obsessedwithromance

Batman: .... excuse me. *disappears into his cloak*

The JL: ?????

1/ An 8-year-old child grieving the death of his parents? Yes, this child would be protected by Bruce with his life. No, that child didn't do anything wrong he's innocent. How can you think he's not something that should be protected? 2/ An impulsive/suicidal/sad teenager with a strong sense of justice and a willingness to confront any injustice, even one greater than himself? Come here, young man. Bruce is ready to guide him, help him deal with your anger. And what do you mean? This boy isn't a monster filled with darkness! he's just confused. His heart is in the right place. Bruce will cherish him like his other children.

3/ A man who dedicated his life and youth to protecting people, helping the planet, and guiding the new generation with nothing but his intelligence, determination, and human stubbornness? This sounds like a man Bruce might enjoy having a cup of coffee with. Move aside Clark Diana! Bruce has a new best friend!

as long as you don’t tell him that that man is himself

Seeing as I don’t think this will change any time soon, I instead propose a solution: Dick is still a tech whiz in his own right, but only for highly dated technology. You have a modern database that needs backdooring? Better ask Barbara, or Tim, if she isn’t available.

But if you, for some ungodly reason, need to access data off a punch card, or a magnetic tape, or a 5 1/4 inch floppy disk? You need to operate in UNIX? You need to write in FORTRAN, or COBOL? In this incredibly niche, one-in-a-million scenario, you call Dick.

summary : bruce thomas wayne was lucky enough to avoid the salt in his wounds and pepper in his hair when he was pushing forty, didn’t stop people (tabloids, press, the gotham city gazette) from calling him an old man. all that’s white noise when a woman like you knows he’s the kind of man you’d give your time to.

contains : also heavy making out, rich!baddie!reader, forties!reader, I’ve seen so many younger!reader, our older women deserve equal love and respect, reader’s a fashion conglomerate owner, mentions of sex, dilf!bruce, he’s like never out of his work clothes if he can help it, slightly insecure!bruce

inspiration : everyday (a.g)

BRUCE THOMAS WAYNE was an old man.

At least, all the tabloids said it. Commented on how he’d be getting grey hairs soon, how his children were grown up, sticking geriatric on his never-aging brand. So much for the immortality of wealth.

Then again, being the world's most prolific nepo baby meant predisposition to hate, judge, scrutinise, people were just held prejudice, which is why he gave up on relationships a long time ago. Instead, he filled his empty house with kids.

Women came secondary, contrary to popular belief. He was married to his work, which included fatherhood, along with his cowl when he worked nights and the three piece Tom Ford he wore to Wayne Enterprises on Mondays. It was a miracle that he hadn't found a grey hair on his head yet, but he wasn't going to count his ducks before he got them in a line. It'd be years before that happened.

You were, initially, just a business venture. You wanted to partner with him for a new collection you were releasing and wanted him to go out in public wearing a couple of your unreleased suits just for pre-runway publicity. It wasn't like it was a far fetched idea, anyhow, you'd dressed Dick so many times for galas that hearing your name was common courtesy.

Your clothes were on a billboard in almost every city spanning from Washington to Maine. Every red carpet had celebrities wearing your clothes, A listers lined up even to get styled once by your brand; Anna Wintour couldn't keep up with how quickly you made the tides of fashion change with every new release and press interview.

He admired your grit and work ethic, so he agreed. You tailored him personally, showing up to his manor with a tape measure and clipboard so you could take every individual millimetre into account. You were meticulous, he liked that too.

"Do you usually personally visit all your clients?" He asked quietly as you measured the breadth of his shoulders. For a man in his forties, he kept in exquisite shape, broad shoulders, powerful legs, corded biceps, no suit you'd ever seen him wear did him enough justice. This was the kind of body you'd always dreamt of dressing. Or undressing.

Your scarlet lipped smile made a twinge shoot down his spine. A fire roared in him when your fingers brushed his chest, gracing him, slowly, surely when you were measuring the width of it, your breath kissing his jaw. "Only when the client is Bruce Wayne." Your eyelashes fluttered when you looked into his eyes. Good grief.

This was meant to be pure publicity for you. At least, what it's supposed to be, not you admiring the structure of his chest or beautiful proportions. If he wasn't so into technology and business, he'd have made a perfect model. A woman could only dream, though, dream of Bruce Wayne walking a runway.

"So you made exceptions."

"You made exceptions too."

"It's good for my PR."

"You're right, it is." You rolled up your tape measure a little, scrutinising him. He saw the calculations in your eyes, and he braced himself for the eventual 'for an old man' comments, which was unlikely since you were roughly the same age, but he wasn't going to take chances. He might as well back out before the bad press slapped him in the face.

He looked away, to his left. "Do you need a fitter model? I can call one of my sons, Dick would be happy to model again—"

Your hum stopped him dead in his tracks, it was the way you were looking at him now. Your pupils were slightly blown, if he looked in a mirror, he would be embarrassed by how blown they were. "That's ridiculous. If I wanted to model Dick, I would be measuring him right now, not you."

"Modelling me might bring you some bad publicity." He argued softly. Standing in his undershirt, even in his study, was vulnerable. You weren't looking at him like he was an octogenarian coot, more like he was something to be admired.

"Then, pardon my French, I don't give a flying fuck." You said bluntly, unravelling half the tape with a flick of your wrist. "You are a stylist's dream, look at you, I'm not dressing anyone else for this campaign, Bruce, and that's final." That was sexy. That was... undeniably sexy. You gestured to his legs. "Now, I'm going to measure your inseam."

"Let me take you to dinner." He said without thinking, like his tongue gave him a fucking choice, but now he was shitting his Ralph Lauren boxers. You'd paused, staring at where his inseam was supposed to be with raised brows.

The stretch of your lips gave your answer away. "Let me complete the measurements, and then I'll even let you take me to dessert."

Oh, boy.

The weeks following were a blip in a fated timeline, because now he couldn't remember a time where you weren't in his life. You'd met his family, his kids, you'd made the suits, he wore them when he took you to Michelin stars in his private jet, the buzz had started for your collection and for your relationship. The affair had been pretty rushed— he'd wanted to go public with you as soon as possible.

He was usually more... mature, when it came to relationships, but nothing about this was mature. Yet another gala where you two were the guests of honour was tedious, but that dress you designed for yourself fit you in a way that glued his eyes to you; silk was dangerous on you. He was a gone case the moment you stepped out of your dressing room.

His head was spinning. If it was any other woman he would not be exhibiting adolescent behaviour by making out with you in the drivers seat of his car, yet here he sat.

Your dress draped over his legs, his hands were up the slit, running up the flesh-coloured stocking and garter. Your lips burned down his neck, taking a match to his beating heart and setting it alight. "We could take this inside." He murmured, humming when you sucked a bruise into his skin that his makeup team would have a hard time hiding the next morning.

Was it bad that he felt twenty years younger?

"Inside's boring." You mumbled, kissing back up to his mouth, tongue dragging over his lips before you shut him up indefinitely, sealing your own fucking spectacular lips over his, hand on his jaw guiding him right where you wanted him to be. He was right where he wanted to be.

His hands squeezed your thighs, he wouldn't call himself greedy, but he was eagerly sucking your tongue into his mouth, teeth knocking, your mouth painting his own a deep shade of red. Messy, clumsy, some would call it, but his finger hooking into your panties was anything but. "Your legs will cramp."

"Just let me feel young." You laughed, untucking his shirt to drag your manicured nails down his stomach, your eyelashes brushing his cheek as you breathed in his oxygen. All of it made him suck in a breath — fuck — his head thumping back against the seat, this was messy, uncoordinated, unbecoming, a moan he'd last heard when he was twenty one slipping from his mouth, especially when your hips dragged over his cock.

"Of course, darling," He mumbled, finding your tits, squeezing, identifying the distinct lack of bra. He pulled away. His eyes widened, yours did too, out of confusion. Shit. He was royally fucked.

Your zipper was tugged down.

Your dress pooled at your hips, air kissing your skin, warm, firm hands mapping out your spine. He leaned forward, slowly, breath brushing your collarbone, tracing the line of it before an open mouthed kiss graced your skin. "Backseat." He said softly, abandoning his tie. His eyes were closed, he'd already memorised your body.

You hadn't fucked someone in a backseat for over a decade and a half. You blinked, raising your eyebrows. "Backseat?"

"I didn't stutter, beautiful." His index tugged your waistband, letting go, elastic snapping against your skin. That was sexy. "Backseat."

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tw: smut | MDNI 18+

“please.”

“not yet.” bruce instructs clark, sitting behind you, observing. his muscular nude chest flushed against your back.

“please,” clark begs again, his face scrunching up as he thrust into your tight cunt harder. “i just need to come.” his hands grip onto your hips with an iron grip, making sure you stay in place.

“not until she comes a second time.” bruce grunts out, his eyes narrowing in on clark. keeping an eye on him. your body withers at bruce’s words; already feeling like it’s on fire, and he was expecting another one out of you? you honestly don’t know if you could go on without losing your mind.

you weren’t dumb, bruce was using you to make an example out of clark. this was clearly some type of punishment… or bruce just really got off to clark’s crying, you of course don’t mind hearing whimpers from your boyfriend either but this was starting to feel a little more of a punishment on you too now.

sinking into bruce’s chest you feel clark’s pelvis hitting against you, his thrust hard and sloppy, trying to desperately chase his high. you couldn’t help but close your eyes. the feeling of clark slamming his cock into you was overwhelming

“open your eyes, baby.” bruce demands his fingers pinching at your side. “look at how greedy clark’s being.”

your eyes flutter open, feeling hazy as you look down at your hips, watching as clark thrust into you over and over again. you can’t help but whimper at the sight as your cunt tightens around him. “he’s using you as some toy.” your other boyfriend taunts, his voice whispering in your ear as his hand snakes down your body, groping your tits. being just as greedy, if not more than clark.

“please, bruce.” the man above you cries more, his round blue eyes stare into bruce’s as he continues to rut into you. leaning his face closer, clark presses his lips against bruce’s.

looking over to your boyfriends causes your stomach to swirl, butterflies flying around as your heart thumps against your chest. you can’t help but stare at them. “why don’t you show our girl some love, hm?” bruce mutters against clark’s lips, with a final small peck, he pulls from clark.

happily obliging, clark leans down to you, his swollen lips pressing against your neck, his tongue gently swirls around. making a small mark. leaning back up, his eyes flick to your neck before looking at you. “you’re so pretty, honey.” he murmurs his hips thrusting harshly into you again, his hands digging into the skin of your own hips, focusing back on making you both feel good, blowing out shallow breaths he tilts his head down looking at where your hips meet his. “i want to make you feel good.”

“you are, clark.” you choke out, feeling bruce’s hands pinching the bud of your breast, rolling your nipple between his finger and thumb, his eyes staring greedily as clark fucks you.

with your praise, clark continues his rhythm, his large muscular thighs smack against your limp ones. the pain and pleasure mixing together overwhelms you.

“i can’t-“ you start, your legs shaking and body feeling hot and flushed. “you can, and will.” bruce murmurs into your skin, nipping sharply at your jaw to distract you. “go on, give clark another one, baby.” he whispers his lips pecking gently where he was nipping at your skin. “come and you can be done.”

the logical part of you knew bruce was lying. he wasn’t even close to being done with you or clark for the night. he hasn’t even gotten off himself. this is how it always went. he’d tease and wait until you were completely fucked dumb. but you nod anyway, overwhelmed by clark to think straight.

“harder, give her greedy little cunt what she wants.” thrusting sharply, clark eyes screw shut, he can feel your cunt squeezing him, making it more harder for him to not spill his seed into you this very moment. he knew if he came before you did a second time bruce would be utterly pissed with him. he was trying his best here, but clark could only take so much! with a few final thrust you both lose it. your legs shake, your walls pulsing around clark’s cock as he continues to ram into you, spilling into you as he cries and whines for you.

drained and tired clark stills, slowly pulling out, he slumps against your body, his face digging into your damp neck. too tired to even care how hot and sticky you’re feeling you bring a hand up to his hair, playing with it gently.

“good job, the both of you.” bruce praises gently from behind you, his hand squeezing your side gently as he looks down at you and clark. your body stiffens, feeling his erection against your body. now fully aware you are nowhere near done for the night.

Good Luck, Mrs. Wayne!

Warnings: AFAB! Reader. Smut. Breeding. He's a little possessive, maybe even a little pussy drunk. MDNI

Bruce Wayne and his relentless desire for more children, as if he doesn't already have a small horde of them.

But something about being a middle-aged man and not really having many of his own seems to be doing something to that bat-brain of his. Or maybe it's simply being in love and wanting at least one child who looks like his dear wife.

And you just had to mention kids to him one night, didn't you? Had to get him thinking. Had to make him start tracking that ovulation cycle of yours.

Had to get him into the mood to fold you into that mean mating press - the one where your hands claw helplessly at the sheets for any scrap of mercy while he fucks you in slow, shallow strokes that leave you begging for him to push his entire cock inside. He'll always tut softly then, reminding you that the beginning is important. You wouldn't want to tear anything, would you? Not that you care much when he keeps working those tight little thrusts that pull complaint after complaint from your lips.

Because won't he just fit so nicely inside?

Snug as a bug within your cushiony walls, already starting to smack his heavy balls against your swollen lips as he inches deeper.

Won't he take mercy on your poor, fluttering walls already trying to milk him dry? Those same walls that have his breath hitching, eyes rolling back as he pushes - no, eases - another inch inside. Your poor pussy, weeping and clenching around every twitching vein as it drags slowly along your sensitive insides.

He's cruel about it, too. Beautifully so.

Pushing your knees toward your chest, his broad, calloused palms braced behind your thighs, pressing back any resistance you try to give as you strain another breath at the stretch of him nestled right up against your cervix. His leaking tip presses there in a wet little kiss, and a lewd moan slips from the back of your throat before you can stop it.

"There we go, love," he sighs, low and satisfied, his weight settling fully into you as he bottoms out, balls resting heavy and eager against your swollen folds. One hand slides from your thigh to your abdomen, thumb circling your throbbing clit in slow motions that make your back arch prettily and let him sink even deeper.

"Oh, what a good girl," he coos, starting to piston his hips in that shallow, steady rhythm, soothing your squeals and babbled protests that it's too much, too deep. And still, your body keeps matching him, helplessly chasing his pace as he grows increasingly intoxicated on you - the heat, the tightness, those cute little sounds you make whenever his tip finds that sweet, gushy spot. He especially seems to enjoy the slick sounds your pussy makes each time his balls slap against your cunt - wet, squelching, obscene with every thrust.

Soon, he's babbling his own nonsense between thrusts.

About how beautiful you'll be.

How he can't wait to see.

Thrust.

What a great.

Thrust.

Mother you'll be.

He keeps your legs from closing, holding them wide, letting your ankles rest over his shoulders as he leans down close - close enough to pull words straight from your lips, close enough to watch how your glistening cunt greedily swallows him whole. Close enough to see that pleading look in your eyes when you beg him to just fill you already.

But Bruce can't simply fill you without making you see stars first. Be rational, darling.

Not without every thrust curling your toes, stealing your breath. Not without grinding that angry mauve tip against that sweet spot until you're gushing and making those prettiest, helpless noises he loves so much.

Only once you've come - once you're panting, nails dragging pretty marks into his back - does he finally fill you with his hot seed that spurts in ragged bursts. Only once you're breathless, whispering thank you as if it were mercy granted instead of something he orchestrated.

And even then, he's already dragging your slick along the length of his cock, already hardening again at the sight of his seed starting to spill from your weeping hole.

Good luck, Mrs. Wayne! You'll need it.

stepfather!clark kent x fem reader

•|• — summary — moms not home yadda yadda ur alone with him blahblahblah . . . u guys have watched porn before it's a tale as old as time tbh

•|• — warnings/includes — stepcest duh, dad/daddy kink, infidelity, unprotected sex, creampie, cunnilingus, cum eating, not beta read and a liiitle rushed had to get this one out b4 it completely consumed my brain

•|• — author's note — ugh fineee i'll write the stepdad clark fics 🙄🙄🙄 (i've been wanting to anyway)

Clark couldn't be blamed for things that weren't his fault.

So: how beautiful he found you, your clear reciprocation of those feelings (evident by the way you'd been looking at him during dinner), and the fact that his wife, your mother, left for a work emergency right after dinner, giving you two the perfect opportunity...

He wouldn't blame himself for any of those things. No, he couldn't possibly, but what he could blame himself for was how he let you convince him to follow you into your room.

He went quite easily, you thought, double-checking your locked door. You didn't want your mother to come home early and find you two in whatever position you'd end up in.

"We shouldn't be doing this," Clark's deep, shaky voice cut through the air, making you turn around to face him. "Gosh, I really shouldn't have..."

You giggled. "Shouldn't have what, d—" you slapped a hand over your own mouth, biting your lip. Fuck, what were you supposed to call him now? Within the first year of him moving with you and your mom, he'd said you could call him dad if you felt like it. You'd taken the offer immediately, seeing as how you never saw your biological father as your dad. But now, well... you assumed he would prefer to be called something else if you were going to...

Clark picked up on your slip-up and nearly felt sick, but this wasn't your fault, he was in the wrong. He was confusing you, blurring the much needed lines in your relationship.

He pushed himself up off of your bed, his mind set on returning to normalcy no matter how much he wanted this. You still had build-a-bears on your bed, for god's sake.

"Where are you going?" You frowned, seeing him inch closer to the door. You backed closer to it, not letting your stepfather break eye contact for even a second.

"I'm going back to my room, sweetheart, I'm sorry but—"

"You don't need to be sorry." You blurted out before he could finish his sentence that was likely about how you 'couldn't'. You could. In fact, you'd show him.

Clark looked down at you, noticing specifically how you'd pushed yourself against the door, gripping the knob with one of your hands while the other stayed flat, pressing down so the door wouldn't budge.

You were his stepdaughter, he tried to remind himself. You were his stepdaughter, but if you wanted it this bad, then Clark supposed he couldn't blame himself for this one either.

He hoisted you up and in an instant you were between him and the door. You wrapped your legs around his waist and closed your eyes, parting your lips as you awaited his kiss. He was hesitant at first but let you pull him close by his hair. Your lips moved eagerly against his until he just couldn't take it anymore and began to lead.

He tilted your head back a bit for a better angle as he shoved his tongue in your mouth and swirled it around like he needed this. And you gave it to him, happily.

Clark kissed you like that for a while, making warmth rise in your tummy. You whined against his lips, reaching down to pull up your skirt. Clark glanced down, hissing at the sight of the wetness visible through your panties.

You gasped, your cheeks heating up at how long his focus didn't stray from between your thighs. "Please..." you murmured, dragging his attention back up towards you.

"So pretty," He remarked, a deep sigh falling from his lips.

He carried you over to your bed and laid you down on the soft blankets, pulling off your clothes one article at a time.

Your shirt and skirt were off, and once he got down to your bra, he inhaled deep. For him, for some reason, this was the point of no return. He knew he would never stop thinking about you after he saw you, all of you. And yet, he didn't hesitate when undoing the clasp of your bra.

His hand snaked up your waist to knead one of your breasts while the other slid down to pull your panties to your ankles.

"Dad," You couldn't resist mumbling as he spread your lips and started rubbing your clit with a finger. He leaned into the crook of your neck to hide the blush on his cheeks at the title you gave him.

He would circle his index and middle finger until he felt enough wetness gather between them. What kind of father would he be, after all, if he didn't prepare you first?

"You see that?" Clark asked, lifting his head to look down at you, his breaths heavy and uneven. He separated his two fingers and put them back together repeatedly, showing you the string of your arousal sticking them together.

You nodded, mesmerized.

"That's all you," He paused, his next sentence coming out as a command. "Taste yourself." And he slowly inserted his fingers into your mouth without getting your answer.

You closed your eyes and stuck your tongue out to lick your juices off the underside of his fingers, then in between them.

Clark had you do this until he got tired of waiting. He slipped his fingers out of your mouth, admiring the look of your own messy saliva around your lips. He smooted back your hair gently, kissed your forehead, and whispered something you swore sounded like 'Good girl.' before picking you up and tossing you onto a higher spot in the bed.

As you saw him unbuckle his belt you felt nervous again, shyly whispering, "Is this gonna hurt?"

Clark chuckled, "No." Then, he unzipped his pants.

"Wait," you interrupted. "I wanna see you too..."

He was quickly fully undressed. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and took a deep breath. His hugs always did bring you comfort.

He was lined up with your entrance, not even really touching you yet, yet still you winced, shutting your eyes. Clark scoffed playfully, caressing your cheek with his thumb.

"It's not gonna hurt." He promised, leaning in and sharing deep breaths with you. "Just take it." He murmured against your lips as he kissed you, shoving himself inside.

He'd been right, it didn't hurt, there was only a bit of discomfort, but you were wet enough that he could push into you in one go.

"Do you wanna see something?" Clark asked once he saw that you were getting used to his size, moaning in pleasure now instead of whimpering in pain.

"Um, yeah..." You agreed. He moved your arms so they sat on the bed on either side of your head. Clark's warm hands were then under your thighs, lifting both of your legs up over his shoulders.

He thrusted hard, meeting your gaze once he was face to face with you. You moaned with your mouth agape, another whisper of his title falling from your lips.

"Do you like that?" He asked, and you couldn't find it in you to respond. He made you feel so full, it didn't help that he was so close to you, staring you down and...

You gasped again. "D- Dad, you're..." You huffed, inhaling the air he breathed out.

"What, baby?" He caressed your cheek with the back of his hand, eliciting a whine of frustration from you.

You placed your hand on your stomach above your belly button. "I can feel you in here, dad." You sighed, laying back on the bed with your legs still propped up by his shoulders.

He glanced to the side for a moment, far away as if listening for something, before he blurted out, "Your mother's here."

You gasped, eyes flicking from the door to Clark and back again. "What?" You tried to push yourself up off the bed but Clark held you down, thrusting slower now. You breathed out, through your moans "We should stop..."

His next words were punctuated with another thrust. The truth you really didn't want to hear. "We can't go back, you know."

"Yes," You moaned. "I know, dad, just please... fuck me."

Clark let out a sigh, his hand trailing up to your stomach to feel the bulge there. It was so prominent he was wondering how you were even taking all nine and a half inches of him with no complaints. And you still wanted more? He'd have to keep you around.

"Daddy—" You gripped the sheets, your tone lowering so as to not make too much noise. "I'm, I..."

"I know, sweetheart," Murmured Clark sweetly. "Let it out for me, honey."

You breathed out softly, feeling sweat drip down multiple places on your body and focusing on letting yourself cum.

A gush of liquid squirted from your pussy, the spill covering the expanse of your thighs with some running up Clark's tummy. "Daddy..." You whined, because Clark wasn't letting up at all. The added wetness egged him on, if anything.

Hearing this, he calmed down only a little bit. "Sorry, darling." He apologized once his pace quickened again when he was nearing his release. He let your legs fall from his shoulders, your limp limbs laying on the bed as he fucked into you.

Suddenly, he gasped and his hips stuttered as he leaned in to groan something unintelligible in your ear.

Your mind was too cloudy to realize he came inside until he was already done, laying on top of you like you were a real couple.

"Dad..." You muttered warily.

He hummed, yawning.

"You, um..." You cleared your throat, wiping your cheeks and forehead of sweat. "You... you came inside me..."

"Did I?" He was looking down at you now, sparing a quick glance down to where his seed dripped out of you and onto the bed. Using his fingers to separate your lower lips, he assessed the damage he'd caused. He really does remember pulling out, though... "Ah, sorry, I did. I'll..." He told himself he would, anyways.

He laid between your legs again, resting his head where he'd just been. You twitched at the feeling of having his face so close, and let out a quiet whine when he tilted his head upward, the tip of his nose nudging your clit.

"I'll fix it." He finished off his words from earlier, darting out his tongue to lick a stripe up your pussy. He then sucked on your clit, making you squeeze and gush around nothing.

Out in the kitchen, your mother was none the wiser, pans and pots clanging as she prepared dinner while Clark ate his own cum out of your cunt.

Clark's skilled tongue worked against you until he was sure you were all clean and there were no traces of him on you. (Well, except his saliva anyway.)

"Can I make you finish again, sweetie?" Clark asked, his finger gliding up and down your slit.

You shook your head no. It was tempting, but your ears were already ringing from the first time. Not only that, but you were sure your mom would cook a meal tonight as she seldom did.

"You should go..." You blinked, making yourself sit and lean on the headboard. The ringing persisted. "I... we should go, mom will come in eventually if we don't."

"Okay..." Clark stood up but his eyes never left you, and he looked at you pointedly when he asked, "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah, I'm..." You coughed, nodding rapidly. "I'm completely fine, just a little..." You couldn't admit you were in shock from the best orgasm you'd ever had, and with your stepfather no less. "Tired. I'm tired."

"You're not gonna eat at the table with me— us, then?" He'd frowned like he would've been actually hurt if you decided to stay in.

Clark brought himself to decency quickly, nothing in particular was off enough for your mother to notice anything was off. If she did, you doubted she'd correctly guess what it was.

"I'm right behind you." You settled on saying, shooting your stepdad an awkward smile as he made his way to your door.

He returned your smile as if nothing happened. You breathed a sigh of relief hearing his and your mother's casual conversation through the thin walls of your house. It would truly be like nothing happened, nothing at all.

Reader x Platonic!Yan!Bats

(A/n: Papa's BACK! omg with the school year wrapping up, hopefully I can crank out more chapters soon! also I have so so many ideas that I want to write for that I'm super looking forward to having the time to actually do!! Enjoy!!

Also, for this one, Alfred's calling you Miss/Master but as the story progresses and he starts talking to you more often, I'm probably gonna choose either one (most likely Miss since I'm more likely to slip up and use that one). As previously mentioned, I'll try to keep most things in the story gender neutral (I might make mistakes ngl, but lmk and at the end of the series I may do a final audit and fix them))

Why's your family trying to connect so hard with you after so many years of neglect? Well . . . I guess its not all that bad- why are they staring so hard???

(pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5, pt.6, pt.7, pt. 8, pt.9, pt.10, pt.11, pt. 12)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next time your eyes opened, it was with much more mental clarity than you'd had in a while. Your head still throbbed and the pain meds were definitely wearing off, but you had basic needs to tend to, and one of them was refreshing yourself.

You'd been given a sponge bath while at the hospital before getting discharged, since the doctor expected that you wouldn't be able to take a shower for the next few days (which sucked, but it's not like you were going anywhere or doing anything to get sweaty either so it was mostly just the internal itch of being musty).

Reader x Platonic!Yan!Bats

(A/n: I wanted to get this one out faster, since the feedback on the last chapter was so overwhelmingly positive (I cannot express how much all of your kind comments mean to me and motivate me to keep posting <3). HOWEVER, I'm super stressed for the next few weeks, until summer probably, because of school and family stuff so this was a little delayed 😓. I hope you can kind of see the yandere picking up!)

Why's your family trying to connect so hard with you after so many years of neglect? Well . . . I guess its not all that bad- why are they staring so hard???

(pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5, pt.6, pt.7, pt. 8, pt.9, pt.10, pt.11, pt.12)

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You awoke to the dusky pink of a Gotham dawn, syrupy sunlight seeping in through your window and painting your entire room in a wash of pale yellows and warm whites. That was the flowery way of saying that when you woke up, it was sunrise outside and someone had left your curtains open.

Prick.

Your head pounded, it felt like someone was taking an ice pick to the nerves behind your eyes and simultaneously driving a tractor over your eyebrows. The light, however soft it was from the oncoming sunrise, only made your headache worse and, actually, on closer inspection everything about your current situation was grating on your nerves.

The blankets were too bunched up around your feet, the air was too dry, your nose itched, your mouth was dry, your throat felt like sandpaper, and, most pressingly, your fucking head hurt. None of that was particularly surprising given the events of yesterday and your concussion, but it still sucked to have to deal with.

Feliz Nochebuena de hoy and happy holidays to all!! Santa looks a bit different this year...?

FATSON TODD ZINE

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