#dark silco

Drabble Prompt ~ He kisses you with the same mouth that orders executions. You pretend his warmth isn’t comforting.

Warning: Violence, Blood, Manipulation, Toxic Relationship, Power Imbalance, Addiction

The clinic was quieter than usual when he arrived, the only sound being the sharp rhythm of his breath as he staggered through the door, his body leaning heavily against the frame. His once-pristine clothes were torn and soaked through with blood, and his movements were slower, more deliberate. You looked up from the table where you had been cleaning your instruments, the sight of him sending a jolt of unease through your chest.

"Silco..." you whispered, rising from your seat. Your heart skipped as you took in the state of him. His breath was shallow, and his usually composed demeanor had been shattered, now replaced with something that resembled exhaustion, maybe even regret, though he’d never admit it.

He didn’t respond, only nodded toward the nearest cot and made his way there, clearly struggling to maintain control of his body. You could see it in the way his hands trembled, a hint of vulnerability breaking through his unyielding exterior.

"What happened?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, but the fear in your chest was suffocating. The last time he had been this bad, he’d been in the aftermath of a conflict with a rival gang. And this time, it was worse.

"They thought they could take control," he muttered, the words tinged with that familiar mix of anger and cold calculation. "Finn’s people... They thought they could strike when we were weak. They were wrong."

You could hear the quiet fury in his voice. He was a tyrant, he knew it, embraced it, but this? This was different. There was something in his words that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. His fight with Finn’s faction wasn’t just another power struggle - it was something more personal. And the blood soaking through his clothes was proof enough.

"Sit down, Silco," you urged, forcing yourself to remain calm as you moved to tend to him. "Let me see to your wounds."

His eyes darkened, and for a brief moment, you saw something flicker in his gaze, a rawness, a brief crack in the armor of the ruthless leader. "You patch me up, and I leave another corpse on your conscience," he said quietly, the words carrying a weight that made your heart ache.

You tried not to react, but the statement hit you like a gut punch. His wars, his battles, they always bled into your world. You healed his men, healed him, but at the same time, you knew you were complicit in the destruction he caused. Every life lost in the wake of his ambition, every man or woman who fell because of him, was a piece of you, too.

You fought to keep your voice steady. "I’m not doing this because I agree with your choices. I’m doing it because I care about you." But even as you said the words, you felt the truth of it slowly suffocate in your chest. Caring for him meant witnessing the bloodshed, the cruelty, and the destruction.

He settled down on the cot, eyes locked on you as you worked. You carefully began to remove his blood-soaked clothing, wincing at the severity of the wounds. He didn’t flinch at your touch. He never did. He was too hardened, too used to the violence that coursed through him.

The sound of your breath was louder than it should have been as you cleaned his wounds, your hands working fast and methodical, trying not to let the fear twist your stomach. The smell of blood, sweat, and smoke filled the air, and you could almost hear the screams of those he had put down, of the lives lost in his unyielding pursuit of power.

"You think I’m the monster, don’t you?" His voice broke through the haze of your thoughts, a bitter edge creeping in.

You hesitated. You wanted to say no, to deny the accusation, but the truth was, you couldn’t. Silco had become the very thing you despised. A monster who destroyed everything in his path, no matter the cost. A man who had built his empire on the bones of his enemies, his allies, and those who had fallen in his wake.

"How many?" you asked softly, your voice shaking. "How many lives did you take today, Silco?"

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he looked away, the guilt of his actions weighing heavily on him, a brief flicker of remorse in his eyes before he masked it with his usual coldness.

"I do what I have to do," he muttered finally, though there was no conviction in his words. "They attacked my territory. They wanted control. I couldn’t let them."

You finished cleaning the wound, pressing a fresh bandage against his side, but the words hung between you. You understood what he meant. He had to protect what was his, protect his power. But there was something about today that felt different. This rebellion wasn’t just an attempt on his throne, it was personal. He’d been forced to destroy people who had once been close to him. Finn’s betrayal had cut deep, and it showed in the way his body shook with every breath.

And as you worked, you realized something deeper. This was more than just a man who sought power. This was a man drowning in his own choices, struggling to hold on to the only thing that kept him from completely unraveling: you.

"Don’t you see?" you whispered, your voice breaking as you placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, your fingers brushing his cheek. "You leave a body every time you pull the trigger. Every time you make a choice, it’s another corpse on my conscience."

He pulled you close then, his breath ragged as he kissed you, a brutal, desperate kiss that tasted of blood and tears. When he pulled away, his voice was hoarse, raw. "I’m sorry," he whispered, the words almost lost against your skin. "But I can’t stop."

You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of his touch wash over you, even though you knew what it meant. His need for you was as addictive as the shimmer that had once consumed him—he was no longer just fighting for control of the undercity. He was fighting to keep you from slipping away, even if it meant losing himself in the process.

But his lips are on yours before you can voice your doubts. The kiss is harsh, demanding, but there’s something desperate in it, too. He pulls you closer, his body pressing against yours, as if trying to bury himself inside of you, seeking solace in something he doesn’t understand.

He looks at you with a mix of desperation and longing, his eyes haunted by the ghosts of his past. "I need this," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I need you."

He pushes you back onto the bed, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You could feel his hardness through his pants, pressing urgently against your thigh. His hands roamed your body, touching you possessively, as if trying to erase the memories of his past with the feel of your skin.

"I’m sorry," he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck. "I’m so sorry for everything. But I can’t stop. I can’t think straight when I’m around you."

His hand slide under your skirt, his fingers pushing aside your underwear. You gasp at the sudden contact, your body tensing beneath him. With each ragged breath Silco takes, each desperate kiss he presses to your skin, you feel the weight of his sins settling onto your shoulders. His past, his ghosts, his corpses, they’re all here in this room with you, pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

Each thrust of his hips, each possessive touch of his hands, is a reminder of the lives he’s taken, the pain he’s caused. And yet, you can’t bring yourself to push him away. There’s a desperation in his touch, a hunger that speaks of a soul starved for connection, for redemption. You tell yourself it’s just sex, just a physical release. But deep down, you know it’s more than that. With every kiss, every breath, Silco is trying to bury his pain in your body, to wash away his sins in the heat of your embrace.

When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, breath ragged. He doesn’t speak for a long time. But when he finally does, his voice is hoarse, almost broken.

"I need you," he whispers. "More than I need this city, more than I need anything. But I can’t stop, love. I can’t change what I am."

You stare at him, your chest aching with the conflict inside you. You wish he could be the man you hoped he could be, the man who would fight for you, not just for power. But deep down, you know that man doesn’t exist. The Silco in front of you is a man consumed by the very darkness he created.

And yet, even as you see the damage he’s done, the devastation he’s left in his wake, you still can’t walk away.

You are bound to him. And he to you.

his new high

Warnings: Drug (Shimmer) Use, Obsession, Addiction, Dark Silco

Summary ~ The obsession wasn’t sudden. It was a drip. Slow. Poisoned.

The wounded man on the cot finally stilled, his breathing shallow but steady. You finished wrapping the last of the bandages, changing the blood soaked linens for fresh clean ones, and leaned back on your heels after washing your hands clean.

Normally, Silco would’ve already left. Normally, he wouldn’t spare you more than a glance.

But tonight, he stayed.

"You work like it matters," Silco said from the shadows, voice low and face unreadable.

You looked up cautiously. "It does."

A breath of a laugh escaped him ..... quiet, bitter.

"That's what I thought once," he said. "Before I learned better."

You rose slowly, stripping off your gloves. "Before what?"

Silco stepped forward, the weak light catching the damaged eye on half of his face. For a moment, you thought he might scoff, dismiss you, vanish back into the dark.

Instead, he said, “Before I learned that wanting to fix something doesn’t mean you can save it.”

You stood there, silent, letting him talk because somehow, you sensed he needed to.

"I used to think…" His hand twitched at his side. "If I just worked hard enough… if I just understood enough… I could make things better. Science, structure, reason..." He scoffed under his breath, like he could still hear how naïve it all sounded. "It wasn’t enough. None of it was ever enough."

You swallowed. "You still believe," you said softly. "Somewhere."

He met your gaze then, weary, haunted. And in that moment, you saw it: not the king of the undercity ..... not the feared industrialist.

Just a man who once dreamed of something more.

"You remind me of him," Silco said, raw. "The man I might’ve been. Before I learned that dreaming gets you nothing but a knife in the back."

For a long time, neither of you spoke. His gaze drifted toward the low-burning lamp in the corner, like the answers he was searching for might be hidden in the dying embers. Then, almost too casually:

"You should’ve been one of them," he said, voice like velvet, smooth, almost safe, if you didn’t know better. Casual. Charming. Deceptively harmless. "The way you think. The way you work. You could've had a seat at their tables... Piltover’s."

He said it like an offhand remark, but the hidden danger in his tone made your skin prickle.

You hesitated, all too aware that the wrong answer could be the end of you, yet you couldn’t lie. From the whispers voiced in the depths of the undercity, you knew all too well the foolishness of lying to Silco. "Maybe," you said finally. "But not like them."

Silco’s mouth twisted into something between a smile and a grimace.

"You don’t understand," he said, voice sharpening like a blade. "They don’t care. They never have. They'll build their empires on our bones and pretend their hands are clean."

He stepped closer, his voice sinking lower, heavier.

"Piltover will never see us. To them, we’re the price of their comfort. And no seat at their table will ever change that."

You saw it then ... the fire that shimmer couldn’t drown out. The hatred. The grief. The ache.

You stepped toward him without thinking. "But you're still here," you said softly. "And we're still fighting."

A breath shuddered out of him - low and broken.

"Not fighting," he muttered. "Surviving. That’s all we ever get."

You didn't know what to say. You just stood there, breathing, feeling the weight of everything unspoken settle thick between you.

The air shifted, the soft rustle of Silco’s sleeve brushing against itself as he reached into his coat. He pulled out a small vial of shimmer, glinting darkly in the low light and held it out to you.

Normally, he would never have allowed anyone this close. Normally, he would never have trusted.

But you weren’t "anyone." Not after tonight.

You crossed the floor, took the vial from his hand, and prepared the injection. His gaze followed every movement you made, sharp and unblinking.

"You don't have to do this alone," you murmured.

Something flickered across his face -something too raw to name.

You stepped between his knees, tilting his chin up with careful hands.

"Look up," you whispered.

And he did. For you.

You injected the vial of shimmer into his eye, and as you withdrew your hand, his hand snapped out, rough, trembling - catching your wrist.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

A quiet, hesitant understanding had formed between the two you. One you couldn’t quite name, with consequences you wouldn’t realize until it was too late.

Later, long after you left the clinic, after the alleys thickened with smoke and the world fell silent, Silco sat alone in the dark, your touch still burning against his skin.

A fresh vial of shimmer sat untouched on his desk. For the first time since the night he lost his eye, the night Vander betrayed him, he didn’t feel the urge to reach for it.

He didn’t need it, not anymore.

He had already found a new drug. One far more addicting than anything he’d ever injected.

You.

And that night, though neither of you knew it yet, it was the beginning of Silco’s new addiction.

A drug. A high. A cure.