nsfw one-shot in which your boyfriend Peter Parker just can’t get enough… horny, handsy, hot and bothered Peter *chef’s kiss*
One thing about Peter Parker was that he loved eating pussy. Like, borderline obsessed. You learned this very quickly once you started dating him, and it made your head spin. He could go on for hours, overstimulating you to the point you lost count of how many orgasms you had, begging him to stop because you were so sensitive, and he just kept eating you out anyways. It didn’t matter what time of day it was or where you were. He would wake you up with it sometimes. Or tug you into a bathroom and get on his knees and stick his head up your skirt. He would set you up on the kitchen counter or the dining table and feast between your legs. Or follow you to bed and ever so casually do it while you read a book or scrolled through your phone. He was good at cunnilingus. Like really good. He was the first boyfriend to ever make you squirt. Or cum ten times in a row. It was almost legendary.
“You just taste so delicious,” is what he would protest. “So sweet.”
“I want to make you feel good,” he’d insist.
“I just need to taste you, baby,” he would plead after he got home from work.
There was a stark contrast in the ratio of your blowjobs to him going down on you. But you didn’t mind. He did make you feel so good, and it was the perfect way for you to unwind after a stressful day of work or a sensual surprise to wake up to in the morning.
“You have such a pretty pussy,” he would moan softly.
“I fucking love being in between your legs,” he said breathlessly.
“Wanna eat you out every day of the week,” he’d wish.
Peter treated fucking you as if it was his own personal religion. He was insanely devout and took zero excuses when it came to worshipping you and your body. He made you feel like an absolute goddess. He would rub your feet and give you back massages after a long week of work. He would run his hands through your hair and carefully comb out the knots with a brush and braid your hair before bed. He would kiss you from the top of your head down to your neck, all over your arms, into your stomach, inside your thighs, trailing down to your feet. He was always so intentional. You would study his face as he fingered you or rubbed your clit, his eyes darkened with lust and determination, able to watch him focus on you and your pleasure alone. But your favorite time to look into his eyes was when his tongue was inside you.
You fucking daydreamed about it. While you were at work, at the grocery store, at home watching television, alone in the shower, when you went to bed… Peter’s face buried in between your legs, his hands leaving fingerprint bruises gripping your thighs, your fingers intertwined in locs of his fluffy brown hair, his dark eyes looking up at you as his tongue delved between your folds and made you wetter than ever. He was right. You did taste really good. And you knew because he would make you taste yourself.
“Taste how fucking good you are, love,” he would whisper, crawling back up your body to give you an open mouthed kiss. “Taste your cum on my tongue.”
You were also intentional in providing optimal pleasure, going out of your way to procure extra pineapple juice when you went grocery shopping or a pack of blueberries. The diet made your cum taste sweet, almost like greek yogurt and peaches, and it drove Peter wild. He truly could not get enough. He loved the way you would cum on his tongue, squirt all over his face, squeeze his head with your thighs, screaming out his name. It only turned him on more and more. And you’d insist on taking care of him afterwards, offering a blowjob or sex, and he would just smile and shake his head, telling you he was too tired or already satisfied. He genuinely loved the art of oral sex simply just for the sake of it. Unlike other men you had dated in the past, he was just truly wired different.
“Sit on my face,” he begged one night.
“Let’s 69,” he proposed another time.
“I want you to cum all over my face,” he confessed.
You never got bored of his wishes and desires, especially when they were in your favor. The sight of him in between your legs made your thighs tremble and shake. You loved the way his tongue slides up and down and in and out of your folds, how his tongue fucks you slow and sensual, how he sucks on your clit, how he kisses the insides of your thighs…
“You know,” he began in bed the other night, lazily tracing shapes on your shoulder. “I would die a happy man suffocated to death in between your thighs. I would love to die with my face buried in your pussy. Fuck breathing, I don’t need to breathe. I just need you.”
“Peter!” you squealed as he enveloped you in his arms.
“It’s true,” he insisted. “All I need is you and that perfect pussy of yours.”
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 man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens.
Sickness hit in a crushing wave.
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.
Then there was stillness.
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 Faith—]
{—You or them?}
The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet.
Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.
Couldn’t 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.
No pulse. No absolution.
Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–
Rain.
It was raining.
Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands.
You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call.
Calls.
In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense.
Seven times you called the Devil.
Seven times he didn’t answer.
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, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope.
But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence.
At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done.
Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered.
A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again.
{In case you ever need it—}
[—I don’t trust him.]
What is trust?
Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold.
Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?”
You almost laughed.
No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate?
“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant.
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 must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered.
Unless…
[Elektra’s just a friend—]
{—That what we are?}
On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?”
“An alley.”
A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.”
Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought.
“Off West 51st,” you said.
“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.”
Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next.
You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin.
And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him.
Only that you had.
{You call, I come—}
[—Frank Castle is a murderer.]
Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands.
So am I, you thought. So am I.
Frank said your name. Once, twice.
Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?”
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 see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw.
It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante.
It was a soldier.
After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.”
Time dragged.
Hell’s 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 man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall.
Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp.
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.
What if someone noticed?
Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night.
But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin…
He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable.
[To a judge? Or to God?—]
God doesn’t matter.
[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?]
Why didn’t you answer?
Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?”
“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.”
You did.
Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse.
When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.”
Cool and calculating—two 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.
You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior.
“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?”
A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob.
“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.”
There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction.
Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Another weak laugh faded into quiet.
Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?”
Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t 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.
[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—]
Even secret sins are exposed in His light.
{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?}
By believing in it.
Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists.
“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?”
You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out.
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.
Existence had become an arduous task.
“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?”
You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s.
You didn’t want to feel alone.
As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?”
The world was ending.
And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things.
[What do you see in him?—]
{—Let me take care of all this.}
You nodded.
Frank’s apartment was bleak.
One room total—unless 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.
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 that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay.
Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t.
It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe.
Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank?
That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar.
Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.”
Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?”
You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts.
“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird.
He’d need a flock.
Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle.
Still, the warmth lingered.
“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.”
You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at.
“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer.
Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl.
You pretended not to hear him anyway.
After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and 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.
Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend.
You knew better now.
You should’ve picked the dog.
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, “You’re fucking up my couch.”
You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended.
“So you gotta make it worse?”
You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is.
“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?”
“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.”
It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t 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.
Frank deserved better than that.
[Have you forgotten?—]
[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder]
[—Why are you so attached to this case?]
With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.”
Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
“Guess so.”
Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his.
The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions.
His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined.
Not that you ever had imagined it.
As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails.
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.
Only then did you confess.
“He had a knife.”
Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening.
“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.”
An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger.
“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–”
He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you.
But that had been a stupid, childish thought.
“I figured I could lose him,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–”
Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe.
“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–”
Frank cut you off. “How do you know?”
Your brows furrowed in answer.
His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.”
“I don’t, but–”
“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?”
{You or them?—}
Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!”
[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.]
Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued.
“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.”
Religion, you learned, was 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.
Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further.
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.
“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.”
This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched.
“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact.
“I did–”
He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a Marine.
“No. I did.”
You blinked at him.
“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.”
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him.
“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.”
[You care about him—]
[—Don’t you?]
Do you care about her?
[Elektra’s just a friend—]
…
[—Can you say the same about Frank?]
You studied the man before you.
Frank Castle. The Punisher.
The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget.
A number not saved, but remembered.
No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t.
Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you.
“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you.
“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.”
Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?”
You nodded, and he chuckled.
“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.”
You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text.
Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK?
Your thumb hovered over the message.
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 would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected.
Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path.
You cleared Matt’s message.
Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?”
“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank.
You shook your head. “Is it good?”
Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.”
A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.”
He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.”
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.
“Maybe a dog.”
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
You: *babysitting Franklin* who’s a cute little boy who’s -hopefully- not going to grow up into a mega, ultra powerful cosmic overlord who might see the end of this universe and the next.
Franklin: *grabs a hold of your shirt and looks you in the eyes while baby babbling*
You: Johnny come save me your nephew is staring deep into my soul.
Franklin: *laughs and smiles as his tiny fists grab at your shirt*
Johnny: *staring at you adoringly as you fret to keep Franklin in your arms securely as his nephew clung to you like a koala* marry me
You: what.
Johnny: what
Ben: *eating popcorn as he looks between the two of you* oh this is so going to be something I need to bring up in the best man speech.
Summary: Bucky gives you free range of his farm and all the plants and wildlife it includes. You give Bucky fertilizer and any scientific insights you find. Tit for tat. Seems simple enough, but as the days pass, you can’t seem to escape each-other’s orbit. It’s like nature is literally pushing you together, but that would be crazy… wouldn’t it?
PSA: just a girl… standing in front of her Stardew collab, asking it to love her. Check out the full collab here! my friends are so talented and their minds blow me away, both Lewis and Haley are posted!
Word Count: 6.1k
Warnings: cursing, insecurity, religious imagery and metaphor (no Catholic guilt inducing smut though), anti-social reader, yearning, it’s mutual but shshhhhh they don’t know, hot and heavy make out, not beta-read, not edited, fuck it we ball.
There a few reasons why you love plants.
For one, they're simple.
They write their DNA in a language that you can understand. Each leaf, petal and root a different part of one larger story. They fit under your microscope and let you study them until your vision goes blurry.
Plants are complicated. Sometimes they thrive. Sometimes… they don't. A plant that was green and lush yesterday can be brown and wilted tomorrow all because the sky looked at it wrong.
Plants are like people. The rain makes their skin soft. They turn their faces to the sun to feels its heat on their skin. They are resilient, yet prefer a gentle touch. They know the difference between surviving and thriving.
Plants are quiet.
In that way they way they're actually better than people.
When you lay down in a meadow the grass curls around you, bristles tickling your skin as if to hug you hello. Wildflowers fight through soil and emerge from the long abandoned farm on the far side of the valley. They grow tall and proud, tilting in your direction as if offering themselves for your admiration.
Plants are considerate, gentle, ever present.
Before a storm, plants will speak. Their leaves will rustle with wind and that breeze will carry their whisper to you. We will survive. They say, with the certainty only known by beings older than time itself. We were here before you, we will be here after.
Plants exist outside of time.
They will continue their slow climb toward the sun, long after your bones become soil and your blood fertilizer. Until all that's left of you exists within stems and leaves. When all of humanity is gone, green will fight through smog and ash and burst free, starting the cycle anew.
After all, there must always be a tree from which Eve can pluck her apple.
You think about Eve a lot these days.
How did she make that choice? Just how tempting was that fruit she so callously plucked?
Was it perfect? Shiny and ripe for the taking. Dangling from its stem with a tease of come take me.
Was it more subtle? Did Eve's sin have time to fester and build until it was a coil pulled so tight inside her that it wasn't just one simple act at all. It was an explosion.
Did Eve stare at her sin across an overgrown field, uselessly clutching her pencil and pathetically empty sketch book? Watch as he toiled with dirt and shined under the suns abuse? Would she laugh at you? Remind you that your fruit isn't forbidden, just unknown.
For you, it feels like one and the same.
Still, you can't seem to look away.
You're not sure how long you've been watching him. Twenty minutes, maybe thirty. You're not especially good with time though, could be an hour for all you know.
It would just be really pathetic if he's been struggling with the same root ball for an hour.
His face contorts to something unsatisfied, brows furrowed and lips pressed in a thin line as he stares down at the already wilting green. It's almost comical as he looks back towards the crate of plant waiting for him, and the three he's already got in the ground.
His smushes it between his fingers, harsh and grabby as he pinches it to smithereens. He doesn't stop until there's nearly nothing left, a few sad roots dangling limp in his palm as he places it in a much too deep hole.
Bucky Barnes is like a hosta. He grows sturdy, undeterred by shady spots, of lack of water. Honestly you think if Bucky could build a tent around his entire crop he would. As another bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, caught on a thick forearm and wiped away before it can reach his eyes.
From far away he's gorgeous, lush and thick. Eye catching without even trying to be, naturally spell binding. He crept into your garden slowly. An offer to let you study the plants on his farm, which then turned to you giving him fertilizer that you made with your research.
Nearly six months since his sudden and unceremonious arrival, it's as if he's taken up all the room in your flower bed.
Larger than life, than your experiment's and hobbies. Than your rather unfavorable feelings about other people and longstanding habit of avoiding them.
Like a stubborn root you can't seem to get rid of him either, try as you might.
Your voice echoes before you realize you've even decided to speak.
"You're mutilating them."
Bucky jumps his broad shoulders go taut, entire body freezing.
You don't notice, eyes locked on the strangled rootball in his big hands.
"I'm sorry?" He asks, swiveling his head until finally he finds you.
You walk through weeds the toward him, having to lift your legs a little more to clear the dense grass and knotted foliage. You take your time, carefully stepping over mushrooms and dodging dandelions.
You feel his eyes on you throughout, piercing and curious, and probably part offended. You've never been especially good with people either though.
When you're finally close enough, only a few feet away, you speak again.
"I said you're mutilating them." You repeat, this time gesturing to the poor parsnips at his feet.
Bucky pauses, following your gaze with similar disappointment. "Oh."
His hands, which you can now see aren't even covered in gloves, come to sit as his hips. Dirt smudges onto his white tank top, even catching the tops of his jeans. Looking lower you're even more displeased at the state of his shoes, what probably used to be light color sneakers.
Not bothering to ask, you pick up one of the plants from the crate and take it in your hands. It's misshaped from the stores planter, nearly a perfect rectangle. "Poor thing." You whisper.
Gently, you begin to massage the rootball. Slow, steady squeezes until it begins to soften in your palm. You wait until it's limp, then get on your knees and dig a hole in the same row Bucky had started.
You only dig a few inches down, enough to hold to the root. "Loosen the dirt, don't dig." You tell him, using the hand shovel to create a sort of crater in the hole. "The roots need something to grab onto."
You place the parsnip in the dirt, gently filling the sides until you're satisfied with its security.
You wipe your hands on your overalls as you stand, brushing off the excess soil and finally returning your attention to Bucky.
"You try."
Bucky nods, using his forearm to wipe some sweat from his forehead.
He grabs another plant, and stares at it for a moment, as if begging it to cooperate.
You can't help your sigh when once again digs his fingers directly into the rootball and starts to pull it apart.
Sensing your frustration, Bucky freezes.
"What?" He asks, sounding more worried than upset.
With a huff you move to stand in front of him.
You surround his hands with your own, cupping the plant in his palms.
"You want to massage it." You tell him, applying just enough pressure to feel the plant give under your combined touch. "You need it to be relaxed."
Bucky hums, "Like foreplay." He says.
You can't help the way you go taut, hands pulling away as if burned.
He says it so casually, as if sex is something you talk about. As if it something you do, something you do with him. As if letting another person be that close to you isn't a nightmare in and of itself.
Although you suppose if that nightmare had brown hair and blue eyes and the prettiest pink lips you might not be so opposed.
"Sure-" You stammer, already taking a handful of steps back towards the direction you came. "Yeah exactly like foreplay." You voice betrays you pitching an octave higher on the last word.
Bucky's staring at you like you're a question, that same furrow from before back between his brows. His hands have stopped moving, as if you're more important than anything else he had been busy with.
Mercifully, he doesn't push. "Thanks," he says instead. "Find anything good today?" He nods back towards the section of the field you had been taking residence in.
You nod, face still burning with embarrassment. "Yes actually-" you start before you can stop yourself, the words flowing like an avalanche. "I found a plant, well it's actually a kind of weed but there's this plant phalaris arundinacea or um, some people call it canary grass. Anyway it usually only grows by rivers but you have this whole cluster of it which is really weird because it's like a hundred feet from your little pond and the rest of the soil around it is pretty dry and-" you catch yourself.
Your mouth feels like cotton because of fast you had started talking, your tongue swelling with embarrassment as you realize the extent of your ramble.
"Sorry." You mutter, "That's actually super boring."
Bucky shakes his head, finally beginning to return to his parsnips. Slowly he gets on his knees, bending one leg at a time and giving you a truly gratuitous look at his thighs.
"I think it's interesting." He says, "besides if everything else is out of place than maybe I'm exactly where I belong." There's a lilt at the end, like he had intended for it to be a joke but the punchline got lost in truth.
It makes your heart pull tight, a feeling you normally reserve for trampled flowers and injured birds.
"Maybe," You say, "Or maybe the plants just know better than us."
You shrug, watching as Bucky carefully copies what your had done in the dirt. You cringe as it gathers under his nails, catching in the crevices of his knuckles. You have an extra pair of gloves, maybe you ought to drop them off one morning. You could slip them in his mailbox, he'd never even have to know it was you. If he's serious about this farming thing he'll need good gloves or he'll destroy his hands and gosh they are good hands-
You force yourself to look away, eyes averting to literally please anywhere else. "Its not the only one." You change the topic, "I mean only spot."
Bucky hums, "with weird plants?"
"Yea." You nod a little too quickly as you say it. "Up on the mountain, there's Sunflowers growing from cracks between the some of the rocks and I figured it was an anomaly but now that there's two of them I think they could be connected."
Bucky finishes pushing the dirt back in around the last root ball and reaches for another. "How can you tell if they are?"
You chest does a little jump, eagerness sparking. He asked! He asked a question about your plants!
"Well since they're different plants I can rule out it being a strain or breed thing." You rationalize, "So I'd have to start with the soil, but I need to samples and I'm not allowed to hike alone anymore-"
"Wait what?"
"-and no one ever wants to go with me!" You steamroll right over Bucky's question, completely obvious to the alarm in his eyes. "They all complain about how much I go off trail but it's not my fault! All the best stuff is, I mean I once found an entire patch of wild potatoes!"
"Wild potatoes?"
"No one complained that time! Everyone had fries for a month thanks to me, but no-" you drag out the 'o' sound, rolling your eyes as you do so. "- You get lost one time and suddenly it's a problem. So I have to wait until someone else plans a hike and I can convince them to let me come."
Bucky finally stands, huffing with effort as he does so.
"I could go with you." He offers, shrugging his shoulders. "I uh- hike."
His voice pitches an octave higher on the word 'hike,' surely just in enthusiasm.
"Really?"
"Yeah." Bucky insists, "sounds like it's important."
You're not sure what to do with yourself, heart slamming hard against your ribs as if trying to crack them open and escape. You're used to being shut down, waved off, your thoughts and hypotheses disregarded.
Yet here is your hosta, shoulders broad and jaw set. Something in his eyes that makes you almost believe he genuinely doesn't mind doing this for you.
You nod, the movement tight. "Okay."
Bucky hums, returning his knees to the dirt. "Okay."
A plan is made between mumbles, meet here at six tomorrow morning, hopefully be through the worst of the hike before the heat of the day. You offer to make sandwiches and Bucky begrudgingly promises to wear something other than jeans.
Once all is set you finally retreat. Settling back into the grass a few yards away and returning to your (still empty) sketchbook and woefully unimpressive notes. Ignoring the pang of disappointment when Bucky goes back to silence too.
The wind blows around you, swishing through the weeds and singing something like laughter. You wish it would tell you what's so funny. You wonder if the tree laughed at Eve.
You're no stranger to the strangeness of nature.
Sure, you've dedicated most of your life and free space in your brain to figuring out some of its strangeness, but even you know there are things beyond even your comprehension.
Like the way it seems to pick and choose when it's alive.
Not alive in the green leaves and turning toward the sun sense. No, alive as in conscious.
There are times when it's as if the plants hear you, like petals have turned to tiny listening devices. Times when it's like they manipulate themselves to create a new reality. Soil becoming an instrument in their greater plan as they rearrange it to suit their needs.
Like the first time you met Bucky.
Truthfully, you'd been trespassing on his land for years with no idea that it even belonged to someone. You knew it like the back of your hand, the sad parcel that everyone avoided. Quiet and calm and perfect for anyone trying to stay away from civilization.
It fascinated you too, the way it had reclaimed the fields and land. After years of being worked over, you admired the chaos that bloomed when left to its own devices. Left over crops that persevered, wildflowers that seemingly appeared from no where, vines that wove themselves around old fence posts as if trying to pull them from the ground.
The day he arrived the same plants you'd become so acquainted with, threw you into him.
You'd be just about ready to leave, bag tucked into your shoulder and samples in hand. You hadn't even seen him yet, the bulking figure standing at the foot of the porch. Never one to notice people, you didn't even see him. In fact you had nearly walked completely past him, nose buried in your samples when suddenly your foot caught on a root that certainly hadn't been there when you arrived that morning.
It sent you, your bag, and your armful of foliage flying.
It was two leather clad arms that caught you, a subtle 'oof' muttered as he took the force of your fall.
Few weeks later it was a present from the weeds. A tiny little white thing that tracked muddy little paws all over your notebook one after noon.
A kitten, a teeny little one that purred louder than a plane engine and meowed in your arms until you were standing on Bucky's steps.
"Is this yours?" You'd asked, scratching under its chin.
"No." He'd grunted, glaring at the ball of fur in your arms as it were a loaded gun.
"Oh." You'd whispered, confusion only growing. Of course you didn't know everything that lived in the woods, but in all your years in the valley, you'd never once seen a stray cat. Certainly not the two it would have taken to bring the one you holding to fruition. "It just showed up out of no where, walked right up to me like it was asking for directions."
Bucky shrugged, unconvinced. "You gonna keep it?" He asked.
You mouth was already half way open -about to explain that as much as you'd love too- you couldn't, when the cat jumped out of your arms. Landing on the wood by Bucky's feet, it immediately drew a figure eight walking between his legs. It's little tail curling up as much of his calves as possible.
"Think it wants you to."
Sure enough, Alpine was wrapped around Bucky's finger in week. Sending him running to your door with a nervous question at least every other day (Can cats eat strawberries? I found her passed out by the vines with pink all over. Yes Bucky, probably just snaked herself into a food coma). The now spoiled and fat cat sneaks off the farm and ends up at your door nearly as often. Forcing you to walk with her all the back to Bucky's.
Worst of all was about a month ago. Their most egregious attempt yet.
You'd been knee deep in a cluster of a flowers, some wild lily's in a color you'd never seen before. Your hands buried in the soil as you collected some so you could test the PH later.
Then Bucky had sauntered up behind you, the sudden pitch of his voice throwing you off balance and directly into a pile of flowers. Only you weren't punished with thorns, no pollen. It erupted around you in an angry yellow cloud, plumes of dust spiraling into the air.
The entire mess leaving you covered in bright yellow.
"Shit." Bucky had cursed, already walking forward to help you when you stopped him with a single raised hand.
Ever so careful not to breathe any in, got up, and darted toward the pond. You ripped your clothes off as you ran, abandoning your shirt on a rock and then your jeans at the end of the dock. You hardly heard Bucky yelling after you as you jumped into the freezing water.
When you surfaced, pollen covered the entire pond, swirling in murky yellow bubbles around you. At the end of the dock stood a breathless Bucky, pink cheeked and wide eyed as he stared at the water.
Wordlessly, he stretched out his hand again, and this time you took it, letting his strength lift you from the frigid water. He only lets go once you're safely on the wooden planks, dripping onto the boards as you exhaled a sigh of relief.
"Thanks." You whispered, equally as breathless.
Bucky however, just nodded, his throat bobbing as he took the state of you in.
Bra, panties, and embarrassing white ankle socks. All of which were now soaked through and borderline see-through.
He choked out something about a towel, shaking his head as he started off towards his house, cursing under his breath. Leaving you to wait by the pond, alone with the pip-plop of the water dripping off you and buzzing of frantic bees collecting the pollen you'd stirred up. Even softer, you could have sworn you heard giggling.
Now, as you lead Bucky on the familiar trail, you can't help but watch every leaf a little bit closer.
It's been silent for the better part of the hike, quiet companionship as you slowly work your way up. Bucky's a few feet behind you, lingering close enough for you to hear his footsteps, but far away enough for you to not worry about if he can hear your labored breathing.
Still, heaving chest aside, excitement stirs inside you. A fluttering of joy in your stomach as you take in the mountain around you. The rustles of leaves as birds sing above you, the way your boots crunch on the gravel , a symphony of mother nature's finest.
"Is it supposed to rain today?" It's the first thing Bucky's said in an hour, or grumbled is perhaps more accurate.
You'd checked the weather station three separate times, clear skies.
"No." You gesture to the crystal blue above you. "Looks fine to me."
"Just said it feels like it is all." He repeats, you can hear his arm whirring in protest as he moves it, machine fighting him.
You're struck with a sudden worrying thought. "Oh- is it not water proof?" You concern is instant, enough to make you stop in your tracks and turn around to look at him.
Bucky stops too, and for the first time since you started you actually pause to take him in.
He's glossy, not quite sweaty but enough to make him shine under the bright sun. The jacket he'd started the hike in had been discarded unbeknownst to you, leaving him in a tight black tank top.
The arm hangs low at his side, fist clenching and clenching.
"No, it is." Bucky assures, "Pretty sure this thing could survive just about everything. I don't know I just got a feeling."
"A feeling?" You repeat, skepticism clear.
"Yeah." Bucky nods, looking up at the sky with a glare.
He doesn't say more, you don't find the courage to ask. Instead you keep hiking, turning back to the trail and continuing the trek.
"We're almost there." You shout towards Bucky. "At least I think we are."
The gravel starts to get loose beneath your feet, forcing you to push your heels down harder with every step.
"I mean this all feels familiar." You add, nervously suddenly desperate to fill the silence. "I probably should have written down where exactly they were but I didn't have a pen and everyone was yelling for me to keep moving-"
A rock catches you the toe of your boot, cutting you offer with a swift trip flat on to your face.
The rest of your sentence is lost in a gasp and pained 'oomf' as you fall. Your hands try to catch your weight but between the pack on your back and your typical shit luck they do little to soften the blow.
It stings everywhere, your knees, your calves, your arms and hands. Like your entire body was dragged along the trail until every inch of exposed skin was kissed by a stone.
Bucky's rushing up to you right away, shoving his bag off his shoulder and sliding onto the ground beside your head.
You can hear a him chuckle, low and good humored. You know he doesn't mean to laugh at you, well he does but not that like that. Still, it stings, more than any scrape.
"I know you like dirt, but you don't have to kiss it sweetheart." He jokes.
Your eyes start to sting too, tears burning at the corners. You stay staring at the ground, hands screaming as you brace yourself on them.
Don't look up, don't look up. Don't let him see. You're fine it was stupid you're fine. You're normal-
"Oh shit wait-" Bucky's voice softens, his hand coming up to cup your cheek and turn it toward him. "Hey, hey, hey, you're okay." He coos, thumb rolling over your cheek.
Any humor is gone from his face, fully replaced with worry. It's almost worse.
Fuck.
The tears spill, first one then two. Building until you're close to sobs.
Then the blubbering comes, "I'm sorry-" you gasp, sitting up and doing your best to push him away. "This is stupid I'm sorry."
The words are wet and small, pathetic like this stupid plant and your stupid flowers and you, and God, why can't you just take a joke? Why is your skin so paper fucking thin?
"Hey quit that." Bucky whispers, forcing himself close once again. "Nothing here is stupid, but my bad joke. Okay?"
His hands are back on your face, warm and big enough to dwarf your entire cheek. "I'm sorry." You whisper again, hiccuping as you lean into his touch.
"Who made you think you need to apologize all the time?" Bucky asks, "Did nothin' wrong sweetheart."
Slowly, things level out, your breathing evens and the tears finally start to slow. Bucky doesn't move an inch, his eyes locked on yours as he wipes the tears from your cheeks until they finally stop.
"You okay?" Bucky asks.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He pulls his hands back from your face, taking your wrists instead and using them to turn your hands up so he can see.
"Got yourself good." He says, gently scraping the stuck rocks off of your palm. They're a mess, bloodied and covered in dirt. "Need to clean these."
The whimper that escapes is unconscious, a half baked protest that only makes embarrassment curl harder in your chest.
"I know." Bucky says sympathetically. "I have stuff in my bag." Hes already reaching behind him, grabbing the strap of his pack when a clap of thunder echoes.
It's barely a warning, hardly enough time for your look up in surprise when suddenly the sky opens.
At first it's hardly a drizzle, one or two drops landing on your nose.
Then it's a downpour. Sudden and violent as it washes over you. You're soaked in an instant, clothes wet through to the bone.
Bucky's back to cursing, any softness replaced with stony determination. One second he's pulling his bag over his shoulder and the next he's sliding one arm beneath your knees and the other under your back.
You can't even hear your surprised yelp over the rain, the rapid putter-patter of the drops cancelling out anything that might've escaped when Bucky suddenly stands.
Understandably, you jolt against him, arms wrapping around his neck as you fight to hold on.
You're too disoriented to notice much of anything, between the rain, the cuts, and the feeling of Bucky's arms around you, nothing makes sense.
There's movement, the rise and fall of a jog. You can almost make out some of the words Bucky's trying to yell to you. Something about being right, and did he just say cave?
Calling it a cave was being generous.
Alcove is more appropriate, just enough room for you and Bucky to escape the rain.
Not enough room for you to sit without touching, your legs all but in his lap as your curl against the wall.
You're both breathing heavy, a come down from the adrenaline as your bodies try to catch up to every sensation.
Bucky's staring outside, looking at the rain with furrowed brows, as if it's offended him someone by daring to fall.
"How did you know?" You ask, turning yourself further in towards him.
Bucky shrugs, "My shoulder," his hand comes up to touch it, kneading over the exposed scar as he speaks. "It aches when it's gonna rain."
"Oh."
"Yeah it's like my nerves can tell? I don't know it's weird, but it's never wrong."
You hum, his gaze is still towards the outside so you let yours fall on him. He looks unreal this close, high definition Bucky.
You wonder if you stared long enough could you could his stubble? It's short, neatly trimmed. As if he just did it this morning, fresh edges under his jaw.
Unthinking you reach out and touch it. With your chest already pressed into his shoulder, what do you have to lose?
Bucky startles at first, jumping under your touch before immediately relaxing. Well, at least as much as you can imagine a man like him does relax.
Slowly you trace your thumb over it, dragging it across the seam of where hair meets skin. Even after the rain you can smell his after shave, deep and musky. He must have just don't it this morning. How early did he have to wake up to shave? Why was it so important for a hike?
"We didn't have to do this today." You offer, even though it's useless now.
"What-" Bucky's already protesting, turning his head to look at you fully. Your hand stops, landing just next to his Adam's apple and holding there.
"If I'd know you were hurting, I mean we could have waited."
Bucky shakes his head. "No I- I wanted to. I was," his throat bobs, you have to fight the urge to shiver at the way it feels under your fingers. "I was looking forward to it."
You can't help but giggle. "You were excited to hike?"
It's dim in your little shelter, but even with the lack of light you can watch Bucky's cheeks turn just a little pink.
"With you."
Your pulse stutters, and for just a moment the fact closeness hits you. Bucky Barnes pressed against you. Bucky Barnes' pulse beneath your fingers. Bucky Barnes gritting his teeth through shoulder pain to spend time with you.
Those last two words echo, bouncing around your brain as if delighted with themselves.
With you. With you. With you.
It's your turn to jump when Bucky touches you, jolting you out of your spiral when hooks a finger under your chin and lifts it up.
"Got yourself good."
His thumb rubs over what must be a cut, another spot where a stone was unlucky enough to catch you.
You try to swallow around your nerves, around the way every feeling you've buried seems to rise up the back of your throat.
"I did?" You manage to whisper.
Bucky nods, eyes fixed on the spot.
"They're gonna wrap me in bubble wrap at this rate." You try to joke, choking on the tension instead.
"No." Bucky shakes his head, eyes darting up to look at yours for just a moment before dropping. This time not as far down as your chin. "I'll just catch you next time."
"Yeah?"
He nods and you can feel the weight of his gaze on your lips.
"What if I fall in town?"
"I'll be there." His hand shifts, palm moving until it's holding your cheek again.
"On the beach."
"Yup." His thumb curves lower this time, the pad of it at the edge of your lips.
"In the mines?"
"Why are you in the mines?" His gaze falters, back to your eyes for a second.
"There are mushrooms down there that don't grow anywhere else. They're purple and I think they might have some health benefits like improved energy levels and some vitamin gaps-"
"Anyone ever tell you that you talk a lot?" Bucky interrupts.
You nod, embarrassed smile moving his thumb as your lips curve. "All the time actually, a lot of people think I better shut up before it gets me in trouble."
"Don't you dare." Bucky's voice has gone the lowest you think you've ever heard it, raspy and almost unfamiliar.
"Get in trouble?"
"Shut up." Bucky clarifies, he's so close now you can feel his nose against your own. His eyes are half lidded, barely open enough for you to make out his blown pupils. "Love hearin' you talk."
It's something no one's ever said to you before, something you had honestly figured wasn't possible. Someone who savors your voice not the absence of it.
Like Eve, the one thing you never knew you wanted has been served to you on a silver platter, how could you not bite the apple?
Bucky's lips are chapped, rough against yours the way your expected them to be. Torn skin catches against yours, making your tongue roll over them to soothe, as if applying a balm.
Bucky's hands are everywhere now, as if your kiss gave him permission he had been waiting for. First it's your face, both cheeks held in his large palms. Quickly it escalates, one dropping to your throat to mirror your own touch. Meanwhile the other falls to your waist, grabbing at the soft flesh there in a half-grope half-pull.
One second you're resting on cave floor the next you're being positioned over Bucky's thighs, hips angles until finally you're encouraged to sit. A pat on your hip telling you to lower your weight.
You drop right over Bucky's thighs, the very tops where his stomach pudges out just a little over his belt and his tank top has been pulled down.
Bucky doesn't let down until he's satisfied he has your full weight, letting out the most delicious groan against your lips as you settle.
"Stupid." He whispers, spitting the word against your lips as if tastes bad. "Sweetheart the only stupid one is me for not doing this sooner."
This time it's your turn to push, your lips harder into his, your chest as tight as possible against him. Your hands finally roam, curving over the detailed path of his body. The rough scar on his shoulder, gentle and slow. Then the slope between his pecs, dragging down hard enough for the tip of your nail to draw a red line. Finally over his ribs, where your fingers slot between each divot.
It's as if the flood gates have been opened, every word you've agonized over, each action you second guessed disappears and is replaced with white hot want. Molten lava in your belly that you never even knew you possessed.
Bucky gasps into your mouth, opening further into your assault.
"Wanna make a map of every spot that makes you sound like that and memorize it." You whisper into his lips.
Bucky nods fervently against you, using his hands to drag you over his crotch, pressing the hard line of bulge to your tingling cunt.
"Whatever you want." He offers, "Study me, dissect me, yell at me about how I'm planting the flowers wrong I don't care." He drags you over him again, swallowing the whimper that bubbles from your lips at the sound. "I'll donate my body to science."
Your brain is slowly falling apart, melting and dripping out of your ears for sure. The rain explodes outside, its downfall turning deafening as the kiss deepens, as if its trying to match your intensity.
Bucky kisses you like it's an attack and a thank you all in the same breath. something between worship and hunger.
Your body feels the most alive it's ever been, for the first time years its as if you're actually in the moment instead of watching it from the outside.
Thunder roars again outside. This time less like a roar and more like the clicking of pieces sliding into place.
It's not until your lungs start to burn that you pull away, lips bruised and kiss bitten. Your chin sore from where the cut caught on stubble. Your body floaty where it rests in Bucky's lap.
The only thing that matches what you feel is the smile playing on Bucky's lips, a subtle curve just sharp enough to make your pulse stutter.
Finally, the rain stops. Tempering off completely within a minute of the last thunderclap.
When you come out of the cave, this time hand in hand, a warm breeze washes over you. Like praise from the life surrounding you.
You can only imagine their glee when Bucky drags you inside his house later, tripping over the stairs in excitement.
There are a few simple reasons you like Bucky.
He likes you for one, that's a pretty good one. If his mumbles when he's balls deep inside you and half drunk on pleasure are to believed, he actually loves you.
He's quiet, but never the kind that makes you feel judged. He's quiet like the plants, always listening, and always ready to offer you the best solution he can find.
He's weird, you might even think he's worse than you are. He's read lord of the rings three times and still refuses to watch the movie. He lights up when you suggest growing plums. Walks into town holding your hand and when people ask if you're dating he just shakes his head. "No," he says, completely straight faced, "I'm being studied."
thank you so much for reading!!!!! I love youuuuuuu!!!
Requested by Anon: Caplan Caplan Caplan! If you’re feeling so inclined, can you please do a fic where f!reader is Bucky’s sorta-gf and she’s helping Pepper or Peggy or Nat try on wedding dresses and ends up trying one on herself? And when Bucky sees, he just spirals into “that one. I want that one. We are getting married immediately.” Please and thank you?
Summary: An outing for wedding dress shopping with your friends spirals into your own celebrations when Bucky, your boyfriend, happens to walk in on your playfully trying on a wedding dress.
Warnings: Pure fluff!, Established Situationship-Turned-Engagement
WC: 1.2K
Ao3!
A/N: This was requested when i was celebrating my 2K Party Bash this week! I know I'm posting a lot today, but I don't care <3 Trying to ignore my actual responsibilities today.
You weren’t supposed to be trying anything on. That was made extremely clear when Pepper invited you, Natasha, and Wanda to help her narrow down her wedding dress options. It was a girls-only kind of day—champagne, way too many boutique consultants with clipboards, and racks of white lace and silk that cost more than your rent.
“You’re just here for moral support,” Pepper had said brightly. “No pressure, just vibes.”
And that was the plan. You were content sipping something bubbly and pretending not to touch things labelled “couture.” But then—
Then Nat had dared you.
“Try one on,” she said, smirking behind the rim of her glass. “C’mon. Live a little.”
“You’re terrible,” you hissed.
“I know. Now pick the sparkliest one and put it on, you menace.”
You tried to resist. You really did.
But twenty minutes later, you found yourself in front of a full-length mirror in a back dressing room, laced into something soft ivory with a fitted bodice, a slightly off-the-shoulder neckline, and a gentle tulle train that caught the light when you turned. It hugged your curves in all the right places.
And you—annoyingly—looked stunning.
“Oh no,” Wanda whispered from behind you.
“Oh no,” Natasha echoed.
You blinked. “What?”
Pepper leaned in from the hallway and gasped. “Oh my God. You’re done for. If Bucky sees you in that, he’s going to—”
A sharp ding from the boutique’s front door cut her off.
You all froze.
“…Was that the—”
“Ladies?” came a very familiar voice.
“Shit,” Natasha hissed, shoving a hanger at you. “Bucky’s here.”
“Why the hell is Bucky here?!”
"Who told him we'd be here?"
Pepper groaned. “I texted him to swing by to help pick up a gift bag I left in the car, but I didn’t think he’d come in—!”
Too late.
Bucky’s boots clunked across the polished boutique floor, his voice drawing closer as he called out, “Hey, Nat, you said it was in the trunk—wait, babe? You back here?”
Before you could even shout a warning, the curtain whipped open.
Bucky stopped cold.
His mouth dropped open.
You froze, wide-eyed, one heel half off, veil slipping sideways on your head like a drunk ghost. “I swear this isn’t what it looks like—”
But Bucky didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
His gaze raked over you slowly, almost reverently—like he wasn’t entirely sure you were real.
“That one,” he said hoarsely.
You blinked. “What?”
His eyes stayed glued to you. “That one. That’s it. That’s the dress.”
“Bucky, I—” you stammered. “We’re not even engaged, I was just—”
“We are now.” His voice cracked with something fierce and unshakable. “I’m not even joking. I’m gonna find a priest. A rabbi. Tony. Someone. You’re not taking that thing off until someone pronounces us married.”
“I am calm,” he snapped, but his tone betrayed him—unhinged, elated, utterly overwhelmed. He stepped closer, eyes glazed and worshipful. “You—look at you. How the hell am I supposed to function knowing what you look like in that thing?”
You felt your heart trip over itself. “Bucky—”
“No, no. Don’t talk me out of it.” His hand curled gently around your waist, pulling you close. “We’re doing this. I’m putting a ring on your finger, you’re keeping this dress, and I’m legally binding myself to you before someone else sees you in it and I have to commit a crime.”
You laughed, cheeks flushing. “This is insane. We were just dating.”
“Not anymore,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “Now I’m yours. All the way.”
Your fingers curled in the lapel of his jacket.
“You’re serious?” you whispered.
“I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
And just like that, Natasha was pulling out her phone to find a courthouse, Pepper was tearing up, and Bucky—Bucky looked like he’d just been handed the moon.
You should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve told him he was being dramatic, ridiculous, Bucky, with his hair a mess and his hoodie half-zipped like he’d run here straight from a mission. But you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Not when he was looking at you like that.
Like you were the only living thing in a dead galaxy.
“Bucky,” you breathed, eyes darting to the others—Pepper discreetly dabbing at her eyes, Wanda beaming like she already knew this was written in the stars, and Natasha grinning like she knew her dare would end like this.
“I mean it,” he said, quieter now. “You think I didn’t know? The second I saw you—really saw you—I knew. This was always gonna be it for me.”
His hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “You wearing that dress just made it impossible to pretend I could wait anymore.”
Your throat tightened. “But we never talked about—marriage. Or even living together.”
“I don’t care where we live,” he murmured, forehead pressing to yours. “I’ll sleep in your damn bathtub if I have to. I just want you. Waking up next to you. Coming home to you. Tying myself to you in every way I can.”
You could feel your pulse fluttering under your skin like a moth trapped in your ribcage. You wanted to say something smart, something grounded, something that might cool the fire in his eyes—
But instead you whispered, “Okay.”
He blinked. “Yeah?”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
And then—chaos.
Pepper shrieked. Wanda clapped. Natasha screamed, “CALLED IT,” and ran to grab a bottle of champagne off the nearest table. And Bucky—Bucky kissed you like you were oxygen and his lungs had gone dry.
“Wait—” you pulled back just a little, blinking. “Are we actually getting married today?”
“Yes,” Bucky and Natasha said at the same time.
“No,” Pepper said, already on the phone with someone. “You are not getting married without hair and makeup. I know a team.”
“I’ll get Tony to open the tower chapel,” Wanda said, typing furiously. “He owes me for that Sokovian dessert wine I smuggled back for him.”
“Wait, chapel—?” you blinked. “Tony has a—never mind, of course he does.”
“Dress is already picked,” Natasha smirked. “Now all we need is a ring.”
Bucky grinned, eyes never leaving yours. “Already got one.”
You blinked. “You what?”
He fished in his jacket pocket—because of course he had it on him—and pulled out a small velvet box, sheepish and smug all at once.
“I was gonna wait,” he muttered. “Till your birthday. Or Valentine’s Day. Or a meteor shower. Some dumb romantic crap. But clearly the universe decided today was the day.”
He opened it. Simple. Elegant. Yours. A platinum band, thin and glinting like starlight, set with a single dark sapphire—midnight blue, stormy and fierce, just like him.
Your hands trembled when he slid it onto your finger. It fit perfectly. You couldn’t stop staring at it. You couldn’t stop smiling. “Holy shit,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said, resting his forehead against yours again. “You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart.”
“God help me,” you murmured, and kissed him.
----
You weren’t even sure how it all happened so fast. One minute you were being dragged into a makeup chair, the next you were in a penthouse rooftop chapel lit with candles, Tony officiating in a suit and sunglasses, Steve giving Bucky his tie because his was wrinkled, and Bruce holding up someone’s dog as a makeshift ring bearer.
You and Bucky barely heard the words. You were too busy smiling. Laughing. Crying. Gripping each other’s hands like lifelines.
And when he kissed you again—really kissed you, as husband and wife—the rest of the world fell away. Just you. Just him. The dress. The dare. The forever. All of it. Yours.
DAY SEVEN ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ reading your dirty diary / bob reynolds
Bob wasn’t a pervert, well, he wasn’t trying to be.
Yet, he found himself in a rather strange predicament. You see, he went into your room to get something he thought he left in there, and then spent the entire time looking at all the things you had laid out. Your makeup that’s perfectly left on your vanity, your posters that filled up the wall with rock bands and pop stars, and a pretty pink diary at the edge of your nightstand. Bob knew it would be an invasion of privacy if he read it. He didn’t want to be a bother to you and read something personal. Yet, his curiosity got the best of him.
It was supposed to be just a peek. Yet, once he flipped through the pages and skimmed past his name, he was hooked. He was confused at first, until he got to the part where you explicitly talked about all the dirty things you wanted him to do to you. You talked excessively about wanting to break him out of his shell by breaking the bed. All the positions you wanted to try. All the ways you could make him tied to you, needy for you, all the while wanting him so badly. He had no idea you felt that way. Let alone that you liked him that deeply.
Blush crept up to his cheeks as he was sucked into your erotic world of handcuffs and spankings and making poor, shy Bob the loudest man in the room, even fucking him in the Sentry costume. Before he could put the journal down, you entered the room and froze in your tracks. You wanted to run and grab it out of his hands, but it was too late. “Bob-”
Bob turns to you, mortified. “Oh god, so sorry, this is-is um…” he puts the book down on the nightstand and turns to you, anxiously pulling on his sleeves. “I shouldn’t have-” but that’s the least of your concerns, because Bob is rock hard in front of you, and bright red in the face.
You blushed and pointed at the tent he was pitching. “You seem to be enjoying yourself.” you commented. Bob glanced down, and instead of covering up, he just looked back at you. “Sorry, hard not to when I’m reading about all the different ways you want me to fuck you.” he replied. “What was it you said you wanted?” he asked, almost coy, almost trying to get you riled up. Maybe he wanted you just as badly and now has the green light. Your mouth goes dry, but you take the risk, because you wanted to see how far this could go. “Which part did you read? The part where I wanted you to handcuff me to the bed with a vibrator pressed against me? Or the part where you had me bent over your desk with your fingers in me?”
Bob blushes, hard, but he doesn’t back down. He picks up the diary again and goes over to you, handing you the journal. “Y’know, I was thinking…” he hums to himself. “Maybe you can read me everything you want from me, and we’ll see what we can do as soon as possible.” he says. “Can even sit on my lap while you list off everything you want.”
It didn’t take long for the reading to turn into a sloppy makeout session and helpless grinding.
How they react when you are angry with them (Part.1)
Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange & Thor Odinson
I'm back in my MCU era, thanks to Agatha All Along, so expect a lot of MCU headcanons, feel free to request those!
Tony Stark
- When you’re angry with Tony, he’s a little stunned. He’s used to being able to charm his way through things or brush issues off with a joke, but the moment he realizes you’re genuinely upset, he feels the ground shift a little. Tony’s mind races, calculating what he did wrong, and for a second, he considers ignoring the problem—but not with you. You mean too much to him, and he can’t stand the idea of pushing you further away.
- He doesn’t immediately know how to apologize, so he leans into his classic defense mechanism: humor. He’ll try to make you laugh, throwing out quips, hoping you’ll crack a smile. When that doesn’t work, he gets a little awkward, mumbling things like, “This is why I avoid real feelings, you know?” as he fumbles through an apology. He’s not used to admitting fault, but with you, he’s learning to swallow his pride.
- Tony goes all out when he realizes he needs to make it up to you. He’ll throw himself into making amends, maybe even a little too extravagantly. Expect some grand, over-the-top gesture—a private jet to Paris, a limited-edition piece of tech he’s been tinkering on, or a fancy dinner in some exclusive place with an outfit he’s bought just for the occasion. He’s not subtle, and he knows it, but he’ll do anything if it means a smile from you.
- When the big gestures don’t work, he takes a different approach. He shows up at your door, looking strangely vulnerable, with something small and meaningful. Maybe it’s a handwritten letter he’s scribbled out, confessing how much he hates it when things aren’t okay between you two. It’s raw, real, and completely unlike Tony, but he means every word. This time, he wants to show that he’s willing to put the ego aside for you.
- Once you finally let him back in, Tony wraps you in his arms and doesn’t let go. He’ll joke that he’s not letting you get mad at him again, and maybe throw in a flirty quip about “testing his limits,” but there’s something deeper there too. Being loved by you has changed him, and he’s willing to work on himself for the first time in a long time. With you, Tony’s found a softness he didn’t know he had, and he’s not going to risk losing it.
Steve Rogers
- Steve Rogers doesn’t like conflict, especially not with you. When he realizes you’re angry, he immediately wants to address it and resolve it, hoping it won’t escalate. He tries to have a calm, level-headed conversation, but he can see that maybe it’s too soon. Steve’s patient, though; he’ll give you space if you need it, even if it pains him to let go for a while.
- While you’re cooling off, Steve takes time to reflect, replaying the situation in his mind, wondering where he went wrong. He’s his own worst critic and can be hard on himself, especially when it comes to you. He’ll try to see things from your perspective, understanding that sometimes his old-fashioned sense of right and wrong can be rigid. He’s willing to bend if it’s what’s needed to bridge the gap between you.
- When he approaches you again, he’s soft-spoken and earnest, offering a sincere apology. There are no excuses, no justifications—just him, owning up to whatever hurt you. His gaze doesn’t leave yours; he wants you to know he truly means it. And as he speaks, he promises he’ll do better, vowing to always listen to you and consider your feelings.
- To make it up to you, Steve chooses something simple but thoughtful, probably something he knows you love. It could be as quiet as a walk through your favorite park or as gentle as a handwritten note tucked into a book you’re reading. Steve understands that sometimes, it’s the little things that mean the most. He’ll give you the space to talk, letting you vent if you need to, always steady, always attentive.
- Once the air clears, Steve is more affectionate than usual, holding your hand, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, grateful to be back in your good graces. He values trust deeply and doesn’t take your forgiveness for granted. Steve knows relationships take work, and he’s fully committed to making it work with you, one respectful conversation at a time.
Natasha Romanoff
- Natasha doesn’t like it when things are off between you two, but she’s used to people being mad at her. Initially, she tries to shrug it off, acting like she doesn’t care, maybe even trying to ignore it. But you’re different. You’re not just anyone; you’re someone she actually trusts, and seeing you upset with her hits her hard.
- Natasha is far more comfortable dealing with enemies than emotional confrontations, so when she finally comes to you, she does it in a roundabout way. She might casually ask, “Are we good?” as if it’s not a big deal, but the nervous tension in her voice betrays her. She’s not great at apologies, so her attempt is awkward but sincere. It’s clear she’s trying, even if she doesn’t always have the words.
- To make it up to you, Natasha doesn’t go for big gestures but rather something deeply personal. She’ll take you to a place she loves—a quiet spot on a rooftop, a hidden café she discovered, somewhere she can let her guard down. She’s careful, almost shy, as she opens up a little about herself, sharing stories she rarely tells. In her own way, she’s letting you know how much she values you.
- Natasha doesn’t usually do comfort, but she’ll go out of her way to make you feel loved and safe. Maybe she’ll surprise you with breakfast or bring you something she knows you’ve been wanting. She pays attention, after all, even if she doesn’t always show it. Little by little, she’ll find ways to let you know that she’s there, committed to making things right.
- When you finally forgive her, Natasha breathes a sigh of relief, leaning in for a hug that lasts a beat longer than usual. She’s not big on words, but she’ll whisper something soft and sincere, just for you. Natasha’s fiercely protective, and after a falling-out, she’s even more attuned to making sure you feel cared for. She’ll stay close, a steady presence at your side, her quiet way of showing just how much she values you.
Bruce Banner
- When you’re angry with Bruce, he’s instantly anxious, worried he’s done something terribly wrong. Conflict isn’t his strong suit, and he’s painfully aware of his capacity for anger. He’s cautious, almost timid, when he realizes you’re upset, giving you space and time. He doesn’t want to make things worse or risk saying the wrong thing.
- Bruce spends time overthinking the situation, dissecting every detail. He questions himself, often getting caught in a loop of self-blame, wondering if he’s ever really been suited for a relationship. But even though he’s scared of confrontation, he values you too much to leave things unresolved. He wants to show you that he’s willing to work through whatever the issue is.
- When he finally comes to you, Bruce’s apology is soft, heartfelt, and a little self-deprecating. He’ll stumble through his words, not wanting to sound defensive, and there’s an earnestness in his gaze as he tries to convey just how much he wants to make things right. He’s not perfect, but he’s open to listening and doing better.
- To make it up to you, Bruce goes for something intimate and personal. He knows you appreciate small gestures, so he’ll show up with something that reflects his feelings for you—maybe a small book he thinks you’d love, or a little experiment from the lab that made him think of you. He’s shy about it, maybe a little embarrassed, but it’s his way of showing he cares.
- When you finally forgive him, Bruce visibly relaxes, wrapping you in a hug as if he never wants to let go. He’s careful, soft, and almost tentative, savoring the warmth of your embrace. Bruce cherishes the trust you give him and is deeply grateful to have someone willing to weather his insecurities. He might even joke, “You’re way too patient with me,” but the gratitude in his voice is genuine.
Clint Barton
- When Clint realizes you’re angry with him, his first reaction is a mix of regret and a slight laugh. He can’t believe he’s managed to mess things up this badly with you, of all people. He knows he tends to joke around a bit too much, so he tries to laugh it off at first, but when he sees how serious you are, his grin fades. He’ll look a bit awkward, rubbing the back of his neck, knowing he’s got some work to do.
- Clint’s never been one to give big, elaborate apologies. Instead, he’ll pull you aside, speaking quietly and genuinely. He’ll admit that he messed up, explaining that sometimes he forgets to take things seriously or considers others’ feelings the way he should. It’s a simple, heartfelt apology, showing his honest side that not many people get to see.
- Once he’s apologized, Clint is all about making you laugh. He’ll start cracking jokes, doing his best impressions, and even pull some ridiculous faces just to get a reaction out of you. Clint knows humor is his best weapon, and he’s shameless about using it if it means making things right. He’s determined not to let you stay mad at him for long, no matter what it takes.
- When his jokes don’t quite cut it, Clint switches gears and puts effort into something he knows will mean a lot to you. He’s a guy who pays attention to the little things, so he’ll show up with your favorite takeout, a warm blanket, or maybe even a funny book he picked up just for you. He knows that it’s the small gestures that can speak volumes.
- After things settle down, Clint wraps you in a warm, comfortable hug, one arm wrapped around your shoulder, making you feel like everything’s back to normal. He’ll joke about how lucky he is that you put up with him, throwing in a wink, but there’s a hint of seriousness behind his words. Clint doesn’t take his relationships for granted, and he’s grateful you’re in his life, even when he messes up.
Bucky Barnes
- Bucky’s heart sinks when he sees that you’re angry. He’s used to pushing people away, and now that he’s got you, he’s terrified of losing you over a misunderstanding. Bucky’s first instinct is to retreat, his mind already whispering that maybe he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve you. He’ll avoid confrontation if he can, hoping things might smooth over on their own.
- But when he realizes he needs to talk to you, he’s hesitant, nervous, almost as if he’s bracing himself for rejection. Bucky approaches you carefully, speaking in a low, almost shy voice. He struggles with apologies, but he looks you in the eyes, opening up about how hard he finds it to express his feelings. He’s used to running, and being with you is the first time he’s tried not to.
- Bucky tries to make it up to you in the most low-key, thoughtful way possible. He’s not one for grand gestures, but he’ll do something meaningful and heartfelt, like leaving you a note explaining how much you mean to him or bringing you something that he knows you love. He’s nervous about whether it’ll be enough, hoping you can see the sincerity in his actions.
- When he feels things softening between you, Bucky relaxes just a little, offering his support in any way you need. He’ll stay close, maybe cooking a meal for you or sitting quietly with you, sharing a comfortable silence. He wants you to know that he’s there, without needing to say much, because he’s always believed that actions speak louder than words.
- When you finally forgive him, Bucky is beyond relieved. He’s more open with his affection, drawing you into a tight embrace, his touch lingering as if he’s afraid to let go. He knows he doesn’t have many people he can count on, but he’s grateful that he can count on you. Bucky’s still working on believing he deserves happiness, but having you in his life makes him want to try.
Sam Wilson
- Sam immediately notices when you’re angry, and his first instinct is to find out what’s going on. He’s straightforward and doesn’t like tension hanging in the air, so he’ll ask, “Alright, what did I do?” in his calm, genuine way, hoping you’ll be willing to talk it out. He’s good at reading people, but he wants to hear it from you directly.
- Sam listens intently when you explain what’s bothering you, nodding and giving you his full attention. He’s respectful and thoughtful, making sure you know he understands where you’re coming from. He’s not the type to dodge blame; if he’s at fault, he’ll own up to it right away. There’s no defensiveness, no excuses—just an honest desire to make things right.
- To make it up to you, Sam takes you on a simple, meaningful outing—something where the two of you can connect and have fun. He’s all about shared experiences, so maybe it’s a long walk, a favorite food spot, or even a small adventure he’s planned just for you. He’s careful, attentive, making sure the focus is on you and helping you feel valued.
- When things calm down, Sam offers a mix of humor and reassurance, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and promising to do better. He’ll look you in the eyes and say something like, “I don’t like seeing you mad. Tell me if I mess up again.” He’s genuine and open, showing you he wants to grow from this experience and be a better partner.
- Once everything’s back to normal, Sam goes the extra mile, making sure you’re laughing and relaxed. He’s always there to lift you up, pulling you in for a warm, affectionate hug and giving you his full, unwavering attention. Sam’s presence is solid, reassuring, and he’ll make sure you know just how much he values having you in his life.
Peter Parker (Tom H.)
- Peter’s heart sinks when he realizes you’re angry with him. He’s young, a little clumsy with emotions, and absolutely hates the idea of upsetting you. His mind starts racing, thinking of everything he could have done wrong. He gets a little panicked, maybe even rambling apologies before he knows what’s going on, hoping you’ll give him a chance to explain.
- When you tell him what’s bothering you, Peter listens carefully, nodding along with wide, earnest eyes. He’s genuinely sorry, his voice soft as he stumbles through an apology. He’s never been great at handling relationship tension, but he’ll try his best to make sure you know how much he cares and how sorry he is for letting you down.
- To make it up to you, Peter goes for something heartfelt, maybe even a bit awkward, but completely sincere. He’ll show up at your window with a little homemade gift, something quirky and thoughtful—perhaps a playlist he made just for you or a funny little gadget he put together in the lab. He’s earnest, a little shy about it, hoping you’ll see how much effort he’s putting in.
- Peter spends extra time trying to lift your spirits, using every ounce of his playful personality to make you laugh. He’ll crack jokes, do silly impressions, or even attempt a bad dance routine just to get you smiling again. He knows he’s a bit of a dork, but he doesn’t mind if it means cheering you up. Peter’s all about making you feel comfortable and loved.
- When you finally forgive him, Peter’s face lights up with relief. He’ll pull you into a warm, enthusiastic hug, holding you close and babbling about how he’s “the luckiest person in the world” to have someone like you. He’s young, optimistic, and just incredibly happy that you’re not mad anymore. To Peter, you’re his world, and he’ll always do whatever it takes to make you feel special.
Stephen Strange
- When Stephen realizes you’re angry with him, he’s a bit taken aback. He’s used to being right and doesn’t often see things from others’ perspectives, so it takes him a moment to understand the weight of the situation. His initial reaction might even be a little defensive, but he quickly catches himself, knowing that with you, he has to try harder to listen and understand.
- Stephen struggles with apologies, often trying to explain away his actions or getting caught up in technicalities. He’s intelligent and analytical, but that doesn’t always work when emotions are involved. Eventually, though, he manages to offer a genuine apology, admitting that he’s not always the easiest person to be with and that he respects you enough to take responsibility.
- To make things right, Stephen will probably use a bit of magic to create something special just for you. It might be a small charm to keep you safe, a little illusion to make you smile, or even a glimpse into some place you’ve always wanted to see. It’s his way of saying he cares, using the one skill he knows best to bring you a little joy.
- As he tries to smooth things over, Stephen is careful, more attentive than usual, and visibly trying to understand your emotions. He may not be great at expressing his own feelings, but he’s willing to try if it means keeping you close. He’ll listen to you, nodding thoughtfully, and maybe even opening up a bit about his past mistakes and how much he values you.
- Once you forgive him, Stephen is visibly relieved, though he keeps it subtle. He gives you a small smile and pulls you close, brushing a gentle kiss to your forehead as he wraps his arms around you. He might even joke, “Guess I need to work on my bedside manner,” but there’s genuine affection behind his words. Stephen knows he’s lucky to have you, and he’s determined to keep learning how to love you better.
Thor Odinson
- Thor is visibly surprised when he realizes you’re angry with him. He’s naturally cheerful and doesn’t take most things too seriously, so the idea that he’s done something to upset you takes him off guard. At first, he tries to brush it off with a booming laugh, but when he sees the seriousness in your eyes, his smile fades. He immediately wants to fix things, willing to do whatever it takes to get you to smile again.
- Thor is quick to apologize, his voice earnest as he promises he didn’t mean to hurt you. He’s not one to overthink things, but he’s deeply sincere, and his apologies come straight from the heart. He’ll look you in the eyes and tell you he values you and never meant to cause any harm, his words laced with the kind of honesty that only Thor can deliver.
- To make it up to you, Thor goes all out. He’ll sweep you off on a grand adventure, maybe a spontaneous trip to Asgard (or at least what remains of it), or he’ll bring you somewhere beautiful and awe-inspiring. Thor loves to celebrate life and wants to remind you of all the incredible experiences the two of you can share. His enthusiasm is infectious, and he hopes that a bit of excitement will make things right.
- As you spend time together, Thor is extra affectionate, showering you with praise and hugs. He’s genuinely sorry and makes sure you feel loved and appreciated, maybe even telling you tales of his own mistakes and what he’s learned from them. He might tease himself a bit, but it’s all to make you laugh and remind you of his dedication to you.
- When you finally forgive him, Thor’s smile lights up the room. He laughs, pulling you into a bear hug, lifting you off your feet, and spinning you around. There’s nothing subtle about his relief and joy, and he’s not afraid to show it. Thor values you immensely and will do everything he can to make sure you know how much you mean to him, promising that he’ll try to be a little more mindful in the future.
i bet on losing dogs - frank castle
des. angst. loving frank castle is simply putting a bet on everything and expecting nothing in return. medic!reader
notes. this story has no happy-ending ;( a lot of angst, character deaths, heavy mention of violence, canon-events in the show (loosely), inaccurate timeline, reader being avoidant, ooc? frank ig. mdni!!
hello! i just watch bnd and made me realized how much i miss the show punisher so, i made a story, if frank is a little ooc i’m sorry. no proofread! and enjoy this angst story for frankie.
w.c: 3.2k
Frank Castle is not a bad person, he’s far from it—he is kind and protective, sure, he may be rough around the edges but how can you blame a man who was stripped out of everything he dreamed of? Frank Castle is not a bad person, he had talked to you countless of times and he had shown you kindness countless of times—how can he be a bad person?
Somehow, you know deep down, he is not a bad person.
But he might be a terrible one.
It was years ago when you first met him, somehow it haunts you as if it was just yesterday. You knew him within the walls of the wars, the tents of the barracks, and the smell of gunpowder surrounding the soil you stood at: you still remember his buzzcut when he first volunteered and the first time Billy made him laugh: you also remember the first time he asked you to patch him up.
“Surname?”
”Castle.”
“That's the fifth this month.”
A chuckle left his mouth as he apologetically looked at you. You made him sat in the stretcher as you assessed his wounds: every time the cotton dips in his skin, you begun to be familiar how he tense up or pretend that the medicine isn’t bothering him and if there’s one thing you observed with Frank, he is good at hiding where he stand, his pain isn’t dripping easily from his face but the way his muscles tensed, you probably know how much pain he’s been hiding beneath.
“Same time, next week?” He had asked after you finished patching him up. ”Oh, Castle—I rather not.” He put on his shirt and smiled at you. “You ever call us by our name?” You shook your head and replied with “Maybe during breaks, Frank.” Your name leaves his mouth as he left the tent. From then on, you begin seeing the side of Frank that somehow tells you that he is not a bad person. As the time passes by, with new tasking and rotation, you somehow find Frank in every area and every situation, despite the instances of being assigned in different area, fate somehow finds a way to keep you close to Frank.
“You okay?” He asked one time, after a long duty of treating injured soldiers.
”Yeah, absolutely.” You responded in a haste, for as long as he knew you and the stories he heard about you, he knew you were lying. “Bullshit.” You looked at him and sighed as you sat on the chair. “Fuck you.” You told him as he sat next to you and gave you water. You drank it as he apologized for the number of people you had to tend that day, as he promised, that he and his men will be more careful next time, you believed in him because in your eyes Frank is not a bad person.
From there and on, you somehow realize that maybe there’s a part of you that cares about Frank more than you admit: how your eyes linger when he enters the tent or when him and Billy talk and all you hear is his voice—it’s too hopeful, and a love blooming at the side of the world where there’s war, a chance of it burns slim to none. The last time you saw Frank was during his wedding with Maria, it was a dream: he has this happiest look on his face, despite only meeting Maria three months ago, you knew he loves that woman with all his heart. You also can’t forget the look in his face when he shared to you that Maria is pregnant, the pure bliss in his face is somehow different from the face you’ve seen in the barracks and tents: oh, he belongs here, he belongs in a family.
You absolutely felt so surprised on how his face lit up talking about it, how happy he is, you realized how his smile is so contagious that it affected you too. But the selfish part of you wondered if you’ll be able to bring Frank the same joy if things were different, would he have been yours if you realized your feelings sooner? Or would he tell you he doesn’t feel the same and you’d be able to move on with someone new? You never find out if he did feel the same because loving him through patches and medicine is easier than telling him about how you feel, you felt absolutely happy for him but it's those what-if haunts you every single time. You still remember the clink of glasses at the wedding, Billy’s annoying ass asking the bartender to sleep with, the audience laughing when Frank stumbled with his vows, and Maria’s soft happy cries when they kissed, in the back of your mind there it stayed with your feelings with Frank.
“There she is.” Frank said as he saw you on the balcony.
”If it isn’t the groom, congratulations Castle.” He laughs and eyes you. “Years in the barracks together and still calling me by my last name, so professional.” You laughed as you clink your glass with his beer. “Family man, looks good on you.” He smiled at that. “You think so?” You nodded as he placed the beer on the railings of the balcony.
“You know Maria…told me that…” He fidgetted with his ring. “That she’s fine if I’m not gonna be here every now and then when raising the kids and it made me feel bad.” He looked at the party. ”I—I don’t know if I’ll be good at this family shit, you know what I mean?”
You sip a drink. “What makes you think that?”
”Look at me. I am a machi—”
”You are a husband.” You continued as he looked at you. “You married Maria, it's not because she’s pregnant. You love her that’s why you married her, I mean, that alone is a testament you’re doing this shit right. Sure, you may not be here with them because of our line of work but that doesn’t mean you’re not gonna be good at this. Shit, Castle, out of all the people in the troops, especially Billy.” That let out a chuckle in his lips. “No one had the balls to do what you did. You’re Frank Castle, you’re not a bad person.” And I love you. “And I’m pretty sure, Maria will put you in your ass if you mess up or something.”
“She probably will.” He let out a breath and turned to you. “You really know just what to say, huh?”
You smiled and offered a cheer for your drink—the moment he raised his bottle, you somehow promised yourself that this is the last time you will think of Frank as someone more than friends. “Well, of course, it’s inclined with our job, Lieutenant.”
That was the last moment you saw him, you’ve heard that they were assigned in special elite force with Billy and Gunner, somewhere in Afghanistan—the last time you clinked drinks with him was the last time you contacted him as well, it all became a blur, news and tasking came after one another but not once, you caged yourself back from contacting him, maybe it was the bitter part of you clinging to thoughts of what-ifs but how can you be bitter with Frank, he did nothing wrong.
Years had passed with no contact, things are different now—uniforms of the past are something you don’t wear anymore. The remnants and marks of barracks slowly faded in distant memory until Castle’s family were gunned down in their own home: and for months and weeks, you’ve been searching for him, he was nowhere. You visited the grave of Maria and his kids but it seems like Frank died with them. With endless voicemails, messages, and calls remain untouched in your phone—you can’t help but wonder if you would’ve done something to change something: but as you wonder how Frank is, a new name was forged in the street, The Punisher, kills after killing Burrow every single night.
The news came along that Frank Castle had died which somehow made everyone believe that the Punisher died with him as well, you beg to differ, it doesn’t sit right with you. Maybe because there’s a lot of things you want to say to Frank or maybe you just couldn’t accept that he is dead without saying goodbye, that the last time you saw him was you wishing for happiness for him and it felt like eons ago. The unspoken feelings and the ghost of unanswered wishes still find its way to haunt you—Frank once got everything he wanted but you remain in that same cycle, now his unexplained death: it felt like a knife down to the throat.
Frank Castle had been staying at David Lieberman’s place for weeks in hopes to take revenge on the people who took everything from him—his Maria, his kids, and his entire idea of Frank Castle. He recently watched Gunner die, as he dreamed of Maria again, he kept dreaming of her, her smile, her laugh, and how it was taken from him with a trigger. He woke up in deep pain in his torso. David's voice was the first thing he heard: “He’s going to be okay, right?” Then it was followed by Curtis telling him to think about his actions.
Frank tried to sit up until a too familiar voice, your voice spoke near him. “Good to see you again, Raven.” Your voice sounded like hope when Frank heard it, he stared at you with mouth agape. “You seem more surprised than me. It’s not everyday I see my dead friend almost dying again.” Frank thought you looked different, you were different. He tried to speak but he couldn't—there was a lot of pain everywhere. You simply stood up and helped him sit up. “I’m sorry.” You whispered as he only gave a grunt.
I’ve missed you. Your mind keeps repeating like a chant in hopes that he’ll hear it. “How’d ya find me?” He finally asked, staring at you. “Curtis.” Frank nodded and sighed. “That bad?” You nodded—“He called me and said he needed medical advice and when I came here, you were bleeding. Imagine my surprise. I thought you were dead.”
“I’m supposed to be.”
You remained quiet and finally he spoke again. “I lost Maria. The kids.” He whispered slowly, you could only nod. “I heard. I’m sorry.” He hummed as he looked at the ceiling. “I still dream of ‘er.”
”I bet you do.” You offered a sad smile.
You apologized to Maria for thinking of wanting to hug Frank, but with every strength holding you, you didn’t. You simply placed your hand in his and held it tightly. “I get it.” Frank nodded as sighed. “Get some rest. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.” Frank indulged himself in a sleep, somehow, you crept into his dream and for an hour: he finally got some sleep he needed.
For another week, you decided to stay with David and Frank, because looking at the two states of the men, they need someone to guard them with every dumb decision they might have. One night, you were drinking whiskey on the counter and staring at the fridge. “Keep staring at it, it might melt.” You looked to your left and there he is, Frank.
You scoffed. “Can’t sleep?”
”Don’t want to.” You nodded and got what he meant, he got his own glass and poured himself some whiskey. In quietness, Frank finds it weird. “You’re quiet.”
“You think so? You should try it sometime, under all the grunts and groans.”
He took a drink and leaned on the fridge. “You think this plan would work?” You glanced at David. “It should, your friend, wants to be home as soon as possible. Everytime you go out, all he tells me is about how amazing his wife is.”
Frank nods. “How about you?”
“What about me?”
”How come I never heard you married and all that shit?”
”Never had the time, I guess.”
Frank scoffed and asked you to give him the glass. “Bullshit.” You laughed and drank from your glass “That might be your favorite word talking to me.”
“Well you kept on lying to me, what am I supposed t’say?”
“I guess I am still looking for the right partner.” You looked away from him. “Guess never met one.”
Frank hums and takes a drink again. “I hate you, you know.” Frank was surprised when you said that. “How so?” You finally looked at him. You looked at your glass, maybe it was the alcohol talking, or maybe it was the late night—where you know, you both are open with each other or maybe it scares you that this might be the last time, you’ll see Frank again or maybe a part of you hopes this is the second chance.
“I-uh…” You paused and chuckled sadly. “I guess I…I love you.” You finally said it. Frank placed his glass down and waited for you to speak. “I have been, years now. And I—I know this is sounds so shitty and believe me, I know that too, but I can’t—fucking let go of you, okay?” Your voice shakes, you took a deep inhale. “And I hated you because shit…”
“Frank, I wanted something more with you, and I get it that we’re friends and all that but I figured, I will have time.” Words spilled more than you can even think and Frank can only listen and watch you. “And when you got married, god, I was so happy for you but I fucking wished it was me instead. I love Maria, I love her, she’s perfect for you but, why can’t it be me?” You looked at him and tears streaming down your cheeks. You sniffled as you wiped your cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Frank asked, looking at you with his chin up.
“How can I?” You smiled sadly “You talked about Maria the same way I talked about you. I wouldn’t haunt you like that.” He sighed and walked towards the counter and towers over you. “I mean I figured maybe I’ll figure it out once you’re married but somehow, it became worse and then I heard what happened and I—I can’t do that to you. I guess I love you too much to tell you that.” He placed his both hands on your cheeks and wiped your tears.
You can’t look at him, you wouldn’t look at him.
He said your name like a whisper, as if he’s whispering to the moon. “Look at me, please?” You didn’t. “Sweetheart, please look at me.” When you finally did, he finally stared at you, admiring your face, looking into your eyes as if he’s memorizing every feature of your face. His finger traced the outline of your lips and nose.
Maybe it was the alcohol, the late night, or maybe this is the last time. Without a noise, Frank kissed you—you can taste the whiskey in his mouth dripping into yours as you feel the faint roughness of his lips, his stubble brushing in your chin. Frank felt your lips into his, he had closed his eyes and felt every moment, his hands moved in your neck holding you close: Frank pulled away for air as you pushed him lightly in his chest.
You sniffled a cry and shook your head and walked away: leaving him alone in the kitchen.
The next morning was simply the same morning, Frank sat next to you but you finished your meal fast—David realized that there’s something going on with you two. David left and went to his computer, as Frank approached you again. “Hey, talk to me.” You sighed and replied “What’s there to talk about?”
Frank wanted to scream, he doesn’t get you. “Last night.”
You nodded “Well, we already talked about it.”
“You didn’t even let me speak.”
You sighed and looked at him. “So, speak.”
But before he can speak, news of Karen Page being taken away shattered the entire safehouse; he immediately went to David’s computer telling him to track Karen, as you stared at the spot he once stood. You immediately got it—sure, Karen needs him but the moment her name reached his ear: you can’t see yourself in Frank’s eyes. Never once did. You don’t hear what David and Frank had been saying but it seems like you’re back at that balcony again—being envious of everything.
“If anything happens to her, I…” He slammed the table and that shook you. “Please…” he pleaded to David, as David said yes, a soft thank-you left Frank’s mouth. You watched it where you belong in Frank’s life, you were always behind him, you’re not by his side or even in front, you were just there behind him, trying to catch up to him every single time. The two men didn’t notice the moment you left, but you were breathing heavily as you walked away—you don’t know where you were but away from there, away from him is the start.
You find yourself in an alleyway and sit there for a while until a familiar voice spoke your name, you winced at the moment your name left his mouth. He was in his gear, as you knew he’s going to save Karen. “You left and I—wasn’t done talking to you.”
You glanced at him. “It seems like it.”
Frank sighed and stared at you. “About last night, I’m sorry. It’s not like that, okay? I’m sorry.”
“Can you stop saying you’re fucking sorry?!” You spat angrily. “I get it, Frank. You don’t see me that way, I know.” You took a deep breath. “Just go.”
He called your name. “Can we talk after all this shit.”
You shook your head and walked closer to him. “It’s okay, I get it.” He felt it, this was indeed the last time.
He spoke your name again as you tiptoed and kissed his cheeks. “I love you.” You had whispered and admired his face for the last time. “Be careful, Frank Castle.” You chuckled sadly. He grunts in response—“Go save her.” You said.
“We’ll talk.” He said once again but you just nodded.
He left like he did before, running towards something—but this time, you just watched. This is all he has and all you can have, there’s no such thing as if you confessed early or if you had more time, Frank’s always ahead while you’re behind. Now, seeing him walk away makes you think about his lips on yours, it was bittersweet, his lips and that memory. Frank Castle is not a bad person, he protects the people he cares about and he is kind to the people who are kind.
He is not a bad person because he talked to you countless times. Frank Castle has shown you kindness countless times—but watching him walk away now, with him betting away his safety and strength for someone while you bet on him years ago, it seemed unfair.
Maybe Frank Castle is a terrible person.
i apologize if he may seem ooc but yay, i miss his dramatic ass. and also being avoidant is so me so, i’m sorry abt it too.
