Arcane headcanons | °• Silco •°

He braids your hair

• You sit cross-legged on the couch, brushing your fingers lazily through your hair, eyeing Silco with that look you know he can’t resist for long.

• He’s seated nearby, papers in hand, but you’re keenly aware that his attention has already drifted to you. His brow furrows slightly as if bracing himself for whatever request is about to fall from your lips.

• “Braid my hair,” you say simply, leaning back and tossing the brush onto the cushion beside you.

• He glances up slowly, his good eye narrowing slightly. “Surely you can manage that yourself, love.”

• You tilt your head, giving him a mock-pout that’s just convincing enough to soften his otherwise sharp demeanor. “I could, but I don’t want to. I want you to do it.”

• He exhales through his nose, setting the papers down with a measured precision that suggests he’s begrudgingly giving in. “You’re insufferable sometimes,” he mutters, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his tone.

• He moves to sit behind you, his long fingers brushing lightly against your shoulders as he gathers your hair. His hands are deft, precise, though you can feel the hesitation in his movements.

• “I’m not accustomed to… tasks like this,” he says, his voice low, almost a grumble.

• “You’ll do fine,” you reply with a grin, leaning back slightly into his touch, feeling the warmth of his presence against your back.

• He starts slowly, fingers working carefully to divide your hair into sections. His touch is deliberate but surprisingly gentle, as though he’s afraid of hurting you despite the fragility he shows only with you.

• “You have too much hair,” he mutters, his tone carrying a faint bite, though his movements remain steady.

• You laugh softly, turning your head just enough to catch a glimpse of his focused expression. “You’re doing better than I expected.”

• He scoffs, though his lips twitch into the faintest smirk. “I should hope so. I don’t do things halfway, darling.”

• As he works, the room falls into a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft rustling of his fingers through your hair and the occasional sigh of concentration.

• When he finishes, his hands linger against the braid, smoothing it down to ensure it holds. He leans forward slightly, his breath brushing against your ear as he speaks. “Satisfied?”

• You reach back to touch the braid, feeling the firm precision of his work, and nod with a grin. “More than satisfied.”

• He shifts back to his seat, resuming his papers as though the whole thing had been an insignificant detour. But the way his lips curve faintly suggests he doesn’t mind being dragged into your whims.

• “Next time,” he murmurs without looking up, “you can at least pretend to make an effort yourself.”

• You laugh, leaning back against the cushions, your braid resting over your shoulder. “Why bother, when I have you?”

• He pauses for a moment, glancing up with that sharp, calculating gaze softened just enough by affection. “You’re lucky I tolerate you, my dear.”

• But there’s no mistaking the way his eyes linger on you, a rare warmth flickering in their depths as he watches you settle contentedly, your hair braided by his hand.