#apocalypse prompt

[writing-to-survive]

#194

"We'll need to head south. Come on."

"Wrong direction, dumbass! South is that way."

[umprompted]

#176

The apocalypse may be imminent, but you have to 100% clear this game.

[mischievous-thunder]

Meanwhile Wade:

[questions-about-blorbos]

This request was sent to us and we made a poll in response to it. Send any Blorbo-related question you want to our inbox and we’ll make a poll on which people can vote with their own Blorbos in minds

[princessbrunette]

can’t stop thinking about all the little ways apocalypse!johnb displays casual dominance.

it’s the little things, like the hand he always seems to have on the back of your neck. it’s gentle most times, standing around the camp together with the warm caress of his palm cupping the tepid skin there, rubbing a thumb along the bottom of your scalp whilst he listens to pope talk about the control tower updates. you like it, it makes you feel held without making a big scene of things. love and pda was a touchy subject now that so many people had lost someone, or were just suffering from loneliness so you didn’t wanna rub it in everyone’s faces that you’d found eachother. the gentle touch keeps you near to him, the way he likes it.

john b just does things for you to help get you ready and speed the day along. something you notice, is the way he’ll lay out an outfit for you on a cold winter morning as you stand there in pyjamas all puffy and half awake, watching in silence as you adapt to being conscious. you’re sure it’s roughly 6AM — but he’s moving around quickly throwing your things together so he can take you out into the woods within the fences and reach you how to shoot. you can tell the visage of sarah’s passing still haunts him, which is why he gets these random trauma fuelled bouts of sudden desperation to teach you to protect yourself, just incase. you pout grumpily because when it was john b who was dressing you, he would never let you dress cute during the literal end of the world. you’d mutter out something about it ‘stifling your creativity’ which he’d ignore as he starts to pull your pyjamas off to help you change. he’d pile warm layers on warm layers that would keep you comfortable in the morning chill which was honestly sweet — given that he was dressing you like a little teddy bear in those fuzzy sweaters, thick jeans and boots that you’d replaced the laces with ribbons. you didn’t really mind, not at all.

aside from this, he doesn’t let you come anywhere that he deems too dangerous — meaning it was rare you ever got to leave the gates to kitty hawk — no matter how often you whined about it. “look, okay — the answer is no. you’re not coming. no way.” he was hard on you because he cares, and felt it was his duty to keep you safe.

when he eventually lets you out with him he’s practically got you on a leash, gripping you by the shoulders and lecturing you if you take a step too far. he mellows out if it really does feel safe, only pulling you back towards him to bring his water bottle to your mouth, mopping you up when some dribbles out. “need to stay hydrated, okay — can’t afford to have you passing out.”

when you stop listening or go into your occasional daydream, john b isn’t afraid to check you. especially if it was important. you’d zoned out while jj stands before the entire camp, briefing all the campers you’d collected on some new weapons that had arrived from a successful supply hunt. he was the weapons master after all, so he really knew his stuff. you knew john b was stood at your side with that same tense look, brow creased and arms folded — but when you begin staring off at the treeline his attention turns to you, unfolding his arms to lightly grip your chin to point it back to the front. “listen up. this is no joke.” he’d warn.

overall, he’s mega patient with you. as you might imagine, you’re always thrilled to see him when he comes home from a long supply hunt or anywhere really that he had to travel to, which sometimes can take up to a week. john b, being the guy he is always has some kind of news to tell the group — so usually he barrels back through the doors immediately talking at everyone with this new information. this of course doesn’t stop you from running to his side and throwing your arms around him. the routledge boys flow state remains unbroken, continuing to ramble at the group as his hand rubs your lower back, letting you cuddle into his side. you knew he’d give you his full attention later on, laying with you quietly talking on the hammocks outside your shared cabin — but for now you didn’t mind. sometimes the casual nonchalance turned you on.

his dominance can shine through in real gentle ways sometimes — your boyfriend squatting down infront of you when you’re sat on the floor of your shared little cabin, cleaning his weapons for him wearing your dirty little white nightgown that you’d scouted on one of your few supply runs. his knees click when they bend and he’s a little tired looking but he smiles big anyway when he brings his backpack to his front, rifling through it until he pulls out a new girly trinket he’d found for you on a trip. you’re unsure as to whether or not he’s talking so gently because he’s exhausted — or because he’s just so sweet on you but he holds your gift up and barely raises his volume to say “hey, got you something. do you like it sweetheart? found it just for you ‘cause you’d been so good this week bubba.”

he often comforts you when you get upset over him returning home with a dead rabbit slung over his shoulders. “okay, oh god — you were not meant to see that.” he deadpans when you catch him in the act — but soon he’s got you scooped up on his lap (with the rabbit cooking outside over a fire) as he rocks you back and forth. “look, we have to eat sweetheart. i swear i didn’t wanna kill that bunny but we don’t have much choice right now. you can close your eyes the whole time. i’m gonna feed it to you. okay?”

of course, some dominance is just far from casual — like when he’d return from a pharmacy run during the week with his pockets stuffed with condoms so he can put your legs over his shoulders and stuff your aching cunt. “i know baby, i know it’s— it’s definitely been a while. haven’t been able to find protection i can trust literally anywhere but i’ve got heaps now, so i can fuck that sweet little pussy the way you want. i know you missed it sweet girl, i know.”

[corkinavoid]

For @pinklotushere, to 'Die With a Smile' by Lady GaGa and Bruno Mars,

DPxDC Before Tomorrow

"I didn't know where else to go."

Danny looks up at the vigilante who is standing on the edge of the roof just a few feet away from him. He watches him fidget and roll his shoulders uncomfortably, then reach up and peel his domino mask off. He won't meet Danny's eyes, he notices absentmindedly.

"Your family, maybe?" He offers, and Tim's shoulders slump in relief.

They hadn't spoken to each other since that very heated discussion over a week ago. Okay, some might have even called it a fight, what with all the yelling, but hey, no one threw punches, so it was still pretty civil in Danny's book.

"They are still running around trying to stop it," Tim shrugs, the line of tension in his shoulders still barely there. Ah, the sole reason that discussion got so heated in the first place. The burden of heroism. Fighting till the very end, even if there's nothing you can do.

Danny turns away, his gaze firmly back on the pink, barely there line at the slowly brightening horizon - the only sign that the sunrise is almost here.

"And you're not?" He asks, not looking at Tim and trying to make the question sound easy and lighthearted. Like it's just another one of their long night talks, one that you can never remember in the morning because you didn't really talk about something in particular, you just talked.

There's a sound of footsteps coming closer, then a ruffle of Tim's cape behind his back, and a faint warmth of his shoulder brushing against Danny's. He sits down just beside, dangling his feet over the edge of the roof. Over the emptiness that is sixty stores between them and the ground.

"No," Tim shrugs, his eyes also on the brink of dawn, slowly creeping through the jagged skyline of Gotham. "I thought, hey, you know, if the world was ending, I'd wanna be next to you," he says with a short laugh. Danny can't figure out if it's hysterical or just relieved. Maybe it's both.

"Like the song?" He asks, a smile tugging on his lips, "If the party was over, and our time on Earth was through?" He recites, turning to look at Tim.

He looks pretty - well, his boyfriend always looks pretty, that's not new - but this time, Danny looks closer, almost studying his face with a rapt attention of a scientist. Trying to engrave them in his memory: the line of his nose and the faint light of the not-yet-here sun, the chapped lips and the calm, almost serene blue in his eyes.

"Yeah, like the song," Tim chuckles and turns to face him, meeting his eyes for the first time since he appeared on the roof. "I'd wanna hold you just for a while," he murmurs, something soft in his voice, and Tim is not a great singer, but Danny loves him anyway. He loves everything about Tim. Including his stubborn decision to keep trying to do something, keep fighting when there's no way out, keep clawing his way through the ruthless circumstances that leave him no choice.

He doesn't finish the verse, and Danny gives him a crooked smile, doing it for him, "And die with a smile."

Tim's face doesn't change. He is still smiling, looking at Danny with a fondness he only likes to show behind the closed doors, and, with a short pang at his core, Danny realizes: He's dealt with it.

He's dealt with the unbending storm inside of him that pushed him to fight despite the consequences, he's came to terms with the promise of impending doom.

And he came here to sit beside Danny, dangling their feet over the edge of a skyscraper, and watch the last sunrise.

Danny feels so much love for his boyfriend that it almost hurts, his core thrumming in his chest, threatening to spill out.

The first rays of sunshine color Tim's cheek with gold, and Danny leans forward.

Tim's eyes flutter closed, but Danny doesn't kiss him, like he probably expected - and, in all fairness, like he probably should have. Instead, he only brushes his lips over the boy's cheek and leans closer to his ear.

There are thousands of things he can say, starting with the simple 'I love you' and all the way to 'I won't let you die, smile or not'.

But the one thing he says, a cheeky grin on his face, is,

"I lied. There is a way."

He did not, there isn't, but Tim takes a sharp breath in and grips his shoulder so tight it hurts, and Danny knows he will find it even if the better timeline will never come.

~•~•~•~

That song is a waltz, and waltzes always make me feel like writing heart-wrenching love stories, I'm sorry. No, I'm not, I lied.

The pure fucking devotion, people. Tim, who is okay with giving up just to spend the last minutes with Danny and Danny, who is okay with ruining the world just so he can make Tim happy. I'm in love with them.

[Also, my initial idea was to write a DarkHumor (Dick/Dan) spicy piece for this, but then Dead Tired took over my brain and ate it whole, so here we are]

[what-would-your-blorbo-do]

Trigger warning: mention of suicide, character death

This poll was submitted to us. If you’d like to send us your own scenario (plus different ways a character might react to said scenario) so we could make a poll for you, feel free to send them to our inbox.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Whumpcember (day 12)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Zombie apocalypse au)

Prompt: I have nowhere else to go

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: Enemies to lovers; zombies; mentions of murder; blood; death

Author’s note: This got a little too long for a fic that was initially meant to be a Drabble but I couldn’t bring myself to let it end earlier. And this was quite fun, since I’ve never written something like this before.

[Divider by @sweetmelodygraphics ]

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

Your side is stinging terribly, pulsing with every unsteady step.

Your legs fail at mimicking a normal stride, falling back into a limp.

Your hands tremble, defying every command to just stay still.

Your lungs sear with every breath, dragging air like fire down a raw throat.

Your head swims in chaotic loops, spinning with images and echoes you can’t escape.

Your shoulder and back throb from an impact you took earlier, sharp pain shooting up your spine with every jolt of your uneven stride.

The enormity of what just happened refuses to fit neatly into thought.

The sun is not even all up in the sky and your day already took a turn so cruel, you are teetering on the edge of collapse.

You stopped keeping track of time since this whole apocalyptic shit began but it's safe to say that you just lost everything you had in the span of maybe three hours.

You are exhausted. You are tired. You are in fear. You are in shock.

Acknowledging all of that is dangerous right now.

The world feels off-kilter.

Nausea rises again. Though there is nothing left in your stomach. You already emptied it on the forest floor before you stumbled into the trees, desperate to escape.

The acrid taste still lingers at the back of your throat.

The trees around you sway in your periphery, tall shadows painted in moonlight. It’s not the wind that makes them sway. It’s your vision. Branches claw at the sky like the dread claws at your resolve.

Your body is screaming at you to stop and collapse into the dirt, but you know if you let it, you won’t ever stand back up again.

You have to keep going.

You have to press on.

Your world has crumbled into rot and hunger, and all you have left is the instinct to run.

Run and survive.

Whatever that means now.

You have no sense of the distance you’ve put between you and the nightmarish scene you had to leave behind, no measure of the miles your aching legs already crossed.

You don’t know if they are right behind you. If they’re even coming for you.

It was barely dawn when they came.

It wasn’t a warning shot or a distant sound that reached the camp first. No, it was the impact.

The sound of boots trampling through the undergrowth, bodies charging through the trees, wild shapes silhouetted against the rising sun. Barked commands that carried no meaning, only menace.

You had barely time to register what was happening when they were already in the heart of the camp.

They scattered supplies, spilled meager rations into the dirt, kicked apart the fire pit still faintly glowing from the night before when your small group all sat in a circle around it.

With the first scream, violence erupted.

Blades flashed and mocking laughter rang out from all sides as you heard your companions cry out in terror and pain.

They scrambled from their makeshift shelters, some clutching weapons, others still groggy, confused, unarmed. There was no time to gather thoughts, no time to plan. The raiders were already upon you, tearing through tents and slaughtering everyone in their way.

You watched as Caleb lunged for them, but they cut him down before he even reached anybody.

You tried to get little Benjamin to safety but he got ripped away from you in a matter of seconds and you only felt the slash of a knife against your side.

You heard the guttural sobs of Jonna and her wide eyes as she couldn’t tear them off the lifeless body of her husband. You tried to reach her, grabbing her and getting her away but before you could, she got hit and fell. Just like her husband had moments earlier.

The thud of bodies hitting the ground, the clash of metal, the desperate screams of the people you knew and trusted, cutting off as quickly as they began, the splattered blood everywhere across the ground, slick on leaves, staining clothes of people who’d been alive only seconds earlier. Blood that is all over you, painted in your hair, in your face, on your hands-

You heave the bile against a nearby tree.

Your throat burns. The images burn. The memories burn.

The world is already torn apart as it is but they ripped at everything you had fought for.

You were pinned on the ground at one point. Brutally shoved down and the impact took your breath away. However, you were able to move out of the way of the knife that was meant for your face and instead buried into the ground. The surprise of your attacker weakened his hold on you and you were able to flee, but not without taking a few more hits.

Your friends were dead. Everything was destroyed.

So you ran.

You ran, stumbled, fell, scrambled up, and ran again.

You wondered if the raiders stayed to strip your makeshift camp bare or if they followed you. The last one alive. The one that slipped through their grasp.

Or maybe they’ve decided you’re not worth the effort, and your life hangs by nothing but chance.

After all, you feel death knocking on your door. And it will kick it in, hinges breaking and wood splintering if you don’t open it yourself.

But you won’t.

You push on. You will push your body to its breaking point.

Even if your mind shatters way before your body does.

Because you know you will crumble if you allow your thoughts to win over your body.

You just lost everything you had.

Your group was only on the move.

The camp was supposed to be a fleeting thing. A place to catch your breath from traveling. This morning you were all supposed to pack what little you had and keep moving and get closer to the sanctuary you had spoken of. A place you were going to build. A place where no raid, no nightmare, no lifeless beast could touch you.

So, if you had risen earlier, broken down the camp faster, perhaps this wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps your friends - the few people who so graciously took you in almost two years ago - would still be alive.

You don’t even know who the marauders were. They came out of nowhere.

A realization makes your blood run cold.

Something you remembered only now.

The sounds.

You heard it between the screams of your friends at one point. Low, throaty, and too familiar. The kind of sound that makes your pulse rise and pricks the back of your neck.

It was the sound you learned to fear. The sound your world had been drowning in for years now.

The sound of the dead - those shambling remnants of humanity, curses to wander the earth as mindless husks.

You remember the way they started moving so differently than when they came into your camp - some of them sluggish, others unnervingly erratic.

And you begin to wonder. Perhaps they had been bitten before raiding your camp.

And perhaps that’s the reason they came. They knew their time was up. They probably felt the infection eating at them, death clawing closer. Maybe attacking your group was their last violent eruption of humanity, the last thing they did with a conscious mind before they fell to the disease that had already claimed their souls.

They didn’t have anything left to lose. No loved ones to mourn. No future to fight for. Just an empty void ahead. A transformation into something even crueler than the monsters they already were. Perhaps they wanted this last conscious act to mean something. To carve their names into the memory of the world before they became nothing more than rotting corpses, stumbling through the dirt without a single thought in mind.

It makes you sick.

If they wanted to be remembered, they succeeded. You will remember. You will remember the massacre, the destruction, the screams, the wicked laughter that curdled your blood.

You will remember them because the screams of the people you came to love and trust have planted themselves into your chest and they won’t ever leave.

Maybe that’s what they wanted. To leave a mark, no matter how meaningless, no matter how vile. Or maybe they simply wanted to take something beautiful and shred it before they joined the walking rot.

Either way, they are gone now and you are left.

Alone.

You are left alone.

On the way to the one place you never thought your feet would lead you to again.

The one you meant to leave behind. To forget. To never return to. To move on.

Though you have to admit to yourself it never worked as well as you had hoped.

It has been two years since you left.

Two years of telling you to lock those doors with memories you tried to forget for so long.

And now, the thought of going back lets dread curl around your chest. It’s the dread of walking into a place you don’t know if you’re welcome anymore. The dread of facing what you left behind - facing who you left behind.

But there is also a flicker of something else. Something that feels too fragile, too dangerous to name. You tell yourself it’s nothing - just a memory, nostalgia - but you can’t quite smother it.

Because those people were your family once. Before you left, before you found the group you traveled with these last two years, they were your everything. Your friends, your loved ones, your sanctuary.

They were the ones that held you together when the world fell apart, the ones who gave you a purpose in this now purposeless society.

You left them behind to find something that you lost again just earlier.

The new group you had come to call your own, the people you fought beside, laughed with, dreamed with. All gone. Taken from you in a single, brutal morning. By people you couldn’t even take revenge on anymore. By people who aren’t even people anymore.

And you know your new companions never replaced your first family but they were home nonetheless.

But now, you have nowhere else to go but the place you called home first.

Though, would you really be welcome after all this time?

Would they let you in? Would they open their gates and arms for you?

Would he let you in?

Because truly, that is the only question that matters. You know the hearts of the others, know that they would be happy to see you again.

Sam, with his wide toothy grin. He’d throw his arms around you and clap you on the back and tell you something that would make you laugh despite everything.

Steve, with that glint in his eyes. Because he never truly believed you wouldn’t return.

Wanda, with the tears in her gaze. She’d pull you into her embrace, whispering how she’d prayed for this and never given up hope.

Natasha, with her amused smirk. She’d stand a step behind with her arms crossed and tease you that it only took two years for you to miss them enough to lose all the dignity you could hold onto and came back.

And all the others who would greet you with happy smiles and tears and hugs. Because that’s who they are. Who they’ve always been. They are pure love for those they call their own.

And you have been one of them.

Of course, your sight would first be met with concern at your condition, but the joyful reunion would eventually happen. Banner would fuss over you but keep the worry out of his calm hands and voice like the professional he is. Tony would bark orders, his mind already working ten steps ahead. Peter would hover nearby, ready to help, ready to do whatever was needed to put you back together.

You imagine how they would patch you up, make sure you didn’t collapse right there at their feet. They’d press water into your hands, bandage the gashes, stitch the torn skin. They would give you time to breathe, to settle.

A smile almost manages to spread over your lips but the exhaustion in your bones tugs the corners of your mouth back down.

And there is this one person you’re not sure about. What will he do when he sees you? What will he say? Will he say anything at all?

There is a reason you left, after all.

The community you all lived in was a big one with men and women and children and elders all sharing a beautiful and vast space.

You had all agreed on not having a single leader to rule but rather having the few most trusted people who started this whole thing to do councils every so often.

Once, you were one of them.

You would meet up, usually when the night had already started, discussing and making decisions - everything involving supply runs, how to keep the walls protected, how to celebrate a birth or mourn a loss, and so on.

Bucky was a part of that as well.

And that’s where the trouble lay.

You two never really seemed to see each other eye to eye. You would fight and banter - him calling you stubborn and reckless, you calling him pragmatic and intolerant. The disagreements were constant, heated, and sometimes public enough to turn heads and the other council members to end up disappointed and helpless.

It went on like that for years. Though the day it all fell apart will forever live in the cracks of your mind. Guilt never dulls no matter how much distance you put between them and yourself.

It was a supply run. Something that’s been routine by now. A scavenging mission into hostile territory, dangerous but necessary. Food was running low, medicine almost gone.

You were walking through the woods - a sector closer to dead zone, but Bucky and you were both fueled by anger at the other’s stubbornness to pay attention to the little group of people you took with you. They were good at ignoring your bickering.

“We do it my way. Slow, methodical. We’re not losing anyone because of some reckless stunt.” His tone was flat. Final.

“I’ve never put anyone in danger, Bucky,” you defended with fire in your voice.

Bucky’s voice was hard. “You charge in without thinking, every single time-”

“Yes, and I always do that alone, Barnes. Don’t you think I know the risks? I wouldn’t ask anyone to-”

“Damn it, Y/n,” he cut off, voice sharp. “It’s bad enough that you do it-”

“If we only ever go slow, people will starve. We can’t afford to waste time, Barnes. You want to lose them sitting on your hands instead of taking a risk? That’s on you, not on me.”

Bucky talked lower then, harshly.“That’s not taking a risk, Y/n! That’s fucking suicide.”

The actual mistake was in the silence that followed. No compromise, no meeting of minds. Just the brittle quiet that stretched between you both and the tension that lingered even over the other group members walking with you.

Bucky’s jaw was tight, his steps heavy. Yours were no lighter.

It happened fast. As it always did. One moment, the woods were still, only the crunch of the leaves underfoot and a few insects in bushes and trees surrounding you.

The next, groans split the air, coming from every direction - shadows lurking between trees, their figures misshapen, their eyes empty.

There were too many of them. That was clear from the first breath, but you didn’t have time to process it, to count.

You shouted for the group to move, to break toward the clearing just ahead and they started rushing away until Bucky’s voice rose behind you. His commanding tone seethed in your veins.

“No! Fall back - circle to the ridge!”

But the clearing was closer. The clearing was safer.

So you said as much.

But that’s all the hesitation it took for the dead to gather closer. Close enough.

You lost precious time, precious ground. The damage had already been done.

Two people didn’t make it. Two lives, lost in the spaces between your choices.

The argument that followed was like nothing before. No banter. Not bickering. It was an unfiltered and ugly thing, charged by your guilt and his. Words were thrown, accusations hurled. It was awful.

And when the shouting stopped, there was nothing but silence. Thick. Unbearable.

Neither of you could let go of your anger, your grief, your pride long enough to see that you’d both failed them.

That day something shattered in your connection. Whatever that had been. The tension that always accompanied your relationship. It felt corrosive. Wrong.

And that’s when you made the decision. The decision to leave, that now led you to come back again.

Will he resent you? That thought is a blade that has turned itself dull from too much use, yet it still cuts at you in ways you can’t dodge.

You imagine him standing there, arms crossed, his face as unreadable as it would be stoic, staring at you with the fire that always burned behind his eyes.

Will he even let you step inside? Or will his anger boil over and turn you away, pushing you back into the wilderness you barely even escaped from?

Will he relish in your brokenness, in the way life has stripped you down to your very bones? Will he find satisfaction in seeing you this fragile, this vulnerable, clinging to scraps of pride as your body barely holds itself together? The image of his piercing gaze, not softened by time or mercy, sends a shiver down your spine.

But it also just might be your body starting to give out, you realize when more shivers whack your form.

You push on.

And you wonder. Could there maybe also be relief in those eyes, hidden behind the mask he always wears so well. Relief that you’re still alive, that whatever dark roads you’ve walked since haven’t claimed you completely.

Or would that relief be poisoned by something bitter - the satisfaction not of your survival, but of seeing you humbled, seeing you brought low enough to crawl back to him, back to the home you lied to yourself you were fine living without.

You picture his face shifting. A flicker of something softer crossing his features before he buries it deep. Will it pain him to see the bruises painted across your skin, the blood that’s long since dried on your hands and clothes, the tremble in your limbs while you stand before him like a ghost returned from the grave?

Will he turn you away, disgusted not by your injuries but by the weakness they represent?

You wonder if he’d speak at all. Silence, from him, could be worse than anger. After all, anger means caring. You don’t get angry if you don’t care.

So, perhaps you will be left to fill the empty space with your many regrets and guilty feelings.

Maybe he won’t even look at you. Don’t throw you a single glance, his gaze fixed somewhere distant.

But your conscience can’t help but imagine things.

Because what if he’d feel something he wouldn’t dare admit, not even to himself. That the faintest pull of relief isn’t for the pain you’re in, not for the way life has broken you, but that it is for the simple fact that you’re here, alive, breathing. Maybe that relief would be buried under layers of what he’d felt for you all those years. But it would be there.

Honestly, you don’t think you will ever get an answer to any of those questions. Because you feel your mind start to drift too much. As if the images in your head start to turn into dreams and your body is luring you into sleep to live them out.

You’re giving up.

And you are still not close enough to your old and now only sanctuary despite walking and dragging your frail form for hours and miles on end.

Your head is spinning, images and voices now blurred and upside down and all wrong.

Not even noticing you stopped dragging yourself forward, you start to lean the whole weight of your body against a nearby tree.

The bark is rough against your skin, scraping through fabric, digging into bruises, and tearing them raw. It should hurt. You know it should hurt, but it barely even registers anymore. It’s just another sensation - one more thing slipping away.

Your eyelids droop. They feel so heavy. The forest is shapeless around you, just a mess of color and shadow.

Your breaths come shallow and uneven, lungs forgetting to do their job. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you know this is it. This is where you’ll stop, where you’ll finally collapse and leave it all behind.

And the thought somehow isn’t as terrifying anymore. There’s a strange, unfamiliar peace blooming in your chest. You think about how your body would lie here, half-curled in the dirt, skin pale and bloodied, eyes forever closed.

Bucky might find you.

One day he might stumble upon your corpse on the ground. Maybe he’ll kneel beside your lifeless form, the frown on his face deepening, lips pressing into a grim line. Maybe he’ll tell you that he was right. That you were reckless and should have listened. Maybe his voice will tremble just a little.

The bickering you shared will follow you even into death.

The thought makes you want to laugh, but your body is too far gone for that. It’s barely your body anymore. It’s a shell of nothing. The world tilts, spins, then tilts again. You feel yourself begin to let go.

You won’t wake up. Not this time. And somehow, that’s okay. The peace blossoms brighter in your chest, warm and soft, as if the weight of the world is finally lifting.

You lost everything you had. And not even just today. You lost it two years ago when you decided it was the best to leave your home.

Your eyes slip shut and you don’t try to press them back open again. Your body is slumping to the ground, bark scraping against you, the ground rushing closer. The cold earth is pressed against your face. Your breath falters and slows.

Your body feels dead by now but your mind still blinks with awareness. And funnily enough, it can’t seem to let go of Bucky. His sharp face. His strong voice, the cadence of it so deeply carved into your memory that it echoes so clearly as if he were sitting right beside you.

“Y/n!”

“Shit, Y/n!”

It calls your name. The sound so urgent and frantic, it pulls you back for a fleeting second, though you are sure none of your muscles even twitch.

You are actually impressed with yourself. His voice sounds so real, so vivid. How is your mind able to conjure something so precise on the verge of unraveling completely? It’s him, down to the inflection, the roughness, the bite.

But you know it isn’t really him. That wouldn’t make any sense. Your mind is exaggerating. You’ve blown the image of him out of proportion, dressed him in a panic he wouldn’t wear for you, not for this.

If he found you like this - broken, slumped, slipping away - perhaps his voice wouldn’t even crack.

The day you said your goodbyes, Bucky wasn’t even there with the others. He wasn’t there when you hugged Sam, his arms lingering around you. Not when Steve couldn’t evoke a smile that wasn’t tight or sad. Not when Wanda touched your cheek with shaking fingers, her tearful eyes searching you for a reason to make you stay and telling you you’d always be welcome to come back home. Not when Natasha ordered you, not to get yourself killed out there, what was a little too late now.

You didn’t really expect him to come. Actually, it was better this way, you had thought. Cleaner. No last harsh words, no heated standoff, no last-minute chance for him to dig deep again.

Some stubborn, foolish part of you had hoped of course.

But that was when you saw him as you made your way to the gates.

He stood at the edge of the grounds you were about to leave behind, hidden in the shadows of bushes and trees. His arms were crossed over his chest, his figure rigid, his face set in stone.

You willed not to let your heart clench, but it did. You told yourself he was just there for a final gloat, some grim satisfaction in watching you go. In seeing you lose.

But his eyes held yours. So unwavering and intense. It burned through you. His features were dark, but also, he did stand covered in shadows. However, there was no smirk, no triumph, no venomous parting shot.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t step forward, didn’t say a single thing. He didn’t do anything but hold your gaze as if daring you to be the one to break it.

And you did.

You had a new life to attend to.

And you didn’t look back when leaving.

Still, you felt the burn of his eyes on you, so much more intense than ever before.

You guessed he dropped that stoic, seemingly unhappy mask the moment you were out of sight. Maybe he even threw a silent celebration, relieved to finally be free of you, of the friction you brought into his life.

But the small annoying voice in the back of your mind whispered something else. Something that actually made you consider turning back around before you got ahold of yourself again.

It told you that maybe his expression had stayed dark long after you were gone. That maybe his gaze lingered on the empty path where you’d disappeared. That maybe his arms stayed crossed, not to shield himself from the cold but to stop himself from reaching out.

And your brain now doesn’t seem to have any doubts either because you might actually feel hands shaking you, gripping your face. There weren’t many times when you came in contact with Bucky’s hands, and only fleeting and unintentional, so you don’t know if your conscience got the feeling of his hands on you right but you relish it anyway.

You hope he’d worry. You hope so much. Why, you don’t even know. It’s not like it matters anymore. But you need him to worry.

You need him to feel something sharp, something visceral. You need the cracks in his stoic armor to show and your name on his lips to sound like a prayer instead of a reprimand.

“Stay with me, Y/n! Come on!” It’s a snarl and a plea at the same time.

His voice is pulling you back - or maybe it’s pulling you under. You can’t really tell the difference. It is the kind of sound that is too rough to be tender, too desperate to be cruel.

His voice gnaws at something in your awareness, steering something deep in your bones.

Hell, your dying brain is doing a hella good job.

The world shifts again. Or maybe it’s you who shifts. The sharp bark of the tree is gone suddenly, as though the earth has abandoned you. Or perhaps your body just lost any kind of sensation, because there is nothing solid beneath you anymore. The ground is gone.

Free fall grips your stomach for a second, and panic sparks weakly in the recesses of your mind. But before the fear can take root, you feel something else. Something warm.

Not the feverish heat that’s been chewing at your skin for hours. Not the sticky warmth of blood still drying against your ribs.

No, this is something different. Hard, but not unkind. Solid, but not unforgiving. It presses against your body, and for the first time in what feels like days, it doesn’t hurt.

You don’t know what is happening. You only know you want more of it. Tilting your head as best as it would go, you lean into it as much as your useless limbs allow, seeking that warmth like it’s the only thing keeping you from succumbing to nothingness.

And then the pieces click together.

You’re being carried.

There is an arm under your legs, another braced firmly around your back. The grip is strong but it is trembling faintly against you.

You are cradled against something warm, something alive. And there is a pounding against your ear that is way too rapid to seem healthy.

None of this makes sense, not really, but the sensation of movement - the sway and jolt of steps, hurried but careful - tells you that you’re not imagining this.

Someone has you. Someone’s carrying you.

Your battered mind, of course, latches onto Bucky again.

Your brain shapes the thought of him so effortlessly. Some part of you knew it could only ever be him. You picture his face, sharp and shadowed, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark and heavy with something you don’t dare name.

“Damn it, stay with me! Stay awake!”

Is this him saying that? Or is this your mind still indulging in the vivid fantasies from before? Perhaps this wasn’t your mind all along. Perhaps all of this wasn’t a fantasy of your brain. This was him.

You feel the tight hold with which he is gripping you, how it feels less like he is carrying you and more like he’s keeping you from slipping away entirely.

It doesn’t seem like the Bucky you knew. The one who looked at you with barely concealed irritation, who argued with you until you were both red-faced and seething.

But then again, maybe it does. Maybe this is the same man, stripped bare of all his armor, his stoic resolve fractured like you had imagined. Maybe this is what he looks like when he doesn’t have time to mask the cracks.

The thought makes your chest ache. Or maybe that’s just your ribs - stabbed, bruised, barely functional. You can’t tell anymore.

You want to open your eyes, to confirm what you already know, but your eyelids are heavy, unwilling.

You want to reach for him, to feel with your hands that his worry really is your reality and not all in your head, but your arms hang limply at your sides. Useless.

But your face is pressed against his shoulder. The speeding throbbing of what you assume to be his heart is still in your ear and it makes this so much more real.

“Don’t you dare die on me now, Y/n! Not after this.” His ragged words send swaying currents through the still waters of your fading consciousness. “Not like that! Not after I’ve been looking for you for two damn years!”

Wait.

What?

The words ring like a bell, too loud, too pronounced. You feel yourself struggling with comprehending the meaning of this but the shock still rushes up your spine.

Bucky was looking for you. He didn’t celebrate your departure. He came after you.

You left two years ago. Bucky started searching for you two years ago.

“I should’ve stopped you. Fuck, I should have stopped you. I never should’ve let you leave.” His voice is a single crack. So much remorse seeping into his tone, it even latches onto your chest.

“God I’m so sorry I let you leave. I’m so sorry for everything, Y/n! There’s so much I gotta tell you. So much I gotta make right. So you don’t get to do this, alright? You don’t get to die on me!”

His voice doesn’t sound like him at all. The Bucky you remember used measured words, calculated, controlled. Doubt again creeps in that this really is real and not just your mind all up in shambles. Because there is so much pain in his voice. Pain you never saw inflicted in anything he did. Or said. Not to you at least.

Your body jolts in his grip, caused by his hands. He might have tried to shake some life back into you but his hands don’t stop shaking. They are trembling so heavily, as if he’s terrified you’re going to slip through his grasp at any second. As if you’re going to die in his arms. Maybe you will.

“You’re staying with me, you hear me?” he continues, low voice filled with gravel, so wild and anguished. “There’s so much I need to tell you. So much I need to say. But I can’t-” his voice gives out and you basically hear him trying to hold himself together. His breaths are uneven and broken. “I can’t do it like this. No, not like that. So you gotta pull through. You can’t leave me before I get the chance to tell you. Can’t die on me now that I’ve finally fucking found you. You can’t, Y/n! Please! Stay with me. Just stay.”

You try to open your eyes. Try to let your fingers twitch. Try to open your mouth. But there’s nothing.

You can’t tell him that you’re trying. You can’t tell him that you want to hear what he has to say. Can’t tell him that you’re clinging to his every word. Can’t tell him that you’re fading away.

Only a broken exhale slips through.

His arms tighten, pulling you impossibly closer.

He’s pushing himself. His muscles strain and coil, his body still trembles against you. His voice is breathless and full of despair..

“Stay awake! Look at me. Just- please open your eyes. Just for a second. I need to see them. Need to know you’re still in there, okay?” His words are torn, pulled apart, and put together in a desperate attempt. Tears fill his voice. “You always had to prove me wrong, so do it again. Fight. Fight, Y/n! Please!”

Bucky makes it sound like it could actually be easy. But unfortunately, it’s not. His voice is more distant now. Perhaps it’s giving out. Perhaps it’s the hope that leaves him, taking his voice.

Yet, you’re trying to hold onto it. You’re trying so much.

If he says more, you don’t catch it. You don’t catch anything anymore. You think you might be okay with that. Because even if this isn’t real - even if this is all just a fever dream conjured by a dying mind - you think it’s a good way to go.

Sheltered in warmth. In motion. In the arms of the one person you never thought would come for you.

[anonymous-existences]

Chapter 1 : "Dan you Stupid Fu—"

Dan Phantom/Bruce Wayne, from this prompt of mine: Dad!Dan so Uh here's chapter 1:

[𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙾𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙶𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚖 𝙲𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛]

Dante was with Ellie and Danny, Both had been de-aged because of the GIW and the Fentons, Vlad was still recovering after risking his life to get Danny and Ellie out of the Facility. Dante is now Required to Step Up as the Co-CEO of Dalv. Co. "Has Doing business always been this stressful? I have twins to take care of Sam—" he says in the phone in a tired father tone. "Suck it up, it's a good thing Clockwork is actually helping you and I'm helping you through the Galas and the Schedules you have. Just imagine How Vlad does it." Sam rolled her eyes and laughed. "Have Hope Dante. You can do it. I BELIEVE IN YOUUU!" Tucker yells through the call.

Clockwork looks at Dante and smiles, he was acting as Dante's assistant, although dante is good at the organizing and handling everything. He's not very good with kids. It's a good thing that jazz is there to babysit actually when she can— it's just that she Goes to Work to Arkham and the kids likes to eat the ectoplasm corruption stuff that surrounds her whenever she comes home ... When she <em>Does</em> come home which is rare but welcome. "How's Vlad resting?" Dante asks Clockwork and Clockwork just hums as he handles all the extra paperwork with ease and in a fast pace.

"Frostbite has informed me and I know myself that he'll wake up in approximately... 2 weeks. Do not worry Dante about your children, the Observants are very fond of them when dear little Jasmine is not around and tend to care for them and educate them with humane books. If they didn't I would have banished them back to the Infinite realms." Clockwork chuckled and hums in amusement. "First I become a Ghost King for Danny, Second I become the Co-CEO of Dalv. Co. Three I become a Dad to Twins. Fourth, My Technically Dad Vlad Masters is in a comatose state, and fifth the GIW AND FENTONS still want me and the kids dead." Dante groans. "Sixth, you have to socialize and attend Galas for your Technically Dad Vlad Masters" Sam Adds and he hears Tucker just laughing on the other side of the phone.

Dante let his head fall on the Table as Clockwork chuckled and Took his paperwork and helped him handle them. "Thank you Mentor..." He groans tiredly. "Remember Little King, We still have a gala to attend for Tonight and as Always Jasmine has said she will attend with you to help you escape when possible and if you want to leave smoothly and you need not worry as Sam Manson and Tucker Foley have their day offs today and are willing to babysit the two Little Demonic Chaos Spawns that is the Prince and Princess." Clockwork reassures Dante and pats his head softly.

Dante groans and just Clockwork raises his head and puts a pillow under him, He just goes to take a nap at his desk which he really deserves as he's already very tired from everything. How could this all start because of Danny trusting his Mother and Father?.. Disgusting people. Nocturn who also decided to temporarily work for them and in a human disguise decided to help Around in Dalv. Co. Especially with Finance and now he's official the CFO of the company which has been a great help.

How did Vlad handle all this again? Surely he slept, surely he wasn't always handling everything by himself. If he was then now Dante respects the Man for Handling all of it himself and not letting exhaustion take over his whole soul and Body functions.... Dante soon fell asleep on his desk and Nocturn came over to help suck out the nightmares he occasionally experiences and suffers through, "Clockwork do you think he'll get through two more weeks or are you planning something?" Nocturn asks with an amused smile.

Clockwork smiles back cheekily, "I always have a plan for something." Both Motherfuckers Laughs and Sam and Tucker on the phone still are just dead silent as Sam shakes her head in disbelief and Tucker holding back a smile. "Make it Gay." He mutters on the phone Jokingly, "Well Maybe I should!" Clockwork laughs and Nocturn holding back his own laugh as he can imagine Tucker just dumbfounded as they heard a smack on the other line, presumably Sam smacking Tucker for doing and saying something absolutely stupid Infront of these 2 men who they still label as "Potential Threat" in Danny's Book of Rouges along with some others. "We'll be there at 9 before the Gala." Sam reassured the other Ghosts before hanging up.

[𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚂𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝙶𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚖 𝙲𝚒��𝚢]

"Remember what we discussed?" Jazz asks as she fixes Dante's tie. "Yes, no growling, no hissing, no biting, no excessive flirting, no cursing the living daylights out of people, no letting my emotions get to me and No mentioning of Vlad being sick and just tell the others that do ask that he's on vacation in the Himalayas." Dante lists from the top of his head. "And Don't interact with the Wayne's because?" Jazz adds on, "Because they're Nosy. Got it." Dante just looks determined to get through the night. "Tonight I am your sister because I always was and will be your sister. And Tonight clockwork is merely your butler. And Tonight we will ALSO make sure that you don't get swept away by some hot guy in a suit because you're a simp for people that are both muscular and have a thin waist." She strikes a warning glare at him.

"Yep yep." Dante nods as she pats his chest when she finished fixing his tie. "And if you see a handsome Badboy guy DO NOT, and I shall say again DO NOT introduce them to me because I will fall for them on the spot. Noted?" Jazz says also trying to be single for as long as Possible and Dante laughs whilst nodding which made Jazz smile as she had successfully comforted and made her brother smile once again. Clockwork was smiling pleasantly as he watches the two siblings in the backseat. "We're arriving soon <em>Madame Masters & Sir Masters</em>" Clockwork says with a teasing tone as both tenses up on the spot and fixed their clothing and straightened their backs.

The two out on their poker faces and Dante made sure his pure white long hair was neat and calm unlike it's usual messy and Flame-like appearance, Jazz made sure she looked presentable as to make connections with being a doctor of Arkham Asylum. "We're ready." She smiles gently and lowere her eyelids, to look almost as if she's judging or mesmerized by the sight of anyone or even possibly bored, either way her expressions screams "mysterious lady" which made Dante snort. "You look like you're about to fall asleep—" Dante was holding back his laughter and Jazz pinches his side, "ow—" he yelped as he too straightened his expression to look more charismatic and sociable. Also for the sake of connections.

Clockwork parked Infront of the venue and Opened the door for them as they walked side by side with her arm gently and subtly wrapped around his, it's become almost common fact and Implied that Dante Jamie Masters("37" yrs old) was albino because of his Pale Skin, Pure White hair and Red Eyes that is littered with his long white lashes whilst Jasmine Aqua Masters(21 yrs old) Took after her mother's features. Oh to be Rich and Successful, Both These two hated the attention directed to them as Both of them Stood Out with Ease, Jasmine having a Firey Like colored hair and Dante's supposed Albinism made the pair of siblings stand out more than they'd like be.

"Remember the List Dante." She mutters and Dante nods with a soft gentle smile he always saw Vlad use when socializing with people of high society. Hours Passed within the Gala and Jazz was Slightly and mentally panicking as she could not spot where Dante's outstanding white hair could be but she continued to chatter around with the ladies with ease, the ladies being pleased by her manners and "mysterious elegance" she mentally rolled her eyes at that. All that She's doing today is for her remaining family. Dante, Ellie, Vlad and especially her Precious Baby Brother Danny. She keeps a mental note on why she is doing this at all times. But she finds it pleasant to talk with the ladies about girls stuff such as Makeup and Fashion and especially Art. But occasionally they would ask About her job at Arkham Asylum, she would tell them her achievements.

How she has backhanded knocked out Joker who had tried to escape and saw her as his first target and out of instinct she slapped him with the back of her hand and he dropped on the spot that was always Amusing. Or how she was the one to release and Help Harley become a 'better person' esque. Somehow Jazz thanks her childhood being a messy fighting ring 90% of the time as because of that she can effectively pull out a weapon faster than her targeters or The rouges of Arkham Asylum could.

Wait.

She's getting distracted.

Where the Fuck is Dante.

[𝙳𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝙿𝙾𝚅, 𝙱𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝙷𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚊𝚕𝚊 𝚅𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚎]

Dante thinks he must've drank too many wine glasses, although he kept his composure he found himself chatting with a man who jazz told him not to converse with but here he is. Now... Both of them were making out in the halls where no other people visits, Dante carried them up pinning them to the wall.

Them being Bruce Wayne, he's especially light for Dante's Inhuman Strength. "My— Wow— you're actually very strong just like your size—" Bruce says unexpectedly, both Men drunk.

Was Bruce Wayne always this hot? Jesus Christ. Ancients help him, he's losing sanity and making out with Bruce Wayne in the Gala where Jazz, his sister had told him not to MAKE OUT WITH ANYONE INSIDE. Well you know what. Fuck it. "You're light for someone your size." Dante says softly leaning to Kiss the Back of Bruce's Palm and licking his fingers. "If we want to continue this we could atleast get out of here don't you think?" Bruce pulled Dante's tie and Dante just growls under his breathe taking Bruce Aback. Dante smirked and Took Bruce Away and out of the gala through the backdoors.

Sorry Jazz, I'm gonna do something Naughty tonight. Dan thought to himself as he chuckled and called an Uber To take them to the nearest fkn 5 star Hotel. Bruce was amused and they waited until they got to their hotel room before Continuing what they were doing.

[𝙱𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝙹𝚊𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎]

"Clockwork did you plan this?" Jasmine glared at Clockwork who was driving her home after 4 hours of her trying to look for Dante only to find out he's left with Bruce Wayne.. BRUCE WAYNE OF ALL PEOPLE!! THE PEOPLE SHE WARNED HIM NOT TO FUCK, FLIRT OR INTERACT WITH! "I'm getting a migraine..." She stated massaging the bridge of her nose and sides of her forehead as clockwork merely chuckled.

She knew it. Clockwork knew this would happen. Oh Clockwork you— Jazz just groans and upset. "How long will he be gone at the very least?" Jazz asks calmly and tiredly. "Tomorrow by 6 PM." Clockwork smiles cheekily which in turn made jazz groan louder but tried to calm herself and keep herself composed. Alright Jazz just Calm down. You can do this. You can not Not Slap Dante's Head later for his stupidity, he's your brother you can do it later, just calm, you can handle this, you can smack the shit out of him later anyways. Jazz took a deep breathe and smiles, "I shall Beat the shit out of him later!" She smiles excitedly which made Clockwork look at her visibly Bemused.

As they reached the Manor, Danny and Ellie were waiting for Jasmine and Their Dad But got upset when it was only Jasmine who came home, the twins thinking Dante is too busy to come home again. "Oh no little Danny and Ellie(Both 8 years old)! Your Daddy is not at work! He's just preparing a surprise for the both of you tommorow okay?" She smiles gently reassuring them and they're brightened up again. "Okay!" They jumped and said in unison, Jazz swears if they had tails it'd be wagging and it made Jazz's Heart have a cuteness overload.

"My Exact reaction when they started calling me Auntie Sam-sam and Tucker as Uncle Tuckie." Sam Manson (19 yrs old) Chuckled and Tucker Foley(19 yrs old) groggily following behind her, "they're quite tiring but it's worth it" Tucker Yawns and Sam laughed at him before kissing Danny and Ellie's Forehead. "I'll be heading home now, my Little Aria(Pet Pigeon) must be waiting for me" she coos as she walked off waving goodbye to the kiddos who were waving goodbye back. "Me too Jazz! I miss my couch and my Tools." Tucker laughed and followed Sam to His Car, Both going to the same college just different majors, the two drove off back to the city and Jasmine cooing over the twins who giggled happily in her arms.

"Don't worry Okay Ellie and Danny? Your Daddy will come home by 7 PM tommorow! I promise!' She reassures them! "What Surprise Will Daddy give?" Danny asks Expectedly with a very cute high tone and Jazz swears her heart is about to explode. "It won't be a surprise if you two know now doesn't it?" She chuckled and the twins looked at each other expectantly and nodded in agreement, the twins held Hands throughout the day not letting go of each other and truly attached by the hip.

The two chattered about their day with Their Uncle and Auntie as Jazz listened through still in her fancy Dress, she tucked the two to bed before she went to her bedroom to finally change.

She is so going to Beat up Dante once he calls her.

[𝙽𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝙳𝚊𝚢, 12:58 𝙿𝙼]

Dante flutters his eyes open to the hot sun peeking through the window curtains.. Dante groans but stopped still when he felt movement beside him, he faces his head to the side and sees. BRUCE WAYNE??? on his Arm sleeping. Resting. Messy Looking and Probably still naked. Dante combs his hand through his hair as he stared at what he calls "Majestic Man" that is Bruce Wayne. "Fuck... What did I do last night." He Groans and slowly but gently sat up as to not disturb The Sleeping Bruce Wayne. He stood up from the bed as he processed what the fuck he did to get to this moment and went to the Hotel Room's Kitchen. And started cooking something up just to relieve his stress.

Soon Later about an hour, Bruce woke up. He groaned.. his back was sore. He looked around the bed and slowly sat up thinking the person he Fuck must've left him— but nope. "Oh good morning." The Albino(?) possibly Meta-Human Man was staring at him fully clothed ,looked like he didn't look tired at all and had prepared food for him. 'is this what aftercare is?' Bruce asked to himself mentally as This Man Puts the Bed Foldable Table Infront of Bruce and Literally served him, home cooked Breakfast in bed.

Did he accidentally get married whilst drunk?? Bruce was bemused, cautious but also felt fucking stupid but he's calculating everything he needs to say from now but he totally didn't have a contingency plan for this occurrence. "Sorry for going too rough on you last night, Kinda lost my Temper and Control—" The Suspected Albino Meta-Human, Dante Jamie Masters as Bruce Recalls was Apologizing as he scratched his nape. "It's quite alright, Thank you for serving me a meal so early in the morning—" Bruce tried to play it cool and smiled but damn. His body felt numb. How long did they go for?

"I can help you get out if you wish! And dress even!" Dante smiles at him softly and even kissing the back of Bruce's Palm. Bruce is totally unprepared for any of this happening as he did not expect to get princess treatment by a possible One- night stand. Goddamn. He hopes none of his kids find out. This would be the most Embarrassing story that his kids will poke fun of him about if they ever found out what this man did and He hopes that Dante also doesn't tell anyone.

Meanwhilst Dante was already totally smitten with the man and Jazz told Him that he should be polite and Kind to those he wants to court and Somehow... Dante has a feeling that he should take some toys home for his kids... And oh god Jazz is going to kill him.

Oh god, the Ghostly Courting Methods Shall start today. WHOOOO!!!

[writing-to-survive]

#201

"There's a hoard coming from the west. We have to get going."

"I can't walk. You've gotta go."

[unboundprompts]

hello! stumbled across your tumblr recently and love it, so resourceful! I wanted to know if you had any prompts or a list of ideas for things to occur/prevent someone going to their destination in a dystopian/post-apocalyptic world?

Problems That May Occur in a Dystopian/Post-Apocalyptic World

The fresh water supply is running low and your character needs to find a resource to replenish it.

A family member or loved one has fallen ill and your character needs to care for them/find the medicine they need.

The map your character has been following was ruined by the rain.

An animal/monster/rival group is attacking your character's home!

Someone important to your character has gone missing.

The wall around your character's base has fallen. It needs to be rebuilt before *it* gets in.

A storm is passing through and the conditions are too rough for your character to continue traveling. They need to find shelter before it gets any worse.

A dead animal has been found in the middle of your character's base.

Something is causing the food supply to rot.

A group of thieves has robbed your character while traveling.

Some kind of creature has been stalking your character during their travels. I hope it's friendly.

One of the wheels on your character's mode of transportation has broken/gone flat.

If you like what I do and want to support me, please consider buying me a coffee! I also offer editing services and other writing advice on my Ko-fi! Become a member to receive exclusive content, early access, and prioritized writing prompt requests.

I also have a Patreon! Become a member to gain access to a Member's Only Community where you can chat and message other members and myself. Also gain access to my personal writing, which includes completed short stories, chapters from novels in progress, as well as completed scenes.

[mischievous-thunder]

Wade's life's so damn colourful

[cute-sucker]

note: im begging for requests for this au!!! i'm sobbing, idk what character it is <3

˚❀༉‧₊˚.˚❀༉‧₊˚.˚❀༉‧₊˚.˚❀༉‧₊˚.˚❀༉‧₊˚.˚❀༉‧₊˚.˚❀༉‧₊˚.˚❀༉‧₊˚.˚❀༉‧₊˚.˚❀༉‧₊˚.˚❀༉‧₊˚.˚❀༉‧₊˚.˚❀༉‧₊˚.

jonbee taking care of you during an apocalypse and you're in near tears begging him to kiss you. it happens all the time, the casual way that he's dominant over you. if it's the way that he's so much taller, the way his rough hands feel on yours. he always drops a kiss on your forehead before serving you french toast.

you love the normality of it all. the way he's humming the song on the radio, and you're bobbing your head to it. ivy is growing in the trailer park, and the shorts you have on have dirt smudges all over it when the two of you were running.

yet john b is giving you everything he can to serve you a normal lifestyle. he's trying everything to make you feel better, tucking back your hair, and coaxing you to eat. he's even found an old apron that has, 'kiss the chef,' on it, and suddenly your tearing up, holding up your brittle knife and fork.

hot tears drip down your face, as you sniffle quietly nudging at the food on your plate. almost immediately john b turns around, eyes full of concern.

"hey? hey, what's wrong?" he murmers, dropping down to your level. his hat is on backwards, and you fight the urge to turn it the other way. "don't cry pup," he cooes, grazing your wet cheeks, and you fight the urge of jumping into his arms, or asking to sit on his lap. after all, the two of you are platonic anyways. that's clear to tell.

you choke on your sob, "iono, just feel this pressure on my chest. i really need to be close to someone." even as you say this, your eyes are wide ready to be rejected, but john be is always there for you, as his hands snake up your sides, and sits you down on his lap.

"alright now. let's eat something now. maybe that'll make the ache go away."

you nodd at his soft words. he's right, he's always right. the two of you could barley find normal food now, always preservatives, or food that makes you hurt. you like it when he embraces you like this, his big arms around your waist, as you feel like a kid swinging your legs. and yet here you are crying the one day that there is good food.

suddenly you feel worse. the world is ending, and you'll be dead soon, and john be will never be with you, and you will have never kissed anyone. you'll never be a librarian in a niche town with a husband who would kiss you off your feet. no, you will have never kissed someone! what a tragedy to love someone so deeply yet never touch their soothing lips. maybe john b's lips on yours would fix everything.

you feel so stupid.

finally, john b puts the fork down, warm breath on your neck, and he sets you off his lap to look you in the eye.

"i need you to tell me what's wrong, and so i can fix it." he whispers to you, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. you shake your head, feeling the pounding feeling in your chest, as if you were going to vomit but your stomach was empty.

john b sighs, his voice firm now, "this won't go away. show me where it hurts. do you feel sick?" he murmurs to you, giving you his hand to guide, and you tentivally take it to place it on your heart.

"here," you croak, "it hurts here."

he looks surprised, yet his eyes are warm as he speaks in his soothing tone, his words practically melting in your mouth, "why does it hurt pup?"

"i need you to kiss me," you blurt out, and let go of his hand, "so it can stop."

he tilts his head almost amused, "yea? you need me to kiss you, so your heart can stop hurting."

you hate the way he's teasing you, a soft lint in his tone, his large hands still settling on you as he talks to you. he's so gentle with you it burns your skin, it burns everything inside of you.

"i can't take it. i can't take the fact that i've never kissed someone," and then you pause, your voice a whimper, "i can't take it that i haven't kissed you jonbee-"

and then without a doubt, he looks at you again, his eyes so feverious, so full of emotion, burning with the exact same fire that you feel your body ablaze with.

just like that john b cups your jaw, and kisses you so sweetly you see stars.

[princessbrunette]

you were headed to the control tower. it was the haven above the camp that saw everything, heard everything — and yet felt so out of reach and oddly peaceful. that’s where apocalypse!pope always resided, and today was like no other.

obviously, at the end of the world it’s not often you see anyone skipping around, singing and jumping for joy — but pope had been real moody. it was totally valid, since sarah died and all… but the group had finally been finding ways to cope. moments of solace. moments of laughter and joy where you could forget for a second what the world had become. but not pope, no — he’d lost so much. he was tense, you could see it in his body language from the way his shoulders were all tight and you could see the hunger for revenge in his eyes. there was nothing you could do or say to ease that, hell — you’d come to terms with the fact he’d probably drive himself straight into his death over it… but you could try and prolong it. take some weight off his shoulders even for a moment.

“knock knock!” you hum brightly, not wanting to startle him as you poke your head round the door, the sweet chime of your voice accompanied by two solid wraps at the tower door. you were still a little out of breath from climbing all the steps up when pope glances over his shoulder at you before promptly removing his headphones.

“oh, hey.”

as you step inside, you’re quick to gently close the door behind you. you got the sense that pope enjoyed being shut off from the outside. when he realises you’re here to stay, he swivels round in his chair to face you — slumped in his hoodie. “anything i can do for you?”

“no uh, thought i’d hang for a bit if that’s okay?”

his first instinct is to say no and busy himself with something else — but it was you, so his eyes soften and he shrugs.

“well, i’m not much fun right now. i’ve spent hours checking through the index of radio stations i can connect mine to. whoever we heard last week must’ve just been passing through.” he converses, wringing the wire of his headphones between his wrists. “or it’s rafe, just messing with us.” at the mention of the eldest cameron his nose curls and his eyes are cast down angrily — never missing an opportunity to spit venom at the killer.

you nod sensitively, shuffling a little closer. “right, yeah. could be.” you breathe — and let him cool off until he’s back with you, eyes flickering back up. “do i smell…”

that pretty smile reaches your lips and you dig into your pocket, pulling out the joint. “should’ve known you’d pick it up.”

some guy on your camp had been farming cannabis since you’d let him in. he offered a pretty sick trade, do his daily tasks and he’d hand you a generous lump— even roll it for you if you bat your lashes. pope grins too at first, and then it’s like he catches himself and he swallows it down, clearing his throat.

“yeah…uh, as much as i’d love that right now i should probably… keep the signal clear. you know, just incase.” you wanted to grip him by the shoulders and shake him. just let yourself have fun. stop punishing yourself.

“pope,” you deflate. “it’s been a week since you’ve come into contact with anyone through the radios. you’ve been sitting in here, cooped up, alone. just… a few hours of relaxation. that’s all i ask.” you pull out the doe eyes, and it’s like he’s the tiny insect in your venus fly trap because it works and he tips his head back sighing before nodding.

“fine. do you have a lighter or are we gonna have to do this the old fashioned way?”

an hour passes — and with the help of the stale doritos in your backpack, a joint, and some well deserved giggles, somehow you’ve relaxed pope to the point of having his pants around his ankles, ass scooched right to the edge of his seat where he slumps back, legs open with you between them.

you stare up at him sweetly through red iris as you pull off for a moment, savouring the moment and licking up his pearly precum. he lets out a sigh, squeezing his eyes shut as if momentarily regaining the consciousness.

“how did we… end up here?” he strains and you hum out a sound that resembles ‘i dunno…’ before pulling off with a wet pop.

“jus’ enjoy it… you taste good.”

“fuck.” he sighs, resting the crevice of his arm over his forehead as he leans back. you push him further into your mouth, and it’s like something snaps — the resistance he’d been putting up. momentarily, he’s limp — before suddenly he’s pushing his hips up, gagging you.

“shit, i’m sorry. i’m so… fucking sorry.” he moans, gentle hands contradicting his actions as he caresses your hair and rubs at your scalp with his thumbs all whilst using you as handlebars to fuck your throat. wet gags fill the room, and if you weren’t so hazy and out of it you might’ve needed a moment— but instead you let him, aroused and lazy as he manhandles your face. “feel so good— you— make— me— feel— better.” each word is punctuated with a thrust, before soon he’s throwing buckets of his warm seed down you.

there’s not a second of hesitation post orgasm before his guilt settles back in and he’s leaning forward, eyes wide and red as he holds your cheeks watching you sniffle and splutter.

“hey, hey— was i too rough? i’m sorry beautiful. god, i’m sorry.”

as soon as you can speak, you do. “pope, s’okay!” you squeak, letting out a giggle that relieves him enough to pause, catching his breath. “i liked it. i liked seeing you let go.”

“…probably let go a little too much.” he’s pulling his pants up and you shrink a little, watching him spin back round to the radios. “knowing my luck i missed something, missed a communication or—”

“you didn’t.” you interrupt, and he turns back round, analysing you. before he says a thing, your brows furrow. “nothing happened. you just relaxed. come down to the house pope. sleep.”

“i sleep in here—”

“not tonight.” you’re still on your knees, clammy hands clasped pathetically on your lap with his arousal actively drying into your skin. “please.”

pope blinks, melting just a little more once before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the centre of your forehead.

“okay.”

[bilosan]

buddie + zombie apocalypse au

(9-1-1 // gif prompts)

[thepenultimateword]

Prompt #286

"You can't be nice out here, Hero. No saving people or fighting your adversaries head-on, basically no heroing whatsoever."

"I wasn't--"

"You were! You did! You saved that guy's life, and how did he repay you? He mugged us! You're still stuck in the old world where everything works out and everyone loves you.”

Hero hesitated. “Not everyone can be bad now…”

“Don’t think of it as bad as much as selfish and desperate. And I’m a pro in that department. So from now on, we play it my way. No helping. No trusting. No healing. Got it?”

“What about you?”

“Probably not such a good idea to trust me either.”

Hero limped after them up the dusty sidewalk. The city felt hollowed out without the old hustle and bustle that once inhabited its many streets and buildings. Now Hero’s steps echoed each time they hit the concrete.

“I’m going to trust you anyway.”