#batman x fem!reader

[ahqkas]

“MILLION DOLLAR MAN — bruce wayne.

PAIRING! bruce wayne 𝒙 fem!reader SYNOPSIS! bruce met you through a dating app (his sons’ doing, really) and the temptation to invite you over for christmas is getting harder to resist WORD COUNT! 3.6k WARNINGS / TAGS! fluff, bruce is literally down bad for reader in this one, unedited + lmk if found! NOTES! for nat & based on this req. , header bellow belongs to @/v6que © ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

BRUCE WAYNE AVOIDED RELATIONSHIPS LIKE A SOLDIER DODGING BULLETS, each attempt adding yet another layer to the armor he wore daily. He didn’t need them, the women, or so he told himself. They entered his life easily — at his own charity galas, where one pretty bird thought she could get a kiss from him by the end of the night. Female admirers who ate up his charming smiles and sharp eyes seemed to flock around him at all times. And those countless girls who were lured in by the Wayne name, the status, the wealth.

And Bruce gave them the attention they craved from him.

The women served their purpose as brief districtions, companions who helped him maintain his public image, but none of them really mattered to him.

They kept the colder side of his bed warm, but never his heart.

It wasn’t that Bruce didn’t want love — some part of him did, but that part was buried under the weight of Batman. Allowing himself to lose the walls around him and find an attachment in a woman wasn't something his alter ego was okay with, not with the way he’d been living. And another part convinced him that his duties as Gotham’s protector, with all his scars and wounds, didn’t make him a possible object for such things. Love and vigilantism didn’t mingle together well.

Maybe that’s why his own sons and personal butler teamed up on him. Batman was a hero to many, but with how much it damaged Bruce’s internal beliefs, it would ruin him soon enough.

It started as something innocent (but it seemed the wolf was clothed in sheep’s wool): Dick, his oldest, had teased him about his non-existent love life during a training session in the Batcave.

The large space was full with flickering lights coming from the monitors and grunts from the fighting men. Sweat filled the air, masculine and strong, but that only indicated to the hard work they were doing. Training wasn’t easy, they liked to train with the maximum intensity ( it was kinda needed, too ) and it showed. From their damp hair and glistening skin to the rippling muscles underneath their clothes.

“You know, Bruce,” his son started when he blocked yet another strike coming from the man in question. A puff of air left his mouth upon the attack. Not fair. “for someone who spends his nights saving people, you sure are terrible at saving yourself from eternal loneliness.”

Bruce delivered another jab, this one directed straight at Dick’s weak point. “Not now, Dick.”

But his son was nothing if not persistent and he always got what he wanted, whether it was with or without serious consequences. “I’m serious. When was the last time you went on a date? And don’t try to tell me you had one on your arm during the last charity event. That doesn’t count.”

Both of them fully knew Bruce’s arm candies were way more interested in his name and money than in his heart and soul. The truth made his jaw muscles tighten at the realization.

“My personal life is irrelevant to my work.”

Dick took the opportunity and circled the older man like a predator catching the prey’s scent of blood. A sweet weakness, that one. He’d be stupid if he didn’t take the chance. “Is it though? I mean, sure, you’re great at taking down supervillains and brooding on top of high rooftops, but even Batman needs a little action sometimes. The different kind of action, of course. Or are you planning to spend the rest of your life married to the job?”

Bruce swiped his right leg toward Dick’s shins, trying to take him down like he was the said supervillain but the acrobat jumped right on time, avoiding Bruce’s attempt with a grin on his face.

He landed on his feet and crossed his arms at his chest, leaning the weight of his body against one leg. The playfulness disappeared from both his voice and expression and instead, seriousness graced him whole. “Seriously, Bruce, even Alfred’s worried. He brought it up the other day while we were decorating the tree. Something about how the manor feels colder than usual this year.”

“The heating system is fine.”

With Jason gone, it was the truth. His second son had this strange relationship with all the members of the family. Off and on. Off and on. No one truly knew where they stood in Jason’s eyes but he made the effort and showed up on Christmas Eve the other year upon receiving Alfred’s invitation.

Bruce doubted he would show up two years in a row.

“That’s not what he meant, and you know it,” Dick pressed, and effectively added more salt into Bruce’s wounds. It stung and it fucking hurt. As much as Batman was ruthless, it didn’t mean the man under the mask was resistant against the pain his life brought. “You’re not getting any younger, B. It wouldn’t kill you to let someone in. And I don’t mean us. Try to meet someone who isn’t friendly with a criminal record.”

The older man could only stare helplessly at the other. Those words his son, partner, spoke were loud, crawling their way into his mind and much to his dismay, his heart as well.

Before he could voice his dismissal, a younger voice called out. It was familiar in a way family tended to be.

“You are wasting your breath, Grayson. Father has neither the time nor the inclination to entertain your nonsense,” his youngest son declared into the space of Batcave, his voice ringing out and echoing every single word. The blood son, Damian Wayne.

The father didn’t even flinch, just let out a deep sigh through his nose. It was as usual between those two, always bickering from Damian’s side and teasing remarks from Dick’s. You could mistake the blood running through their system as one, if not for the physical differences. They were brothers in all but red.

“Damian,” Dick started in that lecturing tone he’d always seemed to use with the younger boy, “when was the last time you saw Bruce here even try to have a social life?”

Damian rolled his eyes, the green disappearing behind his eyelids before they reappeared, rougher than they were. “The so called ‘social life’ you’re referring to consists of women who barely last through dinner. Why would he waste his energy on distractions when Gotham requires his full attention?”

“Because even Batman needs a break. You know, normal human things? Like dating, smiling, not dying alone in this cave surrounded by bats?”

“If Father is content with his choices, who are you to meddle? Unlike you, he does not require constant companionship to validate his existence.”

“Ouch,” Dick put his palm against his heart in a mocking manner, feigning hurt as his lips formed a pout. “You’ve got a real gift for the Christmas spirit, don’t you?”

The younger son narrowed his eyes at his supposed brother. The constant bickering was almost normal in their lives so far, and nothing seemed to be changing any time soon. He had to learn how to live with the excuse of a brother, although he started to form a light liking towards him. He wasn’t so bad. “I only speak the truth,” his green irises flicked to Bruce. “Though it is peculiar he tolerates your interference. Perhaps even Father has realized how pathetic his current romantic life—or lack thereof—appears.”

The object of the conversation let out another sigh, this one loud enough for the boys to hear. Their gazes snapped toward Bruce with accusingly great speed.

“If you two are done debating my personal life, there’s actual work to be done.”

He missed the glance his oldest threw at the youngest. He missed the look filled with amusement and a plan that was already brewing. He missed the nod they gave each other, although Dick’s was more pronounced and determined.

The next few hours were spent creating Bruce’s dating app profile.

The final result was the definition of real sugar daddy vibes. Every detail had been debated (mostly argued over though) and thought through, so to say the boys were satisfied with it was an understatement. The oldest prided in the work, saying how it would get so many women to reply which would eventually lead to the right one. The middle one Dick and Damian (only Dick) dragged into the activity beamed up once the profile was set while the youngest scoffed and scowled during the entire process.

During the next evening, the boys showed the main man his new account.

Bruce was left speechless upon seeing the bright screen flash before his eyes. Not a single word was muttered as he watched his boys showing him the app and explaining how exactly it worked (he’d never used a dating app before all this so bear with him). The main photo on the profile was a candid one of him, the one Cass had taken on a sunny day in the Wayne Manor gardern. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, the long sleeves rolled up past his elbows as the muscles of his forearms bulged up. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips, the sunlight casting shadows across his sharp features and Bruce had to admit they chose a good photo.

It wasn’t intimidating, but it wasn’t exactly friendly as well. The good old middle.

The boys knew he was convinced to give it a try when he waved them off with a deep sigh slipping past his lips.

The game was on.

It was past the midnight when he lied in his bed, propped against one too many pillows and wondered why he was still scrolling through the damned dating app. It was late—far past the time he should have been out on patrol, but Red Hood and Red Robin got it covered for him.

Bruce wasn’t looking for anything specific, really. If he were honest, this whole situation felt out of place for him. Swiping through the profiles was more like an exercise for his thumb.

First was Madison K. Her profile opened with flashy colors that immediately put Bruce into a doubtful situation. Were all these women going to be like this? Madison was beautiful and her looks screamed professionalism: her makeup was done flawlessly, adorning her bright eyes and full lips. She looked like she belonged on a cover for a fashion magazine, not a dating app. Her bio made his thumb swipe left.

‘Manifesting my best life. CEO of my own happiness. Looking for someone who’s successful, ambitious, and knows how to treat me like a queen.’

The next account’s bio made him grimace and swipe left once again.

‘Looking for someone who can keep me living the dream. If you’re successful, generous, and ready to spoil me, let’s talk.”

At this point, Bruce was ready to delete the dating app his boys set up and enjoy the rest of his night. Most of the profiles he swiped through were simply bland to him. Nothing felt genuine. Right. It was safe to say he was losing the hope Dick had set in him earlier in the evening. Until he stumbled upon your profile.

The account stood out among the others—simple, elegant, but with a certain amount of warmth that seemed genuine. Bruce’s heart skipped a beat once he scrolled further and came across your photo. The picture showed you in a cozy cafe, the one Steph adored so much for their cinnamon roll buns. A soft smile danced on your pretty face, highlighting the curve of your cheeks as you looked off to the side. You captured Bruce in a way the others didn’t.

You looked like a fawn surrounded by hungry wolves. You were admirable while they were craving wealth and status. Two different sides of a coin, but Bruce had already known his pick.

Your bio was sincere, a sight the man liked to see.

‘I enjoy the little moments — finding beauty in the simple things. I believe in kindness, and I’m looking for someone who values honesty and a deep conversation.’

His mind flicked briefly toward the countless hours he spends in the cave, surrounded by work and worries. You seemed like the one who could understand the balance between the quiet and the loud, someone who could exist in both of his worlds without losing that spark you held in your gaze.

Before he could overthink it, Bruce clicked on the “message” button.

Once the screen of your non-existent chat appeared, his mind went blank and all he was capable of was to stare mindlessly at the phone. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but no words came to him. What did one say to someone like you? He wasn’t used to thinking ahead when it came to women. This was a new field. And he couldn’t screw up.

Finally, his fingers moved before his mind could think of whatever embarrassing thing it was capable of.

> Hey, I noticed your profile and wanted to reach out. There’s something about your words that struck a chord with me. I’d like to know more about you.

And that’s how the two of you started your relationship, or whatever you could call it. Neither of you voiced it as official, but that was okay. He hadn’t expected to feel this way, not so soon. And yet it came at him, crashing like a large wave of emotions every time you were around. You changed everything for him.

Your conversations became the highlight of his days.

His ears perked up every single time without a fail when he heard the soft ‘ping!’ of the notification, already convinced it was from you (and it 98 percent was). Whether it was early in the morning before he started working in the chaotic Wayne Enterprises or late at night when the Batcave was quiet and felt at peace. You were always there with him.

You were thoughtful, generous, and refreshingly kind. You asked him questions that no one else dared to: what he wanted from life, what made him happy, what kept him awake at night. You didn’t flinch at his silence. You didn’t push him to give answers he wasn’t ready to share. You understood him in a way only a few people did.

Piece by piece, he let you into his world — not that part filled with constant danger and threats, but that part that longed for something real.

By the time Christmas approached, Bruce was sure of one thing: he wanted you in his life.

The holiday was just around the corner, filling the air with joy and gratitude as it always did. The snow was blanketing the streets with white powder, and although many people were complaining about the cold, it had its charm.

Christmas had always been about family for Bruce, about gathering around the tree and full table with the people who mattered most. It was lonely at first, after the death of his parents, but over the years, Alfred had made it work. The table was always full of tasty food the kids adored and presents Bruce knew would make them more than happy were neatly waiting for them every morning after Christmas Eve.

This year though, Bruce wanted it to be a little different. He wanted you to be part of it.

You might actually fit into the chaos of the Wayne family — the teasing and playful banters between you, Dick, and Tim would be absolute gold to hear. You probably even could handle Damian’s wit which was something his father would like to see. He could picture you smiling, holding back your own remarks. The idea of you sitting beside him at the long dining table, sharing their traditions, made his chest feel warm in a way he wasn’t used to.

That night, he sent you a message.

> Are you free on Christmas Eve?

Your response came in quickly, as it always did. Bruce’s heart thumped against the bones of his ribs.

> I am. Why?

He hesitated for a bit, overthinking his decision.

> I’d like you to join me for dinner. It’s a family thing but I’d really like for you to be there.

> Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.

> You wouldn’t be intruding.

Bruce could picture the light frown between your brows and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. You often did it unconsciously, never knowing how pretty you looked this way. But even as he pictured your face, a part of him was growing more nervous about the situation. Would you agree to an event this serious? Spend Christmas with him. And his family. Or were you coming up with excuses right now? He wouldn’t blame you.

> Then I’d love to come.

His heart skipped a beat and that night, Bruce went to bed feeling a little lighter than he usually did.

Snow blanketed the long driveway leading up to Wayne Manor and for once, Bruce wasn’t thinking about the pressure of Batman or the chaos the boys would definitely stir up tonight. His attention was entirely focused on the one making your way towards him. He stood just outside the grand entrance, dressed in a dark, perfectly tailored suit that fit him like a glove. The soft crunch of tires on the white powder alerted him to your arrival, and as your car pulled up, Bruce started to feel the nervousness. He adjusted his tie with a single hand.

When you stepped out, his breath caught.

You were breathtakingly beautiful. Dressed in an inky black that hugged your figure in all the right places, the fabric shimmered under the outdoor lights of the mansion. The smile you gave him when your eyes met melted all the nerves that had been harboring in his system. He was finally calm and composed, for what seemed like the first time in the evening.

“You’re early,” Bruce pointed out softly when you walked up the stairs to meet him in front of the door, and his eyes sparkled with little stars at the sight of you. How did he get so lucky? “You look stunning, by the way.”

“I didn’t want to keep you waiting. And thank you. You clean up well, too, Bruce.”

Your gaze held a playful edge in it as you accepted his hand, locking your palm around his bulging biceps and squeezing warmly. The touch added the missing piece of the puzzle Bruce was trying to solve while his cheeks warmed a rosy pink under your influence without any hesitation. The gesture felt natural, like it always belonged there.

The two of you approached the doors of the manor in a shared silence, although it didn’t feel a bit awkward. You took a moment to take in the place. It was like something out of your childhood dreams — tall, arched windows glowing with the soft light of a dozen garlands lining the entryway. The faint hum of holiday music and the occasional sound of laughter echoed through the manor.

It was Bruce’s home.

“Do you always go this big for Christmas?” you voiced a question that's been sitting on your mind since the moment you saw the large Christmas tree from the entryway to Bruce’s living room. Decorated with lots of ornaments, it looked lovely, accompanied by a heap of presents.

“Alfred insists,” admitting with a soft chuckle, Bruce rubbed the nape of his neck as he led you deeper into his home. “And the boys like the holidays. I want them to have the best.”

The scent of pine and cinnamon enveloped your senses the further you moved. The sounds grew louder, too. You awe made him feel lighter somehow. The dining room at Wayne Manor was nothing short of spectacular this night, with the long mahogany table adorned with a dozen of flickering candles and plates of food that looked like it belonged in a holiday spread for a cookbook.

You were sitting beside Bruce (he kind of insisted anyway), your hand occasionally brushing against his. He helped you settle into the chair which earned a teasing glance from Dick. Speaking of his oldest son, he was sitting across from you with an easy grin that told you some questions would come your way sooner or later. Tim was at Dick’s right, while Damian occupied the chair from the other side of his father.

The evening was more than successful in your opinion. Steph asked you about your favorite literature, while Tim quizzed you on trivia about Gotham (which you surprisingly got all right). Damian, after much persistence from Dick, shared a story about his latest art project, though he kept glancing at you as if trying to gauge your reaction.

Through it all, Bruce remained by your side.

When the night finally came to an end, and everyone drifted to their own space of the manor, Bruce walked you to the entrance with a gentle hand against the small of your back.

“Thank you,” his gaze met yours as he handed you your coat, effortlessly helping you slip your arms into the sleeves. “For coming tonight. For putting up with them.”

You gifted him with the most precious kind of a present; your smile, smaller hands reaching up to adjust the collar of his dark suit. “Of course. They’re wonderful, Bruce. I enjoyed myself tonight.”

For a man who othen found himself at loss for words when it came to talking in emotions, Bruce found himself smiling softly with his heart feeling lighter than it had in years. Because for the first time, Christmas didn’t feel like an obligation. It felt like a new beginning.

[luv-lock]

Why shouldn't I be? It's just a tragic story.

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤLITTLE BROKEN BIRDㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Platonic Bruce Wayne x Fem Reader Part 1

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : You had a father. You know you have one. You don't know him. But that doesn't matter because your mother never let you forget it anyway. You're a child born from rejection. And everything hurts.

☆⁠ WARNINGS : Child abuse (physical, emotional), suicide, trauma, corpse horror, neglect, PTSD, mental illness, child grief, self-hatred, self-harm, child psychological horror, psychotic episodes, depression, dissociation.

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

“You have his eyes.”

That’s the first thing your mother ever told you. Or at least, that's what you remember.

She was a goddess once. A woman carved from glossy magazine pages and runway lights. Models tried to be her. Men tried to own her.

But none of it mattered.

Because the only man she ever wanted—never loved her back.

Bruce Wayne.

She told you about him sometimes.

Told you how his eyes were darker than pitch. How his smile was soft but never real. How he kissed her like she mattered and then left like she was dust.

Told you how he made her feel like she was something. And then made her nothing.

And you—you were the consequence.

You looked exactly like him.

It wasn’t just resemblance. It was uncanny.

His hair. His lashes. His fucking eyes.

Your mother couldn’t look at you without breaking.

The apartment was always cold.

The kind of cold that seeped into your bones. Rotten milk in the fridge. Cigarette smoke in the curtains. You’d press your palms to the radiator and tell yourself it was a hug.

You stopped counting wounds.

The first time you couldn’t walk, it was because your mother threw a glass ashtray at your legs. You were three.

The second time, she pushed you down the stairs.

You tumbled like a doll. Limbs bent backwards. Your arm cracked. Your teeth hit the floor. You lay still for hours, not moving. Not screaming. Not crying.

You didn’t want to make her mad.

She told you she loved you.

Always after.

After the belt. After the bat. After she dragged you by your hair and pressed your face to the oven because you spilled her wine.

She kissed your blistered cheek and whispered, “I’m sorry, baby. Mommy’s just tired.”

You smiled with bleeding gums. “It’s okay, Mommy. I love you.”

Your voice was always a whisper. You were always afraid of being too loud.

Because she broke your nose, for laughing too loud once.

You didn’t even cry until the second punch.

She told you your laugh sounded like him.

Your room was small, dark. She kept it that way. She didn’t want to see you.

You had no friends. You weren’t allowed to leave. You barely went to school.

The bruises had to fade first.

She didn't feed you unless she remembered. You used to eat the leftovers she left out for the cats that never came.

And yet you adored her.

You loved her.

Even when she bruised your ribs with a hairbrush.

Even when she pushed you down the stairs and you couldn’t walk for two weeks.

Even when she knocked your tooth out and told you not to smile again.

You tried so hard to make her happy. You’d pick dandelions from the sidewalk cracks and tuck them into her hair, even when she swatted you away. You draw her with stolen crayons—smiling versions of her, the way you wished she’d look at you. Crayon hearts. Painted macaroni necklaces. Birthday cards with shaky little “I love you”s. She’d rip them up, call you a freak. But sometimes—just sometimes—her eyes would go glassy after she hurt you. And for a moment, you thought she felt guilty.

Once you cut your long hair yourself, thinking she’d like it short—because she had short hair now—and she screamed at you until you vomited.

But you still crawled into her bed every night.

You still kissed her cheek when she cried.

You still whispered, “It’s okay, Mommy. I love you…”

You didn’t know love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You scavenged alleys like a little rat.

You were six and barefoot, digging through trash cans near the broken fence behind the apartment.

Looking for coins. Or maybe a dollar. Maybe someone left behind a flower in the dumpster again.

Anything to make her smile.

One time you found a pack of candy cigarettes. You wiped off the dirt and gave them to her in a box wrapped in your old sock.

She took one look at them and slapped you so hard you peed yourself.

You apologized. You cried.

But you still left her a drawing under her pillow. It said:

— “To Mommy. You are my sun. I’m sorry for being bad. Please smile.”

And then one day, she smiled.

It was your birthday. You were turning eight.

She’d been quiet that week. No hitting. No yelling. Just staring out the window. Smoking.

You were scared to breathe.

But that morning, she woke you up with soft hands. She brushed your hair. She put your favorite cartoon on the old static TV.

And then—she brought you into the kitchen.

There was a cake on the counter.

Burnt on the edges. Icing dripping off one side. But it had eight candles.

You gasped so hard you started hiccupping.

She laughed. A real laugh. The first one you’d ever heard.

You hugged her around the waist with your skinny little arms. “You made it for me…?”

“Of course I did, baby,” she whispered. “You’re my whole world.”

You cried so hard you couldn’t blow out the candles.

You gave her the flower that day.

It was crushed. Wilted. Found outside a gas station after a week of saving coins in a tin box under your bed.

You'd kissed every penny like a prayer.

You tied it with a shoelace. You wrote a card.

— “To Mommy. Thank you for being born. I love you even when you’re sad :)”

She read it in silence. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. She just stared.

And then she held you in her lap. You were still so small.

She cradled you like a baby. She touched your face.

You remember this part because you wrote it down in your head, word for word.

“You have his eyes.

I wish I’d killed you when you were born.”

And then she put you down.

And got the gun.

You thought she was going to shoot you.

You stood still. Like a rabbit before the hawk.

Instead—she turned it on herself.

And she smiled again.

“Goodbye, baby.”

The sound was fireworks. The smell was meat.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t run.

You knelt beside her. You touched her hair. You kissed her temple and whispered,

“Wake up, Mommy. You forgot to eat the cake.”

You curled up in her lap. Her blood soaked through your dress.

You didn’t notice.

The corpse began to change.

By day two, her stomach swelled. Her face twisted. Her skin turned purple-black.

You were a kid. You didn’t know how to be alone. So you stayed near her.

You stroked her bloated fingers and whispered stories. You sang her lullabies you made up on the spot.

You told her you were being good. You told her you found another penny.

You curled up on her chest, even when the skin turned ugly.

You kissed her bloating face and told her she was pretty.

You told her she could be alive again if she wanted.

Because you loved her that much.

You chewed your nails down to the bone.

You smeared her lipstick on your mouth and pretended to be her.

You cooked invisible food in the corner and served it to her bloated hand.

You pressed your ear to her chest and said you heard her heartbeat.

You told her it was okay.

She could be dead for now. But you’d wait.

You’d wait forever if she needed.

The body rotted.

Her stomach burst open first. It made a noise like balloons popping.

You didn’t scream. You just sat on the edge of the bed and cried until your tears ran dry.

You tried to clean the blood. You used your favorite dress as a rag.

You laid it over her like a blanket.

She was gone for five days.

When Aunt Lila came, she almost vomited from the stench.

She found you sitting cross-legged, holding your mother’s hand, humming a lullaby to a corpse.

When they dragged you out, you were screaming.

Your eyes were wide. Your hands were black with rot.

You tried to bite the EMT that took you.

“I made her cake,” you sobbed. “She can’t leave if she didn’t eat the cake—!”

You were silent after that.

They called Bruce. Aunt Lila told them about him.

You never spoke a word in front of him.

But you watched him.

His eyes. His mouth. His hands. His smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

You memorized his breathing. You stared into his eyes for hours.

You wanted to see what your mother saw.

You wanted to understand what she died for.

Why she hated you.

“He looked at me the way you do. You little freak.”

When Bruce tried to speak to you, you turned away.

When he tried to hold your hand, you pulled back.

You didn't want his money. You didn’t want his name.

You wanted your mother alive.

Even if she hated you.

Then he took you home.

Wayne Manor was too clean. Too quiet. You felt like a ghost in a glass box.

Alfred was gentle. He never raised his voice. But you still flinched.

Bruce kept trying. Too late. Too distant.

He bought you dolls. Expensive ones. Their glass eyes looked like yours.

You smashed them against the walls when no one was watching.

You don’t know how to sleep anymore.

Not in this house. Not in this cold, quiet place where the lights are too soft and the blankets don’t smell like ash and blood and broken wine bottles.

Here, they wash your clothes. They clean your face. They comb your hair.

But no one screams.

You rip your hair out at night.

Big chunks. Bloody clumps. The strands are soft and dark just like his.

You stare at them in your hands and cry because you can’t stop.

You whisper, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” as you dig your fingernails into your scalp, over and over and over again. You pull until your skin comes off with it.

You don’t even know what you’re sorry for. But it’s safer to say it.

In case someone gets mad.

You don’t like mirrors.

Because your eyes are his eyes.

Your mother said so.

She used to scream it.

“You look just like him—just like him—get out of my sight—get out—!”

You hit yourself in the face. As hard as you can. Until your cheek swells or your eye goes red.

You don’t want to look like him.

You don’t want to be bad.

You eat too much. Then nothing at all.

At first, you ate everything.

Because Bruce had food. Warm food. Real food. Not expired peanut butter or ketchup packets.

You ate too fast and threw up. You apologized. You cried. You told Alfred you didn’t mean to waste it. You’d eat it again if they let you.

Then you stopped eating completely.

Because maybe you were stealing. Maybe you were greedy. Maybe she’d come back and she’d see you at the table and hit you with the plate.

So you stopped.

You chewed your fingers instead. You bit your nails until you bleed.

You scream at night.

Blood-curdling. Violent. Until your throat goes raw.

You scream for your mother.

You scream for the dead body.

You scream because she never came back.

You scream because no one hits you anymore, and that means no one cares.

Bruce comes to your room once.

Just once.

He kneels by the bed, but you press yourself to the wall and sob until you vomit. You bang your head against the headboard. You claw at your skin.

He doesn’t touch you.

He just says your name.

But it’s his voice.

His voice, coming from her face.

You shriek until you pass out.

You ask for a knife.

Alfred is bringing you milk. It’s warm. He’s so kind it makes your teeth ache.

You smile at him. Your face is swollen from a panic attack. You still have dried tears on your lashes. You ask:

“Can I have a knife, Mr. Pennyworth?”

He pauses. Blinks. “What for, my dear?”

“I want to cut off my hair. And my face.”

Bruce tried. But he was failing.

He wasn’t a father.

He didn’t know what to do with a little girl who flinched when someone coughed too loud.

Who didn’t understand what toys were.

Who curled up in the fireplace to sleep because it reminded her of the oven.

He thought about hugging you once.

You bit his wrist.

He said your name. You didn’t react.

But when he said her name—your mother’s—you looked up so fast your nose bled.

“Where?” you whispered. “Where is she? Did you find her? Did she eat the cake?”

So Bruce puts you in therapy.

You don’t talk.

You stare at the floor. You whisper apologies into your lap. You ask if you’re allowed to cry. If you’re allowed to talk.

The therapist is a woman. She looks a little like your mom.

So you love her.

You follow her around the office. You sit close. You smell her perfume and imagine your mom again, but soft this time. Nice.

You called her Mommy once.

And then you start hitting yourself in the face so hard she has to restrain you.

You don't know how to play.

When other kids come to visit the Manor—some politician’s brats, a cousin of Lucius Fox—you just stand there.

Stiff. Silent. Watching.

One time, a girl offers you a doll.

You take it. You snap its neck.

You hold it close after and whisper to it all day.

You draw your mother over and over.

You draw her face, melting. Her smile. Her blood.

You draw her hugging you. You draw her laughing.

You draw Bruce dead. You draw yourself in the coffin with your mom.

You draw a wedding between the three of you.

You say it’s pretend.

You say it’s just a game.

You talk to her.

She sits in the corner. She watches you at night.

Sometimes, you hear her crying. Sometimes, she sings.

Sometimes, she tells you you’re bad and you believe her.

You scream at her, “I’m not like him!”

You bite your hand until you can’t scream anymore.

You don’t like his touch.

You ask Alfred to squeeze you tighter when he hug you. You ask the therapist to hold you when you cry and dig your fingernails into her arms.

When Bruce touches your shoulder, you flinch so hard you fall over.

You say, “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

Then you cry.

You are eight. You are rotting.

You don’t understand love. But you understand pain.

You don’t understand death. But you understand gone.

You don’t know how to be a daughter.

You only know how to apologize.

You hold your breath sometimes. Just to see if you die.

You count. One. Two. Three. Four…

You always let go by thirty.

You always feel guilty for breathing after.

And then—someday—he takes you to the circus.

He wanted to “cheer you up.”

You didn’t want to go. But you went.

And then—there he was.

A boy who flies.

A boy on the trapeze, flying like he had no weight. Like he didn’t belong to the ground.

You sat up. Watched him like he was the first real thing you’d ever seen.

You clapped with bloody nails. Whispering “He looks like a star…”

You wanted to fly too.

And you felt something inside your chest you didn't recognize.

He was beautiful.

You smile. Real smile. Just for a second.

And then he fell.

Not from the trapeze. But from life.

His parents died. In front of him.

You knew that kind of silence. You knew that feeling.

When Bruce brought him home, you watched from the stairs. He was smaller than you expected. He cried in his sleep.

He asked for his mom.

And for the first time in your life—you weren’t alone in grief.

You slept by his door that night. You didn’t know why.

And then it became routine. He found you every night. Crawled into your bed. Clung to you like a life raft.

You didn’t push him away.

Because he didn’t look like your father.

You gave him the flower.

Not a new one. The old one. Dried. Dead. Crushed flat between your mother’s last book pages.

You gave it to Dick and said, “It’s magic. It keeps monsters away.”

He cried.

You hugged him.

That night, you curled beside him in bed. You watched the moon rise.

And for the first time in your life, you whispered to someone else:

“It’s okay. I love you.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

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

[streetlamp-amber]

never ending night

bruce wayne x femwife!reader

word count: 1.7k | divider by @saradika | requests are open!

CW: pregnancy, pure fluff NOTES: hello hi i’m ailís and i’ve been meaning to start a blog where i can post some one shots that i’ve been thinking of as a way to motivate myself to finally write down my ideas so this is it. i’ll be double posting my stuff on ao3 (which you can find in my bio) and will eventually make a masterlist as well as a navigation post with a list of fandoms/characters i write for. also, english isn’t my first language.

It was close to three in the morning when Bruce finally joined you in bed after a long night of patrolling and fighting bottom of the barrel criminals all night. He showered in the bathroom on the first floor of the manor to avoid making too much noise and waking you up, but when he finally walked in your shared bedroom, you were already awake, sitting up against the headboard.

“Darling, what are you doing still up?” Bruce asked you as he reached his side of the bed.

The room was dark par for the moonlight filtering through the gap between the curtains, meaning your husband had yet to notice the state you were in.

“Dick had a nightmare,” you answered, voice barely above a whisper due to how tired you were. “It took me two hours to get him to fall back asleep and when I finally came back here, this little one started kickboxing me and keeping me awake for another hour,” you continued rubbing your round belly in hopes of soothing your baby to finally catch some sleep.

“I’m sorry I wasn't here to help,” Bruce apologised, planting a kiss on your temple as he held you close to his body.

“It’s alright, Gotham needs you,” you dismissed, not at all angry.

“Still, you’re six months pregnant. You’re growing our child inside your body, you need all the rest you can get,” he softly argued. “I would've come home earlier but all the amateur criminals came out tonight.”

“Bruce, it’s fine,” you brought your hand up to his cheek and he leaned his head into your touch. “You’ve already been cutting your patrols shorter since we found out about the baby. As long as you keep coming back home to us, alive, then I’m not mad.”

Not knowing what to say – his gratefulness for having someone so accepting of his duty as Batman was almost overwhelming, even after all those years – Bruce kissed your palm while staring at you with the same look full of love that he has been sporting since the first time he met you six years ago.

“How’d I get so lucky to fall in love with the most understanding and selfless person I know?” He asked while grabbing your hand on his cheek, wrapping his fingers around yours and squeezing them gently.

“Now that’s a lie,” you rebutted, a loving smile on your lips, lowering your joined hands on the bed. “You’re more selfless than I am. You’re the most selfless man in the world.”

“Let’s not start this never ending argument again,” Bruce chuckled, now his turn to hold your face as he brought you in for a kiss.

You happily sighed against his lips, the feeling of home that overtook you every time you tasted them was a nice welcome in this interminable night. But the kiss was cut short as you felt your baby kick again and you let your head fall back as you groaned.

“She’s still kicking?” Bruce asked you, he couldn't see the movements under your skin due to the darkness of the room and your hand on your belly.

“We don't know it's a she,” you reminded him instead of answering. You had both decided to wait until the birth to know the gender.

“And I’m telling you, I know it's a girl,” your husband repeated for what could be the hundredth time.

You also secretly hoped it was a girl, but Dick really wanted a little brother. Bruce and you were still in the process of warming him up to the idea of a little sister and it was slowly starting to work.

“As long as she doesn't come in my room,” your eight year old son had said last week, with his arms crossed over his chest and a pout on his lips.

“I doubt she’ll be doing that for the first few years, chum,” Bruce reassured him, fighting off a slightly amused grin.

“And the baby will have its own room with its own toys,” you added.

“Will I still be able to play with the baby?” Dick asked after a moment, uncrossing his arms and a hopeful look filling up his blue eyes.

“Of course you will, bubs,” you said, your fingers threading through his black hair that fell over his forehead.

“But only with her toys at first, some of yours are not suited for a baby,” Bruce pointed out, ever the overprotective father.

Bruce had lowered himself down under the blanket so he could be laying head levelled with your belly, his hand now replacing yours over the bump.

“Hey trouble,” he whispered to your child and the baby kicked again, making him smile lovingly at the movement he felt under his hand. “You shouldn't be awake this late at night, you know.”

“You're one to talk,” you commented, tone almost reprimanding.

“She doesn't know that,” Bruce looked up at you as he defended himself before his gaze fell back on your belly. “Mommy is really tired,” he continued talking to your baby, his hand now rubbing soothingly over your round stomach, “and she needs her rest to do all the work so you can come out all healthy and beautiful. Well, you're definitely gonna be the most beautiful baby if you end up looking like your mother, but that's not the point.”

You smiled at the cheesy comment and your fingers found their place in Bruce’s hair, brushing through it and nails occasionally scratching his scalp.

“Your brother Dick can't wait for you to come around,” he carried on. “Said he will teach you all sorts of acrobatic tricks once you know how to walk. And he asked Alfred if he could help paint the nursery when we finally decide on a colour.”

“And I keep telling you we should do soft green,” you argued.

“I’m not changing my mind from primrose pink,” he told you with a sly grin.

“The room won’t be pink, even if it’s a girl. And that’s final,” you firmly said. Your husband will not be winning this one argument, no sir.

Bruce sighed, rolling his eyes before focusing back on your belly. “I hope you’re not as stubborn as your mother,” he whispered to the baby, as if he was having a private conversation with them and that you weren’t there. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s one of the many reasons why I fell in love with her, but I won’t be able to say no to you even when I have to, so it would save me a lot of reprimanding from Mommy if you’re not as tenacious as her.”

You smiled to yourself as you continued listening to your husband talk to your unborn child as you threaded your fingers through his hair, enjoying the softness it had after a shower. Bruce usually gelled his hair to appear more professional when he was working in the day, and then it would get all mixed up with his sweat under his cowl when he was working as Batman. When he would come back to you after the day was over, you would refuse to touch his hair until he had showered, the texture of the gel and sweat too gross on your fingers for you to ignore.

As Bruce continued talking to your baby, his voice started lulling the two of you to sleep. The baby hadn’t kicked in over almost ten minutes now, and the peace you had waited for so long to arrive made you aware of how heavy your eyelids were. You slowly lowered yourself down the bed, getting in a comfortable position with Bruce’s help where you could finally lay your head on your pillow and it didn’t take long for sleep to catch up on you.

At the sound of your soft, barely audible snores, Bruce turned his head away from your bump to find you asleep with your free hand raised next to your head on your pillow, the other one still tangled in his hair.

He planted a soft kiss on the exposed skin of your belly, eyes closed as he took a moment to absorb the fact that a baby that was half you and half him would be joining your world in a little more than three months. Bruce wasn't known to cry, the only time you ever saw him cry was as you walked down the aisle at your wedding, but tonight, a lonesome tear rolled down his cheek and fell on your stomach, where your child was growing, because Bruce never believed he would ever get to experience again the amount of love he hadn't felt since he was eight years old.

As he observed you, sleeping soundly with his child coming to life inside you, after you comforted Dick back to sleep, Bruce, for a moment, felt overwhelmed by all the love in his life. When he became Batman, he crossed out the idea of ever having a family (other than Alfred), of settling down with someone he loved and who loved him back.

But somehow, the universe put you on his path, as a miracle or a guardian angel or simply as an anchor to life outside of Batman, he didn't know. You walked into his home, into his life, to remind him that he, Bruce Wayne, was also deserving of love, of family, of happiness. Then Dick came along, rather unexpectedly but still no less welcomed, and Bruce started entertaining the idea of having children with you. He definitely wasn't opposed to it, but it wasn't something he wanted to jump right into, especially with Dick having just entered your lives. You were both young, he in his early thirties and you in your late twenties, you could allow yourselves a couple of years just the three of you (four with Alfred) before expanding the family.

So it was rather shocking when two months after you and Bruce had officially adopted Dick that you found out you were pregnant. It both took you by surprise but after talking through it together, you couldn't be happier. And the two of you haven't stopped being happy about this new little addition ever since.

Bruce rose up from his position next to your belly, your limp hand fell from his head as he did so, and he laid on the bed next to you. He delicately kissed your forehead, then your nose before falling back on his pillow and whispered “I love you” as he curled around your body, his hand resting on your belly as he fell asleep.

[cinnamongrl2006]

Omg Bruce Wayne after he comes home from patrol/business trip… and they missed each other… leading to…. 🫣🫣🤭

˖ ࣪ ⊹ Older bf Bale!Bruce x Bambi!reader ⊹ ࣪ ˖ mdni 18+

Warnings: female reader, age gap, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), vaginal sex, somno (whoops?? dubcon??).

a/n: Took literal ages to finish this, I'm soo sorryyyy!! But I lovedd writing it!

When Bruce got home in the early hours of the morning— before the sun came up and the birds sang, when the fog was still low on the ground and the rain pattered against car windows— he had only one thing in mind, his pretty little girl, waiting in his bed for him wearing that old Princeton crewneck he'd given you.

You had laughed when he said he'd once wanted to be a doctor, like his father. You'd asked him what happened and he'd mumbled something about uni "not being his thing". So, you wore that crewneck to bed every night, it no longer smelled like Bruce but you felt as if a part of his heart was with you while he was on patrol.

Bruce went straight to the cave, finishing up reports in front of the computer light, eyes bloodshot and tired, mind hazy. He typed almost automatically, his thoughts all revolved around you, your eyes, your smile, your hair; the soft rhythmic beating of your heart, your slow breathing as you slept. He finished up the reports and sauntered over to the shower, pulling off his cowl and taking off his suit before getting under the spray. His mind drifted to you again, his sweet girl, with plush lips that wrapped around his cock so perfectly; soft, milky thighs he could spend hours between, the soft whines coming out of your lips when his thick fingers fucked into you, harshly— Fuck. He leaned his head back in the shower, the water cascading over the hard planes of his abs.

He needed you, needed your wet cunt wrapped tightly around him, needed your hands on his shoulders, your soft moans on his ear. He needed to bury his head on your hair and smell the sweet shampoo you'd made him buy, feel your hair tickle him as he rammed into you harder.

Without even thinking about it twice he left the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist— he couldn't be bothered with clothes, not even with a robe, his mind was reeling, warmth spreading lower down his abdomen.

When he saw you, lying on his bed— duvet covers wrapped messily around your waist, one leg up over the bedcovers, thighs spread beautifully for him, as if you'd wanted him to see— he had to do a double take. In the darkness of the room he could make out the outline of your bare cunt, dripping with arousal, your inner thighs wet and sticky.

He felt his cock throb under the towel as he strode over to you. You looked so inviting, and he couldn’t resist the urge to reach out and touch you. Kneeling beside the bed, he let the towel fall away, the cool air brushing against his skin as he leaned closer.

His hands found your thighs, fingers gliding through the slickness that had gathered in between them. He reveled in the way your body instinctively responded, a soft sigh escaping your lips in your sleep.

"Shhh, just relax, sweetheart." He whispered, more to himself than to you.

He spread your thighs wider, exposing your glistening cunt to him. His fingers moved expertly through your wetness, teasing you as he leaned in, his mouth brushing against you.

His tongue flicked out to taste you and he groaned at the feeling. Fuck, He had missed you so much. Your warm cunt, sucking his tongue and fingers in so prettily.

You stirred, your body arching with need as he focused on your sensitive clit, swirling his tongue around it. You still weren't awake, not as you chased your release grinding on his face, soft, breathy moans escaping your lips.

With every flick of his tongue and every gentle suck, he pushed you closer to the edge, intent on making you cum before you awoke. He could feel the urgency in your movements, your body responding instinctively to his every touch.

As he increased the pressure, he felt your thighs tighten around his head, your moans growing louder and more desperate—you were awake, gripping onto his dark strands, pulling and pushing him wherever you needed, and he obliged.

Your hips moved in rhythm with his mouth, and when he slipped a finger inside you, curling it just right, it sent you over the edge. You gasped, your body trembling as waves of ecstasy washed over you, the release washing through you came to your senses. Bruce fucked his fingers into you, helping you ride out your orgasm.

"Bruce...need you." You rasped out, voice hoarse with sleep, as you pulled him up to lay on top of you.

"Can't say no to my pretty girl," He brushed your sweat damp bangs out of your face and kissed your lips before he positioned himself at your entrance, his cock throbbing with need. With a firm thrust, he filled you completely, the feeling sending a rush of pleasure through both of you. You moaned at the sensation, legs wrapping around his waist and hands clawing at his back.

"God you're so tight." He groaned, breath warm against your ear as he moved to kiss your temple. His rhythm became quicker, his thrusts harsher and more erratic. You could hear him groaning in pleasure as you arched your back against him, letting him het that much deeper.

Your grip on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, combined with your breathy moans in his ear—little “ah, ah, ah’s" in rhythm with his thrusts—were driving him closer to the edge quicker than he’d like to admit.

You reached your second orgasm with a particularly deep thrust, his fingers expertly working your throbbing clit. With a loud moan, you threw your head back, falling limp against the bed.

He continued to thrust into your sensitive cunt, grinding against your hips, the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix as he finally came inside you.

You felt it drip down your ass and onto the bed when he pulled out and got up to grab a wet rag.

“Bedsheets...” you called out as he walked over to the en-suite bathroom.

“We’ll deal with them in the morning,” he mumbled, returning with a warm, wet towel to clean your sensitive thighs and cunt.

He carefully wiped you down, his touch gentle as he made sure to be as soft as possible on your sensitive skin. 

“You okay?” he asked, glancing up at you with a warm smile.

“Yeah, sleepy." You replied, "But nice, relaxed."

He tossed the towel aside and crawled back into bed beside you, pulling you close. “Good. You deserve it, did so good for me.” he murmured, wrapping his arms around you.

"I tried to wait up for you, I just...was too tired." You mumbled sleepily against his chest.

"You don't have to wait up for me, sweetheart," He toyed with the hem of your sweater.

"I like to."

Truth was, you worried, and you liked knowing he'd come home to you, knowing how he'd looked and felt when he settled against you. Bruce knew that, you could only hide so much from the world's greatest detective. But he didn't say anything, he just tightened his hold on you, planting a soft kiss on your forehead as a silent thank you.

The sun began to rise outside your window, the fog dissipating and birds chirping as you drifted off to sleep in your boyfriend's strong arms. You weren't certain about many things—his whereabouts or his safety—but you knew one thing: to him, you came before anything else, and that knowledge helped you sleep at night.

────୨ৎ────

[eternallyhauntingthehouseoflove]

Bruce Wayne fucked his partners through the mattress—and it depended on who and why. If you know he’s Batman, then he’d fuck for stress relief, to uncoil the sickening knot in his belly. However, if you’re unaware of his nighttime activities and believe you’d just lucked up meeting Bruce Wayne, then he’d fuck for ego. He’s got a point to prove: all those years as a recluse hadn’t dulled his ability to grant a lady a good time; that the stories of his youthful adventures are true. (Though his ego bleeds over into Batman as well since he wonders if he’s too old to still be the Dark Knight. If he’s lost his edge).

Bruce’s stamina is insane. He’d have you spread on your belly while he drove his cock into you. One hand enclosed around your throat, the other encircling your waist, and his lips grazing over your ear. Warm gusts of air caressing your cheek with each huff and grunt. The faint scent of his cologne lingering within the atmosphere, though it had been toppled by the aroma of sweat and sex. “Fuck,” he gritted out,” so tight f’me, doll. Only for me. Mine, aren’t you?” There was pride in being the one to undo Bruce Wayne, to make him cuss and grunt like a caveman, to draw out his Gotham accent. He was usually so put-together and driven.

Time warped and melted whenever Bruce had you beneath him. Despite his age, (don’t let him hear that) he could fuck for hours, content to drive his cum back into your hole until he came again. In fact, he enjoyed the slickness. There was something about keeping you beneath him that soothed the territorial monster caged within him like Mr. Hyde. Rarely could you lure the possessive, emerald eyed, envious beast out; Bruce was old and had dealt with his fair share of women seeking an emotional response. But with the perfect concoction of circumstances could you shatter the manacles binding the dominating, jealous, spiteful side of him—and it was wonderful.

Dick Grayson (Dixon’s version) preferred to let his lover work for it. There was a tantalizing element to gazing at his partner while she straddled him, and attempted to sink down into his cock. Dick wasn’t girth-y like Jason or Bruce (nor as unshaven). No, Dick was slim and long—and pretty. Dick was shaven and trimmed, smooth and hairless if he could help it. He never liked to offer up unshaven goods; he thought it was rude.

“God, you. . . you ride like a pro,” he breathed out, nigh gasping as though he’d run a race beside Usain Bolt. A sheen of sweated coated his toned physique, and a scarlet blush left a fiery trail from his cheeks down to his neck. “Don’t stop till I say.” Dick is more selfish in bed than Jason. Unlike Jason, Dick knows he’s cute—pretty, even. He’s confident both in himself and his ability to be selfish and still make you cum. . . hard. He won’t hesitate to assume control if he’s not liking your rhythm, or if he just wants to be a little shit and knock your orgasm off kilter. “Oh, were you going to cum? Sorry. Didn’t notice.”

Speaking of orgasms, Dick cums beautifully, even when he’d rather be described as ‘’manly’’ and handsome. He couldn’t restrain the tremble of his muscular thighs, or quell the furnace roaring inside his belly, or freeze the stars bursting behind the paleness of his eyelids. “I know, pretty baby. I know. Tight, aren’t I? Let it out for me,” you cooed, caressing his sweat-slick, inky black curls. Dick nodded quick and desperately, coal black lashes falling over his oceanic eyes. “Yes. Yes. That’s it. Gonna cum again. Just keep going.” The power he’d stolen returned with a vengeance. He’d gone limp beneath you. Fucked out, his breaths tremulous and stuttered. Naturally, Dick’s palms found purchase upon your breasts, pinching and flicking your nipples before he exerted the last of his strength to lean forward and suckle one into his mouth.

(There’s hints of a mommy kink if you squint hard enough).

Jason Todd loved to see his partner deep-throat his cock. It’s a personal pleasure of his, the one time he allows himself to be selfish during sex. He’s not sure why it’s fascinating to him. Perhaps the sheer primality of watching you struggle to swallow his thickness intrigues him, excites him, causes the hairs on his forearms to stand at attention and the nerves within his body to buzz like a million bees trapped beneath his skin.“That’s right, baby, keep going. Till I see tears,” he murmured, as his large hands slithered up into your nape and tightened in your hair.” Show me how much you love me, baby.”

“What a beauty.” Jason’s chocolate smeared irises tipped backward, his slender hips bucking upward into the warm cavern of your throat, his cock spewing viscous ropes of pearlescent cum. Jason’s frame fell slack against the sofa. Sated. Only you could loosen the tautness in his shoulders like a ball of yarn. Boy, did he adore you.” I hope you can go all night. Cuz I got some steam I been needin’ t’ blow off.”

[mostly-imagines]

Sugar on the Rim vol. II

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

part one

warnings: heavily implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), smut, oral fem!receiving, nervous but enthusiastically consenting reader

You’d tried to calm your nerves but they couldn’t be helped.

You’re anxious about everything, all of it. What he wants you to do, what he’s expecting you do, whether it’ll hurt, whether you’re ready.

You think you trust Bruce, but you also know that these things are different for men and women. You don’t necessarily expect that he’ll have a mind for what you’ll need, but honestly, neither do you. You don’t know what to do to make this easier for yourself—you don’t know what to do at all. 

You bought the lingerie, you’ve got it on under your clothes and it feels like a costume. You can’t tell if that aids or worsens the anxiety. 

You’re fidgeting with the hem of your skirt and you wish you could quit it, you’re radiating enough nervous energy as it is, you don’t need to be sending him visual cues on top of it. 

Bruce holds your free hand in his as he guides you through the manor, you think it’s a different section than you’ve seen before. His hand engulfs yours unfairly as he leads, but the touch of his skin is so warm and inviting that you can’t tell if your hand is still shaking under it. If it is, he pretends not to notice.

He guides you up the stairs and into a corridor and then another before you arrive at a set of double doors. You’ve never seen double doors on the inside of a house before.

He lets you in ahead of him, and you have a distinct thought that you’re glad he can’t see the look of awe on your face as you walk in. His bedroom has an entire living room inside of it, and altogether it’s bigger than your whole apartment. A maroon couch and matching chairs surround a grand fireplace at the front of the room and the resulting glow from the active embers has the area shrouded in a warm light ahead of the shadows filling the rest.

You glance past the seating at his bed; large and proud. It’s definitely bigger than a king sized, with an overhead canopy and streams of dark burgundy curtains draping down from the corners. There’s another set of closed double doors past the bed, you imagine leading to the bathroom.

The end of the room displays a large window seat that looks like it’s never been used, and vast tinted windows. You look up to find the ceiling higher than you’ve ever seen in a bedroom with a very expensive chandelier hanging over it all.

He takes your arm, steering you out of your wonderment and leads you towards the couch rather than the bed, gesturing for you to sit down with him. You do, quietly glad when he positions himself so that you’re close to each other but not pressed right up against you. He’s able to relax his body more than you’re able to fake it on yourself, and you think your thoughts must be vibrating out of you by now.    

One hand comes to rest on your thigh as his other nudges your cheek towards him. “Hey, nothing’s happening right now. No need to be nervous.”

You nod blankly, but your thoughts are running wild with everything that you very much are nervous about.

He takes your hand in his, rubbing circles with his thumb. 

“You’ve got to relax,” he coos, “Remember what I said?”

You take a breath, “You’re not going to throw me in the deep end.”

“Exactly,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Just wanna make you feel good, right?”

You nod, easing your posture.

He looks you in the eye, “You gonna let me?”

You hum, nodding again.

“Good girl,” he purrs, pulling away.

You quickly find that the distance is not at all what you want, and you decide to push forward—as forward as you can—sitting up again to peel your jacket off. He watches you move with a look in his eyes, you take it for intrigue but it may just as well be something akin to pride. Pride in you? He’s openly flirted, kissed you, and straight up propositioned you for sex—but sure, he’s proud of you for taking your jacket off.

Your nerves transition into insecurity before you can catch them, and you’re starting to feel a little stupid, like a child playing pretend.

You watch tentatively as he tilts his head at you, running his own assessments of your actions. 

“Will you come sit on my lap?” he asks you after a moment. 

You suddenly become acutely aware of the amount of air in your lungs. This feels like a big request and you’re not even sure how to take his meaning. Does he want you to sit sideways? Your back to his front? Or fully straddle him? 

He wants whatever you want, he’d said. What do you want?

You glance down at his thighs, covered by fabric more expensive than you can imagine. Positive confirmation rings through your head immediately, willing you to push yourself forward a little more. 

You reposition yourself over him, straddling his lap in spite of your nerves.

Again, he looks pleased. Happy even. One of his hands comes to stroke soothing patterns across your lower back, the other resting on your waist. 

He makes sure to catch your gaze, “You’ll tell me if you want to stop.” 

He follows when your eyes stray, “Yes?”

“Yes.”

He places a tender kiss on your cheekbone, “How did shopping go?”

“Um, good. It was good. One of the sales girls helped me,” your breath is shaky as he kisses your jawline.

“Yeah? Tell me about it.”

“I, uh, I just went to this little boutique up on third street,” he places another kiss on the column of your throat as you talk. “Um, it took longer than I thought it would. There were so many choices.”

His hands come up to soothe over your ribs, pulling you a little closer as they do. He hums for you to keep talking, his kisses continuing to lower until they’re down to your collarbone, though they remain relatively chaste.

“I—I didn’t really know what to look for,” you admit, breath shaky as you exhale. 

“But you like it?”

“Yeah, I—I do.”

He hums, smiling against your skin. His fingers inch under the seam of your shirt, caressing your waist. “Can I take this off?”

You nod timidly, trying not to seem so on edge with anticipation. You’re not confident that he can’t see right through you.  

He presses another chaste kiss to your neck upon receival of the permission, and your shirt begins to come off slowly, his hands skimming every new bit of skin revealed. As he pulls it over your head, he glances down at the baby pink bralette you’d picked out for yourself.

He groans quietly as he takes in the sight, “Oh, pretty girl. Beautiful girl,” He noses at your chest, leaving little kisses where his lips make contact with your skin, “Look at you. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your stomach flutters as his hair tickles your cheek. His hands roam up your sides, stopping to stroke placid circles along the sides of your breasts.

His touch makes its way around your back, expertly undoing your bra clasp without a second thought. Your bra hangs forward a bit off your shoulders, but he leaves the work of entirely removing it to you. And you do, with more confidence than you’d imagined yourself mustering.

He immediately shows his appreciation, kissing and caressing your chest with lover-like admiration. Your head falls back involuntarily as he noses at your soft skin.

He’s breathing heavy when he pulls back, humming low and deep before lifting you up off his lap to stand. The sudden shift has you a bit thrown off, working to catch up as he kneels down in front of you and repeats his earlier process with your skirt—kissing your thighs and tugging the fabric down bit by bit.

When it’s discarded on the floor you stand only left in your underwear, the lace practically illuminated against your skin.

He looks up at you from his place on the floor and smiles as he takes in the sight of your body. His hands find your hips as he asks you, “Has anyone ever seen you like this before?”

You hesitate for half a second before answering truthfully.

His smile grows, “No, you’re a good girl, aren’t you?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s nodding, “Yeah, I know.”

As he rises to stand he scoops you up by the back of your thighs and lifts you in the air with no discernable effort. Now at face level with him, you get a bit bolder and lean in to kiss him. He kisses you back, pleased, beginning to walk the two of you over towards the bed.

He sets you down gently atop the soft mattress, kisses pushing you backwards to lie back on the bed. He scoops your wrists up and leisurely moves your arms up above your head. His grip is benign as he releases one hand in favor of holding your jaw. Your kiss is deep and controlled on his part, but in a way that makes you feel light in the head. You like the cloudy-sensation very much.

After a while, he pulls back to look at you with clouded eyes. 

He practically purrs, “You’re such a kind girl. So sweet to everyone, all the time. Will you let me be sweet to you?”

Your breath is shaky as you nod, attempts at hiding your anticipation failing.

He nods back at you with a faux-sympathy across his face. “Let me hear you say it.”

You force air into your lungs, giving you the willpower to speak the words. “Will you touch me? Please?”

The corners of his lips turn up, “Of course, sweet girl.”

He nips at your jaw as his hands travel down, petting the inside of your thighs with a touch so feather light it almost tickles.

Your knee jerks inward towards his hand, your body desperately seeking out more of this new sensation. He obliges, tracing his touch back up, up, up until his hand dips under the lace trim of your panties, skimming over your clit. Your hips flinch back away from him momentarily in surprise, only to press back forward a second later.

He actually laughs at the action, like it’s endearing. You feel a little silly for it, but you’re not given much time to dwell as he persists, brushing against you with a bit more pressure.

He tilts his head, watching your expression carefully with a remarkably pleased look on his own face. “How’s that, sweet girl?”

You nod, beside yourself. “Feels good,” you whimper. “Feels really good..”

You don’t necessarily mean to, but your hips grind up against his touch, your body too mesmerized with the sensation to remember to be embarrassed.

He’s certainly not complaining about it though, his quiet coos encouraging you to chase the feeling. 

He lets you grind up against his hand, taking in the needy look on your face with contentment.

“Poor girl,” he tuts. “Just need somebody to take care of you, huh?”

That makes your cheeks burn, but your attention finds itself more concerned with the urge to squeeze your thighs together.

You whine when he pulls his hand back out of your underwear, only for him to stand resolute in his actions. 

“Not yet, sweet thing,” he hums, pressing you back down to the bed with a light but firm touch when you try to sit up. 

He hushes you gently, murmuring for you to be patient as he shifts his position over you. 

He starts to move down your body, leaving kisses in his wake. The sensation of his lips tracing down your stomach has you feeling butterflies.

By the time he reaches your waistline you’re borderline dizzy from the anticipation, squeezing your legs together in an attempt to alleviate the ache.

He pauses there for a moment, torturously, and noses at the seam of your panties. A whine from you has him chuckling and finally moving to where you need him.

He kisses your clit over your underwear and you’re fighting thoughts of embarrassment over how sure you are he can taste how wet you are over the fabric.

It doesn’t seem to be enough for him though, as he tugs your panties down slowly, kissing your thighs as he goes.

Bruce’s hands hold onto your waist as he eats you out, holding you in place with an easy grip. 

You squirm against the feel of his tongue and you can’t quite figure out what to do with your hands. You almost wish he’d made you keep them above your head but really you’re not sure you’d be able to keep it together if he had. You’re not sure you’re keeping it together now.

He groans against your pussy, and one of your hands flies to grip his hair without permission from your brain. If you’re being honest with yourself though, your brain isn’t really the one calling the shots anymore.

You gasp when he licks a bold stripe, “Bruce—”

He groans again, briefly breaking away from you. “Oh, say that again.”

You sigh out, “Bruce, please.” 

He makes a pleased hum. “Good girl,” he murmurs before diving back in. 

He complies with your pleas generously, giving you more. He’s gradual but resolute as he inserts two fingers into you, giving you the time to adjust. But he’d evidently done a very thorough job prepping you for it, you’re so wet that the initial entry doesn’t sting like you’d expected. No, rather the first thing you register is closer to pleasure. A lot closer.

He begins to pump in and out of you at he continues to suck at your clit, and somewhere during you have a distinct thought of “oh this is it.”

You let out a little gasp and for once, you break out of your own head and just relish in the way his fingers curl inside you.

The way your thighs squeeze around him as you come, doesn’t hinder him one bit, only has him applying his ministrations with more intent. It doesn’t take long for the trembling of your body to give way to full on shaking, your body stuttering beneath him.

He continues working at you the entire way through your orgasm, until you’re flinching from overstimulation. 

He gives you one more lick before looking up at you with hooded eyes. “Y’taste sweet too, you know that?”

You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks as he starts to move back up to face-level, kissing the high point of your cheekbone.  

He pulls down on your bottom lip, your slick wet against your mouth.

You open without question, a clouding urge to please him the only thing running through your mind. 

He grumbles a low, pleased sound as you do, moving his hand only to provide room for him to kiss you again.

He sits back up over you and starts unbuttoning his shirt and you realize only now that he’s still fully dressed. 

He glances down to his belt as he undoes the buttons. 

“Will you help me out, sweet girl?”

You blink a couple times before registering the request, still overwhelmed by how quickly and skillfully he’d made you come. 

You struggle a bit to push yourself up into a sitting position, but he supports you by your waist, nipping along your jaw as encouragement.

Your hands shake as you undo the clasp, and while you’re still very much eager, if not moreso, you’re suddenly confronted with the very real possibility that you’re about to have your limits pushed. He ate you out and did a damn good job, stands to reason that he’d want you to return the favor.

So it takes you by surprise when he’s nudging you back against the pillows, removing his pants himself.

He keeps you occupied with an intense kiss as he does, and the distraction so smooth it’s almost like it’s rehearsed. 

You follow his lead easily, though surprised by his lack of desire to get his fill too.

He drapes himself over you nicely, his size easily dwarfing you out. He’s quick to block your chin from tilting down, gently bringing your face back up to meet his. 

He shakes his head lightly, murmuring, “Don’t worry about that. I got you.”

You are worried about it, but you trust Bruce, you know you do now.

You feel the weight of his cock against your stomach, at this exact moment, feeling like not much more than a daunting task.

“S’alright, sweet girl,” he lulls, brushing your hair back. “Okay?”

As heavy as the simple question is, you don’t need to think about it before you’re nodding and moving your hand to hold onto his bicep.

He peppers kisses all over your face as he starts to push in, effectively starting to distract you from the pain of the stretch. He hushes your whines soothingly and kneads at your waist with confident hands.

Your arms lock around his shoulders on instinct, your eyes squeezing shut as you try to convince yourself he’s almost all the way in, but you know you’ve got aways to go.

He pauses halfway, imploring you to open your eyes so he can check up on you properly.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he softly urges.

You will yourself to blink up at him and try to take on the challenge of both him and his gaze. Surely, an impossible task.

But you manage shaky eye contact that occasionally gives way to glancing down at his lips. 

It doesn’t feel good yet, but it only makes you more eager to keep going.

“I’m okay,” you nod, taking a breath. “You can keep going.”

He waits to find that reassurance in your eyes before he continues to push in, bestowing you a deep kiss in reward for your bravery.

Once he’s nearly bottomed out he waits a moment, then begins to rock in and out slowly, letting you get used to a starter of the sensation.

He brushes your hair back, weaving through the strands. “There we go,” he coos as you look down between you. “Doing so good.”

Your gasp is louder than they had been before, and closer to a sigh now. 

He’s fucking you gently, with a decorum that exceeds what you’d earlier told yourself you were stupid for hoping for.

It doesn’t take long at all for his movement to start to feel really good and your grip around his shoulders comes around to a different kind of intensity.

He noses against your jaw, applying kisses whenever  convenient. “‘S that feel good, sweet girl? Hm?”

He hits a particularly deep spot in you immediately after and it makes you borderline squeak. He huffs out a laugh that’s nothing short of affectionate. 

“Yeah?”

He then attacks that spot with extra intention, hitting it absolutely expertly every time. He speeds up a little, lips latched onto your neck as he fucks you nice and deep.

He drops a hand down between you and starts rubbing circles onto your clit with a pace that makes you want to scream.

You can’t help the moan you release when he teeths at your neck, clearly aiming to drive you crazy. But damn if he isn’t going about it the right way.

His circles pick up pace and you can be sure you’re leaving nail marks on his back. He seems to only get more encouraged by your sounds, working you closer and closer to the edge with every whimper.

He finally lets you over after a minute of shamelessly relishing in your moans, himself following close after.

He continues moving in and out of you until you’ve both completely finished, slowly coming to a stop. 

You get a moment to catch your breath before he pulls out delicately. You don’t even realize he’s moved before he’s got his boxers back on and is halfway to the bathroom.

You’re a little alarmed by the sudden shift in proximity, though you guess that’s the playboy experience, isn’t it? After a second you hear water running and assume he’s taking a shower.

You push yourself to sit up fully, minding your achy thighs, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. You glance at the foot of the bed where your underwear lies, then back over by the couch where the rest of your clothes lay discarded. You briefly contemplate how quickly you can get your clothes back on when the bathroom doors open again.

You glance up at Bruce, dazed, who looks surprised himself to see you sitting up. As he makes his way back to the bed you notice the supplies he has in tow and your brain begins to slowly start turning its gears again.

You don’t realize the glass of water in his hand is for you until he’s pushed it into your palm. 

His other hand carries a wet wash cloth that you, again, aren’t able to register the purpose for until it’s in action. 

“Drink,” he tells you as he spreads your knees apart gently, wiping away the mess between your legs with a notable amount of compassion for your sensitivity.

You do, gulping a few as he finishes, tossing the rag in a hamper before setting your glass down on the side table.

Your eyes return to the end of the bed and you nearly decide to get up, but he’s still standing so close to you, you’re not sure this is the right time.

You seem caught halfway between decisions now, you know you do. You’d honestly preferred when you thought he’d just ditched you for a shower because at least then this part wouldn’t be so awkward.

He watches you closely as you deliberate and seems to draw a conclusion about your hesitation rather quickly. His brow pinches as he processes, tilting his head at you. 

“You’ve got to be joking,” he says, bewildered. “Right?”

“I—” you falter, looking to the couch and back to him again. “No?”

He stares at you for a moment with an expression you can’t define.

“Lay down.”

You don’t have a second to process before he’s climbing back in bed too, pulling you down to lay your head on the pillow.

He pulls the covers over you and splays an arm over your waist, clearly firm in his decision for you to stay.

Your eyes are heavy and his bed is so comfortable, it’s difficult for you to even consider either of you wanting you to leave now.

Maybe you’ll just sleep for a little while, get some of your energy back. 

The way he traces soft patterns across your stomach certainly encourages the idea and doesn’t give you much power to resist.

You let your eyes flutter shut to the feather-light touch and listen to the steady deepness of his breaths.

Well, this isn’t so bad either.

🐲 reblogging is an ancient art form, only the strong may master it 🐲

[fear-is-truth]

# SUGAR DADDY! BRUCE WAYNE — hc

synopsis — your life as bruce wayne’s sugar baby warnings — suggestive. mdni a/n — if law school doesn’t work out… this is my dream career lol (exclusively bruce wayne)

──⟢  fear-is-truth — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

he’s strict about keeping things low-profile. no selfies, no pictures together, and definitely no talking to anyone about your arrangement. but when it’s just the two of you, behind closed doors, though, his edges softened—not soft soft, of course, but as close as bruce wayne could ever get.

bruce is every inch the gentleman when he’s out with you—always placing his hand on the small of your back when guiding you through a crowd or escorting you to his car, a subtle but firm gesture that says, you’re mine, and i’m looking after you. he opens doors for you without fail, pulls out your chair at restaurants, and always walks on the street side of the sidewalk, even if it means switching places mid-walk. if you’re wearing heels, he keeps a steadying hand at your waist when you go down stairs.

even in private, he’s super thoughtful—draping a blanket over you when you’re curled up on the couch, pressing a kiss to your temple as he passes by.

bruce isn’t overly affectionate in public, but in private, he’s tactile and tender. he’ll pull you onto his lap while he works at his desk, one arm wrapped around your waist as his free hand taps at his keyboard. “just stay here,” he’ll say when you try to move. “you’re not distracting me.” though the way his lips find your neck every few minutes says otherwise.

bruce values your mind as much as your beauty, and he shows it in the way he engages you. whether you’re discussing a book, a piece of art, or the nuances of history, he listens with genuine interest. when he occasionally challenges your points, it’s never in that dismissive, mansplaining tone that most self-assured men use—it’s thoughtful and designed to draw out your best arguments.

he’s particular about keeping things convenient for you, so he’s arranged for you to have access to one of his apartments in the city. it’s fully furnished, with a stocked fridge, top-of-the-line security, and a walk-in closet he keeps replenishing with new outfits.

bruce’s love language is acts of service and quality time, but his wealth makes gift-giving his default.

has alfred handle all the logistics of getting you the best: tickets to exclusive shows, reservations at restaurants you didn’t even know existed, and private shopping appointments where he foots the bill without a batting an eye.

sends you on luxurious trips during your breaks—paris, tokyo, the maldives. you’re not sure how he pulls it off without anyone finding out, but bruce wayne always has his ways.

he pays attention to your interests and hobbies, subtly encouraging you to indulge. if you mention liking a certain author, musician or a brand, you’ll find their newest release or collection waiting for you the next day.

leaves his black card with you whenever he has to leave on business. “buy yourself something nice,” he says like you don’t already have everything you could possibly want.

bruce has an almost masochistic appreciation for how deeply you affect him. when you tease him. the first time you call him daddy, it’s in that girlish, playful tone, meant to test how far he’d let you get away with. bruce freezes for a millisecond, his face carefully blank, but the dark glint in his eyes gives him away. he exhales slowly, but the extra time he spends adjusting his cufflinks is a tell—you’ve gotten under his skin.

has a love-hate relationship with the short, tight skirts you wear around him. on one hand, he can’t deny how much they drive him mad, how his eyes inevitably linger on the curve of your ass, like he’s entertaining the idea of ripping the skirt off. on the other hand, he hates the idea of anyone else seeing you like that. he’ll chide you in that authoritative tone of his, maybe even smacking your pert ass for extra emphasis (when in private)

despite the chastising, the next day, he’ll gift you a collection of couture skirts and dresses that fit his exacting standards—form-fitting but elegant, sexy but understated. if you insist on being a distraction, you’ll do it his way.

he loves when you wear his clothes—especially his shirts. seeing you in something oversized and smelling faintly of sex and his cologne drives him insane. but he also loves taking it off you.

he’s not above making you jealous, though it’s very rare. if he senses you’ve been a little too independent lately, he’ll let a socialite or two flirt with him at a party just to see your reaction. when you glare at him from across the room, he’ll flash that infuriatingly charming smile and mouth, “come here.” the second you’re alone, he’ll have you pressed tightly against the wall. “you know there’s no one else for me,” he mutters between hot kisses. “but i like seeing you fight for it.”

has an infuriating habit of teasing you in public, keeping you just on the edge of propriety. he’ll whisper filthy things in your ear during a black-tie gala, his hand resting on your thigh under the table. “be good for me,” his thumb grazes discreetly beneath the hem of your dress, and when your cheeks heat up, he just smirks and kisses the spot beneath your ear.

the car rides are his favourite indulgence. he tells the chauffeur to take the long way home, windows darkened, privacy partition up, while fucking you in every position possible.

has a weakness for seeing you in pieces he’s chosen himself. the delicate lace, silk, and satin he picks out always feel indulgent, tailored to fit your body and his preferences. he leaves boxes for you to find, with a note in his neat handwriting: this one tonight

he buys you diamond necklaces and earrings so extravagant they could rival museum pieces. every time, he insists you model them for him—alone, in the privacy of his bedroom. “just the necklace,” he’ll say with a smirk, his tone leaving no room for argument. the sight of you standing there, bare except for the glittering gems, leaves him utterly speechless. and then he’ll step closer, eyes trailing over the diamonds on your neck before his hands wander elsewhere.

sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly indulgent, bruce will forgo sleep altogether just to spend the night making love with you.

he’s a perfectionist in every aspect of his life, including the bedroom. he’s meticulous about learning what makes you tick, and takes immense pride in knowing your body better than you do. precisely which spots make you gasp, which areas make you arch your back. steady and precise, he’s always tuning in to your reactions. he doesn’t rush, taking his time to explore, kiss, and touch in a way that makes you feel completely cared for.

he can go for hours, but he’s patient, too. enjoying the process as much as the end result—taking his time to kiss, to touch, to indulge in every inch of your body.

bruce is insatiable, but he’s also deeply considerate. though he’s always hungry for you, there’s never a moment where he isn’t attuned to your needs, making sure you’re enjoying yourself, always ready to slow down or adjust if you need him to.

loves leaving marks on your body, but he’s careful about where—always hidden, tiny traces of his presence on your skin that only he gets to see.

still, when he notices you wince as you shift in your seat, he puts on a somewhat sheepish expression, offering a murmured, “sorry about that.” but you can see the faint smirk gracing his lips, the flicker of pride in his eyes. it’s all a front—he’s anything but apologetic.

he watches you drift off in his arms, your breathing steady and soft, the rise and fall of your chest lulling him into a rare moment of peace. his lips brush against your bare shoulder, the small gesture as fleeting as the thought that follows—he doesn’t deserve you—but he’s selfish enough to keep you anyway.

tagging — @suumaer

[dayasusays]

can we please have breeding with bruce wayne and wife!reader?

like feral breeding, maybe he’s had a hard patrol and he’s barely out of the batsuit before he has you on all fours.

maybe his hormones are in over drive from a poison ivy plant he originally thought had no affect on him. but now all he wants to do is fuck until his little wife is filled and he’s satisfied

thank youuuuu

xcherrycreempie

HAWWO !!!!!!

SO HOT. IT’S SO HOT.

I MEAN i have headcanons breeding kink w bruce (it’s here!!), but i can do it again. ofc i can do it again. 🤭

BUT FIRST OF ALL I WANNA SAY THAT I MISSED WRITING !!!

…and requests. i love chatting with all of u 💥💥

and i remember every request!! i promise i’ll write it, my sweethearts 🩷

ANYWAY IN MY HEAD IT’S DEFINITELY SMTH DIRTY IN A GOOD WAY… HEAR ME OUT……

warnings ! — SMUT, fem!wife!reader, husband!bruce wayne, breeding kink, dirty talk, maledom, orgasm torture, feral fuck, multiple orgasm

summary ? — he comes back weird after patrol.

౿ . . ` ౨ৎ ENJOY 🦇

he didn't even bother to change his clothes.

“hold on, hold on, bruce!” you try to push him away as wayne continues to kiss you insistently, “at least change!”

and it's weird because he never acts like that. you know very well that bruce hates quick sex and he's willing to spend an hour of foreplay torturing you. of course he's willing to find a couple hours to fuck you good.

but right now he's impatient. he's still in his batsuit, so you can't even see his eyes under that stupid mask.

you reach out to take it off, and bruce even helps you. you pull it off and he slows down, maintaining eye contact.

when you look into his face you realize that his eyebrows are furrowed and his pupils are dilated.

you think it’s something bad, but why is he looks so fucking hot right now?

you don’t know how many times you’ve cum.

your mind is racing with his every move and word, your nails are scratching his back, leaving a red marks, and your mouth open with loud moans.

“you take me so well, baby, just like you wanna make me cum inside,” bruce whispers and bites your nipples gently, “such a wet mess, pretty girl, is it too much to take for you?” he’s fucking you harder with every thrust, your clit is so swollen, your entrance pulsates around his cock and your moan makes him continue.

he flips you onto your stomach in one easy motion without even getting his cock out. you’re whimpering into the pillow and clutching the sheets, trying to beg him to slow down.

“what are you asking for, wifey? speak up,” bruce pulls your hair back, making you arch your back, “you want this cum inside? want me to get you pregnant?” he bites your lobe, speeding up.

you're ready to swear that right now wayne looks so damn hot. his arm muscles tense as he pulls your hair with one and supports you with the other. bruce’s eyelashes must be twitching as he makes one last push and cum inside.

he falls onto the bed next to you, as tired as you are. you cover your eyes and smile slightly as he reaches out for a kiss.

and now he’s okay again, you think. but what the fuck was that?

“you alright?” bruce kisses your cheeks, hugging him tightly. you nod and nuzzle his chest, “did i overdo it?”

i mean, it’s third time he came inside. you don’t feel your legs and he definitely got you pregnant.

“nah,” you smile, “it was perfect.”

hope you’ll like it cherry !!! <3

🦇 abt me | m.list

[hanasnx]

MINORS DNI 18+ WARNINGS: f!reader | age gap, reader is nineteen | mild exhibitionism | size difference | choking | objectification (f receiving)

BRUCE WAYNE was in the hot seat. Well, more appropriately, Batman was in the hot seat. Which meant it was time for the billionaire playboy to make a public appearance so controversial, any press worth their tacks would cover his televised blunder rather than some depressing masked vigilante’s dealings. People prefer gossip over politics, and Bruce knows how to work an angle.

You’re a fresh adult, but the people already know you. A perfect Gotham sweetheart: a little darling on the front cover of lingerie magazines, starring as a bombshell in motion pictures, named the honor of the Ice Princess last month. You wore your little feathery outfit, next to nothing in the freezing cold, and turned on the city's giant Christmas tree lights just as the Ice Princess does every year. Known for your youth and beauty, Bruce knew you were the perfect candidate to take all the attention away from where it shouldn't be. Tabloids couldn't decide whether to praise the seasoned billionaire for landing a nineteen-year-old catch, or condemn him for having a mid-life crisis.

"Bruce Wayne seen with Gotham's Ice Princess." was everywhere anyone looked. It seemed the city had taken quite a protective role over you, which is exactly what Bruce needed.

Now that he's got you, he flaunts you. He lets you lug him around town, any local events that could be televised are his priorities. There, he makes a big show of touching you in ways only a lover is allowed to. Things that make you pat his huge bicep scoldingly. "Brucie!" you chide with a gasp, "You're so shameless." you say, but you fucking love it. How he openly mouths at your neck, lapping and sucking on your pulse point enough for lewd pretty sounds to slew from your parted lips. Little whimpers that any onlookers eat up.

He'll grope you unabashedly, big hand grabbing at your ass or giving it a swat. He needs those cameras to see how gross he is, how crazy he is about his nineteen-year-old situationship. If you get kissed, it's fucking sloppy. Mostly tongue, tongue outside the mouth as much as he can appropriately get away with. His "dirty sense of humor" will bleed into the public scene as well, hugging you from behind only to jokingly engulf your neck with his hand to fake a choke.

Every single one of these things he does for attention, leaves you hot and bothered. Frustrated from his treatment of you that's so warm when there are prying eyes, but so cold when you're finally alone together. You want Bruce Wayne to fuck the ever-loving shit out of you, but when doors are closed suddenly it's: "Something's come up." or "The sushi hit me wrong." Or the worst one of all: the polite, civilized, but uninterested act. You're all over him, begging for him to finally fuck you after stringing you along and teasing you so ardently all day, and he treats you as if you are an acquainted business associate who has overstayed her welcome. You don't get it. An hour ago he was pulling your neckline towards him for a peek down your dress, and now he's showing you the door with a smile on his face.

[eternalslover]

WHY IS THERE NO WRITING FOR HIM

GUYS, IT'S LITERALLY SUPERMAN HAS NO ONE EVER SEEN SMALLVILLE?! IM GOING CRAZY BECAUSE THERE IS LITERALLY NOTHING, NOT EVEN CRUMBS

PLS SOMEONE WRITE FOR HIM I WILL TAKE ANYTHING, FLUFF, ANGST, SMUT, HEADCANONS, DRABBLES, FULL ON FICS ANYTHING PLS, HES SO POOKIE

[invincibledc]

DC/BATFAMILY X HELLO KITTY!READER

Summary: a cat looking child runs around Gotham spreading cheer?! Do she even know how scary Gotham is?!

What a surprise that a kind hearted cat, who is five apples tall is seen converting a robber to not be a robber no more. Dick Grayson, aka Nightwing who witnessed this all, can’t help but alert Batman of a young child spreading joy.

In the past 24 hours, Gotham doesn’t have any crime with a skipping kitty humming tunes. Having her soft paws into her overalls, but oof!

She can’t help but bump into a strong leg, looking up to see a red helmet. She shudders scared as the masked man stares into beady eyes of the kitty. Yeah, this one is coming home. Can’t have a child out in Gotham.

Surprise adoption!

Bruce who wonders why in the world is Jason holding a small furry child who waves at him. “Hello!” A high pitched feminine voice. Yep it’s a child as the bow was already clear.

Dick who can’t help but gush over how cute this kitty is! And is that a red/pink bow?! And the cat is wearing overalls!?? Oh boy, he’s finna faint due to cute aggression.

Jason who is a clear contrast to the adopted child. He’s brooding and grumpy, she’s happy and cheerful. He’s a sinner, she’s a saint. What a lovely contrast between the two. Okay so maybe he bought his new little sister a pink bedazzled Glock.

Tim who created his new adopted sister a pink taser, pink and yellow emergency jewelry with a hidden button to contact any of the boys, he was the one to create a room that has a lot of designs to her liking.

Damian who had made a pink katana for his sister that he is protective of. She is truly pure and young, she has no business into the vigilante life. Of course not.

You think this little girl is going out on patrols??!! Hell no! She’s coloring with Titus beside her, Damian bought her good crayons and a nice coloring book. He never expected to have a little sister now, despite the appearance of being some furry cat.

They all never expected to have a little sister now. But boy do they protect you.

This kitty has a bedtime, personally, it’s for the better. Otherwise this young child is gonna be cranky in a cute way, but no one wants a cranky kitty

Damian who is ten apples tall with her being five apple tall, they both are the short duo. No matter what, they have each other’s back!

Hello kitty!reader who gets spoiled and loved by the batfamily, getting all the cute pink things she loves!

[ahqkas]

♯ THE TASTE OF HEAVEN . . . sugar daddy ! batboys x fem ! reader

BRUCE WAYNE

bruce wayne doesn’t need to flaunt his wealth because he is the wealth. he doesn’t call himself your sugar daddy—it’s just implied in every action, every gift, and every moment he spends with you. whether it’s a sleek black card handed to you with no spending limit or a private plane waiting to take you to an exotic destination, bruce makes luxury feel effortless

you can forget off-the-rack anything. bruce ensures you have custom clothing, jewelry, and even furniture. he’ll casually remark, “i had the designer make a few changes for you,” as though commissioning bespoke items for you is just another tuesday

his gifts are never tacky or gaudy—this man has impeccable taste, and everything he gives you reflects that. think diamond necklaces that catch the light just right, limited-edition handbags, or handwritten invitations to exclusive events where you’re his arm candy

you’re the arm candy !!! bruce’s automatic date to every high-profile gala, charity ball, and exclusive event. he wouldn’t even think of bringing anyone else. he makes it clear you’re not just an accessory, you’re the highlight of his night

you have a tab at nearly every high-end establishment in gotham. whether you’re shopping for couture or just stopping by your favorite café, bruce ensures you’re treated like royalty. everyone knows exactly who’s footing the bill

bruce isn’t the type to throw money at you just because—he always wants to make sure it’s something meaningful or useful to you. if you mention wanting to start a business or learn a new skill, he’ll quietly arrange everything you need, from connections to resources

while his gifts are extravagant, his affection shows in quieter ways too. when you’re stressed, he whisks you away for a weekend spa retreat. if you’re cold, he’ll drape his expensive coat over your shoulders without hesitation. every gesture, big or small, is about making your life as comfortable as possible

people know bruce is your sugar daddy, but they’re far too intimidated to say anything. the whispered assumptions only make him smirk. he doesn’t care what anyone thinks—if anything, he enjoys the power it gives him to make it abundantly clear that you’re his

despite the sugar daddy thing between you, bruce’s affection runs far deeper. he doesn’t just give you gifts—he gives you his time, his attention, and his unwavering loyalty. the material luxuries are just an extension of the way he sees you: as someone deserving of nothing but the best

he’ll sometimes joke about the arrangement with a mischievous smile. “you’re lucky i’m rich,” he’ll say, handing you keys to a new car or sliding over a box containing some ridiculously rare jewelry. but his tone is warm, his teasing more affectionate than condescending

DICK GRAYSON

unlike bruce, dick doesn’t shy away from the term “sugar daddy.” in fact, he might jokingly call himself that from time to time, especially when handing you an absurdly expensive gift

( dick ‘what’s the point of having all this money if i can’t spoil my girl?’ grayson )

while he spoils you endlessly, he does it in a way that feels personal and heartfelt. every gift, trip, or gesture reflects how well he knows you. if you casually mention a dream vacation destination or a favorite designer, you can bet it’ll show up in your life sooner rather than later

he is the kind of sugar daddy who makes spoiling you fun. he’ll turn shopping trips into mini-games, daring you to try on the most extravagant pieces in the store just so he can gush over how amazing you look. “if you don’t let me buy that dress, i’ll be personally offended,” he’d tease, but you know he’s serious

dick loves being seen with you. whether it’s walking hand in hand down the streets of blüdhaven or pulling up to a gala with you in tow, he thrives on showing the world just how proud he is to have you by his side. and yes, he does things like carrying your shopping bags with zero shame, flashing that charming grin at anyone who stares

doesn’t wait for a special occasion to surprise you. whether it’s a bouquet of your favorite flowers, a new gadget you’ve been eyeing, or tickets to a concert you love, he’s constantly finding ways to brighten your day

with dick, every vacation feels like a scene from a romance movie. he books private villas, sunset yacht rides, and five-star experiences, all while making it feel like the most casual, natural thing in the world. “i just thought we could use a break,” he’d say, as if flying you out to the maldives was as simple as grabbing coffee

he’s always finding ways to make you laugh, even about the relationship itself. if someone gives you a side-eye for carrying a designer purse, he’ll lean over and whisper, “they’re just jealous, babe. can you blame them?” his lighthearted attitude makes the relationship feel easy and natural

with his good looks and high-profile status, the press is obsessed with you two. headlines like “blüdhaven’s golden boy and his stunning girlfriend” are a constant, but dick takes it in stride, often laughing at the exaggerations

“you deserve the world,” he’d say, his blue eyes sparkling. “let me give it to you.”

JASON TODD

jason didn’t immediately step into the role of “sugar daddy.” in fact, he hesitated because he didn’t want his wealth to define your relationship. but as time passed and he saw how much joy he could bring you by easing your stress, he leaned into it—but only his way

for jason, being your sugar daddy isn’t about flashy displays or media attention—it’s about making sure you’re secure and comfortable in a way no one else could provide. he loves knowing you don’t have to worry about rent, bills, or any other mundane stressors. “if i can fix it, i’m going to,” he says simply, brushing off your thanks like it’s no big deal

he might not shower you with gifts constantly, but when he does, it’s jaw-dropping: a rare first-edition book he remembered you mentioned once, a custom leather jacket, or even a dream vacation to a quiet, secluded spot where you can both relax away from the chaos of gotham

jason is practical when it comes to what he provides. he’ll upgrade your phone, stock your fridge with your favorite snacks, and even surprise you with a car when he notices yours struggling. “i’m not about to let you drive around in that death trap,” he grumbles as he tosses you the keys

and while he’s not the type to parade you through expensive stores, jason shows his affection in quieter, more personal ways. he might take you on a motorcycle ride to a hidden gotham rooftop, where he surprises you with your favorite takeout and a designer bag “he happened to pick up”

despite his tough exterior, he has a serious soft spot for you. if you so much as hint at wanting something, he’s already making plans to get it. he’ll pretend it’s no big deal, but his little smirk always gives him away

jason sometimes pretends to be annoyed by how much he spoils you, but it’s all in good fun. “you’re turning me into one of those rich guys,” he’ll grumble, handing you a sleek gift box. but the way his lips twitch into a smile when you beam at him says otherwise

you’ll come home to find an envelope with tickets to your favorite band’s concert or a designer coat hanging in your closet because he noticed the weather getting colder. “what? you think i didn’t notice you shivering last week?”

he doesn’t like the idea of anyone else stepping in to provide for you. if someone so much as jokes about taking you out or buying you a drink, he’s quick to step in, slinging an arm around your shoulders and shooting them a glare. “she’s taken. move along.”

he makes sure you feel safe, cared for, and endlessly spoiled in his own rough-edged, loving way <3

ADDITIONAL NOTE! if you like my work , please consider reblogging and / or commenting . thank you if you do 🤍

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSWEET GIRLㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Do They Eat That Kitty?

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne.

☆⁠ NOTE : Minors DNI. Damian is an adult. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

Bruce eats pussy like it’s a goddamn art form—he’s precise, calculated, and maddeningly patient. He starts slow, always. Those big hands spread you open, thumbs keeping you vulnerable as he just looks at you, like you’re a meal he’s been starving for. Then, his tongue starts, slow and flat, dragging up from your entrance to your clit in one smooth stroke that has your breath catching. He doesn’t rush, not at first—he builds you up so slowly that you’re practically begging him to stop teasing. When he gets serious? Oh, you’re fucked. Bruce focuses entirely on your clit, his tongue pressing firm and circling in ways that have your thighs trembling. He slides two fingers inside you, curving them just right to hit that spot, and he watches you. His dark eyes stay locked on your face, reading every reaction like he’s solving some complex puzzle. And god, he loves control. If you try to squirm or close your legs, he growls, low and dangerous, “Stay still, or I’ll stop.” Spoiler: he never actually stops, but the threat alone keeps you in place. When you cum, he doesn’t let up. His tongue keeps working you, dragging you through wave after wave until you’re crying out his name, completely wrecked.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

Dick? He’s a pussy-eating legend. You know how some people enjoy it? Dick fucking loves it. He dives in like it’s his favorite thing in the world, his hands gripping your thighs to pull you closer, his face buried between your legs as he moans like a man possessed. He’s messy about it, too—his tongue is everywhere, licking and sucking on your clit like he’s trying to ruin you. But Dick knows exactly how to build you up. He’ll start with long, teasing licks, making you squirm and whimper, and then he focuses entirely on your clit. His tongue moves in quick, flicking motions, switching it up with soft sucks that send shocks through your entire body. And he’s loud. He moans into you, murmuring things like, “You taste so fucking good,” and “I could stay down here all night.” His fingers? Fucking perfect. He slips two inside you effortlessly, curling them up in time with his tongue until you’re sobbing from the intensity. And Dick doesn’t stop when you cum. Nope. He keeps going, even as you’re begging him for mercy, his grin widening against your skin because he knows he’s got you falling apart.

— JASON TODD ⋆

Jason eats pussy like he’s got something to prove. There’s nothing soft or sweet about it—it’s raw, filthy, and absolutely fucking primal. He doesn’t even bother teasing you. The second your legs are open, his face is buried between them, his tongue lapping at you like he’s starving. His grip on your thighs is bruising—he keeps you pinned in place no matter how much you try to squirm. His tongue is relentless, focusing on your clit with harsh flicks and sucks that have you seeing stars in seconds. Jason’s all about intensity—he groans against you, low and rough, sending vibrations through your body. And when he slides his fingers inside you, It’s game over. He pumps them hard and fast, curling them to hit that sweet spot over and over until you’re screaming his name. Jason loves watching you lose control. He’ll pull back just enough to smirk at you, his lips and chin soaked, and growl, “C’mon, baby. Let me hear you.” And when you finally cum? He doesn’t stop. He forces you to take every second of it, holding you down as he works you through the aftershocks, leaving you completely wrecked.

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

Damian is precise. He approaches eating pussy like a challenge, determined to reduce you to nothing but gasps and moans. He starts slow, dragging his tongue through your folds with maddening patience, watching your every reaction. His hands hold your thighs apart, firm but not rough, keeping you exactly where he wants you. Once he finds what works, Damian locks in like a man on a mission. His tongue circles your clit in perfect, rhythmic motions, alternating with soft flicks that have your back arching off the bed. He doesn’t get messy—everything he does is intentional, calculated, and devastatingly effective. His fingers join the party soon enough, sliding inside you with ease, curling up to hit your G-spot with every stroke. Damian’s all about control. If you try to move, he tightens his grip, growling, “Stay still. I’m not done with you yet.” He’s also vocal in a way that’s almost mocking. “Look at you. Falling apart for me already.” And when you cum? Damian doesn’t stop. He keeps going, overstimulating you until you’re trembling, tears streaming down your face as you beg him to let you breathe. He’ll finally pull back, wiping his mouth with a smug smirk, because he knows no one else can make you feel like that.

— MASTERLIST ☆

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

[streetlamp-amber]

can we just stay in bed? (18+)

bruce wayne x femwife!reader

word count: 2.8k | divider by @cafekitsune | requests are open!

CW: smut (MDNI), p in v sex, oral (fem receiving), soft sex NOTES: i usually don’t write soft smut like this so i don’t really know if i’m 100% satisfied with this or not but i still wanted to share, let me know your thoughts :)

The joyful singing of the birds in the forest surrounding Wayne Manor could be heard from miles away as the sun was rising over the treetops, marking the beginning of a new day in Gotham. A lone ray of sunshine made its way through the gap between the two curtains hung over the window of you and Bruce's bedroom, illuminating the darkness with a soft golden glow.

Today was Saturday, meaning you didn't have work waiting for you or school to drive Dick and Jason to. The only plan on the schedule this morning was to sleep in, even for Alfred.

But your husband had other plans.

Bruce woke up on his own, his body was now used to being up early to make sure the boys had completed all of their homework before dropping them off at school. He was laying on his back with your head nestled in the crook of his neck, your hot breath fanning over his skin at a gentle rhythm while your arm and leg were hooked around him, keeping your body flushed against his. A grateful, satisfied smile formed on Bruce’s lips as he hugged you closer to him and pressed a kiss on the top of your head. He loved waking up with you in his arms, it was his favourite part of the day – when all his worries about Gotham were still dormant in the back of his mind, when he could bask in the peacefulness of the morning with your steady breathing reminding him how lucky he was that you were so much of a hothead, you had him pull over on the side of the road to reprimand his reckless driving when he almost rear ended your car. He remembered that day like it was yesterday, because your anger and your indifference to his celebrity status had already caught his heart right then and there, the fact that you were breathtakingly beautiful was only a plus. Six years had passed since then and Bruce had tried his best to remain on your good side in that time, but it happened sometimes that you let out your anger on him – like when he let Dick patrol with him for the first time. He found that he was still as captivated and enamoured with you as he was when the two of you first met, you’re just so hot when you’re angry, he can’t help it.

Overcome with the love he held for you, Bruce started peppering soft, barely-there kisses on your cheek, your nose, your jaw and your neck, moving you to lay on your back as he did so for him to have better access to your skin. His gentle touches pulled you out of your slumber and you stretched out your limbs, your husband never relenting with his affections.

“Good morning, my love,” Bruce whispered in between kisses on your throat.

You giggled, the softness of his lips tickling you. “Good morning,” you replied, wrapping your arms around his neck while his held you tight under your back. You turned your head to glance at the digital clock on your bedside table, noticing the time displayed in red light. “Isn’t it too early to be awake on a Saturday morning?”

“What time is it?” Bruce asked as he comfortably laid on you, his face now resting in the crook of your neck.

“Ten past seven,” you answered, your hands finding their way to your husband’s hair. Your fingers threaded through his soft waves and you felt him hum in satisfaction against you.

“I’m not sleepy anymore,” he weakly argued, eyes closing as your scent comforted him.

“Bruce, I can literally feel your breathing slowing down like it does when you fall asleep,” you chuckled.

“Then we should do something to stay awake and enjoy these minutes of peace we have that are oh so rare,” Bruce suggested with an impish tone.

“Mhm,” you hummed in agreement, “we haven't made blueberry waffles in quite some time.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and stood up above you, trapping you under his body with his elbows resting on both sides of your head. “Can we just stay in bed?” He asked, his crooked grin on his lips as he leaned down, brushing the tip of your nose with his.

“And do what?” You feigned innocence, but your husband knew you too well – he had known you for more than six years after all, he liked to think he knew you more than he knew himself – and the mischievousness in your eyes didn't go past him.

“I have a few ideas in mind,” Bruce said before claiming your lips with his. You breathed a sigh of relief that he absorbed and he placed himself in between your legs.

He stood up after a minute for the both of you to get some air and teasingly tugged at the hem of your shirt (which really was one of his old Princeton shirts from his university days). “I think it's not fair I’m the only one who's bare chest,” he said, raising the shirt just above your bellybutton.

“I think you make a compelling argument, Mr. Wayne,” you playfully agreed then removed said shirt, throwing it on the floor.

Bruce didn’t waste any second, immediately peppering your chest with kisses the moment your skin was freed from your clothes. You relaxed into your pillow, enjoying the attention your husband was giving to every inch of your body. He took his time to savour your taste and you let him. There was no rushing this morning, only the two of you in your bubble of love where time and the outside world didn’t exist.

He nipped his teeth all over your chest, leaving soft bite marks in his trail, and sucked on your nipples, his hand massaging your boob his mouth wasn’t currently attached to.

“Bruce…” You mewled after he spent five minutes on each of your breasts, only now beginning his slow descent down your stomach. Ten minutes of working you up had you now very impatient and wanting for more.

“Patience, my love,” Bruce said against your skin, getting closer to where you needed him most. “We’re taking it slow this morning, we’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Mmm, I know of two certain boys who will be knocking at our door in less than an hour to see if you’re awake so you can watch the morning cartoons with them,” you argued, raising up your hips when he started leaving kisses on the inside of your right thigh.

“That won’t be a problem,” your husband reassured you before claiming your clit in his mouth, making you squeal in surprise. “Good thing I had the walls of our bedroom soundproofed,” he paused his sucking on your bundle of nerves to tease you with a grin on his shiny lips.

You glared at him, unamused, which made him chuckle at your cute face and he quickly kissed your thigh before going back to his previous task. He lapped the slick in between your folds like a man who had spent fourteen days in the desert and was drinking water for the first time. His tongue teased your entrance before diving in, grunting in pleasure when your hips bucked up closer to him, making his nose brush against your clit. Bruce could never get tired of you, of your taste, of the sounds you made because of him. It spurred him on and for the time being, his only purpose in life was to satisfy you.

He couldn’t even begin to explain the control you had over him, the way you guided him through this life like a lighthouse in a storm. He was putty in your hands, has been ever since the two of you met, and he knew very well how lost he would be without you. Yeah, he would be financially secured thanks to his family, but in every other aspect of his life, even as Batman, he wouldn’t be who he was today without you. And Bruce, who had never really been good at vocally expressing his feelings, would let you know how thankful he was to have you in his life the way he knew best: by pleasuring you to completion like no other person ever has before because no one has taken the time to learn every single reaction of your body like he had.

“Bruce…” you whined as your hand tugged at his hair. You needed more, you needed more than just his tongue inside of you so you pulled him up by the head, bringing him to your level, and attached your lips to his, tasting yourself on him, while your legs wound around his waist. You felt his hard cock brushing against your center through the fabric of his boxers and jolted at the slight pressure applied on your clitoris.

The two of you slowly and messily made out, Bruce’s right hand holding your cheek and his left one clutching onto your hip. Your hands had found their way to the waistband of his boxers, trying to pull them down to get what you wanted. Bruce helped you, his left hand leaving your hip to remove the only item of clothing still on, his mouth never detaching from yours as he did so.

Once fully nude, Bruce retracted from you, standing on his knees before dipping his fingers between your folds to gather some of your wetness and rub it over his dick. You watched him with anticipation, the sight before you something you could never get tired of. Your husband was straight out of a dream and, still to this day, you’d pinch yourself sometimes to make sure you were awake, that this was your life.

That somehow, Bruce Wayne fell in love with you.

But he was also so different from how he presented himself to the media, to the public, that sometimes you forgot you married the Bruce Wayne, heir to the powerful Wayne family, prince of Gotham. To you, he was just your silly husband who was incredibly hot and put everybody else before him.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when Bruce brushed the tip of his cock against the lips of your pussy. “I hope I’m not too much of a bore, darling,” he said, a teasing undertone lacing his words.

“No, just admiring the view and how lucky I am that my husband is so damn hot,” you replied playfully though there were no lies to your answer.

“Clearly you haven’t looked at yourself in the mirror lately babe because I’m the lucky one,” Bruce told you, his eyes confidently holding yours to show how truthful he was. He lined himself with your entrance, his stare never leaving your face so that he could drink in your expressions when he sheathed himself to the hilt inside you.

The two of you groaned in pleasure and Bruce took a moment to bask in your warmth, his eyes roaming all over you.

“Especially when you look so goddamn gorgeous with my cock inside you,” he added onto his previous comment, making you roll your eyes at the machoness of his words.

“Shut up and start moving already,” you chuckled.

“As you wish, my darling,” he leaned down to kiss you again and started rolling his hips to a slow, steady pace.

You wrapped your legs around his waist again while your hands found their place at his nape, scratching his scalp and tugging his hair, making him moan in your mouth. Your tongues danced to the same rhythm as Bruce’s thrusts, the both of you drowning in the feeling of the other.

Sex with Bruce was usually more rapid, more frantic, more bruising, more fiery, and you loved it. You loved how he could make you forget about the gala happening right down the hallway and the handprints he’d unconsciously leave on your hips from his grip. But you also loved when sex with Bruce was languid with no hurry. When one made you forget everything, the other basked you in love and made you feel like you were in a dream.

Bruce’s mouth left yours to trail down your cheek, then your jaw, until it found its place in the crook of your neck. He deposited open mouthed kisses all over your skin, licking it and leaving small nips on it. He easily found the pulse point behind your ear and, knowing you could easily hide that spot, started sucking on it and doubled the pleasure building inside you.

It made your breath hitch and your nails dig in his back muscles, leaving small red crescents on his skin. You felt him smile against your skin, his pride always swelled up to the reactions he was able to pull out of you.

“Mph, you feel so good darling,” Bruce groaned in your ear and kissed it. “You always do.”

“And you make me feel so good baby,” you answered, squeezing your walls around him as you said so.

Bruce’s head appeared in your eyeline again, his famous grin on his lips as his eyes roamed over your face, full of love. “I love you,” he told you.

You were about to say ‘I love you’ back but he didn’t let you, claiming your mouth with his instead to drag you in another make out session. He changed the angle of his hips at the same time and the tip of his dick brushed your G-spot, making you mewl. Bruce’s left hand fell down to the back of your right thigh, gripping it tight as he held it a little higher. It allowed him to go about one more inch further, said spot now being hit with every thrust.

“Oh God, yes,” you freed your mouth from his as your head fell back, your eyes squeezing shut due to the pleasure gradually overtaking your senses.

“Look at me, darling,” Bruce asked you and you obeyed, struggling to keep your eyes open as the two of you held eye contact. “Are you close?”

He knew you were, he knew your body like the back of his hand, but he still asked you the question just to be sure.

You couldn’t answer him. Your mouth was in a permanent ‘o’ shape as breathy moans escaped your lips with every thrust and you were unable to focus for more than one second on how to speak. So you nodded your head yes.

Bruce’s hand that held your thigh let it go to instead dip between your legs, easily finding your clit and rubbing it in circles with just the right amount of pressure. He proudly watched as you unravelled beneath him, your orgasm hitting you with full force. As he helped you ride it out, he reached his own climax and fell over you, but still made sure to not put his entire weight on you, as the two of you caught your breath.

Your husband removed himself from inside you and rolled over to lay next to you on his side so he could face you. “I love you,” he said again, kissing your temple covered with a sheen of sweat.

You turned to face him, your hand reaching to hold his cheek as you replied, “I love you”. You kissed him on the lips, this time short and sweet, and Bruce laid on his back so you could snuggle up against him with your head on his chest.

“You know, we should wash up before the boys come knocking on our door,” you said after a few minutes of peace.

“Can we just stay in bed for another minute?” Bruce childishly whined, his fingers brushing up and down your bare bicep.

“You're such a big baby,” you teased him, chuckling.

“Well sorry I’m a little spent from our early morning activity,” he lightheartedly argued.

“Alright, I’ll make you a deal,” you said, rising on your elbows to look over him. “I’m going to the bathroom and I’ll bring back with me a wet cloth for you to wash yourself and then we can cuddle and maybe go back to sleep until Dick and Jason crash through the door to drag you downstairs and watch cartoons. Sounds like a deal?”

“Sounds like a really good deal to me,” Bruce answered, bringing you down to peck your lips before he rested his hands behind his head. “You should come down to the tower next time we’re looking to make a deal with another company.”

“Nah, I’m perfectly fine with leaving all that work to you,” you pecked his lips once again and stood up from the bed, not bothering to cover yourself up. “I’ll be right back,” you said behind your shoulder as you walked towards the bathroom connected to your room.

Bruce didn’t hear you, too preoccupied with staring at your ass to focus on anything else. God, I’m the luckiest man in all of Gotham, he thought to himself before you disappeared through the door frame.

[makeyoumine69]

Oh those other anons are soooo right.

Bruce would be going insane when he finally gets his girl bred. Seeing her trying on gala dresses that are much too small now, her hips getting fuller, tits getting bigger, and swelling with his kid? Way to end up in the gossip mags.

I dont think he'd be able to stop himself at one. You know what the elites are like, kings never just had one heir.

I think he'd want to suck on her tits so bad.

Tbh, i can see Patrick doing that too.

Carrying His Child | Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader, Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader HEADCANON

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: NSFW, implied smut, lactation kink, breeding kink, body worship, pet names, some dirty talk, Pregnant!Reader, breeding kink, pregnancy-related details, established relationships, Husband!Patrick Bateman, Husband!Bruce Wayne, pregnancy sex.

𝐀/𝐍: I couldn't agree more with what anon said and I just wanted to write down some of my thoughts about these two men. Hope you enjoy it!

Patrick Bateman

The recent news of your pregnancy would be both shocking and exciting for Patrick, but he wouldn't even know how to react at first. Should he be openly happy, as all doting partners are, or should he keep it all to himself so as not to look weak and pathetic? This man may not be the best at showing emotion and affection as most people perceive it, but what Patrick is good at is being in control and inflicting it on every aspect of his life, including you and his unborn child. So it's obvious that once your pregnancy is confirmed, Patrick would turn into the most overprotective man, but the dark side of it would be that he would have a grip on everything you do, your lifestyle, what you eat and drink, and who you interact with. And of course it would annoy you sometimes, but this man will try to manipulate you into thinking that he knows what's best for you. When the two of you are out in public, he would hold you close, but not really be clingy, more like allowing you to hold onto his arm, and Patrick would definitely hate any questions related to your pregnancy, like who the two of you are expecting and what month you're at.

Patrick prefers to think of having children as building a lineage - a legacy of his own blood and flesh. And although the burden of parenthood weighs heavily on his shoulders and makes him somewhat unhappy, he can sometimes find the concept of building a dynasty with you quite appealing. But the worst thing is that he doesn't really care about your thoughts or feelings about it, because he sees you as his property—he owns you from head to toe, every little bit of your body is his to possess and ruin. So once the idea of impregnating you again was fully integrated into his twisted mind, there would be no barriers for him to make his fantasies come true. Patrick would patiently wait for you to give birth to his firstborn, maybe even give you time to recover before he'd impregnate you again, using the beautiful and flowery phrases about the love between a man and a woman and how he wants you to give him as many children as he wants because children are flowers of life. There is no obstacle for him to get what he wants. No doubt that Patrick would do everything to make you the best mother because appearances are always important and he wants nothing more than a perfect wife and perfect children—the American dream family. Nothing more, nothing less.

As mentioned, Patrick is not a fan of physical affection, but sometimes, if he's really in the mood or if he thinks it would be easier for him to just give you a hug instead of listening to you vent, he'll do it. Of course, this guy knows how fucked up women can feel during pregnancy, but he can easily be overwhelmed by your depressed mood or your complaints about being tired all the time. On the days when he can't take it anymore, he'd try to escape and lose himself in some nightclub with some other yuppie in the company of pretty blonde hardbodies, but he'd never really try to fuck anyone else because his body would oddly crave only you. It would be annoying for him, especially when he realizes that the changes in your pregnant body only make him more horny. MUCH MORE HORNY. It literally drives him crazy. Whenever he sees you wearing something skimpy, Patrick's dick gets unbearably hard and he has to drag you back into the bedroom or press you against any surface he can BUT he has to remember that the current circumstances are different. You're carrying his child and he can't be as selfish as he always chooses to be—Patrick hates to admit that the unborn child was already stirring something weird in him. But he didn't know how to deal with that strange feeling in his chest when he touches your baby bump with his hands or his lips. It's definitely something different. So different that he forgets about everything else but you—all the blank thoughts about how much money he spent on his new suit the other day, or what tie Tim Price wore yesterday, or which model Craig McDermott boffed at the last fashion show. Fuck all that. If he ever needs to be really gentle, it should be with his pregnant wife. No questions asked. As awkward as he imagined pregnancy sex to be, in reality Patrick enjoyed it even more than before, it was much more sensual and to have you so sensitive in his strong arms, reacting to his every little move, felt like heaven. "Fuck... You're taking me so well, doll," Patrick would murmur in your ear in a passionate tone, spooning you while he covered your neck with feverish kisses, his hands secured around your round belly while he continued to push carefully inside you. "So soft, so round, so warm." Being both insatiable and needy, Patrick would be literally erratic in his craving for your breast milk, acting like a little baby. But, if you ever implied that he was behaving like a baby boy, he would be so fucking offended and grumpy, but in the end, he would suckle at your breasts with full determination, which would make your nipples really sore, especially the moments when he would decide to use his sharp white fangs. Patrick literally can't stop craving the taste of your breast milk—he even considered taking some of your expressed milk to add to the coffee at the office. But this psycho would never tell you about his depraved plans.

Bruce Wayne

When it comes to your pregnancy, Bruce is extremely protective, but not in a babysitting kind of way, because he doesn't want you to feel pressured and obligated to follow a strict list of instructions, as he respects your personal boundaries, but still, sometimes Bruce can be a little too stressed about the safety of you and the baby you're carrying. Giving him a few pecks, stroking his cheek in a reassuring way, and telling him that he doesn't have to stay alert may help. But only until the next time Bruce gets worried about something else. He would also never stop bragging about how proud he is of you and how beautiful you are whenever you show up together at any gala event, and he would even make you wear the tightest dresses to show off your baby bump so that everyone would know who you belonged to. The images of you playing with your child in the backyard of the Wayne Manor would be his most intimate fantasy that he wouldn't share with anyone, claiming it was too personal. After all, Bruce has always been too sensitive about anything family related, but now he was in the process of creating HIS OWN family and he finds himself even more anxious, but he would do his best not to let anything like what happened to his parents happen again. Never again.

The idea of putting another baby inside you after you give birth would live inside his head for a long time like a brain worm, but it would be a very difficult time for him finding the right moment to make a suggestion about it. The man would be nervous because he knows that pregnancy is a very complicated time for any woman, with all those heavy syndromes, including morning sickness and sudden mood changes due to hormones. Bruce sees all this and it makes him insecure if you really want to go through all this again. And he'll never make decisions like this for both of you without your approval. For now, the man will focus on your current pregnancy, take care of you in every way possible, be your shield and shoulder to lean on when you feel down or unsure about being a good parent. Every time you doubt that you'll be a good mother, Bruce will bury his nose in the crook of your neck, deliberately tickling your skin to hear you laugh, and then whisper sweet little things about how happy he is that you're carrying his child and how absolutely sure he is that you'll be the great mother. Zero doubt.

Physical affection means a lot to this man, starting with holding your hand every time you walk together, hugging your waist whenever he can, planting feathery kisses on your temple or forehead. And all of this Bruce does to make sure you know how much he loves you, how much he cherishes every second of his life spent with you. When your body begins to change due to pregnancy, Bruce would be even more focused during sex, making sure you feel good and comfortable, choosing the best position to fuck you deeply but without harming the baby, literally worshipping your body as his personal shrine, telling you how much he loves every little detail of your changing figure: "Uh, darling, you're so beautiful. Uh...I can't get enough of you." In the mornings, you'd usually find him resting between your legs, eating you out with pure devotion, caressing your curvaceous hips and massaging your ample breasts that would soon be so full of milk. One day, when he was playing with your nipples and some of your milk would spill out, he would catch it with his finger and put it in his mouth—the moment Bruce would taste your milk for the first time would be his personal downfall as he would be very paranoid that you would think he's weird. He would try to fight the very idea of asking you to suckle your breasts, and he would be absolutely embarrassed until one day you would suggest it to him, because you'd remember his moan of satisfaction when he tasted your breast milk. Sometimes Bruce would latch his mouth around your nipple as you rode him, his muffled soft moans sounding so perfect and hot, literally becoming your personal aphrodisiac, making you orgasm quite quickly and very vividly. And your round hips, Jesus Christ, your hips would always be touched and teased, fondled and kneaded—simply because your husband can't stop himself, he's literally obsessed. The days when you're struggling with your sore breasts, Bruce would immediately offer you his help, massaging your soft mounds and asking you how you feel and if he can squeeze them a little tighter, because he wants to feel your tender flesh under his fingers—he literally craved it so much. Scattering pillows on the bed for you to rest on would be Bruce's special ritual whenever you decided to get naughty or just relax together, naked, skin to skin, lips on lips. Once your baby bump got too big, Bruce would help you take a shower, including washing your hair and every little patch of your gorgeous body, so after that he can comb your hair and carry you into the bedroom to massage your feet and GOD, his strong hands really know how to work magic and sometimes it feels even better than sex.

[eternallyhauntingthehouseoflove]

Bruce Wayne had you on your knees between his spread thighs, his fingers threaded through your hair. “Behave,” Bruce commanded before pressing his thumb down onto the pad of your pink tongue, testing your gag reflex. Always experimenting, always testing and tweaking. “I see you’ve been practicing the pharyngeal exercises I’ve provided. You didn’t even gag this time,” he murmured, more-so to himself, though the soft smirk that crawled onto his lips was for you. Satisfaction shimmered in his naturally icy gaze. His thumb traced the curve of your bottom lip. “Impressive. Well done, honey.”

The affectionate name was a nice touch, right? Right? Or was it too. . old-fashioned? Or worse, was he too forward and made himself look like a desperate creep?

“You look exquisite on your knees. Beautiful, like a painting.” *Not trashy or filthy, but elegant and tasteful,* Bruce had nearly added, but he understood how the words could be received coming from the lips of a wealthy white man.

(I was ovulating when I hurried and threw this together lmao)

. . . That’s how you’d ended up stuffed full of Bruce Wayne’s cock, bent over the examination table of his home lab, his hand fisted in the hair at the nape of your neck. He analyzed your facial expressions, every twitch and moan, in your reflection off the metal equipment.

Chest to back, he panted against your ear, “How does this feel? You like when I go deep, doll?” Bruce placed a hurried, sloppy kiss against your cheek before planting his palm between your shoulder blades, holding you in place.“Use your voice, honey. I want to know what you like. How do you want me to play with you?”

Dick Grayson had planned the perfect date . . . except he forgot how prone to rain showers Bludhaven was.

On the rooftop of a rain-slick abandoned building beneath the neon glow of restaurant lights and advertisements on the Jumbotron, takeout containers were hastily shoved aside along with the spandex of your super-suit, so you could straddle him. A crisp drizzle dampened his hair. In between ravenous kisses, you could hear the patter, patter, patter of rain droplets hitting the plastic of your takeout.

Dick was the first to break the kiss, gasping for air. “We’re gonna have to be quick, baby, or it’s gonna get wet around here. And I don’t mean just you.” His skin was damp with mist, and a florid blush sprouted on the apples of his cheeks as he watched you sink down onto his cock. Lips pursed in a wince, you wobbled, your balance not the greatest.

Dick was the acrobat, not you. You preferred the safety of gravel, the promise of a next step.

“Oh, come on, just a little more,” he dared you,” I know you can take it. You’ve done it before.” Dick’s gloved hands slithered around your waist, pulling your chest to his, then he bucked his hips upward, bullying the rest of his cock into your hole. “There we go. Just like that,” he half cooed, half murmured into your cheek and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Look at you. . .” Jason Todd said, almost reverently, his breath fanning your slit from beneath you. You’d been sucking his cock after every patrol, no questions asked. It made Jason feel a bit guilty, like things were unfair, so he let you ride his face. He’d been teasing all night because he was still Jason. Thigh kisses, kitten licks, his breath ghosting over your core.

The smirk that crept across his lips could only be described as sardonic, smug, shit eating. “Worked up yet?” Jason raised a scarred eyebrow. “Aww, you poor thing, needing me to take care of it.” Jason pressed a kiss to your mound, right above your puffy clit, the special place he was needed most. Your stomach was flooded with warmth, your thighs were as tense as violin chords. You needed to cum.

“Should I cave?” Jason considered, tilting his head and screwing his lips up. “Nahhh. You look too good all soaking wet and desperate.” He himself was rock hard and leaking within the confines of his jeans. Never mind that, teasing you was one hundred percent worth whatever torture he might suffer. Though, you knew the game of teasing would be a lot less fun when his turn came around.

“Y’know you could beg and I would be a bit more. . . forthcoming.” Jason paused and gave you time to cave and beg. “No? Nothing? Then I guess you’ll just have to get your own self off, sweetheart.”

A string of saliva connected his top and bottom row of teeth when he opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out. “Well, baby, if you want to it so bad, you better start taking it. I’m set to go all night.”