#(wants suggestions so bad) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bananarrlele · 1 month ago

Text

"A Study in Affection"

plot: “mr. silvair attempts to unravel the complexities of human affection for his human partner. struggling to understand love, he embarks on a series of clumsy, awkward, and sometimes failed attempts to bridge the gap between his scientific nature and the intimacy his partner craves." established relationship, living in the otherworld, couple issues, unrequited love, slow burn, emotional angst, introspection, miscommunication/language barriers, unconventional romance, dark athmosphere, suggestive, but no actual sex (no smut). everything written in bold refers to the otherworld language. word count: 5k+.

The cold little room that served as Mr. Silvair's laboratory could easily be described as grotesque. The environment seemed more like an extension of his cold and methodical mind than a space dedicated to medical practice. The stained tiles on the walls, once bright, reflected the pale light from the slightly flickering overhead lamps. Chains hanging from the ceiling adorned the room's edges, standing out as silvered, rusted threats. Moreover, the ceiling resembled a web of deteriorated pipes and conspicuous marks of grime, far from ignorable to the eyes.

In the central part of the room stood a metal table, marred by scars: cuts, scratches, and stains whose origins were better left unquestioned. On that table, the instruments of the monstrous doctor reigned supreme: scalpels, too sharp like ruthless razors, tweezers and hooks in unusual shapes, and syringes ranging in size from practical to utterly questionable. The jars and flasks on his shelves were disparate in coloration and aspect. Some were nearly translucent and strangely pleasing to the eye, while others were as dark as the pitch-black of a cursed night. Some housed creatures, or fragments of them, floating in viscous liquids that emitted a ghostly glow. Moreover, faded and aged papers lay scattered across the laboratory bench, like petals fallen from a withered flower. Their yellowed, fragile edges seemed on the verge of disintegration at the slightest touch, yet the hurried scribbles in black ink remained clear, implacable in their precision. Mr. Silvair’s handwriting was fine, almost ethereal, but hasty, as though every thought had to be recorded before it vanished into the chaos of his analytical mind. Anatomical diagrams, sketches of strange tools, and the flow of liquids in organic systems followed one another, interspersed, suggesting the persistence of carefully laid plans for convoluted practices and experiments.

These convoluted experiments were far beyond your comprehension. They had always been so, and would always remain, no matter how distressed a human heart might feel. Cold, sterile, devoid of sentiment, and strangely fascinating in its functionality. The space was an exquisite portrait of his mind and his nature, so distressing in certain lights yet profoundly intriguing. Undeniably, loving him was a painful dichotomy. The brutal precision of his mind was as admirable as it was overwhelming. How many times had you admired him, standing with his back turned, his long pale hair flowing gently like veils across his back, moving majestically as he traversed the space, immersed in his experiments? His slender, weathered hands, at times healing, at others injurious, were the object of your desire, evoking an incessant yearning that transfixed your chest. Whether watching the doctor dismember pieces of a low-sentience monster or performing sutures with an almost frightening calm, sewing living tissues and intertwining remnants of life as if it were an art, there was something about him that left you in a state of near avidity. He was there, within arm’s reach, yet he seemed so distant. His touch seemed cold and nonexistent, like trying to grasp mist. His presence was a contradiction — solid and unyielding, yet intangible, as if he occupied a space you could never truly enter.

You often wondered whether he noticed the painful chasm between you, a gap carved not out of cruelty but by his very nature. The way his sharp, attentive gaze slid over you as if examining one of his experiments was a lasting reminder of his habitual coldness. Yet still, in fleeting moments like the beat of a heart, there were times when he lingered just long enough for your senses to string together his gestures as fragments of a demonstration of his love.

But Mr. Silvair did not understand the meaning of love. Perhaps love was one of the most meager concepts capable of transcending the doctor's capacity for comprehension. He could not grasp it and would likely never manage to assimilate its ephemeral and unfathomable nature, being so obsessed with cataloging results and his own experiments.

A weary and restless sigh escapes your lips. "Such selfishness of mine. To demand that a ghost like him understand the complexity of love and the relevance of physical touch to human beings. I should be content with the fact that he likes me enough to keep me around — and I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world." That’s what you thought, your lips twisting in consternation, as you watched him meticulously suture a cut on Mr. Chopped's brow, his precise, impassive hands closing the wound without the slightest tremor.

But deep down, you yearned. You yearned for his touch, for even a single word, something to escape that clinical silence and confess that he loved you. Something to prove that he liked you, not as a domesticated experiment or a laboratory pet, but as someone real, someone who mattered.

The sigh does not go unnoticed by the doctor. His fingers, stained with dark remnants, finish the suture with an almost inhuman precision before resting Mr. Chopped on the cold examination table. The monster, inert and stitched, seems as insignificant as any of his other experiments.

Silvair straightens slowly, the subtle sound of his movements filling the sterile silence of the room. When he turns to face you, his scrutiny is calculated, as if analyzing an anomaly in a body. But this time, there’s hesitation. A minor, almost imperceptible detail suggests that he notices.

“Something wrong.”

He murmurs in his flat voice, devoid of any exceptional emotion. A simple statement, almost scientific, as if identifying a fracture or an irregular heartbeat in some random creature. Yet, for some reason, the way he says it makes your throat tighten.

It was so typical of him: noticing that something was out of place, but never understanding what it was or why.

Then, without warning, he somberly turns on his heels and picks up Mr. Chopped with indifferent ease. The sound of his footsteps echoes briefly before being lost in the silence, leaving you alone in the cold laboratory, enveloped in your own thoughts.

When he returns minutes later, the absence of the bubbly head in his arms only makes the focus of his attention more evident. Silvair stands still in a particular spot in the room, slender and upright like a somber tower of an abandoned abbey, with his hands clasped behind his back in an almost theatrical gesture, and his gaze fixed unmistakably on you, so much so that you feel your own skin burn in anticipation. His posture was clearly inquisitive, as if seeking invisible cracks he might examine and decipher.

But the uncertainties of your heart were superficial and easy to find. It was as though your chest refused to be secretive, or perhaps it was your human nature that contributed to that piercing sensation, like an unending hammer, which made you so vulnerable in relation to the doctor.

“You not well.”

He attempts to approach, his slender, angular silhouette stepping into the dim light illuminating the room.

“Something bother you.”

“Something change.”

He furrows his brow minimally. His expression remains essentially unchanged and impenetrable, but there is a shadow of discomfort there, as if being confronted with a situation beyond his control was something inexorable, distressing to him.

You don’t respond, your throat caught in a strange combination of fear and hope. The desire for him to approach and truly see you, as someone real and complex, almost hurts.

“You different. Me want know.”

The statement sounds like a challenge. An awkward silence then persists for a few seconds, long enough for him to tilt his head slightly. That was a gesture that often accompanies moments of genuine curiosity.

You try to find the right words, but the truth is you don’t know how to tell him that you want something more, something beyond the platonic and scientific care he offers. Furthermore, the language of monsters was insufficient to express what you truly felt and yearned to release. Although Silvair had learned multiple words of your natural language almost flawlessly, it was as if the vocabulary in both expressions was lacking to convey all your frustrations. You take a risk, anyway, the words spilling out like an unrestrained, dragging outpour, alternating between the two languages.

“I just wanted…” — You begin, but feel an unbearable knot in your throat, like tight vines. Silvair remains waiting for your voice, curious to dissect the cause of such profound anguish.

After a long moment, you finally let out, almost like an exasperated sigh:

“I just wanted your touch. I want your care, not just for stitching wounds or manipulating medicine. I don’t just want to be near you. Me want touch. Me want feel loved.”

The impact of the words falls like a hammer between you. Silvair recoils, a fleeting shock passing over his usually relaxed features, as if carved in marble and immortal in their imperturbable beauty. He had never heard anything like this before. For him, touching someone was merely a means to an end — a technical necessity for healing wounds or maintaining control over a specimen. Never to express anything more.

“Me confused. Me not understand love.”

His confession is almost inaudible, as if he were finally admitting his inability to understand anything beyond the boundaries of the rational.

You shrug, trying not to show how painful it is to hear those words from his mouth, even though he didn’t say them with the intent to hurt.

“I know. That’s why it hurts.” — You whisper to yourself, drawing in your lower lip in consternation in a futile attempt to maintain your composure, while those treacherous blue shards escape your eyes like tiny fragments of crystal falling from a cracked stained glass. At that moment, the fissure in your chest, opened by Silvair’s words, felt deeper than the crack slicing through one of the aged laboratory walls, where so many strange things found their way.

The doctor’s gaze drop to the ground for a moment, as if he were genuinely trying to understand, but failing. He seems lost, his hands restless before his body, and you feel a wave of compassion and frustration mixed together. He would never be able to fully understand, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t wish for something more from him.

Then, as if an internal switch had been flipped, Silvair withdraws, the sound of his heavy steps echoing through the room. The door creaks as it closes behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts and an unexpected emptiness. For a moment, you feel a deep sadness, as if he had taken a part of you with him — something you had never known you expected to receive from someone like Silvair.

The rest of the day was irredeemably dull and dragged on. You sat on the sofa in the small antechamber outside Mr. Silvair's medical inspection laboratory, absentmindedly fiddling with a Rubik's cube that Mr. Masque had given to Mr. Crawling, the latter having generously offered the artifact to you, the one he affectionately called his "favorite human." But nothing could lift your sullen mood.

You turned the cube between your fingers, rotating its colorful faces without focus, as if it were a meaningless distraction. Your mind wandered between the pain of your conversation with Silvair and the endless hours during which he vanished into the vast, gloomy corridors and pathways of the ghosts' apartment. Where might he be now, with his measured steps, the smell of formalin clinging to him, and the crimson metallic richness of blood lingering on his skin, his long locks streaked with dried, vital fluid? His scent, mannerisms, and even his voice were like precious gems in your memory — existent but not within your grasp. It was disturbing how he seemed to occupy every inch, every corner of your mind.

You tried to imagine: had he completely ignored your complaints, shrugged them off, and returned to his pragmatic experiments elsewhere? Was he perhaps even more focused than usual, desperately trying to understand what love truly meant? Or was he simply sitting, lost in some thought you couldn’t conceive?

Your gaze swept across the room, now empty and shadowy, lingering on the shelves filled with jars, scalpels, and preserved specimens. Each one seemed to carry a story, a small piece of the enigma that Silvair was. At the same time, however, the ache in your chest only grew. You had never met anyone like him — so complex, yet so incomprehensible. Silvair was the embodiment of mystery, a cold enigma you longed to unravel but always seemed just out of your understanding.

You sighed, clutching the Rubik's cube in your hands more tightly until the colors began to blur. And once again, you asked yourself: What was he doing now?

While you were engulfed in creeping melancholy for hours and hours, in another dim and desolate room, its walls as cold as a stone embrace, Mr. Silvair idly sifted through a pile of abandoned objects. It was a tolerated habit for the doctor, even though he considered most of these items irrelevant. Among organic samples and scribbled notes, he stumbled upon something unusual: a worn magazine cover with vibrant colors and an eye-catching illustration of two humans in what he vaguely recognized as a kiss.

He approached it, his pale, elongated hands reaching for the booklet with a mix of curiosity and reluctance. It was obvious who had left it there — Mr. Gap. The fissure monster was a sporadic but unforgettable presence. Gap had a habit of appearing with all sorts of items: newspaper fragments, festival pamphlets from non-existent events, and now, a human magazine titled The Secrets of Passion.

There was a small note scrawled in the corner of the cover in messy handwriting, as if Gap had struggled considerably to hold the pen:

“Kiss seems to say heart. I want heart. Give me heart. Kiss like.”

Silvair read Gap's words in silence. The figure of the fissure monster, who would occasionally appear with clippings and fragments of newspapers on the most varied subjects — ranging from trivialities like cookie recipes to stories of a serial killer wreaking havoc — was now immortalized in a curious observation about kisses and human desire. Silvair frowned. What was a kiss, after all, to someone like Mr. Gap? What did the other monster know that he didn’t? Silvair knew his studies had not prepared him for such a question. He had studied anatomy, human behavior on a physical level, hormonal responses, everything that could be analyzed and understood. But love?

He closed the magazine, his rigid hands gripping the cover tightly, trying to make sense of what was stirring inside him. Something moved within his being. Mr. Gap had once again managed to plant a seed of discomfort — or curiosity — in the doctor’s essence. For a moment, he found himself wondering if he could learn the art of kissing, or at least understand why humans seemed to find this gesture so important. And more than that: if the kiss was the key, could it be the gateway to love?

Suddenly, with a faint, restless twist of his lips, Silvair shut the magazine, holding the piece of paper in his hands as though it were a precious object of study. Deep down, he felt that something was about to change. Drastically.

Silvair had isolated himself in recent days, immersing himself in meticulous studies and attempts to understand human gestures of affection. He spent hours poring over those magazines and fragments brought by Mr. Gap, consumed by an unrelenting search for something beyond the physical, something that could truly touch the complexity of love and human relationships.

The magazine he had found held much more than scientific explanations about kisses and touches. As he delved into its pages, something else captivated him: the images. There, on the yellowed paper, he found photographs and illustrations of couples in moments of such intense affection that they seemed to transcend simple physical contact. Bodies intertwined in a way that felt almost mystical, as though they were on the verge of merging into a single entity. It was more than just a kiss, more than a loving embrace. It was an intimacy so profound, so visceral, that he could hardly comprehend it.

The images left him stunned. He observed them, analyzed every detail, every touch, every curve of skin and movement, but he could not grasp the reason behind that energy. He stared at the figures repeatedly, as if trying to decode them.

"Strong contact. Not medicine explain. Me not understand..." he muttered, running his pale fingers through his light hair, visibly frustrated.

Dr. Silvair’s Attempts

PROCEDURE I: “The Mannequin”

The mannequin stood before him, its cold and rigid structure serving as a substitute for human flesh. His sharp gaze scanned every detail of the object, with his fingers firmly positioned to replicate the gestures described in the magazine. His lips slowly approached the mannequin’s face. He pressed them gently against the plastic surface, attempting to emulate the act of a kiss. There was no warmth, no response. The chill of the plastic was a stark reminder of the distance he still had to traverse.

Observations: "Objective: Simulate a kiss on a non-living object to observe physical responses. Result: No emotional reaction observed. Conclusion: As suspected, reciprocity seems to be a crucial factor in human interaction, something that cannot be reproduced without an active second party."

PROCEDURE II: “Self-Imitation”

After failing with the mannequin, Silvair decided to try a different approach: he would be his own test subject. Sitting in front of a mirror, he repeated the motions he had seen in the magazines. His lips touched his own with almost scientific precision. He observed every micro-expression in the mirror, analyzing his own eyes, the way his facial muscles reacted, trying to detect some emotional response in his body. But again, all he felt was the absence of something. The touch generated no internal reaction, no change.

Observations: "Objective: Attempt to experience the act of a kiss in a self-conscious context, observing facial and bodily reactions. Result: No observable changes in physical or emotional responses. Conclusion: The emotional response to the action is not triggered by the mere repetition of the act. The emotional factor appears crucial to eliciting a genuine reaction. Reactions cannot be replicated without a real connection."

PROCEDURE III: “The Monstrous Rose”

Inspired by the magazine’s mention of simple yet symbolic gestures of affection, Mr. Silvair recalled his collection of monstrous flowers — his own creation, with black petals and iridescent edges, exuding a sweet and peculiar aroma that was almost hypnotic. He believed that the symbolic gesture of offering a flower could elicit a stronger emotional reaction, as humans often associated gestures like this with affection.

When he finally entered the little room where you were, half-asleep on the sofa, he observed your figure curled up like a bird with battered wings. The Rubik's cube had already rolled to the floor, having slipped from your hands. When he approached, you looked up at him, surprised.

“Me offer gesture.” — He said, his voice tinged with an unusual softness, extending the flower to you.

You raised your eyes, somewhat startled, but accepted the flower. The fragility of the gesture made your heart leap slightly, and for a moment, the smile on your lips seemed genuine.

“Thank you, Silvair.” — You murmured in your native tongue, bringing the flower close to your face, inhaling its scent of burnt caramel and polished copper. — “Beautiful. But why you bring this to me?”

He watched your reaction carefully, registering every micro-expression. He stood poised and expectant, like someone awaiting immediate validation.

“Me test affection.”

You furrowed your brow slightly, nodding. “Of course, you test. Gestures like this need come from heart, not through testing, Silvair.” You spoke in a tone of gentle reprimand, your voice tinged with lingering frailty. He captured a considerable part of your message, his expression tightening slightly.

He blinked slowly, as though processing your words. “Heart… not functional in this context. Me try again.”

You sighed as he retreated, taking the flowers with him, which now seemed like a failed experiment.

Observations: “Positive reaction observed: increased heart rate, pupil dilation. Receptiveness to symbolic offering generates some level of emotional bond but is insufficient for deep or intimate engagement.

Additional Consideration: “The symbolic significance of a gift may generate an emotional response, but it does not equate to a deeper or more intimate interaction. The flower functioned as a marker of interest but not as a gesture of complete emotional surrender.”

After the episode with the monstrous flowers, the night dragged on in silence, filled with a quiet tension that lingered in the air. The laboratory was illuminated only by a soft light that fell over the notes scattered across the tables and the flasks containing mysterious substances. Silvair was engrossed in his thoughts, the tip of his pen furiously scratching paper, his focus fixed on his observations. You watched him while lounging carelessly in a chair, your legs hanging over its arms. You bit the tip of your thumb absentmindedly as something churned within you, responding to his dissociated behavior. The silence had become nearly unbearable, as had his repeated absences. If before it was agonizing to witness him steadfastly preserving his immutable exteriority, never attempting any kind of affection, seeing him obsessively conducting literal and absurd experiments to determine love and turn affection into a performative, perfectly calculated act was an even more tormenting experience. You felt excluded — and more than that, you felt an ever-growing need for something more between you two, something beyond studies, the clinic, and his cold behavior.

The suffocating silence between you was unbearable, and the impulse overcame reason. You approached him cautiously, positioning yourself behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist. Your fingers, hesitant at first, slid across his cold torso. Your touch was gentle, a silent invitation for something more intimate.

He finally stopped writing but did not move. His body remained rigid, motionless like a statue.

“Why so distant?” — You asked, pressing your face against his shoulder, seeking some sign of reciprocity.

“Me busy.” — He replied, his voice as cold as ever, but there was something else there — perhaps a note of uncertainty that didn’t escape your notice.

Your frustration grew heavier. You slid your hand lower, attempting to draw his attention, but he caught your wrist, halting any further progress. He wasn’t harsh, but his grip was firm enough to make it clear he didn’t want this.

“Not now.” — He said, releasing your hand and returning his focus to his notes.

You stepped back, hurt. The words were simple, but they carried a devastating impact. He didn’t lift his eyes to you, didn’t notice the gleam of tears threatening to escape as you walked away.

“Alright." — You murmured, your voice trembling. — “Sorry.”

When you left the room, the sound of the door closing echoed louder than it should have, as if sealing an abyss between you two.

Mr. Silvair remained still for a few moments after your departure, the pencil suspended in midair. His mind, normally so focused, seemed scattered.

“Intimacy…” — He murmured to himself, recalling the figures from Mr. Gap’s magazine he had examined days earlier. Images of intertwined hands, deep kisses, and bodies so close they seemed symbiotic. He remembered a note written in Gap’s erratic handwriting:

“Love strange. Bodies together, mind too. Sex? Kiss? Very strange. But good?”

Intimacy and sexuality echoed in his cloudy mind, interweaving uncomfortably. At the time, he had dismissed Gap’s erratic scrawlings as a disconnected ramble, but now, recalling your pained expression, something inside him began to shift.

“They try. Me fail?”

He shut the notebook forcefully, the sound reverberating through the empty room. For the first time in a long while, he felt something that could be described as regret.

A few days had passed since Silvair’s initial, frustrating attempts to comprehend the complexities of human nature. The tension between you had reached a silent breaking point, like a rope stretched beyond its limit. He spoke little, and you even less. But his silence always felt calculated, while yours was laden with emotions that could not be translated into words.

That morning, an unexpected accident occurred during what seemed like an innocent game with Mr. Machete — a friendly duel of blades and laughter, a competition of skill, escalated beyond what it should have. The playful match resulted in a deep cut on your left thigh, far more severe than anything reasonable for a mere game. Mr. Machete’s blade had slid more smoothly than anticipated, slicing through the skin and leaving a wound that stretched across a considerable portion of your leg.

Silvair acted quickly, faster than usual. He did not show panic, but his movements were swifter and more precise than normal. With you seated on the inspection table, he brought his tools and began cleaning the wound. Despite the pain, you noticed something different about him. His hands, which always moved with unwavering firmness and methodical precision, trembled slightly.

“You scare me.” — He murmured as he applied antiseptic, his eyes fixed on the wound as if avoiding your face. There was an irritation in his tone that you couldn’t quite define, a discomfort that spilled into his voice. — “You not should play like that.”

He sighed softly, the sound barely audible in his reprimand. “You stop this need. Not do again, not with them.” — He seemed to hesitate before adding. — “Not with machete man. Careful you must be. Should.”

“Don’t worry so much!” — You said, offering him a soft smile to ease his indignation. — “Me know you try care for me.”

“Not just about the cut.” — He murmured, more to himself than to you.

His fingers, in an involuntary movement, touched the edge of your thigh, the skin around the wound. The sensitivity of the area, paired with his gentle touch, made your body flinch slightly — but not from pain. It was his proximity, the way he seemed to feel the suffering you were enduring without truly knowing how to handle it.

Suddenly, Silvair’s hands moved up to your face, touching your cheeks with an unexpected delicacy. His fingers, cold and trembling, traced the lines of your face as if trying to understand every contour, every expression you offered, like an impossible equation to solve.

His closeness made your heart race in anticipation. His presence was intense, as though he were on the verge of doing something even he didn’t know how to accomplish. You felt the tension between you rise, charged with something ready to reveal itself, though neither of you knew how to act.

He hesitated, perhaps unsure, but his focus never wavered from you. Silvair seemed unable to withdraw, unable to let go of you, and this was unexpected. It was a fine line between desire and hesitation, between human impulse and his incapacity to comprehend it. When he finally leaned in closer, his face coming dangerously near yours, his touch against your skin seemed to dissolve the barriers between you.

The air was thick with hesitation, but without warning, he leaned in further, his lips brushing against yours softly, as though trying to understand something he still could not define. The kiss was uncertain, hesitant, reminiscent of the first time he had tried to mimic the gesture with the mannequin. Yet there was something profoundly human about it, something he, perhaps unknowingly, longed to grasp.

But this time, there was something more. A shiver ran down your spine as he deepened the kiss, his lips moving with increasing firmness, as if trying to unravel the mechanics of a gesture that had now become part of him. He explored the softness of your lips with the tip of his tongue, touching them with unusual gentleness, yet also with an impulse that spoke louder than words. Silvair tasted you, and something stirred within his chest, something he could neither name nor explain. He pulled you closer, his touch assertive, strong, commanding — yet his hands moved to cradle your face delicately, soothingly, as though he feared breaking you. One hand traveled further, gripping your waist firmly, as if to show you the depth of his desire, which he could barely comprehend himself.

The kiss grew more desperate, less measured, almost voracious, with the caresses reaching a peak of urgency. He felt your breath, ragged against his skin, quickened to match his, and with slow, deliberate movements, he lifted you effortlessly, placing you on the cold surface of his inspection table. His hands never left you, lingering near, almost possessive, as he leaned over you, his features focused and intense. His hand traveled over your skin with more confidence, touching places where he felt the vibration of your body beneath his fingers.

His tongue intertwined with yours, now bolder, yet retaining the same careful attention as if deciphering the meaning of every touch, every movement. His fingers glided smoothly, exploring the curves of your body with reverent silence but an intensity that grew, as though trying to absorb every fragment of warmth you emitted. He touched you with a tenderness that concealed a quiet hunger, as though it were his first time allowing himself to feel the warmth of affection, the discovery of care, and the growing desire for something deeper, something genuine.

As your lips parted momentarily, just long enough for him to catch his breath, Silvair kept his forehead pressed against yours, his manner captivated and almost possessive. His breath was heavy as he whispered, more to himself than to you:

“Fascinating...”

He lifted his gaze, the movement delicate, almost attentive, as if he were trying to decipher the rhythm of your breath, the scent of the air around you, every minute detail in his surroundings. The blindfold that covered his eyes was no impediment; on the contrary, it seemed to heighten his perception, creating a sharper sense of closeness, as if he could feel every beat of your heart, every soft sigh you let out. His hand slid to your waist, the touch firm yet purposeful, as though mapping your presence through the sensation of your skin.

With a slow but resolute motion, he tilted his face, planting a kiss along the line of your jaw, then down the curve of your neck, with the same curious care as before. Yet this time, there was something more deliberate in every touch.

“You make me curious. Me want… discover more.”

And without saying anything further, he leaned in again, his lips capturing yours once more, this time with an intensity that promised he was far from finished with his exploration. The promise of something more lingered in the air, carried in his touch, in the force of a desire he seemed to still be struggling to name — a desire he now seemed determined to unravel, piece by piece, like an enigma he was unwilling to abandon.

“Tell me, is this… what you wanted? What you have been waiting for?” — He asked quietly, brushing his thumb over your lips gently in an electrifying motion. “This human desire mean, yes?” — His voice, hoarse and intense, reverberated like a promise of a lost paradise, echoing in your ears as he struggled to murmur the words in your language.

You arched an eyebrow, letting out a soft, provocative laugh.

“If you have to ask, perhaps something is still missing from your research, doctor.” — Your voice was low and measured, careful to ensure he caught every meaning and syllable, but tinged with mischief, as your fingers slid to his neck, tracing short, almost electric touches. It was a gentle but daring gesture as you pulled him closer. — “Me demonstrate, yes?”

Silvair’s lips curled into a faint smile, despite being unable to see, as though he already knew exactly what you meant. He tightened his grip on your waist, his fingers firm but still containing an unexpected gentleness.

“Demonstrate?” — He repeated slowly, as if savoring the idea, his tone deeper now. — “Me think good. But you not expect me gentle all the time.”

Before you could respond, he acted. His hands, which had rested on your waist, slid to the middle of your back, pulling you against him with determination. His lips, previously hesitant, now gave themselves fully. With an almost cruel tenderness, he traced the outline of your mouth with his tongue, as if issuing a silent invitation. Each touch was a promise, a wordless request for entry. His fingers traced a slow, suggestive path along your thigh, gradually climbing toward the center of your body. Each touch, every subtle caress, sent shivers throughout your entire being, and you felt as though you might melt under his dissecting hands, arching gently like a flower unfurling in the sun on his inspection table.

Between kisses, you drew a deep breath, a faint whimper, and a slightly tense laugh escaping against his lips.

“Not bad for someone who’s learning. Fast learner.”

He paused, the laugh escaping his lips a small victory.

“Then, teach me.” The command was clear, but the accompanying promise was even more enticing. With a firm motion, he leaned you back, your body becoming an instrument in his hands. The intensity of the moment overwhelmed everything, and you realized, with a mix of surprise and satisfaction, that he had finally let himself go.

Thin, translucent tears of joy adorned the corners of your eyes, inevitably. In that moment, you finally understood that what he sought wasn’t merely understanding but surrender. And in that moment, you knew: he was learning how to love.

phew. this was laborious, but so much fun to write. giggling, kicking my feet, and twirling my hair for this man, no lie. it's really interesting to write for silvair, and I've been wanting to do so for weeks. he’s so complex, and his inscrutability and unusual gentleness are captivating. i’m sure these traits would leave anyone confused in a relationship. mr. silvair would be kind in terms of care and service, but terrible when it comes to communication and effective displays of affection, so I wanted to explore this issue in this long text. the ending is suggestive because I think that learning would inevitably lead to situations like the one narrated. who knows... maybe I’ll write more. my thirst for mr. silvair never ends :) it's christmas eve in my homeland (brazil), and for those who are reading and are in the same territory as mine, or at least on a similar rhythm/time zone, merry christmas eve! to the fans of mr. silvair out there, consider this text a gift. we urgently need more stories about this man, like, ASAP. thank you so much if you read all of this, and have a lovely day or night! ♡ (this text is open to corrections and edits. english is not my native language, and the original was entirely written in portuguese. time for some sleep, finally.)

#mr silvair x you #mr silvair x reader #homicipher #mr silvair x mc #homicipher x reader #homicipher x you #mr silver #mr silver x reader #mr silver x you #suggestive cw #other characters #mentions #i want to shag silvair so bad #the doctor is mine #thirst so unhinged got me writing 5k words for this man

148 notes · View notes