#imsoobsessedwithsilcoitsnotnormal

[cornykrameri]

Silco x OC

PS from the author: This is a fragment from the fanfic I'm writing. Full will be posted soon on AO3 TW: Knife Play

I watched his hands as took the cigar, lit it, and let the flame briefly illuminate his face before it died. The sharp, bitter aroma of tobacco filled the air around us. I swallowed a hard lump in my throat as I watched him take a long drag.

Looking back at me, he held out the cigar. Without hesitation, I took it. As I thought about how it had just touched his lips moments ago, I inhaled. The thick smoke hit hard, and I coughed—cigarettes were much easier than this heavy, bitter taste. My head spun almost instantly, and I handed the cigar back.

— I still regret that you gave me that knife. Maybe, without it, none of this would’ve happened, — I admitted, feeling the words grow heavier on my tongue.

Silco took a slow drag from his cigar, releasing a cloud of smoke that seemed to envelop us in an unseen veil. His face was obscured for a moment until he set the cigar down deliberately in the ashtray and said:

— Give me the knife.

His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. Obediently, I pulled the blade from its sheath and handed it to him by the hilt. His fingers curled around the blood-streaked steel, and his thumb traced the edge with a touch so light it felt almost reverent. His eyes flicked up to meet mine—a piercing gaze, sharp and unreadable.

— Hold out your hands.

I hesitated briefly but did as he asked, extending my palms. He placed the hilt back into my grasp and wrapped his hands over mine, steadying them.

Locking his hypnotic gaze on me, he guided my hands upward until the blade rested against the pale skin of his throat, just above the collar of his shirt. My insides coiled tight as a spring, but I couldn’t move—I was frozen in place, like a puppet held in invisible strings.

He released my hands, leaving the knife poised at his neck. One wrong move, one stray thought, and I could slit his throat. In my mind's eye, I saw it all: blood spilling down my fingers, his healthy eye dulling with death while the glassy implant froze in eternal stillness.

A strange cocktail of exhilaration and fear surged within me, and I wasn’t sure if I could resist it.

Silco smirked and leaned forward, pressing the blade more firmly against his neck. I went completely still, forgetting how to breathe.

What the hell is he doing? My gaze darted to his face, searching for some explanation. Did he really trust me this much?

— You see, — he murmured, his voice low and intimate. — The knife isn’t the issue. It’s just an object. You did what you did because you wanted to kill him. And I know you wouldn’t dare try that with me.

Forcing my trembling hands to move, I pulled the knife back from his neck and exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. But in the moment of hesitation, a wild, reckless thought streaked through my mind, sparking something primal and twisted deep inside me.

Without thinking, I shoved him, forcing his body down onto the couch. He didn’t resist; he yielded easily, allowing me to straddle him.

I hovered over him, my right hand still clutching the knife near his throat, while his thigh pressed firmly between my legs. His expression remained calm, curious even, as though he was indulging me in some sort of game.

Breathing heavily, I glanced between the blade and his eyes.

— Are you sure you trust me that much? — I asked at last. — What if I’m a born killer?

I traced the edge of the knife from his throat upward, skimming the curve of his jaw until it rested near his slightly parted lips.

— What if Muriel was just the beginning? — I continued, letting the blade’s tip follow the scar on his left cheek.

I wanted to see fear in his eyes, to watch him falter. Instead, he seemd intrigued, as though he was daring me to push further, to cross whatever boundary still remained in me.

His hand slid onto my knee, creeping under the hem of my long shirt and gliding upward along my thigh with maddening slowness and certainty.

My heart pounded, caught in a dangerous rhythm of desire and danger. I brought the knife back to his throat, leaning closer to his face.

— Then let it be the beginning, — he whispered, his breath brushing against my lips.

Desire flared in my chest like a wildfire, and just as I was about to give in and kiss him, he beat me to it.

His lips crushed against mine, demanding and unrelenting. I gasped, tightening my grip on the knife as his mouth devoured mine. His kiss was commanding, greedy, and when he bit my lower lip, a small moan escaped me, causing my hand to tremble.

His fingers gripped my thighs, pulling me down against him as the kiss deepened. Through the layers of fabric and skin, I could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, as though it matched my own chaotic pulse. His lips moved against mine with such perfect intensity that I couldn’t tear myself away.

My mind screamed that this was wrong, but my body refused to listen. It wanted him, and it was clear the feeling was mutual.

Without breaking the kiss, Silco shifted, lifting me slightly as he leaned forward. Now seated on his lap, I felt the unmistakable hardness between us. My grip on the knife slackened, and he seized the opportunity to snatch it from my hand with a sharp, fluid motion.

Fear flickered through me for a moment until his voice, rough and low, broke the tension.

— Don’t move.

He pressed his thumb against my lower lip, gently parting it. I obeyed without question.

— Don’t move, — he repeated, bringing the blade to my lips.

My pulse thundered in my ears as I watched the raw fascination in his eyes. Slowly, he slid the knife into my mouth, its edge resting against my tongue. This was madness—pure, unhinged madness—but I didn’t want it to stop.

The blade pressed lightly against the roof of my mouth, making it hard to breathe. One wrong move, one slip, and it would slice into the delicate skin of my lips or tongue.

His smirk was wicked, taunting, as he withdrew the blade slightly and tilted it to press against my tongue, pinning it down. With his free hand, he traced a finger down my chin, along my neck, and over the center of my chest, pausing just before it could venture lower.

It was agonizingly pleasurable. If not for the knife in my mouth, I might have begged him to keep going.

Finally, he pulled the blade free, and we both froze, caught in the weight of what had just transpired and what it meant for us now.