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libraryofantiquitea · 3 days

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𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john egan x gale cleven.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: the last place that john egan wants to be the summer before he graduates high school is the egan family cottage, a place where time and everyone else seems to have forgotten. having been intent on finding a summer job, spending time with his friends, going to parties, and making out with pretty girls, john is irked that the egan family matriarch has other ideas and wants the family to spend "one last" summer together.

john's sour mood shifts just a little when he meets local, but also not-so-local, gale cleven, a boy his age who works at the small town's one pizza joint. through teenage angst and a desire to break free of the awkward position of not being children anymore but not yet men, the two form a bond that makes their summer a little more bearable. a bond that comes to shock the both of them.

but what happens when more than the summer comes to an end?

𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: teen, though later chapters might have a slightly higher rating.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.2k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: YEAH FIRST MASTERS OF THE AIR FIC. thank you to everyone who reblogged the mood board and expressed interest in the story. special thanks to @wildbornsiren for being my ride or die and @swifty-fox for letting me share snippets and bouncing ideas off of you.

likes / comments / reblogs are very much appreciated! thank you for reading! 💚

» mood board. » read on ao3.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈.

Summer 1986 Somewhere in Wisconsin

“Johnny!”

Evidently, John Egan had ignored the shouts from his mother to come inside for the last time. Her voice turned into something shrill that he could hear even down by the lake, where he could normally escape all manner of ruckus that came from the cottage. It wasn’t that noisy, he supposed. But it was difficult to get a moment of peace and quiet when his whole family - his ma and dad, his sister, and himself - were all crammed into the small two bedroom space.

When they were kids, John and his sister, Billie, would bunk together in one room, at first sharing the one bed, John then eventually sleeping on the floor when he “got too long,” as his dad put it. But when one is suddenly seventeen, and the other is fourteen, bunking together isn’t on the table anymore, no matter what Ma said. John would just as soon take the couch, which he was too long to fit on comfortably anymore, in the living room, or grab a tent and camp out under the stars if the weather was nice enough.

“Johnny Egan!”

The last name had been included, it was getting serious.

John pushed himself up with a soft grunt, hands instinctively wiping grass and dirt from the ass of his shorts. He reached over to pick up the battered copy of ‘Salem’s Lot and the empty bottle of Coke that he’d brought down to the edge of the lake with him, cramming the book in his back pocket, and holding the empty bottle between his long fingers.

He didn’t know what all the fuss was about, having dinner at the same time every night. It was summer, no one else seemed to be on a set schedule. Kids, teens, and adults ran wild in cottage country. At least that had been the way. Once upon a time, he and Billie had been allowed to miss dinners and stay out past their bedtimes. Yet somehow, as they got older, Ma and Dad were trying to tighten the reins. Ma had tearfully mentioned that it might be the last time they all got down to the lake together for the summer, as if one of them were fuckin’ dying or something.

John tramped through the brush and tall grass to get to the path that would lead him back to the small cluster of cottages on the the top of the hill. There had been four that had always been there, as long as he could remember, situated around the lake. They went back generations, passed down through handshakes and wills, little more than a handful of rooms for families to sleep, eat, and unwind after a day in the sun.

But over the past few years things further up the road were beginning to be developed, real proper like, and it was only a matter of time before it reached the older cottages down by the lake. John had ridden his bike past them shortly after they’d arrived a week ago; they looked almost as nice as the house that they lived in ten months out of the year back in Manitowoc. John had heard the stories about how the Egan Family Cottage had come to be, put together by his grandfather and a few friends over the course of the summer in 1945, a product of coming home from the war, too much time on their hands, and a lot of packs of cigarettes and beer.

“Jo -”

“I’m comin’ Ma!”

When he was a kid it seemed like a much greater distance between the cottage and the lake, and now he realized that they were within spitting distance of one another. He’d taken up less space then.

John crested over the small hill at the top of the path, the cottages in full or partial view now. Theirs was on the far right, and despite its location amongst the small cluster, had been the center of his universe, and the universe of all the other kids, summer friends, that spent summers there, for as long as he could remember. But the Miller kids were both off to college the last couple of years, and Amos Cook had passed away early that spring, and his widow couldn’t bear to come down and bring their grandkids with her.

Suddenly, at seventeen years of age, John felt too young and too old all at once.

—

“Lucia’s dad said he would drive us to the mall the next town over tonight. If that’s okay? Ma? It closes at eight.”

John pushed the remnants of dinner around his plate with the prongs of his fork, desperately wanting to be set free from the small dinner table shoved into a corner of an equally small kitchen, to go and find somewhere to finish his book. He only had a couple of chapters left before he was finished, and he really wanted an excuse to take his bike (or the truck if Dad was in a good mood) into town the next day, go to the library, maybe spend some time at the pizza place that had Galaga and Time Pilot arcade cabinets, see a pretty girl. Any girl, really. He was beginning to think his summer would’ve been better spent in Manitowoc. At least then maybe he stood a chance of feeling up something pretty in the back seat at the drive-in.

“Who’s Lucia?” John Egan the Elder asked, reaching over and opening the fridge door. The perks of the small kitchen and its small dinner table meant that the fridge was often within reach. Egan Senior pulled out a beer and held it up, looking at John with raised eyebrows. John nodded, and his dad pulled another one out. He popped the caps off of both and then handed one to his son.

“A new friend,” Billie replied after a sip of water. “Her parents have one of the cottages up the road. I met her today. She’s really nice. Ma, you’d like her.”

“Oh, Billie. Why would you want to go to the mall on a night like this?” Ma Egan asked, dabbing her lips with a napkin.

Dinner had been steaks and vegetables that Dad had cooked on the barbeque. It dawned on John that in the summer that his dad did most of the cooking on the grill, which meant Ma got a break from cooking. Perhaps that was why she had been so eager to come down to the cottage every year.

“Oh let her go, Ma,” John Sr. said, then taking a sip from his bottle of beer. “She’s met a new friend and wants to go to the mall. Ain’t no danger in it. So long as she doesn’t spend her entire allowance.”

John swore his Ma still believed that they were children who needed coddling and protection from the world. He had his own feelings about his sister getting older - for one thing, she was infinitely more annoying than he had ever remembered her being - but Billie didn’t need Ma looming over her shoulder at all times.

“Well, who will John spend time with if she’s gone?” Ma asked John Sr., as if neither Billie or John will be present.

“He’s seventeen, he doesn’t want to spend summer nights with his kid sister.” Again, they may as well have not been there. “Am I right, John?”

John inhaled, waiting for a moment of quiet in which he could reply in, before Ma was filling the void. “Oh, all right. Is Lucia’s dad going to pick you up from the mall?”

Billie brightened. “Yes. Eight o’clock on the dot, he said.”

“Then I suppose it’s all right. But I want you home no later than eight thirty.”

“May I be excused?” John asked, looking between his parents.

“Of course,” Ma replied, before immediately turning back to Billie to go over the five new rules she’d just concocted for going to the mall with Lucia.

John cleared his plate, grabbed his beer, his book from off the table by the back door, and made his way back down to his spot at the lake. He still had a couple of hours of daylight left, and even after he finished his book (he was a fast reader) there would be plenty of time for him to just lay by the lake, sipping the remnants of his beer, and enjoying the sounds of the crickets and the lake.

—

Back in Manitowoc, the library had a couple of girls John’s age who worked there part time. While he did enjoy going there to check out something new, he also enjoyed leaning over the counter, smiling with all of his teeth, and asking what their favourite books were. He also enjoyed watching them duck their heads and giggle, and on occasion following them to the very back stacks where their favourite books were not at all located and putting his hands under their skirts while they tried to stifle their moans against his shoulder.

In the town library down at the cottage it was small enough to be staffed by one woman, and that woman was old enough to be his grandmother. John wasn’t opposed necessarily … she just wasn’t his type.

His solitary errand completed for the day (he picked a couple more Stephen King books), John glanced at his watch. It was only ten in the morning.

Letting out a huff, he leaned against the brick exterior of the library and looked up and down the one street the town possessed. So many shops weren’t even opened yet, their proprietors moving as lazily as the out of towners who took over in the summer. John didn’t know much about business or economics (despite Dad’s best efforts), but thought that opening earlier would be more profitable.

Or maybe it wouldn’t. He was just bored out of his skull.

They had six more weeks there.

Books placed in the milk crate at the back, John mounted his bike and began lazily cycling down the street back toward the direction of the cottage, passing by the pizza place. It was open, and John spotted a couple of kids Billie’s age playing Galaga. It felt far too early for a slice, but John wasn’t quite ready to go back to the cottage and get through another book in a day.

Parking his bike outside, John then opened the door to Rush Hour Pizza. What passed for rush hour in this place he would very much like to see. The boys were playing Galaga, one shouting very unhelpful directions at the other, but aside from that the shop was empty, save for the thin blond working behind the counter, her back turned to the entrance. He leaned over the counter, one hand pressed against the linoleum and set his voice to purr.

“Hey pretty thing.”

The blond turned around, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, blue eyes wide.

Fuck.

“Um.”

“Yeah,” the boy around John’s age supplied, tucking a piece of his long blond hair behind his ear. “My dad’s been saying I should get a haircut.”

He was slender, but not so slender that John should’ve been mistaking him for a girl. John was scarlett with shame, but tried not to let it show, instead just clearing his throat and looking down at the counter for a moment to get his bearings.

“What can I get for ya?” the boy asked.

“Uh,” John replied, finally glancing up. Okay, so he may have been a boy but he was still extremely pretty in a masculine sense. Was that a thing that men were? John had never thought a boy was pretty before. He’d looked at men with curiosity, but never -

“You okay, man?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” John replied. “Can I, uh, get a slice?”

“This early?”

John looked at the boy across the counter incredulously. “It’s … a pizza place. You sell pizza. You’re open.”

“Yeah, but … it’s ten in the morning.”

“Then what …” John trailed off, gesturing to the boys playing Galaga.

The blond boy leaned over the counter, looking at the two younger boys shoving quarters into the arcade cabinet, and then looking back at John. “They’re playing Galaga.”

“I see that they’re playing Galaga. But isn’t this the sort of place where you, I dunno, have to buy something in order to use … the facilities?”

The boy chuckled and John kind of hated him. He stole a glance at the nametag pinned to the boy’s apron - GALE - and then lifted his gaze to his face once more.

“When my dad is here, probably. But I dunno, it’s summer and this place is boring. I don’t care. If they wanna feed quarters into the machines they can go for it. We get their money regardless. At least, that’s what my dad would say. They bought some Cokes about an hour ago,” Gale said. “Pizza’s not even ready yet.”

John blinked. “Then why are you open?”

“Galaga,” Gale replied, pointing at the boys and the arcade cabinet once more. “I was here making the pizzas anyway.”

“So when you asked what you could get me, it was limited to beverages,” John said, letting out a sigh.

“There’s a menu,” Gale said, pointing to the large board above his head. “I can make you a sandwich. Or a sub.”

For the first time, John picks up on Gale’s accent, and cocks his head. “Not from around here, are you?”

“No sir,” Gale replied, leaning against the counter. “Born in South Dakota, grew up in Wyoming.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?” John asked. Gale opened his mouth to speak and John interrupted him. “If you say ‘Galaga’ one more time -”

Gale laughed, something big and bright, showing all of his perfect fuckin’ teeth. It stretched up to the corners of his eyes and made his nose scrunch up, and John’s face felt strangely warm again. “Change of scenery. Dad got tired of Wyoming.” He tilted his head at John. “You’re not from here either.”

“Well, I’m from Manitowoc. My family summers here.”

“Summers. Fancy,” Gale said a little teasingly, straightening back up. It was far from fancy, but John didn’t correct him. “Can I make you a sandwich or what?”

John reached into his pockets and pulled out his wallet, rifling through his cash. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Cold cut sub sounds great. Not gonna get on my ass about it being too early for lunch?”

“I would never,” Gale replied with a slow smile.

—

“You were gone long,” Ma said the moment that John walked in through the back door of the cottage, a stack of books under his arm.

John rolled his eyes and placed the books down on one of the side tables next to the couch, which had been serving at his nightstand. “Ma, please.”

“Well, I’m just sayin’ is all,” Ma Egan said defensively, looking up from washing dishes in the kitchen. “Said you were going to the library. Figured you’d be there and back in half an hour or so.”

With an exasperated sigh, John flopped down onto the couch. He wasn’t certain if he could bear even just another day of his mother being overbearing. “Ma, we’re on vacation. I’m almost an adult -” Ma snorted, and John ignored her. “- can you stop hasslin’ me about being a bit longer in town? It’s not like I have anywhere else to be.”

“Now John Egan, I’ve had just about enough of your complaining,” Ma said with a sigh, tossing her washcloth into the sink.

John sat up a little straighter, hands stretched out in front of him, eyebrows raised in confusion. “I haven’t complained once since we got here.”

“Oh yes you have,” Ma Egan said. “Maybe not in so many words, but you’ve been throwing yourself around like a rag doll since you set foot inside this place. Mopin’ about, spendin’ all of your time down at the lake.”

“There’s nothing for me to do here,” John said, and he sounded much whinier than he had meant to. Definitely not an adult.

“Like hell there ain’t,” Ma Egan said, hands on her hips. “Your sister has been makin’ friends up the road, and don’t tell her I ever said it, but you’re far more personable than she is.”

“Ma,” John began, his voice firm and level. “Billie is a kid. There are other kids around. I, your son who is a completely different person, am not a kid. There’s no one my age around here. They’re probably all working jobs. Which is what I wanted to do this summer back home, but you and dad insisted that we all come here. So forgive me for feeling a little bit put out that I’m spending my summer vacation with nothing to do, when I wanted to get a job, make some money for school, and spend time with my friends.”

“And get up to no good,” Ma Egan said quickly.

“Ma -”

“Those boys you pal around with aren’t exactly model citizens.”

“Neither am I,” John muttered, really wishing he had thought to buy a pack of cigarettes while he was in town. He hadn’t thought he would need to take the edge off there, but it was becoming apparent that he would.

“Not if you keep aligning yourself with that lot,” Ma Egan said, stepping into the small living room, cluttered with John’s belongings. “Look, the reason why your father and I insisted that we all come here this summer is that it’ll probably be the last time we all get the chance to.”

“Ain’t no one dyin’, Ma!”

Sighing, Ma sat down next to John on the couch. “John, it ain’t about that. You and your sister are getting older, you’re not going to want to come down here anymore with the whole family. Hell, you already didn’t want to. But next summer you’ll be off to college, or getting a job somewhere, and you won’t be able to make it down. And your father and I aren’t gettin’ any younger.” She paused and reached over, taking one of John’s hands. “Our lives are all going to change one way or another in the coming years, and ain’t nothin’ guaranteed. But we could have this one last time. Some time together. I’m sorry that we dragged you here. But I ain’t sorry that you’re here. You understand me?”

John glanced over at his mother, letting out a small sigh of his own. He loved his family, he did. But he was filled with that sort of unbridled rage that all teenagers feel when they’re on the cusp of adulthood. Even if he couldn’t identify it, quantify it, it was there. He did an excellent job of keeping it to himself for the most part, unless his mother drew it out of him, like she was doing then and there.

He didn’t quite understand her insistence that they all be together at the cottage when they could’ve been together back home. But, agreeing with her in the past had sometimes been a better option than arguing with her, and John couldn’t bear to break her heart with his own teenage angst anymore.

“Yeah, Ma. I understand.”

—

That afternoon, John had found his father, who was working on a truck for one of the newer neighbours up the road. Turns out it had been Billie’s new friend’s father. Billie and Lucia were inside, enjoying some air conditioning and listening to New Kids on the Block, while their two dads stood over the open front hood of the blue Dodge Ram, each holding a beer in their hand. John the Younger managed to lend a hand, which seemed to please his father, who really wanted his son to one day take up the mantle of the family business back home.

John was still undecided if he wanted to be a mechanic or not. In fact, he was still undecided on what he wanted to be at all.

As a thank you, Lucia’s dad suggested they get pizza. John was about to take his leave when Lucia insisted that he stay. John didn’t miss the way that Lucia looked at him, and couldn’t find it in himself to break the girl’s heart, so he agreed. Billie looked equal parts shocked and disgusted, and he later heard her say, “My brother? Seriously? Ew.”

“He’s got a moustache, Billie.”

“Not a good one.”

John was glad he was out of sight, if not out of earshot, rubbing at the hair above his lip absentmindedly. The moustache was a work in progress. He thought it looked just fine. And Deborah Jensen back home in Manitowoc had seemed to be quite fond of it as well.

Lucia’s dad gave him the keys to the newly fixed truck to go pick up the pizzas, and John Sr. reminded him to be on his best behaviour with a truck that wasn’t theirs. John fought the urge to roll his eyes, wanting to be a good guest, and after taking his time to ensure that the mirrors were properly adjusted, hands at ten and two (he knew his dad was watching), John drove ten under the speed limit until he was out of sight.

—

John pulled up to Rush Hour Pizza with a groan, not really in the mood for Gale. He didn’t know why, they’d gotten on well enough that morning. Gale was clearly bored to tears waiting for the pizzas to come out of the oven, so he’d chatted with John from across the restaurant while he ate his sub (it had been really fuckin’ good).

When the bell above the door chimed, Gale popped up seemingly out of nowhere, looking a little bewildered to see John again. “Couldn’t get enough of me?” he asked.

“Very funny,” John said, looking around. The arcade cabinets were abandoned. He supposed it was dinner time, all the neighbourhood kids were probably at home. “I’m just here to pick up a couple of pizzas. My dad’s friend ordered them.”

“Oh yeah. Of course,” Gale said, hands braced against the counter. He paused. “What’s the name?”

John blinked at Gale. “I don’t fuckin’ know.”

“You don’t know your dad’s friend’s name?”

“... Lucia’s Dad?”

Gale chuckled, shaking his head. “Can’t say I recall taking that order, man.”

John sighed, shoulders slumping. “Okay. Well. Are there any orders here?”

“Yeah, a few.” A beat of silence passed between them. “Do you know what he ordered?”

“Pizzas.”

Gale smiled, cocking an eyebrow and folding his arms across his chest. “How in the hell do y’all get by in Manitowoc?”

“I’m beginning to wonder that myself.”

Still smiling, Gale pulled some receipts from a small pile to his right. “Here. We’ll go through them both together. You tell me if any of the names or orders ring any bells.”

“Doesn’t this violate pizza-client privilege or something?” John asked, leaning over the counter slightly to look at the order slips with Gale.

“That’s not a thing.”

Apparently, all twelve people in town had ordered pizzas for pick up that evening. As Gale rattled off names and orders, John realized that the pizza boy didn’t even know his name. It seemed very unfair that he knew Gale’s.

“I’m John,” he said, interrupting Gale mid-sentence.

Gale glanced up at John, blinking slowly. “Well, all right. Hello John. I’m Gale.”

“I know. You have a nametag.”

Gale glanced down at his chest and smiled. “So I do. Forgot I had that on. Okay, where were we? Carlos -”

“That’s it! What’s his last name?” John interrupted excitedly.

“I was gonna get to that, y’know,” Gale said, looking up at John and smiling. “Navarro.”

“That’s the one!” John said, taking the slip from Gale and looking at the order. “One pepperoni, one meat lovers, and one vegetarian.”

“Coming right up,” Gale said, heading toward the back as John pulled cash out of his wallet.

While John waited for Gale to come back with the pizzas, he craned his neck to look into the kitchen. “Do you work here alone?” he called out.

He heard Gale laugh. “Why? Comin’ back to kill me tomorrow night?” he replied, still hidden in the back.

“Not my style,” John replied. “Just … you’re the only pizza place in town it seems, and it’s just you here. Seems like a lot of work.”

Gale returns to the counter with three boxes of pizzas, setting them down and then taking the cash from John. “I like to keep busy. My dad comes in during the rushes, but once the pizzas are actually in the oven the rest is just … transactions. Making sandwiches and stuff like that.”

“Right,” John said, watching Gale as he rang up his order and handed John back the change. John tossed some into the tip jar. He picked up the pizzas and nodded a thanks to Gale, who nodded one back and tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear. John was halfway to the door, before he stopped and turned around. “Gale, what the fuck do people like you and me do around here for fun?”

…

#antiquitea.fic #masters of the air #john egan x gale cleven

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libraryofantiquitea · 11 days

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Breathplay with Rhett

This photo has been on my mind and well...this happened. This hasn’t been beta’ed so please excuse any major grammas issues.

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x F!Reader Word Count: 250ish Warnings: Explicit, 18+ only. Breathplay, unprotected PIV, and dirty talk.

You reach down to caress Rhett's thick neck absently while riding him, thighs squeezing his slender waist. You’re too focused on just how good he feels inside you to notice his reaction. The second time your hands fall to his throat you’re staring down at him and you catch his subtle response. His long lashes flutter and a breathy grunt passes his clenched lips. When you do it again, applying the tiniest bit of pressure, he bucks into you hard, fingers digging into your fleshy hips.

“Fuck, come on, girl,” Rhett growls, eyes burning into yours. “Do it.”

His pace slows, letting you get your bearings. Tentatively, you wrap your hands around his neck, feeling the way his Adam’s Apple bobs under your palm. You tighten your grip slowly, watching his face as you do. It’s harder than you expect to keep up the pressure, but once you’re squeezing him in earnest, he starts moving again until he’s rutting into you desperately, mouth parting soundlessly.

You roll your hips and the muscles in his neck strain. A moment later Rhett comes hard, his whole body locking up. He gives a few lazy thrusts before stilling, heart beating wildly under your hand. When you let go of his neck he groans, low and hoarse.

“Well that was something,” you tell him with a smile.

Rhett’s only response is to draw a hand down his face and swallow heavily. “Just as soon as I recover, I’m going to fuck the breath out of you,” he warns.

"I'm counting on it," you reply, kissing him deeply.

#fic rec #outer range #rhett abbott x reader #fuck fUCK FUCK #well this just pushed ALL of my buttons #bless you ivy

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libraryofantiquitea · 14 days

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─── 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧.

1986 somewhere in wisconsin

the last place that john egan wants to be the summer before he graduates high school is the egan family cottage, a place where time and everyone else seems to have forgotten. having been intent on finding a summer job, spending time with his friends, going to parties, and making out with pretty girls, john is irked that the egan family matriarch has other ideas and wants the family to spend "one last" summer together.

but what happens when more than the summer comes to an end?

─── 𝐂 𝐎 𝐌 𝐈 𝐍 𝐆 𝐒 𝐎 𝐎 𝐍 ───

#antiquitea.fic #masters of the air #john egan x gale cleven

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libraryofantiquitea · 16 days

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Slider is a restless sleeper. His roommate at the barracks kicks him out pretty regularly because they can't handle the tossing and turning anymore.

He's claimed one of the couches in the common area, it barely holds him, but it's comfortable enough to rest. Tonight though he ends up sprawled out on "his" couch in the common area, eyes glazed over staring at an infomercial, unable to sleep.

Goose, having woken up from a bad dream, wanders out, not wanting to disturb Mav; stands in the doorway watching Slider.

Slider shifts his position every few minutes, one leg tossed over the leg of the couch. He's bouncing it, fingers picking at an overstuffed pillow he's got clutched to his chest. Goose can feel the exhaustion radiating off of him.

Quietly, he steps into the room, turning the television off, casting the room into darkness. Slider's protest dies on his lips when Goose grabs the pillow tossing it aside. He stretches out on top of Slider, though it takes a few moments of adjusting and awkwardly placed elbows.

Eventually they settle, Goose's head on Slider's chest. He's humming an old lullaby, while Slider's hands ease up and down his back.

In the morning they can't look at each other without a flush rising on their face. Neither will admit it, but it's the best night's sleep they've ever had.

#fic rec #top gun #nick bradshaw x ron kerner

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libraryofantiquitea · 20 days

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almost 9k of Priest!Gale and Burnout!John having really sweaty sex in a church for your viewing pleasure

#fic rec #masters of the air #john egan x gale cleven #JOHN'S TONGUE IS PIERCED #HE IDENTIFIES AS A PROBLEM #THE WAY I WOULD LET THIS DUDE BREAK MY HEART A DECADE AGO AND PROBABLY NOW LBR

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libraryofantiquitea · 21 days

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𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬.

|| masterlist ||

◊ - angst | △ - smut | ♡ - fluff | ☆ - slash

─── *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: ───

✧ one shot:

» equate - dick winters x lewis nixon ◊☆ ↳ nixon thinks about an attic haguenau often. apparently winters does not.

» you should see me in the rain - dick winters x lewis nixon ◊☆ ↳ upon returning to america, lewis watches the subtle changes in dick. He doesn’t like them.

─── *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: ───

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libraryofantiquitea · 22 days

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𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧.

pairing: dick winters x lewis nixon

summary: upon returning to america, lewis watches the subtle changes in dick. He doesn't like them.

warnings: descriptions of sex, discussions of war, repressed feelings, alcoholism.

word count: 1.7k

author's notes: another fic that i wrote ever a decade ago and have posted over on ao3. apparently i struggled giving these two something resembling a happy ending.

likes / comments / reblogs are very much appreciated! thank you for reading! ♥

For as long as he had known him, Dick had possessed a sort of grace that did not seem possible for anyone within the realm of reality. Lewis had originally noticed it while training at Toccoa, and was amazed that it continued on, even throughout the war and in combat; perhaps even more so amidst the firefights, the hails of bullets, the mortar shells, and the bloodshed. Having taken to stumbling drunkenly through Europe, as he did in life in so many more aspects than simply the act of putting one foot in front of the other, Lewis found himself amazed in the constant and the consistency of the grace that held its sway over Richard Winters.

It held on in dire moments of deafening noise where just one step to the right could perhaps end it all, and in the oddly quiet moments where war seemed that it just might be the furthest from his mind. Nixon recalled with stunning clarity instances when there was nothing beautiful, nothing poetic about the circumstances they had been thrust into. And yet, with a quiet elegance, there he was – unwavering and unrelenting. There were moments where he had been filthy, covered in dirt and the blood of men who he had known or not known at all. His eyes had been weary, yet bright, and what passed for a smile upon his lips was capable of lighting up the entirety of any room. A lot of the men looked up to him, admired him. Lewis was foolishly in love.

His fingers, nimble as his mannerisms, had gently coaxed Nixon out of his clothing one night in Austria, merely because he had gotten so blindingly drunk that he wasn’t capable of operating buttons. Lewis declared that he was fine and attempted to push Winters away, who told him in as serious a tone that he could manage that Lewis was pushing a coat rack and not him. Lewis allowed himself to be undressed, although he would have gladly burned his ODs then and not given a fuck for the rest of time. Dick stopped upon reaching Nixon’s undershirt and shorts, and Nixon told him not to. With grace and not a moment’s hesitation, Dick complied, and Lewis drunkenly pulled at Dick’s clothing until it wasn’t there anymore, attempting to kiss him properly but instead missing his lips by a few centimetres and kissing the corner of his mouth.

Skin on skin, warm and damp, indulging in the utterly delicious feeling that only came with his friend’s hips pressed nakedly against his own, Lewis gasped curses against Dick’s lips, while Dick whispered about sins and forgiveness. Nixon’s fingertips must have burned wherever they grazed Dick’s flesh, for the other man moaned as if he’d been injured every time he felt them. Dick seemed particularly fond of kissing, not at all minding the taste of alcohol and cigarettes that came with the territory when pressing one’s lips to Lewis’. Neither of them truly listened to the other, until they both lie on the uncomfortable twin bed, exhausted and completely spent. Dick said, “That can’t happen again.” Lewis replied with, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Lewis didn’t drink as much the following day.

Until the day that Nixon was sent home, he and Dick shared moments as they could get them, although it was never anything more than a fleeting glance or a momentary intertwining of fingers when no one was looking. Lewis returned to the States to inherit a broken home, divorce papers, and child support. When Dick’s services were finally no longer required in Europe, he returned to the States to inherit Lewis Nixon.

—

Nixon kept bottles around the house in various states – some were empty, had a shot or two left, while some were half full and half empty, or hadn’t even been opened yet. Dick tried to dispose of the empty ones as often as he could, but Lewis seemed to drink faster than he could keep up. He drank to keep the memories at bay, and leave them far away from his mind, back in places like Normandy, Eindhoven, and Landsberg where he had acquired them.

Despite earlier affirmations that what happened in Austria was not meant to happen again, and a bedroom which had become his own, Dick eventually found his way into Nixon’s bed after a month of lodging with him. The first few times it came in the middle of the night, like a child having awoken from a nightmare. Dick slipped under the covers of Lewis’ bed, didn’t ask if he could, simply did. Lewis would wrap an arm around him, pull him close, and Dick would finally fall asleep while listening to the persistent beating of Lewis’ heart. Then he stopped going to his own room, following Lewis up to bed instead when they eventually called it a night. On the fifth night of abandoning his bed for Lewis’, Dick let Lewis touch him, and he made him gasp and whimper as he had in Austria so many months previous.

With the exception of for grabbing a change of clothes, or keeping up appearances when the occasional guest (usually Lewis’ sister, Blanche) came over, Dick didn’t return to his bedroom.

—

It was in the way that he moved.

Grace found itself slowly removed from Dick’s existence, and Lewis struggled with the implications of that. He wondered if the fatigue of war, the weight that Dick had held upon his shoulders for so many years were finally picking at the already frayed edges. It was in the subtle way that he moved, in such a simple thing as walking. It was nowhere near the lumbering Lewis considered an appropriate way to get from Point A to Point B, but it was very much not the sort of way he’d become accustomed to Dick moving. His impenetrable grace was as much a part of him as his fiery red hair, which still remained as the grace slowly left.

All parts of Dick should remain intact, Lewis thought.

—

Dick lay in bed, Lewis beside him, fingertips gently tracing over scars that Dick never remembered how he obtained. His fingertips must not have burned, for Dick only sighed softly when Nixon’s touch grazed over raised, angry looking white and red marks embedded in his flesh. It had come with the territory, and Winters wasn’t certain if they’d ever go away, or if he would wear them as reminders until the day that he died. They hadn’t hurt, he would’ve remembered them if they had hurt.

Lips replaced fingers, and they must have burned, as Dick gasped and writhed beneath him, hands tangling in Nixon’s mop of dark hair that had grown past regulation length. Wet kisses moved down the length of Dick’s torso, stopping to take inventory of those scars of varying sizes. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, Lewis’ lips reached their intended goal and he took his friend’s hardened cock into his mouth.

Dick had moaned, his body shifting constantly beneath Nixon, unable to keep still for more than second. He would push Lewis away, only to pull him back again, begging him to not stop, murmuring that he’d never felt anything so amazing.

After he was spent, Winters lay unmoving on his side, looking at Lewis who felt even more naked under the scrutiny of his friend’s green eyes. Determined to not look away, Lewis starred right back at him, challenging his friend’s gaze, willing him to say whatever it was that he was thinking. Finally sighing, Dick rolled over onto his back and shifted his eyes to look toward the ceiling.

“That can’t happen again.”

“Sure.”

It didn’t.

—

Lewis sat in his study, pretending to read as he drank because Dick said that it was awful that all of those books were never opened by him. He didn’t even bother with glasses anymore, he finished the bottles too quickly to justify it, and what was the sense in creating dirty dishes. It was far too late for him to still be awake, but Dick wasn’t in bed either, he could hear him moving around upstairs.

Leaving the bottle and the book, Nixon carefully made his way up the steps, following the light to Dick’s bedroom, to find him sitting on the edge of his bed. Standing in the doorway for a moment, Lewis watched him just sit there, wringing his hands together and alternating between starring at them and starring straight ahead. Finally having enough of the silence, Lewis moved into the room and carefully sat beside him on the bed. Dick didn’t acknowledge his presence.

“What is it?” Lewis finally asked.

“I don’t know,” Winters replied.

Lewis joined him in starring at his hands, pursing his lips together. Dick had held onto his allure through training, through their years spent in tents and in Europe, and Lewis recalled the instant when he began to see it leave.

It wasn’t being home in America that was destroying Dick Winters’ elegance – it was him. Lewis felt as though he had a hand in the killing of his best friend, and was completely at a loss for how to deal with the emotions that he found caught in his throat as he tried to speak. “Maybe you should sleep in here tonight.”

“Maybe.”

He did.

Lewis felt colder than he had ever felt in Bastogne.

—

In the morning, Lewis was alone in the house. He smoked a pack of cigarettes before noon, and drank a bottle of whiskey before two o’clock. For the entirety of the day, he sat in a chair and waited, save for when he was finally able to bring himself to look in Dick’s bedroom. He hadn’t brought many possessions with him, but the dresser drawers and closet were empty.

Lewis was alone in the house the following day as well, and the day after that, and the sickening pattern continued for months before he finally realized that Dick wasn’t coming home.

—

Eventually there was a letter, but Lewis didn’t read it, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw it out either. He kept it on the dresser in what had been Dick’s bedroom, because he couldn’t stand to even look at the envelope and Dick’s neat handwriting.

There was no one around to pick up the empty bottles anymore.

[/end.]

#band of brothers #band of brothers fic #band of brothers fanfiction #dick winters #lewis nixon #dick winters x lewis nixon #winters x nixon #winnix #dick winters fic #lewis nixon fic #writing #fic #antiquitea.fic

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libraryofantiquitea · 22 days

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Sweet Surrender

Summary: Jake’s given and taken orders a hundred times throughout his career but nothing compares to the moment he realizes you liked it. Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x F!Reader Word Count: 2.1K Rating: 18+ only. Sexual content. Authority and sir kink, praise kink and Hangman being a cocky asshole. A/N: Thank you @wildbornsiren and @whatblogisthis216 for beta'ing and @blue-aconite for the beautiful graphic. In the future I may write part 2 if my muses cooperate. Reblogs and comments feed the muse.

Masterlist ♡ Top Gun Masterlist

Jake doesn’t pay much attention when you’re first introduced with the rest of the eggheads from the Office of Naval Research. Another one of many civilian engineers working on the new plane he’s been assigned to test. You keep things professional and polite although he can tell you find him attractive. It’s written all over your face and demeanor. You’re not the only one, several of the other engineers can’t seem to string together a full sentence around him.

You’re pretty, he can admit that much to himself, but a sweet face has never been enough on its own to hold his interest. Especially when he’s here to do a job, one he takes very seriously. The chance to be the first to fly the latest prototype jet isn’t an opportunity that comes up often. He volunteered immediately for the assignment when it came up, beating out most of his Top Gun class for the honor.

What he doesn’t bank on is having to sit through mind numbingly boring briefings and listen to the engineers argue anytime the tiniest adjustment is made. Most of his exposure to you is during these meetings but the first time you talk to him one on one is four weeks into the project.

That’s when he notices your particular….quirk. You’re following him out after the morning briefing, yammering away about the new wing design specs. He’s read your report in detail and already familiarized himself with the changes.

All Jake wants is a moment of silence to mentally prepare himself for today's test but you keep talking. It doesn’t help that he’s got the beginning of a headache forming behind his eyes and you’re oblivious to his attempts to cut the conversation short.

“I got it. I know how to fly a plane,” he tells you.

“Lieutenant Seresin,” you start but he cuts you off with a look.

“I’ve read your briefing packet, top to bottom. It was extremely thorough. If I have questions you’ll be the first person I ask. Scout’s honor,” he adds, giving you a sloppy half salute that seems to confuse you for a moment before you start talking again.

“I just want to make sure-“ you begin and Jake sighs, annoyed.

“I got it. Now go sit down,” he tells you curtly.

You step back back, brows raised. Jake almost misses the way your pupils dilate and your lips part just so.

"I'm sorry, Sir," you reply. "I..."You stammer and tug at the hem of your shirt before hurrying to take a seat.

You watch him from behind the computer bank as he climbs into the cockpit and fiddles with the controls. He can feel you watching him as he puts his helmet on. It’s clear to him that you want his approval, even if you don’t realize it.

Fuck, that paired with the ‘sir’ and the delicious little waver in your voice spikes his interest. He waits until you’re practically squirming in your chair before he gives you a nod. Your response is immediate, shoulders dropping and the tense lines on your face easing.

It’s not just that he makes you nervous, he’s seen that plenty of times before. No, this is different. Special. You liked it when he barked an order at you.

–

Over the next few weeks, he watches you closely, taking note of your responses to everyone you interact with. It’s clear you crave praise from others, perking up under any compliment you receive and deflating under criticism. However, it’s your response to authority that interests him most. You’ve got a natural inclination to listen to orders but as far as Jake can tell he’s the only one who elicits that type of reaction from you.

Each encounter he has with you is a chance to test the theory he has. He catalogs the difference in your responses; when he’s softer in his requests versus an outright order. Jake sees how quickly you obey a demand to sit next to him at the next briefing, just so he can be close to you. The speed you produce a new report just for him is a powerful thing. He especially loves the way you blossom under his praise when he compliments changes you've made to improve performance.

You’re smart, undeterred when the men in the room try to speak over you. Even though you’re quiet-natured, you’re no pushover either. He respects your determination and hard work.

The most telling moment is one afternoon when you’re loitering on the edge of the hanger as he finishes up his conversation with the flight chief. It’s clear you need to speak to him. The fact that you won’t interrupt him is just a bonus– something he knows from experience will translate well in the bedroom.

“Come here,” he commands, crooking a finger at you. He doesn’t even have to raise his voice to have you scurrying to him. You touch your chest and fiddle with the locket you wear, twisting the thin gold chair around your index finger. Jake’s not sure if he’s just gotten better at clocking your reactions or you’re extra affected today but whatever the reason, he’s enjoying the show.

“What do you need?” He asks.

“For you to sign the report,” you tell him, opening the folder and pointing to the highlighted portion.

When he takes the pen from you he makes sure to drag his fingertips over the back of your hand, watching for your reaction behind his aviators. The soft sound that passes your lips doesn't disappoint him. He thinks about what other sounds he could drag out of you. How he could get you desperate enough to beg him to fuck you. The way you’d sigh his name and -

“Sir?” Your soft voice snaps him out of his little daydream. You’re staring up at him expectantly. “I need my pen back, please.”

When he hands it back, you smile. It makes him long to pull you against him and kiss you breathless. To test out the limits of how well you’d listen to him but he knows he has to wait until the project is over. He’s not about to jeopardize either of your careers though as the weeks drag on he certainly finds himself fantasizing about that.

You’ve caught him staring at during the morning briefings once or twice, his chin resting on steepled fingers. It’s always the same response from you, the double blink and glance away. Sometimes you’ll bite your lips and fiddle with the pencil, tapping it in rapid succession against the table. He can feel your eyes on him too and he has to repress a smirk. These morning briefings are starting to become his favorite part of the day.

—

Two torturous months pass before the admiral visits and the project gets wrapped up. He has some innocent fun with you during that time, nothing overly mean, just enough to get you flustered and stoke the flame. His favorite form of foreplay.

The team celebrates at the Hard Deck. Alcohol flows freely and spirits are high. It turns out engineers partied harder than pilots. You only have a drink which bodes well for Jake. He needs you sober for this and wants a clear head of his own, nursing a single beer most of the night.

While he waits for an opportunity to get you alone he formulates how he wants to approach this. He doesn’t doubt his assessment. He’s rarely wrong about these things but it’s always possible you’re not completely aware of your quirk. If he embarrassed or frightened you all his waiting would be for nothing.

After another hour or so he senses his chance. You head outside to take a quick call and Jake follows. He waits at a safe distance to give you some privacy but once you slide the phone back into your jacket he makes his presence known.

“Lieutenant Seresin,” you greet. You look surprised to see him but pleased too.

“It’s Jake,” he corrects, stepping toward you.

When he presses into your space you take a half step back and then another, letting him herd you into a little alcove out of sight. You watch him curiously, maybe even a little confused. You’re not scared to be alone with him —you trust him.

“What’s up?” You’re trying for casual but failing adorably.

Jake’s close enough to touch you, but refrains from it. He won’t until he has your permission and understanding. He smirks and tits his head. A direct approach might be quicker but he’s curious if you’ll figure it out on your own.

“I know your secret, sweetheart,” he whispers.

That gets you going. You don’t seem to know where to put your hands. Nervous laughter comes next but Jake stays quiet, letting you squirm a little longer.

“My secret?” You question.

“It’s compatible with mine,” he hints.

You frown, forehead wrinkling. He recognizes the expression from countless morning briefings when you were contemplating a problem. It’s cute watching your brain work in real-time to put the pieces together. A full minute passes before your eyes dart back to his face, surprised.

He nods encouragingly and then very hesitantly you say, “Is that so, sir?”

There’s a heavy emphasis on the last word.

“Smart girl,” he praises.

You grin and rock back on your heels. “Well, I did design the aircraft you’ve been flying the last four months,” you shoot back.

He can see the struggle it is for you not to smile. You’re proud of your work and should be but he can’t have you mouthing off already.

“Don’t get smart with me,” he warns playfully, loving the way you immediately duck your head.

“Sorry, sir.”

You sound appropriately contrite and he smirks.

“Look at me.” Two fingers under your chin encourage you to meet his gaze. “I want you to be honest,” he begins, watching carefully for any sign you’re not on the same page as him. “Do you want to do this?”

“Do you mean…you mean sex, right?” You ask, looking a little unsure.

You’re so sweet that Jake slips character briefly to give you the soft smile you deserve. “Sex and more,” he confirms. “I can help you explore this side of yourself.”

“Yeah. I want that,” you tell him shyly.

“That’s good to hear, but that’s not how you talk to me, and I think you know it.”

“I want you to teach me, sir,” you respond.

“Better,” he praises.

He slides a hand up your jaw to grasp the back of your neck and angle your face upward so he can crush his lips against yours. He closes the distance between your bodies, pressing you back into the wall with a groan. You make a desperate little sound that goes right to his dick and grasp his biceps tightly.

You part your lips and fuck, he’s finally tasting you fully like he’s been imagining. He loves how soft and warm you are in his arms and the way his lips slide against yours. All of his pent-up desire is out now. The hand at your hip slides down the curve of your ass to grasp your thigh so he can grind shamelessly against you. You whimper, nails pressing into his skin. He rocks his half-hard cock into the warmest part of you, needing more friction. He wants to hear you make that little sound again too.

“Oh, please,” you gasp when you finally part.

You sound wrecked and he thinks you look it too.The skin of your face is warm to the touch and your eyes are a little glassy. Jake's half convinced you might let him have you here and for a moment he actually considers it. He knows how good that kind of messy, quick fuck can be but tonight he wants to see all of you. To spend his time taking you apart until you’re incoherent and at his mercy. He can’t do that here.

“Easy,” Jake whispers, running a hand down your back. “Look at me,” he instructs, smiling when you do. You’re trembling all over and he rubs his thumb over your swollen lips as he gazes down at you. “Catch your breath.”

Once you’re calm he lets go of you and runs a hand through his hair. You’re watching him, waiting to be told what to do. “Go inside, say goodbye to your friends. Then I want you to meet me out front. Got it?”

You nod and he surges forward to kiss you one more time before stepping back to let you past him.

Fuck, tonight is going to be good he thought.

♡

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#fic rec #top gun: maverick #reader x jake seresin #HOLY FUCK THIS WAS HOT #i love the prelude to something so fuckin' delicious

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libraryofantiquitea · 23 days

Text

i have been lucky enough to be getting bits and pieces of this the past week or so and i must say that OH MY GOD somehow reading a whole part, and knowing that there's more to come, makes me more feral.

rachel nails gale's pov, the rage simmering just beneath the surface. you owe it to yourself to read this.

Clegan Postwar

got a little silly and decided to post this guy early

#fic rec #masters of the air #john egan x gale cleven

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libraryofantiquitea · 24 days

Text

oh my GOD rachel

the WORLD BUILDING

i was so fucking anxious the entire time

this is stunning and i desperately want you to explore more of this universe please and thank you

Sci-Fi Horror AU

idk kinda word vomited this tonight after trying a new strain. I will be continuing it into a full story but not sure when

Entry Log 2043

-DateStamp: 14th July 5399

-Location: DeepSpace Sector G8677-65HG-76789_I

-Personnel File: Maj. J.C. Egan (Zoot Suit)

Recording_

“This is Major John Egan, callsign ZootSuit, aboard the vessel M’lle ZigZag. Today is the dawn of my final day of exploration, putting an end to a sixteen-month foray into DeepSpace. Initial findings reveal little of note. A few developing stars and planets; an asteroid belt; and a total of six planets, two of which I will be recommending for a second more thorough exploration of due to planets possibly location being within the ‘Goldilocks Zone.’ I look forward to whiskey, solid food and to breathe air that isn’t recycled from a fucking can. I can’t wait to fuck my husband-”

John pauses.

“Ah, computer erase the last seven words. Reasoning: Irrelevant to mission. I will be entering Hyperspace within the hour, once I hit proper trajectory to slingshot around the primary sun.”

He taps the record button to end the log, carefully labeling the file and placing it in a folder with the few thousand other logs he’d recorded over the last year and a half. A verified library of data, observations and the occasional love-letter. A year and a half of research; one of the longest expeditions ever undertaken by any pilot. Considered bold by some and risky by far more. Deep space played with people's minds, the long stretches of isolation broken up only by Hypersleep creating the perfect recipe for a light case of mental instability.John had trained for this, ran through thousands of psychological tests and millions of scenarios. There was not a person in the universe more capable of this task.

John rubs his jaw, feeling the scratchy beard and spins out of his pilot's chair, leaving the computer to guide the craft.

Moving about the cramped space of the craft, built to maximize storage space; and to minimize comfort in his opinion, he begins securing anything not already safely battened down. He shaves in the cubicle sized bathroom, splashes water across his face and ignores the swirling flickers of color and light around the edges of his sight. Jaw smooth save for the now carefully trimmed mustache - just how Gale liked- he makes his way to the tail of the spacecraft to run an inventory check on his samples. Moon rocks and space dust and asteroid dirt. Anything the computer pinged or John spotted in his long hours gazing out into the empty void of space.

He checks a few straps, making sure they’re tension tight before hitting the override on the artificial gravity. He holds the intentionally placed handle as he slowly lifts from the metal walkway. Giving himself several seconds to adjust he uses the similarly placed handles along the wall to pull himself back over to the pilot's chair. A second check on the navigation systems; the mathematical calculations for his trip around the sun and through hyperspace. Much of the process was left up to the computer these days, but John hadn’t survived twenty one missions - one of the highest in the force save for a handful - by not being thorough.

Finding nothing out of the ordinary he switches all the lights off until his world is lit only by the approaching Red Giant, bathing everything a warm red. System lights blink soothingly as he takes a moment to take in the vast wonder in front of him. Years now it had been, and it still never failed to leave him breathless.

“Computer, begin countdown to Hyperspace entry, one minute. Beginning LCHS procedure, eta one minute.”

John pulls himself to the economically sized bunk, slotting into the space that barely left room for him to stretch and roll over, strapping himself down.

“32…31…Thirty Second To HyperJump’’ the computer announces.

Bucky presses two fingers to his lips and then to the photograph taped above his bed. Folded so many times the crease lines were white and soft to the touch, Gale’s face gazed back at him. Caught unawares he was smiling soft and curving, glancing somewhere behind the camera. Laughing at something John had said, trying to pretend that he wasn’t. His cheek was rested in one elegant hand, gold ring glinting in the sunlight; a carbon match to the one on John’s own finger.

“Be seeing you soon Buck.” John adjusts himself against the organic synthetic fibers of the mattress below him.

Fifteen seconds the computer chirps warningly. John always thought she got a little testy in those last few moments, as if scolding an unruly child.

John reaches for the pouch beside his temple, withdrawing the last pill from the sheathe. Soft baby blue and the size of a quarter, he’d been issued exactly sixty-five of them upon the start of his expedition. Enough to get him all the way to the furthest reaches of the known galaxy in the shortest amount of time. Seven more consecutive jumps than had been previously attempted. Anything more than thirty and Federal Law was a minimum six months rest and recuperation before attempting further jumps. Risks for brain bleeds, heart attacks and Z-Sum sleep went up with every extra jump. John had stopped only once, stretching to forty five jumps before stopping at the nearest C-Class Planet Simulator outpost to rest. It had been his last chance to speak to Gale before he exited the reach of all communications. Eight months since he had seen that smile in any medium other than this photo.

A quiet, tense conversation. Buck hadn’t wanted him to go; knew better than to stop him.

“You’ll be careful out there John?” Buck was the only one to never call him Bucky. To the public he was Egan, Major if they were being formal. In private it was John, always John. His husband was strange like that.

“More careful than a cat in a rainstorm.”

Buck hums and squints his eyes at him. Stress sat in heavy lines at the corners of his lips, between his brows and around his temples. It had been eight months since John had kissed that mouth, tasted Gale’s sweet noises on his tongue.

“You have enough LCHS’s to get through? None of them are compromised?”

“Buck.” John sighs, “Come on.”

Gale runs a hand through his hair, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth “I know you know what you’re doing...” His deep voice rumbled through the comms, staticky and pale in comparison to the in person thing.

“It’s just your job.” John finishes, grinning at Bucks self-amused shrug. “I checked them all twice. No leakage, no discoloration.”

“I love you.”

It never failed to make John’s spine tingle, hearing those words spoken so easily and effortlessly. The Gale he had gone to flight school with was a reserved quiet thing; John was better off trying to space-walk without a suit than pull an ounce of vulnerability from the other man. The years had softened him - John had softened him.

“I love you too sweetheart. I’ll see you in eight months.”

Ten seconds.

John startles, the pill slipping from his fingers and drifting in the gloom. He curses and reaches for it, straining against the straps holding him down. His steady beating heart kicks into panic mode.

For centuries mankind had struggled to break out of the tiny confines of their miniscule corner of the universe. Confined by things like time-space and the limits of the human life span versus the distance needed to travel to discover anything new. They’d languished away certain of it was their destiny to never walk amongst the stars. Until HyperSpace had been discovered. The miniscule pocket between the folded pages of space-time. A way to jump through matter from one corner of the galaxy to another - and further. It blew the doors wide open on space exploration. They could go anywhere, journey past the point of creation they could find it.

The only thing holding them back was the side effects of HyperSpace. It didn’t seem to pair so well with the cranial contents of human beings. The tendency to turn ones brain to pure soup was a drawback that left researchers, scientists and theorists all stumped. SMall jumps were manageable, with migraines and dizziness a much more risk-acceptable outcome. But in order for them to make any real progress they would need to find a solution,

LCHS. Lysergic Cerebral Hibernation Synthesizer.

The miracle drug and the solution to their dilemma. Developed initially from LSD the drug soothed the more vulnerable edges of one's brain and put the subject in such a deep sleep it took a reversal injection to bring one back to the waking world. It was used recreationally now as well; a way of opening one's mind to the world beyond the physical dimensions. Where light and color and feeling weren’t senses but physical states of being. It kept their pilots down for the jump; kept them asleep to the journey home.

Without it. Well. Nobody had made a waking Hyperjump in as long as John could remember, at least had done it and lived.

Five seconds.

John hisses through clenched teeth, straining for that little blue pill, technology his husband had dedicated his life to. Logically they both knew it was unlikely Gale had made the exact LCHS’s that sustained John, but he knew the other man pretended he did either way. The level of care put into each new batch as if it was made for his beloved specially.

Three seconds.

John risks freeing one of his shoulders from the straps so he can get better reach. “Come on” he hisses. Closes his fingers around the dosage.

Two seconds.

John lays back, shoves his shoulder back into the strap so quickly the velcro scrapes his skin raw. He lifts the pill to his mouth, pressing past his lips.

One second.

Entering Hyperspace.

Gale. John thinks.

His brain turns to mush.

#fic rec #masters of the air #john egan x gale cleven

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libraryofantiquitea · 26 days

Note

After reading all the sexy clegan asks, I would pay some good money to watch their OF 😵‍💫. I feel like this is a more polite way of saying I want to be the fly on the while while gale gets twisted into a pretzal. Or while John gets bent over the dinner table. Swifty, my dude (slides a case full of money across a table), how do you feel about an AU where two beautiful entrepreneurs take agency of their body's and their sexualities and make some good, honest money... together 😉. (I feel like I'm turning into Barry in Saltburn. I would drink the bathwater. SEND HELP. I need psychiatric care now!)

John Gamer Girl Bathwater lmao.

but!! your mind anon lmao. I got to spend a fun night with a couple aussie SW's a few years ago after a cancelled festival (not in THAT way. had a mutual acquaintance and offered to hang out with them since we all suddenly had no plans) and It was fun picking their brains about their lives. They were both primarily dancers.

John starts an only fans after graduating college with a degree in sports management. It's not that he CAN'T get a job but he's suddenly like 'fuck just because i like sports do i really wanna make this my career???' kinda lounges around a bit until the bills poke him on the shoulder. He's like hmmmmm wow if i go into the service industry i'll kill someone. I'm hot I got abs and a mustache and I'm six three I can probably do this. Starts off with a lotta POV handjobs and general thirst traps. He doe's great, its John Egan so he's just got that natural charisma and his voice is deep and shoulders broad and he's real good at dirty talking so he does custom audios for a price. Gets into the collab world on twitter and kinda shoots up in fame real quick. More of a top, bi asf like all my au's so he's kinda going across the board. He's pretty open about what his job is and the people who have a problem with it he kindly tells to fuck off

Gale starts one to put himself through his masters degree then finds out it kinda just.... makes a lot more money with a much looser schedule LOL.

He takes a long while to get good at it. He's hot as hell and has all the creepy dom top accounts all over him but he's shy and takes him a long time to figure out how to sell his content properly. He can't quite get into the cock hungry bottom bitch slut role that people wanna shove him into and it hurts him a bit. But he does manage to get a decently sized following pretty quick. King of the moaning clips, great fuckin one-on-one vidoes of him riding a toy.

John stumbles across Gale as everyone does: scrolling the porn tag on twitter looking for a lil somethin somethin. Those pretty lips wet and flushed as if they've been thoroughly used and those soulful eyes looking up at the camera as Gale hangs his head off the edge of a bed ready to be a perfect sleeve for his dick.

He wrings one out real fuckin quick, drops him a follow and a DM in that order introducing himself and asking if he's ever done a collab.

of course Gale already follows John. He thinks he's handsome but hes got no interest mixing business and pleasure (lmao just wait pookie). He's also never done a collab, never fucked another person on camera. But. but.

John is handsome.

And he knows the guy is legit and safe, has seen him ALL OVER (certified bicycle John Egan always) and knows he's had good reviews.

Gale's had many DM's asking for collabs. This is the first he accepts.

How can he not when John is in there saying "Hey man great content. Would to love maybe have you fuck me" as casual as can be.

Gale's never thought to FUCK someone on camera. Sure he likes both but like I said people want a certain image from. So that in of itself is appealing.

He agrees wholeheartedly

He puts John on his knees on a mattress and pulls his hair until his eyes water, presses him down with a hand between his shoulderblades for that perfect fuckin arch and and spanks him until John is jumping away from even a brush of his hands and whimpering, camera angled to get the perfect shot of his tear stained cheeks.

"Come on darlin," gale croons in that drawl "The people wanna see you break for them, give it all to me."

He fucks John, ass still stinging so he flinches every time Gale bottoms out but damn does he love it and damn does it make for good content.

John comes out of that session already in love.

and of course collabs usually film a bunch of content. gotta capitalize.

So after some rest and recuperation John does exactly what he's fantasized about and lays Gale over the edge of his bed and fucks his throat. Loud and wet and noisy. Spit and pre-come and tears dripping down Gales face into his hair; onto the floor. John takes a little break to rub it all over his face and tell him he makes such a good pocket pussy. Gale's gunna come just from this if Johns not careful. He doesn't have to worry though because once John goes back down his throat he reaches over and gives Gale a nice handy.

Spins him around and fucks him while he's too sensitive and screaming, half cringing away from it but also grinding back because fuck is does John know how to fuck.

John gripping gales hips in his big hands and telling him "Now you're not running away from me yet sweetheart haven't rode you raw yet"

They fuck a lot more. a LOT more. For the content of course. And then theyre like hey maybe we should move in together as colleagues and friends. Except??? maybe?? they start fucking off camera. And maybe they cuddle on the couch. and hold hands. and kiss and go on dates. And maybe they get married?? As colleagues of course.....or not

#masters of the air #john egan x gale cleven #every fandom needs a porn au #THIS IS MOTA'S #please read all of rachel's things she's a fucking treasure

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libraryofantiquitea · 1 month

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@bcolfanfic number 1 enabler so heres some Curt/Ken tenderness for the late night crew

Sequel to Bcol's

and immediate sequel to my drabble here:

Curt can tell when Gale has fallen asleep because the entire house seems to take a breath. He lays in the guest bedroom still in his clothes from the airport. From the gym. Hadn’t even stopped at his shoe-box apartment to change out of the loose black joggers and shirt with his nametag. His windbreaker wasn’t nearly enough for the Wyoming winter.

“John had a gun.”

Janie’s got a gun Janie's got a gun her whole world’s come undone from lookin’ straight at the sun.

Curt taps the tune out on his chest and glances over at the blinking alarm clock. Only Buck and Bucky would still have an honest-to-god analog clock in their home. But it’s comforting in a way, reminds him of childhood where things like suicide didn’t yet exist. Three-thirty AM. The witching hour his mamo would say and blow a kiss to the Brigid's Cross over the door frame. It’s late, painfully so and Curt’s eyes are so tired they feel covered in sand. But his body is wired, wide awake; fingers stained from drywall and fresh paint flecks.

The hole was patched.

The aftermath was going to take a lot longer to fix.

Now that Janie's got a gun, she ain't never gonna be the same.

His phone chimes suddenly and he tugs it from his pocket. He knew he was hot shit but a Grindr notification this far out in the middle of nowhere was a surprise. He swipes past it without even looking. Ken’s name is at the top of his list, several unread texts from hours ago left unanswered after Buck’s assurances.

New York was two hours ahead of Wyoming. The sun would be rising there.

He tries to tell himself he doesn’t need to talk to Ken. It just felt right to update him on their friends. It wasn’t about Curt and whatever comfort he needed from the younger man. You didn’t seek comfort from things that meant nothing. So it was nothing. So he shouldn’t reach out.

Besides, he shouldn’t text Ken so early when the other man was probably deep asleep, shouldn’t text him and make him feel guilty for missing any updates on Bucky. He flicks his thumb up and down, hovering over the cracked-barely-beyond-use phone screen.

“Fuck it,” he mumbles, exhaustion and dialect blurring the words together into a mumbled ‘fuggit’.

He flicks out of imessage and opens Discord. Ken’s icon was lit up, the scrolling text below it taking Curt a moment of squinting to decipher. He wasn’t old, he was tired thank you.

KennyLemon playing Among Us.

Sweet boy, Curt thinks and then pulls a face at himself. His stomach untwists the smallest amount.

The discord call rings for all of half a second before Ken’s voice comes over the phone.

“Curt?”

His stomach untwists just that much more. “Heya Kenny. You should be asleep.”

“I couldn’t.”

That's what Curt loved. Liked. Hated. About Ken. He was so sincere it was sickening, cracked his damn molars with it. How he’d made it through everything without bruising that tender center of his beyond repair was a wonder to Curt. Like a peach, one Curt was more than used to sinking his teeth into.

You got one juicy ass Lemmons.

“Curt.”

“Yeah Ken?” He liked it when the kid said his name. Made something in his chest go all soft and gooey like chocolate.

“I said, how’s Bucky and everything else?”

Curt blows out through his lips, tries to exhale every bit of breath in his body until he could sink into the mattress and hide from this whole damn day.

“Brains all where they should be.”

Sometimes it was good to be vicious. It kept him from feeling too much, feeling too tender. He was a New Yorker, take away his meanness and he’d be a hermit crab without its shell.

“Jesus, Curt.”

“I dunno what t’ tell ya Kenny. He’s halfway across the state where we can’t talk to him. Buck’s half dead from exhaustion or shock or both. I spent half the night patching a bullet hole in a wall my best friend tried to put in his head.” To his shock, his vague horror he feels his throat closing up, his eyes growing hot with burning tears. “Fuck.” He sits up, wipes his eyes violently and tries to yank his jogger leg up to get the straps of his prosthetic. The soft fabric catches on the plastic, on the velcro, on anything it can find. “Fuck,” he spits again just because he can.

“You okay B?” Ken’s voice was so soft and tender Curt wants to bare his teeth at it; just to protect himself. He does, only cause the other man couldn't see and so it wouldn’t hurt his feelings.

“Can’t get m’damn leg off.” He mumbles, feeling hot shame mingle with the frustration. It was all grief anyways, hidden cleverly behind the mask called complex emotions.

“Wish I was there. I could help you.”

Curt closes his eyes. Sweet boy. Wish you were here too Kenny.

He didn’t catch feelings. Was renowned for it, prided himself on it. He kept things casual because it was better that way, could see the way Ken was skittish as a stray kitten at the idea of anything real. He wasn’t about to go wading around in someone else's shame, but it did hurt in a special sort of way knowing the fear Ken battled with.

“It’s pretty tense here right now anyways. Probably for the best youse not.”

Kenny’s silent for a long time and Curt tries to swallow his regret, finally winning the battle with his leg and dropping it to the floor with a pointed thump. Take that you bastard. “Yeah you’re probably right.”

Aw Hell. “It’s not that I don’t want you here Kenny.” He says haltingly, rubs a hand through his hair he still liked to keep short, “I just- I want you here a lot. First thing I wanted to do when Gale finally went to bed was call you.”

“Oh.” Kens voice was a little shaky.

Gentle gentle, be gentle with him Curt. His ma’s voice; always lecturing. You’re too rough Curt, Slow down Curt. Don’t push good things away just cause you’re scared Curt.

“Just so you don’t forget.” He finishes awkwardly “I like havin’ you around.”

Curt thumps AC/DC against the hollows of his ribs.

Little lover, I can't get you off my mind, no, Little lover, I've been trying hard to find.

“You’ve got a real way with words Curt.” Ken teases.

They laugh, Curt pitching his low so as not to carry through the too-empty house “If y’wanted a poet you wouldn’t be with me.” He teases. A question hidden in a statement, the first time he’d dared acknowledge there might be something.

Because fuck he wanted Ken here. Couldn’t lie to himself now that he was hearing the younger man's voice over the phone. Wanted to tuck him against his side and bury his nose into those curls; sweet smelling and warm. Wanted to press him into the mattress and remind himself that they were alive and things were okay. Ken was sweet and sugar, sometimes Curt swore he licked it off the man’s skin. Whispered it into the shell of his ear as he ground his hips into Ken’s ass until there wasn’t a single ounce of space between them.

“You taste like dessert Lemmons.”

Curt grunts and adjusts himself. He couldn’t help his brain, his drive. But it felt beyond wrong to start anything right then and now.

“Yeah,” Ken smiles. Curt can tell. Ken smiled with his words and his body, just just his sweet mouth. “You’re right.”

Too sweet, too sincere. It made him violent, made him want to bruise and mark and tease. He rolls onto his stomach with a groan, pressing his face into the mattress and counting backwards from twenty.

“I wanna fuck you Kenny.” His words are muffled into the duvet but still legible.

Ken sucks in a quiet breath, Curt can practically hear the other man blush.

“You’re just sad and scared B.”

Curt squeezes his eyes shut so hard dots spring up behind his eyelids, his throat burns hot and it takes him several breaths to stave off the tears.

“Yeah.” he mumbles “But I still wanna fuck ya.”

Tug his curls, lick his stomach that wasn’t quite flat despite his fit state (Curt liked it that way). Kiss him til his lips were swollen and red. Red as his pretty curved cock when Curt took it to the root and slipped two fingers inside. Ken liked his fingers, he said. Liked how thick they were, the way the callouses caught and dragged inside him. The strength of them, liked to wrap his lips around middle and index and drag his tongue between them until Curt lost hold of his already thin control.

“You don’t gotta fuck away all your feelings sweetheart.”

It’s not bitter or reproachful, Ken’s statement. It’s gentle and kind. A reminder out of love, a lever opening the floodgates on the things Curt tried to keep in control.

He gasps. The bed sheets are wet with tears, his nose running with snot. Fucking gross.

“I dunno how t’ fix this one Kenny.” he whispers “The goddamn bullets still in the wall, rattling around in there like a fuckin ghost. I asked Gale if we should try to get it out and the look on his face-”

“You can’t fix it for them.”

“Whatdy-”

“You can’t,” Ken insists. “You can hold ‘em up and support ‘em and do all the things Gale can’t manage right now but the only one who can fix Bucky is Bucky and the only ones who can fix Buck and Bucky are themselves. You can’t put that burden on yourself or you’ll crack and all youse will end up resenting each other.”

“When’d you get so smart huh kid?”

“I’ve always been smart, and don't get weird on me.”

Curt sniffles loudly and grossly that Ken remarks on it, making them both laugh.

It’s Buck and Bucky he owes his life to, who he would lay down his own for. But right now he doesn’t know what he’d do without Ken Lemmons.

It’s a sobering thought, a terrifying thought; one he can sit with for only a few moments before he’s drawn into that reactionary headspace of fuck, bite, take this tender thing and force it inside your ribcage before it hurts you.

Kinda fucks you up when you’re raised that drinking a guys blood is the ultimate act of devotion.

“I miss you.” he says and fuck him he means it.

“Take care of our boys and come home soon B.”

#fic rec #masters of the air #curt biddick x ken lemmons #WELL HERE'S A PAIRING I DIDN'T KNOW I NEEDED OR WANTED #BUT I LOVE IT #I'M SORRY I'M ONLY CAPABLE OF CAPSLOCK WHEN TALKING ABOUT RACHEL'S FICS

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libraryofantiquitea · 1 month

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What Comes After

blacked out. wrote 1.7k fic for @bcolfanfic's Young vets AU.

Fanfic/Sequel of

Tw for aftermath of a suicide attempt and all that may entail

Nobody tells you what to do in the hours after your husband tries to take his life. Nobody says you’re going to be angry.

Nobody tells Gale how much he’ll have to pay for gas to the only Hospital for miles, seven hours tailing the red ominous lights of an ambulance there seven hours back all alone for the first time in a long while (one-hundred-twenty-seven dollars and fifty-three cents).

There’s nobody to tell him how to smile at his husband as he’s led away in a stunned daze. Does he smile at all? Small and painful and fake?

And who can he ask what to do as he comes home to a now empty home, dawn well past finished and a hole the size of a man's life in the wall. A hole, no bigger than a nickel and just perfectly at eye level. The difference between a happy ending and a tragedy; the scales tipped kindly in his favor this time.

You never wrestle for a gun. That’s the easiest way to get your own damn self shot.

A coin flip. Heads for John, Tails for Gale.

“Guess the quarter got stuck in a crack.” he mutters. He knows his thought patterns aren’t quite clear, confused and weighed down by exhaustion and shock.

Somewhere an animal is in pain. It gasps raggedly; sharp and raw. Someone should put that animal out of its misery, nothing deserved to be driven to sounds like that. Gale knows he is that animal. He swipes at his suddenly-tear soaked cheeks with a rough palm and sits down on the floor hard.

His phone is in his hand, it’s first instinct to want to call John, hear his teasing voice (it hadn’t been teasing in a long time Gale Cleven don’t you lie). Bucky wouldn’t answer. He knew it would be a day or two before he would get an update on his husband. Not until observation was over, until paperwork was filed and permission was given. The nurse had explained it all through the ringing in Gale’s ears.

“Curt.” Buck says, shocked by the steadiness in his voice even as more tears trail their acidic way down his face.

“Hey Buck, y’just caught me on break what’s up?” The familiar voice, clipping all it’s ‘T’s away to nothingness devastates Gale. He lets out a sob with all the violence of vomiting.

“Gale?”

“Ah fuck Curt, John had a gun.” Gale moans, covering his eyes and trying to breathe. The gun, now tossed carelessly on their bed like a stray shirt.

Nobody tells him how to inform their friends of what has happened.

“What.” Curts voice is so strangled, so tiny that Gale realizes his fatal error immediately.

“He’s okay. He’s okay Curt the gun- it went into the wall. He’s at a hospital right now. He’s where he needs to be.”

Gale had heard that phrase a lot; spoken by people trying to reassure themselves that their loved ones would come home whole and healed. Now he was one of those people whispering the phrase with false confidence.

John needed to be Home.

Curt devolves into a mess of swearing, punctuated with a passionate “Fffffucking VA!”

“I woke up and he wasn’t next to me. I thought maybe he had gotten out somehow, past the alarms. I’d already gotten my gun out of the house Curt I didn’t think-”

There's muffled voices on the other line, Curt talking to someone else, “- No I’m sick can’t you see? Gotta go Sean sorry. Fuck the client pardon my fucking french I gotta family emergency.” A car door slams, the sound of keys in an ignition. “You didn’t know Buck. It’s not your fault you did exactly what ya should’ve.”

“He had the gun to his chin,” Gale says numbly.

Is there anyone to tell him how to get that single heart-stopping image out from behind his eyelids? He saw it every time he closed his eyes.

“Fuck, Gale.” Curt exhales. “He’s okay?” so vulnerable, so sad, needing to double check just in case.

“He’s in fucking psych ward. I can’t even call him.”

“Yeah dumb question.” A pause where Gale just tries to breathe, looks up at that hole in the wall. It could be a woodpecker's hole on any tree outside. It was in his home and smelled faintly of gunpowder and terror. “I’m looking up plane tickets right now.”

“Y’don’t have t-”

“G’fuck yourself, I’m coming.”

Gale has no strength to argue, he’s got nothing left, really.

“I almost lost him, Curt.”

“But you didn’t.” Curt still sounds stressed and Gale feels a twinge of guilt for ruining the guy's day just because he wasn’t able to help his own partner. “You did everything right. And you’re going to go to bed, then you’re going to wake up and I’mma be there. And we’ll deal with things together.”

“Together,” he echoes.

“Get some sleep Buck. I’ll send you a text when my flight lands.” Curt orders before hanging up.

The thought of going into the bedroom; to the bed he shared with John. To have to see that fucking gun again.

Nobody tells him how to handle that.

Gale falls asleep on the couch instead.

-*~*-

When he awakes it’s night again and he feels such a violent sense of deja-vu that he has to do a walk-through of the whole house just to make sure that saving John hadn’t actually been a dream. That his body wasn’t lying somewhere with horrifying finality.

Nobody tells you that maybe your husband's trauma-based decisions might cause a little trauma themselves.

Even though he knows there will be nothing - John's phone kept safely in a plastic bag along with the rest of his personal effects- Gale checks their messages first. Scans them for any sign, any slip that he may have missed that told him what Bucky was planning. ‘Love You’s’ and ‘Be Home Soons’ and ‘Get There Safes’. Bucky had been struggling, but he hadn’t seemed quite that bad yet.

Or maybe Gale just hadn’t wanted to see it.

There’s a text from Curt showing his seven hour direct flight was only a half hour from landing.

Exhaustion still claws at Gale as he shuffles out to the truck, clothes rumbled and sweaty from sleep, from stress; from wrestling a fucking firearm from a man determined to end his life and Gale’s in the same action. The truck is too silent. John usually sat to his right, hand on his thigh or the back of his neck; always touching Gale in a way the blonde allowed no other man to do.

He has to pull over to stop himself from hyperventilating.

When he pulls into the pick-up zone at the Airport it’s nearly deserted aside from a short familiar man in a windbreaker and military boots.

Curt takes one look at his pale face and walks around the nose of the car to the driver's side.

“Budge over.” He says, opening the door and waving an impatient hand at Gale.

Gale didn’t think he could, felt like his hands were glued to the smooth leather of the wheel. Just twenty-four hours ago he’d driven Bucky to the hospital in this car. He wondered at how quickly he’d gone from seeing the next steps so clearly in front of him to having to remember how to even speak. He was a puppet, his strings cut the moment John had entered the doors of the hospital. Through security guard checkpoints and metal detectors and locked doors. It was like being back in the desert with that level of protective diligence; or perhaps a prison

That can’t be very good for Bucky.

Nobody told him it might have been a good idea to inform the hospital why sometimes the glint of metal in the light made John do a double take.

When Gale still hasn’t moved, Curt lets out a tender sigh and unclips Gale’s seatbelt for him like the other man is a child.

“Come on Cleven, scoot on down the line.” He says gently, gives him a light push.

This is enough for him to move his wooden limbs, shuffle awkwardly over the center console and collapse gracelessly into the passenger seat. Curt hauls himself into the truck with an awkward grunt. He takes a second to maneuver his leg, move the seat upwards and the wheel down, and adjust the mirrors.

Gale sits there, opening and closing his hands. John had sat here last. Cried here not because he was alive and safe like Gale had cried; but for the opposite.

Nobody told him how to sit in a puddle of his husband’s shed grief.

“Here,” Curt tosses his phone into Gales lap. “Text Kenny for me will ya? Tell him I got y- got here safe”

“Does he know?”

Curt pulls out of the airport, opens a window and leans his arm out as if he could air out the stuffy melancholy of the truck. “He asked where I was going. I didn’t-”

“John’s gonna hate it.” Gale mumbles “He won’t want anyone to know.”

“Yeah, well, if he didn’t want people to know, maybe he shoulda woken you up. Shoulda called m-” Curt cuts himself off, presses sturdy boxer’s fingers to his mouth. “Fucking VA.” he curses again.

“Fucking VA.” Gale agrees. And it feels a little good.

-*~*-

When they arrive back at the house It’s Curt that leads them inside. Curt, who picks up the gun, carefully disassembles it and puts it safely in the lock-box to be gotten rid of later. Curt who makes them a simple dinner of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

They stand at the counter, eating silently. Gale feels wired and too awake, his sleep schedule beyond to fucked.

He’d have to call out of work tomorrow. Maybe take a short leave. How could he even pretend to be okay for the kids?

“This is- In here right?” Curt’s eyes are jumping around the dark room, searching searching.

Nobody tells you the shame that curls in one's belly when you have to show your best friend the bullet hole that nearly ruined all their lives.

Curt puts his hands on his hips, bread crumbs stuck to the corner of his mouth and brow furrowed. Neither of them say much for a long time. Curt surveying and Gale staring a little blankly and replaying the sound of the gunshot over and over in his head.

“Well,” Curt finally drawls, “That’s an easy fix. You got any spackle?” he turns and smiles at Gale, crooked and reassuring,

Gale thinks he’d like to tell someone about this part. The part where people show up for you.

#fic rec #masters of the air #john egan x gale cleven #curt biddick #tw: suicide #OKAY BUT CURT IS SO TENDER WITH BUCK LIKE I'M ACTUALLY GOING TO SCREAM??

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libraryofantiquitea · 1 month

Text

𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐞.

pairing: dick winters x lewis nixon

summary: nixon thinks about an attic haguenau often. apparently winters does not.

warnings: manual sex acts, discussions of war, repressed feelings, alcoholism.

word count: 4.0k

author's notes: i actually can't recall when i wrote this. 2010 or 2011 maybe? anyway, i'm bringing some fics that i've posted on ao3 over here as well. simply for consistency's sake.

likes / comments / reblogs are very much appreciated! thank you for reading! ♥

January 1946

He moved languidly, almost exhaustedly, through a room containing a vast amount of books that he would never read, nor would ever care to. Tucked under his arm was an unopened bottle of whiskey, which he knew would not remain in such a state for much longer. A dull ache slowly permeated its way through his body, something that had lingered within his bones for years. To inform one of the exact date when it began weaving its way through his body, he could not do. However, he always linked it back to Bastogne, and the biting cold that he hadn't been able to shake until months after they had left the line. His shoulders felt tense, and no amount of rolling them or stretching his arms above his head provided any sort of relief.

The force with which he set the bottle down on the bar caused the empty glasses on it to jingle louder than he anticipated, and Lewis Nixon winced slightly. He heard the fall of familiar footsteps finding their way into the library, or den, or whatever the hell room he occupied was supposed to be referred to as. Nixon pretended to pay no mind to the footsteps that drew closer and then ultimately stopped by a leather chair that was frequently occupied by someone other than himself. He poured himself a glass, and momentarily hesitated, before bringing the half-filled tumbler to his lips and letting the warm liquid burn its way down his throat.

He picked at a chip in the rim of the glass that he had never noticed before, and rolled his shoulders again in a vein attempt to achieve muscles void of the ache that he was carrying with him. Standing behind him, Dick Winters coughed once, and he couldn't fully press his finger on whether it had been intentional to get him to finally turn around, or of the natural type that just sort of happened. Nixon was slow to acknowledge.

"You let yourself in again, I see," he said simply, fingers dancing along the bottle, contemplating a second glass.

"Door was open," Dick said in response, leaning against the leather chair. He glanced down toward its cushion, momentarily pondering its comfort before ultimately deciding against it. "You didn't answer when I knocked."

Lewis made a bitter sounding noise, grabbing the bottle and the tumbler and turning around. "Giving one the impression that maybe, just maybe, I wanted to be left alone." Lewis stomped toward the chair that Dick towered over and slumped down into it, setting the bottle onto his lap, the tumbler onto the arm of the chair. He stared across the room at volumes of literature bound in leather for a moment, before glancing up at Dick. He was not surprised to see the other man's eyes on him already. "I expected you to stay away a little longer to be honest," Nixon muttered.

Dick's fingers clenched in the soft leather briefly, before letting go and turning his head, avoiding Nixon's eyes and moving away from the chair. Lewis watched him move a couple of paces away, arms at his sides, so unsure of himself and so uncharacteristic of himself. The ripples in the pond, the ramifications of Lewis' actions a few evenings previous were obviously still a sore spot with Winters, but not to the point where he hadn't wanted to address the issue. Nixon poured himself another glass and averted his eyes when Dick turned back to look at him; the exchange of glances seemed far too intimate at that moment.

Lewis would have given anything to be afforded the courage to look his friend in the eyes and say something worthy of saying. All eloquence had escaped him recently in the presence of Dick Winters, and he was little more than a man of words that only needed to be said out of absolute necessity. Nixon couldn't recall a time in his life when anything had been so absolute, nor a time when he had been so absolutely fucked.

"Are we ever going to talk about it?" Lewis finally ventured just as Dick's eyes returned to the vast bookshelves.

"Yeah," he replied, and then repeated himself, sounding a bit more certain. "Yeah. That's why I came over."

Nixon stretched out his leg, kicking at the matching chair to the one that he had occupied until he was able to push it into Dick's direction. Dick tentatively glanced at the chair, as he had originally with the one that Lewis had been sitting in, before moving into it.

"Well," Lewis began with a rueful smile, setting the bottle of Vat 69 onto the floor by his feet, "start talking, Major."

March 1945

A lack of noise was not something that they had become accustomed to in recent years. In fact, silence was rarely considered a good thing; nothing should ever be so quiet. The stillness of the air only reaffirmed one's belief that German soldiers were too close for comfort. So, for one to be worried about the sudden clamoring of a typewriter to the floor in some dusty attic was meaningless, as it had been far too quiet beforehand.

Silence was never a good thing.

And that is perhaps why Lewis couldn't have possibly given less of a damn about the typewriter that had fallen on the floor. Except, perhaps, when Dick had almost angrily muttered something about reports that he couldn't write (but hated writing so Nixon didn't understand what the goddamn problem was), against the strangely warm and unfamiliar heat of his friend's mouth.

Heat that Lewis particularly craved at the moment. In Haguenau, he could still see his breath hanging in the air, but it paled in comparison to the hellish conditions of Bastogne. He recalled muttering on Christmas Eve how there was snow in his foxhole, to nobody in particular, only to have Winters offer a smile that only he could in such conditions and say, "There's snow in everyone's foxhole."

Warmth was a commodity that they had not been afforded since early December, and Nixon was determined to find it everywhere that he could; the heat radiating off of his friend's body and within the depths of his mouth seemed like a good place to start. Much to his dismay however, Dick was still mumbling about the typewriter on the floor, hands gripping at Nixon's forearms. Lewis finally relented, drawing back only to have Dick grab him by the back of the head and pull him closer again.

"What about the typewriter?" Lewis asked, the force of their combined weight causing the desk to move back, legs scraping against dusty wooden floor.

"Forget about the typewriter," Dick had insisted, eyes drifting to a phantom scar that may or may not have ever existed on Lewis' forehead. He paused and then finally exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath for far too long. "Lew, what are we doing?"

Lewis was disappointed that he had asked; he wasn't entirely certain himself, and was hoping it would not have been brought up. All he was certain of was that in that moment he could not fathom not kissing his best friend, not pushing him against the edge of the desk. Of course, the action had caught Winters off guard, causing his hands to reach back, to brace himself, only to knock the typewriter off of the desk and onto the floor. Kissing Dick, it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world to do, and even more so, it had felt like it.

So Nixon didn't answer – couldn't answer – and instead pressed forward again. Dick tentatively drew back, and Lewis knew he had no right to feel an iota of disappointment. Fingers curling into Lewis' arms again, Dick leaned forward, and in an equally tentative fashion brushed his lips against his friend's.

Lewis smiled against Dick's mouth, and in that moment, completely forgot about the war.

Somewhere in the distance, although still far too close for comfort, the sound of German artillery echoed through the four walls around them. Winters gasped into Lewis' mouth, and with hands pressed against his chest pushed him away. Nixon took no offence to the gesture, it was done so methodical, instant, and in a way that was nothing short of respectful. He watched momentarily dumbfounded as Dick grabbed his helmet then headed down the stairs, only to be shocked back into reality that yes, he needed to go as well.

Nixon felt that he would forever remember that day in Haguenau on March 9, 1945. Neither of them spoke a word about it the remainder of that day, or the next day, or even the following week. Nothing was said when the war ended in May of that year, or even afterward when Dick arrived back stateside and took Lewis up on his job offer in New Jersey.

Not a damn word.

January 1946

He'd given up on words before he had even begun using them; the things he wanted to say were twisted and jumbled in his brain, and he though it better to just not say anything at all. He thought of perhaps attributing it to the drink, but thought better of that; he was useless with words regardless if there was whiskey present or not.

Dick hadn't said much of anything, just how "over there" it had seemed to "make sense."

"But here?" he said, raising his eyebrows as he looked at Nixon, who seemed to be all but melting into his chair. "I don't know, Nix. It's not the same."

Clearly at the given moment words were not Dick's strong point either, Lewis thought, sitting up a bit more straight. He both knew what Dick was talking about and then not at all. Lewis knew what he was alluding to, but at the same time his mind boggled because the rationale and the reasoning that were so very much a Richard Winters sort of thing were just not there.

"How is it not the same?" Lewis asked, furrowing his brow. Dick opened his mouth to speak, but Lewis interrupted him. "No, honestly. Don't just tell me that it doesn't make any sense because we're stateside. We danced around each other long before we ever set foot on European soil."

Winters sighed, looking at the floor before looking back up at Nixon, and looking utterly defeated. "Lew, here everything is real. Certainly not to say that anything over there was less real, but everything about it was so completely foreign. That was one of the many things I left behind, and to be truthful, something I'd not planned on thinking of or mentioning again."

Nixon wanted to tell Dick that not for a moment did he believe that horseshit, but thought better of it. To say that he hadn't thought about it, or never planned to, was absurd. Lewis couldn't count on his fingers how many times he'd replayed that moment in an attic in Haguenau over and over again until he'd convinced himself that it must not have happened at all. And the lie was written all over Dick's face; there was no way he hadn't ever thought about it.

"So," Lewis began, quelling his urge to pour another drink, "it makes sense to kiss you in enemy territory, but not for a moment does it make sense for me to kiss you in my home."

Dick's face reddened, and Lewis also refused to believe that his friend had not given thought to the events a few nights previous.

—

It had been an evening like most others since Dick had arrived in New Jersey, consisting of attempting (or successfully) making something passable for dinner, spending a few hours in whatever room Nixon felt able to tolerate that day drinking (black coffee for Dick) until they ultimately called it a night. Sitting in the library, or den, or whatever the hell room they occupied was supposed to be referred to as, Lewis watched as Winters read the spines of the books lining the walls. It was a simple thing, but something about the moment made Lewis feel embarrassingly breathless.

Dick stood with his back straight, something that Lewis was certain he always did, but had never really noticed until their time in Toccoa, one hand in the pocket of his trousers, empty coffee cup dangling from his fingers. Ever present as his impeccable posture was the shock of red hair, which at that moment was framed against the volumes of Hemmingway, Shakespeare, Twain bound in dark leathers.

Lewis had never stopped thinking about Haguenau, but he'd never felt more compelled to bring it up, or want to have it happen again as much as he had at that moment in time.

Setting the half-filled glass of whiskey onto the table beside his chair, Lewis stood and walked toward Dick, no action plan in mind, without the faintest idea of what he even wanted to do. At the very least, standing next to his friend seemed like the most natural thing to do.

"Do you ever read any of these?" Dick was asking as Lewis came to stand next to him.

"Not really," Lewis replied, scratching at his scalp. "They're here primarily for decoration as far as I'm concerned. Stanhope thought a library or den should be something that I would have in my home." Dick nodded, and turned his attention back toward the books. Lewis sighed and averted his eyes to the carpet which he absolutely detested. "Dick, do you ever think about Haguenau?"

Seeming to be taken aback by the question, Dick took a moment to respond. "Yeah. Sometimes. I don't really try to think too much about it. But sometimes I suppose I do."

Lewis knew he wasn't talking about the attic. "Right." Dick was still reading the spines of the books, when Lewis found the gumption to say, "I was talking about the attic, Dick."

Winters pursed his lips tightly together and sighed. "Lew, so was I."

Not certain how he was supposed to react, Lewis decided that it would be best that he not react at all. Instead, he grabbed Dick by the arm and pulled himself closer to the other man. With little to no thought (and enough drink to reduce his nerves to nothing), Lewis pressed his friend back against the volumes of unread books and kissed him fiercely, the sort that burned and stung in various places, least of all the mouth. Dick did nothing that Lewis hadn't expected – he muttered about the coffee cup which had ended up on the floor, and tangled one hand in Lewis' hair while the other gripped at a bookshelf to steady himself.

It felt better than Haguenau, and better than most things Nixon had ever experienced in his life.

Which is why when moments later, after Dick had suddenly pushed him away, gazed at him a moment, and walked away like his legs couldn't get him out that room any faster, Lewis stood standing alone in the den perplexed to a degree which he had not anticipated.

He pretended not to care one bit when heard Dick rush out of the house, the front door closing loudly behind him, although he had no clue who he was putting up a front for. Lewis reached for the half-filled glass of whiskey and polished it off in one swig, then spent the next hour and twenty-eight minutes drinking as much of the Vat 69 that he could before feeling ill, and continued until he did.

June 1942

"Dick, we've been friends for how long?"

There were few things that Lewis looked forward to more during his officer training at Fort Benning than an evening away from the training, in whatever bar or cinema he happened to find himself in. Regardless of Dick's desire to not drink a damn thing in his lifetime (or so it seemed), Lewis was content to drag his friend to the bars with him, and Dick was content to go with him.

"A couple of months," Dick replied, elbows up on the bar. The bartender had raised an eyebrow when Dick had said he would have nothing after Lewis ordered a whiskey. "Why do you ask?"

"I believe we've discussed just about everything aside from the fact that you are apparently willing to jump out of a perfectly good airplane," Lewis replied, downing the rest of his whiskey and signalling to the bartender for another one.

Dick chuckled, blunt fingernails picking at splinters of wood protruding out of the bar. "There's a different breed of soldier in the paratroops, Nix," he said. "There's a wealth of training, a degree to which I don't think you're likely to get elsewhere. What it comes down to is that I want to be certain, without a doubt, that whoever is standing next to me is one of the best soldiers in the US Military."

Lewis, apparently happy with that answer, nodded and looked thoughtful. A full glass of whiskey found itself in front of him, and Dick was asked yet again, if he was certain that he didn't want anything to drink.

"Fine," was all that Lewis said, finger dancing around the rim of the glass. Winters raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. "Fine, I'll join the paratroopers with you. Don't look at me like that. I'm not letting you jump out of a perfectly good airplane all by yourself."

January 1946

"It made it real."

Lewis had taken to pacing while Dick continued to occupy the chair, feet scuffing against carpet that Lewis hated. It had been silent for far too long, and for the first time in all the years that they had known each other, it had felt awkward, and Lewis hated it. When Winters finally broke the silence, Lewis was legitimately surprised for a reason that he could not place his finger on. Turning, Nixon raised an eyebrow and watched as Dick finally got out of the chair.

"It made it real, huh?" Lewis said in a non-committal sort of way.

Dick nodded, joining Lewis at the spot he was standing by the window. "Lew, a lot of things happened over there that I wish I could forget. And I did a lot of things that I hope that I never have to do again. Whenever I think about it, it doesn't seem entirely real. I know that it was, but it was all something so far removed from how life is, how life should be, that thinking about it as a reality is onerous." Dick sighed, glancing at Lewis for a moment before turning his eyes back to the window. "Something that happened over there happening here solidifies that everything that did happen over there was real – very real. And its not that I can't believe that it all happened, its that sometimes I don't want to."

"Dick, you're confusing the hell out of me here," Nixon said, shaking his head. "Are you equating me kissing you to war?"

"I'm equating the time and place in which it occurred to be the same time and place during which a war occurred," Dick replied. He sighed loudly, visibly frustrated, although Lewis couldn't tell if it was with himself or otherwise. "I feel wrong deriving any sort of happiness or joy from that time, Lew."

That, Lewis understood.

He hoped that Dick hadn't noticed the way his body had trembled as he brushed his fingertips against the back of Lewis' hand, or how his breath shuddered out of him. It seemed to Nixon that he had done it all wrong in the past; he'd never experienced it this way the few nights before or in Haguenau. His stomach was in a series of uncomfortable knots as Dick grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from the window, and almost into the shadows where the light from the lamp didn't quite reach. Dick placed his hands on Lewis' shoulders, and pressed his back against the wall, closing the space between them with a veil of grace that thinly covered trembling breath and tattered nerves.

He'd been doing it all wrong, somehow. Dick's mouth on his had never felt more real. Warmth that he had desperately craved in Haguenau, truth he had wanted nights ago – it was all right there, quantified still in the slow and tentative way that his friend's lips found his. There were various degrees of wanting that Lewis had experienced in their time knowing one another, but none had ever felt this way. Perhaps the secret of which had never lain with Lewis, but with knowing that yes, Dick had experienced want, lust, and perhaps even love as well.

There was no perhaps about it; Lewis Nixon would be the first person to admit to the world, if asked (and perhaps even not asked), that he loved Richard Winters.

The dull ache which always slowly permeated its way through his body felt relaxed, no longer a binding of muscles and an annoyance to be dealt with. Nothing could have been further from Nixon's mind at that moment in his life. Lewis gasped as Dick's mouth found his jaw, and hands found his shirt and tugged until his shirt tails were free from his trousers. He'd nearly come undone at the way Dick had whispered "Lew," and pressed against him.

Lewis had whispered obscenities as Dick's hands worked open his trousers in a way that would have led Lewis to believe that he'd done this before, only he knew that he hadn't. Trembling with anticipation, Nixon grabbed at Dick's shoulder, feeling foolish standing there with his back against the wall, in a state of undress, Dick fully clothed.

As Dick's hand wrapped around him, his lips were drowning out Lewis' moans, which he was immensely thankful for, as he sounded more foolish than he felt. Foreheads pressed together, Nixon whined and tilted his hips forward, wanting little more than to stay in that moment for longer than he knew he was capable of. He whispered "Fuck," once or twice, and Dick had chuckled and Lewis kind of hated him, but only briefly.

There was little space between them, save for at the necessary junctures where there bodies would have met to allow movement of Dick's hand. Lewis could feel the thrumming of Dick's heart against his chest, through all of the layers of clothing, flesh, muscle and bone, could hear his erratic breathing as he pressed his mouth against the hallow of Lewis' throat. Grabbing at Dick's free hand, Lewis laced their fingers together, and squeezed tightly as he came, his best friend's name a mantra on his lips. Dick kissed him fiercely, breathless and spent himself, as Lewis fought to not slump against the wall, and allow gravity to drag him down to the floor.

Nothing had ever felt so real.

—

Lewis lit a cigarette as he stood barefoot in the kitchen, cold floors causing the chill to start at the soles of his feet and work its way up his body. He grumbled about the cold, and Dick stopped mid-sentence and laughed; something foolish about how he wanted his eggs.

"Never heard you complain about the cold since Bastogne," Dick said, turning toward the stove. "I would have assumed that all other forms of cold would pale in comparison."

"Some red-headed asshole saw fit to steal my robe after I extended him the courtesy of sharing my bed," Nixon said after a pull from his cigarette. "I've yet to decide whether or not this is worse than having snow in my foxhole."

Dick smiled but didn't say anything, and simply commenced cracking eggs into a frying pan. Lewis continued smoking his cigarette and fighting the urge to remain grinning like an idiot for the remainder of the day, as it was rather difficult to pretend to be furious about a robe and the cold with a wide grin spread across one's face.

"You're not mad about the robe," Dick said, as Lewis advanced across the kitchen to the stove and stood next to him.

Lewis blew smoke out the corner of his mouth, away from Dick's face, and smiled as he looked out the window. It was all natural, and completely real. Nixon placed his hand on top of Dick's, squeezing and thinking that perhaps he might not let go unless he absolutely had to.

"I'm not mad about a damn thing."

[/end.]

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libraryofantiquitea · 1 month

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HAD TO INCLUDE BUCK FROM MANITOWOC

(Clegan Postwar Longshot Snippet)

“He was always a bit tiny, you know? Couldn’t swim either,” Bucky chuckles “I taught him how to. Pushed him right off that rock over there and told him the best way to learn was just by doing.” he shakes his head “Buck from Manitowoc…he was a good kid, a real good kid. Shipped out to the Pacific a few months before we deployed. He was killed.” John shakes his head again, a little rougher this time, “Some middle of fucking no-where island called Talugai.”

“I’m sorry John.”

John nods, smoothies his mustache with his thumb and forefinger, “You think I could have saved him? If I’d gone into the Marines instead of becoming a pilot?”

Buck lets himself drift a little closer. The John in front of him right now reminds him uncomfortably of John from the Stalag. Far away and struck with a melancholic fog that nobody could seem to reach him through. Not even Gale sometimes.

“I don’t think anyone could answer that.”

“He was like you.”

Buck grins despite himself “I know, I know. Look just like-”

“No.” John interrupts, voice pitched low, “I mean he was like you Gale.”

Buck watches his fingers swirl through the water, “You mean a pansy.”

“Ain’t there any nice names for it?”

He can’t help but chuckle, even as that thing twists tighter and tighter knots in his stomach. Was he just a replacement for a friend that never came home? A nice place-holder for a childhood friend that he hadn’t been aware he’d been filling in for?

“None that I’ve heard. It’s not really a nice, decent thing”

“I think you’re plenty nice and decent Gale.”

“Hmm”

“I feel this…sense of regret,” John admits quietly, “That I wasn’t better friends with him. We came down here cause we both liked catching crawdads, but I never made much effort otherwise.”

“So then how’d you know he was queer?” Buck splashes water across his shoulders, feeling the tight irritated feeling of a coming sunburn.

“He kissed me.”

Gale freezes, hand halfway to his shoulder. He doesn’t dare look over at John, wets his lips nervously, “How’d you feel about that?”

“Confused,” John sighs out, sinking lower into the creep up his lips, the barely there current lapping against them. Gale never imagined he’d be envious of water. “When he realized what he’d done he tried to run. I chased him halfway through the damn forest before I caught up. Told him I was real flattered but I had a girl already.”

Sunlight glimmers off the water, bright and shiny like it had once glimmered off a B-17’s wings. Buck closes his eyes and tilts his head back. Wasn’t that just the way of John Egan? Taking everything in stride with a joke and a quick word of assurance.

“I promised him I wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone, but I think he was still pretty spooked. He stopped showing up to hunt crawdads after that. Next thing I knew I was back home and he had been shot in the war”

“Nothing you could have done John,” Gale says quietly.

John’s eyes flicker darkly and he starts making his way towards shore where a patch of green grass flutters invitingly. “You can’t say that about everything, Buck.”

#fic rec #masters of the air #john egan x gale cleven #BLOWING THE DUST OFF THIS BLOG TO SHARE THIS MAJESTIC THING #rachel has been sharing bits and pieces with me and omg OMG y'all are in for a fuckin' TREAT #she's good with words y'all

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libraryofantiquitea · 2 months

Note

For thots, I litterally just want Rhett to cry from overstimulation while Reader is riding him. Because goddamit if you aren't coming on his cock it's not over!

Rhett's so damn stubborn, too 😩 he's got it in his head that he wants to feel you cum around his cock, and he doesn't care if it kills him in the process! So here he is in your bed, flat on his back, hair fanned out beneath his head, clutching at the sheets, begging you to cum. Red-cheeked and panting, unable to close his mouth even for a second, so oversensitive that his every word is a whimper.

His thighs are shaking so hard that you can hardly stay on him, hands planted on his sweaty chest, using his abused cock to get yourself off. It's so hard to focus when you've got a show going on beneath you, can hardly believe that this is the same cowboy you clambered into bed with.

You get him to cum a second time before you even begin to feel close, too damn distracted to really focus on your own pleasure. The greater part of you wants to climb up and ride his pretty face, but Rhett's so damn adamant that you cum around him, even if doing so brings him to tears. Streaming down and staining his cheeks, the last thing you see before you collapse on top of him.

He's so snuggly afterward, too. Nuzzling his nose into the side of your cheek, bugging you for kisses, refusing to move from this bed unless he absolutely has to. His face wrinkles when you joke about one more round, but come morning, he'll be raring to have a rerun of last night's events 💐

Send me Miles, Rhett & Bob thoughts!

#outer range #rhett abbott x reader

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libraryofantiquitea · 2 months

Text

Cat's Out of the Bag

Summary: Jake has secrets Words: 1500ish Warnings: angsty-ish, twist, found family, Jake Seresin. A/N: I CANNOT TELL YOU HOW HAPPY I AM THAT I HAVE MUSES FOR SOMEONE OTHER THAN CHARLES LECLERC RIGHT NOW. A/N 2: Enjoy this word vomit that took all of 30 minutes to write.

Jake Seresin sat quietly at the bar, his fingers twirling the short glass of whiskey in front of him. The behavior struck the entire bar as out of character, the blond pilot’s general demeanor being loud, boastful, and needing to be the center of attention.

“What’s wrong with him?” Rooster whispered to Coyote.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Coyote, you’re his best friend. You know more than any of the rest of us will ever hope to know. What is wrong with Hangman?”

Coyote sighed as he looked over at the man seated at the bar. He knew there were things the team didn’t know, things Jake didn’t want them to know. But the pleading stares of their co-workers wore him down. “His wife left.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Rooster stammered.

The only one in the group unfazed by the news of the cocky pilot’s spouse was Bob, something that didn’t shock Coyote at all.

“So you’re telling me,” Phoenix started, setting her beer down, “that not only has Bagman been married this whole time, but now he’s pouting at the bar because she’s gone?”

“He’s never mentioned a wife, though,” Fanboy commented.

“I can’t believe he’d do that to his wife,” Payback scoffed. “No wonder she left.”

“Do what to her?” Coyote questioned, his tone defensive as he squared his shoulders.

“The women, the drinking, you know, his basic weekend,” Payback clarified.

“The women he never left with? The ones he bought a drink for and sent to someone else? The max of two beers he nursed through the night while buying us multiple rounds?” Coyote rebutted, his temper flaring as he stared down the other pilot.

“We never actually saw anything besides talking,” Bob added with a shrug.

“Not only are you telling us that Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin is not the ladies man he pretended to be, but that he’s married.” Fanboy shook his head and swallowed a mouthful of beer as he processed the information.

“I’m honestly surprised no one else picked up on it,” Coyote shrugged, relaxing a little after Bob took his side.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Phoenix asked.

“Not my place to tell. Besides, Jake asked me for discretion.”

“And you, Bob?”

“No one asked me. Besides, I don’t like betraying my friends’ confidence.”

“They knew you know?!” Fanboy stared, slack-jawed at the quiet backseater, mentally running through all of their conversations for any mention of the crucial detail.

“She’s got a killer brownie recipe,” Bob squeaked as his cheeks reddened with the attention focused on him.

“What are we going to do?” Rooster sighed as he watched his rival toss a bill on the counter and leave his unfinished drink.

“I have an idea,” Phoenix smirked.

Jake sighed as he put away the last plate. Seven o’clock on a Saturday morning and he had worked out for tow hours, cooked and ate breakfast, showered, and cleaned the entire house.

He always had trouble sleeping alone.

His brows furrowed when he heard a knock on the front door. His muscles tensed and he crept forward quietly, shaking his head and relaxing when he saw who was there.

“Hey Jake!” a chorus greeted as he opened the door to his squad.

“Guys, what are you doing here?” Jake questioned, his eyes boring into Coyote’s forehead as his best friend actively avoided his gaze.

“Coyote mentioned what happened a few days ago and Phoenix – oof – we decided to come hang out for the day,” Rooster explained with the help of Phoenix’s elbow.

“Guys, really, it’s fine -”

“We aren’t leaving until after lunch at the earliest,” Phoenix interrupted.

Jake regarded the brunette carefully before stepping aside and allowing his friends into his home. “Shoes,” he barked to the four who weren’t already removing their footwear.

“Nice place you have here Ba- Jake,” Fanboy complimented as he took in the bright spaces.

“Thanks. It’s small but it’s home,” Jake replied. “Living room’s through here.” He led them to a spacious room with vaulted ceilings, built in bookcases framing a large television set.

“Call of Duty?” He asked as he picked up a controller and powered on a gaming console.

Payback was quick to pick up the second controller and settle into an armchair. “Man, we live Call of Duty. You got Madden?”

“Do I have Madden? Who do you think you’re talking to?”

Phoenix and Rooster shared a look of relief at the almost immediate improvement in their friend’s mood.

Several hours and a coffee table covered in snacks later, Jake was yelling instructions at Bob on which buttons to press to run a play that would win the match against Phoenix.

The overlapping voices in the room were so loud that they didn’t hear the door open and shut.

“Jakey, what is all of this?” An amused voice called out over the ruckus.

“Baby, you’re back!” Jake shouted as he vaulted across the room, leaping over bodies like a golden retriever to scoop the woman up in his arms and twirl her around. His lips met hers as her feet dangled off the ground, the pair of them oblivious to the way all noise had stopped.

“Jake, please put me down. I’m getting sick!”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he apologized as he set her feet back on the floor.

“Will someone please explain what’s going on?” Fanboy said.

“Hi, I’m Jake’s wife,” she giggled as Jake wrapped his arms around her from behind. “You must be the rest of his squad. Fanboy, Phoenix, Payback and...Chicken? Right?”

Jake stifled his laughter with her shoulder as Rooster gawked at her. “Rooster, not chicken.”

“I’m so sorry,” she blurted. “I just hadn’t been able to put faces to the names Jake always mentioned.”

“Coyote said you left,” Rooster stated.

“Yeah, I had to go home for a few days for a dress fitting. Jake’s sister is getting married next month.”

“Is everything else okay?” Jake questioned, taking her attention back to him.

“Yeah, your mom sends her love. Gran can’t wait. You know, everyone so excited for everything.”

“Did Leah agree to our idea?”

“Oh my god she’s thrilled, Jake! I wish you could have seen her face! As maid of honor and best man, we’ll do a joint speech at the rehearsal.”

“And the other thing?”

“Of course she and Derek agreed!”

“Hey, uh, there’s five –“ Rooster stopped and looked at Bob who seemed like he would melt into the couch with relief – “okay, four very confused squad mates here need to know what the fuck is going on.”

“Can I? PLEASE JAKE!?” she pleaded as she turned to face her husband. He nodded slightly and she squealed, planting a kiss to his cheek before rushing out of the room.

“Coyote, what did you tell them?” Jake asked as he took in the faces of his friends around the room.

“I said your wife left,” Coyote shrugged.

“That’s ALL he said!” Payback shouted.

“Bob, you didn’t tell them either?”

“BOB KNEW?!”

“Bob is technically family at this point. My sister, Leah, is marrying his brother, Derek,” Jake explained as his wife came back with a small bundle.

She handed Jake a box and unfurled a piece of cloth, grinning as gasps rang out around the room.

“Coming soon...baby Seresin,” Rooster read aloud.

“You’re pregnant!” Phoenix exclaimed, crossing the room to give her congratulations up close.

“So...you’re married, your wife didn’t leave you for good, and she’s having your kid?” Fanboy scrunched his face as he attempted to process the information he’d been given in such a small amount of time.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Jake confirmed with a grin, his arm wrapped around his wife’s waist as Phoenix begged for details.

“Jake, baby, why don’t we throw something on the grill for everyone?” she asked as she looked up at him.

“If that’s what you want, absolutely,” he responded with a kiss to her head.

“It would be nice to get to know everyone. Now that all of the cats are out of their respective bags.”

“You’re going to make me socialize outside of work with them, aren’t you?” Jake pouted.

“Well, we already see Bob and Javy all the time. We might as well throw in the rest as well.”

Jake groaned dramatically, smiling when he saw how happy the idea made her. “Fine. Coyote, you’re coming to the store with me. Bob, you keep her off of her feet.”

“I’m not telling her what to do,” Bob balked.

“Don’t worry, baby,” she cooed as she turned his face to her and kissed his lips again. “I will sit down in that chair and not move until it’s time for dinner.”

“Good.”

“Sorry for letting the cat out of the bag, man,” Coyote apologized, clapping his shoulder.

“Maybe I should have done it sooner,” Jake mused. “It seems to make her happy to have another girl around.”

Jake slipped on his shoes and grabbed his keys, turning back before stepping out of the door. These people may not be blood, but they were his family.

#top gun: maverick #jake seresin #I LOVE WHEN MY FRIENDS' MUSES RETURN #AND I LOVE THIS

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