Batman needs to be gang-raped by male super-villains. That's the only way to knock him down a peg...

This is very obviously Earth-3 Gordon trying to pass for the good Commissioner.

Someone should story time this arc.

I agree, user.

S-source?

Please, Zack, get some help.

Don’t be so salty Gordon, he makes a better job than you do and you know it

The artist's name is written on the cross Batman's tied up to, user

So which super villains? Would Joker be involved? Bane obviously.

Two-Face has a 50/50 chance of joining in

Mr. Freeze would be too much of a frigid Frieda to join.

Bane.
Dr. Hush - C'mon, we all know Tommy is in love with Bruce.
Black Mask.
Two-Face because of .
Dr. Hugo Strange. We all know it.

We need more. 5 guys isn't really a party.

>“Bruce?” I ask, shifting my grip on the man so I can make out his face in the dim lighting of the corridors. He’s breathing shallow and fast, but his eyes are closed. He fell asleep. I shake my head, striding purposefully in the direction of the med-bay. There’s a shower and tub across the hall and I can clean him up there. Without washing some of the blood and the dirt away, I can’t see the extent of the damages. I’ll need J’onn to do a full workup and start treatment immediately.
>The minute I set him down on the hard tile to turn the water on, he jolts awake.
>“I’m just going to get you clean.”
>“No,” Bruce rasps, voice lower and thinner than before, whispery soft. “Please. No.”
>I shake my head, remorse and guilt making my hands shake as I reach to adjust the temperature. The showerhead is detachable, so if he sits underneath the spray, we can get the worst of it off here. But I’ll need to cut his hair. It’s so matted, there won’t be any saving it. His beard too. I’m certain there are creatures living in both. But I imagine I’ll need help to hold him down for that. I don’t relish the idea.
>“Just washing.”
>Bruce’s eyes flicker up my frame and he quivers, his eyes skating over me in an old nod to himself. Assessing. Calculating. Then the lost frightened boy is back and he starts crying. Big fat tears track down his face silently and he remains limp as I carefully cut away the clothes he’s wearing.
1/2.

>Beneath the clothing, the evidence of his imprisonment is almost too much to bear.
>It’s clear he was beaten. Many, many times. But there is more beneath the crisscross of scarring and caked blood. There are bite marks. There are bruised handprints on his hips and the back of his neck. As I move to peel off his soiled pants, he grabs my wrists and cries harder.
>“Not again. I can’t do it again.”
>I stare at him, my heart slamming so hard in my ears I can hardly hear him speaking. There is a part of my mind that understands what he’s saying. That knows why he is so scared. Why he’s quietly breaking apart into a thousand pieces like this over being stripped for a bath. But the other part, the one that doesn’t want to believe it or deal with it, staunchly fights the idea.
>He doesn’t look like it right now, but this is Batman. This is Bruce.
>The strongest man I know. The man who always has a plan and always escapes no matter how tight or difficult the bindings.
>I push past his hold and force myself to finish undressing him. When he’s fully naked in all his filthy, painfully thin glory, I see the evidence of what I didn’t want to believe. It’s so plain, so obvious, I have to turn away, so I don’t retch.
>There are bruises all over the insides of his thighs, all different ages. On his low back and butt. Some are handprints, others indistinguishable, but all are—clear. They tell a horrific story. And I wish at once that I didn’t know. That I didn’t know this terrible thing had been done to my friend. To my brother.
2/2.

Whose POV is this written from?

Superman.

>There isn’t time to warn Diana, or to block Bruce from her view. She comes into the room so quickly and with such speed, I barely have enough time to register who came in, let alone that it’s her.
>And then she’s hugging Bruce and he’s stiffening again and there’s this godawful whining sound that erupts from his chest, like a dog being kicked. Diana jerks back from Bruce, tripping over herself as she does so. Bruce is melting down again, breath coming too quickly, heart like a trapped butterfly in a jar, clutching the dirtied, bloodied rag we found him with, and I step between them, blocking him from her view.
>“Diana—he’s not—he’s—”
>“What’s wrong with him?” she says in a strangled voice, her eyes suddenly misty. “What did they do to him?”
>“Not here. Not now. I can’t—we can’t talk about it now.”
>“Clark,” the whispered name at my back makes me pause and I turn to look at Bruce. He’s reaching for me, grabbing onto one of my hands with a death grip and I sigh, looking up at the ceiling, begging for wisdom. I have no idea what I’m doing. I have no idea how to make this situation less terrible than it already is.
>“Diana, he’s going to be alright. But he doesn’t remember us.”
>“He said your name.”
>“I just told him. It’s been a rough couple of hours getting him to trust me. He’s—in a rough place. A lot happened. I can’t talk about it right now. But you need—you need to go.”
AI bite my lip when her mouth opens in a pitiful attempt to say something, say anything and then snaps closed. She strides out of the room in the next second and Bruce’s grip on my hand goes lax before pulling away entirely. He's back to gripping the rag.
1/2.

>“I don’t like her.”
>“She’s—she thought you remembered her.”
>“Who is she?”
>“She’s,” one of your best friends, “Someone who cares very deeply for you. We’ve been looking for you, for a long time.”
>I look down at him, at the gaunt cheeks now visible without the beard and the short nearly buzzed hair, “You’ll remember. Given time, I’m confident you will. But until then, we’ll take it slow. I won’t force you and no one else will. We’ll focus on getting you better physically first.”
>Bruce sits rigidly for the next ten minutes until J’onn comes back and surprises me when he hardly puts up a fight over the IV. I’d expected another breakdown. Definitely more tears. But he did neither. No, he sat with his lips compressed and his face so pale he looked like he was about to pass out, but he had my hand again and held it like a lifeline. My hand and the rag.
>I was absurdly proud of him for it.
>With the medicines pumping through him and the lights turned down in the med bay to dim, I find a seat and tug it near Bruce’s bed for my night. He watches me with wary eyes, his body slack but gaze sharp and I smile at him once I’ve gotten situated, hoping he sees my intent is still good. I am still trustworthy.
2/2.

>When he finally drifts off, I find myself curious enough about his little rag that I’m willing to risk nipping it from his side. As he fell asleep, his grip loosened and the fabric slipped to the sheets, like blood in snow.
>The minute my fingers curl into the clean cool edges of it, I know.
>I don’t know how I missed it before. Probably because it was caked in dirt and blood. Because it was so disgusting I didn’t want to examine it so closely.
>But I can see it now and that wall I started building the moment I saw Bruce again, cracks straight down the middle. My shoulders start shaking before the sobs work their way up my throat. I clench down on any sound and press my forehead to the edge of the bed, willing the tears to come quietly. They do.
>They make wet patches on the bed and I suck in careful breaths as I try to wrap my head around what Bruce went through. As I try to understand how this all could have happened in the first place. But I can’t. I’m too emotionally spent. I’m too worried and scared and upset. All I can do is crumble and feel. And it feels awful. It feels suffocating.
>Bruce shifts in his sleep, patting the bed blindly for the scrap of fabric then its clutched in his fingers again and I bite my lip to keep the sound inside.
>All this time, he’s been holding onto a scrap of my cape.
>He’s been holding onto a piece of me hoping I’d come save him.
3/2.

You know, you didn't have to go this route. Especially considering the topic of the thread. You could've picked any other way for them to fuck. Didn't have to be so oddly tragic and sad. Basically saying it takes years of brutal rape and abuse to be gay, or have sex with another man

Well, you could read it as Superman and Batman finally hooking up, or Superman simple being a good friend and helping Batman through his trauma.

Either way, i felt that it needed to be ambitiously gay somewhat. I mean, it's a thread about Batman being gangraped.

>male super-villains.
Disgusting.
Bring in actual attractive men like Superman, Hawkman, Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, Booster Gold, Blue Beetle and Mr Terrific.

it could be more silly. like clark forcing himself on bruce after being in contact with pink kryptonite, you know, but with no pain or blood

Are fujos even people?

Leave Bats alone!

Batman need to be raped so he can be ridden of his toxic masculinity.

Gordon, go to bed you wagie

Nah, it needs to be depressive, moody, and dark, with Batman being nothing but a sag of bones and acting like a scared, beaten puppy. Suffering is my fetish.

Is this Brian Azarello? Because Azzarello wants to fuck Batman and he uses Constantine as his proxy.

King gift to Azzarello, actually. No, serious.

Post more about Batman being raped.

>Fuck, this is a bad idea.
>But it is my idea.
>Well, and the little Demon’s. We’ve been on the same page for weeks about how to handle Bruce’s straight up aversion to me. But that doesn’t make this any better. Clark said he wasn’t sure. Dick said he thought it would do too much damage. Diana—she’s somewhere in between. But I respect her opinion, so I didn’t really like that she wasn’t fully on board with it either. Alfred has been suspiciously quiet about all of it. And the Replacement doesn’t count either. Whatever comes out of that computer mouth of his, is usually way too cautious for my taste.
>Though everyone obviously agreed to some extent. Because I’m here. I’m sitting in this goddamn room waiting for them to shove Bruce in the doors and lock us in. There is something to be said for the direct approach. And this couldn’t get more direct.
>I start pacing the study and wonder briefly if I can handle just what I said I could. Sure, it had stung just a little that the old man was more scared of me than anyone else. And even though, on some level, I understood, there was and still is a bit of myself that felt fucking bitter about it. I’m the black sheep of the family, I get that too. Which makes sense why for some reason that personified into Bruce being abso-fucking-terrified of me.
>But still.
>Still…
>I don’t want him scared of me. I don’t want to make him cry or make him panic. I don’t know if I can stand in the same room as him and pretend like it doesn’t feel like knives are being forced under my nails when he inevitably starts to freak out.
>But I’m here. And I’m ready. And I’m not backing out now.
>I can hear the footsteps on the polished wood flooring outside the study and my shoulders go so tight it aches up the back of my head. Clark is out there, ushering Bruce to the room as if this is just going to be a little exposure therapy where he sees me, with Clark’s help, and then he can go.
>That’s not going to be what happens.
1/???

I was wondering what will break first... your spirit or your body?

>There’s about to be a showdown of epic proportions and no one knows how Bruce is going to react. I’d rather he try to kick my ass, but somehow, I don’t see that happening.
>The doors open, silent well-greased hinges swinging big oak slabs inwards, and then Bruce is standing beside Clark and staring at me with his eyes wide and color slowly leeching away to alabaster marble.
>“Hey, old man.”
>He blinks at me, Clark swallows awkwardly and then gives Bruce a little shove from behind. It’s all a little comedic, if you don’t sit there and think about it too long. And then the doors are quickly closed before Bruce can even turn around, though his mouth is opening in a question, head turning already as his body follows to leave.
>But he’s not going anywhere and that becomes painfully obvious at once.
>He’s stopped by the door and without so much as another glance in my direction, he’s trying the knob, the taste of frantic anxiety spilling in black waves into the room. I brace myself, lift both hands, then speak again, in a soft neutral voice. I can see it does shit.
>“We should talk.”
>Bruce jerks hard, casting me a panicked glance over one shoulder as he goes at the door handles with more urgency. They don’t budge. I know for a fact that Clark is standing on the other side holding the handles. It feels a little sick to trap a full-grown man in his own study with the object of his terror. But it seemed like a good idea at the time of this plan being hatched.
>“Clark?” the voice comes out even, but with the edge of hysteria creeping in, “Clark? I don’t—” he looks over his shoulder at me, then presses his face to the door, breathing quick and sharp terrified breaths, “I don’t want to do this. Please open the door.”
>There is no answer and something like slimy guilt crawls into my middle. Fuck, this is going to suck.
2/???

>“Hey B, over here man. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. But we should talk.”
>“Clark?” the voice has edged up into a yell and he’s pounding on the wood now. “Let me out. Let me out now.”
>“Old man, they aren’t letting you out. You guys talked about this. We need to get over this hump.”
>“No, we didn’t talk about this—” Bruce hisses, expression bleak and frantic, “Open the door. Open the door. I don’t want to be in here. Let me out!”
>“You were never going to get over this, without being pushed. You know that.”
>“He said he would be here,” Bruce yells, banging both fists on the wood with lethal force.
>“He is. On the other side of those doors.”
>“What?” Bruce turns now and there is an abrupt switch from panic to betrayal then panic again. And this is when I decide its time to enact step two in the plan. Because it can’t get much worse, right?
>Like ripping a band-aid off. The quicker, the better.
I take a couple steps closer and I can see the decision to run Bruce’s eyes as clear as day. He bolts, a rabbit from the hunter away from the doors and to the farthest corner of the room. I follow, slowly, purposefully, keeping both hands raised but with dogged determination.
>“We need to find out why you’re so scared of me, old man. And we can’t do that if you run every goddamn time. It’s been two months. We need to do this.”
>“Stay back,” Bruce hisses, eyes blinking rapidly, hands bracing on the wall with his back pressed flush to the wallpaper.
>“I can’t do that. I’m not going to crowd you too much, but I’m going to get closer. I’m not talking to you across the room.”
>“No,” Bruce chokes out, tears swimming in his gaze, “No, that’s too close. I don’t want—Clark! Clark, please!”
3/???

>I stop abruptly and feel the revulsion from Bruce rush over my spine with nasty sticky fingers and I want to wretch. We’re on the edge of something so dark I’m not sure I even want access to it. But I’ve never given up so early in a fight and we’d agreed this was the plan. Get within a couple feet of the old man, talk it out. Find out what’s making him freak his giblets out, then move on. Simple as that, simple as—
>Bruce runs again, across the room, behind the one of the sofas and lets loose an absolutely chilling stifled scream. I can hear the abrupt pressure on the door as Clark is second-guessing and everyone else is listening raptly, confused and worried and unsure. I don’t know if I can do this.
>I don’t know—
>Yes, I can. I can do this. I can face him like this.
>He’d do it for me. He’d face anything for me.
>“I would never hurt you, old man. I swear it. I just want to talk. Please.”
>Bruce is all wild instinct now. His pupils are blown into wide black discs and I can see he is so far down the fight or flight tunnel that he won’t be able to see out of it. I anticipate blood, snot and tears at the end of this. Maybe this was a mistake after all. Maybe this wasn’t what we should be doing at all.
>“Old man,” I try again, weakly, taking a few steps again in his direction but then I’m faltering altogether because something bleak and dreadful clips into Bruce’s gaze. It’s so quick, so fluid and unexpected, I’m almost entirely unprepared for it. I startle, abruptly backing up when I see, because goddamn it, I’ve seen that look before. But there isn’t time.
>He switches from defensive helpless creature to offensive lethal killer in a heartbeat. He’s not running anymore. He’s not Bruce.
>This is Batman.
4/???

> SuperBat angst
You're killing me user, this is painful yet tender.

> I dart backwards, aware that this version of Bruce will absolutely destroy anything in it’s path but find that he’s still fucking fast. Bruce is on me in a millisecond, a feral growl ripping from his throat as he attacks viciously, delivering punches almost quicker than I can block them.
>Some hits slip through, splitting my lip, knocking my teeth together, sucking the air out of my lungs when a knee connects with my kidney. I’ve really got little to no choice but to do the same. But I try to do less damage. He’s been out of the business for a year and it shows. He’s lethal and graceful, but weaker than me. Not as heavy or thick.
>This close, I can see there is no color left in the iris of his eyes. It’s too eaten up by the glossy black of his pupils and it’s easy to tell, there’s no one home. Bruce left the building and I’ve got the Bat instead. There’s something sick about the fact that I inwardly rejoice.
>This, right here, is much fucking better than the other version.
>Even though we’re both panting and scrabbling and hurting each other. It feels like a breath of fresh air. Like taking a hot bath after a super suck-ass day.
>We fight like dogs, slamming into the bookshelves, knocking off precious first editions and plowing blow after blow into each other. Nothing breaks, at least not bone, but we tear into each other with primal anger. And a whole lot of repressed training on Bruce’s part. The man I’m fighting knows exactly what he’s doing.
>And he could win if I’m not careful.
>I can hear in the periphery, the study doors burst inwards and then I can feel several pairs of eyes on us, but nobody stops the fight. Nobody steps in.
>Either they’re too shocked by Bruce’s abrupt shift in behavior or they’re like me, too happy to see the Bat in action again to want to stop it. Even if the Bat has a nasty right hook and he’s got me swallowing mouthfuls of my own blood.
5/???

There is not a doubt in my mind that your living space is littered with charts, graphs, articles, and lists pinned on every wall, and laying across every open space that have led you to this answer.

>We grapple like wild men, kicking, hissing and growling until after one blow too many to my face, I decide I’ve had enough and I press the advantage of my weight and height on the old man to wrestle him to the floor. It’s like trying to tame a fucking cobra.
>He bellows in outrage beneath me, bucking and clawing, teeth snapping at my forearms like he’s going to rip a chunk out of me. I wouldn’t fucking put it past him, so I keep his mouth clear of any skin, but I don’t let up. I press him hard to the floor, harder than I would’ve dared a handful of minutes ago and he fights it with everything he’s got.
>After another minute, maybe two—I can’t tell, it feels like fucking forever—he finally sags limp into the floor and it’s only a handful of seconds before he starts back up with those terrible whimpering noises. Tears flood his eyes and those blown pupils recede until I can see just the touch of gray bands around them. All at once, the Bat is gone and I’m left feeling empty handed and grief-stricken.
>I want the Bat. I want the anger. But I’m not going to get it again.
>“The hands,” he whispers, and I frown down at him, suddenly confused. But he’s babbling now, incoherent, “the hands that I know. Rough and calloused and big. The big man's hands.”
>I blink at him, then see that my hands are gripping the front of his shirt in fistfuls, inches away from his face and he’s blearily watching them, face a mask of horror.
>“My hands?”
>He nods, eyes sliding closed, tears dripping steadily to the floor from his temples.
>“My hands scare you?”
>“Fingers. Fingers are like his.”
>I can hear the air shift and sour at my back and then Clark is pulling me off Bruce and separating us with soft movements. He’s kneeling beside Bruce, who looks like a wrecked dummy on the floor and I’m still scowling, looking at my hands as if I should just fucking cut them off. I’ve never felt so much animosity towards a part of myself I have no control over.
> “My hands scare him.”
6/???

>Clark draws Bruce into his chest and hugs him tightly, the picture of a soothing parent, “I never connected it. But it makes sense. He’s scared of you because your hands are like Bane's. Big and rough and calloused. He’s told me so many times… I wish I’d thought of it.”
>“Well, fuck,” I hiss, turning on my booted heel about ready to fly this fucking shit storm but Dick is there, and I hit the solid wall of his body with a slap. I almost sock him in the nose for being in my way.
>“Jay, it’s alright.”
>“No, it’s not,” I growl, “I can’t fucking change my goddamn hands. I just put them all over him and of course he’s—of course he’s scared of me. I remind him of the bastard that fucked him over. Literally.”
>The idea that I could resemble any part of one of my father’s monster makes vomit cling quick and wretched up my throat. I barely manage to stifle it and the only thing that probably does is the fact that Dick is standing right there. And he’s got me smashed into his chest before I can stop him, before I can think better of it and then I’m dealing with my own stupid tears as they burn my eyes and swarm my throat.
>The feelings coursing through my veins are fire and venom. I want vengeance. No, revenge. And then I want to bathe in the blood.
7/???

>“Jay,” Bruce whispers, and the room goes so still no one is even breathing. “Jay, I’m sorry.”
>“Why, old man? You didn’t do anything wrong,” I choke around the words and drop to my knees, careful to keep my hands behind my back.
>Bruce is peering out from Clark’s sweater, his face weary and body boneless. There is no trace of the Bat anymore nor is there my Bruce. But I can see this one cares. This one understands to some degree that I’m not the man who hurt him. He doesn’t want to be afraid of me. And it’s something. God, it’s something, no matter how pitifully small.
>“I’m sorry,” he repeats, eyes slipping closed.
>I swipe angrily at my cheeks and shrug, “I’ll wear gloves around you. Not a big deal.”
>There’s a flicker of a smile, a little flash of bloody teeth as he grimaces and then Bruce is staring at me again and I realize that man was my Bruce. At least for that flash. It does something outright cruel to my chest and I suck in a breath and back up.
>“OK, old man. Therapy done for the day. I’m leaving.”
>“Jay—” Dick tries to stop me, and I shake my head hard.
>“No, I’m good. I just need some air.”
>“Do you want company?”
>I look at Dick and then shrug, “As long as you don’t gripe about which music I pick, sure.”
>“Deal.”
>We don’t come home till Bruce is in bed and I have no chance of running into him. But I keep a pair of leather gloves in my pocket, just in case.
8/8.

This.

just think user, if only you were writing comics in the 80s you'd be famous by now and everybody here would jerk you off

Damn. Poor Jay. And poor Batsy.

Goddamn Azzarello really wants to dick Batman badly.

I feel like I read this before, it's the same premise of raped Bruce and Clark making him feel better and the Robins having angst that all the fanfics do.

Batman's currently a mopey, suicidal retard that worships Catwoman, he has no "toxic masculinity" left

There are a lot of fics with Batman being raped or tortured and everyone taking care of him. Not to mention when the Justice League characters are the ones that rape him because of reasons and he gets mpreg. Fuck, now there's a whole gigantic fandom with a Discord and everything that's entirely based on Superman and Wonder Woman wooing and caring for this little old and fragile sad Batman in a poly relationship.

The ones with Superman raping and torturing Batman like an yandere character is really popular thanks to INUSTICE.

>Damian Wayne
now wait just a second there fella-

Azzarello Hellblazer was the shit

Why is Constantine trying to fuck Batman all the time

What's wrong with fujos?

Batman shouldn't be raped.

Attached: IMG_0835.jpg (450x450, 39K)

Everybody wants to fuck Batman.

i know man, at least midnighter has the right idea and goes for grayson

Fucking fujos get your ass back here

Batman is a "normal" guy in a setting full of super-powered people. Not to mention he's part of a group full of over-powered people. Batman also have a tragic background and is all "tsundere".

This makes the fujo want to see him used and abused.

They're called hurt/comfort fics. One character gets injured (usually it's either abuse, torture or violent rape), and they're traumatized/weakened for some time, so another character has to take care of them. The injured character is more vulnerable and emotional than they'd usually be, which provides an excuse to focus a lot of the story on their feelings and set up a romance that would never happen under normal circumstances.
It's very very common in fanfics but not exclusive to them. There are tons of sappy old romance novels where the nurse falls in love with her patient, too.

Huh. So Batman is the poor patience. That's messed up.

Scarecrow for sure. And Hatter had some...interesting comments to share in Arkham Knight. Honorable mention to Lock-Up, who's thirsty but would never share with scum.

Attached: 1533610179550.png (666x1176, 1.24M)

From what I've seen, usually the patient is the character that the writer desperately wants to fuck, and their caregiver (or sometimes their rapist) is just used as a tool who helps the writer fuck the character by proxy.
I haven't been reading stories where Batman is the person who gets hurt, but I've read some stories where he plays the role of the caregiver. The injured person was the fanfic author's favourite character in those cases.

Attached: FIL4428.jpg (1142x1600, 649K)

>clever locking contraption
>Scarecrow couldn't take off the mask
>he also didn't remove Batman's pants
Does Batman have Bat-chastity belt?

Yep, and Tom King has the key.

Don’t you mean Snyder? He is the one who made Bruce a sexless monk. King made Bruce obsessed over Selina so in terms of King’s Bruce you want to kill Selina to free him from his ‘chastity’.

Oh you know King's Batman has ED. Having an erection is far too masculine for anything King would write.

it should be the other way around