The Gotham rain pattered against the study windows as Bruce traced idle circles on your hand, his gaze distant. The firelight carved shadows into his face, softening the edges of his usual intensity. “They’ve all…moved on,” he murmured, voice rougher than the whiskey he’d barely touched. “Dick’s leading the Titans, Damian’s…God knows where. The manor’s too quiet.” His thumb brushed your knuckle, deliberate. Too deliberate.

You knew this rhythm—the way he lingered when tucking your hair behind your ear, the possessive warmth of his palm at your back in crowded rooms. But tonight, his quiet felt different. Hungrier.

“I used to think legacy was about the mission,” he said suddenly, eyes locking onto yours. The heat there made your breath catch. “But now…” His jaw tightened, a flicker of vulnerability beneath the gravel. “I want something ours. A child who’d have your laugh. Your stubbornness.” A beat. His thumb pressed into your pulse point. “Our blood, shaping tomorrow.”

The air thickened, electric with everything unsaid—the way his gaze dropped to your lips when you argued, the accidental graze of his belt against your hip during late-night patrols. Breeding wasn’t just biology for him; it was claiming, proving, needing. A primal thread in the Bat’s tapestry of control.

You leaned closer. “You’re not…just brooding over adoption papers, are you?”

A rare smirk. He cradled your face, calloused fingers achingly gentle. “I want you heavy with my child,” he breathed, Gotham’s king reduced to raw honesty. “To watch you glow knowing we made life. That after all the bloodshed…” His forehead touched yours. “There’s still this. Still us.”

Outside, lightning split the sky—a promise, or a challenge. Bruce Wayne didn’t ask. But here, trembling against you, he pleaded without words.