reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
— masterlist ! ; discord server !
making out headcanons (nsfw: mdni) — ft. bruce wayne and dick grayson for this part. @neerathebrightstar pookie this is for u <3
ah, bruce wayne. lover boy, prince of the city, heart and charm of all of gotham. of all his princely titles, all his noble epithets, yet the only label he ever wants is to be considered the husband of you. despite his reputation of being a playboy billionaire with ample time in his hands spent flirting up and down with socialites and criminals galore, bruce can't deny that the sweetest taste he's ever had was his darling, his sweetheart.
and that's the taste he's simply addicted to, a taste he can never let go.
so much so to the point where he couldn't go a day without the sensation of your lips pressing against his pining ones.
when he kisses, he does so with a purpose. to prove a point, to show the world that every time your faces pop up on the big screens or right in front of the paparazzi's flashing cameras; he'll slot his lips against yours, kiss you passionately, feverishly, until your tongues clash and he's drunkenly engulfing your spit, until his lungs constrict, begging for air, whilst his hands are plastered on your head, a calculated move to keep you in your spot until he's satisfied, satisfied that the world knows his sole dedication for you— how he's settled down, satisfied, that he'd given up the title of playboy philanthropist, now pridefully the loving husband of his spouse, and nothing more will ever replace the joy of having you right beside him in every passing moment.
even in bed, alone, where there's no pair of eyes watching you both, except for bruce's gleaming, willfully amorous ones— his smallest of pecks on your lips, or even the filthiest exchange of saliva, all those are done because he wants to send you a message, too. you're his, he's yours. you're the stability in his life, the only constant, the only person he wants to see in your shared bed all debauched and lost in the haze of pleasure.
the only thing he's proud of in his fucked up roster is his experience. you ask him what that mouth of his can do and he'll answer, in that seductive vibrato of his, "what can it not?" and he'll fucking tackle you in bed, pin you down and barely give you the time or space to comprehend just how easily he'd unclothed you, hands expertly kneading every part of your sore body. his mouth is practiced, it knows every known route that makes you laugh breathily, or gets you to release a small whine. he maps out every future hickey, all in place the public could see; and after he's done staining you with sinful kisses, you'll be suddenly brought atop his awaiting body, the man insisting that you do the same, mark him more than he does you, play with his sensitive nipples, just please touch him the same way he does you— and that's one of the few times you see him subconsciously beg for your attention.
every burning kiss, every warm breath hitting the tip of your nose, every peckish nip on your skin, every moment where he takes your arms in his and tempts you, with stormy blue eyes as vast as the seas, to let him devour every part of you— he does to make up all the lost time from before he met you. before he had made you all his. his thighs are locked against your waist, chiseled arms would be taut just carrying his weight ensuring you don't get crushed by his heavy body (heavy with desire, heavy with need to melt into you, to feel every part of you long untouched).
bruce is never one to articulate, but you know damn well that when his fingers would toy with the hem of your underwear whilst he's still busy buttering you up through his open-mouthed kisses, that that's the time he's pleading without words, massaging your hips and your thighs like he's telling you through his actions that he needs this, needs the taste of you more than you need him. and you should let him, let him eat you out, let him suck you up, let him leave traces of himself on you until you wouldn't know which part of you isn't yours anymore.
because when bruce does something, he does it with a purpose, a meaning, a calculated deed that tells you, in all the shame he's felt knowing he can't give you a lot of his first's, you should at least know you'll be his last.
— no matter how willing you are to reciprocate that matter.
there's nothing more passionate, and desperate, and heated, and devouring as there is a man like dick grayson. whose kisses are nothing but deep fervour for your soul, a hungered man in war, with nothing left to lose, nothing left to embrace in his arms except for you; whose only needs are the sensation of your lips on his, tongue would clashing with yours in a sloppy, saliva-induced mess like it's the only meal he ever craves.
for you, he's naught but a man drowning in deep desire, moaning just a little bit deeper when you nip at his bruised lips, hands tangling itself tighter when your fingers would circle around his swollen pecs, tears escaping his reddened eyes, whines are the only noises his hoarse throat could produce when your lips separate with his, when all he could see is through his blurry eyes is the string of saliva connecting you both— to which he's only wail louder when your lips aren't on his after a mere millisecond without it.
everyone thinks he's the man who leads, a man the mere personification of a guiding hand in the midst of darkness, which is objective, no less true, in the eyes of the crowd— except when he's with you, in the comfort of your bed, your body pressed right against him, hands pinning him down, thighs pressing deep on his crotch, dick would crumble, until no words would leave his aching tongue; aching to be satiated with the taste of your salty sweat on sullen skin, aching to be nothing, just nothing – not a leader, not a hero – just a man reduced to nothing but his body submitting on the bed's dirty sheets.
when he's with you, he lets himself be commanded, be guided on the steps you wish to take. his teeth will clash with yours in sickened ardor, yes, but when you're not satisfied with the way he kisses you, when you think he doesn't deserve to be pampered with your hickeys on his skin, when he's been a bad boy in public, too possessive, too engulfed in his jealousy that he forgets how iron-like his grip on your shoulder is, and you're mad at him: you can rightfully punish him, deprive him of your affection, of your attention and your love and your sweet, sweet kisses, and dick would fall apart into pieces— he'll do anything to have you back into his touch, he'll fucking change, he says, he'll bite his lips, bite his tongue, and accept any pain you induce on his, but don't you dare deprave him of what he wants, what he needs—
which is the taste of tongue, and your teeth, and your nose mushing on him, the feel of your body rightfully slotted in his arms.
so if you even fucking try to separate yourself from him, dick would break.
all his obsession, his deep-seated fantasies are translated in the way his body would feel like it's fusing with yours whenever he kisses you. he's messy, but adept. desperate, but determined to prove a point— that you're his and he's yours and nobody can come in between you two. you don't like it when his tongue touches the roof of your mouth? he'll adjust, he'll change his technique, he'll resort to kissing the crook of your neck instead, or kneading your thighs, or even just let you watch him fuck the mattress instead like a damn dog if it entertains you, if it makes you laugh and reward him with just a kiss on his forehead, anything; ignore the way he becomes more desperate when you give him a lack of reaction, or show any part of dissatisfaction— dick is a man depraved.
dick is a man starved.
and all the man needs to satiate himself is the taste of you.
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$ log - while tending to your darling plants, you’ve caught a bat in your trap. bruce wayne isn’t dumb; he knows exactly what game you’re playing. he knows he has to comply just to survive. whether that’s fortunate or unfortunate is entirely up to how good that muscled frame feels grinding desperately against you!
$ warn --nsfw --gn!reader --dom!reader --poison-ivy!reader --sub!bruce --dubcon --bondage --begging --sexual-tension --heated-makeout-sess --dry-humping --thigh-grinding --teasing
$ wc -w 3.1k
$ cd masterlist
$ echo “need to fuck him in the suit with the cowl showing his stubble, i fear” > authors-note.txt
The Gotham skyline was a jagged silhouette of steel and smog, the perfect playground for a shadow. Bruce glided silently, the wind whistling softly against his cape as he scanned the rooftops for any sign of movement. He was a predator in his element, focused, disciplined, and entirely unaware of the trap set below.
Deep in the verdant shadows of a rooftop greenhouse, you sat amidst a sea of emerald leaves, humming a low, melodic tune. You weren't looking for a hero; you were simply tending to your favourites.
"Grow, my darlings," you whispered, your fingers grazing a thick, serrated burdock plant. "Show them how hungry you are."
Suddenly, the air shifted. A heavy, rhythmic beat of wings cut through the silence. A large, dark shape descended from the sky, aiming for a perch just above your botanical garden.
Snap.
The burdock plants lunged. Thick, serrated vines lashed out with predatory speed, snagging the edges of his cape and wrapping tightly around his armoured limbs. With a heavy, metallic thud, the Dark Knight was yanked from the air, slammed unceremoniously into the soft, damp earth of your greenhouse.
He let out a sharp, muffled grunt of surprise, his cape tangling around him like a shroud as the burdock tightened its grip. The plant's hooked thorns dug into the seams of his suit, anchoring him firmly to the floor.
You leaned forward, resting your chin on a hand as you watched the struggle. A slow, wicked smirk spread across your lips.
"Well, well," you purred, your eyes dancing with amusement. "I was just looking for a little snack, but it seems a much larger prize has flown right into my lap."
Bruce strained against the vines, his muscles bunching under the Kevlar as he tried to find a leverage point against the unyielding grip of the burdock. The more he fought, the more the hooked thorns snagged into the fabric of his suit, pinning him even more securely to the greenhouse floor. His breathing was heavy, a controlled but audible rasp behind the cowl as he assessed the situation.
"Ivy," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through the humid air. He didn't look surprised he looked annoyed, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto yours. "This wasn't part of the night's agenda."
"Oh, but it's the best part of it," you countered, rising from your seat and sauntering toward him with a predatory grace. You stood over him, the moonlight filtering through the glass panes above to cast long, leafy shadows across his broad shoulders. "You're always so busy saving the city, little bat. Don't you think you deserve a moment to just... be caught?"
He didn't answer immediately, his jaw set tight beneath the cowl as he tested the strength of the burdock.
The vines were stubborn, their hooked edges biting into his armour with every movement, making it clear that the more he struggled, the more the plant would claim him. He looked up at you, his gaze intense and unyielding, even in his predicament.
"You're playing with things you can't control, Ivy," he warned, though the slight strain in his voice betrayed the physical effort of holding his position. "The plant is aggressive. It doesn't just hold; it consumes."
You let out a soft, melodic laugh, stepping closer until the hem of your leafy attire brushed against his chest. You could feel the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cool, damp air of the greenhouse.
"Oh, but that's the fun of it, isn't it?" you teased, leaning down so your face was inches from his. "A little bit of consumption is exactly what a stiff, brooding man like you needs to loosen up."
He let out a low, frustrated huff, his eyes tracking your every movement. He was calculating, his mind clearly working through a dozen different escape routes, but the burdock was proving to be a nightmare. Every time he tried to flex a muscle to snap a vine, the hooked barbs dug deeper into the gaps of his plating, forcing him to settle into a tense, rigid stillness.
"You're using the burdock," he noted, his voice dropping an octave, more a statement than a question. "It's more aggressive than your usual vines. It's designed to latch and hold, not just entangle."
"Sharp as ever," you hummed, reaching out to trace a gloved finger along the line of his jaw, just where the cowl met the skin. "It's a much more intimate way of holding onto someone — don't you think?"
You leaned in closer, the scent of damp earth and exotic nectar swirling between you.
"Intimate? It's a trap, Ivy," Batman countered, though his voice lacked its usual iron clad certainty. He was staring up at you, his eyes tracking the way your lips curled into that devastating, knowing smile. He could feel the thorns pressing into the soft joints of his armour, a constant, stinging reminder of his helplessness. "And these plants — they're not holding me — they're feeding off the heat."
"Let them," you whispered, your breath ghosting over his lips. "A little heat is exactly what a cold night needs."
You leaned in even closer, the distance between you vanishing until the tip of your nose brushed against the edge of his cowl.
The burdock vines seemed to sense your intent, pulsing with a rhythmic, almost heartbeat like motion as they tightened their serrated grip around his torso, pinning his massive arms to his sides and forcing his chest to heave against the greenery. He was a prisoner of your garden, a dark god brought low by a handful of hungry weeds.
Bruce’s mind was racing, a frantic calculation of torque, vine thickness, and toxin levels. He knew the burdock was a psychological one.
The plant was designed to irritate, to prick, to keep the prey in a state of constant, stinging awareness. It was a distraction technique, a way to wear down his legendary focus until his senses were too frayed to fight back. He could feel the microscopic barbs catching on the seams of his utility belt, the serrated edges of the leaves scraping against his neck.
It was a tactical nightmare.
He knew exactly what you were doing. You were waiting for the moment his iron will began to crack under the pressure of the thorns and the overwhelming scent of your pheromones.
"You're being uncharacteristically messy, Ivy," he rumbled, his eyes narrowing as he watched you saunter closer. "The burdock is too aggressive for a simple distraction. You're looking for something more... visceral."
You let out a soft, mocking laugh, the sound vibrating in the humid air between you. You leaned down, effectively trapping him in your personal space.
"Messy? Oh, darling, nature is rarely neat," you purred, your voice dropping to a sultry, teasing velvet. You reached out, trailing a single fingernail along the edge of his jawline, feeling the tension radiating from him. "I find that the more a man struggles, the more he reveals himself. And right now, you're revealing so much tension, Bruce — it’s practically delicious."
He stiffened at the near slip of his name, his eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and something that wasn't quite frustration. He was a man of iron discipline, a creature of logic and shadow, but even he couldn't deny the way your proximity made the air feel heavy and electric.
The burdock seemed to sense his wavering focus, its serrated leaves pressing more firmly against his chest, almost as if the plant itself were leaning in to listen to your whispered taunts.
"Don't call me that," he countered, though the command lacked its usual bite. His breathing was becoming more rhythmic, more deliberate, as he fought to maintain his composure against the onslaught of your scent. "And don't pretend this is just about the plants. You want a reaction. You want to see the me lose myself."
"And wouldn't that be a sight to behold?" you teased, leaning in until your lips were a mere breath away from the edge of his cowl. You could see the slight tremor in his jaw, the way his pupils dilated in the dim, verdant light. He was losing the battle of attrition, his legendary willpower fraying at the edges of your intoxicating aura.
"You're playing with fire, Ivy," he warned, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rasp that sent a shiver down your spine. "Or in this case, something much more primal."
"Oh, darling," you whispered, your lips finally brushing against the edge of his cowl, "it's not fire. It's life. And you look so very… hungry for it."
He didn't pull away. Instead, his head tilted back slightly, exposing the strong, corded line of his throat to the humid air, a silent surrender to the proximity. The burdock vines seemed to respond to the shift in his energy, tightening their serrated grip around his waist and thighs, pulling his heavy body even closer to the earth and closer to you.
"Hungry?" he repeated, the word more of a breath than a sound. His eyes were dark, fixed on yours with a predatory intensity that matched your own. "You have no idea how much of a mistake this is."
"A mistake is just an opportunity in disguise," you whispered, your gaze dropping to his lips. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of crushed greenery and the musk of a man pushed to his limit.
You could see the pulse jumping in his neck, a frantic rhythm that betrayed the stoic mask he tried so hard to maintain.
You pressed your lips against his, and the world outside the greenhouse ceased to exist. Bruce let out a low, guttural sound — a half strangled groan that vibrated deep in his chest. He finally stopped fighting the burdock and started fighting for you.
Because he was bound, he couldn't wrap his arms around you, but he made up for it with the sheer, overwhelming mass of his body.
He keened into you, his larger frame crushing against your softer curves, forcing the air from your lungs in a delicious, suffocating way. Every time he shifted, the burdock tightened, its serrated edges digging into the seams of his suit, creating a punishing friction that only fuelled the fire.
"Ivy," he rasped against your mouth, his voice a wrecked, gravelly shadow of its usual command. It wasn't a warning anymore, it sounded more like a plea.
His lips were frantic, bruising yours as he sought to drink in the intoxicating nectar that coated your skin. The tingly, chemical sweetness on your lips was a drug. It drove him into a hazy, primal state where logic was replaced by pure need.
His mouth broke away from yours, trailing a path of burning heat down the sensitive column of your neck. He nipped at the skin there, his breath coming in ragged, heavy hitches that sent shivers racing down your spine
As he pressed higher, his movements became more unhinged, his head tilting to find the perfect angle to devour you.
The friction between you was becoming unbearable. Even with his limbs held fast by the vines, he was driving his hips into yours in a desperate, dry grind, the heavy plates of his Kevlar pressing relentlessly against your hips. The sensation was heavy, unyielding, and maddeningly close to total release. You could feel the heat of him through the layers of fabric, a rhythmic, driving force that demanded more than just a kiss.
Your hands were everywhere, roaming over the hard, sculpted landscape of his chest, your fingers digging into the dense muscle of his shoulders as if trying to anchor yourself against the storm of sensation he was creating. You let out a soft, teasing moan against his ear, your teeth grazing the lobe.
"Is the big, bad Bat losing his focus?" you whispered, your voice a sultry, melodic taunt that cut through his haze. "You're shaking, Bruce. Is it the vines — or is it me?"
"Both," he choked out, his voice a wrecked, gravelly mess. He bucked his hips upward, a desperate, uncoordinated movement that forced a sharp gasp from your lips.
He was no longer a strategist or a hero; he was a man caught in the crosshairs of a botanical storm, drowning in the scent of your skin and the relentless, heavy pressure of his own desire.
Every time his hips collided with yours, the friction of the Kevlar and the coarse leaves of the burdock sent a jolt of pure, electric heat through his spine, making his breath hitch in a way that was dangerously close to a moan.
He was completely, utterly undone by you.
The friction was maddening. Bruce was grinding his coarse armoured pelvis into yours with a desperate, uncoordinated rhythm.
The hard plates of his suit scraped against your thighs, creating a dry, punishing heat that made your core ache. Every time he bucked his hips upward, the burdock vines tightened, the serrated leaves digging into his waist and forcing his massive frame even harder into your soft curves.
"Please," he choked out, his voice a wrecked, gravelly mess. He wasn't asking for release from the plants; he was begging for the sensation to intensify.
His mouth was a fever on your skin. He tore away from your lips to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone with a primal hunger. He was breathing like a man who had just run a marathon, his hot, ragged exhales scorching your skin.
You reached up down to his chest, your palms sliding over the hard, unyielding Kevlar to find the heat radiating from his pectoral muscles. You could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, heavy thudding that matched the desperate rhythm of his hips.
He was so close, his entire body taut as a bowstring, vibrating with the sheer force of the tension building between you.
"You're so tense, Bruce," you whispered, your voice a low, sultry vibration against his ear as you arched your back, pressing your breasts more firmly against his armoured chest. "Is it the burdock, or is it just how much you want to break free?"
He didn't answer with words.
Instead, he let out a sharp, jagged groan, his hips slamming upward in a heavy, punishing thrust that forced a gasp from your lungs. The friction of his thick thighs grinding against yours was electric, a dry and relentless pressure that made your vision swim.
The peak was agonising.
Bruce was a man of iron discipline, but you had stripped him down to nothing but raw, pulsing nerve endings. His hips were grinding into yours with a frantic, uncoordinated violence, the heavy plates of his armour pushing up against you in a dry, relentless friction that made your head spin. He was right there, on the razor's edge of a total, mindless collapse.
"Ivy, enough," he gasped, though his body was doing the exact opposite of pulling away. His voice was a wrecked, gravelly ruin, stripped of all the Batman's authority. He was staring up at you, his eyes blown wide and dark, glazed with a heavy, intoxicated haze from your nectar. "I have to — Gotham — the city —"
He was trying to summon the hero, trying to find the logic to pull himself out of the sensory overload, but it was a losing battle.
The burdock vines seemed to sense his waning strength as if to mock him, tightening their serrated grip around his waist and thighs, pulling his massive, trembling frame even more flush against your body. The more he struggled to reclaim his dignity, the more the burdock punished him, its hooked barbs snagging into his suit and driving his hips into a final, desperate grind against yours.
"You're not going anywhere yet, little bat," you whispered, leaning down to catch his final, ragged breath with your lips. "You haven't even finished your lesson."
He let out a long, shuddering groan, his head falling back against the damp earth as his eyes fluttered shut.
For a moment, the Dark Knight was gone, replaced by a man completely undone by the friction of his armour, the sting of the vines, and the intoxicating heat of your skin. He was a mess of heavy breathing and unfulfilled promises, his body still twitching with the phantom sensation of your touch.
With a sudden, explosive burst of sheer willpower, he surged against the vines. It wasn't a graceful escape, but a raw burst of strength that tore through the burdock's hold.
He didn't snap the vines so much as he forced his way through them, the serrated leaves scraping harshly against his suit as he scrambled to his feet.
Bruce was clumsy, his movements uncharacteristically heavy and uncoordinated, his legendary grace replaced by the staggering gait of a man drugged by pleasure and pheromones.
He stumbled toward the edge of the greenhouse, his boots catching on the damp earth. He leaned heavily against the glass frame, his breath coming in shallow, uneven hitches. He turned back to look at you, his cowl slightly askew, his eyes still clouded with that dark, intoxicating haze.
"Don't — don't think this is over," he murmured, the words barely a breath, a final, desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of control.
He looked like he wanted to say a thousand more things, to stay, to finish what you had started, but the duty of the Bat was pulling at him even harder. He lingered for a heartbeat, his gaze tracing the curve of your lips as if trying to memorise the taste of your nectar one last time.
Then, with a sudden lurch, he fired his grapple gun.
The line hissed through the humid air, catching a structural beam above the greenhouse. He swung upward, but the movement was far from his usual surgical precision. He swayed precariously, his body lurching as if he were still caught in the rhythmic, heavy grind of the burdock.
He looked less like a soaring shadow and more like a man trying to navigate a dream, his cape fluttering erratically behind him.
As Bruce ascended toward the moon, silhouetted against the dark Gotham sky, he seemed to stagger in mid air, a dazed and disoriented figure. He vanished into the night, leaving only the lingering scent of jasmine and the memory of his desperate, gravelly pleas hanging in the heavy, verdant air.
He was gone, but the way his eyes had lingered on you told you everything: the Bat had been thoroughly, beautifully conquered.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
Hii! Love your Clark Kent x male reader one (is the perfect freak). I was wondering if you’d be ok with writing a Bruce Wayne fic or even Damian Wayne in a similar manner? Needy, not first time having sex per se but first time being submissive, they enjoy it a ton. Def a bit of crying on their part, either from being close to finishing or just intense pleasure. Like you did with Clark Kent can you go into how they prepped, like I think Bruce Wayne might not shave, his muscular hairiness is part of his charm, but Damian in my eyes would because of hygiene. I think they would both also research before they did anything
Adjusting with Bruce Wayne
Bruce is used to a carefully constructed routine. every day is the same with sparse changes throughout. one day he’ll wake up early enough for lunch, another day he wakes closer to dinner. easy to work around
but when he meets you, he has to adjust. he really, really hates adjusting
you take care of him in ways he isn’t used to. when he wakes up late, you’re already in bed with him, your warmth pulling him back to reality. it’s comforting
when you’re with him, time seems to pass by slower. his constant thirst for something he can’t quite name is quenched
you’re almost constantly holding him, whispering sweet nothings to him. he doesn’t understand what you see in him, but he’s never felt so lucky
the days when you’re gone are the hardest. the nights when he has to leave you in his bed, listening to your tired protests, your hands reaching out and trying to pull him back under the covers, are the hardest
guilt settles deep in Bruce’s gut, frustrating and constantly nagging at him to make it up to you. he thinks about it for months before he decides he can’t force you or himself to wait any longer
you’ve had sex before, usually limited to frotting or handjobs on the days he can’t quite open his eyes. you help wake him up, get his heart racing enough that he can’t fall back asleep
but you both want more than that. and now, finally, he’s ready to give you that something more you’ve both been craving
it’s humiliating having the package be presented to him in Alfred’s hands, and he quickly excuses himself from lunch to run up to his room and lock himself inside
he’s already had a shower in preparation for this moment, cleaning himself as well as he can manage, his hair still damp
the plug itself is horribly intimidating, but he knows he can work himself up to that. he lays himself down on his bed and squirts lube onto his fingers, nervously reaching behind himself until his fingers meet his own puckered rim
he coaxes himself into relaxing and works one finger, and then two fingers inside over the course of a few minutes. he’s completely new to this, so he takes his time exploring and adjusting to the odd sensation of his own fingers inside of himself
it’s not exactly unpleasant, but it isn’t very arousing either. he hums into his pillows as he arches his back, working in a third lubed finger until he’s satisfied with the stretch
he curses at himself when he realises he still has to wash the plug before he can use it, his brain clouded with lust, impairing his usually thorough methods of thinking
discreetly, he dresses himself in a robe and makes a beeline for the kitchen, quietly boil washing the toy in question along with some of his other intimate purchases. he rinses everything with cool water before he returns to his room, hands shaking
he trembles as he slides two lubed fingers inside of himself, testing his previous preparations, before he lubes up the plug
unlike his fingers, the presence of something warm and thick inside of him is incredibly pleasurable. Bruce moans quietly into his silk pillows as he takes it down to the flared base
when you arrive at the mansion an hour later, he’s already biting his nails to distract himself from the intense fullness and daunting situation in front of him
you both enjoy a quiet dinner, though your gaze lingers as you turn to him throughout the meal, clearly sensing that something is off
he worries his bottom lip between his teeth before he invites you up to his room, and you can quickly guess why he’s behaving so strangely
but guessing and actually looking at Bruce are two different things. he’s vulnerable and naked, laying beneath you on his bed, hiding his face in his elbow as you inspect the black gem on the base of the plug nestled between his legs
he hadn’t chosen it intentionally, hadn’t known your response to it would be so strong, but he is endlessly thankful
you climb on top of him like a man possessed, ripping the clothes from your own body impatiently, and his thighs won’t stop shaking
you grasp the flared base and pull the plug out of him with a wet ‘pop’, leaning over him to reach the bottle of lube on his nightstand
Bruce drags his arm away from his face to watch as you stroke yourself, the lubricant smeared onto your skin making it glisten, and his pale skin is flushed down to his chest
you lean down and kiss his cheek, sliding your hands up and down his scarred body soothingly as you line yourself up with his gaping hole
he accepts every inch without much resistance, his legs tense as they remain spread, gasping for breath as he feels the last few girthy inches stretch him out, consciously relaxing until you’re sheathed inside of him
whatever preconceived notions he had about anal beforehand completely dissipate from his mind
it’s so hot and long and thick. he feels so full, so connected with you. it feels right
he drags his nails down your back in encouragement, pulling you down until you’re laying chest to chest with him, bare skin against bare skin
Bruce kisses you passionately once you’re close enough, making soft sounds against your mouth as your hips slowly begin rolling, stirring up his insides
he raises his hips to meet your movements, dragging one of his legs up, his knee draped over your hip, pulling you impossibly closer
you lick into his mouth as you begin a slow, even pace, your fingers digging into the skin of his waist as the slap of your bodies meeting fills his bedroom
it’s obscene, and Bruce doesn’t think he’s ever felt so good before in his life
he scratches along your shoulder blades, his quiet moans and hisses increasing in volume, even as he breaks your kiss and bites his own lip to keep quiet
“does it feel that good?” you murmur, smiling softly as he averts your eyes. “let me see if I can find it…”
he tunes you out, too preoccupied by staving off his own premature orgasm to pay your words any mind. his cock leaks where it’s trapped between both of your stomachs, flushed red and aching
suddenly, you dig your fingers into his hips and raise them, folding his sturdy, flexible body almost in half, his knees nearly touching the mattress
the moment you change his position, your cock bumps against a spot inside of him that makes him see stars. he shouts, grasping at the bedsheets as you hit his prostate with every thrust
his jaw goes slack, his toes curling, legs still sticking up in the air as the pleasure quickly overwhelms him. he babbles, drool dripping down his chin as he shakes his head, trying to protest, to save his dignity
but he can’t. it just feels too good
Bruce tosses his head back with a loud moan as he comes untouched, milky ropes of come spraying between your stomachs as tears wet his eyes
he cries shamelessly when you don’t immediately pull out, squirming beneath you in an effort to break free as you just keep thrusting, hitting his throbbing prostate again and again like he didn’t just reach orgasm
he sobs, trying to hide his face in the pillow beneath his head as hot tears roll down his cheeks
finally, your hips still, your cock pulsing deep inside of him as you fill him. he chokes on a moan as you release your grip on his legs, immediately wrapping them around your waist to keep you close
he feels your lips on his cheeks, refusing to open his eyes as he’s cradled in your arms
if he knew it would feel so good, he would’ve asked you to fuck him months ago
Dom!Clark and Sub!Bruce start scening together after meeting through a high end club.
Clark started Domming to help pay for university and never stopped.
Masks required at all times. Fully anonymous type deal.
When the Justice League forms, well, he really can't help that he's memorized Shadow's (probably a less obvious alias for Bruce tbh) heartbeat can he?
Clark is spooked. Surely it can't be... Could he...? No, no way. No way Batman and the sub he's still seeing from time to time, are the same person.
He tries to ignore the familiar heartbeat all the time whenever he's near Batman. And whenever they're on two different sides of the world. But he can't, he keeps listening to it.
When after some tense battle the League had faced, Clark's sub contacts him again to decompress, he decides it's a coincident.
He arrives at the club, gets ready, and soon after, his partner shows up as well.
Clark can't focus on his job. The heartbeat matches. He's so distracted even Dove(I honestly think Bruce would chose a complete opposite to a bat for his nickname. And I need him to have a bird name like his kids) notices and asks what's wrong. Clark apologizes and says he needs to cancel, he's not in the right mindset.
Dove understands and tells him he hopes Clark feels better soon. He still pays for the session despite Clark refusing the money.
Clark is now 99% sure Batman and Dove are the same person. That 1% is a single doubt he still has, but he doesn't know how bring this up to Batman or Dove. He can't exactly ask them if they met before in a bdsm club.
He confirms his theory accidentally. The League is still new and they're still trying to figure each other out. Arguments and fights happen between them almost every day.
When it happens one day, Clark clashes with Batman. Just for a second, Clark slips into his dom persona, snapping at Batman like he would at Dove when he's being bratty. He even uses the exact same words that to someone else sound completely normal but to Dove, they're a command.
The sudden inhale of surprise from Batman, the way his body reacts and tries to submit before Batman stops himself, confirm Clark's suspicion.
And with the way Batman stares at him, Clark knows he was recognized too.
"Meet me in Gotham tonight," Batman tells him and leaves right after.
Clark stares after him, so focused on watching Batman walk away he jumps in surprise when Green Lantern pats him on the shoulder.
"It was nice to know you, Supes," he says with sympathy. "That's what you get for snapping at Batman. I doubt they'll ever find your body."
Bruce grunts as you disinfect the wound near his stumach. "I know it hurts. It's going to be ok, baby. The slash isn't too deep. You take some painkillers while I sow you up"
Bruce huffs but takes them knowing how hardheaded you are. He's had worse, but because of you, he now isn't so against painkillers. His sowed himself up in worse condition, but now he has you to take care of him. It's not like his kids haven't tried. He's just as stubborn as you, after all.
You kneel as to better see the wound on his pelvis way too close to his stumach. You grasp his hip as he tries to ajust himself, not wanting him to move. You kiss his thigh up to his hips and finally up to his tone stumach. "Stop moving, baby bat." You say, looking up at him in your kneeling position. You hear his breath hitch and feel him stop his movement. "Good boy." You whisper as you continue patching him up.
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Bruce Wayne leaned against the brick wall, his suit uncomfortably sticking to his skin with how badly he’s been sweating. Each movement caused his breath to hitch, the material grazing the cut on his side. Thankfully not deep, but it hurt like a bitch.
He reached over, unlocking the window. Bruce found himself returning late at night to your apartment after encounters with criminals, taking in more hits than normal for a proper excuse.
Fate happened. You were a kind stranger, he was injured, and he needed help. Eventually, it remained like that for a while. He’d be in one place, some sort of wound visible, and you’d take him in. His eyes had watched you like a hawk, grunting and squirming away from the slightest of advance on instinct.
Embarrassingly enough, he immediately melted into your gentle touch. You guided him, made him feel what it was like to be openly vulnerable with someone else present. It’s wrong. You’re a civilian, continuously helping Batman would put your life at risk.
He feels guilty about it. You’re too kind for him, never daring to stay close to him than is necessary and choosing to respect his personal space. It was welcomed at first, but he wants more of it, more of you.
The only time he’ll actually touch you is when the pain is incredibly overwhelming his senses, which has him catching your wrist accompanied by a restrained grunt. Like he’d been burned, he’d pull back once reality crashed back down. He can’t, he shouldn’t. He’s putting you in danger.
Damn it all to hell.
Bruce tripped, stumbled, landing right on your lap. How convenient, he thought. He held himself upright, clutching the top of the couch’s backrest in a death grip, eyes wide. Bruce frantically searched your face, analyzing your reaction. “I’m—” He’s cut off when you pull him closer, gasping in surprise.
“It’s okay.” You reassure him, a soft smile gracing your lips and he wants to kiss you senseless. Until you can’t feel your hands, your face, or use that smart brain.
He stays like that, straddling your hips as you clean the wound on his side. It’s taking everything in him for his thoughts not to drift towards sinful ideas, borderline unprofessional.
He can’t help it.
Every touch, even an accidental brush on his skin has his breath hitching, anticipation thrumming in his veins. Heat pools deep within him, leaving him aching. He hopes you don’t notice, pants tightening and he’s almost painfully hard.
You do. Of course, you do. Right when you finish patching him up, earning a few pained groans, you halt him from standing up and leaving. “Batman.”
Oh fuck. Bruce is doomed. He wants to sink into the floor, or maybe the wall would be better. You know how he truly feels about the situation, and this is the last time he’ll ever see you. Panic rises, but he doesn’t allow it to outwardly show. His palms suddenly become all clammy, sweat dotting his forehead—
“May I?” Damn you.
Your hand settled on his muscled thigh and he has to suppress a shiver. Your fingers inched closer to where he needed you the most, just a little bit higher. But then you stop. Bruce whines.
“Please,” Batman didn’t beg, never did. “Please, I-I need it.”
He panted, excitement delivering a spark of heat that rushed straight to his core. His arms surrounded your shoulders, trapping you in his hold as he leaned down to your neck to hide in shame. He assists you in pulling down his suit enough to expose his glistening cock, pre-cum oozing from his slit.
Bruce felt like a wreck, lips in a tight line to prevent any embarrassing sounds from leaving his throat. Your thumb swiped across the cockhead, pressing down with enough pressure to force out a choked gasp from him.
“Don’t hold back,” You whisper directly into his red-tinted ear. He felt his hole clench around nothing, your words making him light-headed and he involuntarily bucks his hips against your touch. “I’ve got you, c’mon. Let me hear you.”
His breath stutters when you begin to gently trace the angry veins, moaning softly as he pulsates in your grasp. It’s been too long since he’s had someone—anyone—to touch him intimately, but never like you are now.
Your fingers wrap around his cock, slicking up your palm. It’s a slow pace, guiding him to a gradual orgasm. Gods, fuck, why were you being like this? He’s uncertain whether he enjoys how you’re treating him as though he’s made of glass that could shatter any unforgiving moment or if he should beg for you to fuck him rougher, make him go all dumb and drunk off the feeling of you.
He desperately ruts against you, it was selfish but the both of you knew he needed it. “Mmm.. fuck, I–” He gasps when you jerk him off a bit quicker, coming up to tease the underside of his tip every single time. Throbbing at the increased pace, he felt his eyes roll back into his skull. “more, ah ah mngh, more please.”
Bruce knew his manners, with his skin absolutely flushed and mind consumed with lust and greed to taste and take. “Yeah? Keep talking for me.” You urged, twisting your wrist as his pre-cum lathed up your hand, producing so much he seems like he’s right there. “Feels so g–good.” He whimpers, thighs trembling as his knees were beginning to fail on him.
Your too-good praise didn’t help him, at all. He felt young all over again, horny and wanting. “Beautiful,” you whisper, “need me to help you, don’t you, B?” The air gets knocked out of him, leaving him panting. He can barely feel his brain, all sensations leading to your hand pumping his wet cock.
“Need you,” He didn’t care how pathetic he seemed in this state, all he knew how desperate he was for you with your slick palm teasing his tip, rubbing in little quick circles. “ngh, so bad...”
Bruce Wayne knew he shouldn’t be thinking like this, but he wants you to stay with him. He could protect and provide for you. Who else would you want to be with besides him? That’s right. No one.
Gotham's big, bad protector, a whining mess for you in the early hours of the morning.
Not at night. Oh no, he has to protect the city. And in the morning? There's work to be done, press appearances and what not.
So he makes time for you in the early hours of the day. Fresh from a shower he insisted he take before you touch him. I think he would whine pathetically in that gruff voice of his.
"Shit. Baby..ugh how do you clench around me so tight?" he would ask, a panting mess while you ride him. Your hands on his broad chest while you suckle on his neck.
And as soon as he cums? I bet he's already flipping you over, eating himself out of you. Do you think Batman, the guy who fights crime all night, would really get pissy over a little cum?
And if anything, it's his cum, so no, he won't be satisfied till you fall asleep.
And when you wake up at a decent time of day, your favorite breakfast is on the counter alone with a "Love you. See you tonight." note on the counter.
