#stalag fight fic

[idle-soliloquy]

Snippet

'No set-up they just fuck' stalag fic in the works. Post-fight confrontation. Bucky's POV.

I am so (un)reasonably excited about this one.

“Make sure no one comes in, Benny.” 

Mouth agape, he looks over his shoulder to see DeMarco with his hand on the door handle. He cocks an eyebrow at John, and smiles benignly. “Sure thing, Major.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” John huffs. 

“I’m not,” Gale says through his teeth. “We’ve got to talk, and I don’t want anyone to interrupt. Benny’s gonna watch the kitchen door until we’re done.” 

John can feel a trickle of sweat run down his grimy back. “We’re gonna talk?” 

“Yes,” says Gale sternly, and DeMarco stifles a laugh. 

Cheeks burning, and with his stomach knotted to oblivion, John is dragged by the nape towards the compound kitchen. 

Things that will happen:

John's gonna cry.

Benny's gonna have to listen to some excruciating howling while standing guard at the door, but it's water off a duck's back, he's done it before (he secretly enjoys it).

Aside from that, I'm just going to see where the wind takes me.

[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.

[wandawxdow]

Masters of the Air fic recs

(*) = includes smut

gale ‘buck’ clevens x john ‘bucky’ egan

in london / on leave

bomber’s moon by moonrocks

in london, secret & established relationship, (*)

level-off manoeuvres by wormringers

together in london, (*)

dallas girls by hcneymooners

london, fluff and dash of angst

hurt/comfort & angst

good men die too / oh i’d rather be with you by moonrocks

grief/mourning, first kiss, injured!bucky

falling apart by cloudystars

post-mission hurt/comfort

Whatever Happens Tomorrow, We Had Today by MaShEd_Potat_os

angst, love confessions

a good dream by lilium

hurt/comfort, protective bf, 1x04 au

dear john by ForASecondThereWedWon

angst, love letters, 1x04, (*)

you’ll never be alone (i’ll be there for you) by tearsricochets

first kiss, pining, emotional hurt/comfort, 1x01-1x02

make you feel alive by signifier

emotional hurt/comfort, happy ending, presumed dead

it had to be you by MaShEd_Potat_os

post-war, angst with a happy ending, insecure!bucky

Another First by JoeyAlohaDream

(mild * mention), hurt!buck

stalag / imprisoned

greyspace by cloudystars

sick!bucky, protective!buck, hurt/comfort

night terrors by cloudystars

trauma, nightmares, hurt/comfort

I’ll Get By (As Long As I Have You) by JediRobertHogan

hurt/comfort, reunited

whatever you want me to do (i will do) by tkachukypls

angst, unrequited love, 1x07

scars by cloudystars

protective!bucky, fights, 1x07

You Put Your Arms Around Me (And I’m Home) by johnslittlespoon

fluff, sharing a bed, 1x07

Full Count by madeitsimple

angst and (*), 1x07-1x08, fights

judgement by the hounds by anonymous

1x08, hurt/comfort, fights, sharing a bed

Whatever you want me to do, I will do by Anonymous

john brady!centric, protective!buck & bucky

rainfall by switchgrassdevil

sick!buck, hurt/comfort, sharing a bed

I Won’t Rot by GrayFingers

hurt!bucky, protective!buck, injuries

Fluff + AUs

back home where you’re safe from, that’s the measure of a man by wolfhalls

established relationship, learning to dance, (*)

Reverie by Avonne

soulmate au (*)

the secret list of very serious (and sober) 100th’s rules by Amethyste_Blanche

fluff

Look The Other Way by Disastrous_Canasta

first meeting, fluff

all roads lead home by cloudystars

biker!au and abo!au, modern universe

A Kiss With A Fist by perpetualmotion

buck defends bucky’s honour

Love Tokens by perpetualmotion

gift giving

moonlight serenade by puffanities

abo!au, omega!bucky, alpha!buck, ongoing series

You and Me (5 Times) by stopstopstopit

various jokes about buck & bucky being married

any day now by tkachukypls

gift giving, bucky gives buck a puppy

Garden in My Heart by 13SapphireStars13

abo!au, omega!bucky, alpha!buck, courting

Smut - no Plot

A Suite at the Ritz by stillheremydear

secret relationship & sneaking around (*)

buck x bucky x curtis fics

I’ll be looking at the moon (but i’ll be seeing you) by moonrocks

1x03, grief/mourning

different but equal by Ikharys

fluff, pre-relationship, sharing beds

my hand was the one you reached for (all throughout the great war) by RavenOfRao

fluff, pre-relationship

A Brief Moment of Mourning by Perpetual Motion

angst, emotional hurt/comfort

First Meetings (and Punishments) by scaraheather

first meetings, pre-relationship

Both (*) by Ikharys

fluff and smut, sharing a bed

each man has got his classification (*) by mpix

smut, jealousy

Out of Reach by studies in subjunctive

unrequited love, (*)

The Long Way Home by livelaughlove_write

post-war, ptsd, love confession

x reader recs

jealous!buck request by @sansaorgana

jealous!buck request (2) by ↑

to the rescue (curtis biddick) by @sagesolsticewrites

with all my gratitude, hope and adoration, john (2) (3) by @buckysegan

twenty five (to life) by MissFreakingFortune

blurb (bucky egan) by @swiftiekisses

Hitchin’ A Ride by @pisupsala

girl dad!gale request by @sansaorgana

Because the Night by @gloryofroses19

Birdie by @jointherebellion215

amor aeternus series by @saturnville

agape (wattpad) by perxwxnkle

[stfrancisprayer]

Last Winter, This Spring

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader —when bucky thinks about the past, you're there.

word count: 4.2k notes: female reader, but no physical descriptions and no use of y/n. friends to lovers + postwar. reader is implied to be an aviation machinist. a smidge of angst at the beginning and then a giant helping of fluff for the rest. ❀ warnings: brief description of stalag

HO HO HO! @bandagesandloveletters, i was your secret summer santa! it was a such pleasure getting to know you through your asks and i loved all of the room for creativity you gave me...and your music recs!!! "moonlight serenade" and "a nightingale sang in berkeley square" were big inspirations for this fic. thank you for trusting me with your gift-- and i hope you have an amazing summer <3

ⓘ This is a work of fiction based off of the AppleTV series Masters of the Air and strictly intended to be understood as factitious. Any named mention of an individual is based solely on their dramatic portrayals, NOT their real life counterparts.

In that cold German night, you’re there.

Inside that cabin, frozen to the touch, with his cheek pressed to his pillow– his bent left arm. 

Above John Egan is the corrugated wood of the top bunk, its pattern his personal constellation. In the middle bunk, there’s barely enough room to raise his head and ask Buck if he’s still awake. The spotlight on the eastern side of the grounds makes a wide revolution, sending a scanning light through the window before plunging the room back into the darkness of winter.

It comes again. In that cold German night, Rita Hayworth's there, too; Grace Kelly right below her. Posted on the wall below them is the lead hitter for a hometown baseball team, on the wall opposite is the other team’s pitcher. But John can turn to face his wall, and you're there.

He didn’t expect you to write, but the way he’d nervously paced around the bunk betrayed the fact that he was hoping you would. So when a letter comes on a gray winter morning, your familiar handwriting penned on the front, John’s numb hands fumble open the letter tellingly eager. He reads it in your voice, once, twice, enough times to memorize. But most importantly, you send him a sprig of the wild cherry tree.

When the light comes again, he can see it on his shelf. Its once-white petals are shriveled and missing now, it’s a different color than when you’d first sent it to him. But it’s still you, the brightness in your eyes and that smile– the smile he’d always loved coaxing out of you. 

John switches arms so he’s lying on his right.

There’s a scratching at the base of his throat now, the sound of your name fighting to release itself. The weight that sits on his waterline is the type that he thinks won’t spill over if he pretends it isn’t there. When he breathes, his chest only expands so far, suffocating in the space between the two bunks. It’s the layers, it has to be. You’d never do that to him.

He takes the twig into his hands just to feel the thin wood between his cold fingertips. 

I'll be back, he thinks. I'll be back.

In the Norfolk spring, the trees blossom at the turn of March like clockwork. Where the English sky has been gray since the beginning of September, the bloom is a welcome sight in Thorpe Abbotts. Their petals are the same color as the overcast: a delicate white. Bucky first notices them by chance from the window of the cockpit, glancing to the right as the landing gear touches down on the runway.

By mid-April, the blooms are dense enough to see from the air. When Bucky's circling above the airfield after another near-death mission, he spots the spattering of trees on the ground below and allows himself an exhale. Repetition has turned the sight of them into his own personal air marshall, congratulating him on surviving and beckoning him down onto the runway. He wipes the soot and blood from his face and tips the nose down until they’re clear from the windshield.

He’s barely pushed himself through the escape hatch, but Bucky's already making a beeline toward the aircraft hangar. His legs are still getting used to the ground; wracked with pins and needles and clumsy with each step, but he wears a smile he can’t seem to wipe off. He knows you’re behind those open metal doors, and he likes to think you’ve been waiting for him to return.

You’re there, so focused on tinkering with the uncapped propeller of a plane that you don’t notice him limp in. He could tell it was you from a mile away, all unruly hair and oil-streaked slacks, standing on a platform and putting the brunt of your weight on your wrench. Bucky calls your name, and it's familiar on his tongue.

You flash him a grin– his favorite kind, the one with teeth and the crinkle in your eyes. Perhaps you weren’t expecting his return, but like this he can’t help but believe it.

“Major Egan!” You wipe your hands on your pants. “How was it?”

Terrible; missions like those never go well. He still returns your grin. “Good. I'm here, right?”

“Right,” you laugh. “And since you’re here, hand me those pliers, will you?”

He notices your toolbox underneath the propeller and retrieves the pliers obediently. As he inches onto his toes, you reach down, tongue darting out past your lips as you grasp the handles. He stifles a laugh, remembering how you’ve sworn up and down it’s not a tic of yours.

“She took flak to the engine,” you call out over the sound of mechanics. “Pierced right through the skin. Lucky she didn’t get it from the underside, otherwise we’d be out a plane.”

“Can’t have that,” Bucky muses half-sarcastically.

Smirking, you use the pliers to point at him accusingly. “You’d like that, Egan.” 

He scoffs. “What, like I'd prefer to be on the ground?”

“Maybe you should.”

You’d be on the ground with him, he considers. Maybe he should.

“Hey, you see those– flower things?” he pivots. 

Your voice is muffled by the machinery. “What things?”

“The trees with the flowers.”

“Oh, the wild cherries,” you realize, wiping the sweat from your forehead. “Yeah. Real pretty, right?”

“Stunning,” he stuffs his hands inside his flight jacket. “You can see ‘em all the way up there.”

“Is that right?” When you pull away from the propeller, your expression is impressed. “Seen them from the ground?”

“Not yet.”

“Do it sometime,” you offer, like it’s advice. “They’re better up close.”

You dip back down to fiddle with the mechanics. This might be your way of dismissing him, Bucky realizes, but he can’t seem to leave the hangar. So he stands there, content to share a space with you, the noise of engines, and the heartbeat he catches resounding between his ears. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the way he lingers. You’re too proud to tell him you enjoy the company.

The upcoming mission gets canceled later that week– bad weather or faulty intel or a miscalculation; some reason Bucky didn’t feel the need to triple-check. He'd have the weekend on the ground and that alone was enough cause for celebration.

Tonight, the pub is hazy with the smoke of cigarettes and fanned with the heat of alcohol. Glasses of warm beer exchange hands as easily as money. Buck sits at Bucky’s left, and there’s an empty chair to his right he’s hoping to fill. He can pick out the rest of his friends from the sound of their laughter alone. Bucky’s eyes scan over the room, the corners of his mouth urged upwards in a lazy smile: this is how things should be, he thinks, without the threat of a mission come morning.

And if tonight couldn’t get any better, he notices the way you creep in through the pub’s door.

Your eyes scan over the crowd until your gaze magnetizes to his. He's hard to miss, the only head turned in your direction, unabashedly waiting for you to notice.

Bucky’s eyes scan up and down your figure as you approach the table. You’re dressed in your Class A’s, hair styled into regulation curls, the cheeks that once sported oil smears now complimenting a ruby-red smile. It spurs him to remember what you’d told him earlier: something-something better up close. 

“Good evening,” you grin.

“There she is,” he greets you. “Come here often, stranger?”

You roll your eyes playfully. “When I can.”

The two of you pause to smile at each other.

“...Mind if I take a seat?”

Bucky looks down and realizes the way his hand is smoothing over the chair seat might seem like he’s saving it for someone else. He draws his palm back, stumbling out of his chair to pull yours out for you. “Ma’am.

You smooth your skirt under your thighs as you sit. “Thank you.”

“Crosby,” Bucky chides Harry across the table, “What are you doing? get her a drink!”

“No, no, that’s alright,” you raise a hand to motion for Crosby to sit back down. “I'm up early tomorrow.”

Crosby's not so quick to take a seat. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” you tease, “Egan’ll drink for me.”

When the table laughs at your remark, something like pride swells in Bucky’s chest. That's my girl.

Both of you lean back into your chairs in sync, settling in to observe the conversation. Bucky’s look of adoration is unabashed, trailing along the curve of your eyelashes with lidded eyes. You’re so beautiful like this– effortless; with the relaxed slump in your shoulders and the poised way you’ve crossed your legs. He’s keen on the way you’re resting your weight on the armrest closest to him, and he’ll still be pleased if he’s only here as your accessory for the night. 

You could practically feel the way Bucky’s gaze swept over you, passing up and down your figure with a slight hesitation. He was holding back his affections, undoubtedly, if it wasn’t obvious by the way he was smoothing his hand over the back of your chair but stopping short of draping an arm atop it. 

When you lean into him, you’re sure to have your shoulder bump gently against his. Go ahead.

Bucky seems to take the hint. He rests his arm atop your chair, fingers brushing against your opposite shoulder like he’s waiting for further instruction. You hum with laughter at the feeling.

“Is this okay?”

When you turn to face him, he’s already pulling away, afraid you’ll bite. 

You settle into his side. “It's perfect.”

That's all he needed to hear.

He brings his chair closer until your seats are touching, melding both of your spaces into one for you to share. Your gaze is still fixed in your lap, half-afraid of ruining the moment with a misplaced word, your breath in your throat even as Bucky inches closer. At the table surrounded by pilots and airmen, this space feels intimate– isolating yourselves amidst the haze of the pub until it’s the two of you alone.

When he leans in to whisper, Bucky’s lips brush feather-light against the shell of your ear. “You look beautiful.”

A shiver runs up and down your spine at his words. When you turn to look at him, he’s close, impossibly close, so close you’re afraid he’ll see the way your irises tremble with misplaced confidence. But he’s patient, content in the moment you’ve stolen together. 

Before you can speak, your hand’s pulling the sprig from your lapel.

“Now, what’s this?” Bucky asks curiously, taking the plant between his fingers. It’s so fresh its wood is still damp with afternoon rain, the flowers adorning it still retain their shape. Spinning it between his pinched fingers, he studies it in wonder. 

“Those are those flower things, John,” you grin, pausing to nervously retreat to the opposite armrest. “Wild cherry blossoms.”

Bucky tucks the sprig into his lapel gingerly. You slump a little further into your seat.

Air service command decides that a sunny Thursday morning is the perfect time to reschedule the mission lost. Aside from the immediate threat of warfare, the day couldn’t have been any more picturesque.

The tail end of April brings warm breezes meant as a preview of the upcoming summer; and when Bucky looks up at the sky through his aviators, he wonders if the troposphere is any less colder. The B-17s creep slowly out of their hangars like waking giants– in the meantime, he slings his bag over his shoulder and counts the altocumulus clouds peppering the sky. 

They’re just like the white petals strewn across the Thorpe Abbotts’ lawns. The wild cherries are beginning to fruit upon the branches; he wonders if you’d tell him you’d miss the sight of them adorning the trees if it’s worth the smell of cherries after.

He hears someone call his name, and you’re there, bounding on the tarmac towards him.

The streak of oil on your nose matches nicely with your stained coveralls. When you skid to a halt in front of him, Bucky lets you find your breath, tugging your hefty gloves from your hands to stick into your back pocket. His mouth opens and shuts as he scans over you, unsure if he should be the first to break the silence and ask if you’re alright.

“Are you heading out?”

He takes off his aviators and meets your gaze with his. “I guess I am.”

“Okay,” you cough, nodding your head. “Okay.”

Your hands smooth hastily over the woolen lapels of his flight jacket, your lip caught behind your teeth. Bucky watches you before he can think to flinch away, looking down to notice the way your eyebrows furrow in the middle as you brush off nonexistent dirt. His tie’s loose, and you take the liberty of tugging it further up his neck– strangely enough, Bucky finds himself looking upwards, amused. This is a ritual for you, he realizes, a way to make him tangible while you find the words to say.

Finally, you rest your forehead against his shoulder, exhaling in defeat. “...You’ll be fine.”

The words are spoken like they’re for you to hear and Bucky to understand.

“Course I’ll be fine,” he laughs, cradling your waist with his arm. “I don't go down that easily. Besides–”

Somehow, you understand to pull away from his shoulder. Although you keep your hands on his jacket, there’s enough space for him to pull his lapel to the side and reveal the uniform underneath. There, tucked in his breast pocket, is the outline of a sprig from the wild cherry tree, as close to his heart as it can possibly be.

He winks. “I’m takin’ you with me.”

“John, don’t–” your fingers trace across the shape sadly. “Don’t do that.”

His hand envelops yours, stilling your trembling fingers with a squeeze and calming them with a smile. He doesn’t seem worried; nowhere as worried as you find yourself, and somehow it makes it a little better.

“For your peace of mind,” his voice is low, the words only for you. “Can’t have my pretty girl worrying, right?”

Buck strides behind the two of you, nudging John as he passes by. “Load up, Bucky.”

Bucky nods at his friend in acknowledgment. “Be there in a second.” 

Now, your features are sullen, gently tugging his lapel to cover the outline of the twig in his pocket again. 

“I should let you go. I'll miss you,” you admit. “I always do.”

Bucky brings a hand to cup your jaw, his thumb smoothing a rhythm across your cheekbone.

You can’t think of anything else to say.

“...I just wanted to let you know how I felt before you left.”

The sudden heat coursing through Bucky’s chest almost makes him want to abandon the mission. In his hands, the looming threat of burning engines and inevitable loss seems so much more real. His jacket stays between your fingers, digging into the plush material like you’re hesitant to release him to the sky. 

“I'll be fine,” Bucky whispers, leaning to bring himself closer to you.

Somewhere in your haze, you can feel his lips brush against yours in permission. You respond with a soft nod, a shy please– and relief seeps through your veins when he presses his lips to yours to dull the ache.

He begins slowly, allowing you to get used to the feeling of contact, relish the moment into your hands. His arms hold you flush against each other– somehow, the pressure takes the edge off, and you respond with your own like it’ll convince him to stay. Though his time is drawing near, your lips part a little wider, and he responds with a sweep of his tongue across your bottom lip.

You push off of him right as someone behind you calls his name. Heavy, ragged breaths exit you as you try to fight tears and the undeniable feelings you have for the pilot doomed. A noise betrays you when it spills from your lips; a quiet sob that he’s already leaning down to kiss better.

“I’ll be back for you, gorgeous. I promise.” Bucky presses his lips to yours, feather-light. "We’ll be okay.” 

And when he says it like that, you can’t help but believe it. 

The taste of you is still buzzing atop his lips by the time Bucky pulls up the yoke. Thorpe Abbotts shrinks into the distance, further and further away until the cherry trees on the ground are dancing underneath the shadows the clouds cast onto the earth. In his mind, you’re still there, standing beneath a thousand petals falling like confetti, waiting for him to land. 

His words to you are lost among the roar of the twin engines– I'll be back.

“...John.”

“John.”

“Bucky, wake up!”

“Hmm?”

Your hand is rubbing up and down his arm before he can startle himself awake. When his vision unblurs, his first sight of the morning is one of you backlit by the sun, an orange glow around your face like a halo. You’re the angel standing in your shared bedroom, coaxing him awake, and Bucky decides this must be heaven.

“G’morning, beautiful.” A sleepy grin stretches across his face. 

“Good afternoon,” you giggle. 

“Afternoon? Already?”

“John, it’s half past twelve,” you tell him as he rubs his eyes. “You said you’d help me get after the living room.”

“It's too early,” he murmurs. “Lay with me.”

“John–!”

You barely have a moment to protest when he’s surging forward, wrapping his arms around your waist to tug you back onto your mattress. Unfairly, his advantage is that you’re weak with laughter, yelping when he pulls you down to his chest and rolls on top of you for good measure. Your hand swats weakly at his back as you giggle, the morning scruff on his face tickling your cheeks when he peppers your face in kisses. Your fingers card through the messy brown curls atop his head– maybe you can be convinced to stay in bed a little longer.

Later that afternoon, the windows of the living room are pushed open as far as they go and the curtains are fluttering in the spring breeze. It’s the end of March, and the nascent Wisconsin spring ushers itself in through the door. Outside, patches of grass poke through the melting snow and the overcast clears– the perfect time to start fresh with some spring cleaning.

Bucky pushes the couches against the wall so you can drape the rug over the railing of the front porch. He throws paper, and you throw scissors, and he pretends to be a sore loser about it when you hand him the mop. By the time you’ve halfway finished sweeping the floor, Bucky finally decides what radio station he wants to listen to.

He perks up the moment he recognizes the tune. “Oh, I love this one!” 

A smile spreads across your face. You know this one, too. “Here we go.”

Bucky’s already gliding across the living room floor in time to the music, never mind the fact that the mop is dripping water while he uses it as a microphone stand. You playfully roll your eyes, pausing your sweeping to tap your foot in time. He swings his arms, pointing at you in dedication when he begins to sing.

“Never saw the sun shining so bright– never saw things going so right,”

You offer him your palm when he approaches and he takes it gingerly, spinning you around.

“Watching the days hurrying by– when you’re in love, my, how they fly!”

Bucky gestures grandly in your direction, leaning down to speak into the end of the mop handle like an announcer. “Ladies and gentlemen…MY WIFE!”

“My turn?” you prop your broom handle up. “Blue days, all of them gone…nothing but blue skies…”

“FROM NOW ON–!”

Both of you complete the verse as a duet, holding the note as a shout rather than the dulcet way that Ella Fitzgerald had intended it. If you’d stayed focused, the living room would have been spotless an hour ago, but here you are, dancing arm-in-arm with your husband as he revels in your newfound singing career. You take a joint bow when the song ends, a reverent kiss from Bucky your encore.

“My girl's a superstar,” he murmurs, dipping down to kiss you again. “My superstar.”

“That reminds me,” you grin. “There's something in the garden you should see.”

Your fingers lace with his as you lead him through your home, nudging open the screen door to the backyard. Slowly waking from its winter slumber, sprouts emerge from the thawing dirt and the remnants of snow piles melt into the ground. Bucky raises your conjoined hands to his mouth, blowing hot air between your palms to warm them. “You’re gonna catch a cold, baby.”

“We'll only be out here a second,” you say. “Look!”

Sprouting along the fenceline are the reams of begonias you’d forgotten to uproot before the winter frost came. Lo and behold, they’d survived, now unfolding under the light of the spring sun. Their petals are delicate white along the stalk, bending slightly in the spring breeze. You kneel before them to get a closer look, beaming proudly– Bucky’s eyes light up when he sees how happy you are, crouching down next to you.

“Would you look at that,” he whistles, running a hand along the flowering buds. 

“I can't believe they survived,” you lean forward, scanning over the flowerbed. “I really thought the cold would kill them.”

The realization hits him; he’s seen this shape of flower before. “These look exactly like–”

Your smile is practically ear-to-ear. “The wild cherries in Thorpe Abbotts, right?”

He nods, studying the flower between his fingers. They even feel the same. 

“I think they’ll be in full bloom by May,” you lean into his chest as he drapes an arm atop your shoulders. 

“You should be proud,” Bucky muses, pressing his lips to your temple. “They’re the second prettiest flower in this garden.”

(It takes you a second.)

“Stop,” you laugh, shoving him lightly. Bucky allows himself to fall onto the wet grass with the satisfaction of making you blush.

Mid-afternoon creeps in slowly, the setting sun casting light from its peak at the west face of the house. It was the perfect time to recline on the living room couch and enjoy the direct sunlight before it shifted away. Bucky savors the moment by stretching lazily across the couch, feeling the tension in his spine release with a satisfying pop. 

“What do you think?”

Bucky raises his head at the sound of your voice. You gesture towards the end table, now decorated with a single stalk of the begonias from the garden in a glass vase.

“You picked them early?” he yawns.

“One of the sprouts looked ready,” you tilt your head, inspecting the arrangement. “Something to make the living room nicer.”

Bucky hums in acknowledgment, shutting his eyes. “It’s perfect the way it is.”

It's more than evident that Bucky’s losing the battle with sleep, and seeing how the sun hits him just right makes it difficult to stay awake yourself. You consider the implications: it’s more than likely you’ll both wake up after the sun has set, but it’ll be a reason to justify takeout and late-night TV with him. Toeing off the heels of your shoes, you amble down until your weight rests comfortably atop his chest.

“Move over,” you murmur, settling into the crook of his neck. He lets out a pleased hum right as your thigh slots between his.

Your hand feels around until it finds his dangling over the side of the couch. Lacing your fingers together, Bucky brings the back of your palm to his lips, pressing a kiss to the skin that lingers.

“I was thinking we’d go somewhere for dinner,” you mutter, shutting your eyes.

Bucky nods. “Whatever you want, beautiful.”

His hands urge underneath the hem of your shirt, palms smoothing firmly up the plush of your sides. With your face slotted in the crook of his neck, he can feel the way you smile. The only thing he can think to do amidst his fog is press a trail of lazy kisses to the side of your face. 

“You’re warm,” he murmurs, fingers curling gently into your waist. “Feels good.”

You giggle. That drowsy little giggle– he swears, it’ll kill him someday. 

Before he falls into slumber, Bucky opens his eyes to remind himself of the life he’s made with you; stolen kisses and singing out of tune and the vase of white flowers in the house you live in together. Neither of you had ever really left behind Thorpe Abbotts– but you’re here, with your head on his shoulder and your fingers interlocked, underneath the sunlight of a lazy afternoon. 

John Egan never doubted he’d be back. He was just happy that he’d come back to you.

“Sleep,” you press a chaste kiss to his neck. “I'll be here when you wake up.”

And finally, John can believe it.

[middlingmay]

This one's for @pirateaangel, who requested a feelings realisation fic based in Stalag Luft III, with Gale in denial, Bucky acting out, and a chase into the night.

I hope you like it! Read under the cut.

I do accept fic requests if you have them, though feeling a bit of the midweek blues so would particularly welcome something upbeat this week!

After the men were seen to, and Gale had personally checked they had all the meagre offerings a desperate place like Stalag Luft III could possibly offer - blankets, one pillow, and a bunk to put ‘em on, medical attention (if not intervention), and some barely passable food and water - perhaps John Egan should not have been the first thing on his mind.

But there he was, as large and demanding and present in Gale’s head as he ever was in person. That had been the way of it ever since Bucky had wormed his way into Gale’s affections, into his friendship: whenever the responsibilities of leadership waned, and Gale was left with a few moments of quiet, his thoughts invariably turned to John, at least for a moment.

What trouble is he gettin’ into?

He better not have forgotten to eat again.

He’s gotta stop pissin’ off the Colonel. For a guy so affable, he sure did have a problem with Colonels.

Gale wasn’t some obsessive dame or nothin’. Just, someone had to look out for John whilst he looked out for everyone else, and Gale got the job.

Gale liked the job. Whenever anyone jokingly offered to take the other Major off his hands for a while, Gale would smile with the rest of them, but managed to keep John as his, well, as his somethin’.

And here in Poland, now that the quiet had descended and the men were all privately coming to terms with their new lot in this war, Gale wondered who’s job it was now.

Who told him that Gale went down? It was chaos, and he wasn’t convinced anyone would have observed any chutes. John would have sat there, fresh faced and relaxed after enjoying his leave in London, and have to hear 'No record', about where his buddy went down.

Gale wondered if it was vanity that made his assume John would be at least a little cut up about it. Lord, he hoped John didn’t drink over him.

If there was a way for him to write John, let him know he was okay, he would have done it. He woulda done anything, to spare his friend the grief.

Because if it were the other way around? If he’d had to find out that John had gone down, with no record, whilst he’d been yucking it up in London? Gale woulda drowned in that kind of guilt. Only the responsbility towards the other men in the plane with him the next time he took to the air would stop him from doing something reckless and final in the name of John Egan, KIA.

And in the relative privacy of his bunk, in the dark, Gale let himself wonder if that was normal? If it was something other men felt about bonds forged and severed by war.

And like always, he pushed the thought away. Course it was normal. It was known. There was no Buck without Bucky. And vice versa. Which gave him hope of a future out of this POW camp. So long as John was out there fighting the good fight, Buck could still exist.

It was also why he was equal amounts elated and devastated to see Brady two days after their internment at Stalag Luft III.

After Gale had secured them a bunk, and the fellas left to give Brady and Murph their space to settle, Brady had grabbed Gale’s wrist as he went to walk away.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you alive, Major,” Brady said, though there was no trace of joy on his face. Only something grim and sad.

“What is it, Brady?”

It took the pilot a few moments to gather his courage but he tugged on Gale’s wrist and he sat on the edge of Brady's bunk and listened.

“John was the commanding pilot on the mission.”

And Brady, for his part, got the front hand seat to both Egan and Cleven's grief at hearing the other went down. He watched the breath leave Major Cleven, watched something shutter behind his eyes, watched him swallow convulsively around words he didn’t want to ask but desperately wanted to know.

“Is he—do you know if—?”

“He bailed. I made sure of it, Major,” and Brady grabbed him with a mad sort of desperation, trying to make Gale understand in a way he couldn’t with John. “We were right behind each other, but we got seperated on the way down and the German’s were shooting at us as we fell…”

No record. More or less.

So that’s what it felt like. Cold, icy panic stabbing at his belly. Roiling nausea sparking up his throat. A floaty, buzzing sense that blinded him to Brady, and the fellas, and the bunk house, and landed him in a flak-ridden freefall with John Egan.

Had it been a hard landing? The kind that killed you on impact? Had it been soft and now he was all alone in enemy territory? Had he died before he hit the ground, or had German guns put one through his head and he fell to earth limp and gone, like a doll?

“..jor? Major!”

Brady looked at him concerned. The other fellas had returned and were shooting looks their way. Gale wasn’t sure how much they heard. Digging down to find that steel core John liked to tease him about, he stood from Brady’s bunk.

“Brady’s just informed me he’s missing one from his crew. Major Egan might still be out there.”

An excited chatter erupted amongst the boys. Benny grinned and slung his arm around Crank. The effect John had on people was astounding. In the middle of this miserable goddamned place, he still brought cheer and hope.

He let them have it, even if Gale wouldn’t allow it for himself.

Then, after a few more days, when the men were getting more and more despondent at the lack of familiar faces staggering into the camp, he heard it.

“Bucky! John!”

“Murph? Crank?!”

“Do any of you know if Buck made it? Do any—”

And of all the things swirling in his head as he stumbled towards the barbed wire fence, he found himself shouting, raspy and loud, “John Egan! Your two o’clock!”

He’d seen the back of John, grubby and dirty and greasy like the rest of ‘em when they'd came here. But when John whirled round on hearing his voice, and Gale saw the blood and the bruises and the sticky, rotten evidence of everything that had tried to keep John from stumbling into their camp - from coming back to him - and he saw John lighting up with relief and joy aimed at the sight of Gale, that fierce feeling he kept in his chest for John flared and caught and burned, and damn near choked him with the horror of it.

Because when John all but collapsed into his arms, and Gale couldn’t stop himself from clutching him right back until the tips of his fingers were white, he knew. He knew he loved him in ways he didn’t love the rest of their men, and he loved their men from the 100th. But Gale loved John in ways that kept him up at night. He loved him in ways that had him knowing just how many freckles John got in the sun, especially over his eyes. He loved him in ways that hurt with worry when John wasn’t there, and with a fury whenever John put himself in danger.

Gale loved John in a way that was dangerous here. And as he led John back to their hut, and got him squared up with a bunk next to his and called for a medic and got him clothes and bedding and water and food, he vowed to himself that he wouldn’t let his love endanger John.

Not here, not now, not ever.

And he tried, but he struggled.

It was ingrained into him, taking care of John. John was the mama hen of the 100th, don’t be fooled. He’d joked once about making a nest for the dodos when he was shipped off to England ahead of them all, but it wasn’t really a joke. He got the boys little things to make them more comfortable, made sure they got the chance to blow off steam to keep them sane, went toe-to-toe with the higher ups to defend the boys as best he could, and was the hand at their back when they stumbled.

Gale wasn’t like that. John liked to rib him and tell him he was the 100th’s poster boy, but in one of his more serious moments, he'd expanded:

“I’m serious, Buck. I don’t just mean all this,” he’d gestured all over Gale with a lopsided grin. “The boys look up to you. They copy you, try to emulate you. When they see you calm and steady, that’s what they do. When they see you thinking all careful, they give a little more thought, too. Ain’t no bad thing.”

But with John, caretakin’ came natural to Gale. And in the camp, it was no different. And that was the problem.

Whenever John winced, Gale was at his side propping him up, hands soothing over his back. But as soon as he righted himself, Gale abandoned him again for space and distance.

When John started coughing Gale gave him his own ration of hot water and helped him drink it down through the spluttering, but when John tried to touch his hands, in thanks or comfort, Gale snatched them away.

One night when Gale let his guard down and was telling John about how they got there, his eyes were far away and he didn’t see John’s hand reach out. But he felt the shock of John’s finger tips tracing the scar on his cheek.

Gale had frozen, words stuck in his throat and muscles locked as John rubbed his thumb back and forward.

And God, did it burn. It burned and tingled so good and Gale wanted to sob and drop his head into John’s hand but he couldn’t. He’d get them killed. He had to get them out of here in one piece and get back to Marge and marry her to keep both him and John safe from Gale’s love.

So when John opened his mouth to speak, Gale snatched up John’s wrist in a tight grip, and said firm and fierce, “Don’t.”

Things changed after that.

The distance that suddenly sprang up between the Majors became painfully clear to the rest of the 100th stuck with them in Stalag Luft III. Hell, it became clear to folks outside of the 100th, who had listened to heroic, humanising stories about the Buckies - the famed leaders of the Bloody Hundredth.

Gale avoided John at all costs. He still tried to do little things for him, he couldn’t help that compulsion, but when he left a biscuit from his Red Cross package on John’s pillow just before lights out, he felt it hit the back of his head as soon as dark hit. When he tried to give John easier jobs as he and the rest of the boys built up their strength, John would glare at him and take himself off to the tree stumps or the races the boys set up out of spite.

And if John hated him, that would have been easier. But when Gale overheard someone bitching about his orders, he also overheard a smack and a curse and caught sight of John stalking away from a young man clutching the back of his head. When Gale tried to give his food away just to cheer someone up, he felt John’s glare on the back of his head and more than one fellow had refused Gale’s offer, stammering and glancing between Gale and wherever John glowered behind him.

Gale just couldn’t stop loving him.

It came to a head when they tried to rebuild the radio.

Something in Gale had crumbled when the goons found the first one, and he threw himself into building a new one. And John, temporarily forgetting his righteous fury with Gale, constantly dropped bits and pieces he remembered they needed from the last one in front of Buck.

And one night, after everyone had gone to sleep and by the barely-there light of one dull candle, Gale thought he finally finished it. He let out a stunned breath, the cold billowing it in front of him, and fell against the back of his seat.

“Hey,” Bucky whispered from his bunk before scrambling from under the thin and ratty blanket. “You okay? What is it?”

Gale eyed the radio warily before flicking his eyes to Bucky. “I think - I think it’s finished.”

John’s eyes lit up with delight and pride and Gale flushed but couldn’t look away.

“Alright then,” he smiled. “Never doubted you. You wanna give it a try?”

The notion filled Gale with terror, but also with a desperate sort of eagerness and he couldn’t have said no if he tried. So he didn’t say anything, and only nodded.

With trembling fingers, and John by his side hurrying into the chair next to him and dragging himself as close as he could get, Gale tried to bring the radio to life.

Nothing.

But it was alright. The last one took a couple of tries, too.

But again, nothing.

And nothing.

And nothing.

Gale’s eyes burned and his throat tightened and the disappointment felt like lead shot right in his belly.

“Fuck,” Bucky cursed softly in his ear. One of those large, heavy hands came up to Gale’s neck and squeezed. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

And it was too much. It was too much because that hand was the only thing grounding him and Gale wanted to grab on to it and never let go. He wanted to bring it to his mouth and press his lips against the callouses and the veins and the heartbeat underneath. He wanted to trust it to muffle the cries of frustration he was choking on.

He slapped John’s hand away and the sound cracked in the silence. The hurt cutting through the softness Bucky somehow still retained for him hit him louder though, and Gale dragged in a breath so ragged, he hoped it sounded like anger.

Anger he could nurture right now. Not love.

But so could John. Oh, so could John.

Those dark blue eyes sparked angry in the dull light and he muttered low and spiteful, “The fuck is wrong with you, Buck, huh? What’s your problem?”

He couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t tell him despite the words thumping against his chest, beat after beat after beat.

“I ain’t got no problem,” Gale hissed, jaw tense and somehow, miraculously, managing to hold John’s angry gaze with his own. “If you hadn’t been such a child lately, I’d have been able to focus on this properly instead of keeping an eye on you—”

John’s eyebrows met his hairline. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

And before Gale could snipe back John barrelled over him. “Whose the one that’s scrounged up most of your materials for both radios, huh? Do you have any idea what I head to do to get all that? Twice? No. Because youv’e had your head up your ass about something, avoiding me. Keeping an eye on me? Gale? You can barely stand to fuckin’ look at me.”

Gale bit the inside of his cheek bloody trying to ignore the crack of John’s voice, which the older man coughed away with a sneer and a grit of his teeth.

Through the blood and saliva, Gale said, “You’ve been impossible to be around, John.”

Impossible. Because every moment Gale spent near him, it was harder and harder to control himself and remind himself why he couldn’t just have what we wanted, who he wanted, the love he wanted, just this once.

“Like you would know?! What - what did I do, Buck? Huh? What did I do? ‘Cause I’ve been spiralling here, barely holding it together, and the one goddamn thing that has me holding it together is you, and now it feels like I don’t even have that.”

“John-” Gale pleaded. He pleaded, to John, to whatever force, heavenly or otherwise that might listen and bless him this repreieve.

And John reared back in his seat and Gale saw the worst thing he might have seen in this war: defeat settle in the eyes of Major John Egan.

John who whispered thick and sorrowful, like loved ones at a bedside vigil, “That’s it, huh? I did go and lose you to this war after all?” And in the protection darkness offered, Gale saw that John let his eyes fill with grief he wouldn’t quite let spill.

“Why did you go, Buck? What did I do?”

In violent contrast to the softness of John’s grief, Gale sprang from his chair, the wood screeching against the floorboards and grabbed him a tangled, gnarled fistful of John’s shirt. John didn’t fight back; he only reared back in shock and his legs sprawled open to try and keep his balance as Gale stepped into the space between and bent Bucky back at a painful angle over the back of his chair and snarled in his face,

“You made me love you, you goddamn sunnuva bitch.”

And Gale took a full, harsh, selfish kiss all his own. He breathed in sharp at the drag of dry lips which told him that they might be down but they were fightin’ and alive, and he pushed into the heat of Bucky’s mouth and let himself claim one hungry taste of John Egan, before he made his hands, which had somehow come to clutch Bucky by the throat, push him away.

“That’s why.”

And Gale stalked out into the night. Curfew be damned.

He got maybe, half way down the side of their hut, heading for the shadows that would hide him from the goons, before he heard footsteps he would know blind come running after him.

Well. If Bucky was going to retaliate, may as well be now in the dark, in one of the few hidden spaces they had, instead of in front of their men in broad daylight.

John had never been a violent man, but maybe if he decided to smack some sense into Gale, he could knock this feeling out of him.

So when a hand grabbed Gale’s bicep so hard it pinched the skin and he knew there’s be bruises like fingerpaints there tomorrow, he didn’t fight it. He let John drag him further down the gaps between the huts and shove him against the cold and damp wood. He let John grab his neck and the back of his hair, and he didn’t say anything even as the man faltered when he got a look of Gale’s face. What did he see? Defeat? Desperation? The grief that in a few short moments, Buck and Bucky, the most important, defining, greatest relationship of his life would be over, all because he let his control slip just once-

“Then we’re even, you stupid, stupid bastard.”

John slid his hand around the back of Gale’s neck, tightened his hold on the back of his head and hauled Gale up until he was damn near on his toes, and he wasn’t even that much shorter than Bucky, and swept Gale up in his scent, his presence, and his taste.

John kissed him. Out there in the dark, on the precipice where Gale thought he would be expelled from John’s orbit altogether, John kissed him. It weren’t sweet like he imagined John kissed the dames, and it weren’t rough like Gale had kissed him.

John kissed like he was hungry. He pressed full and heavy and kiss after kiss onto Gale’s lips; sucking on his bottom lip, nipping at its plumpness, and when Gale sobbed when John angled his head just so and pulled Gale in even further, John slid his tongue against Gale’s and the shock, the vibrancy, the life it sent thrumming through him had him weak. And John continued to devour. The hand at Gale’s head came under his chin and tilted his head up so John could lick all the way down Gale’s tongue, caress him on the way back up, only to do it all again. Gale’s breaths were short and panting. Was this what is was like to come back to life? When they restarted your heart? He felt his heartbeat, their pulse, in his mouth and it guided him to yank John down and give as good as he got. He swallowed John’s groan down his throat. He finally, oh finally, got a handful of those curls and pulled, and John whined high and pretty and got his hands under Gale’s thighs and hauled him up, just off the ground, so the only thing keeping him upright was John’s body pressing him against the back of the hut and one of John’s thighs which slid between Gale’s own legs-

And Gale had no choice but to break off the kiss with a curse and another tug on John’s hair. “Fuck, Bucky.”

Pressed chest to chest, their heartbeats felt like rapid fire.

And Bucky’s hands, holding onto his waist, and the breaths Bucky huffed into Gale’s ear, and the solidity of his presence slowly lowered Gale back down to earth until his feet touched the ground.

Bucky dropped his head to Buck’s.

Gently, sweetly, he kissed Buck’s crown. “Next time, Buck, save a girl some heartache and just buy me some flowers.”

A little hysterical, Gale snickered into Bucky’s neck. “M’sorry,” he mumbled against the skin. “I just don’t know how—”

John hummed and pulled Gale back by the scruff and dropped his head so they were forehead to forehead. “Me either. But you’re the smartest person I know - when I’m there to get’cha outta your head, at least.”

Gale kicked his shin half-heartedly.

“You and me, Buck,” John said. “Just like I told you.”

And for now, Gale let himself believe.

[joeyalohadream]

Can u tell us which fic prompts you’ve received and are planning to write :) I didn’t send one but I love getting excited about what ur writing

Hi, anon! That's very sweet!

Sure, I can share that!

Current prompt I'm writing at this moment is Bucky finding out that Gale had a bad experience with a Stalag guard and gets very protective and caring. It's angsty and its soft!

Others I received and plan to work on this weekend:

hurt/comfort of Gale being reminded of his father and Bucky comforting him

Gale being cold and seeking Bucky's warmth/affection

Modern AU - Bucky being smitten and finding ridiculous ways to ask Gale out on a date, but Gale thinks he's doing it all as a joke to make Curt and Brady laugh

Clegan summer story at a lake/beach where Bucky learns that Gale never learned how to swim, so Bucky convinces him to let him hold him so he can still get in and cool off

Aftermath of Stalag fight

Those are the ones I received first and the ones I'll work on first! But feel free to send one if you'd like. Might take me a while, but I'll get to it eventually!

Seems the people know my weakness is Protective!Bucky and whumping sweet Buck...

[jakes3resin]

Well, it's still Friday for me so I thought I'd do a MOTA Fic Rec Friday!

The links take you to AO3, though I know some of these authors have cross posted their works here as well, so I'll try to link them later :)

Also, most of these are Clegan fics, sorry (they're the ones I reread the most, which was the criteria I used for this fic rec)

Moonlight Serenade by Anonymous

Listen folks, this is The Clegan A/B/O fic for me. I post about every new chapter. I adore every line and will happily discuss how I've become a Jamie Truther, while still hoping Gale gets off his ass and treats Bucky right. Bucky has so many secrets in this fic, and you'll be on the edge of your seat waiting to unravel them all. There's also so much to be said about Bucky's emotions and how he feels so so much, often to his own detriment, and how it's presented in this fic.

an image of disquietude by bruce_the_shark

This was actually I think the first MOTA fic I ever read. I'd been watching the show, but I hadn't yet joined the fandom, so to speak. It's outsider POV with Benny and Brady building off of each other watching the infamous baseball scene in the stalag. This fic made me look up who Brady was on tumblr, and it got me into the fandom. Highly recommend. The dynamics between the copilots and the Majors draws you in as each person has a different way of showing their fear and concern.

A Kiss with a Fist by Perpetual Motion

I won't lie I recommend every single thing written by this writer. If you haven't gone on a reading binge of their stuff, what is stopping you? This fic twists canon just a bit so it's Buck fighting the RAF guys not Curt. It's honestly a love letter from Buck to Bucky and his touch, for me it is at least. It's also where I fully drank the Kool Aid that Buck is feral and protective of Bucky.

Ghost of You by BeeMaya

I once described this fic as Crosby's version of the Les Mis song 'Empty Chairs at Empty Tables' because it's just as heartbreaking to me as that song. Harry being the last man to remember the light that used to exist on base now that the officer's club feels darkened, and when you're the last one all you see are ghosts and what once was. There's a profound sadness to telling stories about the departed even when they're good stories, even when you laughed once at those stories. It's sad because you miss them and know you can never go back.

don't take that sinner away from me by cloudystars

Another author I can't recommend enough. I love a Gale POV, and I love a Western AU. So if you're like me you'll love this fic. Gale is so tender with John in this as the pair of them try to piece themselves together after the traumas they both went through.

I'll stop there, I guess! Short but these fics are really so amazing! I love reading other people's fic recs, so I thought I'd list a few I adore 🧡

[luminouslywriting]

Chapter 29 (Mastermind)—MOTA Fic

A/N: I'll just leave this as a small gift to all of you....enjoy! And as always, let me know what you think!

It took two more days before her uncle and cousin were sent on their way—with passes straight from Sink all the way back to England and to Thorpe Abbotts.  Ruth was grateful for the passes and the additional help.  She wasn’t sure if she would be able to take the heartbreak of having to fight for visas at a time such as this. 

And then after those two days, she was on her way to the last standing Stalag in Germany.  The only place where Abe or Robby could possibly be—and her heart just felt like a weak and fragile thing.  

Ruth hadn’t spoken since leaving those camps.  She couldn’t find the proper words.  But she had been writing.  Writing like she was running out of time and there was no tomorrow. Because for every single one of those people in the camps, they might very well pass from sickness or malnutrition—and they deserved justice.  They deserved the opportunity to live and to love and to thrive and to find their families and to be somewhere safe.  

She was hell-bent on ensuring that at least.  

Further into Germany, it was cold and there was still snow on the ground in some parts.  Shouldering her coat tighter around her shoulders, Ruth tried not to focus on the fact that Abe could be mere miles away and freezing.  Starving.  Bleeding.  Or already dead. 

Overhead, the planes went shooting by.  Ruth resided at the very back of the procession, a borrowed man from Easy Company at her side for the time being—she wasn’t sure how she had convinced Lew to come with her for at least a day or two—but here he was, sitting at her side and shaking his head. 

“It’s about to get loud,” he warned her. 

That was what Ruth had been counting on.  In the distance, she could see the Tower of the Stalag.  Residing just beyond the treeline and in a clearing, Ruth could almost taste the victory that the Allies were about to achieve.  As the shots opened up on the Stalag, Ruth covered her ears and ducked her head down in the car.  

It was the strangest feeling—this was the closest to combat Ruth had ever been but she felt calm as a summer’s day.  As if nothing were wrong and people weren’t about to surely die.  She just felt at peace. 

Lew’s elbow nudged her from her thoughts and she glanced up.  “We’re entering the clearing.  Well, the front is.” 

Ruth kept a steady gaze on the camp ahead of her. She was almost scared of what she would find once she was there.  “And into the tanks it is,” Ruth murmured as they carefully climbed down inside of the rolling thing.  They had been watching long enough and now they were going to engage with the enemy. 

A silent and never-ending prayer was in Ruth’s heart as the tanks rolled their way across the field.  Lew kept a steady hand on her shoulder.  He was acting as an anchoring force to her at the moment.  Truth be told, she wasn’t sure what she would have done without him.  She knew that she was lucky Sink had even allowed him to leave for a few days—given his vital intelligence that he was keeping up with. 

But he was one of the closest friends she had ever had.  And she trusted that if she was with him, then everything would work out fine.  And that’s what she was hoping for at the moment. 

Her lunch almost came up as they rolled over another bump and Ruth just tightly clung to her seat, waiting for the entirety of this shit-show to be over.  She had no idea how photographers for the military did it—or reporters—or nurses.  There was a reason why she had never been to the front.  She wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing and everyone knew it. 

“Please, please, please,” Ruth chanted the words under her breath like some sort of prayer. 

Let it be over soon. 

Let Abe be there.  And let him be okay. 

Let us come out of this together. 

It didn’t really stop until the flag had been placed atop the flagpole in the Stalag.  And not just any flag.  But the American Flag.  “Holy shit,” Lew mumbled, gazing through the guns.  “They got a flag up.  We’ve taken the Stalag.” 

Ruth’s head shot up.  “We did it?” 

“I mean, in a manner of speaking, yeah.” 

Her heart felt like it was going to wildly beat out of her chest.  It threatened every breath of hers and she knew that until she was on the ground in the Stalag and able to look at the men in there—until her gaze had found her youngest brother—she would not be able to breathe properly.  She wouldn’t be able to do any of it. 

Lew took her hand in his. Immediately, the tremors and the shaking just stopped.   “Let’s go find your brother.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn’t until the German Commander had surrendered that Ruth even began looking around the place.  The only problem was that she wasn’t all that tall compared to most of the men in the camp and there were so many people—it was going to be impossible to find anyone in this mess of people. 

Frenchmen, Americans, British—how the hell was she supposed to find Abe in a place like this? 

Ruth glanced over at Lew and then over at the tanks.  “I have an idea.” 

“Something tells me I’m not going to like it very much, am I?�� 

“Probably not.” 

A few minutes later, Lew had begrudgingly boosted Ruth atop a tank.  As soon as her feet were on the solid metal, she was on her feet and ripping her helmet from her head.  Damn the fact that she was a woman and she wasn’t meant to be here.  

“Abe!  Abe!” Ruth shouted out the name. 

But it just drowned as though it was caught in a wave itself.  With the cheering and the way that everyone was gathered to see the Germans march out of the camp, it would have been a damn surprise if anyone had heard that. Ruth began to feel a pit of desperation growing in her chest like a damn weed.  

Come on, come on—

Just as her hope was dying out in her chest, Ruth heard a loud whistle that caught her attention.  Her head snapped around and when she turned, she found a group of familiar faces sitting atop a roof.  “RUTH!” 

And right there was Abe. 

Ruth didn’t even hesitate in leaping from the tank and sprinting through the crowd to get to her brother.  She shoved and pushed and he did the same.  Ruth ran—she ran as though the war had ended and everything was suddenly going to be alright.  And it wasn’t until she had collided with her brother and felt Abe in her arms that she let out a sob. 

“Oh you stupid, stupid—underaged—high-school dropout—shithead!” Ruth exclaimed, shoving at his arms and then taking his face in her hands to look him over.  He had a few bruises on his face and a cut near his eyebrow, but other than that, Abe Sharpe looked absolutely fine.  Better than fine—though he was crying just as much as she was at the moment.  

“How the hell are you—” 

“I missed your birthday!” Ruth realized in horror, pulling him in for another hug.  “You’re 18 now, you stupid, stupid—” 

“Well there’s a sight I thought I’d never see again.” 

Ruth couldn’t help the fact that she froze on the ground at the sound of the voice.  The sound of her brother John’s voice.  John, who she hadn’t seen since 1942—John, who was supposed to be KIA.  John, whose locker she never picked up in London. John Sharpe, her other brother—who was standing a few feet away, a tired grin on his face and bundled up in a coat. 

“Oh my god!” Ruth scrambled to her feet and pulled John into the fiercest hug of his life.  He had gotten taller and bigger since the time she had seen him last—and given the fact that it had been a few years, she wasn’t altogether surprised by that.  He just held onto her so tightly, head buried in her mass of curls.  “How the hell are you here?” She demanded through a choked sob. 

John just gave a grin.  “Made it to a lifeboat and got picked up by a German U-Boat.  I’ve been here for a while.  Not as long as David though.” 

If Ruth thought for one second that she was done being surprised, she was sorely mistaken.  Because the next person who pulled her into a fierce hug was her cousin David, who she hadn’t seen in years.  He and Abe were roughly the same age and she thought for certain, he had been lost in the mass of executions in Europe. 

“How—” Ruth breathed out, just holding onto the three boys in utter relief and shock. 

“I made it out of Germany back in 40.  Traveled up to Denmark, then to England—took a while to get my citizenship for England but I was part of the RAF,” David explained, a beaming grin on his face. “Imagine my surprise when John here shows up and then Abe!” 

“And now you!” Abe added. 

“OH!” Ruth exclaimed.  “I found Uncle Yosef and cousin Sveta!” 

“Seriously?” John blurted, eyes nearly the size of saucers.  “You found more of us?” 

“I found you,” Ruth couldn’t help but letting the tears stream down her face.  And then the thought that she had not seen Robby yet occurred to her.  “Where’s—” 

“He made it onto the Russian side,” Abe explained.  “He’s probably back at Thorpe Abbotts right now wondering where the hell you’re at.” 

“Well I’ll be damned,” A new voice joined the conversation.  And whether it was because she was feeling utterly sentimental and over-emotional, Ruth wasn’t sure.  But she sprinted straight at Bucky and hugged the living daylights out of the man. 

 “Thank you for taking care of Abe.” 

He just grinned into the hug and gave her an awkward pat on the back.  “I mean—I figured if he showed up here, you weren’t going to be far behind.  I gave it, what?  40 days, gentlemen?” 

The other pilots from Thorpe Abbotts had slowly begun to trickle over.  And Captain Brady, solemn as ever, just shook his head.  “He called you the Jewish Jesus—showing up in 40 days and whatnot.” 

“Jesus was Jewish,” Abe pointed out, crossing his arms as he stared down Brady. 

“Argue later, boys,” Ruth insisted.  She turned, giving Bucky an exasperated pat on the cheek.  “Sacrilege, huh?  Do better.” 

“I did.  You showed up, didn’t you?” 

[hauntingcontradiction]

hi!! i love ur new fic so so much and i’m going to come back with a full list of everything i loved about it but first i just have to know (my mind is so scattered cause of finals), was it gale or john who wouldn’t get hard?

Hi! Thank you so much for your ask anon and your lovely comments about my fic!!!

It was Gale who couldn’t get hard in my fic. I was inspired by @avonne-writes’s idea about what if that happened to Gale in the stalag and her wonderful fic Reverie. I really liked how she showed how much that affected Gale emotionally. I’m soooo into John angst haha (John is my baby and Gale’s baby so John hurting gives me all the feels!) so I thought it was awesome John angst potential too and wanted to explore how that would make him feel and really lean into all his hurt and pain. Thanks to Avonne for the initial inspiration :)

I also think John is really into acts of service (it’s his love language) towards Gale and he also wants to feel needed by Gale and useful (in the show he does better when he has a clear purpose or mission he can work towards). So for me, he would perceive Gale not being able to get hard as a personal failing on his part not Gale’s and it would hurt him deeply that he wasn’t able to make Gale feel good and to give him pleasure. I did deliberately leave out any discussion in the fic on why Gale wasn’t able to get hard so it would be up to the reader to fill that in themselves (sooo many reasons eg he was just in a fight, he is in pain and injured John!!!). I wanted my fic to be really centered in John’s pov and where he is mentally at that point in the stalag, he is so lost in his pain that he wouldn’t be able to see what else is going on with Gale or that there could be other reasons or even that it’s not a bad thing.

good luck with your finals!!

[onyxsboxes]

Not surprising at all but "Buck isn’t fine" 👀 (though don't talk about it if you won't want to write it after lol ❤️)

Hi dears,

(I also tag you @amiserableseriesofevents because you too asked about it)

Thank you for this ask.

I only wrote down the WIPs I'd already made good progress on, so normally it should work 🤞.

Buck isn't fine (I'm not sure that'll be the final title) is one of my two most angsty fics. It takes place between the beginning of the stalag and a little before the Buckies' Fight(TM) and it's part of the werewolf!gale series.

When I started thinking a bit more about this series, I spotted two moments where Buck could have break down (whump!Gale my beloved). And instead of choosing one, I started writing both of them.

Buck isn't fine isn't the actual breakdown, but rather the path leading up to it. We follow Buck as he copes with life as a POW: keeping his men safe and sane, dealing with Bucky who is slowly losing his mind, having to hide his werewolf status in fear of death or experimentation, the lack of sleep, food (and especially meat) as well as the heavy physical and emotional impact of living in such a harsh environment.

Gale being Gale, he is doing very just fine. Because he's lucky: part of his pack is there where he can protect it, his Bucky is there and he's doing absolutely fine (no, he's not doing absolutely fine at all).

I posted a bit already under the tag #spoiler buck isn’t fine

Here are some vibes of the fic

He's fine. Buck is fine. Oh yes, he's a POW in a nazi camp, but he's fine. He is fine. Bucky's here with him. Benny, Brady, Crank, Glenn, Hambone and his boys are here. His pack is with him. He's fine. His pack is tearing itself apart. Benny can't absorb the proteins they've managed to find. Sick because of their origin. Crank trying to keep a cool head to help others while he cries himself to sleep at night. Brady trying to keep everything in order. Glenn, who can't stop shaking. His pack is falling apart and all he can do is watch. He's trying so hard. He's trying so hard to help them, to be there for them. But it's okay, Buck's fine.

[johnslittlespoon]

okay now to be Less normal and relaxed about the stalag pool discovery in a separate post. heyyy gays

ohhhh i am Thinking. first of all, we could've had it all... a summer pool scene to break up the angst... whatever it's fine. like we could've had john shaking out his wet curls and gale pretending like he's not shooting him heart eyes from across the pool but i. don't even care.

second of all, dog coded bucky fic yapping ahead, would love input from anyone remotely invested in the storyline bc i care most about how y'all feel about the flow/what you wanna see in it:

-> tldr: do the buckies deserve a pool scene in the fic. and perhaps adjacently, a chapter (at least) dedicated to summer in the stalag (filling in the gaps of all the months we didn't see in mota). plus general sadness ab mota not expanding on the stalag arc LOL

i'm fighting every beast under the sun right now because i have very much been sticking to mota show canon in yad(iym) bc i know a lot of casual buckbucky enjoyers aren't aware of info that wasn't included in the show, which is totally chill, i just don't want to throw ppl off with stuff that to them may seem unrealistic/inaccurate, yk?

but. i REALLY. want to include something about this in the fic. and in general, there's sooo much time in the stalag that wasn't accounted for in the show, which makes sense; most of the time spent there was pretty damn dull or as 'ordinary' as things can be in a camp like that so they probably felt it wouldn't be super exciting to focus on (esp with how short the show already was </3).

on top of that, the way it was portrayed in the show (aside from the library) made it seem like there was absolutely nothing to do aside from plotting their escape and playing cards– i mean all the scenes outside were barren, we didn't see much in the warmer months aside from the stump scenes, hell, john was playing fucking imaginary baseball with himself LOL give that man a pool. anyway.

i think it would be fun to explore the months we didn't see much of in the form of fic, because listen. as much as i loved the show and equally have qualms with it, to me the 'stalag arc' was one of the most fascinating settings/parts to watch and learn about, and it could've been so much more if they'd been able to dedicate more showtime to it. but i wanna know if stuff set in the stalag is also as interesting to read as it is to write?

right apologies for the word vomit, litch rally just thinking out loud as always, but reading through the article i linked in my last post really zapped my brain and gave me fresh ideas, and i'm also always very open to suggestions for things to explore in the fic <3

[alienoresimagines]

On three topic of wanting more Gale whump, I desperately want more fics that explore Gale’s guilt towards leaving John behind and escaping. I’ve already read a few amazing fics that do touch on that and I ate them all up haha but I want moreeee Gale feeling guilty and John comforting him 😩

YESSSSSSSSS 🥹🥹

That shot of Gale and the white horse like what was that. What were we supposed to do with it except make the connection with the unicorn being Bucky's favorite extinct animal and now Buck doesn't know if his unicorn is extinct or not. What was that face Gale made when he saw the lucky deuce in his footlocker and realized "Oh. This is what Bucky went through." and he understood the despair that pushed Bucky to go on a mission without his lucky deuce. When Gale realised that John's always believed in luck, even pushing it onto Gale, but if Gale wasn't here then John rejected luck because there was no point in trying to have all the luck on his side.

Gale running away from Bucky even though it was Bucky who always tried to come up with escape plans because he was desperate to get out of here, and yet never once hinted at escaping without Buck, refusal after refusal. But Gale did. Gale left Bucky here, even though he'd seen Bucky lose his spark and grow mad in that cage.

I have A LOT of thoughts about that and yes, we definitely need more fics like that!!

Buck being brought back to the days he spent in the Stalag wondering if Bucky is still alive, except this time he's back at Thorpe Abbotts but he's so worried and hard on himself for leaving Bucky behind he doesn't eat, doesn't sleep. All he can think of is how Bucky would never have left him behind, he would have come running back. But Gale didn't. Gale looked back and ran when Bucky told him to. And then Gale thinks back to what he told Bucky about boxing: "a measure of your will to fight and it's man to man". So what kind of man does that make him? He left his best friend behind, his best friend who was a POW, unarmed, but still fought to allow Gale a chance to escape without a second thought.

Like, that for sure messes Gale up even more. Even more so if we follow Book!Canon and Bucky doesn't swing by England but is immediately shipped back to the US.

Gale breaking down once he sees Bucky again, avoiding him because how could Bucky still look at him? Meanwhile Bucky is ?? because he WANTED Buck out. As long as there was a chance Buck was alive outside of the camp, Bucky had a will to live and to fight.

This ended up in a full rambling so I'll stop but yes, I have a lot of feelings about it, we definitely need more fics about Gale's guilt at leaving John behind!! 🥹🥹

What are some tropes/hc you'd like to see more of in Clegan fics?

[amiserableseriesofevents]

4,5,6,7 for the ask game 😘

4. Bucky or Buck?

Bucky! I just connected with him instantly: we're very similar in how we express our affection (we're both menaces, and very physical ones), and I see a lot of myself in how he jokes and jests as a coping mechanism. He's seen by everyone else as a "comic relief" and he plays his role perfectly well, but when the cracks start showing he loses that part of himself, and suddenly the jokes are not enough, they're not even there anymore. I suffered a lot watching him unravel in the stalag. And also I'd really like to fuck him silly, so that's definitely in his favor.

5. Which episode wrecked you the most emotionally?

God I really don't know! There are things in almost every episode that wrecked me: Bucky's unbearable grief at the start of episode 5, Paulina's goodbye in episode 4, how desperately Buck was trying to hold Bucky together in episode 7 (maybe this was the moment that got me the most, how scared he was for his friend, more than for himself, poor Gale), the white horse scene in episode 9, the Bucks fighting in episode 8... I am a very emotional person 🥲

6. Which character death hit you the hardest?

Bubbles 💔 The fact that merely one episode before he thought he'd lost Crosby and then they got reunited only for him to die because Crosby got his place! And Crosby's grief when he was in Oxford, talking about Bubbles like he was still alive and then breaking down. And that the fact that on one side we had the Bucks, reunited against all odds, and on the other we had Bubbles and Crosby, who didn't beat them, made it hurt even more.

7. Do you have a favorite MotA fic? If so, can you link it?

I won't promote my own fics because I'm a good person 🙄 But I'll give you a few of my favorite ones!

in our bedroom after the war, by stereobone (post-war, domesticity, fluff a good dose of smut)

In your arms (I think I might survive), by MarvaLamb (stalag fic, sharing a bunk, 5+1 times, a lot of kissing)

back home where you're from, that's the measure of a man, by wolfhalls (missing smut moments through the first few episodes)

I Don't Wanna Be Alone Tonight, by johnslittlespoon (another stalag fic with the sharing the bed trope because apparently it's one of my favorites lmao, and also smut)

[majorbuckyegan]

writing the clegan stalag fight for a fic and attempting to write it as an actual fight instead of just clegan scissoring lmaooo

[middlingmay]

Find the Word

Thanks @avonne-writes for the tag! This is another new one for me :)

Rules: Share snippets of your work containing each of the words the previous poster selected for you (optional addition: if you can't find the word in your WIPs, or you simply don't have any WIPs, you can just write a sentence around the word)

My Words: hug, hair, smirk, believe

Your Words: god, mine, night, doll

Hug

From my Runaway!Gale AU

When they go, Gale hugs John. He can't remember the last time anyone hugged him, let alone when he initiated it, but John is the kindest person he’s ever met. And he tells him so.

Hair

From a fic request I received for Gale realising his feelings at the Stalag

So when a hand grabbed Gale’s bicep so hard it pinched the skin and he knew there’s be bruises like fingerpaints there tomorrow, he didn’t fight it. He let John drag him further down the gaps between the huts and shove him against the cold and damp wood. He let John grab his neck and the back of his hair, and he didn’t say anything even as the man faltered when he got a look of Gale’s face. What did he see? Defeat? Desperation? The grief that in a few short moments, Buck and Bucky, the most important, defining, greatest relationship of his life would be over all because he let his control slip just once-

Smirk

From my Gale flirting fails fic

Later, as they languished on the living room floor with the throw from the couch tossed over them to ward of the evening chill, John turned to him and said, delighted, “You could just ask me to fuck you, you know. Ever thought of that?” And Gale smirked and nipped at the finger tracing his cheek. “Don't count on it.”

Believe

From my Marge is Gale's beard HCs

Buck blushed as he said it. He sounded like a stupid teenager. But John just stuttered to a stop and gawped at him. Gale watched his mouth flap, trying and failing to utter a sound, like it too couldn’t believe John Egan had finally been rendered silent.

Not sure who's already been tagged or who wants to play along, but I'll tag some people I've seen posting fics / HCs / snippets tat I've enjoyed recently: @pinksiames @brotherwtf and @donotnomi. No pressure!

[joeyalohadream]

WIP Game

Rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

Thank you @middlingmay , @alienoresimagines and @onyxsboxes for the tag! And my goodness did this make me realize I have too many WIPs (some are literally a line or two at the moment). But have at it!

- Combat Fatigue - Bucky realizes he doesn't know Gale as well as he wants to - 5+1 - "You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen" - Feral Buck - almost first kiss - "I'm always cold, John. Unless I'm with you." - Bucky's journey from liberation to the control tower at Thorpes Abbotts + reunion fluff - Bucky's attempts to ask Gale out on a date get more ridiculous and Gale thinks it's all a joke (Modern Setting featuring a very unhelpful Brady and Curt) - Jealous/Hurt Gale - miscommunication, these boys are dumb and then soft and then happy - Cooler Fic Part Two - Post-War - road trip (Cooler fic Part Four) - Boy Next Door - chapter three - A feeling I want to get used to - Chapter two - Another First Series - First Kiss - Another First Series - First Fight - Canon-Divergence - Bucky gets to the Stalag first (Gale's "farmer with a pitchfork" story is not one he'll ever share as a joke in this)

I feel like all the writers I know have been tagged in this already! But if you're seeing this and want to play, we'd all love to know what you're working on!