ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSTRAP ONㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱
☆ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader
☆ HEADCANON : What if you ask if you can peg them?
☆ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Terry McGinnis, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.
☆ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
You ask him in bed one night, very nonchalant.
He freezes. Like full reboot. The Bat-OS is updating. Bruce.exe has stopped responding.
“You heard me. I think I deserve it.”
He stares. Silently. A slow blink. His jaw clenches, like he's negotiating peace with an international terrorist. You see the flicker in his eyes—he’s considering it, and that terrifies him more than anything.
But then he comes back for more. Doesn’t say it out loud. Just lies face-down on the bed like a Greek tragedy and says:
“Don’t talk. Just… do it.”
And you never let him forget it. You slap his ass and he growls like a wild animal. Gotham’s protector? Pegged by his princess.
You bring it up during foreplay, and his eyes sparkle.
“You wanna what??? …Wait, really? Is that like—hot for you?”
He’s immediately into it. Like too into it. He starts googling positions, stretches, prep routines.
“Do we need a safe word? What’s the etiquette here? Should I make a playlist?”
When the moment comes? He’s spread out like a centerfold, full trust, full glutes.
“I feel so vulnerable. Is this how girls feel all the time??? God, it’s kinda hot—”
He moans so loud. Like theater-level drama. Neighbors can hear. Batfam knows. And Dick? He’s glowing for a week.
“So when’s round two, babe?”
You say it casually while he's cleaning guns.
“Let me peg you sometime.”
He chokes. Gun clatters. You hit a nerve.
He’s mad. Flustered. Pacing. But also blushing. And you notice the way he starts testing the waters—
“If I said yes… hypothetically… would that make me less of a man?”
You just pat his cheek like, “No, baby. It makes you a brave man.”
He glares. And then, eventually, agrees. But he makes it a war zone. He's gripping the headboard, growling like you’re in a gladiator fight.
“You better own it, then. I want bruises, I want pain—do it like you mean it!”
Afterward, he lies there like he got hit by a truck. Whispers:
You immediately text the group chat: “Guess who just got wrecked by me.”
You hit him with it after a sparring match, while he’s sweaty and happy.
“Can I peg you sometime?”
But he’s curious. You see the gears turning. He starts reading medical journals. Watches porn on mute. The ego battles the intrigue.
One night, he corners you like:
“If you must dominate me… you’ll have to earn it.”
Treats it like a duel. He makes you work for it. Grapples. Resistance. Eye contact like a wolf. But when it finally happens?
He groans. Face buried in the pillow. Tries to act composed, but he’s trembling.
“This… is merely… a power experiment.”
Lies. He loves it. But he’ll never admit it. Until he randomly buys you new gear and says:
“This model is superior. More efficient. Less friction. I did… research.”
You ask Terry during post-sex pillow talk. He’s already panting, sweaty, pupils dilated.
“Babe… what if next time I hit it?”
“You mean like… role reversal?”
“No, Terry. I mean I peg you.”
Visibly panics. Short circuits. But his toxic trait? He’s a curious little freak.
He’ll act all alpha, but that man grew up on internet forums and old Batman archives. He’s been exposed. He’s thought about it.
“Okay. Okay. I mean… I’m not against it. But like, do I—do I have to do the… arch thing?”
By the time you’ve got him moaning into the mattress, he's lost all higher brain function. Tries to talk tough:
“T-This doesn’t c-change... the fact I’m still B-Batman…”
“Mmhm. Say that again while I hit that spot.”
After everything, cuddly. A little emotionally destroyed. Always asks shyly afterward:
“So... wanna do it again next week?”
So Barry's in the chair, coding. You lean over and whisper it in his ear like it's nothing:
He doesn’t even look up. Just slowly removes his glasses.
“I was wondering when you’d ask.”
“Baby, I can’t walk, but I can take it. Now help me out of these pants.”
This man is confident and freaky. He guides you through. You’re the one sweating and stammering while he talks dirty.
“Mmm, harder. You call that topping? C’mon, use that core strength.”
Afterward he lays there smug mocking you.
“Good job. You get a gold star. Wanna go again or do I have to manspread harder?”
You say it during your usual makeout, biting his ear:
“Wanna be my pretty little baby?”
Cassian doesn’t speak much. But his eyes go wide. And the blush? It climbs his ears.
At first, he shakes his head—too shy. But a week later, you find him laid out on the bed. On his stomach. Ass up.
Doesn’t say a word. Just… offers himself.
And he’s so sensitive. Bites his knuckle, whimpers through every motion. Has his whole face buried in a pillow, fists clenched, body twitching.
“You’re doing so well, baby…”
Nods frantically. Tries not to cry from how good it feels.
After? Curled into your arms, completely limp, like you just possessed his soul.
You barely finish the sentence:
And he’s ALREADY stripping.
“YES. PLEASE. I WANNA TRY IT. DO I LOOK GOOD LIKE THIS? DO YOU WANT ME TO SHAVE?? I HAVE CANDLES???”
He’s bouncing. Wagging his tail. Sends you like 10 Etsy links for strap-ons. Makes a mood playlist. Packs snacks.
In the bedroom? Drama. Theatrics. Noise.
He’s moaning like a porn star. Gripping the sheets. Begging.
“I’m your good boy! I’m your little toy! Use me, mommy, pleaaaase!”
You have to put a pillow over his mouth because he’s SCREAMING. And afterward, he wants cuddles and tells all his friends:
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