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Damian has gotten better.
Much better.
Not that Bruce can tell him that now, with a gag tasting of sweet, sickly herbs shoved in his mouth. He’s not familiar with this specific blend of toxins, but whatever it is, it’s kept him subdued for the 12+ hours they’ve been traveling. The fumes make him dizzy, but they don’t seem to affect Damian or his accompanying soldiers at all. An omega-specific compound, maybe.
Their fight back in Gotham had been quick, private, and brutal. Bruce, who prides himself on his preparation, hadn’t been prepared for Damian’s appearance after three years abroad. An awkward, half-grown 16-year-old had blossomed into a full-sized alpha with a frame and voice to match. He was definitely Bruce’s son, evident in their matching harsh jawlines and piercing gaze.
That, he’d been expecting. Damian’s genes were practically tailor-made to ensure he got the best of both Bruce and Talia’s physical attributes, all lean muscle and unforgiving stature.
What he didn’t expect was the… peculiar change in Damian’s fighting style. He was more skilled than ever, that much was certain, but he also moved with what Bruce thought of as old-fashioned alpha flair. The kind of fight that says, “You have no choice but to submit to me.”
But he can’t dwell on that now. He has to keep track of the time. It’s bad enough he lost a chunk of it during the first half of their journey, right after Damian knocked him unconscious. Worse still that he’s blindfolded. But, between the time spent traveling, the elevated temperatures, and what he knows of the League, he’d be hard-pressed to find they’re not already somewhere in Asia.
The last stretch of their journey takes them up a steep, bumpy hill. He hears men in front of him riding horseback, tugging along whatever they’re using to transport him. Some sort of carriage or wagon, he guesses, lined with silk and cushions as if to make this a pleasant bound-and-gagged journey for him.
Bruce’s ears start to pop after the first hour up. It takes another two for them to reach their destination, somewhere that smells like wood fire and cold metal. The caravan stops, and for another ten minutes or so, nothing happens.
The slightest change in lighting behind his blindfold tells him someone’s opened the carriage door. His nose immediately picks up on his son’s new, potent scent. The scent of an alpha who knows how to carry himself.
He means to say “Damian,” but it comes out instead as a soft, slurred, “Dami…” behind his gag.
“Father,” comes the reply. Damian’s voice is deeper now, but his arrogant tone hasn’t changed.
It was much more endearing when he was younger.
“It’ll be easier if you don’t fight,” he says. Bruce doesn’t reply. After a long few seconds of silence, Damian tells someone else, “Take him to my chambers.”
Bruce attempts to fight them off, obviously. But he’s been stripped of his belt and all his tech, he’s blind, and he’s still very much under the influence of some sort of drug. He tries to struggle as a few men flank him and hoist him up, but in the end, does little more than flop around and groan.
“Typical,” he hears Damian mutter, and they drag Bruce away.
The room they enter smells even more heady than his gag. This is a scent he recognizes. It’s a traditional blend of incense and dried herbs, an ancient and reliable method to—
To induce heat in an omega.
Immediately, Bruce tries to regulate his breathing, inhaling only in small amounts when necessary. It won’t work in the long run — he can already feel his body start to warm up — but it’ll be better than breathing in big lungfuls for now.
Damian’s men don’t speak. They work methodically to strip Bruce out of his bonds and clothes, batting his useless limbs to the side whenever he tries to fight back. He’s forced into something soft and delicate, a sharp contrast to the heavy bulk of his armor. They take his cowl, but leave him with both the blindfold and the gag before re-tying his hands and taking their leave.
In their absence, Bruce racks his brain to try and figure out Damian’s endgame. The kid’s always been unpredictable, but this is… a little much.
Maybe this was on request of his mother. Talia had set up her room the same way, with herbs and incense, nearly two decades ago when she first seduced him. Granted, back then he had come of his own accord, with all limbs unbound and in working order. The aphrodisiacs in the air were merely set dressing, enhancing the mood they’d already cultivated.
This is targeted. Someone wants him to go into heat, and they’re doing a remarkably good job of it. Already, Bruce feels that throbbing in his muscles that precedes his heats. He hasn’t had one in ages, constantly on suppressants to continue his work as Batman. Maybe that’s why it seems like it’s taking no time at all set in.
He expects to be left alone a lot longer, but the door opens a mere ten minutes later. Damian’s scent hits him again, this time like a speeding car. Bruce bites down on the gag, more of that sickly-sweet substance leaking into his mouth.
Padding over to the side of the bed, Damian says, “I suppose you have questions.”
He lifts Bruce’s blindfold a second later, and Bruce hopes he’s able to convey what he’s feeling with just his unamused stare. Damian’s eyes, bright green like his mother’s, widen at the same time his nostrils flare. It’s subtle, but Bruce knows what to look for. He can smell Bruce, too.
“I know you wouldn’t have agreed if I asked you outright,” Damian continues, “which is why I decided not to give you the choice. But I do want you to want this, Father. That’s why I’m here now.”
Bruce’s heart drops into his stomach. He doesn’t like where this is going, and it shows on his face, in the pull of his eyebrows and the cold blue of his eyes. Damian looks at him, stands up straight, and turns around. He’s wearing a long, ornate cloak, the kind his grandfather used to wear, that swirls around his legs when he moves.
“I’ll cut to the point,” Damian says. “You and I are going to further the al Ghul line.” As if anticipating a protest, he plows on without looking at Bruce. “There’s no point in arguing. I’ve already decided. And as pack alpha, it’s my decision alone.”
Bruce doesn’t know if he wants to roll his eyes, snort, or sigh. Pack alpha? Not only is it outdated, it’s insulting. Omega or not, Bruce is the patriarch of the family, the one who knows best, the one who should be making the decisions. For example, the decision to refrain from letting his son impregnate him.
He tries to say something, to ask where the hell Damian got this idea that they need to breed above all else, but even his impressive willpower isn’t enough to break through his restraints. All he ends up doing is slurring and chomping at the all-too-physical bit, equal parts drool and sweet-smelling fluid dripping down his chin.
Damian turns to him and clicks his tongue in that distinctive way of his. Shaking his head, he walks over and uses the blindfold to mop Bruce’s jaw clean.
“I’ll come back in a few hours to take this out,” he says, motioning toward the gag. “The fertility compound should have already taken effect, but I want to be certain.”
Fertility—? Of course. A fertility drug would counteract any lingering hormonal changes from his suppressants and make it all that much easier for him to conceive. Bruce’s eyes first widen, then narrow, betrayal clear on his face. If Damian cares, he doesn’t show it, already heading back toward the exit.
He pauses with a hand on the doorframe. “Father, just… just trust me. I’ll take care of you.”
Bruce glares at his back until he leaves.
Alone, he’s finally able to focus on his surroundings. He’s in a large bedroom on a Western-style bed, potentially chosen because of its sturdy frame—perfect to tie someone to. He’s dressed in little more than a black robe-like garment, edges embroidered with gold thread. It’s long enough that it feels more like a dress than anything, and Damian’s men have tied it shut in the traditional omegan way, with a golden sash around his waist to accentuate the curves of his hips and pecs. He’s much more muscular than a “typical” omega, but his frame is still just broad enough to carry a child, if need be.
He could do it. That doesn’t mean he at all intends to.
It’s a wonder to him how Damian got the idea in the first place. Ra’s was all about the family line, sure, but Bruce didn’t realize it still had that much of an impact on the boy. Why else would he try to breed his father, of all people?
The mere thought of Damian in bed with him makes him shudder. It isn’t natural. It isn’t right. He raised this child, and even if it wasn’t from birth, even if he’s an adult now, that shouldn’t change anything. Batman is a hero and a protector, not a weak-minded omega willing to roll over for anyone who tries to court him.
But the assault on his senses doesn’t let up. A few thin bags of dried herbs dangle off the bed frame right above his face; he’d knock them away, but he’s still too weak from whatever paralytic agent Damian mixed with the fertility drugs. The incense keeps burning, and whenever a stick seems close to burning out, someone comes in to swap it with a fresh one.
It doesn’t take long for Bruce to leak through his robe with slick. His hard cock makes an obscene tent in the fabric, and he aches with the desire to touch himself, to temporarily abate the sensations taking over him. But with his legs spread and bound just like his arms, he can’t even press his thighs together to relieve any tension.
It’s a cruel way to treat somebody. He and Damian are going to have to have a serious talk once he gets out of this. And he will get out of this.
He just feels so… tired...
In the room he shared with Talia that scorching night, Bruce surrounds himself with rich purple pillows and soft blankets. Hundreds of candles light up the room with a warm, homely glow.
His hands drift down to his stomach. They rise with the swell of it, a rounded bump that hadn’t been there before. Between his legs, he feels the heat of his continued arousal.
Another pair of hands drift around to join Bruce’s own, which is when he realizes he’s sitting back against somebody. They’re dark enough to be Talia’s, but not nearly as delicate; battle-hardened fingers sit scarred and rough over his soft stomach.
“You and I,” the person whispers into his ear, one hand cresting the curve of his stomach and continuing lower. “Let me take care of you.”
In his dream, Bruce lets his instincts win. He spreads his legs and welcomes the intrusion of a finger between the lips of his cunt, bypassing his cock entirely.
“Let me take care of you,” the voice says again, two fingers deep now, somehow. Bruce squirms and arches into his touch, but can’t seem to get far. Can’t speak through a feeling like cotton in his mouth. “Let me, Father…”
Bruce forces himself awake through sheer willpower. It’s a skill he picked up through years of dealing with nightmares, though usually those nightmares don’t involve his—
No. He refuses to acknowledge it, even as a heat-induced fever dream. Those images were never in his head. That never happened.
His reality is little better than his dream. He awakes with a pounding headache, nausea twisting up his gut. His scent is so potent that he can smell himself, musky and sweet, reeking of sex and sweat.
All things considered, he’s even less clear-headed now than he was the whole way up. Maybe that’s why he doubles up his efforts to escape now. His bonds are little more than strong cords around his wrists and ankles; no locks to pick, no codes to break. It’s both cautious and arrogant. Damian doesn’t trust him around gadgets, but thinks him weak enough to be kept in place with just a few ropes.
The more Bruce tugs at them, the more he realizes his son might be more clever than he realized. Nothing around him is sharp enough to cut the ropes, so he’s left with his own brute strength. On a normal day, he’d be able to use that to his advantage, either breaking the bed frame entirely or dislocating a thumb to free himself.
But this isn’t a normal day, and Bruce’s hormones are out of control. They tell him to stay put, stay available, stay calm. To let the warmth of his heat cloak him like a wave, to drown in that feeling and let an alpha do all the thinking. He hasn’t been quite so desperate since college, when the world learned that beautiful debutante Bruce Wayne was an omega. That had been a challenging few years to get through level-headed.
That same discomfort finds him now, making it hard for him to concentrate on his task. Part of him, a part he likes to keep locked safe deep inside himself, tells him to relax and enjoy it. To imagine being swollen with child, carrying on two lines centuries old. Wouldn’t it be nice not to have to stress about saving the world all the time?
As if to answer his question, the door to his room opens. Bruce tenses on automatic, fighting against his body’s instinct to remain loose and seductive. He didn’t even hear footsteps approach; he’s far too out of it for comfort.
Damian stands silhouetted in the doorway for a silent few seconds. Bruce catches the way his hand tightens on the doorframe. He must be able to smell Bruce, too.
Because he can’t speak, Bruce just watches Damian shut and lock the door behind him. He tries to regulate his breathing, but every deep breath he takes through his nose alerts him to Damian’s scent. It’s different than it was before. Muskier. He’s— he’s aroused.
Damian reaches for his face. Bruce turns his head away, but Damian persists, grabbing the gag on both sides. In one swift motion, he rips it apart like it’s little more than a length of dental floss and tosses it to the side. As soon as it’s out of his mouth, Bruce spits out the last bit of strange-tasting liquid onto the pillows beside his head. He tries to ignore the quickening of his heart, the way his mind fixates on Damian’s soft grunt when he tore the gag in half. It says things like strong and alpha and dependable.
His conscious mind just calls it a show-off. Leave it to Damian to be the type to peacock for a mate.
“Ew.” Damian sneers down at the glob of spit on the pillow. “That wasn’t necessary. It’s already working. I can smell it, Father… I can smell you. ”
“Damian,” Bruce starts in a warning tone. “You aren’t thinking clearly. You—”
“I’m thinking more clearly than I ever have in my entire life,” Damian insists, shifting to sit on the bed.
The mattress sinks in and their thighs touch, and even through so many layers of fabric, Bruce can feel the warmth radiate from Damian’s body. With one hand — just as rough and strong as the ones he’d felt in his dream — Damian grabs him by the chin and forces him to turn his head. They’re close now, too close, Damian’s breath puffing across his lips with every word.
“I want this, Father,” he says, and it sounds uncomfortably like the way he used to whine as a child when things didn’t go his way. “Why else do you think I trained out here for all this time?”
Bruce tries to pull away, but Damian holds him firm. His brows crease, angry and confused. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It was to impress you,” Damian continues, rolling his eyes, as if that should’ve been obvious from the start. “To show you how powerful we could be if you’d stop holding back for once. Grandfather was incorrect about many things, but not you, Father. He saw something in you, and he was right.”
“Damian,” Bruce warns again as Damian makes to climb on top of him. “Listen to yourself. I am not a viable mating partner, we are related— ”
Damian cuts him off with a kiss. It’s about as fast and brutal as their fight was, teeth gnashing against lips as Bruce refuses to open his mouth. The taste of blood quickly spreads between their mouths, and Damian growls, lapping it up.
Bruce’s cock twitches in response, much to his surprise. Just a second’s worth of weakness, one single gasp, and Damian takes advantage of it to shove his tongue into Bruce’s mouth. He thrusts it in and out in a crude imitation of intercourse, and Bruce almost keens, back arching against his will.
Their hips grind together, and while one part of Bruce thinks finally, the other is horrified. Damian’s length presses down hot and heavy against his hip, and his own cock finds relief thrusting up against his son’s body. In a blind panic, he breaks the kiss and sharply turns his head away.
“Stop—”
Damian’s teeth find his newly-exposed neck. Bruce gasps as they dig down, bound to leave a distinct mark against the side of his throat. What’s worse, his body reacts to the bite of an alpha, and pleasant hormones flood his body, forcing his tensed-up muscles to relax.
If he didn’t know better, he’d call the pleased rumble coming from Damian’s chest a “purr.”
After what feels like a whole minute or two, Damian finally, slowly lets up. He laps at the mark he left behind, and Bruce shudders at the wet slide of his tongue against his skin. He tries to keep it contextualized as “cold and slimy,” not “warm and enticing.” Needs to separate his body and his mind as much as possible.
It’s hard to do with Damian’s oppressive weight on top of him, scent covering him like a blanket. Damian’s hands find the sash around his waist and deftly start to undo it, mouth trailing down from his neck to his collarbone.
“ Damian— ”
Bruce tries to shut his legs, but the ropes around his ankles hold firm. The two halves of his robe fall open, exposing the broad expanse of his chest. Immediately, Damian begins to mouth over every scar he can find, from the bullet hole Two-Face left in his shoulder all the way to the broad slash on his side Ra’s put there years ago.
Damian kisses that one with reverence, looking up through long eyelashes with those mesmerizing green eyes of his. Talia used to look at him the same way.
Setting his jaw, Bruce shuts his eyes. He just needs to focus. There is a way out of this. There has to be. He can find it, but not if he keeps trying to change Damian’s mind. It’s clear that won’t work, so he just needs to ignore him for now. They can chalk this whole incident up to out-of-control hormones later.
Damian, never one to like being ignored, huffs against the sensitive skin of his stomach. Bruce tries not to imagine the petulant look on his face, instead trying again to work a hand out of his restraints.
“It’s not going to work, Father,” Damian says, lips dragging over Bruce’s skin with every word. He kisses lower, following the trail of dark hair beneath Bruce’s navel, pushing the last bit of fabric out of the way so that Bruce is totally, completely exposed.
His breath hitches in his throat. A strange mixture of arousal and disgust bubbles up inside of him, and it’s almost like the ropes around his wrists have suddenly gone incorporeal, because he can’t seem to get a good grip on them. He fumbles uncharacteristically as Damian licks a long, slow stripe up the underside of his cock.
“Father,” Damian murmurs, lapping at the head of his cock. His voice lowers, deeper than Bruce has ever heard it, and practically growls, “You taste so good…”
This shouldn’t be happening. Damian shouldn’t be between his legs like they’re lovers, and Bruce shouldn’t be enjoying it, not even unintentionally. But the more Damian’s desperate tongue laves over him, the more he stops trying to escape and starts just holding onto the ropes to keep himself steady.
Damian doesn’t pay attention to his cock for long. He keeps one hand wrapped around the length of it, but trails lower, to the sopping lips of Bruce’s cunt. For a second, Bruce just hears him inhale, like he’s taking stock of a fine wine. Then that tongue finds him again, lapping up the slick right from Bruce’s hole.
Bruce can sense Damian’s desperation from the way he frantically drinks down every last drop. He hears him grunt and growl like a predator tearing into its meal, and his body reacts in kind, relaxing and leaking more slick for Damian to lick up. He writhes on top of luxurious silk sheets, using all of his remaining willpower to keep from making a sound.
When Damian next speaks, the vibrations from his voice go right to Bruce’s cock. “How long has it been, Father?” he asks, lips on the base of Bruce’s shaft while his fingers find Bruce’s entrance. “Since you let someone touch you like this?”
Too long, Bruce thinks. Too long since Selina, or Talia, or even one of the Gotham heiresses he’d sleep with to keep up appearances. Too many sleepless nights on patrol and hours lost to cases, eyes burning in front of the Batcomputer. Popping suppressants like candy, ignoring his own needs in favor of Gotham’s. Damian’s sure to know, to smell it on him, even though Bruce refuses to answer.
Damian sighs in frustration. He starts to stroke Bruce’s cock lazily, poking just the tips of two fingers into his hole. Bruce’s body accepts them eagerly, trying to draw them in deeper, but Damian keeps teasing him like that, fucking him shallowly just up to the first knuckle.
“Your body wants it,” he says. “I want it. And I want you to want it.”
“What I want,” Bruce says through gritted teeth, “is to be let go.”
Damian grunts, and Bruce can just imagine his eyes rolling. “Neither of us are leaving this place until you agree to bear our children. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
Bruce doesn’t respond.
“ Tt. Have it your way, Father.”
And then, much to Bruce’s surprise, Damian stands up, re-ties the sash around Bruce’s waist, and exits the room.
Bruce doesn’t make any more progress toward escaping that night. Damian’s absence leaves him cold and desperate, his body’s fires stoked to full-blast after their short tryst. He barely tastes the dinner that a servant feeds him. All he can concentrate on is the abysmal growling of lust in his stomach, and that can’t be sated with naan, hummus and water.
Damian can’t truly believe he’ll ever agree to this, can he? Of all people, his own son should be aware of how deeply his moral code runs. Even if they weren’t related, he’s Batman. Batman can’t afford to take 9 months off to carry a child. To nurse it, to care for it. To keep it safe and happy, ensure that his kin grows up to be as strong as the rest of the family.
He finds himself dwelling on the idea far too much, instincts warring with intellect, telling him not to fight back the creeping contentedness he feels at the idea of letting Damian take care of both him and their child. He knows they’d want for nothing, between the riches of the al Ghuls and the Waynes. Likely wouldn’t even have to fight for himself, surrounded by League assassins trained to protect him with their lives.
The fantasy stays with him even when one of Damian’s servants comes to guide him briefly to the toilets, fastening a golden collar and leash around his neck to take him there. On unsteady feet, he takes stock of his surroundings, at once trying to figure out how to escape, and imagining what it would be like to walk these halls with a child nipping at his heels.
He’s only allowed to use the toilet; he’s not permitted to bathe, no matter how desperately he wants to wash the stink of sex and sweat away. After he’s done, the servant ties him back up in bed.
The collar stays on.
Damian returns the next day after breakfast. He looks prim and proper as always, dressed in a new ornate cloak that makes his silhouette look twice as sharp in the frame of the doorway.
“Father,” he says. “Have you thought about my offer?”
Bruce holds his breath and sets his jaw.
Damian waits for another moment or two, then sighs. “I’ll give you some more time.”
It continues that way for another couple of days. Bruce keeps track of the time by counting how often Damian checks on him: once in the morning, once in the evening. Every time, Damian asks him the same question, and every time, Bruce refuses to answer. Outwardly, he’s as unaffected by the torture as one would expect Batman to be.
Inwardly is a whole other story.
He still hasn’t been permitted to bathe, save for a few light sponge-downs from that same beta servant on occasion. For the most part, his thighs are a constant mess of slick, robe stained at the front with precum. He can smell himself thick in the air, the kind of heady and desperate scent that would drive most alphas insane.
And he knows Damian is affected by it. He sees it in the tension in his shoulders when he enters the room, in the brief widening-then-narrowing of his eyes. In those brief moments when they see each other, even from all the way across the room, Bruce can smell him, too. Can smell the raw, rustic musk of an alpha who hasn’t mated in a while.
It’s maybe the second or third day when the explicit visions start to set in. They plague Bruce during the few periods of restless sleep he can get, and continue to haunt him in his waking hours. Damian, strong Damian, naked between his legs, pounding into him. Cum filling his belly until it swells with child, and Damian fucking him through it anyway, big hands rubbing Bruce’s stomach while he whispers sweet reassurances into his ear.
He’s in the middle of one such fantasy the next time Damian comes around. Evening number four? Or has it been five by now? He’s not sure. But this time, when Damian asks him his question, he almost answers. His mouth opens, the word is at the back of his tongue, but he swallows it down a second before it comes out.
Damian notices. “Well?”
“...I can’t,” Bruce admits, softly. Hardly knows what he’s saying, but keeps talking anyway. “I can’t, Damian. I can’t.”
“Why not? ”
Damian slams a fist back against the wall hard enough to rattle the furniture in the room. Bruce’s heart jumps up into his throat, and immediately, he can taste Damian on the back of his tongue. His arousal, his rage, his desperation; all of it swirled into a cocktail that threatens to intoxicate him.
Bruce shouldn’t have to answer, but he does. “I’m your father, Damian,” he says for the umpteenth time. “I raised you. Took care of you since you were a child. ”
“And now I’m not,” Damian insists. For the first time since the day they arrived, he steps into the room. “And I’m through with this farce. Enough excuses. This has taken long enough already.”
He slams the door shut behind him. Bruce stares wide-eyed as he approaches. “Damian—”
“One good reason,” Damian says, voice an octave lower than it was the moment before. His eyes, green as Talia’s, shine like little pinpricks of eerie light in the dim bedroom. “Give me one good reason we shouldn’t. I won’t entertain any further arguments based on antiquated notions of taboo.”
What can Bruce say? He doubts there is a way to change Damian’s mind at this point. He’s never been the type to be easily dissuaded from going after what he wants. Bruce can’t imagine that changing now.
After a moment, Damian grunts, “ Tt. That’s what I thought.”
Bruce expects him to turn and leave — no, it would be more accurate to say that he wants him to turn and leave. Between the closed door and Damian’s oppressive, rut-thick scent, looking back, he never expected anything of the sort.
Damian confirms Bruce’s fears by bending down and capturing his lips in a fierce kiss. He tries to turn away, but Damian captures his chin in a brutal grip, keeping him steady while his tongue shoves past the tight barrier of his lips and teeth. His other hand trails over Bruce’s body, roughly untying the sash at his waist.
The hand that slides between his legs is intrusive and rough, going immediately for his cunt. Damian breaks the kiss to murmur, “Already this wet… Why are you still so stubborn, Father? Why deny yourself what you clearly want?”
Bruce can’t answer. Can hardly think, with his son’s finger pressing insistently inside of him. It slides in easily, aided by more slick than he thinks he’s ever produced in his life.
If he could think, maybe he’d try to break free of his cuffs, instead of just yanking at his bonds until ugly rope burn digs into his wrists. Maybe he would say something, do something, to get Damian to reconsider. Something more effective than the soft pleas he makes, “Don’t” and “Wait—” and more that all fall on deaf ears.
Damian shifts to get on top of him, ducking his head down to shower Bruce’s neck with angry little bite marks. They increase in intensity with every passing moment, Damian growling as he shoves a second finger into Bruce’s dripping hole. Bruce cries out, then immediately bites his lip, fighting hard against the urge to rock back against Damian’s hand. He works his fingers so hard and fast that the sound of it is audible; an obscene, wet backdrop to Bruce’s protests.
“This is wrong,” he grits out through his teeth.
The only response he gets is a particularly rough jerk of the arm from Damian, one that Bruce feels deep inside him. The shock of pleasure is so intense that he jerks against his bonds, cock dripping a thick strand of precum onto his stomach. Though the noise he makes is little more than a vibration in his throat, Damian must feel it with his lips pressed to Bruce’s neck.
Bruce feels those lips quirk up in a smirk.
“Damian,” Bruce says, head swimming. “Damian, son, please— ”
Suddenly, Damian pulls his fingers out, leaving Bruce clenching down on nothing, feeling strangely empty. Not for long, though, because Damian presses his dripping fingers to Bruce’s lips, into his mouth and down on his tongue. He rubs them back and forth slowly, pointedly, looking into Bruce’s eyes while he makes him taste himself.
“You’d nearly come all over my hand, and yet you still refuse to admit what you clearly desire,” he says.
Bruce would call him “petulant,” but it doesn’t seem entirely fitting anymore. Not for a grown man, one so skilled in making his knees shake and his heart quicken.
No. No, no, no, he can’t think of Damian that way. This can’t be happening. Everything seems surreal as Damian forces himself between his legs, bulge in his pants apparent even in the low light. Bruce thrashes in his bonds once more, but Damian shoves his fingers further down, nearly into his throat, until Bruce can do nothing but try not to gag. The scent of his own arousal is the only thing he can smell — save, of course, for Damian’s now-overwhelming musk.
“One day,” Damian says, breathless with desire, “I want to claim this mouth of yours, as well.”
Bruce bites down. Damian yelps, yanks his fingers free, and uses that hand to grab Bruce’s chin instead, grip so powerful that it nearly bruises. This time, when he growls, it’s less a playful thing, and more something dangerous. It’s the growl of a predator, the wolf with a rabbit’s neck between its teeth.
“Very well,” he says. “If you prefer things rough, Father, I wouldn’t want to deny you.”
“Damian, don’t—”
It does no good. Damian shoves his pants down just far enough to expose his cock, long and dark and already shiny at the tip with precum. Seeing it, Bruce salivates — then immediately hates himself for it.
He doesn’t have long to look. Damian takes himself by the base and lines up, and as soon as his hot cockhead presses against Bruce’s opening, Bruce’s body welcomes him in. He screws his eyes shut, trying to block out the situation, but he can feel Damian’s eyes burning holes into him the entire time he pushes inside.
Once he’s in, he shows Bruce no mercy. Huffing out a breath at his ear, he immediately begins to move, fucking Bruce hard and fast. It’s been long enough since he’s had someone inside him that there’s still some resistance the deeper Damian goes, but Bruce is so desperately aroused that he doesn’t even care.
That first time happens like a blur, indistinct and far too fast. He doesn’t remember either of them saying a single word; just Damian’s animalistic growls, and Bruce, helpless underneath him, trying and failing to keep himself from making a sound. He doesn’t remember ever making such pitiful, wailing moans, but he remembers hearing them, like a third party bearing witness to his own sins.
Damian holds his hips so hard that bruises shaped like his hands actually do start to form. Bruce can’t move, can’t think, can’t speak, can only feel as Damian drives in and out of him, making more of those incredible wet noises as their bodies slap together.
And then, just as soon as it happens, it ends. Damian shoves his hips forward sharply enough to hurt, and Bruce realizes that’s his knot, breaching him for the first time. The extra stimulation sends Bruce into overload, and he comes all over his chest, vision exploding into white. Ears ringing, he barely hears Damian’s satisfied hum.
The entire time they’re knotted, he doesn’t move. Just lets Damian lick at his neck like a satisfied kitten, until eventually, the repetitive, reassuring alpha motion lulls him to sleep.
When he wakes up, Damian is gone. Bruce doesn’t see him again for another few days.
He has a lot to think about in that time. About how he could have dislocated a thumb, gotten out of a cuff and fought back. About all the things he might have said to give Damian pause.
About how good it felt to finally give in.
He doesn’t know what Damian thinks about, whether he regrets what he did or not. Doesn’t think it changes anything if he does. This thing, whatever it is, has happened between them, and it’s something they’ll both have to live with from now on. Whether he continues to fight back or does what Damian wants of him, there’s no coming back from that night.
When Damian finally appears in the doorway again, Bruce sees that realization on his face. He identifies it right along with the determination he’d seen before.
Whatever has happened since they last saw each other, one thing is clear: Damian hasn’t had a change of heart.
“I hope you’re well.”
Bruce wants to be angry. He wants to outwardly shun Damian for even attempting to talk to him like that, after what he did. But when Damian looks at him, he feels that same quickening of his pulse again, along with an interesting new sensation: longing. Desire.
He doesn’t speak, so Damian continues. “I believe I let my temper get the better of me. I do apologize for that, Father. But I want to make this work.”
Bruce studies him cautiously as he takes a few steps into the room. Again, he shuts the door behind him.
“I want to make it right,” Damian tells him. “I want you to want this just as much as I do.”
Bruce thinks that, if Damian really wanted to make things right, he’d have done away with all the incense and the ropes. But he hasn’t, and as a result, Bruce still finds himself desperately aroused at even the slightest breeze. It doesn’t take long for Damian’s scent to reach him again, just as decadent as it had been before.
Damian stops by the edge of the bed and reaches down to cup Bruce’s face. It’s warm, almost… comforting. Not for the first time, Bruce finds himself imagining those hands cradling an infant.
“...You know I can’t,” Bruce says. It doesn’t sound the same as it used to. He feels like he’s reading lines from a script, not having a conversation.
“You can,” Damian says. “You needn’t worry, Father. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll take care of you.”
The words hit him with such a sharp paternal impact that Bruce can’t help but gasp. He wants it. He wants to relax and let someone else do the thinking for once. It’s in his nature to give in, isn’t it? Why does he keep fighting back so hard…?
He realizes he hasn’t responded when Damian winds up next to the bed, laying one hand on Bruce’s chest. His tossing and turning — what little of it he’s been able to do — has shifted his robe open near the top. On full display is his heaving chest, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His dusty pink nipples are already hard; he imagines them swollen with milk, sensitive and heavy.
Damian doesn’t touch them, though. His hand slides lower, parting the robe as it goes, until his palm sits warm and rough on Bruce’s stomach.
“Our child,” he says, leaning down to whisper the words right into Bruce’s ear, “will save the world. For you, Bruce.”
And that’s it. Something inside him snaps.
“ Please, ” Bruce says at last, spitting out the word like his tongue is on fire.
Damian’s lips brush his cheek. “‘Please’ what? Say it.” There’s a breathless quality to his voice, and Bruce knows Damian can’t last much longer, either. “I need to hear you say it.”
Needing relief more than he hates himself, Bruce whispers, “Fuck me, Damian.”
Damian tears his robe open with one hand, so hard that the delicate fabric rips somewhere underneath Bruce. The next moment, he sinks two fingers in Bruce’s cunt, sliding inside without any resistance. An uneven groan spills out of Bruce’s throat as Damian starts to fingerfuck him, curling up just right to hit that spot.
“See how much better this is?” Damian asks, an arrogant purr in his voice. “You should have just listened to me in the first place. So wet…”
Bruce, flushed from head to toe, hates how wonderful Damian sounds. He tries not to move, to let Damian have his way just to get it the hell over with, but his hips rock of their own accord. He feels Damian still just long enough to slide a third finger into his tight hole, and then he doubles up on his previous pace.
If only this were a silent affair. If only Bruce could lose himself in his head, somehow forget who it is that’s on top of him. But Damian must know that’s what he wants, because he keeps talking, keeps mumbling those filthy words into his ear.
“I’ve imagined you, Father,” he says. “Lying in my bed. Round with our child. Do you have any idea how good you would look like that?”
Bruce lets out an embarrassingly loud yelp of pleasure. He attributes it to the way Damian moves his fingers in hard little circles, rather than the mental image of himself swollen and expecting.
He feels Damian smirk against his cheek, then kiss down to his jaw and his neck, stopping above his gilded collar. His bite mark from a few days ago is now little more than a few faded tooth-like indentations. Damian must not like that — such a stereotypical alpha — because he bites down hard high on Bruce’s neck.
An alpha’s bite is always overwhelming for an omega, but this one even more so than the last. Sopping wet, desperately horny, nerves alight with shame, this time Bruce howls, tapering off into a pitched whine at the end. It’s a distinctly omegan sound, meant to trigger the subconscious instinct in an alpha to protect and pamper.
Damian growls in response. He yanks his fingers out of Bruce so roughly that it hurts, then makes quick work of his cloak and everything underneath.
Standing high at over six feet tall, Damian is a picture-perfect alpha. His muscles, shaped from years of intense training, are marred with almost as many scars as Bruce’s own. They stand out as distinct pale white slashes across Damian’s dark skin. Darker hair trails from his navel to his crotch, framing a hard, dripping cock that Bruce immediately wants to take into his mouth.
He doesn’t have long to admire Damian before he crawls into bed with him, bare and aroused between Bruce’s legs. Damian bends over without any preamble, licking up as much of Bruce’s slick as he can. When Bruce opens his mouth to moan, Damian moves up his body and kisses him deeply.
This time, Bruce doesn’t fight back. He brings his tongue up to meet Damian’s, tasting himself, nostrils flaring as he breathes in their combined scents. Damian kisses like he fights, always trying to dominate, to own and take and corrupt.
All Bruce can do is hold on for the ride.
He feels the head of Damian’s cock against his entrance and squirms under him, though even he’s not sure whether he means to get closer or get away. His insides throb with the loss of Damian’s fingers, desperately needing something to squeeze down on. God, he needs to be fucked. He needs to be bred.
Much as his body wants it, that doesn’t make it any easier for him when Damian starts to press inside. It isn’t that it hurts; quite to the contrary, as a matter of fact. But this makes it all real, makes the possibility of him getting pregnant so much more than just a far-off fantasy. He tries to pull back, but Damian sets his hands on his hips and holds him still.
“Wait,” he says through the kiss. “Wait, this is wr—”
“Shh, Father,” Damian says, forcing more oppressive kisses on him. His voice is strained to the point where it’s a wonder he can even speak at all; it’s not uncommon for alphas to go nonverbal during mating. “Don’t worry. Nngh, Father…”
Once he’s halfway in, Damian yanks Bruce’s hips back with one harsh tug. The entirety of his impressive length slams inside of Bruce, and Bruce tosses his head back, clawing at his restraints, yanking so hard that the veins in his biceps bulge out. The choked “ haahh ” noise he makes definitely sounds more pleased than in pain, even though it’s been years since anyone’s been inside him.
Damian starts to rock his hips in shallow little thrusts, hardly pulling out at all before slamming back in. He keeps such a tight hold of Bruce that his waist starts to bruise, but all he can think of is how right it feels to be held down and fucked by an alpha.
They break their kiss, and Damian licks a trail back down to his neck, turning his head to pepper Bruce’s skin with even more bite marks. The possessive little growling noises Damian makes with each nip send vibrations straight to Bruce’s cock, hard and neglected between their bodies.
“Damian,” he breathes, voice barely audible over the sound of their bodies slapping wetly together. “Damian, please… ”
“What?” Damian rasps against his neck. “Tell me. Tell me what you need.”
Bruce can barely think, let alone get his words out. He opens and closes his hands, grasping for something to hold onto, and whimpers when Damian’s cock strikes that perfect spot a few times over.
“Touch— Touch you,” he says.
If either of them were thinking about the possibility of Bruce’s escape before, they aren’t now. Damian fishes a dagger out of his discarded robe without a protest, cutting away every cord with such ruthlessness one might think he had a grudge against the entire concept of bondage. As soon as Bruce’s limbs are free, rather than go for the weapon, he wraps his arms and legs around Damian’s body and draws him close.
Damian sinks back into him with a kiss, then pulls away and roughly whispers, “Better?”
Bruce just says “Fuck me,” and pulls him back in.
Damian doesn’t need to be told twice. Like this, they’re even more animalistic, clawing at each other and grunting as Damian pounds into him. Bruce thinks of that big cock and those dark balls hanging beneath it, round with seed that’ll soon be inside him. How long has Damian been holding out, he wonders? Just how much cum does Bruce get to feel inside himself? He longs to find out, wants it more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life.
His nails cut long, red lines down Damian’s back, and his strong legs around Damian’s waist keep him close. Damian bites at his lips until they bleed, then drinks it all down like Bruce’s blood is one of the most delicious things he’s ever tasted.
They’re both close. Bruce is for sure, and he can feel Damian drawing nearer and nearer to his climax with every hitched breath and sloppy thrust. His cock even slides out of Bruce’s hole once or twice, only for an annoyed Damian to growl while shoving it back in.
Then, finally, finally, Damian stills inside of him. His cock twitches a few times, and Bruce feels the hot, wet spread of his cum shoot up toward his womb. The base of Damian’s cock swells, knotting Bruce in place to further ensure that not even a single drop escapes.
It’s the most intense thing he’s ever felt. Bruce’s brow furrows, mouth dropping open, but there are a few seconds of delay before the strangled moan finally escapes his throat. He continues rocking his hips back and forth, pulling a few startled little breaths out of Damian. His inner walls contract around Damian’s knot, massaging that spot inside him, and Bruce’s eyes roll into the back of his head as his own orgasm washes over him.
They lay like that, panting, covered in sweat and spit and blood and musk. Damian’s scent switches from arousing to comforting, and Bruce practically sinks into it, burying his nose in his son’s hair.
It’s done. They really let that happen. Bruce is— he’s full of Damian, his seed and his smell, that swollen knot still pushing against the most sensitive parts of his body. He tries to imagine the moment of conception, the thing that (according to traditionalists) all omegas crave. The fulfillment of his “purpose.” His duty to his alpha.
As if sensing what he’s thinking, Damian reaches out to brush back a wayward strand of Bruce’s hair.
“You made the right choice,” he says. “You’re going to be happy here with me. Both of you.”
It takes a few months for Bruce to truly believe it.
He conceives that first time, of course. Well, maybe not exactly then, but at some point during their marathon session that lasts several more days, Bruce falls pregnant.
The early months are the hardest. Morning sickness. Denial. Even a few proper escape attempts, which always result in Bruce being dragged right back to Damian’s feet. And Damian punishes him for it by fucking him again and again, every time with those hands on his stomach, whispering to him about how wonderful their family will be.
“We already have a family,” Bruce would tell him. “Back in Gotham.”
But wherever they are, they don’t come for him. Whether it’s because Damian has hidden him too well or because they just have too much faith in his ability to save himself, he doesn’t know. He thinks about them often, about what they’d say if they saw him now. If they saw Damian now, ruthless and brash and— and handsome.
To his credit, Damian does keep his promises. Bruce is fed nothing but the best food, clothed in comfortable silks, doted on every hour of the day. At first, he fights it, hell-bent on taking care of himself. It’s never been something he’s particularly good at, though — as Alfred often reminds him — and, over the course of time, he finds it easier to give in.
He gets heavier every day. Muscles soften and make way for his rapidly-growing stomach, and he finds himself eating more to nourish himself and his child. It becomes easier to lie back against Damian, nibbling food from his fingers, than to lift things himself.
Around his seventh month, Bruce starts having trouble remembering why he ever fought this at all. He’s a Wayne, isn’t he? It’s only natural that other people serve him. Even more natural for them to look after the al Ghul heir, growing strong and secure inside of him.
“You are glowing,” Damian tells him one day, the two of them poised in front of an ornate floor-to-ceiling mirror. Bruce sits with him like they did in that very first dream, Damian’s arms wrapped securely around his huge stomach. “I always thought people who said that were sentimental fools, but you…”
Bruce admires himself in the mirror, taking note of the physical changes he’s gone through. His hair is a little longer, a little softer now that he doesn’t leave it unwashed for days anymore. His skin hasn’t been so clear and unmarred since he was a child. Even his pecs have lost muscle definition, leaking milk every now and again that Damian is always happy to lap up.
And Damian isn’t wrong. Bruce does have a glow about him, an air of importance and fragility that suits an omega far more than all that brooding and fighting ever did. His eyelids flutter shut, and he leans his head back against Damian’s shoulder as Damian’s fingers trail down his stomach.
“You don’t give other people enough credit,” Bruce tells him, absently turning to press a kiss to his son’s neck.
“I don’t care about other people,” Damian says. “I care about you.”
“And?”
Bruce can hear the smile in Damian’s voice. “And our child.”
Our child . Bruce is almost startled by how right it feels to hear that. He thinks back to all the time he spent fighting, all the times he denied letting Damian into bed with him. And what for? To preserve the moral integrity of a figure he created in the first place? He can hardly believe he ever used to be so silly.
Over the course of the next two months, Damian leaves his side less and less. Bruce can smell him, can feel the protective instincts radiating off of him morning, noon, and night. The way Damian looks at him with those deep green eyes, like he’s the most precious thing in the world, lights a fire in Bruce that makes him want to leave even less.
Mind addled by pregnancy hormones, Bruce can hardly think straight. He’s more turned on than ever, even more so than his days-long stint in Damian’s heat-inducing room. Most days, he and Damian don’t even leave their chambers, Bruce pulling him close every time he so much as tries to stand to use the bathroom.
All he can think about is how badly he wants more. More of Damian’s touch. More of his affection.
More of his children.
“I want you,” he tells him, through breathless kisses, “to keep me full. No matter what.”
They can’t fuck face-to-face any more, not if they want to get close, so they’re on their sides, Damian driving into him from behind. His hand sits low on Bruce’s hip, just beside the impressive curve of his stomach. He’s so close to giving birth, so close to losing it. He can’t have that. He can’t feel so empty again, not like he was before.
“Yes,” Damian pants against his lips. He moves slowly, carefully, but deep, warming Bruce from the inside out.
“Promise me.”
“I promise,” Damian tells him, a bead of sweat dripping from his brow to land on Bruce’s cheek.
It’s incredible, how nine months can come and go so quickly.
When Bruce first found out he was pregnant, each day passed like an eternity. But now, after nearly a year by Damian’s side — and in his bed, Damian always reminding him whenever he got unsure, “This is what we were made for” and “Just relax” and “I won’t let anything hurt you” — it seems like hardly any time has passed at all.
Too soon, the pain comes. Too soon, he finds himself surrounded by a group of midwives (the same ones, they tell him, that supervised Damian’s birth, even if that one was far more unorthodox). Too soon, he’s empty all over again, and even though he loves his son more than anything, he feels… incomplete.
As soon as he’s healed up and able to pass their son off to one of the many carers Damian has hired, Bruce makes his way to his lover’s chambers. He stands in the doorway, mirroring Damian’s position from so long ago. Beneath his half-opened robe, gold and jewels glimmer, accentuating his frame. His favorite piece, a thin necklace that sits just above his collarbone, twinkles with the same green as Damian’s eyes.
“I think...” he says, creeping slowly toward Damian’s desk. He comes up behind him and loops his arms around Damian’s shoulders, and Damian turns to press their lips together.
“Yes, beloved?”
Bruce smiles. For once, it isn’t a Brucie Wayne smile, all false and dazzling for the cameras. It’s a genuine smile, the corners of his lips quirking up and lighting up his eyes.
“I think,” he continues, sliding into Damian’s lap, “we should try for a daughter.”
“What a coincidence,” Damian says. “I was pondering the same thing.”