Mild smut { Bruce treating Reader like a goddess }
The Gotham Academy Spring Fair was in full swing, laughter and chatter mixing with the scent of cotton candy and popcorn. Thomas clung to his stuffed dog — a floppy-eared, black-and-white thing Jason had won for him at the ring toss — while his small hand was tucked in Damian’s. The older boy’s usual scowl was absent for once, replaced with something approaching ease as he actually listened to Thomas chatter about the petting zoo and the “biggest caramel apple ever.”
Damian was never one for fairs or the children who ran wild in them, but Thomas… Thomas was different. His half-brother was a bright, unfiltered four-year-old who looked at him like he hung the moon, and it was a weight Damian had decided he would carry without complaint.
They had just stepped away from the dunk tank when a cluster of boys from the Academy approached. Damian’s shoulders stiffened immediately — he recognized them, and not fondly.
One of them smirked, eyes flicking between Damian and Thomas. “Hey, Wayne. Didn’t know you were babysitting today.”
Damian’s tone was clipped but polite enough. “He’s my brother.”
“Ohhh,” another boy drawled loudly enough for the nearby parents to glance over, “the little one’s from your dad’s… other wife, right? The bakery lady?”
Damian’s eyes narrowed. Thomas blinked up at him, confusion knitting his brows.
“Yeah,” the first boy snorted. “The big one. The cow who married your dad for his money.”
Another chimed in, lips curling in mock pity. “Wouldn’t blame Wayne for cheating on the cow. My dad says she’s a tramp who hit the jackpot.”
Before Damian could speak, a third boy stepped closer to Thomas, shoving him lightly so he stumbled back. The stuffed dog hit the ground.
Thomas scrambled for it, but the boy snatched it up first, holding it above his head. “Aw, did the little bakery brat cry when he dropped his toy?”
Damian’s control snapped like a taut wire. “Give it back.”
The boy laughed. “Or what? You gonna cry too? Just like your—”
Damian’s fist connected with his jaw before the sentence finished. The boy stumbled back, and chaos erupted. Another boy lunged at Damian, only to be shoved into a table of cupcakes. Damian moved like he was back in the League — precise, furious, unrelenting — until a familiar voice cut through the noise.
“Damian!” Dick’s hand grabbed his shoulder, yanking him back before he could land another punch. The older boy’s breathing was sharp, eyes blazing, fists still clenched.
Bruce arrived seconds later, already pulling the situation under control with that deep, commanding tone. “Enough.” His gaze swept the scene — the boys nursing bruised pride, Thomas clutching his stuffed dog to his chest, the smashed cupcakes — and landed on Damian. “What happened?”
Damian didn’t hesitate. “They insulted my mother.”
Bruce’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t push for details there in public. His eyes slid to Dick, and something passed between them silently. The two ushered Damian and Thomas away from the crowd.
Neither told you what had happened.
Later that night, you noticed the scrape on Damian’s knuckles when he reached for the mashed potatoes you’d made because you knew they were his favorite. You frowned, taking his hand gently. “What happened here?”
“Nothing,” he muttered, pulling back.
You didn’t believe him, but you didn’t press. You simply fixed his plate a little fuller, adding the roasted vegetables you knew he liked, and gave him a soft, “Eat.”
Across the table, Thomas beamed at him, small voice carrying easily. “You’re amazing, Damian. You’re like… a superhero.”
Jason, sprawled in his chair with a lazy smirk, lifted his glass. “Kid’s not wrong.”
Damian ducked his head, but there was a faint, satisfied curve to his mouth. He’d do it again — a hundred times over — if anyone dared talk about you or Thomas that way.
You didn’t know the words that had been said, but you didn’t need to. Damian was your son, blood or not, and the quiet way he protected his family said everything you needed to hear.
Bruce had heard the bones of the story that night — Damian’s clipped statement, “They insulted my mother,” and the defensive set of his jaw. But Dick filled in the rest later, once you’d gone upstairs to tuck Thomas in. He told Bruce word-for-word what had been said, and it took everything in Bruce’s control to keep his expression neutral.
By the time the house was quiet, Bruce was in his office with his tie loosened, sleeves rolled, and his laptop open. He pulled up the Gotham Academy student files, cross-referenced names with public records, and then with the Wayne Enterprises private database.
In less than four hours, he knew everything.
The next morning, he was in full Bruce Wayne mode — billionaire CEO, not Batman — and he set the plan in motion.
Phase One: The Fathers
The first father was in a corner office on the 23rd floor of a steel-and-glass tower. He looked up from his desk, startled, when Bruce walked in unannounced.
“Mr. Wayne! This is— I didn’t know you were—”
“Sit.” Bruce’s voice was quiet, but there was no room for refusal.
The man obeyed.
“I own this company now,” Bruce said plainly, setting a leather folder on the desk. “As of this morning, Wayne Enterprises holds the controlling interest. That means I control your future here.”
The man swallowed hard. “I—what is this about?”
“This is about your son. And you.” Bruce’s gaze was like cold steel. “Your son shoved my six-year-old and mocked him. He and his friends called my wife a ‘cow’ and a ‘tramp.’ You encouraged that. You will correct it.”
“I—Mr. Wayne—”
“You will deal with your son,” Bruce continued smoothly, “and you will issue a public apology to my wife and both of my sons. If you fail, you will be terminated immediately. And I will make sure every other company in Gotham sees the report on why.”
By the time Bruce left, the man was pale and sweating.
It was the same at the next two offices. Calm, precise, surgical — no raised voice, just the promise of ruin if they didn’t fall in line.
Phase Two: The Wives
Thursday morning, Bruce walked into the city’s most exclusive salon. The sound of blow dryers and gossip cut off when the receptionist recognized him.
The three women were seated together, hair in foils, mid-laugh. Their faces froze when he stopped in front of them.
“Ladies,” Bruce said, voice smooth as glass. “I own this salon now. As of this morning.”
One of them laughed nervously. “Is this… a joke?”
Bruce leaned down just enough for them to see the dangerous glint in his eyes. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Silence.
“You will publicly apologize to my wife and to my sons,” he said evenly. “And you will deal with your children. If you do not, you will be banned from this salon and every other in Gotham. Permanently. Try to book anywhere, and I will know.”
Their lips parted, but no one dared speak.
“If you want your hair done again,” Bruce added, straightening to his full height, “your husband can cut it. I’m sure he’ll do a fine job.”
The color drained from their faces.
The Public Apology
Two days later, at the Spring Fair’s closing, you stood with Damian and Thomas near the baked goods table, beaming as you told a group of parents about Damian’s recent science project. Thomas gripped his stuffed dog proudly, chattering about how “Damian made it work all by himself!”
Across the lawn, the offending families approached. The fathers gave stiff, awkward apologies; the mothers mumbled theirs with a forced sweetness. You thanked them politely, unaware of the iron fist Bruce had wrapped around their lives.
From a few feet away, Bruce watched, his arm folded, eyes cool.
Damian caught the look in his father’s eyes and smirked faintly. Jason, leaning against a nearby booth, muttered just loud enough for Damian to hear, “Guess money’s good for more than just cars.”
Damian didn’t reply, but the faint satisfaction on his face spoke volumes.
The house was quiet. Damian was in his room, Thomas curled up asleep with his stuffed dog. You’d just finished putting the last of the fair-day clutter away when you felt Bruce’s presence in the doorway.
He was leaning against the frame, tie loose, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled. His eyes found you immediately — not a passing glance, but that long, deliberate stare that made it feel like he could strip you bare without touching you.
“Come here,” he said, low and quiet.
You stepped toward him, and he caught your hand, pulling you against his chest. His kiss was slow at first — deep, lingering, his palm warm against your cheek. He didn’t rush it; he kissed you like there was nothing else in the world to do, tasting you, savoring you.
When he finally broke the kiss, he didn’t move back. His hand trailed down to your jaw, his thumb stroking lazily. “Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how beautiful you are?”
You started to shake your head, to deflect, but his voice cut through, firmer now. “Don’t. Don’t downplay it. You’re perfect.”
He backed you toward the bedroom slowly, his mouth never leaving yours for more than a breath. When your knees hit the bed, he eased you down, his hands moving to the buttons of your blouse.
It wasn’t hurried — he unfastened each one with unshaking patience, parting the fabric to reveal skin like he’d been waiting for this all day. His gaze followed his touch, sweeping over the curves of your breasts, your stomach, the softness of your waist. His fingers traced over them like they were precious, his lips following to kiss every spot his hands explored.
“You’re mine,” he said softly, between kisses at your shoulder, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. “Every inch.”
When he had you stripped down to just your panties, he sat back for a moment, eyes roaming over you with open hunger. Then he leaned in again, kneeling over you and lowering his mouth to your stomach, pressing slow, lingering kisses there.
“I love this,” he murmured, kissing lower, his hands holding your hips like he was anchoring you. “I love you.”
By the time his fingers hooked in your panties, you were warm all over, your chest rising and falling faster. He slid them down and tossed them aside, his eyes meeting yours with that smoldering mix of reverence and intent.
When he finally pressed into you, it was smooth, deep — and that’s when the shift happened. The tenderness sharpened into something else, his grip firm on your hips.
“They called you names,” he growled, his voice rough against your lips. “Said things I should have broken their jaws for.” His thrusts grew harder, his cock filling you completely with each one. “They’re wrong. So fucking wrong.”
He held your gaze as he drove into you, his breathing harsh, every movement a wordless reminder of exactly who you belonged to.
“You’re mine,” he said again, almost a snarl now. “My wife. My love. The mother of my children. No one — no one — gets to speak about you like that.”
The pace built, his earlier worship now a possessive rhythm that had you clinging to him, the pleasure curling tight inside you until it broke. You came with his name on your lips, and he followed with a guttural groan, holding you close, keeping himself buried deep.
Even after, he didn’t let you go. His forehead rested against yours, his hand sliding along your side.
“Beautiful,” he whispered again. “Perfect. And the only opinion that matters is mine.”
The smell of coffee and something sweet pulled you from sleep. When you sat up, the house was still hushed — but the faint sound of Thomas laughing carried from the kitchen. You pulled on one of Bruce’s shirts from the floor and padded out barefoot, hair still mussed from the night before.
The sight waiting for you made your chest ache in the best way.
Damian sat at the counter, clearly pretending to be disinterested but eating a stack of pancakes topped with berries. Thomas was next to him, swinging his legs and grinning, crumbs all over his face. And behind the stove, still in pajama pants and a black t-shirt, Bruce was making another batch of pancakes from scratch — not the boxed mix.
“Morning,” he said when he saw you, that small, private smile tugging at his mouth.
Thomas waved enthusiastically. “We’re having pancakes! Damian likes them but he’s pretending he doesn’t!”
Damian scowled without looking up. “I’m not pretending. They’re tolerable.”
Bruce slid a plate toward you, the pancakes perfectly golden, steam curling up from the butter melting on top. He poured you coffee without asking, just the way you liked it, then leaned down to kiss you slow enough to make Thomas giggle.
When you went to sit beside the boys, Bruce’s hand caught your waist and guided you to his side instead. He stood behind you, one hand resting on your hip, the other idly tracing over the curve of your thigh while you ate. It wasn’t overtly possessive in front of the kids — but it was a steady, warm reminder of the way he’d touched you last night.
Halfway through breakfast, Damian said in that flat, matter-of-fact tone of his, “Father made these pancakes himself. He doesn’t usually do that unless it’s for someone important.”
You blinked at him, caught between surprise and warmth. “Oh?”
Damian didn’t look up from his plate. “He wanted to make sure you knew you were worth the effort.”
Bruce’s fingers pressed lightly into your hip at that, and when you glanced back, there was that same look from last night — the one that told you you’d never have to question your worth in his eyes.
Jason wandered in just then, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looked between Bruce, you, and the kids, then smirked. “Guess we’re having a family breakfast. That’s… new. Did I miss something?”
Damian smirked faintly, not looking up. “You missed Father proving a point.”
Jason arched a brow. “Uh-huh. Figures.” He stole a pancake off Damian’s plate, earning himself a fork jab.
Bruce only tightened his arm around your waist, leaning down to murmur in your ear, just for you, “And I’m not done proving it.”
The rest of the morning passed in warmth and ease — laughter, coffee refills, Thomas insisting Bruce flip more pancakes. But under it all, there was a quiet, unshakable certainty: Bruce had made his stance known, not just to those who’d insulted you, but to you, to the kids, to himself.
You weren’t just his wife. You were his everything.
It happened a week later, in one of Gotham’s high-end shopping districts. You had the day free and decided to take Thomas for a treat at a little gelato café — Damian had even agreed to come along, quietly shadowing you both like a watchful guardian. Bruce had been called into a short meeting but promised to join you after.
You were leaning over Thomas’s tiny cup of strawberry gelato, helping him keep it from dripping everywhere, when a familiar voice cut through the air.
“Well, if it isn’t Gotham’s favorite charity case,” one of the Spring Fair mothers drawled.
Damian’s eyes snapped up instantly, narrowing like a hawk sighting prey. You straightened slowly, turning to face her. She was dressed to impress — gold jewelry, tailored dress — and her smirk said she thought she’d already won whatever game she thought this was.
Another of the mothers from that day was with her, though this one wouldn’t quite meet your eye. She shifted uncomfortably, mumbled a hello, and excused herself to cross the street.
But the first? She doubled down. “Enjoying spending Wayne money, are we? Or is your husband keeping you on a tighter leash now?” Her voice dropped into a mock whisper. “Don’t worry, sweetie. He’ll tire of you eventually.”
Damian stepped forward before you could, his voice sharp as a blade. “Watch your mouth.”
She scoffed. “Oh, please. You think anyone takes you seriously, little prince?” Her gaze slid back to you, and she spat out a word that made Damian’s entire body go taut — vile, ugly, dripping with disdain.
Before you could react, a familiar voice cut through the tension.
“What did you just say?”
Bruce’s presence was immediate, his shadow falling over the woman as he stepped up beside you. His hand found the small of your back, steady and grounding, but his eyes were locked on her — cold, unblinking.
The woman faltered, but only for a moment. “I’m just saying what everyone thinks—”
“No,” Bruce interrupted, his tone deadly calm. “You’re saying what you think. And you seem to have forgotten the agreement we made.”
Her smirk flickered. “Agreement?”
“You were told to apologize and keep my wife’s name out of your mouth. You failed.” Bruce’s voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t need to. “You’ll find out exactly what that means the next time you try to book your salon appointment.”
She found out two hours later.
The moment she walked into her usual salon, the receptionist went stiff. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kincaid, but your account’s been flagged. We can’t take you as a client anymore.”
“What?” she demanded. “This is absurd—”
“It’s non-negotiable,” the receptionist said, clearly uncomfortable. “You’ve been blacklisted from every affiliated salon in Gotham.”
Mrs. Kincaid’s face went red. “Blacklisted? By who?”
The receptionist hesitated, then answered quietly, “Mr. Wayne’s order. It’s… permanent.”
⸻
Back at home, you sat with Bruce on the couch, Thomas curled against your side while Damian read in the armchair.
“You didn’t have to—” you began.
“Yes,” Bruce said simply, his arm tightening around you. “I did. And I’ll keep doing it. As many times as it takes.”
Damian glanced up from his book, his mouth twitching in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. Thomas, oblivious, declared, “Daddy’s the boss of everything.”
Bruce’s lips quirked. “Just of the people who need reminding.”And in that moment, you believed him.
⸻
Two days after the salon ban, Jason was leaning against his bike outside one of the trendier coffee shops when he overheard it.
Mrs. Kincaid — the same woman — was standing with a friend, voice pitched just loud enough for passerby to hear. She was going on about how “some bakery brat tricked Bruce Wayne into marriage” and how she wasn’t “done telling people the truth.”
Jason’s jaw flexed. He didn’t step in, didn’t even look directly at her — not at first. He finished his coffee, tossed the cup in the bin, and strolled casually toward the parking lot where her shiny imported SUV was sitting pretty.
No one paid him any mind as he crouched by the back tire, flicking open his knife. One smooth motion and the hiss of air escaping filled the quiet. He moved to the next one. And the next. And the next. By the time he straightened, the SUV was sitting on four very dead tires.
He didn’t bother hiding the satisfied smirk as he swung a leg over his bike. He caught Mrs. Kincaid’s gaze across the lot, tapped two fingers to his temple in a mock salute, and roared off.
⸻
That night, Jason strolled into the manor’s kitchen where you, Bruce, and Damian were finishing dinner.
Bruce eyed him over his glass of wine. “You look… pleased with yourself.”
Jason’s grin was slow. “Let’s just say our favorite salon exile won’t be going anywhere for a while.”
Damian glanced up from his plate, catching the implication instantly. “Did you—”
Jason winked. “I didn’t say I did anything. But if four luxury tires happened to go flat at once, I’m sure it was just… coincidence.”
You shook your head, trying not to smile. “Jason…”
He shrugged, grabbing a biscuit from the table. “What? You married into the family, Ma. We protect our own. Some of us just have more… hands-on methods.”
Bruce didn’t comment, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch — just enough to know he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.
Out of all of them, Dick had known you the longest. He’d been there the day you first walked into Wayne Manor with a box of pastries from your family’s bakery, wearing that modest coat and smiling at Alfred like you’d known him forever. He’d liked you immediately — not because you were marrying Bruce, but because you fit. You didn’t treat any of them like charity cases, you didn’t try to impress them, you just… cared.
So when Dick overheard two Gotham socialites whispering at a charity gala about “the bakery girl who landed the Wayne fortune,” something in him went ice-cold.
They didn’t even notice him at first. He was just part of the crowd, easy smile in place, champagne glass in hand. But the second one of them called you “a professional gold digger with good PR,” Dick stepped right into their conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Hi,” he said, flashing that easy, charming grin that could disarm anyone. “You’re talking about Mrs. Wayne, right?”
Both women froze, caught between surprise and guilt. “Oh, we were just—”
“She’s my mother,” Dick cut in smoothly. “So, here’s how this works. You stop running your mouths, and I don’t repeat your names to Bruce.” His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes had gone sharp. “Because if I do, you’ll be lucky to find an invitation to a soup kitchen, let alone another gala.”
He set his empty glass down on the nearest tray, gave them a mock salute, and walked away without another word.
Later that night, when you came by to drop a plate of cookies in the study for him and Bruce, Dick just smiled up at you from the couch.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said lightly — but there was a weight behind it that made Bruce glance at him over his papers, curious.
You didn’t know what had happened at the gala. But Dick knew, and that was enough.
Tim hadn’t said much during the aftermath of the Spring Fair incident nor the Gala. He’d been there when Bruce came back from “handling” things, and he’d smirked a little when Jason bragged about his “coincidental” tire work. But Tim’s version of protecting family didn’t involve boardrooms or crowbars.
It involved data.
So when he heard Mrs. Kincaid was still mouthing off at luncheons — claiming you were “nothing but a social climber” — Tim decided she’d had her last word.
It took him all of fifteen minutes. A few lines of code, a VPN bounce through three countries, and he had her social media logins. The next five minutes were just… artistry.
Profile pictures? Gone. Posts? Deleted. Friend lists? Wiped. Years of carefully curated photos of gala dresses, brunches, and “candid” vacation shots — erased. Her entire online identity, the one she used to preen and posture, vanished overnight.
As a finishing touch, Tim made sure her accounts were locked from recovery — the password changed to an unguessable, random 48-character string he didn’t even bother saving.
By morning, Mrs. Kincaid was essentially a ghost online.
⸻
At breakfast, Tim strolled into the kitchen, poured himself coffee, and sat down without looking up from his tablet.
Jason glanced at him. “You look smug. What’d you do?”
“Nothing illegal,” Tim said mildly. Then, after a beat, “Just… digital housekeeping.”
Bruce didn’t ask. Damian smirked faintly. You blinked between them, suspicious.
Jason leaned back in his chair. “Tell me you didn’t—”
Tim took a slow sip of coffee. “She won’t be posting anything about anyone for a while.”
Dick barked out a laugh, though you had to hide your smile.
"You didn't have to, but thank you Tim."
The manor was warm with the smell of dinner — Alfred had outdone himself, as usual. You were in the dining room, setting out the last dish when the sound of voices and footsteps echoed from the hall.
Damian appeared first, carrying Thomas on his hip like it was second nature now. “Your son,” he said dryly, “insists he needs to show you his art before dinner.”
Thomas grinned, holding up a crayon drawing — a messy but heartfelt depiction of the entire family, complete with you in the center, smiling. “See? You’re the hero,” he said proudly.
Jason came in behind them, dropping into a chair with all the grace of a wolf flopping down to nap. “Kid’s not wrong.”
Tim was next, sliding his phone into his pocket as he smirked faintly at you. “Don’t worry. No one’s saying anything about you online anymore.”
From the doorway, Dick added with that familiar easy grin, “Or at the galas. I made sure of that.”
Bruce stepped in last, shedding his jacket and kissing your temple in front of everyone without hesitation. “And the boardrooms are quiet too,” he murmured, his voice warm enough to melt the steel in his words.
Alfred appeared with the roast, clearing his throat with a subtle smile. “It’s rather impressive, madam. You seem to have the entire household working security for your reputation.”
Jason snorted. “Damn right.”
Tim lifted his glass. “To our favorite Wayne.”
Damian rolled his eyes, but the faintest smirk betrayed him. “She is.”
You laughed, shaking your head, but when Bruce’s hand found yours under the table and Thomas leaned against your arm, you felt it — the truth in all of it. You weren’t just married into the Wayne family.
You were at its center.
And they’d made it perfectly clear — no one touched the center without answering to all of them.
I imagine the boys reactions of discovering that Batmom is pregnant again with TWINS after 5/6 months postpartum of Martha
"Tsk.....Dirty horny old man...."
A/n: Haha I actually have one where the boys found out and the all gang up on Bruce 🤣.
You’re on the bathroom floor.
Again.
Wrapped in one of Bruce’s robes, hair pulled back in a sad attempt at survival, and a cold washcloth draped across your neck like it might save your soul.
Morning sickness has declared war—and your stomach has clearly lost every battle.
You’re not alone.
Because unfortunately, the Wayne household doesn’t do subtlety, nor silence.
Outside the door, there’s a chorus of voices.
“Mom, are you dying?”—Tim.
“She’s not dying, you idiot. She’s just full of babies.”—Jason.
“Two of them, apparently,”—Duke, voice full of gentle horror.
“Disgusting.”—Damian, tone flat.
Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s fine. The doctor said nausea’s normal—”
“And who made her nauseous?” Jason asks, slowly turning toward him with a raised brow.
The others follow.
Like wolves circling.
“I mean,” Duke says slowly, “if we trace the chain of events—”
“You couldn’t have stopped at Thomas and Martha?” Tim mutters.
“You’re a billionaire. Buy some self-control,” Duke adds helpfully.
“Tsk,” Damian clicks his tongue. “Dirty. Horny. Old man.”
You snort into the toilet bowl, and it makes your stomach heave again.
Bruce kneels beside you, rubbing your back with the hand of a man who has fought gods and now must face the judgment of his sons.
“Don’t listen to them,” he murmurs. “You’re glowing.”
“I’m green.”
“Still glowing.”
“Your fault,” you whisper between dry heaves.
Behind him, Jason’s arms are crossed. “We should unionize. Protect Ma. Start a support group.”
Tim pulls out his phone. “Already made a group chat. It’s called Womb Raiders Anonymous.”
Duke chimes in, “I’ll bring ginger chews and trauma bonding.”
“Thomas is the only innocent one here,” Damian mutters. “And even he’s complicit. He prayed for more siblings.”
Bruce turns to the hallway, still gently massaging your back.
“I can’t be blamed for being in love with my wife.”
Jason scoffs. “That sounds like something a man with a breeding kink would say.”
You wheeze a laugh. Bruce turns red.
Duke leans in with mock seriousness, whispering, “Just tell us—did she wear the masquerade dress again?”
“She wore the masquerade dress,” Bruce admits tiredly.
All Five groan.
“Burn it,” Tim mutters. “For the sake of Gotham.”
“Too late,” Damian says grimly. “She is nesting. We are doomed.”
A/n: Posting before I sleep cause it's 6:40am and I've been thinking on this whole scene. I also just like fucking have no clue how far along Bat!Mom is
Jason stood in the Wayne Manor kitchen, sleeves rolled up, the counter already cluttered with shredded cheeses, spices, measuring cups, and one stained copy of Your Secret Thanksgiving Mac & Cheese recipe—except half the notes were covered in flour now.
Jason furrowed his brow as he read aloud, as he scratched the side of his head. "So it is a quarter cup at a time. A thin stream, it’s supposed to be a thin stream. Then you gotta blend it really well, or you’ll burn it…” He glanced up and immediately scowled. “Damian, that’s not right.”
Damian, gritting his teeth watching Jason with a ladle in one hand and whisk in the other, as he glared. “OK, well that’s because I’m ladling and stirring at the same time and you’re just standing there.”
Jason huffed. “Now’s not the time to lose focus, Demon.”
“This was your idea Todd!,” Damian snapped. “You’re the one who allegedly made it last year.”
“Yeah, allegedly, and it was fucking great. So try to keep up. OK, next. Now’s the time to sprinkle in the chili pepper flakes—”
“We already did that!” Damian growled.
Jason blinked. “What number are we on?”
Damian froze. His voice dropped an octave. “Oh my god. Is this not Mother’s recipe?”
Jason straightened, tone defensive. “Yes, it is! And she’s pregnant and can’t cook, so we’re doing this test run for Thanksgiving. You think I want to be responsible for feeding twenty people with a box of Kraft?”
“Then focus, Todd.”
“I am focused! You're not focused!” Jason snapped, yanking the recipe closer. “Next step: fold in the cheese.”
Damian tilted his head. “What does that mean? What does fold in the cheese mean?”
“You fold it in.”
“I… I understand that,” Damian said through clenched teeth, “but how? Do you fold it in half like a letter and drop it in the pot? What exactly is your technique for folding dairy Todd?”
Jason rubbed his temples. “Demon, I cannot show you everything.”
“Can you show me one thing?” Damian hissed. “Just one?”
“You just—here’s what you do.." Jason paused then gestured with his hands. "you just fold it in!”
“I don’t know how to fold broken cheese, Todd!”
“Then I don’t know how to be any clearer!” Jason barked, pointing at the pot. “You take that thing in your hand, and you—”
“If you say fold in one more time—”
“IT SAYS FOLD IT IN!”
“THIS IS MOTHER’S RECIPE! YOU SAID YOU KNEW IT!”
“I DO KNOW IT!” Jason Snapped back.
“THEN FOLD IT IN!”
“DON’T YOU DARE!”
“FOLD. IT. IN!”
Damian threw down the spatula with violent grace and stormed out of the kitchen, muttering in Arabic and kicking over a box near him.
Jason turned back to the pot, now bubbling a little too much.
He sniffed then tensed.
“…Damian!” he called.
Silence.
Jason’s eyes widened. “Oh good, now I see bubbles. Damian! What does burning smell like!?”
Silence.
Then from the hall:“I TOLD YOU TO FOLD IT IN, TODD.”
Jason groaned. “I hate Thanksgiving.”
Meanwhile, blissfully unaware you were asleep in Bruce's arms. The man praying that one of his son's would not wake you.
A/n: Had to do a batmom fic to break up all the avatar fics 🤣.
The backyard of Wayne Manor has never looked more ridiculous.
There is a full professional archery setup on the far end of the lawn, custom targets installed by Alfred in under forty minutes because “if we are to host competitive testosterone displays, we shall at least do it properly.” There are spectators. There are folding chairs. There are drinks. There are children running in erratic circles with glow sticks they absolutely were not supposed to have yet.
And in the center of it all, you stand beaming.Hands clasped together beneath your chin. Practically vibrating.
“Oh this is so exciting!” you gasp as Oliver Queen rolls his shoulders and smirks, twirling an arrow between his fingers. “I love healthy male bonding!”
Clint Barton squints down the line, adjusting his stance. “This isn’t bonding. This is proving a point.”
Oliver snorts. “Yeah? And what point is that, Robin Hood?”
“That I’m better than you.”
You clap again like this is the Olympics.Bruce stands three feet to your left.
Bruce is suffering.....Because Tony Stark has not stopped talking for eleven straight minutes.
“Okay, first of all,” Tony says, pacing in front of Bruce with a glass in hand, “this is biased. You can’t have Green Hoodie McBroody on his own lawn. That’s home-field advantage. I demand neutral territory. Or at least better lighting. Do we have a spotlight? I can build a spotlight. FRIDAY, remind me to design archery lighting systems.”
Bruce closes his eyes, he breathes in and breathes out. “I am regretting every decision that led to this,” he mutters.
Tony grins. “That’s your default setting.”
Clark stands nearby pretending not to laugh. Diana is watching with regal amusement. Barry is already timing things with his phone. Hal is taking bets. Jason has money on both men. Tim is tracking arrow velocity in real time because of course he is. Duke is calmly explaining to Thomas why no, he cannot also shoot a bow. Damian stands with arms crossed, judging everyone equally.
Cosmo sits beside Damian like a silent, telepathic critic.
Lockjaw is drooling happily on the patio.
“Focus!” Clint calls, drawing his bow.
Oliver draws his at the same time.
The air stills.
Even Tony quiets for half a second.
Two arrows fly.
They land nearly dead center.
The crowd erupts.
You gasp like someone just proposed. “Oh my god they’re tied! This is amazing!”
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.
Tony leans toward him again. “You know, if we attached repulsor stabilizers to the arrows—”
“No.”
“...we could improve accuracy by at least—”
“No.”
“...twenty percent, easy.”
“NO.”
“You’re no fun.”
Bruce stares at him. “You are in my home.”
Tony spreads his arms. “Which is why I’m offering upgrades. Hospitality.”
Across the lawn, Oliver and Clint begin arguing about wind resistance even though there is no wind.
“That was drift,” Clint says.
“There is no drift,” Oliver fires back.
“You flinched.”
“I do not flinch.”
“You absolutely flinched.”
You are clapping again.“This is wonderful! Bruce, aren’t you having fun?”
Bruce turns slowly to look at you.
You are glowing. Actually glowing. Laughing. The twins are safely inside with Alfred. Martha is toddling between Diana and Natasha. Thomas is trying to get Damian to teach him “serious archery face.” The lawn is filled with heroes who, for once, are not fighting anything.They’re just… being….normal
Bruce exhales. “…Yes,” he says, quieter.
Tony leans in again. “You know, if we—”
Bruce turns to him with a look so flat it could silence gods.
Tony pauses.
“…I’ll go commentate,” Tony says, backing away toward the lawn. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first annual ‘Which Broods Harder’ competition—”
Clint throws an arrow that hits dead center again.
Oliver follows.
Perfect tie.....again.
Jason howls. “Sudden death!”
Dick is laughing so hard he nearly falls out of his chair.
Duke shakes his head. “This is exactly what Mom wanted.”
You beam, nodding proudly. “My happy little family.”
Bruce watches you instead of the arrows.
Watches the way your hands clap. The way your shoulders shake when you laugh. The way chaos swirls around you and somehow feels safe instead of catastrophic.
Tony is now shouting something about sponsorships.
Hal is chanting.
Barry is vibrating in place.
Clark looks like he’s about to referee.
Bruce sighs again.“…I need a drink.”
You lean into his side without looking away from the competition. “You love it.”
He hesitates, then quietly.,“…Yes.” His arm wrapping around your hips.
Behind them, another pair of arrows split the bullseye.
The lawn explodes with shouting.
And Bruce Wayne, billionaire, tactician, brooding guardian of Gotham, stands in the middle of the loudest, most ridiculous gathering of heroes imaginable….lets himself smile.
( reviewing my account will take 10 fucking days so we'll see )
The first thing James Bond noticed when he woke up was that the bed was cold.
His hand slid across the expensive white sheets, finding nothing but empty space where you should have been. For one disorienting moment, he was awake enough to know something was wrong but not awake enough to remember where he was.
Then the sound of waves reached him.
The distant crash of the ocean.
The rustle of palm trees.
Warm sunlight spilling through the open doors of the luxury villa.
Right....Vacation.
Your anniversary trip.
One year married.
James slowly opened his eyes and sat up, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. He was gloriously naked beneath the sheets and more relaxed than he had been in months.
Which was exactly why finding you missing immediately put him on alert.
Years of training died hard.
His gaze swept the room.
No signs of danger....good.
No broken glass, even better.
No weapons drawn.
No kidnappers.
Just your abandoned sandals near the door.
A moment later he spotted movement outside.
James blinked.
Then blinked again.
You were standing on the balcony wearing nothing but one of his white button-down shirts.
His shirt, the hem brushed your thighs. Your bare feet were planted against the warm stone as you leaned over the railing.
And apparently.....You were talking to a bird.
James stared.
The bird stared back.
You held a piece of fruit in your hand. The bird hopped closer then hopped back.
“You can trust me,” you whispered.
James rubbed his face.
The bird seemed unconvinced.
“I am literally your friend.”
The bird tilted its head then chirped.
“You are being very judgmental for someone who eats bugs.”
The bird stole the fruit and immediately flew away.
You gasped in betrayal. "Excuse you!”
James finally laughed.The sound carried across the balcony.
You spun around.The second you saw him, your entire face lit up. "There you are!!!"
“There I am?” James repeated, standing from the bed and walking toward the open doors. “I wake up alone and somehow I’m the one being difficult?”
You grinned. “The bird needed breakfast.”
“The bird.”
“Yes.”
James stepped outside and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind. The warmth of the tropical morning wrapped around both of you.
So did the scent of saltwater and flowers.
You immediately relaxed against him.His chin settled on your shoulder.
“You left your husband alone on your anniversary.”
You rolled your eyes. "For twenty minutes.”
“It felt longer.”
“It did not.”
“It did.”
“It really didn’t.”
James pressed a kiss against the side of your neck.
The simple affection made your smile soften instantly.
A year ago he would have found this version of himself ridiculous.
James Bond.
Possessive over morning cuddles.
Jealous of birds.
Perfectly content standing barefoot on a balcony doing absolutely nothing.
Yet here he was, surprisingly happy about it.
You leaned back against his chest. “Do you know what today is?”
“Our anniversary.”
You nodded then hummed. “One whole year.”
“Mm.”
“A year since you convinced me marrying you was a good idea.”
James raised an eyebrow. “Convinced?”
“You were very persuasive.”
“I proposed.”
“You proposed while bleeding.”
“It was romantic.”
“You had a gunshot wound.”
“It was still romantic.”
You laughed.
The sound made something warm settle in his chest.
James tightened his arms around you.
The ocean sparkled below. Somewhere farther down the beach, music drifted through the morning air.
Everything felt peaceful.
Quiet.
Safe.
A rare thing in his life.
“Happy anniversary, darling,” he murmured.
You turned in his arms until you were facing him.The oversized shirt hung off one shoulder.Your eyes crinkled at the corners from smiling.
“Happy anniversary, James.”
For a moment neither of you spoke.
You simply stood there together while the sun rose higher over the water.
Then your stomach growled.
Loudly.
James stared.
You stared back.
The moment shattered instantly.
You pointed toward the villa. “That wasn’t me.”
“It absolutely was.”
“No proof.”
“I heard it.”
“It could’ve been a bird.”
James laughed again and shook his head. “Come on.”
“Breakfast?”
“Breakfast.”
You immediately brightened. “Can I order pancakes?”
“You can order whatever you like.”
“Three stacks?”
James sighed dramatically. “Three stacks.”
“You’re the best husband ever.”
“Funny,” he said, guiding you back inside with a hand at your waist. “I was about to say the same thing about my wife.”
You laughed and leaned into his side as the two of you disappeared into the villa together, leaving the ocean breeze and the judgmental bird behind for another day.
First off I just wanna say as someone who’s been following your blog since last year, I am so sorry that tumblr’s dummy dumb-dumbs removed your account for no reason at all and I was genuinely shocked when you disappeared in my following list. To get your mind off it for now. Are you still doing Hazbin and/or Atla?
They really are assholes, they gave me no warnings or anything :/ But thats this staff for you.
I am just hoping I'll get it back, you guys ment so much to me
Hello! I just want to know if this is the right person I'm looking for since my favorite author lost their account but I also understand many people have very similar blog names, do you recognize this cat named Odysseus?
Can I perhaps beg for Cullen from dragon age finding out his wife is gonna have a baby? 🥺
A/n: THANK YOU FOR BEING MY FIRST REQUEST!
The news sat like a secret beneath your tongue for nearly three days.
Not because you wanted to keep it from Cullen.
Maker knew you didn’t.
But every time you imagined saying the words aloud, your heart began racing so fast that you convinced yourself to wait one more hour. One more evening. One more quiet moment.
Unfortunately, life at Skyhold was rarely quiet.
There were reports, meetings, patrol schedules, diplomatic visits, and an endless stream of people who somehow needed the Commander of the Inquisition for something immediately.
So you waited.
And waited.
Until one evening you found Cullen alone in his office.
The door stood slightly open, candlelight spilling into the corridor. Inside, he sat hunched over his desk, one hand rubbing tiredly at his forehead while the other moved across a report.
You smiled softly.
Typical.
Even after everything, even after Corypheus, Cullen still worked himself far too hard.
You stepped inside and knocked gently against the doorframe.
His head immediately lifted.
The exhaustion vanished from his face the moment he saw you.
“There you are,” he said warmly. “I was beginning to think Skyhold had stolen you away.”
You laughed quietly. “It nearly did.”
He pushed back from his desk. "Come here.”
The request was simple, familiar.
You crossed the room and immediately found yourself pulled into his lap.
The Commander of the Inquisition might have been a respected military leader.
Your husband, however, was a shameless man who never missed an opportunity to steal affection.
His arms wrapped around your waist as he rested his chin against your shoulder.
“Better,” he murmured.
You smiled despite your nerves. “Cullen.”
“Hm?”
Your fingers twisted together.
Immediately, he noticed, of course he did. His embrace loosened slightly.
“What is it?”
The concern in his voice made your stomach flip.
You turned enough to face him.For a moment, you forgot every speech you had practiced.
Every carefully planned sentence disappeared.
So instead you simply reached down and took one of his hands.
Then you placed it gently against your stomach.
Confusion flickered across his features.
Then curiosity.
Then realization.
You watched the exact moment understanding struck him.
His eyes widened.
The room went utterly silent.
“Cullen?”
He stared at you.
Then at your stomach.
Then back at you.
The poor man looked as though someone had cast a paralysis spell on him.
Finally, his mouth opened, closed then opened again.
“You…” His voice cracked.
A laugh escaped you despite yourself.
“Yes.”
“You mean…”
“Yes.”
His gray eyes immediately filled with emotion.
Maker.
You had seen Cullen face demons.
You had seen him stand against armies.
You had watched him command soldiers through impossible battles.
Yet somehow this had rendered him completely speechless.
“You are certain?” he asked quietly.
You nodded. “Very.”
For several seconds he simply stared.Then he suddenly stood.
You squeaked in surprise as he lifted you with him.
“Cullen!”
He laughed, a genuine, disbelieving sound that you rarely heard anymore.
“A baby?” His hands settled carefully against your face.
“A baby.” You couldn’t stop smiling.
"A baby.” The grin that spread across his face was brighter than sunlight.For a moment he looked years younger.
Not the Commander.
Not the former templar.
Just a husband who had been handed the greatest gift of his life.
He pulled you into his arms immediately.
Not tightly.
Carefully.
As though you and the tiny life growing inside you were suddenly the most precious things in Thedas.
Perhaps, to him, you were.
“I love you,” he whispered into your hair.
Emotion tightened your throat. “I love you too.”
His hand found your stomach again.
Tentative.
Awestruck.
Maker, he looked amazed.
As though he couldn’t quite believe it.As though at any moment someone might tell him he had imagined the whole thing.
“A child,” he said softly. “Our child.”
You nodded.
“Our child.”
A laugh escaped him again.
Then another.
You weren’t sure you had ever seen Cullen quite so happy.
Questions immediately began spilling out.
“When?”
“How long have you known?"
“Have you seen a healer?”
“Are you feeling well?”
“Have you been eating enough?”
The last one made you laugh.
“Cullen.”
“What?”
“You sound worried already.”
“I am worried already."His answer was so immediate that you burst into laughter.
The Commander looked mildly offended. "I believe I am entitled to worry.”
“You found out less than five minutes ago.”
“And?”
“And you’re already planning."
“Of course I am.”
His expression softened.
Then he knelt unexpectedly in front of you.The sight alone nearly made you cry.
One of the most respected men in Thedas kneeling before his wife with tears shining in his eyes.
His hand rested against your stomach.
Not possessive.
Not protective.
Simply loving.
Reverent.
As though he already adored the tiny life he had not yet met.
“Hello there,” he murmured softly.
You laughed through your tears.“Cullen, the baby can’t hear you yet.”
“Perhaps not.”His smile grew.“But I wanted to introduce myself anyway.”
Your heart completely melted.
The room felt warm despite the mountain air beyond the walls of Skyhold.
For a long moment neither of you spoke.You simply stood together.
His hand against your stomach.
Your fingers in his hair.
The future stretching before you both.For the first time in years, there were no battles to think about.
No enemies.
No politics.
Only hope.
Only love.
Only the knowledge that somewhere beneath your heart, a tiny new life had already changed both of yours forever.
Dear Tumblr, and Tumblr users. This is a fanfiction blog known as (or was known) as mult-fandom-imagine.
Their blog was unfairly taken down and has not gotten a response as to why it was taken down in tumbler's community guidelines. Please help this fanfiction author for they have been a safe place for both fanfiction readers and writers. I have been a fan of this blog since 2016, it breaks my heart to see Tumblr suddenly take away their account and blog without any reason or merit as to why. Please help spread awareness of the situation so that a staff member can fairly look at this blog and reevaluate why it was taken down. Please go and support Master-writings (Aka multi-fandom-imagine) and support to help get their blog back! 💜💙🩷
A/n: James Bond Smut that go requests! Reader is an Angel / works for Charlie in the Townsend Agency.
May have a second part if anyone wants it.
The resort glittered like something out of a dream—golden lights strung along palm trees, the distant hush of waves against the shore, and the kind of luxury that made everything feel just a little unreal.
James Bond...No...it was St. John Smythe tonight—fit into it seamlessly.
White t-shirt, loose beneath an open Hawaiian shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest ease without ever quite losing that sharp edge beneath it. A glass of something expensive rested in his hand, but his attention.
Was entirely on you.
You had caught his eye hours ago.
Light fabric brushing your skin with every movement, effortless, sun-warmed, dangerous in the way you smiled too easily at him. The kind of woman men underestimated.
James didn’t.
Not for a second.
“American,” he had noted earlier, voice smooth as he leaned against the bar beside you.
You had smiled, slow and knowing. “British.”
“Unfortunately,” he replied.
“Mm,” you hummed, sipping your drink. “You don’t sound sorry.”
“I rarely am.”
And that had been the start of it.
Hours of it.
Glances that lingered too long. Conversations that danced around truth without ever touching it. Questions asked like flirting but sharpened beneath the surface.
What brings you here?
Vacation.
Business?
Something like that.
Neither of you believed the other.
Which only made it more interesting.
Now, the infinity pool stretched out before you,dark water reflecting the night sky, the edge blending seamlessly into the ocean beyond.
His villa.
Private.
Quiet.
Dangerous.
“You followed me,” you said lightly, stepping into the water, the coolness a sharp contrast to the heat that had been building all evening.
“I invited you,” he corrected, setting his drink aside before slipping in after you.
The water barely rippled around him.
You turned slightly, watching him approach, your lips curving faintly. “You flirt like a man with an agenda.”
“And you don’t?” he countered smoothly.
Touché.
You smiled, stepping back just enough to make him follow.
He did.
Of course he did.
The water lapped softly around you as the distance closed, your bodies finally within reach. The tension that had been building all day snapped into something tangible, something heavier.
“Tell me something honest,” you said softly.
He tilted his head slightly. “That would ruin the fun.”
You stepped closer anyway. “Try me.”
His gaze dropped, slow, deliberate, taking you in like he had been wanting to do all evening.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said quietly.
“Since when?” you asked, your fingers moved to his chest.
“Since you tried to lie to me at the bar.”
You laughed softly. “You started it.”
“Did I?”
The water shifted between you, your fingers gliding down his chest. “Constantly,” you murmured.
That was it.
The last thread snapped.
His hand came to your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him, the water doing nothing to hide the heat of his body, the way his cock was already hard against you.
Your breath caught, though a smile tugged at your lips. “Careful,” you whispered.
“Not tonight,” he said.
His lips found yours, deeper than before, no more teasing, no more distance. Your fingers dug into his skin, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened, your body reacting instantly.
You shifted, instinct taking over as you pushed him back just enough to guide him toward the edge of the pool, your hands firm now, confident.
He let you.
That was the dangerous part.
James Bond never let anyone take control.
But he was letting you.
For now.
“You’re bold,” he murmured against your lips.
“You like it,” you shot back softly.
“I do.”
You didn’t give him time to say more. Your hands slid down, guiding him as you moved, lifting yourself just enough to sink down onto him in one smooth motion.
Your breath broke instantly, your head tipping back slightly as you adjusted, your pussy tightening around his cock as the water shifted around you both.
James exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on your hips. “…Christ,” he muttered under his breath.
You smiled faintly, breath uneven. “Thought you liked bold.”
“I do,” he said immediately.
His hands steadied you, grounding you as you began to move slow at first, testing, feeling the way he reacted beneath you.
And he did react.
His head dipped slightly, his control slipping just enough for you to notice.
“You’re watching me too closely,” you teased.
“Occupational hazard,” he replied, voice lower now.
Your hips rolled again, slower, deeper, drawing a sharp breath from him that he didn’t quite manage to hide.
“Businessman?” you asked lightly.
“Something like that.”
You laughed softly, your hands sliding to his shoulders as you picked up your pace just slightly, the water rippling around you with each movement.
“Liar,” you murmured.
His grip tightened. “Takes one to know one.”
That made you pause, just for a second.Long enough to feel the weight of it.Then you smiled again, softer this time.
“Maybe.”
Your movements didn’t stop.
If anything, they deepened, your rhythm more certain now, your body responding to every shift, every reaction he gave you.
His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, his forehead brushing yours as his breathing grew less controlled. "You’re trouble,” he murmured.
“You followed me,” you reminded him.
“And I don’t regret it.”
Your lips brushed his again, softer now, even as your body kept moving, the tension building steadily between you.
The villa was quieter now.
The ocean still whispered just beyond the glass walls, the soft glow of the pool lights casting reflections across the room but inside, everything felt warmer. Closer. Charged in a different way.
You barely had time to steady yourself after the pool before James was moving again.
“Come here,” he murmured, voice lower now, roughened from earlier.
Before you could answer, his hands were on you—lifting you effortlessly, like it was nothing. A soft sound left you as your arms instinctively wrapped around his shoulders, your legs curling around his waist as he carried you inside.
“You don’t waste time, do you?” you breathed, a faint smile tugging at your lips.
“I’ve already wasted enough tonight,” he replied.
His tone wasn’t teasing.It was decided.
The bed met your back a second later, soft sheets a stark contrast to the cool water from before but you didn’t stay there long. Not with the way he hovered over you, not with the way his hands moved, already guiding you, already pulling you back into him.
“James—” you started, but it broke into a breath as he shifted, positioning you over him, his hands firm on your hips.
“Go on,” he murmured.
There was something in his voice, something that made your pulse jump.
You didn’t hesitate.Your hands braced lightly against his chest as you sank down onto him again, slower this time, your breath catching as your pussy tightened around his cock, the sensation pulling a sharp exhale from him.
“…Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, his head tipping back slightly against the pillows.
You smiled faintly, breath uneven as you adjusted, your hands sliding along his chest, feeling the tension beneath his skin.
“You alright there, Mr. Smythe?” you teased softly.
His eyes flicked open immediately at that sharp, dark, aware.
“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re starting to sound like you know more than you should.”
You tilted your head slightly, lips curving. “Maybe I do.”
That earned you a look.But his hands tightened on your hips again before he could question it further.
“Move,” he said quietly.
You did.Slow at first, rolling your hips carefully, testing the rhythm, the way he reacted beneath you. His grip tightened instantly, guiding you, controlling the pace even while letting you stay on top.
“There,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Like that.”
Your breath hitched, your fingers curling slightly against him as you followed his lead, your movements growing more certain, more fluid.
“You like control,” you noted softly.
“I like this,” he corrected.
His hands pressed more firmly against your hips, guiding you deeper, steadier, the rhythm building between you. The shift pulled a sharper breath from you, your head dipping slightly as your body responded faster.
“John—”
“Don’t stop,” he said immediately.
Your lips parted in a soft breath, your pace picking up just slightly, the tension building again, quicker this time. His hands slid up your sides, then back down, never losing contact, always grounding, always guiding.
Your long hair fell forward with each movement, brushing against his chest, your face, the soft strands catching against your lips as your breathing grew uneven.
James noticed, of course he did.
His hand slid up suddenly, fingers threading into your hair before tugging it gently, pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat, your breath catching sharply at the sudden shift.
“There you are,” he murmured.
Your hands gripped his shoulders, your body reacting instantly, the new angle making everything feel deeper, sharper.
“John—” you breathed, your voice breaking slightly.
“I’ve got you,” he said, softer now.
His other hand returned to your hip, steadying you as he guided your movements again, his control slipping just enough for you to feel it in the way his grip tightened, the way his breathing grew heavier beneath you.
“You’re trouble,” he muttered.
“You didn’t seem to mind,” you managed, though your voice wavered.
“I don’t,” he said immediately.
Your pace faltered for half a second at that but his hand tightened in your hair again, not harsh, just enough to keep you with him.
“Stay with me,” he murmured.
You nodded faintly, your movements returning, deeper now, more certain, the tension building fast between you both.
Closer.
Every movement pulled another reaction from him, quieter than yours but no less intense. His jaw tightened, his grip firm, his control slipping in small, telling ways.
“You’re—” he started, then cut himself off with a sharp exhale.
You leaned forward slightly, your forehead brushing his as your pace stuttered. “What?”
“…Dangerous,” he finished.
You smiled faintly, breathless. “Takes one to know one.”
A quiet huff left him, almost a laugh but it didn’t last long.
Not with the way the tension coiled tighter, sharper, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that was no longer careful, no longer restrained.
Your breath broke first.
His followed not long after.
His hand tightened at your hip, pulling you down fully, holding you there as the rhythm faltered, then slowed, his forehead pressing to yours as both of you steadied as his grip tightened, his breath catching sharply as he followed right after you, his body going rigid beneath you for a brief moment before he exhaled, low and rough, his head dropping forward.
Warmth spread between you as he released inside you, his hold on you firm, grounding, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go yet.
For a second, neither of you moved. Then your strength gave out, your body slumping forward against him, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, your breathing uneven.
“Fuck,” you murmured weakly.
A quiet huff of a laugh left him, softer than anything he’d given you all night.
“…That,” he said, voice low but steadier now, his hand sliding slowly up your back, “was worth the trip.”
You smiled faintly against his skin, too tired to argue.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Just breath.
Just heat.
Just the quiet understanding that this, this wasn’t simple anymore.
Not after that.
Not after the way you both moved.
“…You’re not just on vacation,” he said finally, voice quieter now.
You stilled slightly.
Then smiled, faint and knowing. "Neither are you.”
His eyes flicked up to yours again and just a little more dangerous than before.
The bathroom was filled with steam, soft, warm, curling up from the bath as you sank deeper into it, muscles loose, head tipped back against the edge.
You should’ve been relaxing. Instead, you were staring at the phone in your hand.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
On the other end, Bosley sounded entirely too calm for the chaos he’d just dropped on you. “I’m not kidding. The target is in Vietnam, luxury resort, billionaire cover—”
“Yeah, I know that part,” you cut in, rubbing your face with one hand. “What I don’t know is why you’re telling me now that MI6 is involved.”
A pause.
“…Because,” Bosley said slowly, “we just confirmed their agent on-site.”
Your stomach dropped. “…Who?”
Another pause.
“James Bond.”
You went completely still. The water sloshed slightly as you sat up, eyes wide.
“…You’re joking.”
“I wish I was.”
Your mouth opened.
Closed.
Then opened again.
“…The British guy?” you asked weakly. “At the bar? The.... the Hawaiian shirt—”
“Yes,” Bosley said flatly. “That would be him.”
You stared straight ahead. “…I just had sex with James Bond.”
A/n: Dad James with two chaotic twins, thank you @runneski of the twin suggestion.
And go my lovely moot and the others that liked the idea of Reader being ADHD
The afternoon had been James’s idea.That fact alone should have warned him.
After years of surviving impossible missions, avoiding assassins, and dismantling criminal organizations across half the globe, James Bond had made the fatal mistake of believing a simple family outing to a London park would be relaxing.
The sun was warm without being insane, a light breeze rustled through the trees, and children played across the wide grassy fields while families occupied picnic blankets scattered throughout the park. It was peaceful. Ordinary. Exactly the sort of thing you loved.
Which was precisely why James should have known it would end in disaster.
You sat comfortably beneath a large oak tree, sunglasses perched atop your head as you absentmindedly scrolled through your phone. Your ADHD had already pulled your attention through approximately seventeen unrelated topics in the last ten minutes, ranging from whether penguins had knees to why ducks walked the way they did.
The twins, meanwhile, had been entrusted with feeding themselves crackers while staying within eyesight.
A decision James was rapidly beginning to regret.
His attention drifted toward the nearby pond where dozens of ducks floated lazily across the water.
Then he noticed his son staring at the birds.
That, by itself, wasn’t concerning.
What concerned him was the look.
The exact look.
The one that appeared right before something expensive broke or someone ended up trapped somewhere they absolutely shouldn’t be.
James narrowed his eyes.
His son glanced toward his sister.His daughter glanced back.
The twins exchanged a silent conversation only siblings could understand.
Then they both nodded.
James immediately sat up straighter. “Oh no.”
You looked up from your phone. “What?”
“The children just had an idea.”
You followed his gaze toward the pond. “They’re just looking at ducks.”
“Exactly.”
You blinked.
James pointed. “They’re plotting.”
Before you could respond, your son announced loudly, “Mama says ducks need snacks.”
You lowered your phone. “What?”
The twins were already climbing to their feet, brushing dirt off their knees. "Mama says ducks get lonely.”
“I did not say that.”
“They need friends,” your daughter added helpfully.
You frowned. “I definitely didn’t say that either.”
Unfortunately, facts had never been particularly important to four year olds.
By the time either parent fully processed what was happening, the twins had already sprinted toward the pond.
James groaned.
The sound was one of a man who had infiltrated enemy compounds with less concern than he felt watching his children run unsupervised toward wildlife.
“Stay here,” he muttered.
You laughed. “Good luck.”
He shot you a look.The look of a husband who knew his wife found his suffering amusing.
You smiled sweetly.....It was not reassuring.
James crossed the grass toward the pond, expecting to discover the twins feeding ducks.
Perhaps chasing ducks.
Possibly attempting to hug ducks.
What he found was significantly worse.
Several ducks had gathered around the twins near a small path leading toward the parking lot.
His son was scattering cracker crumbs like a tiny criminal mastermind.
His daughter was enthusiastically waving her arms.
“Come on!”
“Almost there!”
James stopped walking.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Then his eyes followed the direction they were leading the birds.
Toward the Aston Martin.
His Aston Martin.
His new DB12 Aston Martin that MI6 had kindly gifted after the twins were born.
A horrifying realization settled over him. "No.”
His daughter looked up brightly. “Daddy!”
His son pointed proudly toward the vehicle parked nearby.
“We’re taking them home.”
James closed his eyes.For a brief moment he considered pretending he didn’t know them.
When he opened them again, the situation had somehow deteriorated further.
One duck had already reached the car.
Another stood beside it.
A third appeared interested. "QUACK!!"
“Why,” James asked carefully, “are you taking the ducks home?”
The twins looked at him as though he had asked why water was wet.
“Because they don’t have a house.”
“They live in the pond.”
“That’s outside.”
James pinched the bridge of his nose.
His daughter pointed dramatically toward the Aston Martin.
“That can be their house.!!"
“It absolutely cannot.”
“But it’s big.”
“It....it is not that big!!.”
His son considered this then he asked, “Can they live in Uncle Monroe's house?”
James nearly laughed.
Almost.
The suggestion was ridiculous enough to break through his frustration.Then movement inside the car caught his attention.
His blood ran cold.
One of the ducks was sitting in the passenger seat.
Silence.
James stared, the duck stared back with its tiny beady eyes.
His daughter beamed. “We got Trevor inside.”
“Trevor?”
“The duck.”
The duck quacked, its body puffed.
James genuinely wasn’t sure whether it was introducing itself or mocking him.
Behind him he heard familiar laughter.
Turning around, he found you approaching across the grass, already struggling to contain your amusement.
The moment you spotted the duck sitting comfortably inside the Aston Martin, you lost the battle entirely.
Your laughter echoed across the park. “Oh my God.”
James stared at you. “You think this is funny.”
“I think it's hilarious."
“Our children have stolen a duck.”
“They haven’t stolen it.”
The duck remained in the passenger seat.
You tilted your head. "Actually… they might have stolen it.”
The twins seemed delighted by this possibility.
“We adopted him,” your son corrected.
“We saved him,” your daughter agreed.
Trevor chose that exact moment to flap his wings, feathers getting everywhere.
James moved toward the car.
The duck immediately lunged.A sharp beak connected with his hand.
James jerked backward. "Bloody!-"
The twins gasped.
You nearly collapsed laughing. “Did that duck just attack James Bond?”
The world’s most dangerous spy looked down at the tiny red mark on his hand.His expression was completely blank.
Which somehow made it even funnier.
The twins rushed to Trevor’s defense immediately.
“He thought Daddy was a threat.”
“He was protecting us.”
James stared at his children. “You recruited a bodyguard.”
The twins looked incredibly proud of themselves.
You finally managed to compose yourself enough to wipe tears from your eyes. “I have to admit,” you said, stepping beside him, “that’s kind of impressive.”
James sighed heavily as he looked between his laughing wife, his criminally inventive children, and the duck occupying the passenger seat of a vehicle worth more than most people’s homes.
Somewhere along the way, his life had transformed from international espionage into whatever this was.
Oddly enough, he wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
Even if it meant negotiating with a duck named Trevor in the middle of a London park.
Ooooo what about Bruce Wayne fucking the reader inside the bat car
A/n: hehe
The Batcave was quiet—at least, as quiet as it could be with the hum of servers and the low whir of machinery in the background. You stood near the edge of the platform, arms crossed, eyeing the sleek silhouette of the Batmobile with a spark of mischief in your eye.
Bruce noticed.
“You’re staring at it like it’s dessert,” he said from behind, voice rich with amusement. You turned, smiling up at him as he approached—still in partial gear, cowl off, gauntlets on, chestplate unbuckled. His sweat-slicked hair curled slightly at the nape, eyes dark and attentive.
“I’m just admiring your work,” you said innocently, gesturing to the car.
He stepped closer, hands resting lightly at your hips. “You’ve had sex against the car, remember?”
You quirked a brow. “Against it. I said in the Batmobile. Not on top of it.”
That got him.
His mouth twitched into a smile—one of the rare ones, the real ones. “You serious?”
Your lips brushed his jaw, voice a whisper. “Dead serious." Your voice teasing as your finger trailed down his chest.
Bruce didn’t answer with words. He kissed you hard, possessive, commanding, backing you toward the car without breaking the connection. You laughed into his mouth as your back hit the door of the Batmobile.
“Get in.”
The passenger door hissed open with a press of his glove, and before you could move, Bruce lifted you effortlessly into the cockpit. The seat reclined slightly under your weight, and the ambient lighting glowed cool blue as he climbed in after you—closing the door, sealing you both into a cocoon of shadows and hums.
The leather was cold under your thighs, the air electric.
“You’ve thought about this,” he murmured, tracing the neckline of your blouse, “haven’t you?”
“Too many times,” you whispered. “I used to imagine you pulling over mid-chase just to fuck me in here. Dark and dangerous and reckless.”
Bruce’s eyes darkened. “I like that fantasy.”
He tugged your shirt open, buttons flying, lips immediately lowering to your chest. One hand cupped your breast through your bra, the other sliding up your thigh. You writhed under him, your back arching against the seat, legs spreading to accommodate the way he pressed between them.
You grabbed at his suit, fingers fumbling at the belt, desperate to feel him.
“Patience,” he growled, but there was no real warning in it—only hunger.
He pushed your skirt up, dragged your underwear aside, and pressed his fingers between your folds—groaning low when he felt how wet you already were.
“Fuck,” he whispered, “this turn you on that much?”
“You in this seat?” you gasped. “Yeah. It really does.”
He worked his fingers inside you with practiced precision, thumb teasing your clit as your body arched up toward him. His mouth returned to yours—hot, open, devouring—as he tore his own suit open enough to free himself.
The second you felt the hard press of his cock at your entrance, your breath caught.
“You want this?” he rasped.
“In the Batmobile,” you breathed, teasing him with his own words. “Not against it.”
Bruce pushed inside you in one slow, powerful thrust, and your moan echoed off the armored walls.
He filled you completely, the angle tight, hips grinding against yours as the seat creaked beneath you. The car’s sleek interior framed you both—your knees pressed to the dash, his gloved hands gripping your thighs as he thrust into you with deep, claiming strokes.
“You’re mine,” he growled into your neck, teeth scraping lightly over your skin.
You dug your nails into his shoulders, desperate for more.
“Harder,” you gasped, “Bruce—please—”
He obeyed, pounding into you now with brutal control, every movement shaking the frame of the car. The bat-symbol glowed faintly on the control panel behind him, casting flickering shadows across his jaw as he fucked you like it was his mission—relentless, focused, hungry.
Your orgasm built fast—too fast—and when it hit, you cried out, body tightening around him, legs trembling.
Bruce didn’t stop. He chased his own release with a low, guttural growl, hips snapping forward until he buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside you with a grunt.
For a moment, there was only your breath. Harsh. Tangled. The quiet hum of the Batmobile’s idle systems around you.
Then Bruce looked down at you, eyes softening as he brushed damp hair from your cheek.
“Well?” he asked. “Dream fulfilled?”
You smirked, lips kiss-swollen, clothes askew. “Maybe.”
He raised a brow. “Maybe?”
You pulled him close again, whispering against his lips. “I said in the Batmobile. I didn’t say just once.”
His laugh rumbled low in his chest—dark, dangerous, and so very, very promising.
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