#masters of the air fluff

[sagesolsticewrites]

In My Arms

Sometimes your husband just needs to be held. (lots and lots of fluff)

Cowritten with @winniemaywebber! Also shoutout to Winnie for making yet another incredible playlist for this fic!

Warnings: mentions of cheating (but not really bc there was a war on come on y’all), definitely some historical inaccuracies in here, and plenty of tooth-rotting fluff with a touch of Emotions™️

Word count: 1k (short n sweet!)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Masterlist

In the months since Harry Crosby had returned home, your husband hadn’t been able to keep his hands off you.

He’d always been like that in your more… private moments, of course, but now it seemed to be seeping into your daily lives.

You’d be walking past him to the kitchen and he’d trail his fingers along your arm, inhaling the sweet scent of your perfume as it lingered in the air.

He’d wrap his arms around you, hugging you from behind as you were bustling around on a cleaning day.

He’d pepper kisses over every bit of skin he could reach every chance he got.

It wasn’t that you minded— on the contrary, you loved it. But you were curious as to where the behavior had come from.

“Honey?” You ask softly one rainy afternoon as Harry has you tucked under his arm, his fingers trailing over every inch of you he can reach.

“Hm?” He hums contentedly, “What is it, love bug?”

“I’ve noticed that… well, since you’ve been home..” You fumble over your words, trying to find the right thing to say, “You’ve been… touching me, a lot? More than you used to before you left, at least. Not that it’s a bad thing,” you scramble to add, “It’s wonderful, and I’ve missed it so, so much, but… is there a reason for it?”

Harry sighs deeply, seemingly collecting his thoughts before he answers.

“When I was… away…” he begins carefully, “there were lots of things the men used to distract themselves from the anxiety and… well, our day to day lives over there. Physical affection was one of them.” He glances at you nervously, ensuring you understand his meaning before he continues, “I did partake in that once or twice, when it got really bad, but truly aside from that, all of my thoughts and wants were directed towards you.”

“I know, honey, I understand,” you assure him, eyes soft, “There was a war on, you— you did what you had to do to keep yourself sane.”

He relaxes, a weight you hadn’t noticed he’d been carrying since he’d returned suddenly lifted off his shoulders.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he breathes, brushing a kiss to your forehead before continuing.

“There wasn’t a lot of… softness, on the base. We took affection where we could find it on weekend passes, but if you didn’t do that, then it was just a bunch of claps on the back from your fellow airmen, maybe a dance or two with a WAC girl at the Officer’s Club, and not much else.”

You reach up to stroke through his soft curls as he speaks, and he unconsciously leans into your touch as he continues.

“So being home, being with you again…” he sighs, continuing softly “Having someone to touch me again… it’s almost like I have to make up for everything I missed out on. Everything that war made me miss.”

“Oh, my love,” you breathe, hyperaware of every inch of his skin touching yours.

It made sense. Surrounded by other men— soldiers, no less— of course they wouldn’t get the amount of physical affection they were used to, especially if they had wives or sweethearts, and to be stuck there for a year as your Bing had…

Harry lets out a soft sound of surprise as you move into his lap, wrapping your arms around him. You nuzzle into his neck, pressing every inch of your body against him as your fingertips return to raking through his hair.

He melts, his head nosing at the crook of your neck, eyes closed, even as he asks, “Darling?”

“Shhh,” you breathe, “Just let me hold you.”

You feel him sigh against your neck as his hands come up to squeeze you closer, even as he protests, “But didn’t we have things to do—”

“That can wait,” you assure him softly.

The only sound for several long moments is the soft sighs of your heavy breathing, until you speak up again.

“When you got back,” you whisper, “I was so, so happy. So ready for things to go back to normal, to be us again, that I skipped the part where I just let it sink in that you were home, and here.” You lift your head to press a kiss to his temple, “And I’m sorry, my love. I promise I’ll do better.”

You feel your husband shake his head against you, lifting his face to meet your gaze as his hand comes up to cup your face, thumb gently stroking along your cheek.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, sweet girl,” he murmurs, “I’ve got all the time in the world to hold you, now.”

He pulls you in for a sweet kiss as the two of you melt into each other, a soft bubble of sunlight amidst a dark and gloomy day.

You keep holding him for what feels like an eternity. You start to hear him whimper into you, his whole body tense and shaking. You feel wetness from his eyes drop on to your shoulder and you pull away, concern all over your face. 

“My love,” you say, your voice slightly strained. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“Oh, darling,” he sniffs, wiping the tears as quickly as they come, obviously embarrassed at showing this emotion. “I'm just–just so happy to be home with you.” You reach a hand out to touch his face, your eyes also filling with the same emotion. You swipe your thumb under his darling puppy eyes, your heart beginning to swell. 

“I'm so–” You struggle to formulate the words, your throat closing around all the swallowed emotion. “I'm so happy to have you home, too. I don't want us to ever be apart again, honey.”

“We won't be,” he replies, holding you close and kissing your temple, clinging to one another until your tears are spent. 

“I love you, Bing,” you breathe into his ear, fingers toying with the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

“I love you too, darling,” is his soft response, mumbled against your neck as he squeezes you tighter, and you know that you won’t let each other go again for a long while.

[hogans-heroes]

Words of My Hands

(Gale takes a turn for the worse after his escape. When John finds him, physically and mentally broken and non-verbal, their touches become the way they communicate. Healing for both of them is a long road.)

_____

“Gale.”

John could barely breathe, hunched over the small bed in Thorpe Abbots’ medical ward, fresh off the transport that had brought the last of the freed prisoners back. The second he saw Croz’s stricken face he had bolted here, his world shattering at the sight of Gale laid limp and dazed on too-white sheets. Gale had latched onto him, brow furrowing, but gave no other reaction, and a horrible dread began to wrap itself around John’s throat.

He curled close and brushed a feather-light touch along Gale’s eyebrow, lingering over the small scar that had been there since before flight training, drew the finger down the side of Gale’s nose and across the too-prominent cheekbone, brushing the scar that stood out harshly against pale skin.

Gale didn’t stir. His glassy eyes remained distant, lingering somewhere on John’s cheek, though his hand was loosely encircled around John’s wrist. John inhaled raggedly and kissed Gale’s forehead, tearing his gaze away from Gale to Croz and Rosie who lingered on the other side of the bed, swallowing in an attempt to force his dry throat into action. 

“How long has he been like this?” 

His voice came out harsh from cold and misuse, too thin and vulnerable to his own ears, and Rosie’s grieved eyes bored into his own.

“He was brought across the Channel on a Fort. Got out, took a few steps, and hit the ground.”

John fought back bile crawling up this throat, suddenly light-headed as black spots of panic encroached his vision.

“He hasn’t spoken at all?”

“Just when he sleeps,” said Croz. “We can’t understand a lot, but it’s usually just your name.”

“My name?”

Another pause. “He cries.”

John sank the rest of the way down, pressing his face to Gale’s forehead, and Gale shifted, touching his nose to John’s jaw. The hand on John’s wrist slipped up to clumsily meet his cheek, accompanied by a hitch of breath that was almost a sound.

With blurred vision John slid his arms fully around Gale, gathering him up to his chest and tucking Gale’s face into his neck. He kissed Gale’s temple, threading his fingers through the too-long hair at the back of Gale’s head, coarse from malnutrition and the harsh elements. Rubbing the strands between his fingers, he smoothed the other hand over Gale’s back and around his ribcage to fit between protruding bones, holding Gale’s body against him. Slowly Gale melted, pressing closer, and a horrible lump choked John and flooded his eyes.

“It’s alright, Buck,” he breathed shakily, squeezing tighter. “I’ve got you.”

[therealslimshakespeare]

Masters of the Air Fanfic

As requested by sweet @arianatheangel-girl and the subsequent poll for a “Buck Cleven Fic before the series comes out” -and I, being a madwoman with no impulse control and a faint recollection of the book, have delivered…this…whatever this is

Song Challenge: i was challenged by dear @the-ugly-swan for a twenty favored songs challenge and I’m gonna go ahead and make this part of it. August by Taylor Swift informed some of the bittersweet timeline here, with infidelity not being the enemy but rather the lack of possessing oneself fully during wartime to give to another

Spoilers: historical accuracy and inaccuracy abound here so, beware there are some biographical facts about Cleven in here that might count as spoilers to those who wish to watch the series with a blank slate. While to the history purists I must beg for a substantial amount of artistic license to be granted me, and obviously I’ve not seen the show yet and I crunched the timeline to my own will

Reader insert but without the use of “y/n” -I’m utterly fudging a bit on the likelihood of a WAAF lady being part of the American ground crew, however, I had in my minds eye the vision of a greasy mechanic and a glamorous flyboy and it wouldn’t budge, so shhh, go with the vibe

Warnings: mature, 18+. Fluffy smut was requested and while it is very brief and mild in here, not very explicit in phrasing, it’s quite present and a plot point so beware. Also, Virgin!Gale has my heart so we went with that. No shade to dear Marjorie irl, I’ll probably end up writing fics about her once the show gives me Inspo. Some angst due to war, POW’s, etc, mild language

Word count: a monstrous 12k

They came in like locusts at the height of summer, long prayed for, oft cursed in moments of perilous isolation, those ever so intriguingly shiny Americans.

Swarming with a metal buzz over the flatlands of East Anglia, big hulking beasts touched down on fresh tarmacs with more grace than anything that size ought to have, flashing the most bizarre and suggestive paintings on their gleaming fuselages. Flying Fortresses, they were called, and deserved the name. Nothing but the biggest, the loudest, the most alarming machinery would do for the American war effort, and now all this mighty strength was Britain’s too, no longer alone, no longer enduring.

Now the fight could be taken to the enemy in earnest. Out of their flying ships poured the most alarmingly young looking faces, jaunty hats and leather jackets, they looked every bit the sort of fellows war was advertised to.

Farmers in their tractors, mothers with daughters still under their command and RAF veterans all looked askance at such pristine warriors. Had their fertile fields been paved into airfields just for this? Were these gum chewing boys the long expected aid? It wasn’t anti-climactic, nothing American could ever be, it was all just alarmingly fresh. It was understandable then, the initial tentativeness the locals felt towards their new occupants, the way the boys took up such space in the rural villages, made such a racket in the pubs, chased every skirt that swished in the rainy summer breeze, stuck hands out for a shake no matter the introduction. They were a warm, boisterous and confident lot, all much needed attributes in wartime Britain, and soon, the initial distrust of the citizenry thawed, hands were shaken in return and invitations made. An amiable amalgamation eventually occurred, Norfolk never to recover or return to whatever placidity had been her’s before the arrival of the 100th.

Personally, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on them. The planes, that is.

Amalgamation was less a choice for yourself and your service members than a duty. It was abnormal, having a mixed ground crew, British and American servicemen too often clashing in hierarchy disputes for it to be standard, but with deployment rates so high and casualties mounting, ground crew became a case of whichever skilled individuals could be called upon to keep the operation running, the pilots up and the enemy bombed.

You were just glad to be near home, first time back since ‘39 when you’d signed up in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force -even if your rural hometown was now overrun with Americans. They weren’t a bad lot at all, at least not the ones you’d encountered so far on base. Amiable and unexpectedly eager, undeterred by veterans’ grim looks and tales of the woodchipper across the channel, that line of anti-aircraft that shredded anything trying to penetrate the continent.

“Better get crackin’ then.” Was the common response followed by a grin.

Your crew chief sergeant, Ken Lemmons, an American with a forelock of sandy ringlets and the patience of a saint, made the job easier even as every ounce of expertise was exacted from each man -or woman- under him. Feeding a fiery chain of bullets into the turret gun under a hot July sun, you thought your papa may have had the right of it when he tried to dissuade you from choosing the harsher duties of the Auxiliary Force. You could’ve been pouring over a map in the cool of the boardroom right now, or passing on radio messages, even shuttling planes would’ve been more relaxing, but no, you’d spent your life passing him tools in his garage, your papa had been building flying machines when most for these boys were still in diapers, and that path called to you, too. So for you it was grueling maintenance work and the ever present grime of grease on your hands and the awkward reach of twisted metal repairs. Gratefully, after their first mission, there were plenty of them back safe, however riddled their fortresses might’ve been.

It was interesting, the way certain of the flight crew treated the ships. Some were endeared but indifferent to their repairs while others hovered at each hole and tear, like over protective mothers, while you and your mates tried to do your jobs.

Why, one plane in the five assigned to your care was even named “Our Baby”. With such a moniker it made sense that its porcelain faced pilot would caress the shredded wing with a misty eyed frown at each wound, like it were a breathing thing, a race horse, a friend. You didn’t judge it, and he didn’t seem aware of his audience, he’d be back out there doing his own check up after debriefing. Never interrupting your work, always quick to step aside or duck out of the way of a ground crewman’s path, it wasn’t time to chatter or make introductions, although sometimes when the work took long and his reports longer, he’d be there to bid goodnight to you all, soft, American drawl saying “Goodnight, thank ya, goodnight, good work, thank ya” again and again to each.

You grew to recognize them, the ones each mission spared, there were so many and under hats and bundled in leather jackets they tended to blend together, but there were those who made their mark, if not on you then on Dorace in cartography and Eileen at the Red Cross. There was much tittering and speculation, after all, spread thin as their time was, there was also plenty of off time, made all the more charged and anxious as it came in the form of waiting for new orders. The men would be vibrating with nervous energy and generous in the flush of a recent victory and they took it out on the little villagers who in good British fashion took it on the chin and challenged them to a contest of good spirits.

Those were happy days, less anxious than the preceding ones and less heavy than those making up the year after. You dared be roped into the multiple pub crawls, often choosing the most sensible and quiet of the group as your victim and attaching yourself to their side for the evening. This tactic had its fallibility, sometimes those moderates were such a bore as to be unsupportable or hadn’t enough verve to make a full night of it and retired early like respectable, curfew-abiding saps. That’s how you found yourself one night ensconced in a beer pungent corner of Flaggen’s, green leather seats sticky under your palms, with Major Egan fanning out a wad of cash in front of you. It was a blatant attempt to bribe you to clear his aircraft sooner than the last inspection suggested.

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

If you were less tipsy you wouldn’t have giggled at the man’s idiocy, but his arm was heavy around your shoulders and this very cash had bought you one too many gin and tonics. “These regulations keep you alive!” You chided him, shaking your head and feeling the room tip as you did. Truly these Americans could hold their liquor, almost as well as the Polish Squadron when it came to a binge.

“A little flack isn’t gonna keep her down.” he scoffed, “I’ve been grounded for a week now-“

“-I don’t have the authority-“

“-and I’m not gonna sit here while Buck goes up and racks up his number!” Eagen was vehemently slurring and your drunken mind tried to process who Buck was, if not Egan himself.

“Aren’t you Bucky?” you asked, bewildered.

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

“So who’s Buck?” you concentrated very hard on the ancient coaster beneath your latest pint.

“It’s Buck! It’s Gale, Cleven, Major Gale Cleven!” Egan waxed louder and more dramatic with each addition. “You keep clearing his plane! But not mine! Why’s that, huh?”

“How do you know that?” you asked, dubious and only in the raucous of this little pub would his loud voice go unheeded. Compared to the ongoing dart game to the left behind the half wall, an elephant’s trumpeting would be considered bashful.

“ ‘Cause he tells me?” he replied, bewildered at your slowness, “Says you and your crew are little fairies, crawlin’ all over his plane and patching it up better than ever after each mission. And then you clear him. Simple as that.”

“I don’t have authority to clear anyone.” you repeated.

“Huh,” Egan grunted, “how’does he mean then?”

“I don’t know.” you replied firmly, “I doubt I’ve even got your plane, i don’t see you around.”

“I don’t stay around, that’s your job, patching up. I just fly the damn thing.”

“Oh, well.” you shrugged, “I’ve had five, it’s down to three after last mission.” Three years ago the mention of that ratio of losses would’ve sank your mood to the floorboards, by now it’s horrifically routine. “What’s yours called?”

“Mugwump.” he grinned proudly, a flash of white beneath his dark mustache, the man’s face positively shimmered with sweat.

“Serial?” you asked demurely, just to be difficult.

He squinted his eyes shut briefly, head tilted back as if to ask the heavens for help and the recited in a drill master’s staccato “42-30066, ma’am, yes ma’am.”

You giggled again and Egan’s arm jostled your shoulders, smushing you further into him. They were good fun, these boys, didn’t even mind your horrifyingly unflattering uniform with its bulging pockets adding bulk where your curves should take center stage and your stupid pleated cap making you look to be half baker, half doll. You preferred your plain navy coveralls but you’d hardly be let into an establishment in them. Egan’s warm arm didn’t seem to mind the excess poof of the material, he smashed it right down with his hand’s firm grip, he was fun, you decided, no harm in good fun. “Alas, not one of mine.” you sighed, focusing hard on the serial number.

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

“No,” you went on, ���but I’ve got this one, a very spoiled one, maybe you know whose it is. They named it ‘Our Baby’!”

Poor manners and personnel etiquette though it was, you couldn’t say it without tittering.

Egan didn’t laugh, he just looked at you like you’d proved his point. “Yeah,” he replied vehemently, “That’s Buck Cleven’s!”

“Oooh.” -So it was him, the fighting cherub, the walking doughboy, toothpick, baby at wings: there were a dozen or more nicknames you and the ground crew gave the wing-petting Major behind his back. “He always says goodnight to us.” you said instead.

“Is that where he is when I wanna go for a drink?” Egan exclaimed, “Ha! You’d think he was married to the ole ship.”

“He handles her beautifully.” You feel oddly compelled to defend, he’s a master at flight and as someone who must repair each fault of his landings and his leavings and his missions, you feel some loyalty to his finesse. “He handles her so well.” you repeat in the tone of a woman who’s seen some aviation in her time, young though you may be.

“Well let me let you into a lil secret,” Egan smirks and you brace without knowing why, he is, after all, not the respectable and dull men you choose to go out with, he is the dangerous sort you bring those dullards along to deter, “shes the only ‘she’ that boy has ever ‘handled’ -if ya get my drift.”

The sleazy wag of his eyebrows leaves no room for ignorance, you feel your face heat up, wether in prudery for the topic or second hand embarrassment for his friend’s sake, you don’t know.

“Nothing wrong with that.” you reply coldy, only to distance yourself from the road his body language seemed to be hurtling you both down.

“Quite right. Nothin’ at all!” Egan agrees vehemently, his smile easy and his eyes clever “But I’d be a poor friend if I didn't try to remedy his predicament.”

“Telling me is somehow part of this remedy?” you were suspicious, rightfully so.

“Maybe.” Egan drawls it out, shifting in his seat to no longer corner you, his attention drawn to the nearby dart game. The man of the moment, the subject, the handler of planes and none else, was not here. He had such a luminous head of golden hair, it would be a beacon amongst the muddy haired crowd flinging darts. “The thing of it is, dear,” Egan confided, “I've had an absolutely marvelous time since I got here. And I think that’s rather essential, for sanity and for international relations, don’t you? I’ve gotten to know all sorts of wonderful people, lovely people like yourself-“

“-word is, you’ve known them a little too biblically, no wonder Cleven avoids your outings.” You could not help but temper him. “Half of Great Britain has had the privilege, if some are to be believed.”

“And so what if I have? I love dancin’!” he laughed quite happily at your barb and you didn’t have it in you to pull down any further a man who was sacrificing so much day in and out. “Getting to know Great Britain is a better occupation than pettin’ plane wings under the moonlight.”

You tittered again at his words and the oddly endearing memories you had of watching Major Ceven petting and whispering to his plane like she was his long-standing beloved, loitering ground crew unheeded. “He does do that.” you agreed.

“Hey, everyone’s got their method.” Egan insisted in his friend’s defense, “But I have told him, it’s good for the morale to mingle, even if he hates drinkin’.“

You pucker your face at that. “I know he mingles, Violet says he’s a doll when he goes to market.” you point out, small town chatter gets around and while you can’t say you know Cleven, you know he’s mild mannered and precious. And a terribly pretty face too, which isn’t fair, he oughta be an ass which a face that cute. “And he got a tan from somewhere last week.“

“Oh, so ya noticed!” Egan is triumphant, “A bunch of us used our day passes to go messin’ around in boats on the canals.”

“Good for you.” you didn’t know what else to say. “Why are we talking about him? What’s your point? I can ask for your plane to be transferred to my crew, but it won’t get you a sloppy clearance. And if your friend is so socially awkward he can’t even manage a pub night, you can hardly expect me to be flattered that you consider me prime material to throw at him.”

“He’s not awkward.” Egan cut to the chase quite serious, in mission mode, “Buck just had his hopes tangled up back home, and now he’s here he’s finding it hard to accept that hopes were all they were. She’s real moved on.” Well that had hurt, you winced in sympathy. “I warned him, everything during this war has got to be taken as a bit inpermanent. Don’t fall in love with Texas girls when you’re headed to England -via: Louisiana, Indiana, hell, by New York she’d stopped writing.”

“And now the texas girl has-“

“-found a Texan, I guess.” He shrugged and chugged the last of his pint. “She’s gettin’ married, it's really over. So, -“ he made a broad gesture as if to explain his reasoning for this entire segue. “-you like projects, you wouldn’t be in the line of work you’re in if ya didn’t, so whaddya say?”

You looked around the dimly lit pub in search of two things, sunny blonde hair and a clock to tell you how badly you were going to regret this night, come morning. “He’s not even here.” you balked.

“Well, no-“

“-what I say is,” you grinned at him disbelieving, “you owe me another gin and tonic for subjecting me to such inane chatter.”

His grin should have served as warning enough that he would neither drop the subject nor let you off free this evening. In fact, the ticking clock and its late curfew breaking hours became the least of your concerns come morning. The cool wash of bitter juniper blended into the pungent flow of beer, it blurred everything, soon there was a great swelling of pride for your native village, a pub crawl was on, all three visited and drank from, an army Jeep was requisitioned without authority, there was some incident regarding a policeman‘s helmet. The latter being the reason why you found yourself in “jail” the next morning, nursing a raging headache and questioning life decisions while glaring at John Egan’s polished boots.

There was very little talk about bail or Air Force hours being exceptioned, the more pressing concern to the Bobbies who had nabbed you was the coed holding cell. Thorpe Abbotts was a small place, after all, and you liked it that way. If this overly indulgent night could be kept away from the military police, all would be well.

You had one hope: Harry Crosby was sensibly absent from the holding cell, having a keen sense of when to depart from the raucous joyride at the precise moment to save himself a demerit. It was an extreme embarrassment to you that you’d not had the same sense. In fact, fond as you were of a bit of a knees up, you couldn’t quite credit the fact you had allowed yourself such free reign, or accomplished such foolishness. Glowering at Major Egan’s face now, animated with delighted chagrin at your shared plight as it was, you vowed to never again hook your fortunes to his, as it were.

Your resolve, and humiliation, was about to be compounded, exponentially.

There was a bustle of a visitor entering the precinct, easily heard in the small space, followed by the low hum of mild mannered conversation. It went on for sometime, and no amount of straining at the bars and cocking of ears would allow you, Egan or your fellow misfortunates to ascertain the gist of it. Violet’s husband was the main constable, and you were quite certain he’d be moderate in his sentence, he had his helmet back, after all. It was the Air Force penalty of not being on base in time this morning that you feared, a growing nausea that compounded the misery of your aching head. They’d not discharge Egan, they’d probably not even demote him, he was too crucial and he’d done this one too many times for it to be grace alone saving him. When he was needed, really needed, he was there. That’s what counted. The same could be said of you, but that hardly mattered given your low rank.

Violet’s husband, also known as constable Herbert, came in sight and with a jangle of keys and a tap to the side of his nose, swung open the bars of infamy and gestured for you and your fellow inmates to file out.

“All sorted.” He declared. His gaze lingered on you as it had many times in your life when you’d been caught jumping in puddles after church, “Let this be a lesson and a warning to you.”

You tried your best at both obeisance and penitence, both of which were rather natural feelings at the present time, while hurrying past as fast as was respectful, your approaching shift hours making your heart thump in panic.

On the steps outside, your savior was loitering against the wrought iron fence, thumbing at the petunias in the nearby window box. Gale Cleven was a mile long of lanky body in perfectly pressed and tailored Air Force greens, fresh faced as the good conscienced are, hair combed without his cap and a smile on his soft face that was composedly long suffering, rather than endeared, as he watched you miscreants pour out of the modest brick building.

You stumbled to a halt on the first step at the sight of him and allowed your instincts to take over, hands smoothing down hair and skirt with frantic self consciousness. You must’ve looked a rumple.

“I hope last night was worth it.” Cleven drawled in that voice of his, so oddly deep for so fresh a face, his placid smile growing into something more genuinely mirthful as Egan smooched at him in gratitude and swore that he knew his Buck wouldn’t abandon them, that his Buck would pull through for them. “I order a round of toothpaste for everyone and cold showers, you stink.” Gale shied away without any real effort, nodding in greeting to the boys he recognized.

Then, as if in the most painfully slow motion with all the strong string accompaniment of a silver screen scene, his eyes landed on you and an odd ache formed in your chest at the anticipation of his disapproval.

It made you tense and draw yourself up to your full height, looking about as regal as a drenched bantam in your disheveled dignity, but you weren’t about to be relegated to another tier than these boys he so amusedly indulged.

“Y’all know what time it is?” he asked mildy, those azure orbs with their batting dark fringe didn’t waver and you realized he indeed had more guts than you’d given him credit for.

There was a chorus of “no”s and various guesses based on the fast evaporating fog and the lightening sky.

“Zero five thirty.” he ended the suspense with the cock of an eyebrow at you.

“Shit!” Egan was suddenly animated, “Shit, shit-“

“Hey, you keep your swearin’ away from my sweet lil corporal.” Cleven chided, and it took you a brief moment to startle upon realizing he meant you. And he thought you sweet? “C’mon Miss,” he waved you down the steps and for some inexplicable reason you felt very compelled to obey and suddenly stood beneath his gaze like a dutiful child awaiting deliverance or censure, “I’ve only got this bike, petrol allotment ran out when we went to the canals last week. But it’ll get ya back faster than this lot. Reckon you can manage on the handlebar?”

“Wha-?“ you glanced sideways at the bike with its large, sweeping handlebars and second guessed his meaning until he himself was straddling it. His legs required the seat to be hiked up impossibly high and the narrow nip of his waist was accentuated by the posture. Those padded, fleece puffed jackets you had seen him in had done no credit to his form, a toothpick he may have been with how terribly lean he was, but he was firm in all the right places. He was also waiting on you to answer while you ogled him.

“Gosh yes, I can, if you’re sure? Awfully kind of you.” you blathered and moved in a hurry to make up for your stalling, keenly conscious of his eyes on your back as you shimmied your backside up onto his handlebars, feeling the warm press of his hand as he helped steady you from tipping all the way back. You wiggled on the thin metal bar, spreading your legs on either side of the front wheel and doing your best to ignore the raucous commentary of the still tipsy audience of your fellow inmates swaying on the precinct steps. “Y’all just be glad there’s no mission scheduled today.” he snarked to them instead and they chimed up that last night’s idiocy was calculated with that in mind.

“Huh.” Cleven uttered, unimpressed, behind you and it made you shiver, worse than if your father caught wind of this stunt. “Darlin’ put your hands over mine, s’gonna get wobbly takin’ off.” he directed next and you did as you were told, looking back over your shoulder at him with a grateful smile that you were relieved to see returned, pink lips stretching and a freckled nose bunching up sweetly when all of the sudden a rush caught you by surprise and the bike was in motion and you whipped your head back to view the street as it rushed up ahead of you. “See ya boys!” he hollered out as a mutinous babble rose from his friends at being left to jog back.

The young man could put some speed on a bike, uphill too. Or, as much of a hill as could be found this far East. You could hear him chuckle when you squeaked at the first jolt of a pothole, your thumbs hooking under his hands and curling into his palms. They were warm and calloused, dry from the cool breeze and you may have imagined the way he squeezed them in assaurance but you did not imagine the way his voice piped up again, smooth and conversational: “Harry told me if I was quick I could get you out in time, I think we’re gonna make it. S’dont worry, even if Sergeant Lemmons gives ya trouble, I’ll insist.”

“That’s really too kind of you.” The chill of windburn and a substantial amount of remorse made your cheeks glow scarlet. “All of it is. I’m rather ashamed.”

“I didn’t take you for an all nighter sort.” he agreed but followed it with a soothing compliment, “You’ve always been nothin’ but perfect. P-p-perfectly punctual, I mean, and there’s no reason to let Egan’s idea of fun ruin your record.”

“Wasn’t his fault. Not wholly.” you sighed, giving Violet a bashful wave as you passed her opening the shop, a wave which Cleven mirrored behind you and between the two of you letting go the bike, it nearly dumped you both. It was luck and sheer persistence that righted you and kept your balance. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a bad habit, picked it up at Northolt.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“South, by the coast.” you said, unsure why you felt the need to explain your debauchery away, “I was working a ground crew down there for a bunch of Polish Pilots. Spitfires mainly. That squadron nabbed the most kills of any in the RAF back in ‘40. Why, even Churchill visited more times than I can count, he found them good fun. Too much fun, they never went to bed without downing half a barrel. There was dice built into the bottom of the pints at the Black Bull, rather addictive, rolling to see who would buy the next round. —There was always a next.” You added upon reflection.

That was also the year you had lost your brother. The correlation between the habit and the loss wasn’t to be dwelt on.

“Huh,” Cleven let out one of him contemplative hums, “and how do we compare?” he asked surprisingly.

“How?” you laughed, daring to crane your neck back to see him in the early morning sunshine, pretty and sweet and arch in his expression. Dusk had not done his mama’s work on his face any justice, it made you want to pant he was so pretty.

“I dunno, in any way,” he laughed in turn, not even breathless as he sped the bike over the cobblestones, the village barely awake and mostly quiet, “how do we compare?”

“To the Poles?”

“Or the French. Or your own, the RAF ain’t no joke.” he amended, “Whoever is our competition.”

“So it is a competition.” you smirked -how very American of him. “Depends,” you hedged playfully, “Our boys are so very nice, familiar, they never run out the right coinage during a date either. But the French are better flirts while the Dutch are better dancers. But the Poles, they know how to romance. Lots of hand kissing and flowers, so many flowers there had to be rules made for overstocking the billet.”

“Sounds like we gotta step up our game.” he decided.

“Is that what you meant? How you compare? First impressions?”

“I-I- guess, yeah.” he now sounded confused, “I mean, what else? You got scores for aircraft?”

“I do.” you replied, as it was true, “But that’s unfair, you’ve only just arrived. I thought maybe you wanted to know something more -salacious.”

“Like?” His tone behind you was guarded and you doubted if the alcohol of last night were not still buzzing and fortifying your brazenness, that you’d ever go through with what you said next.

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

You felt his fingers flutter around the bars beneath your own, you gripped them tighter, not just because the stretch of old road before the air base was ancient and pitted but because you were in an agony of suspense as to how he’d take your forwardness.

“There’s a record of that somewhere?” he asked at last, a beat too long, too delayed for casualness, too morose for flippancy.

“In fact there is.” you responded carefully. “A little diary of rankings, actually, there’s multiple and whenever there’s a grand assembly of the WAAF or the WACs, they’re passed about and tallied.”

“Sweet Jesus.” he swore behind you, “And here I’ve been chalkin’ up railways and munition dump targets like they’re some achievement.”

“Oh it’s all a bit of silliness.” You assured, not intending to make him glum.

“Do-“ he hesitated and you prayed for strength for him to spit it out as the airfield came in sight on the flat plain ahead. He didn’t.

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

“Are one of these little tallies yours?” he asked miserably.

You grinned to yourself and felt the sunshine seemed brighter and the air crisper than ever before as it rushed in your face with the slowing speed of his bike. “No, not in the least. I merely keep track of Sally’s ledger. It’s all a bit too -messy, for me.”

You dared peak behind you again and he looked relieved, then blushed furiously at your observance of him. “Well, who does Sally say is winning?” he dared.

“Romania.” you chortled and he did too, in shock if nothing else. “But Egan’s caught wind of it, he’s quite determined to save your country’s dominance, you don’t need to sweat it.”

His frown was back and you had to focus on not falling off as he slowed the bike to a halt, momentum precarious as his long legs kicked out and walked it the last yard to the segregated barracks, you felt his hand again on your waist to steady you. “Does that bother you?” he asked earnestly, sorrow in his blue eyes.

He offered a hand for you as you hopped down and it was you who held onto it long after it was needed. “Bother me?”

“Yeah, him -consortin’…with Sally?” he pressed, hands quite engulfing your one, “Does it hurt you? Bucky, see, he doesn’t mean to hurt, he’s just so-“

“-Blimey, you are a dear.” you marveled and then amended your interruption as your amusement only further creased that sweet face, “If I am ever again in Major Egan’s company, it will only be to escape it just as quickly. I’ve had quite enough of…consorting.”

“That so?” The lackadaisical confidence he exhibited outside of the precinct was back again, a not unattractive smirk plastered on his vulnerable face, a scheme in his guileless eyes. “Had enough of holding cells?”

“Quite.” you smirked back. “A quiet family dinner is more my style, the occasional picnic, even a zip round Oxford as one must show the foreigners about.” you paused and squeezed his hand once more, “And I do enjoy a bike ride.”

You did not know if he cataloged your preferences for an ideal date or not, life was busy, after all, and the momentary frolics in the July sunshine and banter on the tarmac and evenings in the pub were the exception. Time went on. Most of life was spent in the air, in his case, and in yours, beneath the belly of his beast, wrench in hand. But ever after his gallant rescue of you, there was more than the passing “goodnight” paid to you, there were cheerful smiles on his exhausted face when he returned from a mission, as if you were the one face he was coming back to. With an old familiar dread you noticed the way you begin to take each hole and dent and damage to his plane personally, as if it had been exacted on something precious to you. You have begun to care, for him and for his men, and your tired heart could barely do more than dread what that might lead to.

Good fun. That’s what these boys were supposed to be.

Gale Cleven hadn’t proven much fun. And somehow that was worse. It was worse and also unbearably honoring to be the last face he saw before taking it off, flags in your hands waving in front of his hulking bomber, giving the old familiar directions for a perfect takeoff, one he executed sublimely time and again. His sober, purposeful nods to you before he engaged and taxied out for a mission of death was more intense and intimate than any bouquet or even, your thought, a kiss. It was true the donut dollies on the sidelines were often the last faces of home that many of those boys would see. But in the his cockpit, looking down at your shrimp sized figure on the tarmac, both Major Cleven and you knew that for him, it was yours.

Once, there was a scare, in the first days of august. More than a scare if you were being honest, your heartbeat about stopped and didn’t pick back up for a few hours until word came in. The rest of the base wasn’t much better.

Ten planes had not come back. -Among them, Our Baby. And Mugwump. For two officers, so crucial, so senior, idolized and beloved as they were, to not return, was a blow like none other. You weren’t alone in hovering around the control shack, taking license of your friendship with Dorace to get a play by play of any news. When news came, such as it was, it was both relieving and exasperating.

It would seem there was some problem, a defect or too great of a hit. Orders to land in enemy territory were ignored, however, by Cleven no less. He had doggedly pushed on, safely landing them in allied Africa, of all places. It took almost a day for this information to finally be pasted together, by the end of it you were sad, haggard and half useless in your coveralls, stupendously relieved for a man you were supposed to feel professionally about.

Instead, that night, tucked in your own bed after a meal with your parents and little brother, you thanked God for keeping him -them, all of them- safe. And found yourself pondering the tan on him when he got back from his African foray. Some jealous part of you feared he might be kept there but a week later the thunderous hum of approaching bombers buzzed the air overhead of Thorpe Abbotts and the satisfying thwump of wheels touching down brought them back. There was a frenzy of greetings, flight and ground crew eager to welcome them back, the radio operators, too, and even the civilians who’d managed to get on base.

Your little brother among them. Donald wanted to see them back safe and it wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t dire, not returning from a mission the planes wouldn’t be in such poor shape. They’d been repaired in Africa, enough to fly them all the way back to England. So little Donald was nearby and when the crowd parted and a bee-line for Cleven became apparent, he took advantage and gave the young man a firm handshake in greeting.

“Hey buddy, thank ya, who do you belong to?” Buck laughed while returning the firm grip.

“I’m her brother.” Donald pointed you out proudly among the dispersing crowd and you rolled your eyes at his expectancy for Gale to know or care about you, more than your most pertinent work on base.

“Oh are ya now, hers, huh?” he grinned at you, “Been talkin’ about me?” he greeted, there was a still healing scrape on his left temple that your fingers itched to soothe. How badly had he hit his head?

“Of course I have.” you defended, happiness bubbling under your lips and threatening to make you smile more than was professional, you could see Sergeant Lemmons observing you from the side and tried to keep some decorum. “We thought you’d died.” You stated plainly, it wasn’t any secret to Donald, as soon as the plane had gone missing and before radio contact had been reestablished, you’d rushed home and made the family pray over supper.

“We’ve been praying for you.” Donald agreed, and you saw Cleven startle, a gasped intake of breath between those lush lips and his eyes seemed to water as he searched first your brother’s face and then your own.

“You have?” he choked out, raspy and touched.

“Yes.” you whispered, mouth twisting in a ugly grimace to hold back your own emotion. It was of little use, something beyond War Effort investment in his well being had been admitted. “We thought you might be dea-“

-you didn’t finish your reiteration of your dread. Your face, a greasy and mist spattered face, was suddenly smushed into the padded leather of his bomber jacket, nose tucked right into the fleece apex where his pale blue scarf always rested on his throat.

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

“-even though it made the potatoes cold, Da insisted on prayin’ every night after she told us-“ Donald was waxing eloquent on his own sacrifices of having one added prayer request lengthening his mealtime but you were oblivious to more than the firm press of Cleven’s still gloved hand to the back of your scarf wrapped head, some strong emotion shuddering through his body against your own. A tremor of terror and pain, you suspected, emotions he’d been suppressing all week.

After all, the saved weren’t supposed to be shaken up. They’d been saved, what was there to be off about? You’d seen enough pilots after a close call to know it was every bit as bad or worse than actual disaster. They’d send him right back up again in days, and that was what was expected, demanded, required. He was tremoring against you and you gripped him tighter, sympathetic and aching to cure it somehow. Even for a moment.

“We’ll keep praying.” you assured, and you heard him clear his throat, snotty and rough. “Oh, blast, I’ve positively greased your jacket.” you mourned as he let you go, finally, and you caught sight of the mess your filthy hands and face had imprinted on it during the embrace.

He chuckled as he looked down at the imprint, “S’fine.”

After such an exchange of emotion the air felt charged between you two, without privacy or precedence, it felt unthinkable to linger in that mood. You turned to his plane and pet the fuselage with unstudied fondness, it had been horrid having the old bird absent. You were not above having favorites and the love he poured into his ship, somehow, like some old fairytale truism, made the hulking metal beast lovable, in turn. “How’s our baby, hmm?” you asked him, giving him a sly smile and he took your proffered out seamlessly, joining you in cataloging the damage that had not been deemed severe enough to hamper his return.

“Don’t crawl under here, sir!” you protested as you wiggled under the belly only to find him beside you in the plane’s shadow, “You’ll be a mess!”

“I’ve already got stains.” he brushed your worries off, and you knew it was true. Bloodstains in fact. He had lost a man, the report said, and apparently, judging by his trousers, Buck had held the poor fellow as he bled out. “And I wanna show you the spot I’m worried ‘bout.”

“Alright.” you conceded, allowing him to direct you to the nose. “Watch it Donald!” you had to reprimand your little brother who predictably followed after, “You’ll burn yourself if you touch that, this thing was just running.”

“Careful buddy.” Gale echoed gently beside you and pushed his little head down, more into a crawl. You refused to allow the gentle way he treated the brat to warm you, you refused. Or at least, you refused to let it show, the tingle and heat you felt being all too consuming to be denied.

He was lovely. But you already knew that. He was even more lovely when, upon crawling out from under Our Baby, he took his scarf from around his neck, silk decadently soft, flesh warmed and smelling strongly of his exertions, and swiped it across your greased cheek.

“You’ve got just a lil more…” he practically mumbled and wiped down to your chin, firm, gentle little rubs of the silk which required his other hand to grasp your chin to steady you. You weren’t sure when he’d taken off his gloves, but the feel of his skin on yours was heady.

“It’ll take a couple days.” You predicted regarding the repairs, “Which means you’ll have a few days free, if they don’t drown you in reports.”

“Oh they will.” he laughed, “But s’long as my days are free, means yours aren’t.” he pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“We shoulda thought of that when we chose this line of work.” he joked and your cheeks flamed at the realization he wished to spend time with you. “But you’ll have your nights still, yeah?”

Coming from anyone else, the request for your nights to be reserved would strike you as suggestive indeed. But this was Buck, and when he mentioned nights you imagined nothing but taking him home for a tepid potato and rationed powdered milk supper and the warm reception of your family. His weary eyes suggested how badly he needed that. You could give it to him, and it made your heart glow.

“Yes, I’ll have my nights.” you agreed, “And you can have them, too.”

Sergeant Lemmons agreed with your estimation of Our Baby’s damage the following day and four long days after were spent patching up damage that suggested what a hellish ride that must’ve been. Someone else hosed the blood out of the bay but it turned the puddle on the concrete beside you sickly pink.

To and fro from office to barracks to observation tower, Cleven would stop by to see his ‘baby’ on these occasions. The heckling the ground crew gave you regarding this potential double meaning was agonizing and almost made his attentions not worth it. But then he’d be dropping to a squat to chat with you as you soldered metal, heedless of the sparks, or else bringing scones from the mess to refresh you and, again, wiping your face often with his fancy scarves despite your protests that it was futile.

And at night, on the second day, you made good on yours and Donald’s word and brought him to dinner. It was a quiet walk from the base to the end of the long main road, right to the outskirts of the village, where your family’s unassuming little thatched cottage nestled amongst mama’s victory garden, daddy’s aeroplane hanger and repair shop loomed ugly and dark behind.

The look on Buck’s face when you met him outside the base’s gate at seven in the evening in a dress and heels was worth capturing. But you hadn’t a camera with you and it wasn’t like you were liable to forget. His pure look of awe and appreciation for your cleaned up and girlish state was nearly comic if it weren’t so flattering.

“Darlin-“ he began in a rush but did not finish, only taking you lightly by the fingertips and spinning you slowly, his eyes wide like he was seeing a marvel, which, maybe he was, -your womanly form finally liberated from puffy uniforms and ugly coveralls. Wholesome as your intentions were for the evening, and indeed for him in general, it was some relief and delight to know he was capable of getting hot under the collar. His mama’s well drilled manners soon caught up to his unbridled appreciation and a deluge of charmingly proper compliments rained down on you next until you had to put a stop to his babble by tugging him down the road with the reminder of dinner as incentive.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?” he began his worries again, nervous to meet your parents.

If he’d been like the rest of the boys he’d know just how much mingling was already common. It wasn’t remotely odd to bring him home, not when you lived so near. “Don’t be silly, they’ve been begging to meet you and Donald has plans of torturing you with his plane models and Papa wants to show you his shop and mama thinks you're much too skinny, I’m sure she’s gone to the black market to grab something to fatten you-“

“-how’s she know that?” he interrupted in shock.

“Oh,” you flushed, realizing your misstep, “I’ve talked of you. And she recognized you, she and Violet are thick as thieves and -it’s not like you’re unremarkable. A physical description is rather easy to give when you, well, when you look like…you.”

“What do I look like?” he cried out but his cheeks were smiling despite his outrage, “Malnourished?”

“Like a lanky cherub.” you refuted and were pleased that the late summer sun was still bright enough at this long hour to show his pretty blush.

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.” you were firm, both in tone and the press of your hand in the crook of his offered elbow, “And as we’ve been commended to entertain angels unaware, how much more when we are certain of one?”

“Oh shut up.” he begged you and you two staggered into each other as you laughed your hearts out. It felt good to laugh, for the both of you, and a little too foreign, as well. It left a hollow melancholy in its wake that was soothed by the near and swaying proximity of each other’s body.

“They’ll be glad to have you at the table.” you dared go on, feeling you should prepare him, should the subject arise, “I’ve a brother, you see, an older brother. Rafe, he was stationed in Burma. We’ve not heard of him in over two years. There’s an empty seat at our table, it takes a certain sort of soul to fill it without it feeling like a sacrilege. But you fit the bill nicely, I think.”

“Burma.” he repeated with all the gravity of a man who understood, who knew the ache of almost hoping a dear brother, a beloved son, was dead rather than enduring the slow hell of a Japanese internment camp. How awful to almost wish for a decisive end for one so loved. “No word at all?”

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” you whispered, “And thanks for making it back, yourself.” you squeezed his arm jovially and felt his other hand fall atop yours there in the crook of his elbow and a sweetness filled you at the gesture, such as you’d never known before. It was peaceful and lovely and your little village suddenly looked as pretty and idyllic again as it was always supposed to, the routine route home was seen through his eyes, the eyes of a homesick boy with a soft girl on his arm, bound to meet her parents and inspect Donald’s plane models.

Your mother and father loved him, little surprise there, he was a darling and homesick and yours was a happy home, humble and wounded though it may be. Your mother was obnoxious in her delight the moment father took him out back to see where your expertise for welding first began, the little aerodrome, no longer fitted with pleasure craft but now fitted to scrap the more useless casualties. Mother pestered you as you helped clear the table, asking after him and whatever this thing was between you. When you assured her it was only dinner to fill that chair and some unfathomable knowledge that had grown each time you stood before his propeller and waved him off to death, she knew it for what it is.

War and the urgency of living that goes with it, shrinks long emotions into fast passion and steady hearts into foolish daring. Neither of you were the sort to tumble into the passing vogue passions that had seized hold of your friends and comrades. Yours was a quieter path. Even so, after the fourth evening of dinner rations and quiet fireside chatter and the patter of late summer rain on the roof, there was a kiss as he walked you back to base, his jacket over your shoulders, his shirt clinging to him and the sweetest intent etched on his misted features as his lips descended to yours.

“Thank you,” he had said so passionately yet so subdued, a wall of wisteria at your back and his honey blonde hair dripping into his eyes, “I’ve needed this bad.”

His words suggested the family dinners, his scorching lips suggested the molded flesh of your body in his large palms.

“So you’ve wanted this?” your breathed mixed, a hazy little cloud between you in the damp evening air, your little alcove of shelter from the rain under old Mosley’s shed was like another little world entirely, fauna filled and peaceful, even the ever present drone of machinery was drowned out by the downpour.

Your mother had been right, you should've waited longer till the clouds passed but you had both cited curfew -and maybe even subconsciously sought just such a predicament as the one that had you necking Gale Cleven in a wisteria claimed tool shed.

“I’ve wanted you.” he clarified, firm grip on the base of your neck punctuating his turmoil, his lips met yours again and whatever oath of abstinence he had chosen, it did not seem to include kissing. He was soft and persistent and all consuming, those restless hands migrating in an ever mapping caress, making every part of you thrum with butterflies. “Wanted you for a long while.” he spoke into your lips, “I think you’re just great.” And there was happiness then, untinged with anything temporal beyond the feel of warm flesh beneath cold, rain soaked cloth and lips that tasted of honeyed biscuits.

It was impossible to maintain the stoic propriety of behavior you’d once managed before, on base, after that. You knew now how he sounded when he moaned into your mouth and he his stare alone could make you blush, you had spoken to his mother on the phone and he had seen your childhood bedroom. He learned once, laying amongst sea grass on the beach during a cloudy Sunday, the silky moist feel of you beneath your swimsuit, his long, bashful fingers that were ever so fond of petting anything and everything, finally finding a place that responded to his swipes with jolts and gasps and sighs and pleasure. You peaked three times on that sand dune, Buck none the wiser as he had nothing to compare your little deaths to, you kept a firm grip on his forearm and told him he was doing marvelous and that’s all it took for him to be persistent. Persistent beyond what you imagined any other man could be due to cramp. He was getting freckles from so much sunshine, but it was well, the rains would be here soon come autumn.

These happy days had you risking your life to pause your work and watch his pretty form swagger across the asphalt to his next destination and he, ever so right and proper and by the book, became devil enough to lie in wait for you and catch you by the waist when you least suspected it and drag you into some abandoned corner.

Only to kiss you.

To kiss and to ask after your day, as if your evening was not to be spent sat beside him at table or the movies, lying on a picnic blanket with him near or in the back of a jeep on top of Mayberry Rise, the tallest point around where the stars ran into the sea on the horizon.

One of the first days of September, you made good on your promise to Harry and drove with him to muck about Oxford for a day and see the college, the library, too. It was a long ride and as you were at the wheel, Harry was gem enough to allow Gale along, too, and by the end of it, driving back late and in a rush before the headlights would be needed, you were quoting favorite literary passages to each other. As if you were all students, not misplaced youths in the business of killing.

You said as much and in the burgeoning gloom Gale’s rich voice asked if you knew any Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

“No, I don’t.” You admitted, for all your chiding today of their not being cultured enough, you didn’t know your American writers as you should.

“He’s got a poem for that.” Gale said, “For what you said. Or at least, it makes me think of today -that verse, ‘member Crosby?- the one it goes:

-I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part, Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song, Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The deafening silence for the rest of the car ride was filled with truth and your own heart was heavy when you bid them both goodnight that evening, headed to your seperate billets. You paused in you departure to turn back once more at the door and holler to Buck in the chilled September air, “That poem, is there more of it?”

“Lots more.” he’d spun round on his heel, pleasantly surprised at your inquiry.

“What’s it called?” you intended to search it out, though it was doubtful that a copy would be found near this remote place.

“How about I write it out for ya?” he suggested as if thinking the same.

“You’ve got a whole damn poem memorized?” you balked, incredulity warring with amusement that you should’ve guessed he’d be the sort.

“I-I-I might.” he stuttered before laughing.

“Then please do.” you grinned and threw him a kiss across the distance which he jumped up and caught from the air in a grand show of dedication. “Goodnight, cherub.” you wished him, “Sleep tight.” He had a mission in the morning, a daylight one.

“Goodnight old Bean.” He teased your accent and the door swung shut behind you blocking out the cold and the retreating sound of his footsteps.

If you’d have known that was the last time you’d hear them you’d have stayed an age out in the cold night listening to him go, memorizing the cadence of his gait, the sway of his shoulders disappearing into the twilight, the turn of his head as he’d throw a glance back at you, sweet and handsome and cheerful despite his ominous itinerary.

If you’d have only known.

It wasn’t like last time, like Africa. There had been no loss of contact. Dorace had heard every awful minute until the clock ran out. They’d been shredded, their precious ship turned into a raging inferno and Major Cleven’s gritted and garbled transmissions left only one hope that some at least had jumped out. Jumped out only to land in Nazi occupied Europe, it was a faint mercy to cling to.

The empty chair sat next to you again at the table and mocked you all. Mocked your hope and your resilience to dare love again. How foolish to bring home a man who belonged to a group they were calling “Bloody”, and not as a curse but an epithet.

The losses had been staggering all summer and now in September they hit close. You were confident that Crosby and Egan were every bit as dismal inside as you felt, Egan’s warm hand had clasped your shoulder like you were a fellow officer and told you he was sorry. You took the condolences and gave them back, a stupid little exchange that only highlighted how unspeakable some pain is.

Three weeks later, Egan’s plane didn’t come back either.

In your more fanciful moments you allowed yourself to imagine Egan and Cleven alive, somewhat whole and reunited. You could almost hear Cleven’s joking welcome, “What took you so long, Bucky?”

You’d indulged these fancies for Rafe, too, until years of silence suggested the worst.

However, this time, well into October and with an entirely new set of planes under your care, word came at last through the Red Cross, and the truth was exactly as you’d dreamed. There was only the paltriest letter back to command but it said they were well, they were alive, together indeed and being moved to the Polish border. Away from their own comrades' bombs. It was more than most ever got, and your family celebrated the news with the gratitude it deserved.

As October turned to November and your gloved fingertips froze as you worked, every sharp needle of chill reminded you of him, how much more awful it must be that far north, snow piled deep and muck everywhere and lice covered blankets and illness left untreated. As the holidays hurtled nearer, days of peace and goodwill you had planned to be spent with him, you were consumed by the dread of losing him to the elements since war had proven too clement. At night you lay abed and reread the one bit of handwriting you had from him, that damned poem he had written out, left under your door in the early dawn that had taken him from you.

My lost youth. That was the title of the thing. It cut like glass every time you read it, but Buck had touched that paper and looped those letters and dotted those i’s and it was precious to you. It became a prayer of sorts.

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Then, in January, as if prayers got heard, the most unexpected happened.

Major Gale Cleven, what was left of him after cold, starvation, murder and a treck across Europe, had returned. Things like this, seeing your lost beloved ride up to your workplace in the shotgun seat of a jeep, was the stuff of movies, hopeful propaganda or a woman’s mind that had finally cracked. You just stood there, welding helmet in hand, frozen rain spitting down at you, watching him jump out, watching Harry tear down from the observation tower to embrace him.

Dully, you could hear behind you Segreant Lemmons kind cheer of “so it was true, he got away from the bastards!” and a congratulatory thump between your shoulder blades. It was a moment of truth, to realize how far your faith had dwindled when the very answer to your prayers stood steaming with life in the cold air and yet you still could not accept it as reality.

“Baby.” his hands were warm compared to your damp cheeks and the span of them, so familiar and large, cupping your jaw with the calloused thumbs swiping at your temples, that was reminiscent of August and of happier days. Yet still, you had dreamed of him doing this, dreamed of a million different embraces and each time you woke up. “Baby, I’m back, I came to ya.” his voice was wrecked, from disuse and illness and whatever misery that had subjected him to. That, that was real enough, the rattling cough more so, you’d imagined his suffering in your worst nightmares too, this was something you could believe.

Familiar flesh was gaunt under your touch, gray cheeks where once there’d been freckles and the sinful pout of his once ruby red mouth was a dull violet, as if the vitality had been leached out of him. “What’d they do to my cherub?” you mourned, worst nightmares and wildest hopes blending into this one moment.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry f’me, I’m back. I came back.” he cooed to you, rough and sad himself, and your face was buried again in the placard of his coat, a great woolen overcoat this time, no fleece or any vestige of the swanky finery that got the flyboys ribbed for being soft, fancy, spoiled.

Nothing soft about these men, nothing gentle about their lot, nothing glamorous about being hurled down from the skies in a ball of fire.

“We kept praying for you.” you realized, it seemed important to tell him that however hopeless you all had felt, you’d gone through the motions anyway.

That was faith, wasn’t it? The hope of things not seen?

“I felt ‘em.” he said. “How else you think I managed it?”

It. -had managed it, that tiny word represented a host of terrors and miseries and unforgettable incidents that ricocheted in his brain like the lead fired into his boys head’s when they couldn’t manage a forced march, barefoot and underfed, in the snow.

Christmas had passed but January was not so very advanced, that evening your family turned back the clock and it was a matter of guessing as to who was celebrated more, baby Jesus or Buck Cleven. The two seemed intertwined at this point and in the warm glow of gas lamps and rationed toddy, with Buck’s hollow cheeks beginning to bloom and his dull eyes starting to animate, some part of you finally understood why so many felt worshipful on the holiday. The shit war rations felt like a feast, mama’s canned vegetables being the freshest thing he’d eaten in ages and with him sat at table again, empty chair filled, his hand creeping into your lap to lace with your own, there was peace.

Even the airforce, hard driving and high demanding though it was, took one look at his battered condition and admitted a period of conveyance was due. It wouldn’t do to send up a shoddy pilot, lose another plane, yet another crew or a hero of the hundredth. It’s not every day one of your squadron leaders escapes a POW camp and marches over occupied Europe and fordes the Channel to get back home.

A month was set aside. And you took as many weekday passes as you could during that month, happier than anything that he had been permitted to stay in town, to lodge with one of the locals. Rafe’s room was now occupied by him and mama’s broth was poured down Gale’s throat twice daily and his days kept busy with paperwork and Donald’s math problems. The ticking clock, the passing days, like the evil crocodile gobbling up time, was politely and britishly ignored in favor of enjoying what was. You no longer slept with the tear stained and crumpled poem clasped to your throat but his head lay there often enough instead. The thump of your heart helping him sleep, because exhausted and sick as he was, sleep and solitude were not comforts.

He was wracked with guilt for leaving Egan and his men behind, it had been every man for himself during that brutal forced march, he knew that and yet he’d left a friend behind. Buck waited for news of Egan like you’d waited for news of him. Nameless and senseless guilt ruining much of his own success and peace.

“He’d have expected nothing less of you.” you had taken to reminding him, “He’d be angry if you hadn’t taken the opportunity like you did.”

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

You admitted to him then, the horrid guilt of feeling that somehow, some missed defect or some lousy flaw had been the reason he’d been downed. Your work somehow not sufficient to keep him in the skies. When you’d admitted as much, Sergeant Lemmons had looked at you with all the censure such moronic introspection deserved: “Cleven got bombed to hell. He expected it, daytime raid and all. Blame the Nazis.”

“Blame the Nazis.” you suggested now to Gale as he lay sprawled in your arms, sweaty and feverish but his color was back and he looked pretty as anything so alive and near.

He looked ready to dare something, his face hovering nearer yours and the heavy weight of his limbs suddenly feeling full of intent but then his sparkling eye caught sight of something in the doorway and his lips quirked and his body shifted away.

“Whatcha doin’ sulkin’ out there Donny?” he addressed your brother and sure enough the little scamp emerged from the shadow of the doorway and joined you two on the bed, comic book clutched in his hands. They had a routine, apparently, Papa was no longer the chosen one for bedtime stories. It made you want to wince in anticipation for when Buck would move back to base and things would become full of dread again.

That day came sooner than you’d counted on. A month is not so very long, after all, and it was filled with so much work and business, stolen moments at home hardly being the norm.

“It’s an easy mission.” he’d said at dinner, as if arguing the point to you all. You knew he was trying to convince himself more than anything and so you all let him specify just how easy, how routine, how utterly unworrying tomorrow's flight would -should- be.

If it’s hard to get back into the saddle after being bucked off, how much worse to climb back into a plane after being tossed from the skies.

That evening he lounged on your bed instead of Rafe’s, the house emptied as your mother and father took Donny to the movies, the appeal of a new film finally showing cited as being too alluring to resist. He was lost in his thoughts, watching you go about your little evening routines that you tried to maintain when at home. It was domestic and cozy, warm where the world outside was cold and then there was Buck, golden as anything in the low lamp light, utterly unaware of the figure he cut lying on his side.

“I’ve missed it.” he told you, “Flying, I’ve missed it.”

“Of course you have. You were born for it.” you murmured.

“Ya know,” he reflected, “I signed up for the Air Force before it all got hot, before Pearl Harbor. I was gonna fly no matter what. I remember grittin’ my teeth durin’ training and tellin’ myself it would all be worth it. Just hang in there and it would pay off. I just felt something important would need me. Hell, guess I got more than I ever bargained for, didn’t I?”

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

“I couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe in it.” He insisted and you knew he was talking to himself again, until his face turned towards yours and the softest look of fondness crossed features turning them almost pained when he said next, “I couldn’t do it, get back up there, if it weren’t for love. The rightness of it but -love, for my boys, my family. For you.”

“I know, and we’re terribly lucky to have your devotion. -And…and I love you, too.” you vowed earnestly, then giggled at the absurdity of this being the first time to admit it.

“I’d had my suspicions.” he grinned back, some of that old cockiness returning along with his vigor as he snagged your wrist and pulled you down beside him.

“Do you know why my parents have gone?” you asked him pointedly, turning on your side to face him.

“To see a movie.” His face was so innocently perplexed you almost lost control of yourself and ruined the game right then with something terribly forward.

“My parents aren’t in the habit of seeing movies.” you corrected him soberly.

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

“Oh they’re at the movies.” you smirked, “But they’ve gone for us.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, if not of you then of his own naïveté. “For us.” he repeated and his voice had dropped an octave in the interim.

“Yes. Something about wanting us to have a goodbye.” you quoted.

“I’m not dying tomorrow.” he pointed his finger firmly in your face and it made you smile to see him so fiesty again.

“No,” you agreed with his prophecy, “but I wanted to give you some incentive to hurry back.”

“Oh?” those lips of his puckered again in confusion before his smarts caught up with him and the pink corner tugged up in mischief, “Ooooh.” he repeated, suddenly very close, his energy, his body, his heart, inches from being one with you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, oh yes.” you confirmed, slotting your lips against his gently only to be met with eager, desperate need in his own kisses.

Your childhood bed was narrow and the counterpane below you familiar and dear, stitched by your mother in colors you’d once wished to update upon entering maturity. Now, laid out in perfect security and familiarity, you watched Buck Cleven dangle a toe off the abyss before diving in, pausing to caress the blanket beside your hip, smiling to himself.

“What?” you were breathless to know every thought in that dear head.

“My mama made me one, looks lots like this.” his eyes were watery soft yet his smile was glad, his hips narrow and sharp in the cradle of your own, stark hipbones not yet padded by your mother’s cooking pressed you down into the bedding, grounded and right. “You’ve made me real at home here.” he whispered and it pleased you ever so much. “Do I dare take this last liberty?” he muttered as if to himself, even as those blue orbs bore into your own, his fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt and you ached from need long deferred and the weight of remedy lying heavy between your thighs.

“It’s no liberty,” you whispered, catching his dog tags and bringing his face to yours, the size of the man so very apparent now he was hovering above you, “it’s yours.” you watched his pupils blow out at the statement, his ragged breath fanned minty across your face, even angels wield swords. “I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

With that exchange of truths something snapped between you, like a ribbon cut, gone was the hesitant cordiality and deference that had marked your courtship. Here now was fierce possession and the gloated satisfaction of those who possess something cherished and are no longer kept from partaking of it, buckles and garters snapped in the quiet room and the rustle of sheets and shirts wafting to the floor made your breaths hitch with anticipation. Precious flesh came into touch with every brush and it was enough for many minutes merely to cling and grasp, imprinting desire into the back and the arms and the throat of each other, like an armor of love against the decay of death.

“Yours, yours.” you swore as his finger played you once more, his breathing hard and rough in your ear, harsh commands for you to say it again and again, reminding you he was fearsome when he wanted to be.

“Don’t look,” he begged when you realized through a haze of joy what he was about, pressing in with all the finesse of a cricket bat knocking at the wicket, hoarse and doe eyed above you, there was only the whine, “please, darlin’ don’t look, just, my eyes, please.”

It was a fumbling entry but nature and pleasure prevailed, as it had since the first couple. And dear boy that he was, he knew you had indulged in a leg up, one or two at least, before he came along but still, he could not bear it for you to see more, not this time. He wanted it just to be the kisses and the sight of your precious face contorting at the fullness of your belly and the force of his hunger for you. All the rest were vulgar details left somewhere under your skirts, and, unbeknownst to him, reflected in your childhood mirror situated on the wall behind his plump arse.

“Oh god.” he had choked out, winded and in awe as his body shook at the feel of you accepting him deep, “You’re a slice of heaven, heaven that’s-that’s what you fee- oh god, oh god.”

He had giggled at the absurdity of this dance and then broke off with a moan that made you giggle in turn and back and forth it went as his body jerked into yours as if he’d no control over it, led quite literally by the part of himself buried inside you. He knew it was foal-like and a poor showing as a lover and he also knew you didn’t care a bit, your eyes wide at the size of the intrusion and captivated by the sight of his newly enlightened face.

“You alright?” he asked urgently, as a sudden and familiar feeling took over his body. The feeling of his brakes giving out, his flaps malfunctioning, the hydraulics failing -it took over him, his spine tingling and his vision beginning to blur and only your punched out gasps and sweet smile wavering on his horizon as the frantic, masculine, natural need to drive in deep enough to puncture your heart seized him and propelled him in you, against you, above you with such force you forgot to breath. For all Egan’s teasing of Buck’s hatred for athletics, the man wasn’t shabby when it came down to it, even after months of internment, or maybe due to that stolen time, his life force seemed to pour out in a torrent and your belly buzzed at the sweet abuse.

“I’m perfect.” you managed at some point, “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

He shuddered at the praise and as if terror struck him then, he was suddenly pulling away and moaning “I should- I shouldn’t -I’m gonna, darlin, I’m gonna lose it-“ and young and sweet and clumsy as anything he rutted against your slick frantically, mouth pressed to yours until the hot gush of his satisfaction spilled out and added to the mind fuzzing feel of him sliding against your little pearl.

You encouraged his shaky limbs to collapse on you, the lanky frame of him a sweet weight, sweaty cheek pressed to your breast, you could feel the dopey curve of his smile against your plump flesh. His hair curled at the nape from the sweat of his exertions, all winter chill forgotten in this bed. War and missions and bombs, too. You petted each other for a while before he raised his head and, gazing at you adoringly, he murmured “thank you.” his nose nudging yours and the steadiest of kisses lingering in the tingly aftermath.

“Darlin?” he broached the subject a while later, cheek again pressed to your chest and his fingers sliding in a hypnotic caress over your thigh.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Later,” he prefaced, tentative and raw, “when -when the war’s over, and when, well, when I can make my own promises…”

Your heart hammered beneath his ear and you squeezed your legs around him, as if to shore him up enough to say what you wanted him to say so very badly. “Yes?”

“Would you marry me then?” he begged and somehow you knew this, what you had just indulged in, was never going to happen without that hope for him.

Perhaps that’s why it felt so strong, like a communion of souls more than anything else. “I’ve half a mind to make you wait and get my answer when you come back tomorrow.” you teased and his head reared up with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Don’t you dare.” he warned, grin breaking out despite himself.

The sound of the front latch grating on the door startled you both but he pressed you down when you went to scamper and clothe yourself. “The door’s closed anyway,” he argued in a whisper but you knew he felt as nervous as you at being caught, if not more so, yet still he was a stubborn one. His hand was firm and large clasping your cheek, expression arch and expectant. “Promise you’ll be a good little girl and say yes when I do ask.”

You laughed at his gall, to make you wait, to make you promise when he wasn’t even proposing. But then again -you had said you were his, and he was yours. It had already been done. Sometimes life was as simple as Gale Cleven made it out to be.

“I promise.” you whispered happily, bringing him back down to your embrace and willing away thoughts of tomorrow and flagging him out to danger.

One day he’d come back for good. One you could make promises again. Until then, there was hope.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writers lifeblood, I’d adore hearing your thoughts. 💋

[willyoubemycherryy]

ღ𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐_.!* @eymie --_𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕-_𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢.-._𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛..--𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎?:.. 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚎-//𝚒𝚗-..._𝚝𝚑𝚎-,,𝚑𝚒𝚓𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜-*.𝚘𝚏__𝙼𝚛..&𝙼𝚛𝚜_-/𝙴𝚐𝚊𝚗.• !!_ _ _

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜❥ 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚖𝚞𝚗-, 𝚙✪𝚛𝚗 𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚝, 𝚙𝚟𝚜𝚜𝚢 𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊, 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚢𝚊𝚕𝚕...𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚢 ⚠︎︎MDNI⚠︎︎

“𝑰'𝒎 𝒔𝒐~ 𝒂𝒏𝒙𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔..𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔��𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏’? 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑰'𝒎 𝒂 𝒔𝒆𝒙𝒂𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒄...“

.• •. •

This was a secret that you would take to your grave.

Clamping your hands tightly over your mouth, trying desperately to quiet the shuddering moans that were threatening to spill through.

You two could not be found like this under any circumstances.

In the corner of a empty dark room, the one typically used for parties after a mission well done. Leaning heavily against the wall with your superior on his knees, sultry mouth glued to your cunt.

Major John fucking Egan. AKA; the death of you.

"Mmm, I missed you pretty bunny...she’s so sweet today. I wonder why..."

Putting your hands down you managed a weak glare at the man nestled between your thighs, but it was rendered moot as the length of his tongue traveled between your swollen pussy lips.

The groan that followed caused vibrations along your throbbing clit, your eyes rolling upwards at the pleasure running up your spine. Honestly, you really needed to deliver some important files for Operations but when John saw you there for the first time in forever four days, it suddenly didn’t matter that you had a job to do before he was promptly dragging you away, to now.

Where he had been leisurely licking away at you for damn near half an hour, every objection dying on your lips.

Humming thoughtfully, Bucky lifted your thighs closer around his shoulders and planted a wet kiss right on your clit before sucking it into his mouth. Your jaw dropped open in a sharp gasp, heat rushing over you like a tidal wave. Crying in pleasure as his tongue repeatedly stroked beneath the hood; almost too intense and trickling into pain. If that weren't enough, you felt two of his thick fingers thrust inside your dripping cunt, crooking upwards.

"B-Bucky, how fucking long are y-you gonna—Oh, f-fuck!" Your warbled moans almost drowned out the sounds coming from Bucky’s mouth, who was eating you like your life was on the line.

Your arch shot upwards as his fingers swirled in hard circles against that spot inside of you; lips sucking tightly around your clit. He was in his own little world as he drank in your pussy like it really was the last thing he would taste.

The obscene moans and wet smacking of his lips made your face burn hotly, but he was not concerned with your embarrassment. God if anyone caught you…somehow the riskiness of your current position only pushed him to pull more amorous sounds from your mouth.

So, reluctantly releasing your poor clit, Bucky spread his fingers inside of you and slipped his tongue inside; fucking you with it.

He was in heaven. Drowning beneath the heavy scent of your arousal, your taste sweet like honey in his mouth.

You bit down on your bottom lip and unconsciously began to undulate your hips; hiccups and moans bubbling in your throat. His thrusting tongue was the literal definition of paradise—euphoria and pleasure lighting every nerve in your body, making them 'pop'.

Risking a glance down, you felt your breath catch at the low, heated, cerulean gaze pinning you still. Bucky nipped you as he wiggled his tongue within your slick pussy; the bottom of his face drenched with both his saliva and your own juices.

When rough fingers came to roll your clit in quick circles, your head dropped back against the wall as you cum hard. Trembling, you squeal as he continued to thrust his tongue and help you through the waves of ecstasy; groaning deeply as your release flooded his mouth.

Waves finally receding, Bucky gently pulled his tongue free of your abused cunt and licked up the excess. You were far too out of it to do anything except moan softly Bucky—licking and kissing all the way up your stomach and stopping to press his face against your collarbone.

It felt like your legs would give out any second as you tried to straighten yourself and catch your breath.

John was unusually placid as he cuddled you to him before looking down at you with an entirely too satisfied smirk, pretty blue eyes gleaming at your exhausted expression.

“Oooh. I wore you out huh?” Laughing at the weak glare you shoot him.

“Harlot.” You hiss at him with a scowl.

John doesn’t even seem remotely bothered by your insult, eyebrows shooting up in surprise before laughing even harder.

“Yeah? Well you’re a quickshot and a crybaby.” Gasping sharply in embarrassment, you whirl around to smack his chest.

“THATS NOT FAIR!” But in all fairness you started it. John just smiles down at you fondly, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek.

“You’re right. Don’t be mad at me?” Pouting lightly at you and watching how it takes less than 2 seconds for you to give in and nod, kissing him back on the lips.

“Okay seriously though, next time try not to abduct me in front of everyone because…all the guys were whistling,” it’s embarrassing to recount as you mutter to him. All the hollers and “don’t hurt her too bad Major”’s thrown your way.

“Alright. Cross my heart. I’ll even smack them upside the head for you.” You scoff in begrudged amusement but he’s dead serious.

“My hero,” his heart melts at that and he wishes he could keep you for just a little bit longer. “Sadly I have to get going, big guy. I’ll come find you as soon as I’m done. So don’t miss me too much okay?” Cupping his face, you rub your noses together before pecking his pouty lips.

“I make no promises but I’ll be waiting. Run along, bunny. And thanks for the sweets.” One last kiss accompanied by his low voice as he lets you tend to your other duties. Watching you go.

Huh? You didn’t bring any sweets though?

The double meaning doesn’t hit you until you’re out in the hall, the door swinging shut behind you. Eyes popping wide as you gasp,

“JOHN EGAN-!! YOU LITTLE BUTTMUNCH!” You shout out, face hot, completely mortified at his cheek.

Storming down the hall, you pretend not to hear his chuckles.

And you definitely don’t have a smile to match the tingling between your legs.

♡︎ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ, ᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴏʟʟᴀʀ😌

[alwaysmoncheri]

summary: you wake up in major john egan’s bed and remember he drunkenly kissed you the night prior—you wonder what that means for your relationship.

cw: fem!reader, mentions of sex, fluff, kissing, confessions, mentions of alcohol, mentions of drunkenness, cuteness, but also cheesiness, 1k words

<3

It’s quiet when you wake, the sun peaks through the curtains, creating a ray of light that just misses your face. The sheets are comfortable, warm with your own body heat, but they’re not yours. You sit up with a start, the realization as to where you are washing over you. You were in Major John Egan’s bed, oh my god, what were you thinking? You whip your head around, desperately searching for the man you spent the night with. Throwing one of the pillows off the bed, you hear a quiet grunt from the floor, causing you to scramble over to the edge of the bed. Carefully leaning over with a cautious gaze, you see Bucky laying on the ground, a blanket half covering his bare torso and the pillow you previously threw next to him. Heat rises to your cheeks as your eyes find his. His arms are behind his head and there’s an agonizingly charming smile on his face as he looks back at you.

“Good morning.” Bucky’s voice reaches your ears and you feel weak. Your lips part and you draw in a nervous breath, blinking a few too many times, you struggle to gather your thoughts before finally managing to speak.

“You’re on the floor.” you state simply, chasating yourself for the obvious observation.

“It appears so, yes.” Bucky responds with a hint of amusement in his tone, his smile grows wider and you grow more nervous under his gaze, so you look away.

“You don’t need to be.” you offer softly, a gentle invitation hanging in the air as you lean back onto the plush comfort of the bed. Bucky, catching the subtle implication in your words, lifts himself onto his elbows, his expression curious. With a simple nod, you confirm your desire for him to join you on the bed.

Without a word, Bucky rises, his movements fluid and controlled, as he gathers the scattered pillows and blanket, the fabric rustling softly in the quiet room. With practiced ease, he arranges them on the bed before settling himself beside you, his presence a comforting weight against the mattress. As he sits next to you, the warmth of his body radiates, drawing you closer. You catch the scent of his cologne, a subtle blend of musk and cedarwood, mingling with the faint aroma of lingering alcohol from the night before. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, a silent invitation for you to move closer. You shift, your shoulder brushing against his as you settle into a comfortable position beside him.

For a moment the two of you sit in silence, the memories of what happened last night weighing on your conscious. You’re overwhelmed, confused, and attempting to put the pieces together.

“You were drunk.” you remind him, the words a hesitant admission of the truth. “I was drunk.”

“That is also true,” Bucky acknowledges with a nod, his gaze softening as he senses the rising panic in your voice. Your breath quickens, and your eyes widen, “Look, honey—” Bucky begins, his voice gentle and reassuring, but before he can finish, your words tumble out in a rush of desperation.

“Oh my god.” you gasp, leaning closer to Bucky, your voice barely above a whisper as you say your next few words, “Did we have sex?”

Bucky's laughter fills the air, a warm, affectionate sound that doesn't quite match the gravity of the situation. Your reaction is immediate, confusion and annoyance contort your features.

“It's not funny,” you insist, your voice tinged with frustration as you search his expression for answers.

“Honestly, honey, I couldn’t tell you.” Bucky replies with a shrug, his demeanor nonchalant despite your obvious distress.

“John,” you whine, the plea in your voice betraying your need for him to be serious and clarity of the situation. As your words dissolve into incoherent mumbles, Bucky reaches out, his hand gently squeezing yours in a gesture of reassurance.

“Hey, I’m sure nothing happened,” he interjects, making an attempt to alleviate your worries, “if we had sex, you probably wouldn’t be wearing anything right now.” Bucky adds, with a playful wiggle of his eyebrows and a smirk.

The implications of his words send a shiver down your spine, mingling with the warmth of his touch as you recall the kiss shared between the two of you the night before, “You kissed me last night.” you say with a hint of uncertainty, searching his face for confirmation.

“And you didn’t stop me.” Bucky counters, his gaze unwavering as he meets your eyes.

“Why would I?” you admit softly, “You’re all I think about.”

Bucky's smiles, that adorable smile that never fails to make your heart skip a beat. You watch as his gaze flickers to your lips and back up to your eyes. A giggle bubbles up from your throat, a nervous sound expressing your uncertainty of the moment.

“What?” you ask in response to Bucky’s wordless expression. Your heart pounds in your chest as he reaches out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, before leaning in to whisper.

“I’m so in love with you.” Bucky confesses in your ear before leaning back with a wide smile, eager to see your reaction. A smile spreads across your face and you turn to slowly wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“If you don’t kiss me—”

Before you can finish, Bucky leans in, closing the distance between you, pressing his lips to yours. A hand holds your cheek, while the other rests on your waist, pulling you closer. He kisses you like he needs you and he knows he does. You melt into his touch, surrendering to the warmth and intensity of the kiss. Before you know it, you're straddling his lap, your hands tangling in his hair as you deepen the kiss.

“I love you more.” you murmur against his lips when you pull away and Bucky chuckles, his airy laugh fanning across your face.

“That’s not possible, honey.” he replies, his voice filled with adoration as he leans his forehead against yours.

“Why don’t you kiss me again and find out?” you tease, a playful glint dancing in your eyes, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, ma’am.” Bucky says with a grin before capturing your lips once more, sealing your love in a sweet, lingering kiss.

<3

masterlist . john "bucky" egan masterlist . taglist

thank you for reading, my darling! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a smooch if you do, ily! send requests to my inbox!

alwaysmoncheri © ─ all rights reserved. please do not repost/translate/copy any of my work.

[tetragonia]

Midnight Repair Shop

John "Bucky" Egan x Female!Mechanic!Reader

Blurb: In the middle of the night, accompanied with the choruses of men from the Officer’s pub afar, Bucky saw the hangar light was on. He peeked and found Jerry to his Tom—(Y/N), one of the mechanics whose side job apparently was to annoy him. It was that one time when Bucky and (Y/N) repaired not only the plane, but somehow their whole dynamics all these months.

warning: inaccuracies especially with the mechanical terms because I'm not used to them and just looked em up from the internet. also, maybe weird phrasing or grammatical incorrect since English is not my first language. pls let me know what I could do better <3

note: pure fluff and giggles, some arguments but all is good with our Bucky. this is my first mota fic out there and why shouldn't i choose our antic Bucky as the main character? ;) also, this is based on the portrayal of the actors from Masters of the Air. all respect to the veterans and family

words: 3160 (sorry!)

It was a sunny day as the sun was casting a golden hue over Thorpe Abbotts, the distant hum of aircraft engines signaled the approach of returning fighter planes. Among them was Major John Egan–”it’s just me, Bucky’s fine”–his B-17 streaking through the sky and leading the squadron. It was not an easy mission, but it was nothing they couldn’t handle. The route was clear and the enemy’s cover was minimum.

With steady hands, Bucky guided his aircraft toward the runway as his eyes scanned the horizon for any signs of trouble. The roar of the engine filled the cockpit as he made minute adjustments to his altitude and speed, preparing for the critical moment of touchdown.

As the wheels of his B-17 made contact with the tarmac, Bucky maneuvered and smoothly brought it to a stop with. The plane rolled to a halt, its engine purring contentedly as Bucky taxied toward the waiting ground crew.

You were one of the ground crews, a skilled mechanic around the base. People knew your work ethic and they damn respected you out of it. And that clearly gave some benefits around here.

“Back from another joyride, Major?”

You emphasized the rank as Bucky made his way out from the cockpit. His flight suit was slightly disheveled, his hair was a bit scruffy but his smile was as bright as the summer sun. Brady jumped out, his eyes scanned you and Bucky.

“Hey, (Y/N).”

“Capt,” you tilted your chin and raised your eyebrows slightly to acknowledge his presence.

“Joyride?” Bucky pulled your attention back at him. “More like a death-defying adventure, (Y/N). You know, I like to keep things exciting.”

“That ain’t exciting, bud,” you sighed, rolling your eyes. “Let’s see what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time.”

You wasted no time inspecting the plane, your expert eye quickly picking up on any signs of damage. Still locking your eyes to the plane, you said, “I swear, Bucky, if next time you come back with another dent in your plane, I’m going to start charging you for the repairs. And trust me, it ain’t cheap.”

“Did you just threaten me?” he let out a dramatic gasp, putting his hand in front of his chest. “You know, I think I’m starting to rub off on you. After all, it truly takes a special kind of person to keep up with a pilot like me.”

Your hands ran through the plane’s body, bullet holes were scattered and some flak damages were tattooed to the metal skin. You suspected there were some engine reduction from the enemy’s fire, as well as control surface damage.

“You’re not the only one keeping me busy. I have plenty of other pilots crashing their planes too, creating these cute little bends and missing some rivets,” you couldn’t help but to roll your eyes again.

“You know, (Y/N), I’m starting to think you have a thing for me crashing. How else do you explain always being there to fix up my messes?” still in his dramatic tone, he raised an eyebrow at you.

You turned your head to him, trying to mimic his dramatic gasp earlied, “Oh my God! Weird thing is, I can’t imagine having this thing called a job! Have you ever heard of that?”

You lost count on rolling your eyes at him. He laughed faintly and started to walk away from you. 

“Hey, (Y/N), if I had a penny for every time you gave me that look of disapproval, I’d have enough to buy myself a damn new plane. One that doesn’t need fixing every time I fly it.”

“Spare your voice for the interrogation, Bucky, you’re just talking shit right now,” you said dismissively. You could hear his ragged breath from your place, that man clearly needed to at least have a good hot chow.

“Ouch, that stings.”

Despite your dismissive tone, you couldn’t help but to let a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

As the darkness draped itself over Thorpe Abbotts like a heavy cloak, the Officer's pub emerged as a sanctuary of warmth and light. The air was buzzing with the low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses, faint laughters could be heard from afar. Bucky Egan was bathed in a warm, golden light from the row of lanterns that lined the walls. Wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling above him, their darkened surfaces reflecting the soft glow of the fire roaring in the hearth.

Around the room, Bucky found himself gathered at wooden tables with other airmen as the air was thick with the scent of pipe tobacco and the familiar aroma of alcohol, mingling with the lively strains of a piano being played in the corner.

“I don’t know, man. You seem pretty tipsy already,” Buck Cleven shook his head with a chuckle when Bucky offered to buy them another round of drinks. “I don’t want you stumbling into any trouble, you know.”

Hearing what his buddy said, Bucky laughed. “Me? Trouble? Com on, Buck, you know me better than that. I can handle myself just fine! Look at this.”

Bucky tried to jump from his seat to buy another round, but then he stumbled and let the men laugh as he landed in a weird position.

“Alright, alright,” he said, laughing with them too. He was just too damn charming to be ashamed, it’s alarming.

“No more drinks,” Bucky said, God knows to Buck or to himself.

“No more drinks,” Buck hummed the same chorus. Bucky laughed, shook his head faintly.

“I’m gonna head back,” he eventually reached a decision. “And I don’t want any of you to take me, feel like flying solo tonight. ‘Kay?”

“Sure, Bucky, whatever you want,” Brady laughed as he sipped his glass. With that, Bucky stumbled out into the cool night air, leaving the sounds of laughter and conversation that faded behind him. He took a deep breath, the crisp night air helped him clearing his muddled mind as he made his unsteady steps back to his barrack.

Humming sporadic notes from Bing Crosby, he noticed a faint flickering light shined through the windows from a hangar nearby with its door ajar. Curious, and perhaps a little tipsy, he decided to investigate.

Who the hell works at this hour, he thought to himself. With a curious tilt of his head, he veered off course, his feet guiding him toward the source of lights. Peeking a bit, he was greeted by the sight of your back, working on his plane.

Bucky sauntered in, his flight jacket slung over one shoulder, a cocky grin plastered across his face. He squinted against the sudden brightness, his eyes struggling to adjust to the harsh contrast after the darkness outside. Blinking rapidly, he stumbled forward, laughing at his own stupidity. And he might or might not realize that he always felt way more stupid around you, throwing all those flirts and banters like a loony.

“Hey there, (Y/N)! Patching up the old birds, are we?” Bucky slurred slightly. 

You turned your head at him, still on your workbench raising an eyebrow at Bucky’s disheveled appearance.

“Looks like someone had a bit too much to drink tonight,” you made a remark as you continued working gunning the rivets. “Too much liquid courage at the pub?”

Bucky chuckled, he leaned against a nearby box for support. “Liquid courage? More like liquid genius! But hey, I couldn’t resist the chance to see your pretty face before I hit the hay.”

Bucky grinned stupidly at your back as he heard you replied monotonously, “Oh lucky me. The pleasure is all mine, I’m sure.”

He laughed at your dry response, stepped in. “Nah, just needed a little pick-me-up after a long day of saving the world. You know how it is.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t suppress a smile at Bucky’s antics. You’ve gotten used to all that now, working side by side for a couple months.

“Yeah, yeah, the brave pilot routine. I’ve heard it all before. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”

As Bucky watched you expertly finish tinkering the body, you couldn’t help but admire your skill and determination. God knows since when you had worked on his plane today!

He leaned against the nearby workbench, his grin widening. “It’s your touch that keeps her purring, (Y/N). Without you, she’d be just another hunk of metal gathering dust.”

You rolled your eyes. "Flattery will get you nowhere, flyboy. You’re not fooling anyone with your smooth talk.”

“Hey, I’m just stating facts!”

“Yeah, and Hitler’s a good man. Now do me a favor, hand me the rivet gun over there,” you asked, tilting your head to the tool box.

Your hand brushed with his as he handed you the rivet gun. The wind suddenly swirled around the hangar and you shuddered at the chills down your spine. You took the gun swiftly and placed it over the exposed end of the rivet shaft. You securely fastened patches of those new aluminum sheets metal onto the wing, covering the bullet holes.

You’d been fixing the engine with Ken all day, finished just before the curfew. To clear your mind, you decided to fix the panels tonight as you asked Ken to get a hot chow. After some good arguments thrown from you, Ken gave up and walked away.

And here you were, in the hangar with the famous Bucky Egan. You’d been working with him for months, yet you didn’t know if he made all those compliments and flattery to other women as well. There weren’t any female mechanics around here and you knew he had his own way with women.

Flattery didn’t get him anywhere, but it got you somewhere. 

You decided to break the silence, “You know, Bucky, I’m starting to think you pilots have a secret competition to see who can wreck their plane the most. Am I right?”

To hide whatever feelings that tried to surface, you put your familiar mask–strict, to the point, and sometimes a bit offensive. That way, you could protect yourself.

“Am clearly the best,” from the corner of your eyes, you could see him nodded and smiling. Suddenly it was so infuriating, how smiley he always was, how cheerful and friendly he was to you. How easy he was to throw compliments, and how easy he was to look at her with such adoration.

“Yeah, I've always thought you were a great pilot. Shame you're not quite as good at keeping your plane in one piece.”

You were unable to keep your feelings now. It was bottled up all this time. You were tired, hungry, and thirsty. You were vulnerable.

“Hey, hey, now,” Bucky might be a bit drunk but he wasn’t stupid. Something in the air shifted, your tone was harsh. Too harsh for his liking and your own good. Your tone was aggressive and he felt like you tried to hurt him with your remarks. Usually, they were all harmless, he even found you funny. But what was with the sudden change of tone?

“Come on, now. Why do you always pick on me?” Bucky tried to remain calm.

Forgot being calm! You were raging all of sudden. “Why would I pick on you, stop being so full of yourself.”

That’s it. That was the last straw.

“Hey, that stings!” Bucky was flustered, he walked closer to you, gaze piercing your back.

You sighed. You’re tired. You’ve been working all day and haven’t eaten since 8 am. It’s somewhere over 12 am now.

Fuck, you muttered to yourself. You need to shape the replacement panels to match the contours of the wing’s surface before riveting them. You got up and walked to the sheet metal bender, but Bucky stopped you.

With the faint hangar light on top of you both, now Bucky could fully take a look at your current state. You knew you looked terrible.

“Okay, you need to stop,” Bucky sighed. “Go to your barrack. You need to sleep.”

“I need to work.”

“She can wait. I’ll ask Lemmons to patch her up early in the morning,” Bucky said, his voice was authoritative. “Now, let’s get you some sleep.”

“No,” you tried to walk to the metal bender but his grip was strong.

“Come on, or I’m gonna abduct you.”

You almost rolled your eyes at that, but he quickly swept you off the ground. “Hey! Put me down!”

Despite the serious and cold air surrounding you both earlier, you could see how Bucky giggled. You always acted all tough, but you were just a girl for him. Your strength couldn’t even match him.

She’s cute, you didn’t know Bucky thought that right now.

He thought this was all just a joke, your mind stated.

“Nah, I’ll put you on your bed myself.”

You huffed in frustration, your attempts to free yourself only serving to make Bucky hold on tighter. "This isn't funny, Bucky! Put me down right now!"

But before Bucky could respond, his foot caught on a stray toolbox lying on the floor, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs. With a yelp of surprise, you landed on top of him, your bodies pressed together in an awkward and unexpected embrace.

For a moment, you lay there in stunned silence, the only sound filling the air was the pounding of your hearts. 

With a stupid grin on his face, Bucky smiled surprisingly sweetly, “Hello.”

As the realization of your predicament sunk in, your cheeks flushed crimson, maybe with anger or maybe with something else.

"Are you kidding me, Bucky?" you exclaimed, pushing yourself off him with a scowl. "I told you to put me down!"

Bucky winced while grinning sheepishly, rubbing his head where it had collided with the floor. He was fully sober now, thanks for the thud. "I'm sorry, (Y/N). I didn't mean for us to fall."

You crossed your arms over your chest, your expression still stormy. "Well, it's not funny. You could have seriously injured yourself. You’re one of the best pilots we’ve got, what would happen if you got hurt?!"

Bucky sighed, his earlier amusement fading as he met your angry gaze. He got up, walked a step closer to you. 

"You need to be worried about yourself. What is it, (Y/N)? You’re not usually this… tensed. Is something bothering you?”

Bucky put his hand on your shoulder. You stiffened at his touch, jerking away as if scalded. 

"I'm fine," you snapped, your tone once again sharp and defensive.

Bucky's brow furrowed in confusion, hurt flickering in his eyes. "Hey, I was just asking. You don't have to bite my head off."

You didn’t want to meet his gaze. Your eyes wandered to the floor that suddenly became so interesting.

But you knew that Bucky wasn't about to let you off the hook that easily. "I don't buy it, (Y/N). You've been acting strange lately, and I want to know why."

You scoffed, rubbed your eyes slowly, “It’s nothing.”

“Hey, tell me,” Bucky now grabbed your arms and once again you stiffened at his gesture. You looked up as your gaze fell to his, eyes blinked rapidly. Your cheeks flushed as you once again broke eye contact and looked at the new interesting thing: the metal bender.

And a realization hit Bucky like a lightning. The way you laughed or rolled your eyes at his jokes despite being known as a serious fella, the way you looked at him before he took off, the way you always kept some distance…

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice softened. “I’ve never been this straightforward, but we don’t have much time… Do you like me?”

He could feel your muscles tensed under his touch. You still refused to look at him.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. Where did the tough, no-nonsense (Y/N) go?

“Hey, (Y/N), look at me,” Bucky asked you gently. He knew for sure that you held a feeling for him and he was too damn stupid to realize. He tried so hard to suppress his smile.

You looked up, his expression was soft and his eyes fixed on you with a gleam that made the butterflies crazy inside your stomach.  You thought about every possible reaction: rejections, lots of yelling, a broken respect and trust, no more jokes and friendships… But you didn’t expect when he leaned closer and brought you in, when his lips touched yours with a gentleness you could only imagine.

Bucky’s lips tasted like a good amount of mint and alcohol mixture. You were intoxicated. He put his hand on your hip, the other caressed your cheek. His touch was a gentle yet firm anchor, drawing you closer to him in a silent declaration of desire. Your fingers traced the curves of your hips with a tender reverence, his touch sending shivers down your spine as you melted into his embrace.

He’d never imagine touching you, grabbing your crinkled jumpsuit as he kissed you deeper, his hands wandered. You felt a rush of warmth spreading through your body, igniting a fire within you that you couldn’t ignore. His hands, strong and sure from years of training, held you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. His touch was both possessive and protective all at once.

When you both pulled away, trying to catch a breath, you saw Bucky smiling. His hands were still on your hips, now the right one stroke your cheek and your lips.

"You know, (Y/N), I've always admired you. The way you always know your way around an engine, your work ethic, your remarks, your replies to my jokes… I've always thought you were pretty amazing,” he whispered. “The way you handle those machines... it's something else. That’s why I always send my plane to you."

Your cheeks flushed slightly at the unexpected compliments, and you cleared your throat awkwardly. You were anything but flushed and fluttered.

"Well, I guess someone has to keep you flyboys in the air. Can't have you crashing and burning without us, right? You better treat her right up there or I'll make sure your next landing isn't so smooth."

Bucky grinned, feeling a surge of confidence after a heavy cloud towering you both  earlier.

"Hey, what do you say we had a drink tomorrow? I’d like to discuss tonight's matter, after you had a good rest of course.”

Your heart raced at the thought of spending more time with Bucky outside of work. You were exhausted, but after what happened tonight, you knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep.

"I suppose one drink couldn't hurt. But don't think this means I'm going easy on you, Bucky. I've got a reputation to uphold, after all."

[majoregan]

[austinbutlerslovers]

Austins Bath

Label Mature 18+

Austin likes when you run him a bath, he enjoys it even more when you bathe him, and he loves it the most when you pleasure him while he’s in the tub.

Established relationship girlfriend

Edging•handjob•fingering•shower sex•simultaneous orgasm•creampie

💝 Starts fluff ends up smut❤️‍🔥

Austin Butler, Interview Mag

Austins Bath

Austin loves to take baths, he appreciates them extensively. Often stiff and sore after working out and combat training or mentally exhausted doing interviews and having constant conversations at events. Resting in a bath soaking peacefully for him is a calming reprieve.

He asks you to start one for him after his long day of doing back to back interviews for multiple syndicates and tv shows.

He is constantly promoting with his cast mates for his latest movie. He answers the same questions in different ways dozens of times, always polite always consistent. It’s mentally exciting yet exhausting.

He’s recently increased your task from filling the bath to now bathing him in it. As the water fills you add his two favorites epsom salt and a dollop of his L’occitane foaming wash. You place a stack of rolled wash cloths on the side and light a few of his favorite scented candles around the tub.

As you lay his robe and towel on the stand next to the bath, you realize how much you are internally compelled to baby and pamper him. He is a fully grown adult man, but with his sweet nature and innocent face he always has you doing the most domestic tasks excitedly for him.

“Austin your bath is ready” you call to him when it’s filled. He walks in smiling gleefully and begins peeling off all of his clothing until he’s completely naked. You watch him climb into the tub. He sinks down in the warm water and it rises to his chest. You can already see his face softening as he gets comfortable.

With a relaxed sigh he tilts his head back over the edge of the tub exposing his throat. It’s sexy to see and you try to ignore it and resume your tasks.

You turn on a second nozzle that releases water from a sprayer and rise his hair squishing your hands through his locks making sure they are fully rinsed then turning it off.

You squeeze his favorite shampoo into your hands and lather it into his hair starting at his temples. He makes light sounds of pleasure as your fingers scratch through his scalp and you begin to lose focus becoming aroused.

He brings his hand out of the water and playfully pinches your nipple making you gasp, your chest is directly over his face. He pinches your other nipple as you try to continue lathering his hair. “Austin!” You grin as you chastise him trying to work. He smirks knowing he’s already arousing you.

You have him lift up as you hook a basin to the edge of the tub. He tilts his head back and you rinse his hair over the basin with the spray nozzle ridding his hair of all the shampoo. You unhook the basin and pour it into the drain of the adjacent shower.

You kneel back next to him at the tub and comb your fingers through his clean wet hair gently massaging his scalp. His eyes are closed with a smile of delight on his face as he just enjoys it.

You squirt body wash on his loofah and have him stand out of the water. You work your way down his fit toned body starting with his neck. When you press too hard on the soft spot next to his abs he giggles. You look up at him grinning he’s enjoying this especially what’s next his favorite part.

You put down the loofah and inhale sharply as you begin to clean on and around his cock with your soapy hand. You try to ignore the heat radiating from your reddened face and the urge to have it between your legs.

You glide your sudsy hand on his testis cupping and massaging them, then you squeeze up and down his shaft before rubbing your thumb over and around his slit and his tip cleaning him throughly.

“You’re so professional“ he finally says breaking the silence. He smiles down at you seeing you trying so hard to remain focused even though you’re clearly aroused. “Turn around ” you say trying to ignore all the thoughts forming in your mind.

He turns facing the wall and places his palms against it spacing his legs apart. You soak a wash cloth and start at his strong muscular shoulders scrubbing down each one to his small waist line.

You dip the wash cloth in the bath water and slide it through his cute crack. When he winces it makes you giggle. “So sensitive” you coo at him gaining the upper hand. His face is blushing bright red when you finish. “You’re such a shy baby” you tease him.

He just turns and grins at you then splashes back down into the water feeling clean. You place a dry folded wash cloth on edge of the tub and have him rest his head back against it.

Usually you tidy up and leave him at peace. This time he stops you. “I’m not finished ” he says grabbing your wrist. You lock eyes with him as he guides your hand under the water onto his submerged cock. He’s extremely hard.

“ Oh!” you say aloud, the skin is soft but his erection is like a brick. Holding his shaft you make a fist around it guiding up and down on him, slowly at first.

He rests his head back against the tub feeling weaker the longer you tug and squeeze on his cock. “Make me cum” he says desperate for release. His eyes are closed as he grips the edges of the tub with his hands to prepare.

You slide your fist up and down his shaft harder you watch his face change from tense to passionate. You go faster pumping his shaft under the water until he’s moaning from it and failing to catch his breath.

He holds the edges of the tub tighter as the water splashes louder from your movements. You want to make him cum and he’s so close. His body tenses as his cock strains in you grasp.

He tilts his head up and groans loudly echoing the bathroom. His abs tighten and he ejaculates releasing all of his sperm in fluid bursts into the bath. You watch the cloud of his cum quickly dissolve into the water. He rests his head back against the tub panting. His chest is heaving his face is flushed pink. he looks radiantly beautiful.

His cock begins to soften in your hand. As you watch it he draws your attention with his voice.

“You like watching me cum don’t you” he says with a grin. You squeeze your knees together next to the tub thinking about it. “Yes I do” you admit. You admire his handsome relaxed features, his eyes are so soft now. “C’mere“ he says gesturing you over.

You move closer and he reaches his hands up to cup your jaw pulling you into a soft chaste kiss. He places his strong hand on your back and suddenly pulls you side ways yanking you into the bath water with him.

“AUSTIN!” You shriek you are fully soaked on top of him. “You enjoy my cum so much bathe in it” he says with a grin. You both let out the cutest laughs. The mood changes as you lock eyes in sexual tension. You sit up and strip off your soaked top throwing it out of the tub. It smacks wetly on the floor.

He pulls you down to kiss him and holds your body against his around your torso. You begin grinding your soaked clothed heat against him trying to get sexual relief from friction but the water makes it impossible. He reaches a hand and clicks the tub to drain

You climb off of him and out of the tub. As soon as he steps out you kiss him again. He holds your head absorbing all of your hunger filled kisses walking you back into the shower. He fumbles trying to find the handle, without looking he turns it on. He finally breaks your kiss to kneel down and strip your soaked pants and panties off.

You have so much passion for him you feel it in your throat. The wet clothing clings to your legs as he strips you down.

When he stands again he pushes you back against the shower wall pressing his palm on your chest. “How do you want me to make you cum?” He asks because you just made him shoot his load in the bath water. “With your fingers” you say instantly. He lifts your leg placing your foot on the shower bench spreading you open. He keeps his hand pressed to your chest and steps closer making you feel erotically trapped.

You are already wet he slips his fingers down your folds and rubs against your clit. you curl up instantly so overstimulated from sexual arousal “So sensitive” he coos at you as he smiles. He begins rubbing circles around your entrance making you pant.

You are bucking your hips wantingto be filled with his fingers but he keeps you at bay pressing his hand on your chest. He doesn’t relent to your neediness, not even once, he takes his time circling your entrance at a pace that has you going insane with lust.

He switches to using his entire hand when you are thoroughly wet. He slips it up and down through your soaked mons separating your pussy lips with his fingers “Austin please fuck me with your fingers” you gasp.

The urge to be filled by them consuming all of your rational thought. “Such a dirty little mouth, you think you deserve a reward after that?” He stares at you sternly but his lips are curved in a smile. You look up at him fighting every sexual urge in your body to calm down “Austin please satisfy me with your fingers” You ask politely and he grins.

He lines up two at your tiny hole and pushes them in. It instantly begins relieving the tension built up in your body as he pumps them into you. He gathers your hands pinning them above your head against the tiles. You feel like his little sex puppet as he fingers you relentlessly. Your moans echo the shower filling his ears and teasing his cock as he pumps his fingers in and out of you faster.

You begin to twist your wrists trying to free your hands to reach his growing erection.

He finally releases your hands and lunges into you with a kiss. He holds your thigh up against the wall and holds the base of his cock to guide it inside of you.

He thrusts forward. It feels so tight as he penetrates between your legs stuffing you full of his cock. You let out a string of pleasurable moans in appreciation.

He begins working his hips thrusting you back against the tiles. You moan his name and cling onto him as you feel the tightness in you reaching its peak.

He pulls you onto him still holding your thigh up and pounds into you harder. You feel his muscled body jolting against yours as he thrusts tipping you over the edge.

You moan against his ear and he starts to orgasm with you.

He groans with you in unison reverberating the shower walls. He fills you with warm cum as you orgasm on his cock. His final thrusts are harder to drain himself completely. He slows down and lowers you to the ground as he slides his cock out.

He smiles at you and plants a kiss on your jaw pulling you under the shower water with him.

You will bathe him religiously.

~*End*~

Master List

.🏷️ @faegoddessog @purejasmine @obsessedvibee @abswifey @austiebuttbutt @jessica987 @oh-my-front-door @slowsweetlove @hardcoredisneynerd @magicovento

[austinswife]

ALWAYS YOUR SECOND CHOICE - ‘Buck’ Cleven

PART 01 || 02

SYNOPSIS — After walking away from Gale “Buck” Cleven, leaving behind the love you thought you had, Buck is sent on another mission during the war. Though you thought your relationship was over, a letter from Buck arrives before his departure, forcing you to confront the unresolved emotions and the difficult choices you’ve made.

WARNING(S) — Themes of heartbreak, regret, and unresolved tension, emotional turmoil, reflection, potential reconciliation or heartbreak.

𝜗𝜚 ALL FEEDBACKS, IDEAS SUGGESTION — TO AUSTINSWIFE

The days had dragged by since you walked away from Buck, the man you thought you would spend your life with. You had never imagined your relationship would come to this—a painful, confusing ending that left you questioning whether it had ever been real at all. The ache in your chest was constant, a dull pain that never fully went away, no matter how hard you tried to push it down.

It had taken every ounce of strength you had to leave him, to walk out the door and force yourself to believe that you deserved better, even if your heart hadn’t fully accepted it. You had convinced yourself that you were doing the right thing, that staying would only mean more heartbreak. But now that he was gone—off to war, with no guarantee that he would return—the uncertainty felt suffocating.

Every day, you found yourself wondering where he was, what he was doing. If he was safe. If he was thinking about you the way you were thinking about him. But you tried to push those thoughts aside. You had made your choice, and you had to stick to it. There was no point in holding on to false hope, not when the pain still ran so deep.

One morning, as you were finishing up chores on the farm, the mail truck arrived. You didn’t think much of it until you saw the letter, your name scrawled across the front in Buck’s familiar handwriting.

Your heart skipped a beat as you stared down at the envelope, your hands shaking as you carefully tore it open. For a moment, you weren’t sure if you could bring yourself to read it. What could he possibly have to say after everything that had happened? But curiosity—and the unresolved feelings you still harbored—won out.

You unfolded the letter, the familiar weight of his words pressing down on you as you began to read.

Y/N,

By the time you read this, I’ll be gone on another mission. I don’t know how much time I have left to write, but there are things I need to say—things I didn’t say when you stood in front of me, tears in your eyes, asking me to choose you.

I know I hurt you. I know I’ve let you down in ways I can’t even begin to explain, and I don’t blame you for leaving. You’re right—I haven’t made you feel like my first choice, and for that, I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry.

When I was with you, everything was easy. You never asked for anything more than what I could give. But that’s what makes it worse, doesn’t it? You deserved so much more, and I failed to give it to you.

I don’t know how to fix what I broke, and the truth is, maybe I can’t. You told me that you wouldn’t be waiting for me when I came back, and I understand. You deserve more than the man I’ve been. But I need you to know something, Y/N. I need you to know the truth.

I love you.

Maybe I didn’t show it right, maybe I didn’t say it enough, but I love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. More than her. And I know what you’re thinking—why didn’t I prove it? Why did I always run to her?

I don’t have the answers that will make this right. The only thing I can say is that I’ve been a fool. I was trying to hold onto the past because it felt like something I needed to protect. But the more I held onto her, the more I realized I was losing the one thing I couldn’t live without—you.

I’ve been selfish, and I didn’t see it until it was too late. I know I may not get the chance to make this right. I don’t know what’s waiting for me out there, but I didn’t want to leave without telling you this.

If I don’t come back, I need you to know that I never stopped thinking about you. About us. About what we could’ve been if I hadn’t been such a coward.

I wish I could be there with you right now, telling you all of this face-to-face, begging for your forgiveness, but I can’t. I just hope that when this war is over, and if I’m lucky enough to come home, there’s still a chance. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s broken.

If I come back, I want to try to be the man you deserve.

But if this is the last letter you ever get from me, then I want you to know that you were the love of my life, Y/N. Always. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner.

Be safe. Live your life fully, even if I’m not there to see it. You deserve that and so much more.

Yours always, Buck

You stared at the letter in your hands, Buck’s words blurring as tears welled in your eyes. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected him to say the things you had been so desperate to hear when you were still together. The apology, the confession of love—it was all there, written on the page like a final plea for your forgiveness.

But what hurt the most was knowing that he had only come to these realizations after you had left, after it was too late. After you had walked out that door, heartbroken and certain that you could never come back from the betrayal.

Your thoughts drifted back to that day, the moment when you had finally confronted him. You had stood there, spilling your heart out, telling him how much it hurt to feel like a second choice. You had reminded him about the time you were in the hospital—how sick you had been, how scared. You had asked him to come, needed him by your side more than ever, but he couldn’t.

You understood that he couldn’t leave the base. You had accepted that… until Marge called. She had needed him, and without a second thought, he dropped everything and ran to her. That had been the breaking point—the moment when you realized you couldn’t keep being the one left behind.

"It hurt so much, Buck. Too much for me to handle. I don’t even know if I’ll ever heal from this, because the more I love you, the more it hurts."

You had said those words through tears, your heart breaking even as you spoke them. And now, here you were again, crying over the same man, the same wounds.

But his letter… it was different. It wasn’t enough to erase the hurt, but it was something. It was the truth, finally. He had admitted to everything you’d been afraid of, and while that should have made it easier, it only made it more complicated.

Because despite everything, you still loved him. No matter how much he had hurt you, no matter how much you told yourself that you were done, you couldn’t stop loving him. You couldn’t turn off that part of your heart, no matter how hard you tried.

Buck had said he didn’t know if he’d come back. The thought of him not returning from the war sent a wave of panic through you, an emptiness settling in your chest. What if this was the last letter you ever got from him? What if he never came home?

You couldn’t shake the feeling of dread, the uncertainty of war hanging over both of your heads. But there was something else there too—a small, fragile flicker of hope. He had said that if he came back, he wanted to try. He wanted to be the man you deserved.

But could you give him that chance? Could you let yourself hope for a future where things would be different, where you wouldn’t always feel like second best? Or would the wounds run too deep to ever fully heal?

You didn’t have the answers. Not yet. All you had was the letter, and the words he had written—I love you. More than her.—echoing in your mind.

For now, all you could do was hope he came back safe. Hope that maybe, one day, you could have the conversation you had both been too afraid to have. And maybe, just maybe, you could find a way to rebuild what had been broken.

But for now, you would wait. Not for him, but for clarity. For a future where you could make the choice that was right for you.

It had been weeks since Buck’s last letter—weeks that felt like an eternity, stretched taut with fear and uncertainty. Every day that passed without word from him made your heart ache, the silence becoming more unbearable than anything you could’ve imagined.

The last letter from him had left you reeling. It had been filled with apologies, admissions of his failures, and confessions of love, all wrapped up in the kind of raw vulnerability you hadn’t seen from Buck in the months leading up to your breakup. And now, there was nothing but empty space where his words should’ve been.

You had told yourself you were done with him. That after everything—the constant running to her, the feeling of being second best, the hurt that had built up like a wall between you—there was no going back. You had told yourself that walking away was the right decision. But your heart… your heart didn’t seem to care.

It had been weeks of trying to distract yourself, of throwing yourself into the farm work, keeping busy, and pretending that you weren’t waiting for him. But every time you saw the mail truck drive by, your heart would skip a beat. Every time you saw the sky, clear and blue, you’d think of him up there, flying, and you’d wonder—where was he? Was he safe? Was he thinking of you?

And then, one cold afternoon, just as the sky was turning gray with winter clouds, the letter came.

You hadn’t expected it—weren’t even sure you could handle it—but when you saw the envelope with his name scrawled across it in that familiar handwriting, something inside you twisted. This wasn’t like the other letters. The paper was worn, dirt-smudged at the corners. The handwriting was different—uneven, hurried.

Your hands trembled as you tore it open, your stomach churning with both fear and hope. The moment you read the first line, your breath caught in your throat, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

Y/N,

I don’t know how this letter will reach you, but I hope to God it does. I’m writing from a German POW camp. My plane was shot down on our last mission, and I’ve been captured. There’s no easy way to say this, and I hate to think of you reading this, worrying about me even more than you probably already do.

I’m not hurt, not really, just tired. Tired in a way I can’t explain. But I’m alive, and that’s something, right?

I think about you every single day. Even more so now that I’m here, in a place where everything seems so far away and unreal. But you—you’re always with me. I still have your picture, the one you gave me before everything went wrong. I keep it tucked in my left jacket pocket, right over my heart. I put it there the day you left, and it hasn’t moved since.

There are nights when I pull it out and just stare at it, thinking of you, wondering if I’ll ever get the chance to see you again. I remember how it felt to hold you, how you laughed, how you’d roll your eyes at my stupid jokes. It’s what keeps me going, even here, even now.

I know you might still be angry. Hell, I’m still angry at myself. I keep thinking about what I did, about how I didn’t deserve the love you gave me. But it’s all I have now—your love. Even if you don’t forgive me, even if I never get to fix what I broke, I want you to know that carrying your love with me is the only thing getting me through this.

I’m not asking for forgiveness in this letter. I’m not asking for anything, really. I just wanted you to know that if I make it out of here alive, it’s because of you. I’m still fighting to come home to you.

I love you, Y/N. I love you more than I’ll ever be able to say.

Yours always, Buck

The letter fell from your hands as you pressed your palm to your mouth, tears filling your eyes as you let the words sink in. He was alive. He was still out there, somewhere, thinking of you, carrying your picture in his jacket—next to his heart.

He had been shot down. Captured.

Your heart pounded in your chest, fear coursing through your veins as you tried to imagine what he must be going through. A Prisoner Of War camp. The thought alone sent chills through you. You didn’t know what conditions he was in, how dangerous it was, how much time he had left. But he was alive. And that was something.

But more than that… he still loved you.

I love you more than I’ll ever be able to say.

You stared down at the letter, reading and rereading those words, your chest tight with emotion. All this time, you had tried to convince yourself that you were done, that you had moved on, that walking away from him was the right choice. But deep down, you knew the truth.

You hadn’t stopped loving him.

Buck’s words brought back memories—memories of the man you fell in love with before everything became so complicated. The man who made you laugh, who held you when the world felt too heavy. The man who could make you feel like you were the only person that mattered, even when everything else was falling apart.

But those memories were tangled up with the hurt, the betrayal, the constant running to her. You had wanted to be his first choice, but it had always felt like you were second. Even now, those wounds hadn’t healed. You didn’t know if they ever would.

But in this moment, none of that seemed to matter. All that mattered was that Buck was still out there, still fighting to come home. And if he was still fighting… maybe you could too.

You had never written him back after leaving, but now, for the first time since you’d walked away, you felt ready to speak. You pulled out a piece of paper and sat at the small wooden table, the pen feeling heavy in your hand as you began to write the first letter since you had said goodbye.

Buck,

I don’t even know where to begin. I’m sitting here, rereading your letter, and all I can think is, thank God you’re alive. Thank God you’re okay. I’ve been so afraid, Buck. I’ve been terrified that I’d never hear from you again, that I’d never get the chance to say what’s been in my heart since I left.

It’s hard for me to put into words how I’ve felt these past few months. You hurt me in ways I didn’t think were possible, and I won’t pretend that those scars have healed. But reading your letter, knowing that you still carry my picture with you, knowing that you’re fighting to come home to me… it’s brought everything into perspective.

I still love you, Buck. I never stopped, not even after I walked away. It hurt so much because I loved you so much. And that love hasn’t gone away. I can’t deny it anymore.

When you told me you were running to her because she needed you, it felt like a betrayal. Like I would always come second in your life. I needed you too, Buck, but you weren’t there. And that broke me. I won’t lie to you—it still breaks me.

But despite all of that, I’m sitting here writing to you because my heart refuses to let go of you. You’re still a part of me, even now. And I want you to know that if—when—you come back, I’ll be here. I’ll be waiting for you.

I’m not ready to say I forgive you, not yet. There’s still a lot to work through, a lot that needs to be said between us. But what I can say is this: I love you. I’ve always loved you, and I’ll keep loving you, no matter what happens.

So come back to me, Buck. Please, come back safe. We’ll figure the rest out when you’re home.

Yours, Y/N

As you finished the letter, you folded it carefully, your hands trembling with a mixture of hope and fear. The fear of losing him again was overwhelming, but the hope—the hope that maybe, just maybe, you could have a future together—was enough to keep you going.

You sealed the envelope and handed it to the postman the next day, your heart heavy with all the things left unsaid, yet lightened by the chance to say what truly mattered.

The days after sending the letter passed slowly, the uncertainty gnawing at you as you waited, hoping for some kind of word—some kind of sign that Buck was still holding on. You pictured him pulling out your photo, keeping it close as he faced each day, and it gave you the strength to keep going.

You didn’t know if he would get your letter, didn’t know if he would make it back to you. But the one thing you did know was that love—your love for Buck—was still there. And no matter how broken things had been, no matter how much hurt had passed between you, that love was still worth fighting for.

Now, all you could do was wait. Again…

[middlingmay]

I am, how you say, ill as fuck.

And I would love some fluffy, fluffy, fluff whilst I perish.

(Don't worry, there's no actual perishing. I am also very dramatic when I'm ill, so...)

So what's like your one, fluffiest headcanon for buck x bucky?

Here's some of mine:

Buck needs to know where Bucky is. If he doesn't see him, and John hasn't told him where he's gone, his heart trips in his chest. The rest of the 100th have clocked this and casually drop it into conversation if they've seen Bucky.

Buck also knows Bucky is a natural caregiver (like it's a secret), so he always makes sure to tell John if he sees any of the boys needing some help: Crosby's not sleeping again; Curt misses his ma; Jack is feeling overwhelmed, etc. John goes out of his way to make them feel better; whatever they need, they get. John finds a way.

But Bucky has a real soft spot for Ken - the youngest in the 100th and the best ground crew chief in the air force (he'd bet). He's always checking on him, making sure no one's giving him a hard time. Ken maybe thinks John is teasing him or doesn't think he can do his job, but Buck tells him one day, "He's just looking out for you; he's taken a likin' to ya, son", and Ken blushes like crazy and feels real flattered.

I would love to hear some of yours!

[wexhappyxfew]

very thought of you

(a/n): judy rybinski, my sweet sunshine child, you deserve the very best for all the emotion you hold in and try to hide. enjoy your dance with rosie rosenthal girl <3333

She found that nights after missions, the flying club was usually left pretty quiet.

Of course, there was soft jazz from the corner, a few people sat around talking quietly with one another, sharing drinks, or tired conversation, but it was never alive with life like it had been in the summer - when people had still been fairly filled with something more than life.

Judy sat at the table her and Bessie had occupied a few times when people would be on the dance floor, twisting and twirling one another like it was the night of their lives. She always would watch - the airmen with a lady from town or a nurse or a Clubmobile girl, the smiles on their faces, their giggles, the whispering and exchanging of jokes or conversation there in a tightly-held embrace.

She always wondered what that would be like - wrapped in the arms of someone, to dance with them, gaze into their eyes, and just for once, have it just be the two of them. Whoever that other person may be.

A few of the girls hadn't bothered to come tonight - some of the recent happenings were seemingly getting to everyone. With the fresh losses of Major Cleven, Major Egan, Brady, DeMarco, their crews and just about every other notable face they'd flown in here with, some people were doing better than others. Some just wanted to be left alone, others came to have a drink, make conversation, some sat and read or smoked or stared at the sky.

Judy had to get out of the barracks and be in some fresher air with some of the men - Dougie usually was always a good face to have around, Ev Blakely a comforting shoulder. Crosby was usually around, but he wasn't taking Bubbles' loss too well either. They seemed to all be picking up the pieces of what was lost. And it wasn't going entirely too well.

Judy sat with a Coca-Cola, straying a bit from the idea of a beer - she just couldn't enjoy the thought of a beer as she sat alone at a table, staring out towards an empty dance floor. The idea was almost haunting - enjoy beer, while Major Cleven and Major Egan were MIA or dead? The thought was almost too much.

So, she sat alone with her Coca-Cola and enjoyed the quiet hum of the music and the half-written letter to her siblings and parents back home in North Carolina and was content with that for the minute.

Leaning her head on her upbent arm against the table, she glanced towards the entrance and was surprised to see Lieutenant Rosenthal coming through the doorway, removing his peak cap, a small smile on his face, tired eyes wandering the group, before moving towards the bar. His fort had taken some pretty hard hits after the mission today - the first back from R&R, which had been quite enjoyable as it was just his crew and Silver Bullets. The few conversations they'd had there hadn't been much. Just in passing, or he'd offer her a wave if he was on the grounds. But he'd been in another world it seemed, his head in the sky, body on the ground.

And so now, seeing him after all their first missions back, she would've thought he'd be out with his fort or asleep.

Seeing him here, she smiled a bit.

Judy glanced back to the empty dance floor, a soft crooning Ella Fitzgerald song above her as she let the music take her a bit.

"I was beginning to wonder if any of the Silver Bullets were going to make it out tonight," she heard a voice say and she slowly glanced upward to find Lieutenant Rosenthal there, a Coca-Cola in his own hand and a smile on his face, "mind if I join you?" Judy froze for a moment, her brain rewiring it felt, before she nodded and sat up a bit.

"Of course, sir." she said, "Please." She nodded to the other seat at the table and he sent her a quiet gaze, before settling down in the chair and turning his head her way.

"You doing okay?" he asked her, "I've been meaning to check in on Annie, but….." Judy watched him for a moment, his comforting eyes something that drew her in that very instance and it made her feel like she could say anything in her mind, right to him and he'd understand.

"I'm okay," Judy said quietly, "just….had to take time out of the barracks. Lieutenant Bradshaw's…..she's….." Judy's words trailed off in a pathetic attempt to cover up what Annie was really feeling. The dark circles under her eyes, the sleepless nights, the night-wandering, the mornings they'd find Annie outside, sat on the step, out-cold from exhaustion.

"It's okay," Rosenthal said, "I'll talk to her later. I know people aren't feeling the best in the past few weeks. What about you?" Judy looked to him and offered an impromptu smile his way.

"Alright, sir." Judy said, and then nodded, "Best I can. I guess you could say, I'm trying to keep going, keep smiling….for the others." Rosenthal smiled and lightly tilted his head toward her.

"I think that'll be good for everyone in the long run," he told her, but then leaned against the table and lowered his voice, "but, truly, you don't have to do that for me." Judy stared at him, her heart pounding, her emotion building somewhere in her head, behind her eyes and she saw that look on his face and knew that things were coming to a head.

"You okay?" he asked her quietly, and that's when her eyes welled with tears.

There was something about people like Major Cleven, Major Egan, Captain Faulkner, Lieutenant Bradshaw and now…Lieutenant Rosenthal. They were people Judy trusted with her life, because they were all some of the best leaders the 100th would ever see in her mind. And they were people that cared about their group, their men, their fort, people that wanted the best and would lead the best they could for the bettering of the group.

And usually, they could manage to get Judy's water-works going.

Because they saw her in a way others didn't. They cared. She put up her walls, put on the smile, and continued like that. Day in and day out. And without fail, those walls would get battered and bruised, and she'd be standing behind it, barely keeping it up, tears in her eyes, limbs shaking. And that's how she was right now - like Lieutenant Rosenthal could see right through to her.

Judy watched him with tears in her eyes. Then, she watched his hand slowly reach forward and grasp one of her own, lazily laid upon the table, his larger hand encasing her own in a warm, consoling embrace. She sniffled and watched through blurred eyes as his thumb gently brushed against her rough skin - between the gloves and the machinery in the ball turret, her hands had seemingly taken the brunt of it all.

Yet, his touch was present and there and grounding her in a way in that very moment that nothing else seemed to be. She wished she was stronger than this sometimes. But maybe she'd been strong for too long. Something in her head told her this didn't mean anything - his touch, him looking at her like that - but then the tiny voice in her head said something else, something deeper. That it meant everything.

"Here," he said, reaching into his pocket and producing a handkerchief.

"Thank you, sir," she said, taking it, through a rather tearful admission of thanks and he smiled at her and grasped her hand a bit tighter.

"No need to thank me," he said, "and….it's just Robert…or Rosie. You don't need to call me sir." She stared at him, and then managed a slight smile and nodded. She wiped at her eyes and then let out a weak sigh and looked to him. He watched her tentatively as she tightly grasped the handkerchief, and stared at their hands there on the table.

It was quiet for a few moments, him staring at her, Judy looking at their hands, a quiet reprieve settled between the two, the two of them letting the other take a moment to just be. 'The Very Thought of You' by Billie Holiday slowly moved through the quiet bubble of noise above them and she glanced towards Rosie who was sat quietly, staring now at their hands, his frame more relaxed, more silent, but still there.

"Hey, Rosie?" she asked him quietly - he looked up at her and offered a small smile.

"What's up?"

"Do you want to dance?" she asked him - it came out quicker than she had wanted, and sounded a bit more like a jumble of words, and she could feel a bit of a flush crawling up her neck. But then Rosie smiled.

"I'd love to," he said, "here." He slowly stood, taking her hand and came around the table, before taking her other hand and pulling her to her feet. For a moment, they watched one another, before he backed towards the open dance floor, Billie Holiday's voice soft and nostalgic over the speakers, as they stood in the center of the floor.

And slowly, Rosie's hands traveled to her waist, his other hand lacing into her own, as he brought her closer to him. Judy looked up into his eyes, his presence so close to her own - God, his aftershave was overwhelming every portion of her being by this point and she wasn't complaining. Judy could hardly get her arm around his neck and instead rested her hand on his arm and then looked up at him.

"I'm sorry for my sweaty hands." she said, the first thought to come to her mind. And Rosie let out a laugh, and shook his head and brought his lips to her ear.

"It's alright," he said quietly, "you ever dance before?" Judy's heart was racing at the sudden closeness and let out a shaky breath. She turned her head the slightest bit to his ear and licked her lips.

"Not like this." she whispered back. Rosie laughed, his warm breath on her shoulder as he slowly swayed them back and forth, taking the lead just as she would've wanted. This was unfamiliar territory to her, every bit of this. But it felt comfortable to be in his embrace, having his touch and presence so close to her own.

"Just follow my lead." he said quietly to her. She was so much shorter than him, it was almost comical - a ball-turret gunner and a pilot who was nearly a full head or two taller than her - she could barely keep on her tip-toes. But, he guided her softly in the middle of the floor, as the song continued, the two of them wrapped in each other's warmth there in the middle of the floor.

And as the song came to a close, Judy found her arms wrapping around his center, her chest pressed in his chest, her head turned into him, listening to the soft thrum of his heart, the gentle thump-thump-thump the comfort that kept her grounded there right now. His hand found its way to her back, the other lingering between her shoulder and the lower portion of her head.

She felt so comfortable curled against him, like she were able to hide from the world for a bit in the middle of this war. Smelling his cologne, feeling his hands holding her there against him, listening to his heart deep within his chest.

When the song had finished, and it melted into a Frank Sinatra piece - something Marianne would've appreciated - she found herself tightly bound in his embrace, not wanting to let go of this block of comfort she was now holding onto so tightly. And he seemed far from letting go, rubbing his hand up and down her back, pulling a few strands of her loose hair from her braids from the right side of her face and circling a thumb on the upper portion of her shoulder.

They stood there for a few moments, Judy simply soaking in this feeling - him standing there, her curled against him. Her eyes welled with tears when she seemed to come to it - this feeling. Being here with him. Rosie letting her just be like this. She was so tired, drained and worn down - everything about her had been exhausted to an extent where she was dumb. And Rosie's warmth seemed to be melting every bit of that about her.

"Thank you." Judy whispered just quietly enough for Rosie to hear her, "Thank you so much." Rosie chuckled, the soft rumble in his chest, making his heartbeat speed up a bit, which made her smile as he rubbed her back a bit more comfortingly than he had previously. She could tell he was smiling when he spoke.

"Didn't know you were a Billie Holiday fan." he said quietly, "I should've asked what you liked." Judy laughed slightly, blinking away some of the tears and leaned back a bit to look up at him and was met with his fully, rosy-cheeked face watching her, his eyes exuding nothing but what felt like…..damn-near love in her own eyes as he watched her.

"Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Doris Day…." she said quietly, "Ma's a big fan of them. What about you, though - heard you were an Artie Shaw type of guy - big band. Makes sense." Rosie let out a laugh that was music to her ears and nodded.

"Big Artie Shaw fan," he said, "guess stuff gets around." Judy laughed and nodded.

"Marianne knows a whole lot more than we credit her for." Judy said and Rosie smiled at her, this silent unspoken message between them saying a whole lot more than whatever words could bargain for - finding comfort in someone else who was going through this hellish war just like you were. It was something that you carried closer to you more than anything else.

Judy smiled up at him, and the quiet look on his face was something you couldn't replicate, this intense focus simply on her, watching her every move, concealing yet telling all at once. Her cheeks felt like they were completely flaming now as he watched her, but she couldn't look away from his gaze.

But then Judy, out of the pureness of her heart, stood to her tip-toes and pulled him into a hug, where his arms enveloped her and they held each other there for a moment in time. A hug meant a thousand words more than anything else in that moment.

[hogans-heroes]

Do you have any cuddling headcanons for Buck and Bucky? 🫂❤️ I'm so full of fluffy thoughts

Oh BOY DO I thank you for asking!

Bucky would be an Aggressive cuddler. He’d squish Gale and squeeze the air out of him and shove his face in his stomach and plop his entire weight on him at all opportunities. It’s like having a 180-pound Bernese Mountain Dog that thinks it’s a lap puppy. He’s just so happy to see Gale and he’s cute so he wants to squeeze and nibble! (Yes he’s a nibbler fight me). He would wrap arms and legs around Gale like a koala, especially when drunk, and squeeze so Gale can’t move.

Gale is a very, very soft cuddler. He would go all pliant and half-lidded eyes and dreamy smile. He wants to play with Bucky’s hair and stroke his cheeks and back with fingertips. To nuzzle his face into Bucky’s neck and just have lazy full body contact. He’s like a clingy cat that will not leave you alone. Bucky just laid down on the couch? Here Gale comes quietly padding over and very delicately climbs on Bucky and drapes over his face. Good luck breathing or doing anything else.

They’re the perfect match. Fit together perfectly.

[empresskadia]

I-

John-117 very tenderly kissing his partner's bare shoulder.

If I wasn't at work-

[willyoubemycherryy]

❦𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐!! _𝙱𝚎𝚝-. . 𝚢𝚘-𝚞_ 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍-__𝚞𝚜?-. 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕-_𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎?.-. 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢-//?!

𝐼𝑡’𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑎 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤😂💕𝑇𝑜𝑝 𝐵𝑎𝑏𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡: @eymie @b1mb0slvt @luvlydeja @taylormarieee @missusnora @eleanorbaybars

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜❥ 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚝, 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏, 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗, 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚘 𝚎𝚢𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 ��𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚝, 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗-𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 ��𝚎 𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘, 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎̨𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚔𝚎𝚢 𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝, 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔, 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗

“𝑰 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅...“

࣪✧. 🜸°. ໒꒱✧. • 𐙚˙⋆.˚.

Don’t let men with recovering orbital fractures finger you in their bed while hospitalized.

If that was ever a rule, spoken or unspoken, boy would they be pissed at you now.

“Wider, bunny. You wanna help me get better right?” Bucky cooed into your ear from where his chest was plastered to your back.

Choking down your moan almost guiltily because you really did want him to feel better, it was one of the things you told him when you’d first seen him after he had finally got back from that awful camp. You had gotten a call (the quickest one of your life) that they had taken him to the hospital immediately, to check the extent of all possible injuries, watch for any possibly contracted diseases, etc.

It was day 3 of him being in there but he’d been misbehaving restless since you’d arrived.

You shouldn’t be too cross with him because he couldn’t help it.

John missed you so much that when he finally got back on familiar ground, what ran through his thoughts was mostly you and then just 2 hours later, you were there. Filling his senses with your sweet scent, filling his hands with the softness of your curves as your lovely voice filled his head. Christ, how he missed you. All of you.

However, his body’s reaction to you after being depraved of you for so long was…intense. To say the least.

While you were worried after his health and overjoyed at having him back, Bucky was on you like a dog on water.

So naturally the second the doctors deemed him well enough to only check up on him every couple hours instead of every 30 minutes, he wasted no time sweet-talking you from your chair into his bed where he currently had 3 of his stupidly thick fingers pumping knuckle deep inside your drenched pussy.

The noise outside reminded you that this was a busy hospital making your arousal spike on edge, the chances of someone opening the door and seeing you with your heaving tits out, pretty dress around your waist, as Bucky made you cry out while your fluttering cunt gaped around his fingers…

“Hnnnggh…I-I’m trying! Y’ hand's just t-too big“, you whine, eyes watering when he thrusts upwards right into the spot that makes your twitching walls gush slick.

“Now now, that’s not it Bunny- this cunt’s just too goddamn small..“ Bucky rasps into your ear, a shiver wracks up your spine.

The only response you could get out was a whine that cut into a watery gasp when he bought his other hand to play with your swollen clit, swirling the wet pulsing nub in firm circles, biting his lip at the gorgeous display you made.

Your ears were beginning to ring with the effort of staying quiet, eyes watering in pleasure and embarrassment when you caught through the haze, just how loud your cunt sounded being thoroughly fucked by John’s big fingers.

The slick in and out of has your eyes mindlessly rolling back, body quivering from how good it feels as you get closer, your pussy practically sucking his fingers in as your walls tighten like a slick fist. John groans in your ear as he looks down, seeing how gone you are with your stretched cunt creaming all over his hand.

“Shhh, so good for me bunny….just like that. Makin’ me feel so much better already.” He whispers in your ear, licking across your jaw before dragging his fingers almost all the way out before sinking them back into your sopping pussy, jaw dropping open in a silent scream with his fat middle finger crooked as he nails your g spot.

Your muscles spasm violently and the original goal of keeping it down, gets further and further in the shadow of your impending orgasm plus Bucky wasn’t helping at all with the pure filth coming out of his mouth. He’d always been a dirty talker, quick witted risqué lines that made you blush even back when he’d first been pursuing you….but this?

“C’mon baby, listen to that..my girls sound so sweet gettin’ a good fucking hm?”

“God I missed you, you’re almost too tight now. Can’t wait til we get home so I can properly break her in.”

“Mhmm bet you feel real good yeah? Drippin’ everywhere my slutty little bunny.” He hissed into your ear.

Oh dear god.

The moment your hiccuping whines bubbled to desperate moans in your throat, John slapped the hand that had been on your clit over your mouth, muffling your wails as white hot pleasure took you over the edge.

Shudders wrack your body while you cum, clit throbbing in time with your spasming walls while the lack of oxygen and your muffled moans add to the intensity of your orgasm. John’s hand slows a bit as he fucks you through it, almost putting your overstimulated self in a coma, kissing the tear trail down the side of your eyes; cock harder than ever as he waits for you to come down.

“Oooh. That was a good one, wasn’t it baby?”

Hand still over your mouth as you drop your head down in a wrecked “yes”. John hums as he manhandles your limp body around to face him, laying you on his chest and smoothing your dress down right as the door begins to open, uttering one last soaking promise into your ear…

“If you think you felt something now, just wait until we get home…gonna feel how much I missed you when I’m wearing that pussy out.”

godblessamerica???

♡︎ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ, ᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴏʟʟᴀʀ😌

[major-mads]

Interlude Pt. 3: It's Been a Long, Long Time

John "Bucky" Egan x Ruth Morgan (OFC)

Series Masterlist

A/N: this popped in my head and wouldn't leave me alone...enjoy!😂

Collab: On a Wing and a Prayer by @footprintsinthesxnd

Word Count: 1.3k

October 27, 1943: Stalag Luft III: Sagan, Germany:

The loud droning sound of a siren rang in the crisp morning air as John and his fellow prisoners walked through the barbed-wire gates of Stalag Luft III. He ignored the pain in his body, the squelching of mud beneath his frostbitten feet, and the shouts from the Germans. He had one thing…two things on his mind. 

Ruth. Buck.

POWs lined either side of the barbed wire path, and Bucky’s eyes scanned every soldier for a familiar face, for Ruth’s or Buck's specifically. The gaunt and hollowed men that stared back at him sent shivers down his spine and extinguished the little hope he had.

How long had these men been here?

How long would he be here?

He was broken from his thoughts by shouts and calls for the new arrivals filling the air.

“James!”

“Captain!”

“Jimmy! Jimmy, did Frankie make it?”

Just when he was about to give up his search, he heard it.

“Bucky!”

He knew that New England accent.

“Bucky, over here! Over here!”

John’s eyes flew to his left, and a smile tugged his lips at the sight of Charlie Cruikshank. “Crank!” he yelled, pointing at the pilot.

“You made it!! Crank laughed as he waved his hands in the air.

It was then that the Major finally saw more of his men beside Crank, jumping to catch a glimpse of him over the wall of men, each with a wide grin on their lips. “Murph!” John chuckled. “Glen!”

“Hey! Any of you know if Ruth or Buck made it?”

Before they could respond, a voice on the other side of the path called out to him. “John Egan! Your two o’clock.”

It was a voice he feared he’d never hear again. He turned with breakneck speed towards it and the ever-present weight on John’s chest lightened just barely as his best friend grinned at him through the barbed wire. Wait…he hadn’t smiled like that since… Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but Gale cut him off.

“They’re here, John,” he nodded, bracing against the fence. “They both are.”

Bucky’s heart pounded in his chest as Gale’s words sunk in. Ruth was alive. Ruth was here. It was a surreal moment, almost too good to be true, but somehow it was. A rush of emotions coursed through him, relief washing away the guilt and grief that had gripped him for the past month. His throat became tight as he continued with the group, sparing Buck a slightly teary, but wide smile.

Gale’s grin turned into a smirk when he yelled after him one last time. “And what took you so long?” 

John’s processing was a blur, his mind only thinking of the woman he so desperately wanted to see. To hold in his arms. To tell that he loved her. To kiss her lips. It seemed only a few minutes had passed when he was released from the intake building and into the muddy compound he’d call home for the foreseeable future. The men from the 100th quickly approached him…but Buck wasn’t with them.

“Welcome to the south compound, Bucky!” Crank laughed, throwing his arms around the Major.

John suppressed a groan when his sore muscles were jostled a little too harshly and returned the hug. “Looks like you dodos made a nest for me this time.”

They all broke out into chuckles as they each greeted their friend. His eyes scanned the group in search of Buck, but they didn’t find him. “Where’s Buck?”

“He’s in the center compound,” Murphy sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve heard rumors of compound switches, though.”

He was alive and that’s what really mattered.

Nodding to himself, John took in their physical conditions, starting with the healing cuts and bruises on each of their faces. Pure elation faded into anxiety when it dawned on him what Ruth had been through since he last saw her. He’d been so excited she was alive that he overlooked the fact that she’d been shot down, captured, interrogated, and shipped to this horrid place…the same as him. Fearful questions ran rampant in his mind:

Was she alright? 

Did the Germans…he couldn’t bear to continue the thought.

His expression became deathly serious, a line forming between his brows. He had to see her. “Ruth. Where…where is she? What compound is she in?”

“Ours. You wanna see her?” Glen asked with a sympathetic smile. They’d all seen the aftermath of the nurses’ supposed deaths, and for the first time in nearly a month, the major’s expression wasn’t tight with grief.

John nodded immediately and followed as fast as he could behind the group. The pain radiating through his entire body was pushed down, drowned out by the anxiety that bubbled up his chest. His mind seemed to play out the worst possible scenarios of her journey to the camp...her condition. A gentle hand on his shoulder broke him from his thoughts, and he looked up at the door to the long wooden building before him.

Charlie nodded at him, his blue eyes holding no malice over the words they’d shared before the Münster mission. “Our room’s the second door on the right.”

“Your room?” Johnny asked, his brows furrowing.

“We thought we owed it to you and Major Cleven, sir," Murph spoke quietly. "To look out for your girls.”

As his gaze drifted once again to the door, John couldn’t will himself forward. His legs wouldn’t move, his feet seemingly stuck in the mud, unable to take a step. The same what-ifs from earlier filled his mind. The uncertainty, the worry, and the past month’s guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Noticing the Major’s hesitation, Frank nodded. “She’s alright, Bucky. Really.”

“Yeah,” Johnny murmured, pursing his lips for a moment. With a deep breath, he pushed open the door and stepped inside, the dim light casting long shadows along the hallway. The air was heavy with the smell of damp wood and something musty he couldn’t quite pinpoint. He reached the second door on the right, the door marked with the number 4 in faded ink, and hesitated once again. 

John’s heart pounded in his ears…she was so close. After thinking he’d never see her again, hear her voice, her laugh, feel the warmth of her skin, it felt like a dream. He raised his hand to knock and the sound echoed through the hallway, the anticipation almost suffocating as he waited for a response.

“Come on in!”

At the sound her her soft voice, a shaky breath escaped his lips and his eyes fluttered shut. The crushing weight of his fears began to lift from his shoulders. All the pain and uncertainty melted away into relief and pure joy…she was real, and she was there. Finally not a figment of his imagination tricking him into believing she was alive.

With trembling hands, he turned the handle and pushed open the door, his heart pounding in his chest as his eyes scanned the room. The walls were lined with three-tiered bunk beds, and a table sat in the middle, but what stole his attention was the mess of blonde to his right. It was slightly longer than he remembered…the usually perfect curls nothing more than waves barely reaching her shoulders. She stood with her back to him as she tidied the room, wiping down the center table with one hand. The other arm hung limply in a sling.

“Anyone interesting come in today?” Ruth asked, keeping her back toward the door while she cleaned.

The words that came to John Egan’s mind refused to pour from his lips, so he stood there speechless, watching her scrub the dirt from the surface, muttering to herself when it wouldn't come off easily. A few seconds passed until she spoke again, finally turning toward the doorway. “If you guys don’t start cleaning up-”

When her gaze landed on his battered and bloody figure in the doorway, color drained from her face and the small towel in her hand dropped to the floor.

“John.”

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[tetragonia]

Masters of the Air characters as aesthetics

John 'Bucky' Egan

Bucky was a golden hour, warm hues of gold and amber casting a soft, ethereal glow over everything. Giggles and banters over a sip of liquor. He was a low hum in a pub, filled with chatter and joy. Bucky was a worn sheepskin jacket, familiar and comforting. Waves crash against rugged cliffs, vivid colors pop against a backdrop of blue skiess. He was gentle and dominating, yet he asked to be taken care of behind closed doors. Back arching high against the bed sheet, hands pinned and left marks everywhere. He was a smoky jazz club alive with the sound of saxophones and clinking glasses, the sound of people laughing so loud until the stomach hurts. Grass stained knees. Running through the rain without an umbrella. He was classical music blasting from a cheap speaker. He was Apollo playing his instruments.

Gale 'Buck' Cleven

Buck was a calm before a storm. A misty forest enveloped in fog, with towering trees draped in moss and winding paths leading to hidden glens and secret clearings. He was both silent movies and thunderstorms that you'd feel inside your chest. Raised eyebrows and cold hands, pinching the bridge of your nose. Watching a painting a bit too long before the gallery was closed. Long walks to the library. Winter winds and freezing hands, subtle glances across the room. He was soft murmur of reassurance and a gentle touch behind the doors. Consensual and always asked if it's okay. Dark red lipstick, chilled red wine. A quaint cottage nestled in the countryside with a thatched roof and ivy-covered walls, surrounded by a garden bursting with fragrant herbs and vibrant flowers. He was Hestia tending the sacred flames.

Harry 'Croz' Crosby

Harry was the swirling feelings in your stomach night before a trip. A vintage typewriter sitting on a weathered wooden desk, surrounded by stacks of yellowing paper and antique books. The soft autumn sun. He was handwritten letters and cracked statues. Silver waves lapping at the shore and seashells scattered across the sand like scattered jewels. The rattling of rain against the window, messy and needed direction. He was scribbles and ink stains, messy notebooks, and the tea kettle whistling in the silent morning. He was urgent and hurry, but comforting afterwards. He was everything about pleasure behind closed doors. A disheveled bedroom with rumpled sheets and discarded clothing strewn across the floor, with posters peeling off the walls and sunlight filtering through grimy windows. He was Poseidon guarding with his trident.

Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal

Rosie was a vintage record player spinning vinyl records, filling the room with the warm crackle of music. He was sweet smiles and clear eyes. Paper planes. Overgrown rose bushes. That one song you always skipped but ended up loving it. He was tweed jackets and loose blouses. A field of wildflowers stretching out as far as the eye can see, with colorful blooms dancing in the breeze and the scent of earth and pollen filling the air. Gentle and nurturing, caring and soft behind the doors. He was a giver and always maintained satisfaction. He was pink-tinted blush. A pair of combat boots scuffed from countless adventures. Smiling at strangers on the street. He was all kind and modesty, but also Athena leading battles.