constanthaunt

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i've finally done it

woodstock gale

to go with bucky snoopy

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masters of the air is crazy because who let them get this close

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made a bluesky like all the other cool kids

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Buck and Bucky

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hi marc!

i was thinknig about justfine buckies, if you feel like answerinf what are BRITD and any other of your buckies doing for pride or ev and douglass?

“I just don’t get it.”

“What’s there not to get?” Doug asks around a smoke. 

The window’s open. Gale’s outnumbered three-to-one and there’s not enough space out on the fire escape to let them all smoke outside. It clouds the room, travelling in wisps. It’s not so bad with John and Ev gone, sent for pizza at a strange hour. Gale could make Doug go outside, like he used to make John do, but he doesn’t. This is John’s house too now. The yellowing ceilings. It’s all proof for after. 

“What the big deal is,” Gale continues, half a thought. 

“You don’t wanna get married?” 

Gale’s lip stiffens around the lip of his coke can. 

“I got married,” he says, and Doug exhales mighty deep, like he’s exasperated by the pedanticism. It’s not. Not untrue, that is. Gale was married. He had a wife. Marge. He loved her before he buried her. Marge. 

“Quit bustin’ my balls, man. You know what I mean,” Doug says. 

Gale doesn’t want to marry John. Sometimes they’ll stand chin to shoulder on the subway, and Gale will feel him and want him there forever. He’s thinking about it, but he’s mostly thinking about everyone else around them. Being a queer, a shitpacker. Being beaten around the head a few times and left to die someplace. Gale’s not sure how much rainbow waving can fix that. 

“Do you?”

“What?”

“Wanna get married?”

“To Ev? Christ,” Doug says, stubbing out his cigarette. “He’s half a faggot, not a bigamist.” 

He won’t leave her for me, he doesn’t say. Gale hears it. With an increasing frequency, tales of the end of a horizon are foretold. 

For now, it remains the four of them. Doug calls it their best Boys in the Band impression to Gale’s blank expression. He’s never seen it. The off-broadyway play or the film. “I don’t think you and Johnny boy have ever indulged in any queer filmography that didn’t involve a ten inch cock,” Doug says to it, leaving Gale to swamp around in his ignorance. “That’s what you need; a bit of culture about you.”

‘M doing just fine without it,” Gale tells him. 

“Sure, Buck.”

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prayers for sailors

kinnaird/lane | 8k | t | complete

“Try being kind to yourself then,” John says.

George says nothing to it, reaching out to take the books. Like the dead in the sea, John does not give them up easy. Their fingers only touch because George makes sure they do, deliberate with the stroke of his fingertips. If John notices—and God, he must—he says nothing of it either.

written for @theterrorbingo prompt “it’s not quick”

preface | morning prayer | prayer for friends at home | for one who is insensible and delirious | evening prayer | for one whose sickness has been long continued | prayer to be used at a funeral at sea | on reaching the end of a voyage 

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perusing your fics and i find you wrote THE skeleton crew fic for the terror fandom. INSANE. i think about john and george all the time :(

skeleton crew!! proof a mf can write about anything if the narrative is right

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need to shoehorn the phrase "bad day to bottom" into fanfiction

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James Douglass and Everett Blakely

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clegan cowboy au but its cowboys as in dodgy builders

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Well boys, if the station on full lockdown, sound of a couple thousand ships forming up weren't your first clues, we're a few hours away from the invasion of Europe.

MASTERS OF THE AIR D-Day

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broooooo ahaha that's so epic. do you mind if i grow fond of you

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not about angels

Explicit | 10k

John hums, considering. He drapes the book over his face, then cushions his head on his forearms.  Gale catches himself drawn to the casual movement. The way John's position stretches his arms, revealing dark hollows where sweat has collected in wiry hair. His red fez sits on his stomach, a ridiculous splash of color against desert monotony. His shoulders look massive, out of proportion with the absurd hat. One leg is crooked up, keeping secrets. The heft of his thighs press against worn shorts, exposing an inner patch of skin untouched by sun. Pale. Smooth. John's alive—brutally so, a stark contrast to the memory of a man torn in half on their wing. At that moment, death hadn't felt human. Blood frozen at altitude, turning remains to wax figures. Just a torso. Limbs. A uniform-clad form reduced to components. But John is different. He is flesh and breath and unexpected softness.

/

They land in Algeria. John doesn’t touch Gale anymore.

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what's your dick like homie what are you into