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blurredcolour · 7 months ago

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The Only Truth... | Part Four

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

The day Stalag VIIA is liberated ought to be one of pure celebration. Unfortunately, fate has other plans in store.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Death, Blood, Brief Battle, Serious Reader Injury [gunshot wound], POW Camp Setting, SS Officers, Mental Health Struggles, References to Christianity, Reader Scars, Hospital Setting, Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: Thank you all ever so much for your patience! At last we come to the end of our tale. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6267

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The morning of Sunday, April 29, 1945, dawned cloudy but bright. The chill of early spring still hung in the air, your breath hanging from your lips as you ducked out into the tent to collect the clean yet still-unfolded laundry that had been awaiting your attention throughout the drama of the rainstorm. You had just managed to tuck it away into your room when Fitzgibbons arrived with a new book for you to read, a more recently published fantasy novel called The Hobbit, though you had other priorities before diving into it.

You had almost gotten away with your clandestine chores, rags folded, and three-quarters of the bandages rolled, when your former surgical technician appeared at your door, knocking on the frame with an admonishing look on his face.

“I see you’re taking it easy on your day off, Ma’am.”

Huffing in irritation at being caught, you shook your head. “I’m off my feet, Fitz, can’t we just call a truce?”

He made a non-committal noise before cracking a grin. “Actually came to ask a favor, so I’m thinking we can come to an agreement. Menzies,” his deliberate mispronunciation of the British Captain’s name made you roll your eyes affectionately, “ordered me to flush a wound using your make-shift tools and honestly, I cannot make heads or tails of what you’ve jerry-rigged.”

Biting back a laugh, you nodded quickly, well aware that your cobbled-together system was more than a little unorthodox and not at all surprised Menzies had not taken the time to ensure Fitzgibbons knew how it worked. “Certainly, let me walk you through it.”

Grabbing the laundry you had thus far folded, you made your way down the hall to collect the items from the supply desk and followed him to the bedside of a new patient. Introducing yourself warmly, you learned the man’s name was Michaels and he hailed from the frigid wilds of Canada.

“Fitz and I are going to use this here to flush that wound, alright?” You nodded to the nasty laceration on his calf, your makeshift instruments cradled in your arms.

“Sounds fine, Ma’am.” He nodded patiently, vowels clipped remarkably short in that efficient Canuck way of speaking.

“Alright so if you take this, Fitz.” You held out a funnel with a piece of tubing secured to it, watching the tech take it carefully.

The mundane calm of the morning was shattered by the sudden hum of an airplane engine, your eyes shooting to meet Fitzgibbons’ sharply moments before the eruption of gunfire.

“Everyone get down!” He shouted and you both lurched into motion to begin helping your patients from their cots onto the wooden planks of the tent platform, abandoning your instruments on Michaels’ cot.

Panic rising as you once again found yourself in a wildly unsafe place while under fire, you urged the men from their beds to get low, presenting smaller targets for the errant bullets that were punching holes through the canvas of the tent every so often. The cacophony outside only increased with the rumble of approaching vehicles – tanks quite possible given the depth of sound that carried across the camp – and you nearly tripped over your own feet in an effort to reach the last two patients who simply could not move on their own.

Heaving one, Sidhu from India, out of his cot and depositing him onto the floor, you were just sliding your arms beneath the shoulders of the last, Hernandez from Texas, when searing heat and pain punched into your side. Your arms and legs gave out beneath you instantly, your body collapsing atop the poor boy still on his cot, both of you gasping for breath. With a grunt of annoyance, you flung a hand back to your hip, eyes widening as your fingertips were quickly covered in a warm, slick fluid.

“M…Ma’am?!” Hernandez warbled from beneath you, watching as you lifted your fingers to inspect just what was going on, his face blanching at the unmistakable scarlet of blood. “Doc?! Medic!! Help!!!” He began to shriek all the words he knew to summon assistance, making you wince at the racket as you forced yourself to roll off him, crashing to the floor in a pile of uncooperative limbs.

Taking a moment to try and catch your breath, pulse rocketing at an alarming rate, you began to realize that no matter how long you lay there, things were not improving. In fact the situation was growing a lot more serious as a deep ache was settling into your right side and you could feel your clothes growing damper with blood by the second. Rolling onto your stomach, you had just begun to feebly pull yourself across the floor of the tent when the racket outside subsided momentarily, Hernandez’s cries summoning several sets of boots to run in your direction.

A great, external cheer erupted in the same moment you were lifted by many hands onto one of the recently vacated cots, Chalmers, Menzies and Fitzgibbons all hovering above you as they yanked at your shirt and pants to get at your wound. The striking similarity between your plight and that of Simms set your teeth on edge, tears brimming in your eyes at the sudden thought that this could really be it. You might very well die here in these filthy, mud-covered clothes while the rest of the camp cheered on outside.

“Keep breathing for me, Nurse. You’ve got an entry and an exit wound, you just stay with us now.” Chalmers barked firmly and you managed a brief nod despite the shakes that seemed to want to rattle your bones. “Fitz go find out if they’ve got a Medic with them – we need sulfa and plasma, and she needs an aid station and surgery.”

“Sir!” He replied before you heard his frantic footfalls leave the tent.

Menzies applied a ruthless amount of pressure to the front and back of your hip and it was all you could do not to wail pathetically at the lances of pain that shot through you. “I know, Nurse, I know. For your own good, now. Why’d you have to go and get yourself shot in the middle of our liberation, hm?”

“Libe.r.ation?” It was difficult to form the word, your mouth clumsy and filled with cotton, head buzzing with adrenaline and pain.

Your heart was beginning to lose its rhythm, stuttering and skipping beats every so often. Your medical training offered a whispered explanation of ‘blood loss’ which did nothing for the suffocating feeling of panic in your chest.

“Looks like your American Army showed up to bring you home, so let’s make sure you can get there alright?” Chalmers added firmly and you nodded again, trying to take deep breaths.

You were so close. They were right there.

What had started as a frigid day seemed to be growing colder, your fingers tips positively icy by the time you heard Fitzgibbons return, giving someone a rundown. The familiarity of it made your heart ache for a simpler time when the two of you were the ones saving people, taking them from danger to safety. Now you were the one in peril, finding it remarkably difficult to keep your eyes open. The unfamiliar face of a young man in an Army helmet came into view before you felt the sting of sulfa on your wounds.

Your left sleeve was rolled up, your nonsensical protests going unheeded as the man began to search for a vein, inserting an IV for the bottle of cheery yellow plasma – the bright color anachronistic to the monochromatic color palette that pervaded the Stalag. Bandages were wrapped tightly around your middle once more and they were just about to lift you, cot and all, when another set of heavy footfalls sounded on the floorboards.

“Jesus christ…angelfish…” Bucky’s voice was unmistakable, though anguished, and you rolled your head to the side to look at him with a weak smile.

“Bucky.” You managed to form his nickname at a volume no more than a whisper, vision narrowing in on his pinched, tight features, the normally rosy hue completely drained from his cheeks.

Suddenly everything tilted and whirled as your cot was hoisted onto the shoulders of Chalmers, Menzies, Fitzgibbons, and the Medic.

“Take the plasma, Egan. Hold it up, keep pace.” Chalmers ordered sharply and the ceiling of the tent began to blur as they rushed out into the daylight, your vision going completely white before all was darkness.

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The morning had seemed like any other, crowded around a small campfire trying to keep warm, trading suppositions about the end of the war with Jefferson, when the unmistakable sound of an aircraft engine had broken through the din of the camp.

“Hey Macon, that’s a P-51!” Jefferson had shouted and instantly the entire population was on their feet, cheering on the pilot as he took out on of the guard towers.

Their elation was short lived, the abrupt sound of incoming artillery sending all the prisoners into the dirt as every single German soldier seemed to open fire as one, the camp instantly an active battlefield. Bucky’s eyes strayed to the hospital tent, its canvas walls helplessly pinned between the encroaching American tanks and the defending German guards. They needed to put a stop to this from the inside before any more lives were needlessly lost. Even as this thought crossed his mind, men were falling all around him.

“Fellas! Take out the tower!” Bucky shouted as he ran for the tent where the majority of the Americans were sheltering, seeking out the homemade stars and stripes they had carefully crafted and transported from camp to camp, kept hidden from goons, just for such an occasion.

It took a few tries before Jefferson successfully came up with the flag, passing it to him quickly. Dashing through the chaos of prisoners running hither and thither through the camp, some fleeing, some fighting guards, Bucky was boosted onto the roof of the administration building. The flagpole was less than sturdy as he climbed it but as he removed the Nazi war flag and tossed it to the cheering crowd below, the guns fell quiet. Securing the ragtag American flag, watching the breeze immediately catch and fly it high, an immense feeling of relief wash through him and after taking a moment to celebrate, he pressed his forehead to the hand-hewn timber of the pole to soak in his gratitude for making it this far. Though the ragged appearance of his country’s flag undoubtedly mirrored his own.

As he carefully climbed down the rickety pole, his eyes caught on a somewhat familiar figure running frantically through the crowd toward the gate, moving against the flow of those milling around the yard, celebrating. The man’s shouts carried intermittently on the wind across the crowd and Bucky managed to pick out “Medic,” his heartrate picking up at the word “Nurse.” His stomach dropped when the word “shot” reached his ears.

“Angelfish.” He whispered and quickly scrambled his way off the roof, wincing a little at his rough landing, before he began to shove his own way through the oblivious celebrants towards the hospital.

Skidding to a stop on the threshold of the tent, he was startled to find all the patients cowering beneath their cots while you lay on one of their abandoned beds, a bloody mess surrounded by men frantically trying to save you.

“Jesus christ…angelfish…” He choked out, throat clenching painfully as your head lolled to the side, slightly unfocused eyes meeting his.

“Bucky.” Your faint whisper of his name propelled him forward, a frown settling over his features at the state of your clothes, wanting nothing more than to cover up the expanse of your abdomen and the scar on your arm – you surely hated to have that so prominently on display.

Chalmers’ sudden directive for him to manage the plasma grabbed his attention and he quickly grasped the glass bottle, holding it high as they lifted the entire bed to begin carrying you out of there.

“Just hold on, angelfish.” He rasped, heart lurching painfully as your eyes rolled back in your head, your body going slack.

Running alongside you to the gate despite the way his lungs ached, the crowd mercifully parted before their odd little group. A jeep was waiting with a stretcher strapped to the back, and Bucky watched helplessly as your unsettlingly limp form was transferred from the cot, the bottle of plasma wrenched from his fingers by the Medic before he perched atop your legs. As the vehicle took off, the Lieutenant Colonel of the armored division strode over sternly.

“How the devil did a nurse end up as a POW?” He demanded as Lieutenant Colonel Clark came to stand on Bucky’s right.

Chalmer’s sighed deeply before sharing what he knew of your story, of your arrival back in January including the fact that the Red Cross was informed through the usual process, and how you were housed separately in the hospital. As Fitzgibbons, the very same surgical technician you had earned your burns pulling out of your plane, filled in the rest of your service history, Bucky could only reflect on how little he really knew you. How short his time with you had actually amounted to be. Hell, he would not have even known your squadron number if it was not for that conversation right then.

“What a SNAFU.” The man muttered and Bucky could certainly see the resemblance of the man’s commanding officer, Patton, in him. “Well, let’s get this formal surrender over with so we can get these boys home.”

Clark nodded in return and Bucky shuffled back to sit heavily amongst the men of the 100th, waving off Brady’s look of concern. Watching the salutes and handshakes, he was completely numb, his thoughts miles away with wherever they had taken you, only able to hope against hope that their aid station was of the highest calibre.

Bucky had not resorted to prayer often throughout the war. Sure he had worn a crucifix and crossed himself reflexively when flying into a hail of flak, but conversations with higher beings had never been something he had put much stock in. Faced, now, with this gnawing feeling of helplessness, your very survival in the balance, it seemed like the only tool left at his disposal.

Crammed into the tent that night, shoulder-to-shoulder with his neighbors, he felt rusty and self-conscious as he addressed the god of his childhood Sunday school and fairly begged for you to make it. He stopped short of bargaining his own life away, but barely, before sleep overtook his aching body, the exertions of the day overtaking him.

As he found himself jostling in the back of a transport truck on his way to Paris the next day, handpicked by Lieutenant Colonel Clark to be among the first sent back to England, he could not help but feel as though he was being driven further and further away from you. It was near night by the time they pulled into the base and Bucky took his first warm shower in over a year, changing into a fresh uniform and feeling almost human. They were served white bread that might as well have been cake, with steak and eggs that were too rich for him to endure more than a few bites before he crawled into a remarkably clean bed and slept deeply, exhaustion winning out over his continuous concern for your well being.

Climbing into the belly of a B-17 for the first time in over eighteen months felt awkward and painful, the crew from the 100th consisting of unfamiliar replacements, the space feeling more cramped than it ever had as he wedged himself into the cockpit behind the pilot. The deep-seated terror he had desperately been trying to supress, his fear that Buck had not made it to safety despite their planning and the beating he had taken to distract the guards, surged to the fore of his mind. It competed ruthlessly with his anxiety over whether you were still drawing breath, the fact that he may have to face the truth of losing both of you leaving him silent and withdrawn as the plane took flight.

There was no immediate answer awaiting him at Thorpe Abbotts either, no familiar faces lining the tarmac – not even Lemmons was around, which struck him as unsettlingly odd. Making his way to the CO’s hut, his eyes at last landed on a familiar face as Herrmann emerged from one the equipment sheds.

“Hey Winks! Where is everybody? Guy comes back after a year-and-a-half and no one’s around?” He plastered on a playful smirk as the boy’s face broke out into a grin of astonishment, shaking his hand vigorously as he rushed over.

“Buck took Rosie, Douglass, Croz, and Kenny up on one of those mercy missions they’ve been practicing for, they should be back any time now, sir. Gosh it’s great to see you back here.”

Bucky’s attention immediately snagged on the first name Herrmann mentioned, finding it immensely difficult to continue listening as he exhaled half of the tension that had strangled him all the way across the English Chanel. “Good to be back, Winks. Think you can give me a lift?” He raised an eyebrow, desperate for a moment of levity.

With a quick nod, Herrmann was promptly driving him towards the control tower. The most difficult part of getting up there was making it past all the congratulatory pats and handshakes, but Bucky was able to pull off his surprise, the sound of Cleven’s voice over the radio going a long way to mending some of the deep wounds he was still sporting.

More handshakes and pats-on-the-back awaited him at the hardstand and it finally felt like he was back amongst the familiar faces of these men. He did not miss the way Cleven’s eyes were quietly scrutinizing him, however. The gratingly familiar feeling that his friend was looking right through him was undeniable as he joked and smiled with the boys who had never been imprisoned. Who had not endured the things they had. As the crowd around them thinned out, Bucky turned to watch Cleven pull out one of his toothpicks, sliding it between his molars in a familiar yet long-lost motion.

“So what you been up to since I left?” His friend asked.

Bucky swallowed and shrugged a little walking over to the jeep, Cleven immediately sliding into the passenger’s seat out of habit.

“That terrible, huh?” Cleven muttered and Bucky sighed as the vehicle roared to life.

“Ended up in Moosburg.” He started out slow, with simple facts. “Got a little hurt on the way, so Brady and Hambone took me to the hospital. Turns out there was a Nurse there, POW since January.”

The look of shock on his friend’s face registered in the corner of his eye and Bucky did not have the heart to fully face him.

“The German’s held a woman prisoner?” Cleven shook his head with a sigh of dismay.

“She got shot during the liberation, stray bullet. Medics from the armored division took her and I have no idea if she made it.” Now that he had started telling the story it all just came pouring out of him.

“You care about her more than just on moral grounds.” Cleven stated matter-of-factly and Bucky sighed as he pulled up in front of what used to be their hut.

Who knew if it still was.

“Yes.” He begrudgingly admitted, though his admission was addressed to the steering wheel.

There was a long, drawn-out silence, the incessant chirping of sparrows filling in the gap in conversation and Bucky realized he had not really heard a bird his entire time in captivity. His head snapped sharply to look at Cleven as he suddenly spoke again.

“If anyone can find someone in the chain of evacuation it’ll be Smokey.”

Bucky furrowed his brows a moment before it clicked. “Doc Stover? You think?”

Cleven shrugged. “He’s our best shot I guess.”

“Our…”

“Are you going to drive us to the hospital, or should I?”

A grin pulled at Bucky’s lips as he started the jeep back up and took a sharp U-turn, heading for the base hospital. He pretended not to notice the way his friend’s eyes lingered on the stiff movement of his body as he climbed out of the jeep – he was definitely sore but was most certainly not going to admit to it. The wards were just as populated as they had been in 1943, something he found rather infuriating. It was another feeling he tucked into a neat little package and shoved down to be ignored until a more convenient time. Or perhaps never to be acknowledged again.

Stover was easy to find, dressed in his white coat, just finishing his rounds.

“Majors, what can I do for you?” He gestured for them to follow him into his office and Bucky sank down into a chair heavily, once again ignoring another man’s assessing gaze on him.

“Well it’s an odd request really but…” He trailed off, hesitating as he smoothed his too-long hair, reflecting once again that he needed a proper haircut.

“We’re wondering if you might be able to track someone down for us. Someone who was injured at a camp in Moosburg and evacuated to an aid station.

Stover raised an eyebrow curiously. “One of your fellow POWs?”

“Something like…. well yeah, she is.” Bucky corrected himself midway through, watching the doctor’s eyebrows shoot up dramatically. “Flight Nurse from the 802nd MAES, POW at Moosburg since January of ’45, shot during liberation and taken to the aid station of Patton’s 3rd Army – armored division. Which division I don’t know.”

They watched as Stover quickly grabbed a pen and started jotting down the important details, including your name.

“How bad was she hurt?” Stover asked and Bucky swallowed tightly.

“I didn’t see it happen but there was a gunshot to her stomach somewhere. They got her on plasma quickly.” He added hopefully but Stover’s face remained grim.

“I can’t promise you anything Major Egan, it doesn’t sound particularly hopeful either, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Doc.” He nodded, leveraging himself out of the chair with a barely concealed wince.

“And what do you have going on?” Stover stayed seated, eyeing him expectantly.

Bucky noticed Cleven had not budged either, the bastard. Emptying his lungs with a heavy exhale, Bucky put his hands on his hips and shrugged.

“Couple of broken ribs, I’ll be alright.” He replied nonchalantly.

“And how old are these broken ribs?” Stover prodded and Bucky ignored Cleven’s pointed look up at him.

“Couple weeks, I’m halfway mended, just overdid it getting in the fort to come back.”

Stover rose from behind his desk and opened a cabinet, fetching a bottle and holding it out to him. “Aspirin, to keep you comfortable. Take two every four hours as long as you need. Come back if you run out.”

Bucky accepted the bottle with a nod of thanks, the memory of you scrounging up two rare pills for him in the Stalag flooding back, furrowing his brows. The things you could have done in a place like this with limitless supply.

“Thanks again, Doc.” Cleven’s expression of gratitude pierced through his reminiscing and Bucky nodded quickly, tucking the pills into his pocket before heading out quietly.

Accommodations were procured and there was not much for him to do around base aside from rest and learn how to eat properly once more. It took several days for any news of your condition to reach him, via Stover’s connections, but when the man pulled him into his office on the morning of the May 5, he was stunned to learn that not only were you alive, but that you had been air evacuated to Redgrave Hospital just thirty minutes away from Thorpe Abbotts.

You were safe. You were close.

“Seems they weren’t quite certain what to do with her, but as she serves under the Army Air Force, they sent her to our main hospital.” Bucky realized Stover was still talking and he shot him a warm grin before grasping his hand to shake firmly.

“Well I really appreciate your help, Doc. I’ve gotta…” Bucky glanced over his shoulder at the door, desperate to make his way to you.

“Yeah, go…” He chuckled and shooed him out of his office.

No longer a squadron commander, Bucky technically did not have a jeep of his own to disappear with off base and so he was in the process of grabbing one of the stray bikes outside the control tower when Crosby emerged into the daylight, eyes squinting in fatigue at the brightness.

“Where are you off to Major?”

“Redgrave Hospital!” He replied brightly, watching the younger man blink.

“Sir that’s a good eleven miles, that’s a terrible idea with your ribs.”

Word seemed to have spread fast…

“Take my jeep, I’m not gonna need it today.”

“Croz, you are a lifesaver.” Bucky dropped the bike he had been wrangling to slap him on the back before diving into the jeep allotted for use by the Group Navigator. “I’ll be back!” He shouted, taking off in a spray of dust and gravel.

Turning onto the two-hundred-acre country estate, Redgrave Hospital, consisting of nearly forty Nissen huts, stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the trees and landscaped green. As he pulled up to the headquarters of the hospital, Bucky quickly realized that the staff there were not nearly as excited to see him. In fact, they were downright reluctant to allow him in to visit you, but assured him that while you were ‘heavily medicated and resting’ you were still ‘on the mend.’

While relief still permeated his system, it was a new agony to have you so very close and yet still out of his reach. If they were not going to permit him as a regular visitor, Bucky realized he was going to have to get a lot more creative in order to lay his eyes on you, and until he did, there would be not real peace.

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Moments of clarity punctured through the blackness – a blur of trees, the flurry of activity of an aid station, the masked face of a surgeon speaking to you reassuringly, the heartbreakingly familiar interior of a C-47 – but it was not until you were settled in a bed inside a hospital with four walls, windows, and nurses that true cognizance really returned to you. Casting your eyes around the sterile, white space, you noted you were situated at the end of a row and walled off from other patients with a set of privacy screens. The most striking feature of this hospital was the very stern-faced Bucky parked in a chair to the left of your bed.

As you began to stir, his eyes lifted quickly to meet yours, some of the tension easing from his frame. “Have a good rest, angelfish?” he whispered, and you furrowed your brows up at him, so full of questions. “They got you on the good stuff don’t they.” He chuckled fondly, reaching out to brush his fingertips across your cheek tenderly.

“Kick a girl when she’s down, why don’t you.” You sighed, speech slightly slurred from pain medication and the dryness in your mouth, but still capable of using his own lines against him.

His resulting grin contained all the brilliance of the sun and made you look down with a self-satisfied smirk. Your eyes immediately fell on your exposed arms laying atop the blanket, the scarring along your left forearm lain bare for all to see. Jerking your hands back roughly, you clumsily tried to shove them beneath the covers despite the warmth on the ward. Bucky’s gentle tut before his hand came to rest atop yours halted your attempt.

“Shhh, you’re just fine you brave, beautiful woman. Stay right there.” He murmured as he laced his fingers with yours, pinning your arm to rest above the blanket. “You have nothing to hide or be ashamed of.”

Swallowing thickly, you slowly lifted your gaze to meet his. “I think I’ve acquired a few more…” You sighed, the feeling of thick bandages padding your hip acutely registering as you spoke.

“Probably.” He nodded softly. “You also probably saved that boy Hernandez by taking the bullet, so I’d say they were well earned. Besides, they’ll make an excellent target for my mouth one day.”

Your soft smile transformed into a look of disbelief, your free hand rising to whack his shoulder gently. “John Clarence Egan.” You chided half-heartedly and he pressed his face to the side of your head where it lay propped up against several pillows, his heavy exhale ruffling through your hair. “We are in a hospital, and you are making inappropriate jokes.”

“Mmmm.” He hummed in agreement, stroking his thumb against yours affectionately.

“Which hospital is this, anyway?” You asked curiously, finding its curved roof and white walls lacked distinguishing features.

“Redgrave Hospital, you serve in the Army Air Force after all.” He pulled back slightly to answer.

“Redgrave…” you repeated thoughtfully. “Sounds awfully English.”

“Hit the nail on the head, angelfish. We made it.” Bucky’s lips brushed against your temple, and you smiled softly. “Despite our best efforts.” His teasing made you laugh softly, and you shook your head.

“If we’re in England, where’s the King?” You raised an eyebrow expectantly and he smirked, shaking his head.

“No King, unfortunately, but I did bring you this?” He reached behind him, pulling out a newspaper to lay across your lap.

“Victory in Europe.” You read the headline aloud, pausing a moment as the words sunk in before gasping and looking to him wide-eyed. “Truly?”

A look of solemn earnestness overtook his features and he nodded softly. “Truly. German army surrendered yesterday.”

You gulped roughly and looked back to ready to date of May 8, 1945, on the top of the paper – you had lost nearly nine days. You really had been so close, everyone had. And the fact that you were here, and others were not seemed so very arbitrary. Sighing heavily, you squeezed his hand gently.

“By the skin of our teeth.” You murmured thickly, looking up as a nurse shuffled past with a faint nod of acknowledgement before making a sharp about-face to come and check your vitals.

“How’re you feeling?” She asked you and you nodded slowly.

“I’m alright, thank you. Bit foggy but things are the clearest they’ve been in days.”

“I’m going to fetch the Doctor.” The nurse turned to eye Bucky sharply. “You’d best make yourself scarce.” She commented before continuing on her way.

“How on earth did you get in here?” You raised an eyebrow as you came to realize how unusual his presence was.

“Bought my way in with a few bottles of champagne – your flightless comrades are quite friendly if one knows the price.”

You coughed out a laugh as the comment made Nurses sound like some species of bird and his lips twitched into a smile, your eyes unable to look away from the soft, rosy skin of his mouth.

“Hey before you go…”

“Hmmm?” He turned to you, half risen from his chair.

“I don’t have the mental capacity to think of something self-deprecating right now, so can I just get a kiss?” You murmured before pursing your lips shyly.

His face transformed into a warm smile, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners as the tips of his ears flushed pink. “I always said you just had to ask, angelfish.”

Echoing his smile, you turned your lips up expectantly as he braced his hand on the pillow beside your head, leaning in to gently brush his lips against yours, drawing a contented sigh from deep beneath your breastbone. Bucky’s lips pressed closer, a tender hum rumbling from his throat just as a sharp cough sounded from the end of the bed and he slowly pulled back with a rueful huff.

“Just checking her breathing, Doc.” Bucky grinned wolfishly as the man raised an eyebrow sharply. “She’s doing great.”

“Hn.” The doctor intoned, clearly unimpressed. “And how are your ribs doing, Major Egan?”

Inhaling sharply, you looked him over quickly, the litany of his injuries flooding back to you from your sub-conscious.

“Much better, thank you Doc. Who knew Smokey was such a gossip. Well, angelfish,” he brushed his knuckles down your cheek, “guess that’s my cue.”

Nodding slowly, wondering who on earth Smokey might be, you watched him leave before your Doctor took over, running through numerous checks with you before discussing the extent of your injury and the surgeries that had been performed to save your life. It was nothing short of remarkable, what they had thrown at you to prevent your death, the conversation a very sobering one. It would be a long road to recovery, and one, it turned out, you would mostly be taking back home in the United States.

After a week or so in Redgrave Hospital, you were deemed fit enough for transport back to the Zone of Interior for convalescence and recovery in a domestic hospital. Though the sympathetic nurses had not seen fit to permit Bucky onto the ward again, they had taken a shakily written note, the loss of strength you had suffered in just over a week was startling, and promised to deliver it to him. The trip via Prestwick to Greenland, then Newfoundland, and ultimately Grenier Field in New Hampshire felt luxurious on the much more spacious C-54. You were admitted to the Station Hospital there to continue your recovery and rehabilitation, enjoying phone calls with your family instead of delayed correspondence for a change.

It took two months for you to be fully back on your feet, back to yourself. The same amount of time, it seemed, for the 100th bomb group to be repatriated stateside. Freshly discharged and clad in a brand-new olive drab dress uniform, proudly bearing your silver 1st Lieutenant’s insignia following your promotion and the ribbons from your two purple hearts, you had sweet-talked your way back onto the base. One of the more sympathetic MPs who had heard your story – admittedly there were few in New Hampshire who had not heard your story at this point – had not even protested your request. It seemed that fate saw fit to land Major John Egan in your life a second time, with Grenier Field the destination for his bomb group on their return flight.

Standing in the warm summer breeze, watching the sky for the silhouettes of their planes, it honestly felt odd to be wearing a skirt. The complexity of affixing your stockings to the straps of your garter belt had briefly made you long for the convenience of slacks, but with your properly cut and styled hair and feminine clothing you felt like an entirely new woman as you stood outside on the grass with the ground crew. Would Bucky even recognize you?

At last the distant droning of aircraft engines reached your, and everyone around you’s, ears, the shapes of B-17s multiplying on the horizon before they began to circle in for a landing. Honestly, there were so many of them you briefly doubted you would be able to find him with any manner of efficiency. Clamping a hand over your officer’s cap to hold it in place as a plane taxied onto a nearby hardstand, your eyes began to scan the crowd of men as they filtered past, surely headed for the mess hall or officer’s club. Catch a glimpse of those unmistakable ears, you stepped forward and called out to him.

“John Clarence Egan!”

His head whipped around so fast he nearly took out the man walking beside him.

“Do I really look so different in a skirt that you would walk right by me?” You teased fondly.

“Angelfish!”

His flight bag hit the asphalt with a sickening ‘crunch’ that had you worried for its contents, but the impact of his body against yours drove that thought quickly from your mind. Wrenching his cap from his head he tilted his face to nestle beneath the brim of yours and kiss you soundly. Distantly, you were aware of all manner of cheers and wolf-whistles from his comrades, but you were too busy clutching at his shoulders to truly mind.

“How did you-? What are you-? God, it’s good to see you.” He rambled before pressing his mouth against yours firmly, not even giving you the opportunity to reply.

Laughing brightly into the kiss, you became vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps approaching much nearer and pulled back slowly, smiling fondly as Bucky’s lips made as if to chase yours, but his friend’s question interrupted him.

“You gonna introduce us, John?” A tall blond man with striking blue eyes and a pair of unsettlingly symmetrical facial scars asked sardonically.

Bucky cleared his throat and stepped back, though you noted his arm slid around your waist in a rather proprietary move. You found you did not mind in the least, particularly as your fully healed wound gave no protest of pain whatsoever.

“Angelfish, this Gale Cleven – call him Buck, Robert Rosenthal – Rosie, and Harry Crosby – Croz.” He followed up by introducing you by your full name.

“He give you that nickname, too?” The one he told you to call ‘Buck’ raised an eyebrow and you laughed.

“It’s a long story….”

-------------------------

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747, @storysimp, @slowsweetlove, @httpsmoon, @buckysegan, @justheretoreadthxxs, @precious-little-scoundrel, @jointherebellion215, @timetowastetime8, @mads-weasley

#john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #major john egan x reader #john egan x you #john egan fic #john egan imagine #john egan #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

Text

Comet Donati [Chapter 3: Steal My Girl]

A/N: Hello lovely readers! Thank you so so so much for the love this fic has received. I wanted to give you a heads up that I will be co-leading a field trip to Japan from July 4th-14th and will therefore have much less time to write. HOPEFULLY I won’t have to skip a Sunday update, but I wanted to make you aware just in case. I hope you enjoy Chapter 3!!! 💜

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, Aegon-induced chaos, ANGST, Iceland, you cannot escape the Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Selected Chapter Quote: “So what, you don’t like me anymore?”

Word count: 8.3k (wtf I need to chill).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @mariahossain @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

Athens, Madrid, Porto, Vienna, Stockholm, and now: descending into Reykjavik through clouds like iron. The North Atlantic is an endless sheen of cold overcast blue, a mirror of the sky. The earth is rocky and anemic. There are no jewel tones here, no sapphires or emeralds or aquamarines or fire opals or topazes. It is impossible to look down at Iceland, this dominion of impassionate jaggedness, and not think of how the Vikings had to reap their treasures from every other corner of Europe, silver and gold and glass and slaves piled into ships to be rowed back to the hostile earth they clung to, perhaps just to prove they could.

Across the aisle of the private jet—more like a penthouse than a plane, posh neutral colors and hand-stitched leather—Luke is showing Aemond his latest lyrics, loops of silver on matte black pages. They’re good, from what you’ve heard. They’re really good. And that tells you what kind of person Aemond truly is as he helps Luke polish rocks into gemstones. Anybody can soften the blow of mediocrity. It takes courage to build ladders for people who might one day outclimb you.

Daeron is playing his Nintendo 64, which is hooked up to a 98-inch flat screen tv; Mario is leaping through paintings into worlds of lava, ice, sentient ticking bombs. Criston is answering emails. Cregan is sprawled across a couch with his sunglasses on, presumably sound asleep. Jace is leering at you, dark hair hanging in his face and slurping a Vesper.

You ask him half-mocking: “What tattoo are you going to get for Reykjavik?”

He yanks off his sequined red blazer—nothing underneath, as usual—and twists around to show you the puffin on his left shoulder blade. Comet, at some point in time that preceded you, has already been to Iceland. “Cute, right? Wanna pet it?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m sorry I asked.”

He grins. “No you’re not.”

Aegon kicks the back of Jace’s chair. He’s scribbling some notes of his own, which is unusual. In place of a spiral notebook with onyx pages, Aegon is writing on crinkled Starbucks receipts with a Sharpie. He’s wearing his favorite aviator sunglasses, khaki cargo pants, an excessively bright cyan tank top, and matching Crocs.

Baela stares blankly out the window for a few seconds—like she’s buffering, a lagging connection—and then she looks to you hopefully. “Shopping when we land?”

“Does Iceland have shops…?”

“Probably more than Kansas,” Aemond says, then smiles mischieviously.

“Missouri,” you fling back. He returns his attention to Luke.

“They totally have shops in Iceland,” Baela assures you.

“Then I am amenable. I need more concert outfits.” You mostly wear your boy band t-shirts from home, which has become a joke: One Direction, Backstreet Boys, New Kids On The Block, NSYNC, the Jonas Brothers, Boyz II Men, 98 Degrees, BTS…but never Comet Donati. Anyone but them. Aegon calls you a traitor. Aemond teases, smirks, tries to hide how much he watches you the same way people contemplate art on museum walls, a little confounded, a little entranced.

“Rhaena?” Baela says. “Hello? Hello? Hola? Bonjour? Rhaena?”

Rhaena startles, peering up from her novel: Jurassic Park. Once upon a time, as you’ve learned, she had planned to study paleontology. She wants to be alone in the middle of a field someplace digging up bones. Well, no great tragedy there; one is never too old to be a paleontologist. She can take off five years, or ten years, or twenty, or thirty to see Luke through his touring days and then pick back up her own ambitions like keys left on a hook. But Baela gave up a ballet scholarship to follow Jace across the globe, puddle to puddle, land to land, and in your albeit limited understanding, ballerinas age in something like dog years. Their career is a brilliant, lightning-brief flash and then long, anonymous decades running out their mortal clock as choreographers, backup dancers, personal trainers, instructors for blue-blooded five-year-olds. Baela won’t be able to reclaim that dream for much longer. It might be too late already. She is out of practice; but she misses ballet. When Jace is being snide or oblivious, you’ve seen her gazing out windows—Escalades, hotels, jets—wondering if it was all worth it. You gut yourself for someone and they don’t even have the courtesy to put up a gravestone. It’s only natural to develop a propensity to haunt.

“What?” Rhaena asks.

“Shopping. This afternoon. Interested?”

Rhaena’s eyes go wide. She fidgets: closing and then opening her book, touching a hand to her earrings, delicate strings of small silver hearts. “Um…I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Oh, not this again,” Baela groans.

“Just go without me. Bring me back something, you know what I like.”

“What’s the problem?” You are investigative but not accusatory. The tone is essential.

“She’s scared of store employees,” Baela says.

“Well you don’t have to make it sound like that—!”

“What’s so scary about store employees?” you ask Rhaena, calm, cool, collected, nonjudgmental. Aemond glances over, as he often does when you’re working, like he can’t get enough of watching that switch flip, when you slink covertly into therapist mode like a water moccasin weaves through swamps, subtle ripples in the muddied water and vigilant eyes.

“I just hate it when people are watching me,” Rhaena says, twirling an earring. “They’re always waiting right by the door—especially at the posh places like the ones Baela goes to—and they want to know what I’m shopping for, and they want to make suggestions, and they follow me to the fitting room and ask what I like and what I don’t. And I can’t get rid of them! Even if I’m like ‘Just looking, thanks!’ they’ll circle back every five minutes to check on me. I can’t stand it. I get so frazzled I can’t decide how I really feel about a skirt or dress or whatever because I’m too busy trying to make conversation with someone I don’t want to talk to anyway. I end up with a headache and a shopping bag full of regrets. I’d rather click a button on my MacBook Air and save myself the suffering.”

You nod sagely. “What is it about talking to the employees that stresses you out so much?”

“I don’t want to say or do the wrong thing. I don’t want to cause problems.”

“But it’s not like you’re going to do anything they haven’t experienced before. They see hundreds, maybe even thousands of customers a month. And even if you did something ridiculously, dementedly embarrassing, like…um…hey, Aegon, what’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done while clothes shopping?”

“I fell asleep in a fitting room. I pissed on the floor. I set something on fire. I vandalized One Direction merchandise.”

“No, there was that other time,” Daeron says. Mario is swimming through rings of underwater coins; they chime gleefully as he collects them.

“What other time?” Aegon says.

Daeron grins. “Come on. You know.”

Aegon remembers. “Oh yeah. Once I bit a girl’s feet until I accidentally ripped off part of a toenail and she bled everywhere. But that wasn’t my fault. She was begging for it. It was consensual.”

Criston, not looking away from his emails, says: “And that’s why Aegon is now banned from all Michael Kors locations for life.”

“Right.” You turn back to Rhaena. “So you would never do anything that deranged. But even if somehow you did, what’s the actual worst-case scenario? What, realistically, could happen as a result?”

Rhaena considers this. “The employees will think I’m weird, I guess.”

“So what you’re so concerned about is that the store employees—who are literally paid to be inconvenienced by you—might think you’re weird? Which they’ll remember for, what, maybe an hour before some other customer gives them a more memorable calamity to focus on? You don’t think they’re more annoyed by purse-dog-toting heiresses screeching at them or cokeheads pissing on their floors?”

“Rude,” Aegon says.

Rhaena smiles guiltily. “I mean, when you put it that way, it does sound stupid.”

“Not stupid,” you insist. “Just out of proportion.”

“Okay,” Rhaena says. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “Okay. I guess I’ll go shopping.”

“Yes!” Baela cheers, already scrolling through Reykjavik shops on her iPhone.

“Hey, Stargirl,” Aegon says, and then hurls something at you like a frisbee. It’s an Amex Black Card.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “What’s my budget?”

“No budget. As long as it’s slutty.”

“I will buy nothing but cardigans and mom jeans.” You crane your neck to peek at his receipts. The black Sharpie squiggles aren’t words; they’re shapes, pictures. “What are you drawing?”

“New merch designs!” Aegon holds up the receipts so you can see.

“Circles…?”

He is somewhat wounded. “Donuts!”

You don’t even know where to begin. “Why donuts, Aegon?”

“Because that’s his code word for doing lines in the bathroom,” Criston says.

“No!” Aegon objects. “Because Donati sounds like donuts! So we could have all these mini donuts, print them on hats or shirts or whatever, and then in the frosting where the sprinkles would be we can put tiny stars, suns, moons, planets, galaxies…and comets, obviously.”

Jace scoffs. “I think you spend a little too much time thinking about donuts.”

Aegon goes quiet. So does everyone else. Gazes flit nervously around the cabin. The only sounds are the roar of the jet and Mario 64, although Daeron has turned his back on the cheerful Italian protagonist and is looking pensively over his shoulder at Jace. Aegon resumes sketching his cosmic Sharpie donuts, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Hey,” you say to Jace, and then once you have his attention, wicked dark eyes: “Shut the fuck up.”

“What?”

“It’s a great idea. It’s a really adorable idea, actually. Let’s see you come up with something better. Go on, whenever you’re ready. I’m waiting. I’m still waiting. But you’re not much of an ideas guy, are you, Jace? Fortunately, you’ve always had other people around to pull that weight.”

Jace opens his mouth to say something, then snaps it shut as Cregan stands up. He towers over you both, as tall as Aemond but more muscly all over, in the chest and the shoulders and the legs. He lowers his sunglasses to show his eyes: greyish, cold, flinty. He glares at Jace, and then at you, and then at Jace again. Jace holds up both hands, showing his palms. You bow your head in capitulation. Cregan lies back down on the couch and repositions his sunglasses just as the pilot turns on the fasten seatbelts signs. As you click yours into place, you exchange a glance with Aemond across the aisle. He is smiling, foxlike and approving, as if he can’t wait to see what else you have left to show him.

“So!” Baela says. “Guess who found a shop in Reykjavik that sells Gucci!”

The jet glides through mist and fog to make a rather bumpy landing at Keflavik International Airport, fighting against gusts of wind coming in off the North Atlantic Ocean, the same water that swallowed the Titanic, the Faucett Peru Boeing 727, the Free Life hot air balloon, whaling vessels and Viking longships, countless cruisers and destroyers and submarines that blasted holes into each other during the world wars. As the band prepares to disembark, Aemond reaches into the front pocket of his shirt—black, with white circling koi fish—and slides out a pair of sunglasses. He doesn’t like wearing them. They limit his vision even more than it already is. But he never walks into an airport without sunglasses on, you’ve discovered. Just in case paparazzi are there snapping photos.

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell Aemond.

He gestures to his scar and his blind eye, a pale cloudy blue. “I’ve thought about just getting it cut out. But then I’d have to worry about shoving in a fake one.”

“I think it’s kind of beautiful,” you say. “It reminds me of Neptune or something.”

And the look he gives you, the look, like he’s never heard anything like this before, like he didn’t know that words could fit together in that order. You hold out your hand to him. He lays the sunglasses in your palm. You put them on, grinning up at him.

“Now I’m the one who looks like a multi-millionaire popstar.”

“Hey, we match!” Aegon says as he follows you and Aemond out of the jet, massaging your shoulders and clopping noisily in his Crocs.

There are paparazzi at the airport, but only two of them, young men in black hoodies who dart around loosing flashes into the stuffy, aggressively heated air. Jace, Baela, Daeron, and Aegon beam and wave, radiant, magnetic, born celebrities. Rhaena smiles politely but hides behind Luke. Cregan saunters and smolders, knowing exactly what his devotees expect from him. Criston and the security guards are loaded up with suitcases like pack mules. The paparazzi don’t pay much attention to Aemond—a former heartthrob, a cracked relic, a fossil or a ruin—but one of them snaps a few pictures of him. Aemond turns his face so they’ll get his good side, his unmarred side…and then he grabs for your hand. You try not to reveal how ecstatic you are, how wildly, uncoolly, over-the-moon thrilled. Your expression might end up commemorated forever in a tabloid, after all.

Shopping in Reykjavik is mostly wool sweaters, hiking boots, and weather-proof jackets, but Baela leads you and Rhaena to a boutique that carries something more her speed: Gucci, Burberry, Balenciaga, Valentino, Saint Laurent. You and Baela try to distract the employees as much as possible; still, they find time to nettle Rhaena with those bothersome, predictable, unnecessary questions. She gets a little flustered, but she fights the instinct to run and hide, to allow herself to sink into a frenetic puddle of self-inquisition. You can almost see the words scrolling behind her dark gentle eyes like a news ticker: They get paid to help me. They aren’t going to remember any of this in a few hours. I’m not on a stage. I’m not being judged.

In the fitting room, you take two selfies to send to Aemond’s WhatsApp account: one in a flowing neon yellow gown, the other in a short, velvet, sparkly black dress embroidered with silver stars.

You ask: Day or night?

He answers before you’ve changed back into your jeans and pink Harry Styles hoodie. Night, obviously. And then he adds: Which constellation are you? Vulpecula the fox? Cygnus the swan?

“God, he’s such a dork,” you murmur to yourself, smiling. You have to think for a while before you reply. You don’t know many constellations; that makes it difficult to rattle off something witty. Then you are inspired. You type: Definitely not Virgo :)

He responds immediately: :)))))

“What does that mean?” you whisper to yourself in the solitude of the boxlike fitting room. “What the hell does that mean???” He spends nearly all of his time with you, but he rarely touches you. He’s never made a move. He’s never even kissed you. You wouldn’t mind if he did. No, fuck the coyness that women are supposed to cloak themselves in to preserve their worth. You’re waiting for him to kiss you like someone drowning waits for a gasp of air.

Despite Aemond’s vote, you can’t help yourself. You buy both dresses. You don’t look much like an Aegon Targaryen, but the cashier doesn’t seem too troubled by this. Baela and Rhaena are still trying on outfits, so you swing your bag around boredly and wander over to see what Criston is up to. At Aemond’s insistence, he accompanied you on this shopping expedition and left the rest of the security detail back at the Reykjavik EDITION, a luxury hotel overlooking the harbor. Criston is in the jewelry section and holding up a medallion necklace, rotating it to see how the light reflects off the speckling of tiny gemstones, the wise golden face. His own face is distant and melancholy.

“Oh, that’s lovely, Criston!” you say. “All those emeralds. Who’s pictured on it?”

“Saint Jude. Lost causes.”

Interesting. “Are you religious?”

“Not especially. But Alicent is.”

“Who…?”

Criston walks off to the cash register. You watch him go, curious and perplexed.

Back at the hotel, you enter your suite to find a blond Targaryen lounging in your bed…but perhaps not the right one. Aegon still has his Crocs on and is, for some reason, clutching a plushie puffin. He glances over at you, noting your shopping bag.

“Fashion show?” he says. “I hope it’s nothing but miniskirts and bikinis.”

“Don’t you have places to be? Substances to snort?”

“Cregan is currently trying to locate some.”

“That’s really not good for you. Physically or mentally. You might be addicted.”

He barks a laugh, like it’s absurd. “You can’t get addicted to coke, Stargirl.”

“You definitely can.”

He suddenly looks panicked, like he’s never considered this before.

“So.” You hesitate. “Aemond.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the concept.”

“He’s insecure. Very insecure, though he’s learned how to hide it.”

Aegon throws and catches the puffin, bouncing it off the ceiling. “I wouldn’t disagree.”

“It goes deeper than the accident, I think. The scar, his eye, what happened with the band…that awakened it again. That freed something that he’d had locked away. But where did it start?”

Aegon stares up at the ceiling. He tosses the puffin a few more times, abusing it terribly. “Whoever you are when you’re in high school…that’s sort of who you are forever, you know? If you’re popular and beloved and understood, you carry a certain self-confidence into the rest of your life with you like a suitcase. It’s an assumption that people care about what you have to say. It’s a conviction of your own value. It’s a presupposition the world would have to wrestle away from you. But if you’re a loser in high school, that stays with you too. And it’s one hell of a heavy suitcase to lug around.”

You try to imagine seeing Aemond through eyes that aren’t awed, craving, quietly adoring. It’s simply not possible. “He was alone?” you ask softly, dreading the answer.

“I had friends. He had grudges.” Aegon’s mouth twists as he tries to stop it from trembling. “My father…”

“I know, Aegon.” Your voice is gentle. “You told me in Kansas City, that night at the bar. You don’t have to say it again.”

He is relieved. “Yeah. So people respond to that in different ways, right? I lived in the present. I talked to anybody who would listen to me, and I partied and I got high and I got laid, and I was the antithesis of the kind of son my father would have wanted just to spite him. Aemond escaped into the past. He read books, traced bloodlines, collected old obsolete things. Maybe that gave him hope that a better place was waiting for him out there somewhere, a better time. He got to be cool for three years. That’s it, and that’s all he’ll ever have. He was the one with vision. He said he was going to audition for The X Factor, and I only went with him to meet girls. Then he made it through the first round and I did too. And when they were going to cut us, he found Jace and Luke and Cregan and convinced everyone to start performing together. The show wanted to replace Luke, did you know that? They thought he was too boyish, too innocent. Aemond fought for him. And then Comet finished in second place, and all the sudden we were signed to a label, and we were selling millions of records and we were touring, and we were winning Grammys, and we were buying our parents and siblings houses…and two months after our third album came out, Aemond was maimed at the Budokan and it was time for him to get off the ride.”

You stare at Aegon, tremendously sad, not knowing what to say. Sometimes the right words don’t exist.

Aegon smirks. “He really likes you.”

“Maybe.” And then, with guileless vulnerability: “I hope so.”

“That’s dangerous.”

Your brow knits into fearful grooves. “Why?”

“I know how to enjoy something without owning it. I don’t think Aemond does.”

You don’t want to ask, but you have to. “What was Shelby like?”

Aegon considers this for a long time before he answers. “She was simultaneously too good for him and not good enough.”

Too gorgeous. Too cool. Too Pinterest-board perfect, airy like summer. But not deep. A river, a glimmer, but with no understanding of the abyss. You aren’t sure how you know that this is what Aegon means, but you do. You don’t want to think about Shelby anymore. You pivot. “So Aemond is the past and you’re the present. Who’s the future? Daeron?”

Aegon smiles, lazy and warm. “I think you’re the future.”

“Yeah right. Get your Crocs off my bed.”

He complies, groaning, flopping onto the floor gracelessly.

“Where’d you get the puffin?”

“Some Icelandic kid recognized me in the elevator. He wanted to give me a present. In return, I signed an autograph and got him and his dad front row seats to the show tomorrow. So I’d say it was a very favorable exchange for him.”

“You’re a saint,” you say, and then find yourself thinking randomly of Saint Jude again. Lost causes. Lost causes.

Aegon grins at you as he crawls to his feet and makes for the door. “Patron saint of mayhem.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re watching old Comet Donati performances on YouTube when the hotel fire alarm goes off. And it’s strange, because the unscarred, clear-eyed boy on the screen is Aemond but also isn’t him; he smiles more easily, he looks at people without suspicion, he is ebullient and confident and carefree like kids blowing bubbles on front porches. When you open your suite door, dressed in your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants and an oversized New Kids On The Block t-shirt, Aemond is just arriving.

“Oh good,” he says. “You’re still awake.” And then he walks with you to the nearest stairwell.

Outside, the hotel guests are clustered together with their travel companions, shuddering under coats and sweaters and blankets clasped around their shoulders like capes. Even at the start of July, Iceland is cold: fifties during the day as Americans like you measure in Fahrenheit, forties at night, nearly always overcast. It’s 11 p.m., but the sun won’t set until midnight, and even then only for a few short hours; the sky is wearing the colors of dusk, lilac, rose pink, pale blue, fire and gold. You’re shivering, rubbing your bare forearms and feeling the goosebumps that have risen there like braille. Aemond tugs off his black and white Calvin Klein hoodie and offers it to you. As you pull it over your head, you breathe in the pieces of him that have snared in the fabric: smoke and cologne, gin and soap and the brine of the seaside air. Now wearing only his jeans and his koi fish shirt, Aemond lights a cigarette and gazes up at the hotel, postmodern angles and semi-transparent glass.

“No one’s going to give me a hoodie?” Aegon says, quaking in his cyan tank top. Criston reluctantly unzips his bomber jacket and hands it over.

“Did you do this?” Criston asks him, meaning the fire alarm.

“What?! No! No way, man! It wasn’t me!”

Criston turns to Cregan for confirmation. Cregan shrugs, ambiguous. “I knew it!” Criston exclaims. He is distraught.

Several fire engines arrive, red lights strobing, and firefighters enter the hotel to investigate. Baela and Jace are standing near each other but not speaking, arms crossed, faces tense. Luke, Rhaena, and Daeron are watching an episode of The Crown on Luke’s iPhone. Cregan lights a cigarette and manages to take two drags before Criston notices and lunges to bat it out of his hand.

“Stop it!” Criston orders. “You’ll ruin your voice!” Nobody tells Aemond not to smoke. His voice doesn’t matter anymore.

Aegon asks you, his hands buried in the pockets of Criston’s jacket: “Would you run into a burning building to save me?”

“Why would you be in a burning building?”

“That’s really not the point.”

“I’d think about it.”

Luke says, the glow of his iPhone dancing across his face: “Wow, Prince Charles is a bitch.”

“You’d think about it?” Aegon says to you. “You’d think about it?!”

“You have no excuse to be in a burning building. You have now experienced an evacuation, you know exactly how to leave a building successfully, if you’re still in it for some reason then that’s your problem.”

“You hear that, Criston?” Aegon says. “This is a good thing. Now everyone knows what to do if there’s a real fire! And we’re in hotels all the time, so this is super helpful!”

“Please shut up,” Criston begs.

“Hey Cregan, share with the class, what did you learn about fire safety from this fortuitous occasion?”

“I already knew what to do.”

Aegon is grinning. “Yeah? What’s that, Cregan?”

“Get in the shower and wait for the fire department to come rescue me.”

Everyone laughs—even Jace and Baela—and Cregan’s lips quirk up in one corner, the only hint that he is joking. A parade of firefighters exit the hotel. One of them is carrying a toaster. Black smoke pours out of the slits in the top.

She says something in Icelandic that you can’t understand, then repeats in English: “Who was trying to cook hotdogs in a toaster?”

The guests chatter incredulously among themselves: Who would do such a thing?

You, Aemond, Luke, Rhaena, Daeron, Cregan, Jace, Baela, and Criston are mindful to look anywhere except at Aegon. You gaze out at the horizon, the kaleidoscopic midnight sun. Aegon peers down at his Crocs, hair tangled and blue eyes wide.

“Very well,” the firefighter with the toaster says, a little smugly. “We will consult with the hotel staff and see which guest was registered to that room.”

“Goddammit!” Criston hisses, and shoves by the band to go meet the firefighters. You can’t hear what’s being said, but his hands move in exaggerated gestures of humiliation, apology, restitution. Fortunately, the Icelandic people seem to be forgiving.

Daeron turns to Aegon. All he says is: “Why?”

“I couldn’t figure out the buttons on the stove!”

Criston comes trudging back to the band. Guests are being admitted into the hotel to return to their drinks, their television shows and mystery novels, their families, their lovers, their beds. “Alright, it’s taken care of. Go to your rooms. All of you, right now, go.”

No one has the heart to argue with him; he looks half-broken already. Everybody disperses. You and Aemond end up alone together as the elevator zooms to the fifth floor. He takes his small, square metal lighter out of his jeans pocket and toys with it, repeatedly flicking the lid open and then shutting it again.

You point to it. “Vintage lighter. Vintage bike. And yet you write with glittery gel pens instead of quills and ink. Poser.”

“I like old things,” he says, smiling. “I think history is important.”

And you hear Aegon’s words like an echo: That’s dangerous. You start pulling off Aemond’s hoodie to give it back to him.

“No,” he says, sounding pleased. “You keep it.” So you do, finding excuses to bring the sleeves close to your face—touching your hair, your lips, your eyelashes—so you can inhale him.

Aemond leaves you at the door of your suite, but you don’t go inside. You wait for another five minutes until Criston steps out of an elevator and into the hallway, alone and agitated. Still, he has concern to spare for you.

“You okay? Locked yourself out?”

“No. I was just hoping to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.” Criston is tired, but his eyes, dark like fertile earth, are attentive.

“When Aemond was hurt…when the label yanked him out of Comet…no one fought for him?”

“Luke did,” Criston says.

And then he continues down the hall, shoulders low, a man troubled by both the past and the future.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Blue Lagoon is like Aemond’s sightless left eye: a milky blue, opaque, something you could drown in. The band spends several hours splashing and wading in water warmer than the blood in your veins. The white silica mud that forms the floor is soft beneath your bare feet, squishing between your toes; people spread it over their skin like a skin shedding its scales in reverse. Criston orders strawberry-banana smoothies from the in-water bar, trying to distract Aegon and Jace from the beer and the wine. Currently, Comet’s most worrisome performers are locked in combat: Daeron is on Aegon’s shoulders, Luke on Jace’s, entangled in a spirited chicken fight. This is much preferable to their first choice, Marco Polo, which led to Jace ‘accidentally’—and repeatedly—bumping into various early-twenties female tourists, whereupon he would inevitably profusely apologize, introduce himself, and pose for selfies, beads of turbid mineral water dripping from his curls. Cregan has drifted to the other side of the lagoon, floating on his back and basking beneath the overcast midday sun.

“I can’t believe they made everyone shower naked before getting in here,” Rhaena says, drinking her smoothie, submerged in rippling blue up to her collarbones. She had nearly refused to go through with it—I’ll wait in the car! I’ll be fine! I’ll just watch The Crown on my phone for three hours!—until you and Baela offered to hold up your towels to shield her from view and insisted that none of the other guests (all female, as the showers are sorted by gender) were paying attention. Nudity is not a big deal in Iceland. It’s quite a far cry from Missouri.

“You gotta honor the local culture, babe.” Baela flashes Rhaena a teasing grin. “Scandinavians are super progressive. No shame about bodies or relationships. Very sex-positive.”

“Well Jace is certainly blending in.”

Now Baela isn’t grinning anymore. She frowns broodingly out over the lagoon. Rhaena, regretting that she said it but knowing it can’t be taken back, noisily slurps at her smoothie even when it’s gone. You and Aemond exchange an uncomfortable glance. Baela has never broached the topic of her relationship with you, but you know it’s coming. You can sometimes see her working up the nerve like a bucket filling with water, drop by drop.

You change the subject. “See, Rhaena? The naked shower thing wasn’t even that bad. It was over in two minutes, and absolutely nobody was judging you. And if you hadn’t done it, you would have missed out on this amazing experience!”

“You weren’t nervous?” she asks you. “Not at all?”

“I little bit, yeah. Of course. I’m an American.” Everyone chuckles. “But logically, I knew no one would really be watching me. I’m not that interesting. And also…I wasn’t truly naked.”

“Huh…?”

You wiggle your eyebrows and, smiling radiantly, spin around and point to the black-ink tattoo between your shoulder blades, underscored by the straps of your swimsuit that cross just below it: a comet with a streaming tail, lyrics that Aemond dreamed up in a kinder world. Rhaena laughs.

“Oh, right, of course.”

“You are obsessed with that thing!” Baela says, but she sounds relatively happy again.

“It’s true. I am. I admit it.” Sometimes you find yourself staring at it in hotel bathroom mirrors still foggy with steam, wiping away condensation to marvel at the irrevocable ways in which Aemond has marked you, ways you are thankful cannot be erased. When you wear anything that reveals your upper back like a spilled secret, you often catch Aemond gazing at it too. Now he reaches over and skims a fingerprint along the circle that his lyrics form around the comet:

I’ll come back for you if it kills me

Comets clip by again after eons and so can I

There’s a jolt down your spine like lightning, but more eager than jarring. All other thoughts vanish from you. You look over at Aemond, and he looks back, his lips slightly parted, his right eye beckoning to you. And you know it will be good with him, if it happens, when it happens. It will be more than good. It will be laced with an intensity, with a dire breed of necessity that you’ve never tasted before. All at once, you and Aemond realize what you’ve done and drift away from each other again, weakening gravity, elliptical orbits.

“No shame, guys,” Baela quips, raising her smoothie glass in a toast. “Sex-positive, remember?”

After the 45-minute drive back to Reykjavik, and after the concert, the band coalesces in Jace’s suite. There aren’t many hangers-on for this stop of the tour; Reykjavik is isolated and peaceful and not particularly desirable for friends of convenience who are more interested in clubbing and drugs than camaraderie. You wouldn’t trade nights like this for anything in the world.

Aemond is reading off his latest notes, white ink on black paper, stars on the backdrop of the universe. A Benson & Hedges cigarette smolders between two fingers on his left hand. Smoke curls up around his face. “Aegon, you were three steps behind the choreography for basically the entire show.”

“Yeah, that was on purpose.”

“It wasn’t,” Aemond counters, but he can’t help but smile.

“Women love a tragic disaster of a man who is screaming to be fixed.”

“Daeron,” Aemond continues. “I really like that hair flip you’ve started doing…”

Aegon is knocking back dark glass bottles of Gædingur Stout and slurring, very drunk and sinking deeper by the minute. In the absence of coke, he has resorted to other crutches. You are squeezed between Aemond and Baela on one of the couches. And Aemond isn’t really touching you, but he also is: the delicious subtle pressure of his thigh against yours, occasional nudges of his elbow, ostensibly unintentional grazes of knuckles and palms. He’s drinking his usual, a Bramble, and so are you, swirls of slow-moving pink like drops of blood in open water. And you think in a hazy bliss like listening to ground-level conversations from the bottom of a swimming pool: Tonight, tonight, tonight, he’s going to come back to my room with me tonight.

“Oh great,” you mumble as you check your Facebook messages on your iPhone.

“What’s wrong?” Rhaena asks. She’s nestled against Luke on the opposite couch, twirling locks of his hair around her benign, delicate fingers. Jace is sitting beside Luke, drinking a Vesper and trying not to make eye contact with Baela. Daeron is in the fuzzy white sheepskin lounge chair, Cregan perched on a bar stool, Criston standing watchfully with a vivid green bottle of Perrier in one hand. When he briefly steps out onto the balcony to take a call from the label, you can hear only the most dim, indistinct murmurings through the thick tinted glass, sounds but not words. Aegon is sitting—and occasionally crawling around—on the floor. The Backstreet Boys’ I Want It That Way is playing.

“I’m subletting my apartment in Kansas City and there is a strict no pet policy. But my neighbors snitched on the new tenant and apparently she’s got a Flemish Giant rabbit living there with her.”

“Not even a normal rabbit,” Baela muses. “A giant rabbit.”

You sigh. “All the rugs are going to be chewed up by the time I get back.” And Aemond glances over anxiously, like he doesn’t want any reminders that you won’t always be around.

“What’s your apartment like?” he says.

“Old. Vintage. Most of it hasn’t been updated since the 1950s. You’d appreciate it, actually. It would match your aesthetic.”

“Maybe I’ll have to see it sometime.”

You smirk at him, flirtatious, baiting, the silver stars on your dress reflecting golden lamplight. “Maybe. If I invite you.”

He leans in to whisper so only you can hear: “You will.”

“I think I’d be a landlord if I wasn’t famous,” Jace says, nursing his Vesper meditatively like an aspiring philosopher. “I’d just sit back and collect the checks as they rolled in. And you get to raise the rent every year.”

“Yeah, that sounds like you,” Aegon says, grinning up at him saccharinely.

“What would you be, Stargirl?” Jace asks; and you realize you hate the sound of him using Aegon’s name for you.

“I mean, a therapist.” And everyone laughs, even Criston.

Jace flushes, brushing his curls back from his face with one hand. “Oh yeah. Clearly.”

You look to Aemond. “You’d be a historian or an archivist or something.”

“Or a writer,” Luke says.

“Maybe,” Aemond agrees, a tad uncomfortable with the attention. “Or an animal activist, maybe. I’d like to do some sort of good in the world.”

Aegon shouts, far more loudly than necessary: “What would you be, Criston?”

“Thousands of miles away from you.” More laughter, riotous; but Criston is smiling a little.

“What about you, Cregan?” Jace asks. “What would you want to be if Comet didn’t exist?”

Cregan downs a shot of Absolut Vodka. “A plastic surgeon.”

“What? Why?”

Cregan shrugs. “You get to see tits all the time.”

There are scandalized squeals and guffaws. Baela says: “I would not let you anywhere near my tits.”

“And not just tits!” Daeron adds brightly. “Don’t they do, what’s it called, vaginal rejuvenation?”

Cregan points at him with his empty shot glass. “Exactly.”

“Oh God, that sounds painful.” Rhaena hides her face behind a flute of champagne.

“Yeah,” you say. “I don’t think I’m interested.”

Aegon snorts, drips of Gaedingur Stout flying from his nose. “Like you’d ever need it. You’ve got a pornstar pussy, fucking gorgeous.”

A hush sweeps through the room like a dust storm. Baffled glances dart around wildly. Immediately, Aegon realizes his mistake. He gazes up at you from the floor with large, glazed, drunken blue eyes that glisten with apology. You gape back, half-furious and half-petrified.

“Wait, what?” Aemond says. Ashes build on his cigarette, forgotten.

“Oh, wow.” Jace gestures from you to Aegon. “You guys…you guys have…?”

“It was once, a long time ago,” you say quickly. “Like, a really long time ago. Over a year ago.”

Aegon is trying to help. “Ages ago. Ancient history.”

“Where? In Kansas City?!” Baela gasps, stunned.

Aegon tells her: “You remember that bar we all went to after the show, right? The one on the roof?”

Baela is blinking at you, not comprehending. “You hooked up with him? In a bar?! Aegon?!”

“Um, yeah.”

Jace brays out a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn, Stargirl. I thought you had better taste than that.”

You feel like you’re fighting for your life. You feel like you can’t breathe. “It really wasn’t serious…” Not the sex part, anyway.

“No, no, it totally wasn’t,” Aegon agrees gamely. “It was like, what? How long were we in that bathroom? Maybe ten minutes total?”

Daeron is giggling. “Bruh, stop roasting yourself!”

As the chatter flies, you hide your face in your hands; beneath your palms, your cheeks are hot. You can feel Aemond pulling away from you, spaces opening up between your thighs and shoulders and arms like the ever-expanding void of the universe. When you steal a glimpse of him through the cracks in your fingers, he is staring down at the floor. He is silent, but you can see the thoughts—the images—riddling him like bullets. You can see him filling up with them like a punctured ship fills with seawater. He smokes until his cigarette is gone, and then immediately lights another.

Luke is the one to mercifully intercede. “Hey, Criston, where are we going next?”

“Uh,” Criston says, trying not to gawk at you or Aegon. “Let me think. Uh. Oh, right. Paris.”

Jace cackles. “The city of love! How appropriate!”

Criston ignores him. “You have some press interviews and then you’re doing two shows at the Accor Arena on July 7th and 8th…”

Aemond gulps down the rest of his Bramble and then walks out onto the balcony, closing the sliding glass door behind him.

“Fuck,” Aegon sighs miserably, then guzzles his Gaedingur Stout.

You bolt off the couch and go after Aemond. The heavy sliding glass door growls as you roll it open and then shut it again. Outside, Reykjavik is cold and windswept. The midnight sun is aflame. It’s still too bright to see the Northern Lights; even if they were there, you would have no way of knowing. Aemond is smoking with his back to you. He’s looking out over the boats bobbing in the harbor, sunbeams glinting on the crests of waves. Flapping gulls swoop and scream.

You say cuttingly, like a surgeon slicing away malignancies: “So what, you don’t like me anymore?”

Aemond flicks ashes over the balcony railing. “I just think I understand you better.”

“What does that mean?”

He whirls to you and says pointedly: “Why are you here?”

A disorienting question. Too easy. “I followed you out onto the balcony.”

“No, here with the band, here in Reykjavik, why are you here?”

You know how the truth sounds, but you can’t rewrite it. “Because Aegon asked me to be.”

“Because he asked you to come fix me, right?” Aemond demands. “To crack open my skull and stir things around until I’m okay with the fact that my life ended seven months ago.”

“No!” you shout into the wind. “I mean, yes, he thought I’d be able to help you, to help Comet, but that’s not what this is about for me anymore—”

“Why would I believe you? You’re a liar, you’re a confirmed liar, why would I believe a single goddamn word of what you have to say?!”

“I didn’t lie to you!”

“Friends!” Aemond roars. He doesn’t touch you, but his rage is horrifying, ageless and deep like lava bubbling beneath tectonic plates. “You said you and Aegon were friends!”

“We are friends—”

“No, you’re not. You met him, you fucked him, and then when he invited you to join the tour you dropped everything to do it, why, because you still want him? And I’m the charity case? Or I was just next in line? Maybe you were planning to work your way through the whole band. Who’s next, Jace? I don’t think he’d object.”

“No—!”

“You and Aegon. And you didn’t even have the guts to tell me.”

“Because I didn’t want to have this conversation, the one where you eviscerate me for something that happened before I even met you!”

“You chose him,” Aemond says, venomous. “At the bar in Kansas City, you chose him.”

“What?! Aemond, I don’t even remember seeing you, I don’t think you were there at all—”

“I was there.” He glares at you, thunderstorms, tornadoes, the earth splitting in two. “Last June. Rooftop bar. String lights. View of the river. I remember it, I was there.”

“Well then you didn’t notice me either and you probably spent the whole night with Pilates princess, Malibu Barbie Shelby, so what’s the fucking point?!”

He glowers at the horizon. Iceland DOES have jewel tones, you think erratically. But they only come out at night, like owls or bats. “It’s different.”

“It’s not different! You’re so convinced people don’t like you that you do insane, irrational things that make people not like you! It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy! It’s a fucking circle, you idiot!”

“I’ve had enough psychoanalysis, thanks.”

“No, you could use some more of it, you could use a lot more, you have so many demons it’s like Paranormal Activity in your brain, they’re in there all day tearing things off the walls and kicking over chairs and sabotaging anything you dare to care about and you let them!”

He turns away from you. “Just go the fuck back to Kansas.”

“I’m from Missouri!”

Aemond pitches the end of his cigarette over the balcony. His good eye flicks to the sliding glass door. The curtains rustle as the faces that hovered there just seconds ago disappear back into the suite. Very muffled through the thick glass, you can hear Criston chastising people.

You ask Aemond, embers in your throat: “This is really something you consider unforgiveable?”

He shakes his head, mournful, violently disappointed. “You’re just a groupie. You’re just a slut.”

Slut. It’s not the word, it’s the way he said it, with dismissiveness, with condemnation, the same way men love to use it as a blade to carve off every other piece of you—kindness, coldness, ferocity, loyalty, wit, passion, talent, triumphs, failures, ghosts—until that one little word is all that’s left. You’re dismantled into a clutter of loose bolts and bent nails. You’re a beef cow that was led into the maze of a gnashing, metal-and-blood processing plant and came out the other side a brainless, raw-pink patty just the right size to fit in a Big Mac box, something to be consumed but not remembered. “What did you say to me?”

He’s staring out into the twilight sky, both hands on the balcony railing. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe I…”

“Are you kidding me?! I can’t believe I got your lyrics tattooed on my fucking back, what am I supposed to do about that now, rip my own skin off?!”

“So get it covered up. I’m sure Aegon would be thrilled to help you choose a new design, or Jace, or Cregan, or Daeron, or whoever.”

“You know what I think?” you say, caustic like acid.

“Don’t say it,” he threatens, low and dark.

“I think you haven’t fucked anyone since the accident, and you’re terrified to. But you shouldn’t be, Aemond. Because there’s nothing wrong with you. There has never been anything wrong with you.”

But he doesn’t hear that part. He only hears the first thing, what you never should have said at all. It’s true, but that doesn’t mean you should have said it. “I hate you,” he says softly, and you can’t think of a reply. The space between you fills up with wind, cold, dying sunlight. Aemond looks at the sliding glass door. “I don’t want to go back in there.”

“Well, we’re five stories off the ground, so you’ll probably have to.”

He studies the series of balconies that run along this side of the hotel, each separated by perhaps three feet of open air. Then he starts climbing over the metal railing.

“Aemond, don’t!”

But it’s too late. Fortunately, he has long limbs. He scrambles onto the next balcony, and then the one after that, and then one more, until he reaches the balcony for his own suite. He tries the sliding glass door—locked—and then sits down to wait for someone to open it. You go back inside Jace’s suite, where everyone pretends to have been talking about something other than you.

“Where’s Aemond?” Criston says, alarmed.

“He’s on the balcony of his suite. You should go let him in.”

“What?!” Criston yells, and then sprints out into the hallway.

You flee too. Both Baela and Aegon try to stop you, try to talk to you. They’re asking what Aemond said. They’re asking if you’re okay. You tell them you’re fine and that you want to be left alone. They argue. You insist. You walk back to your own room and start packing.

Your suitcase fills up with crumpled clothes and souvenirs: a Colosseum pencil sharpener from Rome, a tiny alabaster Apollo from Athens, a Spanish fighting bull refrigerator magnet from Madrid, handmade soap from Porto, a bar of chocolate from Vienna, a moose snow globe from Stockholm, a silica mud mask from the Blue Lagoon, a tiny stuffed comet that Rhaena crocheted for you. You reach back to touch your fingertips to the comet tattooed over your spine, tears biting in your eyes. If I had told him from the start, would that have made a difference? If I had met him first, would we have had a chance? You are gathering up your makeup when you hear a knock on the doorframe.

Cregan lurks there. When he speaks, he sounds startled; he sounds afraid. “You can’t leave.”

“I’ve literally never had a conversation with you, so thanks for the input but I’m still going.”

“No,” he says, persistent. “You can’t leave.”

“Aemond doesn’t want me here.” Your voice is fragile, shattering. “I can’t help him anymore.”

“It’s not just about Aemond. It’s about everyone. They’re all fucked up. They all need you.”

You stare at Cregan, not understanding. “I really don’t think I’m equipped for this.”

He fixes his cool greyish eyes on you. He is harsh but somehow not unkind. “You would never be able to comprehend where I came from. I’m not going back to that. The band has given me everything. I’m not going to let anyone take that away from me. You have to stay. You have to fix Comet. You can’t leave.”

He watches you, and you watch him, and you aren’t sure who has the upper hand here, who is the predator and who is the prey. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe everyone is a patchwork of strengths and deficits, fields of gold strewn with landmines.

At last, you relent. And Cregan doesn’t vanish until you’ve begun taking your souvenirs out of your suitcase and placing each of them—carefully, reverently—back on your nightstand where they were before.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aegon x reader #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #Aegon II Targaryen #Aegon Targaryen #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aemond x reader

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noisyquokka · 1 year ago

Text

By A Thread...

PAIRING - Chan x GN!Reader

SYNOPSIS - When life leaves you hanging off the end of your rope, fighting on your own is a struggle. You thank the universe for giving you that one person who can always make those struggles a little more bearable.

WORDCOUNT - 3.5k

WARNINGS - TRIGGER WARNING *** Talks/thoughts of suicide, description of panic attacks, anxiety, reader's mental health has tanked (Please don't read if you aren't comfortable with these)*** angst, comfort, emotional support, childhood friends || Please let me know if I missed anything!

A/N - I started this writing piece to help me get through a really tough mental health episode. While I didn't finish it during that time, something brought me back to it recently and it's a bittersweet feeling to have completed it. After thinking about things for a bit, I've decided that I'd post this for anyone else who may be going through those difficult thoughts, or who has in the past. Chan's Room has always been a safe space for me, and I know a lot of us resonate with that.

Knowing this is a heavy fic, I feel it appropriate to leave a link to suicide hotlines. This site has international hotlines for those of you outside of the U.S. as well as other useful info. I know this planet is a questionable place to be existing on at the moment, but the human experience isn't complete without some struggles. We can all get through it, whatever it is we're struggling with. I'm proud of you! 💛

You shut the door to the apartment, slugging your shoes off at the entrance. The stresses of the day weigh heavily on your shoulders, tense and aching as you trudge through the hallway toward your bedroom.

"You're home early." Chan's bubbly voice resonates through the apartment; a welcoming sound. If you would've acknowledged it, that is. Brown eyes shift from the blue-light of the laptop at the lack of a response, catching the ghost of your body whiz through the kitchen from his spot on the sofa. Your footfalls reverberate against the floorboards. It was the door slamming shut, rattling the walls, the electrifying static that had purged into the space. That's when Chan knew that something wasn't right.

You sag against the woodgrain of the door, wrapping your arms around yourself in an attempt of self-consoling as you slowly slide floorward on shaky legs. Breaths come in shallow puffs of air, your lungs constricting like a mouse in the death grip of a python. Everything that had happened today had finally tripped the tidal wave of negative thoughts you had been pushing down for... God knows how long now. You can't remember. All you know is you want it to end before these thoughts drag you too deep into the rabbit hole to where you can't crawl back out on your own.

Trembling fingers wipe the tears from your cheeks, although it seems futile when fresh ones retrace their tracks down your skin. You focus in on your breathing with a shaky breath and furrowed brows. A deep breath in. Hold.

5...4...3...2...1...

A deep breath out.

A soft rapping on the door startles you, shoulders jerking violently. You know who it is before he even speaks your name, voice muffled beyond the barrier of the door, soft and laced with concern.

"Hey, you alright?"

The crease between your brows deepen as your ears pop, drums a void of rumbles and vibrations as if someone stuffed them full of cotton. Teary, bloodshot eyes tilt toward the ceiling.

"Yeah," You wince at the warble in your voice, clearing your throat before trying again. "Yeah! I'm fine, Chan." When no response comes from beyond the door, you know. You know that he knows you are far from fine.

Chan's shadow crawls up the hallway of the shared apartment as he shoulders his weight against the doorframe to your room. He could count the amount of times you two have found yourselves in this very predicament on his fingers three times over. Most nights he'd ask if he could come in and you would both talk about what was bothering you.

Tonight wasn't most nights, though.

Chan shifts himself so his back is against the doorframe, sliding down the woodgrain until he's settled on the wood floor, legs crossed beneath him. He bites the flesh of his cheek at the sound of your sniffles, his heart aching in his chest.

"You wanna talk?" He asks, and you feel your composure cracking at his tone. So courteous and careful, like always. You nod your head, tongue darting out to lick chapped lips and salty tears.

"Sure."

"Alright, let's see..." Chan trails off, taking a deep breath as he racks his brain for a topic. Something to take your mind off your troubles. His lips twitch into a ghost of a smile as he turns his head toward the door. "What's your favourite flower?"

"What?" You scoff, wiping the tears from your cheeks. He begins to repeat himself, and you cut him off.

"You already know the answer to that, Chan."

"Sunflowers." He says, resting an elbow against one knee. "We were what... nine and twelve when you became obsessed with them because Ms. Keller had planted some in her yard down the street."

Chan's smiling. You can hear it in his voice.

"When your dad bought some sunflower seeds from the store, you stole some from the bag and I helped you dig a hole in the backyard so you could plant them. You watered them for months until the weather got too cold. They never grew because they were roasted sunflower seeds." He's rattling on as if he's experiencing the memory all over again behind those brown eyes of his.

Your laugh is broken and groggy - a candle's light in the dark, casting away shadows that had built up in the corners of the apartment - but it's the reason that Chan's heart skips when it flows beneath the door.

"Oh my god, I forgot about that," You reply, sniffling behind long sleeves. "I thought if my parents found out we planted them that they'd be mad."

The image of you and Chan sneaking around the yard in search of a shovel and a watering can is a core memory, the spring sunshine kissing your skin. The smell of freshly turned dirt and a handful of salty sunflower seeds is as vivid in your mind as the man beyond the door.

"But the next spring, Ms. Keller came over and helped us plant some sunflowers in your yard because your dad seen us trying to plant his roasted seeds in the far corner of the garden."

You chuckle as Chan recalls the memory, eyes downcast to the floor. Everything was so carefree and enjoyable as a kid, and now it feels like work to find just a fraction of enjoyment in your life. Too much anxiety over whether or not you're on the right path, nevermind worrying that you're going about living life the wrong way. As if there's some manual to go by. Your chest tightens and you hold your breath, wet lashes fluttering.

Everything is quiet for a moment, save for the wall clock ticking softly.

"I understand why you always loved them." Chan says, and for a moment it sounds like words he didn't mean to verbalize. You know him better than that. "They're so vibrant and full of life - just like you."

You swallow down the ball of nerves, but that does nothing to quell your active tear ducts. Chan tilts his head toward the door at the sounds of your untamed whimpers, brows furrowing.

"Can I come in?" His voice is sheer lace, delicate as he reaches out to you. And you are well beyond your breaking point, rubbing at your wet, matted lashes. He listens carefully for the sounds of shuffling beyond the door, or even your verbal consent.

The lock on the door lets off a subtle click as you wrap shaky fingers around the knob and twist. He's off the floor before you can swing the door open, meeting your gaze with ember eyes that shine like the hearth of a home.

There you are.

The one constant in Chan's life since the first grade. You, standing in front of him in your crumbling state, trying desperately to hold yourself together like a tattered flag in a storm; a whole piece of fabric battered and torn by gale force winds, frayed edges violently tearing away until single threads are all that's left.

And there he is. Your life raft saving you from drowning in the choppy waters of your mind. Chan stands with open arms, awaiting the inevitable weight of your head against his chest. Your skeleton rattles against wound muscle and vermilion-coated veins when you take a step forward. As the weight of your world comes crashing down upon his shoulder, he holds you with the utmost care, strong arms encircling you as if afraid that you would break under the pressure. The warmth of his body only eggs on the tears, breaking your composure further as you collapse into him. Sobs wrack your body, muffled in his shoulder. Shaky fingers grasp for something to hold onto.

"It's alright," Chan murmurs, digging his nose into your scalp. You feel him press kisses into your scalp, breathing you in as your tears seep into the fabric of his shirt. Fingers splay against your back, soothing shapes and gentle motions running the expanse of your spine, rocking the two of you back and forth. His warmth cradles you, soothes your pain. You never feel shame in these arms. Only the strongest, surest form of love and support that you could ever find in someone. Chan's heart drums against his chest. "You can let it out, it's just me."

You don't know what Gods had decided that you were worthy of such a soul, but right now the only way you think you can thank them is through your violent sobs. Grief and gratitude blend together. You needed this comfort desperately, and it shows in your inconsolable tears. In how quiet you are, unable to verbalize much of your inner monologue when it's thrashing around the confines of your psyche like a hurricane. If a Category five was the worst, you were sitting at a nonexistent Category seven. Chan's words echo in your mind.

"They're so vibrant and full of life - just like you."

There's no point in trying to compose yourself. The floodgates have opened. You feel yourself overheating and yet you crave the comfort that Chan is offering, whispering words of encouragement as you press your face into his shoulder. Soothing each scar that litters the muscle in your chest that beats like hummingbird wings.

"Am I a bad person for wanting to die?"

Your brain is so overwhelmed that your mouth opens without a second thought. You hope your words fall on deaf ears, what with how most of them were interrupted by broken hiccups and a pounding head. But when Chan's body goes rigid under your touch, you know he's heard you. His grip tightens, your name whispered against your hair as his voice catches in his throat. If he felt something was off when you walked in the door earlier, it was painfully obvious now. You were lost. Utterly lost and alone, sending out an S.O.S in the labyrinth of your miserable mind. He's talked you down from the brink of destruction many times through the years. To say he was heaven-sent would be a severe understatement. But this was different to the others. Hearing those words come from anyone was enough to bowl him over. Hearing them come from your mouth, though? He's never heard you speak this way in all his years of knowing you. He wanted to know what had been the origin of your tears, but this was not where he expected the conversation to go.

Your breath catches as you sense how much your words affected him. Chan's silence weighed heavily in the air, your words sinking into the hard wood floors until they were weighted with lead. You pull away from him, gaze downcast as you wipe away the tears on your face. A flood of guilt crashes over you, throat constricting like a zip tie closing around your esophagus.

Put the mask back on. Rebuild your walls. You've fucked up now.

"I-I'm fine. I didn't mean to- I'm sorry." You turn your head, unable to bring yourself to look at your best friend since childhood as more tears fall from doused lashes. Your chest tremors for putting that burden on him, something you hadn't meant to say in the first place. You've never said those words out loud before. You never wanted people to worry. Never wanted to be a problem for them. But here you stand, bearing intrusive thoughts to your best friend. It was like throwing a pile of bricks at him and expecting him to bear all that weight with no trouble.

"You're not. Look at me, listen to me." He says, taking your shaking shoulders with a gentle yet firm grip to turn you towards him again. Calloused fingers brush against your jaw, tipping your chin up to meet your glassy eyes. Brown optics flicker across your face, moving from feature to feature with the deepest concern. There's an emptiness in your eyes that twists Chan's heart, the ache so miserable that tearing the muscle from behind the wall of marrow would be more bearable than leaving it be. Chan's tone is adamant, steady despite the weight of the words you've just entrusted to him. "No, you're not."

New tears retrace the old tracks down exhausted epidermis, eyebrows sliding in as you feel Chan press another kiss to your scalp, lingering a moment longer than before. Chan's response only causes you more anxiety, unsure what exactly he's referring to. Not fine or not a bad person for having such heavy thoughts? He must pick up on it, quick to speak up again.

"You're not a bad person at all, and I think you know that. You're just struggling right now, and that's okay."

You sniffle and shake your head, fighting against a tidal wave of hysterics.

"But, what if I..." You swallow, your mind so jumbled you're unable to spit out the words in their original form. "What if I can't get through this?"

"Oh, love..." Chan murmurs, his voice tremulous. It takes everything in him to reign in his own tears. The very thought of you giving in to those intrusive thoughts is like driving a dagger through his heart. His hands leave your face and wrap around you again, his strong hold tightening until you're lifted off the ground, cradled in his arms as he walks toward your bed. You are so tired, physically and mentally overwhelmed by his compassion and the gentle way in which he carries you. You fold into him like a tired newborn. Being tucked into secure arms as he lays you in bed feels like something more intimate than anything you've ever known. Chan is quick and careful when he settles in beside you.

"You don't need to say a word," He whispers, brushing stray hairs from your face and wiping your tears. "just listen to me."

You nod, a broken whimper escaping your throat as he pulls you into his arms. Chan rubs your back soothingly, letting you cry like a child, and he holds you like letting you go would be a criminal offense.

"You don't have to tell me what brought you to this point, I don't need to know if you don't want me to." He starts, his voice rumbling through his chest as he speaks. It offers you some modicum of comfort as you rest one of your arms over his torso. He lets out a heavy breath, eyes cast to the ceiling. "You aren't a bad person for having those thoughts. They don't define who you are, or where you're going. The fact that you're telling me this says a lot, that you've been holding this in for God knows how long."

"I'm just- it's so exhausting to keep living." You mumble, wiping at your runny nose. You press yourself further into Chan's side, feeling his arms tighten around you with every shift you make. His gaze falls to you when you speak, taking in every word with sharp ears. "I've had those thoughts, myself, y'know." His voice is thick with unspoken secrets, a heavy breath hitting the crown of your head - shallow and sharp. You lay with your head against his chest, silent as he confesses to his own feelings of hopelessness.

You've never seen Chan lose the façade of the stable best friend. Even through the stresses of high school, he was the rock, a bastion of strength and resilience. But Chan knows. He knows what those thoughts are like, the struggle of falling asleep while trying to fend off cackling demons from the foot of the bed. The pain of trying so hard to fit the mold that society has crafted, that every single individual is expected to fit to a T.

Perhaps that's why he knows how to soothe you, how to take care of you and hold back his own tears. Even if he doesn't know how frayed and weathered your thread on this life is.

"I never told you about them. Never told anyone, really. I put all my feelings into songwriting, even if I never released half of them." Chan's body relaxes beneath you as the weight of his secrets leaves him. A half-hearted sigh. A lazy hand traces the curve of your back in a calming gesture, the rhythm of his fingers almost hypnotizing.

"You always believed in my impossible dreams... encouraged me to pursue them like it was your calling in life. You made me happy through all of my downfalls." You pick your head up at his words, resting your chin against his breast. Two pairs of eyes lock on one another. There's a ghost of a smile quirking Chan's lips after a moment, brown eyes glowing like the embers of a fire.

"You're one of the good ones." He pauses, bringing a hand up to swipe at the stray hairs in your face, running his fingers through the locks like he always does. "You're so much that this world doesn't deserve, but everything that is needed. Just like those sunflowers that summer. Little seeds that were waiting for their chance to shine, and you lit them up like little beacons of hope."

Even though fresh tears are streaming down your face, Chan beams at the soft laugh that you release. It's genuine this time, unbroken and featherlight. Childlike. These tears aren't ones of hopelessness and sleepless nights, but of gratitude and love for the person embracing you. The way Chan speaks to you, the way he's willing to offer up his strength and his heart without expecting anything of you in return is exactly what you need. In a world filled with harsh realities and high expectations and constant beat downs, he is the personification of empathy. His voice calms your anxious mind, even if his words don't completely wipe out the heavy storm. He tames it, eases the hurricane force winds and manifests a steady rain that could lull you to sleep.

"I'm not going to let you drown, alright. I know things seem rough right now, but you've accomplished so much and you're gonna do so much more." Chan's eyes burn into yours, unwavering in his conviction. You feel the pad of his thumb against your cheek as he wipes more tears away, the heat and passion in his expression shifting to tenderness as he speaks. "As long as I'm here, you'll never be alone in this."

His words are the affirmations you've told yourself for months, fighting your negative thoughts with positivity that only worked for so long. But the words held an air of certainty coming from Chan. There's value in them. It's the first time in a long time that hearing someone - even yourself - telling you that it's going to be okay brings you some semblance of peace, of safety. Knowing that things can get better given a little time. Sunflowers only bloom after some tender loving care; you learned that back when you were kids.

God damn, were you determined back then...

Every fiber of Chan's body exudes safety as he run his hands through your hair, your tears faltering with every delicate touch as you shed the weight of inner phantoms that you've repressed for forever. Your eyes close at the gesture, feeling his heartbeat thunder beneath your palm.

"You take care of me, I take care of you. Like it's always been."

You pick up on the strain in his tone, eyes wide when you open them again. Tears threaten to spill over Chan's lower lashes, unable to hold back those emotions any longer. Your fingers are still trembling lightly when you reach up and wipe them away, mirroring the actions he's been calming you with all night. You feel the arm around your torso squeeze you once, almost a silent thank you for that comfort, even in the state you're currently in.

"You ok?" He asks.

"Not quite," You mutter, sniffling as you keep your eyes on him. "but I'm better than I was an hour ago. All thanks to you."

Chan smiles; one of those smiles that isn't much, but somehow it still reaches his eyes.

"Good, that's good." He pulls you further up, pressing his fingers into your spine. "Now how about I order us some take out and you and I sit and watch a movie? Maybe that new one that you said looks laughably terrible? Or a comfort movie? Your choice."

"Can we lay here for ten more minutes?" You ask. You've already dropped your head against his chest, eyes closed as you listen to his heart thump against sturdy muscle.

"Ten more minutes. Twenty, if you need. I'm not going anywhere." Chan's reply is soft and slow as he continues to hold you close, your tears drying as seconds turn to minutes. You melt into his warmth, pressing further against his neck. Chan mirrors you, a silent reassurance that he's here; now and always.

In Chan's arms you're both so small, so powerless as you confront the demons that have long haunted you. There's no rushing here. Healing isn't a process that can be rushed. He doesn't need you to say a word or do anything. There's nothing more to say, no. He'll just hold you with everything he has. You relax against him, breaths evening out as you feel exhaustion take over.

As your eyes close, you feel the past few months recede.

The future seems less daunting. Just as the pieces shatter, you are finally ready to begin picking them up and piece them back together. It'll get ugly; viscous and foreboding. But Chan is willing to help you with such a demanding process.

That's everything that keeps you going.

It's what keeps you alive.

If you made it this far, thank you for taking the time to read my work 💕 I appreciate you!

#stray kids #skz #bang chan #stray kids x reader #skz x you #bang chan x reader #skz x reader #bangchan x reader #skz chan #gn reader #x gender neutral reader #quokkawritings🌻#cw sui mention

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wangxianficfinder · 1 year ago

Text

Fic Finder

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1. 1. Hii, if it isn't too much hassle and if you're still taking asks, i have a question about a fic i think has been deleted? I'm not sure.

A) It goes like this : Nie Huisang goes back in time, and he gets his brother to bring a young, severely malnourished Wei Ying and is trying to keep him from being sent to Yunmeng ( he kept intercepting his brother's letters to Yunmeng to let them know about Wei Ying). And he has this idea that if he gets Wei ying to believe he is an ugly child (malnourished ++) and that everybody will love him for him and not his skills.

I had it in my bookmarks but i think it was recently deleted? If you have any idea please lmk 🙏 i've lost too many fics this way.

B) There is another fic that's been deleted? a while ago. Wei ying had to wear a mask and was told to never reveal his face. He was married to Lan zhan in an arranged marriage but then Lan Zhan was supposedly forced to marry Wen Qing? Wei ying ended up adopting A-yuan and his twin brother.

Idk if i remember correctly (if it's the same fic) but the last chapter i read Wei Ying had to be forced through a sort of cleansing from demonic cultivation and he basically almost died bleeding ( he told lan zhan he was the one he trusted to do it). I think in the chapter count only one or two chapters were left till the end of the fic.

Pheeew that was A. LOT. I am soooo sorry for the bother, but if you could give me a clue however small i'll finally stop thinking about them. THANK YOUUUUUU 🙏 @yeesh97

1A)

FOUND?! You'll See Me Again by Anonymous (M, 12k, WIP, WangXian, WWX Isn't Adopted by the Jiāngs, Adopted WWX, WWX is a Niè, Protective NHS, NHS time travels, NHS Is A Little Shit, NMJ Lives, Protective NMJ, Time Travel Fix-It, WWX is a Little Shit, Oblivious WWX)

NOT FOUND! Mulberry seeds by OurLadyoftheRain (G, wangxian, NHS & WWX, NMJ & WWX, Canon Divergence, nie WWX, WWX grows up in the nie sect, POV NMJ, Narration Heavy, Time Travel, from an outsider pov, Time Skips, every day all day is 'love wwx time', WWX & LWJ become friends early, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, POV WWX, POV Alternating)

1B)

FOUND! I think 1B is “A Price To Pay” by wangxianist. It had been at chapter 11/14 last time I checked in. The link was https://archiveofourown.org/works/34649677 and should be available on the Wayback Machine.

NOT FOUND! 🧡 decay by antebunny (G, 15k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Angst, Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Fix-It, Angst with a Happy Ending, the fluffiest ending, Hurt/Comfort) I think 1b might be describing 2 fics and the second part might be

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2. Hi! I have been searching for a fic I read a while ago, but I only remember small details about it. Wondering if this sounds familiar to anyone: its wangxian time travel fic, Madam Yu is heavily implied to have had a past romantic relationship (or unrequited crush) on CSSR and JFM is implied to have been in a past relationship with WCZ. At one point, WWX & LWJ make a trip to Meishan Yu to meet an elder that helps forge a new spiritual weapon for WWX that will listen only to WWX & LWJ (during this process I think LWJ has to give up/break part of his guqin for some reason?) They fight the war, and then have to deal with WWX's reputation tanking post-war again - which is solved by a suggestion from JGY (something along the lines of "let the public see you as a dad (of a-yuan) and a husband instead of a demonic cultivating war hero"). @kilegriel

FOUND? And Time Is But a Paper Moon by sami (M, 139k, WangXian, XiChengQing, Time Travel, Fix-It, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Healing, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, BAMF WWX, BAMF JC, BAMF LWJ, BAMF JYL, Getting Together)

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3. Firstly I have to say that I love this blog! It's keeping my To Be Read pile very well stocked! 😁

Secondly, there is a fic I found on AO3 around a year ago and no matter what tags I try I just can't find it!

What I remember is that it is modern with cultivation, married WangXian, and that it's the beginning of an apocalypse where loads of people have been turned into puppets. It was supposed to be blamed on WWX but, coincidentally, he falls ill just before the start and couldn't possibly have done it.

Iirc the apocalypse lasts for about a week and turns out to have been caused by something contaminating the water supply with JGS and/or JGY behind it.

It might start with something like "On the first day of the end of the world…"

Does this ring any bells? Thank you in advance! @greywake

NOT FOUND! when the sun goes out by travelingneuritis (E, 176k, WangXian, Modern AU, Modern Cultivation, tech cultivation, Necromancy, Angst with a Happy Ending, insecurity around adoption, Dad!WWX, dad!lwj, Grief/Mourning, Mistaken Identity, Mood Whiplash, Body Swap, sex tears!, Falling In Love, Consensual Somnophilia, apocalypse (localized), Smut, unrealistic sexual stamina, Flashbacks, Time Skips, Illustrations)

FOUND! When the Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation takes a week off by galaxy_in_your_eyes (T, 20k, WangXian, Modern With Cultivation, Canon Divergence, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, only those that deserve it, kind of fix-it, Zombie Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Attempt at Humor, POV Alternating, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Brief Mentions of Cannibalism, I mean, Zombies, spoiler, We don't see the Zombie Apocalypse, It happens behind closed doors, WWX in quarantine, Wangxian being Wangxian, Mentions of Smut, Established Relationship)

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4. hi! do you guys know the fic where cultivators can exchange hearts? iirc lwj had taken out his heart after the events at nightless city and switched it with wwx's without wwx's knowledge @betafibiiiiiivviiixiiixxixxxiv

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5. Hi, could you guys help me find a fic :)? If I remember correctly, there was one part where Lwj gave a part of his golden core to Wwx and as a result there was a limit to how far they could be separated from one another.

FOUND? when you're doing all the leaving (then it's never your love lost) by tardigradeschool (T, 26k, WangXian, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Sharing a Bed, Sharing Clothes, Fix-It, the inherent eroticism of under robes, Golden Core Transfer )

FOUND? Of all the hands by typefortydeductions (E, 51k, Wangxian, Arranged Marriage, Canon Divergence, Emperor Lan Xichen, PTSD, Nightmares, Dual Cultivation, Mental Health Issues, Fluff and Angst, Dom/sub Undertones, Consensual Non-Con, Bonding, Mutual Pining, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Politics, Improper Use of the Lan Forehead Ribbon, the get wei ying some sleep agenda, yunmeng trio reconciliation) Has wangxian golden core sharing and the line "there is no separating their deaths now"

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6. Hello! As always, thank y’all so much for everything you do. I was hoping for some help finding a fic. It was a modern AU and Wei Wuxian was having some Gender Feelings, I think is the best way to describe them, and was sort of…jealous? of their very nice cishet neighbor. I think they live in a suburb and WWX gets kind of restless when he notices their neighbor is pregnant and he kinda maybe wants to play around with something like that, and anyway he tells LWJ this and they end up acting out a scene by having ‘normie straight people’ sex (i.e. LWJ basically does what he wants without worrying what WWX might want). There’s also a sex scene in the kitchen involving an apron against the counter by the sink, I believe, but that’s pretty much everything I can remember. Does it sound familiar to anyone? Thanks again!

FOUND! in picture frames; in dirty dreams by el_em_en_oh_pee (E, 17k, WangXian, Semi-Public Sex, Light BDSM, Vanilla Kink, Domestic Kink, Curtain Fic, Kink Negotiation, intersects SLIGHTLY with pregnancy kink and (consensual) feminization, Kitchen Sex, Missionary Position, Slice of Life, Fluff and Smut, a soupçon of gender, Aprons)

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7. Hye there i was wondering if you could help me find a fic where wei ying and the juniors were out on a night hunt and they stayed at an inn. Jin ling said something that hurt wei ying’s feelings, so he went to his room first. When he left, sizhui trapped him against the wall and revealed that the reason they have all the thousands of rules was because it was to make sure that their true strength wouldn’t be seen? He said something about how their eyes turn golden if they use their strength or power? And thats why lan zhans eyes are golden. thanks so much @nanasoo

FOUND! A Righteous Facade by RenaFair (T, 4k, WangXian, JL learns a lesson, protective Lans, mildly dark)

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8. Hi😊. Please I'm looking for a Wangxian fanfic where Wei Ying and Lan Zhan are in an arranged marriage and WY was being maltreated in the CR. LXC was the only one who was nice to him at first and LZ insinuated WY was cheating on him with LXC. I remember WY telling him he'll never let LZ touch him or something. I think it was ABO settings

FOUND? To Bring You Back Within My Reach by ablaiseofglory (M, 20k, WIP, WangXian, Arranged Marriage, Angst with a Happy Ending, No dubious consent, Adopted Children, Kid Fic, A/B/O Dynamics, omega wwx, Alpha LWJ, Misunderstandings)

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9. hello! i am looking for fics and i am hoping that you or your followers have idea on what their titles are

A) fic where WWX got into an accident and it was really bad there was a scene where LWJ is talking about learning to love WWX and he doesn't want to unlearn

B) fic where WWX continued to be MXY and he became a disciple at the lan sect

thank you! ☺️

9A)

re:9a, can the requestor say if it's a modern au, secret relationship? I'll look for what I think it is in the meantime

FOUND? Almost Lover by vesna (mrsronweasley) (E, 37k, WangXian, Angst, But with a happy ending, Hurt/Comfort, a bad thing happens to wwx, lwj gets very sad, Hospital Scenes, Dubious Medical Science, please look away if that's important, pining for the person you're fucking, Friends With Benefits, Traumatic Injury, Modern AU, mention of past WWX/WQ)

9B)

FOUND? Love Song In Reverse by timetoboldlygo (T, 237k, WangXian, Amnesia, Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Falling In Love, Slow Burn, agressively mixing and matching novel and cql canon, No Homophobia, Mentions of Starvation, Parental WWX)

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10. Hi there! I’ve got this fic in my head that I can’t seem to find. I think it was part of a series where Wei Ying is adopted by different clans. One of them was a fic where an eccentric cousin of the Lan qiren had been friends with cangse sanren and ‘won her first born in a bet’ and when she died he went out and found him using a compass? I think it had stuff about Wei Ying growing up loving inventing and explosions happening a lot @preciouscommoditybears

FOUND? A Quiet Life of Leisure by nirejseki (G, 7k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, WWX raised in another sect, WWX among the Lan, Alchemy, Explosions, this feels extremely self-indulgent since it's mostly about an OC, but it was what someone asked for, different Jiang sect dynamics)

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11. Can someone help me find these wangxian fics ?

A) Wei ying and the juniors were out on a night hunt and they stayed at an inn. Jin ling said something that hurt wei ying’s feelings, so he went to his room first. When he left, sizhui trapped him against the wall and revealed that the reason they have all the thousands of rules was because it was to make sure that their true strength wouldn’t be seen? He said something about how their eyes turn golden if they use their strength or power? And thats why lan zhans eyes are golden.

B) Its omegaverse and sizhui is jealous when wangxian have their biological baby bc they dont have time for him. He feeds his baby sister and makes her a meal but suddenly she dies. It turns out he replaced the berries with poisonous ones bc he wanted wangxian’s attention for himself as their only child.

C) Wei ying is trapped in CR, specifically in the jingshi. He and sizhui manage to escape from lan zhan, but it turns out sizhui told lan zhan before hand and he drugged him. Lan zhan had been drugging wei ying to make sure that he remains in the jingshi with him and sizhui wanted their family together forever.

D) Jiang cheng, huasang and wuxian go kn a camping/hiking trip? Anyways they take turns driving and the whole time jiang cheng is judging everyones ability to drive, including his. Huasang ran away from dage bc he didnt want to work out or something and jiang cheng has a crush on him (can’t remember) @minivminie

11A)

FOUND? A Righteous Facade by RenaFair (T, 4k, WangXian, JL learns a lesson, protective Lans, mildly dark)

11B)

FOUND? Sizhui's Smiles by RenaFair (T, 11k, WangXian, Possessive Behavior, A/B/O Dynamics, Alpha LWJ, Omega WWX, Alpha LSZ, Mpreg, Minor Child Character Death, Read the summary between the lines)

11C)

FOUND? Good Days by darkbrokenreaper (T, 9k, WangXian, Domestic Fluff, dark!LWJ, Manipulative Relationship, Dubious Consent, Drug Use)

11D)

riding shotgun by beesinspades (T, 6k, NHS/JC, wangxian, modern, Road Trip, Comedy, Fluff and Humor, First Kiss, Swearing, one braincell trio chaos, LWJ is there because isn't he wherever the chaos is?, JC is #tired, Asexual Character, this is a collab so: with links to art!, Russian Translation Available)

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12. hi!! i’m looking for a fic where wwx has to marry a dead lwj. set in the victorian period (i think) the jiang family lost all of their money and the only way for them to survive was for him to marry lwj’s ghost. soon after he starts investigating lwj’s supposed death and tries to find his ( and lan qiren’s) killer. lwj’s ghost comes to talk to wwx and protects him! i can give more details if necessary i just really want to read it again and can’t find it !! <3 thank you!!

FOUND? lovers be lost (but love shall not) by la_muerta (T, 13k, WangXian, Arranged Marriage, 1910s, Case Fic, Ghosts, Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Ghost Marriage)

FOUND? 囍 | a ghost wedding by sweetlolixo (E, 11k, Wangxian, Arranged Marriage, Ghost wedding, Pining LWJ, Ghost Groom LWJ, Corpsefucking in the most romantic way possible, Angst with a Happy Ending, Non-Explicit Sex, Love at First Sight)

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13. Hey! I have been looking for a fanfic, but after almost three hours of looking through ao3, I thought I might have better luck here.

It was about wwx going through increasingly bad bdsm encounters and not receiving the proper aftercare, so he just started acting more withdrawn. lwj notices and offers to care for wwx.

I don't remember if it was complete, but to the point I read, it was just lwj taking care of wwx. Sorry if it is not much to go off 😅 anyways, thanks in advance!

FOUND? like it's the only thing i'll ever do by quothhh (M, 5k, WangXian, WWX/Other (offscreen), Modern AU, Pre-Relationship, Aftercare, Sub Drop, Pining)

FOUND? try a little tenderness by ilip13 (E, 11k, WangXian, Modern AU, BDSM, Dom/sub, Aftercare, Subdrop, Reference to bad BDSM etiquette in wwx's past, Reference to wwx's self-worth issues, Cuddling & Snuggling, Getting Together, Little bit of miscommunication in the beginning but they get better at it, Blow Jobs, Masturbation, Reference to BDSM scenes)

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14. Hello! Looking for a fic that I think was some sort of sunshot fix it. The scene I recall the most is that wangxian were together and found a-yuan on the warfront and decided to take him in. They were totally going to tote him around with them while fighting in the war, but were more sensibly told to bring a-yuan back to lotus pier. I think yzy or cssr or lwj's mother may have been alive and at lotus pier, so they dropped a-yuan off to be with his grandmother and then went back to fight in the war. Thanks everyone!

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15. Hey, just wanted to ask about a specific fic that I remember, but for the life of me, I can't find at all. It is basically an arranger marriage au of Wangxian, but here Lan Wangji is an immortal who had travelled worlds looking for Wei Ying's soul after his death. There are some shenanigans and canon Wangxian shameless flirting in the mix. At one point Wei Wuxian ends up dressing as a woman when he is first going to meet Lan Wangji to get out of the marriage, but Lan Zhan finds it cute

FOUND? 4018 by sweetlolixo (E, 28k, wangxian, Canon Divergence, ABO, Older LWJ, Immortal LWJ, Pregnant WWX, Alpha LWJ, Omega WWX, Age Difference, Boypussy, Vaginal Fingering, Dry Humping, Knotting, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talking LWJ, Angst with a Happy Ending, Size Difference, Feminization)

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16. I'm looking for a fic that about time travelling. It's were JC wished that WWX did not exist, thinking that it would solve all the issues but in the end everything went to hell. The Wen won the war and JC still lost his core and all cultivators are in hiding or prisoner. Thank you in advanced!🙏

FOUND? The Way It Wasn’t by KouriArashi (T, 72k, WangXian, XiYao, Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, (eventually haha), Slow Build, Family Feels, Moral Ambiguity, Eventual Happy Ending)

~*~

17. For the next fic finder, there was one where in the backstory, WWX once called JYL to come pick him up, but she got into a car accident on the way. I can't remember if she survived or was killed, but it led to WWX splitting with the Jiangs. The actual plot is equally as fuzzy I'm afraid, so I don't have a clue what to filter for.

FOUND? Wrong Turn, Right Place by diamondbruise (E, 71k, WangXian, Time Travel, kind of, it’s more reality travel but there’s modern wwx and cultivator lwj, Mutual Pining, Angst with a Happy Ending, Jealousy, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn, Misunderstandings, Cultural Differences)

FOUND? Against Entropy by Duochanfan (M, 40k, WangXian, NieLan, Modern AU, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, of an underaged character, Amnesia, Drama, Romance, Family Feels, Hurt WWX, Older JC, Homelessness, Angst with a Happy Ending, Protective LWJ, Protective LXC, Supportive LXC, Protective NMJ, Supportive LQR)

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18. Hi I'm looking for a fan fiction where near the end while at Cloud Recess Jiang Cheng is hostile to Weiying and lan shizhui / lan yuan also suddenly remembers Jiang cheng being at burial mound during the 1st seige, he is kicked out but comes across jingshe & seeslan zahn and weiying having sex, possessive lan zahn sees him and looks directly at him almost to show weiying is his and will never be Jiang chengs. @amj33

FOUND? «The Fault In Jiāng Chéng» by Anonymous (M, 3k, wangxian, JC & WWX, not JC friendly, Zǐdiàn Spiritual Tool, Blood and Injury, Sick WWX, Dark LWJ, Dark LXC, Smut, Stabbing)

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19. hello thank all the mods you for your hard work, you’re all amazing and i am so so grateful this blog exists!!

i’m looking for a fic where married wangxian somehow time travel and meet their past selves, who are both shocked that they end up getting married. i remember older wwx being annoyed at his younger self because he can see how he’s hurting younger lwj and older lwj mostly sitting in companionable silence with his younger self, because they mutually understand their love for wwx.

much appreciated 🫶

NOT FOUND! The Young, the Horny, the Jaded and the Jade: Partners in Time by Admiranda (T, 55k, wangxian, established couple, Crossover, road trip with your older selves, teasing your younger selves about their obvious crushes, yin iron does yin iron things, mdzs/cql crossover, adult wangxian, Teenage Wangxian, genius WWX, LWJ adores his husband, we're all in this disaster together, xue yang causes problems, WIP)

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20. Hello again! I've been trying to find two fics for weeks and just can't seem to find them. A) One was an arranged marriage between lan zhan and wei ying that was set up by the jins; wei ying was never part of the jiang and he had some funky death stuff going on in the burial mounds, and took in the wens. The jin made both the wens and the Lans think the other was going to attack and that's why they did the marriage. B) The other fic has wei ying and lan zhan getting together but keeping it secret; I don't remember much, just that in trying to save the wens, jiang change tries to marry wen Qing and madam yu gets pissed off and says that since it was wei yings idea, he should marry her. Wei ying is later crying to lan zhan because both of them know it's the only option they have to save them, so he'll do it. Lan xichen comes across them and realizes they're in a relationship, and decides to marry wen qing himself to fix it - later lan zhan and wei ying reveal their relationship. Thank you so much! @forgottenwhispersinthedark

20A)

FOUND! Fated series by LtLJ (G, 31k, wangxian, canon divergence, arranged marriage, post-apocalypse, magical apocalypse, hurt/comfort, YLLZ WWX, badass LWJ, canon-typical violence, angst w happy ending, case fic)

20B)

FOUND! ❤️ Gentians in bloom by teawater (M, 251k, wangxian, Canon Divergence, AU after cold spring, Political Marriage, Dysfunctional Family, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, LQR bashing (not really), POV Multiple, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Eventual Happy Ending, BAMF WWX, JC is actually a lot better than canon, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, YZY bashing (again not completely))

~*~

#wangxian #mdzs #wangxian fic finder #wangxian fic search #the untamed #wangxianficfinder #long post

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 4 months ago

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Sorry to everyone who’s been submitting about Invictus Games, but I am just *really* bored by the topic. It’s become very repetitive and I don’t know that I can keep saying the same things in different ways. I’m putting a pin in the topic for now. We’ll revisit it later. These are my final thoughts, to address most of the recent asks:

I have a feeling that the backlash to Harry getting the Pat Tillman award helped to tank Washington’s bid.

Just because someone promised financing in 2023 or 2024 for an event scheduled to take place in 2027 doesn’t mean that financing will be there or still happen by the time 2027 rolls around…especially if said someone no longer holds an influential position of power and access in the government.

The BRF, including the Royal Foundation, has drawn a very hard, clear, impermeable line in the sand between their work and that of Harry’s/Invictus Games’s. In present conditions, they are not throwing him/them any lifelines at all, which terrifies Harry - and we know that because of all the new PR from him connecting William and Kate back to Invictus Games and their launch in 2014. I think that PR is only going to get testier the harder Harry’s job gets without loyal acolytes in place to do what he wants. His goose is cooked and he’s starting to realize it…hence the sudden pivot back to the royal family.

Harry and Meghan have already been to Birmingham. They went way back in March 2018 as part of their engagement tour. Remember the event where they were sitting at a table with a group of girls and Harry was conversing with the girls on his side, the girls on Meghan’s side were talking to each other, and Meghan started talking to (and gesticulating to) no one? Or when Harry plucked a young girl out of the crowd to meet Meghan and give her a hug, all because she had dreams of being an actress? Yep, that was Birmingham. So yes, it’s reasonable to expect some kind of “royal flashbacks” as part of the PR and promotions for 2027.

And finally: Birmingham is in 2027. That’s 3 years away. It’s no use trying to predict what’s going to happen then now. It’s just a wild crapshoot. Same with Vancouver 2025. I appreciate each and every one of you, but let’s get through the rest of 2024, and all that it promises (royal tours! Kate’s reappearances! Olympics! William’s new patronages! Earthshot South Africa! An exciting new project for mental health! Christmas card photos! A shitshow of a POTUS election! Beetlejuice 2! Gladiator 2! Pacey Witter back on TV! Reputation Taylor’s Version!), first.

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conscious-love · 27 days ago

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Hello! Blog/Life Update

Hey, guys! 😊 It's been SO long since I last posted on here. I hope you’re all doing well!

I have big news! A while back, I decided to take a break from this blog and my business, intending to come back with renewed passion and energy. It didn't turn out quite the way I planned, and I decided I want to go in a completely different direction.

After almost 10 years, I decided it’s time to move on from this blog.

A lot has changed for me in the last year. I've moved a few times, I recently got married, and things are still changing constantly!

I started this blog when I was a teenager. Both myself and this blog have changed a lot over the years. I'll always treasure those times, especially the early years when I connected directly with so many of you. I want to thank everyone who's followed and engaged with me over the years. It's been a beautiful journey as we all learned about relationships and mental health together. 💕

Anyway, I don't quite know how to end this. Even though I have 27k followers, I don't know how many of you will even see this, as maybe my absense tanked my reach. 😄 Oh well!

I'm thinking about making a new blog — not sure what it would be about. I'd love to hear from you guys! Take care and bye for now! 😊

Lots of love,

Bella ✨🩵

#bella gets personal

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girlfriendsofthegalaxy · 8 months ago

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tuesday again 3/19/2024

boy hope i never run out of zelda games to play or my mental health is going to Tank. there are very vague endgame stuff spoilers (not where zelda is, but some of the time fuckery) but i am going to spoil a bit of the rito sage quest. nothing is rot-13'ed. i feel like that's a fair compromise since this game has been out for about a year? please let me know YOUR opinions on recent game spoilers

listening

Thanks A Lot But No Thanks from the 1955 musical It's Always Fair Weather, sung by Dolores Grey. this was Dolores Grey propaganda in the @hotvintagepoll. i love a sugar baby song and this is sort of an. anti-sugar-baby song? a satitrical sugar baby song? she thanks suitors for increasingly improbable gifts (the state of Maine, et al) before killing them??

the PIPES on this woman!!! the comedic timing!!! she pulls out a gun and shoots suitors dead while thanking them for an autographed picture of john wayne!!! she pulls a big lever and they all fall under the stage!!! ive been having kind of a Time in the depths of unemployment and this made me genuinely laugh (not one short sharp bark of laughter, full on cackling).

youtube

thanks for the darling uranium mine indeed

reading

the moonstone by wilkie collins (and philip). this has been my falling asleep reading book. this is decidedly not a cozy mystery but the stakes are not like. so high i have to keep reading through the night to find out what happens. i'm having a good time with it, currently about halfway and still very irritated with rachel, the main character right now. i have not revised my "spoiled brat" opinion and i look forward to seeing if i ever revise it.

watching

The Three Musketeers (2011, dir. Paul W.S. Anderson). thank you mackintosh (this is a discard from my hometown library and no one needs to know where that is thanks). it's pretty widely available on free platforms rn which is how you know it's good. it's not Good is the thing but it is extremely fun. it is straight up the three musketeers but with an airship. milla jovovich jumps off an airship into the channel. milla jovovich does some assassins creed shit. luke evans does some assassins creed shit. there is an airship fight and an airship chase. it is So cheesy and unfortunately never got another sequel. it also inexplicably has some of the finest cinematic swordfighting since the golden age of hollywood.

this was a really successful impromptu movie night pick for a more widely varied gang than usual, including some teens. my bestie also enjoyed it, which i am So pleased by bc she has extremely exacting movie taste. this cast is so stacked for no good reason: orlando bloom, luke evans, christoph waltz, mads mikkelsen, matthew macfayden...

playing

i have a post in my head about breath of the wild and tears of the kingdom and their dialogue with each other about loss and grief, but i think that's going to have to wait until i have a little bit more brainpower. perhaps i can talk a little bit about how they make me feel about loss and grief, and how i was upset for zelda and her hundred-year siege in the last one but i am so so so desperately sad for zelda in tears of the kingdom.

i played through breath of the wild with a constant background sense of loss and grief. this is only partially due to the real-life severe depression and joblessness. i think this is a personal brain thing and not a game thing, but i did feel guilty when fucking around in breath of the wild and not actively doing main quests to save zelda. like i would look at the castle off in the distance and feel kind of bad. the champions (and zelda!) telling link as soon as physically possible that it wasn't his fault made me cry in real life every time. i get it's like a month max of in-universe time between games, but it still feels like he has once again missed SO much. i think this is sort of a larger symptom of depression in that i look at [REDACTED] in tears of the kingdom and get a bit hopeless about [REDACTED] and it's like. well i might as well go pick golden apples and not do main quests. time is meaningless.

i am really glad they kept the shrine of resurrection on the plateau in tears of the kingdom. if that hadn't been there i the player would have felt very unmoored. i cannot begin to think how unreal and depersonalized it would have made link feel.

enough of that! the hero's path function is so funny. there are such huge swathes of the map i looked at and said No Thanks! Not Yet!

my depths map is even funnier. eight lightroots so far. no thank you! too scary still! i thought until VERY RECENTLY that all the caves and wells led to the depths and was avoiding them. mistake! cool shit in caves and wells! some horrible boys as well but they are vastly outnumbered by the cool shit.

the rito sage quest fucked SO severely. i had so much fucking fun with that boss fight even though it took me a real life two hours to get up to the arena with the puzzles to unlock the boss fight. i also surprised myself and did not have to look up how to beat any of the puzzles or the boss! just entered a state of flow and looked up and it was three hours later! i know a lot of people are very grumpy about how this was not a totally new game with a totally new map, but i have nothing but praise for the mechanics in this completely new section. knocked my socks off. made me think but wasn't too frustrating. made me use all my powers and all my weapon types. it was simply a great deal of almost frictionless fun! some over the top sick as shit stuff that is the whole point of video games as a medium imo

unlocked all the geoglyphs and i am Upset. i am UPSET.

and now for some horse talk (TM): i kept the very first horse i caught out of nostalgia even though these stats are not very good. i think the naming scheme for this game will be H (the last game was C). the breath of the wild giant ganon horse is so funny. you can't do shit with this horse. you can't change the mane. you can't change the tack. you can't increase his stats. he's just There. Large.

tangential horse talk: why is this lynel in the wetlands. his feathering and fetlocks are going to rot off. he is going to founder

some places ASCEND works where i didn't expect it to: tree. water you can stand in.

i stumbled across the last power completely accidentally while trying to deliver some eyes to a mysterious god and this was so fucking funny. i DID throw this guy down a big pit in the last game and he never came back. i forgot about that.

also people were fucking gaga for rauru but why didn't i see people talking about either of these two last summer on this, the -girl affix site and the scruffy shredded boy site

some other bits and bobs:

i was so annoyed patricia was part of the compendium in the last game i fucking got her this time ok

very hashtag relatable languages moment

unrelated to either of those things, i have done the gerudo sage quest except for the boss battle and i missed two huge swathes of hashtag tunnel gameplay (going to find riju through the tunnels. simply went overland) and getting to the central temple chamber (simply used ascend). whoops

there's a little tower concept art piece in purah's room in the ancient lab! that's a fun little touch i really love, it really helps differentiate the games and show changes in the overworld between games in a very cheap and east way for the devs

bc i play these games like dressup simulators, i also want to note that misko's tents are also really fun, they really feel like they're from a much earlier era and i'm stumbling across an untouched archaeological site

making

garden update: growing along okay, it has been so so so wet lately and i should have bitten the bullet and bought the big expensive bag of perlite, the drainage is not terrific. i should elevate all the planters and that would help a bit too. tomatoes are bit leggy, i moved them out of the partial shade on the end of the balcony and in front of the window. i am a bit concerned about them getting scorched, but again it's been so wet lately they need all the help they can get. i feel like they're established enough to be pruned a bit to make them bushier but i am Afraid. there are worse things in life than leggy tomatoes

the pic on the left below: these bush beans are looking a bit strange as well. the four shorter ones came up, promptly withered their cotyledons, and i thought they died until they popped out their first true leaves. the larger ones i think may have some kind of mosaic virus but it's a little early to tell. these are bins that haven't been used outside (they stored clothes in for the move) and new dirt from home depot. either the dirt or the seed stock itself may have been infected? very strange. the cucumbers in the bin in the back (hidden by the beans) are also taking forever to get going. at least the sweet peas are doing fine. the spinach i planted in that back bin withered where the stems met the soil and died. i think it was simply to early and too damp for them.

anyway on the right pic above: these normie peas and normie climbing beans seem to be doing fine. that's dill in the gray pot and basil in the bucket, they also seem to be doing fine. just sort of a perplexing corner on the other side of the balcony.

#tuesday again #tuesday again no problem

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phantasmiafxndom · 6 months ago

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Out of all the animes you’ve watch what ones are your favorites

...you know what, you get the serious answer. I used to track my anime watching, so out of the 450+ completed ones on my list, here are some of my top recommendations! (In terms of quality, more so than what I've spent the most time dwelling on.)

. . .

One Piece — I haven't technically watched all of this one, but after falling back into the fandom after an 8-ish year break, I really can't understate the quality. One Piece's story is amazing, and I'm consistently impressed by the author's characters/worldbuilding.

Dominion Tank Police (1988) — I have FEELINGS about the villain in this one... Overall, 80s sci-fi vibes mix with themes of ethical responsibility and societal peacekeeping, and the "don't you just want to go apeshit? :)" protagonist (who's also extremely aromantic-coded) is a hilarious, yet wonderfully earnest little menace!

Kyousougiga — I've been rewatching this one recently, and the sheer detail in every scene is STUNNING. I keep having to pause to mentally scream about the symbolism, and tbh, knowing the plot from my original watch is only improving the experience.

Tekkon Kinkreet — This one's a movie, not a series, but SKLJKHS IT HAUNTS ME. Absolutely chilling, by the time the big plot twists roll around... Beyond that, the overall aesthetic/vibe is impeccable, and the exaggerated, messy art style only adds to that.

Kemonozume — Monster/human forbidden romance with stunning art and a great soundtrack. The plot started out a bit confusing, but all of the scattered story elements came together nicely in the end!

The Tatami Galaxy — The "get your shit together and start enjoying your life" anime. It's plenty good as just a story, but I got some excellent life lessons out of it too. Solid mix of comedy, drama, and charismatic-yet-extremely-bizarre characters interacting.

Monster — Excellent slow-paced, psychological horror packed with ethical dilemmas, traumatic backstories, and so many Extremely Depressed Men. In other words, there's a very good reason why Johan Liebert used to end up on so many "best anime villains" lists.

Paranoia Agent — I have nothing but praise for Satoshi Kon's work, in general, and Paranoia Agent has been my favorite of the ones I've seen so far. Compared to his movies, it really benefits from the extra space for plot development, and the big emotional twist hits hard.

Revolutionary Girl Utena — A true classic. <3 There are enough tumblr essays about this tragic yuri masterpiece that I won't go into detail myself, but yes, it's every bit as good as you've heard.

Black Lagoon: Roberta's Blood Trail — The entire Black Lagoon series is excellent, but Roberta is my special girl. Unfortunately, the OAV adaption compresses the manga's version of her arc pretty heavily (and the altered ending is kind of dumb), but I still have to recommend it. Babygirl's breakdown is a REAL mess kjshghs

Claymore — Excellent pseudo-medieval fantasy with badass female characters, lots of body horror, and top-tier monster design. The manga is MUCH better than the anime after a certain point, however.

Kuuchuu Buranko — An episodic series about an eccentric psychiatrist interacting with his troubled patients. The mixed-media animation style and bizarre characters are what sold it for me, along with the exploration of mental health through storytelling tropes.

Cannon Fodder — An artistic short movie that's twenty minutes of aesthetic experience and fascinating worldbuilding implications. I love the vibe, and the "one, long horizontal frame" style is neat.

Flowers of Evil — The art style. The VIBES. The whole thing is incredibly eerie and off-putting, with a plot that's pretty much: "congrats! two shitty teenagers are tearing each other's lives apart!".

#Misc Answers

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queersatanic · 1 year ago

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wait, no nut november is fash? i thought it was likea kinky edging thing

It’s one of those “haha it’s just ironic shitposting… unless” sort of things that the far-right often uses, but this one is specifically centered on why men need to preserve their manly vitality and pornography is evil

Yet it would be naive to ignore that there’s significant overlap between the general ideology behind NoFap — and, to a degree, No Nut November — and that of the far right, which has increasingly coopted the principles of masturbation abstinence. Because the challenge is associated with abstaining from porn, some people associated with the movement have taken the extra step of harassing adult performers on social media, giving it an additional layer of troubling implications. “In the past [No Nut November] has always been like, ‘Oh, look at this ridiculous thing some people are participating in,'” says adult performer and director Casey Calvert. “This year, people [in the industry] are talking about, ‘Oh, actually this is connected to the far right and maybe we shouldn’t just be saying hahaha, No Nut November.'”

A new meme brings these implications into sharp relief. Coomer is a reference to a meme of an unkempt, skeezy-looking bearded man in a white tank top with vaguely Semitic features, accompanied by descriptive text like “doesn’t even know anything about politics,” “extremely aesthetic right arm (huge muscle),” and “has never heard of NoFap.”

It’s been circulating on 4chan for the past year, but Alex Hawkins, the vice president of the porn tube site xHamster, says he started seeing it in the replies on his company’s Twitter feed back in September, when presidential candidate Andrew Yang tweeted about limiting access to pornography. At first, “we didn’t really know what it meant and thought it was funny,” he tells Rolling Stone. Then, in late October, the coomer resurfaced thanks to a Twitter campaign led by a user named TeapotLad, in which users vowed to change their avatars to the coomer should they fail No Nut November. PewDiePie shouted out the campaign in a recent YouTube video, as did far-right YouTuber Paul Joseph Watson, who is perhaps best known for being one of the many extremist figures, including Milo Yiannopolous and Alex Jones, to be banned from Facebook. “No Nut November and the Coomer meme represent a deeper meaning,” he said in a tweet. “Porn is evil. It literally re-wires your brain and causes erectile dysfunction. Take the pledge. Don’t be a Coomer.”

The term has also been used in the context of “OK coomer,” a play on the “OK boomer” meme, in response to tweets critical of No Nut November or masturbation abstinence in general. “It’s positioned as this epic battle between the weak beta masturbators and the strong, alpha NoFappers,” says Hawkins.

Like most memes, “coomer” carries with it more than a tinge of irony, and it’s not always easy to determine whether it’s being used flippantly or to actually deride men who masturbate. But the implication is clear: masturbating is an urge that should be resisted at all costs. David Ley, PhD, a clinical psychologist and sex therapist who studies pornography and mental health, saw the meme after he tweeted his criticism of No Nut November, referring to it as “a creepy little smorgasbord of insecurity-driven hate with anti-Semitism, misogyny, and homophobia all rolled up in one,” he tells Rolling Stone.

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 1 year ago

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WIBTA for trying to go back to college over the summer?

I (18M) recently moved back in with family for the summer. Recently as in— four-ish days. My mental health has tanked dramatically in that time. I knew this was going to be a rough move for myself (especially cause I don’t cope well with change), but I never realized how rough until I got back. This isn’t necessarily because my family is abusive or anything— they’re far from perfect people, and my dad has been kind of a dick about me being queer, but I’d never consider them abusive.

However, I’ve been dreading moving back in with them for months now. Being back has been worse than I imagined, and I don’t think I can handle three months of being back here. I know that after these three months, I won’t have to be back here ever again if I don’t want, but I still want to go home. The past year of being on my own at college has been the happiest I’ve been in almost a decade.

I tried to talk with my mom about possibly finding a way to go back to my college town for the summer— she’s generally the more chill of my two parents. She responded negatively at first: saying that I was treating my dad unfairly, and should show more empathy for him (This was right after my dad and I got into a small argument. I wanted to lay down some boundaries, and he reacted negatively. I may have phrased my side of it wrong, because to him, I was making unfair demands and then reacting negatively). She had some general “me being selfish” criticisms that I’ve heard from my family for years— (I still don’t know if it’s one of those things that my family starts to be a dick about when they’re drunk, if it’s actually true and I am more selfish than I realize, or both.) Overall: she thought it was kinda shitty that I wanted to leave, especially since my decision came just after said argument.

She eventually came around, and basically narrowed it down to “wait a week (she was leaving to spend time with a friend for a week, and needed someone to watch my younger brother) and then we’ll figure things out.” I come from a long line of “shit sucks, hit the bricks” in regards to family, so while she was upset cause she was going to miss me, she understood.

So: WIBTA for trying to leave for the summer? (And…basically not coming back, at least not for more than a holiday?) I’m gonna try to find a way to leave no matter what the results are because I’m a stubborn motherfucker and I strongly believe that this is what’s best for myself, I just wanna know if it’s a dick move or not.

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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alaskan-wallflower · 5 months ago

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tw eating disorder mention

i found stretch marks on my thighs this morning. i hate them. i thought they were rashes but then i realized what they were and i’ve been fucked in the head all day. i haven’t been eating much. i made rice a few days ago i’ve just been eating leftovers of that in the morning and nothing else until i eat dinner and i like that diet. makes me feel better. it makes me feel in control i guess. i dunno. my mental health has tanked since monday. be it finals or what’s going on in my personal life, idk. everything just kinda sucks. but being in control of what i eat seems to be the only thing that makes me feel better. it’s been on and off a lot this year and i can finally walk confidently because i can look like i have a flat stomach now. and i like that. i’ve looked into meanspo and it’s hurt. a lot and made e feel fucked in the head but then again my old clothes are too big on me and i like it. and i know it’s sick. but it makes me feel good. and i hate having anything in me because then i feel like a disgusting mess and i don’t even wanna leave my house. the feeling of cold water on an empty stomach is kind of addicting. it makes me feel in control.

honestly i had a huge mental breakdown on mid day because i had smth triggering happen (saying that makes me feel like a snowflake) and ever since i’ve just been looking for ways to cope and handle things because i thought i was over that thing that triggers me but apparently not. i don’t know anymore. i’ve been feeling sick to my stomach daily and my anxiety is t an all time high. i don’t know what’s wrong with me. my parents made me quit my job because apparently i didn’t consult them or smth so i don’t have any way to make money to see the play i wanted to see with my aunt. so idk if that’s happening now and. that was the one good thing i was looking forward to.but that’s been ruined for me because of recent things that e happened and it just kind of hurts all over. and eating less helps me cope. it makes me feel better about myself. i like thinking about the future if i continue like this because my stomach is flattening and eventually the stretch marks will be gone. i’ll be able to wear what i want and finally look good doing because i won’t look disgusting. i like being in control of myself. i like the control i feel. and since monday nothing in my life has been in my control. i had one of the worst relapses ive ever had because of some claims on ig and for what? i’m such a fucking pussy for that and i’m so mad i relapsed over claims some lady made. i hate myself for jt.

i feel like i’m so fucking sick in the head. and i can’t do anything to stop it.

#vent #tw eating disorder #tw vent

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mariacallous · 2 years ago

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A doctors’ organization at the center of the ongoing legal fight over the abortion drug mifepristone has suffered a significant data breach. A link to an unsecured Google Drive published on the group’s website pointed users last week to a large cache of sensitive documents, including financial and tax records, membership rolls, and email exchanges spanning over a decade. The more than 10,000 documents lay bare the outsize influence of a small conservative organization working to lend a veneer of medical science to evangelical beliefs on parenting, sex, procreation, and gender.

The American College of Pediatricians, which has fought to deprive gay couples of their parental rights and encouraged public schools to treat LGBTQ youth as if they were mentally ill, is one of a handful of conservative think tanks leading the charge against abortion in the United States. A federal lawsuit filed by the College and its partners against the US Food and Drug Administration seeks to limit nationwide access to what is now the most common form of abortion. The case is now on a trajectory for the US Supreme Court, which not even a year ago declared abortion the purview of America’s elected state representatives.

The leaked records, first reported by WIRED, offer an unprecedented look at the groups and personnel central to that campaign. They also describe an organization that has benefited greatly by exaggerating its own power, even as it has struggled quietly for two decades to grow in size and gain respect. The records show how the College, which the Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) describes as a hate group, managed to introduce fringe beliefs into the mainstream simply by being, as the founder of Fox News once put it, “the loudest voice in the room.”

The Leak

A WIRED review of the exposed data found that the unsecured Google Drive stored nearly 10,000 files, some of which are compressed zip files containing additional documents. These records detail highly sensitive internal information about the College’s donors and taxes, social security numbers of board members, staff resignation letters, budgetary and fundraising concerns, and the usernames and passwords of more than 100 online accounts. The files include Powerpoint presentations, Quickbooks accounting documents, and at least 388 spreadsheets.

One spreadsheet appears to be an export of an internal database containing information on 1,200 past and current members. It contains intimate personal information about each member, including various contact details, as well as where they were educated, how they heard of the group, and when membership dues were paid. The records show past and current members are mostly male and, on average, over 50 years old. As of spring 2022, the College counted slightly more than 700 members, according to another document reviewed by WIRED.

The breach exposes some material dating back to the group’s origin. It includes mailing lists gathered by the group of thousands of “conservative physicians” across the country. (One document outlining recruitment efforts states in bold, red letters: “TARGET CHRISTIAN MDs.”) The ongoing recruitment of doctors and medical school students seen as holding Christian views has long been its top priority. The leaked records indicate that more than 10,000 mailers were sent to physicians between 2013 and 2017 alone.

While the group’s membership rolls are not public, the leak has outed most if not all of its members. A cursory review of the member lists surfaced one name of note: a recent commissioner of the Texas Department of State Health Services, who after joining in 2019 asked that his membership with the group remain a secret. (WIRED was unable to reach the official for comment in time for publication.)

The SPLC’s “hate group” designation, which the College forcefully disputes, haunted its fundraising efforts, records reveal. A barrage of emails in 2014 show that the label cost the group the chance to benefit from an Amazon program that would eventually distribute $450 million to charities across the globe. Amazon would deny the College’s application, stating that it relied on the SPLC to determine which charities fall into certain ineligible categories.

A strategy document would later refer to a “unified plan” among the College and its allies to “continue discrediting the SPLC,” which included a campaign aimed at lowering its rating at Charity Navigator, one of the web’s most influential nonprofit evaluators. One of the group’s admins noted that despite SPLC’s label, another charity monitor, GuideStar, listed the College as being in “good standing.”

The College’s GuideStar page no longer says this and appears to have been defaced. It now reads, “AMERICAN COLLEGE OF doodoo fartheads,” with a mission statement saying: “we are evil and hate gays :(((”

The Google Drive containing the documents was taken offline soon after WIRED contacted the American College of Pediatricians. The College did not respond to a request for comment.

The Talk

Leaked communications between members of the group and minutes taken at board meetings over the course of several years speak loudly about the challenges the group faced in pursuing its deeply unpopular agenda: returning America to a time when the laws and social mores around family squared neatly with evangelical Christian beliefs.

Many of the College’s most radical views target transgender people, and in particular, transgender youth. The leak, which had been indexed by Google, includes volumes of literature crafted specifically to influence relationships between practicing pediatricians, parents, and their children. It includes reams of marketing material the College aims to distribute widely among public school officials. This includes pushing schools to adopt junk science painting transgender youth as carriers of a pathological disorder, one that’s capable of spontaneously causing others–à la the dancing plague–to adopt similar thoughts and behaviors.

This is one of the group’s most dubious claims. While unsupported by medical science, it is routinely and incuriously propagated through literature targeted at schools and medical offices around the US. The primary source for this claim is a research paper drafted in 2017 by Lisa Littman, a Brown University scholar who, while a medical doctor, had not specialized in mental health. The goal of the paper was to introduce, conceptually, “rapid onset gender dysphoria”—a hypothetical disorder, as was later clarified by the journal that published it. Littman would also clarify personally that her research “does not validate the phenomenon” she’d hypothesized, since no clinicians, nor individuals identifying as trans, had participated in the study.

The paper explains that its subjects were instead all parents who had been recruited from a handful of websites known for opposing gender-affirmative care and “telling parents not to believe their child is transgender.” A review of one of the sites from the period shows parents congregating to foster paranoia about whether there’s a “conspiracy of silence” around “anime culture” that was brainwashing boys into behaving like girls; insights plucked in some cases straight from another, more notorious forum (widely known for reveling in the suicides of the people it has bullied).

A 2021 prospectus describing the group’s focus, ideology, and lobbying efforts encapsulates a wide range of “educational resources” destined for the inboxes of physicians and medical school students. The materials include links to a website instructing doctors on how to speak to children in a variety of scenarios about a multitude of topics surrounding sex, including in the absence of their parents. Practice scripts of conversations between doctors and patients advise, among other things, ways to elicit a child’s thoughts on sex with the help of an imaginative metaphor.

While the material is not expressly religious, it is clearly aimed at painting same-sex marriage as aberrant and immoral behavior. Physicians lobbied by the group are also told to urge patients to purchase Christian-based parenting guides, including one designed to help parents broach the topic of sex with their 11- and 12-year-old kids. The College suggests telling parents to plan a “special overnight trip,” a pretext for instilling in their children sexual norms in line with evangelical practice. The group suggests telling parents to buy a tool called a “getaway kit,” a series of workbooks that run around $54 online. The workbooks methodically walk the parents through the process of springing the topic, but only after a day-long charade of impromptu gift-giving and play.

These books are full of games and puzzles for the parent and child to cooperatively take on. Throughout the process, the child slowly digests a concept of “sexual purity,” lessons aided by oversimplified scripture and well-trodden Bible school parables.

Another document the group shared with its members contains a script for appointments with pregnant minors. Its purpose is made evidently clear: The advice is engineered specifically to reduce the odds of minors coming into contact with medical professionals not strictly opposed to abortion. A practice script recommends the doctor inform the minor that they “strongly recommend against” abortion, adding “the procedure not only kills the infant you carry, but is also a danger to you.” (Medically, the term “fetus” and “infant” are not interchangeable, the latter referring to a newborn baby less than one year old.)

The doctors are urged to recommend that the minor visit a website that, like the aforementioned website, is not expressly religious but will only direct visitors to Catholic-run “crisis pregnancy centers,” which strictly reject abortion. The same site is widely promoted by anti-abortion groups such as National Right to Life, which last year held that it should be illegal to terminate the pregnancy of a 10-year-old rape victim.

The Professionals

The effort to ban mifepristone, legislation the Supreme Court paused last month pending further review, faces significant legal hurdles but could ultimately benefit from the appellate court’s disproportionately conservative makeup. Most of the legal power in the fight was supplied by a much older and better funded group, the Alliance Defending Freedom, which has established ties with some of the country’s most elite political figures—former vice president Mike Pence and Supreme Court justice Amy Coney Barrett among them.

A contract in the leaked documents dated April 2021 shows the ADF agreeing to legally represent the College free of charge. It stipulates that ADF’s ability to subsidize expenses incurred during lawsuits would be limited by ethical guidelines; however, it could still forgive any lingering costs simply by declaring the College “indigent.”

In contrast to the College’s some 700 members, the American Academy of Pediatrics (AAP)–the organization from which the College’s founders split 20 years ago–has roughly 67,000. The rupture between the two groups was a direct result of a statement issued by the AAP in 2002. Modern research, the AAP said, had conclusively shown that the sexual orientation of parents had an imperceptible impact on the well-being of children, so long as they were raised in caring, supportive families.

The College would gain notoriety early on by assailing the positions of the AAP. In 2005, a Boston Globe reporter noted how common it had become for the American College of Pediatricians “to be quoted as a counterpoint” to anything said by the AAP. The institution, he wrote, had a rather “august-sounding name” for being run by a “single employee.”

Internal documents show that the group’s directors quickly encountered hurdles operating on the fringe of accepted science. Some claimed to be oppressed. Most of the College’s research had been “written by one person,” according to minutes from a 2006 meeting, which were included in the leak. The College was failing to make a splash. In the future, one director suggested, papers rejected by medical journals “should be published on the web.” The vote to do so was unanimous (though the board decided the term “not published” was nicer than “rejected”).

A second director put forth a motion to create a separate “scientific section” on the group’s website, strictly for linking to articles published in medical journals. The motion was quashed after it dawned on the board that they didn’t “have enough articles” to make the page “look professional.”

The College struggled to identify the root cause of its runtedness. “To get enough clout,” one director said, “it would take substantial numbers, maybe 10,000.” (The College’s recruitment efforts would yield fewer than 7 percent of this goal in the following 17 years.) Yet another said the marketing department advised that “the College needs to pick a fight with the AAP and get on Larry King Live.” Another, the notes say, felt the organization was too busy trying to “walk the fence” by neglecting to acknowledge that “we are conservative and religious.”

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