#buckbucky fic

[triggerlil]

little snip/drabble for my post-war WIP

His palms sweat–the receiver slipping in his grip–and he crumples the yellow sticky note Rosie gave him in his fist. What time is it in Japan? Crackling static and a few unbearable moments later, that deep voice and wannabe New Yorker accent he’d recognize across every ocean: “Hello?” 

Gale’s voice breaks before he even speaks: “John–” 

“Buck.” John is saying; breathless, ecstatic. “Gale.” 

“It’s, she's.” He can’t say her name without unraveling. “Marge's gone. Funeral in a week. I can’t–” 

John doesn’t even pause to think about it. “I’ll be there, you hear me Buck?” 

Maybe he’s doing wrong by Marge, but he’s always done wrong by John. He can't let it happen again. They haven’t spoken in a year, the guilt is unbearable, but it slips out like a broken prayer: “Please.” 

“First flight I can get. It’s gonna be alright.”

Gale wants to say thank you but it’s caught in his throat so he uses what feels like ancient code. “Don’t count on it.” 

“You bet your ass I’m counting on it, don’t you die on me before I get over there. Now it’s four in the morning for me. You alone? Got anyone coming over?” 

Through the grief, Gale can’t help smiling at John being a mother hen for the first time in his life. “Rosie will be over soon, don’t worry about me.” 

“Can’t help it. I’ll see you soon, Buck.” 

It's like popping the tab on a cool beer, fitting in the last puzzle piece, or sending a letter that changes everything. Once he says it there's no going back, but everything will be better off because of it. "Bucky, thank you."

“Course.” 

Neither of them wants to hang up, silence stretching over the line, but eventually, Gale hears the receiver click on the other end. Marge is gone and Gale feels broken, but Bucky is coming home. He's coming home to him and Gale's going to do it right this time.

[johnslittlespoon]

You're A Dog (I'm Your Man)

Ch. 4/7 – 'How Long Do I Have Left With My Dog?'

[WC: 20K | Gale Cleven/John Egan, Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Requited Unrequited Love]

John Egan loves like a dog.

[AO3 LINK]

[alienoresimagines]

can you write [knuckles] for a kiss on the hand? thank you!!

I'm sorry this took so long, I hope you're still around 🥺❤️But here it is, 1.8k long despite my best efforts at keeping it under 1k 😅 I hope you'll like it 💕 Also on AO3 My other Clegan fics here

Never Coming Down (With Your Hand In Mine) | Buck x Bucky

The radio they managed to find doesn't tell them much of interest regarding the Allies’ troops and their progress, but writing any tidbits of information down gives John something to focus on that isn't this camp, this life that isn't really a life but that isn't death either, just some in-between that John is stuck in, unable to do anything or be useful. One foot in the grave and every day wishing a bit more it was both. In the darkest corner of his mind, he thinks that perhaps his death would save Gale from tiring himself to the bone trying to keep John tethered to Earth. Maybe, at least then, he could be useful to Buck. 

The thought is squashed away almost immediately, guilt crawling in his throat. Those few days after Gale had gone down over Bremen were the worst in John's life. The certainty that he was now a piece of something that would never be whole again, with no home to fight for anymore, had been the most excruciating pain John's ever known. Over the course of just a few months, he’s lost more friends than he can count, each loss cutting deeper. But losing Gale hadn’t just felt like losing a limb. From the moment Red’s distorted voice reached his ears through the phone - “He went down swinging, John” - he was an empty shell walking, his chest hollow with no heart, some vital part of him missing. No matter how miserable this camp makes him, wishing such agony on his best friend, his better half is unbearable. If only to spare Gale any additional pain, he’ll plant both feet in the mud until they stop trying to get him closer to that barbed-wire fence. 

Yet, despite desperately wishing Gale out of harm’s way, his being chained to the dirt with him is John’s saving grace. In the darkness of the Stalag, Gale shines brighter than the North Star, and John fights every day to keep himself from the fog in his head to grasp at this soft golden light. It's easier at night, the weight of Gale in his arms a grounding presence, the distinct smell of him feeling more and more like home, but John is starting to make it through some days always there too. Listening to the radio also helps, especially when most days, it's just him and Gale at the table, the others keeping watch on the guards from outside. Soon it'll be too cold for them to do so without it being suspicious or dangerous for their own health, but for now, John is glad he gets to spend more time alone with Gale. His ma always said he fights tooth and nail for those he loves, and right now, he's desperately grasping at the fading rays of sunlight, selfishness be damned.

Today, the BBC doesn't have any interesting news to keep hold of his attention for long, so he mostly scribbles down what he hears without making sense of the words strung together, too focused on the solid presence of Buck on his right. With both of them being right-handed, it would have been too much of a hindrance to be pressed close enough for their shoulders to touch, but their knees knock together every so often, like silent banter. It sends sparks of warmth down John's spine, the focused tilt of Gale's mouth only amusing him in his boredom. In the past five minutes, he's sent his knee against Gale's in soft presses, alternating between lingering and fleeting touches until the word B-U-C-K is successfully floating in the air, though the man himself seems entirely unaware of it, tongue darting between his lips in concentration. Bucky's debating coding G-A-L-E, just to see if the rare occurrence of his given name will snap the other out of his focus when said man grunts softly as he scribbles, pencil scratching the paper as it nears the edge. John mindlessly hands him a blank piece of paper, more than attuned to all the different ways the other has to ask for something without voicing his desires, eyes trained on the stray blond curl falling on Buck’s forehead. Without lifting his eyes from his piece of paper, Gale extends a pale hand to take John's offering, the contact of their fingers sending a jolt through John's blood. He lets out a yelp, slightly jerking back before diving in to hold Gale's hands between his own, Buck's sound of confusion and protest as his pencil is thrown out of his hold swallowed by John's cursing.

"Jesus, Buck, your hands are fuckin' freezing." John doesn't feel particularly warm but the difference in temperature between both their hands is such that he half-expects the air to start hissing. How Gale can still move his fingers is a mystery to him, and his gut goes tight with worry. Trying to rub warmth back into those hands, John brings them to his face so that he can blow hot air on long fingers. He's deeply aware of how intimate the gesture is, especially in a place like this, and he can feel heat rising to his cheeks but he focuses stubbornly on his task. Keeping his eyes on those hands he’s never held so close to his face is a necessary precaution to ensure he doesn’t dismiss any inch of skin in his mission to warm them enough that he doesn’t have to worry about them falling off, and it has the additional effect of allowing John to study them without fearing being caught.

Gale's hands truly are beautiful. They've always been, and in the years he's known the other, John has spent more time than he probably should have admiring them. How they wrap in a strong grip around the yolk to wield a metal fortress effortlessly, how long, slender fingers bring a toothpick to the plump curve of his lips. Calluses on fingers and rough palms that were still so gentle and kind when they tended to John's wounds just a few months ago. Today, they look frail and dry, the knuckles angry red and cracked from the cold. It hurts to even look at them, those hands that were more suited for piano and gently guiding horses across fields now cracked by misery and cold. Acting on an urge, he presses a kiss to the knuckles of both, a silent promise to warm them and get them better, to get them far from weapons and barbed fences, and back to horses and piano and books.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Gale blinking owlishly at him, perfectly still. Between them, the radio crackles, words floating in the air but never making it to any paper. After a few more seconds, Gale's voice rises too, soft despite his usual deep southern drawl.

"I need my hands back, Bucky." John frowns, still rubbing his palms over Gale's hands to warm them. Admittedly, he knows Gale can't write with his foot, even though imagining it almost makes him smile, but really, nothing the BBC is broadcasting right now is worth the risk of Gale losing his hands to the cold. Unconsciously, he brings Gale's hands closer to his face, just shy of nuzzling them with the tip of his nose, already thinking of all the ways he could get them warm. It would be, like many things, easier at night. With the cold, everybody has taken up to sharing a bunk and no one would notice if Gale's hands were pressed to his skin, under his shirt. Even though the thought of those icicles against more sensitive skin than his palms isn't exactly a pleasant one, he'd do it in a heartbeat. For the day, when it would be too risky for John to hold Gale's hands in his pockets, maybe he could find him some gloves, at least make mittens out of socks, to soften the blow of the cold and the sting of the wind. 

"Bucky ?" Eyes snapping to Gale's, he finds him with his head slightly tilted to the side, cheeks red from the cold. It's then he realizes he still has both of Gale's hands in his. The other looks at him and then back at his paper before raising his brows in a silent question, making John huff. Reluctantly, he lets go of Gale's right hand but immediately cradles his left hand on his lap. He hopes Gale will be satisfied with this, but the other keeps looking at him insistently, a fond glint in his eyes but brows slightly furrowed, as if his left hand being held in both of John's is a math problem he can’t solve.

At the silent question, he rolls his eyes and makes a show of putting his own left hand on the upper part of Gale's paper, making sure it doesn't move from its spot on the table. The paper is smooth against his fingertips, contrasting with the rough feel of the wooden table that has given them more than their fair share of splinters on his palm. He misses the feeling of Gale’s hands in his. For a moment, he had felt whole in a way he usually only feels at night. Gale's hand is starting to get warmer in his, the skin rough from the cold, but John has never held something as delicate and precious as it, save for Gale himself.

Resting their joined hands on his lap, he intertwines their fingers and fights down the blush he can feel creeping up his neck, eyes resolutely on the paper in front of the other. There’s no reason to feel nervous, they’ve slept in each other’s arms so often by now it really shouldn’t matter, but something about the fact that this isn’t about survival forces him to take a deep breath before moving. With one slide over the bench, his side is pressed to Gale’s, shoulders rising and falling in tandem. He’s glad to notice that Buck isn’t as cold as his hands, warmth seeping from his side to John’s as rapidly as the tension leaves the set of his shoulders until he’s pressing back into John.

They'll work slower like that but Gale doesn't protest nor take his hand away, only resettling slightly so his thigh also rests against John’s. Tentatively, he risks a glance at Gale and finds him looking down at the table, face still red but from something John has an inkling isn't the cold anymore, biting his bottom lip softly but mouth nonetheless quirked upwards. It takes every ounce of strength and self-restraint in him not to kiss him, to smother the affection blooming in his chest. Instead, after a bit of silence in which he feels he might suffocate on pent-up love, John squeezes Gale's hand in his and the other seems to focus back on his task, startled. Clearing his throat, Gale starts scribbling again, pointedly avoiding looking to his left, but John doesn't mind, a smile spreading his cracked lips, fondness written plain on his face as he doesn’t look away for a second.

On his lap, Gale squeezes his hand back.

[jakes3resin]

I know I promised Blonde Bucky soon, but can I interest anyone in Hallucination Bucky instead?

It's the jacket.

Bucky loved that stupid, awful, never clean monstrosity. Once it had be a pale cream, Gale's sure. Time and Bucky's usual ability to take care of himself and his things had quickly seen that the cream yellowed.

Buck had hated it. Gale still hates it.

"C'mon Buck," A familiar voice. "It's not that bad. You just have no eye for style."

Gale twitches towards the voice before he can stop himself. It's old habit, one that refuses to die.

"Jack took good care of it, don't you think? Even managed to get the worst of the staining out." Hands stretch out into Gale's line of sight reaching for his own. A flash of a sleeve. Gale turns his head. A sigh into his left ear. "Buck, please I'm sorry, okay? I know its hard, but I'm trying."

Gale shakes his head. He keeps his eyes on the horizon. Ken's leading his boys through a few repairs. Beyond him, pilots run training flights. Beyond them, Gale can't see but imagines a world holding it's breath. But perhaps he's just projecting.

"I should have been with you." The voice is mournful this time, a contrast to its usual vibrancy but one Gale has heard frequently the last few months. "Buck, please."

Gale turns a page in his book. He's heard this pleading before. There's nothing to forgive. He was never left behind.

"Buck, I'm sorry. Please, I shouldn't have gone to London. Forgive me?"

"Major Cleven?" A lieutenant Gale doesn't recognize walks up to him, not that Gale recognizes most of the men on base nowadays. They're all so new, and none of them let him forget the people they replaced. He stands just enough to Gale's left that he has to turn his head back. He keeps his eyes on the lieutenant.

"Apologies for interupting. I was sent to bring you to a briefing with Kidd."

"Not interupting a thing." Gale can hear the huff from the other, knows that if he turned his head just a degree he'd see hands on hips and rolled eyes. A yellow jacket that he hates. He slowly shuts his book not caring enough to mark the page. He hadn't read a word of it anyway.

"Not a problem," Gale lets the lieutenant guide him as if it was he that was new to Thorpe Abbotts. "Is this about the ceasefire?"

"I'm not sure, sir." The lieutenant won't meet his eye.

"It's gotta be!" Gale pretends the stutter in his step is the uneven gravel under his feet not the voice in his ear. "Jack better let you back in the air, I'm not missing this!"

"Here you are Major," The lieutenant's farewell is professional and respectful, Gale's is lackluster.

Jack's waiting for him. Gale can't look at him without remembering.

"Bucky would want you to have this."

The memory hits him like punch to the gut. He breathes out, air rattling around in a harsh burst he refuses to call a grunt. Jack doesn't notice, or if he does, he's good enough to not mention it.

"I've got you scheduled for a couple training flights starting tomorrow." Jack picks up a few different documents glancing through each before replacing them. He lists of a few times that Gale quietly memorizes. Jack won't meet Gale’s eye.

"Any word on the Germans?" Gale sees a hand reach out to tug a discarded document closer. A familiar sleeve comes into view, sheepskin ragged and dirty. He rips his eyes away.

"Not yet," Jack finally looks at Gale. "Smokey said you're good to go."

It's not a question, but Gale answers like it is.

"He did."

"Fit as a fiddle, though I still think he needs to gain a few more pounds."

Gale leans over the table too used to this chatter now. The documents Jack had been looking over are supply lists. The one tugged to the edge of the desk lists incoming flights from Paris.

"When would we go up?" Gale shudders as a familiar weight settles next to him intently reading the lists as well. Gale inches away.

"As soon as we get everyone trained up." Jack pulls out a map for Gale to look at. "Waiting for a few more shipments from the ports as well, but they'll be here before you're in the air tomorrow. All goes well, we'll be ready in a few days."

"Good," Gale pulls away. The voice to his side stays silent, but Gale doesn't look. It'll only makes things worse he's learned.

"That's all. Rosie will grab you tomorrow, so don't worry about anything else."

Gale nods taking the unspoken dismissal. Turning, his eyes jump to his left unbidden as someone drops something, instincts screaming at him to find the threat. An old yellow jacket fills his vision.

"How about some dinner Buck?" A bright grin graces familiar lips. "I'm sure the chow here will beat anything the Germans can make."

The idea of food turns his stomach, but he knows he needs to eat. Others will notice if he skips dinner, and he doesn't want his health called into question. He looks away.

"See you at dinner?" Gale turns back to Jack. The other's eyes watch him.

"Sure Buck," Jack puts down his papers. "Let's walk over now. You wouldn't believe the lines these days."

"That a fact?"

Jack falls into step at his right side Gale notices. A hand grips his left shoulder.

"Good job Buck." The touch fades away. A weight settles over his chest.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Rosie and Crosby join them, but no one seems to be in a jovial or talking mood. They're all so tired that a quiet farewell is the most any of them talk.

It's the silence Gale hates most, after that jacket, of course. He darts a look to his left, but he finds only Rosie, who meets his gaze with a small smile that Gale tries to return. He's not sure how he manages.

Gale avoids his bunk after dinner. Night has finally grabbed hold of the base, but he keeps away from his bed, from his trunk. From the trunk not his own under his bed gathering dust. He thinks of the jacket locked away there, unable to be returned to its rightful owner. He knows what awaits him there and turns away when the others head towards their quarters. He'll sleep another time.

The hardstands are quiet. No one's out wandering like him. The crews have been working all day to get the planes ready, and Gale's sure they're all glad to be prepping these planes for mercy rather than war.

Still, the silence unnerves him.

"Buck," A faint whisper in his ear. A hand clutching at his left shoulder. The sleeve of a jacket he knows in his peripheries. Gale shudders out his next breathe as tears prick at his eyes.

It's not John. He knows that. He's spent days telling himself to look away, to pretend he can't hear anything. Because he knows John is still somewhere in Germany. John is with the men. John is fine.

He's held tight to that mantra these last few days. Whispered it to himself at night when he can't sleep, in the morning when he wakes from nightmares, and the moments in between. John is with the men. John is fine. John isn't next to him, Gale knows this. John isn't kneeling down gently taking Gale's cold hands in his warm ones.

Because he knows that John wouldn't smile at him the way he is now. Gale wouldn't deserve it.

He can't remember slumping to the ground, but he'll remember the sad smile he receives forever. Blue eyes pinched but still so clear as they stare at him. Full cheeks so different from the ones Gale last saw. Tears fall down his own cheeks as he remembers how John started to fade away during those long winter months. His frame thinner each day, but here there's no trace of hunger. It's just him. Just a familiar smile and an old jacket Gale used to hate. An old jacket he can't bear to look at.

"I don't blame you." The words fall into his ears even as Gale shakes his head. They won't stop. "I wanted you out of there more than I wanted to get out. I swear it Buck."

"I can't." Gale sobs out. He tries to breathe, but his tears take precedence. "You should be here. Not me."

"No!"

Hands reach up wiping away his tears. Gale wonders how something so warm could exist when he's so cold, as if the sun had burrowed into one man's very being as winter burrowed into his.

"You deserve it Buck!" Gale shakes his head, but the voice repeats, firmer this time. "You deserve it Buck. If you can't believe it, I'll believe enough for both of us."

"I should have made you go first." Gale says. Tears slip from his eyes. The dam he's been holding back for so long finally broken. "I should have chosen a better time. If I'd just-!"

"You can't control everything Buck." Said with such a sad smile, Gale wants to scream.

"I could have been shot by that guard. Or I could have been the one killed in those woods." The words shock Gale to his core. "If you let me go ahead of you or you changed the order, anything could have happened. None of it in your control."

Calloused hands wipe away his tears. Gale shudders out his next breathe.

"I forgive you Gale."

"No," Gale rasps out. This wasn't what he wanted. This wasn't right. He doesn't deserve this. "You can't."

"I forgive you for going before me." Another tear wiped away.

"I forgive you for not looking back." A hand cups his cheek.

"I forgive you for making it out of there." A kiss placed on his cheek just on his scar.

"I forgive you for leaving me behind." A forehead pressed against his own.

"I forgive you Gale Winston Cleven."

Gale sobs. An old off cream jacket settles over his shoulders. He swears he can still feel the warmth of its owner. He hates it.

"I forgive you."

[middlingmay]

The Buckies nearly get caught (Part 1)

The only feeling better than flying was John Egan fucking his tongue into Gale’s mouth.

What was supposed to be a fun, quick writing exercise has turned into a series with multiple parts. Brevity? Never heard of her.

Anyway, here's the first (not smutty but still spicy) part that kicks off the Buckies' predilection for nearly getting caught in compromising positions.

NSFW under the cut.

The only feeling better than flying was John Egan fucking his tongue into Gale’s mouth.

He should have known Bucky kissed with everything he had - just like he did everything else. He was a man who didn’t know how to half-ass anything. That competence was one of the things that had Gale staring so hard in the first place. So hard, that Bucky finally noticed.

But basic ran them ragged and finding moments alone was always difficult, but they usually managed to sneak away for something. Lately though, it had been nearly impossible. And every time they found a precious few moments alone, and Bucky got that burning look, or Buck gave that smile that somehow no one saw how filthy it really was, they were interrupted before either one of them could do a damn thing about it.

It had gotten to the point that Jack had pulled Gale aside one day and said, “I don’t know what you two have had a falling out over, but Bucky has been unbearable. You better fix it, before the COs lose their minds. And stop glaring at him in the mess hall; the men are starting to take bets which one is going to crack and punch the other one out first.”

He’d marched off leaving Gale blinking in the corridor.

So, pent up and desperate and apparently causing disruption amongst the boys, Gale had ordered John the find them a place they wouldn’t be interrupted, which led them here: a closet door at Gale’s back and John Egan gripping the back of his head in one hand and his throat with the other, delving his tongue into Gale’s mouth so deep and so good he was struck fuckin’ dumb and could only stand there and take it.

John’s hips pulsed to the rhythm of his kiss and Gale was so hard his cock jumped with every thrust of John’s clothed hips, and he was soaking through to his standard issue pants with the way John had him dripping.

John reluctantly pulled back, and the sound his tongue made as it left Gale’s mouth was wet, slick, and loud in the narrow space of the closet. It made Gale groan deep from his belly. John’s chest heaved, gulping in lungfuls of air as he rested his forehead against Gale’s and pinned Gale’s hips against the door with his hands. Gale hadn’t noticed how he’d been rutting up into John’s hardness.

“Fuck, fuck. Wait, wait, wait, waitwait. Gale, you gotta stop, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come.” John whispered frantically against Gale’s lips and Gale moaned and flicked out his tongue to lick into John’s open mouth, before curling it back into his own and savouring the taste of John.

“S’a problem?” Gale asked, drunk on his arousal. “Gotta be quick, Bucky. Come on,” he grabbed John’s belt and tugged him in. “Give it me.”

“Jesus,” John prayed and his palms hit the door as he bit up the column of Gale’s throat, lips thrumming with the rumble of Gale’s deep voice. “God. Hold up, just—” he panted against Gale’s ear. “I haven’t come in my pants from a bit of kissing since…fuck. I don’t if I ever have. Ohmygod—”

Gale’s fingers had deftly worked open John’s belt and popped the button on his pants, creating just enough give for Gale to dip his hands down the back of them and grab a handful of John’s ass. He dug his blunt nails into the meat of it and drove John hard into the line of his cock.

They both whined at the contact, so hot and worked up it was aching somewhere near painful, and it finally broke John’s resolve. He grabbed a handful of Gale’s thigh and hitched his leg over his hip for leverage and—

“He said it was a closet in the hut by Barracks C.”

The voice was close, and Gale and John locked their muscles still with the quickness of trained men.

“This isn’t a hut; it’s a shack,” said another voice. “Come on Butler, there’s nothing here. Just look at it.”

“Turner. I am not getting into trouble for you again. Just—look. There’s a closet there. You check that, whilst I look down here.”

John and Gale stared at each other at the footsteps came closer. The read the fear and horror in each other’s eyes. There was no way to explain away what they were doing here. And yet…

Gale felt the throb of John’s cock twitch against his own as the footsteps sounded just outside the door. Gale’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he bit his lip to tamp down on the ungodly noise it almost unleashed from within him.

John’s voice was barely a whisper at his ear. “Holy fuck, oh my god.” His hips rolled in tiny pulses, barely a movement, but enough to spark up the tinder the voices had dampened.

The voice called through the door. “I heard Kidd found a family of rats in a disused closet; I hate rats! There’s not going to be anything here!”

Gale’s hand squeezed hard at the back of John’s neck. “God, you gotta stop, John.”

But John knew him better than anyone except maybe Marge. And he was learning to read him real good. John looked him in the eye for all of two seconds before he muttered low in his ear. “Do you really want me to stop?”

Gale’s heart stuttered in his chest. His belly dropped out and he looked at John and knew he saw the answer written all over Gale’s face. No.

The door handle jerked at his back and Gale felt and flush of precome spurt from his cock.

“Got it!” Came a further off voice and footsteps running up the corridor. The handle at Gale’s back was released. The voice on the other side was so close, they heard his sigh of relief.

“Thank God for that. Let’s go.”

“Big baby, frightened of some rats.”

The two bickering men faded into the distance.

Gale and John panted harshly in the quiet. That was close. That was too fucking close. That had to stop; calm themselves down, neaten themselves up, and stop.

John’s eyes darted down to Gale’s lips.

“Fuck.” Gale tightened his arms around John and jumped so he could wrap his other leg around John’s waist, too. John who’d never missed one of his beats caught him and pushed him up against the door and rutted into him so hard, the door rocked and banged at Gale’s back with every stroke.

“Fuckin’ close—”

“Too close, baby. Fuck.”

They gasped and moaned and talked filthy into each other’s open mouths, rocketing towards that precipice.

“Ah, fuck! M’gonna—”

“Nearly caught us, Nearly saw you come against me.”

“Shit!”

Gale’s vision whitened and his orgasm ripped through him. His head hit the back of the door and John pushed against him so violently as he rode his own finish, Gale felt the imprint of the handle embed into his skin. It pulled another string of come from his cock and a whimper from his throat.

He was unsure how long they stayed there, jolting from the aftershocks. But Gale’s thighs started to tremble, and John carefully set him down without pulling away from placing fluttering kisses along his neck.

Gale was grateful. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was upright from his own power, or the weight of John pinning him against the door.

“That was…”

“Unexpected?”

“Yeah.”

The laughed into each other’s skin and John pulled back and touched the tips of their noses together.

“Discovering all kinds of things about myself with you, Buck.”

And Gale was loathe to break the moment, but there was more than one realisation he’d come to, now he was coming down from their high.

“Know what else I discovered?” he said to John.

“You’re a filthy bastard?”

“That too.”

John grinned. “What?”

Gale pressed him lips together. “We just came in our pants and still gotta walk back to the barracks.”

“Ah, fuck.”

[hauntingcontradiction]

You must learn to love, to love always and love entirely

(Part 3 of my series “Some nights you are the sea, some nights you are the lighthouse.”)

4k of domesticity, acts of service, sharing food as a love language, service!bottom John. Rated E.

John’s love language is acts of service. After the war, John wants to take care of Gale and be cared for by him.

Although John has had an abundance of white bread and fresh eggs since returning stateside to fill up his belly, he hasn’t been able to bear the loneliness of eating without Gale or the rest of his men. It is a pleasure now to prepare food for Gale, to perform this act of service as if he can nourish and sustain Gale

AO3 Link

[amiserableseriesofevents]

I think the love I bear you should make you not to die

They look for each other through space and time, through wars, through lifetimes. Even if they don't know it, they're always pulled closer by something grander than them.

And every time they find each other, a spark catches. Sometimes it’s just that, a spark — it lingers, or gets smothered, never fully grows into a flame.

Other times, it blooms. The fire roars, engulfs their lives, burns through them too hot and too quick. It never lasts.

Until it does.

[majorbuckyegan]

He stretched over to take the letter, a frown crossing his face as he looked down at the name across the envelope. - Maj. John "Bucky" Egan. (x)

[meyerlansky]

dancing cheek to cheek (to cheek) (7563 words) by littlelansky chapters: 1/1 fandom: Masters of the Air (TV 2024) rating: Explicit warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply relationships: Curtis Biddick/Gale "Buck" Cleven/John Clarence "Bucky" Egan, Curtis Biddick/John Clarence "Bucky" Egan, Curtis Biddick/Gale "Buck" Cleven, Gale "Buck" Cleven/John Clarence "Bucky" Egan characters: Curtis Biddick, John Clarence "Bucky" Egan, Gale "Buck" Cleven additional tags: Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Internalized Homophobia, (it's light though dw), Canon Compliant, Dom/sub Undertones, Dirty Talk, Anal Sex, Hand Jobs, Making Out, Drunk Sex, Whiskey Dick, POV Curtis Biddick series: Part 1 of three bluebirds summary:

If Bucky’s with Curt, he’s with him. No biting back another guy’s name, no faraway look in his eyes. It’d probably have made the whole thing easier if there had been.

Because when Bucky’s boy rolls in, Curt takes one look at him and whistles low.

“I was lowballin’ it on ‘twice as pretty,’ huh,” he mutters to Bucky, quiet enough no one else can hear. He scowls, played-up, to counter the stupid grin on Bucky’s face. “And you just let me. Some friend you are.”

(In which Curt catches feelings twice.)

[read it on ao3!]

[oatflatwhite]

what took you so long part 4, only a few months late <3

tags/stats under the cut

[sleepy-hyperfixations]

5 times bucky made people injure themselves by simply being too pretty and the many times buck almost maimed people for having the audacity to look at bucky being pretty

[triggerlil]

i bet God heard you coming

It humbles Gale all over again how the world keeps going. When he'd returned home from the war and the horses at the Spencers' stables still nuzzled into his palm, when Marge died and the sun still set pink over the cottonwoods across the fields. Now John was gone, and the birds still trilled excitedly in the early morning mist.

1.9k, also on AO3

It's one of the first warm nights of Spring when Gale looks at John for the last time. Sure, he has photos: the one John gave him that's long since creased from the amount of times Gale's held it, the hoarded newspaper clippings with smudged smirks and group shots around the planes where faces blurred. But this was his last moment seeing him in person, and despite the sadness that claws at his chest and grips his heart, he wants to remember everything. The dark sweep of curls across John's forehead, the crooked part of his nose from an unclean break, the small scars and marks that pepper his skin (which only ever made him more handsome), long still eyelashes the ghosts of which seemed to flutter now against Gale’s cheek. He absentmindedly brushes the sensation away, the raw skin under his eyes stinging, and his hand comes away wet with tears. He would’ve figured he had none left. 

He needed to make this quiet moment count because of all the things he’d never committed to memory. The blue of John’s eyes was already fading, would the tenor of his laugh be next? Would it only be the horror that stayed? The way John looked with blood splattered across his face, the sound of his shouts when he’d woken panting, the smell of gunpowder and death? If nightmares were the only parts of John he could salvage, that was better than nothing. 

He settles a hand over where John’s are folded across his stomach, wedding ring new enough that parts still shine. He knows he’s cold, but Gale sucks in a breath when he touches John’s cheek. It's as cold as when they marched.

“How’d we get here, huh?” He whispers, shaky. He’s going to have to move on soon, let others take their time. No one would interrupt him, but he can’t handle it much longer anyhow. The silence closes in and the overwhelming perfume of flowers starts to make him feel sick. He wants to sit John up and hug him so tightly he breaks his ribs, shake him until his bones fall out so Gale can finally accept the truth. “You weren't supposed to die on me, John.” 

He feels panic start to rise in his throat, bile and tar, he takes one long last look: there are the freckles he’d counted, the strong jaw he’d held, lips he’d ran the pad of his thumb over, broad shoulders and arms that’d wrapped around him, a chest he’d once seen rise and fall. He wrenches himself away before he can choose to stay and walks quickly back through the wake and out to the lawn. He should say something to Josephine, but he doesn’t know how. He hadn’t wanted to be around anyone when Marge died—except John. It’s late, the funeral is tomorrow afternoon, he’ll say something then. Gale sits on the pavement and waits for Esther to say goodbye for the both of them. Not for the first time he wishes he smoked. He settles for taking a toothpick and fiddling it between his teeth. Esther touches his shoulder gently as the crickets start singing, and they drive back to their hotel without talking.

The air is cool the next morning when Gale goes for a jog. The shock has worn off somewhat; he no longer has an excuse to stay indoors and wallow. Regardless it wouldn’t be a good look, grown men don’t grieve like widows over their best friends. Even if said friend should’ve had plenty of time left. It humbles Gale all over again how the world keeps going. When he'd returned home from the war and the horses at the Spencers' stables still nuzzled into his palm, when Marge died and the sun still set pink over the cottonwoods across the fields. Now John is gone, and the birds still trill excitedly in the early morning mist. His feet still strike the ground as his breath turns ragged and he has to bend over at the side of the road to dry heave and swallow hungry gulps of air. He shuffles back to the hotel and into the shower, listens to Esther get up and start dressing, singing under her breath. His wet hair dripping onto the back of her neck, he helps with the clasp on the pearl necklace he’d given her before they left. He wants to feel some part of Marge beside him today. Esther had been hesitant to accept at first, but Gale knew Marge would’ve liked to see it worn again. She would’ve wanted him to be happy. Tough luck, he thinks. She and John had made that pretty difficult. 

A few years older than Gale, Esther had lost someone herself. Her first husband had been shot off one of the beaches in Normandy and swallowed by the ocean. It’s unfortunately part of why they work so well together—they both know this isn’t their one great love, but it’s comforting and safe. They’ve talked a lot about the past, but Esther doesn’t know about John. No one knows about John. No one will ever know about he and John. Esther fastens the buttons on his service dress when his hands start shaking too much and goes on tiptoe to place a kiss under his eye. He wants to tell her she looks beautiful in black, but can’t get the words out, so he just takes her hand and doesn’t let go, even as they drive. 

“He was a good man,” Gale ends up saying. “I’ll always remember him.” It’s lame in comparison to the vastness of both their grief, but Josephine still clasps his hands, hugs Esther, and thanks them for coming all this way. 

Then they’re moving on, and Gale is speaking consoling words he can’t hear to John’s two daughters, who have so much of his playfulness in their features that he can barely stand it. Esther is calmly leading him to their seats, saying something, and he nods despite not understanding anything. The first speech is lost to the rushing of blood in his ears. He’s supposed to get up and say something, he has his speech tucked into his breast pocket, but his vision has tunneled down to nothing but the casket and the knowledge that John is in it. 

Yesterday was the last day he’d ever see John again. Esther squeezes his hand and he realizes it’s his turn. He somehow stands in front of the familiar faces of grief and talks about how John helped him get through the war, as if that’s even half of it. He can’t say he wishes he’d been there when John was five and scraped both knees falling off his bike, just so he could shush and console him, or how he would’ve held ice to every black eye John got fighting after school. He can't say he remembers watching John smoke outside the barracks and the swoop in his stomach when everything clicked. He can’t explain that John is someone he’s always known, that when he died he took a part of Gale with him. His voice cracks only once, and then he’s in his seat and doesn't remember walking back over. Esther takes his hand again, and she will never know just how deep his grief goes. He will never tell her about nights in the Stalag when it was so cold everyone was sharing bunks, but those were also the only nights he actually slept, drifting off to the comforting length of John's body pressed against his. Gale will take to his own grave how John came running after Marge died, sleeping together again—cramped on the couch because Gale couldn’t stand to be in the master bedroom—or the one brief moment they’d had alone before John’s wedding, Gale straightening John’s collar and running his fingers through the scruff of hair at the nape of his neck. They will never have any of that again, and Gale somehow has to find a way to live with it. He has to survive for the both of them, now. 

The air feels muggy with promised rain as guests trickle out of the funeral home. The Egan grandchildren run around on the grass, unaware of what they’ve lost, and their innocent screams carve a hole out of his stomach. He stops to talk to some of the other men from the 100th who were able to come, but he mostly nods and avoids their pitying stares. They invite him out for drinks tonight, in John’s honor. Hotel checkout is at 0900, but  by now he’s used to late nights and early mornings. Esther breaks away from the group of wives that have found themselves huddled around Josephine, and they drive somewhere for a coffee. 

“Are you going out tonight, for John?” She asks him.

He shrugs, wishing his hands would burn to the sides of this chipped diner mug he's holding.

“It’s been so long since any of the girls have seen each other, Josephine wants us over for wine later. You’d figure she’d be too exhausted, but I think she likes the distraction.” 

“Her and John always had that in common.” 

Esther stifles a laugh and pretends to cough. 

“I said I’d only go if I wasn’t leaving you alone.” 

Gale weighs his options. Stay in with Esther and feel guilty and sorry for himself, lie just to be alone, or go out with the men who are the closest to understanding what he and John had. 

“I’ll probably go out, just for a bit.” 

She nods, sipping her coffee. One milk and one sugar as opposed to Gale’s black; Marge liked just milk, and John was always two milk and enough sugar to rot your teeth. The steam tickles his face and the coffee tastes like every funeral he’s attended—bitter yet familiar. They decide to spend what’s left of the day at the cinema, and he runs his thumb along Esther’s wrist as they sit in the dark. He gets absorbed enough in the story he forgets where he is, the repetitive touch lulling him into the past. He’s at the local theatre in Wyoming watching an unbearably sappy romance with Marge, he’s in the barracks next to John smiling slyly around a toothpick while they bump knees and the men shout profanity at the projection. 

He doesn’t drink that night, the first and last time will always be that swig from John’s flask on VE-Day, but when he’s walking home down unfamiliar streets he fishes out a cigarette he got from a stranger at the bar. He exhales slow, lets the cloud of smoke envelope him in the familiar scent he’d come to associate with John. The rush to his head is a bit like flying a plane, the calm reminiscent of the sky stretching out before him, and he understands how people get addicted. He walks past a church and squints in the dark. He’s never been very religious—doesn’t count the desperate prayers to any God listening while enemy territory rushed towards him—wasn’t raised on it and never bothered. He takes a shuddering inhale and watches the embers burning down towards his fingers. He gazes at the cross atop the roof, silhouetted against the starry sky, and asks God for one last favour: if there is a Heaven, can Bucky be there waiting for him? He wants to see him at the pearly gaits, smirk playing on his boyish face, as he asks Gale what took him so long.

[johnslittlespoon]

lowkey been thinking about making a discord server for mota writers (or readers who wanna contribute ideas/just have fun reading brainrot), ik there are existing mota servers but i feel like having one geared towards queer fic/writing specifically would be nice to have, since there are a lot for rp/x reader/general fandom already? open for more info if you're curious! vv

i'd love to have a personal space for everyone in there, like maybe having a specific channel for each writer (if they want it) so if anyone's keen on seeking out fic updates or reading ab wips and stuff from certain authors, it's easy to navigate. but then general channels too for brainrot, writing help, drabbles, collab seeking, requests/prompt fills, chatting, music recs, etc!

+ tag lists to choose from, like selecting whether you're a writer or reader or both, selecting what pairings you write for, basic things like age/pronouns, whether you want nsfw channels to be visible to you or not, all that sorta stuff. maybe fun monthly events too, like themed writing challenges, fic swaps, that kinda vibe? but also very casual and easygoing bc ik some servers can get overwhelming <3

i wouldn't post the link publicly, not to be exclusive tbc!! but bc i'd like to sus people out first to make sure there are no minors (personal preference since i'm sure there would be ample nsfw discussion for smut writing and headcanons lmaoo) or weirdos/trolls.

anyway! just been thinking ab this for a hot minute now, but with the summer approaching and probs a bit of a mota drought what with lots of the cast busy with other projects/promo, it feels like this might be a fun time to do smth like this. would love to know if there's any interest so ik whether it's worth putting the time into! and very open to brainstorming/suggestions/etc just lmk <3

– if this ends up being smth enough of us vibe with, i'll make another post once the server is made, but feel free to reply to this post or shoot me a message anyway if it's smth you'd like to be added to just so i can gauge interest. :)

[minyahrt]

i impulsively wrote a thing that spawned from accidentally thinking about two things next to each other!! pls enjoy

[jakes3resin]

Modern Reincarnation AU

"Sorry," Bucky grins, stepping out of the way. The other man stares up at him, blue eyes wide. "You alright there?" "Coffee for Buck!" The barista calls out behind them, jolting the other man out of his stupor. The man grabs the coffee. He thanks the barista in a rush, barely even looking at his coffee. He turns back to Bucky, lips pursed as he stares at him. His grip on his coffee, Bucky notes, is verging on too tight. The poor cup looks like it's going to crumple. Bucky smiles, gesturing for the other to walk by, but Buck just stands there. "Sorry, this is weird, but you look a lot like a guy I once knew from Wisconsin." Buck says, not once taking his eyes off of Bucky. "Also went by the name Bucky." "Wow," Bucky says. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "What a coincidence!"

You know those reincarnation AUs where one person remembers their shared past while the other doesn't? Well, what if only Buck remembered, and he met Bucky, who didn't?

[valstarsandgalaxies]

Black hole that fell in love with the Sun-chapter 4!!

Summary:

He's thinking too much now. He looks at the arguably small paper in front of him, takes the pencil sitting next to it and starts writing with his slight cursive.

Dear John,

....

Or

The Sun wants the Black hole to feel warmth and love again.

And the name for the chapter is: You tether me to earth like nothing else.

Tried something new and this chapter is from Gale's pov. I don't know it felt right to do it like this. GALE WROTE A LOVE LETTER TO JOHN GUYSS!!! I live for that shit, so that's why i wrote it lol.

Read on ao3

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