THANK YOU for leaving me a Loosier! I’ve missed writing these two idiots so much, ugh! Your prompt is such a jam of mine, possibly one of my fave kissing styles to work with in fic because !!! the possibilities !!! the surprise !!! the angsty vulnerability before the certainty kicks in !!! ahhh so good! And, really, I hope that this Loosier is good and to your liking, too. ❤️
4. An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose.
“How’re you doin’, Peaches?”
Leckie groans at the question. Keeps his eyes closed and his arms wrapped around his stomach. He groans again when he realizes his new nickname has even invaded Hoosier’s drawn-out syllables. Mumbles out something that could be a curse, or could be nothing at all.
His stomach rolls as a too-warm, too-close body jostles against him and squeezes itself into the narrow space between the foxhole’s wall and him. Leckie tries to stay perfectly still. Every movement sends him into further turmoil, stomach clenching and queasy feeling settling into him as though he’s seasick for the first time in his life.
“Quit moving!” he finally hisses, poking his finger sharply into Hoosier’s side for good measure. “Don’t make me throw up again.”
“Regret stealing from the army yet?”
“Fuck no.”
He feels the answering chuckle reverberate through his body. Hears it settle low in the other man’s chest, rumbling and joyful like the little waterfalls that occasionally break the monotone of the many waters on this island. He sighs as Hoosier settles down beside him. Will deny leaning in to the feeling of warmth next to him until his dying day.
“Chuck’s taken Runner to see the Doc and ’bout damn time, too, all that hoverin’ was making me sick.”
“Don’t talk about sick,” moans Leckie, “please.”
“All that letter-writing you’ve been doing must be addlin’ your brain there. Don’t think you ever said please to me a day in your life, Leckie.”
“Leave me alone, I’m miserable.”
Leckie opens his eyes after voicing the complaint, somehow needing Hoosier to take it more lightly than it sounded. Isn’t shocked to find the man’s face mere inches away from his own. He could count Hoosier’s eyelashes, map out the vague sun-caused freckles on his skin, see glowing embers reflected back at him from within the man’s eyes.
There’s little warmth in Hoosier’s withering words.
“The fuck you are. You’re just dumb as shit sometimes.”
“I’m miserable,” he repeats, mumbling the words and carefully shifting over to Hoosier’s warmth even more. All but crashes his forehead against the man’s chest. “I’m hurting. I feel so bad.”
There’s a brief, silent pause.
“Are you done?”
“Yeah.” He lifts his head to smirk up at Hoosier after he registers the almost fond exasperation in the man’s voice. “Are you?”
He’s not sure how it happens. One moment, he’s smiling at Hoosier. One moment, Hoosier’s answering smile is just a little on the side of vicious. One moment, he anticipates the vague threat that’s undoubtedly going to lodge itself in his ear. One moment, Hoosier places one arm across Leckie in order to gain some kind of artificial upper hand. One moment, he utterly miscalculates how close Hoosier’s face really is to his own in this.
The next moment, their lips meet.
It’s brief, but not so brief that Leckie can pretend he imagined it. It’s quick, but not quick enough for Hoosier to pretend they didn’t cross that one last barrier they still had between them.
He watches as Hoosier closes his eyes. Studies the man as though he is a collection of words in a foreign language he has never read before but wants to learn. Spots one corner of his mouth going upward ever so briefly before the man’s expression slides back to a careful neutral.
It’s too careful. Guarded, even.
Leckie breathes the way he imagines dragons do, with an angry huff escaping his nose before the rest of his exasperation passes his lips. Hoosier’s eyes fly open at the sound. Open, vulnerable eyes. Open, scared eyes.
He reaches for Hoosier before the man can scramble backward. Reaches for Hoosier and grabs shirt, neck, hair, anything he can cling to that pulls the man closer. Feels the man’s muscles tighten under his grasp before they relax at the touch that Leckie makes as soft but firm as possible.
“You’re a dumbass,” he announces, face no more than an inch away from Hoosier’s. “You really, really are.”
“Fuck you, Leckie.”
Hoosier’s voice might waver into unsteady territory, but the man’s body reacts to Leckie’s proximity as though they have always orbited around one another while charting their eventual collision course. Hoosier’s leg wraps over his, his hand is in his curls, his body is a cage around him that he never wants to escape from again. And if he responds by tangling his legs with Hoosier’s even more, if he reacts to Hoosier’s hair-tugging with a shuddered gasp, if he makes himself smaller to fit beneath Hoosier’s warmth, then that’s just the way he’s going to choose to die in this foxhole at the end of the world.
He’s not sure who closes the gap between them this time, either. Doesn’t think it matters now that Hoosier’s mouth is on his, Hoosier’s tongue dances slow and teasing circles around his own, Hoosier’s weight settles atop him, and Hoosier’s ragged breath mingles with his own just like that. He smiles as the kiss turns lazy, sloppy, erratic. Kisses back like he’s never done anything else, like this is a familiarity they slipped into without either one of them noticing.
“Do you”– a murmur against his skin –“feel”– tongue trailing down to dip just below his ear –“any” – hand on his hip grabbing at him tight enough to leave the type of bruises he likes –“better” – a flash of a smug grin before teeth scrape across his skin and Leckie almost comes apart right then and there –“now?”
“I don’t know,” he rasps out, voice betraying him long before his words do, “how about you kiss me again and I’ll tell you?”
It’s the only time in this entire war that Hoosier sees fit to oblige him.
Your gifs literally GIVE ME LIFE. THANK YOU! Also, I keep getting confused by our usernames because I keep thinking I've reblogged myself and then I'm there like "Wait no I can't make gifs that's not me" (though I wish your content is awesome. Literally keeping this fandom alive)
ahhh heey! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! yeah actually when i was picking the URL it was either rcbertleckie or robertlecki, since robertleckie was taaaaken 👀👀 my timing really is bad, it was taken 9 years ago and is taken now as well 😂😂😂
ANYWAAAAYS i really love your blog and also thanks for the reblogs and the 10/10 tags 💕
Ahhh, bless!! Thank you for giving me the opportunity to write John/Lena content here. ^^ I think I hit something of a really, really good vibe with this one. It’s pure and utter fluff set post-war (!! did you think I was gonna let John die in this no I refuse!!) and it was such a joy to write. Hope you’ll love it as much as I do!
24. Deep kisses where they have their hands tangled in each other’s hair to pull them closer.
He wakes to a hand on his ankle. The whispered “Basilone!” that accompanies it makes him shoot half upright before he good and well knows where he is. His hand grasps nothing but pillow as he reaches for his gun. He blinks as his surroundings swim into focus half a second later.
The sun’s rays weave in and out of the blue curtains. Light creeps onto the floor, but stops just shy of his bed. He’s on a mattress with actual sheets for company this time. Actual, soft-to-the-touch sheets that slide off his skin without feeling like he is scraping his skin off with a rock. He’s in a bed instead of on the floor. In a bed instead of half-buried in mud. In a bed with white sheets instead of black sand.
And then there’s her, framed by the sunlight, hair encased in a halo of golden rays, with her hand slowly withdrawing from his ankle.
“Hey, soldier,” she says, and her smile is more luminous than anything else in the room.
“Hey,” he says, voice slightly hoarse, “missus Basilone.”
Lena’s laugh is something he’ll never tire of. It wraps itself around him tighter than any embrace. Warms him, touches him, merges with him until he is certain that every part of his insides consists of nothing but her laughter. He loves the way the corners of her eyes crinkle as she laughs. Resolves to let those become the only wrinkles time can touch – no frowns, no worry lines, no angry set around her brows should ever take dominion of his wife.
“Hey, mister.” She sits down on the bed. Smooths her dress down carefully as she does. “Good morning.”
“Is it still morning? Or are you just saying that to make me feel better?”
Another laugh. “It’s almost noon, how about that?”
“Sorry about that.” He rubs the remnants of sleep out of his eyes. Rakes his hand through his hair and groans softly. “I’d wanted to get up earlier. Make you breakfast.”
“You? Make me breakfast?”
“I could learn, okay?” he says, laughing as she giggles out her disagreement. Points a finger at her in mock-warning. “I will have you know that I make the best pancakes in the whole country.”
“The best, huh? Well, I think you’re all talk, John Basilone!”
“Tomorrow.” He decides it casually. Like he is suddenly in the position where tomorrow is an option, and he can say the word without worrying that it will jinx something in his life. “You’ll stay put right here in our bed tomorrow and I’ll make ’em for you.”
“Oh will you now?”
“Mhmmm,” he hums, recognizing the teasing lilt in his wife’s voice well enough by now. “Unless you have other ideas?”
“Mhmmm,” she echoes, laughter breaking the rather serious expression she is trying to put on her face, “I might have one or two..”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like.. hmm.. kissing my husband? Spending more time with him in this bed?” Her eyes flicker over him as she speaks. His skin heats up from her gaze alone. “I think I am going to need to catch up again, you know?” Her voice dips and weaves longing into his core. She swings her feet up onto the bed and slides closer until they almost touch. He wants to reach out to her, but his limbs are defenseless against her and he stays suspended in time. “John, I just want this to be us.”
“We are, sweetheart. Anything you wanna be, all right?” He reaches out now to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. His hand lingers on the side of her face. “I’m home now. War’s over. We’ve got time.”
“Time for us.”
Her eyes are bright. Her voice barely wavers. He knows she’s been acting tough for him, drawing up smiles and writing gentle letters that smelled like the ocean and vanilla wrapped into one. He knows these months have been harsh, with every thought of her being the only thing that dragged him off that beach in Iwo Jima and kept him standing even when he believed he was going to die. Now that he’s home, back with her, he hardly knows what to do.
“Time for us,” he repeats, knowing this to be the one truth he’ll never get tired of repeating for as long as he lives. She’s all he knows for sure. Everything that matters resides in her. “Lena..”
His hand weaves into her hair. He pulls her close, so close that their noses touch, so close that he inhales nothing but vanilla. He pauses just like that. Drinks her in even as he tangles his fingers around her curls and tugs teasingly at a few of the more errant ones that threaten to escape his grasp.
“John,” she whispers, and he feels like he can breathe for the first time since the war. “My John..”
Kissing her feels like coming home. Her mouth is soft against his own. There’s a reassuring kind of tenderness to it that he hasn’t felt since he left her. He feels the curve of a smile that he longs to chase after, but then she gasps and his mind draws a blank on whatever he intended. He pulls her closer against him until he doesn’t know where he ends and she begins. Breathes her in, holds her tight, anchors himself in her hair and in her mouth and in her presence until he remembers who he is.
It takes only a second for her to press up against him even closer than he thought she could be. She crowds into his space relentlessly and usurps all thought that is not made of her. Her hand flies into his hair as she kisses him back with a hunger he hasn’t known in months but will never forget how to sate. Her other hand is on his cheek, on his neck, on his brow, on his shoulders, everywhere she can touch that is made up of him curving and curling around her like she’s the one thing on this earth he needs to protect.
“Lena, Lena,” he murmurs against her cheeks, against her lips, against the pulse of her heartbeat, “Lena.”
He kisses her anew, over and over again. He kisses her as she shifts into his lap, all previous decorum forgotten. He kisses her as his hand slides up her thigh beneath that dress he loves so well. He kisses her as she kisses him, hungry and wanting and needing. He kisses her the way he dreamed of kissing her. He kisses her like the sunlight kisses her, soft and gentle. He kisses her like the darkness of her hair that spills all over his hands, longing and intense.
The best part is that she kisses him too. She kisses him like she is intent on breathing new life into him. She kisses him until all thoughts of blood and sand dissipate in the light of her embrace. She kisses him with her hands woven into his hair and her movements slow but steady like a boat swept up by a gentle tide. She kisses him until he remembers where he is, until he recalls every last thing he has ever learned about her, until he knows for certain there’ll be a tomorrow and a tomorrow and a tomorrow.
“Just us,” she says again. A laugh bubbles up between her mouth and his. He captures it in another kiss. She laughs even harder, after. “You, me, and those six kids you mentioned.”
“And the dog,” he says, leaning back just to see the amusement in her eyes. “Don’t forget the dog.”
“Ah, yes, the dog,” she says, giggling against his mouth, “how could I forget about that?”
“I’ll get you flowers every week. Pancakes every morning. Kisses whenever you want.”
“Whenever I want, hm?”
“Yeah, whenever!” He laughs, too. “Promise!”
She looks at him, suddenly serious. Her hand tightens in his hair.
Okay but as someone who was intimidated as heckie by you at first, I can totally vouch for the fact that you're literally the sweetest, kindest, most harmless person. But you're also a bad influence because I'm about to rewatch BoB and cry about characters I didn't even care about all the other 50 times I watched it
This is so nice oh my gods! You’re so sweet, thank you. ❤️ Guys, girls, cryptids, and other folks, please take note of what the lovely @robertleckie is telling you about me but please ignore the bad influence part because I swear I am not a bad influence at all okay I just have a whole lot of ideas that need an outlet and I am fearless about getting you to like all my faves.
(I still cannot fucking get over the fact that you were intimidated by me lmao how even -- I say, as I recall I was vaguely intimidated by you too? Oops!)
For your q&a! Probably a dumb question, but as I've been reading your fic, I keep kinda imagining Lena whenever you describe War (also the images you've used to represent her makes me think of Lena). Is this something you meant to do, or am I just imagining things here by being too invested? x)
Thank you for sending it in!
That is actually so cool? I can’t say that it is a deliberate decision on my end to portray War in that way, but it’s such a great association to make in this respect. With John Basilone also being War-chosen, your imagining War to be similar to Lena in some respects adds a bit of an unexpected dimension to a story I have yet to write. Allow me some on-the-spot experimentation?
John Basilone, you see, doesn’t really hold with this god-chosen thing. He knows it’s something that happens to people -- not to him -- and he knows it is gift and curse alike to be chosen -- again, not something he will ever be. But then he fights at Guadalcanal, and his entire world turns on its head. She is there after the battle. Beautiful just like the other women he has a hard time ignoring, with an air to her that says she’s used to men following her every word and whim. There’s something altogether other about her, too, and it’s this that makes John shake his head and go “lady, you and I don’t mingle like that”. It only takes a bar fight in Melbourne and a Medal of Honor to make him reconsider.
And then, well, back home in spaces that don’t feel like home anymore, he lies awake at night figuring out how in the world he’s going to be able to come back to battle. War’s sway comes to his aid more often than not. She moves in spaces like this too: political, seductive, with the right words meeting the right ears. And just when he’s managed it, just when he’s figured out how to go back to war.. he meets Lena. Lena is beautiful the way War is beautiful, and she is as annoyed with his fame as he knows his god to be. There’s nothing other about Lena, nothing that says she could rip a grown man’s heart out of his chest and laugh about it the way he knows his god might, and it’s this fact that lets him love Lena more. (He feels the need to point a warning finger at War and command “no, you don’t get a say about this” at some point in his courtship of Lena, which makes his god laugh and say “John, caro, I like her too”.)
(Ik ben anon, schhh) Is there anything about John's story you would have liked to see more of? Like, anything specific (unrelated to if there was public info about that or not) that you wish they would have given his story?? I hope you get what I mean!!
Haha, leuk om een ask te krijgen, dank je wel! ^^
Mm, I wish we’d gotten just a bit more time with him. The meta I wrote about him last night essentially says that we didn’t need to spend more time with John in order to feel his presence in the story, which is true, but I’m a selfish woman and I would’ve liked to touch base with him in every episode. I think that we needed to spend just a bit more time with how off-kilter he felt at home and how at home he was in the war. I was talking about this with @rcbertleckie for a bit earlier today, but it would’ve been very interesting to be able to draw more parallels between John and Sledge (and between him and Leckie as well really?) and essentially tie those three perspectives together the way I think the narrative was designed to do but didn’t fully achieve.
Butttt if we’re talking specifics about John, I would’ve loved to see him just shooting the shit with people over drinks and talking about Manila (where he’d been stationed with the army before) and show him boxing to blow off steam as well as him turning down a commission during the time he was trying to get back into the war. (I can’t recall if it was in the show or not, tbh, but the fact that I don’t remember it means they didn’t give that the attention it deserves.) I mean, this guy could’ve easily led the whole line of Marines into battle but he was comfortable being gunny sergeant and being in the midst of his men instead and that one thing speaks such volumes about him I just can’t deal okay--
I don't know which you've already answered out of the HBO War asks, so uhh... Choose two you haven't answered yet and answer those? ✌️😅
Ahahahah you’re precious, ty!! Then I’m gonna go with... hmmmm...
4. Favorite/least favorite Band of Brothers characters? Why?
I’m just gonna use this opportunity to squee about Speirs okay I’m just.. not even sorry. Like this cryptid of a magpie man really thinks he can just walk out on my television screen and have me be okay with it, the audacity of that. (I harbor a totally separate affection for the chaos incarnate that is Matt Settle himself, lol, but that’s somethin’ else.)
I don’t really know what it is about Speirs that had me from the first moment, because let’s be fair we don’t meet him until we’re already in Normandy and he’s one of the weirdest pop-up books from hell you’ll ever see in that respect. Like suddenly there’s this LT from a different company crossing paths with half these guys and kinda-definitely-maybe committing a war crime or twenty while giving vague speeches about a soldier’s relationship to war? And he’s fading out of the series again until we’re smack in the middle of a forest and everyone’s still shit-scared of him and he is gleefully feeding into every single rumor about himself until Dike has a Breakdown Of Epic Proportions that then catapults Speirs into becoming this Known Entity for the company. And then?? Then he is soft and capable and committed and decisive and loyal and more than a little insane but he means so well, he really does, and he never ever walks away from trouble and he wants to steal all of Hitler’s shiny things and take his house and honestly he is such a mood??
I’m just such a sucker for aloof-seeming could-kill-you-with-their-bare-hands take-charge softies, what can I say?
Also I have to name a least favourite and I’m just. I’m eternally flipflopping between Dike and Sobel on this one. They are both lethal in the worst way and get their men killed in combat situations, they’re not fit to be in charge of a paper bag let alone of an entire company, and honestly Dike’s disappearing act is as exhausting as Sobel’s pissing contests.
11. Which The Pacific scene broke your heart the most?
I know people are gonna expect me to name a certain two deaths of one captain and his lieutenant, or are going to expect me to come out with John’s death, or something along those lines.. but there are two scenes that wrecked me, plain and simple, and they are:
Lena visiting the Basilones post-war. The way she kept refusing coffee? Awful, awful, awful. I could cry for days thinking about that. Coffee was her thing with John. The thing they bonded over, the thing that made her see there was something more to the man than what she’d assumed, the thing that made her understand why he went back to war and why she would let him.
The scene where the civilian woman is holding out her baby for the Marines to take and they don’t understand why until it’s too late? That’s the most harrowing scene in the entirety of the series for me. The utter panic she exudes, the confusion the Marines feel, the devastation after that blast kills both her and the baby.. just, fuck. I just sat there for a bit tbh, like that was the scene that really did a number on me to watch.
“That makes two of us.” He sits down on the steps across from the man. Leans his back against the banister and stretches his legs out next to Grant’s. Exhales the smoke slowly from his lungs.
