đ°đđ«đ§đąđ§đ đŹ: light nsfw, very mild smut, friends to lovers, yearning bucky, confession of feelings, bucky is silly & charming, lots of fluff, heavy making out, neck kissing, sexual tension, body worship, light dry humping, groping & lots of touching, really sweet ending.
đđźđđĄđšđ«âđŹ đ§đšđđ: this might be one of my favorite fics Iâve written lately ngl :â) I just adore a softer side to Bucky where heâs happy. If enough people like this fic, I have a part 2 planned! â€ïž I hope you all enjoy! đ«¶
Frivolous events have never been your forte.
Thousands of crystals dangle from a gaudy chandelier, hanging high from a scaling ceiling in the middle of the ballroom. Light dances in luminescent refraction, spilling onto the pale marble below.
Itâs mesmerizing, a worthwhile distraction that effectively silences the hum of conversation buzzing around you. Excitement blankets the air, teeming with business disguised as laughter.
In the space for reflection, you find yourself more discomforted by your dress than the atmosphere. Philanthropists, chairmen, politicians â it all felt exceedingly âlarger-than-lifeâ for you.
The New Avengers Foundation Gala was the solution to a cut in funding Valentina had experienced in the wake of O.X.E Groupâs dismantlement.
In the upper wings of the hall, were showrooms dedicated to the new mightiest heroes of a futuristic generation. It was all too polished, too modernized, too corporate â it was somewhat soulless, each of you washed down to a mere moniker.
Attendees, patrons, and donors alike were thoroughly engrossed with Valentinaâs peacocking display â and the press loved it, too.
Banners hung from the rafters, bearing a glamour shot of each member of the team, all wearing new gear that held an exaggerated flair. It was strange, seeing your face plastered there â haunting, really.
Unfortunately for the team, you were all along for the ride; a tumultuous, unpredictable ride that left you feeling mildly uncomfortable.
It was as if you were living in a skin that didnât belong to you, catering to people who saw you as an accessory, a curiosity.
Indigo silk barely touched the floor beneath you, off-the-shoulder sleeves accentuating your neckline as if you had something to show. The wardrobe wasnât something youâd selected; Val chose it.
Constricted within your fabric coffin, you continued to marvel at the general splendor of the pavilion, cradling a half-drank glass of champagne.
Unbeknownst to you, Bucky Barnesâs eyes had followed you across the room for the past hour, his gaze disarmingly soft. It was to check in on you, heâd told himself, but it extended beyond that.
To any outsider, he resembled a man yearning for someone who didnât have a clue, wistful and contemplative. Friends donât look at one another in the way Bucky looks at you.
Discomfort rippled from you in waves, slithering like some fever over your skin, tugging at the corners of your thoughts.
Whenever you took a step, you felt as if you might collapse from the pressure, or simply from the balancing act on stilettos.
From afar, Bucky was deliberating going to you, noticing the way Valentina had swarmed in with calculated, measured steps. She was dangerous, even still; and he didnât trust her with you.
âGod, you do clean up nicely,â Valentinaâs biting tone sank into you like teeth, spiking your nervous system. âYou know, I started to think you mightâve been a little hopeless.â She chimes, champagne in-hand.
Swiveling, youâre faced with your boss, the corner of her mouth pulled into a half-smirk. After everything, youâre still wary of her, never fully bringing your guard down in the process.
âThanks,â With a low mumble, you canât quite decipher if sheâs paying you a compliment or mocking you â maybe itâs somewhere in between. âIâm not used to this.â You confessed, fingers tense around your glass.
âYouâll have to work on your posture,â She chided, clicking her tongue with faux disapproval. âLooks bad in the pictures.â
It was all optics with her â a team of government rejects rebranded as the new face of heroism, rebuilding the legacy left behind by shoes too big to fill. Admittedly, she made you nervous; too sharp, too clever, a well-dressed viper.
Withholding the urge to retort with a quip of your own, you forced a smile, noticing photographers swimming in your peripheral like sharks.
âTurn around and give them a smile, yeah?â Valentina uttered, low enough for only you to hear. A hand fell flat against the back of your arm, turning you just in time to be bombarded by flashes of light and camera clicks.
With pearlescent teeth and a wolfish smile, she stood firmly beside you, guiding you through it. Your own smile was threadbare and pensive, as if it pained you to play along.
It all seemed scripted, rehearsed, fake. Everything lacked authenticity, and it grated on you through the photographs.
Bucky was already in-motion, weaving through the gathering crowd, departing a conversation with an investor mid-sentence. He wouldnât call it a rescue mission, but he knew you, knew how anxious it made you.
His brief stint in Washington as a congressman afforded him time in the spotlight, pressed beneath mountains of questions and constant prying.
Quietly, he slipped in from the fringes, coming to stand beside you. Valentina noticed, but made no motion to dismiss him, allowing the press to make a frenzy of it all.
Vibranium graced the small of your back, a kiss of ice through the silk that clung to you, the gesture comforting. Realizing that Bucky had joined you, you began to relax, anchoring yourself to his presence.
When the cameras receded, the weight within your chest had lifted, replaced by relief as you turned to Bucky. âThank you,â You murmured, appreciative. âDonât go anywhere.â It was a soft plea, one that he heeded.
âMr. Barnes,â Valentina spoke as if heâd irked her in some regard, polished nails tapping against her champagne glass. âSuitâs a little outdated, but we can work with that.â She remarked condescendingly.
Bucky huffed, hovering near your right side, one hand shoved into his pocket. âYeah, well,â He shrugged, nonchalant. âIâm a little old-fashioned.â His own wry joke prompted him to smile.
With a snarky hum, Valentina dismissed his jest, peering over her shoulder as an older man approached, a New Avengers pin on his lapel. âAh, Senator Locke. Itâs a pleasure to have you at our little event.â
Involuntarily, you stayed close to Bucky, glued to his hip whenever the crowds grew thick. Even with his newfound status as an Avenger, many people still saw the Winter Soldier, a Soviet machine, capable of such destruction.
âWouldnât miss it, Ms. Fontaine. Youâve done excellent work, keeping Americans safe with the team youâve assembled.â He chimed, gaze flickering toward you and Bucky; you, in particular.
âThe safety and security of our citizens is our highest priority. The Avengers work with that at the forefront of their mission,â Smooth, calculated and completely fake. âYour contribution is appreciated.â
Bucky bristled, holding back a scoff as he attempted to maintain some level of cordiality. A majority of the people in-attendance held Valentina in some high regard.
Every syllable that dripped from Valentina was steeped by a facade of altruism â she was purely in this for personal gain.
Senator Locke glanced at you, perhaps for too long, prompting you to shift your weight. The stilettos dug into your heels, feet aching as you cleared your throat.
âItâs a pleasure to meet you, miss. Youâre certainly much prettier in-person than on a television screen.â Locke nodded, hand outstretched for a shake. Knowing that youâre left without options, you keep the gesture brief.
Through a clenched jaw and furrowed brows, Bucky bites his tongue, keeping himself in-check when the Senator brazenly remarks about your appearance. He was the essence of ire, stewing quietly beside you, digits clenched into his pocket.
âOh,â It was all you could muster before Valentina shot you a pointed glare through gritted teeth. âThank you, Senator. I suppose I wanted the world to see a new side of me.â God, it sounded so ridiculous.
âI would like to speak to you further about your involvement with the Avengers. Have you been to Washington?â He continued, and Valentina seemed poised to interject, capitalizing on the opportunity â in her own way.
âSenator, my team is incredibly busy with global threats and outreach efforts,â With another pensive, venomous smile, she tapped her now-empty glass. âThough, Iâm certain sheâd entertain a dance.â
The more he spoke, the more livid Bucky became, silently seething as he prepared for a scare tactic. He turned around, and one swipe of his phone had told him where Senator Lockeâs address was.
As the proposition of a dance was placed into the open, you gawked, jaw unhinged as you closed your mouth. Unfortunately, you couldnât object â you were playing the part, catering to strangers for funding.
Waved over by another gaggle of shareholders, Valentina hummed, heels clicking over polished marble. âSenator, if youâll excuse me.â
As she departed, you were left with Locke and Bucky. However, Bucky had a scheme of his own, throwing on a charming smile, maliciously deceptive as he cleared his throat.
âSo, about Washington âŠâ Locke began, but not before Bucky could interject.
He leaned down, low and calculating, murmuring something indecipherable into the Senatorâs ear. You couldnât quite discern what was being exchanged between the two, but Lockeâs face had turned as white as a sheet.
âI deeply apologize for the offense, MâMr. Barnes, I âŠâ As pale as a ghost, the man hastily nodded several times over, swallowing the lump within his throat before stepping away. âPardon me.â
Bewildered, you watched in stunned silence as the Senator quickly retreated, weaving back through the sea of patrons to find Valentina.
It left you shocked, brows creased in confusion, craning to glance at Bucky with a hint of amusement. âWhat was that all about? You looked like you scared him into an early grave.â You mused, head cocked to one side.
A hint of smugness crept onto his features, turning to look at you, visibly playful. âTold him that I knew his address and how to track him.â Bucky chimed, gesturing for you to follow him elsewhere.
âBucky, you didnât!â With a conspiratorial gasp, you were swift to follow, abandoning your lukewarm glass of champagne on the table behind you. âHow did you know where he lived, anyway?â
âGoogle.â Holding up his phone from the confines of his pocket, his tone held a charming lilt, more upbeat now that Locke and Valentina were gone.
Smooth jazz reverberated from the ballroom, a live band dresses in finely-tailored suits situated in one corner. There were plenty of people dancing already, a good place to assimilate and disappear from prying senators.
With a bubbly laugh, you slipped inside with him, heartbeat beginning to settle, anxiousness receding altogether. Having him by your side seemed to ease whatever discomfort youâd experienced before.
âThank you for that,â A sigh of relief escaped you, hands twisting together, fingers locked before your navel. âI donât like being here, and I donât âŠâ Trailing off, you felt Buckyâs gaze shift to you.
A tender stare settled over your countenance, openly admiring your beauty; it was involuntary, revolving around you as if you were the sun itself. âItâs alright.â He murmured, able to understand your frustration.
Pushing a tremulous exhale through your nose, you mustered up a smile, palm running over the underside of your forearm. âSometimes I miss the way things were before we became Avengers.â
Valentina wouldâve labeled you ungrateful, shaming you for being apprehensive at the opportunity presented to you. Maybe you shouldâve been happy about it all, but the public light wasnât for you.
âYeah,â Bucky sighed, lips pulling into a half-smile, placating. âMe too.â Despite his short-lived career as a congressman, the current limelight made him miss it; just a little bit.
The friendship you formed with Bucky was meaningful to you, but some sliver wanted more, craved something else. It whispered between stolen glances, hands brushing but never firm, eyes following one another around a room.
Between rooms of shareholders, media, and senators, he was the prettiest thing here â the only thing interesting enough to keep you grounded.
Broad shoulders were accentuated by the fit of his blazer, white dress shirt complete with a bowtie; so handsome that it made you pause. Bucky was always attractive, but more so now, inches apart and smiling.
âBefore he comes back, interested in a dance?â Bucky propositions, his question seemingly innocuous. He narrowly avoided dancing at a previous Congress gala, but this seemed as good a time as any.
Smitten, you attempt to swallow the twinge of nervousness that pools within your belly, still rubbing at your arm. âI might step on you, if thatâs okay with you. These heels are killing me.â
Bucky chuckles, unperturbed by the idea of being stepped on mid-sway. âI think I can handle it.â He offers a hand, metallic palm shimmering beneath the crystalline glow, visibly reassuring.
Steeling yourself, flesh slips into icy metal, soothing the heat thatâs made residence in your skin. Slowly, the both of you step out onto the ballroom floor, over sparkling tile, intermingling amongst the crowds.
Some time ago, he was somewhat adverse to touch â felt undeserving, felt as if heâd ruin something good. When your hand slipped into his, he found himself craving it, but only if it came from you.
There were plenty of fleeting moments; moments that still whispered from the recesses of his mind, bright spots slipping through the dark. You grounded him; you were a sanctuary.
A slow jazz ballad blankets the room, chandelier glistening overhead, idle chatter humming in the spaces between. Gently, Buckyâs hand finds your waist, digits slipping over satiny, azure fabric, the texture soft.
It was muscle memory for him, lamenting over memories from nearly a century ago; for you, it was somewhat awkward. Joined hands drift to your sides in a classic waltz, something slow and idle.
Baccarat Rouge 540 â itâs Buckyâs cologne, an amalgamation of woodsy scents, imbued with strains of amber and a spice of something floral. Itâs rich, a smell that you commit to memory, being this close together.
As you slowly turn about the floor, you decide to shatter the silence, gaze fluttering toward the stubbled slope of his jaw. âYouâre really good at this,â You muse, hushed. âVery smooth.â
A bemused huff escaped him, accompanied by a glint of pearlescent teeth. âItâs been a long time,â He confessed, keeping you close. âYou havenât stepped on me yet.â Bucky remarks teasingly.
âWe just started, thereâs still plenty of time,â Playful, you return his quip with one of your own, minding his feet as you shift to the right. âHopefully Valentina isnât upset about the Senator thing.â
âSheâll live,â Bucky murmured, still sore about the entire ordeal. She was vicious, calculating; there was always an ulterior motive with her, wreathed in shadows. âI donât trust her with you.â
While you were flattered by his concern, you felt that you could handle yourself, despite the uncertainty. âIâll be alright, Buck. I think she took advantage of my discomfort, thatâs all.â
âThatâs my point. Sheâs dangerous.â Through pinched brows, his gaze fell to you, wrought with something incendiary. He was protective over you for a multitude of reasons. âI want to keep you safe.â
His cadence softened to a gentle lull, one that filled your stomach with butterflies. The way he stared at you â it didnât seem strictly platonic, but maybe you were reading into it too much.
âThanks.â Little more than a mere whisper, you danced with him still, swaying to the melodramatic hum of the music. The both of you seemed to settle, enjoying the presence of one another; he couldnât take his eyes off of you.
The heel of your stiletto happened to wobble, but he was swift in steadying you, hand tight around your waist. âEasy,â Bucky murmured, a brief chuckle bubbling from his throat. âIâve got you, doll.â
It was an innocuous nickname, sweet; Bucky had called you it only on a handful of occasions, and all of them were typically playful.
The way he said it this time almost held a weight to it, as if there were underlying implications.
âStill havenât stepped on you,â Teasingly, you muster up a smile, one that makes Buckyâs heart stop. Itâs accompanied by a flutter of lashes, a soft laugh, a gaze tender enough to melt through him. âYet.â
Bucky huffed, giving you a look as he drew you closer, involuntarily. The distance between bodies had grown thin, breath hitching within your throat when you realized it.
Shy, your hand came to perch against his chest, digits brushing over his bowtie, throat stirring with a low hum. Silence settled in between, a tenuous pause full of unspoken feelings, thoughts left unsaid.
Through parted lips, Bucky decided to break the ice, dark lashes kissing the skin beneath his eyes. Jazz continued to fill the ballroom with the croon of trumpets and gentle piano, the both of you waltzing in tentative steps.
âYou look really beautiful.â Bucky murmured, swallowing the growing lump within his throat. It wasnât often that he paid compliments like these, but his charm was still perfectly intact, albeit rusty.
Heâd been on a handful of dates after the coding in his brain had been broken; none of them were fulfilling. There was a lack of true understanding, a baseless connection.
Until he met you, and he found himself fearful â you were something to lose. You left him feeling seen in ways he didnât think possible, comfortable to be himself, just Bucky Barnes, the rawest iteration of his heart.
Flustered, you smiled at him, attempting to keep your heartbeat from teetering off of the edge. âThank you, Buck,â Smiling still, you mustered the courage to look at him fully. âYou ⊠You look really handsome, too.â
Bucky chuckled as if youâd said something humorous, vibranium palm cold over yours, thumb lightly tracing your knuckles. âItâs the bowtie, isnât it?â He mused, wisps of dark hair framing his countenance.
âMm-hm,â Dimples formed at either corner of your mouth, gaze softening as he gently spun you around. âIt ties everything together.â Your tongue-and-cheek joke almost made you cringe, nose wrinkling.
âFunny. Did you mean to make that joke?â He teases, and you feel heat warm your features, smitten as you look elsewhere. God, you were perfect â beautiful beyond comprehension.
âAccidental,â With a soft huff, you clear your throat, deciding to press the matter further and be serious. âReally, Bucky. You look wonderful.â The tender cadence of your tone had magnetized him.
âI donât hold a candle to you,â Bucky utters, voice thick with a pleasant husk, one that itches at the back of your mind. âNobody in here does.â Itâs that soft admittance that makes you shiver from delight.
His eyes never leave you, and suddenly, everything feels too real, too close; the flush of his lips entice you, and youâre left wanting.
Stunned speechless, you quiet, stewing within the tension that brews between the both of you. Itâs been simmering for months â part of you wondered when to let it snap, but youâre afraid of the consequences.
Bucky deliberates on what to do next, what to say; your mouth is dangerously close, lips parted, gaze innocuously doe-eyed. Heâs imagined it often, what it mightâve been like to kiss you â and itâs always the sweetest fantasy.
âBucky,â Words hang heavy within your throat, confession sizzling away like floating ash. Thereâs so much left unsaid â he knows it, and so do you. âDo you really mean that?â Serious, you let your voice hush.
The both of you have danced around the burning flame smoldering between you for a long while, now. It was beginning to reach out, take you both, and Bucky found himself preparing to take that plunge with enthusiasm.
âYeah,â He says it softly, as if itâs reserved only for you, and he feels nervous. You make him want more, more than he ever thought possible. âI mean it, doll.â Bucky utters, and heâs a second away from bridging the gap.
In a room full of people, youâre comfortable enough to simply exist, fading into the background, and he fades with you.
Itâs as if time slows, suspended in the moment â you want to live in it, blinking in sluggish flickers of your eyelashes. The erratic hum of your heartbeat sings a melody beneath your chest, hand absently clenching around his metal one.
Heâs thinking of kissing you â any unsteadiness shifts into certainty, and the longer he stares at you, the more his resolve crumbles. Bucky tilts closer, enough for you to feel his breath feather over your mouth.
âKiss me, Bucky.â
Thatâs all it takes â itâs his name on your tongue, spoken with such tenderness that he fears heâll fall apart in front of you, unraveling.
A hitch forms within the bottom of his throat, and heâs moving inward, lips a mere breadth apart. His mouth is almost on yours, disarmingly gentle, and then itâs all ripped away.
âBucky!â
Congressman Garyâs voice pierces through the tension, deflating it entirely, and the tension slithers away into a state of dormancy. The music begins to come to a close, a sense of finality present as you recoil, features burning with heat.
When he realizes how close you were, heâs left frustrated, noticing that youâve already receded. Soured, his gaze floats past your shoulder and toward Gary, who seems eager to speak with him.
The smile you give him is cordial, a kindly facade that does little to mask your true feelings. He can see it, lingering beneath your eyes â youâre disappointed, but you smother it anyway.
âSorry about that.â Bucky mumbles a grousing apology, but youâre quick to dismiss it. He tries to turn on the practiced politicianâs charm â but it falters when he thinks about kissing you.
âItâs okay,â Reassuring, you squeeze his metal hand and step away, allowing him space to speak with Gary. âIâm going to find Yelena.â You nod, and heâs reluctant to let you go, but he does anyway.
With a soft nod, Bucky watches you go, slipping away through the crowd in your indigo gown. Heâs cursing himself, left sorely shattered in the wake of it all, his head swimming, thoughts scrambled entirely.
He doesnât register whatever jargon Gary throws his way â something about shareholders, but Bucky is too preoccupied with watching you leave to care.
Your feet are killing you â a raw blister has rubbed into your heel, splitting skin, pangs of a dull ache shooting into your legs. As soon as you cross the threshold into the Watchtower, youâre discarding the stilettos, bare feet crossing over cold tile.
For the duration of the gala, you avoided Valentina, speaking cordially with those who approached, but it was exceedingly difficult.
Bucky hadnât left your mind â heâd invaded it, a feverish haze that you didnât want to escape from. The dance left you wrought with exhilaration, wondering if whatever you felt wasnât misinterpreted like you thought.
The team disperses not long after arrival, a mutual exhaustion from an evening of prying eyes, camera flashes, and being brandished like a polished accessory.
In the inky gloom that pools through tinted window panes, moonlight catches over dark flooring, the night unobstructed by clouds. A pair of stilettos dangles from your hand, footsteps light as you stop to lean against the island.
Relief washes through you as you rock the balls of your feet against the tile, happy to be rid of your high-heels. Itâs quiet â too quiet, save for the sound of footsteps behind you.
âKicked the heels off quick.â Buckyâs timbre cuts through the hush, warm and amiable as he makes a round to the refrigerator.
His bowtie is loosened, first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, blazer draped in a pleated heap over one shoulder. The sight is devastatingly handsome, causing your breath to hitch within your throat.
âMy feet are already thanking me,â You remark, leaning against the dark, polished granite. Bucky takes a swig of water, vibranium hand closed around a cool glass. âHow was your talk with Gary?â
He was still feeling the stinging disappointment of not being able to kiss you at the gala. Bucky was attempting to discern how to broach the topic with you, or at the very least, come clean about how he felt.
It was easier said than done, wanting someone that he thought he was entirely undeserving of. The way you stared at him, leaned in, said his name â it was all he could think about, consuming every waking thought.
âNothing important,â Bucky shrugs, ogling you from over the rim of his glass. âCouldâve sent a text.â He muses, body jostling with a soft scoff.
âOh.â You hum, your tone sounding somewhat awkward. Whatever happened at the gala was something you were desperate to talk about, addressing unspoken feelings.
Thatâs all you can muster, a meager âohâ as you fumble about. Swallowing the lump within your throat, a gap of silence settles between, thick with a cloud of tension.
Bucky deliberates, still clutching onto his glass as if itâs anchoring him to reality. It begins to splinter beneath the pressure of vibranium.
âWell, I ⊠I think Iâm going to go change and lay down. Iâm eager to get out of this dress,â Sheepishly, you shuffle around the island and slowly begin to make your way towards the corridor. âGoodnight, Buck.â
As you awkwardly make for the mouth of the hallway, Bucky calmly places his glass into the sink, bristling with a newfound determination. He makes the choice to go after you, finish what began at the gala.
With measured strides, heâs following after you. He watched you leave once already tonight without kissing you â he wasnât about to make the same mistake twice.
âWait.â He stops you, a gentle palm on your waist, cadence laced with a thinly-veiled want. âYouâre gonna run off on me like that, doll?â
Listening to the pace behind you climb in intensity, you whirl around, nearly colliding into Bucky as he plants a chaste kiss against your mouth.
Itâs disarming, but fleeting, brief â heâs wading into your waters. âBucky, what âŠâ You whisper, doe-eyed and awestruck.
Exhilarated and breathless, youâre stunned when his stubbled mouth fans over yours, and the contact is too hurried, too hasty. Yet, he burns your lips with the kiss, and youâre left wanting more.
âI shouldâve done that sooner.â He confesses, tone dropping to a warm timbre that makes your stomach erupt with butterflies. Your breath hitches, gaze wide-eyed and wanton.
âYou shouldâve.â Breathless, you concur, lashes fluttering as they kiss the skin beneath your eyes. Fingers tense around the backs of your stilettos, and youâre waiting.
Buckyâs jaw clenches, blue eyes burning as he peers down at you â azure dress, dazzling eyes, taking his breath away.
He exhales; the sound is sharp, poignant, excited â his gaze traces over your countenance, across delicate features and the curve of your mouth.
His body is close, chests nearly brushing, hand still hovering around your waist. âMay I?â Buckyâs tone softens, a humming purr that makes your knees wobble.
âPlease, Buck.â Lips parted, and youâre careening up on your toes to meet him halfway. He dips down, mouth clamoring for yours, lips brushing in a heated swarm.
Stifling a gasp, your hand drops your stilettos as if theyâre a meaningless thing, listening to them clatter against the tile. They both gather against his chest, muscle firm beneath your palms.
Passion bleeds through his lips, certain and steady, vibranium hand shifting to cup your jaw. You shiver from the contact, icy metal sweeping over burning skin, other hand holding your hips.
Itâs fireworks â months of pining, of dancing around smothered feelings, only to explode to the surface. Satisfaction ripples through you, a warm elation that curls around your bones.
Wisps of brunette tickle your cheeks, his hair soft as it brushes over your face. The pleasant scratch of his beard grounds you, a reminder that all of this is real, visceral â not a fantasy.
Thereâs a lull in the kiss as you draw away, chest constricting with soft, excitable sighs. âIâve been waiting on you, Bucky Barnes.â You whisper, unable to keep yourself from beaming, teeth and all.
âWish I got the hint,â Bucky grumbles, his metal thumb circling over the soft flesh beneath your jaw, pressing a kiss to your crown. âYouâre beautiful.â He murmurs, appreciative as he cups your face.
âI wasnât very good at dropping hints,â The softness of your confession pulls a chuckle from him, arm still caging you against his body. âI just â Youâre incredible, Bucky.â Your words come as a surprise, but arenât unwanted.
A rosy pallor clings to his features, slipping beneath his beard as he plants another kiss to your forehead, gaze warm as it follows the curve of your mouth. âI donât know about that, sweetheart.â He admires your sentiment, nonetheless.
âI know,â Insistent, you gently tap his chest, fingertips hovering above his collarbone. âI know that I adore you just the way you are.â Affection curled within your tone, sweet and tender.
Bucky paused, a slow smile spreading over his features, lashes fluttering a time or two. There was something raw about the way he stared at you, as if you were the thing he lived for, breathed for.
A comfortable bout of silence slipped between, his hand still stroking over your jaw, fingertips circling your cheekbone. âI think youâre perfect.â He stated, as if it were fact.
A hitch formed within your throat, taken aback by the sincerity of his words. His stare never wavered, exceedingly soft as you coaxed him in for another kiss; and he didnât protest.
It was soft, wrought with ardor, something that stole every wisp of air from your lungs. Bucky only craved your touch â you were what he wanted, everything he wanted.
Physical intimacy wasnât something heâd experienced for years; between HYDRA, the ice, scrambled memories, on the run ⊠It never allowed him time to let it sink in, that he could be desirable.
The way your hands caressed over his chest pulled a low grunt from his mouth, lost within entangled lips as he reciprocated.
âDo you âŠâ Murmuring against his mouth, Bucky stilled, lashes fluttering in rapid succession. âDo you want to come to my room?â You asked, insides stirring with butterflies.
A brief pause settled between the two of you, the idea being turned over within his mind. The implications were there â what you wanted, what he wanted.
âIâll follow you, doll.â Bucky murmured, cadence low and warm as it curled around you, eliciting a brief shiver. His vibranium hand smoothed over the small of your back, and he stooped to retrieve your shoes, too.
Hushed, the both of you strolled for your room, at the very end of the main level. It was a corridor you shared with Bob and Ava, typically quiet with minimal disturbances.
The rhythm of your heart had kicked into a gallop, slamming beneath your breast as you traipsed barefoot over cold tile, Bucky sticking close to your side.
He was smiling, and so were you; anticipation hung heavy, a subtle expectancy that you were eager to entertain. As you came up to your door, you pressed the button, letting it open with a soft hiss.
The room youâd concocted for yourself was home â warm and comely, surrounded by all facets of your personality, vibrant with color. It was very lived-in, bed partially made, items scattered over your vanity.
Bucky had been inside a handful of times, drinking in the details when he slipped inside behind you. He placed your stilettos down, pacing forward with a tender gaze.
âAlways thought you had a knack for decorating,â He teased, cadence disarmingly gentle, little more than a soft husk. âSmells good in here, too.â Itâs all you â floral scents, sweeter aromas that heâs associated with you.
âItâs a mess of colors,â You muse, nose wrinkling as he moves to sit down on the edge of your bed, forearms resting against his knees. âItâs the honeycomb lavender scent, if youâre interested.â
Bucky chuckles, flashing a glimpse of pearlescent teeth, canting his head to one side. âYeah?â He muses, gaze boring into you like fire, melting right through you with ease.
âMm-hm, I can get you a bottle.â Playful, you step closer, lingering within armâs reach. Being around him like this still feels surreal, as if reality hasnât fully settled in.
Gently, he reaches for your hand, coaxing you closer until youâre standing in-between his legs. âMight take you up on that.â He utters, palms settling over your hips, thumbs tracing circles over your dress.
Soft fingertips shift to caress over his hairline, carding into brunette tresses. It pulls a low, content sigh from his lips, mouth still upturned into a light smile, gaze tracing across your figure.
He holds you tightly when you dip down to kiss him, lips flush, colliding in a passionate kiss. Hands trace reverently along your sides, and you shiver beneath the gentle contact.
Metal fingertips find the zipper at the middle of your spine, hesitant; he looks to you for consent, and youâre quick to nod.
âLet me.â In a hushed tone, you gently tug at your dress, unraveling azure fabric from your body. Bucky unzips you with care, dragging it down until it kisses the small of your back.
The dress piles in a heap at your feet, leaving you in your undergarments, eliciting a sigh from his mouth. He appraises you with rapture, metal palm akin to a touch of ice to your hip.
âYouâre gorgeous.â Bucky huffs, mesmerized and awestruck as he coaxes you into his lap. Your knees come to squeeze at either side of his hips, sweet breath feathering over his face.
âThanks,â Flustered, you accept his compliment without protest, hands loosely gathering over the bowtie that heâs partially undone. âSo are you.â
He cracks a smile, a brief chuckle splitting through his chest as he plants a kiss to your jaw. âHm,â He hums, low and content, hands caressing over your hips. âYou mind if I âŠâ
âYou donât have to ask, Buck.â Through fluttering lashes and another dizzying, pretty smile, he leans forward to kiss you, mouths connecting in a flurry of passion. Heâs tender, but not excessively so.
Mouths mold together, his stubble scraping over your maw, a reminder that this is all real. Your breath hitches, excitement pooling within your belly.
His kiss makes your legs quiver, fingers gingerly shifting towards the buttons still holding his dress shirt together.
Digits tense over his sternum, each action marked by a gentle affection that Bucky craves. His hands leave your hips, moving to tug his bowtie off, encouraging you to remove his shirt.
Itâs sluggish, meant to savor â heâs still kissing you even as youâre untethering each button, pushing the white fabric off of him.
Bucky exhales, a contented noise that drags through his chest, steady and sure, throat bobbing as he swallows. He finds a purpose with you; something clean, something gentle.
A flicker of nervousness stirs within him; he hasnât had something like this in decades. Youâre something sacred, something to lose, and he looks at you like youâre the sun, as if he hasnât felt warmth in years.
Heâs still in a white, sleeveless undershirt, material stretched snugly over his burly musculature. The silvery glint of dog-tags sparkles beneath the dim lighting of your bedroom.
A tangle of now-faded scars sits at the divide where vibranium kisses flesh, drawing your gaze there, oozing with empathy.
Lips collide, and collide again â a tangle of heat and brewing desire. He kisses you as if you might slip right through his fingers, stopping only to let his mouth press over your throat.
âBucky.â You sigh, feeling his hand settle over your hip, the other slipping to stroke over your ribs. Metal smooths across your body, caressing until he cups your breast.
Soft fingertips trace over his chest, moving to gently grasp at the nape of his neck, threading over his hair. He continues to lavish your neck in sweet, lingering kisses, kneading at your clothed chest.
Desire pulls at the fringes of your mind, creeping in like some haze. His mouth peppers a trail, from beneath your jaw to your collar, and back up again. He repeats it a time or two, stroking your hip.
His mouth works at you still, drifting from your jaw to the silky expanse of your throat, scruffy beard scratching pleasantly against your skin.
One of your palms settles over his vibranium bicep, firm and icy underneath your flesh. Bucky shudders as if itâs a phantom sensation, lips parting with surprise.
Your embrace is fearless, and you touch his arm as if itâs just that, just him; not an instrument of destruction like he used to believe. His mouth finds yours again, bleeding passion.
Quiet, he grips you tightly before standing, ensuring that one of your legs settles over his hip. Bucky moves you back into your pillows, pressed further into the mattress, lips still joined.
He settles between your legs, pulling a soft moan from your mouth, noses brushing over one another. Your hand idly drags along his metal forearm, the other gliding beneath his undershirt, feeling along his abdomen.
Your fingertips are like kisses of silk â affectionate, tender, and delicate. He canât remember the last time someone touched him like this, as if he were something to covet, someone worth loving.
Coming to rest on either side of him, your knees idly squeeze at his ribs, hand continuing to ascend. Bucky indulges you, using one arm to tug off his undershirt, dog-tags dangling toward your collar.
Something incendiary resides within his gaze, warm and smoldering intermingled with adoration. Through a momentary gap, you exhale, warm breath pluming over his lips before you resume the kiss.
With a soft sigh, youâre turning into him, chest brushing against his, other hand drifting to grasp at his bicep. His mouth is ceaseless, constant â youâre lost within his lips.
The warm flesh of his hand returns to knead at your breast, rolling over flesh, tingles of bliss shooting through your body.
Bodies bump together, flush; Bucky shivers when your hips seem to grind against his own, producing a friction that nearly shatters his resolve. He wants to; he thinks about it often.
Heâs deliberate, attentive; Bucky kisses you as if youâre the center of everything, tender as it stretches on for several moments.
Kisses edge with something desirous, and you withdraw to catch your breath, visibly smitten. He moves toward your throat again, dipping further until he finds your collarbone.
âBucky,â Another low, pleading moan ripples through your chest, a sound that heâs desperate to hear more of. âBucky, please.â You sigh, satisfied and yearning for more.
Thereâs a moment of him continuing â metal fingers fisting into the sheets, walking the fine line of restraint. Desire rages between the both of you like a burning wildfire.
Again, he lavishes kisses over your chest, trailing towards the soft juncture between your shoulder and throat. After leaving his mark there, he finds your mouth once more, and kisses hard.
Reciprocating, the heat of entangled mouths lasts for what feels like a lifetime; itâs like fireworks dancing in your belly, nerves electrified, and youâre soaring, floating.
It slows to a crawl when he draws away, settled comfortably between your thighs. âI want to do this the right way.â He drawls, hot breath feathering over your visage.
âWhatâs wrong?â Thinking it was something to do with you, the sudden pause in your heated proclivities struck you as concerning.
âNothingâs wrong,â Bucky doesnât stray far, still hovering above you, propped up on one arm. The other moves to cup your jaw, warm and soothing. âYou deserve a first date before all of this.â He muses, a twinkle in his eye.
Relieved, you canât help but smile, flustered and completely enamored with him. âFor a second, I thought Iâd scared you off.â You murmur, sweet and playful as you trace your fingers over his chest.
âNot in the slightest,â He utters, and for a second, he looks razed. âYouâve got any idea what you do to me, sweetheart?â Buckyâs tone drops to a husky purr, and it makes your head spin.
âI have an inkling,â Through an excitable sigh, you relax when his lips press against your jaw, lingering and affectionate. âYou might have to show me.â
Bucky huffs, gaze somewhat half-lidded, eclipsed by both ardor and desire. You can tell he wants you, but he wants to show a little chivalry; itâs ridiculously attractive.
âI want to show you, believe me,â He assures, lips still climbing over your cheek, sealing beside the corner of your mouth. âI want to take you out first, thatâs all.â
âWhen are you taking me out?â You muse, lips still tugged into a smile. The fact that he cares enough for this means the world to you, and to him.
Bucky couldnât recall the last time heâd really taken a girl out, and meant it. The look on your face was enchanting, full of mirth and delight as you caressed his collarbone.
âAfter recon in Kaunas,â He chuckles, moving to lay down beside you. Still, he doesnât go anywhere, drawing you right into the warmth of his chest, hand holding tightly to your hip. âGives me time to figure out how to impress you.â
The laughter that tumbled from your lips made him feel alive; it got a faint smile out of him, mouth crinkling at either corner. âYou donât need to impress me,â You assure. âI just want to be with you.â
With a nonplussed hum, his brows furrowed together, chest falling as he exhaled. âYouâre perfect,â Bucky murmured, planting a kiss against your crown. âMe too, doll.â
Exhaustion began to creep up, and you were too tired to throw your pajamas on, comfortably curled into his side. He continued to caress from your hip to your spine, his breathing evening out.
âDonât go anywhere, Buck.â Through a soft whisper, your tone is fringed with grogginess, as if youâre actively staving off sleep. He huffs, with no intention of leaving you anytime soon; or forever, if you wanted that.
âIâm not,â He presses a kiss against your forehead when you begin to succumb to sleep, lightly tugging your sheets around your body. âIâm not going anywhere.â
summary | in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.
warnings | blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+
word count | 3.5k
// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //
Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.
It had soaked through the manâs shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didnât blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens.Â
Sickness hit in a crushing wave.Â
You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip.Â
Then there was stillness.Â
Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.
[To kill is a violation of Faithâ]Â
{âYou or them?}Â
The gun had still been smoking when itâd clattered at your feet.Â
Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldnât stand it.
Couldnât stand.
Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.
You found none.Â
No pulse. No absolution.Â
Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chestâpressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death andâ
Rain.Â
It was raining.Â
Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands.Â
You didnât remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call.Â
Calls.Â
In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense.Â
Seven times you called the Devil.Â
Seven times he didnât answer.Â
You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, youâd always said thatâs why you hated the city. The lack of starsâveiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope.Â
But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence.Â
At least the stars hadnât seen what youâd done.Â
Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered.Â
A number youâd promised Matt youâd never call again.Â
{In case you ever need itâ}Â
[âI donât trust him.]Â
What is trust?Â
Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your sideâa soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold.Â
Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of anotherâs voice, heavy with concern as they answered: âYou alright?âÂ
You almost laughed.Â
No. Of course notâbecause why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate?Â
âAre you busy?â you asked, awkward and hesitant.Â
In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt mustâve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or Godâs lone soldier. Thatâs why he hadnât answered.Â
UnlessâŠÂ
[Elektraâs just a friendâ]Â
{âThat what we are?}Â
On the other end of the line, Frank urged, âCâmon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?â Had he asked something? You hadnât noticed. âWhereâre you at?âÂ
âAn alley.âÂ
A rough, humorless chuckle. âLittle more specific, sweetheart.âÂ
Five blocks from Mattâs apartment, you thought.Â
âOff West 51st,â you said.Â
âDonât move.â There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. âIâm on my way.âÂ
Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. âWait!â A cry, a pleaâbut for what? You had no clue what to say next.Â
You hadnât told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin.Â
And Frank hadnât asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadnât mattered to him.Â
Only that you had.Â
{You call, I comeâ}Â
[âFrank Castle is a murderer.]Â
Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands.Â
So am I, you thought. So am I.Â
Frank said your name. Once, twice.Â
Quietly, you asked, âWill you stay on the phone?âÂ
The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost seeâshoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw.Â
It wasnât a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante.Â
It was a soldier.Â
After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, ââCourse.âÂ
Time dragged.Â
Hellâs Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the manâs body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall.Â
Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves⊠those were razor sharp.Â
You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights.Â
What if someone noticed?Â
Gunshots werenât such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldnât be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night.Â
But if someone noticed you like thisâcurled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skinâŠÂ
He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable.Â
[To a judge? Or to God?â]Â
God doesnât matter.Â
[âWhy didnât you call 9-1-1?]Â
Why didnât you answer?Â
Your grip tightened around the phone. âHow far now?âÂ
âCheck your nine.â In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, âLeft, sweetheart.â There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. âLook left.âÂ
You did.Â
Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldnât see his face, but you didnât need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse.Â
When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, âTook you long enough.âÂ
Cool and calculatingâtwo descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest.Â
You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior.Â
âSmart enough to practice law,â Frank lightly joked, âbut not to read a goddamn clock, huh?âÂ
A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob.Â
âParalegals donât practice,â you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. âAnd I can read a clock just fine, asshole.âÂ
There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. âYeah?âÂ
âYeah.â So long as itâs in front of you, and youâre telling time and not direction.Â
Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. âWell I ainât got a watch,â he said, âso I guess Iâll have to take your word for it.âÂ
Another weak laugh faded into quiet.Â
Then, more hesitant than youâd ever heard him before, Frank asked, âYou wanna tell me what happened?âÂ
Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choiceâthat you didnât have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them.Â
[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?â]Â
Even secret sins are exposed in His light.Â
{âHow do you deal with it? All Redâs Catholic bullshit?}Â
By believing in it.Â
Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists.Â
âHow âbout you go wait around the corner,â he offered, âand let me take care of all this?âÂ
You werenât sure what Frankâs version of âtaking care of thisâ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out.Â
Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired.Â
Existence had become an arduous task.Â
âWhen youâre⊠done,â you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, âwhat then?âÂ
You didnât want to go homeâor to Mattâs.Â
You didnât want to feel alone.Â
As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, âIâll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.â His head tilted slightly. âYou like pizza?âÂ
The world was ending.Â
And yet here stood Frankâno Bible quotes or Hail Maryâs, no judgement for the sin youâd committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patienceâand pizza of all things.Â
[What do you see in him?â]Â
{âLet me take care of all this.}Â
You nodded.Â
Frankâs apartment was bleak.Â
One room totalâunless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom.Â
He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed thatâs why it was inside instead of outâbecause even indirectly, Frank Castle wasnât the type to ask anyone to Stay.Â
Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didnât.Â
It felt strange to be in Frankâs apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didnât. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sickâbut safe.Â
Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that youâd been with Frank?Â
Thatâs how you knew when heâd been with Elektra. You didnât need super senses to smell her perfumeâa heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar.Â
Unthinking, you said, âYou should get a bird.âÂ
Frank chuckled. âYeah? And whyâs that?âÂ
You werenât sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts.Â
âIt could liven the place up,â you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird.Â
Heâd need a flock.Â
Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentionalâno more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle.Â
Still, the warmth lingered.Â
âDonât think Iâm much of a bird guy,â Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, âSit.âÂ
You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburnâimpossible not to pick at.Â
âWhat kind of guy are you, then?â you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer.Â
Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. âI like dogs,â he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl.Â
You pretended not to hear him anyway.Â
After starting at Nelson & Murdock, youâd planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own incomeâand you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began.Â
Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, youâd thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend.Â
You knew better now.Â
You shouldâve picked the dog.Â
Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, âYouâre fucking up my couch.âÂ
You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. âIt was already fucked,â you defended.Â
âSo you gotta make it worse?âÂ
You fixed him with a blank stare. âNothing could make this couch worse.â Short of setting it on fire, that is.Â
âThat how weâre gonna play this?â Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. âI let you in, offer you foodâand you pay me back by talkinâ shit about my couch?âÂ
âItâs not just the couch,â you stated plainly. âItâs the whole apartment.âÂ
It reminded you of prisonâa place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadnât gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair.Â
Frank deserved better than that.Â
[Have you forgotten?â]Â
[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder]Â
[âWhy are you so attached to this case?]Â
With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, âGuess I need that bird.âÂ
Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.Â
âGuess so.âÂ
Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his.Â
The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didnât flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions.Â
His touch was far lighter than youâd imagined.Â
Not that you ever had imagined it.Â
As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frankâs focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails.Â
Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other.Â
Only then did you confess.Â
âHe had a knife.âÂ
Half a secondâthatâs how long Frankâs movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didnât try to look you in the eye. That he didnât have to for you to know he was listening.Â
âFoggy has a deposition in the morning,â you continued shakily. âHe always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and⊠I donât know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.âÂ
An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger.Â
âI know itâs stupid,â you told him. âBut I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Mattâs, thenââÂ
Heâd hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriendâif you could even still call him thatâwould save you.Â
But that had been a stupid, childish thought.Â
âI figured I could lose him,â you said instead. âThat I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasnât even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder andââÂ
Your breath caught. Frankâs touch moved slower, gentlerâa feat you wouldnât have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe.Â
âIt was just a knife, Frank. A knifeâand I pulled out a gun!â A short, hollow laugh. âI should have let him rob me,â you rationalized. âAt least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his lifeââÂ
Frank cut you off. âHow do you know?âÂ
Your brows furrowed in answer.Â
His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. âThat thatâs all he wanted,â Frank gruffly clarified. âTo rob you.âÂ
âI donât, butââÂ
âYou remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?âÂ
{You or them?â}
Frustrated, you insisted, âItâs not that easy, Frank. Itâs not my choice!âÂ
[âItâs up to God, who lives and who dies.]Â
Frank shook his head. âThatâs the Catholic in you,â he argued.Â
âIâm not Catholic,â you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, âNot anymore.âÂ
Religion, youâve learned, is a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter.Â
Frank wasnât the type to pry any further.Â
Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot.Â
âIt doesnât matter what he was going to do,â you decided. âIt only matters that I killed him.âÂ
This time, it was Frankâs breath that hitched.Â
âNo you didnât,â he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact.Â
âI didââÂ
He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a Marine. Â
âNo. I did.âÂ
You blinked at him.Â
âI gave you that gun,â he continued. âGave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I donât regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prickâs gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.âÂ
You couldnât speak. Couldnât do anything but stare at him.Â
âBut if someoneâs gotta bear the weight of that guyâs miserable life,â Frank told you, âthen let it be me, alright?â His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, ââCause I ainât gonna let it be you.âÂ
[You care about himâ]
[âDonât you?]Â
Do you care about her?Â
[Elektraâs just a friendâ]Â
âŠÂ
[âCan you say the same about Frank?]Â
You studied the man before you.Â
Frank Castle. The Punisher.Â
The one you shouldnât call, shouldnât trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget.Â
A number not saved, but remembered.Â
No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I canât.Â
Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you.Â
âOkay,â you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sinânot when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you.Â
âYou know,â you said, deftly changing the subject, âmy brainâs a little hazy, but Iâm pretty sure you promised me pizza.âÂ
Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. âDid I?âÂ
You nodded, and he chuckled.Â
âFineââ he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the bloodââbut youâre placinâ the order.âÂ
You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text.Â
Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK?Â
Your thumb hovered over the message.Â
In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you wouldâve seen Mattâs textâa string of eight wordsâand wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected.Â
Now, you stole a glance at Frankâyour eighth callâand thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path.Â
You cleared Mattâs message.Â
Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, âDo you want somewhere specific?âÂ
âEver been to Lombardiâs?â suggested Frank.Â
You shook your head. âIs it good?âÂ
Frank cut you a look. ââCourse itâs good. But knowinâ you, youâll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.âÂ
A smile tugged at your lips. âKeep it up,â you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, âand your only companyâs gonna be the couch and the bird.âÂ
He chuckled. âI ainât gettinâ a bird.âÂ
You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"
Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze.Â
âMaybe a dog.â
a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3
kaledo-art
prguitarman
discoholicmusic
kianamaiart
germansingergirl
areudirty
ellievsbear
