takenbypeter

[takenbypeter]

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 I’m definitely not about that! Thank you anonymous for looking out and letting me know. I’m curious though where can I find this article 🤔

[takenbypeter]

I haven't seen Thinderbolts* yet but I'm already crying

[takenbypeter]

UNDERSTANDABLY SO.

(superman 2025) clark kent x fem!reader, 3.1k

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 clark’s 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 he’s being delusional (he’s not) (you are madly in love with him too), fluff && slowburn, coworkers && friends to lovers, the pov is kinda messy (sorry) (it’s 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 Clark’s benevolence is anything but ill-inspired. He doesn’t believe you incapable, doesn’t 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 tasks—or a cup of coffee, on him.

In his head he mulls over the details of your order, —of everyone’s, of course; the heap of sugar that Lois absentmindedly churns into hers, hardly dissolving, (“I party like a rockstar, choir boys!” She defends to Jimmy and Clark) the moderate spoonful Jimmy adds in his, and when it comes to your preference—the miniature cup of cream, cautious spoonfuls of sugar, and exact number by which you swirl your stirrer. But that wasn’t 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 there’s anyone he’s willing to wait for, it’s you—but he’s unsure how to magnify that you’re the main object of his daily affections. At some point he accepts with defeat that you’re not so oblivious to his obvious adoration, just that you won’t 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 “Wow Clark, you could’ve fooled me. If I didn’t know any better I would’ve thought I’d just made this,” 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 more—like 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, “Has anybody seen my glasses? I remember taking them off for only a second, and—”

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 desk’s 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. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there—,” he starts.

“Don’t be, Clark,” you finish.

He sees your waiting hands nursing his glasses, and before he can mutter a prompt ‘thank you’ or take them for himself, you’re 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. You’re more than happy and willing to do it, so he doesn’t stop you—not like he wanted to.

“All better?” 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 Jimmy’s 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 you’d yet to get to know of him, to finally be his—like when you’d asked him to come over to your desk and proofread an article you’d just written while you left to the lady’s room. Unbeknownst to him, you’d 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, you’d wanted him to know how loudly you’d loved him in the quietest of ways, with as little words as possible. A part of you couldn’t 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 ‘punkrock’ bands he’d loved ardently in his adolescence.

Whenever you’d 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 to—whether they were plain and mundane or eventful. Every now and then you’d 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 monster’s severed green, suctioned tentacle, festering with great big leaves, at the foot of The Daily Planet’s entrance and how you’d glided over the slimy thing, landing right on your bottom.

“And he left this slimy thing—I don’t even know what it was—on the concrete when I was leaving work and you won’t 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 tentacle…whatever slimy gross diseases it had on it made me itch for a week.” 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 he’d dismissively left unfortunately for you, and you didn’t 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 you’d headlined Superman, on the front page in big bold letters dubbing the story badly, “Superman Shunts Tentacled Green Ivy Monster.” 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 weren’t up to accept his final advance, he wouldn’t 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 out—finally 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. He’d 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, he’d lost the pen you’d given to him one day, in your favorite color, when he’d 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 Lois’s desk. He was sure she wouldn’t mind him shuffling through her penholder for it.

In his best handwriting, he scrawled on it, “Unlike slimy green monster tentacles, these won’t give you poison ivy. They’re nicer too, I hope.”

He smiled down at the vase, proud of his work. He turned the tag over to its other blank side to pen the note’s author as well as your name, but all he could get out before hearing the boom of Perry’s voice from his own office was “From Clark.”

“Kent!” 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 Lois’s desk.

Victim to Perry’s droning, he missed you filing in closely after Lois.

“What’ve we got here?” Lois asked rhetorically, immediately seeing the vibrant flowers perched idly on her desk.

“Ugh, must be that hookup from a month ago that keeps showing up at my apartment. God, if he knew anything about me, he’d know I’m sensitive to pollen,” Lois exclaimed, completely missing Clark’s 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 you’d 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 Clark’s absence and entrapment in Perry’s 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 entirely—the side of it reading “From Clark.”

Your heart dropped in your chest. It wasn’t like you hadn’t already believed Clark couldn’t 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 couldn’t foster something more, that the discreet intimate moments you shared and sweet nothings amounted to just that—to 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 coworkers’ advances at conversation, leaving them dazed and confused.

Clark wasn’t any more chatty than you. Finally leaving Perry’s 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 didn’t hurt, like the last thing you wanted to do was leave him here in the newsroom lobby, knowing he didn’t deserve it, but that you couldn’t take it, that you couldn’t bear to be here, with him.

“The flowers,” Clark started, eyes fluttering shut with anguish before opening to look back at you. “Why—”

“Clark, you don’t need to explain to me. I just feel stupid for ever thinking that this,” you cut through over him, pointing between the two of you, “could be something. That we were something. And it’s not fair to you that I iced you out for that, and that I can’t just be happy for you trying your shot with Lois, but—

“They were for you,” Clark didn’t bother letting you finish. He couldn’t bear a moment longer of hearing your misconceptions that his affections could be for anyone else but you. Couldn’t 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 he’d endured all in a single work day. The abrupt confirmation that you’d 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. “Clark, why didn’t you say anything?” You were meek when you asked, suddenly afraid.

“Why didn’t you?”

His question was rightful as your own, the thousand words you’d 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.

“Clark, I’m no good for you, I could never actually consider that you’d actually want to be with me,” you let out a mirthless laugh as your eyes well to their brims with tears that you fight to keep down.

“How could you say that about yourself?” 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 didn’t come as easily to him as it did others, understandably so.

If there was nothing in the world to be cynical of, Clark wouldn’t 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.

“Let me?” he asks you gently, opening his arms to embrace you, to which you timidly nod. He rests his chin above your head, hunched over.

“Can I kiss you?” 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 don’t 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 you’d 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 you—from 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, you’re both warm and calm with a sense of comfort, of togetherness here in this moment. You’re 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, “We’ll 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,” he says and you share in your laughter this time, genuine and hearty.

“I like you a lot too, Clark Kent. Thank you for waiting, for liking me this much,” you say sincerely. He wants to say he doesn’t need nor expect any gratitude for being enamored by you, that it really takes no work, that it’s 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.

[takenbypeter]

Recently watched "Thunderbolts*" and wow! I love superhero movies that give you hope for a brighter tommorow!

I remember watching a vid a year ago by "Comic Drake" describing Sentry as, basically Marvel's Superman lol

[takenbypeter]

𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄

You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.) fem, 8k

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

You never thought you’d get to talk to Superman. You've never been in that kind of danger, and you never hoped to be. You hadn’t wanted to talk to Superman because you know this is weird. You can’t have a crush on someone you don’t know. It’s idol worship, a celebrity fixation, and Superman is the perfect target. You’re not alone in loving everything about him —it’s easy. You aren’t ever confronted with the bad in his good. 

And then he’s standing in front of you with his hands braced on your shoulders, and there’s blood running down your face from your temple and you’re crying, because it hurts, because you’re in the panic of your life and not sure what to do next. 

He frowns at you with an unwavering gentleness. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “take a deep breath, ma’am. Deep breath.” 

“It’s bl– bleeding.”

“I know.” 

You shudder through tears as Superman brings his cape up and rips. It startles you, sending fat tears plinking down your cheek. You hold your breath as he brings his scrap to your face, dabbing the wetness from your cheeks before turning the fabric and holding it to your temple firmly.

You gasp painfully under his touch, desperate for air.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a new shade, “it’s alright, you’re going to be fine, I promise. I’m gonna press this to your head, and we’ll see if we can get this bleeding stopped. As soon as it does, I’ll take you down and we can get you some real help.” 

You nod, skittish as a scared deer, eyes as wide as they’ll go to follow his movements. It doesn’t hurt any more than the injury itself as he presses down on your head wound. He sighs in sympathy anyway. A broad hand spreads behind your back, familiar in a way, or maybe it’s the way he’s talking to you now. Like he knows you as you know him. 

The photos of him online don’t do him justice. 

“It’s not bad. I know it hurts, but,” —his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightly— “it’s because it’s so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesn’t mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.” 

“You– you’re real help.” 

He holds your gaze. “Yeah?” 

You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. It’s all over. He’s lucky your head wound doesn’t start spurting. “Yeah– yeah, I– Superman.” 

His smile is everything. “What?” he asks patiently. 

“I’m a big fan of– of yours.” 

“You are?” 

“You’re so brave,” you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. “So brave. And– and…” 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. “Thank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.” 

“You’re so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, and– you’re pretty…” 

“Pretty?” he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm. 

You wince. “Yeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.” 

“It’s okay. I won’t hold you to anything you say. You’re injured, after all.” 

His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. “No, I’m not lying. I mean it. You’re really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it does–” You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.

“Don’t get wound up, I’m sorry. I believe you. Let’s try to stay calm.” 

Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Superman’s arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse. 

“I don’t usually get crushes on people,” you inform him. “But it was hard not to get one with you. You’re even nicer than I thought you’d be.” 

“It’s easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.” 

Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesn’t know you, he never will, and you’re okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, you’re glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy. 

—

A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet. 

“Are you sure you don’t need more rest?” he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.

“I’m sure.”

“It’s okay if you need more time to recover. You’re still wearing a dressing.” 

“It’s a bandaid, Clark, and it’s to hide the scar for now, it’s–”

“It’s still a wound.” 

“It’s fine! You saw it, you know it’s fine.” 

Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. You’re fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you could’ve had. You didn’t throw up, or collapse, you’d simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolis’ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.

“It looked awful, it still does.” 

“It looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.”

“Very unfortunate.” 

You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. “Clark, you don’t have to sulk.” 

“I’m not sulking! I just don’t see what’s wrong with staying in bed for now.” 

“I have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.” 

He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. “Well, you’re sitting down all day. Doctor’s orders.” 

“Show me your oath and I’ll consider it.” 

“Please?” 

He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like you’re fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. “Okay, sure. You can wait on me all day.” 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

Clark’s your best friend because —no matter how much it might confuse you— he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend you‘re interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clark’s never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return. 

You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where he’d come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he could’ve stopped it. 

“I’m sick of working already,” you say. 

“Then let’s go home.” 

“Clark. I’m being conversational.” 

“Don’t tease me,” he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy. 

“Have you been working out?” 

“Can you stop?” 

“Can I stop? You’re a nightmare.”

Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day. 

— 

You’re laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin —noise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobody’d be able to find you up here. 

The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but there’s nothing. For a few minutes, you can’t hear anything at all. 

The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, he’s there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. You’ve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and you’ve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isn’t here to hurt you. 

“I’ve been looking for you.” 

“You were?” you ask.

“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.” 

You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. “I’m fine. I’m fine, did you– You’re here to see if I’m okay?” 

His smile strengthens. “Is that okay?” 

You stammer, “Of course it’s okay!” A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. He’s not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. “I’m great, Superman. All healed up.” 

“Are you sure? You still have–” He gestures to your bandaid. 

“It’s to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“Why of course not?” 

Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isn’t the right word for him. There’s something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts you’re wearing have you worrying you’re underdressed in his eyes. They’re pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. You’d had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Superman’s fully clothed in comparison. 

His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. He’s perfect, so your head doesn’t hurt. 

“You seem a little flustered, is all.” 

“Oh. Oh, well, it’s hot out, and I’m not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.” 

“You’ve never met a metahuman?” 

“No, never.” 

“We’re just like everybody else.” 

You laugh. 

“No, really,” he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. “I’m just like you, you don’t have to be nervous.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Now what do you have to be sorry for?” 

You laugh again, a giggle you’d never admit to. He’s strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.

“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to your lap. 

“Oh, uh. Uh, it’s called The Ocean?” You straighten up the book to show him the cover. “It’s good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think it’s supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,” 

“Why is he looking for his father?” 

“He’s missing after a terrible war. It’s one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.”

“Maybe I’ll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.” 

“You can borrow my copy.” 

Superman’s gaze narrows again. “You’re finished?” 

“Yeah, I finished it before you got here.” 

He waits in the quiet. You’re sure he’s going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility. 

Superman finally smiles. “I promise to bring it back,” he says simply. 

“Sure. Well, take your time.” 

—

How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?

You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. She’d spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesn’t mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesn’t bring it up to complain. He’s sympathising with her, how lonely she must be. 

You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him won’t budge. 

You’d made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably won’t come back. 

“Hey.” 

You lift your head. 

Clark’s looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery you’ve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is weak with worry. 

“Nothing.”

“It’s something.”

“It’s really not.” 

“It definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you don’t have to tell me, but I’ll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.” 

“Food for thought. Eat this, Kent,” you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel. 

Clark grabs your foot. “Come on. I know something’s wrong, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, but…” He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.

“Isn’t that cold?” you ask. 

“It’s tepid,” he allows after a sip.

You laugh, so he laughs. It’s a lovely sound.

“Again. Again, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’d listen if you wanted me to.”

“Don’t try and make out like you’re not keeping secrets.” 

Clark goes slack-jawed. “Sorry?” 

“You don’t tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.” 

“You do?” 

You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. You’re wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes they’ll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands. 

“You’re dating Lois Lane,” you say. 

His fingers dust your elbow. “What?” 

“You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Plus, you’re busy all the time. You’ve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?” 

“I’m sorry–”

“I’m not. I’m happy for you.” 

Clark shakes his head. “But Lois and I… I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.” 

You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry, Clark.” 

“Don’t be. I should’ve told you, but it was new and then it was over.” 

“You should’ve told me,” you agree, “but I sort of get why you didn’t. I’m your girl best friend. That’s a thing.”

“You’re my best friend,” he promises, no ‘girl’ prefix necessary. “That’s not why it ended, Lois isn’t like that. It was… we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.”

“Well, she’s a girl.”

“That she is. You’re all the same, aren’t you? All dazzling.” 

He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clark’s your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and you’re his best friend because he’s good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.

“You’re ’dazzling’ too,” you say. “You are.”

Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do. 

“Not that cold,” you murmur. 

“I never realised you were such a liar.” 

“I don’t really lie to you, Clark.” 

He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. “I know.”

—

“So, this book–”

You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground —Superman catches them in two hands. 

Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby. 

“Fuck,” you complain. 

“I’m sorry.” Superman laughs at you. Laughs. “Sorry. But this book, is there a sequel?” 

“What?” you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag. 

“I think I need a sequel.” He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. “I think it ruined my life.” 

“There’s no sequel. But–” don’t spoil the ending for me, you almost say. “Did you enjoy it at all?” 

“It was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?” 

“Uh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didn’t have time for a while ‘n now I’m usually too stirred up to settle down.” 

“You cook.” 

You blink. “You googled me?” 

“No, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little author’s window. You made pumpkin pie.”

“For Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if it’s the holidays.” 

“Is that true?” 

You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, let’s not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him. 

Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Superman’s tall figure standing in the sun, and though you’d wish he’d managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that there’s nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun. 

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks. 

Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you. 

“Yeah,” you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears. 

“Yeah?” He offers an arm. “Come here.”

Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. “Alright?” he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight. 

“Where are we–”

The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.

The sky is more than blue when you’re in it. 

There’s nothing you can say about it. You’re terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which you’d been taken up with him, but beyond that, there’s nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blue—

“It’s not as scary as you think, right?” he asks, his head angled down to yours. 

“I expected you to have to shout. I don’t know why.” 

“It’s windier in the air, but we’re close. I don’t need to yell.” 

“You’re lucky I didn’t get many groceries.” 

“You aren’t heavy.” 

You’re delighted. “This is a paper bag, you realise! I’m surprised it didn’t explode the second you got me up here!” 

“I’ll be careful. You’re precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.”

“I don’t remember much of it.” 

“That’s okay. I do.” 

You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he won’t simply let you go, and have you fall. 

“This is amazing,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows you’d never noticed from the ground. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s something.” 

You glance up to find him still staring at you. 

The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldn’t believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldn’t believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldn’t believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close. 

“Don’t feel guilty, please,” you say. 

“What?” He sounds as though he’s woken up from a nap. 

“About what happened. It wasn’t your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.” 

Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. “I…”

“If this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You don’t… I don’t know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. It’s like… someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.” You offer a brash smile. “But I’m just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.” 

“You’re not making this any easier for me.” 

You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms. 

“I’m not a very easy person,” you say. 

Superman presses his nose to your cheek. 

“I think you’re giving me tachycardia,” you whisper.

He hears it. Doesn’t answer for a while, and when he does, it’s to neither of the things you said before.

“Let me take you somewhere new,” he says.

—

A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they won’t stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clark’s a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you. 

He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. “Too hot in my apartment,” you say. 

“What’s wrong with the AC?” 

“It’s leaking.” 

“I’ll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?” he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket. 

“Oh, Clark, can’t you just leave me alone?” you plead. 

He laughs like a kid. “I love when you do that.”

“What?” 

“I don’t know, is it sarcasm? I don’t think that’s apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? You’re really convincing. It’s funny.”

“I can be funny.”

“I know, that’s what I’m saying. You’re really funny. Can you do it some more?”

“Now it’s not natural, though.” 

“Please?”

“Leave it alone, Clark. You’re such a beg.” 

He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet you’d like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path. 

There’s a small park not far from your apartment that’s been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. They’re all rounded. One table is shaped like an ‘S’. Another like a filled in ‘8’. 

You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a ‘C’. “For Clark,” you say, pleased. 

“Adorable.” 

You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. “Gonna pour it into my mouth, too?” you tease. 

“Do you not want me to be nice to you?” 

And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together. 

Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. “This is your only bad trait,” he says happily. “You never tell me when you’re cold.”

“I’m not that cold.”

“Sure you’re not. Look, come here,” —he pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angora— “you act like you’re such a plague, like– I don’t know, like I wouldn’t wanna know that you’re cold.”

“I don’t act like that.” 

“You do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.” 

You lean on him.

Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.

And you think, I know you. 

But you don’t know why. 

—

Clark can't believe this is happening again. 

He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: he’s going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He should’ve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he might’ve told you from the moment he met you, that’s how sure he was that he’d love you. As a friend —his best friend, half of his life. There’s this ease, like he’s known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life. 

And lately. 

Oh, lately. Clark can’t get a handle on things. He hadn’t realised he was falling in love with you, isn’t even sure that’s the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly he’s at the mountain top and the air is thin, and he’s looking for you, aching for relief, and you’re sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth. 

Or that’s what he’d like to think. 

Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. He’d like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome. 

He knows he won’t lose you, but he’s worried you don’t want what he wants. He’s gotten so close to having you, he’s not sure he can take being any further apart than this. 

Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with baby’s breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. They’re beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if he’s lucky.

It’s on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins. 

The light goes out. 

It doesn’t make logical sense. He’s outdoors. It’s the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come. 

He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth. 

It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey. 

Clark wonders if he should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.

—

What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans aren’t want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows they’ve cast down onto Metropolis. It’s like smoke. 

The dark makes it hard to breathe. 

You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. It’s not —not unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.

You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clark’s not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but you’re sure he’s out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if you’re not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast? 

You’d said, just some eggs please if you want eggs 

You’d said, hey, are you safe? What’s with the dark? 

You’d said, clark please text me back right now, I’m freaking out, do you need me to come get you? 

He won’t answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where it’s darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground. 

And Clark Kent is out there all alone. 

You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clark’s blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on. 

He’s gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clark’s going to ground you. But you’d rather be grounded than all alone. 

—

Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust. 

He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what it’s like to have legal blindness, and he’d felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then he’d found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. He’s in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too. 

He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly. 

“Krypto?” he asks into the smog. 

His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise. 

“Ow!” 

Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws. 

“Krypto, stop! Jeez, stop. You’re such a pai– Ow! Get off.” 

Krypto nibbles his shoulder. 

Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasn’t killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it. 

He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he can’t feel the sun, but he’s not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them. 

“Krypto, stay.” 

Krypto tilts his white blurry head. 

“You’re not helping.” 

Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air. 

Krypto stays down, for now. 

Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.

“Clark?” 

He stops dead in the sky. 

“Clark?” you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. “Clark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!”

He says your name.

“Clark? I’m here!” 

Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe. 

He has to keep you safe. 

—

You’re watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.

—

There’s a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because he’s scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.

What did it say? you’d asked. 

To be good. 

You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time. 

Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesn’t have a bruise or cut. He doesn’t look anything like Superman had as he’d flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain. 

Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this. 

You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. There’s a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit. 

After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision. 

“Hey,” a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. “Oh, hey, sweet girl, hey… it’s okay. The pain won’t last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, it’ll kick in.” 

“Uh–”

Clark makes a sound. “Oh.” 

You let your eyes slide to him. He’s checking his wrist where it’s resting on you. 

“I was sleeping for a long time, I… Honey, I’ll get a nurse.” 

“No,” you breathe. 

“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a nurse,” he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion that’s somehow palpable and implacable. “It’s no good, you being in pain like this. I’ll come right back.” 

“Clark, don’t go,” you whine. 

It’s like the world has been placed heavy on your head. 

Clark offers you relief. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. Tell me what’s hurting, and I’ll fix it.” 

You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. It’s not pain you’re being smothered in. 

“Okay,” he murmurs.

For a while, you don’t talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until it’s tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you can’t. You’ll never duck away from his fingertips ever again. 

Where he’d been unhurt, he isn’t unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. He’s long. It’s simple work. 

“You read The Ocean,” you whisper. 

“I read all your annotations, too,” he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw. 

You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy. 

“I didn’t–” Oh, you can’t say it. You hadn’t meant to want him like this. You hadn’t known he was Superman, and isn’t that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret. 

He doesn’t rush you. 

You’re ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck. 

“I’m embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,” you say plainly. 

“Superman didn’t tell Clark anything,” Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy. 

“But you know it all.” 

“I know you,” he agrees. 

“I’m really… sorry. I’m sorry, I–” You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. “Clark, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out looking for you. I didn’t realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.” 

“Do you even remember?” he asks. 

Mildly. You’d woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs. 

In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasn’t), turned to you, and said, with Clark’s dorky intonation, “That’s seriously beautiful, huh?”  

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But–”

“You don’t. I won’t argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, and…” He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like you’ve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. “I wasn’t honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasn’t fair.” 

“You really are… him?” you ask weakly. 

“Yeah, I am.” 

Clark sits up as a doctor opens your room’s door. 

“Everything okay?” she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. “Hey, you’re up! Can we get you some dinner now?” 

“You skipped breakfast,” Clark tells you. 

“I was awake for breakfast?” 

“Barely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,” the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. “I just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadn’t thrown up again.” 

You flush. “I’m fine.” 

Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart. 

“I’m worried you haven’t gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,” the doctor explains, “much better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!” 

“I don’t feel very hungry.” 

“The painkillers you’re on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? I’ll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.” 

You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted. 

“Oh.” 

The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions. 

“What’s wrong with me?” you ask. 

“You got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think it’s just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.” He puts his hand on your stomach gently. “Here. Almost as long as your arm, but it’s a surface cut. You landed on debris. I’m sorry, my– honey. Sorry.” 

You can’t fight the chills or your bewilderment. “What for?”

“I didn’t get to you fast enough.” 

“Clark.” Your mouth is dry. He’s pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m okay, babe.” 

He laughs wetly. 

“I’m fine,” you promise, quieter now. “How couldn’t I be? You’re so gentle.” 

Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel. 

“You’re gentle,” you promise under your breath, “I told you that before, didn’t I? You’re kind, and brave, and– it’s not your fault I went looking for you.” 

“I should be comforting you. I should be helping you,” he whispers. 

“You won’t catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.” 

His head flinches up, like he’s realising for the first time that you know who he is. 

Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You can’t help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand. 

“What did you think of the book?” you ask finally. 

“I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says. 

You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers they’d been talking about. “It’s not like it’s the most alarming secret, between us.” 

He lets out a wounded whine. “Why do you hate me?” he asks. 

“You’re due some hazing.” 

“Can’t you take pity on me?” he asks. 

You curl your fingers around his where they’d otherwise been limp. “I’m not really half as cool as I’m trying to act, Clark.” 

He sulks beautifully. “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.” 

Only a little. 

—

Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent —best friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy who’s vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queries— is Superman. 

And Superman? 

He’d been courting you. 

The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously. 

“Is that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?” you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious. 

“No. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, like– platonically, I’ve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop and– and romantically, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldn’t let me.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.” 

You hold him by the shoulder. “That was real?” 

“Do you dream about it?” he asks knowingly. 

“It was really going to be a kiss?” 

He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. “Best kiss of your life,” he promises. 

“Prove it.” 

“What?” 

It’s been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. “Do you not want to kiss me?” 

“You know I do.” 

“So kiss me.” 

He pinches your chin. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just taken one,” he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes. 

“From Superman?” you ask with a little scoff. 

He moves his head from left to right. “From me,” he says. 

There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books you’d underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way you’d watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as you’d fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. You’ve been more honest with him than you’ve dared to be previously. 

Clark has repaid you in kind. 

Did you know, he’d confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and he’d demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything I’m good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I don’t need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, I’m just like you? 

How could I know that? you’d thought. Why are you telling me this? you’d asked instead.

I want you to know. 

Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better. 

Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.

You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you could’ve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, you’d never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How he’d take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp. 

Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you. 

“Did you want me to tell you how it ends?” 

You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. “Sorry?” 

“The Ocean? You never finished it.”

“Oh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.” 

Clark grins. “After,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u Bec for proofreading ur brains are irreplaceable <3 and thank u everyone else for reading! 

[takenbypeter]

clark, who perks up when you call his name the way dogs react to hearing the word walk. pleasantly startled, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed energy in a six-foot-something frame.

clark, who insists on carrying all the groceries. so now you just walk beside him, one arm looped through his, watching him play pack mule with unconcealed joy.

clark, who sits beside you at the fountain, tearing bread crusts into little hunks for the doves.

clark, who taps your knee when he spots a squirrel in the park. stops mid-step and whispers, “look, look,” with the same excitement of one pointing out a comet—never mind it’s just a rodent with a peanut.

clark, who sets his lockscreen to a selfie of you both. candid, taken mid-laugh. your head resting against his shoulder, his smile half-formed, cheek pressed into your temple. he carries a printed copy in his wallet, too.

clark, who texts you pictures he’s taken. things that remind him of you, or things he knows you’d like. a cat loaf in a patch of sunlight, a diner chalkboard advertising your favourite pie, or a silly meme he figured you’d laugh at.

clark, who always ends up the big spoon, no matter how you start. even if you fall asleep facing him, curled into his chest. by morning, you’ll wake up with his arm around your waist.

clark, who really knows how to cook. real food, too—not just bachelor chow reheated in a pan. i’m talking soups from scratch or stews that simmer for hours. he doesn’t let you lift a finger unless it’s to taste-test something off the spoon.

clark, who hums commercial jingles around the apartment while doing chores, such as lifting the entire couch (with you still on it) so he can vacuum underneath.

clark, who carries you bridal-style to bed.

clark, who packs little sandwiches in wax paper when you work late. your name written in block letters across the front.

clark, who leaves post-it notes behind cabinets, in the pockets of your jackets. blue ink scrawled sideways. “i love you,” “you looked really pretty this morning.”

[takenbypeter]

Heading to watch Superman for the first time, I’m so excited!!!! 🤭🤭🤭

creating a new personal genre of favorite movie i deem ‘superhero movie hopepunk’

[takenbypeter]

Sebastian Stan as Bucky Barnes in  The Falcon and The Winter Soldier | Episode 4 - The Whole World is Watching

[takenbypeter]

FULL STAR POWER

thunderbolts!bucky barnes x tamaranean!reader

summary: imagine being a tamaranean member of the new avengers and being confused when bucky says you two aren't together, which you mistake for him not wanting to be friends with you.

tw: n/a, just reader and bucky fluffiness, ooc idk(this is my first bucky fic guys)

notes: helloooo, thank you all so much for the love on my previous work!!! currently working on making an official masterlist and taglist so look out for that! hope you all enjoy this, please reblog if you do and comment!!

(check out my masterlist!)

"friend james! you've returned at last!"

bucky sighed tiredly walking through the entrance of the tower, almost like he knew was awaiting him when he came back. you flew over to him, immediately wrapping your arms around him, squeezing him tightly as you slightly lifted him off the ground.

he grunted at the sudden shock of force and felt the like he had a less air compared to two seconds again. "c-...can't breathe–" he managed to muster out as he patted your back and you gasped immediately letting go of him, then placing him back onto the ground.

you nervously giggled as you watched him begin to take deep breaths, john watched from a distance on the couch and began laughing at the sight almost immediately. "someone's just excited that you're back huh, buck?" he said and continued his laughter. bucky just glared and looked back at you as you fiddled with your fingers, "forgive me, friend james– it's just feels like I haven't seen you in 60,190 tamaranean days– which is equivalent to approximately 164.–"

"(y/n)... it's fine." bucky says, cutting off your rant, a big smile came back onto your face. "observe! i have undergone a ritual of beauty from this planet’s earth-based salons!" you exclaim as you extend you hand to him, showing him the set of pretty acrylics that you had gotten done earlier this week.

he stares at them, lip twitching into a small, tired smile. "they look nice... suits you." you let out a loud laugh at the response and clapped your hands together happily.

since the day you came to earth, you haven't had the best of luck making friends. you were judged because you were an alien, used for your powers, and taken advantage of because of your kindness. but, to you it changed when you met bucky and the rest of the team. you felt like you had a family for the first time since you left home. they treated you like you were somebody finally.

especially bucky.

maybe he didn't want to admit it in front of the entire team, but he secretly loved how you treated him like he mattered. you didn't flinch at his past. didn't tiptoe around his trauma. you simply met him as he was, without judgment, and that shakes him. he felt like most people walked on eggshells around him or treated him like a relic of a war that never ended.

you treated him with such love and care that it was so raw to him. sort of made him scared to be vulnerable around you.

he was your friend.

the team would say otherwise.

"(y/n), your boyfriend's back huh?" yelena said as she walked by sipping coffee, her tone of voice seemed teasing and the look of her face showed it. smug.

"last time i'm gonna say this– she's not my girlfriend." bucky said as he shut his eyes, lips pursing together as he placed one of his hands onto his hip and the other rubbed his eye. and you just stood there, almost as if you were confused about something. your head tilted as you stared at bucky.

"... am i not your girlfriend? i thought were partook in the acts of human friendship very well, friend james–" you said, a visible frown appearing on your face. your sudden response made the room go quiet. both john and yelena slowly looked at eachother.

"pfft-..."

"shut up–... pff-"

you stared at them even more confused as they both contained their laughter. they were clearly dying from it on the inside, as they moved around letting out gasps as they covered their mouths and laughed silently. meanwhile bucky just stared at you eyes wide, like he couldn't believe your words.

"that's not what i meant–... nevermind–" he said before he walked awat from you, a hand passing over his face and then up and through his hair.

"FRIEND JAMES– I HOPE THAT I AM STILL YOUR GIRLFRIEND!! I DO TRULY ENJOY OUR EARTHLY HUMAN BOND!" you yell as you fly after him.

at just hearing that, john let out a loud gasp as he gripped his chest, his laughter muffled into his left hand. yelena gripped the couch, before she buried her face into it, "dear lord... she really has no clue–" john said as he continued laugh, it was clear both were extremely humored by this.

don't worry, he has 100% imagined you two as more multiple times at night.

-peachessprincess is the creator of this work. please don't paste my work onto any other site

leopard divider is by @hyuneskkami

TAGLIST: @simplymygojo @rae-akarui @lettucel0ver @ftm-peepeepoopooman @wejwjjwe @lanilxx @unstable-cucumber @the-nerdy-blackgirl

(comment below if you'd like to join the taglist, hope you enjoyed!)

[takenbypeter]

😭😢😭😢

Unspoken Goodbyes

Summary: You quietly drift in and out of the Avengers’ lives, caught in a painful cycle of self-doubt, loneliness, and guilt; believing you don’t matter enough to stay. And yet every time you return, they still leave the door open, especially Bucky, who always sees you even when you can’t see yourself. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 3.3k+

A/N: This is purely self-indulgent. If I can spin it right, I might be able to turn it into a series. If not, then I’ll just make the second part someday. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | The Cycle of My Love Masterlist

You were part of the team officially and fully. Your name was on the roster, your file in the system, and your room down the hall like everyone else’s. But you weren’t exactly the glue of the team.

You weren’t the genius or the powerhouse, not the leader or the heart. You were just… there. Skilled enough to be useful and quiet enough not to cause problems. You handled the stuff no one really talked about during post-mission drinks.

And most days, you told yourself that was enough. But still, sometimes… you didn’t feel like you were really one of them.

Not in the way Steve walked into a room and everyone subtly straightened their backs or in the way Natasha saw through lies like smoke and made people lean in just by existing. Not in the way Sam’s voice and presence brought comfort, or how Wanda’s quiet strength filled every space she stood in. Not in the way every person there had something admirable and magnetizing to them.

You didn’t shine like they did.

Yes, you were useful on missions, helpful in strategy briefings, and always willing to cover an extra patrol shift. But when the room filled with laughter, tension, or grief, you often sat at the edges. Listening, and watching, unable to connect like the rest could.

You tried not to take it personally when conversations moved around you instead of with you. When no one noticed you hadn’t spoken for an hour or when your absence in the kitchen went unremarked.

And you knew it wasn’t always like that. There were good days, of course. Warm days like when Clint tossed popcorn at your face during a movie night, or Wanda looped her arm through yours while walking through the city. When Bruce asked your opinion in front of everyone, or when Steve gave you that soft, fatherly smile like you’d done something quietly brave. There were even times when Tony left you some ridiculous gadget in your room just because he “thought it might keep you from sulking,” and you found yourself laughing even though no one else was around.

And Bucky–

Bucky saw you in ways that scared you. He noticed the micro-pauses, the way your voice dipped when you were lying, and the way your hands shook only after everyone else had left the room.

But still, the silence would return. The invisibility. The creeping ache in your chest that said you’re not really one of them. That if you vanished, they’d adjust and move on. They’d survive without you, the same way they had before.

That’s when the pull would start, soft at first. A whisper in your mind telling you to go, to leave before you start clinging to them. Before someone pushes you out. Before you make it worse by needing something you don’t have the words for and that no one has the time to give.

So you’d leave. Not with drama or with fireworks, just with distance. And that distance would soon become a bag packed quietly and a message sent to the group chat:

"Hey. Just need some space. Be safe."

And then you’d be gone again for days or weeks. Sometimes longer. You never blocked them. You never made a scene. You even left the door open, just in case.

But no one ever came through it or at least, that’s what it felt like.

And you always told yourself this would be the last time.

Every time you left, it felt like a final exit, like you were cutting the cord and letting them go for good. You’d convince yourself it was for the best. You weren’t mad at them and you weren’t trying to hurt anyone. You just couldn’t stand the heaviness that crept in when they stopped seeing you.

That was the part that stung most. Not anger. Not rejection. Just… fading.

The first few days away were always the easiest. There was a sense of relief with not having to pretend. No hoping to be included only to be forgotten again.

You’d rent a quiet room, usually somewhere no one would think to look. The kind of place with a buzzing fridge, flickering lamp, and thin walls where the TV never quite reached the right volume. You’d sit on the edge of the bed, scrolling through news feeds and half-watching reruns you’d already seen a hundred times.

You still worked, just remotely. You ran comms for smaller ops when requested, decrypted field data when they sent it your way, and handled quiet digital reports no one thanked you for. It helped you feel useful, like you hadn’t fully left. Like maybe you still had one foot in the door, even if no one was asking you to walk back through it.

But the group chat would stay mostly quiet. Sometimes you’d see a few mission updates, a funny photo from Clint, or Wanda asking if someone used her tea again. The usual.

But not one message for you. No check-ins.

No “Hey, when are you coming back?” No “You okay?”

And maybe that was fair. You didn’t answer last time when Sam reached out twice and you let Natasha’s last voicemail sit untouched. You didn’t know what to say then. You didn’t want to sound needy, and you didn’t want them to feel obligated. It was your choice to leave, so how could you expect anything more?

Still, it made something inside you twist.

You’d start rereading old messages. Little snapshots from weeks ago when Tony had tagged you in some meme at 3 AM, or Steve had asked if you were joining training in the morning. You’d forgotten how warm those moments had felt. How easy it was to believe you mattered, even just a little.

But now, days stretched without them. Your phone only buzzed for food delivery or payment confirmations. And slowly, the guilt started to bloom.

You knew it wasn’t fair to them. Disappearing again and again. How many times could you walk away before it stopped hurting them? Or before they stopped caring altogether?

You imagined Clint shrugging and saying, “She always does this, man. Let her go.”

You pictured Tony rolling his eyes. “She’ll show up eventually. Or not.”

Even Bruce, kind and careful as he was, probably thought it was exhausting by now. Steve probably tried to justify it, tried to believe you just needed space. And Natasha… you weren’t sure what she thought anymore. You weren’t sure if she even thought of you at all.

And Bucky– You didn’t let yourself think too long about Bucky.

Because thinking of him meant thinking of the way his expression would change when you spoke. The way he always kept a careful eye on your body language, like he was trained to notice the things others missed. The way he saw you, even when you didn’t want to be seen.

And if he’d stopped noticing, if he had finally stopped waiting, that meant the thread holding you together had really snapped.

That thought scared you more than anything.

You curled into the motel bed, phone pressed to your chest, and told yourself this was what you wanted. That being gone was safer. That disappearing spared them the trouble of having to pretend they cared.

But it was lonely.

So unbelievably lonely.

And you missed them. God, you missed them. You missed being around them, even the moments that hurt and even when you didn’t matter. But you didn’t know if you had the right to go back. Not again.

You didn’t plan your return, but then again you never did.

There wasn’t some grand decision or dramatic moment of clarity. It was more like something broke under the weight of too many silent nights, too many cups of coffee going cold, and too many times you stared at your phone and saw nothing waiting for you.

You were brushing your teeth in the bathroom of a cheap hotel this time when the ache hit again. Sudden, heavy, and familiar.

They probably haven’t even noticed you’re still gone.

Your chest tightened. You spat out the toothpaste and leaned over the sink, gripping the edges until your knuckles went white. Your reflection didn’t look like a hero or someone who belonged anywhere near a team like the Avengers.

But you missed them. You loved them, even when you were convinced they didn’t love you back.

And that guilt, that unbearable guilt, dug its way into your chest, hollowing you out until it felt like you were going to shatter from the inside.

So, you packed. Again.

Same duffel, same silence, and the same slow walk to the station. The train back to New York felt colder than usual. The longer it dragged on, the more you doubted yourself. What if they were tired of you? What if no one cared? What if walking through those doors meant facing that bitter truth, that they had all quietly agreed not to follow you next time?

When you finally stepped into the compound, the lobby was mostly quiet. Rain tapped softly against the windows. You stood there with your damp hoodie clinging to your arms and bag slung over your shoulder, unsure if you should even go further.

“…She’s back,” came Clint’s voice from somewhere behind you.

You turned slowly. He was walking in from the hallway, a half-eaten protein bar in hand. He didn’t look surprised but he didn’t look angry either.

Just tired.

He raised a brow, then nodded toward you. “We still suck at poker without you, just so you know.”

It was almost a peace offering.

You gave a weak smile. “Maybe you’re just bad at bluffing.”

He smirked. “Tell that to Stark.”

He walked past you with no fanfare of your return, but not cold either. Just… neutral, like he wasn’t sure how much room to give you or how close was too close.

Natasha passed by not long after. She didn’t stop, but her eyes met yours briefly, and she gave the smallest nod. An acknowledgment, nothing more.

Steve saw you next. He paused in the hall, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he stepped forward and pulled you into a quiet hug.

You froze.

He didn’t say anything at first, just held you there with a soft and honest, “Glad you’re safe.”

You couldn’t respond. You just swallowed hard and nodded against his chest.

The rest trickled in slowly throughout the day.

Wanda gave you a quiet, lingering hug that meant more than words. She whispered, “I missed you,” in your ear, and it nearly broke you. Sam ruffled your hair and cracked a joke about how boring the place had been without you. Bruce gave you a warm, sad smile and a gentle “Welcome home.”

Tony… well, he just walked by, tossed a folded sheet of paper at you, and said, “Blueprints for your room’s heating. You left before I finished fixing it, so don’t whine when it’s cold.”

He didn’t make eye contact, but the paper had your name scribbled at the top.

And Bucky…

You weren’t sure what to expect. You were alone again when he found you. Sitting on the edge of your bed, your bag still unpacked, and your thoughts heavy and loud.

He stood in your doorway for a long time before finally speaking up, “I’m happy you’re back. I figured… if you wanted to come back, you would. And if you didn’t–”

“I did.” Your voice cracked. “I do. I just– I didn’t know if I should.”

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed beside you, careful but close.

“I don’t blame you for needing space,” He said. “But we miss you, I miss you. Even when you think we don’t.”

You stared at the floor. “It’s hard. I… forget that people care when I feel like I don’t matter.”

There was a pause. Then his voice, low and steady:

“You matter even when you leave, even when you don’t believe it.”

You turned your head to him slowly. “Aren’t you mad?”

Bucky shook his head. “Tired, maybe. Worried? Always. But mad? Never.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then his hand found yours, warm and steady. You didn’t say anything more, but you didn’t pull away.

And that, for now, was enough.

You didn’t unpack that night.

You slept on top of the covers with your hoodie still on and duffel bag by the door like you hadn’t really decided whether you were staying, like you might bolt before morning. But when the sun rose and no one had pushed you away, you forced yourself to stand up, unzip the bag, and start folding clothes into drawers.

One drawer at a time. One item at a time. Trying to believe you had a place here again.

No one really acted like you were unwelcome. No one said anything sharp or cold.

But the shift was there like every time it happened, small and subtle. Wanda lingered a second too long after your first conversation back, like she wanted to say something but thought better of it. Clint offered you a joke, then watched your reaction just a little too carefully. Steve greeted you the same way every morning, but now there was a thread of hesitation in his voice again, as if he was bracing himself to one day walk into the kitchen and find your chair empty again.

You felt it, all of it even when you tried to pretend you didn’t.

So, you trained more often. Training was the easiest part to slip back into. You were sharp and focused. It gave you structure and something that didn’t ask for explanations or apologies. Bucky paired with you more than usual, barely saying much during drills, but keeping an eye on you like always.

You noticed that too.

You’d catch him glancing at you during cooldowns or in meetings. Not with suspicion, not even with pity, just that quiet awareness that had always made you feel seen. And even now, it was comforting and terrifying all at once.

Because how long would he keep showing up for someone who always left?

You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to hear the answer.

Tony passed you in the hallway one afternoon, tapping a tablet against his palm. “Thought you were going to take that soundproof tech I made for your room,” He said, almost offhand. “Guess I’ll keep it for myself.”

You blinked. “You finished it?”

He shrugged. “Eventually. Didn’t know if you’d be around long enough to use it.”

Then he was gone.

You stood there for a full minute, trying to figure out if it was bitterness, teasing, or just Tony being Tony. Maybe it was all three. Either way, the words stuck.

Later that night, you lingered outside the rec room. You could hear laughter through the door: Sam’s loud voice, Wanda’s soft giggle, and Natasha’s dry snark slicing through them both. You almost turned away, almost retreated back to your room where the lights were low and safe, and no one would expect you to smile.

But Bucky opened the door first. He looked at you, then stepped aside without a word.

You didn’t move.

“You can sit on the couch,” He said gently, not unkind. “You’re already here after all.”

So you walked in. Quiet, heart tight, and every step felt like testing ice.

Wanda smiled at you. Sam waved you over. Natasha slid her legs over to make space beside her on the couch without comment.

And somehow, somehow, that made it worse. The kindness. The normalcy. The way they let you come back without punishment, like they’d already accepted that this might happen again.

You sat there stiffly, barely laughing, barely speaking. But you stayed.

You stayed for the entire movie. You stayed while Tony argued with Steve about which sequel was the worst. You stayed while Clint fell asleep with a bowl of popcorn in his lap. You stayed even as the others drifted off one by one, until only Bucky was left sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch with his head tilted toward you.

“You’re quiet,” He said without looking.

“I don’t know if I should laugh yet,” You admitted. “Or if I’m just waiting to mess it all up again.”

He hummed. “You’re allowed to laugh, even if you do leave again someday.”

You flinched at the truth in his voice.

“That doesn’t scare you?” You asked quietly.

“It does,” He said. “But I’d rather have the time you give us than nothing at all.”

You stayed silent, a flicker of guilt in your expression. But when he reached up and let his fingers gently graze yours, you didn’t pull away then either.

However, it didn’t last for long. The ache in your chest started creeping back in.

It started small though. It always did.

You were in the gym with a towel around your neck and sipping water after a rough sparring session with Natasha. She’d been harder on you than usual, nothing mean just more direct. Sharper hits, fewer corrections, and no light sarcasm to ease the tension.

She didn’t say good match when you finished. Just nodded once, then walked off to reset the equipment.

You tried not to read into it. You told yourself it didn’t matter.

But then you passed Steve and Sam in the hallway later that day, their heads bent together in conversation, laughing about something. You smiled reflexively as you walked by, but they didn’t notice. Or if they did, they didn’t say anything.

Just kept walking, kept laughing.

You slowed your steps slightly, long enough to look back. But they didn’t turn around.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t pointed. It was normal. And that’s what made it sting.

Just like before.

The thoughts crept in quietly, the way they always did: They’re fine without you. They always were. You’ve been here a few weeks now. Maybe they’re used to the idea that you come and go. Maybe they’ve learned to stop reaching because they know you’ll vanish again.

You shook your head like it might shake the thoughts out.

Later, during the mission briefing, Tony made a crack about assigning “the usual suspects” to take point. His eyes flicked to Steve, Natasha, Sam, then skimmed past you like you weren’t even in the room.

He probably didn’t mean it. He was just moving fast, focused, maybe joking. But your gut twisted anyway.

You found yourself withdrawing without realizing it. Speaking less in strategy meetings, taking your meals in your room again, and skipping game night. It wasn’t intentional at first. You just didn’t want to be in the way.

Then came the final nudge.

You walked into the lounge late one night, just passing through, and caught the tail end of a conversation between Clint and Natasha.

“She always does this,” Clint said. His voice wasn’t angry, just tired. “You think she’ll do it again?”

There was a pause. Then Natasha, soft but firm: “Yeah. Probably.”

You froze in the hallway.

They didn’t know you were there. Didn’t see the way your spine went stiff or how your fingers curled into your sleeves. You didn’t wait to hear anything else. You just turned quietly, and walked away.

Your bag was still folded in the closet. It was empty since you hadn’t even thought about packing again, at least not until now. Not until those few words brought it all flooding back.

You sat on the edge of your bed, staring at your closet door with your hands clenched in your lap.

You wanted to tell yourself they were wrong. That this time was different. That you were stronger now. But the voice in your head, the one that always whispered doubt, was louder.

They’re waiting for you to leave.

And maybe this time, they wouldn’t bother looking back.

So you packed quietly and quickly. The room barely looked touched by the time you were done, like you’d never really settled in at all. This time you left no note or message.

And by the time the sun rose, you were gone.

Taglist: @yasmin12312 @herejustforbuckybarnes @eeveedream @wingstoyourdreams @figtreesandmoonlight @happygalaxymilkshake @hits-different-cause-its-you @the-galaxy-fiend @mouseratface

[takenbypeter]

Hi! Can I request a fic where Bob Reynolds comforts reader after reader gets into a nasty fight with her parents? Tysm! I love your work!

Warnings: Emotional abuse from family, reader crying, soft cursing, safe emotional vulnerability, cuddling

It took you three tries to unlock your front door. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking -- knuckles white from the grip you’d kept on the steering wheel the whole ride home, as if loosening your grip might’ve let the tears slip out. But they waited. They always did. They waited until you got home.

Until you were safe.

Until you were with Bob.

The second the lock clicked, you pushed the door open, dropped your bag to the floor, and stepped inside like someone walking out of a storm and into a warm cabin.

Bob was on the couch -- glasses, he didn't even need, low on his nose, a paperback folded in one hand. His head lifted as soon as he heard the door, and the second he saw your face, the book was on the floor long forgotten.

He stood up slow, voice cautious. “Hey. What happened?”

You didn’t answer. Just moved toward him, one step at a time, until you could press your face into his solid chest and exhale. And once you did, it all broke loose.

The tears came fast. Searing. Unapologetic. And Bob -- bless him --just wrapped those long arms around you and pulled you close like you hadn’t just soaked the front of his hoodie in seconds. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t ask. He just held you while you broke, hands rubbing warm, grounding circles into your back.

“They said I was selfish,” you choked out after what felt like hours. “That I make everything harder than it needs to be. That I don’t do enough.”

Bob’s jaw ticked. You didn’t see it, but you felt the tension ripple through him. Still, his voice was calm. Measured. “That’s not true. And they don’t get to say that to you. Not after everything you’ve done just to survive.” You swallowed hard, voice wobbling. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am--”

“No,” he cut in, firmer now. He cupped your face in his hand, thumb brushing your cheek like he could wipe away the doubt with the salt on your skin. “Don’t do that. Don’t carry their words like they're some gospel. You’re not selfish. You are hurt. And they should’ve seen that.”

Your breath hitched. “I didn’t even fight back this time. I just… I just left.”

He nodded, voice softer again. “Good. I’m proud of you for walking away.”

“I feel like I’m twelve all over again,” you whispered. “Like I could grow and grow; and they’d still only see the version of me they hated. I could cure cancer, and they would just look at me and ask why it wasn't done sooner.”

Bob tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and leaned down to kiss your forehead -- slow and reverent, like it physically hurt him to know they ever made you feel that way.

“Come here,” he murmured. “Let me hold you proper.”

He guided you over to the couch and pulled you down with him, arms still wrapped around you like a shield. You ended up in his lap -- legs tangled in his, head under his chin, hands fisted in the fabric of his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“You can just stay right here. You’re safe. I got you.” he whispered, lips brushing your hairline.

You didn’t mean to cry again. But the quiet of the room, the warmth of his chest, the soft cadence of his voice -- it cracked you all over again. His thumb found your hip, stroking absent, soothing patterns through your shirt. “You know you don’t have to earn love, right? You’re not some broken machine that needs to be fixed. You’re a person. And you deserve love just because you are you.”

You nodded weakly but didn’t look up.

“And anyone who makes you feel otherwise,” he murmured, barely above a whisper, “doesn’t deserve a moment in your brain.”

The words caught in your throat. “Why are you always so good to me?”

Bob pulled back just enough to look at you -- soft eyes searching yours. “Because I see you. And because I love you. Even the parts they tried to shame.” You blinked back another wave of tears. “Stay with me tonight?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours. “Not now. Not ever.”

So, you stayed like that. Curled in his arms, the world outside quieting to a hum. Eventually he reached over and grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over the both of you before settling back, letting you lay fully against his chest. His fingers played gently in your hair now, slow and calming.

The steady rise and fall of his chest anchored you. The safety in his arms made you believe -- just for a little while -- that you weren’t too much. And for the first time in days, you believed him when he said:

“You deserve better than that.”

Because maybe… just maybe…you already had it.

Right here. In him.

Thank you for reading (and requesting!) I hope you enjoyed it! If you did please let me know by liking, commenting, and reblogging It's a simple way to show support and keep me motivated <3

Tagging:

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@you-bloody-shank

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[takenbypeter]

Not So Serious Business ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: Joaquín always thought you were serious, but he was proven wrong

tw: fem!reader, assistant!reader, I got carried away; this was supposed to be a drabble, reader low key had childhood trauma, reader says basketball isn't her thing, barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

This is based off the fact that my sister and I have been quoting TikToks to each other nonstop lately. Also, I just want to complain about this bird (it may not be a bird) absolutely screaming in the tree outside my window. It's driving me insane and it's midnight for me.

➽──────────────❥

You were warned about men like Joaquín, the ones that joke a lot. You were always told that they wouldn't be able to be serious, that if they were always joking, what does that mean for serious moments. And maybe there was some truth to that, maybe some men do joke instead of dealing with things. But Joaquín? Joaquín was different. Sure, he joked around and tried to ease tension with a well placed joke. But he was able to be serious when he needed to be.

Based on how you grew up, you tried to be serious all the time. You had it drilled into your head that to be loved, you need to be serious. Maybe that's how you came to such a high level job, the assistant to Captain America and Falcon.

Joaquín Torres was everything you tried to stay away from. A playful man with boyish charm and charming smile. But he was serious when he had to be, he could flip the switch as soon as he needed. It was jarring a first, you had built walls for the joking Joaquín. Not the one with a deadly handsome look he got when he was focused, when he had to lock in and make sure Sam wasn't running into a trap.

But his smile never stopped, even when he was telling Sam that there may be a trap, he would smile over at you. It was an easy one, one that was meant to calm your nerves for your boss. And it worked, it always worked. His smile always calmed you down and allowed you to focus on the mission for the report Sam would eventually forget to fill out.

Joaquín would never say it aloud, but he thought you didn't like him. You would only smile at him if he smiled first or made a particularly good joke. It drove him crazy because he wanted to believe that everyone liked him, that he wasn't annoying or too much. Sam would only laugh and shake his head when Joaquín brought it up. Sam was a smart man, he saw the way you would turn away when Joaquín joked to hide your smile. Or the way you would smile at the back of Joaquín's head when he was speaking and not looking towards you.

Joaquín also thought you were too serious, that you should smile more. Not in the weird misogynistic way, but in the way it seemed like you were always stressed. It's why he could believe his ears when he heard you softly sing to yourself as you worked. "I cleaned so deep I got out all my anger, omg da pine. I cleaned so deep I'm now fun to be around again, omg da pine. I cleaned so deep I started to cry cause I'm working through some things, omg free therapy. I cleaned so deep that dirt now fears me. Oh em gee da pine," you had used the same intonation and drawn out vowels as the TikTok.

"Please not you too," Sam muttered and you looked over at him.

"Huh?" You tilted your head to the side as you looked at Sam.

"My nephews have been singing 'omg da pine' nonstop since that TikTok," Sam groaned, rubbing a hand down his face to try and get rid of the annoyance at the sound.

"Oh, sorry," you mumbled and Sam gave you some murmured reassurance that it's nothing you need to apologize about. Joaquín, however, was having a light mental crisis. You, the stoic and serious you, had seen the Pine-Sol ad that seemed so uncharacteristically you. He found himself wondering what else he had gotten wrong about you, maybe you were as serious as you put out.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

"Nothing beats a Jet2 holiday," Joaquín mumbled to himself as you walked past.

You fought your own urge to say the next sentence but failed. "And right now you can get 50 pounds off per person, that's 200 pounds off for a family of four," you mumbled back before continuing your walk to your desk. Joaquín watched you walk away with a confused face, it was probably because it was such a popular sound. That's what Joaquín thought.

"We're all leaving early," Sam announced as he walked in. "But only if you two come play basketball with me," Sam threw the ball at you and you caught it.

"I used to have hoop dreams before I found out there are others ways to score," you said.

"What?" Sam scrunched his eyebrows at you and you shrugged.

"If you're going to be my bitch, then you cannot be a whore," you finished with a mostly straight face.

"I swear, you're secretly the most online out of the three of us," Sam muttered as you threw the ball back at him.

"Maybe, also I don't play basketball," you replied, sitting back down at your desk.

"Nope, get up," Sam pulled your seat out from under your desk. "You don't have to play but you are coming with us," Sam added, shaking your chair until you stood.

"Ok, ok," you laughed, pushing his shoulder lightly.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

On your drive to the basketball court, you started to think back to when you started loosing up. Maybe it was when you started noticing that you actually liked Joaquín and you thought being more of yourself would help your chances. Or maybe it was when Sam had pulled you aside and let you know that you were allowed to relax around the two. That you didn't need to always be so professional and serious all the time. "You got this," you told yourself in the rearview. You had arrived before both the boys, having avoided the traffic, so you had time to shimmy out of your work pants and shimmy on the pair of shorts you had in your bag while in your care. You quickly took the button down off and adjusted your tank top to sit a little better.

You opened your car door, swung your legs out the open door, and swapped your work flats for the converse you kept in your car. You got out once you had them tied and when you looked to your left, you saw Joaquín getting out of his car. He apparently had time to swap his shirt for one of his cut off shirts and his jeans for a pair of basketball shorts. His shoes were the same ones he had worn to work but you had also seen him wear them when he sparred with Sam. "Have you seen Sam?" Joaquín asked as he saw you.

"No, I just got out of my car," you said as you made sure your car was locked.

"I'm right here!" Sam called from farther down the parking lot and you both turned to look at him. "You look relaxed," Sam said towards you and you shrugged.

"All I did was change my clothes," you replied, walking along with the boys to the court.

"And that can do a lot," Sam told you cryptically.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You watched as Joaquín and Sam played one-on-one basketball but spied Isaiah walking over. "Hey," Isaiah greeted you.

"Hey," you smiled at him as he sat down with you.

"You aren't playing?"

"No, basketball is my thing," you replied as you took a breath. You both fell into a comfortable silence as you watched Joaquín and Sam keep going. Sam got the ball in and apparently that meant Joaquín had lost, but you hadn't fully been paying attention to the game. You had been distracted by Joaquín's arms on show covered in sweat for most of the game. Your attention only diverting to how his curls bounced with certain movements and how his chest rose and fell faster after ended the game.

"Alright, pretty boy, my turn," Isaiah called out to Joaquín and the two traded placed. Unlike Isaiah, Joaquín sat close enough for your shoulders to brush.

"You did good," you told him, watching him smile widely.

"Thanks," Joaquín thought about his next words carefully. "Why are you normally so serious?" Joaquín cursed himself for not thinking longer.

"Oh," you paused as you looked over to him again. "It's just how I was raised," is what you settled on telling him.

"I like it more when you're more carefree, it's like I get to see the real you," Joaquín told you softly.

"Do you like the real me?" You asked just as softly.

"More than I probably should," Joaquín admitted, his smile softening.

"Kiss her, pretty boy!" Isaiah called over, neither of you had noticed both him and Sam staring.

"You know, it's pretty disrespectful to disobey your elders," you told Joaquín, a joking smile painting your lips.

"Wouldn't want to be disrespectful," Joaquín muttered before your lips met. "Would you like to get dinner tonight? Or we could start the date right now and leave these two," Joaquín said.

"I'd love to," you told him, taking the hand he offered after he stood.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

[takenbypeter]

His to Guard

Summary: After hiding your pregnancy from your husband for a while, Bucky, fiercely territorial and quietly devoted, turns every moment into proof that you and the baby are his entire world. (Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)

Word Count: 2.4k+

A/N: This is a significant time skip/one-shot, not part of the main chapters (at least not for a longggg time). Based off the Character Questionnaire game from this ask!

Main Masterlist | His Sweetheart Masterlist

You didn’t mean to keep it from him.

You chalked the fatigue up to stress. The soreness? A bad night’s sleep. The way your stomach flipped at the smell of coffee one morning and you nearly cried because of a stupid dog commercial? Well… okay, that was harder to explain.

But still, you told yourself it was a fluke. A weird week. Hormones, maybe. You didn’t want to worry Bucky. Not when things had been so peaceful lately with quiet mornings curled together in bed, more meals together, and late-night walks with his hand brushing yours. You didn’t want to ruin it with paranoia.

Still, Bucky noticed. Of course he did.

You’d catch him watching you, brow furrowed slightly like he was running numbers in his head. When you started getting lightheaded every time you stood up too fast, he stopped letting you carry anything heavier than a throw pillow. You tried to wave him off, but he didn’t say much, just kept that steady gaze on you like he was trying to crack a code you hadn’t realized you were writing.

You weren’t hiding what was going on for some grand plan or secret rebellion. It was fear. And maybe… maybe a little bit of disbelief. If you didn’t say it out loud, if you didn’t name it, then maybe you could keep everything as it was. Simple, safe, and normal.

So you smiled through the nausea, blamed the headaches on allergies, and quietly swapped your morning coffee for tea when Bucky wasn’t looking. You were careful. You hid your vitamins behind the cereal boxes and kept the pregnancy test buried under old wash clothes and unused toiletries in the very back of the bathroom drawer.

You were good at pretending, but Bucky was better at watching.

He saw the way you flinched from certain smells, the way your body gravitated toward the couch faster than usual after a long day, or the way your hand went protectively to your stomach whenever you thought no one was looking.

And then came the mood swings.

You were usually patient, especially with him, but one night you snapped at Bucky for leaving a dish in the sink. He didn’t even argue, just tilted his head, studying you quietly as you stormed out of the room like your heart was on fire.

He found you in the bedroom twenty minutes later curled into a ball, blanket pulled over your face like you could hide from the world.

“Wanna talk?” He asked, voice soft.

You didn’t answer, just shook your head.

He didn’t press. He just sat beside the bed quietly until you fell asleep.

And still… you didn’t tell him.

You wanted to be sure. You wanted time to think. You wanted to hold onto the tiny, flickering hope for just a little longer, uninterrupted.

So you waited and you planned.

One quiet morning, when Bucky left early for a training session, you slipped into the bathroom with shaking hands and another test clenched tight in your fist. The mirror showed a pale version of yourself, someone who was nervous, uncertain, and blinking too fast.

You followed the instructions with breathless precision and set the test on the counter like it might explode.

Then you waited. Two minutes. You could survive two minutes.

Except you didn’t feel like you were surviving. You felt like you were floating and sinking all at once, like the air had turned to static and your bones were filled with buzzing dread. Your gaze shifted to the drawer where the old tests were.

Maybe they were faulty or glitched, maybe even expired. Maybe this was just stress, or a weird shift in your cycle. Maybe your body was playing tricks.

You hoped so.

Because your hands were shaking, your mouth was dry, and your head kept looping the same thought like it was stuck on a scratched record:

You still haven’t told Bucky.

The subject of kids had never come up, not seriously. There were no “what-ifs,” no late-night talks about futures with cribs or lullabies. You didn’t know if he even wanted them. What if he didn’t? What if the idea of a baby scared him and pushed him back into memories too dark to name?

Your stomach twisted. Not from nausea, though that hadn’t exactly eased, but from the gut-deep fear that this one thing, this one tiny life-altering truth might shift everything between you. Bucky loved you. That wasn’t in question. He told you in every touch, every breath, and every stupid middle-of-the-night trip for snacks you hadn’t even realized you were craving.

But love didn’t always mean ready.

And the last thing you wanted was to see anger on his face. Or worse, disappointment. Cold, quiet regret. A sharp flinch that said I wasn’t expecting this. I didn’t want this. A withdrawal.

And when the lines appeared clear, certain, and real, your stomach dropped. You slid down onto the cool tile floor and stared because it was happening. You were pregnant, no doubts about it. And Bucky didn’t know.

You stayed in the bathroom longer than you meant to. Long enough that, when the front door creaked open, you jumped, heart lodging in your throat. Bucky’s voice echoed softly down the hall.

“Sweetheart? I forgot my gloves–”

Panic surged through you. You shoved the test back in its box and crammed it under the sink, slamming the cabinet door closed, standing back up just as Bucky rounded the corner into the hallway.

He paused when he saw you, your wet eyes, tense shoulders, and breath caught halfway to a sob.

You really weren’t as convincing as you thought.

“…You okay?” He asked gently, blue eyes narrowing with something deeper than concern. “You look… pale.”

You forced a smile that hurt. “Just tired.”

He studied you like he didn’t quite believe you, then stepped forward and raised a hand to your forehead. His touch was careful, the brush of his fingers cool against your skin.

“No fever,” He murmured. “But your heart’s racing.”

“I said I’m fine,” You said a little too fast.

That look came over him again. The one that meant he was filing something away, mentally circling something he couldn’t yet name.

“…Alright,” He sighed softly. “I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t go fainting on me.”

You nodded, lips pressed tight.

He kissed the top of your head before heading back out the door, but you could feel the weight of his concern even after it shut behind him.

He knew something was going on. He just didn’t know what. Not yet.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Bucky didn’t ask what was wrong, but he made it impossible for you not to notice that he knew.

It was in the subtle things. You reached for the car keys one morning and found one of his men already standing by the door, your coat in hand, saying, “Mr. Barnes has requested I drive you.”

When you went to brew coffee, there was suddenly a mug of herbal tea beside your usual spot, caffeine-free, floral, and warm.

“I just thought you might want something gentler,” He said with a shrug, eyes fixed on the kettle like he hadn’t spent ten minutes researching safe teas and had them delivered the day of.

You told yourself it was coincidence, that you weren’t being obvious, that he couldn’t possibly know.

But then you caught him watching you when you sat on the couch and curled your arms around your stomach, something you did more and more without thinking. He didn’t comment, just gave you that look. That look.

Gentle. Patient. Heartbreaking.

And you knew. He was waiting. He’d already figured it out.

You came home one evening quite late, exhausted and foggy with emotion. Bucky had left a blanket folded over the back of the couch, soft and warm. The fireplace was already lit. There was soup in the kitchen made by Nico. Something mild, simple, and exactly what your stomach could handle lately. He didn’t greet you at the door, didn’t hover. Just let you ease into the silence of the house as he was sat on the couch with a discarded book, staring patiently.

He was giving you a choice.

“Thought you were busy, didn’t think you’d be down here,” You murmured.

“Didn’t think you’d be home so late,” He answered, and you caught the quiet worry behind the words.

You sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, neither of you saying anything for a long time. The crackling of the fire filling the space.

Then he asked, so quietly it nearly broke you, “You gonna tell me?”

Your breath caught.

“I mean… when you’re ready,” He added quickly. “I’m not going to force it out of you. I just…”

He paused, looking down at his hands, then up at you again.

“I just want you to know I already got you. No matter what it is.”

Your eyes stung. You didn’t say it yet. Not out loud.

But your hand found his, fingers weaving slow and certain. Holding on.

And Bucky didn’t push. He just laced your fingers together and waited with you.

The fateful day happened on a Tuesday.

Not a dramatic day. Not a falling-apart kind of day. Just… a Tuesday. The kind where your lunch didn’t settle right and everything felt a little too loud.

Bucky had been trailing the edges of your space again. Not smothering, just there. Like gravity that’s always near, always steady.

He hadn’t asked again, but he left things: crackers in your bag, your favorite fuzzy socks on the bed, or a bottle of ginger ale already opened with the fizz just right. You didn’t have to tell him. Somehow, Bucky knew the shape of your day before you could say it.

And maybe that’s what broke you.

Because when he found you that evening, curled in on yourself on the edge of the bed, blanket half-dragged over your lap and your hands clutched tight in your sleeves; you looked up, met his worried blue eyes, and said it.

“James,” You whispered, voice wrecked and tired.

His whole body went still, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. “Yeah?”

“I’m pregnant.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Bucky exhaled, slow and trembling, like you’d cracked something open in his chest.

“I know,” He said gently, stepping forward and kneeling in front of you. “I figured.”

Tears burned behind your eyes. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

His hands came up to rest on your knees, tentative and warm. “Because I didn’t want to take it from you.”

You blinked. “Take what?”

“The chance to say ii, to let it be yours first.” His voice cracked, quiet and tender. “You needed to hold it for a while before sharing it. I get that.”

You stared at him, lip trembling. “Aren’t you mad I didn’t tell you sooner?”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear, “I was never gonna be mad.”

You broke then as your sobs spilled out and your hands trembled. Bucky gathered you close without a second thought. He rocked you gently, murmuring things you didn’t catch.

When your tears slowed, and your breathing steadied, he kissed the side of your head and said quietly, “We’re gonna be okay. All three of us.”

You nodded into his shoulder, still shaking. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” He whispered, pulling the blanket around both of you. “But I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in weeks, the fear didn’t feel so overwhelming.

But then it started the day after you told him.

At first, it was subtle. Bucky adjusted your car seat a little further back and mumbled something about “spinal alignment.” Then he replaced your shampoo with one that had “better prenatal safety ratings,” and you realized it was happening.

By the end of the week, your world had shifted.

You tried to carry a grocery bag inside one afternoon and he blinked like you’d committed a war crime.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping?”

“Not anymore, you’re not.”

From that moment on, you were banned. From lifting, from bending, from anything Bucky Barnes decided was “unnecessary effort” for a person growing a child.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m pregnant, not fragile.”

He didn’t argue. He just took the bag from your hands, scooped you up bridal-style, and carried you inside like you weighed less than a breath, ordering his staff to handle the rest of the groceries.

From then on, it only got more apparent how determined he was to provide nothing but the best for you.

If you so much as shifted in bed at 3 a.m., he was up. Padding to the kitchen in his sweats, eyes still half-shut, and grabbing pickle chips, orange slices, or whatever weird craving your body decided it had to have. You once whispered “s’mores” at 2:47 a.m. and woke up to him standing over you with a plate of them.

You weren’t allowed to open doors. You weren’t allowed to walk into any building first; he always went in first, eyes scanning, and body subtly angled in front of yours like a living shield.

You tried to argue once. “James, you can’t possibly keep doing this every single time we go somewhere–”

“I can and I will,” He said simply, “I know what this world’s like. I’ve seen too much. No one gets near you unless I say so.”

He meant it. No one raised their voice around you. No one touched you. People who even looked at you wrong got a tight-lipped stare that made them suddenly remember an urgent reason to be elsewhere.

Sam called him “feral.” Nat called him “a full-time bodyguard with a nesting complex.” You just called him yours.

And under all the sharp edges was softness.

Warm hands rubbing your lower back when it ached, whispered promises to your child, and bought an overly-excessive amount of books about parenting, swaddling, and sleep schedules. He helped you build baby furniture in the middle of the night when insomnia hit you and even hand-painted the tiny mural on the nursery wall, stars and constellations, soft and glowing.

He looked at you nowadays like he couldn’t believe he got this lucky. Like it terrified him, grounded him, and gave him purpose all at once.

And when he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, and then lower to the swell of your stomach, you knew what he meant without words.

You and the baby were his everything now and he’d do anything to protect you both.

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[takenbypeter]

imagine going to see the new superman movie with bucky and you come out having a little crush on superman and bucky rolls his eyes and goes “yeah a hero with blue eyes and dark hair. totally one of a kind.”

and then you giggle and kiss bucky on the cheek

[takenbypeter]

I feel like I need to see this rn!

i never talked about this but it's a thing i should have a shout out to it: peter maximoff as spiderman!!

i think a bunch 'bout this concept and i have some wips of fanarts of him like this that i couldn't finish yet bc rn my ipad needs fixing (😞), but i really adore spiderverse movies and it would be a super fun concept about peter maximoff being a anomaly or smth like this and not being quicksilver but a spiderman.

i think it's funny too because of the 'peter thing', he is a peter too!! (the memes of spiderman pointing at each other or just being a pure coincidence his name is peter lol)

anyway, it's a thing i think a lot some times because i love peter maximoff and he's injected in my veins ♡

[takenbypeter]

OBJECT WHISPERER | Date Everything x gn!Reader

Summary: Before you got your dateaviator you unknowingly had made relationships with the appliances and knickknacks around you home.

Warning: Fluff, Spoilers for certain characters? This wasn’t edited, came straight from my head to my notes app.

MASTERLIST | READ ME

Before you got your dateviator and realized that you could date literally anything within your house. You unknowingly had built relationships with your appliances and knickknacks around your home. Solely because you’re a lonely person and tend to talk to yourself and random things around you.

Some of the things you used to do is apologize. Mainly to Dorian or Wallace every time you accidentally shoulder-check them because your depth perception is tarnished by being with Mac and Phonenicia all day for ‘work’ related things (you’re reading fanfics).

Whispering an ‘ow’ rubbing your shoulder and absentmindedly apologizing then going about your day. Wallace would sigh ‘wall…’ dreamily while Dorian would grunt but respect you a bit more as he watches you do the same thing and stub your toe on Abel, letting out curses and another wheeze of ‘sorry…’ before stumbling away.

Sometimes you and an object get into a scuffle and both of you become moody. Like you pleading with Connie to work, not so seriously threatening Dante when you burn yourself, yelling at yourself and Mac because a document didn’t save, or muttering curses as you try and find a pair of socks in Harper/Dirk.

But every relationship has their moments, but you try and everyone else does too. You do a lot like how you help fix them, albeit haphazardly, but the thought is there! You’d replace Lux’s light bulbs with one that has them shine brighter than ever. Fixed Phoenicia when you fell and cracked her screen which was expensive. Replace fuses for Eddie and Volt. You even helped the Hanks when they did they’re extreme sports (sponsored by Red Bowls) and Hank two got hurt!

You noticed that one of the hangers was cracked and went to Jerry and got a dog themed washi tape, you wrapped it around the crack nicely like he was good as new—the Hanks thought the tape looked rad and they all signed the cast with various ‘Hank was here’.

But the moment where (mostly) everyone collectively liked you was when you defended them. Your mother came over. It was a decent visit—but then your mom started walking around criticizing every object that brought you joy, you didn’t back down from justifying their existence and why you kept them around. It made them all feel loved.

Everyone has some sense of appreciation, respect, or even longing for you. Most of them, of course, thought you were slightly insane or just extremely lonely and in need of some sort of connection due to you talking to them when you're bored but honestly? They wouldn’t have it any other way.

[takenbypeter]

ups

from swtnrlew on twitter