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wheeboo · 1 year

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emergency contact {pt. 1} | choi seungcheol

SYNOPSIS. in which an accident forces you to call your emergency contact. PAIRING. ex bf!choi seungcheol x gn!reader (ft. cousin!joshua but he’s only mentioned for the sake of plot) GENRE. angst, light fluff, exes to ??, hurt/comfort, second chances WARNINGS. mentions of an accident and speeding (drive safely, please!), mentions of a vague break-up, depiction of injuries, implied that reader struggles w/ mental health and goes to therapy WORD COUNT. 1.9k

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 →

The moment Seungcheol got the call from the hospital, he knew that something was wrong.

Without a second thought, he abandons everything in a fleet of urgency, almost as if he lost control of his entire body. He feels the intense pounding of his heart and the anxiety flowing through his veins as the thoughts of you lingering in the dark corners of his mind come back to him.

He remembers you telling him about setting your emergency contact under his name and expected for you to remove it after your break-up, but it seems like you didn’t make the effort to, or... just simply forgotten to. Even if you didn’t want to see him, even if the call was out of spite, Seungcheol knew that he had to be by your side. He has to. It was a promise that he made to himself.

“Come on, come on, hurry up,” Seungcheol urges frustratingly through gritted teeth, his grip tight on the steering wheel. “Drive faster, god dammit.”

As Seungcheol speeds through the streets, his knuckles turn white from the intensity of his grip. Every red light lasts an eternity, every slow-moving car in front of him tests his patience. Time seems to taunt him, stretching the seconds into feeling like hours.

Turning a corner, the hospital finally comes into view. He parks his car hastily, barely taking a moment to collect himself before rushing through the sliding doors. The pungent smell of septic hits his nostrils as he enters inside the building. Seungcheol realises it’s been a while ever since the last time he came to the hospital.

As he follows the signs and continues to walk, he feels a mixture of nervousness and anticipation thinking about seeing you, the bittersweet and painful conversations leading up to the break-up clouding his mind. Was this really the best choice?

But if you choose to push him away, he wouldn’t stop you.

Seungcheol’s steps echo loudly in the hallway as he approaches the entrance to the emergency ward. Each step brings a wave of uncertainty, making him torn between wanting to be by your side and his respect for the boundaries you may have set.

With a long, deep breath, he pushes open the door to the emergency ward, and he’s already met with an overwhelming sight𑁋doctors and nurses rushing past to attend to patients in need, the repetitive beeping of machines, and an atmosphere thick with tension.

Seungcheol steps up to the receptionist with his hands clasped nervously together. “Excuse me.”

The receptionist looks up at him with a welcoming smile. “How can I help you?”

“Uh, I received a call from... Their name is Y/N. I’m their emergency contact.” He mentally curses to himself for stumbling over his words.

The receptionist types frantically on her keyboard. “I see, and are you the guardian of this patient?”

“Yeah, I’m...” Seungcheol takes in a breath, feeling the uncertainty building up. “I’m their boyfriend.”

The receptionist nods understandingly and gives Seungcheol a sympathetic look. "I'll check the records and find out where they are. Please wait a moment,” After what feels like an endless amount of clicking and typing, she looks back up with a glint of hope. “Yes, there is a patient under that name who has been transferred to our patient care unit in room... 214. You can proceed past those doors, continue straight ahead, and you’ll reach it.”

He thanks the receptionist and hurriedly makes his way towards the designated area. His eyes scan each of the room numbers, and after feeling like walking through a maze, he finally reaches the hallway and finds himself paused in front of your room.

Seungcheol feels his heart pounding once more, and it felt almost painful to withstand. But with a deep inhale, he gives the door a quick knock and waits a few moments before stepping inside.

He’s met with utter silence broken only by rhythmic beating of the heart monitor. As he pushes past a drawn curtain, he finally sees your fragile form on the bed. A heavy weight settles in his chest as he takes in the sight of your injuries: one of your arms had been plastered up, a few noticeable stitches to the skin above your eyebrows, and bruises painted over the skin of your forearm and another one on your cheekbone.

Your eyes were closed and your breathing appeared steady, but he can’t bare to think the amount of pain you might be in and that he can’t do much to ease it. He wishes he can just hold you in his arms, to tell you that he was here, but he can’t do that.

Seungcheol slowly makes his way to a seat sitting against the wall, pursuing his lips together to keep himself quiet. But when he makes it to the seat, a low mumble makes him pause in place.

“Who...” You struggle to open your eyes, vision hazy. You attempt to turn your head to the side, squinting your eyes to a blurry figure you can barely make out. “Joshua?”

Seungcheol smiles faintly. The sound of your voice makes his stomach leap.

“It’s Cheol... Uh, Seungcheol,” he corrects you. Joshua is one of his close friends and also your cousin.

“Cheol?” You find yourself instinctively sitting up at the mention of his name, but Seungcheol races to your side and places a hand at the small of your back, guiding you back down on the bed.

“I𑁋Be careful. You were just in an accident.” When you glance down to where his hand was on your back, he swiftly takes it away.

Situating your back down on the bed, you let out a light chuckle, cringing from the slight discomfort in your chest. “I-I didn’t think you’d actually come. They said they were calling whoever was in my emergency contact, and I... remembered it was you.”

Seungcheol feels his heart clench around your words. “Do you... want me to leave?”

You pause for a moment, before shaking your head slowly. “No, it’s... You can stay,” You finally look up at him, meeting his soft gaze and his slightly disheveled appearance. “It feels comforting that you’re here, and I... don’t really want to be alone right now.”

Relief washes over Seungcheol’s face. He takes the seat from behind and brings it closer to your bed, finally able to get a close look at your face. And when you turn to look at him, you could’ve sworn something was tugging at the strings of your heart. You remember that look𑁋the same look he would give you whenever you weren’t looking at him, yet you knew he was looking at you. It was a look of fondness, a look of affection that you hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Is it bad?” You ask him, interrupting the tension-filled silence. “My face?”

You see his expression change to worry, and he leans slightly closer to take a better look at you. His eyes trace over the bruises and clean cuts on your face, even to a small cut at the corner of your lips that he just notices, but he doesn’t mention anything about them. Instead, he gives you a gentle smile that causes his dimples to deepen slightly and a shake of his head.

“You’re still...” As beautiful as ever, he wanted to say, but he lets those words fade. “Don’t worry, they’ll all heal eventually.”

You only give a nod to his words. The air between you both hangs heavy with unspoken words as you exchange stolen glances. The room feels confined, almost suffocating, as if it's begging for the walls to break down and release the pent-up emotions the two of you were hanging on to. Perhaps you both knew what your hearts are yearning for, but why is it so hard to simply say I miss you?

Seungcheol is the first to clear his throat. “I heard you’re going to therapy again.”

His words make your head cower down in shame, eyes locked at the ends of the hospital bed as you feel the pit of guilt bury itself in your stomach. You know he’s not judging you𑁋he never has and never will𑁋but you can’t shake the feeling away.

“Did Joshua tell you that?”

“Does it bother you that I ask about you sometimes?”

Both of your voices tangle together, but you hear his question clearly. You don’t feel irritated or annoyed because after all, you were the one who decided to end the relationship as you let your insecurities and fears project onto your burdening feelings. At the time you thought Seungcheol deserved better, and you let those thoughts ultimately make your decision without even considering his own feelings. And ever since then, you’ve wanted nothing more than to express the depth of your regret.

“Because I still care about you, you know?” You hear him continue. “and I want to know how you’re doing. But if you want me to stop, I can𑁋”

“Cheol,” You call his name sternly, surprising both him and yourself as he closes his mouth right away from his rambling. Overturning the hesitation, you finally confess, “I-I ask about you sometimes too.”

Seungcheol's feels his mouth go dry, caught off-guard by your words. A mixture of surprise, relief, and a flicker of hope dances across his features. But he keeps himself from getting his hopes up.

“And therapy... has been well,” He swears he sees that glimpse of hope in your eyes as well. “It’s been hard, but I think I’ve been making a lot of progress.”

“That’s good,” Seungcheol comments, scooting himself closer to the bed. “I’m proud of you, you know that, right?”

You know he’s proud of you. Whenever you made those kinds of efforts, even the smallest kinds such as getting out of bed, taking a shower, or eating a single bite of a home-cooked meal, you remember Seungcheol giving you those words of praise, the kisses he would shower you with, the way being his arms felt safer than your own head, and the genuine reminder that he was there for you and ready to drop everything just to make sure you were okay.

But your thoughts always considered otherwise.

Seungcheol reaches out tentatively upon noticing your stillness, his hand inching closer to your free one. His fingers brush against your skin, lightly over one of your bruises, and a shiver runs down your spine. You look at his hand, then meet his eyes, and he silently asks for permission.

Nodding ever so slightly, his hand laces with yours, and it feels as if a missing puzzle piece has finally found its place. The warmth spreads from his touch, easing the ache in your heart and the shakiness of your breathing. You both sit there in pure silence, hand-in-hand, the weight of the past slowly dissipating and leaving only the present moment.

“Seungcheol.”

Your voice sends him back to reality, his mind not processing the presence of your hand in his just yet. “Yes? Are you okay? Do you need something?”

You give him a shake of your head, chuckling quietly at his expression.

“No, I’m okay, but I was wondering...” You bite your lip reluctantly, eyes switching back between your clasped hands and his focused look. “Do you... want to stay the night?”

Seungcheol's eyes widen at your unexpected question. He hesitates for a moment, unsure of how to respond. The desire to be with you is overwhelming, but he doesn't want to overstep any boundaries. Anything but that.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable𑁋”

“It’s okay,” You reassure him with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “I want you here with me. I’ve... I’ve really missed you.” And I want to tell you how sorry I am for letting you go.

A smile crosses his face, eyes lighting as he brings your hand carefully up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to a bruised spot as if to convey his appreciation. You can’t help but smile in return, feeling a surge of warmth spreading through your chest. The simple gesture holds so much meaning, like a tender reassurance of your unbroken connection that you both seek to repair together.

“Okay,” is all he replies with. Because you have no idea how much I’ve missed you too.

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greenwitchcrafts · 8 months

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September 2023 witch guide

Full moon: September 29th

New moon: September 14th

Sabbats: Mabon September 23rd

September Harvest Moon

Also known as: Autumn moon, falling leaves moon, song moon, leaves turning moon, moon of brown leaves, yellow leaf moon, wine moon & Full corn moon

Element: Earth

Zodiac: Virgon& Libra

Animal spirits: Trooping Faeries

Deities: Brigid, Ceres, Ch'ang-o, Demeter, Freya, Isis & Vesta

Animals: Jackal & snake

Birds: Ibis & sparrow

Trees: Bay, hawthorn, hazel & larch

Herbs/plants: Copal, fennel, rye, skullcap, valerian, wheat & witch hazel

Flowers: Lily & Narcissus

Scents: Bergamot, gardenia, mastic & storax

Stones: Bloodstone, chrysolite, citrine, olivine, peridot & sapphire

Colors: Browns, dark blue, greens & yellows ( Earth tones)

Energy: Balance of light & dark, dietary matters, employment, health, intellectual pursuits, prosperity, psychism, rest, spirituality, success & work environments. Also cleaning & straightening mentally, physically & spiritually.

Technically, the Harvest Moon is the Full Moon closest to the September equinox around September 21st. The Harvest Moon is the only Full Moon name determined by the equinox rather than a month. Most years, it’s in September, but around every three years, it falls in October.

In September, the Full Moon is the Corn Moon from the Native American tribes harvesting their corn. It can also be the Harvest Moon, which corresponds with the Anglo-Saxon name, while Celtic and Old English names are Wine Moon, Song Moon, and Barley Moon.

Mabon

Also known as: Autumn Equinox, Cornucopia, Witch's Thanksgiving & Alban Elved

Season: Fall

Symbols: Acorns, apples, autumn leaves, berries, corn, cornucopia (horn of plenty), dried seeds, gourds, grains, grapes, ivy, pine cones, pomegranates, vines, wheat, white roses & wine

Colors: Blue brown, drk red, deep gold, gold, indigo, lead green, maroon, orange, red, russet, violet & yellow

Oils/incense: Apple, apple blossom, benzoin, black pepper, hay/straw, myrrh, passion flower, patchouli, pine, red poppy & sage

Animals: Dog, goose, hawk, swan, swallow & wolf

Stones: Agate, amethyst, carnelian, lapis lazuli, sapphire, yellow Agate & yellow topaz

Foods: Apples, blackberries, blackberry wine, bread, carrots, cider, corn, cornbread, grapes, heather wine, nuts, onions, pomegranates, potatoes, squash, vegetables, wheat & winw

Herbs/plants: Acorn, benzoin, cedar, corn, cypress, ferns, grains, hazel, hops, ivy, myrrh, oak, pine, sage, sassafras, Salomon's seal, thistle, tobacco & wheat

Flowers: Aster, heather, honeysuckle, marigold, milkweed, mum,passion flower& rose

Goddesses: Danu, Epona, Modron, Morrigan, Muses, Pomona, Persephone, Sophia & Sura

Gods: Esus, Green Man, Hermes, Mabon, Mannanan, Toth & Thor

Issues, Intentions & Powers: Accomplishment, agriculture, balance, goals, gratitude & grounding

Spellworks: Balance, harmony, protection, prosperity, security & self confidence

Related festivals:

• Sukkot- is a Torah-commanded holiday celebrated for seven days, beginning on the 15th day of the month of Tishrei. It is one of the Three Pilgrimage Festivals (Hebrew: שלוש רגלים, shalosh regalim) on which those Israelites who could were commanded to make a pilgrimage to the Temple in Jerusalem. In addition to its harvest roots, the holiday also holds spiritual importance with regard to its abandonment of materialism to focus on nationhood, spirituality, and hospitality, this principle underlying the construction of a temporary, almost nomadic, structure of a sukkah.

• Mid-Autumn festival- also known as the Moon Festival or Mooncake Festival, is a traditional festival celebrated in Chinese culture. Similar holidays are celebrated by other cultures in East & Southeast Asia. It is one of the most important holidays in Chinese culture; its popularity is on par with that of Chinese New Year. The history of the Mid-Autumn Festival dates back over 3,000 years. The festival is held on the 15th day of the 8th month of the Chinese lunisolar lunisolar calendar with a full moon at night, corresponding to mid-September to early October of the Gregorian calendar. On this day, the Chinese believe that the Moon is at its brightest and fullest size, coinciding with harvest time in the middle of Autumn.

• Thanksgiving- This is a secular holiday which is similar to the cell of Mabon; A day to give thanks for the food & blessings of the previous year. The American Thanksgiving is the last Thursday of November while the Canadian Thanksgiving is celebrated in October

• Festival of Dionysus- There were several festivals that honored Dionysus, the God of wine. It was a time of fun, games, feasting & drinking wine.

Activities:

•Scatter offerings in a harvested fields, Offer libations to trees

• Decorate your home and/or altar space for fall

• Bake bread

• Perform a ritual to restore balance and harmony to your life

• Cleanse your home of negative energies

• Pick apples

• Have a dinner or feast with your family and/or friends

• Set intentions for the upcoming year

• Purge what is no longer serving you

•Take a walk in the woods

• Enjoy a pumpkin spice latte

• Donate to your local food bank

• Gather dried herbs, plants, seeds & pods

• Learn something new

• Make wine

• Brew an apple cinnamon simmer pot

• Create an outdoor Mabon altar

•Adorn burial sites with leaves, acorns, & pinecones to honor those who have passed over & visit their graves

Many cultures see the second harvest (after the first harvest Lammas) and equinox as a time for giving thanks. This time of year is when farmers know how well their summer crops did, and how well fed their animals have become. This determines whether you and your family would have enough food for the winter. That is why people used to give thanks around this time, thanks for their crops, and animals, and food.

The name Mabon comes from the Welsh God, who was the son of the Earth Mother Goddess. However, there is evidence that the name was adopted in the 1970s, and the holiday was not originally a Celtic celebration.

Some believe Night and day are of equal legth and the God's energy & strength are nearly gone . The Goddess begins to mourn the loss she knows is coming, but knows he will return when he reborn at Yule.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Wikipedia

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Mabon: Rituals, Recipes & Lore for the Autumn Equinox Llewellyn's Sabbat Essentials

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qingxin-dream · 8 months

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“Just One Good Thing”

summary | it’s hard to love someone who is broken, and even harder when two broken people love so deeply it hurts. (art credits: @/pastahands on twitter).

warnings | not proofread/vent writing, scaramouche lore spoilers, brief graphic depiction of death, illness, loss, profanity, TW heavy mental health topics, self-hatred, dissociation, depression, suicidal thoughts/ideation, graphic description of self-harm wounds, fear of abandonment, guilt, reader is hospitalized

genre | angst, hurt, comfort

word count | 2.5k

pairing | wanderer x reader

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

This was not the first time the puppet experienced betrayal.

How could you have known? It was long before you came into existence, hundreds of years of anguish buried in layers upon layers beneath his artificial constitution. He had once been but an innocent, naive babe with the world sparkling in the reflection of his violet eyes, meant for something greater. He had once fulfilled a purpose.

To be brought into the world against your will, crafted from the divine hand of a grieving Archon, only to have every semblance of your being ripped from you and cast aside in the name of so-called mercy—is a fate akin to death itself.

You never knew his past.

How he was once an eccentric named Kabukimono who wandered from Shakkei Pavilion and made friends with the blade smiths of Tatarasuna. His first taste of human life was amid a blazing furnace and the clamoring of a hammer onto hot metal, learning what it meant to labor and create. He had grown to love the little village as his own, playing with the children and sipping on the bitter taste of tea leaves with his comrades.

The puppet who had called himself Kabukimono was painfully ignorant to the cruelty of fate.

He could have never fathomed the day he would hold the future of his village in his trembling, pale hands as the toxic Tatarigami fumes envelope him in chemicals. There he climbed deep inside the Mikage Furnace, the unique resilience of his artificial body left unharmed by the inhospitable temperatures glowing hot against his divine skin. Any normal human would’ve perished a thousand times over.

Inside the foreign device that promised to save his home lay the bloody, withering heart cut fresh from his closest companion’s chest.

“You are a human, Kabukimono,” Niwa had insisted with a soft smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, a comforting hand resting on the eccentric’s shoulder. “You just don’t have a heart.”

Yet there the puppet stood, his voice robbed from his aching throat, cradling the very essence of his friend’s humanity in his palm.

It was his fault. What a foolish creature he was to ever involve himself with humans, whom he could only bring suffering. His tears were evaporated instantly as the grotesque realization dawned on the distraught young Kabukimono. He would later discover that he had been betrayed by a man who introduced himself as Escher but was known among the Fatui as The Doctor.

The dirty pads of his bare feet had thumped through the rocky village path and down the dirt roads leading to the outskirts of the rural Inazuman wilderness. Crows rustled in the trees and flapped their feathers into the sky, jeering at the desolate and abandoned settlement.

The village should have been evacuated. All who could have been saved were rushed as far away as possible from the poisonous Tatarigami. Rows upon rows of homes and businesses were eerily vacant. Kabukimono, in his watery hysterics, had not paid any mind to his surroundings, leaving behind the only home he ever had for good.

That is, until he stumbled across a young boy who lived under an old sakura tree. Kabukimono immediately felt the void in his chest wrench with visceral guilt upon learning that the child’s parents were crafts-people. The house was utterly empty except for the lonely little boy.

For as much as the puppet wanted nothing more than to rid himself of human companionship, he felt responsible for the loss of the boy’s parents. He had an obligation to see that he was taken care of and safe from the Tatarigami. If he could not have saved his friends, perhaps he could atone for his sins in raising the orphaned child—who reminded him too much of himself.

“Promise me,” Kabukimono spoke up with a bit of a hoarse tone, his voice cracking with emotion, extending a shaky hand to the young boy. “That we can be family. I will watch over you.”

“Like a big brother?” asked the innocent boy with a hopeful smile. He wouldn’t have to be alone anymore, taking the eccentric’s hand in his own. “I’ve always wanted one… I promise, we will be family.”

For a short while, the puppet had learned to push the turmoil plaguing his conscience to the back of his mind. His focus had shifted entirely to ensuring the boy’s safety and happiness, trying to scavenge food for him and exchanging stories under the moonlight. Although, Kabukimono flinched with each cough from the boy that shattered the silence between them as they went to sleep.

He hated that he recognized the symptoms. The residue of the Tatarigami had somehow infected the child, no doubt. A dreadful thought occurred to him—perhaps he had given the sickness to the orphaned child after what happened at the Mikage Furnace. The idea was enough to eat him alive with worry. Kabukimono had secretly prayed that the boy would endure the illness.

The puppet had worked tirelessly to give him the best he possibly could. If his coughs were dry, he would fetch him water. If his stomach rumbled, he would prepare some Lavender Melons. If he needed a friend, Kabukimono would be there to hold his hand as he slept like a guardian angel.

The day the elderly sakura tree shed its pretty pink blossoms was the day the boy was found unresponsive.

Kabukimono, too, found himself hollow and devoid. What did it mean to be family? What did it mean to love? What was the point of having such worthless emotions?

A blazing inferno consumed the darkness of the night sky. Crackling embers swirled and smoke bellowed in the rural countryside as a rickety house succumbed to a hellish fate. No one was there to witness the flaming spectacle. No one to help, or save the vacant violet eyes of a nameless puppet who clutched a small doll in his lap.

It was laughable, truly, how sick and twisted the world could be. The puppet couldn’t fulfill his creator’s wishes, nor could he befriend humanity, or have a heart of his own. Oh, to perish in a fiery death would be far too simple for Celestia’s liking, wouldn’t it?

For five hundred years, Kabukimono, Kunikuzushi, Scaramouche—no matter who he became—the feeling of inadequacy remained.

His divinely-created body was an immortal prison, shackling him to his sins. As a Fatui Harbinger, no needle, blade, or poison of the Doctor could kill him. No enemy or magic of the Abyss could ultimately break him. The puppet was built to withstand the likes of the Cataclysm that had taken his creator’s sister, yet the scars of these experiments litter his fair skin are a reminder that he is indeed alive.

Wanderer vividly remembers his dark fascination with testing his limits in the depths of his dissociation. Anything to serve as penance for the irreversible destruction he had inflicted upon his friends, his family, and his home. If he was lucky, perhaps the Doctor would find a way to end his misery or the maddening darkness of the Abyss would swallow him whole once and for all.

Even forsaking his autonomy and identity as Scaramouche to ascend to godhood would be a fitting death for the puppet. After all, the Everlasting Lord of Arcane Wisdom would never bow to his emotions like a weakling. Losing himself to infinite knowledge and truth would be a good ending, despite the insanity that would befall him.

All that mattered is he would cease to exist.

But it was you who defeated him, in all his might and glory as a fake Archon pumped full of divine wisdom and the sludgy remains of dead gods. It was you who found him after he tried to erase every part of his worthless being from Irminsul, and helped him pick up the pieces of himself in the aftermath.

The reality that lies within Irminsul had given him a new perspective as the Wanderer. Though he retained the poignant memories of his sins, Wanderer made sure to carve a special space in the void of his artificial body just for you. His savior.

Not a single one of those instances—absolutely fucking none of them—could ever compare to the morbid and desperate pit of despair that ravages Wanderer at the sight of your fragile body curled up in a white hospital gown. You are hooked up to a myriad of monitors and machines, wires and tubes tangling your frame like chains. The distant beep of the electrocardiogram is burned into Wanderer’s mind.

It’s your heartbeat, and the very reason for his continued existence. You had been reduced to small blip on a computer screen.

The hospital room was otherwise silent. The windows had the blinds slightly drawn, a cool ray of moonlight washing over Wanderer’s disheveled indigo hair from behind. Even if you were unconscious, Wanderer had wanted to tuck you in for the night, but he was terrified of hurting you. The fluorescent white light above your bed was off, bathing you both in warm darkness.

In the late hours, all Wanderer could do was stare at you with eyes reddened from crying, his crimson eyeliner smudged at the edge of lashes. He would occasionally lick his dry lips, which were chapped and peeling. The sting of the dead skin on his lips being tugged between his teeth was a momentary release from the overwhelming anxiety dwelling within.

His thin fingers are intertwined with yours on the hospital bed, one of the few ways the puppet can keep himself grounded in this moment. Every once in awhile, he’ll give your hand a gentle squeeze followed by a few broken wishes for you to open your eyes again. To see the life in you and hear your sweet voice again.

Sometimes it would get to be too much. Wanderer would raise your hand and kiss your knuckles with hot, salty tears pricking at his eyes. The stinging sensation would force his eyelids closed, sorrow streaming down his stained cheeks. He was sure that this was a result of his own shortcomings.

Your arms are wrapped in bandages with a few stitches here and there lying underneath. A deathly pale color flushed your beautiful face. And oh, Archons, those eyes of yours he had always adored endlessly were sunken darkly into your face, hidden in your slumber. His gaze drifted to your lips, still full and pink, perhaps his last vestige of hope as they parted for your sacred breaths.

To imagine you’re suffering as much as he had in his past is utterly unthinkable to Wanderer.

The only difference is your fragile mortality. He knows your pain now, he can see it carved onto your wrists in what must have been a frenzied meltdown.

Some cuts are lighter and faded, meaning this certainly isn’t the first time you hurt yourself. Other gashes in your arm are deeper and swollen, each one weighs on the puppet’s heart greater than the last. He couldn’t count how many times you must have taken that razor to your wrist. Wanderer silently curses himself for letting this happen to you.

“How stupid could I be? Letting her away from me,” he quietly lamented with his head in hands, fingers curling around his indigo locks tightly. “I had just one good thing.”

Rocking himself gently in the chair next to you, Wanderer continuously tugs at his hair to an almost extreme degree, unable to handle the anger, betrayal, and sadness overcoming him. He was practically attached to you at the hip, he should’ve noticed when your voice faltered or when your eyes betrayed your words. He should’ve seen the signs of you slipping through his fingers.

Even if every day wasn’t perfect, even if sometimes you both said hurtful things to each other, neither of you never truly meant it. Wanderer couldn’t bear to imagine not waking up next to you, the morning sunlight kissing your silhouette like an angel. He never thought that he’d find his purpose in you, in the most mundane moments that he cherished so deeply.

He knew you had a history of mental health struggles. So did he. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give you his everything—fingers entwined and sweat glistening on your bodies as he made you his for the umpteenth time.

The echo of the puppet’s soft sobs dissipates into the emptiness of the hospital room. His whole body is shaking with emotional agony. It’s the first time in centuries that he has allowed himself to feel vulnerable like this. How could he not when the love of his life—the meaning of his existence—had tried to take themselves out of it?

Wanderer finally releases his hair, taking your left hand again and passionately pressing his lips to your bare ring finger as an unspoken promise. You both had worked so hard to love better and be better. He wasn’t about to give you up.

There would never be another you in eternity.

He couldn’t bear the heavy burden on his heart anymore. Carefully, he pulled the thin blanket back and climbed into the hospital bed next to you. His fingers trembled at the contact, feeling your faint warmth. Wanderer gently pulled you close so that your head was safely tucked into his chest and he could rest his chin on your soft hair. He sighed, covering you both in the blanket once more.

Sobs tugged at his chest and his grip on you momentarily tightened. Though tears glistened at the corner of his broken violet eyes, Wanderer blinked them back with a shaky breath. You were in his arms and his world was made whole again.

“I love you, (Y/N),” his voice is gravely and barely audible. “I love you so fucking much… don’t you dare think otherwise.”

The puppet nuzzles his nose into your scalp, breathing in your familiarity like it’s home. He begins to play with your hair gently, combing and caressing your soft strands with his fingertips painted in black.

“You scared the shit out of me, you know…” Wanderer kisses your hair, closing his eyelids for a long moment to memorialize the feeling of your skin on his lips. “But I’m gonna get you out of here, baby. I’m gonna get you help, okay?”

His toned arms keep your body pressed to his, wanting to feel every part of your being entangled with him as it should be. The tickling sensation of your little breaths on his neck brought a small smile to his face because it meant you were sleeping comfortably and most importantly, alive. You were the missing piece in his puzzle, fitting perfectly into place with him.

“It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay,” the puppet whispers to you, hoping you could hear and feel his love in every way, shape, and form possible. His words also served as an assurance to himself because in this moment he felt so helpless, seeing the wounds on your precious skin.

“I won’t let anything hurt you anymore,” Wanderer solemnly vows, his voice slowly but surely trailing off as he succumbs to his exhaustion with you held close to his heart.

“Goodnight, my love.”

thanks for reading! reblogs are appreciated! my masterlist.

#wrote something much darker for a change #been listening to ‘heather’ by ruby haunt💔#[opulent dreams].✿#[dreams of delusion].✿#genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact imagines #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin angst #genshin wanderer #wanderer #wanderer x reader #wanderer angst #genshin scaramouche #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche angst

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celestialtarot11 · 4 months

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Discussing the misconception of Pluto + more 🧘‍♀️🌟

Hi friends! A post I read talked about Pluto and its misconception in the western astrology community, and I will say I agree. I always thought of Pluto as subconsciously deep, primal, traumatic and the planet that takes away our power. The most vulnerable moments where we have just ourselves. There isn’t anything sexual about that process. There isn’t anything remotely sexual about going through circumstances that involve trauma releasing. And nothing sexy about recovery/healing from any kind of loss associated with Pluto.

It’s understandable individuals with Pluto aspects have an intensity to them, but to sexualize that and to not see beyond that intensity takes away from the true meaning of Pluto. Such individuals carry intense experiences and have roots that go deep.

Shedding light on these aspects:

Sun-Pluto individuals experience turbulence in the ego, personality, power and drive. Constantly these natives are tested, their strength and resilience especially. The native experiences situations which they feel powerless physically, mentally and emotionally.

Moon-Pluto aspects experience a loss of emotional bonding and comfort. The native struggles to connect with themselves carrying a pit of loneliness so deep, it feels like it’ll swallow them whole. Often associated with abandonment wounding, since the native feels little to no emotional permanence within themselves after a loss. Trauma taught them to disconnect from inner stability and safety.

Pluto-Venus experience power dynamic in their relationships. Protective mechanisms come up in the native to shield themselves, or they completely give themselves up to the people around them. Learned about extremes too young, and operate from one end or the other. All or nothing. Codependent as a way to keep the love in their life, even though the very same thing they love is destroying them. Chooses people who abandon them as a way to fulfill a self fulfilling prophecy, that they are not good enough and no one will love them.

Mars-Pluto has been through physical conflict of some kind. Health issues most likely. Some natives I knew encountered being in the hospital at some point. Their mind is at war and the native experienced aggression from others, and authorities failed to protect the native. Most of authority in their life wanted control over the native. The native experiences this in love as well, choosing people who are aggressive or extreme. Unless the native heals, it’s a cycle.

To know about someone sexually, their drive and behavior, look towards the Mars and Venus. Both discuss how the native experiences pleasure and loves to receive. Mars being the lust, animalistic, and primal side of the native, and Venus the sensual passionate, and compassionate side. Both planets arguably deal with our primal instincts, but Mars can be aggressive in its approach and strong, wanting to conquer, whilst Venus creates connection and is not necessarily about the self. Mars creates temptation, Venus soothes and nurtures.

Mars for men.

Venus for women.

You may wonder why then are Scorpios so sexual? It’s because they are ruled by Mars. You’re not wrong that Scorpios are sexual, but the way you look at the reason why is not inherently true. It isn’t because Pluto, the planet of subconscious trauma is making Scorpios sexual. It’s their Martian nature.

Something important to talk about is Gemini. Gemini Venus specifically, but this goes for all Gemini placements. Gemini placements are not superficial by nature, in fact seeing them only through one lenses is harmful. Gemini’s are incredibly smart, intelligent, and harbor knowledge. Ruled by Mercury, quite literally the planet of gaining knowledge efficiently, and communicating that, putting it out there. Gemini’s are observant. Knowledge is not free, you have to pay attention consistently and Gemini’s are aware of this in their true nature. Whilst Jupiter rules gaining knowledge and wisdom, Mercury denotes using it efficiently and effectively. Mercury is the way in which we teach others and we are taught to learn. Our learning style.

Gemini Venus & Gemini placements have the ability to see beyond their current circumstances, because they are agile thinkers. They know the next step intuitively, because their mind is adept to receiving and recognizing information. Gemini’s are painted as manipulative for seeing the truth and seeing beyond face value, when in reality Gemini’s understand the value of truth and perspective.

In esoteric astrology, Gemini is comfortable in Venus because Gemini knows the value of communication and the interchange of energy in love. With Gemini being ruled by Mercury, which is the way we expand our spiritual perception, it’s the beginning of exploring beyond our ego (the sun) Gemini is a process of spiritual connection, and through Gemini, we experience the soul and unconditional love. Without exploration, we’d never know what was there. So, Gemini is not a result, rather it’s the part and process to the gateway of our souls.

There is so much more to Gemini and every zodiac sign than ya’ll think! ✨🌟☀️

Moving on, associating the 8th house with sex. This house is associated with loss, grief, and trauma in traditional astrology and Vedic. It also indicates ones past life karma in Vedic astrology. It also deals with occult knowledge, spiritual insight and growth. Therefore it has no bearing sexually, as it does not relate to procreation of a child as traditional astrology intended. It’s the house of endings.

Many astrologers think the 8th house is associated with sex because they view it as a taboo act, or see it as something hidden and private.

Look to the 5th house to see sexual pleasures instead! Sex should be a reciprocal energy, not associated with loss of any kind (8h) to me, I don’t see how sex should be associated with the 8h of loss and grief.

I would love to continue this for the signs, but it would be too long to make in one post. For now, this is what I have! I appreciate any support given to this blog, and feel free to comment your feedback as it’s highly appreciated. Thank you for coming to my ted talk 🤝

#devi post #astrology community #astrology #tarotcommunity #divination #tarot deck #tarot #witchcraft #tarot reading #astrology observations #astro posts #astrology notes #astro notes

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blurredcolour · 6 days

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The Only Truth... | Part Four

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

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

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

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

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

Word Count: 6267

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were so close. They were right there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who knew if it still was.

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

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

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

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

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

“Our…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were safe. You were close.

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

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

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

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

“Where are you off to Major?”

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

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

Word seemed to have spread fast…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey before you go…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John Clarence Egan!”

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

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

“Angelfish!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a long story….”

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The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

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

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

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