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hey this is kinda random but i lowk only just discovered ur blog and i saw ur pinned post and i just wanted to say that im really sorry that happened to u. ur an incredibly talented writer and the fanfiction community has been genuinely terrible recently, and as a writer myself i can only imagine how that sort of situation must feel. all this to say im really sorry that this happened and i think u are rlly good at writing and so descriptive and realistic, truly and deeply ur writing is so artful and just really interesting to read. take time to focus on urself and mental health, i hope u have a good day/night !!!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
โ Live Streamingโ Interactive Chatโ Private Showsโ HD Qualityโ Free Actions
Free to watch โข No registration required โข HD streaming
Actually, you notice it every Tuesday, and every Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and both weekend days if he can find an excuse to see you, but Tuesday is when you finally put a name to it.
Puppy.
Clark is a puppy.
He does this thing.
This thing where he waits for you by your locker every single morning, and you don't even know how he gets there before you because his family's farm is a forty minute drive from school and the bus doesn't run that early, but there he is. Every day. Backpack hanging off one shoulder. Flannel a little rumpled because he dressed in a hurry, probably, because he was so excited to see you.
And when you turn to the corner...
His whole face changes.
It's not even a smile at first. It's just... light.
Like someone flipped a switch inside him. His eyes go soft and bright at the same time, and his shoulders drop from whatever tense place they were holding, and he pushes off the lockers like he's been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.
"Hey," he says, and his voice does that breathy thing, like he's a little winded just from looking at you. "Hi. Good morning. You lookโyou look really nice today."
You're wearing the same sweater you always wear. Your hair is in a messy ponytail. You have a stain on your jeans from breakfast.
He's looking at you like you hung the stars.
"Hi, Clark," you say, and he shivers. Just a little. Just a tiny ripple through his shoulders, like your voice is a physical thing that touched him.
His ears go pink.
You don't mention it. You've learned not to mention the ear thing, because if you do, the pink spreads to his cheeks and down his neck and then he can't look at you for ten whole minutes and Chloe makes fun of him at lunch.
So you just smile and spin your locker combination and pretend you don't notice him hovering at your elbow.
He walks you to class.
Every class.
Even the ones on opposite sides of the building.
You have biology on the second floor and he has history in the basement, but somehow he's always there when the bell rings, a little out of breath, hair slightly windswept, holding out his hand for your books before you can even ask.
"Clark, you don't have toโ"
"I want to," he says, and it comes out so earnest, so fast, so harsh. "I mean. If that's okay. Unless you don't want me to. I can stop. Do you want me to stop?"
He looks genuinely panicked. His eyebrows knit together and his eyes go big and worried and he clutches your biology textbook to his chest like a lifeline.
You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
"It's okay, Clark. You can walk me."
And just like that, the sun comes back out. He beams. Beams. There's no other word for it. His whole body straightens up and his chest puffs out a little and he falls into step beside you.
Pete's standing there rolling his eyes and Chloe's hiding a smirk behind her notebook. Clark just smile. An awkward laugh.
Such a good boy.
In class, you sit by the window.
He sits two rows over and one seat back.
You can feel him looking at you. It's not creepy. It's never creepy (okay maybe a little. But it's Clark, what do you expect?). It's just... warm. A warm gaze on the back of your head, like sunlight through glass.
When you turn around to pass a handout, you catch him. He's got his chin propped on his hand and his pen hovering over a notebook and he's staring at you with this dreamy expression, like he forgot where he was.
His eyes widen when he realizes he's been caught.
He drops his pen. It clatters on the floor. He fumbles to pick it up and smacks his elbow on the desk and mutters "ow" and when he sits back up his hair is messy and his face is the color of a tomato.
You smile at him.
He smiles back, shaky and wide and so, so sweet.
Later, you find a folded note tucked into your textbook. It's a little star, drawn in blue ballpoint pen, with a speech bubble.
"thinking about u."
Then underneath, in his neat handwriting.
"Hope your bio quiz goes good. Not that you need luck. You're the most hardworking person I know."
You keep all his stupid notes in a shoebox under your bed.
Lunch is his favorite part.
You know this because he told you once, very seriously, that lunch was "the highlight of his whole day, probably his whole week, honestly maybe his whole life so far." Then he got embarrassed and tried to stuff an entire sandwich in his mouth so he wouldn't have to talk about it.
Heโs already at the table when you get there. Saved you a seat right next to him. Thereโs a brown paper bag in front of your spot and you recognize it immediatelyโMarthaโs baking. Clark pushes it toward you with this nervous little duck of his head.
โMa made apple pie. I told her you liked it so she, um. Made extra. For you. Specifically. I cut it into slices the way you like. Triangles, not squares.โ
You open the bag and thereโs a little note tucked inside. His handwriting. Messy, rushed, like he scribbled it in the tractor on the way to school.
"Hope todayโs a good day. You deserve it."
โC
Heโs not looking at you when you read it. Heโs very intently studying the cafeteria wall, ears turning pink. His knee is bouncing under the table and his fingers are shredding a napkin into tiny little snowflakes.
โClark, this is so sweet,โ
His head whips around and he smile.
Smile.
Like the sun came out.
Like you just gave him everything heโs ever wanted.
โYeah? Itโs nothing. Itโs just pie. Ma did the hard part. I justโ I just wanted you to have something nice. You work so hard. Youโre so smart. Youโre the smartest person I know, actually. Did you study for the biology test? I can quiz you if you want. I made flash cards.โ
He digs them out of his backpack. Handmade. Color coded. There are little stars drawn in the margins and your name at the top in careful block letters.
He made you fucking flash cards.
He's so fucking cute.
He barely eats his own lunch. Too busy watching you enjoy yours. Too busy making sure your water cup is full and you have enough napkins and nobodyโs bothering you.
At one point you catch him justโฆ staring. Chin propped on his hand. Eyes soft. A tiny smile playing at his lips.
โYouโre not eating,โ you say.
โIโm not hungry.โ
โClark.โ
โI ate a big breakfast.โ
You give him a look. He fall for it immediately.
โOkay, I forgot to eat breakfast. I was too busy thinking aboutโ about stuff. School stuff. Nothing weird.โ His ears are crimson now. He shoves a carrot stick in his mouth to prove heโs fine. Chews too fast. Almost chokes.
You pat his back and he nearly melts into a puddle under the cafeteria table.
God, heโs pathetic.
He's jealous. He's so jealous.
He doesn't mean to beโhe hates that he's jealous, you can see it on his faceโbut he can't help it. It's written all over him the second you so much as smile at another guy.
Whitney stops you in the hall to ask about a group project and Clark's immediately standing behind you.
Doesn't glare or puff up his chest or do any of that macho posturing stuff. He just stands there, hovering, his eyes big and worried, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.
Whitney leaves. Clark visibly exhales.
"Everything okay?" you ask, because you're not oblivious, you know exactly what's happening, you just want to hear him say it.
"Yeah," he says, too quickly. "Yeah, totally. Fine. Normal. I'm normal. He just... he's tall."
You raise an eyebrow. "Clark, you're taller than him."
"Oh." He pauses. Processes this. "Right. Yeah. I am." A beat. "Do you... do you like tall guys?"
You laugh. You can't help it. He looks so worried, so genuinely distressed by the possibility that you might have a height preference that doesn't include him, even though he towers over basically everyone in Smallville High.
"Clark," you say, and you let your voice go soft, the way you might talk to a nervous shelter dog. "You're my boyfriend. Okay? You're always my favourite."
His whole body sags with relief. He ducks his head, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Sweet.
Sometimes you catch him doing things.
Little things.
You'll drop your pencil and he'll catch it before it hits the ground, fast as a blink, and then look startled at his own hand like he doesn't know how it got there.
Or you'll shiver in the hallway and suddenly his jacket is around your shoulders, and he's standing there in his t shirt looking proud and nervous and a little cold (he's not), but he won't take it back no matter how much you try.
"Your lips were turning blue," he says, like that's a reasonable justification for giving you the clothes off his back.
"They were not."
"Were too. A little. Around the corner."
You squint at him. He squints back, stubborn, jaw set in his gentle way that means he's not budging.
You wear the jacket for the rest of the day. It smells like hay and laundry detergent, and when you give it back, he holds it to his chest for a full three seconds before putting it on.
Later, you'll swear you saw him inhale.
After school he finds you at your locker again.
He doesnโt even pretend he just happened to be passing by. Heโs leaning against the row of lockers across from yours, clearly waiting, arms full of your favorite wildflowers.
Black eyed Susans and goldenrod and a few cornflowers he definitely picked from the edge of the Kent property (just now).
โThese are for you,โ he says, and his voice cracks a little on you.
You take them. He watches your face like a hawk. He's nervous. You can tell.
โClark, theyโre beautiful.โ
Relief.
โYeah? Theyโre just weeds, really. I mean technically theyโre wildflowers butโ I saw them and thought of you. Theyโre the color of yourโ I mean they match yourโ theyโre pretty. Like you. Not that youโre a weed. Youโre definitely not a weed. Youโre more like aโ a rose? No, thatโs corny. Iโm gonna stop talking now.โ
He doesn't stop talking.
โDo you wanna come over? To the barn? We can watch the stars. Maโs making dinner, she said you can stay if you want, no pressure, totally fine if youโre busy, I just thought maybeโ itโs supposed to be clear tonight and I fixed the telescope and I found this new constellation I wanna show youโโ
You say yes.
He fist pumps.
Actually fist pumps.
Then immediately tries to play it cool by leaning on the lockers and misses, stumbling sideways, catching himself halfway through.
Smooth. So smooth.
The barn is your place.
You don't remember exactly when it became your place. Sometime between the first time he showed you the telescope and the first time you fell asleep on the old couch in the loft. Now it's just... yours. Yours and his.
Youโre curled up on the couch and heโs beside you, not quite touching, because heโs always so careful about that. He doesnโt want to assume. Doesnโt want to push. Even though he wants it with every cell in his body.
Heโs telling you about the stars. Pointing out Cassiopeia, his voice soft and a little sleepy. His flannel sleeve brushes your arm and he shivers. Heโs so easy. So sensitive. Everything you do gets to him.
โYouโre not listening,โ he says, and heโs smiling. Not mad. He could never be mad at you.
โIโm listening. Cassie something.โ
โCassiopeia. She was a queen who bragged too much and got put in the sky upside down.โ
โLike a punishment?โ
โYeah. But I think sheโs still pretty.โ
You're not looking at the stars.
You're looking at him.
The moonlight catches his profile, the soft angles and earnest expressions. His hair is slightly messy. There's a piece of hay in his hair from when he flopped down next to you. He's so beautiful it makes your chest ache.
โClark?โ
โYeah?โ He turns his head, and the full force of those pretty eyes hits you, and for a second you forget how to breathe.
"What's your favorite constellation?"
"Yours."
He doesn't even hesitate.
"Clark, that's notโ"
"The one that looks like you," he says, and he's blushing but he's pushing through it. "I haven't found it yet. But I'm looking. Every night. I'll find it eventually."
You have to close your eyes for a second. When you open them, he's still looking at you. Soft. Hopeful. A little nervous, like he's not sure if that was too much.
"That's really cheesy," you whisper.
"I know." He winces. "Was it too cheesy? It was too cheesy. Sorry. I've been workshopping it and I couldn't tell ifโ"
"Clark?"
"Yeah?"
"I liked it."
The smile that breaks across his face is brighter than every star in the sky.
He falls asleep on you.
It happens during movie night. You're halfway through some old Western his dad recommended, and Clark has been slowly, getting closer to you for the past hour.
First it was a casual arm over the back of the couch. Then it was his knee pressed against yours. Now his head is on your shoulder, heavy and warm, and his breathing has gone slow and deep.
You look down.
He's out. His cheek is smushed against your arm and his mouth is slightly open and he's making this tiny little sound with every exhale, almost a snore but too soft, too sweet.
He looks more sweet like this. All the worry is gone. He's just a boy. A sleeping boy who trust you enough to let his guard down completely.
You reach up and gently, brush the hair back from his forehead.
He stirs.
"Mm?" His eyes flutter open, unfocused and drowsy. "Whassat? Did Iโwas I sleeping on you? Oh no. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean toโ"
"Clark."
He freezes mid freakout.
"It's okay." You card your fingers through his hair. "Go back to sleep."
He stares at you for a long moment. His eyes are all soft and confused and vulnerable. Then he sighsโa happy sighโand lean back in your shoulder.
"'Kay," he mumbles. "G'night. Love you."
He freezes again.
Every muscle in his body goes rigid. You can feel him holding his breath, can feel him panicking.
You keep stroking his hair.
"Love you too," you murmur.
He melts. Literally melts, like butter in a hot pan, sinking into you with a whimper that's almost puppyish, almost a whine. His hand finds the edge of your sleeve and grips it, like he's keeping himself together, like he's afraid you'll disappear.
"You mean it?" His voice is so small. So hopeful.
"Of course I mean it."
He makes a sound that's half laugh and half sob and presses his face into your shoulder. His ears are bright red. His whole body is trembling slightly. He's so happy he doesn't know what to do with it.
"Cool," he says, muffled against your sweater. "Cool cool cool. That'sโwow. Okay. Good. I'mโI'm gonna be normal about this."
"Clark."
"Yes?"
"You're shaking."
"I know." He lets out a breathless laugh. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm justโyou saidโand I've been wanting to sayโfor like, two years, actually, andโ"
"Two years?"
"Maybe three. It's fine. I'm fine. This is fine."
He's definitely not fine.
You tug him closer and he goes willingly, eagerly, curling into your side like he was made to fit there.
"Good boy," you tease, soft and fond.
He makes a noise. A tiny, strangled noise, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. His head snaps up and his eyes are huge and his face is on fire.
"Did you justโ"
"Maybe."
"Can youโ" He swallows hard. His voice cracks. "Can you say it again?"
You smile. Brush your thumb across his cheekbone, right where his blush is deepest.
"You're my good boy, Clark."
He whimpers.
Then he buries his face in your neck and stays there, breathing you in, holding onto you like you're the only solid thing in the universe.
The movie plays on, forgotten.
Neither of you moves for a very long time.
In the morning, there's a note between your book.
It's a drawing of a constellationโa new one, one you don't recognize. It's shaped like a person, sort of, if you squint. A little crooked. A little imperfect.
Underneath it, it's Clark's handwriting.
"Found it. The one that looks like you. It's my new favorite."
โโโโโโโโ SYNOPSIS โ when you think they don't love you anymore.
๐ถ๐ป๐ฐ๐น๐๐ฑ๐ถ๐ป๐ด . dick grayson. jason todd.
๐ฐ๐ผ๐ป๐๐ฒ๐ป๐๐ . fem reader. obsession. unhealthy attachments. a lil bit of smut (๐ฝ๐๐ผ๐). toxic romance. they're both kinda insane. nothing serious dw. angst with comfort? โ แฐ
DICK GRAYSON
He notices before you say anything.
You stop reaching for his hand first.
You smile...
But it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
You start saying "it's okay" a little too quickly.
Like you're trying not to ask for too much.
But it's fine.
Dick fix it.
You're probably just tired.
You probably just need space.
It's fine he can do it.
He's giving you space.
See?
You should be comfortable now, right?
Right?
"So..."
Hmm?
"...do you still love me?"
What did you just say?
His stomach drops.
Did... did you just say that?
"What?"
"You don't have to lie."
"I'm notโ"
"I know people get tired."
Stop.
You're breaking his heart now.
How can you even compare him to other "people"?
He's not other people.
He's Dick. Dick Grayson.
The guy who stalked you for a whole year and then asked you out and has been pretending he likes My Little Pony for three years now because you have a stupid fucking obsession with it.
So no he's not OTHER people.
He's across the room before you can open your mouth again.
Both hands cupping your face.
"Look at me."
You do.
So pretty.
"I love you."
"..."
"I loved you this morning."
A kiss to your forehead.
"I loved you yesterday."
Another.
"I'll love you tomorrow."
Another.
"And every stupid Tuesday after that."
You're crying now.
Awww.
You're such a crybaby.
"Come here baby."
And you do.
You lean into him and let him finallyโfinally hold you.
Good girl.
Such a good fucking girl.
He spends the rest of the night reminding you.
How much he loves you. How much he wants you. How much he worship you.
He keeps your hips pinned to the bed with his mouth on your clit even though you just squirt in his mouth.
"D-Dick... please..."
Fuck...
You're shaking.
You're breathless.
You're crying from pleasure.
He missed this.
He fucking love this.
He fucking love you and your cute face and your bouncy tits and your soft thighs and your pretty pussyโ
Shit.
Did he just...
Damnit.
See what you do to him?
He just cum in his pants. It's all your fault.
And yet you're so fucking dumb you think he doesn't love youโ
No not dumb.
He actually don't like to use that word.
It's mean.
He don't want to be mean to you.
He loves you after all.
"Shhh baby don't cry. It's alright, it's over now."
Then he kiss your tears and do the things he does every night.
Little things.
Holding your hand.
Playing with your hair.
Looking at you every few seconds just to smile.
Pretty girl.
His dumb pretty girl.
JASON TODD
He laughs.
It's funny. So fucking funny.
"Good joke babe."
"..."
He actually wipe a tear away.
His baby got a great sense of humor.
Always making him smile and shit.
...
...?
Why are you looking at him like that?
Are you....
Are you actually serious?
"...what?"
"I think..."
You can't even finish.
Oh dollโ
"I think you stopped loving me."
...huh?
...he stopped...loving...you...?
His face goes blank.
It's your fault.
You see that Jason?
It's your fucking fault.
"No."
Yes it is.
You fucking cunt.
She fucking hates you.
She's just making excuses to get rid of you.
"..."
Yeah yeah see??
She's not saying anything.
You know it's true.
You're not enough.
You're not fucking enough for her.
Fucking useless worthless piece of meat.
Why don't you just pick your fucking gun and fucking shot yourselfโ
"No."
He says it louder.
He's shaking.
Like a fucking baby.
Pathetic.
"Who told you that?"
"No one."
"What did I do?"
"It's notโ"
"What did I do?"
Of course he did something.
Of course it's him.
He's always the fucking problem.
Ruining shits.
Fuck.
Was it because he beat that coffee guy?? But he was creeping on you!! He had to do something! Couldn't just let that mother fucker do whatever he wanted!!
And you thanked him!!!
Okay okay it wasn't that.
What else? What else? What else? What else did he do??
What did he do?? What did he do??? What did he do???? What the fuckโ
"I've just..."
You look away.
"You've been distant."
...
He closes his eyes.
Thanks fucking god.
He was actually about to put a bullet through his own head.
Okay it's fine everything's alright.
He got this. He got this.
"I'm sorry."
"Noโ"
"No."
He shakes his head. Give you his soft smile. His puppy eyes.
๐ฌ 11ย ย ๐ 298ย ย โค๏ธ 3172ย ยทย rare aesthetic: handsome mentally ill stalkers who don't stalk you because they're perverts, but because they're so e
A Twitter account (@pururuarts) has posted one of my dead dove fic (which now is deleted) with my name and everything and then they pretend as if they didn't know that it was a dead dove fic and they been making fun of me and shit like that. As if the first tag in the post wasn't "dead dove do not eat."
Like I literally tagged it but I guess some people just want to embarrass others.
Thank you all for your support until now. I had fun but I think I will stop writing in this account.
Don't worry I won't delete my account or my fics so you guys can read them <3
Sorry if I ever made you uncomfortable or upset. I am genuinely sorry.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
โ Live Streamingโ Interactive Chatโ Private Showsโ HD Qualityโ Free Actions
Free to watch โข No registration required โข HD streaming
ik that most fanfics r written by white ppl but its when they make it abundantly clear that the reader is supposed to be white that bothers me like damn u could at least try to make it less obvious
synopsisโโ :: โ imagine aerion being your shitty baby daddy.
includingโโ ! โ aerion targaryen. โถ
contentsโโ ! โ concept/part 1? dead dove : do not eat. psychological thriller. modern au. fem reader. teen pregnancy. obsession. aerion being a narcissist as usual. physical abuse. sexual abuse. psychological abuse. stockholm syndrome. masterlist. english is not my first language. based on real life relationships. this fic should not be romantize, it's meant to be disturbing. if you see this type of dynamic in real life or you're experiencing it, please get help. โถ
He wanted custody of your fucking kid.
How dare he.
How fucking dare he.
After eight years. Eight years of double shifts and overdue bills and falling asleep in your work uniform because you were too tired to take it off. And he shows up in a suit that costs more than you made last year and takes your son.
The boy you raised alone. The boy you fed while you went hungry. The boy who learned to walk in a rented room with no heat while you counted coins for the gas bill.
And now he has the nerveโthe audacityโto come back and try to take your son from you.
As if he has any rights.
As if heโs anything but a monster.
After everything he put you through. After he left you with nothing but a screaming baby in a house with no heat. No money. No support. Just a mattress on a moldy floor and a body that didn't feel like yours anymore.
You were nobody when he met you.
You were fifteen. He was seventeen. Beautiful. Silver gold hair and violet eyes that made girls in your neighborhood turn stupid. He could have had anyone. And he chose you. A girl from nothing. A girl with hand me down shoes and a mother who worked doubles at a laundromat.
He told you his father disowned him. Threw him out with nothing. Cut him off from the family fortune. Why? Because he fell in love with you.
"I gave up everything for you," he said, holding your face in his hands, eyes wet with tears you thought were real. "My inheritance. My family. My future. I chose you."
And you believed him. You were young and starving for someone to want you, and here was this golden prince saying you were worth more than a world.
You would have died for him.
You almost did.
You didn't know back then. You couldn't have known.
He started isolating you before you even noticed it was happening.
Your friend said something he didn't like. "She's disrespecting our relationship," he said. "If you loved me, you wouldn't let her talk to you like that." So you stopped talking to her.
Your cousin texted you too often. "She's obsessed with you. It's not healthy. She's trying to pull you away from me." Blocked.
Your sister said she didn't trust him. "She's jealous of what we have. She's always hated that you're happy. If you choose her over me, then you don't really love me." You chose him.
Within a year, he was the only person in your life. No friends. No family. No classmate who knew your name. Just him. He'd check your phone while you slept. He'd show up at your school unannounced to make sure you were really there. He'd time how long it took you to get home from the bus stop.
"If you ever leave me, I'd have nothing," he'd say. "You're all I have. I'd die without you."
It felt like love. You were too young to understand monsters don't have hearts.
When you got pregnant, he moved you to a different city. Somewhere nobody knew you.
A rented house with peeling linoleum and mice in the walls and neighbors who give you the disgusting look. He said it was a fresh start. He said he wanted to be a father. He said you'd be a real family.
You'd lie in bed at night and listen to rats scratching inside the drywall, feel them run across the floor inches from your head.
But he held you close and whispered, "This is just temporary. We're building something. You and me against the world." And you believed him. You pressed your face into his chest and inhaled his scent and told yourself love was supposed to be hard.
He couldn't keep a job.
He'd get one, hold it for maybe two weeks, then come home pissed. His boss was an idiot. His coworkers were out to get him. No one understood his potential. So you worked. Eight months pregnant, belly so heavy you couldn't see your feet, standing twelve hour shifts at a diner where the fry cook grabbed your ass and the manager docked your pay for bathroom breaks.
You'd come home with bleeding feet and swollen ankles, and he'd be on the couch, and he wouldn't even look up.
"You're late."
"The bus broke down. I swear."
"Did you talk to anyone? You smell like cigarettes. Were you at a bar? Were you letting men buy you drinks?"
"No. No, baby. I would never. I came straight home. I swear on the baby."
"Come here."
You'd kneel in front of the couch. He'd grab your chin, fingers digging into your jaw, and turn your face side to side like he was inspecting livestock. Then he'd let go and stroke your hair, gentle again.
"I just love you so much it makes me crazy. You know that, right? If you ever left me, I'd have nothing. I'd die. You don't want me to die, do you?"
"No. Never. I love you. I'm sorry I scared you."
"You're my good girl."
When you caught him cheating, he didn't apologize. He blamed you.
"You're never here. You're always working. What am I supposed to do? You left me in this disgusting house. This is your fault."
"But I'm working for usโfor the babyโ"
"I gave up everything for you!" He screamed it so close to your face you felt the spit. "My family. My future. I threw it all away for you, and you can't even be here when I need you. You're selfish. You're a worthless, selfish bitch."
You were the one who cried. You were the one who apologized. For working too much. For being pregnant. For being tired. For being ugly. For being a bad girlfriend. You begged him not to leave you. You promised you'd do better.
He let you cry for a while. Then he pulled you into a hug and kissed your forehead.
"Shh. I forgive you. I love you so much it makes me insane. You're my everything. You know that, right?"
"I know. I'm sorry. I'll be better."
"You're my good girl. Now get off the floor. You look disgusting."
The physical abuse escalated slowly.
A shove during an argument. A grip on your arm that left a mark. A slap when you talked back. And each time, it was your fault. You made him do it. You knew how he got when he was stressed. Why did you push him?
Giving birth was a nightmare.
You tore during delivery. Badly. You were in so much pain you couldn't walk. You couldn't sit without screaming. You were bleeding through pads every hour, feverish, your milk coming in so hard your chest felt like hot stones.
He sat in the corner of the hospital room, bored.
"Can you stop? You're embarrassing me. The nurses think I did something to you."
"Baby, I'm sorry, I can'tโI can't walkโ"
"You're being childish. Women give birth every day. Get up."
"B-But I can't."
Five minutes later, he grabbed your armโthe same arm where the IV had just been removed, still bruisedโand yanked you out of the bed. You hit the floor. Your stitches ripped. The pain was so white hot you didn't even make a sound. You just opened your mouth and nothing came out.
He dragged you to the car by your hair while you bled through your hospital gown.
At home, things got worse.
The baby cried. Babies do that. But Aerion couldn't stand it.
If the baby woke him up, it was your fault.
If the baby needed feeding while he was trying to talk to you you, it was your fault.
If the baby was colicky and screamed for hours while you walked circles in the dark, Aerion would come out of the bedroom, grab you by the throat, and slam you against the wall.
"Shut that thing up or I will."
If you were too exhausted to have sex with him six weeks postpartum, it was your fault.
"After everything I gave up for you," he'd say, fist clenched. "You can't even spread your legs? You're useless. Disgusting fucking pig."
The beatings became routine.
Not slaps. Closed fists. Steel toed boots. A cast iron skillet once, right across your lower back. You still can't stand for more than an hour without pain.
He broke your fingers one by one over the course of a year.
Your pinky first, because you burned his toast.
Your ring finger, because you forgot to buy his cigarettes.
Your middle finger, because you looked at him wrong.
Your index finger, because you asked him to please get a job.
Your thumb, because you flinched when he raised his hand, and flinching meant you thought he was a monster, and thinking he was a monster meant you didn't love him.
He dislocated your shoulder twice.
The second time, he refused to take you to the hospital.
"You'll tell them. You'll lie and tell them I did this and they'll take you away from me."
So you sat on the bathroom floor for four hours, arm hanging wrong, while he stood over you saying, "See how much I love you? I can't even let you go to the doctor because I can't lose you."
He shoved your head through the drywall in the hallway. The hole stayed there for months, and every time you passed it, you'd feel your skull pulse with the memory.
He once pressed a lit cigarette into your inner thigh while you were sleeping. You woke up screaming and he clamped a hand over your mouth and whispered, "Shh, you'll wake the baby."
One time you talked back.
Just once.
You said "please stop" during a beating and he interpreted that as defiance. He duct taped your mouth shut, zip tied your wrists to the radiator, and left you there for fourteen hours. You pissed yourself.
You cried until you couldn't breathe through your nose. When he finally cut you loose, he held you like a baby and cried and said he was so sorry, he just loved you so much, you made him so crazy, why did you make him do these things.
And you comforted him.
You, with the broken fingers and the bruised ribs and the piss soaked jeans, you held him and told him it was okay. That you forgave him. That you knew he didn't mean it.
The isolation deepened.
He took your phone most days. He disabled the internet. He told the neighbors you were mentally ill, unstable, that they shouldn't talk to you if you came knocking. He convinced the landlady you were a drug addict so she'd ignore any complaints.
You were trapped. Completely, utterly trapped in that house with him, and no one was coming.
He has "needs."
He didn't wait the six weeks the doctor told you. He didn't even wait two. You were still bleeding, still stitched, still leaking milk through your shirt, and he pushed you onto the mattress.
"I have needs. You're my girlfriend. This is your job."
When you cried, he said you were being dramatic.
When you bled through the sheets, he said it was disgusting and you should clean it up.
When you went numb and silent and stared at the ceiling until it was over, he kissed your forehead and said,
"See? That wasn't so bad. You're so good for me."
He'd wake you up in the middle of the night by climbing on top of you. Sometimes you didn't even fully wake upโyour body just learned to disassociate. You'd float somewhere near the ceiling while he did what he wanted.
He'd choke you during sex.
Not the playful kind. The kind where your vision went spotty and your hands clawed at his wrists and he'd whisper "shh, shh, almost there" while you fought for air.
Once, he held a pillow over your face the entire time. You clawed at his arms, your lungs screaming, and when you finally went limp, he pulled it off and kissed you and said,
"See? You can take it. My good girl."
He filmed it sometimes. On his phone.
He said it was for him, for when you were at work. He said it was proof that you loved him. You found out later he'd shown some of the videos to the girls he was cheating with. A little entertainment. A little "look at what my bitch lets me do."
He cheated constantly.
Openly. In your bed. On your couch.
He'd bring girls home while you were cleaning, hand them a drink, gesture at you like you were furniture.
"That's just my girlfriend. Don't mind her."
And you'd keep scrubbing. Keep your head down. Because if you said anything, you'd pay for it later in bruises.
One girl felt sorry for you.
"are you okay?" She asked when he went to the bathroom.
You didn't answer. You couldn't.
The next week, you saw her at the corner store with a split lip. He'd found out she'd talked to you. He'd gone back to "set her straight."
He told you about it later, proud. "No one disrespects my girl."
The mind games were worse than the beatings, in some ways. Because bruises fade. Broken bones heal. But the way he messed with your mindโthat never really went away.
"You're so fucking ugly when you cry. Look at yourself. Who would ever want this?"
"You're lucky I stay. No one else would touch you. Disgusting pig."
"I'm the only one who loves you. Your own mother doesn't call anymore. Your friends forgot you exist. You have nothing without me. You are nothing."
"If you ever left, I'd find you. And I'd kill you. And then I'd kill myself. And our son would be an orphan. Is that what you want? You want our son to be alone because you're too selfish?"
"I hit you because I love you. If I didn't care, I wouldn't bother. You make me feel so much it drives me insane. No one else has ever made me feel this way. You're special. You should be grateful."
"You drove me to this," he'd hiss, hands around your throat, thumbs pressing into your windpipe. "You made me like this. Before you, I was fine. I was happy. I was going to be someone. Now look at me. Living in this shithole with a pathetic cunt who can't even keep me satisfied. You ruined my life. You fucking ruined my life."
And you stayed quiet. You stayed small.
You covered the bruises with drugstore concealer and long sleeves in summer.
You smiled at the neighbors. You let him cheat. You let him mock your body in front of his friends.
You let him call you a whore, a pig, a worthless piece of shit who should be grateful he even let you breathe the same air.
Because you believed him.
God, you believed him with your whole heart.
You'd ruined him. You'd destroyed this beautiful, brilliant boy. He gave up his inheritance, his family, his entire world, and you couldn't even keep him happy.
So you kiss his fists after he hit you. You'd apologize for making him angry. You'd promise to be better. You'd promise to be good. You'd promise you'd never, ever leave.
"You love me?" he'd ask, voice suddenly soft, childlike, after the storm passed. "You really love me?"
"More than anything. More than my own life."
"Even after what I did?"
"You were upset. You didn't mean it. I know you love me."
"I do. I love you so much. You're the only one who understands me. You're my soulmate. We're going to be together forever, right? Promise me. Promise me you'll never leave."
"I promise. I swear on the baby. I'll never leave you."
Until one day he just... left.
You came home from the grocery store and his clothes were gone. His car was gone. The little bit of cash you'd hidden in the cereal box was gone. He left a note on the kitchen counter, written on the back of a takeout menu:
"You can keep the brat. I'm done."
It was after he left that you found out about the debt.
He had opened credit cards in your name. Seven of them. He'd maxed them all out and never paid a cent. Loans. Payday advances. A car loan for a car you never saw. He'd forged your signature on everything.
Your credit was destroyed. Your name was dirt. Collection agencies called you every hour, screaming, threatening. You couldn't rent an apartment. You couldn't get a loan. You couldn't even open a bank account.
He destroyed your life.
But your son kept you alive. Your beautiful boy with his silver hair and his serious little frown. He had Aerion's face but your heart. You knew it. You saw it every time he smiled at you, every time he patted your cheek with his sticky little hand and said "I love you, Mama."
You worked three jobs. You lived on ramen and tap water. You did everything you could. You never let him see you cry.
And now Aerion wanted to take him.
You'll never forget that courtroom. The wood paneling. The flag. The seal of the state. Aerion on the stand, lying through his perfect teeth.
"Yes, your honor, she kept my son from me for years."
"Yes, your honor, she has mental health problems."
"Yes, your honor, I just want what's best for my son. "
You sat in that courtroom and listened to them describe you as neglectful. Unhinged. A danger to your own child.
They brought up the eviction. The food stamps. The time you had a panic attack at parent teacher meeting and had to leave early. They twisted every scar he'd given you into proof that you were insane.
And Aerion sat there with his hands folded, looking sad. Looking disappointed. Looking like he genuinely love your son.
You started screaming.
You don't remember what you said. You just remember the bailiff's hands on your arms.
You remember your son's face in the back of the courtroom, crying.
You remember Aerion's smile โ quick, flickering, gone before anyone else could catch it.
You lost.
The day they came to take him, your son held onto your legs and screamed so hard he lost his voice.
"Mama, please, please don't let them take me, I'll be good, I promise I'll be good, please mama pleaseโ"
You couldn't save him.
You watched them buckle him into Aerion's car.
You watched his little hands pressed against the window.
You watched him mouth I love you through the glass.
And then they were gone.
And you were alone.
And the silence was louder than anything you'd ever heard.
Two days later, they send you an email.
Official. Signed by his lawyer.
"Pursuant to the custody agreement, you are hereby ordered to pay child support in the amount of $1,200 per month, effective immediately."
Ha.
Look at that.
Aerion fucking Targaryen โ trust fund baby, the man who's family had more wealth than you'd see in ten lifetimes โ
Wanted you to pay child support.
At least he lets you see your son.
Two hours a week. Every Thursday. Supervised visitation in a cold, gray room at a county facility. No contact outside of that. No phone calls. No letters. No nothing.
With him sitting right there.
Watching.
He's always there. He doesn't have to beโhe has money now, Daddy's money, he could pay someone, he could trust the systemโbut he comes anyway. Every single week. He sits in the corner with his legs crossed and his hands folded and he watches you like a hawk watches a mouse.
Your son is across the room today, building something with blocks. You're trying to focus on him, trying to memorize every detail of his face in case this is the last time you see it. But you can feel Aerion's eyes on you. You can always feel them.
"Your father took you back, I see."
You don't look at him. Your voice is flat, dead.
He chuckles. It's a soft, musical sound. He used to laugh like that when he'd buy you things after a bad night.
Here, baby, I got you these earrings. Don't they make up for it? Don't they?
"Of course. He's my father, after all."
After eight years. After everything. The prodigal son returns. All is forgiven. The poor can rot.
"You look tired," he says, tilting his head. His voice is light. Conversational. Almost pleasant. "Still working those dead end jobs, I assume?"
"Bills don't pay themselves."
"No. I suppose they don't. Especially not with your... situation."
He waves a hand vaguely, as if your entire existence is a minor inconvenience.
"I do hope the child support payments won't be too much of a burden. I made sure the court was reasonable."
You let out a short, hollow laugh. "Reasonable. Right."
"I could have asked for more. I didn't. You're welcome."
You just stare at him. The audacity.
"I bet the Lannisters aren't happy about it," you laugh. "I mean you almost killed their precious girl."
His smile shifted. Widened. Turned almost fond.
"Oh, you're jealous, I see."
Jealous?
He thought you were jealous. Of the fiance he'd put in the hospital before he ever touched you, the actual reason he was kicked out.
You open your mouth but nothing comes out.
What can you even say to a narcissist like him?
His gaze drifts over you. Lingering. Dissecting. You can feel it crawling over your skin, invasive and foul.
โSo...โ he murmurs, tilting his head.
Hmm?
โYou got a boyfriend or something?โ
If you want to be in my "shitty baby daddy" taglist let me know :)
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His love language is acts of service.
He read that somewhereโsome stupid quiz you made him takeไธand he latched onto it like a lifeline because it made him sound normal.
See?
See??
He's not a freak, he just likes doing things for you. It's a legitimate psychological concept. It's on the internet, go look it up. It's real.
He loves it when you want something from him. He lives for it. Thrives on it. Gets dizzy with it the second you so much as look at an empty glass.
You barely have to open your mouth. You just shift on the couch and sigh and he's already upright, already halfway to the kitchen, already aching.
"Water? Snacks? A blanket? Your heating pad? Do you want the kitten mug or the big one? Do youโ"
"Just water, baby."
Baby.
His knees almost buckle.
Focus.
Water. You need water. He can do that. He's getting you water. Look at him goไธsuch a good boyfriend, so attentive, so caring, he's fucking nailing this.
He pours the water so carefully. No ice. You don't like it too cold, it hurts your teeth, and he remembered that because he remembers everything about you, every tiny preference, every little sound you make when you're happy.
Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.
He hands you the glass with both hands like an offering at an altar. Bouncing a little on his heels. Doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until you take a sip and your throat moves and he's watching the little bob of it and his mouth is dry but that doesn't matter becauseโ
He have to be patient.
Waiting.
Just waiting for it.
Come on. Come on. Say it. Say the words. Give him the thing. He needs it.
"Thank you, love."
Oh.
The words hit his brain like a shot of something warm and syrupy. Thank you. You thanked him. He did good. He did good and you noticed and you said thank you and now he's standing there with his heart doing backflips in his chest.
He wants more. He wants you to say it again. He wants you to pat his head and tell him he did such a good job, that he's so helpful, that you don't know what you'd do without him. He's practically vibrating with it, this desperate, aching need for your approval, and it's pathetic, he knows it's pathetic, he's a grown man getting high off a thank you like it's a line of cokeโ
Cute isn't he?
No.
No, he's not cute.
He's a dog. A mangy. panting. desperate dog who just got a pat on the head for fetching.
And he gets hard like a dog in heat too.
Always hard.
Always.
You could ask him to pass the salt and he'd have to adjust himself under the table.
You could ask him to zip up your dress and his hands would shake and he'd have to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled just to keep from moaning at the brush of his knuckles against your spine.
What a loser, right?
His dick twitches.
Jesus Christ.
He's hard again.
Weirdo.
Disgusting.
Pervert.
He hates himself. He hates himself so fucking much.
Why can't he be normal? Why can't his dick just stay soft like a regular boyfriend instead of twitching every time you say his name? You're gonna hate him, aren't you?
Oh god oh god oh god.
You're gonna find out. You're going to hate him. You're going to leave him. You think he's disgusting. You think he's a creep. You're gonna leave him. You're gonna walkout that door and he'll never feel your eyes on him again and he'll die, he'll actually just curl up on the floor and stop breathing because what's the pointโ
"Such a good boy."
Huh?
Good boy??
Him???
He freezes.
Did you justไธdid those words actually come out of your mouth? Good boy.
Good. Boy.
And you're smiling.
You look so beautiful when you smile. Your soft eyes and your softer lips and the way your cheek creases just a little and he wants to lick it, he wants to suck that smile right off your face and swallow it whole so it lives inside him foreverโ
Nope.
Nope nope nope.
He's so hard he could die on spot.
"Um... excuse me."
The words come out strangled. He's already backing away, hands positioned awkwardly in front of his crotch like a teenager caught watching porn.
Smooth.
Real smooth.
You probably think he's having digestive issues. That's fine. That's better than the truth.
He immediately bolts to the bathroom, lock clicking behind him.
You don't know. You didn't see. You're not going to leave him. He won't let you leave him anyway. He'll lock the doors and he'll nail the windows shut and he'll chain you to bed and he'll chop your pretty legs off if he has toโ
no no no no no NO!!!
Don't think that. Don't you ever fucking think that about her. You sick fuck. How can you even imagine hurting her? Chopping off her perfect pretty legs? How dare you?? How fucking dare you???
If you do that you could never feel her thighs wrapped around your head while you suck on her clit. You'd never feel them tremble and clampagainst your ears while she moans your name. You'd never get to press your tongue inside her while her legs are draped over your shoulders, soft and warm and alive.
OH!!!
Okay that's better. He gets it now.
Yeah yeah yeah. See? He's not violent. He just panicked for a second. His brain does that sometimesไธthrows up these horrible, intrusive images that make him want to vomit but he'd never ever act on them!! He's not a monster!!! He's just... confused. Overwhelmed. He just loves you so much alright??? So much he'd unspool his own intestines into a leash if you asked him to walk himselfโ
Alright. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.
Deep breath.
Okay. Okay, he's fine. He's fine. Just rub one out quick and go back out there. You're waiting. He doesn't want to keep you waiting. That would make him a bad boyfriend, and he's notโhe's a good boyfriend, he's so good, you just said so, and if you said so then it must be trueโ
Shut. Up.
Focus.
His hand is shaking as he pulls down his jeans. He's leaking already, a slick little pearl at the tip, and it smears across his palm when he grips himself. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.
Firstโfirst, he needs something. Something to make it faster, make it pleasing, make it so he can walk out there and not immediately pop a boner again the second you breathe in his direction.
He opens the cabinet under the sink, behind the toilet paper, behind the bleach, where he hid it.
Your panties.
The ones you thought you lost in the laundry.
The lacy ones, light blue, a little damp in the center from a long day. He found them. He found them, okay? He didn't steal them. Fuck off. He found them. That's different. Stealing is a crime. Stealing is bad. He's not a bad person. He just... found them. On the laundry room floor. He was doing laundry like a good boyfriend, separating your underwears from the regulars because he read somewhere that youre supposed to do that, and they were just... there. In his hands. And then in his pocket. And now they're pressed against his face.
Fuuuck.
The smell hits him like a drug. Musky and sweet and so distinctly you that his knees give up. He inhales deep, pressing the soiled fabric to his nose and mouth, and his dick twitches so hard a bead of pre cum drips onto the bathroom tile.
He's disgusting. He's a creep. He's a freak and a weirdo and a pathetic little lapdog who gets hard from a thank you.
You'd hate him if you knew.
He hopes you never know.
He hopes you find out.
He hopes you walk in right now and see himโcock in hand, your panties stuffed in his mouth, tears streaming down his faceโand he hopes you step closer. He hopes you laugh. He hopes you call him a disgusting little mutt and pat his head and tell him he's still your good boy.
Your good boy.
Yours.
He cums so hard he sees stars. Ropes of it, hot and thick, splattering his hand, the floor, the little bathroom rug. He bites down on the panties to muffle the sob that tears out of him, and for a long moment he just kneels there, trembling, fucked, still crying, still hard.
But it's fine.
Everything's fine.
He cleans up. Flushes everything. Hides the panties again and washes his hands twice. Splashes water on his face. Looks in the mirror. Practices his smile.
He looks normal.
He is normal.
He's a good boy.
Then he opens the bathroom door and smiles.
"You okay?" you ask, tilting your head.
And he could say it. He could confess. He could drop to his knees right now and tell you everything and beg for forgiveness or punishment or whatever you wanted to give him.
Instead he just nods. Crawls onto the couch beside you. Rests his head in your lap like the loyal dog he is.
"Just missed you," he mumbles into your thigh.
You stroke his hair.
He almost gets hard again.
He's so fucked up.
But you're still here. Still petting him. Still calling him yours.
So he must be doing something right.
If you want to be in my taglist let me know :)
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No he won't fall in love with you. No he will not be gentle. No he won't see you as a human being.
Yes he will be abusive. Yes he don't care about your consent. Yes he will take anything he wants.
No he won't give you space to breathe.
Yes he'll own every second of your life until there's nothing left of you.
Yes he'll smash your phone, delete your friends, quit your job for you while you cry in the corner.
Yes he'll lock you in a room for days with nothing but his voice telling you how worthless you are without him.
Yes he'll terrorize your family until they cut you off, then laugh while you cry about it.
Yes he'll lock you in a room for weeks, beating you black and blue whenever you scream too loud.
Yes he'll force you to watch him fuck other girls just to remind you how worthless you are.
Yes he'll make you clean up the blood and piss and cum while he films it for later.
Yes he'll carve little reminders into your thighs with a knife when you forget who owns you.
Yes he'll beat you bloody for looking at the door too long, then kiss the cuts and say it's because he loves you.
Yes he'll force you to thank him after every punch, every burn, every time he chokes you unconscious.
Yes he'll gaslight you until you doubt your own sanity, telling you the bruises are your fault, the nightmares are lies, that you begged for all of it.
Yes he'll drain your bank account, max out your cards on shit for himself, then blame you for being broke.
No he won't stop even when you're sobbing and shaking.
No he won't pull out when you tell him it hurts.
Yes he'll force his way in anyway, ripping you open because your screams just make his cock harder.
Yes he'll choke you out while he finishes, then slap you awake just to do it again.
Yes he'll beat the fuck out of any guy who even looks at you, then come home and make you thank him on your knees while your face is still bruised.
Yes he'll kill your pets slowly in front of you if you disobey.
Yes he'll break your fingers one by one for talking back.
Yes he'll pimp you out to his friends when he's bored, then beat you for "enjoying" it.
Yes he'll keep you pregnant on purpose just to watch your body change and suffer, then threaten to take the kid away if you ever try to leave.
Yes everything you are exists to feed his ego.
Yes he'll reduce you to a shaking, empty shell who flinches at his footsteps.
Yes he's a psychopathic narcissist.
If you want to be in my aerion taglist let me know :)
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He loves you so much. So so so fucking much. So much it hurts.
Like physicallyไธlike a hot knife twisting in his chest every time you blink those pretty eyes at him.
You could hand him a razor and point at his throat and he'd say thank you, he'd fucking thank you with his last breath because you're an angel and he's just the dirt under your nails.
He's not a bad guy, okay??!
He's a good boyfriend.
A devoted boyfriend.
He'd die for you. He'd kill for you. He'd crawl inside your chest and live between your ribs if it meant being closer, and that's romantic, that's soulmate shit, not creepy. Dont say its creepyใผ
But then he hears you crying through the door, and his stomach drops.
Is someone hurting you? Did something happen? Was it himใผdid he fuck up again?
He's already digging his own grave as he rushes to you, ready to do anything. anything, just make it stopโ
Oh...
Your shoulders are shaking. Your hair is messy and unbrushed because you've been too sad to care, your cheeks are flushed and wet and rosy, your nose running just a little, your mouthโgod, your mouthไธis pouty and swollen and suckable, like you've been biting your lip to keep the sobs inใผ
He's supposed to comfort you. He knows that. That's what good boyfriends do. That's what he does.
He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulls you close, whispers "shh, shh, I'm here, I've got you." into your tangled hair. He's so good at this. He's so gentle. He's soไธ
Oh fuck.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no no.
You're crying harder now, and your body is trembling against his, and he can feel every little shudder through his chest, his stomach, hisใผ
He's hard. He's so fucking hard and he didn't mean to, he swears he didn't mean to.
He's a monster, a disgusting horrible boyfriend.
Who gets turned on when their girl is crying? Who does that? Whoโ
But you're so pretty when you cry.
And you're so needy right now, so broken and fragile and his, leaning into him like he's the only thing keeping you together, and he justโhe just needs a little friction, just a little, he'll be so gentle, you won't even noticeโ
He shifts his hips. Just barely. Presses himself against your lower back through your thin sleep shirt and his sweatpants and breathes.
"It's okay," he whispers, rubbing slow circles on your stomach while he rubs himself against you, just a little. just a tiny bit, he's still comforting you, he's still being good, he's stillโ
"I've got you. I've got you."
What the fuck is wrong with him?
He's a fucking creep.
A disgusting, pathetic, perverted piece of shit.
He hates himself. He hates himself so much it makes him even harder.
He's so fucking sorry. He's grinding, slow and subtle, biting his lip so hard it bleeds, using your sobs to cover the shaky little breaths he's taking against your hair.
You're crying more and more, and his pre cum is soaking through his boxers.
He's a good boyfriend.
Of course he's a good boyfriend!
He'd die for you. He'd kill himself if you found out, if you turned around and saw the wet spot on his jeans, the desperate, leaking outline of everything he's trying to hide.
Please don't notice.
Please don't hate him.
He loves you more than anything, he's justโfucked up, okay?
He's broken and sick and his balls are aching and you smell so good when you're sad, salty and warm and vulnerable, and he wants to lick the tears off your chin while he fuckโ
Oh god.
You just sniffled and arched a little and his dick jumped so hard he almost came right there, grinding against the fabric of your shorts like a dog in heat.
Please. Please let him cum first. Then you can hate him. Then you can scream at him and call him a freak and he'll go swallow a bottle of pills like he deserves.
But pleaseโ pleaseโ just let him rut against you for one more minute, just let him sliding into you while you're still hiccuping and broken and his.
And if you could just pretend not to feel itไธjust this onceโif you could just stay still and cry and let him use the sound of your pain to get off, he promises he'll never ask for anything again.
He'll comfort you properly in a minute, he swears.
He just needs toไธjust needs toไธfuckใผ
He's a bad, bad boyfriend.
He knows.
But you still love him,
Right?
If you want to be in my taglist let me know :)
ยฉ yunyuu 2026 : do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.
masterlistโโ ! โ do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites. โถ
His love language is acts of service.
He read that somewhereโsome stupid quiz you made him takeไธand he latched onto it like a lifeline because it made him sound normal.
See?
See??
He's not a freak, he just likes doing things for you. It's a legitimate psychological concept. It's on the internet, go look it up. It's real.
He loves it when you want something from him. He lives for it. Thrives on it. Gets dizzy with it the second you so much as look at an empty glass.
You barely have to open your mouth. You just shift on the couch and sigh and he's already upright, already halfway to the kitchen, already aching.
"Water? Snacks? A blanket? Your heating pad? Do you want the kitten mug or the big one? Do youโ"
"Just water, baby."
Baby.
His knees almost buckle.
Focus.
Water. You need water. He can do that. He's getting you water. Look at him goไธsuch a good boyfriend, so attentive, so caring, he's fucking nailing this.
He pours the water so carefully. No ice. You don't like it too cold, it hurts your teeth, and he remembered that because he remembers everything about you, every tiny preference, every little sound you make when you're happy.
Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.
He hands you the glass with both hands like an offering at an altar. Bouncing a little on his heels. Doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until you take a sip and your throat moves and he's watching the little bob of it and his mouth is dry but that doesn't matter becauseโ
He have to be patient.
Waiting.
Just waiting for it.
Come on. Come on. Say it. Say the words. Give him the thing. He needs it.
"Thank you, love."
Oh.
The words hit his brain like a shot of something warm and syrupy. Thank you. You thanked him. He did good. He did good and you noticed and you said thank you and now he's standing there with his heart doing backflips in his chest.
He wants more. He wants you to say it again. He wants you to pat his head and tell him he did such a good job, that he's so helpful, that you don't know what you'd do without him. He's practically vibrating with it, this desperate, aching need for your approval, and it's pathetic, he knows it's pathetic, he's a grown man getting high off a thank you like it's a line of cokeโ
Cute isn't he?
No.
No, he's not cute.
He's a dog. A mangy. panting. desperate dog who just got a pat on the head for fetching.
And he gets hard like a dog in heat too.
Always hard.
Always.
You could ask him to pass the salt and he'd have to adjust himself under the table.
You could ask him to zip up your dress and his hands would shake and he'd have to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled just to keep from moaning at the brush of his knuckles against your spine.
What a loser, right?
His dick twitches.
Jesus Christ.
He's hard again.
Weirdo.
Disgusting.
Pervert.
He hates himself. He hates himself so fucking much.
Why can't he be normal? Why can't his dick just stay soft like a regular boyfriend instead of twitching every time you say his name? You're gonna hate him, aren't you?
Oh god oh god oh god.
You're gonna find out. You're going to hate him. You're going to leave him. You think he's disgusting. You think he's a creep. You're gonna leave him. You're gonna walkout that door and he'll never feel your eyes on him again and he'll die, he'll actually just curl up on the floor and stop breathing because what's the pointโ
"Such a good boy."
Huh?
Good boy??
Him???
He freezes.
Did you justไธdid those words actually come out of your mouth? Good boy.
Good. Boy.
And you're smiling.
You look so beautiful when you smile. Your soft eyes and your softer lips and the way your cheek creases just a little and he wants to lick it, he wants to suck that smile right off your face and swallow it whole so it lives inside him foreverโ
Nope.
Nope nope nope.
He's so hard he could die on spot.
"Um... excuse me."
The words come out strangled. He's already backing away, hands positioned awkwardly in front of his crotch like a teenager caught watching porn.
Smooth.
Real smooth.
You probably think he's having digestive issues. That's fine. That's better than the truth.
He immediately bolts to the bathroom, lock clicking behind him.
You don't know. You didn't see. You're not going to leave him. He won't let you leave him anyway. He'll lock the doors and he'll nail the windows shut and he'll chain you to bed and he'll chop your pretty legs off if he has toโ
no no no no no NO!!!
Don't think that. Don't you ever fucking think that about her. You sick fuck. How can you even imagine hurting her? Chopping off her perfect pretty legs? How dare you?? How fucking dare you???
If you do that you could never feel her thighs wrapped around your head while you suck on her clit. You'd never feel them tremble and clampagainst your ears while she moans your name. You'd never get to press your tongue inside her while her legs are draped over your shoulders, soft and warm and alive.
OH!!!
Okay that's better. He gets it now.
Yeah yeah yeah. See? He's not violent. He just panicked for a second. His brain does that sometimesไธthrows up these horrible, intrusive images that make him want to vomit but he'd never ever act on them!! He's not a monster!!! He's just... confused. Overwhelmed. He just loves you so much alright??? So much he'd unspool his own intestines into a leash if you asked him to walk himselfโ
Alright. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.
Deep breath.
Okay. Okay, he's fine. He's fine. Just rub one out quick and go back out there. You're waiting. He doesn't want to keep you waiting. That would make him a bad boyfriend, and he's notโhe's a good boyfriend, he's so good, you just said so, and if you said so then it must be trueโ
Shut. Up.
Focus.
His hand is shaking as he pulls down his jeans. He's leaking already, a slick little pearl at the tip, and it smears across his palm when he grips himself. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.
Firstโfirst, he needs something. Something to make it faster, make it pleasing, make it so he can walk out there and not immediately pop a boner again the second you breathe in his direction.
He opens the cabinet under the sink, behind the toilet paper, behind the bleach, where he hid it.
Your panties.
The ones you thought you lost in the laundry.
The lacy ones, light blue, a little damp in the center from a long day. He found them. He found them, okay? He didn't steal them. Fuck off. He found them. That's different. Stealing is a crime. Stealing is bad. He's not a bad person. He just... found them. On the laundry room floor. He was doing laundry like a good boyfriend, separating your underwears from the regulars because he read somewhere that youre supposed to do that, and they were just... there. In his hands. And then in his pocket. And now they're pressed against his face.
Fuuuck.
The smell hits him like a drug. Musky and sweet and so distinctly you that his knees give up. He inhales deep, pressing the soiled fabric to his nose and mouth, and his dick twitches so hard a bead of pre cum drips onto the bathroom tile.
He's disgusting. He's a creep. He's a freak and a weirdo and a pathetic little lapdog who gets hard from a thank you.
You'd hate him if you knew.
He hopes you never know.
He hopes you find out.
He hopes you walk in right now and see himโcock in hand, your panties stuffed in his mouth, tears streaming down his faceโand he hopes you step closer. He hopes you laugh. He hopes you call him a disgusting little mutt and pat his head and tell him he's still your good boy.
Your good boy.
Yours.
He cums so hard he sees stars. Ropes of it, hot and thick, splattering his hand, the floor, the little bathroom rug. He bites down on the panties to muffle the sob that tears out of him, and for a long moment he just kneels there, trembling, fucked, still crying, still hard.
But it's fine.
Everything's fine.
He cleans up. Flushes everything. Hides the panties again and washes his hands twice. Splashes water on his face. Looks in the mirror. Practices his smile.
He looks normal.
He is normal.
He's a good boy.
Then he opens the bathroom door and smiles.
"You okay?" you ask, tilting your head.
And he could say it. He could confess. He could drop to his knees right now and tell you everything and beg for forgiveness or punishment or whatever you wanted to give him.
Instead he just nods. Crawls onto the couch beside you. Rests his head in your lap like the loyal dog he is.
"Just missed you," he mumbles into your thigh.
You stroke his hair.
He almost gets hard again.
He's so fucked up.
But you're still here. Still petting him. Still calling him yours.
So he must be doing something right.
If you want to be in my taglist let me know :)
ยฉ yunyuu 2026 : do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.
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