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doctormacchiato · 2 years

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Drawn to the Surface - Part 1

Inspired by @six-feet-sleep‘s art of tattooed Silco that you can see here. Don’t try to tell me that man isn’t completely tatted up under those fancy shirts and vests.

So many thanks to @of-the-argonath for supporting this. Means more than you can imagine.

AO3

Young(ish!) Silco x Tattoo Artist!Reader SFW Next Part

You’ve finally finished wiping down your station and have just picked up your sketchbook, lead in hand, when you hear the bell ring out above the door to your little studio.

“We’re closed!” You call out absentmindedly as you shade in the scales of a new snake design you’ve been working on for a client. It’s several moments later when you realize that you haven’t heard the bell again. Your intruder isn’t leaving.

With an annoyed huff, you get up, sketchbook still in hand, still shading, and round the corner to emerge into the front lobby, inwardly cursing yourself for forgetting to lock the front door. That would have to be fixed.

“I said we’re closed! And I don’t take walk-ins.”

“Even for an old friend?”

Your heart skips a beat at the sly tenor of the voice, which had just enough grit that it couldn’t be described as smooth. Your shading pauses, caught in your surprise.

You’d heard so many different stories: ones that incriminate, ones that condemn. You’d told yourself they were wrong. The man you knew would have never—

But he had missed his last appointment, and every one after that. Then came the rumors, ones you wished were true and others you knew couldn’t be, and you had had no idea what to believe. He wasn’t supposed to have disappeared. That hadn’t been the plan.

Now? It’s been years. The shock and dismay have since faded into memories. What you were left with is anger, sadness, and more hurt than you were willing to admit.

Finally, you look up. Your sketchbook and lead fall from your grasp. You ignore them.

His head is cast downward when you see him, leaning against the front desk. He is exactly how you remember. Tall and lean, with a secret strength you know he possesses despite his unassuming frame.

Wiry, you had once called him.

But he’s changed too. The sides of his previous, unassuming shaggy cut have been razored short. The rest on top has been pulled back neatly with a tie, with just a few errant strands that have escaped over his forehead. You force down a memory of carding your hands through those same strands once upon a time.

Yet, you know this is not the same man that ha spent hours in your chair in the back, as you discussed everything and nothing to make the time pass. You remember each design, traced and shaded, etched permanently into his pale skin. You wonder if they’ve faded.

“Silco?” You finally say, almost like it was an accusation.

He looks up and your heart catches in your throat. He sees your expression and his gaze hardens. You don’t look away, despite the desperate need to do so.

It’s not every day you match a stare that can only be compared to molten lava as it pours out from the beneath the broken earth. Yet, despite the heat in his gaze, you are left ice cold.

You try to focus towards his right; towards the eye with the shade you remember. It’s a shade you had once drunkenly told him could have resembled the Pilt if it wasn’t so polluted or the sky if it wasn’t filled with ash and smoke. He’d laughed and you’d relished the sound, the warmth.

“It... it’s been a long time,” you manage to croak out.

He nods sharply, slowly straightening himself up, as he’s staring at you, through you. The dark scar reaches up towards his temple, carving deep valleys in his skin, all the way up towards his hairline, where the strands are tinged with grey.

“A lot has happened,” he says.

You want to ask him a million questions. Where has he been? What has he been doing? What really happened that night? But what you really want to ask him now, is how he simply could have abandoned you.

But instead you say nothing, finally breaking his gaze to find your sketchbook on the floor. You bend over to retrieve it. Your graphite must have rolled somewhere. You can’t find it.

He watches you, but doesn’t offer to help, keeping the front desk between you both. When you finally right yourself, you hope that maybe your tongue can find the words for all of the nuanced emotions that you are feeling. You want to scream. You want to cry.

You gather your thoughts, until you are satisfied that you will be able to string together a coherent sentence.

“What the fuck, Silco?” It comes out angrier than you had intended.

He snorts.

“Now, that’s the girl I remember.” The corner of his mouth turns up slightly, but it’s not quite a smile. Still, it feel’s like you’re falling. And you’re not quite sure how you are going to catch yourself. You know it won’t be a soft landing.

You shake your head. He’s as infuriating as you remember.

“You can’t be here. You’re supposed to be...” you falter, unsure.

“Dead?”

“That was certainly one of the options.”

“I can assure you I am not quite so easy to kill.” Silco says, his hand reaching up towards his neck before it wavers halfway and is instead shoved into his pocket.

It’s the first time you notice his attire. The material of his unbuttoned burgundy shirt may have been expensive at one point, but the edges are frayed with use and the sleeves have been sewn in several spots. Over it, he wears a patched vest that may have been black at some point, but has since faded to brown. Several golden buckles adorn it. One is broken.

He wasn’t easy to kill, perhaps, but he’s seen his fair share of hardships. That sense of sadness floods over you again.

You sigh, shaking your head. “Silco, what are you doing here?”

He stares you up and down again, as if dissecting you. You notice his eyes linger at the fresh ink across your shoulder, arching towards your neck.

He’s more intimidating than you remember, the eye certainly helps with that. But, you refuse to look sheepish in front of this man. You cross your arms as you wait for your answer, coyly raising your eyebrow at him.

“Well?”

Only his right eye narrows before he turns away, stalking out through the front door.

“Follow me,” he throws over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

You’re surprised when you don’t take a moment to consider, instead scrambling for your keys to lock the shop behind you. You jog after him to catch up.

“Silco! Damn it, wait!”

He stops. “It’d be wise to stop shouting that name through the Lanes.”

“And it would be wise for you to actually explain what’s going on here,” you huff as you catch up to him. You refrain from reaching up to grab at his sleeve.

“Soon,” he utters.

And then, you’re following him Out of the Lanes, through back alleys and over rooftops, you’re desperately trying to keep up. It’s almost exhilarating to do this again, like you’d never even missed a day.

You can’t help admire him as he swings across a bannister and balances gracefully on the edge of a narrow stone wall. He holds his hand out for you. Without giving yourself a chance to chicken out, you jump. Your balance isn’t nearly as practiced as his, however, and you stumble, your arms swinging wildly as you slip.

But then a firm hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you forward until you’re stable.

You can feel the heat rise up the back of your neck and you snatch your hand away before he can feel it spread to your palm.

“Thanks,” you mutter, looking anywhere that isn’t him.

With a nod and a slight smirk, he’s off again, before you can even catch your breath.

“Jackass,” you swear under your breath.

You don’t question him further as you leave the Lanes. You realize you’re nearing the old cannery down by the docks. You eye the shattered windows and crumbling brick of its facade. Fitting, you muse.

Finally, you’ve reached solid ground. Soon after entering the Cannery, you reach a darkened staircase that leads underground. You hesitate, realizing where this man is taking you.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Silco says with a roll of his eyes, as if reading your mind. He inclines his head towards the stairs. “Come on.”

“Thanks for the reassurance,” you scoff, as you follow him down the stairs, careful not to touch the odd purple vines that snake around the bannister.

You don’t know what you’d been expecting. Maybe a damp, cramped basement? Perhaps. What you hadn’t expected was a wide expanse of a room that you can only describe as a lair. The ceilings soar and the walls and staircase are fitted with sharp, curving metal adornments.

You find tables cluttered with several vials and other laboratory equipment. Tall, glowing vessels are filled with motionless creatures you don’t know how to describe. You cringe, not caring to find out.

The air is slightly sweet, not the moldy, musty smell you would have predicted.

Silco waves and you follow his line of sight to a gaunt man with safety goggles crouched over one of the desks. The man nods back before returning to his work.

“Don’t mind him.”

You nod sharply, before turning back to Silco, who is stalking towards the edge of the room.

Your reply catches on your lips, however, when you notice movement behind what you had originally pinned as a wall. It’s not a wall, however, but glass, a window to what must be the River Pilt behind it.

Before you even realize what you are doing, you’ve stepped right up to the window, pressing your palm against the glass. Your eyes widen as your jaw grows slack.

You never knew anything could even grow that huge.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

Only Silco’s low timber would be enough to break the trance you’ve found yourself in, staring out into the depths. You tear your gaze away to find his own boring into you.

“I...” You stutter. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. No one knows they’re there? How... how are they so big?”

Silco chuckles softly at that, which surprises you.

“I suppose they’re not the only creatures cursed by Piltover’s runoff.”

You quickly glance to his scarred eye, before catching yourself, biting at your bottom lip as you turn back to glass. In the distance, you see several long limbs, tentacles, dancing through the water. You swallow hard.

“I mean, thanks for the view,” You start, “But you can only imagine what I’m feeling with all of,” you wave your arm in arc over your head. “this.”

You mindlessly take a step towards Silco, who is now staring down at you past his nose. “A mysterious man, who was either dead or who I’m supposed to wish should be, showing up on my proverbial doorstep, a nighttime stroll over rooftops, giant monsters in an underground lair—”

You’re rambling, you realize, and so you take a deep breath. You take another step towards him, though you’ve crossed your arms again.

“I just... I’m still waiting on some answers here.”

Silco is motionless for several moments. His mouth opens and closes several times, and for once, you think he is uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He’s nervous, you realize. Somehow, that notion emboldens you slightly. You’re on more level playing ground.

“How... No matter what you did, what Vander did, whatever happened between you that day...”

You don’t get a chance to finish your sentence before Silco’s eye narrows and he shies away, turning sharply as he stalks to the center of the room, his back towards you. His shoulders are set back a little too far, his posture a bit too tight, hands clenched in fists.

He runs his hand over his hair to smooth back a piece that had fallen from the tie.

You wait in silence, to finally get the answers you’ve waited years for.

“The thing is...” He falters.

You only barely restrain yourself from throwing your hands around his bare neck and strangling him.

“I was hoping I could... commission some work from you.” It’s said softly, shyly almost.

That doesn’t stop the scoff that wells up in your throat before you’re able to stifle it. You stare him up and down, dissecting the state of his clothes, suddenly realizing that you have the power here. It’s refreshing.

You strut up to him. He can surely hear your footsteps, but seemingly refuses to turn around to look at you.

“Are you sure you can afford me?”

“Don’t be insulting,” he replies firmly over his shoulder, turning his head just enough to catch a glimpse of the scarred eye.

“So that’s it?” You say, undeterred. You don’t hesitate this time as you wrap your fingers around his arm, pulling, forcing him to look at you. “After all this time, you could have just come into the shop like a normal person, and made an appointment.”

He’s quiet for a moment, staring down at you. You stare back.

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

“Yeah, fine,” you concede. “Still, did you really need to drag me halfway across the Undercity to make your point? I’m sure there are plenty of places that we could have found a bit of privacy.”

Instead of answering, Silco shifts his gaze to your hand, which has found itself in a vice grip around his firm bicep. He arches his right brow back towards you. You release his arm as if burned.

“Sorry... I—“

“Don’t be.”

“I uh...” you mutter as you walk over to one of the chairs by the edge of the room, throwing yourself into it. To think you thought you were going to get some sort of answers from this man. You’ve finally found you’re exhausted. Focus on what you’re comfortable with.

“Do you have any—“ you sigh. “What were you thinking of getting done?”

Silco’s follows you over. You don’t appreciate how he now looms above you. He seems to notice, however, and pulls up a chair besides you, straddling it, folding his arms over the back of the chair.

“Why do you think I brought you here?”

At that, you follow his gaze back to the sea creatures drifting out in the dark waters.

“So... sea creatures? That’s what you want done. Gotta spot in mind?”

Silco nods.

“All of it.”

“You mean?”

“All of it.”

#silco x f!reader #reader insert #tattoos as therapy #Drawn to the Surface #Silco with tattoos #Tattoo Artist!Reader #Post-betrayal #Pre-Act I #Silco #Reader #Fanfic

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