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

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSHINY NIPPLESㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : When you want to pierce their nipples.

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

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

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

You mention it casually. Maybe you’re straddling him post-mission, running your fingers over his thick chest, biting your lip while you say,

“You’d look so good with nipple piercings… Can I do it?”

Bruce raises a brow like you just offered to tattoo the Bat-symbol on his forehead.

“Absolutely not.”

But fast-forward to a few nights later… he catches you staring at his chest again. Touching him a little longer. Grazing your thumb over his nipple like you’re testing him.

You get that glint in your eye and whisper,

“What if I do it while you’re asleep?”

And he growls, “You wouldn’t dare.”

But you know what makes him cave?

You lean in and kiss his chest, mouth warm and soft, and murmur, “Please, Daddy. Just one. For me.”

His hands grip your waist. He sighs. And he lets you do it—only under strict supervision, in your bed, with sterile everything. The second the metal’s in and you flick it, his jaw tenses hard.

He’s not gonna admit he likes it. But he definitely likes it.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

You barely have to suggest it. All you do is coo, “Have you ever thought about getting your nipples pierced?” and Dick’s like:

“Wait… why haven’t I already?”

He’s already shirtless, flexing, doing little poses in the mirror:

“Would it be one or both? Rings or bars? Wait, can I get glow-in-the-dark?”

You tell him you’ll do it yourself and suddenly he’s spread out across your bed, tongue out like a puppy, whining, “Do it, baby. Make me pretty.”

And he is pretty with them—especially when you pull on them with your teeth and he makes a mess in your thighs.

Bonus: He takes off his shirt in the kitchen the next day like it’s nothing, and Alfred nearly drops a teacup.

— JASON TODD ⋆

You bring it up when he’s lounging shirtless on your couch.

“You’d look so hot with pierced nipples.”

He scoffs.

“What, so you can yank ‘em when I piss you off?”

You smirk. “Exactly.”

Jason acts like it’s dumb—like he’d never—but you catch him scrolling through piercing pics that night when he thinks you’re asleep. He’s way too curious.

And eventually, he lets you do it.

“Fine. One. Just one. If you laugh, I’m walking out.”

He’s tense the whole time, swearing under his breath, clenching his fists… until it’s done. Then you kiss the ring and say, “So good for me,” and he literally shivers.

Now he wears loose shirts around you and lowkey begs you to touch it.

“You gonna play with it or what?”

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

You suggest it during a post-workout shower. You’re so casual about it:

“You’ve got perfect nipples. I should pierce them.”

He freezes like a cat caught mid-pounce.

“You what?”

Cue the scoff. The offended silence. The, “My body is a temple” line.

But you’re persistent. And one day, you crawl into his lap, straddle him, kiss his chest, and say,

“Let me do it bsby. Don't you love me?”

Something clicks in him. He doesn’t say yes out loud, but the next day? He hands you a piercing kit in a silk-lined box and mutters,

“Don’t mess it up.”

He winces. Growls. Nearly breaks your hand gripping it during the actual piercing.

But afterward?

He’s obsessed.

Always asking, “Do you like them?”

And growling if you don’t touch them before bed.

— TERRY MCGINNIS ⋆

You’re laying on his chest, tracing his pecs, and casually say,

“I wanna pierce your nipples. Like… tonight.”

He snorts.

“You’re insane.”

But his voice is a little too tight. His face is a little too red. He plays it off with that cocky smirk, “What would Bruce say?”

And you grin back, “Who cares? I wanna see them glint when you take off the Batsuit.”

You tease him until he folds—he always folds for you.

He winces when you pierce them, fists gripping the sheets, teeth gritted. But the moment it’s over and you kiss them, he’s a whimpering mess.

Lowkey gets obsessed after. Keeps sending you pics.

“Tell me I look good, baby.”

And when you suck on them while he’s in the suit? It’s game over.

— BARRY GORDON ⋆

Barry blushes so hard you think he’s gonna pass out when you bring it up.

“I-I’m not sure that’s… sanitary? Or practical? Or—"

You shut him up with a kiss, straddle his lap, and whisper,

“But it’ll make me happy. And you like making me happy, don’t you?”

He does. So much. Too much.

He panics during the process, even with you being ultra-gentle. He’s sweating, babbling, holding your hand like you’re performing surgery.

But when it’s done? He stares at them in the mirror for like 10 minutes.

“...I kinda look hot.”

And then, when you pull on one with your teeth and he moans, Barry realizes he’s doomed.

Now he has a spreadsheet of outfits that’ll show just a hint of the jewelry.

And yes, he will totally let you tug them when he misbehaves.

— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆

You tell him you want to pierce his nipples, and he just tilts his head.

No words. Just intense eye contact.

You can’t tell if he’s into it or not until he shows up later, shirt off, lays flat on the bed, and signs:

“Do it.”

Zero flinching. Zero fear. He watches your face the whole time, studying every reaction like it’s a mission.

But afterward, when you gently kiss the fresh metal, he shivers. His breathing stutters.

Cassian won’t say it, but he loves the pain. Loves the attention. Loves how your eyes sparkle when you look at them.

Secretly pulls on them when he’s thinking about you.

Will literally let you chain them together and lead him around like your little pup.

— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆

You don’t even finish the sentence before he’s blurting,

“YES. OH MY GOD. Yes. Please.”

He’s so eager it’s almost embarrassing. You’re like,

“You know it’s gonna hurt, right?”

And he just wiggles in place like an excited puppy.

“Yeah but like… in a hot way???”

Stephen’s babbling the whole time you do it. Gasping, whining, cursing.

“Ow—ow—owwww—wait that actually feels kinda good—are you a witch???”

Afterward, he’s shirtless for everything. Laundry? Shirtless. Grocery shopping? Tank top. Patrol? Low-cut suit.

“Do they sparkle in the moonlight? Babe? Be honest.”

And when you grab both at once and twist?

He makes noises no grown man should make.

— 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 ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏

[luvpixx]

┊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 ˖࣪ ༻ 💧🍵

[devoildrs]

[orkdea]

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

運命の囁き —ㅤㅤ ㅤ▌│█║▌║▌║ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ🕷

[lnvierno]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⿻ ˚̣̣ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣⠀⠀ Let's dance 𓆃  ⡴ 

[gulnarsultan]

🔥

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤTHE SLAVEㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Messmer The Impaler x Fem Reader

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

☆⁠ NOTES : NSFW contacts, minors DNI. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It began, as many cruel things do, with fire.

You were not born into freedom. You were taken—a child from a razed village, spared only because Messmer had looked down at your dirt-covered face through the smoke and found it… interesting. Pretty, perhaps. Or maybe just different enough to keep. You didn’t know. You were brought to the castle in chains.

And you stayed.

Not because you wanted to—but because he did.

At first, you were just another slave in Messmer’s grand, crumbling world of flame and rot. You scrubbed floors, carried torches, fetched his wine and did not speak unless spoken to. You were meant to be invisible.

But Messmer saw you. Always.

The way your eyes narrowed when he barked commands. How you did not tremble like the others. The way your hands clenched at your sides in silent defiance. You hated him, and he knew it—and it thrilled him.

No one dared defy the Impaler, not truly. But you did, even if it was in small, petty, beautiful ways.

So he made you his personal servant. A leash around your neck, disguised as favor.

You were never allowed to leave his side. You stood behind his throne during war meetings. Sat on the floor beside his bed as he sharpened his weapons. Tended to his wounds in silence.

But he began to speak more. Not like a king to a slave—but like a man to a woman. Telling you of his birth, of betrayal, of how the flame inside him ached constantly and burned everything he touched.

He would whisper while you changed his bandages:

“I could burn the world, and they would still deny me. But you… you look at me without fear. Do not lie—I know you do.”

And when you tried to answer coldly, tried to keep that spark of rebellion in your gaze—he smiled. Like it excited him.

He watches you constantly.

If you speak too long to a knight—they disappear. If you cry, he sits with you in silence, not out of kindness, but because your pain is his to witness. No one else.

He burns a soldier alive for giving you a flower.

He gifts you a necklace made of scorched bone and expects you to wear it. When you hesitate, he grips your throat—not to hurt, but to remind.

“You are mine. You have always been mine. Even before you knew me.”

He does not trust you—because he needs you. And the thought of losing you, of your eyes looking at someone else with softness—he cannot bear it.

He once chained you to his bed for a week because you tried to run.

“Do you not see? The world outside is ash. Only I keep you alive. Only I love you in this cruel world.”

And maybe you believed him. Just a little.

But it wasn’t always cruelty.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, he would sit on the edge of your cot and watch you sleep. He would reach out, fingertips trembling, and almost touch your cheek—but never quite.

One night, he laid beside you, fully armored, and whispered:

“I would set myself aflame before letting them take you from me.”

When you cried from the nightmare of the impaled bodies, he let you sleep in his bed. Held you too tight, too possessively—but held you nonetheless.

He doesn’t understand gentleness. But he tries—for you.

Once, he brought you a book of poetry. Another time, a burned doll from a village he destroyed, and he apologized when you wept.

Messmer doesn’t know what love is.

But he knows you.

And that’s enough.

You tried to run again.

It was stupid. Desperate. There were no stars in this part of the world—only smoke, and ruin, and Messmer’s shadow.

But still, you fled barefoot, bleeding across stone, through corridors lit by flame and lined with bodies—some impaled, others rotting. The castle wept, as if it knew what you were doing.

You almost made it to the outer wall.

Almost.

You didn't hear his footsteps. You never did.

Just the rush of heat behind you, like a fever ripping through your spine. The scent of blood and embers. And then—his voice. Low. Gentle.

Too gentle.

“...You disappoint me.”

You didn’t stop. Not until the fire danced around your feet, forcing you back.

You stumbled, fell.

And then he was there—in front of you. Not raising his hand. Not shouting.

That would’ve been better.

Instead, he stared at you. Like a man looking at the only thing in the world worth keeping.

“You were not made for this. You are not wind, or storm, or wild thing. You are mine. Meant to be held. To be kept.”

You spat at his boots.

And he knelt beside you, not to strike—but to brush a curl behind your ear with bloodstained fingers.

“I don’t enjoy this, you know. I would rather you love me willingly. But if I must keep you in chains until your soul bends toward mine… then so be it.”

He lifted you into his arms as if you weighed nothing, ignoring your fists against his chest. His armor burned hot.

He did not carry you back to your servant's quarters.

He carried you to his bed.

The room was dim, lit by only a single brazier, but the shadows trembled—reacting to his mood.

You were thrown onto silken sheets with no ceremony. You crawled back, rage in your throat—but Messmer only watched. Breathing hard.

Like he was trying to calm himself.

Like if he touched you wrong, he might break you.

“I could kill every knight in this castle, and it would not mean what you mean. Do you understand what you’ve done to me?”

He removed his gauntlets. One by one.

“I was born in flame. Raised in betrayal. My own mother fed me to the shadows.”

He was closer now. On his knees before the bed.

“But you… You defy me. You return to me. Again and again. Even your hatred feels like worship.”

You turned away, furious. Trembling.

And then he said it:

“If I were to die tonight… if Marika herself ran me through… I would find you in the afterlife, and drag you with me.”

That night, he didn’t touch you.

Not truly.

He laid beside you. Breathing your air. Watching the tear roll down your cheek.

And he whispered:

“I want you to forgive me.”

Your silence was a blade.

And he welcomed it.

“You won’t. I know. But I will earn you. Flame takes what it wants—but I will earn you.”

He stayed awake long after you slept, fingers barely grazing your wrist.

Like if he held you any tighter, you’d vanish.

Like you were the last good thing the fire hadn’t destroyed.

After that you weren’t allowed to leave his chambers. Not unless he carried you.

A golden collar replaced the chain, adorned with a fire opal.

He dressed you in red and black silks, made from the spoils of a conquered kingdom.

He combed your hair. Fed you by hand. Bathed you when your fingers trembled from hunger.

And every night—every single night—he whispered the same thing:

“You are the only creature I cannot impale.”

The night it finally happens, it is not with rage.

It is not during one of his fits of fury or when the madness of the flame consumes him.

It is in silence.

You are sitting by the window, wrapped in a cloak he gave you. You’ve long stopped asking for privacy—Messmer doesn’t believe in it. You haven’t been alone in months. Even when he sleeps, his hand rests on your hip.

But tonight, he’s quiet. Watching.

As always.

His voice comes, low and hoarse, like he’s trying not to scare you.

“I dream of you.”

You don’t answer.

“You sit on my throne. My sword in your lap. Blood on your mouth. And I kneel between your legs like a sinner.”

Your body stills.

You’re used to his muttering. His declarations of possession. Of destiny. But this—this sounds human.

You turn to find him already beside you, kneeling like the dream he just spoke of. His gloved hands slowly remove the cloak, baring your shoulders. He watches your expression closely, searching for terror or surrender.

And you give him neither.

So he keeps going.

His hand is warm against your thigh. Not burning—but close. Always close. Like he’s one blink from losing control.

He murmurs into your ear:

“No man has touched you. I can smell it. You’re pure. Untouched. Meant for me.”

You try to pull away, but his hand locks around your waist and pulls you into his lap—onto his armored thigh.

“I don’t want to hurt you. But I will. If you try to leave me again. Do you understand?”

Your breath hitches. His lips brush your neck.

“I will ruin you so thoroughly, no one else will want you. You’ll cry out my name in your sleep and wake up wet, aching.”

His hand slips between your legs.

You clench your thighs, humiliated by how easily your body betrays you—heat rising where it shouldn’t.

He notices.

Oh, he notices.

“There. There it is,” he whispers, half-mad with pleasure. “You feel it too.”

He doesn’t undress you completely.

He lifts your dress. Tears your underthings with one hand. He’s trembling—he is the one shaking, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like this moment is sacred.

And it is not gentle.

He uses spit and fingers first, rough and desperate, making you whimper, stretch, burn. He kisses your cheek, then your neck, your shoulder—whispers your name like a prayer between thrusts of his fingers.

“You were made for this. Say it.”

You bite your lip.

He pushes deeper.

“Say it.”

“I was made for this,” you whisper, humiliated, eyes full of tears. “Made for you.”

He groans like you’ve stabbed him with pleasure.

Then, he takes you.

He doesn’t stop.

Not after the first time. Not after the second. Your body learns the rhythm of him—how he rolls his hips, how he bites your throat when he finishes, how he buries his face in your chest afterward like a starving man finally fed.

“You’re mine now. No god, no knight, no flame will take you.”

You wake sore and sorely loved.

There is blood on the sheets.

And flame curling at the edges of the window, licking the stone with joy.

He holds you in his lap the morning after, dressing you in silk with his own hands.

“You are not a slave,” he says, voice soft. “You are my queen. My love. My ruin.”

You don’t respond.

You just look out the window.

You still think of running.

But you know what waits beyond the walls.

And worse…

He would follow.

You knew before the blood stopped.

Before the nausea.

Before the midwife confirmed it.

You knew the moment your body felt heavier beneath his touch—like it wasn’t yours anymore. Like something had taken root inside you, fed by your flesh and blood.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry.

You went quiet.

And you never touched him again.

You stopped fighting him months ago.

You obeyed him in every way but one—you refused to love him.

That was always the one thing he wanted most.

And now, as your belly swells with his child, you stop even pretending.

You don’t speak.

You don’t cry out when he kisses you.

You don’t look at him.

You lie on your side, facing the wall, and let him curl around your back like a wolf who thinks the deer will love him if he don't bare his teeth.

“You won’t speak to me?” he murmurs one night, hand resting on your stomach.

You say nothing.

“You carry my heir. The first child of fire. And you dare give me your silence?”

You close your eyes.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

He grabs your chin. Turns your face. And for the first time, he looks afraid.

Because your eyes are empty.

He begins to burn things again.

Statues. Knights. Entire villages.

Not because you tried to escape—you don’t even try anymore—but because you won’t laugh. Or cry. Or scream.

You won't tell him he's real.

He brings you gifts. Books you used to love. Dresses from ruined kingdoms. A harp carved from the bones of a demigod.

You never touch them.

“What would make you smile?” he whispers one night, cupping your cheek, voice raw. “Tell me, and I will bring it to you on my knees.”

Still—you say nothing.

“You were more alive as a slave,” he snarls, standing up, pacing like a man possessed. “You fought me. You wept. You bled. And now you lie here like a corpse and expect me to call it peace?!”

The flame flares at his feet.

You don’t flinch.

You just place a hand over your stomach. Protective. Detached.

He watches.

His voice softens, almost childlike:

“Will you love them?”

You blink.

“The babe. Will you love it?”

Still, you don’t answer.

But you do look at him.

And the hatred in your eyes is so pure it sickens him.

He builds a nursery.

It’s beautiful. Opulent. Built with blood and gold and sacred flame.

He designs every inch himself. Paints fire lilies on the ceiling with his own fingers.

And when he shows it to you, expectant, proud—waiting for praise like a boy waiting for his mother—

You only ask:

“Is this where you’ll keep them locked too?”

He slaps you.

Hard.

For the first time.

And you smile.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

But because you finally saw him crack.

“Go ahead,” you whisper, cheek blooming red. “Show them what kind of father you’ll be.”

He leaves the room without a word.

But that night, you find scorch marks on the nursery floor.

He couldn’t control it.

He never could.

By the seventh month, you cannot walk without help. Your ankles swell. Your breath is short. You vomit blood.

The midwives fear to tell him, but you don’t.

You start smiling more. But it’s the kind of smile that makes men uneasy. The kind that tastes of venom.

When he enters your chambers, you always greet him the same way now:

“Come to watch me rot, my love?”

Messmer doesn't answer.

He sits beside you. Brushes your hair. Kisses your stomach.

And you let him—because letting him now feels like poison in his mouth.

You talk to the baby when he’s near.

“You poor thing. Born into a cruel world. Do you know your father is a god? A pathetic one?”

He grips the edge of the bed so hard the wood cracks. But he doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t burn the room.

He just says:

“You’ll forget all of this when you hold them. You’ll forgive me.”

You laugh.

“I’ll die before I forgive you.”

And some part of him begins to believe it.

It begins with a scream at dusk.

Blood on the sheets. Pain like iron ripping through your spine. You fall sideways, crawling in agony, dragging yourself across the floor before the handmaidens rush in screaming.

He’s there in moments.

The flame dances around him like it feels your death coming and welcomes it.

You’re shrieking. Spitting blood. Scratching at the floors like you could crawl out of your own skin.

Messmer kneels beside you, eyes wide, helpless.

“Make it stop,” you gasp. “Kill me. Do it. Burn me. Do it.”

He takes your hand instead.

“No. You live. You stay. You don’t leave me.”

Two days.

Forty hours of labor.

You scream until your voice is gone. Until your throat is torn raw and your eyes roll back. The castle smells like copper and sweat.

And finally—finally—the wail of a child.

They place the babe in Messmer’s arms, wreathed in a veil of heat that doesn’t burn. The infant doesn’t cry long. Its little eyes are golden. Its skin glows faintly, just like the fire in him.

He turns to you—triumphant.

“Our child—”

And sees it.

The blood. Too much. Spilling from between your legs.

The stillness in your face.

The way your chest rises but never falls.

You are dying.

He rushes to your side, handing the baby to a maid with trembling hands.

He cradles your face.

“No. No, no—look at me. Look at me.”

You do.

For the last time.

Eyes rimmed in red. Pale lips cracked.

And smiling.

So faint. So cruel.

“You win, Messmer,” you breathe. “You finally got everything.”

Your voice is hoarse. Rattling. Drenched in death.

“I wish I died before you ever touched me.”

He sobs. Real sobs. The kind he never allowed himself as a man, or a demigod.

“Don’t leave me. Please.”

You stare through him. Through flame. Through time.

“I hate you... so much...”

You cough blood onto his hand. Your body shudders.

“Messmer the Impaler,” you whisper. “Can’t even keep one woman alive.”

“Stay,” Messmer pleads. “Just stay—”

You grip his wrist with the last of your strength.

“Even death’s better than looking at your face.”

You stare at him.

There’s blood on your teeth when you smile.

A slow, ugly, vile smile.

His eyes widen. His breath catches.

And then you laugh. Soft. Broken.

“You’ll still come kiss my corpse, won’t you?”

And with that—

Your eyes go dull.

Your mouth stays curled in a bitter little smirk.

You die in his arms, hating him with your last breath.

The silence after is holy.

Not even the fire crackles.

He doesn’t scream.

He just sits there. Holding your body. Listening to the child fuss in the next room.

The woman he ruined.

The queen he made.

The grave he carved with kisses.

— 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 ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏͏ ͏͏

[luvpixx]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤMILKY TEETHㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Aegon II Targaryen x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : Before the Dance of the Dragons. Aegon was a toddler. You were a young girl chosen to serve as his wet nurse and caretaker. You did not choose this life.

☆⁠ NOTES : Gifs belong to @erinmakesgifs. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

They give you to the Prince when you are barely a woman. Fourteen summers, not yet healed from the birth of your own bastard child—dead now, still as milk. A sin scrubbed away in the quiet halls of the Great Sept, where you begged for a second chance. You only wanted peace.

But peace is not a coin easily bought in King’s Landing. You are paid in screams and silver. Your name disappears the moment Queen’s handmaids take you into the nursery and say:

“He won’t feed from anyone else. You’ll do.”

He is beautiful. All Targaryens are.

Pale-haired, violet-eyed, soft as silk and loud as hell. At first, you are moved—guilt swims like sickness in your belly when he suckles from your breast and holds on to your shift with greedy fists. He is a babe, helpless and wailing for comfort. And you are a girl who knows too well what it means to bleed and to lose and to be left behind.

You are a child yourself. You don’t know how to soothe a child.

He cries. All the time.

There is no silence when you are with Aegon. No stillness. He shrieks like a wounded thing, red-faced and inconsolable, flailing in the cradle until his fingers find your hair and rip. You learn to braid it tightly, high and away from his reach, but he always finds new ways to hurt you.

Sometimes he bites—deep, bruising bites on the skin of your shoulder or the swell of your breast. Once, he threw a golden rattle at your face so hard it split your lip.

You didn’t cry then. But you will.

He refuses to sleep unless you're there.

Not a maid, not a Septa, not his mother. You.

You sleep on the floor beside his cradle, curled up in the cold with nothing but your shawl. Every time you move, he wakes. Screaming. You hum lullabies your own mother sang to you, lullabies you now hate, lullabies you’d rather forget.

The other wet nurses whisper behind their hands that the Prince is cursed. A demon in a child’s skin. But when you hold him—when he finally quiets in your arms and looks up at you with those impossible eyes—he does not look like a curse.

He looks like a boy who was born hungry. And never stopped.

He clings.

He toddles after you now, on chubby legs. Clutching your skirts, drooling on your apron, burying his face against your stomach as if he could melt into you. You push him off gently. Then more firmly. He wails every time. Alicent nods with approval—“He trusts you,” she says—but you do not feel trusted. You feel trapped.

You cry for the first time when he calls you ‘Mother.’

It’s a slip. A drowsy whisper in the dark, when he tugs on your sleeve and reaches up for comfort.

“Mama…”

“No,” you breathe, shaking your head. “No, I’m not—”

But he is already asleep again, tiny hand clutched around your finger like a chain.

You curl away from him and sob into your palms.

You are so tired.

So, so tired.

But at the end of the day, he is just a child.

A spoiled one. A violent one. A little prince with too much teeth and too little love.

You don’t love him.

But you keep showing up. You keep holding him when he cries. You keep singing those cursed lullabies. Because he is a boy with no warmth in his family, and you are a girl with no child to hold.

And somewhere, in that emptiness between you, something grows.

“The dragon chooses his rider,” the maesters say.

They just never tell you what happens when the rider is only a girl…

…and the dragon is still learning how to burn.

There’s a moment—every night, without fail—when your headache blooms behind your eyes like wildfire.

It starts soft, a dull throb. You try to ignore it. You always do. You sing. You rock him in your arms. You pace barefoot across the nursery’s cold stone floors until your knees ache and your arms go numb.

But the moment always comes.

“Nngh—aaaAAAHHHHHH!”

Aegon screams again. Not soft, not gentle—loud, like he’s being flayed alive.

You flinch. You’ve done everything.

He’s fed. Changed. Bathed. Rocked. Cuddled.

And still, he screams.

Your arms shake with exhaustion, sweat slicking your back, and when you press him to your shoulder, you whisper through clenched teeth:

“Please, just—just shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up—”

He kicks you in the stomach. Hard.

You gasp and nearly drop him.

Your eyes burn. Your throat burns. Your whole body aches.

He throws his little fists at your chest, red-faced and soaking your shift with hot tears and spit. Your head pounds like war drums. Your temples throb. It’s always like this now—every night worse than the last. You haven't slept in weeks. You haven’t been a girl in months. You’re just his shadow. His toy. His rag to tear at and suckle and scream for.

You slide to the floor, back pressed against the cradle. He cries in your lap. You press your palms to your eyes and cry with him.

“Just shut up,” you sob, voice shaking. “Please, I’m so tired—I’m so tired, just sleep, Aegon, please—”

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

Instead, he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks.

You scream.

He laughs.

“That’s enough.” You slap his hand away.

It’s the first time you’ve ever done it.

You regret it instantly—but gods, you couldn’t help it.

You’re not his mother. You never asked to be his nurse. You were just a girl who lost her child and needed coin. They didn’t tell you that this one would steal the rest of your soul.

He falls silent—startled, blinking up at you with trembling lips.

Then his face crumples.

And he begins to howl.

You try to pick him up again. You try to soothe him, desperate and guilty, pressing him to your chest and rocking, rocking, rocking—

“I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please—”

But he doesn’t understand apologies. Or boundaries. Or how many times you’ve sat on this floor and cried until your chest hurt because no one else will take him.

Only you.

Always you.

They say you’re lucky. The Queen smiles when she hears her son won’t sleep without you. The King never notices.

“You’ve bonded,” they say.

Like it’s something holy.

Like it’s something beautiful.

But you know what it really is.

Aegon doesn’t love you. He needs you. And that need will never be gentle.

He is a dragonling—untamed, feral, starving for warmth he was never taught to give. And you are the girl who keeps feeding the fire with your body, your voice, your very sanity, hoping one day it will burn less.

It never does.

That night, he finally sleeps in your arms.

Fists curled in your shift.

Mouth slack.

Warm. Heavy. Quiet.

You don’t sleep.

You stare at the ceiling, eyes open, head pounding.

And wonder if this is what being a mother feels like:

Endless giving. Endless silence. And a child who only knows how to scream.

Time passes in aching hours and sleepless years.

You grow. Your face sharpens. Your spine straightens. You no longer tremble when he throws things—just flinch, sigh, and pick up the shattered pieces. You’ve learned how to speak without softness, how to keep your hair high and your sleeves long. You’ve grown tired of apologizing for things you didn’t do.

But he doesn’t grow. Not really.

You dread the evenings.

Because the moment the sun begins to set, he remembers you aren’t always there.

And the tantrum begins.

It starts with stomping.

“YOU LIED TO ME!” he shrieks, tiny hands balled into fists. “You said you’d come back after breakfast—it was supper!”

His voice echoes across the garden, too loud for a prince, too loud for a boy. He’s seven now—practically feral, hair unbrushed, hands ink-stained, cheeks red with fury.

You stand at the door, body heavy with shame and exhaustion. The other servants whisper about you. The Queen avoids your gaze. The Septa told you he should be punished, but no one dares.

Because he’s a prince.

Because he’s Alicent’s boy.

Because he only stops when you touch him.

He runs at you. Tiny fists slamming into your hips, your thighs, your stomach.

You don’t stop him.

“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

You close your eyes. Your head is already pounding. You worked all day—sewing, scrubbing, trying to earn something real. Something outside of this hell.

But the moment you return to your chambers, there he is. Screaming. Red-faced. Wild.

“I WAITED ALL DAY—YOU’RE MINE! MINE!”

You kneel. Take his arms gently. “My prince. Please. I’m tired. Let’s rest—”

He spits in your face.

And then starts crying.

It’s always like this.

Slap. Scream. Cry. Cling.

He bites your wrist as you try to unlace your boots. He yells when you try to leave the room. He throws food, knocks over candle stands, bangs his fists into the wall, into you.

And the moment you snap—just one sharp word, one frustrated cry—

He crumbles.

“Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go—”

He sobs into your skirts. He grabs at your waist, your sleeves, your hands. “I’ll die if you leave. I’ll scream forever.”

And he would.

He has.

You rock him, the way you did when he was three. Four. Five. You hum some song you barely remember from your mother’s voice.

You cry.

He doesn't notice.

He only wraps his arms around your neck, buries his snotty face in your shoulder, and says:

“You’re the only one who stays.”

He gives you things.

Badly folded parchment hearts. Broken toys. Feathers he finds in the garden. Half a stolen apple.

Once, a dead bird.

You said it was cruel. He said it was a gift, a hunt.

You buried it behind the Septa’s quarters and pretended it never happened.

One night, he kicks you in the shin when you try to leave.

You yell—finally, loudly—“STOP IT! STOP! I’M NOT YOUR MOTHER!”

And the silence that follows is so cold it makes your stomach twist.

He stares at you. And his lip quivers. And for the first time in a long time, he looks like just a boy.

Small. Pale. Lost.

Then he screams.

“I HATE YOU! I’LL TELL MOTHER TO CUT OFF YOUR HEAD! I’LL—I’LL—I’LL MAKE YOU DIE!”

You sit down on the floor and cry with him.

And somehow, every night ends the same.

With your back against the bedpost.

With him curled into your side, still hiccupping from the storm.

His thumb in his mouth. His fingers tangled in your hair.

You whisper nothing. You feel nothing. You're too tired.

And as he finally drifts off, warm breath on your neck, he mumbles—

“Don’t leave me tomorrow, please.”

You don't answer.

Because you already know you will.

And that he’ll never forgive you.

Even if he’s too small to understand why.

It happens on a rainy morning.

You try to slip from his bed before dawn—quiet as ever, careful not to wake him. He’s clung to you all night, legs and arms tangled like ivy, breath damp on your neck. You’re sore. Your shift is damp with spit. His nails left red half-moons on your arms from when he held too tight in his sleep.

You need a moment alone.

Just one.

But the moment your foot hits the floor—

“Where are you going?”

He’s sitting up, eyes wild, hair a white-gold halo against the pillow.

You freeze. “Aegon—sweetling. I just need a basin. I’ll come back—”

“Liar.”

He screams it.

“YOU’RE LYING! YOU WERE LEAVING ME!”

Then he throws the candleholder.

It misses your head by inches, crashes into the wall with a sharp metallic clang. Before you can flinch, he’s off the bed—barefoot, in his nightclothes—and shoves you back with surprising force.

You stumble.

“YOU SAID YOU’D STAY FOREVER!”

You raise your hands. “Aegon. Aegon, please, I—”

SLAP.

The sound stings more than the strike. You gasp.

And he gasps too. Like he didn’t mean to. Like the monster just slipped out.

Silence.

He stares at his hand.

You touch your cheek. It’s warm.

He starts crying.

“I didn’t mean—don’t go—I didn’t—please—”

You back away. “I need to speak to the Septa. I need air. I need—”

But he’s faster.

He runs to the door and locks it. Click.

Then stands in front of it like a guard.

“You’re mine.” His voice trembles. “You said I could have one thing. One thing in the whole world. And I chose you.”

You sink to the floor.

Your head hurts again. A sharp, twisting pain right behind your eyes. You press your palms to your temples.

He’s crouching now. In front of you.

Watching you cry like it’s a painting he can’t quite understand.

He leans in. Touches your knee.

Then your cheek. His small fingers shake.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. And then—a kiss.

Soft. On the cheek he hit.

“Don’t cry. I’ll make it better. Look—I drew this.”

He pulls out a crumpled bit of parchment from beneath his pillow.

It’s you.

Badly drawn, lopsided, but smiling. Holding his hand. The sun above your heads looks like a spiky yellow spider.

“This is us. When you stay. And we never fight again.”

He places it in your lap like a gift. Smiling wide now.

You can taste copper. You bit your tongue. There’s blood on your lip.

He doesn’t see it.

He just presses his face into your shoulder, humming some tune he made up, rocking slightly, clutching your arm like a doll.

“Everything’s fine now. Don’t be mad.”

You don’t speak.

Because you know the moment you say the truth—that this isn’t love, this isn’t safe, that you’re falling apart—

he’ll scream again. He’ll hurt you again. He’ll cry and beg and laugh and then—

kiss your wounds like it’s nothing.

He’s just a boy.

A very broken boy.

But you’re just a girl.

And you are not okay.

You don’t always hate it.

Not when it’s Aemond.

Sweet little Aemond, all soft-spoken eyes and milky hair, hands folded in his lap like he’s always afraid to take up too much space. He watches everything with those pale lilac eyes—wide, wondering. He follows you through the Keep like a shadow that never demands, only waits.

He listens.

When you tell him, “Don’t run in the hall,” he nods and slows his steps.

When you say, “Eat, sweetling. You must grow,” he takes another bite.

When you whisper, “Sit still, I’ll brush your hair,” he closes his eyes and hums.

His hair—

It’s not like Aegon’s.

Aemond’s hair is like silver rain. Like angel wings. Silk between your fingers. You lose yourself in the feel of it, brushing slow, again and again, humming lullabies your own mother once sang to you in a faraway village where dragons were only stories.

And when you braid the soft strands, he leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth.

You smile without meaning to.

You forget the bruises. The headaches. The locked doors and shattered candleholders.

But Aegon never forgets.

He watches you from the doorway. Lips twisted, fists clenched. He sees the way you coo when Aemond giggles. How you hold the younger boy’s chin gently when trimming his fringe. How you kiss the crown of his head without flinching.

You never do that to him.

You flinch when Aegon touches you now.

You never smile at his drawings anymore.

So he decides—

If Aemond weren’t here, maybe you would love him again.

“What’re you doing?” Aegon snaps, stepping into the room.

You glance up, brush still in hand. “Combing your brother's hair.”

He walks over. Pushes Aemond’s shoulder. Hard.

“Move. It’s my turn.”

“Aegon—” you warn. But Aemond already flinches, pulling away.

Aegon doesn’t wait. He shoves Aemond again. The younger boy yelps, stumbling onto the floor.

Before you can stop it—

“She doesn’t even like you, you know!” Aegon screams. “She just feels bad for you! With your stupid face! You cry like a girl!”

You’re on your feet now, pulling Aegon back.

“Aegon, stop it!”

He thrashes in your grip, screaming—

“WHY DO YOU LOVE HIM MORE THAN ME?”

Aemond sits on the floor, rubbing his arm, silent. A familiar, distant look in his pale eyes.

And Aegon—

Aegon is crying again. Loud, messy sobs like thunder tearing through a sky too small to hold him.

He claws at your sleeves. Buries his face in your chest. Soaks your shift with snot and spit and heat.

“You’re mine,” he sobs. “You’re supposed to be mine.”

You hold him. What else can you do?

Even as your hands shake. Even as you feel Aemond watching. Even as your throat closes.

Later that week, Aemond slips on the stairs.

He falls down six steps. Cuts his lip. Sprains his wrist.

You find Aegon later—hiding in your chambers, drawing a picture with black ink. He’s smiling.

The picture?

It’s you, holding only one boy.

A boy with curly white hair.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luvpixx. don't copy, use 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.