Typing . . . First, please read my rules! Other than that I'd prefer you be a little specific. For example, include a scenario and a character/series. You want a headcanon or a fic? That kinda stuff. That's all!
Need more himbo readers. Stupid guys who may or may not willingly allow a yandere a few hits off their existence if it means you'll get a cold beer in return.
You'd polish off an already flawless paint job for an hour solid while they watch a foot away breathing suspiciously hard in their seat, all in exchange for a concert ticket. A racey magazine will buy them a view of you bent over the center console for an hour scrubbing a stain they insist is there but you just can't see.
At work they tip you, and boy do they tip well. Especially when you wander through the aisles trying to find a product they requested that you don't have. You don't fuss when they have the balls to touch you, big shocker. If anything your coworkers are the first to pull you aside after urging you report them.
There's this old cable show you just need to have on DVD. Issue is it's hard to find and no small price to pay. Way out of your budget.
Lucky for you you've got a nightly visitor that shows up at random. Only reason you picked up on their presence was the offerings at your doorstep. Modello's now and then. Must be a new flavor cause those ones make you sleepy. Sometimes rings, chains, or shirts will be left in an arrangement. You figured they couldn't be misdirected packages after realizing that everything fit perfect.
If you change in front of your bedroom window, the gifts get better. You put on the show of a lifetime plagiarized directly from a porno in that window. Lo and behold, the following day you've got a mint condition box set on your porch tied in a bow.
Flash your chest for a free lunch. Scroll on your phone with their hands in your pants not for any reason in particular, you just can't be bothered to push them away. Those subway surfer reddit stories aren't gonna watch themselves.
If the favors get anymore intimate, who cares? To you the price is fair.
Himbofication is indeed a thing!! However it's less popular than bimbofication.
I did not consider Jason Todd, gem alert.
I think himbo reader being so dumb might put him on edge thinking it's some sort of act. You're not gonna fool him; until he realizes no, actually, you really only care about old action movies and nice cars and can't do mental math for real. All the more reason to keep an eye on you so you don't fall into an open sewer pipe or something. Those simple affections you offer are priceless. He paid for your drink once and now you'll literally go anywhere with him.
Need more himbo readers. Stupid guys who may or may not willingly allow a yandere a few hits off their existence if it means you'll get a cold beer in return.
You'd polish off an already flawless paint job for an hour solid while they watch a foot away breathing suspiciously hard in their seat, all in exchange for a concert ticket. A racey magazine will buy them a view of you bent over the center console for an hour scrubbing a stain they insist is there but you just can't see.
At work they tip you, and boy do they tip well. Especially when you wander through the aisles trying to find a product they requested that you don't have. You don't fuss when they have the balls to touch you, big shocker. If anything your coworkers are the first to pull you aside after urging you report them.
There's this old cable show you just need to have on DVD. Issue is it's hard to find and no small price to pay. Way out of your budget.
Lucky for you you've got a nightly visitor that shows up at random. Only reason you picked up on their presence was the offerings at your doorstep. Modello's now and then. Must be a new flavor cause those ones make you sleepy. Sometimes rings, chains, or shirts will be left in an arrangement. You figured they couldn't be misdirected packages after realizing that everything fit perfect.
If you change in front of your bedroom window, the gifts get better. You put on the show of a lifetime plagiarized directly from a porno in that window. Lo and behold, the following day you've got a mint condition box set on your porch tied in a bow.
Flash your chest for a free lunch. Scroll on your phone with their hands in your pants not for any reason in particular, you just can't be bothered to push them away. Those subway surfer reddit stories aren't gonna watch themselves.
If the favors get anymore intimate, who cares? To you the price is fair.
This is so stupidly specific but I imagine that long time captive reader from the previous posts would end up friends with Dick out of anyone else first.
First time he sees you you're wearing one of those ridiculously massive grandma knit sweaters partially poked through with straw. The threads are blinding yellow. You're drowning in it, practically flapping when you move to grab something. Not a hard guess you belong to Clark.
From then on he calls you tweetie bird. Or just tweetie.
Having a hard week so I'm thinking about getting drunk w Peterrrr Peter Peter
warnings: noncon, implied complicitness, mentions of alcohol
Short; drabble
Miguel gave him that look when he announced he'd be shuffling someplace to take a load off with you in tow, that 'you're better than this' look.
For a superhero, he's pretty allergic to interpersonal conflict. He just snorts and waves the judgement away to rummage through the cabinets and find a decent bottle to pass between you. If it's chilled well enough he can taste the warmth of your lips on the rim.
You're giggly for a minute but quickly fizzle out to be quite a boring drunk; the sleepy kind.
Fine, funs over, he's taking you home. Takes you to your couch to lay you down and watch over so you don't puke, and if you do he'll flip you on your side so you won't choke on it or stain the throw pillow.
But he can't just leave right now. He has to take your shoes off. Trust him, he caught biblicial athletes foot doing that once to shave down time between classes and work. That was before the mask, by the way.
Eh. Socks, too, while he's here.
You're blindly clutching your belt and tugging it. Course Peter takes it off, too. Can't let you squirm all helpless like that.
... You sorta... Jiggle. Just kicking around to get comfortable and pull your sheets up. To be funny, of course, nothing weird about it, but also satisfy his curiosity, he pokes your butt.
When you complain he does it again. This time though, he flattens out that hand. Enjoys the soft give of it in his palm. How warm you are. You grunt and babble but it's nothing that scares him. Man would this feel even better against something else.
While you're fighting motion sickness he's crawling up onto the couch. It's creaking like mad but you don't make a peep, not even when he hauls himself on your back. Riding you dry, trying not to be too excited so he won't make noise when he finishes in his pants.
SYNOPSIS : An irrational desire to incorporate somebody's body into your own.
WARNINGS : Graphic Depictions of Violence, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Major Character Death, Psychological, Trauma, Gore, Torture (Implied/Off-Screen and On-Screen Depictions), Mind Break / Mental Breakdown, Grief / Emotional Distress, Manipulation, Psychological Horror, Obsessive and Possessive Behaviour, Yandere Behaviour, Disturbing Imagery
A / N : in my defence you all asked for this
INTERACTIONS AND REBLOGS ENCOURAGED!
You are still alive when they begin.
Every instinct in your body insists that you should not be. Every nerve screams that there must be some limit to suffering, some invisible line where consciousness finally gives way and mercy takes over. Yet no such mercy arrives. You remain awake, trapped behind your own eyes as your body is dismantled piece by piece, reduced from a person into ingredients.
You watch as your bones are pulled from you, one after another, stripped clean and fed into the grinding stone. The sound is unbearable, not the sharp crack of breaking bone, but the slow, relentless crunch as something that once held you upright is crushed into pale powder. Flour made from your skeleton. Then comes your blood. What spills from you is not wasted, it is collected in bowls and basins, stirred together with the powder of your own bones until it forms a thick, sticky paste. Red and white become pink, your flesh and skeleton become dough. The transformation is nauseatingly domestic. The motions are familiar, almost comforting in another context; hands kneading, folding, shaping. The sort of thing you might have seen in a kitchen countless times before.
And somehow, impossibly, you are forced to sit as witness to it all. An audience to your own post-mortem fate before death has even had the decency to claim you.
Perhaps, under different circumstances, you would have laughed. If this were a novel assigned in one of your literature classes, or an obscure poem buried in a curriculum no one actually cared about, you might have appreciated the irony. You would have pointed out how the line between human and animal was often thinner than people liked to admit. How old cookbooks, medical texts, and household records rarely treated the human body as something entirely separate from the natural world around it. You remember learning that in early England, blood, bone, urine, even human flesh found their way into remedies and recipes. Human remains were ingredients. Medicines and commodities. Something that could be consumed and traded. Back then, the thought had seemed absurd. Grotesque, certainly, but distant enough to be fascinating. Now there is nothing fascinating about it. Not when hands reach for your head with the same casual certainty a baker might reserve for a lump of dough. Not when you realize, with mounting dread, that they are going to make a pastry from your own head.
The last thing you ever see is the Joker’s gloved hands reaching toward you through the dim, flickering warehouse light, the certainty arriving all at once and without mercy that he will not arrive in time, that the distance between rescue and failure has already closed and locked itself shut, and that your life is ending not as a possibility but as an inevitability already in motion, consumed and taken before the thought of escape can even fully form. Hours later, the same man who lives so sharply in your final thought steps into that same warehouse, Red Robin moving through the silence with controlled urgency until he comes face to face with the figure responsible, the Joker standing there plainly.
"Where are they?" Tim demanded, his voice cutting through the cavernous warehouse with a sharpness that echoed off rusted beams and stained concrete walls. Every muscle in his body was wound tight beneath the uniform, every second stretching thinner than the last as his eyes swept across the room in search of some sign of you. He searched for movement, for anything that might indicate where the Joker had hidden you, but the building offered him nothing. The vast space was almost empty, stripped bare of anything useful, leaving only the clown himself standing beneath the harsh industrial lights and a long metal table positioned directly in front of him. Resting atop it was a large object concealed beneath a spotless white sheet.
The Joker's response came in the form of laughter. It burst from him suddenly, loud and grating, filling the warehouse until it seemed to crawl into every corner of the room. He doubled over slightly as though overcome by amusement, one gloved hand pressed dramatically against his chest while the other gestured aimlessly through the air. The sound was familiar enough to make Tim's stomach twist.
"Oh, don't be so serious!" he cackled, eventually straightening and wiping at an imaginary tear beneath one eye. "You'll see 'em in time."
His fingers moved to the bright purple bow-tie sitting crookedly against his collar, adjusting it with exaggerated care. The white gloves flashed beneath the warehouse lights as he fussed over the knot, appearing almost absurdly pristine compared to the grime surrounding him. Then the Joker's grin widened.
"In fact," he said, lifting a single finger as though struck by a brilliant idea, "you can see them right now." He seized the edge of the sheet and pulled. The fabric slipped away in one dramatic flourish, floating briefly through the air before collapsing onto the floor at his feet. Beneath it sat a pie. For a moment, Tim simply stared, steam rose from the pastry in thin twisting ribbons, carrying the scent of warm butter and spices into the room. The crust had been baked to a flawless golden-brown, every inch of it looked carefully prepared, delicate latticework crossed the top in neat overlapping strips, each one woven together with meticulous precision. It looked freshly made, the surface still glistening with an egg wash that caught the overhead lights. It was the sort of pie that belonged cooling on a kitchen counter or sitting in the display case of a bakery, not resting on a metal table in the middle of an abandoned warehouse while the Joker stood beside it grinning like the maniac he is.
Tim's eyes narrowed behind his mask. By all appearances it was completely ordinary, and that was precisely what made it suspicious. It was most likely drugged in some way or form, or poisoned. The clown circled the table slowly, dragging his fingertips along the edge of the pie tin as though admiring the craftsmanship of his own work. There was a strange tenderness in the gesture, an affection that made Tim's skin crawl. "You know," he began conversationally, "people don't appreciate baking anymore. It's a dying art. Everybody wants the big stuff these days. Giant plants, death rays, toxins. Nobody appreciates the dedication that goes into making something with your own two hands."
Tim remained silent. The smell continued to drift through the warehouse. Everything about it felt wrong. The Joker stopped beside the table and placed both palms flat against the metal surface, leaning forward slightly as his grin stretched wider and wider until it seemed almost painful. There was excitement shining in his eyes now, a barely contained anticipation that immediately sent alarm bells ringing through Tim's head.
"You eat this pie, Boy Wonder," the Joker said, his voice dropping into something almost gentle, "and I'll tell you exactly where your lover is."
Tim's gaze shifted from the Joker to the pie and back again, studying both with growing unease. He had spent years dealing with Gotham's worst criminals. He knew how the Joker operated. He understood threats, riddles and traps. Yet none of those instincts were helping him now because the Joker wasn't acting the way he normally did. And as Tim stared at the steaming pie resting between them, a terrible feeling began to unfurl in the pit of his stomach. The Joker had gone to far too much effort for this to be meaningless.
He had to consider it, despite every instinct in his body warning him not to. The pie sat on the table beneath the warehouse lights, steam still curling from the lattice crust. It looked absurdly normal. Too normal. The Joker had your last known location, and every trail Tim had managed to uncover ended here, in this rotting warehouse with its rusted beams and stained concrete floors. If you were alive, you were close. If you were dead, the answer was here. The pie would almost certainly be contaminated with something, a toxin, a hallucinogen, some grotesque chemical experiment hidden beneath the pastry, but Tim had already dosed himself with a temporary antidote before entering the building, a cocktail designed to counter most known poisons and keep his body functioning long enough to finish the mission. It was not a guarantee, Gotham had taught him that guarantees did not exist. The antidote might fail and the pie might kill him. But refusing it might mean never finding you. The only certainty was that he could not walk away.
He had spent days tearing through Gotham searching for you, throwing himself into the work with a desperation he refused to name because stopping long enough to think meant confronting the guilt that had been gnawing at him since the moment you disappeared. Every lead that went cold left him imagining a hundred ways he could have prevented this. If he had paid more attention, if he had answered sooner, if he had insisted you stay with him instead of letting you leave. The thoughts circled endlessly, starving for acknowledgement, but he shoved them down with the same ruthless discipline he used on every mission. Regret could wait. Self-hatred could wait. Finding you came first. Slowly, Tim stepped toward the table, his staff remained collapsed in one hand while the other reached for the waiting slice. The plate felt warm beneath his fingers, and the scent rising from it was rich and inviting in a way that made his stomach twist. The Joker watched him with a smile that was maniac, and that expression unsettled Tim more than any threat could have.
He forced himself to move before doubt could take hold. The pie sat between them, still warm beneath the warehouse lights, steam curling from the lattice crust in delicate wisps that carried the scent of butter and spices through the stale air. Everything about it felt wrong. Not because of anything he could immediately identify, but because it existed at all. The Joker was many things, but subtle was rarely one of them, and yet here sat a perfectly baked pie in the middle of an abandoned warehouse as though it belonged there. As though it were the most natural thing in the world. Tim's jaw tightened. Whatever game the clown was playing, he was running out of time to solve it, and if there was even the slightest chance this would lead him to you, then he would see it through. His fingers closed around the fork waiting neatly beside the plate. The utensil felt strangely ordinary in his hand, its polished metal catching the light as he lowered it into the pie. The crust cracked beneath the pressure with a soft crunch before giving way entirely, revealing the filling beneath. Fresh steam escaped immediately, carrying a richer scent than before. It smelled savoury and warm, layered with herbs and spices that blended together so seamlessly he struggled to distinguish them individually. There was no sharp chemical tang hidden beneath it, no warning hidden in the aroma. If anything, it smelled good.
That alone unsettled him. Slowly, he lifted the fork toward his mouth. The filling settled onto his tongue, and despite himself, his attention immediately shifted toward analysing it. Years of training had conditioned him to catalogue details instinctively, to observe and evaluate everything around him whether he wanted to or not. The texture was the first thing he noticed. It was soft but substantial, tender enough to break apart easily beneath his teeth without becoming mushy. It reminded him vaguely of beef, though the comparison never quite fit. There was something different about it, something he couldn't immediately identify. The flavour itself was surprisingly mild, lacking the stronger characteristics he expected from most red meats. There was no gaminess to it, none of the lingering heaviness that usually accompanied richer cuts. Instead there was a subtle sweetness buried beneath the savoury notes, faint enough to remain pleasant while still noticeable enough to catch his attention.
His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he chewed. There was another quality present as well, one he struggled to place. A faint nuttiness lingered in both the scent and flavour, delicate enough that he might have overlooked it under different circumstances. It sat at the edge of perception, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. By itself it meant nothing, plenty of ingredients could create similar notes. Yet his mind continued returning to it regardless, turning the sensation over as he swallowed. Tim waited for the telltale signs he had spent years learning to recognize, but they never arrived. The flavour lingered briefly before fading. His pulse remained steady and his vision remained clear. Whatever else this pie might be, it did not appear to be laced with any obvious toxin.
Across the table, the Joker watched. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of old warehouse lights overhead. Tim became acutely aware of the man's gaze fixed upon him, following every movement with unnerving intensity. It was impossible not to notice. Refusing to acknowledge the growing discomfort in his chest, he cut off another piece and brought it to his mouth. The crust shattered delicately beneath the fork, the filling remained warm, rich, and perfectly cooked. Every bite confirmed the same unsettling conclusion: whoever had made this knew exactly what they were doing.
The Joker's grin widened. Tim tried to ignore it and tried to focus on you instead. Yet with every swallow, with every passing second spent standing in that warehouse while the Joker watched him eat, the feeling of unease continued to grow, curling tighter around his ribs until it became impossible to separate from the taste lingering at the back of his throat. Something about this was wrong. "You wanna know a secret?" he asked, his voice dropping into something conversational and intimate. Tim paused and the Joker leaned forward slightly, eyes glittering beneath the harsh lights. "They've been here the entire time," he said, drawing out the words with obvious delight. Then his grin widened. "Right there in that little pie."
The sentence landed without meaning at first. Tim heard it. He understood the individual words and yet his mind refused to assemble them into anything coherent. The warehouse seemed to grow strangely distant, as though the world had shifted several feet away from him. The slice remained in his hand, warm and solid and real. Then understanding arrived, not all at once but in a series of horrifying connections. The smell and the careful preparation. The Joker's excitement, the way he had insisted Tim eat, the way he had spoken about craftsmanship. A cold, nauseating dread opened inside his chest as the pieces locked together.
He looked down at the pie. The golden crust was unchanged. The dark filling sat beneath it exactly as before but nothing about it was ordinary anymore. Every detail became unbearable, the warmth against his fingers felt wrong, the scent turned sickening, the thought that this really had been your last known location. His mind replayed the taste he had already swallowed, now stripped of ignorance and recast in something monstrous. The realization hit with crushing certainty, and the world seemed to tilt beneath him. He had been eating you. The fork slipped from his hand and struck the concrete with a metallic clatter that echoed through the warehouse, but Tim barely heard it. His throat tightened until it hurt to breathe. His stomach lurched violently, and every instinct in his body screamed to reject what he had consumed, yet he remained frozen, staring at the slice as if it might somehow transform into something else if he looked long enough. Across from him, the Joker's laughter began quietly, almost tenderly, before building into uncontrollable hysteria. He doubled over, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he pointed at Tim with trembling fingers.
"There it is," he wheezed through the laughter. "That's the face I was waiting for. All that training and you never once asked what was in the pie."
The sound filled the warehouse, bouncing off the metal walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. Tim could not answer. The silence where your voice should have been felt suddenly enormous, a void stretching through the room and through him. In that awful stillness he understood the final cruelty of it: the Joker had never brought him here to rescue you. The entire performance, from the covered table to the warm pastry to the bargain he had offered, existed for a single purpose. The punchline had always been Tim's realization. Your life had already been consumed long before he ever managed to lift the pie to his mouth.
The laughter stopped. Not completely, not forever, but long enough for the interruption to become noticeable. The Joker's grin remained fixed in place, stretched across his pale face like a wound, yet genuine surprise flickered behind it as Tim reached for the fork again. For the first time since revealing the truth, the clown appeared momentarily uncertain of what he was seeing. He had expected anger and had expected denial. He had expected the young hero to throw the plate across the room or collapse beneath the weight of the realization, maybe even attack the clown himself. Instead, Tim's shaking hand closed around the utensil and drove it back into the pie with desperate determination, carving through the ruined crust and lifting another mouthful toward his lips before his mind could catch up with what he was doing.
His thoughts had become fragmented, scattered beneath a crushing tide of grief and horror that refused to settle into anything coherent, images forced themselves into his mind whether he wanted them there or not. He imagined cold metal tables illuminated by sterile lights. He imagined butchers' hooks and cutting boards and the mechanical indifference of processing flesh. He imagined you reduced from a living, breathing person into something measurable, something that could fit inside a tin dish and disappear beneath a woven lattice crust. Every instinct in him recoiled from the thought, every rational part of his mind screaming at him to stop, yet none of those instincts were stronger than the overwhelming certainty that after days of searching, after every sleepless night spent tearing Gotham apart piece by piece, this was all he had left of you. He moved with frantic, broken urgency, forcing the meat into his mouth in rapid, unthinking motions as if desperation alone could make this real in a way that didn’t destroy him, as if by swallowing he could undo distance, loss, and time itself, returning you, impossibly, horribly, to the only place his mind could still frame as safe, locked away inside the hollow, trembling certainty of his own body.
The bite disappeared into his mouth. He barely tasted it this time. The warmth remained, the texture remained. Yet the flavour itself had become irrelevant beneath the knowledge attached to it. Somewhere deep inside himself, buried beneath the shock and nausea and grief, a desperate, irrational part of him clung to the fact that he had finally found you, not alive, not safe, and not waiting to be rescued but found nonetheless. The search was over, the uncertainty was over. The horrible possibility that you were still out there suffering somewhere beyond his reach was over.
The Joker's silence shattered beneath another burst of laughter, louder than before and infinitely more delighted. The sound rolled through the warehouse in waves, echoing from rusted walls and steel rafters until it seemed to come from every direction at once. It became part of the atmosphere itself, an omnipresent noise that filled every corner of the room, yet Tim barely registered it. The world had narrowed to the pie sitting before him and the unbearable reality it represented. His staff slipped from his fingers and struck the concrete floor with a sharp crack, bouncing once before rolling away into the darkness, but he paid it no attention. The weapon that had accompanied him through countless battles suddenly felt meaningless compared to the object sitting on the table.
Tears had begun falling without his permission. They slipped down his face in silent streams, blurring his vision until the edges of the warehouse dissolved into indistinct shapes and shadows. He could feel them gathering at his jaw before dropping onto the table, onto his gloves, onto the remains of the pie itself. His chest ached with every breath, each inhale feeling too shallow, each exhale catching painfully in his throat, but the physical discomfort barely registered beneath the crushing pressure building inside him. At some point the fork ceased to matter. It remained abandoned somewhere on the table as Tim's hands moved forward instead, fingers digging into the shattered remains of the pastry with frantic desperation. The carefully woven crust collapsed beneath his touch. Flakes scattered across the metal surface. Filling stained his gloves. The pie that the Joker had presented so proudly only minutes earlier was reduced to a ruined mess beneath his hands, yet he continued gathering pieces of it, bringing them to his mouth with a determination that bordered on self-destruction. It was not hunger driving him. Now, as you had once been brought into him through sex, you would be taken into him again, but in a form stripped of warmth or tenderness, reduced instead to something consumed and swallowed.
You had occupied every corner of his life long before this. You had existed in his routines, in his thoughts, and in the spaces he made for you without realizing he was making them. You had become woven into the fabric of his existence so thoroughly that imagining a future without you felt impossible. Now that connection had been twisted into something grotesque and horrifying, transformed into a joke crafted entirely for the amusement of a madman, yet even then Tim found himself clinging to it. And somewhere beneath the crushing horror of what had been done to you, beneath the revulsion and the heartbreak and the unbearable weight of loss, there existed a small, desperate part of him that refused to leave anything behind. If this was all that remained, if this was truly the only piece of you the Joker had allowed to survive, then he would not abandon it. He would not turn away from it and he would not leave you alone in this warehouse.
His love devoured him, and yours devoured you in return.
Made me nauseous, takes its time, consumption and obsession overlap, love it.
There's a horror film called 'In a Violent Nature' with a scene of a man inserted in a log splitter for an absurdly long time, this gave me similar feelings I had while watching that.
I'll shut up but I want more evil fucked up Miguel O'hara
He understands it's not right. it's just that he's run out of space to push every little undesired thought to his subconscious.
In the beginning it was an indulgent thing. You're not your thoughts, and he never battled with an urge to act out scenes being supplemented to him via thin air.
One evening or night or morning, you can't be sure cause there's no windows in his office, he's toiling over written reports of an unmarked anomaly from a stone age spider that can't fathom a digital file, and the auto scan he performed multiple times isn't working, so he's forced to minimize his attention to just the one task of hand typing it, and even in a self-imposed crisis he can't defeat his perfectionism forcing him to rescan every little passage for clerical errors, and and and...
And he began imagining things. Berating you, for one. The first face that floated across his eye on his second monitor was yours. It's natural you take the role of mental desk toy he can squeeze til it pops. Eventually these scenes evolve.
They became a bit more elaborate imagining background information to pad the scenes. Included continuinity. Sometimes he'd find himself between sleep in his bed replaying a moment to get it right. You'd be more defiant if he found himself in the land mediocrity watching scroll bars estimate "x hours until completion".
You'd stomp your foot at him, throw up a hand, and tell him off. Naturally in his minds eye you get the boot and that's the end of that.
When he's off a mission gone sideways scraped up with no capture to show for it, you're the mousy assistant hiding behind a clipboard who will squeak and trip over themselves if he looks their direction. You'll ask again and again what you can do, what he needs, and he'll bark for you to make yourself useful and make yourself scarce.
It wasn't his fault it became sexual. Enough of his time was spent thinking of your variants that his subconscious eventually took over and staged a dream. It took what he fed it, verbal harassment and the relief of revenge, and kicked it up tenfold. He was outright hurting you in this dream.
Wrangling you by the limbs and... well. He's not proud of how his body reacts when he wakes up. He remembers shouts. He remembers blood. Every time he does his legs cross a little tighter.
It starts consuming him. He's thought of ripping someone's head off, sure. He's one of the good guys. Not a saint. It's just this is totally sadistic. It only serves him at the expense of another person entirely.
It's why when these thoughts start becoming viable, moments alone with you that are so tempting he has to use his strength to ask you leave or remove himself so he won't see if the real thing is even better, he decides on a sacrificial lamb.
The longer this goes on the less he can focus. The less safe you as a Spider will be.
This left alone could jeopardize the mission statement.
The chosen lamb is you, but from an alternate universe. No powers. No way to defend yourself. No Spiderman or villain roaming the streets.
You live in the dime a dozen universe where his reality is nothing but paperback fiction.
He feels downright evil at the thought of jumping in, doing the deed, then jumping out. So he does his best to ensure you won't remember. You'll be in pain for a bit but he went through the trouble of roughing you up and misplacing some of your things for you to think it was a simple mugging, not a brutal fuck.
And what do you know, the man's cured. You're none the wiser. No harm no foul.
... for the time being. Because now that he's internalized the true sensory experience, he's compulsively flicking to ideas on how to improve that moment.
You were limp and not participating. It would've been fun to see your eyes go dark. Hear the muffled cries of you pleading for help that won't come behind his palm. How much stronger could you hit under the threat of being touched somewhere you don't like? Could you wrap your head around his fangs if he flashed them; would you drool if he bit? If he could even convince you that he's someone to trust it'd be all the more satisfying having you go through a complex flow of emotion when he reveals he's not your friend.
It drives him to come back on a later day. A day when he's weak and feels a fantasy waiting to happen call for him.
Quarter zip up to his chin, he stands above you motioning left and right, babbling a performance of anxious tourist looking for a street sign he swore he passed. You're kind. Stupid, even, to let him lead you away from a crowd. This time will be great; he always imagined you against the wall when he thought of it. The floor can go second, maybe. If he's tired next time, maybe your bed when you think you've seen the last of him.
this is yandereorg on my main but may I suggest the idea yan!clark asking yan!bruce to look after s/o but its after smth awful like dick becoming nightwing and leaving him alone or Jason's passing (I know its not comparable but like bruce's abandonment issues are being yanked at ) so he's like super mega broody and assuming s/o is like a civilian and not powered they've got something the batboys don't, they are weak in a very mundane way to us but a very unique way to bruce like he knows the majority of gotham is in poverty and is weak to the rogues but he spends so much time with aliens and superhumans and magicians he's forgotten how unenpowered people are and bc he's in a sensitive spot he's like my precious I will protect you and so presents a custody agreement with clark, and you know he's getting the how to neutralise your friends file out, along with trying to like guilt clark into believing he's horrible at this and oh no dads are fighting.
sorry for the long ask<3 clark n bruce co yandering is dear to me
Oh my word, hello!! Welcome to my page friend, never worry abt going too in depth with responses or asks or anything of the sort, we love long ideas!
And wow what a banger of a concept to start off on, I feel like a lot of authors make Bruce more of a wall (and rightfully so) so it makes it more fun to explore that gooey side of him.
I think in this case Clark isn't dropping you off to a starved man entirely by accident.
He knows Bruce; he's not the type to enjoy being dropped in on 24/7.
But a death in the family? A nest being emptied one way or another?
He looks at you and he wonders how would he be able to stand going without you? It's not the same as Jason or Dick, it isn't like any of them if he had to explain it, but he understands how an empty house can haunt you.
It just so happens Clark has some business to attend to far, far away, a place he can't guarantee trusted eyes on you.
Two birds one stone; he stores you someplace safe while offering a piece of sunshine to a friend in desperate need of it.
You get a hug, a kiss, a suitcase bursting with bulky sweaters (he won't risk the Gotham rain making you sick) and a verbal assurance before the drop off that you are in good hands. All you need to know is the Bat is a friend.
And for a while that's what Bruce allows you to believe. He's Batman. You're here. That's all.
It becomes the sterile routine of doing research, bone deep routes through Gotham, ignoring the echo of Alfred dusting room to room the few hours he's home, then coming back to flit through the list of rules Clark hand wrote for you while standing at your door. Part of that list is make sure you're in bed to sleep by eleven.
You're not sleeping. Just staring at the ceiling. He doesn't have it in him to check in as to why the first two, three nights. Only when he's exhausted one night, thinking of his mistakes, how he's failed, how selfish he is to want those pieces of his life back even when he understands its impossible, he peeps into your room.
"You're awake."
You nod. The pillow creaks.
"Close your eyes. Sleep."
You shake your head.
"I miss Clark."
He hadn't even asked what the matter was. You just came right out with it to the first person who was close enough to hear you.
He feels like he has to come in and flick on the lamp to sit at your bedside. Your eyes are red and you're sucking in your lips to stifle the noise.
He gets it then. And in all his efforts to make sure you get your sunlight, your daily walk around the property, your three meals cooked with love and your kiss before bed, all prescribed by Clark, he feels time fly again. How quickly he'd gotten used to noise in the house. Little tabletop games with you. Making sure you don't catch glimpses at the news when he turns on your favorite cooking channels. You even tell him a secret or two; one being that you know Clark's not a human, but you let him believe otherwise despite his efforts. Why? Cause he tries really hard to pretend.
Come time to send you back home Bruce is absolutely not ready.
He'd reconnected with the emotional part of why he does what he does; to help innocents. Regular people like you that are crushed under the greater forces at play in this random, chaotic world.
Clark returns to the manor all smiles more than delighted to see Bruce waiting for him, mask off. That's until you pop out from behind him to throw a hug around him, meaning you've seen Bruces face. You know who he is.
They break away to reconvene somewhere deeper in the manor; pointedly it's Bruce telling you to 'go to your room and pack your things', not Clark. Small thing but it still irks Clark you don't even look at him for approval. You're running off to go do it.
An important talk has to be had here, mainly about boundaries. You weren't supposed to know about the double life; that was a crux of the rules. That knowledge presents danger.
I like that you say Bruce would criticize Clark, essentially using his love for you as a weapon to get what he wants.
Bruce doesn't agree with Clark's methods. He's got you locked away in the middle of nowhere at one story house in the sticks. Clark's one person. Who is he to decide he's covered all his bases with you?
That's right; he can't. You don't receive enough movement, enough space, no stimulation.
How cruel are you to impose isolation on the person you love? All of that is to ignore he'd absolutely do the same if he found you first. Maybe worse!
For a second the lines blurred between who exactly he means but the message is received loud and clear.
And the proposal is born. You get half of your needs with Clark, and the other half with Bruce.
This is so long already so I'll just leave open at the end here that the potential for Clarks feelings are so fun… Feeling wounded by Bruce and forced to reconcile with how terrible he's being if only that tiny bit. Ultimately I think he wants you all to himself but this twisted sense of altruism leads to him basically being chastised out of his own desires.
I know in some of these similar musings Clark and Bruce are partners in crime, but imagine the odd blend of feelings here if there were was ambiguity to what they are to each other? They say they're friends, they don't see each other every day, but the way they interact suggests a lot has been left unsaid. Then throw in the fact that you exist, oh man.
And imagine if Bruce initially proposes nothing at all, but instead you mysteriously catch a cold? Whoops. Looks like Bruce is keeping you a few more days. Best not to move you, or else you could get hurt.
Bruce would for sure fake a sickness or even like induce one so you’d have to stay with him, like how are you going to help in out in the sticks Clark?
Also I think Clark would have an issue with like overly spoiling s/o, one because it’s not something he can carry out long term but also what if Bruce is buying their affection? Even worse what when it works? Wayne manor is much more appealing when s/o is good because it’s endless activities and you have like outsiders like Alfred and Barb and later on Tim ect . And I think it would still be more appealing then alone with Clark because I don’t think he likes the idea of s/o having something else to do like he thinks about you all day so you should have to be thinking about him too, that’s fair and of course Bruce wants you to be dependent on him too but he can see where Clark is failing and like just because you have something now doesn’t mean it can’t be taken away
I imagine Clark through his time with you has equipped you with a basic homebody encyclopedia in your head. You know how to stitch, basic cooking under his supervision with flimsy plastic tools, what to do when there's fleas in the rug, prepping for cold weather or hot. When he sees it fit to work your muscle he'll have you pitchfork hay from the farmhouse and swelter in the heat to dig up winter roots and repot them someplace cold indoors.
It's tough to live a life where you wake up knowing 'I have to chop wood and stock it for the next three hours or else I might freeze to death before Pa gets home'.
Then, you come to Bruce and suddenly nothing is your responsibility anymore. You want new clothes? Got it. You tired of playing with farm animals, want someone to talk to? This a manor that's damn near full of all kinds of people. No mosquitos in Gotham, either. Run wild, you can go into any room you want if the doors not locked.
And yes omg I definitely think Clark treats you like a pet in that kind of way. He's gone most of the day, thinking of you, if you're okay, if you're thinking of him, that the moment he gets back you have absolutely no time for yourself. You're in his arms or his bed or with his voice in your ear talking about everything he can think before he inevitably has to go out and make the world a safer place for you again. He doesn't even like it when you do your chores while he's home if he can't engage with you on some level.
Also with you being good and receiving more privileges with Bruce; I think that itch to get back to the manor will show when you're being extra sweet to Clark. Standing on your toes to kiss him, waiting at the door, making things he likes, a desperate lilt to your voice when you ask 'when can we go back to Gotham'?
It's really a difficult thing to just say no to because, yeah. Bruce isn't just buttering you up, it's actually a better more desirable environment to be in. Plus you haven't done anything wrong. It was Clark's decision to expose you to that place to begin with. Bruce has a habit of finding a way through hell or highwater, silly little you had no chance to stand up to his persuasions. Joint custody will have to give way to something else under all this strain but for now he settles for soothing himself with the idea that you're being good for Bruce and his live-ins, so you're being good for him, too.
this is yandereorg on my main but may I suggest the idea yan!clark asking yan!bruce to look after s/o but its after smth awful like dick becoming nightwing and leaving him alone or Jason's passing (I know its not comparable but like bruce's abandonment issues are being yanked at ) so he's like super mega broody and assuming s/o is like a civilian and not powered they've got something the batboys don't, they are weak in a very mundane way to us but a very unique way to bruce like he knows the majority of gotham is in poverty and is weak to the rogues but he spends so much time with aliens and superhumans and magicians he's forgotten how unenpowered people are and bc he's in a sensitive spot he's like my precious I will protect you and so presents a custody agreement with clark, and you know he's getting the how to neutralise your friends file out, along with trying to like guilt clark into believing he's horrible at this and oh no dads are fighting.
sorry for the long ask<3 clark n bruce co yandering is dear to me
Oh my word, hello!! Welcome to my page friend, never worry abt going too in depth with responses or asks or anything of the sort, we love long ideas!
And wow what a banger of a concept to start off on, I feel like a lot of authors make Bruce more of a wall (and rightfully so) so it makes it more fun to explore that gooey side of him.
I think in this case Clark isn't dropping you off to a starved man entirely by accident.
He knows Bruce; he's not the type to enjoy being dropped in on 24/7.
But a death in the family? A nest being emptied one way or another?
He looks at you and he wonders how would he be able to stand going without you? It's not the same as Jason or Dick, it isn't like any of them if he had to explain it, but he understands how an empty house can haunt you.
It just so happens Clark has some business to attend to far, far away, a place he can't guarantee trusted eyes on you.
Two birds one stone; he stores you someplace safe while offering a piece of sunshine to a friend in desperate need of it.
You get a hug, a kiss, a suitcase bursting with bulky sweaters (he won't risk the Gotham rain making you sick) and a verbal assurance before the drop off that you are in good hands. All you need to know is the Bat is a friend.
And for a while that's what Bruce allows you to believe. He's Batman. You're here. That's all.
It becomes the sterile routine of doing research, bone deep routes through Gotham, ignoring the echo of Alfred dusting room to room the few hours he's home, then coming back to flit through the list of rules Clark hand wrote for you while standing at your door. Part of that list is make sure you're in bed to sleep by eleven.
You're not sleeping. Just staring at the ceiling. He doesn't have it in him to check in as to why the first two, three nights. Only when he's exhausted one night, thinking of his mistakes, how he's failed, how selfish he is to want those pieces of his life back even when he understands its impossible, he peeps into your room.
"You're awake."
You nod. The pillow creaks.
"Close your eyes. Sleep."
You shake your head.
"I miss Clark."
He hadn't even asked what the matter was. You just came right out with it to the first person who was close enough to hear you.
He feels like he has to come in and flick on the lamp to sit at your bedside. Your eyes are red and you're sucking in your lips to stifle the noise.
He gets it then. And in all his efforts to make sure you get your sunlight, your daily walk around the property, your three meals cooked with love and your kiss before bed, all prescribed by Clark, he feels time fly again. How quickly he'd gotten used to noise in the house. Little tabletop games with you. Making sure you don't catch glimpses at the news when he turns on your favorite cooking channels. You even tell him a secret or two; one being that you know Clark's not a human, but you let him believe otherwise despite his efforts. Why? Cause he tries really hard to pretend.
Come time to send you back home Bruce is absolutely not ready.
He'd reconnected with the emotional part of why he does what he does; to help innocents. Regular people like you that are crushed under the greater forces at play in this random, chaotic world.
Clark returns to the manor all smiles more than delighted to see Bruce waiting for him, mask off. That's until you pop out from behind him to throw a hug around him, meaning you've seen Bruces face. You know who he is.
They break away to reconvene somewhere deeper in the manor; pointedly it's Bruce telling you to 'go to your room and pack your things', not Clark. Small thing but it still irks Clark you don't even look at him for approval. You're running off to go do it.
An important talk has to be had here, mainly about boundaries. You weren't supposed to know about the double life; that was a crux of the rules. That knowledge presents danger.
I like that you say Bruce would criticize Clark, essentially using his love for you as a weapon to get what he wants.
Bruce doesn't agree with Clark's methods. He's got you locked away in the middle of nowhere at one story house in the sticks. Clark's one person. Who is he to decide he's covered all his bases with you?
That's right; he can't. You don't receive enough movement, enough space, no stimulation.
How cruel are you to impose isolation on the person you love? All of that is to ignore he'd absolutely do the same if he found you first. Maybe worse!
For a second the lines blurred between who exactly he means but the message is received loud and clear.
And the proposal is born. You get half of your needs with Clark, and the other half with Bruce.
This is so long already so I'll just leave open at the end here that the potential for Clarks feelings are so fun… Feeling wounded by Bruce and forced to reconcile with how terrible he's being if only that tiny bit. Ultimately I think he wants you all to himself but this twisted sense of altruism leads to him basically being chastised out of his own desires.
I know in some of these similar musings Clark and Bruce are partners in crime, but imagine the odd blend of feelings here if there were was ambiguity to what they are to each other? They say they're friends, they don't see each other every day, but the way they interact suggests a lot has been left unsaid. Then throw in the fact that you exist, oh man.
And imagine if Bruce initially proposes nothing at all, but instead you mysteriously catch a cold? Whoops. Looks like Bruce is keeping you a few more days. Best not to move you, or else you could get hurt.
Oh and while I'm on the subject, semi-long time captive of Clark having a sleepover at the Wayne Manor, anyone?
Before I say anything else I feel the need to plug @/venomandvigor as well as @/yandereorg, probably wouldn't have thought of any of this if I hadn't read their works.
You're a long time captive of Clark taken in as an adult, sure, but he treats you like his child he's raised from the ground up.
Love love loves you to pieces, and you've worn down to his unyielding affections over the years.
You tried escaping in the past, tried pulling the wool over his eyes, really lashed out. But a hug and an "I love you no matter what" can fix anything if they're repeated enough.
And with every lesson you've come to accept him as a father figure.
He even trusts you enough to take you places! And very recently has he trusted you to be without him.
You're a big boy and everything now. Got that country shine to your skin and always pilter in knit sweaters or flannel.
It's a huge bummer for Clark, but he's got really important business to attend to. Intergalactic space war, has to appear as a representative of Earth alongside some Lantern Core members, you get the idea. Big meeting to get to know each other and sign some treaties. He won't be back for some months because traveling there for one is gonna take forever, and two, he's not sure how long he'll be staying to begin with.
So, he's gonna leave you with someone he trusts you with most to prevent you going stir crazy. Isolation has terrible affects on people and he won't be having any of that with his pride and joy.
Now, here you are in the glacially lavish guest room of the manor.
You don't know anything about Gotham, you weren't even very familiar with Metropolis to begin with, and that makes your ignorance a perfect shield to prevent you figuring anything out about the whole Bruce Wayne being Batman thing.
It's weird having you in the manor. Despite having been given a heads up beforehand, a lot of members, especially those who are in and out, don't know about you.
So... who the fuck is the country bumpin shacking up in the left wing? And why are there hay nettles on the ground leading there?
I think the point would be these people starved of natural sunlight gradually digging their fingers into the beams you let off, ripping themselves from the dirt to relocate themselves beneath your shine.
And of course Clark will come back. What the hell! Finders keepers, guys!
But seriously, I think he'd be a bit wary. He knows Bruce and company are good folks, but they're... intense. He only feels safe about you being in Gotham because of Bruce specifically, he knows he'd take really good care of you having experience taking in an array of strays. ... maybe too good of care now that he's thinking about it.
As a matter of fact, those letters you crossed your heart and promised to send him haven't been reaching him. Couldn't have anything to do with Bruce, right?
omg the goat responds and adds their own additions...
Clark absolutely setting hard TV rating limits, if it's PG he is firm with Bruce about needing to sit with you and watch it (or assign Dick or Alfred in his stead). Tim is very much Tim I feel like I don't even need to explain it.
"Look after them like your own!" Clark says and quickly regrets when you start receiving goodnight kisses from Bruce and actually kind of enjoy having a rotation of people instead of Clark and only Clark looking after you. Move your feet lose your seat, Clark.
Oh and while I'm on the subject, semi-long time captive of Clark having a sleepover at the Wayne Manor, anyone?
Before I say anything else I feel the need to plug @/venomandvigor as well as @/yandereorg, probably wouldn't have thought of any of this if I hadn't read their works.
You're a long time captive of Clark taken in as an adult, sure, but he treats you like his child he's raised from the ground up.
Love love loves you to pieces, and you've worn down to his unyielding affections over the years.
You tried escaping in the past, tried pulling the wool over his eyes, really lashed out. But a hug and an "I love you no matter what" can fix anything if they're repeated enough.
And with every lesson you've come to accept him as a father figure.
He even trusts you enough to take you places! And very recently has he trusted you to be without him.
You're a big boy and everything now. Got that country shine to your skin and always pilter in knit sweaters or flannel.
It's a huge bummer for Clark, but he's got really important business to attend to. Intergalactic space war, has to appear as a representative of Earth alongside some Lantern Core members, you get the idea. Big meeting to get to know each other and sign some treaties. He won't be back for some months because traveling there for one is gonna take forever, and two, he's not sure how long he'll be staying to begin with.
So, he's gonna leave you with someone he trusts you with most to prevent you going stir crazy. Isolation has terrible affects on people and he won't be having any of that with his pride and joy.
Now, here you are in the glacially lavish guest room of the manor.
You don't know anything about Gotham, you weren't even very familiar with Metropolis to begin with, and that makes your ignorance a perfect shield to prevent you figuring anything out about the whole Bruce Wayne being Batman thing.
It's weird having you in the manor. Despite having been given a heads up beforehand, a lot of members, especially those who are in and out, don't know about you.
So... who the fuck is the country bumpin shacking up in the left wing? And why are there hay nettles on the ground leading there?
I think the point would be these people starved of natural sunlight gradually digging their fingers into the beams you let off, ripping themselves from the dirt to relocate themselves beneath your shine.
And of course Clark will come back. What the hell! Finders keepers, guys!
But seriously, I think he'd be a bit wary. He knows Bruce and company are good folks, but they're... intense. He only feels safe about you being in Gotham because of Bruce specifically, he knows he'd take really good care of you having experience taking in an array of strays. ... maybe too good of care now that he's thinking about it.
As a matter of fact, those letters you crossed your heart and promised to send him haven't been reaching him. Couldn't have anything to do with Bruce, right?
Imagine Kon pulling you up in the sky to just molest you. Your limbs lock in terror as he awkwardly shifts you in his arms, trying to get better access to whatever part of you has his attention for the moment. You lock your arms around him after the first time his hand slips. You grip him tightly, in spite of what he's doing to you. He gets impatient trying to fiddle with your clothes one-handed. "Eh, screw it," he'll concede, finally tearing them off you. The more you beg, the more lightheaded you get in the high altitude. He's able to do so much more then. Once you've really loosened up, he even slips it in. Kon's a little embarrassed he doesn't last long, but you seem too anxious to get back to the ground to mind. Don't worry; he'll take you home and tuck you in after. It's not like you can walk home in just your socks.
What if with all the neglected reader tropes you weren't entirely ignored. Bruce genuinely tries to make an effort, but with all his other responsibilities being so wide and fantastic you slip through the cracks. He's just at arms length and pulled away by your brothers or sisters or the city itself. Every. Single. Time.
Let's face it; the man's getting older. Better yet, let's acknowledge that at the end of the day that's all that he is. A man named Bruce shaped by a tragedy.
He feels hollow. This is one of those rare times he looks back into that void within him and blinks.
That discomfort reminds him of the dinner dates and the theater plans and Halloween's he's missed with you. How he can't always give you advice you need. Never gave you the 'talk, much less the love talk, couldn't teach you how to change a tire.
Especially not while you were growing up.
He didn't have what you do now in himself, a father, to model off of.
When you're lost all he can do is shine a light on the path leading back to him unlike other fathers who'd take you home by the hand.
He tried, please don't think he never tried, but couldn't quite let you in to the heart of him.
He recognizes once more lurched in his chair inched across a mountain of monitors beneath the veneer of the Wayne Manor, he's missing you.
Not a birthday or a date or a bad dream. Just something. A hunch he's got. There's something happening he'll come to regret not being present for.
It's late. Of course you're up, runs in the family. He swept down the hall as a shadow. Soundless and nothing. Yet you anticipated him quick cracking open your door. Crooked smiles and wrinkled sleep clothes. He thinks he bought you that slip a while ago. You talk.
He comes in entirely. Sits on your bed. Soon as he does, a memory rises inside himself like dust released.
The last time he'd sat at the edge of your bed like this you didn't like the dark and you had pleaded with him to stay. Bruce didn't want to equip you with a night light. It felt like offloading the responsibility of arming you with the knowledge to fight back that fear. So he talked. Talked about what you were afraid of. Nothing in specific, thankfully. Just shadows in the corner and nightmares. He stripped down the mystique of every thought in that even tone of his. "Nightmares are induced by stress or sleeping conditions..."
It took some days after the fact for it to sink in with your younger self. He recalls you still coming to Alfred very early some mornings asking to hug. But eventually it all stopped. He left something with you to help you grow. Help you feel safe. That's something you kept with you, even if it was during such a short transitional period of your life, pre teen to young adult.
Now, he's sat on your beds edge in the present now. Arms up, inviting you to sit on his lap. You do. There being a little hesitation on your end isn't lost on him. He's had the bad habit of buffering in his affections toward you. Time would pass and he wouldn't know if he should be inviting you onto his knee or giving you a simple hug; were you too old for either one, now?
While he's there you chat back and forth about the delightfully mundane; because anything about you now is new to him. Your day was nice, you pet a stray, work let you off early, Hus driver didn't bother charging you.
Would it be possible to do something together, just the two of you? You'd ask.
It moves to the headboard where you're both lying down, Bruce at your side with his arms around you. Cradling your head to lay in his neck.
He tells you he'll see what he can do. And by morning, he's gone. And he'll have to get to know you all over again.
synopsis: clark just wants one small thing, a kiss when he leaves for work in the morning. he’s more than willing to show you an alternative if you want to be bratty about it.
word count: 1.7k
cw: implied captivity, spanking, power imbalance, fear play, slight ddlg dynamics, calling Clark "Pa" in a sexual setting
📀 naught girl by beyoncé
You could hear Clark mumbling to himself as he tallied off his morning checklist. Suit on under his civilian suit, check. Fake glasses, check. Briefcase, check. You, fed and dressed by him for the day, check. He stopped and waited by the front door, checking his watch before he looked at you lounging on the couch.
“I think you’re forgetting something, honey.” Clark reminded you, hands folded in front of him, with a bright smile on his face.
“How’s that? I’m not the one who’s allowed to leave.” You replied, giving all your attention to the book in your hands.
“You know what.” He teased, lips tightening into a smile. “We talked about this.”
“I already let you kiss me when you woke me up.” You sighed with annoyance.
You were thumbing the edge of your book nervously as you continued to pay Clark no mind. Hoping he would forget his goodbye kiss was like hoping he wouldn’t hear you sneak out in the middle of the night. It was a useless endeavor to deny him, but you had to try.
“Let me?” Clark questioned sternly, quirking a brow.
You eyed him nervously before settling uneasily back into the couch.
“Yeah,” you said shakily. “I was good and let you kiss me for the morning already. I even k-kissed you back…a little.”
Clark hated when you ‘pretended’ not to like his affection. But he wasn’t usually this grouchy.
“Let me kiss you for the morning already.” He repeated slowly as if he were making sure he heard you correctly. He clicked his tongue. He was not in the mood this morning, it seemed. “You don’t like it when I kiss you?”
His tone was tight. You didn’t have to look at him to know that he was mad. You swallowed silently and set your book down in your lap. You acted out frequently, but he hardly ever got mad. Not like this.
“I…I didn’t say that.” You muttered quietly.
“But you meant it, didn’t you?”
Clark took his glasses and coat off, crossing his arms over his chest. You continued to stare at the book in your lap, hands shaking now. Usually, he took your brattiness in stride. Something about your adjusting to the house. You really fucked up with your attitude this time.
“Sweetheart,” He warned. “I am going to count to five and when I’m done-“
You didn’t need him to finish his sentence before you let your book clatter to the floor and scurried over to stand in front of him. Your eyes were glued to the floor as he stood in front of you, looking down at your bowed head. He walked past you, his steps heavy against the silence of the house. He knelt and picked up the book.
“Is this how you treat the gifts I give you?” He asked, placing the book on the coffee table. “Isn’t this the book you were begging for, too?”
You nodded, still glued to your spot in front of the door. Clark came to stand behind you, placing a large hand on the nape of your neck. His thumb stroked up the side of your neck as he tugged gently on your hair.
“Would you like it if I threw you around like that?” He asked softly with a soft ‘hm’.
His hand was heavy against your neck as you shook your head fiercely.
“No. No, you wouldn’t.”
Clark kissed the top of your head and rounded you slowly, letting the baseboards creak under his weight as he stopped in front of you. His arms crossed again over his chest as he stared down at you.
“You know I would never do that to you,” Clark assured. “Right, honey?”
You nodded, twiddling with the hem of your babydoll dress.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes,” You whispered, blinking back tears of fear. “I-I know that you would never hurt me.”
“Yes, who?”
“Yes, Pa.” You said even softer, almost unable to hear yourself.
“We take care of the things that are important to us, don’t we?” Clark grasped your chin with his right hand and raised it to look up at him.
“Yes, Pa.” You nodded in his hand, already starting to sniffle.
“I take care of you, don’t I?” Clark asked, tilting his head.
“Y-Yes, Pa.” You closed your eyes, letting the tears flow.
“So,” He sighed, letting the tension out of his shoulders. “You understand what you need to do now?”
You got up on your tippy toes, barely able to reach his lips before he put a hand over your mouth.
“My belt, please,” Clark said matter-of-factly.
“I’m sorry.” You whimpered, looking at him with a shuddering sob. He had never spanked you before.
“It’s okay,” Clark shushed quietly, guiding you back to the dining table. “You just take your punishment like a good girl, okay?”
You nodded and looked down at his waistline. Clark refused to raise a hand to you, but you guessed he wasn’t above an old-fashioned spanking. Your hands shakily fiddled with his belt as you undid it, trying your best to ignore the obvious bulge in his pants. The belt slipped out of its loops, and you folded it up for him, placing it in his hands. He thanked you and gave a chaste kiss to your forehead.
“Good girl.” Clark praised.
You leaned over the table, belly flat against the cool wood. You rested your cheek against the table as well, letting yourself openly cry even before it started. Clark flipped your babydoll up to your waist, exposing your bare flesh. He smoothed a palm over your cheek before tapping it lightly with his fingertips. He always liked it when you didn’t wear panties around the house.
“I’m gonna let you off easy with a warning, just five today.”
Today. That implied there would be more in the future. Clark tightened the belt together and kissed the small of your back before putting an anchoring hand there. He swung the first lash down, shushing you when you cried out.
“So naughty this morning, my love,” He spoke to himself. “Such a little brat.”
He smoothed his hand over the first welt, smiling at the way you jolted.
“You just needed some attention, huh, sweet pea?” He cooed, reeling back for the second one. “You wanted Pa to spank you raw, is that it?”
You cried even louder and shook your head, desperate ‘no’s filling the silence between the spanks.
“You didn’t?” Clark asked, smoothing his hand over again. The welts had already started to bruise.
The third lash had come down, this time on your upper thighs. Your knees buckled as you gripped the table, wailing.
“It’s just a kiss,” Clark hummed. “Is that too much to ask for?”
You shook your head again, jolting when you felt his hand slip in between your thighs.
“Aren’t I so good to my best girl?” His fingers dipped into your wetness. You flushed hotly with embarrassment. “Don’t I spoil you rotten without so much as a ‘thank you’ in return?”
You nodded, chest heaving against the table as you sobbed. You hated how long he was dragging this out.
“Yes!” You sobbed, reaching a hand back to stop him. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
Clark gripped your wrist and twisted your arm, pressing it down into your upper back. The fourth lash had your body tensing up as you wailed again.
“You’re awfully sorry,” Clark remarked, setting the belt down and using his new free hand to smooth over the welts. “But I haven’t heard what you’re sorry for.”
You sobbed again. He wasn't going to finish this quickly.
“I’m sorry I’m such a brat.” You whined against the table, feeling the wetness from your tears. “I-I’m sorry that I’m so ungrateful.”
Clark hummed, continuing to stroke over the welts. Fuck, you wanted this to be over. His fingers dipped back in between your legs and ghosted over your clit.
“You’re right, I’m just naughty and wanted attention.” You hated using his own words. “I’m sorry I didn’t kiss you goodbye! I-I love it when you kiss me! I-”
Clark shushed you softly and picked the belt back up, landing the final blow over one of the previous welts. You howled in pain and let out shuddering sobs as he put his belt back on.
Clark picked you up in his arms and held you close to him as he bounced you slightly. He shushed you as you sobbed into his shirt, tucking your head into his neck with his hand.
“Good girl.” He cooed softly. “It’s over now. You did so well.”
Clark took you back upstairs to his room as you continued to cling to him for comfort. He sat on the bed with you in his lap, bouncing you on his knee as he cooed in your ear.
“Oh, my baby. I know, I know.” He shushed gently, running a soothing hand over your back. He continued to hold you close, rocking back and forth. “But this is what happens when you’re naughty.”
Once your tantrum was over and your sobbing quieted down to a few sniffles, he lay you down against the plush comforter and pulled your favorite blanket over you. Kneeling by the bed, he stroked your cheek and smiled at you.
“Honey, I hate that I had to do that to you. I hate seeing you cry like this.” Clark said softly. “Good choices only from here on out, okay?”
You nodded and whispered an ‘okay’ back.
“And no more sass mouthing, you hear?” Clark warned. “You just be a good girl and take the loving I give you, you understand?”
You nodded fiercely and looked at him through teary eyes.
“I love you, honey.” Clark smiled. “Now, give me my kiss so I’m not late for work.”
cw: yandere, spanking, implied noncon fingering, fem! reader, daddy! Bruce, minors do not interact.
a/n: If you happen to be Jason’s darling, I feel like he’d be a bit rougher compared to being Dick’s darling. Dick just won’t be as forgiving as Jason would, I fear.
I have a thought where, if you were kidnapped by any member of the Batfam, you’d be brought to the manor for weekend dinners or early morning brunches after a long mission. Afterwards, while your yandere is training or taking the moment to go on patrol - finally without the anxiety that you won’t be there when they get back - you somehow end up confessing the situation to Bruce.
Doing what you used to do to your own daddy back when you were a little girl: acting all sweet and coy, playing with your hands, asking for a bit of help out of your predicament. And the way he looks back at you almost makes you think, for a second, that he’ll help you. That he’ll grant you one of his apartments, maybe even one in Metropolis - just a road away but far enough to escape your captor’s crash-out.
Yet as you walk close into his open arms, teary-eyed, a pretty pout on your bottom lip, oh is he quick to grab you by the wrist and drape you over his lap.
Guess your daddy didn’t spank you enough as a kid? Don’t worry - count to twenty, maybe even thirty if you’re still protesting. He’ll get those thoughts of leaving out of that pretty head of yours, and maybe even indulge himself in running his fingers over your damp panties and pushing them to the side as you kick and scream.
He’s just doing what none of his children would do: taming a brat that isn’t thankful for what they have received.
⠀. ⏝ི𓏶. ゜ imagine ⠀leon⠀being obsessed with you⠀ ⋮
It starts slowly. Like a bruise.
A bloom beneath the skin, rich and purple, touched first by something so soft it couldn't have been malice. Couldn’t have meant harm. You don't feel it at first—not really. Just a press of eyes on your back when you're not looking, the quiet ache of someone remembering you far too deeply. Like bone remembering breaks. Like scars whispering in the dark.
Leon notices before you do.
It starts with your voice—how it curls at the end of sentences, how it coats the inside of his ears like honey left too long in the sun. Your laugh plays on loop in his memory, a scratched record, skipping and repeating, skipping and repeating until it drills something into the meat of his thoughts. Something soft, and pink, and wrong.
It itches.
He scratches.
Blood under his nails becomes normal, eventually. Skin under them, too.
It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.
He loves you in the way the sea loves a corpse. Gently. Reclaiming.
Again and again, like it’s your right to float. Like it’s his right to pull you under.
He used to be normal once. A good man. A hero, even. A dog sent on missions to fetch the impossible and come back wagging his bloodied tail.
But then came you.
You, with your dumb jokes and bad coffee.
You, who pressed gauze to his wounds and said, “You look like shit,” like you cared.
You, who touched him like he wasn’t already rotting inside.
And something inside him moved.
Something shifted.
There’s a horror in love when you’ve lived through what he has. When your nights are stitched together with screams and the smell of iron and burning teeth. When every person you’ve ever let in has been torn from you like flesh from bone.
So this time—this one time—he digs his fingers in. Hard.
He won’t let go. He can’t.
It’s not the kind of obsession that sings.
It gurgles. It twitches. It weeps.
It leaks through the cracks in him like a black oil slick, slow and steady, coating everything it touches. He begins to think in you. He dreams in you. Even when he looks in the mirror, it’s your eyes he sees staring back—soft and wide and terrified.
He changes in ways you don’t notice.
He starts standing closer. Listening harder. His pupils don’t dilate right anymore; they stretch, ripple, like something inhuman underneath is blinking.
You brush your fingers against his arm once, and he swears he hears a chorus of wings inside his skull. White feathers. Wet feathers. Broken feathers.
He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes copper and dreams of you tasting it too.
It gets worse.
(For him. For you. For both.)
You start dating someone.
It’s nothing serious—some guy, some smile. You’re allowed to live.
But Leon… Leon rots.
Jealousy is not a fire in him. It’s a sickness. A fungus. A bloom of spores in the hollows of his ribs, clogging his lungs with thoughts of him touching you. Of you laughing for someone else. Of him stealing what should've never been his to begin with.
Leon dreams of peeling the man's skin back like wrapping paper, slow and deliberate, just to see if you’ll still kiss what's underneath.
He doesn’t act on it.
He’s still a good man.
(He thinks.)
You cry in front of him once. Small tears. About nothing. Life.
And he breaks.
He reaches out and cups your face like you’re made of glass—and maybe you are. Maybe that’s why he loves you. You’re so fragile. So human. So mortal.
He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard, shaking. “I could make you happy,” he says, voice torn from something too deep to be a throat. “I wouldn’t let anything hurt you. Not again. Not ever.”
You pull back. Smile. You think he’s being sweet.
He isn't.
He’s desperate.
You leave. The door closes. The air is empty again.
He screams, but only on the inside.
It festers.
Like meat left out in the sun. Like a heartbeat with no body.
He starts collecting things.
Your used coffee cup. Your grocery receipts.
A strand of your hair he finds on his jacket.
He wraps it around his finger like a ring.
Sometimes he holds it to his nose and breathes so deep his ribs creak.
Sometimes he puts it in his mouth.
Just to know what it’s like to be one with you.
If you’re inside him, maybe he won’t be so alone anymore.
One night, you call him crying. Your boyfriend left.
Leon doesn't smile.
He doesn't move.
He just watches the ceiling and whispers, “Finally,” like a prayer.
He visits you the next day. Brings you soup. Holds you while you sob. Tells you that you’re okay. That you’re better than okay. That you're everything.
That it kills him to see you hurt.
And in that moment, you believe him.
Because the monster doesn't wear fangs around you.
He doesn't have claws.
He has tired eyes, and gentle hands, and a voice like a lullaby.
He’s Leon.
Your friend.
You hug him tight.
You whisper thank you.
And he holds you like the grave.
Like something sacred.
Like he’ll never, ever let you go.
And deep in his gut, where the rot blooms and the hunger grows and the love festers like a wound, he thinks—
Maybe if he keeps holding you… you’ll never leave.
Maybe if he holds you tight enough… you’ll become part of him.
Skin to skin. Muscle to muscle.
Bone to bone.
Forever.
It doesn’t happen in a burst of passion.
It doesn’t need to.
When you tell him you love him, your voice is hoarse. Raw.
You say it like you’re afraid of it, like it’s a creature with too many teeth.
But you say it.
You still say it.
And Leon—Leon doesn’t breathe for ten whole seconds.
Not because he’s surprised.
But because this is the moment the thing inside his chest finally hatches.
It unfurls like wet wings, veined and trembling, inside the hollow of his ribs. It was always there. Nesting. Waiting. And now it knows. You love him. You chose him.
He smiles. Quietly. Softly. A little too wide.
And when he pulls you into his arms, he thinks, this is it.
This is the moment he stops being a man and becomes a body built to hold you.
Living with him is easy.
Too easy.
You barely remember how it happened. It was slow. Like ivy climbing the sides of a house. One overnight bag turned into drawers, drawers into closets, closets into keys. His apartment began to smell like your shampoo. His bed started to hold the shape of your body.
You cook sometimes. He mostly just watches.
You sleep in. He never does.
You cry in the shower once—he hears, but he doesn’t interrupt. He just presses his forehead to the door, and whispers, “I’m here,” over and over, until you stop.
He starts keeping odd hours. Coming home later, with blood on his knuckles and not much to say. You assume it’s work. You don’t ask. Not really.
He doesn’t need you to.
Because you're his now. And the truth doesn't matter when the lie is beautiful.
There are rules in this home.
Unspoken, but enforced by the weight of his gaze:
Don’t leave without telling him.
Always answer your phone.
Don’t worry about the basement. It’s locked for a reason.
You listen. Of course you do. You love him.
And he? He worships you.
He memorizes your body in ways no one else ever could. The way your lashes clump when you cry. The vein behind your knee. The birthmark on your hip. He kisses them like a sinner at the altar. He whispers prayers into your skin, low and fervent and broken.
You think it’s love.
(And it is. Just not the kind that leaves people whole.)
Sometimes, he holds you at night and you can feel it.
The tension beneath the surface. The thing straining in his bones.
Like his body isn’t enough to contain his devotion.
Like his flesh wants to crawl into yours.
His nails dig too deep.
His breath comes too fast.
He says your name like it’s the only thing that’s real in the world.
Like he’s drowning in it.
“Leon,” you whisper, brushing his hair back. “I’m right here. It’s okay.”
And he nods.
He nods, but he doesn’t blink.
Because he can still hear it—the heartbeat in your throat. The sound of your blood. The way your warmth bleeds into his chest like you're trying to become part of him, too.
He dreams of it.
Of melting into you like wax.
Of crawling under your skin, curling up beside your heart, and never leaving again.
He buys you flowers one day.
Not roses. No—he knows you hate clichés.
He buys lilies.
White.
Silken.
Lovely.
You laugh and say they’re beautiful.
You don’t know why he smiles so deeply at that.
You don’t know that he imagines them clutched in your hands on a wedding day
—sacred, his.
There are days he watches you sleep.
Not because you look peaceful (though you do).
Not because he’s worried (though he always is).
But because he needs to memorize you. Every line. Every breath.
In case something happens.
In case the world tries to take you away from him.
In case he has to build you again from memory, from scratch, from bone.
You never question how safe you feel in his arms.
Even when he shakes.
Even when he mumbles things in his sleep that don’t make sense.
Even when you catch him staring at your reflection in the mirror and not at you.
You don’t ask.
You love him.
And love means trust, doesn’t it?
Even when the thing loving you is not entirely man anymore.
Even when it claws at the inside of his skin, begging to break out and drag you inside with it.
One night, as you lay curled against him, you whisper:
“Do you think this is forever?”
And Leon—he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile.
He just leans in, presses his lips to your temple, and breathes in like your scent is the last thing tethering him to this plane.
He whispers:
“It always was.”
And beneath his chest, the thing that used to be his heart—
bloated with want,
cracked with need,
pulsing with a love so heavy it warps the ribs around it—
finally stops rotting.
Because it has you.
And in Leon’s mind, that means it can rot in peace.
With your name in its mouth.
Forever.
you can help me by reblogging my works with the tags and please do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms.
More clingy dad Bruce BUT this is the inappropriate version I was talking about. (No sex, though. Just weird behaviour.)
Tw: pseudocest, weird behaviour overall (no sex or smut, just weirdos), implications of grooming but neither party is conscious about what is happening until they think it’s ’too late to stop it’, OOC behaviour (he would never do any of this), gender neutral y/n (could be a girl or a boy or neither) (this one I imagine as a boy), IMPLIED NSFW STUFF
(This was a request lol.)
Clingy dad! Bruce who is trying so hard to make up for past mistakes. But you had always been so.. independent. You never seemed like you needed him. (Like you wanted him.)
Clingy dad! Bruce who leaves lingering kisses on the back of your neck. Soft, gentle things with heat that builds where they land.
Clingy dad! Bruce whose hands always stray from their intended purposes. His large hands could wrap around your throat with ease and he uses those hands that once gave you stiff pats on the back to pull you into his lap, to bounce you on his knee, and lets those thick fingers splay over your hip, reminding you of just how frail you are when compared to him.
Clingy dad! Bruce who treats you… strangely. Not quite like an adult but not quite like a child. (It’s oppressive. He is oppressive.)
Clingy dad! Bruce who takes you out sometimes. He calls them dates. You call them outings. Hangouts. You both dress up and sometimes, when you’re out and about and someone accidentally mistakes you guys as a couple, you have to be the one to correct them.
Clingy dad! Bruce who you once jokingly called ‘daddy’ when you were paying for something and whose face went a deep pink because of it, the black of his eyes attempting to swallow the cool blue you’ve come to know.
Clingy dad! Bruce who is genuinely oblivious to his weird behaviour. Not because he doesn’t know he’s doing these things, more so that he doesn’t recognize them as creepy. He genuinely thinks he’s trying to be a good father to you even as he crosses a leg to hide the erection pressed against his thigh and blames it on the wind. (The wind did NOT do that, buddy.)
Clingy dad! Bruce who just wants to be with you at all times, who just wants to know where you are at all times.
Clingy dad! Bruce who thinks that him not wanting you to date anyone is just a protective dad thing. (Besides, dating anyone in Gotham is bound to lead to disaster. He loves his city but by god, it is a mess. A lovable mess but still, a mess.)
Clingy dad! Bruce who supports all your academic endeavours. Just as long as you stay in Gotham, of course.
Clingy dad! Bruce who witnesses you playing with a child and suddenly wonders what you would be like as a parent.
Clingy dad! Bruce whose dreams are suddenly filled with a faceless laughing figure who rides him to completion—who uses him like a toy and kisses him gently, almost shyly, afterwards.
Clingy dad! Bruce who one day kisses you full on the lips by complete accident and you both play it off, laughing, but soon after he has to sneak back to his room for a cold shower.
Clingy dad! Bruce who is struggling with the slow realization of his feelings for you, who, in your perspective, is reverting back to his old neglectful ways.
Clingy dad! Bruce who you confront after week two of him avoiding you, demanding an explanation because he can’t keep doing this to you. He can’t keep giving you hope then tearing it away. He just couldn’t.
Clingy dad! Bruce who when he kisses you this time it’s out of his own volition, out of his own desire to. And when he kisses you, he feels warm. He feels at home despite the depravity of it.
…Clingy Husband! Bruce who takes you to private islands to avoid the cameras of the outside world—who still loves when you call him daddy.
