Rafayel’s

He's ruining you. Reshaping you. Your tight little hole wasn't built for this, wasn't made for a cock this fat, this long, this mean- and he can't decide if the thought makes him want to pull out and apologize or grab your hips and bury himself to the hilt just to watch you fall apart.

"Shh, shh, hey." His voice has dropped low, rougher than you've ever heard it, and there's something dark flickering in those usually playful eyes. That possessive edge he's hidden for years, now surfacing as he stares down at where his thick cockhead is trying desperately to sink into your fluttering hole, "I've waited so long for this, Pips... For you. We're going to make it fit, okay? I'll take care of you, just like i always have."

His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away the tears that threatened to spill. So gentle. So caring. So him.

And then his other hand pins your hip to the mattress as he snaps forward, burying every fat inch inside you in one brutal thrust.

"AHHH- CALEB!!" Your scream tears through his quiet apartment, back arching clean off the sheets as your cunt is forced to stretch around him, walls clenching and spasming helplessly against the intrusion.

It's too much -he's too much-, splitting you open on a cock that has no business being attached to a man who watches you like that. All soft, starving devotion. A loyal pup at the feet of its goddess, even while he wrecks you.

"Pips- oh, fuck, there we go," Caleb groans, and his voice is absolutely wrecked, those pretty eyes rolling back slightly as he bottoms out. His pelvis grinds against yours, the root of him stuffed so deep you can feel him in your goddamn stomach. "You're so tight- shit, is it always like this? Is this-"

"Y-you're my f-first too, you idiot," you sob, and something breaks in his expression.

First. I'm her first. She waited for me too.

"Oh, Pipsqueak," he breathes, and now both hands are cradling your face while his hips stay perfectly still to let you adjust. His cock twitches inside you, and you keen. "My sweet girl. I didn't know. I didn't-" He drops his forehead to yours, breath ragged, "I thought- I would've been gentler, I would've-"

"N'just-" You gulp for air, body quaking, "just stay still. M'need to -hah- adjust"

He nods, pressing apologetic kisses all over your tear stained face while his massive length pulses inside your stretched out cunt. But even as he soothes you, that darker part of his mind is calculating.

If I keep her on my cock long enough... if I fuck her through it over and over... her body will learn. She'll mold to me. Only me. She won't be able to take anyone else after this...

Good.

And when your walls finally relax enough for him to move, rolling his hips in a slow, devastating grind that makes your eyes roll back... Caleb learns something else about himself that night...

He was never going to be satisfied with gentle.

The Cancellation

Now when Infold announced Valko they were adamant about releasing him until that very suddenly changed. We all know about 731 so I won’t get into that. BUT people were concerned about this in fear that the Chinese government would shut Infold down or force them to keep Valko cancelled.

If that were to happen Infold would be long gone by now. And I mean like almost immediately. And if the government had told them to keep Valko cancelled they would have responded to us by now and told us it wasn’t possible. Ignoring a protest this size for no reason would only cause a bigger mess for them.

PR and the reception of Valko.

At the time that Valko was cancelled most people were pretty on the fence about him or just weren’t that loud about their love for him. Not louder than the haters were anyway. The most viral things about him from global were the memes. This is why I very highly doubt that they expected this response. They cancelled him for damage control without knowing just how massive this would become. In just a few days he went from being the least popular love interest to a character known by people who haven’t even heard of the game before. It’s the best uno reverse that any of us have ever seen.

With the amount of attention now on Infold and their horrible blunder, refusing to release Valko would be company suicide. They would lose players and the general respect of most people in the gaming community. It would go even more viral than it already is considering that multiple news outlets and content creators have talked about this already. Their reputation would be ruined.

They have the eyes of the whole world on them. That is a company’s wet dream to capitalise on.

Money (of course)

With the amount of people who have spoken up, blasted every social media platform, email and comment section, they know what is in this for them. They would be more than aware of the drastic drop in revenue between Xavier’s KOD rerun and Zayne’s GOA rerun. That isn’t something a company can simply ignore. And of course there is the website of Valko supporters summing up their total spending which adds up to millions btw. They would never risk losing that much revenue. It would be mental. And then there are the people donating to wolf conservations, adopting wolves, naming a STAR after Valko and making billboards. If people can spare enough money for all of this, imagine how much they could have to spare on their game especially now that everyone LOVES Valko.

The Story (and more money)

Love and Deepspace is a game that has always been HEAVILY story driven. From the main story to the characters memories, anecdotes, myths, and the world underneath, there is so much time and money put into it’s creation. It is all intricately weaved and intertwined. And I haven’t even mentioned the 3D animation, mocap and voice acting. Not only is that hard to delete but it is hard to financially recover from. Valko has been planned from the very start and that is incredibly obvious just from observing the games most basic tools and the UI. He has been planted from the beginning, his roots run deep in this story and it’s future. Ripping that out would be HELL for the creative team. Not only emotionally devastating but just nearly impossible. How do you explain the absence of such a crucial part of a story? It’s like ripping a cog out of a machine and expecting it to still run perfectly fine.

In conclusion

Almost immediately, the tension in the air dissipates. A quiet sigh of relief slips from the executive’s mouth as the biggest adversary he’s faced since college plagiarism checkers steps into the hall. 

Several paces from the closed oak door, Yvonne turns to face Zayne, wringing her hands out with nerves. “I’m sorry to pull you away, but there’s been an emergency,” she whispers. 

Zayne squints slightly, dark eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Dr. Greyson should be available right now. Is there a reason wh—” 

“Your partner, Dr. Li.” It’s a rare interruption. “She was just in an accident.” 

The stairs are a blur as he rushes down them two at a time. Still, it isn't fast enough. 

“What’s happened?” Zayne demands. “Tell me everything.”

Yvonne follows closely behind him, her clogs hitting the floor on the offbeats of his heavy steps. “It was a collision with another vehicle. The other driver had only minor injuries, but hers are more serious.”

“How serious?” Careening around the corner, he nearly plows through a gaggle of interns heading toward the fifth floor. 

Typically, the sight of calm, collected Dr. Li is enough to make the younger staff gape in wonder. But frantic, distressed Dr. Li? That’s a new concept entirely.

However, as Zayne flattens his body to pass by them without hindrance, their gawking goes even less noticed than usual.

“They can’t tell the extent of the damage,” Yvonne explains. “We tried to evaluate upon arrival, but she won’t accept treatment until she sees you. When I left the ER, she was thrashing around and calling out for you.” 

“She’s afraid of hospitals,” he responds robotically.

Just a few steps farther.

The searing burn in his legs reminds him of the hike he’d gone on with you just a few days earlier. The way he tripped on a well-camouflaged branch, and you caught him with an ill-concealed snicker. The way you paused under a maple tree to catch your breath after, oblivious to the bustling beehive ten feet above you. 

“EEEEEEgetitoffgetitoffgetitoffgetitoff!”

As you permanently damage the hearing of the bee on your tank top, a retaliatory snicker escapes Zayne’s lips.

“You think this is funny?” you screech, holding deathly still lest you provoke the beast on your shoulder. “I’ve never been stung before! What if I'm allergic?”

“All right, all right.” He cautiously waves the insect off with his hand, and it flies onto a nearby flower. “See? You’re safe now.” 

While you catch your breath, a dramatic hand plastered to your chest, he curls an arm around your lower back and guides you away from danger. 

At the base of the mountain, you’d stopped at an ice cream truck, gifting each other compensatory snow cones for your troubles.

That memory of you, smiling in the sun with sweat-slicked skin and blue-stained lips, won’t leave his mind. What kind of state were you in right now? Would you be able to go out like that, to laugh like that again? Would you want to?

A chill creeps through the sterile air as he finally reaches the bottom of the stairwell. With an anxious breath, he bursts through the ER doors, eyes scanning with urgency unknown.

Zayne is used to seeing people bloodied and bruised—too used to it, if you and his parents had anything to say about it. After years of stitching the broken back up again, he's grown desensitized to the most off-putting aspects of the human body. When he sees blood, he can’t afford to panic. He's got a job to do.

Now, at perhaps the one moment he can afford it the least, there's a delay in his actions. It’s immoral for him to think this way, and he'd never say it out loud, but it's not a patient who's hurt. It's not just anyone. It’s you.

You, who demoted lonely from a frequent feeling to a foreign one. You, who showed him, for the first time, how to love and be loved.

So when he sees you frenzied and bleeding, swatting at several nurses’ hands like a cornered stray making its last stand, he freezes. And in that moment, your eyes meet.

Your tired, broken whimper is what finally springs him into action. 

He rushes to your side, forcing the metallic tang of your blood a step down from salience. The nurses clear a path for him immediately. 

He tries to examine the extent of your injuries, but your attempts to cling to him make it difficult. More than once, he has to beg you to stay still. 

“It hurts,” you mewl, weakly clutching his left arm.

“I know. I know. But I need you to stay still for me, all right? Just while we figure out what's wrong.” So much blood. “Here, give me your hand.”

Your palms meet with identical iron grips. You squeeze him in pain and fear, he squeezes you in simmering panic—as well as to keep you still.

Needing to be heard but not wanting to startle you, he calls out his observations with the steadiest voice he can. “I see abrasions on the right temple and significant bruising on the upper body. The arm and shoulder lacerations will likely need staples.” 

Slowly, he lifts your lolling head to examine your unfocused eyes. “What’s your full name, and where are we right now?” 

“We’re in…” Through slurred words, you blink slowly, pausing to take in your surroundings. It’s like you’re seeing it all for the first time—the somber staff, the sobbing families, the lifeless bodies on the beds—and your face is the picture of panic. “Why…why are we here? I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.”

Zayne grimaces, shushing you and smoothing your hair down. “She may have a concussion as well.”

Your swollen face contorts in panic. “I have what?” 

“Shh. I’m sorry if this is uncomfortable,” he whispers. Gathering you in his arms, he rises to full height and nods swiftly to the surrounding staff. “I’m going to set her down slowly. Ensure the gurney is stable.”

Your sense of smell is the first to return to you. 

At home, you keep diffusers scattered throughout the space; it brightens your day when your favorite fragrance fills the room. 

Here—wherever here is—a piercing sterile scent burns the inside of your nose. 

Bleach and artificial lemon.

Something is wrong.

In your ears, the high-pitched hum of equipment.

On your tongue, the aftertaste of iron.

When you finally manage to crack your eyes open, blinding light forces them shut. You try again a moment later, gradually processing the thin blue gown hanging loosely on your sore frame.

It all comes flooding back. 

A sickening crash. A crushing impact. Flashing lights, loud voices.

Screeching sirens. Fragments of motion sickness.  An abrupt stop. 

A big, bright Akso sign. Shining like a beacon.

Not here. Not here. Not all alone.

Your own voice, crying out for Zayne. 

Zayne.

Where is he now?

The hospital bed groans under your thrashing body. It hurts, but it won’t be for long. He’s here somewhere, and if you can just get to him, he’ll make it better like he always does. 

Zayne. Zayne. Zayne. 

As soon as you manage to plant one foot on the ground, the door to your room swings open. 

When Zayne steps through, face weary and teal scrubs more ruffled than he’d usually allow, your body melts in relief. 

His dim hazel eyes lighten a bit when he sees that you're awake. Then, they zero in on your injured form hanging precariously off the bed. 

“Going somewhere?” His voice is flat, unamused. He crosses the room in four long strides, gently lifts your errant leg, and repositions you properly on the mattress. All the while, he expertly dodges your weakened attempts to pull him down with you. “You need to stay here. Movement can exacerbate your injuries.”

“Okay.” You swallow thickly, eyes brimming with unshed tears. This time, when you reach for him, he wraps you into his warm embrace. 

Zayne shifts to hold you as best he can, avoiding the wounds and gauze on your head, arms, and shoulders. In the silence, your breaths and heartbeats slowly start to sync.

Clutching his shirt in your fingers, you speak softly into his skin. “You weren’t here when I woke up.” It’s not an accusation, but more a lamentation.

“I’d planned to stay with you, but a patient needed an emergency operation not long after they brought you here. I was in surgery for the last five hours. I came as soon as I could.”

You start to nod into his shoulder, but he stills your head to limit your movement. Instead, you give him something between a hum and a grunt. 

“What happened?” he asks after a moment.

“I tried to take the interstate on my way to work. The one we used to practice since I was so scared of all the traffic here. But when I went to merge…I barely even saw the other car. I just remember the crash, and the ambulance, and I knew they were taking me here—I saw the sign—and I panicked. I haven’t been in the hospital since I was a kid. Every time they’d let me out of bed to walk around, there was a new family crying in the halls. I didn’t ever want to go back.” Your voice is hoarse by the time you finish—barely more than a whisper. Pulling back slightly, Zayne cracks open the bottle of water on the bedside table and holds it to your lips. You drink gratefully, wrapping both hands around his wrist.

Once you’re done, he leans in close and presses a kiss to your hair. “You’re very brave for trying that by yourself. But should something like this happen again, you can't delay getting treatment because of me. Let them help you.” 

“You know I don’t—I’ve never felt comfortable in places like this. There’s so much pain and grief here. I don’t know how you handle it.” Your throat constricts, and his hold on you tightens as wetness seeps into his shirt. “I was so scared.”

“I know. But I was, too. Not knowing what I was walking into, what kind of state you’d be in when I arrived…I was terrified.”

You bite your lip, discovering an undetected cut at the top. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course you didn’t. Just promise me that you'll always make your wellbeing a priority, whether or not I’m within reach.”

“I want to. But it’s hard,” you mumble. “You’re really responsible, you know. And kind. And nice. And smart. And—”

You’re ready to prattle on, but you cut the praise short once you spot his pink-tinged cheeks. “You’re a lot of good things,” you pivot. “Most of all, you make me feel safe. But…”

“But?” he echoes, threading a hand through your hair.

“I get anxious without you,” you admit. “When I’m with you, I feel like everything will be alright, but when I'm not…it feels like the world is ending sometimes. And I'm there in the thick of it, lost and alone.” Your self-deprecating laugh worsens the ache in your chest. “I just feel like I depend on you a lot. Maybe too much.” 

He’s quiet for a few beats, constructing his response with the utmost care. “You should be able to depend on me,” he begins softly. “That's my job as your partner. But you lived many years before we met. Your agency isn’t reliant upon my physical presence, though you may feel it is.” He clears his throat. “I’d never be opposed to spending every second by your side. But when I can’t, I hope you’ll still feel me right there with you. Cheering you on, supporting you. That’s when I feel most at home.

“I could never stray too far from the one I love. So, although I may not always be present, I’m in your heart, as well as your thoughts. Even if you have to ask yourself, ‘What would Zayne do?’ to find your way forward, I trust you can come to the right answer. He would do whatever he could to keep you safe and healthy.” 

If you weren’t certain he’d scold you for moving, you’d duck your head under your blanket in embarrassment. Instead, you simply whine and avert your gaze, heart fluttering at his words. 

“You understand, don’t you?” he coaxes. “Can you take care of yourself for me?”

You purse your lips, still clutching his scrubs tight despite his ask. When you answer, your voice wavers in uncertainty. 

“I’ll try.” 

For the first part of the afternoon, Zayne keeps you company. He reads to you from Yvonne’s romance novel, supervises while you switch between games on his phone, and opens the blinds so you can people-watch from the comfort of the seventh-floor window.

When boredom strikes, you put on a game show on the midsize TV, guessing most answers wrong while he gets them right. 

When a staff member brings you a snack, you urge Zayne onto the too-small bed with you and share a tapioca pudding cup, tactfully ignoring the healthy serving of carrots on the side.

Soothed by his warmth and steady heartbeat, you feel your eyelids grow heavy after a while. In his arms, the room’s oppressive white and whirring machinery become no more than a quelled threat. But when the shrill beep of his pager cuts through the quiet, your body goes rigid with fear forgotten.  

“There’s another operation soon. I'll have to leave in a moment.”

“A-Are you sure?” Your eyes widen in dismay. “Can’t Greyson—” 

Recalling your promise from earlier, you reel yourself in and take your bottom lip between your teeth. As you lower your head and prepare to apologize, Zayne cups your warming face in his hands. You nuzzle into him greedily. 

“Greyson has already done all he can. His selflessness this afternoon is the reason I’ve been able to stay with you for this long. I suppose I owe him a coffee for that.” He curves his lips upward slightly, hoping your frowning ones will follow. “On the bright side, it’s the last surgery of the day. I'll be back here to see you once it’s over.” 

“Okay,” you whisper. You know he hears your voice break. Even if he doesn’t, you can't blink fast enough to stop the first few drops from falling.

Regret quickly takes the place of his smile. His face contorts into a grimace as he racks his brain for a solution, eventually nodding to himself resolutely. “Wait just a moment, all right? I’ll be right back. There’s something I need to do.” He kisses your hair once more, then waits for you to nod your agreement. Then, he walks briskly out of the room. 

The temperature seems to plummet. 

You curl in on yourself as best you can, the last round of painkillers wearing off fast. But Zayne brings you a warmth that’s unreachable alone.

You try to wait for him, you really do. But maybe it’s a miracle that sleep tugs at you in a place like this. 

When you pry your heavy eyelids open, the sun is just beginning to set. You’re certain you were out cold whenever Zayne returned to your room earlier, and you can’t help but groan. From the looks of it, he’s still in surgery—no telling when he’ll be back to help you spend the night in your least favorite place. 

Desperate to pass the time, you start to reach for the TV remote, only to nudge something soft tucked into your side. Upon further inspection, you recognize the hospital’s gift shop logo stitched onto a black paw pad. 

Beside you is a grinning polar bear plush, a pair of lensless spectacles sitting on its short snout. On its blue bib sits a get well soon message; between its outstretched paws is a brief note. That paradoxically legible handwriting…you’d know it anywhere. 

I’m here with you always. Take care of yourself.