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sorry I know this might be rude but I was just wondering a few things. the first was, why do you gender bend female characters into males? I've never seen anyone do that before! also, I know English isn't your first language but do you use ai on any of your writing..? I've seen a blog post trying to call you out but idk!! sorry!
I think genderbend characters can be really fun. Whatever it's male to female or female to male. Or even just writing about characters being trans. I think it's cute and adorable. Also I can kinda change the personality and make them cuter?
I also genderbend the boys so it's not just female characters. I just think that's very cute.
And I already explained that no I do not use ai. I do use Google translation to fix my grammar. Chatgpt is literally banned where I live. I said it before and I'm saying it again, I just use Google translation. The reason that you see my writing style can change sometimes is because some of the things that I post are my old drafts.
If you think I use ai please, just go read my old fic. Like monster in the ribcage or lavender, and tell me, can ai write like this? I don't get it.
But if people think that I use ai and hate my works, that's fine I won't post anymore.
It's literally free, why should I waste my time posting when people can't even appreciated my creativity?
synopsisββ :: β imagine aerion being your shitty baby daddy.
includingββ ! β aerion targaryen. βΆ
contentsββ ! β 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. βΆ
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 nerveβthe audacityβto come back and try to take your son from you.
As if he has any rights.
As if heβs 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 usβfor the babyβ"
"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'tβI can't walkβ"
"You're being childish. Women give birth every day. Get up."
"B-But I can't."
Five minutes later, he grabbed your armβthe same arm where the IV had just been removed, still bruisedβand 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 upβyour 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 mindβthat 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 β 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 pleaseβ"
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 β trust fund baby, the man who's family had more wealth than you'd see in ten lifetimes β
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 beβhe has money now, Daddy's money, he could pay someone, he could trust the systemβbut 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.
βSo...β he murmurs, tilting his head.
Hmm?
βYou got a boyfriend or something?β
If you want to be in my AKOTSK taglist let me know :)
synopsisββ :: β imagine aerion being your shitty baby daddy.
includingββ ! β aerion targaryen. βΆ
contentsββ ! β 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. βΆ
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 nerveβthe audacityβto come back and try to take your son from you.
As if he has any rights.
As if heβs 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 usβfor the babyβ"
"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'tβI can't walkβ"
"You're being childish. Women give birth every day. Get up."
"B-But I can't."
Five minutes later, he grabbed your armβthe same arm where the IV had just been removed, still bruisedβand 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 upβyour 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 mindβthat 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 β 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 pleaseβ"
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 β trust fund baby, the man who's family had more wealth than you'd see in ten lifetimes β
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 beβhe has money now, Daddy's money, he could pay someone, he could trust the systemβbut 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.
βSo...β he murmurs, tilting his head.
Hmm?
βYou got a boyfriend or something?β
If you want to be in my AKOTSK taglist let me know :)
synopsisββ :: β imagine aerion being your shitty baby daddy.
includingββ ! β aerion targaryen. βΆ
contentsββ ! β 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. βΆ
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 nerveβthe audacityβto come back and try to take your son from you.
As if he has any rights.
As if heβs 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 usβfor the babyβ"
"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'tβI can't walkβ"
"You're being childish. Women give birth every day. Get up."
"B-But I can't."
Five minutes later, he grabbed your armβthe same arm where the IV had just been removed, still bruisedβand 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 upβyour 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 mindβthat 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 β 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 pleaseβ"
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 β trust fund baby, the man who's family had more wealth than you'd see in ten lifetimes β
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 beβhe has money now, Daddy's money, he could pay someone, he could trust the systemβbut 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.
βSo...β he murmurs, tilting his head.
Hmm?
βYou got a boyfriend or something?β
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βββ Λβ yandere batboys [separate] x fem!reader
the worst thing they have done to you.β (βα΄Ν α΄Ν)β Λ
β€· β‘ BRUCE :
The lie was simple.
Mrs. Wayne is sick.
The papers had his signature. The doctors nodded. The city whispered behind their hands. And you β you woke in a bed with straps tight across your wrists, white walls that smelled like bleach and rot, the sound of humming fluorescent lights like flies circling meat.
The room was padded, but it wasnβt soft. It felt like skin, stretched taut over something living, something breathing.
Bruce visited every day. He came in his suit, perfect tie, perfect mask. He sat in the chair by your bed and spoke to you like a husband with a wife recovering from grief. Youβll get better. Youβll see.
But you saw the truth. You werenβt a patient. You were a prisoner.
And the worst part? The world believed him.
Alfred visited, too, sometimes. He brought flowers. He looked at you with pity, never suspicion. No one doubted Bruce Wayne. Not when he said his wife was βunstable,β that she was safer hidden away, that it was for her own good.
βYouβre safe here,β Bruce whispered once, pressing his lips to your temple, while you strained against the leather cuffs until your skin split. βThe world wonβt hurt you. I wonβt let it. Youβll never be free β because freedom would kill you.β
The pills poured down your throat tasted like soil. Each swallow was another shovel of dirt on your coffin. Your body dulled. Your tongue slowed. Your mind rotted in the sterile light.
And every time you screamed β voice raw, fingernails bloody from clawing at the walls β Bruce held you. His arms around you were iron chains disguised as comfort. He kissed your hair while you sobbed and whispered:
βThis is love. I promised to keep you. And I always keep my promises.β
β€· β‘ DICK :
The decline was so slow you almost didnβt notice.
It started with βvitamins.β Little pills he pressed into your palm with a kiss to the forehead. Just something to keep you strong, sweetheart. And you trusted him. Of course you trusted him.
Weeks passed. You began to wilt. Muscles wasting, skin graying. The air in your lungs burned. You coughed until blood bubbled at your lips. Some mornings you couldnβt even rise from bed; your body felt pinned by invisible hands, heavy, suffocating.
Dick smiled through it all. His eyes never left you, wide with devotion, feverish with hunger. He spoon-fed you broth, wiped the sweat from your forehead, stroked your cheek with trembling fingers.
βDonβt worry, baby,β he murmured. βIβll always take care of you. Always.β
And still, the pills piled higher on the dresser. Bottles stacked like little gravestones, each one another nail hammered into your chest. He slipped them between your lips even when you resisted, his fingers pinching your jaw until you swallowed.
You begged him to stop. You told him you were sick, that the medicine was killing you. His eyes filled with tears, but his hands stayed steady.
βI want you sick,β he whispered once, voice cracking like glass. βYouβre mine when youβre weak. Youβll never leave me if you canβt even walk out the door.β
Your body rotted in the bed. Skin sagged, breath rattled, life draining slow. And every moment, Dick clung to you like a parasite drinking the last drops of blood.
Love, for him, was keeping you forever on the brink of death, so he could cradle you through every gasp, every cough, every shiver. He wasnβt saving you. He was burying you alive β and calling it devotion.
β€· β‘ JASON :
You thought you could escape him.
The night you tried, your fingers grazed the doorknob, the cold brass promising freedom. Then came the sound β a crack like gunfire, your scream tearing through the house. Pain bloomed white-hot in your legs.
When you woke, you couldnβt move. Bandages wrapped your thighs, soaked through with red, the metallic stench thick in the room.
Jason sat at the bedside, knife on the table beside him, hands still stained with your blood. His eyes were swollen from crying, his voice hoarse when he spoke.
βI told you not to run,β he said, and it broke like a confession. βI told you. But nowβ¦ now youβll stay. Now youβll always stay.β
He kissed your ankle through the bandages, tender, reverent, while you screamed and thrashed weakly. Your voice was nothing against his devotion.
From then on, he carried you everywhere. In his arms like a bride, like a broken doll. He bathed you, clothed you, fed you. His hands were gentle, but you felt the weight of the knife always in the room, a silent reminder carved into your flesh.
βYouβre safer this way,β he whispered in the dark, holding you against his chest while you sobbed. βYou donβt need the world. You donβt need anyone but me. Iβll carry you forever.β
You couldnβt run. You couldnβt fight. Your legs β your freedom β were his trophies.
Jasonβs love wasnβt soft. It was mutilation disguised as protection. He broke you open, cut away your escape, and held you in the ruin of what heβd made β smiling, always smiling, as though the blood had finally proved how much he cared.
β€· β‘ TIM :
tw. sexual abuse
He never raised his voice. Never once struck you. That was the cruelty of it.
It began with the photographs.
Grainy stills of you, naked under dim light. Videos, audio recordings, texts you thought had long vanished into the ether. He had it all, catalogued, archived, your entire life compressed into blackmail on a hard drive.
The first time he showed you, your stomach dropped into ice. He smiled, small, apologetic, but his eyes glittered.
βDonβt worry. Iβll never let anyone else see. Unless you make me.β
And that was the lock snapping shut.
From then on, you werenβt a friend. You were property he had secured, caged with secrets. He paraded your humiliation as affection. Forced you into his bed, his hands steady, movements practiced, as if he had rehearsed it a thousand times in his head. He murmured into your neck, voice trembling with hunger, βIt doesnβt matter if you hate me. I want you. Thatβs enough.β
You fought. You screamed. He never flinched. His kisses tasted like chloroform β cloying, suffocating β while his fingers dug bruises into your hips. He didnβt ask; he never asked. Because what good is asking when he already owned you?
The worst part was how carefully he maintained the mask. To the world, you were his love. He held your hand in public, smiled with soft edges, whispered jokes in your ear. To anyone looking, you were cherished.
But behind closed doors, you were his hostage. And every time he slid inside you, ignoring your sobs, his voice broke with a devotion that made you sick:
βYouβll thank me someday. Iβm the only one who sees you this clearly. The only one whoβll keep you.β
β€· β‘ DAMIAN :
tw. child murder
The garden was your only peace.
It was the only place he allowed you untouched β the soil beneath your nails, the quiet of flowers opening in the dawn. You thought it was safe. Pure. Something that belonged to you.
Until the child.
Your baby, small and fragile, had been the last piece of freedom in your arms. You loved him more than anything, your lips pressed to his hair, your voice whispering lullabies in the dark. And Damian watched. He watched the way your smile bent toward the infant instead of him, how your hands cradled tiny bones instead of clutching him.
Jealousy is too small a word for what rooted in him. It was hunger. It was rage wrapped in silk.
Then, one night, the crib was empty.
You screamed yourself hoarse. Damian held you, his face a mask of fury and grief. He swore vengeance. Someone took the child. Someone dared. He kissed your wet cheeks and promised he would find them. Days passed. Weeks. Nothing.
And you wilted, hollowed by grief. The only comfort you had left was the garden.
Until one afternoon, when the soil gave way too easily beneath your trowel. Damp earth clinging to your hands. A smell, sweet and rancid, rising up from below. And then β the small shape. Wrapped in cloth. Still. Silent.
Your scream curdled the sky.
Damian found you on your knees, clawing at the dirt with bloody fingers. His voice was calm, almost tender.
βYou shouldnβt have given him more of yourself than me.β
His hand settled on your shoulder, heavy as a grave. His tone didnβt waver, didnβt break.
βHe was mine to take. As you are mine to keep.β
Your chest heaved, your lungs scraped raw, and in that moment you understood: he hadnβt lied. He hadnβt lost the child. He had planted them like a seed, buried in the only place you had left, so your sanctuary became your tomb.
The garden bloomed richer that year. Flowers bending heavy with color, roots fattened on decay. Every time you knelt there, you felt your baby beneath your hands, and Damian behind you, smiling, content.
do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms. thank you for reading :)
fanart of batcats yuriful designs by @crowwkui !!!!!! i adore them oh so much i just had to draw them...thank u for blessing us all with your beautiful work (β Β β ββ βΏβ ββ Β β )π§‘π§‘π§‘!!!!!
synopsisββ :: β a quiet evening with you unravels when dex realizes he canβt stand the softness in your voice every time mattβs name comes up. what starts as ordinary conversation turns sharp and ugly under the weight of his jealousy, until one careless question ruin everything.
includingββ ! β benjamin poindexter. βΆ
contentsββ ! β fem reader. obsession. jealous dex. dex is mentally unstable as usual. angst. part 1 + part 2 + part 3 + part 4 + part 5. masterlist. gifs by @.novagif. english is not my first language. βΆ
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.
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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.
β Live Streamingβ Interactive Chatβ Private Showsβ HD Qualityβ Free Actions
Free to watch β’ No registration required β’ HD streaming
