Maibee

Noir Silco Portrait

It’s insane how much Vander changed Silco in both a good and horrid way.

Vander was the first person to see him as more than just a “dirty little thing.” He shared a vision with Silco of what Zaun could be. I believe that Vander helped Silco gain a lot of confidence in the fight for Zaun and in himself. They fought together for years only for one protest to completely undo them.

Make him mine

Make him mine

So it goes.

Silcock & Silballs but they're staring at you

I MADE MORE 😌!

My baby the prettiest of pretty , daddiest of the daddies.

i would make more guys but life is too fucking busssyyy… have some more in the making and write if you have a special request! Xxx

Please dont repost without credit 😇

Silco wouldn’t call himself inexperienced. 

When it comes to sex, he’s had his fair share of experiences. Gorgeous eyed women batting their lashes at him, men with egos larger than what they actually had to offer making sultry advances at the bar when a few drinks have been had— distant memories of the past, of himself when he was younger. Even though it feels like it was a different person doing all of those things, the actions are committed to his memory in a manner that allows him to reuse that same knowledge with present lovers. 

But in the middle of all the lying and deceit he’s come to shape his life around, he couldn’t bear the idea of taking anyone to bed again. He had too many things to deal with, and even if it weren’t for the fragile nation he had to run day and night, he wasn’t sure when innocent touches would stop feeling like they’re just excuses to reach for his neck. 

The mistrust and cynicism didn’t immediately diffuse when you stepped into the picture. 

He still kept a safe distance, double checked the locks to his bedroom, kept a dagger on him at all times, you could even say he slept with it under his pillow (which he did, something sevika told you over your weekly drink.) And even though you’d shown unshakeable loyalty while working for him, he always kept his expectations low, knowing that that's the only way to avoid being disappointed. 

It took one passionate, and slightly tipsy, declaration of your feelings for his defenses to start falling apart at their rusty abused hinges. Persistence and starry eyes in the middle of the dark— present at every turn, he cannot outrun this one— send the rest of his walls crumbling before he’s aware of what’s happening. 

And even though he’s had sex before, he’s never had it like this. 

He’s never had it the way he does with you. 

When you make love, it’s something he’s become familiar with. The curves of your body perfectly fitting into his palms, your wet tongue in his mouth, the sounds that escape when he digs his sharp teeth into your neck, all things he’s come to memorize during the months you’ve been together. And even though he had been reluctant at first, he found a lost, broken part of himself in the bed you marked as yours. 

For the first time in years, the bedroom felt like an actual part of his home again. 

But what he still hasn’t gotten used to is the look in your eyes after the act is done. 

You’re usually quiet, deep breaths and glistening skin, head turnt as you recover from your devastating high. There’s a silent understanding between the two of you about things lovers usually realize after the experience— like the fact that you could easily ruin him any day you wished to, your fingers warm bullets over his skin, or that he’s slowly but surely ruining everyone else for you. The knowledge that you’ll live the rest of your life comparing other lovers to him if this ever ended. 

It’s silent chaos under the soft moonlight peeking through the blinds of your now shared bedroom. And part of him, the one that’s not powered by hormones anymore, is almost fearful that you’ll turn to him and declare that he’s as unloveable as he sometimes fears he is. 

But you never do. 

Instead, you turn to him with a coy smile and watch him tentatively clean up the mess he made. On the nights where you’re thoroughly exhausted, you postpone your bath to the next morning and he retires to your side like he needs to hold you close to breathe again. If you notice his desperation, you don’t say anything. 

You lay in his arms and stare at him some more, you stare at him until he asks you to close your eyes and go to sleep because you both have important things to tend to in the morning. You laugh and he can’t hold back his smile. You whisper compliments and plant short sweet kisses across his jaw and down his neck. You call him gorgeous, stunning, sexy, irresistible, and his chest that has grown accustomed to the tarry smoke of the mines is overwhelmed by the gush of fresh air. 

You always fall asleep first, and he stays up far too late admiring the look on your face when you’re knocked out in his arms, wondering if he’s ever going to get used to being adored like this.