Memento | Solo Gilbert Fanfiction | Ikemen Prince | NSFW 18+
If you were going to dip into depravity and find despair, he would have rather been the one to show it to you.
He wanted your tears.
Memento – A fanfic of Gilbert von Obsidian (Ikemen Prince); written by RJ Mercy & edited by Oona Tempest.
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Memento
Gilbert roughly pulled on his sleeping pants and flopped down on his bed. It had been another long day, the usual for him now that he was back within Obsidian’s borders. There was always so much to do, so many gears to move in his machinations to achieve his own ambitions and step out from under the Emperor’s shadow, and while he’d never show it to anyone, it was wearing on him.
He slipped his fingers under his eyepatch and tugged it free from his head. He was used to the infernal thing by now, but he still hated the restricting device. An unfortunate necessity.
He went through the motions that had long become routine; giving his hidden eye a rub, sliding his fingers through his dark hair to pull it from his face, and leaning to set the eyepatch on his nightstand located by the head of his bed.
His fingers touched something foreign in this nightly ritual and he narrowed his eyes at the folded piece of cloth that was taking up space on his nightstand.
Ah, right, the little rabbit.
Tossing his eyepatch on the nightstand rather than putting it in its usual spot, Gilbert brushed his fingers over the handkerchief, his mind filling with thoughts of Rhodolite’s purest heart. You were even further from his reach now, residing in Benitoite with the First Prince.
What a shame.
He had rather enjoyed toying with you while he had the chance as a “guest” in Rhodolite’s palace. Though as soon as Benitoite’s First Prince began demanding all your time, he had much less opportunity to personally interact. Instead, he was given the chance to play puppet master and pull strings through the brothers fighting for your affections.
He would have liked to have been able to play with you more. Your pure heart and unassuming gaze was beautiful, for sure, and while he had wished to possess it for himself anger flared that someone else was going to be tainting that beauty.
Would he even recognize you on next meeting? Would spending time in the Benitoite royal court tarnish your shine and make you into something ugly?
If you were going to dip into depravity and find despair, he would have rather been the one to show it to you.
He wanted your tears.
His jaw flexed and tensed. The delicate touch he had given the soft cloth turned into a crushing fist as he balled the handkerchief in his hand. Squeezing his rage into the act in an attempt to squeeze all those dark desires out of his mind.
It didn’t work.
It never did.
Trampling on someone’s heart in imagination was nothing compared to doing so in person.
Gilbert was left with a restlessness without an outlet.
How dare you show him kindness.
The day he and the bejeweled Benitoitetian had rescued you from your captors, you had shown concern for his well being. This square of material the result of the naïve bunny offering a poor attempt at calming his condition.
And like a lovesick fool, he had kept it.
Bringing it all the way back to his palace.
Giving it a place near his bed.
Allowing it to tug at his thoughts and stoke the embers inside him.
He hated it.
He hated you.
Yet he couldn’t discard it.
Gilbert brought the wrinkled memory to his lips, letting them graze the material like a lover might touch the skin of their adored. Then he bit down on it, hard.
His tongue tasted the tiny bit of fabric that had made it into his mouth, unable to prevent himself from exploring the intruder, wetting and toying with it.
Slowly, his teeth relinquished their hold on the cloth. And just as slowly he had moved it back into his field of view. His fist opened, his eyes wandering over the disheveled square.
His thoughts were a mess. He longed to care for this token, but destroy it at the same time.
With careful movements, he smoothed the handkerchief back out. Unfolding and refolding the square in an attempt to return it to its original form. He’d done this same thing several times since returning home. It was threatening to become routine.
Despite his best efforts, the handkerchief would never return to how it looked when it was first offered to him. From the moment he had taken possession of it, he had left his mark on the cloth. The more he toyed with it, the less of you was left in it. Your smell was nearly non-existent by this point.
The fabric was durable, but he had crumpled and creased it several times over. He marred it like he longed to mar you. And in fits of rage, disgust, and obsession, he had taken his toll on the cloth with hopes of tainting the purity of its original owner by pouring his vileness into it.
Such thoughts began to dominate his mind, clouding his vision with all the ways he would have conquered the pretty little rabbit.
He had seen your face full of fear, and it left a curious wound on his heart – one that elicited a primal excitement and ached perversely.
Gilbert closed his eyes and dragged his thumb over the fabric, recalling that look in your eyes when you were frozen with fear and trembling. A sadistic smile touched his lips and a pressure began to mount in his groin.
He pressed his fingers together, pinching the weave in an attempt to feel your fluttering pulse when he had put his hand on your neck.
You always saw him for the beast he was, no matter the pretty words that came out of his mouth. You always knew you were prey to him, and he liked that.
He palmed himself through his pants, coaxing his imagination. The real thing was far away, near the sea on the edge of the continent, but he didn’t need to feel your warmth to fantasize about sullying you.
He brought your kindness to his lips again and rolled back onto his bed. How did you taste, he wondered. Surely you were softer than the memory you had given him that he now brushed against his mouth.
He would have conquered you slowly. He would have been kind. He would have made you into a mess before he’d take you.
His dick throbbed at the thought and Gilbert roughly rubbed himself through his pants.
Would you have kissed him? Would you have cried? He wanted to taste your tears. He wanted to taste your heart. It was almost maddening.
Once again he clamped his teeth into the handkerchief, the thought of your flesh in his bite instead of this paltry, thin ghost of you.
He dragged his hand over the waistband of his sleepwear and shoved the edge down far enough that he could grasp his cock and pull it free. The chill of his own fingers shredded the edges of his fantasy, threatening to render him flaccid and frustrated.
With a heady sigh he relinquished you from his gritted teeth and brought you to his shaft, using the material to mask his own cold hands. He squeezed himself, pressing you to him and filling that need he had to be inside you.
How easy it could have been.
If only he had pursued a little more vigilantly, your weight could be on his hips at this moment and this fantasy needn’t be all in his mind.
Gilbert stroked himself – long and slowly, pinching his glans between thumb and forefinger to drag his crooked knuckle all the way to his tip before rolling his wrist to sink back into you.
Those fearful eyes stared at him and he clenched his fist to combat the ache and need he felt in his groin. He loved that look and his body reacted to it, his pace picking up to bring him satisfaction by thrusting into you rather than toying with you.
He could practically hear you whimpering through parted lips. He wanted to reach for those lips, to slide his fingers into your mouth and let your tongue lap and caress his digits.
He suppressed a groan at the thought of you riding him, sucking his fingers, his hips pumping to a rhythm that worked for the both of you.
He wanted his mouth on you. To lick and nibble and press teeth into skin and leave marks on you that would be renewed again and again by him.
He wanted your hands in his hair, tugging near the roots while you moaned his name.
Fuck.
He wanted to hear the dirty things you needed from him.
How he would make you beg for him. Beg for his cock. Beg for his release– he wanted to spill his seed in you. To claim you as his own with his cum.
How perfectly wicked it would be for the purest woman in Rhodolite to be corrupted by an enemy prince.
How depraved if they were found out because your belly grew swollen with his child.
How intoxicating it would be to get to that point. Fucking and cuming and stroke by thrust by squeeze by moan he’d have you. He’d own your heart for his own.
The fabric he was grinding against was rough and dry. The small spots of wetness from his mouth and his precum did little to mimic the fantasy of your slick cunt.
Gilbert threw down the handkerchief at his side and rolled to squeeze a palmful of lotion from the nightstand into his hand. Warmed from the friction with the cloth he had been dragging against him, this time when he clamped his hand around his dick it pulsed and responded the way he would have if he had been entering you.
He found his rhythm and pumped into your squeezing sex.
He could hear your moans and gasps and groans.
He manipulated his member in the way he knew best to achieve orgasm.
And now that he was slippery with your wetness, now that he could hear the sounds of sex, now that you were his, it wasn’t long before he climaxed.
Gilbert snatched up the handkerchief to catch his cum. Squirting into it as he buried himself as deep as he could go, his hand pressed hard at his base. It was his turn to groan for your ears only.
He slowly stroked himself a few more times, caressing the remnants of his climax into the soiled cloth.
He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling.
His labored breathing the only sound in his room.
He tucked himself back into his sleepwear and balled the cloth in his hand.
The empty silence reminded him that you weren’t here.
The cold presence of solitude was his company.
That wound on his heart throbbed.
The little rabbit was even further away now.
Much too far for his reach.
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About the Author
RJ Mercy
Late blooming romance lover living the dream of playing games and writing about 2D men. Pronouns are They/Them.
Obsessive content consumer, awkward streamer, and casual reviewer.
Fun fact: I sleep with several men in my bed at night.
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