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!!!
a/n: brand new day spoilers. reader and peter start dating after nwh, mj does not exist. most basic fic of all time but it was literally pressing at the sides of my head. not proof-read. probably fucked up pov at some point.
Peter always calls. He texts, sure, but if you ask him what he prefers, he’ll shrug and say, “Sometimes, it’s just nicer to hear your voice.”
Placating. Diplomatic. The words of a man who spends most of his time using both hands to launch himself between skyscrapers.
And Peter always calls at 5 PM on Thursdays. He knows you get out of work at 4:40, knows you’ll be taking the longer route home. For nearly two years, Peter has called at 5 PM every Thursday. It’s a dance routine, and a well-practiced one at that. And when he falls out of step, so do you.
You let it go when the phone doesn’t ring at five. He’s probably still in class, you shake your head. Fell asleep at his desk again, couldn’t get to the phone. Six o’clock passes and you check his location, still in his apartment. No texts and no calls. You try to call, but get his voicemail.
“Hey, Pete, it’s me. Call me back when you get the chance.” I pause. “I miss you. Okay, talk soon. Bye, babe.”
By ten, you’ve called four times and left a whole flood of messages. You’ve chewed your nails down to the stubs. Midnight rolls around, and you’re already out the door. Peter lives two blocks over and, though you rarely make the walk over alone, you’ve got pepper spray in your bag. And besides, with Spider-man out at night, the crime wasn’t terrible either way.
You knock on the door rapidly, glancing around the hallway. “Peter?” You whisper before pressing your ear to the door. “Peter.” Your hand lands on the door, twisting at the knob. You inhale sharply as the knob turns freely, pushing the door open and slipping into the apartment. You turn and lock the door behind you. “Peter?” You call, taking your shoes off. “It’s just me, don’t freak. I was getting kind of worried about you.” Still no response. “Peter.” Your breath catches as you spot drops of something dark and red on the floorboards. Blood. “Peter!”
You rush into the bedroom, where the blood continues, but there’s nobody there. “Pete!” You are nearly shouting, trying to keep your breath calm. Your swivel around the room, searching for another sign of blood, of Peter, of–
Spider-man.
His suit is hung over Peter’s chair. There’s a Tide pen on the desk, and it’s clear someone had tried to get a patch of blood out of the sleeve. Spider-man uses Tide pens. You don’t have too much time to think about it, fingers suddenly picking up the mask and glossing over the lenses. Did Spider-man beat up your boyfriend? Or vice versa? Or Peter is just helping him out with a Tide pen, since Peter carries one on him most of the time, he’s really prone to getting blood on his –
Oh. It clicks in your head and you nearly drop the mask. But, instead, you raise it to your face and inhale softly. It smells like blood, sweat, and Prada Ocean.
It smells like the stupid bottle of cologne you gave Peter a year ago. Your eyes go wide. “Peter?” You call out again, voice tilting nervously.
A door clicks open behind you, and you nearly scream, startling Peter as he emerges from the bathroom, clearly just showered and in his boxers. “Jesus Christ, Y/n, how did you get in here?” He groans, closing his eyes after the shock fades.
“Your door is open, Peter, that’s so dangerous!” You push back, before remembering what you were doing before he came out. His eyes fly open as he also seems to register the situation, wide pupils landing on the mask hovering between your finger-tips.
“Uh, Y/n.” “Why do you have this?” You hold up the mask.
“It’s not mine.” His words are clipped, and he grabs a t-shirt off the ground. “Yeah, no shit, Peter, it’s Spider-man. Why is it here?” Wide-eyed, he pulls the shirt over his head. “It’s not what you think, Y/n, okay– he got stuck on the fire escape, and I–”
“You better come up with something more believable than that.” You shake your head, hands starting to tremble.
“It’s just a costume, Y/n.” “Peter, this is not just a costume, this– this is the real thing! Why won’t you tell me what’s happening? And where have you been all day, I’ve been freaking out–” You start rambling, the stress of the day pouring out of you when Peter practically groans.
“Fuck, Y/n, I was just a little busy, ‘m fine and ‘m here, it’s not that big of a deal!” “You’re dodging my question! You always do–” “Would you please just drop it?” He squints his eyes. “Please, Y/n.”
You stare at him, mouth opened a bit. “Peter.”
He doesn’t look at you, crashing onto the edge of his bed, head in his hands. “Just– please, baby. Please don’t make me.” “Pete, just talk to me.” “Please.”
Peter wasn’t even sure what he was asking for anymore. For you not to leave him, for you to ignore what you were seeing, for you to walk out and be safe somewhere far away. “Y/n.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Just go, go home.”
You stare at him, taken aback. “Are you serious?” Peter looked up at you from his hands, and for a moment you forgot what you were even pressing him for. He looked awful. He looked like he had been holding the sky above him for years, like the weight of the entire universe pressed down on his temples. Your eyebrows knit together, real concern bleeding into your anger. “Peter, what’s happening with you? Would you just– just talk to me here.”
You set the mask in your hand down on the desk, crouching down in front of Peter’s bed, trying to get him to hold your eyes. “Jesus, baby, what’s going on?”
Peter squeezed his eyes shut as you came down to his level, unable to look you in the eye and force himself to admit he had been lying to you. He was on the verge of tears, his voice high and shaky. “I can’t talk about it.”
You ducked down to try and catch his eye again, hands coming up to his face. “You can tell me anything, you know that?” He was already shaking his head.
“Don’t shut me out, Pete, I just want to help you.” “You’re going to be mad at me.” “Baby, I’m mad at you already, you don’t really need to–”
“I’m Spider-man.” Peter breathes out, his eyes nervously scanning your face. Your hands fall from his face and he feels his stomach drop.
“Yeah, Peter, I know.”
Peter pulls back, his eyes narrowing. “What?” You shake your head.
“Your suit is on your desk, it smells like your cologne. Do you put cologne on when you go out like that?” Peter blinks rapidly, not sure how to answer the question.
You press further. “Is that why you’ve been so distant?”
He shrugs, but his eyes are full of tears. “I feel like I’ve been lying to you.”
You nod. “Are you?” He shrugs again. “I was.” “Then tell me.”
Peter exhaled, shaking. “What do you want to know?”
“The whole Avengers thing, the bombs, and the bank robberies, that’s all been you?”
Peter nodded, chewing on his cheek. “Yeah. That was me.” You blink. “Oh my god.” You stood up, reality beginning to sink in on you. Peter stood up quickly too.
“Y/n, you should sit,” He spoke softly.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” “I didn’t know how to.” “And all– all those times you came over to mine all beat up?”
Peter looked at the ground, guilt piling in his throat.
“You told me you kept getting hit by Lime Scooters, oh my god, Pete.” Your hand came up to your mouth.
“I’m sorry, Y/n, please. Just sit down.”
You keep pacing, and he stands, his hands coming up to your hips in an attempt to steady you. “C’mon, baby, look here. I’m okay. Really,” He soothes.
“Peter, this is awful, this is really, really dangerous stuff you’re doing.” “I know, but I have to do it.” “Did you have to lie to me about it?”
Peter’s eyes close, and his mouth twists like he’s trying to keep from crying. “I don’t want you to be scared of me.”
You shook your head, taking a small step back. Peter’s hands fall from your hips. “I’m not scared of you, Peter, I’m scared for you. I’ve seen the Damage Control attacks in the news, people have died. What happens if–”
“I’ve been doing this for a while, Y/n, I’m already careful.” “None of this is careful, Peter!” “How would you know?” Peter’s voice began to climb.
“Well, you didn’t tell me!” “Yeah, because I knew you would act–” “Don’t even, Peter.” You put up a finger, warning him. Taking two more steps back, you shake your head. “You’re so– Peter, what would have happened if you had died out there? And nobody knew? It’s bad enough you’re hurting yourself this much!” “Y/n.” “I can’t talk to you like this, I’m so– my god, I’m so confused.” “I’m trying to explain!” “Just– I need air, I need–”
Peter backed up, his hands coming up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” He rasped. “Please, would you just sit down?” “Peter, I think I should go.”
Peter’s mouth parts, slightly, like he wants to protest. He shakes his head, looking down for a moment as he closes his mouth again. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Just– just call me, okay? If you– if you’re ready.”
Peter must assume you’re not ready. Because it’s been a full week, and there has been radio silence between the two of you. He’s seen you, of course, perched above the city, watching your walk home when it’s late. He knows you’ve seen him, too. You know he’s there, watching for you. But you can’t bring yourself to look up at him in that suit. To acknowledge that it is him, that his eyes are behind those lenses, his face behind that mask.
Because you see that mask everywhere. On the street, behind your eyelids, and on the news. On the news, when every major channel is reporting about how Spiderman has been shot.
“Peter.” You sit up straight as he stirs, pulling at the oxygen mask over his face. “Leave it, Pete, you’re okay.”
“Y/n.” He sits up higher, taking off the mask. You scoot closer, brushing back his hair. “You’re okay, you’re okay. You scared the shit out of me.” “What happened?” “Baby, you tell me. I see on the news that you’ve been shot, and then I get a call from some guy named Frank telling me I need to come here.” “Is Frank here?” “Yeah, he’s outside. Who is he?” Peter coughs. “He’s a friend.” “He said he shot you.”
Peter pauses. “He’s still a friend.”
You sniffle, and Peter’s eyes snap up again. Your eyes are red and teary already.
He reaches for your hand, and you let him. “I’m okay, Y/n. I heal fast. That’s part of the– the deal, I guess.”
“This is exactly what I was scared of.”
Peter slumps, suddenly feeling small. “I promise I’m okay now.” “But it could’ve been worse. You– he said you were almost dead, Pete.”
“I’m not, though.” Peter attempts, smiling sheepishly.
You don’t laugh.
“Y/n. I– I know this is scary. And dangerous. And I know you’re worried. But this is– this is what I do, this is what I am. And I have to. I have to.” “Peter.” “I know people are dying. I know I almost died. But more people will die if I do nothing.” “Peter.” “I don’t want to lose you because of this. I don’t want to pick between being Spider-man and being your boyfriend.” “Peter, stop.”
He falls quiet, big brown eyes staring up at you. “We can talk, okay? You– you scared the shit out of me, but I’m here. You’re not scaring me away. I’m not asking you to choose. You just got shot, and I just– I just want you to be okay.”
Peter grips your hand tighter, leaning forward to press his mouth against where your hands intertwine. “I am.”
“Let me get Frank.” You clear your throat to stand. Peter’s brow furrows.
“Why?” “He said he had a plan to get you out. Something about him wanting to try on your mask.”
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.
the unforgiven - frank castle
des. angst-fluff. frank castle sometimes forget that he is simply a man and a lover, that somehow, he deserves to be human. baker!reader
notes. heavy mentions of violence (like it’s frank). this story has a happy ending. frank castle is bad/good at love. frank calling reader: peach. suggestive at the end (mdni pls). a little bloody(?). self-hating frank :(. frank navigating if he’s a monster or a lover. mentions of spiderman and daredevil!!
another one for frank castle but this time, it has a lot of drama with happy and a little (spicy) ending. also, frank being too caring and it hurts him so much. dives more to frank being the vulnerable person that he is.
w.c: 3.2k
One Batch. The clicking sound of the magazine echoed on the rooftop of an empty building. The former decorated marine took a deep sigh as he attached the scope on the sniper. Two Batch, the man positioned himself at the edge of the railings with his arms supporting the weight of the sniper.
The man took a deep breath as he watched through the scopes. Penny and Dime. Then, finally, he took a shot—miles from the way he fired; a bloody corrupt senator died with no-trace of where the bullet came from, some say it might be a doing of HYDRA, some say it may be a personal grudge, but the word on the street: that the senator was punished.
The man on the rooftop left an hour ago, was it two-hours? Was it three? Frank doesn’t remember how long ago he fired the shot, but he knows it’s been a while since the people of New York have been scrambling with its police: with a smug look on his face, he walked and walked until finally he reached a familiar street: a three-floor building with a bakery on the first floor.
The bakery was closed and wouldn’t be open until 8 in the morning and yet, there he was knocking. He silently watched through the glasses of the bakery and finally lights were on and then, you.
“What the hell, Frank? Was that you on the news?” You asked as you opened your bakery’s door as Frank grunted and entered. “Yea, what of it?” You looked at him in disbelief, as he sighed.
“You know what he does, peach.”
You sighed as you knew arguing with Frank about how he handles job will never change, you two passed by the kitchen of the bakery and went to your apartment as he glanced at your face. “You mad?”
Your silence was enough to answer Frank, it’s been a year since he’s with you, perhaps, in his own words, on how long you’ve been tolerating him. “You know what he does, sweetheart.” He took hold of your wrist as he leaned on the wall and pulled you closer.
Your eyes met his: he looked like he was pleading, far from the things you’ve seen about him in the news. “I—I should be. But, he is quite an asshole.” Frank scoffed and nodded. “There she is.” You rolled your eyes as you removed his jacket and hung it on the wall.
“Good sale today, peach?” He asked.
“Quite. Your friend Matt stopped by again, asking for you.” He grunted and walked to the kitchen and took some water.
“What’d he tell ya this time?”
“Nothing really.”
He hums as you walk towards him and take a drink as well. “You don’t really hate him that much, right?”
“He’s pain-in-the-ass, that’s who he is.” You slapped his chest and he shook his head, he looked down at you and pressed a kiss on your forehead.
“Be nice, Frank. Be nice.” You told him as you looked up at him and wrapped your arms on his waist. “I am, red just doesn’t deserve it.” He leaned down and kissed you. His hands wandered on your waist as he pulled you closer, moments like this Frank asks himself if he deserves you, deserves this life with you. Micro told him he does while the kid in the blue and red suit tells him he did too but the ugly part of Frank’s mind haunts him every single time: it keeps telling him that you’ll eventually get tired, you’ll get hurt, and even worse get killed.
His kiss deepens as he tries to memorize the taste of your lips—it tastes like peaches, sweet, and despite telling himself that war is his home: your lips somehow crept in his mind that your lips are much better, it feels so much better.
“Frank? You okay, baby?”
He nodded as his forehead rested into yours. “Yes, I am.” He tucked a hair in your ear and admired your face. He kissed your cheek and hummed. “Frank? Don’t lie to me. Are you okay?”
No. I am not. I’m fucking scared I will lose you too. He grunts and kisses your lips shortly. “I am. Get sum’ sleep…” Despite not buying it, you nodded, you kissed his nose and eyes as you told him: “Take a shower and you’ll sleep too, okay? Goodnight, Frank.”
He watched you enter the room as you closed the door, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He doesn’t know why but somehow, when he was with you, all his walls fell down instantly.
He still remembers the first time he met you, you were closing the bakery and he was bleeding in the alleyway—he woke up that day with the smell of tea; he somehow realized how waking up with tea is so much better than smelling the scent of gunpowder.
He never liked tea, he liked coffee more, it tasted bitter, strong, and it fuels his morning: until you. The moment he wakes up with the scent of tea, he finds himself questioning everything he likes. He really tried to push you away but after weeks and months of pushing and pulling, he soon realized that he needs you more than you need him.
It pissed him off when he realized how much he cared, he’s the big bad punisher, he shouldn’t care. But how can he not care? All that you do to him breaks his walls and whatever Billy Russo broke, you somehow made it work again. Maybe it was the tea that made him finally live or maybe it was you?
Frank believes it’s the latter.
He finished showering and dried his hair, his hands drift on the scars across his body, a fresh scar settled on his upper left chest, he looked himself at the mirror and eyed your soap, lotion, skincare, and sponge on the bathroom: he somehow spaces it out, finds himself out of place, he looked at the scar again.
He got that two months ago, it was from saving you: it was a robbery and he believed he was late but you kept assuring him he wasn’t. The robbery lasted for two hours and he killed every suspect, especially the guy who cut your arms, while he shared a fair amount of injury, the scar on his upper left chest reminds him that he has something, someone, to protect.
He left the bathroom and walked to the shared bed. He moved under the covers and you slowly slid to him as if it was second nature—with a sleepy sigh you rested your head on his chest. He settled and kissed your forehead. “Sleep nicely, Frankie.”
It was so easy to say but a year ago, the first time he laid on your bed, nightmare crept in and he almost killed you: you kept assuring him that he didn’t but that time, the marks of his hands painted on your neck: he was more scared of what he was becoming until your hand calmed him down.
He didn’t sleep next to you for weeks until he realized how much sleep you’re missing—he was hesitant until you held him closely. It was the first real sleep he had as the nightmares died down every time you held him.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.” He held you close as your soft breathing sang a lullaby and guided him to sleep. A smile ghostly stays in your sleep as Frank finds himself looking forward to this moment every single day.
It’s been five hours since Frank last saw you, he went out to visit the cemetery for Maria and kids and when he came back, there’s no shadows of you: the bakery was still closed and your phone was resting soundly on the bedside.
But the kitchen was a mess, it took a beating, it took a fight. Frank already assumed the worst, as he was breathing frantically, he prepared his guns and knives, whoever took the last remainder of his humanity would get killed; no words would stop him, he would punish them.
Yet the human part of him was begging, praying—praying to the gods above if they still listen to him that you should be safe, you shouldn’t be hurt, and you should be okay. He huffed as he made a call, the phone rang three times and he angrily ended it; he dialed the number again and this time a familiar voice was heard.
“Hey, Frank! Long time, no talk. How’s—”
“Lieberman, I need you to do something for me.”
David or Micro was currently in his house, chilling, with his kids. “Wow, not even a hello.”
Frank grunts mad. “This is fucking important!”
With a few angry grunts and mouthfuls from both parties, David was able to send coordinates that hopefully lead to you. Frank desperately wants to save you, if anything happens to you: he’ll burn down the entire city with him burning with it.
He drove at the coordinates that lead to a secluded and abandoned factory place: it was messed up and a part of him also knows that he is one of the reasons why you were bought there in the first place. Maybe it was the guilt haunting the punisher or maybe it was something else, something more human to Frank and less monster.
His mind was a mess but the only thing that rings in his ears is your laugh, oh, how he wishes he can simply sit at the sea and hear your voice, your giggle, and your stories: if he can, he would. But the selfish part of him wants this, the permanent solution to the rotten world.
As he walks toward the abandoned factory, he finds himself imagining the morning, how his arms draped on your waist and how your soft breathing echoes on the sheets. “Peach?” He whispered.
“Mhmmm. Five more minutes, Frank.”
Frank can only hum, a year ago; morning haunts Frank like a bad poison, it was as if he was hoping hell would wake him up, but when it comes to you?
Hell can probably wait for more than five minutes.
Frank entered the abandoned factory building, the smell of molds and reek of time entered his nose as he remained light feet to search for you. He was geared up, the Big Bad Punisher is out for a hunt. He didn’t know how long ago he was walking or how many dead bodies kept dropping from the moment he began searching.
Quietly he moved, quietly he killed—but the pounding in his heart is louder than any bombs he had heard in the war, he needed you safe and he needed you okay. For it seemed like an hour, he saw you: all tied up and bruised. He wanted to kill everything and everyone.
“Baby?” His voice sounded so gloomy and scared.
When you hear Frank’s voice, you can’t help but glance slowly at him. He looked so worried but before Frank’s face was painted with relief, yours was replaced by panic. “Frank! You shouldn’t be here!” But before you can speak again, he untied you and scanned your face: you looked so scared—“Frank! Listen to me, you have to leave!”
He was confused, did somebody hit your head?
“Peach, it’s me—Hey, you’re safe.” He whispered as the final rope came off. “No, Frank, you have to lea—“ Your voice died down in the sound of a gunshot, the next thing you know Frank’s left arm was shot. He was bleeding badly.
“You shouldn’t have come, Punisher. This thing of yours has been really mad being used as bait.” You immediately knelt down and assess Frank. The man walked closer, he looked clean—probably a syndicate, he had a big scar on his face. “You gave me this scar.”
Frank immediately sat and checked on you. “I’m gonna get you out of here, ya’ hear me, peach?” He stood up and put you behind him. “I’m gonna make sure, you’re gonna be fucking safe.”
It all happened in a blur, the fight seemed like a distant memory; here you are now tending his wounds as his blood stained the sofa and carpet. You were quiet as you patch him up. The sound of silence echoed, Frank was spiralling: maybe this is it, this is how it ends—you were used against him and now, he’ll lose you.
He can bear it. No, he can’t.
He can’t fucking lose someone again, he can’t lose anyone he cares about again. But it’ll keep them safe.
“Can we talk?”
Safe. Yes, safe Frank wants that for you, he wants you to be safe. As you finished with the bandage he stood up and took his shirt; he winced as he walked in the kitchen as you looked at his back. He took a deep sigh, he doesn’t deserve this. He needs you safe and the only way to do it is to let you—
“I refuse.” Your voice woke him in his trance. He looked at you confused. “I didn’t say anything.” You sighed as you walked over to him, the window near the kitchen shed some light onto the dim lit kitchen, the bruises of Frank were visible on the moon’s light while the gleam touched the cut on your lips—oh, he did that as well, didn’t he?—He prayed to the gods somewhere, that he’ll take the pain instead, not you.
“It’s my fault you were taken.”
You looked at him. “It isn’t.”
“It fucking is. They used you as leverage. Look, peach, if anything happens to you—I don’t know—I…I can’t lose this too.” His voice cracks and he looks at you pleading, as if he wishes his eyes will tell how shitty he is and how you deserve a softer home, a warmer home, a home where blood isn’t going to reek the sofa or the carpet: a home where the problem runs with flour and eggs.
You touched his face and leaned into your touch. “And you’re thinking of ending this? Push me away?” You asked, as his eyes dripped with guilt, he wouldn’t want that but if it’s the only way to keep you safe, he would in a heartbeat even if it breaks his.
“Frank? Look at me.”
He didn’t.
“Love, please look at me.” He finally did, your eyes matched the guilt in his but somehow yours was warmer, it felt so familiar and it scares him so much. As you gently spoke his name as if you were singing a lullaby, or him drinking the tea: it was home.
“If you walk away now, what do you think would happen to me?”
He looked at you. “You’ll be fucking safer.”
“Maybe that’s true. But our sourdough may not survive.” He was confused. “We made that together so, I think it’s really not nice to leave our baby, don’t you think?”
You walked closer. “Who’s gonna bring my groceries? Who’s gonna clean my coffee machines? Who’s gonna wake me up in the morning and tell me he burnt some waffles in hopes to surprise me for breakfast?” That tugged something in his heart. “Who’s gonna whisper to me goodnight? or kiss me in the morning? Who will give me flowers just because?”
Closer. “Who will make love to me, if everything’s so hard?”
He leaned down to kiss you, as you kissed back, his hand dragged on your back as he pulled you closer, he needed to feel you, need you: he needed to know you’re alive, you’re safe, your heart is beating. Despite his injuries he carried you to the counter top as he devoured your lips, in need of air, he pulled away as he rested his forehead on yours.
You met his eyes and he finally spoke. “I’ll hurt you someday, I just know. I’m a fucking monster, ya’ hear me, peach?” He kissed your nose and stared at you as if he’s memorizing your face.
“Monster, huh? Because you killed bad people? Is that it?” You whispered. “Baby, you don’t even know how I see you.” You hold out your hand and cup his face, you trace his face and touch the bruises with your fingertips.
“I don’t see any monsters in here.” Your fingertips traced his cheeks as you planted a kiss. “You know what I see?” You kissed his nose.
“I see a man who keeps telling me that he’s annoyed to see Spiderman but somehow has a soft spot for the kid.”
Kiss.
“I see a man who always gives me flowers just because he wants to.”
Kiss.
“I see a man who gives me a foot massage whenever he comes home after his night job.”
He looked at you as fixed his hair. “I see a man who cares so much it hurts him.” You smiled. “I see a man who is way too grumpy to see he deserves this.” A light flickered in his eyes.
“I see a man, so disciplined. Kind. A man who loves me so much, despite…” You teared up and he was surprised as he felt his heart clenched. “Telling me he is a monster…his hands never once hurt me—they somehow kept saving me. I don’t think you’re a monster, Frank.”
A tear fell as he dived in and hugged you—inhaling your scent.
“I just see you and I love you.”
Ah, maybe that’s what Frank forgot. He is still a person, a man: despite the cruelty of life, he deserves this. His hand quivered as he cupped your face and kissed you. “We’re okay?”
“More than okay, peach. More than okay.” He kissed you again as he tasted nothing but sweetness, like the tea, or like the pastries. His hand slid under your shirt as you pulled him closer. He looked at you as he traced his lips on your collarbone, your chest, and your stomach—as if he’s tasting every bit that makes you: you.
He nudged your knee as he knelt on the counter and looked up at you: you were everything to him—“Peach?” He kissed your thigh as you looked at him as if he’s asking for your forgiveness. “I’m all yours, Frank. All yours.” He nodded as he finally let himself unravel the sides of you that only he knows.
For once, he finally realized that the roughness and callouses on his hands are not the mere measure of him being a monster, as the night dive deeper, he carried you to bed. As his hand traced every inch of your body, like the man he is. “I love you.” He breathed out as if that’s the only word he knows.
“I love you more.” He definitely knows. Despite knowing there’s a lot of scars and wounds that will leave him unforgiven, he knows one person that’ll see him as Frank Castle, underneath that skull painted vest of his: there’s a man and a lover.
The world may not be forgivable but as long as you see him as him.
That’s more than enough to a man who simply loves too much, like Frank Castle.
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.
