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blurredcolour · 7 months ago

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The Only Truth... | Part Two

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

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

Once rested, Bucky proves to be a rather difficult patient, but it's nothing you can't handle. Once he's discharged, however, the man still finds a way to remain close, even when he's no longer the one in need of medical care.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Nightmares, Detailed Description of Death by Gunshot Wound, Blood, Gore, Reader Scars, Hospital Setting, POW Camp Setting, SS Officers, Mental Health Struggles, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: 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: 5001

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April 12, 1945

The light of dawn began to filter in through the murky windows of the hospital and with Bucky once again sleeping deeply, but now with all apprehension about his ability to wake again lifted, you began to carefully shuffle about the space and take care of some duties you had neglected for the last twenty hours. Emptying a few bed pans for those too weak to move, you scrubbed them clean in the meagre washroom before beginning to work on bandage changes, blinking futilely at the bleariness in your eyes. You had made it through two patients when the doors to the hospital were unlocked and Major Chalmers filtered in with Captain Menzies, another British medical officer, clearly just released from their combine.

It had taken several weeks for you to realize that the man introduced to you as ‘Mingies’ was the same as the man whose name was written as Menzies on the charts and not some other doctor who worked mysterious hours. Both men waited for you to finish treating the rather ghastly thigh wound inflicted by one of the ubiquitous German Shepherds – miraculously still not showing signs of infection – before you washed your hands and delivered your report on Major Egan.

“Very good, Nurse. Why don’t you go rest for the morning, we’ll see you around 1300 hours.” Chalmers replied.

Exhaling with a grateful nod, you excused yourself down the hall to your ‘accommodations.’ The former exam room had been stripped of all medical equipment to leave a cot, a small wooden cubby for your meagre collection of belongings, a tiny table for you to eat your solitary meals and write your correspondence, and a rickety washstand with a chipped enamel basin and mirror split with a spider’s web of fractures hammered directly into wall above it. With no interest in anything but sleep, you sat on the cot with a heavy sigh. You pulled the six remaining pins from your hair, having misplaced four throughout the last several months and still not having your confiscated effects returned to you, and kicked off your boots before laying down to sleep for a few hours.

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The next time Bucky awoke, you were nowhere to be seen. He was plunged back into a world of dull, gritty, pungent masculinity and he was admittedly bereft. The pain in his back seemed all the more acute in your absence, and though there was again a serving of broth, it was tepid at best. Perhaps he could have withstood the continuation of a grim life all painted in the same grey palette, but to have that disrupted by your presence and then have that light and color taken away? It was even worse than not having had it to begin with.

It made him all the more sullen and combative when the British doctor Chalmers informed him that he would have to remain in hospital as a patient another night rather than being permitted to find the rest of the 100th and bunk with them.

“I’m perfectly fine Doc, all rested up, can walk, talk, and piss all on my own. I don’t need to be here a minute longer – the rest of these fellas are way sicker than me.”

The surgeon narrowed his eyes in response, clearly not appreciating his directions being questioned, but Bucky had had more than his fill of taking other people’s orders. He just wanted to get the hell out of here and back to people he knew.

“One night, Major Egan, that’s all I’m asking. The only bunks for new arrivals are in tents, if you’re lucky. In here you’re warm, dry, and have a bed that’ll feel nicer on those ribs – which are going to take four to six weeks to heal, might I add.”

Bucky was about to open his mouth to reiterate his protests when his eyes caught sight of you appearing from down the hallway, coming to standing behind Chalmers with your arms crossed and a stern look on your face. It was so utterly reminiscent of one he had received from his mother on countless occasions that he was momentarily unable to speak before clearing his throat to concede to the doctor’s request.

“Good.” Was his diplomatic reply before he turned to see you there. “Ah, Nurse, welcome back. In some irony of the universe, we’ve actually received a Red Cross shipment of supplies. Would you kindly catalogue the contents the goons have left for us and add it to our stock?”

Bucky did not miss the exasperation in your expression – it certainly did seem like a cruel joke for supplies to arrive with the end of the war surely weeks away.

“Certainly, sir.” You replied before looking to the large and very much opened and rifled-through box up against the wall essentially opposite to his cot.

Settling onto his stomach, he draped his arms across his pillow, nestling his chin atop his forearms to watch you work. “Don’t get a lot of supplies around here, do ya, angelfish?”

As you glanced toward him, he noticed you had changed your clothes, into equally threadbare ones but fresh ones all the same, and had tidied your hair. He would have taken you to a dance in Times Square looking like that. In a heartbeat.

“No, we most certainly do not, Major.” You shook your head and made a soft noise of triumph as you managed to fish out the packing list – something to compare the remaining contents to, he supposed. “Might mean we got more rations too though, corned beef and liver pate to eat desperately before they go bad.” You gave him a wry smile which he returned.

So the Germans here liked to punch holes in the cans, too. Good to know. Bucky watched as you retrieved a pencil from the central desk and began to unearth boxes of gauze and ointments and all manner of things he was only vaguely familiar with. He drowsily studied your profile, lips tugging fondly at the way you stuck your tongue out slightly in concentration, trapping it between your teeth and grunting in dismay when something you obviously were hoping for was not there. Hovering on the border between sleeping and waking, he jumped slightly as you gently nudged his shoulder, holding out two pills and his mug filled with fresh water.

“Aspirin.” You whispered and he raised an eyebrow before plucking them from your soft palm, tossing the pills into his mouth and chasing them down with a slug of cold water.

“You’re a goddess, angelfish.” He murmured, laying down his heavy head as you moved to tuck him in again.

Your soft laugh in response made him smile drowsily. “No Bucky, just a nurse. Now stop fighting it and go to sleep.”

He was yanked back into consciousness by the sound of your voice some time later, tone flat and impatient.

“Just let me finish changing his bandage, please.”

“Nein, it is lights out and you are going back to your room now schwester.” The rude, clipped reply of the SS guard had Bucky forcing himself up off his cot, gritting his teeth against the screams of protest in his frighteningly unstable ribcage.

His eyes flashed around the room before they landed on the uniformed man grabbing your elbow to usher you from the bedside of a patient and down the hall. Bucky stumbled to his feet, peering around the corner after you to watch the man shove you into the room on the left before pulling the door shut and snapping a padlock into place. Bucky narrowed his eyes, moving over to the patient you had been forced to abandon, supplies still on top of his blanket.

“I’m no nurse but I can give it a shot?” He muttered to the fellow who gave him a small shrug in return. “I’ll be back when the coast is clear, then.”

Bucky slid back into his own cot, watching the guard stomp his way out of the building before slamming the last set of doors shut, the lock snicking into place behind him before the lights all went out. Blinking against the darkness to force his eyes to adjust more quickly, he made his way down the hall, feeling his way along the rough-hewn wood of the wall and over to your door before knocking softly.

“Angelfish? You alright in there?”

“Bucky?” Came your muffled answer shortly after the sound of your footsteps approached.

“Damn they lock you up like in here like some kind of fairytale princess.”

There was a soft snort and Bucky could not help the smirk that pulled from him. “Anything I should know before I try and finish that guy’s arm?”

There was a pause before you cleared your throat and responded with, “no it’s pretty straight forward but…but if it smells anything like cheese would you mind letting me know?”

“Cheese…” He replied slowly.

“The smell of infection, Bucky.” You sounded amused and he wished more than anything he could take in your facial expression then.

“Got it. I was born in Wisconsin, raised for this.”

“And then you’re going to immediately put yourself in your cot and rest, Bucky.” You said firmly.

“You got it angelfish. You, too.”

“Night, Bucky.”

Gathering his courage and putting on a mask of cool, level-headedness, he returned to his fellow patient’s bedside, removing the old bandage and bowing his head to take a deep whiff. Thankfully, for everyone’s sake, there was definitely nothing cheese-like about it. He then bumbled about in the dark of the room, applying perhaps the ugliest bandage known to man, but a bandage nonetheless, and returned to his cot as instructed.

It was not easy to drag the blanket up over his body from behind, especially with the newly aggravated soreness from his careless activities, but Bucky managed to settle down and fall into an uneasy sleep, exhaustion still dwelling deep in his bones and sucking him under. It did not take long, however, for his dreams to be haunted once more by images of deadly accurate shots burrowing their way between Buck’s shoulder blades on the other side of that wall. Of his friend’s blond head falling into the mud just shy of the treeline, just shy of freedom. Waking with a start, he glared around the dark, unfamiliar room and looked to the floor, frowning as you were not there for him to hold onto this time.

He had not fully woken the night before, but he had sensed enough of your calming presence to return to a deeper plane of sleep. To chase away the darker voices that threatened to fill his mind. Leveraging himself to a seated position, he grabbed his blanket and shuffled his way down the hall once again in search of your soothing influence, even if there was the interfering barrier of a door. Bucky’s descent to the ground was less than graceful, his ribs protesting fiercely and as he settled on the floorboards, he was filled with a sudden doubt in his ability to rise from this position. But then he heard your voice.

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When Bucky had not immediately bustled back down the hall with tales of an arm wound stinking of ripe cheese, you had relaxed somewhat into your nightly routine, stripping to your long underwear for a proper night’s sleep…that did not really present itself. It was honestly not that surprising given the way you had pushed the boundaries of night and day, your body really was not sure what to make of it. You were just on the cusp of finally falling asleep when there was a commotion outside your room, the door rattling in its frame, the padlock jostling slightly.

Hearing a slightly familiar grunt, you sat up. “Bucky?” You called you softly.

“M’fine, angelfish, just sleeping out here.”

Your eyes widened and you practically leapt from the bed, crossing the room in record time. “Are you really ok? Sleeping…. on the floor?!”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just needed company.” He muttered from below and you slid down to lay on the floor, peering through the gap at the bottom of the door with one eye.

It was surely flush with the floor when the building was initially built, but as the hospital settled into the ground, about an inch-and-a-half had opened up below the door, allowing you to glimpse his face not far from yours.

“You had plenty of company in your comfortable cot, Bucky.” You whispered and the eye you could see flashed open, face turning to meet yours through the gap.

“Not yours, angelfish.”

“I don’t suppose I’m going to be able to convince you to go back to bed? No idea how the hell you’re going to get off this floor anyway…” You sighed, cheek pressed tightly against the floorboards to see as much of him as possible.

“I’m down for the count, I’d say.” He huffed with a poor show of playfulness.

Frowning, you looked over the visible portion of his face slowly. “You have another bad dream?”

He grunted noncommittally and averted his gaze, essentially confirming your suspicion. Sliding from your spot on the floor, you fetched your blanket and pillow before laying them down to rejoin him. “I get ‘em too. Stuck on that crashing plane and I can’t get off. Or the chute won’t open. Or I can’t…” your throat clenched, and you swallowed to clear it. “Can’t get my flight jacket off and I just burn up.” Your voice refused to come out any louder than an exhale, but you still managed to speak the last few words.

His eye slowly met yours once more though the thin opening halfway through your confessions and his brow furrowed. “Flight nurse?”

“I was, yeah. Just a kriegie nurse now, I guess.” You laughed wryly, trying to find a comfortable position on the uneven floor, the nail heads poking up into your shoulder.

There was a long pause as he seemed to weigh the pros and cons of unburdening himself to you before exhaling slowly. “I sent my best friend to his death. Least that’s what my dreams tell me. He didn’t want to run, I convinced him and then…well they almost caught him until I distracted them…”

“And got the shit kicked out of you.” You sighed, slipping into your ways of foul language on the edge of sleep, in the dark of your room.

Thankfully, by the twitch of his lips, he did not seem terribly put out by it.

“Basically.” He heaved a great sigh and you nodded, sliding your fingers under the door, as far as your knuckles would allow.

“No matter what happened, Bucky, he’s not in a place like this anymore. And that is a mercy.”

“Hmmm.” He hummed, unconvinced and you swallowed.

“What kind of man is he?” You lined up for another approach.

“Smart, too damn smart of any of this – built a radio out of a list of random junk I collected for him. He’s got the sweetest girl back home who writes him like clockwork. They were gonna get married if he got back. Was gonna be his best man.”

Taking a deep breath to summon your façade of brave optimism once again, for his sake, you nodded firmly. “When he gets home, you will be his best man.”

He looked to you hopefully, slowly sliding his fingertips to brush against yours beneath the coarse wooden bottom of the door. “Yeah?” He breathed.

“Yeah, Bucky. Yeah.” You nodded again, offering a smile, hoping it somewhat reached your eyes. “Now. Let’s try and get you some sleep.”

“Didn’t hear anything ‘bout you in that statement, angelfish.” He murmured sleepily and you hummed with drowsy laughter.

“I’m just about there, but not until you give in first.”

After a few beats of silence, you cracked your eye to check on him, pressing your lips together to smother your laugh as you caught him quickly squeezing his eye shut. It was not long, however, until his breathing evened and deepened, his mind at last surrendering to the sleep his body desperately needed. Swallowing tightly, heart throbbing slightly at the way his face softened, and the way his fingertips remained pressed stubbornly against yours as tightly as the door would allow, you tucked the pillow under your head, sliding your eyes shut to try and get some rest as well.

Despite the wildly uncomfortable position, you somehow managed to remain asleep until the next morning when Bucky began to shuffle and shift, soft noises of discomfort escaping him as he tried to find his way back to his feet.

“Roll onto your good side.” You coached through your drowsy state, and he stilled a moment before appearing to obey. “Bend your knees, then push up to sitting.”

There were still some grunts, but fewer overall, and the whole endeavour sounded a lot less like a fish flopping against the door.

“Then use the handle to pull yourself up with your good hand.” Holding your breath you waited until you saw two sock feet, firmly planted and steady on the floor, before rising on your side of the door. “Well done.”

“Still have a bit more time to sleep, angelfish.” He rumbled and you bit your lip fondly at his sleep-roughened voice.

“You, too.” You replied, pressing your forehead against the rustic wood, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hall until only silence remained.

You managed a few more hours’ sleep before the morning guard unlocked the door, delivering your morning pitcher of frigid water for your facsimile of a bath with a sliver of soap and rough wash cloth. Enjoying a breakfast of crackers and margarine, you reported for duty just as Chalmers was discharging Bucky, finding it suddenly difficult to meet his eyes in the light of day – the entire encounter in the dark feeling too intimate to recall in such a crowded, public space.

“Take care, Major Egan.” You smiled friendlily and followed Menzies out to the tent to assist with the removal of a set of sutures.

“You got it, Nurse.” He replied, the marked absence of the quirky nickname born of his inability to speak the day of his arrival halting your steps as you involuntarily glanced back over your shoulder to make sure he was really all right.

A grin slowly unfurled across his face, lighting up his exhausted features before he shot you a playful wink. You swallowed roughly as the day suddenly felt altogether too warm for your oversized sweater.

“Made ya look, angelfish.” He teased and you pressed your lips together desperately trying to smother your responding grin, conceding the fact that he had indeed made you look with a nod, before hurrying after Menzies when he barked your name from further into the canvas extension of the hospital.

Bucky’s discharge, unlike every other patient before him, did not mean that he dissolved into the general population of the camp. Somehow, he still managed to find reasons to make an appearance, dropping off bits of scrap wood to burn that he and his friends had collected to make the time pass faster, or arranging a crew of his men to deliver the hospital’s broth allotment to alleviate that burden from Chalmers and Menzies. He always appeared to be obeying his discharge orders and not hauling anything himself, at least when he arrived with his deliveries. Whether he was behaving out of sight was another question entirely.

Not only was the assistance greatly appreciated, but you found yourself looking forward to his visits as a break from the monotony of grim tasks of which your work consisted. Somehow, despite his worn-down spirit, he still managed to leave you feeling notably lifted by the time he was inevitably shooed out for getting underfoot or distracting you a little too long. Chalmers and Menzies were patient – indulgent even – but even they had their limits.

Four relatively peaceful days passed under this new routine, with no new arrivals in camp but, sadly, a few of the weaker patients in the hospital giving up the fight, until the sound of shots rang out mid-morning on the 18th. A great clamor arose among the patients indoors and the general population beyond the canvas walls of the tent, before a group of prisoners were rushing inside, Bucky at the fore, with an injured prisoner strung across their collective shoulders.

“Lay him here.” You gestured quickly to the cot you had been stripping after the death of its occupant sometime in the night, having succumb to infection and lack of food.

You did not miss the wince that crossed Bucky’s face as he maneuvered the injured man – no more than a boy, really – to lay where you had instructed. At the sight of a deep red stain, rapidly growing in circumference on the boy’s side, your eyes shot wide, and you looked to Bucky sharply.

“Find me Chalmers and Menzies immediately.” You stressed the need for expediency before turning back to begin rapidly pulling at the boy’s clothes, trying to locate the source of all that blood.

The shocking white expanse of his belly finally exposed, you found the gaping wound left by a large calibre round near his belly button, casting about frantically for your basket of fresh bandages to press against it, desperately trying to staunch the flow. What you would not give for a packet or six of sulfa right then. The pressure you put on his tender abdomen drew a yowl of pain from the boy and you frowned up at him sympathetically.

“I know, son, I know. We’re going to get this all fixed up alright?”

“Can’t b, b, believe they shot me! I just…just wanted to see the flowers poking through the fence and they just…Fucking war’s almost over anyway…” He was beginning to shiver uncontrollably, a sure sign of shock and you glanced towards the hospital doors, relieved to see Chalmers and Menzies rushing out to help.

“I’ll bet those flowers were beautiful.” You gulped as the bandage in your hand was rapidly soaked through and grabbed a few more to wipe the area clean, trying to permit the surgeons to inspect the wound itself.

No sooner would you swipe away the rapidly welling crimson fluid, than the hollow below his ribs, carved out by months of hunger, would accumulate a fresh pool of blood. There were noises of dismay before the pair of surgeons rolled the boy to check for an exit wound. They shared a dark look as there was none to be found, shaking their heads at one another. Your patient erupted into a panic, thrashing about, kicking you squarely in the thigh and knocking you back into Bucky, who thankfully stopped your rapid descent toward the muddy floor.

“I don’t wanna die! I don’t wanna die!”

“Nurse! Hold him!” Menzies barked and began to fish around in the boy’s wound to see if he could find the bullet.

Shrieking filled the tent as you lunged forward to press down on his shoulders, trying your best to soothe him even as his shirt grew damp with his own blood, transferring to the fabric from your fingers. He was stronger than he looked, the panic only amplifying what little strength he had left, and you sent a grateful nod to Bucky as his much broader palms took over pinning the boy’s shoulders while you collected his flailing hands between yours.

“Easy now, easy. Docs are going get you right as rain, just hold still now.”

“I’m gonna die and there’s not gonna be a heaven and there’s gonna be nothing!” The boy’s wild eyes wheeled on you, fairly punching you in the gut, and you shifted his wrists to grip in one hand against your chest while the other stroked at his hair tenderly with the other.

“Come now – you’re going to be alright. Besides, I’ve met the Pope. You think they’d keep that man in his fancy house and fancy clothes for nothing?”

His lips were growing a frightening shade of white from the blood loss, the rest of him the unsettling grey pallor of imminent death, but he seemed greatly calmed by your papal revelations. His hands shifted to grip at yours and his brow furrowed earnestly, the only movements of his body now were the echoes of the desperate attempts of the surgeons below.

“I want my momma. Tell my momma that I…tell my momma…” He trailed off into a whisper, the light slowly dimming from his eyes until there was nothing, his hands going limp, and he was gone.

Swallowing brutally, you carefully shifted your fingers to his throat, checking for a pulse and turning to Chalmers and Menzies when you found none. A simple shake of your head was all it took to communicate that you had lost the boy. Chalmers let out deep, aggrieved sigh while Menzies threw down a blood-soaked bandage with a wet slap and stormed back into the hospital. Gently setting the boy’s lifeless hands across his chest, you straightened slowly, feeling Bucky eyeing you from the other side of the cot.

Something ugly was welling up inside you, desperately trying to claw its way out, and you took a step back.

“Angelfish?” Bucky’s voice was low and cautious.

Your only response was to shake your head violently before stepping clear of the end of the cot, then breaking into a run. Following in the footsteps of Menzies, the words of the Army Nurse Corps pledge rang through your mind, the words you had sworn to serve by as a Nurse.

‘I shall approach him cheerfully at all times, under any conditions I may find…I shall appear fearless in the presence of danger and quiet the fears of others to the best of my ability.’

Reaching the end of the hallway, you stared at the door to your quarters and nearly choked on the idea of facing that stuffy, windowless room. You needed air. Needed to breathe. Turning sharply to the left, you continued along past the utility room and out the backdoor into the small courtyard between the hospital and the barbed wire fence that separated the Russian side of the camp.

‘…I will remember that, upon my disposition and spirit, will in large measure depend the morale of my patients.’

The flight nurse’s creed came flooding back to you next as you sought refuge between the back of the hospital and the bowed lines of laundry, stained sheets and bandages hung in the weak April sun to dry. What a different person you had been when you had spoken those damn words at your graduation from Flight Nurse Training.

Taking short, sharp gulps of air, each inhale was used to forcefully shove down the scream that was bubbling perilously in your throat. You paced to-and-fro, bloody hands planted on your hips. Surely you looked nothing short of mad when Bucky rounded the corner of the building, using that aggravatingly soft voice again as he spoke your name, making your head snap towards him.

“You’re not supposed to be back here.” You choked out, turning from him, fixing to flee once more.

“Too bad.” He ground out as he continued coming closer, clearly intent on comforting you, but if he got too near, you were terrified you were going to shatter entirely.

“Patients aren’t supposed to see me like this.” You could barely speak, hiccoughing and shuddering breaths intersplicing your words awkwardly as your grip on your emotions began to slip through your bloody fingers.

“Not here as a patient.” He muttered and slid his arms around you, pulling you close and you buried your face into his chest to let out a wail of agony – for the man who died in front of your eyes, for the horrid situation you found yourself in.

Somehow, you managed to maintain the wherewithal not to grab at him with your filthy hands, arms sticking straight out behind him awkwardly as you squeezed his sides with your elbows, knees threatening to give out as you found yourself not having to be the strong one for the first time in quite a long time. Bucky’s grip only tightened on you, fingers curling into your shirt to hold you up patiently as you cried yourself hoarse against him. Eventually there were no more tears to cry, the self-pity and grief you had stored up over the past few months running dry. Pulling back slightly, you wiped at your face with your sleeves, accidentally exposing a portion of the angrily scarred flesh on your left forearm.

Not missing the way his eyes flicked to it immediately, you sharply pulled your cuffs down and straightened fully. “You should get out of here before some goon puts a hole in you…”

It was supposed to be a joke, but your voice wobbled threateningly in abhorrence at the thought of losing someone else today, and Bucky promptly pulled you close again.

“Easy angelfish, not gonna get myself shot now. Not after you went through all the trouble of bringing me back.”

Sniffling affectionately against him, you pulled back to meet his eyes. “Thank you, Bucky.” You patted his chest fondly. “But please don’t go around carrying any more people with those broken ribs.” You gave him a stern look, finding it difficult to deliver as he smirked with a soft laugh in return.

With a soft sigh, you moved to return inside and assist with the clean up.

“Bucky?” You stopped and turned back to him suddenly.

“Yeah, angelfish?” He glanced over his shoulder, halfway to the other side of the building.

“What’s your first name?”

He raised an eyebrow. “John.”

Nodding slowly, you swallowed tightly. “Thank you, John.” You repeated firmly before pulling open the door and heading inside to the utility room to fill a bucket with some water to rinse out the bloody cot.

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Read Part Three

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

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

#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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pnfc · 8 days ago

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here is some train-of-thought writing that came out today while i was thinking about labels/identity for d&p, sexuality and gender.

18+ for (brief) sex scenes, you’ve been warned, door is over there etc

When Perry laid out the realities of his private life to the Flynn-Fletcher family it was not, in his preplanning mind, a gay coming-out. That was like the 9th or 10th layer of the curtain he was pulling away in the grand reveal, a flimsy one attendant in its connection to Heinz Doofenshmirtz and all the messiness he embodied, mortal threats on Perry and tristate domination schemes and more than one cringeworthy viral video.

So it’s sweet and befuddling to Perry when Phineas and Ferb gift him a handknitted rainbow pride scarf for his birthday that year, maybe the last people he’d expect to take that particular tack.

“Phineas is really taking to Home Ec,” Ferb tells Perry as they refill at the coffee table. “I don’t mean to devalue our shared gift in your eyes, but he made that in just half a period, it was his first project. And I think,” Ferb continues in his low voice, as he retrieves the creamer for Perry. “He might be just a little excited to have a gay family member.”

That’s what Perry is, now that he and his connection with Heinz are out for the world to see. He’d never thought of it in those terms before, nor had Heinz used the word to describe their still-new romantic partnership. Perry’s gay and his former nemesis turned agent-partner is now his boyfriend, is the buzz at the office.

Perry thought it might have a welcome insulating effect, word spreading that Agent P isn’t into women, on an official basis this time. But it didn’t stop Agent Lyla from flirting at him, in fact seemed to goad her on, like Perry’s stony indifference to her was funny, fun to poke at. And it didn’t stop women from cooing over him in public, even with the enamel flag pin from Stacy pinned to his hat band -- again, that may have only exacerbated the situation.

But it did spare him from at least one Monogram holiday present, a profoundly haunting OWCA calendar starring female models in states of Christmassy undress, posed with plush animals. He’d yanked it back out of Perry’s hands, with what might have been bashfulness, and muttered “Gotta get a male model calendar for next year, too, so HR doesnt get on my keister. Carl! You’re in charge of the gay one.”

Perry accepted the designation of gay man, even if he didn’t feel it in his bones. It fit on him like a well tailored suit, the rainbow aesthetic was appealing, queer human history was deeply compelling and Stacy et al were so excited to share in his education on the subject, to share a place with him behind the marching banner. It affirmed Perry’s lifelong indifference to the human and non-human women he was assumed to feel attraction for. But it all felt a bit specious, since Perry harbored attraction for one person only. He couldn’t in a century feel for anyone else the way he does Heinz.

Still here he is, a man with a boyfriend, and if the fact that he’s a platypus threatens that definition, that opinion is not possessed by the people in his life who matter. So he’s gay.

Heinz shares Perry’s ambivalence around labeling, but out of a long legacy of experience that Perry lacks, so he’s a refuge in this. “Bisexual, yeah, that was the rage back in college,” he waxes nostalgic to Perry, during their nighttime couch convos. “The only way to be, unless you were a college republican finance major. But there’s pansexual now too, right? And so many flags -- Vanessa’s friends were over here trying to explain it to me. That girl Laci had so many flags on her bag, it was like the Olympics back there. Or like the last 50 years of Drusselstein regional flags from the warring states -- except like, in more colors than just grey and brown. Drusselstein had a serious dye shortage. They finally cut a deal with the Ukraine in 2006 for green, it was a real gamechanger, but it only complicated the flag design wars.”

“…Anyway it was fun to be bi, in the 80s,” Heinz says. He’s sprawled along the couch, Perry sitting against his bare bent leg, idly rubbing a paw around his knee. “Guys really put themselves together back then, they were electric. And if you slapped on enough liner and eyeshadow to partly obscure your weird shaped face maybe one of them would give you his number, if he had enough cocktails. And sometimes that number would even be legit.”

Pausing, Heinz looking up at the lofty ceiling, his head on the armrest. “I don’t know if I am bi anymore, Perry the Platypus,” he says with a note of regret. “Everyone’s just so sad now, so Linkedin and Panera Bread, even the evil scientists of the day are so sexless -- I dunno, maybe I’ve aged out of the crowd. Once I hit 30 it just seemed easier sticking with women. They can be a lot kinder, in my experience. Or at least more liable to pity a guy like me. Plus they’re, y’know, really hot -- trust me on that one, Perry the Platypus. So I dunno if I’ve got the right to be all ‘loud and proud’ just because I knew how to party in my 20s. …At least, I didn’t have the right for a good decade there.” Perry’s smirking across at him, elbow propped on the bend of Heinz’s knee. “You don’t need to give me that look,” Heinz scolds. “I know what you are to me. You don’t need to rub it in. “But, you know what I mean: you outgrow the bi phase, you get married, you work with a lot of cute dancers, accept an arduous future of heterosexual post-divorce dating efforts -- and then you, ah -- meet a very attractive platypus,” he says, struggling because Perry is pressing his hands into Heinz’s thigh, trailing a leisurely path upwards. “And it, uh. Gets confusing. …Oh my god, Perry.” His splayed leg shakes and he props it up on the back of the couch as Perry focuses on worsening the situation in his cotton workout shorts. He told Perry not to rub it in -- that’s always annoying, being told what not to do, what not to rub.

Despite all of Heinz’s wordy equivocating he is loud about Perry’s role in his life, the first to introduce Perry as his boyfriend or himself as Perry’s, though he tends to prefer the word partner, maybe for its alliterative quality. “Yes, Perry the Platypus is my partner,” is the line trod out to whichever party guest, since more often than not Perry is the one who needs no introduction. “And I mean romantic partner, just to be clear, so there’s no confusion. Because we used to be work partners too, and we still are. But we’re an item.” And if Heinz deems the partygoer in question to be sufficiently magnetic and therefore threatening he will follow this up with the even more unnecessary “So don’t even think about it.” Perry should find this more mortifying than he does, probably, except that it’s cut short conversations with a lot of people who turned out not to be worth Perry’s time. Quite efficient, letting your boyfriend trim the homophobic tallow off your social sphere with his blunt-sheared social crudity. More than one social blowout has turned into a furious makeout session back behind the venue, Perry dragging Heinz’s back down a brick wall so he can suck his tongue, so Heinz’s pleas of “Perry we’re parked right over there” muffle into whimpers under a canopy of evening cicada call.

Perry came up in OWCA right when they were transforming their internal messaging, making it superficially friendlier. Some changes were Carl’s well-meaning suggestions that became enshrined. “The agents shouldn’t be shamed out of exploring their natural desires,” was the gist of his plea to Monogram -- Perry retains a fuzzy memory of the scene, he couldn’t have been older than 3 then, was delivering a hot beverage to Monogram’s office as part of his daily duties. “Even the ones who aren’t, um… intact, they still feel things.”

“So we tell them not to. Anything less is insanity. It’s sick, Carl.” He took the heavy coffee from Perry’s hands. Perry’s palms were wet and burning. “The animals need to focus on one thing, and that’s the mission. Lord knows I don’t need to hear about whatever nasty business they get up to back at the zoo, in their off-hours. But we’re dealing with dumb, wild animals, Carl. We need to stamp out all that mating distraction with a vengeance. This is a war, Carl, against evil itself, and they’re humanity's front line.”

But Carl must’ve gotten something through, because the recruits younger than Perry endured less scare mongering around sex, fewer militaristic tirades from Monogram about the primacy of the fight and the evils of carnal temptation. Mono’s coffee mug featured a hula dancer whose bikini vanished at high temperatures -- it had always been difficult to take him seriously.

And one day they’d all been gifted a Carl-designed asexual pride tee, the OWCA logo in purple and grey, and a “Be who you are!” platitude written in Carl’s loopy cursive. This messaging was muddled to say the least. This was a human designation, asexuality, of which Perry had only partial comprehension -- and Carl seemed to be prescribing it to the agents even as his words encouraged free identity. But the design was nice, Carl had a flair for that -- the flag colors were classy and austere, not quite to Perry’s taste where t-shirts were concerned, but definitely suited to Heinz. Except Perry knew even back then that if any human pride flag fit Heinz, this was not it.

He still has that shirt bunched in the bottom of a drawer with the other old employee tees, including one with Carl’s face and chocolate stains on it. Maybe that human designation does fit Perry, in a certain technical sense. In the fall and winter. Seasons when he sits with Heinz watching trashy old 70s flicks that burgeon and bulge with more nudity than the plot demands. “You see how they filmed skin back then, Perry the Platypus?” Heinz will lament. “It’s crazy, her legs are like glowing -- people don’t look like this anymore.” He works himself up trying to explain the magic effect to Perry, while Perry just leans into his side and gazes up at him. Human attraction is cute, defanged like this, watching Heinz helpless in the thrall of some chainsmoking director’s bad movie about a city cop taking down apocalyptic gangs. And just to be mean Perry won’t touch Heinz’s hard-on -- but he’ll touch everywhere else, as the movie plays, nose his bill up the side of his shirt and kiss his hot skin, and he’ll watch Heinz shudder his way to breaking point, whereat he digs himself out of his pants and pulls himself off in a few fast strokes. Perry doesn’t need to get off to enjoy this. It satisfies just like the old thwartings. Perry’s just hitting other self-destruct buttons, on Heinz’s body -- he’s really one big button, if Perry’s honest, and Perry savors pushing it again, and again, and again.

So he could take or leave the labels. He likes that he and Heinz cut a different shape, one that doesn’t slot neatly into a human-made hole. But they mean a lot to the kids, Perry observes, as they grow into high schools and colleges, as they get passionate and motivated, as Vanessa breaks up with Monty and doesn’t look back. And Perry, Perry’s not even a person to so many of the humans he encounters, much less one with an orientation worth caring about. So it’s nice. He carries the cheery rainbow umbrella with the London skyline that Lawrence brought back from across the pond. He wears Ferb and Phineas’s snazzy rainbow scarf, Stacy’s hat pin. It’s not borne deep in Perry’s bones, this identity, but it’s a lovely accent, fortified by the people he loves. No depth required.

Which is why it does not seem too jarring, many years in the future, a decade onward, when his partnership with Heinz looks different. After they’ve danced through years of late night karaoke, hitting up gay bars and the vanishingly rare sapient-animal-friendly club, both of them growing loose and happy in their linkage to each other, holding each other’s hands and feeling the clink-clink of their rings. It was just more playtime for both of them, Heinz bustling around Perry to deck him out in 70s throwback fits with the big cheesewedge collars and migraine stripes, Perry standing tiptoe to zip up Heinz’s dress as he sits craned forward on the floor, holding frizzy wig ringlets out of the way, before Perry smooths his hands out across Heinz’s shoulders and he lets the hair bounce back down.

It’s still play, maybe, until the year that Heinz’s mousy hair is long and shoulder-brushing. Perry lounges in the balcony hammock with one hand trailing on the ground, as he watches Heinz pull it up into a ponytail before tearing into a vintage radio repair, an ongoing collaboration with Lawrence. And something that wasn’t serious now is, because even now, dressed down in oil-stained sweats and a holey tee, with wispy silver hair and no 80s eyeshadow on to obscure her charming face, Perry sees that she’s beautiful.

Perry wants to tell her this, when they’re getting in from an anniversary dinner out. He has the words in his hands, he’s already told her several times, because she needed to hear it those first few staggering attempts to hit the daytime streets in skirts, that she looked right in them, looked cute. Perry says it differently now, as he presses her down into the pillow with a hand, leaning across her skinny torso. Heinz’s natural hair fans the pillow, heat-curled and sprayed for the special night. Perry presses his soft bill to her forehead, trails down to her rouged cheek, further down to her lips, where her plum purple lipstick looks black in the dark. Perry says it with hands down her face, trailing into her soft hair and gripping it tight as she touches him. He says it with clawmarks trailing up her thighs and snapping the net of her tights as he swallows her down, the ritualistic tearing of Heinz’s fabric newly modified into a synthetic cherry pop, and if in the dark beads of blood flower up under his claws Perry licks them too, with love and apology, with a want to get more of Heinz into him. And he says it one more time when she’s asleep and curled around him like the crescent moon, and he reaches in to unhook her earrings, puts them on the nightstand.

Is Perry gay now, when the shape of him and Heinz seems so the same, despite her changes? Well, it’s not the most pressing question. It’s hard enough contemplating how Perry will introduce his girlfriend to his family, when he used to swear up and down the day would never come. But not girlfriend, wife, and not wife, partner -- so he’s circumvented it rather ingeniously, actually, a fact he hopes Phineas and Ferb appreciate. They decide to do it that week, packing the fixed-up radio and a few fresh loaves of zucchini bread, decoratively ribboned, into the truck. Perry helps smooth Heinz’s hair in the driver’s seat, and Heinz smooths her floral skirt down before taking off the brakes. Perry adjusts his hat in the mirror, and judges the scarf around his neck. It still looks cute on him, now flaming more vibrant in hue against the greying fur of his chest. It’s still his boys, hugging around him, all the unrestrained cheesy love they felt for Perry as kids preserved in rainbow yarn. So he wears it, as he and Heinz drive ahead together through the rest of it.

#fic #this is messy and unpolished but it was stress writing on election day #plz take it. i have to go get drunk now

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snapdragonessart · 3 months ago

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Part 2 of my dragon dentition series 😊 ancients coming next! Teef info under the cut

Obelisks take inspiration from Chinese guardian lion statues, with their voluminous manes, big paws and fierce face. As such, their teeth would be similar to a lion’s dentition, with massive canines and carnassials. Although lions mainly eat land-based animals, they are also opportunistic and will sometimes eat fish and even insects. This doesn’t make up for any large part of their diet, however, and in this way they differ from Obelisks which only eat seafood and bugs. Jaguars make a better match for Obelisks in regards to food, as they eat aquatic prey more often than lions do, with one remote population of jaguars in Brazil primarily feeding on aquatic reptiles and fish.

Pearlcatchers were pretty tricky to pin down. Their body and face look almost horse or deer-shaped. Their diet is insects and plants. The only creature that came to mind for Pearlcatchers were qilins; one-horned legendary beasts from Chinese mythology. They’re fully scaled, with dragon-like faces and a body shaped like a horse, deer or goat. This seems to fit Pearlcatcher’s the most, but figuring out their dentition is another matter. There’s not really a 1-to-1 comparative animal I can base their teeth on, so I think they’d be a mish-mash of different tooth structures. They’d have larger canines, maybe like a musk deer, but the rest of their teeth would follow a more herbivorous design. They’d have large, flat molars and premolars for grinding up plants, probably similar to a horse or goat.

Ridgebacks are basically land-sharks, no question. Their diet and face says it all. Although their snouts look more like goblin sharks to me, I don’t think they’d have those creepy mouths. Their dentition would be more like a great white; they’d have a mouth full of serrated, razor sharp teeth. Like actual sharks, Ridgeback’s would have a reserve of extra teeth in their jaws.

Skydancer dragons present another tricky situation. They’re bird dragons, and eat plants and insects like Pearlcatchers. Although some official art shows them with teeth, I don’t think they’d actually have them. The closest structure to teeth that's found in birds is the tomia, which is the cutting edge of the upper and lower beak. Tomia is not made of enamel, but of cartilage. Seed-eating birds use this to slice through seed hulls, and birds of prey like falcons have a single sharp projection to rip meat and insects apart. Geese have tomia on their tongues, which pushes the food back towards their throat as they eat. Skydancers probably have a gizzard as well, as the tomia is not enough on its own to grind food down completely. It was hard to figure out what the Skydancer’s beak would be most similar to; out of all the more hook beaked birds, it reminded me most of vultures or eagles, although in diet they do not match them at all. Skydancer beaks are a mish-mash of different bird characteristics that I thought would fit them the most, rather than based on a single bird in particular.

Snappers are tortoise dragons, and like tortoises they’d have ridges in their beaks to help chew food. The official lore states that their beaks are “lined with molars that begin halfway down the jaw and continue all the way to the back”. Real-life tortoises don’t have teeth, so I’d imagine these structures would be like the tomia of birds. Their diet would be a mix of what tortoises and turtles eat, as Snappers eat both plants and seafood.

Spirals really remind me of ferrets, with their noodley bodies and energetic, chaotic nature. Like ferrets, they’d have sharp little canines, incisors and carnassials for shredding meat. Ferrets mainly eat meat, but will also eat bugs too, which matches up with the Spirals diet.

Tundra dragons are currently the only purely herbivorous dragon. The lore states that they have “impressive canine teeth used for combat. The majority of their jaw is set with flat, wide molars, perfect for grinding up scrub.” They’d be most similar to musk deers in dentition, with both male and female Tundras having the enlarged canines characteristic of male musk deer. The canines wouldn’t be as thin or long as a musk deer; they would be thick, robust, and fit more snugly inside the mouth.

Last for the modern breeds, we have the Wildclaws. They’re raptor dragons, based on the Dromaeosaurids - raptor dinosaurs (velociraptors, utahraptors, etc). Like raptors, Wildclaws would have widely spaced and serrated teeth. They’d be fairly equal in shape, and would curve backwards. Raptors were carnivorous, which fits with the Wildclaw’s meat diet.

#flight rising #fr

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writerblue275 · 11 months ago

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What to get each Heartsteel member for the holidays

Aphelios: 1. Stuff to decorate his studio with. 2. Moon-themed things. 3. Why do I feel like he’s similar to me and collects SOMETHING. For me it’s owl things (I fucking love owls.) and cool enamel pins! I could see Phel collecting really cool enamel pins or some sort of trinket. 4. To go with #3. A place to put said trinkets (for example a cork board/pin banner to hang pins on). [I should take a photo of my cork board that has all my pins and stuff on it so you can see what I mean!]

Ezreal: 1. Book discussing an ancient civilization he’s been interested in. 2. A book going over works of an artist/artistic period/movement he really likes. (I did that for my dad this year about an artist he likes and he almost started crying he was so excited. It was so fucking cute. I’ve been waiting to give him that book since JULY. 🥹)

Kayn: 1. Accessories for a guitar (like a custom embroidered guitar strap or picks). 2. I feel like he’d primarily play electric, but I definitely think he’d play/have an acoustic guitar. You can find some really cool wood-burned acoustic guitars for (relatively) cheap. (A good instrument is expensive (I know this from playing viola) but compared to electric guitars, acoustics are definitely more affordable.) 3. I have a fun embroidery hoop hanging on my wall and it’s all fancy and shit and it says “DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO” and I think something like that fits Kayn so perfectly. (I need to take a photo and post it for y’all. It’s one of my favorite things lmao.)

K’Sante: 1. A really fancy set of colored pencils and a really nice sketch pad that he can use for sketching out his designs. 2. A new sewing machine/sewing kit. 3. FABRIC. Get this man nice fabric so he can bring his designs to life! Especially if he’s shown you a design he really loves, or that you really love, get fabric for that specific design.

Sett: 1. Brand new fancy sewing kit he’s been talking about. (I absolutely love that he’s canonically a sewing expert. I fucking love it so much). 2. If not a full kit then a really nice seam ripper or specific tool he maybe needs an upgrade on. Could be customized to him. I think he’d love that! 3. Really nice set of pots/pans/kitchen utensils. (I’m thinking like the hex clad pans I keep hearing about.)

Sett Extra: You better get something for his mama!!! As someone who has a mother who is a knitting machine, I know exactly what to get. 1. Some really really lovely and fancy yarn. 2. Knitting pattern books that she doesn’t have. 3. A yarn bowl (it’s literally a bowl that the yarn sits in, and there’s a little hole or design that allows the end to come out so you don’t have to keep unwinding the yarn or anything. And it’s easy to keep your space neat while knitting. My mother LOVES HERS. My dad accidentally broke her first one and she was devastated! [A new/nicer one was her Christmas present from my dad last year.])

Yone: 1. Some god damn peace and quiet and sleep. This man needs a break lmao. 2. But actually, stuff to decorate his studio with (for example a funny little do not disturb sign that he can put on the door, some posters or something. 3. Maybe some small framed photos of the two of you that he can put on his desk. You’re his muse after all (and you help him not go insane during late nights.)

EXTRA-

Alune: She deserves some gifts toooooooo!! 1. This woman deserves a damn spa day. Do I even have to explain myself? Like she deserves some serious pampering. 2. Another one who I could see collecting something fun. Probably moon related lol.

#writerblue275 gremlin hours #heartsteel #heartsteel x reader #headcanon #heartsteel aphelios #heartsteel ezreal #heartsteel kayn #heartsteel k'sante #heartsteel sett #heartsteel yone #heartsteel alune #league of legends #heartsteel fluff #happy holidays

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duckprintspress · 1 year ago

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Pre-Orders Now Open for “Many Drops Make a Stream” by Adrian Harley!

Pre-orders for Adrian Harley’s debut sapphic fantasy novel Many Drops Make a Stream are now open!

A memory-stealing cult. The ever-watchful City of Eyes. Making small talk. Join Droplet as she faces all these horrors and more…

Vigilante shapeshifter Droplet has trained her entire life to take down those with more power than scruples, but she still makes mistakes. When a rescue mission goes wrong, a memory-stealing cult of blood mages escapes with kidnapped captives in tow. To save them, Droplet reluctantly teams up with the outgoing, tenacious Azera. Droplet knows better than to trust a human—she made that mistake once, and that person’s betrayal scattered her community across the known world—and she can tell Azera is hiding secrets behind her sunny smile. But if they can’t learn to work together, even Droplet’s own memories could be lost.

Many Drops Make a Stream, Adrian Harley’s debut novel, is the stand-alone first book in a series of related fantasy-mystery-heists featuring the shapeshifter Droplet and the friends and found family who work alongside her to fight the corrupt powers-that-be. Many Drops Make a Stream is rated general (adult) audiences and features shapeshifting shenanigans, a nascent f/f quarrelers-to-lovers pre-relationship, a wonderful extended cast of family and pseudo-family, necromancy and blood magic and spellwork (oh my!), and one (1) very angry goose.

For this campaign, we’re offering:

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Droplet!Dux Die-Cut Sticker

Many Drops Make a Stream Cover Art Print

Shapeshifting Droplet Enamel Pin

Patron-exclusive extra wooden coaster (for people who support Duck Prints Press at the $10/month and $25/month level on Patreon and back this campaign)

Better yet, you can get a discount by picking one of three bundles:

Many Drops Make a Stream E-Book + Merchandise

Many Drops Make a Stream E-Book + Print Book

Many Drops Make a Stream E-Book + Print Book + Merchandise

You can learn all about the book, the author, the campaign, and our offerings by visiting the pre-order page NOW!

Want a chance to win a trade paperback copy of Many Drops Make a Stream? Help us spread the word about this campaign by liking and signal boosting our posts on any of our platforms that including “sharing” functionality (such as Tumblr, Mastodon, Bluesky, and Facebook), and you can get up to 4 entries per platform where you share!*

Campaign backers will also get bonuses based on the number of signal boosts our posts receive! All the social media links for sharing are on the linked pre-order page, so help us tell the world about the awesome book, and who knows – you might win a copy! (But only if we fund, ’cause we can’t afford to print the book if we don’t fund, so help us make sure people who want to buy The Awesome learn that The Awesome exists!)

*sweepstakes rules and conditions

#duck prints press #adrian harley #many drops make a stream #sapphic fiction #wlw #fantasy novel #sapphic novel #queer authors #queer books #queer fantasy #sapphic fantasy

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bigasswritingmagnet · 24 days ago

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The Jagerfrät, Part 2: Lunch and Learn

Modern day AU Agatha goes to Mechanicsburg University and discovers another part of her family legacy: The Jägerfrat. After rescuing/being discovered by three of the fraternity members, they buy her lunch, and Dimo gives her an impromptu history lesson.

Chapter 1 | AO3 Link

It was technically Theta Phi Theta Fraternity, but they were known to one and all as the Jägerfrat. It was the oldest fraternity in the country, and probably the most notorious. They were popular on Mechanicsburg University grounds, and absolutely nowhere else. On their own, they were a troublemaking rabble, known for drinking bars dry, picking fights, and tipping poorly.

But when a Heterodyne arrived…

Agatha had heard the stories. They’d burned a bar down. They’d terrorized every university within driving distance with “pranks” that usually resulted in real bodily harm and property damage in the thousands - minimum. They were the reason the Galați Goats no longer had a live animal mascot.

Every Heterodyne who had ever gone to Mechanicsburg University (which was all of them) had been a member.

Except for the last two.

“I mean, I wasn’t there, but we’re big on like, oral history and shit, y’know, so I know how it went down. It was like...everybody can’t like everybody, but the dudes didn’t even want to know us, y’know? We were embarrassing to them.”

Dimo had won the most emotionally charged game of rock-paper scissors Agatha had ever seen, and therefore was the one who got to ride with Agatha and give directions to a place that served ‘the most dope-ass sandwiches you ever ate in your life, no joke’. He sat slouched in the seat with his knees pressed against the dashboard, twirling his baseball cap on his finger. With each revolution, the enamel snarling demon face pinned to the brim caught the sunlight in a brief flash of gold.

“They made everybody tone it way, wayyy down. No more ragers, no more raids, no more anything . And the frat was not happy about it—I heard one guy straight up tried to knife them.”

“ What?”

“Yeah! Got expelled and everything, it was wild. The house heads burned his name off the wall with a fuckin’ blowtorch.”

Agatha knew why Uncle Barry had never told her stories about things he and his brother had done, but...maybe he could have squeezed in a few? Dropped casual hints? Something to prepare her for the inevitable reveal, the day she would have to face her legacy.

“If everyone was so unhappy about it, why did they do it?”

Dimo looked blank.

“Do what?”

“My father and Uncle Barry didn’t even join the fraternity; what authority did they have to tell the Jägers how to run it?”

“They were the Heterodynes,” Dimo said.

“But they weren’t in the fraternity.”

“But they were the Heterodynes,” Dimo said again. Suddenly he grinned and sat up, jamming his hat back on his head. “Turn here! This is it!”

“ This is the place?” Agatha exclaimed. Despite her trepidation, she obeyed the instruction and pulled into the parking lot of what she had assumed was an abandoned shack left over from a horror movie set.

Twenty minutes later, she was sitting on a half-rotten picnic table and staring down, wide eyed, at the perfectly pressed ham and cheese panini she had just tentatively bitten into.

“This is...the best thing I have ever tasted in my life,” she marveled.

“Told you, bro!” Maxim said. Beside him, Oggie managed to shove half a triple-decker club sandwich into his mouth in one bite.

“The guy who runs it used to be in the frat, sorta, so we get free sodas,” Dimo said.

“Also his granddaughter is smokin’ hot and totally into me,” Maxim said, preening.

“She is so not,” Oggie said.

“How the fuck would you know?” Maxim demanded.

“Cause you flirted with her and she hit you with a side of meat.”

“That was an accident, and she gave me her number after,” Maxim said, glaring.

“How can you sorta be in a fraternity?” Agatha asked, taking another bite of her sandwich.

“You hang around the house and help out with the parties, but you don’t do any of the pledging or drink the Jägerdraught.”

Agatha’s brow furrowed.

“Drink the what?”

The three boys glanced at each other, and Agatha sighed.

“I know very little about what my family used to do,” she said. “Outside of rumor and what I got off of the internet, I know almost nothing. Uncle Barry never liked to talk about it. He and my father worked hard to distance themselves from all of it, and he tried to do the same for--to me. You said they were embarrassed about it, I'm starting to think they were ashamed of it."

“Are you?” Dimo asked.

The table went quiet. The three Jägers were staring at her with startlingly solemn expressions. They didn’t know it, but it was a question that Agatha had been considering for a while now. Even not counting the college shenanigans, her family had been responsible for shady business deals, violent corporate take overs, and more tax fraud than you could shake a stick at.

But when she’d visited Mechanicsburg University last spring, she’d found herself drawn to it in a way she couldn’t quite name.

“I still have to go sign in and get my dorm keys,” she said, “but I’d like to see the fraternity house when I’m done.”

Their eyes lit up, and there was as much relief as excitement, but before a word could be said, a shadow fell over the table.

“ Where the hell have you idiots been?”

The girl standing over them was a few years older than Agatha. She had flaxen-blonde hair that was almost white, and furious brown eyes that bored into each young man in turn. Agatha could see the sunburn on her cheeks, despite the large sunhat on her head. Which—Agatha almost couldn’t believe her eyes—had a Jäger symbol pinned to the purple ribbon on the top.

“Jenka!” Maxim cried, winningly. Oggie let out an oof as a shaggy brown head the size of a toddler shoved itself over his shoulder, black eyes fixed on Oggie’s sandwich.

“Ayy, Füst, my man!” Oggie said with delight, and pulled out a slice of chicken for the dog.

“Why are none of you assholes answering your phones, where the fuck is my car, and who the hell is this?”

The three boys grinned broadly.

“This,” Dimo said, and Oggie and Maxim drummed their hands on the table in a drum roll. “Is Agatha. Heterodyne.”

“Tadaaaa!”

#girl genius #oggie girl genius #dimo girl genius #jenka girl genius #maxim girl genius #agatha heterodyne #colege au #I'm having way more fun with this than I expected

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mayakern · 2 years ago

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So pantones photoshop service is like a thesaurus or autocorrect that takes your digital info and says “did you mean?: [list of suggested colors]” and is best used in conjugation with a physical color book, which would be like analogous to a dictionary where the you can look up the “definition” of a suggested color, how it physically looks. Because computer screens are simulations of data. And in product manufacturing the “colors” on a digital (or paper?) design work less like color and more like how a key on a map works. Checking my understanding just shooting shit don’t need a reply. My dad was a contractor and I used to spend hours going over his paint sample books but those were more focused on texture than color. There were hundreds!

yeah that’s basically it! and there are multiple types of pantone booklets/libraries you can get for different needs (i.e. different materials/finishes), but i really only use the solid coated library so that’s what i focus on.

because all screens look massively different (and even the same monitor calibrated differently or in different lighting will display color differently) and because digital color cannot entirely replicate real life color, having a library of swatches that automatically offers you multiple options is SUPER useful, even if you only use it as a starting point. you can get the same results without the digital swatch library, but it is much slower.

however, IMO the digital library will never replace the physical swatch booklet.

the classic example of this, for me, is my lesbian pride butterfly pin. if you look at the digital art, depending on your monitor, that 7625 C will look like a nice rich orange (as it should be)

BUT, when implemented in enamel, it cures very red. and that is reflected in the pantone swatch book and is something i would have been able to check if i had owned a swatch booklet while i was designing this pin. unfortunately i didn’t tho so it doesn’t accurately represent the flag colors.

#ask

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ariadnelives · 1 year ago

Text

AMARU - A SHORT STORY

Author’s note: This story is to celebrate Pilar Spacebreather’s birthday, July 17th, 2605! The bulk of it takes place on her 19th birthday, some months after “Cryptocracy.” The ending takes place shortly before “Force Majeure.”

Pilar turned the pin over in her hand, running her finger over the cold silver and smooth, colorful enamel. At first glance, she’d thought the gift was to give her another gay accessory to pin to her jacket, but on closer inspection, the bright rainbow had what appeared to be a brilliant gold medallion shining in the center.

“What is it?” She asked. “The gold circle in the middle.”

“It’s the Cusco flag,” Beam explained excitedly. “I’ve been talking Baltimore’s ear off about this for weeks. It’s a bit personal, and it takes some explaining, so I wanted to give it to you before the big party. You know, sister to sister.”

Beam had always been an only-child, and this was Pilar’s first birthday since she’d adopted Beam as an elder sister, so she was excited to dote on her. Pilar could already see that Beam had two more gifts wrapped and poorly hidden behind her back, but she was in no rush to end this bonding moment.

The pin was beautiful, Pilar couldn’t deny, but she was nonetheless confused. “And Cusco is…?”

“It’s a city on Earth-- don’t make that face,” Beam said, before Pilar even had a chance to make a face. “It’s in Peru, the city where my parents were born. My aunts and uncles still live there. I may have grown up halfway across the world, but this is my home, and my family… and it’s yours too.”

Pilar smiled. She never thought she’d be happy to receive a token of a city on Earth. She’d been an unflinching red-blooded daughter of the red planet for all of her nineteen years, with no interest whatsoever in the planet they’d had to fend off multiple invasions from.

“Thank you, Beam, I love it,” she said, and hugged Beam tight. “You can’t know what it means to me that you’ve welcomed me into your family.”

Beam smiled. “But it’s not… just that, Pilar,” Beam said. “I mean, it’s not just yours because you and I are, you know, sisters now. It’s always been yours. You’ve had so much taken away from you, I just wanted to give you something back.”

Pilar smiled again. “When we met, I mentioned that my grandparents emigrated from a Unión Sudamericana.”

“And you said you didn’t know where, I remember,” Beam said, “but I did. I recognized something familiar in your accent, and I tried to fish for information, and when you told me you had no idea where your family was from, it… honestly, babe, it broke my heart. I’d never been in Big Sister Mode before so I didn’t even realize I was shifting into it, but god, I felt for you.”

Pilar smiled wistfully. She remembered having been a bit curt with Beam when she asked about her heritage, and she had assumed at the time that Beam had politely let the subject drop, she never expected her to follow up on it.

The truth was, it was honestly a bit of a sore spot for her. Her grandparents had all died when she was very young-- natural causes, nothing as traumatic as her parents’ execution-- and she’d been too young at the time to know to ask them for information. When her parents were killed, they were on Earth for business. She and Sasha were left without a home, and she suddenly realized how little she’d known about her family as people, and how she now had no way of ever asking them those questions.

A lot of Pilar’s life had been spent trying to find some connection to her past, her family, and her culture. She dressed and styled herself like her late father, and Sasha often told her she even sounded like him when she spoke. If pressed, she would even admit that this is part of why she was so staunch in her Martian patriotism. It was, after all, the only cultural identity she had left.

“So,” Beam said, “when we got back to Earth, I started on a little… project. You told me your original name. María del Pilar Aguilar Amaru, and then Sasha is Sachasisa Anita Aguilar Amaru. That cinched it for me that you guys were Peruvian, Sasha’s name being Quechua. I did some digging on those last names, and found immigration records matching those surnames, in the same decade your grandparents came to Mars.”

This stunned Pilar into silence. It had never occurred to her that there might actually be records on her family she could look into.

“It looks like your mother’s family and your father’s family knew each other before they moved to Mars.”

“It’s how my parents met,” Pilar said, “they grew up together, they were best friends as children.”

“You know how Mars is, there’s more Latinos here than in all of Latin America,” Beam laughed, “few hundred years ago, we saw another round of conquistadors coming and half of us got out of dodge, and the other half dug in their heels and said ‘you won’t get me out of my home without a fight.’ Those two groups maintained ties to one another, which is why Mars will always accept refugees fleeing Earth. The Martians sent any support they could to the resistance on Earth. There were strongholds, in the mountains, of Indigenous Resistance, independent from Earth’s control.”

Pilar loved the sound of this, but it was short-lived.

“Just before your grandparents came here, the last of these communities was located and forced out,” Beam said, “it looks like your family came here because they had lost their home, and faced death back on Earth. Mars welcomed them, and they built a home there. It’s what Mars has always stood for”

“They were Peruvian,” Pilar said, repeating the words three or four times just to celebrate the fact that she could. “My family… they were Peruvian.”

Beam produced the second of the three gifts, a small but heavy parcel. “Unwrap it,” she said, “I think you’ll appreciate this one.”

Pilar complied, she couldn’t wait to see where Beam was going with it. Inside was a small metal statue of a man with long hair and an intense gaze, resting on a book with a portrait of the same man on it.

“Amaru?” Pilar asked. “Is this a relative of mine too?”

“Túpac Amaru? I mean, that’d be awesome, but I doubt it,” Beam laughed. “He fought and died for the Indigenous peoples, to free them from colonial rule. inspired billions. You’ll read all about it in the book, my old history professor Dr. Maravi wrote it.”

Pilar ran her finger along the contours of the man’s face. The prominent cheekbones and aquiline nose, so much like her own. It felt like Beam had unlocked a part of her heart that she thought she’d forever lost access to.

“I’d bet your ancestors took on his name because he was a hero of theirs,” Beam said. “It might not be information on your family specifically, but it is their history, and their culture, and I hope it makes you feel connected to them, to us,anyway. And the book’s long as fuck, you’re not gonna run out of history to dig into anytime soon.”

“Beam, this is…” Pilar said, “this is the nicest gift anyone’s ever gotten me.”

Beam grinned as though she had been caught in a prank. “Well, give it a minute.”

“What,” Pilar said anxiously, “why, what have you got planned?!”

Beam produced the third gift, a thin, flat package.

“So, before you open this one, just remember, your parents owned a mom-and-pop grocery, and that most stores stay in business by advertising,” Beam said, “okay now OPEN IT.”

Pilar tore it open and was immediately unable to continue, as she began to cry almost immediately. Her mother’s face stared out at her through the tear in the wrapping paper.

“Here, I’ll help,” Beam jumped in, and pulled the rest of it away. In a sleek black metal frame, was a coupon circular for the NewMo Mercado, proudly advertising it as a family-owned business, with a photo of the precious family who owned it. Her father, looking like he was cut from stone, with his long hair tied back and beaming through a full black beard, his muscular arms exposed by his sleeveless shirt so you could see they were painted in intricate tattoos. He held the hand of a five-year-old Pilar, who was smiling so wide her eyes couldn’t stay open, and his other arm was tightly around the waist of her mother, whose flowing hair was tucked behind her ears, and it was amazing to behold how much the baby in her arms had grown up to look like her.

“Beam, I… Beam!” Pilar couldn’t get out the full sentence. She had no photos of her parents, they had lost everything when they died. She hadn’t seen their faces since before they died. The day-care center they had been left in for a week turned them out onto the streets, and they had no other family to go to. There wasn’t even anyone to hold a funeral for them. By the time they got back to their house, the bank had already staked its claim on it and sold their possessions to cover their parents’ remaining debt on the supermarket, which naturally, the bank had also repossessed ownership of.

Pilar had assumed her parents’ faces now only existed in soft focus, fading with every passing year from her and Sasha’s distant memories. It was now as though Beam had given them back to her.

She embraced Beam and squeezed her so tight it almost hurt, and she was sure she could hear Beam’s spine pop and began to openly sob into her shoulder, expressing her thanks over and over.

“That’s about what I thought,” Beam joked, “that’s why I wanted to give you this one privately. You don’t seem like the type who likes letting people see you cry.”

“How?!” Pilar asked.

“The Free Library Of New Moyamensing has an excellent records department,” Beam explained. “And that little girlfriend of yours was very helpful getting me and Baltimore over the border to page through it. Come on, clean yourself up, we’ve got a party to get to, and I want to see you make Sasha cry with that photo too.”

Six years on, Pilar sat awaiting Ariadne to be done preparing her new tattoo, and read the letter Beam had sent her that year. The letter was written in Quechua, which the two sisters had begun learning together on her 20th birthday. Beam’s mother, a native speaker, had been thrilled at this news, and ever since, they had begun speaking it conversationally among themselves, as well as practicing it in their letters.

Every year, Beam gave Pilar another gift that connected her back to Peru, to the Inca, to her family, and this not only strengthened her newfound love for her culture back on Earth, but her pride in being a Martian, as Mars had offered a lifeline that allowed her family and her heritage to persist even through the latest attempt to stamp it out.

Pilar treasured this connection to her culture and her identity, and being able to share it with family.

The letter informed here of the excellent news from Earth-- a new leader had been appointed to the Council of Sovereign Leaders of the gradually decentralizing government of Earth: the new leader of an autonomous Peru. Evidently, Peace Upendo had pushed for not only the autonomy and self-determination of the region, but also giving authority to the local Indigenous communities, and allowing them to select their own leader to send to the Council of Sovereigns.

She looked over at the framed image of her parents, and to a photograph next to it of herself, with the entire Beam family, both of her sisters and her young nieces, on her previous birthday, when Beam had organized a trip to hike the Andes, and see the ancient ruin of Machupicchu. She looked at the statue of Túpac Amaru on her bookshelf, and wondered what he’d say if he knew that his homeland was, after all these centuries, finally back in the hands of its native people.

“Sorry it took so long,” Ariadne came in, her hands clutching her tattoo gun, “even with augmented eyes, it’s a bit difficult to figure out how to work with invisible ink, on already-tattooed skin.”

“But think of how cool it’s gonna look,” Pilar said, “think of how meaningful it’s gonna be!”

“Yeah, yeah, you know I’m all in favor of you being cool and meaningful and whatever,” Ariadne says, “it doesn’t make it any faster.”

Pilar removed her top completely, and offered her shoulder to Ariadne.

“I remember giving you this spiral,” Ariadne said. “You were so sad you couldn’t remember what your dad’s real tattoo looked like, beyond that it was a spiraling shape. This was as close as we could get from memory.”

“Now I know what it is, and why he got it,” Pilar said. “It was for my mother.”

“I can just use regular ink,” Ariadne said, “turn it into the same basic design. You have a photo of him now, it wouldn’t be hard.”

“No,” Pilar said. “I don’t want to lose the reminder of what was taken from me, or the fact that even with my connection severed, I did my best with what I had.”

Ariadne eyed the special ink she’d had to write her old mentor, Blue, to get her hands on. It was infused with nanotechnology that could interface with Pilar’s nervous system, so that with a thought, she could make it visible.

“Your wish is my command, querida,” Ariadne said, applied the topical numbing lotion Sasha had given her a bottle of for tattooing purposes, and got to work carving the intricate designs into the same skin she’d put the spiral on when they were teenagers. When she was finished, she sprayed Pilar with Sasha’s topical healing spray, waited for it to take effect, and gave Pilar the signal to try it out. Pilar stood up, looked in the mirror, and thought about her father.

Taking the signal from her thoughts, the tattoo lit up a pale, ghostly white. Overlaid over the spiral on her shoulder, an image of Amaru, the serpent that shared its name with the legendary freedom fighter, her mother, and herself.

She smiled, and the tattoo faded back into its old black spiral, the one that had vexed her since she was a child with its only passing resemblance to what she remembered from her childhood.

When she looked at the new tattoo, she could practically feel her father’s strong arms around her, his bellowing laugh, the smell of his cooking. She could hear her mother’s lilting singing voice, the perfume she always wore a little too much of, and her soft hands cupping Pilar’s face.

She wondered how she could ever repay Beam for giving all of this back to her. She had asked her once, two or three years back, and gotten a loud laugh in return.

“Why would you need to repay me? We’re family!” Beam had said. “But if you insist, I do have a couple of hungry kids who I'd love to have a connection to their culture, too,” she continued, and that’s how Pilar had agreed to cook Beam and her wife and kids a large feast full of traditional Peruvian foods with Beam’s father, which is how she was able to convey Beam’s family recipes to Cookie, the crew’s chef, who would be in shortly to deliver a dish prepared special for her birthday-- Papa a la Huancaína, a dish she’d had many times as a child on Mars, but had only ever heard them called “Papas de la Patria.” She had no idea they weren’t originally a Martian dish.

But she was glad to know it now, and with each passing birthday, grew more and more excited for her elder sister to give her more ways to connect with the home and family she thought she’d lost forever.

#scifi #writing #core story

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