#absolute!bruce

Mr. Fix-It ♡ Bruce Wayne

content WARNING. Absolute!Bruce × Bimbo!Reader, based n this request HERE!

Her bubblegum-pink convertible sat stalled in the middle of the street, its engine coughing like a chain-smoker before giving up entirely. The hood was popped, steam curling into the air, and Y/N stood beside it, her sunglasses perched atop her head. She pouted, hands on her hips, muttering, “Oh, come on, Betsy, you’re supposed to be my good girl,” to the car as if it could hear her.

Crime Alley wasn’t just any street—it was the pulsing vein of Gotham’s underbelly, where junkies and gangbangers prowled, and the air smelled of burnt rubber and desperation. Y/N’s car had chosen the worst possible spot to die: right in front of a construction site where a half-finished community center stood, its skeletal frame of steel beams and concrete slabs looming like a forgotten promise.

Bruce hauled a toolbox toward his beat-up truck, ready to finish and call it a day. He spotted the pink convertible first, then Y/N. His work boots thudded against the pavement as he approached, his faded shirt stretched tight across his broad chest, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms thick as steel cables, scarred from years of street fights and shop accidents. His dark hair was mussed, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, and his jaw was set in a hard line.

“Hey,” he called, “you can’t park here. This is a construction zone. Move it before someone tows it.”

Y/N spun around, her platform heels clicking, and her big eyes widened as they landed on Bruce. Her pout deepened, glossy lips puckering as she clasped her hands together.

“Oh nooo, I’m not parked, I swear! Betsy, she just… died!” Her voice was high, a little exaggerated, but her eyes flicked over him with distress. “I didn’t mean to block anything, promise! I just… I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed.

Oh boy, this girl really had no clue.

So he had to get her out of here before trouble found her.

Crime Alley wasn’t kind to shiny things like her.

He stepped closer, towering over her petite frame, and glanced at the car.

“Betsy, huh?” he muttered, setting his toolbox down with a heavy clunk. “Let me take a look. But you need to stay alert—this isn’t a safe place to be stranded.”

Y/N nodded, twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she leaned against the car, watching him.

“You’re, like, so sweet for helping! I was totally freaking out.”

She tilted her head, her gaze lingering on the way his shoulders flexed as he bent over the engine, his massive hands moving with surprising precision.

The man was a mountain—broad, solid, and intimidatingly huge, his fingers deftly probing the car’s innards like he’d built it himself. Scars crisscrossed his knuckles, and a faint smudge of grease streaked his cheek, adding to the ruggedness that made her heart skip.

She bit her lip, fanning herself lightly with one hand despite the cool air.

“Wow, you’re, like… really good with your hands,” she said, then giggled, as if catching herself.

Bruce grunted, not looking up, focused on the engine.

The problem was obvious, a loose battery cable corroded from neglect. He grabbed a wrench from his toolbox, his biceps bulging as he tightened the connection, muscles rippling under the flannel.

“It’s just a cable,” he said. “You’re lucky it’s not the alternator.” He wiped his hands on a rag, slammed the hood shut, and turned to her, his towering frame casting a shadow over her petite one. “Try it now.”

Y/N scurried to the driver’s seat, her heels clicking, and turned the key. The engine roared to life, and she squealed, clapping her hands.

“Oh my gosh, you’re a genius! Betsy’s back!”

She hopped out, her skirt swishing, and before Bruce could react, she closed the distance between them, her small hands reaching up to grip his biceps. They were rock-hard, massive, like grabbing onto a steel beam, and she froze for a split second, her breath catching.

Up close, he was even more overwhelming—his chest was a wall of pure hard muscle.

Her cheeks flushed pinker than her outfit.

“You’re, like… wow. Really big. And super hot,” she blurted, then giggled nervously.

Before Bruce could respond, Y/N stood on her tiptoes, her glossy lips pressing a quick, soft kiss to his cheek. The scent of her strawberry lip gloss lingered, and her fingers squeezed his biceps one last time, marvelling at their size.

“Thank you, Mr. Fix-It,” she purred.

Bruce froze, the kiss leaving a faint, sticky warmth on his cheek. Something stirred in his chest, cutting through the constant simmer of anger and grief that defined him. He brushed it off, shoving the feeling down like he always did, and cleared his throat.

“Just… be safe,” he said. “Don’t stop in places like this. Get where you’re going, and get there quick.”

He stepped back, grabbing his toolbox, his massive frame already turning toward his truck, but his eyes lingered on her for a moment, waiting for her to be safe inside her car.

Y/N tilted her head, still smiling, and climbed into her car. “I will, promise! Thanks again, big guy!”

Summary: Short parts of the life of Absolute Spidergirl and her life as a young single mother.

This is like a second part of this one shot, but you can read this without a problem.

Warnings: use of she/her. If you haven't read the Absolute Batman comic yet, then there will be spoilers, I don't know how many but I recommend reading all the chapters of the comic to not be caught off guard.

Author's notes: I wrote about this character like two almost three months ago, so, now I finally read the last chapter of absolute batman I wanted to continue about her life.

Banner made by me!

BIG TOUGH SOFTIE ♡ Bruce Wayne . . . maybe bringing her massive bf to a girls’ night at her friend’s house causes a little bit of jealousy and very intimate questions.

: ♥︎ content WARNING : Absolute!Bruce × Reader, size difference/kink, teasing, suggestive comments, alcohol.

: ♥︎ doll notie note . . . can’t stop thinking abt absolute Bruce and his hugeeeee muscles yummmmm

Y/N was buzzing with excitement as she tugged Bruce toward a brownstone in one of Gotham’s less decrepit neighborhoods. The party was at her friend Sarah’s place. It was a girls’ night, a late gathering of wine, laughter, and gossip, but Bruce had insisted on coming along.

“It’s too late for you to be out alone,” he’d said firmly despite her protests that she’d be fine.

Y/N had relented, secretly thrilled to show him off.

The living room was packed with five women—Sarah, Clarie, and three others, all sprawled on couches and floor cushions. Bruce was the only man in a sea of women, and his presence impossible to ignore. His broad shoulders seemed to take up half the room, his scarred hands dwarfing the wine glass he held with surprising care. The women had welcomed him warmly, though their eyes lingered, wide with curiosity at the sheer size of him next to Y/N.

Y/N stuck close to him at first, her hand on his arm. The group chatted about work drama, and the latest Gotham gossip. Bruce was quiet, but Y/N’s friends teased gently about her “construction worker boyfriend,” and her cheeks burned as she leaned into him.

An hour in, the wine ran low, and Sarah groaned dramatically, holding up an empty bottle.

“We’re out already?” she said, pouting. “This is a crisis!”

Bruce stood, the couch creaking as his weight lifted, and offered a small smile. “I’ll grab some more,” he said, his voice a low growl that made the room hush for a moment. “There’s a store around the corner.”

radiator ♡ bruce wayne

: ♥︎ summary : After a chilly shopping trip, Y/N rushes home and dives straight into bed with Bruce, burrowing into his massive body for heat.

: ♥︎ content WARNING : Absolute!Bruce × Bimbo!Reader, size difference references, body worship, light teasing and flirtation.

: ♥︎ doll notie note . . . LITTLE SM! Sorry I’m not as active as I used to, I’m trying. Alsooo thank u for the 2k!

Y/N shoved the apartment door shut with her hip and shoulder, three glittery shopping bags banging against her leg as the lock clicked. The hallway smelled like pine needles and cinnamon from the little tree she’d bullied Bruce into letting her put up last week, but none of that registered. All she felt was cold (bone deep, teeth-chattering, #GothaminDecembercold). Even the faux-fur coat and cashmere gloves hadn’t stood a chance against the wind whipping down Crime Alley.

“F-f-fuck this city,” she muttered, kicking off her heeled boots. They landed somewhere with a clatter. Coat next—flung over the back of the couch like it had personally offended her. Scarf, hat, sweater, leggings; everything came off in a frantic, shivering striptease until she was down to nothing but pale-pink boyshorts and the fuzzy socks with little candy canes on them. Goosebumps raced over her arms, her thighs, everywhere. She padded toward the bedroom, arms crossed tight under her chest, teeth still clicking. The door was cracked open and warm light spilled out. And there he was.

Bruce was already home (miracle of miracles), sprawled across their bed like a sleeping bear who’d decided shirts were optional. He was in nothing but black boxer briefs, one thick arm tucked behind his head, the other scrolling lazily on his phone. The lamp painted gold across miles of muscle: his broad chest dusted with dark hair, rising and falling with each deep breath; the deep cut of his obliques that tapered into powerful hips; that soft-solid belly she secretly loved because it meant he actually ate the sugary pancakes she made on Sundays. He was massive—towering even while lying down, his frame built like a fortress of corded muscle from years of brutal training, easily twice her size in bulk and strength. His skin radiated heat like a damn furnace, promising the kind of enveloping warmth that made her feel safe. Her mouth actually watered. Forget hot chocolate; this was the only thing that was going to thaw her out.

She didn’t say a word—just dove.

Bruce’s phone clattered to the nightstand a second before his freezing girl landed on him like a very determined cat. Y/N burrowed straight into the middle of his chest, knees tucking on either side of his ribs, face shoving under his jaw. The contrast was ridiculous; her icy nose against the furnace of his throat, her frosted fingers sliding greedily over the warm, unyielding slabs of his pecs, feeling the firm give of muscle under her touch, so solid that her hands seemed comically small against him. He was like a living wall of heat and power; his body enveloping hers effortlessly, the sheer size difference making her feel protected, her frame swallowed up by his massive build. She loved it, the way his biceps flexed slightly as he held her, each one thicker than her thigh. His skin was velvet smooth over iron hard muscle, warm and slightly rough from the day's stubble and scars, smelling of faint sawdust, clean sweat, and that masculine scent that always made her knees weak.

“Jesus, doll,” he rumbled, his huge arms coming around her automatically, palms sweeping up her bare back. Those hands spanned nearly her entire waist, making her shiver not from cold but from the thrill of being so completely held by him. “You’re a damn popsicle.”

“Shhh, no talking, only radiator mode,” she mumbled into his skin, lips brushing the hollow beneath his ear. She could feel his heartbeat thumping like a drum against her cheek, could taste the salt on his neck as she pressed a kiss there. “If you move even an inch I’m gonna die of hypothermia and haunt you.”

Bruce huffed a low laugh that vibrated through her whole body, the deep resonance of it echoing in her chest like a cozy rumble. “Pretty sure that’s not how hypothermia works, baby.”

“Don’t care. New rule. You’re not allowed to be cold or leave this spot until further notice.” She wiggled closer, sliding her frozen toes between his calves. He hissed but didn’t pull away; instead he hooked one heavy thigh over hers, trapping her against him—the weight of his leg alone pinning her deliciously, his muscular quad flexing against her softer skin, emphasizing how small she was next to his hulking form. His hand started long, slow strokes from her shoulder blades to the dip of her spine, then back up again. Every pass left heat blooming under her skin, his touch firm yet tender, the warmth seeping into her like sunlight on frost.

“Rough day fighting capitalism?” he teased, mouth against her temple.

“Victoria’s Secret had a line out the door and some lady tried to steal the last satin bow teddy in my size. I almost committed a felony for you, Bruce Wayne.” She nuzzled harder into his neck, breathing him in, her fingers tracing the defined valleys between his muscles, revelling in how his body felt like a heated, unbreakable shield around her. She adored this about him, the way his immense size and strength made her feel utterly secure, like nothing in the world could touch her while wrapped in his arms. “Also, I hate winter. I take it back. I’m moving to the Bahamas. You can visit on weekends.”

He chuckled again, and rolled them carefully so she was tucked against his side, his chest to her back, one arm locked around her waist like a living seatbelt. His broad torso curved around her like a protective cocoon, his chin rested on her head, his free hand splayed across her stomach with fingers that could span from her ribs to her hips. The other hand kept moving, slow, patient circles until the shivers finally started to ease, his skin so warm and cozy against hers that she melted into him, every inch of contact sending tingles of comfort and desire through her.

“Better?” he asked softly, lips brushing the shell of her ear, his stubble grazing her skin in a way that made her toes curl.

She hummed, melting further into his embrace, loving how his muscular arms felt like heated bands of steel holding her close, his body a perfect blend of hard power and soft warmth that she could sink into forever. “Getting there. Keep going. I’m literally ninety percent sure your hands are magic.”

“Pretty sure that’s just blood rushing back into your fingers.”

“Shut up and accept the compliment.”

His palm slid under the hem of her boyshorts, cupping the curve of her ass, thumb tracing lazy figure eights over her skin. “Yes ma’am.”

Bruce’s cock is brutal, he’s not that long, maybe six inches hard in a good day, maybe less, but length never mattered when the girth is obscene. Thick as a wrist, the kind of circumference that makes a fist look small. The shaft itself is a veined, meaty column, thicker than a Red Bull can, the girth flaring widest just below the head so a hand can’t close around it; fingers splay, knuckles whitening, still leaving a gap. Veins bulge like cables under the surface, one dorsal rope as fat as a pencil, two lateral cords twisting down each side, pulsing visibly when blood surges. It feels like an invasion inside you that never lets you forget it’s there. The head forces the entrance open, stretching the rim white hot until it burns, the thickest swell just below the crown locking you open wider than you thought possible, that thick vein grinding against your walls like a thumb pressed hard inside. Every throb is mind-blowing; walls clamped so tight the stretch is constant, a deep, aching fullness that radiates into your hips, lungs and spine. He uses it like a weapon he’s spent decades mastering: short, grinding rolls of his hips that never fully retreat, just enough to let the ridge tug at the entrance before slamming back in. When he stills, buried balls deep, the throb of his cock is a second heartbeat inside you, the stretch a obscene reminder that you’re split open and his.

Meet Bruce Wayne (Absolute Batman)

♡ WHO . . . was raised by his mother, Martha, a social worker, after his father, Thomas, an elementary school teacher, was killed during a zoo trip.

♡ WHO . . . briefly dabble in a criminal lifestyle, including run-ins with the police, before channelling his anger into becoming Batman.

♡ WHO . . . is massive, standing at 6’9” and weighing 421 pounds. His size makes him a physically intimidating force.

♡ WHO . . . as a civil engineer, he lives paycheck-to-paycheck in a Crime Alley apartment. As a working-class engineer, he relies on sharp intellect and practical skills to craft his own gear.

♡ WHO . . . is deeply connected to Gotham’s underclass, he’s protective of its people but struggles with bottled-up anger.

♡ WHO . . . young and emotionally volatile. His pain is raw and unfiltered, shaping a more intense Batman.

© RSKDOLL 2025 — written by me and only me.

content: Mr. Fix-It , Crooked Glasses , Father Figure , Whipped , Guardian Angel , Big tough softie , Radiator ,

Father figure ♡ Bruce Wayne

content WARNING. Absolute!Bruce × Milf!Reader, stalking, mentions of crime, kinda fluff, based n this request HERE!

Crime Alley was bruised in purple and ash grey. Bruce trudged through the streets, his work boots scuffing against the pavement. His day had been a gruelling chase. He’d been tailing Alfred Pennyworth, the former MI6 operative whose sudden interest in Bruce’s movements—and worse, Y/N’s—had set his nerves on edge. Alfred was no ordinary man; his calculated steps and cryptic glances screamed danger, and Bruce’s didn’t like the fact that man was following his girl steps, just because of Batman.

By the time Bruce reached his apartment, exhaustion clung to him. The door creaked as he pushed it open, the faint hum of a TV greeting him. Inside, the living room was a soft cocoon of normalcy. His girlfriend sat cross-legged on the worn couch. Her son, Michael, sprawled beside her, a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on his lap. They were watching some old sci-fi flick, the kind with cheesy laser effects that Michael loved, and Y/N tolerated with a fond smile.

Bruce’s heart softened at the sight.

He dropped his keys on the counter, the clink barely audible over the movie’s hum, and sank into the armchair, his massive frame making it groan. Y/N’s eyes flicked to him, her smile fading as she caught the storm in his expression.

“Rough day, big guy?” she asked, her voice laced with concern.

Michael glanced over, too, but quickly returned to the movie, muttering something about an explosion.

Bruce rubbed his temples as he tried his best to find his words. “Baby, can we talk?” he said.

She tilted her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, and nodded. “Sure thing.”

She paused the movie, ignoring Michael’s dramatic groan, and followed Bruce into the cramped kitchen.

The fridge hummed faintly, and a single bulb cast a warm light. Bruce leaned against the counter, his hulking form dwarfing the space, his rugged face etched with worry.

“I was thinking,” he began, “It would be a good idea if you thought about quitting your job at the community centre. You know—with the Party Animals targeting everyone working near the manor house. It’s not safe.”

Her lips curved into a soft giggle, like his words were nothing.

“Bruce, come on. I’ve seen worse. You think a few thugs in animal masks are gonna scare me off? I grew up in this city, same as you.”

She folded her arms, her frame radiating a stubborn strength that both frustrated and captivated him. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near-plea, raw with the fear he rarely let surface.

“This isn’t just some street punks. They’re brutal. They know who’s helping the people they prey on. I can’t—” He stopped, his throat tightening. “I can’t lose you.”

Her expression softened, but her stubborn streak held firm. “Bruce, I’m not running. That job, and it’s the first time I’ve felt like I’m doing something real for this city. For Mike’s future. I’m not giving that up because of some wannabe crime lord.” She reached up, her hand brushing his cheek. “You worry too much.”

He exhaled, knowing her resolve was as unyielding as his own.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

Y/N grinned, stepping closer until her warmth cut through the chill of his fears. She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him, her lips soft and steady against his, a quiet promise that she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Calm down, big guy,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “We’re tougher than you think.”

Before Bruce could respond, the kitchen door swung open, and Michael shuffled in, all gangly limbs and teenage awkwardness. He made a beeline for the fridge, grabbing a milk carton and chugging straight from it, ignoring Y/N’s playful “Use a glass, you gremlin!”

Bruce watched, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the weight still pressing on his chest.

“Hey, Mike,” Bruce said. “How’d that school project go?”

Michael wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes brightening as he had been expecting that question.

“Pretty good, actually. Thanks to you helping me with the wiring. Got an A-minus, which is a miracle for me.”

Bruce nodded, pride warming his chest. “Good job, kid.”

Michael hesitated, shifting his weight, his sneakers scuffing the floor.

“Uh, Bruce? Can I… maybe join you at the gym tomorrow morning? You know, start lifting?” His voice was nervous, like he’d been rehearsing the question all day.

Bruce’s eyebrows rose, but a genuine smile broke through his fatigue. “Of course. Be ready at six. We’ll start slow, build you up.”

Michael’s face lit up, a spark of excitement breaking through his usual facade. “Sweet! Thanks, Dad!”

The word slipped out, and Michael froze, his cheeks flushing as he realized what he’d said. He grabbed the milk carton again, muttering a quick “G’night” before bolting back to the living room.

Y/N burst into a soft giggle, covering her mouth as she looked at Bruce.

“He’s been talking nonstop about how he wants to grow up big like you,” she said as she stepped closer, her hand resting on his chest right over his heart. “I hope you don’t mind him calling you Dad. You’re… well, you’re the only father figure he’s ever had.”

Bruce’s breath caught, the word “Dad” echoing in his mind like a lifeline thrown across the chasm of his own losses. His father’s face flashed in his memory, but so did Martha’s warmth, Michael’s shy grin, Y/N’s love. He reached for her hand, his fingers enveloping hers.

“There’s nothing I want more than to be part of this family. You and Michael—you’re my home.”

Her eyes shimmered, and she squeezed his hand tight.

“Good,” she whispered, “because we’re not letting you go, either.”

Whipped ♡ Bruce Wayne

content WARNING. Absolute!Bruce × Bimbo!Reader, food play, use of whipped cream, tit sucking, licking, +18 MDNI.

Bruce had been a shadow of himself lately. He hadn’t said a word about it, but her sharp instincts screamed that he was drowning.

She was going to pull him out, and she had a plan for it...

The apartment door groaned open, Bruce’s heavy work boots thudding against the floorboards. He was a mess; sweat-soaked from a punishing day at the construction site. A fresh bruise bloomed along his jaw, and his dark hair stuck to his forehead. He froze in the bedroom doorway, his toolbox crashing to the floor with a metallic clang, his gaze locking onto Y/N.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, the first real spark of life she’d heard from him in days.

“Didn’t know it was time for dessert,” he growled, his eyes raking over her, lingering on the creamy peaks of her breasts, the sticky trails dripping toward her navel, the damp lace clinging to her core.

Y/N giggled, but her eyes held that knowing glint, like she’d orchestrated his every reaction.

“Come to bed, big guy,” she purred, patting the mattress, her fingers smearing a dab of cream. “I’m totally sure you need something sweet to fix that grumpy face.”

She arched her back, her breasts jutting forward, the whipped cream shifting, a thick bead sliding down her cleavage as her thong hugged her tighter, the lace dark with her arousal, outlining every curve of her slick heat.

Bruce’s jaw clenched, his pupils blown wide as the weight of his burdens melted under the primal pull of her. He crossed the room in two strides, his massive frame looming over the bed, the mattress creaking as he knelt beside her, his bulk making the space feel suffocatingly small.

His breath was hot, ragged, as he leaned in, his lips brushing the edge of a whipped cream swirl on her breast. He kissed her slowly, hungrily, his tongue sweeping over the creamy peak, lapping it up in long strokes, swirling around her hardened nipple.

Y/N moaned, a breathy sound that sent a jolt through him, her fingers threading through his sweat-damp hair, tugging hard as his mouth worked, savouring the sugary melt. His teeth grazed her sensitive skin, biting gently at the swollen curve of her breast, sucking the cream clean with a low growl that vibrated through her core.

Her body arched into him, her thighs pressing together, the lace thong rubbing against her slick folds, amplifying the ache. His massive hands roamed, one splaying across her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, the calluses scraping her skin, grounding her in his raw strength.

The other hand slid up her side, cupping her other breast, his thumb brushing over the creamy nipple, smearing the cream before he lowered his mouth to it, sucking harder, his tongue flicking and teasing until she whimpered, her hips bucking slightly.

“You’re fucking sweet,” he rasped, his lips trailing through the sticky sweetness, nipping at the tender skin beneath her breast, leaving faint red marks that made her gasp.

His kisses moved lower, over the quivering plane of her stomach, his tongue dipping into the shallow dip of her navel, lapping up a stray bead of cream.

“You totally needed this, Bruce,” she teased, her fingers tightening in his hair as his massive hands slid down her thighs, parting them wider, his thumbs brushing where lace met flesh, feeling the heat radiating from her core.

Bruce’s kisses grew ravenous, his lips tracing the soft curve of her lower abdomen, his stubble scraping her skin, igniting sparks that made her toes curl.

He reached the edge of her pink lace thong, the fabric soaked and clinging to her, outlining the swollen folds of her pussy. He paused, his breath hot and heavy against the damp lace, his eyes flicking up to meet hers.

He pressed a firm kiss to the lace, his lips molding to her through the thin fabric, tasting the faint sweetness of her arousal seeping through. Her hips jerked, a sharp moan escaping her as his tongue pressed against the lace, teasing her clit through the barrier.

“Think I’m craving something sweeter now,” he whispered, his massive hands gripping her thighs, holding her open as he kissed her again, harder, his lips and tongue working the damp lace, sucking gently at the fabric until she writhed, her fingers clawing at the sheets.

Her giggle melted into a needy whimper, her cheeks flushed as she propped herself up.

“Well,” she purred, “you better taste just how sweet it gets.”