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renecdote · 1 year

Note

I would like any and all prompts you choose to fill please and thank you. but also this one:

look at your face!

congratulations allison you have unlocked a surprise BTHB square: bloody nose [Read on AO3]

Buck feels the impact all through his body. For a moment, he’s dazed, his brain taking an extra few seconds to catch up with what it already knows just happened. Swooping bird, uneven sidewalk, Evan Buckley’s famously shitty luck. Eddie’s distractingly attractive smile, too, which technically didn’t contribute to the face planting, but didn’t exactly help either. Buck might have been paying more attention to where he was going if it wasn’t for that smile.

“Ow,” he mutters into the concrete. It comes out thick and nasally.

“Buck?” Eddie’s worry is, somehow, also attractive. Buck wonders why he never noticed the before. “Are you okay?”

Buck starts to push himself up—nope, ouch—then he gives up and rolls onto his back instead. The bright, cloudless LA sky is mostly blocked out by Eddie’s face hovering above him when he squints his eyes open. He looks just as worried as he sounded.

“Please tell me my leg isn’t broken again,” Buck says, even though he’s pretty sure it isn’t. That’s the kind of thing he would have noticed immediately, he thinks. Or maybe not, since his whole body is kind of… throbbing. A little. Mostly his face.

Eddie’s head dips out of his field of vision for a moment, then pops back up to report, “Your legs are fine. Can you sit up?”

“Yes,” Buck says confidently, then has to take a deep breath to brace himself before he actually tries. Eddie offers him a helping hand and Buck holds onto it even though he tells himself it’s not really necessary. He just thinks holding Eddie’s hand would be nice right now. It would be nice to do it some day when one or both of them aren’t injured, too.

Something tickles his lip. Buck wipes at the irritation, expecting dirt, and pain explodes through his nose and out through the rest of his face.

“Fuck,” he gasps, automatically clutching at it. Unsurprisingly, that just makes another wave of pain crash through him. Buck blinks back the reflective tears, biting his lip hard. He might be embarrassed by the pathetic noise of pain pulled out of him if it didn’t hurt so much.

“Here, let me look,” Eddie says, gently prying Buck’s hands away from his face.

It’s not a surprise to look down and find blood on his hands, but it still makes Buck’s stomach swoop, an automatic vagal response that his stupid brain only seems to get when it’s his own blood he’s dealing with. Or Eddie’s, but. There were extenuating circumstances there.

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, fingers at Buck’s jaw gently tiling his head. It’s probably just a coincidence that it takes his eye off his hands. “Look at your face. Maddie is going to be pissed.”

“‘M good,” Buck tries. “Really.”

The reassurance is immediately ruined when the blood running over his lip gets in his mouth and he has to spit it back out, bright red and bubbly with saliva on the pavement. Gross. Buck tries to grimace without wrinkling his nose, but he’s pretty sure he just looks like he some weird lip spasm thing going on.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Your nose is broken, Buck.”

Buck shakes his head in denial, but that just makes the pain in his face pulse. Eddie is quick to hold his head still.

“Stop moving,” he scolds. “You’re worse than Chris.”

Buck sticks his tongue out at him, then instantly regrets it when he has to spit out more blood. Eddie gently nudges his head forward so the blood drips down between his bent legs instead of down his throat. His hand stays on Buck’s back, warm and solid even though Buck’s shirt is probably gross and sweaty, and it’s kinda nice. Comforting.

“I don’t even know why you’re arguing with me,” Eddie says. “I’m the one who can see your nose and I don’t even need my EMT training to see that it’s definitely broken.”

“It can’t be broken,” Buck protests, more to the universe in general than Eddie. “The wedding is in a week, Eds. Maddie is going to kill me.”

“At least it wasn’t really your fault,” Eddie offers, sounding like he doesn’t think that will help Buck’s case at all.

“I’m so fucked,” Buck sighs around more blood. “Please avenge me when I’m gone.”

Eddie rolls his eyes again. “Why don’t we work on minimising the damage first, then we can plan out your revenge fantasy later?”

“Ice pack?” Buck asks hopefully.

“Uh.” Eddie looks around, like maybe one might magically appear in the middle of the park they were running through. “You might have to wait until we get to urgent care for that.”

Buck groans. Somehow, that makes fresh blood gush from his nose because the human body hates him personally. He pinches his nostrils gingerly, trying to find the sweet spot between stopping the bleeding and not making it hurt more. He doesn’t really succeed, but if there’s one thing he’s good at it, it’s being in pain, so Buck just gives up and takes it. It’s not like it’s his first broken nose. Or his second.

“Don’t even try,” Eddie says, pre-empting him before he can speak. “Your options are urgent care or the ER.”

“They’re probably just going to tell me to take painkillers and not bump it until it heals.”

Eddie has pulled out his phone, one-handed, probably to google where the closest urgent care is.

“I’m not listening to you,” he says.

“Not even if I have ice packs in my car?”

Eddie pauses, looking up from his phone. “Of course you do.” Like he’s kicking himself for not thinking of that before. “This doesn’t get you out of urgent care, though.”

Buck sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

He crosses his eyes trying to look at his nose, closing one eye and then the other, but he still can’t see how bad the break might be. He’s pretty sure it can’t be worse than when he took a hockey stick to the face in high school, at least. Between the broken nose and the orbital blowout, his face was swollen for weeks. That one has got to be in the top ten worst injuries he’s had, Buck thinks, and then wonders whether he should be worried that he has been injured enough times to have a top ten.

“Come on.” Eddie stands, not asking this time before he reaches out and takes Buck’s hand to pull him to his feet as well. “The sooner we go, the sooner we get out of there.”

And then they can go home. Buck doesn’t need to ask to know that they’ll be going together, probably back to Eddie’s house, and they’ll cook dinner, and exaggerate the broken nose story for Chris, and maybe, if Buck is lucky, he’ll fall asleep with his head on Eddie’s shoulder while they all watch a movie together. He’ll wake up bleary and content, probably with a blanket thrown over him, and when he makes half-hearted noises about going home, Eddie will just roll his eyes and say, “Don’t be ridiculous, Buck, you’re staying.”

So Buck will stay.

In the face of all that, even hours waiting in the uncomfortable plastic chairs at urgent care doesn’t seem so bad. Especially when Buck starts tapping his fingers on his thigh, waiting anxiously for this name to be called, and Eddie reaches out and takes his hand. He squeezes gently, a silent reassurance, and Buck lets himself daydream, for a moment, that the injury isn’t there at all.

#Evan Buckley #Eddie Diaz #911 Fox #fic #badthingshappenbingo #to nobody's surprise I continue to write them being stupidly in love but also just stupid with each other

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dangerpronebuddie · 3 months

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I HAVE TO PICK ONE?! Sigh. Fine.

BTHB: Verbal Abuse

Hi my darling Tanis 🩵 (who says there's a limit?)

With the way s7 ended, it presented the perfect plot for Verbal Abuse. Long story short, Chris wants to go home and Helena fights Eddie about it. Every sentence out of that woman's mouth is a judgement or a disparagement, so she's perfect for this prompt. (Did I add some good ol' fashioned projecting? Maybe 😅).

Did I write more on this wip as soon as I saw your ask? Most definitely. I was stuck. You got me unstuck! Thank you lovely. Muah! 😘

(p.s. I know it's not the actual argument, but we're getting there 😉)

"Go for Buck," he mumbles as soon as he answers. "Buck, I know it's late, and I'm sorry, but I-" "Hey, whoa, Eds it's okay," Buck says, sounding much more awake now. "What's wrong?" Eddie sniffs and huffs a ghost of a laugh. "He wants to come home." There's a hiccupped gasp on the other end, followed by rustling. "Really?" "Yeah," Eddie says. "I um... would you come with me?" "Yes," Buck says before Eddie can finish asking the question. "Of course I will, Eds. Give me half an hour." Buck hangs up, leaving Eddie standing in his empty living room that doesn't feel so lonely for a change. He and Chris aren't completely okay yet, he knows it'll take time, but they can't heal until they acknowledge the wound is there at all. Eddie doesn't know how long he stands there, staring at Chris' place on the couch, before keys jingle beyond the door. Buck rushes in and tackles Eddie in a tight hug. "He wants to come home," he whispers against Eddie's neck. "He wants to come home," Eddie says, a smile spreading across his face even as tears fill his eyes. Buck squeezes extra tight before pulling back to beam at Eddie, his smile brighter than it's been in months. "Let's go get our kid."

Ask about my wips! 🩷

#tag game #wip tag game #maggie writes #Tanis 🩵#Maggie answers #911 #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911 abc #fanfic #buddie wip #verbal abuse fic

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devirnis · 7 months

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WIP Wednesday 🤧

tagged by @tizniz @daffi-990 @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @wildlife4life @exhuastedpigeon @disasterbuckdiaz @honestlydarkprincess @malewifediaz @princessfbi MWAH TO YOU ALL 💋

Now that smutfic is finally done, my brain has capacity to focus on other things now and I've started noodling away at a prompt/next BTHB fill "sneezing" - asthma attack fic:

“Here, drink this.” Hen thrusts a paper cup into his hands and Buck brings it up to his lips without another thought as she climbs past him and into the ambulance. He takes a few deep gulps, only registering after the last mouthful that he’s tasting coffee and cinnamon. Chim’s going to be so pissed I drank his coffee, Buck thinks distantly as he takes another swig.

if you wanna @bigfootsmom @shortsighted-owl @spaceprincessem @sibylsleaves @eddiebabygirldiaz @giddyupbuck @jeeyuns @bvckandeddie @loserdiaz @eowon @shitouttabuck @messyhairdiaz @oatflatwhite @lemonzestywrites @rainbow-nerdss @underwater-ninja-13 @thewolvesof1998 @fortheloveofbuddie 💜

#wip wednesday #tag games #mywip #asthma attack fic #911

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amatchinwater · 6 months

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Pairing: Stackson

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Jackson Whittemore, Donovan Donati, Vernon Boyd

Tags/warnings: hate speech/derogatory language, homophobia, homophobic language, Donovan just really sucks, mild violence (he got the back eye somehow)

Words: 2663

Prompt: BTHB square Black Eye

Ao3 link Masterlist

You’d really think Stiles would’ve learned by now. Coming out of the closet is not easy. That much he can give Donovan credit for. And in no way, shape, or form will you catch Stiles forcing the matter. As nice as it would be to be public with Donovan and whatever you’d classify their relationship as. That’s something to be done when and how the other boy feels comfortable, not Stiles.

All he can do is remind Donovan that he will be there as support when he’s ready.

There’s just one tiny- okay major- problem.

Stiles is beginning to suspect that Donovan might be homophobic.

Even someone deep in the closet isn’t typically rude enough to shun someone in the halls. With something as simple as a hello or a small wave, Donati gives him this look. A nasty thing as if Stiles had spit in the boy’s face rather than offered pleasantries. And whenever he- politely- asks when they might put a label on them, even if in private, Donovan always has the same answer.

He’d rather be caught dead than with a guy.

But even with that, Stiles can’t bring himself to walk away. Call it codependency if you want, but he just doesn’t want to be alone. Granted, Stiles has his pack. Derek, Erica, Boyd, Isaac, and Jackson. But that’s not the same kind of companionship he’s looking for.

So what’s a little heartache in exchange for the companionship he is looking for?

A small price.

At least that’s what Stiles usually tells himself. Because it’s not like he could just walk up to– no, he’s not going there. Stiles’ heart and brain are already damaged enough, there’s no need to add insult to injury here.

His phone dings in his pocket as he’s walking out of school.

>>Usual spot, 5 mins

A demand, not a request. Stiles would be lying if he said that shit wasn’t getting on his last nerve.

K<<

With a sigh, Stiles shoves his phone back in his pocket, knowing full and well he’s about to leave this situation feeling worse than better. Maybe being alone wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He probably wouldn’t feel sick every time he hears that text tone.

When he gets to the music room, he can already see Donovan inside waiting for him. The other boy hasn’t noticed him yet, so Stiles takes a moment to try and turn his heart off. Can’t be affected by what you can’t feel. Right?

The music room makes sense as a good spot to meet up because ever since the teacher was killed last year, the school has yet to find a replacement. It’s never used.

As much as Stiles doesn’t want to feel loneliness, he wishes he had the strength to end this. Whatever this is.

Maybe one day.

Stiles knocks twice, once, and then three times before opening the door. It’s a code Donovan made up to ensure they know who’s coming in. Especially since the boy’s locker room is only two doors over and lacrosse practice is going on right now.

But when their eyes meet, Stiles knows deep in his bones, if he’s ever getting out, he has to do it now. There’s so much anger in the other boy’s eyes. If they’re meeting up to make out, shouldn’t Donovan be at least a little happy? Not like he’s filled with resentment.

Screw worrying about being alone. He’s got his pack and they love him. For now, it’s going to have to be enough. Because their love doesn’t come with a toxicity clause. It’s warm and genuine.

“What took you so long?” Donovan snaps.

Not out of worry if Stiles is okay. But for making him wait. For prolonging the risk of being caught. That much is evident in the way the other boy keeps looking behind Stiles, checking the window on the door for people passing by.

No one suspects a goddamn thing between them. Well, Stiles is sure his pack has smelled Donovan on him after their encounters. But they’ve never said anything to anyone; not even Stiles.

“I had to go the long way,” he explains, “the main entrance was already locked.” That’s not what he’s concerned about so Stiles adds, “no one saw me.”

“Good,” Donovan nods, “let’s hope not. I can’t be seen with you.”

Charming.

How did Stiles not get sick of this sooner?

Donovan quickly closes the distance between them, hands reaching out and eyes half closed.

“No,” Stiles pushes against the other boy’s chest to keep distance.

“What do you mean no?”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Stiles takes a step back, not liking the dark glare from those nearly black eyes. “I’m out. It’s more than okay that you’re not. But I’m tired of hiding who I am.”

Suddenly Donovan’s hands are around his throat, showing Stiles against the wall and forcing his tongue in his mouth.

Stiles’ face contorts, not even remotely kissing back and trying to push Donovan off. Stiles is all for a hand around his throat. But this hurts and he can’t fucking breathe, blackness beginning to shadow the edges of his vision.

“You’re disgusting, you know that?” Donovan sneers, wiping his mouth clean as if he wasn’t the one to force the kiss.

Stiles should’ve bit the fucker.

“Disgusting and so fucking wrong. Who are you going to turn to, huh? No one is going to want to touch someone like you.”

Stiles’ newfound backbone settles into place. He scoffs, “I’m wrong? Me? The only thing wrong here is you. Treating me like garbage when I actually liked you.”

Donovan doesn’t take a moment to digest Stiles’ words or even have half of a thought. He just rears back and punches Stiles right in the face. Really fucking hard. The force makes Stiles stumble, lose his footing, and fall on the floor.

“Don’t be such a fag,” Donovan seethes before snatching his bag up and storming out of the room.

Stiles’ face is throbbing, one eye watering and stinging so badly he doesn’t even want to open it. Can’t. Collecting himself, he gets off the ground. Brushing his pants off, Stiles quietly leaves the room. Not once does he stop until he’s pulling his jeep into the driveway.

It’s not his first time taking a hit to the face, he used to play lacrosse for fuck’s sake. But it was the first in that setting. In that…way.

Silver lining?

He’s free of Donovan.

Luckily, his dad was working a double shift last night, so he didn’t see the mess that was his son. And thankfully, with one sacrificial bag of frozen peas later, the swelling of Stiles’ eye went down. The small cut on his cheekbone is nothing of consequence. Something easily explained away by his clumsy nature. The major problem?

The very obvious black eye.

Even Stiles isn’t graceless enough to give himself a shiner. Litter his arms, legs, and sides with them? For sure. But usually if he hits his face it was from doing something stupid like the one time he was trying to make a rubber band ball. He used too small of a band and when it snapped it got him right in the chin. A nice little cut that he wore for three days. But never a black eye.

He avoided his pack last night so as not to cause any problems. Although Jackson, his childhood best friend, showed up at his goddamn house after practice. Stiles lied his ass off that he was nauseous and should be left alone. Not because Jackson might get sick. No, don’t worry, the jock reminded Stiles numerous times that he’s immune because he’s a werewolf.

Stiles just kept pushing how gross it was and that his best friend didn’t need to see that.

Jackson responded in kind that nothing could be more gross than walking in on Stiles jerking himself off when they were going through puberty. Which, thanks. Great boost to his ego there, Jax, truly. In the end, the wolf backed off once Stiles promised he’d call if he needed anything.

But now Stiles has to go to school. Lydia is off on some college tour, so it’s not like he can call her for a quick cover up. She and her makeup are states away. No staying home either. His dad would get a call at work and that’s just not something he wants to deal with. A small fib to Jackson is one thing, but Stiles is sure his dad is desensitized to his lies, it just wouldn’t work.

Maybe he can get away with staying in the library or getting a note from the nurse.

That’s probably the best course of action. If he tells the nurse he’s throwing up, they won’t call his dad and just let him leave.

Stiles intends to do just that. He hides in the boy’s bathroom, waiting for the first bell to ring. He’s got his old, oversized lacrosse hoodie on to hide his face. But the fewer people in the halls, the better. It also runs less of a risk in seeing his pack right now. They would all collectively lose their minds.

Possibly their composure as well.

Jackson has proved since they were young that he won’t tolerate people bullying Stiles. Can’t threaten what you don’t know about though. Erica would burn the school down then ask what idiot hurt him. Boyd would just give them a Derek level death glare to ensure they never even looked at Stiles again. Isaac could go either way. It would depend on the situation. A black eye would probably constitute a broken bone or two.

Best to avoid them.

Or at least until tomorrow when Lydia and her makeup bag are back in Beacon Hills and can help Stiles cover this up.

The bell rings, startling Stiles in the quiet stall. He waits until the voices have mostly ceased to poke his head out. But when he does, he catches a glimpse of Donovan walking towards his locker. Almost choking on a breathy squeak, Stiles disappears back into the bathroom.

Not without hearing Jackson call, “Stiles?”

Fuck.

Stiles rushes back into the stall to hide. If anything, it’ll keep up the façade that he’s ill. Hell, he feels so nauseous after seeing Donovan that he might actually throw up from anxiety alone.

The bathroom door opens and two sets of footsteps come in.

This is just not Stiles’ week.

“Stiles, what’s going on?” Jackson asks, voice full of concern.

It warms Stiles’ heart that his best friend cares this much. If Jackson wasn’t painfully straight, maybe the whole Donovn situation could’ve been avoided.

Again, he’s not thinking about that.

“You can’t hide from me,” Jackson says, “even if I couldn’t smell you, I can hear your heartbeat anywhere. Come on out.”

That shouldn’t blanket Stiles’ heart the way that it does. Jax only means because they’re best friends. That’s it. Just friends.

“Stiles, we just want to make sure you’re alright,” Boyd adds, confirming the wonder of the second set of feet. “You know you can talk to us.”

They won’t leave without seeing him. Stiles knows they won’t. Time to face the music. Ever so slowly, he unlocks the door, stepping out hood up and chin tucked. “I don’t feel well, I’m just going to go home.”

“If you were sick, you could’ve just said so,” Boyd chuckles.

Jackson snorts, “Well at least this time it sounds like the truth.”

Without thinking, Stiles looks up to snap at the wolf, except doesn’t get a chance to speak. He immediately realizes his mistake.

Boyd mutters, “oh shit.”

Eyes flashing blue, Jackson snarls, “Who did it?” Despite his tone, he carefully grabs Stiles’ chin to get a better look.

“Just drop it, Jax,” Stiles jerks his head and shoves the wolf’s hand away. “It’s nothing,” he says, avoiding eye contact and keeping the black eye facing away from them.

“Fuck that,” Jackson grabs his chin again, forcing eye contact while somehow remaining gentle. “Who. Did. It?” Every word is growled.

He’s pissed. Stiles may now hate Donovan, but he doesn’t want to see the guy dead. He fiddles with his fingers, not looking at either wolf. What Stiles wouldn’t give to not have a conscience right now.

His best friend laughs humorlessly, “It was Donati, wasn’t it?”

Stiles says nothing. Not that it matters. He feels it the moment his heart betrays him with a skip. And the wolves definitely heard it too.

“What are we doing?” Boyd asks, muscles flexing in his arms as he crosses them tighter.

“Find him,” Jackson growls.

All it takes is a nod of his head towards Jackson and Boyd dutifully walks out.

“I knew I should’ve snapped his neck when the whole thing started.” Jackson snorts, “and Erica said I was just being jealous.”

There’s so much to unpack in those two simple sentences.

“How did you possibly know?” Stiles opts for the least confusing of the wolf’s statements. “We were so careful.”

Jackson’s face is as deadpan as his tone, “It’s like you forget I’m a werewolf or something. As if I couldn’t hear the two of you if practice got out early. Even then, we can all smell him on you.”

Right.

That’s totally a thing Stiles thought about, he’s just still confused right now.

His best friend laughs at the face Stiles pulls. “Come on, let's get you to Derek’s where you’ll be safe until Boyd finds Donati. Get you something for that cut too.”

The care from the wolf and the gentle way Jackson wraps his arm around Stiles’ shoulder almost has him forgetting the other comment.

“Hang on,” Stiles shrugs his arm off, facing the wolf. He simply cannot get the thought of Jackson being jealous out of his head. Stiles can feel it niggling away at his brain.

He has to ask before his mind actually combusts.

“Why did Erica say you were jealous? Did you think he was going to steal your best friend away or something?” It’s the most logical reason he can think of.

“I–” Jackson looks away, his eyes trailing back slowly, uttering a soft, “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then–” Stiles’ heart slams in his ribcage, he can’t breathe. Does Jackson like Donovan? Had Stiles been wrong about the wolf’s sexual preferences all along? He clears his throat, doing his best not to stutter, asking “Then why?”

“Are you really going to make me spell it out?” Jackson asks with no heat. Not even the usual sarcasm in his tone that they share can be found.

Stiles flails his arms. Because obviously yes, he’s missing something here.

“That would be nice, yes.”

Jackson chews his lip, contemplating his words. Stiles can see the war raging in his best friend’s mind behind beautiful blue eyes. The wolf growls.

“Screw it,” he says, cupping Stiles’ cheeks and slamming their mouths together.

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit!

Holy shit!

He could’ve had Jackson! Stiles didn’t have to be lonely? His gorgeous best friend has feelings for him and Stiles had no idea the wolf even liked guys. He would’ve tried something. Flirted at the very least. Can you blame him? Even someone blind would know Jackson is stunning. And he actually cares about Stiles too.

Stiles was a little frozen from shock that he didn’t kiss back right away. A very soft, small whine rumbles in the back of the wolf’s throat and he goes to pull away. Stiles curls his fists in Jackson’s expensive shirt, keeping their mouths firmly pressed together. He never wants to hear that sound again.

“I didn’t know,” Stiles whispers.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Jackson strokes his cheek. “Just say the word and I’ll snap his neck. I promise.”

“No, Stiles mutters, brushing their noses together. “I just need you.”

Jackson smiles, “You’ve got me,” leaning in to kiss him again.

#teen wolf #stackson #stiles stilinski #jackson whittemore #stiles x jackson #jackson x stiles #bad things happen bingo #Match Writes

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buckybarnesfanfiction · 2 months

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AUGUSTOFWHUMP DAY #2

Day 2: iv / shock / cry for help

Other prompts: BTHB: public torture/exucation

The title was inspired by the song 'Army Dreamers' by Kate Bush.

youtube

Character: Bucky Barnes

Summary:

Bucky's time at Azzano POW camp...

ao3 link:

Wattpad link:

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AUGUSTOFWHUMP '24 prompt list: https://www.tumblr.com/augustofwhump/749218851036790784/day-1-here-we-come?source=share

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WARNINGS‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️: Abuse, War, Violence, BLOOD, Hurt, WHUMP!!!, etc.

DON’T READ IF UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THESE TOPICS/TAGS!!!! ⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️

There is no sexual content in this btw….

Fanfic under cut:

Bucky stumbled, falling in the freezing mud. Rain poured down on his collapsed form, soaking him. He wished he was anywhere but here.

“Move,” shouted a soldier with a heavy German accent, ramming his metal-studded boot into Bucky’s side.

The sergeant scrambled up, falling back down twice before managing it. A rough hand in the middle of his back, shoving him forward. Stumbling again, Bucky attempted to follow the rest of the men around him.

The members of the 107th regiment were marched through the gates of Azzano by German HYDRA soldiers holding rifles to their back.

Those going too slow, or the ones who were holding the Germans up were shot and kicked down the steep slopes of the mountains they were walking across.

And Bucky was just tired. He was sick of fighting. He was sick of everything.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Despite all the stories, the whispered horror stories told at night, and the twisted retellings of nightmares from the veterans back in the States, nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared Bucky for this. For what he would see sacrificing everything for his country.

The long, sleepless nights on the hard, freezing dirt, the long, horrid marches to places they’ve never heard of, being cooped up in those god awful trenches next to dying soldiers he didn’t know or care for, just praying desperately to the god- that he didn’t believe in anymore- that he wouldn’t have to be forced to die a slow and painful death.

But whoever was listening to his whispered, desperate prayers- if there even was someone- was laughing in his face.

He was sure of it.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The gates of Azzano were forboarding, unforgiving. Hellish, dark. Evil. As Bucky and his men were marched through them, they looked around, only seeing hollow-eyed prisoners and their filthy clothes, their greasy hair, and skinny frames.

It would only be a matter of time before they looked just like them.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky was roughly shoved into a dirty cell, one of many in a long hallway filled with them. The cell was barely big enough for him, let alone him, Dum-Dum, Junior Juniper, and Jones.

The air smelled like piss, vomit, blood, and pain.

So much pain.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky knew that even if he somehow survived this, somehow got back home, somehow got away from this godforsaken place that smelled of piss and blood, there would always be some small, almost microscopic piece of him trapped back here among the corpses of his men and bloody mud.

If he made it home, he couldn’t risk being around his family. His friends. He would bring unwanted pain into their lives. And ruin them.

That’s what happened to his father. A Romanian immigrant who was drafted to fight for America in the Great War.

When he came back, he came back different. He became dangerous. Violent. One with the bottle. Bucky couldn’t let that happen to him.

He couldn’t.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bleak courtyard of the Azzano camp was a desolate field of mud and misery, framed by the ominous gates and barbed wire fences. Rain poured down, turning the ground into a treacherous quagmire, the chill seeping into the bones of every prisoner. The Nazis had called for a public assembly, and a sense of dread settled over the captured soldiers of the 107th regiment as they were herded into the open space.

Bucky stood in the front row, his uniform soaked and clinging to his emaciated frame. The rainwater mixed with mud on his skin, making him shiver uncontrollably. He tried to brace himself for what was to come, knowing that today would be another day of horror.

A HYDRA officer, tall and imposing in his dark coat and polished boots, stepped onto a makeshift platform. His eyes scanned the crowd with cold detachment before he began to speak in a heavy German accent.

"These men," he said, gesturing to a group of prisoners bound and kneeling at the foot of the platform, "have been caught attempting to escape. Let their punishment serve as a reminder to you all: resistance is futile, and defiance will be met with severe consequences."

The officer nodded to his subordinates, and the torture began. The air was filled with the sickening sound of flesh being struck and the agonized cries of the prisoners. Whips cracked, fists pounded, and boots stomped with brutal precision. Bucky's stomach churned as he watched his comrades being beaten mercilessly, their blood mixing with the mud at their feet.

The officer’s gaze fell on Bucky. With a sadistic smile, he pointed directly at him. "You,” he barked, “Step forward."

Bucky hesitated for a fraction of a second, but the sharp prod of a rifle butt in his back forced him to comply. He stumbled forward, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Strip him," the officer commanded.

Two guards moved in, tearing Bucky's shirt from his body, exposing his pale, rain-slicked skin. The cold air bit into him, but it was nothing compared to the dread coursing through his veins.

"Hold him," the officer ordered.

The guards grabbed Bucky’s skinny, once muscular arms, holding him in place. The officer produced a thin, black rod from his coat- a cattle prod. He approached Bucky slowly, relishing in the sadistic pleasure of the moment.

"This is what happens to those who harbor thoughts of rebellion," he said, raising the prod.

Bucky clenched his teeth, bracing for the inevitable. The prod connected with his side, sending a jolt of excruciating pain through his body. He convulsed, unable to suppress a scream as the electricity coursed through him.

Again and again, the officer applied the prod, each time eliciting a fresh scream from Bucky. The other prisoners watched in horror, their spirits crushed by the display of cruelty. Bucky’s vision blurred, the edges of his consciousness fraying with each agonizing shock.

Finally, the officer stepped back, a satisfied look on his face. Bucky hung limply in the grip of the guards, his body trembling uncontrollably.

"Let this be a lesson," the officer declared to the assembled prisoners. "Obedience will be rewarded. Defiance will be punished."

With a dismissive gesture, he signaled for the guards to release Bucky. They let him drop into the mud, his body too weak to stand. As the assembly was dismissed and the prisoners were herded back to their barracks, Bucky lay there, rain washing over him, his mind a haze of pain and despair.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

There were a lot of things to hate about war. There were a lot more things people fighting in it could hate about war.

Bucky hated many things, but he hated the trenches the most. Being trapped, confined, with absolutely nowhere to run. Nowhere. Forced to aim, pull the trigger, to kill, to watch as the men you started to consider friends, family were blown up, shot, or died of disease. Sometimes all of the above.

Or eating the shitty, moldy rations that were passed out, clinging to the small hope that they would last through the night. That you wouldn't die of hunger in the night.

Having little to no rest, forced to be constantly on alert in case of an attack that would always come. Even when he did manage a few meager hours of sleep, it was never long enough, as his dreams were constantly plagued with fear and paranoia. The need to be always ready. Always fighting.

He wished he didn’t, but he understood now.

He understood why the men who’d come home had shot themselves, woken up screaming, punching, pleaded with wild eyes not to go back. Begging to not be shipped back, shoved into uniforms too big, and guns forced into their hands.

He understood his father. His father who had come home and went straight for the liquor. Who hit his mom. Who hit him and his sisters. He understood.

Thinking of his family made him start to gag. Because he didn’t know if he had a family to come home to. Bucky didn’t even have anything to go back to. Both of his parents had died, and Becca had her new family with her husband and baby coming. Wait- Becca was pregnant when he was shipped out, so the baby has already been born- oh, no. He missed his nieces’ or nephew’s birth. Bucky started to tear up in this dingy, awful-smelling cell.

Fuck.

Steve.

That’s all he had. Steve.

The best case scenario, sadly, was that he’d come home to Brooklyn and have maybe a couple more years with Steve before he died in the middle of winter because Bucky couldn’t afford anything and to choose- food for himself or medicine for Stevie. He always chose medicine. The ridiculous, barely-working, overpriced medicine.

Always.

It was so fucking stupid, amd it made Bucky want to yell, cry, and to just end it all. But he didn’t. He never did. He just soldiered on, and ignored his struggles and thoughts. They all did.

It was something, he supposed. He had the other soldiers with him. They had some sense of camaraderie, a way to not be totally lost and alone.

He hated seeing them die. Losing his friends, watching the light leave their eyes, seeing their corpses fall limp in the cold, disgusting mud… fucking hell, at this point, they were more than that, much, much more. After all the shit they experienced together, they were practically family. His only family.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The clanging of machinery filled the air as the prisoners of war were marched into the factory, their faces etched with exhaustion and defeat. The HYDRA guards, with slick, clean rifles slung across their shoulders, barked orders in German- which they didn’t understand- their voices sharp and unforgiving. The factory was a sprawling complex of warped iron and steel, filled with the acrid smell of burning metal and the hum of the machines at work.

Bucky, with his shoulders slumped and eyes hollow, shuffled forward with the rest of the prisoners. The guards herded them into different sections of the factory, each man assigned a grueling task meant to break their spirits and sap their strength. He was lead in the direction of a massive assembly line where he would be forced to produce ammunition for the enemy.

"Get to work!" a guard shouted, shoving Bucky towards a station where heavy metal sheets waited to be fed into a cutting machine.

Bucky's hands, calloused and trembling, grasped the cold steel. He fed the sheets into the machine, the blades slicing through the metal with a deafening screech. Each movement was a struggle, his body protesting the effort after weeks of malnutrition and abuse. The hours blurred together in a relentless cycle of labor, pain, and the oppressive presence of the guards.

Bucky saw Jim Morita struggling to lift a heavy crate a few feet from him. Jim's face was pale, his eyes sunken from lack of sleep and food. Bucky wanted to help him, but the ever-watchful eyes of the guards made it impossible. He had learned the hard way that any act of solidarity was met with quick and brutal punishment.

The factory was a painting of hell. The heat from the furnaces made the air almost unbearable to breathe, and the noise was a constant assault on their senses. They were being pushed to their limits, and those who faltered were met with the harsh end of a guard's rifle or the cruel lash of a whip.

During a brief ‘break’, Bucky managed to exchange a few words with Jim. They crouched in the shadow of a massive machine, their voices barely above a whisper.

"How are you holding up, Jim?" Bucky asked, his voice rough from disuse.

Jim shook his head, wiping sweat from his brow. "Barely, Buck. I don't know how much longer I can do this."

Bucky didn’t know how to respond to that. He felt the same way. It was too hard to be hopeful when you were starving and forced to work eighteen hour days, knowing your family back home had no one to care for them. Well, that was if you had a family back in the States.

Their conversation was cut short by a guard's shout. "Back to work, you dogs!"

Bucky and Jim scrambled to their feet, returning to their stations. The hours dragged on, each minute a test of endurance and willpower. Bucky's muscles burned, and his vision swam with exhaustion, but he forced himself to keep moving. He couldn't afford to stop. None of them could.

As the day finally drew to a close, the prisoners were lined up, counted, and marched back to their barracks. Bucky's body ached with every step, but his mind was already focused on the next day, the next battle for survival.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the end, despite everything, despite all the effort, despite all the faith he’d had, it didn’t matter how hard he tried. It didn’t to the fading, delusional hopeful wish that he’d get to see the end of the war, get back home, that he’d get to be with Steve. Maybe even get to have something slightly resembling a messed-up, blurry picture of a family. It didn’t matter how many nights he’d barely slelpt, tossing, turning, curled up on the rock-hard dirt, under the sheet they called a blanket- the one that was barely enough to protect him from the cold or wind, god forbid rain or snow- in what he once dared called a tent. It didn’t fucking matter.

Nothing did.

It never did.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The factory's cacophony of machinery and the acrid smell of molten metal created an atmosphere of constant dread and exhaustion. Bucky, shoulders hunched and hands blistered, fed yet another sheet of cold steel into the cutting machine. Each second felt like an eternity in this industrial hell, where the guards’ eyes bore into them, ready to pounce on any sign of weakness.

Bucky's eyes strayed across the assembly line to the adjacent station. A young soldier, whom he only knew by the name "Pete," struggled with a massive crate of metal parts. Pete’s movements were slow, his strength clearly waning from weeks of grueling labor and starvation. The guard stationed near him, a burly man with a cruel smirk, watched with thinly veiled anticipation.

Suddenly, Pete's knees buckled, and he dropped the crate with a resounding crash. The guard's smirk vanished, replaced by a furious snarl. He strode over, yanking Pete to his feet by the collar of his tattered uniform.

"No, please!" Pete's voice was hoarse with desperation. "I can do it. Just give me another chance!"

The guard’s response was a swift, brutal blow to Pete's stomach. The young soldier doubled over, gasping for breath. The other prisoners, Bucky included, kept their eyes down, hands moving mechanically as they worked, too afraid to intervene.

The guard grabbed Pete by the arm and started dragging him towards the factory's exit. Pete's pleas echoed through the cavernous space, each one a dagger to the hearts of those who heard it.

"Help me! Please, someone, help me!" Pete's voice was a desperate wail now, his feet scraping against the grimy floor as he struggled against the guard's grip.

Bucky's heart clenched. He wanted to do something, anything, to help Pete, but he knew any attempt to interfere would only result in more suffering—for Pete and himself. He locked eyes with Dum-Dum’s, who was working a few stations down. His expression mirrored Bucky's own helplessness and guilt.

As Pete was dragged out of sight, his cries became muffled, then abruptly cut off. The factory seemed even more oppressive in the ensuing silence, the other prisoners' movements more mechanical, their faces more hollow.

When the day's labor finally ended and the prisoners were herded back to their barracks, Bucky's body ached with exhaustion, but his mind was worse.

It always was.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

They’d all say they’d be safe. They told Bucky that his men and himself would be fine. Safe. Happy. As if anyone could be safe and happy lying in muddy trenches, drowning in the blood of your brothers in arms while getting shot at.

The enemy had gotten them. Even though he had given everything he had. Everything. Even though they’d say he’d be fine. Happy, even, fighting this war no one wanted to.

When he first saw that President Roosevelt signed the Selective Training and Service Act in the daily paper in the stands in the street- the papers he could afford because all of his salary went to medicine for Steve or the rent for the overpriced apartment- he knew.

He knew he would be chosen. He just knew. And he was. He had hidden the letter for weeks, not knowing how to break the news to Steve. He couldn’t just leave him. Not when he was always sick and couldn’t work.

So he picked up more hours at the dock, ran more errands for the shop keepers down the block. Did anything, and everything he could to scrap up enough money for a few months’ rent. He gave the money to Steve the night before he left, and oh god, Steve.

He thought he enlisted. He didn’t. He would never just leave Steve behind. But he thought he did. Stupid punk.

As Bucky had sat in the cramped, filthy cells with the other malnourished, broken men called soldiers, he knew he was done for. He’s never return to Steve. He’d never get to see his best friend again.

The thought made him nauseous. Made him sick. All he wanted was to see Steve. But that was awful. To see Steve is to have him here, because Bucky his never getting out of this fucking disgusting cell, of of the hell.

Seeing Steve meant subjecting his best friend to this nightmare. And he would never do that. Not now, not ever.

Bucky would never see Steve again. He was sure of that.

He’d heard all about the experiments HYDRA were doing on their prisoners. All of the men had.

And those fucking Nazis would take them, too. Take the strong, the weak. The defiant, the submissive. No one was safe. No one.

Not a single fucking one.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was going to die. He was sure of it. In some stupid, cold enemy country, far away from everything and everyone he ever knew and cared for. All alone. All fucking alone. For a cause he didn’t care for anymore. That he never did.

He hated everything. He hated this camp. He hated the guards. He hated the strachy army uniform he was allotted at the start of the war. He hated how he couldn’t shower. He hated the god that never showed up for him, even though he prayed, pleading. He hated the Nazis. He hated America. He hated the war. He hated everything.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky had been given a new job at the factory. Pushed a cart loaded with heavy metal parts. He kept his gaze down, trying to keep his exhaustion at bay. The others were just as bad. Dum-Dum was sick, Jim was getting weaker, and Junior, working a few stations down, appeared just as worn out as the rest, his shoulders slumped under the weight of his duties.

As they worked, the heavy iron door of the factory opened with a creak, and Zola strode in. His presence commanded immediate attention; even the noise of the factory seemed to diminish as he made his way through the maze of machinery. Zola’s eyes, sharp and calculating behind his round glasses, scanned the prisoners with clinical interest.

“Gentlemen,” Zola announced, his voice carrying an unsettling calm. “I am here to select new subjects for my research. We have made some very promising advancements, and I need fresh candidates.”

The guards fell in line behind Zola, their expressions unreadable. Bucky’s heart sank. Zola had a reputation for choosing the weakest or most vulnerable for his experiments, and the thought of one of them being taken for such a fate was terrifying.

The factory's oppressive noise and heat seemed to blur into a haze as Dr. Arnim Zola's cold eyes locked onto Junior Juniper. Bucky Barnes could only watch in despair as Zola's guards moved toward Junior, their intentions clear.

“No! Please!” Junior’s voice was raw with fear as he looked around, his pleas for help echoing off the factory walls. “Someone, help me!”

Despite his desperation, no one moved to intervene. The other prisoners, exhausted and terrified, could only watch as Zola approached. His gaze was clinical, devoid of empathy, as he assessed Junior with the precision of a scientist evaluating a specimen.

The guards grabbed Junior roughly, pulling him away from his work station. Zola’s hand rested on Junior’s shoulder with a firm, almost clinical grip.

“No, no, please,” Junior begged, trying to pull away. “I’m not strong enough! I—I can’t do this!”

Bucky's heart pounded in his chest. He had to do something. The sight of Junior being dragged away, his pleas falling on deaf ears, ignited a fierce resolve in Bucky. He had to save his friend, even if it meant risking his own life.

Spotting an unattended cart filled with metal parts nearby, Bucky seized the opportunity. Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, he lunged for the cart and shoved it with all his might. The cart, heavy with its load, careened across the floor toward Zola and the guards.

The crash of metal against metal was deafening. The cart collided with one of the guards, knocking him off balance and sending him crashing into a stack of crates. The sudden noise and chaos drew immediate attention, causing Zola to turn sharply toward the commotion.

“What is this madness?” Zola barked, his voice sharp with irritation. His eyes flared with anger as he saw the source of the disruption.

“Oops,” Bucky said, voice hoarse and rough, “it slipped.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zola had taken him.

Not Junior.

And for that, Bucky was grateful.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!!!!!

@augustofwhump

@painonthebrain

@badthingshappenbingo

#buckybarnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes whump #augustofwhump24 #auguestofwhump #whump challenge #whump fanfiction #idk what else to tag #bad things happen bingo

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chizue-witchery · 1 year

Text

⚜️. *. ⋆ Fandom: QSMP | Quackity SMP

⚜️. *. ⋆ Pairing: Jaiden Animations & Roier

⚜️. *. ⋆ Character/s: Jaiden Animations, Roier

⚜️. *. ⋆ Summary: Roier is holding her hands like she'll disappear from his grasp and she doesn't understand why. She's right here.

⚜️. *. ⋆ Word Count: 1,010

⚜️. *. ⋆ Warnings/Tags: major character death, hurt no comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, angst

⚜️. *. ⋆ Prompts/Squares Filled: "How many fingers am I holding up?" || @whumptober • Doesn't Realize They've Been Injured || @badthingshappenbingo • "Don't cry." || 100 Ways to say "I Love You" Challenge Prompt#39

Whumptober2023 Masterlist || BTHB Masterlist || 100WTSILY Masterlist

AO3

A/N: before clicking the read more, this is a disclaimer that they are the characters/cubitos and not the content creators themselves!! other than that, i hope you enjoyed reading my first ever whumptober entry! <3

"¿Cuántos dedos tengo en la mano?" A voice calls out to Jaiden; a voice she can barely recognize due to her ears ringing, squinting her eyes to try and recognize who is holding her hands tightly. She could feel a wet pooling sensation beside her, wondering what it could be.

"Mírame, Jaiden." Jaiden didn't even know she was off looking to the side, away from the face she could barely recognize, turning back to look at the face. She could barely make out any of the person's features but she recognized the bandanna that is currently wrapped around her hands.

Someone is holding her hands like she'll disappear from their grasp and she doesn't understand why. But she knows who owns that bandanna.

"Roier…?" She whispered, realizing how much it hurt to say something. Her throat burns and she doesn't know why.

Her vision is slowly clearing and she could see Roier's panicked expression; an expression Jaiden hasn't seen on him for a long time. She wonders why he is looking at her like that. His grip on her hands never seemed to waver, but she could feel them shaking.

"Jaiden," he said, his voice sounding calm and collected even though Roier's expression isn't. He lets go of one of her hands and lifts a finger. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Jaiden squints her eyes, her vision still not fully cleared. Still, she answers, "... four?"

Roier's brows furrowed. He repeated the question, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

She must have guessed wrong, then. She tries again. "Three?"

Roier shakes his head, then sighs. "It's one, Jaiden."

"Oh," is what all she says, not knowing how to respond to it. She must be out of it if she got it wrong twice.

Jaiden tries to get herself up, but Roier prevents her from doing so. "No te muevas, Jaiden– don't move," he tells Jaiden and she stops. "Las pociones no funcionarán contigo. Estas demasiado herido."

When Jaiden doesn't respond, Roier remembers she can't check the translation device due to it being broken during the impact. "The, ah, potions won't work on you. I don't want to risk it."

Roier would've already used a totem of undying to help her, but one has already been used on himself; still feeling the after effects of using it.

Jaiden slowly nods, wondering if it's just her or is her vision getting dark. Her head is starting to hurt too, shutting her eyes close to help ease the pain for a brief moment. "What.. happened..?"

Roier releases Jaiden's hands, wrapping an arm around her instead to keep her steady. "The Code attacked us while we were exploring." A pause. "Hice lo mejor que pude para protegerte, pero fallé…"

Jaiden hums and exhales a shaky breath. "Thank you for protecting me, Roier…"

"It wasn't enough," he retorted. "Aún te lastimaste y ahora estás—" He stops himself from continuing his words.

Jaiden didn't need the translation to know what he's talking about. She could feel it in the way the pool around her doesn't stop, even with the bandages wrapped around her waist. Her breaths are getting shorter and she opens her eyes so she can look at Roier one last time, even if it feels heavy.

"Thank you for being the best partner I could've had in taking care of Bobby," she slowly starts out and Roier's eyes widen.

"Cállate, Jaiden–" he says, "We're going to get through this. Don't—" His voice cracks at the end.

"It's okay," Jaiden whispers, lifting her hand to caress Roier's cheek, noticing the blood (her blood) smearing it. "It's okay…" she repeated softly.

Roier's eyes never leave hers as he places his free hand on top of hers, closing his eyes as a tear rolls down his cheek.

"Don't cry, Roier." She tells him with a smile while the tear droplets land on her face. "You'll… you're going to get through this…" Jaiden's smile never wavers even as more tears drop on her face. She only looks at him like she always does; safe. "You have Cellbit, Foolish, Forever– you have everyone by your side."

Roier shakes his head. "I won't have you."

"No… no, you won't." She slowly shakes her head. "But it's okay."

"It's not." told Roier, eyes brimming with more tears. "No puedo perderte también–"

Jaiden quietly shushes him as she lifts herself up a bit to press their foreheads together as she closes her eyes. "You're going to be okay."

Roier closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then he opens them once again to look at Jaiden. This will be the last time he'll see her. He can feel it's going to be the last time he'll see her.

She won't respawn and they both know it.

Which is why Jaiden tries her best to be strong for Roier even if her body hurts a thousand times more every time she moves. Because Roier has always been strong for both her and Bobby, it's time for her to be strong for him.

She stops holding Roier's cheek and wraps both of her arms around him, giving him comfort in her final moments because it's the only thing she can do.

Roier wraps his other arm around her, keeping her close because it's the only thing he can do. They're way too far and there isn't enough time to save Jaiden's life.

It's the end.

"Te quiero mucho, Jaiden…" he whispers to her as the sun sets behind them.

"I love you too, Roier," she whispers back to him as her hold on him loosens, feeling colder and colder by the second.

"Saluda a Bobby de mi parte…"

Jaiden never got to hear his last words, her eyes closed with a contented smile as she slumps over Roier.

She never got to hear Roier cry nor did she feel him shake her body as he tells her to wake up over and over again until he had to be dragged away from her body.

Jaiden's gone and Roier breaks.

#whumptober #whumptober2023 #no.1 #how many fingers am i holding up?#qsmp #fic #jaiden animations #roier #qjaiden #qroier #major character death tw #badthingshappenbingo #100 ways to say i love you

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