#zombies Bucky

[krystal-kade]

[deeply-unserious-fellow]

'A Wyatt Place' actually confirms that Bucky is m-spec and poly because he asked out 3 different people with no regard for their gender, which OBVIOUSLY means that Bucky and the Aceys are(were? Unclear) a polycule. This is a completely logical conclusion and not at all a leap in logic based off of a one off joke.

[thezombieprostitute]

Bucky has a super cold

It's Okay to Cry

Warnings: None. Please let me know if I missed any.

Summary: You catch Bucky sniffling and tearing up.

"A super cold?" you raise an eyebrow at Bucky's comment.

"That's the only thing it could be," he shrugs.

"You don't get sick."

"Exactly! It's probably some Hydra created thing, specifically designed for super soldiers."

"And it has nothing to do with the fact that you were just watching Lilo & Stitch?"

He sniffles a little at that. "Definitely not. Absolutely no connection. It's clearly a delayed response to some disease I got exposed to."

"You know it's okay to cry at cartoons, right? Disney is well known for hitting those emotional sore spots."

Bucky lets a tear fall, "he just needed to find the right family."

"I know, Bucky, I know." You wrap your arms around him and bring him in for a hug.

"I hated how much of myself I saw in him," he whispers. "Created to destroy, feeling so lost when you can't do the one thing you're programmed to."

You squeeze him a little tighter, "and then you find people who help you out, help you find the real you, and who give you unending love, patience and understanding."

Bucky's voice breaks as he starts openly crying, "yeah. Damn Lilo & Stitch!"

You pat his back and gently assure him it's okay to cry, even if it's because of an animated movie.

Tagging: @alicedopey; @darsynia; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @kmc1989; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly; @stellar-solar-flare

[the-revolution-official]

Zombie Apocalypse Open RP (No Time Limit)

TW: HORROR ELEMENTS (BLOOD, BODY HORROR, AND ZOMBIES)

The streets of New York City were filled with people, but not lively people that were going about their daily lives. No, they were standing still if not creeping along at a slow pace until something stimulated them. This was the quiet part. The calm before the storm when everything seemed to be hopeless.

James had brought everyone he could Underground. Everyone that wasn't bitten was down there in the very crowded tunnels that he now called home. Temporarily. Hopefully. Now that they were getting closer to some kind of cure or way to stop the zombie horde, he was prepared to make a stand.

Recruiting everyone that wasn't already in his personal army, he brought them all to the streets above and erected a barrier. As strong as they could make it with Magic and whatever else they could find. Behind it, they grouped up in one section to keep the Zombies in one spot.

Now, they wait for something to set them off.

He walks down the line of men and women, all of them ready to fight for their loved ones down below. He's ready.

He looks to his sons who both helped with the barrier and nods.

"The objective is to hold them off as long as we can!" He shouts out to his army. "No one is coming to help us because there is no one else!" He's not good at making speeches, but he tries.

"We have to give everything we have to keep those we love safe and away from harm! If you get bit, you fight until the end!" Those were orders and they all nod their heads knowing that if they were bit, they were going to be put down. It was a sacrifice.

"On my command!"

@bstandsforbabydaddy @d-adpool @policedepartment-ny @ravonna-lexus-renslayer @katherine-fisk @thund3randrain @thebestmerc-1 @oh-to-be-a-murderer @ghostcat58 @strange-little-spy @multifandomer537 @brock--rumlow @we-love-redwing @arachknight-rising @randomluckystars @truthful-timmy-of-saskatoon @mod-does-things @th3blackcatt @new-phone-who-dis0 @thescarleteevee @the-sentry-official @iwasmadetobeasoldier @buchnanbarnes @the1-and-only-peggycarter @luna-draven-barnes @long-lost-king And anyone else who wants to fight Zombies... Anyone... Please... We're all going to die!

[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 losin’ 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 thinkin’, 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 fuckin’ 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.

[adaobiiii]

"Spare Miracle"

Pairing : Bob Reynolds x fem!Reader A/N : This isn't proof read so go easy on me please.................

Home || Main Masterlist 

The body came in a crate.

Not a coffin. Not a pod. Just a damp wooden crate. Long and heavy, wood scorched at the corners and humming faintly with leftover static. Valentina tilted her head as she circled it slowly, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She couldn’t remember where it came from, some defect lab tied to Project Lightning Rod? Or maybe it was Project Frankenstein. The name was blacked out on the manifest, the only legible word left. Viable.

She popped the lid with a crowbar. She needed to do this herself. If this project wasn’t successful she would most definitely be shunned.

Inside was a girl.

Or something like one.

Her limbs weren’t fully attached. An arm had laid near the top of the box--far from where it would normally be attached, as though it had fallen off during shipping. One eye was faintly glowing, almost staring, but remained half-open like it was caught between life and death. Her skin had a faint green undertone, not one of rotting but more like overcharged copper. There were thin stitch lines, pale scar tissue connecting torso to hip, wrist to elbow, jaw to neck.

Valentina stared in horror and pride.

“…Just in case,” she muttered, dragging the crate to Sublevel E, the generator floor. “If the Sentry project goes sideways again, we might need a spare miracle.”

As she rode the elevator down, she watched as dark clouds loomed over the old avengers tower. She could only hope this would work.

14 Months Later

The first time Bob saw you, he thought you were a hallucination from the Void.

He was supposed to be the only one left in the tower, the others had left for a mission. It had been about 14 months since the ‘Black Out of New York’, as some would call it. He still had difficulty controlling the void and was unable to be the Sentry without it almost taking over. Not much help. This meant he was often home, quite similar to a live-in housekeeper. 

Not that he minded. Cleaning seemed to be one of the few things that could keep his head clear for hours. Which brings us back to the situation.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Watchtower’s lower power station, one hand buried in the inner workings of a busted generator and the other absently tossing a small blue bolt between your fingers like it was a coin. You looked up when he moved, eyes glowing faintly with static energy.

“Oh,” you said, blinking. “You’re Bob.”

He hesitated. How did you know his name? “And you are...?”

“Not sure,” you said casually. You waved at him with your free hand, which promptly detached at the wrist and smacked the floor with a thud. You didn’t even flinch. “Oops. Happens sometimes.”

Bob stared. I should call Yelena.

You sighed, picked up your hand, and clicked it back into place with the same ease someone might fix a watch strap. “I woke up in some box a few months ago. Didn’t figure out how to walk until recently, though. My knees used to bend backward.” You looked down at your legs fondly, like this was normal.

Bob took a cautious step forward. “Are you…human?”

You shook your head. “Not exactly. More of a Frankenstein situation.”

He took small steps back, reaching for the phone at the center of the floor. He knew he wasn’t supposed to call the team when they were on missions except for emergencies--but this had to count for one. Right?

He called once. Twice. Three times and the call fell through each time.

The muffled sound of the dial tone rang through the room as the both of you made eye contact. His eyebrows furrowed, head tilting ever so slightly. “How did you know my name?...”

“Everyone here talks in their sleep,” you said matter-of-factly. “Especially the ginger with the shield. Walker? He says your name a lot. Usually when he’s mad.”

Bob’s brow furrowed. You pulled your wrist out of the generator—only to have it detach again.

You muttered, “I really need to get these things tightened…” and peered into the machine. The runaway wrist wriggled among the wires like a mouse. You glared at it. It froze. Then obediently crawled out and into your other hand.

Click. Reattached. Good as new.

Bob was lost. 

Your wrist just crawled on its own and you somehow knew his name. How did none of the team know they had a whole frankenstein monster in their basement. How had she gotten out of their basement? 

You watched as the boy stumbled backwards, almost tripping over his long sweatpants. He held out a hand in front of him, trying to keep you at a distance, as he moved back. He had to get someone. Anyone.

“That’s a bit mean,” you muttered to yourself as you finally got up. Once you stood he could finally see the true extent of your nature. The stitches that kept all your limbs together, the patchy yet harmonious texture of your skin, the nerving glow in your eyes and the two silver bolts sticking out of the sides of your neck that flickered with electric energy. 

“Running away from me already and you don’t even know my name,” she scoffed.

Bob swallowed hard. He wasn’t the best at social cues but this wasn’t exactly a normal daily situation. “S-sorry,” he fumbled over his words, “What’s your name?”

You opened your lips to answer before stopping. “She never told me,” you trailed off. The man’s ears perked.

“Who?” 

“The lady who moved me into your basement a few months ago,” she sighed, walking over to the kitchen. She swore she’d seen a package of batteries earlier. She had been thinking about grabbing some for a while. “She said something about a Sentry project and needing a spare miracle.”

Bob’s jaw dropped. 

“I couldn’t get a good look at her cause I hadn’t been charged properly but she had um...” she motioned to her hair, picking out a few front pieces. “White here and brown everywhere else,” she dropped the bangs and motioned to the rest of her hair as she tossed a duracell battery into her mouth. 

Bob blinked a few times then hurriedly grabbed the phone and quickly hit the dial again.

Nothing. Still nothing.

The screen blinked: “CALL FAILED.”

He stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.

“Okay,” he said, setting the phone down carefully on the counter. “Okay. No big deal. It’s just… everyone’s off-grid. On a mission. In an undisclosed location. That I don’t know of. Because I wasn’t allowed to go. Because I’m—”

He cut himself off, chest rising and falling too fast.

You tilted your head from across the room. “You good?”

“No. No, I am not good.” He pointed at you like it explained everything. “You—You’re a person. That no one told me exists. You eat batteries. Your arm came off. You’ve been living under the tower for what, months? Years? And you’re just. Fine with it?”

You shrugged, absently tossing a bolt of electricity between your hands. “Could’ve been worse.”

“How?” his hands flew out to his sides as he was so filled with confusion that he could no longer physically contain it.

You smiled. “Could’ve woken up to find out the world ended. Or had all my body parts separated in random jars across the world. Do you know how long it would take to put me back together that way?”

Bob opened his mouth to answer, then shut it. You had a point.

He sat down heavily at the edge of the table, running both hands through his hair.

“Valentina,” he said under his breath, “I knew she was hiding something. Everyone knows she’s hiding things, but this? You’re a whole person.. kinda?. And she just… boxed you up like Ikea furniture.”

You glanced over. “What’s Ikea?”

Bob stared. “You know what batteries are but not Ikea?”

“I learn what’s important.”

Bob laughed. Just once. The kind of sound that escapes before your brain can decide if it’s funny or tragic. “So no one else knows you’re here?” he repeated.

You blinked slowly. “Well I thought you did.”

“I live here,” he said, voice rising slightly in panic once more. “And I’ve never seen you before.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, your eyes slowly widened as you properly processed his words. “Wait… oh.”

Bob’s chest tightened. “Oh what?”

You squinted, leaning forward. “...I don’t think I was supposed to wake up yet.”

BOOM.

A sudden, muffled explosion echoed from somewhere up above.

The lights in the hallway flickered. Dust dropped from the vents. You looked up toward the ceiling. “Was that a bomb?” you asked.

Bob darted to the large window. A moment later, a distorted voice buzzed through the intercoms in the building barely audible through static.

“...Walker, get that door open, now!” “I am! It’s jammed, you emo looking rat!” “Shut up, Walker. Just keep pressure on it—Ava’s phasing too fast—”

Bob swore under his breath. “They’re back early.”

You stood next to him, batteries in hand, peeking through the hallway like this was all mildly amusing. “Thunderbolts, right?”

His head whipped toward you. “How do you know that?”

You gave him a look. “You all talk in your sleep, remember? Except that old guy. He just screams. A lot.”

Bob was about to say something when the security door at the end of the hallway burst open—sparks flying. You both turned just as the team spilled into the room, covered in dust, bruises, and adrenaline.

Yelena was first, blood on her temple, knives in hand. She froze.

Bucky followed close behind, gun drawn. He immediately took a step forward, shielding the others on instinct.

John Walker had a dislocated shoulder and a bad attitude, naturally. “Who the hell is that?”

Red Guardian trudged in, coughing and waving smoke away. “What is this? Little zombie girl? Electric Doll?”

Ava phased in last, glitching like a bad hologram. She landed in a crouch, eyes glowing through her mask—locking on you.

You blinked, mid-chew, still munching on half a triple-A battery. “Hi.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes, not taking them off you. “Bob. What is this?”

Bob raised both hands in surrender. “I swear, I just found her.”

Bucky lowered his rifle, flexing his metal arm in case he needed it again. “That stitching… it’s not surgical. It’s military-grade.”

John pointed. “She’s not part of the mission. What is she? Some Hydra leftover?”

You rolled your eyes. “Nope. Just your friendly neighborhood abomination.”

Bob stepped in front of you, arms out. “She’s not hostile... at least she doesn’t seem that way,” he mumbled at the end. 

“Louder Bob,” Alexei boomed.

He fidgeted with the ends of his sweatshirt. “She’s been here… apparently for months. Valentina brought her.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Yelena’s face hardened. “Valentina?”

Bucky growled. “Of course. That snake--”

“She called me a ‘spare miracle’,” you offered, hands making the air quotation signs. “Though I think I’m more like a glorified lightning rod with energy issues.”

Ava’s voice cut through the tension, her voice hoarse after the mission. “She didn’t tell anyone about you?”

You shook your head. “Apparently not.”

The room fell quiet.

Yelena exhaled slowly, eyes still locked on you, then turned to Bob. “We’re going to need to talk. All of us. But first get her upstairs.” she pointed at Walker.

The man scoffed in protest, “This is how it starts. Freaky hands, glowing eyes, next thing she’s ripping heads off. What if she goes for my brain?!”

“You seem to lack one so I think you’ll be alright” Ava mumbled before heading to what must have been the medical room. Holding onto her sides as she breathed heavily.

Bob looked at you as you hopped down from the counter and adjusted your shoulder as it slid slightly out of place. Click. Back in.

As you neared the rest of the group, you turned to one of the men and stretched out your hand, a battery held gently in it. “You look like you could use one.”

He eyed it warily. “I’m not battery-powered.”

You shrugged. “You’ve got a metal arm. Worth a shot.”

Trailing after the team, you glanced over your shoulder. “For a top-secret team, you guys really suck at checking your basement.”

Walker groaned. “I need a goddamn drink.”

Pt 2?

[imjustavenuxwithaboomerang]

zombies + text posts (pt 3)

(1 2)

[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.

[waiting4inspiration]

Blood is Thicker Preview (Bucky Barnes x Vampire!Reader)

Summary: A little preview on something I am working on. Please read the note at the bottom.

Word Count: 513

When you think of an apocalypse, you’d normally think of some nuclear fallout that levels cities or some virus outbreak that turns people into brain-eating zombies. You’d never think that vampires would be involved in this apocalypse. Sure, one could kind of classify vampires and zombies, seeing as they are undead, they feed on humans, and their bite can turn a human into one of them. 

You blame the Avengers for this vampire apocalypse. If they hadn’t been snooping around the HYDRA base, they wouldn’t have found the experimental chambers where you were being held. They wouldn’t have fought against the HYDRA ‘scientists’ that were there and wouldn’t have accidentally opened up the cells that were holding those monsters that were created from you.

Maybe you should blame HYDRA for this vampire apocalypse. If they hadn’t captured and experimented on you, they wouldn’t have created these monsters from you. Their plan was to create more like you. Exactly like you. A vampire that can take orders and hold a conversation. All they got from you is monster-like creatures that crawl on all fours. They drool all over the place, fangs out for everyone to see what they are, and eyes shot red like the blood they crave. HYDRA found out that one bite from them will turn a human in under 4 hours, like a virus transmitted by saliva. 

Or maybe you should blame yourself for this vampire apocalypse. If you hadn’t let your guard down, you wouldn’t have been captured in the first place. You should have been on guard all the time, always looking over your shoulder. But you got comfortable. Surely no one would know what you are, you thought. You had always been careful up till that point, moving to a new city before people grew suspicious of your eternal youth, making sure not to grow any attachments on purpose so that you could start a new life anywhere and anytime you wanted. Surely, no one suspected a thing about you. It was your comfort that gave you away. 

No. You should blame the one that turned you into this…thing. All those centuries ago, when you were an innocent Victorian lady, he attacked you in the middle of the night. He came through your window, and you woke the moment his fangs pierced your neck. You tried to fight him off, fearing for your life at the unknown monster above you. Then he stopped feeding from your artery and stared into your eyes for a moment before he opened up his own artery. Blood fell into your mouth as he whispered that he liked you. “Come find me,” he said, placing his hands on either side of your face before breaking your neck to kill you. You wake up the next morning feeling different.

Not once have you thought about killing the man who turned you into a vampire. But with the human population starting to suffer from the growing population of dhampirs, you know that might be the only way to stop it all.

Note: This idea has been in my head for such a long time now and after smoking some of the devil's lettuce (this is a safe space but I am not encouraging drugs) the words come out of me. So, this is going to be my little project in between things. Let's see where it goes, let me know what you think!!

xXx Jess

[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)❄️🎄

A cup full of love - 4.8k words (fluff)

Coming soon...

Coming soon...

So much for a normal Christmas - 3.9k words (fluff/Christmas special)

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 ...

[romanov1928]

Y’know what at this point its common for Black Widows to be taking away faces, taking each other identities and getting karma for said action (like Matt ripping Nat’s face off, after she got him to help with the whole 2001 deal)

(they specially like to take Nat’s identity)

[krystal-kade]

[deeply-unserious-fellow]

No because the thing is, Bucky's behavior in Z-O-M-B-I-E-S 2 would actually be perfectly fine if it WEREN'T FOR HIS PART IN STAND! Like, if he didn't have those few lines showing that he genuinely is reconsidering his values and starting to see the world differently, then you could very easily explain his sudden change in Z2 as him just faking the redemption in Z1 so he could come out on top. But he DID have those lines in Stand. He DID show genuine remorse. And then through the rest of the movie, he went through a surprisingly realistic change: at first he doubled down, not wanting to face the fact that he was wrong. He keeps spiraling and spiraling until finally crashing and burning at the cheer competition. Then, when Zed, Addison and Eliza offer to let him join, he refuses, and that could've been for a lot of reasons, but I think with the context Stand provides, a big part of his refusal is guilt. He feels bad about all the shit he did, and it took that crash for him to snap out of his denial and realize he was well and truly in the wrong. Then he goes off to sulk and shit for most of the song before Zoe approaches him, and I think that interaction with Zoe is what really solidified his desire to change. So he joins in on the big preformance and then everybody is friends now because this is a DCOM.

Also, while Bucky didn't actually do anything to earn forgiveness in Z1, I think it's also important to note that he's like, 17 at most in the first movie? He's still a kid. A kid who was raised in the DEEPLY toxic environment that is Seabrook, was put up on a pedestal for who knows how long, and going off of Addison's parents' behavior, PROBABLY HAS PRETTY BAD FUCKIN PARENTS! That kind of shit doesn't result in healthy people! LOOK AT JOJO SIWA!!!!!!!! Addison literally punched Zed in the face when they met for the first time because of the shit she was taught about zombies, the main reason she flips so fast is because she already got to know Zed before the reveal. Bucky deserves a chance to grow and be better, because everybody deserves a chance to get past their shit up bringing and be better. And HE FUCKING WAS!!!!!!! I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH, HIS LINES IN STAND ARE ENOUGH TO PROVE THE CHANGE HE WENT THROUGH IN ZOMBIES 1 WAS GENUINE!!!!!!!!

There's a reason I get so fucking mad about Bucky's character assassination. It's the same reason everybody hates Chloe's character assassination in Miraculous. Bucky is a kid who comes from, tbh not just a shit family, a whole shitty TOWN, and deserves the chance to escape that cycle. He was making genuine progress by the end of the first movie, and was on the path to maybe recovering from all the fucking problems being a local celebrity in HIGHSCHOOL can cause, but he was completely ruined in the 2nd movie either because Disney Channel can't handle a proper redemption arc in their Original Movies, or because the writers just needed a B plot and didn't know what else to do so they threw together the fucking e l e c t i o n p l o t l i n e. I fucking hate it here.

Anyways yeah stan Zombies Re-Animated for fixing Bucky :)

[thezombieprostitute]

Just spreading the love over here

That's definitely the look of someone who's angry. But who is he mad at and why?

Warnings: Implied violence, Kidnapping, Talk of cheating. Please let me know if I missed any!

Even before he's fully awake, Andy knows he's in trouble. His head is throbbing and the last thing he remembers is leaving your apartment and putting his wedding ring back on before you woke up. He was glad to have found a way out of spending more time with you. But then there was a thump on the back of his head.

His eyes aren't open but he feels the restraints around his arms and ankles, fastening him to a chair. He isn't gagged, though, so they clearly expect a conversation. This isn't a ransom situation, it's an interrogation. Well he's not an assistant DA for nothing. He can talk himself out of this easily enough.

"We know you're awake, Barber. Open your eyes and let's get this conversation started."

Andy complies and sees two of Fowler's top lieutenants glaring at him. Curtis "The Axe" Everett and James "Winter Soldier" Barnes. Two of the most dangerous men in the city.

"What is this about?" he sneers. "You know your boss doesn't allow you to touch government officials without good cause. And I know you don't have that."

"Does Laurie know about your girlfriend?" Barnes' tone is as icy as his nickname.

"And before you try to say you don't have one," Everett interjects. "Remember who you're talking to."

Andy bites back a rude comment. Fowler's gang wasn't the biggest but it was the strongest and the richest because they invested in information. Where other mobs would resort to violence as a first choice, Fowler saw the wisdom in blackmail and bribery instead.

"So what if I have a sidepiece?" he argues. "What's that got to do with your boss? You know his rules. I'm off limits!"

"We have Nick's blessing," Barnes tells him. "Because if you can't trust a man to keep his promises to his wife, how can you trust him to keep his promises to you?"

"Business is different," Andy tries to argue but his voice is dry.

"Not when it comes to family," Everett counters.

"And definitely not when it comes to the court of public opinion," Barnes adds. "What would the public think if their DA---"

"Assistant DA," Curtis interjects, eyes never leaving Andy. They all know it's a sore spot for Andy that he's not the District Attorney.

"Right, what would the public think if their assistant DA was cheating on his wife? How could such a man properly represent them in court? Your political career would go up in smoke."

Andy is fuming but he can't think of a way out of this. Fowler's backing was his only chance but now that he knows that's gone, he's grasping at straws.

"What's the cost?" he finally grumbles.

"You and your wife are moving to a lovely little town on the opposite side of the country," Barnes starts. "That program she works for is opening a new branch there and you, being a good, loving husband, are going to support her and move with her to the new location."

"I'll be starting over!"

"But with a good record," Barnes counters. "That's the final gift from Fowler for your years of help."

"If you refuse, or if you ever step foot in this city again, though," Everett growls, "and you'll find yourself physically, financially, and politically ruined."

"I understand," Andy scowls. "Now let me go so I can get the good news from my wife about our move."

"Glad to see that jackass gone," Curtis says.

"Can you believe he didn't even ask if he could say goodbye to our girl?" Bucky adds.

"I know. She deserves so much better than him."

"And she'll get it."

"She's gonna be hurting for awhile, but we'll help her through it."

"And treat her like the angel she is."

Tagging: @alicedopey; @darsynia; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly; @stellar-solar-flare; @thiquefunlover63

[the-revolution-official]

I've been bitten. We managed to hold back the first wave and give ourselves a break, but I'm not going to make it out of this alive.

I'm going to keep fighting until I can't.

We will keep fighting until we can't anymore.

@bstandsforbabydaddy @d-adpool @policedepartment-ny @ravonna-lexus-renslayer @katherine-fisk @thund3randrain @thebestmerc-1 @oh-to-be-a-murderer @ghostcafe @strange-little-spy @multifandomer537 @brock--rumlow @we-love-redwing @arachknight87 @truthful-timmy-of-saskatoon @mod-does-things @th3blackcatt @new-phone-who-dissss @thescarleteevee @the-sentry-official @iwasmadetobeasoldier @buchnanbarnes @the1-and-only-peggycarter @luna-draven-barnes @long-lost-king

[wildglitch]

Other hero wiz!au

This is a joke (obviously) but this is tottaly them lol