#zombies stories

[onebadnoodle]

frozen yogurt 🍦

[drawing-in-teyvat]

Kinich Vision Story - part 1

Characters in Natlan are so casual when it comes to death. Kinich mentioned almost in passing that he died during the war, but this series of events was TRAUMATIC.

[yandere-writer-momo]

Yandere Head Canons:

Love After Death

Yandere Skeleton x Fem Reader

I’m obsessed with Kate Bush’s song ‘Army Dreamers.’ So I decided to write a story about a soldier who died during a war, but he came back to life just to fulfill his promise of coming home to his lover…

There was a Great War many years ago between monsters and humans. A war that took countless innocent lives all due to the human’s greed. A war that took the life of your lover, Zered. Your childhood sweetheart.

Zered was a young sorcerer from the magic tower. A prodigy and pioneer of magic with a heart of gold. He was the man you had planned to spend the rest of your life with. You wanted to run your fingers through those blonde curls until the two of you were balding and wrinkly. To look into those sea foam eyes until you couldn’t. To press soft kisses against his full lips until your lungs burned. You loved that man more than anything in this world… but the war took him from you.

Zered may have died a hero of the empire, but you couldn’t help the bitterness that seeped its fingers into your heart. Your beloved was no nothing more of a war story. A great sorcerer who was able to take down the dragon enemies to give time for reinforcements to arrive. A war hero. And they couldn’t even bring a single remain of him back to you…

You sighed as you sipped on some homemade ale. Your eyes glanced at the sun’s rays that danced across the hay fields in sorrow. This was the cottage the two of you were going to live in for the rest of your days. The one you’d start a family in that was now cold and empty. It didn’t matter that the sun hit it perfectly each time, Zered wasn’t here.

You rock back and forth in the rocking chair. The birds weren’t singing their melodic tunes like they normally did. Which was odd. Why weren’t the birds singing- you almost screamed when you see a dark figure slink through the meadow towards your cabin. What on earth was an undead doing here?!

You quickly sprang up from your chair and fell over since you were a bit tipsy. Crap. Crap. Crap! You needed to head inside before that creature got to you.

You let out a shrill shriek of terror when the skeleton stood in your porch. Its red eyes stared into your very soul as it tilted its head to the side. Oh god… this was it. This was the end. You were going to be ripped apart by this hideous creature-

You went still when the creature threw itself into your arms as it released weeping noises. The skeleton whined and shook as its arms wrapped around your body in a tight hug.

“H-home. I… home.” The skeleton’s voice was a spin chilling rasp. A small tuft of blonde on its head showed that it was once human.

What did it mean by being home- wait. This cousin possibly be?

“Zered?” You gasped when the skeleton pressed its teeth onto your cheek like it wanted for press a kiss against your cheeks. “Zered, what happened?”

“Home… home.” Zered was barely to rasp out legible words. The skeleton cupped your face in its palms. “Love you… I home.”

[the-joju-experience]

Having watched every version of the Doc Pig Murder Trial, I'm fascinated by BDubs' version. Every other cut was a Minecraft video, this is Minecraft as a medium. It's a TV show.

On top of all the production elements, there's the fact that BDubs is the only one who considers the ruling even. Everyone else presents it as a victory for Cleo, but BDubs' editing around it to craft a different story is an entirely different story.

BDubs also manages to make himself the main character by reshooting a lot of his jokes. He has a different sense of humor than everyone else involved, and it shows in what he leaves in and what he changes. A lot of the stuff I liked didn't make the cut, but it was a different project.

BDubs also reshot his ad, which is funny in an entirely different direction this time. I think I like this better on its own, but the original in-context. There's also the intro to Beef that he ran music under, and that line made so much more sense with sound, and I think it's cool that BDubs was recording with backing music in mind that no one else saw coming.

BDubs is a brilliant producer to the point where it's a problem. It's impossible to casually watch a BDubs video because you have to respect the craft.

[preposterousjams]

My opinion on the Latino Jason Todd headcanon

While I do understand ppl's criticism of the latino Jason todd headcanon and how its kind of racist to make the kid with parents with drug problems as the latino one, to me its more of a reclamation BECAUSE of DC's racism.

Read any 80s/90s batman issue that covers gang violence and drugs, most if not ALL of the criminals are poc; black people and latinos visibly make up the majority in the poorer neighbourhoods in Gotham. Aside from the caricaturist way they r drawn/speak, its not THAT weird cause its a reflection of irl big cities where immigrants and marginalised ppl are often forced to live in such situations, (like most of my dominican family lives in the bronx... it aint racist to say dominicans tend to flock there), BUT...the weird part is when the second a sympathetic character comes from that area, he's white and has a name thats "too fancy for the streets".

Obviously, Jason was created to look like the old robin, so I can't say that the whole "diamond in the rough" situation was purposely a tad bit racist, but its still a lil weird (especially with bruce's comment).

If Jason were a part of the overwhelming demographic in his area, the good-kid-in-a-bad-area trope has less connotations. DC is currently trying to fix this trope is by making crime alley whiter, which isn't bad but they could've just yk... humanised the non-white residents.

I also feel like the messed up way Jason was treated post-death is what makes him so relatable to latino readers. His tragic story of dying while trying to save his only living relative is turned into a lesson for newer vigilantes. Jason's particular disdain for abusers on a few occasions was twisted (by both writers and characters) into him always being dumb, reckless, cocky, angry and disobedient, always violent, never having been able to get over his upbringing. None of those things were true (he was a normal level of reckless and cocky like every other robin, not more), but its an easier narrative to digest compared to how it was in reality; a kid who worked so hard and loved even harder, died to save a woman who couldn't care less about his existence. He was an emotional AND smart kid who wanted so bad to help others get better but was remembered as too emotional (in a bad way).

THIS is the reality for many latino diasporas in day to day life; Theres no question that Latino culture is passionate and emotive, but people from other cultures assume that it is followed by instead of logical. both can coexist. emotion does not mean u have no logic. Emotions can be irrational but they aren't inherently that way, and I wouldn't say that the moments where Jason lashed out as a teenager were irrational (in og runs, not rewrites post red hood), they were mostly done to protect someone (going crazy on abusers, disobeying batman to save sheila, that time he got into a fight at school to defend his friend).

A lot of euro-centric culture is OBSESSED with the idea that rationality is separate from feelings and emotions, but not crying at a funeral doesn't mean you're better than those who do. Emotions are the basis of human ethics and morals, they define the way we interact as a collective and ignoring them does not mean they are not there. Theres no winner to a contest of who can feel the less. And the way Jason's emotions are treated (pre-rh, hes definitely unhinged afterwards lol) is so in line with how white culture tends to punish those who aren't ashamed to feel.

I TOTES UNDERSTAND that some ppl who headcanon Jason as latino are doing it for the complete opposite of reasons, like "oh here some angry emotional guy with druggie parents, haha must be latino". Its weird. I dont like it. And its only brought up so he can swear in spanish in some rlly bad text post where his emotions are getting out. But to me there's so much potential for metanarrative and commentary on how latinos are treated in media that can be exemplified through the way his character is treated. Being latino would add SO MUCH DEPTH to his character and his dynamic with the others.

[tootyfruities]

okay you guys. age-old question here:

reblog for larger sample?

[realvermin]

hi chat 🦦🦦

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

1.5k / 20 / post-apocalypse au, part 1

...

You're injured but moving as fast as you can with your bow slung over your back. Soap is close behind you, giving chase, shouting your name as he does. Doesn't he learn? Doesn't he know you'll pull your bow on him again if he corners you?

He must know, but he's too stubborn to give up the chase. You don’t understand it.

He pushes on, just as graceful and twice as effective as you. You slip through the thick trees and their branches trailing whips of brambles. He shoves past them. You’re injured. He’s not. He's gaining, boots heavy in the soil.

"Watch yourself--!"

Your boot lands on leaf litter that falls out from under you--a pit trap. You’re moving barely fast enough for your momentum to save you from falling in. Your waist hits the edge of the pit. You brace yourself by your elbows, fingers digging into the dirt. The soft underside of your arms drag against something sharp underneath.

Soap grabs you by your coat and pulls you up out of the trap and to your feet before you can scramble out yourself. You're neither surprised nor mollified by his careful handling of you.

"Let me go!"

"Na. You're hurt. Stay still."

"Soap, I swear to God--"

"Shut up. I'm taking a look."

He holds your arm firmly with one large hand and, with the other, pulls your sleeve away from the bleeding gash. You grab his wrist with a pained curse. Whatever caught your arms—the rough wood and metal at the trap's edge—tore you bloody. Soap glares at the gash and then at you. He's close.

You could reach for your bow or for the dagger on your hip. But you know for a fact he's armed. With guns. A sniper rifle on his back and two sidearms at his belt. He knows how to use them, too. If you fight, he wins. But you know better than to back down quickly. The world is crueler than it used to be ever since things went to shit. People who show weakness don’t survive.

"Why are you following me?" you growl, your grip on his wrist tightening.

His grip on you loosens in turn when you speak. "You know why. I'm lookin' out for ya."

"I didn't ask for your help."

"Aye, but you still needed it."

"You're not a soldier anymore, Soap," you retort, trying to pull your wrist away. "It's every person for themselves. Stop following me."

"That's no way to live. The world may be a shithole, but there are still folk around who'll lend you a hand even though they don't need to. Soldier or no'."

You can't get out of his grip when he's determined to keep you there, and he is. As much as you'd like to give him a matching wound for being so goddamn stubborn, the rational part of your brain--the part that makes sure you survive--knows better than to expend energy struggling when it's not strictly necessary.

"Nobody lends a hand unless they want something in return," you mutter, glaring down at your wound as he bandages it. "Even if they're pretending otherwise."

He knows you speak from experience. You're a woman, and that means you're nothing but a resource to the worst of whoever’s left. He can't blame you for being guarded. Then again, you wouldn't be making such heated statements to his face if you really thought he intended to hurt you. You're just... defensive. Hiding under all that anger. That's what he tells himself. So he ignores your grumbled protests.

"That's how you'd look at it," he finally replies as he finishes dressing the wound. "Seein' as you've not met the right people. But some of us don't expect anything back."

"You don't expect it because you think you're better than asking. But you still want it."

"Might be so." His voice is soft, gravelly, but you can hear the steel in it. "But am not asking, now am I? So stop your fussin'. You're safe. Nae need to worry." He releases your bandaged arm.

"You run your hand along the wrapping, checking it. "Fine. But I'm... I'm not coming back with you."

"Can't promise you'll be safe out there. Where do ye plan to go?"

"I don't know. Wouldn't tell you if I did."

"Aye." He rubs his jaw, examining you with flint in his blue eyes. Pressing you for an answer would be pointless. Not that you seem to be lying—but you're not telling the whole truth. The short history you share with him is just enough that he can tell. But he also knows trying to change your mind would be pointless. If you won't listen, he'd have better luck bashing his head against one of these huge, mutated oaks.

"Am nae stoppin' ya. But these woods are full of treacherous paths. If ye run into trouble—when ye run into trouble--my boys and I, we know these woods well enough to dust you off and send you in the right direction. Cannae promise to find you before somethin’ else does, though."

You're fairly sure he's not lying. His boys, as he calls them—his old squad, you think—they've made their home in these woods. It's perilous living—bears, wolves, muties, and terrain just as hazardous as the wildlife. And still those men are the most dangerous things in here.

The offer is tempting. You consider it for longer than you should, looking down at your bandaged arm again. But then you step back, shaking your head slowly. "No, thanks. I have to get going."

It tears him up inside. You're making the wrong choice. If he lets you walk away, he's letting you walk to your death.

He looks at you for a moment. You can tell he's got something more to say. But he changes his mind, stepping back as well. He pulls something from his belt and holds it out. A handgun, scuffed and black, grip held toward you. You stare at it for a second before looking back up at him. He's serious?

"I'm not gonna take that--"

"You're damn well gonna take it." His voice is low and insistent. "You think I don't know you'll run into trouble out here? Don't be a fool. I have spare. Take it."

Your one rule is don't owe anybody anything. How the fuck are you about to owe this man twice?

Fine. Whatever. It's not like you have to use it. Could just barter it. Not like you’re going to see him again. You take the gun, biting back a retort.

He nods his approval. The steely look in his eyes softens, though he still looks dismayed. "Mind where you point that. And when you pull it. Biters'll hear it for a mile and come running. Survivors, too. The curious ones." He glances at your bandaged arm one more time. Then he adjusts the bag over his shoulder and turns his back, walking away from you. Back to camp. "Am expectin' you to keep yourself alive with that," he growls. "Or else it's a lot of good time and material I wasted on ya."

"I didn't ask you to waste your breath," you retort, practically snarling at his retreating back in your irritation. You watch him go until he's disappeared into the trees. You need to make sure he doesn't plan on doubling back and following you.

Then you set off on your own. You take a winding path to throw off any trackers. Never can be too cautious. The gun in your pocket is heavy against your thigh, and you try not to think of it as a comforting security.

You came here to get Roach back, and you don’t care how long you have to wander this Godforsaken forest. You’re not leaving without him.

…

Soap feels your eyes on him until you disappear.

He wants to divorce himself from this, but he’s on edge. People who strike out on their own here come to a nasty end. But he’s not going to take away your agency by deciding what's best for you. You were right about him not being a soldier, after all. He doesn’t have the authority to herd you back to his squad’s campsite. Your life is in your own hands.

He just hopes you live to do better than he believes you will.

That night, he sleeps restlessly. Which is why, when he hears a cluster of gunshots in the distance, he wakes up instantly. It's you. In trouble.

The night watch—Gaz tonight—is already there, tossing Soap's gun to him. "You were right," Gaz says.

"Course I was," Soap says with a lopsided grin. "Owe me a ten-piece in the next poker game, aye?"

...

[part 1] / part 2 / part 3

more Soap / more multi-141 and poly 141 / masterlist tag

[fizzytoo]

[hollybrooke]

Wrote a silly little story about geopolitical conflicts using minecraft mechanics <3 Can confirm it’s better than the minecraft movie xoxo.

“Being taken under a weathered skeleton’s wing and moving into one of the last mob cities free from the Brine family’s chokehold on society was supposed to be a clean slate for Steve. It was supposed to be his only chance to lead a normal life (sort of). And it was, for a while. Between the human village just above them reporting suspicious mob behavior, Enderian soldiers acting out of turn, whispers of the Nether’s involvement, and Oceanic tribes wreaking havoc on the surface, It seemed his past was starting to run faster than he was. And It certainly didn’t help that the son of the End’s most decorated general got framed in an espionage scheme to undermine Overworld political barriers. Now the guy was digging into Steve’s past to open up old wounds and Steve had no choice but to help him do just that.”

[amonisweird]

I saw a post like this on Instagram but it was with Gorillaz and I thought about this😂

[upsidedownsmore]

thinking about how people in present day warframe percieve the infestation versus people in warframe 1999

like in present day the infestation has been around for who knows how long, though of course it's gotten worse of late due to the actions of dr. tengus

however, for the people of 1999 this is probably the first time anyone has ever encountered this threat, and even to us it looks even crazier than usual cause it's interfacing with all this old 90s tech. like there's the existential horror of a space zombie virus that has been festering around for centuries, but then there's the true horror of having your entire society uppended by techrot out of nowhere. techrot with a boyband as its face of all things. and of course the fear of getting caught in the scaldra's crossfire

i hope we get to meet some regular citizens in 1999 just to further explore their reactions to all of this, really drive home this new perspective on the infestation we've otherwise become very accustomed to

[too-lit-for-fanfic]

I'm sorry but Grian's last stand!!! hello??!?!? My man took on a 3v1 and was fucking WINNING. He lowered all 3 of them by so much! He alone in that fight dropped Scott from 35 to 12 hearts and Gem from 49 down to 5 (+10 for killing Grian) (I've not seen Impulse's ep yet).

But like?? yes King pop OFF

He even fought until his shield BROKE, fighting till the very last minute!!

Say what you want about this man and his easy flightiness with alliances when they begin to break apart, but this man had a mission and he fucking delivered on it and we stan a committed man

He managed to hold his own against a very good PVP player and he fucking owned it

The tragedy of it? He knew he wasn't going to win. Of course he wouldn't against the best PVP player in the server, a previous winner, and Impulse who consistently performs well in these games. He was surrounded, taking and blocking hits from all directions, throwing himself into the fray when he could have just walked away and waited for a better moment. But no, taking and giving swing after swing, fighting until the very wood of his shield splinters and breaks. He wasn't expecting to win, he could never win with how low his hearts were, but he knew he could bring them part of the way down with him. He just knew Gem and the Scots couldn't be left with their abundance of hearts, and my man sacrificed himself to make sure other players had a fighting chance.

Without him, Gem probably would have won with her stacked hearts

I hope the community milks the ever-loving shit out of this moment

[zombiekombi-if]

Zombie Kombi

An interactive story by @josru

DEMO TBA | CHARACTERS

The cities are barren.

Not a soul has been seen navigating North America's metropolitan landscapes in years.

The undead are considered soulless, anyways.

In the late 2040s, zombies have overtaken the greater part of North America. You live on the outskirts of San Francisco, in an old, beat-up, secondhand Volkswagen Minibus. Also known as a Kombi (not sponsored).

You've been alone for as long as you can remember. Your elderly parent is long gone, and you have yet to meet another person, let alone one you're sure can be your ally.

Play as male, female or NB/GNC.

Choose your hunting level. Pick between amateur, alright, and advanced.

Romance one of four potential options (or keep them as friends, adversaries, or enemies, depending on your choices)

Choose your path:

Discover what happened to the world, causing it to be filled with the undead, by traversing to the city.

Find out about the first owner of your Kombi. (#??? videos found so far.)

Navigate conspiracies about a local settlement that seems too friendly.

Howard "How" Ngam

A mid-thirties, quiet, skeptical Thai-American man, How Ngam hates everyone and everything that's happened to him. He's the previous (read: not the first) owner of the Kombi- imagine his surprise when he stumbles upon you, living in a place he was sure he left locked and empty, meant to be his personal solitude.

He isn't the easiest to talk to, but his bristly attitude has it's purpose in this world. He's discovered a lot about the city, and How could take you there, but he's protective of those he cares about, which might include you.

Appearance: Tan-olive skin, deep-set eyes with wrinkles and dark circles, wide nose, prominent lips, shaggy, ear-length black hair, brown eyes, and stubble/mustache going on. About 5'8", fairly lean, some muscle. He's usually wearing a hand-me down, dark green jacket, and a copper-toned beanie. Heavy worker boots. Non-descript pants and shirt.

Dylan Chase

A late twenties, Half-Irish woman, Dylan is always searching for a greater purpose. She's scared, but determined to find herself in the midst of the apocalypse. You could worry that she's read too many self-help books, but she knows herself. Even if she can be a bit harsh about it.

Dylan wants more than anything to be caring, to prove to others that she's not a bad person. She lives in a well furnished settlement, where lack of resources seems to never be an issue. The guilt of being there, when everyone else is suffering, eats at her, but you could soothe her feelings, if you wish.

Appearance: Pale, warm toned, freckly-orange skin, hooked nose, sharply defined, thinner lips, deep red long hair past her shoulders, (basically think of a tomato), green wide eyes. About 5'6", very skinny, long runner legs with muscular calves. Despite the cold of San Francisco, Dylan runs hot and wears jean shorts, cropped shirts, or athleisure like hoodies and leggings.

Gloor

He's a zombie. Gloor's skin is a pallid green-blue, with splotches of beige that reminds you he was human at one point. There are chunks of skin and flesh missing from his body, but he persists on, in the way the undead always do.

He can barely hold a fully fledged sentence with you, but you can tell he doesn't mean any harm. There's something lifelike in his eyes as he stares with you, a strong purpose held in his pupils, untouched by the typical fog that zombies carry. It's even more obvious in the way he seems to still have fine motor skills: he's capable of writing a few letters for you, if you want him to.

Appearance: Green-blue skin, brownish-grey hair that's mostly all fallen out, brown eyes. No nose, lips receding. 6'2", surprisingly wide in the middle due to his ribcage. He's wearing an old, dilapidated suit, and a wrinkly dress shirt, and torn up pants.

Alia Jacobs

Named after Saint Alia of the Knife, Alia is a mid-thirties, black woman that absolutely adores pop culture and trivia. She's a massive, optimistic nerd, and maybe one that's a bit obsolete in this current time- nobody really cares to get into escapist fantasies the way she does. Either way, she's got a cabin filled with comics, old video games, and DVDs. You wonder where and how she's collected so much paraphernalia, and mainly why-  and she's willing to share that with you if you don't judge her.

Appearance: Deep cool toned skin, natural loose afro to about the end of her neck, brown eyes, slight smile lines, prominent lips, straight nose. 5'3", pear shaped, hourglass body. She wears billowy, silky tops, and well structured cargo pants. She wears a lot of jewelry like rings, bangles, and earrings.

[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.

[mentalnotesbyv]

Being a writer is not only putting characters in situations they'll struggle to get out of, but also putting yourself in situations by not knowing how the fuck your characters are going to get out of the situations you put them in.