[moultdoll]

I'm gonna start writing again :)

Not now. But soon.

[moultdoll]

Damn everything really going well in life. I think about coming back to writing but also since I work now I don't really have time.

[moultdoll]

I hope you're doing well. ❀

I really loved your blog and your writing and hope you will one day grace us with that again.

I'm also endlessly grateful that I found this other blog of your, even if it was through the post that say that you deleted your other blogs... (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)

Hahaha thank you. But like there's a war going on rn and idk if I can survive. But yeah I'm fine.

I don't think I ever post anything. But even if I start writing again it would be in AO3 not here.

[moultdoll]

Already miss you 😢

Don't worry I'm still here. And well maybe one day I start writing again. Who knows 🤷

[luv-lock-deactivated20250611]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤCOLD SHOULDERㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : When You Give Them the Cold Shoulder.

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Stephanie Brown, Male Cassandra Cain, Terry McGinnis.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

Bruce doesn’t do well with emotional games—he’s a man of logic, deduction, and shadows. So when you stop talking to him, no good morning kiss, no sarcastic remark about the news over coffee, no goodbye as he leaves for a mission—you can feel the shift.

He notices instantly.

He doesn’t say anything at first. That’s the terrifying part. He just looks at you. Like he’s dissecting you. Like you’re a crime scene.

“Something wrong?” he asks, voice even, mask already half on.

You shrug and walk away.

Bruce is bothered, but he doesn’t chase. Not yet. He waits, watches. You don’t text him that night. You don’t check in. You leave the mansion before he wakes up.

By day three, you find your favorite flowers at your doorstep. A small envelope. His handwriting:

“I’m not good at this. But I care. Whatever I did—talk to me.”

He doesn’t beg. Bruce doesn’t beg. But his apology is in the way the manor seems colder without him trying to sit beside you. It’s in the quiet presence at the edge of your room, waiting for you to just look at him.

When you finally crack, he just opens his arms and says quietly, “Next time… yell at me. Don’t shut me out. I can’t fix what I don’t see.”

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

Dick panics the second he realizes you’re giving him the cold shoulder. You’re usually so warm, so expressive—and now you’re cold? Quiet? Passive-aggressively sipping your drink and not laughing at his dumb joke?

He’s spiraling.

“Wait, what’d I do? Babe—babe, I know that look. That’s the ‘you’re dead to me’ look—what’d I do?”

You don’t answer.

He physically follows you around the apartment like a lost puppy. Tries to “accidentally” run into you in the kitchen. Holds up his phone like:

“Look. This meme? That I sent? You didn’t even react. You always react.”

By the end of the day, he’s crawling into bed beside you like a kicked dog, poking your shoulder.

“Listen. I know I messed up. I probably messed up bad. Just tell me, okay? I’ll make it up to you. Dinner, flowers, matching onesies, whatever you want. Please just talk to me again—I’m going crazy over here.”

Dick’s the kind of guy who feels the silence like a scream. He doesn’t stop until you finally crack and yell at him—and he just sighs in relief. “Thank God. You’re talking. Yell at me all you want, babe, just talk.”

— JASON TODD ⋆

Jason is... not the most emotionally mature guy in the room. So when you go quiet on him? He clocks it right away.

His first instinct is: “The hell is her problem?”

His second: “What did I do?”

His third: “…Okay, fine. Two can play that game.”

So now it’s a Cold War.

You ignore him? He ignores you harder. You roll your eyes? He scoffs. You sleep with your back to him? He “accidentally” hogs the blanket.

But here’s the thing: Jason’s bluffing. He’s miserable. He’s sitting on the fire escape chain-smoking because he’s too stubborn to just apologize first. He types out ten different “hey princess…” texts and deletes them all.

When you finally call him out—maybe you explode, maybe you just break down and say why you’re mad—Jason goes quiet. Real quiet.

Then he sighs. Pulls you into a hug.

“…I’m sorry, okay?” he mumbles into your hair. “I’m not good at the soft shit. But I love you. Don’t shut me out like that. It makes me… fuckin’ mad.”

Next time? He apologizes faster. Still grumpy about it. But faster.

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

Damian refuses to acknowledge the cold shoulder at first.

You ignore him? Fine. He acts like he doesn’t care.

You roll your eyes? “Tt.”

You don’t respond to his usual sarcastic quips? “Clearly you’ve lost your sense of humor.”

But after a day or two? The cracks show.

He brings you your favorite tea and doesn’t say anything about it. Sits in your space and watches you out of the corner of his eye like a stray cat too proud to beg for food.

By day three, he’s visibly tense. The only sign of his growing unease is the way he overworks in the training room and snaps at everyone else.

Finally, he corners you. Not aggressively—but intensely. Arms crossed, lips thin, standing in your doorway like an angry little kitten.

“What did I do?” he asks, voice flat. “You’re angry. I can tell.”

He’s blunt. He doesn’t beg. But there’s a desperation in the way he hovers. When you finally tell him what hurt you, his jaw clenches. His apology is awkward but sincere.

“…I did not intend to hurt you. That was not my aim. But I apologize nonetheless.”

And then, softer: “Please don’t shut me out again. It’s… difficult to function when you are upset with me.”

Damian shows love through action. So after that? He acts. Flowers from your favorite place in the city. A sketch of you he drew at 3 a.m. A stubborn but heartfelt vow to “do better.”

Even if he still tts.

— BARRY GORDON ⋆

Barry is used to being in control—so when you go silent on him, it throws him hard.

He notices right away. And at first? He’s cocky. Teasing.

“Oh, we’re mad? What, you jealous of Supergirl again?”

You glare.

“…That was a joke.”

But when you don’t laugh—or worse, don’t even look at him—Barry starts pacing. Literally.

He’ll spend all night analyzing the conversation that led to this.

“Was it the mission? Did I interrupt you? Did I mansplain something again? God, I did, didn’t I?”

He’ll call. Text. Show up at your window. Tap the glass like a wet cat.

When you finally let him in, he talks a mile a minute.

“Okay, okay, I know I’m a jackass. I was being flirty at the gala, but that was just protocol! Diplomacy, babe! I love you!”

If you stay cold even then, he’ll finally drop the charm. Get real quiet.

“…Just tell me how to fix it. Please. I’ll do anything. Even sit through Titanic again.”

You do not want to know how fast he hugs you once you cave. Barry loves loud, but he hurts quiet.

— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆

Stephen is devastated.

He thrives off your attention. Your warmth. Your laughter. So when you suddenly go cold on him, he spirals.

First step: Denial.

“Ha ha… you’re just messing with me, right?”

You aren’t.

Second step: Drama.

“Okay, okay, is this about the glitter incident? Because in my defense, I thought it was washable—”

Still silence.

Third step: Crybaby.

He lays on the floor. Arm draped over his face.

“God is punishing me.”

Stephen texts you like:

💔

why have u forsaken me

[voice memo of him singing “All By Myself” into a fan]

Eventually, though, the jokes fade. He gets quiet. You find him on the fire escape, legs dangling, hoodie over his head.

“…I hate this,” he mutters when you finally approach. “Not knowing what I did. Not being able to fix it. You not… being you with me.”

He sniffs, trying to play it off.

“I know I’m a dumbass sometimes. But I swear I love you. Like, a lot. Like, "I’d let you kick me" love you.”

Once you forgive him? He clings.

“Never do that again,” he whispers into your neck. “Cold Shoulder You is my least favorite version.”

Also, you catch him journaling later:

“Today I almost died. Emotionally. Y/n was mad. But I survived. Barely.”

— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆

“…”

He doesn’t know what to do.

Cassian isn’t just a man of few words. He’s a man of zero words when it comes to emotional conflict.

So when you go cold—when your body shifts slightly away, when your eyes don’t meet his—he notices immediately.

It hits him like a blow. He feels it in the air.

And he panics. Internally. But outside, he’s just still.

He brings you small things. Your favorite candy on the counter. A neatly folded blanket on your side of the couch. No words. Just… presence.

He’ll sit nearby but not touch you. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

Eventually, he hands you a note. Folded. With his childish, naive handwriting:

“I did not mean to hurt you. Please tell me how to fix it.”

When you do finally speak, even if it’s angry or tearful or sharp—he listens. Soaks it in. His head bowed, his expression focused, like every syllable is precious.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t justify. Just nods with teary eyes.

And later that night, he says it for real. Quiet. Low.

“…sorry.”

Cassian doesn’t need words to show he loves you—but when he does speak, he means it with his entire soul.

— TERRY MCGINNIS ⋆

Terry’s first thought when you start giving him the cold shoulder is: “Oh god. Not again.”

Because he’s used to things going wrong. He’s used to messing things up. He has that subconscious fear that everything good in his life is temporary, especially you.

So when you stop responding to his texts, or start leaving the room when he walks in, he goes into lowkey panic mode—but tries to play it cool.

He’ll hover. Try to act casual. Lean on your doorway like he isn’t dying inside.

“You good?” he asks.

You nod.

“…Right. That’s convincing.”

He won’t push. He’s too scared you’ll say it’s over.

But one night, he shows up at your place in the Batsuit. Mask off, hair a mess, eyes tired.

“You don’t have to forgive me right away. But just tell me what I did. Please.”

There’s a vulnerability in Terry that breaks your heart. Once you finally talk, he holds your face like you’re glass.

“I’ll fix it. I swear to God, I’ll fix it.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[luv-lock-deactivated20250611]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤROTTEN TONGUEㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How would they react if you—their everything, the light in their lives—told them you wished they’d die.

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

You’d never said anything like that before. You were always calm, always firm, but soft. But tonight—when he locked the doors to keep you inside, when he said he was just protecting you from the city—you snapped.

“I wish you’d die.”

Bruce doesn’t yell. He doesn't even speak at first. He just stands there, the air freezing around him. Something in his eyes dies—then lights up again, colder, sharper.

He nods slowly. “That’s fair,” he says. His voice is empty. “I’ve wished the same for myself for a long time. But I can’t die… not yet.”

You scream at him, try to claw your way past him. He lets you hit him. Blood trickles down his jaw, and he doesn’t flinch. He even looks grateful.

“Hit me again. I deserve worse.”

That night, he disappears into the cave for hours. You hear the training equipment groaning under his blows. Alfred won’t meet your eyes. You try to leave again, and suddenly Bruce is there, silent, blocking the door.

“I won’t stop you,” he whispers. “But don’t come back. I’ll pretend I never had you… to protect what’s left of me.”

When you break down crying, he doesn’t smile. He just opens his arms like a grave opening for a corpse.

And you fall in.

Bruce doesn't get better. He just makes sure no one else ever hurts you—even if it's you hurting him.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

Dick tries so hard to be perfect for you. He bends himself backward until he breaks, just to make you smile. So when you say it—when you scream “I wish you were dead!” because he showed up at your job again, scared your coworker off, read your texts—

It’s like a punch to the throat.

He laughs. Loud. Hysterical. Like he can’t believe it.

“You—you don’t mean that. Babe, you don’t say things like that to me. You love me.”

You push him again. You scream that he’s suffocating you, that he’s obsessed. He grabs your wrists—not hard, never hard, just enough to stop you from shaking.

“But I love you so much. I wake up thinking about you. I breathe because of you. If I died—would you cry?”

You say no.

He flinches. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him truly ugly.

That night, he vanishes. No texts. No calls. Then a day later, you find him outside your window, soaked from the rain, eyes red. “I stayed away. Like you wanted. But I think I’m dying.”

You’re horrified. You didn’t mean it like that. But Dick isn’t hearing you anymore.

“You wished I’d die. And I’m trying, okay? I haven’t eaten. I haven’t slept. What more do you want?”

You cry, and he holds you, shaking, repeating “I forgive you. I forgive you. You didn’t mean it. You love me. I forgive you.”

He never lets you say it again.

Not because you wouldn’t.

Because he’ll never give you a reason to.

— JASON TODD ⋆

Jason’s not like the others. His obsession’s dirty, raw, full of pain. He follows you because he knows what Gotham does to pretty things. You never catch him… but you feel him. In the corner of your eye. In the extra locks on your door. In the fear in your dates’ eyes.

So when he drags some guy off you—some guy you wanted—and punches him half to death, and you scream, “I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!”

The world explodes.

“You think I haven’t already?” he roars. “I did! I was in a fucking coffin and came back just to see you again!”

He throws a chair across the room. His eyes are bloodshot, his chest heaving.

“I died. I died, and I was alone, and I clawed my way out of hell—and you wanna wish me dead again?!”

You back away. He freezes. The silence is louder than the shouting.

“I’d rather die again than see you look at me like that,” he whispers.

He disappears for days. You think he’s gone—until your windows are fixed. Your groceries are stocked. The man who touched you never comes near you again.

Then one night, Jason shows up, bloody, bruised, eyes raw. He kneels.

“Kill me. If that’s what it takes for you to feel safe again.”

You cry. He holds you.

And you realize: he’d gladly die for you.

But he’ll never let anyone else have you.

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

You told him to stop tracking your phone. You told him to stop threatening your friends. But he didn’t listen. He said he was protecting you. You were his. His angel. His light. His beloved. So when you scream, “I wish you were dead, Damian,”

He just stops.

It’s unnatural. He’s so still, like a porcelain doll about to crack.

“…Say it again,” he says quietly.

You do.

He walks away.

You expect a tantrum. A fight. But Damian goes quiet. Too quiet. The manor doesn’t hear from him for days. Alfred’s worried. Bruce is furious. You check your phone—nothing. Then, one night, you find a white rose on your bed. A note: “I’ve erased the people who twisted your mind. You’re safe now.”

You go outside and find blood on the porch. Damian’s waiting in the shadows.

“You said you wished I were dead. But you didn’t mean it. Not really.” His voice is like cold glass. “You were angry. And I forgive you.”

You say you meant it. That he’s suffocating you.

He blinks. Then slowly, his expression shatters.

“Don’t say that,” he breathes. “Don’t lie to me. I know your heart.”

He kneels before you like a knight. “Even if you hate me… I’ll wait. For years. Decades. Centuries. But I will never leave you.”

You try to run. He lets you. But you don’t get far.

Because the League of Assassins watches you now.

And so does he.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[crybabyx3]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤTOXIC LOVERㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Liyue Men x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : What is their red flags in a relationship?

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Childe, Zhongli, Xiao, Chongyun.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— CHILDE ⋆

Loving Childe is like being caught in a storm that smiles at you. He loves you with everything — laughter, loyalty, devotion — but he’s always got blood on his hands.

His red flag? He romanticizes danger and brings it home.

He treats you like his light, his world. But he also brings the world’s weight to your doorstep — Fatui politics, enemies with knives, bruises he brushes off like they’re jokes. He tells you you’re safe while covered in blood.

“Don’t worry, babe. I handled it. Just a little mess.”

And you know he’d kill for you. He probably already has. But what happens when you're tired of being protected like a damsel in a warzone? What happens when you want peace, and he only knows how to fight?

He says he’ll change. But some part of him? Lives for the blood.

— ZHONGLI ⋆

He’s wise. Gentle. Worships you like a temple he built himself. But sometimes, you wonder if he sees you or just a role he needs to fill.

Zhongli’s red flag is control disguised as care and treating you like something fragile.

He never raises his voice. Never forgets a promise. But he decides things for you — what you should eat, where you should go, how much you should work — like he knows better.

“Rest now. I’ve taken care of it. You shouldn’t worry.”

He over-explains everything but never asks how you feel. He talks to you, not with you. And sometimes, it feels like he’s loving an ideal version of you — not the flawed, chaotic, living girl you actually are.

You don’t want to be a porcelain doll he keeps safe on a pedestal. You want to be his equal. His partner. But gods have a way of forgetting that mortals have teeth, too.

— XIAO ⋆

He tells you not to love him. You do anyway.

But Xiao’s red flag? He disappears when you need him most. He thinks suffering is noble. That protecting you means leaving you. That you deserve someone better, someone cleaner.

“Don’t wait up. I’m not... meant for peace.”

He doesn’t know how to exist in a relationship. He watches you sleep from the shadows but won’t sleep beside you. He brings you gifts but won’t accept any. When he finally breaks down — hands shaking, voice cracking — it’s always followed by, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

You just want to love him. But he thinks loving you back would ruin you. He punishes himself by keeping his distance, and it turns your love into a lonely altar.

He aches for you. But love shouldn’t feel like penance.

— CHONGYUN ⋆

You love how earnest he is. How pure. But loving Chongyun feels like constantly holding your breath — afraid he’ll break.

His red flag is fear of emotion — especially his own. He’s terrified of losing control. Of getting too happy. Too jealous. Too close. And when he does feel those things? He shuts down.

“I-I need to go cool off. I can’t talk right now.”

He vanishes. Or worse — he spirals. He thinks if he lets himself love too loudly, something awful will happen. He doesn’t trust himself around passion. And loving someone who’s afraid of feeling you… hurts.

You end up tiptoeing. Around your own heart. Around his.

He’s a good boy. But love isn’t something you’re supposed to repress to survive it.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luvpixx. don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[crybabyx3]

── .✦ YANDERE BALLERINA WHO'S YOUR PRECIOUS DOLL 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

cw. male yandere, fem reader, stalking, obsessive thoughts, emotional dependency, unhealthy attachment, delusion, self-harm, body horror, unhealthy romance, manipulation, dissociation, identity loss, hallucinations, mental instability, implied violence, emotional degradation, trauma bonding, toxic codependency, unhealthy power dynamics, implied eating disorder.

Yandere ballerina who didn’t even notice you at first.

He was all angles and elegance, carved in pale porcelain and lit by the stage lights like something half-alive, half-divine. A beautiful boy moving like a dream, distant, cold, the type you don’t fall in love with—you worship. You were messy. Loud shoes. Hair too wild. Always five minutes late, always sitting on the studio floor like you owned the dust. He found you annoying. You made the quiet ache in his bones louder somehow.

But you kept coming. Not for him, not really. You were just drawn to the ballet like he was, like something feral finding something holy. You said too much. Laughed too loudly. Looked at him like you saw something real.

Yandere ballerina who started to watch you when you weren’t looking.

He didn’t mean to. The curve of your neck when you tied your shoes. The wrinkle of your nose when you laughed. The way your fingers danced even when your feet didn’t. You didn’t move like a ballerina. You moved like a storm. Ugly. Beautiful. Free.

He hated you for it.

He hated how you left notes for everyone—crumpled things, sugar-sweet, stupid little encouragements—and one day, you left one for him. It just said, You’re not alone. Even if you want to be. He read it until the paper was soft with fingerprints. Then he folded it into a tiny square and tucked it inside his slipper like a secret under his skin.

Yandere ballerina who started to change for you.

You liked the color blue. So he wore blue ribbons in his hair. You liked cinnamon. So he bought cinnamon tea, even though it made his stomach twist. You said you liked how “boys with long hair look soft,” so he never cut it again, even when it tangled at the nape of his neck and pulled when he danced.

He started performing for you—always knowing where you sat, always tilting his face so you could see the expression, the emotion, the raw bleeding beauty he’d never let anyone else witness. You clapped for him like it meant something, and it did. It started to mean everything.

He told himself you were just being nice. He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

But his smile cracked every time you laughed at someone else’s joke.

Yandere ballerina who prays for you.

Not to God. But to you.

He kneels before mirrors, blistered knees on wood, whispering your name like a mantra, a hymn, a curse. He hurts himself in small, soft ways just to remember you love broken things. Cuts his calluses raw. Starves a little. Bleeds into shoes. Dances on torn feet.

He looks for you in the audience, even when he knows you're not there.

He dreams of you coming backstage, holding his face with your messy hands, saying “You were beautiful. You were mine.” You never say that. But one day, you will.

You will.

Because he's the only one who knows how to love you quietly, like rot under roses.

And if someone else touches you—he’ll dance for them too.

He’ll perform with all the softness in his soul. And after the curtains close, he’ll leave behind red footprints, and no one will ever find them again.

Yandere ballerina who starts to erase himself just to fit inside the shape of you.

You liked passion. So he started to tremble onstage. Let tears fall when he danced. Let his ribs show. He wanted to look ruined, the way you looked at everything with soft pity, with hands that touched like forgiveness. He was too clean for you before. Now, he lets the dirt in. Under his nails. In his mind. He wears it like perfume. You once said something about loving people who feel like ghosts. He’s trying.

He’s trying so hard to haunt you. To be something you can’t stop thinking about. Like he thinks of you.

Yandere ballerina who follows you home.

Silent as dust. Breath shallow in your shadow. Not always. Just when he feels empty. Just when you laugh with someone else. Just when he needs to see that you still exist. That you’re still real. That he didn’t imagine you.

He watches you brush your teeth. Scratch your ankle. Burn your toast. You are so human it hurts. He’s not. Not anymore.

He tells himself it’s innocent. He just wants to be near you. He just wants to keep you safe. The world is dangerous. Loud. Ugly. If you knew how many people stared at you… how many people didn’t deserve your smile… You’d be grateful for him.

Sometimes, when you fall asleep with your window cracked, he whispers your name into the night just to see if your lips move in your dreams.

Yandere ballerina who starts to disappear in mirrors.

He doesn’t recognize his reflection anymore.

The boy who used to move like swans and silk and purity now stares back with hollow eyes, ribs like prison bars, and lips that bleed when he smiles too hard. He hums the melody of your voice like a lullaby, pirouetting alone in the dark rehearsal room, skin shining with sweat and desperation.

There’s a bruise shaped like your fingernail on his hip. You touched him once—by accident. He pressed your fingerprint into himself so hard it turned blue. And he loved it.

He doesn't eat unless you compliment him. He doesn't rest unless you’re watching. He breaks himself open again and again because he’s sure that if he bleeds beautifully enough, you’ll finally see him.

Yandere ballerina who knows you don’t love him yet.

Yet is the key.

He says it when he cries. When he hurts. When you leave without saying goodbye. He whispers it while slicing ribbons of red into his ankles so he can feel weightless when he leaps—so he can feel like your love, even imagined, gives him wings.

If someone else kisses you, he doesn’t panic.

He smiles.

Because he knows how to perform.

He knows how to take roles from people.

He knows how to take things.

And he is so very patient.

One day, you’ll come to him in tears. The world too loud. Your heart too heavy. He’ll hold you like a dancer holds breath—delicately, fully, with every inch of his soul. And you’ll fall in love with him slowly. The way you fell in love with ballet.

By accident.

By force.

By fate.

Yandere ballerina who no longer knows where the dance ends and where you begin.

He sees you everywhere now. In the curve of the moonlight. In the thrum of violin strings. In the dust hanging thick in the air when the studio is empty and silent, just him and the mirrors and your ghost. Your shape stretches across the walls. Your laughter plays in the echoes. Sometimes, he closes his eyes and sees you dancing with him—slow, delicate, your body pressed against his, breath against breath, heartbeat against heartbeat.

(You’ve never danced with him. Not really. But he’s done it a thousand times in his head. And every time, you love him more.)

Yandere ballerina who starts to speak to you when you aren’t there.

In the dressing room, alone, he kneels on the cold tile and whispers about his day. About how he missed you. About how that other girl touched his arm, and how wrong it felt. How he wanted to cut his skin open and start over. He calls it your name. The little hollow behind his ribs where he keeps all the versions of you that smile only for him.

Sometimes he laughs. Sometimes he cries. Sometimes he lays on the floor and imagines you lying beside him, fingers tangled, bones touching. He hums lullabies he never learned, lullabies he dreamed into existence because you deserve a world where you are never afraid again.

Yandere ballerina who starts keeping pieces of you like little sacred relics.

A strand of hair from your brush. A crumpled receipt from a bakery he saw you visit. A ticket stub from a film you saw two weeks ago. He keeps them in a small box wrapped in ribbon, hidden beneath his costumes. Every item is catalogued in a soft, trembling hand. Sometimes he takes them out and lines them up on the floor, arranging them like offerings to a god.

He kisses them.

He cries over them.

He tells them things he’s too afraid to tell the real you, because what if you run? What if you scream?

He doesn’t want you to be scared.

Not of him.

He’d never hurt you. He just wants to be the only thing that touches your soul.

Yandere ballerina who starts losing time.

There are nights he wakes up onstage, barefoot, trembling, mouth whispering your name like a broken record. There are days he finds blood on his hands, pink and sticky like paint, and doesn’t remember why. He stares at the mirrors and sees a stranger. A beautiful boy with cracked lips and bruised eyes who loves too much, too hard, too deep.

He wants to be your home, but he’s afraid he’s become your haunting instead.

And still—he dances.

Even as his feet bleed.

Even as his eyes sink into shadows.

Even as your smile, the real one, fades into something wary, something distant.

(You’re pulling away. He sees it. Feels it. A tremble in the thread that binds him to you.)

But he’s not angry.

He’s grieving.

You’re still alive.

Still warm.

But he swears it feels like you’re dying without him.

Yandere ballerina who swears he'll become your favorite.

Not your boyfriend. Not your lover. Something deeper. Something eternal.

He will be the performance that leaves you breathless. The wound you touch in silence. The beauty that aches so much, you almost wish you'd never seen it. You’ll remember him in the lonely hours, in the quiet dark, and wonder where it all went wrong.

And maybe then—maybe then—you’ll love him. Even if it’s too late.

He’ll still dance for you.

Even if you’re not watching.

Even if you forget his name.

Even if he has to fall to pieces again and again, just to keep the spotlight on your memory.

Because to him, you’re not a person anymore.

You’re the reason he exists.

And he will never let you go.

Even if he has to destroy himself to hold you forever.

Yandere ballerina who forgets how to breathe unless you’re in the room.

He doesn’t even notice it at first. The stillness. The way his chest stops rising unless you say his name. The way his hands shake when you leave, like a marionette with cut strings. The way the world blurs around the edges unless your voice slices through it.

You are gravity. You are the script. He is nothing but the dancer on your stage now.

And the worst part?

You know it.

You know it when you brush your fingers under his chin, just barely—just enough to make him flinch like a kicked dog, breath caught in his throat like confession. You know it when you pull away with that lazy smirk and say, “Don’t look at me like that. It’s pathetic.”

He still does.

God, he still does.

Yandere ballerina who lives for your approval like it’s communion.

You test him sometimes.

You let him get close—brush your hip with his fingertips, rest his cheek against your knee like some ruined angel—and then you go cold. Eyes sharp, voice bored. You say things like “You don’t think I love you, do you?” with a lightness that feels like a blade.

He doesn’t know the answer.

He never knows.

But he shakes his head anyway. No. Of course not. Not yet. I haven’t earned it yet.

And you smile, petting his hair like a reward.

“Good boy.”

Yandere ballerina who can’t perform unless you’re watching.

The instructors start to notice. He collapses in rehearsals, dry-eyed and stiff-limbed. He refuses solos unless you’re in the front row. When you're gone, he’s silent. Empty. A corpse in satin slippers. But when you're there—your arms crossed, your mouth chewing gum lazily like you couldn’t care less—he blooms.

He dances like his bones are glass and you're the only one who knows how to hold him. Every spin is a plea. Every leap is a scream. His body breaks beautifully for you.

He watches for your reaction like a starving man watches a locked door.

Sometimes you clap. Sometimes you don’t.

Either way, he thanks you afterward.

Yandere ballerina who lets you ruin him because it feels like being loved.

You take things from him. Little things at first—his favorite hoodie, the key to his locker, the rosary from his bedside that belonged to his grandmother. He gives them all willingly. You never ask. You just reach, and he empties himself into your hands.

But then you start pushing.

You let him kiss you and then laugh in his face.

You make him fight someone twice his size just to prove he's "serious."

You dare him to break his toes for you—and he does, barefoot, on the cement, crying and smiling at the same time like it’s holy.

And when he collapses in your arms, broken and pink-mouthed, you whisper, “Do you love me more now?”

He nods.

You laugh.

“You’re so fucking stupid.”

Yandere ballerina who starts dreaming of the day you kill him.

Not violently. No—never messy. You’d do it sweetly. Quietly. Maybe with a kiss to his temple and a hand over his mouth. Maybe you’d tuck him into your bed and tell him a story before it happens.

Maybe you already have.

Sometimes he wonders if he’s already dead. If this is some afterlife where heaven is cruel and wears your smile. He wouldn’t mind. He’s not scared of you anymore.

He wants to belong to you completely. Wants to wear your fingerprints like tattoos, wants to be your thing, your creature, your shadow.

If you asked him to tear his heart out, he’d ask which hand.

Yandere ballerina who starts starving again when you don’t touch him.

It’s not about weight, not really. It’s about control. It’s about your hands. About the way your fingers drag across his jaw and your voice murmurs “You’re prettier when you’re fragile.”

And he believes you. Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he?

He wants to be porcelain for you. Wants to be thin enough to float. Wants to be your delicate little marionette boy who only eats when you spoon food into his mouth and whisper, “Good boy. Stay alive for me.”

Sometimes he pretends your voice is what keeps his heart beating. That if he stops hearing it, he’ll rot.

Part of him wants to test it.

You are not well, either. Not even close.

You don’t love him. Not in the way he thinks. But God, you need him.

Not like oxygen. Like a mirror. Like an echo. Like a secret you can shove into a body and make suffer so you don’t have to.

He clings so tightly. He folds himself into your hands so willingly. He breaks for you again and again and thanks you for the splinters.

And it makes you feel—safe. Powerful. Less wrong.

Because if someone this beautiful can worship someone as ruined as you, maybe you’re not the monster.

(You still are.)

But now he’s your monster too.

Yandere ballerina who starts seeing things that aren’t there.

Your face in the mirror, smiling when you’re not in the room.

Your hand reaching for his in dreams, pulling him into fevered voids where he dances alone on cracked floors soaked in blood.

The sound of your laugh during recitals, even when you didn’t come. Even when you promised you would and forgot.

He doesn’t tell you about the hallucinations.

You wouldn’t care.

You’d probably just say “Cute. You're going insane.”

And then you'd cup his face and kiss his nose, so sweet it almost hurts.

Yandere ballerina who lets you carve your name into his ankle with a broken mirror shard.

It wasn’t your idea.

It wasn’t not your idea, either.

You whispered it in his ear one night when he cried too hard to sleep:

“If you were really mine, I’d see it on you. In you. Like a scar.”

So the next night, he did it. Pale thighs curled under him, hands shaking, eyes glazed and glassy. He didn’t even cry.

He knocked on your door and held out his foot like a stray cat bringing home a dead bird.

You stared.

Then smiled.

Then said, “God, you’re beautiful when you're in pain.”

You kissed the wound.

He came apart.

You keep him on a leash. Not literally. (Yet.)

But emotionally, he doesn’t breathe unless you exhale first.

You test it.

Sometimes, you pretend to leave for good.

Disappear for two days. Turn off your phone. Watch the camera you planted in his room.

You see him unravel.

You see him begging something—God, the mirror, you—for a reason to exist.

You only come back when he’s sobbing in the bathtub with his fingernails ripped and his mouth trembling like an abandoned child.

And then you cradle him.

You whisper, “There, there. I’m here. I’m yours.”

He doesn’t even ask where you went.

Because he's too grateful you came back.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luvpixx. don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[fragileheartbeats-deactivated20]

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ 𓇼 ࣪ A SON FOR A SON 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒

꒰͡ ⠀ ִ 𝐴𝑒𝑔𝑜𝑛 𝐼𝐼 𝑇𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑒𝑛 𝑥 𝑇𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑒𝑛 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 ⠀ׂ ⠀ ͡꒱

˚꒰♡꒱‧ Hi there! Before you read this, you should know that English is not my first language. And @moodyfog told me that fanfic writers could do a better job at writing hotd, and I thought, well how would have I wrote it if I was in Ryan place? And BOOM! Here it is. So yeah, Don't forget to like, reblog and give me feedback. Hope you enjoy!

In the early hours of the morning, Aegon sat in his chambers, nursing a goblet of strong wine. His eyes were bloodshot, and his demeanor was distant. The door creaked open, and in walked Jaehaerys, his six-year-old son, brimming with excitement.

Jaehaerys had cut his hair short, just like his father’s, and wore a small wooden dagger at his waist. His little dragon perched on his shoulder, its wings fluttering slightly as it adjusted its position. The boy's face was lit with pride and anticipation.

“Father! Look at me!” Jaehaerys called out, his voice cutting through Aegon’s thoughts.

Aegon looked up, his expression a mixture of weariness and curiosity. His initial reaction was a scowl, his eyes narrowing at the interruption. But as he took in the sight of his son, his gaze softened.

“What is it, Jaehaerys?” he asked, his voice gruff.

Jaehaerys stood tall, puffing out his chest. “I cut my hair like yours. And I have my dragon and my dagger. I want to be just like you when I grow up!”

Aegon’s heart twisted painfully. He felt a mix of pride and sorrow, emotions he often drowned in wine and indifference. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“Is that so?” Aegon replied, his tone guarded. “Why would you want to be like me?”

Jaehaerys’s face fell slightly, confusion clouding his young eyes. “Because you’re my father. I want to be like you.”

Aegon’s jaw tightened. He looked away, staring into the distance as memories of his own childhood, filled with neglect and abuse, flooded back. He knew he wasn’t the father his son needed, and the guilt of it weighed heavily on him.

“Being like me isn’t something to aspire to, son,” Aegon muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness. “I’m not strong or kindhearted. I’m not someone to look up to.”

Jaehaerys stepped closer, his small hand reaching out to touch his father’s arm. “But I don’t care, Father. You’re still my father, and you’re the best man in my life.”

Aegon’s eyes widened slightly at his son’s words. The sincerity in Jaehaerys’s voice cut through his defenses, and he felt a lump form in his throat.

“You want to be like me because I’m your father?” Aegon asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Jaehaerys nodded eagerly, a bright smile spreading across his face. “Yes, Father. Because you’re my father, and that makes you the best. I want to be like you because you’re you.”

Aegon felt a tear escape his eye, quickly brushing it away with the back of his hand. He placed a trembling hand on Jaehaerys’s shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind.

“You don’t have to be like me to make me proud, Jaehaerys,” Aegon said, his voice cracking slightly. “You’re already more than I ever was.”

Jaehaerys beamed up at his father, his eyes filled with unwavering love and admiration. “I’ll try, Father. I still want to make you proud.”

Aegon pulled Jaehaerys into a rough embrace, holding him tightly. “You already do, my boy. You already do.”

As he held his son, Aegon felt the weight of his own failures pressing down on him. He knew he needed to be better, not just for himself, but for his children. They deserved a father who could show them love and support, not just a distant, broken man.

When Jaehaerys pulled back, Aegon managed a strained smile. “Now, go find your sister and brother. They’ll want to see their brave brother with his dragon.”

Jaehaerys nodded and ran off, his dragon chirping excitedly on his shoulder. Aegon watched him go, a deep sadness settling in his chest. He knew he had a long way to go to be the father his children deserved, but for now, he would take solace in their love and determination.

As he picked up his goblet of wine again, he swore to himself that he would try to be better. For Jaehaerys, for his family, and for the boy inside him who had never known love.

"Choose," Blood demanded, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "Or we end them both."

Tears streamed down your face as you looked into the terrified eyes of your sons. Jaehaerys tried to mustera brave front, but the quiver in his voice betrayed his terror. Maelor, still a toddler, clung to Jaehaerys with innocent confusion, sensing the danger but unable to grasp its severity.

"Please... no," you pleaded, your voice barely a whisper, your legs threatening to give way beneath you.

Blood tightened his grip on Jaehaerys hair, his dagger pressing against the boy's pale throat. "Time's running out," he sneered, the sadistic glee in his eyes sending shivers down your spine.

Desperation clawed at your chest as you struggled to find words, to find a way out of this nightmare. "I can't... I can't choose, kill me instead! Kill me!" you managed to choke out, your voice cracking with despair.

Cheese's eyes narrowed, his cold gaze flickering between you and your sons. "Then they both die," he declared, his voice devoid of any mercy.

Jaehaerys, his young face pale but defiant, turned to you with a bravery that tore at your heart. "Kill me," he said softly, his eyes pleading with you to stop crying.

"No, Jaehaerys, no!" you cried out, your hands reaching out futilely towards him.

Jaehaerys met your gaze with a small, sad smile. "Don't cry, mother," he whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of his impending fate. "I'll be brave.. for you."

Tears streamed down your cheeks as Blood moved with cruel deliberation. His blunt dagger tore through Jaehaerys's tender flesh slowly, agonizingly, each cut a testament to their pleasure and your helplessness. Jaehaerys whimpered in pain, his brave facade crumbling as his body convulsed with each excruciating moment.

"STOP! PLEASE GODS STOP!" you screamed, your voice raw with anguish, your struggles against Cheese's iron grip futile.

Jaehaerys's cries grew weaker with each passing second, his small frame trembling with pain and fear. The room filled with the sickening sounds of flesh tearing and your son's desperate gasps for air. Maelor, still clinging to his brother, whimpered in confusion, his innocent eyes wide with terror.

Finally, with a brutal twist, Jaehaerys's head was severed from his body, falling to the ground with a sickening thud. His lifeless eyes stared up at you, forever frozen in a silent plea for mercy that would never come. Blood and Cheese departed, leaving behind a trail of blood and your soul-shattering screams.

You collapsed to the ground, clutching Jaehaerys's limp body to your chest, the weight of your grief crushing you. "No... Jaehaerys, my baby" you sobbed, your cries echoing through the empty halls.

The world around you blurred into a haze of pain and loss. You rocked back and forth, cradling Jaehaerys's lifeless form, unable to comprehend the enormity of your devastation. Your heart, shattered into a million pieces, ached with a grief that would haunt you for eternity.

Aegon reclined upon the Iron Throne, he engaged in banter with his gourds. Laughter echoed through the hall, a fleeting respite.

The sound of hurried footsteps disrupted the jovial atmosphere. Aegon's laughter ceased abruptly as he looked up, his gaze locking onto Jaehaera's tear-streaked face.

Her normally vibrant eyes were clouded with anguish, her slender frame trembling with silent sobs. Aegon's heart clenched with instinctive foreboding, the mirth evaporating into a chilling realization of impending tragedy.

"Jaehaera," Aegon's voice rang out, laden with concern and urgency. She hesitated, her words stifled by the overwhelming grief that gripped her. With trembling hands, she pointed wordlessly towards the direction of their chambers, her eyes pleading with a pain too profound for words.

"D-daughter, what is it?" Aegon's voice faltered, the sense of unease growing within him as he rose from the throne. Jaehaera tried to speak, her voice choked by sobs, but only managed to utter fragmented words, "J-Jaehaerys... chambers..."

A cold shiver ran down Aegon's spine at the mention of his son's name. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach, his heart pounding with a foreboding he couldn't quite comprehend. Before he could coax more words from Jaehaera, a piercing scream tore through the air.

It was the scream of his wife, a sound so raw and full of anguish that it cut through the festivities like a knife. Aegon's blood ran cold as he turned towards the direction of their chambers, his steps quickening into a frantic sprint.

In a blur of motion, he raced through the corridors, the echo of his hurried footsteps a haunting prelude to the devastating truth that awaited him. His mind raced with desperate prayers and agonizing uncertainties, his grip on hope slipping with each passing moment.

Jaehaera followed close behind, her cries blending with her mother's screams as they raced through the corridors. The castle seemed to stretch endlessly before them, each moment stretching into eternity as dread gnawed at Aegon's insides.

The agonizing sound of his wife's screams tore through the air as he reached their children's chamber. Aegon's heart shattered at the sight before him—an image seared into the depths of his tormented soul.

His wife lay crumpled on the floor, her anguished cries reverberating off the walls of their once-happy sanctuary. In her arms, she clutched Jaehaerys's lifeless form, blood staining her hands and clothes. Maelor, their youngest, stood beside her, his tear-streaked face a mask of confusion and sorrow.

Aegon staggered forward, his world collapsing around him with each agonizing heartbeat. He fell to his knees beside his wife, his trembling hands reaching out towards Jaehaerys's motionless body, a futile attempt to reclaim the warmth of life that had fled.

His wife's cries tore through him, a raw symphony of grief that echoed the depths of his own soul. He looked up at her, their eyes meeting in a shared anguish that transcended words. Words failed him as he knelt there, consumed by the enormity of their loss.

Maelor's tear-filled gaze met his own, seeking answers that Aegon felt powerless to provide. The innocence in his son's eyes shattered the walls of denial that threatened to engulf Aegon's shattered heart.

Jaehaera sobbed uncontrollably, her words a broken plea for understanding amidst the chaos. "F-father... Jaehaerys..." she managed to choke out, her voice trembling with grief.

Aegon's mind raced, grappling with the relentless tide of denial. He couldn't accept the truth, couldn't comprehend the void left by Jaehaerys's absence. His trembling hand reached out to touch his son's still form, fingers brushing against cold skin.

"Jaehaerys?..." Aegon whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief. He searched desperately for any sign of life, any flicker of warmth, but found only the chilling finality of death.

"B-but you're going to be king... you want to be like me... Why... Where's your head?" His tears fell freely, mingling with the bloodstains on the floor as he cradled his wife and his dead son body in his arms.

In the deafening silence that followed, broken only by his wife's inconsolable cries, Aegon knelt there, shattered and hollowed by grief that threatened to consume him whole.

'Bring me his head,' you said, your voice flat and devoid of emotion. A chill settled in the room, the servants drawing back, horrified. They dared not question your words.

The head arrived, wrapped in a crimson cloth, a stark contrast to the pallid face beneath. The messengers, their eyes filled with pity and fear, placed it before you. You didn't touch it, didn't even look at it. You simply nodded, dismissed them with a wave of your hand.

They left, leaving you alone with the gruesome package.

You unwrapped the cloth, revealing your son's face, frozen in a silent scream. His eyes, once sparkling with mischief, were now vacant, staring blankly into the void. A single tear escaped your eye, but it was quickly swallowed by the emptiness within you.

With a chilling smile that seemed to stretch across your face like a mask of ice, you picked up the head, cradling it like a precious doll. Then, you began to hum a lullaby, the melody as cold and lifeless as the body in your hands.

'Hush, little baby, don't you cry,

Mother's going to make you whole again, by and by.

The world is cruel, the world is cold,

But mother will keep you safe, she'll keep you bold.'

You picked up a needle and thread, the glint of the steel a stark contrast to the porcelain of your son's face. The servants, their eyes wide with horror, watched helplessly. They had seen you grieve, they had seen you rage, but this… this was something else entirely.

'See, little one, the world stole your voice,

But mother will give it back, she'll make you rejoice.

We'll stitch you back together, piece by piece,

And the world will tremble, at our grim release.'

Needle pierced flesh, thread pulled taut. You hummed on, your voice growing stronger with each stitch, each pulse of the needle. You were a creature of vengeance, possessed by a grief so deep it had consumed your soul.

'This is for the world, my darling, for all that they've done.

We'll rise from the ashes, we'll be the rising sun.

And when they see you, whole and strong,

They’ll know the price of their sins, and the cost of their wrong.'

With the final stitch, the head was attached to the body, a grotesque, stitched-together mockery of life. And you, the Queen, the bereaved mother, smiled. A smile that chilled the very air.

The servants, their eyes filled with tears, whispered amongst themselves, 'The Queen has gone mad.' But deep down, they knew, you were not mad. You were broken.

'Your boy was a brave one, I'll give him that,' Blood said, laughing. 'He chose to die rather than see his mother cry. But if only my dagger had been sharper, he wouldn't have suffered so much. His big eyes filled with tears, the light in them slowly fading as he choked for air.'

Aegon's face remained impassive as he listened to Blood's words, but inside he was seething with rage.

'Your dagger was dull?' Aegon suddenly spoke, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. 'Well, let me show you what a dull dagger can do.'

At Aegon's command, a guard brought him Blood's dull dagger that was colored by Jaehaerys blood.

Blood's grin faltered as he realized Aegon's intentions. 'You can't be serious,' he protested, but Aegon's men only looked on with blank faces, refusing to intervene.

Aegon took the dagger with a grim smile. He approached Blood, who shrank back in fear, but there was nowhere for him to run.

Aegon began to torture Blood, cutting his body bit by bit with the dull dagger. Blood screamed in pain, but Aegon showed him no mercy. He laughed as he inflicted pain on the man who had taken his son's life.

'This is for Jaehaerys,' Aegon muttered as he cut into Blood's arm, causing the man to cry out in pain. 'For the light in his eyes, which you extinguished.' Aegon stabbed the dull blade into Blood's leg, causing him to writhe in agony.

'For the tears that filled his eyes as he choked for air.' Aegon drove the blade into Blood's chest, causing the man to scream in pain.

Blood's screams filled the chamber as Aegon continued to mutilate him, but Aegon felt no pity. He let out all his rage and anger towards Blood as he took his revenge.

'Is this how Jaehaerys felt, you bastard?' Aegon growled as he struck again. 'Is this what he endured because of your dull dagger?'

Blood's face was a mask of pain and fear as he realized the depths of Aegon's anger. But still, he taunted him, his voice weak and trembling.

'Go ahead, king Aegon. Finish me off. I've killed many men in my time, and I'm ready to meet my maker. But know this - your son died because of you, because you're weak.'

Aegon's dagger paused for a moment, and Blood looked up at him, a smirk on his face. But then, Aegon's expression changed. His face twisted in rage, and he raised the dagger high above his head, brought it down with all his strength.

Blood's head rolled to the ground, and Aegon stood over it, panting heavily. He looked down at the lifeless head, and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

Jaehaerys was gone. And no amount of revenge could bring him back. But at least Aegon had made Blood pay for his sins. And perhaps, in some small way, he could take solace in that.

MASTERLIST

Should I make a part 2?

@ 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒔 . 𝐷𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡, 𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑠.

[fragileheartbeats-deactivated20]

⌗ 𝘔𝘖𝘋𝘌𝘙𝘕 𝘈𝘌𝘎𝘖𝘕 𝘐𝘐 𝘛𝘈𝘙𝘎𝘈𝘙𝘠𝘌𝘕 𝘏𝘊 ⁝ 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 ( ♡ )

˚꒰♡꒱‧ Hi there! Before you read this, you should know that English is not my first language. Don't forget to like, reblog and give me feedback. Hope you enjoy!

Requested by lovely @omnjc ♡

Can I just say obsessed?

He'll spend hours just watching you sleep, a soft smile gracing his lips as he traces the line of your jaw with his finger. 'My beautiful wife,' he'll murmur, his voice thick with adoration. The sun might be streaming through the window, but he'd rather have you in his arms, safe and warm. He's not afraid to admit he has a bit of a 'sleeping beauty' complex…except you're not a princess, you're his queen.

If you try to sneak out the door before he wakes up, he'll be right there, a sleepy but determined figure blocking your path. 'Where do you think you're going, my love?' he'll ask, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. 'I haven't had my morning cuddle yet.' He's a master of guilt trips, even when he's half-asleep.

He calls you 'My Love,' 'My Sunshine,' and sometimes, 'My Precious Little Dumpling,' much to your chagrin. You'd rather he just call you by your name, but he's adamant about his pet names. He even tries to get the kids to call you 'Mama Dumpling,' but they just look at him with confused faces.

He's the type who insists on joining you in the bathroom, claiming he needs to 'make sure you're safe' and 'keep you company.' He'll be perched on the toilet seat, humming a tune, while you try to get ready in the morning. 'Darling, are you sure you don't want me to wash your back? I'm happy to, you know.' He'll say this with the utmost seriousness, as if he's offering you a life-saving opportunity.

He'll often get lost in his own little world, staring at you with adoration, muttering 'My beautiful wife,' under his breath. You'll have to nudge him to get his attention back, 'Aegon!' He'll snap out of it, a sheepish smile on his face, 'Oh, sorry, love. I was just admiring how amazing you are.'

Even when you're just trying to make a cup of coffee. He'll stand there, watching you with a goofy grin, his hand resting on your waist, murmuring, 'You're the most beautiful thing in the morning light, my sunshine.' It's endearing, even when it's a bit embarrassing.

His obsession with you is hilarious. He'll sneak pictures of you when you're not looking and then proudly show them off to the kids, saying, 'See? My wife is the most beautiful woman in the world!' It's embarrassing, sure, but you also love how proud he is of you.

He's the kind of husband who will *casually* ask you, 'Babe, why do you need to go to the grocery store? Can't we just order everything online and have it delivered? You know, so we can spend more time together?' He insists on carrying the groceries even though you tell him you can manage, his arms wrapped around you as you walk into the house.

He has a knack for making you laugh, even when you're trying to be annoyed. He'll sneak up behind you while you're reading and tickle your neck, or he'll pull a funny face when you least expect it. You try to act irritated, but you can't help but smile.

He'll insist on holding your hand while walking, even if it's just to the mailbox. He'll ask you to hold his hand while watching TV, his fingers intertwined with yours, and he'll get pouty if you try to pull away, 'Don't you want to be close to me, my love?' He'll sneak kisses on your cheeks when you think he's not looking, a mischievous glint in his eyes as you turn around to catch him.

He gets jealous easily, of anything and anyone who dares to take your attention away from him. He'll whine, 'You're spending more time on that book than me!' or 'You only laugh at his jokes, not mine!' He'll be incredibly dramatic, puffing out his chest and stomping his feet like a child, before he melts and pulls you into a hug, muttering, 'Just kidding, my love. I can't help but be a little possessive of my precious wife.'

He has this adorable habit of getting jealous of the kids. You'll be reading a bedtime story and he'll pout, 'Why aren't you reading me a story?' 'Why don't you ever cuddle me anymore?' He'll even try to steal the kids' stuffed animals, claiming they're *his* and he's just 'borrowing' them.

He loves your cooking, but he’ll also try to 'help' by adding a heaping spoonful of sugar to your favorite stir-fry, claiming it's 'for extra love.' You can't help but smile as he tries to defend his 'culinary genius.' He's the kind of man who will dance with you in the kitchen, swirling you around while you try to stir a pot and laughing when you accidentally drop a spoon.

He knows your weaknesses. He'll come home after a long day and tell you, 'Hey, Sunshine, I noticed you were craving those cinnamon rolls. So I got some.' He even remembers you like your cinnamon rolls with a drizzle of honey.

He'll leave you little notes, surprise you with flowers, and even write you songs on his guitar. He'll sing them to you, his voice cracking a little at the end, and you'll be a giggling mess, trying to hide your tears.

He's the ultimate 'dad joke' guy. He'll be telling the kids a story, his face serious as a judge, and then, BAM! He'll throw out a corny joke and burst into laughter. The kids will roll their eyes, you'll smile, and he'll give you a wink, 'See? I told you I was a funny guy.'

He *adores* his 'little family,' as he calls you and the children, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He'll spend hours building Lego castles with the kids, his face lit up with pure joy as he pretends to be a valiant knight defending his kingdom (which is actually just a rather wobbly tower made of brightly colored plastic).

He's not just a clingy husband, he's a clingy dad too. While you're at work, he's the one who's rocking the baby to sleep, playing peekaboo with the toddler, and singing silly songs with the older kids. The children adore him, and he adores them right back. He's the kind of father who's covered in glitter and paint by the end of the day, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He looks at you with a proud smile and says, 'See, I'm a good daddy, I'm taking care of our little ones while you're out there conquering the world!'

He's the one who takes care of the kids' school projects, building elaborate volcanoes out of cardboard and glitter, complete with a mini eruption every time they say 'Mommy's the best!'

His favorite activity is playing 'hide and seek' with the kids, but he never actually hides. He'll just stand behind the couch, holding his breath and making goofy noises, while the kids search the entire house. The joy in his eyes when they finally 'find' him is something to behold.

He has a serious case of 'baby fever.' He loves playing with the kids, but he'd really love to have more. He's always talking about having a big family and filling the house with laughter. You're not sure you're ready for more little ones, but you can't help but smile at his enthusiasm.

He's got this routine, every night. Ten minutes before bedtime, he'll gather the kids, cuddle them, read them stories, and then tuck them into their beds. Then, he'll come back to the bedroom, all serious and 'manly,' but he can't resist bouncing on his heels and pulling you into a big hug. 'My Love,' he'll sigh, 'Come to bed, I have a lot of loving to do.'

He's the type to fall asleep right next to you on the couch, his arm wrapped around you, even if you're just trying to watch a movie. You tell him to get his own space, but he just groans and snuggles closer, muttering, 'But you're so warm and comfy.' There's no point in arguing.

He's a bit of a goofball. He'll accidentally wear his socks inside out, or he'll forget where he put his keys. You find his clumsiness endearing, and it makes you appreciate his sweet, awkward nature.

He's the type to make you dinner, even if it's just pasta and sauce, and then light a thousand candles around the table. He'll pull out your chair for you, and then hold your hand across the table, just looking at you with so much love in his eyes. It's cheesy, it's over the top, but it's *him*. And you love him.

You swear he has a secret stash of your clothes that he only uses to smell. You find a pile of your favorite t-shirts hidden in his closet, each one smelling faintly of your perfume. He'll nonchalantly claim he just uses them as pajamas, but you *know* he's just trying to be close to you even when you're not around.

He's a master of the 'surprise kiss' – catching you off guard with a quick peck on the cheek, or a full-blown smooch on the lips while you're engrossed in a book. He'll then grin at you with the satisfaction of a mischievous child who's just pulled off the perfect prank.

He's the ultimate cheerleader, cheering you on at every little thing you do, whether it's cooking dinner, painting a picture, or simply taking out the trash. His constant encouragement is both endearing and slightly embarrassing, especially when he starts singing your praises to everyone you encounter. 'My wife? She's a goddess. She can do anything!' He'll declare, beaming with pride.

He's the type of husband who'll tell everyone how amazing you are, how much he loves you, and how lucky he is to have you. He'll brag about you like you're the greatest thing that's ever happened to him.

And then there's the way he looks at you. You can be wearing your favorite comfy sweats and a messy bun, but in his eyes, you're the most beautiful woman in the world. He'll sweep you into a dance, his arms pulling you close, and whisper, 'You're my everything, you know that?' He'll spin you around, his laughter echoing through the house, and you'll feel like a princess in your own fairytale.

MASTERLIST

@ 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒔 . 𝐷𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡, 𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑠.

[danytar-deactivated20240907]

I'm melting I can't THIS IS JUST—

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA MOMMY I WANT HIM

[fragileheartbeats-deactivated20]

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ 𓇼 ࣪ 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒⠀

꒰͡ ⠀ ִ 𝑇𝑜𝑚 𝐺𝑙𝑦𝑛𝑛 𝐶𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑦 𝑥 𝐴𝑐𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 ⠀ׂ ⠀ ͡꒱

♡ㅤ𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝅄ㅤೀ

˚꒰♡꒱‧ Hi there! Before you read this, you should know that English is not my first language. Don't forget to like, reblog and give me feedback. Hope you enjoy!

Requested by lovely @clarkysblog ♡

“Action!”

“My love, you are my world. I… I need you.”

His voice was husky, a perfect blend of passion and desire, the kind that would make any viewer swoon. As you raised your hand to caress his face, your face contorted into a comical grimace.

“Aegon,” you choked out, a giggle bubbling up in your throat.

“Cut!” The director yelled. “Y/n, what was that?”

You blushed, your cheeks burning scarlet as you tried to gather your composure. “I’m so sorry! I just… I can’t stop laughing.”

The director sighed, a heavy, exasperated sigh that seemed to fill the entire room. “We need to get this right. This is a crucial scene, y/n. You need to sell it.”

You nodded, trying your best to maintain a straight face. “I understand. I’m sorry. I'll do better next take.”

Tom, however, seemed to find it all extremely amusing. He was standing beside you, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. He couldn't meet your eyes, and his lips were pressed together in an attempt to stifle the mirth bubbling beneath the surface.

The director looked at him, his brow furrowed even deeper. “Tom, you're making it worse. Focus.”

Tom straightened his posture, trying to appear serious, but the slight tremor in his jaw betrayed his amused state.

“I’m sorry, I'll try my best.”

They started again.

“My love, you are my world. I… I need you,” Tom whispered again, his voice echoing the same sultry tone.

This time, you tried focusing on the scene, picturing yourself as his wife, trying to ignore the fact that you were completely naked in front of Tom, who was, in turn, completely naked in front of you. You were supposed to respond to his declaration of love with a moan, one that was both suggestive and filled with longing.

As you tried to conjure up the right emotion, Tom’s gaze settled on your lips, and you could feel his eyes burning into you. He looked so incredibly handsome, even more so when he was shirtless.

And then you felt it, a bubbling sensation rising from within you, threatening to erupt into another fit of laughter.

“Aegon,” you started, a giggle escaping your lips before you could stop it.

“Cut! What is wrong with you, y/n?!” The director shrieked.

You squeezed your eyes shut, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. I can’t… I just… I can’t help it!”

“What are you, a clown?” the director muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with frustration.

“It’s just… Tom,” you let out, a choked laugh escaping your lips.

The director pointed a finger at you. “This is your job, y/n. This is your craft. You need to take this seriously. It’s not a joke.”

“I know, I know,” you said, trying to compose yourself.

Tom, who was trying to contain his laughter, walked over to you and offered a sympathetic pat on your shoulder. You leaned into his touch, seeking comfort in his warmth. The moment stretched, as you both struggled to keep your composure. Then, Tom’s arm slipped around your waist, pulling you closer.

“It’s okay, Y/n,” he whispered, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

The director cleared his throat. “Alright, let's try again. And this time, I want a passionate performance from both of you!”

As the take began, you tried hard to focus on the scene, suppressing your nervous laughter. You could feel Tom's breath on your skin, his warmth radiating against your body.

“My love, you are my world. I… I need you,” Tom whispered again, his voice a seductive murmur.

This time, you managed to hold back the laughter, focusing on the emotions swirling within you. You reached up to cup his face, feeling the rough texture of his beard against your fingers.

“Tom,” you breathed, your voice a husk of its usual self. You were supposed to moan, but the word came out a soft whisper, a whisper that held a hint of desire.

Tom’s eyes widened. “Tom?” he whispered back, a barely suppressed chuckle escaping his lips. “It’s… it’s Aegon.”

“Cut!” the director roared, his face red with frustration. “Y/n, seriously? What is going on?”

You looked at him, feeling a blush creep up your neck. “I’m so sorry! I’m trying my best.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to regain control. You were so close to pulling it off, but then your mind went blank, and instead of moaning, you called out Tom’s real name. The director’s frustration was palpable, but Tom was struggling to contain his laughter.

He let out a shaky exhale, trying to compose himself. “I’m so sorry, sir. I think… I think maybe we should take a break. I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere if she keeps calling me Tom.”

The director looked at you, his eyes narrowed. “You better get it right next time, y/n. This is your last chance.”

He clapped his hands again, signaling the beginning of the final take. It was now or never.

“Action!”

Tom, his eyes holding a hint of mischief, moved closer to you. His arms went around your waist, pulling you closer. Your bodies pressed together, and you could feel the heat of his skin against yours. You could feel the tension building in the air, a mix of nervousness and anticipation.

“My love, you are my world. I need you,” Tom whispered, his voice thick with desire.

You closed your eyes, focusing on the image of Aegon, the man on the screen, the man who was holding you in his embrace. You could feel the warmth of his skin against yours, his breath on your neck.

“Aegon,” you whispered, the word escaping your lips in a breathy sigh. This time, you were able to push the laughter away, focusing on the sensual image of the scene.

Tom leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “I need you, my love,” he whispered, his voice a husky murmur.

Your body quivered, and the air between you crackled with electricity. You reached out, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingers, feeling the rough texture of his beard.

“Aegon,” you whispered, the word now laced with a hint of desire. “I… I want you.”

Tom's grip tightened, and then his lips were on yours, his kiss forceful and passionate. You responded, surrendering to the intensity of the moment, your body arching into his.

The scene unfolded before them, a whirlwind of passion and desire. Your bodies moved together, a symphony of raw emotion, the air thick with the scent of sweat and desire.

“Cut!” the director shouted, his voice filled with surprise. “That was… that was brilliant!”

You and Tom stood there, breathless, your bodies intertwined, your faces mere inches apart. When you finally broke the kiss, you stared into his eyes, a mixture of amusement and relief reflected in their depths.

“Well, that was… something,” you said, breathlessly, a smile playing on your lips. You were still flushed, your pulse racing.

“Yeah,” Tom responded, a smirk playing on his lips, “that was definitely something.”

You both laughed, the tension finally breaking, replaced with a comfortable camaraderie.

The director clapped his hands again, and they both straightened, trying to maintain a semblance of professionalism.

“Well done,” he said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. “You two really nailed it. That was exactly what I was looking for.”

As you both walked off set, Tom gave you a playful nudge.

“You know,” he said, a grin stretching across his face, “we could probably sell tickets to this.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I don’t think anyone wants to see us naked like that. Except maybe the director. Maybe he was secretly excited.”

Tom’s grin widened, and he leaned in close, whispering, “Maybe you're right.”

MASTERLIST

@ 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒔 . 𝐷𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡, 𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑠.

[fragileheartbeats-deactivated20]

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ 𓇼 ࣪ A SON FOR A SON 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒

꒰͡ ⠀ ִ 𝐴𝑒𝑔𝑜𝑛 𝐼𝐼 𝑇𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑒𝑛 𝑥 𝑇𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑒𝑛 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 ⠀ׂ ⠀ ͡꒱

˚꒰♡꒱‧ Hi there! Before you read this, you should know that English is not my first language. And @moodyfog told me that fanfic writers could do a better job at writing hotd, and I thought, well how would have I wrote it if I was in Ryan place? And BOOM! Here it is. So yeah, Don't forget to like, reblog and give me feedback. Hope you enjoy!

In the early hours of the morning, Aegon sat in his chambers, nursing a goblet of strong wine. His eyes were bloodshot, and his demeanor was distant. The door creaked open, and in walked Jaehaerys, his six-year-old son, brimming with excitement.

Jaehaerys had cut his hair short, just like his father’s, and wore a small wooden dagger at his waist. His little dragon perched on his shoulder, its wings fluttering slightly as it adjusted its position. The boy's face was lit with pride and anticipation.

“Father! Look at me!” Jaehaerys called out, his voice cutting through Aegon’s thoughts.

Aegon looked up, his expression a mixture of weariness and curiosity. His initial reaction was a scowl, his eyes narrowing at the interruption. But as he took in the sight of his son, his gaze softened.

“What is it, Jaehaerys?” he asked, his voice gruff.

Jaehaerys stood tall, puffing out his chest. “I cut my hair like yours. And I have my dragon and my dagger. I want to be just like you when I grow up!”

Aegon’s heart twisted painfully. He felt a mix of pride and sorrow, emotions he often drowned in wine and indifference. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“Is that so?” Aegon replied, his tone guarded. “Why would you want to be like me?”

Jaehaerys’s face fell slightly, confusion clouding his young eyes. “Because you’re my father. I want to be like you.”

Aegon’s jaw tightened. He looked away, staring into the distance as memories of his own childhood, filled with neglect and abuse, flooded back. He knew he wasn’t the father his son needed, and the guilt of it weighed heavily on him.

“Being like me isn’t something to aspire to, son,” Aegon muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness. “I’m not strong or kindhearted. I’m not someone to look up to.”

Jaehaerys stepped closer, his small hand reaching out to touch his father’s arm. “But I don’t care, Father. You’re still my father, and you’re the best man in my life.”

Aegon’s eyes widened slightly at his son’s words. The sincerity in Jaehaerys’s voice cut through his defenses, and he felt a lump form in his throat.

“You want to be like me because I’m your father?” Aegon asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Jaehaerys nodded eagerly, a bright smile spreading across his face. “Yes, Father. Because you’re my father, and that makes you the best. I want to be like you because you’re you.”

Aegon felt a tear escape his eye, quickly brushing it away with the back of his hand. He placed a trembling hand on Jaehaerys’s shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind.

“You don’t have to be like me to make me proud, Jaehaerys,” Aegon said, his voice cracking slightly. “You’re already more than I ever was.”

Jaehaerys beamed up at his father, his eyes filled with unwavering love and admiration. “I’ll try, Father. I still want to make you proud.”

Aegon pulled Jaehaerys into a rough embrace, holding him tightly. “You already do, my boy. You already do.”

As he held his son, Aegon felt the weight of his own failures pressing down on him. He knew he needed to be better, not just for himself, but for his children. They deserved a father who could show them love and support, not just a distant, broken man.

When Jaehaerys pulled back, Aegon managed a strained smile. “Now, go find your sister and brother. They’ll want to see their brave brother with his dragon.”

Jaehaerys nodded and ran off, his dragon chirping excitedly on his shoulder. Aegon watched him go, a deep sadness settling in his chest. He knew he had a long way to go to be the father his children deserved, but for now, he would take solace in their love and determination.

As he picked up his goblet of wine again, he swore to himself that he would try to be better. For Jaehaerys, for his family, and for the boy inside him who had never known love.

"Choose," Blood demanded, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "Or we end them both."

Tears streamed down your face as you looked into the terrified eyes of your sons. Jaehaerys tried to mustera brave front, but the quiver in his voice betrayed his terror. Maelor, still a toddler, clung to Jaehaerys with innocent confusion, sensing the danger but unable to grasp its severity.

"Please... no," you pleaded, your voice barely a whisper, your legs threatening to give way beneath you.

Blood tightened his grip on Jaehaerys hair, his dagger pressing against the boy's pale throat. "Time's running out," he sneered, the sadistic glee in his eyes sending shivers down your spine.

Desperation clawed at your chest as you struggled to find words, to find a way out of this nightmare. "I can't... I can't choose, kill me instead! Kill me!" you managed to choke out, your voice cracking with despair.

Cheese's eyes narrowed, his cold gaze flickering between you and your sons. "Then they both die," he declared, his voice devoid of any mercy.

Jaehaerys, his young face pale but defiant, turned to you with a bravery that tore at your heart. "Kill me," he said softly, his eyes pleading with you to stop crying.

"No, Jaehaerys, no!" you cried out, your hands reaching out futilely towards him.

Jaehaerys met your gaze with a small, sad smile. "Don't cry, mother," he whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of his impending fate. "I'll be brave.. for you."

Tears streamed down your cheeks as Blood moved with cruel deliberation. His blunt dagger tore through Jaehaerys's tender flesh slowly, agonizingly, each cut a testament to their pleasure and your helplessness. Jaehaerys whimpered in pain, his brave facade crumbling as his body convulsed with each excruciating moment.

"STOP! PLEASE GODS STOP!" you screamed, your voice raw with anguish, your struggles against Cheese's iron grip futile.

Jaehaerys's cries grew weaker with each passing second, his small frame trembling with pain and fear. The room filled with the sickening sounds of flesh tearing and your son's desperate gasps for air. Maelor, still clinging to his brother, whimpered in confusion, his innocent eyes wide with terror.

Finally, with a brutal twist, Jaehaerys's head was severed from his body, falling to the ground with a sickening thud. His lifeless eyes stared up at you, forever frozen in a silent plea for mercy that would never come. Blood and Cheese departed, leaving behind a trail of blood and your soul-shattering screams.

You collapsed to the ground, clutching Jaehaerys's limp body to your chest, the weight of your grief crushing you. "No... Jaehaerys, my baby" you sobbed, your cries echoing through the empty halls.

The world around you blurred into a haze of pain and loss. You rocked back and forth, cradling Jaehaerys's lifeless form, unable to comprehend the enormity of your devastation. Your heart, shattered into a million pieces, ached with a grief that would haunt you for eternity.

Aegon reclined upon the Iron Throne, he engaged in banter with his gourds. Laughter echoed through the hall, a fleeting respite.

The sound of hurried footsteps disrupted the jovial atmosphere. Aegon's laughter ceased abruptly as he looked up, his gaze locking onto Jaehaera's tear-streaked face.

Her normally vibrant eyes were clouded with anguish, her slender frame trembling with silent sobs. Aegon's heart clenched with instinctive foreboding, the mirth evaporating into a chilling realization of impending tragedy.

"Jaehaera," Aegon's voice rang out, laden with concern and urgency. She hesitated, her words stifled by the overwhelming grief that gripped her. With trembling hands, she pointed wordlessly towards the direction of their chambers, her eyes pleading with a pain too profound for words.

"D-daughter, what is it?" Aegon's voice faltered, the sense of unease growing within him as he rose from the throne. Jaehaera tried to speak, her voice choked by sobs, but only managed to utter fragmented words, "J-Jaehaerys... chambers..."

A cold shiver ran down Aegon's spine at the mention of his son's name. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach, his heart pounding with a foreboding he couldn't quite comprehend. Before he could coax more words from Jaehaera, a piercing scream tore through the air.

It was the scream of his wife, a sound so raw and full of anguish that it cut through the festivities like a knife. Aegon's blood ran cold as he turned towards the direction of their chambers, his steps quickening into a frantic sprint.

In a blur of motion, he raced through the corridors, the echo of his hurried footsteps a haunting prelude to the devastating truth that awaited him. His mind raced with desperate prayers and agonizing uncertainties, his grip on hope slipping with each passing moment.

Jaehaera followed close behind, her cries blending with her mother's screams as they raced through the corridors. The castle seemed to stretch endlessly before them, each moment stretching into eternity as dread gnawed at Aegon's insides.

The agonizing sound of his wife's screams tore through the air as he reached their children's chamber. Aegon's heart shattered at the sight before him—an image seared into the depths of his tormented soul.

His wife lay crumpled on the floor, her anguished cries reverberating off the walls of their once-happy sanctuary. In her arms, she clutched Jaehaerys's lifeless form, blood staining her hands and clothes. Maelor, their youngest, stood beside her, his tear-streaked face a mask of confusion and sorrow.

Aegon staggered forward, his world collapsing around him with each agonizing heartbeat. He fell to his knees beside his wife, his trembling hands reaching out towards Jaehaerys's motionless body, a futile attempt to reclaim the warmth of life that had fled.

His wife's cries tore through him, a raw symphony of grief that echoed the depths of his own soul. He looked up at her, their eyes meeting in a shared anguish that transcended words. Words failed him as he knelt there, consumed by the enormity of their loss.

Maelor's tear-filled gaze met his own, seeking answers that Aegon felt powerless to provide. The innocence in his son's eyes shattered the walls of denial that threatened to engulf Aegon's shattered heart.

Jaehaera sobbed uncontrollably, her words a broken plea for understanding amidst the chaos. "F-father... Jaehaerys..." she managed to choke out, her voice trembling with grief.

Aegon's mind raced, grappling with the relentless tide of denial. He couldn't accept the truth, couldn't comprehend the void left by Jaehaerys's absence. His trembling hand reached out to touch his son's still form, fingers brushing against cold skin.

"Jaehaerys?..." Aegon whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief. He searched desperately for any sign of life, any flicker of warmth, but found only the chilling finality of death.

"B-but you're going to be king... you want to be like me... Why... Where's your head?" His tears fell freely, mingling with the bloodstains on the floor as he cradled his wife and his dead son body in his arms.

In the deafening silence that followed, broken only by his wife's inconsolable cries, Aegon knelt there, shattered and hollowed by grief that threatened to consume him whole.

'Bring me his head,' you said, your voice flat and devoid of emotion. A chill settled in the room, the servants drawing back, horrified. They dared not question your words.

The head arrived, wrapped in a crimson cloth, a stark contrast to the pallid face beneath. The messengers, their eyes filled with pity and fear, placed it before you. You didn't touch it, didn't even look at it. You simply nodded, dismissed them with a wave of your hand.

They left, leaving you alone with the gruesome package.

You unwrapped the cloth, revealing your son's face, frozen in a silent scream. His eyes, once sparkling with mischief, were now vacant, staring blankly into the void. A single tear escaped your eye, but it was quickly swallowed by the emptiness within you.

With a chilling smile that seemed to stretch across your face like a mask of ice, you picked up the head, cradling it like a precious doll. Then, you began to hum a lullaby, the melody as cold and lifeless as the body in your hands.

'Hush, little baby, don't you cry,

Mother's going to make you whole again, by and by.

The world is cruel, the world is cold,

But mother will keep you safe, she'll keep you bold.'

You picked up a needle and thread, the glint of the steel a stark contrast to the porcelain of your son's face. The servants, their eyes wide with horror, watched helplessly. They had seen you grieve, they had seen you rage, but this… this was something else entirely.

'See, little one, the world stole your voice,

But mother will give it back, she'll make you rejoice.

We'll stitch you back together, piece by piece,

And the world will tremble, at our grim release.'

Needle pierced flesh, thread pulled taut. You hummed on, your voice growing stronger with each stitch, each pulse of the needle. You were a creature of vengeance, possessed by a grief so deep it had consumed your soul.

'This is for the world, my darling, for all that they've done.

We'll rise from the ashes, we'll be the rising sun.

And when they see you, whole and strong,

They’ll know the price of their sins, and the cost of their wrong.'

With the final stitch, the head was attached to the body, a grotesque, stitched-together mockery of life. And you, the Queen, the bereaved mother, smiled. A smile that chilled the very air.

The servants, their eyes filled with tears, whispered amongst themselves, 'The Queen has gone mad.' But deep down, they knew, you were not mad. You were broken.

'Your boy was a brave one, I'll give him that,' Blood said, laughing. 'He chose to die rather than see his mother cry. But if only my dagger had been sharper, he wouldn't have suffered so much. His big eyes filled with tears, the light in them slowly fading as he choked for air.'

Aegon's face remained impassive as he listened to Blood's words, but inside he was seething with rage.

'Your dagger was dull?' Aegon suddenly spoke, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. 'Well, let me show you what a dull dagger can do.'

At Aegon's command, a guard brought him Blood's dull dagger that was colored by Jaehaerys blood.

Blood's grin faltered as he realized Aegon's intentions. 'You can't be serious,' he protested, but Aegon's men only looked on with blank faces, refusing to intervene.

Aegon took the dagger with a grim smile. He approached Blood, who shrank back in fear, but there was nowhere for him to run.

Aegon began to torture Blood, cutting his body bit by bit with the dull dagger. Blood screamed in pain, but Aegon showed him no mercy. He laughed as he inflicted pain on the man who had taken his son's life.

'This is for Jaehaerys,' Aegon muttered as he cut into Blood's arm, causing the man to cry out in pain. 'For the light in his eyes, which you extinguished.' Aegon stabbed the dull blade into Blood's leg, causing him to writhe in agony.

'For the tears that filled his eyes as he choked for air.' Aegon drove the blade into Blood's chest, causing the man to scream in pain.

Blood's screams filled the chamber as Aegon continued to mutilate him, but Aegon felt no pity. He let out all his rage and anger towards Blood as he took his revenge.

'Is this how Jaehaerys felt, you bastard?' Aegon growled as he struck again. 'Is this what he endured because of your dull dagger?'

Blood's face was a mask of pain and fear as he realized the depths of Aegon's anger. But still, he taunted him, his voice weak and trembling.

'Go ahead, king Aegon. Finish me off. I've killed many men in my time, and I'm ready to meet my maker. But know this - your son died because of you, because you're weak.'

Aegon's dagger paused for a moment, and Blood looked up at him, a smirk on his face. But then, Aegon's expression changed. His face twisted in rage, and he raised the dagger high above his head, brought it down with all his strength.

Blood's head rolled to the ground, and Aegon stood over it, panting heavily. He looked down at the lifeless head, and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

Jaehaerys was gone. And no amount of revenge could bring him back. But at least Aegon had made Blood pay for his sins. And perhaps, in some small way, he could take solace in that.

MASTERLIST

Should I make a part 2?

@ 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒔 . 𝐷𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡, 𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑠.

[luv-lock-deactivated20250611]

⸻ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴛ ʏ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴛ ⸻

Pairing: Yandere HOTD x Targaryen Reader Part 4

Summary: after your conversion with your father, you just wanted to be in peace. Especially since your husband name day is close.

Warning: Y/n herself is a warning.

Notes: English is not my first language. Gifs don't belong to me, credit to the owner. Hope you enjoy!

The water was warm, steaming against her pale skin as she reclined in the tub, the scent of lavender and rose oil wafting through the air. Elira’s hands worked delicately, her touch soft as she poured water over her mistress’s shoulders, letting it cascade down in rivulets. The bath chamber was silent save for the occasional splash of water and the crackle of the fire in the hearth.

Elira hesitated, biting her lip as she wrung out a cloth. Her nerves were apparent, her usual timidness magnified in the face of what she wanted to ask. Y/n smirked to herself, already anticipating whatever foolish question the girl was about to utter.

“My lady… may I ask something?”

Y/n opened one eye, watching her through half-lowered lids, her expression languid and amused. “You may,” she said, her tone carrying a sharp edge of mockery, as if daring the girl to test her patience.

Elira hesitated again, then quickly stammered out, “Why… why did you choose to marry Prince Aegon? He’s just a child, my lady. If—if I were in your place… and a man like Lord Jason Lannister wanted to marry me…” She trailed off, her cheeks flushing red. “I would have accepted.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Then, Y/n laughed—a sharp, derisive sound that echoed off the stone walls. It was not a warm laugh but one laced with scorn. She turned her head slightly to look at Elira, her lips curling into a cruel smile.

“Of course you would,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “That’s the difference between us, Elira. You’re a peasant. A frightened little girl who would gladly sell herself for a crumb of comfort and a pat on the head from some bloated fool with a golden lion stitched to his chest.”

Elira’s head bowed, her hands trembling slightly as she dipped the cloth back into the water. Y/n continued, her tone growing sharper, each word a dagger aimed at the girl’s pride.

“But I am Y/n. I am a Targaryen, the blood of Old Valyria. I am the rider of Vermithor, the princess of dragon stone. I don’t need a man’s protection, nor his gold, nor his pathetic little affections. I don’t need anything from a husband save for two things: a pretty face to sit on and a hard cock to ride.”

Elira gasped softly, her eyes widening, but she said nothing. She knew better than to interrupt.

Y/n leaned back, stretching her arms along the edge of the tub, her smirk deepening. “But if you’re so curious about my decision, I’ll enlighten you.” She tilted her head, her voice softening into a conspiratorial tone, though the mockery remained. “I choose Aegon because he’s a child. A boy with no power to tell me what to do, no authority to make demands of me.”

She let her words sink in for a moment before continuing, her eyes gleaming with cold, calculating ambition. “And more importantly, he’s the firstborn son. He is father's heir, whether my father likes it or not. I may not have a chance at the throne, but Aegon does. And I will mold him. Raise him exactly as I wish, shape him into who I want him to be. And when that day comes, when he sits the Iron Throne…” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, her lips curling into a wicked smile. “I will be the true power behind him. I will be queen.”

Elira’s hands faltered, the cloth slipping from her fingers and sinking into the water. She stared at Y/n, her face pale, clearly unsettled by her mistress’s words. But Y/n only laughed again, throwing her head back, her voice ringing with cruel amusement.

“Now,” she said, her tone suddenly light and airy, “be a good girl and fetch me more hot water. This bath is growing cold.”

The woods were unnervingly quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves underfoot and the distant cries of birds. Y/n walked beside Ser Criston, her irritation growing with every step. Hours had passed, and they’d yet to find anything worth hunting. So fucking annoying. She tightened her grip on the bow in her hand, the frustration threatening to bubble over.

She was about to complain when her ears picked up something—soft footsteps, the kind that didn’t belong to animals. Her gaze narrowed, her body tensing as she held up a hand to stop Criston. Then, she heard it: her sister’s voice, faint but unmistakable, carried on the wind.

Rhaenyra.

Y/n’s head snapped in the direction of the sound, her sharp violet eyes catching movement through the trees. She crept forward silently, motioning for Criston to follow. As they approached, the figures came into view: Rhaenyra, her silver hair gleaming even in the dappled light, and beside her, that hulking brute Harwin Strong. But it wasn’t the sight of them that made Y/n pause—it was the majestic white hart standing just a few feet ahead of her sister, its antlers rising like a crown from its head.

She grabbed Criston’s hand, holding him back before he could move. “Be quiet,” she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. Her lips curved into a smirk as she watched her sister. “And don’t make a sound.”

Y/n crouched low, her eyes fixed on Rhaenyra. Come on, sister. Kill it. Her heart beat faster, anticipation coiling tightly in her chest. She waited, watching for the moment when Rhaenyra would draw her weapon, when she would finally prove herself capable of something more than riding her dragon and being a spoiled cunt. Show me you have the spine.

But Rhaenyra didn’t move. The hart stood before her, regal and unafraid, and Y/n saw her sister’s hand drop to her side. And then, Rhaenyra stepped back, letting the beast go.

Y/n’s smirk twisted into a sneer, her mind filling with sharp, cutting thoughts. Of course. Of course, you don’t, you stupid cunt. What did I expect, really? She shook her head, her contempt flaring as she silently drew an arrow from her quiver. The string of her bow stretched taut as she aimed, her eyes locking on the white hart’s elegant neck.

And then she let go.

The arrow flew true, piercing the hart’s neck with a satisfying thunk. The beast reared back, stumbling as blood gushed from the wound. Rhaenyra gasped, her shock written plainly across her face, but Y/n didn’t give her a second glance.

“Finish it,” she said coldly, tossing a glance over her shoulder at Criston.

Ser Criston moved quickly, drawing his blade and putting the hart out of its misery with a single, clean stroke. Y/n rose from her crouch, her movements smooth and graceful as she strode forward, stepping into the clearing. Her boots crunched softly against the ground as she approached Rhaenyra, whose wide eyes were still fixed on the fallen hart. Harwin stood beside her, his hand resting protectively on his sword hilt, though he didn’t move to stop Y/n.

“Well, well,” Y/n said, her voice light with mockery, “what a surprise to see you here, sister.”

Rhaenyra turned to face her, her expression a mix of anger and disbelief. “Why did you do that?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “I let it go.”

Y/n tilted her head, her lips curving into a sweet, venomous smile. “Why? Because I needed a new cloak, of course.” Her tone was dripping with false innocence. She gestured to the hart with a casual wave of her hand. “This beautiful creature is perfect for it. Don’t you think?”

Rhaenyra stared at her, speechless, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. Y/n took a step closer, her smile widening as she leaned in and pressed a kiss to her sister’s cheek, the gesture as mocking as it was intimate.

“Goodbye, dear sister,” Y/n whispered, her voice a soft purr. “Enjoy the rest of your little walk.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel, her crimson cloak swirling behind her as she walked back to Criston. “Bring it,” she ordered, gesturing to the hart’s body, and he obeyed without question.

As they disappeared into the woods, Y/n glanced over her shoulder one last time, catching the stunned, angry look on Rhaenyra’s face. Her smirk returned, satisfaction blooming in her chest.

Weak, little Rhaenyra, she thought. You’ll never understand. But don’t worry, sister—I’ll show you.

The ride back was slow, her mood as sour as the metallic scent of blood wafting from the stag’s severed head strapped to the back of her horse. The triumph of the kill had already faded, leaving her simmering irritation in its place. Criston walked beside her, one hand steady on the reins of her horse, his ever-watchful gaze scanning the path ahead. She barely acknowledged him, her thoughts consumed by the tedious pomp awaiting her return.

As they entered the camp, banners flapped in the wind, servants bustling about like ants beneath the royal pavilion. Y/n slid off the horse with practiced ease, her boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. “Take care of the stag’s body,” she ordered Criston sharply, tossing him a brief glance. “The head stays with me.”

Criston bowed slightly, his armor clinking. “As you command, princess.”

She didn’t wait for him to finish. Her sharp eyes scanned the camp until they landed on her brother, cradled in Alicent’s arms near the pavilion. Without a word of greeting, she strode toward them, her crimson cloak billowing behind her. Alicent looked up, startled, but before she could protest, Y/n reached out and plucked Aegon from her arms.

“Y/n,” Alicent began, her tone edged with concern, “he’s just—”

“I know,” Y/n cut her off, dismissing her with a glare. “Don’t fuss.”

Aegon, his little head still bandaged, squirmed briefly in her grasp before recognizing her. His tiny arms flung around her neck, hugging her tightly. “Si-ster!” he exclaimed, his small voice brimming with excitement.

Her irritation softened for a fleeting moment as she kissed his forehead, her lips brushing against the white cloth wrapped around his head. “There you are, my little husband,” she murmured, a rare tenderness in her voice.

But the moment didn’t last. She turned, gesturing for Criston to bring the stag’s head forward. The grotesque trophy swung slightly as it was presented, blood still dripping onto the dirt below. She held Aegon up slightly so he could see, her voice lilting with mock enthusiasm.

“Look,” Y/n said, holding him slightly away from her so he could see better. “This is yours. The white hart of the Kingswood, a beast worthy of a prince.”

But instead of the reaction she anticipated—delight, awe, perhaps even pride—Aegon’s lip began to quiver. His bright eyes welled with tears, and before Y/n could react, he burst into loud, pitiful sobs, his tiny body shaking in her arms.

Y/n froze, staring down at him in disbelief. “What… What is this?” she muttered, her irritation flaring. “Why are you crying? It’s a gift, you foolish boy.” She bounced him slightly, trying to quiet him, but it only made his wails louder.

Alicent rose from her seat, her expression a mixture of concern and anger. “He’s just a child,” she said, extending her arms. “He doesn’t understand.”

“Clearly, he doesn’t,” Y/n snapped, her patience wearing thin. She thrust Aegon back into Alicent’s arms, ignoring the boy’s desperate grip as he clung to her for a moment before being transferred. “Take him. If he can’t appreciate what I’ve done for him, then let him go back to you.”

Alicent cradled the sobbing boy, soothing him with soft words and gentle strokes of her hand. Y/n turned away, brushing her hands down her cloak as if to rid herself of the inconvenience. She cast one last glance at the stag’s head, her jaw tightening.

Ungrateful brat.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

[crybabyx3]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤTOXIC LOVERㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Liyue Men x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : What is their red flags in a relationship?

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Childe, Zhongli, Xiao, Chongyun.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— CHILDE ⋆

Loving Childe is like being caught in a storm that smiles at you. He loves you with everything — laughter, loyalty, devotion — but he’s always got blood on his hands.

His red flag? He romanticizes danger and brings it home.

He treats you like his light, his world. But he also brings the world’s weight to your doorstep — Fatui politics, enemies with knives, bruises he brushes off like they’re jokes. He tells you you’re safe while covered in blood.

“Don’t worry, babe. I handled it. Just a little mess.”

And you know he’d kill for you. He probably already has. But what happens when you're tired of being protected like a damsel in a warzone? What happens when you want peace, and he only knows how to fight?

He says he’ll change. But some part of him? Lives for the blood.

— ZHONGLI ⋆

He’s wise. Gentle. Worships you like a temple he built himself. But sometimes, you wonder if he sees you or just a role he needs to fill.

Zhongli’s red flag is control disguised as care and treating you like something fragile.

He never raises his voice. Never forgets a promise. But he decides things for you — what you should eat, where you should go, how much you should work — like he knows better.

“Rest now. I’ve taken care of it. You shouldn’t worry.”

He over-explains everything but never asks how you feel. He talks to you, not with you. And sometimes, it feels like he’s loving an ideal version of you — not the flawed, chaotic, living girl you actually are.

You don’t want to be a porcelain doll he keeps safe on a pedestal. You want to be his equal. His partner. But gods have a way of forgetting that mortals have teeth, too.

— XIAO ⋆

He tells you not to love him. You do anyway.

But Xiao’s red flag? He disappears when you need him most. He thinks suffering is noble. That protecting you means leaving you. That you deserve someone better, someone cleaner.

“Don’t wait up. I’m not... meant for peace.”

He doesn’t know how to exist in a relationship. He watches you sleep from the shadows but won’t sleep beside you. He brings you gifts but won’t accept any. When he finally breaks down — hands shaking, voice cracking — it’s always followed by, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

You just want to love him. But he thinks loving you back would ruin you. He punishes himself by keeping his distance, and it turns your love into a lonely altar.

He aches for you. But love shouldn’t feel like penance.

— CHONGYUN ⋆

You love how earnest he is. How pure. But loving Chongyun feels like constantly holding your breath — afraid he’ll break.

His red flag is fear of emotion — especially his own. He’s terrified of losing control. Of getting too happy. Too jealous. Too close. And when he does feel those things? He shuts down.

“I-I need to go cool off. I can’t talk right now.”

He vanishes. Or worse — he spirals. He thinks if he lets himself love too loudly, something awful will happen. He doesn’t trust himself around passion. And loving someone who’s afraid of feeling you… hurts.

You end up tiptoeing. Around your own heart. Around his.

He’s a good boy. But love isn’t something you’re supposed to repress to survive it.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luvpixx. don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[crybabyx3]

Aegon whimpering

Damn if I didn't knew better I would have thought someone is sucking him off.

[luv-lock-deactivated20250611]

⸻ ᴊ ᴀ ʏ ʙ ɪ ʀ ᴅ ⸻

“ The Broken Mask: A Name to Remember ”

Pairing: Dark Jason Todd x Fem Reader Part 3

Summary: After waking up, you found yourself in a dark and dirty room. Tied up without a way out. And there's him who kidnapped you...

Warnings: Physical violence, Child abuse, Psychological trauma.

Note: English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

The stench of blood and decay filled the air, suffocating her. It clung to her skin, her hair, and every breath she took. She woke with a sharp gasp, her body screaming in pain, every muscle twisted and strained. She couldn’t move her hands or legs—tied down, the coarse ropes cutting into her skin. Her wrists burned as she tried to twist them free, but the bindings only dug deeper. The metallic taste of blood lingered in her mouth.

Her vision swam, the room around her blurry at first, but as her eyes adjusted, she took in the nightmare she was trapped in. The room was small, the walls stained with streaks of dried blood and rust. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of death, and the dim light above flickered weakly, casting eerie shadows across the walls. Her heart raced as the reality of her situation sank in.

Where am I? What happened?

Memories flashed back—rain, green eyes, a sharp pain. She’d been in her house. And then...

The door creaked open, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silence. She flinched, her breath catching in her throat. A figure stepped into the room, and her stomach turned. He was tall, his frame imposing, clad in a leather jacket that seemed worn from years of use. His face was hidden beneath a red helmet, the visor reflecting the dim light, making him look more monster than man.

In his hand, he casually twisted a knife, the blade catching the light as it spun.

It’s just a dream, she told herself. It has to be. It can’t be real. It’s just a nightmare.

Her eyes squeezed shut tightly, as if that could force the nightmare to end, as if closing them would make it all disappear. She needed to wake up.

Please… please just wake up.

But then, she heard it. A voice—too familiar, too close—cut through the fog of her delirium.

“Jaybird…”

Her heart stopped.

“Jaybird, Jaybird, Jaybird,”

It couldn’t be. No. No, there’s no way. There’s no way it’s him. He’s dead. He has to be. He can’t be here.

She shook her head violently, trying to shake the word out of her mind. It was a hallucination. It had to be. She hadn’t taken her pills. Her therapist had warned her about this. The voices, the dreams, the confusion—it’s just the pills.

Jason's dead. He’s dead.

"Well, look who’s awake," he said, his voice low and mocking. He leaned against the wall, tilting his head as if observing her. "Sleeping beauty finally graces us with her presence."

She squeezed her eyes shut harder, trying to shut out the world, trying to shut out him.

"Oh, don’t be shy," he continued, pushing off the wall and taking slow, deliberate steps toward her. His boots echoed with each step. "What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?" He crouched in front of her, tilting his head like a predator sizing up its prey.

She didn’t respond, keeping her head down. Her breath was shallow, her pulse hammering in her ears. She bit her lip hard, her breath hitching. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t think.

It’s just a dream. It’s just a nightmare.

“C’mon. Say something... Anything.” he said, dragging out the words.

“Why don’t you look at me, sweetheart?” He was taunting her now. A sickening, twisted laugh bubbled up from his throat, sharp like broken glass. “I know you want to princess.”

Her blood ran cold. Her chest tightened, suffocating her, every inch of her body screaming in terror.

No, no, no. She couldn’t be hearing this. It couldn’t be real. She wasn’t strong enough to face him—him.

Jason was dead. He was gone.

But… this voice? It was his. His voice… twisted, broken, yet unmistakable. It was Jason. But it couldn’t be. Not like this.

He straightened suddenly, his tone shifting to one of mock enthusiasm. "How about we get to know each other better, huh? What do you say?"

Her head remained bowed, her tears threatening to spill.

He crouched again, his voice darker now, more menacing. "Look at me princess."

When she didn’t move, his tone snapped like a whip. "I said, fucking look at me."

She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. She kept her face down, eyes squeezed shut.

It’s not real. It’s not real. He’s dead. He’s gone. This is just my mind playing tricks on me. This is my fault. I forgot to take my pills. That’s it. That’s all it is. I’m crazy. I’m going insane.

“Fine.” His tone shifted, sharp and biting. “Let’s play it your way.”

He straightened, the knife twirling in his hand again. “Who are you? Tell me your name,” he asked, the question laced with venom.

She didn’t respond.

“I said—” His voice boomed as he slammed the chair’s armrest with the butt of the knife, making her flinch. “Who the fuck are you?”

Still, she said nothing.

The slap came hard and fast, the force whipping her head to the side. Her cheek burned, and she tasted copper as her lip split against her teeth.

“Say it!” he barked, his voice a dangerous snarl.

“Y/N,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He stepped back, clapping his hands slowly, mockingly. “There it is. Good girl.”

“Now,” he said, crouching again, his tone shifting into something almost playful. “Do you know who I am?”

Her heart pounded in her chest, the blood rushing in her ears. She nodded slowly, her throat closing up as she whispered, “No.”

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. And then—

Stab.

The pain was blinding.

She gasped, her whole body convulsing as the knife dug into her hand. She screamed, her back arching against the chair as the metal sliced through her flesh. Her eyes watered, tears streaming down her face as she cried out in agony.

“Wrong answer.” His voice was dripping with venom as he twisted the knife, pushing it deeper into her skin. The world around her spun in dizzying circles. “You don’t get to lie to me.”

The tears poured down her face, each sob racking her body as the knife tore through her palm. The burning pain was too much. She was going to pass out. She was sure of it.

But the pain wouldn’t stop.

He yanked her hair back, his fingers tangled in her hair as he pulled her face up to meet his. “Now, tell me again, what's my name?”

“J–Jason...” The word was barely a whisper, escaping her lips without her consent.

“Who?” He mocked, his voice a sickening blend of sweetness and malice. “Say it louder, sweetheart.”

Her mind was unraveling. No, no, no, no. She could barely breathe through the tears, through the overwhelming agony, but somehow, her voice broke through the fog.

“Jason!” she cried, her voice hoarse, desperate.

“Good girl.” His smile was audible, twisted and cruel, as if he reveled in her pain.

She trembled, her hand still bleeding, the pain a constant, raw fire in her veins. She could feel the warmth of the blood pooling beneath her, slick and hot against her skin.

“Oh, but look at you,” he said, his tone light, almost playful. “Look at that hand. We can’t just leave that, can we?”

No, no, please, no more.

The room spun around her as he moved, as he crouched in front of her with a sickening gleam in his eyes. She looked down at her hand, still bleeding, the crimson liquid dripping onto the floor.

What is he going to do?

He stood suddenly, his movements jerky and manic as he raised his hand to his chin, pretending to think. “I don’t think I have any bandages. What should we do, princess? Hm?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block him out. The world was closing in on her.

Then, his voice dropped, as if struck by an idea.

“I’ve got it!” He laughed, a wild, unhinged sound that made her skin crawl. “We’ll just have to burn it shut! That should work, right? That’ll stop the bleeding. I learn that from him.”

“No… no, please!” Her body jerked violently as she tried to back away, to get away from him, but the ropes held her fast. “No! No, please, Jason, no!”

He smiled, his eyes lighting up with sick joy as he pulled something from his belt—a lighter. She didn’t have time to scream before he pressed the heat to her hand.

The pain was unbearable.

It was like her hand was being set on fire, the flesh searing as she screamed. Her body spasmed in agony, the heat radiating through her entire arm. Her vision swam, her body trembling as she pulled against the ropes, trying to escape, trying to pull away from the suffocating burn.

“No! NO! NO! NO!” She couldn’t stop screaming. “JASON, PLEASE!”

He held the flame there, the fire licking at her skin, and she felt herself slipping, her mind fracturing.

This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. It’s just a dream. It’s just a nightmare. He’s dead. He’s dead.

“Shhh,” he whispered, his voice soft and sickeningly sweet. “It’s okay. You’re doing great. Just a little more, and we’ll be done.”

But the fire burned through her mind, through her heart, and the last thing she could think of before the pain swallowed her whole was the sick, twisted laugh that echoed in her ears.

She hated the smell of him, the acrid stench of liquor mixed with sweat, burning through the walls of their small, suffocating apartment. His voice, thick with slurred words, called to her from the darkened hallway.

“Y/N… Y/N, get in here, you useless girl.”

She froze, her small body trembling as her heart hammered in her chest. She didn’t want to go to him. She didn’t want to face him—never again, never ever again. But she knew better. If she didn’t obey, it would only get worse. The bruises would last longer. The sharp, angry look in his eyes would linger until he got what he wanted.

She shuffled toward the kitchen, her bare feet cold against the cracked tiles. The apartment was always cold, like a morgue. The lights flickered, casting eerie shadows as she stepped into the small, dim room where her father sat slouched over the kitchen table. His face was flushed, eyes dull and red from too many drinks. The half-empty bottle of whiskey sat next to him, the amber liquid swirling like poison in the dim light.

He didn’t look at her at first. He just muttered something under his breath, too drunk to focus. Then, without a word, he reached over to the table, his hand shaking slightly as he grabbed the cigarette pack. He lit one, the ember glowing briefly before the thick smoke filled the air.

“Push your sleeve up,” he rasped, not looking at her. His voice had a hollow, empty ring to it, like he was talking to a ghost. A sickening feeling twisted in her stomach. She didn’t want to do it. She never wanted to do it. But she knew if she didn’t, he’d hurt her worse.

“But it hurts daddy...”

“That's the point you dumb girl.”

She shook, her tiny fingers fumbling with the sleeve of her worn shirt. She hated him. She hated the way he made her feel small, insignificant, as if she was nothing but an object to be used, abused. But she pushed her sleeve up, the cool air against her skin sending a shiver through her body.

He flicked the cigarette, and the red-hot ember hovered close to her skin. She felt the sharp, searing heat before she even saw it. The first press made her gasp, her arm jerking involuntarily as the pain seared through her like fire. He didn’t stop. He didn’t care. He pressed harder, digging the burning tip into her skin, his laugh low and raspy as she cried out in pain.

She hated him. She hated him more than anything in the world. And she cried—quietly, trying to hide it from him—but she cried because it was the only thing her body knew how to do. She wanted to scream, wanted to yell at him, to say all the horrible things she felt deep down, but she knew better. It would make him worse. It would make him hurt her more.

I hate you. I hate you. I wish you would die…

The room was quiet, save for the crackling neon sign outside the grimy window, its light flickering red against the concrete walls. The silence wasn’t comforting—it was suffocating, a prelude to something worse.

Her breath uneven as she stared at him. Jason loomed over her like a shadow, his presence thick with menace. His helmet sat discarded on a nearby table, revealing a face hardened by trauma and vengeance.

“You’re new to all of this,” he said, his voice low and measured. There was something mocking in his tone, something almost tender, if tenderness could be laced with poison. “So, we’ll start simple.”

Her eyes widened as he crouched down in front of her, close enough that she could see the faint scar along his cheek, something like a name.

Her name...

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a knife, the blade catching the dim light in a way that made her stomach churn.

Her lips trembled. “No… please, no… don't kill me please...”

Jason’s head tilted, his expression almost curious. “What? You think I’m going to kill you?” He laughed, a bitter sound that echoed in the small room. “If I wanted you dead, sweetheart, you’d already be in the ground.”

Relief flickered in her chest, but it was short-lived.

“No, I’m not that cruel,” he continued, his tone almost gentle. “I’m not like him. I’m not the Joker. I don’t take without asking. See, I’m giving you a choice.”

Her breath hitched.

“I’ll mark you,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “But I’ll let you decide. Should I use the knife? Or maybe…” He pulled a lighter from his pocket, flicking it open. The small flame danced in his hand, casting flickering shadows on his face. “…I could burn it in your pretty little face. My name. Right here.” He pointed to her cheek, just under her eye.

The way he said it—so casual, so matter-of-fact—made her stomach twist into knots.

Her head shook violently, tears streaming down her face. “Please, don’t… don’t do this… please…”

His lips curled into a cruel smirk. "Oh, come on. I’m being nice. Joker didn’t ask me what I wanted, now, did he?"

She shook her head again, her sobs growing louder as she begged, "Please, Jason, just let me go! I-I’ll do anything!"

His eyes darkened, irritation flashing across his features. “You’re not answering.”

“Please,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Please just let me go…”

His jaw tightened, and his patience snapped like a brittle thread. He lunged forward, gripping her chin with bruising force, his fingers digging into her flesh.

"You’re wasting my time," he growled, slapping her hard across the face when she tried to turn away. Pain blossomed on her cheek, sharp and searing, and she cried out.

"Fine. I’ll choose for you."

Her cry echoed in the room, but it didn’t stop him. His fingers gripped her chin, forcing her face upward. “Hold still,” he hissed, his voice cold. “If you don’t, I’ll mess it up. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

She thrashed weakly, but his grip was unyielding. The blade hovered near her skin, its cold edge biting into her cheek as he positioned it just below her eye. Her sobs turned into desperate, panicked pleas, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear.

“Shut up,” he growled, his tone sharp enough to cut. “You’re making this harder than it has to be.”

Her heart pounded, terror screaming through her veins like wildfire. She squeezed her eyes shut, trembling uncontrollably.

And then the blade bit into her skin.

At first, it was a sharp, stinging pain, but it quickly bloomed into something far worse—searing, unbearable agony that made her throat raw from screaming.

Her vision blurred with tears, and she clawed weakly at his wrist, her nails scraping against the leather of his glove.

"Stop! Please, Jason! Stop!" she sobbed, her voice breaking with desperation.

He didn’t.

The knife carved deeper, deliberate and precise, dragging slowly across her flesh. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, and she felt it trickling down her cheek, warm and sticky.

Her mind fractured under the weight of the pain. Memories flashed—happier times, the moments where he had promised he will always protect her. They felt like cruel jokes now, mocking her. But was it really his fault? Could she blame him?

The first cut was shallow, almost teasing, just a warning, a whisper of the agony to come. But the second came deeper, harsher, as his name was carved into her flesh. The pressure was excruciating. The sting of the blade tore through her skin like fire, but the worst part was the coldness of it. The way the letters were etched slowly, deliberately, carving through her soul as much as her skin.

It hurts... it hurts...

Her breath hitched, ragged and shallow, each jagged line of pain sending tremors through her body.

Stop... stop... please...

Her eyes squeezed shut, but the pain wouldn’t let her escape. Every stroke of the blade felt like an eternity. Her vision blurred, and her throat constricted as she fought to stay conscious.

I hate it... I hate it...

When he finally pulled the blade away, his name was etched into her skin, the wound raw and angry. Blood trickled down her face, staining her shirt, but all she could focus on was the pain, the overwhelming agony of what he’d done.

Jason leaned back, admiring his handiwork with a strange sense of satisfaction. His thumb brushed against the edge of the wound, making her flinch.

"Perfect," Jason whispered, his voice disturbingly soft. "I told you I’d be kind. You should thank me."

She sobbed, her tears mingling with the blood on her face.

Jason’s hand cupped her cheek—almost tenderly this time—and he forced her to meet his gaze. “Don’t cry,” he murmured, his tone deceptively gentle. “You should be grateful. After all, I’m not him. He never gave me a choice. But I gave you one.”

Next: Part 1. Part 2. Part 4. Part 5.

𝒍𝒖𝒗-𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌 ☆ 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[luv-lock-deactivated20250611]

⸻ ᴊ ᴀ ʏ ʙ ɪ ʀ ᴅ ⸻

“ Twisted Wings: The Joker’s Plaything ”

Pairing: Dark Jason Todd x Fem Reader Part 4

Summary: Everything hurts... But... But he can take it... He can take it... He just have to wait... He just have to wait... You and Bruce won't let him rot like this... Right?

Warning: Physically and mentally torture, Joker being Joker.

Notes: Merry Christmas everybody! I'm about to ruin it for you... English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

When the cell door creaked open, Jason didn’t even look up. He kept his head down, staring at the cracked concrete floor.

“Oh, bird boy,” the Joker sang, his voice laced with mockery. “Still sulking, are we? What’s the matter? Don’t like the accommodations? Or is it the lack of fine dining?”

Jason didn’t answer. He barely even moved, his breaths shallow and labored.

The Joker’s boots clunked against the floor as he sauntered in, something dangling from his gloved hand. “Well, lucky for you, Papa J is feeling generous today! I brought you something special.”

Jason’s stomach churned as the Joker dropped his “gift” onto the floor in front of him.

Dead rats. Three of them. Their tiny, broken bodies lay sprawled on the floor, their glazed eyes staring up at Jason.

Jason’s lips curled in disgust, and he finally looked up, glaring at the Joker. “You’re fucking insane,” he rasped, his voice barely audible.

The Joker grinned, crouching down so his face was level with Jason’s. “Oh, come on, kiddo. Don’t be rude. I went through all the trouble of finding these little guys for you! Freshly caught, too. You should be grateful.”

Jason swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat. His stomach twisted painfully, but he refused to give in. He spat at the Joker’s feet, his good eye blazing with defiance. “Fuck you.”

For a moment, the Joker stared at him, his grin faltering. Then, to Jason’s surprise, the clown’s face lit up with genuine delight. He clapped his hands together, letting out a peal of laughter that echoed through the cell.

“Oh, you’re precious! You really think you can starve yourself to death, don’t you? You’d rather wither away than eat the lovely meal I prepared just for you. How dramatic! How noble!”

Jason clenched his jaw, his body trembling with rage and hunger. “I’m not eating your fucking rats.”

The Joker’s grin widened, and he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a phone. “Oh, I think you’ll change your mind, bird boy. Because if you don’t…” He tapped the screen, and the phone lit up. “Well, let’s just say things are going to get a lot more interesting.”

Jason froze. His heart dropped into his stomach as he stared at the screen.

It was her.

She was standing in what looked like an alley, her arms crossed, her face pale. She wasn’t tied up or restrained, but the fear in her eyes was unmistakable.

Jason’s chest tightened, his breath catching in his throat. “No…”

The Joker’s grin stretched impossibly wide. “Oh, yes. You see, bird boy, if you don’t play along, I’m going to pay your little girlfriend a visit. And do you know what I’m going to do?”

Jason shook his head, his voice trembling. “Please… don’t…”

“I’m going to skin her alive,” the Joker said, his voice gleeful. “I’ll peel her pretty little face right off, inch by inch. Then I’ll cook her up into a nice, juicy meal—just for you! Imagine that: you, sitting right here, munching on her crispy little fingers. Doesn’t that sound delicious?”

Jason’s vision blurred with tears. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. “No… Please, not her. I’ll do anything. Just don’t hurt her. Please…”

The Joker tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. “Then eat,” he said simply, gesturing to the rats.

Jason stared at the dead animals, bile rising in his throat. He wanted to say no, to refuse, to let himself starve. But the image of her face haunted him—the fear in her eyes, the trembling in her hands. He couldn’t let the Joker touch her. He couldn’t let him win.

With trembling hands, Jason reached for one of the rats.

“There’s a good boy,” the Joker cooed, clapping his hands. “Now, be a dear and eat up. And make it quick—I’ve got places to be!”

Jason gagged as he brought the rat to his mouth. The stench of decay hit him like a brick, and he had to fight the urge to vomit. He closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face, and bit into the flesh.

The Joker erupted into laughter, his cackles filling the room. “Oh, this is priceless! Look at you, bird boy, gobbling up rats like a starving stray. Faster now! Come on, show me how much you care about her!”

Jason obeyed, choking down the rancid meat as tears blurred his vision. The Joker’s cheers echoed in his ears, each word a dagger to his soul.

“Faster! Faster! Don’t keep Papa J waiting!”

Jason sobbed as he forced himself to eat, his body shaking with revulsion and despair. He couldn’t stop thinking about her—her smile, her laugh, the way she used to look at him. He clung to those memories like a lifeline, even as the Joker’s laughter threatened to drown him.

She loves me, she loves me. She was just scared. She’ll come back… She’ll come back…

His mind screamed at him to stop, to fight back, to do anything but this. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let her die.

Everything hurts…

But he could take it.

He had to.

They’ll come for me, he told himself, over and over, like a mantra. Bruce won’t let me die here. She won’t let me die here. I just have to wait. Just a little longer…

But deep down, a voice whispered in the back of his mind—a voice that sounded eerily like the Joker’s.

What if they don’t?

Jason didn’t know how long he’d been in the chair. Days? Weeks? Months? The passage of time had become a blur, a murky haze of pain, humiliation, and Joker’s laughter. He couldn’t tell what was worse—the physical agony or the constant barrage of words designed to pick him apart piece by piece.

The room was cold and damp, the stench of mildew and blood lingering in the air. His wrists were raw and bleeding from the restraints, his muscles aching from being held in the same position for hours—days, maybe. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore. But worse than all of it was the gnawing emptiness inside him.

The door creaked open, and Jason instinctively flinched. He hated that reaction, hated how the sound of that door sent ice through his veins. But it was impossible not to. Joker entered with his usual swagger, his painted grin stretching impossibly wide.

“Wakey, wakey, bird boy!” he sang, his voice grating and shrill.

Jason didn’t look up. He couldn’t. He focused on the floor, the dirt-streaked concrete beneath his feet, anything but the clown.

“Aww, what’s the matter, kiddo?” Joker cooed, circling him like a vulture. “Cat got your tongue? Or maybe…” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a sinister whisper. “Maybe you’re starting to break, hmm?”

Jason didn’t respond. He clenched his jaw, ignoring the sharp pain in his cracked ribs. He wouldn’t give Joker the satisfaction.

But Joker didn’t need words. He always found a way to dig his claws into Jason’s mind.

“I brought you a little present today,” Joker said, his tone sing-song. “Thought it might cheer you up, you know, brighten your spirits!” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. “It’s picture day, after all!”

Jason finally looked up, his good eye narrowing at Joker. The clown grinned wider and held out the paper, waving it in front of Jason’s face.

“Go on, take a look. Don’t be shy!”

His bound hands couldn’t reach, so Joker leaned in and shoved the picture into his line of sight.

Jason’s blood turned to ice.

It was a photograph. A grainy, Polaroid snapshot of her. She was smiling—laughing, even—standing beside someone in a Robin suit. But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t his suit.

“No…” Jason whispered, his voice cracking.

“Oh, yes,” Joker said, his tone gleeful. “That’s your replacement, kiddo! Isn’t he a real charmer? A little younger, a little smarter… and oh, so much shinier!”

Jason’s chest tightened. He couldn’t breathe. His mind raced, his heart pounding against his bruised ribs.

“She’s moved on, bird boy,” Joker continued, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You’ve been replaced. Forgotten. Left behind. And look at her—she’s happier, isn’t she? Laughing, smiling, all while you’re down here rotting away.”

Jason shook his head, his breaths coming faster. “No… no, she wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t what?” Joker interrupted, his tone suddenly sharp. “Wouldn’t forget about you? Wouldn’t find someone better? Oh, come on, kid. Look at the picture. You’re not even a memory to her anymore. You’re nothing.”

Jason felt tears sting his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He couldn’t show weakness. Not now.

Joker noticed anyway. He always noticed.

“Aww, poor little Robin,” Joker mocked, crouching in front of him. “Does it hurt? Does it sting? Knowing she’s out there, living her life, while you’re stuck here… forgotten… abandoned…”

Jason’s silence only seemed to fuel the Joker’s sadistic glee.

“You know, I bet she doesn’t even think about you anymore,” the clown continued, his voice turning cruel. “She probably doesn’t even remember your name.”

“Shut up,” Jason growled, his voice trembling.

The Joker’s grin widened. “Oh, struck a nerve, did I? What’s the matter, kid? Can’t handle the truth?”

“SHUT UP!” Jason screamed, his voice raw.

Joker’s laughter filled the room, loud and maniacal, echoing off the walls.

“Oh, this is too good! You’re just so much fun to play with, bird boy!” He stood, pacing around Jason’s chair. “You know, I should thank you. Breaking you has been the highlight of my days.”

Jason clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wouldn’t break. He couldn’t.

But then Joker leaned in close, his breath hot against Jason’s ear.

“You know what the best part is?” he whispered. “She doesn’t care. She never did.”

Jason’s resolve shattered.

Joker saw it—the moment the fight left Jason’s eyes—and his grin turned triumphant.

“That’s it, bird boy,” he said softly, almost lovingly. “Just let go. Stop fighting. It’s easier that way, isn’t it?”

Jason didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

Joker straightened, his grin returning. “Well, I’ll leave you to your thoughts, birdie. But don’t worry—I’ll be back. And who knows? Maybe I’ll bring another little picture next time. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Jason didn’t watch him leave. He stared at the floor, the photograph still burned into his mind.

She was smiling.

She was happy.

And he was nothing.

Jason barely registered the blows anymore. His entire body was a mess of torn skin, bruises, and agony so deep it numbed him to everything but Joker's voice. The laughter. Always the laughter. It echoed in his skull, filling every empty space where his own strength used to be.

By now, Jason had stopped flinching. When Joker’s boot slammed into his ribs again, he just let his head hang forward, blood dripping from his mouth onto the filthy floor.

“Oh, come on now, kid!” Joker taunted, squatting down to meet his eyes. He tilted his head in mock pity, his crimson smile as wide as ever. “Don’t tell me you’ve got nothing to say. Not even a little squeak? No ‘stop it’ or ‘please, sir’? You’re usually such a polite little punching bag.”

Jason forced himself to lift his head, just barely, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “Please… sir,” he croaked, his voice hoarse.

Joker’s grin split wider. “That’s the spirit! I knew you had some manners left in you.” He stood, pacing in lazy circles around the boy. “Now, I’ve got some questions for you, birdie. You’re gonna answer them, right? Be a good little boy for Uncle J?”

“Yes, sir,” Jason rasped, his voice trembling.

Joker clapped his hands together like a delighted child. “Oh, how precious! Alright, let’s get started, shall we?” He leaned against the wall, casually spinning a crowbar in his hand. “Tell me, Jaybird… what did you see in her?”

Jason blinked slowly, trying to process the question. His mind was a foggy haze, but when he thought of her—her smile, her laugh—it cut through the pain. His lips trembled. “She… she was everything,” he whispered.

Joker cackled, the sound sharp and cruel. “Everything! Oh, that’s rich! And what exactly does ‘everything’ mean, hmm? Did you think she loved you? That she cared about you?”

Jason’s throat tightened. He wanted to lie, to deny it, but he couldn’t. His voice was barely audible. “Yes, sir. I thought she did.”

Joker laughed harder, clutching his sides. “Oh, you poor, delusional boy! And what about you? What did you want with her? Hmm? Did you have plans, birdie? Little fantasies about your future together?”

Jason swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the floor. The words came slowly, haltingly, dragged out of him like a confession. “I wanted… I wanted a family.”

Joker froze mid-laugh, his grin twisting into something darker. He stepped closer, crouching in front of Jason. “A family?” he repeated, his tone dripping with mockery.

Jason nodded weakly. “Yes, sir. I… I thought we could have a life together. Away from all this.” His voice cracked, tears streaming down his battered face. “I wanted… to marry her. Have kids. Be happy.”

Joker stared at him for a long moment before bursting into hysterical laughter. “Oh, my God! You really are pathetic, aren’t you? A little boy playing house, dreaming of a white picket fence while Daddy Bats fights crime.”

Jason didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

“And what about now, hmm?” Joker pressed, his grin predatory. “Do you still want that? After what she did?”

Jason’s head dipped lower, his tears falling freely now. “I don’t know, sir.”

The Joker’s smile faded slightly, replaced by something colder. He grabbed Jason by the hair, yanking his head up to force him to meet his eyes. “Oh, don’t go all quiet on me now, kid. You wanted her, didn’t you? You loved her. You would’ve done anything for her. So tell me…” His grin widened again, sharp and cruel. “Do you still love her?”

Jason’s lip trembled, blood mixing with tears as he whispered, “Yes, sir.”

Joker’s laughter exploded again, filling the room with its twisted echo. He shoved Jason’s head back, sending it slamming into the chair. “You really are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?”

Jason didn’t respond. He just sat there, broken and defeated, Joker’s laughter ringing in his ears.

“That’s enough for now,” Joker said, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “But don’t worry, bird boy. We’ve got plenty of time to dive deeper into that broken little heart of yours.”

And as Joker walked away, Jason let his head hang again, wishing he could disappear.

Jason didn’t look up when Joker came back. He didn’t have the strength. His body was a wreck, each breath a struggle, each movement a new kind of pain. His mind… it was something else entirely. Foggy, frayed at the edges, and slipping into places he couldn’t pull it back from. It didn’t make sense anymore—none of it did.

The world was nothing but pain now. Pain and laughter. The Joker’s laughter, high-pitched and endless, reverberating through Jason’s broken skull.

"Alright, bird boy!" Joker’s voice rang out, sing-song and sharp, dragging Jason back to the surface of his nightmare. “Let’s play a game, shall we? I call it Truth… or Pain.”

Jason didn’t react. His body slumped in the chair, his head lolled forward. He could barely lift his eyes to meet the clown’s, blood and tears crusted to his face like a second skin.

Joker crouched in front of him, leaning close, so close Jason could smell the rancid stench of greasepaint and sweat. “Here’s how it works, kiddo,” he said, his voice mockingly gentle. “I ask you a question. You tell me the truth, or…” He smacked the crowbar into his palm with a wet thud, grinning wide. “You get the idea, don’tcha?”

Jason didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

The Joker’s smile twisted, his patience as thin as the thread Jason was clinging to. He grabbed a fistful of Jason’s hair, yanking his head up. “Nod if you understand, birdie.”

Jason nodded weakly, his neck too stiff and weak to do more than a faint dip.

“That’s my boy!” Joker chirped, releasing him and stepping back. He twirled the crowbar lazily, watching Jason with an almost fatherly gaze. “Now, first question.” He leaned forward, his grin sharpening. “What’s your name, hmm?”

Jason blinked slowly, his brain struggling to process the words. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

CRACK.

The crowbar slammed into his ribs, a sickening snap reverberating through the room. Jason choked on a scream, his body convulsing against the restraints.

“Wrong answer!” Joker sang, his voice bright and cheerful. “Let’s try again, hmm? Who’s Batman’s favorite? Which one of you brats he loves more?”

Jason wheezed, blood dripping from his lips as he forced himself to speak. “D… Dick…”

The Joker tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “Oh, really? Are you sure?”

Jason’s throat worked, but the words wouldn’t come.

CRACK.

The crowbar struck again, this time across his knee. Jason screamed, the sound raw and broken, echoing in the dark room.

“Ooh, wrong answer!” Joker said cheerfully. “See, the correct answer is none of you! You’re all just little tools in his utility belt. Didn’t you know that?”

Jason didn’t reply.

“C’mon, birdie! You’re not even trying!” Joker taunted, twirling the crowbar again. “Alright, let’s make this interesting. What’s your biggest fear, hmm? What keeps you up at night, even in this lovely little hell of ours?”

Jason’s breaths came in short, ragged gasps. His vision blurred, but the question cut through the fog. His biggest fear…

The words spilled from him, trembling and desperate, like a confession to a god who wouldn’t listen. “I’m… afraid…” His voice cracked, barely audible. “I’m afraid of forgetting her…”

Joker froze, his grin faltering for just a moment.

Jason didn’t notice. He couldn’t stop now, the words pouring out like blood from a wound. “Please… don’t make me forget Y/N…” His voice broke, tears streaming down his battered face. “It’s only her… only her and me… in this whole world…”

The Joker tilted his head, his grin returning, slower this time. “Oh, kiddo…” he murmured, his tone almost tender.

Jason’s voice cracked again, his words dissolving into sobs. “Just… give me that. Please… please… don’t take her from me… Don’t make me forget her… please…”

Joker stepped closer, crouching again to meet Jason’s tear-streaked gaze. He cupped Jason’s bloodied chin, forcing him to look up.

“Oh, sweet, sweet birdie,” he cooed, his voice soft and mocking. “Don’t you know? She’s already forgotten you.”

Jason’s breath hitched, his chest heaving as the words tore through him like shards of glass.

“She’s out there, laughing, living, loving… while you’re here, rotting away.” Joker’s grin widened, his voice dripping with venom. “And when you’re gone, birdie, no one will even remember you. Not her. Not Batman. No one.”

Jason’s head dropped, his sobs choking him as the Joker’s laughter filled the room once more.

“Truth or Pain, birdie?” Joker asked, raising the crowbar again. “Oops! Looks like it’s both!”

And the blows rained down again, each one erasing a little more of Jason, until all that was left was a broken, empty husk whispering one name into the darkness.

“Y/N…”

Next: Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 5.

𝒍𝒖𝒗-𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌 ☆ 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.