#batman x reader

[bimbovicc]

Clark Kent x f!reader x Bruce Wayne

Tags: threesome , poly relationship, breeding kink, kryptonian heat, overstimulation, p in v sex, creampie, jealousy, slight voyeurism, praise + filth, they love you fr, needy clark. possessive bruce, ruined reader, reader is babygirl and we love her

a/n — okay but listen… this started as a what if and turned into a holy shit. clark in a breeding season is something so feral and intense and just? delicious. add possessive, calculating bruce into the mix and now we have a very overwhelmed reader being absolutely ruined by two men who can’t decide if they want to protect her or fuck her senseless.

Clark Kent, mild-mannered, sweet-hearted alien… hits Kryptonian Breeding Season.

It’s instinctual. Biological. A deep, primal shift in his body chemistry that he can’t control. His pupils dilate when he sees you. He can smell your hormones, your arousal, your fertility. And it drives him wild. All he can think about is breeding you. Not just sex—breeding. Stuffing you full. Watching you swell with his child. Claiming you so thoroughly there’s no doubt you’re his.

And poor Bruce?

At first, he’s pissed. Annoyed that Clark can’t keep his hands off you. Jealous, territorial, growling at him across the Watchtower when he sees the way Clark stares at you. But then—he sees what Clark is becoming. The way he trembles with restraint. The way his voice drops when he talks to you. The way he almost loses control when you so much as touch his arm.

And Bruce, being the dark, possessive bastard he is, starts to get off on it.

Because maybe he realizes that no one—not even an alien desperate to breed—can take better care of you than they can, together.

So… what does Bruce do?

He helps.

He pins you down while Clark fucks you full, whispering filth in your ear like,

“You feel how desperate he is? He needs to breed you, baby. Needs to put a baby in you. And I’m gonna make sure he does it right.”

He watches Clark pump into you over and over again, coaxing every drop of Kryptonian seed from him. Bruce kisses your tears away when it’s too much. He strokes your hair while Clark fills you again. And when Clark can’t stop shaking from how badly he needs you again, Bruce wraps an arm around your waist and murmurs,

“Let him. Let him do what he’s built for. You can take it, can’t you, pretty girl?”

And Clark—sweet, gentle Clark—whimpers through it all. Apologizing even as he holds you tighter, begging, “Let me put a baby in you, please—just need to—can’t stop—need you so bad.”

[niwaart]

DIFFERENT WORLD, DIFFERENT FAMILY

(Part1)... (part2)...

Tim felt… weird.

It wasn’t the usual kind of weird, like finding a new case file that didn’t add up or stumbling upon Damian’s latest sketchbook filled with disturbingly accurate battle wounds. No, this was different. This was Y/N.

Ever since she had appeared in their world, claiming to be Bruce’s wife from another reality, she had been hovering. Not in an intrusive way, but in a way that made Tim’s skin prickle with unease. She asked him questions, too many questions.

"Did you eat?"

"Are you sleeping enough?"

"You look tired, should I make you tea?"

And the worst part? She waited for him.

Tim wasn’t used to that.

In the Manor, Alfred was the one who took care of them, bandaged their wounds, and made sure they didn’t starve during late-night patrols. But Alfred’s care was routine, expected. Y/N’s attention was… personal.

Tonight was no different.

Tim had just dragged himself back from a grueling stakeout, his muscles aching, his mind buzzing with caffeine and exhaustion. The clock read 3:17 AM. The Manor was silent, save for the faint hum of the grandfather clock in the hall.

And yet—

"You’re back."

Tim nearly jumped out of his skin.

Y/N stood by the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp despite the late hour. A steaming bowl of soup sat on the counter beside her, the scent of ginger and herbs filling the air.

Tim blinked. "You... you waited up?"

She shrugged as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "You weren’t home. Of course, I did."

Something twisted in Tim’s chest.

He wasn’t used to this.

Damian Wayne was many things, observant, calculating, and very aware of when something was off.

And Y/N’s behavior? Definitely off.

She treated Tim like… like he was fragile. Like he might break if she didn’t watch him closely. It made Damian’s teeth grind.

At breakfast, she slid extra pancakes onto Tim’s plate.

When Tim yawned, she immediately asked if he needed rest.

And the way she looked at him—like she was seeing someone else.

Someone is gone.

Damian didn’t like it.

So he confronted her.

"You favor Drake."

Y/N paused mid-step in the hallway, turning to face Damian. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable.

She tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," Damian snapped. "You hover over him like he’s made of glass. You barely pay attention to me or Father... yet you act like Drake is the one who needs protecting."

Y/N’s expression flickered, something dark and wounded flashing in her eyes.

Damian didn’t miss it.

"...He died in my world," she said softly.

Damian stilled.

"The Joker killed him. And when he came back… he wasn’t the same." Her voice cracked. "So yes. I do hover. Because the thought of losing him again any version of him makes me sick."

Damian didn’t know what to say.

Bruce had been watching.

He had seen the way Y/N moved through the Manor—like she belonged there. The way she rearranged the paintings, the way she instinctively knew where everything was.

And the way she looked at Tim.

Now, standing in the Batcave, he finally asked the question burning in his mind.

"In your world… how did Tim die?"

Y/N’s hands clenched.

"The Joker..."

Bruce’s blood ran cold.

"And when he came back…?"

She looked away. "He came back wrong. Full of rage. Full of pain."

Bruce exhaled slowly.

No wonder she watched Tim like a ghost.

Tim found her in the library later that night.

Y/N was curled up in an armchair, an old photo album in her lap, photos taken by Alfred of the family. She was smiling with every picture.

He hesitated before sitting beside her.

"...You don’t have to worry about me, you know," he said quietly. Bruce told him about Tim in her world and what happened to him... like what happened to Jason.

Y/N smiled sadly. "I know."

A beat of silence.

"...But I’m going to anyway."

Tim didn’t argue.

For the first time in a long time… it didn’t feel so bad to be cared for.

#############################

Dick Grayson had heard rumors.

Not from Bruce... no, Bruce had been characteristically tight-lipped. Not from Alfred, who had only cryptically said, "The Manor has an unexpected guest." Not even from Tim, who had been weirdly evasive in his texts.

No, Dick had heard it from Damian.

And Damian never lied.

"Father’s wife is here. From another world."

Dick had nearly dropped his phone.

The clock struck 2:47 AM when Dick slipped through the Manor’s front door. He hadn’t announced his arrival, partly because he wanted to see this "otherworldly wife" for himself before jumping to conclusions, and partly because he really didn’t want to deal with Bruce’s inevitable interrogation.

The Manor was quiet. Too quiet.

No Damian lurking in the shadows. No Tim typing furiously in the study. No Alfred offering tea.

Just… silence.

And then—

"You’re not a burglar."

Dick spun around, escrima sticks already in hand, only to freeze.

A woman stood at the top of the staircase, arms crossed, watching him with an expression that was equal parts amusement.

She looked… not like what he expected, He expected someone who looked like one of the rich ladies in Gotham. Full of accessories and gold, shining from every angle... but that didn’t happen.

that made his chest ache with something he couldn’t name.

Motherly.

Dick lowered his weapons. "Uh. Hi?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You must be Dick."

His stomach flipped.

She knew his name.

Five minutes later, Dick found himself sitting at the kitchen island, a mug of hot chocolate pushed into his hands.

He stared at it.

"...Alfred never makes hot chocolate."

Y/N smirked. "That’s because Alfred doesn’t know it’s your favorite."

Dick’s fingers tightened around the mug.

How did she—

"You’re from another world," he said slowly, testing the words.

She nodded. "One where I’m married to Bruce. Where Damian is twenty-two, eldest son."

Dick’s breath caught.

"And… me?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N’s expression softened. "You’re twelve."

Dick choked on his drink. "Twelve?!"

She laughed... a warm, bright sound that filled the empty kitchen. "Yes. And you’re adorable. Always trying to prank me, always getting caught."

Dick didn’t know whether to be offended or touched.

Y/N studied him for a long moment before sighing.

"You’re taller here," she murmured. "Older. More tired."

Dick stiffened.

She reached out, hesitated, then gently brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.

"But you still have the same eyes."

Dick’s throat tightened.

He hadn’t had a mother in years.

A shadow appeared in the doorway.

Bruce.

Of course, he’d wake up.

Dick tensed, waiting for the inevitable "What are you doing here, Dick?" or "You should have called."

But Bruce just… looked at Y/N.

And Y/N looked back.

Something unspoken passed between them, something that made Dick feel like he was intruding on a moment he wasn’t meant to see.

Then Bruce sighed.

"...You made him hot chocolate."

Y/N smirked. "He looked like he needed it."

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dick, we’ll talk in the morning."

Dick grinned. "Sure thing, Dad."

Bruce’s eye twitched.

Y/N laughed.

@el-hrts @alishii @cuntiesweet @hjgdhghoe @sirenetheblogger @simpforlanzhan @anonymoustext

[brawberryz]

⎯⎯ㅤ Digital Girl

Batfam Yan! × Scene! Reader

| Platonic |

Note / English is not my first language / M.list

A / N | I don't know much about scenecore so this is just a very superficial view, if there are any mistakes please correct me (|||´Д｀) !!

TW / Yandere behavior, obsession, violence, toxic relationships, manipulation

Headcanon | How would they react to a scenecore batsis?

Character | Dick Grayson | Jason Todd | Tim Drake | Damian Wayne | Bruce Wayne

⎯ Bruce Wayne ★

He'd be surprised the first time.

Don't take this the wrong way, it's just...well, he's pretty new to all of this.

He tries to be an understanding father, but I feel like he'd be the kind of father who'd say it's all a phase; he just hopes this phase of yours doesn't last too long.

He's not a strict father (well, maybe a little, or maybe too much), but he wants you to understand that it's best for you.

He wouldn't like you to wear too many bracelets or bangles on your arms because he's afraid your skin would get irritated or leave marks.

He'd never forgive himself if something happened to his baby.

If you tried to dye your hair, his hair would be a big no-no.

He'd only let you dye your hair if you begged him all week and told him to let him choose the color and let him dye your hair.

There wouldn't be any problems with your way of dressing, although it would depend on how colorful and extravagant your outfits are.

Most of your family tends to wear dull, muted colors. You could only occasionally see Dick in a brightly colored shirt, but most preferred duller or less flashy colors.

That way, you'd definitely draw a lot of attention with your outfits.

If you two ever go to a gala, he WON'T let you dress like that. Look, he doesn't judge you (even if he does).

But he thinks you should find another, less flashy "style." He loves you the way you are, but sometimes he wishes you were as obedient as other young people.

He's afraid that at some point you'll become rebellious and escape his complete control.

He should, no, he needs to control everything about your life.

Even your style of clothing. He just wants you to be a normal child.

He knows how cruel the world is to people as different as you.

He's just in some kind of midlife crisis, and your teenage "rebellion" isn't helping much.

He'll get over it eventually

⎯ Dick Grayson ♥︎

He'd be the one who best handled this.

I get the idea that Dick also went through some emo or alt phase, so he's pretty understanding about this.

Most of your accessories, like bracelets and makeup, were bought or made by Dick.

He likes to sneakily create bracelets with his initials on them so others know who you are.

Even though he pretended to be a cool brother, he's just as possessive as the others.

Just because he was "nice" to you doesn't mean he won't manipulate you.

He'd take any opportunity to be around you.

Oh! You want to dye your hair? Don't worry, your brother Dick conveniently has the color you wanted!

You can dye your hair like him and match with him! He's the kind of guy who's very obsessed with your tastes.

He wants to be the best brother to you, so don't be scared because he's too intense.

Also, I think he'd listen to hyperpop just for you. It's not his type of music, but he'd just listen to it to spend time with you.

He's not the best, but at least he tries, umm...

⎯ Jason Todd ♣︎

He doesn't really care.

He'd be like,

"Oh, you're scene? Cool."

One of the things he'd be least bothered by is your clothing style or appearance.

I mean, as long as you don't do anything stupid, he wouldn't mind.

Although I think he'd buy hair dye in all sorts of colors and literally turn your hair into a fucking rainbow, just to piss off Bruce because he knows you're not allowed to dye your hair without Bruce's permission.

He'd kill anyone who dares say anything negative about you or make fun of how you dress.

He wouldn't allow any bastard to talk bad about his sister.

He'd listen to hyperpop while reading or doing some activity like reading or kicking criminals' asses. I think it would be pretty funny.

He'd probably only listen to it because you asked him to, but I think eventually he'd start to like that style of music, but he'd never say it out loud

⎯ Tim Drake ◆

He'll pretend he doesn't care, but he really cares.

I could say he's one of the most obsessive people; he knows everything about you.

Maybe he knows you better than you know yourself; he has a folder full of your interests or possible interests in a private file on his computer.

He'll spend hours on the internet searching for information about it. If he wants to get close to you, he has to be smart.

He's like a predator.

He analyzes his prey and then attacks.

I think his approach would be subtle. It has to be smart and not too aggressive. He doesn't want to scare you into thinking he's some kind of creepy guy (if he is).

I think he would start slowly, with small comments about your appearance.

"Oh! You look pretty nice today!" or "That shirt really matches your outfit!"

Then, make comments about your interests, and he'd start getting closer and closer to you. He's not like the others.

If he wants to have you in his hands, he'll have to do it slowly and calmly. He's very good at hiding his true intentions.

I think he'd spend hours trying to find the best hair dye for you. He doesn't want your hair damaged because you decided to buy a poor-quality one.

Also, if you want to take a picture, don't worry! He'll be your personal photographer.

He takes the best photos on your blog. He's always taking pictures of you secretly. I'm pretty sure he knows all your good sides.

The only reason he's interested in all of this is because of you.

He'll do anything to be near you, even if it means changing all his interests to match yours.

⎯ Damian Wayne ♣︎

He thinks it's ridiculous.

He'd make pretty offensive comments saying you look like a clown or some kind of Joker Jr.

He'd be the worst when it comes to this; he doesn't know what's so interesting about dressing like a walking rainbow.

Be prepared for the mockery and passive-aggressive comments (though they're more aggressive than passive).

Even if he'd eventually accept it, halfway.

Sure, he'd still think it's completely ridiculous and pathetic, but he'd only accept it because it's you (and deep down, he thinks some of your outfits are pretty cool).

But he still WON'T ALLOW anyone to make fun of the way you dress.

you still remember the time he got suspended for a week from school for hitting on a kid who said your way of dressing was stupid

He's the only one allowed to make fun of your ridiculous way of dressing.

Also, I think he'd be drawn to your bracelets and shoes, if you're the kind of people who wears those long shoes, I think he'd really like them.

He'd indirectly ask you to give him one of your bracelets because he thinks they're pretty. Maybe he'd give you some accessories like colorful belts or a hair accessory.

He'd really pay attention to your makeup; depending on how colorful or extravagant your makeup is, he'd like it.

He secretly listens to the music you recommend. No kidding, some of it is actually quite good, so he even put it on his playlist.

He's more or less supportive of all this. He's grateful that his jokes about your appearance have lessened.

Although he'll most likely continue to make jokes about your appearance when he gets bored of being a good person.

Hi, I'm back.

Sorry for not updating for so long. My health has been getting worse for weeks, and I've only recently recovered.

This is a late request, so I hope the anonymous person who requested this enjoys it.

I don't know when I'll update again because it's exam time and school is really giving me a hard time. Lolololol

[rainydaygotham]

Imagine “borrowing” the left glove of your man’s super suit for a bit while he’s napping and stitching a small band of embroidery thread around the ring finger. The thread is colored only slightly darker than the original color of the fabric. It was so inconspicuous that no one who wasn’t looking for it would notice. In fact, it takes your vigilante fiancé about a week to find it himself.

He has to do a little double take, momentarily forgetting what he was doing in favor of inspecting his hand. It’s not an accidental loose thread or anything, it’s an intentional alteration to his uniform, meant to be there. And it’s very clearly supposed to be a wedding ring, so he knows exactly how it got there. He just doesn’t know when. Oh, hopefully he hasn’t been oblivious to your handiwork for long. The thought of you thinking he knew about it and just didn’t care was agonizing. He cares, baby! He cares so much you wouldn’t believe.

It makes him giddy. You’ve marked him. What an adorable thing to do.

He was planning to get the ring tattooed onto his finger already, so he wouldn’t lose the real one out in his dangerous life of fighting crime. But even that would be under his gloves, invisible to anyone on the streets of the city. This, however, announced it loud and clear: sorry, but this vigilante is taken.

When he makes it back from the mission that night, he finds you lounging in your shared bedroom. You’re too engrossed in whatever you’re doing on your laptop to notice him creeping in yet, so he gets a moment to just admire you. To his delight, he recognizes the fabric that clings to your body as one of his shirts.

You finally realize he’s there, lookin’ like the cat who got the cream,

“Hey Babe, was it a good night?”

“You want to marry me~” he croons.

“We are literally engaged,” you shake your head in fake-exasperation.

“I found your little gift,” he gives you the clue to why he’s got hearts in his eyes.

“Oh,” your smile gets bigger, “that.. I take it you like it?”

He takes your head in his hands, thumbs gently brushing the tops of your cheeks, “it’s perfect,”

He presses a cute little kiss onto your nose. He laughs as you open your eyes and whine about having expected a real kiss. Well, he’ll just have to give you one of those too, then… or maybe a few…

[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.

[athenalvss]

TELEPATÍA (Bruce wayne !)

request: I own hc about the reader falling madly in love with Batman, and he also do but the problem is that she's not interested in Bruce Wayne more to not like him especially for his playboy persona.

summary: Bruce Wayne seems a little determined to win you over at each of the galas you share and that exasperates you, but you don't know that you are deeply in love with his secret version.

a/n: idk what I just write

pairing; Bruce wayne x hero! fem reader.

open request — batman masterlist

The first time you met Bruce was at one of the galas that the Gotham City elite had put on, and being part of it you were practically obliged to go if you didn't want to break business ties with some of them, and it was there where you met Bruce Wayne.

I mean, personally, cause who didn't know Bruce Wayne? The orphaned boy turned billionaire. The heir to one of Gotham's largest fortunes. The missing man who returned to live his life between parties, scandals, and magazine covers. They'd mentioned him to you before. "I'm sure you'll love him, he's so charming," "He has a magnetic presence," "He's fascinated by intelligent women..." But when you saw him in front of you, you only thought one thing: "How disgusting."

He arrived late, with that arrogant smile and that "the world belongs to me" air. The murmurs followed him like a shadow. He approached you with a drink in his hand, his tuxedo perfectly tailored, and a confidence that bordered on insolence.

"I didn't know Gotham's business included such interesting and beautiful women. Have we met?" he said, as if you were already exhausted.

You held his gaze without smiling. "If we'd met, believe me, you'd remember." And without further ado, you walked softly out of his sight, leaving him with the words on his lips.

From that moment on, you knew he was going to be a problem. Men have a hard time with acceptance, and he was no exception. Bruce Wayne wasn't used to being rejected. And you weren't a woman with much patience for people like him.

What you didn't know back then was that that arrogance hid someone much more like you than you cared to admit. The man who patrolled the city every night with you. The man you knew as Batman.

To you, Bruce Wayne is a symbol of frivolity and superficiality: parties, women, fake smiles. You believe there's nothing real about him; he was truly an idiot if he thought he could win you over even a little with Batman waiting for you every night.

So every time Bruce Wayne tries to flirt with you, it only makes you want to leave even more. Because if he knew who you share your early mornings with… If he knew who you truly give your time and trust to… You find it pathetic. You even feel a little sorry for him. cause there's nothing Bruce Wayne can give you that Batman hasn't already shown you…

The first time you met Batman was on one of Gotham's many dark nights. You had received information about an illegal shipment of experimental weapons arriving at the port.

You infiltrated alone. Silently. Precisely. Until everything went wrong. An ambush. Bigger bodies, more heavily armed. You were good, very good, but not immortal. When you thought it was the end, a shadow fell between you and the gunfire. Silence. Sharp blows. One movement after another. And when you were able to stand again, he was there: Dark. Tall. Utterly imposing.

"You shouldn't be here." His voice was deep, as if the city were speaking through him.

"Don't tell me what to do," you spat at him, furious that he hadn't anticipated the ambush.

Batman, your beloved Batman, a respectful, chivalrous, caring, protective man, should you follow the list? It had fascinated you from the very beginning.

You didn't know exactly when it started. Maybe it was the night he covered you with his cape when you were shivering from the cold on top of a building. Or the time he wordlessly left a clean bandage beside you after a fight. Or when, after a particularly tough mission, he just sat with you, staring out at the lights of Gotham, without saying a word.

Not knowing each other's true identities was a real mess, but you liked staying that way. There was a certain seduction game going on, and they enjoyed it that way, even though you could only see each other at night.

And when you joined the Justice League it was even cooler, you were able to meet people with the same ideals and ideas for a better world, and you could spend more time with your mysterious lover.

When you joined the Justice League, the rules were clear: No one knew anyone's civilian identities. No real names, no addresses, no pasts. It was for safety, but also out of respect. They were a team, not a family.

Well, that didn't really happen like that, maybe no one knew their real names or their faces, but it was inevitable not to create some kind of friendship, once after a gala night you returned to the watchtower and met some of the members of the league, including Batman, and you began to tell them the situation and your feelings for that man who was stalking you at the galas.

"I'm fed up," you said, slumping into one of the armchairs.

Wonder Woman raised an eyebrow, amused. "What happened to you this time, huh?"

"Bruce Wayne." You sighed, rolling your eyes. "That guy shows up at every gala, like he owns the city... which he does. But he's so... insufferable. He follows me around, smiles at me like he knows me. What does he think? That I'm going to fall for an expensive suit and a perfect smile?"

Superman laughed. "Why don't you give it a try? Maybe it won't be so bad."

"Four words Superman, he.is.a.Playboy."

And Batman sitting next to you just remained silent, as was usual when the league members were there, he had to maintain his serious image.

Everyone talked about their lives, but they had never talked about who they were, and perhaps they never knew, well... almost no one knew.

It was during an emergency meeting. A mistake on a mission nearly cost one of the members their life. And when Batman opened the information he'd stored, it revealed everything he knew: their names, their revealed faces, their abilities and weaknesses—enough information to destroy each member of the team.

That broke the League. The atmosphere in the room remained tense. The betrayal. Everyone looked at him. Some with anger. Others with disappointment, and you could only stand there with your heart in your hand. You had trusted him even without knowing who he was. Why had he done that?

And you... you could only stand there with your heart in your hand. You had trusted him. Batman. Without knowing his face, his name, his life outside the suit. You had trusted him more than anyone. You had fallen in love. And now... you knew he had spied on you, watched you, recorded you as if you were a threat.

"Why?" was all you could ask. Not as a hero. Not as a member of the League. But as someone who had just lost something too deep.

The silence was brutal. No one interrupted you. No one stood up for him. You didn't know if it was more the pain of betrayal... Or the pang in your chest that came with the certainty: he'd known who you were all along.

"I needed something safe. Something that could stop them if ever… if something bad happened." His voice was low but firm. "Someone has to think the worst, even if no one wants to. And if that means them hating me… I'm fine with that."

And without waiting for anything, he ran his hands through his hood and threw it to the ground before looking up, allowing the entire team to see his face.

You really saw him, you couldn't believe it. Bruce Wayne. The insufferable idiot at the galas. The one you thought could never understand you. The one who made you roll your eyes with every arrogant smirk...

One by one, the League members began to leave. He gave Bruce a look filled with unspoken words, and then simply nodded, as if that battle wasn't going to be fought there. And so, there was silence. Just him and you.

The silence between you grew even thicker. He took a step toward you, carefully, as if everything could still shatter with a single movement. You looked at him, at Bruce, at Batman. And it all felt too real.

"Do you know what hurts the most?" you said, your voice barely trembling. "That it was you all this time. That I looked you in the eyes, that we argued at those damn galas, that I told you things and you just stayed silent."

Before he could respond, you hit him. A sharp slap, not hateful, but with the full weight of frustration and pent-up betrayal. He didn't even flinch. He just nodded, his eyes lowered.

"I deserve it" he muttered.

"Of course you deserve it!" you responded angrily, but it was no longer pure anger... just that knot in your chest that unraveled into the words, "You made me fall in love with a version of you, and they were the same."

And then it happened. You grabbed him by the collar, pulled him close, and kissed him.

It was wild. Intense. Almost a declaration of war. And he responded as if he'd been waiting for this moment forever. Not like Batman. Like Bruce Wayne, like the man who loved you.

When they broke apart, they were so close they could feel each other's breath. And you smiled faintly. "I hate you a little."

"I can live with that," he said, with an awkward but genuine smile.

[dinodaweeb]

Come As You Are

Batman x Gn!reader

summary: batman accidentally befriends a weird probably illegal medic.

You first met the Batman behind your clinic at 2:41 AM on a Wednesday—prime Gotham bleeding hour.

You were sitting on an upturned milk crate, hoodie half-zipped, legs crossed, joint in hand, and a very serious conversation unfolding in your head about whether or not pigeons had mafia-style territory wars.

Then you heard a heavy thud.

You looked up just as a huge, black-masked figure dropped out of the sky and smashed into your alley like a dropped fridge. He rolled, staggered to one knee, and promptly collapsed against a dumpster.

“Huh,” you said, exhaling smoke. “You are, like… very much not okay.”

Batman didn’t respond. Just groaned.

You stood, cracking your back and padding over in your socks-and-slides combo. “Hey. Cape guy. You got a name, or do I just scream ‘Help, the bat’s dying’?”

“…Knife wound,” he muttered.

“Yeah, I figured. Most people don’t leak from the spleen area unless it’s knife-related. Or blender. You didn’t fight a blender, did you?”

He blinked at you.

You clicked your tongue. “That’s a shame. I think you could take a blender.”

You hauled him up—heavier than he looked, though it was probably all angst and armor—and half-dragged, half-walked him through the back door of your “clinic,” which was more of a glorified storage unit with a med fridge, a questionable license, and some very illegally acquired equipment.

He didn’t ask questions. You didn’t offer explanations.

You set him on the table, pulled off a pair of medical gloves with cartoon hot dogs on them, and said, “Okay, big guy. Shirt off. I gotta see the damage.”

He hesitated. Maybe modesty. Maybe suspicion.

“You’re literally pouring blood onto my floor right now,” you said. “I promise I’m not trying to sneak a peek. Mostly. I have no illusions about dating a cryptid.”

That got a twitch of the lips. Almost a smirk.

Fifteen minutes later, you were elbow-deep in disinfectant, stapling a nasty slice near his ribs while he sat completely still. Not stoic. Just eerily detached. Like he wasn’t in the room at all.

“You got the 100-yard stare thing going real strong,” you said casually. “You wanna blink, or are you spiritually projecting into the void again?”

“…I’m fine.”

“Sure,” you said. “Everyone who’s fine shows up bleeding into a strangers territory with three cracked ribs and enough bruises to qualify as abstract art.”

Silence. You shrugged.

“I get it. It’s Gotham. Everyone’s homosexual, hypocritical, or homicidal. Sometimes all three.”

When you finished wrapping him, you offered him water and the rest of your granola bar. He stared at both like they were foreign objects.

You waved the bar at him. “It’s almond. Not even expired.”

“Why are you helping me?” he finally asked.

You blinked. “Because you’re bleeding?”

“I don’t pay you.”

“Neither does Gotham General, and they steal my gauze.”

He squinted. “You’re not scared.”

“Nah. I’ve seen scarier things than you. Once treated a guy who tried to smuggle a raccoon in his chest cavity. Racoon lived. Guy didn’t.”

There was a long pause. Then—very faintly—Batman snorted.

After that night, he kept showing up.

Once with a dislocated shoulder. Another time with a split lip and eyes too tired for someone who supposedly never slept.

Each time, you patched him up without judgment. Played lo-fi beats in the background. Offered snacks. Sometimes weed. He always refused. Until he didn’t.

It was week four when you offered him a joint again, fully expecting the usual grunt and head shake. But instead, he stared at it.

Then, surprising even himself, he said, “…One hit.”

You blinked. “Whoa. You’re evolving.” You spoke as if he was your favorite Pokémon.

“You said it helps you… calm down.”

“It also makes me forget how vowels work,” you said. “But suree. Baby steps.”

You lit it for him. He took one drag. Coughing was immediate and violent.

You thumped his back gently. “Tough guy. Taken down drug rings, but can’t take down a single puff.”

“Shut up.”

Eventually, he started talking. Not all at once. Little things.

“This city doesn’t heal,” he muttered one night, watching you wrap a busted knuckle. “It just scabs over and bleeds again.”

What the actual fuck does that mean? Who knows. With bats around you find yourself being poetic along with him. Like Romero and Julian or whatever they call them.

You didn’t argue. Just pressed a Band-Aid with a smiley face over the wound. “Then we become experts at scab management.”

He gave you a look.

“What?” you said. “You think you’re poetic? I can be poetic.”

His silence was filled with random unnecessary comments like:

“I’m not good at… people.”

You handed him a juice box. “That’s okay. I’m not good at taxes.”

He looked down at the juice. Poked the straw in. Drank.

One night, after a particularly bad fight—ribs bruised, knuckles raw—he sat silently while you worked, flinching only when you applied antiseptic.

“You’re too gentle,” he said.

You looked up. “Too gentle?”

He didn’t meet your eyes. “You treat me like I’m not… dangerous.”

You tilted your head. “You are. But so’s a toaster in the bathtub. Doesn’t mean I’m scared of it if I know how to handle it.”

He blinked. “That’s… not comforting.”

You grinned. “Exactly.”

It got easier after that.

Sometimes he didn’t even need fixing. He’d just show up around 2 or 3 AM. You’d be halfway into a joint or a cereal box or a conspiracy theory documentary, and he’d slip in like a particularly dramatic roommate.

One night he brought takeout. Left it on the counter without a word.

“Look at you,” you teased. “Functioning socially.”

“I didn’t say it was for you.”

“Mmhm. I’m still eating your egg roll.”

He didn’t stop you.

And you?

You started noticing the little things.

How he always checked the perimeter before relaxing. How his shoulders stayed tense until you handed him something—food, weed, water, whatever. How he flinched less when you touched him now.

Once, you caught him staring. Not in a creepy way. Just… studying you.

You raised a brow. “See something you like, Bats?”

His jaw worked. He looked away. “You’re… hard to predict.”

You grinned. “That’s what the raccoon guy said. Right before the raccoon ate his finger.”

It wasn’t love. Not yet.

But it was something. Quiet and strange and uniquely Gotham. Two weirdos orbiting each other in the middle of a city that never stopped screaming.

And maybe—just maybe—finding something like peace.

[jellyfishsthings]

Yours, If You’ll Have Me

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: injuries

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

The cave was a cathedral of shadows and muted sounds. The steady drip of water, the hum of the servers, the rhythmic beeping of medical equipment – a symphony of solitude that usually calmed your frayed nerves. Tonight, however, the silence felt heavy, laden with the unspoken. Tonight, the air crackled with a tension so thick, you could taste it.

You knelt beside him, the cool metal of the medical tray digging into your knees. Bruce was a landscape of pain tonight. A roadmap of bruises painted across his skin, a testament to the brutal ballet he danced in the city's underbelly. He sat on the makeshift cot, his jaw clenched, his breath coming in shallow, controlled bursts. Every movement seemed to radiate a silent agony that mirrored your own.

He rarely spoke. He didn't need to. His eyes, those deep, haunted pools, told a story more eloquent than any words could convey. A story of loss, of duty, of a burden carried on shoulders far too broad. A story that resonated with a part of you usually kept buried, locked away in the deepest recesses of your heart.

You unwound the bandage roll, the sterile white a stark contrast against his bruised skin. Your hands, usually steady and efficient, trembled slightly. It wasn't the pressure of the task; You had tended to far worse wounds in far more precarious circumstances. It was him. It was always him.

The tension between us had been a low hum for years, a constant undercurrent beneath the surface of our shared existence. Respect, admiration, a deep and abiding friendship – these were the foundations on which our relationship was built. But beneath those solid pillars, something else simmered, a fragile, flickering flame that we both carefully guarded, afraid to let it burn too bright, afraid of what it might consume.

You began to wind the bandage around his ribs, each layer a silent promise of protection, of care. He winced as the pressure increased, his muscles tightening. You paused, your fingers hovering over his skin.

"Hang on, love," You murmured, the words escaping before you could censor them. It was a slip, a moment of unguarded tenderness, a phrase you used instinctively with those you held dear. You hadn't meant anything by it, not really. It was just… comfort.

But the effect was instantaneous, seismic.

The air in the cave seemed to thicken, to solidify around us. The sounds of the cave faded into a distant echo. He froze, his body rigid, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that stole your breath. It was as if you had struck him, not physically, but with the force of a truth long denied.

His eyes, usually veiled in a mask of carefully constructed stoicism, were now wide, vulnerable, searching. He looked at you as if he was seeing you for the first time, as if you had suddenly revealed a secret part of myself he never knew existed.

The silence stretched, taut and heavy with unspoken questions. The weight of years of suppressed emotions hung between us, tangible and suffocating. You felt the heat creep up your neck, your cheeks flushing under the intensity of his gaze. You wanted to look away, to break the connection, to pretend the words hadn't been uttered. But you couldn't. You were trapped, caught in the web of your own accidental honesty.

You finished bandaging him, your movements clumsy and uncertain. Each touch felt amplified, charged with a new and terrifying awareness. You secured the end of the bandage, your fingers brushing against his warm skin. You quickly recoiled, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Without a word, you gathered your supplies, your hands shaking so badly You nearly dropped the antiseptic bottle. You needed to escape, to put distance between us, to regain some semblance of control.

You turned to leave, your back to him, your hand reaching for the cold, unforgiving metal of the cave door. You could feel his eyes on me, burning into your skin, holding you captive even as you tried to flee.

"Wait."

The single word, spoken in a low, gravelly voice, stopped you in your tracks. You froze, your breath caught in your throat. You knew what was coming. You had known it for years, deep down. And now, the moment of reckoning had arrived.

You slowly turned back to face him, your heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. He was still sitting on the cot, his eyes fixed on yours , his expression unreadable.

"Do you mean it?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Or was it just something you say?"

The question hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. It was a plea, a desperate hope disguised as nonchalance. It was the question you had dreaded, the question you had secretly longed to hear.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dried. You met his gaze, your own eyes reflecting the turmoil raging within me. You searched for the right words, the words that would convey the depth of your feelings without exposing too much, without shattering the delicate balance we had maintained for so long.

But there were no perfect words. There was only the truth.

"I don't say that to just anyone," You said, your voice barely above a whisper.

The silence returned, but this time it was different. It was softer, less charged, filled with a fragile hope. You watched as a flicker of something – relief? Joy? – crossed his face, quickly masked but not entirely hidden.

He exhaled, a long, slow release of tension. He looked away for a moment, gathering his thoughts, composing himself. Then, he looked back at me, his eyes filled with a quiet intensity that made your knees weak.

"Then… I hope you'll keep saying it. To me."

The words were simple, unassuming, yet they carried the weight of a thousand unspoken desires, a thousand shared moments of quiet understanding. They were a hesitant invitation, a cautious step towards something new, something profound.

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your heart was too full, your emotions too raw. You simply nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement. But it was enough.

You turned and left the cave, leaving him alone with his pain, his demons, and the fragile hope that had just been ignited between us. As you walked away, you could still feel his gaze on your back, a silent promise, a shared secret.

The night was still dark, the city still plagued by shadows. But for the first time in a long time, a sliver of light had pierced the darkness, a tiny spark of hope in the long, lonely night. And you knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within your soul, that things would never be quite the same again. The weight of unspoken words had finally been lifted, replaced by the fragile promise of a future yet to be written, a future where perhaps, just perhaps, we could finally allow ourselves to say the things we had kept hidden for so long, to embrace the love that had always been there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the moment to finally ignite. And maybe, just maybe, find solace and strength in each other's arms.

[dollishmehrayan]

# “MRS. WAYNE I THINK THIS IS FOR YOU!” ── .✦ ( bruce wayne wife headcannons )

a/n: this was request by a anon (here) so yeah but anyways I Lowkey used to be OBSESSED with like batmom stories but like I genuinely then lost all care for liking anything bruce wayne but this might just like help me (jason todd girly converts into a batmom Stan😭) tags: (bruce wayne x fem!reader)

CHAOTIC HEADCANNONS ── .✦

“No, Bruce. That’s Not a Normal Thing to Do.”

You frequently have to remind him that billionaire habits don’t translate to normal life.

Bruce: “I thought I’d buy out the café you like so you wouldn’t have to wait in line.”

You: “Bruce, we’re just getting lattes. Calm down.”

The expensive car Dilemma: He’s tried picking you up in one of his expensive cars once, and you’ve never let him live it down.

“Bruce, we’re not running a car dealership we’re going to Target.”

Tech Mishaps: Bruce likes to show off his gadgets, but they always malfunction around you. Once, the Batcomputer locked him out because you accidentally spilled coffee near it. You took a picture of his shocked face and made it your phone wallpaper for weeks.

The Disastrous Cooking Attempts: Bruce insists he can cook. The truth? Alfred banned him from the kitchen after he tried to “surprise” you with pancakes and set the stovetop on fire.

“I’m Batman, but I can’t handle pancake batter.”

OVERPROTECTIVE HUSBAND™ ── .✦

He’ll interrogate any new friends you bring around like they’re suspects in a heist.

Bruce, shaking someone’s hand firmly: “And what do you do for a living?”

You, glaring: “Bruce, they’re not applying to join the Justice League.”

GOSSIP FINAL BOSS ── .✦

He pretends not to care about gossip, but he secretly listens to you rant about gala drama. Sometimes, he’ll even chime in with hilariously accurate observations.

You: “That woman was glaring at me all night.”

Bruce: “Because she kept seeing her husband looking at you’re instagram posts. Trust me, Alfred told me.”

ROMANTIC HCS ── .✦

Constant Gentleman Mode: Bruce is always opening doors for you, carrying your bags, or pulling out your chair. You tease him about being old-fashioned, but it’s clear he loves taking care of you.

Private Dance Lessons in the Manor: When you’re stressed, Bruce will put on some music in the empty ballroom and sweep you into an impromptu dance. He’s a surprisingly good dancer, but the way he looks at you mid-spin? That’s what makes your heart race.

Personal Love Notes: Bruce doesn’t text much, but he leaves little handwritten notes around the house.

“Don’t forget, you’re the best part of my day.”

“Coffee’s ready downstairs. So is your husband, who can’t stop thinking about you.”

The ‘I’m Watching You’ Look: At galas, Bruce can’t stop staring at you. When you catch him, he gives that little smirk that says, Yeah, you caught me, but I’m not sorry.

Soft Batman Moments: Even in the Batcave, he has moments where he’s just your Bruce. When he sees you waiting up for him late at night, he’ll silently take off his cowl, walk over, and hold you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Protective, but Not Controlling: He worries, of course, but he respects your independence. If you’re ever in trouble, though, the Bat is out faster than you can blink. “No one touches my wife.”

Gift Giving Expert: He puts serious thought into gifts. One time, he recreated your childhood bedroom in the manor when you were feeling homesick. “I just wanted you to feel at home,” he said, completely nonchalant.

The Morning Ritual: He wakes up early to watch you sleep for a few minutes (in the least creepy way possible) because it’s his quiet reminder of how lucky he is. When you stir awake, he presses a kiss to your forehead and whispers, “Good morning, love.”

Subtle Public Affection: In public, his affection is subtle—hand on the small of your back, thumb grazing your hand, or an almost imperceptible wink across the room. But behind closed doors? He’s all cuddles and kisses.

Always Puts You First: Whether it’s cutting a patrol short to spend time with you or risking everything to keep you safe, Bruce’s priority will always be you. “The city can wait. You can’t.”

MIX OF CHAOS AND ROMANCE ── .✦

When Bruce tries to be romantic but Alfred bringing him back to reality: Bruce, holding your hand: “You’re the light in my dark world.”

Alfred, walking in: “Sir, you said that to the last woman, too. Shall I fetch your script?”

You once jokingly wore a bat-symbol T-shirt to tease him. Bruce didn’t say anything, but later that week, he wore a matching shirt that said, “I <3 My Wife.”

[seleneprince]

Superdaddy issues🦸‍♂️ Groupchat on a normal day

(Bruce Wayne's daughter chat)

Something dumb I made during class lol

The neglected kids of the JL having their chaotic groupchat where they complain about their families and ocasionally exchange tips on how to get rid of bodies

Well, of human sized things. They don't actually kill people...usually

@coldilikeit, because you seemed interested 💖

[bimbovicc]

ugh i would LOVE to read more about bruce x clark x reader and the kryptonian breeding season if you ever wanna write more about that

#KRYPTONIAN BREEDING SEASON HCs ˎˊ˗

Bruce Wayne x Clark Kent x fem!Reader 🩷 ── .✦

a/n : okay sooo like… i literally cannot stop thinking about bruce and clark absolutely wrecking me during kryptonian breeding season like??? one’s all cold and calculated and the other one is just a feral puppy in heat and i’m the dumb little thing stuck between them crying and begging and full of everything they wanna give me… like oops!! guess i was made to be their perfect lil cumdump. this is for my fellow needy girlies who love getting bred stupid and filled over n over until they can’t walk and don’t even remember their name — just “daddy” and “sir.” be safe, be hydrated, and don’t trust clark when he says “just one more” because HE’S LYING 🤥 mwahhh enjoy the mess!! 🩷

ᯓ★ The moment Clark’s breeding season starts, you can feel it in the air. Clark’s body runs hotter, his touches linger longer, and he starts growling under his breath whenever another man looks at you—even Bruce.

ᯓ★ He becomes insatiable. We’re talking multiple times a day, desperate humping against your thighs in the morning, needing you on your hands and knees before you’ve even had coffee.

ᯓ★ His favorite position during his “breeding season” ? Bent-over mating press or from behind with your knees tucked under you—anything where he can press his weight into you, knot himself deep, and stay there.

ᯓ★ Clark marks you with his scent constantly—nuzzling your neck, rubbing your inner thighs, licking your chest—and gets irrationally possessive when it starts to fade.

ᯓ★ Bruce pretends he’s above it. He even scoffs when Clark starts his “breeding season” —until he sees you dripping and trembling from being bred nonstop.

ᯓ★ That’s when the switch flips. Suddenly, he’s in front of you while Clark fucks you, holding your jaw and making you look up at him while he fucks your mouth.

ᯓ★ He talks dirty in your ear while Clark’s breeding you, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise:

“He’s going to fuck a baby into you. Do you want that? One from both of us?”

ᯓ★ He won’t let Clark have you all to himself. Bruce insists on taking your mouth or ass while Clark has your pussy. Double stuffing is standard during breeding season.

ᯓ★ Bruce never loses composure, but the way he clenches his jaw and grunts when he spills inside you? That’s his version of falling apart.

ᯓ★ They don’t fight over you—they share you. Clark fucks to breed; Bruce fucks to claim.

ᯓ★ They put you in heat-like states just from overstimulation: pinned between both of them, cock-drunk, messy, and mumbling about wanting their babies while one holds your legs open and the other fills you to the brim.

ᯓ★ They make you cum over and over just to ensure your body is “ready to receive”—Bruce with slow, cruel fingers on your clit, Clark rutting in and out like an animal until your thighs shake.

ᯓ★ The aftercare is almost worse: Clark’s kissing your belly, talking about “how many he thinks took,” while Bruce presses a hand over your full cunt to keep everything inside.

“Don’t waste a drop. You’re ours.”

[niwaart]

Bruce: You are not a mother to my children.

Dick *sharp inhale and worried look *

Damian *shakes his head in disappointment towards his father.*

Jason *who looked up from his book excited for what was about to happen.*

Tim *who spits out his coffee while choking and at the same time trying to process what Bruce said.*

Batmom*Who didn't hesitate to blow up all of Bruce's cars in the garage, break Bruce's jaw, give Jason Bruce's bank card, buy weapons for Damian, buy an expensive house for Dick and put Bruce in charge of the rent, make Bruce do all the company work for Tim, put Tim on a five-year leave from work, and Alfred on a ten-year leave. Who's going to do the housework? It's Bruce, of course. And the night patrols? Banned until further notice.*

[myadagoat22]

BAT AND SUPERFAMILY OUTING PART5

Warning: word count 3000+, SMUT, fluff, and honestly Bruce is warning

The house was its usual Saturday chaos.

“Where’s my hoodie? The one with the Superman logo!” Duke called, half-dressed and standing in the hallway like the world was ending.

“It’s in the laundry room where you left it,” Jon said, already fully dressed and trying to look like he had it all together—except his socks didn’t match.

Clark, always patient, crouched beside Duke to help with his sneakers. “You sure you want the Superman one?” he asked with a grin. “Might get us kicked out for showing off.”

Duke rolled his eyes. “Dad.”

Jon laughed. “He’s not wrong though.”

Meanwhile, in the master bedroom, Bruce was buttoning up his dark shirt while watching Y/N try to wrangle her hair into something photogenic. “You know,” he murmured, stepping behind her, “if you wear that lip gloss again, I’m not going to make it to Top Golf without getting us banned for public indecency.”

Y/N smirked in the mirror. “Promises, promises.”

Behind them, Stephanie passed by the doorway, phone in hand. “Can we not flirt within six feet of me? This is a family outing, not a CW drama.”

Jason walked past after her, still half-asleep. “What’s a Top Golf?” he mumbled.

Connor shouted from downstairs, “It’s like golf but with food. And chaos.”

Damien appeared in full black, of course. “If there’s not a leaderboard, what’s the point?”

Tim, carrying a backpack that probably had at least one book and three snacks, muttered, “This is why we never go anywhere on time.”

At Top Golf

By the time they got there, the energy was buzzing.

Clark was helping Jon adjust his swing. “Elbows loose. You're hitting like you’re fighting Doomsday, not a golf ball.”

“I am fighting a golf ball,” Jon said. “It’s winning.”

Bruce stood behind Y/N, hand lightly on her waist as he guided her stance. “You’re aiming too far right,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. “Let me fix that.”

She gave him a side-eye but didn’t move away. “This better not be another excuse to grab my waist.”

“Can’t it be both?”

Meanwhile, Duke and Connor are arguing about the aim while Damien tries to calculate the wind speed with his phone. Dick was texting Starfire, laughing quietly, while Stephanie recorded a TikTok with Jason photobombing in the back.

Tim, surprisingly good at this, hit the ball with ease and immediately went back to his book.

“Dad!” Jon yelled, pointing to Bruce. “He just kissed Mom on the cheek after she missed the shot!”

Clark, lining up his own swing, smirked. “That’s her reward system.”

Y/N added, “I only get kisses if I’m terrible at golf?”

“You get more if you're great at it,” Bruce said.

Clark added, “And if you beat me, we’re getting ice cream and back massages.”

“Just back massages?” y/n asked with a smirk.

“God, I want to take you both to that VIP booth,” Bruce said with heart eyes.

Clark replied “You need dinner before dessert”

Ride Home

The ride home was sleepy, full of chatter and low music. Damien was reading something on his phone. Stephanie had her headphones in. Dick and Connor were laughing at some inside joke. Jason had passed out, again.

Duke leaned against Clark’s shoulder in the backseat, still buzzing from the day. “That was fun.”

“I told you,” Clark said softly, carding a hand through his curls. “Sometimes it’s good to take a break.”

Jon, riding shotgun, looked back at them. “Can we do it again next weekend?”

Bruce glanced at Y/N, who smiled. “We’ll see if your homework’s done.”

“Lame.”

“Necessary,” she replied.

As the SUV pulled into the driveway, Bruce put the car in park and glanced over at Y/N. “You looked good out there.”

“Yeah?” she teased. “You like watching me miss shots?”

Clark leaned in from the back. “He just liked having a reason to keep his hand on your waist all night.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Like you didn’t wrap your arms around me every time I needed help with my swing.”

Bruce hummed low in his throat. “I might need help with something later tonight…”

Clark just smiled. “Only if I get to go first.”

Y/N looked between them, amused, flattered, and maybe a little flushed. “Boys, we just got home. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Goodnights & Glances

Back at home, the house dimmed and quieted like it was finally exhaling. The chaos of Top Golf was replaced by the hush of bedtime routines and sleepy footsteps padding across wood floors.

Dick was perched on his bed, legs crossed and grinning down at his phone. [Text to Starfire] Dick: Had fun today. Wish you were here. Call me tomorrow. He sent it with a soft smile, then clicked his lamp off and curled into bed, content.

Across the hall, Stephanie was going through her extensive skincare routine, brushing her hair in rhythmic strokes, music low on her Bluetooth speaker. “Glow-up starts at bedtime,” she whispered to herself like a mantra. She winked at her reflection before turning off the light.

Jason? Already out cold. He’d faceplanted into bed fully dressed, Top Golf wristband still on. A small snore escaped him as he sprawled starfish-style across the mattress.

Tim was in bed, propped up on pillows with a book in one hand and a highlighter in the other. Occasionally, he’d underline something, the glow from his reading lamp painting soft shadows on his face. Focused. Peaceful. Probably hours from sleep.

Connor had kicked off his shoes and flopped on his bed, YouTube playing on his phone as he scrolled half-watching some random science channel. “Huh,” he murmured, learning how volcanoes worked. “Cool.”

Damien, to no one’s surprise, was already asleep. He had gone to bed straight after his post-dinner chess game with Tim, tucked in military-style and absolutely motionless like sleep was a mission he refused to fail.

Down the hall, Jon and Duke were finally knocked out too—curled up under Star Wars sheets, empty water cups on their nightstands, remnants of the sugar rush now just gentle breathing. Duke muttered something about “laser tag rematch,” and Jon snored softly in reply.

In the Living Room

Clark was sprawled on the couch, legs outstretched, sipping what was left of his wine. Bruce leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Y/N move through the room as she tidied up abandoned sweaters and dropped socks—every movement was calm, intimate like it belonged only in this hour of the night.

“Kids are finally down,” she said, voice soft and satisfied.

Bruce smirked. “I thought Duke was going to start climbing the walls at one point.”

Clark chuckled. “He tried to wrestle me and Jon during teeth-brushing.”

Y/N smiled and plopped between them on the couch, drawing her knees up. “I love them. But man... bedtime feels like a boss level.”

Clark’s arm slipped around her shoulders, pulling her close. “You handled it like a champ.”

Bruce moved to sit on her other side, his hand finding hers. “We make a good team.”

The air warmed a little—not because of the wine, not because of the hour—but because they all knew what this was. Quiet. Safe. The kind of peace that comes after noise and love and effort.

Y/N leaned her head against Bruce’s shoulder, fingers brushing Clark’s thigh. “I really love nights like this.”

Bruce hummed, leaning down to kiss her temple.

Clark kissed her other cheek. “It’s only 10:45. The night’s still young.”

She turned her head, glancing between the two of them, a small, knowing smile creeping across her lips.

And somewhere down the hall, one of the kids snored like a freight train.

The Real fun

Bruce closed the door softly behind him, a predatory glint in his dark eyes as he turned to face his lovers. "Alone at last," he purred, reaching out to pull Y/N into his arms. His lips claimed hers in a searing kiss, tongue delving deep to taste her.

She melted against him, hands fisting in his tailored shirt as he dominated her mouth. Clark pressed up behind her, big hands smoothing over her curves possessively. "Hey there, beautiful," he rumbled, nuzzling into her neck. "Did you have fun today?"

"Mmmm, not as much fun as I'm about to have now," Y/N moaned, grinding her ass back against his prominent bulge. Bruce chuckled, fingers slipping under her shirt to tease the sensitive skin of her stomach.

"Greedy little slut," he taunted playfully. "Always so eager for our cocks." He cupped her breasts, thumbs stroking over her nipples through the thin fabric of her bra. They pebbled instantly, aching for his touch.

Clark reached around to undo her jeans, shoving them down her thighs along with her panties. Cool air hit her heated flesh, making her shiver. "Fuck, she's already so wet," he groaned, fingers delving between her slick folds.

"Let's get these clothes off her," Bruce commanded. They worked in tandem to strip her bare, leaving her exposed and wanting between their hard bodies. Her husband knelt before her, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her mound.

"So pretty," he breathed against her skin. "All pink and swollen for us." He lapped at her slit, tongue circling her clit. She whimpered, threading her fingers through his hair.

Bruce rose to claim her mouth again, plunging his tongue between her lips so she could taste herself on him. His hands roamed her body as Clark moved behind her, grinding his erection against the cleft of her ass.

"Look at you, so desperate for our dicks," Bruce growled approvingly. "Bend her over the bed, Clark. Let's give her what she needs."

Clark obeyed eagerly, bending Y/N at the waist and exposing her dripping cunt to Bruce's hungry gaze. "Gonna fuck this sweet pussy so good," he promised, giving her ass a sharp smack. She yelped at the sting, feeling herself grow even wetter.

Bruce knelt behind her, large hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "Keep those legs spread for me, slut," he ordered. "Gonna ruin you on my cock."

He notched the thick head at her entrance, rubbing it through her folds. She moaned, trying to push back onto him. But he held her steady, teasing her mercilessly.

"Please Bruce," she whined desperately. "I need it."

"Since you asked so nicely," he smirked. With one hard thrust, he sheathes himself to the hilt, her cunt stretching obscenely around his girth. She cried out at the sudden invasion, nails scrabbling at the sheets.

"That's it, take it," he snarled, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. He set a brutal pace, pounding into her with deep, driving thrusts that made her tits bounce.

Clark took advantage of her open mouth, shoving his fingers inside to fuck her throat. She gagged around them, tears leaking from her eyes. He just grinned down at her, tweaking her nipples roughly.

"Our little cumslut, so eager to be used," he taunted. "Bruce is going to fill this pussy up so good."

"Fuck, she's so tight," Bruce grits out, pistoning his hips faster. "Gonna pump her full of my seed, breed this needy cunt."

"Yes, please!" Y/N wailed, pleasure overwhelming her. Her thighs began to tremble, walls fluttering around Bruce's plundering cock.

"That's it, cum on my dick," he growled, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave marks. "Squirt all over me like a good little whore."

Her orgasm crashed over her then, back bowing as she screamed. Bruce snarled, slamming into her one last time before emptying himself deep inside her spasming pussy. She could feel his hot cum painting her insides, marking her as his.

Clark pulled his fingers from her mouth, replacing them with his thick cock. She sucked him down greedily, still twitching through the aftershocks. He fucked her face hard and fast, using her mouth like a cheap fleshlight.

"Gonna cum down your throat," he grunted, balls tightening. "Swallow it all like a good girl."

With a guttural moan, he spills himself on her tongue. She gulps it down, licking him clean when he's finished. He pets her hair approvingly.

"There's my perfect little cocksleeve," he praises. "So good for us."

Bruce pulls out of her still fluttering pussy with a wet squelch, come dribbling down her thighs. He gives her ass a parting smack before sprawling on the bed.

"Come here, you insatiable whore," he beckons, cock already starting to stir again at the sight of her debauched and dripping with their seed. "We're just getting started."

Clark chuckles darkly, dragging her up the bed to straddle Bruce's lap. "That's right baby, we're going to ruin you for anyone else," he promises, positioning his own rehardened cock at her messy entrance. "Now ride us like the filthy little cock addict you are."

Bruce's eyes darken with lust as he watches Y/N ride Clark's cock, her full tits bouncing hypnotically with each thrust. He reaches out to squeeze the heavy globes, thumbs flicking over the stiff peaks.

"Fuck, look at you, taking him so deep," he groans appreciatively. "Our little cumslut, always so eager for dick."

Clark smirks down at her, hands gripping her hips bruisingly tight. "She's fucking insatiable," he agrees, slamming up into her hard enough to rock her. "Can't get enough of our cocks."

Bruce leans in to capture her lips in a filthy kiss, tongue delving into her mouth to taste himself on her. "I'm going to wreck this tight little ass next," he promises darkly when he pulls back. "Stretch you out on my fat cock until you're screaming for mercy."

She moans wantonly at the threat, clenching around Clark's pistoning length. He grunts, fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to leave bruises.

"C'mon slut, cum on my dick," he snarls, angling his hips to hit that magic spot inside her with every thrust. "Milk me dry with this greedy cunt."

Bruce moves behind Clark then, pressing against his back and reaching around to stroke his own cock in time with Clark's deep thrusts into Y/N's pussy. "Look at how good you fuck her," he praises, nipping at Clark's ear. "Such a dirty slut for our cocks."

Clark shudders, head falling back onto Bruce's shoulder. Bruce takes advantage, licking and sucking at the column of his throat. "Wanna taste you," he rumbles, voice rough with need. "Wanna suck your dick until you flood my mouth with cum."

Clark makes a strangled noise, hips stuttering. "Fuck yes," he groans, voice strained. "Want your filthy mouth on me."

Bruce smirks, giving his neck one last hard suck before dropping to his knees behind him. He grabs Clark's ass, spreading the firm cheeks to expose his tight pink hole.

"Gonna eat this ass until you're begging for my cock," he promises darkly, leaning in to drag the flat of his tongue over the furled muscle. Clark jerks, hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets.

"Oh fuck," he moans, fingers fisting in the bedding. "Just like that."

Bruce chuckles, blowing a cool stream of air over the wet skin. He laps at the quivering hole with broad strokes of his tongue, saliva dripping down to the pool at Clark's balls. The lewd sounds of his mouth working fill the room, punctuated by Clark's increasingly desperate moans.

"Please Bruce," he begs shamelessly, trying to push back onto the insistent tongue. "More, I need more."

Bruce obliges, sealing his lips around the tight ring of muscle and sucking hard. Clark howls, thighs trembling as he fights the urge to cum from the intense sensation. She can feel him pulsing inside her, so close to the edge.

"That's it, open up for me," Bruce coaxes, tongue spearing into Clark's hot, clenching hole. He fucks into him with filthy slurps and groans, spits dripping down his chin.

"Gonna wreck this ass," he growls when he finally pulls back, leaving Clark gaping and twitching. He rises to his knees, lining his thick cock up with Clark's slick hole.

"Beg for it," he demands, rubbing the broad head over the fluttering muscle. "Beg me to split you open on my dick."

Clark whimpers, head thrashing on the pillow. "Please Bruce," he sobs, trying to push back onto the tempting length. "Please fuck me, I need it so bad. Need you to ruin me."

Bruce smirks, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "Since you asked so nicely." With one brutal thrust, he sheathes himself to the hilt in Clark's ass, making him scream.

"Fuck yes," he snarls, setting a punishing pace. The bed creaks beneath them as he pounds into Clark's willing body. She can feel every powerful snap of his hips through the thick wall of Clark's cock still buried inside her.

Clark is mindless with pleasure, head thrown back and eyes rolling wildly in his head. He claws at the sheets, babbling brokenly as Bruce fucks him into oblivion.

"Take it slut," Bruce growls, one hand wrapping around Clark's throat possessively. "Gonna fill this ass with my cum."

"Please," Clark chokes out, voice hoarse from screaming. "Cum in me, mark me."

Bruce snarls, hips stuttering as his orgasm overtakes him. He slams into Clark one last time before stilling, buried to the hilt in his spasming hole. Clark keens high in his throat, his cock jerking inside Y/N as he's flooded with heat.

She comes with a ragged cry, pussy clamping down on Clark like a vice. He moans brokenly as she milks him for every last drop, hips grinding into her as he fills her up.

When it's over, Bruce pulls out of Clark's messy hole with a wet pop. He reaches down to scoop some of the pearly fluid leaking out of Clark's used hole, pushing it past his stretched rim. "Look how well you took my cock," he croons approvingly, gathering more come and feeding it to Clark. "Such a good little slut for us."

Clark licks his lips submissively, eyes glazed with pleasure. "Thank you," he slurs, still floating on his high. "I'm yours."

Bruce pets his hair tenderly, the other hand reaching around to stroke Y/N's sensitive clit. She whimpers, still so sensitive from her multiple orgasms.

"There's my good girl," he praises, fingers circling the swollen nub lightly. "Took both our cocks so well."

Clark nuzzles into Y/N's neck, peppering the sweat-slick skin with soft kisses. "So perfect for us," he agrees hoarsely. "Our filthy little cumslut."

She moans weakly, hips twitching as Bruce continues his relentless teasing. She's not sure she has another orgasm in her after that mind-blowing session, but her body doesn't seem to care.

"Gonna make you cum again," Bruce promises darkly, adding a second finger to rub mercilessly at her G-spot. "Gonna have you squirting all over Clark's cock like a good little slut."

She mewls brokenly as he works her towards another peak, thighs beginning to quiver. Clark licks and sucks at her breasts, rolling the stiff peaks between his teeth until she's writhing.

When her third climax hits, it's almost painful in its intensity. She screams hoarsely as liquid gushes from her cunt, soaking Clark's softening cock and balls. They moan at the sensation, continuing to stroke her quivering body as she rides out the aftershocks.

When it's over, she collapses against the bed in a boneless heap, completely spent. Bruce and Clark arrange themselves around her, strong arms and legs twining together to cage her in their heat.

"Rest now, sweetheart," Bruce murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "We'll take care of you."

She hums contentedly, nuzzling into Clark's chest as he brushes damp hair back from her sweaty face. In this moment, surrounded by their love and their scent, she's never felt more complete.

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤEVERY INCH IN THAT SUITㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : He Looks Good In His Thight Suit, So Why Not Just Fuck Him?

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

☆⁠ WARNINGS : NSFW, MINORS DNI, Daddy kink, breeding kink, rough sex, degradation, overstimulation, unprotected sex, a lil bit gun play, blow job, choking, spitting, slapping, riding, power play.

☆⁠ NOTES : Damian is an adult. And yes we have an adult version of Damian who is still Robin and wear a Robin suit. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

The cave’s damp air clings to your skin as you stumble in, heels clicking against the stone floor, your breath hitching at the sight of him. Bruce stands there, the suit clinging to every muscle like it was poured over him. The cowl’s still on, those white slits glaring at you, and fuck, it’s doing things to you—your thighs clench just looking at him. He’s fresh off patrol, chest heaving, a thin sheen of sweat making the black Kevlar gleam under the dim lights. Gotham’s knight, your goddamn ruin.

“You shouldn’t be down here, sweetheart,” he growls, voice low and modulated through the mask, but you hear the edge—raw, hungry, barely restrained. He steps forward, boots thudding heavy, and you’re already wet, practically dripping down your thighs because fuck, it’s Bruce, and he’s looking at you like prey.

“Don’t care,” you breathe, bold and stupid, stepping closer ‘til you’re in his shadow. “Needed to see you, Daddy.”

That word—Daddy—hits him like a punch. His head tilts, cowl shifting slightly, and you swear you hear a sharp intake of breath under that mask. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, little girl,” he rasps, gloved hand flexing at his side, and you grin, all teeth and heat, because you want him.

“Then punish me,” you whisper, reaching out to drag your fingers down the bat emblem, feeling the hard planes of his chest. “Show me what happens when I’m bad.”

He snaps. One second you’re standing, the next he’s got you slammed against the Batcomputer console, the cold metal biting into your ass as he looms over you, massive and unyielding. “You wanna be a brat for Daddy?” he snarls, ripping your skirt up with one brutal yank, exposing your soaked panties. “Gonna regret that, sweetheart.”

You whimper, and he’s already tearing the lace off—gloved fingers rough, calloused through the fabric, shoving between your legs. “Fuckin’ drenched,” he mutters, sliding two fingers into your cunt without warning, stretching you open while you arch and gasp. “This all for me? Huh? My needy little slut, soakin’ herself for me?”

“Yes—Daddy—just for you,” you moan, hips bucking into his hand, and he growls, pumping harder, curling those thick digits ‘til your vision blurs. The suit’s rubbing against your thighs, coarse and unforgiving, and it’s filthy—he’s filthy—still stinking of smoke and adrenaline, fucking you with his gloves on.

He pulls his fingers out, slick and glistening, and smears your mess across your lips before shoving them into your mouth. “Taste yourself,” he orders, and you suck, desperate, gagging around the leather while he watches, those white slits narrowing. “Good girl. Daddy’s gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t walk, ‘til you’re full of me.”

You whine, and he’s unbuckling the lower half of the suit—just enough to free his cock, thick and heavy, dripping pre-cum like he’s been hard for hours.

He grabs your throat with one gloved hand, squeezing just enough to make you dizzy, and lines himself up, the fat head of his cock nudging your entrance. “Beg for it,” he demands, voice a gravelly snarl, and you’re too far gone to care how pathetic you sound.

“Please, Daddy, fuck me—breed me—fill me up, I need it,” you plead, voice breaking, and that’s all it takes. He thrusts in hard, splitting you open, the stretch burning as he bottoms out in one brutal stroke. You scream, nails clawing at the suit, and he doesn’t wait—starts pounding you, relentless, the console rattling with every slam.

“Fuckin’ take it,” he grunts, hips snapping, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the cave. “Gonna stuff this tight little cunt—make you mine, princess.” The glove on your throat tightens, cutting your air just enough to make your head spin, and you’re sobbing, legs shaking as he fucks you raw—Bruce's cock wrecking you, the suit chafing your inner thighs red.

He leans down, cowl brushing your cheek, and the modulator makes him sound obscene. “You want Daddy’s cum? Want me to breed you ‘til you’re dripping, ‘til you’re swollen with it?” he growls, and you nod, frantic, clenching around him like you’re trying to milk him dry.

“Yes—fuck, yes, Daddy, fill me up, please,” you gasp, and he shifts, hoisting your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half under him. The angle’s insane—his cock hits so deep you feel it in your guts, and you’re screaming, cumming so hard your whole body locks up, gushing around him while he keeps going, fucking you through it ‘til you’re a trembling, overstimulated mess.

“That’s it, cum on Daddy’s cock,” he snarls, pace turning feral, and you feel him swell, twitching inside you. “Gonna pump you full—gonna make you my little breeding bitch.” He slams in one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and cums with a guttural roar—hot, thick spurts flooding your cunt, spilling out around his dick as he keeps thrusting, forcing it deeper, marking you inside.

You’re a wreck—pussy throbbing, leaking his cum down your thighs, the suit’s rough edges still digging into your skin—and he doesn’t stop. He pulls out just to flip you over, bending you across the console face-down, ass up, and shoves back in, fucking his cum into you like he’s trying to make damn sure it sticks. “Not done,” he growls, gloved hands bruising your hips. “Gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t think, ‘til all you know is my cock.”

You’re whimpering, incoherent—“Too much, Daddy, fuck”—but he doesn’t care, keeps railing you ‘til your knees buckle, ‘til you’re drooling on the keyboard, another orgasm ripping through you so hard you black out for a second. He’s relentless, a machine, the suit creaking with every thrust, and when he cums again, it’s a flood—dripping down your legs, pooling on the floor, a nasty, freaky mess that only Bruce could leave behind.

Finally, he slows, breathing ragged through the modulator, and pulls you back against his chest—the suit cold and hard, his cock still twitching inside you. “Such a good girl for Daddy,” he murmurs, softer now, gloved hand stroking your hair as you tremble, fucked-out and full. He doesn’t take the cowl off, just tilts your chin up to kiss you—lips rough against yours, tasting of sweat and sin.

“Mine,” he growls, possessive, and you feel it—his cum leaking out, the ache settling in, the way he’s claimed you. You’re his, alright—Daddy’s little breeding toy, fucked stupid in the heart of his cave.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

The Blüdhaven night’s alive with neon and grime, and you’re perched on a rooftop, waiting for him—Nightwing, the city’s golden boy turned reckless tease. You’ve been playing this game too long: flirting over comms, brushing hands during stakeouts, until he finally snapped last week and fucked you senseless in an alley. Now, he’s late, and you’re antsy—legs dangling over the edge, heartbeat ticking up—when you hear that familiar whistle, cocky and bright.

“Miss me, babe?” he calls, flipping down from a higher ledge, landing in a crouch that shows off every damn line of that skin-tight Nightwing suit. The black and blue clings to him like a second skin, outlining his broad shoulders, tight ass, and the bulge you’ve been dreaming about all day. He straightens, grinning—those white lenses glinting in the dark—and saunters over, all swagger and mischief. “Caught you waiting. That’s cute.”

“Caught you staring,” you fire back, smirking, and he laughs—bright, infectious—before he’s on you, fast as a blur. One gloved hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up, and he kisses you like he’s been dying for it—hot, messy, a little sloppy with how eager he is. His tongue’s in your mouth instantly, tasting you, teasing, and you can feel him grinning against your lips. “Fuck, you taste good,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to nip your bottom lip, eyes twinkling behind the mask.

Dick’s playful, needy, and oh-so-fucking horny. He spins you around, pressing you chest-first against a rusted billboard frame, and you feel the hard planes of his suit grind against your ass. “Been thinking about this all patrol,” he groans, hands sliding down your sides, gripping your hips as he rocks into you. “You in my head, driving me nuts—gonna make you pay for it, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t waste time—fingers deft and quick, peeling your pants down just enough to bare you to the night air. The suit’s rough against your skin, textured where it brushes your thighs, and you hear him fumble with the hidden zipper at his crotch, freeing that gorgeous cock—long, thick, already leaking for you. “Look at you, all ready for me,” he teases, smacking your ass lightly, playfully, before dragging the tip through your slick folds. “So fucking wet—bet you’ve been thinking about me pounding you, huh?”

“Shut up and do it,” you snap, half-laughing, half-desperate, and he chuckles—low and dirty—before sinking in, slow at first, letting you feel every inch stretch you open. “Oh, fuck, yes,” he moans, head tipping back, suit creaking as he bottoms out, balls snug against you. He doesn’t go brutal like Bruce—he’s all rhythm, hips rolling smooth and deep, fucking you with a grin you can hear. “That’s my girl—taking me so good.”

He’s a talker—won’t shut up even as he picks up the pace, slamming into you now, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with the city’s hum. “Goddamn, this pussy’s perfect—gonna dream about this later,” he pants, one hand slipping around to rub your clit with those clever fingers, the gloves slick and cool against your heat. You moan—loud, shameless—and he laughs again, delighted. “Yeah, let me hear you, babe—scream for Nightwing.”

He’s relentless but fun—grabbing your hair to pull you back just enough to kiss your neck, sucking bruises there while he fucks you harder, the suit’s edges scraping your skin in the best way. “Wanna flip you over—see that pretty face when you cum,” he says, and before you can blink, he’s spinning you, lifting you like you weigh nothing—acrobat strength on full display. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, pinning you against the billboard, and thrusts back in, grinning like a kid who stole the candy jar.

“Fuck—Dick—” you gasp, and he winks—those lenses flashing—driving deeper, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. “That’s it, say my name—gonna make you lose it,” he promises, voice husky now, less playful, more feral. His fingers circle your clit faster, and you’re done—cumming hard, clenching around him, crying out as your whole body shakes. He groans, watching you fall apart, “So fucking hot—love it when you squeeze me like that.”

He’s close—hips stuttering, grip tightening—and he pulls you flush against him, suit rubbing your tits raw as he chases it. “Where do you want me, huh? Tell me quick,” he pants, and you smirk, breathless—“On me, all over me.” That’s his cue—he pulls out, stroking himself fast, and cums with a loud, “Fuck, yes—” painting your stomach, your thighs, even catching your chin with hot, thick ropes. He’s grinning, chest heaving, swiping a finger through it and popping it in his mouth like a goddamn tease. “Tastes better with you.”

You’re a mess—panting, covered in him—and he’s still got that cheeky spark, tugging you close, kissing you soft now, all lazy and satisfied. “Round two back at my place?” he murmurs, tucking himself back into the suit, adjusting the escrima sticks on his back like he didn’t just fuck you stupid. “Got a bed with your name on it—and maybe some handcuffs.”

“Lead the way, Grayson,” you say, and he scoops you up—half-carrying, half-dragging—already plotting the next way he’ll wreck you.

— JASON TODD ⋆

The safehouse reeks of gunpowder and copper when Jason kicks the door open, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. He’s a fucking mess—blood streaked across his Red Hood helmet, leather jacket torn at the shoulder, crimson dripping down his gloves from a night of cracking skulls. The guns strapped to his thighs clink with every step, and he’s still riding that adrenaline high, chest heaving, muscles coiled tight. He wasn’t expecting you here—not tonight—but there you are, sprawled on his shitty mattress, fingers buried deep in your own cunt, moaning his name like a prayer.

“Fuck me,” he rasps, voice distorted through the modulator, low and guttural as he freezes in the doorway. His helmet tilts, taking in the sight—your legs spread wide, pussy glistening, eyes half-lidded with lust. You don’t even flinch, just keep fucking yourself, smirking like you knew he’d walk in like this. “Couldn’t wait, huh, you needy little slut?” he growls, kicking the door shut with a bang, already shrugging off the jacket but leaving the holsters on—guns and all.

“Jason—” you whimper, fingers slowing, and he’s on you in a flash, still bloody, still armored, grabbing your wrist and yanking your hand away. “Oh no, you don’t get to stop now,” he snarls, smearing your slick over his glove as he shoves your thighs apart wider, the cold metal of his gauntlets biting your skin. “You wanted me, you’re fuckin’ getting me.” His free hand rips at his belt, pulling his cock out—thick, hard, tip already leaking—and you barely get a breath before he’s hauling you up by your hair, forcing you onto your knees.

“Open that pretty mouth,” he orders, voice rough as gravel, and when you do—lips parting, tongue out—he doesn’t wait. He grabs one of his guns from the holster, still warm from the fight, and presses the barrel to your temple, cold steel kissing your skin. “You like this, don’t you? My dirty fuckin’ girl,” he taunts, smearing blood from his glove across your cheek as he shoves his cock past your lips, deep and brutal, hitting the back of your throat ‘til you gag.

He’s feral—nothing gentle, nothing soft—just pure, unfiltered Jason. His hips snap forward, fucking your face like it’s a goddamn mission, the wet choke of your throat filling the room as he grips your hair tighter, pulling ‘til your scalp stings. “That’s it—take it, choke on me,” he groans, modulator crackling with his ragged breaths, the helmet’s red glow casting shadows over your tear-streaked face. The gun stays steady, a fucked-up promise—he won’t pull the trigger, but the threat’s got your cunt dripping, thighs clenching as he uses you.

“Fuck, you’re a sight—drooling all over my dick,” he mutters, yanking you off with a wet pop, strings of spit hanging between your lips and his cock. He doesn’t give you time to recover—just drags you up by the hair, spinning you around, and shoves you face-first into the mattress. “Ass up, now,” he barks, smacking your thigh hard enough to leave a welt, and you scramble to obey, pussy throbbing, aching for him.

He doesn’t bother stripping—keeps the helmet on, the leather creaking, blood still tacky on his hands as he lines up, slamming into you with one vicious thrust. You scream, the stretch burning, and he laughs—dark, filthy—grabbing the gun again and pressing it to your lower back. “Move, baby—fuck yourself on me,” he growls, but he’s already pounding, hips slamming so hard the bed shakes, his cock splitting you open, hitting deep and relentless.

“Jason—fuck—too much—” you gasp, but he just pulls your hair ‘til your back arches, forcing you to take more, the gun sliding up your spine, cold and dangerous. “Too much? Nah, you can take it—you were begging for it with your fingers in that slutty little cunt,” he snarls, voice dripping with lust and menace. Blood smears on your skin where he grips you, and the helmet’s modulator makes every grunt sound inhuman, primal—fucking you like an animal fresh from the hunt.

He leans over, chest plate digging into your back, and bites your shoulder through the suit—teeth scraping, bruising. “Gonna mark you up—let everyone know who owns this pussy,” he rasps, thrusting harder, the gun now tracing your jawline as he reaches around, shoving two bloody fingers into your mouth. “Suck ‘em clean, c’mon,” he demands, and you do—tasting iron and him, moaning around them while he fucks you into the mattress.

You’re close—too close—clenching tight around him, and he feels it, growling, “Cum for me, you filthy bitch—let me feel it.” The gun presses harder, his pace turning sloppy, brutal, and when you shatter—screaming, gushing all over his cock—he doesn’t slow down, just keeps railing you, chasing his own end. “Fuck—gonna fill you up,” he grunts, yanking your head back one last time as he cums, hot and thick, spilling deep inside you ‘til it’s leaking out around him.

He pulls out, panting, helmet still on, and smacks your ass one more time for good measure, leaving a bloody handprint. “Stay there—look at that mess,” he says, voice low and smug, watching his cum drip down your thighs. He drags the gun barrel through it, smearing it over your skin, then leans close—modulator crackling—“Next time, I’m fucking you with this loaded.”

You’re wrecked, trembling, and he’s already holstering the gun, adjusting his jacket like he didn’t just destroy you. “Clean up, princess,” he tosses over his shoulder, but the way he lingers by the door says he’s not done—not by a long shot. Red Hood doesn’t play nice, and you’re his favorite fucking toy.

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

The Wayne Manor study is a damn fortress—dark wood, flickering lamplight, and Damian hunched over a desk littered with maps and case files, looking like he’s about to murder someone. He’s in that stupidly hot Robin tunic—green and red clinging to his lean frame, mask off, black hair mussed from running his hands through it too many times. You’ve been pacing behind him for twenty minutes, thighs rubbing together, pussy throbbing, because he promised he’d fuck you hours ago and now he’s buried in work like some self-righteous little bitch.

“Damian,” you snap, voice dripping with heat, leaning over his shoulder so your tits brush his back. “Put the damn papers down and fuck me already.” He doesn’t even flinch—just keeps scribbling, muttering something about “Gotham’s safety” like you give a shit. “Beloved, I’m occupied,” he says, all clipped and cold, that posh accent making your blood boil hotter. Occupied? Oh, fuck that.

You grab his chair, spin it around so fast he drops his pen, and he’s glaring up at you—emerald eyes sharp, jaw tight, all that bratty defiance he’s so damn good at. “I said I’m busy,” he growls, but his hands twitch, like he’s fighting not to grab you, and you clock it—he’s hard under those tights, bulge straining like a liar’s promise. “Busy being a little bitch,” you spit back, and before he can snap, you slap him—hard—right across that pretty face. His head jerks, cheek blooming red, and his eyes widen, stunned, then darken with something feral.

“You—” he starts, but you don’t let him finish. You climb onto his lap, straddling him, yanking his head back by his hair ‘til he’s forced to look at you. “Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, grinding down on that thick, trapped cock, feeling it twitch under you. “You don’t get to play martyr while I’m soaking wet and dying for it.” He groans—low, broken—and you smirk, spitting right into his open mouth. He chokes, swallowing it, and you see it: the moment he cracks, pride crumbling, lust taking over.

“Fuck, you’re disgusting,” he rasps, but his hands are on your hips now, gripping tight, and you know you’ve got him. “Yeah, and you love it,” you taunt, ripping your shirt off, letting your tits spill out, nipples hard and begging. His eyes lock on them, hungry, and you slap him again—lighter this time, playful, but it still stings. “Eyes up here, asshole,” you say, spitting again—this time on his cheek, watching it drip down as he shudders, cock jumping against you.

You don’t bother with his tunic—just shove the tights down enough to free that gorgeous dick—long, veiny, leaking precum like he’s been aching as bad as you. “Gonna ride you ‘til you cry,” you promise, lining him up, and he snarls—“Try it, harlot”—but it’s all bravado, because when you sink down, taking him in one brutal drop, he moans like a fucking virgin, head tipping back, throat bared. “Oh—fuck—” he gasps, and you laugh, nasty and loud, starting to bounce.

You ride him hard—hips slamming down, pussy clenching tight around him, wet and messy, soaking his lap. The chair creaks, threatening to collapse, and you don’t care—let it break, let the whole damn manor hear. “Look at you,” you pant, grabbing his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. “All that big talk, and you’re just my little fucktoy now.” He growls, but it’s weak, hips bucking up to meet you, desperate, and you spit into his mouth again—harder this time. “Swallow it,” you order, and he does, choking, eyes glassy with need.

Your pace is relentless—grinding, bouncing, thighs burning as you fuck him stupid. His hands claw at your ass, your tits, everywhere, and you slap them away, pinning his wrists above his head. “No touching,” you snarl, and he whines—actually whines—struggling but loving it, cock pulsing inside you. “Please—fuck—beloved—” he begs, voice cracking, and you grin, feral, leaning down to bite his lip ‘til it bleeds, licking it clean while you ride him faster.

“Thought you were too busy,” you mock, spitting on his chest now, rubbing it into the Robin emblem with your fingers. “Too good for this pussy—guess you’re not, huh?” He’s a mess—sweat-slick, bloody-lipped, moaning your name like a prayer—and you feel him throb, close, so you slow down, dragging it out ‘til he’s thrashing under you. “No—no, don’t stop—” he pleads, and you slap him again, sharp and loud. “You don’t tell me what to do,” you growl, picking up speed, riding him so hard the desk rattles.

“Gonna cum for me, Dami?” you purr, clenching tight, and he nods, frantic—“Yes—fuck, yes—” You feel it building, that tight, hot coil in your gut, and you spit one last time—right on his tongue—as you slam down, cumming hard, screaming his name as your pussy milks him dry. He breaks—crying out, hips jerking, spilling deep inside you, hot and thick, shuddering through it ‘til he’s whimpering, wrecked.

You don’t stop—keep riding, slow and mean, overstimulating him ‘til he’s squirming, gasping, “Too much—fuck—” but you just laugh, grinding ‘til he’s twitching, cum leaking out around his cock, staining his tights. “Should’ve fucked me sooner,” you say, climbing off, leaving him slumped, panting, a sweaty, bloody mess in that chair—work forgotten, pride gone, just your perfect, ruined boy.

“Next time,” you warn, wiping your spit-slick hand on his tunic, “don’t make me wait.” He looks up, dazed, lips swollen, and mumbles, “Never again,” voice hoarse, and you know he means it.

— MASTERLIST ☆

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

[w0rmss]

Bruce wayne walking in on reader using hairbrush as a microphone and belting breakup songs whilst theyre happily dating?

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Tw none

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Bruce was starting to get concerned. You'd been at it for hours. Playing break up songs on full blast in the bedroom, he could hear them clearly from his office every word and every sad little fake sob you mad as you sang along.

He thought you guys were happy together. A year three months and fourteen days. He kept count to nearly the minute to make sure he didn't miss your anniversary or special milestones. So why were you in the bedroom singing your heart out to stitches.

Hed cut down on batman hours for you. Made sure he was home for dinner at least five nights a week. He bought you your favourite things as little gift all the time. But now jere he was questioning what he'd done wrong.

Finally he got up and walked to the bedroom. Slowly he twisted the handle and opened the door. One he did he found you standing hair brush in hand in your pj's and fluffy socks acting out a dramatic sing song. You practically screaming the word.

Bruce let's out a laugh causing your to stop mind sentence. "Bruce." You smile and run over half slipping on the wood floor. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. "How long have you been there." You grin and play with the collar of his shirt.

"Not long. I thought I'd come check on you as you were." You pauses and gestures to where your phone had moved onto drivers license now. You tilt your head and laugh. "Oh noo I was just having some fun and got carried away. We're fine." You turn his face to you. "I promise bruce."

You lean in and kiss him gently. His lips instantly move against yours. His hands find your back and he pulls you in more. "I love you." You smile your forehead against his. He smiles pecking your lips. "I love you too.

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Have a wonderful day night afternoon etc

[c1nnam00n]

me seeing that my fav character barely/doesn’t have any fanfics OR imagines