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note: I was totally surprised by the amount of love pt1 got (ig there's a bit of a gap in yandere invincible content) so i decided to write a pt2! (also, im really into thragg lately so if anyone would like some yandere thragg lmk!)
Part 1
The burner phone buzzed against your palm before you could even set it down. That was fast. You stared at the screen, thumb still hovering over the cracked plastic, the message brief with no name or signature, just coordinates and a time.
Eleven forty-five. Ninth Street Diner. Back booth. Come alone.
You exhaled slowly because Cecil had a way of making even a simple response feel like a trap. You pocketed the burner, shoved the drawer closed, and sat back on the edge of the bed where the room felt smaller than it had five minutes ago. The walls seemed to press in, the silence thickening until it hummed against your ears, your window facing the fire escape with the city sprawling beyond in a mess of neon and shadow where somewhere out there Mark was probably flying, watching, waiting.
You thought about Kay.
 She was the one who found the burner phone in the first place, that weird little thing in a weird little thrift store downtown, and she had tossed it at you like a joke and called it your secret spy boyfriend phone, but you had kept it because you had a feeling, a bad one, the kind that sits in your chest and doesn't go away.
You didn't know Cecils number when you first saved it, it just showed up one day with a single text and no explanation 'In case you ever need to reach us. Dont abuse it.'
Kay was dead.
 You knew it the way you knew your own name, deep in your bones in the hollow space behind your ribs where dread had taken up permanent residence. A week of silence and a week of no calls and no texts and no signs of life while the police had filed a missing person's report and searched her room and asked you questions you could not answer. They did not find the blood, but you did, three drops under the edge of her bed frame wiped clean but not clean enough, and you had scrubbed them yourself before the cops came because you knew what would happen if they tested it.
You knew what Mark could do and you knew what he had already done.
Your apartment had felt wrong ever since with the walls seeming closer and the air thicker. You had stopped sleeping in your own bed and started curling up on the couch with the lights on facing the door with a kitchen knife tucked between the cushions while every creak of the building made you flinch and every gust of wind against the windows made your heart stutter.
You had not left the apartment in four days, not since you found the blood and not since you scrubbed it away and told yourself it was nothing, but it was not nothing because it was Kay and you knew who had put it there.
The Ninth Street Diner was almost empty when you walked in at eleven forty two. Early. You slid into the back booth with your back to the wall the same way you had been sleeping for the past week, facing the door with your heart racing at every creak and whisper while the vinyl seat was cracked beneath your thighs with the stuffing poking through in yellowed tufts and the tabletop sticky with decades of spilled coffee and syrup scarred with initials carved into the laminate.
The waitress brought you coffee. She was older with her hair pulled back in a gray ponytail and her hands gnarled with arthritis, and she set the mug down without a word and shuffled back to the counter while you wrapped your hands around the cup and tried to stop shaking.
The ceramic was warm against your palms, the coffee dark and bitter, but you did not drink it. You just held it and watched the door.
At eleven forty seven Cecil Stedman sat down across from you. He looked older than you remembered with the scar through his eyebrow seeming deeper in the diner's fluorescent light, a pale trench through flesh that never quite healed right, his skin sallow and stretched tight over sharp cheekbones while his suit was pressed but his eyes were tired with dark circles bruising the hollows beneath them. He carried a briefcase and the weight of too many secrets.
"Thank you for coming," he said.
"You said it was urgent."
"It is."
Cecil set the briefcase on the table without opening it, just resting his hands on top and studying you with that unnerving stillness like he was reading your pulse in the way your throat moved, like he could see the fear coiled in your chest like a snake. "You called me," he said, "not the other way around, so let's start with why."
You swallowed because your throat was dry and the coffee did nothing to help. "Kay's dead."
Cecil's expression did not change. If he was surprised he did not show it, his face a mask of calm professionalism, the kind of calm that came from decades of hearing terrible things. "Tell me what you know."
So you told him.
The last time you saw Kay and the night she left to grab takeout and never came back, the texts that stopped mid conversation, the blood under her bed that you scrubbed with bleach and a prayer, the way Mark started showing up more after she disappeared not less like he was making sure you were still there and still his.
You told him about the window, how Mark appeared at midnight hovering outside your fourth floor apartment with his suit streaked with something dark, how he smiled at you through the glass like everything was normal and asked if you were okay in that gentle voice that made your skin crawl. You told him about the texts that came at all hours, the ones that asked where you were and who you were with and why you had not responded, the ones that shifted from concerned to pleading to something else entirely.
"Did he do it?" you asked with your voice cracking on the last word.
Cecil was quiet for a long moment while the fluorescent light buzzed overhead and a car honked somewhere outside and the waitress refilled a cup at the counter. "Mark Grayson is a complicated young man," he said carefully. "His father's shadow is long. His mother's grief is heavy. And the pressure of being Invincible, of never failing, never breaking, never losing, it changes people."
"That's not an answer."
"No," Cecil agreed. "It's not."
He opened the briefcase and inside was a photograph. Grainy. Taken from a security camera across the street. The timestamp read three weeks ago, one week before Kay disappeared. In the photo Kay was standing outside a coffee shop wearing that oversized sweater with the hole in the sleeve, the one she refused to throw away, her hair pulled back in a messy bun while she smiled at something, laughing with her head tilted back. And standing across from her, close enough to touch, was Mark.
Your blood went cold. You could feel it in your fingertips, in the tips of your ears, in the hollow of your chest. Cecil closed the briefcase with a soft click, the sound final and heavy.
The diner door chimed. You did not turn because you did not need to. Cecil's eyes flicked past you, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly as he leaned back in the booth with his hands sliding off the briefcase and into his lap, his shoulders squaring and his breathing changing to something shallow and controlled.
"He's here," Cecil said quietly.
You turned. Mark stood in the doorway of the Ninth Street Diner. No hoodie this time and no attempt to look human, he was wearing the suit, that blue and yellow monstrosity that made him a symbol to the rest of the world with the goggles pushed up on his forehead tangled in his dark hair. His face was pale and drawn with dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes like bruises. He looked exhausted. He looked dangerous. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the room.
"Hey," he said softly, and his voice was wrong. Too gentle. Too careful. Like he was talking to a frightened animal, like he was approaching something that might bolt. He walked toward the booth with his footsteps quiet on the linoleum while the old men at the counter stopped talking and the waitress froze mid pour and the entire diner held its breath.
Cecil's hand moved and you caught the glint of a small device in his palm, a failsafe, something that could probably level the entire block if he pressed it, his thumb hovering over the single button.
Mark slid into the booth beside you. Close. Too close. His knee pressed against yours under the table, his thigh warm against your leg, and he smelled like ozone and something metallic. Blood. You could smell the blood.
"You didn't come home last night," he said. Your heart stopped. "I was worried." His hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours warm and familiar while his thumb traced slow circles on your knuckles, the calluses rough against your skin. "You have been so distant lately; ever.......ever since Kay."
He trailed off and then he smiled. It was soft. Sad. Understanding. But you saw it, the same smile from the photograph. Too wide. Too sharp. Like a mask that did not quite fit.
Cecil's hand tightened on the device. "Mark," Cecil said calmly, "do you mind telling us where you were three weeks ago? Around the time this photo was taken?"
Mark's smile did not waver. "I don't remember," he said. "I have been so busy lately. Saving the city. Saving the world. You know how it is." His grip on your hand tightened and you could feel the bones in your fingers pressing together.
"But I remember you," he murmured, turning to look at you with his brown eyes warm and full of something that made your stomach turn. "I remember every single text you never sent. Every call you did not answer. Every time you looked at me like I was a stranger."
His other hand came up slowly and gently and cupped your cheek, his palm warm against your skin and his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. "I remember everything about you." His thumb traced your jaw, down to your chin, tilting your face toward his. "I remember what Kay said about me."
Your breath caught. "What did she say?"
Mark's smile softened and his eyes went distant, hazy, almost dreamy. "She said I was too much. That I was suffocating you. That you were scared of me." His thumb traced your jaw again, slower this time. "I did not like that. I did not like her."
The world went still. The fluorescent light buzzed. The coffee in front of you had gone completely cold. Cecil's voice cut through like a blade. "Where is she, Mark?"
Mark blinked and looked at Cecil like he had forgotten he was there. "She's gone," Mark said simply. "She's not coming back."
"Gone where?"
Mark turned back to you with his eyes wide and innocent and devastatingly sincere. "She was going to take you away from me," he whispered. "I could not let that happen. You are mine. You have always been mine, when you first looked at me t-that time I saved you, when you looked into my soul rather than all this " He gestured vaguely at himself, at the suit, at the blood that was still crusted under his fingernails. "you don't look at me like you used to.......you know I-I thought if I could just show you, if I could just prove that I loved you more than anything, more than anyone, you would stop being afraid."
His hand tightened on your cheek. "But you're still afraid, are not you?"
You could not speak. Could not breathe. The air was thick and hot and your lungs would not expand.
"That's okay," he murmured. "I can fix that. I can fix everything. I just need you to trust me." He leaned in and his lips brushed your ear, the stubble on his jaw scraping against your skin. "Kay wanted me to stay away from you. She said I was dangerous. She said you would never love someone like me." His breath was hot against your neck. "So I showed her what dangerous really looks like."
Cecil was on his feet with the device aimed at Mark's head while the diner had gone silent, the waitress frozen in the corner and the cook peeking through the kitchen window and every patron staring in abject terror. "Let her go," Cecil said. "Now."
Mark did not move. He just held you tighter, his arms wrapping around you like a cage and his fa168ce buried in your hair while you could feel his heartbeat against your back, fast and steady and excited. "I will never let her go," he whispered. "She's mine." His voice was soft and sweet; a lullaby wrapped in thorns.
"And if anyone tries to take her from me," he looked up at Cecil with his eyes black and hollow and empty of everything except hunger, but his smile was so bright. "I will show them what I showed Kay."
The air was still over the city. No wind dared disturb the clouds that hung like bruises in the sky, and the streets below echoed with distant life. But to you, none of that mattered. Your apartment was too quiet. Again.
You sat on the edge of your bed, phone in your lap, staring at the latest message:
âYou didnât respond again. Are you safe? I'm worried about you :( you know you can tell me anything, right? -Mâ
The sixth message that week.
You hadnât replied to the last five.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Just tell him to stop, you thought. Tell him youâre not interested. That itâs over, if it ever even started. But you didnât type anything. Not yet.
You couldnât.
Because it wasnât just Mark Grayson texting you.
It was Invincible.
Youâd known Mark before the world didâbefore the blood, the headlines, the gods-fighting-in-the-sky kind of violence. You met at Upstate U. Sophomore year. You werenât even in his orbit, not really. You had one class togetherâComparative Literature. He sat near the window. Always late. Always charming.
You remembered the first time he asked if you wanted to grab coffee.
You hadnât known he could fly back then.
Now, it felt like he was always watching.
You stood and crossed the room to shut the blinds, heart beating just a little faster. You didnât want to admit it out loud, but it didnât matter if the blinds were open or closed. If he wanted to see youâhe would.
Your roommate, Kay, used to laugh off your worries. âGirl, if Invincible had a crush on me, Iâd be out there flexing on rooftops. Just tell him to chill.â
That was before Kay vanished.
A week ago.
No calls. No texts. No goodbye. JustâŚgone.
And the same day Kay disappeared, Mark showed up.
It had been late. Past midnight. Youâd been in the kitchen pouring tea when the knock came.
Not the door. The window.
You turned, and there he wasâhovering outside your fourth-floor apartment. Hands behind his back. That blue and yellow suit glowing faintly in the city lights. His face unreadable behind the blood-streaked goggles.
You remembered how your hand trembled, spilling tea on the counter.
Mark had smiled.
âSorry for the surprise visit,â he said, as if it were normal. As if gravity meant nothing and boundaries were suggestions. âI just⌠I wanted to see if you were okay. Youâve been quiet lately.â
You didnât answer.
He drifted closer to the glass, eyes searching yours.
âI know itâs hard to trust people. But you can trust me. Iâm not like the others.â
You lied then. Nodded. Said you were tired. Promised to call tomorrow.
He left.
Kay never came back.
Now, standing in the half-dark of your bedroom, you knew you had to do something. Anything. You opened your drawer and pulled out a burner phone. One you hadnât touched in weeks.
You typed:
âWe need to meet. Somewhere public. Tomorrow. Noon.â
Tw: smut, sub!mark but also dom?? (switch ig), heâs down bad for you, you go at it from dusk till dawn, he wants you so bad, you canât resist his puppy dog eyes.
Itâs been months. You canât remember the last time you went on a proper date. And god, you tried. You tried so hard to be understanding, to feel the weight of the world on his shoulders, to try and carry some of it with you.
But you were human.
And maybe humans and viltrumites couldnât work out.
You wanted to do this over the phone, by text, anything that wouldnât require you to see his face, but then heâd flown straight into your kitchen, boyish smile on his face, telling you he was off for the night.
Needless to say the breakup wasnât going to plan.
He nuzzles his face into your stomach, and you feel it tighten at the look in his eyes.
âIâll be so good.â
You blink.
Youâre not sure how you got into your bed, naked, with Mark above you (you know exactly howâyou couldnât resist the tears in his eyes as he begged for one more chance to make things better)
âH-aaah.â Heâs panting in your ear now, thrusting slow and hard, each one punctuating his promises.
âYouâre mine.â Thrust.
âNever gonna⌠hnggg⌠let you go.â Thrust.
âShittttt⌠do you feel how,â Thrust. âDeep I am?â
He pushes his palm against the bulge that forms in your stomach every time he pushes in and you thrash wildly, the pleasure becoming too much to bear.
âMark!â You shout out, and his palm covers your mouth, thumb pressing down on your tongue. You moan around his digit, swirling your tongue around it like you would his cock and he groans, pulsing hard inside you.
âItâs okayyy⌠cmon,â his voice is low, and thereâs a cadence in it that only comes out when he has you like this, shivering and crying on his cock.
âI got you, babe.â Youâre unsure how long youâve been fucking, how much time has passed, but youâre so close and so you redirect his other hand to your clit. He starts drawing small and fast circles on it, and you see white behind your eyes as you finally come.
When you come back to, heâs already cleaned you up and tucked you in, and heâs back in his suit, standing by the window.
âMark?â You ask groggily.
âUhm⌠itâs sunrise. Gotta get back to work.â He hesitates, seeing how your eyebrows scrunch.
You can see the decision weighing on him. So despite it being the reason you wanted to break up with him, the hurt it had caused you, you give him a small nod.
You come from a broken family; hence, as a child, you wished for a loving family, you craved for it.Â
You even imagined yourself becoming a loving wife to your husband and mother to your children, something that you promised yourself that you would commit to if you ever met a man who would lovingly treat you as his everything and your beloved children, creating a safe and happy environment for all of you.
But alas, such dreams are hard to make real, considering these days people are having a hard time committing themselves to a relationship, much less having children in this day and age. You had given up on the thought of becoming a housewife and mother, as you thought that it was unattainable.Â
Everything was shitty for you; a toxic family, fake friends, a shitty government. You wondered how the world would become years after with this cycle going on on this earth.Â
You tried your best to live by trying your best to survive, getting by, day by day.
You once wished that someone would take you away from Earth and start a new life somewhere else.
Who knew that someone heard your wish?
Mark Grayson. He appeared out of nowhere in your life, giving you the things that you've never asked for but needed. It was like he already knew what you wanted.
He was like your knight and shining armor, the missing piece to your puzzle, you instantly fell for him.
The two of you started dating each other at a young age, and with him, you've thought that your dreams might actually come true, having a loving family at last, that was your very wish, a wish that was still burning inside of you.
One day, something unexpected happened that humanity never knew was coming: the Viltrum Empire came to conquer Earth, trying to reshape Earth and its image onto theirs, forcing them to abide by the laws of the Empire. Chaos ensued everywhere.
Amidst the Chaos, Mark stood there watching as the blood of humans started to spread on the streets. You saw him, and he looked like he didn't care about them as they ran for their lives, some even pleading for mercy.
You instantly became scared, panicking, looking left and right for what to do. Mark saw you and slowly descended from the sky.
He extended his hand as you looked at him, and you wondered if you should take it.
"Come with me, and I'll give you the world you want." He promised you, but you hesitated at his offer.
"Do you really want to live here after you suffered for so many years?" He continued, in shock and fear, you slowly reached for his hand.
After that you ended up in Viltrum, still suffering from the Warshock, you were sitting on a soft and silky bed. The room looked ethereal; it looked so out of this world.Â
Mark held your hand as he sat beside you on the very bed you were sitting on.
"I'll give you the world you want here; you'll be a beautiful wife and a loving mother." He kissed your hand, and you wonder how he knew you wanted this.Â
Frozen in shock, you wondered how he knew about this.
"You wished for this." He looks at you, as you remembered that before you met him, you shouted to the world that you wanted to become a loving wife and mother.
"Y-you heard that?" Your face became flushed from the sudden realization, and he leaned in to you.
"Of course I did, and from that moment I knew you were perfect for me." He softly whispered, caressing your cheek, those words already made you wet, as your heart started to pound crazily.Â
"You want to become a loving wife and mother, I'll give it to you, you'll just have to give yourself to me." He leans in closer to you, kissing you, giving you a very intimate steamy kiss, as he softly pushes you down to the bed.
He was on top of you, both of his hands were beside your head, he pulled out of the kiss, and looked at you. "May I?" He kindly asks for your consent before he rips off your clothing with ease, leaving you bare naked.
You became even more flustered as you had never experienced this before as the man on top of you was eager to claim you for himself. "T-this is my first time." You muttered, trying to hide your face.
"I know." He whispered, slowly leaning in, kissing you again, exploring the insides of your mouth as his left hand slowly travels from your belly, softly touching it down to your clitoris.
"I see you're already wet, are you eager to have my children?" He chuckles, rubbing your clit and sending sensations to your body making you jolt from his touch, making you grip the sheets for support.
"Isn't this what you wanted? Beautifully spread underneath me as I fuck my seed into you?" he found a good place to rub he started rubbing your clit faster as your legs started to close from the sensation, he stopped making you legs spread wide open for him.Â
He started taking off his clothes, letting you see his throbbing cock leaking with precum.
You gulped at the sight. "How is that going to fit in?"
"It will." He kissed you again as he slowly slid himself inside of you, gasping from the sensation of this feeling full of him, your walls started to clench around him; he kissed you, comforting you. "Come on, you can take me..." He breathes as he slowly fully enters you. "Good girl." He compliments you by kissing your forehead.
Breathing heavily and feeling full, you grabbed his back for support, your nails digging behind his back as he looked at you. "Are you okay?" He asks you to kiss your cheek. "Y-yeah."You breathlessly replied, he started to move your walls clenched tighter around him. "Fuck, you feel so good," he grunts thrusting inside of you, trying to get deeper inside of you legs wrapped around him tightly locking him in not wanting to let him go.
"Nghhh- f-faster please." You begged as he made his pace go faster, feeling your pussy clench even harder again around his cock. "F-fuck you're really trying to milk me on our first night." As his thrusts became faster you felt a knot forming inside your stomach.
"M-mark!" You whined. "Cum with me, baby." He grunted cumming deep inside of you, head becoming fuzzy from the sensation he just gave you, but his mind was still clear; dick still throbbing, wanting more.
He loses a bit of control when he starts moving again inside of you, thrusting again. "M-markk!" You cried out, your eyes becoming hazy. He kissed you while your nails started to scratch his back from the sensation he was giving, putting inside of you as he started pounding into you like a madman, losing control of himself.
He pulled out of the kiss, whispering in your ear. "I'll make you the prettiest mother to ever exist." He grunts cumming inside of you again. "We're not done yet." He exhales. "We have to fill you up and get you pregnant."Â
That night, he fully claimed you as his own, as you melt into his warmth and touch.Â
Years passed by, and the two of you had multiple children, and you had lived a great life with him.Â
Here, he showed you how much he loved and appreciated you like no one else would, and you could not wish for anything else.Â
I mean, how could you when a man is obsessed with you? Mark admitted everything that he did to gain your attention.
He actually started to take a liking to you way back before the two of you started dating, he started stalking you. He started to learn what you like; he followed you everywhere from school to home, and that's the reason why he heard your wishes to become a mother.Â
He made sure to do everything in his power to capture you and your love and affection.Â
"What would you do if I hadn't said yes?" You questioned him.
"I would've taken you for myself anyway, I'm sure, after living for some time in Viltrum, it will change your mind." He looked at you like it was normal.
"So you would've kidnapped me?" You questioned him again.
"It's not kidnapping when you were mine to begin with." He pointed out as you looked at him, surprised.
"How were you so sure?" Your mouth was agape from the shock.
"I killed every man that took interest or showed signs of interest in you from the beginning." He nonchalantly said.Â
You sighed as you pecked his cheek.Â
Your children just arrived home from school, running up to you kissing your cheek, you smiled kissing each and every one of them
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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Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
synopsis: mark grayson, who removes himself quietly from your life as if he was never in it in the first place. as if he wasn't your best friend for years and years. who shows up to your house for the first time in months, beaten and bruised.
wc: 3.8k
a/n: i finished it, posted it, and then i deleted it by accident. had to rewrite ending and i hate myself rn because i deleted it.
your friendship with mark had started when you'd first moved in, just down the road. you'd been young, still baby faced at 11.
you'd been helping your mom move the boxes out of the moving truck when you heard a small "you need any help?"
it made you jump, seeing how you'd not heard him approaching, and when you turned around to face him, he saw the fear on your face and quickly apologised, "oh my god, i'm so sorry. my mom told me to come help"
you'd told him it wasn't a big deal, and he'd introduced himself to you. you'd done the same.
after that, he'd come over so many times, and soon enough, you'd been inseparable.
you'd joined his school once the summer was over, and you spent lunchtimes with william and mark together, always talking about that comic mark loved, seance dog.
while you didn't like the comics as much as they did, you loved to hear them talk about them, especially the way mark got so animated when arguing with william about it.
you realised at some point at a lunchtime during school that you'd liked him a lot more than a friend. he'd been leaning forward talking to you, and when he'd gotten too close, you'd gotten nervous. your heart thumping, palms sweaty kind of nervous.
and that made you scared. he was your friend, first and foremost, and your feelings for him were pushed down, deep, deep, deep. locked in a little box where your heart would have been, in a bigger box, in a bigger box. which was then locked in large steel chains.
a little bit of an overkill, but you really weren't risking shit.
your friendship was sweet, mark was sweet, and he especially was sweet to you. mark was too sweet, too good to you.
kind, charming and funny, always cracking jokes to you in class, teasing you just enough to get you flustered, but only as a joke, which he would say.
it hurt a little, but as you said before, friendship was more important to you.
problem was, as soon as you hit 16, he'd stopped. stopped talking to you in the halls, stopped talking to you in class, stopped coming over. he'd dodge you in the halls, and pretended not to be home when you'd come over.
william didn't get it either, saying how mark wouldn't tell him why he'd been avoiding you, and goddamn, it hurt.
you'd been hurt, so hurt, and you'd had enough. he stopped responding to your messages, and had just stopped leaving you on read, opting instead to leave you on delivered.
that was the last straw for you. so you stopped trying. stopped looking for him the halls, stopped going over to his house to look for him, stopped messaging him, and stopped sitting with them at lunch.
and as soon as you'd disappeared from their normal table at lunch, mark had gone back to sit with william.
you'd seen it happen first time. sitting next to a guy who'd been begging you to sit with you at lunch for months, you'd zoned out from the boring conversation as soon as he'd started. he was going on about something about being on the football team and being the MIP of the team, but you weren't listening.
your eyes were on mark as he made his way through the hustling and bustling cafeteria, his yellow shirt underneath his blue sweater always standing out.
his sleeves were pushed up his forearms, and you'd been able to see the muscle in them, flexing as he carried his tray with one hand. you hated how it still invoked the butterflies in your stomach, and it pissed the hell out of you.
you dragged your eyes forcefully away from him, trying to pay attention to jacob and whatever he was saying about his football. but no matter what happened, your eyes went right back at mark.
him laughing, talking with william and just acting completely unaffected by your absence.
'fuck him'. you thought to yourself.
and just as easy that mark had come into your life, he disappeared from it.
a year had passed since then, and it was easier than it was before, but still not as easy as your friendship had been.
you still loved him, which pissed you off to no end, despite his completely lack of care for you.
initially you had tried to smile at him in the halls as you'd walked by in different directions, but he always stood straight, ignoring you completely, eyes ahead as you stumbled over your steps.
you told yourself it was for the better, that you didn't want his attention anymore, but that little box in of your heart ached every time you thought that.
william and you still spoke, but you'd found another group of friends, only ever talking to william when mark wasn't around.
and then, there was a new superhero.
invincible, (cue title card) or so he called himself. quite frankly, mark was horrible at hiding his identity.
ducking out of class, only minutes later invincible arriving on a scene. he had the same hair, same build and height, and that sameâŚ.mark feeling.
but you didn't tell anyone, you didn't say anything to anyone, and god, why did it matter if you knew who he was. he wasn't your mark anymore, you weren't even friends.
you'd watched him as he changed over time, growing taller, broader and stronger.
you couldn't help but notice, and yet again it was something you cursed your stupid little heart box for.
in the halls it was easier to notice, he'd shot up over the summer, especially now that he's got his powers.
it's crazy to think that mark is invincible, especially the guy who was once your mark. well, he's no longer your mark, as you should be able to tell due to the complete and absolute avoidance of you.
still, with absolutely no reasoning whatsoever behind it.
william, even a year later, still urges you to speak to mark. but you refuse, saying that "it was completely unwarranted," And that "you didn't do anything that deserved this kind of treatment." all that could have possibly happened would be that he had enough of you.
he just stopped liking you and that there was absolutely no other reasoning behind it. which lowkey sucked but still, men ain't shit (says you who literally sometimes still cry remembering about how fucking upset you were when he just disappeared out your life.)
william is done. he really is. he's had enough of both you and mark, how mark just refuses to talk to you and how you just fucking won't talk to mark either.
it's not really your fault. you tried, you really did, messaging him, showing up, just anything you used to do together.
debbie, who you still see around occasionally, gives you a sad smile sometimes, like she knows what's happening. but you never ask, because maybe you don't want to know. but you also do, which is a big problem.
you're currently just hanging around at williams, watching TV with him when there's a news alert. 'Breaking, invincible in fight with (generic) villain'
you watch with bated breath, watching mark, or invincible, getting absolutely beaten up, quite frankly, and youre really worried for a moment there that you're gonna be attending a funeral.
but somehow, like normal he always managed to get out of it, but it leaves him bruised and bleeding. you're so irrevocably fucked, you want everything in the world to pause just so you can check if he's okay.
but you have to remind yourself you can't do that anymore, he's not your friend.
you're tired, so unbelievably tired. you're missing your conversations together, you're missing just being near him, being allowed to look at him with more than just stolen glances. you're just tired, and you want it all to go back to normal.
fuck normal, honestly.
you're done. with worrying and you don't want to see the news. knowing mark got out is enough, and you want to go home to cry.
william doesn't get why all of a sudden you're so tired, and you bode both him and rick goodbye as you leave, not really wanting to third wheel anymore.
rick's sweet, he is, but you just want to be home alone now, and not with anyone else.
the trek back home isn't a long one, but you soften the walk with some music. it's dark out, a little earlier than usual.
just as you reach your house, you look up to your room to see the light is on, and the windows open, which is strange because you swear you switched it off just before you headed out and closed your windows.
you can see the light shining down through the large oak tree in your front yard, and the way the light filters through the leaves is gorgeous.
you can see the curtains billowing from the night air, and you furrow your brows.
might have been a slip of the mind, you reckon.
nevertheless, you unlock your front door, setting down your coat on the hangers, dropping your keys onto the mantle, before heading into the kitchen to make yourself some quick noodles.
your parents are out again, on a date night, most likely. they won't be home for awhile.
as you're waiting for the water to boil, you're standing there rather impatiently. you just want to collapse into bed, it's been a tiring day.
your hands itch for your phone, to search up if invincible managed to get away compltely alright. but you won't. you have to remind yourself that you don't care, that you can't care.
next thing you know, you're letting out a sigh of relief, seeing that invincible got away alright, and then you're swearing at yourself for even caring.
but it's hard to switch it off like a switch, you just can't do that.
once your noodles are done, you're halfway up the stairs when you hear a shuffle coming from your room.
you freeze.
you're waiting for the sound to come again, and when it doesn't, you think it's just a trick of your mind, and you keep walking up.
stopping right at your door, something makes you pause but you're not sure what it is or why you're pausing, but you force yourself to move past it. you push open your door.
it takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the rather bright light all of a sudden, coming from the rather dark hallway. once your eyes do adjust, you see it.
mark.
he's sitting on the floor of your room, holding a hand to his stomach, eyes closed as he rests his head on edge of your bed, his jaw sharp, his neck taut.
his mask is off, flung to the side. you can see it in the corner, and it's covered in blood. his or someone else's, you're not sure.
but the absence of a large abundance of blood on his face makes you think it's someone else's.
"what the fuck." you say, more annoyed than anything else.
then you process the blood. it's on your floor, which is stone, so it's not so bad to clean up, but his suit is torn, and he looks like he's in pain.
"what the fuck, mark." You repeat, and only then does he open his eyes, to look at you.
"hey." he says.
a year and a couple months and all you fucking get is a "hey" like it's only been hours since he's seen you last?
"don't 'hey' me." you snap, setting down your quick noodles and your glass of water, before you think again, picking it up and passing the glass of water to him. he takes it with a grateful look, trying to smile at you.
even his teeth are stained with blood. his injuries look a lot worse in person, rather than on TV.
you stare at him for a while, before you walk to your bathroom, grabbing your first aid kit that you'd once run out to buy once when mark had fallen from the tree in your front yard when you were 13, the one you had used to clean up his cuts back then.
it had sat unused for four years, just waiting to be used again, in the corner under your sink. you have to brush the dirt off of it.
then you have to wash your hands, for the fear of infection.
you come back out, pulling out everything you think you might need.
"what the fuck are you doing here, mark." you snap at him again, pissed that he just shows up after 16 months of absolutely nothing, pretending that everything's fine when he's covered in blood, and this is the first time you've seen him up close in a year.
you're taking out your scissors, cutting the cloth around his cuts, trying to stop the fabric from sticking to it. you hate how close this makes you, hate how it makes the box in your chest ache, hate how you want to be closer.
"i wanted to see you." he groans, when you pull a certain strip of fabric away from a particularly deep cut. even his voice has changed. it's deeper, far more self assured, and somehow just moreâŚmark.
"you wanted to see me?" you scoff, setting your scissors down and picking up some antiseptic cream and a piece of gauze. "you haven't spoken to me in 16 months. you've ignored and dodged me at school, you've left me on read for months, and. you just show up, bleeding and beaten in your invincible suit just completely out of the blue?" you can feel your throat close up as you finish speaking, tears pricking at your eyes.
you rub at them with your sleeves, making sure that your hands remain clean. you put just a little too much iodine solution on the gauze, pressing a little bit harder than you need to.
he lets out a hiss of pain, and it doesn't make you feel better, unlike what you were hoping. "fuck you, mark" you say to him again.
he's silent. he's just staring at you, his face unreadable.
you can see how much he's changed since the last time you were this up close.
you avoid his eye contact, knowing that if you made eye contact with him, you wouldn't be able to hold back 16 months of anger and pain back.
"will you just fucking say something?" you demand, bandaging him up with the rolls and rolls of bandages, basically wrapping him up like a mummy.
"mark. please." you beg.
you feel his hand cup your jaw, making you look up at him, his eye contact making you nervy, tears threatening to spill over your lash lines.
he swallows, mouth dry before he says; "i just⌠couldn't be around you anymore."
that admission makes you crumble, and you automatically assume the worst. but the way he's handling you now, so soft and gently is at odds with his words.
"what..do you mean?" it's your turn to swallow now, and you realise how parched you really are.
he sighs, as your eyes hone in on a cut on his upper eyebrow, and you're picking up the gauze and iodine solution again, shuffling closer.
you're hesitant to dab at his eye, holding out the gauze out for a moment, to see if he's alright with you being this close to him.
he nods, once, but you notice. of course you notice. you can count the amount of tiny tiny scars he has on his face from here.
you can see the one that's just under his brow , the one he got from a branch when he fell down from the tree, the one you'd helped him clean.
you dab slowly, gently. you've slowed down a little, waiting for his response. you're trying to avoid direct eye contact with mark, but you can still feel his eyes zeroed in on you.
"mark, what do you mean." you repeat, demanding answers. you've had enough of this cat and mouse, where he's constantly running from you. you're not letting him go till you're getting your answers.
he sighs, seeming to understand that you aren't letting go.
"you know, i just couldn't control myself. i want you. like desperately. like more than a friend, more than a best friend. i knew it was more than you were willing to give me , so i tried to distance myself. and once i did, it was harder for me to go back to normal, so i couldn't."
wow. okay. erm. not what you were expecting. but still, that was still a completely dick move.
"you want me?" you ask him, shy. you're hopeful, needing him to say it. the chain around the boxes of your heart snaps.
"i don't just want you, I need you. do you know how much it killed me to see you sitting with that tool jacob?? you smiling at whatever he was saying, but still looking at me? do you know how hard it was for me to pretend like i didn't see you in the hallways? like it wasn't suffocating to walk by you and not talk to you?" your outer heart box splinters.
you want to say something, you really do, but you can't get anything in with the way he's rambling
"my heart squeezes every time i look at you, and it killed me to stay so far away from you." he says, looking up at you again. your hand has stilled from where you were dabbing at his cut, and you're breathless. when the admission sinks in, another shell around your heart breaks.
"i fucking love you, and i never said anything because i didn't want to ruin our friendship." he whispers, like it's hard for him to say it. it probably is. the final box that was keeping your feelings locked up and tucked away, just fucking breaks. you're crying, and you're trying not to show him.
"and i know, i ruined it by walking away, but i didn't want to ruin it by telling you i loved you. and i'm sorry, i'm sorry⌠i just can't stay away anymore. it really took me almost dying to realise how much i've been needing you." he says to you, his hand cupping your jaw again. his other hand reaches up to your cheek, and his thumb brushes away a tear.
his head is no longer resting against your bed edge, and now he's sitting up rather straight. he's moving into your space, he's so close you can feel his breath fanning across your lips. he smells like blood and the minty spider man toothpaste he's been using for years. he likes to pretend he uses adult toothpaste, but he used to always go back to it.
"i'm sorry," he whispers, and you can feel the words on your lips. "i'll do anything it takes to make it up to you."
"it really took you almost fucking dying to apologise, huh?" you say, voice cracking, brittle from tears. you're trying to play it off, make it seem a little funnier to show him that it's okay. well it's not okay, but you get what he means.
he's trying, and he's always been bad with feelings, and you know this. 16 months will take forever for him to make up for, but you just want him back. you want him back in your life. you want to sit with him at lunch again, you want to be close to him again.
he laughs, and even he sounds like he's been crying.
"you're too good to me." he says, and you're glad he knows it, because if it was anyone else, they'd have been dropped like hot potato.
when you rest your forehead against his, his hands move to your waist, and he lifts you so easily onto his lap. you forget he's a superhero now, and it's too easy for him it's unfair.
you swat him lightly on the chest, apologising when you hear him grunt in pain.
"are you going to kiss me?" you ask him, voice hushed, excited, nervous.
he laughs, and pulls you closer before he captures your lips in his.
he tastes just like he smells like; metallic and minty, a taste so addicting you don't want to come up for air. he somehow tastes sweet in your mouth too, and he groans when you bite him lightly on his bottom lip.
his hands are warm and heavy on your hips, and your knees are pressed against the stone floor on each side of his hips.
your hands tangle into his hair, pulling lightly at his roots. when your nails scratch gently at his scalp, he groans into the kiss.
his groan vibrates through him into your mouth, and you smile against his lips.
he's unrelenting, all fierce kisses and licks, as if he's trying to devour you.
he licks slightly at the line between your lips, and you open, pliant and obedient for him, his tongue snaking in to meet yours, dancing together.
he tastes sweet, if you haven't said before.
when you finally have to break away for air, you rest your forehead against his, breathing hard. he presses a chaste kiss to the corner of your lip, and you kiss another to the scar above his eye, underneath his brow, that he got when he tried to climb the tree up your yard into your room, the one he'd fallen down from.
"this alone isn't going to make up for 16 months," You tell him, despite the smile on your face. "you're not magically forgiven."
he leans in again, smiling against your lips as he whispers, "i know."
later, you're both lying on your bed, both of you tired and exhausted, leaning into each other, when he whispers to you, "weren't you surprised that i was invincible?"
"not really." you respond, not opening your eyes. your head is resting on his uninjured shoulder, face tucked into the crook of his neck.
"why not?" he asks. you think about telling him that you recognised him almost immediately, from the curve of his back, the strong line of his jaw, and the light scar underneath his jaw.
but those things had only been memorised by you because you'd spent more timing staring at him then talking to him, so you decided not to tell him that. maybe you'd tell him one day.
instead, you tell him, "i recognised your voice immediately."
he huffs in response.
a/n: goddamn i locked in for this. i had literally posted it and then tried to edit it to check word count but then accidentally deleted it and had to rewrite the entire thing from the kiss scene onwards. i was crying lowk.
anyway. hope you enjoyed!! as always, thank you if you made it all the way down here!!!
as always, likes and reblogs are appreciated, and let me know if you have any comments!! i love reading them.
request some headcanons for the batboys with a depressed reader? like severe to the point that the reader doesn't shower if they're not constantly taking their antidepressants, and you still can't see their bedroom floor even if they are taking their meds. and they've got insomnia, so they're usually tired even if they try to sleep.
characters bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne
content batboys x depressed! reader, gn! reader, severe depression, depressive episodes, self-neglect, difficulty showering/personal hygiene, messy living space/depression room, insomnia/sleep deprivation, exhaustion, antidepressants/medication reminders, therapy/medical support discussions, emotional distress, shame/self-deprecating thoughts, caretaking during mental illness, mentions of struggling to stay alive/survival language. no graphic s/h.
masterlist
bruce wayne
Bruce notices the self-neglect before almost anything else. Not because he judges it. Not because he thinks less of you. But because thereâs a specific kind of quiet deterioration he recognises with awful intimacy.
The unopened curtains. The untouched laundry. The cups gathering beside the bed. The way your room starts becoming less like a place you live and more like a place you survive.
He has done versions of it himself. Bruce Wayne, public billionaire, is polished to a mirror shine. Bruce Wayne, alone in the Manor after patrol, has absolutely gone too long without eating, slept in the chair beside the Batcomputer, forgotten basic bodily needs until Alfred all but threatened him with a tray. So when he sees your bedroom floor swallowed by clothes, books, wrappers, whatever your depression has let fall and never given you the energy to pick up, he doesnât look disgusted.
He looks⌠pained. Because he understands the shape of it, even if he does not understand how to talk about it.
Bruce is not naturally good at comfort. His first instinct is always logistics. Identify the problem. Build a system. Reduce harm. Prevent escalation. So the first time he realises how bad itâs gotten, he goes very still and asks, carefully, âHow long has it been like this?â
And if you snap, or shut down, or say, âI donât know,â he doesnât push. He just nods once, like heâs filing that information somewhere deep and private.
Bruce struggles with the fact that he relates to your self-neglect but not always to the emotional language around it. He knows what it is to treat his body like a tool that can be used until it breaks. He knows what it is to ignore hunger, exhaustion, pain, hygiene, sleep. But he has spent years calling that discipline. Seeing it in you forces him to confront that maybe, sometimes, what he calls discipline is just another form of damage wearing a very expensive suit. That realisation does not sit comfortably with him. Bruce Wayne and self-awareness have a situationship at best.
Still, he tries.
If you havenât showered, he doesnât say, âYou need to shower.â He knows commands can curdle into shame. Instead, he says, âWould it help if I sat outside the door?â Or, âYou donât have to do everything. Just rinse off. Five minutes.â Or, very softly, âYouâll feel less trapped in your skin afterwards.â
That last one is how you know he gets it.
Bruce is painfully aware that hygiene can become impossible when depression gets severe. Not âhard.â Not âannoying.â Impossible. Like your body has become a locked room and the key is buried somewhere under the bed. So he never treats a shower like a small thing.
If you manage one after days of not being able to, he doesnât overpraise you like youâre a child. He simply notices.
âYou look more comfortable,â he says. Which, from Bruce, means: I know that cost you something. Iâm proud of you. I wonât embarrass you by making a spectacle of it.
Medication is where Bruce becomes very Bruce. He is deeply serious about your antidepressants. Not controlling, not patronising, but quietly immovable. If your medication is what keeps you showering, eating, sleeping, and functioning even slightly, then in Bruceâs mind, it is not optional in the same way oxygen is not optional.
He helps create backups. Refill reminders. Pharmacy coordination. A pill organiser if youâll use one. Water on your nightstand. A tiny dish beside it so you can tell whether you've taken them already.
He does not call it âfixing you.â He calls it âremoving friction.â Because Bruce understands that when youâre severely depressed, every extra step becomes a locked gate. Find the bottle. Open it. Get water. Remember the time. Call the pharmacy. Pick up the refill. Eat enough beforehand.
Too many gates. So he quietly starts unlocking them.
If you miss doses, he does not get angry. He gets worried in a way that makes his jaw tighten. âIâm not disappointed,â he tells you, because he knows thatâs where your mind goes first. âI need you to hear that.â And then, after a pause: âWe adjust the system. Thatâs all.â
The bedroom is harder for him. Not because of the mess itself. Bruce has seen crime scenes, collapsed buildings, Arkham cells, Jasonâs safehouses, Timâs caffeine graveyards. Your room does not scare him.
What scares him is what the mess means. It means youâve been alone with it. It means things have been heavy for longer than you admitted. It means every object on the floor is a small surrender your brain forced out of you.
Bruce does not clean your room without asking. Control matters to him, and he knows it matters to you too. He stands at the doorway and says, âDo you want help, or do you want me to pretend I didnât see it?â If you choose the second option, he respects it. Mostly.
He will still have Alfred send up food. He will still make sure there are clean towels nearby. He will still quietly remove anything genuinely unsafe if he can do it without making you feel exposed. But he wonât barge in and turn your suffering into a project.
If you do let him help, Bruce is methodical. He does not say, âLetâs clean your room.â He says, âTrash first.â Then, âLaundry.â Then, âClear a path from the bed to the door.â
He breaks it down like a mission because that is the language he knows best, and somehow it helps. Not because your depression is a villain he can punch, tragic for him honestly, but because he can make the battlefield smaller.
The first goal is never âclean.â The first goal is âsafe.â You need to be able to walk without tripping. You need water. You need medication within reach. You need clean clothes somewhere accessible. You need a bed that feels like a bed and not an evidence locker for your worst month.
Bruce does not expect your room to stay clean afterwards. That might be the most important part. He knows relapse. He knows cycles. He knows what it means to drag yourself upright and then fall apart again three days later. So when the floor disappears again, he does not sigh. He does not say, âBut we just cleaned this.â
He says, âBad week?â
Thatâs it. Two words. No accusation. No disappointment. Just recognition.
Your insomnia is the part of your depression that Bruce relates to most directly and least healthily. He knows the strange cruelty of being exhausted and still unable to sleep. The body begging. The mind pacing. The dark becoming too loud. But Bruce is also terrible at modelling healthy sleep. Heâll tell you that you need rest while standing in the kitchen at 4:12 a.m. in yesterdayâs shirt with a split lip and a coffee he should not be drinking.
You stare at him. He stares back. âThis is different,â he says. It is not different. It is, in fact, the same clown car wearing a cape.
Eventually, Alfred calls him out. Then Dick. Then you. And Bruce has to sit with the uncomfortable truth that he cannot ask you to value your body while treating his own like rented equipment. So he tries to do better with you. Not perfectly. Never perfectly. This is Bruce. Growth comes to him like a cat approaching a bath.
But he starts sitting with you at night without opening case files. He makes tea instead of coffee. He reads in the armchair near your bed because silence feels safer when shared. Sometimes he talks. Low voice, careful words. Stories about his parents, about Gotham before it became a wound, about Dickâs first week at the Manor, about Jason stealing tyres, about Tim showing up with too many questions, about Damian pretending not to like being tucked in.
He doesnât always know what helps. But he learns that he does not have to say the perfect thing. He just has to stay.
If you apologise for being âtoo much,â Bruce almost visibly flinches. Because he has thought that about himself. Because he has believed his grief, his rage, his damage made him poisonous to the people he loved. So when you say it, he answers with unusual sharpness.
âNo.â Just one word at first. Then, quieter, rougher: âYou are not too much. You are in pain.â
He may struggle to relate to depression exactly as you experience it, but he understands pain becoming routine. He understands neglect becoming normal. He understands surviving so long in emergency mode that care feels unnatural.
Loving you forces him to become gentler. Not just with you, though that comes first. With himself too, slowly, stubbornly, like dawn dragging itself over Gotham.
Bruceâs love is not loud. It is a prescription refilled before you panic. A hallway light left on because he knows the dark gets bad. A clean towel folded without comment. A hand resting near yours, not grabbing, just offering. A voice outside the bathroom door saying, âTake your time.â
A cleared path through the mess. A cup of water beside your meds. A billionaire detective sitting awake beside you at 3 a.m., not solving, not commanding, not disappearing into the Cave.
Just staying. Because Bruce Wayne may not always know how to say, I understand. But he knows how to say, You will not go through this alone. And for him, that is practically a vow carved into stone.
dick grayson
Dickâs first instinct is to try to be your sunshine. Not in a fake, toxic positivity way. Not exactly. Itâs more that Dick has spent most of his life surviving by becoming the bright thing in the room before anyone notices how dark things are getting. So when he sees you slipping, he smiles a little softer. Talks a little warmer. Shows up with food, jokes, stupid stories, voice notes, memes, anything that might get even half a laugh out of you.
At first, he thinks maybe if he can just make the room feel lighter, youâll be able to breathe again. And sometimes it helps. Sometimes his warmth gets through the fog. Sometimes he makes you laugh when you havenât laughed in days. Sometimes he sits on the edge of your bed and tells you some ridiculous story about Wally or Jason or Damian, and for a minute, the world feels less like wet cement.
But sometimes it doesnât work. Sometimes you just stare past him, exhausted and hollow-eyed, unable to shower, unable to clean, unable to sleep even though your whole body aches for rest. And Dick has to learn, painfully, that being loved by him does not automatically make depression loosen its grip.
That is hard for him. Because Dick is used to being useful. He is used to catching people before they hit the ground. He is used to being the hand extended over the ledge. But this isnât a ledge he can swing down from. This is your own brain turning the lights off from inside the house.
At the start, he probably pushes too hard. Not cruelly. Never cruelly. But he worries, and worry makes him move.
âHave you talked to your therapist?â
âAre you still taking your meds?â
âMaybe we should call someone.â
âMaybe you need a different dosage.â
âMaybeââ
And if you finally snap and tell him to stop, he does. Immediately. He might look hurt for half a second, not because heâs angry at you, but because he realises he made you feel cornered when he was trying to make you feel safe.
Then he takes a breath and says, âOkay. Iâm sorry. Iâll stop.â And he means it.
He still cares about therapy. He still believes medication can matter. He still wants you to have support bigger than just him, because Dick knows love is not a substitute for treatment. But he respects your boundary.
After that, he becomes much more careful with his words. He stops asking questions that sound like checklists unless you invite them. He learns to ask, âDo you want help, distraction, or just company?â He learns that sometimes âDid you take your meds?â can feel like an accusation, even when it is said with love.
So instead, he might say, âIâm getting water. Want yours with your usual stuff?â
Gentle. Casual. An open door instead of a spotlight.
Dick does not pity you. That matters so much. He does not look at your room, with the floor swallowed by laundry and wrappers and old cups, like you are tragic or broken or disgusting. He looks at it like, Okay. This is where the fight has been happening.
And then he looks at you like you are still you. Not a project. Not a burden. Not a sad little bird with a cracked wing.
You.
If you havenât showered, he notices, but he does not wrinkle his nose or make a face or say anything that will haunt you later. Dick Grayson knows how words can stick under the skin. So he chooses them carefully.
âWant me to grab you some clean clothes?â
âDo you want the bathroom warmer before you go in?â
âHair wash day or just rinse day?â
âNo pressure. We can also just change the sheets and call that a win.â
He makes everything feel like an option, not a failure. He tries to get you outside more, but not in an annoying âfresh air cures mental illnessâ way. More like: âCome sit on the fire escape with me for five minutes.â Or: âWalk with me to the corner store. You donât have to talk.â Or: âBalcony picnic. Technically outside.â
Sometimes he brings your blanket with him and wraps it around your shoulders before opening the window.
âOutdoor enrichment,â he says solemnly, like you are a very sad zoo animal.
If you laugh, he looks so relieved that he has to glance away. But if you say no, he does not drag you. He may push gently once. Then he stops. Because he learns that helping you cannot mean turning every day into a battle where he is on one side and your exhaustion is on the other. Sometimes helping means accepting that today, the bed wins.
So he climbs into the room carefully, stepping over clothes and books and whatever else the depression has scattered around like emotional confetti from hell, and he sits with you. Not above you. With you. On the floor, back against the bed, knees pulled up, talking softly about nothing important.
He tells you about patrol. About Haley. About some kid in BlĂźdhaven who tried to convince Nightwing that Batman is obviously a vampire. About how Damian once insulted a barista so specifically that Dick still thinks about it when ordering coffee.
He lets the conversation be light if light is what you need. But if you want to talk about the ugly stuff, he lets that happen too.
Dick offers himself as your personal notebook. He literally says it one night, sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor while you stare at the ceiling, sleepless and raw.
âUse me as a notebook,â he says. âSay whatever. Messy, mean, sad, irrational, all of it. I wonât grade it.â And because he sees you tense, he adds, softer, âI wonât judge you.â
He means that, too. You can tell him you feel disgusting. You can tell him you hate your room. You can tell him you skipped your meds and youâre scared heâll be disappointed. You can tell him showering feels like trying to climb a mountain with wet cement in your lungs. You can tell him you are tired of being tired.
He listens. Not with that shiny hero face he wears for civilians. Not with the automatic âwe can fix thisâ voice. He listens like someone kneeling beside a locked door, willing to wait as long as it takes.
If you want advice, he gives it gently. If you do not want advice, he bites it back. Which is honestly heroic because Dick Grayson has eldest daughter energy in eldest son packaging and advice lives in his bloodstream.
But he tries.
âDo you want solutions,â he asks, âor do you want me to say that sucks?â
And if you say you just want to vent, he nods.
âThen yeah,â he says. âThat sucks. It really, really sucks.â
No fixing. No silver lining. No âbut at least.â
Just him, staying with you inside the bad feeling instead of trying to decorate it.
When your insomnia gets bad, Dick worries himself nearly sick. He knows what tired looks like on a vigilante. He knows the glassy eyes, the delayed reactions, the way the whole body starts moving like it is underwater.
But seeing it on you is different. Seeing you exhausted even after trying to sleep makes him go quiet.Â
He does not understand exactly how you feel. He will admit that.
âI donât know what itâs like in your head,â he says one night, voice low in the dark. âI wonât pretend I do.â Then he shifts closer, careful not to crowd you. âBut I know you shouldnât have to be alone in there.â
So he stays awake with you sometimes. Not every time, because eventually Alfred, Bruce, and basic common sense bully him into remembering that he also needs sleep. But when he can, he keeps you company through the awful hours. He puts on quiet movies. Reads out loud. Lets you rant. Lets you go silent. Sends you stupid videos from two feet away because sometimes speaking is too much but memes are still legally allowed.
When your room gets bad, Dick offers help without making it a whole dramatic rescue mission.
âFive-minute reset?â he asks.
That is his favourite phrase. Five minutes of trash. Five minutes of laundry. Five minutes of clearing the bed. Five minutes of opening a window and letting the room remember air exists.
Then he stops when the timer stops. No âsince weâve started, we might as well keep going.â No guilt. He promised five minutes. Dick keeps promises. If all you can do is sit there while he cleans, he lets that count as participation.
âYouâre supervising,â he says. âVery important role. You can be my manager.â
He gives you tasks that are almost insultingly small, but somehow not insulting when he says them.
âCan you hold this bag open?â
âCan you toss me the cups?â
âCan you point to whatâs trash and whatâs not?â
âCan you pick the music?â
He knows momentum can be impossible, so he does not demand momentum. He just offers rhythm.
Dick is also very affectionate, but he checks in more when you are depressed. Normally, he is touchy by nature. Hugs, shoulder bumps, forehead kisses, casual contact like punctuation.
But when you are this low, he asks.Â
âHug or no hug?â
âCan I sit beside you?â
âDo you want contact, or would that make it worse?â
He does not make your need for space about him. And if you do want touch, he is so gentle it almost hurts. He holds you like you are not fragile, exactly, but precious. Like something still alive under snow.
His sunshine changes over time. At first, he tries to shine hard enough to chase the depression out. Later, he learns to become softer. Less noon sun, more night-light. He stops trying to make every moment better. Starts trying to make every moment less lonely.
That is where Dick is strongest. He cannot always understand the depth of what you are feeling. He cannot always joke you into a smile. He cannot therapy-speak your way into functioning.
But he can sit on your messy floor with you. He can listen without flinching. He can remind you that needing help does not make you pathetic. He can say, âIâm here,â and then actually be there.
And when you apologise for being difficult to love, Dick looks genuinely confused. Like the idea does not compute.
âYouâre not difficult to love,â he says. âYouâre having a difficult time being alive.â Then, because he is Dick, because his heart is a bright reckless thing that keeps throwing itself against the dark, he nudges your knee gently with his. âBig difference, babe.â
His love does not cure you. But it keeps a chair beside you in the dark. It brings water. It opens a window. It listens. It learns when to speak and when to shut up. It stays warm, even when it cannot be bright.
jason todd
Jason understands more than he says. Not perfectly. Not in a neat, one-to-one way. He doesnât pretend your depression is exactly like his trauma, or his rage, or the dark stretches where being alive felt less like a gift and more like something he had to drag behind him by the ankle.Â
But he knows what it feels like when your own mind stops being a safe place. He knows what it is to look at basic human maintenance â showering, eating, sleeping, laundry, brushing your teeth â and feel like someone handed you a list of impossible tasks written in another language.
So when he sees your room, he doesnât flinch. The floor buried under clothes. Cups on the nightstand. Trash you meant to throw away three days ago. Clean laundry mixed with dirty laundry until both have become SchrĂśdingerâs Hoodie. Jason just stands there for a second, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, jaw working like heâs chewing on every wrong thing he could say.
Then he mutters, âAlright.â Not disgusted. Not disappointed. Just: Okay. This is what weâre dealing with.
Jason is not great with soft words at first. He wants to be. God, he wants to be. But the sentences get stuck somewhere behind his ribs. So he speaks with his body instead. He sits on the floor beside your bed instead of looming over you. He keeps his movements slow when youâre overwhelmed. He doesnât stare at the mess too long. He places food within reach and pretends not to notice if your hands shake when you take it. He nudges a bottle of water closer with two fingers and says, âHydrate, gremlin,â because saying Iâm scared for you feels like standing naked in traffic.
His care is mostly acts of service. Quiet, stubborn, relentless acts of service. He takes out the trash without making a speech. He washes the cups collecting beside your bed. He changes your sheets while you sit wrapped in a blanket, exhausted and embarrassed. He puts clean clothes in one pile and dirty clothes in another because decision-making has become a boss fight and heâs not about to let laundry win. He fixes the broken drawer youâve been ignoring for months. He plugs in your phone. He brings soup, bread, fruit, protein bars, anything easy enough that eating doesnât require you to become a fully functioning citizen first.
If you apologise, he gets gruff, âDonât.â
Thatâs all at first. Then, softer, without looking directly at you: âYou donât gotta apologise for being sick.â
He hates pity. Hates receiving it. Hates giving it. So he never looks at you like youâre pathetic. He looks at you like youâre wounded. Thereâs a difference. Wounded means youâre still fighting, even if the fight looks like lying in bed for fourteen hours and taking one bite of toast. Wounded means you need care, not judgment. Wounded means Jason knows where to stand: between you and anything trying to finish the job.
When you havenât showered in days, Jason notices. Of course he notices. He was trained by Batman and raised by Gotham; the man clocks details like itâs a competitive sport. But he doesnât wrinkle his nose. Doesnât comment on smell. Doesnât make your shame bigger. He just knocks his knuckles lightly against the doorframe and says, âWant a reset?â
That becomes his phrase for hygiene when hygiene feels too heavy. A reset can mean a shower. A reset can mean sitting in the bathroom with the hot water running until the steam makes breathing feel less awful. A reset can mean wet wipes, deodorant, clean socks, and one of his shirts. A reset can mean washing your face and calling it a day.
Jason is very big on âgood enough.â Not because he thinks you donât deserve better. Because he knows âperfectâ can become another weapon your brain uses against you.
âYou donât gotta do the whole thing,â he says, leaning against the sink with his arms crossed. âJust do one thing.â
You tell him one thing wonât matter. His mouth tightens.
âYeah,â he says. âIt does.â
And thereâs something in his voice that makes you believe heâs not just talking about the shower.
Medication is tricky for him. Jason believes in anything that helps keep you alive and functioning. Heâs not anti-meds, not even a little. If antidepressants help you shower, help you eat, help you get through the day without drowning in your own head, then he treats them like they matter.
But he also knows what itâs like to have people treat you like a problem to be managed. So he tries not to hover. He tries not to ask in that voice people use when theyâre already disappointed.
Instead, he just builds reminders into the room. Water bottle on the nightstand. Your meds placed somewhere visible, but not aggressively so. A snack beside them if you need food first. A text at the same time most days: âYou take care of business yet?â If you say no, he doesnât lecture. âAlright,â he says. âDo it now. Iâll wait.â
And he does. He stays on the phone, breathing quietly on the other end, letting you grumble and shuffle and open the bottle.
When you say, âDone,â he just says, âGood.â But his voice goes warm around the edges.
Jason is careful about pushing you toward help because he knows pushing can feel like being cornered. Still, he does want you to want help. He wants it badly. He wants you to have a therapist who gets it. A doctor who listens. Medication that actually works. Systems that donât fall apart the second you have a bad week. He wants you to have more than him, because some terrified part of him does not trust himself to be enough.
But he doesnât know how to say that cleanly. So sometimes it comes out rough.
âYou canât keep white-knuckling this.âÂ
Or, âThis ainât sustainable.â
Or, âIâm not saying youâre broken. Iâm saying you deserve backup.â
If you shut down, he stops. He swallows the rest of the sentence. Looks away. Nods once. âOkay,â he says, quieter. âNot now.â
And because itâs Jason, because he respects boundaries more than people expect him to, he drops it. He may bring it up again later, but never like an ambush. More like leaving a door unlocked.
âBeen thinking,â he says one night while folding your laundry badly but with intense concentration. âIf you ever wanna look for someone to talk to. Professional someone. I can sit with you while you make the call.â He doesnât look at you when he says it. Gives you the dignity of not being watched. âOr I can shut up,â he adds. A beat. âIâm real good at shutting up.â
He is not, historically, real good at shutting up. But for you, he tries.
Your insomnia is something Jason understands in his bones, even if the cause is different. He knows the cruelty of night. The way everything gets louder after midnight. The way your thoughts turn feral. The way exhaustion can sit heavy in your body while sleep still refuses to come near you.
So when you text him at 3:06 a.m., ashamed and barely coherent, he answers fast. âYeah. Iâm up.â
He usually is.
Sometimes he comes over without making it a big production. Window opens. Boots hit the floor. Leather jacket, wind-chilled hands, helmet tucked under one arm.
âCouldnât sleep?â he asks. You give him a look. He nods. âStupid question.â
He doesnât force conversation. Jason is good at silence, when he lets himself be. He sits with you in the dark, shoulder close enough to touch but not touching unless you lean first. Sometimes he reads aloud. Old novels. Poetry. Whatever book he was carrying around like a secret soft spot. His voice is low and rough, not polished, not theatrical, but steady. A rope across black water.
If you do fall asleep, he stays. He wonât admit he was worried youâd wake up alone. His body language gives him away constantly. The way he angles himself between you and the door. The way his hand hovers near your shoulder before he touches you, waiting for permission. The way his expression goes murderous when you call yourself lazy. The way he freezes when you say, âIâm sorry Iâm like this.â
That one gets him. He looks at you for a long second, eyes sharp and hurt. Then he sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch. His voice comes out low. âYou donât gotta earn being cared about.â
He says it like the words physically hurt to form. Like maybe someone should have told him that once.
Jason does not always know what to do when you cry. His first instinct is violence, which is deeply unhelpful unless your depression can be lured into an alley and punched. Since it cannot, he improvises. He brings tissues. Sits beside you. Lets you lean into him if you want. If you donât, he stays close anyway, a warm wall of presence. His hand might settle on the back of your neck, heavy and grounding. Or he might press his shoulder against yours. Not a dramatic embrace.
Just contact. Just: Iâm here. Iâm real. Stay with me.
If you vent, he listens. He doesnât always have perfect responses. Sometimes his jaw clenches. Sometimes he looks like he wants to argue with every cruel thing your brain says about you. But he learns not to turn your venting into a debate.
If you say, âI know itâs stupid,â he says, âItâs not stupid.â If you say, âI donât need advice,â he nods. âWasnât gonna give any.â
He absolutely was. But he doesnât. Instead, he lets you talk. Lets the ugly feelings spill out without trying to sanitise them. Jason can handle ugly. He has never needed you to be soft and shiny to love you.
On bad days, when you cannot get out of bed, Jason changes tactics. He brings the world to you in pieces small enough to survive. Opens the curtains halfway, not all the way. Puts a cool cloth on your forehead if you feel overheated from lying under blankets too long. Makes your room smell like soup instead of stale air. Puts on a show youâve seen a hundred times because new plots require too much brain. Places a trash bag by the bed and says, âNo pressure. Just if somethingâs within reach.â
If you throw away one wrapper, he notices.
He doesnât cheer. He just says, âNice.â
Like it matters. Like he knows it did.
Jasonâs love is not delicate, but it is deeply attentive. He remembers which foods you can tolerate when everything tastes like cardboard. He knows which hoodie makes you feel least perceived. He knows whether touch helps or makes your skin crawl. He knows not to turn on the big light when your head is already screaming. He knows that if your room gets too clean too fast, you might feel exposed, so he asks before moving personal things. He knows that sometimes you donât want someone to fix the mess. You just want someone to sit in it with you and not leave.
And Jason can do that. Better than most. Because Jason has sat in wreckage before. He has been wreckage before. He does not need pretty surroundings to prove something is worth saving. He just stays, solid and warm and stubborn as a locked door.
One night, when you are too tired to sleep and too sad to speak, Jason sits beside you on the floor. The room is still messy. Your hair is still unwashed. Your meds are still something you have to fight yourself to take. Nothing is magically better.
Jason reaches over, slow enough for you to pull away if you want, and gently hooks his pinky around yours. Barely a touch. Barely anything. But his body says what his mouth cannot. I see you. Iâm not scared of this. Iâm not leaving because your pain is inconvenient.
Out loud, all he says is, âWeâll do tomorrow when it gets here.â Then he squeezes your pinky once. âTonight, you just gotta stay.â
And because it is Jason, because he does not promise things lightly, it lands heavier than hope. Not a cure. Not a rescue. Just a hand in the dark. Just someone who understands enough to stay, and loves you enough to keep trying.
tim drake
Timâs first response is research. So much research. Tabs on tabs on tabs. Medical journals. Patient forums. Therapy resources. Medication side effects. Sleep hygiene. Depression room cleaning methods. Executive dysfunction. Body doubling. Antidepressant withdrawal. How to support a partner with severe depression without becoming overbearing. His laptop looks like WebMD got into a knife fight with a psychology database.
Tim doesnât do it because he thinks youâre a problem to solve. He does it because he loves you, and Tim Drakeâs first language has always been information. He doesnât know how to make the weight in your chest lighter. He doesnât know how to make sleep come when your body is exhausted and your mind is chewing through barbed wire. He doesnât know how to make showering feel possible when depression has turned your limbs into wet cement.
But he can learn. So he learns obsessively. At first, though, he overcorrects. Not in a cold way. In a scared way. He starts offering solutions too quickly.
âMaybe we could try a checklist.â
âThereâs this app for medication reminders.â
âI read that morning light can help regulate sleep cycles.â
âSome people find it easier to clean in categories instead of sections.â
âHave you thought about talking to your doctor aboutââ
And then he sees your face. The way your shoulders tighten. The way your eyes go flat. The way you look less helped and more handled. It hits him like a physical blow.
âOh,â he says softly. Then, immediately, âIâm sorry.â
Tim is distraught if he upsets you. He tries not to show it too dramatically because the last thing he wants is to make you comfort him when youâre already drowning, but you can see it. The panic under his skin. The way his fingers twitch like he wants to pull every word back and delete the whole interaction from existence.
âI wasnât trying toââ he starts, then stops himself. Because he realises explaining his intent does not erase the impact. He takes a breath and says, âIâm sorry. I jumped into fixing mode. That wasnât fair.â
And then, because he means it, he changes. Not instantly. Timâs brain is basically a caffeinated detective corkboard with legs. But he puts in the work.He starts asking first.
âDo you want comfort or solutions?â
âDo you want me to help, or do you want me to just sit here?â
âDo you want advice, distraction, silence, or a witness?â
That last one becomes important.
A witness. Someone who doesnât look away. Someone who sees the depression room, the unwashed hair, the exhaustion carved under your eyes, the meds youâre trying to keep taking, the insomnia that makes every morning feel like crawling out of a grave with homework due. And still sees you.
Tim is careful with your room. He understands clutter on a spiritual level, honestly. His own bedroom has absolutely looked like a conspiracy theoristâs evidence locker crossed with a coffee shop crime scene. But your mess feels different to him. Not because itâs worse. Because itâs sadder.
His mess is usually momentum. Yours is gravity. So he doesnât joke too carelessly about it.
He doesnât say, âWow, you live like this?â He doesnât make faces. He stands in the doorway, takes everything in, and asks, âWhatâs the least invasive way I can help?â
If you donât know, he nods like that is a valid answer. âOkay. Then Iâll start with trash within armâs reach. You can veto anything.â
Tim loves a system, but he learns your system has to be compassionate, not perfect.
He used to make lists like:Â Clean room. Shower. Eat. Sleep. Take meds. Now he makes lists like:Â Put cups by door. Sit up for two minutes. Take meds with water. Change shirt if shower is too much. Clear one pillow. Survive Tuesday.
The bar gets lower, but not in a hopeless way. In a humane way.
Tim starts realising that he has spent most of his life treating his own body like an inconvenient side quest. He tells you to sleep while he has been awake for thirty-six hours. He reminds you to eat while his own lunch is three coffees and half a granola bar he found in a drawer. He worries about your meds while forgetting his own basic needs because a case got interesting. And one day, you look at him â exhausted, fond, and maybe a little annoyed â and say, âTim.â
He freezes. Because he knows that tone. You glance at the untouched food beside his laptop. He looks at it too. Betrayed by a sandwich.Â
âThis is different,â he tries.
It is not different. It is clown behaviour in a different font. That realisation shakes him more than he expects. Because Tim wants to help you take care of yourself, but he slowly understands he cannot ask you to believe youâre worth care while proving, daily, that he does not believe the same thing about himself.
So he starts trying. For you, at first. Then with you. He makes it mutual. Not in a way that puts responsibility on you. Not âIâll only take care of myself if you do too.â Never that. Tim would rather throw himself into Gotham Harbour than weaponise your recovery.
Itâs softer.
âIâll eat if you eat?â
âIâll go to bed if you try to rest?â
âMedication and water break. For both of us.â
âTen-minute reset? Your room or my desk. Dealerâs choice.â
It becomes less like he is managing you and more like the two of you are learning how to be alive in parallel. Tiny habits. Tiny victories. Tiny bridges over very deep water.
Tim is painfully gentle about your antidepressants. He knows they matter. He knows they may be part of why you can shower at all, why you can get through a day, why the floor sometimes becomes visible again. But he also knows medication can come with shame, frustration, side effects, missed doses, refill issues, and that awful feeling of being dependent on something just to function.
He never treats meds like proof youâre broken. He treats them like a tool.
âYou deserve tools,â he says one night, voice quiet. âYou donât have to claw through everything barehanded.â
He sets up reminders only if you want them. If you say no, he respects it, even if his anxiety climbs the walls like a raccoon in a server room. If you say yes, he makes the system stupidly efficient. Refill calendar. Backup pharmacy info. Pill organiser. Water bottles where you usually collapse. A little note on your nightstand that just says: you already decided to keep going today. take the help.
He does not sign it. As if you would not recognise his handwriting. Menace.
Your insomnia worries him the most because it is the part he relates to too much. Tim knows being tired but unable to sleep. He knows lying in the dark while your brain becomes a hostile PowerPoint presentation. He knows the weird floaty feeling after too many nights awake, when reality starts getting soft around the edges and every emotion feels either too far away or much too close.
But with you, suddenly, he sees it clearly. It isnât quirky. It isnât productive. It isnât âjust how things are.â Itâs suffering.
And then he has to look at himself.
He starts trying to build better nights for both of you. Not perfect nights. Better ones. Phones face down after a certain hour, unless one of you needs distraction more than discipline. Low lights. No case files in bed. Tea instead of coffee, though he mourns this like a Victorian widow. Audiobooks when silence gets too loud. Soft background noise when thoughts start sharpening their little knives.
He doesnât say, âYou need to sleep.â He says, âWant to make the room easier to rest in?â
Because sometimes sleep is too much pressure. Rest is gentler. Rest can mean lying down with your eyes closed. Rest can mean letting him read beside you. Rest can mean not fighting your body for twenty minutes.
If you still canât sleep, Tim doesnât make you feel like you failed. He just shifts closer and says, âOkay. Then weâll make being awake less lonely.â
Tim becomes very good at body doubling. He will sit on your floor with his laptop while you sort one pile of clothes. He will brush his teeth beside you so brushing yours feels less weirdly impossible. He will take his own shower while you take yours, turning it into parallel maintenance instead of a spotlight on you. He will set a timer for five minutes and clean his desk while you clear your nightstand.
âTeam objective,â he says.
âThis is laundry,â you mumble.
âLaundry is a formidable enemy.â
âYou need better enemies.â
âI live in Gotham. I have variety.â
He loves when you banter, even weakly. You can see it in the way his face lights up for half a second before he schools it back into something less obvious.Â
Tim is careful not to celebrate too loudly. If you shower after days of not being able to, he doesnât make a huge deal and accidentally drown you in attention. He just leaves clean clothes nearby and says, âIâm glad you feel a little more comfortable.â If you take your meds, he doesnât clap like youâre a child. He says, âGood. Iâm proud of you,â so softly it almost disappears. If you clear a patch of floor, he notices. âHey,â he says, pointing with his mug. âFloor sighting.â
âEndangered species.â
âWe should call National Geographic.â
Itâs stupid. It helps.
When he messes up, because he does, he owns it. Sometimes he still slips into solution mode when heâs scared. Sometimes he gives you three options when your brain can barely handle one. Sometimes he asks too many questions.
And if you go quiet, Tim catches himself faster now.
âSorry,â he says. âToo much?â
If you nod, he closes his laptop. Fully closes it. Thatâs basically Tim Drake kneeling in surrender.
âOkay,â he says. âNo fixing. Iâm here.â
And then he proves it. He sits beside you in the mess. No tabs. No notes. No plan. Just Tim, learning that love is not always research. Sometimes love is shutting up.
He offers himself as a quiet place to be honest, but in a different way than Dick. Dick is a notebook. Tim is a shared document with comments turned off. You can say the ugliest things your depression whispers. You can say you feel gross. You can say the room makes you hate yourself. You can say youâre scared your meds will stop working. You can say youâre tired of trying to sleep and tired of waking up and tired of people telling you to âjustâ do things.
Tim listens. His face hurts sometimes, because he wants to argue with every cruel thought. But he learns that not every thought needs to be debated in the moment. Sometimes it needs to be heard, named, and allowed to pass through without becoming another fight.
âThat sounds exhausting,â he says. Or, âIâm sorry itâs that loud today.â Or, âI believe you.â
That one lands. Because Tim does believe you. Even when he doesnât completely understand. Especially then.
Timâs love becomes less frantic over time. Still intense. Obviously. This is Tim Drake. He has never had a casual emotion in his life. But less frantic. He stops trying to build a perfect rescue plan. Starts building a life with you where needing help is normal. Where the room can get bad and still be recoverable. Where missed sleep is serious but not shameful. Where meds are part of care, not proof of failure. Where showers can be mountains and still be climbed one tile at a time. Where both of you are allowed to be works in progress.
One night, after a hard day, Tim finds you sitting on the bed, staring at the floor you still canât see. He stands in the doorway with two glasses of water and his own hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes like bruised moons.
For once, he doesnât offer a plan. He just sits beside you and hands you a glass. You both take your first sips at the same time. Then he leans his shoulder against yours.
âIâm trying to get better at this,â he says.
You ask, âAt helping me?â
Tim is quiet for a moment. âAt being kind to us,â he says.
And there it is. The heart of him. Not perfect. Not magically wise. Not always smooth. But trying. Researching, yes. Adjusting. Apologising. Learning when to solve and when to stay. Loving you hard enough that he starts wondering whether maybe care was never supposed to be something either of you had to earn.
Tim does not cure your depression. But he learns your rhythms. He lowers the lights. He closes the laptop. He takes the meds reminder off âtaskâ mode and turns it into âcareâ mode. He sits with you through the long, sleepless blue hours. He lets tomorrow be tomorrow.
And when things are bad, when the room is a wreck and your body feels impossible and your mind is being cruel, Tim reaches for your hand like it is the most logical thing in the world.
âWe donât have to fix everything tonight,â he says. Then, softer, like heâs saying it to both of you, âWe just have to make it to morning.â
damian wayne
Damian is not good with words. He is not Dick, who can soften a room with his voice. He is not Tim, who can research his way into emotional fluency. He is not Jason, who can make silence feel like armour. Damianâs comfort is⌠precise. Awkward. Devoted in a way that almost feels formal until you realise he is pouring his whole heart into it with both hands.
He does not always know what to say when your depression gets bad. When you cannot shower. When your room is so messy you cannot see the floor. When you are exhausted from insomnia, even though you tried to sleep, even though you wanted to sleep, even though your body feels like it has been wrung out and left somewhere cold.
At first, he may stand in the doorway, very still, taking in the clothes, the cups, the blankets twisted on the bed, the dimness of the room. His face does that sharp little Damian thing where he looks annoyed. But he is not annoyed at you. He is angry that something is hurting you and he cannot stab it. Depression, tragically, refuses to have a physical form.Â
Damian does not pity you. Ever. Pity feels too much like looking down on someone, and Damian would rather cut off his own hand than make you feel small. He sees you struggling, yes. He sees the self-neglect. He sees the way your meds make the difference between barely functioning and collapsing completely. He sees how even when you are taking them, everything can still be too much. But he never sees you as weak.
If you call yourself lazy, his eyes narrow immediately. âThat is inaccurate.â His voice is sharp enough to slice paper. âYou are unwell. There is a difference.â
It is not exactly cuddly comfort, but it lands. Because Damian says it like a fact, not reassurance. Like he would argue it in court. Like he would bring evidence.
He will never give you any real doubt that he loves you. He may not always say it smoothly. He may not always say it when you expect him to. But he shows it so consistently that the words become almost unnecessary. A clean towel folded outside the bathroom. A fresh glass of water on your nightstand. Your medication placed where you can reach it, never shoved in your face. Curtains opened halfway because full sunlight is too aggressive but darkness has started lying to you. A blanket tucked around your shoulders with almost military precision. A quiet, âI am here,â when he sits beside you.
Damianâs affection is in the details. He learns which lights make your head hurt. He learns which foods you can tolerate when eating feels impossible. He learns whether you prefer silence, distraction, or contact. He learns where not to touch you when your skin feels wrong. He learns the difference between âI want to be aloneâ and âI am scared to ask someone to stay.â
And once Damian learns something important about someone he loves, he does not forget.
When your room gets bad, Damian does not insult it. He also does not pretend not to see it, because Damian Wayne has never pretended anything in his life unless espionage was involved. He simply says, âWe will make a path.â
Not, âWe will clean the room.â Not, âThis is unacceptable.â
A path. From the bed to the door. From the bed to your meds. From the bed to water. From the bed to the bathroom. Safety first. Dignity always.
He does not touch your personal things without permission. Damian understands invasion. He understands people deciding what is âbestâ for your body, your space, your mind. So he asks, stiffly but sincerely, âMay I move this?â
If you say no, he nods and leaves it. No argument. No lecture. Just respect, sharp-edged and real.
When hygiene feels impossible, Damian gets very quiet. He does not say, âYou need to shower.â He knows, eventually, that this only makes your shame bare its teeth. Instead, he creates conditions. Fresh clothes placed near the sink. Towel warmed in the dryer. Your favourite soap opened and ready. Water temperature checked. A chair in the bathroom in case standing is too much.
If all you can manage is washing your face, he treats that as valid. If all you can manage is changing clothes, he treats that as valid. If all you can manage is letting him brush your hair, he does it gently, slowly, with a concentration usually reserved for sword maintenance and sketching. He does not say much while he does it. His hands say enough. Careful. Patient. Reverent, almost.
Damian is not naturally comfortable with emotional chaos. He was raised to control feelings, bury them, sharpen them into weapons. But with you, he starts to understand that emotions do not disappear just because you command them to. They rot if trapped too long. They need somewhere to go. So he tries to help you channel them. Not fix them. Channel them.
If you like art, he brings you sketchbooks. Good ones. Expensive paper. Proper pencils. Paints if you want them. Charcoal. Ink. Whatever he thinks will make your hands remember they can create something besides damage. He does not demand beauty.
âIt does not need to be good,â he tells you, which is hilarious coming from Damian âperfection is the bare minimumâ Wayne. You raise an eyebrow. He flushes slightly and looks away. âArt is permitted to be ugly.â Then, after a beat: âSometimes it is more honest that way.â
If you cannot draw, he draws for you. When things get bad, Damian sketches you constantly. Not in a creepy way. In a devotional way. You asleep under three blankets. Your hand resting beside an untouched cup of tea. Your profile lit by the dim blue of early morning. You curled up with a book you have been too tired to read.
He draws you softer than you feel. Not idealised. Not fake. Just seen.
When he shows you, it almost hurts. Because in his drawings, you do not look disgusting. You do not look lazy. You do not look like a burden. You look tired, yes. Sad, sometimes. But also human. Loved. Worth the time it took to study every line.
Damian does not know how to say, I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. So he hands you the sketch instead.
âYou may keep it,â he says, like he is granting a royal document. His ears go pink. âIf you want.â
If you like writing, Damian encourages that too. Not in a âjournal your way out of depressionâ way. More like: âYour thoughts are consuming you. Put them somewhere they cannot bite as deeply.â He buys you notebooks. Plain ones if fancy ones feel like pressure. Little ones if full pages are too intimidating. He will sit beside you and write in his own notebook while you write in yours. If you cannot write full sentences, he tells you to write fragments. Single words. Lists. Bad metaphors. Angry letters you never send. Anything.
âThe page does not judge,â he says. Then, with a tiny scowl: âAnd if it did, I would destroy it.â
When you cannot write, he writes you notes. Small ones. Folded carefully. Left on your pillow, your desk, beside your meds, tucked into the book you have been meaning to read. They are not always traditionally cute because this is Damian, and his version of cute sometimes sounds like a motivational speech from a tiny general.
You have endured today. That is sufficient.
Drink water. I am not asking.
Your room is not evidence against you.
I found this flower. It reminded me of your stubbornness.
You are not a burden. Do not argue with me on this.
I love you. Obviously.
That last one makes your chest ache. Because he writes it like it is the most irrefutable thing in the world.
If you like reading, Damian becomes almost unbearably sweet. He will read aloud to you when your insomnia is bad. He sits near your bed or on the floor beside you, spine straight, book in hand, voice low and careful.
At first, he reads like he is presenting evidence in a trial. Very formal. Very serious. Dramatic pauses in odd places. If you tease him, he scowls. âWould you prefer Drakeâs sleep-deprived mumbling?â
No, actually. So he continues. And over time, his voice softens. He starts learning which books calm you. Which ones are too heavy. Which ones make you smile. Which ones you loved before depression made it hard to love things.
If your eyes are too tired to focus, he reads until your breathing slows. If you do not sleep, he keeps reading anyway.
âYou are resting,â he says when you apologise for staying awake. âRest is not failure.â
Again, he says it like a fact. Like he had to learn it too.
If you have another passion, Damian treats it with fierce seriousness. Music, crafts, games, plants, photography, cooking, collecting tiny stupid trinkets, whatever little spark depression has not completely smothered. He protects that spark like it is sacred. He will not let you mock it.
If you say, âItâs dumb,â he immediately replies, âIt brings you comfort. Therefore, it has value.â
He will sit with you while you do it badly. He will make space for you to have no energy and still be a person with interests. He understands, slowly, that passion does not always look like excitement. Sometimes it looks like staring at art supplies for twenty minutes and touching one pencil. Sometimes it looks like opening a book and reading one paragraph. Sometimes it looks like saving an idea for later because today your brain is soup. Damian counts all of it.
He is intense about your medication, but not in a smothering way. He knows the antidepressants help. He knows they do not cure everything. He knows you can be taking them and still be drowning. So he does not act like the pill is magic. He treats it like part of your armour.
âArmour requires maintenance,â he says one day, placing water beside you.
You stare at him. âDid you just compare my meds to armour?â
âYes.â
âThatâs actually kind of cool.â
He looks smug for the rest of the hour.
If you miss a dose, Damian does not shame you. He may tense, because worry comes out of him as control before he catches it. But he catches it. He breathes once, visibly. Then says, âTake it now, if it is safe to do so. If not, we will follow the instructions. There is no need for panic.â
We. Always we.
That is one of the ways he loves you. Your problems do not become his to command, but he refuses to let you face them as if you are alone.
With insomnia, Damian becomes very protective. He knows sleeplessness makes everything worse. He has seen what exhaustion does to fighters, to animals, to himself. When you cannot sleep, he does not tell you to âjust try.â He knows better than to say something that useless. He may be emotionally constipated, but he is not stupid.
Instead, he asks, âWould you like silence, reading, or distraction?â
If you choose silence, he stays. If you choose reading, he reads. If you choose distraction, he brings Titus, Alfred the Cat, or a sketchbook, because animals and art are Damianâs emotional support starter pack.
Titus will absolutely climb onto the bed like a weighted blanket with legs. Damian pretends this is tactical. âHis body heat may assist your nervous system.â Titus licks your hand. âAlso, he likes you.â Damian looks away. âAs do I.â
He says it stiffly, but his hand finds yours under the blanket.
He goes to the internet for research, to Tim and Leslie, and Damian eventually gets you a therapy animal. He acts extremely formal about it, obviously, like he is presenting a royal gift instead of trying not to look nervous. He does more research first. Breeds, temperaments, training requirements, emotional support versus psychiatric service animals, allergies, housing needs, sleep routines, how animals can help with depression and grounding. Damian Wayne does not simply âwing it.â He prepares like the animal is joining the Justice League.
He does not force it on you, though. He sits beside you one evening, a little stiff, and says, âI believe an animal companion may be beneficial. Only if you want one.â
If you look overwhelmed, he immediately adds, âI would assist with care. You would not be responsible alone.â
And he means it. Damian knows depression can make even feeding yourself feel impossible, so he would never hand you another living thing and expect you to magically become functional. He builds a care plan before the animal ever comes home. He helps with food, vet appointments, litter, walks, grooming, training â all of it. He makes charts. Tim is weirdly impressed. Jason says, âKid made a custody agreement for a cat.â Damian tells him to be silent.
If itâs a dog, he trains them with frightening precision but melts every time they curl up beside you. If itâs a cat, he insists they are âan emotionally intelligent creature with excellent judgmentâ while the cat sits directly on his sketchbook and ruins his work. If itâs a rabbit, bird, or other small animal, Damian becomes a tiny professor about their care needs and quietly watches your face soften when you hold them.
He teaches the animal gentle grounding cues: sitting with you during panic spirals, nudging your hand when you dissociate, lying near you during insomnia nights, waking you gently when youâve slept through alarms.
When you have bad hygiene days, he doesnât use the animal to guilt you. No âthey need you, so get up.â He knows that would make everything worse. Instead, he uses the animal as company.
âThey wish to sit with you,â he says, placing them beside you carefully. âI believe they find your presence calming.â
Which is Damian-code for: I find your presence calming too.
On nights when you cannot sleep, the animal curls against you while Damian sits nearby reading aloud. His voice, the soft breathing of the animal, the warmth beside you â it makes the room feel less like a trap and more like a den. He pretends not to notice when you start talking to the animal before you can talk to him. Actually, he prefers it at first. Less pressure on you. Less chance of him saying something emotionally constipated and weird. A win for everyone.
And if the animal helps you get outside, even briefly, Damian treats it like a sacred victory.
âThey require fresh air,â he says. They do not. Damian is lying again. Badly again. But he walks beside you anyway, matching your pace, letting the animal be the reason you both step into the world for five minutes.
His favourite part, though, is when the animal chooses you. Curls into your lap. Sleeps against your side. Follows you from room to room. Looks at you like you are safe.
Damian watches quietly, his expression soft in a way he would deny under oath. Later, he leaves a note beside your meds. They trust you. So do I. Then, underneath, in smaller handwriting: You are easier to love than you think.
When you are at your lowest, Damian becomes less sharp. Not less himself. Just softer in the places he usually keeps armored. He stops correcting every irrational thing you say. Sometimes. He still has limits. If you insult yourself too harshly, he cannot help it.
âNo,â he says. Not loud. Just final. âYou may feel that. It does not make it true.â
Then he sits beside you, shoulder against yours, and lets the quiet settle.
Damian learns that love does not always require perfect speech. Sometimes it is a pencil moving across paper while you lie in bed. Sometimes it is a note that says, I am proud of you for remaining. Sometimes it is reading your favourite book aloud until his voice goes hoarse. Sometimes it is silently picking up three pieces of trash and not mentioning the rest. Sometimes it is bringing you your meds and water and sitting with you until you take them. Sometimes it is not asking you to be better that day. Just asking you to be there.
He struggles when he cannot fix it. Damian is used to training harder, fighting better, mastering the weakness, defeating the opponent. Depression does not play by rules he respects. It does not duel honourably. It creeps. It lingers. It returns after victories. He hates that. But he learns not to treat you like a mission. You are not his mission. You are his person. So he stops trying to defeat your depression in one dramatic act of devotion and starts showing up in small ways, over and over.
A note. A drawing. A book. A glass of water. A walk in the garden when outside feels possible. A seat beside you when it does not.
If he does get you outside, it is usually through something gentle. âThe dog requires a walk.â Titus absolutely does not require a walk at that exact moment. Damian is lying. Badly. But you go anyway, wrapped in a hoodie, moving slowly through the grounds or down a quiet street, and Damian keeps pace beside you. He does not rush. He does not make it a lesson.
He just points out birds. Their species. Their calls. Whether they are nesting. Whether they are, in his opinion, behaving foolishly. It is weirdly calming.
If you cannot go far, he accepts one minute outside as success.
âAdequate,â he says. Then, because he has learned, he adds, âI am glad you came with me.â
Damianâs compliments are rare enough to be emotionally devastating. When you feel ashamed, Damian becomes fiercely clear. âYour suffering does not make you repulsive.â He says it one night after you apologise for not showering, for the room, for being tired, for being âtoo much.â His voice shakes slightly. Not much. But enough.
âI do not love a cleaner version of you. I do not love a hypothetical version of you. I love you.â He looks almost angry after saying it, like vulnerability has personally insulted his bloodline. But he does not take it back. He reaches for your hand. His grip is warm and certain. âThat remains true even when you cannot believe it.â
And that is Damian at his best. Not smooth. Not easy. Not effortlessly comforting. But unwavering. He may not always have the words. But he will draw you until you can see yourself. He will write notes until your room has little paper lanterns of proof. He will read aloud until the night becomes less cruel. He will help you pour the unbearable feelings into art, into words, into pages, into anything that lets them leave your body without destroying you on the way out. He will love you with discipline, loyalty, awkward tenderness, and a devotion so steady it becomes part of the furniture of your life.
When the floor is hidden again, he will make a path. When your hair is unwashed, he will bring a brush. When you cannot sleep, he will open a book. When your brain says you are unloved, he will leave another note.Â
Depressed omega!reader whose scent makes it incredibly obvious.
Obviously omegas being emotionally regulated and safe was very important for pack health, and their scents ensured everyone knew if they were in distress.
But you tried, really tired, to reel it back in. Of course you didnât wanna be walking around practically sending out a distress beacon, but short of getting on scent blockers there wasnât much to do. And you tried that too, but apparently one of the side effects of the blockers was depressionâŚwhich just wouldnât help the situation would it? Well, at least then you wouldnât be bothering the whole team, you supposed.
When you got like thisâŚand your scent went out, unpleasantly curdled from your normal one, everyone else went haywire. It was only their biology, distressed omega means unhealthy pack. It sent them into overdrive, itching to help and find a solution. Part of you felt incredibly guilty that your hurt was causing them discomfort tooâŚbut the rest of you couldnât find it in yourself to care. Which sounds callous, but caring about anything got hard, and thinking down that road just made your scent worse and made the boys go more stir crazy, which made you feel guiltierâŚso you just stopped thinking about it.
Sometimes itâll come out of nowhere. Youâll be sitting in the rec room, having an enough pleasant time, everyone doing their own thing. And suddenly youâll start thinking too much, too deeply about certain things, and wonât even notice how far your thoughts go until Johnny gives a loud whine. Only then do you notice how much your scent has changed and how everyone has stopped what theyâre doing to look at you in concern.
You always mumble a âsorryâŚâ when you realize. But they donât let you apologize.
ItâsâŚnice in a way. Youâve always been bad about asking for help, and for too much of your life your sadness (and subsequent scent changes) went uncared for. So to have them care so much about itâŚmade you feel good. Feel loved.
Sometimes theyâd take your mind off it. Moving from individual activities to a board game, or a movie night. Or sometimes theyâd ask if you wanted to talk. And most of the time the answer was no, but sometimes youâd cry into their arms and it would make them cry too, but youâd feel better.
And you love them for it.
But sometimes even thatâs too much.
And so youâll lock yourself in your room and lose yourself in your nest, lose yourself in the thoughts, and just let yourself feel.
You could still sense them, taking shifts outside your door. You donât know if itâs intentionally set up so youâre never alone, or if they just have the urge to get as close as they can when your distressed scent is wafting through the cracks in your door and they canât reach you.
You lie there for hours, maybe days, and it feels like itâll never get better. Like thereâs weights attached to your limbs, glueing you to the sheets. But then eventually you wake up and feel like you can manage a shower, and suddenly youâre putting on new clothes and drinking water and opening the door. And the boys have the decency to behave relatively normally, just relieved that youâre feeling okay again. You prefer it to them treating you like glass.
But still, theyâll make you breakfast and refuse to let you help, and theyâll make you sit in the middle of the couch to be surrounded by them with a million blankets and your favorite show on. And John will kiss the crown of your head when he hands you your coffee, and Kyle will warm your cold hands and kiss your knuckles, and Simon will put his head on your lap so you feel attached to the world, and Johnny will say something that will make you laugh for the first time in days. And youâll start to remember a little why you got out of bed.
Maybe in the future, youâll leave the door unlocked. Let them be there while you feel like you canât breathe. But for now, they can handle the feelings of uselessness if space is what you need. Theyâd do whatever it took to make you feel okay again.
You've always known about the monster in your neighbor's barn. You first discovered it when you went over to look at the new kittens. Your neighbors were very wealthy but kind, and they had a son with whom you sometimes played. Most of the time, though, you were there for the animals. Their property was massive, and the cows, chickens, and horses they kept drew you in like a moth to a flame.
One afternoon you were in the hayloft, cooing over the cat and her new litter of tiny fuzzy, kittens, when something moved off to the side. It was just dark enough in the hayloft that the shadowy corners could hold anything in them, but you'd never been afraid of the dark in here. You went over, thinking you'd find another cat.
Instead, you discovered a small, person-shaped lump wrapped in scraps of cloth. You nudged it with your foot and it moved. Something between a paw and a hand grasped at your ankle. That was enough to startle you, especially when you felt the sharp tip of a claw scrape your skin. You left the barn and ran up to your neighbor's house, where the housekeeper caught you by the shoulders before you could go inside.
"No outdoor shoes in the house, remember?" She said.
"There's a creature in the barn!" You announced, and she sighed.
"Yes, we know. Did he hurt you?"
"Not intentionally," you replied, glancing down at the thin scratch on your ankle.
"Good," she said. "Then leave him be."
"What is he?" You questioned.
"A stray," she replied. "Why don't you head on home? It's about time for dinner and your mother will be wondering where you are. Don't forget to put a band-aid on that scratch!"
You went home and for once in your young life, you decided not to tell your parents about your exciting new discovery. Instead, you went to the barn again the next morning, shivering from the cold as you clambered into the hayloft. The barn cat watched you calmly from her nest as you searched the shadows for the creature. The stray, as the housekeeper had called it.
You found him hunched in the corner with feathers stuck to his face. You could see him better today, and he looked somewhat human. He had soft cheeks and wide eyes, with sickly-pale skin and pockets of dirt under his claws. Two small stubs protruded from his hair, and there was a symbol of a flame on his forehead.
"Did you eat a chicken?" You asked, fascinated as you eyed the feathers.
He shook his head.
"A pigeon, maybe? There are always plenty in the rafters. Well, I thought you'd be hungry, so I brought some food!" You held out your offering of a peanut butter sandwich and two hard-boiled eggs.
He nibbled on the sandwich before discarding it, and then tried to eat the egg with the shell still on. You showed him how to peel it, and he sat and ate with wide eyes.
"So you like eggs?" You said with a laugh.
He held the other egg out to you and you peeled that one too, patting him on the head.
"You're kind of like a cat, so maybe it's good for you to stay here," you said. "It's always warm in the barn, even in the winter!"
You visited him multiple times after that, as much as you dared before your mother started asking questions. Life was simple but it was good, until one day, your parents made the decision to separate. Your mother moved with you to live somewhere far away. You remembered the barn and the kittens and your strange friend for a couple of years, but with time your memories blended together and it all began to feel like a fever dream.
Many years have passed, and you're finally back in the town you grew up in. Your father is getting older and has no one to rely on, so you told him you'd move back in. Of course, he tried to get you to change your mind, pointing out that the town was small and there was hardly anything to do. But, that's exactly what you want. Peace and quiet, and time away from the stress and hustle of the city.
You boil some eggs while you unpack and then make a beeline for your neighbor's barn, hoping your old friend is still there. The chickens crowd around for some corn, but you ignore them. You don't have anything for them anyway. The barn cat is gone but some of her kittens are still around, though they seem more feral than anything, running off the minute they see you. The barn is quiet, and the air is stale when you push the doors open and step inside.
"Is anyone in here? Helloâ"
A figure drops from the rafters, landing with a thump in front of you and growling softly. It's him. He's still dressed in those same scraps of cloth, though they're faded and much smaller on his frame. He's taller than you now, dark-eyed and intimidating. His horns are no longer stubs. Now they curve back, framing his head like a crown. His claws have also grown, and he can definitely do much more damage than a mere scratch or two. He looms over you, backing you into a corner and waiting for the fear to kick in. He doesn't seem to recognize you, but you still remember him, and you're not afraid.
You hold up the plastic bag with four boiled eggs. He tilts his head and stares for a long moment before crouching and yanking your shoe off. At first you have no idea what he's doing, and then you realize he's looking for the scar. It's faint, but it's still there.
"It's me," you say.
He tugs on your hand, dragging you down to his level and practically throwing himself into your arms, purring loudly. His weight nearly bowls you over. You laugh and hug him, patting him on the head as you admire his horns. After a moment he pulls away and rips open the plastic bag, taking out an egg and holding it out to you. With a smile, you crack it open and begin peeling.
Sitting at your desk in your room as you tried to get through this last essay. The last couple of weeks had been a shit show with the many essays, homework and even projects you had to do and that wasnât even counting how you still had go to work.
He saw how you bent over backwards to cover for your classmates when they didnât do their part. Watched as you handled another difficult customer as they yell at you. Like it was your fault they forgot to tell you they didnât want something on their order.
By the end of the day you looked exhausted. Drained of hope and the will to keep on doing anything. When you did get a break you spent most of the day in bed. Bed rotting, only forcing yourself to get up when your stomach started to beg you to eat something.
He couldnât keep watching the world tear you apart when you were just trying to do your best.
So he stepped in where he could. A rose left on your dresser with a cute note. Sweet encouraging texts throughout the day. And at times a package left on your doorstep for when you get home.
It was always something cute, something youâve been wanting that he knew you needed after a long day.
Slowly but surely that spark in you came back. It wasnât a big one but it was obvious how much you started to look forward to each day, to his gifts/messages. Being able to get through the day a little more happy, excited. Looking forward to what might be waiting at home.
But there were nights like tonight when the thoughts got a little too loud. When your emotions got too overwhelming that you couldnât help but cling into the plush he bought you, sobbing into it as you wondered what you did to deserve this. Like the world was against you and everyone secretly hated you.
But once he was sure you were asleep he would come in. Making sure to be quiet as he walked over before pulling you into his arms. Laying on your bed as he cradled you, moving his hand up and down your back as he whispered sweet words in your ears.
Even while asleep he knew you heard him. Watching how you slowly began to relax and a faint smile came on your lips. Seeing how the bad dream you had turned into a better one as he held you close.
And when you woke up the next morning to the hint of cologne left on your bedsheets, another rose was on your nightstand. A note beside it.
Soon Iâll take all those worries and pain away
You couldnât help but smile. That familiar warmth spreading as you felt giddy. Hoping that day would come soon.
âââââââââââââââ
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Pairing âś Gwayne x Jace's twin reader x Jacaerys
Tags âś arranged marriage, infidelity (briefly), mild angst, eventual polyamory, threesome, shameless smut, p. in v. sex
Wordcount âś 5,545
Soon after your marriage to Gwayne, he notices the love between you and your twin Jacaerys, and decides to invite him to your marriage bed.
Gwayne Masterlist âś Jacaerys Masterlist
To taste the salt of the stars in the sea. To love another more than oneself. To know this, is to know everything.âAnne Michaels
Duty was sacrifice, you had learned early on in life. It meant sacrificing personal preferences or indulgences for long-term stability, alliances and peace, and it was a notion you were familiar with as you had seen your mother and father share friendship rather than love, and occasionally caught the tail end of disputes over appearances.Â
You knew you were a Velaryon by name and little else, save perhaps the love Ser Laenor had for you and your siblingsâyour twin brother Jacaerys shared this knowledge, one you both kept close to your hearts. Love was sometimes meant to be sacrificed on the altar of keeping another house close, and of appeasing relationships, whether they be political or otherwise.Â
This became painfully clear to you when your grandsire King Viserys arranged a match between you and the Queenâs younger brother, Ser Gwayne. It was unexpected, and perhaps a bit unconventional, motivated by the discontentment of House Hightower about Prince Aegon being passed over as heir.
You were a bride of appeasement, more Targaryen blood given to the Hightowers, but the motives of your match did not worry you as much as your chances at happiness within such a marriage.
Upon learning the news you had feared Ser Gwayne would be much like his father Ser Otto. However as you were sent to Oldtown to wed him, you were delighted to find out that it was not the case. He did share his fatherâs sharp way with words and his good education, but he was much gentler. You were almost ashamed of yourself at how enchanted you were with your husband, who was as beautiful as he was galant, with fiery red hair and piercing eyes.
Your wedding night was a delight, although the lack of pain could be explained by the fact that you had lost your virtue to your own twin, Jacaerys, given time and time over in the weeks before your departure for Oldtown. The love the two of you shared had always been apparent, but it had burst into uncontrollable flames at the news that you would be taken from himâJace was proud and protective, and you loathed to leave him behind.
However you did as you were bid by the King, swallowing your sorrows and ignoring the longing that bloomed like a bush of thorns as the months passed. They were only soothed by the tentative happiness you found in this arranged marriage. Over the months you grew to learn of Gwayneâs ways, of his keen mind and his sharp sense of humor, and a friendship grew that soon turned into trust and the first embers of love.
You found yourself caught between the two loves that inhabited your heart as your twin flew across the realm half a year after you had come to Oldtown and spent a fortnight as a guest. Gwayne was delighted to entertain a prince of the realm, and seeing the two young men side by side troubled you greatlyâyou felt as though your very soul was split into two.
âI would not break my vows to Gwayne, Jace,â you pleaded one evening as Jace found you alone in one of the parlors and pulled you into a tight embrace. âHe is a good man, and although I suspect him of knowing I was not a maid upon our wedding, he has never brought it up against me.â
âDoes he please you? Keep you happy?â he asked against your cheek, his breath still heavy from your kisses, his lips flushed a dark pink.
You nodded silently, and the crestfallen look on his face as he pulled away made guilt curl deeply in your gut. âDo you love him?â he asked, his voice wavering.
âNot in the way that I love you,â you pleaded, curling your hands in his doublet, feeling him slip through your fingers. âYou are my twin, another half of me.â
âBut you have grown to love him, as a wife loves her husband,â Jacaerys pressed, and despite your heartbreak, you found no lies in his words.
âI know this must come as a betrayal to you, and I am sorry for it. I did not mean for it to happen, you know I came here intent on resenting him!â you hissed, and your twin smiled gently, pained.
âHe is a decent man and an accomplished knight, I am glad you are able to find love in this arrangement,â he replied, holding on to his values and beliefs, no matter how shattered his heart was. âI should take my leave tomorrow, surely your lord husband will not begrudge me for returning to my duties on Dragonstone.â
That night you cried into your pillow, biting your lips against the sobs that threatened to alert your husband as he settled to sleep beside you. âWhat has you so crestfallen, my love?â Gwayne asked, curling at your back, but you could not answer.Â
He held you as you cried and did not pry, even though he burned to have his doubts confirmed. He had known of your closeness with your brother early on, such was the way of twins, but he suspected your bond to run deeper. He had had suspicions since a banquet held for Prince Daeronâs name day while the two of you were courting, a mere month before your wedding.
He had walked into charged situations a couple of times, always feeling like he was walking in on the tail end of a conversation he was not privy to. It did not help that your twin Jacaerys had spent the banquet looking like he was caught between fury and heartbreak, and was much more curt to him than he ought to be.
Gwayne knew the Targaryens to have queer customs and hold strange traditions, and he supposed the natural bond between dragon twins would favor such an attraction, yet he feared to consider it. You were his lady wife, a young woman of character whom he had learned to adore, and he did not want to suggest such an outrageous thing if it was not the truth.
You had eventually fallen asleep, but as the morning came Gwayne could see you had not rested much, no doubt plagued by what was causing you sorrow. He kept himself busy for most of the morning as the princeâs departure was being prepared, allowing you as much space as he suspected you required to tell him your goodbyes.
He was making his way down to the outer courtyard where the princeâs dragon, Vermax, was waiting, when his eye was caught by two familiar figures hiding in an alcove. The corridor was deserted, and Gwayne stopped dead in his tracks, surprise and something akin to anticipation curling in his gut as he watched the pair of twins.Â
He waited with bated breath, and finally, the inevitable, irrevocable occurredâJacaerys pressed a kiss to your lips, and you surged up against him. It was unmistakably a loverâs kiss, passionate and hurried, and it made his heart ache to witness it. His loins stirred despite himself, and he lowered his eyes as though he was the one being caught in a compromising position before taking a few steps back.
He kept his eyes on the two of you, making sure that he was not seen, long enough to see you push away and turn from him, your hands rising to your face. He walked away, heart hammering in his chestâthe confirmation of your bond with your twin did not pain him, he was surprised to find out, but instead left him curious and strangely incensed.
He could not deny the Prince was handsome, with a temper and a wit that he found most entertaining. He was the perfect mirror image of you, with sharper features but the same elegant way to his movements. The pair of you made a striking sight, and Gwayne had considered commissioning a painting of the two of you, to offer you for your name day, only for him to share in the pleasure of gazing upon beauty.Â
To see the set of you in the flesh would make an enticing sight, and Gwayne was nothing if not a collector of pretty things.
Jacaerys had been surprised to receive an invitation from Ser Gwayne, rather than you, especially since it demanded that he keep his visit a secretâa surprise for his wife who had been rather morose in recent weeks, the letter said.
âIâm afraid your usual rooms are unavailable, my prince, as a leak from the attic has made its way along the wall,â Gwayne explained as he led him instead to the main quarters upon his arrival. âI have had the rooms next to ours be prepared. After all, you are such a frequent guest, you might prefer a more permanent quarter.â
âThank you, Ser Gwayne,â Jace replied politely as he was led into a large room decorated with refined taste.
Embroidered tapestries of various shades of green and blue hung on the walls, no doubt reminiscent of House Florent, and numerous settees and lounging armchairs were available. Facing the hearth, a wide poster bed with curtains was pushed against the wallâthe one where, on the other side, his sister shared a bedchamber with her husband.
âYou ought to call me by my name, we are brothers by marriage after all,â Gwayne said amicably, his head bowing slightly, although there was an edge to it that turned Jaceâs blood cold.Â
As the man left him to settle and the door to his new rooms closed behind him, Jacaerys rested against them, shutting his eyes against hot tearsâthere was hardly any doubt left now, the man knew of the feelings he held for his sister, and was intent on tormenting him for them.
However he could not say a word, or chastise him, for fear of revealing his own sister and thus endeavored to bear the concealed japes. He held his tongue through supper, forcing himself to be agreeable for his sisterâs sake, but you could tell something was amiss.
Fear of accusations kept him quiet, biting his own tongueâhe knew the truth being put into words would be considered a betrayal at the least, and indecency at the worst.
âJacaerys behaved rather strangely today,â you commented later that night as you removed your earrings and set them down in one of the little dishes on your dresser.Â
âDid he?â Gwayne hummed, dipping his face into the back of your neck, pressing kisses to the freckles that bloomed there.Â
âYes,â you answered nervously. You wet your lips and swallowed, feeling your mouth go dry. âYou have not quarreled with him upon his arrival, have you?â
âI would have told you. But enough about your brother now, my love,â Gwayne replied gently, pulling you toward the bed and onto his lap before toppling you onto your back. âI have missed your radiant disposition, and now that he is here and all is well, I am intent on enjoying itâŚâ
âAre you saying my mood is linked to my brotherâs presence?â you asked, biting your lower lip, as your husband pressed you to the pillows.
âVery much, but I wouldnât dwell on it. You are twins after all,â he said before pressing a passionate kiss to your lips, cutting off any reply you could have had.
It wasnât long before you were both rid of your robes and your husband was buried deep inside of you, rocking smoothly in and out of your tight heat, pulling delighted sighs from your parted lips.
Gwayne seemed particularly incensed, focused on dragging the head of his cock against the spot he knew made you unravel. The bed creaked as he picked up speed, and you covered your mouth with the flat of your hand to silence your moans.
âLet me hear you, my love,â he said, taking your wrist in hand and pressing it to the pillow, intertwining your fingers.
âHe will hear us,â you gasped, already conscious of the way the bed knocked against the wall with each of his thrusts, the very wall where on the other side, Jace slept.Â
âLet him hear,â Gwayne replied, then dipped his head to suck one of your nipples into his mouthâhe knew how sensitive you were, to the point that he had once brought you to your peak by this mean, without a single touch between your legs.
Shame curled in your core along with your pleasure, and you found yourself caught between your fear of revealing yourself, and the utter temptation of the situation. You knew of your husbandâs sense of teasing and flair, but this went beyond what was proper. However your body decided against your reason and apprehension, and soon you were lost to the pull of Gwayneâs mouth and the drag of his cock against your sweet spot.
The more sighs and moans fell from your lips, the harder your husband was thrusting into you, sweat pearling at his temples and pleasure turning his freckles into specks of fireâa jolt of heat went through you as he found his peak once you had reached yours, his groans and whimpers louder than usual.
Such passion left you languid and unwilling to part from your pillow too early the next morning, encouraged by Gwayne, who seemed invigorated. âStay abed a while if you wish, I shall entertain our guest,â he pressed into your temple along with a kiss.
His vigor carried into the training yard as he invited his good-brother to a sparring match, a way to shake sleep from their frames and get their blood pumping before breaking the fast of the night. Jacaerys agreed, albeit hesitantly, but his competitive nature soon took over.Â
A grin etched onto his graceful features, Gwayne was taunting him with his training sword just as he had taunted him the night prior, drawing moans and wails from his sister while Jace laid awake, unable to do anything but listen and wait it out.
Shame was still heavy in his stomach as his desire remained unsatisfiedâthe peak he had drawn from himself at the sounds of your coupling had barely scratched the surface of his longing.Â
He put his frustrations into fending off Gwayneâs attacks, their swords clashing swiftly, and into his own attacks, which were perhaps too bold and vicious for the training yard. However Gwayne was taller and seemingly amused by Jaceâs anger, and his frustrated mood eventually became his own downfall as he grew clumsier, until he found himself defeated.
âHave I done something to anger you, my prince?â Gwayne asked amusedly as he held the point of his sword to Jaceâs chest, who was lying into the dirt, resting on his elbows.
âNot at all, ser,â he replied, falsely cheerful.Â
Footsteps echoed in the small staircase leading down to the training yard, and your joyful tone resonated when you leaned over the railing, smiling at the sight of your brother refusing to take your husbandâs outstretched hand. âThere you are,â you called. âBreakfast is being served in the solar.â
The meal was a tense affair, and neither your husband nor your twin seemed inclined to speak. Instead they seemed caught in some sort of silent confrontation, Gwayne looking rather amused and conniving while Jace only appeared more upset with each passing minute.
Hot tea was served, along with sweet cakes, and you focused on pouring the hot beverage through the small sieve instead of the two menâs silent sparring.Â
âI have an offer,â Gwayne suddenly announced after a sip of tea, startling both you and your twin. You watched as your husband licked his lower lip, then his gaze raised to Jacaerys, piercing and clear. âJoin us,â he simply said.
âJoin us where?â you asked, a confused smile pulling at your lips as nervousness grasped your heart slightly.
âHe knows what I mean,â he replied rather solemnly, his eyes fixed on your twin who rose abruptly, pushing from the table. Jacaerys was white as snow, looking both rattled and furious, and your smile vanished from your face.
âThis jest has lasted long enough, you might have amused yourself but I cannotââ he started, and Gwayne interrupted him gently.
âDo ease, my prince. I mean no offense,â he said, and it seemed to rather spook Jace even more, who swallowed unshed tears.
âI donât understand,â you pressed.Â
âI am aware of the bond you two share. I witnessed yourââ Gwayne said, then licked his lips, gesturing with his hands as though he was picturing the scene again. âYour parting kiss, the last time your dear brother visited.â
Your heart sank at this revelation, your breath vanishing from your chest; your mouth dropped open to catch it, but instead you choked on it, your hand reaching for Jaceâs arm. You could not look at your husband, for shame consumed you, and you feared to see revulsion on his handsome features.
âI should not have toyed with you to this extent, my prince, it did not mean for it to seem so cruel. Please forgive me,â he said, and you could hear no lie in his voiceâyour gaze rose to him and through your tears, you tried to decipher his intentions.
Jace shook his head, looking down in shame. âYou had every right. She is your wife.â
âAnd she is your twin,â Gwayne said with conviction, as though it explained everything. âI understand it pains you to be parted, and I am not completely unfamiliar with Targaryen customs.â
âHusband, what are you saying?â you said with waveringwords, wiping your tears on your sleeves. Across from the table, Gwayne was looking at you tenderly, a hint of sadness in his eyes.
âI have always prided myself on being a generous lover. I would not stand between the two of you, be the reason why your love remains⌠unfulfilled,â he explained, then a small smile appeared on his face, kind and benevolent. âAlthough I can only guess it was fulfilled, in the past.â
âBefore we were wed, never after,â you rushed to reassure him, but he did not seem to give your words much thought.
Instead he turned his piercing gaze to Jacaerys once more, who appeared to be frozen in his spot. âYou are quite pleasant to look at, if you would allow me to say so, my prince,â he started. âAnd you might blame my vanity and frivolity, but I take immense pleasure in collecting handsome things.â
âAre you suggesting Jace joins us, in our bed?â you asked hesitantly, your grip on your twinâs arm tightening.Â
âYes, that is one option,â Gwayne replied, bringing his teacup to his mouth once more. âIf you would prefer me not to be present, Iâm sure I can find duties to attend to.â
âYou would give us leave toâŚâ Jacaerys said, sitting back down tentatively, his wrists turning in your grasp until your fingers intertwined.
âTo live your love as you wished,â Gwayne continued, his eyes briefly glancing at your joined hands atop the table. âYou have a permanent residence here if you so wish it, and are welcome to my wifeâs bed as much as you desire.â
The pair of you watched him, slightly amazed at the proposal, and you almost wanted to laugh at the surreal situation your husband had pushed you into. âAlthough we might need a second room⌠A man needs a bed to sleep in, if his is occupied,â he added with a touch of humor, hiding his smile in his cup, and you bolted from your seat to round the table, coming to his side.Â
To his surprise, you dropped to your knees, grabbing his free hand and pressing it to your lips. âHusband, I thank you, and I am in your debt,â you vowed.
âYou are not, my love,â he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. âAnything to keep you happy.â
The darkest hour of the night later found you and Jacaerys huddled under soft, silky sheets, defiling your marital bed, with your own spouseâs enthusiastic permission.
That fact alone was a thrill you had never expected, and the utter joy of being reunited with your twin had only added to it. Jacaerys had taken you a first time with unconcealed longing and reliefâyou could hardly believe you were one with him again.Â
The languid kisses of your afterglow had slowly turned passionate again, and he was teasing his length along the cleft of your cunt when a quiet knock startled you. You both untangled yourselves and sat up, pulling the sheets at your waistâitâs Gwayne, you whispered to Jace, who relaxed slightly.Â
âI hope I am not interrupting,â your husband said in a quiet voice, as though he was entering a sanctuary.Â
âNot at all,â you replied, sitting up against the pillows, your flushed chest bared to both menâs gazeâit was unfamiliar to be so exposed, but you felt safe while in their company, even though you were still amazed at the ease of your husband in this situation.Â
âI simply came to fetchââ he said, reaching for the dresser, but your twin interrupted him.Â
âThe bed is large enough for three to sleep, I suppose,â Gwayne said, sitting at the foot of it. The room smelled of sweat and musk, and the scent got stronger at its source, where it was permeating the sheets. His loins stirred as he leaned against the bedpost, considering the two of you.
âIf sleep is what you wish to do then we would not keep you awake, but that was not what I had in mind,â Jacaerys said with the hint of a mischievous smile.
âA most enticing offer,â Gwayne remarked as he stood up and rounded the bed, pulling the armchair he kept near his bookshelf closer. âBy all means then, carry on, if you do not mind a spectator for now,â he said as he sat, crossing his legs at the ankles, resting them on the edge of the mattress. âI did interrupt you, didnât I?â
âYes,â you said, biting your lower lip as a genuinely happy smile pulled at your lips.
âWould you show me what I interrupted?â he asked then, his tone darker.Â
Jacaerys and you shared a smile, then a deep, slow kiss before he settled atop you again and pushed into you in one, smooth stroke. The slight stretch was comfortable and you allowed yourself to sigh aloud, sinking back into the sheets as your twin thrusted into you.Â
âBy the Gods you are a marvelous sight,â Gwayne murmuredâthe long lines of Jacaerysâ legs and back were cradled between your creamy thighs, your knees hooked at his hips, your ankles curled together. Your twinâs dark curls fell into his eyes as he thrusted into you, and you were quick to push them behind his ears, holding his head like a lifeline.Â
With his eyes Gwayne followed the path of your hands, from the luscious mane to the back of your twinâs neck, then down the wave of his spine, pressing down his lower back, guiding his thrusts. He uncrossed his legs, unable to help his own hands wandering, up his thighs and in the crook of his hips were his cock was filling. He pressed his palm down on it, parting his lips on a breathless sigh and your gaze turned to him.
âHusband,â you called in a whine as Jace sucked a kiss into your neckâthe sight of your spouse watching your own twin take you while he teased himself was proving to be your undoing, and you could hardly remain coherent, let alone alert.
You closed your eyes, surrendering to Jaceâs mouth and hips, and to Gwayneâs gaze and words. âThe pair of you are the most beautiful, most arousing sight I have ever laid eyes on,â he praised, and Jaceâs back erupted in shiver under your hands. Your fingers tightened at his hips, your cunt clenching around him as you whimpered.
âHarder,â Gwayne suddenly ordered, pulling a grunt out of Jace as he sped up, and you couldnât help the way you fluttered around him, as he obeyed the orders of your husband. One of your hands flew out, grabbing and pulling the sheets in frustration when you could not reach him.
âMy sister wants you to join us,â Jacaerys gasped, his eyes throwing a dark look over his shoulder, and Gwayne felt a thrill at this glimpse of the princeâs fire.Â
The way he had referred to you didnât go unnoticed but instead of making possessiveness erupt in him, it sent another shiver down Gwayne's spineâto see his precious jewel in the arms of another man was heady and addictive, and he knew he would be forever changed by it.
âWhat does my prince want?â he replied, almost a croon.Â
He did not wait for an answer, instead he unfolded his long frame and pushed from his seat, working the laces of his shirt and trousers easilyâthey came off in soft sounds drowned by the subtle creaking of the bed and your sighs of pleasure. You whined again as your husband stood in all his glory, his long fingers cradling the length of his cock loosely, working his hand from the nest of red curls at its base to the weeping tip.
Time seemed to stand still for a moment as Jacaerys slowed his pace, unwilling to see it end too soon. Restraining himself was agony, especially under the watchful eyes and praiseful words of your husband, but as he followed your gaze, a thrill went through him.
He had never been one to find charm in a man, but he had to admit the Hightower lord was a lovely sight to behold, and he could not fault you for falling for him. His pale skin was flushed pink at his cheeks and chest, his red hair falling into his eyes, his slim frame quivering slightly as he stroked his cock slowly.
âYour prince wants you to take your place at your princess' side,â he instructed gently, and grateful tears came to your eyes. Gwayne smiled and complied, letting go of his cock as he came to sit on the side of the bed where you could finally reach him.
Your nails scratched his arm in an effort to pull him to you, and soon he was stretching his long frame alongside yours. You clenched around Jaceâs cock as Gwayne slanted his mouth over yours, kissing you with expert passion.
âWatch as I make her come undone,â Jace whispered, incensed by the way your body was growing taut under his, a sign of the mounting pressure in your core. âWhat a marvelous sight indeed,â he added with unconcealed awe, witnessing the obvious love between you and your husband.
He dipped his head slowly, allowing either of you to push him away, and as neither of you did, pressed his lips to the corner of yours, where they were still locked with Gwayneâs.
The older man made a pleased sound, then broke the kiss only to press his lips to the side of Jaceâs jaw, chaste and tender. âHow does it feel to be inside of her again?â he asked, both serious and teasing, and the sight of both your lovers hovering over you was proving to be your undoing.
âI am on my knees with gratitude,â he answered impertinently, and Gwayne chuckled.
âGods have mercy, please,â you whined, rocking your hips desperately, grinding your core against your twinâs abdomenâhis pace was torturously slow, only just enough to make you dance on the edge.Â
âShe does beg prettily, doesnât she?â Gwayne askedâhe was the most brazen of the two, but you could tell a fire laid dormant behind Jaceâs eyes. Your embraces had always been forbidden, hurried, but now that you were free to explore your love and enjoy each otherâs skin, you were curious to find out what sort of passion lurked in his bones.Â
Gwayneâs hand curled around his own cock again, his mouth dropping open on languid sighs. Your eyes flitted between his face and that of your twin, unable to decide, until you finally closed your eyes to the onslaught of pleasure as Jace picked up his pace. You could tell from his soft grunts and the subtle shaking of his thighs that he was reaching the limit of his patience.
Gwayne bit his lip, heat flashing through him and making his cock throb in his hand as you arched your back, sweet moans falling from your mouth. He saw the moment your twin brought you to your peak, your moans turning to silent screams, your thighs quivering around his hipsâJace was groaning through his teeth, and it was with a sob that he pulled out as soon as you settled again, spending across your belly in violent ropes of white.Â
âGwayne,â you whimpered, looking down between his legs as the last quivers of pleasure shook you.
You looked aside at your twin in slight hesitation, but he smiled and stretched his slim frame along your side. You leaned into him as he curled a hand under your thigh, inviting your husband to take the place he had been enjoying mere seconds ago.Â
âI would not overwhelm you,â Gwayne whispered as he kneeled between your parted knees.
Jacaerys watched, a scalding blush erupting all across his face. You smiled at him, bright and victorious, as Gwayne found his pleasure in the cradle of your hips, burying his moans in your neck. You were wet and pliant under him, languid from your recent peak, and you welcomed Jaceâs gentle kiss as Gwayne rocked into you.
âSkorkydoso gevie se lanta hen iksÄ hÄnkirÄŤ. ZČłhon perzys iksis isse zČłhon Ĺghar, issa iÄ sČłz iderennon syt ao. How beautiful the two of you are together. His fire is in his hair, he suits you,â Jacaerys said, tender and solemn.
âPerzo vĹŤjita. Kissed by fire,â you crooned, your fingers tangling in Gwayne fiery strands, pulling them gently as he stilled in your arms. He had not an inkling of what your twin had said to you, and what you had replied, only that the High Valyrian had rolled off him like a loverâs caress.
He groaned as he spilled inside of you, aware of the dragon princeâs envious gaze on him, and the mere idea of allowing him the same pleasure next time was a thrill. He longed to watch the two of you again, to praise and guide you, and to see your reaction as he encouraged your twin to spill insideâthat particular taste of the forbidden was one he would not deny himself, or Jacaerys.Â
He knew it would be glorious to watch, as would many other kisses and caresses. His mind was reeling, filled with them and he was eager to share them with the two of you. âMay this night be the first of many,â he sighed as he laid at your side, a bone-deep satisfaction spreading along his limbs.
Mindless of the mess on your skin, you curled at his side, resting your head on his shoulder as Jacaerys molded along your back, hooking his own chin over your shoulder. Gwayneâs arm laid trapped under you, his fingers reaching along the side of your twinâs neck and upper back. The young prince shivered, pressing his hips into you as Gwayne teased the curls at his nape tentatively.
âHow many nights of this will there be?â Jace asked, and you smiled at his need for reassurance.
âIt is as I said. I would not keep the pair of you apart,â Gwayne said, his eyes fluttering close as you nuzzled into him. The combined smell of his sweat and that of Jace was slowly lulling you into a state of near slumber, your limbs growing heavy, pressed between their bodies.Â
Jacaerys pushed himself on his elbow, his head resting atop yours, close enough for Gwayne to feel his breath when he spoke. âSurely rumor will stain us,â he whispered regretfully.
Gwayne said nothing, instead glancing at a tapestry in the corner of the room where he knew a hidden door laid, used by the previous generation to connect the two rooms that used to be nurseries. âI will protect you,â he replied, and you made a small sound of approval. He kissed your forehead at that, his face pressing closer to Jaceâs for a moment.Â
âMany men in this realm find their pleasure in the arms of whores or mistresses. Many ladies find similar contentment with lovers,â Gwayne explained, reaching up with his free hand to tuck a stray curl behind Jaceâs earâthe young man stayed still, not leaning into him, but not rejecting the touch either. âIt is the way of the world, but this is differentâŚâ
âWe came into this world together, we belong together,â Jacaerys said, his hand curling possessively at your hip, his tone sealing the finality of this arrangement.Â
Gwayne only smiled, a gentle laugh building in his throatâhe would gladly keep the two of you here, wrapped in lace and silk until the end of times, simply for the thrill of seeing twin flames dance together, and the selfish desire to know the intimate ways of dragons.
Dividers by @/saradika
Author's Note: Thank you to all the anons who gave me the idea for this fic, and even for some of the scenes. Thank you for all the asks, the unhinged thoughts, the wholesome ones... This fic is yours âĄ
Thank you to @zaldritzosrose for reading the smut over and making sure it make sense.
Tags ⢠sibling incest, mention of past underage sex, smut, p. in. v sex, breeding kink
Wordcount ⢠2,315
Caught between his love for you and his envy of your situation, Jacaerys cannot reconcile with the desire that has plagued him of lateâto see you, his twin, round with his child.
Jacaerys Masterlist
Destruction was hanging over Jacaerysâ head, like the shadow that had fallen upon Valyria, and he wondered whether this realm would truly see the rightful line restoredâAegon was determined to continue in this folly, and now his mother had summoned Dragonseeds at her side.
Whether it was from his uncle or the dragon bastards, Jacaerys felt as though his very claim, his very existence was in peril, and he did not know what to believe or trust anymore. The dynasty he was heir to was in danger, and his situation ever the more precarious.Â
You knew nothing of his torment, he thought, for you had hair as pale as his was dark. You were the only daughter, cherished for that fact alone, and thus were protected. You knew nothing of the burden of the crown, of being the heir to a disputed legacy. He envied the way you would likely escape whatever fate had in store for those who pretended to the throne.
This bitterness had grown in him these last few weeks, a rot setting in his bones and poisoning his heart against you. It had rooted itself in the envy he had always felt towards you and your silver hair, the irrefutable proof that you were a true born dragon princess, which had shielded you from the rumors at time passed.
And yet, despite his despair and his anger, he could not help the way you made his blood boil, how your entire being called to him, to an instinct that was older, greater than him.Â
He wished nothing more than to prove himself worthy, in the eyes of his mother and queen, and in the eyes of the realm and its lords, that he was the true son of the dragon, a true heir to the crown.Â
A dark, swirling pit at the bottom of his stomach seemed to have convinced him that there was no better proof of the pureness of his blood, and of his worthiness, than a true born child. To watch your womb swell, to place an egg in a cradle and to crown the babe that would come of his body and yoursâthis very image plagued his dreams and his wandering thoughts, until he now felt he would succumb to madness.
No doubt it was survival, an instinct greater than reason. Or perhaps it was his despair, his desire for comfort and the promise of a future.
To shield you from yet another danger, he took his distance. He thought the less he saw of you, the more his anger would fade, and the more his shameful desire would subside. Every night he stayed long past dusk, pouring over tomes on the Targaryen dynasty, hoping to find some respite, and this particular night was no different.
Jacaerys had not seen you in days and had hoped not to set eyes on you for a little while longer, but when he entered his chambers on Dragonstone and saw that you were there, waiting for him, he realized how foolish he had been.
Even dressed for bed you looked regal, in an embroidered robe and lace nightgown. The bright light of the moon was coming through the window and made you look almost translucent, ethereal, and he thought that if he caught you at the right angle, he would be able to see right through you.
âWhere have you been?â you asked, soft and sweet as usual.
âIn the library, reading. Studying,â he replied, growing annoyed when you ignored his sharp and curt tone.
âI have scarcely seen you,â you said, more as a remark than a lament. âYou flew to the Freys, against motherâs orders, Iâve been told.âÂ
âI was successful in getting their support,â Jacaerys bristled as he unclasped his cloak and set it over the back of a chair, then toeing his boots off. The stones were cool under his feet and he welcomed the grounding sensation. You still had not moved from where you were seated near the window.
âI did not mean to sound reproachful. Rather, I admire you for it,â you said, which made him frown. âI am kept here like a bird in a cage.â
Jacaerys sighed, unwilling to delve into this particular topic, knowing he would only hurt you with his words, and despite his anger, he did not wish to cut you so. âHave you anything else to say? I shall like to rest.â
Without waiting for your answer, he started on the buttons of his doublet, pulling the front lapel open, and you went to help without prompting, standing behind him and pulling the thick fabric from his shoulders. The mere brush of your fingers through his shirt made him swallow nervously, but he still pulled his cotton undershirt over his head, hoping it would prompt you to leave him to rest.Â
However you either did not take this gesture for the dismissal it was or ignored it, instead putting your hands flat on his back, your palms pressing into his tense muscles, your fingers splayed over his freckles.
âYou should be glad to be shielded from it all, protected,â Jacaerys finally said after a minute of contemplation, his tenderness for you taking over.
âIs that why you resent me so?â you asked, still terribly soft, no trace of accusation in your voice.
âI do not resent you,â he defended himself, but his words were too cutting for them to be true.
âOh but you do. My own twin, loathing me, that is the greatest tragedy of all,â you lamented, and when he finally turned around to face you, it was to see your beautiful face cracked open, sorrow seeping out. It reminded him of the legend that dragons came out of the moon, cracking under their fireâbut perhaps it was her sorrow, her heartbreak, that had led to such creatures being born.
âI do not loathe you,â he insisted, voice shaking, tears coming to his eyes, mirroring yours.Â
As he was standing in front of you, his bare skin on display, his mind conjured his shameful thoughts againâhe pictured you full and round like the moon, bringing dragons into this world.
âI do not wish to be shielded, I do not wish to be kept in a cage like some fragile bird,â you explained, and he understood only too well what it was to feel powerless. âI am a dragon, just as much as you.â
Jacaerys closed his eyes at your statement, for this particular truth was the bane of his existence, the very source of his desires. His very bones called to you, to the dragon blood in your veins, the one he had shared since your very first minute of joint existence, nestled together in one womb.Â
âDid my egg not hatch? Did my dragon not grow alongside yours?â you continued, unaware of his internal torment.
âYou misunderstand this,â he tried, stalling for time.
âI cannot understand you if you do not speak to me,â you lamented with regret. âWe used to be each otherâs shadow and now you will hardly allow me near you. What is it you do not want me to see?â
âSister, please,â he pleaded, but you were set on ignoring himâyour eyes bore into his as though you could read him like an open book.
âWhat is it that I see in your eyes, that burns my skin when you look at me?â you cried out.
âNot hatred,â he vowed, but he knew it would not be enough to appease you.Â
Instead of elaborating he turned again, seeking his bed and the restless sleep he would no doubt find there. He hoped that would take this final dismissal and leave him to his suffering, but you did not. You rushed after him, your hands seeking the overheated skin of his back once more.Â
âJacaerys!â you called, and he swung around so swiftly you startled.
âI cannot soil you with this!â he shouted, but you ignored his anger in favor of his beauty.
Never had you voiced out loud how his temper when it rose made your heart rise with it, swelling in your chest until you could hardly breathe. The flat of your hands found his chest, then slid down to his waist, your fingers clawing at his sides as though you wanted to climb behind his ribs.
Jacaerys folded into you, responding to your wordless requestâwithout hesitation he kissed you fervently, his mouth hot and intent, like a brand across your lips. His tongue drew a moan from your throat when it sought yours, curling around it with a passion you had scarcely known from him. He was always a gentle lover, attentive and somewhat hesitant. There was no such reluctance now, and his kiss was a claim.
It was not your first transgression, and not by far. When your first blood had come and thus your first desires followed in the months after, and when his seed had come with it desires of conquest, you had both soothed your fires in each other.
It had been months since he had touched you, since the order of things as you believed it to be had been broken, your mother denied what had been sworn to her. With this all promises of marriage between you and Jacaerys had been forgotten, and the terrible possibility that you would be wed for the sake of alliances had kept him from your bed, and you from his. You could only be grateful you had never crossed the last boundary, that of him spilling his seed inside of you.Â
âWhat could you possibly soil me with after all this time?â you wondered aloud as he pulled away.
âWhat burns inside of me, it is not love,â Jacaerys confessed, his lower lip trembling, and he was so beautiful you wanted to weep.
âThen do not love me,â you replied, your nails pressing into his back, and he dove back in for another taste of you, this time at your neck. âThen do not make love to me.â
Jacaerys buried a whimper into your skin, his hands pulling at your robe until it landed on the stones with a quiet hush, then set to ruffle your gown until he could reach your skin.Â
âThen simply take me,â you encouraged him as he pushed you onto his bed, kissing the inside of your legs as he made his way up from your knees to your core. âDevour me, whatever you wish is yours.â
Your offer hung in the air as the two of you made quick work of the rest of your garmentsâyour nightgown was soon a pile of fabric at the foot of the bed and his trousers were thrown aside. Once he was rid of them he wasted no time crawling between your parted knees, his lean frame anchoring you to the sheets.
âI have only ever wanted to shield you from the shameful beast that lives inside of me,â he confessed, resting his forehead against yours as your hands slid into his curls, holding him close. âI should protect you and instead, I wish to corrupt you.â
You whimpered as he pulled back from your embrace, kneeling between your splayed thighs, but soon it was a moan falling from your lipsâhis fingers had found your pearl, pressing tight circles on it. Jacaerys watched as you chased your pleasure, your skin sensitive after months of yearning for him. Heat spreading in your stomach, your back arching from the bed when he pushed his fingers inside of you.
âI wish to spill in you, to see it take root and grow,â he continued his confession, crooking his fingers in a way that made you sob. Never before had he voiced such a desire, to fully claim what he was now unsure to be given, but that you both knew to be his by right.
Incensed and hurried as never before, Jacaerys crawled over you again and pushed inside of you in one smooth thrust, the stretch burning you as much as it soothed you. âI would keep you in this golden cage, only to have you again, and again, until I knew you were carrying my heir.â
âDo it then,â you whispered against his lips as his hips rolled into you, an unbearable heat spreading over the entire expense of your skin, seeping into your bones. âGive me a dragon to carry.â
Jacaerys lost himself in you as much as you lost yourself in himâyour nails clawed at his back, leaving trails of fire, and his lips sucked bruises into your neck, painting your skin red.Â
âOnly a dragon could make love to me like this,â you sighed, grinding up against his abdomen to seek a release from the fire of him inside of you, the pressure mounting until you thought you would combust, turning into ash onto the sheets.Â
Perhaps it was the appeal of the transgression, or the simple truth that you were the moon to his sun, the light to his darknessâwhatever form this unstoppable force inside of you took, your blood sang and your soul soared as Jacaerys sealed his promise. You held him to your shivering frame as he stilled, his peak making him pulse inside of you while your own release washed over you in sharp waves, as though it was the answering call to his claim.
Jacaerys pulled from your embrace again to admire the glorious sight you made, splayed onto the sheets, your hair like a halo around your head, your skin flushed in satisfactionâgone was your innocence, your sorrow, and instead an air of victory had taken over your features.Â
For a moment he wondered whether his own desires had corrupted you, or if this corruption came from you, your blood calling to him like a siren until he had lost his mind to it, and surrendered.
Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Not beta read. Requested.
Please reblog if you enjoyed reading. Likes and comments are equally appreciated.
A/n: I saw someone on TikTok request a story like this, and it inspired me LOL. Vampire Bat!Hybrid Choso story here!
Shiu Kongâs farm was a quiet place. Until Bull Toji arrived.
The bull hybrid was massive, built like a warhorse with thick, corded muscle beneath dark hide and scars earned in too many fights. The gleaming silver septum ring in his nose had been ripped out more than once. He was a fuckinâ beast. He had no patience for fences, no respect for gates. Only Shiuâs firm voice kept him from tearing the whole damn barn down when his rut hit hard each season.
âGot ya somethinâ," Shiu had told him last week while Toji chewed lazily on an apple between blunt teeth. âPretty little cow hybrid." A smirk twisted Shiu's mouth as he leaned against the stall. âThought ya might wanna break her in before spring."
Toji hadn't answered. Just watched with half-lidded eyes as you were led into the barn, small and trembling under your new ownerâs grip. You smelled like fresh hay and fear, horns still stubby from youth but already curving sweetly beneath your tousled hair.
Now you stood frozen in the middle of his pen as Toji circled you slow, hot breath fogging against your nape while calloused fingers traced the dip of your waist.
âCute,â he rumbled at last, ââŚbut yer shakinâ. Ain't gotta be scared.â
Toji was used to the hard life, used to a world made hard and brutal by endless violence.
You were different. You were made soft, pliable by life in a cage. You still smelled like milk for godsake.
Your tail flickers when youâre anxious, swishing slow and uncertain behind you like a nervous afterthought.
He sees the way your thighs press together when you walk, plush and soft from easy living before Shiu bought you. Sees how your waist nips in just enough for his hands to span it completely before flaring out into hips meant for breeding.
A cow hybridâs body is made for this. Made to be mounted. Made to take whatever he gives.
And oh, does he love the little details of your appearance. The smudge of pink at your nose that darkens when you blush
The way milk still lingers sweet in the air. Even though no calf has ever suckled from those heavy tits yet.
âThat part,â he thinks with a smirk, â-heâll fix soon enough.â
Toji's eyes never leave you as he leans against the hay bales, broad shoulders dwarfing the stall. Shiu stands beside him on the outside of the fence, cigar dangling from his lips.
âWho sold her to ya," Toji mutters. âAnd how much did she cost?â
Shiu just shrugs, looking unbothered as ever. âThe breeder went broke. Needed cash."
Shiu steps into the pen, the gate creaking behind him. His fingers curl around your wrist first, yanking you forward without ceremony before turning you toward Toji like a prized heifer on auction day.
âGood hips," Shiu notes casually, his free hand palming the curve of your ass with a rough squeeze. âWide enough for easy birthinâ. Ainât had no calves yet, but that just means she's fresh."
He spins you around by your shoulders next, fingers tugging at one of your small horns to tilt your face up toward Toji. âTeeth are strong," he continues, thumb pressing against your bottom lip until you part them obediently. âNo issues chewinâ cud or takin' feed. Healthy."
He hooks two fingers into the neckline of your dress and yanks it down just enough to expose the heavy swell of your tits beneath. âSee?" Shiu grins at Toji over your shoulder. âAlready fillinâ out nice. Give âer a season or two under ya? She'll be leakin' milk on command."
Shiu exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck as he eyes Toji with rare caution. âLook, I know ya like takinâ âem rough," he starts slowly, â-but she ain't built for that yet. Not like the seasoned broodmares ya usually get."
Tojiâs nostrils flare, a sharp huff of irritation, but Shiu doesnât back down. Instead, he jerks his chin toward the far corner of the barn where an old but sturdy breeding rack sits dusted off and waiting. Thick leather straps dangling from its frame to secure legs apart, padding along the bar where your belly would rest once bent over it.
âTwo days," Shiu says firmly. âLet âer get used to yer scent first. Feed from yer hand if ya have to. Or she won't survive your first knot."
Toji's silence is dangerous, a low rumble building in his chest before he finally snorts and turns away with a jerk of his head. âFine.â
Toji takes his time the following two days: getting you used to his scent, letting you feed from his hand like Shiu suggested.
He learns your habits like a hunter who knows his prey. Knows how your eyes flutter when he speaks. Knows how you flinch and shy away when he moves suddenly. Knows how he can make you tremble by leaning close. Knows how to make you whine just by touching the base of your tail.
And the entire time? You can smell his interest. His hunger.
Day three arrives with the sharp scent of antiseptic and oiled leather.
Shiu stands at your left, calloused hands guiding you toward the rack with ease.
The veterinarian, a no-nonsense woman with a stethoscope looped around her neck, adjusts the straps. Your hooves scuff against the wooden floor as they position you over the padded bar, belly-down, hindquarters raised obscenely high for Tojiâs access.
âEasy now," Shiu soothes. "Ain't gonna hurt more than it needs to."
Youâve heard stories. You know exactly what happens to cow hybrids on breeding racks when bulls like Toji mount them.
The vet fastens thick cuffs around your wrists first, then your ankles, each strap pulled snug enough to bruise before she steps back to assess her work. âGood pelvic tilt," she notes dispassionately. âWon't tear as easy."
Then she turns toward Toji, who has been watching all this from the corner like a silent storm cloud and gives a curt nod. âShe's ready."
Shiuâs fingers are rough as they grab the base of your tail, lifting it high with a firm tug. The sudden exposure makes you jerk against the restraints, but thereâs nowhere to go, no way to hide.
The vet hands Shiu a thin, braided rope, something used to keep tails out of the way during examinations. He loops it around your lifted appendage, securing it upward so nothing obstructs the view between your thighs.
Your cunt is on full display now: plush and swollen, already glistening with nervous arousal despite your fear. Cow hybrids drip when they are stressed. A biological cruelty that leaves you shamefully slick as Tojiâs shadow looms closer behind you. Your folds flutter under their assessing gazes, clenching around nothing while Shiu tsks and thumbs at your entrance like heâs testing fruit for ripeness.
âTight," he muses, â...but she's wet enough."
The vet hums in agreement before reaching down to spread you wider with two clinical fingers. âNo abnormalities," she declares. âVirgin passage is intact. Bull shouldn't have trouble sinking his knot once she's open."
Shiu doesnât waste time. With a grunt, he nudges Tojiâs shoulder, a silent command for the bull hybrid to step back just far enough for him to work.
Toji snorts in irritation but complies, his heavy-lidded gaze never leaving your trembling form strapped over the rack. Shiu grabs the industrial-sized pump bottle of lubricant from the vetâs tray.
âGotta make sure ya don't split her in half, Shiu mutters, squeezing a thick stream onto his palm before reaching between Tojiâs legs with zero ceremony.
He fists the bull hybridâs already-hard cock without warning, working the lube down his length with rough efficiency. Tojiâs hips jerk forward instinctively into the friction.
âFuckââ Toji growls, muscles tensing as precum beads at his tip and drips onto straw-littered floor below. âAin't gotta fuckin' mollycoddle it.â
Shiu ignores him, just keeps stroking until every inch of that monstrous erection gleams.
He finally steps aside with a slap against Toji's ass. âGo on then."
Toji doesnât slam into you right away, no, he teases first. The broad, flared head of his cock drags slow and deliberate between your plush folds, smearing your own slickness back against you.
He can feel how tight you are even at this shallow pressure, your walls already twitching in reflexive panic around nothing.
âFuckinâ choke on it already,â he growls. Even as the words leave his mouth, he rocks forward just enough for that fat tip to catch. It stretches your weeping hole wide for one glorious second before retreating again.
He wonât rush. Not when Shiu was right about how easily you might break. But that doesn't mean he'll be gentle either, just methodical. Heâs working that thick crown against your clenching hole over and over until the lube mixes with hybrid arousal and drips down your inner thighs.
You whimper as the first real press of his cockhead nudges against your entrance, burning with the stretch even through the lube. Instinct takes over before shame can. Your hips jerk in a weak attempt to twist away, hooves scrambling uselessly against the wooden rack.
Tojiâs grip on your waist tightens like a vice, claws biting in deep enough to draw pinpricks of blood. âNuh-uh," he growls. "Ain't runnin' from this."
And then, with one brutal roll of his hips, he sinks into you past that impossible rim. Your body splits open around him in a white-hot flare of pain-pleasure that steals your breath.
The bellow of pain makes your ears pin back. But Toji doesnât stop. He just bottoms out inside you with a groan so visceral it shakes the dust from the rafters above.
Shiu whistles. âDamn, she took all that?"
Toji nuzzles between your trembling shoulder blades. "Knew ya could take it. Filthy girl.â
His hips piston forward with a force that rattles the breeding rackâs wooden frame. Each brutal thrust makes the leather straps groan under tension as your body is jerked back onto him over and over.
Your dangling hooves scrabble for purchase but find none; all you can do is hang there, impaled and shaking while Toji takes what he wants in deep, grinding strokes. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the barn like an obscene metronome.
Itâs only drowned out by Tojiâs ragged breaths against your neck. His teeth are latched onto your nape in a mating bite.
âFuckââ he snarls.
It should hurt. It does hurt. At first.
Your walls flutter wildly around Tojiâs girth, spasming in protest as he stretches you out.
Then your hybrid biology kicks in, ruthless and efficient. Heat floods your core as your cervix softens on instinct, widening for his cock like a flower for the sun.
Slickness gushes around each thrust, not just lube now but the thick, fertile cream of a cow hybrid in prime breeding condition.
Your body knows its purpose. Even your womb betrays you. Your walls are clenching down greedily every time his tip bumps your cervix, it like it's trying to milk him dry already.
Toji feels it too, his rhythm stuttering when you suddenly squeeze around him with hunger. âShitââ he stutters, â-fuckinâ greedy lilâ bitch.â
Words fail you, language devolving into broken, animalistic sounds as Tojiâs cock punches deeper with every thrust. Drool strings from your lips, pooling on the padded rack beneath you while tears and snot streak your flushed face.
âM-Mmmhâ! Your back arches helplessly when his knot starts to catch at your rim, thighs trembling as a pathetic moo rips from your throat. "âJ-ji! âJi!âp-please!â
But what are you even begging for? More? Less? You donât know anymore. All that exists is the stretch of him splitting you open, the way your plush belly bulges with each thrust.
Your nails splinter wood from the rack as another moan-turned-mooo spills out. âSâgood,â Toji rumbles against your spine, â-fuckinâ take it.â
Your tongue lolls out past your lips, slick and pink. Itâs a telltale sign of a cow hybrid pushed too far into instinct.
Saliva drips in thin strands onto the padded rack beneath you, each panting breath only making it worse. Your eyes have gone glassy, unfocused. Your pupils are blown wide in need.
Shiu notices first. He leans against the barn post with crossed arms, chewing lazily on a stalk of hay before nodding toward your slack mouth. âWatch it,â he warns Toji. âSheâs âbout to tip over.â
He means your climax. The way cow hybrids lose all control when they hit that edge: thrashing, moaning, sometimes even pissing themselves from the sheer overload of sensation.
Sure enough, your thighs start quivering like bowstrings pulled taut as another broken moo spills from your spit-slick lips.
Toji snarls at the warning but doesnât slow down. If anything he fucks into you harder. âYeah? Then fuckinâ cum,â he growls. âWanna feel that cunt milk me dry âfore I knot ya.â
Your mind is gone. Itâs drowned under a tidal wave of sensation that reduces you to nothing but flesh and instinct. Your tongue lolls out further, spit dripping in thick ropes onto the straw-littered floor beneath the rack.
Every breath comes as a shuddering moan, every thrust wrings another pathetic moo from your throat like your voice isnât even yours anymore. âHhhnnââJiiiii!â
Shiu watches with a chuckle, patting the stall door with his palm. "There it is," he mutters around a new cigarette before nodding at Toji. âShe's lockin' up."
The orgasm crashes over you like a seizure. You scream around the drool coating your chin. "MMMOOOOâ!"
The vet gives a sharp nod that Shiu moving through the gate. His calloused hands clamp down on your hips, not to save you, but to hold you still. Tojiâs thrusts turn jagged and brutal, each snap of his hips forcing that thickening knot against your abused entrance. Your body fights it instinctively, clamping down in protest even as your orgasm still wrings dizzying pulses of pleasure from your core.
âN-NoâNO! MMMFHâOOOO!â
The stretch burns like fire as your cunt is spread so wet and sticky against the swell. Toji growls through clenched teeth, lifts a hooves to plant close to your head at an angle and shoves the rest of the way inside.
You donât even realize youâve pissed yourself until warm liquid splatters onto the floor beneath the rack. Overstimulation is short-circuiting your bladder along with everything else.
Shiu just grunts and tightens his grip, keeping you upright as Toji rumbles in satisfaction behind you, âFuckkkk, there ya go.â His palm splays over your lower belly where his cock visibly distends it from within.
The moment Tojiâs knot locks, your body goes slack, limp as a ragdoll between them, trembling with oversensitivity and exhaustion. Shiu chuckles as he reaches for a nearby rag, swiping it roughly over your piss-streaked thighs. âDamn, girl," he chuckles, âDidn't know we'd have to hose down the whole fuckin' barn after."
Toji, still buried balls feel, leans down to nuzzle at the sweaty hair hair sticking to your neck. âShhh,â he soothes. âTook it so good.â He lands lazy kisses against your neck. ââCept for the piss part.â
Shiu barks out a laugh while tossing the soiled rag aside. âFirst time's always messy," he shrugs before offering you a sip of water from an old canteen.
Months later, youâre round with the proof of Tojiâs claim. Your belly swells round and heavy with his calf, skin stretched taut over fertile curves that jiggle with every step. The farmhands whisper when they think you can't hear. âToji stuffed her full.â
Toji adores you like this. Slow-moving and sleepy-eyed. Milk-heavy tits swayed beneath the frilly bows Shiu begrudgingly buys for you at market. The little brass bell around your neck chimes sweetly whenever Toji guides you by the horns to feed from his palm like some pampered prize.
He drapes you in soft cotton dresses, the fabric straining over milk-heavy tits and wide hips that sway with every step. Your ribbons are always perfectly tied, pink satin bows nestled between your horns or threaded through the bell around your neck.
And god, does he love leading you. His calloused hands are always on you, guiding you to kneel so he can palm the curve of your stomach or tugging you into his lap. He gropes those swollen udders until warm milk beads at your nipples. âLookit that,â the white liquid spills over his thick fingers. âAll pretty ân leaky just for me.â
Even Shiu has softened in his own way, sneaking extra sugar cubes into your feed bucket when Toji isnât looking. âQuit spoilinâ her,â Toji snaps before handing you a ripe apple.
Now, they wait until that calf comes so you can be bred all over again.
Synopsis:You are carrying Bull!Tojiâs calf. But when Shiu brings home a violent, unbroken Bull from the auction, a deal is struck and youâre up on the chopping block.
Warnings: Smut, Hybrid AU, Threesome, Monster cawk, spitting, breeding, description of pregnancy, birth, lactation, spit-roast, Eiffel Tower with clashing horns(?), degradation, description of âfatâ but used to talk about teats and kitty meow-meow, objectification, water sport talk, praising, spanking, choking, bicep choking, dub-con, a little bit of Shiu content near the end.
A/N: Visit the first chapter if you havenât read it yet! Thank you again to @erasedluvrgirl for the OG TikTok idea!
Your belly grows enormous with Tojiâs calf, stretching the fabric of your embroidered sundresses until the seams threaten to pop. Your udders hang heavy and full beneath the frills, nipples perpetually pebbled and damp with sweet cream. The ranch hands whisper as you waddle past, all plush curves and drowsy contentment, but none dare stare too long. Not when Tojiâs glare promises violence if they so much as breathe in your direction.
Shiu, surprisingly, becomes your most enthusiastic showman. He parades you around the county fairs like a blue-ribbon heifer, your wrists adorned with ribbons that match the ones threaded through your horns. "Ain't she somethin'?" he boasts to anyone listening, calloused fingers brushing over your swollen middle with something like pride. "Got her bred on the first try, bullâs seed took reallll nice."
Toji watches from the shadows, smug as hell, arms crossed over his chest as his gaze tracks every jealous glance thrown your way. He doesnât need to brag, your rounded silhouette, the way your tits slosh with milk when you move, the dreamy little sighs you make when he gropes you in front of company. Itâs all the proof anyone needs.
Youâre his masterpiece. Shiuâs favorite investment. Soon, youâll be a mother.
Your milk has come in heavy, spilling over your sensitive nipples and down your swollen belly in slow rivulets when you stand for too long. The farmhands whisper to each other when they think you can't hear. âLook at her teats, damn near bursting outta those sundresses.â
"Toji got his cock workin' good, huh?"
Toji, of course, has no complaints.
You whine pitifully when the thin straps of your sundress dig into your swollen shoulders, the fabric stretched taut over tits so engorged they threaten to spill free with every shift of your weight. "Mmmh T-Toji," you hiccup, lashes fluttering as another bead of milk trickles down the curve of your belly, "C-can't... too full..."
Toji just grins, all teeth and wicked amusement as he palms your aching udders without mercy. His thick fingers catching the leaking cream before dragging it back up to your puckered nipples in slow, filthy circles.
"Poor thing," he coos, voice dripping with condescension as he pinches one fat nipple, hard, watching with rapt attention as a fresh stream arcs onto the hay-strewn floor. "Ain't my fault ya make enough milk for three calves."
Shiu, passing by with a bucket in hand, snorts and flicks your dangling bell with a calloused finger. "Quit yer whinin'," he grumbles, which if funny when heâs the one who ordered you extra molasses-laced feed last week. "Big tits mean healthy stock." As if youâre not already the most pampered broodmare in three counties.
Theyâll never let you suffer. But theyâll definitely make sure you drip.
The day Shiu leads the new bull hybrid into the barn, the entire farm falls unnaturally quiet, even the other Hybrids seem to tense.
Sukuna is massive bigger than Toji in raw bulk, his corded muscle straining beneath scarred skin marked with strange, ink-black markings. Tattoos werenât uncommon among hybrid-stock, but you are almost positive THIS is different.
His crimson eyes gleam with a predatorâs focus as he surveys the barn, nostrils flaring at the scent of hay, sweat, and you, ripe with milk and pregnancy.
The auction papers in Shiuâs hand read "High Aggression â âHandle With Caution" in bold red letters, but the man just smirks and slaps Sukunaâs shoulder like itâs a joke. The other side of the papers write Sukunaâs name in red scrabble. âThe Kingâ scrawled in messy writing.
"Got âim cheap âcause he crippled his last owner," Shiu announces, voice far too cheerful for the way Sukunaâs tail flicks like a whip behind him. "Figured weâd break âim in proper."
Toji, leaning against the fence with his arms crossed, doesnât even blink, he just studies Sukuna with a calculating gaze before his mouth curls into something dangerously amused.
âHuh.â He pushes off the wood and strides forward, close enough to challenge, close enough to provoke. ââŚThat oneâs gonna be trouble.â
Sukunaâs grin splits wide, revealing rows of sharpened teeth as his low chuckle rumbles through the barn like distant thunder. "Tch. You smell like weak stock," he drawls, eyes sliding past Toji to land right on you. Your rounded belly, your swollen tits, the way your fingers clutch Tojiâs sleeve instinctively. "But herâŚ" His tongue drags over a fang. "Iâll have fun ruining that cunt once her calf drops."
Shiu doesnât believe in gentle. The farm isnât a charity. Itâs a business, and every bull hybrid that comes through his gates learns that lesson quick.
Step One: Deprivation.
Freshly purchased bulls get locked in the isolation pen. No company, no stimulation, just four walls and the scent of fertile females they canât touch. By day three, even the most violent hybrids are pressing against the bars, nostrils flaring at the distant sound of moans and milk hitting pails. Anticipation is the first whip that cracks across their pride.
Step Two: Humiliation.
Once theyâre desperate enough, Shiu parades them past the breeding racks. He lets them watch as other hybrids mount willing cows, letâs them seethe as their own untouched cocks twitch in helpless interest. "See that?" heâll taunt, flicking the straining length of a new bullâs erection with his crop. "Thatâs what happens when ya learn yer place."
Step Three: Reward.
Only when theyâre trembling with frustration, when their growls have turned to pleading grunts, does Shiu finally lead them to a cow. Not a prize like you, of course. No, he starts them on an older broodmare, one who knows how to take a rough mounting without breaking. The first time a bull hybrid sinks into warm, willing flesh? Thatâs when the fight leaves their eyes.
Sukuna will be no different. Shiuâs made sure of it.
"Ainât no such thing as untamable," Shiu likes to say, patting the flank of a once-feral hybrid now nuzzling his hand for treats. "Just ones that ainât been broke right."
Sukuna laughs when they try to lock him in the isolation pen. His deep, grating chuckle echoing through the barn as he tears the reinforced steel bars clean off their hinges with a single yank of his arms. The farmhands scatter like frightened mice when he steps free, crimson eyes scanning for the nearest target.
He breaks the first manâs spine over his knee. The second nearly loses an arm to those jagged teeth.
By the time Shiu arrives, shotgun in hand, the straw is already soaked red. Three workers down, and Sukuna lounging atop a pile of splintered wood like itâs a throne, licking blood from his claws.
"Tch. You really thought a cage would hold me?" Sukuna sneers, stretching lazily before locking eyes with Shiu. "I ainât some common stud to be leashed."
Toji watches from the shadows, arms crossed. Heâs amused, but unmoving. He wonât intervene. Not yet.
Shiu, however, doesnât flinch. He just exhales a cloud of cigarette smoke and shrugs. "Nah," he agrees, surprisingly calm. "But you are gonna learn."
Then, with a sharp whistle, the real trap springs.
Electrified cattle prods slam into Sukunaâs back from all sides.Tranq darts pierce his thick hide. As the King snarls, thrashing against the voltage Shiu smirks. He steps closer with a syringe full of something special.
"See, brute force ainât the way," Shiu muses, driving the needle straight into Sukunaâs jugular. "But chemistry?" The bull hybridâs pupils dilate instantly, muscles locking, cock aching as the aphrodisiac cocktail hits his bloodstream. "Thatâll have even a god begginâ for a cunt to rut."
By sundown, Sukunaâs snarling into the dirt. Chained legs spread-eagle between two posts, knot swollen and dripping as the drugs burn through him. Shiu just pats the Bullâs shoulder.
Old Mari knows the drill before they even drag her in. Her nostrils flare the second Sukunaâs feral scent hits the air, thick with rut and rage. She doesnât flinch when the barn doors slam shut behind her, nor when Shiu gives her rump a firm smack to guide her toward the churning beast strapped down in the center of the pen.
Her hide is scarred from a dozen calvings, her udders sagging with the memory of milk long since weaned. Sheâs no pampered prize like you. Just a sturdy, no-nonsense cow hybrid whoâs spent her life taking whatever bull they strap her to with weary resignation.
The moment she steps within reach of Sukuna, her tail lifts instinctively, flagging high to expose the well-used slit between her thighs. Itâs not excitement, itâs experience. She knows better than to fight when a bullâs this far gone.
Sukunaâs snarl dies in his throat, replaced by a guttural groan as his hips buck against the restraints. Mari just sighs and braces her hooves against the dirt, angling her hips just so.
"Atta girl," Shiu murmurs, patting her flank before stepping back. "Show âim how itâs done."
Mari doesnât need to be told twice. She sinks onto Sukunaâs cock with the ease of a broodmare whoâs done this a hundred times before. She canât take every inch of his throbbing length. But the ole girl tries at least.
For a moment, just a moment, it seems like Sukuna might submit. Mari sinks onto him, her tired cunt stretching around his girth, her hooves planted firm in the dirt. Sheâs done this before. She knows how to take a rough mounting without breaking.
But Sukuna is not just another bull.
His muscles coil like steel springs then explode into motion. Even drugged, even restrained, the force of his hips pistoning upward is enough to lift Mari clean off the ground, her shocked moo turning into a strangled scream as Sukuna rears beneath her. He slams her back down onto his cock with enough force to make her udders swing wildly.
"Fuck FUCK !" Shiu snarls, lunging for the cattle prod as Mariâs cries pitch higher. They are no longer the steady grunts of a seasoned broodmare, but the panicked, broken sounds of an animal being torn apart.
Sukunaâs claws have shredded through the leather straps binding him, his teeth buried in Mariâs shoulder as he pumps into her like heâs trying to split her in half. Blood and slick spatter the hay beneath them.
The prods crackle against his hide, but he doesnât not until the voltage sends him. His knot finally locks inside her ruined cunt as he empties himself in thick, painful pulses.
Mari collapses the second heâs done, sides heaving, her tail still twitching spasmodically. Sukuna just laughs as Shiu drags her away, her legs trembling too badly to stand.
Lesson learned. Some beasts canât be broken. Only unleashed.
Sukuna is already staring past the carnage, past Shiu, to where you stand frozen in the milking line not too far from the breeding racks. Your pregnant belly heavy, your milk dripping onto the floor in terrified rivulets.
His grin is all fangs.
"Youâre next."
The barn falls suddenly cold. Shiu pauses, one hand still clenched around Mariâs bloodied flank. He doesnât fear Sukuna, but even he knows the difference between a tame bull and the beast the King has become.
Sukuna, however, is focused on you. Those bloody eyes rake over your swollen belly, your leaking teats, your face. He looks like he wants to devour you whole.
You quickly scurry away, the pretty pink bow on your tail flailing before you disappear around the corner.
The air in the barn is thick with the scent of blood, sweat, and straw as Sukuna lounges against the splintered wooden post, his massive arms crossed over his chest.
"Alright, farmer," Sukuna rumbles, his voice like gravel grinding against bone. "Letâs make a deal."
Shiu pauses mid-motion, arching a brow but saying nothing. Heâs dealt with enough stubborn bulls to know when oneâs about to try and outsmart him.
Sukunaâs lips curl into a smirk, revealing those jagged, too-sharp teeth. "You want me to play nice? To plow your fields, rut your cows, behave?" His head flicks towards where you had turned the corner. "Fine. But I want her."
Shiu exhales a slow stream of cigarette smoke, considering. Then "Nah."
Sukuna laughs, the sound dark and rolling like thunder. "Not even gonna pretend to think about it?"
"Ainât gotta think," Shiu replies flatly, tossing the bloodied rag aside. "Thatâs Tojiâs mate. His property. And even if it werenât " He meets Sukunaâs gaze head-on, unflinching. " -you donât get to make demands here, stud."
Sukunaâs grin doesnât fade, if anything, it widens, feral need glinting in those inhuman eyes. "Weâll see," he purrs, leaning back again. "Weâll fuckinâ see."
Shiu just chuckles, stamping out his cigarette with the heel of his boot. He's dealt with enough cocky bulls to know an empty threat when he hears one.
"Sure you will.
And just the sight of you stirs up a different kind of hunger in Sukuna.
Day 37.
Thatâs how long Sukuna lasts before Shiu finally snaps.
The barn is in ruins. Stalls torn apart, fences splintered, three more farmhands nursing broken bones. The other bulls refuse to enter the east pen, sensing the predator in their midst. The losses are piling up. The vetâs bills are ridiculous.
Shiuâs at his witâs end.
And Sukuna?
He lounges on a pile of freshly ruined hay, picking blood from his teeth with a claw, watching as Shiu paces like a caged animal.
"Yâknow," Sukuna muses, voice dripping with false sympathy, "This could all stop. Today."
Shiu stops pacing. "Bullshit."
Sukunaâs grin is all fangs. "Youâre smart, farmer. You know I ainât like the others. Chain me, drug me, beat me Iâll just keep breaking your shit." He leans forward, chains rattling. "But give me one night with that pretty little heifer of yours. Let me put a calf in her thatâs mine and Iâll be your best damn stud. No more trouble. No more accidents."
Shiuâs jaw clenches. He knows itâs a bad deal. Knows Toji will murder him if he agrees.
But the barn canât take much more of this.
He exhales sharply through his nose. "One night," he growls. "One fucking night. And if you so much as scratch her- "
Sukuna throws his head back and laughs, the sound dark and victorious. "Oh, farmerâŚ" His eyes gleam with something hungry. "I wonât need to."
Sukuna's grin stretches slow and venomous as he leans back against the hay bales, his massive arms crossed. The chains around his wrists clink, not because they restrain him, but because he lets them.
"Fine," he rumbles, tilting his head as if considering something trivial. "Let your bull's brat drop first. I ain't in a rush." His tongue drags over a fang, eyes half-lidded as they rake over your swollen belly. You are asleep in a few pens over. Toji's calf shifting beneath your skin. "More fun breaking âer in when sheâs nice and soft after birth anyway."
Shiu exhales sharply through his nose, nodding once. The deal is struck.
Neither of them mentions it to Toji.
Sukunaâs not stupid. He knows the moment Toji catches wind of this bargain, thereâll be blood. His blood. So he waits. Plays obedient. Leers at you from across the yard when Tojiâs not looking, his smirk promising filth the moment your bullâs back is turned.
And Shiu?
He just lights another cigarette and pretends not to notice the way your hands tremble when Sukuna passes by. The way your udders leak at the sound of his growl.
Youâre just the broodmare caught in the middle.
The day you go into labor, thereâs a storm outside.
The barn is thick with the scent of hay and sweat as your contractions hit hard, sending you to your knees in the padded stall with a weak, shuddering moo. Your swollen belly tightens like a drum, udders heavy and leaking milk down your trembling thighs.
Shiu stands by the gate, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching with the same detached focus he gives all his livestock. "âBout damn time," he mutters, nodding to the old hybrid vet, a grizzled man with hands as rough as bark as he pulls on long rubber gloves with a practiced snap.
But itâs Toji who drops beside you, his massive frame crouched low, one hand pressing against the curve of your belly as another contraction ripples through you. His voice is a growl, but his touch is steady. "Breathe," he orders, thumb swiping away the sweat at your temple. "Push when I tell ya."
The vet kneels between your spread legs, his gloves already slick with antiseptic. "Headâs crowning," he grunts, fingers pressing gently to check. "Gonna need ya toâyep, there ya go, girl. Push."
You cry out, hooves scrambling against the straw as your body bears down. Thereâs little to no time for Toji to react.
Itâs slippery, squirming, and warm.
A calf. Tojiâs calf. His heir.
Shiu exhales smoke, grinning as the vet clears the newbornâs airways with a rough towel. "Another healthy one," he says, slapping Tojiâs shoulder. "Good job, bull."
But Tojiâs eyes arenât on the calf, they're on you, his hand gripping yours tight as you pant, exhausted and spent.
He doesnât notice Sukuna lurking in the shadows.
Doesnât see the way those crimson eyes hunger. The dealâs been struck. Your reprieve is over.
~
Motherhood is exhausting. The calf is small, demanding, always demanding more. You're tired, sore, and leaking milk from your swollen, fat tits at all hours.
But when little Megumi looks up at you with those big, wide, innocent eyesâŚyou canât say no.
When he nuzzles his soft face against your chest, suckling and snuffling for more, all your exhaustion, all your pain, all the aches...
It's worth it.
No one expected Toji, the most vicious stud in Shiuâs operation, the bull hybrid who mounted and moved on without a second glance, to stay.
But the moment his calf hit the straw, something in him shifted.
His massive hands, once used to pin broodmares into submission, now cradle Megumi with startling gentleness. He rumbles low in his chest when the little one stirs, nuzzling the curve of his tiny back with a tenderness that wouldâve been unthinkable before.
Shiu notices, of course he does.
"Ainât like you to skip the breeding rack," he comments one evening, leaning against the stall where Toji sits with Megumi curled against his chest, tiny fingers fisted in his shirt.
Toji doesnât even glance up. "Fuck the rack," he mutters, smoothing a calloused thumb over Megumiâs forehead. "Got all I need right here."
And he means it.
The other cows whisper. The bulls snicker. But Toji doesnât care.
Not when Megumiâs first wobbly steps are toward him.
Not when you smile at him like heâs something precious instead of something wild.
He was a monster once. But now, heâs a father.
But Sukuna can be patient. And heâs rewarded for it.
The vet arrives unannounced, his weathered bag slung over his shoulder. He gives you a perfunctory nod as he kneels in the hay beside you, his calloused hands already reaching for your hindquarters. "Just a check-up," he mutters, though his eyes flick briefly toward Shiu, a silent confirmation.
You donât suspect a thing.
Tojiâs outside with Megumi, letting the little calf stumble after him in the afternoon sun, so itâs just you spread-legged and trusting as the vetâs gloved fingers press inside.
"Healing fine," the old man grunts after a moment, wiping his hands on a rag. "No tearing. Should hold up to..." He hesitates, then clears his throat. "...normal activity soon."
Shiu exhales through his nose, satisfied.
The vet stands, nodding to Shiu before letting himself out. You just sit there in silence, shifting uneasily in the thick pile of hay. You can still feel the vet's cold touch inside you, the lingering sense of being prodded and checked like a prized broodmare.
But a quiet noise catches your attention, a low, rumbling growl.
You look up just as two crimson lights flicker in the shadow of the stalls.
Sukuna stands inside, watching you. Listening.
Your delicate little nose wrinkles, lips pursing in a perfect pout as you flip your tail dismissively in Sukunaâs direction, the pink silk ribbons tied at the base twitching like an offended catâs. "Ugh. Stop starinâ, ugly," you huff, shifting your plush rump pointedly away from him, as if the very sight of his leer might taint your perfectly groomed coat. "âJiâs gonna kick your teeth in if he catches you creepinâ on me like some stray mutt."
Sukuna doesnât move. But his grin widens, slow and predatory, as his tongue drags over a fang.
"Oh, darlinâ," he purrs, "Your bull ainât here right now."
The barn door creaks open and Sukunaâs grin vanishes.
Tojiâs shadow falls across the threshold. His calf balanced on one hip. His eyes locked on Sukuna.
"The fuck," Toji says, very quietly, "-are you doinâ near my mate?"
Thereâs no one in the barn more dangerous than Toji and Sukuna. You know that. The ranch hands know that. Even Megumi can sense the tension crackling in the air.
But Sukuna knows this too. Knows that itâs too early to push. Knows that Toji will tear him apart if he tries to take you now.
So instead, Sukunaâs lips curve into a cool, arrogant smirk. Toji passes your calf to you. Megumi instantly curls into your body, seeking warmth and protection. The two little ears peeking out from his mess of black hair twitch.
"Just lookinâ at your heifer, bull," he says, hands raising in mock surrender. "Making sure sheâs alright after that little birth of hers. Canât have your prize damaged before you get your use out of her, now can you?"
His eyes flicker over you, scanning the curves of your body like a wolf sizing up a meal.
"Such pretty teats," he purrs, his grin widening. "Bet her milkâs sweet."
Megumi lets out a tiny, protective moo, pressing his little face into the warmth of your flank as if trying to shield you from Sukunaâs gaze. You barely spare the horned brute a glance, your pink-lined nostrils flaring in distaste as your tail flicks sharply a dismissive whip of silk and ribbons.
"Ugh. As if," you huff, voice dripping with disdain as you nuzzle against Tojiâs thigh, your big doe eyes blinking up at him with practiced innocence. "Donât even waste your breath on him, âJi. Heâs nasty."
Sukunaâs smirk twitches.
But Tojiâs hand settles on your head, fingers threading through your hair as his glare never wavers from Sukuna.
"Heard her," Toji growls. "Fuck off."
And for now? Sukuna does. But not without a last, lingering look at you.
The peace of your safe little stall doesnât last very long.
It starts with Shiuâs whistle. Itâs sharp, commanding. The sound makes your ears twitch, but before you can react, rough hands are hooking under your arms, hauling you up with little ceremony.
"Câmon, girl," Shiu grunts, tugging you toward the stall door. "Need ya for somethinâ."
Tojiâs head snaps up instantly, his nostrils flaring as he steps forward only for Shiu to raise a placating hand. "Easy, bull. Just a quick check-up. Vetâs waitinâ. Megumi stays here."
The mention of his calf makes Toji hesitate, his gaze flicking to where the little one is curled up between two older heifers, drowsy and content.
A mistake. Because Shiu never lets Megumi out of Tojiâs sight.
But before the bull hybrid can protest, Shiuâs already leading both of you out, your steps hesitant, Tojiâs tense. The barn door creaks shut behind you.
The breeding rack is already prepped. Padded with restraints laid open. You are guided behind the gate by two farmhands. Your knees hit the padding as you're bent over before you can yelp. The restraints fasten against your lower back and your legs are splayed open.
The realization hits you both at the same time.
"Shiu-âToji snarls, whirling, muscles coiled
But the farmerâs already backing away, his expression grim. "A dealâs a deal, bull. One night."
Sukuna steps out of the shadows. His grin is vicious.
No Megumi. No escape. Just you. And a king who always collects his dues.
A sharp whistle splits the air, and suddenly hands are everywhere. Farmhands lunge from the shadows, ropes coiled like serpents around Tojiâs arms, his legs, his throat. He snarls, bucks, thrashes muscles straining against the restraints
But then the bite lead slams between his teeth, the thick metal bar forcing his jaws apart, silencing his roars into choked, furious grunts.
"Hold âim steady," Shiu barks, with the covers for his sharp horns in his hands. Shiu clamps them around the ends of the horns, effectively rendering them useless unless Shiu allows it. Heâs Defanged. Defenseless.
Tojiâs wrists are wrench behind his back, bound in brutal, unbreakable knots as Shiu steps away, wiping his brow.
"There," the farmer sighs, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "Now he listens."
Tojiâs chest heaves, his eyes wild searching for you
But Sukunaâs already there, his claws digging into your waist as he drags you back against his chest.
"Donât worry, bull," the King of Curses murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "Iâll take real good care of her."
Sukuna steps around you in a slow circle, his eyes trailing hungrily over your trembling frame as he drags in a deep breath, nostrils flaring. The septumâs ring flicks as his tongue drags against his upper lip.
"Hn," he hums thoughtfully, "So this is what your lilâ bullâs been keepinâ to his damn self. Pretty girl like youâŚall soft ân perfect and fertileâŚno wonder he didnât want me touchinâ you." Sukunaâs palm comes crashing down against your ass cheek that peeks out from under the frilly pink skirt you wear. Shiu isnât accustomed to his livestock wanting to wear any clothes. But your farmer and mate liked to spoil you.
The poor shorts and undergarments are shredded in seconds.
His tongue drags across the skin on the back of your neck, a hot, wet stripe that makes you freeze.
"Bet your honeyâs sweet as summer, huh, girl?"
Your wail is raw, pathetic, a high, trembling sound that echoes through the barn as Sukunaâs claws dig into the base of your tail, lifting it with merciless ease.
"Fuckinâ pretty," he growls, his breath scorching against your exposed flesh.
And it is pretty. Too pretty.
Your pussy is fat from Tojiâs breeding. Sheâs allll swollen, puffy lips glistening with slick, the delicate pink folds flushed and aching from neglect. The clit is a plump little bud, already throbbing under his scrutiny. Sukuna clicks his tongue, running a claw along the seam of your cunt, making you jerk against the restraints.
"Already drippinâ for me," he muses, pressing the blunt tip of his finger against your entrance just enough to make you squeal. "Knew youâd be like this. Knew youâd take it."
He spits right onto your clit.
The wet, warm shock of it makes you sob, hips bucking involuntarily as Sukuna laughs, rubbing the slick mess into your sensitive flesh with rough circles of his thumb.
"Gonna ruin you," he promises, his other hand sliding around to grip your throat. "Gonna make sure that bull of yours can smell my seed on ya for a longggg time.â
Shiu has to keep his eyes glued to the dark haired bull to his left, watching Toji strain against the reinforced leather straps, the wood of the restraint post groaning under the bull hybrid's raw strength. Blood drips from Toji's wrists where the ropes bite too deep, his horns thrashing uselessly against their padded covers.
Another minute of this, and heâll either snap the restraints or dislocate his own shoulders.
Shiu grits his teeth and turns to Sukuna, whoâs still lazily tormenting you with his claws, making you whimper and squirm.
"Oi. King."
Sukuna glances up, one brow arched.
"My bullâs gonna break my fuckinâ equipment," Shiu mutters, jerking his chin toward Toji. "And if he does, heâs gonna rip you apart before you even finish."
Sukuna considers this for a moment then shrugs, unbothered. "Then let him watch."
Shiuâs eye twitches. "Not an option. Vetâs bills are expensive."
Sukunaâs smirk widens. "Whatâre you suggestinâ, farmer?"
Shiu exhales smoke, rubbing his temple. "You get her now but quick. No games. No torture. Breed her. Just Once. But then Toji gets her.â
Sukunaâs grin turns predatory. "Or?"
"Or I let Toji loose," Shiu says flatly. "And you donât get her ever again."
Sukuna laughs after his eye twitches. "Fine." He releases you with a final, taunting stroke along your thigh. "But next time? No deals."
Shiu doesnât answer.
Before Shiu can bargain any more, the restraints snap, the bite bit cracks under feral teeth. The farmhands arenât keen on breaking any more bones.
Toji moves the second heâs free. Straight for Sukuna. Straight for blood.
His horns may be blunted, his wrists raw, but he doesnât need weapons.
He is the weapon.
"TOJI WAIT !" Shiu barks, but itâs too late.
The bull hybrid lunges, plowing into Sukuna with a force that sends them both crashing into the wooden beams of the barn. The impact splinters the support post, hay exploding into the air as Sukuna snarls, barely managing to twist mid-fall.
"Fuckinâ pussy," Sukuna spits, claws raking across Tojiâs ribs as he flips them, pinning the other hybrid beneath him. "You think a cuckold like you has any right ?"
Tojiâs fist cracks against Sukunaâs jaw, silencing him mid-sentence.
Blood sprays. Teeth rattle.
The cattle prod cracks against Tojiâs ribs like a whip, electricity snapping through his muscles in a brutal jolt. His entire body seizes, teeth gritting so hard his jaw pops but he doesnât go down.
"Goddammit, bull LISTEN!" Shiu snarls, pressing the prod against Tojiâs throat this time, forcing him to still. "He gets one round. Thatâs it. Then you take her back. But you fight me now? You will lose her forever."
Tojiâs chest heaves, his pupils blown wide with rage but the threat sinks in. His horns lower slightly, shoulders trembling with the effort of holding back.
Shiu exhales sharply. "Smart choice."
Toji steps back, wobbling as he wipes the saliva from his lip.
"Donât worry, bull," Sukuna scoffs, turning back toward you. "Iâll be quick."
A lie. A cruel one.
Toji roars but the cattle prod hums in warning.
For now he watches. Helpless. Furious. Waiting.
Sukuna throws his head back and barks out a laugh rough, jagged, delighted as he watches your plush thighs quiver, your fat cunt dripping slick down the inside of your trembling legs.
"Ohhh, fuck," he purrs, dragging a claw through your mess, bringing it to his lips with a filthy suck. "Look at you. Soakinâ the goddamn straw. You like this shit, donât you? Watchinâ your bull lose his damn mind over you?"
His fingers dig into your hips, hauling you back against him, letting you feel the brutal length of him pressing against your spine hard, hot, relentless.
"Lilâ slut," he breathes against your ear, mocking, taunting. "But donât worry, heifer Iâll give you what youâre begging for."
He spits between your cheeks, letting it slide down to where your swollen folds glisten.
"Gonna fuck you so good," he growls, "-your bullâll taste me in your milk."
Toji howls in rage.
You just drip.
Sukuna grips the base of his cock, pressing the thick, flared head against your fluttering entrance and pushes.
It burns.
Your body fights him, clamping down in instinctive protest as the first few inches sink in slowly, agonizing, stretching you wider than youâve ever been stretched before.
"Tch. Tight," Sukuna muses, watching with rapt fascination as your cunt struggles to accommodate him. "Greedy little heifer. Takinâ that bullâs knot like a good bitch, but me? âCourse you choke up."
He slaps your ass hard making you jolt forward with a sob, and the sudden movement forces another brutal inch inside.
"Thatâs it," he coos, mockingly, cruelly. "Donât tap out on me now."
Your belly twists, a visible bulge forming beneath your skin as he feeds you another inch, then another. Each one is a fight, each one leaving you gasping, drooling and whimpering.
"Goooood fuckinâ girl," Sukuna purrs, dragging his claws over the swell of your abdomen, tracing the outline of his cock inside you. "Fuckinâ made for this. Shouldâve been mine from the start."
His calloused hands tighten around your waist, the other hand wrapped around your tail for leverage. He slams the rest of the way home.
Your scream breaks halfway, turning into a ragged, airless gasp as your cunt finally gives, taking him all the way your belly distending obscenely, rounding out under his touch.
The bull above you snarls, his sharp canines glistening in the flickering barn lights.
"Now," he growls, "-letâs see if that bull of yours can even recognize this pretty âlil pussy when Iâm done."
Your thoughts shatter. Thereâs no fear anymore. No shame.
Just cock.
Sukunaâs hips slam into you with a snap that rattles your teeth, each thrust punching a weak, airy âuhn!â from your throat as your eyes roll back. Drool drips from your slack lips, your tongue lolling like some dumb broodmare in heat. Your mind is empty of anything but the brutal stretch of him splitting you open.
âThereeeee she goes,â Sukuna croons, voice thick with satisfaction as he watches your lashes flutter, your cunt clenching around him in broken, involuntary little pulses. âBrains finally leakinâ out those pretty ears.â His canines nip at one of the twitching fuzzy ears still wrapped in those salmon pink bows. âAll you are now is a hole, my fuckinâ hole.â
He thumbs at your clit rough just to watch your body jerk, your pussy squirting weakly around him like some mindless animal. It doesnât take much at all. You're so full, the only place for your slick to go is out.
âFuckinâ perfect,â he groans, his rhythm turning erratic, hips stuttering as he chases his own pleasure now using you like the sleeve youâve become
His bulky, meaty bicep wraps around your throat from behind. He wrenches your head back as far as he can. Your breath is cut off from his chokehold. Your eyes see more of the back of your skull more than the blurry scene of Toji fighting against the ropes.
ââKunaaaa~!â Your wail is choked off from his bicep flexing against your windpipe.
You donât even feel it when he cums at first. Your ears are ringing.
Just the heat flooding your womb, the bulge of his cock twitching inside you as he grinds deep, making sure every last drop takes.
When he finally pulls out, your cunt gapes. Itâs dripping cream and seed onto the straw below as your body twitches, still clenching around nothing
Dumb. Used. Ruined.
And Sukuna smiles.
The second Toji's restraints snap loose, he doesn't run to cradle you. He doesnât whisper sweet nothings or check your trembling limbs.
No.
He moves like a man possessed. The restraints tear from your body like paper. His big hands yanking you onto your back before you can even whimper, fingers plunging inside without hesitation. Heâs scraping, scooping at your insides harshly as he claws Sukuna's seed from your ruined cunt.
"Fuckinâ disgusting," he snarls, flinging the thick strands of cum into the hay with a wet slap. His jaw is locked, veins straining in his neck as he works you open, knuckles deep, scouring every inch of your insides like he can erase Sukuna's claim by force.
You sob, oversensitive and shaking, but Toji doesn't stop until his fingers come away clean. Your puffy lower lips swollen and abused from the ruthless purge.
The heel of his palm presses hard on your lower belly and you wail, hiccuping.
âPush.â
Tojiâs command is a growl, his palm pressing hard into your lower belly, forcing the air from your lungs as he pins you flat. His other hand spreads your sticky, swollen folds wider, fingers digging into your trembling thighs.
âI said PUSH, heifer,â he snarls, shaking you roughly when you whimper. âUnless you want that fuckerâs bastard growinâ in you â
The threat sends a violent shudder through you, and with a sob, you bare down, muscles clenching as thick, pearlescent strands of Sukunaâs cum dribble pathetically out of your gaping hole.
Toji scoffs, wiping his fingers on your thigh with a look of disgust. âGood. Now again.â
Sukuna just watches, lounging lazily against the barn wall, his half-hard cock still glistening with your slick as he strokes himself with idle, amused strokes.
âAinât that sweet,â he purrs, grinning as Toji growls at him. âBullâs so jealous, heâs tryinâ to scrape me out by hand.â His tongue drags over his fangs. âToo bad it donât work like that.â
Toji roars. Sukuna laughs. You push.
Sukunaâs chuckle is dark, lazy, as he watches Tojiâs pace around you, lowering his now uncovered horn between your thighs. He takes multiple whiffs, nose curling as he can smell the scent of Sukuna even through his septum ring. Sukuna holds up a single clawed finger mocking, taunting before flicking his gaze toward the barn door where Megumi sits outside curled in the hay, oblivious.
"Ya already got yer heir," Sukuna muses, lips curling into a wicked grin. "Strong little shit. Smarter than his damn daddy, too."
Tojiâs snarl cuts through the stale barn air, but Sukuna just waves him off, stretching like a satisfied predator.
"Tell ya what, bull," he murmurs, tilting his head. "I get one, just one strong son outta this pretty cunt. Then?" His smirk widens. "Sheâs yours. Forever. I wonât so much as look at her again."
The offer hangs between them thick, poisonous.
Tojiâs fists clench, his jaw working as he glances at you trembling, used, his before his gaze flicks to where Megumi is being held.
His calf.
His blood.
His future.
"...One."
Sukunaâs grin is triumphant.
"Smart man," he purrs. Toji saunters over to where your head dangles over the edge of the rack. He helps roll your pliant body to your already full tummy. No matter how much Toji scooped out, the cum settled in your womb was inescapable.
You whimper, drooling against Tojiâs fingers when they push past your lips. "Hush," Toji rumbles, stroking your mouth with his thumb, coaxing your trembling tongue out to taste his callouses. âEasy girl, mâ right here Pretty.â
Toji strokes the sweat slick hair away from your flushed cheeks. You flinch as you feel the ground creek under Sukunaâs weight. "âS okay. Just me. I got you." You let Toji ease the world away.
When youâve finally gone still, limp as a ragdoll, Toji lets his fingers slide away.
"Just how I like ya." Toji huffs, a familiar sound that Megumi no doubt got from his father. "Now be good, heifer. Open that pretty mouth."
As your jaw drops open, Toji guides your face to him, guiding the tip of his cock against your lips. It's a comfort this time his thumb moving against your cheek. His voice is like a balm. Once upon a time his mere presence had you pissing yourself, quivering in need and fear.
After bringing his calf into the world, Toji had shifted. Became a protector more than a challenge. "Thereâs my good heifer. Just make me feel good, yeah? Take my cock the way you take my words. And leave the rest to me. He wonât go too hard. I wonât let him."
Your lips wrap around the leaky tip. The tip of your tongue slips along the slit of his cock. The salty taste, along with the heavy scent of a working stock makes your brain go numb again.
"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a gentle croon. "There's my good girl. You just take whatever ya need."
While you're lost in him, in the heavy sack resting against your chin, Sukuna strokes across your back flank. Tojiâs words of praise wrap around you like a safe haven.
Sukuna had brutalized other Bulls for just looking at him wrong. But Toji was a formidable foe. Even as he treated you like a precious treasure, his flannel was peeled open. His jeans were hugging each crevice of his muscular thighs like a lifeline. His heavy cock dangled from the shimmied down denim, being fed between your pretty bruised lips like a snack.
"You think I don't know what you're doin', bull?" Sukuna sneers,"You can try to comfort your little bitch all ya want...but I'm gonna break her one way or another."
Toji just snickers, plucking a piece of hay from where it was scattered in your pretty boy. He pops it between his glistening teeth, using the feed to keep himself from tearing out Sukunaâs jugular.
âSuck,â he orders, voice raw, not cruel, but desperate. âSuck like ya mean it. Like youâll die without it.â
And suck you do. The kitten licks and kisses to the tip turn to long strokes with your tongue. Each bob of your head takes more and more. Toji was a good teacher. The virgin little heifer who Shiu had brought in over a year ago was now his little cockslut.
Speaking and Shiu, he leaned against the gate, trying his best to hide the raging boner straining against sun-bleached trousers. He was chain-smoking like a freight train, hands shaking as he tried to decide between another light or fisting his cock.
Behind you, Sukuna doesnât like to be ignored. âYer lovesick,â he growls at his fellow Bull, dragging the blunt head of his cock through your soaked folds, making you jolt. âStill thinkinâ you can save her?â
Sukuna doesnât give you a moment to hide your pretty pussy. Your tail is snatched mid-flick, and heâs sliding in with much less resistance this time. Sukuna tries to bite his lower lip to stifle the pathetic groan he lets out. Your sore, puffy walls welcome him in like an old friend.
You moan around Tojiâs cock, tears spilling as Sukunaâs hips pound into you, each thrust jolting you forward, forcing Toji deeper down your throat.
Toji bites back a chuckle with Sukunaâs thrust has you gagging on him. Those welled up tears leak down your face with each harsh thrust.
âBreathe,â he orders. âAinât dyinâ on my cock today. And when fucker here is done?â His grip turns possessive. âIâll wash him out of you. Use my cum and piss like a water hose if I have to.â
Sukunaâs laugh is wicked.
âPromises, promises.â The pink haired bull laughs.
You obey. You suck. And you take it.
Sukuna's fingers dig into your hips as he yanks you back onto his cock. Each bounce punched a gurgled gasp from your throat. Your mouth stretches obscenely around Tojiâs length as he fucks your mouth in tandem. The poor pink ribbons on your ears never stood a chance.
"She likes it," Sukuna taunts, his grin audible as he watches drool spill from your lips around Tojiâs girth. The drool and pre-cum bubbles at the corners of your mouth. The gags from your esophagus shouldnât sound so fucking hot.
"Look at her drippinâ from both ends. Shoulda seen how her cunt clenched when I told her sheâd be breedinâ my heir."
Tojiâs snarl vibrates through you, his hips snapping harder, forcing himself deeper down your throat in retaliation. "Shut your fuckinâ mouth," he growls, thumb wiping at your tears. "Sheâs mine. Youâre just borrowinâ her."
Shiu has somehow wriggled down his jeans to fist his angry cock. The head is red and sensitive, especially when he swipes a thumb over it. The cigarette goes barely smoked between his lips as he strokes himself.
He doesnât know who heâd rather be. Sukuna, ShiuâŚor YOU.
Sukuna laughs, dragging his claws up your spine just to feel you shiver. "Funny. âCause she takes me better." He rams home, hilt-deep, making your toes curl. "Bet sheâd beg for my knot if you werenât here."
Tojiâs fingers tighten. "Try it," he dares, voice deathly calm. "See how long you keep your tongue after."
You whimper around Tojiâs cock, your overwhelmed and used body strung tight between them as they argue over you. You're the finest slab of meat in this damn barn and they knew it. Every few seconds you swear youâll pass out. From the lack of air and your guts feeling like theyâve been pushed up into your chest at this point.
Sukunaâs hand smacks your ass, flesh rippling from the contact. âQuit squirming," he chides, "Youâre here to be filled, not fuss."
âSheâs tryin, fuckinâ dick.â Toji holds your bottom jaw to make the glide easier. Your jaw is starting to ache so the support is most welcome. Sukunaâs grin is wicked.
"Y'know," Sukuna smacks your ass again, reveling in the way your cunt clenches around his length. "That brat of yours almost pissed himself when I stalked his dam."
There are two things (well, three) that NOBODY in this barn messed with. Tojiâs feed, Tojiâs mate (we know how THAT went), and Tojiâs calf.
Tojiâs horns crash into Sukunaâs with a sickening crack, the force of it sending you slamming forward onto Tojiâs cock, gagging as he bottoms out in your throat. Sukunaâs hips jerk back, dragging his length halfway out of your dripping cunt before he snarls and shoves back in, harder. As he surges forward, his horns lock with Tojiâs.
"YOU LYING SACK OF SHIT!" Toji roars, his voice raw with rage, his hands clawing at Sukunaâs shoulders as they wrestle over you. Your body jolts between them, impaled on both their cocks as they fight.
Tojiâs cock rams down your throat in the same brutal instant Sukuna blows your pussy open again and again
"Fuck look at her," Sukuna snarls, his voice strained with exertion, sweat dripping from his brow as he grinds deeper, forcing your thighs wider. "Sheâs dumb on it, just a fuckinâ hole for us now."
Toji digs a heeled boot into the ground, using body weight for leverage as his horns overpower Sukunaâs for a split second. "Shut your mouth," he snarls at Sukuna before slamming his cock back between your lips, his hips pistoning in savage, possessive thrusts. "Put a baby in âer first. Took her innocence right on this fuckinâ rack.â
"Then whyâs she squeezinâ me like sheâs scared Iâll leave?" he taunts, grinning as your cunt flutters around him, betraying you.
Toji roars and their horns lock again, their bodies pressing you between them like a sacrificial offering. Their cocks claim you in tandem, one splitting your throat, the other pounding your womb raw.
The barn air is thick with sweat, musk, and the metallic tang of blood. Both horns bleed at the base, a mixture of blood, sweat and spilled saliva from their feral attitudes dripping over your flesh.
Tojiâs breath comes ragged, his rhythm faltering as his hips stutter against your face, his cock twitching deep in your throat. His fingers tighten in your hair, forcing your tear-filled gaze up.
"Gonna fill that pretty mouth," his cock twitches heavily on your tongue. "Gonna make sure you taste me for days."
Behind you, Sukunaâs is faring no better the second time around. He canât help it. The smell of pheremones, your sweet cunt, the thought of a little bull with wild pink hair and his horns and his eyes-
"Fuck-fuck! " he snarls, his breath hot against your back. "Tight little heifer squeezinâ me like you want my bastard."
Your body is no longer yours, just a vessel. A plaything caught between two titans as they chase their release inside you.
Tojiâs hips snap forward one last time, his cock throbbing as he spills down your throat in thick, heavy pulses. He forces you to swallow each spurt. When your throat fills up, you whine and gag when the rest shoots from your nostrils. It burns, but you donât get a rest yet. Sukuna is too busy using your pussy like a flashlight.
He locks inside you, his claws biting into your flesh as he shoves impossibly deeper, his release flooding your womb in scorching bursts. His knot swells in full, the flesh locking in his cum this time around.
âMmmm fuck yeahâŚcanât wait ta see ya all swollen. T-take it-Nu uhâŚno runninâ pretty girl~.â Sukuna chastises when you squirm on their cocks like a pig for roast.
Shiu can hardly muffle his own moans as his cum hits the metal pail in front of them like tobacco. Heavy spurts paint the metal white as he snaps the poor cigarette between his lips like a twig.
Heâll definitely use that pail to milk you later. Maybe heâll feed you with it too.
It is HIS farm after all.
Shiu wipes himself clean quickly with a handkerchief, trying to not let the shame settle in his belly.
The bulls are panting, sweat and blood slick on their skin as they lift you out of the breeding rack, your body limp and wrecked. They gently settle you back against the leather as they maneuver you around like a little doll.
Shiu clicks his tongue as he examines you. Your bruised, swollen, cheeks still tear-stained, eyes glassy and far-off.
"She's gone,â he mutters, his hand shaking you gently. "Hey GirlâŚ.â
You hiccup wetly, your face crumpling the second Shiuâs fingers brush your cheek, your entire body quivering like an overripe peach about to burst.
âMmmfâShiiiiu,â you whine, your voice raspy from throatfucking and sobs, your pout trembling as you nuzzle pathetically into his palm. âThey were meeeeean!â
Shiu blinks down at you, his brow arching as you flop your head against him, your limbs still loose and useless, your cunt dripping between your thighs.
âMean?â he repeats, dry as hell. âSweetheart, they bred you like a barnyard heifer. What part of that was supposed to be nice?â
You sniffle, dramatically wiping your nose on his sleeve before wailing.
âThey didnât CUDDLE me after!â
âFuckinâ hell.â
You nod vigorously, still teary-eyed.
âAnd âKuna spit on me!!â you accuse, pointing a shaky finger at the King. âAnd Toji scraped me INSIDEâ!â
Shiu sighs, long-suffering, as he scoops you up like a tantrum-throwing toddler.
âAlright, alrightâletâs get you hosed down before you start listing more war crimes.â
How do you think caleb or any of the others lads guys would react to their wife lactating? đ do you think that they'd be down to try it? I love your writing!! đđ
Honey, is that...? đź
(wc. 2.1k) How would the LADS boys react when they spot you, their wife, lactating?
featuring: rafayel x reader, sylus x reader, caleb x reader, zayne x reader, xavier x reader (all separate)
warnings: mild smut, mdni.
a/n: first request down! i definitely think all of the boys would be down to try it LOL. i had so much fun writing this. hope you guys enjoy! c:
đ§ RAFAYEL:
At first, you think Rafayelâs being moody because of something work related. Probably just something about him not getting inspiration for his next piece.
He's quiet during dinner, pushing his food around with the fork, glancing at you between bites but saying nothing. Then he sighs. Dramatically. Like youâve just told him the love of his life is marrying someone else.
âDo you need the tub prepared?â you ask, gently patting the baby's mouth with a cloth as your baby drifts off to sleep, full and milk-drunk in your arms.
He shrugs. âNo.â
Another sigh. Even more dramatic this time.
You narrow your eyes. âOkay, whatâs wrong with you?â
Silence.
You put the baby down in the bassinet, tiptoeing back to the couch where heâs brooding like a man personally victimized by your child. You sit beside him and poke his thigh.
âRafayel. Talk.â
He doesnât answer at first. Just shifts in his seat dramatically, like you should already know why heâs in a mood.
You raise a brow. âRaf?â
ââŚWhy does he get to taste it?â he finally mutters.
You blink. âWhat?â
Rafayel lifts his gaze, eyes narrowed. âYour milk. The baby gets all of it. Meanwhile, I, your husband, donât even get to try?â
You stare at him, baffled, amused, a little turned on by how offended he looks.
He shifts closer suddenly, tone softening like heâs trying to guilt you.
 âYou used to let me suck on them all the time,â he mumbles, voice pitiful. âNow I get nothing.â
âRafayel Qi,â you say, laughing despite yourself. âYouâre jealous of your own child?â
âHe doesnât even appreciate it,â Rafayel huffs dramatically. âHeâs just... drinking. No compliments. No praise. No loving gaze. No eye contact.â He places a hand over his heart. âHe doesnât deserve you.â
âYou want to flirt with my boobs while Iâm nursing?â
He nods solemnly. âAnd after.â
You blink. âRaf.â
âNo, no, go ahead. Ignore me. Thatâs fine.â He gestures grandly, flopping back on the couch like a neglected kid in a drama.Â
âI mean, I get it,â Rafayel huffs, gesturing vaguely toward the baby now blissfully passed out at the bassinet. âHe needs it. Itâs nourishment. Bonding. Blah blah. But like, what about me? A stranger in my own marriage.â
You roll your eyes. âThen ask.â
He freezes. Turns to you slowly.
ââŚSeriously?â
You nod. âIf youâre that curious, then fine. Go ahead.â
Wasting no moment, he immediately latches onto you, and his reaction is instant. His eyes roll back. A full-body shudder.
He suckles on your nipple with the eagerness of a thirsty man who had just found water after days of being dehydrated. When a bit of milk manages to escape from the side? He immediately laps it up, wasting no drop.
He pulls back, breathless. Dazed. â...Fuck."
Then he smirks.
âAlright. New plan. Letâs have six more kids.â
You shove him off the couch.
đŚâ⏠SYLUS:
Everyone in the N109 Zone knows that Sylus doesnât kneel.
He doesnât plead.
He doesnât repeat himself.
He doesnât need to.
He gives orders, and people obey. His name alone strikes fear into civilians and corrupt officials alike. He's the kind of man who takes what he wants, and everyone bends at his will.
But you?
Youâre the one thing he never commands.
Because with you, he never wants to.
And right now? Heâs at your feet.
Literally.
It starts when youâre in the privacy of your home, in a soft robe, curled on the couch with your baby fast asleep in the bassinet. Youâre drowsy and glowing, eyes heavy from the feeding, your robe slipping just slightly to reveal a glistening patch where youâve started to leak again.
Sylus was reading some documents, possibly just about a new batch of weapons shipped to one of his armories. All that boring stuff. When he looks at you, his eyes immediately zero to your chest.
He freezes.
The documents clattered to the ground.Â
You glance at him, confused. âSylus?â
But heâs already closing the space between you. You see it, the desire in his eyes as he kneels before you, palms on your thighs, breath hot and uneven.
âPlease.â
His voice is hoarse. Ragged. Barely a whisper.
You blink. âHuh?â
âI need to taste you, sweetie.â He says it like it physically hurts to admit, jaw clenched.Â
âCan I try? Please?â
Your breath hitches. âSylusââ
âI never beg,â he murmurs, leaning forward, brushing his lips against the skin of your breast. âBut Iâll get on my knees for this. For you.â
He doesnât ask again.
Just lowers his mouth to your breast and licks. The moment the white liquid hits his tongue, everything changes.
His lips part in stunned disbelief. Then, he groans, deep and guttural, like you just unlocked something feral in him.
âYou taste sweet,â he rasps. Heâs already latching on you again, open-mouthed, greedy.Â
âFuck. You taste better than anything.â
You gasp, clutching at his shoulders as he begins to devour you. Thereâs nothing classy about the way he sucks at youâitâs messy, hungry, possessive. Like heâs waited his whole life for this and didnât even know it.
You try to say something, to make a joke; âYouâre worse than the baby.â
But Sylus growls into your skin, low and dark:
âIâll give you another one. Iâll fill you up again, if thatâs what it takes to keep you like this.â
Your breath stutters.
âSylusââ
âNo one else gets this. No one else gets to taste you like this.â
He presses his palm to your womb. âYou hear me? Only me.â
And you believe him.
Because when Sylus Qin finds something he likes?
He gets it.
đ CALEB:
It starts with the panties.
Caleb thinks heâs subtle about it. Volunteering to do your laundry in the pretense that he 'just wants to help', setting aside a pair that smells like you, worn, soft, intimate. The design doesn't matter too, the one with lace? Spectacular. The cotton ones he bought with the apple patterns? Give him 14 of them right now. He tells himself itâs harmless, just something to keep close when you're gone on long shifts or too tired to stay up with him after work from the Hunter's Association.
When you've caught him in the act, all he does is raise an eyebrow, as if you're the one being strange.
âWhat?â he says, with that deadpan tone of his, nose still pressed into the fabric. âYou smell nice.â
You should be flustered, but youâve been married to this man long enough to know how weirdly intense he can be. It's part of the Caleb experience. When you tried scolding him because some of your pairs have gone missing, all he does is shoot you his signature puppy-eyed look.
But then after giving birth to your baby, everything changes. Your underwear drawer's surprisingly complete, and none of the pairs have gone missing. You'd think that maybe Caleb had just become too busy tending to the baby to even focus on his needs.
But what you don't notice is how his touches linger longer during nighttime cuddles, especially around your chest, or the way he glances at your shirt when it dampens just a little.
It happens when youâre fresh out of the shower. You're drying your hair, not noticing at first that the front of your shirt is damp. A few minutes later, you glance down andâ
Oh.
Youâre leaking.
âCaleb?" you call out, not thinking much of it, âI think Iâm lactating again. I forgot to pump.â
You donât expect a reaction. You expect him to say something like, âWant me to grab the pump?â
What you donât expect is for Caleb to freeze in the doorway, eyes locked on the wet patch spreading across the fabric.
â...Again?â he says quietly.
You blink at him. âYeah? Thatâs usually how it works.â
His eyes narrow, his jaw clenches, and before you can respond, heâs across the room, pushing your shirt up to your chest with eagerness, hunger glinting in those beautiful purple eyes.
âLet me taste.â
Your brain short circuits. âWhaâCalebâ?â
But heâs already there, lips closing around your nipple, hand firmly planted at your waist like he owns you.
And when he moans? You swear itâs the dirtiest sound heâs ever made.
He drinks like heâs been deprived. Like this was what he needed all along, and nothing else compares. Not the panties. Not your bath soap. Not even the taste of your skin.
Noâthis. This is divine. This is yours.
Later, when you're sprawled on the bed, dazed and breathless, he kisses your stomach and murmurs softly:
"Maybe we should have another baby. Just so you don't run out."
You laugh. âYou're a freak.â
âIâm serious.â
He looks up at you, utterly sincere, eyes dark with something thatâs not quite lustâitâs obsession, devotion, need.
And you know then: heâs addicted.
Not just to you.
But to every part of you.
âď¸ ZAYNE:
You already knew Zayne had a problem with sweets.
The bakery receipts stuffed in his lab coat. The way he always âaccidentallyâ wanders into the dessert section at the grocery store. The time he got bribed by Dr. Greyson with macarons.
But this?
You hadnât seen coming.
It starts innocently enough; heâs helping you undress after a long day, brushing his fingers along the curve of your side as he unclasps your bra. Youâre a few weeks postpartum, still sore and soft in all the ways he loves. Heâs kneeling in front of you, peppering lazy kisses along your stomach when he notices the damp spot on your breast.
"Hmm?" He hums, brows furrowing. He leans in closer.
"You're leaking."
You sigh. âYeah. I forgot to pump again. Iâll go getââ
âNo,â Zayne cuts in, already cupping your breast in his hand. âLet me.â
âZayneâ!â
But heâs already latched on before you can finish, mouth closing around you like itâs second nature.
The first taste hits him like a drug.
His eyes widen.
Then flutter shut.
He moans. Actually moans. Like he just took a bite out of the best dessert of his life.
âDearest,â he breathes when he finally pulls back, his lips still wet. âWhy didnât you tell me it tastes like this?â
You blink, a little dazed. âLike⌠what?â
He licks his lips. âSweet. Warm...â
Then his gaze flicks up, dark and hungry.
âBetter than any dessert I've ever tasted.â
Your face flushes. âYouâre insane.â
âMaybe,â he says, already nudging you backward onto the bed, crawling over you with sinful intent. âBut you married me.â
And just like that, heâs latched on again, slow, thorough, absolutely obsessed. Like heâs savoring every drop. Like youâre his final meal, and heâs a man whoâs starved.
When he finally pulls away, lips wet and pupils blown wide, he looks like heâs come undone.
Then, like itâs the most natural thing in the world, he mutters:
ââŚI think I need to adjust my meal plan.â
You raise a brow. âYouâre joking.â
He shakes his head, dead serious. âYouâre my new dessert. Effective immediately.â
â XAVIER:
Itâs still dark out when Xavier stirs beside you.
He wakes like he always does. Quiet, warm, arms automatically reaching for your sleeping form. He pulls you close, breath brushing on your neck, his hand splaying across your waist under the covers.
Thatâs when he notices it.
A damp spot on your shirt. Right over your chest. Youâre on your side, curled towards him, unaware.
He blinks once. Then twice. Brain still foggy from sleep.
But then he leans closer, nose brushing against the fabric, breathing in the scent thatâs distinctly you. Warm and milky. Sweet.
Something stirs in him. Not lust, something gentler. Deeper.
An ache in his chest he canât explain. Like he wants to be closer, somehow. Like he needs to feel it. Taste it.
He shifts beneath the blankets, carefully nudging the neckline of your shirt down. He presses a kiss just above your nipple, reverent, before wrapping his lips softly around it.
You stir, eyelids fluttering. â...Xavi?â you murmur, voice gravelly with sleep.
âMm,â he hums against your skin, mouth still lazily suckling. âJust helping.â
You blink blearily at him. âThatâs⌠not how the pump works.â
âDonât care,â he whispers. âTastes better this way.â
You huff a soft laugh, too tired to scold him, too warm to care. âYouâre unbelievable.â
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark hair tousled, eyes still heavy lidded.Â
âItâs comforting,â he says simply, like itâs the most natural thing in the world. âYouâre comforting.â
And with that, he tucks himself back into your arms, head resting on your chest, one hand lazily cupping your breast. You feel the occasional soft suckle as he drifts off again, slow and rhythmic, like a baby himself.
You close your eyes.
The room is quiet. The babyâs still asleep.
And for now... just for now, thereâs no need to move.
You both fall back into sleep, tangled together, Warm, safe, and full.
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imagine: clark becomes so obsessed with your tits he secretly drugs you so you start producing milk.
pairing: gn!reader x obsessed!david corenswet clark kent
cw/genres: gender neutral reader that has breasts they just do okay shut your pie hole, nipple play, nipple sucking, lactation kink, obsessive Clark Kent, drugging, gn!reader, premature ejactulation, clark kent x gn!reader, no use of y/n
wc: 990
a/n: hi guys i tried to make this as like genderly ambiguous as possible sorry i probs flopped lmao also this was suppose to be part of my kinktober series but ive decided i wont be participating because cba and if i wanna write horny shit about Clark Kent why should i be subjected to a month? i'll still use my kinktober prompts for imagines i have planned but it won't be daily uploads within october more likely just frequent hehe anyway hope you guys enjoy if you want feel free to send prompts/requests and as always, likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! <3 (p!link at end)
clark was obsessed with your tits, diligently so. this infatuation had developed into a type of clinginess that you had never seen within him before, and you honestly couldn't even pinpoint when it started.
the two of you could be seated in the living room, and clark would slowly and subtly position his body closer to you so that he could discreetly sneak an arm around you.
and if he'd pull you onto his lap, you would just assume he wanted closer proximity towards you. until this notion would be disregarded the second you felt his familiar large hands sneak underneath your shirt so he could fondle your breasts.
"seriously, clark?"
"pleasee just let me, baby? just this once?" clark would whine, claiming that fondling your tits relieved his stress, but you knew the truth, he was simply just a pervert.
this was further solidified in the way he would push you into the supply closet mid-workday just to descend to his knees whilst he pushed your figure against the closet wall, large hands already unbuttoning your shirt.
"clark, what's with you?" you seethed, "we're on the clock," you emphasised in a hushed, embarrassed tone.
"just a little stressed, please, baby. can i have this, just this once?" he guilted you with the same lie he'd use every time, 'just this once', hands already itching to pull down your bra. reluctantly, you nodded your head and immediately felt the way his hot mouth latched onto your erect nipple.
you cradled his head as he suctioned as if secretly wishing you would produce milk. the way he'd suck your nipple into his mouth whilst twisting your other neglected one taut had you reaching a hand into his curly mane of hair as you threw your head back in ecstasy, tugging on the curled strands.
that was just one instant where clark had overstepped boundaries when it came to your tits.
but now, in this moment of time, the boundary was damn near non-existent.
clark had become enthralled with the idea of you being able to produce milk from your tits; the thought alone had him salivating.
in his research to make this a reality, he had come across a certain drug that would stimulate milk production.
this caused a pool of heat to creep across his lower abdomen. clark knew that you would protest this though, but he had urges and desires, and you didn't really have to know, did you?
he used this same logic to convince himself as he poured you a cup of coffee, slipping the drug in.
this regimen persisted for about a week or so, offering you drugged caffeinated beverages in the early hours of the morning when you needed them most until one fateful day, it occurred: you began to lactate.
you had complained to clark about how heavy and full your breasts had been feeling the entire week, whining about how the sensation of your now oversensitive nipples rubbing against your shirt was now extremely prominent.
clark acted oblivious, convincing you it was probably due to a shift in hormones or something. but when you had crawled into bed, needy for clark, practically whining once you lifted your shirt, begging him to suck on your sensitive nipples as you pawed at your full chest, he basically jumped at the opportunity.
his lips wrapped around your puffy nipple, sighing in bliss as he palmed the other.
this action had you reeling forward as you pushed his face deeper into your chest; the sensation of his mouth on you felt like nothing you had ever experienced previously, signified by your loud pornographic moans.
but when you felt a gush of liquid spill from your chest, you froze as clark pulled away from the nipple he was sucking, palm leaving your chest too as he looked down at the white liquid that now framed his palm.
"wait, clarkâ"
he swallowed the liquid that collected in his mouth.
the look in his eye could only be described as feral as he shoved his face into your nipple, eagerly sucking out as much of the sweet milk as he possibly could.
his head bobbed in back-and-forth motions as he harshly sucked on your nipple in search of more fluid.
"clarkk, jâjust like thatt," you whined as you felt a gush of slick leave your nether regions.
the stimulation to your chest had you teetering on the edge of orgasm.
he reluctantly pulled away from your nipple, stretching the bud as much as he possibly could before releasing with a 'pop' before continuing his assault onto your other nipple, pushing his face into your chest to suck in more milk.
your hand cradled his head as you pulled on his curly strands, reeling at the pleasure he was supplying you.
at one particularly harsh suck, you felt the way your thighs spasmed as you came untouched, your body twitching against the mattress as clark continued to milk you the rest of the night.
â
when clark began bringing his own special kind of 'organic' milk to the office to add to his morning coffee, you flushed at the way his unrelenting stare would reach you across the bullpen, sipping on his creamy coffee that would often leave traces of its presence on his upper lip that he'd lick away with a flick of his tongue, eyes still trained on you.
this would make you shiver as clark ushered you into the same dingy supply closet when he yearned for the liquid, straight from the source.
in the coming months, clark became obsessed with milking you, finding any excuse to do so, his favourite being that he was parched and your milk would provide the most amount of minerals and vitamins to sustain his large Kryptonian body.
you knew this was complete and utter bullshit, but you still let him suckle on your chest as he fell asleep, indulging in his newfound obsession.
a/n: yes i will write a pt2 where the reverse situation occurs for clark i'm not a monster #guyswithtitsneedlovetoo also hereâs a random p!link i think suits the vibe lol clark would be more rough imo according to the imagine tho (european n uk babes like me use proton vpn and switch to usa to access nsfw twt xox)
Before you joined the military, you could count on 3 fingers how many times youâd been in a plane. Now, though, with it being your main method of getting to ops, you lost count long ago.
Getting onto the plan and strapping in (literally and figuratively) for a long flight was second nature at this point. Maybe youâd talk with your teammates or grab a quick nap, or maybe even invade the cockpit to say hello to Nikolai.
It was such a day, one where you were craving the company of someone you didnât practically live with, so you found yourself at the door of the pilots cabin. It was locked, which wasnât unusual. Something about safety protocol.
You knock once. No response, which is a little odd but sometimes if he was on the radio he couldnât hear over the chatter, so you knock again. No answer.
âNikolai! Open up! I brought your favorite jerky,â you try to persuade.
âMaybe heâs sick of ya!â Calls Soap helpfully from his seat. You just flip him the bird without turning around.
You hear some shuffling in the cabin, which you assume to be Nik standing to let you in. ButâŚhe still doesnât. Which is undeniably weird. And youâre starting to get concerned.
You turn back to the team, and theyâre all watching curiously too. You shoot a confused look to your captain when finally the door swings open.
âFinally! Jeez, Nik were you wanking off orââ
Thereâs a gun in your face.
You hear various curses from behind you as you hit the deck, the shot flying past your head and toward the boys. Your instinct go on autopilot, you have no idea whatâs happening but you do know that whoever is flying this plane isnât Nik.
You swing your legs out to kick the shin of the usurper, making solid contact and causing him to trip into the doorway, gun falling to the floor.
By now the boys are in full work-mode, swarming your area to defend you and find out how these people got in the cockpit.
Before they can, whoever is still flying the plane jerks it into a steep upward angle, causing everyone not seated to lose their footing and fly toward the back of the plane.
Youâre on the ground, so you start to slide. The boys arenât so lucky, getting shunted backward unforgivingly, you hear the crack of a skull against the ground. The gun from the copilot slides past you before you can think to grab it, youâre flailing for contact with something to stop your slide. The copilot himself goes flying past as all the unrestrained cargo starts to slip. Things are getting messy fast and you still donât know who youâre up against, or where Nikolai is.
Blessedly you find purchase on the strap of some cargo that is restrained. When you look back up to the cockpit, you can see the pilot looking back at you, before he gets up cautiously and reaches out to slam the door shot once more.
Behind you, the boys fell further than you did but seem to all have grabbed somethingâŚexcept Soap. Heâs still sliding toward the end of the plane without moving at all. Panic floods your veins, that mustâve been the head you heard crack. Shit.
The pilot will have the level the plane out eventually, so you let go of your position hoping to slide down to where Soap is. You need to make sure heâs okay.
âWhatâre you doinâ?â Price scolds as you slide past his position.
âGetting Johnny!â
He managed to get hooked on one of the large cases of supplies, but heâs starting to slip. Which wouldnât be a problem necessarily, but then the cargo door starts to open.
Suddenly, leaving your cozy spot near the front of the plane for a harmless slide down here is seeming like a really stupid idea.
âSergeant!â Price calls for you, far more panicked now.
Which is unfortunately very warranted because if you miss grabbing this last cargo box and JohnnyâŚyouâre all flying out the back of this plane with no chute. Then again, high stakes have always been where you felt most at home.
Johnny finally slips as you get to his position, grabbing his vest and the strap of the cargo at the same time. The tug on your shoulders is brutal but you hold on.
âFuck! We need to get this door closed, now! Simon!â
The copilot loses his grip, flying past you and out the open door with a strangled, âhelp!ââ
Simon is on the move now, releasing himself into cargo to bunny-hop his way to the control panel for the door.
Your grip is slipping. Johnny starts to groan.
âJohnny! Wake up!â
Simon is at the control panel, swinging it open and starting to fiddle with the wires. Finally, Johnny wakes up. It doesnât take him long to feel the wind and take account of his situation.
âSteeeaamminnâ jesus! What the hell is happeninâ?â He starts to wiggle in your grip, trying to get his arms under himself and push away from the open sky.
âI got you, Johnny, grab on!â
He looks up, noticing that youâre anchoring him in place. His hand wraps around your forearm to pull himself up to the cargo, but youâre still slipping. Kyle and Price are making their way toward you now, but itâll be too late. You lose your grip as a mechanical whir sounds. Johnny tries to grab you as you slide away from the box, but you slip past, a brief second of terror fills you before you slam into the closing cargo door.
A large breath releases from your lungs, you look up to Simon and flop onto your back in relief. He just gives you a thumbs up, the bastard. Kyle and Price finally make it to the bottom. Kyle comes to you to make sure youâre okay, hand cupping your cheek and fixing your hair out of your eyes.
âYâalright, love?â You just nod.
John checks out Johnnyâs head injury, forcing him into some brief concussion checks despite his protests.
You let the silence and relief linger for a second, but not too long. You still have a hijacker in the cockpit.
âWeâre gonna have to figure a way back to the cockpit to take this plane backââ
The pilot apparently agrees because he sends the plane into a nose-dive, causing all of you to once again become victim to gravity and start to slide toward the front of the plane now.
âBloodyââ Kyle grabs you so you start to slide together. Blessedly the roller coaster is cut short as the plane levels out. Itâs starting to feel like these inane movements are not the hijackerâs decision.
You hear muffled Russian from the cockpit.
âNik.â You look toward where everyone ended up, âI bet heâs in there fighting with the pilot.â
âWell letâs move before he decides to send us into a roll.â The captain is back to giving orders, standing and grabbing a gun that didnât fly out of the plane.
âDonât jinx us, sir.â You grumble and help Kyle stand.
You approach the cockpit, hearing the sounds of a fight inside. Simon stands in front of the door, poised to kick it in, while the rest of you cover the angles. He looks at you each briefly before slamming his foot into it to send it flying open.
The scene revealed is Nikolai, still with a gag in his mouth and his hands tied in front of him, duking it out with the hijacker. Theyâre taking turns slamming each other into surfaces and kneeing each otherâs stomachs. Itâs not sophisticated.
âLet âim go!â Price commands while training his gun on the enemy.
He stops, slowly pulling his hands off of Nik and straightening, raising them above his head and turning around. John steps forward to take his hands and tie him up, but before he can, he lunges for John.
A shot rings out. The hijacker falls to the floor, your bullet finding a home in his chest.
John turns, giving you a nod that you barely give back before youâre dropping your gun and going to Nik.
You pull his gag out and use your knife to cut his bindings.
âYâknowâŚI didnât picture you seeing me tied up for the first time quite like this.â
You groan and turn around, all concern for him leaving you, âheâs fine.â You report to the others.
âWhat the hell happened, Nikolai?â Questions John.
Nik flys back to the pilots seat, pulling the controls and flicking switches so fast you canât keep track. âWas doing my pre-flight when they found their way onto the plane. Knocked me out before I even knew what was going on. I woke up when you started knocking.â
âWho the hell were they?â You ask.
âI do not know, milaya.â Is his only explanation.
âIâll call Laswell.â John says before leaving the cockpit.
âSoâŚis it safe to say this mission is cancelled?â Johnny says sheepishly.
The rest of you turn to look at him, âcâmon, Johnny, letâs sit down.â Simonâs pats his shoulder as he passes.
Before Johnny leaves the cockpit, he gives your temple a peck, barely noticeable. âThank you for savinâ me, hen.â
âAlways,â you smile up at him.
Eventually you make it back to solid ground, where the fun doesnât stop because investigating how hijackers got aboard your plane without anyone noticing is a major pain in the ass. Luckily, though, despite the major adrenaline rush and a little headache for Johnny, everyone got out okay.
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