[v-chu]

crazy cat daddy🐈✨

WILSON BETHEL as BENJAMIN POINDEXTER ddba2025

[ryebreadgf]

zendaya wearing real 3000-year old ancient iranian earrings with no known track of provenance to the odyssey premiere. nasty work. even worse than the kim kardashian marilyn dress to me. they could have promoted modern greek jewelry designers but chose to do this instead. very tacky at best. especially in this geopolitical climate

[pluvial-lake]

As an Iranian I found this absolutely disgusting and disrespectful.

[pspsappho]

& honestly there's no debate to be had the zendaya earrings are orders of magnitude worse than kim kardashian wearing that marilyn dress. yes that piece was a one of a kind unique textile made so specifically for marilyn monroe she had to be sewn into it. at the end of the day it was a ~70 year old usamerican cultural artefact being repurposed by an american for an american cultural event and everyone involved knows exactly where the dress came from + what happened to it + where it went afterwards. zendaya is wearing the looted (or forged) cultural heritage of a people her government is currently bombing & whose lives they have been deliberately making unliveable for decades to a movie premiere that has fuck all to do with iran. we don't know where those discs came from where they were found or by whom & we never will. AND the jeweller appears to have altered them substantially from their original condition. destroying a people's cultural heritage at the same time you destroy their country + their lives so you can look good on a red carpet One Time i want to fucking hurl

[pluvial-lake]

☆゙ DON'T YOU LOVE ME #𝟢𝟢𝟤

──────── SYNOPSIS ⚘ when you think they don't love you anymore.

𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗹𝘂𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 . dick grayson. jason todd.

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 . fem reader. obsession. unhealthy attachments. a lil bit of smut (𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗄). toxic romance. they're both kinda insane. nothing serious dw. angst with comfort? ⠀ᰔ

DICK GRAYSON

He notices before you say anything.

You stop reaching for his hand first.

You smile...

But it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

You start saying "it's okay" a little too quickly.

Like you're trying not to ask for too much.

But it's fine.

Dick fix it.

You're probably just tired.

You probably just need space.

It's fine he can do it.

He's giving you space.

See?

You should be comfortable now, right?

Right?

"So..."

Hmm?

"...do you still love me?"

What did you just say?

His stomach drops.

Did... did you just say that?

"What?"

"You don't have to lie."

"I'm not—"

"I know people get tired."

Stop.

You're breaking his heart now.

How can you even compare him to other "people"?

He's not other people.

He's Dick. Dick Grayson.

The guy who stalked you for a whole year and then asked you out and has been pretending he likes My Little Pony for three years now because you have a stupid fucking obsession with it.

So no he's not OTHER people.

He's across the room before you can open your mouth again.

Both hands cupping your face.

"Look at me."

You do.

So pretty.

"I love you."

"..."

"I loved you this morning."

A kiss to your forehead.

"I loved you yesterday."

Another.

"I'll love you tomorrow."

Another.

"And every stupid Tuesday after that."

You're crying now.

Awww.

You're such a crybaby.

"Come here baby."

And you do.

You lean into him and let him finally—finally hold you.

Good girl.

Such a good fucking girl.

He spends the rest of the night reminding you.

How much he loves you. How much he wants you. How much he worship you.

He keeps your hips pinned to the bed with his mouth on your clit even though you just squirt in his mouth.

"D-Dick... please..."

Fuck...

You're shaking.

You're breathless.

You're crying from pleasure.

He missed this.

He fucking love this.

He fucking love you and your cute face and your bouncy tits and your soft thighs and your pretty pussy—

Shit.

Did he just...

Damnit.

See what you do to him?

He just cum in his pants. It's all your fault.

And yet you're so fucking dumb you think he doesn't love you—

No not dumb.

He actually don't like to use that word.

It's mean.

He don't want to be mean to you.

He loves you after all.

"Shhh baby don't cry. It's alright, it's over now."

Then he kiss your tears and do the things he does every night.

Little things.

Holding your hand.

Playing with your hair.

Looking at you every few seconds just to smile.

Pretty girl.

His dumb pretty girl.

JASON TODD

He laughs.

It's funny. So fucking funny.

"Good joke babe."

"..."

He actually wipe a tear away.

His baby got a great sense of humor.

Always making him smile and shit.

...

...?

Why are you looking at him like that?

Are you....

Are you actually serious?

"...what?"

"I think..."

You can't even finish.

Oh doll—

"I think you stopped loving me."

...huh?

...he stopped...loving...you...?

His face goes blank.

It's your fault.

You see that Jason?

It's your fucking fault.

"No."

Yes it is.

You fucking cunt.

She fucking hates you.

She's just making excuses to get rid of you.

"..."

Yeah yeah see??

She's not saying anything.

You know it's true.

You're not enough.

You're not fucking enough for her.

Fucking useless worthless piece of meat.

Why don't you just pick your fucking gun and fucking shot yourself—

"No."

He says it louder.

He's shaking.

Like a fucking baby.

Pathetic.

"Who told you that?"

"No one."

"What did I do?"

"It's not—"

"What did I do?"

Of course he did something.

Of course it's him.

He's always the fucking problem.

Ruining shits.

Fuck.

Was it because he beat that coffee guy?? But he was creeping on you!! He had to do something! Couldn't just let that mother fucker do whatever he wanted!!

And you thanked him!!!

Okay okay it wasn't that.

What else? What else? What else? What else did he do??

What did he do?? What did he do??? What did he do???? What the fuck—

"I've just..."

You look away.

"You've been distant."

...

He closes his eyes.

Thanks fucking god.

He was actually about to put a bullet through his own head.

Okay it's fine everything's alright.

He got this. He got this.

"I'm sorry."

"No—"

"No."

He shakes his head. Give you his soft smile. His puppy eyes.

Yeah it's manipulative.

No shit Sherlock.

"This one's on me."

He reaches for your hand carefully.

His face getting closer to yours.

"I get scared."

Closer.

"I know."

Closer.

"So I disappear."

Closer.

"I know."

Closer.

"But I never..."

His voice cracks.

"I never stopped loving you."

"Jason I—"

And then he swallow your words with his lips.

Just shut up and let him love you, yeah?

𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝖽𝖼 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𖹭

© 𝗉𝗅𝗎𝗏𝗂𝖺𝗅-𝗅𝖺𝗄𝖾 ─── 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗉𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽, 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝖾𝖻𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗅𝖾𝖽𝗀𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗂 𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗌, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗌.

[yunyuu]

A Twitter account (@pururuarts) has posted one of my dead dove fic (which now is deleted) with my name and everything and then they pretend as if they didn't know that it was a dead dove fic and they been making fun of me and shit like that. As if the first tag in the post wasn't "dead dove do not eat."

Like I literally tagged it but I guess some people just want to embarrass others.

Anyway thank you all for your support until now. I had fun but I think I will stop writing.

But don't worry I won't delete my account or my fics so you guys can read them <3

Sorry if I ever made you uncomfortable or upset. I am genuinely sorry.

Anyway that's all thanks for your time!

Have a nice day/night :)

[yunyuu]

✶ SUCH A GOOD BOY!

masterlist ⠀! ⠀ do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites. ✶

His love language is acts of service.

He read that somewhere—some stupid quiz you made him take一and he latched onto it like a lifeline because it made him sound normal.

See?

See??

He's not a freak, he just likes doing things for you. It's a legitimate psychological concept. It's on the internet, go look it up. It's real.

He loves it when you want something from him. He lives for it. Thrives on it. Gets dizzy with it the second you so much as look at an empty glass.

You barely have to open your mouth. You just shift on the couch and sigh and he's already upright, already halfway to the kitchen, already aching.

"Water? Snacks? A blanket? Your heating pad? Do you want the kitten mug or the big one? Do you—"

"Just water, baby."

Baby.

His knees almost buckle.

Focus.

Water. You need water. He can do that. He's getting you water. Look at him go一such a good boyfriend, so attentive, so caring, he's fucking nailing this.

He pours the water so carefully. No ice. You don't like it too cold, it hurts your teeth, and he remembered that because he remembers everything about you, every tiny preference, every little sound you make when you're happy.

Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.

He hands you the glass with both hands like an offering at an altar. Bouncing a little on his heels. Doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until you take a sip and your throat moves and he's watching the little bob of it and his mouth is dry but that doesn't matter because—

He have to be patient.

Waiting.

Just waiting for it.

Come on. Come on. Say it. Say the words. Give him the thing. He needs it.

"Thank you, love."

Oh.

The words hit his brain like a shot of something warm and syrupy. Thank you. You thanked him. He did good. He did good and you noticed and you said thank you and now he's standing there with his heart doing backflips in his chest.

He wants more. He wants you to say it again. He wants you to pat his head and tell him he did such a good job, that he's so helpful, that you don't know what you'd do without him. He's practically vibrating with it, this desperate, aching need for your approval, and it's pathetic, he knows it's pathetic, he's a grown man getting high off a thank you like it's a line of coke—

Cute isn't he?

No.

No, he's not cute.

He's a dog. A mangy. panting. desperate dog who just got a pat on the head for fetching.

And he gets hard like a dog in heat too.

Always hard.

Always.

You could ask him to pass the salt and he'd have to adjust himself under the table.

You could ask him to zip up your dress and his hands would shake and he'd have to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled just to keep from moaning at the brush of his knuckles against your spine.

What a loser, right?

His dick twitches.

Oh god.

He's hard again.

Weirdo.

Disgusting.

Pervert.

He hates himself. He hates himself so fucking much.

Why can't he be normal? Why can't his dick just stay soft like a regular boyfriend instead of twitching every time you say his name? You're gonna hate him, aren't you?

Oh god oh god oh god.

You're gonna find out. You're going to hate him. You're going to leave him. You think he's disgusting. You think he's a creep. You're gonna leave him. You're gonna walkout that door and he'll never feel your eyes on him again and he'll die, he'll actually just curl up on the floor and stop breathing because what's the point—

"Such a good boy."

Huh?

Good boy??

Him???

He freezes.

Did you just一did those words actually come out of your mouth? Good boy.

Good. Boy.

And you're smiling.

Oh fuck. Oh no. You look so beautiful when you smile. Your soft eyes and your softer lips and the way your cheek creases just a little and he wants to lick it, he wants to suck that smile right off your face and swallow it whole so it lives inside him forever—

Nope.

Nope nope nope.

He's so hard he could die on spot.

"Um... excuse me."

The words come out strangled. He's already backing away, hands positioned awkwardly in front of his crotch like a teenager caught watching porn.

Smooth.

Real smooth.

You probably think he's having digestive issues. That's fine. That's better than the truth.

He immediately bolts to the bathroom, lock clicking behind him.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

Okay. Okay, breathe. It's fine. Everything's fine.

You don't know. You didn't see. You're not going to leave him. He won't let you leave him anyway. He'll lock the doors and he'll nail the windows shut and he'll chain you to bed and he'll chop your pretty legs off if he has to—

no no no no no NO!!!

Don't think that. Don't you ever fucking think that about her. You sick fuck. How can you even imagine hurting her? Chopping off her perfect pretty legs? How dare you?? How fucking dare you???

If you do that you could never feel her thighs wrapped around your head while you suck on her clit. You'd never feel them tremble and clampagainst your ears while she moans your name. You'd never get to press your tongue inside her while her legs are draped over your shoulders, soft and warm and alive.

OH!!!

Okay that's better. He gets it now.

Yeah yeah yeah. See? He's not violent. He just panicked for a second. His brain does that sometimes一throws up these horrible, intrusive images that make him want to vomit but he'd never act on them!! He's not a monster!!! He's just... confused. Overwhelmed. He just loves you so much alright??? So much he'd unspool his own intestines into a leash if you asked him to walk himself—

Alright. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.

Deep breath.

Okay. Okay, he's fine. He's fine. Just rub one out quick and go back out there. You're waiting. He doesn't want to keep you waiting. That would make him a bad boyfriend, and he's not—he's a good boyfriend, he's so good, you just said so, and if you said so then it must be true—

Shut. Up.

Focus.

His hand is shaking as he pulls down his jeans. He's leaking already, a slick little pearl at the tip, and it smears across his palm when he grips himself. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.

First—first, he needs something. Something to make it faster, make it pleasing, make it so he can walk out there and not immediately pop a boner again the second you breathe in his direction.

He opens the cabinet under the sink, behind the toilet paper, behind the bleach, where he hid it.

Your panties.

The ones you thought you lost in the laundry.

The lacy ones, light blue, a little damp in the center from a long day. He found them. He found them, okay? He didn't steal them. Fuck off. He found them. That's different. Stealing is a crime. Stealing is bad. He's not a bad person. He just... found them. On the laundry room floor. He was doing laundry like a good boyfriend, separating your underwears from the regulars because he read somewhere that youre supposed to do that, and they were just... there. In his hands. And then in his pocket. And now they're pressed against his face.

Fuuuck.

The smell hits him like a drug. Musky and sweet and so distinctly you that his knees give up. He inhales deep, pressing the soiled fabric to his nose and mouth, and his dick twitches so hard a bead of pre cum drips onto the bathroom tile.

He's disgusting. He's a creep. He's a freak and a weirdo and a pathetic little lapdog who gets hard from a thank you.

You'd hate him if you knew.

He hopes you never know.

He hopes you find out.

He hopes you walk in right now and see him—cock in hand, your panties stuffed in his mouth, tears streaming down his face—and he hopes you step closer. He hopes you laugh. He hopes you call him a disgusting little mutt and pat his head and tell him he's still your good boy.

Your good boy.

Yours.

He cums so hard he sees stars. Ropes of it, hot and thick, splattering his hand, the floor, the little bathroom rug. He bites down on the panties to muffle the sob that tears out of him, and for a long moment he just kneels there, trembling, fucked, still crying, still hard.

But it's fine.

Everything's fine.

He cleans up. Flushes everything. Hides the panties again and washes his hands twice. Splashes water on his face. Looks in the mirror. Practices his smile.

He looks normal.

He is normal.

He's a good boy.

Then he opens the bathroom door and smiles.

"You okay?" you ask, tilting your head.

And he could say it. He could confess. He could drop to his knees right now and tell you everything and beg for forgiveness or punishment or whatever you wanted to give him.

Instead he just nods. Crawls onto the couch beside you. Rests his head in your lap like the loyal dog he is.

"Just missed you," he mumbles into your thigh.

You stroke his hair.

He almost gets hard again.

He's so fucked up.

But you're still here. Still petting him. Still calling him yours.

So he must be doing something right.

If you want to be in my taglist let me know :)

© yunyuu 2026 : do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[yunyuu]

✶ HE'S A GOOD BOYFRIEND!

masterlist ⠀! ⠀ do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites. ✶

He loves you so much. So so so fucking much. So much it hurts.

Like physically一like a hot knife twisting in his chest every time you blink those pretty eyes at him.

You could hand him a razor and point at his throat and he'd say thank you, he'd fucking thank you with his last breath because you're an angel and he's just the dirt under your nails.

He's not a bad guy, okay??!

He's a good boyfriend.

A devoted boyfriend.

He'd die for you. He'd kill for you. He'd crawl inside your chest and live between your ribs if it meant being closer, and that's romantic, that's soulmate shit, not creepy. Dont say its creepyー

But then he hears you crying through the door, and his stomach drops.

Is someone hurting you? Did something happen? Was it himーdid he fuck up again?

He's already digging his own grave as he rushes to you, ready to do anything. anything, just make it stop—

Oh...

Your shoulders are shaking. Your hair is messy and unbrushed because you've been too sad to care, your cheeks are flushed and wet and rosy, your nose running just a little, your mouth—god, your mouth一is pouty and swollen and suckable, like you've been biting your lip to keep the sobs inー

He's supposed to comfort you. He knows that. That's what good boyfriends do. That's what he does.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulls you close, whispers "shh, shh, I'm here, I've got you." into your tangled hair. He's so good at this. He's so gentle. He's so一

Oh fuck.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

You're crying harder now, and your body is trembling against his, and he can feel every little shudder through his chest, his stomach, hisー

He's hard. He's so fucking hard and he didn't mean to, he swears he didn't mean to.

He's a monster, a disgusting horrible boyfriend.

Who gets turned on when their girl is crying? Who does that? Who—

But you're so pretty when you cry.

And you're so needy right now, so broken and fragile and his, leaning into him like he's the only thing keeping you together, and he just—he just needs a little friction, just a little, he'll be so gentle, you won't even notice—

He shifts his hips. Just barely. Presses himself against your lower back through your thin sleep shirt and his sweatpants and breathes.

"It's okay," he whispers, rubbing slow circles on your stomach while he rubs himself against you, just a little. just a tiny bit, he's still comforting you, he's still being good, he's still—

"I've got you. I've got you."

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He's a fucking creep.

A disgusting, pathetic, perverted piece of shit.

He hates himself. He hates himself so much it makes him even harder.

He's so fucking sorry. He's grinding, slow and subtle, biting his lip so hard it bleeds, using your sobs to cover the shaky little breaths he's taking against your hair.

You're crying more and more, and his pre cum is soaking through his boxers.

He's a good boyfriend.

Of course he's a good boyfriend!

He'd die for you. He'd kill himself if you found out, if you turned around and saw the wet spot on his jeans, the desperate, leaking outline of everything he's trying to hide.

Please don't notice.

Please don't hate him.

He loves you more than anything, he's just—fucked up, okay?

He's broken and sick and his balls are aching and you smell so good when you're sad, salty and warm and vulnerable, and he wants to lick the tears off your chin while he fuck—

Oh god.

You just sniffled and arched a little and his dick jumped so hard he almost came right there, grinding against the fabric of your shorts like a dog in heat.

Please. Please let him cum first. Then you can hate him. Then you can scream at him and call him a freak and he'll go swallow a bottle of pills like he deserves.

But please— please— just let him rut against you for one more minute, just let him sliding into you while you're still hiccuping and broken and his.

And if you could just pretend not to feel it一just this once—if you could just stay still and cry and let him use the sound of your pain to get off, he promises he'll never ask for anything again.

He'll comfort you properly in a minute, he swears.

He just needs to一just needs to一fuckー

He's a bad, bad boyfriend.

He knows.

But you still love him,

Right?

If you want to be in my taglist let me know :)

© yunyuu 2026 : do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[yunyuu]

✶ HE'S A GOOD BOYFRIEND!

masterlist ⠀! ⠀ do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites. ✶

He loves you so much. So so so fucking much. So much it hurts.

Like physically一like a hot knife twisting in his chest every time you blink those pretty eyes at him.

You could hand him a razor and point at his throat and he'd say thank you, he'd fucking thank you with his last breath because you're an angel and he's just the dirt under your nails.

He's not a bad guy, okay??!

He's a good boyfriend.

A devoted boyfriend.

He'd die for you. He'd kill for you. He'd crawl inside your chest and live between your ribs if it meant being closer, and that's romantic, that's soulmate shit, not creepy. Dont say its creepyー

But then he hears you crying through the door, and his stomach drops.

Is someone hurting you? Did something happen? Was it himーdid he fuck up again?

He's already digging his own grave as he rushes to you, ready to do anything. anything, just make it stop—

Oh...

Your shoulders are shaking. Your hair is messy and unbrushed because you've been too sad to care, your cheeks are flushed and wet and rosy, your nose running just a little, your mouth—god, your mouth一is pouty and swollen and suckable, like you've been biting your lip to keep the sobs inー

He's supposed to comfort you. He knows that. That's what good boyfriends do. That's what he does.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulls you close, whispers "shh, shh, I'm here, I've got you." into your tangled hair. He's so good at this. He's so gentle. He's so一

Oh fuck.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

You're crying harder now, and your body is trembling against his, and he can feel every little shudder through his chest, his stomach, hisー

He's hard. He's so fucking hard and he didn't mean to, he swears he didn't mean to.

He's a monster, a disgusting horrible boyfriend.

Who gets turned on when their girl is crying? Who does that? Who—

But you're so pretty when you cry.

And you're so needy right now, so broken and fragile and his, leaning into him like he's the only thing keeping you together, and he just—he just needs a little friction, just a little, he'll be so gentle, you won't even notice—

He shifts his hips. Just barely. Presses himself against your lower back through your thin sleep shirt and his sweatpants and breathes.

"It's okay," he whispers, rubbing slow circles on your stomach while he rubs himself against you, just a little. just a tiny bit, he's still comforting you, he's still being good, he's still—

"I've got you. I've got you."

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He's a fucking creep.

A disgusting, pathetic, perverted piece of shit.

He hates himself. He hates himself so much it makes him even harder.

He's so fucking sorry. He's grinding, slow and subtle, biting his lip so hard it bleeds, using your sobs to cover the shaky little breaths he's taking against your hair.

You're crying more and more, and his pre cum is soaking through his boxers.

He's a good boyfriend.

Of course he's a good boyfriend!

He'd die for you. He'd kill himself if you found out, if you turned around and saw the wet spot on his jeans, the desperate, leaking outline of everything he's trying to hide.

Please don't notice.

Please don't hate him.

He loves you more than anything, he's just—fucked up, okay?

He's broken and sick and his balls are aching and you smell so good when you're sad, salty and warm and vulnerable, and he wants to lick the tears off your chin while he fuck—

Oh god.

You just sniffled and arched a little and his dick jumped so hard he almost came right there, grinding against the fabric of your shorts like a dog in heat.

Please. Please let him cum first. Then you can hate him. Then you can scream at him and call him a freak and he'll go swallow a bottle of pills like he deserves.

But please— please— just let him rut against you for one more minute, just let him sliding into you while you're still hiccuping and broken and his.

And if you could just pretend not to feel it一just this once—if you could just stay still and cry and let him use the sound of your pain to get off, he promises he'll never ask for anything again.

He'll comfort you properly in a minute, he swears.

He just needs to一just needs to一fuckー

He's a disgusting freak. He knows.

But you still love him,

Right?

If you want to be in my taglist let me know :)

© yunyuu 2026 : do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[yunyuu]

✶ SHITTY BABY DADDY!

synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ imagine aerion being your shitty baby daddy.

including ⠀! ⠀ aerion targaryen. ✶

contents ⠀! ⠀ concept/part 1? dead dove : do not eat. psychological thriller. modern au. fem reader. teen pregnancy. obsession. aerion being a narcissist as usual. physical abuse. sexual abuse. psychological abuse. stockholm syndrome. masterlist. english is not my first language. based on real life relationships. this fic should not be romantize, it's meant to be disturbing. if you see this type of dynamic in real life or you're experiencing it, please get help. ✶

He wanted custody of your fucking kid.

How dare he.

How fucking dare he.

After eight years. Eight years of double shifts and overdue bills and falling asleep in your work uniform because you were too tired to take it off. And he shows up in a suit that costs more than you made last year and takes your son.

The boy you raised alone. The boy you fed while you went hungry. The boy who learned to walk in a rented room with no heat while you counted coins for the gas bill.

And now he has the nerve—the audacity—to come back and try to take your son from you.

As if he has any rights.

As if he’s anything but a monster.

After everything he put you through. After he left you with nothing but a screaming baby in a house with no heat. No money. No support. Just a mattress on a moldy floor and a body that didn't feel like yours anymore.

You were nobody when he met you.

You were fifteen. He was seventeen. Beautiful. Silver gold hair and violet eyes that made girls in your neighborhood turn stupid. He could have had anyone. And he chose you. A girl from nothing. A girl with hand me down shoes and a mother who worked doubles at a laundromat.

He told you his father disowned him. Threw him out with nothing. Cut him off from the family fortune. Why? Because he fell in love with you.

"I gave up everything for you," he said, holding your face in his hands, eyes wet with tears you thought were real. "My inheritance. My family. My future. I chose you."

And you believed him. You were young and starving for someone to want you, and here was this golden prince saying you were worth more than a world.

You would have died for him.

You almost did.

You didn't know back then. You couldn't have known.

He started isolating you before you even noticed it was happening.

Your friend said something he didn't like. "She's disrespecting our relationship," he said. "If you loved me, you wouldn't let her talk to you like that." So you stopped talking to her.

Your cousin texted you too often. "She's obsessed with you. It's not healthy. She's trying to pull you away from me." Blocked.

Your sister said she didn't trust him. "She's jealous of what we have. She's always hated that you're happy. If you choose her over me, then you don't really love me." You chose him.

Within a year, he was the only person in your life. No friends. No family. No classmate who knew your name. Just him. He'd check your phone while you slept. He'd show up at your school unannounced to make sure you were really there. He'd time how long it took you to get home from the bus stop.

"If you ever leave me, I'd have nothing," he'd say. "You're all I have. I'd die without you."

It felt like love. You were too young to understand monsters don't have hearts.

When you got pregnant, he moved you to a different city. Somewhere nobody knew you.

A rented house with peeling linoleum and mice in the walls and neighbors who give you the disgusting look. He said it was a fresh start. He said he wanted to be a father. He said you'd be a real family.

You'd lie in bed at night and listen to rats scratching inside the drywall, feel them run across the floor inches from your head.

But he held you close and whispered, "This is just temporary. We're building something. You and me against the world." And you believed him. You pressed your face into his chest and inhaled his scent and told yourself love was supposed to be hard.

He couldn't keep a job.

He'd get one, hold it for maybe two weeks, then come home pissed. His boss was an idiot. His coworkers were out to get him. No one understood his potential. So you worked. Eight months pregnant, belly so heavy you couldn't see your feet, standing twelve hour shifts at a diner where the fry cook grabbed your ass and the manager docked your pay for bathroom breaks.

You'd come home with bleeding feet and swollen ankles, and he'd be on the couch, and he wouldn't even look up.

"You're late."

"The bus broke down. I swear."

"Did you talk to anyone? You smell like cigarettes. Were you at a bar? Were you letting men buy you drinks?"

"No. No, baby. I would never. I came straight home. I swear on the baby."

"Come here."

You'd kneel in front of the couch. He'd grab your chin, fingers digging into your jaw, and turn your face side to side like he was inspecting livestock. Then he'd let go and stroke your hair, gentle again.

"I just love you so much it makes me crazy. You know that, right? If you ever left me, I'd have nothing. I'd die. You don't want me to die, do you?"

"No. Never. I love you. I'm sorry I scared you."

"You're my good girl."

When you caught him cheating, he didn't apologize. He blamed you.

"You're never here. You're always working. What am I supposed to do? You left me in this disgusting house. This is your fault."

"But I'm working for us—for the baby—"

"I gave up everything for you!" He screamed it so close to your face you felt the spit. "My family. My future. I threw it all away for you, and you can't even be here when I need you. You're selfish. You're a worthless, selfish bitch."

You were the one who cried. You were the one who apologized. For working too much. For being pregnant. For being tired. For being ugly. For being a bad girlfriend. You begged him not to leave you. You promised you'd do better.

He let you cry for a while. Then he pulled you into a hug and kissed your forehead.

"Shh. I forgive you. I love you so much it makes me insane. You're my everything. You know that, right?"

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll be better."

"You're my good girl. Now get off the floor. You look disgusting."

The physical abuse escalated slowly.

A shove during an argument. A grip on your arm that left a mark. A slap when you talked back. And each time, it was your fault. You made him do it. You knew how he got when he was stressed. Why did you push him?

Giving birth was a nightmare.

You tore during delivery. Badly. You were in so much pain you couldn't walk. You couldn't sit without screaming. You were bleeding through pads every hour, feverish, your milk coming in so hard your chest felt like hot stones.

He sat in the corner of the hospital room, bored.

"Can you stop? You're embarrassing me. The nurses think I did something to you."

"Baby, I'm sorry, I can't—I can't walk—"

"You're being childish. Women give birth every day. Get up."

"B-But I can't."

Five minutes later, he grabbed your arm—the same arm where the IV had just been removed, still bruised—and yanked you out of the bed. You hit the floor. Your stitches ripped. The pain was so white hot you didn't even make a sound. You just opened your mouth and nothing came out.

He dragged you to the car by your hair while you bled through your hospital gown.

At home, things got worse.

The baby cried. Babies do that. But Aerion couldn't stand it.

If the baby woke him up, it was your fault.

If the baby needed feeding while he was trying to talk to you you, it was your fault.

If the baby was colicky and screamed for hours while you walked circles in the dark, Aerion would come out of the bedroom, grab you by the throat, and slam you against the wall.

"Shut that thing up or I will."

If you were too exhausted to have sex with him six weeks postpartum, it was your fault.

"After everything I gave up for you," he'd say, fist clenched. "You can't even spread your legs? You're useless. Disgusting fucking pig."

The beatings became routine.

Not slaps. Closed fists. Steel toed boots. A cast iron skillet once, right across your lower back. You still can't stand for more than an hour without pain.

He broke your fingers one by one over the course of a year.

Your pinky first, because you burned his toast.

Your ring finger, because you forgot to buy his cigarettes.

Your middle finger, because you looked at him wrong.

Your index finger, because you asked him to please get a job.

Your thumb, because you flinched when he raised his hand, and flinching meant you thought he was a monster, and thinking he was a monster meant you didn't love him.

He dislocated your shoulder twice.

The second time, he refused to take you to the hospital.

"You'll tell them. You'll lie and tell them I did this and they'll take you away from me."

So you sat on the bathroom floor for four hours, arm hanging wrong, while he stood over you saying, "See how much I love you? I can't even let you go to the doctor because I can't lose you."

He shoved your head through the drywall in the hallway. The hole stayed there for months, and every time you passed it, you'd feel your skull pulse with the memory.

He once pressed a lit cigarette into your inner thigh while you were sleeping. You woke up screaming and he clamped a hand over your mouth and whispered, "Shh, you'll wake the baby."

One time you talked back.

Just once.

You said "please stop" during a beating and he interpreted that as defiance. He duct taped your mouth shut, zip tied your wrists to the radiator, and left you there for fourteen hours. You pissed yourself.

You cried until you couldn't breathe through your nose. When he finally cut you loose, he held you like a baby and cried and said he was so sorry, he just loved you so much, you made him so crazy, why did you make him do these things.

And you comforted him.

You, with the broken fingers and the bruised ribs and the piss soaked jeans, you held him and told him it was okay. That you forgave him. That you knew he didn't mean it.

The isolation deepened.

He took your phone most days. He disabled the internet. He told the neighbors you were mentally ill, unstable, that they shouldn't talk to you if you came knocking. He convinced the landlady you were a drug addict so she'd ignore any complaints.

You were trapped. Completely, utterly trapped in that house with him, and no one was coming.

He has "needs."

He didn't wait the six weeks the doctor told you. He didn't even wait two. You were still bleeding, still stitched, still leaking milk through your shirt, and he pushed you onto the mattress.

"I have needs. You're my girlfriend. This is your job."

When you cried, he said you were being dramatic.

When you bled through the sheets, he said it was disgusting and you should clean it up.

When you went numb and silent and stared at the ceiling until it was over, he kissed your forehead and said,

"See? That wasn't so bad. You're so good for me."

He'd wake you up in the middle of the night by climbing on top of you. Sometimes you didn't even fully wake up—your body just learned to disassociate. You'd float somewhere near the ceiling while he did what he wanted.

He'd choke you during sex.

Not the playful kind. The kind where your vision went spotty and your hands clawed at his wrists and he'd whisper "shh, shh, almost there" while you fought for air.

Once, he held a pillow over your face the entire time. You clawed at his arms, your lungs screaming, and when you finally went limp, he pulled it off and kissed you and said,

"See? You can take it. My good girl."

He filmed it sometimes. On his phone.

He said it was for him, for when you were at work. He said it was proof that you loved him. You found out later he'd shown some of the videos to the girls he was cheating with. A little entertainment. A little "look at what my bitch lets me do."

He cheated constantly.

Openly. In your bed. On your couch.

He'd bring girls home while you were cleaning, hand them a drink, gesture at you like you were furniture.

"That's just my girlfriend. Don't mind her."

And you'd keep scrubbing. Keep your head down. Because if you said anything, you'd pay for it later in bruises.

One girl felt sorry for you.

"are you okay?" She asked when he went to the bathroom.

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

The next week, you saw her at the corner store with a split lip. He'd found out she'd talked to you. He'd gone back to "set her straight."

He told you about it later, proud. "No one disrespects my girl."

The mind games were worse than the beatings, in some ways. Because bruises fade. Broken bones heal. But the way he messed with your mind—that never really went away.

"You're so fucking ugly when you cry. Look at yourself. Who would ever want this?"

"You're lucky I stay. No one else would touch you. Disgusting pig."

"I'm the only one who loves you. Your own mother doesn't call anymore. Your friends forgot you exist. You have nothing without me. You are nothing."

"If you ever left, I'd find you. And I'd kill you. And then I'd kill myself. And our son would be an orphan. Is that what you want? You want our son to be alone because you're too selfish?"

"I hit you because I love you. If I didn't care, I wouldn't bother. You make me feel so much it drives me insane. No one else has ever made me feel this way. You're special. You should be grateful."

"You drove me to this," he'd hiss, hands around your throat, thumbs pressing into your windpipe. "You made me like this. Before you, I was fine. I was happy. I was going to be someone. Now look at me. Living in this shithole with a pathetic cunt who can't even keep me satisfied. You ruined my life. You fucking ruined my life."

And you stayed quiet. You stayed small.

You covered the bruises with drugstore concealer and long sleeves in summer.

You smiled at the neighbors. You let him cheat. You let him mock your body in front of his friends.

You let him call you a whore, a pig, a worthless piece of shit who should be grateful he even let you breathe the same air.

Because you believed him.

God, you believed him with your whole heart.

You'd ruined him. You'd destroyed this beautiful, brilliant boy. He gave up his inheritance, his family, his entire world, and you couldn't even keep him happy.

So you kiss his fists after he hit you. You'd apologize for making him angry. You'd promise to be better. You'd promise to be good. You'd promise you'd never, ever leave.

"You love me?" he'd ask, voice suddenly soft, childlike, after the storm passed. "You really love me?"

"More than anything. More than my own life."

"Even after what I did?"

"You were upset. You didn't mean it. I know you love me."

"I do. I love you so much. You're the only one who understands me. You're my soulmate. We're going to be together forever, right? Promise me. Promise me you'll never leave."

"I promise. I swear on the baby. I'll never leave you."

Until one day he just... left.

You came home from the grocery store and his clothes were gone. His car was gone. The little bit of cash you'd hidden in the cereal box was gone. He left a note on the kitchen counter, written on the back of a takeout menu:

"You can keep the brat. I'm done."

It was after he left that you found out about the debt.

He had opened credit cards in your name. Seven of them. He'd maxed them all out and never paid a cent. Loans. Payday advances. A car loan for a car you never saw. He'd forged your signature on everything.

Your credit was destroyed. Your name was dirt. Collection agencies called you every hour, screaming, threatening. You couldn't rent an apartment. You couldn't get a loan. You couldn't even open a bank account.

He destroyed your life.

But your son kept you alive. Your beautiful boy with his silver hair and his serious little frown. He had Aerion's face but your heart. You knew it. You saw it every time he smiled at you, every time he patted your cheek with his sticky little hand and said "I love you, Mama."

You worked three jobs. You lived on ramen and tap water. You did everything you could. You never let him see you cry.

And now Aerion wanted to take him.

You'll never forget that courtroom. The wood paneling. The flag. The seal of the state. Aerion on the stand, lying through his perfect teeth.

"Yes, your honor, she kept my son from me for years."

"Yes, your honor, she has mental health problems."

"Yes, your honor, I just want what's best for my son. "

You sat in that courtroom and listened to them describe you as neglectful. Unhinged. A danger to your own child.

They brought up the eviction. The food stamps. The time you had a panic attack at parent teacher meeting and had to leave early. They twisted every scar he'd given you into proof that you were insane.

And Aerion sat there with his hands folded, looking sad. Looking disappointed. Looking like he genuinely love your son.

You started screaming.

You don't remember what you said. You just remember the bailiff's hands on your arms.

You remember your son's face in the back of the courtroom, crying.

You remember Aerion's smile — quick, flickering, gone before anyone else could catch it.

You lost.

The day they came to take him, your son held onto your legs and screamed so hard he lost his voice.

"Mama, please, please don't let them take me, I'll be good, I promise I'll be good, please mama please—"

You couldn't save him.

You watched them buckle him into Aerion's car.

You watched his little hands pressed against the window.

You watched him mouth I love you through the glass.

And then they were gone.

And you were alone.

And the silence was louder than anything you'd ever heard.

Two days later, they send you an email.

Official. Signed by his lawyer.

Pursuant to the custody agreement, you are hereby ordered to pay child support in the amount of $1,200 per month, effective immediately.

Ha.

Look at that.

Aerion fucking Targaryen — trust fund baby, the man who's family had more wealth than you'd see in ten lifetimes —

Wanted you to pay child support.

At least he lets you see your son.

Two hours a week. Every Thursday. Supervised visitation in a cold, gray room at a county facility. No contact outside of that. No phone calls. No letters. No nothing.

With him sitting right there.

Watching.

He's always there. He doesn't have to be—he has money now, Daddy's money, he could pay someone, he could trust the system—but he comes anyway. Every single week. He sits in the corner with his legs crossed and his hands folded and he watches you like a hawk watches a mouse.

Your son is across the room today, building something with blocks. You're trying to focus on him, trying to memorize every detail of his face in case this is the last time you see it. But you can feel Aerion's eyes on you. You can always feel them.

"Your father took you back, I see."

You don't look at him. Your voice is flat, dead.

He chuckles. It's a soft, musical sound. He used to laugh like that when he'd buy you things after a bad night.

Here, baby, I got you these earrings. Don't they make up for it? Don't they?

"Of course. He's my father, after all."

After eight years. After everything. The prodigal son returns. All is forgiven. The poor can rot.

"You look tired," he says, tilting his head. His voice is light. Conversational. Almost pleasant. "Still working those dead end jobs, I assume?"

"Bills don't pay themselves."

"No. I suppose they don't. Especially not with your... situation."

He waves a hand vaguely, as if your entire existence is a minor inconvenience.

"I do hope the child support payments won't be too much of a burden. I made sure the court was reasonable."

You let out a short, hollow laugh. "Reasonable. Right."

"I could have asked for more. I didn't. You're welcome."

You just stare at him. The audacity.

"I bet the Lannisters aren't happy about it," you laugh. "I mean you almost killed their precious girl."

His smile shifted. Widened. Turned almost fond.

"Oh, you're jealous, I see."

Jealous?

He thought you were jealous. Of the fiance he'd put in the hospital before he ever touched you, the actual reason he was kicked out.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out.

What can you even say to a narcissist like him?

His gaze drifts over you. Lingering. Dissecting. You can feel it crawling over your skin, invasive and foul.

“So...” he murmurs, tilting his head.

Hmm?

“You got a boyfriend or something?”

If you want to be in my AKOTSK taglist let me know :)

© yunyuu 2026 : do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[yunyuu]

✶ SHITTY BABY DADDY!

synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ imagine aerion being your shitty baby daddy.

including ⠀! ⠀ aerion targaryen. ✶

contents ⠀! ⠀ concept/part 1? dead dove : do not eat. psychological thriller. modern au. fem reader. teen pregnancy. obsession. aerion being a narcissist as usual. physical abuse. sexual abuse. psychological abuse. stockholm syndrome. masterlist. english is not my first language. based on real life relationships. this fic should not be romantize, it's meant to be disturbing. if you see this type of dynamic in real life or you're experiencing it, please get help. ✶

He wanted custody of your fucking kid.

How dare he.

How fucking dare he.

After eight years. Eight years of double shifts and overdue bills and falling asleep in your work uniform because you were too tired to take it off. And he shows up in a suit that costs more than you made last year and takes your son.

The boy you raised alone. The boy you fed while you went hungry. The boy who learned to walk in a rented room with no heat while you counted coins for the gas bill.

And now he has the nerve—the audacity—to come back and try to take your son from you.

As if he has any rights.

As if he’s anything but a monster.

After everything he put you through. After he left you with nothing but a screaming baby in a house with no heat. No money. No support. Just a mattress on a moldy floor and a body that didn't feel like yours anymore.

You were nobody when he met you.

You were fifteen. He was seventeen. Beautiful. Silver gold hair and violet eyes that made girls in your neighborhood turn stupid. He could have had anyone. And he chose you. A girl from nothing. A girl with hand me down shoes and a mother who worked doubles at a laundromat.

He told you his father disowned him. Threw him out with nothing. Cut him off from the family fortune. Why? Because he fell in love with you.

"I gave up everything for you," he said, holding your face in his hands, eyes wet with tears you thought were real. "My inheritance. My family. My future. I chose you."

And you believed him. You were young and starving for someone to want you, and here was this golden prince saying you were worth more than a world.

You would have died for him.

You almost did.

You didn't know back then. You couldn't have known.

He started isolating you before you even noticed it was happening.

Your friend said something he didn't like. "She's disrespecting our relationship," he said. "If you loved me, you wouldn't let her talk to you like that." So you stopped talking to her.

Your cousin texted you too often. "She's obsessed with you. It's not healthy. She's trying to pull you away from me." Blocked.

Your sister said she didn't trust him. "She's jealous of what we have. She's always hated that you're happy. If you choose her over me, then you don't really love me." You chose him.

Within a year, he was the only person in your life. No friends. No family. No classmate who knew your name. Just him. He'd check your phone while you slept. He'd show up at your school unannounced to make sure you were really there. He'd time how long it took you to get home from the bus stop.

"If you ever leave me, I'd have nothing," he'd say. "You're all I have. I'd die without you."

It felt like love. You were too young to understand monsters don't have hearts.

When you got pregnant, he moved you to a different city. Somewhere nobody knew you.

A rented house with peeling linoleum and mice in the walls and neighbors who give you the disgusting look. He said it was a fresh start. He said he wanted to be a father. He said you'd be a real family.

You'd lie in bed at night and listen to rats scratching inside the drywall, feel them run across the floor inches from your head.

But he held you close and whispered, "This is just temporary. We're building something. You and me against the world." And you believed him. You pressed your face into his chest and inhaled his scent and told yourself love was supposed to be hard.

He couldn't keep a job.

He'd get one, hold it for maybe two weeks, then come home pissed. His boss was an idiot. His coworkers were out to get him. No one understood his potential. So you worked. Eight months pregnant, belly so heavy you couldn't see your feet, standing twelve hour shifts at a diner where the fry cook grabbed your ass and the manager docked your pay for bathroom breaks.

You'd come home with bleeding feet and swollen ankles, and he'd be on the couch, and he wouldn't even look up.

"You're late."

"The bus broke down. I swear."

"Did you talk to anyone? You smell like cigarettes. Were you at a bar? Were you letting men buy you drinks?"

"No. No, baby. I would never. I came straight home. I swear on the baby."

"Come here."

You'd kneel in front of the couch. He'd grab your chin, fingers digging into your jaw, and turn your face side to side like he was inspecting livestock. Then he'd let go and stroke your hair, gentle again.

"I just love you so much it makes me crazy. You know that, right? If you ever left me, I'd have nothing. I'd die. You don't want me to die, do you?"

"No. Never. I love you. I'm sorry I scared you."

"You're my good girl."

When you caught him cheating, he didn't apologize. He blamed you.

"You're never here. You're always working. What am I supposed to do? You left me in this disgusting house. This is your fault."

"But I'm working for us—for the baby—"

"I gave up everything for you!" He screamed it so close to your face you felt the spit. "My family. My future. I threw it all away for you, and you can't even be here when I need you. You're selfish. You're a worthless, selfish bitch."

You were the one who cried. You were the one who apologized. For working too much. For being pregnant. For being tired. For being ugly. For being a bad girlfriend. You begged him not to leave you. You promised you'd do better.

He let you cry for a while. Then he pulled you into a hug and kissed your forehead.

"Shh. I forgive you. I love you so much it makes me insane. You're my everything. You know that, right?"

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll be better."

"You're my good girl. Now get off the floor. You look disgusting."

The physical abuse escalated slowly.

A shove during an argument. A grip on your arm that left a mark. A slap when you talked back. And each time, it was your fault. You made him do it. You knew how he got when he was stressed. Why did you push him?

Giving birth was a nightmare.

You tore during delivery. Badly. You were in so much pain you couldn't walk. You couldn't sit without screaming. You were bleeding through pads every hour, feverish, your milk coming in so hard your chest felt like hot stones.

He sat in the corner of the hospital room, bored.

"Can you stop? You're embarrassing me. The nurses think I did something to you."

"Baby, I'm sorry, I can't—I can't walk—"

"You're being childish. Women give birth every day. Get up."

"B-But I can't."

Five minutes later, he grabbed your arm—the same arm where the IV had just been removed, still bruised—and yanked you out of the bed. You hit the floor. Your stitches ripped. The pain was so white hot you didn't even make a sound. You just opened your mouth and nothing came out.

He dragged you to the car by your hair while you bled through your hospital gown.

At home, things got worse.

The baby cried. Babies do that. But Aerion couldn't stand it.

If the baby woke him up, it was your fault.

If the baby needed feeding while he was trying to talk to you you, it was your fault.

If the baby was colicky and screamed for hours while you walked circles in the dark, Aerion would come out of the bedroom, grab you by the throat, and slam you against the wall.

"Shut that thing up or I will."

If you were too exhausted to have sex with him six weeks postpartum, it was your fault.

"After everything I gave up for you," he'd say, fist clenched. "You can't even spread your legs? You're useless. Disgusting fucking pig."

The beatings became routine.

Not slaps. Closed fists. Steel toed boots. A cast iron skillet once, right across your lower back. You still can't stand for more than an hour without pain.

He broke your fingers one by one over the course of a year.

Your pinky first, because you burned his toast.

Your ring finger, because you forgot to buy his cigarettes.

Your middle finger, because you looked at him wrong.

Your index finger, because you asked him to please get a job.

Your thumb, because you flinched when he raised his hand, and flinching meant you thought he was a monster, and thinking he was a monster meant you didn't love him.

He dislocated your shoulder twice.

The second time, he refused to take you to the hospital.

"You'll tell them. You'll lie and tell them I did this and they'll take you away from me."

So you sat on the bathroom floor for four hours, arm hanging wrong, while he stood over you saying, "See how much I love you? I can't even let you go to the doctor because I can't lose you."

He shoved your head through the drywall in the hallway. The hole stayed there for months, and every time you passed it, you'd feel your skull pulse with the memory.

He once pressed a lit cigarette into your inner thigh while you were sleeping. You woke up screaming and he clamped a hand over your mouth and whispered, "Shh, you'll wake the baby."

One time you talked back.

Just once.

You said "please stop" during a beating and he interpreted that as defiance. He duct taped your mouth shut, zip tied your wrists to the radiator, and left you there for fourteen hours. You pissed yourself.

You cried until you couldn't breathe through your nose. When he finally cut you loose, he held you like a baby and cried and said he was so sorry, he just loved you so much, you made him so crazy, why did you make him do these things.

And you comforted him.

You, with the broken fingers and the bruised ribs and the piss soaked jeans, you held him and told him it was okay. That you forgave him. That you knew he didn't mean it.

The isolation deepened.

He took your phone most days. He disabled the internet. He told the neighbors you were mentally ill, unstable, that they shouldn't talk to you if you came knocking. He convinced the landlady you were a drug addict so she'd ignore any complaints.

You were trapped. Completely, utterly trapped in that house with him, and no one was coming.

He has "needs."

He didn't wait the six weeks the doctor told you. He didn't even wait two. You were still bleeding, still stitched, still leaking milk through your shirt, and he pushed you onto the mattress.

"I have needs. You're my girlfriend. This is your job."

When you cried, he said you were being dramatic.

When you bled through the sheets, he said it was disgusting and you should clean it up.

When you went numb and silent and stared at the ceiling until it was over, he kissed your forehead and said,

"See? That wasn't so bad. You're so good for me."

He'd wake you up in the middle of the night by climbing on top of you. Sometimes you didn't even fully wake up—your body just learned to disassociate. You'd float somewhere near the ceiling while he did what he wanted.

He'd choke you during sex.

Not the playful kind. The kind where your vision went spotty and your hands clawed at his wrists and he'd whisper "shh, shh, almost there" while you fought for air.

Once, he held a pillow over your face the entire time. You clawed at his arms, your lungs screaming, and when you finally went limp, he pulled it off and kissed you and said,

"See? You can take it. My good girl."

He filmed it sometimes. On his phone.

He said it was for him, for when you were at work. He said it was proof that you loved him. You found out later he'd shown some of the videos to the girls he was cheating with. A little entertainment. A little "look at what my bitch lets me do."

He cheated constantly.

Openly. In your bed. On your couch.

He'd bring girls home while you were cleaning, hand them a drink, gesture at you like you were furniture.

"That's just my girlfriend. Don't mind her."

And you'd keep scrubbing. Keep your head down. Because if you said anything, you'd pay for it later in bruises.

One girl felt sorry for you.

"are you okay?" She asked when he went to the bathroom.

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

The next week, you saw her at the corner store with a split lip. He'd found out she'd talked to you. He'd gone back to "set her straight."

He told you about it later, proud. "No one disrespects my girl."

The mind games were worse than the beatings, in some ways. Because bruises fade. Broken bones heal. But the way he messed with your mind—that never really went away.

"You're so fucking ugly when you cry. Look at yourself. Who would ever want this?"

"You're lucky I stay. No one else would touch you. Disgusting pig."

"I'm the only one who loves you. Your own mother doesn't call anymore. Your friends forgot you exist. You have nothing without me. You are nothing."

"If you ever left, I'd find you. And I'd kill you. And then I'd kill myself. And our son would be an orphan. Is that what you want? You want our son to be alone because you're too selfish?"

"I hit you because I love you. If I didn't care, I wouldn't bother. You make me feel so much it drives me insane. No one else has ever made me feel this way. You're special. You should be grateful."

"You drove me to this," he'd hiss, hands around your throat, thumbs pressing into your windpipe. "You made me like this. Before you, I was fine. I was happy. I was going to be someone. Now look at me. Living in this shithole with a pathetic cunt who can't even keep me satisfied. You ruined my life. You fucking ruined my life."

And you stayed quiet. You stayed small.

You covered the bruises with drugstore concealer and long sleeves in summer.

You smiled at the neighbors. You let him cheat. You let him mock your body in front of his friends.

You let him call you a whore, a pig, a worthless piece of shit who should be grateful he even let you breathe the same air.

Because you believed him.

God, you believed him with your whole heart.

You'd ruined him. You'd destroyed this beautiful, brilliant boy. He gave up his inheritance, his family, his entire world, and you couldn't even keep him happy.

So you kiss his fists after he hit you. You'd apologize for making him angry. You'd promise to be better. You'd promise to be good. You'd promise you'd never, ever leave.

"You love me?" he'd ask, voice suddenly soft, childlike, after the storm passed. "You really love me?"

"More than anything. More than my own life."

"Even after what I did?"

"You were upset. You didn't mean it. I know you love me."

"I do. I love you so much. You're the only one who understands me. You're my soulmate. We're going to be together forever, right? Promise me. Promise me you'll never leave."

"I promise. I swear on the baby. I'll never leave you."

Until one day he just... left.

You came home from the grocery store and his clothes were gone. His car was gone. The little bit of cash you'd hidden in the cereal box was gone. He left a note on the kitchen counter, written on the back of a takeout menu:

"You can keep the brat. I'm done."

It was after he left that you found out about the debt.

He had opened credit cards in your name. Seven of them. He'd maxed them all out and never paid a cent. Loans. Payday advances. A car loan for a car you never saw. He'd forged your signature on everything.

Your credit was destroyed. Your name was dirt. Collection agencies called you every hour, screaming, threatening. You couldn't rent an apartment. You couldn't get a loan. You couldn't even open a bank account.

He destroyed your life.

But your son kept you alive. Your beautiful boy with his silver hair and his serious little frown. He had Aerion's face but your heart. You knew it. You saw it every time he smiled at you, every time he patted your cheek with his sticky little hand and said "I love you, Mama."

You worked three jobs. You lived on ramen and tap water. You did everything you could. You never let him see you cry.

And now Aerion wanted to take him.

You'll never forget that courtroom. The wood paneling. The flag. The seal of the state. Aerion on the stand, lying through his perfect teeth.

"Yes, your honor, she kept my son from me for years."

"Yes, your honor, she has mental health problems."

"Yes, your honor, I just want what's best for my son. "

You sat in that courtroom and listened to them describe you as neglectful. Unhinged. A danger to your own child.

They brought up the eviction. The food stamps. The time you had a panic attack at parent teacher meeting and had to leave early. They twisted every scar he'd given you into proof that you were insane.

And Aerion sat there with his hands folded, looking sad. Looking disappointed. Looking like he genuinely love your son.

You started screaming.

You don't remember what you said. You just remember the bailiff's hands on your arms.

You remember your son's face in the back of the courtroom, crying.

You remember Aerion's smile — quick, flickering, gone before anyone else could catch it.

You lost.

The day they came to take him, your son held onto your legs and screamed so hard he lost his voice.

"Mama, please, please don't let them take me, I'll be good, I promise I'll be good, please mama please—"

You couldn't save him.

You watched them buckle him into Aerion's car.

You watched his little hands pressed against the window.

You watched him mouth I love you through the glass.

And then they were gone.

And you were alone.

And the silence was louder than anything you'd ever heard.

Two days later, they send you an email.

Official. Signed by his lawyer.

Pursuant to the custody agreement, you are hereby ordered to pay child support in the amount of $1,200 per month, effective immediately.

Ha.

Look at that.

Aerion fucking Targaryen — trust fund baby, the man who's family had more wealth than you'd see in ten lifetimes —

Wanted you to pay child support.

At least he lets you see your son.

Two hours a week. Every Thursday. Supervised visitation in a cold, gray room at a county facility. No contact outside of that. No phone calls. No letters. No nothing.

With him sitting right there.

Watching.

He's always there. He doesn't have to be—he has money now, Daddy's money, he could pay someone, he could trust the system—but he comes anyway. Every single week. He sits in the corner with his legs crossed and his hands folded and he watches you like a hawk watches a mouse.

Your son is across the room today, building something with blocks. You're trying to focus on him, trying to memorize every detail of his face in case this is the last time you see it. But you can feel Aerion's eyes on you. You can always feel them.

"Your father took you back, I see."

You don't look at him. Your voice is flat, dead.

He chuckles. It's a soft, musical sound. He used to laugh like that when he'd buy you things after a bad night.

Here, baby, I got you these earrings. Don't they make up for it? Don't they?

"Of course. He's my father, after all."

After eight years. After everything. The prodigal son returns. All is forgiven. The poor can rot.

"You look tired," he says, tilting his head. His voice is light. Conversational. Almost pleasant. "Still working those dead end jobs, I assume?"

"Bills don't pay themselves."

"No. I suppose they don't. Especially not with your... situation."

He waves a hand vaguely, as if your entire existence is a minor inconvenience.

"I do hope the child support payments won't be too much of a burden. I made sure the court was reasonable."

You let out a short, hollow laugh. "Reasonable. Right."

"I could have asked for more. I didn't. You're welcome."

You just stare at him. The audacity.

"I bet the Lannisters aren't happy about it," you laugh. "I mean you almost killed their precious girl."

His smile shifted. Widened. Turned almost fond.

"Oh, you're jealous, I see."

Jealous?

He thought you were jealous. Of the fiance he'd put in the hospital before he ever touched you, the actual reason he was kicked out.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out.

What can you even say to a narcissist like him?

His gaze drifts over you. Lingering. Dissecting. You can feel it crawling over your skin, invasive and foul.

“So...” he murmurs, tilting his head.

Hmm?

“You got a boyfriend or something?”

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© yunyuu 2026 : do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[yunyuu]

✶ BATBOYS AND THEIR TEXTS! pt.4

[yunyuu]

✶ LESBIAN PANIC!

synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ when you do something that makes them question their sexuality.

including ⠀! ⠀ barbara gordon. stephanie brown. cassandra cain. ricarda grayson. jasonna todd. timothea drake. damienne wayne. ✶

contents ⠀! ⠀ fem reader. obsession. genderbend batboys. women are hot asf. masterlist. english is not my first language. ✶

BARBARA GORDON

She is helping you study.

You're leaning over her shoulder to read something on her laptop.

You absentmindedly rest your chin on her shoulder.

"..."

She freezes.

A full body lock, every nerve suddenly tuned to the warmth of your jaw settling into the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Your breath ghosts across her collarbone, a soft, steady rhythm she can feel through her shirt.

Why do you smell so nice?

Warm skin, clean cotton, and a faint sweetness that makes her mouth water.

No, that's a weird thought.

You're her friend.

Girls smell nice.

Probably.

Then you laugh softly at something on the screen.

Your hand brushes hers.

Barbara's heart skips so fast she nearly drops the keyboard.

"Why that was... hot?"

She spends the next three hours secretly googling things like:

"Can straight women think their female friend is attractive?"

"Why am I nervous around my friend suddenly?"

"Why I feel hot when she touch me?"

By midnight she's staring at her ceiling.

"...Oh fuck."

STEPHANIE BROWN

You're shopping together.

You come out of the changing room wearing a cute dress.

She looks up.

It’s nothing outrageous—just soft fabric that drapes exactly right, hugging your waist, skimming your thighs. But when you do a little spin, the hem flutters up just enough.

"Steph?"

...

...

"..."

Her mouth is completely dry.

The way the light catches the curve of your collarbone, the way the dress moves when you shift your weight, the way you’re looking at her expectantly with those eyes.

Pretty.

...

"WAIT."

She immediately stares at a random lamp, cheeks burning.

"Wow."

"Cool lamp."

You're confused.

"What lamp?"

"I LOVE LAMPS."

She refuses to look at you for the next ten minutes because every time she does—

Pretty girl.

Pretty smile.

Pretty eyes.

"OH GOD."

By the end of the day she's texting Barbara:

"Hypothetically... if your friend is really pretty... and you can’t stop picturing the way her dress hugged her... everything..."

Barbara replies almost immediately.

"You like girls."

Steph throws her phone across the room and presses her thighs together in mortified confusion.

CASSANDRA CAIN

Cass doesn't really categorize attraction with words.

She notices feelings first.

You're laughing.

Your eyes crinkle.

You gently fix the collar of her jacket.

Your fingertips graze the sensitive skin just below her jaw.

"There."

"..."

Cass forgets how to breathe.

Like actually.

Her throat closes. Her heart slams once, hard, then stutters into a frantic rhythm. A flush crawls up her neck, hot and prickly, and her stomach clenches like she’s missed a step on a rooftop.

You tilt your head.

"Cass?"

Nothing.

Her brain has become static.

You poke her cheek.

"...You alive?"

Tiny nod.

Very pink ears.

That night she signs to Barbara:

"Heart...weird."

Barbara immediately assumes medical emergency.

"No."

Cass signs awkwardly.

"Girl."

Barbara slowly blinks.

"Oh."

"...OH."

RICARDA GRAYSON

Tonight she's supposed to be going on a date with her boyfriend, Brandon.

You're helping her get ready.

She sits on your bed while you stand between her knees, close enough that the heat of your body radiates against her.

"So..."

"Don't laugh."

"I'll try."

"I'm nervous."

You laugh anyway.

"It's just Brandon."

"I know!"

You gently tilt her chin.

"Look at me."

She does.

Big mistake.

You're wearing an old crop top.

Every time you lean in, she catches a glimpse of your collarbone...

...the soft curve of your tits peeking above the neckline...

Then your fingers gently rest under her chin.

"So pretty."

You murmur it absentmindedly while blending her makeup.

Pretty...?

You lean even closer.

"Stay still."

Your thumb brushes the corner of her mouth.

Then you carefully apply lip gloss.

"So..."

"..."

"...Almost done."

She isn't listening.

She's staring.

Your eyes are focused completely on her lips.

Your face is only inches away.

Your own lips part slightly in concentration.

Why...

Why do you look so pretty?

Why is the scent of your perfume making her dizzy?

Why does she want to lean forward and close that tiny, unbearable distance?

You finally finish.

"There!"

You beam at her.

The sweetest smile she's ever seen.

"So gorgeous."

She forgets Brandon exists.

For about thirty very confusing seconds.

She stares.

You wave a hand.

"Earth to Ric?"

"..."

"...Babe?"

"...Can..."

She coughs.

"...Can you...do my makeup again?"

"I literally just finished."

"...Again."

"Why?"

"...Practice."

She absolutely considers canceling her date.

Suddenly she'd rather spend the evening with you cuddling than going out.

JASONNA TODD

Some creep has been bothering you for nearly ten minutes.

You keep trying to leave.

He won't let you.

Then—

A hand grabs his shoulder.

"You deaf?"

Her voice is terrifyingly calm.

"She said no."

One glare.

The guy decides life is precious and disappears.

She immediately turns toward you.

"You okay?"

You don't answer.

Instead—

You throw yourself into her arms.

She catches you immediately.

Your face presses against her chest.

Your fingers clutch her jacket.

When you finally look up—

Your eyes are watery.

Your lips are in the saddest little pout.

"...Thank you."

She feels so fucking hot it's emberassing.

"I..."

"I really needed you."

You sniffle.

"...Can you take me home?"

...

...

Take you home.

You need her.

You're holding her.

Jay forgets how to speak.

"...Uh."

"...Yeah."

"...Home."

She puts an arm around your shoulders.

The whole walk back she's staring aggressively forward because every single time she looks down—

You're leaning against her.

Trusting her.

Depending on her.

Her brain keeps screaming.

FUCKING GOD YOU'RE SO FUCKING ADORABLE.

SHE WILL FIGHT THE ENTIRE CITY FOR YOU.

WAIT.

WHY WOULD SHE FIGHT THE ENTIRE CITY FOR YOU?

Halfway home you hook your pinky around hers without thinking.

She nearly trips over absolutely nothing.

TIMOTHEA DRAKE

She has a scientific explanation for everything.

Surely this has one too.

You've fallen asleep beside her during an all night investigation.

Your head slowly slides onto her shoulder.

She freezes.

"..."

You're so close.

She can smell your shampoo.

One little sleepy sigh leaves you.

Without waking, you mumble—

"You're comfy..."

Then instinctively hold onto her arm.

Timothea's internal monologue immediately starts spiraling.

Heart rate elevated.

Possible caffeine overdose.

No...

Actually...

Wait.

She carefully opens her laptop with one hand.

Search history:

"Can sleep deprivation make you think girls are attractive?"

Five minutes later:

"Difference between admiration and attraction."

Ten minutes later:

"Am I bisexual quiz."

She slams the laptop shut when you wake up.

"...Whatcha doing?"

"...Taxes."

"It's three in the morning."

"...Night taxes."

DAMIENNE WAYNE

Dami is convinced romance is an unnecessary distraction.

Then you're teaching her how to braid hair, nails lightly scraping her scalp, and she has to physically suppress a shudder.

Every brush of your fingertips against her nape sends a cascade of sensation down her back, hot and shivery.

"No, like this."

You step behind her.

Your fingers gently comb through her hair.

She freezes.

Every muscle locked.

"...Dami?"

"...Continue."

You finish the braid.

"There."

You smile proudly.

She reaches up and touches it.

"..."

Why does approval from one girl feel more satisfying than defeating assassins?

This is unacceptable.

She spends the evening sparring twice as hard.

It doesn't help.

Every time she closes her eyes—

There.

Your smile.

Your hands in her hair.

"...Ridiculous."

The next morning she appears at your door.

"...Would you..."

She clears her throat.

"...Perhaps braid my hair again."

"...You liked it that much?"

"..."

"...Yes."

She absolutely refuses to explain why her ears are bright red.

If you want to be in my DC taglist let me know :)

© yunyuu 2026 : do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[yunyuu]

✶ BATBOYS AND THEIR TEXTS! pt.3

[cyberdemonlk]

The silent treatment, I hope

[usergambit]

LEON KENNEDY Resident Evil Requiem (2026) dev. Capcom

[hoovesnhorns]

Oh I missed this one! But he didn’t get away too far… handsome husband love him filthy 🥰

[thequantumranger]

Leon Kennedy in Resident Evil 9 (2026)

[yunyuu]

✶ DADDY'S LITTLE RAPUNZEL!

synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ when they do your little daughter's hair 🎀

including ⠀! ⠀ bruce wayne. dick grayson. jason todd. tim drake. damian wayne. ✶

contents ⠀! ⠀ fem reader. obsession? fluff. i love writing fictional men as girl dads. masterlist. english is not my first language. ✶

BRUCE WAYNE

Bruce takes it very seriously.

Every morning, your daughter climbs onto the bathroom counter while Bruce stands behind her with a brush like he's preparing for surgery.

"...Does it hurt?"

She shakes her head.

"No, Daddy."

"Tell me the second it does."

He brushes from the ends up exactly like you taught him.

Gentle. Slow.

If he hits a knot, he stops immediately.

"Found one."

Tiny fingers reach up to hold the section while he carefully works it out.

She watches him in the mirror.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I wanna be pwetty."

Bruce smiles so softly it almost hurts.

"You already are."

He still spends twenty minutes making sure every little ponytail is perfectly even.

When she runs off afterward, he quietly takes a picture.

He has hundreds.

DICK GRAYSON

Dick's love playing with her.

"Welcome back to grayson's professional hair salon!"

Your daughter giggles before she's even sitting down.

"What are we doing today?"

"A princess braid!"

"Good choice."

He narrates everything dramatically.

"Step one..."

Brush.

"No screaming! Amazing client!"

She laughs so hard she wiggles.

"Princess, I need you to stop moving."

"I can't!"

"I can see that."

Halfway through the braid...

He accidentally makes one side way bigger than the other.

"..."

"...Don't tell Mommy."

She gasps dramatically.

"Our secret?"

"Our secret."

You walk in.

"...Dick."

"...Yes?"

"Why is one braid twice the size of the other?"

Your daughter immediately throw him under the bus.

"Daddy said don't tell!"

He places a hand over his heart.

"Oh you traitor!"

JASON TODD

Jason learned because he refused to let you do everything.

He watched tutorials.

Practiced on wigs.

Even ask Dick to help him.

(He never speaks of that day again.)

Now your daughter sits between his legs on the couch while he carefully brushes her hair.

"You okay?"

"Mhm."

"No pulling?"

"Nope."

He's surprisingly good.

Slow hands.

Patient.

Then she asks—

"Daddy..."

"Yeah?"

"Can I have two buns?"

"...Absolutely."

The buns end up slightly uneven.

She looks in the mirror.

"I LOVE THEM."

Jason looks like he just won the lottery.

"Yeah?"

"They're perfect!"

He absolutely pretends that was intentional.

TIM DRAKE

Tim researches.

Extensively.

Different hair textures.

Brush types.

Leave in conditioners.

Protective hairstyles.

He has bookmarks.

A spreadsheet.

You don't ask.

One morning your daughter climbs into his lap with a hairbrush.

"Daddy?"

"My appointment?"

She nods seriously.

"You have an appointment."

"Excellent."

He carefully brushes every section while explaining what he's doing.

"This helps keep your hair healthy."

"Healthy!"

"Exactly."

She repeats every word he says.

By the end...

The hairstyle is adorable.

Slightly crooked.

But adorable.

She hugs him.

"You make me beautiful."

Tim nearly cries.

"No."

He kisses her forehead.

"You were beautiful since the day you were born."

DAMIAN WAYNE

Damian refuses to admit he enjoys doing her hair.

"This is simply efficient."

Sure.

Every morning she's already climbing onto the stool before he even ask.

She hands him the pink brush.

"Please?"

"...Very well."

He's incredibly precise.

Every part is straight.

Every ponytail is symmetrical.

Every bow is centered perfectly.

You watch from the doorway.

"...She's spoiled."

Damian doesn't even look up.

"As she should be."

Then your daughter turns around.

"Daddy."

"Yes?"

"I want flowers."

"...In your hair?"

She nods.

Without another word, damian disappears into the garden.

Five minutes later he returns with tiny fresh flowers.

He carefully tucks them into her braid one by one.

She beams at herself in the mirror.

"I'm a fairy!"

"You are."

Then she throws her little arms around his neck.

"I love you, Daddy."

Damian freezes for exactly half a second before hugging her back just as tightly.

"...I love you as well, habibti."

You smile from the doorway, watching the self proclaimed "most disciplined" Wayne melt completely because his little girl wanted flowers in her hair.

He'll never admit it out loud.

But tomorrow morning, he'll already have fresh flowers picked before she she even wake up.

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© yunyuu 2026 : do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.