gotta watch out for spiders, man. @moonwayne - Tumblr Blog

hi ! :)

welcome to my page, keep in mind requests are open and very much encouraged. [requests are open atm]

i write for mostly anything top gun (maverick) and some platonic!TG’86, bridgerton, marvel, star wars, and cobra kai.

this list will grow as i continue writing!

feel free to ask for any other fandoms/characters/actors

also,, my inbox is always open if you ever need any support whether it be mental health, or just needing some encouragement.

🤍

˜”*°•°*”˜

#fanfic #marvel #star wars #cobra kai #tom holland #kyloren #angst #fluff #imagines #marvel imagine #mcu imagine #star wars imagine #cobra kai imagine #mike schmidt #michael schmidt #top gun maverick #bridgerton #ok bye ily #drink some fucking water

ceruleanheaven

[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over

aliienlynn

the encore and the entourage

howcouldcupid

THE SUPERCUT OF US

SUMMARY: it's been three years since you've seen robert. your break up wasn't going to go down in history as being the most amicable but was else could you expect after spending all those years together? but despite the souring end of your relationship towards the end, and all the years that have passed, there's something still there. lurking under the surface of all the hesitancy and skepticism. is the spark worth tending to? or will you both burn?

PAIRING: robert robertson x hero! afab!reader, slight robert robertson x invisigal

CONTENT: childhood friends to lovers, to exes to..lovers? multipart series, reader has a hero name (Lume, Luminara), reader has a background and some trauma to be uncovered, loss of a parent, slight description of an unnamed illness, reader does not have a relationship with their mother, slow burn, slight canon/timeline divergence eventual smut, mild angst (for now), robert can be a bit of a dick, no use of Y/N, pronouns used: they/them, little to no description of body type, and no description of complexion

WORD COUNT: 10K.

a/n: welcome to the series! super excited to have this out and see how you all enjoy it. this is my first gn/afab reader so if there's anything I missed in here please point it out to me! along with any missed tags as well! I hope you enjoy and lmk what we're thinking so far! all banner creds are in the tags, and more detailed credits at the end of the work!

An infinite amount of thoughts run rampant in your mind at any given moment. It wards sleep away from you half the nights of the week, it distracts you from your daily routine, and slowly takes more and more away from you every passing day. You fear that you may never be able to find a way to silence them. But the one that always manages to push itself through the crowd to make itself known is: whether or not your father would be proud of you.

You were on the edge of eighteen when your father passed. The man you knew, larger than life and full of energy, was taken away from you far before he died. In the end, he was bedridden, thin, and paled, but he still managed to find the energy to show how much he loved you every time you came to visit him. Your logical mind tries to undo all the damage that’s been inflicted upon you by saying, Of course, he would be proud of you. That your hiatus from hero work doesn’t erase all the good you’ve done - the work, the blood, sweat, and the tears you put in this life; that despite it all, you’re still a hero. Logically, you know that he would be. But you still can’t find it in yourself to believe it.

moonwayne

🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

#robert robertson x reader #dispatch x reader #robert robertson imagine #lils recommended #lils fic recs

oyeevarnika

what's wrong babe you've barely touched your potential even though all your elementary teachers really liked you and said you were gifted and that you were going to do great things

#ok bye ily

pinkfairydreamgirl

silver spoons | c.k series (part three)

previous part

pairing: clark kent x f!reader

trigger warning! this series will involve potentially triggering topics such as: childhood trauma, parental death, descriptions of death, depression, anxiety, addiction (not w reader or clark), abuse (emotional and physical - parental), smut!!!, cheating, time jumps (each chapter will be set in different time) and issues with self worth, self confidence, and abandonment. please read with caution <3

summary: when you’re called unexpectedly back to smallville, a part of you hopes Clark will come to the rescue like he always has, but this time you fear you may have lost him for good.

word count: 7207

contains: angst!! smut!! oh my!! piv, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap plz), dirty talk, pet names (baby, honey, sweetheart), bruce wayne (only mentioned vaguely), yearning, pining (poor clark is down bad), no use of y/n, probably typos (it's late and i'm tired :p)

my entire blog is 18+ minors plz do not interact!!

author's note: hiii! once again, make sure you read the warnings, lots of angsty and smutty stuff happening in this part! i wrote a good bit of this on a plane so if there's ten million typos, sorry lol

5 months later...

All your life you dreamt about leaving Smallville. There was a time when your mind was endlessly filled with far away places and new experiences, and you often swore that when you did finally get out, you would stay away.

You never anticipated missing the never ending corn fields in all their golden mid-summer glory, or the view of the wind turbines as they spun lazily in the breeze. But after spending years away, under the nearly constant gloom and rain of Gotham City, a larger part of you than you would like to admit missed the place you used to call home.

The Smallville city limits sign was so faded and dusty as you passed it, it almost felt ominous in its muffled greeting. Main Street was similar, the signs half lit and sun bleached, most of them closed and likely attending church on this Sunday morning. It was all so familiar that you wondered for a moment if any time had passed at all since you’d last been here. The sign hanging above the door to Taylor's Hardware was still swinging in the light breeze, the chain broken on the left side and dangling over the heads of uncaring patrons. The road still had that pot hole in the middle of the main intersection that was always sure to pop a tire if you forgot it was there. And even though you were in a new car, people still waved as you drove past like they could see through the blacked out windows to who was inside white knuckling the steering wheel.

Yes, Smallville never changed, but you certainly had—flying back into town like a bat out of hell in your fiancé’s porsche that you never would have bought for yourself, but got tired of fighting his insistence that you let him spoil you. It was a very nice car, but you weren't on the paved streets of Gotham anymore, you were on dirt and gravel roads made for trucks and tractors and the like.

You tried to imagine what Bruce would look like here, all sleek and polished amongst the gritty harshness of rural Kansas. You quickly found that you couldn't imagine it; your fiance wasn't meant for places like this. You hadn't even told him you were coming home. You weren't exactly sure why you hid the details from him, in fact, you weren’t even sure he knew where home was for you, but the lie was easy and he was never one to urge your honesty, anyhow. At first you supposed he just didn't care to know, but the longer you spent with Bruce, the more you came to understand that he had secrets of his own to hide. So, you each turned a blind eye to the other and prayed those clandestine affairs of yours didn't have teeth.

Your excuse had been brief and nondescript; a bride dizzy from difficult decisions and the rapidly approaching deadline. You needed fresh air and sun to clear your head. It was neither questioned nor refuted, to which you were grateful.

You had been staring at various china patterns, trying desperately to conjure up at least an ounce of care, but you couldn’t find it. You were relieved when your phone rang, your muscles jumping at the opportunity to move and to think of something other than dinnerware and hor d'oueuves.

You thought about declining the call once you had escaped outside, not usually keen on answering unknown numbers, but you did, if only for the momentary distraction of listening to the robotic voice on the other end of the line.

But it wasn't a inhuman recording, it was your mother's sister, whom you had met only once before. They weren't exactly close, and as soon as she introduced herself, your heart sank into your stomach knowing what would likely follow. And you were right.

The cops didn't find your mother until two days after she had overdosed, when the mailman complained about the smell after sliding letters through the slot in the door. Your mind was cruel and grotesquely descriptive as it pictured what the police likely found; a woman alone and decayed, her eyes frozen in a longing stare for something; perhaps life, perhaps someone to weep for her. But she found neither, and she died waiting.

You felt unable to breathe when such images ran through your brain, wondered if you were even worthy of it anymore, but you shook the thought out like a dirty towel and though there was still dirt and grime in the fibers, they weren’t as easily felt. You thanked your aunt for calling and asked about the funeral arrangements, to which she replied that there were none. There was no will, no burial wishes, only a cold body being stored somewhere, just waiting.

You tried not to think about the foreign and cold hands likely handling her with all precision and no care. She didn't deserve for those to be the last hands that touched her. Not when you had spent all those late nights coming home to find her asleep in the living room chair, and despite the colorful array of emotions you felt at the sight of her—so small and vulnerable—your hands were always reaching for blankets or some kind of warmth to shield her. And all those weekends of farmers markets on Main Street, spent splurging on an $8 flower bouquet because you knew it would make her smile. How, in all the years before and all the years after you, had no one taken the time to truly see her? To understand that the simple act of gifting life to the very person who gifted you yours, whether or not you really wanted it, was enough to make the hollow ache of loneliness ebb for just a few hours, like shells being revealed to the sun during low tide. How were you the only one? Why did it have to fall on you?

In a perfect world, maybe your father would had stayed. Maybe he would have been a stronger man, capable of loving someone who wasn’t easy to love. But you weren’t in a perfect world, and no one was coming to save you. So, you told your aunt that you would take care of it. How, you didn’t quite know yet, but the thought of doing nothing was… not even a thought you wanted to entertain. She was alone. And waiting. And you’d kept her waiting long enough.

It came together rather quickly after that. You sent out wedding invitations on the same day as the funeral notices. It was almost laughable, the irony of it all. Again, you tried not to think too hard on it.

You left Gotham early on a sad looking Sunday morning and drove straight to the church for the memorial in the afternoon. You enjoyed the slow change of scenery from gray concrete and steel machinery to the golden fields and lush greenery thriving in the more rural areas.

The little white chapel came into view soon after passing through downtown, in the center of a field surrounded by gravel and stray weeds. The wood was weathered and worn, its oak foundation poking through the pale paint, likely chipped from years of storms and the loss of faith during a time when you now had new gods who flew closer to the ground and required no devotion.

You doubted your mother had stepped foot in the church since she was a child, picturing her rosy cheeked and buttoned up to the neck while listening to the preachers loud and unrelenting sermons of caution and reciting unfamiliar words of scripture to a girl who spoke her own language. But it was your aunt’s one request, to say goodbye in a place where her pleas for her sister’s soul might be heard better, as if the lacquered wooden pews and the thin, waxy pages of the Bible were listening.

You didn't consider yourself a religious person, nor did you personally believe in a heaven or hell as depicted in holy texts, but if there was some place where all was good and just and right, you hoped that your mother was there. It didn’t seem fair that in her life she was easily discarded and deemed unworthy—you hoped that at least in death, there was something to wrap its arms around her. Even if it was black nothingness, it would be more kind than the world or an indifferent god.

You stood at the entrance of the church in a plain black dress and welcomed people as they started arriving, the tinny sound of the church organ bouncing off faded stained glass and scuffed floors. You were slightly ashamed to admit that you didn’t expect many people to attend, but the majority of the town showed sorrowful face and a few people you had never seen or met before.

You told yourself you didn't care, that you were only anxiously checking the entrance to see if your father would dare show his face. But as much as you loathed to admit it, the one person that you really wanted—no, needed—here today was not in attendance.

Maybe you should have guessed that after your last conversation, Clark wouldn’t be too keen on seeing you, but you were foolish and assumed he would still show up for you after turning your back on him time and time again.

The Kent’s still came. Martha and Jon both put an arm around you and walked with you down the aisle to the front row. They sat on either side, Jon's arm around your shoulders while Martha held your waist, clutching you to her side like you would fall apart without her firm grip. You tried to assure her that you were fine, but she quickly dismissed you with a, “Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, darlin’. You just let Ma and Pa Kent take care of ya.”

You were numb for most of the memorial service, unfeeling and overwhelmed all at the same time, but never crying. You felt everyone's eyes on you, the pity and expectation suffocating you. You wondered if they were waiting for it; the moment when you broke down and wept dramatically for your mother who was gone too soon, but you never did.

When the pastor asked if anyone would like to come up and share a few stories about your mother, again you were a little surprised at how many people stood up. And slowly, with each speech, you realized you didn’t really know your mother at all. She had dreams never shared with you and plans that sat on shelves like dusty stories untold. You learned that she was a great actress; the lead in nearly every school play. She was infamous, before the drinking and drugs, for being a pool shark and the most loyal friend you could have. She was an entirely different person with an entirely different life before you, and arguably better off before it all.

When it was your turn to get up and share, you could think of nothing to say. What was there to say that no one else knew? What good parts had you brought out in your mother?

Your hands gripped the podium, knuckles whitening and nails digging into the wood grown soft with age, staring out at the expectant faces waiting for the moment a daughter immortalizes her mother, but you had nothing. Eighteen years with her, and you could think of nothing.

So you said, “thank you all for coming.” And left quicker than what would probably be considered as good etiquette.

Afterwards, like some homing pigeon, you found yourself navigating the familiar routes home without really realizing until the bumpy, dirt paths jolted you and the car and you were greeted by a sad looking house who had succumb to time and neglect. You realized then how long it had been since you’d last been here—long enough for thick vines of ivy to grow up the sides like fingers gripping firm and for the weeds to grow high enough to brush your hips. The front door was even more sun bleached than you’d remembered and the windows were all frosted with dust and dirt like it was wintertime instead of early May.

You knew you would find no one inside, but you still entered cautiously, like you were a teenager again and sneaking in after a night out with Clark, afraid of what you’d find on the other side of the door. But as the screen door slammed shut behind you with a creak and bang, it became extra apparent how empty the house was.

No one was banging pots or clinking glasses in the kitchen. There was no smell of fresh cigarette smoke or microwaved food whose plastic containers had melted just slightly. There was no yelling or deafening, passive aggressive silence that caused more anxiety than any screaming match ever had. It was devoid of any signs of life.

You wandered through your childhood home like it was a museum, galleries holding things left unsaid and words you wished you could take back. You wondered what your mother saw when she was here. Did she only see your fleeting form when glancing at the windows, or picture your stomping feet quickly followed by a slammed door when gazing down the hallway to your bedroom?

Or were the good moments there, like glimmering mirages? Did her fingers run tenderly over the door frame textured with notches engraved from marking the rate of your growing limbs like one might trace over captured memories in a photo album? Did she see you small and dangling from the sycamore out back, or running inside through the kitchen when you still believed kisses healed scraped knees? Were they solid in her memory, as sure and sturdy as gravity, or did they slip through her fingers like sand?

You’d never thought to ask until it was too late.

You hadn’t been in her bedroom since you were a child, wandering inside like a stranger and wondering when it was exactly that she stopped being the person you sought out for comfort and started being the person whom no comfort could be found around. You likened it to falling asleep; not able to pin an exact point down, but knew it happened slow and then all at once.

There were clothes strewn about the room and empty glasses and bottles littering tables and dressers. You walked closer toward her boudoir, the mirror faded and foggy from generations of women before her who peered in and, like her, found numerous things to pick apart—the glass polluted by decades of shame. You wondered if it was hereditary as much as smiles and eyes as you peered in yourself and found the pieces you’d picked apart for years. It was a desperate sort of feeling, to want so badly to be different but know in your bones that you aren’t.

When you could no longer look yourself in the eye, you peered down onto the table top, finding loose jewelry and an open tube of mascara. And then, beneath a plate of half eaten moldy toast, your wedding announcement that was printed in the Gotham Gazette was folded neatly. You picked the paper up like it was a loaded gun, afraid it would go off if you didn't handle it carefully. It unfolded and revealed more of your done-up facade from the charity ball a few months ago.

You were smiling in it, looking at Bruce in a way some might call lovingly, though you and likely your mother knew better, as he kissed the ring on your left hand for the world to see. When you looked at that photo, all you saw was the fear in your eyes and the remembrance of the shake in your hands, steadied by Bruce's firm grip. How no one else saw was beyond you. Bruce would tell you that you were being too hard on yourself, but he had yet to see all of you. And with any luck, he would never get to see you in your entirety.

You placed the paper back down and noticed the top drawer of the boudoir slightly open with letters wedged in the gap. Some were old bills long past due, some were throw away flyers, but there was one in the very bottom that caught your eye. It had your name written on it.

Your mother's handwriting was delicate despite knowing how firm her hand could be, and you would recognize it anywhere. You shakily opened it, your fingers sliding the paper out with ease from the unsealed envelope.

"My daughter,

I've never been good at getting my words out the way that I want them to. They always seem to come out with sharp edges and I know I must cut you with them, and for that I am very sorry. I'm sure that I have many things to apologize for, but I'll start with this: you are not me. You are far stronger, wiser, braver than I ever was and could ever hope to be. There are so many things that I admire about you, but for some reason those words get caught in my throat and switched with ones of jealousy and resentment. I've been seeing Darlene in town to try and work through some of my issues and trauma. It's helped. I wish I had done it sooner. I wish I had done a lot of things differently, but time passed and you're gone and I can't blame you, not one bit. I saw your wedding announcement in the paper the other day when I drove into town. I almost didn't recognize you in your get-up, but you sure looked beautiful. I hope that Mr. Wayne is treating you right. I hope you're happy. I hope that some day you can forgive me. I hope every day to see you walking back down the driveway. I hope someday I'll deserve it. I hope, I hope...all I ever did was hope. All I ever had was hope. And the determination to do it better than my parents did. I suppose that's all any of us are trying to do, and then we go ahead and screw it up anyway. And I'm trying to make peace with that, to lay with the decisions I made and feel the weight of those consequences on top of me. I hope you never have to feel that. I hope more than anything that you are nothing like me. I hope some day I am worthy of having a daughter like you.

Mom"

Your tears were hot as they strolled down your cheeks, dripping onto the paper in your shaking hand and spreading the ink from the pen. Your chest hurt, like your heart was sore, like someone had been squeezing it for twenty-some years and just now released it.

Your body was shaking, your breath coming quicker, and soon you were panting like you had been doing anything other than just standing there. This pain was insufferable, it was so intense and enveloping that you felt you had to do something. You crumpled the letter in your fist and threw it down before leaving to walk down the hall to your room.

It was much neater than the last time you'd been in it, like she'd made it up just incase you snuck back in through the window one night. A sob cracked through your chest at the sight, something about it breaking you, like the dam had broke and now there was nothing holding the waterworks back.

You pulled out drawers and yanked out clothes, throwing them all over the room until the floor was completely covered. When you were finished, it wasn't enough. In fact, it only fueled your fire. So you pulled the dresser down, the wood crashing to the floor in a thundering boom. Next you cleared the tops of your end tables and bookshelves. You knocked over furniture and tore apart the room like it had done something to personally offend you.

And then there, underneath the bed, right where it had been originally, was a coffee can. Your hand shook as you reached for it, and the weight of it made you cry harder. When you took the lid off, there was cash inside. Lots of it. Most likely the amount that had been in there before your graduation day when your mother stole it, maybe more.

You held it to your chest like it was a life raft, snot flowing from your nose, tears running into your mouth and flooding it with their salty taste. You didn't hear the door slam open, or his thundering steps down the hallway. You didn't even see him crouching in front of you, not until his hands were holding your cheeks, getting you to look at him.

You pushed him away, throwing the can at him, cash spilling onto the floor.

"Where were you?!" You thundered, your voice high and wet. He opened his mouth to reply, but you wanted to hear none of his excuses. "I needed you and you weren't there, I needed you!" You pushed at his chest after you stood quickly, ignoring the rush in your head from getting up so fast, and he let you push him into the wall, his eyes glistening and round like he was in pain.

"I needed you to tell me it was okay. I needed to believe it, even if I know it isn't true. I left her, Clark. I left her and she needed me, I left her, she was waiting, she was waiting!" You were babbling, spit likely spilling from your lips, your eyes red and swollen, but you couldn't care, you couldn't think of anything else but the fact that she was waiting for you.

You thought about when you were five, when the bus would come to pick you up at the end of the driveway and she would walk out with you. She would wait until she couldn't see you anymore to stop waving, and the panic you felt when you couldn't find a seat close to a window quick enough to wave back. The paralyzing fear that you would regret the one day you didn't say goodbye.

"Why weren't you here, why—why," you hiccuped, unable to get a full sentence out now. Clark reached for you, even when you avoided his touch each time, his hands kept reaching for you, wiping at your face and smoothing your wild hair down on your head.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart...I'm so sorry," he was repeating the same sentence as well, the both of you just muttering emotional babble, unable to hear the other in your panic. "Breathe, honey," he reminded you when you couldn't stop hiccuping, your lungs begging to take in more air after your extensive crying.

Eventually, you tired yourself out and let him hold you, his hands wrapping around you, enveloping you completely, as he shushed you gently, thumbs rubbing soothing circles over your back with his chin resting on your head. You clung to him so tight you were grateful in that moment he had extra strength to take it, your arms growing weak the longer you clung.

Your tears had completely soaked his shirt, along with your snot and spit, but Clark never stopped holding you. His grip was firm enough to feel secure, but gentle enough where you could pull away if you wanted to, and this time you really didn't.

You stayed like that for what felt like ages, just holding each other, him gently swaying you like there was music somewhere playing.

"I couldn't save her," you whispered painfully, your throat sounding wet and clogged, but he understood all the same.

"It wasn't your job to save her, sweetheart."

"No one else would do it, and I knew that. And I still left." He pulled back enough to look down at you, swiping thumbs under your eyes and looking at you so tenderly it made you want to cry all over again.

"C'mere." He led you over to your bed, righting your mattress with an easy lift of one arm and then sat atop it, bringing you toward him to stand between his knees. "I know you wanted to help your mom. And you did, for much longer than you should have had to. But you can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved."

"But she was doing better, she—“

"Baby." He shook his head to shush you silently. "The only person that could truly help your mom, was her. No one else. You did so much for her, if you could have saved her, she would have been better a long time ago. You can't keep carrying the weight of someone's happiness and wellbeing on your shoulders, it's too heavy, it's not right."

"You do it," you reminded him.

He smiled shortly, "that's different, honey. Fighting monsters and smashing some buildings is very easy compared to taking responsibility of someone else’s emotional and mental state. That, I am not equipped with. I don't know that anyone is completely."

You thought about if your dad had tried, if any of the people who spoke today tried to help her. Could anyone have done it? Would they have done better than you?

"All this time, I didn't even know her. I brought out the worst in her."

"That's not true," he scolded, tucking your hair behind your ears.

"It is. I knew nothing about her life before me. I never saw all the good parts everyone was talking about today. I ruined her. I poison everything I touch, just like she said I would."

He bent his head further down to catch your gaze with his and lifted your hand to cradle it in his. "Look at me," he instructed before leading your hand to his chest.

He placed your palm over his heart, feeling it beat there, full and steady. "I haven't been the same since you came into my life, but you changed me for the better. You can't ruin everything you touch, you can't ruin me."

You shook your head, fresh tears beginning to fall which he swiped away once again. "I ruined us."

"We were kids, honey. More importantly, you were a kid with too much on her shoulders and I never truly saw that until later."

"It wasn't just that." You were being stubborn as per usual, for a reason unbeknownst to you. "I knew even then I wasn't good enough for you. I'm still not."

"How can you say that?" He looked genuinely astonished at the thought.

"I'm not an easy person to love, Clark. You're just an easy person to please."

"What does that mean?" He looked a little offended.

"You look at everyone and everything like they're beautiful and perfect—like that isn't impossible."

"What's wrong with that?"

"It's a lie!" You shouted, your voice hurting your own ears as it thundered through the silent house.

"Not to me." He had that look on his face that told you he was serious, that he was not going to change his mind, no matter what. He could be stubborn too when he wanted to be. "When are you finally going to accept that I love you? I will always love you."

"I can't." You shook your head.

"Why not?"

You took a deep breath. "Because then I would have to admit how in love with you I am."

He stared at you for a few moments, his big blue eyes switching back and forth between yours, like he was looking for something in them, maybe checking for truth. He would find plenty of it there, your confession taking the breath out of your lungs with how long you had been holding it in. Then his mouth was on yours, hands holding your face to his like he was afraid you'd leave, but you had no intention of doing so.

You climbed into his lap, putting your knees on either side of his hips to get closer, to press your body completely to his, wanting to feel all of him as you ran your hands through his hair, eliciting a pleased moan from deep in his chest.

You urged him to lay back, falling with him and remained hovering over his body until his hands wandered down your form tugging you closer, callouses scraping gently against smooth skin, then kneading pliant flesh like he needed to feel all of you, every inch.

You broke apart to pull your dress over your head, catching his reverent stare once the black garment was discarded somewhere in the mess of the room. His thumbs traced back and forth at your hips, feeling the delicate skin and tracing the lines of your body like you were a piece of art he was trying to understand and absorb.

"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Normally, you might chuckle a bit at his sappiness, maybe tease him later for how worshipful he was, but having him underneath you after being apart for so long made you feel desperate for him. You were burning and eager to feel him completely against you, nothing but skin on skin.

You motioned for him to sit up, wasting no time taking off his shirt and unbuckling his belt to take down his pants. You both clumsily managed to discard all clothing, coming back together with urgency to feel the new exposed skin. You felt everywhere, in his hair, along his face, down his chest, over his arms. He'd filled out since you were last with him, but to be fair that was back in high school. And yet, his body was not a stranger. You still knew the constellations of freckles littering his back and arms, you had traced and mapped them out so thoroughly you could call them by name. You knew which spots to kiss to make his breath catch and what light touches teased enough to make a whine-like sound escape him. You wanted to try them all, to ensure you were still an expert when it came to him, but you were frantic to feel close to him again, to be as close as humanly possible.

You reached down and took him in your hand, feeling along the silky, smooth skin there and the veins that ran along the length, relishing in the ragged breaths he took while trying to restrain himself, and then ended the teasing for both of you by sinking down onto him.

You both groaned at the feel, at the delicious stretch of him at your entrance, at how warm you were as your body welcomed him in. You took a few small strokes before sinking down, feeling him fully seated inside you, his tip pushed up against your cervix.

"God, I missed you," he gasped, his head thrown back before quickly looking back at you, like he remembered he didn't want to miss a single moment of this with you. You moved your hips slowly, tilting your head down to look at where you joined, the slick now coating his cock from your arousal making the friction feel even better.

He asked you quietly to look at him, but you didn't, afraid of what it might mean after. You couldn't bear the thought of him seeing you so vulnerable again, so thoroughly exposed and taken apart when there was nowhere to hide.

Evidently, that's what he wanted because he flipped you over onto your back and slid back inside before you could protest. You were unable to look away from this angle, his eyes boring into yours as his hips ground against yours, his thrusts slow and deep.

"Do you feel that?" He panted in between kissing your swollen mouth. "You feel how good we are together?" You whined in response, but he wasn't having it. "Say it, baby. Tell me how good we feel."

"Clark," you sobbed, out of frustration or pleasure you didn't know.

"You can't deny it anymore, honey. This feels too good. We always—shit—we always come back to each other." Like an exclamation point on the end of his sentence, he reached down to rub over your clit, the flesh there swollen and oh so sensitive.

You arched your back into him, your mouth hinging open on a silent moan, feeling it all build and spread throughout your body. "Clark," you said again strangled.

"I know, baby. I know, let me feel it. Let me feel you," he coaxed, picking up his pace a bit and rubbing over you with a little more pressure.

When you came apart, a groan was ripped from your chest like you couldn't help it, and you really felt like you couldn't. You felt your walls squeezing him, sucking him further in like you didn't want to let him go, not until he came inside you.

"Please," you begged, never feeling the need to explain when he could read your mind so easily.

"I know, sweetheart." His thrusts got sloppy and then you felt him twitch inside you before the warm ropes of cum flowed from his tip. It felt like forever until it finally stopped, small whimpers coming from both of you at the overstimulation, but still clinging to each other like you couldn't bear to be apart.

He finally pulled out of you, but quickly rolled beside you to pull you into his chest. You were both sticky and sweaty, but sated in a way you hadn't felt in a very long time. You vaguely remember getting up to go to the bathroom at some point and pulling a blanket over the both of you, but you were so exhausted that you hardly registered a thing.

It wasn't until the following morning that you came back into the world of consciousness. For a moment, as the sun poured in from your window, the details of your lace curtains displayed over your floor and piles of clothes, you thought that nothing had changed. That the last nine years had all been a bad dream, and your mother would come stomping down the hall any minute. But she wasn't coming, your room was still a mess, and there was still a warm body pressed against your back.

"Good morning," he whispered, his voice scratchy and deep from sleep. Suddenly, his warmth against you was not a comfort, it was an oppressive heat that was suffocating, urging you to sit up and leave the bed to find some cool air and space.

"Good morning," you returned with far less warmth than his. You sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on a t-shirt you found on the floor in front of you.

You felt his lips against your shoulder blade, his heat following after you like flames licking before they catch. "Where are you going?" He questioned humorously, unaware of your attitude shift. "Come here."

He wrapped a strong arm around your waist and hoisted you back into the bed, onto your back beside him.

"Clark, stop." He was smiling until he caught sight of your face, likely pale and pained and remorseful already.

"What's wrong?" He questioned, smoothing over the crinkles between your brows in a delicate and achingly sweet way. "Hey. Talk to me." He held onto you a little tighter, like he knew he was losing you.

"I just—I should get going."

"Get going?"

"Yeah, back home." You shrugged, avoiding his eyes and unable to get the words out without them sounding shaky and unstable.

"Back home as in...Gotham?" He asked like he already knew the answer and wasn't happy about it.

"Yes, of course Gotham." You got out of the bed then, pulling underwear up your legs to make you feel a little less exposed, though it did nothing to soothe you, and began maneuvering around the mess in your room of discarded clothes, books, and broken furniture. He called after you as the bed creaked while he rolled out and then stumbled as he put on clothes to catch up to you.

"To tell Bruce that the wedding is off," he guessed with hopeful certainty. You didn't respond, looking through the kitchen for liners and your mom's stash of cheap ground coffee. He said your name, following you as you paced the kitchen, looking in various cabinets for things that you were already forgetting why you needed them in the first place.

When he said your name again firmly and grabbed your arm to halt you, you snapped, "I can't just call off this million dollar wedding, Clark."

He looked at you like you disgusted him. Of course, it was Clark's version of disgust, which was really just disappointment and betrayal, but it hurt just as bad.

"You're really going to lie to yourself like that? Pretend last night didn't mean anything."

"Last night was a mistake," you told him, unsure whether you were truly convincing him or yourself too.

He scoffed bitterly. "Is that gonna be your story with him, or are you just never gonna tell him?"

"We have an agreement, Clark."

"Oh, that's right I forgot! The agreement where you both decided to be miserable together and drown yourselves in material things that mean nothing."

"That's unfair."

"Unfair?" He questioned with wide, disbelieving eyes. "I'm being unfair? I'm not the one running off to their fiancé after making love to some other guy!"

"My mom just died," you exclaimed like that explained anything.

"Yes. And guess who wasn't here for you."

"You weren't." You gave him a deadly stare, your anger returning with a vengeance. He looked away and sighed, not willing to dispute it, but not wanting to agree with you either.

"There was this emergency, I couldn't just—"

"Don't act like you still would have come even after our last conversation." You said it like you doubted him, like that was actually possible to think so lowly of him.

"Of course I would have! I will always, always come when you call. You know that."

"Do I?" You cocked your head to the side.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?" You played dumb.

"Start acting cold to try and push me away. It's not going to work this time. I know you, I don't let you get away with your self-destructive bullcrap like he does."

"You don't know anything about me and Bruce."

He was undeterred. "Why do you do that to yourself? Why can't you just be happy? Why don't you want to be?"

"I'm trying to be!"

"No, you're not. You're giving up. You're taking the easy way out."

"How dare—"

"You're afraid of what we have," he cut you off. "You're afraid of being with someone who knows you better than you know yourself. You're afraid of someone leaving you after seeing all that you hide underneath. You're afraid of being happy because I think a large part of you doesn't believe it can really exist. I've seen every side of you and I'm still here. I will always think you're worth it. You keep saying I deserve someone that's easy to love—you are easy to love. In fact, trying not to be in love with you has been the hardest thing I've ever had to do."

You'd started crying again, a little surprised you had any liquid left in your body. Your heart and your head were screaming at you, both saying different things.

"I know you can't see it, but I'm saving you, Clark."

"From what?" He asked angrily.

"From me. From the life I know you want but you couldn't have with me."

"The life I want is with you," he insisted, coming closer to reach for you.

You shook your head. "I want you to have a family, Clark. A normal family, one that eats together at the dinner table and has reasons to be grateful. One that loves fiercely and relies on each other for everything. I want you to have a family like the one you grew up with, the one that turned you into the person you are today. The person I fell in love with when I was seven, that kind little boy who offered me his hand and the other half of his peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich. The boy who always included me in spaces I didn't belong. And the man who just wants to do good and help the world. I can't give you that, I can't give you what you deserve. I know you are willing to sacrifice those things for me, and you claim you would be happy without them, but it's because you are too good and kind. I would never forgive myself if I took advantage of that, I would never be able to forget what you gave up for me and what you could have had if I was gone."

You stared at each other, both breathing deep as so to stay calm and relaxed, trying to act like your hearts weren't being ripped out of your chests.

"I dreamt of having those things, you're right," he admitted. "But I only ever dreamt of having them with you. And if it isn't with you, then I don't want it." You opened your mouth, but he cut you off. "And don't try and tell me that I'll eventually change my mind, because I won't. So if you want to be miserable, if you wanna tell yourself you're doing me a favor, fine. I'll be miserable too. And when you go back to your fiancé, when you marry him and realize how lonely it feels in his penthouse alone, you can know that the reason we're both miserable is because you decided you weren't worth it. And you are. But just like you with your mom, I can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped."

He waited a few minutes for you to reply, but you were rendered speechless. He then turned and left, the front door slamming shut behind him. You wondered if this is what your mom felt like that day you left—empty and hollow while the person who held you together yelled with all their desperate hope and stubborn determination and then left you to stew in your own consequences.

You remembered then what your mother told you, about how the women in your family were like a poison; a parasite. And for the first time in your life, you wondered if maybe it wasn't something uncontrollable and etched into your DNA. Maybe it was something you did to yourselves. Like all that time spent pushing people away and calling it protection only ended up hurting them and yourself instead. Maybe it was the easy way out, by accepting that all those things you hate about yourself are just a part of you and there was nothing you could do about it, you didn't have to do anything about it. Maybe the cycle could have been broken this whole time with you. Maybe all it took was a little hope.

masterlist | part one | part two

a.n: your likes, comments, feedback and reblogs are always appreciated (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

taglist: @slimearchon @numberonerwitch @ravenswritingroom @yiiiikesmish @punksnotdeadbutiam @ckdouble44 @anoverwhelmingdin @jarnesbames108

dividers by: @uzmacchiato and @rmstitanics

i do not allow any translations or copies of my work to be made without my consent.

moonwayne

Loving this. Don’t love how much I relate to the feeling of having incapacity to love but hey! Wonderful writing!

#clark kent #superman #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #2025 superman #lils recommended #lils fic recs

messenger-of-babel

When We Met

Summary: Bruce loves his family, and he loves you, but there comes a flaw in that logic. (Bruce Wayne x reader)

Word Count: 2.5K

Notes: Another late post. Was at an event, so these next few entries might be posted late (late night for ME at least). I liked this one, haven't written for Bruce in a while but oh well, even though I liked it I could have baked it a little more. Anyways, major character death, i don't think any harsh language. Yes I am aware I forgot Barbara but I always forget her since she's not formally adopted. I was too deep in the fic to turn around and I'm starving to get this published.

RiRi xx

━━━━━━━━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

moonwayne

Okay so I’m sobbing thanks! 🩷🩷🩷

#angstober #angstober 2025 #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne #lils recommended #lils fic recs

go-whump-in-the-night

poposusz

WHUMPTOBER STARTS TODAY

usaonetwothree

juniper-petunia

they should make a version of socializing that doesn’t make you feel like you’re still the weird 12 year old kid that doesn’t know why she’s not normal like the other kids

#real

neellscapsule

the side of everything

summary | you are on the side of the road. you are on your own side. it's a pity you feel half empty without your husband. it's a marvellous thing that your children make you complete.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic batboys & cass x kent!reader

warnings / tags | this has so much angst it's crazy. dick being the best son ever but taking responsibilities that aren't supposed to be his. mama is suffering. jason is mentioned quite the times here bc everyone misses him. the truth coming to life in the end :D

word count | 6.2k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first language so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this can be read as part 16. you'll the other parts on the masterlist.

taglist | @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou

@mei-simp @serendippindots @sirlovel @aixaingela @pjmgojo @antixsocialx2 @nisarelle @realiliumfr @gojoswaterbottle @connnn

@jjoppees @yall-imhere @sabrinasoppositee @nekotaetae @wendee-go @idiomaticpunk @fandomlover1235 @nommingonfood @omisotolongo @lortheswiftie

@owihitmyhead @mosseetrees @c4xcocoa @qardasngan @radicalcannoliqueen @jeshomie @cutie232 @ravenqueen27 @thy-crimson-king @thewiselionessss

@fernomenal @chiizuluvr @natalia42069 @invinciblewaffles @changyumi3 @mbioooo0000 @caramelised-onions @nymphzy0 @lilylovelyxo @notahappystan

YOU DON'T EVEN REMEMBER HOW LONG YOU SIT THERE ON THE BEDROOM FLOOR.

moonwayne

Once again I sob violently over this story. I love it so much 😭

#bruce wayne x reader #batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #batmom reader #kent!batmom!reader #batboys x reader #bruce wayne x you #lils recommended #lils fic recs #jason todd angst

neellscapsule

a masked roof, a biological appearance

summary | time passes, but memories don't fade. you have a weird encounter with a hidden face . . . or more than one, but at the end nothing can surpass damian al ghul's presence.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic batboys & cass x kent!reader

warnings / tags | this actually does not have that much hurt to batmom?????but like . . . red hood is here. so hurt/little comfort to him. fluffy family bonding with the others. bittersweet ending of chapter

word count | 5k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this can be read as part 15. you'll the other parts on the masterlist.

taglist | @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou

@mei-simp @serendippindots @sirlovel @aixaingela @pjmgojo @antixsocialx2 @nisarelle @realiliumfr @gojoswaterbottle @connnn

@jjoppees @yall-imhere @sabrinasoppositee @nekotaetae @wendee-go @idiomaticpunk @fandomlover1235 @nommingonfood @omisotolongo @lortheswiftie

@owihitmyhead @mosseetrees @c4xcocoa @qardasngan @radicalcannoliqueen @jeshomie @cutie232 @ravenqueen27 @thy-crimson-king @thewiselionessss

@fernomenal @chiizuluvr @natalia42069 @invinciblewaffles @changyumi3 @mbioooo0000 @caramelised-onions @nymphzy0 @lilylovelyxo @notahappystan

THE MORNING OF YOUR THIRTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY BEGINS WITH WARMTH.

moonwayne

neellscapsule my icon 🙏 thank you for feeding us 😭

#bruce wayne x reader #batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #batmom reader #kent!batmom!reader #lils recommended #lils fic recs

supermenz

if you're done with your ex, move on to the next!

summary: Being rejected from Metropolis University? Humbling. Your boyfriend of four years dumping you a year later thanks to his dead parents? Even worse. But when your friend tries to get you out of your dorm after two weeks spent bed-rotting and takes you to a photoshoot audition — "Just to try something new!" — you find yourself with a lot of attention you didn't want and a billionaire playboy on your tail.

pairing(s): bruce wayne x reader, (ex) clark kent x childhoodsweetheart!reader

word count: 21.7k (my longest fanfic yet)

warnings: inaccuracies regarding the position of the towns (used this map for reference) and college admissions, if you don't really understand why reader is beware of bruce then you might want to go and read a little sumsum about epstein island (my girl is right not to want anything to do with a billionaire), bruce is so not nonchalant, he's also kinda bi (OF COURSE HE IS HE'S A SLUT!!! AND OF COURSE IT'S WITH HARVEY), no trouple sorry, blood, one (1) gunshot as well as one (1) scott pilgrim reference, bruce and reader trauma bond over their weird exes, merry christmas/please don't call trope, suggestive maybe, swear words, angst and fluff, dick makes an apparition at the end (if there's anything I'm forgetting pls lmk)

author's note: credits to @lovingyoulovinme for the concept, taken from this post! bruce and clark can be imagined as any transposition of their characters, but honestly I tried my best not to think of david corenswet while writing this cuz I'd NEVERRRR let that man go. EVER. english isn't my first language so construcitve criticism is always welcome!!

dividers from @uzmacchiato! <3

moonwayne

Yup you did the thing. New favorite piece of literature 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

#bruce wayne x reader #clark kent x reader #lils recommended #lils fic recs

idkwhylou

I wanna feel what love is

Summary : You're the Navy's most reserved systems specialist. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw is the loud, golden retriever pilot who can’t stop watching you work. He starts with coffee. Then conversation. Then a playlist. But you're silent, guarded… until the jukebox plays his song, and you finally speak in the loudest way you know how.

Bradley Bradshaw x f!reader/groundsystemstech!reader

Warnings : mutual pining, jealousy (brief flirtation), sunshine x quiet introvert, playlist flirting, he’s loud for both of you

Words : 5K

moonwayne

Oh this is so good I’m cheesin’

#bradley bradshaw imagines #bradley rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #lils recommended #lils fic recs

neellscapsule

looks like the joker did a number on you

summary | everything is going too well: you're finally pregnant, close to seven months, your family is getting better, and you think life in gotham isn't so bad despite all. until it is.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic batboys x kent!reader

warnings / tags | it stars too sweet. it follows with pure angst. character's death (jason), reader's emotional death, graphic miscarriage. literally is all pure angst because we all suffer here and life isn't nice to anyone of the wayne family, including reader.

word count | 6.6k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this can be read as part 12. you'll the other parts on the masterlist.

taglist | @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou @mei-simp @serendippindots @sirlovel @aixaingela @pjmgojo @antixsocialx2 @nisarelle @realiliumfr @gojoswaterbottle @connnn @jjoppees @yall-imhere @sabrinasoppositee @nekotaetae @wendee-go @idiomaticpunk @fandomlover1235 @nommingonfood @omisotolongo @lortheswiftie @owihitmyhead @mosseetrees @c4xcocoa @qardasngan @radicalcannoliqueen @jeshomie @cutie232 @ravenqueen27 @thy-crimson-king @thewiselionessss @fernomenal @chiizuluvr @natalia42069 @invinciblewaffles @changyumi3 @mbioooo0000 @caramelised-onions