Dearest pietroabelardo (I'm sorry but I DO HAVE to call you by your username 'cause COME ON! You picked Pietro Abelardo of all people!) anyway, I digress ... the newest CalTurn content is driving me mad and I need to share such madness. Have you ever considered that biblically accurate John Egan would be twink!Cal but, BUT!, older and established military guy still visiting Gale would be CURRENT CalTurn? Gale witnessing the Hottest Twink Death in the history of mankind, for your consideration <3
Hahahahahah you can call me whichever name strikes your fancy, and I did pick Pietro Abelardo, after all!! I'm sure he'd have only positive feelings for being associated with WWII yaoi!!
I hadn't considered it, but now I'm capital C Considering it, to be honest. That man is haunting him!!!! It would be funny if in hindsight clegan hadn't happened during the war because Gale thought of Bucky as not Masculine enough to harbour certain thoughts but once he puts on a few pounds he's asking to stop the world to stop the feeling etc. etc.
So many possibilities as well!! What if Gale & Marge postponed the wedding & John has enough time to Get Big → once he gets to Casper, Wyoming he's the size of a wardrobe & Gale feels for the first time something like Sexual Attraction... he's going to kill himself!!!!
Other things that could happen & that would make Gale commit an unspeakable cruelty towards the world & that would bring me personal enjoyment:
John lifting/manhandling him (they're both tall fellas but maybe something gets stuck in a tree and John grabs Gale by the waist?);
John putting all of his weight on Gale, like a big dog on a kitten... not only would it make him Start a Process of Understanding but I'd also wager it'd cure his neuroses (which are many);
John sitting down on a sofa and spreading his thighs → Gale cannot fit on the cushions anymore and has to sit on the armrest (this would make me violent in any other setting but for purposes of gay sex it's fine);
ANIME BEACH EPISODE → Gale has a conniption once he sees Bucky's knees & elbows (there's a bts picture of The Boys and the Boat in which CalTur is like. Lifting his already short shorts & you can see his tanlines I'm kind of getting furious just thinking about it I can't imagine what Gale's victorian sensibilities would make him do);
John somehow convincing Gale to go to a bar & there's dancing – OK this is just a me-fantasy because lately I've been obsessed with lindy hop & I think John would love it, but imagine!!! Big, buff John dancing with a dame prancing and jumping like a majestic horse & Gale is white-knuckling the table he's sat at for the better part of the last thirty minutes because he Refuses to have any sort of Physical Manifestation of his Feelings in a BAR!
John eating a Big Meal because he's a Big Boy (actually Feeding fetish anyone......);
This is something I personally find very attractive sorry to bring my own perversions to the table but John kind of slumping & the fat of his tummy kind of spills over the waistband of his pants & his thighs are Very wide. OK moving on;
Just John stretching his back & groaning. That would do it.
ummm, like should we put vampire gale into a situation maybe...? bucky losing it more and more, perhaps their fight and bucky kicking in gales ribs, then gale refusing to talk to him about it or feed ... maybe they're both being reckless, frustrated and annoying but in ways that directly trigger the other
John's got plenty to keep him company in his own head—the three-peat World Series, Tunny vs. Dempsey, Amos 'n' Andy, he's got a whole slew of 'em—and Gale's got what passes for a full stomach these days so that's a win, John figures, even though Gale stops talking to him or looking at him or coming even within a few yards of him, as if John's the bloodsucker here that needs avoiding.
Just as well. See how Gale likes starving, same as the rest of them. After a couple weeks, he makes up some cock-and-bull story about coming down with something and tells everyone he probably shouldn't be sharing too close of a space, so John bunks up with Benny and Brady. All three have gotta stay balanced on their sides to come close to fitting. He ends up on the floor half the time anyway; stays there the rest of the night just to give himself another thing to be angry about.
At dinner, Benny says, "He doesn't look good."
"Nobody looks good in here," John counters.
"Yeah, but—" Benny slurps at his stew with only a passing grimace. "He looks like he's gonna keel over any second. And he hasn't been eating anything. Maybe we should fetch someone, or at least check on him."
"We, huh," John echoes, because of course Benny doesn't truly mean we, he means John.
Nobody else contributes to the conversation, other than the occasional sniffle or clearing of a throat. Their silence is obviously in agreement with Benny. John can't do much anymore but he can still read a goddamned room. Fat lot of good that's doing him now, as he glowers and finally shoves back from the table when Crank says, "He's sponging off in the latrines."
"Alright, alright, Jesus," he mutters.
The sounds of dripping water are floating through the hallway. Before he can even step in, Gale's echoing voice says, "Not now, Bucky."
John wonders if it's his footsteps that are identifiable, or if it's his smell. "Take it up with the rest of 'em, I'm the victim of a democratic vote," he says loudly, and turns the corner to see Gale sitting on a stool with his back turned to the door, shirtless, the waistband of his trousers dampened in splotches. There's an arcing bruise painted over his side. When he twists around, a darker blood blister reveals itself as well, fresh as the day it was put there by the sole of John's boot.
John looks at it, then looks up at Gale's face, alabaster in comparison to the colors on his ribs. The swelling on his own face has gone down for the most part. Probably would've gone down sooner if he hadn't kept poking at it.
"I thought you healed fast," he says, thrown.
"Ain't got much in me to do the healing." Gale turns forward again and dips the sponge into the bucket. He swipes over his armpits and then around his neck, craning his chin out of the way. "You can tell the boys that I'm fine."
When John doesn't move, Gale says it again: "Go on. Tell them," seemingly unwilling to actually make him do it.
John crosses his arms. The splintered doorframe pokes into his back as he leans against it, watching Gale and his careful ministrations. Over his stomach, through his hair, between his fingers. He rinses off the sponge and repeats the order. Stomach, hair, fingers—and suddenly his spine curves from hunching into himself. The sponge squelches onto the tiles.
"Bucky," he breathes.
Whatever invisible string there is between them tightens enough for John to straighten. "Yeah, Buck."
Gale just keeps breathing deep and measured, like he's in pain. You need me, John thinks, a little mean, a little relieved.
"What do you need?" he says in fake ignorance. "You won't eat and you gave me hell for making you do it in your sleep. I haven't seen any rats around—think you took care of all of them last month. Maybe we could ask the Brits for their best stock."
He walks closer. Closer still, smart enough to be cautious about it. Close enough to get to Gale's side, where he sees that Gale isn't answering because he can't, because he's got the tips of his fingers shoved into his mouth and is gnawing on them hard enough to bleed.
Reflexively, John grabs his wrist. He tugs, but Gale's bite is too strong, so he takes his jaw in his other hand and squeezes as rough as he can until it finally unlatches, freeing what looks like shredded meat and glimpses of bone.
"Fuck," he whispers harshly. "What the fuck are you doing?"
In a haze, Gale mumbles, "Sorry," wiping his hand over a filthy trouser leg. John snatches it away. "I don't wanna hurt you," Gale says, and he's said that a thousand times before, but this time he adds, "Don't wanna help you hurt yourself."
That ire of rejection flares again. John grits out, "Too bad, Buck," and lets go of Gale's jaw to shove his wrist between his teeth
Gale clamps down automatically, driven by the same deep-seated survival urge that keeps him locked in here. John's head tips back from a noiseless punch of vertigo. It's like jumping, the weightless feeling of his body in open air, falling faster than the fort above him. He drops to one knee, then the other, Gale's boot in between.
"Easy. Easy now," John tells him. With effort, he takes control of his twitching thumb and turns it into a caress over that too sharp cheekbone.
Gale settles, more obedient than he ever is outside of this. His eyes are shut. If he notices John inching forward to rub up against his leg, he doesn't say anything about it. "That's good," John encourages, ragged, humping his hips with his free hand wrapped around Gale's calf to hold it steady. "Gotta get some strength back in you. Need that to get outta here, right? It's simple, isn't it?"
Bit by bit Gale wipes him clean, everything ugly being swept away and replaced only with thrumming suction. He drops his forehead onto Gale's thigh. Keeps going even as the pace and volume of Gale's suckling slows, even as John feels his arm drop by gravity and Gale says, "Bucky."
Something prods at his lips. He opens his mouth. Although it's cold and congealed and clotted off, Gale's blood tastes as coppery as anyone else's. John's grip tightens; he comes with his lips sealed around those fingertips, the skin already starting to stitch itself back together, whole again because of him.
first half of whatever this is. TWs for blood, mild gore, hints of sexual humiliation and dubcon
“And Strife was joining the throng of battle, and Tumult, and painful Death, holding now a living man new-wounded, now one unharmed, now dragging a man who had died by his feet through the press of battle; and Death wore around her shoulders a cape crimsoned with the blood of men.” —The Iliad, Book 18, lines 535-538, translated by Caroline Alexander
His angel wears a dirty sheepskin jacket, goes by the name of Bucky, and smells, always, like blood.
Gale doesn’t believe in angels—certainly not ones that walk on Earth, and certainly not ones that call themselves Bucky of all things—but Curt had put the suggestion of a guardian angel in his ear once, way back when Bucky didn’t have a name or a face, when he was just this feeling Gale would get sometimes when he was flying—stronger and more foreign than intuition—and for lack of anything else to call it, him, the title stuck.
The angel tells Gale his name the first time he’s solid enough to really be a he rather than an it. They’re flying back from Le Bourget, Judy-E teetering towards becoming a glider, engines 1 and 4 both shot to hell, a jam on engine 3, a fire in engine 2 and another back in the tail section. They’re much too far behind enemy lines to think of letting her go. The air rumbling with flak and the comms clouded with shouted checklists and Gale feels steady. Deep in his gut, down to his toes, his hands refuse to shake as his mind whirls through his options. A hand over his hand, a voice underneath his voice. Clarity, instinct, a pure kind of knowledge that this is the answer, this will get them home. An understanding built so deep that it appears natural. Inevitable. Genius.
But Gale knows there’s no such thing as genius. Or if there is, he’s never been one. He works and he studies and it all comes together, but it has never been this simple. It’s that unease and a memory, Curt’s voice, someone’s up there watching your back, Major, that keeps him from screaming as a pair of hands, weighty and real, appear on top of his own. Duncan is in his ear, yelling, “—nose down! We gotta get that fire out!” But Gale’s focus has been over his shoulder, working through the jam with De Los Santos, so he’s a half a second behind—stupid, human, deadly—when a burst of flak rips through the right side of the cockpit, severing Duncan’s hands at the wrist. It’s only the hands over his that keep Gale, full force and pressure, on the yoke. Pushing Judy-E into a sharp dive.
“The hell—” is all he gets out. The hair on his neck raises and he goes prey-still. A shape appears behind him, beside him, hands over hands turning to arms next to arms, face next to his face, like Gale’s sitting on its lap. A beaked nose, a thin mustache, large white teeth, laughing eyes. Gale stutters through a lungful of crisp ozone, sharp-metallic-warm, creeping back up his throat to lay heavy on his tongue.
“It’s just me, Gale, just Bucky, you got this.” He says it like they’re old friends. Pulling from a well of trust that doesn’t exist. They’re swimming through cloud break, murky white on all sides. The blood spewing from Duncan has slowed to a trickle, rhythmic in the sudden quiet. The fire in the no. 2 gasps once then smokes out, orange flickering to black. Gale can’t hear it spin back up through the cotton in his ears, but he watches the prop become blurred. In one smooth motion they pull back on the yoke, easing her back up, making sure she doesn’t roll too far to the right.
Bucky makes a frustrated sound in Gale’s ear, “C’mon, wake up!” And it’s unclear if he means Gale or the no. 3, but both of them unfreeze at the same time. The engine splutters thick black smoke once, twice, before starting up her normal purr, cheers of the crew almost covering the gentle hum. Gale’s grip relaxes on the yoke, his shoulders relaxing, and he turns his head to face his angel, nose to nose. He’s smiling, the corners of his eyes and mouth crinkled with it, and it does something odd to Gale’s head. A weightlessness, the rush of relief from muscles untensed, ears freshly popped. He’s beautiful. Boyish and lively, unfazed by the blood that coats half his face.
The angel winks and disappears. Gale gets his boys home, the soft press of sheepskin never fading from his cheek.
---
Gale checked the duty roster. Read and reread the reports to interrogation. No mention of a Bucky. No mysterious 11th crew member slipped by unseen. No mention of Gale talking to himself either, which should be a relief. At least if he’s losing it, he’s keeping it to himself. Instead, a swift dread runs through him. Losing it would be easier. Shameful, but mappable. Figuring out where you are is the first step for getting yourself out.
Gale has no idea where he is. He has no choice but to sink deeper.
---
As if a dam had broke, Bucky’s with him for nearly every mission now. Not always fully present. Sometimes he’s just a flutter in Gale’s chest. A firm pressure around his wrist. A whisper of wind past his ear. He finds himself waiting for it. When he goes up with Demarco and Our Baby and they have to turn back for a mechanical failure, he’s disappointed at the lack of company.
All their aircraft make it back that day. Still, they’re not without losses.
Gale watches from hardstand 17 as the medics whizz by. The clamor of reentry fills the countryside. Screaming, sirens, shouted orders. The crew trucks bound for interrogation pass, haunted faces Gale won’t look away from. The air quivers, and Bucky’s arm slides around his shoulders.
Gale can’t remember when keeping company had turned to more. When his eyes had first wandered to Bucky’s lips. When he began anticipating Bucky’s weight against him for the response it would stir, rather than the solid comfort of his guidance. When, exactly, he’d decided that having more of Bucky would be worth forsaking everything else.
He has no idea what drives Bucky to this either. Why Gale would be worth such corruption.
They stumble into an empty room, and nothing matters but the how.
Bucky grips Gale’s chin, fingers firm and beckoning, and slips his tongue into Gale’s mouth, sweet and seeking. Desire crashes through him, sure as a puzzle piece clicking into place.
Gale tries to speed it up, give more, take more, hands insisting, wandering, harder, uglier, the way it’s supposed to be, but Bucky doesn’t relent. Traps Gale in this open, empty room with only the gentle bulk of his body and the tender press of his lips. Twines his hands through Gale’s hair, but doesn’t touch him further. Painful, aching sweetness and not a drop more, like all the pleasures of Gale’s body are contained solely in his lips and Bucky’s determined to uncover them without any aid—no bite of teeth, no pressure, just enough unyielding patience to get Gale kiss-drunk and whining. Only once Gale’s past the point of pride does Bucky leave him, slack-jawed, to mark his neck.
It’s overwhelming. His lips feel numb from over attention, but the rest of him, ignored for so long, feels newly untouched. A fresh crop of nerves for Bucky to defile. Sensitive. Hair trigger. Youthful exploration but devoid of fear, of anxious violence, because there’s nowhere safer for Gale than the surety of Bucky’s embrace. God-sent, unseen. If they’d promised Gale this sort of heaven earlier, maybe he’d have lived like he was earning this.
When Gale cums, shamed face hidden in Bucky’s chest, a last ditch effort to muffle his groan, Bucky doesn’t stop. He unzips them both and digs them out. Sure-handed, ignoring Gale’s attempts to join in.
He pushes them together, his velvet hardness bullying Gale’s limp, cum-covered cock. “Aw, cute,” Bucky mocks, as Gale’s cock twitches, “trying to wake back up, how polite.”
He props Gale up and back, leaning against the wall so he’s forced to watch. Bucky takes them both in one hand, slicked only with Gale’s cum and the pre leaking from Bucky’s tip. Gale’s never let himself process before, what other men look like. Keeps things perfunctory or professional or hurried, whichever is called for, and none of those call for Gale to stare. Now, the sight of Bucky against him, pale and heavy, is startling. A twist of Bucky’s wrist and Gale grunts, too much, too soon. It feels so nice, or maybe not nice at all.
Horribly, a tear catches at the corner of his eye. Gale grits his teeth, determined not to let it fall, but Bucky must be watching him instead of the slow tug of his hand, because he laughs a little, short and pleased, before he pauses. He worms the fingers of his unoccupied hand past the buttons of Gale’s shirt to brush over his nipple while he slowly runs his pinky along the ridge of Gale’s cockhead. The sound Gale lets out this time is closer to a whimper and the tear escapes down his cheek, all of Gale’s fight in tow. Bucky catches it with a kiss.
Bucky makes him cum again, dry, and maybe he’d have forced Gale to his knees, supplicant, if Gale had any bones left to maneuver. Instead, Gale watches Bucky spit in his own hand and finish himself off, saliva gathering in the back of his mouth, wishing nothing was holding him up, just so he could be closer. Bucky aims it so his cum lands in the ruined front of Gale’s pants.
Gale reaches out and swipes up the last bit of it clinging to Bucky’s slit. Sticks it in his mouth, quick, like there’s anybody here to stop him. It’s curiosity, of course. Investigation into the sound and touch and taste of an angel. But there’s no taste. No sensation of anything being in his mouth at all. A nothingness.
The mission light blinks on and off. Sound finds its way back into the room. Bucky’s gone.
escort!caustin remix where callum is the sex worker and austin hires him…but all he wants is just for callum to hold him :((( and please DONT even LOOK at his boner
the first like 3 months of this arrangement is just austin inviting callum over for dinner once a week, and each time callum thinks ok surely something will happen THIS time but all austin does is ask tons of thoughtful questions about callum and his life and they talk about movies and then when their time is up austin walks him out with his hands firmly in his pockets. until one night callum sort of pulls austin into a bro hug without thinking and austin just melts
in my daydream mind palace, callum and austin sneak around for years. it's exhilarating at first. fun! secret! and in the time that they're both waiting for the other to end it, they accidentally settle into a real Thing instead. at one point callum tiptoes around going public and austin treats it like a joke. more sneaking around. and more. it starts getting tiring but austin isn't ever gonna cop to that bc what's the other option? then callum gets more insistent about hinting at the public thing and it culminates in a blowout fight. they both get drunk and sleep with other people (rossgellarwewereonabreak.gif) and then find out they both slept with other people and fight again. callum fucks off to london and austin stays in LA and they slut around on their own until they realize they're not really slutting around so much as just—dating other people now. which is fine. it's great actually. callum doesn't have to be as careful and austin doesn't either (in a different way). obvi neither of them will admit to themselves that it all feels kinda empty.
anyway. eventually they start seeing each other out and about again. fine x2, great x2. except austin has forgotten how callum 1) tries so hard to make him laugh, and 2) succeeds so often at making him laugh, which is dumb bc he isn't even that funny. and callum's forgotten the way austin Looks at him, which is also dumb bc people look at him all the time, this shouldn't be any different. maybe they accidentally end up at a private dinner together bc everyone else that was supposed to come flaked and they spend the whole night sequestered into one corner of an eight-person table and talk til 2am. maybe they accidentally hook up in the bathroom of the restaurant. whoops.
ANYWAY. they fall back into old habits, waiting each other out to see who'll end it. the last scene would be a reel of them on meetcutesnyc or some shit—the camera panning up from two pairs of feet to two dudes walking kinda close to each other. host says "excuse me" and austin turns, taking off his hood, but callum steps to the side a little.
"are you two a couple?" the guy asks.
austin doesn't even look at cal. he just pinches the fabric of his hoodie and tugs to pull him back into frame and says, "yes."
"do you mind telling me the story of how you first met?"
you thought I wasn't gonna do something with those pics didn't you
mind the tags!
“Thought you were dead, Buck.”
Gale is dead. Effectively decommissioned; the title before his name exists only as a courtesy, same as the stars still allowed on his shoulders. Useful to keep the prisoners in mind, keep them settled. He’s been relegated somewhere between attentive nursemaid and political pawn. Keeping the men docile will keep them safe; good behavior will mean Gale isn’t made an example of. At least John looks the part of a corpse.
“Well, I’m not.”
John reaches out to touch Gale again. Gale slaps his hand away, somehow ending up gripping one wrist tight, feeling the tense of John’s muscles as he pushes right back into it automatically.His dirty fingers take hold of Gale’s undefended collar, tugging it tight around the ache of bruises.
“John,” Gale warns, sharp and quiet.
He laughs, short and richly bitter. Gale shoves him back against the opposite wall.
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