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ginnysgraffiti · 1 month ago

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BRUCE WAYNE x yn.

bruce wayne with breeding kinks head-canons:

he doesn’t mean to fixate — but he does, almost daily, in the quiet in-between moments.

bruce will be reading reports, monitoring security feeds, running a silent operation across the city… and then his mind just drifts.

he’ll glance at you curled up on the couch, flipping through a book or brushing your hair back with one hand — and some invisible trigger pulls.

a thought forms: what would you look like, full of him, with your belly round like the moon and his little heir inside you?

oh god.

he can picture it too clearly: your face softer, fuller with a glow; his hand resting over your stomach like it belongs there.

and for a man who prides himself on control, that kind of fantasy scares the hell out of him — because he wants it.

he talks to alfred about it in the most bruce-wayne way possible: indirectly, but unmistakably suggestive.

one morning, he’s sipping black coffee in the kitchen while you’re still asleep upstairs, and he says, “you ever think this place is too quiet?”

alfred lifts an eyebrow. “you mean ‘quiet’ as in peaceful, or ‘quiet’ as in missing the sound of little feet running about and breaking priceless antiques?”

bruce won’t admit anything at first — he’ll just smirk and say something vague like, “hypothetically.”

but by the third conversation, alfred’s already chuckling behind his tea.

“if you want my opinion, master wayne, you’re not fooling anyone. not with the way you look at them when they’re holding that neighbor’s baby.”

he starts quietly adjusting things around the manor, like the idea has become less of a fantasy and more of a pending plan.

without even realizing it, he begins noting the safest rooms in the house, noise levels, stair railings.

he’ll catch himself researching security upgrades with childproofing in mind, all under the excuse of “renovation.”

alfred notices immediately. “are we preparing for a miniature vigilante, or is there something you’d like to confess, sir?”

and bruce just grunts. but the corner of his mouth lifts — just slightly.

his desire for legacy isn’t about ego, it’s about rewriting something broken, something he misses.

he’s painfully aware of what was taken from him. a family. a sense of innocence.

and if he ever lets himself imagine being a father, it isn’t with the cape, or the gadgets, or the weight of the cowl.

it’s a version of him that’s real in the morning — sleep-ruffled, quiet, watching you and a small version of you both tangled up on the sofa, alive, safe.

he doesn’t just want a child. he wants a future that feels untouched by crime scenes and vengeance.

but most of all, he wants to believe that you loving him enough to start that kind of life with him isn’t just a dream.

he’ll try to play it cool when he finally brings it up to you, but his voice gives him away.

he’ll say something like, “have you ever thought about having kids? not now, obviously. just… one day.”

and when you say yes — when you say you’ve maybe thought about it too — he’s quiet for a long time.

but that night, he sleeps with one arm around your waist, pulling you just slightly closer than usual, like he’s holding something priceless.

he’s already naming the future in his head. already imagining what it would feel like to hand them the world — just a little better than the one he inherited.

his desire starts bleeding into your intimacy.

bruce isn’t reckless. not usually. but lately, the thought of you — the possibility of leaving something inside you, of creating something permanent — lives just beneath his skin.

he kisses slower now. touches you with a careful sort of ownership, like he’s memorizing you before he changes you forever.

he’ll bury his face in your neck during those longer, quieter nights and whisper “you’d look beautiful pregnant.”

soft, almost bashful — not dirty, but devotional. like you’re something holy and he’s already praying.

his movements get slower — not to rush toward release, but to press the idea of it into you. his thrusts deeper, more relaxed, more painful almost, while his groans get guttural and his moans lower.

he never says he’s not using protection, but he doesn’t correct the situation either.

it’s intentional. quiet. calculated.

he never says the words, but there’s something about how still he gets when you look up at him and say “are you sure?”

and he’ll reply — breathless, firm — “yeah. i want all of it.”

he might not say he’s thinking about putting a child in you, but you can feel the weight of that want in every motion.

he doesn’t treat your body like a playground. he treats it like a legacy in motion.

sex.

he becomes hungrier in bed, not just with desire but with intention.

after he’s come down from patrols, bruised, raw, with gotham’s filth still on him — you’re the one softness he allows himself.

and yet, even then, there’s this primal weight behind every kiss, every thrust.

“you’d carry it well,” he mutters into your skin one night, almost too low for you to hear.

he doesn’t elaborate. he doesn’t have to. and god, as nights pass, he can’t help but come inside each time, throwing his head back in ecstasy.

and unfortunately for alfred, wayne manor’s walls are too damn thin.

it starts with a closed door. but the soft noises grow louder. not vulgar, but intimate.

a creak of the mattress. two, three, now he can hear the springs begging for mercy. low groans. his voice, raspy and bitten off mid-syllable.

alfred walks by with a tray one night and pauses.

from behind the door, bruce’s voice, low and straine: “fuck- no, oh god- no, please move faster.”

a beat of silence. a breathless laugh from you.

alfred sighs deeply, sets the tray down quietly, and mutters, “well. that explains the increased grocery bill.”

he never jokes about it, but the intimacy turns gentle post-coital — almost boyish.

after, bruce doesn’t pull away like he used to. he’s quiet. holding you close. hand pressed low on your belly, like he’s willing something into being.

he’ll ask, in a soft, speculative tone, “do you ever wonder what they’d look like? if we had one? a mini you? a mini me?”

his voice is full of restraint — but underneath it, that hope is unmistakable. not romantic. animal. he presses his sweaty forehead against yours.

if you say yes, he relaxes. and you realize.

he wasn’t just fantasizing during sex. he was fantasizing about forever.

alfred starts knocking a little louder in the mornings — and a little more frequently.

the first time he hears it, he tries to politely pretend it’s the pipes.

the second time, he knocks on the bedroom door just a bit harder than necessary and says, “coffee’s ready — if you two are…finished rewriting the family line.”

bruce opens the door shirtless, sweaty, hair damp, that lazy post-coital calm still resting behind his eyes.

he doesn’t respond. alfred mutters, “well, i suppose that’s a ‘yes.’”

alfred starts putting prenatal vitamins in the cabinet “just in case”

you gently ask him one morning, “alfred, why are there like…maternity teas in the pantry?”

he barely looks up from his crossword. “oh, no reason. just thought the house ought to be prepared, considering the late-night symphonies i’ve been treated to.”

you’re mid-sip of tea. you nearly choke.

in the distance, bruce’s heavy footsteps creak across the upper hall.

“and speak of the devil,” alfred adds flatly, “our maestro descends.”

alfred sometimes tells bruce to be quieter, and bruce absolutely pretends he doesn’t understand.

“sir, i’m not one to interfere in your personal endeavors, but the acoustics in this house are far too generous.”

bruce looks up from the security feed, sipping black coffee like a sinner after confession. “i’ll look into soundproofing the bedroom.”

“yes, or perhaps consider pacing yourself before someone files a noise complaint.”

bruce smirks. doesn’t deny it. he knows alfred is being sarcastic — but the comment secretly delights him.

he’s loud because he wants it to be known. because for once in his cold, compartmentalized existence, something real is blooming.

when alfred finally catches you both at breakfast, post-‘incident,’ he acts as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

you’re wrapped in one of bruce’s robes. your hair’s still mussed. bruce has a faint mark on his collarbone.

“eggs?” alfred offers neutrally.

“…yes please,” you murmur, half-embarrassed.

he serves them perfectly, of course. but just before leaving the room, he mutters dryly:

“if i may suggest a night off from the opera, master wayne. the house staff are beginning to speculate.”

bruce hums into his coffee, eyes fixed on you.

“i’ll take it under consideration.”

and when you do eventually get pregnant — alfred has absolutely earned the right to be smug about it.

“knew it,” he says under his breath when you confirm it. bruce raises an eyebrow.

“oh please, sir. a deaf man could’ve heard you two plotting this.”

but beneath the teasing — there’s fondness. there’s care.

he places the vitamins on the table a little more pointedly now. makes sure the orange juice is fresh.

and when bruce starts accompanying you everywhere like your own personal bodyguard with a billion-dollar bank account?

“perhaps leave her room to breathe, sir,” alfred says. “after all, she’s carrying the future wayne empire — not an armed nuclear device.”

“yeah…o-of course i know that alfred. tsk.”

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ginnysgraffiti · 2 months ago

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BRUCE WAYNE x yn.

bruce wayne on vacation with you (and alfred) head-canons:

settings:

- bruce doesn’t “vacation” in the traditional sense. he disappears. disconnection is the point. italy is just far enough from gotham, and just close enough to his parents’ old europe memories, to tempt him.

- you’re staying in a sleek, private villa on the amalfi coast. ocean-facing cliffs. private pool inside and outside. private tennis court. secluded. the kind of place that whispers in old money and smells like lemon and salt.

- alfred picked the villa. he pretended it was for “a bit of sunlight” and “proper olive oil,” but really he thought it might help bruce feel human for once.

domestic mornings + boat days:

- bruce wakes up early. not batman-early, but still earlier than he should. you wake to the sound of the sea and the faint clinking of dishes — he’s in the kitchen, trying to brew espresso like alfred taught him. it’s terrible. you never told him. but he tries. every morning.

- he reads the paper barefoot, shirtless, glasses perched low on his nose. you steal the section he’s reading just to annoy him. he lets you — with a smirk hidden behind his coffee.

- you both brush your teeth side by side in the enormous marble bathroom, elbowing each other like kids. he always steals your towel. alfred usually strolls in at some point with a disapproving look and a perfectly ironed linen shirt.

“i thought two billionaires could manage to make a functional coffee machine work.”

- bruce pilots the boat himself. of course. it’s about control, about escape — not luxury. he’s quiet at the helm, sunglasses on, jaw tight. every turn is clean, perfect, precise. everything Gotham isn’t.

- he lets you lie across the sun-warmed deck, legs tangled with his, fingers skimming the sea spray. there’s a softness there — a private peace that only you see. no reporters. no board meetings. no masks.

- he’ll sometimes dive off the boat in silence, emerging slick and breathless. when you join him, he watches you swim like you’re something impossible. like joy personified. sometimes he would untie your bikini while you two are swimming just to see your reaction.

- he doesn’t laugh often, but when he does — usually at something you say, or when Alalfred pretends to slip into the sea “by accident” — it’s real. low, gravelly, and makes your chest tighten with affection.

- bruce packs lunch in a cooler like it’s a mission briefcase. grapes, olives, little sandwiches alfred cut diagonally (“as it should be”). and wine, because of course.

- he lets you pilot the boat sometimes — and pretends not to hover, but absolutely hovers. hands near yours. giving “suggestions.” “you’re drifting to port.” “i’m literally not.”

- you both wear swimsuits under linen, sunglasses, and matching smugness. he never sunburns — you accuse him of being genetically modified. he claims it “discipline.” alfred says it’s “a leathery sort of vanity.”

- at anchor, he lounges on the deck with his head in your lap while you read aloud from whatever novel you found in the villa. he listens with his eyes closed, hand curled loosely around your thigh.

- alfred occasionally joins for the boat days — usually to bring “actual food” or sit in the shade with a book. he never swims. claims it’s “a matter of dignity.”

local errands + wandering:

- bruce actually enjoys going into town with you. walks the cobblestone streets in tailored shirts and sunglasses like some international art dealer. still somehow invisible. only some locals recognize him — and they don’t care too much.

- he picks out fresh figs with the precision of someone analyzing evidence. you joke he looks like he’s profiling fruit. he laughs, quietly.

- at the market, you stop to buy sunflowers. bruce carries them the whole way back like it’s the most important thing he’s ever held.

- alfred always finds a cafe to sit in while you wander. he pretends not to watch over you like a hawk. bruce doesn’t pretend. he watches your reflection in every shop window.

evenings:

- dinner is simple, warm, and always eaten slowly. bruce likes hearing you talk about small things. favorite pasta shapes. a weird dream you had. he listens like it’s important.

- dinner is always outside. al fresco on the terrace, candlelight flickering over aged wine and fresh seafood. alfred insists on cooking half the time, and critiques the other half with brutal elegance.

- bruce often eats in silence, swirling wine, watching the stars. he’ll touch your hand under the table — always gentle, always like he’s reminding himself you’re still here.

- you catch him staring sometimes. not in lust — in awe. like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed this moment. that someone like him can sit in peace and not pay for it with blood.

- after dinner, he’ll sometimes pull you into his lap on the chaise lounge. he won’t say much — just rest his chin on your shoulder, arms wrapped around you, warm breath against your skin. “stay a while longer.” you always do.

- sometimes, you both dance in the living room. no music — just the hush of waves and the occasional soft scoff from alfred in the corner with his wine. “shall i fetch rose petals and a string quartet as well?”

- other times, after dinner, bruce will sit behind you and rub your shoulders, whispering whatever alfred cooked next time, he’s replicating. he’s not good at compliments — but he adores when you laugh.

- you fall asleep on the couch half the nights. he always carries you to bed.

bruce being bruce:

- wears white linen shirts, rolled to the elbows. tailored, of course. somehow never wrinkles. wears them open when it’s just you — revealing sun-bronzed skin and a few fading bruises.

- still works out every morning. early. alfred rolls his eyes at the makeshift rooftop pull-up bar. “do try not to rebuild the batcave in every country we visit, master wayne.”

- he checks gotham news secretly when you’re asleep. watches CCTV of the manor. sometimes replays footage of past nights on patrol. you caught him once. he denied. you let him.

- brings a secure phone everywhere. he never answers it.

private moments:

- he touches you more, here in vacation. not always sexually — but constantly. a hand at your waist. a thumb brushing your knuckles. a kiss to your temple while you’re reading on the balcony.

- he makes love to you like he’s praying. slow. intentional. with reverence. he needs it here — not the roughness, not the release — but the closeness. the proof that he’s still human.

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