The King's Word

🔞 30+yrs A little bit of Bad and a little bit of Good. A writing and Art blog for fandoms I love and enjoy.

[da2019]

What a lonely thing it was, to be his wife

Pairing: Prince Valarr x Lannister!Reader (She/Her, "You" and "Y/N" referred )

Summary:

Everyone thinks she has the perfect life: the face, the jewels, the husband, the sons, the kind of future that kingdoms are built on. Married to the second in line to the Iron Throne, she is meant to one day stand as queen consort of the Seven Kingdoms. So why does it still feel like she is standing at the edge of her own marriage? What no one sees is the loneliness beneath it, or how a man can be faithful, trying, and still leave the woman beside him starving for something gentler, warmer, and finally spoken aloud.

Warnings:

“good husband, terrible at being loved correctly” marital grief, soft devastation, emotional neglect, arranged marriage, pain, old feelings that never died properly, domestic loneliness, beautiful wife, dumb man, devastating yearning, Valarr fumbling the woman of all time, Valarr being foolishness (unfortunately), Kiera bashing? (kind of), angst to the max

You had not been born cold.

That was the thing no one at court ever understood, though courts were forever mistaking silence for pride and reserve for disdain. You had been raised amongst lions, and lions were loud creatures even when finely dressed. Casterly Rock had rung with bright laughter through gilded halls, with splendid tempers, sharp tongues, and easy boasts, with uncles and cousins who embraced noisily, quarrelled noisily, and made peace just as noisily over wine. The Lannisters were beautiful in the way songs preferred—fair and golden, bright as hammered coin in sunlight, with green eyes clear as sea glass and crimson cloaks spilling from their shoulders in rich folds. Their guards were red cloaks, their banners red and gold, and their pride was as old as the Rock itself.

You were all of those things too. You had the pale gold hair, the emerald eyes, the fine bones, and the lion’s pride.

You simply had not inherited your kin’s ease with noise.

As a girl, you had often stood just behind the others, smiling softly while the room filled around you. You felt things too deeply and spoke too little. In the west, that had been understood for what it was: shyness, reserve, gentleness turned inward. Your mother would smooth your hair and call you tender-hearted. Your cousins would talk enough for three people and pull you laughing into their games regardless. At Casterly Rock, no one mistook your quiet for frost.

At King’s Landing, they did.

By the time you came east, the match had already been measured in ledgers and whispered over at council tables. Prince Valarr had thought, in the vague, careless way young men often thought of futures not yet nailed down by older hands, that he might one day marry Keira of Tyrosh. Not for love, perhaps not at first, but because she had been there, and because she had been easy in his company in a way few women were. Keira was clever and handsome, and quick enough to laugh at him without making him feel small for it. He knew the tilt of her chin when annoyed, the cadence of her voice in gardens and hawking fields, and the little courtesies that had begun, over time, to feel like the first stones laid in the road of something more.

Then Prince Daeron was offered Keira instead.

It was called a finer match. A wiser one. A more useful one. Men with rings on every finger said so in grave tones, and women in jeweled sleeves nodded as though marriages were bolts of silk to be weighed and priced. For Valarr, as though some god in a bitter mood had chosen to salt the wound, there came a bride from the westerlands with Casterly Rock at her back and Lannister gold in her veins.

“Lannister coin will strengthen the crown,” Prince Baelor had said.

What Valarr heard was simpler and crueler: Keira is gone, and you are to be paid for in gold.

He said nothing, because princes were not reared to complain prettily when duty was laid upon them. He bowed his head, accepted the terms, and stood in the hall like something carved while men older than he was decided the shape of the rest of his life.

You arrived a moon’s turn later beneath banners stirring in a dry black wind off Blackwater Bay. The day was bright and pitiless, all hard light on pale stone and brazen helms. You descended from your litter in crimson velvet lined with lion fur, gold thread at the hems, your hair partly hidden beneath a jeweled net. You came with a small train of handmaidens chosen by the royal household to ease your settling into court—though in time they would become far more than attendants.

You curtsied before the royal family with perfect grace.

Your hands did not tremble.

Your face was composed so beautifully that one might have mistaken calm for indifference.

Valarr looked at you as one might look upon a polished shield: fine enough, but cold to the touch.

You saw the look and hated him a little for it. You were already frightened, already trying not to show it, and the thought that the man you were to wed believed you proud and unyielding felt like one more weight laid on your shoulders before the marriage had even begun.

Their wedding, your wedding, was a splendid misery.

The sept was full. Candles burned in long pale ranks beneath crystal stars. Silk rustled. Swords whispered against scabbards. Lords in dark velvets and ladies crusted in gems watched with the bright, hungry stillness courts reserved for unions that mattered. The singers sang. The bells rang. The court smiled as though it had not just watched one bride exchanged for another like a treaty clause amended after midnight. Valarr did all that was expected. He cloaked you. He kissed you when the septon bade it. He danced. He drank. He smiled until his jaw ached.

Across the hall, Keira sat beside Prince Daeron in Tyroshi silk and pearls, graceful as enamel on ivory. Daeron leaned to murmur something in her ear. She laughed softly. Valarr saw it. He hated that he saw it. He hated even more that the sight of her followed him into the bedding chamber that night.

You sat on the edge of the bed in crimson silk, your back very straight, your hair half-unbound and spilling over one shoulder in pale waves that caught the candlelight. The chamber smelled of wax and spiced wine and crushed rose petals underfoot, with smoke from the brazier lingering faintly in the rafters. Outside, the distant noise of revelry rolled through the stone like surf.

“You may look at me as though I am a sentence passed upon you,” you said at last, “but it will not make the door open again.”

Valarr, half-undressed, turned toward you.

There was no tremor in your voice. No plea. No tears.

He ought to have admired that. Instead he said, sharper than he meant, “Did they teach you to say that in the west?”

“No,” you answered. “In the west they taught me not to beg where I am not wanted.”

For one ugly moment, he almost laughed.

That should have warned him. That should have told him there was wit in you, and hurt pride, and some slender hidden softness held upright by sheer will. That should have been the beginning of something honest between you.

Instead, it became the shape of what followed.

And yet it was Valarr, strangely, who first saw the truth of you. Not in any song-worthy fashion, not by moonlight in a garden or with vows half-spoken into a kiss, but in the common, unbeautiful places where the heart sometimes showed itself despite all effort.

At your first feast in the capital, the great hall had been a roar of voices. Targaryens at one end, mighty lords at the other, silver dishes flashing beneath torchlight, musicians sawing at strings, courtiers pressing too near with curiosity dressed as courtesy. You bore it beautifully, because Lannisters did not tremble where anyone could see. You answered what was asked. You smiled when proper. You lowered your head when expected. But beneath the table your hands were clenched so tightly your nails bit crescents into your palms.

Valarr, seated beside you, went still after some time.

Then, without announcement and without looking at you, he said quietly, “You need not stay until the final course. I can say you are tired from the journey.”

You turned, startled.

He only reached for his cup as if nothing of consequence had passed between you.

But when the roasted swan came out and every eye in that end of the hall was drawn toward some drunk Reach lord making too much of himself, Valarr rose and offered you his arm with princely ease.

“My lady wife has had a long day,” he said to those nearest. “I’ll see her to her chambers.”

There was no mockery in it. No impatience. Only simple understanding.

It should have meant nothing.

It meant everything.

Later, in the corridor beyond the hall, where the noise fell away behind thick stone and a pair of servants hurried past carrying trenchers slick with grease, you let out one long breath you had not known you were holding. Torches hissed in their brackets. A draft from some stairwell touched your cheeks coolly through the heat left by the feast.

Valarr glanced at you. “You looked as though you were about to bolt like a frightened doe.”

To his surprise, you laughed.

Not the little polished court laugh women learned young, the one meant to smooth over a man’s vanity. This laugh was warmer, younger, unguarded. It eased something in his face in answer.

“I may yet,” you said.

“That would be difficult in those skirts.”

You looked down at the heavy fall of crimson silk and, for the first time since coming to court, smiled with your whole mouth.

That was how it began.

Not with passion. Not even with hope at first. Only with the dangerous tenderness of being seen.

He did other things too, all of them small enough that another woman might have called them nothing at all. You, being made as you were, made a home of them. He noticed you ate little at feasts and had simpler food sent up afterward—warm bread, honeyed apples, broth with herbs—saying only that royal cooks ruined everything by over-seasoning it. In crowded corridors, he shifted so careless young knights and swaggering men-at-arms had to go around you rather than brush too close. Once, when you woke from a bad dream in the Red Keep—strange stone, stranger bed, no sound of the sea, only the vast uneasy silence of a place full of watchers—you found a lamp had been left burning low. He had noticed, on the second night of your marriage, that you slept poorly in darkness. He never mentioned it.

You loved him for that most of all.

You were not a woman who fell quickly, but you fell completely.

Quiet women often did. They loved in hidden, stubborn ways. They built whole cathedrals inside themselves and let no one hear the labour of the stone. By the time you were carrying your first son, you were already his in every way that mattered, not merely by law, nor by bed, nor by duty, but in that soft and terrible place where a wife begins to turn toward her husband before anyone else in the room, where she saves thoughts for him, where evening feels unfinished until his step sounds in the corridor.

The handmaidens chosen for you by the royal household saw it before anyone. Ellyn saw how you brightened when Valarr came unexpectedly to break his fast with you. Myria saw how you kept the books he favored nearest the chair by the window. Ysilla saw how you wore more black and red than crimson and gold after marriage, not because anyone asked it of you, but because you wanted to please him. They saw, too, how frightened you were of wanting too much.

And perhaps you had reason.

Because you were everything a prince ought to have wanted. Beautiful, dutiful, gentle, highborn, fertile. The court said so often enough. They praised your grace, your modesty, the calm way you carried yourself through the dragon-haunted strangeness of King’s Landing. They said you were a good wife to the second heir to the Iron Throne. They said you would be a good mother to princes. In time, they would say you might even be a good queen.

You were lovely enough to be admired. Soft enough to be praised. Obedient enough to make old men nod in approval.

And still, in your husband’s eyes, you lived beneath another woman’s shadow.

Keira.

Not because he was dishonorable. That was the misery of it. Valarr was married to you now. Keira was wed to Daeron. He did not touch her. He did not shame you with open disloyalty. He was too decent, and too proud, for that. He respected the life that had been laid before him. He came to your bed. He gave you sons. He stood where a husband ought to stand.

But sometimes respect was not the same thing as surrender.

Because Keira had not been some passing fancy. She had not been a pretty stranger glimpsed across a feast hall. She and Valarr had spoken first. Walked first. Laughed first. They had become close in the quiet, unguarded way two young people sometimes did before anyone named it aloud. There had been gardens, and hawking fields, and those long, easy conversations that taught one person the shape of another. By the time the court began speaking of them as a likely match, the ground had already been laid.

Then the plans changed.

Daeron was offered Keira.

Valarr was promised you.

No vows were broken, because none had been spoken. No betrayal had happened, because the world had cut them off before either could claim such a word. That only made it worse. Their story had not ended in scandal or sin. It had ended in silence, in duty, in a future folded away before it had fully begun.

And so it lingered.

Not in any way the realm could condemn. Only in the small, unbearable ways a wife noticed and no one else did.

In the way his face would still alter, faintly, when Keira laughed from across a room. In the way he never overstepped, never lingered too openly, and yet seemed to go still for half a breath whenever she entered his notice. In the way older courtiers still smiled sometimes when their names rose together in talk, as though remembering some gentler version of the future before politics had done what politics always did and laid human hearts out like pieces on a board.

And Keira herself was not innocent in it.

Not cruel, perhaps. Never openly. Never enough to disgrace herself. But darker than simple kindness allowed.

She moved through the Red Keep as though she belonged there, and that belonging itself felt like a quiet triumph. She spoke to Prince Baelor without seeming foolish. She laughed with Daeron’s kin and was laughed with in return. At feasts, no one mistook her pauses for uncertainty. At hunts, she rode with the men, speaking over hoofbeats as though she had been born to it.

And when she looked at Valarr, sometimes there was still something there.

Not enough for anyone to name.

Only enough for you to feel.

Enough to make your stomach turn cold.

Enough to make you understand that though she had married Daeron, some corner of her still kept the memory of what might have been. Not because she wanted to take him from you now. Not because she meant to start some vulgar little war between women. But because certain feelings, once grown properly, did not die only because wiser people arranged otherwise.

That was the cruelty of all of it.

He did not cheat on you.

She did not tempt him.

No one crossed the line.

And still you knew, with the miserable certainty of a wife who loved too deeply, that you did not have him whole.

Once, after a feast where Keira had moved through the room with her usual easy grace, you found yourself alone with her by a bank of candles guttering low beneath painted saints.

“You are well loved here,” you said before you meant to.

Keira looked at you then, really looked, and some brightness went out of her face.

“No,” she said softly. “Only well worn-in.”

You blinked, startled.

She traced one finger along the stem of her wine cup. “Do not mistake fitting into a room for belonging to it.”

Then, after the smallest pause, she said, “Men are not the only ones who learn to live with what they were given.”

That was when you understood.

Keira had wanted him too.

Not foolishly. Not all at once. But slowly, in the dangerous way friendship became fondness and fondness became something neither of them had been allowed to finish.

You had married him.

She had not.

And still, some part of her looked at you and saw the woman who had been given the life she once thought might be hers.

That was the first time you hated her a little.

Not because she was cruel.

Because she was honest.

Because in that one quiet sentence, she told you she knew exactly what sat between the three of you, and had chosen to carry it so gracefully that no one would ever dare call it grief.

Then someone called her name, and she turned away before you could answer.

You thought of that moment more often than you wanted.

Because in the end, it seemed true of all three of you.

Keira had lost the life she might once have had.

Valarr was trying.

That was the worst part.

If he had been cruel, perhaps you could have hated him. But he was only blind, and there was no easy way to stop loving a man who kept reaching for the life before him and still failed to see it.

At first, you told yourself it did not matter.

Valarr had married you. He had come to your bed. He had touched your belly when your first son moved and smiled in wonder. He had stood over you after the birth, smelling of leather and wind and cold air from the yard, and bent to the babe with a softness you had never seen him turn on anyone.

“A son,” he said.

You, white with exhaustion, damp-haired, aching from two days’ labor, looked up at him with something terribly hopeful still alive in your eyes. “Yes,” you whispered. “A son.”

He touched the child’s cheek. His face changed then, softened by wonder in a way that made you love him a little more, poor thing. You thought perhaps this was how doors opened. Through children. Through patience. Through quiet trying.

“What shall we name him?” you asked.

Valarr did not answer at once. His fingers were still on the babe’s face. “Aelor,” he said finally.

It was a prince’s name. A good name.

You smiled, tired and radiant. “Aelor, then.”

Valarr kissed the child’s brow. He kissed your forehead too, but only briefly, and perhaps only because the midwife stood watching.

You told yourself it was enough.

Women had made whole lives from less.

You learned his habits with the devotion of someone trying to solve a riddle no one else believed existed. You learned how he liked what wine he preferred during evening meals in the winter, what books he reached for when angered, how he hated too much noise at supper after council, and how he softened at the sound of a child laughing nearby. You kept his household well. You bore yourself with dignity among dragonlords and vipers. You learned High Valyrian lullabies, though the words felt awkward in your lion’s mouth.

You wrote letters home and waited for letters back. At first, you wrote carefully bright things: the weather, the beauty of the royal gardens in spring, the little kindnesses of court, the way Prince Valarr had once noticed when you were overwhelmed at a feast and brought you away without embarrassing you, the way he warmed your side of the bed in winter, the way he smiled, once, when the babe first closed a hand around his finger.

The replies came late, smelling of cedar and sealing wax and distance.

Your mother wrote of her health, of which cousins were soon to wed, of a septon newly come to the Rock.

Your father wrote less.

When Aelor was born, the letter from the west was rich parchment and fine words. You have done your house honour. A son strengthens your place. The realm sees your worth now.

You read it twice.

Then a third time, more slowly, searching for something else between the lines. Are you well? Are you happy? Does he cherish you? Are you lonely?

There was none of that.

After Baelon, the message was colder still in its own polished way. A second son brings further pride to your name and secures your position admirably. You have done all that was asked of you.

All that was asked of you.

You folded the letter carefully, set it aside, and cried so quietly that Myria, seated only a few feet away with embroidery in her lap, did not at first understand what she was hearing.

There were moments, too, when you tried very hard to belong not only to Valarr, but to his world. You tried to sit with him when his kin were present, but Targaryen talk moved strangely around you—old names, old grievances, dragon memories you had no part in, glances that carried the weight of shared blood. You would add a word here or there, smile where you ought, ask a question politely, and feel at once the slight pause that came after, the subtle shifting of a conversation that had not truly expected your shape within it.

No one was unkind.

That was the misery of it.

Prince Baelor, your father-in-law, grave and measured in all things, would always speak to you with perfect princely respect. He was never unkind. That was part of the hurt. But when you tried, once, to ask his thoughts on some hawk from the Reach that Valarr had mentioned admiring, Baelor answered kindly enough and then turned almost at once to one of his brothers over some question of levies and patrol roads. You stood there smiling with your hands folded while their voices moved on around you like water over stone.

It was not that he disliked you.

It was worse.

You were dutiful. Quiet. Manageable. In a household crowded with louder tempers and more difficult kin, you were never thought likely to cause scandal, discord, or trouble. Others drew the eye because they were troublesome, glittering, or politically useful.

You were simply the one no one worried about.

And in a court like that, a woman who brought no trouble was too easily mistaken for a woman who needed nothing at all.

You felt foolish afterward for minding.

Foolish for wanting more than courtesy.

Foolish for thinking that becoming a wife ought to have made you less of an outcast in your own husband’s family than you had been on the day you arrived.

At first, Valarr noticed some of these things.

He simply did not understand what noticing required of him.

Then your second son was born.

By then, the court called yours a strong marriage. Fruitful. Fortunate. A prince with two healthy heirs and a lady wife who comported herself flawlessly—what more could a man ask? Men toasted him for his good fortune. Women praised your grace, your gowns, your modesty, your sons. Singers called you the Golden Princess. Only those who watched closely saw that you smiled less.

Valarr still came to your chambers, though less often after the second child. At first, you thought it was weariness. Court had grown heavier around him. His father pressed more upon him. The realm always wanted something from men born too near crowns. Then one evening, while he fastened the clasp of his mantle before the fire and the nursery beyond the inner door murmured with soft child-sounds, you asked very gently, “Will you come to me later?”

He did not even turn.

“I have heirs enough,” he said.

The silence after was so complete that you could hear a torch sputtering in the corridor beyond and the faint scrape of a maid’s slipper over the rushes outside the door.

You sat at your dressing table with your hair half-braided, staring at his reflection in the polished silver mirror. He had not meant, perhaps, for the words to sound as they did. Valarr had a rare gift for the wound he did not intend.

Still, he had said them.

Not, I am tired. Not forgive me. Only that.

As if you had been something to pass through, and now pass beyond.

He must have felt something of the change afterward, because he began bringing you gifts: a hawking glove from Myr, a comb of worked ivory, a length of sea-green silk, a carved cradle-piece for little Baelon, a silver mirror backed with lions and dragons twined together.

They were all costly. They were all beautifully made.

Not one of them was right.

The glove was stitched in the Tyroshi style Keira had once worn. The silk was a shade you despised against your skin. The comb was too delicate for the braids you favored. The mirror was a princely apology offered by a man too cowardly to speak plain words.

You thanked him for each one with perfect courtesy.

Then came the morning that killed something in you.

It was early, scarcely light. The room still held that bluish hush before dawn when everything seemed suspended between worlds. Your younger son had cried in the night and been carried off again by his nurse only a little while before. You had not gone back to sleep properly after. You lay awake beside Valarr, one hand resting over the ache in your side, watching the first pale seam of day beneath the curtains and listening to his breathing in the dark.

He stirred beside you then, not fully waking, his face still turned into the pillow. For one small foolish moment, you thought he was troubled. His brow had drawn faintly, and there was something strained in the way he breathed, as though some dream had hold of him. Without thinking, with the softness that had always been your ruin, you reached for him. Your hand came to rest on his bare shoulder, gentle, instinctive, almost tender enough to be a prayer.

And then, rough with sleep, still half-lost to whatever place he had wandered in dreams, he murmured one name.

“Keira.”

The world did not shatter loudly.

That would have been kinder.

It only went very still.

Your fingers slipped from his shoulder as though you had touched iron in a flame. At first you thought you must have imagined it. You had to have imagined it. But the cold came at once, thin and sharp and absolute, running through you from the inside out like sea-wind in winter. Valarr breathed once more, deeper now, and opened his eyes a little. He saw you sitting upright. He saw your face.

And in that instant, he knew.

“[Y/N]—”

You had already risen.

He pushed himself up, all sleep gone, horror rushing in where drowsiness had been. “[Y/N], wait.”

You crossed the chamber barefoot, one hand hard against your mouth as if to hold something inside yourself—not anger, not words, but some smaller, uglier, more humiliating sound. That was the cruelty of it. You had reached for him to soothe him, thinking he was uneasy, thinking perhaps he needed comfort, and instead he had opened his sleep-ravaged mouth and given you another woman’s name as though it lived somewhere truer in him than you ever had.

“Listen to me,” Valarr said, rising after you. “I did not mean—”

You turned then.

He had seen you grave, shy, dutiful, pale with childbirth, smiling with your sons, overwhelmed in crowded halls, but never like that. Never stripped so bare of composure. You looked as though he had struck you.

Not only hurt. Shamed.

Keira. Another woman’s name, from your own husband’s mouth, spoken in your bed while dawn still lay over the marriage like a blessing not yet spent.

Your lips trembled once. “I know,” you whispered.

That was what undid him. Not accusation. Not fury. Only that soft, awful answer.

I know. I know you did not mean it, which means it was true enough to live beneath thought. I know there is still a place in you where I am not the woman you wake beside. I know I reached for you in kindness, and you answered me with the shape of someone else.

Tears rose despite your pride. They came too quickly, too hot, too helpless. You turned away sharply, but not before he saw them. And once he saw them, you hated it all the more, because now even this grief—which felt private, humiliating, too raw to survive daylight—had become something witnessed.

Valarr took a step toward you and stopped, because he did not know how to cross the distance he had made with one word.

“[Y/N]—please.”

You laughed then, and it was a dreadful little sound, broken straight through. “Do not,” you said, your voice shaking so badly you scarcely knew it for your own. “Do not beg me not to feel it. You have already said it.”

He reached for you then, not boldly and not even with certainty, but like a man who had finally understood that you had not been made of stone, only taught to stand still while he hurt you.

You flinched from him.

That seemed to wound him too, but not enough. Never enough.

Your breath broke on the next inhale. You covered your mouth harder with your hand, but it was no use. The sound came anyway, small and torn and mortifyingly real. Not graceful tears. Not silent suffering. A wounded sound, the sound of a woman who had held herself together for too long and discovered too late that the thing splitting her open would not even have the decency to do it in private.

Then you fled into your dressing room and shut the door between you.

He heard you crying.

That was the worst memory of his life afterward. Not the name itself, though that would have been wound enough. It was the sound of you weeping on the other side of a door, where you thought he could not reach you, and his own uselessness before it. Prince of the realm, husband in name, and still unable to mend what he had broken because he had never learned how to kneel before grief he himself had caused.

Inside, Ellyn found you first. You had sunk onto the stool before the mirror, one hand pressed to your chest as though you might still your own heart by force. Your hair had fallen loose over one shoulder. Tears slid down your face helplessly, no longer quiet, no longer controlled. You had cried silently before. This was worse. This was breath catching and shoulders shaking and the miserable humiliation of being unable to stop.

Ellyn dropped to her knees at once. “Oh, my sweet lady,” she murmured.

That broke what little composure remained.

You bent forward and covered your face, and then you were sobbing in earnest, your whole body shaking with it. Myria came running at the sound. Ysilla shut the outer door and drew the curtains before any passing servant or curious groom in the corridor could glimpse you undone. No one asked you anything at first. They simply gathered around you. Myria held your hands. Ysilla fetched cool water no one drank. Ellyn pressed your head against her breast as if you were no princess at all, only a girl far from home who had loved unwisely and been made to know it.

When you finally managed to speak, it came out raw and small and ruined.

“I thought—” You had to stop. Your breath caught again. “I thought he was having a nightmare.”

Ellyn made a sound then, one of those quiet wounded noises women make for one another when words are not enough.

“I touched him because I thought—” Your voice broke completely. “I thought he was troubled.”

That was somehow worse than the name itself. Worse because it laid your tenderness bare. Worse because it meant you had gone to comfort him and been answered with another woman’s ghost.

Then came the truth that had been choking you from the moment it happened, and once it was out you could not stop it.

“I tried so hard,” you whispered. “I tried so hard to be enough.”

Ellyn’s eyes filled. “You were never meant to earn what should have been given freely.”

After that, you changed.

Not at once. Not sharply enough that a man like Valarr—emotionally armored, proud, slow in all matters of the heart—could point to the very day and say, there, there is where I lost her. But the change came all the same.

You remained perfectly dutiful.

That was part of the tragedy. Had you screamed, or raged, or publicly shamed him, the court would have named it a quarrel and expected its end. You did none of that. If anything, you became more flawless.

You dressed with exquisite care. You stood beside him in public without misstep. You managed the household superbly. You gave him no scandal. You continued to be gentle with your sons, and soon the court began to praise you not merely as a great lady, but as the very model of what a prince’s wife should be. Shy, they called you now. Reserved. Pious. A little sad, perhaps, but sweet with your children. And oh, how devoted you were as a mother.

That part was true.

People saw you in the gardens with Aelor and Baelon, your golden head bent while they chattered over pebbles and petals and insects caught in childish hands. They saw you kneel without complaint to tie a little shoe, to wipe a mouth, to kiss a scraped palm. They saw how your face softened for your sons in a way it never did for anyone else. Women at court began speaking of you tenderly. Poor shy Lady [Y/N]. So pretty. So well-mannered. Such a good wife. Such a good mother.

And because the world was cruel in ordinary ways, they praised you most just as you became loneliest.

After the second boy was born,

Valarr did not become cruel in any way that court singers would have understood. He did not raise his hand to you. He did not shame you before the realm. He did not bring whores beneath your roof or make a spectacle of betrayal. In some ways, that made it worse. He became, instead, the sort of man whose neglect could be mistaken for virtue.

He loved his sons.

Gods, how he loved them.

He would return from the yard smelling of horse and leather and cold air, and the moment he crossed the threshold of your chambers, his face would change for the boys in a way it no longer changed for you. Aelor would cry out and Baelon would reach with both arms, and Valarr would go to them at once, smiling with that unguarded tenderness you had once thought, in the first sweetness of marriage, might one day be yours too. He would lift one child high and settle the other against his hip, laughing when little hands caught in his hair or tugged at the chain about his throat.

You would rise when he entered, because wives did, because princesses did, because some part of you still did it in hope rather than habit.

Often, he would not even see that you had risen until after the boys had been kissed, admired, and praised.

“Look at you,” he would say to them, warm as summer. “Have you tormented your lady mother all day? Have you eaten well? Has Baelon’s cough eased? Has Aelor been brave?”

Only then, sometimes, would his eyes flick to you.

“You ought not keep them up too late.”

“They should have thicker cloaks in this wind.”

Always through the children.

Always around you, rather than to you.

You learned there were griefs so small and daily that no one named them. To stand in your own chamber, hands folded in silk, and watch your husband smile as though the room had become blessed simply because his sons were in it, while the woman who had borne them stood only a few feet away and might as well have been another carved chair. To know he was not a bad man, not truly, only a man who had somehow placed all his softness in one part of his life and left the rest to starve. To be unable even to resent him properly, because the sight of him loving your children was beautiful, and you had prayed for that beauty before either boy had drawn breath.

That was the shameful part.

You were glad he loved them.

You only wished he did not seem to love them in place of you.

Once, in early autumn, you gathered your courage and asked if you might all go hawking together—only the four of you. Your voice was careful when you said it, as if softness itself might save the request from being damaged.

“The weather is fair,” you told him. “Aelor has been begging to see the birds flown, and Baelon loves the horses. Might we go, just us?”

Valarr looked almost surprised, then agreeable enough. “If you like.”

For a day and a half, you were absurdly happy.

You chose warm wool for the boys yourself. You had little gloves lined in fur brought out for Aelor. You made certain Baelon’s hood was mended where the stitch had loosened. You packed honey cakes and apples sliced small, a flask of watered wine for Valarr, and sweet milk for the children. You dressed not as a princess at court, but as a wife hoping to be a wife, in a dark green riding gown that would not startle the hawks. Even Ellyn smiled to see the color in your face.

When the morning came, the yard was crisp with cold and the sky pale as hammered steel. The horses were saddled. The boys were bundled and shining with excitement. You had Baelon in your arms and Aelor tugging at your sleeve when Valarr came down the steps.

He was not alone.

Prince Baelor was with him. So were two uncles, three cousins, and a knot of sworn men behind them. One of the hawk-masters came too, along with a pair of young pages, and by the time the little party moved out through the gate, it had become not a family day at all but something half progress, half princely outing, full of male voices and easy familiarity and the old blood-kinship from which you always stood a little apart.

Valarr seemed not to notice.

Or worse, perhaps he did notice and thought nothing was amiss.

“Aelor, ride with your grandsire” Baelor said, and Aelor went delightedly, because he was a child and proud of such things.

One cousin took up a conversation with Valarr about hounds and a boar seen three days earlier in the kingswood. An uncle laughed over some old hunting memory. The hawks shifted and rustled. Leather creaked. Hooves struck the frosted ground.

You rode at the edge with Baelon before you and your little basket strapped behind the saddle.

Every now and then, Aelor would twist around in his seat to look for you, waving when he found you and shouting, “Mother, look!” each time a hawk lifted, or a dog barked, or a horse stamped. Baelon kept patting your gloved hand and leaning back against your breast as if, by childish instinct, he knew you needed the closeness more than he did. When the company halted near a thin stand of leaf-bare trees, you dismounted and laid out the food you had packed for the four of you.

The pages and grooms ate it too.

Valarr praised the cakes without realizing what he was saying. “These were well thought of.”

When you finally went to your chamber, Ellyn helped unpin your hair and found dried salt at your temples where the wind had touched tears you had never wiped away.

There was another time.

Months later, when you asked again—not for hawking this time, but for something simpler.

The market.

Nothing grand. Nothing intimate enough to frighten him, you thought. The city was lively that morning, the weather fair, and the boys were old enough now to be delighted by cluttered stalls and sugared almonds and toy sellers and little carved beasts. You thought perhaps that was safe enough. A family thing. A public thing. A modest thing. By then, you had learned not to ask for too much.

So you waited until Valarr had broken his fast and the boys were still talking eagerly over some little painted cart Aelor had seen from a window the day before.

“There is a market near the Street of Flour,” you said, keeping your tone light. “The children would enjoy it, I think. We might all go together. Just for an hour.”

Valarr was reading some note from council. He looked up only after a moment.

“The market?”

“Yes.” You smiled, because smiling made requests sound smaller. Safer. “Aelor would like the toy stalls. Baelon loves anything with wheels. And there is a woman who sells sugared apples in the autumn. I thought—”

“It is a good idea, wife,” he said.

Your heart rose too quickly.

Then he added, in the same practical tone one might use when discussing cloaks or horses, “But I think I should take only the boys.”

You went still.

Valarr folded the note once. “The streets will be crowded. It would slow things if all of us went.”

The room remained warm. Somewhere behind you, Baelon was humming to himself over a crust of bread. Aelor had started talking about apples without understanding any of it.

You heard your own voice come out very small. “Slow things.”

“I only mean,” Valarr said, not quite looking at you fully, “with guards and nursemaids and the children and you besides, it becomes more of an event than an outing. They will enjoy it better if it is simple.”

If you are not there, the words seemed to finish.

You stood very still. “I see.”

He must have heard something in your voice then, because he frowned faintly. “It was not meant unkindly.”

That almost made it worse.

“Of course not,” you said.

Aelor looked up from the table. “Mother, are you coming?”

You smiled at him. You had become so very good at smiling. “No, sweetling. Today you shall have your father to yourself.”

Baelon, hearing only the uncertainty in your tone, stretched his arms toward you at once, and you took him up because otherwise you might have begun to cry before everyone.

Valarr rose. “Have them dressed warmly.”

You nearly laughed again at that. Warmly. As if you had not already thought of their cloaks, their mittens, the scarf Aelor complained of but always needed. As if mothers did not live inside such details by reflex.

When he had gone, taking with him the sound and certainty of the outing, you stood in the middle of the chamber with Baelon on your hip and felt, for one humiliating instant, as though someone had slapped you.

Ellyn found you a little later in the dressing room, not yet changed, still with Baelon’s little shoe in your hand because you had been the one lacing it when Valarr told you that you would not be coming.

“My lady?” she said carefully.

You did not turn. “He said it would be slowed down if all of us went.”

Ellyn closed her eyes.

You gave a thin, breathless laugh. “All of us. I am all of us.”

Then, because the boys were already laughing in the courtyard below and you could hear Aelor calling excitedly about horses and sweets and carts, you pressed the shoe to your mouth and cried without making a sound.

When they returned, Aelor came bursting in with stories about ribbons and nuts and a painted spinning top. Baelon had sugar on one cheek and a little wooden cart tucked in both hands. They were delighted. They loved you. They climbed into your lap at once and tried to tell you everything all at once, as if by saying it to you they could somehow include you after the fact.

You kissed them and listened and smiled in all the right places.

Then later, after they slept, you broke over the sight of the little market basket still sitting unused by the door.

These were the griefs no one wrote songs for.

The market basket untouched.

The riding cakes eaten by pages.

The waiting lamp gone dark.

The seat beside him filled by sons and cousins and fathers and not by you.

The way he would say good idea, wife and make you feel, for one heartbeat, chosen, only to brush you aside with perfect reasonableness the next.

You stopped trying to fill every silence after that.

At supper, you no longer told little stories from the west that no one in King’s Landing understood. You no longer placed the choicest pieces on Valarr’s plate before he could reach for them. You no longer reminded Aelor to tell his father what he had learned that morning. You ate what was before you and let the clicking of utensils fill the long spaces where a wife’s warmth had once been.

The boys noticed, though children never knew how to name what they noticed.

Once, Aelor climbed onto the bench beside you and asked, puzzled, “Mother, why do you not give Father the honey anymore?”

You nearly dropped your spoon.

“I think,” you said after a long pause, “your father can reach it himself.”

The child considered that with solemn seriousness and then pushed the honey dish toward Valarr anyway, because children hated imbalance instinctively.

Valarr thanked him.

He did not understand why you looked away.

So the days went on.

The court went on mistaking your ruin for grace.

And still, you loved him.

That was the true humiliation of it.

That night, after the boys had finally been coaxed to sleep, you remained in the nursery long after there was any need for it.

Aelor had one hand curled into his blanket. Baelon had turned onto his side, cheek soft against the pillow, breathing in the deep, even rhythm of the truly sleeping. The brazier had burned low. Candlelight trembled against the walls and turned the carved beasts upon the bedposts into long, wavering shadows. You sat upon the floor between them, your back resting against the settle, one hand still lying loose upon Baelon’s coverlet as though, if either child stirred, you meant to soothe him before he woke.

You did not hear Valarr come in at first.

It was only when he spoke that you looked up.

“You will wake stiff there,” he said quietly.

His voice was low enough not to wake the children.

You looked at him, then back at your sons. “I had not meant to stay.”

But that was not true, and both of you knew it.

For a moment he said nothing. He stood in the doorway with one hand braced lightly against the frame, still in his shirt and half-undone doublet, as though he had come looking for you and had not expected to find you here like this, hidden amongst the little quiet breaths of your children.

Then he stepped inside.

The floor gave a faint creak beneath his weight. He stopped first at Baelon’s bedside and drew the blanket a little higher over the child’s shoulder. It was such a small gesture that it ought not to have mattered. But you watched his hands do it, careful and gentle, and felt that old ache move through you again.

When he turned back to you, he did not speak at once.

Instead, to your surprise, he lowered himself down before you.

Not onto the settle. Not into one of the carved chairs.

Down.

Kneeling.

That alone was enough to make your breath catch.

He did not reach for you. Perhaps he knew you might pull away. Perhaps he feared you would.

The nursery was very still. Beyond the shuttered window, somewhere in the yard below, a guard’s step passed and faded. Aelor sighed once in his sleep and settled again.

Valarr looked at the rushes, then at his own hands, and only after that at you.

“I do not know how to mend this,” he said.

You went so still it almost hurt.

His mouth tightened, as though even that much truth sat badly on his pride.

“But I know,” he said, more roughly now, “that I have done you wrong in ways I was too blind to see while they were still small.”

You stared at him.

He let out one slow breath. “I thought being dutiful to you was enough.”

The words seemed to fall between you and stay there.

You looked away first.

The candle near Baelon’s bed had bent low enough that wax had begun to spill crookedly down one side. You fixed your gaze on that instead, because looking at Valarr while he said such things felt more dangerous than you knew how to bear.

He spoke again, quieter now.

“I think perhaps I have hidden inside duty,” he said, “because it was easier than admitting I did not know how to be better than dutiful.”

Something in your chest tightened so sharply you had to press your hand against your skirt.

“You do not need to say this now,” you whispered.

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

That silenced you.

He swallowed once. In the low light, he looked younger somehow. Not softer, not quite, but less armoured. Less princely. Only a man at last standing before the hurt he had made and finding no clean way around it.

“You have given me more grace than I earned,” he said. “You have given me sons. You have kept my house. You have borne…” He stopped, and for the first time his voice faltered. “You have borne me at my worst, and I let you do it alone.”

Your eyes burned at once.

You hated that they did.

You hated more that some part of you, bruised and foolish and still too full of love, wanted so badly to believe him that it felt like another humiliation all its own.

Valarr looked at you then in a way he had not in a very long time. Not glancing. Not passing over. Looking.

“You deserved more than courtesy from me,” he said. “You deserved to be cherished.”

Your breath shook on the way out.

That was the word, then.

Not duty. Not kindness. Not patience.

Cherished.

You had not known until that moment how badly you needed to hear it spoken aloud, or how cruel it was that it should come now, when you were already too wounded to receive it cleanly.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Then, very carefully, as though approaching a frightened creature that might still startle and run, he lifted one hand and laid it over yours where it rested clenched in your lap.

His palm was warm.

You did not pull away.

That was the mercy you gave him.

Only that.

His thumb moved once, a small, unthinking stroke across your knuckles, and you nearly broke at the tenderness of it because it came so late, so simply, and from the same man who had taught you to live on so little.

“I cannot unsay what I said,” he murmured.

No. He could not.

The wound of it still lived between you.

But he was here now, kneeling on the nursery floor while your sons slept only feet away, speaking as though duty had finally failed him and left him no shield but honesty.

You looked at your joined hands and said nothing.

After a long while, Valarr bowed his head over them.

Not a prince’s bow. Not something formal. Only a tired, aching lowering of himself, as though shame had at last found the proper posture for his body.

When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“But if you will let me,” he said, “I would learn.”

That was all.

Not a vow.

Not a promise grand enough to heal you.

Only a beginning so small it might have been mistaken for nothing.

And perhaps that was why it hurt so much.

Because even then, with his hand over yours and your children sleeping near enough to hear if either of you wept, hope still came like pain in another dress.

So when the red-cloak guard came,

it felt less like temptation than like grief taking on another shape.

His name was Ser Lucan Hill, though once, long ago in the warm sunlit yards beneath Casterly Rock, he had only been Lucan. A boy with wind-burnt cheeks and scraped knees and a wooden sword forever tucked beneath one arm. His mother had served a lesser household branch tied to the Rock, and Lucan had grown beneath lion banners all his life. As children, he had played with you in those half-wild, half-guarded ways children of unequal station sometimes did before adults remembered themselves. Once, when you were very small, you had given him one of your toys to share—an old carved lion with one ear slightly blunted where you had dropped it on stone. He had treasured it absurdly. Beneath a stair-arch one hot summer afternoon, you had both made a childish promise over it, solemn as septons, that one day you would be husband and wife, because children thought love meant only I like you best, so you shall stay.

Then you had grown.

And he had not stayed.

He rose instead. Not high enough to dream madly, never that, but high enough for a crimson cloak and a sword at his hip and the grave reserve of a man who had learned the line between wanting and speaking.

You spoke to Lucan only once alone.

Not truly alone, of course. Nothing in King’s Landing is ever truly alone. There are always footsteps somewhere beyond the turn of a passage, always servants with lowered eyes, always guards at a distance pretending not to listen. But for a little while, there are only the two of you beneath a narrow stone gallery where the late light slants red through the arrow-slits and paints bars across the floor.

He stands in his crimson cloak with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he is afraid to let them hang loose lest they betray him. He is broader now than the boy you once knew, quieter too, but some things have not changed. He still tips his head a little when he is nervous. He still looks at you as though your silences mean something and are not merely empty spaces for other people to fill.

“My lady,” he says.

You almost laugh at that, though there is nothing funny in it. Once, he called you [Y/N] with scraped knees and dirt on his cheek and a wooden lion clutched in his fist. Once you had both been small and foolish enough to think that liking someone best was the same thing as being allowed to keep them.

Now he calls you my lady.

Now you are a prince’s wife.

Now he stands with the care of a man who knows exactly how dangerous tenderness can be when spoken aloud.

“You need not be so formal with me,” you say, though your voice comes out softer than you meant it to.

“Yes,” he says after a pause. “I do.”

That hurts more than it ought.

For a little while neither of you speaks. Somewhere below in the yard a horse stamps. Farther off, a child laughs—one of yours, perhaps, though you cannot tell which. The sound rises bright and then is gone.

Lucan’s eyes flick to you and then away again. “You look tired.”

It is such a small sentence.

No prince has asked you that in earnest in a very long time.

You lower your gaze to your hands. “I am well.”

He does not insult either of you by pretending to believe it.

The light has shifted enough now to catch on the red of his cloak. It reminds you absurdly of summer at the Rock, of banners snapping over stone, of childish games in the yard. The memory comes so swiftly it almost steals your breath. You remember pressing the little carved lion into his hands because he had no toys of his own. You remember him looking at it as though you had given him the crown itself. You remember the two of you swearing beneath the stair-arch, with all the solemn stupidity of children, that one day he would be your husband and you would be his wife and the lion would sit between you so neither of you forgot.

You should not think of such things now.

You think of them anyway.

“Lucan,” you say, and the name feels dangerous in your mouth after all these years.

He goes very still.

You do not know why you ask it. Perhaps because you are lonelier than pride can survive. Perhaps because he is the only person in this place who ever looks at you and sees the girl you were before you became useful. Perhaps because some part of you wants to know whether you imagined that old childish tenderness, or whether it had lived somewhere real once.

“If things had been different,” you say quietly, “if we had found one another again when we were older—”

Your throat tightens.

You almost stop.

But you have already come this far, and pain has made you reckless in small quiet ways.

“If that had happened,” you finish, looking not at him but at the bars of red light on the floor, “do you think you might have been happy with me?”

The silence after is terrible.

Not empty. Full.

When you finally force yourself to look up, Lucan’s face has changed. There is grief in it now, plain and unhidden, the sort of grief only a man of low enough station and old enough love would ever dare carry before you without dressing it up as politeness.

He swallows once.

Then he says, very softly, “I liked you then more than I had any right to.”

Your breath catches.

He gives a short breath that is almost a laugh and not a laugh at all. “Gods, I was a fool for you.”

You stare at him.

No one has ever said anything so simple to you in a way that felt so devastating.

Lucan’s voice drops lower. “If the fates had been kinder in this life, I think I would have loved you a very long time.” He looks away then, jaw tightening once before he masters it. “And I think I would have spent that life trying to make you happy.”

You shut your eyes.

For one hideous, suspended moment, it feels as though your heart is being torn cleanly in two—the life you have, and the life no one ever meant you to have, laid side by side at last.

When you open your eyes again, he is still standing where he was, but there is distance in him now. Restraint. The old hard wall of understanding built back up brick by brick.

“But the fates were not so kind in this one,” he says.

Then he bowed, and when he straightened, he was a red-cloak guard again, and nothing more.

Later, much later, after your family has gone and the castle has swallowed the day whole, Ysilla comes to your chamber with a little parcel in her hands.

You know at once it must be from him.

Your heart begins to pound.

“Does Valarr know?” you ask, too quickly.

“No, my lady,” Ysilla says.

Ellyn is already crying. Myria will not meet your eyes.

You tell them you ought not take it. You say it because it is what ought to be said. Because you are a prince’s wife. Because you are a mother. Because somewhere beneath your ribs there is a small new heaviness you have not yet named aloud, though your body has already begun to know it in the queasy mornings, the strange weariness, and the way your gowns have started to sit differently across your middle.

Perhaps it is nothing.

Perhaps it is not.

You do not say a word of that either.

Myria kneels before you and whispers, “My lady, please.”

So you take the parcel.

Your fingers are trembling badly by the time you peel the wrapping back.

Inside is a small carved lion.

Plain wood. Smooth with age and handling. One ear blunted.

For a moment, the chamber disappears.

You are seven again in the Rock’s summer heat, pressing your favorite toy into a boy’s hands because he has none, because you like him best, because children think love means here, take what I treasure; I trust you with it. You hear your own little voice swearing that one day you will be husband and wife. You hear his answering promise, so earnest it had made you laugh.

He kept it.

All this time, he kept it.

Your hand closes around the lion, and the other goes, without thinking, to the slight tender secret low in your belly.

Then you begin to cry.

Not prettily. Not quietly, at first. It comes up through you like something breaking at last, and you bend over the little lion with your shoulders shaking while Ellyn catches you, Myria presses one hand to your back, and Ysilla turns toward the door to guard what little remains of your dignity.

Because he remembered.

Because he remembered the child you were.

Because somewhere beyond these walls there might have been a life in which that remembrance became a home instead of a wound.

And because, even now, with another child perhaps beginning its silent life beneath your heart, you know exactly where you will sleep tonight.

In the prince’s chambers.

In the great cold marriage.

In the life the fates chose.

You cry until there is no breath left in you, the little wooden lion clutched so tightly in your hand that the carved ear bites into your palm. Ellyn says your name once, very softly, as if she fears you might shatter completely if spoken to any louder. Myria is crying too. Ysilla has turned her face toward the door, guarding your grief the way other women guard jewels.

But none of them can help you.

Because the worst part is not the lion.

Not the memory.

Not even Lucan’s quiet voice in that red-lit passage, telling you that in a kinder life he thought he might have loved you a very long time.

The worst part is the hand that drifts, helpless and unthinking, to your belly.

The worst part is knowing that by this time next year, they will call you blessed again.

They would praise your beauty, your sweetness, your grace, your fertility.

No one would know that on the night you first held your third child beneath your heart, you were on the floor weeping over a little wooden lion and mourning the life you had never been allowed to live.

And that, perhaps, was the cruellest thing of all:

The realm would call her blessed for the very life she was mourning.

[flirtwithluck]

Hello~! I have a LADS request that's inspired by some manga stories from Youtube. Basically MC had a previous relationship with a mob bf that ended because he cheated on her. While waiting to meet up with the LADS men, said ex coincidentally shows up with the girl he cheated on MC with and they start mocking her for her "single" status, her work, etc. How do each of the LADS men react to her struggling to keep it together in front of this jerk? (Could you have MC & LADS men be in an established relationship and they are somewhat aware of this mob ex) Thank you for your time~!

Author’s Note: I know these kinds of manga, anime, and dramas are cliché, but I eat them up every single time. They're my guilty pleasure. 😅 Thanks so much for the request - I had so much fun writing these! 🤩

Synopsis : Your ex cheated. He mocked you. He thought he'd won. Unfortunately for him, you moved on - and upgraded.

A collection of Love and Deepspace drabbles featuring the men who chose you, protected you, and made sure the person who hurt you understood exactly what they lost.

Pairing: all LIs separately, including Valko x reader

Trigger/content warnings: established relationship, fluff, protective LIs, mocking/bullying/belittling (not by the LIs, don’t panic), hurt/confort (kind of)

Note: I used the same name for both the ex-boyfriend (Lorenzo) and his mistress (Narcissa), but consider each drabble not interconnected (aka separate branches)

WHERE YOU ARE CHERISHED

XAVIER (word count: 637)

You stand behind the counter at Philo, the flower shop, putting away the supplies from the day’s bouquet orders.

In the back, Jeremiah is in the greenhouse, tending to the flowers.

It is nearly closing time, and your boyfriend, Xavier, should be arriving any minute to pick you up.

You turn at the sound of the bell above the entrance.

The smile on your face disappears the moment you see who has walked in.

Your ex-boyfriend Lorenzo with Narcissa, the woman he cheated on you with, hanging possessively from his arm.

“Oh, how cute,” Narcissa says, fixing you with a smug smile. “You’re still working here.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” you reply, doing your best to sound unaffected. “I love my job.”

“I suppose you have to say that,” she sighs dramatically. “It’s not like being a florist is an impressive career.”

“At least I have a career,” you answer with an innocent smile. “Being unemployed in this day and age isn’t exactly a good look.”

Narcissa falls silent, a scowl twisting her features.

Lorenzo is connected to the mob - a fact you had been mortified to discover. The connection comes with wealth, and unlike you, Narcissa has no objections to enjoying every cent of it.

“I see your so-called career is still limited to things that wilt in a week,” Lorenzo finally speaks.

He takes a few steps forward, glancing around the shop with obvious disinterest.

“Cute little place,” he adds. “Smells like a funeral home.”

He wrinkles his nose.

“You actually enjoy playing in the dirt and selling weeds to people?”

Narcissa laughs softly behind him.

You glare at him.

Mocking you is one thing, but you will not let them insult Philo. This shop is Jeremiah’s pride and joy.

Before you can fire back, a familiar voice cuts through the tension.

Xavier steps out from the back entrance. He must have teleported into the greenhouse, probably giving Jeremiah a heart attack as usual.

“I’m sorry,” he says calmly, “but the shop is closed. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Says who?” Lorenzo asks, looking him up and down. “Are you the owner?”

Xavier walks over to you and threads his fingers through yours.

He shakes his head. “No.”

Narcissa smirks. “Found yourself a new boyfriend? How adorable.”

To be fair, Xavier does have a harmless, cute appearance.

However, for their sake, it’s fortunate they aren’t wanderers.

“Then who are you to tell us to leave?” Lorenzo crosses his arms. “We’re paying customers.”

“But you haven’t placed an order or purchased anything,” Xavier replies in a soft, deadpan tone. “So technically, that statement is false.”

You can’t hold back a snicker at his response. The fact that Xavier delivers the remark in such a calm, gentle voice only makes it funnier.

“As the owner,” Jeremiah says, emerging from the back while pulling off his gardening gloves, “I also have to ask you to leave.”

Lorenzo and Narcissa look at the three of you, and with an irritated click of his tongue, Lorenzo opens the door, clearly deciding their little visit isn’t worth extending. He lets Narcissa step out first, then pauses in the doorway and looks back over his shoulder.

“Just remember,” he says, “I could buy this entire block and turn it into a parking lot by Friday.”

With those parting words, he slams the door behind him so hard that it rattles on its hinges.

You turn to Jeremiah with a weary expression.

“He wasn’t lying, you know.”

“You don’t have to worry, Starlight,” Xavier says, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’ve dealt with worse people than him.”

“Xavier’s right,” Jeremiah adds with a smile. “And besides, I’ve dug up enough dirt on that man to bury him in paperwork if he ever dares show his face around here again.”

---------------------------------------------------

ZAYNE (word count: 774)

Glancing down at your phone, you quicken your pace as you hurry down the street.

Unfortunately, an indecisive customer had held you back at work, and now you were running fifteen minutes behind for your date with Zayne.

He had already texted to say he was waiting at the bakery.

When you messaged him to apologize for being late, he replied with a simple No worries. You knew Zayne was not the kind of man who would get angry over something like this, but you had a personal vendetta against tardiness. You hated being late.

With your attention fixed on your phone, you collide with someone.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt out immediately. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Still as clumsy as ever.”

The familiar voice sends a shiver down your spine.

Slowly, you lift your head.

Standing in front of you is Lorenzo, your mobster ex-boyfriend. Beside him stands Narcissa, the woman he cheated on you with, her hand entwined with his.

“Long time no see,” Narcissa drawls, smiling like a cat that has caught the cream. “What’s the rush?”

“I’m late for a meeting,” you answer automatically, gesturing toward the bakery across the street.

You immediately curse yourself.

Why did you answer her? It’s not as if she actually cared, and you certainly had no desire to talk to either of them. Damn your reflexive politeness.

Narcissa follows your gaze.

“A bakery?” Are you sure you need sweets?”

Her eyes turn back to you linger on your figure.

“You’re looking a little… chubby.”

She pokes your stomach.

Lorenzo chuckles beside her.

“It’s unlike you to be late,” he says. “You were always so punctual.”

“I got held up by a customer at work,” you reply.

“Ew,” Narcissa says, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “I could never buy something out of fashion, let alone secondhand.”

She swings her designer handbag casually, as if it proves her point.

You tilt your head at her in mild confusion.

Yes, you work at a secondhand clothing store, but it specializes in vintage pieces - items that can be just as valuable as something brand new.

“My love, who are your friends?”

Zayne’s voice cuts through the conversation as he approaches from the side.

He had been sitting by the bakery window and noticed you through the glass. One look at your tense posture had been enough for him to realize you were uncomfortable.

“Zayne?” you blink up at him, startled that you had not noticed him approaching. “I’m sorry for keeping you waiting. I was just about to excuse myself.”

Narcissa releases Lorenzo’s arm and steps forward, her expression transforming into a dazzling smile.

“Do I know you?” she asks sweetly. “You look oddly familiar.”

She bats her eyelashes and tosses her hair over one shoulder.

Your stomach sinks at the obvious attempt to flirt with Zayne.

Shameless. She is flirting with another man while standing right beside Lorenzo.

“I’m Dr. Zayne Li,” Zayne says politely. “I’m the chief cardiac surgeon and a medical researcher at Asko Hospital. It’s possible you’ve seen me on television or in an article.”

“How does a respected surgeon know someone like her?” she asks, shooting you a pointed look.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Dr. Li,” Lorenzo finally says, extending his hand. “I’m Lorenzo. I’ve made several substantial donations to Asko Hospital.”

Zayne begrudgingly shakes it.

“I’m Lorenzo. I’m known to make quite substantial donations to Asko Hospital,” he says, clearly taking pride in the statement.

“If I’m ever in need of medical assistance, I know I’ll be in capable hands.”

“I hope you and your partner live healthy lives and never require a trip to Asko Hospital,” Zayne replies calmly.

His expression remains composed, but his stare turns ice cold.

“My hands can save a life just as easily as they can take one.”

Both Lorenzo and Narcissa visibly pale as the meaning sinks in.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Zayne says, slipping his hand into yours, “my fiancée and I have a date to get to.”

Only then do Lorenzo and Narcissa notice the engagement ring on your finger.

Without another glance or word, Zayne guides you toward the bakery.

“Zayne,” you say quietly, “can we get the pastries to go? I’d rather go home.”

“If that’s what you want,” he replies, opening the bakery door for you. “If you’re feeling upset, we can leave.”

“It’s not that,” you say, shaking your head.

“I’m simply in the mood for a different kind of treat.”

You wink and slip inside the bakery.

Zayne follows, the tips of his ears turning a distinct shade of pink.

---------------------------------------------------

RAFAYEL (word count : 490)

You stand in front of a painting at Flux Arts, openly admiring the artwork while casually sipping from a tall glass of champagne.

Earlier, you had been happily chatting with Thomas, but he had been called away to handle other guests.

“I thought these exhibitions were reserved for VIP clients?”

A familiar voice sounds from behind you.

You sigh quietly and turn around to find Narcissa standing there, with none other than your cheating ex-boyfriend, Lorenzo, holding her by the waist.

“Breaking and entering is considered a crime,” Lorenzo adds.

“As if you have any right to lecture anyone about laws,” you mutter into your glass.

To clarify your statement, Lorenzo is a mobster.

“Do you even know anything about art?” Lorenzo asks, clearly unimpressed by your earlier comment.

“Coming from a man who can’t even draw a stick figure,” you mutter under your breath.

“Considering I own and run an art supply store, I’d like to believe I know a thing or two,” you say.

“Well, these paintings are far beyond your pay grade,” Narcissa mocks. “The most you can do is stand here and admire them.”

She smiles smugly.

“Unlike me. I only have to say the word, and the painting is mine. Isn’t that right, honey?”

She looks up at Lorenzo with an overly sweet smile.

“Anything for my darling,” he replies, smiling down at her.

You visibly fight the urge to gag.

“Entertaining guests, Cutie?”

Rafayel’s voice appears beside you as he casually wraps an arm around your waist.

“You must be the artist, Rafayel,” Lorenzo says, raising his champagne glass in greeting. “Perfect timing. I’d like to discuss the possibility of purchasing some of your artwork.”

Rafayel hums thoughtfully, pretending to consider the offer.

“What do you say to that, Cutie?” he asks, giving you a playful smile.

You return it.

“I find these individuals unworthy of your masterpieces.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Rafayel,” Lorenzo says, gesturing toward you with his glass, “I don’t think this woman - your assistant, no doubt - has any say in the matter.”

“My bride,” Rafayel corrects smoothly. “My bride has every say in this matter.”

His smile remains pleasant, but his eyes sharpen.

“Not to mention, the paintings reject you as their owner. Their colors clash with your soul.”

Spotting Thomas approaching, Rafayel waves him over.

“Thomas, please show these guests to the exit.”

With a dismissive wave, he guides you away from Lorenzo and Narcissa.

You force the two of you to stop, then glance back over your shoulder.

“Who needs money for the painting when I have the actual painter?”

You grin smugly.

“Your taste in the past was truly tragic. Your ex is nothing more than a monochrome blur compared to this vivid masterpiece.”

He gestures dramatically to himself.

You roll your eyes playfully and nudge his shoulder.

“True, but let’s not forget that your private collection was missing its ultimate masterpiece before I came along.”

---------------------------------------------------

SYLUS (word count : 547)

You sit at a table in a restaurant overlooking the vibrant nightlife of Linkon City, surrounded by warm ambient lighting and the soft melody of the live band playing in the background.

You swirl the red wine in your glass, waiting for your partner, Sylus, to arrive.

Unfortunately, he had been held up in the N109 Zone, dealing with a matter concerning Onychinus.

Since you were already on your way to the restaurant - courtesy of Luke and Kieran, who had driven you there - you decided to simply wait for him rather than change your plans.

“Well, well, well. Who do we have here?”

A grating voice sounds from beside you.

You slowly turn in your chair, crossing one leg over the other as you look toward the source.

The woman standing there is none other than Narcissa - the dreadful parasite your ex-boyfriend decided was better than you and cheated on you with.

Beside her stands Lorenzo, dressed in a dark tailored suit. Statement jewelry adorns his hands and wrist, and a heavy overcoat hangs over his shoulders despite the middle of summer.

A year ago, you might have found the sight unbearably attractive.

Now?

You only find it pathetic, like he is trying far too hard to maintain his image as a mobster.

“What are you doing in a luxury establishment like this?” Lorenzo asks, his annoyance clear at seeing you. “As if you could afford to eat somewhere like this.”

Before you can respond, a waiter approaches.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Qin,” he says politely. “Is everything alright here?”

His eyes briefly flick toward Lorenzo and Narcissa.

“Everything is alright,” you reassure him with a smile.

The waiter hesitates for a moment, but eventually gives a polite nod and leaves.

“Mrs. Qin?” Lorenzo raises an eyebrow. “That’s not your name.”

“Designer clothes,” Narcissa says, taking in your outfit. “No doubt, fake.”

“Luxury restaurant. Fake name.”

She counts each point off on her fingers.

“I get it,” she says excitedly. “You’re here with a sugar daddy, aren’t you?”

“Takes one to know one,” you reply, glaring at her.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Sylus approaching the table.

His expression says, Who are these people?

You stand and loop your arm through his.

“Lorenzo, Narcissa, allow me to introduce my sugar daddy…”

“…also known as my husband, Sylus Qin.”

You smile smugly.

Sylus lets out a low chuckle.

“Sylus Qin?” Lorenzo stumbles over the name. “As in… the Sylus?”

“Did you say husband?” Narcissa repeats.

“Lorenzo, was it?” Sylus addresses him directly.

“Ah, yes. I recall your name coming up a few times. The sewer rat that has been causing trouble in the N109 Zone.”

Lorenzo’s face pales beneath Sylus’s intimidating gaze.

Even Narcissa instinctively steps behind him, using him as a shield.

Despite Lorenzo’s reputation, he is no match for Sylus’s overwhelming presence.

“I suggest you leave my restaurant,” Sylus says, taking a slow step forward, “while I’m still asking nicely.”

Lorenzo and Narcissa waste no time leaving, practically fleeing from the restaurant.

You can’t help but find the sight amusing.

Sylus looks down at you, a teasing smirk forming on his lips.

“So, you finally admit that I’m your sugar daddy.”

“Oh, hush,” you reply, your cheeks turning a bright shade of red.

---------------------------------------------------

CALEB (word count : 653)

You wait patiently outside Farspace Fleet headquarters.

Despite being located in the highest district of Skyhaven, surrounded by elite security measures and under strict military control, you have no trouble entering.

All thanks to the authority granted to you through your boyfriend, Farspace Colonel Caleb.

After spending two weeks away on a mission deep within the Deepspace tunnels, he finally returned today.

You weren’t patient enough to wait for him at home, so you decided to come meet him instead.

Caleb’s adjutant, Liam, greeted you upon arrival. He informed you that the colonel would be with you shortly before leaving to attend to whatever duties required his attention.

From across the way, you spot someone you haven’t seen in a long time.

Someone you never expected to see here.

Lorenzo.

Your ex-boyfriend.

As a mobster, you knew his criminal organization operated through various front corporations. But you never imagined he had connections within the Farspace Fleet.

Unfortunately, he notices you as well.

With the same arrogant confidence you remember, he approaches.

“I thought the Hunters Association and Farspace Fleet had a strained relationship,” he remarks as he stops directly in front of you.

You know he won’t attempt anything here. Not surrounded by Farspace military personnel.

Yet, despite that, he still makes you uneasy.

When you first met Lorenzo, you thought he was everything you wanted.

Handsome. Charming. A gentleman.

He had taken a particular interest in your position at the Hunters Association, specifically your work in the Armory Department - the department responsible for maintaining and servicing weapons used by Deepspace Hunters.

At the time, you thought he admired your skills and knowledge.

You were wrong.

He had been using your expertise for illegal purposes.

When you discovered the truth, you confronted him and demanded to walk away.

But Lorenzo threatened you.

If you left, he would expose your involvement and tell the Hunters Association about the assistance you had unknowingly provided him.

The discovery that he had also been cheating on you with one of his informants, Narcissa, was the cherry on top.

It wasn’t until you met Caleb that Lorenzo finally disappeared from your life.

To this day, you still have no idea what Caleb did or said to make him back off.

Though you have no doubt his position as colonel had something to do with it.

“I’ll admit, I’m impressed,” Lorenzo says, sounding almost sincere. “I didn’t think you had it in you to seek assistance from the Farspace Colonel.”

Suddenly, Lorenzo drops to his knees, his head forced downward.

You would recognize Caleb’s Evol anywhere.

“I thought the first and last time I saw you, I warned you to stay away.”

Caleb’s voice comes from behind him.

Low.

Deep.

Dangerous.

His eyes are dark as he stares down at Lorenzo.

“Did you come here to make me regret my decision to spare your life?”

Lorenzo groans as Caleb’s Evol presses him further into the concrete.

Then, just as quickly as it began, Caleb releases him.

Turning toward Liam, Caleb gives a simple command.

“Take out the trash and ensure he never steps foot here again.”

“Understood.”

Liam grabs Lorenzo and forces him to his feet before dragging him away.

The moment they are gone, Caleb’s entire posture changes.

The cold authority of the colonel disappears, replaced by his familiar boyish grin.

“Hey, Babe. Miss me?”

His voice turns light and playful.

As if what just happened was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

You jump into his arms, knocking his visor cap to the ground in the process.

Caleb catches you effortlessly, wrapping his arms securely around your waist.

You kiss him until you’re both breathless.

“We’re going straight home,” you say in one breath. “You will only speak to me in your colonel voice, and the uniform stays on.”

Caleb blinks before a slow smile spreads across his face.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He gives you a playful nod.

---------------------------------------------------

VALKO (word count : 606)

You fidget in an armchair located in the lobby of EonCore Tech.

You’re waiting for the chairman - your boyfriend, Valko - to finish his work.

The two of you have plans to spend the weekend at his cabin.

Since Valko is a wolf hybrid, he absolutely loves nature and feels most at home surrounded by the wilderness of the forest.

You shift your gaze to the side when you hear the rustling of paper.

Several feet away, a woman sits flipping through a magazine she picked up from the coffee table.

She looks familiar, but it isn’t until she lifts her head that recognition settles in.

Narcissa.

Of all the people you could have run into…

It had to be her.

The sly fox who your ex-boyfriend, Lorenzo, cheated on you with.

Uncrossing her legs, she places the magazine down and gives you her signature smile.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she says.

“Here to apply for a job?”

You remain silent.

“Word of advice,” she continues. “I’d save myself the embarrassment and cancel the interview. As if a small 9-to-5 office worker like yourself has anything to offer a company like this.”

You refuse to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

Unfortunately, your silence does nothing to discourage her.

“Lorenzo, my fiancé…”

She lifts her hand, proudly displaying the enormous diamond ring on her finger.

“…is currently upstairs speaking with the chairman about a possible partnership.”

Your stomach sinks and you can only hope that whatever deal or proposal Lorenzo is trying to make, Valko will dismiss it immediately.

Speak of the devil.

The doors to the elevator open, and Lorenzo storms into the lobby.

He looks furious, practically stomping his way forward like a child throwing a tantrum.

Narcissa stops talking and jumps to her feet, a bright smile appearing on her face.

“Babe, how did it go?” she asks, completely oblivious to his mood.

“Rejected,” Lorenzo snaps.

“The chairman cut me off before I even had a chance to finish.”

His angry gaze shifts toward you, who is quietly attempting to slip away unnoticed.

“You.”

“What are you doing here?”

His frustration turns toward you.

“If you’re here for a job, you could have at least dressed the part,” he scoffs.

“Your figure is the only thing you have going for you.”

“Sunshine, sorry to make you wait.”

Strong arms wrap around your waist from behind, and Valko affectionately nuzzles against your neck.

Lorenzo stares at the display of affection in confusion before realization slowly dawns on him. His entire expression changes.

The arrogance disappears, replaced by politeness and professionalism.

“Mr. Ao,” he says carefully. “Is this woman your partner, perhaps?”

“What a coincidence. She and I go way back. We’re old friends.”

Lucky for you, even without words, Valko can sense your emotions through the mating bond.

His sharp wolf-like instincts also makes it impossible for him to miss an obvious lie.

“I knew who you were the moment you walked into my office,” Valko says calmly.

Naturally, Valko already knows about your history with Lorenzo and Narcissa.

He was the one who helped free you from that man’s control.

“You are banned from ever stepping foot inside EonCore Tech again.”

His voice lowers into a warning growl.

He takes your hand and leads you toward the exit. Before leaving, you glance back.

“Word of advice, Narcissa,” you say.

“Once a cheater, always a cheater.”

“He cheated on me. There’s nothing stopping him from doing the same to you.”

Lorenzo gives you a dark glare.

Narcissa, however, only stares at you uneasily.

Because somewhere deep down, she knows your words might be true.

---------------------------------------------------

Author’s Note: Please know that unless I send an answer declining your request, it will get written eventually. Thank you all so much for your support, your patience, and for trusting me with your ideas. ❤️

Tag list : @cordidy @thehyperfixationgirly @pjselee

(If you'd like to be tagged in future fanfics, just leave a comment on any of my works, and I'll add you to the tag list! 🙂)

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to check out my other Love and Deepspace fanfiction.

[da2019]

The Baby is Built Like a Royal Loaf

From the same universe as: That Is Not My Baby, You Heathen

Pairing: Prince Valarr x Reader ( "You" referred)

Summary:

Prince Baelor takes both of his grandsons on a cheerful tour of Summerhall and promptly discovers that the younger one is built like a royal loaf. After one near-disaster on the stairs, he earns the ire of his daughter-in-law. Valarr is left pleading “Father, please” for the sake of his marriage and his life, and Aerion makes everything worse by calling the baby chonky.

Warnings:

Baelor lives. Duncan and Aerion are on better terms. Humor. Family fluff. Aerion suffering.Body shaming a baby?! He is chonky though. It is a very chill, feel good, everyone is alive and safe.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾

The morning had ripened fair and bright over Summerhall, all pale gold sun and long clean banners stirring lazily from tower and parapet. The keep seemed gentler in such hours, before the day’s petitions gathered, before men began bringing their grievances and ambitions into its halls. Servants moved through the corridors with baskets of linen and polished flagons, maids with ribbons at their belts and boys carrying logs for hearths not yet in need of them. Through the open windows the scent of rosemary and warm stone drifted in from the gardens below, mingled with the faint sweetness of crushed grass and the distant, dusty smell of the yard where squires had already begun their morning’s bruising labor.

It ought to have been a peaceful hour.

It might even have remained one, had Prince Baelor not come striding into the family solar with the bright, dangerous confidence of a grandsire who loved his descendants dearly and therefore believed himself equal to every task involving them.

Your elder son had gone to him gladly enough, for he adored his grandsire with that easy, unquestioning devotion children gave to men who laughed readily and made the world feel broad and exciting. He had been perched already upon the carved window seat, half listening while Ser Duncan told him some account of horses from years past, when Baelor entered and opened his arms.

“There is my young prince,” Baelor had said, and the boy was across the room at once.

The younger one had been in your lap, drowsy with milk and recent sleep, all soft cheeks and milk-white hair and stubborn little fists. He was heavy even at rest. Not merely well-grown, but substantial. He had the serene, treacherous weight of a babe who appeared all softness until one attempted to lift him and discovered, too late, that he had been made out of lead and cream.

Baelor, seeing one grandson already in his arms and the other blinking up from your lap, had smiled with fatal confidence.

“Well,” he said, “I cannot walk the keep with only half my pride in hand.”

You had laughed then, because the day was bright, because Baelor looked so pleased with himself, and because it had not yet occurred to you that the gods were about to be amused.

Valarr, who had been standing near the hearth fastening one dark leather glove about his wrist, glanced over at once. “Father,” he said, and there was the faintest note in his voice, no more than the first warning tremor before a bridge gives way, “perhaps take them one at a time.”

Baelor waved him off.

“Nonsense. Have I gone soft, that I cannot manage my grandsons?”

Prince Maekar, seated not far off with a cup of watered wine in hand, watched over the rim with the sort of expression he reserved for tourneys, council sessions, and Aerion. It was not disapproval exactly, but a grave expectation that foolishness was imminent and that he would somehow be made to suffer it merely by witnessing it.

Aerion, lounging by the open archway with his shoulder against the stone and his arms folded, said nothing. Yet a certain stillness came into him, a particular brightness about the eyes that suggested he, too, sensed some coming entertainment and meant to enjoy it as long as none of the consequences touched him.

Baelor bent and gathered the babe from your lap with every appearance of ease.

For a single, glorious heartbeat, all was well.

Then the baby settled fully into his arms.

Baelor’s brows rose.

It was a very small movement, but those who knew him saw it at once. The slight hitch in breath. The abrupt tightening through the shoulders. The near-imperceptible shift of stance as he adjusted his footing like a man who had expected a cushion and instead found himself handed a sack of wet grain in embroidered swaddling.

Your elder son, already balanced happily upon Baelor’s other arm, turned his head and looked at his baby brother with keen interest, then back to his grandsire.

“He is heavy,” he observed.

Baelor, who had far too much pride to retreat while observed by half his family, let out a short laugh. “Only because he is thriving.”

“Thriving,” Aerion murmured under his breath, not quite softly enough, “like a castle-fed piglet.”

Maekar’s head turned.

Not sharply. That would have wasted energy. He merely looked at Aerion.

It was enough.

Aerion lifted one shoulder, as if to say he had spoken no falsehood and saw little reason to repent of accuracy merely because it had offended decorum.

Valarr, who knew his cousin too well, shut his eyes for one brief moment and then opened them again.

Baelor, determined now, resettled the child higher against his chest. The babe, delighted by motion and utterly trusting, gave a pleased little hum and seized a fold of Baelor’s sleeve in one plump fist. His white head gleamed in the sunlight. One blue eye and one brown fixed solemnly upon the room as if he were already judging it.

“There,” Baelor said, more to reassure his audience than himself. “You see? Perfectly manageable.”

“No one said otherwise,” Valarr answered, which was princely speech for put him down before you embarrass yourself.

But Baelor had already committed. That was always the danger of him. Once some bright notion seized his heart, he carried it forward with all the vigor of a man half his age and twice the confidence.

“I shall show them the eastern gallery,” he declared. “And the painted shields. And the old dragon carvings on the stair. A prince ought to know his home.”

“Both of them?” you asked, smiling despite yourself.

Baelor looked almost offended. “What, would you have me deprive one grandson for the comfort of my own arms?”

That was noble enough in sentiment, if not in wisdom.

So off he went, one boy riding easily upon his left arm, the younger clutched upon the right, and a small procession trailing after in varying states of fondness, alarm, and morbid curiosity. You rose and followed. Valarr came too, though with the resigned pace of a man already anticipating disaster. Duncan, drawn perhaps by the same instinct that led large dogs toward kitchen mishaps, came behind him. Egg slipped after them with bright eyes. Maekar set down his cup with the dignity of a man accepting punishment from the gods and followed as well. Aerion lingered last, because he would rather die than appear eager, though he came all the same.

The first part went well enough.

Baelor carried the boys through the sunlit passage above the inner court, speaking to them as though both were already of an age to understand. He pointed out old tapestries browned at the edges with time, told your elder son which king had built which tower, and informed the babe, with complete seriousness, that one day he must learn the difference between a dragon worked in red thread and one done in black. The elder listened earnestly. The younger gnawed upon his own fist and drooled onto Baelor’s collar.

Servants smiled as they passed. Guards bowed their heads. One old woman in the laundry gallery made the sign for luck when she saw the little princes borne along so proudly, as if Summerhall itself had decided to soften and grow domestic for an hour.

Then they came to the turning stair.

It was broad enough and shallow enough, with carved stone dragons crouched along the banister, their wings curled and their teeth worn smooth by generations of childish hands. Baelor paused there, perhaps intending some grand gesture, perhaps merely shifting the baby’s weight before continuing.

That was the moment the child chose to lean.

He did it with all the cheerful conviction of infancy, sudden and absolute, one plump leg kicking, one arm flinging outward toward the carved dragon on the post as if he had decided, in that instant, that he must possess it.

Baelor, taken unawares, adjusted too late.

The babe slipped.

Not far.

But enough.

Enough that Baelor’s grip lurched. Enough that the child’s weight tipped heavily downward. Enough that every soul upon that stair felt the bottom drop out of the morning.

“Oh—whoa, whoa—”

The words came from half a dozen mouths at once.

You made a sound that did not belong in princely corridors at all.

Valarr moved so fast the leather of his boots bit the stone. One hand shot out beneath the baby before he had dropped more than an inch, the other bracing Baelor’s arm. Duncan lunged forward behind him on pure instinct. Egg nearly collided with Duncan’s back in his own haste to see. Your elder son clutched at Baelor’s shoulder, eyes wide. Even the nearest guard stepped forward before remembering that to lay hands upon princes unbidden was its own kind of madness.

Prince Maekar, standing two steps below, flinched visibly.

It was not dramatic. He did not cry out. Yet the wince crossed his face plain as daylight, brief and sharp and unhidden, the expression of a man who had seen tourney lances splinter and sons thrown from horseback and who had no wish to add dropped royal infants to the tally of things he must endure before death.

By the time the moment had finished unfolding, the baby was safe.

Very safe.

Safe in that absurd way children sometimes were, where seven adults had nearly died of fright and he himself only blinked, offended by the interruption of his adventure.

Valarr had him now, one strong hand under his son’s bottom, the other firm across his back. The child stared up at him for a moment, surprised, then gave a happy little noise as if this had all been an elaborate game staged for his amusement.

Silence fell.

Baelor stood empty-armed on one side and your elder son still upon his other arm, blinking with all the sober concern of a boy not yet old enough to hide his feelings.

Valarr looked at his father.

He said nothing for one beat too long.

Then, very mildly, very clearly, he said, “Father. Please. If my wife had seen that cleanly, she would have had both our heads.”

For a moment there was nothing.

Then you heard Egg choke.

Duncan coughed into his fist.

Baelor, to his credit, had the grace to look ashamed for perhaps the length of half a heartbeat. After that, his pride reassembled itself quickly enough.

“Well,” he said, drawing himself up while your elder son still clung to him, “I am sorry. I did not think he would be this big.”

The words hung in the stairwell.

Valarr shut his eyes for the briefest moment. One could almost see the thought pass across his face: Father, why would you say that aloud?

Your own eyes widened at once, sharp with offended astonishment, as though for a heartbeat you could scarcely believe what you had just heard.

And from behind them all, low under his breath but not low enough, came Aerion’s voice:

“Because he is a chonky thing.”

Every head turned.

It happened as one motion. Duncan. Egg. You. Valarr. Even Baelor. Maekar last of all, but his was the look that mattered.

Aerion, caught squarely in the full regard of his kin, did not retreat. He merely lifted his chin the smallest fraction, as if prepared to defend himself in single combat over the right to describe the obvious.

Maekar stared at him with the cold weariness of a father whom the gods had cursed with a son both handsome and determined to be himself at every opportunity.

“Do not,” Maekar said, each word clipped clean as a blade, “call your kinsman a chonky thing.”

The word sounded profoundly unnatural in Maekar’s mouth. Even the guards had to lower their eyes and bite at the insides of their cheeks, for the whole of it had become too strange and too ridiculous to bear with proper dignity.

Aerion’s mouth twitched. That was the worst part. He was trying not to smile.

“I was speaking quietly.”

“Yes,” Egg said weakly, already beginning to fold in on himself, “that was the problem. We all heard it.”

That finished it.

You laughed first, because the fright had to go somewhere and laughter was kinder than tears. It came out breathless and bright, half relief, half scolding, half the sheer ridiculousness of seeing princes and heirs and great lords brought low by one very plump infant.

Baelor laughed next, loud and easy, because shame never held him long and the child was safe and the world had not ended. Your elder son, seeing that all was well, began to giggle too, burying his face against Baelor’s shoulder. Duncan let out one helpless bark of laughter before attempting to strangle it into something respectable and failing utterly. Egg leaned against the stair rail, one hand over his eyes, shoulders shaking.

Even Valarr gave in at last, enough that the stern line of his mouth softened and the light returned to his eyes as he looked down at the baby in his arms.

The baby, as if sensing triumph, patted his father’s jaw and crowed.

Baelor peered at him, then at Valarr, then at the babe again. “I swear he weighs more than your elder son did at twice that age.”

“You forget,” Maekar said dryly, “that your other grandson did not spend his infancy being admired into fatness.”

“He is not fat,” you said at once.

“He is well beloved,” Duncan offered, with the solemn diplomacy of a man trying to save everyone.

“Which is another way,” Aerion muttered, “of saying chon—”

“Aerion,” said Maekar.

Aerion looked almost wounded by the interruption. “I was going to say comfortable.”

“You were not,” said Egg.

“I might have.”

“You absolutely were not,” your elder son informed him, still laughing. “You said chonky.”

Traitorous child.

Aerion stared at him as if personally betrayed by blood.

Valarr shifted the baby higher and pressed a kiss against the fine white hair atop his son’s head. “You hear what they call you,” he murmured, low enough only those nearest could catch it. “And after your mother works so hard to keep you splendid.”

The baby blinked up at him, one fist still wrapped in dark cloth, with all the grave serenity of a prince secure in his own importance.

Baelor reached over then, more cautiously this time, and smoothed one broad hand over the child’s back. There was laughter still in him, but also something softer, something older. Love sat very plainly upon his face in that moment.

“He is a fine boy,” he said.

Valarr’s expression eased fully then. “He is.”

“And a heavier one than he looks,” Baelor added, which sent Egg into another fit and Duncan into a fresh cough and you into helpless laughter all over again.

Maekar closed his eyes once, very briefly, like a man beseeching the Seven for patience. When he opened them, though, even he was less severe than before. Not smiling, precisely. That would have been too much to ask of him before noon. But gentled.

“Next time,” he said to Baelor, “take one grandson and leave the other to his parents.”

Baelor sighed as though this were tyranny of the blackest sort. “You would strip an old man of joy.”

“I would spare the rest of us heart failure.”

“That too,” said Aerion.

Maekar gave him a look.

Aerion, who had apparently decided one reprimand per hour was his limit, raised both hands in surrender and leaned back against the carved dragon post.

Your elder son twisted round in Baelor’s arm to look at his baby brother, then asked very seriously, “May I still show him the painted shields later? When he is bigger?”

Valarr smiled at that. “You may show him everything.”

The boy nodded, satisfied.

And so the little procession re-formed, though with rather more care than before. Baelor kept only the elder this time and bore the change with noble resignation. Valarr carried the younger against his chest, where the child seemed entirely pleased to remain, warm and sturdy and adored. You walked beside them with your hand resting once upon the babe’s back just because you could. Duncan and Egg followed, still exchanging looks of disbelief whenever someone said the word heavy. Aerion came after with the lazy air of a man who wished it known he had not enjoyed himself, though the mutinous curve at one corner of his mouth betrayed him. Maekar brought up the rear like a stern shadow over all of it.

And Summerhall, bright under the morning sun, seemed to gather the sound of their laughter into its old stones and keep it there.

For all its towers, its blood, its pride, its dragons carved and living, it was in such moments that the place felt richest.

Not in ceremony.

Not in power.

But in the absurd, whole-hearted tenderness of one family nearly undone by the weight of a very beloved baby.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾

That night Summerhall had at last gone quiet.

The torches in the outer passages had burned low, their light gone soft and golden against the stone, and the great keep seemed to breathe more slowly once the household had retired behind carved doors and heavy curtains. Somewhere far below, in the dark belly of the castle, a servant shut a distant door with careful hands. The sound traveled faintly upward and was gone. Outside, the wind moved warm through the gardens and set the cypresses whispering. From the stables there came now and then the muted shift of horses in straw.

Valarr found his father in the long gallery outside the family apartments, standing beside one of the arched windows with a cup in hand and the moonlight silvering one side of his face. Baelor had shed the greater weight of the day from his shoulders. Without court around him, without petitioners and retainers and watchful eyes, he looked only what he had always been beneath the dignity of his rank: a man of easy warmth, broad feeling, and occasional ruinous confidence.

He glanced over at the sound of footsteps and smiled at once.

“There you are. I thought you’d gone to bed.”

“I had meant to.”

Baelor’s smile widened. “Ah.”

Valarr came to stand beside him, one hand resting briefly on the stone sill. Beyond the window, the courtyard lay washed in pale light, banners stirring faintly above the roofs and towers. He was quiet for a moment, as if considering how best to begin.

Baelor, being Baelor, ruined that silence almost at once.

“If you have come to scold me again,” he said, “I remind you that the child did not fall.”

Valarr let out a slow breath through his nose.

“No,” he said. “He did not. By the mercy of the gods and the speed of my reflexes.”

Baelor gave a low laugh into his cup. “You are beginning to sound like your grandsire.”

“I should hope not.”

“You do when you are vexed.”

Valarr turned his head and looked at him then, pale-eyed and patient in the way that meant he was not patient at all.

“Father.”

Baelor’s laughter softened, though the amusement still lingered in his face. “Very well. I admit it. I misjudged him.”

“That is a graceful way of saying you nearly dropped my son on a stair.”

“I nearly did no such thing.”

Valarr’s brow lifted.

Baelor paused, reconsidered, then amended with dignity, “I came nearer to mishap than I had intended.”

“That,” said Valarr, “is not as reassuring as you seem to think.”

For a moment Baelor looked as though he might laugh again, but something in his son’s face held him back. He lowered the cup a little.

“You are truly angry with me, then.”

Valarr was silent.

Not angry, exactly. Not in the hot and fleeting way of boys and cousins and foolish court frictions. What sat in him now was older than that, heavier, shaped by marriage and fatherhood and the strange terror of loving something so small that one could imagine losing it in a single breath.

“At the stair,” he said at last, “I thought only that if he slipped—” He stopped there, jaw tightening a little. “And after, I thought of my wife.”

Baelor’s expression changed.

The jesting ease in him gentled, then receded.

Valarr looked back out across the moonlit court rather than at his father. “She was frightened enough already. You saw her.”

“I did.”

“And then everyone laughed.”

Baelor made a faint sound. “He was safe.”

“He was,” Valarr agreed. “That is why they laughed.” His mouth quirked once, without much humor. “And I laughed too, in the end. I know how it looked. I know no cruelty was meant. But she has been strange of late where the babe is concerned.”

Baelor listened without interruption now.

Valarr continued more quietly, “She thinks he is too large.”

Baelor blinked once. “Too large?”

“Yes.”

“He is a babe.”

“I am aware of that.”

Baelor’s mouth twitched.

Valarr gave him a warning look.

“I am trying,” Baelor said, with some effort, “not to say anything unhelpful.”

“That would be a first.”

Baelor huffed a laugh despite himself, then grew sober again. “Go on.”

Valarr folded his arms. “She frets over everything. Whether he feeds too much. Whether he is too heavy when she carries him. Whether the nurses notice. Whether the maids talk. Whether everyone thinks she has indulged him too much, held him too much, loved him too much.” He glanced aside then, and there was something weary and tender in him both at once. “As though a child may be ruined by being cherished.”

Baelor’s face softened fully then.

“Ah,” he said, and this time there was no laughter in it at all.

For a while neither spoke.

The wind moved lightly through the open arch and stirred the edge of Valarr’s sleeve.

At last Baelor said, “And I made it worse.”

Valarr looked at him. “Not gravely. Not beyond mending. But yes.”

His father exhaled.

“I only meant that he is a healthy little thing.”

“I know.”

“And he is somewhat…” Baelor paused, searching perhaps for a word less dangerous than the ones used earlier that day.

Valarr looked at him steadily.

Baelor tried again. “Round.”

Against his will, some fragment of amusement returned to Valarr’s face. “Father.”

“Well, he is.”

“I know he is.”

Baelor spread one hand helplessly. “Then what would you have me do? Pretend I have not got eyes?”

“No. Only do not say it before my wife.”

Baelor stared at him for a moment, then barked a laugh before he could stop himself.

Valarr closed his eyes.

“Come now,” Baelor said, still half laughing. “He is chubby.”

“I know.”

“And very much so.”

“I know.”

“And built like a—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

Baelor had the grace to look somewhat ashamed, though not ashamed enough to cease being amused. “You cannot blame me overmuch. The boy is magnificent.”

“He is,” Valarr said at once, and with enough feeling that Baelor’s mirth quieted again.

The words had come too quickly to be anything but true.

Valarr’s gaze had gone distant now, as if seeing not the gallery but the bedchamber beyond, where the fire had burned low and the curtains breathed softly with the night air. His wife would be there, perhaps asleep at last, perhaps not. Perhaps lying wakeful as she often did now, one hand against the cradle and some needless worry turning over in her mind.

“I would not change a thing about him,” Valarr said. “Not his cheeks. Not his hands. Not the weight of him. Not the way he goes heavy and warm when he sleeps against her shoulder. He is exactly as he ought to be.”

Baelor said nothing.

Valarr’s mouth softened then, and despite the late hour and the quiet there came into him that unmistakable look of a man in love beyond all dignity or cure.

“And if she is troubled,” he added, “then I must spend half my time persuading her he is perfect, and the other half persuading her she is.”

Baelor watched him, something warm and knowing passing over his face.

“That,” he said, “sounds like marriage.”

Valarr let out a faint breath that might have been a laugh.

“It is exhausting.”

“It seems to suit you.”

“It does,” Valarr said.

Then, after the briefest pause, he added with perfect seriousness, “Which is why I would prefer not to spend my evenings repairing damage done by my father when I might instead be back in bed with my wife.”

Baelor stared at him.

Then he threw back his head and laughed outright, warm and booming in the moonlit hush of the gallery, so that Valarr had to glance once down the corridor in case some poor soul had been woken by it.

“Oh, that is the truth of it, is it?” Baelor said.

“Yes.”

“You did not come here only out of concern for the child.”

“I came here out of concern for my peace.”

Baelor laughed harder. “Gods preserve me.”

Valarr endured it with long-suffering dignity.

“At least you are honest.”

“I am married. Honesty is cheaper than failure.”

That seemed only to amuse Baelor the more. He wiped once at the corner of his eye and shook his head.

“You are very far gone.”

“I have children. That is usually a sign.”

“No,” Baelor said, still smiling. “I mean with her.”

And there it was, said plainly, without mockery.

Valarr did not answer at once. He looked again into the courtyard, where the moonlight lay white across the stone and the shadows of the towers stretched long and black.

“Yes,” he said at last. “I am.”

Baelor’s smile gentled into something deeper then, something touched perhaps by memory. “Good.”

The word sat softly between them.

After a moment Baelor lifted his cup, then thought better of it and set it aside upon the sill instead.

“I will be more careful,” he said. “With the babe. And with my tongue.”

Valarr glanced at him. “Truly?”

“I said I would.”

“You also said this morning that you could carry both boys without issue.”

Baelor drew himself up. “And for most of the morning, I did.”

Valarr looked at him for one long beat, then laughed despite himself.

It was quiet laughter, worn down by the hour and the day and all that fatherhood had made of him, but real. Baelor smiled to hear it.

“I shall apologize to her properly tomorrow,” Baelor said. “Not in a way that makes matters worse.”

“That last condition matters most.”

“I know how to speak to women, boy.”

“Do you?”

Baelor gave him an affronted look. “I managed your mother.”

Valarr’s mouth curved. “That is not the same as success.”

Baelor made a noise of theatrical offense.

Then, because tenderness always sat very near the surface in him, he reached out and clasped Valarr once at the shoulder.

“He is a fine child,” he said. “And she is a good mother. Better than she knows.”

Valarr’s expression eased.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I only need her to know it too.”

For a little while longer they stood there, father and son, with the hush of Summerhall all around them and the moon keeping silver watch over stone and garden and sleeping towers. Then Baelor gave his shoulder a final squeeze and stepped back.

“Go on, then.”

Valarr glanced at him.

“To bed,” Baelor said, with a wicked glint returning at last to his eyes. “Before your wife decides your absence is my fault too.”

Valarr shook his head once, though there was laughter in him now.

“It usually is.”

“Ungrateful boy.”

“Good night, Father.”

“Good night, son.”

Valarr turned then and went back down the quiet corridor toward his chambers, where warmth waited, and the cradle, and the soft-breathed stillness of the woman he loved. And Baelor, left alone in the moonlit gallery, smiled to himself and murmured into the dark:

“Chubby little prince.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

Can You Ever Love Me? Masterlist

Modern AU AKOTSK Series

Prologue

Chapter 1—Do You Play Charades?

Chapter 2—The Princess Bride

Chapter 3—Our Room, Love

Chapter 4—Call Me Chandler

Chapter 5—A Knight's Tale

Chapter 6—Meet The Family

Chapter 7—Three Little Words

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

We're BACK!!

Chapter 7 is now up. Hope you enjoy!

[itsacoffeemug]

Pregnant Valarr. Round with daddy's babies. Hmmmm

[calebsfavoriteusedthong]

When they find you humping a pillow.

Part 1: When you find them humping a pillow

CW: Self love. Oral s3x. Jealousy on Xavier's part. Dirty talking. Teasing. P in V. No plot just 🌽. 🔞MDNI🔞

WC: 6,436

You squirmed on the bed, the soft cotton sheets rustling beneath your writhing body. Zayne's pillow cradled between your thighs like a secret lover. Its scent, a mix of his cologne and the unique musk that was purely him, filled your nostrils with each breath you took.

Your panties clung to your drenched sex, rubbing deliciously against your swollen clit with every roll of your hips. You gasped when the pillow pushed against your entrance, walls clenching around the pressure.

Beads of sweat gathered on your brow, trickling down the side of your neck to pool in the hollow of your collarbone. Your heart raced, pounding against your ribcage as if trying to break free. The room, though cool, felt stifling under the heat of your arousal. Your skin flushed, a pretty pink hue spreading across your chest and cheeks like a fever.

You knew he was close, just down the hall in his office. Working. Always working. Even on his day off, he couldn't switch off doctor mode. You had tried to catch his attention earlier, to lure him back to bed with suggestive whispers and teasing touches. But he had been preoccupied, his brow furrowed in concentration, barking orders into the phone. So you had left him to it, retreating to the bedroom to tend to your own needs.

Now, with the pillow pressed tight against your cunt and Zayne still out of reach, you couldn't hold back any longer. The pillow was a poor substitute for the real thing, but it was all you had. And as you rutted against it like an animal in heat, you felt your climax built swiftly, the coil of tension in your lower belly winding tighter and tighter.

"Y/N?"

Your eyes flew wide open when Zayne's voice cut through the haze of your lust. Your hips stilled for a moment, the pillow still nestled firmly between your thighs. You turned to face him, cheeks flushed now a deep crimson that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

Zayne stood in the doorway, his body filling the space. He wore only a pair of low slung pajama bottoms, his broad chest bare and on full display. His eyes, usually so sharp and focused, were now dark and hooded as he took in the scene before him.

"Y/N?" he repeated, his voice a low rumble you could feel in your bones. "What are you doing?"

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry despite the dampness between your legs. "I'm... I'm having sex," you managed to gasp out, voice breathy and strained with need. "with myself...because someone else didn't want to." Your hands gripped the sheets tighter, knuckles turning white as you braced yourself against the mattress.

Unable to keep still your hips began to move again, grinding down against the pillow. The rough texture caught on your sensitive clit "Fuuuuck," you moaned, head falling back, chasing that delicious sensation again. "That feels soooo good..."

"Please..." you weren't sure what you were begging for, release, his touch, his cock... it didn't matter. You just needed more. "Zaynie..."

Your thighs trembled, muscles quivering with the effort of holding yourself back from simply throwing yourself at him. Your core clenched, aching, empty, and so very desperate to be filled.

You felt the pillow being abruptly removed from between your thighs, leaving you exposed and wanting.

"Touch yourself," he ordered "Use your hand to touch your pretty, needy clit. But do not cum, not until I tell you to. Do you understand?"

You could only nod, throat too tight to form words. His hands hooked into the waistband of your drenched panties. The fabric clung to your skin, before he peeled them away with agonizing slowness.

With a trembling hand, you reached down, your fingers brushing against your dripping slit. You circled your clit, tracing the sensitive nub with feather light touches. A sharp gasp tore from your throat at the contact, hips bucking up into your own touch. Your legs fell open, spreading wide and baring yourself completely to Zayne's eyes.

"Fuck, look at you," his gaze riveted to your sex. "So wet and desperate. You need to be touched, don't you love?"

You whimpered in response, fingers moving faster, the slick sounds of your arousal filling the room. But you didn't let yourself slip over the edge, not without his permission.

And when you couldn't hold back any longer, your body screaming with the need for release, you begged again "Please Zayne, I can't... I need... oh god, please let me cum!" Your finger flew from your clit, your hand fisting in the sheets to keep from pushing yourself over the precipice.

In a blink Zayne settled between your splayed thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them even wider. His face hovered scant inches from your cunt, his warm breath fanning over the swollen flesh.

The first flick of his tongue against your swollen clit tore a broken moan from your throat, your body jerking and tensing.

He licked his lips, enjoying your taste on them."How does that make you feel, y/n?"

"L-like I never want it to end"

Before you could draw another breath, he sealed his lips around your pussy, his flat tongue dragging slowly up your slit. "Ooohhh!" you cried out, head thrown back, eyes fluttering shut. Your wetness dripped onto his tongue, coating his lips, his chin, marking him with your scent.

He licked you again, slower this time, his tongue delving deeper. Your hips moved, instinctively seeking more, your fingers tangled in his hair, not pulling him closer but holding him in that perfect place.

"You just couldn't wait for me to finish work, could you? Now you're shaking and begging me to finish what you started. But brats don't get to cum on command. They earn it."

Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of your eyes as he spread your legs even wider, until you felt a pleasant stretch in your hips. Your sex clenched, empty and aching, as if reaching for something to fill it.

Then his mouth was on you again, licking you with ruthless intensity that left you seeing stars.

"Aaahhh! Zayne! Oh god, yes! Don't stop!"

He showed no mercy. His tongue swirled around your clit, flicked over it, sucked it between his lips. Your body bowed off the bed, back arched, breasts thrust out, as pleasure crashed over you in relentless waves.

Your moans escalated, rising in pitch and volume until they bordered on wails. Tears streamed down your cheeks, throat raw from screaming his name over and over again.

Still, he didn't slow down. Not even as your orgasm slammed into you, cunt clamping down on his tongue. He kept licking. Kept sucking. Kept fucking you with his mouth until you saw white, until you thought you might pass out from the intensity of your release.

And through it all, you took it. Every last lick, every filthy suck, every devastating thrust of his tongue.

You took it like a good girl.

After a week of awkward silence, you found yourself alone in your bedroom late at night. You couldn't shake the memory of walking in on Caleb in a compromising position, him, naked and lost in pleasure, his face contorted in ecstasy as he thrusted into his pillow, chasing release. The image was seared into your mind, making your body react in ways you tried to ignore.

You'd heard him before, in the dead of night when he thought everyone was asleep. His muffled grunts and pants igniting a secret curiosity.

Now, you rub your pillow against your clothed sex, seeking the same bliss you saw in Caleb's expression. Your heart races as the fabric of your panties creates delicious friction against your sensitive pussy.

You press the pillow harder against your core and your panties dampen as your arousal leaks out, soaking through the material.

Your breath comes in short gasps, each exhale escaping your lips in a soft moan. You let yourself imagine its Caleb's hand between your legs, his fingers stroking you, his thumb circling your clit. The thought makes you buck your hips harder and your breathing grows heavier, matching the rhythm of your hips as they undulate against the pillow. The pressure builds, your body tensing, yearning for release.

Suddenly sensing his presence, you freeze. His intense gaze is palpable, even in the dim light. You feel it burning into your back, watching your every move.

Heart pounding, you slowly turn to face him. He's closer than you thought, dark eyes smoldering with unreadable emotions as they rake over your body. Embarrassment colors your cheeks a deep red.

Before you can react, he's right there, looming over you. His large body blocks out the faint light, casting long, shadows across your flushed skin. You tremble slightly, caught in the act, vulnerable and exposed.

"Caleb..." you breathe out, voice barely above a whisper. You try to tug your shirt down, to cover your exposed thighs, but he's too close. You're trapped.

His voice fills the charged space between you. "Are you touching yourself to the thought of me, Pips?" he asks bluntly. There's no judgment, only raw curiosity and something darker.

You can only stare back, mouth agape. Your face burns like the rest of you, clit throbbing in time with your racing heart.

"You're not subtle. You wanted me to know. I could hear your needy little moans all the way from my room." His gaze drops to your soaked panties, and a low, approving groan rumbles in his chest.

"You're fucking soaked, aren't you? Let me help you find relief, ."

You surrender to his dominant aura, legs parting automatically to grant him access. He doesn't hesitate and runs a single finger along your panties, collecting your slick, before bringing it to his lips. His eyes flutter shut briefly as he tastes you, sucking your arousal from his skin.

"Mmm, so warm and sweet," he murmurs appreciatively, his eyes burning into yours. "You look fucking gorgeous like this. Lost in pleasure, craving more..."

He hooks his fingers into your panties and tugs them aside, baring your pussy to him. He takes your hand in his, guiding two of your fingers to your entrance. "Push them inside. I want to watch you"

His presence, his unwavering attention, the blatant desire in his eyes, it's all too much, yet not nearly enough. Your body aches for more, yearning to give him the show he craves.

Your fingers tremble as you slowly push them inside, never breaking eye contact with him. The feeling makes you gasp, walls clenching around your fingers.

He pushes your fingers deeper, his hand enveloping yours, guiding you to explore your own depths. "Just like this, princess" he whispers.

His gaze holds yours captive as he continues, "You touch yourself like this, thinking of me because no one else gets you like I do. Every stroke, every thrust of your fingers, you imagine it's my voice in your ear, telling you that you're mine."

Caleb's words make your head spin, dizzy with lust and longing. You pick up the pace, pulling and pushing your fingers in time with his instructions.

"Do you want me to be proud of how desperately you crave my touch?" he asks as he watches your fingers disappear inside you. "Show me how much you need me"

He gathers your slick on his fingers, painting your puffy clit with it. The added stimulation makes you buck against your hand, body crying out for more.

"Please..." Your mind goes blank, focused solely on the pleasure radiating from your core and the man orchestrating it.

As your climax approaches, walls clenching greedily around your fingers, Caleb increases the pressure on your sensitive nub.

"You know my name, moan it for me, princess"

And you do, like a declaration of belonging.

He's made his point crystal clear, you are his, utterly and completely. And he has every intention of keeping it that way.

You were lost, the morning sun illuminating your passionate frenzy as you rutted against your pillow like a woman possessed. It had been an eternity since you'd last spoken to Xavier, a whole five days of pent up longing and frustration, thanks to that first real fight you'd had. His jealousy, usually a smoldering ember, had erupted into an inferno that day, leaving you both scorched by its intensity.

As you bucked and writhed on the soft fabric, your mind drifted back to the vivid dream that had started this desperate need. In your dream, Xavier was nestled between your thighs, his favorite place to be. You could almost feel his warm breath on your pussy before the cruel sound of shattering glass jolted you awake. The memory of it left you trembling with want.

Too far gone to care about the noises spilling from your lips, you clung to the pillow like a lifeline as you chased your pleasure. Your shirt was shoved up to expose your heaving breasts, a nipple peeking out as your fingers plucked and rolled the stiff peak.

You imagined it was Xavier's mouth lavishing attention to your dripping sex through the soaked fabric of your panties. His teeth would graze your pretty clit with the lightest pressure, sending you arching off the bed with a strangled moan. The pillow took the brunt of your need, cushioning your desperate grinding.

You were on the verge of exploding with frustration, your body aching for the release that kept slipping through your fingers. Each time you climbed that peak of pleasure, your clit would scream in protest, the sensation becoming too intense too quickly. It was as if you were a runner sprinting towards the finish line, only to have it yanked away at the last second, forcing you to trudge back to the starting line to begin your race again.

You were panting and flushed, your skin glistening with a sheen of sweat as you rutted against the pillow once more. The fabric was damp beneath your touch, bearing witness to your desperate need. You were so lost in your own little world when suddenly...

"Enjoying yourself?" a familiar voice asked, startling you out of your trance.

Your heart leapt into your throat at the sound, and with a gasp, you wrenched the pillow from between your legs to use as shield. The fluffy fabric did little to hide your body or the fact that you had been in the midst of a very intimate moment. Heat flooded your cheeks as embarrassment battled with lingering arousal, leaving you flustered and tongue tied.

"Xavier, what...?"

The idea that he had witnessed your wanton display, heard the obscene sounds of your desperation, made your core clench and your nipples strain against the thin fabric of your shirt.

You felt exposed and yet...a part of you thrilled at the thought of him seeing you this way. Your body was still humming with need, your clit still throbbing and swollen. The interruption had only served to heighten your hunger, leaving you craving his touch.

You looked up at him with hooded eyes, your pleading gaze a silent scream for his touch. Your voice was a needy rasp as you begged, "I need you, Xavi, please..." The desperation in your tone was palpable, every nuance of your longing laid bare before him.

He walked towards you with predatory grace, the look in his eyes was one of pure hunger, the stare of a man possessed, consumed by the need to claim his woman.

"Are you sure?" he asked. It was a challenge, a warning, and a promise all wrapped up in one. He could see the fear in your eyes, the way they widened at his words, and it only spurred him on. He lived for that look, reveled in the knowledge that he could inspire such a visceral reaction in you.

"You know I won't take you gently," he continued "You're afraid because you know I don't just want you..." His hand came down to grip your chin, tilting your head back to force you to meet his eyes. His thumb brushed across your lower lip "I will fuck you until you can't walk, can't think, can't breathe without feeling the ghost of my dick buried inside you. I will ruin you for anyone else."

His other hand slid down the side of your neck, fingers curling around the delicate column as if he could snap it like a twig. "You are not free," he whispered, his face now inches from yours. "You are not free," he repeated "because you belong to me, mind, body and soul. I will fuck you so hard and so often that the only word you'll remember is my name."

His grip on your chin tightened, forcing you to hold his gaze as he leaned in even closer, his breath hot against your lips. "You will be claimed," he breathed, "in every sense of the word. You are mine, now and forever"

His other hand slid down your body, his fingers skimming over the swell of your breast, the curve of your waist, before coming to rest on your hip. He squeezed the tender flesh, nails digging in just shy of pain "You will be fucked like the goddess you are. Worshipped like the sinful creature I've created you to be. And you will be my sin, my addiction, my reason for living, for as long as I draw breath."

His lips crashed against yours in a kiss, all teeth and tongue. It was a kiss that spoke of possession, of ownership, of a love so deep that it bordered on obsession. It was a kiss that promised pleasure beyond your wildest dreams, but also a kiss that warned of the price you would pay for being the object of such intense devotion.

He made quick work of your remaining clothing, practically tearing the fabric from your body in his haste to bare you completely. Your panties were the last to go, the scrap of lace and cotton no match for his strength as he ripped them away, baring your pussy to the cool air of the room. Your arousal coated your thighs, glistening in the morning light.

He didn't bother with any pretense of gentleness as he freed his cock from his pants and underwear. The thick length sprang free, long, hard, and already leaking.

Then he pushed your knees up and back, until they were nearly folded against your chest, your body bent in half to accommodate his need. Your cunt was exposed, soft folds glistening and swollen, just begging to be spread apart.

He notched the fat head of his cock against your entrance, the thick crown parting your lower lips as if your body was already eager to welcome him home. His hand gripped your hip, fingers sinking into the tender flesh hard enough to leave bruises, a brand of his claim on your flesh. He could feel you trembling beneath his touch, could hear the hitch in your breath as you anticipated his invasion.

With a single thrust he buried himself inside you, balls deep. Your breath driven from your lungs at the sudden intrusion, your body struggling to adjust to the intense stretch, the delicious burn of being filled.

His teeth sank into the side of your neck, the sharp sting of pain mixing with pleasure and you could feel the hot, wet trail of his saliva on your skin, the way his tongue laved over the reddening flesh, soothing the hurt.

And still you craved more. More of his touch, more of his possession, more of that exquisite pleasure and pain only he could give you. You were addicted to him, to the way he made you feel, to the need that burned through your veins like liquid fire.

As if reading your mind, Xavier's hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, not hurting, but simply holding you, holding you in place so he could watch your face, could see the way your eyes widened and glazed over with pleasure when he began to move. His long fingers spanned the delicate column, his thumb resting lightly against your racing pulse.

Each thrust drove you closer to the edge, heat pooling in your belly as he filled you again and again. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines in their wake as you clung to him.

He could feel your pulse pounding beneath his palm, could see the way your throat constricted with each gasping breath. He knew you were close, he could feel the flutters of your cunt around his cock. And he drove into you harder, deeper, his hips slapping against yours with a lewd sound.

"Who do you belong to? Say it," he demanded, punctuating his words with a sharp thrust that had stars exploding behind your eyelids. "Tell me who owns this sweet cunt?

"You Xavi..."

His grip on your throat tightened the moment he felt your body begin to tremble beneath him, pussy clenching hard around him "That's it, bunny," he panted harshly "Cum for me. Show me who owns this pretty pussy and every orgasm it ever has."

The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall with each thrust of his hips.

"Fu...Xav...'mgonnacuuuuu..." your voice broke on a sob as your climax finally crashed over you. The rhythmic squeezing of your walls milking his cock, your release gushing around him and dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you.

"That's it," he groaned, his rhythm faltering when he felt his own release fast approaching. "Fuck, your cunt feels so good squeezing my cock"

He knew, as he emptied himself inside you, that your body was no longer your own. It belonged to him. Every inch of your soft, pliant flesh existed for one purpose only, to be used, to be worshipped, to be claimed by him.

He saw the way your tears leaked from the corners of your eyes. They weren't tears of sorrow or pain, but of overwhelming ecstasy. Your begging and your tears, your soaked thighs and your boneless body, they were all a part of your worship of him, of the divine connection you shared. They were the visible, tangible expressions of a love that transcended the physical, a devotion that knew no bounds and made no apologies.

This was all Rafayel's doing.

You were sprawled on his bed, aching and needy, your body burning up from his dirty texts. It was supposed to be a sweet moment, you told him you finally had time to get your nails done. But then he went and asked for more, demanding a naughty picture to satisfy his curiosity.

"Show me how nice they look, send me a picture of you spreading your 😺 lips with them, cutie."

You obliged, snapping a lewd selfie with your manicured fingers splayed over your pussy. The image was sent before you could second guess yourself. Now, you were left high and dry, your core throbbing and desperate for his touch.

Your hips undulated on the mattress, grinding your soaked panties against his pillow.

The damp patch on your underwear grew with each passing second, arousal seeping through the fabric. You ached to be filled, to have Rafayel's cock stretching you open and relieving this intense pressure.

Your clit pulsed, swollen and sensitive as it rubbed against the soaked cotton.

You were wound up so tightly, but more than that, you craved him. His touch, his kiss, his filthy words whispered hotly against your ear.

Soft whimpers left your parted lips as you writhed on the bed. Your nipples were hard beneath your shirt, begging to be touched or better yet licked.

You were so close, lip caught between your teeth and just when you were about to tumble over the edge you heard the unmistakable sound of Rafayel's voice. Your eyes flew open before you whipped your head around to face him.

He stood there, arms crossed, with a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were fixed on his pillow, the one you'd been grinding against so wantonly just moments before.

In a flash of surprise and embarrassment, you grabbed the pillow and hurled it at him. "It's pretty rude to walk into a room unannounced, Raf," you scolded,trying in vain to cover yourelf.

He caught the pillow easily, his smirk only growing wider as he tossed it aside carelessly.

"Yeah? Well, it's pretty rude to moan someone's name when they are not around to hear you make those pretty sounds"

You felt the blush on your face spread down to your neck and chest the moment he started to walk closer, looming over you with a predatory gaze that made your heart race.

He reached out, fingertips grazing your ankle before sliding slowly up your calf. Your breath hitched when you felt his hand high on your inner thigh.

"I could help you finish, you know," his thumb was brushing maddeningly close to where you needed him most. "I could make those moans so much louder, cutie."

Desire clouded your judgment, your body aching to be one with his. So you reached out and unzipped his pants with trembling fingers. The bulge in his trousers was unmistakable, proof of his want for you. He gripped your wrists when you tried to stroke him and in a quick motion he moved to sit on the bed, pulling you on his lap. You hurriedly tugged your drenched panties to the side, the fabric a barrier no more.

He didn't hesitate. He gripped your hips and thrust up, burying himself inside you. You cried out, your walls clenching tight around his thick cock, stretching you so perfectly.

You clung to his shoulders for support, your nails digging into his shirt as you tried to adjust to his size. His hands slid up your back, his fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, holding you close.

He knew your body's deepest desires, and he indulged them with skillful precision. Guiding your hips to bounce on his cock, you felt yourself surrendering completely to the rhythm he set.

Your mind grew hazy, drunk on the sensation of his hard heat driving into you again and again. It was as if he could see directly into your soul, his eyes watching your every movement, telling your body exactly what it needed.

Your thoughts dissolved like mist beneath the scorching heat of your desire. In that moment, your world narrowed down to just your body and his, two halves of a whole united in ecstasy.

Lost in a fog of lust and love, you rode him with wild abandon. Your hips seeking that ultimate connection, that perfect union. And the moment your pleasure crested and your vision went white, he couldn't look away.

Your face when you came was the most breathtaking sight Rafayel had ever seen. No artist's palette could capture the exact color of the blush on your cheeks, the parting of your lips on a silent scream, the way your eyelids fluttered and your eyes rolled back in bliss.

"One more, give me one more"

"I can't..." you whimpered, too sensitive, too raw from your last climax.

"It wasn't a request, cutie" Rafayel murmured against your lips "Just one more"

He would take it slow, he promised, but take it he would. Your next orgasm belonged to him.

Who could blame you? You were all alone, ovulating and craving Sylus. It had been a week since he left, and you were restless and yearning.

Climbing into his huge bed, you hugged his huge pillow close, inhaling his lingering scent. The silk sheets felt so good against your bare skin, a sensual caress that made you shiver. You couldn't resist the temptation of the luxurious fabric.

That's when you noticed it, the silken texture of the pillowcase, even softer than the sheets. The material felt exquisite, smooth as a whisper against your most intimate place. A daring idea sparked in your lust addled mind. Would it feel like his tongue? you wondered, cheeks flushing hotly at the notion.

Heart pounding, you made your decision. You couldn't stop yourself now, even as a small voice in the back of your head whispered that this was wrong, that you shouldn't be doing this in his absence. But the temptation was too great. Slowly, tentatively at first, you rubbed the silk through your slit, gasping at the unfamiliar yet thrilling sensation.

The pillow was soon coated in your arousal as you grew bolder, grinding your hips against the silken surface.

The damp fabric slid deliciously between your folds, mimicking the glide of Sylus's tongue. You couldn't stop, the empty house echoed with your shameless moans and the rustle of silk against naked skin.

You chased your climax, grinding your hips in tight circles, rubbing the pillow where you needed it. Your breath came in ragged pants as the pressure built inside you, cunt clenching around the phantom stimulation.

The silk, the pillow, your own touch, it was all you had, and it was almost enough. Almost.

"Naughty little kitten"

You froze, in your lustful haze, you hadn't heard him enter the room, too lost in your solitary indulgence. Now, you were exposed, your naked body on full display as you clung to his damp pillow and the silk sheets.

Flushing with shame you tried to cover yourself, wrapping the sheets around you. The fabric, once cool and smooth, now felt electrifying against your heated skin.

Sylus's evol, a tendril of dark energy, snaked out and lifted the pillow and sheets from the bed. They drifted down to the floor beside him, leaving you bare, your arousal glistening on your inner thighs.

"You've made quite a mess on my pillowcase."

The pounding of your heart, once a drumbeat in your clit, now echoed in your chest. You were acutely aware of every inch of your naked body, every sensitive nerve ending crying out for his touch.

"Don't let me stop you, sweetie," Sylus smirked, his eyes roving over your body "You were doing so well, pleasing yourself on my pillow. Tell me, does the silk satisfy your greedy little cunt?"

"Sy...Please"

He cocked an eyebrow "Do you need my help, kitten?"

You nodded frantically, too far gone, but Sylus waited, his smirk widening, eyes glinting with delight.

"Beg for it," he demanded "Beg for my help"

Your cheeks burned hotter at his words and the ache between your thighs intensified. You knew you should feel ashamed, but all you could focus on was the throbbing emptiness inside you.

"Please, Sylus," you gasped out, your voice trembling with desperation. "I need you. I need your hands, your mouth, your... your cock." The last word was a whisper, a naughty plea falling from your lips.

He moved with purpose, his intentions clear in the dark glint of his crimson eyes. He grabbed the pillow, soaked with your arousal, and placed it beside you on the bed.

"Listen carefully, this is how it's going to go." He reached down, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness. Your eyes widened as you watched the process, your mouth already watering in anticipation.

When his cock sprang free, you couldn't help but let out a soft moan. It was just as you remembered, thick, hard, and heavily veined. Your tongue darted out to wet your suddenly dry lips.

"I'm going to fuck your pretty mouth, and you're going to grind your cunt on that pillow until it's absolutely soaked." He nodded towards the pillow, already. marked by your desire. "And you better make a good, messy job of it, kitten, understand?"

You swallowed hard, nodding your agreement.

"Now, be a good girl and open your mouth," he ordered"Stick your tongue out for me."

Obediently, you moved to straddle the pillow, the cool silk kissed your dripping slit, and you had to stifle a moan, hips already twitching with the urge to grind against it. Then, you opened your mouth wide, your pink tongue lolling out as you gazed up at Sylus with hooded eyes.

He slapped his cock against your tongue, letting you feel its weight. Your mouth watered with each tap, drool already starting to gather at the corners of your lips. He teased you, letting you sample his musky scent and savor the promise of his taste.

With a low, approving moan, Sylus slowly sank his length into your waiting mouth. He moved with deliberate control, pumping in and out of your mouth with a steady rhythm.

At first, Sylus kept his thrusts shallow and you did your best to keep up, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around the tip. Drool dripped down your chin as you moaned and gagged around his cock. You felt like you were doing well, matching his pace with the rolling of your hips on the pillow beneath you.

But just when you started to find a rhythm, Sylus suddenly surged forward, spearing his thick length deep into your throat. You had no choice but to breathe through your nose, inhaling his scent as he began to truly fuck your face.

More of your arousal soaked into the silk fabric as you grinded desperately against it. Drool coated his cock and balls, you were at his mercy and loved every second of it.

He buried his cock deep and held you there, nose pressed against his pelvis. Your lungs burned, crying out for air, but you gave him the control he craved.

As quickly as he'd claimed your throat, Sylus pulled back, allowing you a gasping breath before plunging in again. His rhythm became erratic, each thrust harder and more desperate than the last. You could feel his cock pulsing and throbbing, growing even thicker in your stretched mouth.

He was just as lost in pleasure as you, his need consuming him. His balls tightened, drawing up close to his body as his orgasm approached. You grinded desperately against the silk pillow beneath you, the fabric finally granting you the release you craved as Sylus fucked your mouth through it.

Your scream of pleasure vibrated around his shaft and Sylus let out a guttural moan. Your mouth flooded with his cum filling you until it dripped down the sides of your stretched lips. There was so much of it, too much for you to swallow.

He pulled out abruptly, leaving your mouth dripping with his cum and your own saliva. Before you could even catch your breath, he commanded gruffly, "Show it to me before you swallow."

You hesitated for just a moment before opening your mouth wide, letting the mixture of your drool and cum pool on your tongue. You stuck out your chin, giving Sylus an unobstructed view.

He reached out and gripped your chin firmly, his fingers digging into your jaw forcing you to keep your mouth open.

Finally, he gave a sharp nod. "Now. Swallow it all down like a good girl."

With a bratty grin you obeyed, tipping your head back and swallowing every last drop. The taste of him coated your throat and you knew, as you licked your lips clean, that you belonged to him completely, body, heart, and soul, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

[calebsfavoriteusedthong]

When you find them humping a pillow.

Click here for a visual of what inspired this and don't forget to follow Ekay!

CW: Dry humping. Dirty talk. Self love. Smut.

🔞MDNI🔞

Wc: 3,562

When they find you humping a pillow (Part 2)

"What the hell?" That definitely sounded like Caleb, but the way he called your name was different. Not playful or teasing like usual. It was raw, desperate, almost pained. For a moment you think Caleb must have heard you come home and is calling for you from the kitchen. But the sound comes again, louder and it's clear something is very wrong.

You freeze on the stairs, hand tightening on the railing when you realize the noise is coming from upstairs.

Against your better judgment, you find yourself moving up the stairs, footsteps silent on the carpeted steps. You creep closer to his bedroom door, which is slightly open. You hear him grunt, followed by the creaking of bedsprings. Your stomach twists into knots as you push the door open a little wider, peeking inside.

The sight that greets you steals the breath from your lungs.

Caleb, is on his knees on the bed, holding with both hands a pillow that is clutched tightly between his legs. His abs flex and tense with each thrust of his hips, the defined lines of his six pack glistening with a sheen of sweat.

A deep moan tears from his throat, your name falling from his lips like a prayer and a plea all at once. "Y/N..." he grunts with a sharp buck of his hips. The metal dog tag you gave him, the one he never takes off, swings and clanks against his chest with every movement.

His face is flushed a deep red, eyes open in concentration his dark brown hair falls messily over his forehead, a few damp strands clinging to his skin. He looks lost in his own twisted fantasy, chasing some dark desire that you can only imagine involves you.

You stand there frozen, feeling a confusing mix of shock and embarrassment. You know you should look away, give him privacy, but you can't tear your eyes from the sight of him so consumed by lust.

His breathing comes in ragged pants, chest heaving as he continues to grind against the pillow.

You don't know whether to be flattered, terrified, or turned on. Probably all three. But most of all, you are stunned. You had no idea Caleb was this intense.

The sound of the pillow rubbing against his heavy balls up to the tip of his cock, already slick with precum, makes you squeeze your thighs together.

"Fuck, pipsqueak..." Caleb grunts, "You feel so fucking good, baby. So tight and perfect around my cock." He gives a sharp thrust and the pillowcase darkens with precum.

His filthy whispers fill the room, painting a vivid picture of the act he wishes he was performing on you. "Gonna fill this sweet little pussy up. Pump you so full of my cum, you'll be dripping with it for days."

Your cheeks flush hotly at his words. You've never heard Caleb speak like this before. It's raw, it's real, and it's terrifyingly intense. A dark shiver runs through you as you imagine him saying those things to you, doing those things to you.

His grip on the pillow tightens, knuckles turning white as he holds on for dear life. The bed frame creaks beneath him, "Fuck, I need it... I need you... Gonna cum... Gonna fucking cum..." he snarls, hips jerking erratically now. The pillow case is thoroughly soaked, the spreading dark patch testifying to his desperation.

A gasp escapes you as you take an unconscious step forward and the door swings open a bit more. In that same moment, Caleb's head snaps up, eyes flying open wide when he realizes he's no longer alone.

But it's too late. Far too late to stop the inevitable. With a deep moan that echoes off his bedroom walls, Caleb's back arches finding release. His hips jerk forward one last time, and thick ropes of pearly white cum erupt from his cock, splattering obscenely across his stomach and chest.

Some of it even reaches his flushed cheek, a single strand dangling from his jawline as he pants harshly, struggling to catch his breath. His pelvis is glazed with his cum, the patch of hair there dripping with his seed.

For a moment, time seems to stand still. Caleb stares at you, eyes blazing with emotions, shock, embarrassment, but above all, hunger. It's like he's seeing straight into your soul and you are frozen in place, your own breath coming in shallow gasps. You don't know what to say, what to do. You are not sure if you should run, scream, or...god help you...take a step closer and let him pull you into his arms.

So you do the only thing you can think of. You step out of the room, you let the door swing shut behind you with a soft click. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest as you stand there, back pressed against the closed door. You can still picture the look on his face, the raw need that contorted his features. It will be burned into you mind forever.

How can we go back to the way things were after this?

Your heart skips a beat as you hear an unfamiliar noise coming from Sylus' room. It sounds like...grunting? You pause midstep, standing still just outside his bedroom door.

There's a strange, rhythmic creaking of bedsprings that makes your brows furrow. What on earth is Sylus doing in there at this hour, especially if he's not a morning person? You've never heard him make noises like that before. Perhaps surprising him like this wasn't the best idea after all.

You open the door slowly, 'maybe he is having a nightmare' you tell yourself. Your heart lurches into your throat, eyes widening in shock. He is not having a nightmare, but something far more...intense. He's kneeling on the bed, gripping a pillow tightly between his thighs. The way his arm clutches it, fingers digging into the fabric, suggests a desperate, almost feral need.

His other hand is fisted in the sheets behind him, knuckles white from the force of his grip. The bed creaks and sways with his movements, the rocking of his hips unmistakable even in the dim light. He's panting, low grunts and growls rumbling from his chest as he grinds himself against the pillow, chasing his pleasure.

Shock roots you to the spot, hand still on the door handle. He's looking down at his throbbing cock, watching it, each slow thrust. His hips roll slowly at first, the movement controlled as he builds towards his peak.

"Fuck, kitten," he grunts, "You take me so deep, all the way into that tight little throat. That's it, open wider, take every fucking inch..."

You feel heat between your legs at the sound of his filthy words, arousal dampening the fabric of your panties

Suddenly, his thrusts turn quick and desperate, the arm gripping the bed slipping a bit. The sound of the pillowcase rubbing against him and the slap of his cock against his stomach fill the room. Beads of precum smear across his skin with each thrust.

You can't look away, even when your cheeks burn and your core throbs with need. You know Sylus is seconds away from coming, his thrusts becoming desperate.

He is fully lost now head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, you bite your lip hard, stifling a moan that threatens to spill out. You are not even touching yourself but you can feel your body responding to his fantasy as if it were real. As if you were the one on your knees, choking on his thick cock, gagging for his cum.

You gasp softly as he orgasms, his long moan of "Take it all, kitten... suck me dry" echoing through the room. The sight of his release splattering across his stomach and staining the sheets is shockingly erotic.

There's so much of it. Thick, creamy ropes of cum paint his skin and the pillow beneath him. You can't help but picture how it would feel, the weight of it heavy and warm on your tongue, sliding down your throat. The thought makes your mouth water.

His cock pulses and throbs as he rides out his orgasm, spurting the last few weak drops of cum onto the pillow. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, arm gripping the sheets trembling slightly.

You are about to close his door when you hear his voice again. You freeze, hand still on the door handle, as he speaks.

"You, watching me, made this much more pleasurable, kitten. Don't walk away now."

You should have known you couldnt slip away unnoticed.

Fuck

Three weeks, that's how long you were on a mission and apart from him.

When you open the front door and walk in you notice the house is quiet, too quiet, as you set your bag down by the shoe rack, kicking off your boots.

Your heart flutters with anticipation as you tiptoe down the hallway, the wooden floorboards creaking softly beneath your feet. The early morning sunlight peeks through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the house as you approach the slightly open bedroom door.

"Y/n...fuuuuuuuck"

He couldn't be...was he?

He was.

Your mouth falls open in shock when you see Zayne. He's on his hands and knees on the bed, a pillow placed between his legs. One hand grips the pillow tightly, holding it firmly against his body as he slowly thrusts his hips, his hard cock trapped between the pillow and his pelvis.

His other hand clutches the bedsheets in front of him like a lifeline. His black hair falls forward, hiding his eyes and his broad shoulders rise and fall with each breath. The room is filled with the soft, rhythmic sound of the bed creaking with his movements and the stifled groans that escape his lips. The sight of his muscular back moving with each thrust sends a shiver down your spine and ignites a fire low in your belly.

You realize that he's not just turned on, but he's already found release once, the pillowcase, now soaked with his essence, testifies to it. He's using the damp fabric, slick with cum, to bring himself to the brink again.

His dick, the tip an angry, almost painful shade of red, pulses and throbs with need. His balls draw up tight and his toes curl.

His face, usually so stoic and controlled, is flushed and you can tell he's on the very edge of another orgasm. Your heart pounds wildly as you watch him chase his release, his hips moving more urgently now. His hand claws at the sheets, bunching the fabric in his fist.

Your own body responds with a deep throb of desire. You can feel the dampness pooling between your thighs, the way your nipples strain against the fabric of your bra. But you remain still, a silent witness to the intimate moment, not wanting to startle him.

He yanks the pillow closer, using it for more friction, more stimulation. "Fuck..." he growls "Always so fucking tight... such a good girl...making me cum twice"

Contrary to before, he doesn't hold back his noises now. A guttural moan, tears from his throat as he finds his release. It's followed by a litany of curses, each one punctuated by the jerking of his hips and the pulsing of his cock.

"Fuck... shit... damn...Take it... take it all..." You are sure the sight of him losing control, surrendering to the overwhelming pleasure, will be seared into your mind forever.

You step into the room and walk towards him, eyes drinking in the sight of him, back glistening with sweat, hips still twitching with the aftershocks of his climax. As you approach him, he slowly turns his head, his eyes blinking in surprise and confusion as they meet yours. He's still gripping the sheets and pillow tightly.

Without hesitation, you reach out and swipe a finger along the tip of his softening cock, collecting the pearly drops of his release that cling to the sensitive skin. Then you bring your finger to your mouth, keeping eye contact with him as you slowly lick it clean, savoring the salty, slightly bitter taste of him.

"Surprise, honey," you say softly with a playful smirk "I'm home early."

You sigh softly as you remember the last time you saw Rafayel, just a few days ago. He had been absorbed in his painting, hunched over a large canvas propped up in his art studio.

You open his front door and walk inside with a basket of freshly prepared food tucked under your arm. You walk to his studio but he is not in there.

An unusual sound drifting down from upstairs makes you stop in place. It's a soft, strangled noise.

Was that a whimper?

Your brows furrow with concern and you set the basket of food down quietly on the staircase, not wanting to disturb whatever may be happening, but unwilling to ignore what sounds like distress.

Climbing the stairs quietly you approach Rafayel's bedroom door. The whimpering grows louder, now unmistakable. Your hand hovers over the doorknob and you take a deep breath before slowly turning it. As you push the door open just a bit, you peek through to see Rafayel.

It's not his face flushed a deep shade of red that extends to the tips of his ears or the sweat dripping down his chest that makes your heart skip a beat. It's the way he's positioned on the bed, with a pillow clutched tightly between his legs, his hips rocking and rutting against it with desperate, needy thrusts. His left hand gripping the pillow tightly, keeping it firmly in place as his other hand braces against the mattress, holding himself up.

Desperate whimpers and whines spill from his lips as he grinds his hips against the pillow, his eyes screwed shut in a mix of pleasure and what looks like anguish.

He pulls the pillow closer, the tip of his cock becomes visible with each thrust. It disappears and reappears, glistening with precum as he thrust against the fabric. It makes your face flush hotly, your eyes going wide as you instinctively press a hand to your mouth to stifle any sound.

"Please... please cutie... let me cum..." Rafayel whimpers "Please, I need it so bad... I can't... I can't hold back anymore..." You've only witnessed him in this state once before, and the memory of that intimate moment together flashes through your mind. The raw need in his eyes as he begged you to let him find release within your warmth and tightness.

A single tear of frustration trickles down his flushed cheek, glistening in the soft light. "Fuck... I can ... smell her..." he chokes out, his voice breaking with need. The pillow is now soaked with his sweat and the weeping tip of his cock.

It's clear that Rafayel is thinking of you, craving you, desperate to fill you but he is also having trouble reaching his peak, so you decide to help.

You walk softly towards the bed and when he sees you his thrusts against the pillow falter, then stop altogether. He looks up at you with wide, teary eyes, cheeks burning an even deeper shade of red.

That's when you see the raw vulnerability and need in his expression, the way he's stripped bare of all his usual composure and confidence. It's both humbling and deeply intimate, a rare glimpse into the true depth of his desire for you.

Sitting down gently beside him on the bed, you lean in close, your lips nearly brushing the shell of his ear and in a soft, encouraging whisper, you breathe out the words:

"Keep going, Raf. Cum for me."

Those three simple words, spoken with such gentle encouragement, seem to be the final push Rafayel needs. His eyes flutter closed, a look of pure bliss spreading across his face.

With a hoarse cry of your name, Rafayel's body goes rigid, his hips jerking forward as he finds his much needed release. Thick, warm ropes of cum spurt from his fat cock, coating the pillow and his hand as he grips it with white knuckles.

"Such a good boy, Raf," you coo softly, reaching out to gently brush a damp lock of hair from his forehead. Your touch makes him shiver, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

You're glad you brought food, because you know you will both need it after the long day and night ahead of you.

You slip the key he gave you into the lock and turn it slowly, easing the door open as quietly as possible. The apartment is dimly lit and you can hear the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic, but otherwise, it's quiet.

Closing the door behind you, you pad softly into the kitchen. You have a plan, start on breakfast, then wake him so he can eat something. He's probably exhausted from his mission and you want to make sure he has a nice, relaxing morning. Maybe he forgot you were supposed to have breakfast together this morning.

You open the fridge and start gathering ingredients, eggs, bacon, some fresh fruit. You had found a recipe online that looked delicious and you thought he might enjoy it.

The sound of something slamming softly against the wall grabs your attention. Concerned you walk towards his bedroom, leaving the ingredients on the kitchen counter, the sound growing louder with each step. Gently you turn the doorknob and ease the door to his bedroom open, just a little bit at first. But once you open it a little bit more the sight that greets you makes your breath catch in your throat.

Xavier is sprawled naked on his back, body bathed in the soft glow of the lights filtering through the window. His legs are bent, knees up and feet flat on the bed. Nestled between his thighs is a pillow, and you can see his hips rocking slowly, rubbing the pillow against his lenght.

Your gaze is drawn to his cock, standing proud against his stomach. You can see pearly drops of precum dripping from the swollen, flushed tip, trailing down and pooling in his abdomen.

Unconsciously you lick your lips, imagining the taste of his skin, the feel of his body against yours.

Xavier grips the pillow tightly with both hands. His long fingers dig into the fabric as he pulls on both sides, tightening the pillow around his throbbing cock. The soft material squeezes his shaft, providing a delicious friction that has him gritting his teeth.

You can see the desperation in the way he's chasing his pleasure, the hunger that drives him to seek more, always more. His eyes are clenched shut, lost in a world of sensation and desire. A part of you wonders what he's thinking about, what fantasies are playing out behind his closed lids to have him so worked up.

You don't have to wait long for an answer.

"Fuck, bunny..." he grunts, voice breathless. "You feel so fucking good...ngh...take it all, just like that. Squeeze me... You ride me sooooo good... fuck, you're so wet...so perfect..."

There's no doubt about it now, in his mind, he's with you, lost in a fantasy starring none other than yourself.

His words dissolve into a moan, the sound vibrating through his chest. The signs of his impending orgasm are unmistakable. His thrusts become erratic, the grip on the pillow tightening. His breathing grows ragged and shallow, each inhale ending on a sharp grunt or a moan. The muscles in his thighs and stomach tense and flex.

"Fuck,... I'm... I'm so close... Ah, shit..." Xavier pants. He throws his head back, hair splaying out around him like a halo. "Don't stop...! don't you dare fucking stop..."

And in his head you don't stop because the next second he comes undone. His back arches sharply, pressing himself against the pillow, as thick ropes of sticky cum spurt from his throbbing cock.

The headboard slams against the wall with the force of his thrusts, the rhythmic banging keeping time with the throbbing pulses of his release.

His chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath. The pillow is a mess, soaked through with his release. He collapses back onto the bed with a blissful smile.

For a moment, you're stunned speechless, hardly believing this really happened. Did he really just...?

Before you can overthink it, Xavier's head turns towards the door, his piercing blue gaze locking onto you. A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face, the smirk of a predator who's just spotted his prey.

"Come here, y/n," he purrs, "I noticed you were there before I came, but I wanted to keep the show going for you."

Of course he noticed you standing there, his hunter's instincts always on high alert. It's no wonder he's the best deepspace hunter. Now all you had to do was walk to him.

Easy...right?

[pearlescenthoney]

masterlist

all my writings can be found here.

rafayel

echoes of the forgotten | series.

full fics

spring's blessing 18+ -> thoughts

purple trail 18+

anatomy lesson 18+

drabbles & more

celestial orgasm 18+

period blurb

sparkle

splash 18+

red string

lure

thoughts

mistletoe

blind rafayel

frog blink

webbed hands

kinks 18+

tea warmer

period nomming 18+

fish quiz

long tongue 18+

cum situation 18+

caleb

operational waste| one. two.

full fics

trapped 18+

drabbles & more

nag and gag 18+

spare -> alt ending

thoughts

hanahaki au

sylus

full fics

crimson chains 18+

intrusion 18+

xavier

drabbles & more

feverish 18+

zayne

drabbles & more

warmth

multi

make-up shenanigans

ink-redible decisions

©pearlescenthoney 2026. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

[medicli]

𐔌 . ˚ ALWAYS, FOREVER ┆LOVE & DEEPSPACE ֹ ₊ ꒱

obsessive, possessive & violent—they love you. they’d do anything for you. everything they do is for you because you’re all they need. you can’t leave them, you’re meant to be together always & forever. — wc. 5.8k

STARRING ♱ xavier ⌇zayne ⌇rafayel ⌇sylus ⌇caleb

WARNINGS ♱ HEAVY YANDERE THEMES, DARK CONTENT, possessiveness, obsession, manipulation — (zayne) bsf!zayne, dacryphilia, love bombing, extreme jealousy, mentions of m*rder, cervix fking, rough!zayne — (sylus) needy, pssy drunk!sylus, lots of m*rder lol, cervix fking — (rafayel) STALKER!RAF, mean dom!raf, allusions to unaliving reader’s dates, overstimulation, fear play/kink, creamp¡e — (caleb) lovesick!caleb, established relationship, mentions of caleb unaliving people, secret cameras, MANIPULATIVE!CALEB, isolation, fear kink, use of good girl — (xavier) clingy!xavier, hoovering, established (enmeshed) relationship, baby trapping, false security, backshots — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+

KIT’S NOTE ♱ HAPPY VALENTINES DAY MY BEAUTIFUL LOVES. i hope u all enjoy my first attempt at writing yandere themes (i know some of it isn’t very yandere but whatever). PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS BEFORE CONSUMING. if you see something that isn’t in the warnings and should be, please let me know :,). also special shoutout to @xinghuisknight for reading xavie’s part and making me continue writing this hc. i love u n happy birthday ior <3 — COMMENTS & REBLOGS ARE SOOO APPRECIATED!!

#ZAYNE — MEANT TO BE YOURS

you love your best friend. he’s there for you through thick and thin, steady and unwavering—yet you’re completely oblivious. zayne has loved you for years, ever since the moment he met you. he was never meant to be just your best friend—no, he was meant to be yours. and you were always supposed to be his.

it took everything in him not to break when you got your first boyfriend. he’d fall asleep thinking of you being touched by another man and then he’d dream of all the ways he’d murder him with his bare hands. it drove him mad to share you with someone else, but he wouldn’t lose you. he could never lose you without completely losing himself. 

but then you break up.

you show up at his place with swollen, red lips and tear tracks dried into your skin, eyes dull in a way that makes his chest cave in. he takes one look at you and understands everything without a word.

you don’t have to say a damn thing because he knows you and your boyfriend have been having issues lately—all his fault, of course—so he sets his jaw and lets you in and you tell him everything. you tell him all the mean things he called you, how he hated that you were friends with zayne, how he accused you of cheating.

and zayne’s never killed before, never even seriously imagined it beyond his dreams—but right now, it feels inevitable. that son of a bitch thought he could call you names? accuse you, the sweetest girl to walk the earth, of something so nasty, so despicable… the man that made his pretty girl look like this… he’s already sealed his fate. he’ll be dealt with, but for now… now he has to take care of you.

you’re weeping into his chest, hiccuping while he rubs your back. your broken sobs pull at his heart strings, “h-he said i-i was awful—that–ugh, that he deserved s-someone better.” your hands fist at his shirt in anger and hurt and confusion. “he-he told me to pick b-between you ‘n him.”

zayne freezes, throat running dry. he’d been quiet this whole time, letting you cry it out while he thinks of all the ways he could kill the man, but now, he can’t bite his tongue. “and what did you say?” his heart runs wild as he impatiently waits for the words to slip out of your meek little mouth. 

you look up at him, staring into his jade eyes, noting the way his pupils nearly swallow the pretty color whole. unbeknownst to you, it’s the look of love. pure, unadulterated love. 

“i-i chose you.”

his heart bursts, and he knows it’s wrong—knows he shouldn’t—but he can’t ignore it. years and years of yearning, of aching for even the smallest piece of your love, have made him greedy. he leans in, presses his lips to yours. you tense in shock at first, but he’s so gentle, so careful, that you almost immediately melt into him.

and the longer your lips linger against his, the needier zayne becomes. your mouth parts in a soft gasp, and he takes it as his chance, slipping his tongue into your mouth.

it’s so wrong to take advantage of you like this—that thought rattles endlessly in his mind. but then he hears your moan. then he feels the way you melt against him, comfortable, familiar, almost as if you’ve been imagining this moment for just as long as he has. and after that, he can’t bring himself to stop.

he can’t stop the way he flips you on to your back, or the way he hungrily devours your mouth or the sharp exhales through his nose as he tries to catch his breath without pulling off of you. he needs you. he’s needed you for years.

and now… now he finally has you, and he plans on making you his forever. 

your clothes are off, tears still slipping out of your eyes as your heart aches for him. not your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—but for zayne. for the friend that’s always been so close, yet so out of reach. 

he’s lining his thick, hard cock to your dripping entrance before he stops and looks at you. “i-is this okay?” he asks, voice gruff and heavy. his dark eyes burn into your bloodshot ones and they soften—just the slightest bit. “i know you’re sad, but i-i can make it better. i can fix it. i can make you feel better than he ever has, but you need to tell me it’s okay, sweetheart… please.”

he’s not sure if the beg is for you to say yes, or if it’s a plea for him to finally be let in. maybe it’s both. regardless, when you nod and whisper, “yes, please. make it better, zaynie. please,” everything flies out the window.

all his inhibitions. all the restraint. all the times he bit his tongue and swallowed his wants—gone. along with his ability to be as gentle as you deserve.

“you’re mine.” he pants, cock thrusting into you with vigor. “you’ve always fucking been m-mine.” his hands push at the back of your thighs, pushing them back till your knees knock against your chest. “i’ve loved you—all these years, i’ve loved you.”

your arms wrap around his neck and you sob for a completely different reason now. because you feel so good—he’s so deep and he’s hitting every spot the way it was meant to be hit and he’s saying all these things you’ve wanted to hear for as long as you’ve known him. 

“z-zayne—” you start but it’s cut off by a sharp cry when his cock rams against your cervix. “oh my god!”

“i don’t want to hear you say anything until i’m done—let me finish.” he warns, voice dripping with a newfound resentment. “you were always supposed to be mine, sweet girl. and that… that pathetic excuse of a man took you from me.” he rambles, pounding harder and harder. 

“i took care of you… i-i—fuck, sweetheart, i just love you. i love you, i love you, i love you.”

and you can’t help yourself. his words make your stomach toss and turn and on his last syllable, you just break. like a dam that’s been filled to the brim, you fall apart right then and there, creaming his cock. 

he groans and it only excites him further. he fucks you through your orgasm, repeatedly hitting the sensitive spongey part with his tip as he leans in close and murmurs. “you were meant for me… made for me.” he says. 

“you were made to be mine.”

#SYLUS — IN MY ROOM

there’s no love purer than sylus’s. he’s said it before—multiple times at that. you were endeared by it. sylus’s gentle touches and soft words despite his frigid exterior. 

but sylus isn’t always gentle touches and soft words. he can be mean, rough… nasty. especially when he finds someone to be a threat. you don’t see it, but he seethes when another person touches you. his heart aches when you’re away. his brain is infested with the thought of you. 

mephisto is so special to him. yes, he loves the mechanical bird, but he loves you more. he’d die without the crow because without him, he can’t keep tabs on you and without his bird’s eyes on you, he spirals out of control. 

your missions are especially hard for sylus. he always makes mephisto go with you because at least then he can tend to business in the n-109 zone while concurrently keeping an eye on you, but this time you refused. words along the lines of “i’ll be back soon–a week max. mephie doesn’t need to come with me.”

and sylus prides himself in being a man that gives his partner the autonomy of choice. he’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to—but he wishes he could. he wishes he could keep you at the base within arms reach. he wishes he could make you leave the association and move out of your tiny, shitty apartment so that you gave him all your attention. he wishes to never be apart from you. 

he never says these things, though. he never wants to be too much—too suffocating, too overbearing. but moments like this make him unravel. when you’re away on missions in distant regions, not answering his calls or texts, and mephisto isn’t there to keep an eye on you, something in him snaps just a little. and sylus gets… a bit unhinged.

or maybe very unhinged. 

sylus is level headed in every sense until it comes to you. he’s even tempered until you’ve gone two weeks without contact. then things get messy. 

every one of his “business” meetings over the two weeks you’re gone ends in bloodshed. sylus kills everyone who looks at him wrong. everyone that tries to lowball him. everyone in his fucking way. 

he’s disheveled when you arrive back at the base. you’re not much better—stress and fatigue etched into your features. you trudge inside, dropping your bags by the door, and when you blink, sylus is suddenly right in front of you.

and you see it. the fear in his eyes.

everything he refuses to say is written there—in his gaze, in the tension of his body, in the way his breaths come uneven, almost staggering, like he’s been holding himself together by sheer will alone.

“where were you, sweetheart?” he whispers, hands cradling your face as he tilts it up to meet his gaze. “when you said a few days, i didn’t think you meant sixteen.” it’s meant to be a joke—but it doesn’t sound like one. not even close.

“the mission ran longer than we anticipated, and there was no cell signal, so i couldn’t get back to you. but i’m okay…” you smile, teasing despite the way the usual light in your eyes has dulled just a bit. “don’t tell me you were worried about me. did the big, bad leader of onychinus really not have anything to keep him busy while i was gone?”

you probably shouldn’t have poked fun. not when he’s this raw. not when he was worried half to death, haunted by the thought that he might never see you again.

it’s exactly how you end up folded in half, knees touching your ears while he fucks into you. it’s not too fast, not too slow, but it’s at the perfect speed. his fat cock fills you to the brim and stuffs your hallowed out stomach. you’ve missed this stretch, this undeniable full feeling and he’s certainly missed you. you can tell in his expression… his words. 

sylus is finally being honest. 

“you can’t just leave me like that, sweetie,” he pants, hands on both sides of your head. “you don’t even know what i’ve been through these past two weeks.”

you feel every ridge of his cock, every inch of him and it drives you up a wall. you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer to you. 

“i can’t be good without you… i won’t feel whole without you,” his breathy whispers fan across your face as his red eyes bore into yours. his right eye burns brighter than the darkened left, and you can’t help but stare. “i am nothing without you, my love.”

you inhale sharply—partly from the way his thrusts grow deeper, rougher, like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. and partly from his words. from the rawness of them. the desperation. you’ve never heard anything like it before—never from him.

“sylus…” you whimper. 

“i need you.” he says, repeating it like a mantra. he needs you to understand it. “i need you… i need you. if i could keep you in this bed forever, i would. i never want you to leave again.”

that’s when he loses it. the pace of his thrusts pick up and he’s ramming against your cervix, eliciting a sharp sob of pained pleasure from you. he’s completely out of his mind, fucking you sensless like you’re some type of rag doll. 

“you’re not allowed to do that anymore.” he grunts, eyes struggling to stay open as they keep rolling back in the delicious pleasure. he could just fucking die in this pussy and he’d be so content. as long as he’s with you, he doesn’t care what happens. “you can’t leave, i won’t allow it.”

your garbled words lace in your words, “i won’t—i-i, i won’t leave—fuh, fuck, sylus—” you promise, your nails digging into his back, leaving red crescents in their wake. “please, s-slow down.”

“shhh, baby, you can take it—you take it every time. so pretty and perfect, all for me.” he presses his forehead against yours and stares at your screwed shut eyes. “my perfect girl.”

you tighten around him, and the sound that tears from both of you is raw and guttural. it’s almost too much—so intense and so good— you can’t help but melt beneath him as your orgasm crashes over you, powerful enough to leave you shaking. sylus keeps whispering about how much he needs you, voice breaking in your ear while you convulse and whimper under him.

he presses his lips to yours, swallowing your moans as your legs wrap tight around his slender waist. he comes deep inside you with broken groans of “i love you” against your mouth, hips stuttering as ribbon after ribbon spills into you.

afterward, he collapses on top of you, cock still hard, but exhaustion has claimed you both. so you just lie there—bodies pressed together, breath slowly evening out, your mixed cum leaking from between your thighs as the moment settles around you.

“i’ll never let you out of my sight again.”

#RAFAYEL — SHE

you’re not usually like this on first dates. you don’t let them take you back to their place and eat you out till you’re in tears. you don’t usually let them fuck you till you pass out. you prefer to take things slow, steady. really get to know someone inside and out before you even let them kiss you. you’re the opposite of easy—you’re hard to get, practically unattainable, but tonight is different.

you’re first date with rafayel makes you feel away you’ve never felt before. it’s like he’s known you for years. he’s already aware of all your ticks, your mannerisms and the things that piss other men off? he welcomes them. he calls it cute. he finishes your sentences like he’s reading your mind. he guesses what your order is at the restaurant you brought him to—your favorite ever—and he guesses correctly. you call it a coincidence, saying he’s perceptive. observant. he’s just into you.

if you were a little less oblivious, you’d know it’s more than a coincidence. you’d know that rafayel has been watching you since long before you met on the stupid dating app. the first time you met wasn’t on bumble. no, you met a year prior—well, he met you.

you’d spilled your coffee outside a cafe next to the art gallery that housed his paintings. you were beautiful. more than that—you were perfect. the way you cursed under your breath. the way you apologized to the asshole who bumped into you in the first place. he was captivated. it was almost like he’d known you in another life.

that’s what had him following you. it was innocent at first—just watching you from afar. you happened to be a regular at the cafe and he took note of that. he’d watch you for hours type away at your laptop, drank in the way you’d gnaw at your lip and the pinch of your eyebrows every time you got frustrated, or every time your lips would twitch when you would find something amusing. 

innocent. 

then it turned to something more than that. rafayel found himself following you home. watching you change in your window, blinds wide open like you want someone to catch you. 

and then he got addicted to it—watching you. following you. memorizing your schedule and routine. it made him hard to watch you. to think about what you smell like… what you taste like… how pretty you’d look crying on his dick. every night he’d go home to his place, wrap a hand around his leaky, aching cock and stroke himself to the mental image of you he’s burned into his brain. 

he barely slept. he’d stay up late into the night and paint you. he’s memorized you. every curve. every strand of hair on your head. every feature—they’re all filed away in his brain. 

his last straw comes when he watches you go on date after date, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides. thanks to him, you’ve never gone on more than one date with the same man. they’re nobodies. wastes of space. he’s looked into every single one of them, and not one is worthy of you—so they don’t deserve a place in your life.

he knows you’re meant to be with him. he’s always known. and that’s when he finally takes matters into his own hands and downloads the dating app.

that’s essentially how you end up in your current position, throat hoarse from all your screams of pleasure. you’re overstimulated, pussy sore, but he keeps going. fucking you into oblivion. after all, he’s waited for this for a whole year.

your ankles rest on his shoulders while your hands cover your sweaty, heated face, his cock fucking you fast and deep the same way it has been for the past hour and a half. 

“raf—hgnh, rafayel! p-please, oh my god,” you cry, your voice breaking as you beg for mercy. “i can’t take it—please, please.”

he groans, length twitching inside of your sensitive pussy at the sound of your pleads. “but you feel so good, cutie,” he responds breathlessly, a teasing lilt in his voice before it drops—lower, darker. “do you know how long i’ve waited for this?”

you whimper, panting out a confused, “wh-what? you waited all night for this?”

he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. it sounds strained. almost pained. he shakes his head and leans in to whisper, “no, silly girl. i’ve waited months for this.”

your eyes shoot open and you look into his. the twinkle that was there when he’d introduced himself to you earlier this evening is replaced with thunderstorms. newfound darkness. it makes your body lock up in fear, pussy tightening around him. this brings a wicked smile to his face. 

“don’t be scared, pretty. i’ll take good care of you.” he swears, wrapping his hands around your ankles, fingers so gentle on your skin. “i’m the only one who can take care of you… the only one who deserves you.”

you’re not sure why your fight or flight never kicks in. it should—everything about this is fucked beyond belief. your date—the one you’ve only just met—knows you. has known you for months. maybe longer.

but your stomach still flutters. maybe you like it. like whatever… this is. maybe you’re drunk on the feeling, but his words only sink deeper, winding tight and turning you on even more. your back arches, a sharp, helpless moan tearing from your throat, loud enough to mix with the wet sounds of his hips snapping against yours.

“you like that, huh?” he taunts. “‘m gonna make you fall for me. take such good care of you that you’ll never be able to think of anyone but me ever again.”

“oh, fuck,” you sob. “oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. raf, fuck!”

“yeah, go ahead and cream my cock again, princess. it’s yours. i’m yours.” the pace of his thrusts quickens, each snap more frantic than the last, and his words hitch on a breathy whimper—an unmistakable sign that he’s close too. “i’m all yours—and you’re mine now. i-i won’t let you get away that easy.”

the knot in your stomach snaps, exploding all at once as you drench his cock in syrupy arousal. your body jerks uncontrollably for the nth time, thrashing beneath him, and he’s the only thing keeping you steady—anchoring you as it rips through you.

“i’m gonna cum inside—i’m gonna fill this pretty pussy up with my cum and make you mine,” he doesn’t ask—it’s a statement. he’s just telling you, and you don’t protest. not even a little.

you take it. you let him fill you all the way up, feel his cock throb and twitch wildly and take every drop of cum, giving it a home in your cunt. he groans so prettily and you whimper at the warmth blooming inside of you. 

“you’ve always been my girl and now i have proof.”

#CALEB — STOCKHOLM SYNDROME

caleb is sick. so lovesick it’s twisted him into someone almost unrecognizable. he’s no longer the sweet boy from your childhood—no. now that caleb is yours and you are caleb’s, you’ve seen what lives beneath the cracks in his carefully kept exterior. he hides cameras in your apartment. he tracks you constantly. he’s planted a fear so deep in you that if you’re ever caught with someone else—friend or not—while ignoring his texts or calls, something very bad will happen.

in short, caleb would kill for you. you’re pretty sure he already has.

you love him—you love your caleb more than anything. he’s your sun. he treats you like a princess. he makes you feel whole. and yet, his actions terrify you. you can’t leave him, even though you know, deep down, you probably should. you should run. people have told you to run. simone, especially. but leaving would break both of you.

you make it a rule not to talk about caleb in your home when friends are over, because you know he’s listening. but when simone comes by, she can’t help herself.

“you need to leave him,” she says out of the blue and your blood goes cold. “[name], he’s basically holding you hostage—you only ever talk to caleb, i haven’t seen you outside of the association in weeks.”

“he’s not holding me hostage, simone,” you sigh, praying she drops it. you know she wants the best for you, but you don’t want to have this conversation right now. “can we not talk about him?”

“i’m just saying, [name], he’s sick. i think there’s something wrong with him and i just want you to be careful.” she says before grabbing her bag to leave. 

—

caleb’s eyes are red when you see him at your doorstep two hours later. you pull him in and you know what’s wrong… you know he heard your chat with simone. you know he’s in his head, spiraling out of control. 

“baby,” you murmur, pulling him by the wrist inside your place. “come on, come inside.”

he doesn’t even let you explain—the second he’s inside and the door is shut, he’s on you. his big, strong arms hoop around your body and pull you against him. your inhaling his natural musk and he’s buried in the crook of your neck apologizing profusely. 

“i’m sorry i can’t be what you need,” he says, shakily. the words breaking your heart as you run a soothing hand up and down his broad back. “i don’t deserve you, pips, but please… please don’t leave me. i need you.”

you embrace him tightly, “oh caleb,” your sad voice just barely above a whisper. “caleb, ‘m not—i won’t leave you.”

he pulls away from your neck, violet eyes turned dark purple when you see them for the second time. “promise?”

you nod wearily, but still, with no hesitation, reply with, “promise.”

and then he’s kissing you. soft at first, then it’s rough. so rough that it almost gives you whiplash. he’s kissing you, tongue roaming your mouth while he guides you to your bedroom, whimpering into your mouth. 

you’re thrown off when he gently shoves you against the bed. you stumble with a gasp and take in the shift in his demeanor. caleb looks mean. the boyfriend that was crying into your neck, begging you not to leave him looks nothing like the man that towers over you. 

he’s slow when he unbuttons his pants and when he pulls off his shirt. he stares at you, clocking every movement of your body— the increasing rate of which your chest rises and falls, the way there’s a sense of fear paired with excitement swimming in your pretty eyes—his eyes never leave yours.. 

“you understand that you can’t leave me, right?” he says, voice low. “that you can never leave me?” he says, stalking towards you slowly.

you nod and he shakes his head. “say it.” his sweet voice drips with dominance. “fucking tell me you understand.”

your breath hitches as his hands begin to strip your clothes off. “i-i understand. i won’t leave you.” 

“good girl,” he murmurs, continuing to work your clothes off till you’re in nothing but cotton panties. “you wanna know why you can’t leave?” he joins you on the bed, spreading your legs open and occupying the space between them.

you nod and he simply slips your panties to the side, gathers your arousal on the tip of his cock—effectively leaving you breathless in anticipation—before he presses into you, the fat tip of his length stretching you open. 

“because you need me.” he grunts, shoving himself inside of you and watching you crumble so pathetically. “your heart needs me, your body needs me… and this pretty pussy, baby? yeahhh, she needs me the most.” 

“caleb!” you gasp, feeling his cock deep in your stomach. “oh, fuck, caleb, w-wait— ‘s too deep.”

“it isn’t,” he growls, thumb catching your swollen clit. “nah, just fuckin’ take it, pretty girl. take this dick ‘n tell me you need it.”

your eyes roll to the back of your head as you let out a guttural moan. his cock pulls all the way out till his tip is the only inch that peeks inside your tight cunt, before he slams back into you, getting you addicted to him all over again. 

“oh my god, please!” you beg when he does it again and again at a monotonous pace. “please, please, caleb, i need it—i need, hah! i need it—need you, caleb.”

the sound that erupts in his chest is practically animalistic. his hand wraps loosely around your throat before his lips press against yours again. is sloppy, uncoordinated—a string of spit connects your lips when he pulls a few centimeters away. 

caleb leans in close, his voice dropping to a whisper as he moves against you, each word timed with a rough, unrelenting thrust. “you. need. me.” his grip around your throat tightens, certainty ringing through him as he repeats it like a promise—or maybe… maybe it’s a warning. “you need me. you’ll always need me, no one else.”

tears prick in your eyes at the pained pleasure shooting through your body. he squeezes your throat tighter, watching your eyes roll in ecstasy. so pretty and so fucked out and so his. you’re perfect. he can never let you go. he won’t. 

how could he when you were meant to be together forever?

#XAVIER — ALWAYS BE MY BABY

you knew xavier was a little… toxic, to put it lightly, when you agreed to be his girlfriend. you knew he was possessive by nature—clingy, territorial, cruel to every man who so much as looked at you for a second too long. and you told yourself you were okay with it. you thought you were okay with it.

but lately, it’s gotten worse. suffocating. you feel like you’re shrinking inside your own life, like there’s no space left that belongs solely to you. every choice, every breath, every step forward is taken with xavier beside you—and it’s too much. it’s all too much.

so when you finally sigh, the words slipping out before you can stop them—“we need to take a break”—he cocks his head, confused.

it’s like a predator’s curiosity.

because… what does that mean? a break from what, exactly? from work? from the hunter’s association?

“what do you mean?” he asks, all wide-eyed and innocent—and that’s what upsets you the most about xavier. he doesn’t realize there’s something wrong with him. he can’t see that the way he feels about you, the way he claims you, has long since crossed the line from devotion into something deeply almost frighteningly abnormal.

you let out a shaky exhale and avert your eyes, sight landing on your feet. “i mean… i think i need to take a break from… you. and you need a break from me…” when you look up, his confused face is gone, replaced with a hardened glare. “we just need space to be our own—“

“no,” he cuts you off, voice nearly robotic when he responds. “no, i don’t need space—i need you. i don’t need a break… i just want to be with you.”

you knew this was coming. you knew he’d try to convince you that you were inevitable—meant and written into each other’s bones. so you sigh and choose honesty, even though it hurts him.

“i love you, xavie. i do. i want to be with you, but…” your voice wavers despite yourself. “…you’re scaring me.”

and something in his eyes goes dark. the familiar starlight you’re used to seeing there fades, thinning until it’s almost gone. “i…” he swallows, disbelief softening his voice in a way that unsettles you. “i scare you?”

“w-well, no—you don’t scare me, scare me,” you rush out, already trying to soften the blow. “you just… you worry me. i’m scared you’re too dependent on me. you chase off every man that looks my way, you’re everywhere i am—” your breath stutters. “it’s just too much for me.”

he stalks towards you and every step he takes forward, you take one back till your back hits his kitchen island. you gasp as he cages you in, arms on both sides of your body. he leans in, cobalt blue eyes swallowed by his dilated, black pupils. 

you try to hold your breath, but it’s useless—your senses are flooded with him. he’s all you can see, all you can smell. his scent rattles your brain in a way nothing else ever has, too much of it sinking into you like a drug. and no matter how hard you try to keep your thoughts clear, your resolve unravels when you feel arousal pool low in your belly, heat blooming as it glues your panties to your core.

“you’re all i need… and i should be all you need,” he says, voice dark as it drops octaves lower than its usual range. his eyes bore into yours, lips tugging up ever so slightly. “don’t be scared, angel. you know i’d never hurt you, right? you know all i want is to love you. i’d do anything to keep you all to myself.” 

it feels like he’s putting you under some kind of spell. you dig your heels in mentally, forcing yourself to remember why you came here—to stand your ground, to leave, to not fold.

you try to break eye contact, but he won’t let you. his fingers close around your chin, firm and unyielding, pulling your attention right back where he wants it. “no, look at me, honey.” he says, voice low. “answer me: you know i’d never hurt you, right?”

he makes you nod with the grip on your chin. “i-i know.” you reply, voice cracking and stomach jostling. 

“you’re safe with me. you’ll always be safe with me.” he says, a smile touching his lips. he leans it, nose brushing against yours as he says, “we’re going to be together forever and ever. i’ll show you.”

—

xavier wastes no time flipping you over and bending you over the island, your face smooshed against the cool marble. your leggings are pulled down and his cock is inside you, exploring every single inch of your cunt with no barrier. you can’t find it in you to protest for him to wear a condom when you feel fuller… when he somehow feels even bigger. 

drool seeps from your lips, pooling on the smooth surface as he fucks you senseless almost as if he has something to prove in his thrusts. 

he pushes deep into you, grinding his tip against your sweetest spot. “you feel me, honey? feel how i’m fucking you raw?” he grunts the words out, one hand on your waist as the other splays between your shoulder blades. “this is how we’re gonna do it from now on, got it?”

your eyes roll, pussy clamping tight around him. the veins of his cock brand themselves into your walls. he’s ruining you for everyone else. marking his territory. 

you can’t even respond—the only noises that can be pulled from you are garbled moans of his name and choked sobs. you’re a complete and utter mess, reduced to nothing but tears, drool and arousal. 

he resumes his thrusts, pulling out and ramming back into you. “fuck you raw, fill you with my cum and get you pregnant.” he whispers and it has your eyes shooting open, your stomach hallowing out and your cunt gripping him like never before.

“w-what?” your broken voice rings in his ears and it elicits a little moan from him. his cock twitches wildly inside of you, balls drawing up by the lilt of panic in your voice. “wait—wait, xavie, ‘m, hah! shit, ‘m not on the pill. y-you can’t cum i-inside!”

he lets out a soft, breathy chuckle. “don’t worry, honey,” he says, voice steady. “i’ll take care of you—of us. you just take it. be good and take it because it’s what you’re made for.”

and you do. you give in just like he tells you to, fingers digging into the edge of the countertop as your body betrays you. each movement pulls a sharp, helpless sound from your throat, clipped moans spilling out of you as easily as the warmth gathering between your thighs.

“i promise, this–this… will make us closer,” he pants, thrusts getting quicker as he gets closer and closer to letting go. he’s on the precipice of an orgasm, length throbbing, tummy knotting up. “just hold still.”

then you feel the sudden warmth flooding your pussy. he’s shooting into you, ribbon after ribbon of warm cum while he groans prettily in your ear. it triggers your orgasm, your body convulses as your walls spasm and drench his cock in your slick. 

“now we’ll be together forever.” 

© all works belong to MEDICLI 2026. do not copy or repost.

[cheriefrosting]

⁀➴☕︎ | Aiding and Abetting

When your daughter's psychiatrist suggests you get in touch with your abusive ex-husband in prison for her sake, you're not thrilled. Fortunately for you, he's dead. Unfortunately for you, someone else is alive and very keen on playing the part of a doting father. wc: 3.4k

PART I | PART 2.1 (you are here)

I would like to know the color of your eyes.

You wiped down the kitchen counter in a daze, the rag swiping over and over a spot that was already clean. The ten words repeated themselves in a loop, one you hadn't been able to escape since receiving them two weeks ago.

You weren't ashamed of chickening out. It didn't take anything to tell him what a drab and dull hue the color of your eyes were. Millions of people existed with the same set of eyes. It wasn't even a risk, a harmless question.

Loaded with so much intensity it took your breath away.

Every night before bed you would find yourself going over the letter, tempted to pick up a pen and write something back but the seemingly innocent question was so much more than it looked like. It felt like a caress to the cheek, whispers carrying over in the wind, the slight thrill that ran through your veins when doing something that was forbidden. It felt wicked and evil. Felt dangerous. Like your heart dropping when you tip off a cliff and go plunging into the roaring waves.

You were waiting for the waves to break skin.

His newest letter lay on top of the refrigerator, the only color in your washed-out, run-down apartment. You'd already gone through the contents of his letter to your daughter, the only letter in the envelope, resealing it to give to her when she got home. Why would he write to you when you'd given him no reason to?

You didn't want to invite him into your space any more than he already took up. The line that had been drawn in the sand had been washed away but you were picking up the stick again. You'd guard over that line yourself.

Determined, you sat down to write.

What crime are you guilty of?

Other than wanting to know you better?

Of course he would ignore your question. So, you decide to ignore his blatant flirting. He was hedging just like you were, both of you, peas of the same pod. You wouldn't show your cards till he surrendered and from what you'd gathered, he wasn't one to bow out so easily.

Almost as if he could guess that you were getting ready to shut him out again, you notice the tiny -> arrow at the bottom of the page before you flip it around to see he'd scribbled something at the back as well.

Was that question too difficult? I understand. Here's a simpler one. What's your favorite color? The little bunny likes pink or purple but I can't tell. Does her Mommy prefer the same?

It was simpler. After putting your daughter to bed, you sat on the kitchen counter, pen poised at the paper but not writing. You couldn't remember the last time you'd thought about such innocuous things. A favorite color, your favorite weather or even something as silly as your favorite candy. It had been too long since you'd wondered about these things. That innocence had long been snatched away.

Lightning flashed outside the window, catching your eye. A moment passed before the rumble of thunder followed. And like everytime it rained, you were thinking of that night.

If you closed your eyes, you could still picture the droplets on your skin coming in through the open window. The glass shard seeping deep into your foot, the living room turned upside down and the TV shattered in the middle of it from where he had thrown it at you. Between it all, you hadn't been able to tell if your forehead was also cut or if it was the rain. It was such an impractical thing to be focusing on, but you'd chosen self-preservation. And yet, you didn't dare raise your hand to touch and find out, hadn't dared remove them from around your belly as you did your best to shield your unborn child.

Lightning struck outside the window again. And even with your eyes open, you pictured it clearly. The image burned deep behind your eyelids for all of eternity.

Crimson. Unlike any you'd ever seen. Shining, gleaming, burning.

With a wry smile, you refocus back on the paper and start writing.

Bunny's preferences change like the season. Last month her favorite color was orange. This month is pink.

Mine's red.

Mine's red.

Three words. Eight letters. Shot to his chest straight as if she'd uttered them right to his face.

Red. Of course your favorite color had to be red. The universe had a twisted sense of humor.

Lying in bed, your letter covered his eyes as Sylus inhaled every last bit of your perfume lingering on it. For the two weeks you had gone silent on him again, he wondered if you were done entertaining his antics.

Then he wondered if you'd correctly deduced the deeper implications of his question. The intimacy around it was as subtle as him screaming it in your face. And still, it bothered him. Every word you wrote to him bothered him. He wanted to get to know you but knew that anything personal would have you running for the hills. You were cautious, too cautious.

So, why then, were you entertaining a criminal? Involving your daughter in something that clearly went against your principles?

When he sits up, he notices the tiny, identical arrow at the bottom of the page and flips it over to see what else you had to say.

Dodging questions doesn't make you look any more innocent.

With a smile threatening to break, Sylus realizes you're not going to make it easy on him. He much preferred it that way. The following day, with his pen hovering over the paper, he makes up his mind as he begins writing.

The red packaging was glaring back at you.

Imagine your horror when you opened the sweet old lady's mailbox and a red package the size of your head, barely fitting inside was staring back at you. There was no mistaking who it was from, who it was for, and you'd quickly tossed it into your bag before anyone saw.

You were so paranoid that he might have someone watching at the post office for who takes his letters that you'd resorted to using this poor woman's address and now, now the fear had you by the neck, sweating and shivering in broad daylight.

You'd torn open the packaging as soon as you got home, before you even put your bag down, plucking out the softest, sweetest looking bunny plushie with pink fur complete with a purple tiara.

You hated your heart for flipping the way it did.

Does the little princess like her gift? I'm sorry for sending one impromptu without your permission.

Do you like yours?

You drop the letter immediately, digging through the box and coming up with a silk cloth. Too big to be a handkerchief, just barely passing the mark for a scarf. Silk, extravagant and pricier than you could ever afford. The little S stiched in the corner catches your eye, makes your heart race.

The color is an exact match of your favorite shade of red. Leaves you a little light-headed. And then the paranoia comes crashing back.

Akin to the previous letter, there's an arrow mark guiding you to flip the page.

I'm not innocent and I won't claim to be. I simply do not wish to lose a beloved pen pal and my access to her drawings.

I beat up a man within an inch of his life.

Your heart is beating so loudly that you cannot process anything over the rush in your ears. Cannot stop rereading the words. Cannot stop the tremble in your hands, the way they shake, the way your knees buckle. You hold on to the counter to give yourself some reprieve.

You'd been playing house with a criminal. How could you have given him the benefit of doubt for a single second?

Old habits die hard, you thought bitterly as you cleaned up the mess, tossing the wrapping paper and opening his letter to your daughter to inspect it. It was a pattern with you now. Ten guys could line up in front of you and you'd skip over all the 9 decent ones to choose the trashy jerk.

You're irrationally angry with yourself for entertaining him at all, for letting yourself get carried away like this. You're tossing the wrapping paper in the trash, mind half made up to do the same with the plushie but a hollow feeling taking shape in your stomach gives you pause.

The bunny is soft beneath your labor-roughened fingers, the calloused skin that was always peeling off. You wouldn't be able to afford buying a soft toy this expensive for your daughter without feeling like you'd burned a hole through your wallet. Even if you saved up for months, you would never put that money toward a plushie and you knew it. The one you'd recently bought for your daughter couldn't even begin to compare to this one.

You take your foot off the pedal of the trash can, sighing deeply. You were tired to the very bones of your body, so exhausted and worn out that you didn't remember a time before it. What it was to be carefree and relaxed. All your life, for as long as you could remember, had been spent running. First from your irresponsible, junkie parents who had tried selling you to be able to afford the drugs they preferred and then from your husband who'd trapped you in an abusive marriage before you could see the signs.

Placing the bunny on the counter, you pick up the letter again, ready to pocket it to trash it with the scarf later, when the tiny writing you didn't notice before catches your eye.

He deserved it.

The hollow feeling that had been expanding past your gut and into your chest bursts like a balloon, all the air in your lungs leaving you in a single exhale.

You don't know what it is about this criminal but his silent conviction and the quiet certainty with which he wrote those words gives you pause. He didn't overexplain his side, didn't try to play it off and brush it under the rug. He didn't shy away from answering your question (this time) but he didn't feel the need to defend himself.

With a sigh filled with long suffering, you come to a conclusion you're not enthusiastic about.

You believed him.

The little princess loves the plushie, thank you. I do hope this is the extent of your generosity though.

->

What did he do?

And you? Did you like your gift?

->

I think I'll spare you the gory details, darling. Trash needs cleaning and I feel necessary to see it through myself sometimes.

You stopped asking questions after that. You liked to think it was none of your business but frankly, you were scared to find out. Scared that his answer would inevitably lead to the end of this budding acquaintanceship.

It would seem Bunny wasn't the only one who was lonely.

Did you like your gift?

Your only guiding force in life was to give your daughter a good life and ever since she'd clutched your finger in the dingy hospital room where you'd given birth, you knew you'd do anything to make her happy. Happier than you could have ever imagined yourself to be.

To see those drawings with the black crayon marring all the other colors on the page had broken your heart. The fact that she didn't make a peep or a single complaint when you had to pull long shifts at work and couldn't pick her up from school wrecked your soul. You wanted to give her everything she'd ever want. That had made you risk something this dangerous just to please her. And you would do it every time.

But that scarf, that was the one thing that was yours. It was the first time you'd ever been gifted something, not too extravagant, barely constituting as a present but still, you wanted it just for yourself. For once. Something that inherently belonged only to you. That wasn't thrifted or bought second hand.

And so, it sat in the back of your closet, in an unmarked box like a secret. Like something of great value. Like it was your most prized possession. Like it was priceless.

It drew out a pathetic laugh from your throat. Your most prized possession was a handkerchief from a criminal serving a sentence of heaven knew how long? Truly pathetic.

No. And I would appreciate it you refrained from sending anything else going forward.

Now you weren't only pathetic, you were also a coward.

The following week, you receive a blank cheque in the mail.

I apologize for the gift; it was certainly in poor taste. There is no limit on the amount for the cheque. Treat yourself to something special on my behalf, please?

No innuendo. Just a request. Your gaze kept snagging on the last word like it was a gravitational pull. Why did you feel like this was a man that did not plead often, if ever?

The cheque feels weightless in your palm but also weighs you down like a truckload on your chest. Your eye immediately drops to check the name on the bottom right only to see initials.

S.Q

His name really was Skye then?

No matter how tempted you were, you refused to involve yourself with the likes of such men- people, again. You would not give him a chance to trace any of your actions back to you. The moment your daughter starts showing signs of her positive disposition returning, this penpal-ship was coming to an end.

But the sad, pitiful part of you was so tempted. If there really was no limit to the cheque, you take a moment and glance around your dingy apartment, wouldn't that be nothing short of a miracle for you?

With a twofold, the cheque is torn and the pieces flutter around the kitchen. A pathetic laugh escapes you when you realize your fingers are twitching with the urge to tape it all back together.

Last thing you needed was charity.

Even if it didn't feel like it.

Thank you for the cheque but I think it was too excessive. Let's refrain on sending any type of gifts altogether. Bunny included.

You find yourself thinking of him often at work as you wipe down tables and mindlessly carry orders around like muscle memory. If you let yourself indulge, you could go hours without realizing where you were, what you should've been doing.

He'd said his hair was lighter in color. Was it light brown or more of a sandy blond? If he had beaten a man within an inch of his life, he'd have to be built like a tank to achieve it, right? What color were his eyes? Did he have scars? Tattoos? Pointed nose or button? Did he wear his hair longer or was it cut short to the scalp? Did he wear specs? How old was he? What work did he do before committing the crime? Was he in the shady business long term?

You thought back to the cheque he'd sent to you. No limit, he'd said. Was this one of his tactics to lure unsuspecting women in? Was he in the business of trafficking?

That line of thought startles you to the point of dropping your tray, the clatter drawing attention of all the patrons in the restaurant. Your heart drops when you notice the broken dishes and know that it will be docked out of your pay. You don't even get a chance to think your actions through, immediately dropping to your knees and picking up the shards, numbed to the point that you don't feel anything when a few of the pieces break skin.

You're dragging your feet on your way home, well past midnight when you'd gotten to work nearly 16 hours ago, on your feet the entire time save for two half hour breaks in the middle. Sending your daughter to a good school and paying for a child therapist was going to run you into the ground.

Even as you fight the tears welling in your eyes, you know you wouldn't choose to go any other way.

You cross the mailbox, belatedly realizing it was a Tuesday as you go to check it. The crappy events of the day have only made you regret tearing up the blank cheque even more. So, what if some bored criminal 'billionaire' wanted to do some charity? He wouldn't blink if a few thousand went missing from his bank account, wouldn't even care.

When you get home, Bunny is already in bed. Your precious daughter was too mature for her age, and you hated it. Hated that you were stealing her innocent childhood from her just because her mother couldn't make the right decisions in life. For the longest time, you sit by her bedside and watch her sleep.

It's only when you're tucking her blanket tighter around her that you notice her clutching her new bunny and remember the letter in your purse.

The bulb above the kitchen table flickers once, twice, thrice and just as you're convinced that it needs replacing and your dwindling savings are going to take a hit again today, the light flicks on. Using your closed fists to massage your knotted shoulders, you pluck out the letter, bypassing the one for Bunny for the moment.

So, it would be okay if I drew pictures too?

Underneath the writing there was a stick figure drawing of three people, clearly a family. He'd drawn bunny ears for the shorter girl standing between the two adults, holding their hand. The 'mom' had cat ears, and the 'dad' had devil horns.

Before you can help it, you're laughing at how ridiculously endearing it was. He'd doodled what looks like a tiny crow next to his stick figure, a cat next to yours and a wand in Bunny's hand. It is the silliest, most goofy sketch you've ever seen, and you love it to bits.

Your smile drops immediately when you realize how easily the laugh had come to you; how light and carefree you'd felt just a second ago. The day from hell that you'd just experienced felt so far away, like it was from a different lifetime and that scares you. Enough to stand up again to dispel the spell even if your feet were killing you.

Unacceptable. You were falling back into old patterns, newer tricks with the same outcome, and you were done. The only person you're living for is your daughter and no one else has any place in the life you've built for the both of you.

But as you lay in bed that night, you're thinking of the tiny sketch again, a smile splitting your lips so wide as you recall how adorable it was.

With a silent apology to your daughter, you close your eyes. He may not have a permanent place in the life you'd built but just for a little while, you could pretend.

Right?

Pictures are okay but you need to sharpen your skills.

Pardon me for not being as talented as our daughter pretty princess. My talents lie elsewhere, I'm afraid.

You ignore his usage of our even as you fight a smile.

What do you do for a living? Apart from being the occasional garbage collector and a struggling artist?

Sylus laughs, immediately sitting down to write back.

Meditate, mostly. Solitary confinement can be lonely. Occasionally participate in the sparring matches here on Saturday to pass time.

You weren't a fool. Solitary confinement wasn't just given to just any other inmate. The crime had to be of a serious measure, or he'd have to be someone who was a danger to other criminals.

Maybe if you stopped beating up people, they'd let you in a public space instead of keeping you isolated.

Do you atleast win these matches?

Do you atleast win these matches?

Sylus has to rub the back of his palm over his mouth- once, twice before he gives up any attempt to hold his amusement down, smiling so wide it hurts his cheeks.

I cannot be blamed for the half-witted fools who challenge me in the ring. Besides, you need to get a few bones broken to build resilience (:

If I said no, will you tend to my wounds?

You're rolling your eyes when you first read the words, but you've smiled to yourself all day every time you've thought of them.

Sylus opens your letter impatiently.

I'm not your caretaker.

His brows furrow at the flippant tone. Confused, he peeks into the envelope to see if there was more. Between his daughter's letter and the envelope, there's something lodged in the middle and he plucks it out, only to bark out in laughter when he lays his eyes on it.

->

Bunny is.

Please thank Princess Bunny for her care and the hello kitty band-aid. Atleast someone cares for her old man. Her mother's charm is her cruelty.

All your life you'd felt like a pushover. Someone who was used to being walked all over. A doormat.

Your lips lifted. Felt nice to hear you had claws too.

How old are you?

Old enough to be the starring role in every fantasy you've had of me.

That letter gives you pause. Makes you look around like he'd caught you. Like he knew what you did lying in bed. You decide he needs humbling.

Sylus is brimming with tension when he plucks out the second letter in the envelope. It had been 3 weeks since you'd responded and he'd worried that he'd taken it too far, that you were done with him, spent sleepless nights wondering if you'd write back.

Full of ourselves, are we?

Feeling left out, darling? Want to feel ful(l of me)filled too?

You hate that he doubled down every time. There was really no humbling a man who considered himself above the average lot.

You kiss your mother with that mouth?

Your response is instantaneous this time and he can almost feel the way you must be seething, if the blot of ink against the letters is any indication.

No, just our daughter's mother.

There was truly no winning with him.

A/N: First things first, I know the chapter is a bit underwhelming as compared to all the promise of the premise but there's a reason I'm calling this part 2.1 cuz I am a staunch believer in buildup, and I want to do it justice.

Secondly, I am OVERWHELMED at the response the first part got. The kind words everyone wrote, trust me when I say I reread the comments hundreds of times and scrolled thru the reblogs like a fanatic. Truly thankful to everyone who stopped a second to say such sweet things, in my comments, in the reblogs and even my asks. I'm so grateful<3 Feel free to reach out if you notice any typos or errors!

I don't have a permanent taglist but if you'd like to be tagged for updates on this fic, comment below and I'll add you!

[cheriefrosting]

TAGS: @silverianni @twobitnox @neonwarchild @dyeinsomniadontwake @glitch-but-ya @canaria-herrscherr @souppooppie @thekingswin @charityjoy22 @valiantchaosvalkyrie @coballowayz @angeliccheeri @msfrostfeathers @peachim @gravitationalbluberry @depressedbearblogs @lostinficanya @clearcowboyphilosopher

[sugarplumpearl]

Xavier j*rking off with your lotion

Pairing: Xavier x reader

Rating: +18 (mdni)

I saw a TikTok the other day with this take and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. Not edited.

You walked into the apartment you shared with Xavier, expecting him to be lounging around on the couch, eyelashes fluttering as he slept. When he wasn’t in his usual spot, you slightly frowned.

Strange.

His ashy blond hair couldn’t be seen over the arm of the couch.

Settling into a fluffy pair of slippers, you quietly made your way through the shared space. You spared the kitchen a glance as he might have been making himself a cup of ramen, but he wasn’t there either.

As you closed in on your bedroom, muffled sounds reached your ears. Realizing he was moaning, your heart dropped for a second, thinking someone else was with him. You were put to rest when you heard your name being spoken like a prayer.

You glanced through the slightly ajar door, eyes widening at the sight.

Xavier was face down on your bed, bare except for the briefs he wore. They were pushed down, his perky bottom exposed to the cool air, hand under him, wrapped around his cock. His free hand tugged on the sheets, used as leverage as he rocked against the mattress.

“Please, baby, need more…”

He was breathless, eyes squeezed shut as he chased his high. Beside him, was a bottle of your favorite lotion. It was the one you used religiously. After a shower or before getting dressed in the morning, he had grown accustomed to the smell, familiarizing it to you and you alone.

“Need you so bad.” He whined, drool dripping onto your pretty ruffled duvet. “Need your little cunt to take me. Need to fill you with my seed.”

Without opening his eyes, he flipped onto his back. The bed rocked from the motion, the frame knocking into the wall but he paid it no mind.

Instead, he switched hands. The one that once worked his pink cock, now fondled his swollen balls, using the residue of your lotion to spread the slick along the skin. The other followed the path of his dick.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

“Yes, just like that, honey.”

He arched into his palm, pretty nipples pebbling in the cold air.

Your eyes trailed from his scrunched-up face to his elegant neck, down to the tip of his cock where his thumb swirled around the slit.

He was the perfect image of a greedy prince. Reckless and impatient. Not being able to have the real thing, he made do with your lotion. At least your scent would envelop him as he played with his cock.

“Pleasepleaseplease…can’t take-can’t take ‘more…need to come in you. Please, can I cum?”

Looking at his angelic face, you were met with his baby blues, looking directly into your eyes. His mouth parted as he gasped for air.

Oh god, he was asking you for permission. Damn, Xavier knew you were there this whole time. As usual, he was merely playing with his food. He had lured you into his trap and as soon as he was done fucking his fist, he’d be splitting you open on his dick for the next few hours.

You could never say no to him. With a meek tone, you nodded.

“Cum for me.”

WE NEED MORE XAVIER CONTENT RIGHT NEOOOOOW

[feelthemadnessinside]

I personally think Caleb would be a bit too much for me irl because I don’t need someone planting bugs in my phone then getting mad I’m stacking up on Nanami Kento shirtless and oiled-up fanarts 🙄🙄

[lyssimiq]

and that’s why xavier is perfect 💕

[feelthemadnessinside]

Xavier’s just gonna have a bug planted that will specifically delete all your gooner fan arts, and then smile sweetly while you’re wondering where tf did that Gojo booty hole in ultra 4K pic go😌😭

[laskulls-deactivated20250318]

More male characters who are interested in their mother's legacy. As a trope there's a lot of sons and daughters who follow in the father's footsteps and there's yes, girls who honor their mother, ect. But let's have more dudes who are like. Stumbling on their mom's secret fairy cottage or some shit. And they're like aight gotta make the tea

[cheriefrosting]

⁀➴☕︎ | Come again?

In which you break the pact you have with your fiancé and suffer "consequences" Warnings: xavier x nonmc!reader, pillow humping, p in v, unprotected sex (please wrap it before you tap it), established relationship, use of nicknames

Art by @/gemo38960050977 on X

Your fiancé and you had a pact.

Sure, it was an unrealistic one, but it worked for the both of you. Or it had been, really well, up until last month.

But as you listen to the voicemail he left apologizing for having to work overtime again, you sighed and crushed your face against his pillow. This was proving it to be its own twisted version of edging if you were being honest.

It could be harmless; you shrugged to yourself. Maybe if you relieved yourself a little bit of this building ache, made worse by tenfold thanks to your ovulation phase, you'd eventually get better at handling your fiancé's other commitments instead of hurling stuff at him when he did show up.

It did not help that your shared bed always smelled like him. And as you lowered your panties and slotted his pillow between your thighs, you decided to blame him for it.

How would he ever know? He was barely home as it was. As you rolled over, face planted in sheets that were enveloped with his heady lavender and vanilla scent, you inhaled deeply while your hips rocked against his pillow, slow at first as you found your pace. Even though it had been a while, even with your eyes closed you could feel the phantom touch of his fingers on you, how they moved featherlight over your bare skin, the touches he'd leave, the sensations he'd elicit.

You could almost hear him in your head, whispering sweet nothings, moving above you, the pace he'd set in perfect tandem with the drag of your hips against the pillow, your pussy lips parting on the seam as the corner rubbed against your clit perfectly.

With one hand gripping the sheets, you freed the other to reach inside your oversized t-shirt and circle around your nipple, feeling it harden against your fingers as you pulled at it mercilessly, a hopeless attempt at replicating the kind of treatment you were used to from him. The pain shot straight to your core, making your hips buck from the pressure.

Doubling downing on your efforts, the pace with which you were riding the pillow was dizzying, chasing that peak as the knot in your stomach tightened. You could feel your slick coating his pillow, legs shuddering from the effort before the knot snapped and your arched body smushed the pillow when you went limp, sighing contentedly.

Surely one more couldn't hurt?

When Xavier thought his day had gone terribly, he wasn't exaggerating.

After getting showered in the blood of a monster it had taken them weeks to find and subsequently defeat, the commander had asked for an immediate report. And so, him and his crew had stood there in his office, dripping the abominable liquid on the lush carpets as they briefed their leader. That was followed by an hour-long shower to get all the sticky blood out of his hair and off his body and another hour just to get the scent off.

He had really wished that would be the end.

But of course, there had to be a breach. Stupid monster had a twin who had come to avenge his brethren? And no, he couldn't have died without once again bathing them in his disgusting blood.

And thus, the loop repeated itself. All the excruciating briefing followed by the bath that could give princesses preparing for their debut a run for their money.

It was nearing 1 in the morning when Xavier finally stepped foot in his own house. He knew how upset you were likely to be and he would do his best to amenable. It was not easy for him to spend these many days away from you either.

But despite getting submerged in the bodily fluids of two deadly monsters, having to stand in the air-conditioned office of his commander, freezing as he debriefed the entire event for 45 minutes twice, and having to take an everything shower two times, back-to-back, Xavier realized the worst thing to happen to him in the past 48 hours was this.

He had wanted nothing more than sleep the weekend away with his fiancée, not getting out of bed for anything, maybe paying the door dash guy extra for delivering food till the bed but the sight of you curled up in bed sans panties, his pillow crushed between your thighs and the blanket tangled in your legs was the worst thing to happen to him.

It didn't take a genius to understand that you'd violated the pact.

On any other day, Xavier would've been more understanding. Probably even empathized with you. But after surviving hell these past few days, it was like you cumming anywhere but on him was the straw that broke the camel's back.

Taking his shirt off, he slowly climbed on the bed, thighs bracketing on either side of your lithe body, gently rising and falling with every measured breath. Xavier takes his time pulling the pillow out from between your legs, clicking his tongue at the barely dried damp patch on it.

"Nasty, nasty girl" He tsks under his breath, turning you over on your back and spreading your legs, orbs glazing over at the wetness lingering on your pussy lips.

Like a man starved, he dives in without preamble. Throwing your legs over his shoulders, tongue flat against the bottom running till the top before he pulled on the little nub, making you jerk against him.

You stirred, shifting as Xavier took a minute to inhale deeply, before he dug his face back in, tongue lapping at your folds, two fingers parting your pussy lips for his intrusion. One hand snaked up your body, palming your entire breast and massaging it roughly in his palm as an inhibited moan escaped your lips, hips bucking into his face, his nose bumping against your clit.

"X-Xavi?" Your heavy lids were fighting to open, but when you saw the mop of silver hair between your legs, your hips involuntarily arched, thighs locking his head between them.

"You've been bad" He murmured against your folds, entranced at the way you were gushing, eager and desperate to drink it all up "You've been really, really bad"

"Xavi-" You tried to sit up but Xavier pushes you back down, inserting two fingers in you at the same time, clit trapped between his teeth as you cry out "Ohmy- hah- Xavi please- please list- ohmyGod!"

"Were you that desperate, baby?" Icy blue orbs pin you in place as you shudder, whimpering at how good he feels when he tsks at you "Look at how you're soaking me. We just got started"

"I-I'm so-sorry" You breathe out, fingers grazing his locks, holding him in place as you shamelessly grind against his face "I-I really am"

Flicking your pearly bud once, Xavier bites down on it, making you explode as you moan his name, chest heaving at how your orgasm washes over you in one strong wave, making your entire body tremble.

You watch as your fiancé finally rises from between your legs, climbing above you till his hard on is in line with your dripping pussy. You groan at the outline of it grinding against you, pouting when you felt that he was still wearing his jeans.

He looks content to be there, just rubbing against you, making no move to give you what you actually want as you huff, crossing your arms "I said I was sorry"

"Not only are you not sorry" Xavier swoops down to kiss the pout off your lips by the way of finally greeting you "You are also not a good liar"

"I used your pillow" You try to reason, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him close, pecking his lips between each word for good measure "You were there with me in spirit"

"The pact was that we orgasm only with each other" Xavier drives his point home by a particularly sharp thrust, making your mouth drop open "When both of us are present physically"

"Does it help that I was thinking of you the whole time?"

Xavier tries to hide it; he really does but he cannot disguise the slight raise of his eyebrows in interest when he learns that tidbit. And so, you are reinforcing your efforts with newfound vigor as you lock your legs around his waist, rubbing against his erection.

"I was thinking of how long your fingers are" You are speaking right above his lips now, licking your own and watching as his gaze zeroes in on them "How calloused and perfect they are. How they reach inside me so good" With a slight shift of your hips, you flip him over, straddling his hips now. Xavier watches with laser focus as your fingers pull your nightshirt up and over your head.

"How good you mistreat these" One breast in each hand, you're massaging them, counting down till Xavier can't help but take over the task to do right by them himself. Reaching behind you, you start unzipping his jeans "I can't feel good without thinking of you, Xavi"

You're stroking his cock behind you, hot and heavy in your palm and already leaking precum, moaning when Xavier pulls at your nipples to draw your attention back to him again "You're good at distracting me" Running the length of his cock against your folds, he's resisting the urge to thrust into you "Very good at avoiding punishment"

"God forbid a girl is ovulating and her fiancé is unavailable"

"Go ahead" The audacious man has the audacity to put his arms under his head as he watches you above him "Use me, then"

You didn't need to be told twice.

For all his nonchalance, Xavier is barely holding back the moment the mushroom tip of his cock is breaching your walls, head thrown back as pleasure from how tight you are makes him nearly black out "God-fuck-how are you s-so tight?"

You want to answer with something haughty, something that shows him how badly he needs just this pussy to lose control, but you are so terribly full of him, having taken him to the hilt in one go, feeling him in your throat as your hands find his chest to steady yourself, grazing your fingernails down his pecs as you slowly begin to move your hips in circles "F-Fuck- so-ohmygod- you feel so good"

His hands are back on your breasts, roughing them up, pulling on them and using them as a handlebars when you start finding your pace, slowly bouncing down on his cock, his balls slapping against the globes of your ass.

You're seeing white when Xavier begins to thrust upwards into you, slowly at first but then slowly pulling all the way out and bottoming out with every thrust, rubbing against that spot that makes you see stars behind your eyelids, two fingers pushing past your lips and pressing down on your tongue.

"Xavier!" His name is garbled as you suck on his digits, milking him for everything he's worth within an inch of his life.

"Only name.." He's panting too, sweat lining his brow as he pulls you down for a kiss "Only name that should ever be on your mind when you cum, yes?"

"Mhm" You can feel him even deeper in this angle, chests rubbing against each other, as he hits that spongey spot inside you over and over, clit grinding against his pelvis, fingers pulling at his hair as he gives you open-mouthed, sloppy kisses that turn your brain into mush.

When he feels your legs locking against his, only then is he pulling away "You're going to cum for me, Angel?" You're nodding, desperate and cock-drunk as Xavier thrusts into you to the hilt and holds you there, not moving as you break apart for him, whimpering at how good he feels, getting lost in the sensations he elicits from you.

You're about to go limp in his arms when he locks yours behind you, holding you upright as his thrusts pick up pace "You're so beautiful" He's murmuring, sitting upright and leaving wet kisses against your jaw and throat "You drive me insane-fuck-missed this" Every thrust is rubbing against that soft spot, making your thighs quiver as you feel yourself peaking again "Missed this tight pussy" His lips slot over yours as he holds you down while he fills you up "Missed you"

He's kissing the tears that escaped as you recover from that, chest heaving against his as he releases your arms and guides you into his chest "You were so good f'me" He's running his fingers through your hair, gently rocking you in his arms as you pout.

"You're mean" you tell him, finally pulling back to glare at him.

"So are you" He replies, but he's nuzzling against your chest, kissing your collarbone and moving lower to your breasts "How could you-" You can almost hear the sulking in his voice "Without me?"

He's planted his face in the valley of your breasts, making no move to let you go "Maybe the pact wasn't such a good idea?" At that his eyes peak out and he's shooting you a nasty look "Or-" You correct yourself quickly "-we need to add amendments"

Xavier hasn't even pulled out, and you still feel him twitching inside you, half-hard. It's so at odds with how he acts like a clingy kitten, refusing to part with your chest for a single breath "Like what?" He mumbles.

"Next time I'm missing this" You can feel his smile against your skin "I'll send you a video?"

"Or you could call me"

The idea of phone sex with Xavier...

If him getting hard while still inside you were any indication, he was thinking the exact same thing that you were.

"But right now?" He's pulling back and thrusting his pillow in your arms "Right now I want to see it in real time"

A/N: Please don't hesitate to reach out to me incase you spot typos!

[feelthemadnessinside]

Men who insist on marriage not because they are traditional, but because they want you bound to him in every single way that matters;

Listening: Pretty Little Psycho- Porcelain Black

It is an indisputable fact: he loves you.

A love so potent that it has mutated into something ghastly and unbearable to be looked at by mortal eyes. Something that more closely resembles the inner self he carefully masks in front of you.

He is the perfect gentleman- handsome, respectful, and so achingly romantic. He has never touched you without explicit consent, and had waited a while before you two actually had sex, which you had to initiate yourself because he was terrified of crossing boundaries. To take something you hadn’t offered freely.

He had made it abundantly obvious early on that he intended to marry you one day. That he would not leave the bond you two had suspended in ambiguity.

“How proper," you always coo at him in your sweet voice, finding his chivalrous charm refreshingly endearing in this day and age.

But he was not proper. He was a beast.

He insists on marrying not for propriety but for strategy- so that when he unveils the true depth of his obsession, you can’t run away from him.

You didn’t know he was ravenous for you, hungry in a way that almost felt lethal to him and you. And he was afraid when he finally dropped the mask- kissed you the way he really wanted, fucked you the way he really wanted- you would get scared and run.

And he doesn't even want to imagine the look of disgust and horror on your face if you discovered the room he maintained as a shrine to you: pictures of you- surveillance and the goofy selfies you took with him side by side- covering the walls, a box of random trinkets housing your discarded hairbands, pins, jewellery that you accidentally misplaced. A scarf, a bandana. Even the jacket that belonged to you which he loves to bury his nose in. A room he maintained to rest in when he missed you too much.

You would definitely run if you learnt of the trackers he planted in all jewellery he gifted you and in all your devices, so that he could have your location at all times- just in case, he tells himself. Just in case you needed him to come to you.

Losing you was his biggest fear- he was terrified of you leaving him in any way.

His love grows teeth with every soft, loving kiss you plant on him, with every embrace, with every night you spend in his bed and let him touch you.

"It sounds sexy only in books," you say, casually chewing your crisps, reading another one of those depraved romances you liked to unwind with "but if a man did this in real life, I would have that restraining order out so fast," you say between your loud chewing, and his eyes flit to your engagement ring for just a second before going back to his own book, his hands caressing your feet with the content smile he only shows you, as the tracker in your ring hums away unnoticed.

Yes, marriage was the right decision.

He needs you tethered. He needs the law on his side. He needs the weight of family, of shared property, of intertwined tax returns, of a future so meticulously entangled that pulling a single thread would unravel your entire life... so that you would never be able to run away if you were to find out about all that he had done. That he keeps doing and will keep doing.

He’d never give you a reason to want a divorce from him, of course. And he’d burn down every lawyer’s office in the country if you still wanted one anyways.

You couldn’t leave him- he won’t allow it.

But you didn’t need to know that.

— CALEB x17💀, Zayne, Sylus, Valko (LADS); Lu Chen/Evan, Zha Lisu/Charlie, Xia Mingxing/Jesse (Light and Night); Geto Suguru, Gojo Satoru, Nanami Kento (JJK); Luciano Valeztena (The Broken Ring: this marriage will fail anyway); Regis Floyen (Father, I don't want this marriage); Perez Durelli (I shall master this family); Ishakan (Predatory Marriage); Dylan Sean Blade (The Taming of the Tyrant); Eiser Grayan (Serena); Bjorn Dniester (The Problematic Prince); Charteris Kartazen, Eswar Kartazen (Secret Lady); Felix Chamberlain (Your Ultimate Love Rival); Min Jeongwoo (Perfect Crown); Rikkard Ambrose (Storm and Silence series by Rob Thier); Kirill Morozov (the Monster trilogy by Rina Kent); Aiden King (Royal Elite series by Rina Kent); Julian Callahan (the Vipers series by Rinba Kent); Silas Hawthorne (The Hollow Boys series by Monty Jay)

[feelthemadnessinside]

People making a fuss over Caleb’s ‘from the same source’ and Valko’s ‘bimolecular soup’ without even realising that MC has some form of soul bond with all the LIs… I firmly believe they are fragments of MC’s own soul that she needs by her side to fully master her own cosmic powers which is why I think the game is headed towards a reverse harem route

[leksmania]

baelarr, baelor targaryen x valarr targaryen

On my TikTok