shipstorms

[shipstorms]

two sane bitches ❤️

[shipstorms]

🤓🪳✨

🤓 Sub Gale Au

“Unless you’ve got a better one on hand– which I doubt.”

There’s a twinkle in John’s eye, irresistible charismatic mirth. Gale can’t help the thread of amusement that curves his lips. 

“Now, Buck,” John says, with extra emphasis like he was checking to make sure Gale didn’t have any last objections. Gale did, but he wasn't about give John the satisfaction. “With your help, I’d like to teach these yokels how to tie a knot.”

✨ Halloween fic (Grim Realer Gale)

Chill seeps through him, familiar and soothing now. Freezing his lungs, his heart.

“Easy boy,” he says, breath clouding from his lips even though the spring thaw is all around them. Was around them. The muddy road had vanished, overtaken by a quiet fog that smelled faintly of roses

He realizes he can’t remember when Bill had stopped calling his name.

🪳 unnamed noir au 

cut for gore

Fourteen to twenty years of age, brown hair– best that can be seen through the blood. Teeth missing, the bleeding suggesting they were knocked out while still alive. Clothes nowhere to be found, but the earrings in her ears are cheap. The victim has wounds on her outer arms, legs, stomach and face. Cuts on the bottom of her feet, flesh stripped from the thighs down to bone. Killing wound could have either been the blow to the back of the head, or the wounds to to abdomen– likely a knife.She struggled, and she lost. 

Other observations he leaves out. The fan of her lashes across her cheeks, shockingly spotless of blood compared to the gore below. The way her head is tilted back, vulnerable, gentle, a lamb for the slaughter and the white line of her neck glowing eerily bright in the gloom of the alley. It had rained recently, and bits of city detritus cling to the edges of her, clumping to the blood dried tacky between the cobblestones. 

She looks like she could be his sister–if he had one. She looks like she had been pretty, once.

[shipstorms]

🤖 pretty please I’m excited already

<333

The sun is starting to creep in around the perimeter of his closed blinds, which means it's between six or seven o'clock. Peak meal time, but he's not that hungry and wouldn't mind waiting around a bit. There's a stationary store around the corner from a tapas place that Gale might like. Neither of them close 'til nine, and John's seen a tattered black moleskine nestled inside Gale's messenger bag that probably needs replacing soon. 

"You got any food allergies?" he asks. 

"What?" Gale turns to look at him, fingers still nestled into the elastic of his sock. "No. I don't think so." 

John prepares his answer to the inevitable follow-up question, except Gale doesn't ask why he's asking. Instead he just stands up and pulls his jeans on, still facing the window. John chews on his lip, once again grimly thankful that no one's looking at him. And besides, Gale has a nice back. From that angle, he can at least appreciate the view.

[shipstorms]

🤖 oh do tell

just another excuse for john to wrestle between being horny and the most longing human being on earth!

John scratches at his chest, then fumbles around on the bedside table for his vape. "What are you doing for dinner?" 

"Leftovers."

"Leftovers," John repeats. He sticks his tongue out and blows a raspberry. "Boring."

"I don't like wasting food," says Gale. He's distracted, bent forward and getting his socks back on. The heels are threadbare. John takes a hit and wonders if Gale would be wearing those socks if he were with anyone else. 

[shipstorms]

and also if i may because i'm intrigued and that gifset killed me: 🤖

it KILLS MEEEE i've watched it so many times

He takes a moment to stare at where he's speared into Gale, then hangs his head to squeeze his eyes shut. It's not like it was a lie. John's always liked them a little mean, a little snappy. The burn of it came with a stinging pleasure that left him depersonalized and tender, except nowadays the balance of it all has been unraveling itself into an uneven mess. 

"John," Gale says, evidently taking this stillness as a taunt. "Can you -- "

"Yeah?"

Gale makes another noise. His back tenses again. "I need you to move."

[shipstorms]

make me write game

tagged by @pinenutpbj!

send a WIP emoji and i'll write a few lines for it

🪐: margebuckies (part ii: john/gale)

🧀: modern AU

🪢: stalag fic

🤖: another modern AU where they're sleeping together before they really know each other and john makes the mistake of catching feelings (inspired by the recent gifset of john looking so longingly at paulina)

plz also send any prompts bc i am all over the place rnnn

tagging @girlswiththecurls @knoepfchen @wayrad

[shipstorms]

❓pleaaase (if it doesn't make you spoil anything you wouldn't want obv)

>Make me write

wait you're so sweet okay pls have a paragraph of Bucky yearning

❓: Omegaverse clegan

Sometimes John thinks Gale approaches everything with the fierce competitiveness of an alpha. The way he pushes himself harder than necessary. The way he refuses to back down from a challenge. John likes that about him, likes the fire that burns behind Gale's careful exterior. 

But he also secretly likes that Gale is a beta. It means John can lean in close during briefings, can let his scent mingle with the clean, warm musk of Gale's skin without needing an excuse. It means all the small touches don’t need to be navigated, as long as Gale tolerates them. He can hook an arm around Gale’s shoulder, brush knuckles against Gale’s cheek and no one would raises their eyebrows.

Now they’ve changed into their better clothes, and Gale looks good. Better than good. The blue shirt brings out his eyes, making them appear even more startlingly blue than usual, and he's meticulously pomaded his hair in a way that makes him look older, more sophisticated than his twenty-one years. But there's something almost ethereal about the way the lamplight catches the tawny strands, and John has to force himself to focus on his own reflection in the mirror instead of watching Gale's preparations.

[shipstorms]

slow draw a little beasts fic (9.4k, Clegan)

For the first time in his life there is something in front of him he can’t stand to face by himself. Whether he’s gotten weak, whether the struggle is harder, he doesn’t know. But he knows, somewhere deep and intrinsic, if he tries to do this by himself he’s going to fail. 

“If you go, you have to behave, John.”John smiles, as who, me? as he’s ever been, the teasing an easy veneer over the gravity of the situation. “C’mon, doll, you know me.”

thank you to @the-ghost-of-jason-todd for beta'ing!

[shipstorms]

Oh, Wild Heart Chapter 6!

James Cleven dies on an unassuming Saturday in late February. On a freezing Friday in March, Gale Cleven comes home.

He plans to stay for a week, get rid of the ranch his father left him, and get back to his life.

John Egan throws a wrench in things.

Chapter 6: Featuring Gale on a horse in a cowboy hat (finally!) and also seeing people you knew in high school at your hometown grocery store and having a panic attack about it. As you do.

[shipstorms]

sharpening up our teeth

[masters of the air, john “bucky” egan/gale “buck” cleven, 5.6k, e]

Most mornings after the full moon in the stalag, Gale doesn’t need to touch himself.

[shipstorms]

Back on my pinterest shuffles bullshit with this collage for @feyd-meowtha ongoing fic !

Salt and Vinegar (E, 2/?, 22k)

Gale was innocent. He’d never asked for this. He simply had the misfortune of being born to a father who did not want him, followed by the greater misfortune of growing up with one who did.

John knew this and accepted it. He loved him, the beautiful boy who slept on a sofa in caravan seventeen. He loved him so much it burned but he couldn’t help the fact that sometimes, when it was very quiet, he sort of felt like all of this was his fault.

+++

John is a burnout who works at a fish and chip shop and moonlights as a small-time drug dealer. Gale is the mysterious kid who just moved into the local caravan park with his dad. It should have been simple. It was not.

[shipstorms]

magic mike au 👁️ 👁️

hii i’ve never seen magic mike, i hope this works 🫶

“Hey Buck, buy you a drink?”

Gale frowns. It’s his first day on the job, and he only knows enough to be sure the guy grinning at him from the other side of the bar isn’t the manager or the owner of the place.

“My name’s not Buck,” he says.

“Oh? Coulda swore I heard someone say it was.” The guy runs a hand through his mess of dark curls. Probably he thinks it’s charming. “Buy you a drink anyhow?”

It’s two in the afternoon. Gale’s only here this early to familiarize himself with the setup before his bartending shift that night. None of that is need-to-know information though, and this guy seems like he’d take a mile if Gale gave an inch.

“I don’t drink,” Gale says instead.

The guy whistles. Solemnly, he says, “Good on you. I’ve seen the dangers of the stuff firsthand.”

Gale eyes the man’s broad hands, spread now over the bar top. Some of his fingers look like they’ve been broken a time or two. Gale says, “I bet.”

The guy cracks a sly, handsome grin. Gale feels something about it, instinctually, which he replaces with suspicion just as fast.

“So, what is your name?”

Gale raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t know why he makes the guy fish. He just feels like there’d be some consequence if he made it too easy.

The guy takes it in stride. “Guess I’ll have to try harder,” he says. “Where are you from?”

“That’s trying harder?”

The guy laughs a little, folds his arms on the bar and pillows his head on them. He looks up at Gale, pleading the way a dog or a child might, wide-eyed and sweet, but there’s a damnable self-awareness to it.

Gale sighs shortly. “Wyoming, originally.”

“Cowboy state,” the guy says. He snaps his fingers. “Knew you looked like a Buck.”

“How do you figure?”

“You know, like a horse’ll buck somebody. Same as you’ve been trying to do this whole conversation.”

“I make nice,” Gale says, in his flattest voice.

The guy laughs. “Well, I’d love to see it one day. Lucky for you the ladies love a brooding blonde.”

“I don’t much care about that.”

“You will,” the guy promises. “That’s where your tips are. You on tonight, cowboy?”

Gale fixes the guy with a stare, to little effect. Eventually he nods.

“Good,” the guy says, voice freighted with something Gale can’t put his finger on. “Me too.”

Then he backs off, literally, a couple jaunty backward steps with his hand raised in goodbye.

“Hey,” Gale calls, before he’s out of earshot. “What’s your name?”

“They call me Bucky!” the guy yells back.

“You gotta be joking,” Gale says, but Bucky just grins and turns away.

Later that night, Gale’s swamped for a good 45 minutes before the show. The crowd thins out as the lights go down, though, and he’s in the clear by the time the curtains open. He grabs a tub to bus the bar and doesn’t look too hard at the stage. It’s not his choice of entertainment, but he’s new in town and this is the first place he landed an interview. That pretty face won’t hurt none, the manager had said, and made him an offer on the spot.

So Gale’s not paying much attention, up until the gunshots go off: they’re fake, Gale knows the difference, but still his head snaps up in time to see a cap gun trailing smoke.

It’s Bucky up there. Doing an absurd little boot-scoot, dressed in chaps, spurs, and not much else other than his cowboy hat.

Gale pauses, empty beer bottle in hand. No fucking way was this his act.

Bucky’s baggy tracksuit from earlier had camouflaged just how broad he is, with thick arms and thighs. But his personality’s intact: he’s having fun up there, it looks like, grinning and shimmying, goofy and lascivious all at once. Must be that unlikely marriage that makes it hard to look away from.

By the time the chorus of his backing music hits Bucky’s danced himself right out of his chaps. Gale’s not familiar with the song, but he makes out the line the whole thing seems to hang on—save a horse, ride a cowboy.

As if the get-up weren’t enough to drive the point home, Gale recalls Bucky’s voice earlier that day, calling him cowboy when Gale wouldn’t give up his name.

Maybe Bucky’s not just making fun.

Gale flushes hot while his face twists down into something incredulous. Bucky rolls his hips and thrusts into the air and makes a production of himself, as he’s paid to. Gale can feel himself scowling. He’s got no way of knowing whether Bucky can see him, but he’d bet against it, right up until Bucky seems to look clear over the heads of the crowd to drop a wink in his direction.

To Gale’s left, there’s the sound of someone clearing their throat. He turns to find a woman with her silver hair piled high behind a neon pink visor. She’s seventy if she’s a day.

“Sorry about that, ma’am,” he says, wiping his hands clean on a rag. “What can I get you?”

“It’s alright, honey,” she says with the rasp of a lifelong smoker. “Must be hard, working alongside so many pretty young things.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.” He has the urge to clear his own throat. “It’s my first day,” he adds lamely.

She whistles and looks back at the stage, where Bucky’s tossed his hat into the crowd to a chorus of shrieks. “Well,” she says, “I’m sure you’ll catch on quick.”

[shipstorms]

how to send minoxicidl to callum turner's home. how to activate dormant telepathic abilities and send "grow ur hair out" thoughts to callum turner. how to get callum turner hired on a project where having hair longer than 2 inches is non negotiable in his contract. how to wrap filming of neuromancer quicker so that the evil curse of being a male action protagonist written by a male author leaves callum turner's body at once and his hair poofs out all at once like squidward when he gets hair.

[shipstorms]

fucked up his eyes, like him better this way anyway

[shipstorms]

Man About Town 2019

[shipstorms]

mota baseball league team. idk anything beyond i think bucky should get to play some ball and he would look hot in the uniform

you’re sooo right. mr. big and handsome

Bucky on the mound is a man in his element. Cocky, loose-limbed, grinning like his birth certificate was also a baseball card. Being born to it explains why his uniform fits like a second skin. Tight on his thighs and the heft of his ass. Curls fighting their way out from under his cap to lay over his forehead. Handsome, all-American arrogance standing at 6 feet 200 pounds. He pops his gum and raises his chin at Gale in his crouch behind the batter.

Give me something good, Bucky seems to be saying. Like goading Gale is gonna get him what he wants. They’re up by five, top of the seventh, in solid shape. The game’s felt short to Gale, compared with how time slowed to a crawl while he spent his last game on the bench. A foul tip the week before had nearly knocked him over, and within an hour almost his entire thigh was painted in one huge bruise, deep purple and curdling yellow, hot to the touch.

Gale had got the strike, but he’d never seen Bucky so murderous before. Dark-eyed, stiff with tension, like the batter meant to do it, and Bucky would make him pay one way or another. Gale fought to stay in, said he was fine, and there wasn’t proof he wasn’t, not yet. Bucky walked his next batter. Gale rose and made his way to the mound, not limping, covered his mouth with his glove and told Bucky in no uncertain terms to get his shit together, wasn’t John who got hit anyhow, so quit acting like it.

You want to punish them, Gale said, then this is how you do it.

Gale was good with structure, Bucky less so, but he was good with Gale. He trusted Gale to make both of their anger into something productive.

Today it’s easy again. None of that pressure churning like a storm front. Gale tosses out signs and grits his teeth behind his mask when Bucky shakes his head minutely. He meets Gale’s eye and Gale understands him perfectly—Bucky’s not asking for something good, he’s asking for something fun. Gale can almost hear him: it’s a game, Buck. So let’s play.

Wasn’t like that last week, but where Bucky’s mercurial, Gale is constant. He shifts a little, plants his feet, and gives Bucky the sign he’s after. Sixty feet and six inches away and Bucky’s smile is no less potent. Kenny, the rookie at bat, doesn’t stand a chance; but then again, Gale never did either.

[shipstorms]

Sure not quite the same and yet