here, have the unedited, smutty follow-up to this snippet. to be continued, maybe.
John’s breath is hot against Gale’s lips, followed by the damp heat of his mouth. Gale has kissed people before but he’s never been kissed, not like this. John kisses with the same singular intent he brings to flying, making bets, drinking the other boys under the table—thorough and brash and a little bit pushy. He manages to wrestle Gale down to the floor without breaking contact, bruising Gale’s lower lip with a sharp nip of teeth that he soothes over with an obscene, wet flicker of tongue.
Gale has lost count of how many times he’s propped John’s body up with his own, horsing around or indulging John’s loose-limbed affection, shouldering his drunken dead weight. It’s familiar and surreal at the same time, feeling John plastered heavily against the whole front of him, straddling Gale’s hip.
It’s animal instinct that makes Gale rock up against the thickly muscled thigh wedged between his legs. When he inhales shakily in the shallow space between their lips, he can smell John’s cigarettes, his breath, the way he's starting to work up a sweat. It’s intimate and soothing, settling something in Gale at the same time that the hard shape of John’s arousal against his belly makes his stomach fizz like a freshly popped bottle of soda.
A few more minutes of rutting against each other, kisses growing clumsy with hunger as John’s mustache rubs Gale’s upper lip raw and sensitive, and John pulls back just enough for Gale to roll, as if by some unspoken agreement, onto his stomach on the body-warm linoleum. John shoves Gale’s slacks and underwear down just enough so he can rub his fingers against the seam of Gale’s ass, hot and dry. They feel big and Gale trembles all over, shocked by his own desire and shocked again at the lewd sound of John hocking up a large wad of spit.
The rough drag of wet fingertips against the tender, untouched skin of his hole has Gale panting into the crook of his own elbow, wriggling like a worm caught on the hook of John’s fingers pressing in and in. Gale is hot for it, sweat gathering under his armpits, both of them still almost fully clothed. He burns hotter as John spits again, the head of his cock a blunt pressure like nothing Gale’s felt before.
It hurts, but Gale reckons maybe it’s supposed to. If this is the price he has to pay to have John like this, alive and focused and fully present in a way Gale hasn’t seen him in months—if this is the price, Gale would pay it a thousand times over.
It hurts, a deep unfamiliar ache, and then John keeps working himself in and out, short thrusts getting longer as Gale opens up for him, helpless against the way John seems to know his body better than he does. When John’s hips meet Gale’s ass, Gale swears he can feel it all the way up to his throat. His pubic hair is scratchy, ticklish against the tops of Gale’s cheeks, but John’s lips are soft as he presses kisses into Gale’s hair and neck, nosing at the back of his once-crisp shirt collar.
“Ah, fuck,” John is saying, a steady stream of cursing and groaning right in Gale’s ear.
Gale feels surrounded, pinned in place by John’s cock and his big hands on his hips, the dull scrape of his teeth against Gale’s jaw.
John fucks him hard, reckless with desire, and soon the ache of it fades and it starts to feel like John’s cock is scratching an itch deep inside him. John keeps fucking him like he knows what it’s doing to him. The pressure builds until Gale feels like a pot about to boil over, a water balloon filled to the point of bursting.
Gale doesn’t know he's ready to come until he’s already shuddering with it, waves of heat and pleasure that peak and peak seemingly without end.
John moans loudly while Gale shakes apart underneath him, calls him baby and sweetheart, mustache bristling against the outer curve of Gale’s ear as he kisses it noisily. He hikes Gale’s hips up off the floor and grinds his huge cock right over where Gale needs it, wringing the last of Gale’s orgasm out of him before he follows Gale down.
John comes in one quick, full body shudder. A few more pumps of his hips like he’s trying to work his way even further into Gale, and then he collapses half on top of him, panting heavily against the nape of Gale’s neck.
Some time later, when both of them are breathing more or less normally and Gale’s hands and feet have mostly stopped tingling, John pulls out with a low grunt, rolls him over, and peers down at his face.
There’s come going tacky between Gale’s stomach and the inside of his rucked up shirt and undershirt, a smear of it all the way up on the underside of his chin, somehow. His asshole throbs, making him all too aware of the space John carved out for himself inside Gale’s body.
John’s mouth is set in a stubborn line. A stray curl has worked itself free over his forehead. He looks young and wary, ready to be mulish if Gale says the wrong thing.
“It was my first time,” Gale says, finding his voice slowly and almost dreamily, gaze focused on the worried furrow between John’s eyebrows.
John clears his throat. “With a man? Yeah, Buck, I figured—“
“With anyone,” Gale interrupts. He gives into the urge to rub his thumb along John’s cheek to where his jaw suddenly clenches.
thank you for the tags @lauronk and @paigegonerogue and anyone else who has tagged me for some version of this recently and sorry it's not tlou fic rn oops
tagging anyone who sees this, tag me back if you wanna play!
random Young Sherlock Vampire AU Sheriarty-Style wip pulled out of my ass bc someone cursed me with inspiration
He couldn’t keep doing this. Sure there’s no harm in keeping one little secret, but it’s gotten a fair bit out of hand and Sherlock’s a smart lad. What once was a few months in-between revelations and a myriad of confrontations now dwindles into a few weeks, making its way to a few days. Certainly not sustainable.
A shame, really. He had hoped that their arrangement could go on a tad bit longer, forever maybe, if he would have it. But it seems as though fate and Sherlock’s infuriating ability to not pull at the thread in the back of his mind had other plans. Not to worry. He’s just have to come up with a new strategy—he’s nothing if not an improvisor, someone perhaps born to be on a stage in another lifetime. After all, what are a couple late entrances here and missed cues there? The show will go on.
@englandsgirl18181234 enjoy a hinted firelight in a snip I gave to a friend lol
>>> Melinoë continued humming, squishing Frino's face. The frog did not seem bothered by the gesture, staring at his new master dumbly. "Couldn't you have asked nicely?"
"Couldn't I have asked nicely for what?" Prometheus muttered, focused on finishing the small braid in Melinoë's hair. With his burnt hand, it was a tad bit difficult.
"For the fire." Melinoë tilted her head back to stare at Prometheus. "If you asked the gods nicely for the fire, would they have given it to you?"
Prometheus frowned. "Mel, they didn't care if their creations died or suffered. Even if I had asked, they would have said no and I would have stolen the fire either way."
It wasn't really stealing anyway. What were the Olympians doing with the fire other than making their damn mountain look pretty? They had enough of it to go around.
Melinoë hummed, staring at Frinos and squishing his face again, resulting in a ribbit from the amphibian. "Could you forgive them for what they did to you?"
Prometheus' hands clenched.
He knew what she was. His brothers were fooled, but he knew Melinoë wasn't some runt Titan. She was a god and the Agent of Change. Some things couldn't be changed though.
Still, he would kill to protect her from anything that would harm her, friend or foe.
"You sound a bit like someone I met, Mel." Prometheus ran two fingers through Melinoë's hair to undo the braid. "He asked me that same question a long time ago."
"Who was he?"
"A god."
He had shown brighter than the stolen fire humans coveted.
after the war, john's the type of guy to gleefully moan and complain his way through a cold, just to make gale roll his eyes and tuck a blanket around his shoulders.
but when gale gets sick, he's still stubborn as hell, trying to muscle through his studies half-feverish and with a streaming nose until john has to bully him back into bed. and it's not like in the stalag where it made sense: best case scenario, being found out meant being separated from his men, from bucky, and gale was never gonna let that happen.
it almost turns into a fight, john pushing cold meds and orange juice on gale while he glares with red-rimmed eyes and splotches of color high on his cheeks, but he still turns into john's touch when he pushes the sweat-damp hair back from gale's forehead.
"what's wrong with you," bucky asks, half to himself, rubbing his thumb along the tense line of gale's jaw. "didn't you ever like to be babied a little?"
gale sighs, whistling through his congested nose, just sick and miserable enough to be honest. "guess i wouldn't know."
and then john has to excuse himself to go punch several walls and go to the grocery store so he can make gale some watery, over-seasoned chicken soup from scratch. and he spoons up against gale in bed, solid and persistent through gale's protests that it's too hot and john's going to get sick next, you loony.
it's not until gale falls asleep, wrung out but forehead cool again, that bucky's chest stops hurting so much.
this post by @thebuckys got me thinking and now here are ~500 words of john and gale's weird antagonistic foreplay.
There's a restless, caged animal energy simmering behind Bucky's sullen silence at the dinner table. Nights like these, Gale isn't sure they ever really came back from the stalag.
Gale knows how to approach Bucky from the side, just careful enough that he won't snap his teeth at him, but he hasn't slept well in days and he's too prickly himself to gentle John through his dark mood.
"Dinner not to your liking, Major?" he asks, raising his eyebrows at John's plate. The green bean casserole Gale made from a recipe on the back of a soup can has been pushed around but barely eaten.
John's gaze sharpens and he leans forwards, elbows on the table.
"It's a step up from turnip soup," Bucky says, baring his canine teeth—more a sneer than a smile. "But not a very big step."
On another night, it would be the kind of harmless ribbing that makes Gale hide a laugh in a mouthful of food, maybe kick John's ankle under the table. Tonight, he can feel the hot flush of anger rising above his collar, his molars grinding together, cream of mushroom going gluey at the back of his tongue.
"Feel free to make your own fucking meals, then," he spits out, low and abruptly furious.
Gale has a long fuse but he's at the end of it, sick of feeling like John is somewhere Gale can't reach him, like one or both of them are ghosts.
Neither of them ever met a fight they wanted to back down from. John's eyes are the dark blue-grey of the sky before a thunderstorm; his full lips pull into a thin line.
"Aw, honey, it just seemed like you wanted to be my little housewife so bad—"
He doesn't get the whole sentence out before Gale shoves him, hard, both their chair legs scraping dully across the linoleum with the impact.
"What the hell, Buck?"
John's on his feet, looming over Gale, and then they're nose to nose, chest to chest, circling each other with their hackles raised. Gale wants to shake some sense into Bucky, wants to grab his face with both hands and beg him to be here with him, wants to shove him to the floor and follow him down.
He's somehow got his fingers twisted in the open collar of John's shirt, unsure if he's trying to push him away or grapple him closer. John makes the decision for him, using his bigger bulk to corner Gale up against the kitchen sink. The edge of the countertop digs into the base of his spine, but the discomfort is secondary to the heat and life of Bucky pressed up against him, the way their chests are rising and falling together like they've done more than just shove each other around a little.
"Buck." John's voice has gone to gravel, a note of pleading in it that Gale's rarely ever heard.
Their foreheads are pressed together, so close that Gale can only take in John's face as a series of impressions, like close-ups in a movie: the long slope of his nose, the top of his cheek, the miserable set of his mouth.
Gale nods without really knowing what he's agreeing to, but you give John an inch and he'll take the whole farm.
hiiiii i would love to hear more about your baseball buckies thoughts!!
omg hiii!! baseball buckies are particularly dear to me because this version of gale has been so hyperfocused on baseball and making his dad proud his whole life that he barely knows who he is outside of the sport. and this bucky is such a force of nature. his whole thing is taking a rookie player under his wing and making them better and sure, sometimes if the player is so inclined, that means he sleeps with them for the season. if he ever truly got invested in another player he might have to confront his Grief over the career he could’ve had, so his rule is that it’s only ever for one season, and then the rookie moves on and so does he. then he meets gale and he immediately likes him SO much, not just as a player but as this quiet, steady person with so much love and yearning bottled up inside him. it cracks them both open. but also gale is really fucking good, so he’s never going to stick around the minor leagues (with bucky) so bucky needs to make peace with that, right? 👀
