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
youâre not someone who has ever had the courage to ask someone out, never mind doing it somewhere public. youâd 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. thatâs when you first saw him.
if you were being honest, you donât think youâve ever seen a man that attractive in your life. not to put him on a pedestal or anything, but itâs 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 werenât imagining it, especially when you realised heâd 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 youâd been good enough, done enough decent things, that maybe youâd get lucky. that maybe youâd 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 werenât waiting. like you werenât 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 youâd 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 didnât 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 hadnât 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,Â
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 youâre overthinking everything, what youâd even say if he stopped, if he spoke, if he did anything other than run past like he had been.
it doesnât matter because when he passes you this time, he looks right at you and smirks and just like that, heâs 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 itâs pointless now.
heâs 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 thereâs any chance he might come back.
he doesnât.
eventually, you force yourself to stand, brushing your hands over your clothes, trying to shake it off as you start the walk home. itâs quiet other than the sound of birds, your footsteps steady, but your mind wonât leave it alone. it keeps circling back, what you couldâve said, how easily you couldâve just called out.
by the time you get home, youâre already tired of your own thoughts.
you try to get on with your day properly. you start with small things, chores youâd 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 doesnât. youâll pause, standing still in the middle of a task, your mind drifting straight back to him.
itâs irritating more than anything else. you donât know him. youâve never spoken to him. and yet somehow, heâs there, so stuck in your head.
even when you go out later to get groceries, it doesnât stop. you walk through the aisles, picking things up automatically, barely paying attention to what youâre actually there for. half aware of people passing by, a small, ridiculous part of you wondering if youâll just happen to see him again.
you donât. 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 itâll 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.
itâs stupid. he's a goddamned stranger.
by the time youâre done and get into bed, the day has worn you out, but your mind hasnât caught up. you shift under the covers, trying to get comfortable, turning onto your side, then your back, then your other side, but it doesnât make much difference.
every time you close your eyes, youâre 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 youâre 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 didnât have to wonder. dex already knew your name.
heâd 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 didnât. he made sure of that. early runs, controlled routes, minimal interaction, pretty much invisible. but you noticed.
and then you kept noticing, thatâs what made him curious. so he looked into you to make sure you weren't a threat. it hadnât taken long. it never did. a name turned into a profile, a profile into patterns, then into something more solid.Â
where you worked, where you lived, the places you frequented, the small habits you probably didnât even realise you had. he didnât need to speak to you to know you, but knowing wasnât 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.
thatâs the one that lingered the most. heâd taken the same route every morning on purpose. timed it. adjusted it, early enough that there wouldnât 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 youâd tense, the way your gaze would snap away too late to pretend you hadnât 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 didnât show up. not because he didnât want to, but because he wanted to see what youâd do when he didnât.
the next day, you go back.
you tell yourself that it doesnât mean anything, that youâd be here anyway and if he was too then itâd be a bonus but thereâs 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 donât think much of it. maybe heâs 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 isnât 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 isnât the path, before your eyes betray you again, lifting back up in anticipation.
he still doesnât show.
you stay longer than you mean to. longer than youâd ever usually sit here doing nothing. long enough that it starts to feel a little embarrassing that youâre waiting around for a guy.
âfuck,â 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 thatâs just the way the disappointment settles back into your chest.
if youâd just done something yesterday, anything, you couldâve maybe, possibly had his number by now. you couldâve said something, even something stupid, something small, just enough to start something.
at the very least, youâd know his name.
instead, youâre stuck here, feeling a little pathetic over a man youâve never spoken to, clinging to a few shared glances as if they meant more than they probably did. âmaybe it's for the better.â 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 doesnât 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 cafĂŠ.
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, itâs almost comforting. something sweet is baking somewhere behind the counter, the scent of it lingering in the air.
itâs 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 âcause 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.
âwonât be long,â 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. itâs 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 youâd 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 youâre going, your focus split between not dropping your drink and fixing the strap.
which is exactly why you nearly walk straight into someone, but theyâre 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 itâs him. oh my god. itâs him.
up close, heâs 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. âiâm so sorry,â you blurt out, words tripping over themselves just a little. âyou really saved the both of us there.â
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.
âno worries,â he brushes it off, voice calm, âyouâre good.â thereâs 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 heâs looking at you. of how he almost blocks out the light behind him, almost like heâs unintentionally crowding your space without being in it.
it makes something in your stomach twist. âhey⌠have we met before?â he asks, breaking the silence, his head tilting slightly as he looks down at you. âyou look really familiar.â you canât tell if heâs joking.
thereâs something in his tone that sounds genuine, but then again, youâve caught him looking at you enough times that it doesnât feel like he wouldnât know it's you. still, you answer honestly.
ânot officially,â you reply, a smile pulling at your lips as you glance at his before looking back into his eyes, âbut iâve seen you at the park a couple of times.â
you say it casually, like he hasnât been on your mind, like you didnât 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 âohhâ leaves him.
âright,â he says, almost to himself, his focus lingers on you for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable sitting behind it now. âyeah. that makes sense.âÂ
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.
âso youâre the one who sits on the bench,â he adds, a little more certain now. your stomach flips. thereâs no teasing in his voice. just⌠observation. like heâs been paying attention too. âguess i am,â 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, âi didnât see you this morning,â he noticed. the thought rings loud in your mind, catching you off guard as you scramble to respond, âyeah, um, you mustâve just missed me,â you reply quickly, the words coming out a little too fast.
the eye contact doesnât waver. âdefinitely,â and thereâs something in the way he says it makes you question if he believes you at all. you canât tell if heâs flirting or if heâs just being polite, or if youâre reading too much into all of this again.
but either way, you can feel the moment slipping if you donât do something. youâve already spent the last couple of days replaying missed chances in your head, youâre not doing that again.
so you take a breath. âhey,â you start, your nails digging into your free palm, âi know this is completely random and you can totally shut me down if you want, butâŚâ
your heart is pounding now, loud enough youâre convinced he can hear it. âcould i get your number?â you manage, your voice a little unsteady but still there. âi think youâre really cute, and i kinda⌠want to go out with you sometime.â
your words hanging there between you. you brace for it, for the awkward smile. the apology. the sorry, iâve got a partner thatâll make you wish the ground would just open up beneath you.
it doesnât come. instead, his entire expression shifts, his face lighting up in a way that catches you off guard completely.
âyeah,â he agrees immediately, shyly smiling down at the ground, already reaching into his pocket, pulling his phone out. âyeah, iâd love that.â
your eyes widen slightly, relief hitting you all at once, followed by a shaky breath you didnât realise you were holding. âoh, okay,â you let out, a disbelieving laugh slipping through.
âhere,â stepping a little closer again, angling his screen toward you. âput your number in instead.â
you hesitate for half a second, not because you donât 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 itâs been there. âso you donât forget.â his eyes flick down to the screen, and you catch the way his mouth curves again. âi wouldnât,â so sure of it that it doesnât even sound like a possibility worth considering.Â
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. âthere,â he smirks, glancing back up at you, ânow youâve got mine too.â
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. âi guess iâll text you then,â you get out, trying not to sound disappointed that you have to go.
âyeah,â he replies, holding your eyes just a second longer than necessary, as if heâs making sure you mean it. âdo that.â thereâs a pause before he adds, âiâm glad you asked.â you look away shyly, the weight of his attention suddenly a little too much, before you glance back up at him.
âyeah⌠me too.â your eyes flick over him in a way thatâs not even close to subtle, a quick up down that you donât 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 doesnât leave. he turns slightly, watching you walk away, only looking away when you disappear out of sight.
2026 IALREADYMADEYOUAPROMISE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED !
âł 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.
âł 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 â "that sounded like a plate..." â 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 â 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 â which seems to happen often â 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 â 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 â and you shrug off the odd sensation of being watched â 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 â 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 â 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, iâ" 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, infectiousâ 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 soundâ it had no right beside you. It was like a noise pollutant, killing the melody of your voice with itâs 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 youâd 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 doesnât feel the crippling guilt Matt does.
In your hands, you swing the rope Matt had wrapped around his fist. Itâs bloodied, and frayed from where he lost a fraction of his control- took the punches too far. You donât 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.
Heâs mesmerised by the ease of it. How nothing Matt does shakes you, and how heâs watched you for a week now listen to him after every fight. Could he shake you? Would you listen anyway?
âMatt you sound like you need a vacation,â you joked, spinning dangerously on your heel to then walk back the distance you intially trailed. He watched the precision in your movementsâ how the edge didnât fear you, and you seemed so confident in yourself. Heâd never followed you beyond this rooftop but he thinks he should, one day. Avengers interest him. The threats you face⌠youâd 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. âI canât leave this place.â
âCity needs you?â You spoke with a mocking tone, grinning afterward. âMaybe it can survive one night.â
âIn one night, Bullseye will make the whole city turn against me,â Matt grits out. Dex frowns- he doesnât like that. He doesnât like that Matt is feeding you information about him, and that youâre being convinced Dex is some horrible man. He doesnât 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.
âThen the city must not like you very much, to be turned so easily.â 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.
âThe city is filled with criminals who frame me,â Matt says weakly. âOf course no one knows if they can trust me.â
âYeahâŚâ you sigh. âI guess so.â
Dex watches with a nauseating envy as you place your hand softly on Mattâs shoulder. You comfort him, and in turn, Dex he craves to be in his place. He had never thought that heâd be so jealous of Matt- the lawyer who canât 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.
âDonât eat yourself up, though.â If Dex closes his eyes, he can almost pretend youâre saying it to him. That your sweet words of reassurance are to ease his worries and the war in his mind. âYouâre not the bad guy.â He can almost picture it whispered into his ear, and he clings to the assurance as though it really was meant for him.
Heâs not the bad guy.
Maybe he just needs someone like you- someone who can understand him. Fisk never listens, just uses him. Dex doesnât 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 heâs capable of.
Youâre one of the few people allowed close to him during this fragile period. Not because youâre fearless, but because you see him, not just as Sentry or the Void.
He constantly asks, âAm IâŚokay right now?â and youâve 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 donât try to âfixâ 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 heâs listening to something only he can hear.
When the Void pushes, his voice drops, and his tone shifts; colder, detached. Thatâs when you gently bring him back: âBob. Look at me.â 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, itâs almost painfully gentle, like heâs holding something breakable.
Over time, you teach him that youâre 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 âIâve got this.â
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. Youâre always the one who brings him back down.
Bob craves normalcy in a way thatâs 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 canât believe youâre 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: âI donât know where I end and it begins.â
You remind him that he chooses who he is â and that matters more than anything.
That idea sticks with him.
His love is intense but quiet. Not grand gestures â gravity.
He shows it through presence: always nearby, always watching, always ready to step in â but never controlling.
When he says âI love youâ for the first time, itâs hesitant, like heâs afraid the words might break something.
You can feel how much it costs him to be that vulnerable â and how much he means it.
Some days, he feels like a god. Other days, like a ghost.
Youâre the one thing that consistently reminds him heâs still human.
He doesnât want to be worshipped. He doesnât want to be feared.
He just wants to be Bob â and with you, he finally can be.
There are moments when the Void nearly takes over â when the air shifts, shadows deepen, and his presence becomesâŚwrong.
You donât 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!
* ŕŠâŠâ§âË* ŕŠâŠâ§âË* ŕŠâŠâ§âË
learning you
| adam warlock x reader. ~ 1.1k words. fluff.
masterlist. | oneshot masterlist.
There were two things you didnât 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: âWhy do people cry during commercials?â
Tonightâs 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.
âI attempted cooking,â he spoke solemnly.
You blinked a few times before your brow furrowed, âAnd?â
âIt appears the toaster.. hates me.â
You tried not to laugh. Really, but something about his genuine frustration mixed with philosophical despair made you crack a smile.
âYou can destroy ships with your mind,â you reminded him, taking the charred bread, âbut you lost a fight to a kitchen appliance.â
âIt is a truly unforgiving machine.â
You grinned and stepped aside. âCome on in. Letâs try again. But this time, maybe donât shove the bread in sideways?â
He followed you in like a very shiny, slightly sad puppy. Since Rocket had left him behind on Knowhere âto learn how not to be a weapon,â youâd found yourself unofficially... babysitting.
Or maybe... not quite babysitting.
He wasnât stupid, just naĂŻve and inexperienced. He was all power and no nuance like someone handed the sun legs and said âgo blend in.â
Which he didnât. 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.
âDo you miss them?â you asked, softer now. âThe Guardians?â
He didnât answer right away. âI donât know,â he admitted. âThey were... confusing.. but kind.â
You nodded, âThatâs the whole crew.â
He tilted his head, eyes meeting yours. They were the color of molten metal that carried the same sense of weight , somehow.
âWhy are you kind to me?â 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, âBecause you deserve it.â
He frowned at that, even though you were trying your best to word that kindly, âI havenât done anything.â
âYou donât have to earn kindness, Adam.â 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.
âI like being here,â he spoke up, finally, âWith you.â
Your chest gave a tiny, unexpected lurch.
And then -- âI think I like... toast, too.â
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.
âCan I ask you something?â he questioned with a slight hesitancy to his words.
You turned your head with a smile, âYou already are.â
He smirked -- a real one. A rare, almost boyish, like heâd stolen it from someone who was younger than heâd ever gotten to be.
âWhat does it mean when your chest feels tight around someone?â
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.
âI donât mean in a bad way,â he added quickly. âMore like... there is a pressure, but it isnât pain. Itâs more like... light, but inside.â
You sat up slightly on your leg so you could face him, âAre you... asking if youâre having feelings for someone?â
He hesitated, âPerhaps.â
âFor who?â 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 werenât sure what to say. Not because you didnât feel it, but because he felt it so easily and accepted it happily. That was something most ordinary people couldn't do.
âI feel different around you,â he clarified. âIâm calmer. Like I donât have to prove anything. Like... Iâm enough.â
Your throat felt tight now too as you watched him with a softened expression and an eased posture.
âI didnât think I could be something other than what I was made for,â he continued. âBut when Iâm here, when Iâm with you, I think maybe I could... learn.â
You swallowed thickly, allowing yourself a moment to breathe. âYou are learning,â you finally whispered, âEvery day.â
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.
âI think,â he said, eyes locked on yours, âthis feeling... might be love.â
You couldâve laughed again. You couldâve teased him, told him he was jumping the gun, but the sincerity in his voice rooted you.
So instead, you whispered, âIt might be.â
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 didnât 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 ârelationship goals.â suddenly, the internet is obsessed with your love story.
âŚâŚâŚâŚ
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 âWe canât keep living on takeout and Tonyâs weird meal subscriptions,â youâd 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.
âDoll, we donât need three different kinds of cereal,â Bucky muttered, arms crossed as you happily loaded another box into the cart.
âYou donât understand the importance of cereal variety,â 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. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âYou love it,â 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.
âWHO ARE THEY???â one tweet screamed, with 100k likes in under an hour.
âFind me a love like THIS,â 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.
âYou two are trending,â she announced, looking far too smug.
âWhat?â you asked, balancing a bag of chips on top of the fridge.
Bucky squinted. âTrending? What does that mean?â
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
âi donât even know their names but i want what they have.â
âthey look so in love iâm gonna cry.â
âwait is that THE bucky barnes??â
Your jaw dropped. âOh my god.â
Buckyâs ears went red instantly. âWhat the hell is this?â
âItâs cute, thatâs what,â Nat said. âThe internet has claimed you two as its new favorite couple.â
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. âThis is so embarrassing.â
But when you peeked at Bucky, he wasnât scowling. He was staring at the screen, lips parted, like he couldnât believe what he was seeing.
âThey think⌠weâre goals?â he muttered, voice almost shy.
Your chest ached a little at that. Because he really didnât 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. Youâd been laughing, teasing him for showing off, and heâd leaned down to kiss your forehead before loading the bags into the car.
The internet exploded again.
âTheyâre domestic as hell, I canât stand it,â one comment read.
âThis is literally a romcom,â another said.
Bucky scrolled through them on your couch that night, expression caught between awe and panic. âPeople really⌠like us?â
âOf course they do,â you said softly, nudging his shoulder. âYouâre kind of hard not to like when youâre not brooding.â
He gave you a mock glare, but you caught the way his cheeks flushed pink.
Then came the âtrending couple challenge.â
Some genius decided to compile clips of you and Bucky, cutting them with captions like âwhen he looks at you like this >>>â and âthis is how love should be.â 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, âSo⌠how does it feel being the internetâs new favorite married couple?â
You nearly choked on your coffee. âWeâre not married!â
âYet,â Bucky muttered under his breath.
The table went silent. You stared at him. He stared at his plate.
Nat grinned like sheâd 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 didnât mind so much.
Because for once, the world wasnât 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 wasnât so bad after all.
That night, curled against him in bed, you whispered, âYou okay with all this? With everyone seeing us like that?â
Bucky pressed a kiss into your hair, pulling you closer âAs long as youâre mine,â he murmured, âthey can watch all they want.â
And in the dark, you smiled. Because this was you. Unfiltered. Unstaged. Unapologetically in love. And the world finally got to see it, too.
⨠wanna be spoiled with updates, theories, soft heartbreaks, & forehead-kiss fluff?
â just reply here or drop me an ask and Iâll tuck you safely into the tag list âĄ
"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 destructionâhe 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!"
I need u to know that any requests u filled out for horrrormovielover2000 should be deleted. They are sentenced pedophile and there are official articles on them. He pretends to be a girl (a girl who died, more specifically). They admitted to it as well.
Omg that is crazy!!!! I just checked out their account and Iâm definitely not about that! Thank you anonymous for looking out and letting me know. Iâm curious though where can I find this article đ¤
synopsis: clark kent is overwhelmed by his affection for you, and your relentless lack of will to see it. a gift mishap in the planet office gives you affirmation of the false pretense that clarkâs just not that into you, leading to a dramatic turn of events between you two.
tags: unedited, reader is a cynic && an unofficial eldest daughter with wounded self-image, clark thinks heâs being delusional (heâs not) (you are madly in love with him too), fluff && slowburn, coworkers && friends to lovers, the pov is kinda messy (sorry) (itâs roughly third person omniscient but it focuses for a hot minute on how down bad he is for you), angsty bc you drive each other crazy by not communicating, making out!
- no use of y/n!
Everyone knows that Clarkâs benevolence is anything but ill-inspired. He doesnât believe you incapable, doesnât face you with a smug look or egocentric smirk, expect any goodwill or favors in exchange whenever he helps you or anyone else about their daily tasksâor a cup of coffee, on him.
In his head he mulls over the details of your order, âof everyoneâs, of course; the heap of sugar that Lois absentmindedly churns into hers, hardly dissolving, (âI party like a rockstar, choir boys!â She defends to Jimmy and Clark) the moderate spoonful Jimmy adds in his, and when it comes to your preferenceâthe miniature cup of cream, cautious spoonfuls of sugar, and exact number by which you swirl your stirrer. But that wasnât him being any more excessively chivalrous than he already was, right?
Much to the dismay of an internally disgruntled Clark, you fail to see how his regular acts of altruism are especially catered towards you when he does them. He is patient, and if thereâs anyone heâs willing to wait for, itâs youâbut heâs unsure how to magnify that youâre the main object of his daily affections. At some point he accepts with defeat that youâre not so oblivious to his obvious adoration, just that you wonât requite it.
Stifling down his unwavering desire, he relishes in the way you take a long sip of your coffee, and when you thank him and say âWow Clark, you couldâve fooled me. If I didnât know any better I wouldâve thought Iâd just made this,â he almost wants to wrap himself in the warm embrace of your appraisal, feeling gratified by your satisfaction over something as simple his mastery over your cup of coffee.
On occasion you seemed especially soft towards him just the same, but Clark boiled every charitable deed down to your character, that you just shared in his goodwill and nothing moreâlike the time he lost his glasses.
Clark paced around his desk in a frantic haze, turning manila file folders over and shoving binders and stacks of loose leaf paper entirely aside, finally hollering from under his desk, âHas anybody seen my glasses? I remember taking them off for only a second, andââ
He hears you clear your throat from behind him after missing the click of your heels as you sauntered towards his desk. The abrupt sound coupled with his rush to get to you cause him to hit his head against the deskâs bottom and you stifle a little laugh watching his big body struggle from underneath, feeling sorry for him. Slowly he comes out from under, rubbing his poor sore head. He feels overcome with an immediate sense of serenity when he sees you, his missing pair of spectacles in hand.
This time he clears his throat. âSorry, I didnât see you thereâ,â he starts.
âDonât be, Clark,â you finish.
He sees your waiting hands nursing his glasses, and before he can mutter a prompt âthank youâ or take them for himself, youâre putting them on him yourself, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with a manicured finger.
His breath catches hard in his chest and his eyes zero down in on you as you do it, (vision still fuzzy), your smile cheesy and large on your face and a focused sparkle in your eye. Youâre more than happy and willing to do it, so he doesnât stop youânot like he wanted to.
âAll better?â you inquire with a tilt of your head, still looking up at him, giving his still-sore head another rub. All he can do is stand there and nod dumbly, while Lois and Jimmyâs eyes return to their screens when you look back to relieve the feel of brazen eyes behind you after cheekily smiling and watching through the whole exchange. He can only shove down the feeling and the signs that might be pointing in his favor. He needed to be sure.
It never seems to register that your thoughtfulness towards him is reciprocated romantically, even if in the most trivial of ways; that you truly know him and await the invitation to explore the most of obscure trenches youâd yet to get to know of him, to finally be hisâlike when youâd asked him to come over to your desk and proofread an article youâd just written while you left to the ladyâs room. Unbeknownst to him, youâd left a split screen tab open of a love song by The Mighty Crabjoys playing, perfecting timing your departure with the song so that the lyrics aligned with his arrival at your desks with words perfectly encapsulating how you felt about him.
In all fairness, youâd wanted him to know how loudly youâd loved him in the quietest of ways, with as little words as possible. A part of you couldnât believe a man could be this good and expect nothing in return, and that he could feel as strongly about you when you felt you had so little to offer. Often overcompensating for insecurity and fear of abandonment, you serviced him and others to assure yourself of having some purpose or usefulness, paying extra attention to him, whether it be his quirks and interests or âpunkrockâ bands heâd loved ardently in his adolescence.
Whenever youâd tell a story to your coworkers or drone about the random events of the weekend, it was always Clark whose eyes yours had the tendency to meet, it was only him you really cared to tell the happenings of your life toâwhether they were plain and mundane or eventful. Every now and then youâd narrate to them your close encounters with Superman, who seemed, by sizable coincidence, rather prone to saving you, or at least catching you for small talk in between lifting metal beams above his head or clobbering a wild beast to its knees, much to your confusion. You recalled to Lois, Jimmy and Clark how Superman had once left a monsterâs severed green, suctioned tentacle, festering with great big leaves, at the foot of The Daily Planetâs entrance and how youâd glided over the slimy thing, landing right on your bottom.
âAnd he left this slimy thingâI donât even know what it wasâon the concrete when I was leaving work and you wonât believe how I tripped right over the giant thing, it was just covered in mucus all over the sidewalk so I never stood a chance getting past it unbruised. Green ivy monster tentacleâŚwhatever slimy gross diseases it had on it made me itch for a week.â You told the story with a fit of laughter that encouraged the three to join in, too, making Clark feel better.
He winced a little at first, feeling apologetic at the damage heâd dismissively left unfortunately for you, and you didnât fail to leave out how remorseful Superman looked as he brought you back to your feet with the creature tailing only mere feet from behind him. That week youâd headlined Superman, on the front page in big bold letters dubbing the story badly, âSuperman Shunts Tentacled Green Ivy Monster.â Clark gave you two thumbs up and an amused grin from over the papers across you at his desk only seconds after skimming the headline. Your heart fluttered within your rapidly pounding chest when you smiled back.
Everything you take from one another is with a grain of salt, the fleeting glances (more like stares), lightest flutters of touches before darting away, and compliments especially tailored to one another; you both noticed everything.
Against all odds (besides the subtle implications that there might be something there), Clark decided to make the first real big move to finally initiate something between the two of you. If you really werenât up to accept his final advance, he wouldnât let his pride be wounded. He was a man, and he could dismiss the torment of rejection for your sake, because nothing made him happier than doing something for you, and so be it if that something meant letting you go.
For months, Clark thought to carefully plot his way around asking you outâfinally settling on a simple but sweet gesture that would shed a light on how he knew you, on how he listened. After all, listening and memorizing seemed to be your shared love language. Heâd bought a rather large vase in your favorite color, wrapping it with a ribbon of an accent shade of that color. The vase was filled to its brim with your favorite flowers in a bright, big, bouquet. A tag hung loose around the neck of the vase.
Clark arrived early that morning, awaiting your arrival; you were of the first at your desk when the day began and the regular Daily Planet chaos ensued. All he needed to do was write a date proposal on the tag of the vase.
Somewhere between now and his lost-glasses fiasco, heâd lost the pen youâd given to him one day, in your favorite color, when heâd loosely mentioned how many of his own ran dry and he needed to make a run to the store that day for a refill on supplies. Frantically searching high and low, the glint of the pen caught his eye from afar, on Loisâs desk. He was sure she wouldnât mind him shuffling through her penholder for it.
In his best handwriting, he scrawled on it, âUnlike slimy green monster tentacles, these wonât give you poison ivy. Theyâre nicer too, I hope.â
He smiled down at the vase, proud of his work. He turned the tag over to its other blank side to pen the noteâs author as well as your name, but all he could get out before hearing the boom of Perryâs voice from his own office was âFrom Clark.â
âKent!â Perry squawked at Clark with a furrowed brow, hands on his hips before ushering him to his own office, going on about how he needed to talk about his latest column of the paper and his miraculous interview scores with Superman. He anxiously left the vase there, awry still on Loisâs desk.
Victim to Perryâs droning, he missed you filing in closely after Lois.
âWhatâve we got here?â Lois asked rhetorically, immediately seeing the vibrant flowers perched idly on her desk.
âUgh, must be that hookup from a month ago that keeps showing up at my apartment. God, if he knew anything about me, heâd know Iâm sensitive to pollen,â Lois exclaimed, completely missing Clarkâs scribbled note and wrinkling her nose in revulsion before letting out a roaring sneeze. You laughed beside her, admiring the gift wistfully and thinking about how lucky youâd be to receive something as simple but grand as this, even if the guy totally failed to think it through especially for Lois. She tossed the vase in the wastebasket beside the coffee hutch before slumping in her seat.
Noticing Clarkâs absence and entrapment in Perryâs office in the last ten minutes since you clocked in, you gave him an apologetic glance (which he exchanged with a grateful smile) when you made your way towards the piping hot coffee percolator. Humming to yourself, you stopped in your tracks noticing the tag that Lois had missed to see entirelyâthe side of it reading âFrom Clark.â
Your heart dropped in your chest. It wasnât like you hadnât already believed Clark couldnât like you back, but to finally have to settle with the reality of it when you had the slightest twinge of hope made you feel completely idiotic. It was like you thought, that this friendship couldnât foster something more, that the discreet intimate moments you shared and sweet nothings amounted to just thatâto nothing. You made your way back to your desk, forgetting your coffee and feeling defeated. The rest of the day you were practically mute and unreceptive to your coworkersâ advances at conversation, leaving them dazed and confused.
Clark wasnât any more chatty than you. Finally leaving Perryâs office after a good while, his eyes settled on you, eyes completely trained to your screen, and to his great disappointment, noticed your abandoned flowers in the chasm of the coffee station wastebasket. He left out a great sigh of disbelief and anguish, sitting back at his desk to watch you only to notice the way your eyes completely dodging his at every glance.
Only when you were making your way out of the Daily Planet did he make any true efforts to converse about the matter, only hesitating for a moment before calling your name, hoarse and weak, with your back turned towards him.
You swiftly turned your heel to finally look at him, like it didnât hurt, like the last thing you wanted to do was leave him here in the newsroom lobby, knowing he didnât deserve it, but that you couldnât take it, that you couldnât bear to be here, with him.
âThe flowers,â Clark started, eyes fluttering shut with anguish before opening to look back at you. âWhyââ
âClark, you donât need to explain to me. I just feel stupid for ever thinking that this,â you cut through over him, pointing between the two of you, âcould be something. That we were something. And itâs not fair to you that I iced you out for that, and that I canât just be happy for you trying your shot with Lois, butâ
âThey were for you,â Clark didnât bother letting you finish. He couldnât bear a moment longer of hearing your misconceptions that his affections could be for anyone else but you. Couldnât you see what you do to him? He looked utterly disheveled standing before you, black curls unkempt atop his forehead glistening with sweat, tie nearly undone and dress shirt unbuttoned some way up the collar, pink lips slightly parted, all tense and distant from the heartbreak heâd endured all in a single work day. The abrupt confirmation that youâd felt the way he did was some consolation in his woe over the principle of the situation and that his efforts at you had almost gone unheard.
You suddenly pitied him, feeling that familiar heart drop. You shuffled your feet, looking down at your heels. âClark, why didnât you say anything?â You were meek when you asked, suddenly afraid.
âWhy didnât you?â
His question was rightful as your own, the thousand words youâd been meaning to say to him finally making their way to your lips, in due time after for so long suffocating, choking down within you.
âClark, Iâm no good for you, I could never actually consider that youâd actually want to be with me,â you let out a mirthless laugh as your eyes well to their brims with tears that you fight to keep down.
âHow could you say that about yourself?â he asks more to himself more than to you, as he makes his way over towards you, closing the vast gap of air where tension lingered. Clark was not only inherently an empath and raised by a good pair of people. Aside from the virtue that so naturally came to him, like it coursed within his veins, he had to study the mosaic of the human character, acquaint himself with all its complexities, and understand that cynicism didnât come as easily to him as it did others, understandably so.
If there was nothing in the world to be cynical of, Clark wouldnât be suited up against ravenous beasts every other day. He had to sympathize with, though he could never understand, that for some odd reason you were riddled with a sense of damaged esteem that made sure you were never made privy to his adoration.
You can only fall silent as the tears finally stream down, feeling vulnerable there before him. The silence stings and thickens the air.
âLet me?â he asks you gently, opening his arms to embrace you, to which you timidly nod. He rests his chin above your head, hunched over.
âCan I kiss you?â he asks, feeling even more timid and vulnerable than you. You nod at him with a weak smile when his eyes meet yours, but his lips donât meet your own. They kiss your tears away, and at your forehead, nose, and quivering chin, and your shaking hands, whispering in between each thing he loved about you, how kind and noble you were for being here in him in this moment, naked from the shell that for so long youâd found solace in, your brains and beauty, how you made him laugh the most of everyone in the office, that being here and working with you was some beautiful luck of the universe and the only great thing he had to look forward to every day, if nothing. That memorizing every incandescent detail about youâfrom your coffee preferences to the animation with which you narrated your stories, and the crinkles by your eyes when you laughed with him while doing so, was a routine he never would tire of.
When his lips finally meet yours, youâre both warm and calm with a sense of comfort, of togetherness here in this moment. Youâre unconcerned with your worthiness to latch on to him, or shy away when his strong hands cup your face, or when he deepens into the kiss passionately.
When he breaks away and the pacific blue of his eyes meet yours, breathing heavily, he says, âWeâll go slow. I want you to trust me, I want you to know how much I really like you, and I like you a lot,â he says and you share in your laughter this time, genuine and hearty.
âI like you a lot too, Clark Kent. Thank you for waiting, for liking me this much,â you say sincerely. He wants to say he doesnât need nor expect any gratitude for being enamored by you, that it really takes no work, that itâs less task and more instinct, and that you were worth every second of the wait. Before he can open his mouth again, you are pressing your lips to his again and all he can do is melt into it, and hold you.
