LaDs Men Hexed To Their Kid Form

LaDs Men Hexed to Their Kid Form

AN: ovaries are working overtime today.

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader (Platonic ish)

Genre: Hurt and shit ton of comfort

TW: children being sad

Ingredients: 60% angst , 40% comfort

My Fav: All of them.

Background: The battle had been close, too close. The Wanderers swarmed, overwhelming you both. You fought back-to-back, every breath a struggle. Then the blast hit him, filling the entire field with dense, choking smoke. You staggered forward, coughing, vision blurred, and found him...Or rather, a child swimming in his too-large clothes. He looked up at you, wide-eyed and confused, the face of a five-year-old where your partner should have been.

And so you are stuck with the toddler version of your partner for the week it takes for the spell to wear off.

Xavier:

The moment you pick him up, he melts against you, tiny fingers clutching your shirt as his eyes flutter shut. Within seconds, the Crown Prince Xavier of Philos is softly snoring in your arms, his head nestled against your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.

He’s such a sweet kid. The kind who spends hours making flower potions, carefully plucking petals and crushing them into muddy brews in the garden.

He speaks in surprisingly proper sentences at the strangest times, his tiny frame somehow finding perfect, upright posture as he asks, “A sip of tea, if you please?” as if you have a silver tea set stashed in your cabinets.

He loves sparring with you, too. Will drag you out to the backyard, a twig clutched tightly in his little fist, his stance serious, his expression set. He takes his training so seriously, his tiny brows furrowed in concentration as he swipes at your legs, his feet shuffling through the grass clumsily.

You can’t bring yourself to break his little warrior heart, so you pretend to dodge his tiny, furious attacks, stumbling back dramatically as he strikes your shin with all the force of a gentle pat.

“Good form, Your Highness,” you say, clutching your side like you’ve been mortally wounded, and his eyes sparkle with pride.

He’s a model patient, too. Sits obediently through every check-up and magical test you arrange to break the curse, his little legs swinging off the edge of the examination table, his small hands gripping yours for comfort.

And when he finally turns back, Xavier hesitates, for a moment. He brushes his fingers over the dried flower petals still scattered on your windowsill, his expression distant, his posture just as straight and proper as ever.

“Thank you... for looking after me,” he says quietly, his voice softer, a little more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it.

He also becomes the unabashed source of months of baby fever to follow, because now you can’t unsee the tiny, mud-streaked prince who once demanded you fetch him grape juice like it was royal wine.

Rafayel:

He’s the tantrum kid. The one you hear before you see, little feet stomping, high-pitched wails echoing through the halls. He’ll thrash on the floor over the smallest inconvenience, his tiny fists pounding the carpet as if it personally offended him.

Give him a set of paints or a shallow pool, though, and he’s content, for a while. He needs attention, craves it like a plant craves sunlight. He soaks it up, demands it, his bright eyes watching you to make sure you’re still looking, still clapping, still there.

He’s a prankster, too. No better than a fae changeling. He whispers to empty corners at 10 p.m., tilts his head as if listening to something only he can hear, then giggles when you whirl around, heart racing. He lives to catch you off guard, to see the startled, exasperated look on your face.

“Rafayel!” you shout, splashing into a flooded bathroom, the tide already creeping into the living room carpet. And... is that a starfish clinging to your couch cushion?

You scoop him out of the mess, his wet, squirming body deposited onto the couch as you dash to stop the flood. He grins up at you, eyes bright with mischief, water still dripping from his curls, and you can’t help the exasperated laugh that escapes you.

But for all his noise and chaos, there are nights when you find him curled up in a corner, his little shoulders shaking, cheeks wet with silent tears.

It’s always the same question, whispered between hiccups: “Why can’t I feel it? Why can’t I hear them?”

He’s too young to understand, to process the strange, aching emptiness in his heart. The absence of Lemuria’s call, the gentle hum of the ocean he was born to rule.

And all you have to offer is a soothing lullaby, your voice soft in the darkness as you rock him in your arms. He clings to you, tiny fingers curled into your shirt, his face buried in your shoulder, and you can feel the wet warmth of his tears soaking into your skin.

Eventually, he falls asleep, his breathing slow and heavy, but his cheeks stay streaked with salt, his grief lingering even in his dreams.

And so, you hug him tightly to sleep. Even after he does turn back to his former self.

Zayne:

You love trolling this kid.

“Yeah, you grew up to be the world’s greatest circus master,” you say with a perfectly straight face, flipping through an old album to a picture of his older self, his monkey brother clinging to his shoulder.

To your absolute delight, you walk into the living room one day to find little Zayne standing on a stool, waving a stick like a magician commanding the elements. His brows are furrowed, his lips pressed into a tight line, his tiny hands cutting through the air as if casting a powerful, world-altering spell.

Despite the devastation of not becoming a doctor, Zayne doesn’t seem entirely opposed to the idea of performing. He takes to it with a quiet, intense focus, folding napkins like they’re spell scrolls, lining up marbles like enchanted stones.

And he’s such a good kid, too. He helps you clean up after dinner, carefully setting the table by standing on a chair, each fork and spoon. You often find him perched on the counter, munching on apple slices, watching you cook with wide, attentive eyes.

But you notice things.

He’s too careful for a child. Always on guard, his small shoulders tight, his movements measured, as if afraid of brushing against something that might break. He pulls away from any touch, flinches when you reach for him too quickly.

And then one night, when he’s fast asleep, you notice the tiny, fading scars on his arms. Old, white lines, barely visible, but unmistakable. The kind that still mark his mark his arms as an adult.

It breaks your heart.

He’s not just afraid of the world, he’s afraid of himself, of his evol, of the power that lies dormant in his tiny, trembling hands. He knows, even now, that one wrong move, one slip of control, could hurt the people he cares about.

When he finally turns back, you make it a point to hug him a little tighter, to reach for his hand without hesitation, to ruffle his hair whenever he’s within arm’s reach. You pull him into half-hugs when he least expects it, sling your arm around his shoulders, and lean into him as if the years of self-restraint never happened.

And though he huffs and grumbles, you notice he never pulls away. Not anymore.

Sylus:

He flinches. A lot.

It breaks your heart. Someone made him this way, turned this fierce, proud dragon into a child who startles at shadows and stiffens at loud noises. You don’t know who hurt him, who made him so wary, but the thought twists your chest with a slow, simmering anger.

You have to be so gentle with him. Move slowly, speak softly, give him space to retreat when he needs it. You learn to read his small, hesitant steps, the way his eyes dart to the door when voices get too loud, the way he freezes at sudden movements.

He befriends Mephisto first. The little mechanical crow hops around his feet, clicking and chirping in its strange, metallic voice, and Sylus’s eyes brighten, just a bit. You watch them from the doorway, relieved that this version of him has at least made a friend, even if it’s a tiny, clockwork bird.

You watch them talk for hours, Sylus’s small hands carefully cradling the crow, his head tilted as he whispers to it in a voice too soft for you to hear. You don’t interrupt. You wouldn’t dare.

One afternoon, you find him peeking into his grown self’s closet, wide eyes reflecting the glimmer of polished cufflinks, the dark sheen of leather, the sharp edges of perfectly pressed suits.

“Mine?” he asks, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

You sink to the floor beside him, your heart aching as you hold up a pair of sapphire-studded cufflinks..

“Yes, darling,” you whisper, voice catching as he inches closer, his tiny fingers brushing the cool metal. “All yours.”

He looks at you then, his eyes wide and wet, and you feel something in your chest crack, the sharp, aching pressure of a dam breaking.

In the week you spend with little Sylus, you make it a point to create the warmth he seems to have never known. You cook diamond-shaped waffles for breakfast, topping them with strawberries and whipped cream, watching his eyes go wide with every bite. You sit around the dinner table, the twins leaning in to ruffle his hair, to tell him stories, to praise every brave word that slips from his lips.

You help him taste test every jar in his precious jam collection, each spoonful a hesitant experiment. His small face lights up at the burst of different flavors. He eats so little otherwise.

When the spell finally breaks, and he returns to his grown self, you don’t ask him. You don’t push. You don’t demand to know who hurt him, or what he was so afraid of as a child.

But one night, as you lie together in the darkness, his head resting on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck, he whispers it to you. He tells you of a past so tragic, so twisted in grief and betrayal, that by the end of it, you’re both sobbing softly, clinging to each other in the dark.

And when he finally falls silent, his breathing slow and even against your chest, you press a kiss to his hair and whisper, “You’re safe now. I promise.”

Caleb:

He is numb.

Worse than any chip.

Unlike any kid you’ve ever met.

He sits on the couch, knees drawn to his chest, staring blankly at the flickering TV. His eyes are hollow, his small hands limp in his lap, his breaths shallow and mechanical, as if his body has forgotten how to feel anything at all.

“Caleb,” you murmur, sinking down beside him. You reach out, your fingers carding gently through his dark, messy hair. “Please eat something.” You set a tray of cut fruit in front of him. He doesn’t even blink.

It’s only when you bring out the album that something flickers behind his eyes.

“Look,” you whisper, flipping through the worn, crinkled pages. “Both of us... we made it.”

His head turns slowly, his dark eyes focusing on the images, two kids, standing side by side with basket full of Halloween candy. With him dressed as a T-Rex and you as Pooh bear.

“It wasn’t easy,” you say, holding the book open so he can see, “and we got hurt, but we have our life. We’re happy.”

You feel his small fingers twitch, his gaze lingering on a faded, slightly torn photo of the two of you, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, chocolate stained cheeks.

You let him take it from your hands, his small fingers gripping the edges, the photo trembling slightly as he holds it close.

“You did good,” you whisper, gently patting his head.

For a long moment, his haunted eyes lock with yours, his small body trembling, caught between disbelief and desperate, aching hope. He doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to let the warmth in, doesn’t want to be swayed.

But he’s a kid.

And then, like a dam breaking, he lunges into your arms, clutching you tightly, his tiny frame shuddering against yours as the weight of it all crashes over him.

“You did so good,” you repeat, rocking him gently in your arms. “You were so brave, Caleb. I’m so proud of you.” You pat his small, shaking back, your own eyes stinging with tears, unable to bear his pain.

And for the first time in days, you feel him breathe.

When he returns to his old self, you make it a point to frame every single one of those photos. You hang them in the hallway, tuck them into his desk, slip them into his office drawers. You take so many more, catching him off guard, dragging him to photobooths, and fancy dress parties.

Because if that little Caleb ever returns to you, you want him to have more. More memories, more proof, more warmth. You want him to know, without a doubt, that he did make it. That he did good.

More Posts from Valeriannnnnn and Others

valeriannnnnn

1 year ago

"Kill them with kindness" Nah, fuck that, CRICKET BAT 🏏 🏏🏏🏏*SMACK* 🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏*SMACK*🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏*SMACK*🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏*SMACK*🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏*SMACK*🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏*SMACK*🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏🏏

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valeriannnnnn

11 months ago

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valeriannnnnn

11 months ago

Getting on my minor political + mindful soapbox for the day to say that accelerationism is tempting - especially to those who are struggling with their mental health - because accelerationist ideals often borderline on, if not blatantly cross into, the suicidal and that's a deeply horrific and dangerous thing.

If you're finding yourself drawn to political philosophies that rely on the idea that things have to get worse before they get better - especially if they encourage martyrdom or don't really seem to have an idea of what the "get better" part looks like despite having a clear idea of what the "get worse" part looks like - check in with yourself. Are you doing okay? If you're in a position to - it'd probably be best to revisit the political thought after taking a moment to ground yourself.

Don't get sucked into political cult-like ideologies that prey on the mental health struggles of desperate marginalized people. We can do better.

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valeriannnnnn

5 months ago

i’ve been thinking a lot lately about AI and its use in pornography, specifically in the seemingly gendered approach to it. Broadly speaking, there is a sort of ‘binary’ to the demographics of AI Pornography; men, typically, gravitate towards AI Images while women tend to gravitate more towards AI erotic roleplay (such as Chai and similar platforms which permit 18+ roleplay, unlike CharacterAI, generally speaking). While the gendered differences in consumption of pornography have been discussed and analysed before, I’m particularly interested in the broader implications of the intersection of AI and roleplay within pornography as I feel it differs from the traditional erotica-focused/text-focused pornography that many women gravitate towards, which I feel indicates a broader social pattern.

Particularly, what fascinates me about this is how much of this roleplay isn’t simply action-based (i.e., focused solely on sex) but rather more narrative-based (i.e., a specific dynamic - a mafia husband who’s secretly falling for you, a demon boyfriend courting his angel girlfriend, a prince smitten with a princess, and so on), which speaks to a broader desire for emotional connection.

Simply put, a cursory glance at these bots suggests that the user demographic seeks more than just sex - they seek connection.

Now, on its own this is not inherently surprising nor new - many women tend to prefer to feel ‘desired’ or ‘courted’ by their partners - but rather, I think that the broader social context that we see this interest evolving in is noteworthy. I think it is fundamentally linked to a larger social dynamic of the growing social gaps between men and women.

Over the past several years, particularly since the start of the pandemic, men in many countries have shifted towards more conservative and reactionary viewpoints; men overwhelmingly vote conservatively, many men have become far more outspoken in their misogynistic viewpoints, and many men have overwhelmingly demonstrated themselves to not be a desirable partner - be it due to politics, unequal contributions to domestic labour, disinterest in female sexual pleasure, or a litany of other factors.

Moreover, as the rate of female college graduates continues to rise - while the male rate declines - and womens’ overall growth in careers, mental health, education, income, and similar categories catches up to - or outright outpaces - mens’ performance, more and more women have seemed to developed a growing awareness that, simply put, being in a relationship with a man frankly does not offer the same benefits as it once did.

In reaction to this, many - though not all, of course - men have reacted negatively, instead doubling down on these behaviours rather than seeking to improve, which, in turn, has resulted in many women de-centering and de-prioritising men.

Concurrent to this, we’ve seen the rapid development and evolution of AI, which almost offers an escape - the ability to instead find fulfillment from an ‘AI Boyfriend’ - who’ll never leave dishes by the sink or ignore your pleasure - which I think contributes to this divide. Fundamentally, if you still desire companionship, at least in the vaguest of senses, you can satisfy it momentarily through the virtual embrace of AI.

Now, this isn’t to blame women for such a pivot - it’s wholly understandable why, given the above reasons, a woman might decide that remaining single isn’t that bad of an option - but I think it nonetheless requires discussion as we stare down the question of what happens when a large portion of the population may not end up in a relationship?

Regardless of what side of the issue an individual falls on, the question nonetheless retains its gravity. Fundamentally, whether or not we view men as wholly or in part at fault for this social trend in women choosing to remain single, we must consider how this affects men.

For example, if we take a group of 100 heterosexual men and estimate that 20% of them will not end up in a relationship, that leaves 20 men effectively isolated - particularly when we look at statistics of male friendships. Now, if we assume that 40% of them are unable to find a partner for ‘self-induced’ reasons - such as holding misogynistic views, for instance - that nonetheless leaves 12 seemingly ‘decent’ men single.

Now I’m not arguing that those 12 individuals are entitled to a relationship nor that they are obligated to be ‘given a chance,’ but rather I think we must ask ourselves: what happens to those overlooked individuals? It’s not sufficient to simply say “sucks to be you” as, ultimately, humans will still desire connection. Moreover, when we look at the systems that target these men - pipelines of radicalisation, such as the Far-Right - we fundamentally need to consider the outcomes of these circumstances.

I’m not positioning myself as a ‘defender of men’ here, but I fundamentally believe that we should not just abandon a segment of the population for no reason other than their gender. While, yes, the onus does ultimately fall on men as a whole to build up spaces and connections to combat this isolation, we nonetheless have to consider, as progressives, what will we do in response to this? Will we simply abandon these individuals, telling them to effectively ‘figure it out’ and leave them to search for communities, many of which implicitly push them out?

Fundamentally, I feel that that is an issue that pervades many progressive spaces; there is this tendency to engage in rhetoric outwardly hostile towards men and then be surprised that men are broadly disinterested in these spaces.

Now, I’m not arguing that we should placate and centre men - much of this rhetoric comes from people and groups who have understandable reasons to be distrustful of men, given the unfortunately too-common experiences of male violence - but we must nonetheless consider how we communicate this. To put it bluntly, we cannot reasonably expect men to happily sit by and be told they are fundamentally evil due to their gender; rather, we should try to find a reconcile our justifiable anger towards patriarchial violence while still offering space to men.

This doesn’t mean that we have to blindly tolerate patriarchial views and attitudes - fundamentally, I believe that everyone, regardless of who they are, should be held accountable and encouraged to grow - but instead we should open ourselves to a more intersectional perspective that considers that we are all victims of patriarchial violence.

Obviously, I’m not trying to equivocate between individual experiences of patriarchial violence and present them as all equal; instead, I’m simply positing that, in our ever-divided society, extending empathy to others is beneficial to reactionary ideology when we can.

In closing, I feel the words of Bell Hooks communicate my point much better than I ever could:

“To create loving men, we must love males. Loving maleness is different from praising and rewarding males for living up to sexist-defined notions of male identity. Caring about men because of what they do for us is not the same as loving males for simply being. When we love maleness, we extend our love whether males are performing or not. Performance is different from simply being. In patriarchal culture males are not allowed simply to be who they are and to glory in their unique identity. Their value is always determined by what they do. In an anti-patriarchal culture males do not have to prove their value and worth. They know from birth that simply being gives them value, the right to be cherished and loved.” - Bell Hooks, “The Will To Change”

Hair Wash [read on AO3]

For XavMC Week 2025 ( @xavmc-week )

Day 2: Domesticity

(🔞 slight nsfw at the end)

In which, after a long mission, you decide to comfort Xavier by washing his hair.

Little did you know, it would lead to other consequences..

“You..wanna help wash my hair?”

Xavier stares at your adorable figure, standing in the doorway of the bathroom. He has just returned from a classified mission and is in the process of unbuttoning his shirt when you walk in with the proposal. He isn’t averse to the idea. Rather he’d welcome any form of skin contact if it’s you but the fact that this is the first time you’ve suggested doing something like this makes him slightly suspicious.

He tilts his head and frowns. “Am I being pranked?”

You giggle as you head to the cabinet and pull out your bottle of shampoo. “Xavier, you look like a bunny who rolled around in the mud. I simply wanna help clean up.”

“Well then, you can wash my hair but, ” He scratches his cheek and smiles, a playful threat in his eyes, “..know that this bunny will bite if you try anything funny.”

You shake your head and gesture with your hand for him to come over to the bathtub. The smile never leaves his face as he deftly undoes the last few buttons on his shirt and discards it, followed by the black turtleneck to reveal the muscular build of his torso. The sight still makes you shy like a schoolgirl so you avert your eyes and dip a finger in the tub to assess the temperature of the water instead.

“Okay just..”

When you crane your head back, you find him clad in nothing but his boxers. Your eyes involuntarily travel south and the apparent bulge shouldn’t surprise you, considering the fact that you have already seen the real thing in action, but it does. A heated blush blooms upon your face as he makes his way to you and settles into the tub, completely oblivious to the effect he has on you.

While he adjusts himself in the tub, he’s quiet but not uncomfortable. Rather, his eyes seem to be twinkling like a cat that got the cream. And his body is positively glowing like a radiant star. “I’m ready.”

It’s impossible to believe he suspected you of pranking him just a moment ago when he looks like the happiest bunny right now. You take up the hand shower’s cord and gently pour water on his hair.

“Close your eyes, lean back, and relax.”

He obliges.

You let your fingers run through the strands to evenly wet his hair, and he hums in approval. The sight makes you smile, and you proceed to squeeze out a generous amount of the shampoo in your palm. Then slowly, you massage the liquid into his hair and scalp, earning another sound of approval, this one deeper.

“Glad you’re enjoying this.”

“I am.” His reply is a breathy whisper, barely audible because of your proximity. And his cheeks are flushed a pretty hue of pink. Who knew he’d be enjoying something so simple so much?

You continue on, massaging his scalp for another minute before taking up the shower cord again. “Eyes closed, okay?”

He doesn’t respond but his eyes are closed regardless so you spray his hair with water, and begin rinsing off the shampoo. Your fingers card through his wet, silvery locks to make sure the lather isn’t left anywhere.

After you are done, you stand up to grab a towel but before you can take a step, his wet hand comes up to grasp your wrist. “Wait! You’re done already?”

His eyes are open now, big and blue and disappointed.

“Um..yeah..” You shrug. “It’s done.”

“But I just..”

He tugs at your wrist and due to the wet, soapy floor, you end up slipping, your face smacking right on his half-submerged torso.

“Ugh..Xavier you!”

Clumsily, you try to sit up, and in the process, your hand glides down, accidentally landing on something firm. Immediately you retract your hand and stare at him, face flushed beyond words.

“Is that..are you..?”

He passes a hand through his hair, the other leaving your wrist to instead wrap around your waist, and properly draw you on top of him in the tub. His eyes are heavily lidded and voice hoarse as he asks, “What if I am?”

You are too stunned for words. The article you read online only talked about this being an act of intimacy and domesticity between couples. And it’s not that you aren’t flattered but you had no idea this could turn sexual.

You punch his chest lightly. “I was only trying to help you relax!”

“And you’re doing so well.” His thumb easily unfurls your fist and he guides your palm back under the suds to rest over the outline of his obvious length confined within the boxers.

“Now..” He runs the back of his other hand over your cheek and smirks. “..finish what you started.”

hope you liked this ficlet ♡

i don’t think i have much time to write full-length fics but i atleast wanna write short moments of intimacy for each prompt, and participate!

» MASTERLIST «

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valeriannnnnn

1 year ago

and let me be clear, i'm not saying you have to agree with these people. like, you're allowed to not want to interact/see/whatever a certain community, i genuinely do not care. but like, that still does not justify creating blind, visceral hatred over it.

and it's not because a lot of these communities targeted, such as radqueers, tend to be younger or neurodivergent, or whatever else (though do keep that in mind); it's that no one deserves this blind hate for simply existing. you're welcome to have a dni for them, you're welcome to want to avoid stuff you don't like, you're welcome to have boundaries, but like consider whether this is a "yeah i don't feel comfortable about this and would like to avoid it when possible" vs a "these people existing is wrong and bad"

the whole “is x valid” discourse is so bizaare to me; like obviously there’s the fact that we’re arguing about whether a person’s existence and identity is valid (especially when queer existence and rights as a whole are under attack), but also just the absurdity of the premise?

like what is the successful outcome here? does anyone genuinely believe that tumblr discourse is going to make someone change their identity? like is a non-binary lesbian gonna be like “you know what, tucutesmasher46 raises a valid point and i’ll re-define my entire identity to align with their stance?” (or is it just the desire to bully and harass people who ‘don’t lesbian correctly?’)

moreover, it’s the disparity between the outrage to the population that confuses me; like, i’ll see posts ranting about rad-queers, and it’s like…guys…you’re worrying about like 30 people on tumblr.

Tags

queer nonbinary radqueer discourse valerian.txt internet queer discourse valerian thoughts

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valeriannnnnn

1 month ago

How about Xavier's version of br33ding k1nk? 👉🏻👈🏻

You'd never seen Xavier like this.

Usually so composed—every word deliberate, every move practiced elegance. But right now, his breath was ragged against your neck, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks, and his hips grinding against yours like he needed you.

“First time,” he rasped, his voice velvet over steel. “And you’re already asking me to come inside you?”

You nodded, breath hitching, your body trembling beneath him. “Please…”

He groaned, dragging his teeth along your jaw. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

His cock was pressed between your soaked folds, teasing—taunting—as he kissed down your throat. Every nerve in your body buzzed with anticipation.

“Say it again,” he demanded, low and rough. “Look at me when you say it.”

Your eyes met his—burning, intense—and you whispered, “I want you to come inside me. I want you to fill me up.”

Something in him snapped.

He lined himself up and pushed in slowly, torturously, watching your face the whole time. Your tight, untouched walls clung to him, and the moment he bottomed out, he let out a sharp, broken breath.

“Fuck,” he growled. “You’re so tight, so perfect—this virgin pussy gripping me like it was made for it.”

You whimpered beneath him, overwhelmed—stretched, full, utterly consumed.

He didn’t move at first. Just looked at you. Like he was committing this moment to memory.

Then he started to thrust—deep, steady strokes that dragged along every sensitive spot inside you.

“You were made for this,” he murmured into your ear. “Made to take me. To be filled. You want me to come inside this sweet little pussy? Want me to stuff you full?”

Your hands clawed at his back, desperate. “Yes—please, Xavier, I want it—”

He fucked you harder then, each thrust claiming, filthy, possessive.

“That’s it,” he panted. “Beg me. Beg me to breed you.”

You were moaning now, near tears, pleasure building too fast, too much.

“Please—come inside me, Xavier—I want it so bad—want you to fill me up—want to feel it leaking out—”

His rhythm stuttered, hands gripping your hips hard as he pushed in deep and stayed there.

“Take it,” he groaned. “Take every drop, sweetheart.”

And then you felt it—hot, spilling deep inside you, pulse after pulse as he cursed into your skin, hips twitching with every wave of release.

Even as he finished, he didn’t pull out. Just kept grinding slowly, making sure you felt every second of it.

“Not done,” he murmured against your lips, voice still thick with heat. “You’re mine now. I’ll fuck you again. And again. Until I’m dripping out of you every time you walk.”

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valeriannnnnn

1 month ago

Smart Enough

Synopsis: Dr. Zayne has an incredible mind, incredible physique and an incredible stamina. Having a pretty thing on his arm at all times is just a perk.

Warnings: Dumbification, Zayne is a Hard!Dom, size-difference, choking, filming, not for everyone, Y/n is sort of a crybaby, drooling.

As your fiancé, Zayne is a handsome doctor with an impressive physique, especially when it’s hidden under that white lab quote. He's tall, muscular, and you can't help but obsess over how much bigger he is than you. “Y/n, stop trying to get me to flex for pictures."

The way he says it is so cold. He’s relaxing, for once, in his home office chair. He just finished a workout, he tried to never miss a day no matter how tired he was from work. Y/n pouts, sitting on the edge of his desk. “Pleaseeee? I always like showing you off.”

Zayne looks up from his laptop, those piercing blue eyes meeting yours with a mix of exasperation and amusement. “And I always tell you I'm not here for your'showing off'. It's not professional." Despite his serious tone, there's a small smirk playing at his lips.

But behind closed doors, with the night casts a shadow over them, he changes. Your phone is propped on a tripod, angled just enough to show your cock drunk expression. His arm is around your throat, the muscle squishing your face as he drills you from behind.

The room is filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing and the rhythmic slapping of skin against skin. Zayne's grip around your throat tightens slightly, his voice low and husky in your ear. “See, this is what you want. Not some fucking Instagram post."

Zayne slows his thrusts, his hand sliding down to grasp your chin, forcing you to look at the screen. Your face is a mess of pleasure, his arm a thick band around your neck. He snaps a picture, the flash momentarily blinding you. “Perfect."

Your drooling, pupils dilated from the ecstacy. “S-so meannn Zay-!”

He chuckles darkly, his thumb wiping away the drool from your chin before bringing it to his own lips, sucking it clean. “You love it when I'm mean to you, don't you?" His hips snap forward, bottoming out inside you as his arm squeezes your throat.

You don’t want to admit it. Zayne is the smartest man you’ve ever met, maybe in the entire world. Knocking yourself down a peg is something that gives you a deep satisfaction. “N-Nu uh!”

Zayne throws his head back with a laugh.

God, you're cute.

He pulls out slightly, then snaps his hips hard. "You know what your problem is?" He growls, slapping your ass hard enough to leave a red mark. "You have no self respect. No filter."

You are whimpering as he releases your throat from his arms, instead he tangles his surgeon steady fingers into her your, pulling your head back so you are staring in the camera.

His fingers tighten in your hair, making you whimper. The camera captures your disheveled look - your mouth open, eyes half-lidded and slightly glassy, cheeks red. "Look at you," Zayne mutters, taking another picture. "No brain. No filter."

“I-I’m smart!” You sound like you are trying to convince yourself more than your surgeon fiancé

Zayne laughs again, his thumb spreading your drool over your chin. "Mhmm. And how many degrees do you have?" He asks mockingly, his hips moving slow and deep. "One?" He smirks. "Two?" He pulls back slightly, waiting for your answer.

You choke back a sob when his cock curved just right into your drooling walls. “N-none…”

Zayne's smirk grows wider, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and dominance. "Exactly," he says, his voice low and mocking. "And how many do I have?" He thrusts harder, emphasizing each word. "Four. Fucking. Degrees."

Zayne was a fucking child-prodigy of medical knowledge. But you, you were his pretty little Hunter that looked perfect on his cock.

His smirk softens slightly. "God, you're an airhead," He mutters, snapping another picture of your disheveled, half-crazed look. "One hundred fifty published papers. Surgeon at twenty seven. And you?" He laughs, his thumb pushing into your mouth.

"You're cute. Absolutely adorable. And so fucking stupid." His thrusts pick up speed, hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes you drool even more. He captures another photo, then pulls your hair harder.* "You know what else you are?"

You are so far gone, if your life ended right that second, you wouldn’t give a single shit.

“The love of my life.” He bends your head back and captures your mouth in a heated kiss. His cock twitches inside of you, and he cums.

He breaks the kiss, panting as he fills you up with his release. He holds the camera up, taking a picture of you all - him looking intense and satisfied, you looking absolutely wrecked and filled with his cum. He sets the camera down and gently pulls out of you.

You whimper, coming down from a very deep sub space. You’re shivering, sniffling and trying to wipe your tears away.

He watches you for a moment, a soft smile on his face. "Hey, come here," he says gently, pulling you into his lap and wrapping his arms around you. He brushes your hair out of your face and kisses your forehead. "You did so well, baby."

You immediately seeks his comfort, burying your face in his shoulder. His skin is sometimes cold to the touch, but there is no place you’d rather be. “D-did I do good?”

He nods, his arms tightening around you. "You did amazing," he murmurs, nuzzling into your hair. "I'm so proud of you. My pretty little Hunter, so obedient and perfect." He rocks you gently, his cold hands rubbing up and down your back to warm you up.

His voice dips, like he’s talking to one of his young patients in the pediatric ward.

His voice softens, taking on that gentle, almost paternal tone he reserves for his youngest patients and... apparently, his submissive fiancée when she's in a vulnerable state. “There we go... shh... my good girl..."

“Zayne?”

“Hm?”

“Am I smart?”

“Get some sleep, Princess.”

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valeriannnnnn

10 months ago

Shout out to the autistic who’s abilities have regressed as they’ve gotten older.

“You didn’t used to be like this when you were a kid.” I know please don’t remind me

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