#zombie!bucky x reader

[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.

[komotionlessqueenmm]

Loyal Protector

(1-1)

Short story # 23

Gifs NOT mine.

Summary - After the whole world has died, you find yourself wandering the wastes with your loyal Captain at your side. And even in death Captain Steve Rogers swears to protect you at all costs.

Year posted - 2024

Rating - SFW

Reading time (roughly) - 10 minutes

Sunlight glimmered off the iconic shield of Captain America, which hung from the dead man's arm like it was an extension of himself. Granted in many ways it was an extension of himself, in life and now even in death it would seem. (Y/n) looked at the reanimated corpse of her husband Captain Steve Rogers. Her heart ached painfully knowing she would never hear his voice again, be held in his strong sturdy arms, or share passionate kisses. Her Steve was gone, he died to buy her time to get away from the hord that had cornered them. Then three nights later she found herself face to face with his reanimated corpse. She'd held her pistol up with shaky hands, knowing she had to protect herself for his sake, or else his death would have been for nothing. Tears streamed down her face, unable to pull the trigger. A sob escaping her as he limped closer towards her, the hiss of his voice clutching at her broken heart, her lungs burning with every gasping breath she took.

Then he did something she never dreamed was possible. His hand pushed away her gun with purpose, placing himself before her, he rest his decaying forehead against her temple. They stayed that way for a short while, each of the growls and grunts escaping him made her jump. But she was to afraid to move away from him, afraid he would tear her apart the way the dead usually did with the living. They stood there like that for what felt like hours to (Y/n), but in reality it had only been a few minutes at best. The sound of shuffling footsteps made (Y/n) tense up, her spine going stiff and her heart hammering as adrenaline started pumping through her veins. The corpse of her late husband growled in dissatisfaction, and he whipped around faster than any reanimated corpse should, roaring in rage at the sight of another of the dead stumbling towards them. The Captain turned with a swiftness, throwing his shield at the intruding dead, the sheer force splitting the corpse in half at the waist. The shield ricochet off of a tree, and he caught it in a single smooth motion, as he did when he was alive. (Y/n) felt her bottom lip tremble, tears threatening to spill once more. He steps in front of her again, horse breath rattling in his failing repertory system. His head tilts a little to the left, and his free hand reaches out for her.

She flinches a little as his rotten fingers brushed her cheek, the touch gentle and uncertain. A sound bubbled from his torn throat, it sounded as if he were trying to speak, but it only managed to startle her. Again he shuffled closer, resting his forehead against her own, forcing her to look into his milky eyes. She wept at the sight of deep emotion swirling in his dead eyes. Her Captain, her Steve was still in there. "Steve." She whispered his name, her voice raw and broken. He made a sound like a purr, his eyes falling shut while he simply held her. She found herself leaning into his touch, finding comfort in knowing that his love for her eclipsed his now base desire to kill and feed. (Y/n) stumbled on a bit of rubble as they wondered the empty streets, and with reflexes no dead man should have, Steve caught her and stood her upright. "Thank you." She murmured softly, a faint smile ghosting her lips at the grunt of acknowledgement he gave in response. A noise from within a nearby building sprung the Captain into action, pulling (Y/n) to stand behind him, his shield held up in defense. A shot rang out from the building, and a bullet ricochet off of the iconic shield, making Steve roar with rage.

The last thing (Y/n) ever expected to see was her old friend Bucky to emerge from the building. His rifle held up and pointed at the Captain, who shifted to further guard (Y/n). "Bucky." She called out, peaking out from behind her deceased husband. The super soldier seemed to freeze at the sight of her, before his gaze hardened on his old pal. "(Y/n)? What are you?- Get away from him!" He tried to reason, his expression turning to near panic when (Y/n) moved to stand in front of Steve. "It's okay." She tried to tell her friend, who looked ready to bolt any second. "He... He won't hurt me." She explained, looking back at her husband who growled at Bucky, ready to defend (Y/n) at a moments notice. "Are you crazy? That's not Steve, not anymore!" Bucky hollered at her, wanting to protect his old pals wife. "He's still in there Buck, he protects me." (Y/n) told him, turning back to Steve, she touched his decaying face. Bucky wanted to shout to her, convenience her to run, but he was stunned into silence when Steve merely leaned into her touch, his glassy eyes closing and a rumble of a purr emanating from his rotten lungs.

"(Y/n) come with me, I have a small group of survivors, I'll keep you safe." Bucky said as he took a small step towards the two, Steve growled in warning, his attention snapping to Bucky, who froze in his tracks. "I don't think that would be safe." She said with a sad smile. "We should... We should let him rest." Bucky tried, flinching at the look of betrayal that flashed in (Y/n)'s eyes. "I can't do that Buck, he's my husband, and I still love him." She hissed at her friend, appalled that he would suggest that they kill Steve. "He's dead (Y/n)." Bucky reasoned. "Steve is still in there Bucky, why else would he keep protecting me?" She argued. "Please (Y/n) we have a compound, it's safe, secure. Let him rest." The soldier wouldn't give up so easily. "I won't leave him, I refuse to loose him." (Y/n) shot back, her agitation setting Steve on edge. The zombie growled deep and threateningly, a warning to Bucky to back off. "I'm staying out here, I don't care how dangerous it is, I won't leave Steve behind." She told her friend, her hand taking a delicate hold of Steve's arm, the one not holding his shield. "Fine... Bring him with you, but please come to the compound." Bucky said, taking a small step towards her. "I don't think that would be safe, not for the others." (Y/n) looked to her husband, knowing that if he thought anyone would be a threat to her, he'd kill them without a second thought.

"We'll make it safe, we'll set up a place away from the others for you. I can't in good faith just leave you out here." Bucky said again stepping closer, his anxiety easing a little, when Steve seemed to accept the distance closing between them. Steve's head turned to observe his wife, seemingly understanding what was going on. "If he remembers you, maybe he remembers me too." Bucky murmured quietly, holding out his metal hand to his old friend, who peered at him with milky eyes. When Bucky reached the pair, he touched the star on his dead friends uniform. A low rumble of noise rattled in the dead soldiers tattered throat, his grip on his shield tightening, though he didn't intend on striking. "If we can convince him, get him adjusted to being near the others, maybe we can make this work." Bucky said, as he let his hand fall away from the Captain. "I think it would be best if we stayed out here." (Y/n) murmured, not wanting anyone to attack Steve. "Fine... Then I'm staying out here with you, both of you." Bucky concluded, with a look of determination in his eyes. "Bucky you don't have to-" She tried telling him, but he cut her off. "Yes I do. If he could speak, Steve would agree with me." He said and (Y/n) glanced to her husband, who did seem to agree with what Bucky was saying. "Okay." She breathed out with a soft sigh.

[thezombieprostitute]

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Bucky really felt like the luckiest man in the world. Between work and the kids you'd been running yourself ragged, yet you still projected an aura of love for the people in your life. It was a kind of strength he'd never be able to match. And you shared it with him.

He knew you needed a real, true break from everything. You were clearly running on fumes, no matter how much you tried to hide it. He'd tried to get you to quit before but the finances were never there. Maybe a long weekend would help.

Bucky had picked up the kids from school and got them excited to treat you to a "Rest & Relaxation Night". He had ordered your favorite delivery food and the three of them got to work building up a blanket fort for you all to enjoy while having a movie marathon.

When you get home you're exhausted but grateful to Bucky for taking on as much as he does. You really just want to sleep but there's going to be cleanup from dinner, getting the kids to bed, and more.

You walk inside and the smell of your favorite delivery place immediately perks you up. Walking further into the house you're greeted by your children, bouncing with excitement as they tell you about the R&R Night they had worked on, just for you!

They practically pull you into the living room where you find the blanket fort creating a very cozy setting for watching movies. Bucky has the food set up on TV trays and made sure to place some easy-to-clean towels on the floor underneath in case the kids got a little messy while they ate.

You go to take a seat but your daughter stops you. "No work clothes in the fort. Only pajamas."

"You heard her, Doll," Bucky tells you. "Go upstairs and get changed. We'll keep the food warm for you."

Smiling at the sweetness of the whole thing you head upstairs to your and Bucky's room. You see a brand new nightgown laid out and you smile. The material is so soft and, of course, it fits you perfectly.

Back in the living room, Bucky gives you an appreciative whistle as you show off the new nightgown.

"Mama, you look like a princess!" your son exclaims.

"She's my princess," Bucky affirms, smiling.

You laugh as you sit down and everyone starts enjoying the food and the movies the kids picked out.

Throughout the movies Bucky made sure you didn't have to lift a finger. He cleaned up the leftovers when everyone was full. He got blankets when the kids wanted to cuddle up with the two of you. He carried both of them to bed when they'd gone to sleep before the second movie was over.

He gets back from putting them to bed and frowns, seeing you trying to clean up the blanket fort. "What are you doing?"

"This was really sweet, Bucky, but we gotta clean it up."

"And I will. On Sunday," he promises. He gently grabs your arm and pulls you in for a kiss.

"Sunday?!"

He blushes a little as he grins, "tonight I'm going to take you to our bedroom and fuck you so hard you have to call in sick tomorrow. Then it'll be just me and you all day while the kids are at school. The R&R tent will be your throne where I will wait on you hand and foot. Full body massage? Done. You want a warm bath to soak in? Done. You want me to hand feed you grapes? Done. I'm gonna treat you how you deserve, Doll."

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Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @navybrat817; @ronearoundblindly

[naok-iyuu]

Masterlist

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.- You will find here my work, if I am not LAZY, which is going to be really difficult.

English is not my native language, and even if I understand A LOT, I may not be abble to write as much as I know. You will maybe find some French work too here and there if I feel that it will be easier for me, stay allert my french people ! Some Spotify playlist here<3!

!REQUEST ARE ALWAYS OPEN!

Zed Necrodopolis relationship Headcanons - ~850 words

When the sun falls - 2.6k words (fluff)

Love is about details - 8.2k words (fluff)

It's beginning to look a lot like... - 2.7k words (fluff/Christmas special)❄️🎄

Coming soon...

Coming soon...

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Coming soon...

- Future writing list : (if you are interested, request for those characters) Peter Parker MCU Bucky Barnes Nico Alexander (Doogie Kamealoha) Cole Walter Alex Walter ...

Future writing fandom ? : (You can request for a character) Harry Potter My babysitter's a vampire ...

[imagine-you]

you and me and all of these living dead [logan/reader; bucky/reader] (1/2)

Summary: You've been running from Logan for years. When the virus struck, you never would have thought that Logan would join the leagues of the living dead. Now, he's following you wherever you go, forcing you to stay at least one step ahead of him to avoid a confrontation. It doesn't help that in the years since Logan turned, you've found peace with Bucky, and Logan is less than pleased at the prospect of losing you. When you're kidnapped and forced to use your power for a rogue group of scavengers, Bucky and Logan will have to learn to put their differences aside in order to save you. Word Count: 4.5k Author's Notes: A Marvel Zombies/What If: Zombies fic. The second fic in a series of spinoffs from my main fic in my Home 'verse that explores different Wolverine variants and their relationships with the reader in their universes. Happy Halloween, y'all!

Read On AO3

You squinted against the morning light drifting into the room past the curtains. It was way too early to wake up and all you wanted to do was roll over, ignore the sun's wake-up call, and go back to sleep.  

Logan had other ideas.  

"Where you going?" He murmured, wrapping his arm around you to keep you in place. "I like you right here." 

"The sun's in my eyes," you groaned, wriggling against him to try to get him to relent.  

There was a huff of laughter against the nape of your neck. Logan shifted against you, enough for you to feel his interest against the back of your thigh, before he made a noise of triumph. Suddenly, the blankets were pulled up over your head, shielding the sunlight from view and emphasizing the heat you could feel coming off Logan's body.  

"Better?" He grunted, trying to get back into a more comfortable position.  

"Better," you agreed, letting yourself press back into him.  

You loved mornings with Logan when you didn't have to rush off to play X-Men. You could stay in bed all day, soaking up each other's presence, and forget the rest of the world existed.  

"I love you," you whispered, somberness sweeping over you as the sunlight faded from the room. You felt a chill permeate the air and you shivered.  

"I love you too," he responded, his voice gruff with sleep.  

You were seriously considering trying to turn around to face Logan. You suddenly wanted to see him. You ached for him in a way you didn't understand. He was right there. He had been there all along. It had taken you years of fighting side by side to fall together, but once you had navigated your way around every obstacle, it had been easy to give in to Logan.  

You startled at the sound of something scratching at your door. Your brow furrowed and you tried to get up, but Logan wouldn't let you.  

"What was that?" You wondered, thinking for a moment that someone on the X-Men had finally managed to bring home a stray dog. But the sound grew louder, persistent, and was followed up by something banging insistently on the door. There was a growl on the other side as someone tried the handle, shaking the door in its frame.  

"Logan, I'm scared," you whispered, terror washing over you too quick for you to try to shake off. Your heart was pounding and your hands were shaking and you knew something had gone horribly wrong. 

You were half-convinced it was just a prank Remy or someone else might be playing, but another part of you knew that whatever was on the other side of the door was terrifying. It was doom come to wreak havoc on your life and you had no intention of opening the door and letting it in. You weren't sure why you felt such a rise of panic threaten to consume you. You could take care of yourself, your power equal parts defensive and offensive, and Logan would never let anything hurt you.  

Logan loved you. Logan would always protect you. As long as you were with him, you would never truly be in danger. 

So, why were you so terrified? 

Logan's breath had turned raspy and the hand clutching your hip tightened, threatening to leave bruises.  

"You're hurting me," you muttered, finally breaking free of his hold enough to turn over and face him.  

You felt a scream cut off in your throat, releasing on an agonized whimper. Logan was gone. A monster had replaced him, albeit one that looked remarkably like him. His flesh was decaying, hanging off in shreds, untouched by his regenerative ability. You could see bone and muscle and tendons straining as he forced himself to stay still.  

There was a growl building in his throat and all you wanted to do was move. You needed to get off the bed, now, but you couldn't bring yourself to hurt Logan. You loved him. You always would.  

Logan snarled before he lunged at you, his teeth bared as he brought them to your neck.  

"I'm sorry," he rumbled before his teeth latched on to your throat and sunk into your flesh.  

You woke with a scream caught in your throat. Your heart was beating so fast and loud that it was practically all you could hear for a moment. It took you entirely too long to realize there was an arm around your waist and another wave of panic threatened to descend over you. You brought your hand up and you weren't even sure what you were going to do, but then you realized that the arm wrapped around you was metal.  

"Bucky," you breathed on a sigh of relief.  

"You alright?" He rasped, his voice rough with sleep.  

"I'm fine," you lied, your mind on Logan. Your thoughts usually didn't stray too far from him. You missed him, ached for him in a way that was so painful you felt like you couldn't truly breathe half the time, but you also couldn't fathom having to see him again.  

Not like that. Not after what the virus did to him.  

"Liar," Bucky accused, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice.  

You easily turned in his hold to see he was only half-awake. There was a sleepy softness to him that had fondness, love, and affection swelling within you. You would never be able to show Bucky just how grateful you were for him, but you hoped he understood anyway.  

"I think it might be time to move again," you mused, willing the leftover fear from your dream to abate now that you were safe in Bucky's arms. You knew, instinctively, that Logan was close to finding you again. The two of you felt inextricably linked, as if your subconscious just knew at all times when he was nearby.  

Bucky's lips ticked up in a smirk before he brought a hand up to tap a finger against your forehead. "Your Logan radar pinging again?" 

You rolled your eyes, swatting his hand away, but leaning forward to brush a kiss against his lips. "You know me too well," you muttered against his mouth, letting your lips drag against his for a moment, before pulling away.  

Bucky watched you for a moment, fond and loving, before he nodded his head. "We can spend some time at the compound if you want. If you don't mind them all sticking their noses in our business all the time." 

You felt a smile tug at your lips, stifling a laugh in Bucky's shoulder when you tipped your head forward. "It'll probably be a hell of a lot more preferable to Logan finding us again." 

"Yeah," Bucky sighed, shifting against you for a moment. "I'm just glad he didn't leave teeth marks in the arm. Everyone that could help me fix the damage is either dead or missing." 

"I'm just glad he tried to bite the metal one and not the flesh one," you countered, pulling back to meet Bucky's eyes. Losing Logan to the virus had been unbearable, but losing Bucky too? You knew you wouldn't survive. You were half-sure you would just let either one of them bite you and join them in their undead roaming, endlessly searching for ways to sate the hunger inside.  

"So, the compound?" Bucky checked, gripping your hip and pulling you closer towards him until you could wrap a leg around his thigh, fully intertwining the both of you.  

"The compound," you agreed with a nod. It was as close to safe as you could get these days and relying on Stark's tech to keep Logan out wasn't something you were entirely fond of, but it would have to do for now.  

"Be ready in the morning," he told you, pressing a kiss to your forehead before settling down. His eyes slipped closed, and his breathing began to even out while he started to drift back off to sleep.  

You knew you wouldn't be able to sleep again. Not after that dream. So, you sat up, turning away from Bucky in a bid to start packing.  

You heard Bucky sigh and felt the tiniest bit guilty at what all of this was doing to him.  

"You think he's coming after you again?" His voice was slow and groggy with sleep, but you knew that if Logan were to burst through the door, Bucky would be fully primed and ready for a fight.  

"He always finds me," you pointed out, glancing at Bucky over your shoulder. "You know it's only a matter of time." 

Bucky studied you for a moment before he threw the covers back and got out of bed.  

"Bucky," you started, not sure what you could ever to say to him to make any of it okay. Logan followed you like a specter yearning to drag you down with him so you could roam together for eternity. Bucky had his own ghost to worry about in the form of his former best friend, but at least Steve wasn't tracking Bucky down every few weeks. 

Bucky shook his head, cutting off whatever words you were trying to find. "Better safe than sorry, right?" 

That had practically been your whole mantra the past few years and you knew that it was what had helped keep you alive.  

"Right," you agreed, trying out a smile for Bucky. When he shot you back one in return, you felt for a moment that maybe everything would be okay.  

The drive to the compound took three hours. Natasha greeted the car at the gate. She kept an eye on your surroundings as she waved you through. Her eyes scanned the land all around and you knew she was searching for Clint. Half the time, you weren't even sure if Natasha wanted to see him so she could put him out of his misery or if she was hoping not to see him so she wouldn't have to.  

As Bucky pulled the car to a stop, a web shot out and attached to the hood. It was followed by Peter appearing out of nowhere, using the web to anchor himself as he flipped and then crouched in front of the car.  

"What'd I tell you about getting your webs on my car?" Bucky called out the open driver's side window, unimpressed with Peter's entrance.   

"Not to do it," Peter answered, looking chagrined as he broke the web. He leaned forward and started trying to dust the remnants off the hood.  

Bucky got out of the car, watching as Peter tried to hide the evidence. You had to stifle a laugh as you followed suit, knowing that Bucky was only half-serious and just thought it was fun to pick on the kid. 

"Then what the hell is that?" Bucky countered, pointing at the remains of the web that had refused to budge under Peter's scrubbing.  

"A web," Peter begrudgingly allowed with a grimace. "On your car," he added when Bucky shot him a pointed look. "I'll get the soap and bucket," he groaned before trudging up to the compound. 

"You two on the run again?" Natasha asked as she approached the pair of you.  

"Yeah," you admitted with a frown. "Got that spidey-sense again," you added, grinning when Peter let out an indignant 'Hey!'  

"Well, you'd better get inside, then. Hope's getting restless to see if you've brought anything for her." 

"We snagged her a few things, yeah," you told Nat, catching sight of Kate on the rooftop keeping watch. Her bow was ready as she kept her gaze steady on the horizon. You knew that once upon a time, Kate would have had a quip and a salute for you, but after losing her mom and then her mentor, she had grown more quiet and serious.  

Natasha led you and Bucky towards the common room once you had grabbed your bags out of the car and entered the compound. Rhodey, Happy, and Sharon were all there, waiting on you.  

Happy's eyes lit up when he saw the bag of chips you threw towards him.  

"I bet this is the last bag of these in the world," he crowed before hugging them to his chest.  

The door behind you slid open and you glanced over your shoulder to see the last members of your group enter. Hope led the trio, with Remy and Charles bringing up the rear. Charles looked worse than the last time you saw him, but you supposed that Erik's death had hit him hardest of all.  

"Professor," you greeted, offering him a sad smile.  

"It's nice to see you," Charles said, glancing from you to Bucky. "Sergeant Barnes," he added with a brief nod of his head.  

"Just Bucky," Bucky reminded Charles, shifting slightly on his feet.  

Bucky always got nervous around Charles and you were sure it was why the two of you regularly left the compound in search of supplies. You knew having someone else in his head wasn't exactly Bucky's idea of a good time and he feared whatever Charles might find there.  

"Didn't think you'd be back, bonne amie," Remy said as he approached you. He pulled you into a hug, his embrace so tight for a moment you almost couldn't breathe. "Thought maybe you got tired of us." 

You knew what Remy wasn't saying. He thought you might have died. It was getting incredibly too risky to leave the compound. Rhodey and Happy were keyed in to all the defenses thanks to a contingency plan that Tony had enacted upon the event of his death, leaving the former Avengers compound one of the only safe havens left in the world. You were grateful they had shared the compound with the rest of you, allowing you the illusion of protection in a world filled with monsters.  

"We'd never stray for too long," you assured him, patting him on the back. You, Remy, and Charles were the last of the X-Men. All of you had lost so much together and you didn't think any of you could stand to lose more.  

"I'm holding you to that," Remy warned you, giving you one last squeeze before he pulled away. He moved to Bucky, holding out a hand for him to shake. You noticed him grimace as Bucky gripped his hand tight in his metal one.  

Bucky wasn't usually the jealous type, but there was something about Remy that just got under his skin.  

"Alright, before Barnes decides to try to eviscerate Remy," Rhodey cut in, shooting the pair an unimpressed look, "why don't we get down to business?" 

"Speaking of," you said, reaching into the bag you had brought with you. You were careful as you handed over three vials to Hope. "More samples," you told her, watching her nod her head in thanks. "Any closer to a cure?"  

Hope frowned, shaking her head. "There's something about this virus I'm missing. But these will help," she told you as she held up the vials, offering you a small smile. "Thanks for taking the risk." 

"It's no problem," you assured her, even though it was always difficult trying to get the blood of the undead. Bucky would have to hold them down while you got close enough to draw blood. You knew Bucky would never let anything happen to you, but once you were close enough to a zombie to see the way their teeth snapped at you, wanting nothing more than to tear into your flesh, you couldn't help but worry that one day you would run out of luck.  

"We were actually just about to head out before Charles told us you were coming," Sharon informed you. "We got a distress call. Might be nothing or might be something, but it looks like it's from an old friend." 

"An old friend?" You wondered, trying to think of anyone else who might be alive.  

"Sue Storm," Natasha answered, glancing to the door as Kate trudged inside. She quirked an eyebrow at her in question and Kate shook her head, giving the all-clear.  

"Sue? She's been missing for years," Bucky pointed out, turning to give Natasha his full attention.  

"Which is why it caught our interest," Natasha said, arching a brow at him.  

"Could be risky," you mused, knowing that it was more than likely a trap. Going incommunicado for any period of time longer than a couple weeks usually meant the person was dead. But all of you had already lost so much that the thought of ignoring someone who might need your help didn't bode well with you.  

You were all that was left and you couldn't afford to ditch someone in need now. The group you had formed, one hellbent on finding a cure, was all you had left in the world. Both you and Bucky had joined for extremely personal reasons. You wanted to cure Logan and Bucky wanted to cure Steve. But now, you were all a part of the same fucked-up little family. You would fight for each other and you would die for each other.  

As more people were lost and hope dwindled more every day, you weren't sure if you would ever get the people you loved back. It didn't help that most of the living dead retained knowledge of their past lives or that they could still talk and perform actions they might have when they were still alive. It wasn’t the same, it would never be the same, but it still served to cause the knife in your gut to twist deeper with each time Logan got close enough to call your name.  

Steve had still hefted the shield, shambling everywhere he went, keeping it clutched tight in his hold. He used it to kill people and then devour them. He used it to protect himself from anyone that might try to put a bullet in him and stop him for good. And the last time he stumbled right into your path, Bucky had finally wrested it free from his hold. Steve had been pissed, but Bucky didn't want Steve to look back once he was cured and realize that he had used the shield for such awful things.  

Logan remembered you. He had told you once that as long as he could smell you, he would be able to find you. His senses were all so completely honed in on you that you truly thought there was nowhere you could go now where he wouldn't follow. You had tried, time and again, to get through to him. You begged and pleaded and cried, but none of it really did you any good. Logan still loved you. You knew that much. But the hunger was simply too strong.  

So, you and Bucky wandered, and Logan inevitably followed in your wake. Sometimes, Steve showed up and sometimes you went months without seeing him. Both you and Bucky were being haunted by your past and you wanted nothing more than to find a future together free of the dead.  

You tried not to let guilt eat away at you, but it was hard when you knew that Logan had taken the bite meant for you. You had been distracted, terrified, and while you had a forcefield up to protect Scott, you hadn't noticed one of the undead until it was almost too late.  

Ororo had risen after being struck down and had grabbed onto your leg. Her mouth had been wide, ready to rip into your calf, when you were pushed out of her hold by Logan. Unfortunately, he had taken your place, and Storm sunk her teeth into his ankle.  

You had hoped that with his regenerative healing, he wouldn't turn. But as time wore on, both of you realized that he was turning, just at a slower rate than everyone else who had been bitten. You remembered the wild look in his eyes when he realized that he was fighting a losing battle with his new instincts.  

He had begged you to run. All you wanted to do was stay.  

In the end, you had no other choice.  

You didn't know what you were supposed to do without Logan. The X-Men had fallen and you no longer had a home to return to. So, you kept moving. You never stayed in a place for longer than a few days, fearing the dead or humans turned savage by the apocalypse would find you. 

It wasn't long before you realized you were being followed. You were curious enough to try to figure out who was staying on your trail. So, you stayed behind just long enough to see who was sticking close to you, always two steps behind and lurking in the shadows.  

You shouldn't have been surprised to see Logan lurching forward through the doorway you had deliberately left open. His ribs were exposed and he walked with a limp, his bite from Ororo not fully healed. His hand was outstretched towards you, reaching for you, and you had almost let him close enough to touch. But you saw the way his lips pulled back in a snarl and the hungry gleam in his eyes.  

You had thrown up the forcefield, separating the two of you, and ran.  

You had been running from him ever since.  

Happy drove the van that carried you, Bucky, Natasha, Sharon, and Peter to the location of the distress signal. Hope was staying behind to work on the new samples and Kate, Rhodey, Remy, and Charles were all hanging back to defend the compound in case there was an attack.  

The signal came from an abandoned warehouse near the outskirts of the city. You didn't like how eerie and still it seemed. Despite the dead walking around, there was always some sign of movement or noise that would indicate something was still capable of shuffling around. But there was nothing. No sound. No movement. No zombies.  

"Almost too good to be true," Bucky muttered, voicing your thoughts.  

"Alright, let's fan out. If you run into trouble, sound the alarm," Natasha ordered before breaking away from the group.  

"Got it," Peter agreed, shooting out a web and disappearing into the rafters.  

Sharon split off in the opposite direction of Natasha, leaving you and Bucky near the main entrance. Happy was staying with the van and he was in charge of honking the horn if he spotted trouble. He had one of Tony’s hand repulsors ready if he needed to defend himself against a threat.  

You knew something was wrong. You could feel it in your gut. But you didn’t want to run the risk of Sue needing help after years of being missing and you ignoring her plea.  

"You going to be okay?" Bucky checked, reaching out to place a hand on your shoulder.  

You turned towards him, offering what you hoped was a smile and not a grimace, and nodded your head. You had that feeling like you had to constantly check over your shoulder. It was how you felt when you knew Logan was close, but it felt different. Like danger was looming over you, but you just couldn't see t yet.  

"Let's get this over with," you sighed, leaning over to give Bucky a brief kiss before parting from him.  

You had a gun held out in front of you, Bucky's idea of extra protection, and readied yourself to use a forcefield or your invisibility. There were so many winding hallways and doors that you knew you could easily get lost in the building. Or easily cornered, you couldn't help but think.  

You weren't sure how long you had already been at the warehouse, wandering in search of Sue, when you heard her voice.  

"Please," reached your ears first. It was followed by: "Help me." 

"Sue?" You called, keeping your voice low enough in case there were any zombies close to you. You hadn't seen one yet, but you had a feeling they were out there, waiting.  

"I need help. Please. They're dead. They're all dead. I don't know how much longer I can do this." Sue's voice had turned pleading, desperate, and you knew that feeling all too well.  

"Sue," you tried again, beginning to slowly approach the room you were sure her voice was coming from. Her pleas for help grew steadily louder as you got closer and by the time you had your hand on the door handle, you could hear her beginning to sob.  

You took a deep breath, not sure what you would find on the other side, and pushed the door open.  

The room was empty.  

There was only a chair positioned in the middle of the room and a laptop set up on the seat. The screen was cracked, but the speakers worked fine, emitting Sue Storm's voice through them.  

"Shit," you hissed, realizing that the foreboding sense of danger you felt had been for a reason.  

This was a trap.  

You turned, intent on finding the others and getting the fuck out, but you were brought short by two men and a woman standing there. You tried to raise a forcefield, but one of the men pulled a taser from the bag at his side and got you with it. You dropped to the ground, spasming as you felt the taser shock you over and over.  

"Grab her," the woman prompted, signaling for the other man to walk forward and pick you up.  

He threw you over his shoulder just as the woman tilted your head to the side and injected you with something. You felt something cold begin to creep through your veins, beckoning darkness forward to cover your vision.  

"We got what we came here for. Now, let's get the fuck out of here before those dead fucks turn on us," the woman told her cohorts.  

"Wait," you mumbled, trying to make sense of what was going on.  

You caught flashes of your escape from the warehouse intermingled with bouts of unconsciousness. You could now hear the moan of the undead and the sounds of your friends fighting them off.  

"Through here, through here," one of the men urged.  

Sunlight flooded through the room as a door was pushed open. You squinted against the light, willing your uncooperative limbs to do something. Anything. Even if you couldn't save yourself, maybe you could at least save your friends.  

"Y/N!" You heard Bucky's voice call, urgent and terrified. "Y/N!" 

You caught one last glimpse of Bucky, attempting to get to you. He was using the shield to take down zombies left and right, but the swarm between you was too overwhelming.  

The man carrying you pushed through the doorway and the woman turned to shut the door, separating you from the others. You tried to raise a hand, wanting to use a forcefield to protect Bucky, but you couldn’t even move your fingers.  

The last thing you saw before the door closed was Bucky's wide, fearful eyes locked right on you as zombies converged on him. 

All Logan Taglist: @i-left-my-cat-on-the-stove @slightlymediocree @snowyminty @i-wear-wet-socks313

Series Taglist: @ayamenimthiriel @the-gentle-spirit

[navybrat817]

💐Zombie's Bouquet Event💐

A bouquet for you! Featuring: Bucky Barnes; Grumpy/Sunshine; Bookstore; Fluff. Hope you like!

++++++

As you get out of the car you comment on the new bookstore that opened near the grocery store. Bucky picks up on your feigned surprise.

"We're just grocery shopping," he complains. "We're only getting what's on the list."

You giggle, "check the list."

He gives you a glare but it just makes you giggle more. Unlocking his phone he looks over the grocery list and finds you've added several books to it. He gives you a look of false hurt, "how could you trick me?" Your laugh almost gets him to smile. "We don't have time for the bookstore," he counters. "We're just getting groceries."

"You could always get the groceries while I go to the bookstore."

"Not a chance. Last time I left you alone in a bookstore you bought so many I almost broke my arm trying to carry them all!"

"You should've used your metal arm," you pout.

"I did!"

You keep pouting at Bucky, giving him those sad puppy eyes you know he can't resist. He tries looking away but he can still feel them.

"Fine," he sighs. "Let's go get the books." You cheer and give him a big kiss. "But you owe me, Navy."

You wink at him, "I know."

@thezombieprostitute , a sweet lovely requested this for me? 😍 I would abso-fucking-lutely add books to the shopping list. And I would pout and give him puppy eyes until that grump grump gave in. And, of course, I would owe him. 😏

I would owe him all night long. 😌

Love and thanks for this wonderful gift! ❤️

[the-superoriginal]

Dead people walking

Summary: The Apocalypse is hard and brutal. Actual people are as fearful as the undead. Yet they also can be the best that can happen to you.

Warning: platonic!survivor!bucky, survivor!genderneutral!reader, slight horror and angst 'cause apocalypse, zombies, canon level violence and gore

A/N: October. Halloween. This oneshot is for that time. Or any time you want actually.

English is not my native language!

You threw the halfway filled backpack through the small window and it hits the grass with a 'thud'. Instantly you strain your ears, trying to hear if one of the undead comes. But it's silent. Eerily silent even. Not a dog or cat or even a bird to hear. Two years ago that wouldn't have been the case. It would have been chaotic. Because two years ago the world was still fine. Normal. Everyone had been busy with chatting, travelling or simply existing.

But nobody was fighting for their lives, to simply survive from minute to minute. Not like this at least.

You squeezed yourself through the window, making sure you don't cut yourself on the broken glass. Blood would attract the walking corpses after all. And you couldn't have that of course. You landed on your feet beside your backpack nearly inaudible, sighing quietly out.

Snap.

Your head instantly jerks to the side and your eyes widened in panic as you hit the ground a second later. The air is knocked out of your lungs, but you hadn't the time to be stunned as the undead alright tries to bite you. His skin leather-like as it meets yours and one of his eyeballs were missing while his breath hits you. He stunk of dead and fresh blood.

Your rose one limp that was protected by a arm protector to try to get him off of you, but he was surprisingly strong. He is freshly turned and has just eaten. That wasn't good. Not at all. It meant there were a lot others not too far off. The undead were often in huge herds. That was one of the first things the world had learned. His nails scratched your skin suddenly and you clenched your jaw. It was fine. As long as he didn't bite you, that is.

That would turn you within in one day. Two if you had 'luck'. First the bite wound would just simply swell, then change colour to a sickly brown before a few hours afterwards the fever would hit. Senses would become sensitive to everything. And at least the first and last behaviour change would be there; aggressiveness. The end of the human and beginning of the undead. You had witnessed it often enough.

And you didn't wanted to be that. A dead corpse walking. Just a mindless shell. Slowly and painfully overwritten by a freaking virus.

And maybe eating someone alive that was dear to you. The screams off such scenarios still lingering in your dreams.

Or, which was arguably, the worser... infecting them too.

Suddenly a baseball bat hits the undead and he falls to the side. You didn't see much, because as the thing tries to move towards you again the source of protection had already moved over you away and started to hit it on the head. Over and over again.

You allowed your eyes to flicker up for just a second as you moved away, putting a safe distance between the undead and yourself. Bucky.

You had meet the man that was mostly known as the white wolf a few months ago. It wasn't a surprising nickname, you had learned that much during your first meeting already. He had hit you with the same baseball bat that he used right now, not sure if you were a undead or not.

That meeting had lead to a friendship and saving each other's lifes more times that you could count. Like right now.

The turned's other eyeball was oozed out through Bucky's quick, strong hits by now, the skull splitt open that you could see the brain come out. And just now your friend stopped. "You okay?" He asks worriedly and you only managed a nod before he already had hoisted your backpack on his free shoulder before grabbing you by your wrist and tugging you with him.

"Come on, we need to go. More are coming."

[captnvbarnes]

➼ 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬𝑹’𝑺 𝑩𝑰𝑵𝑫 | (17+) 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

theme — mcu zombie au!

pairings — bucky barnes x fem!reader, steve rogers x fem!reader

warnings — graphic gore, language, angst, undead themes, apocalypse (twd inspired zombies), substance abuse, graphic violence, use of weaponry, cannibalism, slight fluff, smut, character deaths, forbidden love, slow burn, inspiration taken from twd universe

summary — the outbreak had happened as quick as the first bite. one, then two, then 1/3 of the population became 2/3’s. before any of the avengers could comprehend this threat, it overcame them with new york’s rising population becoming undead. bucky is your protector, not by choice but by chance he was there just in time to save you. you two flew the compound, leaving the life you knew. leaving your husband to rot. as you two grapple what this new world has become, everything became too much. the world depended on you guys to save them, but how could you save anyone now? and when the blood runs and the nights become colder, who will save you?

This story is best suited for a mature audience, so read at your own discretion.

➽────────────────────❥

PROLOUGE

OUTBREAK DAY

RUN AWAY

LEAVE IT

FIRST GLANCE

THIS IS HOME?

ATHEN

TRIGGER BANG BANG

ASSISTANCE

CAMP HELLFIRE

SINNERS

MAROON SKY

STRAYING

I CAN’T GO ON WITHOUT YOU

GHOST IN THE WIND

A SHINY PEARL

WELCOME HOME

SAVOR THIS

IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE

RAPTURE

HOW ARE YOU GOING TO BREAK?

SAVE YOURSELF FOR SOMEONE ELSE

SALVATION

EPILOUGE

➽────────────────────❥

tag list <3

@buckystevelove @frombkjar

[buckrecs]

heyyy !!! can i get multiple recs for bucky x reader but it's set during an apocalypse :P

Apocalypse AU

masterlist | req masterlist

Awake My Soul by @foreverindreamlandd

It's been five years since zombies first started walking the Earth, destroying anything and everything in their wake. Now, in this apocalyptic world, fighting for survival comes as naturally as breathing. The one thing you've learned ever since they arrived, though, is that the living can be so much more dangerous than the undead. When you stumble across two young, scared boys lost in the woods and being chased by walkers, you go against your better judgment and help them to safety. Little did you know that helping them would lead you to Bucky - an angry, grumpy, distrusting member of the camp Shield. Bucky has zero interest in having you enter his life. He's been hurt before and lost too many people to risk experiencing that kind of pain again, and he knows that there are secrets you aren't telling the group. Yet, when push comes to shove, and you're put at risk, he'll stop at nothing to keep you safe.

Long Enough by @urvenicebtch

living in a tent with him was risky from the start, but you never expected tonight to be the night.

Time (D)rift by @darkficsyouneveraskedfor

The end has come and gone as you keep waiting for your own.

It’s A Cruel World by @revengingbarnes

In the destroyed post apocalyptic world, the reader saves a group from getting eaten alive by the undead. In turn, they offer her to join them. She would have said no, but the blue, trusting eyes of a certain brunette were too hard to resist.

Imagine by @vanderlustwords

reader gets bit and they either must find a cure quickly or accept what they have to do.

[questionableratatouille00]

Wԋαƚ Iϝ Iƚ’ʂ Uʂ?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x GN!Reader

Summary: After an incident involving the Quantum Realm brings forth the Zombie Apocalypse, you are forced to comprise a team of survivors to reach Wakanda, the only human sanctuary left. But is the apocalypse really a great time to develop feelings for a Super Soldier?

Warnings: Themes of death, hurt/comfort, angst. Side/main character death?? (Not Bucky or Reader) Fire, violence. Let me know if I need to tag anything else!

Note: This very loosely follows the relative idea of the What If..? episode. Thank you to @buckylattes for sending me this idea!

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

“This is day forty-nine since the apocalypse started. And Bucky and I may be the last survivors in the United States.”

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

The sound of the leaves crunching under your feet filled the warm and crisp air as you trudged through the forest. Occasionally, a gentle breeze would blow through the air, which felt quite nice in comparison to the autumn warmth.

"So..Steve and Tony got in some kind of fight?" Bruce stuttered out, breaking the silence.

"Yep." You confirmed.

"And..the Avengers broke up? Like One Direction?"

"Yep."

“And then got back together?”

“Uh-huh.”

"And there are zombies now?"

"Seems like it." You sighed.

“And the Avengers are zombies, too?”

“Dr. Banner.” Okoye chided.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just—y’know, it’s—“

“Weird?” Peter Parker guessed, smiling softly. “Yeah. We know.”

You frowned at the kid’s statement. You, Bucky, and Peter were the only Avengers on Earth to not be affected. Or at least, to your knowledge.

“Go find the kid. We’re..we’re gonna need all the help we can get.” Tony had mumbled to you. Steve nodded, pursing his lips. 

“I’ll call Kate and Yelena,” Clint said, looking at Natasha. Wanda grasped Vision’s hand, looking up at him anxiously.

“Anyone know how to get in touch with Thor?” Steve looked up from his feet, arms crossed.

“That’s a negative, Captain Rogers.” Vision’s voice was smooth and neutral. “Mr. Odinson does not have a communication device to contact us.”

You gave Bucky’s right shoulder a friendly and comforting squeeze before you walked out of the room. You knew Peter’s address, you’d visited his apartment before with Tony. 

Before you knew it, Earth was basically gone. That was over a month ago. You’d quickly found fellow survivors and made somewhat of a team with them. Peter, Bucky, Okoye, some guy named Kurt, Sharon Carter, you, and John Walker. And now, Bruce Banner.

“We need to find a base,” Bucky said, just loud enough to be heard.

“Sergeant Barnes is correct.” Okoye agreed. “Nightfall is approaching.”

“Pete, where’s that camera thingy you recorded your video on?” You asked, looking back at him. He’d made a little movie on how to survive the apocalypse soon after you’d saved him from the hoard of zombies outside of his apartment. It was a cute video, though the circumstances weren’t exactly great, or even good. It would���ve made a good school project, though.

Part of it was about hygiene, and Bucky starred in that section, albeit unwillingly. Bucky hadn’t said anything, but you could see the discomfort on his face when Peter showed you all the finished product. Bucky had been in the shower, rotated in a way where you luckily couldn’t see anything. He’d been ambushed by Peter and Kurt, the latter being lifted off the ground by his own neck, which had Bucky’s metal fingers wrapped around it. In private, Bucky had hinted that he was uncomfortable with the clip, and you’d gone to talk to Peter about it without saying anything.

You’d explained to him that ambushing anybody, but especially a Super Soldier—particularly a traumatized one who also happened to be a veteran—in the shower was not cool. Peter had apologized profusely, going back and removing the clip. You’d asked him not to say anything to Bucky, knowing that Bucky wouldn’t have wanted attention to be brought to it.

You could tell by the way Bucky’s eyes flicked to you when Peter showed the clip to Bruce that he’d noticed.

“Oh—uh—here.” He said, pulling the small camera from a pocket before tossing it to you. You caught it with ease. The apocalypse was no place for a lack of hand-eye coordination. You tucked it in the front pocket of your backpack.

“Won’t that thing run out of battery?” Bruce questioned, and you chuckled. “No. Peter and Stark made it a while back. It runs on an extremely tiny arc reactor. I’ve been keeping logs of every day—sometimes twice a day—since two days after the apocalypse started. So..yeah.” Sometimes others would make them, but none were as detailed or formal as yours.

“Jesus Christ," Bruce mumbled out. "Oh. I just realized--I haven't properly met most of you. I'm Bruce." He stuttered, picking at his fingernails.

"John Walker, Captain America." The annoying blonde spoke up. You were surprised he hadn't already shoved that fact down Bruce's throat yet. Normally, he wouldn't shut his mouth.

"I'm sorry--what?" Bruce looked at you, brows furrowed, wanting to see if you were agreeing or not.

"Turns out the government really doesn't like their favorite child going against 117 countries. So they gave the title--and a non-vibranium dupe of the shield--to this asshole." You explained, rolling your eyes.

"Right.." Bruce processed. John looked like he was going to say something, before Bucky shot him a glare, silencing him.

"I'm Sharon Carter. Former SHIELD agent." Sharon introduced herself, and Bruce smiled at her. Peter, Okoye, Kurt, and even Bucky introduced themselves, but you mainly focused on choosing where to go.

For some reason, you ended up being the 'leader' of the group. Maybe it was because you found everybody, maybe it was because you were the one who'd been an official Avenger the longest.

"Where are we going?" Bruce questioned. He'd followed you and the rest of the group into the woods.

"Well, the end goal is Wakanda. Right now, we're somewhere in New York. Phones don't work, and we come across maps every so often. Unfortunately, it's not like people posted map-selling stands in the middle of forests. Public spaces aren't the best places to be anymore." You spun around to look at everyone, walking backward.

"Wakanda may be the last human sanctuary on Earth." Okoye filled him in. "Our force fields would prevent the..undead from ever reaching our people."

"You sure did pick an odd time to visit the States," Bruce noted.

"I swore an oath. My king disappeared along with the Avengers." She replied.

"Right." Bruce exhaled.

"There should be an old Avengers safehouse up ahead. We stayed there after that one mission in February last year." You nudged Bucky with your shoulder as he caught up to you. He nodded slightly, chewing on his bottom lip.

"You okay?" You lowered your voice, trying to at least make the conversation slightly private. He glanced at you, before giving you the smallest of shrugs.

"Come on, it should only be a little farther." You called over your shoulder, beginning to pick up the pace. The sun was going to set soon, and night was not a time to potentially fight zombies.

You breathed out a sigh of relief when you could finally see the safehouse in the distance. It was a cabin in the middle of the woods, which made it a great place to stay in an apocalypse, at least for a little while.

"There's two bedrooms, two bathrooms." You announced. You put the code into the tiny pad by the door, before stepping inside.

You let out a sigh as you set your backpack on the floor against the couch. Everyone else followed suit, John and Peter sitting on opposite ends of the old couch.

Deciding to raid the pantry and see what you had, you rubbed your hands on your face. You'd risked it and went to a grocery store a few days ago, all of you filling your bags with as many non-perishable food items as you could.

"Okay, there's peanut butter, canned corn, some dried fruit, rice, bottled water, some trail mix packs, and canned..pineapple." You listed off. "And then whatever we're carrying."

"You wanna go through it all?" Sharon asked, and you shrugged. "Not really. I'm fucking exhausted." You held your forehead in your hand, closing your eyes.

"I can do it if you want." She offered, and you nodded. "Okay. Thanks, Sharon. I'm going to shower." You told her, opening your eyes and lifting your head up.

"You should take one of the beds. No offense, but you look like you need it." She smiles slightly, and you groan. "Wow, thanks. And I'll be fine. One of you should take it."

"Y/n, take the damn bed. Share if you want. But you're sleeping in a bed tonight." She decides, and you're too tired to argue with her. You accept your defeat and sigh. "Fine."

"Wonderful. You and Bucky can share that room. Okoye and I will take the other one, and Peter can take the couch. Kurt, Bruce, and Walker will be fine on the carpet." She assured.

“How’s your leg?” She’d injured herself yesterday, falling from the roof of a one-story building.

“Hurts like a bitch, but I’ll be fine. And don’t try and distract me. Go shower.” She smiled at the end. It reminded you of Natasha, in a way. You missed Natasha dearly.

"Okay." You agreed finally, taking out any food you had in your bag before taking it to the bathroom with you. You had a few outfits, just enough for maybe three or four days, and then a pair of shorts and a tank top to sleep in. You could stretch that to a week and a half if you felt clean enough to not wash your clothes.

You showered quickly before getting dressed in your shorts and tank top, walking into a bedroom.

Bucky sat on the bed, messing with his dog tags. His hair was wet.

“How was your shower?” You attempted to strike up a conversation. He shrugged in response, clearly tired.

“Did Sharon finish seeing what food we have?”

“Yeah.” He bit his lip, looking down at his hands. “Do you think he’s alive?”

You nearly asked who ‘he’ was, but after a second you figured it out. “I..don’t know, Bucky. But Steve’s strong. You and I both know that.”

He nodded, but it was clear that he wasn’t convinced. You pulled back the covers of the bed, before laying down.

“C’mere.” You said, the only light in the room was the tiny lamp that barely worked. You made room for him in your arms. Though you and Bucky weren’t anything more than friends, you’d gotten used to sleeping like this. It helped a little, in more ways than one. It helped him with his nightmares, and it helped with your anxiety.

He rested his head against your chest, draping his right arm over you.

The two of you fell asleep like that, comfortable in each other’s embrace.

Until Bucky started mumbling something, waking you up. “What the hell..” You grumbled before you realized what was happening. Right before he started screaming himself awake, you shook him.

His eyes flew open and he gasped, gripping your shoulders tightly. You waited for him to realize that he was safe and that the ‘danger’ was gone. His eyes began to water, though he tried to blink away the tears.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. You’re safe. Promise.” You reassured him. He let himself calm down, exhaling slowly.

“Good job. Do you..want to talk about it?”

He looked at you, unsure. “Not much to talk about.”

“I’ll always listen. You know that.”

“I wasn’t there for him.” He confessed, eyes watering again. “Steve. I didn’t..I couldn’t..” He reached for his face, wiping at his eyes.

“Bucky, none of that was your fault. None of this is your fault at all. You didn’t start the fucking apocalypse.” You began to rub soothing circles into his back.

“All I had to do was shoot.” He made eye contact with you. Your heart burned at the sight of his pink nose and teary eyes.

You didn’t really know what to say. In theory, you could say the perfect thing that comforts him immediately. But the truth is that whenever you’re actually in a situation like that, all of that stuff goes right out the window.

“Close your eyes. Okay? I know this stuff hurts, but you really do need rest.” Your mind went back to Natasha.

He nodded finally, closing his eyes. You did the same.

It was the smell of burning wood that woke you up.

You blinked yourself awake, eyes stinging from the smoke. You gasped, choking on air as you took in your surroundings. The room was on fire. You shook Bucky awake, and he took a second to register what was happening.

“Shit!” He exclaimed, kicking the blankets off the two of you.

Without thinking, he busted down the bedroom door, revealing the slightly less burning living room. Peter’s face was the first one you saw, and you raced to him. “We have to get out of here!” You screamed over the sound of rooms collapsing.

“There’s hordes of them out there!” He shouted back, clutching your arms.

“The Spider-Child is right!” Okoye called to you as she threw Sharon’s arm over her shoulder, supporting the blonde’s weight.

“Well, would you rather try and get out of here or would you like to burn to death?” John cut in. “I would rather not burn!” Kurt pointed out, and Bruce nodded beside him.

“Okay. Okay. Come on, we’re gonna bust through the side door. Are they surrounding the house?” You began to plan, though you were panicking on the inside.

“I don’t know. I only saw them from the front door.” Sharon wheezed.

“I hate those odds and I don’t think our chances are even decent, but there’s no other option. When I say go, race through that door!” You directed. Checking to make sure everybody was accounted for, you gave yourself a final nod of encouragement. John was able to get Sharon onto his back.

“Go!” You shrieked, making sure that you were the last one to bolt out.

“I see them!” Peter screamed.

“Doesn’t matter! Keep going!” Bucky commanded, but they were only getting closer.

The sound of something crashing against the forest floor made you gasp.

“They can knock trees over?!” Peter kept glancing over his shoulder.

“They are getting a bit close!” Kurt yelled out. You looked over your shoulder, seeing John struggling to run with Sharon on his back. You stopped, and when Bucky began to slow down to see why, you put your hand on his back, guiding him forward. “Go.” You told him, as you went to help John.

“You can’t carry me and I can’t run,” Sharon said darkly. “John, put me down.”

The crowds of zombies chasing you were only catching up.

“Sharon, we’re not leaving you.” Your voice raised in pitch, anxiety settling in.

“Sharon.” John panted. “Come on, we gotta keep going.” He tried to stabilize her, to keep her still against his back, but she managed to break his hold on her.

“Sharon—stop! Stop, Sharon, please!” You begged, your eyes watering up.

“I can’t lose another friend. Come on, don’t be like this.” John grabbed her wrist, but she pulled away.

“Take them all to Wakanda for me, okay?” She asked, giving you a soft smile.

“Sharon!” You cried out as John gripped your wrist, keeping you from chasing after her as she staggered into the horde of undead.

“We could’ve..that—she didn’t have to—“ You gasped, beginning to hyperventilate. “Yeah, I know, but we have to keep going.” John’s hand remained wrapped around your wrist. It felt too tight. It hurt.

“Let go of me.” You said as you sprinted with him.

“There’s only more of them!” Bruce stressed, and you wondered how he didn’t get whiplash from looking around between you all so fast.

“Go right!” Bucky took charge, and everyone obeyed. You kept pace with Bucky, knowing that he was running slower on purpose. The serum enhances his speed, so there was no reason he couldn’t have just bolted and gotten to safety. You admired his loyalty.

Everyone—minus you and Bucky—made it away from the main group of zombies before a large tree fell. It was burning. The only thing that you’d noticed was burning was the house.

“Zombie enhanced. Not good!” Bruce shouted.

“What do we do?” Peter tried to find a solution. You took a deep breath.

“Run!”

“What?” John, Okoye, Bruce, and Kurt all looked back at you and Bucky.

“We’ll find another way! We’ll find you!” Bucky agreed.

Peter shook his head, mouth opened slightly like he was about to protest. You hoped that this didn’t fuck him up too bad. He already had enough trauma.

“Come on!” Okoye filled in the role of ‘leader’. She was a general, after all. She was born for this.

You turned to Bucky, grabbing his arm and trying to find a way around the zombies. “Move! Move! Move!” Your voice went higher in pitch every time you said it. You wove through clusters of them, though you were still in your pajamas.

You ran through the woods, but it was still dark out. The moon was the only thing keeping you from not being able to see anything at all, and you were thankful.

“How fast can they go?” You shrieked as they began to pick up the pace.

“Y/n, go! I’ll hold them off!” Bucky began to slow down.

“What? No!”

“Just go!” He stopped suddenly, and you tumbled to the ground, trying to do the same.

“No! Not without you!” You howled, and he accepted his defeat, racing back towards you and grabbing you as you stood up.

Not without you. I love you.

Bucky and you ran through the dark woods, breathing heavily, palms sweating. You managed to trip over a tree root, pulling Bucky down with you. Just your luck, you managed to trip at the top of a hill, and you rolled down it with Bucky. Dirt and dead leaves crunched under you and scratched at your legs and arms, pine needles getting stuck in your hair and in Bucky’s.

“Fucking hell..” You groaned as you stopped rolling.

“This is not as pleasant as those fall candles said it would be.” Bucky breathed, and you laughed. You’d shown him some fall candles in a store you were raiding, one being Rolling in Leaves.

“Yeah. I agree.” You choked out.

“Come on, we gotta find..” He trailed off.

“They’re long gone, Buck. We’ll..just have to meet them in Wakanda.” You stood, helping him up.

“Don’t ever pull that shit again.” You said after a moment of walking. “What?” Bucky looked at you, not knowing what you were talking about. “That sacrifice bullshit.” You clarified. “Never fucking again.”

“Okay.” He said blankly.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.” He made direct eye contact with you as he said it.

“Good. We should find somewhere to stay for the night. I’m exhausted.”

The two of you walked for maybe an hour more or so before Bucky pointed something out in the distance. “There. Those are caves.”

You looked where he was pointing, and sure enough, they were caves.

Another hour later and you’d been able to sort through the bags and see what you had. Bucky had been smart and saved the bags from the fire.

“Why do you care? About..my life?” He broke the silence.

“Why would I not?” He shrugged in response. “Because you’re one of the only people I have left. And..I care about you, Bucky. A hell of a lot.”

“I care about you too.” He breathed, and it was clear he meant it. His gaze drifted down, towards your lips. He cleared his throat awkwardly, eyes shifting elsewhere.

“Bucky—“

“Kiss me.”

“I—what?”

“I want you..to kiss me.” The former Winter Soldier, one of the few Super Soldiers on the planet, wanted to kiss you. And who were you to say no? You felt the same way.

You leaned it at the same time, your lips against his, both of your hearts beating faster than they ever have before.

The kiss ended when you pressed your forehead to his. Bucky’s fingers tangled with yours, your knees pressed against his.

“If I have to be with anyone in this situation, I’m glad it’s you.” You whispered.

“Me too.”

“Wait a second. Can you check the front pocket of my bag and see if the little camera thing is in there?” You asked him, and he nodded, reaching over to open the front pocket of your backpack. He handed you the small device. Maybe it was weird to end a moment like that with asking for a camera, but you needed to be sure.

“Think it survived the fall?” He questioned.

“Let’s find out. If it does, maybe we can use the parts to make some kind of communication device. Maybe we can contact someone in Wakanda with it.” You pressed record. A small little light came on off the side of the camera, and you grinned. “It works.”

Now that you were recording, you realized that you might as well film your log.

“The safe house burned down. We got split up from the group. Sharon..Sharon’s gone.” You said grimly. “We have no contact with the rest of the group, and no way of knowing if they’re alive or not.” You spoke to the camera, eyes never really staying focused on one thing for more than a minute.

“This is day..forty-nine?” You glanced at Bucky, who was nodding. “Forty-nine. Day forty-nine since the apocalypse started. And Bucky and I may be the last survivors in the United States.”

[heydoaflip]

The Doctor and The Tracker | Helmut Zemo

Zombie Apocalypse AU!

Female Original Character ('Doc') x Helmut Zemo

Summary: When an unsettling discovery forces them to abandon their fragile refuge, Doc and her group face the grim reality of survival in a world that’s always closing in. As chaos erupts, one mistake pulls her away from her friends, leaving her to confront not just the undead but a haunting glimpse of something—or someone—that defies reason. Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, including gun use and combat with walkers. Themes of guilt, trauma, and survival in an apocalyptic setting. Intense suspense and danger, including close encounters with the undead. Brief mention of blood and injury (medical and combat-related). Word count: 11K

oo. the tracker

The fire station had seen better days. Faded red paint curled like brittle parchment, exposing the skeleton of weathered wood and rusted metal beneath. Inside, its transformation was equal parts ingenuity and desperation, the remnants of a structured world repurposed into a fragile refuge.

The main garage, once an echo chamber of sirens and hurried boots, now sat heavy with silence. Its emptiness was stark, a hollow reminder of what this place had been. The stretcher at its center, long past its prime, sagged under the weight of makeshift supplies: jars of scavenged ointments, antiseptic bottles clouded with age, and scissors dulled by overuse. Even the shelves around it seemed tired, their contents a precarious balance of necessity and neglect.

The air smelled of old smoke and mildew, with an undercurrent of something sharper—coppery, metallic. It clung to her skin, the way fear and exhaustion clung to their lives. Above, fractured sunlight trickled through a cracked skylight, streaking the dust-filled air with muted gold.

Doc perched on a battered crate, her back stiff with focus even as the weight of exhaustion tugged at her shoulders. Her fingers moved deftly over Bucky’s arm, her gloved hands carefully cleaning the wound’s edges. The jagged stump where his right arm had been was swollen but healing, though the angry redness still clinging to the skin told her the fight wasn’t over yet.

Her movements were steady, but her mind was far from calm. Every time she looked at the wound, she saw that day—his blood on her hands, her frantic breath as she tried to stop the bleeding, the way his voice, rough and broken, had told her to keep going. She had, of course. She had done what she could, and it hadn’t been enough.

"Keep it steady," she muttered, breaking the quiet but not the tension.

Bucky obeyed without complaint, his body still under her touch. His silence wasn’t unusual, but it carried a weight today that unsettled her. His blue eyes stared past her, distant and unseeing, as if retreating to a place she couldn’t reach.

The world outside had never felt so far away. The wind rattled the station’s loose window panes, a low, mournful sound that seeped into the cracks of her thoughts.

She hesitated, the cloth pausing mid-swipe as her gaze flicked to his face, "Still holding up?"

There was a pause, long enough for her words to feel like they were swallowed by the stillness of the room.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his tone clipped and unconvincing. He shifted slightly, the old chair groaning beneath him, before adding, “You don’t have to check it every day, Doc.”

The nickname made her grimace faintly, but she didn’t bother hiding it. They all called her that now, as if it was her real name. It wasn’t. It was just another thing she’d inherited from this broken world, like the ash-streaked sky and the hollow weight in her chest.

“You know exactly why I do,” she said, picking up the antiseptic with brisk, deliberate movements.

She dabbed at the wound, glancing at him as she worked. “You’re lucky to be alive, Bucky. You know that, right?”

The words hit harder than she’d meant them to, and for a moment, she regretted saying them at all.

The words hit harder than she’d intended, and for a moment, regret tugged at her. She wasn’t trying to chastise him.

He winced—not from the antiseptic, but from the weight of the truth she’d just dropped on him.

“You’ve got a hell of a bedside manner,” he muttered dryly.

A faint smile ghosted across her face, there and gone in an instant, “You want sugar-coating? Don’t avoid me when you’re in pain.”

Her eyes flicked to his face again, and she caught the tension in his jaw, the way his left hand flexed and unflexed against his knee. He was holding something back, but so was she.

“Fair,” he limited himself by saying, his expression forever stoic.

"I mean it, Bucky," she said, her voice softer now, the edges of irritation blunted by something gentler. She paused, searching for the right words but finding none, "What happened back there—"

"It wasn’t your fault," he cut in, sharp and sudden, the words slicing through her sentence.

Her hands stilled, the antiseptic-soaked cloth hovering above his skin. He still wasn’t looking at her, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, but there was something raw in his voice that made her chest tighten.

"You don’t know that," she murmured, her tone uncertain, almost fragile.

When he turned to her, his expression caught her off guard. His eyes were unflinching, filled with a heaviness that seemed to press against the walls of the room.

"I do," he said, his voice quieter now, weighted with conviction. "There’s nothing we could’ve done. And if I had to do it all again, I wouldn’t change a damn thing."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick, filled with everything they wouldn’t say. The sound of wind rattling the station’s loose windows barely registered as she looked back at him, her hands falling limply into her lap.

“That’s a really stupid thing to say,” she pointed out, breaking the silence. Her tone wasn’t sharp, but it carried a weight that made Bucky glance at her. “You lost an arm, Bucky. How... How are you going to do what you do?”

The question lingered in the air, and she hated how it sounded. Not accusatory, not exactly, but laced with the kind of helpless worry she tried to keep hidden.

The wind outside scraped against the building, rattling loose window panes like an uninvited guest. Dust motes danced lazily in the fractured sunlight spilling through the cracked skylight above, their slow, aimless drift a stark contrast to the unease gnawing at her thoughts.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing as if weighing her words.

“What I do?” he echoed, his voice calm but edged with something unreadable.

She swallowed, her fingers brushing against the edge of the crate as though searching for stability.

“You know exactly what I mean,” she said, quieter now, “You’re the one who keeps us safe out there. You hunt. You cover us when things go south. You’ve always been the one we can count on, and now...”

Her voice trailed off, the words catching in her throat.

And now I’ve ruined that.

The thought scraped against her, raw and unrelenting. She wanted to say it out loud, to scream it, but the weight of everything held her silent.

Instead, she looked away, her gaze drifting to the jagged streaks of gold on the floor, cast by the fractured skylight above. The light flickered slightly as a breeze stirred the dust, and for a moment, it felt like the walls were closing in.

The fire station was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that left room for the wrong thoughts to creep in.

“And now you’re wondering how the hell I’m gonna manage without two hands,” Bucky said, breaking the silence. His voice was steady, almost resigned, as if he’d already resigned himself to this being his reality.

Her head snapped back toward him, her brows knitting together.

“No,” she said firmly, though not unkindly, “I’m wondering how the hell you’re going to manage when you refuse to take even five minutes to let yourself heal.”

To let me help you. It was the least she could do and, yet, he avoided her like the plague.

He leaned back in the chair, the old wood groaning faintly under his weight. The corners of his mouth quirked into a wry smile, but it didn’t touch his eyes.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“That doesn’t bring me any comfort,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes lingered on the jagged edges of his stump, the angry redness that still clung to the skin. She could still hear the sound of that day—flesh tearing, his gritted groans of pain, and her own frantic breath as she’d scrambled to stop the bleeding. The memory was vivid, each detail burned into her mind: the sickening warmth of his blood soaking her hands, the metallic tang in the air, the way her fingers had trembled as she worked.

She’d told herself it was just adrenaline, the urgency of the moment forcing her body to keep moving. But deep down, she knew the truth. She’d been terrified. Not just for him, but for all of them. Bucky had been their anchor—the one who kept them moving, kept them alive when the world outside tried to swallow them whole. Without him, what were they supposed to do?

Her chest tightened, her breath catching for a moment as her gaze drifted to the floor.

“You’re not invincible, Bucky,” she said, quieter now, her voice cracking just slightly. “I don’t know what I’d do if...”

The words hung in her throat, too heavy to say aloud. She shook her head as if the gesture could physically push the thought away, her hands brushing against the crate as though searching for something solid to hold on to.

“If what?” he asked, his voice softer now, though his stubbornness still lingered at the edges.

“If we lost you,” she finished, the words barely audible, fragile in the quiet of the room.

Her gaze flicked back to him, and for a moment, she hesitated. She wanted to leave it at that, but the truth pressed against her chest, demanding to be spoken. If I lost you.

Bucky had been one of her first friends in this fractured world, though “friend” hardly seemed strong enough for what he was to her. He’d been a constant, the steady presence she could lean on when everything else felt like it was crumbling. He was the one who didn’t flinch when things got bad, who carried the weight when the rest of them faltered.

He’d believed in her, even when she doubted herself. When she’d stumbled through those early days of survival—making mistakes, hesitating when she couldn’t afford to—he hadn’t judged her. He’d just been there, steady and unyielding, like a pillar holding up the sky. She couldn’t bear the thought of him crumbling now.

The room felt heavier after that. The air seemed to press in around her, thick with unspoken fears and unacknowledged truths.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” Bucky said after a moment. His voice was firm, steady, but his eyes betrayed him. There were cracks in the armor, faint but undeniable.

She wanted to believe him. She needed to believe him. But the image of that day was seared into her mind, playing on a loop she couldn’t stop. If she’d been faster, better, maybe it wouldn’t have come to this. Maybe—

The sudden rattle of loose window panes snapped her out of her thoughts, the sound jolting her like a splash of cold water.

She blinked, her hand gripping the edge of the crate as if anchoring herself back to the present. The fire station felt oppressively quiet again, the faint rustle of wind outside only serving to highlight the stillness within. Her gaze flicked toward the windows, the cracked glass reflecting fragmented streaks of light onto the walls.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” he said again, softer this time, as though he could sense her spiraling. “You need to let that go, Doc.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t respond right away. Letting go felt impossible. The weight of her own guilt was too familiar, too comfortable in a way she hated to admit.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Letting go wasn’t something she knew how to do. The weight of her guilt was a constant companion, settling into the corners of her mind like the ever-present scent of old smoke and mildew clinging to the station’s walls.

Her eyes flicked toward the windows. The wind rattled the loose panes, a mournful sound that filled the gaps in their silence. Outside, the world was as lifeless as the space they now called home, its stillness punctuated by the occasional creak of the old building settling under the weight of its history.

“It’s not that easy,” she murmured, her voice so low it barely carried across the room.

Bucky didn’t respond immediately. His gaze dropped to the floor, the tension in his shoulders softening just enough to betray the exhaustion he carried. He flexed his left hand again—a restless, automatic motion that seemed to anchor him to the moment.

The silence stretched, punctuated by the faint scrape of her gloves against the crate as she adjusted her grip. She felt her thoughts start to spiral again, looping back to the same unanswerable questions. What if she’d been faster? What if she’d done something differently that day? What if—

“You heard anything yet?” Bucky’s voice broke through her thoughts, sharp but not unkind.

She blinked, the question catching her off guard. Her fingers tensed around the edge of the crate. “No,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The thought of them hadn’t left her since they’d disappeared into the gray haze of the horizon. Steve had insisted it would be quick—one day there, one day back—but now every tick of the clock felt like it chipped away at her hope.

She could still see the supplies they had packed: the last of their ointments, a crumpled map covered in faded marker, and the small stash of ammo they couldn’t afford to spare. It hadn’t been enough then, and it certainly wasn’t enough now. A hollow ache settled in her chest as her mind played through worst-case scenarios: bartered goods gone wrong, the fragility of trust snapping like brittle glass, or worse, the things that prowled the world outside. They’d been gone too long.

The shelves behind her seemed to loom, mocking her with their emptiness. Supplies for one week, two at most, if they stretched them to breaking. And now, they were the only things keeping her from sinking entirely into panic.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he leaned forward slightly, the chair creaking beneath him, “They should’ve been back by now,” he said, the words heavy with unspoken concern.

“I know.”

The words came out sharper than she intended, and guilt immediately twisted in her chest. She exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand across her face.

“I know,” she repeated, softer this time.

Her gaze wandered back to the windows. The cracked glass caught the light, scattering fragmented streaks of gold onto the walls. She followed the patterns absently, trying to focus on them instead of the sinking feeling in her gut.

“They said it’d only be a day,” Bucky said, his voice taut.

“Maybe something slowed them down,” she replied, though the words felt hollow even as she spoke them. Her gaze didn’t leave the window. “It doesn’t mean—”

“You don’t believe that,” he interrupted, his eyes cutting to hers.

She turned to face him fully, her jaw tightening. He was right. She didn’t believe it—not really. The knot in her stomach had been twisting tighter since last night, and the longer they went without word, the harder it became to keep her worry in check.

“They’re smart,” she said finally, as if saying it aloud would make it true, “Steve wouldn’t let anything happen to them. You know that.”

The thought of them hadn’t left her since they’d disappeared into the gray haze of the horizon.

Steve had insisted it would be quick—one day there, one day back—but now every tick of the clock felt like it chipped away at her hope. She could still see the supplies they had packed: the last of their ointments, a crumpled map covered in faded marker, and the small stash of ammo they couldn’t afford to spare. It hadn’t been enough then, and it certainly wasn’t enough now.

A hollow ache settled in her chest as her mind played through worst-case scenarios: bartered goods gone wrong, the fragility of trust snapping like brittle glass, or worse, the things that prowled the world outside. They’d been gone too long. The shelves behind her seemed to loom, mocking her with their emptiness.

Supplies for one week, two at most, if they stretched them to breaking. And now, they were the only things keeping her from sinking entirely into panic.

“Steve’s smart, sure,” Bucky said, his voice hardening, “But those guys they were meeting—they’re not exactly known for playing fair.”

The traders weren’t strangers, but they weren’t friends either. Wanda’s voice echoed in her memory: calm, clinical, but sharp with unspoken warnings:

“They’ve got their own rules. Stick to the deal and walk away clean.”

Doc had wanted to ask more—who they were, what they wanted—but Vision’s grim expression had stopped her.

“We’ll be fine,” he’d said at the time, but she hadn’t missed the flicker of unease in his eyes.

Now, alone with her thoughts, she filled in the blanks they’d left open. Opportunists, Wanda had said once. People who traded in desperation. People who wouldn’t think twice about turning a deal sour if the odds tipped in their favor. The weight of their silence felt heavier now, like a storm cloud pressing against her lungs.

She didn’t know them, but she knew enough: they were exactly the kind of people who survived this world. That didn’t comfort her.

“They’ve been reliable so far,” she said, though even to her own ears, the words sounded weak.

“Reliable until they’re not,” Bucky muttered, his voice dark.

The wind rattled the panes again, louder this time. She glanced at the window, half expecting to see something lurking beyond the fractured glass. Instead, there was only the empty horizon, streaked with the dull gray light of an overcast sky.

“They’ll be fine,” she said, forcing the words out. Her voice wavered just slightly.

Bucky didn’t respond. His gaze was distant again, fixed on a spot on the floor.

“If they’re not back by tonight...” he began, his voice quieter now, “We go after them.”

Her stomach tightened. The words hung in the air, heavy with possibility.

“Bucky—”

Her gaze flicked to him. His left hand flexed unconsciously against his knee. It wasn’t that he couldn’t fight—she’d seen him take down more than she cared to remember—but there was a rawness to the way he moved now. Like a violinist playing with a broken bow, every strike carried the faintest hesitation, every block an unsteady rhythm.

The fight outside the station—the way he’d faltered for half a second—still lingered in her mind. Would Natasha or Sam even agree with such a reckless idea? They’d urge patience, wouldn’t they? But patience wasn’t something she could feel at that moment.

“I mean it, Doc,” he said, cutting her off. His tone was firm, but there was a vulnerability beneath it that caught her off guard. “We can’t just sit here and wait. Not when we don’t know what’s happening.”

Her chest tightened. She wanted to argue, to tell him they needed to stay put and think things through, but the truth was, she felt the same. The thought of waiting much longer, of sitting here in the suffocating quiet while Steve, Wanda, and Vision were out there—somewhere—was unbearable.

She exhaled shakily, trying to steady the chaos in her mind. “Okay,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, “But I’m going with you.”

Bucky’s head snapped toward her, his expression hardening instantly. “No, you’re not.”

His tone was like a brick wall, but she barely registered it. Her chest burned with a heavy mix of determination and dread, a feeling that had been clawing at her since the moment Steve, Wanda, and Vision had left.

“Don’t start,” she said, her voice sharp, “I’m not sitting here while you go out there alone.”

“I won't go alone,” he countered, his brow furrowing deeply as he leaned toward her. “Sam and Natasha will go with me, they’ll agree with me and interject to join me. They can handle themselves, as I myself, you don’t need to get involved.”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“You can handle yourself?” she snapped, gesturing toward his left arm, “You’re still getting used to—”

“That doesn’t matter,” he interrupted sharply, his voice loud enough to make her flinch. His expression softened slightly, but his tone didn’t lose its edge, “I’ve been through worse. You know that.”

She knew he was right.

Doc had seen him withstand pain most people wouldn’t survive. But all she could think of was the way his body had sagged against her that day, blood spilling over her hands as she fought to keep him alive. Her breaths were shallow now, her pulse loud in her ears.

The sound of the walkers grunting from afar that day still haunted her nights.

Her mind drifted back—unbidden—to the first moments after the attack. Wanda’s screams had echoed in her ears long after the chaos had settled, a haunting soundtrack to her own failures. She could still feel the sticky warmth of Bucky’s blood as they’d tried, futilely, to stop the bleeding.

Every memory sharpened into a vivid, unbearable ache. She’d told herself over and over it hadn’t been her fault, but she didn’t believe it.

She blinked rapidly, trying to refocus.

“I can’t just sit here, Bucky,” she said, her voice trembling with frustration, “Not again. I didn’t do enough last time, and look where that got us. If something happens to them now, while I’m hiding here, I—”

“You’re not hiding,” Bucky said, his voice cutting through her words like steel, “You’re our doctor around here, we need you in one piece. They need you alive, we all do. Who else would keep Sam from trying to play hero when he’s hurt, or patch Natasha up when she refuses to admit she’s bleeding?”

Her lips twitched despite herself, but the moment passed too quickly, leaving behind only the gnawing weight in her chest. Her gaze dropped to the floor, shame coiling in her stomach. Surviving felt like an excuse. It felt like cowardice.

“You don’t understand,” she murmured.

“I do,” Bucky said, his voice calm and measured, though a flicker of pain crossed his features, “You think I don’t know what you’re feeling? That guilt? That weight? I carry it every damn day. But it doesn’t mean you throw yourself into the fire just to make it stop.”

Her breath hitched as his words struck a nerve, unearthing emotions she’d buried too deep to face. The images she’d been trying to suppress came rushing back again: Vision’s desperate attempts to shield Wanda, the way the chaos had swallowed them whole. She’d frozen at the worst moment, and she’d felt the cost of that mistake every day since.

Her shoulders sagged, the fight momentarily draining out of her.

“You’re asking me to stay behind and do nothing,” she said softly, her voice barely audible, “But I can’t, Bucky. I can’t stand the thought of—”

“Of what?” he pressed, stepping closer, his voice softer but still firm. “Of losing them? Of losing more people? You think I don’t feel that, too?”

She looked up at him sharply, her jaw tightening.

“I know you do,” she said, though the words felt thin and insubstantial. “That’s why I hope you understand me and let me go with you.”

“You think this is about permission?” he countered, his tone softening as his gaze fixed on her, “This isn’t about what you want, Doc. It’s about what we need. And what we need is for you to stop punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault.”

Her heart felt heavier, his words pulling her in two directions at once. She wanted to believe him, to let the truth settle into her bones, but her guilt sat heavier. Her mind spun, latching onto his words and twisting them.

The silence between them thickened, stretching into a chasm. Doc stared at the floor, her fingers twitching against her sides as her thoughts spiraled again.

She could still hear Steve’s voice, low and steady as he’d assured her they’d be back by now. She could still see Wanda’s tentative smile, Vision’s quiet nod. If she stayed here and they didn’t come back, she wouldn’t just be failing them—she’d be failing herself.

“I have to do something,” she said, her voice trembling.

“And I have to stop you from getting yourself killed,” Bucky said, his voice softer now, but no less firm.

Her lips parted to respond, the fight still bubbling at the back of her throat, but before she could speak, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted them.

“Hey!” Sam’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and urgent.

They both turned to see him standing in the doorway, his expression tight with unease.

“Something’s wrong,” he said, glancing between them, “You need to see this. Now.”

The chill outside hit harder than expected, the wind carrying with it the faint, sour scent of decay. The fire station loomed behind them, its once-vivid red paint peeling in ragged strips, exposing the weathered wood and rusting metal beneath. Around them, the forest stretched endlessly, its skeletal trees swaying against the gray horizon like brittle fingers reaching for the sky.

Sam moved ahead of them, his pace brisk but purposeful. His jacket flapped with each gust of wind, revealing a patched-up shoulder that spoke to a lifetime of survival in a world that didn’t allow for rest. His expression was sharp, his dark eyes flicking between the treetops and the undergrowth as if expecting danger to leap out at any moment.

Doc’s breath came quick and shallow, the cold air biting at her lungs. Her boots crunched against the frost-dusted ground, the sound far too loud in the eerie quiet. She struggled to suppress the rising dread, but her thoughts swirled with growing panic.

What was wrong?

Her stomach churned as memories of past close calls clawed their way to the surface—hands grasping at her ankles, lifeless eyes staring through her as she fought tooth and nail to escape. When the problem wasn’t walkers, it was about other survivors.

The last time they had to deal with survivors who weren’t at all good still didn’t bring her any good memories.

The forest around her suddenly felt too close, the looming trees pressing in, cutting off the faint light of the overcast sky.

Ahead of them, Natasha stood on a rocky outcrop that overlooked the clearing, her figure stark against the muted greens and browns of the forest. Her hair was tied back tightly, stray strands clinging to her face from the wind.

She didn’t glance back as they approached, her sharp eyes narrowing at the horizon. Her rifle was slung over her shoulder, but her hand rested on her sidearm, fingers twitching in restless anticipation.

Sam reached her first. “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like,” he said, his voice tight.

Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes locked on the horizon.

“They’re closer,” she said flatly. Her voice carried an edge of worry that Doc wasn’t used to hearing. “A lot closer.”

The words hit like a stone sinking in her chest. Doc stopped a few paces behind them, her hands instinctively gripping the straps of her satchel.

“Closer?” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper, “How close?”

Bucky stepped up beside Sam, his expression darkening as he scanned the treeline. “How close are we talking?” he asked, his voice low, measured.

Natasha exhaled slowly, the sound merging with the mournful rustling of the wind. “Close enough that we don’t have time to argue about it.”

Doc swallowed hard and turned her gaze to the treeline. At first, all she saw was the dense sprawl of trees swaying gently in the breeze. Then, movement.

Faint at first, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably unnatural. Figures staggered into view, their jerky, uneven steps disrupting the stillness. From this distance, they looked more like shadows than bodies, but the sound came next—low, guttural groans that seemed to rise from the earth itself.

Her breath caught in her throat. The walkers moved as if guided by some unseen force, their twisted forms weaving between the trees in eerie, disjointed patterns. They weren’t supposed to be here. They weren’t supposed to move like this.

“They were miles away,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “How are they already here?”

“They shouldn’t be,” Natasha replied tightly. “Two days ago, they were far enough out that we should’ve had at least a month.”

Doc’s heart raced as her thoughts spiraled. She’d studied the walkers enough to know their patterns, their sluggish movements and aimless wandering. These weren’t the same. Their pace was faster, their movements less random, almost purposeful. The idea sent a cold shiver down her spine.

“Unless they’re tracking us,” Bucky muttered grimly.

The thought hit Doc like a punch to the gut. “Tracking us? How?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam interjected, crossing his arms. His jaw tightened as he glanced at Natasha. “How long do we have?”

Natasha tore her gaze from the horizon to face them, her expression unreadable. “An hour,” she said, her voice clipped. “Maybe less.”

The wind picked up, howling through the rocky outcrop, carrying the walkers’ groans closer. Doc’s gaze drifted back to the treeline. She could see more of them now, their shapes growing clearer as they emerged from the forest’s shadows. Their bodies were twisted and broken, patches of skin hanging loosely from exposed muscle and bone. Some dragged limbs behind them, while others moved with an unnatural speed that made her stomach churn.

She forced herself to look away, but the sound lingered—wet, uneven footsteps against frost-covered earth, the grotesque symphony of broken jaws gnashing and guttural groans filling the air. They were closing in, a relentless tide of death that wouldn’t stop until it consumed everything in its path.

Her thoughts raced. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Walkers didn’t move like this. They didn’t track people, didn’t organize. It didn’t make sense, and yet here they were, defying every rule she thought she understood.

“They’re moving like they know where we are,” she thought, a sickening realization clawing at the edges of her mind, “How do you fight something that learns?”

Bucky’s voice cut through the rising panic.

“Grab what you can carry,” he said sharply, his tone brooking no argument. “We’re moving. Now.”

The fire station was alive with chaos as they scrambled to gather their supplies. The sound of boots thudding against the worn wooden floors mixed with the muffled groans of walkers approaching outside. Each noise felt magnified, echoing in her ears as though the world itself was narrowing to this single point. Doc’s hands moved quickly, shoving rolls of bandages and jars of antiseptic into her satchel.

The sharp tang of alcohol mingled with the musty scent of old wood and mildew, clinging to her as much as the panic settling deep in her chest. Every item she touched seemed heavier than the last, her mind warring between what to take and what to leave behind.

Her thoughts spiraled, racing between what she needed and what she could afford to leave behind. But with every passing second, the groans outside grew louder, closer. Every creak of the building, every gust of wind that rattled the windows, made her nerves tighten further, the pressure of the outside world pushing in.

“You don’t have time for all that!” Sam’s voice barked from the garage entrance, his figure a stark silhouette against the dim gray light filtering through the open door. Beyond him, the treeline loomed, dark and unyielding, like the open mouth of a beast waiting to swallow them whole, “Just grab what you can carry!”

“I am!” Doc snapped, though her hands lingered on a box of sutures, the decision to leave it behind weighing on her like a physical blow. Her eyes darted to the shelves around her, taking in the jars, gauze rolls, and scalpels she couldn’t carry. Every piece felt vital, irreplaceable.

She tried to convince herself it would be fine—they’d find more. They had to. But the knot in her stomach told her otherwise.

Bucky stormed in, his boots striking the floor with a force that matched the tension radiating from his frame.

“Doc, we’ve got to move. Now.” His voice was low, commanding, each word clipped with urgency. His left hand flexed and unflexed unconsciously, his rifle slung tightly across his back. The sharpness in his blue eyes cut through the chaos, locking onto hers, “We don’t have time for second-guessing.”

She hesitated, her gaze flicking to a jar of precious antibiotics on the shelf. The sight of it was like a knife twisting in her gut.

“I can’t just leave this,” she murmured, her hand already reaching for it.

“You have to,” Bucky growled, grabbing her arm before she could touch it. His grip was firm, his tone leaving no room for argument, “We can’t carry everything, and you need your rifle free.”

The air outside felt even colder than it had moments ago, as if the very atmosphere was shifting with the encroaching danger. The frost-covered ground crunched beneath their boots as they bolted toward the path leading to the observatory, the sound of each footstep echoing in her ears. The wind whipped through the trees, its mournful howl filling the silence between them, as though the forest itself was mourning the loss of whatever had once lived there.

Every gust of wind seemed to tear at her skin, biting through her clothes, and mingled with the groans of walkers closing in from behind.

The scent of decay was thick in the air, a sharp metallic tang that clung to the back of her throat, heavy with the promise of what was to come. Her pulse quickened with each passing step, her eyes scanning the darkness of the forest ahead.

Doc kept her rifle close, her fingers tight around the stock, as though its familiarity was the only thing holding her steady. Her satchel bounced against her side with every hurried step, the weight of it a constant reminder of the things she had left behind—things she hadn’t had the time or space to carry. It was like a physical ache, that bag slapping against her side as if mocking her failure to prepare.

The forest around them felt alive with unseen menace. The skeletal branches above creaked and groaned in the wind, their long limbs swaying ominously, casting shifting shadows that seemed to stretch and warp like living things. The sound of leaves rustling in the breeze was sharper than it should have been, the snap of a branch too loud, too distinct, almost like a warning.

Every crack of frost beneath their boots made her flinch, every movement of the trees felt as if it might be something lurking just out of sight. Her senses were heightened, but it wasn’t enough—her heart hammered in her chest, her mind a whirlwind of chaotic thoughts.

We’re not safe. We’re not safe enough.

Then it hit her—a sudden, wrenching realization that cut through the haze of panic swirling in her mind. Her hand flew to her neck, her fingers grazing empty skin. But it wasn’t the locket. It was the antibiotics. The vial.

The thought slammed into her like a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs. She’d left it behind—the very vials she’d been using for Bucky’s wound, the only thing keeping his infection from spreading.

The weight of that hit her harder than anything else. Panic surged through her veins, cold and unrelenting, and in that moment, her legs refused to move. How could I have forgotten it?

Her thoughts spiraled as the image of the fire station came rushing back, vivid and cruel. The counter, the medical kit, the vial of antibiotics—she could picture it exactly as she’d left it. Set aside for Bucky’s wound, ready for the next treatment. And now, still there. Waiting.

She stopped mid-step, the forest around her stretching endlessly, a blur of skeletal branches and frost-covered ground. The others pressed forward, their movements purposeful, but her feet wouldn’t obey. Something inside her refused to let go of that single image: the vial, sitting untouched, just where she had left it.

Why didn’t she pack it?

The question flickered through her mind, unspoken but persistent. There had been no reason not to. She’d been careful, deliberate with every other piece of their supplies. Yet somehow, the most important one had slipped through. A faint pang twisted her gut, unwelcome but unavoidable. Her hands clenched, as if the motion could undo the moment entirely.

She glanced up at the others, their figures moving steadily ahead. They didn’t know. They couldn’t. Their focus was forward—on the path, on safety, on what came next. But her focus wouldn’t move. It remained tethered to the fire station, the counter, the vial.

Her gaze dropped back to the frozen ground. It wasn’t far. That thought lodged itself in her mind, stubborn and insistent. If she turned now—if she ran—she could make it. She knew the risks, felt them in every hollow groan carried on the wind, but even those seemed muted next to the quiet insistence pulling her back.

The wind stung her cheeks, a sharp reminder of the urgency around her, but it wasn’t enough to snap her forward. Her legs shifted almost unconsciously, her body responding to a decision her mind hadn’t yet admitted.

“Doc!” Bucky’s voice broke through the fog of her thoughts, sharp and tight. She flinched, looking up. He’d stopped further up the path, his frame outlined against the pale sky, “We have to move!”

Her pulse quickened. Her fingers twitched at her sides.

The right thing—the safe thing—was to keep going, to trust they had done all they could, that there would be another way. But safety wasn’t what came to her now. Instead, it was the memory of Bucky sitting still as she worked on his wound, the faint tension in his jaw as he’d pretended not to feel the pain. The antiseptic had burned, but he hadn’t flinched.

The vial. The infection.

“I forgot your antibiotics, I’ll catch up with you,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. She didn’t look at them as she spoke, and didn't need to see the disbelief in their eyes, “Go to the watchtower, we are in four, it will be safe for us there as the horde passes through the forest.”

“Doc, no!” Sam called, his voice urgent but tinged with frustration, “You’ll get yourself killed!”

“I’ll be fine,” she muttered, barely hearing them anymore. Her feet were already turning, moving instinctively toward the fire station, “I’ll catch up. I promise.”

“You’re not going back there!” Bucky shouted, his voice breaking with the strain. He took a step forward, as though he might physically stop her, but Doc shook her head, her pace quickening.

She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Not now.

Doc ignored the voices calling her name as she turned back, her feet pounding against the frozen ground. The urgency in her chest pressed down with each step. She couldn’t afford to waste any more time. The wind bit at her face as the forest around her seemed to close in, but she pushed on, determination fueling her every move.

The fire station came into view, its weathered walls grim against the cold, the door hanging open. The sight made her heart race. She could already hear the sounds of groans and shuffling feet—too many walkers closing in. She had to get in, grab the antibiotics, and get out.

No more hesitation.

As she stepped through the door, a sickly warmth met her, the stench of decay heavy in the air. Her eyes scanned the room quickly. It wasn’t overrun yet, but it was far from empty. A couple of walkers had already made their way inside—slow-moving, disoriented, gnawing at the remnants of their last victim. Their blank, dead eyes fixed on the dark corners, not yet aware of her presence.

Doc’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her knife, the cold steel offering her a brief sense of comfort. She moved quickly but cautiously, trying to avoid drawing attention to herself. The counter where she had left the antibiotics was just ahead, a faint light shining from the open window above. The sight of it—small, but so important—sent a fleeting wave of relief through her chest.

But the sound of groaning grew louder, sharper, filling the air with a sense of urgency that clawed at her throat. She could hear more of them now—shuffling closer, entering the station. The door she had come through wasn’t far behind her, and the sickening realization hit her: they were pouring in. Not a flood yet, but enough. Too many to fight if it came down to it.

She had to be quick.

Her heart thudded in her ears as she reached the counter. Her fingers grazed the familiar bottle of antibiotics, its cool surface a reminder of everything riding on this moment. She grabbed it, slamming it into her bag with shaking hands. The small moment of victory was short-lived.

The first walker noticed her then, its head jerking toward her, eyes blank and hungry.

Doc didn’t hesitate. She spun, slashing her knife across its throat. The body crumpled without a sound, the stench of blood and rot hanging in the air. She didn’t stop to think, just pushed forward, moving toward the door, but as she passed through, she saw more of them stumbling inside.

The sound of their dragging feet filled the space, their moans growing louder as they converged from all directions.

The door she had come through was barely closed when the groaning reached a new intensity. She turned sharply, her pulse spiking as she saw more walkers entering through the open door, and in that moment, a flash of movement caught her eye.

At first, it seemed like just another walker. But the way it moved—so much more fluid, less disjointed—was unsettling. Its skin was torn, flesh barely clinging to the bones, but it had the posture of something alive. Something human. A fresh, human shape, now hidden beneath the decaying skin of a walker. Its eyes locked onto hers for a fraction of a second, and something in her froze.

Was it possible?

“Hey,” she tried not to shout, “Who the fuck are you? Get out of here!”

But the sound of her own voice—loud, desperate—only drew more attention. The walkers around her snapped toward the noise, their vacant stares now focused entirely on her. 

Her breathing quickened, the sound of her own heartbeat drowning out everything else. The walkers were converging now, their soulless groans blending into a grotesque harmony of hunger. The figure—the one that didn’t quite move like the others—had slipped from view, swallowed by the chaos. But its presence lingered in her mind, a sinister anomaly in a world that thrived on the bizarre.

Perhaps, she had imagined. She had imagined something that wasn’t there and would have to run faster because of such stupidity.

Doc’s grip tightened around her knife as she sidestepped a walker dragging its feet toward her. She didn’t pause. She couldn’t. Her fingers brushed the counter as she lunged forward, closing the distance to the vial. The cool glass met her palm, and she snatched it up, shoving it into her satchel. Her hands trembled as she secured the strap tightly across her chest.

There was no time to think. She turned, her boots scraping against the cracked floor, just as a walker lunged from her left. She ducked instinctively, its decayed fingers swiping through the air above her head. With a sharp jab, her blade found its mark, sinking deep into the side of its skull.

The body crumpled, but the noise of its fall only drew more attention.

She bolted for the door. More walkers were pouring in, the weight of their bodies pressing against the doorframe. Their groans echoed in the confined space, blending into a suffocating roar. One stumbled directly into her path, its teeth snapping at the air. Without slowing, she pivoted and slammed the heel of her boot into its knee, sending it toppling to the ground.

The cold wind hit her like a slap as she burst through the fire station door, the pale light of the outside world blinding her for a brief moment. She stumbled forward, her boots skidding on the frost-dusted ground, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. The moans behind her were growing louder, spilling into the open air with a guttural resonance that sent ice through her veins.

The treeline loomed ahead, a skeletal wall of gray and brown that swayed with the biting wind. It wasn’t safety—not really—but it was the only cover she had. Her legs burned with each step, the satchel bouncing heavily against her hip as she sprinted. The straps dug into her shoulder, the weight of the supplies inside a painful reminder of everything she’d risked to retrieve them.

Her breath tore through her lungs, harsh and ragged, pluming in short bursts against the icy air. Behind her, the cacophony of groans and dragging footsteps surged, echoing across the barren landscape. The sound clawed at her resolve, each guttural cry a reminder of how close they were. How close they always were.

She glanced back once—just once—and immediately regretted it. The walkers were pouring out of the station now, their twisted forms staggering into the open. Their flesh hung in tattered strips, their jaws slack but snapping hungrily at the air. Some crawled, their broken bodies dragging through the dirt, while others moved with a terrifying, jerky speed. Her stomach twisted at the sight, but she forced herself to look away.

Keep running. Don’t think. Just move.

The forest swallowed her whole as she plunged into the shadows of the trees, their brittle branches clawing at her jacket. The ground beneath her boots was uneven, littered with fallen twigs and patches of frost-slicked leaves that threatened to trip her with every hurried step. Her pulse thundered in her ears, louder even than the groans behind her, as though her body was trying to drown out the noise.

She pushed deeper into the forest, weaving through the skeletal trees with a frantic, unsteady rhythm. Every snap of a branch beneath her boots sounded deafening in the oppressive silence, and every rustle of leaves made her flinch, her mind conjuring images of walkers lurking just out of sight. The light filtering through the canopy was thin and pale, casting shifting shadows that danced and twisted in her peripheral vision like specters.

She stumbled, her boot catching on an exposed root, and barely managed to catch herself before hitting the ground. Her knee grazed the dirt, and a sharp pain shot up her leg, but she forced herself to keep moving. She didn’t have the luxury of stopping—not here, not now.

The terrain sloped upward as she neared the observatory, the incline forcing her legs to work harder with every step. Her breath came in shorter gasps, her muscles screaming in protest, but the sight of the tower ahead pushed her forward. It rose above the treetops like a crumbling monument to a world long gone, its once-pristine walls weathered and gray, the dome at its peak fractured but still intact.Her thoughts spiraled as she ran, the events of the day replaying in an endless loop. The fire station. The supplies. Her friends. She could still hear Steve’s voice, steady and reassuring as he’d promised they’d regroup at the observatory. "It’s high ground. Safe."

Safe. The word felt hollow now, meaningless against the reality of what she’d seen. If it was so safe, why weren’t they there? Where was Sam, Bucky and Natasha?

Looking around, Doc was sure: no one of them was there yet.

She reached the base of the tower, her chest heaving as she gripped the rusted railing of the staircase. The old metal groaned beneath her touch, the sound echoing in the stillness. For a moment, she hesitated, her gaze flicking back toward the forest. The faint sound of groans was still there, a low, distant hum that sent a shiver down her spine.

They were coming. Slowly but surely, they were coming.

Her boots clanged against the metal steps as she began to climb, each step a battle against the exhaustion threatening to drag her down. The staircase spiraled upward, the air growing colder and thinner with each turn. Dust swirled in the shafts of pale light filtering through the gaps in the tower’s walls, catching in her throat and making her cough. She gritted her teeth, forcing her legs to keep moving.

The top of the tower was just as she remembered it—wide, open, and eerily quiet. The observatory dome loomed above, its glass panels shattered and jagged, allowing the wind to whistle through unchecked. The room was empty, save for the remnants of equipment long abandoned: a rusting telescope lying on its side, a desk with drawers hanging open, and a scattering of papers so faded they were little more than fragments.

Doc’s eyes darted to every corner, every shadow, searching for any sign of her friends. But the room was still. Lifeless. She dropped the satchel onto the floor, her legs threatening to give out beneath her as the weight fell away.

She waited, standing in the center of the room as the silence pressed in. Her chest rose and fell with labored breaths, her mind racing with questions.

Why weren’t they here? Had something gone wrong? Had they even made it this far?

The questions circled in her mind, relentless and unanswerable. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and for a moment, she couldn’t tell if the sound was her heartbeat or the faint groans of the horde below. Her friends had been right there—right there—just minutes ago. She’d barely been apart from them long enough for anything to happen. They were ahead of her when she veered back toward the fire station. They had to be here. They had to.

She paced the room, her boots scuffing against the dusty floorboards. Every creak of the wood beneath her feet made her flinch, her nerves stretched thin. Her breath came in shallow bursts as she glanced toward the stairwell, half expecting to hear the echo of hurried footsteps or a voice calling her name. But there was nothing. Only the wind and the hollow groan of the old building settling under its own weight.

Minutes passed, though they felt more like hours. The emptiness of the observatory pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating, the quiet amplifying the chaotic churn of her thoughts. She moved toward the cracked window, her fingers brushing against the jagged frame as she peered outside.

Where were they? Had they been delayed by walkers? Overrun? Her mind spiraled, conjuring images she didn’t want to see: Sam cornered, Natasha until her last breath, Bucky shouting commands as he went down swinging... The scenarios played out like a cruel slideshow, each one worse than the last.

Her fingers clenched against the window frame, splinters digging into her palms. Her throat tightened, the raw ache of helplessness clawing its way up. She forced her gaze down to the clearing below, desperate for anything—a sign of movement, a clue, something.

She should’ve stayed with them. She shouldn’t have gone back for the supplies. She should’ve—

Something moved.

Her breath hitched as her gaze locked onto the clearing. At first, she thought it might have been the wind shifting the frost-covered grass, but then she saw it again—subtle, deliberate. A figure.

The person came into focus slowly, as though emerging from the haze of her scattered thoughts. They moved unevenly, their gait uneven but not aimless. One hand clutched at their side, where dark streaks of red stained their coat.

Blood.

Doc’s pulse quickened as her eyes followed their movements, taking in the bag slung over their shoulder, the way they adjusted its weight with a practiced efficiency.

Her grip on the window frame tightened. This wasn’t one of her friends, that was for sure.

She would have recognized their silhouette, their stride. But this person—whoever they were—didn’t stumble like a walker, nor did they panic like a survivor running for their life. There was something else in the way they moved. It wasn’t desperation.

It was...Calculation. Probably, he was a tracker of some kind.

She swallowed hard, her mind latching onto the details she could make out from this distance:

The bag. The blood. The deliberate, almost methodical way they navigated the clearing.

A flicker of unease sparked in her chest, followed quickly by something sharper. Anger, there was something wrong.

Her gaze dropped to the bag they carried. The stitching along its edges. The way it sagged, its contents shifting with each step. Her breath caught as realization dawned, slow and painful.

That’s ours.

Her mind snapped back to the fire station—the empty shelves, the supplies she’d fought to protect. The chaos of the walkers flooding the area. The pieces fell into place with a sharp finality that left her reeling. The strange figure she had a glimpse…

Her knees threatened to buckle, but she locked them in place, her hands shaking as they hovered near the rifle slung across her back.

This wasn’t some coincidence. This person—this stranger—had taken from her. From them. And now, they were walking away with what might have been theirs.

Her heart hammered in her chest, anger bubbling up beneath the exhaustion. She pulled the rifle from her back with trembling hands, her fingers curling around the cold metal as she raised it. Her breaths came quick and shallow, the weight of her own voice cutting through the stillness as she shouted.

“Hey!” The word ripped from her throat, raw and trembling, “Stop right there! I won’t hesitate to shoot you.”

The figure halted, their body eerily still despite the tension in her voice. Slowly, almost deliberately, they turned to face her. The movement was unnerving in its precision—not the panicked flinch of someone caught off guard, but the calm shift of someone who knew they held the upper hand.

The wind carried the faint, sickly scent of decay as the figure’s full form came into view. He wore a long coat, dark and heavy, its edges caked in mud and streaked with the dried, rust-colored smears of walker blood. The coat’s fabric hung unevenly over his lean frame, torn in places where crude patches of cloth and leather attempted to hold it together. His hands were bare, the knuckles split and red, as though they had seen far too much use against both the living and the dead.

But it was his face that gave Doc pause.

The sharp lines of his features were partially obscured by streaks of dirt and dried blood. A faint layer of stubble darkened his jawline, blending with the grime on his skin. His brown eyes were cold, unsettlingly sharp, and locked onto her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. A smear of blood—fresh—traced the edge of his brow, disappearing into his short, neatly cut brown hair, which somehow remained untouched by the chaos that covered the rest of him.

More disturbing was the way his coat and boots glistened in places, patches of gore clinging to them as if he had waded through the carnage of walkers, not just avoided them. Thin strands of flesh—barely noticeable but sickening once seen—clung to the seams of his coat. He had blended with the dead, hiding among them, a grotesque trick that made Doc’s stomach turn.

So, he was indeed who she had spotted back there.

Even from this distance, there was an air of control about him, a calm that didn’t belong in a world where survival demanded chaos and fear. It set her on edge.

“I said stop!” she barked again, her voice trembling with anger, but her finger steadied on the trigger.

The figure tilted his head slightly, the faintest hint of curiosity flickering across his otherwise impassive face. His gaze dropped briefly to the rifle aimed at his chest before returning to her, his posture shifting as though weighing his options.

He didn’t answer her.

The wind howled through the shattered panes above, the distant groans of walkers carried with it, growing closer. Doc’s chest heaved with shallow breaths as the silence stretched between them.

Her eyes darted to the bag slung over his shoulder.

“What’s in the bag?” she demanded, her voice rising to fill the silence, “And who the hell are you?”

The man’s lips twitched faintly, not quite a smile but the ghost of something that made her skin crawl. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder, his movements slow and deliberate, as though to show he wasn’t reaching for a weapon.

“Supplies,” he said at last, his tone low and measured. His accent—a faint trace of something Eastern European—added a layer of dissonance to the single word.

Doc’s jaw tightened.

“My supplies,” she shot back, her anger bubbling to the surface, “You stole them. You brought the horde down on us.”

The man’s pout deepened the unease curling in her chest. His shrug was almost dismissive, but it was cut short by a sharp flinch, his hand twitching toward the bloodied side of his coat. Doc’s gaze flicked to the dark stain spreading there, her mind registering more of the injury even as her anger refused to abate.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said evenly, his tone bordering on indifference.

Her grip on the rifle tightened, the cold metal grounding her in the face of his maddening calm.

“Don’t lie to me,” she snapped, her voice rising, “That bag—you got it from the fire station. It’s ours. You tore through our shelter and left us for dead.”

The slightest hint of amusement played across his face, though it was hard to tell if it was real or just part of the mask he seemed to wear so effortlessly.

“I did what was necessary,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he met her gaze. His tone was quiet, almost conversational, but it carried an undercurrent of steel, “You understand that, no? Survival demands... Adaptability.”

Adaptability my ass, Doc’s breath hitched as his words sank in. Stripping them of their supplies and drawing the horde straight to their door? That was adaptability?

In her world, that was called stealing.

“You put my friends in danger,” she spat, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury, “If they’re dead—”

“Then it is not because of me,” he interrupted, his voice cutting through hers like a blade.

The calm precision of his words made her falter. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t plead or defend himself. He simply stated it, as though it were fact.

Doc’s hands shook, the rifle trembling in her grip. Her mind raced, torn between the instinct to pull the trigger and the gnawing doubt creeping in at the edges of her anger. He wasn’t wrong. The walkers were coming, and they had been closing in even before she’d reached the fire station. But that didn’t absolve him. Not when her friends were still missing.

“And why shouldn’t I shoot you right now, you fucker?”

The man’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression sobering. He shifted slightly, his hand brushing against his wounded side as he straightened.

“Because,” he said, his tone measured, “we are both still standing here. If you shoot, it will only bring the horde's attention to us.”

Doc’s jaw clenched, her teeth grinding as the weight of his words pressed against her better judgment. He wasn’t pleading. He wasn’t begging for his life. He was stating facts, and that infuriated her even more.

Her finger hovered over the trigger, the weight of the rifle almost comforting in her hands. The logical part of her mind screamed at her to pull it—to end this before he had the chance to turn on her. But the sound of the groans in the distance, carried on the sharp winter wind, kept her grounded. He wasn’t wrong. One shot, and the horde would come straight for the tower. And with the way they were closing in, there wouldn’t be time to outrun them.

He tilted his head again, watching her with an infuriating calm, as though he could sense her internal struggle. His piercing blue-gray eyes were unflinching, almost clinical, like he was dissecting her every move.

“You are angry,” he said, his tone devoid of apology but filled with a maddening level of understanding, “That is fair. I would be too. But anger will not help you find your friends. It will not help you survive.”Doc let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound cracking against the tension like shattering glass.

“Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor,” she snapped, her voice trembling with the force of her frustration. “You stole from us. You put us in this position.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded with a faint nod, his voice still maddeningly even. “But I am not the reason your friends are not here. The world is cruel enough without your help in laying blame.”

Son of a bitch.

Her knuckles whitened around the rifle, her chest heaving as she fought to keep her emotions in check. The rational part of her mind screamed that every second spent talking to him was a second wasted. But the truth—raw and unforgiving—dug into her like a blade: how would she find Sam, Natasha and Bucky? She had no idea where they could have gone.

He must have noticed the slight falter in her stance because his voice softened, the sharp edge of his tone giving way to something almost persuasive.

“Think about it,” he continued, gesturing faintly to the dark stain spreading across his side. “You want to find your friends, right? I need help treating this, because I’m not a doctor myself.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, “But I saw you back there taking those vials, you seem to know something or two about it. We can help each other. Or we can die here, arguing over what cannot be undone.”

Doc’s stomach churned, the truth of his words twisting like a knife in her gut.

She didn’t trust him. She couldn’t. But he was right.

Her friends could be anywhere, and the supplies she had weren’t enough to see her through on her own. Despite not trusting him, she wasn’t a tracker either, she had no clue how to find them.

Her voice was quieter when she spoke again, though it still carried the edge of her anger, “How do I know you won’t turn on me the second I patch you up?”

The flicker of a smirk tugged at his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I could have killed you already if that were my intention,” he said simply. “But I didn’t. That should count for something, no?”

He was referring back to the fire station, when she had found him. You didn’t because it would bring the attention of the walkers to you, she dared say it out loud.

However, she got a glimpse of a dagger clinged in him. He could have easily sneaked up on her and killed her right there.

Damn.

She didn’t respond, her glare burning into him as she weighed her options. He shifted slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at his injury. Despite his calm exterior, she could see the subtle signs of pain etched into his features—the tension in his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.

“If you kill me,” he added, his voice dropping lower, “You lose your only ally in finding them. And if I die, well, that would be my problem, I guess.”

Doc’s lips parted, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but the sound of the horde cut through her thoughts like a warning. The groans were closer now, their low, guttural chorus blending with the distant rustle of movement through the trees.

Time was slipping through her fingers, and she knew it.

She let out a sharp breath, lowering the rifle slightly but keeping it trained on him.

“Fine,” she bit out, the word heavy with reluctant resolve, “But if you even think about double-crossing me—”

“I won’t,” he interrupted, his tone clipped but sincere, “I am a man of my word.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream at the audacity of his claim. A man of his word? He’d just admitted to stealing from her, to taking supplies that didn’t belong to him. But the alternative was clear. She could kill him, call the walkers down on herself, and hope to find her friends alone—or she could take the gamble.

Her hands shook as she pulled the satchel off her shoulder, the supplies inside rattling faintly.

“Climb,” she ordered, nodding toward the nearest flat surface—a weathered bench that looked as though it might collapse under his weight, “Quick, don’t worry about the wound, I will take care of it once you are up here.”

He complied without argument, though the effort was clearly taxing on him. His eyes narrowed briefly in pain as he shifted, but he moved with the grace of someone used to enduring hardship. As he climbed, his movements were slow, deliberate, clearly trying not to strain his injury further. The bench creaked under his weight, but it held, albeit barely.

“This doesn’t mean I trust you,” she muttered loudly enough for him to hear, her eyes still fixed on him.

“I would be disappointed if you did,” he replied instantly, the smirk never leaving his face. He was far too calm, too confident—something about that smugness made her blood run cold, but she couldn’t afford to focus on that now.

The wind howled through the shattered panes above them, the moans of the walkers growing louder with every passing second. The sound was unnerving, distant but unmistakably close. Her stomach churned as she tried to ignore the gnawing sense of urgency that gnawed at her from every direction.

This was a risk—a dangerous one—but it was a risk she had to take. For her friends. For herself.

She needed to find them. She needed to find Bucky. He and that injury... she couldn’t say for how long he would be okay without the antibiotics. And he couldn’t afford to wait much longer. His arm—his right arm—had been torn off, the injury severe. And without the proper care, it would only get worse.

Worse, she still had no idea where Steve, Wanda, and Vision were.

And as she wondered about all of that, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of his gaze on her, cold and calculating, as though he were already thinking five steps ahead.

Good for him, Doc thought with herself, because I always think ten steps ahead.

[pumkshrark]

I told my brain many times that these are different people

[buckets-and-trees]

💐Zombie's Bouquet Event💐

A bouquet for you! Featuring: Bucky Barnes; Rivals to Lovers; Academia; Fluff. I hope you like it!

++++++

No one said going for your PhD would be easy but whoo boy did you underestimate the toll it would take on you. Thankfully you had a supportive group of friends. Even if their definition of "support" was different from yours.

Bucky definitely had a weird definition of the word. His way of supporting you was through challenges. Whoever got the lower GRE score would buy the other dinner. Whoever ended up with the higher student evaluation scores won the only good chair in the office for the next semester.

But it's definitely helped the both of you. You and Bucky are always at the top of class, always first to be asked to help professors write articles, always on the short list for grant writing opportunities. With your thesis defense coming up quick, you've also both gotten a fair number of job offers.

The week of your group's thesis defense was brutal and, of course, you were the last to go. The only person who kept studying with you was Bucky. He'd gotten his handshake, his confirmation of acceptance. But unlike the others, he didn't let himself relax and celebrate. He made sure you ate, slept, studied. You asked him why he was so intent on helping you instead of celebrating and he gave you an incredulous look.

"We're competing for best notes from the committees," he says as if it's the most obvious thing. "I got an advantage by going early. If I want this to be a fair contest, I gotta help you be at your best."

You smile and thank him, "I just hope you haven't wasted your time."

"Time with you is never wasted, Aspen," he assures. "You bring out the best in me." The two of you look at each other fondly for a while before Bucky gets back to asking you questions for your defense.

When it's finally your turn to defend your thesis Bucky is there to support you. He promises he'll be waiting just outside so that, no matter what happens, you'll have a friend when you walk out. It's the most intense few hours of your life and when you walk out so they can deliberate, you're exhausted.

Bucky greets you with your favorite candy, a bottle of water, and a big hug. It's not much time before your thesis advisor comes out, holds out her hand and says, "congratulations, Doctor."

At the celebration for your study group you and Bucky are inseparable. The two of you even excuse yourselves early and head back to your place, Bucky promising you're going to want to keep him after he's ruined you.

Zombie! Oh, you are a ridiculously wonderful dearrrrr to send a bouquet my way! I was thrilled when I got the notification, and it just didn't stop from there!

RIVALS TO LOVERS IS HANDS DOWN ONE OF MY FAVORITE TROPES! But then the PhD setting? It's an idle thing that's crossed my mind, so.... ah! You just so perfectly hit the mark!

"Time with you is never wasted, Aspen," he assures. "You bring out the best in me." The two of you look at each other fondly for a while before Bucky gets back to asking you questions for your defense.

The gasp I gasped before completely melting?! I'm just... I'm not recovering any time soon for how sweet and wonderful this was! Thank you for such a gift - especially a gift of yourself and your talents!

[thezombieprostitute]

Could you write a story where Bucky is married to reader? He’s a cocky guy with a big ego, and loves showing off his wife to his friends/colleagues because she’s really pretty. I was hoping she could have a fuller figure. Anyway could it include a time skip where the reader is pregnant with bucky’s baby and he can’t wait to show off his sexy pregnant wife to everyone and rub in the fact that she belongs to him.

I've had this ask for over a month now and I'm afraid I just can't get to writing it. Nothing's clicking or setting off the writing muse.

Instead, I'll recommend some fics that, maybe they're not exactly what you're looking for, but they're damn close:

Pretty much all of @angrythingstarlight's Mafia Masterlist.

By @buckyalpine

Personal Pillow (series)

Want You

Curves

Snacks and Midnight

Soft and Cuddly by @rubynationwins

Perfect by @sweetbbarnes

Beautiful by @buck-buck-buckaroo

Heartstrings by @sleepypanda27

Apologies for not listing more!

[judesficrecs]

people need to write more zombie au's for my favorite characters

[imagine-you]

you and me and all of these living dead [Logan/Reader; Bucky Barnes/Reader] (2/2)

Summary: You've been running from Logan for years. When the virus struck, you never would have thought that Logan would join the leagues of the living dead. Now, he's following you wherever you go, forcing you to stay at least one step ahead of him to avoid a confrontation. It doesn't help that in the years since Logan turned, you've found peace with Bucky, and Logan is less than pleased at the prospect of losing you. When you're kidnapped and forced to use your power for a rogue group of scavengers, Bucky and Logan will have to learn to put their differences aside in order to save you. Word Count: 4.3k Author's Notes: A Marvel Zombies/What If: Zombies fic. The third fic in a series of spinoffs from my main fic in my Home 'verse that explores different Wolverine variants and their relationships with the reader in their universes.

Read On AO3

You could hear the moan of the undead, their gnashing teeth and outstretched hands eager for a way to sate their hunger.  

"That's a hell of a lot of dead fucks," Logan observed, looking over your shoulder at the crowd of zombies in front of you.  

"Thankfully they'll be easy to handle," you told him.  

What was left of the X-Men were moving out in search of another sanctuary. If there were other mutants or superpowered zombies in the crowd, it would have meant one hell of a fight, but they were just normal humans turned ravenous creatures.  

"You nearly passed out last time," Logan reminded you. "I don't like this." 

"It's our only choice now," you told him. "We're losing people left and right, Logan. We can't afford to lose anyone else now."  

"Doesn't mean I want you pushing yourself too hard," he grumbled, watching as Remy shut the back doors of the van.  

Your team had dwindled to a depressingly low number and now all of you could fit in just one vehicle.  

"I know you'll be there to stop me from going too far," you told him. "I trust you, Logan." 

Logan studied you for a moment before he sighed. "Alright, let's get this over with, then." 

He waved at the team in the van, letting them know it was time. If Erik had been with you, then he simply would have lifted the van and let it go wherever. But he had left in search of salvation, promising Charles that he would be back. Making a promise like that was as good as a death sentence, but you still hoped that he would return to the group one day.  

Rogue pulled the van up to the gates and Logan pressed the button to open them. He hadn't left your side, keeping a careful watch on you as you put your hands out in front of you. You used your power to send out a repulsion field, scattering zombies, and managed to even kill some when your forcefield ripped right through them.  

It left the way forward clear, but exerting that much power left black spots dancing on the edges of your vision. You felt yourself begin to tilt to the side, the ground rushing up to meet you, before Logan's arms wrapped around your waist.  

"I got you," Logan assured you, already beginning to pull you in the direction of the van.  

"I know," you muttered, fighting the urge to succumb to sleep. "You always catch me." 

You woke with a groan. Your head felt like someone was repeatedly hitting it with a hammer and your pulse was pounding so furiously you could feel it resonate through your whole body. There was an awful taste in your mouth and all you wanted was a glass of water to chase away the desert that had taken up residence there.  

"You're finally awake," the woman from before said. You had nearly forgotten about the kidnapping, but now just hearing her voice, you wanted nothing more than to kill her.  

Bucky had been left behind with a whole horde of zombies because of this woman and her goons. If anything happened to Bucky because of her, you would enjoy ripping her apart with your power.  

You managed to lift your head, realizing that you were tied to a chair. You curled your lip up in a snarl before attempting to use your power, but the woman pressed a button, and a jolt shot through you. It stung and left you reeling, your head hanging low for a moment before you could lift it again.  

"What the hell am I doing here?" You groaned, fighting the pull of unconsciousness. It wouldn’t help you now to pass out again and it sure as hell wouldn’t get you any answers.  

The woman watched you for a moment before she smiled. It sent a shiver down your spine, leaving you feeling unsettled.  

"You're here to protect us, of course," she answered, as if it had been obvious from the start.  

"Protect you?" You would rather do anything else, and from the way the woman chuckled, you knew she could read that much from your disbelieving expression.  

"Well, after our last protector died, we kind of needed a new one," the woman mused with a smirk. "And who better to protect us than someone exactly like her? Forcefields," she clarified when you shot her a confused look.  

"Sue," you realized, thinking about the distress signal. "You killed Sue and then you used her to get to me." 

"We didn’t kill her so much as she just burned out one day. A necessary loss," the woman claimed with a tilt of her head as she observed you. "I've heard you're more powerful. You should last longer than she did." 

You tried to move, but she shocked you again, leaving you shaking and in pain. "Why the fuck would I do a damn thing for you? You can't make me use my power. Especially not to keep you safe. You’ve got a funny way of asking for favors, you know that?" 

"Oh, but we can force you to use your power for us," the woman argued with a satisfied grin. "We've got our own scientists who have been working on a cure, but they can't do the work if they're worrying about dying every single second of their lives. So, they came up with a few fun little experiments that will let us control you superpowered freaks." 

You groaned, rolling your head forward to stare down at your knees. "You're one of those, aren't you?" 

The woman only deigned to quirk an eyebrow at you in question when you snuck a peek at her. 

"You hate mutants," you supplied for her. “You think we’re freaks and should have been forced to register ourselves or locked up in some kind of institution somewhere being studied. You want us gone. Obsolete,” you continued when she merely stared at you.  

"Before the apocalypse, I didn't. I marched your rights. I signed petitions and called state senators and did everything I could to ensure that you would have the same rights as I did. I thought, after all, you’re just people. People the system had failed. People who needed help." 

"And then after the apocalypse?" You prompted, having a pretty good guess where she was going with her attempt to justify killing people with superpowers so she could live.  

"You superpowered freaks released the virus," she hissed, leaning forward until she was in your space. 

"There it is," you sighed, knowing that technically the person who released the virus didn't have a power, but he did have the tech to travel the quantum realm. You didn't begrudge Hank his trip to attempt to save his wife, but you wished he had done a bit more research on the quantum realm before setting out on his rescue mission.  

The woman reached out, taking your chin in her hand and forcing you to look at her. "It's people like you who killed our world. I don't care how many of you we have to burn through to survive. You owe us." 

You laughed, jerking your chin free of her hold. There was a feeling you got whenever Logan was near and it was quickly rising up with you, so dizzyingly fast that you didn’t even have time to be grateful for what was about to be one hell of a distraction. You knew, somehow, that he was close and getting ready to find you. You didn’t even feel sorry this time for whoever was stupid enough to stand in his way. With any luck, Bucky would be right on his heels, and you would live to see another day.  

"You really know how to pick them, don't you," you told her. “I mean, what's one superhero traded for the lives of what? A dozen or so people? But this time, you chose the wrong one. You fucked up.” 

She arched an eyebrow at you. "And what is that supposed to mean?" 

"It means," you started, hearing the telltale sound of a crash followed by a scream. "That you're all going to die now." 

There were more screams and the sound of a gun firing. The woman's eyes had gone wide, fearful, no longer filled with the arrogance of having the upper hand. You took advantage of her distraction to remove yourself from your restraints by pushing out with a forcefield. It was easy to unhook the IV you didn't even realize had been stuck in the crook of your arm. You were sure it was full of drugs to make you compliant, but you didn’t feel like playing along anymore.  

You were tired and you wanted to go home wherever the hell that happened to be and you wanted to see Bucky alive and whole and unscathed. You were terrified at the prospect of having to see Logan again, but also thrilled that he had caught you when it mattered most.  

You still felt unsteady as you rose to your feet, but your anger burned bright and fast, allowing you to reach out with your power. You used a forcefield to slam the woman into a wall, keeping her pinned.  

"Please, don't do this," the woman begged, prompting an amused smile from you.  

"You know, Sue didn't have anyone. The rest of the Fantastic Four were either dead or zombified. So, you got lucky, I'll give you that. But there's something you don't know about me and it’s what’s gonna cost you now." 

You kept pushing in with your forcefield, knowing the woman was going to start struggling to breathe at any moment. You kept the pressure at her ribs and chest, wanting to make it all as painful as possible for her. Sue’s recording hadn’t been faked and you knew without a doubt that she had begged for her life and freedom up until her death.  

You owed no mercy to her captors.   

"What's that?" The woman croaked, going limp in your hold.  

"That I’ve got people out there who would kill for me and they'll always find me. And if the Winter Soldier doesn't kill every last one of your people for kidnapping and then trying to kill me, then the Wolverine sure as hell will." 

"But Wolverine is dead," the woman pointed out, the steady pressure at her chest causing her to sound breathless.  

"Less dead and more undead," you told her, feeling a smirk tug at the corners of her lips. "You, on the other hand," you started before finally letting your forcefield contract, breaking through her chest and crushing her against the concrete wall, "are dead."  

It didn't feel like it was nearly enough to avenge Sue and the countless others the group had obviously killed in a bid for survival, but you felt just the tiniest bit better knowing she would never kill another.  

You left the room, following the sound of screams and snarls and gunshots down one corridor and then the next until you found the main room. It was another abandoned warehouse, you realized, except it was filled with tents and lab equipment and a small armory.  

Most of the people in the room were already dead, but there was one last survivor who hadn’t yet been taken out by Bucky or Logan.  

You spotted Bucky first, the shield held tight in his grasp as he kept his gun up in the other hand, training it on the guy who had a gun already fixed on him. Bucky stayed absolutely still, not wanting to prompt the other man to shoot him. It looked like the man was determined to get out of the situation alive, but from the way his hand was shaking, you knew he was terrified.  

"You can't do this! We've worked for years on a serum and--," his words were cut off when Logan rushed out from a side corridor and sunk his claws into the man's sides. The man choked on his next words before Logan gave a rumble of satisfaction and surged forward to sink his teeth into the man's jugular.  

You winced and looked away, not wanting to see Logan give in to the hunger. Bucky kept the shield up as he backed away from Logan, attempting to get back to you.  

"Sweetheart, you alright?" Bucky asked, not taking his eyes from Logan. It was smart. Now that the first threat had been neutralized, you knew that Logan had been upgraded to the main concern in Bucky's mind. There was no way Bucky would turn his back on him.  

For good reason, you couldn't help but think, as Logan turned away from the dead guy and set his sights on Bucky.  

"I'm safe," you confirmed for Bucky, stealing Logan's attention for only a moment.  

It was when Logan narrowed his eyes at Bucky that you realized what was going on in his mind. As far as Logan was concerned, the only person standing between you and Logan was Bucky.  

Logan lunged at Bucky before you could try to stop him. His teeth clamped down on Bucky's metal arm as his claws attempted to pierce the shield. Bucky had been ready for him, keeping his feet planted as Logan attempted to swipe at him. Logan finally got tired of that tactic and rammed himself into Bucky, sending him through a wall.  

You noticed that Bucky never once went for his gun and you felt even more conflicted with the knowledge that Bucky wasn't going to try to put down Logan as long as you still loved him. You didn’t even know if a bullet to the brain would do any good. Logan’s regenerative ability might not be able to accommodate the virus, but did it still work on bullet wounds? 

"Bucky," you started, cutting yourself off when Bucky didn't immediately reappear.  

Logan was already shuffling towards you and you backed up, any defense you might be able to use with your power completely forgotten at getting your first full look of Logan in years. He still wore the cowl, but most of his jaw was now exposed. You could see his bones peeking out through his tattered X-Men uniform and what was left of his flesh had decayed, leaving only a shell of the Logan you used to know.  

You kept backing up until you hit the wall, your heart racing with terror.  

Logan froze for just a moment in his pursuit of you before he continued forward again. He seemed more hesitant and when he finally reached you, his touch was oddly gentle. He let his claws retract as he brought his hands up to cup your face. You hadn't been this close to Logan in years and all you could feel was fear infused with a confusing sense of longing.  

"Please," you begged, turning your face to the side, no longer able to look at him.  

"Please?" He echoed, his voice gruff and ending on a rasp.  

"Please don't bite me," you clarified, knowing that it was what he was thinking about. It was the only thing most zombies could think about. Biting and tearing and eating and consuming. You didn’t want your story with Logan to end like that, but you were horrified at the thought that you might not have a choice.  

Logan didn't say anything or move for a moment before he turned your face towards him. He looked sad, you realized, melancholy evident in the downturn of his lips and the slump of his shoulders. It was always a mindfuck seeing any of the undead display more human characteristics, but it just seemed downright cruel with Logan.  

"I don't want to," Logan admitted, his voice coming out as a growl more than anything. "But it's so strong and it's all I can think about," he seethed, his grip on you tightening.  

You could see it all unfold before you. Logan, not able to resist the pull of hunger, biting you after years of longing. You, changing, and becoming the monster you feared more than anything. Bucky, left alone to pick up the pieces, or worse, put you down before you could turn anyone.  

Before Logan could move any closer, he was suddenly pushed off you by the shield digging into his side and propelling him away from you. You felt helpless for the first time in a long while as you watched Logan launch himself at Bucky. Bucky pulled the shield from Logan's side before using it to bounce him back.  

It felt like there was a moment where everything went still. Logan was crouched on the floor, his gaze fixed right on Bucky, and Bucky had moved so his back was to you, and he was once again standing between you and Logan.  

The tension snapped and suddenly Bucky and Logan were at it again. Bucky brought the shield down, nearly dislocating Logan's shoulder, and Logan managed to sink his claws into Bucky's thigh. Bucky let out a cry of pain, but he kept pushing forward, punching Logan in the face over and over against with his metal fist.  

You knew, suddenly, that neither of them would stop until the other was dead. This wasn't simply a fight for survival, but a fight for you. You loved them both so much and you wouldn't dare let either one of them hurt the other.  

"James," you called, stalling the fight by gaining both of their attentions.  

Bucky had his arm held defensively in front of him and Logan had his claws raised, ready to attack again. But now both were looking right at you because you had called their name.  

You were quick to use a forcefield to separate the two, pushing both to opposite sides of the room. Logan looked pissed, but Bucky merely looked exasperated, as if he had expected it to happen at some point.  

You didn't even know who you meant to talk to. Both men, who shared your heart so equally, but one more unattainable to you than the other. You considered both of them for a moment, knowing what you had to do, but hating that it would only hurt you more.  

You started walking towards Logan, noticing Bucky's dejected look he quickly schooled behind a mask of steel.  

You dropped the forcefield containing Logan, ignoring the way it made your heart thump harder in your chest. You were going to take a leap of faith and hope that Logan wouldn't try to bite your face off.  

"Logan," you started, coming to a stop just in front of him.  

His shoulders were tensed and his teeth were bared, but he was visibly keeping himself still under sheer force of will. You knew that the hunger that drove all the living dead was their only purpose. It was what kept them endlessly searching and roaming, ready for the next way to sate it. Logan not immediately trying to kill you was likely driving him insane, but you were foolish enough to think that it was because he loved you.  

"Logan," you continued, wondering just how far you could go before you were crossing the line from stupid into dangerous. "I love you. I've loved you all this time and I don't think that's ever gonna stop. And one day, I'll find a way to cure you, save you," you amended with a grimace. You glanced over your shoulder, catching Bucky watching the pair of you with a hint of despair in his expression. "But I love him too," you told Logan, turning to look at him again. "And I have to go with him now." 

Logan snarled at that and you caught the way he curled his hands into fists. You knew it was only a matter of time before he lost control and you would have to be ready.  

"I don't share," Logan growled, taking a step towards you.  

"It's not about that," you refuted with a quick shake of your head. When Logan took another step towards you, you sealed him off with a forcefield again. "I love both of you and I can't lose either one of you. You can keep chasing after me if you want, but I'm not leaving him. And when we do get a cure for you, because we will, then we'll figure it out. But for now, I have to leave." 

Logan roared and began to hit your forcefield over and over, attempting to break it down. You knew he wouldn't go anywhere without you wanting him to, though, so you took an extra moment just to look at him.  

He wasn't the Logan from your dreams and he wasn't the Logan from your memories. But in a way, he was still Logan, and you still loved him.  

"Goodbye, Logan," you told him, before finally turning your back on him. You ignored the way it made your chest feel tight and your throat close up with the emotions you were trying to choke down. You took a deep breath before walking towards Bucky, grateful that he was still patiently waiting for you. You felt such an immeasurable swell of love for him that you didn't even know what to do with the feeling.  

"You alright?" He checked once you dropped the forcefield keeping him from you. He glanced over your shoulder to watch Logan trying to escape. "That seemed intense." 

"It was," you conceded with a sad smile. "But I needed to say goodbye. I never really got that chance before." 

Bucky considered you for a moment before reaching out, ignoring Logan's snarl of outrage. He reeled you in close until you could fall into his embrace. You let Bucky hold you, knowing that he would help keep you from falling apart like you so desperately wanted to.  

"How did you even find me?" You wondered, knowing that the last time you saw Bucky, he had been overwhelmed by zombies.  

"When I got out of that warehouse, I knew that there was someone out there who always found you. He was following you, so I followed him, and we managed to keep from killing each other long enough to save you." 

"And the others?" You couldn't help but ask, knowing that the situation at the other warehouse had been less than ideal.  

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, letting his forehead rest against your shoulder. "We lost Sharon and nearly lost Happy, but Nat and the spider kid are fine."  

"Fuck," you sighed, hating that Sharon had died in a trap that had been designed for you. "I'm sorry." 

"Not your fault," Bucky assured you before starting to lead you out of the room.  

"These people were working on a cure, Buck," you told him, bringing him to a halt. "There's stuff here we should bring back to Hope." 

Bucky took a moment to look around the room before shooting an uncertain look at the still-contained Logan. Bucky grimaced at whatever he saw before he reluctantly nodded his head. "Let's make it quick, then. The others are waiting for us a few blocks over." 

"I'm surprised Nat didn't try to follow you in here," you told him, knowing that she had a hard time getting sidelined when someone on the team was in trouble.  

"I didn't want her getting mixed up with Logan," Bucky responded, making his way over towards a makeshift lab table. He grabbed a bag and emptied it before starting to shove in random papers.  

"Smart," you praised, helping Bucky ransack the room, all the while carefully not looking at Logan. The faster you got to leave the warehouse, the sooner you could let Logan free. Hopefully, by that time, you would be on the way back to the compound.  

Later, as you followed Bucky back towards wherever the van had been parked, he reached out to grab your hand with the one not holding onto the shield.  

"I know that was hard for you," he started, shooting you a wary glance.  

"It was," you allowed, squeezing Bucky's hand in yours. "I couldn't do any of this without you, you know. I love you. Nothing’s going to change that." 

Bucky offered you a small, genuine smile that held just the tiniest bit of relief. "I love you too."  

Silence fell over the pair of you again. Both of you were trying to listen for the moan of the undead, but you knew there was something on Bucky's mind he was working up the nerve to say.  

"You know, Hope's not the only one trying to find a cure," he started, his grip on your hand tightening with nerves. "I've heard Wakanda's getting real close. Maybe," he said, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, "maybe we can think about relocating to another country this time." 

"Wakanda," you mused, wondering if Logan would find a way to follow you there too. You knew that it was something Bucky must desperately need if he was actually asking for it. Falling in love with a girl who had a lovesick zombie following her around everywhere couldn’t be easy on him. If he needed a little distance from Logan because you were too stupid to do it yourself, then it was the least you could do for him after everything. “It sounds like a good idea to me,” you finally continued, knowing it was the right decision if you wanted to preserve your relationship with Bucky.  

Bucky shot you a relieved grin before pulling you around a corner, the van suddenly in sight. You wondered if the others would join you or if it was just going to be you and Bucky setting out for Wakanda. Bucky at your side was really all you needed, but it wasn’t all you were going to get. 

You knew, deep down, that it was never going to be just the two of you. You had a feeling that no matter where you went, Logan would follow in your wake. 

All Logan Taglist: @i-left-my-cat-on-the-stove @slightlymediocree @snowyminty @i-wear-wet-socks313

Series Taglist: @ayamenimthiriel @the-gentle-spirit @wolflover-20

If you would like to be added to the all logan, all bucky, or the series taglist, just let me know!