#lol i find this so gunny for some reason

[merryloumas]

their shorts hanging on the railing to dry after a swim in the lake...celebs, they're just like us 😆

[wienerbarnes]

The Undercover Mission (3/3)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 1,380

Warnings: still some Lowkey angst but y'all always know there's a good ending ok

A/N: ok promise ill let them live for a bit now and leave them alone w the angst LOL

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

Your father sits in handcuffs in the interrogation room. No one has yet to tell you anything, according to everyone else, you don’t even know that there’s an ongoing case right now. You, once again, snuck down here after hearing that your father was in custody. Only this time, the interrogation room is open.

You turn the knob and step inside, past the two agents guarding the door, and take a seat across from your shackled father.

“Didn’t know there was more questioning to be done; I told Agents Barnes and Carter everything already. I confessed.” He states.

He doesn’t recognize you. Why would he? The last time he saw you, you were a baby.

“There’s not.” You confirm; he doesn’t move to make any follow up questions, just accepting that you’re now going to be in the room with him.

“What’s your name?” He asks.

That just makes you angry. Your own father asking you what your name is.

“That’s need-to-know. And you don’t need to know.”

He briefly raises his eyebrows at you in surprise, before settling back in his seat.

“You a Marine?”

Your eyebrows twist up in confusion, “How did you -”

“Can just tell.”

You don’t respond. You can’t respond. You don’t know what to say to him.

Suddenly the door opens, and Sam stands at the doorway, “Agent 51, you’re needed elsewhere.” That means, get the hell out of this room.

You stand and go to make your exit when your father’s voice stops you, “Hey, 51.”

You turn your head to hear what he has to say.

“Semper Fi.” The motto of the Marine Corps.

You sigh and slump your shoulders, “Oohra, Gunny.” You respond, before exiting the room and going out into the hallway.

As soon as you make it far enough, you place your hand over your mouth to quiet any sobs. If being a crazy, psycho killer yourself wasn’t enough, finding out your absent father was also a murderer really put the nail in the coffin.

How hilarious is it that daddy’s a killer, too! Now, we know where you get it from! I guess killer doesn’t always recognize killer, though, huh?

You feel Sam wrap an arm around you and pull you into his chest, comforting you silently for a few minutes until you can compose yourself enough to make it into the elevator and up to your room.

Except, your night can’t just end there. Bucky’s standing outside your door.

You hate his undercover look. A Marine buzzcut and fully grown out beard, long enough to knot a hair tie in it. You saw pictures in the file earlier, where he had different colored contacts, more prominent freckles, a flesh arm. It’s so… not Bucky.

But you’d figured he’d come talk to you about all of this eventually. This was the reason he had to break up with you.

“Hey.” He starts.

“Hi.”

“... How are you?”

“I’m doing… pretty fucking shitty, Bucky.”

He nods, agreeing with you, “Yeah, I’m doing pretty fucking shitty, as well.”

You two of you stand outside your door just staring at each other; taking each other in and everything the two of you have missed.

“You got your neck tattoo covered up.” Bucky points out. A large, black butterfly now takes that angry face’s place on the side of your neck.

“Yeah, Sam let me invite that guy that did my leg tattoo to the tower.”

“I’m happy for you; I know how much you were dyin’ to get rid of it.”

It’s awkward. Bucky doesn’t know where to start. And neither do you. And as much as you want to be mad at him; as much as you want to hate him, you can’t find it in you. You could never hate Bucky.

“So -”

“Listen -”

The two of you start at the same time. You begin first,

“Listen. I haven’t had a good night's sleep in months. My head is loud as shit. And I’m tired. Can we just… put a pause on this mess we have going on right now and resume tomorrow?” You ask.

“Yeah, of course. You’ve had… a long day, to say the least. We can talk tomorrow.” Bucky agrees before going to walk past you and back towards the elevator.

“I didn’t say for you to leave.” Your voice stops him. He turns back around, waiting for further explanation.

“Don’t sleep well without you.” You confess to him, a repeat of words he said to you when he was in the hospital.

He gives a gentle smile. A smile of agreement, a smile of I’m so glad we’re thinking the same thing here. He steps back over to you as you open your door, walking inside.

“You’re shaving that shit off your face before getting in my bed, though.” You call out behind you.

Bucky laughs to himself before following you inside. Your conversation can wait until tomorrow.

And the two of you finally sleep well for the first time in two months, twenty-three days, and sixteen hours.

Can’t sleep forever, though. Not when there’s incredibly difficult conversations to have; conversations no other couple in the world has probably ever had or ever will have.

“So… Fury made you break up with me because of my dad’s involvement.” You confirm. You figure the more you say it, the faster it’ll finally click in your head.

It’s morning, now. The two of you are laying on your sides, facing each other with your big, fluffy blanket covering up to both of your shoulders. You’re close enough to Bucky to see the tiny spot of discoloration on his chin from where he nicked himself shaving last night.

“He said that if there was any chance that he knew about you and who you were, it could risk you and your real identity being exposed. Fury didn’t want to take that risk.”

You sigh. You can’t be mad. Do you wish you would’ve known? Yes. But it makes sense. And knowing yourself, being involved wouldn’t have helped your curiosity anyway and you would’ve gotten yourself involved, just as you did this time around.

“Did he… mention me? At all?” You ask, timidly, because you have a feeling you’re not going to like the answer.

A quiet sigh from Bucky, “No.”

“I saw him yesterday. He asked me what my name was. He had no idea who I was.”

“That guy’s a piece of garbage, babe -” Bucky begins to reassure you, but stops himself at the slip of the pet name.

What now? Bucky broke up with you because of a lie for the mission. But the mission’s over now.

“There... wasn’t anyone else… right?”

You’re scared to find out the answer.

Bucky shakes his head No, “I meant it when I said I love you. I’ve meant it every single time I’ve said. You don’t understand how much I hated doing what I did to you. And you won’t understand the guilt I carry because of it. I’m sorry.”

The two of you lay there and stare at each other for a while. It was a really long two and half months. Felt like eternity, though.

“As much as I want to, I can’t stay mad at you, Bucky. I don’t think I can ever be mad at you. I… I want - wanted - to hate you for what you did, and I tried so hard to. But I couldn’t. I still can’t.”

“You should.” Bucky reassures you.

“I can’t -”

“But, you should, though.” Bucky repeats, almost begging you to. He thinks he deserves it.

“Bucky, I forgive you,” Bucky closes his eyes for a moment, almost disappointed that you were so easy to forgive him, “What was your other option, Bucky? You didn’t have one. And as fucking terrified as I am to admit, I can’t live without you, okay? I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He interrupts.

“And I can’t live without you, either. That was, like, the hardest two months of my life.” Bucky admits, and a humorless chuckle escapes your lips.

“It was the hardest two months of my life, too. That fucking sucked.”

Things are complicated. But if there’s one thing that the two of you are sure of, it’s that the two of you are madly, deeply, and utterly in love with each other. And that’s the only thing that’s important to the two of you now.

[thecockandcarrot]

The Struggle...

Sometimes you wish for a four-course meal, but all life gives you is a can of beans in shitty gravy. You could throw the can of beans away because you think you're better than that. Or you can eat your beans and pray that your next meal is a little bit better, you know, like an extra bean or bacon bits. Keeping in mind that, one day you will get that four course meal, it may not happen as fast as you wish, but you set it on the top shelf, knowing that one day you will be able to just reach up and grab it. 

There are days where I struggle with what I am entitled to in life. I've grown up in America, a land that sells the "American Dream"; a dream that is nothing more than a product on the bottom shelf of life's grocery store. A product that sells happiness slapped on a yellow box with pictures of happy families on the outside, but on the inside, a black void of falsehoods. Drunk husbands punching their wives; drugged up moms watching their babies eat their drugs, but they are too high to get up; old rich men "who made it in America" flying out of the country to buy children to fuck; cousins raping little boys because that’s all the love they were shown; and drug and alcohol addicted war veterans that everyone is so proud of but no one wants to talk about their problems, it’s cheaper to let us kill ourselves or kick us out and not have to deal with us anymore. So come on everyone! Jump on the bad wagon on the Oregon Trail.  Let's wave our American flag in everyone else's face, so we don't have to deal with the fact that no one is that happy family on that yellow box that we all grew up longing for. 

I think I'm on my 5th can of beans, though now I can say at least I have some meat and potatoes in it. I am writing this today, the 12th of November in the year of 2017 on a Sunday at 0331 in the afternoon, which is saying a mouth full without realizing it. I practically came out dead of my mom's vag, then my father left us when I was only two. I survived the earthquake of 94' in Los Angeles from which all I can remember is the terror in my heart as I ran in the dark screaming for my mother. I was sexually molested and raped by an older cousin when I was seven—It went on for months. At the age of ten I was sexually molested by a family friend, actually it was the son of my mother’s best friend at the time. Coming out of the closet wasn't easy; I ended up having to drop out of high school and going to an alternative school in DC. I did this to evade my parents’ radical anti-gay behavior, only to get drugged and raped by one of the students on campus (Go Job Corps!). If you were to ask me if I could go back and not have dropped out, I still would have made the same choice. It's easier to accept strangers betraying me than being repeatedly demeaned and betrayed by those that I love. 

At the bright and clueless age of 20, I walked by the big shiny glass window on 5th avenue in New York City and stared up at all the yellow boxes with pretty pictures. Moms baking cookies, dads playing catch with sons, children chasing after their dogs, girls jump roping, young men saluting the American flag (none of these being people of color). Can you guess which one I chose? I chose to dawn the fabric of America, because up until this point, everyone I had ever loved and trusted had failed or hurt me. I wanted to have a life to be proud of, not one that I was ashamed of. Well, as soon as I made that choice, like a bull in a china store, life reminded me that it's not that easy. Again, I found myself in a situation where fellow human beings felt entitled to using my drunk and blacked out body. That memory is hard for me to bring up to this day; I still don't know how many there were that night. What hurts the most is knowing that some of those men were men in uniform, my brothers.... This was before "Don't Ask Don't Tell", so I did what every other gay service member had done before me. I sucked it up, and went on pretending life was great because I was doing my country a great service. Soon after, I found my self alongside my fellow marines, as a corpsmen in Afghanistan. A decision I will never regret. I joined with the purpose in mind of going to war—I wanted to see what the newscasters weren't telling us...my thoughts on my experience there? I'll just say that my gunny's didn't want the "gay doc" on their missions, but I made sure my ass was on all of them— fuck that shit. 

It's primitively funny how humans choose to bandage up their emotional wounds with little threads of pseudo-happiness. Some of us find it when out shopping, in abusive relationships, cutting slits into their skin, sex addiction, beating their children, killing animals, becoming a perfectionist, OCD, extreme sports, at the bottom of a bottle of vodka, overdosing on pain killers. Or, in a pair of running shoes like I once used, but I now find it easier to bring a needle to my arm because after all of the cans of beans of I have been served, it's the only thing that feels good.

Being active duty and an addict has been a really rough road.  On one hand they want us to ask for help, but when we do, we are viewed as weak. When we start disappearing for our mental health appointments, all of a sudden, we become an inconvenience. I became an inconvenience to the Navy, so I was treated as such. Military has a funny way of dealing with our problems if we don't "HURRY UP AND GET BETTER," then they will find ways to just get rid of us. Unfortunately, the military has always glamorized alcohol: "Go get a drink or do anything to patch up your problems; just show up in uniform tomorrow and get the job done!" Well what happens when alcohol doesn't do it anymore? I went from running marathons, to running to the liquor store, to running drugs through my veins, to running out of reasons why I shouldn't love myself. 

Last night life served me a side of beans. I walked into my garage only to step in a puddle of water. My garage is like my "Manish Cave." lol I use it to store junk, as an art studio, and a place to store my artwork. Whatever!  There’s a couch in there, so that makes it a man cave! Anyway, I start feeling around, and EVERYTHING IS WET AND SOAKED THROUGH! So much so that the luggage I kept in there was filled on the inside with water. All my old sketches and paintings gone! Most importantly though, some of the paintings I had for the group exhibition show Pancakes & Booze next week on the 15th are ruined and the frames warped...

So, I can't quite reach up and grab that four-course meal just yet, but I am closer to it than when I started. Everything we endure is a step closer to becoming a super human. There have been numerous occasions where friends have confided their problems in me, and I was able to help them because I HAD BEEN THROUGH IT. Think of it like this, we go through all the things we go through in life, just so we can become lifeguards, ready to bring a fellow human back to shore.

 TO ALL MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS IN ARMS WHO ARE SWIMMING IN THE DEEP END WITH ME...IT'S OK TO ASK FOR HELP. YOU ARE NOT ALONE, AND EVEN THOUGH OUR BANDAGES AND SCARS ARE DIFFERENT. WE ALL BLEED THE SAME. YOU ARE NOT ALONE.