summary : You've only been in love with 3 boys your entire life, all coincidentally named Peter Parker. But instead of confessing your feelings, you've written it all down in letters you've never sent .
The plan was to write it all down so that the all-consuming love you had for each of them no longer felt all-consuming.
You never imagined they would be exposed for the whole world to read.
warnings: 4.6k words. i know, ridiculous. and it's all just a mess of feelings and yearning ♡
notes: thought of a fic idea inspired by 'To All The Boys I've Loved Before' and ended up writing it :p doesn't follow the plot of the book/movie, only the concept of the letters. thinking about making a part 2 because it was too long to include everything hehe. hope you enjoy <3
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You remember the very first one you wrote. Your first love letter.
Although, it wasn’t a love letter in a traditional sense. It was a ‘I need you to stop consuming my thoughts, so I’m writing it all down on paper and then sealing it away forever’ kind of love letter. And it was never meant to be seen by anyone else’s eyes but your own.
You wrote 3 in total, and all of them were coincidentally for boys with the same name: Peter Parker.
You knew the universe had a funny sense of humor with that one. Thankfully, they all had nicknames to avoid any confusion.
The first letter you wrote was for Pete. He was a few years older, with beautiful blue eyes, perfectly combed hair, and a smile that was worthy of being plastered all over a dental ad. Pete was your classic boy next door, always riding his bike to school, the local Y.M.C.A to volunteer on the weekends, and to Joe’s Pizza for his after-school job. You met him when you signed yourself up for science tutoring sessions your freshman year. He was a senior then, and your tutor for that entire semester, but even after that, he would still always say hi to you in the halls.
He was sweet and soft-spoken and always encouraged you, even going as far as supporting you at the freshman science fair when it was senior skip day at school.
“You didn’t have to come, you know. You’re only a senior once,” you say bashfully, looking down at your display table to keep him from catching the heat rising to your cheeks.
“And miss out on you destroying your competitors? Not a chance,” he says, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like his attendance didn’t mean the absolute world to you. “I mean, biodegradable alternatives to plastic? That’s life-changing stuff.”
You chuckle, flashing him a grateful smile. “Well, I did have the best tutor. If it weren’t for you, this would be the 8th volcano entered today,” you say, and Pete laughs.
“I always knew you were smart. You’re capable of anything you set your mind to,” he says, and your heart swells.
You ended up placing second, and you’ve never forgotten the way he cheered for you when you were presented with the big blue ribbon. He even treated you to pizza afterwards.
It was almost impossible not to have a crush on Pete. He was perfect.
Right before he left for college, however, you knew he would take your crush with him. So you decided that the proper way to let him go was to write him a letter that you would never send.
Dear Pete…
And in that letter you described everything you felt for him. The way your breath caught in your throat every time he leaned in closer to you to gently correct an answer you got wrong on a worksheet. How seeing him clap and smile for you at the science fair made you feel like the luckiest girl in the room. How all of Midtown High was obsessed with him, but he still always had time for you, and it made even the hard days easier. You wrote until the all-consuming love you had for him no longer felt all-consuming.
You wrote your second letter 2 years later.
You met Peter in your second period economics class. He was a total boy genius, the first-place winner of your freshman year science fair. He knew the answer to every question, aced every pop quiz, and the worst part was that he was always humble about it.
Worst, because it was one of the reasons why you inevitably fell in love with him.
Aside from being ridiculously smart, he was also the kind of cute that made butterflies flutter in your stomach, with puppy dog eyes and fluffy brown hair. You would chew through pens just staring off at him during class, something that your friend, MJ, had to regularly snap you out of.
“You’re literally drooling,” she whispered to you, and you felt your face heat up as you tried to compose yourself.
You even went as far as joining the academic decathlon team that year so you had a chance to spend more time with him. The problem was, you sucked, but Peter, being the good guy that he was, never made you feel bad about it.
It started with him inviting you to ‘brush up on those decathlon skills together’ right before your club meets and soon turned to homework at the library, Star Wars marathons with him and Ned, and hitting up the bodega to split his favorite sandwich together every Wednesday after school.
On one particular Wednesday, you had sat together at a bench in the park, making up conversations and scenarios for the people who walked past you, a little game you both would play often.
“You see, I really must go; I left a pot roast in the oven, and it’s burning as we speak,” Peter says in a high-pitched voice, mimicking a lady who was pulling at her poodle’s leash, very obviously trying to eject herself from the conversation with a man beside her.
“Your pot roast? I’ve had it before, trust me, you're better off letting it burn,” you say in the deepest voice you can muster, voicing the man next to her who looked completely over the conversation himself, and you both fall into a fit of laughter.
Peter turns to you, eyes seemingly catching something as he leans in close.
“Oh wait, you got mustard on the side of your mouth,” he said, and you still remember the way his thumb gently wiped at your skin, a trail of heat left behind.
He stares at you for a moment, cheeks flushing before letting out a nervous laugh, shaking the strands of hair away from his forehead.
“S-sorry.”
You had to practically force yourself to wash your face that night. Wanting to keep his touch forever on your skin. You were absolutely smitten with him until the day he confessed to you.
“I like someone,” he says, and for a moment you think it’s actually you until you see the faraway look in his eyes and droopy smile on his face. “Liz Allan,” he says, and your heart breaks with it.
Peter asks Liz to the junior prom that year, and you decide that an unrequited crush was not how you wanted to spend the rest of high school. So you write him a letter to release him once and for all.
Dear Peter…
It details the very truth of your feelings for him. The way your stomach did flips whenever he smiled, how you admired the twinkle in his eyes whenever he passionately expressed his interests, the love you felt for him beyond just that of a friend. How you wanted him to touch your face again, the way he did that Wednesday afternoon at the park. All of it, until it was finally out of your system.
Your 3rd love letter, and your last, was written in your first year of college.
You had Peter B. for your photography class, but you remember first seeing him riding his skateboard towards the school building. When you entered the class, you pinpointed him immediately; Tall and effortlessly cool-looking, with a face that made him look like he could model if he wanted to. He wore an oversized army jacket, and you wondered what it would be like to wear it.
For how handsome he was, it didn’t seem like he knew it, because he mostly kept to himself. You and Peter B. didn’t interact as much, but in the moments that you did, it was all you could think about for days at a time.
Can I borrow a pen?
Hey, do you know when the next assignment is due?
I forgot my 50mm lens at my dorm; do you mind if I borrow yours real quick for this shot?
So maybe that last one was just you looking for an excuse to talk to him, but each interaction made your heart flutter. There was something about Peter B. that was mesmerizing to you. In the soft way he spoke, in how he skillfully glided on his board around campus, in his quiet wittiness.
Falling in love with Peter B. was unlike the past two Peters, because unlike them, it wasn’t fast and all-knowing. It was quiet and snuck up on you, like time or growth. In fact, you wouldn’t have even thought you were in love with Peter B. until one night, right before the holiday break. You were tipsy at a dorm party, and all the tightly pressed bodies and loud music made you queasy, so you stepped out of the building for some fresh air.
Your teeth shattered as your hands crossed over your arms, rubbing them up and down to create some kind of heat. In the distance, you spot something zooming at you. You raise a brow as the mysterious figure makes it close enough for you to distinguish them; Peter B. landed in front of you, foot extended out as he stopped his board. He pulled his headphones off his head and hung them around his neck.
“If it isn’t my pen savior. What are you doing out here so late, Mother Teresa?” he asks, and you spot a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
“Shh, don’t blow my cover, but I’m actually undercover as a typical college student. The current assignment is to get drunk at a party inside of a dorm that’s too small for the amount of people stuffed in there. I’m taking it very seriously,” you say, and he chuckles, and you almost want to puke from how giddy it makes you.
“Noted. Wouldn’t there be something in the rules about not drinking on the job though?” he shoots back.
“Not if you’re the one who made up the rules in the first place,” you state with a wink, earning another chuckle from him and another stomach flip for you.
“Giving and funny. Careful, you're after my heart there,” he says, and you have to stop yourself from thinking you had enough liquid courage to say, ‘And what if I am? Would you give it to me?’
He spots a shiver run through you and immediately shrugs his jacket off, gently laying it over your shoulders.
And now you knew what it was like.
The action was soft and innocent, but it made your heart beat rapidly in your chest. He ended up walking you to your dorm after that. Or, well, you stood on his skateboard as he held your hand and guided you there.
Your hand felt like it was tingling the entire night.
You wanted to know more about Peter B., but sadly, you never had the courage to. That night was all you had to show for it.
So you wrote him a letter to put an end to it, as it looked like it would never begin in the first place.
Dear Peter B.…
It detailed the rush of emotions you felt for him. How the way he viewed the world through a lens left you in awe. How you craved more from him, but the lack of understanding didn’t take away from the beauty you already saw within. How he should really stop wearing his glasses on a whim because it made him look unbearably attractive.
And that was the last and final letter you wrote.
You were now a graduate of Empire State University and worked as a journalist for Vanity Flair, a pop culture and fashion magazine with an office located in the city. You lived in a two-bedroom apartment with your best friend since high school, MJ, and you were the proud owner of a fiddle leaf fig, regifted from your boss Ms. Felicia Hardy, who hated taking care of any living thing.
Another thing Felicia hated? Uninspired magazine articles. Which she now claimed all of the ones you had just pitched to her were.
“It’s not interesting. It’s not exciting. I want people to be inspired when they read our magazine. Not bored to death,” she spat, looking at her sharpened fingernails.
You process her words, trying to keep your composure. “I agree, Ms. Hardy. I was also thinking maybe I can write about trend predictions? Like how fashion moves in 20-year cycles and maybe the next style trends would be-”
“You know what people love reading about?” Felicia questions out loud, interrupting you unapologetically.
You remain silent because you knew she already had the answer.
“Love,” she answers. “I want you to write about that.”
Your eyes just about bulge out of your head. “Ms. Hardy, I-I don’t know much about that…”
“You know, you’ve survived 3 months here already, so I'm gonna give you some advice in the hopes that you can survive another day. What I want most out of the people who work for me is growth. This magazine is all about elevating yourself. I’m not hiring one-trick ponies to bring out whatever comfortable party trick they’ve mastered over the years. I want versatility. Just like the readers, I want to be excited. So either bring me something that does, or clean out your desk. I expect either decision by tomorrow’s morning meeting,” she states, and you can pretty much see your hopes and dreams burst into flames.
You can even picture a mini version of yourself screaming and running around with her hands up at the chaos, 4 years of student loans and a journalism major down the drain…
Well, there goes your future.
That night when you get to your apartment, you make a beeline for your room, ignoring MJ, who was cooking in the kitchen, the smell of something tomato-y filling your shared space. You push the door open and immediately flop on your bed, head first.
“Tough day?” you hear her call out, and you groan into your pillow.
You feel eyes on your back, so you turn over and see her leaning on the door frame, wooden spoon in hand. “You know what we said about wallowing. We’re not doing it in the big 2026 anymore. We’re adults now. We fix our problems. And…” she leaves the door for a moment, voice trailing, before returning with a bottle of wine. “We use wine to help.”
Getting wine drunk on a Tuesday evening was nothing new for MJ and you. In fact, ever since working for Felicia, you found yourself participating in it more often than not. But it was all in good fun, and MJ always made you feel loved and supported, and at the end of it you felt as carefree as the $8 grocery store wine could get you.
“Felicia is such a hardass. She acts like y’all are writing for The New Yorker or Foreign Affairs. You guys once had Ariana Grande’s dog as the cover for your magazine. Like, sans Ariana Grande,” she says, and you burst out in laughter, your wine glass jiggling in your hand.
“No, for real! Her expectations are absurd. She also couldn’t have picked a worse person to give this assignment to. I literally have zero experience with love,” you state, grabbing handfuls of chips from your shared bowl.
“Oh, come on. It’s not zero. You’ve dated a couple people,” she says, rolling her eyes at you.
You shove the chips in your mouth, messy as you shake your head and muster up a ‘Nuh uh’ before swallowing. “I mean. I’ve dated, yeah, but I was never in love with any of them. And the only times I felt like I was ever in love, like, for real, all I did was write them a letter. And I never even sent them,” you confess, the wine transforming itself into truth serum.
At this, MJ snaps her head towards you. “Letters? What?” she asks, intrigued.
You hiccup, nodding. “Yup. Like old-fashioned, handwritten, tied up with a bow and everything. To the three boys I’ve fallen in love with,” you say, licking the salt from your fingers.
“Shut up,” MJ says, arms crossed. “Proof or you're lying.”
You raise a brow at her. “Proof? Like you want me to pull out these letters?’ you ask, and MJ nods.
“Or else it’s total bullshit,” she says with a challenge.
You laugh, swatting the air. “Well, you’re in luck ‘cause I’m a memory hoarder and I’ve kept them after all these years,” you say, standing up from your cross-legged position on the couch. “One sec,” you say as you practically bounce over to your room, heading straight to your closet.
MJ laughs, yelling out a “No way!” from the living room as you open your closet door and stand up on your tiptoes, grabbing a shoebox from the very top. The shoebox was decorated in pink wrapping paper featuring delicate-looking white swans; An old elementary school Valentine's Day box you made to stick all your cards in.
You then race back into the living room and present the box to her. “Madam,” you say playfully as you bow and hand her the box.
MJ stares at you, hand over her mouth as she eyes the box. “Stop. You’re totally not kidding, are you?”
She takes the box from your hands and practically tosses the lid open. Inside were several cartoon Valentine cards from the past, but at the very top were 3 pastel colored envelopes. One was a light yellow, another a baby blue, and the third a soft pink. All three were tied in white ribbon and lace.
“Dudeeeeeeee!” she practically squeals, grabbing the 3 envelopes out of the box.
“Now why would you think I made this up? This is like real heart-yearning stuff. I've never told anyone about this,” you say, and MJ looks up at you.
“Oh my gosh. It’s like the plot of a rom-com. Letters to boys that you love? That you never sent?”
“You wanna know the worst part?” you say, biting your lip. MJ nods vigorously. “They all have the same name.”
“SHUT UP!” MJ yells, slamming her hands on her thighs.
You crack up at that, nodding as you flop on the couch, hands in your face, embarrassed. “Yup. I couldn't make this up even if I tried.”
“Wait, wat, wait,” MJ says, crawling over to you, head resting on the couch seat next to you. “Who are they?” she questions, and you shake your head.
“No, absolutely not.”
“Oh come oooooon. You can’t do that to me. You just gave me like the juiciest secret ever and only shared, like, half of it. You might as well just reveal the whole thing.”
You pry the hands away from your face and look at her. “Ok, fine. So two of them actually went to our high school. The first letter was to a guy who was a senior when we were freshmen. It was before you and I became friends. His name was Peter Parker,” you state, bracing yourself, because you knew that with one name, MJ would immediately figure out who the next letter was for.
MJ stared at you, wide-eyed, before collapsing dramatically on the floor. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh. Peter Parker?! Golden boy Parker?? Shut up!” she says, and you squeal, both embarrassed and giddy at finally confessing.
You nod. “Yeah. He used to be my science tutor. He was a pretty great guy.”
“Wait, so if you sent a letter to Golden Boy Peter Parker, then that means,” and she lifts herself up like a zombie being resurrected, wide eyes on you. You form just the beginning of a nod before MJ collapses once again, yelling, “Lover Boy Parker!! OH MY GOSH, YES! You were literally drooling for that kid!”
You try to shush MJ through your fits of laughter, face on fire. “I know. I had it bad. So embarrassing,” you say, pressing the cold wine glass to your cheek in an effort to cool it down.
“Wait, so we have Golden Boy Parker, Lover Boy Parker, and… there’s seriously another Peter Parker on this planet that you wrote a letter to?”
You nod, biting your lip. “First year of college, a guy in my photography class. Peter. B. Parker,” you say, and MJ’s eyes look like they're about to fall off her head.
“That’s literally insane. Like, Twilight Zone level of insane,” she says.
You lean over and grab the envelopes from her hand.
“Golden Boy Parker, AKA Pete,” you say as you lift the yellow envelope up.
“Lover Boy Parker, AKA Peter,” baby blue envelope.
“And….” you pause, thinking for a moment before continuing. “We’ll call him Skater Boy Parker, AKA Peter B.,” pink envelope.
As you're now face to face with each envelope after years of storing them away, you feel the emotions rush back to you. There were only three boys that you’ve ever loved in your entire life, and it was like they were face to face with you now; each envelope holding a moment in time inside of them.
“Well, there’s your article,” MJ says, snapping you out of your nostalgia.
You look at her, brows furrowing. “What? Write about my letters? Isn’t that like… juvenile? Like for a sophisticated magazine like Vanity Flair?”
MJ snorts. “Vanity Flair. Sophisticated. Sure,” she says sarcastically before proceeding, “Anyways, this is juicy stuff. If Felicia was all on you about an ‘exciting love story’, this is it.”
You take a moment to process her words.
An article about love letters written to the boys of your past, who all share the same name, whom you've never even sent them to.
“And if you're scared about them finding out, though I doubt any of them would be spending their time paroozing through Vanty Flair, you can just keep the names out,” she continues, and maybe it was the wine or the way MJ was very persistent about this, but you jump out of your spot on the couch and fetch your laptop from your room.
To: VF Felica Hardy
CC: VF Editors
Subject: Love Letters I’ve Never Sent (Article Idea)
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The next morning you wake up hungover with yesterday's mascara crusted on your lashes and half a chip inside your shirt. Your head pounds as you shower and get ready for the day, tiptoing around a snoring MJ who had passed out on the couch after last night's escapades. You pour yourself a cup of coffee before a sudden memory makes itself known to you, and you gasp as you immediately fish your phone from out of your pocket.
There it was.
The email you sent. The one that detailed how pathetic your love life truly was. The one with pictorial evidence of your letters, so you couldn’t even say it was made up out of desperation.
Nope, you were just authentically that desperate.
You let out a deep breath as you closed your eyes, hoping and praying that Felica would be gentle with you when you entered the meeting room today. You knew she would rip into you for thinking that idea was even good enough to send to her at 1 am, let alone to cc the editors, a step only made when it was ready to be edited for publishing.
Your career at Vanity Flair was officially over.
You wondered if Felicia would ask for the fiddle leaf fig back. You grew to really like that plant.
You entered the meeting room that morning like you were walking to your death sentence. You were one of the first few people who arrived, so thankfully you wouldn't be eaten alive for being late as well. You watched as the rest of the staff trickled in, and finally Felcia, with her long white curls and another perfectly tailored business suit.
The meeting goes off without a hitch. Talks about the rollout for the upcoming issue, suggestions for future celebrity features, and details on next month's Vanity Flair gala.
No mention of your email.
You think it's some kind of miracle you were gifted. Maybe the universe did you a solid, seeing as you’ve dealt with so much already. But once the meeting is adjourned, and Felicia tells you to stay behind, you know why she waited till the very end; she wants to destroy you in private.
No witnesses. Smart move.
“Yes, Ms. Hardy?” you ask, acting like you had no idea whatsoever why she would want to talk to you.
Pathetic.
“So I got your email last night. At 1 am, was it?” she says, and you feel your stomach climb up your throat.
“A little unprofessional if you ask me. Lucky for you, however, I was riddled with insomnia and was going over my emails when lo and behold, I see a very interesting subject matter.”
Interesting, ok. Not a bad word. Not offensive or horrible or ludicrous. You could live with interesting.
“‘Love letters I’ve never sent’,” she quoted, an eyebrow raised as her eyes never left yours.
You braced yourself.
“Absolutely brilliant,” she says, after leaving you hanging for a few seconds, and you feel yourself immediately regain the ability to breathe. “It’s intriguing and authentic and just the right amount of sad and pathetic to reel people in. And most importantly, it’s exciting,” she says, a smirk on her lips, the closest you'd ever get to a smile.
You couldn’t believe it; MJ was actually right. You make a mental note to stop by the cafe after work to get her her favorite drink and pastry as a thank-you gift.
“I'm not going to lie, however, I was prepared for you to disappoint me. But you really came through with this article. So much so that I sent it to print expeditiously so that it can come out with this month's issue.”
You stiffen for a moment. Eyes wide. “Oh really? W-wow, that’s really fast. I mean, the issue is coming out next week.”
“No need to thank me. I mean, you did already tag the editors on the email. Something I would refrain from doing again in the future, by the way, but even you knew you struck gold here. Why wait a month when we can feed the hungry now,” she states, and you nod in agreement because whatever Felicia wanted, she got.
“Oh, and we’re keeping the names.”
And your stomach immediately drops. “I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, the anonymous thing just doesn't work for this story. And part of its charm is the fact that you fell for not one, but three Peter Parkers? I'm sorry, but that's the selling point of this article,” she states unapologetically, and you immediately gnaw at your bottom lip.
“So, you’re saying everything in my letters will be published in the magazine next week. Including the real names of the real people I wrote real love letters to?” you say out loud, trying to process the reality of it.
Felicia gives you a wink. “Get ready. You got a hit in your hands,” she says as she grabs the portfolios on her desk and struts her way out of the meeting room.
You remain in your seat, unable to move as you mentally go through a quick slideshow of everything that has transpired in the past few hours.
The feelings you kept hidden away in letters for years were now going to be exposed for the whole world to read in just a few days' time.
PAIRING: benjamin poindexter x fem!reader
WARNINGS: intentional lowercase, no use of y/n, slight stalking
GENRE: fluff
SONG INSPIRATION: latch x close - carissamixes (on soundcloud)
WORD COUNT: 3.7k
NOTE: my first of many fics of him
NAVIGATION | REQUEST | BENJAMIN POINDEXTER MASTERLIST
you’re not someone who has ever had the courage to ask someone out, never mind doing it somewhere public. you’d sat on a bench just off the main path, the busiest part of the park, where everyone passed through because it was the easiest way in and out. that’s when you first saw him.
if you were being honest, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man that attractive in your life. not to put him on a pedestal or anything, but it’s hard not to when he looks like that. so big. broad shoulders, built without looking bulky. his arms alone were enough to make you do a double take, just to be sure you weren’t imagining it, especially when you realised he’d also glanced in your direction.
you smiled before you could stop yourself and he smiled back.
that somehow made him even worse, in the best way. how the fuck did that make him more attractive? you felt something twist in your stomach as he kept running past you, you felt disappointed… but not enough to stop yourself from watching him go.
god, he looked just as good from the back.
your face shifted before you could control it. eyebrows pulling together, mouth parting slightly in disbelief at your own thoughts. you snapped your mouth shut, heat creeping up your neck as you reminded yourself you were in public. it was far too early in the morning to be this flustered.
still, your eyes followed him as he got further away, convincing yourself you were being subtle when you were far from it. because he glanced back again while still running, and this time, when he caught you looking, you turned away a little too quickly.
oops.
you had told yourself you were coming to the park for the fresh air, clear your head, all that self improvement bullshit people swear by. but now? now you were coming for him. well you wanted to be.
the silver fox who had somehow slipped into your routine. the day after you first saw him, you found yourself praying. not properly, not seriously, just an embarrassed thought thrown out into the universe as you got ready that morning. that you’d been good enough, done enough decent things, that maybe you’d get lucky. that maybe you’d see him again.
and when you got there, sitting on that same bench, your eyes kept flicking up every few seconds, scanning the path, trying to act like you weren’t waiting. like you weren’t listening for the sound of the same steady footsteps approaching.
it felt stupid. a little desperate, even. five minutes passed. then ten, you told yourself you’d give it fifteen before you left. at twelve, you spotted him.
same path, same pace as last time. your chest tightened instantly, that same rush hitting you all over again, stronger this time because now you knew what to expect. you didn’t realise how hard it was to look nonchalant until you found yourself staring a little too intently at the trees in front of you, pretending they were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
he hadn’t seen you yet, too focused on his run, but he was getting closer. close enough that you could pick out the details again, the way his shoulders moved with each step, the controlled rhythm of his breathing,
your fingers curled slightly against the bench. trying to grasp onto some sort of courage to call out for him to stop, to actually try and talk to him. and then, like before, his eyes shifted right over to where you were sitting.
was he looking for you? the thought hits before you can stop it, and suddenly you’re overthinking everything, what you’d even say if he stopped, if he spoke, if he did anything other than run past like he had been.
it doesn’t matter because when he passes you this time, he looks right at you and smirks and just like that, he’s already moving past you. too late. again.
you hesitate for half a second too long, your body catching up to your brain just a moment after the opportunity has already slipped by. your mouth opens, like maybe you could still call out, say something, anything, but it’s pointless now.
he’s gone.
you huff out a quiet sigh, your head dropping slightly as frustration settles in your chest, heavier than it should be. you sit there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the path he disappeared down, hoping there’s any chance he might come back.
he doesn’t.
eventually, you force yourself to stand, brushing your hands over your clothes, trying to shake it off as you start the walk home. it’s quiet other than the sound of birds, your footsteps steady, but your mind won’t leave it alone. it keeps circling back, what you could’ve said, how easily you could’ve just called out.
by the time you get home, you’re already tired of your own thoughts.
you try to get on with your day properly. you start with small things, chores you’d been putting off, tidying up your bedroom, putting things away, keeping your hands busy so your brain has something else to focus on. it works for a few minutes at a time, until it doesn’t. you’ll pause, standing still in the middle of a task, your mind drifting straight back to him.
it’s irritating more than anything else. you don’t know him. you’ve never spoken to him. and yet somehow, he’s there, so stuck in your head.
even when you go out later to get groceries, it doesn’t stop. you walk through the aisles, picking things up automatically, barely paying attention to what you’re actually there for. half aware of people passing by, a small, ridiculous part of you wondering if you’ll just happen to see him again.
you don’t. you get what you need and leave, a little more annoyed at yourself than before.
back home, you try to reset. a shower usually helps. you stand under the water longer than you meant to, letting it run over your face, your hair, your shoulders, hoping it’ll clear your head.
you lean your head back against the cold wall, eyes closed, and there he is, clear as anything. the way he looked at you, his pretty smile. you exhale, an annoyed sound escaping you, scrubbing your hands over your face.
it’s stupid. he's a goddamned stranger.
by the time you’re done and get into bed, the day has worn you out, but your mind hasn’t caught up. you shift under the covers, trying to get comfortable, turning onto your side, then your back, then your other side, but it doesn’t make much difference.
every time you close your eyes, you’re having the same problem. you open your eyes again, staring at the ceiling for a moment before letting them fall shut once more, trying to just let sleep come.
and just as you’re about to drift off, right on the edge of it. you think about tomorrow. excited for it.
little did you know, the stranger you had been fawning over had been thinking about you just as much. the difference was, he didn’t have to wonder. dex already knew your name.
he’d known it just after you smiled at him the first time. before you started showing up at the park at the same time every morning, settling into that same bench just off the path, it wasn't a coincidence to him. nothing ever was.
at first, you were just another face. someone who noticed him. that alone had been enough to make him look twice, because most people didn’t. he made sure of that. early runs, controlled routes, minimal interaction, pretty much invisible. but you noticed.
and then you kept noticing, that’s what made him curious. so he looked into you to make sure you weren't a threat. it hadn’t taken long. it never did. a name turned into a profile, a profile into patterns, then into something more solid.
where you worked, where you lived, the places you frequented, the small habits you probably didn’t even realise you had. he didn’t need to speak to you to know you, but knowing wasn’t enough.
not anymore, because the deeper he looked, the more he longed, the more he needed you. he wanted to know what made you tick. what you loved. what disgusted you. what made your expression change, what made you smile and cry.
what you thought about him.
that’s the one that lingered the most. he’d taken the same route every morning on purpose. timed it. adjusted it, early enough that there wouldn’t be many people around, less distractions, less unnecessary onlookers.
just you. you, on that bench, you, pretending not to watch him. you, looking anyway.
and every time he passed, he let himself look back just enough to catch you in the act. measuring your reactions. the way you’d tense, the way your gaze would snap away too late to pretend you hadn’t been staring.
you were subtle, but not subtle enough. by the second day, he was certain. you were waiting for him. and by the third? he didn’t show up. not because he didn’t want to, but because he wanted to see what you’d do when he didn’t.
the next day, you go back.
you tell yourself that it doesn’t mean anything, that you’d be here anyway and if he was too then it’d be a bonus but there’s hope sitting in your stomach that says otherwise. it lingers there as you sit down, smoothing your hands over your clothes, eyes already drifting toward the path before you can stop yourself.
expecting him, like he might just appear if you look long enough. at first, you don’t think much of it. maybe he’s just later than usual. maybe you got here earlier. maybe you just missed him somehow, so you waited.
your eyes keep flicking back to the same spot, tracking every movement, every person that passes by, only to look away again when it isn’t him. you try to act normal about it, five minutes pass, then ten.
you shift slightly on the bench, adjusting your position, glancing down at your hands, at the ground, at your phone, at anything that isn’t the path, before your eyes betray you again, lifting back up in anticipation.
he still doesn’t show.
you stay longer than you mean to. longer than you’d ever usually sit here doing nothing. long enough that it starts to feel a little embarrassing that you’re waiting around for a guy.
“fuck,” you mutter under your breath, leaning back against the bench, your head tipping up as you stare at the sky through the gaps in the trees. the air feels cooler today, or maybe that’s just the way the disappointment settles back into your chest.
if you’d just done something yesterday, anything, you could’ve maybe, possibly had his number by now. you could’ve said something, even something stupid, something small, just enough to start something.
at the very least, you’d know his name.
instead, you’re stuck here, feeling a little pathetic over a man you’ve never spoken to, clinging to a few shared glances as if they meant more than they probably did. “maybe it's for the better.” you think to yourself.
you let out a exaggerated breath through your nose, eyes falling shut for a second before you push yourself up from the bench. your hands brush over your clothes, a pointless attempt to shake the feeling off.
it doesn’t work, so you leave. your steps are slower than usual at first, your mind still lingering behind you, eventually your body takes over, guiding you somewhere familiar without much thought. your favourite café.
the bell above the door chimes softly as you step inside, warmth wraps around you instantly, chasing away the chill that had settled under your clothes, the smell of coffee hits you just as quickly, it’s almost comforting. something sweet is baking somewhere behind the counter, the scent of it lingering in the air.
it’s quieter than usual. a few people sit scattered around, heads down, wrapped up in their own mornings, their own routines, untouched by the strange weight sitting in your chest. you exhale slowly, feeling some of the tension leave your shoulders as you step further inside, the normalcy of it all settling around you.
your hands slide into your bag to grab your purse out as you approach the counter, already knowing what you wanted, something you wouldn't normally order on a colder day ‘cause of the ice but you needed something to cheer you up.
you step up to the counter, offering the barista a small smile as you give your order, your voice coming out steadier than you feel. she nods as she listens, repeating it back to you as she scribbles it down on the cup, the scratch of the pen quick and familiar.
you pay, fingers brushing briefly against the counter as you use you pull out your card, swiping it, and she gives you an easy smile in return before turning away, already moving toward the machine to start your drink.
“won’t be long,” she calls, almost over her shoulder.
you nod, murmuring a quiet thanks before stepping off to the side, out of the way of the next person in line and then you wait. it’s different from the park, but not by much.
your weight shifts slightly from one foot to the other as you stand there, hands loosely clasped, your gaze drifting around the shop, just passing the time. you take in the small details, the low hum of conversation, the soft clatter of cups, the steady hiss of the coffee machine as it works.
you try to focus on it. on anything, but your mind wanders.
it wanders, uninvited, pulling you right back to him. to the way you’d waited longer than you should have, you shake your head pulling you back to reality. your jaw tightens slightly, and you look away, eyes landing on nothing in particular as you exhale through your nose.
your drink gets slid across the counter toward you, the cup cold against your fingers as you pick it up. you thank her again, offering a small smile before turning toward the exit.
your attention drifts as you walk, one hand adjusting the strap of your handbag as it slips down your shoulder for what feels like the hundredth time today. you fumble with it absentmindedly, not really watching where you’re going, your focus split between not dropping your drink and fixing the strap.
which is exactly why you nearly walk straight into someone, but they’re quicker. hands catch your upper arms, firm and steady, stopping you in place before you can collide fully, before your drink can tip and spill all over both of you.
you gasp softly at the sudden contact, your body going still for a second before your eyes finally lift and it’s him. oh my god. it’s him.
up close, he’s taller than you expected, broader too, close enough now that he's impossible to ignore. for a second, your brain just… stalls.
you let out a nervous laugh, your grip tightening slightly around your cup. “i’m so sorry,” you blurt out, words tripping over themselves just a little. “you really saved the both of us there.”
he laughs too, softer but just as easy, and it does nothing to help the way your minds running wild. his hands slide off your arms as he takes a small step back, giving you space again. you try not to notice the absence of them.
“no worries,” he brushes it off, voice calm, “you’re good.” there’s a brief pause after that.
one of those moments that stretches just a second too long, where neither of you move, neither of you speak, just looking at each other. the longer it goes on, the more aware you become of everything. of how close he still is. of the way he’s looking at you. of how he almost blocks out the light behind him, almost like he’s unintentionally crowding your space without being in it.
it makes something in your stomach twist. “hey… have we met before?” he asks, breaking the silence, his head tilting slightly as he looks down at you. “you look really familiar.” you can’t tell if he’s joking.
there’s something in his tone that sounds genuine, but then again, you’ve caught him looking at you enough times that it doesn’t feel like he wouldn’t know it's you. still, you answer honestly.
“not officially,” you reply, a smile pulling at your lips as you glance at his before looking back into his eyes, “but i’ve seen you at the park a couple of times.”
you say it casually, like he hasn’t been on your mind, like you didn’t sit there this morning waiting for him to show up and then it clicks. the shift in his expression, the slight lift of his brows, the quiet recognition settling in as a low, drawn out “ohh” leaves him.
“right,” he says, almost to himself, his focus lingers on you for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable sitting behind it now. “yeah. that makes sense.”
the silence is back again, his mouth curves, just slightly, not quite a smile, not quite that same smirk from before, but something in between.
“so you’re the one who sits on the bench,” he adds, a little more certain now. your stomach flips. there’s no teasing in his voice. just… observation. like he’s been paying attention too. “guess i am,” you reply, trying to keep your voice light, trying to play it cool as you shift your weight onto your other foot.
his eyes flick briefly to your cup, then back to you, “i didn’t see you this morning,” he noticed. the thought rings loud in your mind, catching you off guard as you scramble to respond, “yeah, um, you must’ve just missed me,” you reply quickly, the words coming out a little too fast.
the eye contact doesn’t waver. “definitely,” and there’s something in the way he says it makes you question if he believes you at all. you can’t tell if he’s flirting or if he’s just being polite, or if you’re reading too much into all of this again.
but either way, you can feel the moment slipping if you don’t do something. you’ve already spent the last couple of days replaying missed chances in your head, you’re not doing that again.
so you take a breath. “hey,” you start, your nails digging into your free palm, “i know this is completely random and you can totally shut me down if you want, but…”
your heart is pounding now, loud enough you’re convinced he can hear it. “could i get your number?” you manage, your voice a little unsteady but still there. “i think you’re really cute, and i kinda… want to go out with you sometime.”
your words hanging there between you. you brace for it, for the awkward smile. the apology. the sorry, i’ve got a partner that’ll make you wish the ground would just open up beneath you.
it doesn’t come. instead, his entire expression shifts, his face lighting up in a way that catches you off guard completely.
“yeah,” he agrees immediately, shyly smiling down at the ground, already reaching into his pocket, pulling his phone out. “yeah, i’d love that.”
your eyes widen slightly, relief hitting you all at once, followed by a shaky breath you didn’t realise you were holding. “oh, okay,” you let out, a disbelieving laugh slipping through.
“here,” stepping a little closer again, angling his screen toward you. “put your number in instead.”
you hesitate for half a second, not because you don’t want to, but because this suddenly feels very real, before stepping into his space and taking his phone. your fingers brush his as you do, and you feel it more than you probably should.
you type your name and your number. for a moment, you consider just leaving it at that, but then you add a small note next to your name, something to make him remember.
you hand his phone back, the smile on your lips starting to make your cheeks ache from how long it’s been there. “so you don’t forget.” his eyes flick down to the screen, and you catch the way his mouth curves again. “i wouldn’t,” so sure of it that it doesn’t even sound like a possibility worth considering.
something about the way he says it makes your stomach flip again, the certainty of it settling somewhere deeper. he taps at his phone for a second, and then your own buzzes in your pocket almost immediately. “there,” he smirks, glancing back up at you, “now you’ve got mine too.”
you pull your phone out, your eyes dropping to the notification lighting up your screen before you look back up at him, some of your nerves finally easing now that this is actually happening. “i guess i’ll text you then,” you get out, trying not to sound disappointed that you have to go.
“yeah,” he replies, holding your eyes just a second longer than necessary, as if he’s making sure you mean it. “do that.” there’s a pause before he adds, “i’m glad you asked.” you look away shyly, the weight of his attention suddenly a little too much, before you glance back up at him.
“yeah… me too.” your eyes flick over him in a way that’s not even close to subtle, a quick up down that you don’t bother to hide as you shift your weight and start to move past him. you can feel his eyes on you as you go, and when you push the door open and step out, it doesn’t leave. he turns slightly, watching you walk away, only looking away when you disappear out of sight.
2026 IALREADYMADEYOUAPROMISE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED !
↳ warnings: dex being a creepy great neighbour. obsessive tendencies. gn reader. otherwise it's pretty wholesome, i'd say c: not an established romantic relationship.
↳ notes: i fuck with the neighbours au.
he is quiet. well, for the most part. there's no loud music blasting in the ungodly hours, no friends coming over to party until dawn, no unholy noises suggesting a relationship or even a random hook-up, no back-and-forth yelling between himself and some stubborn ex. it's oddly refreshing. in fact, it's so refreshing that the occasional sound of door slamming or something breaking — "that sounded like a plate..." — is the least of your concerns. we all shatter some dishes every now and then, don't we? although, he seems to have bruised knuckles sometimes... there's no small talk about the weather or your job or your relationship status like there was with the old couple living next to you at your previous place. dex greets you with a scarce "morning," for the most part, but every now and then he is in an awfully good mood where he offers you a wide grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "have a wonderful day."
he is neat. you catch a glimpse of his living space one morning when he answers the door to you, black cotton t-shirt and denim jeans already on. "i'm sorry to bother you, but would you happen to have an egg?" you asked, because your last one rolled off the kitchen counter and onto your tiles. he furrows his brows for a moment, as if processing the question before answering, "yeah... yeah, i have one," and he doesn't bother closing the front door as he walks over to the fridge. you notice that there's no clutter; no random wraps or leftovers littering his kitchen counter, no stray socks on the vacuumed floor ( come to think of it, you recall hearing the vacuum rather often ). you noticed him straightening the news papers and advertisments in the news papers box upon entering the building once, "they just threw them in," he commented, as if it was offensive.
he is helpful. he'd held the door open for you and taken the heavy grocery bag out of your hand. carried it to your door and set it on the floor of your hallway when you unlocked the apartment. he took a look around, casually, his eyes trailing across the walls and doors as if checking for exits. he observed the way afternoon light burst in with its golden glow through the windows. you caught it, but hey, it's natural to be compelled to catch a glimpse or two. when you thanked him, he smiled, "don't mention it." he seemed happy with himself. he casually drops off a can of cat food for the feline you'd never told him you have. "i hear it meow sometimes," he said. one time, he'd given you a ride home — it started pouring, you'd had no umbrella and dex happened to be at the mall at the same time. you noticed the monocular in the pit between the driver and passenger seat, "what's that for?" he glanced over to what you were pointing your finger at, his jaw clenching as he looked back onto the road, "it comes with the job."
he is attentive. when you run into each other in the hallway first thing in the morning — which seems to happen often — he asks you about your night, "is everything okay? you came home late," he pauses, "fumbled with your keys. it made some noise." he nods his head when you mention losing track of time with a friend of yours. at some point, you've brought up a trip and how you need to call a friend to ask them to water your plant while you're away, "your peace lily? i can water it for you. if you want." you raised your brow, "how'd you know i have peace lily?" and dex pauses, and shrugs, "saw you bring it in. they're easy to recognise." there was an old man living two floors above and he would continuously throw some sleazy comments your way when you checked your mailbox at the same time — nothing obscene, but just enough to be uncomfortable. dex happened to be there once, "this guy bothering you?" he asked, and you sighed, "he's just... creepy and annoying. the usual..." dex shakes his head lightly, "must be annoying." it was a good riddance that he was found dead three days later. hit his head or something. sounded unfortunate.
he is around. you find yourself walking back home with him more often. it's such a funny coincidence, you think, that you ran into him in the coffee shop earlier that week, and then at the parking lot, and now at the grocery store down the block. the world's a small place, indeed. it's decent quality time; you get to know him and his quirks better. like the fact that he seems to get a joke a second too late, for example. you don't really know it — and you shrug off the odd sensation of being watched — but he's around even when you don't see him. his eye is behind the peephole when you come home from work, taking your keys out of your pocket. he looks through his window to spot your route on the days you go out outside of the pattern — for a sudden ice cream craving, an unexpected emergency meet-up with a friend, that meeting you forgot about. he knows the 'why' behind your trip by the end of the day — he's observed you from the car, after all. you get a text whilst out one day, "you've got a package. want me to bring it in?" and your brows furrow, "dex? sure. thanks." when he hands you the delivery several hours later, you ask him about how he got your phone number. he reminds you that you're in the inactive group for the building's residents.
he is the best. he knocked onto your door one evening. he seemed pale, thirsty breaths coming in and out of his mouth like his lungs couldn't get their fill of the oxygen. knuckles painted crimson, sweat on his forehead, words a mess that he barely spat off his tongue, "please, i—" he swallows, "it's bad, i'm bad, and i just need... i need you." he ends up in your kitchen chair, wincing slightly as you dab the soaked cotton over the back of his hand, one fist clenched against his thigh as he looks at you, "sorry for the trouble, it's just... been a rough day," but you cut him off, "hey, dex. it's okay. you're good," and his mouth goes dry. your gaze drops back to his bloodied hand, but he remains looking at you before his mouth twitches into a smile, "you... you think i'm good?" and you look up, brow raised, "yeah. you're definitely the best neighbour i had."
content : in watching you and Matt at night, Dex discovers that maybe you can be the one to help him
word count : 710
pairing : benjamin poindexter x avenger!reader
Your laugh was sweet, infectious– like a drug. Your shoulders trembled as your footsteps traced the ledge of the rooftop. Matt laughed with you, but it was dull sound in comparison to yours. In fact, Dex wanted to erase the sound– it had no right beside you. It was like a noise pollutant, killing the melody of your voice with it’s hollowness.
So this was what it meant to be a good guy, he thought. Matt got to be friends with you. You and your righteousness. Your understanding nature- you listened to Matt after every fight, and joked, and let him relieve himself of his guilt when he nearly killed a guy. Nearly. Dex wondered how you’d treat him if you knew he actually killed someone. Well, you were a hero yourself, you must be familiar with crime and murder. But how would you treat him? Someone who kills and hunts, and doesn’t feel the crippling guilt Matt does.
In your hands, you swing the rope Matt had wrapped around his fist. It’s bloodied, and frayed from where he lost a fraction of his control- took the punches too far. You don’t care, you just swing it in circles as you walk along the thin edge of the rooftop as if the potential fall is nothing to you.
He’s mesmerised by the ease of it. How nothing Matt does shakes you, and how he’s watched you for a week now listen to him after every fight. Could he shake you? Would you listen anyway?
“Matt you sound like you need a vacation,” you joked, spinning dangerously on your heel to then walk back the distance you intially trailed. He watched the precision in your movements– how the edge didn’t fear you, and you seemed so confident in yourself. He’d never followed you beyond this rooftop but he thinks he should, one day. Avengers interest him. The threats you face… you’d arrest a man like him, which is why he sits in the dark and watches.
Matt drags a weary hand down his face, the makeshift black mask discarded on the side. “I can’t leave this place.”
“City needs you?” You spoke with a mocking tone, grinning afterward. “Maybe it can survive one night.”
“In one night, Bullseye will make the whole city turn against me,” Matt grits out. Dex frowns- he doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like that Matt is feeding you information about him, and that you’re being convinced Dex is some horrible man. He doesn’t do it without reason- he needs purpose. Fisk gives him purpose. He can feel his anger simmering, white hot and blinding rage, threatening to blow his cover just to stop Matt from speaking him against him even more.
“Then the city must not like you very much, to be turned so easily.” That makes him smile. Something dark, and satisfied. His eyes trace the outline of your figure, the way your clothes stick to you like a second skin, and you move like some sort of prowless.
“The city is filled with criminals who frame me,” Matt says weakly. “Of course no one knows if they can trust me.”
“Yeah…” you sigh. “I guess so.”
Dex watches with a nauseating envy as you place your hand softly on Matt’s shoulder. You comfort him, and in turn, Dex he craves to be in his place. He had never thought that he’d be so jealous of Matt- the lawyer who can’t manage his own morals, but right now he wants nothing more than to be him. To have you. As his friend, as something more. His North Star.
“Don’t eat yourself up, though.” If Dex closes his eyes, he can almost pretend you’re saying it to him. That your sweet words of reassurance are to ease his worries and the war in his mind. “You’re not the bad guy.” He can almost picture it whispered into his ear, and he clings to the assurance as though it really was meant for him.
He’s not the bad guy.
Maybe he just needs someone like you- someone who can understand him. Fisk never listens, just uses him. Dex doesn’t want that. He can redeem himself, he just needs an example.
After everything that happened, Bob is quieter. Not weaker, never that, but more aware of what he’s capable of.
You’re one of the few people allowed close to him during this fragile period. Not because you’re fearless, but because you see him, not just as Sentry or the Void.
He constantly asks, “Am I…okay right now?” and you’ve learned how to read him; his posture, his voice, the tension in his hands.
The Void never fully disappears, it lingers like a shadow behind his thoughts.
You don’t try to “fix” him. You just sit beside him, grounding him with quiet presence, sometimes slipping your hand into his.
On bad days, Bob withdraws, sitting in silence, staring at nothing like he’s listening to something only he can hear.
When the Void pushes, his voice drops, and his tone shifts; colder, detached. That’s when you gently bring him back: “Bob. Look at me.” And he does. Every time.
Bob is terrified of hurting you. That fear shapes everything; how close he stands, how softly he touches you, how often he hesitates.
The first time he hugs you after everything, it’s almost painfully gentle, like he’s holding something breakable.
Over time, you teach him that you’re not fragile, but he never stops treating you like you matter more than anything.
You become part of his grounding routine. Before using his powers, he often checks in with you; just a glance, a breath, a quiet “I’ve got this.”
Sometimes, you help him train by talking him through control exercises and reminding him to focus on intention, not fear.
When he loses control even slightly, he pulls away immediately, shaken. You’re always the one who brings him back down.
Bob craves normalcy in a way that’s almost heartbreaking.
Simple things mean everything to him; sitting on the couch, watching something dumb, listening to you talk about your day.
He loves when you ramble. It gives him something steady to hold onto.
Sometimes, he just watches you, soft and a little dazed, like he can’t believe you’re real.
He opens up slowly about his past; about the childhood abuse, the instability, the addiction, the fear of himself.
There are moments where he admits: “I don’t know where I end and it begins.”
You remind him that he chooses who he is — and that matters more than anything.
That idea sticks with him.
His love is intense but quiet. Not grand gestures — gravity.
He shows it through presence: always nearby, always watching, always ready to step in — but never controlling.
When he says “I love you” for the first time, it’s hesitant, like he’s afraid the words might break something.
You can feel how much it costs him to be that vulnerable — and how much he means it.
Some days, he feels like a god. Other days, like a ghost.
You’re the one thing that consistently reminds him he’s still human.
He doesn’t want to be worshipped. He doesn’t want to be feared.
He just wants to be Bob — and with you, he finally can be.
There are moments when the Void nearly takes over — when the air shifts, shadows deepen, and his presence becomes…wrong.
You don’t run. You step closer.
You speak his name, steady and unwavering.
And somewhere inside that storm, Bob reaches back.
HIIII!!!!!! can you write something for adam warlock cuz i feel like i never see anyth for him and i luv him :]
of course! and my first request tysm anon!
* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚
learning you
| adam warlock x reader. ~ 1.1k words. fluff.
masterlist. | oneshot masterlist.
There were two things you didn’t expect to happen when you agreed to stay on Knowhere after the Guardians saved the galaxy again:
That your apartment would be directly across the corridor from a literal golden alien.
That said golden alien would keep knocking on your door at ungodly hours to ask the most absurd questions like: “Why do people cry during commercials?”
Tonight’s gem was no different.
There was a knock -- three rhythmic taps, polite but insistent. You sighed, tossed the towel over your shoulder, and opened the door. Sure enough, Adam Warlock stood there, shirtless (again), holding what looked like a slice of burnt toast and a confused expression.
“I attempted cooking,” he spoke solemnly.
You blinked a few times before your brow furrowed, “And?”
“It appears the toaster.. hates me.”
You tried not to laugh. Really, but something about his genuine frustration mixed with philosophical despair made you crack a smile.
“You can destroy ships with your mind,” you reminded him, taking the charred bread, “but you lost a fight to a kitchen appliance.”
“It is a truly unforgiving machine.”
You grinned and stepped aside. “Come on in. Let’s try again. But this time, maybe don’t shove the bread in sideways?”
He followed you in like a very shiny, slightly sad puppy. Since Rocket had left him behind on Knowhere “to learn how not to be a weapon,” you’d found yourself unofficially... babysitting.
Or maybe... not quite babysitting.
He wasn’t stupid, just naïve and inexperienced. He was all power and no nuance like someone handed the sun legs and said “go blend in.”
Which he didn’t. Not at all. Yet, somehow, that only made you like him more.
Toaster disaster averted, you handed him a proper piece of golden brown toast, and plopped down on the worn couch.
He sat beside you stiffly, like he was afraid of taking up space. His cape got caught on the cushion, and he looked at it with genuine betrayal.
“Do you miss them?” you asked, softer now. “The Guardians?”
He didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “They were... confusing.. but kind.”
You nodded, “That’s the whole crew.”
He tilted his head, eyes meeting yours. They were the color of molten metal that carried the same sense of weight , somehow.
“Why are you kind to me?” he asked.
Your mouth went a little dry as you wet your lips while trying to come up with an answer that didn't sound rude, “Because you deserve it.”
He frowned at that, even though you were trying your best to word that kindly, “I haven’t done anything.”
“You don’t have to earn kindness, Adam.” You told him, your brow furrowed once again as you gazed at him and let your head tilt the slightest bit, so you were facing him more head on.
He looked down at the toast, like it suddenly held the answers to the universe.
“I like being here,” he spoke up, finally, “With you.”
Your chest gave a tiny, unexpected lurch.
And then -- “I think I like... toast, too.”
You burst out laughing. His eyes crinkled at the sound, clearly pleased with himself. He was getting better at that -- making you laugh. Understanding the difference between sarcasm and sincerity, while also beginning to pick up emotional cues instead of just barreling through them with a half-finished sentence and too much strength.
He leaned back slowly on the couch, mimicking your posture. Less rigid this time. His shoulder brushed yours.
Not an accident.
You stayed like that a moment and simply breathed in sync while the warm light from the hallway flittered through the door.
“Can I ask you something?” he questioned with a slight hesitancy to his words.
You turned your head with a smile, “You already are.”
He smirked -- a real one. A rare, almost boyish, like he’d stolen it from someone who was younger than he’d ever gotten to be.
“What does it mean when your chest feels tight around someone?”
You blinked as your forehead wrinkled and your eyes searched his expression for more of a hint as to what he could be talking about.
“I don’t mean in a bad way,” he added quickly. “More like... there is a pressure, but it isn’t pain. It’s more like... light, but inside.”
You sat up slightly on your leg so you could face him, “Are you... asking if you’re having feelings for someone?”
He hesitated, “Perhaps.”
“For who?” You prodded as your intrigue suddenly piqued. Yet, all he did was look at you like the answer was obvious.
Oh.
Oh.
You opened your mouth, then closed it.
He waited, patient, golden and glowing slightly in the dim light like someone carved him from starlight and hope. You weren’t sure what to say. Not because you didn’t feel it, but because he felt it so easily and accepted it happily. That was something most ordinary people couldn't do.
“I feel different around you,” he clarified. “I’m calmer. Like I don’t have to prove anything. Like... I’m enough.”
Your throat felt tight now too as you watched him with a softened expression and an eased posture.
“I didn’t think I could be something other than what I was made for,” he continued. “But when I’m here, when I’m with you, I think maybe I could... learn.”
You swallowed thickly, allowing yourself a moment to breathe. “You are learning,” you finally whispered, “Every day.”
He smiled and then, slowly, he reached for your hand. His fingers were warm and his grip was delicate. It was like he knew what he was holding might break, and he was determined to not even crack it.
“I think,” he said, eyes locked on yours, “this feeling... might be love.”
You could’ve laughed again. You could’ve teased him, told him he was jumping the gun, but the sincerity in his voice rooted you.
So instead, you whispered, “It might be.”
He nodded and the two of you sat there like that for a long time. The universe spinning quietly outside your window. Your fingers entwined with his, leaving the toaster forgotten.
And when he hesitantly leaned forward, eyes searching for a second, and then brushed his lips softly against yours. You didn’t stop him because whatever he was learning... he was doing it beautifully.
✦ pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
✦ genre: fluff, mush, domestic softness, modern!au, social media chaos
✦ summary: it was supposed to be a simple grocery run in sweatpants but someone caught you and Bucky holding hands, laughing in the cereal aisle. the video went viral overnight with the caption “relationship goals.” suddenly, the internet is obsessed with your love story.
✦✦✦✦
The trip was supposed to be boring.
You dragged Bucky out of the Tower on a Saturday morning, insisting you needed to actually live like humans for once “We can’t keep living on takeout and Tony’s weird meal subscriptions,” you’d argued, tugging on his hand until he caved.
Now, here you both were two Avengers in a quiet Brooklyn grocery store, dressed down in sweatpants and hoodies, pushing a squeaky cart through the aisles.
“Doll, we don’t need three different kinds of cereal,” Bucky muttered, arms crossed as you happily loaded another box into the cart.
“You don’t understand the importance of cereal variety,” you replied solemnly, standing on tiptoe to reach the top shelf.
Bucky sighed, reaching up easily with his vibranium arm and plucking the box down for you. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it,” you shot back, giving him a look that made the corner of his mouth twitch.
Neither of you noticed the girl a few feet away, phone angled discreetly in her hand. She caught the way Bucky leaned down to whisper something in your ear, the way you burst into laughter, clutching the cereal box like it was the funniest thing in the world. She recorded when he rested his big hand on your lower back, guiding you down the aisle like it was second nature.
She posted it with a simple caption: relationship goals.
By the time you and Bucky were unloading groceries back at the Tower, the internet had already begun to lose its mind. It started with TikTok.
A thirty-second clip of you and Bucky in the cereal aisle. No context. Just soft laughter, quiet touches, his unguarded smile.
Then it spread to Twitter.
“WHO ARE THEY???” one tweet screamed, with 100k likes in under an hour.
“Find me a love like THIS,” another said, paired with crying emojis.
Then Instagram. Then Buzzfeed. Then everyone.
You found out when Nat barged into your shared apartment, phone in hand.
“You two are trending,” she announced, looking far too smug.
“What?” you asked, balancing a bag of chips on top of the fridge.
Bucky squinted. “Trending? What does that mean?”
Nat grinned and turned her phone toward you. A video of you and Bucky filled the screen, overlayed with hearts and sparkles, comments flooding in faster than you could read
“i don’t even know their names but i want what they have.”
“they look so in love i’m gonna cry.”
“wait is that THE bucky barnes??”
Your jaw dropped. “Oh my god.”
Bucky’s ears went red instantly. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s cute, that’s what,” Nat said. “The internet has claimed you two as its new favorite couple.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “This is so embarrassing.”
But when you peeked at Bucky, he wasn’t scowling. He was staring at the screen, lips parted, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“They think… we’re goals?” he muttered, voice almost shy.
Your chest ached a little at that. Because he really didn’t see it the way people looked at him, at you, when you were together. Like love was something inevitable in the way his hand always found yours, or the way your smile softened whenever he walked into a room.
The next morning, another video surfaced.
This time, it was from the parking lot. Someone had caught you struggling to juggle grocery bags, while Bucky effortlessly carried six in each hand. You’d been laughing, teasing him for showing off, and he’d leaned down to kiss your forehead before loading the bags into the car.
The internet exploded again.
“They’re domestic as hell, I can’t stand it,” one comment read.
“This is literally a romcom,” another said.
Bucky scrolled through them on your couch that night, expression caught between awe and panic. “People really… like us?”
“Of course they do,” you said softly, nudging his shoulder. “You’re kind of hard not to like when you’re not brooding.”
He gave you a mock glare, but you caught the way his cheeks flushed pink.
Then came the “trending couple challenge.”
Some genius decided to compile clips of you and Bucky, cutting them with captions like “when he looks at you like this >>>” and “this is how love should be.” The trend blew up. People started tagging their partners, recreating grocery store dates, holding hands in sweatpants.
And through it all, the original couple you and Bucky stayed completely oblivious to how deep the obsession ran.
Until Clint showed up at brunch with a smirk and said, “So… how does it feel being the internet’s new favorite married couple?”
You nearly choked on your coffee. “We’re not married!”
“Yet,” Bucky muttered under his breath.
The table went silent. You stared at him. He stared at his plate.
Nat grinned like she’d just been handed front-row tickets to the drama.
It was supposed to be silly. A fluke. Just a couple of strangers filming something they thought was cute.
But a week later, you found yourself scrolling through hundreds of videos of you and Bucky edits set to soft music, threads of people analyzing every little touch, every glance.
And maybe it was embarrassing. Maybe it was invasive.
But when Bucky came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder, you realized you didn’t mind so much.
Because for once, the world wasn’t looking at him like a weapon. They were looking at him the way you did.
Like he was love, in its simplest, purest form. And maybe that wasn’t so bad after all.
That night, curled against him in bed, you whispered, “You okay with all this? With everyone seeing us like that?”
Bucky pressed a kiss into your hair, pulling you closer “As long as you’re mine,” he murmured, “they can watch all they want.”
And in the dark, you smiled. Because this was you. Unfiltered. Unstaged. Unapologetically in love. And the world finally got to see it, too.
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"He's usually never this calm," Clark says, in awe as he observes Krypto laying peacefully on your lap. He wasn't barking or causing mass amounts of destruction—he was just...there.
Calm and steady.
"Is he not?" You ask, smoothing a hand through Krypto's soft fur. You also scratch behind one of his ears and coo when Krypto leans into it, his tail wagging happily. "He seems like such a good boy, though."
Clark snorts. "If causing mass amounts of trouble counts as good, then yeah, he's a good boy."
You shrug. "He probably had his reasons," you say, your smile soft. "I'm sure you did, sweet boy."
Krypto basks underneath the praise, tail wagging faster to show his content. He raises up a little to brush his nose against yours, his tongue flicking out to kiss your cheek.
Clark watches the two of you, his heart oddly warm at the sight. Usually, Krypto is a pain in his behind and causes more chaos than good. But seeing him with you and how he's being so careful settles him. It allows him to know that Krypto would never hurt you; in or unintentionally.
Still.
"Who's my best boy ever?" You continue to coo, your smile widening as Krypto now shakes with excitement in your lap. "Yes, it's you! It's you!"
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