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.
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