#mr silvair x you

[purple-plum-petals]

Hi!! I love your homicipher fics! Have you thought about writing nsfw hcs? Specifically for Mr. Crawling and Silvair? I hope your night / day is going well! :)

⊱ Mr. Crawling and Mr. Silvair ⊰ || NSFW Alphabet (A-Z) Headcanons

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Character(s): Mr. Crawling, Mr. Silvair (Homicipher/文字化化, Separate) Reader Type: Human (Gender-Neutral Pronouns, No Sex-Specific Genitalia is Mentioned but it was Written with an AFAB Reader in Mind) Warning(s): 18+ Content, Virgin Asexual Author, Cum Eating, Facials, Minor Objectification, Cuckoldry, Mutual Masturbation, Face-fucking, Sexual Fantasies, Tickling, Praise/Degradation Kink, Breeding Kink/Creampies, BDSM, Overstimulation, Orgasm Control/Denial, Dumbification, Dacryphilia, Hair-pulling, Light Impact Play, Light Breathplay, Implied Cunnilingus/Blowjobs, Cock Warming, Mention/Discussion of Sex Toys… If I missed anything, please let me know! Genre: Headcanons, Smut (Minors Do Not Interact), Fluff Word Count: 7,200 words Request: “Hi!! I love your homicipher fics! Have you thought about writing nsfw hcs? Specifically for Mr. Crawling and Silvair? I hope your night / day is going well! :)” Author’s Note: I’m still very much working on getting better at writing spicier content, and I had no clue how to start writing these kinds of headcanons from scratch, so I went ahead and just filled out the NSFW Alphabet for both Mr. Crawling and Mr. Silvair as a jumping off point! It’s definitely interesting to think about how both of these characters would be in a sexually intimate setting, especially since – at least in my mind – they’d be quite different from each other in a variety of aspects even if they did have some overlap on a few of the points. I did my best to keep each of their headcanons at a similar word length (which was kind of hard to do with my Mr. Crawling bias, but I think I accomplished it haha). Anyway, I hope you enjoy these headcanons! ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

→ If you enjoyed my work, please reblog it if you can! Exposure on Tumblr is based on reblogging content rather than liking it, so your support would be much appreciated!  ♡

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A: Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

👣: Mr. Crawling is immensely clingy after having sex, holding onto you and pretty much refusing to let go as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck or your hair. While he doesn’t want to get up from the bed or leave after the two of you have been intimate, if you’re hungry or thirsty or if you want to go take a bath, he’s happy to go fetch you something to restore your energy or help you to the bathroom to clean up. He’s quite good at aftercare, even if he doesn’t realize what he’s doing counts as it. Mr. Crawling just likes making you feel good, and he wants to keep you safe and happy! His favorite thing to do is help you bathe; he enjoys the way the warm water feels on his skin while he washes your back for you. 

💉: Mr. Silvair isn’t too affectionate after the two of you are intimate, but he’ll check up on you and ask if you need him to get you anything. If your wrists were rubbed raw from the restraints he had placed on you, he would make sure to carefully wrap gauze around your irritated skin. If you were thirsty or hungry, he would locate something safe for you to consume to get your strength back up. If you feel sticky or gross afterward, he’ll carefully wipe your body with a wet cloth to make sure you are clean and comfortable. He lets you sleep and typically goes about his own business. Sometimes, though, Mr. Silvair finds himself watching over you to make sure you’re breathing steadily, carefully combing his fingers through your hair. 

B: Body Part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

👣: Mr. Crawling doesn’t have a favorite part of your body since he honestly enjoys every aspect of you but, if he had to choose, he loves your hands. He knows that they can hurt people and cause a lot of pain, but he loves the way they feel when you cup his face to softly caress it or whenever you thread your fingers through his hair. For himself, Mr. Crawling loves his hair the most (I know it’s not technically a body part, but I think it makes the most sense for him); he pretty much melts whenever you play with it, and his head is quite sensitive, so he blue screens whenever you pull at his hair or rake your nails across his scalp. I also feel like Mr. Crawling would be proud of his arms since they’re fairly toned considering they’re his primary means of getting around. Because of his impressive strength, despite what his thinner frame may portray, he’s able to hold you up and move you around with relative ease (he 100% can manhandle you, but only will if you’re cool with it). 

💉: Mr. Silvair finds every aspect of your body fascinating, and he could probably explain why each part of you was interesting from a medical perspective or that everything was pleasant to look at in one way or another. If he had to pick a favorite part of your body, though, he would have to say it’s your head (I know, kind of weird, but he does appreciate your intelligence and, well… Ending 06 is my other piece of reasoning haha). Specifically, though, he likes your mouth. He enjoys being able to hold your head in place while your jaw hangs open, all while he just goes to town while you drool and choke around his cock. Don’t worry, though – he’ll find some remedy to lessen the soreness you feel in your throat afterward. For himself, he’s quite proud of his hands. Mr. Silvair is skilled at many things, and being able to make you come undone with his fingers alone makes him feel a sense of power (plus, you called them pretty once, and it made him feel good). 

C: Cum (Anything to do with cum)

👣: Mr. Crawling gets extremely flustered whenever he sees his cum on any part of your body, from your hair to your face to your stomach. The sight of it alone on your skin makes his brain short-circuit and body flare up – it only makes him want to touch you even more. He likes being able to clean you up, too, leaning forward before he runs his tongue along your body or face, making sure there wasn’t a single drop of his cum left on you (even if now it meant you were covered in saliva…). He doesn’t mind tasting himself, but it most certainly doesn’t compare to your flavor. 

💉: I probably need to ask you to stay with me on this one, but I think Mr. Silvair would probably keep your cum stored away in a sample tube or something along those lines, having a desire to run tests on it to see what he could create. Views your cum as a valuable resource in his research...yay? Maybe he could even use your release to invent some kind of lubricant since that’s not easily accessible in the other world and make having sex much more streamlined… or he just keeps it around to show you later and see your reaction to the fact he keeps your cum stored away in his laboratory to tease you. 

D: Dirty Secret

👣: The thought of taking you in public, in a space where no one but you could see him, makes his mind race and his body feel like it was on fire – this man can act like a feral dog sometimes. I mean, even you sometimes forgot he was there, unable to see his form unless you concentrated hard enough, so imagine if the two of you went out somewhere in public and he (with your consent, of course), just started touching you? Groping your ass, his face between your legs as he runs his hands along your inner thighs… no one can see that it’s him making your face flush and not the excuse of a fever you told the concerned stranger in the hopes they would leave you alone. When you half-heartedly glare at him to try and get him to lay off for a bit, he just laughs at your expression… how rude!

💉: Mr. Silvar wouldn’t be opposed to having a threesome with another resident of the other world. After all, he would be curious to see how differently you acted when another person was there with the two of you, or if your body reacted in an unlikely way if another were to touch you. While I will not write NSFW for Mr. Chopped (the power dynamic there isn’t my favorite thing in the world), he would be the one Mr. Silvair would feel most at ease sharing you with; Mr. Crawling or Mr. Hood would be his second and third choices respectively since he knows how deeply you trust them. He might not even partake in sex either, just sitting off to the side while he lets another use you like a toy. As long as you know your his, though, he doesn’t mind watching you enjoy yourself with another (he has to be there, though). 

E: Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

👣: Mr. Crawling has absolutely zero experience with this kind of stuff, so he would need someone willing to walk him through the whole process, show him what you like, and teach him what and what not to do. What he lacks in experience, though, he makes up for in pure enthusiasm. It’s quite flattering how determined he is when it comes to making you feel good, even if it’s a bit sloppy and unpracticed. His thrusts are extremely unpredictable, never quite finding their rhythm… It’s alright, though; he’ll definitely get better with more time and the more he gets to understand what your body likes. You just have to give him the time to improve, and he’ll be certain to leave you breathless. 

💉: Mr. Silvair also has no experience when it comes to sex, or at least not any while he’s resided in the other world. He is a life-long learner through and through, though, and there’s nothing in the universe he’s not willing to learn about, especially if it has to do with humans and their anatomy. His thrusts are frighteningly accurate, being able to hit your most sensitive inner spots with ease to have you begging him to give you a moment to breathe. He’s an almost terrifyingly fast learner, too, being able to apply whatever new information he’s observed and gathered within moments. He can do it perfectly, too, and he does it in a way that has you questioning whether he was telling the truth when he said this was his first time doing anything like this. 

F: Favorite Position

👣: When it comes to favorite positions, Mr. Crawling loves being able to hold you close to him while also being able to see your face (he has to kiss you during sex – sorry, I don’t make the rules). He enjoys the rocking horse position since it allows him to be able to hold you close while still being able to maintain eye contact with you and easily have access to cover your face in kisses. While he prefers being the one making you feel good, Mr. Crawling would also enjoy the cowgirl position. He’s happy to let you use him to your heart's content while being able to look up and soak in the pleased look that’s plastered across your features while you slam your hips up and down on his cock. 

💉: Mr. Silvair personally enjoys the butterfly position, having you lay on your back atop his operation table all while he can watch and take mental notes on every single facial expression you make and every single twitch of your muscles while he drives you absolutely insane. He would also enjoy missionary, but he would spice it up a little bit by having your hands or wrists tied to something. After all, he doesn’t want you to touch him unless he says you can – just lay there quietly while he completely wrecks you with that annoyingly calm expression on his face. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy when you touch him, though. Mr. Silvair simply prefers being the one in charge and determining when and where you’re able to feel his skin beneath your hands. 

G: Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc.)  

👣: Acts goofy most of the time during sex, even if he doesn’t mean to. He likes being able to make you happy, and he finds your laughter to be music to his ears. Sometimes you two will be having sex, and he’ll suddenly start giggling completely unprovoked, just finding the experience with you so joyful. Being with you in any capacity makes his chest feel light and fluttery as a sense of giddiness flows through his veins. He’ll wrap his arms around you and nuzzle into your neck, causing your body to spasm and tighten around him while his long hair drapes over you and tickles your skin. Overall, Mr. Crawling enjoys being more playful when the two of you are intimate since it adds to the overall experience for him. 

💉: Prefers to be serious while having sex. He treats the whole process of intercourse like one would treat a research project which, honestly, can make you feel a bit annoyed in some instances (Mr. Silvair still doesn’t quite understand why, though). He’s methodical in everything he does, and being light-hearted or purposefully humorous isn’t high on his list of things to do. He has no problem if you want to be silly, however. He finds it cute when you try to see if you can make him chuckle. It endears you to him more, and it makes him want to keep you around for even longer. The only goofy thing he does is gently run his fingers up and down your sides while thrusting into you, finding the way your body wriggles and writhes away from his touch to be adorable. 

H: Hair (How well-groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

👣: I think Mr. Crawling would have fairly long hair beneath the metaphorical belt. His pubic hair would be thick, curly, and a very dark shade of black. He doesn’t really keep himself groomed (kind of hard to do in his world, plus it was never a priority for him), but if you would prefer him to keep it trimmed, he’d be happy to! He doesn’t care one way or another. 

💉: Mr. Silvair comes off to me as someone who would enjoy keeping themselves groomed and their appearance well-maintained, and I mean every inch of his body. I think he would have either no pubic hair or pubic hair that was trimmed to be the perfect length. If he did have any hair below the belt, it would be a gray color, one that was a shade darker than his regular hair and wavy in texture. 

I: Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect)

👣: One of the more human-like members of the cast when it comes to his affections; he’s as romantic as a non-human being can be. Mr. Crawling loves holding you close as he ruts into you like a wild dog, whispering praises against your skin. He even tries his best to learn phrases in your language so he can tell you how much you mean to him without you having to try and decipher it. He’s always so, so soft with you when you two are having sex. He’s honored that you’d let him have you in such a way, and finds your trust in him heartwarming – he trusts you, too, with his entire heart and soul. 

💉: Mr. Silvair canonically doesn’t comprehend the concept of “liking” or loving someone, so that also translates into sex with him. All he knows is that he finds you entertaining to be around and that he’s somewhat endeared to you at this point. He’s not romantic but, in between teasing you and making you cry (whether it be in frustration or overstimulation), he’s checking in on you to make sure that you’re still comfortable. He knows sex can be invasive, and he’s aware of how much regard the act is held in by some people in your world, so he does his best to respect that... Even if he does need to check himself every now and again. 

J: Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

👣 and 💉: Neither of them masturbates much because they simply don’t have a desire or time to do so. Mr. Crawling would rather wait for you to be there so you two can enjoy yourselves together, and Mr. Silvair simply has more important matters to attend to. That’s not to say they never masturbate, though, it’s just typically a rare occurrence. 

👣: Mr. Crawling typically masturbates by rutting up against something, like a pillow, rather than taking himself in his hand. His thoughts before meeting you were just focusing on the physical sensation of his cock sliding against the fabric of his clothing, but now he finds himself thinking of you – the way your voice sounds when you coo sweet words in his ear, the warmth of your body. Imagining your hands gently touching his chest and hips makes him cum right then and there, almost embarrassingly quickly… Yeah, he’s down bad. 

💉: Mr. Silvair treats masturbating as a chore. He’d much rather be doing something else than leaning against the wall of his operation room while his hand goes absolutely ham on his dick. He knows which areas on his body get the most reaction, so he purposefully presses all of his buttons just so he can be done with it quicker. This doesn’t change after meeting and getting to be intimate with you, though, he still sees it as a chore… Just now he imagines cumming on your face or inside you whenever he finally reaches his climax. 

K: Kink (one or more of their kinks)

👣: 

Mutual Masturbation: He likes spending time with you and doing things together, so why not spend some time watching each other explore yourselves? He likes observing you as you touch yourself, making mental notes of every spot on your body that have you biting your lip and furrowing your brows. While I wouldn’t say he’s into voyeurism since he does like being with you while you touch yourself instead of tucked away in the shadows just watching, he focuses more on the way your hands touch and caress your skin instead of focusing on the way he moves his hands across his body. Doesn’t last very long doing this, though, eventually pouncing on you and touching you himself.

Overstimulation (Giving): Mr. Crawling loves overstimulating you, even if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it half of the time. He just enjoys seeing you become a blabbering mess all because of him; he takes great pride in being able to make you feel good. However, the first time you started crying because he was simply giving you too much, he felt so guilty – the poor man was on the verge of tears thinking he made you feel bad. 

Praise Kink: While praising you is a bit more difficult considering the language barrier and the limited amount of words and phrases he has to choose from, he still loves doing it. Muttering against your skin how you’re doing such a good job, how he loves you so much, how you make him so happy. Mr. Crawling definitely makes sure to reassure you both inside and outside of the bedroom. 

Hair Pulling (Receiving): He loves, loves, loves it whenever you take his hair in your hand and give it a firm tug. Mr. Crawling enjoys it whenever he’s going down on you and you take his hair into your hands and push him even closer, making him become fully immersed in your scent and taste. 

Sensation Play: While Mr. Crawling may not enjoy more painful experiences, he does like general sensation play quite a bit. He likes the feeling of your breath fanning against his skin while you pepper his flesh with gentle kisses and nips. He enjoys tickling you while his hips sensually thrust in and out, feeling the way you squeeze around him as breathless and airy giggles escape past your lips. He loves whispering into your ear while running his tongue along it before taking your lobe between his teeth and lightly tugging.  

💉: 

Breeding Kink/Creampie: Mr. Silvair, after learning more about human reproduction, has a deep-seated curiosity regarding whether or not the two of you would be able to have offspring. That’s kind of what starts this particular kink for him – he wants to know if you both are sexually compatible in that aspect, and he is curious what the resulting child would look and act like if they were born in the other world. If you’re unable to give birth or get pregnant, even if his initial interest in breeding is certainly from a more scientific aspect, he still finds the image of you full of his seed while it drips down the curve of your ass to be quite arousing. 

Bondage/Shibari (Giving): He enjoys tying you up and pinning you down, being able to have full control over you in the bedroom. He’s perfectly content if you agree to light bondage, like having your hands restrained, and would never ask you to do anything more than that. However, if you trust him enough and feel comfortable doing some more intense bondage, he’s not going to complain. Would definitely be interested in the art of shibari, finding the way the rope looks pressing into your skin tantalizing. 

Orgasm Control/Denial (Giving): Another kink that feeds into his desire for control. Mr. Silvair enjoys being the one in charge of your release, and he likes seeing how far he can push you until you finally break and plead for him to let you cum. He loves seeing how stupid and desperate he can make you, sometimes with just his fingers alone. 

Overstimulation (Giving): Much like orgasm control/denial, he likes pushing you to your breaking point. However, unlike the previous bullet, he likes seeing how much stimulation you can take until you’re crying for him to stop. He thinks it’s fascinating, seeing how quickly your desire for his touch can change – one moment you’re begging for him to touch you, and the next you’re weakly pushing his hand away. He does eventually relent, of course, but only after letting you cry for a bit. 

Dacryphilia: There’s something about seeing your tear-streaked face that makes it feel like he’s just been hit with an arrow in his chest. It’s endearing and oh-so cute the way you look while you sob all because he’s making you feel that good. It makes him feel proud, in a way, seeing you in such a pathetic state all because of him. 

L: Location (Favorite places to do the do)

👣: He enjoys having sex with you on a bed (boring, I know), but he likes the softness of the mattress and the many pillows and blankets that can be used to bring even more comfort by keeping the heat from your bodies trapped. He also likes taking you in small, enclosed spaces, like an empty locker or cabinet (sorry folks with claustrophobia). Much like the reasoning with the bed, he likes how the smaller space forces you both to be immensely close to each other. Plus, these spaces bring him comfort, so why not mix the two things that make him feel safe together? 

💉: Either in his laboratory/operation room or in one of the many different cages or prison cells that he has access to (bonus points if you allow him to chain you up hehe). Mr. Silvair doesn’t need a soft mattress or pillows to enjoy sex with you. He’s fine taking you on his operation table or the cold concrete floor of the small prison cell, even if your back moving up and down across the ground rubs your skin raw. He’ll patch you up after, no worries, but he doesn’t need a lot of bells and whistles to have an enjoyable time. 

M: Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

👣: Sweet words and gentle touches. The other world is one full of violence and death, one where survival trumps all else. While there are entities like him who only resort to violence when either their safety or the safety of someone they’re fond of is in danger, it’s still not a happy or bright place to exist. Mr. Crawling does what he can to enjoy life, laughing in situations that probably aren’t even that funny just to try and make existing more enjoyable. Then you come along and make him feel cared for – loved – and safe, and he’s never been happier. Being able to lay with you, to feel you clench around his cock with your warmth while you pepper kisses across his face and let him know how good he is… Yeah, this is the life. 

💉: Power and control. He enjoys being able to restrict your movement, being able to dictate when and where you’re allowed to cum and, if you disobey him, he’ll punish you with a sadistic smile on his face. However, he would be lying if he said that was all. Mr. Silvair thinks the fact you trust him with your safety – your life, your heart, your existence – gets him going, whether he realizes it or not. Trusting another in the other world showcases how much two people believe in the fact the other would not do anything to purposefully harm them, and you feel that way toward him (and he feels the same toward you). Whenever you call out his “name,” the one you had given him, he finds his hips unconsciously moving even faster at the sound...

N: No (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

👣: Anything involving pain would be a hard no for Mr. Crawling, both giving and receiving. Even though his senses are dull and what would be extremely painful for a human wouldn’t be for him, he still doesn’t particularly enjoy being harmed. When it comes to hurting you in any way, that’s pretty much something he will never concede on. He doesn’t want to do a single thing to hurt you, even if it’s an enjoyable kind of pain. 

💉: Pretty much nothing is off the table for him – Mr. Silvair enjoys experimenting, and that’s no different for him in the bedroom. The only extremely hard no would be coprophilia since he just doesn’t see the appeal nor does he want to test to see if he would like it or not. I also feel like he wouldn’t necessarily want a bratty partner or a partner who is constantly trying to take control back in the bedroom. 

O: Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

👣: Loves giving oral 101%, and he will give it to you anywhere – in public, in private, while you’re sleeping (with your consent, of course). Mr. Crawling adores having his mouth on you, being able to taste every single part of you while his tongue forces its way inside you, feeling your release dripping past his lips or dribbling down his chin… You taste good, too, better than anything he’s ever had before; he might get addicted to it, to be honest. He eats you out/blows you like a man starving, wanting a chance to have a taste and make you cry out his name while you pull harshly on his black locks and encourage him to keep going. He’s very enthusiastic about it, too, putting in so much effort and energy to get you cumming on his face or in his mouth. 

💉: Prefers giving oral over receiving it, but it’s not his favorite thing to do either way. It’s nothing personal, he just prefers using his hands, his cock, or a toy to get you off rather than his mouth. If he does allow you to give him a blowjob, he’ll place a collar around your neck and pull on the chain if you get cheeky – after all, he’s the one in charge here. Mr. Silvair enjoys making you kneel in front of him, watching you with a small smile as you take him into your hands and pump once or twice before taking him into your mouth. If the rare occurrence happens when he gives you head, you better thank the universe. He looks so hot, holding your thighs apart while he slowly runs his tongue along your length/slit and teases you until you’re asking him to touch you more. 

P: Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?)  

👣: Enjoys the slower and sensual side of things, but he typically can’t control himself as soon as he’s inside of you, so he ends up being somewhat fast and rough (not all the time, though... his thrusts remain immensely unpredictable no matter what, and he never seems to find a good rhythm to follow). Mr. Crawling enjoys the intimacy of sex, and he finds comfort in the closeness of your bodies while you two are connected at the hips. He loves being able to hold your hands and place kisses across your cheeks. Sometimes, he’s so caught up in the act of showering you with words of praise and sweet displays of affection that he forgets the fact he’s currently inside you and is supposed to be moving. He does see the appeal of rougher sex, though – it makes him feel almost animalistic whenever you two decide to set the pace for the night. 

💉: Mr. Silvair can quickly switch between the two, sometimes almost at a break-neck speed, to the point it feels like you got whiplash from the sudden change of deep and slow thrusts to fast and somehow even deeper ones (he’s very precise when it comes to hitting those sweet spots inside of you – it’s actually kind of terrifying how quickly he can locate them). He pretty much does whatever he thinks will get the most reaction out of your body and acts accordingly – nothing more, nothing less. He tends to prefer rougher and faster sex, enjoying the noises the quick snap of his hips can draw out of your mouth. However, sometimes, he finds himself preferring a slower and softer pace. This way, he’s able to focus on and truly soak in the expression on your face and appreciate the way your body feels under his palms (this sometimes just leads to you cock warming him). 

Q: Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)  

👣: Mr. Crawling is down for anything at any time. Pretty much, if you ask him to have sex, he’ll happily do it for you. Need him to eat you out or give you a blowjob, he’ll gladly oblige! After all, he is always pretty much kneeling, so he’s not being made to go out of his way to do it (even if he would go out of his way to please you). Want something more than just his tongue? That’s perfectly fine, too! There’s a private room over there he’ll gladly take you in, or maybe you’d want to try doing it in the empty locker? He’ll try not to take too long, but it’s hard since he loves being able to enjoy you to the fullest. So, Mr. Crawling can do quickies for sure, but he likes being able to take his time with you.  

💉: While he’s not opposed to quickies, he prefers being able to have proper sex with you to get the most out of it. After all, he can’t exactly see how long it takes for you to break or how much time it takes for you to start crying and babbling if you only have a few minutes to enjoy one another. However, he does make it a little challenge for himself to see how quickly he can get you to climax. Mr. Silvair will even make educated guesses on how fast you’ll finish just by making note of your current expression, body language, etc. He likes seeing how flustered you get if you think someone is going to enter the room the two of you are in, begging him to go faster which only makes him want to slow down – how mean! 

R: Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)  

👣: Mr. Crawling is down to experiment but, as stated before, he doesn’t want to try anything that causes him or you harm, even if pain is something you enjoy. He just has no desire to hurt you in any way, something which is quite different from other members of the cast who are definitely more sadistic (cough, Mr. Silvair and Mr. Machete, cough). I feel like he would be down to partake in certain aspects of BDSM, specifically B/D (bondage and discipline) and D/S (dominance and submission). He just wants to have a good time and be close to you, both physically and emotionally. 

💉: 100% down to experiment with anything (except the previously mentioned coprophilia). If you wanted to try some breathplay or impact play or even blood play, he’d be down for it. I honestly think he would enjoy breathplay since it adds more to the differential in power that he enjoys so much (there’s also a stirring in his chest when he sees how much you trust him with your life, but shhh…). Mr. Silvair is a man hungry for information and new experiences, so yes, he’s willing to try a variety of different things even if they could potentially be dangerous – he’ll always make sure you return to your original form. 

S: Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

👣 and 💉: Both of them are inhuman, which means that neither of them need any food, water, or rest to survive. Honestly, the two of them have unlimited amounts of stamina, and they can go for as long as you need them to (which could be two rounds or even eight – nothing is holding them back in the stamina department). 

T: Toys (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

👣 and 💉: Neither of them owns any toys because, well… you can’t access them easily in the other world. If they do end up there, though, they’re probably dirty or damaged beyond repair (please do not use nasty sex toys, people – infections and diseases are no joke). 

👣: Mr. Crawling would be down to use toys on you! After all, why not? It’ll just make the experience more fun, right? You’ll probably have to explain what he’s supposed to do with them, though, since he���s not quite sure what some of them are for. If you want to use toys on him, he’s completely fine with that! Want to wear a strap and give him backshots? Go right ahead! Want to tape vibrators to him until he’s whining and writhing? He’d be happy to oblige! Overall, he’s pretty chill about it and is somewhat enthusiastic about adding toys into your sex life. 

💉: Mr. Silvair enjoys using sex toys on you, some of his favorites being cock rings/chastity belts, strangely-shaped dildos, and vibrators. He loves being able to secure the variety of different vibrators he owns to your body, making sure to cover every erogenous zone he’s noted. He doesn’t typically want toys used on him (but he’d probably try out a variety of different sex toys on himself after a while, though, curious about how each of them felt or what they did), however, and the only one he’d be willing to use consistently would be fleshlights. He’d make you watch him use it, never once allowing you to use them on him. 

U: Unfair (How much they like to tease)

👣: Mr. Crawling is very fair, and he always makes sure to give you exactly what you want in the bedroom. However, that’s not to say he never teases you, he just doesn’t do it very frequently. Sometimes when he’s going down on you, he’ll pause his minstrations to nip at or kiss the fat of your thighs, keeping your hips held down so you can’t buck up against his mouth. When you start getting antsy, he just giggles at your expression before returning his attention to that oh-so-needy part of you. 

💉: If the word unfair was personified, it would be Mr. Silvair. I’d argue teasing you and making you cry – either because you can’t cum or have cum ten times in a row – are the aspects of sex that he enjoys the most. Edging you is one of his favorite things, though, watching you whine and try to move your hips on your own when he stops moving… bad move, though, because now he’s just going to make you wait even longer for release. 

V: Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

👣: He’s not loud, per se, but he does make quite a variety of different noises whenever the two of you are intimate. He whimpers and whines frequently while you’re having sex – they’re barely audible, high-pitched, and come out sounding as though he’s completely out of breath. Sometimes you wonder if he’s in pain with the noises he makes, but he’s not. He just really enjoys being able to feel you like this as he pants like a dog in heat. 

💉: Completely quiet most of the time. Really, the only noises you’ll probably get out of him are barely audible sighs or the sound of his breathing hitching when he feels you stretch/tighten around him. It’s not that Mr. Silvair doesn’t enjoy having sex with you, he just doesn’t express that feeling verbally. You can tell in the way his hand squeezes the fat of your thigh or the way his hips stutter when he moves in and out that he’s having a good time. 

W: Wild Card (Random headcanon)

👣: Mr. Crawling loves taking showers or baths with you, though he leans more towards baths since it’s less painful on his joints (I headcanon that Mr. Crawling can stand, but walking for extended periods of time is painful for him – ambulatory wheelchair user Mr. Crawling when?). While yes, he can technically sit in the shower, having water spray his face isn’t exactly pleasant… He doesn’t view bathing with you as sexual, he just finds it relaxing as he helps you wash your back or you help him make sure all the soap is out of his hair. His favorite scent would have to be lavender – it’s very calming for him. 

💉: He keeps a journal tucked away full of terms and gestures from your world. Mr. Silvair has a deep desire to understand humans and everything they have to offer, even if he believes it's from a stance of craving knowledge (really, he wants to be able to express his endearment of you in a manner you can understand). He has a page on kissing and different kinds of kisses, a page on gestures of endearment, another on hugging and cuddling… The fact that humans’ bodies release a hormone whenever they simply spend time to bond with another socially, a hormone that turns the dial on their brain for whatever emotion they’re currently experiencing, is fascinating to him. 

X: X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants)

👣: Mr. Crawling is tall – and I mean extremely tall whenever he stands up (my man has got to at least be seven feet), so I can assume that he’s probably relatively proportionate under the belt. I feel like he would be big, almost concerningly so, clocking in at around 8 inches in length. Even though his size is impressive, his dick doesn’t have much girth to it and is on the thinner side, but it is thicker towards the base compared to the head (not that you can take all of him – you can certainly give it a try, though). It’s on the veinier side, too, with a very distinct and present one on the underside of his cock. 

💉: Much like pretty much the entire cast, Mr. Silvair is also on the taller half of the height spectrum. However, I feel as though he would have a more modest, yet of course still impressive dick size. I imagine him to be 6 ½ inches in length and relatively thick from the base to the head with very little change in girth. Whenever you see his cock, you’re kind of awestruck for a moment because how can a man have such a nice-looking dick?? It doesn’t make sense! There’s barely any hair, there’s no visible veins or bumps, and it’s long and thick enough to drive you wild… Plus, it’s just really nice to look at, honestly. 

Y: Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

👣 and 💉: Okay, so I know others probably will not agree with me here… but I honestly don’t think anyone in the cast has much of a sex drive, let alone a high one. I mean, they’re not human, so their cultural/social norms are different than ours, and I wouldn’t hold them to “typical” human desires on a biological/psychological level either. As I said before, I doubt any of them have been laid because sex just isn’t something the residents in the other world partake in – they’re too busy killing/fighting others, eating humans who find themselves lost in the other world, etc. Is this my asexual and world-building brain working? Probably haha. 

👣: Mr. Crawling really only wants sex whenever you want it, but he’s always enthusiastic and does get aroused whenever you ask if he wants to be intimate. While he does love feeling the warmth around his dick whenever you’re clamping down on him, almost like you were hugging him and not wanting to let him go, he enjoys the emotional connection during the moment more than anything else. I headcanon him (and all of the cast, to some degree) as existing somewhere on the aroace-spectrum. For Mr. Crawling, I see him as being reciproromantic/sexual with an average libido – he gets riled up whenever you’re riled up, though there are times he does get horny without you needing to do or say anything.  

💉: Much like Mr. Crawling, Mr. Silvair will have sex if you ask him to – he’ll make you beg for it, though, so he’s not as nice as the former. He prefers the control/power he gets from having sex rather than the sole act of intercourse (not to say he doesn’t enjoy the feeling, though). Plus, he finds the activity interesting since he knows it’s something most humans partake in with one another for a variety of reasons, from procreation to recreation. If you ask him to have sex and he isn’t in the mood, he’ll just use his hands or some toys and play around with you until you’re satisfied. I headcanon Mr. Silvair as being quoiromantic and eegosexual with a low libido. 

Z: ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

👣: Mr. Crawling doesn’t need to sleep (you know… being non-human and all), but he’ll curl up next to you on the bed and hold your body close to his while pretending to sleep alongside you. It’s kind of adorable, the way his head is nuzzled under your neck while his legs and arms are wrapped around your body, holding you close to him like you were a bodypillow or large stuffed animal. While you sleep, though, he’ll eventually place his head against your chest, listening intently to the sound of your heartbeat and the feeling of your chest rising and falling with each breath. Moments like this, laying there with you in silence, make his mind wander to scenarios with you he’ll never be able to fully experience. 

💉: Does not rest often, finding it a waste of time that could be spent doing something else. He understands you need your sleep, though, so he lets you do it in peace after you both have had sex. Mr. Silvair always manages to somehow make sure you have enough pillows to keep you comfortable or blankets to keep you from getting cold (you can’t help but wonder where he finds clean linens in such a grimy place…). Occasionally, however, he finds himself sitting next to you on the bed, fingers absentmindedly combing through your hair before he pulls his hand back as though you had burnt him – he doesn’t understand it, and he’s desperate to figure out an answer. 

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can’t stop thinking the tall horror men of homicipher. I’m like 5ft something, so I know damn well these men tower over me…am I discovering something? Maybe 👀👀👀but I know I ain’t alone. TRUE STORY: Also there was this guy that came into my place of work moths ago with his family and he was TALL, bending down to get through the doorframe TALL but he was lovely.

So how do I imagine these boy would react if they see that you’re clearly ogling them for how tall they were.

Mr crawling

Given the fact that you’ve only seen him stand once, it was enough to have your jaw dropping to the floor. He was taller than the fucking doorway that he had to manoeuvre himself under it, and suddenly you’ve forgotten that you were being kidnapped by Mr Stitch, too intrigued by his height and now understanding why he had lied to you about his ability to stand.

He thought he would scare you but in fact made you feel the complete opposite, you loved how tall he was and you couldn’t get it out of your head, even when he’s back on his hands and knees to comfort you. The illusion had worn off and now you wanted to see him tall all the time, but you didn’t want to pressure him into doing so unless he felt comfortable.

‘You’re tall, really tall.’ You said in awe as Mr crawling coddled you against his chest.

‘Scared?’ He asked as though he was fearing your answer, which broke your heart as you nuzzled your face against his shoulder in an attempt of comfort.

‘No, handsome.’ You replied as Mr Crawling made chirps and purrs of happiness as he held you closer to him.

While he’s still not fond on standing to his full height, the fear of his intimating stature would chase you away one day embedded in his heavily, he would find some comfort in knowing that you loved his tall stature and love you even more for not forcing him to do something he clearly was uncomfortable with; preferring to shower him in kisses and remind him that whether he’s standing or on his hands and knees you loved him regardless.

Mr silvair

The man can feel your eyes on his back constantly. He knows he’s taller than most but the way you looked and admired his full height like you wouldn’t be able to anymore.

He wonders whether this was something only you seemed to have or whether other humans also felt possessed by the need to gawk at people above a certain height. Or was it just you that has this particular expression upon seeing his tall stature in general.

He would take notes of how his height seemingly did something to you that then triggered a chemical reaction within your brain to make you find his height appealing and possibly a requirement in finding your perfect romantic partner.

Or more specifically people of similar height to Mr Silvair himself or anyone close enough to his height to qualify. Mr Silvair soon deduced that you liked the domineering presence of someone much bigger than you, someone who’s able to drag you wherever as though you were nothing but weightless to them, almost like a ragdoll.

He’d soon find that this is in most cases considered a kink amongst you humans who found the height difference between partner rather erotic.

Mr Scarletella

Finds your content ogling of him flattering and thinks that it means that you were finally, finally reciprocating his obsession with you for your own obsession with him.

He’s another one who takes note of how you like how tall he is in comparison to you, always looking at him whenever he was entering the room, eyes widening when you see him having to bed down to get through the doorway, and your eyes never leave him even as he’s walking towards you; seemingly getting taller with each step until he’s in front of you and you’re looking at him in awe and hitched breath.

He’s obsessed with your expression each and every time and uses his height to his advantage. Such as doing things like putting his hand above your head and on the wall, looking down at you with those obsessive eyes of his as his smile seemed to widen upon hearing your breath hitch and eyes widen once more.

His height continued to elicit a reaction out of you that Mr Scarletella loved and adored and wanted to see more of in the future.

Mr Hood

Finds your constant ogling of his height interesting.

He didn’t know why you were so surprised he’s this tall, he’s been with you this entire time and it was only recently did your mind seemed to inform you of your Incredibly stark height difference, and bam! Suddenly he’s the subject of your constant staring and ogling as though it would be the last thing you did.

It was humorous to say the least and will earn you some head pats and cheek caresses that has you leaning towards his comforting and gentle touches.

It wasn’t something that you hide from him as half of the time you didn’t realise you were doing it until Mr Hood pointed it out with curiosity, meanwhile your left flustered as your mind held certain thoughts towards his legs, thighs and large hands.

Poor Mr Hood, he understood to some extent but after a certain point it’s better to explain to him that you find his height rather appealing to you in more ways than one.

[seeliemansi]

HEAR ME OUT! Mc (reader) performs "Earned it" by The Weeknd (yes the tiktok dance) meanwhile Mr. Crawling 👁️👄👁️

It's your choice whether u make it sfw/nsfw I WANNA KNOW HIS REACTION-

I will be honest with you nonnie. I think Mr. Crawling is too innocent to have the reaction you want him to have.

The moment you called for Mr. Crawling, you can hear how fast he zoomed towards the room where you at. His hands were happily tapping on the floor, his smile is wide, as he chirped, "Me here! You call?"

It was as if just by calling his name, you made his day.

At first, you feel a bit ashamed as he innocently titled his head to the side, waiting for you to speak or do whatever the reason you called for him. He looks too pure for the dance you plan to perform. But, you have to do this. This is his reward for being so good to you since he came home with you.

Anyway, might as well start.

With a deep breath, you readied yourself, played the music and do the choreography as you practiced.

You never took your eyes off him, especially when you got down, opened your legs and flip your hair. You watched as his smile went to an "O" and how he gasped when you suddenly move down, surprising him.

After you ended your performance, the room was quiet, too quiet to your liking. When you raised your head, he was just staring at you, at least that's how you felt as his smile was down and he was just sitting there, unmoving.

Embarassed, you felt your face heat up, and immediately sat properly, crossing your legs shame finally catching up to you.

You were about to say something and cut the awkwardness when he suddenly grinned and clapped his hands. His giggles are loud as he howled and cheered for you.

"Wow! Cute! Good! Good! Pretty! Pretty!"

You let out a yelped when he suddenly hug you, snaking his arms around your neck. His cheeks glued on you as he continue his praises, and squeezes you with affection.

"Kiss! Kiss!" He suddenly scooped your face and give you smooches all over your face.

You were too dumfounded to do anything so all you did was blinked, until he used his hands to pat your head, and you giggled, ticklish.

"Love you! You love me?"

a/n: but i don't want to end this here and i thought might as well write for the other guys 😆

The other Homicipher boys under the cut

Mr. Hood just stood there after you performed. He didn't say anything but he kept you sat on his lap the whole day.

Mr. Chopped is not innocent as you think. If he has a body, you'll see the sign of his boner on his pants. Let's just say Mr. Chopped was too clingy after that invigorating performance.

Mr. Silvair was grinning the whole time until it ended, just like his reaction every time. It made you nervous, and you gulped not knowing what to do. Suddenly, he grabbed a pen and a paper, and wrote the exact words, "you only show that to me. yes?"

Mr. Machete never let you finish. He thought whatever you were doing is a challenge and he almost chase you out. It took a while but you convinced him after that you were just dancing. The mood was already ruined so you didn't pursue doing it again.

Mr. Gap watched your performance intently, too intent to your liking. He was grinning from start to finish. He was giggling when you were done when suddenly he vanished out of your sight. It made you nervous and scared. Knowing him, he will probably do something unpredictable. And you were right. He suddenly appeared on the shadow that was on your wall. Touched your nape with his cold hand. You felt something sticky and wet had touched your skin. The suddenness making you yelped and shudder in surprise. He giggled and vanished for the entirety of the day. (What an asshole)

Mr. Scarletella was smiling at first when you started your perfomance. But it was you who decided to stop it when he suddenly turned his head in a 360' angle and never let his eyes out of you. It was so creepy that your want to perform was replaced by fear. He stood by you the whole day. Way too close to your liking, that you can feel his jacket brushing on your skin.

[starryylies]

hello hello! I wanted to ask..if maybe you could write anything smutty for Mr Silvair from homicipher with f!reader? (there’s barely any fics of him🥲🧍‍♀️)

medical test with Mr Silvair

Hello and yess! I agree Mr silvair doesn’t have many fics on him

It’s my first time writing for homicipher so I hope you enjoy 🩷

It started out innocent, Mr silvair just wanted to study the human body and how it reacts to different stimuli.

You didn’t know you’d end up in this position though.

He started off pinching your cheeks,

“It hurt?” He asks

You smile gently and say “no”,

He takes your smile as a sign that says he can continue.

His long fingers slowly go towards your neck,

You start giggling as his fingers pinch your neck, it’s ticklish!

Mr silvair is confused, “Why laughing? What funny?” He asks tilting his head

You giggle and tell him that, “nothing’s funny, my neck is just ticklish”

He looks at you confused but continues.

His long fingers now trail down your collarbone and reach your soft tits, your nipples hardened because his touch.

His fingers pinch your nipples through the fabric of your shirt, making you squirm and clench your thighs.

Mr silvair looks concerned as if it’s hurting you.

He quickly retracts his hand and asks if “I hurting you?, I stop.”

You give him an awkward smile and tell him he didn’t hurt you, unable to form words to explain what happened you just say- “some touch feel good, so they make body react”

Mr silvair looks at you and asks “What else makes you feel good?”

You just turn your head, embarrassed and say “it’s inappropriate Mr silvair let’s just finish the test”

But Mr silvair doesn’t take no for an answer though and he continues bugging you, asking where that ‘special’ place is

You give in and lift your skirt up, your thin panties are stained by how wet you are.

Mr silvair looks intently and asks- “this place makes feel good?”

You nod your head shyly.

He is quick to take his fingers to your panties,

Pinching the soft nub through the thin fabric.

A small moan leaves your mouth, making Mr silvair look at you amused because of your obvious reaction.

His thin lips curve upwards forming a perverted smile.

He continues pinching your nub, fascinated how the thin fabric manages to wets itself.

He feels his member harden as he hears the soft moans and words of encouragement leave your mouth.

He stands up purely out of desperation and instinct and takes his member out from his black coloured pants.

Rubbing his cock’s head on your clothed cunt.

You gasp as you feel the new sensation of his cock.

It’s long, girthy and has an assortment of veins decorating it. His pubic hair looks trimmed.

Mr silvair catches you staring at his cock,

“You like?” he asks in a teasing manner.

You give out a moan that answers his question.

His breathing becomes rapid as he humps your clothed cunt with his cock, you can feel yourself tingling all over.

A sign that you’re about to cum.

His laboured breaths and your sweet moans fill the room.

He humps you savagely, his upper body faltering and landing on the examination bed, his head on your chest and arms gripping the corners of the bed.

He’s a blabbering mess, Whimpering while he says “feel nice, warm. Im close im close”

He lets out a large animalistic grunt as his cock pushes against your wet panties one last time, cold jelly like liquid falling on your thighs.

He takes 5 minutes before he gets up, getting a tissue paper to clean your legs because “it’s dirty”.

After he’s done he gives you a sharp smile and tells you to “come tomorrow, no wear panty”

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊⋆ ₊ ﾟ ☽ * ₊ ⋆* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊⋆ ₊ ﾟ ☽ * ₊ ⋆ ੈ✩

Header credits to- @anitalenia

[cornflowersisblue]

Mr. Hot Teacher, as @sirensea14 called him ~

[bananarrlele]

"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.)

[myrunawaysweets]

Well, you heard it loud and clear folks, mr silvair is a bottom according to mr chopped.

[manmadejoyswithinmycomprehension]

Mr. Silvair x m!reader (NSFW, porn without plot, descriptions of male genitalia)

whew, my first time writing male readers. critique appreciated! not proofread

Ever since arriving in this strange world that oddly reminded you of a Purgatory, you couldn't help but think that something is wrong with your body. You felt yourself changing, losing bits and pieces of your humanity. So, in consequence, you relied on Mr. Silvair quite a lot. The nurse lurking around wasn't as helpful as you'd thought early in your journey - your opinion changed drastically after seeing her cut through a lost girl in an attempt to "cure" her. But the long haired doctor surely was something else... You felt warm around him, as if he understood you better than anyone else ever has.

Entering his laboratory for the nth time that day, you open your mouth to greet Mr. Chopped, but quickly close it when you see him asleep. He's like a cat, really! Whatever. You're content with poking his cheek and watching his eyebrows furrow before going back to normal. Your heart was nearly beating out of your chest as you approached Silvair's makeshift office. Recently, you felt yourself get more and more flustered around him: he cared for you and never judged you regarding any problem you came to him for. And for whatever reason, he seemed more than happy to check your body. You knocked softly on the door, before hearing his confirmation.

"Hello. You unwell?" he smiled at you, extending his arm to place a hand on the side of your neck.

"Healthy. Wanted see you."

The corners of his mouth twitched slightly as he took in your appearance.

"Hair long. Can I cut?"

Of course... He needed it for another test. You handed him the scissors nearby and let him collect a few strands. On the shelves, his collection of materials sat nicely - he must have cleaned it recently.

"One thing. You remove fabric?" Mr. Silvair pointed towards your coat, obviously asking you to strip. Freezing in place, you couldn't muster up the courage to deny or accept. So, he took matters in his own hands. Carefully, he slid your coat down your shoulders and folded it neatly before putting it on the corner of his examination table. His cold hands prodded at your stomach, back and chest.

"Good. Healthy."

A sigh of relief escapes your mouth, but is quickly replaced by a yelp once he pushes you on the table, back arched as he bends you over. This wasn't the first time he'd been very thorough with his examinations, nor the first time you offered parts of your body for the sake of his curiosity, but today he seemed more excited than usual.

"Inside finger can?"

"...can," you squeak, waiting for him to make a move. The odd sensations you felt when you were with him only seemed to intensify now, making your cock throb and stiffen. Your stomach was churning pleasantly as Silvair touched you, one hand massaging your back to release tension as the other was busy loosening you up. It felt weird, having a foreign object entering you, but as he poked different spots inside, he suddenly hit the one that made you see stars. A girly moan echoed throughout the room, making you clasp your mouth shut. Mr. Silvair stopped abruptly, a small grin playing on his lips.

"Feel good?"

Your legs shook as he slid in a second finger, teasing your sweet spot mercilessly. You gripped the edges of the table tightly, knuckles turning white as pathetic whimpers left your mouth. Once your cock was leaking and aching, Mr. Silvair pulled his fingers out at the last moment and gave you a smack for good measure, making you twitch. You were left breathless on the table, drooling slightly as the doctor rummaged around behind you for some materials. Cold, slimy liquid dripped onto your gaping hole when he returned. You could hear him laughing quietly behind you as both of his hands gripped your hips.

"Me come in. Good?"

Despite his warning, he left you with little time to brace yourself as he pushed in. He moved slowly, the blunt tip of his cock stretching you to your limit. You lifted yourself up on your toes, trying to get used to the various sensations assaulting your body. He leaned down and pressed his chest against your back in an attempt to comfort you, pressing kisses all over your shoulders. Once your muscles relaxed, he moved his hips faster, the lewd sounds of skin hitting skin bouncing off the walls of the room. Your cock bounced in the air, hard and neglected as Mr. Silvair was too focused on pounding into you with reckless abandon. He caught you in a headlock, choking you and letting you breathe after a few seconds, making your adrenaline spike and arousal affect your body in ways you had never felt before. You squirmed and groaned and ground against Mr. Silvair's dick, your hole twitching and squeezing him tightly, a clear indicator that you were close to climax. With a devilish smirk, his free hand reached around your waist and gripped your cock, stroking it wildly as you screamed in pleasure. Your vision blurred and fat tears rolled down your cheeks as ropes of cum shot out of your spent length. The doctor bit down on your shoulder, huffing desperately when ecstasy overwhelmed his senses.

He collapsed onto you, releasing you from the chokehold and pressing his cold hand against your forehead.

"Good? Healthy?"

In the bliss following your union, your body now feeling the chill of the run down place, you let yourself melt into his embrace.

"...good."

[bloodblanks]

writing nsfw alphabet for mr. silvair... i suddenly have so much newfound respect for any writers who have done nsfw alphabet. it is a surprising amount of work ;w;

(i will write for mr. gap, mr. crawling, mr. scarletella, and mr. hood too, but silvair has been rotting my brain for a while so he gets to go first)

hopefully i will have this done sometime tomorrow and i hope at least one person is looking forward to it ehehe

[purple-plum-petals]

Hello!! I see your requests for Homicipher are open and I got giddy :D (starving for more content) May I request fluff drabble for Mr Silviar? Maybe his s/o teaching him how to say "I love you" in human language? Thank you!

⊱ Those Three Words ⊰ || Mr. Silvair X Reader

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮   Character(s): Mr. Silvair (Homicipher/文字化化) Reader Type: Human (Gender-Neutral Pronouns) Warning(s): Spoilers for Homicipher (specifically Route End: Mr. Silver Hair 1), Canon-typical Mentions of Violence (and Horror-Elements), Cultural Barriers (Mr. Silvair Doesn’t Fully Comprehend Certain Emotions). Anything spoken in the other world’s language will be bolded. Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Slight Angst, Pre-Established Romantic Relationship (It’s Complicated, honestly). Word Count: ~3,280 Request: “Hello!! I see your requests for Homicipher are open and I got giddy :D (starving for more content) May I request fluff drabble for Mr Silviar? Maybe his s/o teaching him how to say "I love you" in human language? Thank you!” Author’s Note: Mr. Silvair!!! He’s genuinely so pretty, y’all – it’s not fair. 😔 I find his overall character to be quite fascinating, and a part of me is really hoping the game gets a DLC or something to further expand on each of the character’s lore (and more moments with the MC, of course). Like game, what do you mean that some of the monsters may have been humans while others probably never were?? I desperately need more food… I headcanon that Mr. Silvair was either 1. never human, or 2. has been in the other world for a very long time, resulting in the loss of his memory as a human which could be why he’s so interested in researching them/maintaining the MC’s humanity. 🤔 But that’s just a theory – a game theory! Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

→ If you enjoyed my work, please reblog it if you can! Exposure on Tumblr is based on reblogging content rather than liking it, so your support would be much appreciated!  ♡ ╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

Even after everything that had happened between you and this world’s resident human-enjoyer, you surprisingly still felt at ease with Mr. Silvair. That comfortability, though, made you think hard about your sanity. After all, it probably wasn’t normal to be comfortable around someone who enjoyed taking you apart and watching your body put itself back together over and over again. Yet, you did, and you didn’t mind your current arrangement as much as you probably would have in the past. 

Mr. Silvair’s home was destroyed in a fiery explosion (courtesy of himself), so you had offered to help him find a new one. You managed to locate a large room, one that he deemed satisfactory enough to call his base, and you had been staying with him indefinitely since then. As long as you had a comfy bed to lay in and someone else to keep you company, you were happy. 

Your other friends(?) frequently stopped by as well to say hello, the most common ones being Mr. Crawling and Mr. Chopped. While you were occasionally hit with a feeling of loneliness, it was hard to feel that way with so many friendly faces around. Well… maybe their faces weren’t that friendly, but they were kind and gentle with you, and that’s what truly mattered. 

You hear the sound of Mr. Silvair moving around in the room adjacent to the one you typically stayed in, and you wonder to yourself what his plans for today are. The tall, long-haired man spent most of his time engaged in research. You didn’t see him as frequently as one would expect despite the fact you two were practically roommates. All you could do was hope he wasn’t messing around with and subsequently angering any more terrifying, violent ghosts. You enjoyed your current home, and going out to look for another one wasn’t very high on your list of things to do. 

The Rubik’s Cube in your hand was still as scattered as ever, and it seemed like, no matter how long you spent trying to solve it, you were only able to successfully complete one side. Mr. Masque was kind enough to give it to you (he apparently had a whole stash of the things somewhere), and his gift was something you were immensely grateful for. Attempting to figure out the puzzle helped you pass the time wherever you were alone (and it most likely helped you keep your head on straight). 

You’re currently lying flat on your back atop the plush bed in the relatively empty living space, looking up at the gray concrete ceiling with a blank stare. Once you decide you’ve loafed around for long enough, you stand up slowly from the bed, placing the cube gently on the covers of the cot. You stretch your arms above your head, a strangled noise coming from your throat at the movement of your stiff muscles, and you begin to make your way to the other room where your… 

What even was Mr. Silvair to you? While yes, you were fond of him – hell, you’d go as far as to say you loved him – you knew he didn’t feel the same. You remember the moment he told you “I not understand like”, and that he didn’t want to save you from your condition, no… he found you entertaining to keep around, and that’s why he did what he did. 

It was complicated, you thought, trying to have a relationship with a being who didn’t grasp what the concept of love was. Deep down, though, you knew you wouldn’t change it for the world. He enjoyed your presence, and that was all you could ask for. 

You walk over to the metal door and knock, waiting for a response. After a moment, you hear Mr. Silvair’s voice echo, “Enter.”

The door opens with a slight creak as you twist the knob, peeking your head inside the somewhat grimy space. The room, still fairly new, didn’t have as much blood or gore as his old one did. There were fresh stains on the floor and wall, you noted, and you couldn’t help but wonder who or what they were from exactly. It didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, though, so you didn’t bother asking. 

You grin up at the taller man and give him a small wave, saying softly, “Hello. I not bother?”

He returns your smile, placing the scalpel in his hand on the stainless steel tray that held a variety of medical tools. It looked like he was in the process of cleaning the many, typically blood-stained, pieces of equipment. Mr. Silvair turns to face you and replies gently, “Hello. You not bother. Enter.”

Tilting his head to one side, his long, silver locks move when he does, cascading down his head and slipping off his shoulder at the movement. His smile drops slightly before he asks, “Feeling unwell? Injured? Need cure?”

“No, no cure.” You quickly say, not quite in the mood to be dissected or taken apart right now (honestly, though, you never really were, even if you did understand why it needed to be done). You pause by the door before finally shutting it behind you, the both of you now alone in the private and secluded space. 

Ugh – why was it so hard to say what was on your mind??

After taking a moment to build up your confidence, you tell Mr. Silvair while fidgeting with the rubber of the clear raincoat you wore, “I want see you. Communicate.”

He hums and smiles at your admission, walking over to you before placing a calloused hand on your face. Your eyes close on instinct, and your breathing shutters when he rubs his thumb across your cheek. A part of you wanted to be annoyed with him since he had to be aware of the effect he had on you, yet you didn’t want to run the risk of him removing his cool palm from your skin, so you kept your mouth shut. 

It had taken quite some time for Mr. Silvair to get to this point of physical affection with you (something he began doing more often after he saw how much you enjoyed getting head-pats from Mr. Crawling), so you didn’t want to ruin any progress you two had made in your complicated and unconventional relationship. 

“Okay,” Mr. Silvar starts, removing his hand from your face as he gestures to one of the two chairs in the room. He smiles down at you before saying, “Sit. We communicate.”

You do as you’re told without speaking another word, your hands folded in your lap after you sit down, watching Mr. Silvair take a seat on the chair across from you. You talk with him for quite some time, doing your best to update him on your current progress with the puzzle since that was pretty much the only thing you had going on in your life. While it wasn’t satisfying to speak in the other world’s language because it tended to miss most of the nuances of speech, it was the only way the two of you could communicate. 

Mr. Silvair seemed to pick up on your frustration, seeing you were growing annoyed at the lack of words in your arsenal – the term you were looking for wasn't coming to mind. In response, he tilts his head to the side and asks you, “You upset. Why?”

“Not right words.” You reply, brows furrowed when you look up at him, your gaze landing on the bloody bandages wrapped around his eyes. You turn your head to look down at the floor, the somewhat fresh pool of blood perfectly matching the color of the Rubik’s Cube. You point to the puddle and turn to ask Mr. Silvair, “What’s this called in your language? Can you tell me how to say this color?”

“Blood.” Mr. Silvair responds, not understanding what you wanted him to explain. 

“No, no.” You quickly reply, shaking your head. You continue to glance between him and the blood, enunciating your words even though he didn’t understand your language the same way you were able to understand his. You didn’t back down or give up, though, saying again, “The color – I want to know what color blood is.”

He pauses, one hand under his chin as he seemingly takes a moment to figure out what you are asking him. After a few beats, Mr. Silvair replies with a word you haven’t heard anyone speak before, “???”

You visibly brighten at the new word, and the expression on your face causes Mr. Silvair to let out a light chuckle before he crosses one of his legs over the other. You take a breath before telling him, “Okay. Thank you.” 

After another pause, you continue to speak, “So… One part object done, red part. Other parts hard – not finish.”

Mr. Silvair had been leaning forward in his chair, his elbow digging into his knee while his hand rested under his chin, holding his head up as he stared at you with an unwavering gaze. He always listened to you with rapt interest, and you would be lying if you said the constant attention didn’t make your heart stutter in your chest. However, he suddenly speaks, pointing to the pool of blood you had been gesturing toward moments before, “What you call that?”

“Huh?” You ask, pausing your story to look at him. Mr. Silvair doesn’t say anything else, though, giving you a moment to comprehend what he has asked you. You perk up when your brain finally registers what Mr. Silvair had said, replying to him happily, “Oh, that’s the color red. So, blood is typically red – blood red.” 

“R-ehd?” He echos, and the sound of his voice speaking a word that you were able to understand without having to flip through your mental dictionary had your breath hitching. It sounded so strange but so nice coming from his lips. 

“Yeah, red! Blood is red!” You say, sounding excited and oh-so happy. Mr. Silvair would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t find the look on your face and the tone of your voice endearing. Then, your expression shifts slightly as you lean forward in your chair, saying enthusiastically, “Oh my god – I just got an idea! Me teach you me language!”

“...You language?” Mr. Silvair asks after a moment, shifting in his seat slightly. 

“Yes! Me teach you!” You reply, gesturing to both him and you with your hands. Your mind remembers the way Mr. Silvair and Mr. Chopped helped you shortly after you first arrived, teaching you directions to walk, facial expressions, and more. They had helped you expand your knowledge of this world’s language, and they were probably responsible for your survival in so many of those early interactions. So, you smile at him as you say, “We same.”

He returns a smile, nodding his head and replying with a simple, “Okay.”

“Alright, so, let me think here…” You hum to yourself, leaning back in your chair and closing your eyes while you consider what you should start with. Body parts seemed to be the first thing that popped into your head, so that’s eventually what you decided to start with. Sitting up in the chair, you point toward your hand with the other, tapping a finger to your palm as you speak, “Okay, so, this is my hand – hand. Can you say hand?”

It was kind of cute, strangely enough, seeing Mr. Slivair take the time to repeat the word you spoke over and over in his mind, trying to match the movement of your mouth with his own. Your languages were quite different in sounds, syllables, and the like, so he was practicing what to say before actually speaking. After a few moments of contemplation, he replies, “...H-ah-nd.”

“Hey, that was pretty good! Not bad for your first try, Mr. Silvair, even if the pronunciation is a bit off.” You say with a wide smile, clapping your hands together as you applaud him on his efforts. He chuckles again, finding your way of teaching to be… sweet. 

Then, you speak again, once again grabbing his attention. You tap the pad of your finger under the skin of your eye, asking him, “Do you remember what this is called? I think I’ve told you before.”

Mr. Silvair is quicker in his response this time, having heard you ask him about his own eyes before as he smoothly says, “Eye.” 

“Yes! Good job!” You praise once more, giving him a thumbs up in response. Then, he stands up from his seat, walking over to you while his once-white lab coat flows behind him. You crane your head back to look up at him from where you were still sitting, a simple and stupid, “...Huh?” leaving your mouth. 

Mr. Silvair reaches a hand to your face, cupping your chin gently in his hand. You feel his thumb resting on your bottom lip, and he begins to move his finger back and forth along the slightly chapped flesh, tugging at it slightly. He tilts his head to the side, asking you seriously, “What this called?”

“Oh, uh…” You know your face is probably flushed beyond belief at this point if the heat cascading through your head is anything to go by, and your mind and heart are completely caught off-guard by his sudden touch and question. You avert your gaze to the side, swallowing harshly before you finally reply, “They’re my lips – they’re, umm… similar to mouth. Lips, mouth, same.”

“...Lips?” Mr. Silvair asks again for clarification, his voice having an almost husky tone to it that has a shiver travel down your spine. 

You nod in response, muttering a barely audible, “Yes…” 

Mr. Silvair hums at your response, a small smile gracing his lips. He leans down, face so close to yours, before he inquires with an almost teasing tone to his voice, “You want touch?”

“Y-Yes.” You answer at an almost embarrassingly fast speed. 

The man who you had grown so fond of chuckles at your enthusiasm before leaning forward, pressing his lips softly to yours while he holds your face between his palms. Kisses weren’t a common thing between the two of you, and they were really only something Mr. Silvair initiated when he felt like it. You could feel the intensity at which your heart was beasting due to his sudden affections, and there was a part of you that was worried it would burst out of your chest right then and there. 

Your eyes flutter shut and you tilt your head to the side, your hands coming up to rest atop his – his hands that were holding your cheeks so, so gently. It was almost sickening the way he was holding you like you could break at any moment. 

Then, almost as quickly as it began, the kiss ended before you even realized it did. Mr. Silvair’s forehead was now pressed against yours, and he doesn’t make any move to remove his hands from your face. Your lips were no longer touching, and yet he still lingered.  

Mr. Silvair didn’t play fair, you thought, yet you couldn’t help but wonder why he wanted to kiss you so suddenly, so randomly. You close your eyes and your brows furrow at the tightening in your throat, an aching sensation slowly spreading throughout your chest like a disease before you whisper, “...I love you.”

There’s a silence, a stretch of nothingness before Mr. Silvair suddenly asks you, his voice just as soft as yours had been, “Repeat?”

“...No,” Your response is nearly immediate, and you shake your head before repeating once more, “Nothing.”

“...I love you.” The sound of those three words leaving his lips nearly causes your mind to implode. It sounded so sweet, yet it also felt worse than any suffering you had experienced before. The searing and excruciating pain, the feeling of a blade digging itself into the flesh of your torso couldn’t compare to the deep-seated torment you felt right now.

Mr. Silvair hums, tilting his head to the side as his thumbs continue to caress your cheeks, “What mean?”

You knew there was no point, no reason to try and explain your feelings again, but you do. You still do, even though you know it’s pointless to try. You can’t bring yourself to look at him as you speak, finding the concrete floor more interesting, “Mean… mean me like you. Lot like.”

There’s a pause, a moment of contemplation before Mr. Silvair says, “...Not understand.”

“I know.” You reply, nodding your head once in response. 

“You know?” He asks you, sounding somewhat confused, a tone you very rarely heard from the man. Had he forgotten that moment that you couldn’t seem to forget, the memory that you continuously found replaying in your mind like a broken record? It wasn’t fair, you thought, that only you were forced to hold onto such a painful memory. 

“You communicate before.” You clarify, finally willing yourself to look at his face. Mr. Silvair’s expression was tight, his lips drawn into a flat line. 

You needed to get away, to just run from this moment in the hopes he would forget the whole exchange just as he apparently did the last one. You take your hands and grab his wrists, removing his palms from your face before you stand up from the chair. You refuse to look at him as you turn, heading to the door as you utter, “...I’m going to go for a walk, so I’ll be back later. Goodbye.”

Then, you feel something tug at the sleeve of your raincoat. It wasn’t strong, nothing that would actually stop you from moving, but your legs proceeded to hault at the small action. Mr. Silvair says, his tone not demanding in the slightest – if anything, it sounded like a plea as he speaks, “No exit.”

You take a deep breath and turn around to face him, asking in such a small voice that it even caught yourself off-guard, “...Why?”

“I want you here.” Mr. Silvair responds quickly, so quickly it seems to have taken both of you by surprise. The two of you stare at each other for a moment before he asks, finally releasing the material of your jacket from in between his fingers, “Stay… Will you stay?”

You once again find yourself wondering if Mr. Silvair was aware of the effect he had on you as a sigh leaves your mouth. You nod your head lightly and reply, “I will stay.”

“Good.” He says in response, a gentle smile on his face as he says for the second time, “I love you.”

You frown at him and shake your head, saying with a slight edge of frustration in your voice, “No speak. Not true.” 

“True… Believe true.” He says quickly, reaching out to once again place a hand against your cheek. You don’t move, don’t flinch away from his touch – you still relish the way he’s holding you like a fragile piece of glass. Mr. Silvair’s brows are furrowed ever so slightly as he mutters, “Confused.”

“You’re telling me… How do you think I feel?” You say with a huff, your hand holding into his as you find yourself nuzzling your nose into his palm. The painful feeling in your chest was still present, but it wasn’t nearly as excruciating as it had been now. You find it in yourself to smile, gazing up at him as you speak, “...but we’ll get through it together – we together. Right?”

“To-geh-ther…” He repeats, leaning down to press his forehead to yours once more as he says softly, “Yes.”

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hiii Author :D this is actually my first request, but could I ask for homocipher (especially my bb MR Crawling 🥺) when you kiss them for the first time pls and thank u 🙏

Mr Crawling

Sweet boy is giggling, blushing and kicking his long ass legs after staying unsettlingly silent for five minutes.

He’s on cloud nine the moment you pressed your warm lips against his as sweetly as you did. He didn’t know what that thing you were doing exactly, kissing was a foreign concept to him but all he knows is that he wants you to do it again and again for eternity.

Kissing this cutie is a little sloppy when he’s trying to imitate you, but you can’t get mad at him when he’s smiling and giggling in happiness that he got to reciprocate the happiness you give him.

Seriously this man has become ten times more clingy as he’s smothering you in hugs while chirping and purring in your ear, nuzzling his face against your own.

Mr crawling will double, no triple you in affection and you’re legally not allowed to move until he’s done kissing every inch of your face and neck. He just wants to make you happy and if kissing is one way to do it then Mr Crawling will do it continuously and it’ll never get old.

He will honour the kiss forever and ever and ever.

Mr Scarletella

Captain of the S.S Delusional over here.

You’re not helping his obsession with you. Not one bit after kissing him lightly as now he fully thinks this is you accepting his love and affection, letting him inside your heart as your one and only.

So have fun trying to get him off your back when he’s muttering shit like ‘mine. Love. Mine. Love. Mine. Love’ under his breath as he towers over you as you realised that this man was near inescapable.

And I mean he’s inescapable the moment you gave him that innocent little kiss on his lips. He’s smiling to himself as he runs his fingertips over his lips, still feeling your own there as his mind creates scenarios where your sat in his lap, kissing him to your hearts content and confessing your love for him.

So if you thought he was bad before, he’s fucking worse now and there’s little chance of escaping him. So good luck with all that, you will need it.

He won’t do anything to his lips in fear he’d wipe your kiss away, he’s savouring it and has the memory framed in his head as his most precious moment.

Mr Silvair

Kissing is a concept he’s not privy to and so he’s seeing this as a potential experiment he could delve into deeper.

All for science is the motto for this dude I’m afraid. Mr Silvair doesn’t feel much outside of that and an occasional warmth that he pushes aside frequently.

He’ll probably ask you to do it again, not because he wanted you to but because he’s curious as to how each and every kiss feels, believing that each one has a different meaning behind them. He’d might even indulge in what sort of stimuli could trigger you to made such a bold move on your own accord.

So to him it wouldn’t mean as much as it would for you unfortunately but that’s not going to stop him from asking for more kisses, and or creating scenarios where kissing him was the ultimate goal, and all for science experimentation.

Totally not to satiate the need to feel the warmth those kisses gave him if only briefly. 👀👀

Mr Gap

This dude doesn’t want a kiss, he wants your heart and not in the romantic sense.

You kissing him felt weird and he didn’t know whether to like it or hate it. So he mostly stays indifferent.

Seriously he’ll experience the kiss, scrunch his face up and still ask for your heart. Affection doesn’t exist within this dude at the slightest, and if it did it’s not by very much at all.

So kissing him wouldn’t exactly do much and he wouldn’t bother to reciprocate either, he’s still as fuck too so you might as well be kissing a stone statue.

Seriously. I’m not joking. I wish I was but I’m not.

[lilacxquartz]

in an attempt to teach you;

mr. silvair x f!reader

plot: mr. silvair who found you to be an intellectual curiosity, took it upon himself in teaching you anatomy — themes: heavily suggestive, limited dialogue, mutual pining, everything is consensual here but he’s unsettling lol — a/n: this will be continued in january :) — w.c: 1.6k

ao3 • masterlist • part 2 >

(header by @devotion-disorder, used with permission which inspired the fic :) pls go check out their blog <3)

The ghost apartments were far from being the safest places that you could have ended up in, but it was still early on in your exploration, too. Many uncertainties popped up along the way and ultimately, you somehow found your way back in Mr. Silvair’s care each and every single time.

Your latest ailment left your stomach in pain though, following a particularly nasty tumble in the dark. Thankfully though, Mr. Silvair was quite good at mending you, or at least in giving you a place to recover at your own pace, however, what with how you seemed to be in more distress than usual, his curiosity piqued in a different way this time.

As you curled up on the sofa, you gasped at his sudden arrival, your body flinching ever so slightly at the looming sight. Mr. Silvair then pressed up his calloused palm right against your abdomen without warning (likely to inspect it) but then in doing so, you reacted negatively to the sudden intrusion and as a result, ended up pulling away.

At first, Mr. Silvair simply just looked down at you, his thoughts unclear, and after a long enough silence had passed between the two of you, he finally tilted his head off to the side, seeming almost… confused? He tried again, asking for a word that you didn’t yet understand, maintaining some distance per your quiet request (or at least for now).

“…####?”

You blinked, your face blanking in confusion.

Mr. Silvair, ever determined to pursue any sort of curiosity didn’t waver in his conveyed approach, immediately reaching to pinch at your soft skin and when you reacted negatively—he repeated the word. He did the same to his own flesh—his nose wrinkling up when he did so as if he didn’t like the sensation—repeating the term again and again in that same quizzical tone.

Finally, you got it. He was asking if you were hurting.

“Pain?” he asked once more, the word registering at last.

You slowly nodded, thinking that he would perhaps take a step back and leave you be, but he stayed right where he was. Warily, your gaze followed his curious hands over to your stomach, asking yet even more words that you couldn’t yet comprehend.

What with the language barrier being ever frustrating, Mr. Silvair’s lips curled into a frown due to the lack of understanding alone, but ultimately, his determination didn’t falter, now seeming more motivated than ever before.

“Me,” he pointed at himself, gesturing out words that you already did know, “teach,” he added, his fingers travelling in your direction, “you,” before returning them to settle at his lips, “language?”

You nodded.

“Me, teach you…” Mr. Silvair repeated quicker that time, although allowing his words to trail off as he considered the right approach, gesturing at your general form, “…####?”

The way that he repeated the mystery word over and over left you wondering if he was asking about your general anatomy, with your suspicions were made clear when he repeated the same actions towards his own body—proving that it was just as you had initially thought.

“My… body?” you repeated, swirling a pointed finger around your physique, interpreting that perhaps, he wanted to teach you more words that related to it. Perhaps, his intentions were genuine, since you were actively in pain and maybe, just maybe, he wanted to help you recover. Still though, you held onto some retained suspicion, knowing that Mr. Silvair’s curiosity could either be a good thing or… it could be something else entirely.

Continuing onwards, Mr. Silvair carried on before any of those negative thoughts in your mind had a chance to linger. The last thing he wanted was for you to negatively react to his presence, especially so early on and so, with a flick of his wrist, he pointed towards your head, repeating a set of familiar words as his exploration gradually traveled down your body.

“Eyes? Nose? Lips?” he asked, making sure to ask words that you already knew before tracing a light touch along your neck, the sensation feeling almost tender. “...####?”

“My… neck?” you gulped, feeling your throat swallow beneath his firmly appointed digits that remained pressed against your vulnerable skin. It wasn’t exactly painful, but the pressure was tight enough to make you feel nervous.

“####?” he asked again, smoothing out a brushing touch along your shoulders, feeling a flicker of satisfaction when you understood him the way that he wanted you to.

At this point on, you were beginning to feel almost nervous as his hands kept traveling down, but also… curious. The way his fingers pinched and tugged at what you wore though, was a clear indication that he didn’t like what you had on (perhaps finding it to be an obstacle of some sort) and so you found yourself giving into his silent request. As though to play it as safely as possible, you removed the raincoat you wore, revealing your dress-clad form just beneath—the fabric slightly frayed.

Mr. Silvair’s gaze lingered somewhat, almost clinically, before moving on and repeating a few more familiar words as he swept his touch across what you both already understood between one another. He then lifted his hands ever so slightly, peppering a feather-light dab of his fingertips before tracing a line down your collarbones, feeding you an understanding of that word, before running the pad down to where your cleavage began.

Feeling your breath hitch, you weren’t sure how to respond. Usually, if a man was so brazenly forward with you—you would try to push them away, perhaps even scold them if need be—and yet, you didn’t actually dislike this development (and maybe even enjoyed it). Indeed, there was something… particular… about Mr. Silvair that left you feeling a certain way. Perhaps it was unease, but it was also something different—something intimate.

And then all of a sudden, he leaned in close, allowing for your form to be swallowed up by his looming presence. It seemed that this was technically a process that he built up to, but you were otherwise too overwhelmed and lost in your own thoughts to have ever noticed the progression. Tensing up right away, your breath hitched as he moved in closer, anticipating something—anything—you weren’t quite sure what, to finally happen.

Mr. Silvair’s execution was painstakingly slow as if reading into your body language before finalising his next move. For a moment, you weren’t at all sure what to expect, but then you felt a cold bead of something trickle down your spine as his hands fumbled with something just out of reach, leading you to understand that he dropped the zipper to your dress.

Had you not been in such a stunned silence, you would have done more to cover up your now exposed form—but you didn’t.

You simply sat still and Mr. Silvair simply just… watched, as if assessing his next move.

Taking a moment to appreciate your form, Mr. Silvair broke through the tension by approaching you, helping you shuffle out of the restrictive fabric, reading into the situation, and making sure, that you were at the very least, not opposed in the direction that this whole interaction was headed in. Forcing yourself to remain calm, you didn’t turn him away either as his hands smoothed over your bare breasts next, informing you of yet another word, and when his fingers tweezed around the stiff peaks of your nipples, another word slipped out.

Mr. Silvair then continued along this route, using your accepting silence to move lower and lower, until finally, his touch met at your stomach. He paused momentarily, noticing a deep, slightly raised bruise and for a second, a wave of concern passed through him—causing him to pause in his tracks before continuing onwards as soon as he determined it was okay to do so—wanting for the new-found intimacy between the two of you to last.

You didn’t stop him all the while—not even as his fingertips dipped lower and lower—not even as they pushed into the apex of your inner thighs. No, there was something tender about this shared moment that left you craving more of it.

And feeling as his fingers moved along and stroked along your heated sex, you couldn’t help but reactively curl your fingers into tight fists, almost straining at the implication. Your face quickly grew flushed, squeezing your legs tight much to his confusion, causing him to withdraw ever so slightly.

Mr. Silvair paused, the concern returning. “...Pain?”

However, you shook your head.

“Sad? Happy?” he continued, cycling through a whole range of emotions, trying to determine what was wrong—if anything was wrong at all.

“H-Happy,” you repeated which he seemed to understand, widening his smile as a result.

Mr. Silvair then continued on with confidence, taking hold of your hand that time around, watching as you grew all the more embarrassed from the way he pulled you closer—guiding your hand towards him in a similar way—allowing you to touch where his—his—oh!

Your eyes grew wide as he settled your touch over his length, which was initially soft, watching—feeling with you—as he quickly grew hard.

Mr. Silvair paused, his face adopting a reddish hue as he seemed to finally understand what you meant by feeling ‘happy’, his mind racing with all sorts of new ideas and curiosities alike. However, he stopped himself, choosing to at least conclude the examination, teaching you how to next address your thighs, knees and feet next, before returning to the initial issue at hand—the pain.

And once it was settled—once you were fixed, then perhaps he could explore something different with you next time.

(Something that could make you both feel ‘happy’?)

[seeliemansi]

No thoughts. Just my hands squeezing Mr. Silvair's chest.

[kanroji-san]

Us (when we were kids): AAAAAAA!!!! MONSTERS!!!!

Us (now): Oh~ Sexy Monsters~

[whokilledsamara]

Hello! I don’t usually make requests but i have one could u pretty please if u have time? 🥺

Anyways the request would be like homocipher boys (especially my bbg Mr Crawling) pussy drunk. Pls.

PUSSY DRUNK

a very short fic for a few of the Homicipher boys. {Mr. Crawling, Mr. Scarletella, Mr. Silvair, Mr. Gap, Mr. Hood}. Homicipher x afab!reader.

warnings! : each are different so a bit of violence, neediness, switch!reader, smut, porn, PORN NO PLOT!!! almost all of them are cunnilingus

{an: if you meant a fic with all of them in a gangbang sense, you can send in another request}

MR. CRAWLING

"Not now Mr. Crawling, im busy." you say softly, gently petting his head as he tugs at your skirt. "Please..", he practically begs, his lips turned into a pout.

he was always so desperate to please you, stopping at nothing as long as it made you happy. his eager face made it so hard to resist, and with a sigh, you gently part your legs before continuing to use your hands with what you were doing.

almost as soon as you do so, his face is shoved as far as it can go, a whine leaving his lips as he has to pull away to remove your underwear. a giggle escapes you while you watch.

...

"mngh.. fuck, please.." the words slipped so effortlessly from your lips, Mr. Crawling's head so deep between those legs of yours that you couldnt think straight.

your hand was fisted in his hair, tugging often. whines left him almost constantly, his hands holding up your thighs on his shoulders and off the chair. "Me want, More" he states softly, his voice muffled as he stares up at you, the lower half of his face still stuffed between your thighs.

as you nod softly, he hums and shoves two of his long and slender fingers inside of you, effortlessly curling them upwards towards your g-spot. "a-ah..!" your voice hits a high peak at the sudden intrusion, legs trembling as yet another orgasm rips through you, despite how many you had previously.

as overstimulated as you were, the man between your legs gives a few more licks to your clit, slowly pulling away. as he sits up, Mr. Crawling stares up at you with a cheeky grin, his chin covered in your juices. "Good." ..... "Big, Good."

MR. SCARLETELLA

as usual, he was feeling needy.

every since you pretty much marked him as your "slave", he has been near you at all times, getting upset whenever you interact with others instead of him.

this time in particular though, you watched tears fall from his eyes as he stared up at you with a desperate expression. despite the cold look on your face, and the amount of times you rejected him, he still pleads. "Please." he whines, his hands trembling against your thighs. "Please what..? not this again." you ask, glaring down at him. his hands grab at your raincoat, face a pleading mess.

"Need, You." he begs. you think for a second, a long exasperated sigh leaving your lips before you finally do what he always dreamed of. you roll your eyes, head tilting to a nod. that was all the conformation he needed.

...

hours had gone by, your unfortunate yet aching cunt so desperately clenched around his tongue, his hands clawing at your thighs.

his skilled tongue circled your clit an uncanny amount of times, his pace never slowing. "A-ah wait.. wait i cant.. fuccckk.." another orgasm ripped through you and then, only then, did his pace falter. "You, Like?" he asked, pulling his face up from your legs with an uncanny glare.

you nod many times, his smile only growing wider. his lips lean in and press against yours, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue. as much as you denied your feelings for the man, you couldn't think of anything but how good he felt and tasted. with a thoughtful groan, you wiggle your finger at him, signaling for him to stand. immediately he obeys, face flushed and juices dripping down his chin. your eyes are locked on his for a second before you speak in a demanding tone.

"Take off your pants."

MR. SILVAIR

he was NEVER needy. so why was today different?

one of the other residents had managed to piss him off so much that he couldn't think straight. his usually calm demeanor shifted completely dark, not even a hint of his usual smile on his face.

even Mr. Chopped seemed worried, asking softly if he was okay. Mr. Silvair ignored him, his gaze fixated on your eyes. he nods his head to his "research room", silently instructing you to go. he follows closely behind you, the heavy door slamming shut and locking you both in the room.

...

a huff leaves his lips as his hands angrily lift you up and slam you on his examination table, ass up for him, with little to no way for you to escape.

"W-what are you doing? Whats wrong?.. Mr. Silvair-!" you ask hurriedly, hands scrambling to find something to grab. he ignores your pleas and hikes up your raincoat, forcing off your panties with one quick motion. you couldn't see him as you tried to look behind you, but you felt him sink to his knees. "H-hey- ah..!-" your words are cut off with a moan as his long, snakelike tongue slips between your folds.

Mr. Silvair's strong hands keep you spread with ease, giving him full access as he greedily eats your pussy like its the last meal on earth. "Stop Squirming." his usually calm voice turns dark, his fingers digging a touch deeper into your hips as he keeps you held up for him.

as hard as you can, you attempt to keep your hips still. his tongue reaches as deep as it can reach, making you harshly bite your lip and see stars, juices running down his face as you finally orgasm. "A-ah right there--fuck! please.." your begs go unnoticed as he releases you and stands, walking out of the room without another glance. seemingly, this little outburst would hold him down for a while.

be glad it was only his tongue this time.

MR. GAP

a while after you got used to your residency at the complex, you learned your lesson about walking near the gaps.

the man who always seemed to appear at the worst moments, would mainly only mess with you. usually, it would only be a small poke as your ankle as you walked by, a tug at your hair when you had your back turned, or small scares he would pull off.

eventually you learned to ignore it, or altogether stay away from the walls, but unfortunately for you, today was a day you slipped up. as careless as it seemed, you were walking on your own, tiredness taking over your expression. the day was hectic, having to deal with more than one entity at a time.

a sudden yelp escapes your throat as you are yanked by your arm into a small opening in the wall. your back ends up pressed against the nearest wall, Mr. Gap's face level with yours with that sick, uncanny expression he always has.

you huff and use your hand to push at his face, the ever so sassy man rolling his eyes and grabbing your wrist. "You're No, Fun." he grumbles, hands fumbling with your shorts. "The fuck are you doing?" you mutter as a hushed yell, eyes glaring at his.

the grin on his face grows wider as he shoves off your pants, before suddenly dissolving into nothing. your eyes dart around, confusion evident in your expression until a sudden whine leaves your lips at an unknown feeling hits your core.

looking down, you find Mr. Gap nose deep in between your legs, eyes locked on yours as he smirks into you. your hand shoots down to grab his hair, attempting to pull him away as embarrassment fills your expression. though unluckily for you, or luckily depending on how you take it,, he doesn't move. instead, he groans into your hand, his hands tighten on your thighs as he pushes his face deeper, licking and sucking anything he can manage.

after many failed orgasms, and many tears from his constant edging, finally after everything he lets you cum, sucking hard enough on your clit to have a loud moan escape you, thighs clenching around his head.

though something tells you he isnt done.

MR. HOOD

as mono tuned as the man was, and as little as expressive as he was, he couldn't help his built up tension.

while no, he didn't understand the concept of love, or at-least he wouldn't admit it- he knew and felt the need for touch.

he often would allow you inside of his coat, usually just chilling in there or whatever you called it- but you never saw it as anything more than companionship. or so he figured. the moment he felt you experiment by placing your hand just above his crotch, his views changed.

with little to no effort, Mr. Hood plucked you out of his coat, setting you gently on the nearest table. he stared at you for a second, chest heavy. he could definitely sense your confusion- but as he kept his gaze on you, he reached out to grab your leg, his oddly feeling hand sat calmly on the inside of your thigh. "May, Touch?" Mr. Hood asked, an almost worried tone in his words. quicker than he could get his words out, you were nodding.

his body stilled for a second, almost as if he was debating his life choices, but ultimately decided to continue. gentle fingers reach under your raincoat, tugging down your panties with ease. and while he would never admit it, he quite greatly enjoyed the small sounds you made when his fingers traced your lips.

he hesitates for a second, before pushing a single ghostly finger inside. it was oddly cold, but felt so good inside of you as he worked his way in. a long moan leaves you, your hands reaching out to grab his arms.

one of his tentacles shoots out, replacing his finger that instead opted for your clit, rubbing in tight, hard circles. "Oh fuck.." you breathe out, legs trembling at your embarrassingly close orgasm. "I-im gonna c- mmngh!!" a hushed scream leave you as the tentacle curls, thrusting hard at your G-spot. it sends you over the edge, your juices flowing down your thighs and around the appendage. with a sigh, he pulls out, seemingly pleased.

"Turn Around."

{ made by @whokilledsamara }

[bananarrlele]

Dornröschen

tags: gore, dark romance, power dynamics, psychological horror, vampire, horror, obsession, gothic, supernatural, non-canon elements, erotic, blood play, seduction, smut (explicit sexual content), dub-con, female reader, dominant male, size difference, oral sex (fem! receiving), lots of terms of endearment, rough sex, biting, creampie, brief aftercare, literature mentions (goethe's poem 'heidenröslein'), title translates to "little, thorned rose" or even "sleeping beauty", in german. everything written in bold is otherworld language.

plot: "after a violent earthquake shakes the underworld, you rush to mr. silvair’s lab for help. but everything feels wrong — he’s no longer the cold, distant figure you know. transformed into a vampire, silvair pulls you into a surreal dream where your unrequited love finally finds its answer."

Knabe sprach: 'Ich breche dich, Röslein auf der Heiden.'

The boy said: I will break you, little rose on the heath.

The depths trembled like a heart in agony, and the ground opened like a hungry mouth, swallowing everything in its path with an intensity you had never deemed possible. It was as if a slumbering giant was writhing in its sleep, as the walls shook and the floor shattered, as if hell itself was opening beneath your very feet. Losing your balance, you could do little but emit a gasping murmur of exasperation, followed by a piercing cry of pain as your head collided with a rock, and your vision darkened as if an ebony veil was cast over your eyes.

When you were finally able to open your eyes again, you groaned painfully upon touching your head and feeling a warm, sticky liquid gushing from the deep cut, but a fleeting, perishable sense of relief filled your chest as you noticed that the sound of the rumble had subsided.

With your eyes wavering and blurred by agony, you hesitantly extended your hands before you, only to see them smeared with blood as red as cracked rubies. A silent scream escaped your lips. It was a nasty gash, the reddened flesh spasming, and the quick pulse of hot blood eagerly pouring out. The sight of the blood transported you to a dark, unknown place, where physical pain mingled with the anguish of the soul. But a persistent force within you, perhaps fear, perhaps intuition, kept you moving toward an uncertain destination.

Or perhaps, not so uncertain and unknown after all. The throbbing wound in your head was a map, and the pain a compass, guiding you through a tortuous but familiar path: the small room of the doctor. The space occupied by Mr. Silvair wasn't far, but the darkness caused by the stupor threatening to close your eyes was like a sea of ink, hungry and eager to suffocate and end you. Your body protested, stiffened in an aged armor of pride, keeping your legs nearly rigid, but you knew you needed help. And the Doctor had always been there, like a precious clock never moved from its place, a faithful shadow, the only constant in a world of perpetual changes. His words were law, and his judgment, always reliable.

Upon reaching the door, you pushed it with a trembling hand, entering with a firmness already frayed. Your body, already exhausted and weakened, finally succumbed. The merciless darkness took over once more, and you fainted, falling into a deep, involuntary sleep.

Consciousness returned slowly, like a mist dissipating in an eternal twilight. Your eyes opened, unsteady, as if being pulled from a deep, viscous sleep. Your eyelids twitched gently against the velvety gloom that enveloped the room. A canopy bed cradled you, soft as a cloud, with columns carved from an exotic and distinct wood. The heavy, opaque crimson velvet curtains filtered the faint, almost nonexistent light seeping through the cracks in the windows.

The air was dense, laden with a sweet, almost cloying perfume reminiscent of wilted roses and incense. A slight tremor ran through your body, and you stretched, feeling your sore muscles. As you sat up in the bed, your eyes adjusted to the dimness and began to distinguish the room's details.

The walls, covered in rich scarlet fabric, were adorned with a profusion of paintings. Portraits of men and women, all with impassive expressions and penetrating gazes, dominated the walls. They were figures of authority — kings, queens, generals — who seemed to observe you with curiosity. Among the portraits were also still lifes, with lush fruits and wilted flowers, and dark landscapes, with abandoned castles and twisted trees.

Beside the bed, a black marble fireplace held embers that lazily glowed, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Above the fireplace, a Venetian mirror reflected a distorted image of the room, doubling the sense of opulence and decadence.

A solid mahogany desk, filled with old books and yellowed parchments, occupied a corner of the room. A raven's feather rested on a silver inkwell, inviting you to record your thoughts.

As you stood, your bare feet touched a Persian rug, soft and thick, cushioning your steps. The high, vaulted ceiling was decorated with frescoes depicting mythological scenes, filled with dark gods and fantastic creatures.

With a tilt of your head, your eyes fell upon the silhouette of a man of imposing stature, unmoving on his own feet before the fireplace, with the flames dancing and illuminating the profile of his pale, almost translucent face. A shiver ran down your spine with the realization. Mr. Silvair was there, more sumptuous than ever. But not the Silvair you knew, dressed in his usual bloodstained, worn lab coats. No. This was a transformed Silvair, almost unrecognizable.

His long, silver, misty hair fell loosely over his shoulders like liquid mercury, framing his ivory face with a slight smile. His eyes, if they still existed in their sockets, covered by bandages stained in crimson, contrasted with his attire, so different from anything you had ever seen. The one who once presented himself in sober, functional garments now wore an extravagant and dark ensemble. A silver velvet coat, embroidered with delicate arabesques in a deep burgundy hue, draped over his broad shoulders. The piece, though luxurious, bore a certain carelessness, with undone buttons revealing layers of fine, lace-trimmed shirts. Tight leather pants, shimmering like silver, clung to his legs, contrasting with heavy, high-heeled boots, more suited for a battlefield than an opulent hall.

The gothic, antiquated, and aristocratic look was a shock, but there was something familiar about the figure. The same aura of mystery and power that once defined him was now amplified by his new attire. It was as if, by shedding his physician’s garb, Silvair had revealed a part of himself that had always been hidden — a dark, enigmatic facet that coexisted with his scientific nature.

A sigh escapes his lips as he unsettlingly notices your gaze and steps closer to the bed.

— Finally. You're awake.

You furrowed your brow as you noticed him communicating perfectly in your human tongue, not resorting to the one of the underworld. Your bewilderment deepened when you detected a hint of an accent in his voice, rough and archaic.

You blinked, disoriented by the sudden shift in his tone. The man who had once appeared as a cold, detached doctor now revealed an unexpected, almost tender side. The strangeness of it lingered, but it soon gave way to an intensifying curiosity that tugged at you.

— You know my language? — You murmured, your voice hoarse with the remnants of sleep.

— Naturally, — He answered, his tone dripping with a quiet superiority. — I speak all your tongues.

Your eyes widened in disbelief.

— All of them?

He gave a slight, almost theatrical tilt of his head, his movement elegant and assured.

— Yes, all of them. French, German, Spanish... Even the most obscure dialects.

A shiver crept down your spine. How could he know so much?

Before you could form another question, he continued, his voice a little lower, almost intimate now.

— Do you remember Goethe? A poet of some renown in your world. Heidenröslein, my dear…

You shook your head slightly, intrigued.

— "Röslein auf der Heiden..." A delicate little rose, growing in a wild place. A thing of beauty, surrounded by chaos. Just like you.

His voice had taken on a new quality, smooth and sensual, each word weighted with meaning. He took a slow step forward, deliberate in his movement, and with it, the distance between you shrank. It wasn’t just a physical approach — it was as if he were pulling you toward him in ways you couldn’t quite explain, closing in on you, emotionally as much as physically.

— But I don’t wish to pluck you just yet, like the boy in the poem. No. I want to tend to you. I’ve kept you safe, you see...

His words lingered in the air, hanging heavy with an almost unsettling promise. His gaze, once clinical and detached, now held something deeper — something possessive, something darkly protective. The room, once oppressive and filled with an eerie void, now felt thick with an intimacy that you couldn’t escape. The air around you seemed to hum with a dangerous allure.

You took a shallow breath, entranced. For a fleeting moment, the world outside his presence disappeared. All the uncertainty, the strangeness, the tension, everything faded into irrelevance. The man standing before you, no longer the cold, calculating doctor, had transformed into something else entirely. Not in appearance alone, but in the very essence of the atmosphere he commanded. A weight hung in the air, drawing you in, an undeniable pull that made everything else seem insignificant, distant.

Your skin prickled. His comment, his proximity, everything was so intense. You tried to compose yourself, but his voice was hypnotizing.

— How do you know so much?

— I have plenty of time to read, my lovely. And language, it is like a labyrinth. Once you find the thread of Ariadne, all the paths reveal themselves.

He extended a cold and elegant hand, gently caressing your face to trace the outline of the wound on your forehead, before stepping back slightly, his expression becoming more distant. It was if he were withdrawing into his thoughts for a moment.

— But let us return to the present, shall we? I am most pleased that you have awakened. You were in a profound, consuming slumber, one that could not be easily disturbed.

His attention shifted, and he gestured towards the opulent attire that lay upon the chaise longue beside the bed. His voice took on a more formal, commanding tone.

— Ah. As for your attire, I have taken the liberty of selecting something fitting for the occasion.

The garments were nothing short of extravagant. The gown, composed of rich crimson velvet, shimmered under the dim light. Its delicate embroidery of silver threads formed intricate patterns across the fabric, while the lace at the collar and cuffs added a touch of elegance. A corset of dark satin cinched tightly at the waist, lending an air of refinement. The voluminous skirt cascaded in soft folds, adorned with dark pearls that sparkled faintly. Beside the gown, a pair of knee-high boots crafted from supple black leather stood, their heels elegantly designed.

He moved closer once more, his voice taking on an even deeper resonance.

— The banquet will commence shortly, my dear. It would be most unfortunate for you to keep the others waiting.

His covered eyes possibly locked with yours, the weight of his words leaving little room for dissent. His presence, once again, enveloped you entirely, as if the evening, and the role you were to play within it, had already been carefully predetermined.

You nodded timidly, your eyes trailing over your worn clothes. The rough cotton scratched at your skin, a constant reminder of your simple life. Mr. Silvair had left silently, leaving you alone with a whirlwind of emotions.

With a sigh, you approached the ancient mirror, its golden frame chipped and faded with age. The reflection that stared back at you was pale and tired. You disentangled yourself from your old clothes, feeling a mixture of relief and sorrow. The silk gown, however, was a revelation. The vibrant red seemed almost incandescent, contrasting sharply with your skin. The soft texture slid over you, caressing you like a warm breeze. The golden embroidery glittered in the candlelight, casting an almost hypnotic glow. As you donned the dress, you felt yourself transform, as though you were a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

You paused for a moment, studying your reflection in the mirror, seeing a stranger before you, yet somehow, it was you. The gown seemed to mold perfectly to your form, highlighting your features in a way you had never experienced. There was a sense of power in the transformation, but also a haunting vulnerability, as though you were about to step into a world from which there was no return.

A deep breath escaped your lips, as you attempted to calm the storm of nerves within you. The gown seemed to murmur as you moved, its fabric flowing over your skin like the whisper of something unfamiliar, something unsettling. You stole one last glance at your reflection, noting the stranger staring back at you, before turning toward the door. Your footsteps were swallowed by the thick carpet as you made your way forward. The banquet called, and with it, the grand spectacle Mr. Silvair had promised, waiting to unfold before you.

The banquet hall was shrouded in a pulsating gloom, its walls draped with ancient, tattered tapestries depicting scenes of vice and decadence. The clinking of golden goblets against plates and the muffled murmurs of distorted conversations echoed through the vast space. As you stepped further inside, the mingling scents of roasted human flesh and fresh blood intertwined with the heavy aroma of incense, creating a sensation both repulsive and fascinating.

The table stretched endlessly, covered by dark cloths stained with blood and other viscous fluids that glimmered in the candlelight along its length. The golden cutlery, polished yet tarnished, gleamed ominously in the flickering light, as if eager to delve into the human flesh displayed upon the table. The meat was raw and grotesque, human flesh skinned and scattered across the surface, some pieces nearly unrecognizable, as if the victims had been torn apart in a frenzied, animalistic rage.

The air was thick with the oppressive weight of ritualistic depravity, and each step you took, hidden, resonated with the echo of past horrors embedded in the very stones of the hall. Shadows danced mockingly on the walls, and the grotesque feast laid out before you seemed to pulsate with a life of its own, a grim testament to the dark desires of those who gathered there.

Monsters draped in black, flowing veils sat around the table, their bony, misshapen hands grasping pieces of flesh with their utensils, sharp teeth gleaming as they chewed with sadistic pleasure. The men and women at the table were pallid figures, their skin ghostly white or tinged with shades of blue and purple, their eyes hollow yet ravenous, surveying everything around them. Some had eyes as red as blood, as if they had already feasted but still hungered for more.

At the far end of the table, a grotesque spectacle: a severed head, its eyes alert and full of devilish mischief, rested as a macabre trophy, draped in strands of auburn hair. Its expression was frozen in a roguish grin, yet those around it, including Mr. Silvair, seemed utterly unfazed. The lifeless body of Mr. Chopped, its parts scattered along the table, appeared as nothing more than a grisly decoration, an addition to the feast that all knew was not merely of flesh and blood, but of twisted power and perverse pleasure.

The scene was one of decadent horror, a nightmarish tableau where the boundaries between life and death, pleasure and pain, were blurred into a single, horrifying reality. The monsters reveled in their feast, their laughter a chilling symphony that resonated through the hall, mingling with the crackling of the fire and the murmur of ancient, unspeakable rites. The banquet was not just a meal, but a ritual, an affirmation of their dominion over the grotesque and the macabre, a celebration of their insatiable appetites and unholy desires.

They dined with their golden utensils, the forks and knives glinting as they sliced through pieces of human flesh with precise, almost surgical accuracy, as if they were handling something as ordinary as a regular meal. The decaying flesh was brought to their lips with a monstrous slowness, their sharp teeth biting and tearing as if they were predators in their purest essence. Blood flowed freely, staining the edges of the plates and the tablecloths with a deep, crimson hue.

As they ate, strange toasts were made, crystal goblets raised and filled with thick, dark human blood. The hoarse, rough tone of one of the monsters cutted through the room.

— To those who dare to cross the boundaries between life and death! A toast to the darkness! — He said, his voice deep and almost reverberating.

The others echoed his toast, their voices blending into a chilling chorus. Mr. Silvair, at the head of the table, nodded with a small, enigmatic smile. His presence commanded attention, and even in this macabre setting, he exuded a sense of control and authority.

Suddenly, the gaze of the guests shifted, drawn to the far end of the table where the decapitated head sat atop a silver platter, lightly dusted with blood. It was unmistakably Mr. Chopped Head, as previously stated, his body gone, yet his head remained, almost absurdly bubbly and elated in its stillness. Beside it, a hand was carelessly splayed across the table, grotesquely stitched back together with crude thread, as though hastily reattached to the lifeless flesh.

A woman in a black veil raised her goblet, her voice dripping with soft sarcasm as she addressed the head, her eyes flickering with dark amusement.

— And a tribute to our dear Mr. Chopped, who, even without his body, continues to grace us with his joyous spirit. — She said, her lips curling into a mockery of a smile. She lifted her chalice of blood high, offering a morbid salute to the decapitated head. — May his absence inspire us.

You watched from the shadows, a strange sense of detachment gripping you as the grotesque scene unfolded before you. Your presence went nearly unnoticed, blending into the darkness, like a silent observer in a nightmare too absurd to feel real.

Then, in an instant, the room fell deathly quiet. Ravenous eyes locked onto you, as if devouring you with their gaze. A low growl rumbled from a few of the monsters, followed by murmurs — a mix of repulsion and primal desire. Hands rose from the table, the pointed fingers of creatures lightly grazing the silverware, poised to strike. The air grew thick with tension, as if it might snap at any moment.

But before any move could be made, a silky yet powerful voice interrupted the impending chaos.

— Quiet. — Mr. Silvair's voice sliced through the silence with a hypnotic smoothness, yet it carried a force that silenced them immediately. He rose from the table, his slender and elegant figure standing out against the shadows. — She is my guest. Mind your manners.

Mr. Silvair made a graceful gesture with his hand, inviting you to come closer.

— A night of celebration and pleasure becomes even more intriguing with a special guest. — He said with a soft smile that seemed to hide something deeper, darker. His voice was a seductive whisper that somehow eased the tension in the room. — Please, my dear, come in and enjoy the evening with us. Are the delights of this night to your liking?

As he spoke, the monsters at the table quieted down, their predatory gazes now softened, as if somehow controlled by the host's power. Some of the darker figures at the table, covered in veils with deformed faces, still watched you with subtle hunger, but it seemed Mr. Silvair's presence had temporarily calmed their more primal instincts.

A woman in the back, with skin white as wax and eyes like red blades, raised a goblet of blood, making an exaggerated gesture of greeting.

— A human, at this banquet of monsters... — She muttered, laughing lightly, her sharp teeth reflecting the candlelight. — How delicious and dangerous she must be.

Mr. Silvair turned to her, the smile never leaving his lips, but his eyes gleaming with something deeper.

— She is not just a human. — He approached you again, his steps silent. — She is a new kind of delicacy, my dear.

The monsters at the table clapped subtly, with the excitement of those about to taste an exotic dish.

The vampire leaned close to you, his mouth almost touching your ear, the weight of his presence completely absorbing your attention. The heat of his body contrasted with the coldness of his skin, and you could smell his fragrance — something between incense and hot metal.

— You are safe, my dear. Do not let the terror of this place consume you. — His voice was soft, almost like a promise, and you realized how he seemed to be attuned to your thoughts, as if he controlled the very space around you.

He then kissed your hand, a cold gesture, but one that brought a sense of calm, as if the chaos around you could be controlled by his presence. When he lifted his face, his features glowed with a deep hue, the candlelight reflecting in them with an intensity that made him seem more than just a man, more than just a vampire — but an entity that understood the balance between life and death, pleasure and terror.

— I will take care of you, in every sense, my sweet human. — Silvair’s smile was soft, but full of second intentions. He somehow still gave you the impression of being the greatest predator in the room, and at the same time, the one offering you the strangest of refuges.

The banquet continued, but now, with every bite, every smile, every laugh, you felt as though you were being slowly and inevitably woven into the web he had created around you.

The laughter and hushed murmurs gave way to an unsettling silence, broken only by the sound of knives and forks sinking into flesh. With each sip, the blood goblets were raised, staining the guests' throats a deep crimson. But there was more in that room than just monsters and their carnal indulgences.

As the night deepened, a new kind of spectacle began. At the far end of the table, near the large silver candelabra, the acrobats started to move. However, they were no ordinary acrobats. Their figures, skeletal and disjointed, seemed more like entities than human beings, their bodies twisted into impossible shapes. Their arms and legs, thin as broken branches, bent and contorted, as if defying the laws of physics, while they danced among the monsters, leaping from one side to the other with a disturbing agility.

The most unsettling part, however, were the sounds that followed their movements. Every contortion of their bodies emitted a sharp crack, like bones breaking, but none of them appeared to feel pain. Their skin, a mix of soaked flesh and exposed muscles, slid as if bereft of any trace of normalcy, each movement resulting in an explosion of macabre beauty. They were like ghosts of acrobats, created solely to entertain while the banquet continued.

In one of their leaps, one of the acrobats landed with a soft sound beside Mr. Silvair, his bones breaking grotesquely as he bent into position. The vampire, without averting his gaze from you, raised a goblet and offered it to the acrobat, who, without a word, took it with a visibly dislocated hand and raised it to his lips. The dark liquid was slowly poured into his mouth, his neck arching with the movement, before he passed the goblet to another of his kind.

Silvair watched them with a contained smile, and as he leaned slightly, his deep voice reached your ears, almost a whisper.

— Are they not marvelous? — He uttered subtly, without much emphasis. — Before, they were like you. But the true transformation comes when you know the limits of flesh and pain. Like a doctor who understands the deepest aspects of human nature, I perfected them. Now, they dance in decadence.

A chill ran down your spine. The way he said it, the lightness and at the same time the veiled threat in his words, made your stomach churn. But you didn’t have time to react, for Silvair’s hidden eyes were on you once again, as though he knew exactly what you were feeling, even without showing any expression.

You tried to pull away, moving slightly back in your seat, feeling strange, exposed. But before you could say anything, he extended his hand with a firm yet gentle gesture that made you stop. He took your hand, his cold skin against yours, and brought it closer to him, not with brute force, but with an undeniable persuasion.

— Don’t be afraid, my dear. I’ll take care of you as I always have. Do not fret, my delicate heart. — His voice was now softer, almost seductive, like a mist enveloping your thoughts.

But before you could react, a low scream cut through the air, and your eyes were drawn to the center of the table. The woman with red eyes, who had made the toast earlier, was being touched by one of the bone-ridden acrobats. He approached her with monstrous grace, his skeletal hands taking hers with a slow and inevitable gesture. Their movement was hypnotic, like a dark dance atop the table, almost ghostly in its lightness.

The acrobat drew her towards him, his bones groaning as he bent low, his face close to hers. But instead of a mere kiss, his teeth sank into her neck, the bite deep and unrelenting, causing blood to spurt in a vivid jet, partially staining the acrobat’s face. The crimson liquid poured forth, bright and grotesque, as the monsters at the table raised their goblets, eyes locked on the flowing blood.

The woman, with a sigh that mixed both pleasure and pain, made no cry. Her expression, one of twisted ecstasy, swept through the room, infecting it with a dark fervor. The acrobat continued, his feeding violent yet graceful, and the room thrummed with satisfied murmurs as the creatures, monstrous and depraved, reveled in the spectacle.

At that moment, a figure arose — a creature with skin as cold and blue as the sky on a frozen day. His eyes, like spheres of ice, gleamed with an unnatural light, and its voice sliced through the tension like a sharp winter wind.

— A lattermost toast, then. — He announced, his gaze never leaving you, a sinister smile twisting its lips. — To our new guest. May she become one of us. May her flesh also transform, and may she share with us the eternal banquet.

The blood still poured from the pale-skinned woman, but now all eyes were on you. The room seemed colder, and the monster’s invitation wasn’t a proposal, but a veiled threat, with a supernatural weight that made your breath catch. Silvair’s fixed gaze was there, a contrast to the scene of violence, but with the same intensity. He didn’t seem concerned, but rather expectant.

You felt a chill crawl down your spine as the room waited for your response.

[...]

— No.

The tension in the room was still alive, pulsing in the air, but when your feet finally moved, you felt a sudden wave of panic. The banquet was not a safe place. There was no rest among those creatures, among those monsters disguised as elegant hosts. You didn’t know if it was fear or the desire to escape, but something inside you screamed for freedom.

The door to the hall opened with a creak, and as you took your first step into the mansion’s corridors, you noticed something unsettling. The hallways seemed to shift before your eyes. The walls distorted, the floor molded itself as if it had a life of its own, and the paths that had once been clear turned labyrinthine. The portraits on the walls watched you with vivid, threatening eyes, their smiles becoming even more grotesque. The tension was in every corner.

You moved forward with quickened breath, almost feeling the claws of the monsters drawing closer, their unmistakable putrid scent in the air. The murmurs and laughter of your pursuers echoed through the hallways, but before they could reach you, a hiss of command cut through the air, coming from somewhere deep and distant. Silvair’s soft voice, like a snake hissing, made the monsters retreat, pulling back with visible fear. He had given the order, and none of them would dare disobey.

Without thinking, you ran even faster, until a gallery of mirrors appeared before your eyes.

The mirrors were old, with intricate golden frames, but the reflection was not yours. As you passed in front of each one, your image distorted, stretching, deforming, as if the mirrors were toying with your perception. A ghostly figure, a reflection that was not yours, began to follow you, making your steps tremble.

You moved forward, but the mirrors seemed to conspire with the shadows, amplifying your insecurities, making you doubt your own direction. The air felt heavier, as if charged with some sickly magic, and you felt like you were being watched with every move. The murmur of a distant laugh echoed through the mirrors, and you hurried to reach the end of the gallery, where a pair of double doors opened before you, revealing a room.

You entered the room, the air cold and thick. You didn’t know where you were, but a sense of discomfort enveloped you immediately. The room was opulent, decorated with dark tapestries and velvet black furniture. The furniture was classic, with details in aged gold. Your gaze quickly passed over the immense canopy bed, and the heavy curtains, when something, something you couldn’t quite place, made you turn and look at the large wall on the other side. There, an ancient grandfather clock stood, its hands moving with disturbing precision.

Before you could understand what was happening, a figure materialized behind the clock. Mr. Silvair.

He didn’t need words. His crooked smile, his imposing posture, the aura of power emanating from him — everything made your body freeze for a moment, as if he were a predator and you, his prey.

— You will not escape, my dear. I know well the desires that stir within you, the silent yearnings you dare not speak aloud. I understand the depths of your needs, as if they were my own, and I assure you, there is no sanctuary beyond these walls. — Silvair's words were laced with subtle yet dangerous promises, resonating in your body in ways you couldn’t comprehend. He drew you closer, his dominant presence enveloping you, as if trapping you in a deadly embrace. — Don’t be afraid, you are exactly where you need to be.

Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps came from the balcony. A desperate impulse surged through you. You moved toward the window, your fingers trembling as you struggled to open the door leading to the porch. If you could just reach it — perhaps you'd have a chance to escape.

But before you could act, he was behind you, a shadow that seemed to grow as you tried to resist. His hand gripped your shoulder, the pressure light but inescapable.

— Don't be foolish. — He whispered, his voice now a seductive murmur, his lips almost brushing your skin. — You think you can escape from me with mere flights? You belong to this place as much as I do. And we belong to each other.

Time seemed to cease, the echoes of the banquet and the distorted whispers fading into nothingness as the tension between you became the only reality. Your body, though reluctant, responded to him, as though drawn by an unseen force. Each movement of his left your breath heavier, your heart racing, as if the very air around you were aflame.

Silvair withdrew slightly, his gaze fixed on yours, a blend of dark pleasure and eternal patience painted upon his face. He examined your eyes with an almost predatory focus, as though seeking something hidden within, a vulnerability, perhaps, or a capitulation. His fingers remained lightly upon your skin, as though making a vow unspoken, a quiet promise of what was to come.

— Do you understand me, my love? — His voice drifted like a velvet night, smooth but carrying a dark command. — You feel it, do you not? You know what I am, what we are.

His hand traveled to your neck, fingers grazing your skin with the lightest touch, almost tender, yet laden with ownership. His fingers drew invisible patterns along your skin, lingering where the warmth of your pulse beat strongest. What he did was not mere physical touch, but a deeper tether, a silent binding, as if he were slowly remaking something deep within you, something that once felt unyielding.

— There is no flight from me, sweet prey. — He whispered, his voice a silken rasp, rich with finality. — No matter where your feet wander, no matter how far you flee... I will find you. Within you, beside you, until the very last breath escapes your lips.

The heat of his presence was palpable, the charge in the air almost unbearable, but still, something within you resisted. Your mind struggled to hold onto who you were, to remember the reason to run, but his touch, his murmurs, they clouded your senses, intoxicated you. Each word he spoke was a spell, weaving its tendrils around your soul, and with every breath, the pull grew stronger, making it harder to recall why you had ever fought.

He leaned in again, his lips barely brushing the edge of your mouth, his breath mingling with yours in a quiet, forbidden symphony. His kiss was light, like the softest whisper of the grave, but imbued with the dark promise of something far more perilous. Something you did not know whether you feared, or whether you were already doomed to crave.

— There is no turning back now, my beloved. No more choices to be made. — He murmured, as though delivering a final decree. — It is your fate, as it is mine.

His hands, once gentle, now roamed with more intent, one sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, as if he could not get enough of you. His lips moved once again, brushing more fiercely against yours with a slow, deliberate heat, each touch coaxing a soft moan from your throat. There was no room for hesitation, no space for escape. His kiss was all-encompassing, exploring, claiming you with a possessive need that made your heart race and your pulse quicken.

His tongue teased at the edge of your lips, coaxing you to open, to let him in, and as you did, he slid deeper, his kiss turning urgent, hungry. The sensation of him in your mouth was intoxicating, a mix of sweetness and something darker, more primal. You could feel the heat between you intensifying, a slow burn that ignited every nerve in your body.

His hands drifted lower, tracing the curve of your back, pulling you even closer, until there was no space left between you. His body pressed against yours, the rhythm of your breaths syncing, his every movement a tantalizing promise of more.

His lips left yours, trailing down your jaw and neck, each kiss a spark, each touch a fire that consumed you. You could feel his breath on your skin, hot and uneven, as his hands moved to the hem of your clothing, lifting it slowly, teasingly, as if savoring every moment.

— You are so exquisitely beautiful, my fragile rose. Your lips, they taste like a forbidden indulgence. — His voice lowered, thick with longing. — You make me dizzy with desire, aching to consume you entirely, to lose myself in the depths of you.

— Your kisses leave me yearning for more. Would you indulge me with another fragment of yourself, my beloved? — He inquired, his voice soft but laden with a deep desire, as his hands rested delicately on your chest, fingers lightly brushing the contour of your bust.

— Let me tend to you. — He whispered, and the gentleness of his words, like a spell, seemed to envelop every fiber of your being. With a smooth, almost ethereal movement, you, like a puppet in the hands of fate, walked, your steps inaudible like a shadow, toward his bed. Your fall was gentle, like a petal in the wind, as you settled onto the mattress, your senses lost in the vortex of that palpable tension.

The atmosphere seemed to pulse with the rhythm of your breathing, each movement of yours a silent dance, where desire and fear intertwined in a choreography you could not, or perhaps did not want to, interrupt.

— Good, small thing. Do you trust me? — He asked softly, his words barely a whisper as they hovered on his lips. You could only nod, a delicate movement of your head, before he continued, his voice like a velvet caress. — Let us remove these garments, shall we? Here, allow me to assist you, my dear.

His hands, cold yet gentle, moved with unsettling precision as he undid the fabric of your clothing, each touch lingering just long enough to send a shiver down your spine. His fingers traced the curve of your body with an almost reverent slowness, as though savoring every moment, every inch of your exposed skin. The clothes fell away like a shroud, discarded and forgotten, leaving you bare before him in the dim light, a silent offering to the darkness that surrounded you.

— Don't tremble. I am here for you. — He commanded, his body hovering above yours. His lips found yours once more, kissing you deeply, passionately, as his hands explored every inch of you. When his mouth trailed down your neck, nipping and sucking at your sensitive skin, you arched into him, your nails digging into his back. You could feel his clothed hardness pressingly gently against your bare center, as he moved above you and momentarily buried his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent with an ecstatic expression.

He devoured your skin with hungry kisses, his teeth nipping at your tender flesh. His fingers traced a feverish path along your spine, igniting a trail of desire. Your breasts, swollen and taut, were his focus, his lips and tongue working their magic, coaxing sweet cries from your throat. A moan escaped your lips as he deepened the kiss once again, his tongue exploring every secret corner of your mouth.

His kisses trailed downward, a fiery descent, consuming your body until they reached your core. You writhed, your impatience a fleeting spark that ignited a slow burn within him. With a gentle but firm hand, he stilled you.

— Be still, little one. I will have my pleasure, and I intend to savor every moment of it.

His free hand slid between your legs, finding you slick and ready, and he groaned again, a primal sound that only heightened your need. Without warning, he lowered himself, reaching the apex of your thighs. You were so fucking needy, and he, so fucking mean. Sensing your desperation, he paused, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. A cruel smile twisted his lips as he reveled in your growing impatience. Another whimper escaped your lips, and he purred.

— Very well, my dear. I do enjoy hearing you whine. You've ruined my dinner, you know... but I cannot deny myself this indulgence for much longer, my dark rose.

He didn’t make you wait anymore. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as he leaned in. The first lick was slow, deliberate, his tongue dragging over your slick folds. A moan escaped your lips, your head falling back as pleasure shot through you.

— Sweet. Intoxicating, sweet nectar. My dear, this is as intoxicating as the blood that courses through your veins, the blood that I feel thickening, driving me wild. Simply delicious. — He mumbled, grinning like a madman against your weeping cunt.

It was a pathetic spectacle, really, the way you crumbled so easily, so utterly consumed by hedonism with the barest of temptations. Yet, it was intoxicating, this display of your surrender.

— How exquisitely sensitive you are for me, my love. — He murmured, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as his fingers invaded you. Your head lolled back, a silent moan escaping your lips as his fingers hit your most vulnerable spots with practiced ease.

His tongue explored the depths of your being, while his long, icy fingers plunged within, their rhythm slow and deliberate, savoring every intense sensation. You cried out, your hands entwined in his silver hair, holding him captive as he consumed you. His tongue circled your core, teasing and tormenting, until you writhed beneath him, desperate for release.

His grip tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh, a low growl rumbling in his chest. As your cries echoed through the chamber, he paused, his clothed gaze intense, drinking in your every reaction. Then, with a predatory grace, he resumed his assault, his movements intensifying, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion.

— Look at you. Completely at my mercy, fucking yourself on me with such abandon. You want it all, don't you? My hands and mouth, simultaneously. You're insatiable. What a greedy little lady. — He breathed, watching you subtly grind against his mouth and fingers, with a pouty expression. — Poor soul. You're so close. Just let go.

— Silvair... I'm...

— Hush. Come for me, my dearest.

His words unleashed a torrent of ecstasy within you, a primal scream escaping your lips as you climaxed. Your body arched, limbs trembling, your nails digging into the sheets. He held you close, his own breath ragged, as the tremors subsided, leaving you weak and utterly surrendered.

He rose from between your legs, his lips stained with your essence. He kissed you passionately, sighing in satisfaction.

— Simply exquisite. You taste better than anything I've ever had. — He mouthed, running his tongue over his lips. His fingers traced the contours of your face, your jawline, your cheekbones. The intimacy of the moment made you feel vulnerable, and you nestled closer, feeling a deep connection.

He pulled you closer, deepening a kiss. His fingers roamed your back, searching for a specific spot. When he found it, he pressed harder, making you arch your back. Your breaths mingled, a frantic rhythm that made you dizzy.

— You're so delicious. Your taste has me leaking. — He whispered, gently caressing himself through his clothes. — Pardon my bluntness, little lady, but I need to fuck you so badly.

His fingers lace with yours, guiding your hands to the button of his pants. The warm skin and the texture of the fabric beneath your fingertips excite you even more. You help him shed his clothes, revealing a muscular and desirable body. The atmosphere is electric, and anticipation builds with every passing second.

A thrill of excitement and a flutter of nerves coursed through you. Your eyes widened as you watched his massive member sway freely, an overwhelming urge to touch him, to explore every inch of his body, consuming you completely.

— Let me return the favor. Please... — Your voice resonated across the silence of the room, more whiny than you have actually intended. Your hands tentatively extended to grab his shaft, your eyes posessed with lust and your lips twitching, desperate to please him.

Before you could act, though, he captured your wrist, his head shaking slightly.

— That won't be needed, my darling. If you want to truly satisfy me, simply surrender. Let me show you.

With one swift motion, he swept you from the bed, lifting you onto his desk, scattering papers and books without a second thought. The cold wood pressed against your back, but all you could focus on was him, his consuming presence dominating your senses.

— Spread for me. — He commanded, his voice low, dripping with dominance.

You obeyed without hesitation, your legs falling open instinctively. Your body was still humming from the aftershocks of your climax, but the hunger in him told you this was far from over. He stepped closer, his hand trailing up your inner thigh, teasing just enough to make you shiver.

— Do you know how much I’ve wanted this? — He purred, his thumb brushing over your slick folds, wet and aching for him. — How much I’ve wanted to claim you completely?

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your mind was fogged with desire, your body betraying you as you arched into his touch, silently begging for more. He smirked, a slow, wicked curl of his lips that sent a jolt of anticipation through you. Then, without warning, he pulled you to the edge of the desk, his cock pressing against your entrance, cold and heavy.

— Look at me. — He ordered, his voice firm but laced with something softer, almost tender. — This is what you've been fantasizing about, my sweet.

You gazed at him with desirous eyes, and in that moment, you felt utterly exposed and vulnerable. But there was no fear, only a raw, desperate need. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed into you, inch by agonizing inch. You gasped, nails digging into the edge of the desk as he stretched you.

He paused once he was fully sheathed, his breath ragged against my ear.

— You feel heavenly. — He mouthed, whispered, his voice trembling with restraint. — Like you were made for me. So impossibly tight.

You whimpered, hips instinctively rocking against him, urging him to move. But he held still, savoring the moment, the connection. His hands gripped your hips firmly, keeping you in place as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your neck.

— So sweet. So perfect.

Then, with a low growl, he began to move, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in with a force that knocked the air from your lungs. Each stroke was deliberate, deep, hitting spots inside you that made your vision blur. You clung to him, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper.

You sobbed under him, your fingers tangling in his hair as he set a relentless pace, his hips slamming into yours with a primal rhythm that left you breathless.

He remained silent, his senses consumed by the primal dance of your bodies. The sounds of your skin against his, the rhythmic groans escaping your lips, filled the room with a raw, animalistic energy. His breaths came in ragged gasps, mirroring the frantic rhythm of his movements, each thrust pushing you closer to the precipice while he deliberately held back, savoring your growing desperation.

One of his hands moved between you, his thumb finding your clit with a predatory precision. You arched beneath him, a raw cry escaping your lips as he applied the perfect pressure, circling in time with his relentless thrusts.

— Silvair, please. It's too much for me...

Silvair tilted his head, his covered eyes seemingly fixed on yours. Beyond your whining, there was much more to capture his attention. The skin of your neck, flushed and damp, pulsed beneath his fingers. With every movement, you writhed more, pleading for a brief respite. Yet the vampire only quickened his pace, his breathing growing heavier, mirroring your own.

With a guttural groan, he moved closer to your neck, his teeth grazing your soft skin. His eyes narrowed in an intense gaze, a silent promise of what was to come. In a swift and precise motion, he sank his teeth into your skin, feeling the flesh give way under the pressure. A wild moan escaped his lips as he deepened the bite, marking you with his brand.

The initial pain was sharp, like a needle piercing your skin, but it quickly gave way to a strange, intoxicating pleasure. You could feel his fangs sliding deeper, the sensation both alien and exhilarating. Blood welled up around the punctures, warm and thick, and he began to suck with a fervor that bordered on desperation.

His grip tightened on you, his hands like iron bands holding you in place. Each pull of his mouth sent waves of heat and weakness through your body, your senses overwhelmed by the duality of agony and ecstasy. His tongue lapped at the wound, the rough texture adding a new layer to the sensation as he drank deeply, savoring every drop of your essence.

The room seemed to fade around you, the edges blurring as your vision tunneled to the sight of his silver head bent over your neck. You could hear the wet, obscene sounds of him feeding, the soft slurps and groans filling the air like a twisted symphony. Your pulse pounded in your ears, each beat pushing more blood into his eager mouth.

— Magnificent. This is ambrosia, my dear. You have the taste and allure of an outlaw, a queen, a harlot, a goddess. — He moaned, his voice thick with desire. — Bloody hell! I dare say that you taste of life itself, my darling.

Warm blood trickled down his chin, mingling with his saliva. You arched, the pain morphing into an intense, addictive pleasure. The sensation of being possessed, of having his mark. The feeling was almost too much to bear, a relentless onslaught of pleasure and pain that left you gasping and trembling in his arms. His hands roamed over your body, fingers digging into your flesh, each touch sending shivers of sensation through your already overloaded nerves.

As he fed, you could feel a strange connection forming, a bond of blood and darkness that tied you to him in ways you couldn't fully comprehend.

— I drink your blood, and I would eat your skin if I could. But you're too beautiful to waste. — He uttered with his sardonic voice, while resuming his thrusts, each one deeper, more painful. With each penetration, a guttural moan escaped his lips, echoing through the damp walls of his chambers. His fangs gleamed with a sick intensity as he watched you writhe beneath him.

The wound on your neck throbbed, a constant reminder of his mark, but the pain was a distant echo compared to the lingering pleasure that coursed through you. Silvair held you close, his touch gentle now, as if he was cradling something precious, in a sickening contradiction.

— I yearn to see your face, your delicate features, twisted in ecstasy once again for me. Come, my rosebud. Come for me. — He tried to sound tender, his voice a low growl against your ear as his cock continued to pound your poor cunt. You felt as if your body were no longer your own, sore and filled with lust, before jolting at the imperious voice of Silvair. — Come on, you little minx! Come for me! — The control slipping from his grasp was evident in the way his hands tightened on your face, his knuckles white against your skin. Each thrust was a hammer blow, driving you deeper, faster, until you couldn't bear it anymore.

As a thread silently snapping, you were engulfed by a wave of ecstasy, a primal scream escaping your lips as your body surrendered completely once more. He followed moments later, a roar of triumph echoing through the room as he spilled himself deep within you with a low hiss.

— By the underworld, you're too beautiful to be real. — Silvair murmured, his voice soft and full of admiration as his fingers traced the line of your jaw. — You felt so good, my precious.

He reached for you with a possessive sense of care, a mix of lust and something deeper. With careful movements, Silvair began to clean you, his hand firm but gentle. He used a damp cloth to wipe away the sweat, the traces of blood, and the other fluids from your skin, each touch a silent promise of care and protection.

— I always knew you were special. — He said, his voice a soft whisper in the quiet of the night. — Now, you are mine in every way. And I will cherish you as the rare jewel that you are.

He wrapped you in his arms, pulling you closer, the proximity of your bodies bringing a sense of security you had never known. Silvair kissed your forehead with unexpected tenderness, his cold lips contrasting with the warmth of your skin.

— Rest now, my love. — He mouthed, his voice like a balm to your exhausted senses. — I am here. I will always be here.

He continued to care for you, each gesture meticulous and full of devotion. His fingers gently combed through your hair, and he whispered words of comfort and affection, as if lulling you into a peaceful sleep. Feeling the weight of your weariness, you closed your eyes, surrendering to Silvair's care, knowing that despite the darkness that surrounded him, there was a strange and profound love in his touch.

As you began to drift off to sleep, his last words echoed softly in your ears.

— You are my eternity, my treasure. Nothing will ever separate us ever. — The soft tickling of his silver hair against your cheek roused you slightly, but you did not stir. Your breath was slow and even, your chest rising and falling rhythmically. He smiled to himself. In this moment, you were his, and he was yours.

Ah. Wild rose, my black rose. Finally, I have plucked you.

You wake up abruptly, your eyes snapping open and locking onto the stained ceiling of Mr. Silvair's underworld laboratory. Chains sway ominously from above, the frigid air pressing against your skin like an unrelenting force. You frown, pushing yourself upright, only to realize you're on his inspection table. Your hand slides over your face as fragmented memories flash before you like feverish dreams — the bizarre notion of Mr. Silvair being a vampire, your unreturned passion, and the sense of suffocating helplessness.

The metallic clinking of chains echoes faintly as you shift.

— Where is he? — You murmur, your voice cracking in the cold silence.

Moments later, a lean figure emerges from the shadows, his presence unsettlingly silent. Mr. Silvair’s lifeless, bandaged gaze fix on you as he approaches with measured steps, a syringe glinting ominously in his bony hand. His clinical gaze sweeps over you, dissecting every detail with unnerving precision.

— You awake. — He states, his monotone voice devoid of inflection. — Big head wound. Bleed. Me treat. Medicine give.

His abrupt, fragmented words make your chest tighten.

— Me medicine need don't. — You stammer, shrinking back slightly. — Me good. Really.

He tilts his head, studying you like an anomaly he can’t yet classify.

— You hurt. Pain slow heal. My job ensure you recover. Medicine now.

You flinch at his commanding tone, instinctively pulling your legs closer to your body.

— No, Silvair. I said I’m fine!

For the first time, his brows twitch — an almost imperceptible reaction. He steps forward, syringe poised.

— Humans lie. Body does not. Me prevent worse outcome.

— Why are you so... — Your words falter as he looms closer. His detached demeanor burns like frostbite. — So clinical about this? Can’t you just... talk to me like a person? Not a science experiment?

Silvair pauses, seemingly processing your outburst. His head tilts once more as if precisely calculating the significance of your plea. — Talk unnecessary. Healing priority. You live, that all matter.

You sigh, passing your hands through your hair.

— No, you don't understand. I've.. Ive had a dream, alright? Me dream.

Mr. Silvair pauses for a moment, his head tilting slightly, like a curious bird.

— Dream? Me not know dream. We not dream do. You must rest.

You furrow your brow, feeling the weight of his words, but something inside you pushes you to continue.

— You blood sucker creature were, in dream. Hostile, but fascinating. And I... I was... — Your voice falters, hesitating to reveal more.

He seems more intrigued now, though his expression remains calm.

— Interesting. Human imagine strange. But you speak strange when weak. Me care for you. Me reverse pain.

Before you could protest, he leans over you, his eyes scanning the fresh wounds on your head. His proximity is unsettling, but somehow comforting. He offers a soft smile, something rare and unsettling.

— Human curious make me. — He murmurs, his words sounding like a mix of observation and fascination.

You shiver, not from fear, but from the intensity of his gaze.

— You don’t understand. — You mutter, trying to look away. — In dream, you want me, but you know not how to show. Like now.

He blinks slowly, pondering your words as though trying to decipher a complex code.

— Me not know want. But me try. For you. Me learn.

Your breath falters for a moment. He is always so cold, so indifferent, but now he seems vulnerable, in a peculiar way.

— Do you really think you can learn to feel something like that?

He tilts his head again, as if considering.

— Feeling is strange science. Me study. You teach?

The question catches you off guard. Could you really teach a being like him the meaning of feeling?

man, if there were doubts before about god’s existence, then all of them have been cleared for me, because i finally managed to finish this text, once again, massive. i can’t measure my words, unfortunately. but i’ve had this idea in my head for about two or three days. initially, this story was supposed to be written with mr. crawling in a gothic setting, but i felt i couldn’t do justice to the vampiric atmosphere with him — not this time. i needed someone more detached, yet complex. and mr. crawling would be too sweet for this, in my view. maybe i’m a bit biased, too. writing for silvair is so much fun, and he’s underrated. it’s a shame, because i think he’d make a great vampire.

i hope you forgive any possible mistakes. this time, i had some issues with my laptop and had to switch to my phone in the middle of writing. please overlook any weird formatting or grammatical details. as always, this text may be revisited for adjustments.

in fact, i've written this whole ass text with only one hand, because...

now, about the smut. usually don’t feel entirely comfortable writing smut, but i think the situation and the whole vampiric act would eventually lead to something like that. i hope it's at least decent.

anyway, have a lovely day or night, and take care! xoxo! ♡