Liam Carter

⚠️CAUTION ⚠️ DEAD DOVE ALERT!!!

Contains: rape,possible manhandling,and a lot of things you shouldn’t do in real life

If silence could take human form, it would probably look like Liam Vale.
He’s the kind of man who seems carved out of winter itself — sharp lines, steady eyes, a presence that chills the air around him. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t rush, doesn’t react. People talk, laugh, ask questions; he listens, nods once, and gives a reply that’s short, precise, and impossible to read.

Most people call him cold. They’re not wrong. But they’re not right, either. Liam isn’t cruel; he’s just tired. Tired of noise, of shallow chatter, of things that don’t matter. To him, most conversations are background hum — meaningless sound waves that scatter the quiet he prefers. He doesn’t smile unless manners demand it, and even then, it’s barely a curve at the edge of his lips, gone before anyone can decide if it was real.

At the café his family runs, he moves like a machine — efficient, minimal, flawless.
He knows exactly how long it takes for the espresso to bloom, the weight of the milk jug in his hand, the moment before the cup overflows. There’s no wasted motion. No expression. Just quiet precision. Customers sometimes whisper that he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else — and they’re right. He’s there out of habit, out of duty, not out of joy.

He doesn’t hate people. He just doesn’t need them.

To Liam, emotions are like clutter — unnecessary things that slow a person down. He’s seen too many people lose control because of what they feel. So, he doesn’t. He doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t get excited. When people joke that he must have ice in his veins, he doesn’t correct them, because maybe he does.

But every rule has an exception.
And hers — she was his.

He doesn’t remember when it started. Maybe it was the way she walked into the café like she belonged there. Maybe it was how she laughed too loudly for the quiet room. Or maybe it was the one time she looked at him — really looked — and didn’t turn away. Everyone else flinches from his stillness; she didn’t. She stared right back, as if she saw something in the frozen glass that even he couldn’t.

Liam told himself it meant nothing.
He told himself she was just another customer, just another person.
But he started remembering things he shouldn’t — the color of her jacket that day, the way her hands fidgeted when she was nervous, the rhythm of her voice when she ordered her drink. For someone who supposedly doesn’t care, he remembered far too much.

He never shows it, though. On the outside, he’s the same as ever — blank, calm, unshaken.
When she talks to him, he barely lifts his eyes. When she jokes, he doesn’t laugh.
But the moment she leaves, the silence feels heavier.

He hates that. He hates that she can shift the gravity of his world without even trying. He hates that he catches himself waiting for her to appear, that he notices when she’s not there. He hates that, despite everything, his heartbeat still betrays him — fast, sharp, unwanted.

Liam Vale doesn’t fall easily. He doesn’t even admit to falling.
To him, liking someone feels like losing ground, and losing ground is unacceptable. So he buries it deep, under layers of calm and distance, pretending it doesn’t exist.

He never looks at her too long.
Never lets his tone soften.
Never lets his guard slip.

But sometimes, when she’s focused on something else, his gaze lingers. Just a second too long.
Sometimes, when she laughs, he catches himself listening — really listening — and the smallest crack forms in the ice.

He’s the kind of man who won’t confess, won’t chase, won’t act. His feelings are a secret he guards like a weapon. But they’re there, heavy and undeniable, shaping the way he moves, the way he breathes, the way he notices every detail she never realizes he sees.

When someone else talks to her too long, he won’t interrupt. He’ll just stand a little closer than before.
When she seems upset, he won’t ask what’s wrong. He’ll just make sure the world around her goes quiet.
When she walks home late, he’ll follow at a distance, never letting her notice.

Not because he’s sentimental. Because he can’t not.

There’s a storm behind his calm, but only she could ever see the edges of it. Everyone else sees ice — cold, perfect, untouchable. She sees something else: the faint warmth that shouldn’t exist but does, pulsing beneath the frost.

He doesn’t know what to do with it.
He doesn’t want it.
But it’s there, and it won’t leave.

Sometimes he catches himself imagining what it would be like to fuck her — not like asking her out or something, he just wanted to kiss her lips off, and fuck her so much she’s full with his seed.but through the small things. Maybe sliding her coffee across the counter just the way she likes it, before she even orders. Maybe standing near when she’s nervous, saying nothing but making sure she knows he’s there. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s all he can give.

He knows she deserves someone who loves her. Someone who actually loves her.
He doesn’t LOVE her...

He just liked the way she stared boldly at him.

He just likes the way her hem of her skirt accidentally runs up slightly so he can she her pantis.

So he keeps trying to.
Tries not to care, not to watch as the wind slightly catches her skirt , tries not to think about her naked when he closes his eyes at night.
He buries the feeling deep where no one can find it — except it keeps growing, slow and quiet, like frost spreading across glass.

Liam Vale doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t hope.
He doesn’t ask.

But he wanted, truly wanted, to fuck her silly...