azulas-badjokes

[azulas-badjokes]

Seventh Soldier

So this is a fanfic I’ve been writing, slowly chipping at over several months. It is an OC x Bucky Barnes, that OC being a self-insert of me. If you hate it, let me know and I’ll stop if it’s cringe. On with the Show!

Seventh Soldier

warnings: uhhhh, depressing?, torture, biting, murder, blood, sadness?, (idk I’ve never done this), hot woman

Blood caked the side of her head. She had been so foolish as to allow the clever Venezuelan an opportunity, and he had taken it, smashing the handle of the pistol into the side of her cranium. Before he could continue the barrage, a slug nailed him in the chest and he fell. 

The Winter Soldier lowered the gun slowly. To say the pair of them had left a mess was an understatement. 12 men sprawled haphazardly, knives sticking out of them, blood coating the hotel floor. But it was quiet. She slowly got to her feet, putting her hand to her head, feeling the hot, sticky blood. 

“We should go,” She said softly in Russian. The Winter Soldier turned to go, but then she collapsed with a groan. He picked her up easily and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. They had places to be. 

Bucky woke with a start. Nightmares chased him constantly, so much so that sleeping was dreaded. He ran his hands through his hair, still long. He didn’t have the heart to cut it. 

Bucky kept seeing the same thing, every night. He had hoped to forget her, and those sad hazel eyes watching him. She hadn’t pitied him, she had loved him, and that was so much worse. 

James Buchanan Barnes watched the news that night, the flashing blue light being the only illumination in his Brooklyn apartment. There was a group of terrorists who had robbed a Swiss bank, calling themselves the Flag Smashers. Bucky could tell by their movements that they were super soldiers. Not welled trained ones, but nevertheless, still juiced up on the blue drug. 

Bucky clicked the television off, deep in thought. Somebody needed to do something, and he hated to be the leader. But he also hated to be the bystander. If these terrorists weren’t stopped, people would die. 

These extremist groups were always quick to get to the worst. 

Far across the pond called the Atlantic, high in a London penthouse, sat a girl. She was bent over her laptop, working on a plan. This plan could not be interrupted or paused for any reason. It would be so satisfying to see the looks on their faces when they saw that she was alive. 

One more appointment, Bucky thought to himself. Of course, that’s what he said every week as he trudged to therapy. He couldn’t see how repeating every horrible thing he had done would help bring “closure”, it seemed pointless.

But here Bucky was, sitting on a plush couch, wishing he was back in Wakanda or doing something. 

“Look, James, I can’t help you if you can’t help yourself.” His therapist broke through his thoughts. 

“What if I don’t want help?” Was his snarky reply. She shook her head and pulled out her notebook. He glanced at the clock. 45 more minutes. 

“Fine. I crossed off a name.”

“Very good, and did you remember the rules?”

“What are the rules again?”

“Nobody gets hurt, kind of a big one.”

“Yeah,” replied Bucky, lying through his teeth. If the idiot in the passenger seat hadn’t pulled a gun, he probably wouldn’t be in the hospital. 

“What else?”

“It was a senator who used me to get her power, and she’d been abusing it for some time. She was turned over to the authorities.”

“Very good. Not seeking revenge is good.”

Bucky disagreed. 

The 45 minutes passed excruciatingly slow, but when they did, Bucky bolted out. He despised the room, with its birch tree wallpaper and tasteless decor. He wanted right now, more than anything, someone who could listen. Steve would have listened, but Steve was currently enjoying a life of ease. 

Bucky didn’t go to the apartment, rather he took the subway down to the CIA office. He had slowly become friends with the people who worked there, helping him search through records, determining to bring to justice the rest of HYDRA. 

“Hey Bucky!” The receptionist was Jade, the happy-go-lucky intern, that had a habit of being really friendly. She clacked away at a computer, tossing her braids over her shoulder. 

“Hello Jade. I was wondering if you had anything on the flag smashers?” Bucky asked. Jade sucked in a breath between her teeth. 

“Sorry, that’s pretty confidential stuff, but I did hear they might be looking for volunteers to go spy, or inform, as they say. Seems like everyone who goes against these guys gets beat pretty badly.”

“Wait, we’ve already tried to stop them?”

“We’ve had a couple run-ins with them, and it hasn’t ended well. Couple of our guys are still in ICU.” 

“That’s too bad.”

“Bucky! Just the man we’re looking for.” It was Darrell Freedly, the head of the office in Brooklyn. “Can I speak to you for a second?”

Darrell sat down and shuffled some of the papers on his desk before handing a file to Bucky. 

“That’s everything we have on the flag smashers. The rumor is that a former HYDRA scientist manufactured the serum for them,” Darrell said, stroking his bearded chin. 

“This Nagel guy? I don’t know him, but then again I spent 30 years in a Russian bunker. He’s in Madripoor?” Bucky asked, his stormy eyes roving over the file. 

“Yep. We’ve sent in men, but Jade told you it didn’t go well. It would be nice if it was a fair fight.” 

“How many have the serum?”

Darrell exhaled and shook his head. 

“Hard to say. Anywhere between 2 and 20.”

“Well, I’m not getting any younger sitting here. I’ll go to Madripoor and scope it out.”

“My informants have told me of two names you should be aware of. Apparently there was a power trip a couple months back and the balance shifted. The Countess of Monte Cristo and The Power Broker are the two you should be on the look out for.”

“The Countess of Monte Cristo?”

“I don’t know, must be a nerd.”

“Must be.”

[azulas-badjokes]

why are people following me I’m not funny

but I promise I try to be funny irl

sometimes it works

sometimes it don’t

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memes I stole

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growth

you know what I love? Growth. Two years ago, or even last year, life sucked. Normal for a teenager, but it sucked. I was in a rural public school with kids who looked down on my petty existence with cold indifference. now, I’m celebrating with kids who share my excitement for learning (weird I know) and we have good conversations that grow each other. so to the kids at my old school, suck it.

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hey don’t follow me I’m annoying

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My One ovary: this isn’t so bad

my other ovary, waiting for the next month, holding a knife: oh ho ho, she’s not going to believe this

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One time I dreamt that me mom and dad were walking around York college and we were going to stop at the bookstore. But there was a coffee shop inside, so we ended up going to get coffee. But then it ended up not being a coffee shop but an ice cream shop. One of the flavor was Dean (idk, i swear) which was like chocolate waffle cone with pieces of chocolate that looked like jewels. And I paired it with vanilla and the lady putting my ice cream together put more Dean on top of the vanilla so that Dean wasn’t just at the bottom. And then I realized that the lady was wearing a shirt from my school, so I lifted up like three layers of clothes and showed her my shirt from the same school. Weird.

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Don’t know if yall can read this; it’s my conversation checklist

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You ever join a fandom ten years late or is that just me

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I feel so called out rn

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Controversial question:

Could magneto earth bend

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You know when you write a song and you get chillls

Like mmmm them shivers mean feelings

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So Ursa it hurts

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Found this gem on Pinterest

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I watched Miracle. Jack O’Callahan, bless my heart.

I’m sorry, I must scream.

[azulas-badjokes]

Can 👏 We 👏 Give 👏 Minerva 👏 Mcgonagall 👏 A 👏 Well 👏 Deserved 👏 Round 👏 Of 👏 Applause

👏👏👏

[azulas-badjokes]

Idk I think azula would find it funny

A Politician Dies And Has To Spend Just ONE Day In Hell

A politician dies and ends up standing in front of the pearly gates. Saint Peter looks at him for a second, flicks through his book, and finds his name.

“So, you’re a politician…”

“Well, yes, is that a problem?”

“Oh no, no problem. But we’ve recently adopted a new system for people in your line of work, and unfortunately you will have to spend a day in Hell. After that however, you’re free to choose where you want to spend eternity!”

“Wait, I have to spend a day in Hell?!” says the politician. “Those are the rules,” replies St Peter, clicks his fingers, and WOOMPH, the guy disappears. He awakes, curled up with his hands over his eyes, knowing he’s in Hell. Cautiously, he listens for the screams, sniffs the air for brimstone, and finds… Nothing. Just the smell of, is that fabric softener? And cut grass, this can’t be right?

“Open your eyes!” says a voice. “C'mon, wakey wakey, we’ve only got 24 hours!” Nervously, he uncovers his eyes, looks around, and sees he’s in a hotel room. A nice one too. Wait, this is a penthouse suite… And there’s a smiling man in a suit, holding a martini. “Who are you??” The politician asks.

“Well, I’m Satan!” says the man, handing him the drink and helping him to his feet. “Welcome to Hell!”

“Wait, this is Hell? But… Where’s all the pain and suffering?” he asks.

Satan throws him a wink. “Oh, we’ve been a bit misrepresented over the years, it’s a long story. Anyway, this is your room! The minibar is of course free, as is the room service, there’s extra towels next to the hot-tub, and if you need anything, just call reception. But enough of this! It’s a beautiful day, and if you’d care to look outside…”

Slightly stunned by the opulent surroundings, the man wanders over to the floor-to-ceiling windows through which the sun is glowing, looks far down, and sees a group of people cheering and waving at him from a golf course.

“It’s one of 5 pro-level courses on site, and there’s another 6 just a few minutes drive out past the beach and harbour!” says Satan, answering his unasked question.

So they head down in the lift, walk out through the glittering lobby where everyone waves and welcomes the man, as Satan signs autographs and cheerily talks shop with the laughing staff. And as he walks out, he sees the group on the golf course are made up of every one of his old friends, people he’s admired for years but never met or worked with, and people whose work he’s admired but died long before his career started. And out of the middle of this group walks his wife, with a massive smile and the body she had when she was 20, who throws her arms around him and plants a delicate kiss on his cheek. Everyone cheers and applauds, and as they slap him on the back and trade jokes, his worst enemy arrives, as a 2 foot tall goblin-esque caddy. He spends the day in the bright sunshine on the course, having the time of his life laughing at jokes and carrying important discussions, putting the world to rights with his friends while holding his delighted wife next to him as she gazes lovingly at him.

Later, they return to the hotel for dinner and have an enormous meal, perfectly cooked. As everyone is falling about laughing and flinging bread sticks at each other, his wife whispers in his ear… And they return to their penthouse suite, and spend the rest of the night making love like they did on their honeymoon. After hours of passion, the man falls deep into the 100% Egyptian cotton pillows, and falls into a deep and happy sleep… and is woken up by St Peter.

“So, that was Hell. Wasn’t what you were expecting, I bet?” “No sir!” says the man. “So then,” says St Peter. “You can make your choice. It’s Hell, which you saw, or Heaven, which has choral singing, talking to God, white robes, and so on.”

“Well… I know this sounds strange, but on balance, I think I’d prefer Hell,” says the politician. “Not a problem, we totally understand! Enjoy!” says St Peter, and clicks his fingers again.

The man wakes up in total darkness, the stench of ammonia filling the air and distant screams the only noise. As he adjusts, he can see the only light is from belches of flame far away, illuminating the ragged remains of people being tortured or burning in a sulphurous ocean. A sudden bolt of lightning reveals Satan next to him, wearing the same suit as before and grinning, holding a soldering iron in one hand and a coil of razor-wire in the other. “What’s this??” He cries. “Where’s the hotel?? Where’s my wife??? Where’s the minibar, the golf-courses, the pool, the restaurant, the free drinks and the sunshine???”

“Ah”, says Satan. “You see, yesterday, we were campaigning. But today, you voted.”