#everything is so clean and manicured i hate it like it genuinely creeps me out

[baddingtonbitch]

i don't even feel like i'm looking at human beings. if i were an automatic door i wouldn't open. this fills me with a deep existential sadness

[novoaa1writes]

honest

pairing(s): daisy johnson x nb!reader, melinda may & nb!reader (familial)

summary:

coming out is never easy—even when you��ve got reliable people in corner.

contains: angst & fluff with happy ending

(also available on ao3.)

word count: ~2,000

rating: teen

warnings: sparring, self-doubt; anxiety (not chronic); muscle pains, bruises, and aches (from exertion); mild language; coming out; discussions of gender and sexuality

notes: 

in my head, this is staged at the playground somewhere in season 2-3ish of marvel’s agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

— —

disclaimer: this is in no way reflective of the experiences of all non-binary individuals everywhere. as someone who’s recently had the realization that i am Not Woman and Not Man and has been subsequently made to have some rather difficult conversations with those closest to me about changing up pronouns, this is simply based off of my own experience and struggles with my gender / sexuality. it’s a uniquely personal thing to come to terms with, and it’s different for everyone.

feel free to message me if you’d like to talk about it!

— —

You let out a long, slow breath, eyeing yourself critically in the bathroom mirror. 

Nervous eyes, shower-damp skin, lower lip swollen and puffy from biting it relentlessly—an obtrusive testament to the overwhelming abundance of unease ballooning in your chest.

Yeah. Seems about right. 

“C’mon, Y/N,” you grumble, taking great care to pitch your voice well below the hum of the fan overhead. “It’s fine. You’re fine.”

The more insistent you become, the less you believe it. 

“It’s just Daisy,” you continue, silently willing yourself to remain undeterred by the crushing doubt that gnaws away at your insides. “She’ll understand.” 

... But will she?

You frown at your reflection, skin prickling with frustration. “And if she doesn’t…” you trail off, hating the quiver in your voice for betraying your weakness. “If she doesn’t, then you shouldn’t be with her anyways.” Your voice comes out stronger this time, even if the words themselves are enough to scare you shitless. 

You like Daisy. Could grow to love her, even. 

Being with her… it’s made you the happiest you’ve ever been in your entire life, and damn it all, but you mean that. 

“She’s going to understand,” you say aloud. “She will.”

God, you pray that that’s true. 

— —

7:00am sees you getting your ass thrown violently all across the mats by an ever-indomitable Melinda May, racking up bruises and scratches and aches like no one’s business. 

By the time 9:00am hits, you’re a wheezing mess, sprawled spread-eagled atop the sparring mats—lungs on fire, chest heaving for breath; sweat-drenched skin littered with technicolored bruising.

In short, it’s hellish. 

“C’mon,” May urges, tone curt and even. She looms imposingly down upon you from above, a decidedly unamused expression gracing her elegant features—and, get this: not a single hair out of place, nor a hint of labored breathing. 

You groan and squint up at her, searching for—

A-ha!

There, just above one immaculately-manicured brow and, like, two millimeters beneath her hairline—a tiny little droplet of perspiration. As you watch, it seems to absorb itself into her flawless skin—disappearing before your eyes like it was never even there. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you grumble. 

May just raises a single brow, offering you a hand up. “Up.”

You frown at her but don’t push your luck; rather, you accept the proffered hand and allow her to pull you to your feet. Your arms and legs and abdominal muscles all scream in protest as you lurch upright into a flat-footed stance, but you grit your teeth and bear it. 

Training with May—torturous (and often humiliating) as it may be—is voluntary. Something you chose, and continue to choose even despite the unadulterated hell it puts your body through with every swift kick and bone-jarring punch.

Not only that, you’re lucky to study opposite someone as fearless, skilled, and fucking terrifying as Melinda May. 

Even when your limbs are all ache-y and sore and burning with a pain beyond your years, you know that. 

Still… 

You probably could’ve done without this today. After all, getting your ass kicked for a solid two hours all across the mats doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. And, considering the conversation you plan to have with Daisy this afternoon, you’re gonna need to muster up all the confidence you can get. 

— —

“Spit it out,” May prompts, sidling up to match you stride for stride as you take a couple cool-down laps around the miniature track (¼ the size of a regulation model)... walking, that is. Not jogging. 

Honestly, you think that if you even tried jogging right now, you’d pass out. 

You spare her a sidelong glance as the two of you round the bend, perfectly in sync. “What?” 

May purses her lips, giving you a look. “You were sloppy today,” she remarks pointedly. “Distracted.” 

Her stare seems to burn holes through the side of your head. 

“Wow, thanks,” you mumble. The sardonic quip tastes funny coming off your tongue.

“You were off today,” May reiterates, sidestepping your wisecrack entirely. Her footsteps are soundless even as the soles of your beat-up Air Force Ones slap the tread audibly with every stride. “That doesn’t happen often.”

“Sure it does.” You shrug. “You kicked my ass today, same as always. If you ask me—” You hesitate briefly at the look on May’s face, which is plainly screaming ‘I didn’t’ “—today’s been anything but out of the ordinary.” 

“You’re a terrible liar,” May remarks without missing a beat. It’s like she didn’t even hear you (which you damn well know that she did). 

Still, you don’t do her the disservice of arguing the point any further. 

You walk another ten paces in perfect silence—no, twelve. You know because you count each one. 

Unsurprisingly, you’re first to break the immersive quiet. “I think I want to tell Daisy.”

May’s impartial expression doesn’t change. “About?”

You almost roll your eyes, but manage to curb the impulse at the very last second. “You know what about.”

Hell, May was the first person you told. You came to her quarters hyperventilating in the dead of night, tears streaming down both cheeks and a sense of such deep-seated discomfort swelling in your chest, your ribs positively ached with the force of it.

“I want to hear you say it.”

You bite your lower lip, apprehension gnawing at your insides. “About…” You trail off, internally scolding yourself. This shouldn’t be so fucking hard. “About me being… non-binary.” 

Non-binary. 

What a flimsy little term. So matter-of-fact… almost scientific in nature. And yet, the way it affects you is nothing short of visceral—all-encompassing and monstrous, compressing your very lungs in an iron-clad vice until it’s agony to draw breath. 

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts ; voicing this simple reality that’s plagued you since you were very small, looming malignantly in the margins of everything you do… and yet, the truth of it rings keen and strong in your ears—clear as a bell.  

It’s liberating and frightful all in one; a grating juxtaposition, to be clear.

“Yes.” The sound of May’s uncharacteristically gentle intonation cuts clean through the blaring noise in your head, yanking you out from a sea of inner turmoil with startling decision. “I’m proud of you.”

Her words—gently-spoken as they may be—hit you like consecutive sucker punches to the gut. “What?” you choke, forcing out a breathless chuckle. 

May—predictably—is staunch, unyielding… wholly undeterred. “You’re being true to yourself,” she insists, matching you step for step as you start in on lap two. Your chest burns something awful and your legs aren’t much better, but you pay it little mind. “That’s no small thing.”

“It’s terrifying,” you tell her. As far as you’re concerned, that’s something of an understatement.

She nods. “It often is.”

“What if… What if I tell her and she doesn’t like me anymore?”

May raises a single brow. “Daisy, a known bisexual who has stated on more than one occasion that the gender binary is ‘stupid’ and ‘exclusionary’? Daisy, who’s been on dates with more than one openly non-binary person in the past?”

“Well, when you put it like that…” 

May—bless her heart—doesn’t snort or sigh or roll her eyes, but you can tell it’s not for lack of wanting. Instead, she merely slants you a pointed look that says, ‘Exactly.’

You walk the next six strides in silence, your feet aching in your shoes.  

“I’m going to tell her,” you say eventually, a tinge of cautious certainty creeping into your tone. You don’t know who you’re trying to convince—yourself, or May. 

All the same, May is nothing if not steady and dependable amidst stormy seas; she always knows just what to say. (Or, what not to say, as it were.) 

There are no tears, no hugs, no flowery platitudes… nothing but a sharp nod of approval and the barest hint of a grin curving her lips, like she sees you for who you are and she approves—like she’s proud, even. You don’t know how else to translate the tender mercy in her eyes, the way it seems to warm you from the inside out. 

Yeah, you can tell Daisy. 

You’re going to tell Daisy. 

And May’s gonna be right there beside you the whole time.

— —

In retrospect, you definitely could’ve gone about this better. 

Like, you weren’t exactly going for the kind of heartfelt reconciliation you’d see in some coming-of-age sap-fest movie on the big screen; and it’s not as though there’s an exact script to follow for all this, but… 

Pulling away from a decidedly heated kiss to blurt out, “I’m not a woman”—and doing so while you’re half-naked and straddling the lap of a similarly scantily-clad Daisy in bed, no less—definitely hadn’t been your first choice. 

Judging by the expression on Daisy’s pretty features—which is caught somewhere between taken aback and genuinely concerned—she’s coming to the same conclusion.  

To her credit, though, she recovers quickly—though the crease between her brows (a testament to her lingering bewilderment) remains. “What?”

You swallow thickly, carding your fingers through her tousled hair—a nervous habit of yours you’d developed as of late. “I’m…” You sigh, apprehension building in your chest. “I’m not a woman.”

Daisy’s brows raise marginally even as she offers a shallow nod, wide attentive eyes steadfastly holding yours. “Okay…” she begins gently, rubbing circles into the bare skin above your left hipbone with a callused thumb—a subtle nudge for you to continue. 

“I just—I don’t feel like a woman,” you say, and this time it’s easier, even if the sheer measure of honesty in that statement is enough to make your stomach turn. “And I don’t feel like a man, either.”

Understanding flares in Daisy’s pretty brown eyes. “Okay,” she says again. “So, you’re not a woman…” She pauses, dipping her head to place a feather-light kiss upon your shoulder. “And you’re not a man,” she continues, lifting her jaw to study you face-to-face, the tip of her pert nose brushing up against your own. “Which means… ?”

“I’m, um,” you squirm a bit, shifting atop her bare thighs, “... non-binary.” Your cheeks are hot, burning with shame, and you have never been so grateful that your skin is tawny enough to conceal it. 

Daisy doesn’t blink. “Okay,” she replies, then leans forth to place a barely-there peck atop your lips. 

You frown down at her, lips tingling. “‘Okay’?” you repeat.  

Daisy grins, leaning in for another kiss—and you’re all too quick to indulge her even as your thoughts spin and disbelief wars violently with consternation within your chest. 

Her lips are soft and warm against your own; when her tongue flits out to trace your lips, you’re parting them in an instant to meet her halfway; the sensation of kissing her is nothing short of euphoric, and you surrender willfully unto it like leaves in the brisk autumn wind. 

Seconds pass, or maybe it’s minutes, but she’s catching your lower lip between her teeth and you’re sucking on the tip of her tongue and— 

Quite suddenly, the kiss has become nothing short of filthy—all open-mouthed and desperate and bruising just how you like, and damn it all, but you can finish the rest of the conversation another time.

For now… well. You’re preoccupied with other things.  

— — 

(Later that night, when you’re both laid up in bed and drifting off to sleep, Daisy asks if you’d like her to start referring to you as ‘they’ and ‘them’ rather than ‘she’ and ‘her.’

When you answer in the affirmative, telling her that nothing would make you happier, the sheer measure of honesty in your words doesn’t feel nearly as nauseating as it did before. 

In fact, it’s rather the opposite.

The way Daisy reacts—a murmured, “Okay”; a feather-light kiss upon your forehead; two strong arms pulling you closer in the dark… well. That’s just icing on the cake. 

Despite everything—the self-doubt, the second guessing, the aching soreness settling into the very marrow of your bones—you feel yourself break out into a broad grin beneath the pitch-dark cover of night.

You feel good; comfortable in your own skin. You feel… happy.)

— —

end notes: i want melinda may to be my friend.

LINK TO MASTERLIST

[ussgallifrey]

Jealous

✦ Summary: The little green monster has a way of ruining a perfectly good night, and he is not talking about the Hulk. ✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader ✦ Warnings: Little bit of angst, jealousy ✦ Word Count: 2.4k ✦ Author's Note: This was written ages ago for a request that's now vanished from my ask box from an anon asking for a jealous Bucky.

It's there in the curl of your lashes and the hand that you bat against the Asgardian's arm - that's when the clenching sensation presses down on his throat. When he feels his fingers wrap a little tighter around the shot glass on the bar. The night long since gave way to the pleasant thrum of inebriation, but all Bucky can sense is the bitter taste in his mouth when he watches you laugh so freely across the room.

Another gloating tale of ancient glories, a genuine laugh, a flirtatious quip - Bucky's painfully present for it all.

He had been cowardly perched on this one bar stool for almost the entire evening, trying to find some liquid courage - though he couldn't get drunk, not even close, it was just a bit of a placebo to get the gears going. Meanwhile, you flitted between the others with a carefree ease and an intoxicating smile. Wrapped up in soft pinks and a striking flower in your hair.

Bucky glowers at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

He had watched the way you seemed to flow through the crowd, taking the time to join each circle of people. Laughing unabashedly with Clint and Tony, resting your head on Natalia's shoulder, letting Sam throw a too familiar arm over your shoulders and tug you closer. That one probably stung most of all.

Your laugh seems to rise above the music and the crowd - an arrow sent right towards him, alluringly sweet in its intensity. But it's not for his ears, not happening because of something he said. No, you're wrapped up in the blonde demigod's looming stature and chiseled everything.

Maybe he lingers too long on the shape of your body leaning against the other man's. The styling of your hair, the way your eyes never leave Thor's. And the way the Asgardian's eyes seem to dip below your eye level to wander freely along the lines of your body.

He struggles to swallow the darkness that threatens to rise - the itch in his throat that ices over his heart and makes his blood run cold. It's metallic and chilled and difficult to ignore and he hates himself all the more for letting it take over.

Thor's returning laugh is deep and rich, coated with the finer golds and riches of a royal lineage. Bucky has to steady himself with a hand on the bartop when the blonde ducks down to place a kiss to your cheek, a fitting smile on his face as he excuses himself from your presence.

It's hard to ignore the giddy rush of nerves that seems to creep up as your smile turns bashful, averting your gaze as you press a trepid finger against your cheek. And then you're turning and he's looking down at his drink - trying to ignore the sting and pangs of the little green monster.

"Mr. Barnes," you cheerily greet as you plop down on the neighboring barstool, a manicured hand placed just a breath away from his own much larger hand. 

Pulling his gaze from the gemstones on the end of your nails, Bucky nods in acknowledgment. Not trusting his mouth for anything as his stomach still sloshes and slurs with the sourness of unwarranted jealousy.

That sweet perfume seems to mingle in the air between you, something floral and soft - warm and pink to match your dress and nails. Princess-like, something entirely untouchable and angelic.

"You've been… notably absent tonight," you pester, sipping from your nearly emptied neon-blue cocktail.

"Have I?" he lets his finger drag along the rim of the glass, catching a drop of condensation. 

You hum with a nod, "Been missing you something fierce."

That gains his attention as he finally lifts his head up, trying to read your doe-eyed expression. 

He turns a little more towards you, a knee daring to touch your own but not quite able to close the gap. 

"That so?"

Another hum, followed by another sip. Gaze drawn low to watch the way your fingers wrap around the black straw, lazily gliding up and down as you give a coy smile his way.

There's a distant part of himself - the shadow of a man who used to look like him, but a little more clean-cut - that would know the right things to say. The sweet prose and flirt to get you turning his way, wrapping you around his finger, and never letting go. He'd sure like to get in contact with that version of Bucky Barnes right about now because he's feeling next to hopeless in your presence.

"This isn't really your vibe, is it?"

Vibe? Right, more slang and lingo that sometimes has him stumbling over his own feet and looking like a right fool in front of everyone else.

You seem to catch on to his internal dilemma because you're quick to clarify, "You're not big on parties."

No argument there. He rubs the back of his neck as he fails to avoid your gaze, "Yeah, uh, no. Definitely no."

There's a little cooing sound in return, a batting of long eyelashes as you swirl your tongue around the straw, taking a long final sip of your drink. He could get lost in the action alone, watching your lips pursed together to suck on the straw, cheeks hollowing out - it's hypnotizing and entirely dirty, but he just can't look away.

But then Thor's bellowing laugh carries far across the party to lodge itself directly into Bucky's ears. He can't help but grimace, staring down at the bar in favor of actually groaning his disdain.

But you catch on - of course you do. You follow the pitiful trail of jealousy right up to his seething face like a bloodhound. He must reek of it too because your sweet expression seems to fall in an instant.

"Do you," your fingers stroke along the tip of the straw. "Do you not like Thor?"

He balks at how easily you hit the nail on his head. "Wha - no. I - he's, I mean, I don't really even know the guy, you know?"

There's this look that settles on your face that says you're not buying a line of his bullshit.

"He's sweet."

Bucky taps his glass with an impatient finger. If he has to sit here and listen to you compliment Thor, he might just vomit. Oh, he'll sit and listen alright, but it doesn't mean he has to like it.

"I'm happy for him and Jane," you continue. "Says he plans to stay on Earth for a while, think he couldn't stay away from her any longer."

You're talking, but the words aren't registering the way they should be. It's just an infinite loop of you laughing and Thor kissing your cheek.

"They're a good fit for each other."

Of false images of Thor wrapping his arm around you, dipping you backwards, and kissing you senseless.

"You'd never think they would make a good couple, right? But they totally work in their own way."

How easily you'd be swept off your feet, probably picked up and made to wrap your legs around him. He was probably shirtless at this point because why wouldn't he be? 

"Hey, are you - are you okay? Bucky? Did I say something or...?"

God, why was he so hung up on this? Why couldn't he just work out the nerve to just go up to you and ask you out? It wasn't that hard, right? Just a few words, his heart waiting on the side to be broken, his returning ego to be bruised. 

It's not like he could compete with someone like Thor. The man was literally a God; a legendary being of Norse mythology and epics. Compared to… him. Him with the flashing neon sign above his head that read Fucked.

"Bucky?"

It was probably a fool's hope that you would've been interested in him. He was so many things this side of wrong. Not golden and wonderful like the man you had been laughing with for the past thirty minutes.

There's a hand on his.

Oh.

Slowly, he looks over at you. 

You smile gently. Thumb carefully rubbing over his knuckle in a soothing motion, "You drifted away on me. I - I wasn't sure if…"

The words fade away with a cautious touch. He wants to turn his hand, lace his fingers with yours. It feels right in his mind, he wants it to be right.

A soft silence drapes itself over you both. Your hand remaining on his, fingers lazily rubbing circles over the top of his tense knuckles.

"You know," you say after a moment. "I think I'm ready to get out of here."

You watch his expression with a curious gaze before continuing, "Even I can get partied out, Barnes."

He doesn't want you to leave, enjoying this haven you've created in the corner of the bar with him. It's the lingering hope that burns in his chest that maybe he stands a chance with you. Maybe he can win you over if he ever gets the nerve.

But you don't move to leave, fingers coming to a sudden rest - a breath away from his skin.

"Are you out of here too?"

Is that a twinge of hopefulness in your voice? It's nearly hard to believe, but he latches on to it like a lifeline. Finding himself nodding fast and dumb as he says, "Yeah, yeah. I'm good here."

Your hand runs its way up and over his arm and shoulder, lingering above the collar of his leather jacket. Waiting, he realizes. Waiting for him to join you.

There's a surprising amount of nerves going haywire in his body because his legs seem unusually shaky as he stands from the bar. But you're there, batting those glittery eyes as you wait. Your body manages to press up against his side as you wade through the remaining partiers. Floral perfume wafts up from your exposed neck and he nearly buckles over.

"My lady!" Thor bellows in shock, a stupid grin upon his stupid face as he manages to untangle himself from the group.

He pauses in front of you both, baring Bucky not even the slightest glance.

"Surely you're not leaving so soon."

When did he grab your hands in his large godly ones? Why does Bucky's stomach feel like it's going to make him spew all over the floor now?

Your laugh is easy as you gently pull your hands back, "Even mere mortals like me know when to call it quits, Thor."

And it's only then that the god seems to take in the dark figure you're leaning on, mismatched eyes looking Bucky over with a sudden glint of realization. He backs away almost immediately, "Oh, of course! Another time, then."

It's only when you're walking again that the blonde throws him a playful wink, which makes Bucky feel all sorts of confused.

And the thing is, he's not even entirely sure where you're going and if you expect him to follow you there. He'd like to think that, but he can't be sure. 

The warmth of the party gives way to the misting rain of the darkened city streets. Illuminated only by the neon signs and streetlights. Seeing the contrast to you, wrapped in soft pinks and gentle flowers, only makes Bucky feel all the more aware of his surroundings. But you seem to pay no mind to it whatsoever as you make your way down the sidewalk.

You're tucked against his right side, arm rubbing against the leather of his sleeve, your pink dress fluttering in the gentle breeze of the night. And when a car rushes by on the slick road, it'd be impossible to not notice the way you shiver. When you stop at the crosswalk, Bucky doesn't even think - pulling his jacket off and draping it over your shoulders.

There's a little gasping sound as you pull it tight around you and your eyes are absolutely shimmering in the street light when you look up at him. Bucky can actually feel the moment his heart swells.

"Thank you," it's said so softly, so sweetly. And you finish it by gently squeezing his hand.

He takes a chance, throwing his arm over your shoulder and tugging you close. The contented sigh that falls from your lips makes him know he made the right move.

You pass the walk in pleasant silence, occasionally bumping his hip with your own, a soft laugh when he looks down at you curiously. It doesn't take a genius to figure out where you're headed as the glowing tower comes into view.

You pause at the front entrance - the harsh lights from the lobby illuminate the space behind you, making you glow in the rainy night air. Bucky reluctantly pulls his hand away. Feeling lucky enough to have gotten to walk you home, but not enough to expect anything beyond this point.

But your drawn brows pull his attention as you grab his hand back, "And where do you think you're going?"

He huffs a laugh. Steeling his nerves as he sheepishly looks up at you, "Guess that depends."

You give a thoughtful nod before tugging him flush against you. He gasps, despite his best intentions.

Brushing his hand against your cheek, you give a pleasant little mewl. His heart thumps harshly in his chest as his eyes darken. 

"You know," you murmur against his hand - your hands now resting on his hips - as you pause, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Jealousy isn't a good look on you."

Bucky groans softly, feeling the weight of the evening sinking lower in his chest.

"Especially," you continue. "When you could just have what you want."

Your mouth finds the underside of his chin, kissing lightly on his Adam's apple. Manicured nails find their way into his hair, scratching carefully against his scalp and neck. And then you pull back, dark eyes staring up at him with a smirk.

"That is, if you want it, Sergeant."

Soft hands smooth over his arms, down his sides, to his hips once more.

"Do you want it, Bucky?"

His mouth feels dry as he takes in your beautiful features. The way your dress curves your figure, the way his jacket seems to be perfectly made to fit your shoulders. The obvious thrum of passion coursing through him. And just one look into your eyes gives him all the reassurance he needs - there's no competition here, you only have eyes for him.

So, he settles his hands on your hips, fingers splayed out along your lower back.

"Yes," he says hoarsely. "I definitely want."

And then you're angling your head up to meet his lips as you walk the two of you backwards into the tower and out of the misting rain, into something decidedly warmer and better.

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[cake-writes]

Little Lies (Part Twelve)

Pairings: Steve x Reader // Bucky x Reader // Slight Natasha x Reader // Slight OC x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Implied Smut, WLW & Bisexuality, Dubious Consent, 18+

Summary: You went to Bucky when you wanted punishment. He’d be rough with you because he understood your self-loathing, and he’d leave bruises on your hips that wouldn’t go away for a week. You loved it. He didn’t.

You went to Steve when you wanted reassurance. You went to him because he liked to whisper sweet, sweet things into your ear as he made love to you. He’d tell you that you were perfect and amazing and beautiful. Then you’d get your fill, just far too much of it. He cared too much.

It all came to a head when the three of you went on a mission together. You’d done it a hundred times, even during this mess of a situation, and still neither of them was any the wiser. Your little lies always slipped right through the cracks - until one night, they didn’t.

Part Eleven / Master List

Tony definitely followed the limousine back here that night. Over the past three days, your hunch was only further confirmed when you caught glimpses of him in the sky every now and then. He was always way, way high up in the clouds, almost unnoticeable; in fact, you only noticed because you were purposely looking for him.

Now, he’d just flown by again. It was unfortunate that you hadn’t had a chance to call him out on it yet. You didn’t want him to get hurt.

Luckily, you finally had a minute to yourself, so you used it wisely.

Marisol was in her office down the hall, meeting with her first and second in command about an upcoming shipment. You recently snuck into that same office in the middle of the night and gathered as much intel about the shipment as you could – photos, mostly, but you had no secure way of sharing them and you didn’t have enough time to get into the finer details over comms.

That was the other reason why you put the device back into your ear. You knew it was suspicious that you’d taken out your earpiece that night, but you needed to keep it well-hidden for something like this. Because of your quick thinking, it hadn’t been confiscated like the rest of your electronics had been. Instead, Marisol had given you another phone – one that had her number pre-saved as Mi Corazón.

My Heart. That was what you used to call her once. Kind of ironic that you’d used that very same phone to steal some intel about her operation.

“If you think you’re being discreet, you’re not,” you commented dryly into the earpiece.

“Jesus, kid!” You could hear Tony’s relief plain as day. “What the hell happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you responded, letting your bedroom curtains fall back into place. As much as you would have liked to catch up, you couldn’t. “I don’t have much time. There’s going to be a shipment next week. Meet me at Coco Bongo on Friday - we’ll be there at 8.”

Friday was another three days from now, so hopefully you’d be able to unearth some more intel before then. You had plenty of information about this shipment, but you wanted more about the rest, about her entire operation.

“What the hell?” came Bucky’s question – almost too quiet to hear, probably muttered under his breath.

At the same time, Steve immediately jumped on another part of what you said, and his tone was anything but nice. “’We’? What do you mean ‘we’?”

He would have already known, but he wanted you to say it anyway.  

That was when Marisol’s office door creaked open again much sooner than expected, and even though you wanted to say something – anything – to fix this shitshow of a situation, you just didn’t have enough time. “Shit! Friday at 8. Don’t be late.”

“Roger,” Natasha said just as you ripped the device from your ear and shoved it back under your mattress, where you’d kept it hidden since you arrived. The moment you finished, Marisol was already walking into your bedroom, and you quickly started straightening your sheets to make it look like you’d just been tidying up your bed.

“Oh, kitten,” Marisol purred, pulling your hands into hers, away from the bedding. “Don’t waste your energy on this. I pay my employees well.”

You were well-aware that she had a full complement of staff to maintain the residence: a head chef and kitchen hands, maids and butlers, and a groundskeeper, not to mention all of the armed guards posted outside. They were also her eyes and ears, though, too, a fact you remembered from the last time you were here.

In response, you gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry. I’ve just gotten so used to doing these things myself.”

“I know, but you don’t have to. Not anymore.” Her voice was kind, but the implied order wasn’t; she was telling you to stop doing things yourself and just let her take care of you like she used to. Then she pressed a kiss to the back of your hand, lacing her fingers with yours as the two of you made your way downstairs. “Lunch is waiting for us in the garden. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Nothing else compares to the weather here,” you admitted. “I’ve missed it.”  

That was the truth. Some part of you did miss it.

After a butler opened the French doors to the garden, you and Marisol walked outside hand-in-hand to bask in the warm sunlight. Spring and summer were typically quite hot, but today, the temperature was just right. When the balmy breeze blew through, the delicate fabric of your sundress brushed pleasantly against your thighs and a genuine smile came across your lips.

You had missed this. The weather. Not Marisol.

She smiled back at you and squeezed your hand.

That was a lie. Maybe you did miss her just a little.

The gazebo was surrounded by beautiful flowers and greenery, wafting a sweet aroma through the air and as you approached, the perfectly-manicured grass tickled your bare feet. 

It was familiar. It was lovely. It was home – or at least, it had been once.

That was when you got the feeling that you were being watched. You knew you were; your teammates were likely still in the area looking for a way to rescue you, but they wouldn’t find one. The fences were reinforced, and there were far too many armed guards posted everywhere, inside and outside the gates and on the roof – not to mention your life would be at risk if they even tried.

The two of you started on lunch: a lovely spread of cured meats and cheeses, finger sandwiches, and champagne. Marisol toasted your arrival – “To new beginnings,” she said, and you cheerfully clinked your glasses together. Her happiness was real. Yours wasn’t. 

While you easily held up your end of the conversation, your heart wasn’t in it. Of course it wasn’t. Steve and Bucky were clearly not happy about your choices, but you couldn’t blame them. You’d done so many terrible things, too many of which they’d seen let alone the history you had here in Cancun: a history with Marisol, and a home with her, too.

You couldn’t help but scan the tree line, looking for any sign that your boys were there, but they’d taken your feedback to heart. Now they were being so discreet that you couldn’t spot anyone.

When you first left Cancun, you didn’t know how to cook, clean, or do laundry – and now that you were back, those mundane things proved to be good distraction. The normally boring chores you’d otherwise be doing right now back at the compound helped you twofold: to get your mind off of things, and to play Marisol like a fiddle.

One evening, you spent a couple of hours over the stove, preparing a lovely dinner for her. You had nothing else to do, and you thought that it might be a good way to show her that you cared. In truth, however, it was just another way of manipulating her. Not that she noticed.

She’d been extremely busy and cooped up in her office, so you set the table, lit some candles, and laid out the three-course meal you made. It wasn’t anything special compared to what her chef could have done, but she swooned at the hard work you’d put into such a kind, loving gesture, and after dinner she drew a bath for the two of you.

She, of course, ensured that there was a large selection of scented bath oils and bubble bars on display just for you. Some small part of you was flattered that she still remembered your favourite scents, but you were disgusted with yourself because of it. Slowly but surely, she was creeping back into your heart, and you hated it – hated her just as much as you once loved her. 

Maybe in some warped way, you still did.

While you soaped up her back and shoulders, she aired some of her frustrations about the upcoming shipment. She didn’t say when or where it was, just that tensions were high between the buyer and herself and she might need to find a new one depending on how things went. It wouldn’t impact the shipment itself so much as where the product went after.

That, at least, was a relief. You didn’t want to show up with useless intel. 

Worse still, you found yourself seeking comfort in her arms and in her bed. You wanted to forget everything, but you knew you never would. She was toxic. Some of that toxicity had seeped into your bones and poisoned any other relationship you may have had. 

Marisol was unforgettable in the best of ways, and the worst.  

The next day, you went back outside to the garden. It was nice to see how much the plants had flourished in the five years you’d been gone. The trees were taller, the bushes were larger, and there were so many more colourful flowers than before. Your original plan was to pick some for a bouquet, but you wound up chatting and helping to plant some seedlings with the groundskeeper you’d met so long ago. 

When you got back inside a couple of hours later, Marisol took in your dishevelled appearance with pursed lips. The sweat and soil on your skin wasn’t exactly ideal, and unsurprisingly, you could read her like a book. She wasn’t happy. You were her porcelain doll, prim and perfect; her caged bird. 

Clearly she hadn’t remembered how headstrong you were. You didn’t take kindly to orders. Never had. Your gardening was an act of rebellion, and she knew it well. 

Before she could get too worked up about it, however, you offered her a coy smile and the colourful bouquet, which she begrudgingly accepted with a quick peck on your lips – but she was adamant that you not get your hands dirty again. The look in her eyes was dangerous and dark, meant to remind you of your place here. 

You knew how she was – how she’d always been. Controlling. Domineering. She didn’t want you to lift a finger. No, she wanted to take care of you. She wanted to give you everything, and you were happy with that once. Ecstatic, really, because the two of you used to have ‘holier than thou’ attitudes. Once upon a time, you’d seen yourselves as above that kind of work. Only in recent years had your opinion changed on the matter.

By doing those things yourself, it was a clear statement that you’d changed in the last five years. She still seemed to be in her own little bubble of delusions, like nothing had changed at all and you were both still madly in love. You weren’t, but you sure could act like it, so that was what you did.

It was a façade you knew entirely too well. What you despised most was that some small part of it was real. 

Coco Bongo was one of the busiest nightclubs in Cancun. Before you left, you conducted a lot of your business in the upstairs VIP area overseeing the dance floor. It seemed that things hadn’t changed much. The only difference was that Marisol had taken over in your stead.

This was her domain now. The VIP lounge was purposely not very well-lit in order to help conceal deals and identities – yours being one of them.

When you first arrived back at her estate, she asked you to come out with her tonight to see all the work she’d done over the last few years. You soon learned that she came here every Friday night, just like you did once. You only came along this time because it was a good spot for an in-person meet-up; you didn’t want to spend any more time with her than necessary. 

After you passed on the intel, you were going to drink so much that you forgot your own name. 

It was really doing a number on your psyche, playing along with her delusions. You were a great actress and an even greater liar, but you could only handle so much. She was insatiable to the point that you’d lied about having your period, and even that wasn’t enough for her. Your fingers and mouth worked just fine, she told you, so you used them as unwilling as you felt.

Despite your many talents, even you couldn’t get Marisol to take ‘no’ for an answer. Never could. Never would. And now, you were starting to break.

You were already a few drinks in, feeling loose but nervous. Her hand rested on your thigh as she organized deals and shipments right in front of you. There was no need to be discreet here, and for that, you were thankful; you were getting plenty of information to pass along.

“I’ll be back,” you whispered into her ear, before you pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. “Nature calls.”

At that, she smiled and smacked your ass when you stood. Maybe you would have winked at her once, but tonight, you were in no mood for it. Instead, you just offered her the ghost of a smile and half-stumbled your way down the stairs. Her laughter followed you until the bass took over.

Maybe you’d had a bit more to drink than you thought.

The music was much louder on the ground floor, booming in your ears as you tried to find a quieter, more secluded spot for a meet-up. What you wound up doing was actually going to the bathroom: the men’s near the east entrance. Unsurprisingly, it was empty. This entrance was still rarely used even after half a decade.

Shoving your comms into your ear, you reported your location under your breath. “Men’s room, east entrance.”

You expected Tony to be the one to respond, but it wasn’t. It was Steve. “Copy that.”

Hearing his voice only tied your stomach in knots. Your fingers drummed a anxious cadence next to the sink as you waited for him to come in. Of course it was Steve; he probably volunteered for this just so he could read you the riot act. Over the past few days, your troubled mind wound up overanalysing every single word he said to you over the past couple of weeks, and now you’d all but convinced yourself he hated you. 

Why wouldn’t he?  You were an awful person. You always had been.

The door was suddenly shoved open, then, and you jumped. Deafening music spilled into the small room before he shut and locked the door behind him. At first you didn’t recognize him, and you very nearly said that it was occupied – at least until you realized who it was.

Steve hadn’t relied on sunglasses and a baseball cap for his cover this time. Instead, he was wearing tight black t-shirt and jeans, along with a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and some week-old scruff. Probably hadn’t shaved since the gala.  

Natasha surely would have had some input considering you hadn’t even recognized him, but damn.

Both of you just stared at each other for a moment, with so many unspoken thoughts floating between the two of you but not a single one came to mind. All you could focus on was that the terrible fluorescent lighting brought out the blue in his eyes – eyes that trailed down your body, taking in every inch of shimmery exposed skin.

The short, tight dress you wore to the nightclub did nothing to hide your curves. Rather, it embraced them, and the glitter all over your body only added to the effect.

Steve used his tongue to wet his lips before he met your eyes again, but by that point your face was flushed. You blamed it on the alcohol.

Despite the butterflies in your stomach, which you also blamed on the alcohol, the way you greeted him was impersonal. “Rogers.”

It broke the spell.

“What do you have?” He nodded down to the phone in your hands, and his tone had a certain bite to it that made you wonder if he was accusing you of something, rather than just asking what intel you’d gathered. The offense must have shown on your face because he quickly rephrased, “What intel, Agent?”

He wouldn’t even say your name. That stung.

“Here.” You flipped to your new phone’s gallery and offered it to him so that he could take a few photos of the screen. Despite his unfamiliarity with technology, Steve would have known just as well as you did that you couldn’t just email them because they’d be tracked. As he took the photos, you explained further, “She’s got weekly shipments on Monday nights at the port. They land in the US every Wednesday. Still trying to figure out where.”

“We’re working on that,” Steve told you, continuing to flip through your gallery, taking notes every now and then until one photo in particular made him freeze.

You tilted your head. “What?”

“I don’t know,” he spat, shoving the phone back at you. “You tell me.”

It was a photo of you and Marisol laying in bed, naked, with just the sheets covering you both. You were fast asleep with your head on her shoulder, and she was taking the selfie, running her fingers through your hair as you slept. Sweet. Intimate. Fake.

Well, not to her, it wasn’t. It wasn’t fake to Steve, either.

“I was just playing along,” you explained as evenly as you could. Truth be told, you didn’t even know she’d taken the picture. That bothered you, but you wouldn’t let it show. “If I win her back, I can get us a ton of intel.”

“If you win her back— Christ, after all the shit you’ve pulled, you expect me to believe that?”

Here it was, the riot act you’d been waiting for. Even though you’d been expecting it, however, the shame you felt from his words made you look at the floor, chewing on your lower lip. You’d told him the truth, but he didn’t believe you. Of course he didn’t. You lied to him for months, hurt him in so many ways that he couldn’t trust you anymore.

“Steve, she's nothing to me.”

Not like you. 

He let out a long sigh at that, one full of annoyance and irritation.

“Yeah. Alright.” He clearly didn’t believe you. “Thanks for this,” he added, waving his phone briefly before he pushed it into his back pocket. “We’ll work on it. You just keep doing what you do best, you know, being you.”

That stung, too. Being you was punishment enough.

When he went to leave, you reached out for him before it even fully registered in your brain. Instinctive, almost.

“Wait—”

His skin was always so hot to the touch, and the feeling of his callused hand in yours sparked all sorts of emotions: loneliness, longing, happiness – or at least the ghost of what could have been, once.

You missed him, but he wasn’t having any of it. You realized as much when he pulled his hand from your grasp and gave you a look in warning.

“I’m sorry,” you told him, holding your hands up in front of you in surrender, doing your best to keep your tears at bay. You hadn’t drunk nearly enough to ugly cry yet, but it was definitely coming if the way your voice wavered was any indication. “I’m so sorry, Steve.”

“Jesus, doll,” he said, exasperated, muting his comms before he reached over to mute yours, too. This wasn’t a conversation either of you would have wanted the others to hear.

Steve’s fingertips accidentally brushed against your cheek as he pulled his hand away from your comms, and your heart stuttered within your chest. 

You missed him.

You missed him so fucking much. 

“I never meant to hurt you. I’m stupid and selfish and—” A sob escaped you, then, “and you didn’t deserve any of it. I’m so sorry.”

You weren’t sure why you were apologizing. You didn’t apologize. That wasn’t who you were. You’d hurt him – him and Bucky – and you’d never once apologized for it until tonight. Still, you meant every single word.

That was why it hurt so much when he bit out, “That’s low, even for you.”

Your head snapped up in surprise, eyes wide. He didn’t trust you. He didn’t believe you. He thought you were still trying to manipulate him.

Of course he did.

That realization was what finally made you cry.

Steve exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his hair in frustration, looking away from you – away from your tears like he couldn’t bear the sight. The bitter way he spoke your name made your heart weep. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. Just when I think we’re on the same page, you do something else and then we’re back to whatever the hell this is.”

“I know,” you croaked, sniffling. “I know, Stevie. I’m sorry.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to get the tears to just stop, but it didn’t work. Then you blinked them open in surprise when you suddenly felt his palm on your cheek, large and warm and so, so familiar. It was hesitant, the way he touched you, but it made your face burn all the same. 

There was the barest hint of a smile on his lips when he said softly, “You’re a real mess, you know that?”

At that, you couldn’t help but laugh a little, leaning into his touch. “I know.”

Your gaze drifted from his eyes to his parted lips and back again; you couldn’t help it. His body was closer now, so much that the breath caught in your throat, especially when you realized that he was looking at you in the exact same way.

Embarrassment coursed through your veins. It hadn’t exactly been an ugly cry, but it wasn’t pretty either, what with your smeared makeup and running mascara. You were a mess in every sense of the word, and you knew it. 

Steve had seen more sides of you than you cared to admit.

Your skin flushed hot under his touch and the butterflies in your stomach multiplied as you stared up at him, almost in a daze. His eyes were always such a gorgeous blue, kind and gentle, even now – and for the first time in days, you felt like things were going to be okay.

“Can I trust you?” Steve asked you again, quietly, like he was afraid of the answer.

This time, however, you placed your hand atop his and gave him a watery smile. For the first time in a long, long while, you were completely honest. “Yes.”

That was the right answer, because he pulled you into his arms, flush against him as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head and whispered sweet nothings into your hair – things like, “I’ve missed you,” and, “Come back with me,” and, “I’ll take you home.”

Your fingers caught in the fabric of his shirt as you breathed in his comforting scent – clean, like fresh laundry and soap and home.

Three little words were on the tip of your tongue, but you forced them back. As tempted as you were to say them, you didn’t; and as desperately as you wanted to go with him, you couldn’t. This was the best opportunity any of you would have at shutting down the operation for good. Having someone on the inside was better than trying to gather information externally, especially considering how reclusive Marisol was let alone the fortress she lived inside.

You knew that he knew it, too. 

You weren’t sure how long the two of you stayed like that, holding each other under the too-bright fluorescent lights in that small nightclub bathroom, but it must have been too long – because when you finally returned to the VIP lounge upstairs, Marisol looked positively treacherous.

Part Thirteen

[language-rxgers]

Best Boyfriend You’ve Never Had (Bucky x Reader)- Part 8

Summary: You go to the rehearsal dinner and have a lovely conversation with Ryan. Bucky steps in to defend your honor, but you react differently than he’d expected…

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Reader, OFC Catherine, OMC Thomas, OMC Ryan, OMC Bill, OFC Trish, *special guest appearance* Ace the fictitious canine!

Warnings: just a little bit of Ryan being a shit (condescending comments), minor fight b/w you and Bucky

Word Count: 3262

Masterlist

Part 7 / Part 9

You grinned as Bucky held open your door and helped you out of the car, offering his hand as he then lead you into the restaurant your sister had booked for the reception, and where you were having drinks and dinner after the rehearsal. The ceremony rehearsal had gone off without a hitch, and you couldn’t wait to see your sister all dolled up in her wedding gown- which she had yet to show you- tomorrow at the real wedding. As you approached the restaurant, which was already filled with family and friends, Bucky grasped your hand in his and tugged you close. You entered the gorgeous venue, and you looked around in awe. It was so sophisticated and warm and formal- so unlike you- but hell, these past two weeks you’d been playing pretend, why not do the same now and pretend you belonged in a place like this. You took two long-stemmed glasses of champagne from the tray of a waiter walking by, thanking him as he passed you. You took a sip from one of them and handed the other to Bucky.

“Jesus, would’ja look at this place? I probably couldn’t afford to look through the window of this joint,” he mumbled into his glass, and you snorted in agreement. You glanced around the restaurant, knowing you were supposed to meet up with your sister at some point to go over where you were to be seated. Your sister hated the idea of one long table for the bridal party, saying it was so impersonal and distant from the rest of the guests, so she had instead arranged for the bridal party to be seated at the three round tables closest to the podium and dance floor, on the floor with the other guests’ tables. You tugged on Bucky’s metal hand, pulling him through the crowd to find your sister. You scanned the many faces coming into your eyesight before your gaze landed on a familiar head of wavy caramel hair.

You placed a hand on your sister’s shoulder, who turned around and grinned at you in greeting. “(Y/N/N)! Oh, wasn’t the ceremony just perfect? God, I cannot thank you and the rest of the girls enough for everything you’ve done to help this go smoothly. I love ya, sis!” She threw her arms around your neck, and you laughed before patting her back gently.

“Ditto,” you replied warmly. When your sister pulled away you nodded at Thomas, who you’d just realized was standing beside her.

“Hey (Y/N), Bucky. Catherine’s right, thank you so much for all your help and support. And Bucky, I’m telling you I’m gonna beat you one day at one-on-one. Just you watch.” Bucky chuckled, shrugging.

“We’ll see, man. I don’t know if any amount of practice can fix those clown feet, stompin’ up and down the driveway.” Thomas feigned a hurt expression, clutching his chest.

“I’ll have you know these clown feet seemed to be working just fine until you showed up with your freaking unending endurance and super speed. Who the hell do you think you are, you perfect specimen of nature?” You and Catherine roared with laughter, clutching on to each other as Bucky and Tom went back and forth. You wiped the tears from your eyes as you calmed down, but you quickly sobered again as a new face joined the four of you.

“Hey, man,” Ryan grinned at Thomas as he clapped him on the shoulder. You frowned. What was he doing here? He hadn’t been at the dress rehearsal.

“Hey, pal, glad you could make it!” Tom greeted his friend. Ryan’s eyes flashed to yours, hazel orbs drinking in your dress.

“Hi, (Y/N), Bucky. Good to see you two again.” He nodded, and you smiled politely, taking another sip of your champagne. An uncomfortable silence fell over your group for a few moments, until Catherine took your hand and pulled you away.

“(Y/N), come on, let’s go find mom, she’s probably off somewhere telling some poor waiter how to do his job.” You silently thanked her and fled, sending Bucky a fleeting glance before you disappeared into the crowd. “Jesus, what the hell was Thomas thinking inviting that douche? I’m so sorry, hon, I swear I didn’t know he was friends with him.” You shook your head.

“It’s fine, Catie, really. It was like eight years ago, and I’ve got Bucky now.”

(just until the end of the weekend, (y/n/n), don’t’cha forget)

You walked up to the bar, ordering a whiskey for Bucky and a rum and coke for yourself. You drank a deep sip, taking in a breath to clear your head. Catherine nearly inhaled her white wine, running a hand through her hair. “You good?” You nodded. She tapped her manicured nails on the counter before pushing off. “Okay, good. Well I actually should go find mom now, aunt Laura just arrived and was asking for her. I’ll catch up with you later? Dinner should be starting in about 15 minutes.” You waved her off before starting your trek back to Bucky. You met his eyes in the crowd as you tried to weave your way through the guests without spilling, finally making your way back to his side. You offered him the whiskey, which he took with a grateful smile before placing his hand at the small of your back. His fingers rubbed at the dark blue lace of the dress, and you leaned into him subconsciously.

Thomas was nowhere to be seen, most likely going to make the rounds with the guests, but Ryan was still standing in front of you and Bucky. He stood confidently with a hand in his pocket and the other loosely holding a glass of champagne. “So, what do you do now, (Y/N)? I mean, I know you’re an Avenger or whatever, but you don’t seem to be like a really main member of the team, so is there other stuff you do for them?” Bucky scoffed at Ryan’s remark, and just as you were about to give the smug man a piece of your mind, the hard-eyed soldier beside you cut in.

“You got some nerve. She’s not our cleaning lady, bub, she doesn’t do anything for us. She’s a vital part of the team. The Avengers work together to make sure wise guys like you can keep living your 9 to 5 lives in peace. Without (Y/N), half of the team probably wouldn’t have even come home from the missions you’re always flapping your jaw about on that bullshit radio show of yours, and a hell of a lot more innocent people would be dead too.” Ryan’s face went pale at Bucky’s sudden abandonment of his polite demeanour, and especially so at the mentioning of his show. “So don’t go and treat her like she doesn’t matter; there’s no one like (Y/N) (L/N) in the world and you’d do well not to talk down to her again.” Bucky’s sharp glare burned into Ryan’s hazel eyes, the other man swallowing thickly. He nodded.

You clenched your jaw and turned around swiftly, downing your drink in one go and abandoning it on a random table as you abruptly left the scene. Bucky called after you, but you powered on, not stopping until you were on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. The dark-haired man’s heavy hand fell on your shoulder, turning you around to face him. “Are you alright, doll? God, that creep-“

“Why did you do that? I could have defended myself,” you interrupted him. Bucky frowned at you in confusion. “I get that you were trying to defend my honor or play the protective boyfriend card or whatever, but I can fight my own battles, Bucky. I was doing it long before I met you, and I don’t need you to do it for me now.” You didn’t know why you were getting so angry; Bucky had done something no one had done for you before, something no one had ever cared enough to do, and you were tearing him a new one?

“I’m sorry, (Y/N), I didn’t mean to make you feel weak or anything. I just got so angry at him, how condescending he was being, and I just couldn’t stop myself. I never meant to make it look like you couldn’t do it yourself.” He looked at you so genuinely apologetic, brows furrowed in sincerity as he stood in front of you. 

Your shoulders slumped, and you sighed. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” You apologized, guilt washing over you. “I don’t know why I got so mad, it was really sweet of you to step in like that. No one’s ever defended me like that before, I just didn’t want it to look like I was hiding behind you to fight my battles. Thank you, Bucky.” You took a step closer to him, rubbing your arms in shame.

Bucky stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, surrounding you in the warmth of his safety and the fresh scent of sandalwood and mint gum that was so uniquely him. “I’ll always be there to have your back, doll, but I promise I’ll let you hold your own from now on.” You smiled into his chest.

“God, you’re the best boyfriend ever. Uh- fake. Fake boyfriend.” You blushed.

(and don’t’cha forget it, honey)

You cleared your throat and pulled away. “Let’s go back inside, Catherine said dinner was starting soon.” Bucky smiled warmly, allowing you to enter first with a bow and a presenting sweep of his arm.

“After you.”

You woke up the next morning to the cozy smell of coffee and hash browns wafting up from downstairs. You lifted your arms above your head, groaning in satisfaction as your muscles stretched sweetly. You looked over to see the other side of the bed empty, the sheets cold to the touch. You frowned, realizing you’d woken up without Bucky beside you nearly every morning since you’d been in town. You were wondering if he was having trouble sleeping, and where he was now, when you heard a hearty laugh rumble up from the kitchen. Your heart skipped a beat and you jumped out of bed, running a hand through your hair as you made your way down the stairs. When you entered the kitchen, you saw your mother sitting at the island, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the mug she was holding as she gasped for air in laughter. Your father was by the sink, rinsing a measuring cup, smiling fondly as he watched your mom. Your eyes shifted to the stove, where a mess of long dark hair pulled up in a messy ponytail and broad shoulders towered over a pan of sizzling potatoes, bacon and assorted vegetables. You grinned as you approached the island, rubbing a hand over your eyes.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Bucky greeted, winking at you through the locks of hair that had fallen out of the ponytail and into his eyes. You smiled sleepily.

“Good morning. I see everyone seems to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed but me. Where are Catherine and Thomas?” Your mother took a sip from her coffee before answering.

“They’re already out to go over everything last-minute with the wedding planner, so it’s just us for breakfast. Sweetheart, Bucky was just telling us about your friend Steve’s birthday party that Tony threw last year, and how you-”

“Oh, God, how I got my legs taken out when Sam tried sliding down the stairs on Steve’s shield? God, that idiot’s the reason why I double check that all our weapons are locked away before any of Tony’s parties now,” you groaned. “Did he also tell you about the time Thor nearly killed all those World War II veterans with his Asgardian liquor at another one of Stark’s bashes?” Your mom’s mouth fell open in amusement. She grinned, turning to your dad.

“I still can’t believe she spends every day with Captain America and Iron Man! Our baby’s a superhero!” You put your face in your hands in embarrassment as Bucky chuckled.

“Ma, I’m really not…” you insisted.

You heard the clicking of nails on hardwood floor quickly approaching you, and you turned around just in time for a golden mass of fur to come sliding clumsily into your feet. You barked out a laugh as you knelt down to pet your dog.

“Hi, buddy! I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever; we’ve just been so busy this week I haven’t had any proper Ace/(Y/N) time!” You scratched under his ears as his tail wagged eagerly.

“Bucky sure was having some good bonding time with him when we came down this morning,” your father commented. “We came down and Bucky was outside playing with Ace and his ball. Already took him for a walk and all.” You looked up at Bucky in awe as he ducked his head, pushing the hash browns around in the pan with the spatula. “I swear, he’s making us look like bad pet owners, the attention he’s been giving that dog these past two weeks.” You laughed, wrapping your arms around your dog. He licked your ear affectionately, his long wagging tail tickling your nose.

“Well, Bucky’s always wanted a dog. He never had one as a kid, and now, well, Tony’d have an aneurysm if his precious tower was contaminated with dog hair, God forbid,” you rolled our eyes as you recalled what Bucky had mentioned to you once. The two of you had been driving to the upstate Avengers facility and you’d driven past a young woman walking her dog; it had been a gorgeous golden retriever, and something in its eyes and its playful energy had reminded you of Ace.

You rubbed between Ace’s ears once more before standing up and heading over to the coffee pot, the lab-boxer mix hot on your heels. You poured a mug of coffee for yourself, peering over to see Bucky’s was nearly empty, and you pulled it towards yourself to refill it, as you usually did every morning, even at the Tower. Bucky smiled at you in gratitude as he scooped the hash browns into a Corningware container. He stepped forward and you stepped back, anticipating he’d be reaching for a fork from the utensil drawer you had been standing in front of, opening the drawer for him as you moved out of the way. You switched places with him, smoothly taking the now empty but greasy frying pan from his hand. He turned back around to put the fork in the hash browns, and you handed him his coffee mug before sliding behind him to the sink to rinse out the pan.

“How long have you two been together again?” Your mother asked. You had to bite your tongue from saying that you weren’t actually a couple, and Bucky answered without a beat.

“Seven months.” You felt a soft smile tug at your lips.

“God, you’d think you two have been together for years. You just move so fluidly around each other. It took Bill and me years to get that kind of looseness around each other down.” Your dad, who was now standing behind your mom with a hand resting on the back of her chair, chuckled.

“Remember our first week living together in that tiny apartment? We must have stepped on each other’s toes four times a day trying to maneuver around in that kitchen.”

Your mom turned around to give him a teasing look. “How can I forget? I still can’t feel my toes.” You and Bucky laughed, finishing the preparations for breakfast. You took out the plates and forks as Bucky set out the food he’d made. “Oh, Lordy, I don’t know if I’ll be able to fit in my dress for the wedding today after eating all this food,” your mother hummed as she sat beside your father at the table. She turned to you, placing a hand on your arm. “(Y/N), if I haven’t already said this, listen very well: please marry this man so I can have at least one other good cook in this family.” You blushed at her comment.

“Ma,” you warned. “You’re gonna scare him off…” You whined. Bucky pulled out a chair for you, giving you a chivalrous smile.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’ve seen you right after you’ve rolled out of bed at noon after one of Natasha’s girls’ nights out. If that hasn’t scared me off, I’m here to stay.” You flushed even warmer, both from embarrassment and the sincerity in his tone.

At about 3:00 that afternoon, you were adjusting your necklace around your neck when you heard a knock at the door. “Doll, it’s me, can I come in?” Your heart skipped a beat at the sound of Bucky’s gruff voice, and you squeaked out a yes. The door opened and Bucky poked his head in, glancing around the room before fully entering. When Bucky stayed silent, you turned around from facing the floor-length mirror on the wall to take in his appearance. Your breath caught in your throat. His broad figure was dressed in a sharp dark grey three-piece suit, with a light blue striped tie and dress shirt highlighting his baby blue gaze. His long chocolate locks were brushed and tucked behind his ears, the hint of stubble he’d neglected to shave that morning only reinforcing the captivating edge of his look. You cleared your throat, no longer holding back the smile that tugged at your lips.

“Wow, you look good. Clean up nice for a meatball.” Bucky let out an amused laugh, his gaze never wavering from your appearance. You suddenly became very aware of how underdressed you would look next to this perfect asshole, and you crossed your arms in front of yourself self-consciously. “Damn it, I wish you’d shown me what you were wearing; I would have gotten Catie to pick a more flattering bridesmaid dress,” you laughed sheepishly. Bucky’s eyes snapped up to your own disbelievingly.

“What? Doll, you’re gorgeous. I can’t stop looking at you. I mean, you’re always gorgeous and I never can stop looking at you no matter, but tonight, this dress, everything- it suits you so perfectly. Catherine’s a genius because it’s- I- it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

(holy fuck, does someone have a defibrillator handy, (y/n/n)’s heart stopped at ‘doll’)

You smiled shyly and looked down, tugging at the soft fabric of your dress. You turned back around to look at the mirror. You smoothed down the skirt again, taking it all in to try to see what the big huff was about. It was just a simple dress, a dusty rose pink A-line number with a sweetheart neckline. Chiffon straps crossed in the open back while the waist cinched in before allowing the skirt to flow out to the floor. Your hair was curled in big, loose waves and was half pinned up and braided, allowing for your wavy locks to freely tumble over your shoulders without falling in your eyes. “C’mon,” Bucky said softly. “We’ve got a wedding for me to show you off at.”

You took his hand and allowed him to lead you down the stairs once again, just like the night before. At the base of the stairs you slipped on your heels, checking to make sure your spare pair of white flats were in your purse for later in the night when your feet would inevitably start to go numb from the heels. You grabbed a jacket before turning to Bucky, giving him a smile to confirm you were ready to leave for the wedding.

“You ready, doll?”

You nodded in affirmation.

“Here we go.”

Part 7 / Part 9

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