the mod team is beyond excited to share with you all that BOTTOM BUCKY WEEK 2025 will take place this november 10th through november 16th! please make sure you are tagging all entries with our hashtag #bottombuckyweek2025 so we can reblog and enjoy them with you! this week encourages the promotion and creation of works that feature bucky on the bottom-- fic, gifsets, art, meta, etc. it's all welcome!
🦌💙 PROMPT LIST
DAY 1: pinup | leather/lace | rouge
DAY 2: roleplay | wear and tear | money shot
DAY 3: favors/rituals | anonymous | marks
DAY 4: impact | praise | swallow
DAY 5: boots | untouched | uniform
DAY 6: weekend pass | exhibitionism/voyeurism | training
DAY 7: free day! bonus prompts: bark | bite | beg
in order not to limit your creative freedom, we encourage you to interpret these as literally or openly as you see fit. you can use one, two, or all three prompts per day. canon, au, an already existing universe of yours- there's no cap on any of it!
if you have any questions or concerns, don't hesitate to consult our faq or send us an ask! we can't wait to see your creations!
“Fuck,” John swears, pushing back against Gale’s hand. “More, more, come on,” he says with a gasp, chanting the words like a prayer. “Give me more.”
Gale looks down at where he has three fingers buried to the knuckle inside John, and his throat tightens when he swallows.
[to close out the most important event of the year and possibly all time, here is a final fill for @bottombuckyweek2025 day 7: bark, bite, and beg! 🖤]
"Whose dog are you?"
Bucky whines, long and high, and lifts his hips into Curt's next thrust, elbows braced against the mattress so he can shove back harder on Curt's cock. But it's not enough—Curt pulls his leash tight, steady but hard enough that Bucky's back bows under the pressure. Curt leans in closer, cock shifting inside Bucky as he moves. The heavy drag of it is making spots dance across his vision.
But Curt just stops with his hips flush against Bucky's ass, both of them breathing hard. "Speak, boy," Curt grinds out, resting his forehead on the ridge of Bucky's spine. There's something gentle in his voice when he adds, "C'mon, wanna hear it," like he's asking instead of ordering, like maybe Bucky won't.
He will, though, if Curt wants him to. Words are hard like this but he claws for them, hips shifting back to take more of Curt, to try and get him to move again. "Your dog."
"God, fuck," Curt gasps, the words punched out of his chest. He snaps his hips and Bucky keens, arms wobbling under him. The leash rattles when Curt jerks it back again, and Curt's other hand clutches hard at Bucky's hip. "Again."
He's not supposed to talk this much but—that's his own rule. Curt's never said not to. And if Curt wants him to—Curt said speak—he wants to be good.
It's easier with the words still close. "Yours," spools off his tongue smooth as silk. Keeps spilling, "m'yours, your dog, your—" he chokes on a sharp thrust catching him right, lets the rest tumble out. "Your good dog."
Hitches up in the middle, because he wants to be, he wants to hear it but maybe he's not, maybe asking at all makes him bad, a really good dog wouldn't want the words so badly—
"Yeah, my good boy," Curt pants against his shoulder. Bucky goes slack, whining, the words like liquid fire in his veins, collar digging into his throat where Curt's still holding his leash taut. He doesn't know how to ask for more, but he doesn't have to. "You're so good for me, baby," Curt breathes, sounding as winded as Bucky feels. "My perfect puppy, god, Bucky, I fuckin'—"
He cuts himself off, and Bucky wants to beg, plead and whimper and whine for the rest of it, except Curt straightens up, plants his palm between Bucky's shoulder blades, links of his leash puddling on Bucky's back, and pushes til Bucky lets his elbows buckle and his face is back in the sheets. Curt holds him down and starts moving again, fucking into him hard and fast and relentless.
Bucky moans between his teeth, cheek pressed to the sheets and paws scrabbling at the fabric as he arches into Curt's thrusts. Curt's in him so deep, the weight and heat of him pressed up behind Bucky solid and inescapable. His palm is broad against Bucky's back, and there's nothing Bucky has to do—can do—but take what Curt gives him. Whatever Curt gives him.
He's being loud and he knows it, and tries to clench his jaw tighter, keep some of it down. Curt leans forward again, tight against his back, to slide his fingertips up Bucky's neck, over his jaw until they rest against Bucky's lips. Bucky opens up for them, hopes Curt will stuff them in deeper so they'll muffle the sounds he can't help but make. But Curt hooks his fingertips over Bucky's teeth, and Bucky's good, and good boys don't bite unless they're told to. So it keeps his mouth open, means the noises just spill out, little uh-uh-uhs getting fucked out of him, catching the edge of every exhale as the thread of pleasure winds tighter, tighter.
Curt's thrusts have gone short and choppy, uncoordinated. Bucky whines and tries to match his rhythm—there isn't much of one, like Curt lost it somehow, but Bucky can help, he just has to be good and figure out how—
"Wanna keep you," Curt chokes out. He's got his face pressed to Bucky's shoulder, voice shaking like Bucky's never heard it before, and Bucky's mind goes blank. "Wanna lock your collar closed an' throw away the key so everyone sees you wearin' it an' knows you're mine—"
Like a flak burst, sudden and bright and sharp, Bucky comes apart. His cock pulses and he clenches tight around Curt, distantly registers the stuttering moan it drags out of him and the wet heat of Curt shooting off inside him, deep as he can get, but Bucky's not—he can't—
He can't have it. He doesn't get that, no one owns him, he's tried to be good enough for someone to want to, but no one wants to, but he wants it, it's all he wants, and Curt—
Curt's fingers have slipped out of Bucky's mouth, trailing spit down his chin, and when Bucky swallows the wetness lingering in his mouth, the collar pulls tight where Curt has one finger hooked under the leather. Up against Bucky's pulse.
Like he meant it.
It's so much effort to drag his arm back from up over his head, but Bucky does it, reaches back to clutch at Curt's hip. Curt's body jerks, not quite a flinch, but enough to remind Bucky that he's still inside him, going soft but still pressed close and there and Bucky's tongue feels thick in his mouth but he manages to get out, "Keep me."
Curt shudders, face still tucked to Bucky's shoulder, breathing shaky. "Can I?"
"Please," Bucky gasps, feeling shaky too, and he doesn't want to move but he needs to, needs to roll over and get his hands on Curt's face. Needs to press uncoordinated lips to Curt's cheeks, his chin, his mouth, anywhere he can reach, frantic with it. "Please, Curt, keep me, please—"
"As long as you want me to," Curt gets out between kisses, and Bucky swallows a noise that's too close to a sob to hit the air. "As long as you let me."
“I can hear you panting from all of the way up here, are you that desperate for it? You always are aren’t you? Well, if you’re desperate, you’ll listen closely.”
John's jaw drops slightly at the way Gale’s voice vibrates through the air. His hips jump forward when he feels Gale push his shin between the V of his legs, and the toe of Gale’s boot pushes right under John’s balls.
The touch makes a noise strangle up John’s throat, while he goes to grab onto Gale’s thigh. The hand in his hair tightens and twists, wrenching John’s head to the side. Gale’s fingers pull up to push John’s face closer to himself, it makes a whimper come from John’s throat. As the tip of his nose brushes across the side of Gale’s covered length.
🧎🏻♂️🧎🏻♂️🧎🏻♂️🧎🏻♂️🧎🏻♂️
Ao3 link
🧎🏻♂️🧎🏻♂️🧎🏻♂️🧎🏻♂️🧎🏻♂️
thank you to @stars-remain2 @steviewicks45 @roseszirnheld for encouraging me and supporting me
[masters of the air, john “bucky” egan/gale “buck” cleven, 2k, e. written for day seven of @bottombuckyweek2025: free day!]
“Buck?” he asks, voice hoarse, muffled by the pillowcase against his mouth. He turns his head to the side and sees Gale there in the halflight, hair swooping off of his forehead in a golden wave, mouth pursed as he watches his fingers disappear inside John. John shudders, helpless, as Gale strokes into him, lighting him up. He wonders how long Gale has been awake, how careful he was not to wake John in turn. His fingers, two of them, move easy and slick, finding no resistance at all from John’s body.
[This one is instantly filthy, but I'm letting the first paragraph run wild and free.]
It amazes Harry sometimes how much Bucky loves getting fucked. It's wild to watch him moan and arch and scrabble for something to hold when Harry presses into him for that first thrust. It's a rush to watch Bucky go heavy-limbed as Harry starts a rhythm. Any rhythm. Harry prefers it slow and deep, personally, and Bucky responds with tiny cants of his hips and desperate sort of sighs as he rubs his face into the pillow.
"More," Bucky manages. "Please. More. Please."
Harry doesn't change his rhythm, but he presses his hands hard on Bucky's lower back, makes him hold still as he fucks him. Bucky whines, and he lifts his feet, pressing them against Harry's ass like he can hold him where he wants him, but with Harry's hands on his lower back, he doesn't have the leverage.
"Tease," Bucky manages, kicking Harry lightly with his heels.
Harry huffs a laugh and throws his head back to get his hair out of his face. "A tease wouldn't have his dick in you," he says. "If you want me to take it out—" He swears when Bucky clenches around him hard. "I'll take that as a no."
"Want it," Bucky says, turning so he can see Harry's face. "Want it all the time."
Harry nods, well aware Bucky's doing more than just talking dirty. Bucky gets desperate sometimes, staring at Harry with heavy-lidded eyes and his legs obscenely wide open. Touching himself while just watching Harry do regular things like read a book or fold laundry. He gets on his knees and crawls to Harry, noses into his lap and presses his cheek to Harry's dick through his clothes. It is, without question, the hottest shit Harry has ever seen in his life. He can't believe just existing makes someone so needy for him. Especially with that someone being Bucky, who turns heads just by walking down the street and breathing. A living Greek statue, Harry thinks sometimes. Tempting the mere mortals with his beauty and his charm. And it's Harry he goes crazy for. To say it makes him feel important doesn't do it justice. It makes him feel invincible.
"All the time?" Harry asks, teasing, rather than saying all of that. "You sure? You were asleep last night. You didn't want it, then." He used to stay quiet when Bucky talked like this, but then he realized Bucky took his silence as disagreement, and that wasn't it at all. He just didn't know what he was supposed to say and—as usual—overthought it. Then one night, three martinis in and Bucky dry humping him and begging to be fucked, Harry had let the words tumble out. Teased Bucky a little, made him say please over and over while sucking on his neck and squeezing his ass. Harry's orgasm had nearly made him black out it had been so good.
"All the time," Bucky repeats, then lets out a tiny, breathy moan as Harry grinds against his ass. "All the time. All the time. I wanna wake up with your dick in me."
"Jesus," Harry breathes, the image flashing in his mind like it's been waiting to surprise him. Bucky sleeps heavy. If Harry were careful, he probably could finger him open then get his dick in him and wait. He could pet Bucky awake even, tease his nipples and his dick, play with his balls and kiss behind his ear where he's ticklish. "You really want that? I'll do it."
Bucky rubs against the sheets, and one hand comes back and grabs at Harry, gets his hip, then his waist, then his hand slides over and down to feel Harry's dick slide in and out of him. "Fuck me making dinner," he says. "Reading the mail. Over the couch. On your desk."
Harry thrusts harder, and lifts his hands from Bucky's back. Bucky snaps his hips up, and there's a sting as their skin slaps together that makes Harry grunt and drop his face to Bucky's back and bite the first bit of skin he can get his teeth on. Bucky whines and whines and then Harry feels his fingertip slipping in right next to Harry's dick.
"Meanace," Harry manages to say against Bucky's skin. "Spoiled fucking menace."
"In the garden," Bucky says, words slurring. "On my knees by the carrots."
Harry shouts and reaches under Bucky. Grabs his balls and tugs a little too hard. Bucky yelps and curls his back against Harry's chest, pants and curses and comes on the sheets, a little of it landing on Harry's hand.
"On the kitchen table," Harry manages to gasp out, thrusts erratic and hard and as fast as he can make them. Bucky lets out small whimpers each time Harry fucks into him, but he doesn't tell Harry to stop or flinch away. He keeps fucking himself with his finger, too, writhing on the bed as Harry takes and takes and takes until he finally shakes from head to toe and comes hard.
Things are hazy for a few minutes. Harry's aware he's draped along Bucky's back, that they're both panting and sticky with sweat. Bucky takes his finger out and drops his arm to the bed. Harry mouths next to his spine and kisses the bite mark he's left. Very slowly, he pulls free from Bucky and then flops onto his back, dick wet and limp against his leg. "C'mere," he says and grabs Bucky's arm, pulls him so he's half-draped on Harry.
Bucky kisses his shoulder and his pec and nuzzles his bicep. "On the porch," he says. "Leaning over the railing."
And Harry laughs, big and loud. "Oh, they'll be a railing," he says, and then Bucky laughs with him, and Harry thinks that tomorrow morning he'll watch Bucky set the table, then bend him over between their plates and show him he really was listening to every word he said.
Written for the free day 7 of @bottombuckyweek2025
Small inclusion of optional prompts bite and beg.
On ao3 here.
Gale needs to feel useful, needs to know that he's got it handled, that no one can make him or his boys do anything they don't want to do. That he he has a say. The way he never got to growing up, and now needs as he needs air to breathe. To feel real, to feel human and alive and not like that small scared kid on the side of the road, sleeping outside the pony tracks on the bench, waiting for a father who won't show up.
He needs to know no one can take this away from him.
Needs to feel in control.
And that's nearly impossible when you're a goddamn POW.
John can't give that to him. Can't break him out and give him back the carefully constructed life he's built for himself to somehow get by.
But he can give him this.
"Buck," John says, voice low and controlled in the darkness.
Gale's eyes are wandering, shiny even in the darkness, as they search for any eavesdroppers, any chance they'll be spotted.
"Buck–" he tries again, moving closer.
He doesn't answer.
"Gale."
"What?"
Gale's eyes finally meet his, jumpy and agitated, even here where no one can see them, if only for a moment.
Not wasting any time, John jumps right in. It's now or never.
"I want you to punch me. Right here, right on my beak," he says, pressing his index finger against the bridge of his nose.
Gale's eyes narrow infinitesimally. Looks at John like he's finally lost the goddamn plot.
Maybe he has.
"You're nuts, Major," Gale says, looking off to the side, over John's shoulder. His fingers go to his lips, reaching for a toothpick that isn't there.
Then John will take whatever punishment needs to be dished out. If it keeps his men from having bullets put in them.
The sudden smell of burning cedar fills John’s nose, Benny, he must have followed him in here. After Johnny, Benny, Crank, and Murph had pulled them apart. Everyone had surrounded Gale, rightfully so, he is their pack alpha. Wherever Gale goes, everyone else follows him, and it’s always been that way. John was included in that for a long time.
Gale has an air about him, one that tells the men and everyone around him to follow his lead. It tells everyone that he’s in charge and he’ll get them to safety, or he’ll die trying. John used to help him with that, but lately he's been in the way more than he’s been helping.
👊🏻👊🏻👊🏻👊🏻👊🏻
Ao3 link
👊🏻👊🏻👊🏻👊🏻👊🏻
thank you to @steviewicks45 for editing
thank you to @stars-remain2 & @roseszirnheld for encouraging me to keep going
this is part 2 to day 3, you don’t necessarily have to read day 3 to understand this one
[A sequel to this fic; don't worry it's also mostly smut]
Curt gets to the motor pool with two minutes to spare. Bucky's already there, seated in the Jeep's driver's seat and chatting with the Sergeant in charge of checking the vehicles in and out. Curt tosses his rucksack in the back of the Jeep and, Bucky turns towards him, grin wide and excited.
"About time," Bucky says, the mischief in his eyes unmistakable. "What took you so long?"
Curt returns the grin and climbs into the Jeep. "I'm a popular guy," he says.
Bucky claps him on the shoulder and squeezes hard. His needful energy from the last few days is simmered down, but Curt knows it's not gone. It's waiting. Calmed by their tryst in the field but still barely contained.
"Have a good one, Wilkins," Bucky says. "We'll bring her back in one piece."
The Sergeant waves goodbye as Bucky drives them out of the motor pool and torwards the main road of the base that will take them to the exit. Curt hunches down in the seat and puts one boot on the dash. Bucky glances over, then puts his eyes back on the road. At the gate, Curt takes the passes from his jacket and passes them across Bucky to the gate guard. He nods, hands them back, then lets them go.
"Take the quiet road," Curt says fifty yards from the gate.
Bucky glances at him again. "Quiet road?"
"Yeah," Curt says, then opens his jacket and rests his fingers on his belt buckle. "I like the quiet road."
Bucky looks back at the road and takes the next left instead of driving straight ahead. The quiet road, as the boys call it, has very few houses, very little traffic, and plenty of places to pull off and neck or do something more.
Curt rubs his thumb on his belt buckle and watches Bucky drive. He's sat up straight, hands at ten and two. For all he drives around base like a bat out of hell, he's careful when it's just the two of them. Not scared or too cautious, but diligent. It's sweet, Curt thinks. In that way Bucky is with everyone, considering what he can give them to show he cares.
"Wanna jerk me off?" Curt asks, and he grins when the Jeep jerks a little. Bucky stares at him and licks his lip, and nods, then puts his attention on the road again. Curt opens his trousers and takes his dick out. "Keep driving," he says. "Even if someone's coming the other way."
"Jesus," Bucky grunts. "You're bold today."
"You want me to be," Curt replies, then reaches for Bucky's right hand, pulling it off the steering wheel and wrapping it around his dick. "Take your time," he says."
Bucky's fingers tremble as he starts to stroke Curt. His palm is warm and a little sweaty. He keeps his eyes on the road except to glance over quickly to watch himself jerking Curt off.
"Need a second one, even after how hard I came," Curt says. "Want to make sure I can fuck you for a long time tonight. Fuck you long enough you can feel it for a few days."
Bucky's hand tightens on the upstroke. He rubs his palm over Curt's slit.
"Nice," Curt says, shifting so his legs are a little more open. His right foot is still on the dash, and he taps his fingers against his boot as Bucky speeds up his motions. "Someone could drive by," he taunts. "Army truck comes by, every guy in the back could look down and see you playing with my dick."
Bucky breathes out hard, and his jaw twitches as he stares at the road.
"Some pretty girl you've danced with, maybe," Curt continues. "Some brunette who thinks she had a chance, but she didn't, did she?"
"No," Bucky answers. He swallows hard. His hand speeds up. "No chance at all."
"Good," Curt says, letting the possessiveness he always feels in his chest leak out in his tone. He tries not to let it loose often, even though Bucky's never seemed to mind. But he doesn't want Bucky to stop flirting and dancing and showing off because he thinks Curt's mad about it. He's not mad about it. He loves it. Watching everyone pine after his fella and knowing none of them will ever have him. "Come on, sweetheart, give me your best work," he says.
Bucky glances at him again, then pulls the Jeep onto the shoulder. He lets go of Curt's dick and gets out of the Jeep, walking around the back until he's at Curt's door.
Curt cocks his head. "What are you doing?"
Bucky opens Curt's door and pulls his leg to the side, turning him so they're face-to-face. "You want my best work," he says, then he bends down and sucks Curt hard.
"Oh fuck," Curt breathes out, shocked at the touch, the wetness, and the way Bucky's outplayed him. "Son of a bitch," he adds when Bucky sucks on his foreskin, then takes him all the way down and holds himself there for a long moment. "Jesus christ and all the saints, keep this up, and I'll bend you over right here."
Bucky pulls off and jerks Curt again. He kisses him quickly. "Don't tempt me," he says, sounding more like begging than an order. "I'd do it."
"Yeah?" Curt asks, reaching past Bucky's hand to grab Bucky through his tousers. "You'd get on your hands and knees right here, huh?"
"Anywhere," Bucky says. "Anywhere you want."
Curt pulls on Bucky's jacket, and he bends down again, sucks Curt hard and fast with a little bit of teeth on the big vein in a way that makes Curt shiver and fuck into his mouth. "Yeah, more of that," he says when Bucky drools over his shaft. "You take all my spunk, I'll lick your ass right here."
Bucky's eyes close, and his hands grip Curt's hips hard. He sucks and sucks, making no attempt to hide all the noise he's making. The whimpers and the grunts and the loud, wet sounds of his mouth.
"Yeah, yeah, push you right up against the Jeep and get my tongue in you," Curt says, louder than he needs to because it makes Bucky massage his thighs. "Anyone could drive by, and you'd look respectable until they got a good look at you, fucked out from my mouth like you always get."
Bucky groans and presses his face into Curt's crotch. He swallows around the head of Curt's cock and refuses to move as Curt fucks into his mouth a few times before he comes hard and messy into Bucky's mouth.
He pulls Bucky off his cock so the last spurt lands on his lips and watches Bucky lick it up without thinking. It makes his blood roar, and he tumbles out of the Jeep and manhandles Bucky until he's bent over the front seat, trousers and underwear around his ankles, and his jacket pushed above his ass.
Curt grabs Bucky's cock and tugs hard, then presses his face between Bucky's asscheeks. He tastes like sweat and Army soap, and Curt doesn't bother taking it easy. He licks into Bucky and sucks as hard as he can, jerking Bucky in rhthym as Bucky whines and writhes and pants his name over and over.
"Car," Bucky manages to say. "Car. Car."
Curt doesn't let up. Doesn't care. Fixes his mouth over Bucky's hole and sucks while flicking his tongue.
Bucky shouts and goes tense, and Curt's fingers are covered in spunk.
Curt doesn't stop licking Bucky's ass. He presses in harder and lays his tongue flat, lets Bucky ride his mouth until he suddenly whines and goes limp, legs shaking and dick limp and wet against the side of Curt's seat.
Curt bites Bucky's left cheek lightly, just enough to make him twitch, then leans back and rubs the back of his clean hand across his mouth, wiping away his own spit and the sweat that's gathered on his upper lip. He pulls out a handkercheif and cleans his hand, then folds it over and rubs Bucky's hole dry, too.
Bucky's back arches at the touch, and he stays bowed in a full-body stretch as Curt pulls up his trousers and underwear and puts him back together. "There wasn't really a car," he says, words a little slurred. "Just wanted to see if you'd really keep going."
Curt smacks his ass, then squeezes. "Said I would," he says, then turns Bucky around and makes sure he actually looks respectable. Once he's sure, he pulls his own clothes to rights, then pushes at Bucky's waist. "I'll drive," he says.
Bucky nods, head loose on his neck, and climbs into the passenger seat. He leans his head back and stares at the sky as Curt gets into the driver's side and adjusts the seat. He reaches over and slides his hand up Curt's thigh, leaving it heavy and welcome just below the crease between Curt's leg and groin.
"Take a nap," Curt says. "I might want one more before we get to London."
Bucky laughs, low and dirty, knees knocking the dash as he spreads his legs. He rests his other hand over his groin and cuts Curt a hot look. "Just say the word," he says.
Curt's tempted, but he holds back. He puts the Jeep into drive and pulls onto the road. Bucky's thumb rubs against his leg through his trousers, and the sun is out, and they've still got plenty of hours on their pass, Curt thinks. Plenty of hours.
It's warm when Crank wakes up. Cozy from the radiator and the big blanket. But also warm from John curled around his back, hand petting Crank's belly down low, mouth warm and moist against the back of Crank's neck.
It's raining outside, making the bedroom dim and a little gray, but it's easy for Crank to roll onto his back and open his eyes and watch John slip down under the covers, mouth pressing to Crank's sternum before pushing up Crank's pajama top and kissing his chest.
"Good morning," Crank murmurs, pulling the blanket over his head so its just the two of them in a cocoon of warm air. "I see you're up early." He wriggles out of his pajama top as John pulls down the waistband of his pajama bottoms and sucks at his hip. He presses one hand onto Crank's chest, fingers curling into his pec. The other he uses to tug at Crank's bottoms, one side then the other until Crank can kick them off.
John's already naked, which tells Crank he's been awake for at least a few minutes, but he doesn't ask, just lets his hands curl around John's head as John drags his mouth back and forth just under his navel. John's curls are wild, and his mouth is warm, and it's easy for Crank to wrap his legs around John's hips and arch his back to encourage John to slip a little farther down.
John doesn't take the bait, slipping up a little instead. Crank huffs a laugh. "Contrary," he says, and John just hums before licking his nipples, then pressing kisses to his neck. "Nice way to wake up," Crank says. He feels a slight tremor run through John. The way it always does when Crank says sweet things in bed. "You feel good," Crank adds because he loves to make John shake. He plays with John's curls and scratches lightly at the back of his neck as John mouths along his shoulder and pauses for a few moments to kiss an old scar from the Stalag.
Crank noses against John's ear. "Nice, isn't it? You and me and this warm bed on a rainy, cold day?" John shivers again. "We can hide under the covers and be naked together. Touch each other. Kiss each other."
John presses his cheek to Crank's shoulder and looks at him from an inch away. Crank reaches up and touches John's lips. John kisses his fingers, then his palm, then his wrist. He works his way up Crank's forearm to the fold of his elbow and breathes in like Crank is a fancy perfume.
Crank slides his free hand down John's back, then drags it back up, letting his nails dig in a little. Hopes it keeps John right here with him and not where his head is likely trying to take him, waking him up on a cold, rainy day in the winter. Days that were awful in the Stalag. Days that still stick to them both like burrs.
"You're so strong," Crank murmurs, running his hand across the plane of John's shoulder. "So handsome."
John noses at Crank's bicep and bites gently. He's a little pink-cheeked, and Crank knows its not just from the warm little space they're warming up more. Crank kisses his cheek and cups the back of John's head.
"You're alive, John," he says. "And I am, too."
John stares at him for a long moment. He nods.
"No words this morning?" Crank asks, though he knows the answer. He always asks, just so John knows he's paying attention. John nods again. Crank pulls John in and kisses his forehead. "Well, you're doing just fine without them," he says, smiling against John's skin.
John snorts and pokes him in the side, then reaches down and pushes Crank's legs wide.
"Something you want?" Crank can't help but tease. John doesn't even bother cutting him a look. He just manuvers down the bed, legs sticking out from under the blanket, takes Crank's dick in his hand, and then sucks the head into his mouth.
"Oh, fuck, like that," Crank ways. "Christ, that's so good." He feels movement against his leg. John jerking himself off as he sucks Crank. His movements feel a little lazy, but his sucking on Crank is hard and deep, John pushing himself down until he can swallow around the tip of Crank's cock.
"Yes," Crank says. "Amazing," he manages when John does it again. John pulls off halfway and breathes out hard through his nose, then bobs up and down, letting his lips drag and drool slip from his mouth. "Like that," Crank manages. He loves feeling the air around them hit his wet cock, the feel of John's cheeks and mouth tightening and loosening around his shaft. John's tongue pressing hard against his slit.
Crank grabs John's shoulders and digs his fingers in as he pushes his hips up. John responds by pulling back nearly all the way, then holding still so Crank can fuck into his mouth. Crank groans and tries to take his time, tries to set a slow rhythm that'll let John suck him for a least a few minutes more. But John's mouth is hot and wet, and John's jerking himself off. And John woke him up on a cold, rainy day so they could hide under the covers and fuck because they're alive.
They're alive.
And there are days Crank isn't sure that's true, days he feels like he's more memory than man, but there's no mistaking it right now. Not with John's mouth on his dick. Not with John's body between his legs. Not with the sheets smelling of them both and John letting out small, desperate moans over and over as Crank fucks into his mouth and John fucks into his own hand.
Crank comes in John's mouth, and John swallows again. Then Crank pulls on John's arms until John is draped over him and pushes John's hand out of the way and jerks him off as he angles John's mouth to kiss his own and tastes his own spunk on John's tongue.
John comes as Crank sucks on his tongue, and then he whimpers and writhes for a few more seconds into the wet hold of Crank's palm. When he collapses, it's half on top of Crank, and Crank wraps his legs around him before John can try and shift.
He wants this. John and this bed and this day and even the rain. He wants to feel their hearts beating against each other and bury his face in John's neck and taste his sweat and feel so goddamn alive.
“So here’s what’s going to happen,” John says. It’s something else he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about; something else he wants to do while they still have the chance. He squeezes Gale’s wrists where he has them pinned to feel the strength in them, the solid resistance of bone underneath their delicate appearance. “You’re going to fuck me like you mean it.”
“Have you even ever—?” Gale asks, trailing off like he can’t bear to finish verbalizing the question.
John sets his mouth in a stubborn line. “Does it matter?”
Bucky eyed himself in the mirror, unable to help it. He always liked looking good, even as a kid when boys were supposed to be messy and careless. Maybe it made him vain, too focused on how people saw him. A voice suspiciously like his mother’s lingered in the back of his mind.
“No one likes a boy who is a self centered peacock, John.” Her words were true enough, and he’d figured it was easier to pretend that none of it mattered to him. Carelessness is easy to feign, especially when no one ever looks too closely. Bucky straightened his tie, dabbled a bit of cologne behind his ears, then walked out into the fading sunlight.
He was aware of the command he had, as a major and as air exec. The brass needed him to keep up morale, keep the boys flying until they all inevitably cracked up or were dead. Strutting around Thorpe Abbotts with his hands in his pockets, like there wasn’t a war on, was part of the strategy. If Major Egan was at ease, then the crews could breathe a little easier. Most bought it, that he lived one day at a time and never cared for the future. That he wasn’t the type to dwell on it.
There was only one man who never could be convinced. Curt Biddick. His eyes would meet Bucky’s, as if he was always watching, waiting for something. From across the briefing room, during interrogation when he’d somehow always find Bucky amongst the chaos. Tonight, as they all squished together in the corner of a pub, Bucky could feel those eyes on him even when he slowly maneuvered out of his chair to get another drink. Curt’s attention made his face burn and his insides turn to ice, like he was guilty of something he wasn’t aware of.
In the church of his youth, there had been a statue of the Virgin Mary. Bucky always felt like no matter where he sat in the pews, she had been looking at him, judging him for whatever he’d done. She knew there was something rotten at his core, and no amount of repentance would fix him. John Clarence Egan was an indulgent sinner, born selfish. It was probably some kind of sin to compare Curt to the mother of Jesus Christ, but he was going to hell anyway.
The barkeep broke him from his reminiscing by setting a dark pint of stout in front of him, the head light and sticking to his mustache when he takes a grateful sip. His nerves settled a bit, no longer under threat of splitting at their fraying seams.
Until Bucky felt someone join him, and was suddenly staring into the grey tinged blue of Curt’s eyes. The feeling rushed back, any buzz he had going from the three drinks in his system turning cold as they stared at each other. Curt’s head was cocked to the side, his gaze lingering on Bucky’s lips for a moment.
“You runnin’ from me, Bucky?” His voice was soft, but his eyes held an intensity that seemed to stare straight through him. The question made Bucky scoff and avert his eyes, turning his attention to the wooden beam above their heads.
“Now why would I do that?”
“You tell me.” Curt’s mouth twitches, a hint of a smirk appearing on the right side of his face. Bucky narrowed his eyes, leaning back against the bar to put distance between them.
“I wanted another drink.” It’s a simple enough explanation, has nothing to do with the man in front of him. Nothing at all.
“Hm. Sure, Major.” Curt closes the gap between them, the smoke covered lights filtering through his eyelashes. Bucky leans down, getting in his face.
“You’ve got some kind of ego-“ He’s about to continue, until Curt shushes him. He feels his face flush, heat and frustration pooling in his stomach. Curt gestures to their surroundings, their men sitting just a foot away.
“You wanna give everybody a show?” Curt’s hand is on Bucky’s arm, steady and warm. He’s staring again, pinning Bucky with a heavy gaze.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at.”
He laughs, grinning up at Bucky like he knows something nobody else does. Curt leans forward, taking the stout from Bucky’s hand and drinking the rest of it. Never once breaking eye contact.
“Let’s get outta here, their beer is shit.” His hand is still on Bucky’s arm as he makes his way to the door, Bucky following him and glancing back to see Gale raising an eyebrow at the both of them.
It’s cold on the walk back to Thorpe Abbotts, but Bucky wouldn’t know it. He’s on fire, thoughts swirling in his mind about what was going to happen, what they might do. Curt is quiet, except for when he orders Bucky to walk faster or quit dragging his feet. It sends a jolt through him every time, quickly soothed by the smile on Curt’s face when he does as he’s told.
They’re in Curt’s hut, before he knows it. It’s thankfully empty as practically everyone on base has scattered around East Anglia for a much needed night away.
“Sit down.” Curt gestures to a bed that is tucked in the corner, casually loosening his tie. Bucky sits, the springs groaning underneath him. Curt neatly folds his tie, putting it with the rest of his clothes. He unlaces his shoes, setting them at the front of the bed. He doesn’t say a word to Bucky, going through his routine as if the other man isn’t there. Bucky squirms, and the springs poke into his backside.
It gets Curt’s attention, and he chuckles softly then stands directly over Bucky. One hand rests on Bucky’s knee, the other on top of his head.
“Gettin’ needy, huh?” He coos, then his hand grips Bucky’s curls and tugs on them. His grip is firm, but gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt.
“I want to know what we’re doing.” Bucky bristles at being called needy, even as it lights a low fire in his abdomen and he groans softly as Curt tugs on his hair again. He knows it’s true, but that’s not information he shares willingly. A grin teases at the corner of Curt’s mouth, but there’s something resolute in his eyes.
“You’re a smart fella, Bucky. I think it’s pretty clear.” Bucky feels his ears flush as he stares up at Curt, who had forcefully tilted his head up when he latched onto Bucky’s curls. It hurt now, just enough for him to feel something. His skin crawls and he’s warm all over, itching for something more. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, until he felt Curt’s hand slowly untangle itself from his hair.
Curt had stepped back to where he had stood before, and was no longer smiling. There was a tension in his shoulders.
“What are you-“
“I wanna watch you.” It wasn’t a suggestion, even though Curt’s voice was almost a whisper.
Bucky blinked slowly, tilting his head to the side.
“Watch me do what?”
“Touch yourself.” Curt was met with silence, late night rain pattering against the roof of the hut. Bucky’s face was red and splotchy, the color trailing down his neck as well.
Curt didn’t dare breathe, until he saw Bucky reach for his belt. There was a faint click, and he threw the belt to the ground in his haste. Nothing about it was graceful yet Curt felt his mouth go dry anyway.
Because it was Bucky, ready to go just because Curt told him to. He unbuttoned his trousers, letting them pool around his thighs. There was a damp spot on the front of Bucky’s skivvies. Curt’s never had much of an ego, but the idea of Bucky getting hard just from Curt telling him what to do would certainly do the trick.
“Jesus, John. You’re perfect.”
The praise goes straight to Bucky’s head and elsewhere, delirious in the intensity of the feeling. Curt removed his own belt, his cock making itself known against his trousers. Bucky leans back a little, gingerly taking himself in his hand. It felt right and terribly wrong, to do this for Curt. It made his stomach churn, guilt piercing through the haze that had settled over his mind.
God was always watching, Bucky at least hoped that the big man turned a blind eye to this.
“You’re crazy, Biddick.” He says, wriggling out of his skivvies so they sit lower on his hips. Bucky’s comment earns a laugh from the smaller man, who is already touching himself just as the sight of Bucky laid out on the bed.
Laid out on his bed.
“You’re enjoyin’ it too, sweetheart.” He gestures to Bucky, who had been half hard the second Curt had shushed him in that pub. It looked painful now, twitching whenever Bucky shifted and his tip brushed against the gentle swell of his stomach.
Curt imagined what it would be like to sink his teeth into the soft fold at Bucky’s side, to leave a mark or a bruise.
So Bucky always knew who he belonged to when he looked in the mirror.
There was time for that later, and Curt could be patient. His eyes never leave Bucky, filing away this sight in his mind forever.
Bucky’s movements were slow and gentle, and he whined softly at every twitch.
Curt narrows his eyes, stroking himself as well. He wanted Bucky to enjoy this, and stopped his own pleasure. He gets on his knees, looking up at Bucky but not touching him. Not yet.
“John. Look at me, if you’re not havin’ fun-“
Bucky laughs through a gasp, his pupils blown wide as he looks at Curt. His curls are wild, the pomade he put on before they went to pub fading away from sweat and rain.
“Tryin’ to make myself last for you, Curt.”
It was an embarrassing admission, to tell Curt that he was doing everything in his power to not come then and there.
Curt takes his hand, burying his face in Bucky’s neck as he sits down on the bed next to him.
Gale's mouth turns down. Rueful, or maybe considering. His cadet uniform is pressed free of wrinkles, hair pomaded into a tight part. John's form wears it well. And the mustache does make him more dashing, John decides. He looks goddamned handsome, a perfect counterpart to the pinks and golds he's currently embodying.
Gale catches on. "You're a narcissist," he scoffs.
