Bruce Wayne had never carried a pup to term.
It wasn't for lack of opportunity. Years of careless intimacy in his youth, brief affairs threaded between board meetings and bruises, bodies that never stayed long enough to leave a mark deeper than skin. Biology had never answered him with consequences. No missed cycles. No lingering symptoms. No life taking root.
Even Damian's birth had come to him indirectly—grown in an artificial womb, hidden away for ten years by Talia al Ghul and the League of Assassins, revealed not through tenderness but ambush. Bruce had not hated children. That was a misconception, even within his own family. He simply did not yearn for them. Want required time. Time required attention. Attention was a luxury he had never allowed himself.
To Gotham, he gave everything. To his children... sometimes.
Now, the manor was quiet.
The only sound in the private bathroom was the shrill wail of his phone alarm, cutting through the early morning stillness with surgical precision. Bruce opened his eyes and inhaled slowly, as if grounding himself before a mission. He rose from the closed toilet lid with controlled movements, joints stiff, body heavy in a way that had become disturbingly familiar.
Fatigue clung to him like damp cloth.
He crossed the marble floor and stopped at the sink. His reflection stared back: pale, eyes shadowed, hair slightly out of place. Not weak. Never weak. Just... off.
His hand reached for the counter.
Ten small white sticks lay arranged with meticulous care, parallel, evenly spaced. Different brands. Different manufacturers. Different price points. Bruce had eliminated variables with the same ruthless efficiency he applied to crime scenes.
Two—top of the line, the most reliable money could buy—still showed negative.
Bruce Wayne did not believe in coincidence. He believed in probabilities and timing and the timing coukdnt be more perfect.
The word settled into him with surprising weight. Not panic. Not disbelief. Just a quiet, destabilizing shift, like the ground moving an inch beneath his feet.
He already knew who the father was.
A colleague. An ally. A man who operated in the margins of the Justice League—effective, precise, and unsettling in ways Bruce rarely encountered anymore. [M/N] was a metahuman with a terrifying degree of control. Over himself. Over situations. Over people's hearts and emotional states.
Bruce distrusted power like that.
And yet, [M/N] had never used it on him. Not once. Bruce was certain of that. He had tested it, subtly and relentlessly. Physiological readings. Emotional baselines. No anomalies. No influence.
[M/N] had always been... steady. Well-liked, respected, and generous to a fault witn that kind smile of his and big eyes of his. The sort of man who stepped forward when others hesitated, who worked quietly and cleaned himself up before anyone noticed.
The same man who, apparently, had left something irreversible behind.
The symptoms made sense now.
The exhaustion that sank into his bones no matter how disciplined his sleep cycle. The sudden, overwhelming nausea that struck without warning—once at the manor, barely making it to the bathroom in time. Once in the Batcave, waking from an unintended doze at the Batcomputer and sprinting for the auxiliary restroom, heart pounding not from fear of discovery but from the humiliation of losing control.
Alfred hadn't been there. Thank God.
No cravings. No emotional volatility. No tenderness in his chest. His body hadn't followed the textbook. It never did.
Slowly, Bruce's hand lowered to his abdomen. His fingers pressed gently against his stomach; tracing old scars earned over decades of war. He knew every inch of his body. Every weakness. Every healed fracture. And there—barely perceptible—was a change. A small, undeniable firmness beneath the skin.
Bruce closed his eyes. It was his. Theirs.Something protective stirred in his chest, sharp and immediate, coiling tightly around the thought. Not fear. Not doubt. He didn't think it would work the first time, honestly he wasn't really keeping track since the first time him and [M/N] had sex.
"I hope you're really there." Bruce spoke out loud, soft purring escaping his throat the more he rubbed his navel and smiles to himself despite the lingering anxieties. He was nearly forty-seven years old. The complications were bad, but he can survive but this truly would be his only baby with [M/N]. Not that he minded, one was enough to keep [M/N] with him.
The man was such a bleeding heart, his biggest weakness and Bruce's biggest turn on.
Richard Grayson had always wanted children.
Not in an abstract way, not as an expectation placed on him by others, but as something personal and deeply rooted. A small, bright family. Noise in the kitchen, shoes by the door that weren't his, someone to come home to who didn't need him to be Nightwing or the golden boy.
He just never found the right person.
Love, for Dick, had always been complicated. He wasn't searching, not actively. Women were beautiful, radiant even, but they unsettled him in ways he couldn't always articulate. Men were handsome, familiar, but emotionally tangled, heavy with expectations and mirrors he wasn't always ready to face. He drifted. He cared. He loved deeply when it happened—but rarely cleanly.
And through all of it, there had always been one constant he refused to examine too closely.
Bruce's coworker. A Justice League mainstay. The man everyone trusted instinctively and kind to a fault, generous with his time, his power, his patience. A metahuman whose ability to influence emotions should have terrified people more than it did but somehow didn't. [M/N] called it the Lovebug, always said it with a grin, as if reducing the enormity of it made it harmless.
Dick knew better. He always did, he could read people so easily and claw his way into their bubble or hearts with a few kind words.
Another alpha on the Watchtower. No partner. No family. No ties that could be used against him. Dick had joked once—half serious—that [M/N] was the only metahuman Bruce Wayne willingly allowed in Gotham.
That should have been his first warning.
"Come on," Dick muttered under his breath. He paced the length of his bedroom, bare feet silent against the floor, stopping only when he reached the dresser. Three pregnancy tests lay there, lined up with unconscious precision. He hadn't bought just one.
This wasn't panic. It was preparation, to see if his plan worked, that he was going to have everything he wanted. Needed to prove it to himself that it worked.
His last rut had never properly hit. Three months late, barely noticeable when it should have flattened him. That alone wasn't unheard of—his ruts had always been mild—but paired with everything else, it had made a quiet alarm start ringing in the back of his head.
And then there was the timing.
He remembered it too clearly to pretend otherwise. How he had gone to [M/N]'s apartment already knowing what he was doing. How the tension between them had snapped the moment the door closed. Two alphas circling each other, pride and instinct colliding, hands gripping too tightly, words turning sharp before dissolving into breath and heat.
Dick remembered the moment he stopped fighting.
Remembered yielding, choosing it, letting himself be guided rather than overpowered. Trusting [M/N] with something dangerously intimate. Something irreversible. Dick had presented himself in front of the man, chest on the floor and ass up like a bitch in heat. That his ankles were near his ears for the next few hours, over and over and over.
The watch on his wrist chimed softly.
He crossed the room and picked up the tests with steady hands. One by one, faint lines had bloomed into certainty. Clear. Undeniable.
A laugh burst out of him, bright and unrestrained, echoing through the apartment. "Oh—wow." Haley startled awake with a snort, scrambling to her feet before recognizing him. Her tail wagged furiously as she trotted over, nails clicking on the floor.
"You're going to be a big sister," Dick said softly, crouching to rub her ears. She barked once, happy and confused, leaning into him as if she understood anyway.
The signs had been there. He could admit that now.
The sensitivity in his chest he'd blamed on the weather, on friction from the suit. Then it spread, turning into a persistent ache, his uniforms fitting tighter than they ever had before. He'd almost laughed it off until one of his zippers refused to close.
And the irritability. God, the irritability.
He'd snapped at Bruce. Torn into Tim and Damian when their bickering escalated, his voice sharper than he'd intended. Damian had gone still under it, wounded in a way Dick regretted immediately, leaving that night for Blüdhaven without a word. He didn't mean to, not to Damian at least. He was just overstimulated and overwhelmed witn the twos emotions ajs their charged scents, even if Tim's neutral scent was plain and nothing. They were both annoying him ans their annoying voices echoed in the batcave.
Dick exhaled slowly and turned toward the mirror.
"I should start thinking about names," he murmured.
He lifted his shirt, studying his reflection with a mix of awe and quiet reverence. His hands moved instinctively to his stomach, fingers resting just below his navel. There—barely visible, but unmistakable to someone who knew his own body as well as he did—was the smallest swell.
Alpha pregnancies were rare, but not impossible. He'd read the medical journals. He knew the risks.
His hands lingered, gentle, protective, a hum of satisfaction settling into his chest.
"I wonder what you'll look like," Dick whispered, a smile tugging at his mouth. "Maybe like me. Maybe like your dad."
He already knew how this would go.
[M/N] would never turn him away. Not him. Not their child. He was too good, too principled, too kind. And with Bruce Wayne as the child's grandfather, [M/N] would have no choice but to accept them. Not that Dick would kill [M/N] if he didn't, but it would look bad on the justice league member.
The smell of gun oil made Jason Todd nauseous.
It clung to his hands no matter how hard he scrubbed, soaked into the rag he used to clean his weapons, crawled up his nose and settled in the back of his throat like something rotten. Normally, it was comforting. Familiar. A reminder that he was armed and alive. That no one can or would ever touch him again.
Tonight, it made his stomach twist.
Jason didn't need a test to tell him what was happening. He already knew.
Roy had been the same way when he was pregnant with Lian—couldn't stand gummy bears, and Roy loved fucking gummy bears. Jason remembered that vividly, remembered the way Roy had gagged just looking at them and then laughed it off like it was nothing.
He paced the length of his safehouse near the Gotham Marina, boots scuffing the concrete floor, fingers threading hard through his dark curls as he exhaled through clenched teeth. The place was quiet except for the distant slap of water against the docks and the hum of old appliances. A cheap dollar store pregnancy test sat on the arm of the battered couch he'd dragged in from behind a closed-down bar and scrubbed until it was usable.
He stared at it like it death itself and he faced and unfortunately beaten death. He knew he was pregnant, but he needed proof. Something tangible. Something he could hold onto when his thoughts started spiraling. Something he could shove in [M/N]'s face and dare him to deny what he'd done.
His stomach growled, sharp and insistent.
"Yeah, yeah," Jason muttered, pressing a hand briefly to his abdomen before turning toward the kitchenette.
He twisted open a half-empty jar of peanut butter, the red lid clattering softly against the counter. The fridge hummed when he opened it, green interior light flickering over containers of Chinese leftovers. The smell hit him immediately, sour and overwhelming.
Jason slammed the door shut, gagging. Then opened it again a second later.
His eyes landed on the door shelf. Pickles. Cold glass, briny and sharp. He pulled the jar free, popped the lid, and leaned against the counter. His stomach growled again, louder this time, almost accusatory.
"You better appreciate this," Jason said flatly, glancing down at his midsection. "I am never doing this again." He dipped the pickle into the peanut butter, slathering the tip with thick, creamy excess. He hesitated for half a second—then bit down.
The sound he made was halfway between a groan and a curse.
He kept going anyway, licking his lips, dipping the pickle again, finishing it faster than he wanted to admit. When it was gone, he immediately reached for another.
That was when his phone buzzed.
"Right," he muttered. "Baby time." He hurried back into the living area, pickle in one hand, jar in the other, eyes snapping to the couch arm. The test had finished processing.
He didn't need to get close to see it.
Jason chewed slowly, staring at the stick like it might change its mind if he waited long enough. It didn't. He swallowed and pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over his contacts before stopping on the one he'd renamed out of pure spite.
[M/N] was Bruce's coworker. Friendly. Approachable because he always had that cute and stupid smile. The kind of guy people trusted without thinking too hard about why. Jason had met him before his death, back when things were simpler and also somehow worse. Everything after the pit had been about surviving, about clawing his way back to something resembling human.
Jason had never expected this.
He hadn't had heats since he came back. His body was scarred, altered, stubborn. A damaged omega, by every medical definition. He'd assumed it made him safe in a way, that the pit took the only curse he had before death. Untouchable in that specific way.
And [M/N]? If he wanted a family, he would've had one already. He could have had shacked up with some omega before this, wanted someone before him for years. The guy could make people fall in love with a smile if he wanted to. Jason had figured it was harmless.
So he'd bitten the apple.
And the snake had bitten back.
Now there was something growing inside him, tying him irrevocably to a man who hadn't answered his messages in three months. Jason stared at the test, then down at his stomach, something dark and possessive curling tight in his chest.
It felt good. Terrifying and Inevitable too.
Jason finished his second pickle and wiped his hand on his jeans before typing.
Jason Todd:
Hey
We need to talk about something
It's super important, like so fucking important.
I'll fucking tell Bruce
Do Not Test Me
If [M/N] thought he could ignore this, he was wrong. Jason Todd didn't get abandoned twice.
Bruce had ordered him off patrol before sunrise. Not barked. Not snapped. Just a firm, quiet insistence that brooked no argument. Tim could still hear it in his head, the low, even tone that meant Bruce was done negotiating.
"You're done for the night, Tim. Go home. Rest."
Tim had argued anyway. Of course he had. He'd been sharp, unfocused, snapping back with words he normally would have swallowed. He'd thrown logic like a weapon, insisted he was fine even as his stomach revolted against him again and again—once in a corner store bathroom, once behind the Batmobile, several times in alleys that night. Bruce had assumed illness. A beta pushing himself too hard. It wouldn't have been the first time.
Alfred had stepped in before it escalated further, his presence a quiet wall between them. Tim was benched for several days, effective immediately.
He hadn't protested that part. Rest sounded... necessary.
Now, alone in his room, Tim peeled off his uniform with mechanical precision. The familiar ritual should have calmed him. Instead, his thoughts jittered, sharp and racing, every system in his body humming too loudly.
He caught his reflection as he turned toward the bathroom.
There was a slight curve to his midsection—not enough to be obvious, not enough for anyone else to notice beneath armor and layers, but unmistakable to someone who catalogued his body as carefully as he catalogued data. He told himself it was nothing. A fluke or maybe too stressed out? Bloating could be a symptom.
Still, unease crawled up his spine.
He turned on the shower, steam beginning to curl through the room, and shrugged out of his robe. That was when he saw it clearly.
Not irritated. Not chafed. Changed.
Tim's breath went shallow. He crossed the bathroom in three quick steps and braced himself against the sink, eyes narrowing as his mind snapped into analysis mode. He already knew where the tests were. He'd bought them weeks ago, tucked them away with the same careful foresight he applied to contingency plans and backup drives.
Planning wasn't guilt. Planning was intelligence.
Three months ago.
Ninety-one days.
Eighteen hours.
The numbers came automatically.
They were an Egypt on a joint mission and going to be undercover at a hotel. A hotel chosen for proximity and privacy. [M/N]'s abilities made information extraction easier through charm and emotional influence—something Tim had leveraged before without hesitation.
The rut had been predictable. Tim had accounted for it.
Being a beta had once meant safety. Limitations to certain things. Biology that closed certain doors unless coaxed open by certain things.
Supplements. Hormonal regulators. Medical literature buried deep in Gotham's databases. His parents had both been betas; his mother had needed assistance to carry him to term. The precedent existed.
The risk had been acceptable.
Now, months later, the result stood in front of him.
"I wonder if Bruce even has a maternity policy," Tim murmured absently as he set the test on the counter, face down, and started the timer. His voice was steady, thoughtful. "No caffeine. No stimulants. No patrol for at least six months."
His hands drifted to his abdomen without conscious instruction. There it was again—soft, warm, real. Not imagined.
He'd always known he would have children someday. That expectation had been threaded through his life from the beginning—legacy, responsibility, continuity. A Drake heir. He picked up his phone while the seconds ticked down and began researching with quiet intensity. Nursery layouts. Safe sleep guidelines. Gotham pediatric care. Early education programs. Secure daycare facilities with vetted staff.
Alfred would insist on helping. Bruce would hover, pretend not to worry. His brothers would circle in their own ways. Stephanie and Cassandra would volunteer together, he was sure of it.
The network was already forming in his head.
Only one piece remained unsecured.
Tim's mouth tightened slightly.
He would inform him soon. He was the father, and fathers had obligations. Tim preferred cooperation, but he wasn't naïve enough to rely on goodwill alone. Information was leverage. Reputation was leverage. Silence could be negotiated.
His child would not grow up without a father. That was non-negotiable.
Tim turned back to the counter and lifted the test. A pink plus sign stared back at him, bright and undeniable. There it was.
Tim smiled faintly, one hand resting protectively over his stomach, the pudge, his latest's project it seemed as the steam from the shower curled around him, already mapping a future that would happen exactly the way he intended.
Terry McGinnis| Beyond Batman
Terry McGinnis had been careful.
He had avoided teen pregnancy with the same stubborn discipline he applied to everything else in his life. No accidents. No "one bad night." No repeating the kind of chaos he'd grown up watching from the sidelines. After Dana left for New York—already moving on—Terry threw himself into work and school with reckless intensity.
Fresh out of high school. First year at Gotham University. Nights split between classes, patrols, and the quiet, grinding pressure of becoming something worthy of the mantle Bruce had handed him.
Batman wasn't supposed to come with distractions.
Bruce had introduced him the way he introduced most colleagues—briefly, neutrally, with just enough emphasis to signal importance. A new hero, relatively speaking. Traveled constantly. Operated globally. His father had once been known as the Lovebug, a metahuman whose gift lay in coaxing secrets and truths from people with terrifying ease.
Now the legacy rested on his son's shoulders.
[M/N] was everything Terry wasn't prepared for: witty without being cruel, charming without arrogance, generous in a way that felt genuine rather than strategic. And beautiful in a way that made Terry feel sixteen again, all nerves and heat and confusion.
Like his father, [M/N] worked people. Information came easily to him. Doors opened. Guards relaxed. Terry watched it happen again and again, fascinated and unsettled.
And then, against his better judgment, he fell.
He told himself it was nothing. A passing infatuation. But it lingered. Maybe it was the scent—dark chocolate and cherries. Maybe it was the way [M/N] treated him like an equal, not a kid in a borrowed suit or Bruce Wayne's project. Terry would've let him take the lead. He knew that about himself. And that knowledge scared him enough to make him reckless.
Timed a mission. Aligned schedules. Made sure they'd be off the Watchtower, somewhere private and isolated. Atlantis, of all places—beautiful, ancient, and discreet. No questions asked. No judgments given.
What happened there stayed between them.
[M/N] drifted afterward. Messages grew shorter with replies slower than nothing. Terry told himself to move on. He failed of course because how could he? That night was magical and to him, the start of the beginning for him. Now he stood outside a Gotham clinic, the night air cool against his face, fingers tight around a folded sheet of paper he'd read so many times the words had burned themselves into his memory.
The due date sat neatly in the corner. Three months along. The math aligned perfectly, mercilessly.
His hands trembled—not with fear, but with certainty. He tucked the paper into his jacket and started walking. Bruce would notice eventually. The nausea. The way certain smells—oil from the Cave, raw beef, even the tang of the suit—made his stomach flip. The cravings didn't help either. Cheeseburgers, extra bacon, fries large enough to feed three people.
Bruce didn't need to know yet.
There was one person who did.
Terry ducked into a narrow alley and activated the suit. The black and red armor wrapped around him seamlessly, a familiar comfort, though tighter now around his hips, his midsection just slightly less forgiving than before. He hesitated for half a second, then spread his wings and launched into the night. The manor rose ahead of him, lights warm against the dark. From there, the Watchtower was only a request away. If Batman asked, no one would question it.
[M/N] would be there. He usually was. Terry set his jaw as the wind rushed past him.
He wasn't asking. He was telling because whatever [M/N] thought he could leave behind in Atlantis had followed Terry home. He refused to let his tiny family die before it could start. He already came from two broken families in a way.
Damian has grown up in two different households. With his mother and grandfather, he was expected to be good. To build skills and be the next heir of Demons Head. To lead the league of shadows with an iron fist and to make their enemies fear them. Not to mention spoiled, and he wealth like royalty with guards watching his every move.
He had been bred to be the alpha his father could never be.
When he moved to live with his father, Damian was given rules and simple instructions. Do not act like your grandfather, don't be cunning like your mother. Damian had to learn how to be human, how to behave like a regular human being.
Learn how to perform like he was a normal child and not the leader he was created to be. Learn everything without his beloved mother at his side. He did, but also bloom into his own person.
Sure he was Robin, still his father's heir and true sidekick (in his eyes anyway) and chose to go into medicine. Robin was more of a hobby rather than a career goal. Once he dreamed to pick up his father's mantle, to become Batman once and for all like he was meant to be.
But he wanted more than what his parents could think to provide. His own structure, his own path. After graduation he began college, it's his second year into medicine and occasionally wear the Robin mask. He liked college in Gotham.
He isn't living in the dorm, Damian refused to think of that. He likes visiting the library and the small cafe to study. He doesn't like his classmates and found most of them had dropped out by month four.
Damian still likes to spar with his family, to go on missions or figuring out things on his own. Another thing he likes is his father's overzealous coworker with a power that would have done wonders under his grandfather's control.
[M/M] is an older man, Damian rarely saw him when he visited the watch tower or occasionally called on by Bruce through the bat computer. They hardly worked together, if anything [M/N] worked with the question more than visited Gotham's poisonous influences. His costume dreadfully black and pink, not irrating but something that screams love and adore me which was far from his taste.
He was someone so different from Damian, from people Damian associated and he couldn't help it. He blames his father side for this weakness as Damian came to want the man even more.
His watch pings and he got up from the bed, walking towards his desk where the pregnancy tests laid out as his hand fumbled for the blood test he took in the lab an hour ago. He wanted to take extra measure to see if he was pregnant, that he was going to be round and fat with another Wayne heir.
"And the results are?" Damian muttered to himself as he looked over the results before seeing the positive signs on the white stick. His hands moved to the paper with the test results and opened it as he wanted it to be a surprise and extra evidence.
He noticed the symptoms when he was getting more tired, more fatigue when it came to training the other night, a few days ago when he was sparing with Drake. They were both bored and Drake started it when he was breathing too loud in the cave which resulted into fighting. He was slower and he felt sick from a certain movement, and fell back on his after Drake, he tripped him back. He didn't feel hurt really, but he was annoyed.
Damian slapped Drake's hand and stood up on his own, his eyes clenched a bit with his teeth as he marched off to his room. Not even leaving when Bruce asked if he wanted to go out with him on patrol. Damian snapped at him for trying and that he had course work to go through, his father left him alone after that.
"You get the softness from your father's side." Damian talked to his body, his hand drifted over his midsection to some pudge, his baby the pudge. "I hope you get your father's everything." He mummers as he placed the papers down by the pregnancy test. All Damian wished was that his child would inherit his normal genetics compared to [M/N]'s metahuman DNA.
His mind thinking of ideas on how to tell [M/N]. It had been a while, and the man had given him silence since that night. Not that Damian really minded or cared, so long as [M/N] was not spending time with others, in the way Damian had been a few months ago. Or hidden the bite marks Damian claimed over [M/N]'s nape, biting hard until blood and flesh were in Damian's mouth.
Maybe flowers? Maybe a basket with baby items? Maybe copies of the test in the basket with an edible arrangement?
Clark Kent did not realize he was pregnant because of his powers.
That, more than anything, unsettled him later.
He had not heard an extra heartbeat. He had not felt foreign movement beneath muscle and invulnerable skin. No sudden awareness had whispered to him from within. If anything, his Kryptonian physiology had dulled the obvious signs, masking them beneath ordinary human inconvenience.
He had simply been… tired.
Not exhausted from holding tectonic plates in place or redirecting asteroids. Not drained from solar depletion. Just tired in a quiet, persistent way that settled into his bones and refused to leave. His legs cramped at night. His ankles ached after patrol. The chest of his suit had begun to chafe in a way it never had before, fabric scraping against newly sensitive skin.
The Man of Steel, wincing because his boots felt too tight.
He had assumed his rut cycle being three months late was stress. The divorce had been finalized a year and a half ago—amicable, respectful, still bittersweet. He and Lois had parted as partners, not as friends. They shared history, shared Jon, shared a thousand memories that would never fade.
He had not expected this.
He didn’t notice the weight change. Didn’t question the subtle widening of his hips beneath pressed slacks or the slight rounding at his waist. His metabolism had always been unusual; fluctuations meant little to him.
It took Jimmy Olsen to point it out.
Lunch hour at the Daily Planet was loud, chaotic, comforting in its normalcy. Clark had packed his own meal that morning—a simple sandwich assembled from whatever he had in the kitchen. Bread, cheese, mayonnaise, bologna, lettuce.
He had opened the drawer absentmindedly and stared at the box of hardware nails for a long moment before deciding they would add texture. Crunch, a really good crunch.
Now he chewed thoughtfully, the metal splintering harmlessly between his teeth.
“Hey, Clark?” Jimmy’s voice carried over the partition, cautious but edged with concern.
Clark looked up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Jimmy?”
Clark swallowed. “Never better. Why do you ask?”
Jimmy gestured vaguely at the sandwich. “Well, for starters, you’ve been disappearing every half hour. You’re behind on two deadlines. And you’re eating—” he leaned closer “—is that nails?"
Clark glanced down at the glinting edge of a nail embedded in cheese. “I’m allowed to try new textures,” he said mildly. “I happen to enjoy a bit of crunch.”
“People eat peanuts for crunch,” Jimmy muttered. “Or chips. Not the contents of a toolbox.”
Lois Lane passed by at that moment, coffee in hand—her fifth of the day if the empty cups on her desk were any indication. She slowed just enough to glance at Clark’s lunch.
“Maybe he’s pregnant,” she said dryly. “I craved rocks when I was carrying Jon.” It was rocks, hardware nails, batteries and spoons. She stuck to rock candy when those cravings came up.
Jimmy snorted. “Sure. Who would get Superman pregnant? Batman?”
Lois smirked faintly. “Wouldn’t be the strangest headline we’ve run.”
Clark knew who gotten him pregnant, oh he knew well since he planned for it but thought it didn't work when the usual pregnancy signs never appeared. He had imagined his pregnancy would be like Jon's with Lois. He thought he would be incredibly weak when the baby began to grow in somewhere in Clark that shouldn't, that it would kick him hard that nearly blow his stomach apart or even hear another heartbeat.
Maybe the child was like [M/N]? Human or meta or both?
"I need to go on lunch." Clark announced as he left his open food there, came back and took his sandwich as he ducked into the math's bathroom, unchanged quickly and he was gone.
He was a blur in the sky, his red cape flapping behind him as he munched on the rest of his sandwich in the air towards the Watchtower. He swallows the remaining of his lunch. the nails grinding under his teeth deliciously as he saw the hovering tower.
This was his plan after all, and he was going to proudly tell [M/N]. He is the father after all. It happened three months ago after his and Lois' marriage was finally finished, all on good terms but Clark needed a shoulder to cry on, insisted it and somehow wormed his way to get it from [M/N].
Lovebug as the hero's name, manipulation of the heart for information and other great qualities the man has and had done for the Justice League. It was at the peak of [M/N]'s rut too, the man was too stubbornly gentle, too nice to turn Clark away and well...[M/N] got on Clark after he offered his neck and Clark had never felt so good afterwards.
Sure, [M/N] ignored him a bit afterwards, but Clark was sure it was just shame and gave him time. A large amount of time and now, [M/N]'s time for clarity was over as him and Clark are going to be expecting parents.
"I'm coming in." Clark said as he noticed some heroes inside and someone allowed him in.
Kon-El had faced Doomsday simulations without flinching.
He had sparred with Titans twice his size, taken hits that cratered pavement, flown through missile fire with a grin on his face.
None of that prepared him for kneeling on the cool tile floor of the Kent farmhouse bathroom, clutching the toilet like it was the only stable thing in the universe.
He gagged again, even though there was nothing left to bring up.
Breakfast had been perfect—Ma Kent’s fluffy eggs, crispy bacon, a little too much ketchup because she pretended not to notice when he drowned everything in it. Coffee strong enough to wake the dead. He’d eaten like he always did, leaning back in his chair while Pa talked about the north field and Jon scrolled through something on his phone.
Then he’d gone out to help with hay.
Halfway through lifting a bale, the world had tilted.
Kon had dropped it without explanation and bolted for the house, ignoring Pa’s confused call and Jon’s immediate confusion and watching Kon jolt back into the house.
He’d barely made it to the bathroom.
Now hours later, he was still there.
“What the hell,” Kon muttered hoarsely at his reflection.
He looked pale. Not human pale—healing-factor pale. His black hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His stomach churned again in protest as he splashed cold water over his face, hissing at the shock of it.
“Kon?” Ma Kent’s voice drifted gently through the wooden door. Steady. Patient. The way she spoke when calves were born in the middle of a storm.
“I’m fine,” he called back, leaning heavily on the sink. “I think.” His stomach disagreed loudly.
There was a soft hum on the other side of the door. Then a knock. “Open up a minute, sweetheart. I’ve got something for you.”
He hesitated. Then he unlocked the door and cracked it just enough for her to pass him a small white pharmacy bag.
“Just humor me,” she said warmly. “Let an old woman be right once in a while.”
Kon shut the door fully this time. He leaned back against it and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, the bag crinkling in his hands.
It shouldn’t have been possible.
He was a clone. Half Kryptonian, half human, engineered in a lab. His biology was already a miracle of unstable science. Yes, he presented omega. Yes, the odds technically existed.
But they were small. He’d never been the nurturing type. He’d always figured if anything like this ever happened, it’d be an accident with someone careless.
And Kon wasn’t careless. He slept around, sure. He was young, he had a body built like a weapon and a face people stared at too long. But he was careful. Condoms. Suppressants. Double-checking expiration dates. He wasn’t getting knocked up by some random idiot with a hero complex.
He exhaled slowly and got to his feet.
Dinner after a mission, just coworkers at a bar and grill near the coast. He remembered deciding, halfway through the second drink, that he was tired of waiting for things to happen.
He had let his pheromones slip.
Enough that another alpha had picked up on it. Some jerk who thought persistence was charming. Kon could have flattened him into drywall with one hand.
He hadn’t needed to. [M/N] had stepped in like he should.
They were there at the bar and grill then another moment later they were in [M/N]'s apartment. it was homey and perfect with his scent leaking everywhere and well...Kon managed to worm his way into [M/N]'s bed for the night. Then [M/N] ghosted him, sometimes they passed through the hallways with other people at the watchtower that Kon rarely goes to. [M/N] wouldn't look at him since that night, that night three months ago.
He took them all. He waited on the closed toilet lid, leg bouncing rapidly, fingers drumming against his knee. He counted down the minutes in his head, heartbeat steady despite the nausea.
When he finally looked—Positive.
For a moment, the room went very quiet. Then Kon smiled.
A lazy, slow, and disbelieving that this worked, that his plan worked.
“Well,” he murmured. His hand drifted down to his stomach, thumb rubbing absent circles over the faintest suggestion of warmth beneath his shirt. He tipped his head back against the wall and let out a soft, breathy laugh.
“Hush, little baby,” he sang under his breath, voice low and amused. “Don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…”
He trailed off, grin widening.
Three months. [M/N] could ignore him in hallways all he wanted.
He wasn’t going to ignore this.
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