Hello one and all! if you have stumbled across this blog recently or been here for a while I commend you! because now your trapped and will never leave!!! /j fr though welcome to the hellscape and pure degeneracy that is this blog!!
you all can refer to me as Renn and I am the master mind behind many twisted very disturbing and definitely dead dove do not eat fanfictions! I do a few other things too, like drawings and Au's and what not.
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down below are some links to lists that will take you to other lists where you can see everything!
Fanfic List
Au Master List
Long Fic / Fic Series Master List
<now not everything on these lists are being actively written and displayed on this blog yet. eventually I do want everything on these lists to be on this blog but for now they are not. thus, I am creating a system, if a title is coloured red then it is not currently being written or displayed on the blog, however, if the title is purple than that means that I have written for it in the past and there are things on this blog for it so you can check out the tag link in the master list and scroll through if you wish. At the bottom of each list there is something called a summary list. Because I will not be making master lists for a fic till I decide to introduce it here. This if you want information on the fic’s without master lists then go to the summary list>
something else i should mention is my fic ratings. I like writing gore, and thus i have a measure for my things.
Our Doves are Rotting → for the worst of the worst. morals? we don't know her!
Wounded Dove → for things that are bad and maybe deserve the dddne tag but not really
Trauma O'clock → definetly gets a 16 plus rating and and some tigger warnings but nothing much worse than that.
it's not baaad buuuut → its mostly safe, other than the trauma i need to put the character through for development it's pretty wholesome up here.
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I also have two other blogs!
@rennsdeaddoves for 18+ things only
@rennsdovesarealive for spam and just general chatting and getting to know you guys!
if your interested feel free to check them out!
ALSO!!! please check out my best friend and writing partners blog!! @senkaithegriffin
(if it weren't for him i wouldn't have written any of this so please go and check him out)
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some additional information you may want to know about me!
I live in Canada
I am over 21
I go by any pronouns
Love anything Studio Ghibli, Journey to the West, or old 80/90 anime / anime films
my hyper fixations change on the regular and every time i consume a new piece of media i feel the need to create a character and insert them into it so i can be a part of the story (thats why i have so many fics T-T)
Current Hyperfixation; Hellsing Ultimate, Elden Ring
i don't mind spam likes, go buck wild with that, my ask box is open so feel free to talk with me (genuinely i will not ignore anyone unless you are being a straight ass to me)
I need the losers club and the kids from welcome to Derry to meet. I need rich and Richie to interact. I need Mike and Will to hug each other (you KNOW Will is Mikes dad!!)
Summary : You have baby fever, but Bucky insists on waiting a bit longer. Enter Alpine.
Pairing : Husband!Bucky Barnes x wife!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!!! Cursing, implied sex, implied breeding kink (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Word count : 2.5k
Requested by : Anon! Based on this request
Note : Another Alpine origin story lol. If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!
There was a time when Bucky Barnes thought he was immune to things like baby fever.
Not because he didn’t want a family—god, he did. But he thought the want would hit him in a more… subtle way. The way it did when he saw Pepper playing with Morgan, or when he caught Sam sneaking bedtime stories to his nephews during downtime.
He didn’t expect it to gut-punch him every time you, his wife, smiled at a stroller.
Or squealed softly at a chubby-cheeked toddler on Instagram.
Or watched baby videos late at night, curled up in his hoodie, whispering under your breath, “What if ours had your eyes? My nose? Would they like strawberries? Or hate 'em like you?”
And then came the Pinterest boards.
You had curated pictures of nurseries in warm earth tones, tiny leather boots to wear his biking ones, hand-knit baby blankets in creams and blues shots saved with captions like “One day.”
You insisted it was for “future reference only.”
But it was the way you said it in bed that finally broke him.
“Wanna get off the pill, Jamie,” you whispered one night, your hips rolling in a slow, drugging rhythm as you rode him, your fingers dragging down his chest like you were etching your name into him. “Wanna make a baby.”
He saw stars as the whole damn room spun. His hands gripped your hips tighter than he meant to. You were slick, wrapped around him so perfectly, and yet, he nearly came from that little comment.
“Wanna make you a daddy,” you whispered against the shell of his ears.
Jesus Christ. That did something to him.
Maybe it was the way your thighs trembled around him, or how your voice cracked when you said it— but he couldn’t hold back the groan that escaped.
Every primal part of him screamed yes.
But instead of flipping you over and giving you exactly what you begged for, Bucky sat up. Wrapped his arms around your back and pulled you close, until your nose brushed his, and he kissed your forehead.
“Not yet, baby,” he promised, and he meant it. “I swear—just a couple more years.”
You pouted. He saw it even in the dark, even with your cheeks flushed and your lips kiss-swollen. He pretended not to, kissed your collarbone instead.
Truth was, he wanted that future so badly it scared him.
He wanted all of it: the sleepy 3 a.m. feedings, the tiny socks, the chaotic mornings and lullabies, a child with your laugh and his storm-colored eyes. He wanted to carry the diaper bag like it was mission gear, walk the stroller through Central Park like he was scouting terrain, hold your hand while your baby kicked inside you.
But not yet.
Not when he was gone three to four nights a week with the new Avengers team, doing recon missions in the other side of the equator, trying to convince Alexei not to throw knives inside the tower, mediating sparring matches between Yelena and John, and making sure Ava didn’t phase through the damn floors and nearly give the intern a cardiac arrest again.
You deserved more than half of him. That baby deserved all of him.
So, he said to himself, one day.
—
What Bucky didn’t expect, just a few weeks later, was to come home from a week-long mission to the sound of Bluey playing in the living room… and to find you on the couch, legs draped over the armrest, half-buried in blankets.
You looked cozy in one of his old sweatshirts—faded and way too big on you—with your fingers absently stroking a kitten's back like you'd been doing it forever.
He didn’t speak right away. He just stood in the doorway for a beat, taking you in: your messy hair. The way your head tilted just slightly in rhythm with the cartoon’s laughter track. .
You glanced over at him with that look. The one that said you’re late and I missed you in the same breath.
That’s when he noticed a tiny white puff of fur stretched across your chest like a sleepy pancake.
She looked like a cloud. Or a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
Your hand moved lazily, fingers scratching behind her ear as she blinked at him with the disdain only cats can muster. You didn’t even look away from the TV.
“I found her by the park,” you said casually, like this was something that happened every day. “Vet said she’s clean, has no chip. She needed a home. And I needed a baby.”
You finally turned to look at him, eyes dancing with that same mischief that got you out of parking tickets and into trouble. You shrugged, and he couldn’t be mad. “Compromise.”
Bucky blinked, still standing near the doorway, duffel bag half-dropped from his shoulder. His hair was mussed, face shadowed with travel scruff, —but he was suddenly, stupidly awake.
“…That’s a cat.”
You smiled sweetly. “A kitten.”
She chose that exact moment to stretch out and yawn, her tiny pink tongue poking out, paws flexing over your chest before she flopped back down again with a soft mrrrp.
He furrowed his brows. “And this is supposed to be a warm-up for the real thing?”
“Mmhmm. She’s even very emotionally intuitive,” you said playfully, still stroking her fur. “She says you’ve been away a lot lately and the house feels unbalanced.”
“She… says?”
“She meows in full sentences,” you said with a straight face.
Right on cue, the kitten lifted her head and gave a perfectly timed little “meow.”
Bucky let out a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “Right. Of course she does.”
He dropped the bag with a soft and moved toward the couch, eyes fixed on the tiny ball of fluff who now blinked up at him like he was interrupting her sacred nap.
“She gonna scratch me?”
“No,” you said, grin tugging at your lips. “She knows you’re the daddy.”
That word made him freeze for a beat. The way it still hit him like a lightning bolt to the ribs. Only this time, it didn’t short-circuit his brain— it… grew on him.
“Come here,” you said, barely above a whisper, scooting a bit to make room.
He crouched beside the couch first, resting his elbows on the edge, eyes level with the kitten’s.
She sniffed him curiously. Then, to your absolute delight, she butted her tiny head into his metal knuckles when he reached to stroke her cheek.
“She likes you,” you whispered, watching him melt.
“She’s a little marshmallow,” Bucky cooed, his voice gone all gooey in a way you’d only heard when he talked to kids or sometimes to you when he thought you were asleep.
He scratched gently behind her ears. “You got good taste, fluff.”
“She kept me company.” You let out a content, happy sigh. “I missed you.”
Bucky looked up at you then— and the second your eyes met, his hand drifted from the kitten to your thigh, gripping it with just enough pressure to feel good.
“I missed you, too, sweets,” he said, voice rough now.
He leaned in before you could answer, and before you could make another quip about baby fever or intuitive kittens, he kissed you.
You kissed him back, your free hand sliding into his hair, pulling him closer, ignoring the sleepy mewl of protest from the kitten, who clearly didn’t enjoy being jostled.
He laughed against your mouth, pulling back just barely. “Okay, okay. Sorry,” he said to the kitten.
“She forgives you,” you said with an adorable laugh. “She said we’re cute.”
“Did she now?”
“Mhm,” you hummed, eyes twinkling. “She also said you should stay home longer.”
Bucky smiled, eyes fluttering and a little sad. “Working on it.”
—
Of course, you both settled on the name Alpine.
Nothing else made sense. She was white as snow, moody as a mountain, and somehow managed to make both of you bend to her will in a week flat.
And that week had been sweet torture.
Alpine, in all her fluffy glory, became the tiny tyrant of your home. She slept on Bucky’s pillow. She demanded food at ungodly hours. She meowed at the fridge until he caved and gave her shredded chicken. And somehow—somehow—she became your emotional baby stand-in.
But it hit Bucky hardest.
You carried her everywhere in a little sling you sewed yourself, with pastel thread and tiny paw prints. Her head would peek out while you did dishes, while you made tea, while you wandered barefoot through the apartment humming lullabies like you didn’t even know you were doing it.
And Bucky suffered in all the best ways.
He’d catch sight of you from the kitchen, hips swaying gently as you rocked side to side while heating up soup—like your body instinctively knew how to move with something small curled against your chest—and he’d have to excuse himself. More than once, he found himself leaning against the bathroom sink, splashing cold water on his face, whispering to the mirror: Not yet. Not yet. You said not yet, Barnes.
But it only got worse.
You’d kiss Alpine’s little head and coo at her softly, calling her “tiny baby,” and Bucky bit his tongue so hard one night it actually bled. You’d say things like “Alpine loves tummy time,” when she rolled around on a blanket, or “Mama’s here,” when she got scared by the vacuum.
And one evening, he walked in on you holding Alpine up to the mirror, her snowy little face peering over your shoulder, and you giggled, “Look at us! You have Mommy’s eyes!”
That’s when he started imagining it.
You, holding a real baby like that, in that same robe, with the same love in your voice.
You, on the other hand, thought he must be relieved.
Relieved you didn’t bring up babies anymore.
Relieved you’d finally redirected that nesting energy toward something manageable and relatively low-stakes.
But he wasn’t. Because somehow, seeing you with that kitten made it worse.
It was domestic torture.
Every time he walked into the room and found Alpine curled up in the crook of your hoodie, purring like a tiny lawn mower while you folded laundry or watched baking shows—he felt like someone punched him in the chest with a bouquet of emotions he wasn’t equipped to handle.
—
You were barefoot in the kitchen again, in your tank top, tiny sleep shorts, one leg slightly bent as you stood at the counter, humming something soft and sweet while Alpine batted lazily at a string loose thread around your ankle. It was domestic perfection.
Bucky was in the hallway, standing shirtless in the doorway of the freshly converted office. His dog tags hung against his skin, and his sweatpants rode low on his hips from crawling around on the floor for the last hour. He’d just finished Alpine’s nursery.
The little nook used to be a storage space was now hers. A cat tree was secured to the wall, he installed padded shelves for napping, her toys were in a woven basket. She even had her own baby monitor mounted high in the corner so you both could check on her from your phone.
And a nameplate on the door: ALPINE’S ROOM.
It was ridiculous, but it was adorable.
He watched you for a moment, arms crossed over his chest, teeth clenched so tight it ached. His heart was racing, his palms were sweating.
“You’re Mommy’s best girl,” you whispered to the kitten, as you kneeled down to scratch her head. “Yes, you are. Just look at those whiskers…”
Fuck.
You turned when you heard him behind you, unaware of the absolute carnage you were causing inside his body.
“Hey, baby,” you greeted.
“Are you still on the pill?” he asked, slowly walking towards you.
You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
He grabbed your hips, and pressed you back into the counter like he couldn’t stand another inch of space between you. His mouth dropped to your ear.
“Are. You. Still. On. The. Pill?”
“…Yeah,” you breathed, “Of course.”
“Stop.”
Oh?
“Why?” you whispered, already dizzy the way his fingers pawed on your waist.
“’Cause I want you pregnant,” he growled, his fingers digging into your sides like he was grounding himself. “Want my baby growing inside you.”
Your eyes fluttered closed as you felt the tension in him, the way his body trembled with restraint.
“Bucky…”
“You don’t get it,” he rasped, mouth moving down the slope of your neck, pressing hot, claiming kisses down there. “You did this to me. You—with your slings and lullabies and calling a cat our daughter. Watching you be so damn perfect with her—I started craving it,” he whispered. “You win. Sweets. I’m ruined.”
He groaned softly, grinding into you.
“Bucky—“ was all you managed to say as you watched Alpine turn her head and mindlessly hop on the couch on the other side of the room.
“I want to make you a mom,” he said, “Not later. Not someday. I want it now.”
Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, thighs squeezed together, as heat pooled between them.
And then— You laughed. “Mmm… maybe in a year.”
Bucky pulled back, confused like was convinced he’d misheard. “What?”
“Alpine still needs us. I can’t handle two babies at once,” You tilted your head sweetly. “You want me pregnant and trying to litter train a cat? That’s just irresponsible, Buck.”
He stared at you like you’d just stabbed him right in the chest. “You’re killing me.”
You beamed up at him. “Baby fever sucks, huh?”
He groaned and dropped his forehead to your shoulder in dramatic defeat. “This is the cruelest thing you’ve ever done.”
“It’s character development,” you said, petting his hair like he was the one who needed soothing now. “This was how you were when I was the one practically begging.”
He looked up at you then, eyes blazing. “You’re… serious.”
“I am,” you said, lifting your chin with playful pride. “Guess we both get to suffer now.”
But instead, he grabbed your hips tighter and leaned in until your noses brushed.
“Fine,” he growled. “But the second she uses that litter box without flinging sand across the whole damn room—”
“We’ll talk,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his. “Until then…”
You slid your hand down the line of his stomach.
“…You can practice.” You gave him a kiss on his jaw. “Maybe even…” Your mouth brushed his ear now, “…fill me up for fun.”
His entire body went tense.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he groaned, grabbing you in all the right places. “You shouldn’t’ve said that.”
That was the last thread of restraint snapped.
Bucky hoisted you up and carried you to the bedroom. His lips found yours in a kiss that was messy, all tongue and teeth and want as he shut the bedroom door.
Alpine only meowed in the hallway once before going back to her nursery.
Bucky, trying to be a politician and realizing how inefficient it is at stopping bad guys quickly: Welp. I can't debate, diplomat, or deposition my way out of this one.
Bucky, loading his explosive disc launcher: Detonate it is.
OHHHHH okay okay, I have a question for EEEEVERYONE with a Hellsing Vampire OC/Self-Insert, regardless of if they’re artificial or not! What do you think your character’s kill count is? For both humans and other supernaturals!
Not a vampire oc- but I think Aireth has a far amount of kill counts. she’s probably somewhere in the millions with how long she’s been alive (and the plague or two she’s caused)
Abaddon is somewhere in the thousands. Maybe hundred thousands. Not too sure.
