I Know He Is The King Of Softness But How About Some Nasty Where Abe Is Dom, Like We Were Teasing Him

I know he is the king of softness but how about some 🚨 nasty where abe is dom, like we were teasing him so bad holding his hand all over a meeting and having nasty thoughts of him taking control that after the meeting he show us how rough and dom he can be, that he leaves us not being able to walk. I AM BLUSHING HARD RIGHT NOW THINKING OF IT

dom abe ♡ sends u to the ER?!⁎⁺˳✧༚

I love this prompt because I actually recently got into reading the BPRD comics, and our dearest agent sapien is not as much of an awkward nerdy softie mess in that depiction :’) That man is so FOINE y’all I’m obsessed..

warnings: biting, fingering, ambiguous reader parts lol, pinning reader down, it's pretty feral with a subtle prey/predator undertone, could be read as cnc, lil suggestion of facefucking, and ofc.. I love talking about his cum ♡

So your hand brushes his during the debrief, and he innocently lifts it up to cover yours, lightly going back and forth over your knuckles and the back of your hand. His cold fingers juxtapose your warm skin, but you smile at the subtle gesture of affection. Then, your mind wanders.. to other times when his body temperature juxtaposed yours.

You notice his breathing pause for a moment, out of the corner of your eye, and you actively realize where your mind has wandered to. When he nervously exhales and draws his hand away, you double down and move your hand to his under the table, discreetly. You also lean over to rest your head on his shoulder, casually. It’s not a startling display of affection, especially because it was only HB, Liz, and Johann present at this particular meeting, but it also meant that Abe was unable to move away without drawing more attention to the two of you.

With Johann droning on and on, you let your mind wander, telepathically insisting that Abe not be shy about getting a little rougher with you. You’re an agent of the BPRD, you can handle a bit more forcefulness… To this, his eyes get a little shifty, side-eyeing you the best he can (he is literally fish-eyed) and clearing his throat, before trying to keep up with the topic at hand. He diverts the attention to you, in a vain attempt to put a pause on your dirty thoughts.

“Oh, yeah.. Kraus is onto something with that theory, I think the pieces do fit together into some kind of key,” you pip up, moving your hand off of Abe’s to brush against his bare thigh. He mentally curses himself for not wearing full length pants that day. As you casually draw little circles over the top of his leg, moving ever closer to the inside of his thigh, you continue, “and the key has to fit a lock..” you raise your eyebrow, as you picture a completely different kind of key and lock in your mind.

Abe snorts, sitting upright and putting his hand over yours to stop that incessant caressing, and clears his throat gently before adding his input to the conversation.

With that, your mind goes wild; It’s full of thoughts of him being more stern with you, suggesting that he should leave some marks for you to cover up, maybe putting you in your place so you don’t dare distract him during the next meeting, maybe making it so you are the one that has to hold in your moans this time around, the list goes on and on..

And finally, finally, when the meeting is adjourned, you happily stand and bid the team good evening, walking off down the halls back to your living space, not knowing that you’re in for a long night ahead..

You unwind a little bit, not thinking too much about how badly you teased him. The thought of apologizing for your misbehaviour crosses your mind, and you decide to pay your partner a visit in the library before you turn in for the night. He did furiously avoid your gaze as he left the meeting room, and only nodded politely and agreeably when  you said you’d see him later.

As usual, you knock lightly on the door before entering, and you’re surprised to not see him anywhere. “Abe..?” You call out, walking in slowly, ducking your head between the aisles and shelves to look for him. He’s clearly not in his tank, but you don’t see him anywhere else.

Suddenly, the record player starts up, and you breathe a sigh of relief, “Oh, I was looking for you—OH!” Your brief moment of calm is interrupted by a cold, firm grip around your wrist, as you’re pressed up against the book shelf by none other than your sweet and loving partner.

“What had gotten into you during the debrief? Were you possessed or something?” He starts, incredulously. A jumbled reply falls from your lips, but you’re still in a bit of shock to defend yourself at this point. You manage to stutter a meek, “I’m sorry?” but that’s followed by a sharp gasp as you feel his hands running down your back and groping at your ass, with the other gripping your chin and turning your head to face him.

“I’m afraid that’s not adequate reasoning for such unprofessional behaviour, my dear,” he blinks at you, clicking his tongue in disapproval as he brushes against your sensitive spots harshly. That’s when you realize he’s definitely going to make you regret asking him to be rough with you (he couldn’t if he tried, but anyway…)

"If you're going to act like such a.. brat," he bites down hard at the junction of your neck, and pulls away as you squeal. “Oh?” He would have an eyebrow raised if he had eyebrows, but the tone of his voice says it all. “Going to make a fuss now that I’m testing your bold claims, love?” He frowns, almost mockingly. You feel the heat building in your face, and you fumble your words as you try to explain that you were just messing with him. This doesn’t stop him from shaking his head and pressing you back up against the wall, littering your neck and shoulders with bites and sucking harshly at the surface wounds, licking and lapping at your hot flesh while you squirm and slap a hand over your lips to quiet your sounds.

He will catch on and replace your hand with his, and every delicious little mewl he draws from you reverberates right into his palm, and it nearly sends him into a frenzy. He uses his lanky frame to his advantage as he turns you around and presses himself up against you. “You know well enough what you do to me,” he mumbles, rubbing you through your shorts as one hand brushes up under your shirt to grope at your chest and pinch at your nipples, “and to abuse that power.. oh, your heart is racing,” he notes, almost with a hint of amusement in his tone, as he roughly pulls your shorts down just enough to swipe a finger across your warmth. “and.. so wet, huh?”

He grips your shoulder and forces you to bend over for him as he wets and slips a digit or two inside of you, curling it to brush against your sweet spot. “I guess the feeling is mutual, hm?” He teases as he fingerfucks you while you grip the edge of the bookshelf, biting down on your lip as you struggle to contain your noises.

“Ah ah ah, keep it down.. in the library,” he leans over just to whisper that in your ear, mock scolding you and lifting your shirt up to slip the hem of it between your teeth, punctuating his comment with a soft bite to your earlobe and chuckling when you whine and try to pull away. You’re just showing him how fun you are to play with, and it unlocks a new fascination within him.

You get to decide just how many orgasms he chooses to wring out of you until he deems it appropriate to push your shoulders down and listen to your sweet garbled and muffled begging while he rails you from behind, a few fallen magazines being pushed aside as you shake under him like a thoroughly fucked out mess. It was mind-blowing, simply put.

How do you feel about tasting the mix of you two together? If you’re open to it, and he’s feeling extra offended by what you thought of during the meeting, I hope you enjoy getting held down and facefucked by your darling fishman while he coos and shushes you and praises you for taking it so well. He runs out of degrading words really quickly, actually, and can only continue to praise you because he knows that you’re enjoying the rough treatment, and he thinks it’s incredibly sexy to use you like this. You end up literally covered in his cum, with it leaking out of you and painting your face and chest and lower stomach and back, because he was.. pent up, so to speak, and he feels so guilty after he’s done with you.

“Oh dear.. oh my goodness, are you okay?” He finally asks, full of worry and chest heaving from exertion as he fusses over your limp form. You nod weakly with a content smile, stifling a giggle, your nose scrunching happily as you bask in your afterglow. He's so gentle with you afterwards, apologizing for fear of taking it too far, but you reassure him that you had a great time, despite your protests.

It isn’t until a few hours later (post bath and diligent aftercare, ofc) that you realize you’re sore in places you’ve never been sore before, and he may have bitten harder than he thought in some spots. Needless to say, you refused to pull anything at the next meeting because you were too busy feeling sorry for your poor bruised and bandaged self. It was totally worth it, though.

Angel Shot (John Wick x Reader)

A/N: Just a little something because I missed writing for John and watching all the movies again on winter break has got me feeling inspired. ♥

Description: John Wick x Fem!Reader, protective John fluff | Warnings: mild language, alcohol, suggestive themes, Y/N is harassed/threatened and John intervenes | Setting: before Helen (or AU without her, you decide) | Word count: 1,474

Gif credit: user johnswick

Imagine John coming to your defense when a former associate won't leave you alone

It had been a long week. All you wanted was a moment of peace and a cold drink. Normally, you had no trouble finding that at the bar within the New York Continental. On this night, however, you found yourself wishing you had gone elsewhere. No sooner had you taken the first sip of your cocktail did Rico Augustine spot you from across the room.

You keep your eyes fixed forward and pretend not to notice his approach on your right.

"Look who it is," he announces, mockery in his voice, "The rooftop sniper."

"Rico," you acknowledge placidly. You could already sense this interaction would not remain civil. A quick glance his direction allowed you to take notice of his haggard, unshaven face and wrinkled suit. Even in the subdued glow of the mood lighting, you could see the wildness in his bloodshot eyes as he clutched the edge of the bartop.

"I'd offer to buy you a drink," he starts, leaning in closer, "but considering I'm a little light of funds right now, maybe you should be the one getting me something, huh?"

The alcohol on his breath was strong enough to burn your nose. Apparently, he'd managed to evade both sleep and sobriety since you last spoke.

"I already have one," you say, gesturing with your glass, "And I'm not sure you need another."

"It really is the least you can do, after what you stole from me," he provoked, his disgust poorly veiled.

His proximity, paired with his odor and audacity, set a fire in your blood.

"Are we really going to go over this again?" you ask, turning toward him, "I didn't know you were there last night. I wouldn't have taken the shot if I had. I don't work like that."

"You know that's my territory. I followed that mark for two hours and you took him right out from underneath me. I needed that money," he seethes, drawing out his next words, "You owe me."

You pivot back to the bar, your temper flaring. "It was an open contract, Rico. Just because we worked together on the Morocco Exchange doesn't mean I owe you," you state, taking a swig before speaking once more, "I already gave you a 30% cut, from a profit you didn't earn in the first place. That means we're finished."

His hand flies up to grab your wrist, causing you to drop your drink. The glass rattles and liquid sloshes out as it hits the bartop, but it does not fall over. With the dull roar of music and conversation filling the room, the noise isn't enough to catch the distracted bartender's attention.

"What if I say we're not?" he asks, his voice growling in your ear, "What if we're only finished when I say we are?"

Before you can answer or go for the dagger concealed in your shirt sleeve, you feel the cold steel of a concealed blade begin to dig into your ribs.

"I tried being polite, but you just had to keep flapping those lips of yours."

"You don't want to do this," you warn through gritted teeth.

"Wrong again," he sneers, his gratified tone sending a shiver down your back, "Why don't we continue this conversation up in my room, hm?"

You try to make eye contact with the bartender, but his back is still turned toward you, occupied with a chatty patron. Only one option remained: be even less civil. You try to free your dagger slowly from its sheath on your forearm without Rico noticing. It starts to slide loose as he pulls you toward him with a sickening laugh. The hilt is almost in your palm when, in the mirror on the wall of liquor bottles, you catch a glimpse of someone approaching from behind. They come to stand at your left a few seconds before you hear a voice that brings immediate relief.

"Hey, Y/N."

"Hey, John," you say.

"Nice night," he remarks.

"Sure is," you reply, glancing to him from the corner of your eye.

"Evening, Rico. Can I buy you a drink?" John asks.

"Thanks John, but Y/N and I are about tapped out for the night. Ain't that right?"

You attempt to turn your head towards John, but Rico pushes the blade harder into your side in response.

"Yeah," you say unconvincingly, wincing from the sting, "Thought about ordering an Angel Shot though."

There's a brief silence before John speaks again. "That so?"

"This doesn't concern you, Wick," Rico snarls, his fake cordiality gone in an instant, "Mind your business."

"Actually, you made it my business when you pulled that knife," John responds calmy, "Now, how about that drink? Or shall I make a dinner reservation instead?"

You feel the grip on your arm loosen a bit. Your assailant knew as well as you did what that meant. One of two things awaited him: a whiskey, or a body bag.

Despite the warning, Rico scoffs, looking past you to glare at John.

"Come on, Wick. You and I both know you don't have the balls to break hotel rules," he retorts, his thin lips curling into smirk.

John doesn't blink. "You willing to bet on that?"

You suppress the urge to smile as you watch the reflection of your harasser's face lose its gusto, along with most of the color.

"Last chance, Rico," John says, "Take your hands off her, and walk away."

Your pulse pounds in your ears.

Rico narrows his gaze, but lets go of your arm. "Of course. Whatever you say, Baba Yaga," he jeers, rubbing his mouth with his sleeve.

You exhale, but the sweaty brute leans back in close to your face and hisses, "The Boogeyman won't always be there to save you. This isn't over."

Rico starts to walk past you, but John grabs his arm, and tilts his head ever so slightly. "I didn't catch that last part."

He clears his throat, avoiding John's piercing stare. "It was nothing."

"Uh-huh," he deadpans, "Didn't think so."

"What's the matter, Wick? We're all professionals here, aren't we?" he poses; more a begrudged plea for mercy than an inquiry.

"Some of us more than others, it would seem," John replies, proceeding to lower his voice, "If you threaten her again, you'll find out just how professional I can be."

Rico clenches his jaw, his eye twitching in rage. Even as he choked on his own venom, he knew he was beaten. He violently recoils as John releases his arm, straightening his jacket and running a trembling hand through his disheveled hair. You, John, and the rest of the room watch him retreat until he's completely out of sight.

Boogeyman or not, John had a way of drawing attention. The hush that had fallen over the room fades as customers return to their drinks and conversation, no doubt now discussing what sort of gruesome scene they were nearly witnesses to.

John finally turns to you. "Are you alright?"

You nod and smile a bit, "Thanks to you."

"I'm sure you had it handled."

"Yeah, but I wasn't looking forward to scrubbing his blood out of this fabric. You can never find this color, I'd hate to toss it," you chuckle, looking down at your shirt.

"We wouldn't want that," he says, amused.

You replace your tousled hair behind your ear and meet his softened gaze. "Thank you, John."

"You're welcome, Y/N," he says, reaching into his jacket pocket, "You look like you could use a refill."

He holds up an all-too-familiar gold coin, then places it on the bartop. "On me."

"That's two I owe you then," you counter, giving him a knowing look.

"No. You don't owe me anything," he states, kind but firm. The look he gives you in return makes you feel that you shouldn't argue.

"Fair enough," you say, watching the now attentive bartender top off your beverage, "But at least let me get you a bourbon."

John retrieves his phone from another pocket, reading the screen and stowing it back as fast as he'd produced it.

"Thank you, but I'll have to take a raincheck," John says, touching your shoulder before walking away. "Take care of yourself, Y/N."

"You have business elsewhere tonight?" you question, calling after him.

"Yeah," he answers, pausing a moment, "But I won't be checking out for another day or so."

You smirk. "Be seeing you, then?"

He nods, the smallest trace of a smile on his face.

"Be seeing you."

He turns to leave, and your eyes follow him until the last. Drink back in hand, your heart continues its excited drumming. You press the cold crystal to your lips and grin. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad night after all.

"Give 'em hell, John."

Reblog if you write fanfic and would be totally down with your followers coming into you askbox and talking to you about your fic

Hi! Can I get an angst/comfort fic of Arthur with a female s/o who is depressed and suicidal? Like he walks in on his s/o c*tting while having a mental breakdown? Or he just notices the cuts/scars? Or he walks in on his s/o bl33ding out?? Idk you can get creative with it I’ve just been having an extremely rough couple months. If this makes you uncomfortable then you can just ignore this request, but thanks anyways! I hope you have a great day/night!! <3

It's my problem if I feel the need to hide

Pairing: Arthur x f!reader

Summary: You feel under the weather, but decide not to tell anyone. As your condition only worsens, your friends start to worry about you. It's when you decide to let everything go your knight with blue eyes and a cheeky smile comes to the rescue.

Warnings: depression, suicidal ideation, not being able to care for oneself (containing lack of hygiene and proper meals), mentions of vomit(ing) (3), negative self talk, dark thoughts

A/N: I am so sorry for the delay of this fic, I hope it will be of use to you still. I haven't written for this fandom in a long while, so getting back to it was a little hard, though I enjoyed it none the less. I tried not to use any (Y/N)s and make it as racially neutral as possible, as well as appearance-neutral (Arthur carries reader 1 time, but he's stronger than a regular human, and y'all deserve it ladies, no matter your size). If anyone wants to talk about anything at all, my dms are open, as well as my ask box. Take care of yourselves and stay safe!

The human mind is possibly nature's greatest invention. The complexity with which all its components interact to keep the body functioning is nothing short of phenomenal. And not only that, but it is aware of itself, encasing its own conscience inside a safe vessel, built and evolved specifically to protect it. And as time progressed, and all the basic needs of the body were cared for, there came a need to create. The body could easily be fed, but the conscience needed a different type of sustenance.

The human mind is capable of incredible things. It can set goals for itself as well as achieve them. It shaped the entire world to its liking, for better or for worse. The human mind is the reason why we live the lives we do today. It is the thing that keeps us alive and sane.

It's funny how drastically that can change.

If you'd ask any of the men residing in the mansion on who the worst enemy of humans is, you're sure all of them would at least mention the human conscience, if not directly choose it. After all, their lives have been woven through with the thread of sorrow, the perpetrator being none other than the human mind- theirs or someone else's.

At this point, you feel like you've at least got a peek at the complex inner worlds of history's greatest minds. Some you knew better than others, but you've been le Comte's servant for long enough to consider all the mansion's residents at least friends.

It was evident to anyone who has been in the mansion for at least a month that all of the people (and vampires) residing in it had some sort of baggage, wearing them down even in their second undead life. Some were better at hiding it than others, some just felt more comfortable keeping their troubles to themselves, while others' emotions and traumas were sometimes too great, too overwhelming to be kept locked inside their bodies.

You've tried your best to help those who needed it, both physically and mentally. It helped a few to open up to you at least a little and as time went on, with your hard work, you've earned respect for yourself even amongst the toughest nuts in the mansion. Poking through others' personal affairs and traumas carried along numerous fights as well as apologies and in the end just served to strengthen the bond between you and the residents. And yet, at times like these...you couldn' help but feel alone.

Like all the others, you had to shoulder the burden of traumas, insecurities and unpleasant experiences collected unwillingly throughout your life. You suspected the others knew of this, or at least had a hunch that you, like all of them, haven't had the pleasure of living a carefree life.

They saw you as an independent, strong and courageous woman, resilient and kind in any situation. And if you were in the right state of mind, you would agree. But lately, you began to doubt these traits of yours, the ones you valued so much and were valued for.

You weren't a stranger to struggling and you knew that anyone in need of help deserved to receive it and should not be scared to ask for it.

So why did the thought of asking for help make your stomach churn?

You've been pondering that question for a few days now. Lately, your entire reality seemed to have shifted. At first, you didn't think anything was wrong, a simple bad day, or a bad week wasn't anything to be too worried about. Nothing a nice, relaxing weekend couldn't fix, right? And yet, when you had tasks to complete, you felt agitated and annoyed, but when you had nothing to do, you were antsy and restless. Always feeling like something should be happening, like you should be doing something. For some reason, you couldn't make yourself to do the things you felt you should be doing.

Soon everything has become a bother. Tasks you could usually do with one hand were suddenly so hard that by the end of the day, the thought of bathing or changing into clean clothes made you want to scream until your throat was sore. And so you chipped away at your routine that you so painstainkingly built when you appeared in this time, until the only remaining activities in your days were your work and some basic necessities.

You knew it was getting bad. And it constantly created an almost numbing whirlwind of emotions you really didn't need right now. Why was this happening? What brought it on? Why now?? Is it going to get worse? All these questions and none you had an answer to. You had guesses and various techniques you learnt here and there back in your time, but...you couldn't bring yourself to do anything.

You were trapped. At least it felt like it. Trapped inside yourself, inside your mind. You knew you should tell someone, that if you let it go on, it would sooner or later consume you. But you couldn't do anything. It was as if your body didn't listen to you.

It seemed the residents were starting to get suspicious of your strange mood as of late. There were times when one of them would approach you and carefully ask about your wellbeing, and as much as you wanted to say something, you never did. You logically knew that the first step would be the one to break through the loop, the one that would make all the others just a little bit easier until you felt normal again. But anytime you tried to break through the selfdestructive habits you had fallen into, a wave of such tirednes, nausea and shame overcame you, that you simply caved to your mind's twisted whispers.

You concluded that your best option at this moment was to lay low and let it pass. Your days have become a steady routine of wake up, work, go to bed. And repeat. It was manageable, at first, even with the onslaught of thoughts your mind was conjuring, managing to come up with more and more ways to taunt you with. But as days and then weeks passed, your energy slowly seeped away from your body and it retaliated by shutting off and out anything unnecessary to save as much of what was remaining.

These things included mostly socialising. You became less talkative, while you would usually enthusiastically engage in conversations, if not outright start them, lately you would not speak unles directly spoken to. It has taken a toll on your concentration as well. Many times when someone would try to strike up a conversation with you, they'd have to repeat their question or even call out your name mid-conversation, because mentally you just weren't there. These things not only started to worry Sebastian, your biggest constant in your new life, given that you worked alongside him every day, but also the other residents. You knew of this, as out of it as you might have seemed and/or have been these past few weeks, you knew that they noticed, because you knew them. But what started as a simple snowball had alrady turned into an avalanche and you had to admit that you were no longer in control.

Not that you really cared. You knew you should care, should be trying harder than ever to break out of this spell, but you couldn't. And every time you might have felt strong enough to confess how you were feeling, to lean on someone, to get the help you knew you needed, a sudden pang of fear pierced your chest and you shrivelled back, back into your own small shell that was your skull.

Trying to find a reason for this foolish anxiety proved not so easy, when your mind would make up about five reasons why you should keep your mouth shut every time you even dared to ask yourself such a question.

What if they didn't believe you?

What if it wasn't not that bad?

What if you were just making it up? Making it seem bigger than it is?

These people have gone through so much. They've seen war, witnessed and felt abuse and probably had been through things you couldn't even imagine. Why should they help you, when they're the ones who needed help?

You were not worthy.

Such comparisons were something you chastised anyone who would confess experiencing them for. And yet, when it came to you, it felt like a holy truth. Something that could not and should not be questioned. Because you don't want to be selfish, do you?

You've dealt with this by yourself before, surely you could do it again and not drag down others with you. These and many others became your daily mantras. Lay low, hide, be small, don't make a noise. Survive. But was that really how you wanted to live? If you could even call that a living. You were surviving, yes, but at what cost? For a promise of a period of time where you wouldn't feel like the world is made out of cardboard? A period of time where you wouldn't feel like screaming and crying every second of every day? And how long would that last? A few months, a year maybe? Was it really worth the struggle?

You blinked yourself out of your thoughts when someone vigorously snapped in front of your eyes. Looking around in slight daze, your eyes fall upon a smiling face. "There you are! Theo says he's just waiting for you to walk face first into a wall!" Arthur says cheerily, showing you his signature smirk. "I, like the good friend I am, keep defending you of course. But it's hard when your mind seems to get further and further away from us every day. At this rate, you'll wander off into Seine soon. And we wouldn't want that, would we?" he playfully jabbed at you.

You could feel yourself shaking your head, but the only thing you could focus on was how nice it acually seemed, the cold water seeping through clothes and circling your limbs, the undercurrents keeping you down, where nothing could get you, laying you down onto the riverbed, weighed by the water in your lungs... "So, what's going on in that noggin of yours, hm?"

Arthur was, besides Sebastian, the closest person to you out of all the others. You enjoyed his easygoing demeanor and his jokes never failed to make you laugh. He was a terrible flirt though, and someties could be pretty pushy with his advances as you've realised over the time you two spent together. Luckilly, after a firm conversation backed up by Theo, he had calmed down significantly towards you. The writer still heavily complimented you, always putting that silver tongue of his to use, but you thought nothing of it. He was like that with everyone, even some of the other residents, so the possibility of it ever meaning anything more than banter or a simple compliment never even crossed your mind.

"You're doing it again." the man in question sighed. You blinked at him with confusion. As if reading your thoughts, Arthur clarified "You're in your head again. It must be something really interesting in there to make you so distracted." he joked again, but his expression turned serious "But honestly, what's going on? You haven't been yourself for quite a while now and everyone's getting worried. Even Wolf asked me if I knew what was up with you the other day!" the writer looked at you intently "You know that we're here for you, right? Even if you feel like it's stupid, if you need anything, you can tell us."

You averted your eyes from Arthur' piercing gaze. You knew his words were sincere and it made your chest squeeze uncomfortably. Looking straight ahead, in the direction which you were going, you answered, trying to make your voice as leveled as you could "Thank you for worrying Arthur, but I'm alright, really. I've been thinking of asking le Comte for a break. It would be nice to have some off time." This wasn't a complete lie, since having some down time, where you could pretend time has stopped really did sound appealing, but now you'd have to actually go and ask the good count, which you really didn't want to. Not because you were worried you wouldn't be given a break, but because it was another plan to be made and you barely had enough energy to last you until the end of the day, much less go somewhere out of your own volition.

Arthur knew that you were lying, or at least not telling him everything, so he grinned at you again and spoke confidently "Alright, love, the game is on! I gave you a chance to explain youself, but it seems I'll have to solve this mystery myself." he winked at you and you expected him to take his leave. But Arthur softly grabbed your arm and stopped you in the middle of the halway you were in. Turning to face him in his hold you looked at him questioningly. His smile is much softer now, and if you could focus properly, you would see worry glinting in his eyes "If you ever change your mind, you can stop by. Day, night, doen't matter. We're here for you, love. I'm here for you. Just as much as you're here for us." and as soon as he finished speakig, he was gone. Down the hallway, in the direction of his room. You quietly turned around, trying to process the strange encounter while you went your way.

Your mind was surprisingly quiet for a few hours after that.

You eventually did end up in le Comte's study. Nerves were wracking your body and mind the entire day and when you finally did enter the dreaded room, after all your chores were done for the day, you felt like you would start crying at any moment. For some reason, you felt awful for doing this. You didn't need the break. You didn't need off time to get better physically or because you had too many chores. Why did you want a break, besides Arthur catching on that there was, indeed, something wrong? The only thing you had planned for this break of yours was rotting away in your bed and doing as little as humanely possible. Maybe fate would be so kind and take you away in your sleep. Let you wither away like an overwatered flower.

You tried to make the discussion as quick as possible. Fortunately, the count didn't ask too many questions about your wellbeing and the reason for taking a break, remembering well that you haven't had one in a good while. He did ask if you consulted Sebas about it and you forced down a shudder at the mention of your good friend's name. Not because the butler was opposed to you taking a break, he actually kindly insisted you take one, revealing that he also noticed your mental absence in the past weeks, which could be almost counted as a month now. The worry and confusion in his tone as well as his expression made you wish he told you to stay, to help him, anything to try and convince you to not do what you were about to.

Why were you so worried? There wasn't a reason you should feel bad about taking a break. Even if you physically were just as spry as a grasshopper, taking a break for the sake of mental health was just as important. But deep down, you coudn't lie to yourself. Deep down you knew you were going to give up completely. Either for someone to find you, or to be left to rot. And right now, you hoped for the latter, even if it was still scary to admit.

After Comte gave you a week off, asking if it was enough time for you, which you hastily confirmed, feeling bile rise up your throat and wishing for the comfines of your room, your shaky legs and hazy mind managed to carry you to your room. After spending some time emptying the contents of your stomach, which were absolutely too small you would bet, you nothing but collapsed onto your bed. Mouth unrinsed, hair oily and ruffled, it had finally dawned on you how much of a mess you must have loked like. This realisation finally seemed to open the dam that was holding back everything you were feeling. The disgust, the shame, the fear, the anxiety the heavines, the loneliness, but most importnatly the longing.

Fast, salty tears carried all of that out of your body, leaving your face a puffy, sticky mess. Suddenly, you felt rage boil inside of your chest, sprading quickly to your head. Why didn't you say anything? You were so worried and because of what? Your own mind? Could you be any more stupid? The very same mind that put you through absolute hell this past month was now angry at itself, at its own actions. Why did the world have to be this cruel? Why couldn't it grant you the simple request of a mind that would not try to sabotage itself? And now it was too late.

Yo chose this, you thought to yourself. You chose this and these were the consequences of your actions. As if the tears have released all your pent up frustration in your body, all that it left was numbness. A kind of numbness that made your eyelids heavy, making them gravitate towards each other and pulling you into a deep, calm slumber. The kind of slumber you have not been able to achieve for more than the month you've been actively suffering. But also the kind of slumber that would not bring you closer to salvation.

You woke up, not knowing the time and not really finding yourself caring either. You felt strangely...calm. There was no hunger, no thirst, nothing. Only suffocating quiet, the likes of which you would feel in the deep blue of the ocean. You laid stil for what felt like hours, but could have also been minutes, before you succumbed to unconsciousness again.

This has gone on for a few days of your week long break. At one point you felt the pang of hunger, yet you had no will to satiate it. You only rose from your bed late into the night, when the squeezing walls of your stomach, at this point surely eating itself, threatened to spill nothing but its own acid. You tiptoed as quietly as your stiff muscles could into the kitchen, and after munching on some bread and water, because even though you got up, you still didn't feel like cooking, or that you deserved anything more than the simplest of dishes, you quietly stalked the halls back into your room. You fell asleep again, your stomach satisfied, or maybe convinced into satisfaction by your mind, the last thing you heard was the faint sound of Mozart's piano in the dead of the night.

This cycle had repeated for another few days. Your days were interrupted by quiet knocking that would wake you from your slow decline, and sometimes joined by murmurs behind the door. You couldn't find it in you to care. The door wasn't locked. At one point, you could swear you saw a shadow in your window, but it was gone too soon for your slowed mind to focus on it.

One morning, somewhere at the end of your break, not that you were keeping track of time, your door opened. A gust of fresh air was the first thing that barged its way into your room, chasing out the old and musty, albeit warm air from it. You shivered and wiggled deeper under your covers, grumbling hoarsely in protest. Your half asleep mind registered someone slowly walking into your room, as if they were scared to find out what was in it. You kept your eyes closed.

Arthur knelt down beside your bed, looking at your sickly, worn out face. Carefully sneaking his arm under your blanket, his hand searched for yours until it could take it into its own. Caressing your knuckles with his thumb, he cooed softly "Oh, love. I am so sorry. I am so sorry we let this get so far." You didn't respond. What was there to say? "It isn't your fault" you croaked out quietly, not having enough energy to say it loudly and fearing your voice wouldn't work.

"Why did you hide from us? We would've helped..." the writer almost whined, and you could feel the guilt and worry radiating from him. You wanted so desperately to answer, to give him a good reason for how foolish you were acting, but you couldn't. There was nothing that would excuse you. Nothing.

Seeing your slightly open eyes well up with tears, Arthur rushed closer to comfort you. Shushing and soothing you like a small child after a booster shot, he held you close and you tried not to weep hader. "It's alright, love, everything is alright. I've got you. I've got you now, it's good. You're alright."

After you calmed down slightly, you wanted nothing more than to shoo him away, close yourself off again an bury yourself into your bed to get away from the immense shame you felt. But Arthur seemed to be having none of that. He softly but insistently reached under you and helped you sit up with one arm, holding your hand with the other still. you couldn't bring yourslf to look him in the eye and yet his tone never changed from the soft lull he comforted you with. "Come on now, darling. Let's get you cleaned up."

Your mind wanted desperately to push back at him, scream and yell and fight, but you almost limply let him straighten you up and help you walk over to the bathroom. The writer's heart nearly broke in two as he saw you in the same clothes you were in when he last spoke to you. The image of you suffering in silence for so long made him nearly tear up as well, but he held himself back, focusing on you being his biggest priority.

He ran a bath for you, helped you out of your clothes, his gaze never cascading from your face, looking for any signs of overstepping any boundaries and when he found none, he helped you into the bathtub, first washing your hair and then your body, asking if you could and wanted to handle your private parts yourself. You whispered out a small yes, feeling somewhat ashamed still and wanting to make his efforts a bit easier. Letting you soak in the blissfully warm water, a question appeared in your mind "Arthur..." you called out quietly "Were you the one knocking at my door?" you asked timidly, not knowing fully if it wasn't some kind of delirium your mind put you through. The writer's face became solemn as you took a peek at his face and he spoke, his words and tone equally heavy "Everyone did. We were worried about you. After we heard about your break, we thought it might do you well. Everyone noticed that you weren't quite yourself. But after the first few days, when no one ever saw you leave the mansion, let alone your room, our worries doubled. Wolf said he noticed you walking to the kitchen at night, but Sebas only noticed small portions of bread disappearing from the kitchen, so we wanted to check up on you. We tried knocking at your door, not wanting to disturb you if you really were physically ill, but that didn't do anything." "And the window?" you interrupted him, casting your eyes downward again at the rude gesture. But Arthur continued, with no offense taken "That was Dazai. He was checking up on you a lot. In his own way." Arthur smiled sadly "Today, I had enough. Something was telling me you needed help. And I'm glad I listened to my instinct." he smiled at you and you felt your dry lips lift up ever so slightly. You were found when you needed it the most, it seemed.

After Arthur dried you off and helped you put on fresh clothes, he told you Sebas made a nutritious meal for you that wouldn't upset your stomach. He also suggested it would do you good to get out of your room for at least a little while and eat it in the kitchen. Seeing the panic in your eyes, he rushed to assure you "You don't have to talk to anyone if you don't want to." And so you nodded.

The mansion seemed awfully quiet. There was no one in the halls, no sounds from either corner of the building. On your slow trek to the kitchen, you passed Mozart. The musician didn't say anything, but his lips melted from their usual stern frown to a warm smile and you couldn't help but to start crying again. Athur sat down with you on the cold ground of the hallway, pulling you onto his lap and rocking you back and forth until you felt good enough to walk again. Mozart was nowhere in sight.

You found out that Sebas made you a delicious soup, one with enough vegetables and some meat, the broth strong enough to get you up on your feet in no time. You ate slowly and savoured every spoonful. You suddenly realised how much you've missed eating good food. After your meal was done and Arthur washed your bowl and spoon in silence, he slowly sat down next to you. "How are you feeling?" he asked carefully, knowing that you were nowhere near out of the deep end yet, but desperately hoping his efforts weren't for naught. "Better. Fuller." you answered simply. After another beat of comfortable silence, where you soaked up the sun pouring in through the windows, the writer asked again "Would you like to go back to your room?" You pursed your lips. Suddenly, the idea of your bed and the stuffy room you hid yourself away in sounded horrible. But he comfortable, fluffy clothes and full stomach were pullig at your eyelids again, sleep threatening to take over. "My room it is, then?"

Arthur piped up and you nodded. Before you knew it, you were scooped up bridal style by the vampire, feeling his soft lips on your hairline "Rest, love. I've got you." Soon, you were in a room that smelled of coffe and cologne with a hint of ink. Once again, you wriggled under the covers, these ones feeling much fresher than yours, as you succumbed to sleep once again. But this time, you weren't alone.

Practice & Patience Part 2

[Explicit] AO3

Part 1

Silco x f!reader, soft Silco, Smut, virgin!reader, insecure reader, first time, cunnilingus, hand job, blow job, first time blow job, masturbation

Word count: 4k

You and Silco continue to explore a series of firsts.

You had just come for the very first time.

You had just gone through a few firsts actually. Each one more amazing than the last, all culminating in you coming on Silco's practiced fingers.

As you sit on the edge of Silco's bed, naked, you feel a little different. Like the provocative songs you would hear playing at The Last Drop—their bass line a thumping, pulsing beat as their lyrics spoke of ecstasy and hedonistic pleasure—made just a little more sense. You understand now why someone would want to chase that high, why they'd put themselves in a vulnerable position with another person.

You turn to the man that brought you to your euphoria, warmth still blushing your cheeks, and see him in a new light. While you had always seen Silco as an attractive man, now he was downright irresistible.

You bring your lips to his, smiling against him when you feel him jump a little at your touch, surprised by your sudden, eager display. But it doesn't take long for him to recover, his tongue pressing past the part of your lips to claim yours as his own.

Between kisses, you speak with shallow breaths.

“I want— mmm— I want to make you feel— as good as you made me feel.”

He hums, his chest rumbling into your back.

“Is that so?” he teases.

You nod enthusiastically as you turn your torso to better kiss him. His arms wrap around you, pulling you down onto the bed. You're more than willing to follow, allowing him to situate you over him, your pelvis pressing against his naked erection.

You shift above him to straddle him when his hands grip your hips, pausing your movements with an uncharacteristically unsure call of your name.

“Let's slow down,” he says, something unfamiliar lacing his words. Is it panic? “We don't need to do that right away.”

Your heart drops into your stomach. Your voice comes out as a whisper.

“Do you not want to?”

He props himself up on his elbows, chest heaving as he regains his breath.

“Of course I want to.” He sits up fully, bringing both his hands to cradle your face. You can smell yourself on one of them and you’re not quite sure if you like it or not. But then Silco's voice pulls your attention back to him. “But there are a lot of things we can do between what we just did and that.”

Oh.

You blink, suddenly feeling foolish. 

“Of… of course,” you reply, trying to hide how dejected you feel.

“Hey,” he coos, dual-toned eyes swimming as they look back and forth between your two eyes. “I want you. I do. But I also want you to enjoy each first.”

He presses his lips to your forehead.

“There's no rush. We'll get there, I swear it.”

“You… do want me?”

He nods.

“You're not… grossed out by me?”

“What?” His face twists, almost insulted by your words. “Why would I be?”

Your hand wraps around Silco's wrist, pulling it away from your face. Your heart rate ticks up and it's not from arousal, but from nerves building back up again.

“You don't— But I—” you take a deep breath before continuing. “You're not turned off by… my smell down there?”

Silco blinks.

You take his stunned expression as confirmation.

“I'm sorry! I should've washed better! But I'm also pretty sure I shouldn't wash like that down there, but, I don't know, maybe I could've used perfume or something—”

Silco lets out a bark of laughter. It's an unfamiliar sound and its timing in your moment of panic sends a dagger to your chest. As he laughs, he says your name over and over.

“My dear, that's what you're worried about? The smell?”

“Yes!” indignation rising behind your ribs. Your afterglow is long gone, replaced with frigid regret.

“Smells happen during sex,” he offers. “And let me show you just how ‘turned off’ I am by yours.”

Your eyebrows furrow as you watch him bring his hand—the one that had so thoroughly pleasured you—up to his face. He locks eyes with you, opens his mouth, and licks a line from his palm up to the tips of his middle and ring fingers. Your eyes widen at the display and he continues further, opening his mouth enough to push both fingers in. He wraps his lips around the digits and makes a show of sucking off every last bit of your juices from his fingers, releasing them with a pop.

You're both confused and a little aroused.

That is definitely a first.

“You, my dove…” He licks his lips. “Taste of nectar from the gods.”

You roll your eyes and shove his shoulder. “Stop it!”

“It's true,” he insists, bringing his lips to your ear, his breath hot on your skin as his nose presses to your temple. “Here.” He pulls back, bringing his clean hand up to cradle your face. “Taste for yourself.”

Your eyes narrow, then immediately widen when he crashes his lips into yours. You've no choice but to taste the lingering arousal that's left on his mouth, on his tongue. 

That's what I taste like?

Neither good nor bad. A flavor you cannot pinpoint, one you've never tasted before.

As Silco presses his tongue into your mouth, heat pools in your belly. Something about you both giving and taking freely of your juices making you weak in the knees.

When finally Silco pulls away, he does so with a smirk.

“See?” He wipes the side of his lips with the pad of this thumb before kissing it clean. “You're delectable.”

Your walls clench around nothing.

“And if you'll allow me one day,” he purrs, his free arm wrapping around your waist. “I'd like to sample it from the source.”

Your eyes lock with his and watch as his dual-toned gaze wanders down your body, settling on your sex.

Heat rushes back into your cheeks. The mental image of Silco's face buried between your legs sends warmth to your core, equal parts embarrassment and curiosity.

Your throat bobs. Silco's eyes lift at the sound, studying your face.

“To…” You take in a deep inhale, letting it out as a shaky exhale. “Today could be that day.”

Scarred lips, slightly parted, twitch upward. Then—

A sweet sting of pain as Silco's hands dig into your waist—half pulling, half pushing—as he twists, reorienting your world in the blink of an eye until you find yourself on your back, staring up at his ceiling, a gasp pushed out your throat at the sudden change.

Silco's on top of you.

Silco is naked on top of you.

And you're naked underneath him.

Your nipples harden at the realization.

Toned forearms cage in your head as his hands grip the sheets on either side of you. He looks down at you with a predatory hunger. And as he lowers himself onto you, bringing his mouth to kiss and suck the tender skin of your neck, you melt into his touch, content to be devoured as his prey.

He uses every bit of his mouth as he trails it against your form: his tongue lapping at the beads of sweat on your skin, his lips sucking bruises to blossom all over you, his teeth dragging against you, sending chills up your spine. 

He works his way down your neck, across your collarbone, settling on your breast to once again wrap his lips around your hardened bud. You quiver under his ministrations, powerless.

You watch as he slowly lowers himself further, his nose now pressing into your navel. Lips parted, your breaths come out shallow as your heart hammers behind your ribs.

Lower and lower he goes, his hands smoothing down your thighs as he does. Then, long fingers hook under your knees and yank, pulling your ass to the edge of the bed.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching intently as Silco sink down to his knees, his face level with your glistening core. His hands are warm as they rest on either of your knees and you part them further, waiting with bated breath.

Ocean green and volcanic orange eyes lock with yours.

His voice is low, a purring Chemtank engine. His breath is hot against your skin and your walls clench at the sensation.

“You won't regret this.” He licks his lips. “I promise.”

His tongue, hot and flat, glides through your folds, making your hips buck into his face, your hands clenching the sheets on either side of you. 

“Fuck!” You cry out at the sensation, somehow even better than his fingers.

You feel his hands on your legs, draping your knees over his shoulders as he swipes his tongue against your core again, sending another wave of pleasure to course through your veins.

He continues to lap at you, his enjoyment evident by the way he hums in delight against your folds, as if he's enjoying a 5-star meal. Then—

His lips purse, wrap around your clit, and suck.

“Ah!”

One hand flies up to tangle your fingers into his hair, your hips chasing his mouth, silently begging for more.

And he is more than happy to oblige.

Unconsciously, you start to grind yourself against him, rocking your hips with every movement of his tongue, every suck of his lips. You're certain you'll burst into a thousand pieces with the way your blood burns under your skin, a fire raging within you. 

A familiar sensation as you feel your pleasure building, rising to unsustainable heights. Your legs shake and you feel tingling in the soles of your feet, your toes clenched as Silco laps at you like a man starved. Higher and higher, your arousal builds until—

Silco presses two fingers into you.

And you immediately break.

A long, wanton wail of his name rushes past your lips as your clit throbs in his mouth, your walls pulsing around his practiced fingers. He pumps his digits into you, guiding you through your release that seems to go on for forever, coursing through your veins, lighting every synapse to send wild flashes of color behind your eyes.

Chest heaving, you pant through your climax, overwhelmed by the feeling of fullness and release. If your first orgasm was a thunderstorm, this one is a tsunami, bowling over everything you've ever known, wiping clean your previous definitions of “pleasure.” It's torrential and relentless, leaving nothing in its wake but utter destruction.

How can you ever go back?

You're forever changed.

The timeline of your life is fractured in two, a divide separating the whole of your human experience into two separate segments: before this moment and everything after.

When finally your climax calms, Silco's movements stilling and your hips returning back down to the bed, you're acutely aware of the thunderous beating of your heart. It pounds behind the cage of your ribs, struggling to keep up. 

Your hands come up to shield your face, reddened from arousal and exhaustion.

And you laugh.

A small giggle at first, but then it morphs into an earnest laugh, pulling your lips up into a wide smile and shaking your shoulders with each exhale. You're barely aware of Silco wiping his mouth clean and crawling back on top of you, watching.

When you open your eyes to see him looking down at you with a curious expression, you laugh even harder.

His lips curl into a smile, slightly unsure as he's not in on the joke. His hands wrap around your wrists, beckoning you to pull them away, to show him your face. 

“What's so funny?” He hums.

“I waited—” you laugh almost derisively. Not at Silco, but at yourself. “So long to do any of this.”

Silco's face softens as he listens.

“And…”

You're at a loss for words.

Perhaps this is what it means to be fuckdrunk.

You look up at your lover, mouth moving but no sounds coming out as years of frustration, longing, and anxiety come to a sudden end.

“Why?” You whisper. “Why did I wait so long?”

His eyebrows curl inwards at that. Bending down, he cradles your face in his hands, holding you steady to stare up at him.

“You did what was best for you. You did it in your own time.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, mismatched eyes tracing over your face.

“You didn't buckle to any external pressures or settle for something that you would come to regret.”

He smiles down softly at you and you return it, warmth in your chest.

“And I find that admirable.”

Your heart skips a beat at the declaration.

“You do?”

He nods, his thumb a steady rhythm on your cheek as he swipes it back and forth.

“You amaze me.”

You feel so overcome, a mix of the heady orgasm you’re still recovering from and Silco’s tender, wonderful words. A familiar sting forms behind your eyes and you reach out for him, hands cradling his jaw as you bring your lips to his, your eyes squeezed tight. He hums into the kiss, bringing one hand to the back of your head.

He’s been so good to you. So patient. So gentle. You want nothing more than to show your gratitude, your appreciation.

As he deepens the kiss, you bring your hands down to his shoulders before trailing them down to feel his chest. At the delicate touch of your fingertips, you feel his muscles tense and relax. Lips locked and eyes shut, you paint yourself a picture of Silco’s body using your hands, exploring every inch of scarred skin, nails dragging along his sternum, palm splaying against his abs. There’s a small tickle against your hand as you feel the trail of hair that leads from his belly button down to his shaft and you follow the trail down with purpose, dominant hand reaching out to wrap your fingers around him.

He breaks off the kiss at your touch, his mouth hanging open as you squeeze.

“Not too hard, darling,” he gasps, one hand quick to find yours.

“But— but don’t guys like it when it’s… tight?”

He chuckles, his good eye opening to look at you.

“Yes, but…” His hand wraps around yours, guiding you. “Here, like this.”

His fingers squeezing around your hand, he tugs upward, gliding your hand up to his reddened head before slowly smoothing it down again. It’s a steady rhythm with not too much pressure, focusing on his sensitive tip. After a few more strokes, he releases his grasp on your hand, bringing it back up to clench the sheets by your head. His good eye flutters closed as he savors your touch, his chest rising and falling with each heady breath.

“Yes, just like that…” he whispers. He lets out a particularly deep exhale and you can feel the full body shiver as it courses through him. “Oh, it’s been so long,” he sighs.

You continue to work him, eyes searching his face for approval.

“You… like that?” You ask meekly.

His good eye opens, but it’s half-lidded, heavy with want. “Very much so,” he all but growls.

That sends a sweet thrill up your spine and warmth to the apex of your legs. You watch with parted lips in awe, taking in Silco’s expression. It’s one you’ve never seen before. A level of relaxation, of pleasure, you’ve never witnessed. You don’t dare blink, not wanting to miss a single second of such a precious moment.

But then, your wrist starts to cramp, the angle of your position awkward, the pace of your strokes slowing. Silco takes note and starts to lower himself, turning so he’s resting on his side next to you. Wordlessly, you follow, turning in tandem with him, holding his erection all the while. And soon, your positions are reversed with Silco on his back and you hovering above him. You adjust your grip on him, eyes wide as you get your first real up-close look at his cock.

“Enjoying the view?”

Your eyes flick up to see Silco smirking down at you. 

“I…” Your words falter. “I just…I want to make you feel good—”

“You are—”

“But I don’t know if I can… handle all of you.”

“We don’t have to do that yet.” He lets out a soft groan when your hand squeezes just a little harder. “Just this is…” He never finishes his sentence, instead opting to hum out his approval.

You try to experiment with your strokes, hand gliding down his entire length and back up. He seems to enjoy it by the way his head falls back onto the bed, his good eye closed. Then, an idea pops into your head. You switch hands briefly before bringing your dominant hand up to your mouth, spitting into it. Then, you swap back, bringing your now wet palm to his length.

“Gods, yes,” he whispers to no one in particular, his hips chasing the movement of your hand. “You learn quickly.”

Blush rises to your cheeks at the praise and you suddenly feel the need to make him do it again. To sing your praises, to tell you how good you’re doing.

So you do the best thing you can think of.

Lowering yourself, you bring your lips to the head of his cock, planting a sweet kiss to it, your eyes all the while on Silco’s face. You see the moment his good eye flicks open, his eyebrows lifting to his hairline as he stares down at you. His mouth hangs open as he looks at you in equal parts awe and determination. There’s a fire behind both eyes; it laps at your skin, making you burn all over.

He lets out a soft chuckle, low and dark.

“Oh, darling.” He brings one hand up to softly run through your hair. “I cannot tell you how many times I have pictured you just like this.”

Your walls clench around nothing.

Eyes locked with his, you part your lips and wrap them around the head of his cock. He tastes of salt as you swipe your tongue along him. When his hips buck at the sensation, you do it again. Slowly but surely, you learn how to listen and to look for his nonverbal signs of approval. The way he holds back a moan, the way he squeezes his good eye shut. Hand still wrapped around his base, you hollow your cheeks and do an experimental suck. The groan that forces its way out of Silco’s throat is enough to tell you to keep going.

Then, remembering the movement of Silco’s hand as he was guiding you before, you try to bob your head, just enough to rub against his sensitive tip. His fingers dig into your hair and you whimper, the slight sting of pain in your scalp sending lightning to your core.

You continue to work him, mindful of your teeth, but you can feel an ache growing in your jaw. You try to power through, determined to make him come the same way he had made you. But your wrist is getting tired and you feel like you’re reaching your limit. Without realizing it, your pace slows again. Finally, you give up, pulling your mouth off him as you shake your head.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’m not good at this.”

Silco takes a few seconds to recover, his good eye still shut. “You were doing wonderful—”

“But I can’t make you come.”

“It’s okay; it just takes practice, darling.”

He props himself up on his elbows to look at you.

Your heart sinks, feeling like a failure. Like you're keeping him from experiencing something that should come so naturally. Like you're holding him back from a better partner who knows what they're doing.

You're pulled from your thoughts when you feel his hand cup your chin, willing you to look at him.

“Remember what I said? I want you and I want you as you are. That includes this. You're perfect as you are.”

You shake your head, unwilling to accept that.

“I'm not. I can't even make you—”

“Shhhh…” he gently places the pad of his forefinger against your lips. “Don't give up just yet.”

Your eyebrows furrow.

“There are still ways you can help me.”

You feel movement below you and look down to see Silco reaching for his cock. You release your hold on it as he takes it, stroking himself. The sight of it has your eyes widening, unable to look away from it. Slowly, you lift your eyes, scanning his body as he continues to pump his fist. The small trail of hair at his navel with peeks of gray, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his stomach twitches at a particularly good stroke. Your eyes continue their journey upward to find his lips slightly parted, tendrils of his hair matted to his forehead.

How is he so…

Your eyes lock with his.

So beautiful and so hot at the same time?

“Kiss me,” he says, fire burning in his gaze.

And you obey.

Leaning down, you bring your lips to his, your tongue quick to explore the inside of his mouth. He hums into the kiss, his free hand finding a place to settle at the base of your head, fingertips tangling into your hair. Your hands find his shoulders, digging into him with your nails, pulling a purr of a hum from his throat.

You wonder what other sounds you can get out of him.

Hands trail down his chest, forefinger and thumb wrapping around a nipple and squeezing. His hips jump and his mouth falls open at the touch, followed quickly by a soft growl.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks, voice rumbling like a Chemtank engine.

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face.

“I liked it; I thought you might, too.”

The hand at your neck slides down your front and he answers with a pinch of his own to your hardened bud. You gasp out, giggling.

“Can’t say anyone’s ever tried it till now,” he muses, the pace of his strokes getting a little faster. “Do it again,” he growls.

“I’ll do you one better.”

You lean forward, trailing a line of kisses from his neck down to his chest. He hums at the touch and, without looking, you can tell that he’s pushed his head back into the bed, his good eye fluttering closed. You wrap your front teeth around his nipple and bite down gently, quickly rewarded with another twitch of his hips.

The hand at his cock is going impossibly fast now, his chest heaving as his breaths leave him in quick, short puffs, his hips rocking all the while. 

You could be wrong—given you’ve never done this before—but you’re pretty sure he’s getting close to his orgasm.

Biting down on your bottom lip, you try to think of something to send him over the edge. A lightbulb goes off in your mind and you bring your lips up to his ear, teeth a quick nibble at his lobe. You’re met with a satisfying low groan and Silco’s rumbling words.

“Oh, she’s so eager to please, isn’t she?”

“Just for you,” you whisper, finding confidence in yourself you’ve never had before. “Only for you, Silco.”

At that, he lets out a low moan. You straighten up just in time to see the reddened head of his cock shoot ropes of his cum onto his stomach, his fist continuing to pump as he rides out his high. Unblinking, you watch Silco come undone underneath you, eyes drinking in every last bit of his pleasure. You feel a strange sense of pride bubble up within you, as well as a deep, deep urge to see it all over again.

As he starts to catch his breath, you swing your leg around and off him, eyes casting to the bathroom door for a towel. Just as you’re about to jump off the bed, Silco’s hand wraps around your wrist.

“Stay,” he says, voice broken as if from just waking up. “Stay with me.”

He brings an arm up in invitation and you nestle next to him, your pelvis pressed to his hip as you rest your head on his chest. He pulls you closer before bringing his lips to the crown of your head and planting a tender, breathless kiss there. You lay together, listening to his heartbeat, first a thunderous drumming but soon a soothing rhythm.

Exhaustion overtakes you.

And you both fall asleep.

A/N: I find it hilarious that I couldn't put anything above the Read More because the first line mentions coming lolol Think reader's getting the hang of it hehe There's still plenty left for these two lovebirds to explore, so I'm sure at one point when the desire strikes, I will write another installment.

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