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pinklunarprincess · 1 month ago

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OH!! THE SUSPENSE!! WHY YES!!

What Could Have Been

Silco, the Eye of Zaun, the Industrialist, was first and foremost a son of Zaun who wanted his motherland free. After an altercation in which is adopted daughter shot him in a fit of rage, he is left dying while the world goes on without him. His life's work and ideals soon trampled to nothing as his memory fades from the world. But what if he was saved?

Chapter 1: Alive

Panting, lungs on fire as if someone had poured gas and lit a match, legs pained as if you had walked through bear straps, back hunched as your arms, screaming and groaning in intense pain, carried the unconscious man.

You were alive, but he was very well on his way to greet Kindred at the doors to the afterlife.

He was not a heavy man by any means, he was lithe, but he was cumbersome, as if he carried more weight than what could be seen, and from what you knew of him, he did. As your exhausted body rushed through the stabbing pain, jumping from rooftop to rooftop as you made your way down to your home, you still took breaks to check his pulse. Everytime it got fainter, but everytime he was still alive despite it all. So you pushed forwards, through agonizing pain as you cut through the lively streets of Zaun, no one paying any mind to a girl holding a man in her arms while she rushed above the roofs. Perhaps it was the first and only time of your life you've been grateful for Zaun's misfortune, no one would question you and that was good enough for you to push forward.

Your home was nothing great, an appartment at the top of a building at the limit between the Entresol and the Sump in a quaint square, it was safe, calm, the people were kind and the Chem Barons' influence didn't matter to such a small community. A hole in the wall, almost as if blessed by Janna herself. But as you entered the building, kicking the door open, the calm subsided.

"Are you okay?" Asked the worried voice of the landlord's son, Jarren, his sweet brown eyes looking at you panicked. "I'm alive, run upstairs and open my door for me please kid, because he won't be for long." He nods, his small body taking on the stairs two by two, speeding to the top as you did the same, your ankle twisting as you landed badly on a step but you pushed forward, determination fuelling your body like coal and vapor fuelled Piltover's machines. At the top your apartment was open, Jarren sitting at the small dining table as his knee bounced in worry. Scared your adrenalin would run out soon you hurried up the stairs to the mezzanine where your room was, curtains acting as both walls and door while you rush into them, too panicked to properly open the fabric as you lay the dying man in your arms on the comfort of your bed. "Is that..." I hear a whisper as I take the man's pulse again, for a second you freeze believing him dead, but you felt it, a weak pump of blood beneath your finger, a soft breath on your cheek; he was still hanging on. And so would you. "No matter who he is, he's a Zaunite and he's dying, and I'll be damned if he dies in my arms. Get me my kit Jarren." You turn to him, panting voice strained from thirst and exhaustion while you reach for the desk chair, sitting near the person you've saved, or at least were actively trying to save.

Silco, the Industrialist, the Eye of Zaun. A man who, in a decade gained much more power than anyone ever had in Zaun other than Vander. A man of great contradiction, flooding the streets with drugs yet protecting those under his hand from any evil done by the other Chem Barons. Ruling with an iron fist, imposing his violence and control over the entire city, yet fending for it by slowly and intelligently gaining on Piltover's enforcers. Some deemed him a traitor, a monster, some deemed him a hero. But in the world there was no dark black or pure white, there were though, millions of shades of gray, dirty and mixed, a contradiction to itself. You didn't know him personally, and you doubt that anyone really did, but you still didn't want to judge whatever was said by whomever on the streets. He had once been a revolutionary, fighting for Zaun, and in your mind you wagered that he still was in a way. What changed him so drastically from a bright eyed boy to a bitter comandeering man, you didn't know. Nor did you want to, especially at the moment.

All you knew was that he was a Zaunite, and that he was dying. And that was enough for you to want to do anything in your power to save him.

When Jarren came back with a chest, big enough to cover the upper half of his body, he set it next to Silco on the bed shakily watching the bleeding man tainting your sheets red. Then you, your upper body stained with oxydizing blood, crusting at the edges, the ruby red becoming a burnt umber. "Go Jarren, and please don't tell your folks? I'll deal with that myself you can rest easy." I kiss his forehead and send him on his way, hearing the door click downstairs, I begin working on the older man laying before me. Trying to undo his vest clasp by clasp, which were very inconvenient when trying to save him so you just cut through them preferring his wrath over ruined clothing over a dead man, and opened his shirt throwing it on the ground as it was ruined, bullets having ripped about a handful of holes through the delicate fabric. You turn the man over, checking if any bullets had come out, a couple had, but that meant you had to remove a few yourself. "Shit." You mutter roughly to yourself, picking tweezers, a needle, a spool of suture wire, alcohol and leaning over Silco, and after shakily passing the wire through the eye of the needle you cleaned and closed the wounds which held no bullets. Then came the most harrowing moment, picking up the tweezers and cleaning up the wounds you search for the bullets remaining in the man's abdomen, checking on his disappearing pulse as you go. Pulling out one, two, three, four bullets. And after wiping out your sweat with an arm, of which the strength was waning, you pushed yourself further, suturing the body, praying for it to not grow any colder as you quickly put ointment on the freshly stitched wounds and dress them. He had lost too much blood, and before you pumped air in his lungs you had to make sure he had enough. So, weakly you grab a tube, a needle on each extremity connecting you with a pinch as your blood transfused to him, your fist clenched and a newly tied elastic band around your bicep.

After what seemed an eternity of providing blood and checking his pulse, which had thankfully stabilized, you decide to help him breathe deeper, the last step to what you hoped and prayed was a successful endeavor. "Forgive me." Is muttered as you take away the tube and elastic, getting closer to his face and angling his head backwards with a careful and soft grip, placing your lips upon his and breathing out in his lungs as hard as you could to get oxygen back into his declining body. Switching to cardiac massage after a while, pumping his chest with two strong cupped hands, before going back to breathing out, and so on so forth in a morbid dance. His lungs expanding as yours deflated, your warm hands pushing his frigid chest.

You had kissed death, and he felt cold.

But as cold and pale as as he was, a soft flush of pink came back to his skin, warmth returned as his blood pumped once more through his heart and veins, no longer the soft pulsing of an half empty body but the thrum of a survivor's. Tears of relief escape your eyes as, when you go you give him oxygen one last time, his breath fans your face, an almost imperceptible breeze no more. And then came rushing all the feelings you had locked away during your mission, tears fashing your grimy face and replacing soot by salt, heart beating madly like a derailing train, your blood too hot for your body like bubbling lava. Skin not quite feeling like your own as you try to claw it, at your arms and chest to rid yourself of his blood and so that the pain forces you to snap back to reality. Your lungs gulping air voraciously as if you had been drowning, and in a way you had been, under the weight of someone's near death. Under the weight of The Eye of Zaun's mere existance within your microcosm. And as you shuddered, choking out sobs that you were trying to quiet behind gritted teeth, you felt the rise of his chest as he took a large breath, and another. As if it was guiding you to do the same.

So you did.

In, hold and out.

The blood and sweat covering you, both your own and his, felt stickier now, your skin hotter, but your vision was clearing and your sobs stopped piercing through your chest like lances. He was alive, you had saved him and you were alive as well. No matter what else would happen, you'd deal with that in due time. Today you had saved someone, and you were proud of it. The demons of your mind taking steps back as this warm and bright flickering flame gained on them, calming their hissing and screaming for a moment as you caressed Silco's forehead, feeling the fever coming as you raked the few stands of hair on his forehead back onto the slick back crowning him with silver and obsidian. It was well into the night, but still only the beginning, so with a deep breath you get up from the chair, immediately falling back at the pain in your left ankle. The adrenalin had completely suppressed your pain for the time you were actively trying to maintain Silco alive while he couldn't do so himself, but now that most of the pressure had gone, so had the one thing keeping you from being distracted. And so, groaning while your ankle felt like the souls of the damned were dragging it to hell, you lifted your foot up bandaging it to the best of your ability while hissing, tying it hard so keep it nice and safe.

Walking back downstairs was painful, long and chronovore, especially when you came back, a basin full of cool water and a rag held tightly in your arms as you waddled back up. Now, was a twisted ankle the worse you had? Not by far, not in the fissures and especially not for someone like you. It didn't mean that you felt any better about the scalding flashes of pain burning your foot alive every time you set it to the ground. But no matter when you have a man to take care of, man who was the most notorious person in the lanes and fissures and who almost died in your arms. And while his face had a frigid frown, tight jaw and a deeply set furrow in his brows before, what you saw now as you entered back into your room through the curtains was akin to a child falling back asleep into their parents' arms after a nightmare. The storm had passed, even his body knew that, but now was going to be a different kind of conundrum. Unlike the fast paced, angry and tumultuous waters that you were sailing as you inched his body away from death little by little, now you'd have to face dead calm. No wind to push your sails, no waves to rock your boat, no cloud to paint abstract shapes in the canvas on the sky. You'd be at a standstill, fighting off his fever and protecting his body while he healed enough to gain back conciousness. And so after placing the cold wet rag on his forehead you pulled another couple of blankets, placing them on top of his frail form after wiping his body a little bit of the blood and sweat, focusing on his feet and upper body as you wished for him to keep as much of his privacy and decency, they were all he had left after all.

The world was unmoving and Zaun was cruel, not by its own fault at first, the separation from its sister Piltover by her elites having created disparity and a life of slavery at the hands and under the feet of comfortable Piltovans. The Undercity had to move fast to keep up with its sister's demands, and while many were just exhausted hard working folks, many also turned to depravity and horribled methods to get whatever they felt entitled to have. After all, if no one in Runeterra cares about you, would you be seen any more wrong if you did whatever it was you wanted? And so, through the fast paced life riddled with death, exhaustion and people fending for themselves as well as people taking it all, the trenchers had more than enough on their plates. Even if someone as infamous as Silco were to die, not much would change unless someone ambitious and powerful enough entered the game. The Eye of Zaun, as soon as his heartbeat started to fade, was already doomed to be forgotten, nothing more than old news as the new status quo was left at the hands of miscreants that had it all yet again. Just an other day down in the Undercity, where everyone is but a chunk of coal getting burnt through by their neighbor or by the gilded Piltovan "Progress", while you are left in the soot and chemicals.

Deciding to stay up until he showed any sign of waking, you sighed as you slowly made your way back down, preparing a pot of strong tea and a quick meal to take upstairs on a metal tray. The cold wood of the floorboards groaning as you make your way back up and the clinking on the tray on your desk clashing with your sigh of relief when you sit down for good, drinking your tea and eating as you stared absentmindedly at the wall in exhaustion. While the physical exhaustion was something you were used to as a miner, the mental exhaustion, albeit not new either, was catching up to you. The events of the night overwhelming you, filling you with dread at what would happen next, at how Silco would react towards you or towards his situation as a whole. You didn't know all that happened, but what you heard was enough, he was crumpled on a high chair when you stepped out of the shadows. You were trying to find your way to a Chem Baron meeting to listen in, your own plans of revolution like a flame stoked by despicable Zaunites and elistist Piltovans alike as you fought off your own secret war. You made your way to a building to take cover as you waited for the meeting to take place a few hours from then, in a building right next to it. Stopping your nonchalant trek into the empty place as you hid in the shadows, having heard a girl, presumably Silco's daughter, have an episode while her sister, a young adult it seems, was trying to reason with her. Silco sounded desperate, fearful, and angry, and while you knew the last one as something that could be a normal feeling from him, desperation and fear were far from what you expected in the man. A woman with a high Piltovan accent, apparently the sister's friend, tried to reason with her zaunite companion, telling her that "Powder" was gone and they needed to end "Jinx". The last name you knew at the very least. But after a lot of arguing, the younger girl entered a state of frenzy, as if she was hearing much more than any of us in her fractured mind, and a fast and heavy noise was heard. A machine gun. After that listening was a blur up until the girls had left and all you had in mind was saving whoever got shot, which just so happened to be the most powerful man in all of Zaun.

Hours pass while you're at his bedside, food eaten, tea drunk and eyes heavy but still holding on. Two days without sleep and this would be your third, but you couldn't falter, you had to take care of Silco and you would no matter what. No matter if you were sweaty and bloody, no matter if everytime you went to prepare a snack and tea your foot would scream at you, nothing mattered but this singular thing. Making sure that the man in your bed was safe and sound. Any shift in his expression or breathing were known and taken care of, more blankets, another wet rag, a check of his pulse, redressing his wounds and then wait. Again and again, for days, you give your all taking care of Silco. No rest, enough strong tea to kill a noxian warrior, enough food to keep your energy levels as much as a sleep deprived miner can were how you spent your days; refusing to spend more than five minutes away from him. You were dirty and the stench of caked blood on you was horrible enough that you threw that shirt away and replaced it with a cleaner one from your wardrobe, using the cold water basin and a second rag to give yourself the smallest bit of hygene.

After eight days without sleep, and six days of caring for Silco, you gave out, body leaning forward from its position on your chair and leaning your chest on your bed, head on the mattress as your arms cradled it, hair spilling like an inverted halo as sleep forcefully took you. Usual nightmares trapped your mind, although your exhaustion was such that you couldn't wake up from them, forced to live and re-live through them like you were a puppet, manipulated by invisible strings as you were shackled within your own head. A gasp waking you up with a start and making you fall backwards from your chair as a younger you punched a man through his chest, gripping his heart and squeezing it as cheers were heard all around. Groaning you drag your weak body to the bed, sitting yourself on it slowly while minding the pulsating pain in your overstrained ankle. Your elbows settle against the tops of your knees as your head burrows itself in your hands, gripping at the tendrils of hair as you try to swallow your shivers. Eyes closing to forget, then reopening at the vision engraved beneath your eyelids. Ears filled with remnants of noise as your room rings with ghost filled silence. And as you take one last steadying breath running your hands down your face to wipe away at the last of your nightmare your airways are blocked, a wet rag wrung tight around your windpipe.

"You have five seconds to explain what happened before I snap your neck."

m.list || next

#arcane #silcoooo 😘😘😘#I’m so invested

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pinklunarprincess · 1 month ago

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When I tell you I’m obsessed with this series…. I’M OBSESSED!!!!!

The Art in the Heart* - Chapter 11

For your first date, Silco has a lot in store for you: a harrowing tale from his past, along with the oddest of surprises...

Happy Ending AU | Silco x Reader | Young!Silco | F!Reader | No [Y/N] | Slow Burn | Romance | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Fix-It || SFW | WC: 4.6k

beta reader: @silcoitus <33

ao3 || Masterlist || Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 |Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

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Life in the Undercity is short, so courtship rituals are fast and intense, especially for the youth. Maturing quickly is a matter of survival in Zaun, and romance is no exception.

You have a decent amount of experience yourself, maybe a little less than average. But it wasn’t something you ever discussed with Silco. As curious as you were about that aspect of his life, you didn’t know how to bring it up casually, especially without drawing attention to yourself. Once, Vander had asked Silco how long it had been since his last visit to Babette’s. Your friend had rolled his eyes and retorted coolly, but had still flushed a deep red to the tips of his ears.

Needless to say, you hadn’t pressed him to answer the question directly.

Sometimes, your shifts at the Embrace involve supervising children. You��ve lost count of how many times kids and teenagers have confided in you about their own relationship woes. Of course, you always listened sympathetically, offering comfort, advice, hugs, snacks, or a shoulder to cry on depending on the situation. But you can’t help but feel an amused awe when a girl around Vi’s age vents to you about a love triangle she’s involved in.

Now, on the night of your first date with Silco, you curse yourself for not paying closer attention, wracking your brain for any helpful suggestions you could follow tonight. According to one teenage girl you overheard, you shouldn’t kiss until the third date.

So much for that advice.

At the time, Silco had seemed enthusiastic when he kissed you back. But you had days to exhaustively replay that moment over and over again in your head.

Did he really want you? Or was he just caught up in the moment? Had he pulled away too soon? Was he smiling or grimacing?

You tried to tell yourself that everything was fine. He hadn’t canceled the date, after all.

But your worries still gnawed on you, late at night when the giddiness and anticipation turned to anxiety. It led to a lot of sleepless nights that worsened the dark shadows under your eyes.

Then there was the matter of what you’re going to wear. Silco had said he wanted to bring you somewhere “special”, and he was fairly confident that you hadn’t been there already. He refused to give you any more hints, saying that he wanted to surprise you. Was this place in Zaun or Piltover? You’d have to take the answer into consideration when planning your outfit. Undercity garb would be too scrappy for the upper city, but Topside couture would be too fancy for the underground.

For now, with less than an hour left before Silco is due to pick you up, you put on your nicest dress from the Undercity. It’s sleeveless and clean, light gray with plenty of decorative dark straps and brightly polished brass trappings. A wide, leather wrap pulled tight around your waist helps emphasize your curves like a corset. The dress ends just above the ground, long but still loose enough to be breezy; you can’t help but admire how it twirls flirtatiously when you spin. Your black ankle boots have a low heel, scrubbed clean of all grime from the Undercity.

To add a romantic flair to your look, you style your hair elegantly and pick out a corsage of nightbloom flowers. The petals are long, silky, and pointed, the outer layer a seven-pointed star of purple and the inner star of red. The green and white stamens complement the pale pitcher plant next to it, its red veins matching the crimson ribbon tied in a bow around your wrist. Zaunite flora might not be able to match the beauty of their Piltover counterparts, but you know that Silco will appreciate you wearing your Undercity pride on your arm.

Just as you throw on a vest jacket, someone knocks at the door.

Nervous, you force yourself to take some deep, steadying breaths. You still can’t help but run to the door and almost trip over yourself before you open it.

Silco stands there, tall and straight, his handsomely carved profile illuminated by the low sun. He has most of his hair neatly pulled back in a bun, except for his bangs hanging rakishly over his left eye. With his hair out of his face, he looks so dashing that you almost miss the pale gold tie knotted at his throat, tucked snugly under the collar of a blood-red shirt. The tie slips under a dark vest with brass clasps and studs, clinging close to his lean waist. He has his jacket sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his wiry forearms. A picnic basket hangs in the crook of his arm.

“Good evening,” he says casually, taking a step closer to you. The movement of his lips brings back the irrepressible memory of the kiss, and you blush deeply.

Even with your eyes turned downwards at his polished, steel-toed boots, you struggle with the impulse to close the distance between you and kiss him. Your shyness wins out and you force yourself to stay put on your threshold, dragging your gaze up his cheekbones before meeting his brilliant eyes. “Hi.”

He looks at you gently, the softest you’ve ever seen, a light and warm smile playing around his mouth. It spreads into a toothy grin of appreciation when he says, “You’re beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you stammer out, blushing even deeper. Your face is hot as you turn away from him to pull your front door closed behind you, your hands fumbling with your keys as you lock it. “I like your new hairdo.”

“Is my hairstyle the only facet of my appearance that appeals to you?” he asks teasingly.

“No! You look great tonight—I mean, you always look great—but tonight you look—extra great—red is an amazing color on you—” you babble, inwardly cringing at your inability to shut up. “You look good in everything—Topside formalwear is overrated, you know? It’s so expensive for no good reason—”

He chuckles, extending a hand out to you. You clamp your mouth shut as you take it, savoring the feel of his rough calluses sliding against your palm. He squeezes your hand reassuringly as your fingers intertwine.

“Thank you,” he says, still amused. He starts walking leisurely, thoughtful and considerate of your slower pace. “Perhaps we’ll have the opportunity to don formalwear on another date. We can show Topside how we wear it better than they could ever dream of.”

“You’re already thinking that far ahead?” you ask, glad to tease him back.

“Of course,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’d be a fool to ever let you go.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” you say happily. “Maybe we can go suit shopping someday; you’ll need a bunch when you’re sitting at that fancy Councilor’s table.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah; Janna forbid you wear the same suit two days in a row. Then they’ll never listen to anything you have to say,” you say sarcastically, rolling your eyes.

“I’ll be sure to budget for a new wardrobe when the time comes,” he laughs.

The stroll through Lower Piltover is relaxed, but somehow so exhilarating. Your enjoyment of Silco’s company is enhanced now that you don’t need to hold back your affection for him. You take every chance you can to touch and compliment him, staying close to his side even when moving around other pedestrians on the street.

Maybe you’re too hopeful, but he seems to match your energy. His smile never leaves his normally stoic face, his eyes twinkling at you even as the sky dims with the setting sun.

Silco leads you through the cobblestone streets, which gradually empty out as people head home for the night. He approaches a long, yellow-and-black-striped barricade at the end of the avenue. Attached to the barricade is a sign with the words “NO ENTRY – CLOSED FOR REPAIRS” painted in bold letters.

Your date glances around surreptitiously, making sure that no one is watching from the nearby buildings or the sidewalk.

Then he swiftly ducks under the barrier, pulling you along with him.

You laugh at the thrill of rule-breaking. Silco’s pace quickens into a jog. He looks back at you over his shoulder as you stride to match his pace. His steel-sharp, mischievous grin has your heart pounding harder than the running.

Just as the stone under your boots gives away to wooden planks, Silco skids to a halt. He spins and catches you in his arms as you collide with his chest. His hands are warm on your elbows as he holds you, patiently waiting for you to catch your breath.

“Could you wait here a moment?” he asks. “I’ll be back momentarily.”

You nod, still panting too hard to speak. He turns and strides off purposefully, leaving you to hunch over with your hands on your knees, wheezing with your whole chest. You try to pull yourself together, not wanting to look undignified in front of Silco. But your lungs still burn, scraping against your ribs. You can barely hear the faraway scraping of wood on wood over your own huffing and puffing. A metallic click rings through the air, followed by Silco’s careful footsteps heading your way.

Just as he rounds the corner, you straighten up, retying the corsage around your wrist. You busy yourself with readjusting it, trying to look nonchalant even though your heartbeat hasn’t slowed down yet from the exertion.

“Thank you for waiting,” he says as he comes to a stop in front of you. This time, he offers you the crook of his elbow. You hook your hand around it, glad to be touching him again.

“Is this safe?” you ask, thinking back on the barricade.

“I placed the barrier there myself,” Silco says with a smirk. “Just to ensure that we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

He leads you carefully onto the wooden pier, steering you around large barrels and missing planks where a careless step could have your foot plunging into water. You both walk out onto the end of a dock where three wooden crates have been assembled into a makeshift dining arrangement. The crate in the middle is covered with a picnic blanket. A cheerfully burning candle and two carry-out boxes that you recognize from Jericho’s sit on top of the improvised table. Silco’s basket is tucked next to the boxes, its lid now open to the evening air.

Framed against a deep blue sky tinged with orange and streaked with indigo clouds, the scene is very charming and cozy, a hidden oasis in the Undercity that you’re encountering for the very first time.

“Welcome! To Zaun’s finest seaside dining establishment: the East Shore Diner,” he proclaims with a grand sweep of his free arm. He speaks with all the gravitas of a circus showman, but he swallows subtly. His glance at you is nervous, turquoise eyes darting between each of yours as if hoping to find your approval there.

You wonder if Silco has been as anxious as you for this date. A genuine grin spreads unbidden across your face as you squeeze his arm encouragingly. “I can’t believe you were able to get a reservation for tonight! I’ve been on the waitlist for ages.”

“I may have threatened the owner to ensure a table would be made available for us,” he chuckles. “They’ve saved the freshest catch of the day for our dinner.” He steps ahead of you to pull one of the crates out for you to sit on, as if it were a chair at a more formal restaurant.

“Silco… thank you,” you say softly as you take a seat on the box. “This is so nice.”

He smiles at you while he picks up the carry-out boxes, opening the one in front of you first. The delicious smell of sharp spices wafts out of the box, and you look inside to see kebabs of juicy, fatty dark meats from Jericho’s, still warm and steaming.

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a chef,” he admits. “I’m incapable of making anything on par with your cooking—”

“You remembered my favorite!” you beam at him.

He grabs two glass cups from his basket and places them on the table. You recognize them as his favorites from The Last Drop, as thick as crystal and embellished with elegant gold trim at the rim and bottom. After grabbing a flask from his basket, he pours into both glasses with a flourish, the orange drink sparkling in the candlelight.

“If you’d like some alcohol, perhaps we could stop by The Last Drop later tonight,” he says, finally taking a seat opposite you. “But I know you have a shift tomorrow at the Embrace—”

“Silco… this is perfect,” you say warmly. “I wouldn’t ask for anything different.”

Your date is a wonderful companion and friend, polite and charming as always, if a little more flirtatious than usual. When you ask if he brought napkins, he reaches across the table to touch the corner of your mouth with his thumb, wiping a drop of sauce off your face. He holds your gaze as he licks his finger clean, the candlelight dancing in his eyes. It’s only when you blush and look away that he finally reaches into the basket to grab a napkin for you.

But his eyes flicker to the water whenever he thinks you’re not looking at him. You ask him a question while he’s still chewing, and he turns to gaze at the river, a faraway look in his eyes. It’s the same look he gets while he’s thinking hard about something—something visible only in his imagination, but intangible to everyone else. Even after he swallows and sips his drink, he continues staring out at the horizon. You have to repeat your question a few times before he turns to you with a snap, startled as if he forgot about you.

“Do you have a date with an aquarian Vastayan later or something?” you tease him.

“My apologies,” he says, wincing with embarrassment. He focuses all his attention on you now, his gaze intensifying as he reaches across the table to take your hand. You let him, entwining your fingers through his.

A muscle in his jaw twitches as he scoots forward, leaning towards you.

“I almost drowned in these waters,” he says quietly.

Your eyes widen in shock, and you can’t help but gasp. Even though he’s sitting here in front of you, alive and well, your heart lurches in terror at the thought of his near-death.

“Ever wonder what it’s like to drown?” he asks. “Story of opposites…

“There’s peace, in water,” he says slowly. “Like it’s holding you, whispering in low tones to let it in… and every problem in the world will fade away.”

You squeeze Silco’s hand tighter, determined not to let him fade away. Hoping to convey how much you care about him, that he can rely on you to pull him out of the depths whenever he needs rescuing.

As you ponder his statement, you purse your lips. You’ve never experienced a sensation like that before: to be held in the embrace of the elements, an all-encompassing comfort surrounding your whole body, even as they drag you closer to oblivion. It’s too frightening to think of for long.

You keep your gaze fixed on Silco, patiently waiting for him to continue.

“But then there’s this—thing—in your head, and it’s raging,” he says with bared teeth at the last word. He continues staring in your direction, but now through you, into the middle distance of some unseen horizon.

His free hand drifts to hover over the candle. He brings his palm close to the tip of the flame, letting it graze his skin. The blinding flare and Silco’s smooth, deliberate turning of his hand hypnotize you, as if the flame were a puppet he was controlling expertly.

He clenches his fist forcefully, the flame flickering in the sudden burst of wind. “Lighting every nerve with madness—to fight… to survive.

“And all the while this question lingers before you… ‘have you had enough?’”

His gaze turns back to the river again. You fight the urge to cup his face in your hands, not wanting to interrupt him.

“It’s funny,” he continues. “You could pass a lifetime without ever facing a choice like that… but it changes you forever.”

You bite your lip. It’s hard to fight back the instinct to get up and hug him, to hold him tight and never let him go. But you know he would feel smothered by your concern.

“You said… this place was ‘special’ to you,” you say carefully. “Is it okay if I ask what happened?”

“A platoon of Enforcers pursued me here. I had no choice but to take shelter in these waters,” he says simply.

“That was brave of you,” you say in awe. Everyone from your side of the bridge knows that the Piltover River is engorged with pollutants from Topside’s industrial operations. The water is slick to the touch, swirling with colorful oils. It’s unsafe to drink, much less submerge oneself wholly in.

“It was here that I learned, I had to take control of my life,” he says grimly. “To become what they cannot kill.

“To be shown your own weakness is a gift… one that I would like to share with you.”

“Are you telling me that I’m weak?” you ask jokingly in an effort to lighten the mood. You bite your tongue, cursing yourself for your poor timing.

He stands abruptly. You raise an eyebrow at him when he takes off his jacket. His vest is next, and he folds his clothes neatly before placing them on his chair.

Just as you begin savoring the sight of him in his tight red shirt, he whips off his tie and begins unbuttoning his top.

“What are you doing??” you ask in alarm. As reluctant as you are to look away from Silco undressing, it still feels wrong to ogle. You clap your hands over your eyes when he untucks his shirt. When you catch a glimpse of his lean, pale torso between the gaps in your fingers, you clamp your eyes shut.

The rustling sounds of his undressing continues, now joined by the clinking of his belt buckle. Followed by the snap of metal clasps on his boots being loosened, then the quiet creaking of wood as Silco walks lightly towards you.

“Let me show you,” he says earnestly.

“Show me what?” you blurt out. You don’t have to look at him to know that he’s extending a hand out to you.

“Do you know how to swim?”

“Maybe,” you squeak out, too agitated to give him a straight answer. “You want to go in the water, right? Go ahead—I’ll watch our stuff.”

Silco’s breath on your forehead startles you; you hadn’t sensed him leaning in so close. He presses his lips to your cheek, soft and lingering, whispering your name imploringly.

You crack open your eyes and peek at him. Even though you can only see a sliver of his face, his gaze is intense and adoring, too earnest to refuse.

“Fine,” you sigh in defeat. “Do I have to take my clothes off too?”

“It’s better to be unencumbered by them,” he says with a delighted grin.

“If you wanted me to take off my clothes, you could’ve just asked—” you grumble under your breath.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing!” you exclaim too loudly. “Just—just get in the water already, Silco. I’ll be there soon.”

He waits for you to lower your hands before he plants another excited kiss on your temple. In his haste, he clumsily bumps against your forehead, jostling you in your seat.

Just as quickly, he runs gracefully towards the end of the pier, his long limbs streamlined as he raises his arms and brings them together above his head, fingers forming a sharp point to pierce the river. The splash is quiet, reminiscent of a paintbrush dipping into water.

You get to your feet slowly, stretching to get some blood flowing after sitting for so long. The night is cool, and you rub your arms for warmth. But a quick, surreptitious peek at Silco’s neatly stacked clothes confirms that he stripped down to his underwear. For the sake of fairness, you do the same, stacking your clothes next to his. You carefully untie your corsage and lay it on the table. As a precaution, you blow out the candle.

When you stand on tiptoe to scan the water, Silco is nowhere to be seen. You walk carefully to the end of the pier, one small step at a time, conscientious of splinters stabbing your bare feet.

“Silco?” you call out when you reach the edge.

A breeze gusts past as if in response. You shiver as the chilled wind brushes against you, goosebumps sprinkling across your skin.

You kneel down cautiously, then take a seat. When you dip a toe into the river, you flinch at the cold. Ripples unfurl and spread across the surface as you slowly, slowly, lower your foot into the water, adjusting to the temperature.

Eventually, the water’s chilly void becomes a tolerable caress. You kick your feet in boredom, watching the reflections of the moon and stars distort on the river’s surface.

A strong grip closes around your right ankle.

You’re yanked off the pier.

Your heart leaps into your throat. Wind rushes past you.

You crash into the water with a shriek.

Dark oblivion surrounds you completely, bubbles dancing all around you as you scream. A muffled sound comes out of your mouth only to be smothered when the river floods it. You gag and try to cough out the greasy, bitter liquid, flailing every which way to right yourself. The water already coalescing into a film against your rapidly blinking eyes.

Disoriented, you spin around, unsure of which way is up. Panicking at the thought of your corpse sinking into the depths, Silco and your friends never learning of your demise—

Something takes hold of your sides. You instinctively kick out, your foot colliding painfully with something long and thin.

Before you can kick it again, the thing’s grip on you tightens, solidifying its hold on your waist.

You’re propelled to the surface, limbs dangling uselessly as you resign yourself to your fate.

But your head crashes through the surface. You spit and sputter out mouthfuls of water, taking in heaving breaths of rejuvenating air. Your arms thrash wildly as you struggle to stay afloat.

In between the dripping locks of hair plastered against your eyes, you see Silco. His mouth is open in laughter as he swims towards you.

“You’re alright, sweetheart,” he chuckles.

You cough, hard and hacking, throat scraped dry despite all the water you almost swallowed. “Help!!”

“Pedal your legs,” he instructs calmly, still smiling. “Spread your arms out and push downwards. The water is your cushion, not your enemy.”

You shake your head furiously, water drops whipping off your head. “Bastard—!”

“You can do it,” he says encouragingly.

You panic as your chin dips underwater. Out of desperation, you follow his advice.

Instead of flailing your legs, you pedal. The water doesn’t resist, and your legs glide through the river easily. Your splashing becomes less frantic as you find a rhythm to push against the surface, more efficiently keeping you afloat.

All the while, Silco watches you patiently. You cough one final time as you find your footing, so to speak. Treading water adequately, if not gracefully.

Finally, he swims to you, closing the distance as his hands find your waist. His hold feels familiar, and you frown even as your arms automatically wind around his neck.

“Did you pull me in?” you ask in a hoarse voice.

He nods, still mirthful. “I only meant to ‘sweep you off your feet’.”

“Dummy,” you say, headbutting him in exasperation. “I could’ve drowned.”

“I would never let that happen,” he vows solemnly.

You snort in annoyance, but you don’t pull away from him.

You’re so close to him now. It’s different from that time in the councilor’s closet, when you were forced into his proximity by necessity. You could let go and swim away; as unorthodox as his teaching methods are, you no longer feel helpless in the water.

Instead, you’re hypnotized by the sight of Silco dripping wet, dark hair sparkling like dewy grass on a misty morning. Droplets sliding down his temples to trace his cheeks, dripping off his nose and chin. The moonlit gloss of water on his lip that you’re aching to taste. His turquoise eyes brighter and clearer than the dark azure of the river.

You cling to him, a tall buoy in the river, solid and warm against you as you hug him close. Shivering as your bodies align, your breasts pressed flat against his chest.

His fingers glide against the waistband of your panties as he wraps his arms around you.

He hooks his chin over your shoulder. His warm exhales tickle your skin.

You cautiously coil one leg around his waist. You’re rewarded with a sharp, surprised inhale from Silco when your cunt grazes his pelvis.

Your other leg hooks around him, slotting him perfectly against you, a key nestled into the lock of your embrace.

The temptation to kiss him feels different this time. To open the floodgates of not just affection, but lust as well. The craving of feeling his skin against yours with nothing between you, the friction of your bodies warming you hotter than a bonfire. Even now, you almost wish you had stripped fully nude.

It’s the next step you’ve wanted to take with Silco long before you kissed for the first time. But now that you’re at the threshold, there’s something about it worth savoring, just before you take the plunge. The contradiction of bobbing peacefully in the river with him, entwined in silence even as your heart hammers underneath your rib cage. The slow caress of his hand on your side even as his cock hardens against your cunt.

You nudge your nose against the shell of his ear. Blinking water out of your eyes as you drag the tip of your nose against the contour of his cheekbone.

Pressing the bridge of your nose against his.

He swallows hard. Water drips from his chin to outline the tendons of his throat.

Waiting.

Wondering.

Wanting.

You kiss him.

Bursting with desire, it’s more disorienting than when he pulled you off the pier. Marveling at the novel sensation of him dripping wet, kissing him dry while reacquainting yourself with the shape of his lips.

He responds just as eagerly, a devouring hunger in the movements of his mouth against yours. Groaning as his tongue fills your mouth, wet, heavy, eager to taste the inside of you and forgo all other flavors forever and ever.

His fingertips dig into your hips, nails biting into your flesh. Water splashes as he insistently grinds his cock against you, furious at the barrier of clothing between your bodies.

You gasp as your shoulders dip below the water, sinking without the aid of Silco treading water. He kicks out impatiently, as if staying afloat was less important to him than kissing you.

“Take me home,” you beg, so breathlessly that you’re not sure if he heard you.

He moans deeply as you capture the corner of his mouth in a kiss. You drag your lips against his cheek, settling on the hinge of his neck and jaw. You plant yourself there, eyes closed as his soft, damp hair brushes against your brow.

“Are—” he stutters, breath hitching. “Are you sure?”

You gently trap his earlobe between the tips of your teeth before letting go, whispering in his ear:

“Yes.”

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#silcoooo 😘😘😘#Silco my love #silco arcane #lunar screaming

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