if your lie is a good enough lie god will make it real

Come back, I have to tell you the plot of a fic I’ll never write and get you excited about it so we can all be disappointed with me later

stab me again im close

i bet gale gets embarrassed about the fact that he busted out a love confession to bucky on that train car because he thought they were both going to die so he’d never have to circle back to it, but joke’s on him they both lived

bucky lets him sit on that for about six months before he’s like “hey remember when you admitted that you also bet on us being the only two men left in the sky~” and gale either has to admit to having basic human desires like everyone else or explode them both with his mind

“it’s not gonna ride itself Buck” type pose

watch glass closet compartmentalization barbie ✨ dance ✨

Is it gay to leave your lucky flying jacket behind when you go on a revenge mission because the friend you're revenging didn't like it (because it wasn't clean)?

ALWAYS BE YOUR SUGAR

Chapter 1 - House of Jealous Lovers

I guess I'm doing this. Clegan, the indie sleaze years without indie sleaze antics. With playlist!

Williamsburg, Summer 2002. The first summer after the City changed forever. Like every story about New York City, this is a story about real estate, gentrification, art, and commerce. And a love letter to a City that we can never go back to and an uninterrupted view of a Manhattan skyline that we'll never see again. Like any story I tell, it's also one about nightlife, dancing, food, and interiors.

Saying goodbye wouldn’t be so hard if getting to know you wasn’t so easy

you've got this strange effect on me (and i like it)

part two

more Buck/Bucky agent vs. assassin AU, heavily and blatantly inspired by Killing Eve

8k words | knifeplay, dubcon, bloodplay, references to canonical character death and other killings

read on ao3 (preview below)

Gale has never had a problem with confinement. On the Rio job, where they’d set up what Curt had referred to as a honey trap and hadn’t even caught the bear, he had been fitted for a Kevlar vest.

“Hate these fuckin’ things, feel like they’re squeezin’ the life outta me,” Curt had griped as he strapped Gale in, and Gale had just hummed in response, because the truth was he didn’t mind it at all.

This tolerance is likely why he doesn’t thrash or yell when he’s woken at an unreal hour by a solid weight on his abdomen. It’s likely why his pulse skips a little, and his gut jerks like it’s been hooked, but he doesn’t do anything outwardly except roll his shoulders when he realizes his wrists are tied to the head of his bed. The lamp on his nightstand has been flicked on, dim yellow glow that has never been much of a reading light, but Gale can still identify that his right wrist is secured by one of his own ties. Binding the left is a blue scarf that he’s never seen before. The weight on his stomach is a two-hundred-plus-pound man.

“Morning, gorgeous,” the Major says.

Don't count on it.

(more sentences friday)

Tagged by the talented @shipstorms

This is something that happened in Algeria. Part 1

"How about you, Bucky?" Crank asked.

John lay not far away, a novel with dog-eared corners spread across his chest. He shifted, moving the book just enough to squint at the question. "What about what?"

"What's the first thing you're gonna do when we get back?"

John hummed. He draped the book over his face, blocking the sunlight, then cushioned his head on his hands. The position stretched his arms, revealing the dark, damp hollows of his armpits where sweat had collected and dried in wiry hairs. His red fez rested on his chest, a splash of color against the muted browns and tans of the desert. His shoulders looked massive, disproportionate to that absurd small thing. He crooked one leg up, kept others guessing. The heft of his thigh pressed against the worn fabric of his shorts, the exposed inner side showing a patch of skin almost untouched by the sun. Pale. Smooth.

Gale watched, transfixed. John was alive—brutally, achingly alive. The observation pulled his mind back to the man torn in half on their wing, how in that moment it hadn't felt like a man to him. Just a torso. Limbs. A uniform-clad form reduced to its mechanical components.

But John was different. John was flesh and breath and unexpected softness.

No pressure tagging @joeyalohadream, @soft-mama-main and @shipstorms (because, quote Callum, I gotta throw it back baby!)