head. You moan—a long, low sound of pure pleasure, clenching around him as he begins to move, drawing out your pleasure and torturing you in the best possible way.

"You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice a low growl. "So tight. So wet. And all mine."

His fingers find your clit, teasing you. You moan, your body arching back against him, seeking more friction, more of him. He obliges, his touch becoming more insistent, more demanding.

He slips the fingers of his other hand into your mouth, and you begin to suck on them instinctively, your eyes fluttering closed as you give in to the sensation. He groans, his member pulsing inside you as he feels your mouth wrap around his fingers.

"You like that, don't you?”

You offer a muffled moan in response as his fingers work their magic. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, only to trail them down once again to your breast, circling the wet digits around your nipple.

He continues pounding into you, his anger and desire a potent mix. You can feel your orgasm building, body tensing as you climb higher and higher, but he's not ready to let you go over the edge, not yet.

"Silco," you cry out, your voice a desperate plea. "I’m close, I—”

He shushes you, finally giving in to what you've been begging for, his cock driving into you with a force that leaves you breathless, clenching tightly around him as you finally, blessedly, come undone—soaking his front in the process. He follows soon after, his cock pulsing inside you as he finds his release, his body shaking with the force of it.

As you both come down from your high, he pulls you close, his body wrapping around yours possessively. You lie there, spent and satisfied, mind a blur of confusion and desire. You're still angry at him, still frustrated, but in this moment, none of that matters. All that exists is the two of you, entwined and breathless, a tangle of limbs and shared pleasure.

He presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck—a silent apology, a silent confession.

"I can't sleep without you anymore," he admits quietly, his voice barely a whisper—so soft you almost don't hear it. His voice is vulnerable, raw, and honest in a way you rarely see from him. “I need you with me. Even if we're fighting."

You know he wouldn’t say it if you weren’t facing away from each other. He wouldn’t be able to say it in the light of day, where he’d have to see the admission reflected in your eyes, where you could take that vulnerability and hold onto it too tightly.

You smile and snuggle back against him, your heart aching with a mix of tenderness and frustration. "I feel the same.”

He kisses your neck again, a soft, gentle kiss that contradicts the intensity of what you just shared. "We'll resume our fight in the morning," he promises.

Despite everything, a ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. Warmth curls in your chest—not forgiveness, not surrender, but something quiet. Something sure.

Neither of you make a move toward the bedroom. Instead, Silco settles deeper against you, still inside you, trapping you in the mess of limbs and bad decisions. His arm curls around your waist, anchoring you together.

The fight isn’t over. The unresolved tension still lingers, settled between you, waiting for its second act. You aren’t ready to let it go—aren’t ready to say sorry.

In the morning, when the sun rises, you’ll resume your fight with sleep in your bodies. You’ll pick up the pieces of the battle, of the stubborn pride that neither of you are willing to cast aside quite yet.

But tonight—tonight, you just sleep, your bodies entwined, anger temporarily forgotten, as you lie on the stupid, lumpy couch, your hearts beating as one.

And for this moment, it's enough.

if you've read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart!!! i truly treasure all comments, reblogs and feedback. please share your thoughts below <3

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larapeachsstuff · 1 month ago

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steady hands, soft ruin

summary: he doesn't look at you anymore. but still, you watch.

series: part 2 to “your eyes, like shadows”

pairing: Silco x Reader

w/c: 4.2k

notes: tropes, guys. so many tropes. i make no apologies, and hope you love them as much as i do. ahead is canon-typical violence, descriptions of injuries, gun use, kissing, YEARNING!!! i love this man so much

read on ao3: here

He doesn't look at you anymore.

At least, not that you can catch. But, sometimes you swear you can feel it—a weight pressing against you, an attention that vanishes the second you dare to meet it. You convince yourself you’re imagining things; the shift in his posture, the slight dip of his head when you enter the room.

He doesn't speak to you beyond necessity, either—not that he ever filled the office with words. He was always quiet, measured, never indulgent with conversation. But before…before that night, his silence felt different. Less distant, less deliberate.

Now, when you ask a question, he responds. His responses are curt. Efficient. Devoid of anything extra. You follow directives, fulfill tasks, take notes. There is no hesitation, no wasted words. It’s not that he’s ignoring you, not really. But that doesn't make it sting any less.

And still, you feel him.

There are moments, slivers of time between one heartbeat and the next where you swear he's watching you. A presence, something that exists only in the air between you. But when you lift your head, he’s always focused elsewhere.

You try not to watch him, to respect the boundaries—the wall he has put up. You tell yourself whatever almost happened between you—the hesitation, the breath between words, the way his gaze caught on your lips—you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. If he’s made it clear it won’t happen again, then fine. You’ll respect that.

But still—you watch.

You tell yourself it’s just habit. Nothing more than what you’ve always done. But it feels like more than that, like you’re collecting glimpses of him the way someone might collect precious stones: the furrow in his brow when he's concentrating, the tightness in his jaw when he returns from a meeting gone poorly. The uneven edges of his teeth when he smiles at his daughter—rare, fleeting, but so genuine that it makes something deep inside you ache.

You would do anything to see that smile turned toward you. Just once.

The day has reached its end. Your routine has stayed mostly the same—reports finished, tasks complete. You linger briefly in the doorway, hesitating just slightly, just enough to wonder if he’ll glance up, this time.

As always, the air carries something unspoken, something neither of you acknowledge—like a tightly drawn wire stretched between two points, humming with tension but never snapping. The weight of the past—the night that almost tipped you both into something else—sits between you like a misplaced object that neither of you move, choosing to walk around it instead.

You wish him goodnight. Silco dismisses you with a wave—absent, uninterested. You swallow down the sting, the hollow ache that has no name. And you leave.

Outside of the office, the crowd is beginning to pick up as regulars of The Last Drop begin to file in. The air is thick and heavy, a contrast to the cool air of Silco’s office as you step through the bustling crowd, weaving through bodies as you make your way outside.

As you walk home, you give yourself the same speech you’d given in your head for weeks—that you won’t think about him anymore tonight. As always, you fail. You tell yourself not to picture his unreadable expression, not to linger on his cold dismissal. And yet, the rejection presses against you like an ache you can’t soothe.

The streets demand your focus. You finally pull your mind away, grounding you in movements you've practiced a hundred times before.

The Undercity is never quiet, never truly empty. Shadows stretch under the dim glow of street lamps, bodies shift in alleyways, voice murmur from behind closed doors. You weave through it all with caution learned by the necessity that comes with growing in Zaun—slipping through gaps down alleyways, keeping your pace steady and purposeful.

There's a rhythm to the streets, always a predictability in the chaos.

But then—tonight—there's a shift.

The scuffle behind you isn't loud. Just a scrape, a sudden motion. But your instincts sharpen instantly, the hair on the back of your neck rising, pulse kicking into something fast and urgent.

You turn, too late. Hands grab—rough, purposeful. Unforgiving.

There's little time to react. Your fingers scramble toward the blade at your side, where it always is, but it’s useless. The faceless men coming after you are faster and stronger. More practiced at this kind of violence. You know better than to try to fight back.

You feel it: the sharp yank at the bag slung over your shoulder, a shove given with an angry snarl. The force comes suddenly, sending you sprawling—the cold, dirty ground rushing up to meet you. Pain explodes along your cheekbone, your ribs, your side. Air rips from your lungs, stolen by the impact. The world is suddenly distant, voices nothing more than muffled static and then—

It all turns black. —

You’re not sure how long you lie there.

You wake up with a pulse of agony, pain throbbing deep in your cheek, a dull roar pressing against the edges of your consciousness. You’re limp against the cold pavement, the scent of damp stone filling your nose. The city hums around you, and you stay there, caught somewhere between wakefulness and something heavier.

Whether it's been minutes or hours, you don't know.

The first inhale is shallow, trembling as your ribs ache in response. You push yourself upright with slow, careful movements, whimpering softly as your body protests. The ground is cold beneath your fingertips, rough against your skin.

You take inventory: nothing broken. That's a mercy. Your clothes are intact, nothing open or ripped. Relief settles into your bones, heavy and undeniable—this could have been worse, as it so often is in Zaun. The thought should be comforting…it isn’t.

Your bag, of course, is long gone. That at least, doesn’t matter. Nothing important was inside—just a bit of money along with a few personal effects. Nothing irreplaceable.

You press a hand against the brick wall beside you, heaving yourself onto your feet. The ache in your body makes itself known with each limping step, but you move anyway.

Home, you just need to get home. You glance back, just once, toward the empty space you had occupied, the place where strangers took what they wanted and left you with nothing but bruises. No one had stopped. No one had seen. Or if they had, they didn’t care.

You limp your way through the familiar streets, each footfall careful and deliberate. Each step causes a pain sharp enough to make your breath catch, but you don't stop. You can't.

When you finally reach your apartment, you push the door open and quickly shut it behind you with urgency; the air inside your little home feels different. Stagnant. Lonelier than usual.

You make your way to the bathroom, flicking on the light, finally meeting your own reflection. You’re swollen, but not terribly. Aching.

There's a scrape on your cheek, and a garish cut beneath your eye thats bleeding sluggishly. You don't have any antiseptic, just water. Still, it’s soothing against your skin as you attempt to clean the wounds.

The adrenaline coursing through your veins begins to fade, exhaustion taking its place along with something else: the weight of your survival settling. It could have been—should have been—much worse.

It should have been what you know happens to so many others in the Undercity, to so many bodies abandoned in nameless alleyways; stories that simply end without warning.

You finish cleaning up. You double-check the lock, then crawl into bed, still in your day clothes, still aching. The bed is too big, the space too empty. You press your face against the pillows and let the tears come. You don’t expect comfort. Not here. Not in this city.

Violence is just part of it—a thing that just happens, a thing you learn not to dwell on. Lying here, bruised and aching, you feel ridiculous for how shaken you still are. It wasn’t even that bad, not really. Your bones aren’t broken, the thieves didn’t take anything that mattered. You’ve heard stories worse. Seen worse. So why does the silence of your empty apartment feel so suffocating?

You press your fingers against the scrape on your cheek, the shallow cut beneath your eye, letting the sting remind you that you’re still here. Still breathing. It helps, a little.

But as you shift beneath the covers, curling onto your side, there’s something else nagging at the edges of your thoughts. A quiet, ridiculous yearning you don’t want to name.

Because there’s no one here. Because if there was—if he was—maybe the fear wouldn’t feel quite so sharp. Maybe the emptiness wouldn’t stretch so far.

Not that it matters. Not that he would. You know better than that.

Tomorrow will come like it always does, dragging you back into the hum of work, back into the presence of someone who won’t look at you, won’t speak beyond necessity, and won’t acknowledge whatever door slammed shut between you that night. And you’ll do what you always do—show up, finish tasks, act like nothing happened. Because that’s how life works.

Still, you tug the blanket a little tighter around your frame. It doesn’t help.

But you do it anyway.

—

The next day, you’re at your desk, nearly finished with a report, trying to complete your work before he returns. The day had worked out in your favor. His schedule was packed—meetings, shimmer production site visits. Obligations that kept him away from the office, away from you. It wasn’t intentional, but it was what you needed—you weren't sure you could handle his quiet indifference today, not after what you went through.

You do feel better—less shaken, less fragile, but the night before is still there, lingering in the stiffness of your movements, the dull ache crawling across your body. The cut beneath your eye oozes slightly despite your efforts to clean it. The darkened bruises had settled deep within your skin, quiet and throbbing.

So, you buried yourself in work—let the routine pull you forward, locked into focus. It helped, made time move faster and soon the dull throb in your bones and the sting beneath your eye felt secondary. The hours passed steadily—you’re determined to finish before Silco returns, before the inevitable arrival you don’t want to face.

But fate, as always, has other plans. The door swings open—sudden and sharp, hitting the wall behind it with a loud thud.

Your body reacts before your mind does as you jump out of your skin. A sharp noise escapes you—a startled shriek that makes your skin prickle with embarrassment. The sound too raw, too vulnerable.

You recover quickly, clearing your throat, offering a quiet apology. “I’m sorry, sir.” You murmur, not daring to turn around. “It’s just…you surprised me, that's all.”

Silence. Then, a scoff. “Afraid of me now, are you?”

His words hit like an accusation, the irritation in his voice unmistakable.

“No!” You say too quickly, like a reflex.

Silence stretches over you again, heavier this time. “Then why aren’t you looking at me?”

You inhale slowly—willing your pulse to steady, trying to force the tension in your shoulders to loosen. You know this moment is inevitable. You had hoped—foolishly—that you would be gone before he returned, before he had a chance to see, to give the bruises time to fade. You sigh, there's no avoiding it now.

You push your chair back with careful deliberation, standing with measured restraint. You turn slowly, reluctantly.

Time stops.

His gaze catches you instantly. It happens fast—his expression darkening.

It wouldn’t be obvious to anyone else—to someone who had spent less time studying him—the tightening in his jaw, the slow pull of his brow as he takes in every mark, every wound, every inch of damage you tried to hide. His pupils have blown wide in their fury.

He steps toward you, movements measured and controlled. You stiffen, but don’t retreat. You couldn’t if you wanted to.

His fingers brush gently against your chin, tilting your face just slightly, inspecting the injuries with a barely-contained rage that makes your stomach twist. When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous. Barely restrained.

“Who did this?”

“It was just a couple of thugs,” you swallow, trying to force your voice into something steady. You try to sound indifferent, as if the night previous hadn’t shaken you more than you wanted to admit. “They wanted my bag, but it’s fine. I didn’t have anything important in it—no reports or sensitive documents that would put the business at risk.”

The second the words leave you, his expression tightens. He scoffs—sharp, unimpressed, as if the very idea of your priorities insults him—like the very notion of your safely ever being secondary to paperwork is so ridiculous he doesnt even have the patience to entertain it. You suddenly feel stupid, like you had missed something.

“Sit.” He directs, nodding toward his desk.

You hesitate—only for a second—but obey, sliding onto the edge of the polished wood, watching as he moves with quiet efficiency, retrieving a cloth and a bottle of liquor from a cabinet. You shiver slightly, barely perceptible, as he steps close.

The first touch is careful. His fingers tilt your chin, angling your face toward him, his movements deliberate but light—as if he's holding back, like he doesn't trust himself not to be too harsh. The sting from the alcohol bites immediately, sharp against the broken skin, and you wince.

Silco shoots you an apologetic look before his focus hardens again, returning to his task of dabbing your wounds clean. The silence stretches, pressing into the space between you.

You watch him, you can’t help it at this point, studying the intensity in his features—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his seafoam eye remains locked onto his work while the corrupted one twitches, the orange glow flickering. You wish, more than anything, that you could read his thoughts, see whatever is sitting behind his measured control. Then—

“This is my fault.” His words are barely above a murmur, like they weren’t meant for you to hear.

Your breath catches. You shake your head quickly. “No, it isn’t–”

“You work for me.” He cuts you off, his tone is edged, leaving no room for argument. “You should have an escort home.”

There's no hesitation in his tone, no doubt. Just certainty that the idea of you walking alone at night, vulnerable to the violence of Zaun, is something unacceptable. You let out a breath, half amused, half disbelieving.

“That's ridiculous,” you say with a dismissive laugh. “I’m just a secretary.”

His expression shifts. Quiet, still. So quiet you almost miss it—

“You’re more than that.”

It wasn’t meant to be said aloud. But you know, without a doubt, that he meant it.

Your throat tightens, and before you can think better of it—before you can stop yourself—your hand moves. You place it atop his, where it rests cradling your jaw.

His fingers twitch beneath yours, just slightly. The warmth of his skin seeps into yours. His seafoam eye twitches. But he doesn’t pull away. You inhale, barely audible. “Silco…”

It slips out before you realize it—his first name. You’ve never used it before, not out loud, anyway. You had only ever referred to him as Sir, or Boss. His gaze snaps to yours, holding you there.

Then, he retreats. Your stomach twists. You should have known, should have expected it—the wall to be built back into place.

You sit frozen as he moves to the other side of the desk, you hear a drawer opening then closing. Edges of your vision begin to blur, eyes burning before you can stop it. You really don’t want to cry in front of him.

Then, he appears back in front of you—holding his hand out. You blink the tears away.

You stare at it. For a brief second, you wonder if you’re imagining things and your exhaustion has finally twisted reality into something softer than it actually is. But he doesn’t move.

Slowly, hesitantly, you reach forward, placing your fingers into his grasp. He takes them, his grip firm and certain.

“If you’re going to work for me,” he says, calm and controlled. “You need to learn how to protect yourself.”

With that, he leads you out of the room. His grip on your hand remains—firm, unrelenting, tighter than probably necessary, but neither of you acknowledge it. You let him guide you out of his office, down the stairs, through an empty corridor to a back entrance you didn’t know about, avoiding drunken patrons of The Last Drop.

You exit the building to an empty alleyway. It's quiet and grungy. The damp scent of the undercity mixing with something stale and metallic. He only stops when you’ve both stepped fully into the empty space. Silco finally pulls away, releasing your hand with some effort.

You feel the absence of his touch, but before you can process it, Silco reaches behind himself, pulling out a pistol from the waistband of his trousers—a sleek, well-worn weapon, familiar in his calloused grip.

“You’re going to learn how to shoot.” His voice is final, steady, leaving no room for objections.

To which you immediately begin to object. “That’s—that’s really not necessary.”

He ignores you, inspecting the gun, checking the chamber with practiced ease.

“I’m not some—some henchman, or whatever. Besides, I hate guns—”

He silences your protest with a single look, his expression cocky. “It’s not wise to argue with your boss.”

You exhale, irritated, but don’t bother responding, ultimately knowing you won’t win this. He presses the pistol into your palm, the weight surprising you.

“It’s…heavy,” you mutter, adjusting your grip awkwardly.

“I’ll be getting you one of your own, soon.” The certainty in his voice makes something in your chest flutter.

Silco steps back, nodding toward a battered wooden fence at the far end of the alley—full of bullet holes, evidence of past target practice.

“Aim.”

You lift the weapon, but your hands tremble slightly, unfamiliar with the grip. He immediately sighs in exasperation.

“You mean to tell me you grew up in Zaun and never bothered to learn how to shoot?”

You scowl at him in return. He huffs something unflattering under his breath, having no patience for excuses. Then—he moves.

One moment he’s standing beside you, watching you with quiet irritation. The next, his body is pressed against yours—close, firm and solid. The shock of it steals your breath away.

His presence surrounds you entirely, every inch of him enveloping you, steadying you. You feel Silco’s hands wrap around your waist, traveling up your arms, adjusting your stance with easy precision.

The moment shifts, suddenly you realize: he’s never been this close. Ever.

You feel everything. The shape of him—taller than you, lean but strong. More solid than one would expect, absolutely no frailty to him. His heat settles deep against your spine. The warmth of his breath against your skin. His scent—whiskey and cigars and something expensive—envelopes you.

Your pulse trips, your fingers twitching against the cold steel. You feel him, more than hear, speak low near your ear. “Like this.”

He covers your hand with his own, adjusting your grip, steadying your aim.

You try to focus, try not to drown in the warmth of him, the closeness, the way the moment stretches too long, too charged. “Keep your eyes open.”

You realize, with a jolt, they were fluttering shut. Heat blooms beneath your skin, and you shake your head, forcing yourself to refocus. To focus on the gun in your hands rather than the way his front is pressed so completely against your back. You inhale, steadying your grip, and pull the trigger.

The gunshot cracks through the alleyway, ringing in your ears, but through the sharpness of the sound, his voice still reaches you—low, murmured, close. “Good girl.”

You exhale, pulse thrumming, adrenaline lingering. The words settle against your skin, curling deeply in places they shouldn’t reach.

His fingers remain wrapped around yours—his grip firm and unwavering. Slowly, his head dips, his warm breath settling against your hair, close enough that you feel the inhale—deliberate, like he's memorizing everything about you in this moment.

Your eyes flutter shut again. You wish you could sink into this moment and stay there.

You feel the pistol leave your hands with practiced ease, his fingers brushing against yours as he pulls it from your grip. You hear the quiet slide of metal as he tucks it back into his waistband, the motion effortless and habitual.

You brace for it—the distance. You anticipate the moment he steps back behind the unseen wall, where whatever fragile thing between you can get stitched back up before it can fully slip. It doesn’t come.

“I’m sorry,” he says, softly. Unsteady in a way you aren’t used to hearing.

The words are quiet but genuine. You try to dismiss them. “I told you it wasn’t your fault,” you murmur, wanting to pull him from whatever guilt sat heavy in his chest. “You weren’t even there—”

Before you can finish, you feel him shake his head. Suddenly, you understand. He’s not talking about the attack, or your bruises, or for the near-empty streets that swallowed your pain without a second thought.

He’s speaking of everything else. The silence, the avoidance. The way his indifference had cut sharper than the hands that had thrown you to the ground. Your throat tightens, breath catching against something deep and unnamed.

Silco’s arms remain wrapped around you, firm. Grounding you. You close your eyes, allowing yourself to sink into the feeling for just a second.

“Have dinner with me.” It’s not a command, or even a request. It’s soft, inevitable. It carries the weight of knowing that declining isn’t an actual possibility—not because you can’t, but because you won’t. You never could.

You exhale, leaning back into him. Letting the tension drain from your shoulders, allowing yourself stay in his arms, for just a little while longer. “Okay.”

You feel his breath steady, the relief flooding his form. He’s still holding you. Your pulse is slow, steady, settling into the warmth of his arms which are still wrapped around you, in the quiet weight of his presence.

You turn your head, just slightly. Just enough to look at him. Only to find Silco already looking at you as if you were something precious. Slowly, you shift, turning in his grip, fully this time, to face him entirely.

His twitches slightly at the movement, his hold adjusting instinctively, but he doesn't let go, doesn’t turn away.

Instead, his hands lift, framing your face on either side, his warm palms pressing against your skin, thumbs brushing just beneath your jaw. His touch is deliberate—more gentle on the injured side, where the bruises still ache. Like he’s memorizing every wound, every detail.

Then, he leans in. Slowly, unhurried. He stops—just for a brief second, just long enough for you to catch the way his seafoam and orange eyes flicker down to your mouth, the way his breath steadies, the way his grip tightens almost imperceptibly against you.

Finally—finally—his lips meet yours. Soft, but firm. Not rushed, it's just right.

The pull toward him is stronger than it has ever been, your fingers twitching slightly before they find purchase against his chest, gripping the fabric of his vest. The heat spreads beneath your skin, settling into your ribs, curling deeply in your stomach as you exhale against him, pressing deeply into the kiss, allowing the moment—no—allowing him to consume you whole.

The weight of the kiss settles into the space between you. It’s firm, deep and long overdue. His grip doesn’t loosen, not for a second. His fingers press into you, warm and steady, anchoring you in a way that feels deliberate, like he’s making sure you stay exactly where you are, where he wants you.

Whatever restraint kept this at bay for so long, whatever unspoken thing that had wedged its way between you is gone now, and neither of you mourn it. All that exists in its place is the way his lips move against yours; as if he's committing every second, every inch of you, to memory.

You want more—everything, anything he’ll give you. Your hands slide slowly upward from their place on his chest. They trace along the lines of his collarbone before shifting higher, settling along each side of his face.

Your fingers move instinctively, tracing along his cheeks, soft, careful, deliberate. When they graze the jagged edge of his scar—rough beneath your fingertips—he stills.

His breath halts, his grip tightening just slightly, like he’s caught between reaction and restraint as your thumb ghosts across the texture of his ruined skin.

And for a second—a single, fleeting second—you worry you’ve gone too far. That this is something he doesn’t want, that you crossed a line you shouldn’t have crossed.

Still, he doesn’t leave. His grip loosens and his hands shift, pulling away from your lips just enough for a bit of space between you to return—not to retreat, but for something else entirely.

Without a word, his fingers slip to yours, gently pulling your hand away from his face—only to turn it over and bring it to his lips.

He kisses your palm—soft, unhurried, lingering.

Slowly, carefully, he presses your hand back to his cheek, his own fingers covering yours now, holding you in place—keeping you there.

Silco leans back down and continues kissing you. This time, deeper, with something heavier behind it.

Something wordless.

Something certain.

Something you know neither of you will regret.

if you've read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart. comments and reblogs mean the world to me, so please please tell me your thoughts!!! (even if it's just screaming gibberish it makes me kick my feets)

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