An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
They have sex again. They make love again. The shame of dealing with the plug makes Gale squirm, body flushed and wrung out but still aching for more. John fucks him through it—through the tremble of it, through the oversensitivity of it, through the sharp little whimpers caught at the back of Gale’s throat. One hand pressed firmly over Gale’s mouth, the other gripping the nape of his neck, John takes what’s his.
Afterward, they lie tangled in Gale’s bed, limbs loose and boneless. The sheets smell like boyhood nostalgia and adult sin.
Gale sighs and calls John “Bucky”, and John smiles and calls Gale “Buck”.
And John has never been more aware of the heartbreak waiting for them at the end of this, never more aware of how much they’ll both suffer for it— —and never more unable to stop.
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