Tumgik
#silcoxyou
insult-2-injury · 2 years
Text
Break Tradition
YoungSilcoxGN!Reader
Takes place after Vander’s attack
[2.1k words][SFW][Grief][Angst][Hurt/Comfort][Fluffy][Potential for Romance]
TW: panic attack, grief, loss, sibling death
Tumblr media
Perhaps it was fate that brought you there. Perhaps it was to die. Or, rather, entertain the idea. Truth be told, you’d never been quite so unsure of your intentions.
But it wasn’t a good bout of soul-searching that had drawn you to the banks of the River Pilt the past few nights. It was the way in which Death pirouetted across its polluted surface like a pretty little temptress, beckoning you into Her teasing, outstretched arms.
Calm, unassuming on its surface. A turbulent muck below that not even the moon’s light could breach. The toxic waters and all that lie beneath proof that life could sustain, adapt far beyond the realm of possibility. Life always found a way.
It just hadn’t for your brother.
You just wanted to talk to Her. Death. Ask a question. Maybe even a few.
But Death drove a hard bargain. And there would never be a sufficient answer as to why.
All you’d been left with was yourself.
So, you walked in solitude to complete your nightly ritual, bottle of wine in hand, trudging toward the outskirts of the Undercity, the rocky beach coming into view.
But this time, it seemed, you weren’t alone. There was another occupant there, hunched on the banks like a gargoyle, still as could be, a rucksack sitting open beside them.
A man, you could tell, with straggly dark hair, the sharp angles of his features coming into view as you tentatively approached, so as not to disturb, taking up space a fair distance away on the water’s edge.
You saw the figures’ head turn just slightly as he eyed your intrusion. And you could tell from your periphery that he was clutching a lit cigarette like the thing would elude his grasp at any moment.
You settled onto the sharp rocks, tucking your knees under your chin in a mimicry of his, placing the bottle between your feet and peering out across the water.
“Go away.”
You turned to him. It was from this perspective you could see the soiled bandages crossing the left side of his face, from his cheekbone up to his hairline.
The man stared pointedly forward.
“Find somewhere else to go,” he said waspishly when you didn’t respond.
“I like it here.”
“Do you?”
It wasn’t asked in the tone of a man actually inquiring on your relationship with the place. It was warning, hostile.
“This is usually my spot,” you said, “You should feel lucky I’m sharing so nicely."
He didn’t respond, his jaw clenching.
You nodded at the cigarette between his fingers.
“You have another one of those?”
“Yes.”
He made no move to share, and you got the picture.
Ass.
Sighing, you dragged one hand across the sharp pebbles of rock, weathered and eroded into fragments over the course of thousands of years. And wasn’t that just life?
He finally turned his head fully, his uncovered eye catching yours, color a shocking teal that not even the darkness of night could conceal. His features were intimidating, tone acerbic.
“I don’t want you here. Leave.”
In any other circumstance, you’d be intimidated by the man. But grief had stripped away that self-preserving part of you. Had made you impulsive.
“I don’t care about what you want.”
“You should.”
“You don’t own this place.”
His head twitched, as if in disagreement.
“Find. Another,” he gritted out.
You stared stubbornly ahead and when you made no move to leave, he shot up onto his feet with a chilling speed. Stood there glaring at you viperlike, fists clenching and unclenching.
It was as if he couldn’t remember why he’d risen in the first place, his thin lips widened into a snarl, exposing two chipped front teeth. He reminded you of one of the hissing, feral cats that roamed about the elevator to topside.
He was certainly interesting to look at. A tattered, dark brown tunic hanging off his thin frame, sleeves rolled up to reveal wiry forearms, blotted with bruises and scratches. Black pants tucked into boots. He was disheveled, unkempt. Fatigue colored a purple half-moon beneath his visible eye, and he was painfully scrawny. Maybe in his late 20’s, you estimated. Same as you.
He would’ve struck you as any other street rat had it not been for the bandages casing half his face. Or the way some unspoken tragedy clung to his restless form like a sad poem.
You knew. You could recognize it now.
“Do you want a drink?” you offered, raising the wine.
The scowl twisted into an ugly glower as he contemplated your hunched form like you had just offended him in the worst possible way. The bottle found its home snuggled into the rocks by your side again.
A ghastly loneliness swelled in your chest, a terrified fist rising upward to trap your heart in a vice-like grip. There was no way to really understand the sudden, painful need to not be alone right now. To just have a single living, breathing body in your space besides your own. Nothing made sense anymore.
He stared heatedly and your mouth dropped open, words escaping unbidden.
“I lost my brother,” you said quietly, swallowing the lump in your throat that formed as you spoke the words you’d been dancing around for days. “I- I've lost everyone.”
The man’s eye twitched, something searching and deeply perturbed ironing the angry knitted space between his brows.
And he left without a word. Stalked away up the beach and disappeared like a phantom in the night.
Left you to curl further in on yourself, the consequences of your spoken acknowledgment of reality uncorking a tidal wave of tears and snot that soaked into the fabric of your knees as you let your body heave. Until nothing was left but the same hollowness as before.
You picked up and left.
______
The next night you returned with the same bottle, the same intentions to suffer alone, and were surprised to find the man there again. Once more, you offered him a drink. He said nothing, determinedly ignoring your existence.
But he wasn’t emanating the same wild anger as the night prior. Instead holding a tired resignation in the slump of his shoulders, staring listlessly out over the water.
You did the same.
You pondered life with your wine while he chain-smoked, and you couldn’t imagine what was on his mind as he glared across at the golden city. As if he’d forfeit his entire life just to watch it burn.
You rather felt the same. About the entire world, really. How it continued to twirl on its axis, people still continuing to live their menial existences as yours had stuttered to a halt.
Why?
Death ignored you. Danced away.
People died every day and hardly anyone in the Undercity was untouched by the cold, bony hand of Tragedy. What was your loss then, in the scheme of things?
Meaningless.
You sighed softly, a single tear streaming down your cheek, which you quickly brushed away. But you noted the way his head craned over toward yours, a teeth-gritting frustration evident in the clench of his jaw at the angle required just to be able to see you with his good eye.
A pang of melancholy strummed in your chest and you reached out from the tiny, self-pitying bubble your world had been narrowed down to.
You held his gaze. Offered a white flag in the form of your name.
His lips twitched down, as if your conciliatory gesture was inconsiderate, and he looked back out at the twinkling city.
“What are you doing out here?” you asked.
He was silent for a long time.
You adjusted your position on the hard ground, criss-crossing your legs and fiddling with the bottle in your hand.
“Planning,” he said finally, something cold and resolute threading the word.
And he said nothing else the rest of the night.
________
So began somewhat of a tradition.
Night after night you found him there.
You took care to sit on his right side. You’d offer him a drink, sometimes even polite conversation, and he’d decline by disregarding you completely. He’d snap at you, mean and cutting as he demanded you leave, and you’d refuse, responding with something equally surly.
With each night, your exchanges became slightly less antagonistic and more ritual than anything. The habit was nice, and you found yourself growing anxious that one day he wouldn't be waiting there for you. The interactions were always surface level and always descended into a speed round of barbed, semi-harmless bickering before sputtering out.
You’d sit in an increasingly comfortable silence, yards apart, lost to the sounds of the river gently lapping the shore, the distant hive sounds of the bustling Industrial city behind lulling you into a sort of stasis, allowing you to detach briefly from the heavy weight of sadness that pressed down on your ribs.
But never for long.
Neither of you seemed to know what to do.
He sat silently whenever you cried. When you’d bite into the heel of your palm to pacify your wrenching sobs, when you’d cry so hard you’d give yourself the hiccups.
And you would try and fail to ignore the times that he would clutch at his hair, hands driving himself through a shockwave of pain, his fingers sometimes just floating, shaking before his face, as if resisting the urge to tear at his bandages. 
All the while, you fought the longing to crawl over and wrap the man up in a hug, hold him through his trembling. Tell him it would be okay.
But you didn't know if it would be okay.
And besides, you just couldn't. He wouldn't like that.
It was just tradition.
________
You sketched, wrote sometimes, cried a lot. Watched him mostly.
You could almost time it now, whenever he would stand up and with a prowling gait, pace the moonlit shore, features contorted malevolently. It was as if he were on a time clock, his body quivering with barely reigned spite before he’d flop back down, fingers digging loosely into the rocks as he slumped, all the energy seeming to sap out of him at once.
In almost all aspects, he made terrible company. He was rude, arrogant, and had a wellspring of anger that was shocking in its depth. The rage, you noticed, seemed to spring up in moments of sorrow, his sagged body instantly jutting him up and onto his feet to combat it. But there was something about his raw, heartbreaking fury that felt honest, that felt a balm to your grieving soul, made you feel safe joining his pain with your own.
________
It was several weeks in, and he was the one who finally broke it.
The tradition.
You were quaking, head between your knees, gasping for breath as you were dragged through the terrifying trenches of an especially bad panic attack. Your chest ached like a balloon to the brink of bursting and each breath was a moaning sob.
Something was laid across your shoulders.
“Breathe. You can do it," he coaxed gently beside.
Your palms dragged up and down the thighs of your pants in a well-practiced motion. You tried to focus on the grounding sensation of skin against fabric, your breaths becoming slower until they were shallow shudders.
And only when you cracked your eyes open did you see boots standing no less than a few inches beside, felt the jacket draping over your hunched form.
You instinctively clutched the fabric tighter around you. Eyes terribly puffy, you blinked blearily up at him as he studied you in turn, something peculiar knitting his brows together.
His features were soft, at odds with anything you’d seen out of the man thus far. You felt your face light up as he silently offered you a cigarette, and when your hands shook too much to light it, he did it for you, bending and holding it there as you closed your eyes, taking a couple of long drags before releasing it back to him, allowing smoke to billow slowly out of one corner of your mouth.
The small gesture wasn’t lost to you, a callback to that first day. But the sudden kindness was unexpected. It settled in your chest like a warm blanket as your gaze opened to glue searchingly on his.
“Thanks.”
He didn’t respond.
“What’s your name?” you croaked, wiping your nose.
“You don’t need to know.”
“What if you’re about to walk straight into a spiderweb? What if a bird is dive bombing you and I have no way to warn you?" You gazed at him pleadingly. "These things are important.”
He squinted at you curiously before returning to his regularly scheduled pacing.
With a mutter under your breath, you laid back, feeling the cold, grounding press of jagged pebbles beneath you as you gazed up at the stars, previously unshed tears leaking down your cheeks.
“Stop that.”
You twitched as the man spoke. It was only when you stopped doing so that you realized you’d been humming, the toes of your shoes clacking together in a chaotic rhythm.
You peered at the full moon overhead.
“You don’t like my singing voice?”
“I’d prefer listening to a train's screeching brakes.”
His voice held no real harshness, and you huffed a laugh.
“Oh, you can’t really mean that.”
“Sure, I can.”
You laid there and listened to your breathing, steady and growing stronger.
“Do you want a drink?” you asked, expecting silence as always.
You only heard his booted feet as they approached, scuffing through stones as they came to a halt, framing your head. 
“Has it ever occurred to you,” he said, hovering above, his head partially eclipsing the moon, “That I may just not like wine?”
The frown you leveled at him turned to unexpected delight when he walked over to his rucksack and pulled out a small, ornate flask.
"With your sore lack of options, I finally had to take it upon myself to bring my own."
Your eyes widened slightly and your heart took off fluttering when he took a seat beside you.
You gazed, side by side, at the river.
Death was quiet tonight.
“Silco,” he said after a long while.
For the first time in weeks, you cracked a smile.
“Silco.”
________
<3
I'm not really sure yet if I'll leave this a one-shot or not. If people like it, I might be convinced to add another chapter or two. Either way, I hope you all enjoyed!
Thank you @of-the-argonath for allowing me to summon you SUPER late at night to beta read. You are truly wonderful!
Thank you @x-amount-verbs and @sweatandwoe for helping me talk through this idea (ramble). I appreciate you!! <3
Much love!
155 notes · View notes
insult-2-injury · 2 years
Text
Take a Seat excerpt
Heated moment between Silco and reader outside the Last Drop
I wanted to share on here an excerpt that I'm still particularly proud of from chapter 7 of Take a Seat, which I have not given up on, I promise!
It reads very much like a one-shot and is SFW, although definite sexual tension. Enjoy :)
Tumblr media
Chapter 7 excerpt
You stumbled out onto the street, clutching at your chest as you beelined into the shadows beside the The Last drop. You hit the brick wall hard, your back grating harshly against it as you slid down to the ground, counting each forced deep breath as you dug your nails into the stone beneath you, centering yourself.
You didn’t even smoke, but you were grasping for a single shred of control, and damn if you weren’t going to make use of what you’d pick-pocketed off that cocky Piltovan man.
It took you a few attempts to light up the cigarette, the lighter shoddy.
No sooner had you recognized the dull clatter of rubber against metal stairs when the camouflaged door directly beside you swung open. You let out a yelp in surprise, dropping the stick, instantly pitching forward onto your knees to grab at it, needful of its security.
“Is there a reason you’re sprawled outside my door?”
You froze, arm still reaching, fingers splayed out like a statue of a desperate Goddess. A prickling electricity plucked at the tiny hairs on your arms, every one of your senses heightening tenfold as you watched a pair of boots come to a stop before you, penning the soiled cigarette between them.
You scrutinized the golden toes up close, seized by a morbid curiosity. Just how much blood had these shoes tracked through?
“Are you still breathing?” Silco drolled.
After a beat, you swallowed, retracting your outstretched claws. You allowed yourself a deep breath, feeling his gaze beat down on the crown of your head like the hot sun.
“You made me drop my cigarette,” you accused boldly, rolling your focus upward until you pinned him with a feigned malice beneath your long lashes. His nostrils flared with an abrupt inhale. Because it was positively obscene, you realized, the way he towered over your kneeling form, the stiff material of your black skirt riding up your thighs, your knees slightly spread, the cobblestones pressing painful patterns into your shins.
For a few seconds that felt like an entire lifetime, he studied you from above, his mismatched eyes flitting across the planes of your face, down the column of your throat, until you were nearly boiling within the confines of your skin.
You rocked unsteadily backward from his overpowering presence, sitting on the backs of your heels, feeling your skirt ride up your thigh. His knife-edged gaze sharpened on the new, bare expanse of skin, remaining there for a beat too long before dragging slowly back up, pausing on your parted lips before meeting your rapt expression.
A door had been opened when you'd thrust that knife next to his, you realized now, something different in the way he peered down at you, like you were a curious thing. With that dominating heat in his orange eye. It passed between you unspoken, whatever it was, a mutual acknowledgment of the ineffable intrigue that held you both where you were planted. 
And that wasn’t the only reason your stomach was fluttering. He was wearing that coat, the one you’d seen strewn across his couch weeks ago.
The lone lamplight across the road reflected brilliantly off the gold trimming of its wide collar, encircling his jagged, feline features. From your angle below, it looked as if his head was wreathed in a dull halo, although he was far from an angel. His confidence was wholly bewitching, that self-assurance that came from not acting his way to the top but knowing with full certainty just how many leagues above everyone else that he stood.
If it wasn’t the most captivating thing you’d ever seen.
Silco’s gaze dropped to the cigarette butt between his booted feet.
“Piltovan.” His lips tilted down with disdain. “Should I be concerned?”
“Well, it's tragic, really." You offered him a sad smile. "Ever since my concussion, I’ve developed a taste for mediocre tobacco.”
If Silco thought you amusing, it didn't show on his face.
"I found it," you lied.
He sniffed.
"You are indeed a tragic case."
You opened your mouth to retort but he unfurled his palm to you, effectively cutting you off.
“Up,” he commanded.
You blinked as he arched over you, and you studied his long-fingered hand as if inspecting it for traps. It surprised you, the civility, and you couldn’t help but glance hesitantly upward, meeting his knowing gaze, noting right away how much pleasure he was taking in your sudden bout of nervousness.
You remembered, somewhere in the recesses of your muddied brain, how you'd told yourself you were going to shut it down, this infatuation. 
You squared your jaw and held his gaze determinedly, grabbing a tight hold of his hand. On a man so renowned for his brutality, you’d been expecting rough, calloused palms, yet the pillowed softness of his hands caught you off guard as they squeezed, hoisting your full weight off the ground with a single arm. The pads of his fingers skated across the smooth skin of your inner wrist, sending a startling electric current pinballing through you, kindling that quiet, pulsing thing in your lower belly.
Your breath hitched and of course, he didn’t miss it, drinking in the tiny inhale with his razor sharp gaze.
“Thanks,” you muttered.
He hummed in response.
You smoothed your skirt down. You felt much too close still as you quickly sought out the security of the expanse of brick wall behind you, sloping yourself against it.
You fished the now crumpled box of cigarettes out of your pocket, deciding you needed something to do with your hands.
“You were hiding," he said.
Green and orange needled you for an answer.
“When I found you draped across the pavement.”
You puffed out your cheeks before blowing out a sharp burst of air. You didn't owe him an explanation.
You stared at him for a long moment, his face utterly impassive, yet you could tell he was taking in your guarded expression carefully.
“I was panicking,” you said finally, feeling only a pang of shame at the admission, "But I'm fine now."
Silco considered you for a long moment.
And then he nodded once, almost in quiet understanding, with a small tug of his head downward. And you couldn’t be more grateful for the simplicity of it.
He stared at your freshly lit cigarette as if it were a slug you'd just pulled out of your pocket.
“Are you that offended?” you asked.
“Thoroughly repulsed,” he responded. “Have you ever puffed on a wet slab of cement?"
"Can't say that I have."
"You're about to."
"It can't be that bad."
"You might try your hand at a cigar."
“No thanks, I don’t smoke, it’s a nasty habit,” you said, painting a look of disgust on your face before taking a long drag, earning the tiniest twitch of amusement from Silco's lips.
It quickly became genuine, your nose scrunching.
"Okay."
His eyebrow rose, lifting his otherwise half-lidded, dispassionate gaze. 
"Was I right?”
"Sure."
"I always am."
"Always?"
Something merciless crossed his features at your question.
"Say it."
Latent heat swelled at the firm command and you were certain he noticed the way you faltered.
"I mean who am I to say what constitutes a good cigarette?" you said, quietly enjoying your little dance, knowing you'd eventually relent.
His gaze didn't waver.
"Okay, fine," you said, holding the cigarette into the thin air. "Of all of Piltover's offenses, this cigarette is the most egregious of them all." 
You crushed the cigarette under your shoe and looked up at him.
"You're right."
"Of course I am."
Seemingly satisfied, Silco pulled a cigar from an inner coat pocket and tucked it into a corner of his mouth, gesturing impassively toward your hand with a vague tilt of his head. You tossed him the stolen lighter and watched his nimble fingers attempt to work the cheap thing. You grinned roguishly when he shot you an accusatory look, his chipped teeth baring around the cigar.
Hands grasping at nothing now, you placed them back against the cold brick.
“Are you off somewhere interesting then?” you nodded to his coat.
Silco leveled you with a dark smirk, smoke leaking out the scarred corner of his mouth. Your lips curled to match.
“C’mon, I thought we established I’m not a spy.”
“Of little consequence,” he purred, his rumbling voice so much more satiating in person. “You shouldn’t ask questions you’ll regret the answers to.”
There was a long silence.
"And what if I'm curious?"
"About?"
You.
”About-“ For the life of you, you couldn’t remember what you’d been intending to say, mind going suddenly haywire. “About- about what you’re doing.”
You could feel your ears burning red hot.
”What if I won’t regret knowing?” you blurted.
And you knew by now how he could read you. You bit the inside of your lip, concerned more than anything with Silco's total lack of movement.
He was utterly unreadable, his mismatched eyes fluttering as they held yours, as if flipping through an array of different potentials. Stretching out your unease, he raised his cigar, holding it in front of his mouth for a moment.
"You do like to push, don't you?" he murmured, voice deceptively soft, before connecting it to his lips and inhaling.
Smoke fanned slowly into the night air.
"Speaking to me as you do." Silco took a step forward and you fought not to shrink back into the unrelenting wall. "But you just can't help it, can you? Pushing."
Your stomach plunged with a driving force that had untapped fire splashing through you like a violent hot flash.
Another step forward and his boots were inches from the toes of your shoes. 
"I'd like your input on a hypothetical."
His voice unraveled like a spool of silk ribbon, wrapping the column of your throat, and for the second time that night, oxygen felt scarce as you watched in anticipation, wondering what door you'd opened this time.
Words wouldn't come, not even a muddled apology. No, you were struck completely dumb by his closeness.
You nodded jerkily.
"What would happen, do you suspect," he said, propping his cigar hand next to your head, no part of him touching you, uncomfortably close yet leaving enough room for you to slip away if you needed. If you wanted. "If a girl wandered too far into a pit of snakes?"
Liquid heat throbbed between your legs as fear and desire fused into a breathtaking, almost nauseating brew. His hawklike gaze hungrily devoured your reactions to him. How your nails dug into the wall behind you. How your body thrummed like a tuning fork at his proximity.
It took awhile to form the words.
"She'd get bitten."
Silco hummed, eyes darting between yours, falling to your parted lips, where you sucked in shallow breaths.
He stepped back, abruptly releasing you from his spell.
"Precisely."
He flicked ashes onto the ground, brushing off his coat with one hand, and you could tell he was making to leave.
You stuttered out a breath, examining him with fresh, adrenaline-filled eyes, suddenly remembering the way Jinx had pressed you days before, trying to intimidate you into relenting. The way you had pushed through. And you couldn't help it. Pushing.
"You know, that coat would look silly on anyone else but you."
He paused. And something flickered, a raw confusion in his searching gaze, and you wondered how long it had been since the man had received a genuine compliment about anything but his savagery.
Holding the cigar between his front teeth, Silco reached into his coat pockets and of course he had matching leather gloves, tugging them over his long-fingered hands, watching the way you latched onto the movement like a compass finding north. His mouth tilted into a smirk, and he rolled the cigar adeptly over to the corner of his mouth with his tongue.
"Bring a coat next Friday."
And he didn't give you a chance to question it, sauntering off into the night.
If you're interested in reading, here's the AO3 Link, but mostly I just wanted to share this passage like an excited kid at show and tell. :)
24 notes · View notes