MOTA
(Open, Unmoderated, Unrevealed, Anonymous)
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“The thing you can't quite put your finger on about DeMarco,” He says, “is that you want him to fuck you til you cry. Sorry to spoil the game for you.”
Brady stares at him and stares at him, alone in the Base’s Chapel and rosary halfway finished. He thinks he might throw up, or maybe strangle Curt Biddick and then throw up.
“Lock it up, Johnny, they’re gonna see you bleeding it all over soon.”
Series
- Part 3 of sonnet of the sweet complaint
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“What good are you over there? I want you here.”
They’ve done this numerous times before, back in flight school. Bucky cosied up to his side in bed, the scruff on his cheek scraping over Gale’s collarbone. It only happened when the nights were cold, and Bucky was sloshed.
Plausible deniability.
In what Gale does now, they would be hard-pressed to find deniability of any kind. Both of them eagerly ignore that Bucky is not drunk enough, and that the woefully public nature of their surroundings in no way resembles the safety of their shared room back in Texas.
Climbing into the cot, Gale tries to temper his rapidly beating heart. Bucky will find a way to snug close enough to plaster his ear to his chest. He will hear it, but won’t comment—skirting the line, never to cross it.
Or, Gale is jealous of Bucky's girls.
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Because they both understood the cost of the war, the thousands of men they were surely going to lose. They bore the weight of it anyway because they had to.
Bucky needed a reason to live, which came in the form of a blonde man with pretty blue eyes. He was his air after drowning for so long.
Buck needed a pillar he could lean on, a sun that he could follow, quietly reflecting its light. He was his sun after countless cloudy days.Series
- Part 1 of i'm gonna bet on us
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Summary
Not all of Gale's scars are from shrapnel wounds.