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The Only Truth... | Part One

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

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

While your journeys are very different, fate brings both you and Major John Egan to Stalag VIIA in Moosburg, Germany.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Descriptions of Aerial Combat and Plane Crash, Reader Injury (2nd Degree Burns), Death, Blood, Gore, Angst, John Egan Injury, Forced March, 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: 7531

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January 8, 1945

A cacophony of thunderous explosions and shrieking metal shredded your restful state where you lay perched on the bottom stretcher in the back of a C-47, desperately trying to recover from the routine 0400 wake-up that came on mission days before your arrival at the advance airfield where some eighteen wounded men would come under your care. As the plane lurched and shuddered again, you bolted upright, cracking your head on the middle stretcher above you with a sharp expletive as the rows of jerry cans that you had helped load to fight off pre-flight jitters rattled against the floor where they were strapped down.

You had never experienced flak before. You had trained for the possibility of it at the School of Air Evacuation in Bowman Field, Kentucky, but the reality of it was something entirely different. Watching pinpricks of daylight appear through the alarmingly thin skin of the aircraft flooded your mouth with the bitter taste of adrenaline, your heart pounding violently as it prepared to fight or flee – but given that you were thousands of feet in the air, neither of those options were really available to you. Scrambling to your feet, you stumbled along the narrow path between the supplies that had been crammed onto the plane to be left at the front, to be traded for wounded patients on landing, and tried to get to the nose of the plane. Tried to get to cockpit where Major Roy and Captain Mercer were, pilot and co-pilot – the senior officers. They would surely know what to do.

Grateful for the decision to add your sheepskin flight jacket and gloves to your uniform of olive drab jacket and slacks with shirt and tie, a garrison cap pinned onto your sensibly styled hair, you still felt a shiver run through you despite the added warmth as you neared the radioman Warren and the brand new, baby-faced navigator Schmidt. With brown eyes wide as saucers and freckles splattered haphazardly across his face, you would not have believed the boy to be a day over fifteen. Given the fact that the plane had wandered into the range of enemy guns, your suspicions were growing all the more likely. Turning to see the back of your surgical technician, Fitzgibbons, blocking the entry into cockpit, you were about to tap his shoulder when a shower of wet, hot viscera splattered across you from the left – the only trace of Warren that remained, as a ragged hole in the fuselage now replaced his radio operator’s position.

You were vaguely aware of someone screaming, not realizing the haunting and horrified noise was emanating from your throat until Fitzgibbons grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you firmly.

“Lieutenant!” He shouted, seemingly exasperated with you. “Are you hurt?!”

Snapping your mouth shut, you smeared your hands across your face and down your body, shaking your head as the acrid smell of fuel flooded your nostrils, returning your senses to you. You quickly looked to Schmidt on your right, worried he might have been in the line of fire, and frowned to see him trying to yank a sizeable piece of metal from his shoulder.

“No, don’t!” You shouted firmly and grabbed the first aid kit from the wall above him, quickly padding the penetrating object with gauze and wrapping it, finding the purpose and procedure of it steadying. “It’ll keep the bleeding slow, ok? Keep it in, Schmitty.” You offered what you hoped was a reassuring smile, but with the remnants of Warren, mixed with the contents of the fuel tanks, splattered across you, who was to say what image you presented in that moment.

“It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault Ma’am, we shouldn’t even be here, got lost in the clouds an…” He began to blubber, and the plane shuddered and lurched again as Mercer tried banking out of the hail of flak, fairly dumping you into his lap.

“Easy now, easy…” You cleared your throat as it began to burn with irritation, lifting your head to see smoke billowing in from the hole in the fuselage.

“That’s it, we’re bailing out!” Roy yelled from the cockpit as he hit the bailout bell and Fitzgibbons quickly collected your parachutes, but you insisted on sending Schmidt down the aisle and out the door behind the wing first, given that he was injured.

“You know what to do Schmitty, try not to land on that shoulder.” You nodded firmly as you strapped your parachute on, fumbling slightly due to shaking hands and your thick gloves, but the repetition during your training paid off with your eventual success.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He nodded before seeming to vanish out the side of the plane.

“Sergeant.” You turned to Fitzgibbons, but he shook his head.

“You may outrank me Ma’am but you’re still a lady.” He muttered stubbornly, gesturing insistently toward the door.

“Get a move on!” Came Mercer’s impatient cry from the now-distant cockpit and you glared at Fitzgibbons.

The smoke that had been curling around you ignited then, a wall of flame licking through the air, fixing to separate Fitzgibbons from the door. A look of pure terror crossed his face – in a plane loaded with fuel, carrying dozens of jerry cans and tanks of oxygen, fire was certain death. Gripping the doorframe tightly with your right hand, you flung your left forward in advance of the encroaching, fierce heat, somewhat protected by the leather you wore, though the searing pain on your wrist assured you the flames had still found a way through. Grasping the surgical technician by the collar, you yanked him toward you just before the oppressive wall of fire sealed off the front half of the plane, checking that he nor his parachute were alight before shoving him out the door. You did not wait long to follow him.

Tears were streaming down your cheeks as the sleeve of your jacket was smoldering, the leather hardening and shrinking, the fleece on the inside trapping agonizing heat against your flesh. But your first priority was gravity. Yanking on the ripcord, you cried out at the sharp jolt from your midsection as the parachute caught the air and flung you upward before you began a gentle descent. Then you were able to begin frantically smacking at your coat, trying in vain to stop further injury. But it was not the leather itself that was burning, rather the fuel that coated the surface of it, and it refused to be put out. You had to get the damn thing off.

At last the disorienting cloud gave way to mercifully flat Italian farmland, the ground rushing up to meet your feet. You punched the harness free from your chest, yanking off your gloves, and wrestling free of your coat before stumbling forward toward the sound of a nearby stream, collapsing onto your chest to submerge the screaming flesh of your arm into the icy water. The relief of it drew a soft sob from your throat. The sliver of skin that had been exposed between your sleeve and glove was already starting to blister, would surely scar. You could not see the rest of your forearm trapped beneath your uniform sleeve, but it might have faired somewhat better.

You could have happily lay there for all of eternity, numbing the agonized nerve endings in your arm, but the sharp press of a rifle muzzle between your shoulder blades brought an abrupt end to your moment of bliss.

“Up.” A sharp command was issued in an angry, accented voice and you carefully, if awkwardly, raised up onto your knees with your hands in the air, turning to face the man.

The German soldier’s eyes widened, and his jaw hung slightly open for a moment, his shock more than evident as you revealed yourself to be a woman, before a hardened mask fell over his features once more. He gestured sharply with his rifle for you to rise to your feet and you were quick to obey. He stepped forward, reaching out as if to search you and then stopped, once again looking to your face.

You had read a pamphlet once, on what to do if you were captured. At the time, the situation had seemed utterly preposterous and unlikely, but standing face to face with a German solider in the middle of occupied Italy, you were suddenly grateful you remember something of what to do. You gave him your name followed by,

“Second lieutenant. N-741432.”

“Leutnant?” He muttered, nose crinkling, but his gaze moved to the gold butter bar on first your right shoulder and then your left, the second lieutenant’s insignia. His eyes narrowed further to see the silver wings on your left breast with the prominent N denoting your status as a Flight Nurse. “Schwester…”

The first bit of German was easy to extrapolate, sounded very much like the English version of your rank, but the second sounded like ‘sister’ more than anything else and you were not entirely certain what he was trying to communicate. He seemed finished with the conversation when he motioned to the left with his rifle.

“Go.”

And so you went, keeping your arms raised despite the arching protest of the left, past the still-smoldering remains of your flight jacket and your gloves, past your parachute tumbling across the field on the icy breeze, towards a group of two more German soldiers who seemed equally shocked as your face came into view. You supposed the slacks and loose fit of your jacket made it difficult from a distance to determine that you were a woman, but each of them was quick to smother their reactions as soon as they were revealed. One of the new fellows, so blond he barely had eyebrows, motioned for you to drop your hands and you were barely able to conceal your pain in doing so.

A flurry of Germany left his lips, making your eyebrows furrow in confusion before he gestured at the wet sleeve of your jacket. “Hurt?”

Nodding emphatically, you swallowed, pulling the fabric up slightly to reveal some of the blistered skin. The three men turned to one another, and a rather heated debate ensued, or at least that was the impression you gleaned from their tones of voice and body language, before the loudest among them seemed to prevail.

“You, come, medic.” He grasped your uninjured elbow and led you through the field on a slightly different vector toward a semi-ruined barn where several German soldiers were receiving treatment.

A soldier bearing a white armband with the Geneva cross came over when your guide beckoned and after their brief exchange, gestured for you to take a seat on an old barrel. Taking a pair of scissors, the medic carefully cut through your jacket and shirt, revealing angry, blistered skin all the way up to your elbow. Very gently, your arm was bandaged before he offered you a couple of pills that you did not recognize, and you refused them with a soft shake of the head. He shrugged and tucked them back into his pocket.

“Go, schwester.”

You frowned and pointed at yourself. “Schwester?”

The medic nodded and pointed to your golden nurse’s Caduceus insignias pinned to the lower lapels of your jacket and your eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, nurse.” You muttered quietly and stood. “Thank you.” Nodding to the medic, you followed the soldier out of the farmhouse as you rolled up the ruined ends of your sleeves to keep them from flapping obnoxiously.

What followed was a seemingly endless amount of walking, your entire body beginning to shake with cold and shock, as the soldier sought out his commanding officer. Everything felt surreal, the sound of battle so close at hand, German soldiers all around you, casting repetitive glances your way – it felt as though you had stumbled into the wrong side of a John Wayne film. When, at last, you plodded into the correct house on the outskirts of a small village, you were unspeakably grateful for the fire roaring in the hearth behind the desk of the imposing German officer who glared down his nose at you.

“Too bad you’re a woman…” He muttered in startlingly good English, making it your turn to look on in shock as your legs threatened to give out. “I suppose you also only know name, rank, serial number?”

Clenching your jaw, you nodded stubbornly, trying not to let your face betray the way your heart lurched hopefully at the word ‘also’ and he exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “You can put the contents of your pockets in here.” He held out a small burlap sack and you frowned, but obediently surrendered your favorite tube of lipstick, the four spare hairpins you always carried around, and your change purse – things all stored in your uniform jacket as you found the pockets of the flight jacket too unreliable for storage anyway. Satisfied you were carrying nothing more, he nodded to the man behind you and issued an order in German.

It was difficult to convince your legs into motion again as you were led down to a grimy root cellar with a dirt floor and only one window letting in little light. You had never seen a more welcome sight in your entire life as Schmidt and Mercer lifted their faces to meet you, their equally grimy and worn-out but elated expressions quickly blurring behind tears of relief that mortifyingly flooded your eyes. Dabbing them away, you quickly moved to Schmidt’s side and frowned to see he still had the remnants of your hasty bandage job and the piece of shrapnel in place, seemingly not afforded the same medical care you had been.

“Shit, Schmitty, they didn’t do a thing for you did they.” Kneeling beside him you began to unravel the bandages and gauze. “This needs to come out, then. Captain, would you mind holding him still, sir?”

“I’ve got him.” He nodded and grabbed the boy’s hands as you took a steadying breath.

Wrapping your fingers around the protruding end of the warped, jagged piece of metal, you began to carefully pull it from his shoulder, angling it forward as an uneven, wider piece was revealed on the end. Schmidt did an admirable job of relegating his protests to whimpers and murmurs of ‘oh god,’ only letting out one great yelp as you pulled the last of it free. You would have preferred to flush the wound with something, but there was no water available. Encouragingly, though, there was no great gush of blood.

“You did so good, Schmitty.” You smiled broadly and frowned a moment at the filthy bandages you had removed from him before beginning to unravel the relatively clean ones from your own arm.

“M…Ma’am!” He protested, voice cracking as he saw the state of your skin.

“You’re at much higher risk of infection than me, Sergeant, I won’t take any argument.”

“I don’t suppose I have any say in this?” Captain Mercer arched one of his rather elegant, black eyebrows and you swallowed.

“I’m sorry sir, but not when it comes to medical treatment. Besides, they went out of their way to bandage me once, maybe they’ll do it again.” You muttered and tied off the dressing on Schmidt. “Let me know if it gets hot or more painful, ok?”

He nodded quickly, settling back against the wall and you followed suit, feeling quite fatigued, sore, and to your surprise, hungry. Resting your throbbing arm atop your knee, you leaned your head back against the bricks of the foundation, closing your eyes to listen to the scuff of jackboots across the floorboards above you. Your mind wanted to whirl like a top, to turn questions over and over like ‘Where are we?’ ‘What will they do with us?’ ‘How long will they keep us down here?’ ‘Where are Fitz and Roy?’ but it would just be a waste of energy. Your fate was no longer in your hands and what would happen next would come no matter how hard you dwelt upon it.

The sound of the door at the top of the stairs scraping across the worn floor had all three of your heads snapping up as three sets of feet tromped down into the cellar. It was difficult to hold back your smile as Fitzgibbons peered out from between two German soldiers, the first gesturing for him to join you all on the floor while the other set down a tin plate of thick slices of dark bread covered with thin smears of margarine and four mugs of bitter smelling, black coffee. The first soldier crouched down and pointed at your arm, speaking in German.

“I needed bandages.” You pointed at Schmidt, and he frowned, either not understanding, or unimpressed. Perhaps both.

He straightened with a huff before digging around in his woolen jacket to produce a thick, rectangular bundle, tossing it at you. The two of them then retreated upstairs, shutting the door firmly behind them. Fitzgibbons was on you almost immediately, grasping the folded bandage to unravel it curiously.

“This does not look good, Lieutenant.” He looked at your arm pointedly and you huffed.

“Schmitty was worse off, Fitz, needs must.” You muttered but held out your arm without further protest as he quickly familiarized himself with the foreign bandage and carefully wrapped as much of your burn as he could.

“Thank you for what you did, Ma’am.” He murmured, voice barely audible, and you shook your head quickly.

“You’d have done the same.”

He lifted his eyes to meet yours, gaze filled with a vulnerable uncertainty, and you squeezed his shoulder with your free hand.

“Let’s eat something you two.” Mercer chimed in once he had finished bandaging you and the four of you descended on the plate of food, which tasted a lot better than it appeared. The coffee was just as bitter as it smelled, but was hot and that was entirely welcome.

After the plate was emptied, Fitzgibbons looked to Mercer slowly. “Roy?”

The Captain shook his head and you swallowed your gulp of coffee painfully – of the six of you that had left the airstrip outside Rome that morning only four had made it. Two of you were injured, and your journey had most certainly only just begun now that you were captives of the German army.

As the slim shaft of light that penetrated the cellar began to fade, your companions were fetched one by one for individual questioning by the German officer who had greeted you upon your arrival. When it at last came to your turn, the sun was well set, and though you tried to pay more attention to the detail of the rustic country house, it was hard to pick out much in the low light of the sporadically placed candles.

There was a chair waiting for you opposite the desk this time and you sank into it gratefully, every muscle in your body tight with pain as it felt distinctly like someone was rubbing sandpaper over your superheated flesh with every movement you made.

“I’m terribly sorry about your radioman and pilot, must have been horribly shocking to see such things. What a terrible day you’ve endured Lieutenant.”

Shifting quietly in your chair, you shook your head as he offered a cigarette from a pack of Lucky Strikes – surely confiscated from one of your crew members as they were not so readily available in occupied Italy.

“Is there anything I can get you to ease your discomfort? Blankets? A coat? More bandages?”

Pressing your lips together in a thin line you dropped your gaze to your lap, focusing on filling your lungs to a count of three before slowly exhaling, then repeating the process. Each offer of comfort, each word of kindness was horridly tempting and yet the source also filled you with revulsion.

“It’s a far cry from Lido De Roma where you’re going, no beaches or sea air…” Your head jerked up in shock and a slow, devious smile curled onto the German officer’s thin lips as his mention of the 802nd Medical Air Evacuation Squadron’s posting finally garnered a reaction from you. “I hope you like the Alps, Lieutenant. You will see them on your way by.”

Tears of shame pricked the corners of your eyes, and you blinked them away furiously, looking to the side. Slamming his leather-clad palms flat onto the desk, you jumped and eyed him warily as he stood slowly. “If you have nothing of value to add, then?”

Inhaling slowly you repeated your name, rank, and serial number one last time – much to his ire – before he barked out an order to have you removed from the warmth of his office and returned to the cellar. This process was repeated several times at random intervals throughout the night, the four of you taking turns resting and watching for the unfriendly arrival of an errand boy soldier to haul you upstairs for another ‘chat’ with their English-speaking officer. Sometimes he was friendly, other times he was intimidating. Once he simply sat opposite you in the near-dark and glowered.

Eventually, time or patience ran out and just as the grey light of dawn began to permeate the misty winter morning, the four of you were marched as a group up the stairs and loaded into the back of a canvas-covered truck partially filled with crates. Wedging yourselves into what open spaces you could find, you had barely sat down before the vehicle lurched into motion and began its long and jolting ride to your next destination. The sun was much higher in the sky by the time you arrived at a small train station, emerging into midday, the mists long burned away. Herded across the tracks towards a cattle car, you were startled to see a group of other American soldiers – infantrymen, being loaded in.

“Up.” Came the command from the German soldier at your back and you reached up gratefully for the broad hand of corporal already in the car who helped hoist you inside.

“How the heck did you wind up here?! Ma’am…” He quickly tacked on, and you could not help but laugh a little at the bewildered expression on his face, shuffling further into the car as the last of your comrades were loaded in.

“Well the long and the short of it is, we ran into a bit of trouble during our flight…”

Captain Mercer scoffed as he came to stand behind you. “You could say that again, Lieutenant.”

The space was suddenly plunged into darkness as the door was slid shut and barred closed. You nearly toppled over as the train jostled forward, thanking Fitzgibbons as he steadied you. You embarked on a seemingly endless journey in darkness as the train ascended and descended, stopped and started, climbed and came down across unknown landscape. It was nigh impossible to see through the thin gaps between the slats of the car itself, but you knew from your ‘conversations’ with the officer that you were crossing the Alps. Could feel the air grow cold as you huddled closer to the men around you for what warmth you could glean as your breath hung from your lips in foggy exhales.

Your bladder ached until you could no longer deny needing to use the squalid bucket in the corner. Mercer, Fitzgibbons, and Schmidt formed a human wall with their backs to you, loudly clearing their throats as you took quite possibly the longest piss in the history of womankind. With that basic need met, the ravening hunger set in. Those slices of bread were long digested by the time the train came to a stop and disgorged the lot of you, blinking into the daylight like mole-people, squinting for signage.

“Moosburg.” Mercer muttered under his breath, and you hugged your arms tightly around yourself as you stumbled through the snow to form two lines as instructed by new soldiers whose uniforms sported the double lightning symbol of the SS.

You would had never thought it possible to envy a dead man, but standing there shivering in the snow as cruel-faced men in well-cut uniforms marched up and down the lines with their snarling dogs, you wondered if perhaps it would not have been better if that piece of flak had taken you out at the same time it had struck Warren. You were not entirely certain if you were strong enough for what was to come.

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April 11, 1945

Every step was an agony. It was remarkable, really, how many injuries two goons had managed to inflict on Bucky’s body in the brief moments between Buck’s escape and Lieutenant Colonel Clark’s intervention. At least two of his ribs were cracked by the butt of that rifle, severely hampering his ability to breathe properly. Then there had been the sharp kick to the back of his calf, wrenching his knee. The coupe-de-grace had been the left hook to his jaw, shredding the inside of his lower lip across his teeth and flooding his mouth with blood. If Clark had not called them off with the threat of riot, Bucky was not entirely sure he would have made it out of that village.

As it was, he had barely made it off the floor of the church the next night, requiring a great deal of prodding from DeMarco. Teeth gritted against the raw ache in every limb, every joint, he had risen to his feet through sheer force of will, knowing the alternative was a bullet to the brain. Somehow even though Buck was well on his way back to the American lines – by god he truly hoped so – Bucky could not face the thought of disappointing him by dying like that and so he had persisted. Had kept putting one foot in front of the other as they had trudged through the mud, crossing the Danube, putting another twenty kilometres between them and Nuremberg.

It had not made it any easier to keep up, however. Bucky had felt himself slowing, felt his body refusing to keep pace with the rest of the men. Every time he had lifted his eyes from the boots of those in front of him plodding through the endless muck, he had been surrounded by different faces. As he had neared the back of the group, lightheaded from pain and lack of oxygen, he had taken a second glance as he realized the faces around him were those of Brady, Cruikshank, DeMarco, Murphy, and Hamilton – all men from the Hundredth. All had been keeping pace with him.

“We’re almost at 20, Bucky.” Brady had murmured quietly under his breath, glancing back at the pair of goons bringing up the rear.

“Keep it up.” Cruikshank had nodded encouragingly.

By some miracle he had made it into the half-collapsed warehouse, crawling into a corner that was still partially covered by its patchy roof and had promptly fallen asleep. There had been a gentle prodding against his shoulder sometime later, daylight filtering in through the dust motes drifting thickly in the air and an offering of bread had been waved in front of his face. He had pushed it away clumsily before falling back asleep. Bucky’s next return to consciousness had been with his arms slung across the shoulders of DeMarco and Brady, a great amount of protest falling from their lips about the size of him.

It had been dark again. Darkness meant more walking and so he had awkwardly planted his feet. Relieved sighs had filled his ears from both his companions as the three of them worked together to propel him out of there and down the muddy road. Night had yielded to the hazy light of dawn and at last a sea of barbed wire fences, clapboard buildings and canvas tents came into view. Bucky had quite honestly never been so pleased to see a Stalag in his entire existence.

“Almost there.” Groaned Hamilton, who had since switched off with DeMarco, though the stalwart Brady had yet to budge from beneath his right arm.

As they stepped through the gates into the main courtyard, Bucky lifted his head to eye Clark blearily. “Guess they’re not gonna process us.” His words were slightly slurred as he tried to present his usual level of joviality, but the man’s brows only furrowed deeply in response.

“Get him to the hospital immediately.”

There was a chorus of ‘yes sirs’ and some hesitation before Hamilton and Brady got their bearings, but then they were on the move again. Bucky’s legs were barely responding by this point, toes mostly dragging through the incessant muddy landscape that seemed a consistent feature of every Stalag he’d had the misfortune of visiting thus far. As his vision began to go fuzzy, black dots eating away at it while it simultaneously began to dim at the edges, Bucky began to worry this might be his last camp.

“Put him right there please.”

Bucky tried to swing his head towards the most musical sound he had heard in over a year, but Hamilton and Brady were turning him to lay on his stomach, rambling about the broken ribs on his back and all he could see were worn wooden floorboards. Until suddenly your gorgeous face flooded his vision as you knelt beside his cot, your shockingly feminine fingers cradling his face to gently turn it and ensure he was not smothered in the pillow.

The style of your hair, the lashes framing your eyes, the cupid’s bow of your upper lip – the unmistakable womanliness of you; it made his heart ache.

“Must be in heaven…” He slurred as there was certainly no way he could be alive anymore. Women did not exist in this reality of underfed men and murderous goons.

“They got you good, Major, but you’re still very much with us.” You smiled warmly up at him, and he groaned out a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You’re killing me, angel face.” He wheezed, lips clumsy and barely responsive, before promptly blacking out.

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Your heart plummeted as you watched his eyelids fall, shuttering those stunning, if exhausted, blue eyes, terrified you had lost another one before you even had the chance to try and save him. Fingers delving beneath the collar of his shirt, you were greatly relieved to find his strong pulse. Holding your cheek in front of his notably plush lips, the bottom one all the more pronounced by his recent injury, you were even more encouraged to feel the caress of his steady breathing. Sitting back on your heels, you nodded up to his mismatched pair of friends reassuringly.

“Did he just call her ‘angelfish?’” The blond one with angular features and a mouthful of gold muttered as they watched over their friend protectively but also seeming shocked, as everyone before them had been, to find an American woman in a POW camp.

“Maybe he was going for ‘angel face?’” The brunette with sturdy eyebrows replied in a hushed voice.

“Are you gentlemen in need of anything?” You asked, fighting hard against the amused smile that wanted to break through. They were truly a distraction when you had a patient in need of attention before you.

“No, Ma’am.”

“Thank you, Ma’am” They shuffled off to leave you to your work.

Taking a moment to assess the length and breadth of your patient, you carefully worked off his leather flight jacket before untucking his uniform shirt and undershirt to reveal the deep purple bruises on his back. His friends had been very right to be worried about broken ribs – at least three by the span of the contusion. Kneeling back down you looked over his face once more, gently lifting his head to inspect both cheeks and confirm the bones were all intact. There did not appear to be anything in need of bandaging. It was most likely that undernourishment, the march, and the broken ribs all compounded to extreme exhaustion.

“What do we have here, Nurse?”

You looked up as Major Chalmers, a British surgeon, and head of the hospital emerged from one of the exam rooms. He had been a resident POW of Stalag VIIA for nearly eight months when you arrived in January, happily surrendering one of his exam rooms to become your separate quarters in return for your work in the camp hospital. It was an arrangement that benefited both of you, kept you safe and out of the male population and occupied the long and lonely hours that seemed to pass at their own pace in this place.

Chalmers had done what he could to care for your burned arm, re-bandaging it daily. However, by the time he had been able to start giving it proper care, the damage had already been done. The skin was now permanently mottled by scars, unnaturally smooth, with a texture akin to crumpled cellophane. You were always very mindful to keep your mended sleeve down to your wrist. It was not all that difficult to cover your shame when the rest of your wardrobe consisted of standard men’s POW wear from the Red Cross – the sweaters draping over half your hands and the winter coat blissfully warm but nearly swallowing you whole.

It was only due to Chalmers’ temerity that anyone walked away from the camp hospital at all. With supplies chronically low, men were dying of the most preventable and treatable things. All you could do most of the time was put on a brave face and hold their hand, give them a little comfort at the end. Even Schimdt, despite your best efforts, had found his shoulder wound quickly beset with infection in the less than sanitary environment. Penicillin was non-existent here and he had faded fast, lost in a feverish delirium as you held tight to his hand, watching the light fade from his burning eyes. Your brave façade was second nature to you by this point, showing itself more often than your real, bedraggled self who only showed her face in the cold isolation of your locked exam-room-turned-solo-combine at night.

“Newly arrived American Major, force marched over eight days, beaten two nights ago. At least three broken ribs, damage to lower lip, abrasions to the face and contusions to the back but nothing else I can see. Pulse is strong, breathing is steady, but lost consciousness almost as soon as we laid him down, sir.”

“Hmmm.” Chalmers made a noise of displeasure at the last and conducted his own exam, digging out one of the makeshift charts to add some notes before glancing at his watch. “Do we know when he last ate?”

“No, sir.” You shook your head.

“Alright, I want you to sit with him and keep an eye on his vitals. Hopefully, he’s simply sleeping this off, but I want you to get some water and broth in him as soon as he wakes up alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

Collecting the requisite liquids, you settled onto the sliver of floor space between the Major’s cot and his neighbor’s, working at folding some boiled and dried bandages, now ready for re-use. The actual hospital itself was unspeakably crowded, men nearly stacked atop one another around a small cast iron stove. Originally built for 10,000, the camp’s population had been well over that when you had arrived in January and seemed to multiply every week now. Things had become so dire, a tent hospital had been erected adjacent to the building you lived and worked in to allow for the treatment of more men. It was crowded and ripe, and even surrounded by all these humans you still felt alone as the sole representative of your sex.

As you pulled each strand of once-white fabric from the basket, carefully rolling and tucking the ends to form neat bundles, you studied the unconscious man’s face. Errant dark curls were dangling across his tall forehead and the most absurd and yet endearing dusting of hair graced his upper lip. Clearly, he was going for a Clark Gable, but it was not quite there. Even with one ear poking a mile out to the side, however, you swallowed tightly as you realized you would not change a thing about him. Taken individually his attributes seemed odd, yet combined to make an incredibly handsome whole. Not to mention his feet were dangling off the end of his cot, his shoulders barely contained by the sides of it. If he woke up, no when he woke up, he was going to be a devastating sight to behold.

Reaching the midway point of your task, you slid forward onto your knees to check his vitals, pleased they were holding steady and noting so on the chart, before settling back onto the floor. You had nearly reached the bottom of the basket when a pair of boots entered the hospital. Not German, you had long since become familiar with the way jackboots reverberated across wooden floorboards. Most likely American or British. Peering around the end of the bed your eyes widened as you caught a glimpse of a silver oak leaf – a Lieutenant Colonel! That was the highest rank you had yet to encounter in camp.

Struggling to disentangle yourself from your laundry and not kick over your patient’s waiting fluids in the process of trying to rise to your feet and accord the man the proper greeting that his rank entitled him, you looked up startled as he addressed you first.

“At ease, Nurse.”

He was the first man to seem utterly unfazed by your presence and you somehow found that unspeakably reassuring.

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“How is Major Egan?” He peered down at the still very much asleep man.

“Major Chalmers, our Surgeon, is certain it is no more than a case of exhaustion and he will recover with rest and fluids upon waking. He’s just down the hallway behind you there if you’d like to speak to him yourself, sir.”

He nodded thoughtfully as he glanced over his shoulder before looking back to you. “The Red Cross knows you’re here?”

“I filled out the card when I arrived in January, sir.” You nodded.

“Where have they put you?”

“Converted one of the exam rooms, sir. I eat, sleep, bathe separately.”

“Good.” He nodded in return, seeming quite satisfied with your answer. “Name’s Clark, please find me if you need anything.”

“Thank you very much, Colonel.” You smiled warmly, feeling strangely fragile as the warmth of it actually emanated from deep inside you rather than a mask plastered on for the comfort of the recipient.

Dismissing himself from your presence with one sharp nod, he turned to follow your directions down the hall, most likely in search of Chalmers. Turning back to eye your patient, Major Egan, you sighed a little as he remained blissfully unconscious, lips parted against the thin pillow to allow heavy exhales to fall rhythmically. There was little change to his condition as the sun made its way across the sky before hovering at the horizon, preparing to set. Your dinner was delivered to the bedside and there was a rather heated exchange between Chalmers, Clark, and a few of the guards before they conceded you could remain unlocked for the night to keep an eye on your fragile patient. This Lieutenant Colonel was obviously not someone to be trifled with.

You waved off Chalmers when he asked if you were up to the task, taking advantage of his presence to make a quick bathroom run and fetch a blanket before returning to your post. It was your first night spent amongst others in months, their soft snores and nightly noises combining with the sound of rain pattering onto the ramshackle roof to do their very best to pull you under into sleep. The downward slide of your eyelids was halted abruptly by the first vocalization from Major Egan since his contested term of endearment – angel face? Angelfish? Whatever it had been, silence had since reigned over his mouth until he began to mutter and emit soft sounds of protest, his features tense and furrowed. Shifting up onto your knees, you lay one hand over his clenched fist, trying to smooth the crease in his brow with the thumb of your other.

“It’s alright Major Egan, you’re safe.” You soothed in a hushed whisper, hoping to dispel whatever unseen terror was plaguing his thus far peaceful sleep.

He shifted slightly in response, lips smacking a little as his hand moved with alarming speed to engulf yours in a tight grip and hold it close to the side of his chest. Barely smothering your gasp of surprise, you held your breath a moment until he stilled completely, features relaxing and breath evening out as he slipped deeper into sleep once more. Exhaling slowly you gnawed on your lip a moment before shifting to sit on the floor with your back against the cot, hand still very much held captive by his. Allowing yourself to drift a little more, quite certain any movement on his part would now alert you to his wakening, you barely noticed the hourly checks the goons were making on you – clearly uneasy about having you roam free amongst the hospital patients, but for whatever reason Clark’s demands had been honored and it was a refreshing change around here.

It was just before dawn of the following day when Major Egan began to shuffle and groan behind you, your hand slipping free from his. You straightened stiffly, turn to watch him roll onto his uninjured side and take stock of his surroundings.

“Good morning, Major, have a good rest?” You asked quietly, hoping not to wake the others sleeping around him.

His head immediately snapped down towards you and he eyed you in bewilderment once again. “I thought you were a hallucination.” He rumbled, voice roughened by disuse.

You smirked slightly and nodded. “I got that impression. Thirsty?”

He bobbed his head in a small nod, and you slid to your feet, grasping his elbows to help him sit up. Grabbing the mug from the ground, you offered it to him, only allowing him to take a small sip before pulling it back. He blinked at you sluggishly for a moment before you offered him the mug again. After three limited sips, which he clearly found frustrating, you allowed him to keep hold of the mug as you wrapped your fingers around his thick wrist to track his pulse.

“How long was I out?” He asked once you were finished noting your findings on his chart.

“Almost a day. Seems as though you really needed the rest. Ready to try a little broth?” You smiled as he nodded once more and picked up the other mug from the ground. “I saved you some, I’ll get it warmed up.”

He slowly lay back down as you took the mug of broth over to the stove in the centre of the room and set it on top, swirling the liquid until it was steaming and then decanting it into his now empty water mug so it would not burn his hands. As you returned to his bedside, he leveraged himself up with barely concealed, painful effort and you frowned as you set the mug in his hands.

“I’m here to help with that, Major.”

“Please,” he took a sip of the steaming liquid, “call me Bucky.”

You smiled and introduced yourself properly as well before your lips tugged into a mischievous grin. “But do feel free to keep calling me angelfish, I certainly haven’t gotten that one before.”

He choked a little on his next sip, giving you a rueful albeit lazy smirk. “Kick a man when he’s down why don’t ya, angelfish.”

You were unsuccessful in smothering your answering giggle, several of the men around you muttering and tossing restlessly as you had accidentally woken them. Bucky pressed a long finger to his lips teasingly before turning back to his broth, slowly finishing it before setting the empty mug on the floor beside the low cot.

“I uh, am sure the facilities are lacking but…” He raised an eyebrow meaningfully and you swallowed, gesturing for him to follow you, and assessing his movements with your medically trained eye.

It was of course a test, of his balance, pain level, and energy to see how he moved across the floor and into the rustic patients’ washroom. You, of course, left him to his own devices in there, but walked him back to the bed, noting how he grew stiffer with each step.

“I’m sorry we don’t have anything for the pain.” You whispered when he lay down once more on his stomach, small grunts of discomfort escaping him.

He shook his head. “S’fine, angelfish.” He mumbled softly, sleep tugging at him again already as you tucked him in with the worn blanket.

“Rest then, Bucky.” You soothed, relieved that he was quite cognizant, able to keep his food down, and resting well.

This one might make it.

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

Read Part Two

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747

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

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pedrospookie · 5 days ago

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hello, my dearest 💛

with this ask I challenge you to write a ficlet (or anything bigger if you want) inspired by this screenshot:

may the writing muses be with you,

kissing you on your forehead (if you allow it not then just waving from the distance!)

Howdy howdy!

Thank you for sending in this ask 🤭 I love me some Jack Daniels— my favourite cowboy! I was inspired by Elton John this week and caught myself listening to I guess that’s why they call it the blues while writing this. I’ll be curious to know if you can spot the songs influence! This is my first crack at writing in over half a decade, so I feel a little rusty… but i think it’s cute!

I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues — Jack Daniels x f!reader (fluff/angst)

wc: 2.1k | mild swearing, intimacy is hinted at, nothing wild for my first crack back

A smoky, twangy voice and the strum of a guitar murmurs through Jack’s bronco, filling the comfortable silence between you. His thick hand wrapped delicately around your thigh, claiming what is his as you parade through the open roads, the sweet smell of honeysuckle filling your lungs with every gust of the evening breeze. The bluebells were in full bloom this time of year, glowing almost a pale shade of purple under the lazy setting sun. These quiet moments with Jack had grown to be some of your most cherished moments together, life often getting in the way of the simple life you shared.

You knew Jack as the wholesome country boy from down the way, a man who straps on his boots and Stetson every morning, who appreciates the taste of an ice cold sweet tea on a scorching hot day and who could tame a horse quicker than a cat on a hot tin roof. The soft, kind boy with the crooked smile and whiskey coloured eyes, who wants to do things right, the boy who would go to the end of the world and back for you. To you, he was just Jack— a simple boy from Kentucky, not Agent Whiskey, not an international spy or trained assassin, just a boy who fell in love with a girl.

Yet, somehow your quiet, simple life together was being interrupted once again. In less than 20 hours, with a kiss and a pinky promise to comeback to his sweet girl, he would be off.

Jack would disappear and Agent Whiskey would be somewhere halfway across the world, undisclosed and unreachable. It made Jack sick to leave you. He knew the toll it took on you and your relationship. It broke his heart to go, every time he stepped out that door he cursed himself for it. He knew how his career haunted you, yet you never complained. You only had one simple ask, that he had to come home. Jack felt resentful towards the countdown running in his mind, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He had to cherish this time with you, his girl. His sun, moon and stars. Together under the canopy of the setting sun, nestled on the leather seats of his Bronco, Jack was desperate to get you home, where the sleepy ranch awaits, and tangle himself into you.

“Darlin’, can you promise me one thing?” Jack’s rough voice breaks through the silence, pulling your attention to him.

“What’s that, dear?” You smile, placing your hand on top of his, both resting them on your thigh. Jack lowers his sunglasses with his free hand, looking at you sincerely. The look in his eye sent butterflies bursting through your tummy, it was so charming and sincere. Your sweet boy.

“That when I’m back, you’ll take the day off so we can spend the mornin’ together again? Like that one time?” His chocolatey, brown eyes beg, voice so soft that it is nearly a whisper. The sound of his request tugging on your heart strings. How could you deny him that?

That morning had been perfect.

After several long, agonizing, worrisome weeks apart, Jack had finally made his return, embracing you the moment he entered the door and refusing to let go until the next morning.

You woke in a messy tangle of limbs and bedsheets, the sun shining through and glittering it’s rays across Jack’s soft brown hair that was sticking up every which way, coaxing a small laugh from your lips. Your soft laughter stirred the cowboy awake, his grip on your increasing until he had you nestled under him, burying you with affection. I have a lot of catching up to do, he murmured gently along your neck, pressing open mouth kisses down your pulse points. Once he had had his fill, he was overcome with hunger. I’m a lucky man, he chuckled, getting my dessert before breakfast, the words tumbled from his plush lips as he flipped eggs in a fry pan. The record player was crooning along to an old Hank Williams album as you watched your darling cowboy make his way across the kitchen, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder as he focused on making the perfect sunny side up egg for his sunshine. He was just an old sweet soul taking care of his girl, pure domestic bliss. A sigh found it’s way across your lips as you admired the man in front of you. It felt so right to have him back, to have him home with you. Your sigh caught his attention, a smug look crossing his face as he approaches you at the kitchen table, spatula still in hand. Can I have this dance? He asked in a tone as sweet as sugar, quirking an eyebrow in anticipation. Jack would give anything or find any excuse to have you in his arms. How could he not? You looked extra beautiful, seated at his table, wearing his shirt and the warm morning sun cascading over you, making you glow. Maybe she was an angel after all, he thought to himself as he pulled you into his chest, his large hand pressing into your lower back, beginning to sway along to Hank’s melancholic voice. Jack had no idea how he managed to snag a woman like you, but he counted his lucky stars for it. He would lasso the moon for you, if you asked. Jack inhaled deeply, catching the sweet scent of your shampoo and the lingering remnants of your perfume. It was good to be home.

Your moment of bliss was rudely interrupted by the blaring sound of the fire alarm, smoke starting to waft through the kitchen, stirring a panic between the two of you. Fuck! The eggs! Jack yelped, reaching for the window above the sink and promptly flinging the burnt scraps from the fry pan out the window.

“I’m pretty sure I still owe you a dance.” Jack chuckles, thinking back to that morning, the sound of your laugh tugging on his heart strings. It was hard to keep his eyes on the road, the short peeks weren’t enough for Jack. He wanted to see the way you crinkle your nose when you giggle like that.

“And a new fry pan.” You shoot back with a cheeky grin. Jack could only shake his head at you before pressing a kiss to the back of your hand, steadying his gaze on the road ahead. I’ll get you something even better than a fry pan, Jack smirks to himself as he admires your small hand in his, thinking about the twinkling secret tucked at the back of his night stand.

“And a new fry pan.” He rolls his eyes playfully, “But I will be cashin’ in on that dance once I’m home, gorgeous. I’m gonna wine ‘n dine ya ‘til the cows come home.”

“We’ll see about that, cowboy. Do you remember the last time you promised to take me out to the city?” You snicker, watching his mouth fly open and his moustache framing his surprise, completely aghast.

It was a day hotter than hell itself.

The tall grass moped, praying for a break from the beating sun, crunching under each foot step as Jack led you towards the barn. One last chore, he had promised with a wink, needing to put out some extra water for his horses before taking you into town.

The hose groaned awake as Jack twisted the squeaky spout, the sound of flowing water starting to rush through the rubber. Anticipating a splash, you held out the rusted bucket waiting for water to hit. However, your pail remained as dry as the desert. A look of confusion crossed your face, lacing your brows together, matching the similar look on Jack’s face, until he spots the reason for this drought. His rough, calloused hands pick the old hose up and twist it, relieving the rubber of the kink in its form and releasing the pent up water from within it, dousing you in the process. The shot of cold water shocked your system, spraying your face and chest, the bucket in your hands doing a piss poor job of catching any of it. Jack was beside himself, eyes as wide as saucers, moustache twitching as he mutters apology after apology. Sugar, I am SO sorr—He is interrupted by a loud splash, water hitting him square in the chest, his white shirt sticking to his bronze chest as a roar erupts from you cutting the tension in the air. His worried eyes relax as he chuckles along with you. Oh, now you’re on, missy, he warns, picking the plastic hose back up and chasing you through the old barn.

“Well darlin’, I don’t remember you complaining about that,” Jack murmurs smugly, “something ‘bout how I’d win a wet t-shirt contest?” He flashes you an award winning smile, his moustache curling ever so slightly at the corner of his mouth, this gorgeous smile sparking a warmth across your face and chest.

“Alright, alright. Easy does it, cowboy.” You chuckle, refusing to give Jack the satisfaction of knowing that he’s right. You were going to miss his playful banter and southern charm. The weeks away were always hard, even when you tried to fill them with hobbies and your friends.

“You know I’d keep you under the covers all day if I could, sugar.” Jack croons with a twinkle in his eye, placing a delicate kiss to each of your fingers before reaching the back of your hand. He could feel the mood shift, dancing away from lighthearted teasing to something deeper. He caught the sad look in your eye, feeling guilt wash over him. He looked back at the road ahead of him once more, before turning back to look at you.

“More than just the covers, pretty girl, I need you every day.”

He could feel it in his heart of hearts, that burning desire to be home, that it was time for him to hang up his lasso. Jack was ready to be wholeheartedly present with you, that it was time that could be better spent with you. Making memories together, building your life together, making babies together. His life as Agent Whiskey was one that had come and passed, exciting and cathartic at first, but it had sucked his soul dry. He was tired — exhausted — and ready to be home, to spend his days on his quiet farm, dedicating every waking moment to you. Jack would get that dance, and at then end of the night he would share that twinkling secret with you in hopes that you will say yes. This was promise to you; that you would finally start living the life that he promised to give you.

His grip on your thigh tightens, giving you a little love squeeze bringing you both back into the present. The sun now peeking lower on the horizon.

“I’m going to miss you.” You murmur, tears slowly filling your eyes as you fight the growing lump in your throat. You keep your eyes on the road, counting the stop signs to distract yourself. 3 more until you’re home.

The sound of your breaking voice tugged on Jack’s heart strings. It killed him to see you this way, to know that it was because of him, that he caused this pain and sadness.

“I know, darlin’. I’ll be missin’ you every moment of every day.” He smiles weakly, placing a soft kiss against the back of your hand, refusing to let it go. “It won’t be long before I’m home, it won’t be forever. There’s never a moment where I ain’t thinkin’ of you, of your beautiful eyes, that gorgeous smile…” his voice drifts off for a moment, until he sighs. “I’ll be countin’ down the hours til I’m back here with you, baby.”

While he’s putting on a brave face, his eyes give way to every emotion he is feeling, a mistiness creeping across those big brown puppy dog eyes.

“Please come back home to me, Jack,” You beg, squeezing his hand to emphasize how serious you were.

“I always do, baby. Pinky promise.”

tag list: @josephquinnswhore @iamasaddie

#tessa's assets #jack daniels x reader #i love you jack daniels #agent whiskey one shot #agent whiskey x reader #soft!jack daniels #country boy i love you #agent whiskey #jack daniels x f!reader #agent whisky #elton john #pedro pascal #iamasaddie writing challenge

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olderthannetfic · 1 year ago

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The anti in your inbox arguing that some stuff Japanese people write is illegal somewhere, therefore it is bad made me chuckle. It's illegal in my home state of Kentucky (the most cursed US state except Florida) to speak, hum, sing, skip, jog or dance if trans, because that is, legally speaking, grooming.

So if legality determines morality, does that mean speaking to you as I'm doing right now is bad? The anon said to check your local laws, after all. Not to think about them, not to ask if the law is based in logic, not to question what the reason behind the law is, not to ever go, "does fiction cause people to suddenly lose control of themselves and rape a child or is a grown ass adult to blame for the rape they committed?" or "does a trans person humming near a child turn them trans or is someone's gender unaffected by humming, given cis people hum near children regularly without turning them cis?"

Are you queer, anon? It's illegal in my dad's home country for queers to speak in the presence of unaccompanied minors, since that's a form of sexually soliciting the child there. That would include this blog. As we are to assume laws are always just and correct, then either you should adhere to that law if you were not a pedophile, which you didn't, or speak and thus prove you are one, which you did.

I fucking hate antis. They're so married to this idea that in the civilized world all the right things are banned that even though there's 491 proposed anti-queer laws in the US and that doesn't include ones that passed, they just keep repeating, "Legal good. Illegal bad."

It's legal to marry and fuck a child in many US states. It is illegal in many US states to own sex toys or have anal sex. By this logic, fucking a child is better than being queer, as it's more legal in some places.

I'm so tired. Antis, does it ever occur to you even once that jackasses can make laws and therefore laws shouldn't be trusted without hesitation or thought?

Each day I find new reasons to want Hobie Brown from Across The Spider-Verse to be real and this is one of them. Antis won't listen to "old" people like my 22 year old ass but Hobie is cis, young and hot. He could get through to them. Wherefore art thou, Spider-Punk?

#wherefore...#twitch twitch twitch

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senjuushi · 1 year ago

Text

Antique Gun Character Intros

Since a good few people have asked for this now, here's a character intro post covering the Rhodoknight Antiques! o3o Disclaimer that I do not know these characters anywhere near as well as I do the Moderns, and as a result, my takes are subject to change as I get a better feel for them. Still, I hope this post makes the Antiques more accessible to y'all and gets me some more requests for them... XD

. . .

This is Enfield. Outwardly, he appears to be polite, good-natured, and normal. He’s very much not that. A lot of Enfield’s character is shaped by his younger brother, Snider, whose terrible behavior and constant threats of remodeling Enfield to be “just like him” are a real handful to deal with. They deserve each other. Underneath his noble exterior, Enfield is a little freak. He’s obsessive, smothering, and neurotically desperate to be of use, with stalker-y tendencies and a bad habit of idol worship. He wants to be good and helpful, and he’ll do some highly disturbing things to accomplish that. His relationship with Snider also has a weird amount of tension... of the suspiciously suggestive variety.

. . .

This is Snider. He’s awful. Snider’s whole personality revolves around the fact that he really, REALLY doesn’t want to be a person. His belief that he’s still nothing more than a weapon leads him to a fixation on combat and an utter rejection of anything too human for his liking. This includes eating, sleeping, and bathing. His gun is a special case that was made right on the cusp of what separates a Modern and an Antique— and as a result, Snider is technically both. He can function as whichever side he chooses to and only defaults to Antique because that’s what he finds most useful. He’s Enfield’s younger brother, a directly adapted and functionally superior model of gun, and because of that, he’s constantly trying to “remodel” Enfield into the same type of gun. They have a weird relationship where Enfield babysits him, Snider is unfailingly bratty and threatening, and the suspicious levels of maybe-sexual tension are just plain weird.

. . .

This is George. For the most part. He’s the embodiment of the “cheerful, stupid American” stereotype that’s so common in anime. An all-around sunshine boy, George is good-natured, friendly, sweet, and more than a little oblivious. His main issues come from the fact that he shares a body/gun with the “Brown Bess” personality (the poster boy of the first game). George feels inferior to Brown Bess in both his capabilities as a weapon and his value as an individual, and he repeatedly expresses a belief that everyone around him would rather have his counterpart in his place. Though he tries his best to be good and useful, he’s painfully aware that his existence is kind of a disappointment. He’s way too self-sacrificing for his own good.

. . .

This is Kentucky. He’s more or less an overexcited puppy who REALLY wants to prove himself. Passionate, energetic, and with very little volume control, he’s somewhere between adorably earnest and annoyingly intense. He has a sort of one-sided rivalry with his older brother, Pennsylvania, where he’s aggressively trying to surpass his big bro... while Pennsylvania just wishes they could get along better. Kentucky is also pretty short-tempered; he’s perfectly respectful to his Master but ready to throw hands with other guns whenever the chance arises. He cares a lot about aesthetics and his appearance, wants Master’s attention desperately, and is definitely compensating for a lot of internal insecurity.

. . .

This is Pennsylvania. He’s a laid-back guy with a love of hunting and the outdoors. The level-headed parallel to Kentucky’s hot-tempered enthusiasm, Pennsylvania is calm, independent, and a bit aloof. He can get caught up in his own way of doing things to the point of forgetting about others’ feelings, but he’s well-intentioned and generally kind. A reliable “big brother” type who looks after others, he very much seems like the type who’d willingly get hurt if it meant protecting someone he cares about. He doesn’t have a lot of pride in the sense of how he appears to others and is more concerned with doing what needs to be done than getting his way or looking good.

. . .

This is Charleville. He’s a sweet little guy who’s very damaged. In the game’s story, his previous Master (before the player owns him) is literally renting him out. For his healing abilities as an Antique, technically, but the more sexual implication is still very much there. Because of this renting out and his previous Master’s general mistreatment, Charleville has an intense fixation on purity, perfection, and being appealing to everyone around him. He’s delicate, gentle, polite, and affectionate, but also has a bad tendency of hiding any problems in an attempt not to bother people. He values his physical appearance and holds himself to a strict standard of behavior, though his more attention-seeking side does slip out from time to time. Charleville desperately wants to be loved, especially by his Master, but he’s convinced he has to be all but perfect to earn it.

. . .

This is Chassepot. He’s Gras’s older brother and the source of MANY of Gras’s problems. Like Gras, Chassepot initially comes across as a polite, charming gentleman. That’s very intentional. He wants Master’s affection and approval desperately and does everything possible to come across as the kind of capable, pleasant person who his Master can rely on and be close to. Under that surface, though, Chassepot is dangerously prone to feelings of jealousy, inferiority, and comparing himself to others. He’s easily provoked and can have a violent temper with other guns, and his past failures haunt him endlessly. It’s likely that he has the same tendency for rabies as Gras, but is just better at keeping it contained... in the short term. We know from the previous game that Chassepot can snap, and when he does, it’s bad.

. . .

This is Tabatiere. He’s a laid-back, inoffensive person who’s perfectly open about the fact that he’s meant for a support role, not the front lines. Usually functioning as Chassepot and Gras’s babysitter, Tabatiere sticks to the sidelines, minds his own business, and tries to be helpful where he can. He’s deeply insecure, however, and his self-esteem is so low that getting too much attention, even positive, makes him highly uncomfortable. He has the atmosphere of someone who willingly accepts anything bad that happens to him because he can’t imagine deserving better.

. . .

This is Dreyse. He’s an ultra-strict, ultra-serious sort who values rules, order, and hard work. Between his massive body and imposing personality, he comes across as highly intimidating... but he’s as respectful and obedient as can be when it comes to authority figures. Dreyse has high expectations of himself and his performance, to the point where he’ll accept nothing less than perfection. No matter what physical or emotional distress it causes him, he’ll do everything possible to fulfill his orders and succeed as a Musketeer. Deep down, he has a lot of guilt over his past and personal failings, and the only value he sees in himself is as a weapon and tool. Herme respects him massively, and the two are close in a kind of weird way. Dreyse ends up as his caretaker during Iron Days, for example.

. . .

This is Jitte. He has that kind of happy-go-lucky, easygoing personality where he’s both pleasant to be around and kind of a ditz. Very much “drunk goofy uncle” energy. When his self-esteem issues aren’t getting in the way, he can be quite affectionate (especially with Master). Sensitive, earnest, and emotional, Jitte has nothing but good intentions in mind with everything he does. He has the typical bizarre gun insecurity, though, and worries a lot about if he’s as useful and worthwhile as the other Musketeers around him. His gun also functions as a jitte, which is more or less an Edo-period police baton. Though he seems pretty carefree, Jitte is surprisingly hardworking and takes pride in being able to protect people. He’s very moral, with a strong sense of justice.

. . .

This is Karl. He’s a dignified little man who, despite his youthful appearance, is the oldest gun in the series. As in, he’s from the early 1500s. A unique weapon who belonged to Emperor Charles V, Karl has a long and prestigious history, and he knows it. He’s proud and well-mannered, takes his status as a famous piece of history very seriously, and is quite concerned with how he appears and behaves in front of others. Showing weakness is hard for Karl. He does a lot to hide how lonely and weak he can be, including active attempts to remain aloof and relatively unattached to his Master. The most he can tolerate is a professional, weapon-and-wielder relationship, since anything else would be opening him up to even more loss. I think he’s also weak to stress and VERY bad at dealing with unfamiliar situations; being esteemed as a valuable relic for so long means that he’s pretty sheltered and more unused to physical pain than he wants to admit.

. . .

This is Lorenz. He’s kind of insufferable. The mad-scientist intellectual type, he has a massive ego and a superiority complex to match. His type of gun was made in both government and private factories, with the government factory-made ones being notably superior in function— and this Lorenz is one of those. Like a lot of the Antiques, he’s eager and insistent to prove that he’s a useful, high-quality tool, even and especially when that means making himself look good at others’ expense. He’s extremely loyal to Karl, to a kind of pathetic degree... and also absolutely terrified of Dreyse. That leads to the part where Lorenz is very much a coward who’s playing tough in the hopes no one will see through the farce. He’s easily agitated, neurotically stressed, and can’t stand things not going his way.

. . .

This is Cutlery. He’s a little brat who has the typical bizarre-gun problem of pathetically low self-esteem. His gun is a weird one— it’s technically three guns disguised as pieces of silverware that were used on pirate ships as a covert weapon. Cutlery has a whole complex about how “cowardly” he is, and despite his prickly attitude and initial rudeness, he’s painfully shy, insecure, and unable to handle attention of any kind. He’s prone to idolizing people and desperately wants close relationships, but is too anxious, defensive, and afraid of being hated to open up to people without panicking. That said, he can be awfully needy and clingy once he’s attached. He also has a strong fixation on food, to the point where hoarding behavior and general food insecurity seem likely.

. . .

#Senjuushi #千銃士 #Info #Everyone #Enfield #Snider #George #Kentucky #Pennsylvania #Charleville #Chassepot #Tabatiere #Dreyse #Jitte #Karl #Lorenz #Cutlery

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beautifulfuckup99 · 10 months ago

Text

“There are different kinds of soulmates. 12 to be exact." Ms. Whitehurst says while sat with MBG. "When we think of that term, we think so one dimensional. But no matter lover or friend or partner... We are all connected on a spiritual level. And therefore... We can all have a soul mate from the past that will find us one day, again."

Fourth type of soul mate: The Soul Mate

"The Soul Mate: When you think of the term 'Soul Mates', this is the usual type of Soul Mate your brain jumps to. Unconditional love follows these souls through each life. It is always a sudden and strong sexual and romantical attraction that is unexplainable to outsiders looking in. It just feels right to be by their side, and after each last breath comes a promise to meet again. In the next lifetime."

Warning(s): Smut and Fluff!

Author's Note: You want more? Here's more.

**************************************

September 8th, 1950 Kentucky...

"Just count your lucky stars we're sending you..." Your boss says from over the rotary phone placed in front of you at the ticket booth right outside of the Kentucky Derby. You roll your eyes at the backhanded compliment. You were hoping your first writing project for this damn newspaper would be a... Serious one. There were bigger things happening in the world than some damn horse race!

"This man you're talkin to is a real big deal, you know. Won every race he's been in, and now he's tryin his ass at jump racing. You're gonna capture it all on that fancy camera of yours, and write up a nice little article about his win, or a sad one if he loses." Your boss says, as if you didn't know your own objectives for the day. You sigh and reach into your purse for your pack of cigarettes, but get pulled from your addiction by the man running the booth.

"Got people waiting to use the phone, lady." The man says and you nod, putting on a polite smile.

"Sorry. Sorry. I gotta go, Bobby. I'll be back in the office tomorrow." You say before hanging up, the hot summer air blowing past you as you fix your hair to keep it in place. "Damn hot country air..." You mutter to yourself as you fix your long tan skirt and red blouse tucked into the waistband.

Had to always dress nice...

You walk through the metal gates and scan the large horse track before your eyes land on the stables. Gripping the leather of your purse strap, you embark on the route towards your new story...

Walking into the stables, your nose fills with hay and sweat and iron and horses. So many horses...

"Excuse me?" You ask a random man who's walking past you with a large stack of hay in his grasp. "Do you know where I can find Kim Taehyung?" You ask, nose scrunched a bit to show just how clueless you were.

"Uh... Right over there, I believe, little miss. What brings you here? You his girl?" The man smirks and you hum with false pleasantness in your tone.

"Not exactly..." You mutter before walking off to the section the man had nodded towards when talking to you. When you walk into the stable, you see nothing at first.

"Uh... Hello?" You ask before stepping closer and seeing a young man dressed in jockey gear hiding behind the large brown horse between you two. You pause.

"Taehyung?" You ask and he peeks over the horse slightly to smile sheepishly at you.

"Depends on what you need." He teases quietly as you stare at him closely. You couldn't help it. He was a handsome man.

"Y/N Y/L/N. Nice to meet you, Mr. Kim. Um... Last second jitters?" You joke as you motion to where he'd been hiding. He stands up straighter and laughs nervously at that, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Me? Jitters? Nah, never." He nods certainly and shakes your hand slowly.

"I came to interview your before the big race." You inform softly, but don't pull your hand away. It felt good in his grasp.

"Oh? Well... I'm on a time crunch, but... I can happily tell you all you need to know... After the race. Say... Over dinner?" He asks hopefully, and you eye him up and down.

"Mm... Depends." You say finally.

"On?" He asks, straightening up at the look of consideration on your face.

"If I find you interesting or not." You shrug before you walk out of the stables, blushing slightly.

What the hell just happened?

*****************************************

September 12th, 1950 Kentucky...

“Hey. You okay?” The question rings through the night air as you keep pace with each other. You wrap your arms around yourself a bit as you try and fix up your posture.

“Yeah. Don’t I look okay?” You try jokingly. You’d fallen into a peaceful silence as you walked back to your place from your night out at the town’s bar. It felt nice to be around this man, and a part of you didn’t want tonight to end.

He hums softly. “You look cold.” He jokes as he slips off his jacket and puts it on your shoulders effortlessly.

“Oh. Tae…” You try as you softly push it off your shoulders.

“No, no. Don’t you dare give that back.” He says simply and you blush a bit before fixing the jacket back on to your shoulders. It smelled strongly like him, and it did protect you from the chilly night country air.

“Well… If you insist.” You tease and he chuckles.

“Yup. That’s right, little lady. I don’t play when it comes to being a gentleman.” He jokes. “You will accept my jacket.” He smirks and you giggle as you look down a bit at your heels that step precisely on the pavement under you.

“Did you enjoy tonight?” He asks finally, gazing up at the stars with his hands in his pockets as you tuck some hair behind your ear. You hum and nod fast as you spot your house coming into view.

“I’m glad. Been awhile since I was… Able to go out with someone. Glad I’m not rusty.” He says and you smile a bit. Ain’t that the truth. You haven’t been out in awhile, but this just felt so right. Better than any other date you’ve been on.

“Here we are…” He finally says and you can’t help the frown that forms on your lips. You guys ascend the steps and get to your front door. You sigh softly and eye the door before leaning against it, looking up at the 5-foot-10 man standing in front of you.

“This is the part where I’m supposed to say goodnight, right?” He whispers and you gaze into his eyes softly.

“Are you going to?” You whisper back and he chuckles a bit, sheepish.

“Why do you ask?” He challenges playfully, voice a mumble as you smile up at him.

“You just… You’ve got this… Look. In your eyes…” You whisper back and he looks at you. His eyes were open books. You could see he didn’t want this night to end just like you…

“Oh? And what kind of look… Would that be?” He asks quietly and you bite your lip while you slowly reach up to touch his tie.

“The kind of look that says… You don’t wanna leave just yet…” You whisper as you gaze at his tie instead of his eyes because then he’d see that you wanted that too.

“Oh, really?” He whispers and then looks at your door before looking down at you again. “Are you gonna take pity on me then?” He asks and you finally look up at him, your cheeks hearing up only a bit as you shift slightly on your feet.

“Maybe just… To get some water for the road. It is the nice thing to do…” You say softly as you stand up straighter.

He nods. “I’d appreciate that. Yeah, water… Water sounds real nice…” He smiles.

“Just water.” You say as you point a finger at him, and he holds up both hands innocently.

“You’ve got my word.” He says and you only hum before letting you both inside.

The conversation flows nicely and freely over two glasses of water as you sit at your kitchen table. You each enjoy some fruit as well to nibble on as you focus more on each other. The time passes by so effortlessly and when you finally catch sight of the time, you see it’s almost one in the morning.

“Goodness sake…” You chuckle as you shake your head. Taehyung looks over and is also stunned by the time. “Look at that. Holy…” He trails off as you get up and start to gather the dishes and glasses.

“Getting late.” You note bashfully as you head over to the sink, mind wondering of what the night can hold for you two. As if reading your mind, Taehyung walks over to the sink too.

“Is this goodbye?” He asks quietly as he watches you start to wash the dishes. You look at him.

“What do you want?” You ask finally as you watch him smirk at the question.

“What do I want…” He mutters, as if thinking. “Can I be straightforward?” He asks and you can’t bring yourself to talk so you just nod.

“Well. I want… you. I want you… Under me. Legs wrapped around my waist. Nails digging into my back. I want you… To be absolutely… Lost… In pleasure.” He whispers as he looks you right in the eyes. You feel your entire body heat up at just his words and slowly turn off the water before you turn fully to face him.

“And how do I know you… You’re gonna stick around come morning?” You ask sheepishly. You wanted to give in too, so bad. But… What if this was all some game? He chuckles quietly at your question and shakes his head as if amused that you’d even ask that.

“There is… Nowhere else… I’d wanna go.” He whispers honestly and you feel your heart race as you grab his face and crash your lips into his, kissing him deeply as he quickly grabs a hold of your hips.

The make out is hot and heavy and he pulls away for a split second to catch his breath. “I can’t wait. Here. Now.” He pants before turning you around, so your back is to him, kissing along your neck and biting the cork of your neck as you shut your eyes in pleasure, gasping at the suddenness of his need for you. He makes quick work of unzipping your dress, groaning at the black lace set that makes you blush. You were hoping for something, that much was obvious.

With your dress now looked around your feet and his lips working your shoulders and back, his rough hands roam your body as you moan softly, enjoying being taken care of like this.

“Tae!” You moan out finally. His hand slides into your underwear and you gasp sharply only to be held between the counter and Taehyung while he rubbed your clit firmly.

“Oh! Oh!” You moan as you press right against his hand while he groans at how wet you are. You couldn’t help it. And thanks to him pressing against you, you didn’t have to worry about your legs giving out.

“Oh. What is it, darlin? Hm?” He teases quietly. “Tell me. Tell me what is it…” He encourages in your ear quietly as you grip the countertop, gasping out his name in response. It’s the only thing that could come to mind at this point.

“Mm… Lean back.” He orders and you do just that, your head falling back on his shoulder. “Look up at me…” He pants and you force your eyes open, looking up at him as you whine quietly against his lips, grinding against his rough hand…

“There you go…” He praises quietly. “Hi.” He teases and smiles softly before kissing your forehead tenderly. “What do you want, Y/N?” He whispers and you feel your mind racing. You wanted so much all at once, honestly…

“Tell me what you want…” He encourages as you start to kiss his neck and up his jawline while you shiver softly at his attention.

“I want you…” You manage to breathe out as you continue rocking against his hand, your clit throbbing for release.

“I can tell. You’re so damn wet down here…” Taehyung pants as he presses firmly against you and you feel how hard he is.

“You’re one… To talk…” You moan quietly, eyes shutting again as you grind your ass back on the bulge. He groans lowly.

“Fuck, Y/N…” He groans as his other hand roams up your body to grip one of your breasts through your bra.

You feel his finger tease your entrance before his other finger follows. You breathe in sharply as you feel him start to slowly finger fuck you, his thumb rubbing your clit. You cry out, head back against his shoulder. You felt trapped in the best way possible.

“Tell me. Tell me what you want…” He whispers in your ear as you start to trample in pleasure.

“I-I can’t… I can’t w-wait!” You whine. You needed more and you couldn’t wait for it. You needed to feel full now.

“Can’t wait? Can’t wait for what, hm?” He taunts quietly as his hand slips under your bra and starts to tweak at your nipple, making you arch your back.

“I’ve got you. Feel good for me…” He whispers in your ear and something just snaps in you. You couldn’t hold back anymore. You kiss Tae hotly and grab the back of his neck, turning in his arms. He doesn’t even have time to react before you’re both falling on the kitchen floor, you straddling him. There’s no pain, just a white-hot need for more. For him. You blindly make quick work of his clothes, basically ripping open his tan vest and yanking at his tie as you make out.

********************************

April 19th, 1952 Kentucky...

"There you two are..." You say as you hop down the wooden steps of the farmhouse you'd gone to enjoy the ceremony in. The silk white wedding dress hugged your body like a dream, and the long sleeves helped protect you from the cool evening air.

Taehyung and your father look over at you as you run over to basically tackle your husband, enjoying the feel of his body against yours.

"You found us." Your father snickers as Tae kisses your forehead softly, an arm coming around to hold you tight to his side.

"Am I needed inside?" He asks you softly and you hum quietly.

"Not exactly." You say back bashfully.

"I think you're needed for husbandly duties." Your father jokes and Taehyung laughs softly as he eyes you playfully. "I'll leave you two love birds alone." He continues and you move away from your husband to hug your dad before he heads inside.

With you both alone now for the first time all day, you can't help but grab his face, kissing him deeply. He laughs against your lips but wastes no time in kissing you back. "Finally." You joke quietly against his lips, your hand going to play with his tie as he smiles bashfully at you.

"Come on now. We've got forever to kiss like that." He snickers softly as he grabs your waist firmly, holding you against him as he looks deep into your eyes.

"Not long enough." You taunt quietly as you wrap your arms around his neck. He hums and kisses your forehead sweetly.

"Imma make you eat those words, Y/N." He threatens jokingly as he sways with you ever so slightly, as if he couldn't help but move with you under the night sky. Your heavy head finds home against his chest, eyes shutting as you smile peacefully. This is what you needed...

"Do your worst." You whisper finally, eyes opening only to watch the way your gold band shimmered in the moonlight, hand gripping his tie more. You've never seen something look so... Perfectly placed. Like the ring was made specifically for you to wear as his wife. A title that was so accepted wholeheartedly.

"I hope we get more forevers..." You whisper, eyes shutting once more so you're fully drowned by the feeling.

*************************************

September 8th, 2023 South Korea...

"Just count yourself lucky, Y/N..." Your boss says as you hold your cell phone between your shoulder and ear as you walk through the spinning glass door of the recording building you'd been told to go to. You roll your eyes at the backhanded compliment. You were hoping your first writing project for this damn blog would be a... Serious one. There were bigger things happening in the world than some K-pop idol enlisting in the military!

"This man you're talking to is a real big deal, you know. Part of the biggest boyband in the world. You're gonna write up a nice little article about him, and then be on your way." Your boss says, as if you didn't know your own objectives for the day. You sigh and reach up to fix your hair that had gotten messy from the wind, but you're pulled from your conversation by some intern approaching you slowly.

"Y/N Y/L/N?" The man asks, and you nod, putting on a polite smile as you hold up a finger, silently asking for one more second on the phone.

"Sorry. Sorry. I gotta go, Bob. I'll be back in the office tomorrow." You say before hanging up, giving full attention to the intern as you fix your tan slacks and red blouse that was tucked into the waistband.

Had to always dress nice...

"Mr. Kim is upstairs? Fifth floor." He says before beckoning you to follow him. You grip the leather of your purse strap as you embark on the route towards your new story...

#bts #bts fic #bts army #bts imagine #taehyung imagine #taehyung smut #bts taehyung #taehyung #kim taehyung #taehyun x reader #yoongi smut #jungkook smut #bts smut #yoongi imagine #jungkook imagine

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