❤️‍🔥

When Bruce says “jump,” you say, “how high?”

When Bruce says “listen,” you’re all ears.

When Bruce calls you returning from patrol in the dead hours of Stygian dusk, his voice reduced to husky, needful growl, “I need a reward after a long night—”

Well, you already know what to do. When the sleek automobile rolls in with a rev of exhaust and smoke, the cockpit door hissing open with an exhale of air; you’re already climbing in to provide. And this leads to the situation that you’re in now, in the dark, tinted interior of the car. Thank goodness for small mercies.

After all, were anyone able to see through the obscurity of the opaque windows, they would see you. Admire you in total, disheveled nudity, the fine tack of sweat from exertion budding on the sinew of your skin.

They would see the way that you bounce on his cock. The way that his fingers have clawed deep fistfuls into the flesh of your ass, holding it as though he’ll never receive chance again.

It’s hot in the car. This is due to your shared chorus; the shallow, broken moans that you make coalescing with the raw, jagged groans that he makes as you sink back down onto the curve of his cock.

And he spreads you wide, a delicious stretch that you’ll never get enough of—not when it sends a wicked bolt of pleasure through the meter of your body.

“Oh—Bruce—”—You gasp, feeling the rough drag of his cock, thick and wide, as it glides into you. As he keeps you unable to voice further thought with the way that each heavy thrust chases away any coherent word, any formidable thought.

All you can focus on is the way that he buries himself inside of you with each diligent pump of his hips, keeping you tethered to the rhythm that he fucks you on.

You’re stretched so, so wide, the pleasure barely masking the burn that settles dull and deep. Your head lolls back as you wrench your eyes shut to keep yourself awash in the overwhelming cascade of sensations.

There's so much—the clutch of his hands, the brute force that he uses to keep your legs spread wide around the span of his, to keep you as his own personal stress relief.

“Fuck—”—You reel forward, your hands sinking deep fists, making desperate purchasing scrabble into the cowl he’s yet to shed.

How needy your husband was when he returned, how hot and wet his tongue was as it laved up your neck, as those exploratory fingers shucked you of unnecessary things like clothes—

He fits you so perfectly, his cock making your walls clench and flutter around him, satisfying a deep-rooted hunger that only your body can satisfy. You make this clear by the way that he’s reduced you to little more than guttural moans, to untethered delirium —

His mouth latches around your nipple and sucks with a starvation that he seeks to slake with the rasp of his tongue. You feel the harsh scrape of teeth around the pearl he works to coax with the rough lapping he makes.

And the yelp that you make is soon swallowed up by the concurrent moan he makes as he adjusts angle, snapping his thighs up against you—and you feel heaven for one fleeting instant.

“Bruce—”—You cry out in desperate keen. But all you get in return is another needy, groaning suck that worries at your nipple, the continuous thrust and glide of his cock as he works to fuck you stupid.

You’re certain that the windows must be fogged up. There must be the tell-tale rock of the car with the way that his cock makes such greedy slap against you, the desperate pace that he pushes you closer to the edge with.

“You’re gonna make me come—”—You wail as you feel the tell-tale twitch of your thighs, the torturous crescendo of an orgasm breaching any other need. And he only releases your nipple with a lewd pop, holding your gaze as he keeps that pace of his cock inside you.

“Good,” Is all he says, before he decides to devote studious attention to your other nipple. And you swallow your moan with a shaky breath to get ready for the ride.

banner and divider made by me :)

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How many people could say they have one of the top heroes pining after them? Well not you, but that’s just because you have absolutely no idea it’s happening. You’re actually the only person to not see it from a mile away.

Toshinori Yagi never even considered himself especially subtle about his feelings, even in his true form it’s hard to hide the blushes and sweat on his gaunt face. Add to that how even more noticeable every expression is when he’s in his hero persona and the fact his coworkers and students are also heroes trained to be observant of things? Let’s just say everyone at UA was wondering when he’d finally confess to the new hire. After all, even if he’s a little older, he’s still a really sweet, nice guy, you’d have to be crazy to not want to go out with him!

Of course you’re not crazy, just ridiculously oblivious.

Right now, he felt like a bit of a creep, peeking through the break room door at you eating your lunch. He wasn’t trying to be creepy though, goodness no! He just couldn’t stop his heart from beating fast and palms sweating as he watched you smile at something on your phone. The former number one hero looked more like a shy schoolboy than the great All Might right now, but he couldn’t help it! You’re far too cute to him, he didn’t even stop staring when Hizashi Yamada passed by, whistling the wedding march obnoxiously loud. Gosh…he was totally a goner for you.

“Um hello Miss (y/n)…a-are those potato chips?” He says once he finally musters his courage and approaches you, nervously wringing his hands.

“Oh yeah! Want one?” You smile back at him, clueless to how he stumbled awkwardly over every word.

His fingers tremble a little as he reaches for the chip you held out for him, cheeks growing more rosy when your fingers brushed. Oh no, you’d definitely notice how much he was shaking right? Nope, you just smiled before eating a chip of your own, leaving Toshinori to chew slowly on the potato chip.

“That was good…thank you,” he says with a soft smile, like you gave him something much more meaningful than a piece of junk food. Well, this was it, he had to say something else. After taking a deep breath, he added “Um, I was wondering…if m-maybe you’d like to eat together..?”

“Of course you can sit with me! What are friends for?” You say back with a grin, blissfully pulling out a chair for him.

Well, that didn’t go exactly how he planned. Regardless, Toshinori sat down, mentally kicking himself for not being more direct. He fidgets a bit, watching you tilt your head curiously at him. Wait, maybe you’re catching on!

“Hey where’s your food?” You ask, glancing between him and the table in confusion.

Oh no. His face grows even warmer, ears turning red as he opens and closes his mouth a few times. How could he seriously forget his lunch bag? Well, obviously he was distracted, thinking about how cute you are, how much he wants to just squeeze you in a hug and kiss all over your face and…no no focus!

“Um I-I just…I’m still deciding what to eat! You know, sometimes I get so busy I forget to pack lunch!” He bluffs, rubbing the back of his head nervously, messy hair ruffling even further.

Standing abruptly, he moves to one of the vending machines near your table, clumsily pressing the buttons. He really should eat more than just some trail mix, but he doesn’t want to give himself more chances to mess up. You’re watching him, smiling a little to soothe whatever is causing him anxiety.

“I get that, but make sure to eat something good! We can’t have the kids seeing the mighty All Might distracted by hunger!” You tease lightly, giving him a wink that would look goofy to anyone else.

Toshinori nearly crushes the trail mix package in his hand when he sees that wink. It’s like you’re trying to give him a heart attack. Your laugh too, it makes him feel like a million butterflies are fluttering against his ribs. He just wants to hear you laugh like that for the rest of his life, and he plans to make that a reality.

“Miss (y/n)…” he says suddenly, voice no longer shaking, as if he was facing down a city level threat.

You turn in your chair, pausing mid-scroll online. The bewilderment grows when he suddenly kneels by your chair, your eyebrows shooting up as you stare in shock. He looks so serious, it almost makes you wonder if he’s upset with you, until he looks up with wide eyes.

“Miss (y/n), will you please accompany me to dinner tonight? I’d love nothing more than to take you wherever your heart desires, and if this makes you uncomfortable, I’ll back off immediately. I just need your answer desperately…please?” He speaks softly, hands clasped around one of your own, and you swear his eyes are shimmering and wet as he looks up at you.

It takes you a moment to process, but Toshinori looking like a kicked puppy makes you remember you need to speak.

“I’d love to…” you answer quietly, still a little stunned that he was asking you for a date.

His shoulders sag with relief, a soft smile crossing his lips as he gives your hand one last squeeze before letting go.

“Thank you…I promise to make it a special night.” He says sweetly, jumping to his feet.

He has so much to do now, reservations, buying flowers, ironing his best suit…it’s almost overwhelming. On his way out of the break room though, he feels a flicker of doubt, wondering if you’re sure. When he peeks back, he spies the little grin on your face, the way you’re covering your face a little and barely restraining a noise of glee. Smiling, he heads out, feeling plenty reassured.

“Tommy, are you sure you can hear anything?” Martha chuckled softly. Reclined against the pillows, she brushed her damp palms against the silk of her ocean-blue nightgown. “I’m only twenty weeks.”

"Yes, dear," he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. "Trust the doctor." 

For a moment, there was only silence. But then, he heard it.

A tiny rhythm echoed through the hollow cone-shaped instrument and went straight to his ears. His breath hitched at the sound, and the world narrowed to that single, miraculous cadence.

His eyes stung before he even realised he was crying. The anxiety that had plagued his mind extinguished into oblivion. Neurons fired electric storms all over his body, swelling his heart until it hurts to breathe.

Thump-bump. Thump-bump. Thump-bump.

Such heartening rhythm, such sacred feeling.

Gently, he set the fetoscope aside. His hand came to rest over the curve of her stomach, thumb brushing slow circles to greet their child. Then he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the spot where the heartbeat had whispered to him.

“It tickles!” Martha giggled, squirming away. Her laughter was breathless as his moustache brushed her skin. "Do you hear it, honey?"

Thomas gazed at the love of his life, who looked back at him with such adoration in her eyes. He drank in her features—the softness of her rosy cheeks, the way her curls spilled over the pillows, and the rise and fall of her breath beneath his touch.

How beautiful and extraordinary she was to carry their child.

Their flesh and blood.

Their pride and joy.

He swallowed, nodding as a smile broke through the emotion tightening his throat. "Yes, dear. I can hear it, loud and clear."

Martha's breath hitched at the sight of him in tears.

"Honey, are you okay?" She cupped his right cheek, wiping away his tears with her thumb. "Is our baby okay?"

"Yes, yes. He is." Thomas huffed a shaky laugh. He reached up to cover her hand with his own. "I'm just… overwhelmed, that's all. He sounded so real, so perfect.”

Martha pulled him into her arms, drawing him down beside her. She pressed affectionate, rose-warm kisses across his cheeks.

"You scared me, dear. You’re so dramatic for a doctor."

At that moment, everything was perfect.

Things were going well in Gotham General Hospital; Wayne Enterprises was in Lucius' capable hands; the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic operated smoothly under Leslie's care; their foundations were thriving; and their dream of having a child finally came true after years of trying.

What more could he ask for when his life was already perfect?

"Are you really going to name him Thomas Jr.?"

He glanced up at her, caught between amusement and curiosity. "You don't like it?"

"I think it's nice."

"But…?" he probed.

"I was thinking, maybe we can name him something else?" She smiled.

Thomas raised a brow, the corner of his lips lifting. "Any suggestions that are better than mine, honey?"

"I've been thinking. How about…" Martha pressed her glossed lips with a finger, deep in thought as she searched for the right sound. "… Bruce?"

"Bruce?" he echoed, slower this time. "Bruce, Bruce… Bruce Thomas Wayne?"

"Oh!" Martha gasped suddenly, both hands flying to her stomach. Her eyes widened, breath catching in delight. "I feel him moving! Tommy!"

Thomas put his fetoscope back on, pressing it to the usual spot. A soft, insistent tapping graced his ears once more, as if agreeing with their decision.

His smile broke open as emotion flooded back in a rush. He glanced at her, eyes silvered with unshed tears.

"His heartbeat was even stronger than before, honey. I think he loves that name."

“Then Bruce Thomas Wayne he shall be.”

"I promise you, Bruce. You'll be the happiest boy in this world." Thomas pressed his left ear on his wife's tummy, overjoyed with love. "I'll give you everything I have. I love you."

Martha’s hand came to rest over his obsidian locks, red manicured fingers wandering through it tenderly.

“I love you too, Bruce. We can’t wait to meet you.”

______________________________

“Honey?”

It was already half past three when Bruce returned from patrol.

He took a mandatory post-patrol shower before heading to the bedroom, where he opened the door to find you fast asleep.

Moonlight spilled across the bed in a pale wash, catching on the soft rise and fall of your breathing. One arm was draped loosely over a worn Batman plushie, meticulously sewn by Barbara for your birthday. On the floor lay Jason’s Robin plushie.

With a fond smile, he crossed the room and picked it up, thumb brushing over the frayed fabric. The soundbox within had dulled from overuse, but it still meant the world to you. He made sure not to press it as he set it beside you.

He was supposed to cuddle you in bed, but he had to get something out of his mind first.

The drawer slid open with a faint creak, revealing his father’s medical instruments—tympanic thermometer, glucose meter, blood pressure monitor, stethoscope, and fetoscope. The tubing had faded into a muted charcoal, the once-polished chest piece dulled by years of usage, its surface graven with fine scratches.

Of all of his father’s possessions, Bruce cherished his medical journals and stethoscopes the most.

He had found them years ago, tucked among stacks of case notes. But scattered between them were his father’s scribbled reflections on Martha’s pregnancy. Alfred had told him it was Thomas' way of anticipating his son’s arrival.

And among them, pages after pages detailing his mother’s special cravings, blood pressure levels, symptoms, rough nursery room sketches, and yellowed ultrasound prints.

At twenty weeks, Thomas first noted his heartbeat and underlined it twice with blue ink, pressing too hard and leaving an indent that persisted for several pages.

The weeks that followed, until the forty-first, were documented with increasing wonder, including the record of his heartbeat when he was born.

Bruce Thomas Wayne 02/19 - 1:37 AM, HR 105 bpm, regular, 2+

As a child, Bruce would drape his father’s stethoscope around his neck, the chest piece knocking lightly against his knees as he tried to imitate him. Thomas indulged his son’s naivete by showing him how to use it properly. He guided Bruce’s hands and adjusted the chest piece’s angle on his sternum, and Bruce had been fascinated.

But more than anything, he loved pressing it to his mother’s chest.

When sleep wouldn’t come, he curled into a fetal position against her and listened instead. He preferred it over her lullabies, eyes fluttering shut to the rhythm until it lulled him under within minutes.

Because it was the vigorous heartbeat of his mother, who loved him unconditionally.

He’d even brought the stethoscope to school once for show-and-tell, standing proudly at the front of the class as he demonstrated what his father had taught him. With all the earnestness a child could muster, he explained the five auscultation points, reciting the mnemonic APE To Man. He’d earned the nickname Dr. Wayne thereafter.

Of course, there were nights when life shattered beyond repair.

The first night after their funeral, Bruce tried again. He knelt between their headstones and pressed the diaphragm against the cold marble. The frail, traumatised boy pleaded for the stone to yield, to mercy his ears with the only thing he cherished the most.

But all he heard was the sound of a broken heart.

Thenceforward, he couldn’t bear to use it again. Not for a long, long time.

Until you entered the picture and granted his wish.

One night, he’d reach for his father’s stethoscope and settle beside you, gently pressing the diaphragm on your chest. The first time he heard it, it had undone him. His own pulse stuttered, then quickened in answer to match yours.

The exhaustion embedded deep into his muscles melted into a puddle. It transmitted into his brain, and the cardiac rhythm seared into the back of his skull. He became enamoured with the pulse echoed in his ear canals. Because it sounded just like his parents’ heartbeat—strong, consistent, and healthy.

A heart that solely beats for him.

The familiar rhythm beneath his fingertips satiated his hedonistic needs.

He would use the instrument on you, and did the same sporadically with the children, slipping into their rooms under the pretense of routine checkups, ensuring their health was in the tip-top shape.

But you knew it was his unique way of stimming after patrol.

Back to the present, you stirred when he adjusted you on your back, wiping away the escaping drool with a tissue. He cooed you back to slumber, caressing your right temple with his thumb. Once you were settled, he pressed the diaphragm on your chest.

Thump-bump. Thump-bump. Thump-bump.

Such heartening tempo, such marvellous feeling.

It was the equivalent of frolicking in your neorxnawang.

“Aortic…” he breathed, closing his eyes to savour it. Sliding east, he lowered his heart rate to match yours. “Pulmonic…” And south. “Erb’s point…” And south. “Tricuspid…” And below your left chest. “Mitral…”

Eighty-four bpm per minute, he mentally noted.

Bruce released a contented sigh, his chest filled with gratitude.

Your heort was pumping strongly. Blood flowed like red rivers, travelling to the rest of your body, carrying a piece of oxygen with each sweet breath. You were perfectly healthy.

After everything that had happened for the past ten years, it was the only consonant sound that calmed the noises inside his head.

Satisfied, he set the stethoscope on the nightstand before scooching to your side of the bed. He peeled back the duvet, revealing your lotioned, freshly pedicured feet. Gently, he took your right foot in his hand, lifting it to press a soft kiss to the bridge, kissing upward to your ankle and calf.

When he finally lowered your leg back onto the mattress, he drew you into his muscular arms, callous fingers tangled in your locks as he dotted affectionate kisses across your face.

Past the shadows of your dreams, you released your Batman plushie to hold the life-sized version. You pressed your right ear to his broad chest, his beating heart lulled you back to sleep.

Thump-bump. Thump-bump. Thump-bump.

He was finally home, safe and sound in your arms.

And just like that, life was perfect again.

dividers by me, please dont use

Inspired by the nights when my ex would lie on my chest and fall asleep listening to my heartbeat. and my not-so-subtle foot worship.

guys bruce is a pisces, of course he's submissive and likes feet. i dont make the rules ;P