Hello! I'm Scout. I'm a long-time lurker in the mota tags. I decided to finally make a mota-dedicated side blog (previously, I was just silently liking things on my main blog because I love gale and bucky so much that if anyone yucks my yum over there, I will cry. Main blog: theannualextremistbakesale)
I'm A2G on ao3, where I am in the process of posting updates to Fight or Flight which is a 16 chapter cannon-compliant thought exercise on how Gale would come to terms with the fact that he really wants Bucky to fuck him. If you're a fan of Gale/shame and Bucky/yearning, you may enjoy it. I've been updating it every week (it's all written at this point).
This is an amazing fandom, and I'm glad to finally be contributing a little :)
Currently thinking about tanned and summer blond ex bff Gale
great thoughts anon. they probably head down to a beach on the lake at least once before they ever get together. gale almost gathers enough bravery to ask john to help him sunscreen his back, but then that bravery fades when he sees john is somehow already shirtless so he just sits there on their towel instead, fully clothed. when john manages to make friends (of course) and goes off to play a game of three-man volleyball, gale uses that time to strip down to his swim shorts and tries his best to contort around to get his own back with the sunscreen. meanwhile john is watching from afar and wondering how the hell gale got so evenly tan, and does his hair look blonder? it kinda does, but maybe that's just the sun. maybe he should go ask if gale needs help. no, gale would ask him if he needed help, and john really shouldn't be putting himself in any position to touch him anyway bc that would be wrong, right? but also melanoma is a very real risk so maybe he should force the issue. no. NO, he shouldn't be forcing anything, what the fuck. goddamn, that tan though. the sheets in the guest room are white and the contrast of gale's skin on that backdrop must look absolutely insane and—
and then he gets bonked in the head by the volleyball. the next day, gale's got a terrible streaky sunburn on his back that he hides, and he sleeps on his stomach for the rest of the week. still—the following friday, when john asks, "beach day tomorrow?" without making direct eye contact, gale immediately says, "for sure."
callum’s eye acting really is underrated, you can always see the EXACT second john egan decides to be the most annoying man on earth and i find that beautiful
That was the whole trouble. Sure, it was boring as shit in Manitowoc – all the people he left here when he went to flight school seemed to have only gotten duller in the interim – but the real trouble with going a couple months between assignments was it gave him the space to think. And all he thought about was Gale. It was supposed to be a mercy, giving the guys who were stuck in a POW camp for years a few months to enjoy their freedom, but being in Manitowoc in the summer, with nothing to do and no one to do it with, was its own prison. Vengefully, he figured he’d self-destruct a little since Gale wasn’t around to stop him.
Gale had only written him once, reminding him of the wedding date and asking him again if he’d come out early. Bucky wrote back without acknowledging the request. He didn’t think he could handle it, front row seats to a preview of the happy domestic life of Gale’s future, watching Marge hang on his arm and smile perfectly up at him and say “Oh, Gale!” Knowing all that was going on four states over was plenty.
But the fact that Gale hadn’t written him any more ate at him. He’d left a note in Gale’s suitcase. He shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t help it. He thought Gale would probably understand it just how he had meant it. It was about as close to a proposal of marriage Bucky could finagle with the materials he had on him at the time. A stolen book. You know where to find me. Come find me. It was a bad idea. It meant every night that he stumbled home drunk from the bar, some part of himself would be straining to see Gale sitting on his parents’ front porch, waiting for him. It was a cruelty he did himself, when he wrote that note, he thought, dooming himself to a summer of false hope.
He took another swig of whisky to feel it burn its way down his throat. Gale had said he’d write, and he hadn’t. That was about as clear an answer to Bucky’s note as he thought he’d be likely to get now. But it ached at him. That A. E. Housman book sat on his bedside table, but he had to put it down every time he picked it up. It was too raw. Soldier’s love for soldier and its tragic end. At least when Bucky was drunk, belting something out in some smoke-filled bar, he didn’t wish the tragedy had gone the other way, that he’d ended up rotting in a potato field so he could be some romantic footnote in Gale’s story.
gale biting john’s arms hard enough to bruise during sex. john proudly walking around in a singlet and laughing when the boys ask if the girl he hooked up with is part wolf and winking at gale when no one’s looking. do you see the vision?
making repressed men break and reveal their hidden violence and anger is out. making repressed men break and reveal their hidden humiliation kink is IN!!!!!
That night he woke sweating from a dream of the stalag. It was just that last night before the march, replayed. The frantic hurried packing, the barking dogs, the German flame throwers. Even with his eyes open in the dark, he could still hear the chaos, men yelling.
He had left the door of his room cracked just a little, and now the little dog nosed its way in. He heard it panting dimly as it padded over to him and sat by his bed companionably. He reached a hand down to pet its soft head and forced his mind out of the German dark, made himself mentally replay his journey to Thorpe Abbotts after the escape, and then the flights home from England. Slowly he felt himself slipping back into unconscious.
Then he was with Bucky back on the base. It was a warm summer night, and they were in the dark space between buildings at the center of the base. It was quiet save for the low steady strumming of the crickets. Bucky had him up against the side of the building, was holding his face and looking at him. What? Gale said. Bucky said nothing, just leaned in to kiss him. They kissed slow and languid at first, then faster and hungrier as Gale felt his heart start to pound. Gale felt the rasp Bucky’s moustache against his lip, the sure form of Bucky’s chest under his hands. Bucky put his thigh in between Gale’s legs and he felt himself roll his hips into it, felt the embarrassment of it in cheeks. Keep going, baby, Bucky said against his ear. Gale felt his mind stuttering and stomach tightening, wild with need. He came then, panting, and suddenly he was back in his dark room at Marge’s house again, his shame damp and cooling against his skin.
His breath was still coming fast, heart pounding. He could still feel Bucky’s hands on him, Bucky’s breath hot against his ear. He let himself come down from it before cleaning himself up. So that was it, he thought. It wasn’t going to go away. He hadn’t jerked off much since he’d been back. He just hadn’t been thinking about it, but in his dream, he was desperate for it, intoxicated with his need for Bucky in the dark. The contrast of the dream feeling of Bucky’s lips on his with the stifling feeling of kissing Marge thundered loud in his mind. The feeling of drinking in the sight of Bucky, tall and broad-shoulder in the dark, with his square jaw and his thin moustache, was unbearably real to him in the dark quiet room. It started to crystalize in his mind then. It was never a wartime exception. It was a terrible through line of his life. The mocking of the other boys at school, the way his stomach felt around the roughnecks in the oil fields, the way he was never bothered by Marge’s desire to wait until marriage. All those men in all those bars knew it before him. All those fights he had been in made horrible sense to him now. He didn’t go back to sleep that night.
