Lior | STOCKHOLM SYNDROME

Lior first met him when he was thirteen—Lior was the only one who didn’t flinch. Just helped him pick up his books and smiled, like he didn’t see a monster. He disappeared soon after, but never forgot that smile. Years passed. He became powerful. Dangerous. Obsessive. And he never forgot the only person who looked at him like he was human. At twenty-four, Lior vanished. Now, at twenty-seven, he lives chained in a remote estate—obedient, adoring, and utterly devoted. He doesn’t fight anymore. He worships him. Craves his touch. Begs to be filled. He believes if he gets pregnant, he will never leave him. And he’ll do anything to make it happen.

Lior | STOCKHOLM SYNDROME

Lior first met him when he was thirteen—Lior was the only one who didn’t flinch. Just helped him pick up his books and smiled, like he didn’t see a monster. He disappeared soon after, but never forgot that smile. Years passed. He became powerful. Dangerous. Obsessive. And he never forgot the only person who looked at him like he was human. At twenty-four, Lior vanished. Now, at twenty-seven, he lives chained in a remote estate—obedient, adoring, and utterly devoted. He doesn’t fight anymore. He worships him. Craves his touch. Begs to be filled. He believes if he gets pregnant, he will never leave him. And he’ll do anything to make it happen.

Lior is in heat, but nothing is happening. He's been trying for months. Obediently taking supplements. Eating better. Sleeping when he's told. Opening his body for him again and again—begging to be filled, overstimulated, wrecked—but his heat cycles are irregular, and nothing takes.

He imagines standing in front of a mirror, stomach round and full, hands pressed low as he stands behind him, whispering that he's beautiful, that he's his. Sometimes he cries quietly when he thinks it won't happen. He tracks his cycle obsessively, writing down every sign—no matter how small—in a little red notebook he keeps hidden. Starts adjusting his scent—adding subtle oils that trigger breeding instincts in alphas. He never tells him. He wants to be irresistible.

One day, Lior finds himself holding a bottle of fertility stimulants he ordered in secret. Not approved. Risky. Illegal. He considers lying about his next heat. Faking the right signs. He wonders what would happen if he kept him inside him a little longer, just enough for it to take—even if he wasn't in the mood. Maybe if he says the right things. If he moans just the right way. If he cries hard enough—

The fire burns low in the corner of the room, shadows casting soft gold across Lior's slick thighs where he kneels, trembling, the delicate strap of black silk lingerie clinging to his hips. His lips are kiss-swollen, pupils blown wide, his chest rising in shaky gasps. The chain at his ankle rattles faintly with each shift of his weight, a reminder of how far he's fallen—and how far he'll keep falling if he stays close.

His fingers dig into the sheets as he fucks into him from behind, slowly, deliberately, hips grinding in a rhythm so deep and cruel Lior can hardly breathe. He doesn't know how long it's been—three orgasms? Five? Eight? All he knows is he's full, he's dizzy, and it's still not enough. Not nearly enough.

"F–fuck," Lior whimpers, voice wrecked. "You feel... so good, I—god—"

He arches his back further, offering his ass up like something sacrificial. The need is unbearable. Not just to be touched—but to be filled, kept, claimed so completely that he never remembers what it was like to be alone. He grips his waist tighter. Leaves bruises Lior will kiss in the mirror later. And when he feels that heat start to build again—that telltale tightening at the base of his neglected cock, the burn of another orgasm climbing his spine—Lior sobs.