#ㅤㅤ⠀ㅤ 𓇼ㅤ ㅤ𓂂ㅤㅤ ˚ㅤㅤ ◌ㅤ ��͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏

[strangepoppy]

“You ever touch me without permission again,” you whisper, “and I’ll gut you.”

Oh how the tables have turned. And he liked it.

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤFRESH FLOWERㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Leon S. Kennedy x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

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

It doesn’t start with blood. Not yet.

Leon first notices you during one of his brief returns to the States. A quiet afternoon at some government building—you’re not even special. Not supposed to be. Just someone who works at the same place, maybe typing up field reports he never reads, passing him in the halls with your head down, apologizing too softly when your shoulder bumps his. You smell like vanilla and cheap drugstore shampoo. You hold a coffee cup like it’s the only thing anchoring you to Earth.

And that should’ve been it. He should’ve walked past you, like he does with everyone else.

But he didn’t.

Because you looked at him. Just once.

And you smiled.

Not some flirty thing. Not a “he’s hot” look. No—you looked at him like he was human. Like he wasn’t just a body with scars walking around on borrowed time.

Like maybe someone could love him, even if he didn’t think he deserved it.

From that moment on, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

At first it’s just your voice, your laugh, the way you never quite make eye contact unless someone makes you. The way you get flustered when people praise your work. How you always check twice that the microwave is actually off. How you twirl your pen when you’re thinking. He stores every detail. Files it away like evidence.

He learns your routines without meaning to. What time you clock in. Where you park. Which vending machine you like. What your grocery bags look like when you get off work.

And then he means to. He means to watch you. To learn you.

Because he needs to keep you safe. That’s what he tells himself. That’s always how it starts.

When he follows you home for the first time, it’s just to make sure no one’s tailing you. He tells himself that while he sits in his car across the street for two hours, watching your windows. Watching the light in your bedroom flicker. Watching your silhouette move. Watching your shadow get undressed.

He doesn’t touch himself.

He doesn’t need to.

He’s loyal. Monogamous. Faithful to a woman who doesn’t even know he’s hers.

And he is yours. In every sense. Every beat of his heart belongs to you. It doesn’t matter that you don’t know it.

You start finding little things. A better brand of coffee in the breakroom. Your broken office chair suddenly replaced. Your car tire mysteriously fixed when you were sure it was flat the night before. Your favorite sandwich waiting for you in the fridge with no name on it—but no one claims it when you eat it.

You don’t know it’s him.

You don’t know how much it calms him to do these things. How he holds your half-drunk coffee cup in his gloved hand like it's sacred, just to feel the warmth of where your lips once were. How he saves the wrapper of the gum you chewed, tucks it into his jacket pocket like a photograph.

It gets worse when he’s away.

When he’s knee-deep in rot and guts and monsters again, he hears your voice in his head. He reads your emails over and over, even if they’re not for him. He dreams about you begging him to come home, even though you don’t know he’s gone.

He kills faster for you. Survives harder.

Because you’re waiting. Even if you don’t know it.

And when he returns, looking tired and bruised, and you say something stupid like, “Rough day?”

He almost breaks.

Because you care. Even if it’s shallow, even if it’s nothing—it is something to him.

And it feeds that thing growing inside his chest. The thing with claws and fangs and your name burned into it.

He never means to cross the line.

But it happens. Of course it happens. All it takes is you crying one day. Quietly. In a hallway. And Leon finds you. Touches your shoulder. Offers you a handkerchief and silence. Just his presence.

You tell him your boyfriend broke up with you. You say it with a cracked voice, eyes on the ground.

Leon wants to gut the guy like a pig.

But instead, he hugs you.

He holds you like a man on fire.

And that’s when it truly breaks. Something in him. Something fundamental.

You’re his now.

After that, the jealousy gets sickening. He hates everyone who makes you laugh. Everyone who gets too close. Even friends. He wants to peel their eyes out. Crush their hands. Sometimes, he fantasizes about dragging you somewhere far away. Quiet. Safe. Just the two of you.

He wouldn’t hurt you. Never.

But he would chain you up if he had to.

Not to punish you. Never to punish.

To protect. To keep you safe from the world that breaks things. The way it broke him.

He watches you sleep more often than you’ll ever know. Sometimes in person. Sometimes through your webcam.

He buys you things you never ask for. Gifts that show up without a note. Perfume you once mentioned liking. A necklace that matches your birthstone.

Once, you come home to find your entire apartment cleaned. Nothing stolen. Just… cleaner. Neater. Lovingly touched.

You start to get scared.

But Leon doesn’t stop.

He can’t. He loves you. And love, to him, is everything. It's obsession, devotion, sickness, god. It's a bullet in the chamber with your name on it.

And if anyone ever hurts you—

They don’t live long enough to do it again.

You are the last light in his world of rot and smoke.

He would burn the planet to keep you warm.

And he will always be watching.

Just in case you forget that you’re his.

Forever.

There’s something desperate in the way Leon touches your name now. He types it into search bars like a prayer, like maybe the internet can tell him what you’re thinking. Where you are. Who you’re with. The idea of another man holding you, kissing you, looking at you the way Leon does—it makes his stomach twist. Makes his jaw clench.

You belong to him.

But it’s getting harder to pretend.

You’ve been acting different.

You’ve started locking your doors. Pulling your curtains shut. Changing your passwords.

He can feel you slipping. Slipping through his fingers like water.

And Leon—Leon doesn’t lose. Not people. Not you.

So he gets closer.

He takes a few vacation days and spends them camped outside your building in an unmarked car. It's not even that weird—he's done worse surveillance missions overseas. But this time it’s not a mission. This time it's personal.

He watches you go about your day like normal. Grocery run. Phone calls. Work. That little routine you built for yourself like a cage. You think it keeps the world out.

It doesn't.

Because he’s already in.

When he follows you on foot for the first time, it’s just to make sure you’re safe walking home. That’s what he tells himself.

But when your scarf slips off your shoulders and drops to the sidewalk, he picks it up like it’s something holy. Holds it to his face. Breaths it in.

You smell like vanilla. You smell like roses.

That night, he wraps your scarf around his knuckles like a bandage. Falls asleep clutching it. Dreams of you. Dreams of you soft and crying in his arms, telling him you love him, whispering you need him, “Don’t leave, Leon—please.”

He wakes up with his pillow wet from tears.

You start dating again.

Some guy from your friend group. You talk about him casually, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not a knife twisting in Leon’s gut every time your lips form his name.

Leon smiles when you tell him.

Tells you he’s happy for you.

But inside?

He’s already planning the guy’s funeral.

He follows him. Watches how he talks to you. How he touches you. How he doesn’t deserve you.

He thinks about how easy it would be to make it look like an accident. A mugging. A hit-and-run. Hell, Leon could make it clean. Professional. No trace.

But… no. Not yet.

Because you’re still looking over your shoulder. Still flinching at shadows. Still scared of the silence in your apartment.

You’ve noticed him.

You just don’t know it’s him yet.

So he waits. Watches. Smolders.

And then the guy hits you.

Not hard. Just a shove during an argument. You don’t report it. You don’t even tell Leon. You just show up to work with a shaky smile and red-rimmed eyes and act like everything is fine.

It’s not.

It never will be again.

Because Leon sees it.

And that night, the guy disappears.

You never hear from him again.

The cops never figure it out. You try to act like it’s not weird. Like he just left you. Like maybe it was your fault. Like you drove him away.

Leon lets you believe that.

He visits your place two nights later. Not as a stalker this time. Not hiding. No gloves. No mask.

He knocks on your door like it’s normal. Like he’s just your friend, checking in. Just Leon. Tired, sweet Leon. Blue eyes, tired smile.

He tells you he heard what happened. Says he wanted to make sure you’re okay.

And you let him in.

Because he looks at you with concern. Because he smells like gunpowder and leather and that shampoo he always uses. Because his voice shakes when he says your name.

Because deep down, you’re starting to feel safe with him.

Even though you know something's wrong.

He sits on your couch. You make tea. You talk.

And then—your hand brushes his when you hand him the cup.

And something shifts.

He leans in, too close. His breath is warm on your cheek.

He whispers, "I'll never let anyone hurt you again."

You don’t know what to say. You laugh awkwardly, try to change the subject. But he doesn’t move.

His hand catches yours.

His voice is hoarse. "You don’t have to be scared anymore."

You freeze.

And that’s when you know.

That’s when it hits you. The late-night creaks in the hallway. The lost scarf. The replaced groceries. The way your passwords kept resetting. The ghost of a man always watching.

You try to pull back. You try to make it seem casual.

But Leon is already smiling.

That same, tired smile he always gives you. That smile that hides too much.

“I’ve been here the whole time,” he says. “You just didn’t see me.”

You realize you’re alone in your apartment.

You realize he locked the door when he came in.

You realize you’re not leaving tonight.

And yet…

You don’t scream.

You don’t run.

Because his eyes are wide and glassy, like he might shatter if you do.

He doesn’t hurt you.

No.

He just sits there. Holding your hand. Eyes closed.

Like a dying man praying to a god that finally touched him back.

You should have kicked him out.

You should have screamed, called someone, fought.

But instead… you let him stay.

You don’t even ask why he’s here. Why he’s saying these things. Why the man you trusted is looking at you like he’s not just in love, but drowning in it. Suffocating in you.

You stare at him, hand still in his, and all you can think is:

He’s beautiful.

Not handsome. Not cute.

Beautiful.

His cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.

His lashes thick and black against that glassy blue.

His lips—soft, parted, like he’s waiting for permission to breathe you in.

And maybe it’s something about the look in his eyes—like he’s never been held right, never been kissed gently, never been told yes, I see you—that makes you hesitate.

Because maybe you’re a little fucked in the head too.

Maybe all those long nights of silence and unease did something to you.

Maybe you liked being watched. Liked the invisible eyes. The feeling of being wanted that much.

It made you feel safe. Precious. Loved.

You lean back against the couch, still watching him. Still trying to understand why you’re not afraid.

Your voice is soft.

“…How long?”

His eyes flutter shut like a prayer.

“Since the first time we meet.”

You let the silence stretch, heavy and strange.

His thumb moves across the back of your hand—slow, reverent. Almost worshipful.

Your lips twitch. You don’t know if it’s a smirk or a tremble.

“And you thought stalking me was the best way to deal with that?”

He doesn’t flinch.

“I didn’t want to scare you.”

You laugh.

A dry, bitter sound. “You broke into my apartment.”

Leon tilts his head, blue eyes wide and childlike. “But I never took anything.”

A beat.

“Except your scarf. But that’s different. It smelled like you.”

He says it so seriously. So softly.

You study him. Really look at him.

Not just the sharp suit or the clean cut hair. Not the tired lines around his eyes or the faint stubble on his jaw.

But the damage under it. The cracks. The haunted corners of a man who’s killed too much, lost too much, lived through hell and came out with bleeding hands and a single need:

You.

And here he is. On your couch. Holding your hand like he might unravel if you pull away.

And god help you, but you feel something twist in your chest.

Not fear.

Possession.

Because if you’re the only one he sees—if you’re the reason he’s still breathing after all this time—then maybe it’s okay.

Maybe he deserves you. Maybe he’s earned the right to want this bad.

Maybe you want him just as bad too.

So you lean in, slow. Testing.

He stills. Like prey. Like something caught and trembling.

He’s bigger than you, stronger than you, but somehow in that moment, he looks breakable.

Your mouth brushes his ear.

“You ever touch me without permission again,” you whisper, “and I’ll gut you.”

His breath shudders out. “Okay.”

You pull back, searching his face. His pupils are blown wide. His lips are slightly parted.

“…But if you ask,” you murmur, “maybe I’ll say yes.”

And that—that—breaks him.

He kisses you like a starving man, like he’s dreamed of this so many nights he’s memorized the shape of your lips. His hands tremble as they touch your face, your jaw, your hair.

Like you’re something holy.

He doesn’t push for more. Doesn’t undress you.

Just clings to you like he’ll stop breathing if he doesn’t. Like he’s finally home.

And you let him.

Because maybe you’re both broken.

Maybe you like the way his love curves around you like armor. Maybe you like the idea of a man who would burn the world to keep you safe.

Maybe you like how it feels to be the center of someone’s universe.

Maybe you’re tired of being lonely.

That night, you fall asleep tangled together on the couch.

And when you wake up, your front door’s already unlocked. Your windows are cracked open. Your passwords are reset. There’s a knife under your pillow.

And a note on the table in Leon’s handwriting.

“I’ll be back soon. Don’t miss me too much. — L”

You smile.

Because now you know.

You’re not just being watched.

You’re being loved.

And maybe that’s worse.

— MASTERLIST ☆

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

[notaguia]

ᅠᅠᅠᅠHey! new random pngs 🎐

[v6que]

           

         messy symbols ✧

⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀

⠀⃟𐔌⠀ᩴ       ˁ ᪲˒ ˙˙˓ˀ       𓍚ํֻ       ⭑๋܂⑅

       

    ᰔᩚ        ꒰͡ ི ༏  ྀ͡꒱     ִ °. •̩̩͙ ִ * ° ໋•̩̩͙ ִ 𓈒ּ ° 𓂂

     

ཾֵ𐇵𓈒ֵ۫       𓇼ᬽ̇𓈒༙⠀⠀ ⠀   𓉳𐬹° ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⿻ྀི͚

   

  ᮫͙𓐩ꦿࣳੁᩧ         ♡𓈒⁎        ✦✧͏𝅘𝅥 ׄ ᩿

       ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀

ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏

[rottenfyre]

┊ㅤㅤㅤㅤ┊ㅤㅤㅤㅤ┊ㅤㅤㅤㅤ┊ㅤㅤㅤㅤ┊ㅤ┊ㅤㅤㅤㅤ┊ㅤㅤㅤ ♡ㅤㅤㅤ ┊ㅤㅤㅤㅤ┊ㅤ┊ㅤㅤㅤㅤ♡ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ♡ㅤㅤㅤ ┊ㅤ♡ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ♡ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

𝑌𝐴𝑁𝐷𝐸𝑅𝐸 𝐵𝑈𝐿𝐿𝑌 who's obsessed with your pussy ⁺¹⁸

Yandere bully who is so mean to you in public, constantly teasing and making you cry, taunting you in front of everyone, pushing your buttons just to see you break. "What's wrong, baby? Gonna cry again?" He grins, acting like the bitch he's known to be. But in private, he's on his knees, your obedient pet, begging to please you however you want.

Yandere bully who's addicted to you, desperate for your approval. He'll do anything to have you, anything to make you cum, anything to feel like he's worthy of your attention -even if it means pushing you to the brink of pleasure every chance he gets.

Yandere bully who gets you alone any chance he gets and makes you cum over and over again, his cruel exterior gone as he worships you with his mouth and hands. "You're so fucking beautiful when you cum for me. 'Il do anything for you, baby." His fingers don't stop, even when you're shaking, his lips constantly moving over your sensitive skin, drawing out orgasm after orgasm until you can't take it anymore.

Yandere bully who loves catching you off guard when you're trying to study, slipping under the table and spreading your legs without a word. His fingers slip inside you while his tongue circles your clit, licking and sucking on it like he can't get enough. You try to concentrate, but it's impossible, and he knows it. "Come on, baby, keep studying while I make you feel good." He smirks against you, watching you fall apart as he fingers you under the desk.

Yandere bully who loves to suck on his lollipop in front of you, popping it in and out of his mouth with a teasing grin, only to push it inside your pussy without warning. "How's that feel, baby? Bet you never thought this sweet thing could fuck you, huh?" He moves it in and out, his eyes locked on your expression as he watches you struggle. And when he's done, he pulls it out, licks it clean, and goes right back to sucking on it like nothing happened, savoring your taste mixed with the candy.

Yandere bully who acts like he's in control, always smug and cruel with the things he says, but the moment you're soaking wet and he's got his mouth on you, it's like he's a different person. "Fuck, I can't get enough of this. You taste so good, baby... I need more, please."

Yandere bully who moans like he's the one getting head whenever he's between your legs, his voice breaking as he eat you out. He can't help the sounds slipping out of his mouth, so lost in the taste of you that he's grinding himself against the mattress. "Fuck, baby... you taste so fucking good. I'm gonna lose it.." The pleasure in his voice is unreal, like he's the one being pleasured.

Yandere bully who gets absolutely lost between your legs, so pussy-drunk he forgets everything else around him. His mouth is buried between your thighs, licking and kissing like he's been deprived of it for days. He's groaning into you, the wet sounds echoing as he slurps up everything you give him, completely obsessed.

Yandere bully who talks directly to your pussy like it's a person, his voice low and ragged, whispering how good it is, how perfect it feels for him. "Fuck, baby, you're so fucking sweet.. So good for me. God, I'm never letting you go." He kisses it like it's his lips, muttering praises to it while his tongue laps you up.

Yandere bully who gets so messy and sloppy, his face drenched with your slick, but he doesn't care. The more you give him, the more he wants, making filthy, lewd noises as he fuck you with his tongue. "Shit... I can't get enough. I need more, more of you." He's never satisfied, his fingers spreading you open just so he can see how you pulse for him.

Yandere bully who doesn't just lick, he makes love to your pussy with his mouth, slow at first, dragging his tongue in long strokes like he's savoring every taste. Then he's frantic, desperate, his lips locking around your clit, sucking so hard you can't hold back your moans, and he loves it. "Fuck, baby, you're so wet for me. Keep making those sounds, I'm fucking addicted to this."

Yandere bully who can't keep his hands off, always pinching and smacking your pussy between sloppy licks, just to watch it bounce and twitch under his touch. "God, I love seeing you like this, so swollen and needy for me." He'd smack it again, the sound so lewd it makes you blush.

Yandere bully who loves to spits on your pussy, his eyes dark with lust as he watches his saliva drip onto you before diving in with his tongue. "Look at this, baby. So fucking messy for me, just how I like it." He grins, dragging his tongue through the wetness and your slick, slurping noisily like he's savoring every second of it.

Yandere bully who bites your pussy just to see your reaction, his teeth grazing over your swollen lips, nipping at your sensitive skin. "Come on, baby, don't squirm. You know you love it when I get a little rough with you." His voice is low, teasing, as he watches your body jerk at the sensation. He alternates between soft kisses and sharp bites, pushing your limits.

Yandere bully who buries his face deeper, tongue pushing into you as far as it can go while his nose grinds against your clit. He groans with each taste, like he's drowning in pleasure just from having you on his lips. "You're so fucking perfect. I could eat this forever:" His words are so slurred and desperate, like he's too far gone to think straight anymore.

Yandere bully who tells you he loves you for the first time when you squirt into his mouth, the taste driving him so insane that the confession slips out before he can stop it. "Fuck... I love you. I fucking love you." His voice is hoarse, and he's groaning like he's the one cumming, licking up every drop you give him as his face gets soaked in your release. He's a mess, panting, eyes wide as the reality of what he just said settles in, but he doesn't take it back.

Yandere bully who gets so overwhelmed eating you out that he cums in his pants without even touching himself, his body shaking with how much he's lost in it. He's a mess, his cock twitching in his soaked boxers while he keeps his mouth on you. "Oh god.. fuck.. I'm cumming... I can't- shit-"And even after he cums, he still doesn't stop, licking up every drop of you like it's his lifeline.

Yandere bully who grinds himself against the bed, getting off just by eating you out, humping the mattress as he moans into you, obsessed with how you taste and feel. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum just like this... you're too fucking good. I can't take it..."

Yandere bully who stays between your legs even after you're spent, lazily licking and kissing, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. "l'm not done... Stay still..." His voice is low, almost hoarse, as he presses one last kiss against your pussy, so utterly drunk on it that he can't stop himself.

Yandere bully who takes so many pictures of your pussy that his phone is filled with them. He's got one as his lock screen, grinning every time he unlocks his phone and sees it there. "God, you're so fucking pretty. I can't get enough." He pulls out his phone to take even more photos when you're spread out for him, snapping pictures while muttering to himself about how perfect you look. He's gross, but he doesn't care-he's obsessed with having every part of you to himself.

Yandere bully who wants to shave you himself, his hands steady as he moves the razor over your skin, but it always ends the same way-with him making you cum so hard that your pussy is swollen and puffy by the time he's done. "You look so cute like this... all swollen for me." His fingers trace over your sensitive skin, teasing you even more, knowing you're already overstimulated. He never stops until you've cum over and over again, leaving you a trembling, swollen mess.

Yandere bully who isn't satisfied until he's made you cum more times than you can count, watching you shake and scream, completely addicted to the way your body reacts. "Look at you.. all mine. No one else gets to touch you like this. Only me." He's possessive, obsessed, and so pussy-drunk that he's practically begging for more, even when you can't take it anymore.

Yandere bully who cries when you cum on his tongue, so overwhelmed by how sweet you taste that tears well up in his eyes. He's moaning and sobbing, his face soaked with a mixture of your wetness and his tears. "You're so fucking sweet.. so perfect... fuck, I can't take it..."He presses his face deeper into you, tongue flicking desperately, crying with how much he loves the way you feel.

Yandere bully who steals your dirty panties every chance he gets, slipping them into his pocket when you're not looking. He hides them away just so he can sniff and lick them later, getting off to your scent like a total pervert. "God, you smell so fucking good.. I can't stop thinking about İt." He presses the fabric to his nose, groaning as he grinds against the bed, cumming hard while licking your panties, completely high.

Yandere bully who can be the meanest, most disgusting version of himself, using your body for his pleasure, but you can feel the way he's addicted to you, how much he needs to please you. It's a twisted game between love and hate-he's cruel, mean, but the moment he's got his hands on you, he can't stop himself from worshipping you in the most filthy, desperate ways possible.

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[haobae]

‎. ܢ ̼̻ ⠀ 🀢͟ ͟ ✧ ꫶ࣺ᭮᭰ ⠀⣬ ♥︎

ूूूੂ ⸻ morir de la pena

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣬ ♥︎⠀⠀⠀Temple ⠀Of ⠀Love

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✿‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ༚༅༚˳ ᨶᯃྀི ✿

⠀

[ojiito]

             

                    𓂂  ケ̥ ׅ֯ー 𐇽۫キ   ♡͙ႉ

         

[j-eongs]

ㅤ𐙚 ㅤ ׁ ㅤ˳ ㅤ ✿ㅤ ㅤ 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌ㅤ ,ㅤ 𝗂 ' 𝗏𝖾ㅤ ㅤ𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽ㅤ 𝗒𝗈𝗎ㅤ 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆ㅤ ㅤ𝗍𝗁𝖾ㅤ ㅤ𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭.ㅤ ㅤ

forㅤ@gigittamicㅤ♡

[amourx]

ㅤHot & Cold ˖࣪ ༻ 💧🍵

[orkdea]

"A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism." 。。。 　 ♥︎

運命の囁き —ㅤㅤ ㅤ▌│█║▌║▌║ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ🕷

[lnvierno]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⿻ ˚̣̣ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣⠀⠀ Let's dance 𓆃  ⡴ 

[devoildrs]

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤBEAUTY AND THE BEASTㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Sun Wukong x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How would he be when he's obsessed?

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

It starts like a whisper.

He sees you once. Just once.

A mortal. Small, soft, fleeting. Beautiful, in the way flowers are beautiful before a storm rips through the valley. You were helping someone—you always are. You give without asking. You smile with the kind of kindness that gods have long since forgotten.

And Wukong watches.

Perched high on a crag, cloaked in fog and shadow. His golden eyes slit against the wind, tail flicking slowly behind him, like a tiger considering prey. But it isn’t hunger that stirs in him. Not yet.

It’s curiosity. Then fascination. Then obsession.

He doesn’t approach you. Not at first.

You’re mortal. He is not.

He is chaos and violence and divinity twisted into a monkey's form. He is the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. He is not meant for tenderness. He doesn’t feel the same way others do—he feels more. Louder. Like a storm slamming against the gates of the underworld.

He follows you instead.

Silently.

Wukong watches the way you braid your hair in the morning. Watches how your lips move when you whisper prayers. He’s crouched on rooftops and in trees, clinging to shadows like moss. You start to notice things missing: fallen petals placed on your windowsill, golden hairs clinging to your blankets, footprints that don’t belong to anyone human.

You think it’s a spirit.

You're not entirely wrong.

He grows restless.

You spoke to a man.

You laughed. Touched his arm. Wukong saw. He was right there. His claws gouged the bark of the tree he clung to. His tail lashed like a whip.

He thinks of turning that man inside out. Making a necklace from his bones. He doesn’t, but only because you might cry.

(He doesn’t want you to fear him. He wants you to love him.)

So he gets... clever.

He disguises himself. Not fully. Not well. He comes to you as a traveler, as a wanderer in need of rest. The moment your eyes land on him, his body goes hot. He thinks he might burn the entire village down just to feel your gaze again.

You offer him food. Shelter. You laugh at his riddles, even when they don’t make sense.

You’re not afraid of him.

He’s doomed.

The obsession turns physical.

He finds ways to be closer.

He brushes your shoulder when he passes. Steals the comb from your room just to breathe you in. He sleeps where your scent lingers longest. He’s feral about it—he thinks of biting your clothes, marking you with his teeth, claiming you in every way the beast in him understands.

Wukong carves your name into trees. Into stone. Onto his staff.

He mutters it like a mantra when he kills. You become his prayer, his divine purpose, his everything. The gods call him mad—he was already mad long before this. But now, you are the madness.

And he likes it.

He starts dreaming of you.

Gods don’t dream. But monsters do.

He dreams of you wrapped in his tail, riding on his back as he soars across heaven. He dreams of you sleeping in his lap, smiling at him like you’ve known him across lifetimes. He dreams of you begging him not to leave, kissing his jaw, whispering how much you need him.

He wakes up hard, wild-eyed, snarling. Kills three demons in a row just to cool down.

He’s not sure he can live without making you real in his arms.

He decides you belong to him.

Not in a way that he says out loud. No—he acts it.

You wake up to a golden hair curled around your finger. Your door opens by itself. No one can touch you without getting sick. The man who once flirted with you? Gone. The monk who tried to take you on pilgrimage? Dead by “mysterious demon attack.”

He stares at you when you sleep. Doesn’t blink.

He talks to you in riddles and parables, but the meaning is always the same:

I love you. I need you. I will never let you go.

He thinks about kidnapping you often. Taking you to his hidden temple, binding you in silks and worshipping you as a goddess until you forget the outside world. He doesn’t do it—yet. He’s waiting. Waiting for you to love him first.

(Or at least say you do.)

When you smile at him?

It’s over.

Wukong lets out a broken laugh. Loud. Joyful. Frightening.

That smile becomes sacred to him. You could slit his throat with it and he’d thank you. He begins to spiral, sees your face in flowers, hears your voice in wind. You touch his arm and he falls to his knees like you’ve blessed him.

He tells you you’re divine. That you were born from lotus and moonlight. That he saw you before he ever tasted sunlight. That the world existed only to create you.

He swears himself to you. Calls you “my moon,” “my soft one,” “my little heart.”

He’ll kill for you. Die for you. But most of all:

He’ll make sure you never leave.

It happens slowly.

A shift in the wind. A shadow across the moon. The kind of change that only someone truly paying attention would notice.

Wukong stops smiling with his mouth.

He starts smiling with his teeth.

You were kind to him again.

You stitched a tear in his robe. You brushed a stray leaf from his hair. You called him "friend"—and that word sliced through his chest like a blade.

Friend.

He laughed too loudly when you said it. His golden eyes didn’t crinkle like they used to.

The night after that, he sat on the roof of your home in the rain, whispering your name a thousand times over. Each time softer. Each time more broken.

He starts talking to you in ways you don’t understand.

“You’re not meant to be here,” he says one morning. “Not with them. They don’t see you like I do.”

You laugh nervously. “Wukong—”

“You don’t belong to this world. I’ve seen it, little flower. You were carved from stardust. You’re not like the rest.”

And then he stares. For too long. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he’s wondering if he can rip out his own heart and place it in your hands and if that would finally be enough.

Your life starts to fall apart.

Small things at first. A cracked wheel. A spoiled crop. The village elder dies mysteriously. The people whisper that you’re cursed—that you brought something unnatural with you.

And he’s always there. Comforting. Sweet. Smiling.

“I’ll protect you,” he says. “Even if the whole world burns.”

You start to feel like a butterfly pinned under glass.

You try to leave.

Only once.

Your bag is packed. You don’t leave a note. You tell no one. You slip out at dawn, your steps careful and quiet.

But he’s waiting for you in the forest.

Perched in a tree. Legs swinging. A smile on his face.

“You dropped this,” he says, holding up your scarf. His voice is honey, but there’s a tremble under it.

You don’t run. You don’t scream. You just... stare.

And his smile fades.

“…Why?” he asks. Soft. Hurt.

You don’t have an answer.

He drops down from the tree. Walks slowly. Hands raised like you’re a frightened animal and he’s trying not to startle you. And when he reaches you, he kneels. Claws digging into the dirt. Head bowed.

“I would never hurt you,” he whispers. “But I can’t live without you.”

He takes you.

It’s not violent. It’s not dramatic.

One night, he scoops you into his arms while you sleep. Cradles you like something sacred. You wake up to the sky bleeding with starlight, curled into him as he runs across mountains and clouds.

You scream. You hit him. You beg.

He doesn’t let go.

He carries you to a place forgotten by time. A ruined temple wrapped in mist and flowers. He lays you gently on a bed of silks, brushes your hair back, kisses your forehead.

“You’ll be happy here,” he murmurs. “I’ll make sure of it.”

You cry the first week.

You scream the second.

You go silent the third.

He tries everything to make you smile. Dances. Jokes. Stories from the heavens. He brings you flowers that don’t exist in the mortal world, serves you tea that glows with starlight, wraps his tail around your ankle while you sleep.

But your eyes don’t shine anymore.

And that kills him.

The bitter truth?

He loves you.

But he’s breaking you.

He knows. He can feel it in the way you flinch when he touches your hand. The way your laugh sounds like sorrow. The way your body stills when he whispers how much he adores you.

He wants to let you go. He tries.

But his hands won’t open. His heart won’t stop. He’s tasted your presence and now the absence feels like drowning in a sea of stars.

And then one day...

You touch his cheek.

You don’t say anything. You just look at him—really look. At the beast, the god, the broken thing who loves you too much to set you free.

Your eyes are tired. But there’s no hate in them.

Just... acceptance.

And that breaks him.

That night, Wukong curls around you like a dying flame.

He presses his forehead to yours. Trembling. Barely breathing.

“You were supposed to save me,” he says. “Not stay.”

And you whisper:

“I didn’t stay. You kept me.”

And for once, he doesn’t argue.

He just weeps.

Wukong begins to change.

Not in a way you expect. Not into something worse.

He becomes quiet.

Still obsessed. Still in love. Still hopeless.

But he stops trying to make you smile.

He just watches you now.

From doorways. From mountaintops. From across the room with those burning gold eyes that flicker when you breathe too deeply or look like you might run again.

You live in a soft golden cage.

It’s peaceful. Beautiful. A fantasy.

He cooks for you. Sleeps near you. Hums strange songs while brushing your hair.

But he doesn’t touch you unless you allow it.

And when you speak, he listens like your voice is the wind that moves the heavens.

It hurts, sometimes.

Because you know he’s still trying so hard to be what he thinks you want.

And you wonder if his madness is quieter now because it’s sinking deeper.

One night you wake up to sobbing.

You find him in the temple garden. On his knees in the moonlight.

Claw marks in the earth. His staff thrown aside. His tail limp behind him like a broken thread.

He’s crying. Ugly. Raw. Like someone bleeding from the soul.

You’ve never seen him like this.

Not Wukong, the arrogant king. Not the demon who stole you from the world.

But Sun Wukong, the lost thing. The lonely creature who once believed he could become a god and now only wants you to look at him like he’s human.

You don’t speak. You sit beside him. Slowly. Quietly.

After a long time, he says, “I hurt you.”

You don’t answer.

He turns his head toward you. His voice cracks:

“I don’t know how to love you right. But I love you so much, I’m going to rot from it.”

You close your eyes. The wind moves through the trees like breath.

“…I know,” you whisper.

After that, something shifts.

He stops calling you “mine.”

He starts calling you by your name again.

You notice he gives you space, but he’s always close.

He leaves gifts outside your room—simple ones. A fruit that tastes like honey. A carved wooden figure of you. A silk ribbon for your hair.

You start talking to him more. Not because you love him.

But because the silence feels lonelier now than he does.

You start to see what he used to be.

Not the madness. Not the cruelty.

But the playfulness. The joy. The mischief and the grief of someone who wanted to belong and never did.

He lets you ask him anything.

He tells you about Heaven. About the gods who mocked him. The chains. The mountain. The endless sky he stared at for five hundred years.

He tells you about the dream he had once—about protecting something instead of destroying it.

You say: “You could’ve been good.”

He says: “I still can be. If you teach me.”

Maybe he isn’t just obsessed.

Maybe he’s mourning.

Mourning the version of himself he lost.

Mourning the life he could have had with you if he’d only been better. Kinder. Less cruel.

You don’t forgive him. Not yet.

But you begin to feel the echo of something tender.

You touch his hand one morning. Just briefly.

His whole body shudders like the heavens cracked open.

And that night, when he falls asleep curled around your side—clutching your wrist like a child with a lifeline—you don’t pull away.

You let him stay.

You should hate him.

He stole you.

He trapped you.

He made you forget the smell of your village, the sound of your friends’ voices, the way your own name sounded when spoken without reverence.

And yet.

You wake up now to the sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

You feel his tail twitch when you shift beside him.

You feel his hand always near—not gripping, not restraining. Just there. In case you need it.

Like he’s guarding something precious.

Like you are something he’ll die to protect.

You test him.

You ask, “What would you do if I left now?”

His expression breaks.

But he bows his head. His voice is soft. Sincere.

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

You blink. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he says. “But I’d follow you.”

“…To bring me back?”

“To see where you go. To make sure you’re safe.”

He smiles, slow and crooked. “I’m too selfish to stay behind. But I won’t steal you again. Not like that. Not if it makes you look at me like I’m a monster.”

And then he says something that ruins you a little:

“Even if you never love me, I still belong to you.”

It starts small.

You laugh at his joke. Just once. His eyes light up like he saw the sun rise after centuries of darkness.

You braid his hair one evening because it’s wild and tangled. His ears twitch the whole time. He doesn’t speak. He just leans into your touch like it’s holy.

One day, you call him “Wukong” and not “hey” or “you” or “demon.”

He repeats it under his breath for hours. Like a prayer.

And when he makes you tea, and you say “thank you,”

He stares down at the cup in his hands and quietly says:

“This must be what heaven feels like.”

You begin to miss him when he’s gone.

Only for a moment.

Only when he’s quiet for too long or disappears into the mountains for a day to hunt or gather or simply escape himself.

But you find yourself glancing at the door. Waiting for the sound of his voice. The thud of his staff. The rustle of his fur-lined robe.

You realize you trust him now.

Not because he earned it—but because he keeps choosing you over his own hunger.

And that means something.

One night, you speak first.

“You scare me sometimes,” you admit.

He stiffens. His whole body tenses like he’s ready to vanish.

“But I feel safe with you,” you add. “I don’t know how that works.”

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“You should’ve been a goddess,” he says, brokenly. “You forgive like one.”

You shake your head. “I’m not forgiving you. I’m still here. That’s all.”

And that night, when he kisses your hand before bed,

You don’t pull away.

You let him press his forehead to your palm. Let him tremble. Let him whisper thank you, thank you, thank you into your skin like a starving man at a feast.

You almost love him.

Not because he’s gentle now. Not because he’s beautiful or strong or speaks to you like you hung the stars.

But because when you cry, he cries with you.

When you bleed, he shakes with rage.

When you smile—truly smile—he touches his chest like he can’t believe his heart still works.

You find yourself hoping he never dies.

You find yourself wishing he’d never stolen you—so you could’ve met him another way. A softer way. A life where maybe you could’ve fallen for him freely.

But this is the life you have now.

You sit beside him in the ruins of the world.

He leans his head on your shoulder, eyes glowing like the sun behind clouds.

You don’t speak. You don’t move.

You just stay.

And in his silence, you feel it—

He’d burn down the heavens for you.

But he won’t ask you for love again. Not unless you offer it.

And somehow, that’s the cruelest, sweetest thing of all.

— MASTERLIST ☆

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

[notaguia]

bios + pngs + symbols ❤️

ᅠ͟͟𝚝͟͟𝚞́͟͟ 🌳 𝚟𝚘𝚣 ✿ ͏ᣟ݂ ࿔⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ⋆

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ͟͟͟͟͟͟͟͟𝙷͟͟͟͟͟͟𝚎͟͟͟𝚊͟͟͟𝚛͟͟͟𝚝͟͟͟ 🌸 𝚋͟͟𝚎͟͟𝚊͟͟͟𝚝͟͟͟

𝙳𝚞𝚕𝚌𝚎 ㅤㅤᨶᯃ✿͙⃜｡･ㅤ𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚘́𝚗

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤyou,　✝️ㅤ𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 ✧✦ 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍

𓆡𓆡*･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡あなたは私がかつて知っていた人とは違う

𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖺ㅤㅤ一我們愛 🌸♩ ㅤ ♩⡈꫶᳝᳜ᰯ✿͏ ❀꫶᳜᳝ᰭ ❤︎

𓋵࣬‧͙ ̩̩͙*˚ ʕ̢·͡˔·⑅ɂ̡̣♥︎ ຼᬉ ˁっ˕ ྀིˀ   🤍⬬᳝᳜࡙ @ notaguia

海のカタツムリ, 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊_𝚌𝚘𝚕 🍀 💌.

[v6que]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ribbon and lace dividers ♡ ྀི

ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ㅤㅤedited by me

ㅤㅤㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏

ㅤ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏

[rottenfyre]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐅: 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘈𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘈𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳.

The nursery was a whirlwind of noise as Aegon and Aemond, stood nose-to-nose, arguing fiercely. Their baby sister sat on a blanket nearby, her wide violet eyes watching them with a mix of curiosity and confusion.

“She likes playing with me more!” Aegon insisted, his voice rising as he pointed toward their sister. “I’m the one who makes her laugh!”

“No, she likes me better!” Aemond shot back, crossing his arms defiantly. “I’m the one who reads to her!”

Their bickering continued, growing louder with each passing moment, neither of them noticing the soft patter of tiny footsteps approaching. Little Daeron toddled into the room, his big eyes full of innocence. He looked from Aegon to Aemond, then over to his sister, who was sitting quietly on her blanket, seemingly forgotten by her squabbling brothers.

Without making a sound, Daeron walked over to his sister, his steps wobbly but determined. He reached out with his small hands, and she, always delighted by her youngest brother, lifted her arms toward him. With surprising ease for his age, Daeron picked her up, wrapping his little arms around her as he balanced her on his hip.

The older boys were so engrossed in their argument that they didn’t notice as Daeron carefully carried their sister out of the nursery, her giggles muffled as she snuggled against him. He navigated the corridors with surprising confidence, eventually finding his way to the garden, where the late afternoon sun bathed the roses in a warm, golden light.

Daeron gently set his sister down between the tall rose bushes, their vibrant blooms towering over her. She giggled again, reaching out to touch the soft petals of a nearby flower. Daeron watched her for a moment, a wide smile on his face, before carefully plucking a small rose. He held it delicately in his tiny hands, just as he had seen the maids do, and then leaned in to tuck it into her hair.

“There,” he said in his sweet voice, his words still slightly lisped. “Pretty.”

His sister beamed at him, her little hands clapping in delight as she reached up to touch the flower in her hair. Daeron’s smile widened, and he began to hum a tune—one of the lullabies he had heard their mother sing. His voice was soft and uncertain, but the simple melody seemed to enchant his sister, who watched him with adoration in her eyes.

Meanwhile, back in the nursery, Aegon and Aemond’s argument had finally come to an abrupt halt when they realized their sister was nowhere to be found.

“Where is she?!” Aegon asked, his voice tinged with panic as he looked around the empty room.

Aemond’s face had gone pale, his one good eye wide with fear. “She’s gone!” he cried, the beginnings of tears forming in his eyes. “We lost her!”

The two brothers tore through the Red Keep in a frantic search, their hearts pounding in their chests. Servants were questioned, corridors were scoured, and they even checked behind the curtains in every room. But there was no sign of their sister.

Finally, they reached the garden, bursting through the door with wild, desperate energy. Aegon was ready to yell out for help, his voice rising in a cry that was sure to bring the whole Keep running, when he suddenly stopped short.

There, nestled between the rose bushes, was their baby sister, sitting comfortably in Daeron’s lap. The tiny boy was still humming his lullaby, his chubby fingers gently combing through her silver hair as she gazed up at him with adoration. And then, to the utter shock of Aegon and Aemond, she leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on Daeron’s lips, her expression filled with innocent affection.

Daeron giggled, delighted by the kiss, and wrapped his little arms around her in a tight hug. She responded by snuggling into his neck, hiding her face shyly as if to escape the world in the safety of her youngest brother’s embrace.

Aegon and Aemond stood frozen in place, their jaws dropping in unison. The jealousy that coursed through them was almost palpable, their earlier argument now seeming insignificant in the face of this new development.

“How did he—” Aegon started, his voice a mix of disbelief and frustration.

Aemond, still stunned, could only shake his head. “She kissed him,” he murmured, as if saying it aloud would make it any less unbelievable.

Daeron, completely aware of the turmoil he had caused, simply looked up at his older brothers with a straight face. “We playing,” he explained in his cold voice, as if he didn't wanted them here.

Finally, Aegon stepped forward, reaching out to take his sister from Daeron’s lap. “Come here,” he said softly, his voice gentler now as he lifted her into his arms. She looked up at him with those big, trusting eyes, and his heart melted all over again.

Aemond joined them, standing close as he reached out to stroke her hair, his earlier panic forgotten. “We were so worried about you,” he murmured, his voice filled with relief.

But their sister, still cuddled against Aegon’s chest, just giggled and reached back toward Daeron, making it clear she wanted to keep playing. Daeron, proud of his little adventure, stood up and toddled over to them, his smile as bright as the sun.

“She's mine,” he said, more sharp this time, and the two older boys couldn't help but be scared of his tone.

Part 1 ♡ Part 2

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[haobae]

məni ⠀bu⠀ qədər⠀ sevdin, ⠀mən ⠀heç⠀ vaxt⠀ bu sahibsiz⠀ olmamışam. ⠀Eu ⠀não ⠀sei⠀ como⠀ parar.

you're⠀ killing ⠀me⠀ softly,⠀ I ⠀don't⠀ wanna⠀ lose you. ⠀məhəbbətim ⠀həmişə⠀ həqiqət⠀ olub.